DEAD RINGER

A “Captain Scarlet & the Mysterons” story

By Chris Bishop & Sue Stanhope

SYNOPSIS:

During a mission in Vermont, Captain Scarlet just has time to save Captain Magenta from drowning. While Magenta's recuperating in Cloudbase sickbay, the Mysterons make their move, and their newest agent come to New York to take over Patrick Donaghue's old Syndicate.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

This story is based on characters created by Gerry And Sylvia Anderson for the TV series “Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons” Some events and characters Copyright © of all trademarks materials (Captain Scarlet & the Mysterons and all other series titles, all their characters, vehicles, crafts, etc.), owned by ITC/Polygram. Information of the series are all been taken from copyright © materials (books, magazines, videos, T.V. medias, comics, etc) owned by ITC/Polygram/Carlton.

No money is been made on this site by its owner.

Many thanks go to Hazel Köhler and Mary J. Rudy who have helped us a great deal by proof-reading the text for the following story.

Multi-parts story - now completed!

This story is set in the current storyline of Chris Bishop’s stories, and follows the events depicted in ‘Gangsters Trilogy’ (Past Imperfect, Present Tense and Future Conditional - now available!) written by Sue Stanhope. Some characters from these stories have been used in this one, but it is not essential to have read any of the preceding stories, as brief outlines have been included as these characters are introduced.

The character of Spectrum Intelligence Agent Martin Conners is an earlier creation of Chris Bishop. The character of Lieutenant Tan was created by Chris Bishop for the story A Question of Trust, but background and substance to the character were given by Sue Stanhope.

The characters of Matt Riordan, Ben Fisher, Jack Harper and Josh Kirby are creations of Sue Stanhope for her ‘Gangsters Trilogy’. Robert ‘Ox’ Oxbury was thought of by Chris Bishop, but mainly used in the past by Sue Stanhope for her stories.

The name for the Irish town of Innisfree mentioned in this story has been inspired by the beautiful John Ford movie ‘The Quiet Man’.

We hope you enjoy the story and would appreciate your feedback.

PART 1

From the passenger seat of the Spectrum Saloon Car, Captain Magenta gazed out into the dazzling sunlight; the sun was just about to set over the mountains, just right of the road, and the light was just too annoying for Magenta’s eyes. Reaching forward, he picked up a pair of sunglasses from the dashboard and with a quick flick of his wrist, opened them up. Sliding them on, he pushed them slowly up the bridge of his nose and grinned at Scarlet, seated next to him.

"You know they're supposed to be for communication," commented Scarlet, almost rolling his eyes at Magenta's seemingly irrepressible enthusiasm.

"So talk to me," the Irish captain replied, glancing at him over the top of the dark glasses.

Scarlet smiled. Magenta had been like this all day long. Scarlet had been impressed that day, more than once, by his friend's ingenuity. Magenta had spent a great deal of his spare time over the last few months working on a project for the Maximum Security Buildings. He had been remarkably secretive about it, dropping only the occasional hint, raising an eyebrow or offering a conspiratorial grin. Nobody had insisted that he explain what he was preparing. Knowing how much of a perfectionist Magenta was, they were certain that he would do so ONLY when he was sure that everything was working to his satisfaction. He always gave the impression that he had something to prove; even though nobody felt anymore that he had to.

Now his project was complete, the new systems installed, and it was time to test it. In a rush of enthusiasm and confidence, Magenta had challenged Scarlet to break into the building as the ultimate test of the security arrangements he had made. Scarlet had scoffed at the idea but rose to the challenge. He thought he knew enough of Magenta’s security devices and how they would be put to use with the already existent system of a Maximum Security Building. Plus, the British captain was supremely confident that his own commando training would easily help him get through all the levels of security, with no major problem. A walk in the park, he had told Magenta.

The first Maximum Security Building to be updated with the new security system was in Vermont. Which was, in effect, to Scarlet’s advantage. Just the previous month, the Governor of Vermont had received a threat of a potential terrorist attack against his life, and Scarlet had taken him to the Maximum Security Building for protection. The threat had been a hoax but as a result, Scarlet knew the interior, systems and routines of the Vermont facility extremely well. Colonel White, intrigued by Magenta's seeming over-confidence in his new system, agreed to the challenge. He had arranged for the security trial to take place in the strictest secrecy. To all intents and purposes, it would be a typical day for the guards at the Maximum Security Building. If the additional arrangements that Magenta had put in place could prevent Scarlet entering on a day when they were not on an alert, then the building could truly be considered impregnable.

Scarlet's challenge was to simply steal a data disc from the Communications Room - any one would do. It would be the least demanding and the lowest risk task he could possibly have hoped for. Scarlet had indeed managed to enter, but within a mere three minutes he was under arrest. Part of Magenta's safety procedures turned out to be a series of steel doors, like a ship's bulkheads, which could slide into place when an electronic eye was tripped. Scarlet had managed to avoid two of the electronic eyes, but by trying to evade a third - which in reality was a bogus one - stumbled into the path of the real one, and finally found himself trapped in a corridor with no exit. Magenta had been vindicated and his ideas proved a resounding success.

"Okay, Pat, I can admit when I'm wrong. And even though I thought it would be straightforward, I wasn't careless. You've done a great job there!"

"Thanks," Magenta replied, grinning, returning his gaze to the scenic view around them. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Scarlet nodded appreciatively. The car was following an up-and-down curving road, into a snow-covered mountain-like country of high snow-covered pines. As far as the eye could see, there were blue-grey snow-capped mountains rising majestically to the sky, their peaks shrouded by clouds. To the left of the road, a large frozen lake, with white spots of snow glittering in places.

"Beautiful, but potentially treacherous," Scarlet agreed. "The clear night is causing the temperature to drop considerably. The road’s fairly slippery. Fresh ice forming, I guess. I'm keeping the speed down, but..."

Scarlet never got to complete his sentence as, ahead of them, an oncoming grey saloon car skidded suddenly on a bend in the road ahead. Sliding out of control, the saloon caught the Spectrum vehicle a glancing blow, forcing both off the road. Magenta caught sight of the fear on the face of a young woman in her mid-twenties driving the saloon as it careered past them.

Struggling to maintain control on the uneven surface of the embankment, Scarlet couldn’t prevent the car rolling as it hit a ridge. Flipping over lengthways, the Spectrum car slid several hundred yards upside down before hitting a boulder of hard snow, and then rolling once more, this time repeatedly. The Spectrum car finally came to a complete stop, upright and only inches from the edge of the lake.

Magenta slowly, painfully, opened his eyes. For the first few moments, he almost didn't dare move, mentally checking himself for injury. He could see a darker spot of blood on his lighter-coloured tunic, but not where it came from. A trickling sensation on his cheek and neck made him groan. Lifting his hand, he felt, with some trepidation, the gash above his ear. From the damp sensation of blood on his sweater, he realised he may very well have been unconscious for a few minutes. Turning his head, he saw to his horror that he was alone in the car; the driver's side door having apparently been wrenched off its hinges.

"Scarlet?" he croaked, reaching to release the harness that had undoubtedly saved his life.

He tried to open the door. It was jammed - stiff and buckled at the front. With a grunt of effort, Magenta finally managed to shove the door open. Climbing out, gingerly, testing for broken bones and pain, Magenta scanned the area with anxious eyes. His heart missed a beat as he saw the grey saloon not far from his own car, resting half submerged, having broken through the ice on the edge of the lake. A brief glance to the right told him that the occupant, the young woman he had caught a glimpse of earlier, had somehow been thrown clear before the car plunged through the ice. She was now lying on the shore of the lake, on a thick layer of snow. Magenta approached her. She seemed to be unconscious, and a cursory examination told him that there was probably nothing broken. The snow she had landed on had probably prevented her from being hurt. She had been very lucky, he reflected as he draped his coat over her for additional warmth. Now, he thought, rubbing his arms in the chill wind, where was Scarlet?

"Oh no!" Magenta cried. His heart leapt once more into his mouth at the sight of a red tunic floating some ten to fifteen feet out into the icy waters.

"Scarlet!" he yelled.

There was no reply and in truth, Magenta didn’t think he would receive one. Removing his tunic and boots, he lowered himself slowly into the water.

As he sank to waist-deep, Magenta's breathing became rapid and shallow, pulling in air in short, sharp gasps. The cold penetrating to his very bones, numbing yet painful, Magenta found that even the smallest movement seemed almost impossible. His mind was gradually fogging, partly due to the blow he had taken during the crash, partly due to the bitter cold. Fighting the urge to succumb to the bitingly chill waters, Magenta pushed forward. As the water rose to his chest and neck, he gasped as his lungs seemed almost to shrink in response. Fighting to breathe and to remain conscious, Magenta edged towards Scarlet, aware only of the need to keep his head out of the water. He swam closer to his colleague’s half sunken torso, feeling his muscles numbing quickly. He could feel tiny crystals of ice forming on his skin, clinging to his clothes, weighing him down. His swimming capabilities were severely diminished, and Magenta was aware that even Grey or Blue, with all their vaunted skills in that field, would struggle in the same conditions.

To his despair, Magenta realised that, very slowly, but significantly, Scarlet was drifting further and further away from him. Using all his diminishing strength, the Irish captain pressed on as fast as his aching muscles would allow. With Scarlet almost within his grasp, he realised just how far he had had to swim out to reach him and how low in the water he had dropped on the way. Pulling Scarlet over and onto his back took a supreme effort on Magenta's part; whilst successful, the operation had the unfortunate effect of temporarily pushing him lower still. Magenta gasped with shock at the sheer icy coldness of the water as it rose above the nape of his neck. As it washed over the gash above his ear, the pain that tore through his head almost overwhelmed him. He felt himself go limp; his fingers momentarily released their grip on Scarlet as he was drained of all energy. At first, due to the loss of sensation, he was unable to register what had happened; it was only as Scarlet started once more to drift away that Magenta realised it. Once more, he took hold of his friend’s limp body and despite the pain and difficulty in coordinating his movements, he kicked back towards the shoreline.

He wasn't even sure how he had managed it, but Magenta soon found himself pushing Scarlet's unconscious form up onto the bank. Hauling himself out of the freezing waters, Magenta pulled his colleague further up the bank, clearing him of the lake entirely.

Collapsing alongside Scarlet, Magenta gasped with pain and exhaustion. He was forcing himself to remain conscious, knowing he still had to radio for help and to try to prevent them both suffering from exposure. Pulling in short sharp breaths with a clouded mind, Magenta was at first oblivious to the woman's voice coming from nearby. As it penetrated the mist shrouding his thoughts, he became aware of the voice and the urgency behind it.

"Please! My baby! You've got to help my baby!"

Magenta opened his eyes and tried with difficulty to focus. The woman from the grey saloon, now awake, was standing over him.

"Please, Captain, my baby! My little Davey! You’ve got to save him!" she begged again.

Magenta pushed himself up on his elbows.

“Where?” he asked with urgency, as he peered back down to the lake. “In the car?” he added with the horror of realisation.

Furious with himself for failing to check inside the car in his single-minded attempts to rescue Scarlet, Magenta rose slowly and awkwardly to his feet. The bitter, chill wind that had seemed almost pleasant earlier in the day whipped around his soaking wet, clinging clothes. His hands and feet, almost numb, yet somehow burning with the cold, were making it difficult even to walk back down to the lake.

His mind reeled at the shock of climbing once more into the icy lake. His now blurred vision and disorientation made it almost impossible to remain focused on his task. The car rested on the very edge of the lake; swimming to it was unnecessary, but at the angle that it lay, the doors were only accessible from the water. He could see the child, in the back of the vehicle, installed in a car seat, and still out of reach of the water. But for how long?

Magenta reached for the rear passenger side door but his hands refused to cooperate. Unable to close his fingers, Magenta struggled to open the car door. It refused to budge. Whether it was due to the pressure of the water against it or simply because it was locked, he wasn’t sure but he was left with no other option than to break the window. The car suddenly slid further down into the water, followed by a scream of horror coming from the woman on the bank. The resulting wash from the jerky movement sent a wave of icy water over Magenta.

Gathering his waning senses once more, Magenta raised his elbow and brought it down heavily on the glass. Pain coursed up his arm as he made impact. It had no effect. One more try, he thought as he smashed his elbow down once more. This time he was more successful. Clearing the broken glass, Magenta reached in and unlocked the door. Water now started to flood in from the breach he had made, equalizing the pressure on both sides of the door, and finally permitting Magenta to open it. He knew he had very little time to act. But the car was so close to the bank that all he had to do was quite literally pick up the car seat and hand it to the woman. The child was now crying. Unbuckling the seat proved difficult for the captain, his fingers aching with cold and his clouded mind refusing to concentrate. Within a few moments, however, he had released the seat, but to him, chest-deep in the unbearable cold, it felt like a lifetime. Turning, Magenta handed the car seat to the woman who took it gratefully with tears in her eyes. Magenta nodded his understanding as he reached for the bank once more to haul himself out. Trying desperately to hold onto the bank, Magenta could feel the energy draining from him and doubted he had enough left to pull himself out. Extending his hand, he looked upwards at the woman.

"Help me, please."

Magenta was incoherent; the cold had affected him to the point that the words emerged as a confusing jumble of sounds. His actions, however, spoke volumes and the woman bent down to take his hand. Behind him, the car shifted once more and Magenta felt it grazing his legs. He realised with dread that he had to get out fast. He tried to grasp a handhold on the grass beneath the snow with useless, unresponsive fingers. The car shifted again and started to slide under. Magenta felt it bumping even harder on his legs, forcing him off his precarious position; he was pulled back into the lake. The last thing he heard before being dragged beneath the surface was the shout of panic from the young woman who had tried to help him, as, with horror, she saw him being pulled out of her grasp.

The cold water washed over Magenta; it was pure instinct that had driven him to take a gulp of air before going under. He could just feel something looped around his ankle, and pulling him down with the car, which soon made contact with the bottom of the lake. Magenta looked up. He could see the ice-covered surface, not that far away, maybe only a couple of yards. He turned his attention to his trapped ankle; what could possibly be keeping him down? He saw a seat belt. Probably the one he had released earlier to get the baby seat out of the car. Frantically, using what little was left of his energy, Magenta struggled to free his ankle. But he was to find even this seemingly simple task impossible. His fingers were simply refusing to work. Panic made him lose precious air that went bubbling out towards the surface. A surface so near, and yet out of his reach.

His entire body numb with the bitter cold, he could feel nothing but despair. His final thoughts were of his family as the darkness closed around him.

* * *

It was an insistent nudge that made Scarlet wake up with a start and stare wide-open into the star-spangled sky over him. He coughed loudly, and shivered, as the cold night wind came blustering against his skin. It was as if ice needles were piercing him, all over his body, causing him to feel nauseous. He had a pounding headache. A headache that was being made even more painful by the screams and cries of the person who was frenetically pulling on his sleeve, apparently desperate to wake him up.

“Get up, get up, please! He’s gonna drown! You have to help him! Get up!”

Scarlet blinked and groaned, that simple act sending a blinding pain into his head. He was confused, disorientated, as he looked around him, examining his surroundings. He saw the Spectrum saloon, lying not far away. A baby's car seat, even closer, with a baby still in it, crying. And a young woman, her face washed with tears, kneeling by his side, pulling him into a sitting position.

“Don’t you hear me? He’s going to die! You must help him!”

“What… Where?” Scarlet’s hand reached for his head. He felt the bump on his forehead. So that’s where that blasted headache’s coming from… In a fraction of a second, he remembered the accident, and looked around. “Magenta…?”

The woman desperately pointed toward the lake, where Scarlet could see a wide hole punched through the ice. Large bubbles of air were dancing on the surface of the water.

“He’s under! He saved my little Davey and then my car went down! I didn’t see him come back! He must be trapped!”

All traces of drowsiness left Scarlet instantly. Realising that his current partner was in deadly danger, he rose to his feet. He was still a little weak from his previous stay in the water, but it mattered little to him as he stumbled toward the lake. He stopped at the edge of the hole, looking down into it with horror. Then he turned toward the woman behind him, and gestured wildly toward the road. “Go! Try to stop any vehicle passing by! We need help!” He didn’t wait to hear the woman’s answer to his desperate call but jumped feet first into the icy water.

The cold got to Scarlet instantly, and he had to fight hard not to instinctively gasp, which would have expelled the precious air he was holding in his lungs. Trying to ignore the pinpricks of the icy water on his body, and the growing numbness of his muscles, he frantically searched the semi-darkness of the water. He saw the huge bubbles he had already noticed exploding at the surface and sought where they were coming from. They were rising from directly below him, not even three yards down, from the front of a car resting at the bottom. He could see its still powered headlights dully brightening their immediate surroundings, and lighting his path like an underwater lighthouse.

Scarlet’s eyes went wide with utter shock when he saw the outline of a man lying dreadfully still next to the open doors of the vehicle. He kicked wildly in that direction, reaching Magenta, who was lying face down in the mud. Scarlet noticed his right foot, entangled in a seatbelt, and understood in a second what had happened. Like Magenta before him, he worked frenetically to free his friend’s ankle, finding it so very difficult, with the numbness that was threatening to stop his fingers obeying him. Finally getting Magenta free, he took him under the arms and kicked toward the surface, desperately hoping, without really believing it, that it wouldn’t be too late.

He burst through the surface of the water and gasped to take in fresh air, doing his best to keep his friend’s head above the water. He looked down on the pale face, brightened by the moonlight above. It was completely set, the eyes closed. So deadly calm, with not even a single spray of breath coming from the nostrils. Magenta wasn’t breathing. Scarlet knew he had to act quickly.

“Pat!” He yelled into his friend’s ear, surprising himself with how forceful his cry had been. “Pat, please! Don’t be dead!”

They had emerged not far from the shore, and numerous helping hands came to pull them out of the water. Scarlet realized that the woman had been successful in flagging down a couple of vehicles passing by the road. He could see her, standing a few feet away from the activity, her baby in her arms, and staring with horror at the still body of Captain Magenta as it was laid on its back, onto the snowy bank.

Scarlet tried to drive away the hands of the many people now surrounding him and his friend, but hardly had any strength in him. He felt someone undoing the zip of his tunic and heard a commanding voice ringing in his ear, with an urgent tone: “Remove these soaked clothes! Quick, before they freeze on them!” Scarlet was bewildered when many hands again reached for him and worked to undress him as quickly as possible, removing his shirt, his boots, his socks, his trousers. He was too weak, and too cold to offer any resistance - he was only able to gasp and shiver under the cold wind. His confused mind registered blinking lights coming from the road, and a large ambulance-like vehicle stationed there, waiting. Two men dressed in white were busying themselves around Magenta, undressing him too, with the help of a couple of civilians, while a third was crouched near a practically naked Scarlet, draping him in a thick and warm blanket. “Keep that close to you, man,” he heard the medic tell him. “That’ll keep you warm. Come on, get up. Up! You must walk, get the blood moving in you…”

“My friend,” Scarlet croaked. His teeth were chattering. He was fairly sure nobody had heard him. He nodded toward Magenta, now undressed too, and wrapped in a blanket, with the two other medics working feverishly over him. “My friend… He stayed underwater too long…”

“How long?” the man asked him. “Up, I said! Come on, Captain. You don’t want to freeze here!”

He pulled Scarlet to his feet, and held him up, forcing him to walk, another man helping him on his other side. Each step was a torture to Scarlet; his bare feet protesting against the contact of the snow. His eyes couldn’t leave Magenta. He still wasn’t breathing, and was pale as death itself. The two medics were now performing CPR on him, one pushing on his chest, while the second was blowing breath into his mouth. But it didn’t look as if they were making any progress.

“How long, Captain?” the medic asked Scarlet again, forcing him to look at him. “How long was he underwater?”

“I… I don’t know, I… Minutes. Several minutes. The young woman… Maybe she’ll be able to tell you…”

“All right, walk. Walk, I said. Come with me, I’m taking you to the ambulance. We’ll have to treat you for exposure.”

“No, my friend… He needs help,” Scarlet protested, looking back but obeying nevertheless.

“We’re helping him. We’re doing all that we can to bring him back.”

Bring him back… The words hit Scarlet like a ton of bricks. He finally reached the road, where he saw a number of cars parked any which way along the path, headlights still on, some of them lighting the scene of the tragedy. There were two ambulances waiting there, and he was helped into the closer one and ordered to take a seat as far away from the open doors as possible. He couldn’t detach his eyes as the other two medics were now settling Magenta on a stretcher, and placing an oxygen mask over his face. There still seemed to be no reaction from the drowned captain. Two of the civilians who had stopped to help rushed the stretcher to the ambulance, while the medics were continuing their work on Magenta. It was organised chaos, with people watching, and speaking all at once, the blinding beams of car headlights, and the flashing lights of the ambulances, making it more difficult for Scarlet to concentrate and to escape a growing headache. The stretcher was pushed inside the compartment, the medics jumping in with it, without even so much as stopping for a breather. Scarlet felt his heart missing a beat, upon seeing how pale Magenta’s face was under the interior light of the vehicle. And his bare chest wasn’t rising, refusing to respond to the treatment imposed on it. The medics connected various monitors to him, to register any sign of life, but to Scarlet it seemed all so useless.

“Come on, buddy, come on!” the one pumping Magenta’s chest was saying. “Come on, breathe, damn it! Help us out, here! You got to make it!” He turned toward a tired-looking and haggard Scarlet. “What’s his name?”

“W-what?” the British captain asked in confusion, barely able to think. He shook himself, forcing the words out: “P-Patrick. His name is Patrick.”

“Come on, Patrick!” the man said without a break, turning again toward Magenta, pushing obstinately on his chest. “You’re going to make it, you hear? You’re not going to do that to me, Patrick! Nobody ever died on my shift! And I promise you, you’re not gonna be the first!”

“He… He’s already dead,” Scarlet murmured, the grim reality sinking in.

“No, he’s not! He’s not breathing, the pulse is gone, but he’s still there! He’s just gone very deep! And we’ve just got to bring him back. Come on, Patrick, you hear me in there? You’re going to make a liar of your friend, okay? Do that for me, please!”

All that apparently useless shouting and the all-too-blinding light were getting to Scarlet. He looked helplessly at the ashen face of his friend. He felt nauseous in the stomach. He couldn’t bear to think that he had lost another partner in the line of duty. A partner who had obviously laid down his life to save that of a child. And mine as well, Scarlet added in confusion, recalling the state he was in when he had regained consciousness earlier. I must have taken a dip in that freezing water. He must have got me out…

“I have to contact my superior…” he murmured pointlessly. He realized nobody was really listening to him; all the efforts were concentrated on Magenta. The medic who had taken care of Scarlet went to close the ambulance door and the British officer, without really thinking about it, followed him with his eyes. The last vision he had of the outside was of the young woman and her baby, as they were taken away to the other ambulance He knew he had to talk to her, to find out exactly what had happened, how this disaster had happened…

“Step on it, Joe! We may have a chance to save this one!”

Scarlet looked down with unbelieving hope at the man who had said those words, at the moment he felt the ambulance jerk forward. “What… What do you mean? My friend… He’s… he’s not…”

“I told you, he still there. I’m sure of it. I already saw that. Now you gonna let me do my job? I’ve got a life to save!”

Scarlet was ready to protest when a bleep from the monitor near him almost made him jump. He looked toward it, almost not daring to hope.

It seemed that several seconds passed by before another bleep sounded.

“That a boy, Patrick!” the enthusiastic medic cried out. “That’s the way to do it! You’re going to make it, buddy!”

Scarlet sat back in silence, looking with obvious uncertainty and complete mystification as the three medics continued to work to bring Captain Magenta back to life.

On a small promontory, overlooking the road, a dark figure was watching with cold eyes, gazing down at the gathering of cars alongside the road, and at the wrecked Spectrum Saloon car not far from the hole punched into the frozen lake. Then the eyes slowly moved to follow the ambulance, all sirens and blinking lights on, speeding away from the scene of the tragedy, toward the hospital and a nearly impossible challenge. That the ambulance was carrying two of his former friends and colleagues - one of them drowned in the icy waters of the lake - was of little consequence to the man who had been Conrad Turner - Captain Black - in a past life. He now only lived to serve his masters - the Mysterons.

He barely reacted when another figure came near him and stood by his side, looking down at the speeding vehicle, with a coldness in his eyes similar to that of Black’s. Black didn’t even turn around to acknowledge his presence.

“You know what you must do,” he told him simply, in a dead, monotonous tone.

* * *

“It’s called the mammalian diving reflex. It isn’t a very common phenomenon, but it happens when the right conditions are there. The way the doctor explained it to me: it’s when a person falls into very cold water and then the body’s systems automatically shut themselves down. Circulation stops, except for the brain, the heart and the lungs. The reflex keeps what little is left of the oxygen in the blood so it can be conveyed to the brain - keeping the body in a state similar to hibernation. The victim appears to have drowned. No breath, no heartbeat - no pulse. Seemingly dead. But he isn’t.”

Seated on the side of the bed, and pulling up his boots, Captain Scarlet had just finished his quick account to Captain Blue, who was standing just in front of the door, his arms crossed, listening silently until his friend had finished. It had been four hours since Scarlet had made the call to Cloudbase to report what had happened in Vermont. It had not taken very long for Colonel White to send Blue down to the hospital where both Scarlet and Magenta had been taken. Blue had presented himself at the reception desk where he had asked news of his colleagues and where he could find them. If he had not been surprised to learn that Captain Scarlet was ‘recovering remarkably well under the circumstances’, Blue was rather relieved to learn that Magenta’s condition had now stabilized and that his own recovery was considered satisfactory. Blue had briefly gone to visit him, to find him lying in a bed, unconscious, breathing regularly through a tube. The doctor being otherwise busy with another patient, and unable to give him further information, Blue had then gone to Scarlet’s room, to find his friend was presently dressing himself in his now dry uniform. It was then that Scarlet briefly explained about Magenta’s unusual situation.

“I tell you,” Scarlet finished, slipping his tunic on, “I really thought he’d had it, when I pulled him out of that lake. He was so pale, no sign of life… But the medics didn’t give up on him. They kept trying, and trying, giving him CPR, pumping his heart, feeding him with oxygen. When I saw the machines they had hooked him up to, finally showing signs that he was coming back to life, it gave me quite a start. By the time we arrived at the hospital, his heart was beating faster, more regularly - and I was told he would probably pull through. It was incredible.”

Blue offered a nod of understanding. “Now YOU know what we’re feeling when you pull a stunt like that with US,” he noted quietly.

Scarlet answered with a faint smile. “It’s not quite the same thing, Blue,” he replied, zipping up his tunic. He sighed heavily. “Even in the best of conditions when that kind of incident happens, the victim has to receive treatment as soon as possible. We were lucky somebody had witnessed the accident at the moment it had happened and had immediately called for an ambulance. Or Magenta may not be alive as we speak now.”

“Is he expected to make a full recovery?” Blue asked.

“It’s still not sure. He SHOULD, but, according to the doctors, it’s still touch and go. It really depends on how much damage was done to his brain. If it has been deprived of oxygen for too long…”

Blue could see his friend was rather sombre, seemingly tired, his eyes looking thoughtfully into space, with a sad expression in them. The American tilted his head to the side, with a probing expression. “You’re all right, though?”

“Physically I am,” Scarlet answered gloomily, “but inside…” He sighed heavily, and looked down at his hands. “I thought I was going to lose another partner, Adam.” Blue gave him an enquiring look, and Scarlet shook his head. “I kept reminding myself of Steve,” he said. “How similar this accident was to that other one.”

“It was NO accident that other time, Paul.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” Scarlet tiredly ran his hand through his dark hair. “But… I couldn’t help thinking about it. It WAS a car accident, and we DID go off the road BOTH times. And Steve and I were killed. Magenta nearly drowned tonight. No. Let me rephrase that: he DID drown. And I was unable to help him.”

“You DID pull him out of the water,” Blue reminded him. “You saved his life.”

“No, I didn’t. The medics did the job. Not me. These people are real heroes. And Pat is, too. HE pulled me out of that lake, I was told. And then, right after that, went back to save the life of a baby.”

“And that surprises you?”

“No.” Scarlet shook his head sadly. “To think that he was once a wanted criminal - head of a mob organisation. Every cop in the world wanted to put him behind bars for life. He devotes his life every day to the safety of this planet… And now he’s lying in a hospital bed. After…” Scarlet swallowed hard, still unsettled by the thought of his friend and colleague’s recent ordeal. He cleared his throat, trying to get a grip on himself and looked Blue squarely in the eyes. “You know, no matter WHAT people may think about Pat, he’s really a great guy. It’s so unfair that there are still people around thinking badly of him.”

“They don’t know the real Magenta,” Blue remarked.

“They don’t know the real Patrick Donaghue,” Scarlet corrected.

Blue nodded his agreement, watching his partner as he now kept silent, still brooding over the recent events. He could see it was still troubling him deeply. He could only guess what his thoughts could be at the moment. Blue cleared his throat. The best way to draw Scarlet from his present state was to keep him occupied. And the best way to keep him occupied was to force him to think about work.

“I hope the medical personnel didn’t seem too curious about your own ‘miraculous recovery’?” the blond captain asked. “You know we don’t want your special ability to raise too many questions…”

Scarlet shook his head, standing up from his bed. He had noticed in the all-too-official tone of his friend that it was time for them to come back to business at hand. “Not to worry. Considering how quickly I had recuperated, they figured I had been far less touched by the cold than they previously thought.”

Blue raised a curious eyebrow. “Just as simple as that?”

“That, and the fact that I told them that we Spectrum agents receive special training to face these kinds of situations. They bought it.”

“Yeah, well… eventually, they will realise that Magenta would probably have followed the same training. I suppose we should take advantage of that temporary reprieve to get you out of this hospital - before they decide to perform further tests on you, if only to make sure you’re really okay.”

“I know,” Scarlet nodded. “Colonel White told me the same thing. That’s why I’m dressed now, and ready to go.”

“We should take Magenta back to Cloudbase with us,” Blue added. “If he’s able to travel, of course. I’ll have to see the doctor who took care of him to make sure of that. I’d prefer it if you don’t come with me, Captain. The further you are from any doctor, the better it’ll be in regard of your secret.”

“In the meantime,” Scarlet answered, putting on his cap, “I’ll check on that woman whose baby Magenta saved. I’d like to know what exactly happened on that road. There are some missing pieces, and I would like to be able to give the colonel a complete report.”

“As you wish,” Blue conceded. “But stay away from doctors, Scarlet.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t make Fawn jealous.”

* * *

Young Helen Hughes had been brought to the same hospital as Captains Scarlet and Magenta. She felt physically fine, aside from a few bruises and a slight concussion, due to her falling from her car when it had plunged into the water. Thankfully, the deep snow had cushioned her landing, protecting her from major injuries. She was presently in a small, quiet room, where she was to stay overnight, under observation, after she had gone into a minor shock. Her baby, Scarlet had been told, was also fine, not the slightest injury, and had been taken to the nursery, where he’d been sleeping since his arrival, as if nothing at all had happened.

Scarlet walked to the room that a nurse had pointed out to him and found the young woman half-slouched in her bed, her eyes closed, apparently resting. There was a young man sitting on a chair, by her side, whispering quietly to the baby he was holding in his arms. Scarlet understood instantly that this was more than probably the child’s father - Helen Hughes’s husband. Scarlet tapped lightly on the frame of her door; the man raised his head at the same time the woman opened her eyes. At first, she didn’t appear to see him, but when she did, she recognized him instantly and settled herself on the bed, as he walked in.

“Captain… It’s so good to see you!”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Hughes…” Scarlet started tentatively.

“Oh, not at all! I was just resting my eyes for a minute or two.” By the look of her eyes, she seemed so very tired, but her voice was calm, if a little slurred. Scarlet was sure that she had been given some mild tranquilliser. She didn’t seem as surprised as she ought to be to see him standing there, in full uniform, already recovered from the accident.

The man by her side stood up. He was eyeing the uniformed captain with a somewhat jittery look, as if he didn’t know what to say exactly. “Captain…” He held out his hand to Scarlet, under the baby, clumsily, then seemed to realise how awkward that gesture seemed in his situation. Scarlet nevertheless shook his hand, as the man introduced himself: “I’m David Hughes. Helen’s husband.”

Scarlet could see he was still on edge; it was likely he hadn’t yet recovered from the earlier shock of learning of his wife’s accident. He motioned to him to sit down again. Maybe he would feel less nervous if he was comfortable.

“I came as soon as the hospital contacted me about the accident,” David Hughes continued, clearing his throat. “We have a small inn on the mountain, and Helen was coming back with the groceries… If I had known what would happen, I…”

“Please, David,” the young woman interrupted him, gently, putting a soothing hand on his knee in an attempt to calm him down. “You don’t need to blame yourself for what happened. It was an accident.” It was odd to see how being the one involved in the said accident, she was also the one keeping the most serene about it, and trying at the same time to quiet her husband’s fears. As he gave her a thankful smile, she turned her eyes to Scarlet. She frowned a little, however, eyeing him curiously, suddenly realising how surprisingly well he looked.

“You’re okay? I was wondering about you…”

“I’m all right,” he confirmed, with a reassuring smile of his own. “Just a little shaken, maybe, but considering the events, not as hurt as it first appeared.”

“Captain,” David Hughes then said, “I don’t know where to start… I can’t thank you enough for saving my son’s life.”

“I had little to do with it, Mr. Hughes,” Scarlet corrected him. “It was my colleague who did it all.”

Helen could only approve with a faint nod. “He’s alive, I was told?” she asked, her slightly trembling voice showing her concern for the man who had saved her son.

Scarlet nodded. “He’s alive, yes. His condition has stabilized. It’s still a little uncertain, but he’s expected to recover.”

“I hope he’ll be all right,” Helen said with a heavy sigh. “We owe him so much! He saved Davey. He didn’t hesitate one instant to go into that freezing water to get him…” Her voice broke and she shivered upon remembering the events. She reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed it, as if trying to draw from him a little of the strength she couldn’t muster from herself. “Never in my life did I see such bravery…” She looked Scarlet square in the eyes. “You were brave too, Captain, to go after your colleague like you did. But he… He saved our son, and… I could never forget that.”

Nor could I,” David added solemnly. “And we’ll never be able to repay him.”

Scarlet offered them another reassuring smile. “I’ll be sure to tell Captain Magenta how grateful you are.”

“Magenta… So that’s his name?” David said. He nodded simply “Are all Spectrum officers as dedicated as him?”

“We all try to do our duty, Mr. Hughes. Captain Magenta… is just the kind of man who tries harder than most.”

There was a fond smile upon Helen’s lips, as she rested her head against the pillow and stared into empty space. “God bless him, then. And help him recover completely.”

Scarlet’s smile broadened. There ARE people who’ll be aware of Magenta’s true nature after all, he thought. What his friend had done was truly heroic. Sometimes, Scarlet had reflected how it could seem easy for him to put his life on the line. Well, no, it WASN’T always easy. The eventuality that one day his retrometabolism would not work was always present in his mind. He was deeply aware that maybe one day, perhaps he wouldn’t be able to pull it off. But his colleagues - Blue, Ochre, Grey - and Magenta - they didn’t have to go through this. Their thoughts, their fears, were different. They knew that if they were unable to pull it off, just once, it would be final. No welcome back committee for them. But that didn’t stop them from risking their lives. Just like Magenta did, by fishing Scarlet out of the icy waters of the lake - and going back to save the life of a baby.

He didn’t have second thoughts. He didn’t hesitate one instant. He was needed, and he did what he had to do.

That was the measure of the man Magenta truly was.

Scarlet pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, snapping out of his reverie. He had a job to do too, at the moment, and those reflections weren’t helping him any. He wanted to know more about the accident and what had happened. Maybe the young couple in front of him would find this unbecoming, and would be even annoyed by his questions, but he felt that he had to ask them.

He cleared his throat, and dived in. “Mrs. Hughes… I know it must be difficult for you… But about the accident… Could you tell me exactly what happened?”

She did seem surprised. As did her husband. They exchanged a glance.

“I’m sorry if that sounds rather rude,” Scarlet then said with an apologetic tone, “But Captain Magenta and I are due back at base shortly. I need all the information you can give me, to report to my superior what happened. If you don’t feel up to it, however, I…”

“No,” Helen interrupted him. “It’s okay, don’t worry.” She sighed heavily. “But I’m afraid all I can say is that it was all my fault,” she muttered, lowering her gaze, thinking the Spectrum captain was somehow accusing her.

She felt her husband squeezing her hand. “Helen?”

“I lost control of the car,” she explained. “I know it sounds strange, but… I wasn’t going that fast.” She glanced back to her husband to reassure him. “Really, I wasn’t, you know I how careful I am with Davey in the car.” The weary eyes she turned back to Scarlet were convincing enough. He simply nodded his assent. “Suddenly,” she continued, “the engine was racing, I couldn’t stop it. The road was very slippery, as you know and… I guess I wasn’t able to react in time to avoid a collision.”

“The engine raced?” David said with a puzzled frown.

She turned to him. “I remember you did have the car checked recently, I know,” she told him.

“Yes, I did,” David said, chewing his lip. “Apparently, the mechanic missed something.”

“A mechanical failure then,” Scarlet said, nodding.

She smiled sadly. “I suppose people must be saying that ALL the time. But it’s the truth, Captain.”

“I believe you, Mrs. Hughes. And… after that? Are you able to tell me what happened?”

“Oh… I lost consciousness and I guess I was thrown out of the car.” She felt the hand of her husband tense under hers. “When I came to, your friend was already swimming you back ashore. My car had punched a hole through the ice on the lake, and was half sunk. I was still confused, and I was looking around for Davey. By the time Captain Magenta hauled you out of the water, I realised where my baby was.” As calmly as she could, Helen Hughes then related Magenta’s valiant efforts to free little Davey from his precarious position, despite the fact that he was obviously exhausted from his earlier dip in the freezing water; then she told how, just seconds after the baby had been rescued, the car had gone under, taking Magenta with it. All the while, her husband was keeping quiet, obviously trying this way to support her.

“I was desperate,” she explained finally. “I didn’t know what to do, you see, I…” She lowered her head, ashamed of what she was about to say. “I can’t swim. If I had tried to go into the water myself, I would only have made matters worse. All I could do was call for help, but nobody answered. And then I tried to wake you. I was lucky you came to, then, in time to save your friend.”

Scarlet nodded slowly and stood up. “Magenta is the one who’s lucky, Mrs. Hughes,” he said gently. “You helped to save him. We owe you our thanks.”

“Please, Captain,” she then replied. “It is us who owe him our thanks.”

“Considering the way he put his life in danger to save our baby,” David agreed.

“He was the one in need of help after that,” Helen continued. “What I did was the only natural thing to do. It’s what anybody in my position would have done.”

“Well, apparently, NOT everybody in this world thinks the same as you,” her husband suddenly growled.

Scarlet gave him an inquiring look. There was a dark intonation of loathing in his voice that was now fairly apparent in his features. His wife waved a soothing gesture in his direction.

“David, I don’t think now’s the moment to…”

“How can you be so calm about this?” her husband suddenly interrupted her, frowning in disbelief. “This is something serious, darling. Somebody turned his back on another human being in need! It’s just pure luck Captain Magenta didn’t die.”

“Well, I’m not saying I’m not as disgusted as you over it, but…”

“What happened?” Scarlet asked. He was rather perplexed by the couple’s current conversation. They looked toward him and saw his inquiring frown. At first, they seemed embarrassed that he had to witness their antics; but David then lifted his chin, like a man who had suddenly realised he had nothing to hide.

“It’s something Helen told me, earlier,” he finally said. Scarlet could see there was some resentment in his eyes.

Helen sighed. “You remember you sent me over the road to call for help, when you dived in to save your friend?”

Scarlet nodded. “Yes, and you flagged down some cars as they passed by.”

“Well, just before that, as I was climbing to reach the road, I distinctly saw someone there in the woods. There was a man just standing there, watching the accident. I called for him to help. He didn’t even answer me.”

Scarlet frowned. “A man?”

“As I came back down, I noticed that there were two of them, in fact,” Helen corrected. “I saw the second man as they went away, turning their backs on me. The nerve… I couldn’t believe anyone could do a thing like that!”

“Can you imagine?” snorted David derisively. “They didn’t offer assistance to a person in deadly danger!”

“Can you describe those men?” Scarlet asked Helen, trying to ignore David’s remark.

The young woman frowned, trying very hard to remember, “I… can’t really recall... I was so panicky at the time, and… I was so blind with anger that somebody wouldn’t answer a call for help… It’s just… The first man I saw was dressed in dark clothing… And the second, I can’t say, I didn’t see him that clearly. I must admit, it was quite dark by the time I got back from the road. Only his outline. All I can say is that he was a shade taller than his friend.” She smiled sadly. “Nothing to go on, I’m afraid.”

“Which is a real shame,” mumbled David. “Those guys ought to be brought to justice! Why, that kind of behaviour isn’t just totally sickening! It’s criminal!”

His wife concurred. “Why, yes. It is criminal! What kind of men would stay up in the woods and look on as a tragedy happens?”

“One can only guess,” Scarlet murmured, a thoughtful look on his face. There was something nagging him, in the back of his mind, but he didn’t dare think his suspicions could be true. And what if…

He shook himself. Well, it may very well be only a dark suspicion from his overactive mind - maybe he had seen too much in his time and was going paranoid. Just in case, however, he took a card from his pocket, wrote a few words on it, and handed it to Helen. “Mrs Hughes, if you do remember something else about this accident, or those men… or anything you think may be useful - even if it’s only a small detail - can you contact Spectrum? We… That is I would appreciate it greatly.”

The Hugheses looked at him with the same questioning expression. “Of course, Captain,” Helen said, nodding vigorously. “If it can help you…” She frowned. “But it was only a dumb accident… It’s that important to you?”

He smiled gently. “It was an accident, yes, Mrs. Hughes. But I have to present as complete a report as I can to my superior.” He then extended his hand to the young woman. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Hughes. I won’t take any more of your time. You need your rest, and to be alone with your husband.” He shook hands with the young woman, then her husband, to whom he addressed an encouraging smile. “You’ve got one tough wife, Mr. Hughes.”

“I know,” the man smiled back. “And I’m SO lucky to have her.”

“I’ll take my leave, then…”

Scarlet was about to walk away, when Helen Hughes reached for his hand again, and clutched it tightly between hers. “When you’re able to talk to Captain Magenta… do tell him of our gratitude, please?”

Scarlet nodded his agreement, addressing her and her husband a last, somewhat uneasy smile.

“Take care of the baby,” he said finally. He then left them, closing the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, disturbing thoughts still brewing inside his mind. There was something in what Helen Hughes had told him… But really, he couldn’t see WHY he was so concerned.

And yet, what if he had been RIGHT in the first place, comparing that accident with the one that had claimed both his life and Captain Brown’s, some years earlier? Could there really be some similitude between the two events?

Those two men Helen had seen - one dressed in dark clothing… Could it be…?

Snap out of it, Metcalfe! There’s certainly not just one person in this world wearing dark clothes! And unfortunately, there will always be people walking away from an accident without offering assistance. That incident by the lake didn’t mean anything.

Maybe he was getting paranoid.

But the suspicions didn’t leave Captain Scarlet as he walked down the corridor. He couldn’t escape them. And so, he didn’t discard them completely.

He had the niggling impression that they would come back to haunt him in a very short time…

* * *

Ben Fisher opened the door of the lower basement room known amongst the members of his now extended mob gang as ‘The Drop’. The only furniture in the room was one solitary chair, set right next to a large trap door on the floor, which could be opened by pulling a big metal lever fixed to it. The trapdoor led straight down to the Hudson River, which passed right under the building, a storehouse used for the gang’s operations, and located on the harbour docks.

“Mr. Fisher…” Matt Riordan looked about the room apprehensively. The storehouse wasn’t used ONLY for passing in transit illicit goods. This room had another, primary, purpose. One that Riordan wasn’t really comfortable with. “Is this really necessary?”

“Tell me, Matt, you’re loyal to me, right?” Fisher asked casually, as he pulled slightly on the trap handle, as if to inspect that the door would still open up smoothly.

“Of course, Mr Fisher, I just…” Riordan stopped short as Fisher turned an accusing glare on him.

“What? Not up to the job, Matt? I can find someone who is!”

Riordan clenched his jaw. Fisher’s methods were different to Patrick Donaghue’s, Riordan’s former boss and friend, that was certain; and when Fisher threatened, he meant it. Riordan may have harboured deep misgivings about those methods and his involvement in them, but, as ever, Riordan’s powerful instincts of self-preservation would always prevent him making any move or committing any action that would precipitate his own demise.

“I’m with you, every step of the way, Mr Fisher,” he replied with a resigned sigh.

Fisher smiled inwardly; Riordan was a handy guy to have around. He had been with the mob since its inception, when Donaghue had gathered together several groups of uncoordinated and largely unsuccessful smaller syndicates to take the underworld by storm. He knew everything there was to know under Donaghue’s regime, including his Spider’s Web accounting techniques. Maintaining dozens of legal accounts, all interlinked, with money moving rapidly amongst them, had held off the World Government Police Corps for years. Yes, they knew about many of their illegal operations but had been utterly unable to find a shred of evidence to substantiate their claims. Donaghue had boasted that not one single arrest had ever been made from his Syndicate. After Gabriel James had taken over Donaghue’s operations, after the latter had mysteriously disappeared, that particular record fell almost immediately. James was ruthless enough, certainly, but Donaghue had proved that it was intelligence and sheer ingenuity that had made the Syndicate what it was up until his departure. Fisher was determined to return it to its former glory by bringing the best of both principles. He was ruthless and tough, yes, he would prove that today, but also Fisher was no fool. Whilst even he would admit that he couldn’t compete with Donaghue, whose skill and flair had been almost legendary, his own successes in the past had been significant enough to earn respect and favour from his peers. Now he ran certainly the biggest mob in history: his, the deceased Mark Abbott’s and Donaghue’s combined. He was not about to relinquish that, nor the respect he enjoyed, and certainly not because of Riordan’s squeamishness.

Fisher looked up, and his expression hardened as the door opened again and two men walked briskly into the room, dragging a third between them. Two other men followed them at a slightly slower pace. Those men now gathering in the room were the core of Fisher’s new Syndicate. Josh Kirby, his right hand man, significantly younger, but intelligent and loyal; Jack Harper, a violent thug, loyal only to himself but willing to attach himself like a parasite to almost anyone he believed could offer him advancement; Jeff Tyler, one of Fisher’s original Syndicate, who was in his late twenties, and who had spent five years in prison for armed robbery before joining up with Fisher’s mob, considering there to be safety in numbers. He was trained as an engineer, and there was very little his quick technically-adept mind couldn’t build with the minimum available to him. And finally Sean O’Rourke, who had been a member of Donaghue’s Syndicate, an explosives expert; no lock, alarm system or safe was a problem for him.

The fifth man who had been dragged into the room was Aidan Mahoney, also one of Donaghue’s men. That is, he was.

“Sit down, Mahoney.” Fisher’s voice was cold. It was so very plain that he was angry.

Tyler and O’Rourke dragged Mahoney to the single chair in the room, pushed him into it and stood menacingly, one on either side. Mahoney looked about his surroundings nervously, a cold sweat on his forehead and eyes wide in panic. He’d heard of this room; they all had, but nobody ever wanted to see it for themselves. But for the remaining six people in the room, there were few people who ever saw it twice.

Mahoney looked in the direction of the open door. So close… Could he dare make a run for it? Fisher could almost read his mind, and a cold smile spread across his lips. A massive silhouette then entered the room, very quietly; Mahoney’s hope automatically left him, when he saw the mountain of a man who was Robert “Ox” Oxbury closing the door and then taking three steps to stand like a rock not far from it. Ox was the gang’s enforcer, like Mahoney, formerly of Donaghue’s days. He wasn’t very quick in thinking, but he was certainly quick in reaction - and as strong as his nickname led to believe. There was no way Mahoney would be able to reach the door without being crushed by Ox’s huge hands.

Jack Harper leaned up against the wall opposite the chair and smirked malevolently. But for the agitated breathing of Mahoney, the room was silent. Slowly, Jack cracked the knuckles of his right hand. Each hollow pop echoed menacingly around the room. Never taking his eyes off the terrified man sitting uneasily in the chair, Jack cracked all of his left knuckles at once with a sickening resonant sound. Mahoney’s mind worked overtime as he watched Jack prepare for what he assumed would be a beating. As the last knuckle popped, Mahoney sat forward in the chair only to be pulled back viciously by Tyler and O’Rourke.

“Please! Mr Fisher!” he spluttered in panic. “I don’t know what you’ve heard but I didn’t do anything!”

“You’ve been disloyal, Aidan,” Fisher spoke slowly as he paced in front of the chair. “And I don’t like people being disloyal to me.”

“No, Mr Fisher, I’ve been loyal to you!”

Mahoney’s voice shook under the pressure of the situation. Sitting forward once more as Fisher passed him, he put his hand out as if to beg him to listen. Pulled back once more, his shoulders slammed back onto the wooden frame of the chair, his head continuing in hyper-flexion. He felt the agonising pain of something pop in the back of his neck before it flopped forward again under the action of his muscles desperate to restore a natural position. O’Rourke’s hand grabbed his hair and pulled back his head painfully, compelling him to cry out.

“Please, Mr Fisher, I didn’t do anything. You have to believe me!” he said, trying to look up at Fisher as he walked past him once more, but the pain shooting down his neck into his shoulder blades was excruciating.

“You went to the police, Aidan.” Fisher stopped directly in front of him and turned to look him squarely in the eyes. “More than once, isn’t that right?”

“No, Sir, I didn’t. I’ve been loyal!”

Mahoney lifted a hand once more, then screamed in agony as Tyler removed his gun from its holster and smashed the butt down on Mahoney’s wrist.

“Keep still!” he whispered threateningly into Mahoney’s ear.

“What makes you think I went to the police, Mr Fisher?” Mahoney whimpered.

“You spoke to Captain Brealey, you gave him information on our plans to hijack a gold shipment,” Fisher stated frostily.

“No, Sir!” Mahoney cried emphatically.

“Only you knew about that, Mahoney, Fisher growled. “Only you.”

“That’s not possible, I’m just a driver, I’m the last to know! Someone else must have done it. But not me, Mr Fisher. You’ve got to believe me!”

“We’ve suspected you for some time, Mahoney, and we set you up. The hijack plans? They weren’t true! And you were the only one to know about them. We made sure of that!”

“No, Mr Fisher. Mr Harper told me, so he knew too! It must have been him.”

“Why, you…!” began Jack in a low growl as he pushed himself away from the wall.

Fisher waved his arm in a calming gesture. Jack stopped unwillingly in his tracks as Kirby grabbed his arm to pull him back.

“Well, maybe I should tell you about your other mistake, Aidan. A deadly mistake. Captain Brealey… works for us!” Fisher reached inside his jacket and withdrew his gun. “Nobody!” he yelled. “Nobody betrays me!”

Mahoney’s eyes widened still further as he looked in terror at the gun and the wild eyes of Fisher behind it.

A single bullet was all it took to snuff out the life of the informant. Mahoney slumped onto the chair, with a last jerk, then stayed motionless. Fisher grunted with satisfaction as he returned the gun to its holster.

“Weigh him down and drop him,” he ordered, stepping to the back of the room so he could address all of the men standing in front of him. He could see the uncomfortable look in Matt Riordan’s eyes, as well as the faint glitter in both Ox and O’Rourke’s. Those three weren’t used to his methods of ‘doing business’. They were Donaghue’s men, and under Donaghue’s regime, there were no killings. Gabriel James had not been squeamish about it, and so Fisher didn’t think that O’Rourke or even Ox would disapprove of Mahoney’s execution. But Fisher was aware that these men didn’t like him that much, and the way he had taken over after James’s and Abbott’s demises. That was why this display had become necessary to Fisher. He had to show them all he was boss.

“And let that be a lesson!” he added, in a threatening and arrogant tone. “I don’t ask much. Loyalty and commitment, that’s all. I get that and you stay alive and out of jail, understand?”

The group before him answered, each in their own way, nodding or by verbal acceptance. Fisher looked at them all in turn, still only offering them little more than an angry frown.

“Good. Any one of you gives me cause to doubt you, and you’re dead. No exceptions!”

The door behind them opened and a man, dressed smartly in an expensive and stylish suit, entered the room. In surprise, they turned around, at first not reacting to the presence of this man in this place. In one hand, the newcomer was holding a small, smouldering cigarillo. With his free hand, he casually removed a pair of dark sunglasses and closed them with the flick of his wrist.

“No exceptions, Ben?” he asked nonchalantly, taking a quiet puff off his cigar.

The group’s reactions were as interesting as they were varied.

Having never met the newcomer, only knowing him by name and reputation, neither Tyler nor Kirby recognised him, or if they did they weren’t absolutely certain. Jack curled his lip in a sneer of hatred. Riordan seemed simply astonished. As were Ox and O’Rourke, each fixing a disbelieving stare on the newcomer.

Fisher was the first to vocalise his surprise, staring with wide eyes at the man simply standing there in front of them, still smoking without any concern.

“Donaghue?”

***

PART 2

Walking down the corridor leading from the helicopter pad to the sickbay, Captain Scarlet grimly followed the two medics as they pushed the rolling stretcher on which Captain Magenta lay motionless. The Irish captain was still unconscious, hooked to the gurney’s monitor, which was keeping track of his vital signs. The regular bleep Scarlet could hear coming from it seemed comforting enough, but the British captain couldn’t help thinking that he would be fully reassured on his friend and colleague’s state only when he regained his senses. Blue was walking alongside him, and took note of his apprehension. He gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

“Magenta’s a fighter, Captain. If there is any chance for him to come out of this unscathed, he’ll do it.”

Scarlet addressed his friend with a brief glance. “Don’t try to deceive me, Blue,” he said, almost in a murmur. “I can tell you’re as worried as I am about his situation.”

Blue didn’t respond. Perhaps he didn’t have the time to, as they had reached the sickbay doors, which had slid open in front of them. The two medics pushed the stretcher in and Scarlet and Blue were about to follow, when the British captain’s epaulettes flashed white, stopping both captains in their tracks. The doors slid closed in front of them as Scarlet answered the call from the Control Room.

“Captain Scarlet,” came the voice of Colonel White, “Lieutenant Green reported that you’ve just landed on Cloudbase. How’s Captain Magenta?”

“In a stable condition, Sir,” Scarlet replied, with a more-than-obvious impatient tone to his voice. “He hasn’t regained consciousness. Captain Blue and I just escorted him to sickbay.”

“I’m sure Doctor Fawn will now take good care of him, Captain.”

Scarlet nodded, more to himself than to acknowledge his commander. “With your permission, Sir, I’d like to stay in sickbay with Captain Magenta for a while.”

“Negative, Captain. I need you to come to the Control Room immediately. I want to hear your report on this incident right away.”

Scarlet hesitated, exchanging a puzzled glance with Blue who stood waiting by his side, and addressing him an enquiring look. Blue guessed fairly easily by his friend’s expression that his request had been refused. Scarlet restrained himself from clearing his throat, then decided to insist, tentatively. “With respect, Sir, I may be able to give you a fuller report, if I’m able to add an update on Captain Magenta’s condition.”

“Doctor Fawn will see to that, Captain. I’m certain he’ll be doing a full examination of Captain Magenta and will report all the details to me afterwards. Now, Captain. I need you in the Control Room.”

Scarlet nearly sighed and reluctantly gave in. “S.I.G., Colonel. I’m on my way.” Blue could see by Scarlet’s tone, that he had guessed right about what had been going on, and that his British colleague was not very happy about it.

“Call of duty?” Blue asked with a shake of his blond head.

“Yeah, apparently,” Scarlet mumbled with bad humour. “I wonder what’s so urgent that the old man wants to see me right away?”

When he saw Scarlet turn toward him, the American captain knew exactly what he was about to ask him. He had his answer ready before his friend could utter a word about it.

“Don’t worry, Paul. I’ll stay here. I’ll fill you in on any change in Pat’s condition.”

Scarlet expressed his gratitude with a faint smile. “Thanks, Adam. If he wakes up, I want to know right away.”

“Of course. Now go, before the old man sends someone after you.”

Scarlet nodded and headed reluctantly but briskly towards the Command Centre. Blue thoughtfully watched him go, before turning around and once more pressing the button to open the doors to sickbay. As they slid open in front of him and he entered, Blue’s thoughts suddenly went to Captain Ochre, surprised not to find him already waiting inside. Blue considered it rather strange that his compatriot shouldn’t be here at the moment. Magenta was his regular partner, and despite their respective, opposing backgrounds, the two men had become friends - sort of, when the two weren’t quarrelling over any trivial subject they could find to occupy them. The pair had saved each other’s lives on many occasions, frequently putting their own lives at risk in the process. It was true that as Spectrum officers, this sort of behaviour was part of the job, but as with Scarlet and Blue, there was a deeper underlying, undeniable friendship that transcended the call of duty. Blue mused over the pair’s incessant bickering and considered the possibility that on some level they still needed to maintain the cop/gangster relationship by taking opposing standpoints. It was also possible that they did it on purpose just to yank the other’s chain from time to time. Whatever the reason, it seemed to help the pair retain their edge.

But at the moment, oddly enough, Ochre wasn’t there, at his friend’s side, and that had Blue puzzled.

As the doors slid closed behind him, he wondered what could be keeping Captain Ochre away from sickbay.

* * *

Captain Scarlet strode into the Control Room to be greeted first by Lieutenant Green. As he stepped onto the moving walkway that brought him to Colonel White’s round desk, Scarlet was perplexed to see Captain Ochre standing at ease in front of their commander, his cap under his arm, with another man, dressed in civvies, seated by his side. Scarlet noticed the scowl on Ochre’s face and frowned himself when he recognised the profile of the man with him. It was no wonder that Ochre seemed so discontented at the moment.

Scarlet stood in front of White and saluted him crisply. “Reporting as ordered, Sir.”

“Captain, we were waiting for you,” White said, his voice still formal but kind enough. “I trust you have fully recovered from your ordeal?”

“As usual, Sir,” Scarlet replied, directing a sideways glance at the man seated near him, who seemed more preoccupied with consulting the file laid on his knees than to acknowledge his presence. “It’s Captain Magenta who worries me at the moment.”

“How is he, Captain?” Ochre then asked, nodding in his colleague’s direction. Scarlet could feel the concern in the American captain’s tone. Ochre was preoccupied, that was so very obvious. If he wasn’t in sickbay right now, by Magenta’s side, it was certainly because he had no other choice but to be in the Control Room at the moment. Scarlet was willing to bet a month’s pay that this had something to do with Spectrum Intelligence Special Agent Martin Conners’ presence there. He was as certain of that as he was that this man was also the cause of his commander’s insistence on seeing him right away.

“It’s still uncertain, Captain Ochre,” Scarlet answered with a shake of his head. “But the doctors’ prognosis in Vermont was encouraging. They have seen his condition before. The sooner he revives, the better we’ll know about his exact situation, though.” He offered a faint smile. “He was very lucky.”

“Very lucky indeed,” Colonel White had to agree. “I instructed Doctor Fawn to give us immediate news if there is any change in Captain Magenta’s condition, gentlemen. We’re all concerned about him at the moment, and I’m sure we’ll all be reassured when he revives. Hopefully, very soon.” He pressed a button and two stools rose from the floor. Both captains sat down, and Scarlet removed his cap. Only then did Special Agent Conners acknowledge Scarlet’s presence, with a mere nod.

“Captain Scarlet,” he muttered.

“Special Agent Conners,” Scarlet answered with the same brief nod. Conners didn’t even seem to notice it. He already had his nose plunged back in his file. Scarlet absolutely despised the man. As did Captain Ochre, AND, most assuredly, Colonel White. But there was no denying the fact that Special Agent Conners was competent in his job - or he wouldn’t be part of Spectrum Intelligence. He had proven this more than once. He was an overzealous worker, and when he was on a case, he always wanted to get to the very bottom of it. No matter how many toes he had to tread on or how many people he was going to infuriate. Even Colonel White himself who, all things considered, was his superior - the Supreme Commander of Spectrum. It was peculiar to see that Conners seemed to consider his position above even White himself, given the circumstances in certain assignments. It was a wonder that White hadn’t already chewed him out.

The main problem with Special Agent Martin Conners that resulted in him being considered a genuine jerk by most of the Cloudbase senior staff, was that they felt he didn’t belong in Internal Affairs - the branch of Intelligence in which he worked. The attitude and obvious contempt he demonstrated when he was interrogating people during his investigations was proof enough of this. He would use intimidating methods with people who were on his own side - good, honest Spectrum agents that more often than not didn’t deserve to be treated that way - in total disregard of what they were and what they stood for. To Conners, they were considered as suspect as any guilty party that Spectrum encountered in the field. There, a man with Conners’ particular aptitudes would probably find a more suitable role for himself.

Not that it would change any of Cloudbase’s senior officers’ opinion that the man was a genuine and definite weasel.

Agent Conners coming to Cloudbase never was, in the past, a good omen. Scarlet was about sure that now wasn’t different from the other times. He was wondering what could have possibly brought the Intelligence man on base this time.

He was sure he would soon find out, when Colonel White cleared his throat to address him. “Captain, if you please, I’d like to hear your account of the events in Vermont. Starting from the moment you touched down at the military airport onboard the SPJ.”

Scarlet nodded, all the while wondering why the colonel needed him to go so far back in his report. Succinctly, yet accurately, he gave the account of the events, starting from the moment the colonel had asked for, right through to when Captain Blue had come to see him at the hospital, and his conversation with the Hughes family. He made a point of telling how heroic Captain Magenta had been in saving both himself and the baby, putting his own life in danger not once, but twice. Colonel White nodded gravely upon hearing the report; all the while, Captain Ochre waiting silently and rigidly. As for Agent Conners, he was taking notes in his folder, his face not showing any emotion.

What could he be up to, anyway? Scarlet asked himself, stealing a glance in the Intelligence Agent’s direction. He simply couldn’t see the reason WHY Conners had to be present at this meeting.

“Thank you, Captain Scarlet,” Colonel White finally said as his younger compatriot finished his account. “That is a very precise account of the events. I think Mister Conners can only agree with that.” That was a puzzling statement, to say the least, and Scarlet couldn’t help but notice the condescension more than obviously apparent in his commander’s tone of voice. In the same way, he noticed the scowl on Ochre’s face.

As for Conners, his features stayed impassive. He didn’t even raise his eyes when he addressed Captain Scarlet, apparently reading from the notes he had taken: “Captain Scarlet, if we are to believe your report… You and Captain Magenta were separated from each other for quite a while, weren’t you?”

Scarlet kept himself from frowning. If we are to believe your report… Is that weasel accusing me of lying? And why?

“Immediately after leaving the plane, we took a Patrol Car and drove together to the Security Building,” he quietly answered, repeating what he had already said in his report.

“And not once between the plane and taking the car did you leave him alone?”

“No, Mister Conners. We were together all the time.”

“Mmm… But at the Security Building? You had to go your separate ways?”

“In order to perform the test, yes. I left Captain Magenta with Chief of Security Gomez and his team, so he could put in place the last of his modifications for the Building.”

“I thought the modifications had already been made?”

“There were some last minute updates to bring in. And Captain Magenta also needed to brief the security team about them. Needless to say, I couldn’t be present for that, or the test would not have been effective.”

“Yes, of course, Captain. Did you have to wait long before you were called in to… shall we say, ‘break in’ to the Security Building?”

“About half an hour.”

“So for this half hour, and for the duration of the test, you were separated from Captain Magenta?”

“Mister Conners,” Colonel White suddenly cut in, with obvious irritation, “we have already established that Captain Magenta was with Chief Gomez during all that time.” He nodded towards Ochre. “Captain Ochre already checked that out with Mister Gomez.”

“That’s right,” Captain Ochre confirmed then, his tone barely concealing his contempt for the man seated by his side. “Captain Magenta stayed at Chief Gomez’s side upon leaving Captain Scarlet - and stayed there for the duration of the exercise. He wanted to make sure his improvement would be successful in stopping Scarlet stealing that data disk.” The American captain permitted himself a faint smile that broadened into a grin as he spoke. “Sorry, Captain, but I rooted for Magenta on this one.”

“Well, he did prove his system was as good as he claimed it was,” Scarlet replied with the same grin.

“Captains,” Conners then interrupted, “please, if you would care to stick to the subject that concerns us…”

“Mister Conners,” Scarlet answered with as courteous a tone as he was able to muster, considering how tired he was growing of the Intelligence agent’s apparently needless and pointless interrogation, “I would gladly continue to answer your questions, but perhaps I would give better responses if you would tell me exactly what it is you’re investigating.”

“That’s not for you to know, Captain,” Conners replied rather abruptly.

Scarlet frowned, hearing that. He conspicuously turned toward Ochre, whom he had the feeling knew much more about what was going on. “Remember to tell me all about it later on.”

Colonel White restrained a disapproving frown, although he had no trouble at all understanding Scarlet’s present reaction. He was answering insult with insult. His obvious disdain for Conners’ presence when he had addressed Ochre was about as rude toward the Intelligence man as Conners himself had been towards him. Conners nearly wheezed with outrage; turning red with anger in a matter of seconds. “Captain Ochre, need I remind you that you are presently bound to secrecy. Under no circumstances are you to discuss…”

“That’s enough!” Colonel White slapped his open palm on the top of his desk, cutting off Conners’ remonstration. The latter turned in surprise toward the Spectrum commander, while Scarlet and Ochre sat back quietly, crossing their arms, waiting for the colonel to continue. “This is the control room of a military base, Mister Conners, not the interrogation room of a police station! May I remind YOU that you are addressing Spectrum senior staff officers. Not criminals. Save the heavy artillery for the enemy!”

“Colonel White…” Conners started to protest.

“I won’t ask you again, Mister Conners. As for you, Captain Scarlet…” White turned toward his number one agent just in time to see the wide grin on his face - just before it disappeared. He didn’t mention it. “I want you to address Mister Conners with all the respect due to him.”

“S.I.G., Colonel,” Scarlet answered stoically. He’s already receiving far more respect than he deserves, he thought sarcastically.

“Mister Conners, I have to agree with Captain Scarlet that if he knows what this is all about, he will probably give you better answers to your questions. And, perhaps, some input on the situation.”

Conners gave his consent, although reluctantly. “All right, then,” he said with a sigh. “Here’s the situation, Captain: at the moment, I’m conducting a special investigation on Captain Magenta, on behalf of Intelligence Internal Affairs.”

“That much I had gathered, Mister Conners,” Scarlet replied dryly, glaring at the man. “What do Internal Affairs have against Captain Magenta?”

“As Patrick Donaghue,” Martin Conners started to explain, “Captain Magenta managed to accumulate a considerable amount of money, during his, ah, fruitful time as head of a mob syndicate in New York State. That money had been put into various international accounts, where it evaded police investigations, throughout all of Mister Donaghue’s… shall we say ‘episode on the wrong side of the law’?” He feigned not to see Scarlet and Ochre’s warning glares and moved on. “When Patrick Donaghue enlisted with Spectrum, the wealth he had accumulated from his criminal activities stayed in those accounts - and for years everything has been left untouched. There hasn’t been a single deposit, nor withdrawal, ever since. That is, until recently.”

Scarlet frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Over the course of the past months, there have been several withdrawals from these accounts,” Conners continued. “Some very massive withdrawals, I should add.”

“How do you know that?”

“Spectrum Intelligence has been keeping tabs on these accounts. You know, just in case Captain Magenta should decide to use the money for his own ‘personal use’?”

“You pinned down those accounts when the police were never able to find them?” Ochre said in surprise. He then scoffed. “We could have used some of your guys in the WGPC at the time!”

“What do you mean by ‘his personal use’?” Scarlet asked. “Was Spectrum Intelligence afraid that Captain Magenta would eventually go back to his old life?”

“That money has been amassed from criminal operations, Captain Scarlet. Captain Magenta never talked about those accounts, although Spectrum Intelligence knew about them. HE knew we knew, yet he apparently wasn’t bothered about it, because he never touched it for years, probably as a part of his ‘going straight’. It’s a considerable amount of money, Captain. I’ve seen the files and I find it hard to believe that someone with such expensive tastes as Patrick Donaghue could suddenly be content with living a much less materialistic lifestyle as a Spectrum captain. Don’t you? I believe it reasonable to think that one day, he would want to access those accounts again, enjoy some of his ill-gotten gains…”

“Considering the recent events, I find this in very poor taste,” Scarlet remarked. “That you should investigate Captain Magenta when he’s in sickbay fighting for his life after…”

“Captain,” Colonel White then cut in, “supervision of these accounts is standard procedure on the part of Spectrum Intelligence.”

“Sir, you don’t think that Captain Magenta could have made those withdrawals? And, on top of that, he would use the money to do something illegal?” Scarlet replied. He turned a hostile look towards Conners. “Well, I, personally, should think not!”

“Captain Magenta was the only one to have the access codes,” Conners quickly added, not letting Colonel White answer the question. “We had to keep ourselves informed if he ever tried to use them.”

Scarlet appeared sceptical, refusing to accept Conners’ harsh accusations. He gave a perplexed look in Ochre’s direction, as if asking him if he believed any of this. Ochre simply shrugged negligently. Apparently, he wasn’t giving any credit to the Intelligence agent’s declarations. As if wanting to prove his point, Conners consulted his notes. “There are a number of occasions when Captain Magenta COULD have had access to those accounts. From here on Cloudbase, for example. Although we can’t find any information from the computers’ databanks that he had. But then again, Captain Magenta is an expert at handling computers. He would be able to cover his tracks.”

“Or perhaps there are no tracks to cover,” Ochre muttered under his breath.

“I take it you were unable to find out where those operations were originating from?” Scarlet asked.

“They were made via very circuitous routes, suggesting that whoever it was knew, or at least suspected, that the accounts were under surveillance, and made allowance for that. Because of that, no, our experts couldn’t trace them back to their sources. Save for the last one. And that one was not from Cloudbase.”

“I asked Lieutenant Green to check the databanks, just in case,” Colonel White then added. “So far, he hasn’t found anything.”

“So much for your theory, Mister Conners,” Ochre remarked bitterly.

“So far.” Conners saw Ochre and Scarlet already starting to protest, and moved on quickly. “That’s why I was hoping you would give me some clues concerning the last withdrawal that was made, Captain Scarlet.”

“How could I help you with that?” Scarlet asked with a frown.

“It was made in the last few hours, during Captain Magenta’s last stay on the ground,” Conners explained. “That would have been during your mission in Vermont. Certainly, he would have not tried this while with you, but if at any point he would have been left alone…”

“Which was not the case,” Ochre cut in. “If not with Captain Scarlet, he was with Chief Gomez. We already established that.”

“You said earlier that you had been able to pinpoint from where that last withdrawal had been made?” Scarlet added.

“Pinpoint is a very specific term, Captain,” Conners said with hesitation. “All that Intelligence experts were able to gather was that it originated from somewhere on the American East Coast.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover,” Scarlet mused. “And since Captain Magenta was around those parts at the time, you thought you had him.” He snorted. “Do you know at what time that withdrawal was made?”

“Again, it’s not precise. Around seven o’clock, seven thirty, local time.”

Scarlet snorted again and turned toward Colonel White. “Well, there you have it, Sir. Captain Magenta couldn’t possibly have done what Mister Conners suspects him of. At that time, he was heading straight to the hospital, and was already fighting for his life.”

“Guess you can scratch him off your list of suspects, Mister Conners,” Ochre remarked, with a wide smile of obvious satisfaction.

Conners closed his folder. “Maybe so. Or maybe not. The hour is not exact, unfortunately. What I do know for sure is that somebody has tapped into those accounts. If not Captain Magenta, someone else. Someone who has the access codes.”

“What about what Captain Ochre told us earlier?” Colonel White asked.

Hearing the colonel mention his colleague’s name, Scarlet turned toward the latter, with a puzzled look. Ochre sighed deeply. “A couple of months ago, when I went to the ground for my nephew’s funeral… Captain Magenta came with me. At the cemetery, he was contacted by Matt Riordan.”

“One of the guys who was working with him in the Syndicate,” Scarlet recalled, nodding.

“Right. Well, it seemed like Riordan’s new boss, Ben Fisher - who’s taken over Magenta’s old syndicate - was in dire need of capital.” Ochre paused as he remembered something. “Incidentally, Mister Conners, it was Captain Magenta who ruined him by emptying his Syndicate’s account - as well as those of Mark Abbott and Gabriel James - with an encrypted code. Hardly the actions of a man who was considering returning to that way of life. Anyway, Fisher tried to get Riordan to reinstate the Syndicate’s money but there was some trouble and he couldn’t do it fast enough for Fisher’s liking. So, Riordan went to the Cemetery to see Magenta, to ask him for the passwords to the encryption codes. Magenta refused to give them.”

“Yes, so you reported to us,” Colonel White agreed.

“Yes, Captain, it all appears very admirable, but we’re not talking about the Syndicate accounts, we’re talking about Magenta’s own personal accounts. He built his Syndicate up from nothing over several years. Isn’t it more than possible that Captain Magenta, whilst giving the impression of depriving them of their wealth, would then turn around and fund them with his own private money? Protecting his investment, perhaps?” Conners asked. “Have you never questioned, Captain, where the Syndicate money ended up? In yet another Donaghue account, maybe? Maybe he gave those passwords after all, then. Without you knowing anything about it?”

Ochre looked toward Conners, his barely-controlled anger at what he saw as plain spiteful accusations was unmistakable. With his fists clenched so tightly that his fingernails dug deep into his palms, he continued, speaking slowly and carefully in a determined effort to hold his temper. “No, Mister Conners. I don’t think he gave Fisher those passwords, neither do I accept that he is ‘protecting his investment’. He did everything he could to put Fisher out of business. If anyone accessed those accounts, that person would be Fisher!”

“If Mister Fisher is to be considered a suspect in this, he must have found a way to acquire those access codes,” Conners insisted, unperturbed by the anger and frustration evident in Ochre’s reply. “Of course, as we’ve already suspected, the solution may be a lot closer to home.”

“Matt Riordan.”

Everybody turned to Captain Scarlet who had uttered that name. The British officer nodded slowly, and continued on his line of thought. “Isn’t Matt Riordan some kind of an expert in computers too? What if he had successfully hacked into those accounts for Fisher?” He was Magenta’s right hand man for many years, he would almost certainly have been aware of them, more so than Fisher.”

“Riordan never was as competent as Magenta with a computer,” Ochre remarked, with a sigh, knowing only too well the flaw in the argument would be jumped on by Conners. “The reason why he came to him for the passwords was that he hadn’t been able to hack into the code Magenta used to empty the Syndicates' accounts.”

“Yes, but that was password-protected. These are just simple bank accounts, perhaps not so difficult in comparison? With a lot of work, and enough desperation, he may have been able to succeed. Consider what Ben Fisher would have done to him if he wasn’t able to access those accounts. If nothing else, Riordan has a strong survival instinct. That transcends even whatever friendship he might have had for his old boss, Patrick Donaghue.” Scarlet turned to address Conners. “What’s more, Fisher’s syndicate - and that includes Riordan - is established in New York City. On the American East Coast, Agent Conners.”

“You may be on to something, Captain,” White agreed with a slow nod. “Fisher and/or Riordan could be our culprits. Still, we have no proof of this.”

“Could be easy enough to find out,” Scarlet replied. “Maybe by sending someone from Spectrum to have a talk with Mister Riordan and see what he has to say on the matter.”

“Do you think he would talk?”

“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. Considering the man, we may strike gold.” Scarlet then addressed his commander. “I’m volunteering for this, Colonel. Matt Riordan knows me, so maybe I can get him to open up.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I were to go myself, Colonel?” Martin Conners interrupted. “This is my investigation. And I do have experience in interrogating suspects.”

Scarlet rolled his eyes. Of that I have no doubt, he thought with humour.

“Mister Conners, for you to interrogate Mister Riordan, we would have to bring him in,” Colonel White remarked. “At the moment, we don’t have any charges on which to arrest him.”

“Then maybe I should go with Captain Scarlet,” Conners insisted.

Scarlet shuddered at the thought. Colonel White raised an eyebrow.

“And have Riordan shut down tighter than a clam?” he deadpanned. “That’s what’s liable to happen with a man like Matt Riordan. Let’s face it, Mister Conners, you may be good at interrogating people, but in a case like this one, you have about all the delicacy of an elephant.”

Conners reddened violently, while Scarlet and Ochre were having tremendous trouble not to openly laugh at him. White continued, nodding in Scarlet’s direction. “Captain Scarlet will go alone. As he had said, Mister Riordan has already had contact with him, he knows him and he knows he’s a colleague and a friend of Captain Magenta. Which could put him at ease and perhaps win his trust. So maybe he will tell him something about those accounts.”

“You’re taking this case from me, then?” Conners said with a frown.

“Not exactly. I’m using individual strengths and competencies where they can be put to best use, Mister Conners.”

“And what does it mean, exactly?”

“Let’s face it, Agent Conners,” Scarlet said, rising to his feet. “You would not be very at ease in the field, having contact with a known mobster, on his own turf. You are not trained, nor equipped, if a problem occurred that might involve some of his mates.”

Conners hesitated; he visibly paled upon hearing Scarlet’s statement. “So you believe you might encounter problems, Captain?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Scarlet put on his cap. “But should it happen, I’ll be able to face them.” He turned to face White. “With your permission, Sir, I’ll go right away.”

“All right, Captain. You can go. And be careful down there.”

“S.I.G., Sir.”

“We will inform you of the result of this operation, Mister Conners,” Colonel White said to the now silent Intelligence agent. “So you’ll be able to pursue your investigation.”

Conners nodded, a little too eagerly. “Yes, I’d like that very much, Colonel. I want to get to the bottom of this affair.”

“So do I, Mister Conners,” Colonel White answered with a grim nod.

And so do I, Captain Scarlet added to himself, saluting his commander before turning on his heel and directing his steps toward the exit.

* * *

Ben Fisher and Matt Riordan already knew that Patrick Donaghue was a Spectrum officer - and that he was going by the name of Captain Magenta. They had found out quite by accident. Shortly after learning that, Fisher had expressed every intention on blowing the lid on Donaghue; but recently, Riordan had managed to cool him off, and convince him that it was not in their interests to let it be known at large that there was, as he believed at the time, an incorruptible Spectrum officer so closely linked with the Syndicate. Riordan had successfully pointed out that it could prove disastrous to their business. What if it were to be perceived that Donaghue could be using Fisher’s newly-formed syndicate for Spectrum business, to spy on the other syndicated families? That could spell deadly danger for all of them. So Fisher let himself be convinced, and the subject never came back into conversation again.

And now, seeing Patrick Donaghue casually standing there, in his civvies and apparently waiting, infuriated Ben Fisher. He had just started getting a firmer grip on his now-extended territory - and on his new men. He didn’t need a Spectrum officer to come barging in to send all his hard efforts down the drain.

“What are you doing here?” asked Fisher in a sharp tone, recovering from the initial shock of seeing him.

Donaghue quietly crushed his cigarillo under his shoe. “First things first, Ben,” he replied cryptically.

Turning swiftly, Donaghue closed the fingers of his right hand around Jack’s neck and slammed him against the wall. With his left hand, he tightly gripped Jack’s right wrist, now holding a gun, and squeezed it until the man dropped the weapon to the floor. Throwing Jack towards the door, Donaghue spoke with utter contempt in his tone: “Get out.”

Jack rubbed his throat, gasping, glaring at Donaghue. Surely, he thought, he wasn’t going to get away with that?

“I don’t answer to you!” he snapped with a voice now deeper and almost gravelly from the choking.

Picking up Jack’s gun from the floor, Donaghue turned back to him and pointed the menacing end of it in his direction. Jack became pale instantly.

“You want me to kill you with your own gun?” he asked, not diverting his eyes from the younger man for a second.

“Pat?” asked Riordan, astounded by the threat.

“Hello, Matt,” Donaghue replied evenly, placing the gun into his pocket.

“Hey, that’s mine!” protested Jack.

“I’ll give it back to you later,” Donaghue promised with a smile that suggested to Jack that he should be very careful indeed. “Now get out!”

Forced into silence at the surprise of seeing the way Donaghue had acted, Fisher shook himself and suddenly snapped at him: “I give the orders around here, Donaghue. Or had you forgotten?”

“So give it!” Donaghue yelled in return. “Get rid of all of them. I want to talk to you.” He paused looking around the room. “In private.”

Fisher glowered at Donaghue. He had to admit, he was curious to know why he had turned up here, and out of uniform, but he didn’t want to lose face in front of his men.

“Yeah? I’ve got a few things to say to you myself, Donaghue!” Looking up, Fisher now addressed the small group: “Leave us. Josh, take everyone to the room next door, I want some privacy here.”

“Sure, Mister Fisher,” Josh replied as he started to lead everyone out.

“Not you, Riordan,” Fisher added, deciding to assert his authority once more. “You stay.”

Donaghue raised his eyebrows in an amused fashion and, closing the door as everyone left, locked it and placed the key carefully in his pocket.

“What do you think you’re doing, Donaghue?” asked Fisher, irritated by the move.

Ignoring the question, Donaghue leaned against the wall and gave a short laugh.

“Still doing it, is he?” he nodded towards Mahoney. “Was he?” he added, correcting himself.

“Doing what?” asked Fisher, surprised by the question.

“Talking to the police,” Donaghue explained.

You knew about that?” Fisher eyed him suspiciously.

“Of course I knew. He’s been doing it for years.”

“Why didn’t you get rid of him then?”

“Not the way we did things, was it, Matt?”

“Yeah, well, things are different now,” Fisher stated.

“They certainly are! A fool is running my Syndicate. You see, way back when, I knew about Mahoney’s… indiscretions, and was using it to the Syndicate’s advantage. I never let on to him that I knew, of course. He never was wary of me. And so, I was able to gather some very useful information for our operations. That’s how a wise and cunning man acts, Fisher. But not you, eh? No, you go and kill him.”

“Let’s get something straight here Donaghue, this is not your Syndicate anymore. It’s mine.”

“Really now? And what if I was to tell you I want to take it back?”

There was a silence following Donaghue’s declaration. A concerned Riordan, who was witnessing in deadly silence the way the two men were confronting each other, slowly exhaled, trying to let go of the tension mounting in him. He was indeed surprised by Pat’s statement. Probably more than Fisher himself. The latter frowned deeply.

“So that’s what you have in mind, is it? You want to come back to the business.”

“Nothing gets by you, does it, Ben?” Donaghue responded very quietly.

“Now listen to me, Donaghue: You are not walking back in here and taking over. Am I clear?”

“You’re clear, but you’re wrong.”

Donaghue stared intently at Fisher with a cold, hard stare that penetrated deep inside him, chilling him to the bone. It was a look he’d never seen in anyone before, least of all Donaghue. He was unnerved, he would even go so far as to say frightened, but he would stand his ground.

“Really? And does Spectrum know you’re here? I doubt it! I wonder if they’d be interested to hear that piece of information?” Fisher gathered himself and forced an air of superiority. But Donaghue’s dark, determined stare was making it difficult for him to maintain his composure.

“Ben, I’m taking over, I suggest you accept that fact.” Donaghue’s voice was disturbingly calm and clear, and the message very direct. Matt Riordan couldn’t help but shiver.

“One last time, Donaghue! I’m the boss around here!” Fisher yelled. “Riordan, call Josh, get him back here to escort Donaghue off the premises.”

A very faint frown formed on Donaghue’s previously expressionless features.

“You really believe that, don’t you? But as I said before, you’re wrong!”

As he spoke the last few words, he pulled his hand out of his pocket and with it Jack’s gun. Within a moment, Donaghue had aimed and fired, before either Fisher or Riordan had a chance to react. The bullet impacted between Fisher’s eyes, killing him instantly. As the body fell swiftly to the floor, Donaghue casually checked the clip to see how many rounds were remaining.

Outside the door, the sound of the shot had drawn the five men who had previously been asked to leave. A constant hammering and shouting from the adjoining room filled the air, as Riordan, his eyes opened with surprised horror, was staring down at the dead body lying at his friend’s feet.

“P-Pat?” Riordan stammered.

“Yes, Matt?” Donaghue asked casually, reinserting the clip into the butt of the gun.

“You killed him. You’ve never…” Riordan’s voice trailed off as Donaghue turned to face him.

“Prison’ll do some terrible things to your outlook,” Donaghue replied, looking at Riordan with a similar stare to that which he had, only a little earlier, scared Fisher.

“You haven’t been in prison,” Riordan spoke quietly.

Donaghue raised the gun once more and pointed it directly at Riordan’s head. The latter visibly paled.

“Ah yes… You know my little secret. But they don’t know that, do they?” he pointed out, nodding in the direction of the door. Chuckling, he lowered the gun. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, Matt?”

“No,” Riordan whispered. Then louder, “No, Pat.”

“Good. Everyone does as I say and we’ll all get along just fine. Now,” he tossed to Riordan the key to the door. “Get them in here.”

Opening the door, Riordan allowed the five men into the room once more. The shock that awaited them was great. Anyone who knew Donaghue, or at least remembered the Syndicate in his day, knew that above all else, Donaghue never killed. And that he expected the same of his men. It was an unwritten law. Now to see Fisher lying dead on the floor and Donaghue holding the gun still in his hand was nothing short of alarming.

“Mister Fisher has decided to step down. I expect all of you to give me your absolute loyalty. Is that clear?” he asked in a business-like tone.

“I’m not working for you!” barked Jack angrily, trying to rally the support of the others with him.

Josh Kirby looked from the dead body of Fisher to Jack and back again. He swallowed hard, deciding to say nothing.

“Fair enough, Jack. I can’t force you,” replied Donaghue, almost indifferently. “But here, you’ll want your gun back…”

Jack made a move forward to retrieve his gun and was immediately propelled backwards again by the force of the bullet in his chest. Donaghue continued speaking as he pumped a further four bullets into Jack’s head and chest: “…Piece by piece!”

As finally the gun clicked empty, Donaghue tossed it down with contempt onto Jack’s body then reached for his own gun.

“Is there anyone else who can’t work with me?” he asked, looking defiantly around the room.

At first there was a stunned silence. It was then followed by a general murmuring of agreement. Donaghue nodded appreciatively. “Perfect. As long as we all understand each other, everything will be all right. I’m going to my office. Matt, come with me,” he ordered as he headed for the door.

Still stunned, Riordan followed Donaghue to the door. The latter stopped suddenly, when he found himself face to face with the mountain of a man who was Robert ‘Ox’ Oxbury. Even with his six-foot-plus height and athletic physical appearance, Donaghue almost seemed like a child in front of the big man, who stood a good head higher than him. Ox was between Donaghue and the door. Another man could have taken this as some kind of a threat, but Donaghue didn’t seem impressed at all. He only seemed to be wondering what Ox could possibly want at the moment.

Ox looked past Donaghue, first in Riordan’s direction, then toward the two bodies lying on the floor. If he was disturbed by this, he didn’t show it at all. Looking down at Donaghue, he then presented his hand. “S’good to see you back, Mister Donaghue.”

“Ox.” Donaghue briefly nodded to Ox, dismissing the hand that, he knew, would crush his own if Ox forgot to be careful. Instead he put his hand on the large shoulder of the man. “It is good to see YOU too, my friend.”

“So we’re back in business now, Mister Donaghue?” Sean O’Rourke said in turn, smiling a little uncomfortably. It was easy to see that, unlike Ox who wasn’t discussing any of his ex-boss’s actions, O’Rourke was feeling awkward with him, having seen him kill a man in front of him.

“Yes, Sean, we’re back in business,” Donaghue agreed. “But a slightly different kind of business. One for which I will need your special expertise.” He looked up to Ox. “And I will need yours, Ox…” he glared over his shoulder, “…if only to keep some of these other guys in line.”

“You won’t need Ox to ‘keep us in line’, Mister Donaghue,” Kirby addressed him. “We’ve already agreed to follow your lead.”

“I expect you will,” Donaghue replied rather curtly, turning to face them all. “Because the first one of you who is disloyal to me will join them.” He pointed in the direction of the bodies. “Now, get rid of them,” he added before spinning on his heel once again.

Riordan could only offer Kirby and the others a somewhat helpless look before turning once more to follow his ex and new boss out of the room.

* * *

Colonel White stared down gravely at Captain Magenta. From earlier visits, White had noted with concern that the younger man had lain deathly still since his arrival on Cloudbase, without any apparent change to his condition. Despite Fawn’s insistence that this was perfectly normal given that Magenta had fallen into a coma following his near-fatal drowning, White currently felt neither reassured nor hopeful.

“He’ll be okay, Colonel,” came the deep voice of Doctor Fawn who had approached him almost silently from White’s left.

White turned to glance at the doctor standing at his side, and watched as he studied the readings from the equipment above Magenta’s bed.

“He’s a fine officer,” nodded White.

“You wouldn’t want him ANY other way?” asked Fawn with a twinkle in his eye. He knew how White had, on more than one occasion, been on the verge of pulling out his hair with frustration over one or another of Magenta’s more reckless schemes. Sometimes his lack of military training was frustrating for those around him but in the same way, they admired his imagination, loyalty and sheer determination.

It was so like Magenta to be self-sacrificing. His Spectrum career was liberally dotted with incidents where he had risked his life for both civilians and his fellow officers. Some of those occasions had, figuratively speaking, got him into deep water. As for the latest incident… It was a horrible way to die, or at the very least, for him to believe he was to die.

“Right now? The old Magenta would do fine,” White confirmed sadly.

“Charles,” Fawn placed a comforting hand on White’s arm. In normal circumstances, the colonel could have chastised him for the use of his first name. But at the moment, it was obvious that Fawn was only searching to reassure him. The doctor nodded in Magenta’s direction. “Look at his eyes.”

White gazed down at Magenta’s face and noticed, for the first time, some flicker of movement below the lids.

“He’s coming out of it, Charles. I believe he may be starting to dream. The monitors are showing changes in his brainwave patterns. I’ll be keeping a close eye on him from now. I’m sure he’ll wake up soon from this coma of his. It can be like anaesthetic, you wake thinking of the last thing you thought. I’ve known people to fall asleep half way through a sentence then wake after the operation and finish that sentence. If that’s the case here, he may re-enact his struggles to free himself from the car. I’ll make sure he won’t come to any harm, don’t worry.”

White nodded appreciatively; he knew that Magenta was in the best possible hands.

* * *

Patrick Donaghue smiled as he turned into the gates of the small dairy farm. Very little had changed since his last visit. Inisfree itself was a small, quaint Irish village, seemingly untouched by centuries of change. Pat Donaghue had felt at the same time at peace and yet restricted here. It was perfect for his parents, but not for him. Even his younger sister, Sarah, had elected to remain in New York when their parents had decided to return to Ireland. Maybe, Pat mused, if they had returned to Dublin, one or possibly both of them would have followed them. Sarah held a position as an editor in a prominent publishing house; nothing in Inisfree could have offered her anything even close to the opportunities available in any large city. As he drew the sleek black car to a halt at the top of the driveway, Pat laughed aloud at the idea of Sarah as a farmer’s wife. The laugh died on his lips as he considered the more ridiculous idea of himself as a farmer. He had his own business to attend to, in New York. Whether his father realised it or not. Even if he didn’t like it at all. He HAD to learn to live with that.

Pat shook his head. No, he refused to even allow the thought to start to form in his mind. THIS visit was going to be a positive one. He flatly refused to accept that he had let his father down, merely by choosing a different path in life than the one Sean Donaghue had had mapped out for him. Although, even he had to admit, the path he had eventually taken was unlikely to make any parent proud. He accepted that, but at the very least they could speak to him civilly, couldn’t they?

Taking a deep breath, Pat stepped from the car. Taking another deep breath, he took in a lungful of fresh country air. It was invigorating. Okay, he thought with a smile, there were some advantages to living here, after all. Taking in the scene around him, Pat sighed with near contentment. The farm was as peaceful, warm and inviting as ever. Just through the gates and to the left lay the large but functional farmhouse. He had no idea how old the actual building was, but certainly the style and stonework were straight out of a centuries-old painting by Constable. Opposite the farmhouse were the feed barns and stables. Sandwiched between the two, but a little set back, was the largest building in the dairy, which housed the huge milking parlour, and beyond one hundred acres of meadowland. Every day, at the crack of dawn, Sean Donaghue and his herdsmen would lead the Holstein cows to the enormous metal barn.

“Every day!” Pat found himself thinking out loud. Shaking his head, there was no doubt in his mind that he could certainly not have become a farmer like his father. The regimented routine, the strict long hours, the lack of money, it was definitely not for him. It was with a certain degree of shame and embarrassment that he acknowledged that whilst his activities were illegal, he did enjoy the wealth it brought him.

No, be positive! He sighed again. Deep down, he wondered who was more ashamed of the life he had chosen - his father or himself. He had successfully convinced himself that it was the only way he wouldn’t die of sheer boredom. There was nothing, simply nothing available within the law that would take advantage of his particular talents. If there were, he’d have snapped at the chance. But until that rare commodity, an interesting job, materialised, he would please himself. He was a free spirit and would remain so as long as he could keep New York WGPC Commander Stewart and his squads of crack police investigators at arm’s length.

Before heading for the farmhouse, Pat Donaghue checked himself in the wing mirror of his car. Happy that he looked his best, he made his way to the open kitchen door. There he saw her, where he was certain he would find her, busying herself about the kitchen, oblivious to her visitor who was watching with affection and faint amusement from the doorway. Taking a pie from the oven, Lily Donaghue turned and noticed the tall, striking young man in the doorway. Stopping dead in her tracks, she looked almost as if she had seen a ghost. Snatching a towel from the nearby rail, Pat stooped quickly to catch the pie that it suddenly appeared she would drop. Gathering her senses, Lily turned sharply to place the pie on the table. She then took the towel from her son’s hands and chided him.

“Patrick Donaghue! What do you think you’re doing, coming here and scaring the life out of me?”

His face displayed that look of surprise and shock that only a parent’s scolding can induce in a son. Before he had a chance to reply, she took hold of his hands and was casting a worried eye over him, forcing him to turn around so she could examine him more carefully.

“Don’t you EVER eat, young man?” she sighed turning him back to face her. “You’re nothing but skin and bone!”

“Mammy, don’t fuss, I’m a grown man!” Pat squirmed with embarrassment.

“Not grown enough!” she replied, looking up to the man who was standing nearly two heads over her. “Now sit down and let me make you a good home-cooked meal. When was the last time…?”

“Mammy, I’m fine!”

“Patrick!”

She adopted a warning tone and raised her finger, pointing first at her son, then slowly drawing it down to a chair. Knowing better than to argue further with her on the subject, Pat took a seat. In the back of his mind, all he could think of was how lucky he was that none of his associates back in New York could see him being ruled absolutely by this tiny woman in her late fifties.

And how lucky he also was that she would be there to do so. Now a home-cooked meal… That really sounded good.

“Yes, Mammy,” he sighed finally, giving in.

“Oh, Pat! It’s so good to see you!” she said, turning on her heel towards the oven. “ Why didn’t you say you were coming? We could have got the whole family together.”

“Yes, well, my cousin Kieran possibly finding out what I do for a living and arresting me would probably bring down the party mood, don’t you think?”

Lily took a deep breath, and turned again to face her son, her eyes heavy with disappointment.

“You’re still…?” she paused, searching for the right words that would permit her to not actually say exactly what she was thinking.

“I’m still,” nodded Pat in agreement. “Mammy, I’m okay. It’s not what you wanted, I know, but I’ve never hurt anyone.”

“Look at your Mother!” came a harsh voice from the doorway behind him. “She looks hurt to me!”

Pat closed his eyes sadly. The very last thing he wanted was an argument with his father; now it seemed inevitable.

“Sean!” Lily snapped. “Give him a chance. Come and say hello to your son, he’s come so far to see us.”

“I saw your fancy car out front,” Sean Donaghue announced as he approached. His tone had not much improved from earlier. He was angry and bitter and there was no attempt made to disguise that fact.

“It’s just a rental, Pappy. I came for your birthday. It’s your sixtieth, how could I not come?” Pat tried to smile, but it was obviously forced.

“So for my sixtieth birthday, you’re bringing shame on the family?” Sean almost spat with disgust.

“Sean, that’s enough of that! You’re as bad as each other. Now, please, at least try!” Lily pleaded.

Sean glanced at his wife. With her eyes, she begged him to be reasonable. Offering him a smile as she saw his features soften, Lily took hold of one of both her son’s and her husband’s hands.

“Now then, Pat, how long will you be here?” she asked brightly.

His first thought was to reply ‘As long as I’m welcome’ but he stopped himself in time; the comment would have sounded inflammatory.

“A few days, I’m staying at a hotel in Killarney, it’s only a…”

“Nonsense, Pat, you’ll stay here, sure you will,” Lily announced transferring his hand into that of his father’s. “Now you two catch up while I make us all some dinner.”

Father and son stared awkwardly at each other for a few minutes before Sean, after clearing his throat, spoke again.

“We’ll get out of your way then, Lily.”

Taking a deep breath, Pat followed his father into the fading early evening sunlight. Across the meadows, the setting sun lit the sky with stunning folds of deep gold and russet. Pat Donaghue stared at his father’s back while the latter lit his pipe as he watched the sunset. Pat felt tense. He wanted to believe that it didn’t matter, that nothing his father could say or do would affect him but he knew in his heart that he was already affected, by even the things he might be thinking as they stood awkwardly silent in the garden.

“I bought you a gift,” Pat broke the silence.

He drew his lips into a thin line, as Sean’s reply was a single mocking laugh and a tired shrug of his shoulders. Without even turning, Sean took the pipe from his mouth and spoke quietly.

“What with?”

“Would you like to see?” Pat continued, ignoring the question.

Sean turned. He looked tired, sad. “Where?” he asked unenthusiastically.

“Come with me.” Pat smiled, glad of the reaction. It wasn’t a positive reaction, he didn’t try to fool himself about that, but it wasn’t altogether negative either.

Eagerly, Pat led his father to the stables where, whilst he had spoken with his mother, a special surprise had been left for his father.

As they entered, Pat was brimming with anticipation. Whatever his father’s opinion of him, surely he would appreciate the gift? He had spent quite some time choosing this particular present, after all, he thought, his father would only be sixty once.

“Happy birthday, Pappy,” he grinned as the pair entered the stables.

“A horse?” Sean was lost for words as he cast his eyes over the impressive-looking animal.

Pat stood to the side to let his father approach the previously unoccupied stall. Before him stood a magnificent chestnut stallion with a white blaze on his forehead. Its large chest, straight back and long straight limbs were an immediate giveaway to Sean that this was no workhorse. Sean put his hand up to pat its neck. He had to admit, if only to himself, that it was a fine horse. It looked strong yet calm and graceful.

“Do you like him? His name’s Pellinore. He’s…”

“A racehorse!” Sean shook his head. “A racehorse? What am I going to do with a racehorse?”

“Well, you always wanted …” Pat began. He was at a loss. This gift was something he had given a lot of thought to. His father had said on a number of occasions in the past how he would love a racehorse and now the one question he had asked had made it seem like such a ridiculous idea.

“This is what I’d expect from you, Pat. Flashy but no common sense! What am I supposed to do with it?”

“How about, just enjoy it?” Pat snapped back, irritated at the rejection of his efforts.

“Enjoy it? Do you realise how expensive it is to keep a racehorse? No, of course you don’t! Money means nothing to you, does it?”

“Hey! That’s not true or fair! When we were poor in New York, I wanted nothing more than to get us out of that. I worked hard but it got me nowhere!”

“I stand corrected!” Sean shook his head angrily. “Money means EVERYTHING to you, but you know nothing of its value! At least, what little money we have, we’ve earned.”

“Oh, here we go again!” Pat rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall folding his arms.

“Don’t be insolent with me, young man!” Sean growled, glowering at Pat’s disrespectful stance and attitude.

“What is it? What exactly do you have such a problem with?” Pat pushed away from the wall and stalked past his father to stand beside Pellinore’s stall once more.

“What do I have such a problem with?” Sean spluttered, hardly believing that the question had been asked. “My son, my only son, is a crook! And not just any old run-of-the-mill crook. No, he’s an internationally known and wanted gangster! And you have the nerve to ask me what I have a problem with!”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic!” Pat snapped back in return.

His reply was a series of short, painless but humiliating slaps across both cheeks.

“Remember who you’re speaking to, boy!” Sean growled as he stared Pat squarely in the eyes. “ I’m not one of your hired lackeys, you know. I’m your father!”

Pat could feel the tension running through him. His fists closed into tight balls as he held his composure. Positive. This visit would be positive.

Pat watched as Sean turned back to the horse. Agitated by the raised voices and obvious tension in the stables, Pellinore had begun to whinny and stamp. Sean reached up a hand to Pellinore’s face and neck, patting and stoking soothingly. Pat watched in awe as the horse responded immediately, calming and settling within moments. Even Sean had never seen anything like it; it was as if the horse and he had been together for years. Pat smiled at the scene. The tension seemed to melt away from all of them; it was time to restart the conversation.

“Pappy,” he continued quietly, “I just came to celebrate your birthday. You always said you wanted a racehorse. I thought you would be able to go out in the fields and ride him… There’s plenty of space around. I thought you’d like it.”

Sean took a deep breath and cast an admiring eye over the horse. It was really a superb animal.

“Pellinore? Of the Arthurian Legend?” Sean’s voice was calmer now.

“Yes,” Pat grinned. “I knew you’d like the name.” His father always had a fondness for Arthurian myths. Stories of gallant knights, and daring feats; of heroes, of honour, out to save the people from evil and destruction. Pat had heard many of stories told by his father when he was a child. He still remembered most of them.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

Pat nodded. These few brief words made the first peaceful conversation he had had with his father for quite some time.

“You want to give me something special for my birthday, Patrick?” Sean asked quietly.

Pat nodded again, this time with a slight smile. He felt the tension in himself ease slightly.

“Then come home, give up living the way you do. Your mother and I, we’d be prepared to forgive you for everything. Just, please, a normal life, Patrick? Is it too much to ask?”

“Come home?” Pat opened eyes wide with surprise, apparently not counting on this. “But, there’s nothing here for me…”

“Nothing?” his father queried angrily.

“I-I didn’t mean nothing as in not ‘you’, I meant nothing for me to do!” Pat spluttered as his father’s dark glare was aimed at him once more.

“And what you do now is ‘something’, is it? That’s your choice of career, is it? The people you mix with are scum, Patrick!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Pappy. My Syndicate isn’t like what you see on TV. They’re intelligent men, the vast majority of what we do doesn’t even involve contact with people. They’re not violent, they’re just ordinary people.”

“But what about the minority? What about that, Patrick? Then you’re violent?”

Pat stared back, his face pale and drawn.

“Do you carry a gun?” Sean continued.

“Do you want me to answer that?”

“You just did.” Sean shook his head sadly. “And don’t tell me I don’t know!” he suddenly yelled. “I know you want to make out that you run some kind of fairy tale legitimate business, but I know the scum you work with and what they get up to!”

“They’re not scum!” Pat yelled back in their defence.

“Gabriel James.”

Pat was stopped dead in his tracks. Gabriel James, admittedly one of the more unscrupulous members of his Syndicate, had indeed proved himself worthy of Sean’s epithet. Some time back, he had taken quite a shine to Pat’s sister, Sarah. They had met quite accidentally, during a visit to her brother; James had shown up unexpectedly at Donaghue’s Manhattan apartment. Pat wasn’t really happy about this, as, as a personal rule, he had always seen to it that his family would never be mixed up with any of his business - or encounter any of his associates. Unbeknownst to Sarah, with business concluded, James had shown an unhealthy interest in her, only to be warned off by Pat. Refusing to take no for an answer, James had pursued Sarah, and despite frequent rebuttals, decided that more forceful tactics were needed. Only three months earlier, Pat had received a frantic message from Sarah that James had forced his way into her house. She had managed to barricade herself into the bedroom but was terrified of what he may do. Pat had raced there immediately and been in time to find James pinning Sarah to the bed, with his right hand around her throat. Sarah had never seen her brother fly into such a violent rage. She had, in fact, been forced to beg him not to kill James.

Now Pat was standing there, silent, stunned in the knowledge that his father knew all about the attack on his sister and that he was being held responsible.

“Where did you hear that name?” Pat asked feebly.

“From Sarah, of course. Are you going to insult me further by denying it?”

“No.” Pat looked down with a regretful sigh.

“Is that all you have to say? You allow one of your thugs to attack my daughter and you have nothing to say?”

Pat’s head snapped up in alarm. “Allow him? I had nothing to do with that! I STOPPED him!”

“If it weren’t for your ‘career choice’ this would never have happened!”

“So it’s MY fault?”

“Yes it is! Can you think of who else is to blame for Sarah meeting up with such scum?”

Pat clenched his teeth. The meeting was accidental. He had never intended that Sarah meet James, he was the last person he’d ever want her to meet.

“I dealt with it!” Pat snapped with a harsh stare, as he thought of how he had come so close to handling it differently. If Sarah hadn’t managed to calm him, things could have been so very different.

Sean could only stare; he didn’t want to ask how, but he didn’t want to not ask either. He’d never seen his son looking so cold and dark before. It was a subject he had always avoided thinking about before. Pat had often claimed, like he had earlier, that he had never hurt anyone. But the question had presented itself yet again and in a most terrifying way. He had to know if his son was a murderer.

“You killed him?” Sean asked, his voice barely reaching his normal speaking volume.

Pat was torn from his reverie by the sound of his father’s troubled voice. The expression of distress on Pat’s face did more to settle Sean than even his words.

“No! Pappy, how could you think…?”

“I don’t know you any more, Patrick! I find out from Sarah that she’s been attacked by one of your men! And you say you’ve ‘dealt with it’. What am I supposed to think? This is not normal behaviour, Pat.” Sean’s clenched his fists in frustration. “I don’t steal, I don’t lie, and I don’t cheat! How can I know what you do? I don’t know you any more. I know your cousin better than I know my own son!” The pitch in Sean’s voice rose dramatically as he became increasingly upset.

Pat rolled his eyes at the mention of his ‘perfect cousin’ in the Garda, the Irish National Police Force.

“Kieran! Sergeant Kieran Donaghue. Can he do no wrong?”

“At least he makes an honest living! Damn it, Pat, that horse makes a more honest living than you!” Sean’s voice cracked, as he gestured frenetically in Pellinore’s direction. He sounded as if he may be on the verge of breaking down.

“Pappy!” Pat moved forward, suddenly hearing the faltering in his father’s voice, and alarmed at the burst of emotion.

Sean shoved away the helping hand his son was presenting him. His eyes were burning with anger. “Get off my land, Patrick, I want nothing more to do with you!”

“Pappy?” Pat replied, dumbfounded by the absolute rejection.

“Get out!” Sean yelled. “I don’t want you here again. Ever! You’re no son of mine!”

Too many emotions swirled and jostled for place in Pat Donaghue’s mind. He was unable to react, or even to move. He could only stared as his father walked threateningly towards him.

“Get out!” Sean yelled again, pushing his son towards the door of the stables.

“Pappy! Please!”

With one last shove, Sean drove his son out of the stables and turned his back on him, hiding from him the tears that streamed down his face. Pat could not have known the pain in his father’s heart as he walked slowly away to his car, but it seemed unlikely to him that it was greater than his own.

* * *

It had not taken long after Colonel White’s departure for Captain Magenta to receive a new visitor. One who showed himself even more worried about the Irish captain’s health than the Spectrum Commander-in-Chief. Frankly, Doctor Fawn wasn’t that surprised to see him arrive there. After all, over the past years, Captain Ochre and Captain Magenta had developed a friendship that, years earlier, during their respective professions, neither of them could have ever thought possible. Most probably, either would have scoffed at the idea, or snorted derisively over it. But now, either one of the two men would risk his career or lay down his life for the other. Without any reservations.

After providing Ochre with the same reassuring words he had offered Colonel White, to ease his concern, Doctor Fawn had quietly left the American captain to watch over his friend. Ochre didn’t take the chair set next to the bed; he had preferred to stand right there, looking down at Magenta’s set face, silently, like a still statue. He stayed there long minutes, oblivious to anything around him, listening only to the regular bleeping of the monitors that Magenta was hooked to.

“Come on, you worthless Irish crook,” Ochre finally murmured with concern and obvious edginess in his tone. “Doctor Fawn said you were gonna be all right. Don’t make a liar out of him… Wake up already, damn it! You've had enough beauty sleep.” He hesitated a few short minutes, to listen to the beeping monitor, as if hoping he would hear a change following his harangue. He didn’t hear anything new. “It’s just like you, isn’t it? You had to go and play hero, and then end up like this, while WE have to meet up with our dear friend, Special Agent Conners. If I weren’t so worried for you, I would say you’re the lucky one to have missed him. But he’s gone, now. Went off Cloudbase just after Scarlet. So I guess you COULD wake up now. You’re safe. ” He pricked his ear again, scrutinized his friend closely. With no more change than before. He sighed deeply. “You’ve always been thick-headed, haven’t you?” he grumbled. “Why don’t you listen to me?”

He heard a soft movement behind him. Turning around, he saw a petite figure standing in the doorway of the room.

“I came to get news of Captain Magenta. Still no change?” Destiny Angel entered the room, and quietly came close to the bed. Standing next to Ochre, she looked down in concern at the sleeping Magenta. “He’s so quiet,” she said in a whisper.

“Doctor Fawn said that he may come out of his coma soon,” Ochre said with a shrug, answering the French Angel pilot’s earlier question. “I don’t know, I’m no doctor… But I’ll sure be relieved when he finally does open his eyes and say something.”

“You and all of us,” Destiny said with a nod. She took a step forward and reached for Magenta’s hand and squeezed it in hers. “Come on, Pat,” she told the patient with a soothing tone. “Please. We’re all waiting for you to wake up…”

“… And get back to your old tricks again,” Ochre deadpanned behind her. She looked over her shoulder, as if with every intention of reprimanding him. But she saw the concern on his face. She then simply gave another nod.

“He’ll be all right,” she sighed, looking down at Magenta again. “He’s a strong man. He’ll wake up soon.”

“Yeah,” Ochre agreed, with an assured voice. “I’m sure he will.”

He looked down as Destiny took the seat next to the bed. At first he didn’t think anything of it; she was there because, like him, like all the others, she was Magenta’s friend, and was deeply concerned over him. But then he noticed how her hand hadn’t left Magenta’s, and how her eyes were still set on him. Ochre arched a curious and perplexed brow. Maybe he was imagining things, but…

Ochre’s epaulettes flashed white, pulling him out of his reverie. Answering, he heard the voice of Lieutenant Green. He was called to the Control Room.

“S.I.G., Lieutenant. I’m on my way.” The cap mic returned to his visor, and Ochre addressed Destiny, who had not moved from her place. “Destiny, I must go. If there’s any change while you’re with him…”

“I’m not planning on going anywhere for a while,” the Angel pilot cut in. She nodded. “I’ll inform you.”

Ochre thanked her and left sickbay; he directed his steps toward the Control Room, all the while wondering what could be calling him there right now. Surely, it couldn’t be because Captain Scarlet’s investigation was already through and that he had reported in. He hadn’t been gone long enough for that. And from what Ochre had gathered of Matt Riordan, he doubted very much that the New York gangster would have confided in him quickly and revealed if he or Fisher were behind all that deal with those accounts. Riordan was some kind of a coward. If he thought a revelation like that would put his life in danger, he would not give it easily.

At that point in his reflections, Ochre suddenly heard a nearby speaker hiss loudly. That made him stop in his tracks, and he turned to the speakers, full of dread.

“This is the Voice of the Mysterons…” Ochre closed his eyes and let out an annoyed sigh. “…We know that you can hear us, Earthmen… Our next act of retaliation will be to assassinate Commander Ian Stewart, prior to his appointment as Supreme Commander of the World Government Police Corps. Commander Stewart will never reach this high office!… We will be avenged!”

Ochre scowled, hearing the threat. Now, that’s close to home! he thought grimly. He himself had nearly become the WGPC Supreme Commander, some years ago. That was about at the same time as he had been contacted to be a part of Spectrum senior staff. He had had to choose between the two careers - a difficult choice for him. But not once, since then, had he regretted his choice.

Now the Mysterons were threatening the life of the man who was to inherit the post he himself had forfeited. There certainly was some sick irony in this.

The speaker had grown silent, just as it usually did after the Mysterons had issued their threat. Grumbling, Ochre quickened his pace towards the Control Room. He had just a hunch that, no matter what had been the reason for his earlier call, it would definitely have to wait. The Mysteron threat would now take priority. And more than probably, considering his contact and knowledge of the WGPC, his own expertise would be needed.

* * *

Matt Riordan stood in his kitchen, dolefully brooding over the events of the last few hours. Anyone who visited him might have been inclined to think that Riordan might have quite a senior position in a brokerage or law firm, so impressive was the size and decor of his apartment. In his own right, Riordan was quite wealthy; such had been the success of the Syndicate’s activities over the years. His apartment, near the centre of Greenwich Village, Manhattan, was tastefully furnished in a modern yet comfortable style. The kitchen was a large one, suggesting that Riordan liked to cook. He was, in fact, quite a good cook; Patrick Donaghue could have attested to that.

Patrick Donaghue. Just the thought of him was now disturbing to Riordan, who downed the glass of whisky he held in one gulp. The man had changed, and dramatically too. It seemed ironic to Riordan that the previously mild, witty and energetic man that he had known, years ago, in his first days as a Mob Boss, should turn into such a cold-blooded killer under Spectrum’s tutelage.

Riordan shook his head and poured himself another whisky, and swallowed it in one shot. He wanted so much to get the sight of Ben Fisher’s dead body out of his head. He looked at the bottle on the counter in front of him; it was the finest malt money could buy. It was going to take a lot, he thought to himself sadly. Picking up the bottle once more, Riordan held it poised to pour a third glass when a knock at the door made him look up. Odd, he thought, how did the caller get past the doorman?

Cautiously Riordan approached the door, picking up his shoulder holster, which was resting on the kitchen table, and slipped it on. As he entered the hallway, he stood to one side, away from the door, should a hail of bullets greet him through it.

“Who is it?” he called drawing his pistol and standing ready.

“Captain Scarlet, Spectrum,” came the reply.

Riordan was perplexed by the sound of the English-accented voice; pressing one of four buttons next to a small wall-mounted screen revealed the view immediately beyond the door. Seeing the Spectrum captain standing outside, Riordan’s shoulders sagged and he frowned, his perplexity growing. Replacing the gun in its holster, he gave an involuntary sigh of relief. It was widely assumed amongst the Mob that he had never fired it, such was his distaste for killing. Riordan had never commented on the matter but he had certainly not relished the idea of using it now. As soon as it came, however, the relief left him, as he realised that there could be only one reason for Spectrum’s presence at his door. He hesitated.

“Come on, Riordan! Open up! Or I can ask my questions from out here if you prefer.”

Riordan’s heart sank; his assumption was correct. What could he do? For the time being he had no alternative than to open that blasted door.

“All right! Give me a minute,” he grumbled, reaching for his jacket to hide his holster. Why was that Spectrum officer coming to him, anyway? What did he think he was going to tell him? Riordan had been in this game long enough to know that you stayed alive by keeping quiet, and not saying anything to any law enforcement authorities. It unnerved him slightly that Donaghue, of all people, knew that, on at least one occasion before, he had gone to Spectrum. When Fisher, Abbott and James had arranged Donaghue’s kidnapping, some months ago, Riordan had informed Spectrum of his location in order to assist his rescue. Riordan could only hope that Donaghue realised that this was but one single transgression made solely to save his friend’s life. Riordan certainly didn’t intend to make a habit of it. Especially now. He wasn’t going to be next to be killed, that was for sure.

Pulling the door open, Riordan rolled his eyes at the sight of Captain Scarlet standing, looking all too conspicuous in his bright red uniform, in front of him.

“You’ll get yourself shot coming here!” Riordan hissed between his teeth as he ushered the captain inside. “And me too! They’ll think I’m some sort of informant!”

Scarlet stepped inside, allowing Riordan to close the door behind him. The Spectrum officer stood there, simply looking at him very quietly.

“Well?” snapped Riordan.

“Am I making you nervous, Mister Riordan?”

“What do you think?” Riordan replied as he led Scarlet into the living room.

“I think you’re already nervous. I think something’s got you rattled, Riordan. Now what might that be?” Scarlet directed an accusing glance at him.

“I...” Riordan paused, wondering what it was exactly that Scarlet knew; he couldn’t possibly know about Fisher’s murder. It was far too soon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Patrick Donaghue,” replied Scarlet evenly, waiting to see the reaction he would receive.

From Riordan’s expression, Scarlet knew he had struck gold. Certainly something was bothering him.

“Wh-What about him?” Riordan stammered.

Neither man realised that the other had in his mind a completely different scenario. All Scarlet wanted to prove was that Riordan had been using his computer skills to access Captain Magenta’s private accounts, whereas Riordan was still trying hard to recover from the shock of watching the man he called his friend callously gun down two men, right before his eyes. But neither, of course, wanted to voice his thoughts. Scarlet needed for Riordan to admit the fraud; and Riordan didn’t want to give any indication of what he knew of the two murders he had witnessed.

“Have you had your hand in the till again, Riordan?” Scarlet asked, certain from Riordan’s reaction that he was right. The man had shivered ever so faintly and was suddenly, Scarlet noted, very pale and drawn. Riordan’s brow glistened with a mist of sweat as he stood frozen before Scarlet, simply staring and silently considering his reply. Scarlet frowned and continued: “I’m not here to arrest you, Riordan, I just want to know.” He was hoping to receive a more positive response, but still Riordan maintained his silence. “Was it Fisher?”

The supplemental question only seemed to make matters worse. Still without a word, Riordan headed for the kitchen and poured himself another whisky. By the time a puzzled Scarlet had followed him, the glass had been drained.

“Want one?” Riordan asked, showing Scarlet the bottle.

Scarlet’s brow furrowed as he watched Riordan pour himself another glass. Something was plainly upsetting him. Stepping forward, Scarlet gripped Riordan’s right hand, preventing him from raising the glass to his lips.

“What’s happened?” he asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

“Nothing’s happened!” Riordan snapped, roughly brushing away the officer’s hand and backing away a step. “Why should anything have happened?”

Scarlet raised his eyebrows at the outburst. “What aren’t you telling me, Riordan? Did Fisher make you do it? Has he had you emptying Pat Donaghue’s accounts? We know they’re in use again.”

Riordan stared at Scarlet with unbelieving eyes. It suddenly became clear to him that the Spectrum captain didn’t have any idea that Donaghue had returned to claim his old Syndicate, plus the lives of two of his rivals. No, he didn’t know, that was obvious now. He had come for another reason altogether.

Well, if he doesn’t know, I’m not about to tell him! Riordan told himself with conviction. Riordan prided himself on knowing when to keep his mouth shut - on more than one occasion, he believed that it may have saved his life - and this, he felt most strongly, was one of those times.

“Yeah,” he replied finally, turning his back on the captain. “It was me.”

There was something about his reactions and countenance that made Scarlet doubt what he was saying, but he couldn’t work out why he was so very nervous.

“Has Fisher threatened you? Is that it?”

“Fisher?” Riordan pinched the bridge of his nose and allowed a short anguished laugh to escape his lips. Shaking his head, he turned back to face Scarlet as he continued: “Now, why would that concern you?”

“Riordan,” Scarlet’s brow creased on hearing the obvious tension in Riordan’s voice. “What is wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Riordan replied briefly closing his eyes with a sigh. “What do you want?” he asked forcing himself to appear calm.

“Pat Donaghue’s accounts...”

“Hang on a minute, how did you know where to find me?” asked Riordan, suddenly realising that Scarlet had never been to his apartment before.

“You really thought we were just going to let you walk out of jail and back to your old ways without us keeping tabs on you?”

“You Spectrum welshed on the deal we had!”

“You’re out of jail, Riordan, THAT was the deal,” replied Scarlet calmly.

“But you’re watching me? Have you got this place bugged too?”

“We don’t care about your petty crimes with the Syndicate, Riordan. The only thing we care about is that you don’t tell a soul what you and Fisher know about Captains Magenta and Ochre.”

What I know! Riordan thought, almost rolling his eyes in the process.

“There’s no way I’m going to do that! I always keep my word. Pat must have told you that.”

“He did, but he knew you three years ago. A lot can change in three years.”

Riordan gave a short forlorn laugh and rubbed his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he murmured unhappily.

Scarlet frowned again, Riordan was definitely not telling him something. Thinking back to his earlier conversation with Special Agent Conners, Scarlet still believed that despite Riordan’s reluctance to talk, with a little coaxing, he could be made to open up. With this man, Conners’ style of interrogation would certainly reveal very little.

“What about Fisher?” Scarlet asked, remembering how Riordan had earlier reacted to the mention of his name.

“He won’t say anything,” Riordan answered, finally raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip.

“How can you be so sure?” Scarlet pressed.

“I just know, okay?” Riordan replied, slamming the half-drained glass back on the counter so forcefully that some of the contents spilled.

“All right, I believe you,” Scarlet spoke with a calm, clear voice. “Look, I just want to confirm whether or not you have been using Pat Donaghue’s accounts. There’ll be no comeback, I just want to know.”

Still wondering where these questions could be leading to, and what it was that could interest Spectrum in Donaghue’s accounts, Riordan nodded. “I emptied three of his accounts a couple of months back,” he replied, absently wiping up the spill.

“Okay, how about recently?”

Riordan considered the question. Now, realisation was beginning to dawn on him over the reason for Spectrum’s sudden interest in these accounts. He had not touched them for months. He had felt guilty about accessing them in the first place. But he had no idea what Donaghue had been up to recently, and what withdrawals he might have made. Maybe Spectrum didn’t know for sure about Donaghue, but they suspected some foul play from him. Riordan didn’t want to squeal if they had no confirmation. He had to bluff it somehow.

“Yeah, Fisher needed more. There were some foreign accounts, I dipped into them.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Riordan sighed. “Do I have to be?” Pausing as he considered Scarlet's harsh stare, he took a wild guess. “Two Swiss accounts and one in Ireland, three million from each, they’re not quite empty.”

Scarlet nodded. Conners, in his usual tight-lipped manner, had kept the details of how much had been withdrawn and which accounts had been targeted. Perhaps if he had proffered the information, Scarlet would have realised that Riordan was lying. With no reason to believe the mobster would admit to the thefts unless he had actually committed them, Conners had deemed it unnecessary to give the information to the investigating officer.

“Okay, I’ll contact my superior and let him know.”

“Is that all?” Riordan asked, astounded, unable to believe his fortune that Scarlet was unaware of the exact details.

“For the minute. But I want to talk to you after I’ve called in.” Scarlet paused as he noted Riordan’s discomfort. “Off the record,” he added as he walked into the living room, lowering his cap microphone as he closed the door.

“Go ahead, Captain Scarlet,” came the voice of Colonel White.

“Colonel, I’ve spoken with Riordan. He’s admitted raiding three of Magenta’s accounts a couple of months ago. And again, more recently, some foreign accounts: two Swiss and one Irish. He says he took three million from each of these three accounts, but that they’re not quite empty.”

Colonel White raised his eyebrows in astonishment. Just how much money did Captain Magenta have stashed away, anyway?

“Thank you, Captain. I’ll report your findings to Special Agent Conners. Hopefully we’ll get the whole thing cleared up very quickly, and we will be able to address more important matters.”

By the sound of his superior’s voice, Scarlet could tell that he already had something precise in mind. “Something has come up, Sir?”

“Exactly, Captain,” White answered grimly. “Mysteron trouble.”

“Do you want me to come back to Cloudbase, Sir?”

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll need you back in New York, for the mission. Since you are already there, I’d like you to make your way to Spectrum Headquarters, New York, and await the arrival of Captains Blue and Ochre. They’ll explain the situation to you as soon as they arrive.”

“In that case, Sir, if I may, I’d like first to stay here for a few more minutes. Riordan seems strangely nervous and I’d like to ask him a few more questions.”

Riordan moved away from the living room door; he had heard enough. Captain Scarlet was true to his word; he had only discussed the withdrawals with his superior, but Riordan had no intention of hanging around for a more meticulous Spectrum interrogation. As soon as he discovered he had been lied to, Scarlet would be even more inquisitive. Creeping to the door, Riordan quietly turned the handle and almost cried out in fright as he opened the door to see the huge figure of Ox standing just outside, almost completely blocking the way.

“Mister Riordan,” Ox greeted him politely.

“Ox?” Riordan replied in almost a murmur, dumbfounded. “What are you doing here?”

“Mister Donaghue asked me to watch your apartment, he thought you might have some trouble.”

Riordan gave him a thin smile. More likely, Donaghue was suspicious of him.

“Then you saw the Spectrum captain arrive?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ve let Mister Donaghue know.”

Riordan’s heart skipped a beat. A chill ran down his back as he realised what it could imply.

“Ox, they’ve been watching me,” he said almost desperately. “He’s come to interrogate me about Fisher. I don’t know how he’s found out, but…”

“Don’t you worry, Mister Riordan. I’ll deal with it.”

Riordan stood back as the huge form of the Syndicate’s enforcer entered the hallway, looking about him, taking in and familiarising himself with the layout of the apartment. Finally, Ox glanced in Riordan’s direction with a questioning expression.

“In there,” Riordan pointed to the living room. “He’s communicating with his superior, he said.”

Ox raised an eyebrow indifferently and headed in the direction indicated with a silent swiftness, unexpected of a man of his size. Easing the door open very slowly, he saw his target standing with his back to him, talking into his cap microphone. Edging nearer, Ox heard the end of the one-sided conversation.

“Yes, Sir. I doubt I’ll be long, just a few questions.” There was a pause whilst the other man spoke, before the red-clad captain continued: “Yes, Colonel.”

Another brief pause followed during which Scarlet heard something else over the voice of his commander-in-chief. It was little more than the ghost of a sound, but it drew his attention and compelled him to turn around. Too late to see the threatening mountain of a man, towering over him, his right hand raised, clenched.

“S.I….”

Caught by surprise, it was all Scarlet was able to say before Ox’s crushing blow struck him over the side of the head, and forced him to his knees, his mind reeling. As he knelt swaying, barely conscious, but desperately trying to gather his senses, Ox tore the cap from his head, ensuring the radio connection had been severed, then swiftly relieved the Spectrum officer of his pistol.

Arms crossed, Riordan stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame, smiling, impressed by Ox’s thorough and swift handling of the situation. Initially, a twinge of guilt ran through him as he watched Scarlet suffer at the hands of the mob’s enforcer, but he dismissed it almost immediately, acknowledging that it would extricate him from a difficult, potentially dangerous situation. He watched with relief as Scarlet, after a second devastating blow, finally slumped to the floor at Ox’s feet. Riordan cringed. That’s got to hurt… Although he could tell from his breathing that the Spectrum captain was still alive, if barely aware.

“What did you tell him, Matt?”

Riordan shivered at the sound of that cold voice. He spun around in the doorway, to see Pat Donaghue who was now standing in the hallway only a few feet away, taking a deep puff on a freshly lit cigarillo.

“P-Pat?” Riordan struggled with the word. He knew now, more than ever, that Donaghue was suspicious of him. “Nothing, Pat.”

Donaghue heaved a curious, insistent eyebrow. “He was here a long time, Matt. What did you tell him?”

“Nothing! Well, nothing he didn’t already know,” Riordan replied nervously. “The accounts, Pat. Your personal accounts, you know? He wanted to know if I’d accessed them. That’s all he wanted.”

“That’s all?” Donaghue insisted. “He didn’t get anything else, did he?”

“No, Pat, nothing, I promise,” Riordan replied hastily.

“Did you mention me?”

“No.” Riordan shook his head.

“Fisher?”

Another shake.

“I knew I could rely on you, Matt.”

With that quiet statement and a cold assurance, Donaghue walked past Riordan into the living room. Ox, who was standing over the downed, barely-conscious Spectrum officer, looked over to him when he saw him enter.

“He was trying to interrogate Mister Riordan, Sir,” Ox explained.

“So I hear.” Donaghue turned his head slowly to look at Riordan, then back again at the giant man who was keeping a wary eye on the Spectrum officer, fighting to keep his senses. “You’ve done a fine job, Ox. As ever.”

The sound of that voice made Captain Scarlet painfully raise his throbbing head and turn it in the direction from which it came. He saw the tall man standing nearby wearing a stylish three-piece suit, with a carnation adorning it, and quietly smoking a thin cigar. The British captain had to blink several times to clear his fuzzy sight, thinking he was hallucinating.

No…It couldn’t be…

“Magenta?” he murmured, frowning in disbelief.

“One more, Ox, if you will.”

That cold voice was the last thing Scarlet heard before feeling Ox’s huge and powerful hand crashing down on his right temple, in one last terrible blow. The agony he felt lasted only a very short instant. Knocked unconscious almost instantly, he crumpled to the floor, with a painful groan, before falling into a pool of darkness.

* * *

PART 3

“I’m unable to re-establish contact with Captain Scarlet, Colonel.”

Raising his eyes from the file he had briefly consulted, White looked over to Lieutenant Green. Since they had abruptly lost radio contact with Captain Scarlet, minutes ago, the young man, seated at his communications station, had been pushing buttons and trying many channels of communication used by the cap microphones. Green’s efforts to restore the link had been frustratingly unsuccessful. He shook his head. “He’s probably having trouble with his communicator. I don’t have a single signal.”

White acknowledged the report with a nod. “Well, then, I expect he’ll find a way to contact us eventually. And report back to Spectrum New York when his business with Mister Riordan is finished.”

“Could he be in trouble, Colonel?”

Colonel White turned in the direction of Captain Blue, who, like Captains Ochre and Grey, was seated on the raised stools in front of his circular desk, and had been waiting patiently to continue the briefing. Blue seemed a little concerned over his regular partner’s radio silence - and subsequent failure to answer calls from base. Of course, Blue, like all the others, knew of Scarlet’s whereabouts at the present - going to Magenta’s old syndicate territory to find some answers to those questions Spectrum Intelligence were wondering about. Why they needed to concern themselves over another of Martin Conners’ whims was beyond Blue, to be honest. The man always was synonymous with trouble - and in the worst possible moments.

“I don’t think we need be worried for now, Captain Blue,” White replied. “There’s nothing that might lead us to believe that he may be. The mission Captain Scarlet had set himself to do is a simple one, and he should be through with it quite quickly. Especially now that he knows we have a Mysteron situation at hand. I’m sure he’ll prefer to deal with more urgent matters like that, rather than concern himself with some triviality dreamed up by Special Agent Conners…”

White feigned not to see the mocking smiles spreading on each one of his senior officers’ faces. It wasn’t an easy job, seeing as they were making a poor job of concealing it. He looked down at the folder open in front of him. “We’ll give Captain Scarlet an hour to turn up. If he fails to report by then, we’ll send a search team after him.” He raised his head once more, cleared his throat and looked at his officers one by one. “But right now, we do have more pressing business to attend to, and that, gentlemen, cannot wait.”

They each nodded their agreement. They all knew the situation, each of them having heard the threat over the speakers in different parts of Cloudbase.

The Mysterons now wanted to eliminate the man who was to become the new Supreme Commander of the WGPC - the World Government Police Corps. That was a post which Captain Ochre himself, as Richard Fraser, had been offered, years ago, and that he had turned down in favour of a rank in Spectrum senior staff. That wasn’t a publicly known fact however - as far as the world at large was concerned, Detective Commander Richard Fraser had been killed in a car bomb assault, just prior to his appointment as Supreme Commander. It was but a subterfuge concocted by Fraser and Spectrum Intelligence, so he would be free to engage in his new existence within Spectrum, with a clean slate, without any hindrance from his earlier, rather bumpy life. Now officially dead, WGPC Richard Fraser shaved the beard he had been sporting so many years, disappeared from public view, and took on the new identity of Spectrum Captain Ochre.

As Fraser was pursuing his career within Spectrum, the post of WGPC Supreme Commander was allotted to the then WGPC Deputy Commander, Alec Crandon. It was to be a temporary assignment, as Crandon, like his predecessor, was contemplating retirement; however, he maintained his position for the next four years, doing an even better job than would have been expected. Now, Crandon was finally stepping down, and had announced his definite decision to retire. A new World Government Police Corps Supreme Commander would need to be nominated.

Enter Commander Ian Stewart, WGPC New York.

Stewart was a rough and tough as nails cop from the old school, whose reputation, like that of Richard Fraser, preceded him. Crandon himself had approved of his nomination. Considerably younger, more energetic, totally incorruptible, often in the thick of the action, there was no doubt that the WGPC would have, in him, a good man as Supreme Commander.

If ever he reached that post. And it was now for Spectrum to make sure the Mysterons wouldn’t succeed in their threat to kill him.

Following standard procedures, Spectrum’s closest ground facility - in this case the offices in New York - had contacted the target and provided him with immediate safekeeping, assigning a team of security ground agents who would be in attendance for his protection. They would not let Commander Stewart out of their sight, or permit him to leave his house, and would await the arrival of Cloudbase officers, who would then take control of the operations. Which would be soon after this quick briefing in the Control Room, during which Colonel White would give their assignments to his assembled officers.

“At the moment, a security team, led by Lieutenant Tan, is keeping Commander Stewart securely inside his home in New York,” White said, consulting his notes. “Their instructions are to wait for you to arrive, Captain Grey, in an MSV that will take Commander Stewart to our rebuilt Security Building in New York.”

“S.I.G., Colonel,” Grey said with a brief nod. So far the assignment wasn’t looking too difficult. But he was presuming the Mysterons would probably not make it easy for them.

“Commander Stewart will have to stay in the Security Building until tomorrow, eighteen hundred hours. You will then take the MSV again and escort him to the WGPC Headquarters in New York, for the swearing-in ceremony, which should be held at exactly eighteen thirty.”

“After that,” Captain Blue concluded, “ according to the Mysterons’ own specifications for the threat, he should be safe from them.”

“Exactly, Captain Blue. The Mysterons will try to assassinate him before that time. That’s why we’ll have to be very vigilant, until Commander Stewart is in office.”

“I bet Stewart doesn’t really appreciate the prospect of being babysat by Spectrum,” Captain Ochre then remarked with a faint chuckle.

“Indeed, he doesn’t, Captain Ochre,” Colonel White admitted, glancing in the former policeman’s direction. “He told me, in no uncertain terms, that the WGPC could take care of its own without any need for Spectrum to interfere in matters that aren’t any of its concern.”

“That’s Stewart, all right,” Ochre said with a smile.

“The present Supreme Commander of the WGPC, fortunately, wasn’t of the same opinion. He strongly ‘suggested’ to Commander Stewart that he accept our protection.”

“Commander Crandon is certainly aware that dealing with the Mysterons is strictly Spectrum’s mandate,” Blue agreed. “He’s much wiser.”

“That he is,” Ochre admitted. “Why he’s supporting Stewart’s nomination as his replacement is beyond me, though. With or without Crandon’s support, it would surprise me if Stewart would make it easy for Spectrum. We’d better expect him to be a difficult assignment.”

“You seem to know Commander Stewart very well, Captain,” Grey remarked.

“Yeah, I know him. We met often when I was in the WGPC.”

“Can you tell us about him?” White asked.

“Well… All in all, he’s a good guy… Almost perfect for the job he’s going to undertake…”

Grey chuckled. “The perfect one for the job being you?” he remarked.

“Hey, I’ll remind you I nearly became WGPC Supreme Commander, four years ago,” Ochre pointed out. “I should think that would allow me to judge quite adequately who would get the job.”

“Or so you say.”

“Never mind that,” White cut in, with a warning glance to both Ochre and Grey. “Why ‘almost perfect’, Captain Ochre?”

“Well, he’s a good police officer,” Ochre explained, shrugging. “Dedicated, morally upright, restless… He often goes out in the field and has the reputation of always getting his man. He’s a brilliant detective, as well as a good leader of men, but… Well, there’re those annoying… flaws in him.”

“Flaws?” Blue asked.

“Yeah. You see, that guy thinks he’s so smart, it’s positively exasperating. He’s so stubborn, you have no idea! He always has to have the last word in ANY argument - no matter if he’s right or not. He always thinks he’s right, anyway, so there’s little point arguing with him.”

White shot the American an unbelieving look, while Blue and Grey exchanged a perplexed glance. Curiously, Ochre’s first description of Commander Ian Stewart was similar to Ochre himself. Their surprise wasn’t complete yet, as Ochre continued:

“I mean, well, he’s not ALL bad. He looks after the men working for him. Very protective, in fact.” Ochre shrugged. “And he plays by the regulations,” he stated firmly. “Well, when it suits him. And when he’s working on a case…” he smiled, as he considered this to be a good point, “… he gets down into the minutiae. He’ll go on a hunch and if he’s got an idea about something he’ll hold on to it like… like a dog with a bone.” Ochre’s voice tapered off as he realised that this too had ended up sounding like a weakness rather then a strength.

“Yeah,” agreed Blue, holding in the laugh that threatened to burst from him. “That can be really annoying.”

There was only one person in the room who didn’t seem to realise that Ochre was describing himself and, embarrassingly enough from the others’ viewpoint, that person was Ochre.

“Annoying? You don’t know the half of it! He has this REALLY irritating hobby…” No-one in the room could believe their ears at that last statement. If they didn’t know better, considering the present situation, they would have thought that Ochre was leading them on. “He collects stamps,” Ochre continued. “From what I’ve heard, he's got millions of them, EVERYWHERE!”

“No kidding,” Blue grumbled, almost scoffing. “And what, now you’re going to tell us that the stuff he uses to stick them in books isn’t very agreeable to sensitive noses?”

Ochre pointed directly at Blue, nodding enthusiastically. “You know someone who does that too?”

“Something very similar, Ochre,” agreed Blue, nodding pointedly.

Ochre frowned lightly. All eyes were upon him. He had believed that they were simply interested in what he had to say, but now he saw the expressions of disbelief and amusement on their faces - even the colonel’s. And now, as it began to dawn on him exactly what they were thinking, he could almost hear the barely restrained laughter from his fellow captains. He bit his lower lip as he could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks in a flush of acute embarrassment.

“How can you…?” he stammered, looking at his colleagues with what looked like a mortified expression. “He’s nothing like me. I mean really, the man’s a…”

“Captain Ochre,” Colonel White interrupted him, “I think you’ve given us a fairly detailed description already. Perhaps we should continue? There is a Mysteron threat to deal with here.”

“Yes, Sir,” Ochre agreed with a quiet sigh.

“As it’s fairly apparent that you and he are… acquainted, Captain Ochre, I don’t think it wise for you to meet with him. I would like you to go with Captain Blue to Spectrum Headquarters, New York and make the necessary security arrangements for the forthcoming swearing-in ceremony. Lieutenant Green?”

The colonel raised his voice to address the young communication officer who was seated in front of his station. Green swiftly snapped in his commander’s direction. “Yes, Colonel?”

“I need a computer expert to go to the Maximum Security Building with Captain Grey. One who would know about the modifications and updates to security that Captain Magenta introduced. Since Captain Magenta isn’t in attendance, the task now falls to you.”

Green’s face beamed with a totally delighted expression. It wasn’t that often that Colonel White would permit him to go down to the ground. He welcomed every opportunity.

“S.I.G., sir,” he said in a cheerful tone that conveyed his gratitude for his commander’s decision.

“Right. Captain Grey and Lieutenant Green, I want you to collect Commander Stewart from his home and escort him to the Maximum Security Building. Captain Grey, Lieutenant Tan of the New York Headquarters is currently in charge of the security operation and he will hand over to you on arrival. However, he will remain on hand at all times in the Maximum Security Building. Lieutenant Green, I have arranged for Cloudbase main computer to be manned by Lieutenant Sienna, while you’re away. He will be here shortly and you’ll be able to go. That will be all, gentlemen.”

Rising from their seats, the captains saluted and headed toward the door, shooting an amused look in the direction of the widely-grinning Lieutenant Green who was presently looking as if he couldn’t sit still. No doubt, he couldn’t wait to leave and follow them out!

“Come on, Ochre!” Grey slapped his friend on the back as they headed down the corridor. Ever since he had realized the fun his colleagues had made of him, Ochre had sported a very grim, almost pouting look. “You have to admit, that description you gave sounded a lot like you. And they were your own words!”

Ochre snorted at the mocking remark. “He’s nothing like me, you’ll see,” he grumbled. “And when you do, you won’t be laughing. THAT I can guarantee you!”

* * *

“Come in!” Patrick Donaghue called, replying to the knock on the door of his office, without looking up from the papers he was reading.

Josh Kirby entered the room, a little hesitantly, the unfamiliar surroundings and man seated at the large walnut desk near the window unnerving him slightly.

“I got the rest of the papers you wanted, Mister Donaghue,” he announced as he walked to the desk, holding a slim file in his hand.

Donaghue finally looked up and frowned at the thickness of the file.

“Is that all you have?” he asked impatiently.

“There’s actually quite a lot in here,” Kirby replied in defence of their information gathering skills.

“Does it have a full schematic of the building?”

“No,” admitted Kirby with a sigh.

“Guard duty rosters? Alarm systems? List of personnel?”

“There’s a list of senior personnel,” Kirby replied with a shrug. Donaghue snatched the file from Kirby’s hand and opened it, to get a quick look into it. He grumbled with dissatisfaction.

“Not good enough, Josh, I need more than that.” Donaghue looked up at Kirby, his stare harsh and unyielding.

“Yes, Sir, but, well, isn’t this a bit much? All this effort for a Plan B?” Kirby began.

“What are you talking about?” snapped Donaghue.

“Well, Sir, I mean you haven’t even tried your first plan yet, it might work fine,” Kirby protested. “With all that detailed preparation you already put into it and the instructions you gave Sean concerning that bomb of his…”

“Was O’Rourke able to build that bomb following the specifications I gave him?” Donaghue interrupted suddenly.

Kirby eagerly nodded. “That he did, sir. And he says it’ll work like clockwork. So to speak.”

“That’s perfect, then. Maybe we won’t need Plan B, Josh, maybe Plan A will work perfectly. But it might not. And in that case, we have to be ready. We’ll only get two chances.”

“With respect, Mister Donaghue, we’ll get lots of chances and easier ones at that. Does it really matter if we do it before or after he’s sworn in?”

“It matters to me!” Donaghue growled in reply before checking down the file again. “Now, who is Captain Brealey?”

“He’s our contact at WGP,” Kirby replied, happy to finally have something to say that he thought Donaghue would be pleased to hear.

“Better,” Donaghue grunted. “And according to this, an acquaintance of Ian Stewart. I want to speak to him.”

“I’ll ask Jeff to contact him,” Kirby replied with a slight smile, turning to leave.

“Jeff?”

“Sorry, Sir, Jeff Tyler. Brealey’s his contact.”

“Not any more, he’s my contact. Give me the phone number to contact him.”

“I don’t have it, Sir,” Kirby admitted with a degree of embarrassment. “Like I said, he’s Jeff’s contact.”

Donaghue rolled his eyes and looked up at Kirby. The cold expression, unlike anything Kirby had ever previously witnessed, made him squirm uncomfortably in front of him.

“How Fisher ran a shoddy operation like this is beyond me. But it’s about to change. Understand? Now get Tyler here! He and I are going to have a little chat.”

“Yes, Sir, he’s in the building, I’ll send him right up.”

“And get Mister Riordan too, I want to see him immediately afterwards.”

“He’s over at property number four, Sir, it’ll…”

“Immediately, Josh!”

“Yes, Sir,” Kirby nodded vigorously. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” Donaghue frowned at him, looking back down at the papers before him. “For now.”

Kirby frowned. It was a time of change for them all, but only hours earlier, he had enjoyed a senior status which now seemed lost. Donaghue had Riordan and it seemed to Josh Kirby that once his usefulness was at an end, Riordan would step in fully and take over in the coveted position of right-hand man. He realised in that moment that it wasn’t the power he enjoyed; the way Fisher ran things, he had none. In reality, Kirby had been little more than a personal assistant and first line of defence, rather than a second in command but he liked his job and he was good at it. The idea of being sidelined now, and by a well-known coward like Riordan to boot, was not a happy one.

Donaghue felt the atmosphere in the room. Having retained the real Patrick Donaghue’s skills and knowledge, the Mysteron agent knew that this particular situation had to be handled carefully. For the threat to be carried out smoothly, he required the assistance of the Syndicate members. At least at this early stage, he needed to retain their loyalty. Josh Kirby, although relatively mild when compared against the likes of Harper and Tyler, was an integral part of Fisher’s old regime. People respected him and would be likely to follow his lead. So far, he had confirmed his loyalty, but a little incentive, Donaghue decided, would cement that loyalty.

Kirby had almost reached the door by the time Donaghue looked up once more. Using all of his retained people skills, the Mysteron agent called him back.

“Josh,” he spoke kindly, “I’m sorry, I guess I’m a bit edgy over this plan. It’s risky, and it’s got to go smoothly or people are going to end up in jail or worse.”

Kirby turned and forced a worried smile. He was a hundred miles away from realising that the welfare of his gang members was the last thing Donaghue could be concerned about.

“Come here, Josh,” Donaghue requested quietly.

Returning to the desk, Kirby waited, not quite knowing what to expect.

“Mister Riordan has always been my right hand man,” began Donaghue.

Here it comes! thought Kirby miserably.

“… But he never got involved in the day-to-day running, the data, the files, the detail. You follow me?”

“I… think so, Sir.”

“Josh, you know more about this Syndicate now than anyone and one this size takes a lot of running. I used to do it all myself. I couldn’t do that now. I need someone I can trust and who is up to the job. I fear Mister Riordan… lacks certain skills required. In other words, I think he doesn’t have what it takes. But you, Josh…” Like a well-drilled actor, the duplicate Donaghue made a dramatic pause, and watched with satisfaction as he saw Josh Kirby’s growing interest and anticipation appearing on his face. And then moved on: “You did a great job for Fisher, Josh, and I suspect, knowing him, that he seriously undervalued your skills. So… I’d like you to carry on. What do you say?”

“You can trust me, Mister Donaghue,” Kirby replied with a broad grin.

“I know I can, Josh.”

“Sir,” Kirby began with some hesitation, “what are you working on, exactly?”

“When I’ve worked it out, I’ll explain everything, but for now, get me Tyler.”

“Yes, Sir,” replied Kirby turning to leave once more.

Donaghue watched him as he closed the door behind him. A cold, calculating smile crossed his face, realising he had made another small step toward carrying out the Mysterons’ instructions.

It was only a few minutes later when a second knock at the door disturbed Donaghue from his thoughts and the scheming plan that was taking form in his mind, while consulting his papers. Closing the file, he looked up.

“Come in,” he called again, sitting back in the chair.

The door was pushed open and Jeff Tyler entered the room, casually. Tyler had been one of Ben Fisher’s men and, therefore, something of an unknown quantity for Donaghue; but he was skilled at evaluating people, his first impressions of them had rarely been wrong. Dropping a small carry-on bag by the door, Tyler approached the desk. Donaghue did nothing but stare at the man; it was a practised, calculated stare and had often proved invaluable in assessing the people he was dealing with. Tyler stared back, unflinching, unblinking.

“You wanted to see me?” Tyler finally broke the silence.

Okay, thought Donaghue, arrogant and disrespectful.

“We have a contact in the WGPC. Captain Brealey. I want his phone number.”

“You want to see him?” queried Tyler. “I can get him for you.”

“Perhaps it’s the way I’m saying it?” Donaghue spoke, shaking his head with a sigh. “I want his number,” he repeated emphasising each word.

“That’s not the way it works, Mister Donaghue, he…”

“… Will speak to me if he wants to get paid. End of discussion. Give me the number.”

Tyler sighed. In truth, it wasn’t Brealey who was the problem. Tyler enjoyed the power of being the only one allowed to contact him. Even if he withheld the private number, there were any number of other ways for Donaghue to contact him. It would only take a little longer. But Tyler didn’t fancy his chances of staying alive if he crossed Donaghue so soon after the deaths of Fisher and Harper. The man seemed totally ruthless - so different from what he had heard of him from the past. And completely unpredictable.

“Sure.” Tyler leaned forward on the desk and jotted the number onto a pad. “There.”

“Good.” Donaghue looked up at him once more. “What else?”

“What else? What?” asked Tyler, puzzled.

“You have something else to say.”

Tyler raised his eyebrows; it was a statement not a question, he wondered what he’d done to make it so obvious.

“Well, yeah, I do, but I…”

“Out with it, I don’t have all day!” Donaghue snapped.

“It’s about you.”

“What about me?” Donaghue narrowed his eyes.

“Some time ago, Fisher told us that Carlotta put a price on your head,” Tyler replied, referring to Anton Carlotta, the Chicago Mob Boss who had, only a few months earlier, attempted a take-over of Fisher’s Syndicate.

“What of it?” asked Donaghue suspiciously.

“Well, I happen to know that there’s someone in the organisation who would be more than happy to try to claim that bounty. For a price, I could deal with the situation,” Tyler shrugged.

Donaghue laughed briefly and nodded. “And what would that price be?”

“I’m not a greedy man, we could say an even two million. You get to stay alive and I get a nice bonus.”

“Two million?” Donaghue rose from his seat and rounded the desk. “How about you get zip and,” he paused to check himself over theatrically, “hey, I’m still alive!”

Tyler scowled in annoyance.

“It’s your call, Mister Donaghue, but don’t say you weren’t warned,” Tyler grumbled as he turned to leave.

As he reached the door, instead of opening it, he quickly locked it. Turning on his heels, he spun around, drawing his gun as he did. Catching Donaghue totally off guard, Tyler fired quickly; the gun barely produced a sound of huffed air as the bullet impacted into Donaghue’s chest, sending him crumpling to the floor, where he lay still.

Tyler smiled to himself as he unscrewed the silencer from the end of the gun barrel. Nobody had heard the commotion in there so he didn’t have to worry about the rest of the gang bursting in and surprising him. He was rather pleased with himself over the way things had gone without a glitch. Of course, Donaghue had refused his offer, but it was really of no concern, as he was certain of at least one prize; five million dollars would set him up for life. But perhaps there would be even richer pickings to be had. Somebody had to take over the Syndicate, after all. And why not him? He considered himself as capable as any other.

Tyler knew he might not have much time before someone would eventually come in for some reason or other. Reaching into his bag, he grabbed a Polaroid camera and moved toward Donaghue. First checking for a pulse, just in case, he smiled maliciously at being unable to find one; there was no question, he was definitely dead. Aiming the camera, he pressed the shutter. Anton Carlotta would require proof before handing over such a large sum. A picture of Donaghue’s dead body would convince him. Picking up his bag once more, Tyler stood by the rear door to the office waiting eagerly for the picture to develop, not wanting to leave before he was certain he had the proof he needed. The picture started to form on the square of photographic paper he held in his hand. He grinned as he watched it, then reached for the handle of the rear door.

“I don’t think you got my best side, Tyler.”

Tyler turned in panic and horror at hearing Donaghue’s voice. The latter was now standing straight, looking implacably at him. He didn’t appear at all like a man who just had been shot down. Only the small stain of blood in the middle of his chest was serving as proof of what had just happened. Staring at the man he was certain was dead; all Tyler could do at first was stammer.

“B-but how…? You were dead!”

Donaghue laughed. “Oh yeah? Well, I obviously got better! But you? You’re going to stay dead!”

Tyler threw down the carry-on bag and reached for his gun, but Donaghue’s was already in his hand. A single shot was all it took to silence Tyler as he slumped to the floor bleeding heavily from a shot to the head.

Donaghue could hear the commotion outside the office as they tried to break in to the locked room. Casually, he replaced his gun in its holster and reached for his jacket to hide the gunshot wound, which had clearly pierced his heart.

Only seconds afterwards, the door splintered on its hinges and burst open. In the doorway stood Kirby, O’Rourke and Riordan.

“Mister Donaghue, are you all right?” asked O’Rourke with concern.

“I’m fine, Sean, thank you,” he replied with casual ease.

“But Tyler?” Kirby voiced the question for them all.

“Tyler was a traitor who thought he could cash in on Carlotta’s bounty money. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that I wouldn’t tolerate anything less than absolute loyalty, but I guess some people need more convincing than others. If anyone else tries the same stunt I’ll be happy to oblige them in much the same way. Understood?”

The question was followed by a series of nods and murmurs, all of them keen to express their loyalty and avoid the same fate as Tyler.

“Now, as you’re all here, I can tell you about our next move. Gentlemen, we are going to pull off nothing short of a coup. Something that will hit the headlines and for its sheer ingenuity and audaciousness will be talked about for years to come.”

Donaghue’s introduction to the scheme drew their attention like moths around a light.

“There’s only one man good enough to put a halt to our operations. A man who already had been a thorn in our side in the past, as I’m sure you well know. He’s about to receive a promotion that will make him even more of a problem in the days to come. Therefore, we remove that man from the picture, before he gets the chance to make life unbearable for us. Gentlemen, today… we will kill Commander Ian Stewart.”

Donaghue was greeted with open mouths and wide-eyed expressions. Only Josh Kirby remained unmoved. He listened to the discomfited mutterings and slowly looked at each of them in turn. None of them were willing to speak out of turn, for fear that it be interpreted as disloyalty. Every one of them knew Ian Stewart. The New York WGPC commander who had caused so many problems to the Syndicate over the years. They were well aware that, in the past, Stewart had done everything in his power to stop Patrick Donaghue’s operations, get his hands on him and gather proof of his illegal operations in order to arrest him. But as far as they could tell, he had come up with nothing. It was probably the only stain on his otherwise spotless career.

In the past, Patrick Donaghue had done nothing against Commander Stewart - he knew he was after him, but didn’t seem to be bothered with that. He was always considering himself smarter than Stewart - or any cop for that matter - enough anyway to keep everything out of their reach. And he had always considered Stewart a worthy opponent. He respected him. Yet now he wanted to kill him.

And… he wanted to do this today?

Seeing the uncomfortable and uncertain expressions obvious in each of his men, Donaghue smiled reassuringly at them.

“Josh will reunite the rest of the gang and he’ll start explaining the plan. Sean, you’ll go with him, gather everyone.”

“Yes, Mister Donaghue,” O’Rourke eagerly answered.

“I’ll come in a short while. Matt, you’ll stay with me, I want to speak to you alone.”

Riordan nodded and took a seat near the desk as Donaghue gave some last minute instructions to Kirby. Distracted by the sight of Tyler’s dead body lying only feet from the desk, Riordan’s eyes were drawn to it. As he turned his head, he noticed something lying on the floor near the discarded carry-on bag. Casting a furtive glance behind him and seeing Donaghue still in deep discussion with Kirby, he headed for the body. Pulling the white corner of what he now realised was a photo, he was surprised to hear Donaghue’s voice behind him.

“Everything all right, Matt?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replied uneasily, pushing the photo into his jacket pocket. “Just checking him. You know, making sure he’s dead. Not just hurt.”

“Oh, he’s dead all right, I made sure of that,” replied Donaghue emphatically.

Riordan sighed and hung his head; he barely recognised his friend, especially now. Statements like that would have been impossible to imagine coming from him, only three short years earlier. Riordan got to his feet and turned to face Donaghue, watching as he lit a cigar. Everybody else had left, and they were now alone.

“You seem a little distracted, Matt. What’s on your mind?” Donaghue finally asked.

“What have they done to you, Pat? Spectrum, I mean. You were never like this.”

“I’ve learned to kill bad guys. Tell me, Matt, the men I’ve killed, were they good men? Will you miss them?”

“That’s not the point!” Riordan sighed hopelessly. “You never killed before, never! And then there’s…” Riordan broke off, unsure if he should continue.

“Yes, Matt? Then there’s what?” Donaghue’s tone had become slightly aggressive.

“We’re holding a Spectrum officer prisoner, Pat. That’s bad any way you look at it. He knows you, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does,” Donaghue spoke with indifference as he blew out a cloud of wispy grey smoke.

“Well…”

“I’ll deal with it, Matt, personally. You have no reason to worry.”

Oh great! thought Riordan. Now I’m REALLY worried!

“I’m going to deal with it now, as it happens. Matt, I want you to stay here for a little while. Josh needs help getting some important information on the WGPC offices. I need a building schematic, and a few other small things. I told him you’d hack in and get it for us. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

“No, Pat, that won’t be a problem,” Riordan sighed.

“Good. Then I’ll see you at, what do you call it? Property number five? Later?”

Riordan nodded. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m finished.”

Riordan watched as Donaghue headed into the outer office; turning once more to stare at Tyler’s body, he couldn’t help but shiver.

Once out of the room, Donaghue beckoned to O’Rourke and Kirby to approach him. The two men had already reunited five of the gang’s junior members, who were presently entering what served as the conference room in the building.

“Josh, I count on you to tell the boys everything that they need to know about the plan,” Donaghue spoke in a business-like tone. “In the meantime, I have a little business to attend to. I need a driver. A man I can count on.”

“Yes, Sir. Billy will do. I’ll have him get the car,” Kirby replied.

“Thank you, Josh,” Donaghue replied absently. “And… Josh?” he frowned with distaste, “can you get rid of Tyler and sort out the mess? Oh, and I’ll need a new door.”

“I’ll get right on it, Mister Donaghue,” Kirby replied, reaching for the phone to contact one of the Syndicate’s drivers.

“A minute, Josh, I have another little job for you,” Donaghue interrupted him, quietly pulling Kirby by the arm to a corner of the office. “Mister Riordan, he’s getting a bit jumpy. Nothing to worry about I’m sure, but he’s always been the nervous type, you know that. I want you to watch him, closely. Don’t let him be on his own. It’s not in his best interests at the moment.”

“Sure, Mister Donaghue, whatever you say,” Kirby agreed enthusiastically. “You know you can count on me.”

I bet, Donaghue told himself inwardly, with a knowing nod. “Good man. Sean, you’ll be coming with me.”

“Sir?” Sean O’Rourke asked with uncertainty evident in his tone.

“You’ll have an important part to play in the plan, as I told you earlier, and I want to give you the last details of it. Right after my… business is finished, we’ll go join the others at the rendezvous point.” Donaghue turned to Kirby as if to make sure he had well understood his instruction. Kirby nodded to the affirmative.

“We’ll all be there, Mister Donaghue.

“Good. We’ll catch you later, then.”

Placing the cigar back into his mouth, Donaghue went with O’Rourke to get a few things from his office, before heading out to tie up some loose ends.

* * *

Captain Grey drew the MSV up outside the apartment block just off Central Park West. There was no need to check if it was the right one, the number of Spectrum security guards posted in and around the building was an instant giveaway. Grey nodded thoughtfully; they seemed to have the place well protected, with guards posted at every vantage point and the road cordoned off; there seemed to be no way to gain unauthorised entry.

“So,” Grey turned to Green with a smile, “I guess this is where we find out if the rumours are true.”

“You mean, what Captain Ochre said?” asked Green with curiosity.

Grey chuckled. “Yeah! If you can believe that anyone can ‘out-Ochre’ Ochre! The way he tells it, he’ll be a cross between President Roberts and General Ward of the Frost Line Outer Space Defence.”

“Oh, I remember him!” replied Green. “He had the colonel pulling his hair out!”

“Yeah, he wanted to blow the Mysteron Complex up all over again! He was a nightmare to deal with. Can you imagine what it would be like to have the two combined?”

“I can see how that would be a serious problem,” agreed Green.

“I can’t see him being as bad as Ochre suggests, my guess is that they don’t get on for some reason,” Grey laughed.

“Sour grapes, you mean?”

“Something like that,” replied Grey unbuckling his harness. Looking up, he could see Lieutenant Tan approaching the MSV. “Ah, good, here’s Tan. He’ll be able to update us on the situation.”

Lieutenant Tan had been standing at the main entrance to the apartment building when the MSV arrived. Standing at an inch under six feet tall, he cut a striking figure. Born Armando Spinnetti, in Florence, Italy, straight from college he had attained distinction at the Giardello Military Academy in Rome, subsequently working in the Italian diplomatic corps, and gaining himself an outstanding reputation in security. Joining Spectrum almost from its inception, Spinnetti trained at Koala Base before transferring to Spectrum’s New York Headquarters on his commission with the rank and colour code Lieutenant Tan. More than satisfied with his work, only six months earlier, he had been offered the role of Chief of Security at the newly rebuilt New York Maximum Security Building, upon its completion; he eagerly accepted the position, which was something he seemed almost born to do.

Opening the doors, Grey and Green climbed down from the MSV; Grey extended a hand to the approaching Lieutenant.

“Lieutenant Tan,” Grey beamed a smile at him. “Good to see you again. What’s the situation here?”

Grey fully expected to hear a report solely concerning the steps taken to secure the Commander’s safety and the success of that operation thus far. Instead he was somewhat taken aback to see Tan’s exasperated expression as he shook his head with a sigh.

“Captain Grey, can I be straight with you?” he asked with a pained frown.

“Sure, Lieutenant. What’s up?” Grey asked leading the agitated Lieutenant to one side.

“He’s driving us crazy!”

Grey raised his eyebrows at so blunt an admission. Tan continued:

“He’s stopped short of abuse but I honestly think he would if he could get away with it.” The exhaustion was evident on Tan’s face. “I just wish I could hand him over to you completely!”

Grey frowned; Lieutenant Tan was not given to overreaction, it was more in his nature to understate a problem.

“What’s his problem?” asked Grey.

“He doesn’t see why he needs Spectrum security. Says his own guys at the WGPC can do just as well, if not better.”

“And he can order them about too!” Grey replied astutely.

“Got it in one, Brad - er… Captain.”

Grey smiled, Tan really was flustered if he managed to forget protocol. “That’s okay, Armando,” he said patting the younger man’s arm sympathetically. “I’m warned. Let’s see if we can’t tame the tiger.”

“Good luck, Captain!”

Grey headed back towards Lieutenant Green; the expression on his face was stern and gave little away.

“Is there a problem, Captain?” asked Green with a quizzical look.

“Nothing we can’t handle, I’m sure,” he replied cryptically. “Come on, let’s go in.”

Grey headed the small group of three Spectrum officers, his face set in a grim mask of determination. On reaching Commander Stewart’s apartment, Grey and Green flashed their Spectrum passes to the security guards standing in front of his door and were allowed to enter. Grey was first struck by the contents of the living room into which they stepped. On the walls there were collections of stamps set in frames. Books on stamp collecting adorning the shelves, a magnifying glass and a couple of magazines on the subject rested on the coffee table. In fact, everywhere Grey looked there were stamps. Everywhere.

“Oh God!” Grey muttered under his breath. “He IS Ochre!”

Lieutenant Green, looking around with wide-opened yes, was thinking about the same. Replace the stamps by model planes and the picture would be perfect!

“Who are you?”

The voice came so suddenly and was so abrupt that Grey was caught completely off guard. The voice was so severe, it was almost like being addressed by Colonel White on a bad day. Losing all his resolution, Grey suddenly found himself struggling to reply.

“Er…Sorry, Sir. Captain Grey, Spectrum and this is Lieutenant Green.”

“And I’m supposed to trust myself to a guy who doesn’t know who he is?” Stewart snapped as he rose from the deep armchair in which he had been sitting.

“I didn’t see you there, Sir.”

“You fill me with the utmost confidence, Captain. If you can’t even see me, I dread to think how you would see any would-be assassins.”

Grey counted to ten. Behind him he could hear Tan breathe a ghost of a sigh and knew exactly how he felt.

“Now, Lieutenant Tan, for the benefit of your near-sighted friend, perhaps you would explain that I neither want nor need Spectrum protection. My men at the WGPC are more than capable of handling the situation. Now I will ask you, very politely, to leave my home and let me get on.”

“With respect, Sir…” began Grey.

“A sentence that begins ‘With respect’ usually contains none whatsoever,” Stewart interrupted irritably.

“With respect, Sir,” Grey nevertheless continued, “you have been threatened by the Mysterons. That is not something to be treated lightly.”

“I am not treating it lightly, Captain. Are you suggesting that my men are a joke force, only capable of performing the most menial of tasks?”

“No, Sir, not at all.” Grey was starting to realise how Tan had so quickly reached the end of his tether. The man was infuriating in the extreme, twisting words to his own ends. “I’m merely suggesting that as we at Spectrum have greater experience with the Mysterons…”

“An assassin’s an assassin, Captain. It’s not the first time a Commander of the WGPC has been targeted by some crank. You may recall the unfortunate Commander Richard Fraser of some years ago?” Grey kept a set face, and Stewart continued, shrugging. “Well, unlike him, I’m not going to take any chances. My men can take the responsibility, for which they are more than capable. Now, if you would, Captain, I’d like you to escort your men off the premises and return to your respective offices.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Commander,” replied Grey sternly; having decided that he and the rest of the Spectrum officers had taken enough abuse from the man. “You have been threatened by the Mysterons, that makes it Spectrum’s business by Presidential Order.”

Grey noticed Stewart open his mouth to argue and continued quickly:

“If you still object, Sir, you can take it up with the World President, but I doubt that he would share your concerns about the organisation he helped to found.” Grey paused for a moment, watching Stewart’s reaction, then added, “Sir.”

Stewart glared at Grey; the pair stared at each other, unblinking for a few moments before Stewart spoke again.

“What is your plan, Captain?” he asked finally.

“We have a Maximum Security Vehicle downstairs, Sir. We intend to take you to the Maximum Security Building.”

“You mean the place the Mysterons blew up about two years ago?” Stewart scoffed loudly. “That’s your idea of protection is it?”

“Sir, that was before we knew anything about them. We are much more prepared, and we have methods to detect and kill their agents now. Since its reconstruction, the Building is much more secure. And one of our men has spent a considerable amount of time making additional security improvements. You will be quite safe, Sir.”

“Very well,” Stewart grumbled. “Seeing as I don’t really have a choice…”

“I’ll wait while you get ready to leave, Sir. Lieutenants Green and Tan will accompany you in the MSV passenger cabin.”

Stewart sighed heavily as, accompanied by a Spectrum security guard, he headed for the bedroom to pack a bag while Grey waited in the living room.

Grey turned to Tan and rolled his eyes. “Good thing he agreed to come on his own! I wouldn’t have wanted to drag him down there.”

Tan smiled; it was hard to know if Grey was being serious or not, but he had to admit, it was a thought that had crossed his mind too.

“I’ll meet you downstairs in a little while,” Grey continued with a sigh.

“S.I.G.,” Green grinned as he turned to leave with Tan. Heading down the stairs once more, Green turned to Tan with a knowing smile. “That was a serious battle of wills up there.”

“Actually,” replied Tan with a straight face, “I think it was more a battle of ‘won’ts’!”

The pair laughed quietly as they returned to the MSV, glad the confrontation was over with, for now at least.

* * *

This was getting out of hand.

WAY out of hand, Matt Riordan was thinking as he was working frenetically on his computer, in order to find the information that Patrick Donaghue had requested of him.

As he had said to Donaghue, it wasn’t a problem. He had easily found what he was looking for. And more, even. But as he was downloading the information onto a disk, he was wondering why he was doing it. Why he had accepted so easily to follow those orders, even though he knew it could very well signify the death of one man.

Because you’re a coward, Matt, that’s why! he told himself angrily.

He knew that Donaghue would never take no for an answer, and he was so very afraid for his life. He had no doubt in his mind that his ‘old friend’ would kill him as easily as he had killed Jack. Or Fisher. Or Tyler. Or like he was preparing to kill that Spectrum officer he was detaining at the warehouse. He would not hesitate for one instant.

Riordan had seen how Donaghue had been in action up until now. So ruthless, so unpredictable, and cold. So unemotional. It was exactly as if he wasn’t feeling anything anymore. The way he was looking at all of them, he didn’t have any consideration for anyone. They were mere tools to be used for his own purposes.

That wasn’t the Patrick Donaghue Riordan knew. The man that he was in the past, even though he was head of one of the most significant mob organisations of the New York area, he was a caring one, considerate, and one who would have never accepted that his men would kill on his behalf. That was what set him apart from all the other gang bosses in those times. They were all cold and ruthless killers. Donaghue was not. His were always clean operations, and nobody would get hurt. At least, physically, if not financially.

Riordan permitted himself a faint smile of amusement upon remembering that old, rich - so very rich - financier from Wall Street - a self-made successful businessman who said to anyone willing to listen to him that he had made an household name of himself when he had started his business at twenty, with only a thousand dollars in his pocket, and by taking no prisoners in the market - the man had been known as a ruthless, heartless businessman who had driven many competitors and less fortunate companies into the ground, leaving nothing for their owners to survive on. The arrogant, self-satisfied son-of-a-gun had publicly proclaimed that his computer systems were completely protected from any attempt to hack into them. That was a challenge Pat had been unable to ignore. He hacked into the systems, cut through all the security devices implanted in them and had drained the man of all his assets. Then he had generously deposited an amount of a hundred thousand dollars in a personal account set up in the man’s name, and had sent him a note, telling him that now he could start his business again with a hundred times what he had when first he did forty years ago. The daring exploit had made the front page news at the time - with everyone in the business world wondering who had been able to do that - and trembling that he would start again, with any one of them.

Those days were gone now, Riordan realised bitterly. Pat Donaghue had become as ruthless and bloodthirsty as any of his mob competitors of the time. If not worse.

How could he have changed so much, and so quickly? That was still a mystery to Matt. He finished the job on his computer, and sat down on his chair, thoughtfully. Some months ago, the last time he had encountered Pat; he was apparently still the same. Aside from that burning anger he was feeling for Ben Fisher, that is, but even that was quite understandable, considering all Fisher had done to him in the recent past - added to which, he was holding Pat’s sister Sarah as a hostage, to force Pat to do something for him. Pat had sworn to Fisher that if he ever used his family against him again, he would kill him, but that was the limit of Pat’s ruthlessness at the time. Probably Fisher got the message, because he never attempted to approach Sarah Donaghue again. Not that it would have served him, anyway, since he had no reason to use her anymore. But Matt Riordan was sincerely asking himself if Fisher wasn’t really afraid of Pat at the time. He would probably never have the answer to that question.

What happened between that time and today? Matt was asking himself, his brow furrowed. Pat was still a Spectrum officer then - and apparently a very dedicated one, loyal to his friends and his job. There wasn’t really a good explanation for his present behaviour, that was really troubling Riordan. He couldn’t explain it to himself.

Turning around on his seat; Riordan looked out through the window of the office, set on the second floor. Down there, in the dead-end alley behind the building, he could see a dark, impressive car which had been brought up in front of the service door, of the other wing, that Riordan could see very well. Billy Brennan, one of the gang’s minor members, had stepped out to open the rear door, just as Pat Donaghue came out of the building from the service door, his long, expensive coat almost flapping in the wind at each step, casually smoking a cigar that he threw away just before getting into the car. Behind him, Sean O’Rourke following, getting into the car on the other side. Riordan shivered almost despite himself when Billy closed the door and took his place back at the wheel, driving the car away. All of Riordan’s thoughts instantly went to the Spectrum officer the gang was keeping captive at the warehouse. He knew that Donaghue was going there to see him.

To ‘deal’ with the problem.

Riordan shivered anew. He knew exactly how Donaghue intended to deal with it, and he didn’t like it at all. It was one thing that Pat had killed Fisher and the others - they were criminals, rivals, killers, probably they deserved to die, not withstanding the fact that there wasn’t really a need for it. Nobody would really miss them, and certainly nobody would cry over them. But a Spectrum officer? Now that was more serious. It was plain, cold-blooded murder of a man whose function was related to that of an international policeman - more, a member of an anti-terrorist organisation.

Riordan didn’t want to get mixed up with that, but what could he do?

“For God’s sakes, Pat,” he mumbled with a deep sigh. “What happened to you? Did you snap under pressure at Spectrum? Have you gone completely crazy?”

He grimly watched as the car disappeared from his view, after turning the corner of the alley. He sighed again, heavily. Pat was going to kill a Spectrum officer - one of his own colleagues. And after that, he was planning to assassinate his old adversary Ian Stewart - a man that he had tremendous respect for, despite the fact that Stewart tried to arrest him. And apparently, now Pat would kill him without a second thought. Riordan felt as if he could do nothing but look on helplessly - all the while hoping that he too would not become a victim of Pat’s madness.

In frustration, Riordan pushed his fists into the pockets of his jacket. He felt something inside the right one. He then remembered the picture he had picked up from the floor, not that far away from the dead body of Tyler, and had quickly hidden in his pocket to avoid Donaghue seeing it.

He got it out, merely out of morbid curiosity, wondering what it could be about. When he turned it in his hand to check the picture, he frowned deeply.

It showed Patrick Donaghue, sprawled on his back on the floor of the very office Riordan was presently sitting in. With a red dot of blood staining the white of his expensive shirt. Dead centre in the chest - where the heart would be.

What’s that supposed to mean? Riordan asked himself, not understanding any of it. The date and time stamp on the photo told him that it had been taken barely an hour ago - at about the moment of Tyler’s death. Pat had said that Tyler had tried to kill him to collect on Carlotta’s bounty money. Did Tyler actually shoot Pat and then take this photo as some kind of proof? But… Pat didn’t appear wounded earlier…

A bullet proof vest, Riordan decided. He was wearing a bullet proof vest when Tyler tried to kill him. Then Pat surprised him and killed him, and…

No. Where was that blood stain coming from, then?

Well… they do it all the time in Hollywood, no? Sachets of fake blood on actors’ chests, to make believe they’re dead and…

That sounded so stupid! Would Patrick Donaghue REALLY go to such extremes to make an enemy believe he was dead, in order to shoot him?

Quite unlikely. How more absurd could that be?

Riordan couldn’t find a logical explanation for the photo - although he was quite sure there was one. There MUST be one, he added inwardly, rather unnerved. And the person who would be able to tell him about it would be Patrick Donaghue himself. But Riordan wasn’t that eager to ask him about it… There was something very disturbing about that picture, and he was sure it was hiding something terribly wrong concerning his friend…

That’s it, this is the last straw. I have had enough of all this! Riordan suddenly decided that he wouldn’t stay around to wait for the ship to sink under his feet. He had to get out of all this, and put a good deal of distance between himself and Patrick Donaghue. Away, as far away as he could get.

Mars would be far away enough! he thought grimly. He grabbed for his jacket, hanging on the back of the chair he was working on. He wouldn’t go through the front door. The men in the other room would see him go; maybe they wouldn’t ask anything, but Riordan didn’t want to take the risk… Who knew if Pat hadn’t asked them to keep their eyes on him?

He would take the back door; which led directly outside. Quietly opening it, taking care not to make a sound, he stepped out and walked down the narrow flight of stairs and out into the dead-end alley where he had seen Donaghue get into a car a short while earlier. Riordan’s car was parked in the street, just beyond the alley. He only had a short walk before reaching it. He looked over his shoulder often, making sure nobody was following him - or watching him.

Nobody in sight. Riordan let out a sigh of relief only when he finally reached his car. He fumbled a moment with his key, searching the right one to unlock the door, and when he finally found it, he literally jumped behind the wheel.

His key stopped short at the ignition. Something flashed into his mind. Something that was making him fight with his conscience.

“Scarlet,” he muttered under his breath. “Can’t leave him in trouble…”

He reached for his cellular phone in his inside pocket and hurriedly dialled a number - ironically, it had been Pat, some months ago, who had given it to him. He never thought he would use it again - and this time against his friend.

He hoped the number was still working. He waited, rubbing his sweaty hand against his lap.

“Spectrum New York Headquarters… How can we be of service?”

Riordan’s heart jumped in his chest when he heard the female voice at the other end of the line. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

“It’s me who can help you,” he said quickly, trying to render his voice as firm as possible - but obviously failing to do so. “I have information that you might be interested in.”

“Your name, sir?” the voice asked patiently.

“Never mind my name. That’s not important. You have a missing officer at the moment. Captain Scarlet. I know where he is.”

“Would you like to talk to an investigating officer, sir?”

“Never mind the investigating officer. You have to act fast! He’s in danger… They’re going to kill him!”

“Sir, if you would just wait a short instant, I’ll transfer you to…”

“Lady, I don’t have an instant! My name is Matt Riordan, and my life may also be in danger.” Riordan closed his eyes again. Why did I have to tell her my name? he thought with irritation. He opened his eyes again. “Look. I’m telling you they’re going to kill him. If you act quickly enough, you might be able to save him. They’re in a warehouse, on the harbour docks, by the Hudson River. The number is…”

A sudden movement at his left, on the other side of the door window caught Riordan’s eye. His heart jumping, he quickly cut the communication, and hid the phone, hoping he was swift enough. About that same moment, the rear door from his side opened wide and someone climbed in to sit down. Looking over his shoulders, Riordan saw Cody Flint, one of Kirby’s trusted hired hands, seated right behind him, very casually. Riordan started to protest:

“What the hell…”

The sound of another slammed door made him turn to his right; Josh Kirby himself had just climbed into the car, settling himself comfortably. Riordan’s face became awfully pale, upon seeing the large sneer widening on Kirby’s face.

“Hello, there, Matt,” Kirby asked with an even, almost cold tone, turning to Riordan. “What’re you doing here all alone? I thought you were in the office, working for Mister Donaghue?”

“I… needed some fresh air,” started Riordan, knowing, even as he spoke, that it sounded like a dull explanation.

“And you get into your car to get it?” Kirby asked innocently.

Riordan somehow got a hold of himself. There was no way he was going to let himself be intimidated by Kirby. “I wanted to get myself a drink,” he replied in a dry enough tone. “Is there a law against that?”

“No, not really. But I’m pretty sure Mister Donaghue wouldn’t want for you to get drunk JUST before going into that important operation of his.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Riordan replied with an exasperated sigh. “It would be between Mister Donaghue and myself.”

Kirby’s face became implacable for the space of an instant. Then he sat back on his seat and a new, very thin smile appeared on his lips. “Quite right, that. So… why don’t we go see him right now, then, see what he thinks about it?” He casually pointed to the ignition key. “Switch it on, Matt. I’m letting you drive. You know the way, don’t you?”

Riordan kept himself from scowling. He couldn’t see any way for him to get away. He knew that Flint behind always carried a gun - and he would have bet anything that Kirby was armed too, and so willing to shoot him if he only felt that he needed to.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, turning toward the wheel. “I know the way all right.”

With an impending sense of doom, he turned the key.

* * *

Each blow felt like it was being dealt by a hammer.

At least that’s how it felt to Captain Scarlet, as he was given the worst punishment he ever remembered receiving. What was worse was that he couldn’t even defend himself. Given the chance, he would have tried to answer his assailant in kind. Even if that the latter was bigger and obviously stronger than him, Scarlet could hardly be considered a wimp - six foot one, strong enough himself, and he had had military training in all forms of combat to stand his ground against any adversary - and eventually win. But in the kind of situation he was facing at the moment, there was little he could do. And it didn’t look as if it was going to improve. Quite the contrary.

He was in a large room, all made of wood - walls, floor, and high ceiling, with studs supporting the whole structure. No windows in the place, only a door at the far side of the room, which was closed. As far as Scarlet could tell, by the collection of ill-assembled objects and tools lying everywhere around the place, it looked like it had been, in its time, a storage area. That was all he had been able to figure out; he had been unconscious when he had been brought there and he didn’t even know how long it had lasted. He had been awakened rather roughly, by the contents of a bucket of very cold water, to find himself stripped to the waist of his uniform, in his undershirt, and tied to a very uncomfortable wooden chair, hands behind his back and ankles roped to the chair legs. There were three men in there with him - one of them, the size of a mountain, he recognized as the man who had attacked him at Matt Riordan’s place.

As soon as he opened his eyes, and as he was still trying to focus on his surroundings and trying to get his bearings back, the questions started. And Scarlet obstinately refused to answer any of them.

And that’s when the pain really began.

The man-mountain had started hitting him. Over and over again. Punching, slapping, back-handing… His hands were enormous, and heavy and every time he used them, it was as if he was putting all of his weight behind them. The two other men were watching stoically at some distance, not involving themselves with the beating, but stopping the punishment from time to time, to ask Scarlet the same questions they had already asked him: what was he doing in Matt Riordan’s apartment? How did he track him there? What was it Spectrum was looking for? It was rather frustrating that the captain wasn’t willing to answer, even after what seemed like long hours of interrogation. It was worse that he was keeping completely silent. Not even a smart comeback from him, not a single word. It was as if he had gone totally mute. The only sounds he was allowing to come out of him were the grunts and groans following each of their huge friend’s blows.

Scarlet wasn’t very surprised when he overheard the name the others gave to the monster of a man who was hitting him, blow after devastating blow. Ox. Strong as his name was implying. Scarlet had heard of him. And had seen the results of his skills when the man had attacked and beaten Captain Grey nearly to a pulp. Grey had been forced to stay in Cloudbase sickbay for days - Doctor Fawn believing he had been the victim of a group attack - and that he had probably been hit with clubs or baseball bats. Scarlet had hardly believed Grey when he had reluctantly told him the truth - considering that Grey was a man more than able to hold his own in a fight.

Now Scarlet knew perfectly how Grey had felt.

Ox was an enforcer of the Donaghue gang. Captain Magenta had admitted that - ashamedly enough - when Grey had revealed the name of his attacker. For Scarlet, learning the name of the strong man had led to the realization that the last image he had seen before being knocked out wasn’t a dream - however improbable it apparently was. His mind was having considerable difficulty focusing, with the punishment he was receiving, to be able to concentrate on the problem, and it wasn’t very clear yet, but he had a fairly good idea how it might have happened.

Finally drained of his strength by the punishing blows, Scarlet fell unconscious again - probably knocked out by one of the man-mountain’s powerful punches. Again, he was awoken when cold water was poured over his head. Shivering under the icy shower, he opened his eyes tiredly to look numbly around. The two other men had gone away, leaving him in the care of his huge tormentor. His whole body hurt in places he didn’t know he had. The backrest of the chair was pressing painfully against his armpits, and he couldn’t even move them to ease the discomfort. He could feel his wrists burning, the ropes binding them having deeply abraded them, not allowing his retrometabolism to, at least, heal them fully. His healing ability was of little consolation and help in the present situation, under the continuous assaults of the man who had been hitting him. It was nothing short of a miracle that nobody had noticed that many of the wounds inflicted on him were already healed. But then again, Ox had not stopped long enough to look closely at his handiwork on his prisoner’s bruised and bloody face and upper body. He never noticed that his fists were inflicting new injuries over the previous ones, as they were fading. That made Scarlet’s dazed mind wonder, at some point, if the man was all that bright.

“Come on, now, Spectrum,” Ox growled, standing at his full height over the officer, whose body was now resting limply on the wooden chair. “If you know what’s good for you, you’d better tell me something… Anything that we want to know.” He cracked the fingers of his right hands in an ominous way, so to get his captive’s attention. Scarlet could barely react. He had trouble thinking; he could feel blood running down his left temple, where Ox had hit him repeatedly. He was sure he had a concussion. He made an effort to raise his heavy head in the direction of the man, shooting him a look that was so very cold and determined, despite the mess he knew his face was in. Ox didn’t appear impressed in the least. He violently backhanded his captive, sending his head to one side. Scarlet felt a shooting pain reverberating through his skull.

“I can go on like this all day,” the huge man continued, shaking his head. “Is that what you want me to do?” He crouched beside the groaning captain, and took a handful of hair, pulling his head up, and forcing a moan out of his lips. “You won’t like that, I can tell you. ‘Course, I can also kill you, with my bare hands… An accident can always happen.” Scarlet’s breathing was heavy, and he was obviously in a lot of pain. His head felt numb in Ox’s grip and was threatening to fall forward. The big man got closer to his ear. “I’m normally a nice guy, Spectrum,” he whispered, threateningly, “but there’s something you ought to know about me: I HATE guys in uniform. Police, Spectrum… They’re all symbols of authority I can’t bear. What makes it WORSE for you: I also hate Brits. So you can say you’re still in for a hard time.”

He violently released his grip, and was somehow surprised when his captive found the strength to keep it straight enough to stare at him again, in complete and cold silence. Ox’s immediate answer was a punch that forced Scarlet’s eyes down.

“You want to play tough, Spectrum, I’m more than happy to oblige!”

Ox raised his fist again, furious to see this man able to resist him this way when others would normally fall down and play dead. A quiet voice suddenly made itself heard, stopping him in full swing.

“You can stop now, Ox, it’s useless.”

Ox raised his eyes from the limp form seated in front of him and looked in the direction of the door. He had not noticed that somebody had opened it a minute or so earlier. Now he could see a dark silhouette standing in the doorway, looking at him, and quietly smoking his small cigar.

“That’s a tough one, sir,” Ox said lowering his arm. “I’ve never seen anyone standing against me like he does. I can’t get anything out of him.”

“I know, I don’t blame you.” Patrick Donaghue entered the room fully, just as Scarlet was slowly raising his heavy head to look in his direction. “You could hit him ‘til Kingdom come. It wouldn’t do you any good.” Despite the obvious pain he was in, there were daggers in the Spectrum’s officer’s eyes. Donaghue coldly gazed down at him, before blowing out some smoke and taking his cigar in his hand. “Now, if you would excuse us a moment, I would like to talk to the good captain. Alone.”

“You’re sure, Mister Donaghue?” Ox asked with uncertainty. “Is that safe?”

“Now what could he do, trussed up like he is? Please, Ox. You know I can take care of myself.”

“All right, sir. I’ll be in the other room if you need me.” With a sigh, Ox took his jacket, lying on a small toolbox nearby and directed his steps toward the exit.

“Close the door on your way out,” Donaghue instructed him, looking down at the captive, who had lowered his aching head. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Scarlet heard the heavy steps fade away, then the door close. A few seconds passed, before another sound made itself heard. “You must excuse Ox,” the voice of Pat Donaghue remarked in a business-like tone. “He’s really a great guy… He’s just overzealous, when it concerns business. At other times, you’d like him.”

Scarlet grunted. “I doubt it.” Those were the first words he had pronounced since he had been taken prisoner. The sour taste he was feeling in his mouth trickled down into his throat and that made him cough, causing a new pain in his chest. He didn’t know how many ribs Ox had broken. A few certainly. He raised his eyes, and turned his head, to briefly look in Donaghue’s direction. The latter was quietly staring down at him, chewing his cigar, obviously thinking.

“I didn’t realize Patrick Donaghue had ever smoked,” Scarlet mumbled, lowering his gaze, and giving a sigh as he was trying to get his breathing back to a normal rate. Donaghue calmly shook his head and removed the cigarillo from his lips, while walking with a slow and casual step to position himself in front of Scarlet.

“Oh yes, that… Well, no, I hardly smoked. This brand of cigars only, and only occasionally. It gives a certain look, don’t you think?” Scarlet barely glanced up to him. Donaghue shrugged and threw the cigar on the floor, before stepping on it. “Anyway, I stopped, about three months before joining Spectrum…”

“YOU didn’t join Spectrum,” Scarlet mumbled in reply, fighting to regain his focus.

Either Donaghue didn’t hear him at all, or heard and ignored the allusion. He approached and crouched down in front of Scarlet, and stared closely at him. He stretched out his right hand to raise the Spectrum officer’s heavy and tired head and turned it to the side to check on the open and bleeding wound just under the hair-line. He narrowed his eyes as if he was examining it with an expert eye. Scarlet didn’t even have the strength to draw away.

“Already healing,” Donaghue said with an approving nod. “It’s amazing how you retained the retrometabolic power to help with any injury you get…”

Scarlet then found enough energy to pull away from Donaghue’s touch, with obvious disgust. “You ought to know,” he said, looking up to him with blazing eyes. “You’re a Mysteron, right?”

“Nothing gets by you, does it, Paul?” Donaghue replied very quietly.

“Don’t call me that,” Scarlet spat. He narrowed his eyes, his mind now fully functioning, and the situation becoming clearer. “You were duplicated following that accident in Vermont,” he murmured. “When Magenta drowned in that lake.”

“You got it, champ.”

“Those men at the scene,” Scarlet continued. “One in dark clothing… Captain Black, of course.” Donaghue nodded again, very slowly. Scarlet grunted with irritation. “I knew something was wrong. I should have trusted my instinct!”

“You should have, maybe,” Donaghue agreed. “But, what difference would that have made?” He rose to his feet. “Would that have saved your friend?”

Scarlet didn’t reply. So, obviously, this Mysteron duplicate of Magenta was unaware that his original was alive. He didn’t know what impact that might have - on either the real Magenta, the duplicate or even the situation. But he certainly wasn’t about to reveal the truth. He didn’t know what kind of advantage it could give to Spectrum. If any.

“You came here to New York and took over Patrick Donaghue’s old gang from Ben Fisher,” Scarlet remarked matter-of-factly. “I bet he wasn’t easy to convince…”

“Oh, he was, really,” Donaghue answered matter-of-factly. “All it took was one bullet. He was… well, standing about where I am, when he finally stepped down.”

“You killed him.”

“Of course. There was no other way.”

“Why?” Scarlet snapped. “You certainly didn’t take over out of interest. It isn’t the Mysterons’ way. What are you up to? What’s your mission?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Donaghue asked with a faint frown. When Scarlet answered only with a deep silence, he slowly shook his head. “I noticed you did seem surprised to see me at Matt’s place. So I guess you weren’t there to investigate my… mission at all, right? ‘Only the accounts’, Matt told me.” He sighed, moving around to Scarlet’s right. “Okay, I was careless when I accessed those accounts. It never occurred to me that would raise Spectrum’s interest at all.”

Scarlet nodded his understanding. For what it was worth, Martin Conners had been, somehow, right about Patrick Donaghue having accessed the accounts. He just didn’t have any idea that it was in fact a Mysteron duplicate of Patrick Donaghue.

Scarlet wondered which was scarier: the fact that there was a Magenta duplicate around, or that Conners had found a clue that something odd was going on…

“It did,” he replied with an icy and firmer tone to Donaghue’s remark. “What did you need that money for?”

“I needed liquidity for a few things,” Donaghue replied with a casual shrug. “Transportation, weapons, equipment, clothes… You didn’t think I would try to take over my old gang again, wearing a Spectrum uniform?” He gestured toward the outfit he was wearing. “I had to look the part. What do you think, not bad, uh? Carnation and all…”

“What are you up to?” Scarlet asked again. “You obviously need the gang’s resources for your mission.”

“Oh, that I do. You mean, you really don’t know what the target is?” Donaghue replied. “The Mysterons didn’t make a secret of it, though. And you’ve got to appreciate the irony…” He chuckled softly. “Even I can appreciate it.”

Donaghue turned around, to walk toward a dark corner of the room, followed by Scarlet’s curious eyes. While the Mysteron agent crouched down to take something from under a large canvas, the Spectrum officer tested the strength of his bonds. They were solid, and bit even deeper into his flesh. There were no way he was going to free himself from them.

Donaghue got to his feet, a rattling sound accompanying his movement. Scarlet looked on as he came back in front of him, bringing a long and sturdy chain, that he let fall noisily at the captain’s feet. Scarlet briefly looked at it, before staring back at the Mysteron; the latter’s face was now implacable.

“I’m sorry, Captain Scarlet,” Donaghue said, his voice now cold. “But the Mysterons still consider you a dangerous liability.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Scarlet asked with a frown.

“Kill you,” Donaghue shrugged, with a near indifference, then pointed at the chain at Scarlet’s feet, “then weigh you down with these…” He leaned over a trap door cut in the floor, next to the chair. He pulled on the large metal level to open the door and Scarlet then stared straight at a watery surface, about three feet below the opening. He shivered, almost despite himself. “That’s the Hudson River down there,” explained Donaghue with the same business-like tone. “This place is called ‘The Drop’. The reason why is obvious. Actually, it was Fisher who ‘affectionately’ called it that. I’m afraid you’re going to keep company with that scum at the bottom of the river.”

“What, no cement shoes?” Scarlet noted with dry sarcasm, trying to render his voice firm. In truth, he wasn’t looking forward to be thrown through that trap at all, and drown into that murky, filthy water.

“That would be too cliché,” Donaghue replied. “Beside, cement takes time to dry. Time I can’t allow myself to lose.” He drew a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at Scarlet. “I won’t have you suffer needlessly, Paul. You were a true friend. Out of all the others from the senior staff, you were the first to accept me freely, without any condition…”

“STOP talking as if you were Patrick Donaghue!” Scarlet lashed out angrily, pulling on his bonds. “You are not him!”

“Right,” the Mysteron agent replied very coldly. “Like you are not Paul Metcalfe?” That made Scarlet hesitate a second. He kept his face hard, as Donaghue levelled the gun at him. “I am truly sorry to have to do this, whether you believe it or not.”

In a split second, just as he saw the finger squeeze the trigger, Scarlet made a last desperate attempt and pushed violently against the chair’s backrest with the hope of making it tilt enough for him to escape the bullet that was meant to kill him. He heard the detonation at the same instant as the chair started falling, and almost right away, felt the searing pain of the bullet’s impact. He was still conscious enough to feel himself crashing to the floor, his head roughly hitting the surface. But it only lasted a very short second.

Then he saw and felt nothing else but the darkness and the cold surrounding him.

* * *

PART 4

With one Spectrum Patrol Car up front and one behind it, and the Angels flying overhead, the MSV arrived in front of the newly operational Spectrum Maximum Security Building, New York. It had taken nearly two years to rebuild the building, practically at the same spot where the previous one - which had been destroyed by the Mysterons in their first attack on Earth - had stood. While quite similar to the previous building in appearance, the new one had undergone a few modifications - and a large number of security updates. It was shorter in height, with five floors removed from the top, but three more levels deep down underground, with walls of reinforced steel of even better quality than before, armour-plated lift cabins and doors, and additional cameras watching nearly every corner of the place. That was only a small part of all the improvements made to the building. There was much more to it than met the eye at first glance.

Captain Grey and Lieutenant Green, riding in the first SPC, had their ID checked out by security guards, in front of the entrance to the building’s private underground parking lot, and the cortege quietly went in.

“So far, so good,” Grey muttered. In the MSV behind, Lieutenant Tan was riding with Commander Stewart. From the few communications he had had with the young lieutenant, Grey had learned that Stewart was behaving himself - keeping very quiet, although asking a few questions about security now and then. He had calmed down considerably, and was now curious about how Spectrum would proceed to protect him from any attempt by the Mysterons. But, Grey had the feeling Tan had not been entirely truthful with him. From what he had seen of Stewart earlier, he had trouble imagining him as being totally civilised - especially toward a Spectrum agent.

The cortège stopped in front of the door leading into the building itself, where Spectrum security agents were standing. Grey and Green got out of the front SPC and went to stand next to the MSV passenger cabin hatch. It opened up in front of them. First, Lieutenant Tan stepped out, and was then followed by Commander Stewart, who was straightening his jacket, in a dignified fashion. Following standard procedure, the MSV stayed in front of the door, providing an added protective shield, until Stewart was safely inside the building, flanked by the three colour-coded officers. Only then did Green contact the MSV driver and instruct him to drive the vehicle off.

“Contact Building B,” Grey said in the meantime to Tan. “Make sure everything is ready in case of emergency. Have your men check and double-check all personnel at every shift change, and send me a list every time.”

“You’re not taking any chances, are you, Captain?” Stewart then said, turning around on his heels, having heard Grey’s instructions. “Well, I can understand that… after all, the building that was previously standing at this spot was blown up by those same Mysterons that are now threatening me. I would be nervous too, in your place.”

“I am not nervous, Commander, but you are right on one account. I don’t want to take even one chance.” Grey turned again to Tan. “You’ll stand guard in the Control Room on the first floor, Lieutenant Tan. Lieutenant Green and I will go down to the Presidential Suite with Commander Stewart. Report every two hours, on the hour.”

“S.I.G., Captain.”

Lieutenant Tan followed the three men through another control point, where they left their weapons - which weren’t allowed down in the Presidential Suite - and were checked with a Mysteron detector yet again. Stewart tolerantly submitted himself to the test, like everyone else, not saying a word, but obviously curious about the reason for that particular last check-up, and what it might reveal. When Stewart asked what it was for, Grey was as truthful as he dared to be.

“It’s a simple X-ray check, Commander. Just to verity that none of us is carrying weapons on his person. There isn’t MUCH you can hide from an X-ray check, is there?”

Stewart shrugged; he didn’t notice the smug expression on Green’s face; only the young Trinidadian could appreciate Grey’s tongue-in-cheek humour.

Commander Stewart, Captain Grey and Lieutenant Green were then escorted by Lieutenant Tan and two security guards to the elevators. In the new building, there were now three elevators leading underground - but only one of them led to the Presidential Suite, on the lowest of the subterranean floors. The three men entered that one. It was only when the doors slid closed on them and they were on their way down that Tan left, and walked away toward the Control Room, lowering his cap mic in the process. “Lieutenant Tan to all personnel. Target now securely on its way to the Presidential Suite. Hold your stations until they get there.”

While the level indicator was steadily counting down the remaining distance to their destination, Stewart was looking around at the reinforced walls and doors, with a growing curiosity. The lift finally touched down, ever so smoothly, and the door slid open. Grey stepped out first, and Green and the Police Commander followed him. The door closed behind them. His eyes set on Stewart, who was now walking to the centre of the well-decorated, and very high-class, suite, Grey lowered his cap microphone. “Captain Grey to Lieutenant Tan and personnel. Arrived without a glitch at the Presidential Suite. Target now secured. From now on, Security Level One applies to the mission, until the deadline.”

“S.I.G., Captain Grey.” He heard the voice of Lieutenant Tan in his ears. “Everyone is at his station and ready to intervene if a situation should arise.”

“Building B, are you online?”

“Sergeant Alex Fust, radio operator at Station B, reporting,” a female voice replied. “We’re all ready to step in if we’re needed, Captain Grey.”

Grey gave a nod, more to himself than anyone else. “S.I.G., Sergeant. Keep the team on its toes. We don’t know when we may need your intervention. You’re the target’s last chance of escape should anything happen.” He saw Stewart staring at him, upon hearing his words, but not saying a word. “Keep me informed of anything suspicious. Captain Grey out.” The mic returned to the visor, and Grey stood in front of Stewart. Behind him, Green had been quietly looking around with an apparent curiosity and interest.

“Building B, Station B?” Stewart repeated with an inquiring tone. “I don’t recall having seen a Building other than this one, Captain.”

“Building B is the name we gave to another place not that far from here, Commander,” Grey explained. “It is at a secure distance should - ah - this one explode, as happened to the last one some two years ago. Also for reason of security, Building B is totally inconspicuous. No-one would ever think of it as part of the Spectrum organisation, as it is using a front to hide its activities. To people passing by, it’s an ordinary business - although very profitable.”

“What is the purpose of this ‘Building B’?” Stewart asked with a frown.

“It’s our escape route, sir,” Lieutenant Green behind him explained. Stewart turned around. The young lieutenant had sat down on a comfortable sofa, and nodded in his direction. “At least, yours, if something should go wrong.”

Grey stepped forward, and pointed to a wall panel behind the lieutenant, covered with a very expensive tapestry. “There’s a concealed tunnel behind that wall. With reinforced walls able to withstand the most violent blasts.” Stewart approached, obviously curious to know more about all this. Grey tapped on the backrest of a leather chair, set nearly against the wall. Stewart could see it couldn’t even be moved from its place, as it seemed bolted to the floor. “This chair is attached to an hydraulic system. Should a problem arise that calls for your immediate evacuation, you sit on this chair. Pushing that command button there, on the arm, activates the security feature.”

“The wall will open and the chair will slide into the tunnel - and while the wall closes, to contain whatever blast that might have occurred, long enough for you to make good your escape, you’ll be taken in record time to Building B, where a security team will await your arrival,” Green continued.

“My own roller-coaster ride, I take it?” Stewart said with bad humour.

“The ride is smooth enough, Commander. You wouldn’t feel any discomfort from it.”

Stewart raised a brow. “And if the hydraulic system should fail?”

“Unlikely,” Grey replied coolly. “But then again… The tunnel is sturdy enough to withstand destruction if the building should collapse. Once the panel closes, you’ll be safe.”

“Hopefully, you will be too, gentlemen,” Stewart replied. “I’d hate to take that ride and leave you behind to take the full brunt of a collapsing building.”

“There’s nothing to say that it would happen, Commander,” Green answered. “It’s just an additional security device.”

“I take it, it was used before?”

“Successfully, yes.”

Stewart nodded. “I heard rumours about the World President escaping death from this building - I mean, the previous one,” he corrected with a meaningful look. “Is that how it was done?” Neither Green nor Grey responded, so Stewart gave a sigh. “Classified information, I take it, then. That’s all right. I suppose I just have to hope it won’t come to that.”

“The building is more secure now than it was two years ago, Commander,” Grey explained. “Aside from being more sturdy than its predecessor, it has been equipped with the most recent security updates Spectrum has came up with. An expert worked weeks - months - to perfect it. Nobody would ever be able to get inside the place to get to you - or to install a bomb without being spotted instantly.”

“Your expert - is it someone I know?” Stewart asked. “I know a whole lot of people in the security field.”

“It’s Spectrum’s Captain Magenta, Commander.”

“Ah! A Spectrum officer,” Stewart sighed, sitting down on the sofa. “Then I’m afraid I don’t know him. I haven’t met many of you colour-coded guys. Aside from that Lieutenant Tan of yours, whom I’ve met on some occasions.” He looked around the room, and gave a nod. There seemed to be some satisfaction in the expression on his face. “I’ve got to give that to you - your security features seem effective.”

Grey gave a slight smile. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Let’s hope they’ll stand the test.”

Grey scowled. Stewart’s ironic tone didn’t escape him. Neither did the flash of mockery in his eyes. Count to ten, Brad… Don’t let him get to you.

“Well,” Stewart added quickly, with a new sigh, “since we’re all stuck down here, we might as well enjoy each other’s company, gentlemen.”

Grey repressed a grimace. He seriously doubted he would appreciate this stay in the long run.

“Anyone of you want to play a game of tri-dimensional chess?”

Grey shivered. From the tapes they had seen of the last moments that had preceded the explosion of the previous building, that was almost exactly what World President Younger had asked Captain Brown, before the latter actually exploded. He exchanged a glance with Green. The younger man was directing a peculiar look at Stewart.

“I - er - am quite good at the game, sir,” Green replied awkwardly.

“Splendid, then!” the WGPC commander replied, slapping his thigh and standing up. “I’ll set up the pieces, Lieutenant, while you prepare the coffee.”

“Sure, Commander.”

Green watched as Stewart went to the desk, a few feet behind them, then looked over at Captain Grey, who was following Stewart’s progress with a dark stare, his fists driven into his pockets.

“Lieutenant?” Grey muttered under his breath.

“Sir?”

“Beat the pants off that arrogant creep.”

Green offered his brightest smile. “Aye, aye, Captain,” he replied in an undertone.

* * *

“I’m starting to worry, you know?”

In one of the working offices of Spectrum HQ New York, Captain Blue, who was reading a report he had just received from Spectrum Intelligence - monitoring any possible Mysteron activity around and recounting nothing suspicious so far - raised his eyes from the paper and gave a pondering look toward Captain Ochre, who was staring into space, brooding.

“You, worried? About Scarlet?” There was a surprised, inquiring tone to Blue’s voice that didn’t escape Ochre. The latter grumbled.

“Yeah, I know that I often tease him - and that we often fight, but we’re friends, nonetheless. Not as close as you two are, obviously, but…”

“I get the point, Rick.” Blue put down the report. “And I have to agree with you: this silence from Scarlet is starting to worry me too. It’s not like him to stay away so long when he knows we might need him in a Mysteron situation.”

“I think he ran into some kind of trouble,” Ochre suggested grimly.

“With Riordan? The guy doesn’t strike me as dangerous enough for Scarlet. He would be able to handle him.”

“Handling Riordan, yes. But… The rest of the Syndicate? Maybe Scarlet ran into them?”

Blue pondered that possibility. He nodded slowly, closing the folder containing his report. “You may be right,” he admitted. “Maybe we should investigate this - but we are on stand-by for Stewart’s security, remember?”

Ochre was about to answer that when knocks coming from the open door attracted both men’s attention. They turned around to see a young woman standing in the doorway, a folder in her hands. “Pardon me for interrupting you, Captains, but I just received a telephone communication that I think might interest you. It concerns Captain Scarlet.”

“Speak of the devil,” Blue said with a sigh, leaning on his desk. “What is it, Sergeant Marlow? So he called?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Marlow started. “The call came from a Mister…” She consulted her file, “…Riordan. Matt Riordan.”

“Riordan called?” Ochre said with a perplexed tone, nearly snatching the folder from Marlow’s hands. “Now THAT’S a surprise…” He started reading, with Blue rising from his seat to look into the folder too.

“He seemed rather agitated, Captains,” Marlow continued. “He kept saying that Captain Scarlet’s life was in danger… that they were going to kill him…” Both Ochre and Blue raised their eyes from the paper they were reading and stared straight at the sergeant. “…And that they were going to kill Mr Riordan too.”

“Oh, Hell…” muttered Ochre. “I KNEW there was something wrong going on…”

“They?” Blue repeated inquisitively. “Who are ‘they’?”

“Mr Riordan didn’t say. We were cut off suddenly.” Marlow saw the grim look both Ochre and Blue exchanged. “He said he knew where Captain Scarlet was,” she continued quickly.

“A warehouse in the harbour docks,” Ochre quickly read from the file. “By the Hudson River,” he added looking at Blue.

“Nothing more specific?” Blue asked Marlow.

“I’m afraid not, sir. That’s when we lost communication.”

“That’ll have to do. When was that call received?”

“Less than five minutes ago. Just took the time to print it.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Blue said, quickly moving from behind his desk and picking up his cap. “Come on, Captain Ochre, let’s go see if we can’t find Scarlet.”

“On the docks?!” Ochre remarked, picking up his cap and following his colleague. “We could search for hours before finding one single trace of him!”

“You have a better option?”

“No. But I thought I should mention it…”

“Sergeant,” Blue said to Marlow, “if you get any further contact from Captain Scarlet, Matt Riordan, or anyone else claiming to know of their whereabouts, I want you to inform us immediately.”

“S.I.G., Captain. You’re going alone with Captain Ochre?”

“Have Captain Forbes to send four agents to the docks - we’ll divided into three groups for the search,” Blue said, passing by Marlow and walking down the corridor, followed by Ochre.

“Only four?” Marlow called from behind.

“Because of the present Mysteron situation, we can’t afford more,” Ochre called back. “Be quick about it, Sergeant!”

“I… S.I.G., Captain,” Marlow answered. She briefly looked on as Ochre and Blue disappeared in a hurry at the end of the corridor, then turned around to the nearest comm. link to carry out the two captains’ orders.

* * *

Matt Riordan drew up the car alongside Donaghue’s. Inside the other car, Riordan could see Billy still settled in the driver’s seat reading a magazine, presumably ordered to wait. Turning the key and removing it from the ignition, Riordan looked up thoughtfully at the entrance to the storehouse.

“Hey!” he cried suddenly as Kirby reached over and snatched the keys from his hands. “This is my car!”

“You won’t be needing it for a while.” Kirby grinned at him. “I’ll take care of it for you, don’t worry.” He was enjoying making Riordan squirm. Pat Donaghue, it appeared, didn’t trust Matt Riordan. Well, that was a turn up for the books, but then so was finding out that Donaghue was more than prepared to kill. Donaghue had been a legend in the underworld, people had spoken of him with awe and reverence. It seemed to Kirby that some of the other claims made about him - about his personal views concerning killing and violence in general - were probably largely fictitious too.

“Shall we go in?” Kirby asked with feigned respect.

Riordan scowled. There was only one possible explanation for Kirby’s sudden change in attitude towards him and that reason had to be Donaghue. He wondered what his ‘old friend’ had said, and even more importantly, what he was thinking.

“Cody, you stay with the car,” Kirby instructed, not waiting for a reply. “After you…” He paused, wondering how to address Riordan. It was more than probable that Donaghue wanted the surveillance to be discreet, in which case he had already overstepped the boundary. It was best to play it safe. “… Mr Riordan.”

Stepping from the car, the pair headed into the storehouse in silence. Ahead of them as they entered, they saw Donaghue nearing the end of a phone call.

“… and nobody’s entered yet? Good. Keep me informed.”

Donaghue closed the call with a satisfied smile; everything was going according to plan. Slipping the cell phone back into his pocket, he turned and seemed almost surprised to see Kirby and Riordan standing only yards away.

“Everything all right, Mr Donaghue?” asked Kirby.

“Yes, Josh,” Donaghue nodded. “The men you asked to watch the Richens and Wilson building have been most efficient.”

“Thank you, sir,” Josh smiled. “You’d never have thought it though, would you, a simple tailor’s store as a cover for a Spectrum operation.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised, Josh,” Donaghue nodded gravely. “Now…” Donaghue paused to stare at the two men. “…I think Mr Riordan and I have things to discuss. Would you leave us alone, please, Josh?”

“Sir?”

“Wait outside, would you, Josh? I’ll be along shortly.”

Kirby considered his words. ‘I’ll be along…’. Was it his plan to dispose of Riordan? They were certainly in the right place, after all. In the previous twenty-four hours, no less than four bodies had been dumped into the Hudson River. Could Riordan be the fifth? Kirby smiled; perhaps he was interested in power after all?

“Yes, sir,” he replied. He turned and left Donaghue and Riordan alone in the large empty room, closing the door behind him.

“Now then, Matt, did you get everything Josh needed?”

“Yes, Pat, it didn’t take long. Got a few other things I thought might be useful too,” Riordan replied without enthusiasm.

“Good, I have a feeling that this is going to work,” Donaghue replied distractedly.

“Pat,” Riordan began awkwardly, “what about the Spectrum officer?”

Donaghue rolled his eyes and sighed. “You know you don’t want to know the answer to that, so why even ask?”

Riordan’s shoulders dropped visibly. “You killed him?”

“What do you think?” Donaghue replied sternly. “He stood in the way of our plans for Stewart.”

“I don’t like this. I don’t understand why we’re doing it. Why you want to kill Stewart that badly.”

“I told you why. He’s going to be a real problem to us.” Donaghue lit a cigar as he spoke.

“I don’t accept that.” Riordan spoke slowly, fearful of the backlash.

Donaghue shook out the flame on the match and stared coldly at Riordan.

“Oh? And why not?”

“You told me that you’d learned to kill bad guys, and that’s bad enough, Pat.” Riordan briefly lowered his eyes before looking up again. “But now, you’ve gone too far!” The words were out now. Riordan continued; he was so scared and confused he could barely help himself. “You killed a Spectrum officer, someone you’ve worked with, a friend for all I know. And now you want to kill Commander Stewart. You’ve changed, Pat, and I don’t like what you’ve turned into!”

“Oh,” Donaghue sneered, as he took the cigar from his mouth and blew out a cloud of smoke, “you don’t know the half of it.”

“No, you’re right! There’s plenty I don’t understand!”

Donaghue raised a curious eyebrow in an almost amused fashion. “Really, what else is on your mind, Matt?”

“What’s this?” Riordan asked, producing the photograph taken earlier in the day by Tyler.

Donaghue took the photo from his hands, looking closely at the picture of himself lying on the floor, clearly dead, shot through the heart. Carefully placing the photograph into his jacket pocket, Donaghue smiled a cold cynical smile.

“I don’t think we need bother anyone with this, do you?”

“Pat, I don’t understand what’s going on, but I don’t…” Riordan cut short the dangerous sentence. Outside were three men formerly of Fisher’s Syndicate who would happily kill him at Donaghue’s command. And then there was Pat himself. Would he do it?

“You don’t want any part of it. Is that what you were going to say?” asked Donaghue coolly.

“I don’t want to kill anyone, Pat, is that so hard to understand?” Riordan sighed. “You used to insist upon it. You’ve changed.”

“You don’t know how much. Don’t worry, Matt, you won’t be called upon to kill anyone.”

“That’s not enough, Pat. Stop all this, please, you don’t HAVE to do it,” Riordan begged.

“Oh, but I do. You see, Matt, I have my orders as much as you have yours.”

“Orders? Who from?” Riordan stood aghast. “Spectrum?”

Donaghue laughed as he pulled out his gun. “No, Earthman, a much higher authority.”

In less than the blink of an eye, all the colour drained from Matt Riordan’s face, his eyes widened and he caught his breath in short, juddering snatches. As he stared down the barrel of the gun, he knew what fate had in store for him.

The corners of Donaghue’s mouth raised in an unkind sneer; Riordan had pushed too far and now he would have to be disposed of, like the others. Nothing and no one was more important than the Mysteron threat.

“Cat got your tongue, Matt?” he asked, with a look of determination on his cold, implacable face.

“Wh-what did you say? That’s not funny!” Riordan searched Donaghue’s expression, desperate to find even the suggestion that it was all a joke. “Earthman?”

“Does it look like I’m laughing?” Donaghue replied coldly.

“You’re…Pat, what did they do to you?”

“You have no idea how much is being kept from you, have you?” Donaghue shook his head. “But even so - what you know already is too much, Earthman.”

Bewildered at the second use of that word, Riordan repeated, “Pat, what do you… We’re friends, we’ve known each other for years…”

“No, Matt. I am not your friend. I am not Pat Donaghue. Your friend is dead. Now do you understand?”

“You’re not Pat?” Riordan spoke so slowly as to almost make the three words sound like three separate sentences.

“You have heard of the Mysterons, Matt? Those ‘terrorists’ that Spectrum fights? Surely, you have heard things - rumours from the mob’s contact in the security business. From so-called ‘unreliable’ sources - of what the Mysterons do to people? Terrorists, really!” Riordan stared in disbelief at the man standing in front of him, unable to respond, his mind an almost total blank as he tried to absorb the information. The other slowly shook his head. “Well, it’s all true, Matt. All of it is true. I am the living proof of it.”

It was too much for Riordan to take in all at once. Pat was dead. This…this thing in his place, had been fooling them all, killing them all.

The image on the photograph he had taken from Tyler suddenly flashed into Riordan’s mind. And with it, he didn’t need more proof that he was being handed the truth. A Mysteron. According to the craziest of rumours, not even a human being. An alien. Nearly invulnerable. Unstoppable. Who had taken his dead friend’s appearance?

It was far too much for him to comprehend.

Riordan fled. Turning sharply on his heels, he headed for the storehouse’s rear door.

“You won’t make it, my friend,” Donaghue called as he ran. It wasn’t a taunt, it was a statement of fact, and somehow that made it all the worse.

In his terror, Riordan’s legs refused to assist his escape. They felt like jelly beneath him; Riordan slipped more than once, catching himself, barely preventing a tumble as he staggered forward, propelled purely by panic.

With an almost regretful sigh, Donaghue pulled the trigger. It seemed to Riordan that his right side, just below the ribs, exploded in a flare of searing pain. His legs gave way from under him and he found himself falling forward, carried by the momentum of his hopeless flight. Rolling as he hit the floor, Riordan groaned as the air was driven from his lungs.

Opening eyes made bleary by the pain, he could see Donaghue approaching him, walking slowly, deliberately. Riordan waited, he expected the second bullet would come any moment. Of all the ways he expected that he might die, he would never have believed that it would be at the hands of Pat Donaghue. But this wasn’t Pat; this man, this creature was a pale imitation of his friend and former boss. He was sullying Donaghue’s good name and Riordan was suddenly furious.

The whole room, like many of the others, contained remnants of unfinished construction work, as if the workmen had left all their tools and equipment and simply never returned. Lying beside him now was a rusting old pipe approximately four feet long. Discreetly, and ignoring the pain from the profusely bleeding bullet wound, Riordan’s fingers closed on the pipe. For Riordan, wielding the pipe with his left hand would have been difficult enough. In addition to that, the almost overwhelming pain and weakness should have prevented him from delivering a blow that was, at best, feeble. But Riordan found, as he often had before, additional reserves of energy when his life was at stake. Self preservation was something that Riordan was famous for. Cowardice was another word for it, but right now, his determination to survive against the odds was about to pay off. The badly aimed pipe hit Donaghue square on the shoulder, bounced, and delivered a second heavy blow to the side of his head with a shower of many years worth of dirt and rust raining down around him. Donaghue staggered and fell to his knees, dazed.

Breathing heavily as he regained his senses, he finally opened his eyes after a short instant; he grimaced as he saw that he was alone in the room. Riordan had escaped through the rear door. Still, it wasn’t necessarily important; Riordan was badly hurt and unlikely to survive for more than a couple of hours. Getting to his feet and dusting himself off, Donaghue headed back to the cars. He had more important things to think about than going after a petty mobster.

Not himself, anyway.

* * *

Kirby looked up as he saw the door to the storehouse open; Donaghue was indeed alone and Kirby couldn’t help but grin. His stock was rising once more. Under Fisher, he had been resigned to a position of assistant and trusted confidante, but now, he believed, there was more on offer; power, and he wanted it. Stepping from the car where he was seated, Kirby approached his new boss.

“Mr Riordan’s not joining us, Mr Donaghue?”

It was almost a statement and Donaghue noted that the tone of the question was one of self-satisfaction.

“No, he won’t,” Donaghue frowned. “He’s got one bullet in him already, but I want him dealt with once and for all. Ask Billy and…” Donaghue paused as he realised he was unaware of the second man’s name.

“Cody,” Kirby offered helpfully.

Donaghue nodded briefly. “Get Billy and Cody to find him and finish him off. We have to get going.”

“Yes, sir!” replied Kirby.

Donaghue swept past to the car he had arrived in and climbed into the passenger seat almost as Billy climbed out the other side. Having given the pair their instructions, Kirby slid into the driving seat and turned the key in the ignition. He knew the plan, there was no need to discuss it further. Smiling as he pulled away, Kirby felt a rush of power, sitting here as Donaghue’s right-hand man. Riordan had been a fool to rock the boat.

Upon entering a neighbouring warehouse to the one he had just escaped, Matt Riordan fell heavily, breathing with considerable difficulty. Propping himself up against a wall, hidden from view from the door, he allowed himself to relax and immediately regretted it. The muscles around the open wound tore in opposite directions and the pain that washed over him was virtually overwhelming. Awkwardly, he reached into his jacket’s inside pocket and slowly withdrew his cell phone. Thankfully, his blurring vision was not called upon to distinguish the tiny numbering on the phone, neither was he required to remember the number he wanted to call. He needed merely to press the last number redial. Gripping his side and watching with distress as blood seeped between his fingers, Riordan waited.

“Spectrum, New York, how may I help you?”

Still breathless with pain, at first Riordan found himself unable to reply.

“May I help you?” the female voice repeated.

“My… name is… Matt Riordan,” his staggered reply began, only to be cut off by the woman’s voice.

“Putting you straight through, Mr Riordan.”

Riordan was perplexed. To whom? And how did they know he would call? He waited the brief seconds until a man’s voice clicked onto the line.

“Captain Blue, Mr Riordan.”

“Blue?” gasped Riordan. “The docks. Storehouse thirty-four by Pier nine. I’ve been shot.”

“Where is Captain Scarlet?” asked Blue, somewhat agitated.

“Find me first!” Riordan growled, using up almost what was left of his energy. He slumped and the phone slipped from his fingers.

* * *

“Riordan?!” Captain Blue was shouting into his microphone. He was still connected, but received no reply. He hurriedly switched channels back to the radio-communications control room in New York Headquarters. “The call from Riordan - we have a lead. The phone is still connected but there’s no reply. Put a trace on it, just in case.”

“S.I.G., Captain Blue,” came the efficient response from the female duty officer.

Blue pressed the accelerator a little harder.

“Storehouse thirty-four. Apparently if we find Riordan in time, he’ll lead us to Scarlet.”

“You trust him?” Ochre, settled on the passenger seat, asked sceptically.

“We’ve got no choice, and we’d better get there fast. Riordan’s been shot, sounded in a bad way,” Blue replied grimly.

“Don’t worry, if I know him, somehow, he’ll survive!”

“Scarlet?”

Ochre shook his head. “No, well yes, obviously, but I meant Riordan. That man’s capacity for survival is second to none! Except Scarlet, of course.”

“Let’s find him,” Blue declared dourly. “And when we do, I hope he’ll be able to take us to Scarlet. Or it’s with us that he’ll have trouble…”

* * *

To anyone who wasn’t in the secret, ‘Richens and Wilson’ was an exclusive tailor’s shop with a national reputation. There could be found the most fashionable dresses or elegant suits - made especially, and personalised for any client willing to pay the price demanded for it. Charges were excessive, even for the high class standard, but the results were always more than satisfying, and that had brought about that the shop would only serve its own very selective brand of customers - a few movie stars, in search of the special and unique dress in which to walk down the red carpet leading to the latest award ceremony, international business persons, millionaires - it was even said that an Arab prince was one of the shop’s most exclusive clients.

No-one would have ever suspected that ‘Richens and Wilson’ was, in fact, used by Spectrum as a front for security operations.

Referred to by Spectrum as ‘Building B’ - in order to keep its location a total secret - the select tailor’s shop was situated half a mile away from Spectrum’s Maximum Security Building in New York. It was at the edge of a business district, far away enough to be out of reach of eventual debris, if the MSB should be destroyed by bomb or any other form of terrorist attack, as it had been two years before. It was into a reinforced security room, far beneath ‘Building B’ that the escape tunnel from the MSB’s Presidential Suite led. A security team was posted near that room, ready to collect any incoming people that would have escaped any catastrophe happening at the MSB, or to use the tunnel themselves, and rush to the rescue. The use of the tunnel was regarded as a last resort operation, though, and only once before, in the relatively short history of Spectrum, and throughout the many MSBs established around the world, had it been necessary to use it - and it was with the previous MSB here in New York. All things considered, even though many brave Spectrum agents had died that time, the tunnel had served its purpose - and had saved the life of World President James T. Younger, the person that Spectrum had to protect at all costs during that specific operation.

Now, the person whom it was Spectrum’s duty to protect was the man who would become the next Supreme Commander of the WGPC. And from what the personnel at Building B had heard, unlike World President Younger, who had been a very gracious, easy-going individual to protect, Commander Stewart was anything but easy. Everyone was hoping that it would be a clean operation, with no major problems, so that Stewart would go back to his business as soon as it was safe for him to do so. AND that he would have learned that Spectrum was a capable and effective organisation. It wouldn’t look too good if the WGPC Supreme Commander himself went around spreading gossip about Spectrum’s ineffectiveness - or, worse still, that he would die while under Spectrum protection, after having claimed that WGPC was more than capable of taking care of him.

But nobody really expected that it would be a smooth assignment. Not with the Mysterons involved.

The word at Building B was ‘business as usual’. Everyone was ready to proceed to an emergency rescue operation if it should become necessary. The latest drill, perfected only a week ago, had set a new record in the procedure that had been proved more than satisfactory. So the team was confident that everything would go like clockwork, if their skills should be called upon. No-one expected a problem on that side of the operation.

Spectrum agent Jonah Maxwell was working in the shop, going through the many orders received in the week. The problem with working undercover was to maintain the most believable front possible, so that nobody would suspect anything. It wasn’t so difficult for Maxwell to pass as a tailor. His father had been one and had trained him to follow in his footsteps during his teenage years - that was long before Maxwell became an agent of the Secret Service, and trained to be the best spy he could be. Then he was approached, nearly five years ago, to be part of the new Spectrum agency, and become one of their many undercover agents throughout the world.

Due to his previous training as a tailor, he had immediately been chosen as one of the many agents who would be stationed at Richens and Wilson’s Building B. He didn’t mind the job at all. He was as much at ease as either a special agent or a tailor. And in that latter field, he had even proven he had exceptional talents. For another, the job might even have seemed boring, but Maxwell had encountered all kinds of interesting people in the shop. When the previous Maximum Security Building had been destroyed by the Mysterons, two years ago, in that terrible explosion that claimed the lives of the Spectrum security officers stationed there, Maxwell was working in the shop, and with horror had seen the building collapse, while way beneath his feet, the Mysterons’ target, World President Younger, was collected by the security team in attendance at the tunnel entrance. In the following months, Maxwell had had to maintain his cover, while the MSB was being rebuilt, so nobody would suspect the link between the Richens and Wilson Tailor Shop and the Spectrum Building. Now, with the MSB completed, standing high in the sky half a mile away, the shop was regaining its undercover status as Building B - and Jonah Maxwell couldn’t help but feel a little wary that the present operation might very well end up like the preceding one.

Maxwell was busying himself in the back storeroom, while his partner, Brent Finnegan, was keeping guard in the front when he heard the jingle announcing that someone was stepping inside. Immediately, Maxwell glanced up at the monitor screen set on the wall, permitting him to peer into the store, to check what was going on there. A tall, broad-shouldered man, smartly dressed, had entered the shop, and was looking around at the display of men’s suits. Maxwell left the storeroom and entered the shop through a door behind the counter. He addressed a nod to Finnegan to keep at his station next to the cash register and walked briskly to the man, who was scrutinising the most expensive suit the shop had to offer. His back was turned to the two Spectrum agents, with a hat concealing most of his features.

“Sir, may I be of service to you?” Maxwell offered with his clipped, distinguished voice, keeping at some distance from the apparently interested client.

“Yeah, maybe you can,” the man answered vaguely, rubbing his chin in a thoughtful way, and only half-turning to him, but still admiring the suit he had been examining for the last minute. “I was thinking that this could be the perfect outfit I need for a special occasion.”

“That suit, sir? That’s our most expensive item…”

“Money isn’t important. I need it in rather a hurry. Would it take very long for you to make one in my size?”

Maxwell had already noticed the slight Irish accent in the man’s voice. Curiously, he was sure he had heard it before, but he wasn’t sure where. If the man would face him, maybe he would be able to see who he was. Maxwell wasn’t very comfortable.

“Fortunately for you, sir, this one would need only a few alterations to fit you perfectly,” he said, taking a step forward in order to get a better view of the visitor. “You… need it that quickly?”

“Oh yes… I need it A.S.A.P… for ‘official’ business.” The man presented a cardholder to Maxwell, and the latter frowned when he saw the Spectrum emblem stamped onto it. Under his hat, the man looked at him with what could pass as a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “So, I guess it would be S.I.G., Agent Maxwell?”

“Sir?” Maxwell said, without even blinking.

“Don’t worry, Maxwell, I’m only here to make sure the operation goes smoothly.”

Turning fully toward Maxwell, the man put the cardholder in his hand; Maxwell scrutinised him for a second, now perfectly sure he knew who he was, while his fingers were opening the cardholder. He lowered his gaze to check the card inside. A brief smile appeared on Maxwell’s face. “Captain Magenta, I wasn’t aware that you were to be involved with…” He stopped, suddenly conscious that something wasn’t quite right. Magenta… He had heard about the accident in Vermont. How the captain had barely escaped with his life. He raised his eyes swiftly. And saw the pistol, with the silencer, now in the man’s hand.

“I wasn’t,” he heard Captain Magenta say in an implacable voice. There was barely a plop when the trigger was pulled, and Jonah Maxwell, hit in the chest, toppled backward. At the counter, Brent Finnegan reached for the alert button, but the killer was quicker and in one swift movement, turned toward him to shoot him clear through the head. Finnegan collapsed without a sound.

The second after, five men of the Donaghue gang were entering the shop, amongst them Kirby, O’Rourke, carrying a large bag with him, and the huge Ox, who, upon Pat Donaghue’s hand wave, closed the door behind him and locked it.

“Pull the shades down,” Donaghue instructed. “And put the closed sign up.” He motioned to the two men lying on the floor. “And put those two in the back room.” While O’Rourke, Ox and the two other men, Stacey and Wheland, followed his orders, he moved to round the counter and pressed a button, which in turn opened a full electronic panel, previously concealed within the counter. Putting his still smoking gun into its holster, Donaghue made a few quick, expert checks and grinned widely. Perfect. Nobody knew they were in; his previous jamming of the security cameras and communications systems from the van that had brought them there had paid off. Only he could have known the exact frequency to use, to put the whole system out of order. The security people in the underground bunker would have no idea that anything suspicious had happened at the tailor’s shop - all their attention was focused on the security around the MSB itself.

Kirby looked with curiosity as Donaghue worked the board, pressing buttons quickly. A panel slid aside to reveal a 3D map of the building, that Donaghue consulted quickly. Kirby couldn’t help but be amazed by the ease with which his boss was presently reading the information on the diagram, and how he seemed to know just exactly which command to press. Donaghue knew this was an undercover Spectrum office and seemed to know all there was about the security set in this place. Almost despite himself, Kirby was wondering how Donaghue had come up with such detailed information that was presently helping them in this operation. He certainly has good contacts, Kirby reflected. Contacts that neither he, nor anyone else in the gang, was aware of. How did he make those contacts, Kirby wondered. Maybe Riordan knew. And maybe, Kirby thought, it would have been interesting to know what Riordan might have had to say about his old boss, just before Donaghue got rid of him.

“Ox, you’ll stay right here. Keep guard and make sure that no-one comes in.” He pointed to a green button embedded in the electronic board. “That’s the comm. If you see anyone approach this building, call me.”

“Right, Mr Donaghue.”

“The others, follow me.”

Donaghue preceded the four men into the storeroom and went directly to the far side wall. He searched and found, without any difficulty, a concealed button; a panel in the wall slid to the side, revealing the door to a lift, which was locked by a digital numeric pad. Kirby watched with silent surprise as Donaghue dialled the combination that opened the door. The five men entered the lift.

“Put on your masks. Take your guns.” Like well-drilled soldiers, each of Donaghue’s four men slipped on nylon masks, Donaghue doing the same himself, before commanding the door to slide closed and selecting a level. He drew his gun, and watched as the others did the same, checking their ammunition. “We’re going five levels down,” Donaghue reminded them of his latest instructions, “and we come out in the control room. Remember, there’s only four people there. Three technicians and one security guard, posted next to the door. We shouldn’t encounter trouble from the technicians.”

Kirby fought himself not to ask Donaghue how he came by that very useful information. Now wouldn’t be a good moment. Later on, he promised himself, he would know.

The descent only took a few seconds, and the five men inside the lift were ready when the door slid open before them. As Donaghue had said, a security guard was stationed in front of the door, and turned around to greet whoever was arriving. He just had the time to notice something was wrong when he saw the five masked men, and reached for his sidearm. The butt of Donaghue’s gun violently collided with the man’s forehead, and he crumpled heavily on the floor, with a loud huff.

Three technicians, two men and a woman, standing in front of a large console, their backs turned to the doors, suddenly spun around, surprised by the gang’s arrival. One of the men tried to reach for the comm.link. Kirby was on him before he was able to make a further move, and pressed his weapon against the man’s head. The technician gasped, feeling the cold contact of the metal on his temple.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” the muffled voice of Kirby warned him. “Or I’ll blow your head off!”

Donaghue had gone directly toward the panel, shoving one technician aside, and busied himself with the controls, while Stacey, finding a closed door, opened it, pressing a button. It revealed a narrow room, probably a small storage space, presently completely empty. “In there!” he ordered, waving his gun in the direction of the three technicians. “All of you, quick. Do as you’re told and you’ll stay alive.”

Their hands up, the technicians grimly followed the instructions given to them. Wheland had picked up the unconscious security guard and had dragged him into the very small and narrow room, unceremoniously dropping him in the middle of it. While the technicians were crouching near the guard to check on him, Stacey closed the door, locked it, and destroyed the opening control, to prevent the captives from getting out.

Having swiftly put the camera monitoring the room out of order, Donaghue removed his mask, and the others did the same, each replacing the mask with a small personal communicator unit, that they installed on one ear.

Donaghue was still going through the controls, very quickly, with the easiness of someone accustomed to them, under Kirby’s scrutinising eyes. The day duty roster appeared on a screen, revealing the names of everyone involved with the operation. He took note in passing of the control room operators’ names, then moved on to the camera controls. He flicked on a number of switches, pressed keys on one of the digital keyboards of the computerised panel control, and the many screens over his head came to life with different views of many parts of Building B, the MSB, and the access tunnel between them. He pointed to one screen, showing a lounge room, where a number of security agents, armed, were waiting, drinking coffee and talking.

“The bunker, lowest level of this building,” he announced to his accomplices. “That room is right next to the tunnel entrance. Those security guards are waiting for a possible emergency to arise.” He keyed a new command, and on another screen appeared the 3D map of Building B. Under his fingers, the map changed, and the information was narrowed to specifically concentrate to the bunker and the ventilation system. He drew a path with his finger on the screen. “This is the room next door to this one. This conduit leads directly to the bunker. There is an intake in that room. Wheland, go there and find that intake. Release the gas. That’ll put those guards out of commission.”

“On my way, boss,” Wheland announced, removing from his back the bag he was carrying. He left the control room.

“Won’t they try to get out of there?” Kirby asked, nodding in the direction of the screen.

Donaghue pressed just three keys. “They might try, but they won’t be able to,” he announced coldly. “I just locked the doors. And they won’t be able to call for help. They’ll soon find out the comm isn’t functioning in the bunker.”

“You did all that from that keyboard?” Kirby asked, with amazement obvious in his tone.

“This station controls about everything in this building. And a lot of other features in the Spectrum Security Building.”

“Mr Donaghue… How did you come by such information?”

“I have my sources, Josh.”

Best sources I have ever seen, Kirby thought grimly. And apparently, coming from within Spectrum itself. That was a little unnerving. Why did he need to know how to contact Brealey, if he knew all that already?

Donaghue was going through the many cameras available to him, the images on the many screens changing at each command. He finally found two that gave him different views of the MSB Presidential Suite. A thin smile of satisfaction pulled on his lips when he saw his target, seated there, finishing a game of tri-dimensional chess with Lieutenant Green, while in the background, Captain Grey was busy preparing himself a cup of coffee.

“He’s there all right,” Donaghue murmured to himself.

Keeping the two cameras from the Presidential Suite, he flicked through the others, familiarising himself with each camera’s position. His eyes returned to the screen showing the bunker; he could see that Wheland had found the intake and that the gas had been sent in. The effects on the guards were starting to become apparent, as some of them, feeling unwell, were rushing to the door, trying to get it open without success. Donaghue checked his watch.

“They’ll be out of it in five minutes. We can safely move on with the operation. O’Rourke.”

“Mr Donaghue?”

“You’ll take lift number Two, with Wheland and Stacey. It’ll take you to the lowest level. The entrance of the tunnel is well-marked, you’ll find it easily.” He pressed a button, and on one of the many screens appeared the door he was mentioning. “That’s the one. I’ll open the doors for you from here, and you’ll be able to get in. You’ll find a small electric vehicle once you get through the door. Take it, and drive it into the tunnel through the other end, where you’ll find the door leading to the Presidential Suite.” A series of commands made new images appear on the screen, three from different views of the tunnel, one showing the end of it, and the entrance to the Presidential Suite in the Security Building. “Don’t try to open the door, or it’ll set off an independent alarm, and you would never have the time to get out. Just put the bomb against the door, following the specifications I gave you.”

“Right, Mr Donaghue.”

“Don’t forget to power on your comm.links on your way down there. As soon as the bomb is ready, call me, and I’ll set the electronic timer from here, using the remote.”

“You’re sure there isn’t any risk, boss?” demanded Stacey in a concerned tone. “We’re dealing with Spectrum, here, and…”

“Has it gone wrong so far? You have nothing to fear from Spectrum. Look for yourself.” He gestured in the direction of the screen that was showing the interior of the bunker room, where the Spectrum security agents were falling like flies, under the effects of the gas, and were lying everywhere. “Spectrum won’t cause us any trouble, believe me. I’ll be staying here, handling the controls and the radio station, so nobody will get suspicious of what might be going on. I know all the security codes to give them, if they should call. And I’ll be following your progress every step of the way, and giving you further instructions through the personal comm. I’ll be checking on everything from here. If a problem should arise, I’ll alert you in time for you to get out of there.”

“Right, sir,” O’Rourke said, picking up his huge sack. “You’ve never let us down before.” He addressed a warning glance to a still obviously concerned Stacey, compelling him to keep his mouth shut, almost accusing him of ever doubting their boss’s plan. He turned to the door. “We’re on our way right away, Mr Donaghue.”

“Right. Be quick about it, Sean. Josh, you’ll be staying with me.”

Kirby kept himself from blowing a sigh of relief. Somehow, the idea of going down with O’Rourke, Wheland and Stacey into that underground tunnel and off to a Spectrum Maximum Security Building didn’t appeal to him. He knew there wasn’t any way to escape if anything did go wrong, even though Donaghue assured them that it wouldn’t happen. Besides, he would much rather stay right where he was, if only to keep his eye on the boss. He didn’t know why, but he was starting to get a sinking feeling that not everything with this operation was right, and that Donaghue was keeping something from them. He couldn’t figure out what as yet.

With a thoughtful look, he watched as O’Rourke and Stacey, now joining the returning Wheland, left the room and headed toward the second lift, which went even deeper underground, and was the only way down to the tunnel and bunker level. He saw them disappear, when, after they had entered it, the door of the lift closed on them and the lift started taking them down. He turned around; by his side, still standing in front of the controls, Donaghue was putting on his personal comm.link upon his ear, adjusting the mic so it would rest on his chin. Apparently, he had every intention of following the operation step by step, just as he had said.

“Josh, you keep your eyes on those cameras. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“Sure, Mr Donaghue,” Kirby agreed with a brief nod, moving in front of the controls.

“Right,” murmured Donaghue, his eyes set on one of the screens showing him the interior of the Presidential Suite. He flicked a small switch. “Let’s hear what’s going on in there…”

* * *

It could have been seconds or an hour later. Matt Riordan couldn’t be sure. He felt reasonably certain that he had passed out through the pain, but for how long, he couldn’t say. This was not how he’d wanted to die. The thought almost made him laugh. Who wanted to die? But it was particularly relevant to him. He was a complex man; not brave, by any stretch of the imagination, but, he liked to believe, not quite a coward. Deeply loyal, he had proved willing to give up his freedom to save the life of a friend. Riordan grimaced. That friend was dead and some sort of duplicate was walking around in his place; looking like him, talking like him, with all his knowledge, down to the minutest detail. No… There was a huge difference. This duplicate was cruel, ruthless… and homicidal.

How was that possible? And did Spectrum know?

He cursed himself for dropping his phone; but, he hoped, at least, that it would act as some sort of homing beacon, helping them to find him. Glancing down, almost not daring to look, Riordan saw the blood still oozing from the wound, which he was trying hard to close with his hand.

Damn it, Spectrum, where are you? Riordan thought as he watched the bloodstain on his shirt grow increasingly wider.

It was then he heard it. A noise. It sounded like a door opening. Riordan strained to hear, barely daring to breathe. Yes, there it was again, the door closing this time. Riordan almost fainted with relief, he was going to be all right, surely.

“In here!” Riordan tried to call out. The pain of the movement took his breath away and even he was surprised to hear his own voice emerge in a barely audible whisper.

Looking to his left, Riordan noticed a short length of pipe only inches away from his fingertips. With a grunt of sheer agony, he shifted his position. The crushing pain threatened to push him into oblivion as his hand scrabbled for the pipe. More than once, his fingers almost closed around the cold, rusty metal before it rolled out of his grasp yet again. Finally, and with a sigh of relief, Riordan’s grip on the pipe was firm and he once more slumped back against the wall. Breathing hard, he lifted the pipe and began to bang the end of the pipe on the concrete floor. The hollow sound echoed around the large empty room. Riordan’s hold on the bar was fast loosening; he prayed they would hear him before it slipped from his fingers.

“Finally!” he whispered as the door to his left opened.

“Well, well, well!” came a sneering voice. “Keen to be put out of your misery, Mr Riordan?”

Riordan stared at the two men who had entered the room with equal measures of distress and panic. He had expected Spectrum officers, coming to save him, but instead he found himself looking up at Cody and Billy, come to finish the job.

“No!” Riordan found his voice once more. “Hear me out…”

“We have our instructions, Mr Riordan.” Cody casually withdrew his pistol from beneath his jacket. “Discussion over.”

“That’s not Pat Donaghue… He wants me dead because I found out, just like Tyler.”

“Oh really?” Cody shook his head. “And you expect us to believe that?”

“He’s some sort of look-a-like, I don’t know how, but it’s not him.” Riordan stared up, a look of sheer desperation on his face.

“Some sort of look-a-like?” Cody repeated with a smirk. “So good he knows every detail about our operations and everyone in it? So good, he fooled you, Ox and Sean?” Cody laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“Please!” Riordan raised a bloodied hand in a pleading gesture. “You have to believe me!”

Cody shrugged. “So what if it is true? What difference would that make anyway? So long as he gets the job done.”

“He’ll kill you all…” Riordan gasped as he returned his hand to the gunshot wound. The effort of talking had taken its toll on him. Now Cody and Billy were somewhat blurred in his vision and Cody’s voice came to him as if through a distant echo. At least, he thought to himself, when Cody pulled the trigger, he would be unlikely to feel much.

“Well, you don’t need to worry about that now, do you?”

“Spectrum!” a commanding voice suddenly barked from the still open doorway. “Drop your weapons!”

The two men turned abruptly, startled by the call. Two colour-coded Spectrum officers stood just inside the doorway, both with their guns trained on the two gangsters. Raising their hands slowly, Cody and Billy tossed their guns to the floor, clearly shocked by their sudden appearance. Behind them, two Spectrum sergeants from the New York office entered and headed immediately for the two men, who were both surprised and frustrated to have been caught red-handed. It made them wonder - since he had gone so quickly, had Donaghue known Spectrum were on their way? Had Riordan been telling the truth? They would, perhaps, never know; but, if it were true, at least they were alive.

And if they were clever enough, they would keep their mouths shut until they knew what the deal really was.

While the sergeants handcuffed and led away Cody and Billy, Ochre and Blue ran towards the severely injured Riordan.

“Sergeant! Find out where that ambulance is!” Ochre barked an instruction as he and Blue knelt at Riordan’s side.

“Riordan?” Blue began, but on receiving no reply, he shook the injured man’s shoulder. “Riordan!”

“Easy, Blue, he’s been shot!” Ochre reminded his colleague as he leaned in to support the wounded man.

Blue ignored Ochre’s words, encouraged by the flicker of movement he saw in Riordan’s eyes.

“Riordan, where’s Captain Scarlet?”

Riordan half-opened his eyes. It was quite a struggle for him to remain conscious now. Seeing his lips start to move, Blue leaned in to hear his whispered words.

“Next warehouse… Out the door, left, down…” Riordan grimaced with pain and breathlessness.

“Where?!”

“Down stairs, second on the right…” Riordan gasped for breath once more.

“Is that it? Is he there?” Blue snapped.

“Dropped…”

It was the last thing Riordan said before finally losing consciousness and slumping into Ochre’s arms.

“Dropped?” Blue stared incredulously at Ochre. “What does that mean?”

Ochre shrugged. “I’ll stay with Riordan till the ambulance gets here. You find out. And, Blue?”

“Yeah?” Blue turned whilst still heading for the door.

“Be careful, no heroics. He’ll be all right!”

Ochre watched as Blue disappeared from sight. Sighing with relief, he heard the sound of an ambulance siren drawing near.

* * *

“Checkmate,” Commander Stewart declared, pushing his queen forward. “You’re a mean player, Lieutenant, but I’m afraid you’re not mean enough…”

Lieutenant Green stared a moment at his trapped king, grimly wondering how he could have let himself be beaten that way. Granted, Ian Stewart hadn’t seemed to him like a serious opponent at first - but after three or four moves, it had appeared obvious that the man knew all the tricks in the book, and was playing to win. I should have known, Green thought bleakly. That man doesn’t like to lose.

Green was a good player, but apparently, not nearly as good as Stewart himself. It would have taken either Captain Scarlet or Colonel White to beat the WGPC commander, the lieutenant was sure of it. Graciously conceding victory to his adversary, Green knocked over his king, addressing a smile at Stewart.

“You’re right, Commander, I wasn’t mean enough.”

“You’re still young,” the policeman - himself about barely ten years older than Green - declared with assurance. “This kind of game takes good strategy, and a clear mind… Something that can be acquired only through experience…”

Green kept himself from noting that the worldwide champion of tri-dimensional chess was, at the present, a kid of only thirteen years old… who had beaten the previous holder of the title, a man of about fifty years old, with the greatest of ease. Green contented himself with grinning, and got up from his chair, stretching his legs. He accepted the cup of coffee that Captain Grey offered him, before excusing himself to Stewart, and going to sit in front of the Suite computer. He was curious to examine those new security features installed in the building - especially since Captain Magenta’s much vaunted updates. He typed the access code.

Grey sat down in the place previously occupied by Green. Stewart was repositioning the pieces, whistling quietly; Grey put the cup of coffee on the table in front of him, and sat comfortably. Stewart sipped from the cup he had received a few minutes earlier from the Spectrum captain and eyed him conspicuously. “How about you, Captain?” he asked, waving towards the board.

“Me?” Grey shrugged. “If Lieutenant Green couldn’t beat you, I know I don’t stand a chance, Commander. And I’m not that good with that game.” He produced a smile. “However, if you prefer a game of Battleship…”

Stewart waved the suggestion away. “Forget it, Captain. I get seasick at the mere mention of boats…”

Ships, Grey corrected inwardly, trying to suppress his smile. “A game of cards, then?”

Stewart nodded his consent and Grey stood up, in order to retrieve a deck from the desk, where he knew it was kept. He passed by Lieutenant Green who had gained access to the security database and was examining it with an attentive eye. He saw the frown upon the younger man’s brow.

“Captain,” Green called, attracting Grey’s further attention. “There’s something peculiar, here…”

Right away, Grey was by his side. “A problem, Lieutenant?”

“I’m not sure, sir. This station is supposed to give me access to ALL the security features of this building, right? It seems it’s denied access to some of those features…”

“Such as…?”

“Doors and lift controls, sir.”

“Doors and lifts must be controlled from upstairs,” Grey reasoned. He pressed a button on the computer. “Lieutenant Tan?”

“Yes, Captain Grey?”

“Lieutenant Green is reporting that he can’t access doors and lift controls from the computer station in the Presidential Suite. Is that normal?”

“Not as far as I know, sir…” There was a silence, as Tan was obviously checking something. “We have a green light here, Captain. Has Lieutenant Green entered the proper code?”

“I did,” Green confirmed with a certain amount of annoyance. “But I still don’t seem to be able to gain access.” He gave it some thought, then started typing a new command. “Maybe this station hasn’t been updated to Captain Magenta’s new specifications. I’ll try to access the system using another path.”

“All the machines SHOULD have been updated,” Tan replied in protest.

“It’s all right, Tan,” Grey retorted. “If there’s another path to access that database, Green is the man to find it.”

“And here it comes,” Green said with a satisfied grin, as he saw the screen changing image. A list appeared, and Green started reading, with Grey leaning over his shoulder. Every security feature was on the green. “Everything seems normal,” the young Trinidadian muttered, scrolling down the list. Grey straightened up, pleased that there was nothing to worry about. He was aware of Stewart’s intense gaze set on them, as obviously, the WGPC commander was wondering what was going wrong.

Green just had time to notice the last item on the record, listed in red characters, with the word ‘offline’ next to it, as it suddenly changed to the green ‘online’. He frowned. “Now what’s that?”

Grey instantly turned to him once more. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

Green pointed to the last lines on the screen. “Security cameras in the tunnel, sir,” he announced. “They were on the red a second earlier. Now the screen is showing them ‘online’. I nearly didn’t see it.”

“Tan?” Grey called to the comm.link.

“Systems all green here, Captain.”

“Can you verify if those cameras are actually working?”

“Not from up here. They’re linked to Station B. Wait a minute, sir, I’ll contact them.”

“S.I.G.,” muttered Grey. He saw Stewart slowly standing up from where he was seated and approaching, curious to know what it was all about.

“Is there a problem, Captain Grey?” he asked meaningfully.

“It’s uncertain, Commander,” Grey answered, keeping his voice calm. “As far as we know, it may only be a computer-related problem. Everything seems all right from here, and upstairs too.”

Stewart nodded curtly. “I HOPE you are right, Captain, and that it is not the indication of something more serious.”

“We’ll just wait for a confirmation from Building B that everything is all right,” Grey replied.

The voice of Lieutenant Tan made itself heard again on the comm.link: “Captain Grey? I just contacted Sergeant Fust at Station B. He confirms to me that everything is S.I.G. from their end, and that the cameras in the tunnel are fully operational. Everything is normal.”

Grey breathed a sigh of relief. “S.I.G., Lieutenant Tan. Thank you.” He closed the link and addressed a smile at Stewart. “Nothing to worry about, as you can see, Commander.”

Stewart snorted. “Yes, well… if they had been able to access those tunnel cameras from upstairs,” he mumbled, nodding curtly towards the ceiling, “that would have spared us useless minutes of worry, don’t you think, Captain?”

Grey gave a sigh. Truly, this Ian Stewart was an infuriating man.

“Commander,” Lieutenant Green then said, while typing on the keyboard of his station, “I’m presently gaining access to those cameras myself …”

“You can do that, Lieutenant?” an impressed Stewart demanded. “From down here?”

“Give a computer to the lieutenant, and he can perform miracles, Commander,” Grey said with a faint smile.

“It’s only a matter of accessing the right program, sir,” Green replied modestly. “I’ve been doing that, while you were talking to Tan. I’m nearly in… We’ll then be able to see the interior of the tunnel.”

“Perfect, Lieutenant,” Grey said with a slow nod. He watched, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, as Green finished entering his command. “Lieutenant,” he then said in a musing tone, “did Lieutenant Tan say he contacted ‘Sergeant Fust’?”

“That’s the name he said, sir.”

“He said ‘he’,” Grey remarked. “But… I talked to a female Sergeant Fust earlier.”

Green looked up at his superior. “Lieutenant Tan probably made a mistake, Captain?” Grey contented himself with a grim look. Green turned back to his screen as the computer was giving a brief beeping sound. “Cameras online, sir…” The screen divided in four sections, each giving a different view of the escape tunnel that linked the MSB to Spectrum Building B. At first glance, on the first three cameras, everything seemed normal, with an image of a wide, dark and empty corridor.

On the fourth camera, which was showing the door to the Presidential Suite, there was movement.

Grey and Green stiffened. “WHAT is this?” Grey exclaimed, pointing to the screen with insistence.

Now Stewart hurried to the two Spectrum officers’ side; Green was selecting the fourth segment of the screen and it filled the entire surface of the screen. Through the semi-darkness, they could see three men, crouched in front of the door, suddenly getting up and hurrying to an electric vehicle that was apparently waiting for them.

“There’s someone out there!” Stewart stated. “Don’t tell me they’re maintenance people!”

“I hardly think so, Commander,” Grey said bleakly. “They left something against the door. Lieutenant, give me a close-up. I want to see what it is.”

“S.I.G., sir,” Green responded, pressing a few keys, as a sinking feeling was making its way through his heart.

“Grey calling Station B!” Grey barked into his cap mic. He received no answer, but static… Sergeant Fust… Of COURSE, it was a woman earlier. Whoever had answered Tan just now had only used her name. “Lieutenant Tan!” he barked again. “There’s something going on in Building B! I can’t reach Control! Send a team in!”

“S.I.G., Captain Grey!” answered the hurried voice of Tan. “On its way!”

“My God, it’s a bomb!” Green suddenly declared, his face becoming suddenly ashen.

“A what?” both Grey and Stewart uttered with the same surprised and unbelieving tone.

The camera had zoomed in as much as possible on the explosive device set against the tunnel door; it was massive enough, with small tanks attached to it, and a LED indicator blinking on top of it. A number had suddenly appeared on it. “Four minutes before it goes off!” Green announced. “Captain… this thing looks powerful enough to blow the whole door - even if it’s reinforced…”

“We must get out of here!” Grey hurried toward the lift door, only a few feet away from it, followed by Stewart. He savagely pressed the opening button.

Nothing happened. Instead, on the small digital screen set over the digi-lock, a message appeared, blinking.

“Opening malfunction?!” Stewart nearly shrieked in Grey’s ear.

“It’s been blocked,” the Spectrum captain replied. “Damn!” He hit the wall with his open palm. “Damn! They trapped us here! Grey to Security!” he called, lowering his cap mic again. “There’s a bomb on the other side of the door, and someone’s tampered with the elevator controls! Can you open the doors from up there?”

“Trying to, Captain Grey.”

“Make it quick, man!”

“Captain,” Green, still at his station, called from behind, causing Grey to turn in his direction. “I just had a good look at that bomb… We HAVE to get out of here. Not only was it installed so it would rip the doors open, but it looks like it will also discharge into the opening whatever those tanks might contain…” He swallowed hard. “My guess is an incendiary substance,” he added. “I’ve seen similar tanks containing napalm… The whole room will be destroyed.”

“We can open the door from this side and defuse that bomb,” Stewart proposed. “I’ve got experience doing that.”

Like I would let my charge go near that bomb, Grey thought sourly.

“Negative, Commander,” Green then declared, “they set the bomb so that if we open the door, it’ll blow up.”

“Wonderful,” grumbled Stewart.

“Captain Grey?” That was security calling Grey back on his cap microphone. He took the call urgently.

“Give me good news,” he asked hopefully.

“I’m sorry, sir…We’re unable to open the lift door. Down there or up here. The systems seem blocked by an outside source!”

“My guess is that ‘outside source’ is at Building B!” Grey replied harshly. “They have full control of EVERYTHING there.”

“But to do that, the person in question MUST know all the codes,” Green reflected.

Grey wondered if a Mysteron had not infiltrated the Spectrum team in Building B.

“Lieutenant Tan and a security team is nearly there, Captain,” his contact explained urgently. “Hang on, we’ll try to pry the doors open here and will send you a line.”

That may be too slow, Grey thought grimly, but he didn’t advise against it. He looked down thoughtfully at the panel control beside the door. “Lieutenant Green, do you think you’d be able to get this door open?” he asked urgently, turning toward the younger man.

“I can try, sir,” Green said, raising from his seat. “But I’m in no way an expert like Captain Magenta is at this sort of thing…”

“Didn’t you ever tell me that ANYTHING Captain Magenta is able to do with a computerised gadget you can do better?” Grey replied insistently. “Get to work, Lieutenant. We haven’t got much time!”

“S.I.G., sir,” Green answered, briskly walking the remaining distance separating him from the door. “I’ll get on with it.”

He crouched in front of the panel, and examined it closely. With little effort, he tore off the metallic and plastic cover, and threw it aside to look at the now bare wires, electronic cards and apparently complicated circuitry that was revealed to him. He gave a low grunt, shaking his head.

Behind him, nervously, Grey looked at his watch, counting the minutes - seconds - before the explosion.

* * *

When Lieutenant Tan and his team of armed security guards arrived at the Wilson and Richens Tailor Shop, it was to find the front door wide open, with nobody in the main store to greet them. That in itself was already strange, as there was always supposed to be someone in attendance there. When they got into the back room, it was to find the two undercover agents there, both lying on the floor. A quick assessment informed Tan that Brent Finnegan was dead - a bullet through the head, while Jonah Maxwell, more lucky, was seriously wounded, with a chest injury, but unconscious. Tan left a man to contact the medics and rushed down to Control with the rest of his team. All the way from the MSB he had been trying to contact Station B, without any success, so he was expecting the worst when he arrived at his destination.

As the door of the elevator opened, and the guards, guns at the ready, entered the control room, they found nobody at his usual station. Instead, there was a constant thumping and shouts coming from behind the closed door leading to the storage room. Tan left two of his men there to investigate - suspecting it might well be the Spectrum personnel who had been imprisoned there. He went directly to the computer controls, and looked up at the many screens over his head. The cameras were still set on different areas, giving him a clear image of what had been going on. The unconscious Spectrum guards in the bunker, which was still filled with a gaseous substance; the bomb set against the door leading to the Presidential Suite, the three men hurrying onboard the electric cart to leave the tunnel.

“They’re still down there,” Tan growled with anger obvious in his tone. He turned toward his men. “We can get them and stop that bomb!” he announced, raising his sidearm. “Come with me to the lift, boys!”

* * *

Seated behind the wheel of the van, Josh Kirby was looking expectantly in the direction of the tailor’s shop he had left with Patrick Donaghue and Ox, only mere seconds before the Spectrum security guards had arrived in a hurry. Behind him, nearly leaning over the seat, the eyes of the huge Ox were following the same direction as his, while Donaghue, in the passenger seat, seemed to be totally oblivious to what was going on, and was quietly lighting a cigar.

“That was close,” murmured Kirby. “One minute later, and we would have been caught.”

“One SECOND later,” Donaghue replied in an even tone, killing his match. “It was good luck I was monitoring those Spectrum radio conversations, isn’t it, Josh?”

Kirby nodded grimly. “Sir… what about O’Rourke and the others?” he asked tentatively. “You… didn’t warn them.”

“There wasn’t any time left, Josh, you know that,” Donaghue replied matter-of-factly.

“Yes, but… what happens to them now? Spectrum will catch them for sure.”

“You’re certain about that, Josh?” Very quietly, Donaghue produced a small black box and showed it to Kirby. The latter became pale when he recognised the object as being the remote control O’Rourke had devised for the bomb. “I kind of think they won’t get caught…” Donaghue added.

Stoically, he pushed a small lever, and his thumb hovered close to the push button.

* * *

“I’ve got it!”

With that triumphant cry, and after what had seemed like long minutes of hard and complicated work, that was making him sweat profusely, Lieutenant Green pressed one of the wires against the circuits, and in front of Grey’s and Stewart’s unbelieving eyes, the door of the lift slid open. Even Green didn’t seem to truly believe he had done it, as he wiped his brow.

“I’ve outdone Captain Magenta,” he muttered with no false pride, and still looking incredulous over his exploit. “I don’t think even HE would have been able to do it in so short a time…”

“Well done, but we’ll congratulate you later, Lieutenant!” Grey unceremoniously pushed Commander Stewart inside the lift and entered, quickly followed by Green. “Now close it!” he ordered the younger man.

“Right away, Captain,” Green replied, attacking the control panel inside the lift and tearing it apart in much the same way he had done on the other side. He was confident of being able to close the door in less time than it had taken him to open it, now that he had acquired the experience, but he was still concerned at being able to do it before the bomb actually exploded. And even then… “Sir, we might not be able to get this lift moving up even if we close the door…”

“He’s right, Grey,” Stewart gloomily commented. “We won’t be able to reach the higher level before…”

“Just close the damned door, Lieutenant!” Grey nearly shouted impatiently.

Green nodded his acknowledgement and caught hold of a series of wires that he twirled together before pressing them hard against a circuitry plate… There was a spark of electricity…

The bomb in the tunnel suddenly blew up; and just as it was meant to, it ripped a hole in the reinforced doors against which it was leaning, and sent scorching flames of death and destruction into the Presidential Suite as well as down the whole length of the tunnel. It caught up with the three members of the Donaghue gang, just as they were reaching the exit. The reinforced door leading out of the tunnel to Building B groaned ominously under the strain, but held against the terrible blast. Building B and the Spectrum personnel within were safe - but they had felt strongly, the power of the explosion…

* * *

The rumbling came first to the surface - then the tremor, as the rumbling itself subsided. It felt exactly like an earthquake, or maybe as if a main gas pipe had exploded under the New York street. Josh Kirby felt it, and saw its effects on the surface, through the opened window of the van. He saw the ground as it quivered and the asphalted road crack slightly under the sudden pressure. And then, it stopped. By all appearances, the buildings around had suffered the minimum of damage. And people were starting to pour out into the streets, looking around, wondering what had happened just then.

Kirby could see that the Spectrum agents, in and outside of Richens and Wilson, were very agitated, shouting into their communicators, apparently asking what was going on and instructions on what to do. From where he was seated, Kirby could see the look of horror in the men’s faces as they stared at each other, bewildered and nearly helpless.

The horror felt by the Spectrum agents then reflected itself in Kirby, and he turned to Donaghue by his side; the latter was blowing out smoke from his newly-lit cigar, very quietly and as he didn’t have a care in the world.

And no remorse.

“Sir… the others,” Kirby stuttered. “O’Rourke, Wheland and Stacey… They… they didn’t get out in time… They…”

Donaghue raised his eyes to him. They were so cold that Kirby was unable to stop a shiver running down his spine. Casually, Donaghue blew out a ring of smoke.

“They did what they had to do, Josh,” he replied callously.

Kirby swallowed hard. What kind of a man was this Donaghue, to sacrifice three of his men in such a cold-hearted fashion? It was as if he didn’t care about anyone - anything - as long as his goal was achieved. Kirby glanced back at Ox, seated in the back, looking for some support from him. The big man did seem affected by what had happened, but Kirby could perceive nothing more than a quiver in his eyes, as he looked around in confusion. Ox noticed the pleading way Kirby was staring at him, but said nothing. His eyes taking a kind of non-assured, yet resigned expression, he sat back on his seat. It was obvious he wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t do a thing. His actions were stating very clearly that he would follow Patrick Donaghue anywhere the man wanted to take him, and do everything he asked of him. Passively. Without asking questions.

The sinking feeling that he might be alone, and way over his head in a situation that could prove catastrophic, if not lethal, made Kirby shiver even more.

“Let’s get back to the office, Josh,” Donaghue then said quietly, in a business-like tone. “And turn on the radio. We have to know if our little coup worked.”

Kirby acquiesced with a nod, uncomfortably. “Right, Mr. Donaghue,” he said, turning the ignition key. “Anything you say…”

He had no choice, if he wanted to survive, but to keep his mouth shut.

* * *

The deafening roar had subsided somewhat, but any meaningful conversation still required shouting. Beyond the lift doors the small group could hear the sound and feel the heat of the flames consuming the room that they had occupied only moments before. It had been a lucky and narrow escape, made possible only by the alertness and quick action of Grey and Green.

Captain Grey still stood, hands on the rear wall of the lift, arching his body over Commander Stewart in an attempt to protect him still further. As Grey realised that the immediate danger had lessened, he pushed himself back and stood upright. As he did, he felt beads of sweat running uncomfortably down his back. Despite the protection of the thick, reinforced doors and walls of the lift, the temperature inside had risen sharply to match that of any quality sauna. Glancing to his left, Grey nodded briefly to Green, who returned the same expression of relief and concern, before turning back to help Commander Stewart to his feet.

“Commander?” Grey addressed him, still slightly breathless with the tension of the situation. “Are you okay?”

Stewart stood and smoothed his jacket. To his displeasure, it refused to co-operate. He had been unceremoniously bundled into the lift, pushed to the floor in the far corner and made to wait in a cramped space in rising humidity and heat. As a result, his clothes, dignity and temper had all suffered greatly.

“Captain Grey, I am far from okay!” he snapped finally, staring the astonished Spectrum officer squarely in the eyes. “You brought me here for my protection, did you not?”

“With respect, Commander,” Grey countered, “the Mysterons have made an attempt on your life, and you are still alive. It may have been close, but what counts is that you are safe, thanks largely to Lieutenant Green’s efforts.”

Stewart merely glared in reply, unimpressed by Grey’s assurances or what he saw as false confidence. Seeing Stewart about to comment, Grey continued:

“As you’re obviously well, I think it best to get us out of here.” He leaned to pick up his cap from the floor, where it had dropped during the initial blast that had shaken the lift so much. He withheld the frustrated sigh as he noticed that the visor, but more importantly, the mic, had been crushed beneath Commander Stewart’s foot in the rush to enter the lift and was no longer working. He grunted. “Lieutenant, can you contact Lieutenant Tan, please?” he asked with a shrug, showing his cap to the younger man.

“Of course, Captain,” Green nodded in return. As he had left his own cap in the bunker, such was the hurry in which they had left, he turned to the control panel he had been working on only seconds earlier. “I’ll try to get this comm.link to work…”

* * *

Captain Blue found the place described by Riordan easily enough. It was a big warehouse, badly kept, with spider webs all around the place, and dirty windows. Yet, it was obvious that it had been in use or at least visited recently - and many times, considering the number of footsteps he could see on the dust-covered concrete floor. Many people had come in and out of here, but the place was now apparently empty. Still, Blue took no chances as he swiftly, but quietly, entered, his gun at the ready, and all his senses awakened. He couldn’t see anything suspicious, nor could he hear any sound.

Whoever had been here was definitely gone now, Blue reflected. Looking around, he discovered a patch of blood on the floor, and a trail of dark droplets leading out through a back door. He deduced that it must have come from Riordan, as he was fleeing the place, wounded.

No trace of Scarlet so far.

“Down stairs, second on the right…”

Blue discovered a door leading to a lower level. Still on his guard, he walked down the steps and came to a halt, as he considered the doors in front of him. Second on the right… He tried the handle of the said door; it wasn’t locked, so he pushed the door open, his gun trained on the inside. He found himself looking into another empty storage room.

The silence was starting to get to him.

Damn it, Paul… where are you? he thought irritably. He entered the room, looking around, fully expecting to find his friend lying in a corner, either trussed up, wounded - or even dead.

He noticed the toppled chair in the middle of the room, with ropes hanging from it. He quickly went to it, to find a large enough puddle of blood staining the floor right next to it. He became increasingly worried when he noticed the bloody trail stretching from it. As if a body had been dragged from the spot where it had fallen.

Blue followed the trail with his eyes. It led directly to a trap door, cut into the floor. It ended there.

Blue opened eyes wide with horror, suddenly realising what had happened to his friend.

“Dropped…”

“Sweet Jesus…” He pulled on the large ring serving as a handle to the door to open it… Then he looked down with amplified shock and revulsion at the dirty surface of the cold river below.

His fears were confirmed.

“Blue!”

Captain Blue raised his head to see Captain Ochre as he stood in the doorway leading into the room.

“The ambulance has arrived,” Ochre said, stepping into the room. “Riordan is being taken to the hospital now, and those other guys who tried to kill him are…” Further explanation from Ochre died on his lips, as his eyes suddenly fell on the hole by which Blue was crouched. He stopped his approach.

“Oh no,” Ochre muttered, his eyes fully reflecting his inner dread. “Scarlet… Don’t tell me he’s down there…”

Blue shook himself; nodding grimly to Ochre’s question, he stood up and swiftly removed his cap and tunic, under Ochre’s worried scrutiny.

“There’s only one way to find out…”

* * *

Lieutenant Tan stood hunched over the console. All the indicators told him that sensors to the Maximum Security Building Presidential Suite were cut. There was only one possible cause: they had been destroyed. The tunnel escape mechanism had not been activated and the lift, he knew, had been disabled. That meant that Grey, Green and Stewart had not left the bunker suite, there was simply no other means of escape. He tried each of the security cameras in turn, hoping that at least one would still be functional. Finally he found one in the tunnel and was unprepared for the sight that met him.

He viewed the tunnel through a cloud of dust still hanging in the air, obscuring the scene. There was obviously a lot of debris, and parts of the tunnel had collapsed. He realised almost immediately that the bomb must have been massive to have caused such extensive damage. Amongst the fallen masonry were bodies; at least two were visible, maybe a third, it was difficult to say. Clearly they had either been careless, or the bomb had been activated early. Needless to say, Tan thought with a heavy heart, if there were dead men in the tunnel, so far from the Presidential Suite, then it seemed impossible that there would be any survivors inside.

Trying a few more of the security cameras, Tan was surprised to find one still working within the bunker suite itself. The room was ablaze with flames of such ferocity that it suggested to him that there was some sort of incendiary keeping them burning. He shook his head sadly; there seemed to be no chance of survivors. Sighing deeply, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Lowering his cap microphone, he waited until he reached a colleague in the Maximum Security Building.

“Patch me through to Cloudbase,” he murmured unhappily. “Colonel White.”

* * *

Commander Stewart had removed his jacket. The shirt he wore was stuck to his back, soaked with sweat, such was the heat in the confines of the lift. He was once more sitting on the floor, leaning back against a corner and resting his arms on his knees.

“How are you doing, Lieutenant?” asked Grey as Green worked hard to contact the Spectrum staff in the building above.

“I’m having a bit of trouble, Captain, there’s a lot of interference at the moment,” replied Green gravely. “I’ll keep trying.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Grey let out a slight sigh. The sooner they were rescued the better.

“Oh sure,” came a disgruntled voice from the floor of the lift. “ ‘Spectrum will take care of you.’ ”

Grey took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

“ ‘The Maximum Security Building will be safe,’ ” Stewart continued in a sarcastic tone. “ ‘We know so much more about the Mysterons now. You’ll be quite safe, Commander.’ ”

Grey turned and reluctantly stared down at Commander Stewart who was eyeing him with contempt. Grey tried hard to keep his expression even, but Stewart could see - and seemed to be taking a spiteful delight in the fact - that Grey was fighting to maintain a calm façade.

“And if you had remained in your home, Commander?” Grey asked flatly. “Do you have anything that would have protected you as this lift did? Or would you be lying dead, surrounded by other good, dead men from your own force?”

“You are out of order, Captain Grey!” Stewart snapped, getting quickly to his feet.

“No, Commander.” Grey glared, his patience long since at an end, tired of the abuse and ingratitude of their charge. “You have made it your business to ridicule Spectrum and pour scorn on everything we’ve done to ensure your protection. Yes, it was close, but you ARE alive, thanks to this man -” Grey’s eyes blazed with fury as he swung his arm to point directly at Lieutenant Green, “- his attention to detail and quick thinking. Now I suggest that you think about that and if you really can’t say anything civil then just sit down and shut up while we figure out how the hell to get out of here!”

Stewart stared back, at first furious at the Spectrum officer’s tirade. How dare a functionary speak to him like that? Following the direction of Grey’s arm he glanced briefly at Lieutenant Green, trying his best not to look at either of them, working feverishly to establish contact with Lieutenant Tan. As he looked back at Grey, still glaring furiously, Stewart took a deep breath and briefly lowered his eyes.

“I guess I asked for that,” he admitted quietly, to Grey’s surprise.

“Please, Commander,” Grey returned graciously, “sit down, we’ll get you out of here, safe and sound.”

Commander Stewart nodded briefly and lowered himself to the floor without another word.

“Captain Grey, I think I’m getting somewhere,” Green announced with a relieved sigh.

“Keep at it, Lieutenant, you’re doing a fine job,” Grey replied quietly, as he leaned against the back wall of the lift, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

* * *

“Colonel.” Lieutenant Sienna, seated at the main computer in Cloudbase’s Control Room turned to the Spectrum commander. “I have Lieutenant Tan calling from the Maximum Security Building in New York.”

“Lieutenant Tan?” White mused. “Put him through, Lieutenant.”

“S.I.G., Colonel.”

Sienna acknowledged the call and transferred it to the main speakers.

“This is Colonel White, go ahead, Lieutenant.”

“Colonel, I have very bad news. The Mysterons have attacked the Maximum Security Building.”

“What?!” White instinctively knew from Tan’s tone that he had not yet disclosed the worst of it. “Casualties?”

“Sir, the Presidential Suite is destroyed.” Tan paused for a moment as he thought of the loss of lives, the personal loss of a friend. “I don’t think there can have been any survivors.”

“That’s impossible! With Captain Magenta’s security improvements, how did they get in? What about the tunnel to Building B?”

“But that’s just it, Colonel, that’s how they got in. They disabled the lift mechanism and set a bomb at the tunnel entrance. Captain Grey, Lieutenant Green and Commander Stewart… they were trapped,” Tan explained sadly.

“A bomb?” White thought fast. “The suite is large, it is quite possible that they have survived the blast.”

“Sir,” Tan’s voice audibly cracked. “Not this bomb. It was a dual blast incendiary. Apparently, the first blew a hole in the door, the second tore the place apart with what appears to have been napalm, or something very similar. The whole place is a charred ruin and still blazing. There’s nothing left.” Tan’s voice had, by the end of his explanation, dwindled to the merest whisper.

White closed his eyes sadly. The mission had failed, but in addition to Commander Stewart, Spectrum had lost two of its elite men. It was a terrible blow.

White sighed, perhaps three or four times, before continuing: “How fast can we get the emergency crews in there?”

“MSB Control inform me that they’re already in place and should be tackling the flames, Colonel. I’m afraid there won’t be much left to find, sir.”

A crackling sound interrupted the transmission. Briefly and at first weak, the signal soon strengthened and became more persistent.

“What?” Tan was incredulous. “It’s not possible!”

“What is it, Lieutenant?” asked White, leaning forward with interest.

“Colonel, it’s one of the bunker communicators, but I don’t understand…”

“Hey!” came the distinctive voice of Lieutenant Green. “Any chance of a lift, here?”

“Lieutenant Green?” stammered Tan in utter astonishment.

“S.I.G. Lieutenant Tan. We’re alive. Both Commander Stewart, Captain Grey - and me, obviously!”

“But the bomb?”

“We’re in the lift. Get us out of here, Tan, before we cook!”

“Lieutenant, how is Commander Stewart?” asked White with concern.

“Colonel?” Green answered with surprise, obviously not counting on hearing the sound of his commander’s voice over the comm.

“I’m fine, Colonel,” the voice of Stewart then answered. “Your men have taken very good care of me.”

“I’m relieved to hear it, Commander,” White sighed. “We’ll have you out of there as soon as possible.”

* * *

Captain Ochre was nervously pacing in front of the opened trap door. A few instants earlier, despite Ochre’s concern and protests, Captain Blue had lowered himself into the cold, dark, foetid waters of the Hudson River. There was nothing Ochre could say to Blue to stop him from going down there - no argument that the cold exposure would be almost deadly, that currents might sweep him away, that it would be too dark to see anything. It was only after that last remark that they had run off to the nearby SSC to retrieve a powerful flashlight that was part of the patrol car’s standard equipment. Waving away Ochre’s further protests that they should be waiting for the divers they had called for, Blue had then plunged into the bitterly cold waters. Leaving Ochre with nothing more to do than wait worriedly for him next, to the hole.

It’s too long, the American captain reflected, muttering. In that cold water… He can’t stay much longer. Come on, Blue, come back already.

He heard splashing and hurriedly came over the hole to look down. Blue had pierced the surface of the cold water, gasping loudly for much needed air. Ochre nearly grimaced upon seeing how pale - nearly white - his friend’s skin had become. Quickly, he grabbed the arm Blue was extending to him, and hauled him up and out of the water that clung viscously to him. Blue was literally out of breath and out of strength as he stumbled out of the hole and onto the floor, teeth chattering, and his whole body shivering. Ochre hurriedly wrapped him in the thick blanket that they had brought from the SSC along with the flashlight.

“You’re crazy, Blue,” Ochre declared. “Look at you… You could have killed yourself going down there. What were you thinking about? This isn’t Hawaii…”

“I found him, Rick…” Through his rattling teeth, Blue had managed to say the words that he knew Ochre really didn’t want to hear. He felt his friend going rigid, and turned to face him. He nodded and took a deep breath. “He’s down there all right… They shot him, weighted him and threw him down into those freezing waters.”

“Damn,” Ochre muttered. “I knew there was something wrong. But I never imagined that Fisher would use the old Mob ways to…”

“He’s down there too.” Ochre stared at Blue with a clueless expression. The blond man, still searching for his breath, nodded vigorously. “Ben Fisher. And a couple of other guys. And by the looks of things, they’ve not been down there long. It’s pretty recent.”

“I don’t understand,” Ochre said shaking his head. “If Fisher is dead, then who…?”

“I don’t know.” Blue took another deep breath. “We will need those divers, Ochre. And fast. We’ve got to get Scarlet out of the water and back on Cloudbase. Then we’ll start looking for explanations.”

“The divers are on their way,” Ochre said, grabbing his colleague’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Adam, he’ll be all right.”

“I know he will be,” Blue said with a shiver. “Physically, at least. But… This will sound horrible, Rick, but I hope he was unconscious or dead when he was thrown down there into those filthy waters. It is not a pretty way to die… especially for a man who can come back from the dead and remember it.”

* * *

Captain Magenta lay still. But for an occasional flickering of his eyelids, he hadn’t stirred since he was brought back to Cloudbase. Doctor Fawn returned the chart to the slot at the foot of the bed with a sigh. He had done everything he could; it was entirely up to Magenta now - he simply had to want to live enough to pull through.

Fawn’s eyes rested on the figure of Destiny Angel seated at Magenta’s bedside. She had been there at every opportunity since he arrived and more than once, when she believed she was entirely alone, Fawn had caught sight of her stroking his hair or holding his hand to her cheek. He knew that all of the senior staff were close, and there wasn’t a single one amongst them who hadn’t taken their turn to visit the injured captain, standing or sitting with deeply furrowed brows, replete with concern for their colleague and friend. But this was different. Destiny wasn’t just concerned, she was terrified. To Fawn’s sympathetic eyes, it was obvious that the life of the Irishman seemed to matter to her more than her own, more than anything or anyone.

“Destiny,” Fawn said quietly, “you should rest. You’re on duty in an hour and I know you haven’t had any sleep since your last watch.”

“I’m fine, Doctor, really,” she replied quickly, giving a half glance over her shoulder in an attempt to acknowledge him without actually taking her eyes from the patient.

“You’re not fine, Destiny, you’re…”

“Why hasn’t he woken, Doctor?” she cut in with a voice that clearly didn’t want to ask the question and feared the reply.

“I don’t know, Destiny. It looked hopeful earlier, but - ” Fawn paused. “- it’s up to him now. There’s nothing more I can do.”

“Nothing?” Her reply was little more than a barely audible whisper.

“I’m sure your being here is doing more for him than anything I can offer right now.” Fawn patted her shoulder sympathetically.

“You think he knows I’m here?” she asked, her increasingly frail voice on the verge of breaking.

Fawn sighed. What could he say? He didn’t want to give her false hopes. Magenta was strong, there seemed no reason for him to slip away now, but Fawn couldn’t be certain. His body had taken a tremendous shock and there was the possibility of permanent damage to contend with too. There could be no way of telling until he woke.

“He’s a fighter, Destiny. We have to hope.”

Destiny nodded with an air of concern and desperation, content to cling to the faintest of hopes.

Behind them as they talked, Magenta frowned and twitched his head slightly to the left. His brow furrowed as he trembled beneath the sheets

“Pat?” Destiny whispered as she caught sight of the stream of sudden jerky head movements and shuddering breaths that indicated that Magenta was in extreme distress.

Fawn, with his back half-turned to the unconscious captain, turned to see what was wrong.

“I was afraid of this,” he frowned, instantly heading back to the bedside. “Destiny, fetch Doctor Taupe, I need assistance.” Fawn spoke with a voice clearly tinged with concern and urgency.

“What’s wrong?” Destiny asked, more than worried by Fawn’s change of tone.

“Get Taupe, he’ll be fine, just…”

As he spoke, Magenta lurched, pulling himself bolt upright in the bed. Gasping and obviously in a state of panic, he fought against Fawn’s restraining hands, that were desperately trying to push him back down onto the mattress.

“Pat!” cried Destiny, shocked at the sight before her.

Magenta’s strength, born of fear, left Fawn fighting to hold him. Grimacing, Fawn held Magenta’s upper arms, as he struggled against him. Destiny stood, rooted to the spot, uncharacteristically uncertain of what to do for the best. Fawn needed help, certainly, but was it too late to fetch Doctor Taupe?

“Destiny!” yelled Fawn in desperation as Magenta threw him back and lunged forward. Magenta fell from the bed, jarring his hands as he landed heavily, tangled in the sheets as he pulled them down with him. Still fighting for breath that seemed to be eluding him, he tried anxiously to free himself to no avail.

“Pat! It’s me, Juliette.” Destiny knelt at his side clutching one of his hands and trying with some difficulty to place a calming hand on his forehead.

Magenta’s struggles diminished, more out of exhaustion than calm. It was only then that he began to hear Destiny’s distressed voice calling to him through his waking haze. Looking up, he saw the concerned faces of Destiny and Fawn, looking down at him as he lay on the Sickbay floor, soaked with sweat, his legs wrapped in a tangle of sheets. Blinking in confusion, he continued to stare at their troubled expressions.

“Why am I on the floor?” he asked uncertainly.

“Welcome back, Captain,” Fawn greeted the confused Irishman with a light chuckle.

Unconcerned about the presence of the doctor, Destiny gathered Magenta close and caressed his hair.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again!” she scolded gently.

Magenta glanced up at Fawn with a degree of embarrassment at the acute lack of discretion Destiny was exhibiting.

Fawn merely smiled and raised an eyebrow. Magenta relaxed slightly, helped by Destiny’s comforting caress, hoping that the scene would be considered part of patient confidentiality.

* * *

PART 5

Captain Scarlet slowly opened his eyes to find himself looking up at a low, curved, grey ceiling that he recognised instantly as part of the cabin of a Spectrum Passenger Jet. He was lying on the standard medical bunk, which could be fixed against the cabin’s wall, to safely transport any wounded agent whenever necessary. It wasn’t the first time Scarlet had woken on this bunk - but this time, he had to admit, he was grateful to actually wake up, considering the last images he had in his memory.

He coughed loudly; there was a bad taste in his mouth that was irritating him intensely. Almost immediately, he saw a hand appear in his line of vision, holding a paper cup.

“Water?” Scarlet turned his head to his left to see Captain Blue seated there, watching him with some concern on his face. Blue smiled slightly at his friend, who raised himself on his elbow, pushing down the blanket that was covering him and reaching for the cup. He drank the contents avidly.

“Easy,” Blue said, witnessing as his colleague nearly choked on his last gulp, “there’s plenty more where that comes from.”

“Thanks,” Scarlet replied, sighing with contentment. “I needed that - haven’t felt so thirsty in years…”

Blue grimly shook his head. “I’m not surprised, considering the amount of water you coughed up earlier, you’re probably pretty dehydrated…”

Scarlet gave his friend a questioning, hesitant look, hardly daring to ask the question that came to his mind. He looked down at himself, seeming to notice for the first time that he wasn’t wearing anything under the blanket. He turned back to Blue again. “I take it you didn’t find me in time before I was… dumped in the drink?”

Blue slowly shook his head. “No, sorry. You’d already been down for some time before Ochre and I found you. According to what we were able to gather, almost an hour.”

Scarlet shivered. “I was almost hoping you wouldn’t say that…”

Blue gave a deep sigh. “We had to wait for Spectrum divers to get you out of there. We brought you back to New York HQ and right into this SPJ, before heading for Cloudbase. We did CPR on you right away… You started showing signs of life as soon as we got all that water out of your lungs.”

“How were you able to find me, anyway?”

“Matt Riordan. He gave us a call at Spectrum New York.”

“Riordan?!” Scarlet repeated in surprise. “I was captured at his apartment. He called you?”

“He seemed to be very afraid for his life. And as much as afraid of being implicated in the murder of a Spectrum agent. He was shot for his… indiscretion. By his own people. When we found him, he was in a bad way, but he was able to tell us where to find you. He’s at the hospital, right now, under close surveillance. He won’t be able to get away, of course, but in case his ‘friends’ want to finish the job… I don’t know if he’ll be well enough for us to interrogate him later on.” Blue paused a second, giving his colleague time to take it all in. “A lot happened while you were missing, Paul. There was a Mysteron threat…”

“I know. That’s the last thing I heard from the colonel before I was captured…” He paused for a second, running his hand through his hair. It was still damp from his earlier experience. He recalled how filthy the water he had been thrown into was, and grunted. He’d need a good shower when he got back to Cloudbase… “How’s Magenta?” he asked suddenly, looking up at Blue again.

“He came out of his coma about an hour ago,” Blue answered. “According to Doctor Fawn, he feels fine. No lasting ill-effects from his experience, it seems. Maybe he’s a little disoriented…”

“I can relate to that,” Scarlet recalled, shivering. “Drowning can do that to you.”

Blue tilted his head to the side. “What exactly happened to you, Paul? Who did that to you?”

“I don’t know if you’ll believe me,” Scarlet muttered, swinging his legs off the bunk and sitting up, while keeping the blanket wrapped round himself. “I’m not even sure I can believe it myself…”

“You don’t say,” Blue replied with a pensive nod. “It has something to do with the present Mysteron threat, right? Was that why Riordan was so afraid?”

“How did you know it had something to do with the present threat?”

“As I said, a LOT happened while we were looking for you… During which we found indications to the fact that the people involved with your… ‘disappearance’… were also involved in the threat.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about this threat, Blue,” Scarlet grumbled, “because I don’t have any idea what it’s all about.”

“And you WILL tell me about what happened to you.”

“Of course.” Scarlet gave a deep sigh. “Okay, I’d better start with my visit to Matt Riordan’s apartment, then… And who ambushed me there… You better sit tight - because I’m certain you’ll be as shocked as I was when I saw who it was…”

* * *

With a frustrated gesture, Patrick Donaghue slapped the newspaper down on the desk. The headlines of the afternoon edition were a upsetting reminder that his first, well-orchestrated attempt on Commander Ian Stewart’s life had been a complete failure.

Violent explosion at Spectrum Maximum Security Building shakes whole neighborhood. Terrorists, Spectrum agent dead. And right underneath, a smaller headline, less dramatic, which had apparently no link with the preceding news: Swearing-in ceremony of new WGPC Supreme Commander to be held in New York. That meant, beyond any doubt, that Stewart was alive and well - and ready to assume his new post of command in the next few hours.

To say that Donaghue wasn’t surprised would have been a lie. He knew, of course, the efficacy of the MSB security, as well as that of the Spectrum agents who had been protecting Stewart. Lieutenant Green was an unknown factor he had not accounted for in his carefully crafted plan. Donaghue would have bet everything that the young Trinidad-born officer had been instrumental in Stewart’s rescue. He was as proficient - if not more so - as Donaghue himself with computers and electronic gadgets. So he must have found a way to counter the failsafe locks that Donaghue had applied to every system in the Presidential Suite, in order to trap Stewart and his bodyguards inside, with no apparent way to escape. If there was just ONE flaw in Donaghue’s plan, then Green would have been the one to find it - and that had permitted Spectrum to save Stewart.

But it didn’t matter. It was only a short reprieve. Commander Ian Stewart would die soon, at the hands of the Mysterons. And Donaghue was committed to do it in such a way that it would hurt Spectrum too.

Puffing on a freshly lit cigar, Donaghue turned to the window behind him and looked out thoughtfully. The World Government Police HQ in New York stood on the other side of the street, beyond the large private parking lot where police cars were lined up in perfect order. He smiled thinly. For what it was worth, Ben Fisher was a relatively brilliant man; he had acquired this building many years ago, so to keep an inconspicuous and close surveillance post on the WGPC building - without anyone suspecting anything about it. Plus, he had his own moles in the building, one of which, Captain Tony Brealey - the late Jeff Tyler’s contact - was a close colleague of Stewart himself.

According to the information Donaghue had been able to glean on Brealey, the latter secretly despised and hated Stewart - he was jealous of his fame and the success he had earned in his career. The two men had started out almost at the same time and with the same rank within the Police Corps, as colleagues, and apparent friends. But they were quite different. Stewart had a high standard of values; he was a totally incorruptible police officer - so morally upright that it could only be sickening for a man like Brealey, who was quite willing to accept bribes and sell out his associates if it might prove profitable for his career or his wallet. And yet, despite all his shady dealings, Brealey had never been able to accede to the rank and position that Stewart had ascended to through his hard work and straight ethics. Brealey found himself stuck in a perpetually subordinate role to Stewart. Obviously, he blamed and loathed Stewart for that role. Certainly, his feelings towards his superior were even worse now that Stewart was about to be named to the highest post there was in the WGPC - that of Supreme Commander.

Nothing would please Brealey more than to see Stewart fall. And he was willing to help. For a price, of course. A price that he thought Donaghue would be willing to pay.

All the arrangements had been made. And Brealey had been suitably allured by receiving his first, very generous down payment for his upcoming service. It was more money that he had ever dreamed of having all at one time. And the promise that he would receive the same amount after the deed was done had secured his reliability. At least temporarily.

The fool had no idea whatsoever that he would not live long enough to benefit from this money.

A knock at the door made Donaghue turn on his heels. “Enter!” he called, removing the cigar from his mouth. He watched as Josh Kirby and Ox entered, one after the other, and approached him. Kirby was carrying a box that he gave to Donaghue. Putting it on the desk, Donaghue lifted up the top to check the contents. He nodded approvingly and closed the box.

“Perfect,” he declared. “We’ll be able to proceed to plan B now.” He turned to face his men, and noticed how Kirby was eyeing the newspaper, trying to look inconspicuous. He wasn’t really succeeding. “You got a problem, Josh?” Donaghue asked, in a suave enough tone.

“N-no, sir,” Kirby answered, snapping from his reverie to turn his attention to his boss. He felt himself wilt under the scrutinising stare of Donaghue, and lowered his eyes. “Well, no, that isn’t true,” he admitted reluctantly. “I was wondering… why risk another attempt right now? Surely, there will be other opportunities later. Better opportunities. Security around Stewart will be so tight now, how could we possibly hope…”

“Josh.” Donaghue’s tone was falsely friendly, and it was so obvious that it made Kirby’s skin crawl. He heard the annoyed sigh of his boss and raised his eyes to see that Donaghue was staring at him implacably - with the kind of look that admitted no questioning of his orders. “There WON’T be other opportunities, Josh,” Donaghue spelled out slowly, as if he were a teacher trying to explain a lesson to a difficult student. “It’s now or never. After the ceremony, when he’s Supreme Commander of the WGPC, Stewart will fly to the Supreme Headquarters in Paris. We won’t be able to touch him there. It’s while he is still here, on our own turf, that we’ll be able to get at him. After that, it will be nearly impossible. No, no, right now, at the swearing-in ceremony - that’s where he’ll be the most vulnerable.” Donaghue put his hand on Kirby’s shoulder. The latter nearly shivered under his touch. “Believe me. It’s now or never. And this time, we WON’T fail.”

Kirby wasn’t convinced of that; but what he was convinced of was that, most certainly, Donaghue was willing to do anything to get to Stewart. He didn’t doubt that it meant killing them all, if necessary. He swallowed hard and shook his head nervously. It was better not to discuss Donaghue’s orders. “Of course, Mr. Donaghue,” he said with as much assurance as he could muster.

“Good,” Donaghue said with a satisfied smile, turning around to the window. “Everything is set, then. The best snipers we have are on the roof, ready to act at a second’s notice. All our men are armed and ready, and Brealey has been bought to our cause. We CAN’T fail…” He took a puff of his cigar and then, as if a new thought had crossed his mind, turned back to Kirby and Ox. “But there is one thing,” he said pensively. “We have to get rid of all the proofs the police and Spectrum might find at the main office.”

“You’ll think they’ll go up there, Mr. Donaghue?” Kirby asked with a frown.

“Cody and Billy haven’t come back,” Donaghue remarked. “They might have been arrested - they might talk to the police.”

“Not them, sir. They’ll keep their mouths shut.”

“What about Riordan? We don’t know if they finished him or not. So, it’s quite possible that Riordan would tell the police - or Spectrum - about our office. And perhaps the rest.” Donaghue crushed his cigar into the ashtray. “This is a risk we cannot take. Go back there, Josh. Destroy everything. Paper, computer, the whole building even. Don’t leave a single trace.” He gestured toward Ox, standing behind Kirby. “Ox will go with you.”

“Ox?” Kirby said, his face becoming pale.

“I can’t spare anyone else, Josh,” Donaghue replied sternly. “Ox will be sufficient help. I suggest you go and get on with the job. Right now, Josh. Time is of the essence.”

“O-of course, Mr. Donaghue,” Kirby answered, nodding nervously. “I’m on to it. Don’t worry.”

Receiving an acknowledging nod from his boss, Kirby turned on his heels and quickly disappeared through the open door. The silent Ox was about to follow, more slowly, when Donaghue discreetly called him back. “Ox.”

The giant stopped in his tracks and turned around; Donaghue’s eyes were cold and without emotion when he spoke next.

“If he makes one wrong step, Ox,” he said between his teeth, “you know what to do. And if anyone from the police or Spectrum shows his face…”

He left the sentence hanging. Ox didn’t need further instructions. He answered with a brief, unemotional nod, and turned to leave, without uttering a single sound. Donaghue grunted with satisfaction, and reached for his cigar-case.

He knew he could fully count on Ox to do a good job.

* * *

Escaping Doctor Fawn soon after his arrival on Cloudbase had been easier than Scarlet had expected. It was true he had mostly recovered from his ordeal since he had been rescued by Blue and Ochre, and so Fawn merely examined him very quickly, for possible trauma of any kind. Physically, Scarlet was fine, and once Fawn had made sure of that, much to Scarlet’s ever-increasing impatience, he started asking questions of Blue, who had escorted his friend to sickbay, while Ochre had gone to Colonel White to make a full report of the events. That was the cue Scarlet needed to leave the examination room. While Blue - fully aware of Scarlet’s plans - kept Fawn busy, the English captain pretended the need to go to the head, and sneaked out. He needed to see Magenta.

The Irish captain, he discovered, had been moved from the private room that had been previously assigned to him into the men’s ward - which, Scarlet reflected, was an encouraging sign that he was on his way to a quick and full recovery. Walking down the main corridor of the sickbay in the grey overall taken from the SPJ, he passed by a couple of nurses, who at first addressed him an odd look - but who recognised him almost immediately, and smiled at him. He barely answered their gracious welcome - his mind was all set on the meeting he was about to have with Magenta.

Finding his colleague was easy - Magenta was all alone in the ward. Spectrum personnel, aside from the occasional injuries or colds, were surprisingly healthy people. Which was a good thing, considering the confined environment in which they lived; Fawn was extremely careful to isolate any sign of sickness as soon as it appeared so it wouldn’t spread - Colonel White would certainly not appreciate that in the least. So Magenta had the ward all to himself - all to himself, that is, except for the lone visitor who was seated on a chair by his bed. Scarlet permitted himself a slight, brief smile as he crossed the ward towards the pair, and could hear their faint, whispered exchange. He wasn’t all that surprised to find Destiny there, keeping the Irishman company.

His smile had disappeared completely when he reached the side of the bed, and both of them looked up at him.

“Captain Scarlet!” Magenta beamed a genuinely warm smile at his colleague, which within seconds faded to an inquiring expression as Scarlet merely stared almost blankly in reply.

“Is everything all right, Captain Scarlet?” asked Destiny, rising from her seat.

Scarlet took a deep breath and nodded. It wasn’t hard to see that he was distracted, but it had been a difficult time for him - for them all.

“Destiny,” Scarlet began, “I have to talk to Captain Magenta, would you mind leaving us for a while?”

Destiny smiled. Of course, Scarlet wanted to thank Pat for saving his life, that was understandable. Gently patting the Englishman’s arm, Destiny nodded. “Of course, Captain, I’ll see you both later, perhaps.”

Magenta’s smile returned as he squeezed Destiny’s proffered hand before she turned to leave.

It was during times like this that Scarlet would normally want to have his radiocap in his hands. He would never openly admit to being nervous, but he felt it. Like a thousand butterflies flying irregular churning patterns inside him. Thank goodness, Magenta had no inkling of his feelings. Scarlet knew it was unfair of him to feel this way. This was the real Captain Magenta, the real Patrick Donaghue, sitting up under the sheets, not the Mysteron reconstruction that had killed him. But, quite involuntarily, he found himself pondering, wondering if the real Patrick Donaghue had ever been anything like his Mysteron counterpart. There was so much he didn’t know about Magenta. The Irishman always seemed so open and eager to please; but now, as he thought about it, what did Scarlet actually know about him? Only what he was prepared to tell. Even Ochre couldn’t possibly put his hand on his heart and swear to know everything about the man.

But then, they all had their secrets, didn’t they?

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you going to make me guess?”

The abrupt question drew Scarlet from his musings. Magenta was looking up at him with a faint, encouraging smile. Almost embarrassed at being caught out, Scarlet cursed himself inwardly. He had forgotten just how observant Magenta was and how adept he could be at figuring facial expressions and body language.

“It’s good to see you looking so well,” he finally managed.

Magenta fixed him with a curious gaze. No, he thought, that wasn’t it. Give him time, he’ll come out with it.

“You saved my life, Scarlet,” he replied, with a warmer smile. “Thanks hardly covers it.”

“I very nearly didn’t, I mean you actually…” Scarlet tapered off, suddenly realising that Magenta may not have been told the full story of his time in the lake.

“Died? Is that the word you were about to say?” Magenta nodded sombrely. “They told me. They explained all about that mammalian diving reflex and all that going into a state of hibernation stuff… But - I don’t quite know if you can actually say that I died. Not really. But it was so very close to it, wasn’t it? Still, not what you can experience yourself.” He paused for a moment before looking up and staring Scarlet squarely in the eyes. “God, Paul, how do you do it? I mean, I know you’ll recover and everything, but I just did too and I never want to go through that again!”

Scarlet gave a short laugh. “You want to know?”

Magenta nodded slowly.

“I don’t know. I guess I feel like I have to keep proving myself.”

“To whom?” asked Magenta, astounded by the reply.

Scarlet shook his head. “Maybe to myself?”

“You don’t need to prove yourself to us, that’s for sure. You’ve done that a thousand times already! You’re a decent guy, Paul. You know, when I first joined, you were the first one to accept me without condition.”

Scarlet raised his eyes, startled by the words. Before killing him, the Mysteron Donaghue had said almost exactly the same thing to him. All of Scarlet’s darkest thoughts and fears came rushing back into his mind. What else about Magenta was similar to the reconstruct? Had he killed in cold blood before?

Maybe Ochre would know?

“What?” Magenta asked quickly, seeing a fleeting expression crossing Scarlet’s face. “What’d I say?”

As a soldier, Scarlet had been trained to hide his emotions - but even his best efforts weren’t enough to keep Magenta from seeing through the mask and figuring out that something was wrong.

“Nothing.” Scarlet shook his head. “How do you feel?”

“Okay,” Magenta replied, still curious about Scarlet’s reaction towards him. “For someone who just drowned. How about you?”

Scarlet smiled thinly. “About the same.”

Magenta offered yet another puzzled stare. Scarlet was talking in riddles.

“You must have been pretty scared,” Scarlet added, changing the subject.

Magenta sighed and raised his eyebrows. “You bet! I expected my life to flash before my eyes - you know, that old cliché. But it didn’t. I just kept thinking about how I’d let my family down. Scarlet, I have to make peace with my father. You know, I’m not in any rush to die, but this experience made me realise - I could die any time. I need to sort this out.”

Scarlet nodded reflectively. “I know how you feel. There’s nothing like dying to get things into perspective.”

“What goes through your mind? You know…when you die. Well, just before really,” Magenta asked, with an uncertain frown.

“It depends,” Scarlet replied, somewhat cagily.

“On what?”

“What I’m doing, where I am, how long it takes, who kills me.” Scarlet bit his lip, it was out before he realised. Clearly, he couldn’t push recent events out of the forefront of his mind. As much as he tried to remind himself that the man before him had nothing to do with his murder, it was so very hard. He cursed himself over and over. This was an uncomfortable enough situation. He remembered how much he had expected people to accept him following his return from the control of the Mysterons and here he was now, having so much difficulty simply talking to the real Magenta after his duplicate - NOT the real Magenta - had killed him. Damn it!

“Paul, what’s wrong?”

Scarlet shrugged absently. “Just a little tired, I think. I haven’t really had time to stop, lately.”

Garbage! Magenta reflected, even more suspicious of his colleague’s behaviour. What aren’t you telling me, Scarlet?

“No uniform?” he observed, trying to get to the bottom of the mystery about which Scarlet seemed reluctant to talk.

“No.” Clearly, he wasn’t about to elaborate on that particular subject. The Englishman sighed. “Look, Pat, I don’t know how to tell you this, but…”

“Captain Scarlet,” the clipped English voice sounded behind him, “I’d like to hear your report now. In Doctor Fawn’s office.”

Turning on hearing the familiar voice, Scarlet stood to attention, discovering his commander standing only a few feet behind. “Yes, Colonel.”

“Captain Magenta, I hope you’re feeling better,” White continued, stepping forward, and offering a genuinely warm smile to the recovering officer.

“Yes, sir, much better, thank you. Perhaps you could put in a good word for me with the doctor?” he answered cheerily. “I would very much like to… leave this place.”

White’s smile broadened at the captain’s boldness. “We’ll see, shall we, Captain?”

Magenta grinned in reply. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“Captain Scarlet, if you’ll please follow me?”

Scarlet saluted Magenta with a nod, and stepped behind White, both of them leaving the ward in silence. They went into Doctor Fawn’s office, where they found Captain Blue and Captain Ochre, waiting. Fawn was absent at the moment. Upon the colonel’s request, Scarlet closed the door behind him.

“I fully expected to find you lying in a bed resting, Captain,” White said, turning to his star agent. “After what Captain Ochre had told me of your ordeal in his report... And what Captain Blue just confirmed to me when I found him earlier…”

“He SHOULD be resting, Colonel,” Blue approved eagerly, addressing a stern glance at his partner.

“I’m fine, sir,” Scarlet retorted quickly. “Much better than I was earlier. As Captain Blue must have told you, they only needed to remove the water from my lungs for me to revive.”

“You were shot, by your own admittance,” Blue observed.

Scarlet dismissed the remark with a wave of the hand. “The shot didn’t kill me -”

“Nevertheless,” Blue continued, “after what you’ve been through, I think you should -”

“Enough,” White called sternly. “Captain Blue, I understand your concern. But considering the situation, I need all available men on duty. Captain Scarlet, if you REALLY feel better…”

“I am, sir.”

“Good. Then I officially put you back on duty.” Scarlet addressed him a grateful nod. “Although if I had known you were up and about, I would have asked you to come along to the Control Room, and not come down here myself,” White grumbled. If not for what he had just experienced, Scarlet would have probably smiled at the remark - along with Captains Ochre and Blue. The Old Man was always trying to show himself so strict and tough; they knew him better than that. He was always concerned about the welfare of his officers. “Since we’re all here, I suggest we don’t waste any more time and get down to the business at hand,” the colonel continued with a more business-like tone. “Captain Scarlet, if you would please give me a quick report of what happened to you during the last few hours…”

Scarlet started immediately. White, of course, had been informed about this earlier by Ochre, but he always preferred to hear directly from the horse’s mouth. Succinctly, Scarlet gave an account of what had happened to him. White listened silently, with no interruption. As always, Scarlet’s report was clear and concise. When the young officer finished, silence followed, during which White was thoughtful for a moment. He finally cleared his throat.

“I’m glad you’re all right, Captain. That was an horrendous experience if ever I heard one. And I would understand if you don’t feel at your peak at the moment to resume your duties.”

“I’m all right, sir, believe me. I want to be a part of this.” Scarlet raised a brow, meaningfully. “The Mysterons tried to put me out of commission. I think I have a score to settle with them.”

White felt the edge in his younger compatriot’s voice but said nothing about it. “I expect Captain Blue told you everything about what happened during your - disappearance?”

“He did, sir.”

“Good. As you know, gentlemen, following the latest Mysteron attack, heavy damage was done to the Maximum Security Building, notably to the Presidential Suite, the escape tunnel, lifts, electronic devices, and so on. But those are only material damage that can be repaired quite easily. The important thing is that the MSB has served the purpose for which it was built, and Commander Stewart is alive and well. And temporarily out of danger.”

“Temporarily, yes,” Ochre agreed. “Because the Mysterons will surely attempt another attack before the swearing-in ceremony.”

White nodded. “Some of the bodies found in the tunnel were formally identified as members of the Donaghue gang. It serves to confirm how the Mysterons had planned to carry out this threat,” he noted gloomily. “They intended to use the knowledge of the one man who knew all about the security devices of the Maximum Security Building - and who had been responsible for the updates of those very devices.”

“And who, at the same time, knows the most about Ian Stewart,” Blue observed. “Wasn’t he the police detective who tried to catch Patrick Donaghue when he was head of the Syndicate?”

“You’ve done your homework, Captain Blue,” White approved. “Indeed he was. So the duplicate of Donaghue took back control of his old gang - and of some other gangs now affiliated to it - by killing the then head of that Syndicate, Ben Fisher. It seems he now has powerful resources - finances, manpower, and armaments - to carry out his masters’ attack. He has already proved he can use this to very dangerous effect.” He paused for a moment. “As long as Patrick Donaghue’s doppelganger is alive, and as long as the swearing-in ceremony has not taken place, Ian Stewart is in danger,” White remarked. “Although, he might think he is safe now.” He shook his head. His officers could almost hear him think what a ‘bloody thick-headed nuisance’ Stewart might be. “Commander Stewart still needs Spectrum’s protection, until the swearing-in ceremony. He insisted on having his own men participate in providing his security, since they would already be providing security to the WGPC Building in New York.”

“Spectrum and WGPC’s best working together?” Ochre said, raising a brow.

“Stewart would not have it any other way, for Spectrum’s presence to be accepted. Although a Mysteron threat is Spectrum’s prerogative, and by that fact, puts Stewart under our protection, the WGPC Building IS the responsibility of the World Government Police. I had no other choice but to agree. On the sole condition that Spectrum would be in charge of things.”

“I hope Stewart understood that,” Ochre muttered almost inaudibly.

Incredibly, Colonel White, who was standing at the other side of the room, heard him very well. He looked directly at him, folding his arms on his chest. “Yes, Captain Ochre, I made that very clear to our friend Commander Stewart. He will follow Spectrum’s directives to the letter. I imagine he has been sufficiently impressed by Captain Grey and Lieutenant Green’s actions during that last attempt that very nearly succeeded.”

“And rightly so,” Blue acknowledged. “Without them, he wouldn’t even be alive.”

“At the moment,” White continued, “Captain Grey and Lieutenant Tan are assigned to Commander Stewart’s protection. Lieutenant Green is back on Cloudbase and has returned to his communication console. His presence is no longer required on ground operations, since you’ll all be assigned to this mission.”

“He did a wonderful job down there, from what I heard,” Scarlet remarked.

“Indeed he did,” White approved with a nod. “That young man will never cease to surprise me.” He turned to Scarlet, narrowing his eyes at him suspiciously. “When I found you in the ward, Captain Scarlet, I hope you were not about to tell Captain Magenta about that Mysteron reconstruct of his who’s wandering around New York?”

Scarlet gave a sigh. “I will admit, sir… I don’t know exactly if I was going to tell him. But I figured that if someone would know that doppelganger, and what he might be up to now, it would be Captain Magenta. After all, they’re the same man…”

“No, they’re not,” Ochre protested in a low tone.

Scarlet turned to him, a bit surprised by his outburst. “Whether you like it or not, Captain Ochre, you have to admit that the Mysterons chose their agent perfectly. Patrick Donaghue was the best candidate they could use for the mission of killing Commander Stewart. He knew him when he was head of a crime syndicate… He had clashed with him.”

“In order for his business to survive, he had to know about the man trying to trap him,” Blue said in turn.

Ochre pondered these words for a moment. “Yeah,” he admitted, “he certainly knows the guy…but they are not the same man.”

“We have to find that reconstruct,” Scarlet insisted.

White raised an inquiring brow. “I supposed you’re volunteering for that particular mission, Captain?” he observed quietly. “If I remember correctly, the last time you volunteered to go after a member of his gang, you very nearly didn’t come back alive… If I were you, I’d pray that Special Agent Conners never finds out about all that misadventure - after what you told him before your departure.” Scarlet almost reddened under the calm remonstrance. White scrutinised him closely. “Tell me - would it be because you have a ‘score to settle’ with him?”

“Sir, you know me better than that,” Scarlet replied, looking almost hurt by his superior’s assumption. “You said it yourself: as long as the reconstruct of Patrick Donaghue is alive, Ian Stewart is in grave danger. If we find the reconstruct before he launches his attack…”

“So you thought that information from Captain Magenta could help us locate his doppelganger?”

“Sir - I know, it’s probably a bad idea, but…”

“I volunteer.”

While they were talking, the door in front of which Scarlet was standing had slowly opened, and a voice - faint with an obvious crack in it - had made itself heard. Everyone in the room shuddered upon recognising it, and Scarlet turned around, his heart nearly missing a beat. Captain Magenta, in his pyjamas, was standing awkwardly in the doorway, holding himself upright against the frame. His face was ashen, and the expression on it so lost and devastated - like a man in total shock.

“Captain Magenta,” Colonel White then said, his voice sterner than he really intended it to sound, “how long have you been standing behind this door?”

Magenta made an effort to stand upright. “Long enough,” he answered in a low tone, trying to muster as much assurance in his voice as he could.

“You heard everything?” Ochre asked with dismay.

“I heard enough.” Magenta gave a meaningful stare at Scarlet, who was looking at him in total silence, standing like a statue. “Paul, I’m so sorry…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Pat,” Scarlet answered charitably. “It wasn’t you…”

Magenta measured his colleague’s look; Scarlet didn’t look away, and yet, Magenta sensed his awkwardness toward him, despite what he had just said. How could I really blame him? the Irish officer thought bleakly. After what happened to him? He looked away, and simply nodded, very slowly. “I hope that answer will be enough to make me feel less responsible.” Magenta stepped inside the room, and Scarlet made way for him, permitting him to go directly to Colonel White. “Colonel, I want to participate in this operation.”

“Captain, you’re hardly able to stand,” White responded. He had noted how Magenta was now supporting himself on Fawn’s desk. Noticing the direction of his commander’s stare, Magenta straightened up.

“I’ll be all right, sir. Please. I have to be a part of this mission. There’s… there’s an malevolent copy of me down there… out to kill people…” Magenta quivered and felt his legs losing their strength. He needed to sit down, a thing he wouldn’t normally do in front of his commander, unless the latter invited him to. Behind him, Blue was pushing a chair forward, and he felt Ochre’s and Scarlet’s hands reaching to help him down. He nearly shoved them away, wanting to prove that he was able to manage by himself, but accepted the chair, on which he sat heavily. His face was even paler than earlier, reflecting the inner torment he was feeling. He was still trying to come to terms with the fact that there was now a Mysteron agent in his image, which had probably been created during that brush with death he had had recently.

“I have to help stop him,” he muttered, looking right at White’s apparently stern face. “He’s already done too much damage… too many victims… in my name…” He looked up at Scarlet, who was looking down at him, with a face almost as set as White. “You know what I’m going through, Scarlet, right? You know I have to…” He stared briefly at the colonel. “…I have to prove myself.”

He looked back at Scarlet. The latter seemed to lose his stiffness, and a light of empathy appeared in his blue eyes. He visibly relaxed, and gave a brief nod, looking away as he did.

White slowly shook his head. His expression softened upon hearing his officer’s plea. How could he accept it, without endangering him, in his present state of health - physically and psychologically?

And yet, how could he refuse him?

“You don’t have to prove anything, Captain Magenta,” he replied to the Irish captain’s latest remark. He gave a deep sigh. “All right,” he said, watching as Magenta’s face lit up with hope and gratitude. “You’ll be part of this mission.”

“But Colonel…” Ochre started to protest.

“BUT,” White continued, raising his hand to still his officer’s objections, “you’ll be in a restricted role - OUT of the danger zone, OUT of Commander Stewart’s way so he will NOT see you at any time, and you will abstain from any other involvement in the mission than the post you’ll be assigned to.” He looked squarely at a silent Magenta. “That means NO heroism of any kind, Captain.”

“Sir,” Magenta answered with a beaming - although still tired - smile, “All I’m asking is to participate - in any way I can be useful. I’ll do whatever I’m told.”

“Good,” White said with an approving nod. “That’s settled then. So perhaps we can now get down to serious business, and settle on a plan of operation. Here’s how we’ll proceed…”

* * *

Captain Ochre made his way along the hospital corridor. It wasn’t difficult to work out which of the many rooms housed Matt Riordan; the two Spectrum guards standing outside one of the doors made it very plain. As he approached, the two men stood to attention.

“At ease.” Ochre addressed them, then frowned as there was almost no change in their stance or bearing. “Seriously, guys, at ease. I want to talk to you.”

It was the first time either of the two men had met a Cloudbase officer and the pair were determined to make a good impression; the revelation that the officer in question seemed to be a regular guy almost took them by surprise. The pair made a visible attempt to relax and Ochre almost smiled at their efforts.

“How’s the patient?”

“No trouble, sir, I don’t think he’s well enough to move yet.”

“No, I dare say you’re right, but I’m more concerned about people trying to get in than out. Remember, no one is to enter this room without authorisation. You have the list of authorised personnel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Ochre nodded, reaching for the door handle. “I’m going to question him.”

“Captain,” one of the guards cut in, blocking his path.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Can I see your identification, please?” he asked almost apologetically.

Ochre smiled and nodded again as he drew out his Spectrum pass. “Good, very good.”

Satisfied with his credentials, the guards stepped aside and allowed Ochre into the small single ward.

Even having seen the extent of Matt Riordan’s injuries, Ochre was not prepared for the sight before him. Riordan lay on the bed, his upper body slightly propped up by two or three pillows. A dual drip, delivering blood and a saline solution, was feeding into his left arm. A thin tube with a double opening supplying oxygen lay beneath Riordan’s nostrils. A clip secured onto the middle finger of his left hand measured his heart rate and a number of other attached wires led to machines and digital displays that Ochre couldn’t hope to understand.

As he stepped closer, Riordan opened his eyes, blinking a few times as he forced himself to wake. Ochre noticed a flicker of recognition in Riordan’s tired eyes and a barely audible groan.

“Gotta hand it to you, Mr Riordan, you’ve got more lives than a cat.”

“Alive?” he grumbled. “Are you sure about that?”

“The doctor assures me that you’ll make a full recovery,” Ochre replied brightly.

“If that’s the same doctor who confidently told me that inserting these drips wouldn’t hurt a bit, then he’s a liar!”

Ochre smiled. Yes, Riordan was going to be all right.

“I need some information, Mr Riordan.”

Riordan sighed. “I know, but I don’t even want to think about it.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Riordan, I know how you must feel, but we don’t have that luxury.”

“You know how I feel? Do you really? I find out that one of my friends is dead and has somehow been replaced by someone, no, something that looks and sounds just like him. Same face, same bearing, same memories, everything. Except, no, this guy’s a homicidal maniac! And you know how that feels, do you?”

Ochre took a deep breath. Yes, he knew exactly how that felt. A couple of years ago, it had been he who had found Scarlet’s original body and he who had found it most difficult to come to terms with that, and accept that the Captain Scarlet who had survived the fall from the Car-Vu was, in fact, the man he knew.

“We’ve been dealing with the Mysterons for a long time, Mr Riordan. I’ve seen a lot.”

There was something about Ochre’s tone, at once empathising and yet filled with sadness. Riordan felt a surge of guilt as he remembered that here stood the man who Pat Donaghue himself had once described as his best friend. He knew exactly how Riordan was feeling and had very probably lost many more friends to the Mysterons.

“What can I tell you?” he asked in a subdued tone.

“Donaghue, you know, is a Mysteron duplicate?”

“Yes, he told me as much,” Riordan replied quietly. “Hardest thing I ever had to hear. Scared me half to death.”

Ochre nodded knowingly. “He killed Fisher too?”

“Yeah, and some others. Oh!” Riordan suddenly broke off with a look of concern on his face. “I’m sorry, Captain, your friend, Captain Scarlet. I forgot,” he added awkwardly.

Ochre said nothing, merely staring in reply. Riordan stared back, almost squirming uncomfortably under his gaze.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Did you find him? Was he there? In -” He paused again as he shivered at the thought “- in the water?”

“You sounded sure he would be there when we found you.”

“Well, I didn’t see him dropped. I just assumed… I mean - I didn’t even see him killed.”

“Did Donaghue tell you he’d killed him?”

“Yes. Well, no, not exactly. Just that he was going to deal with him, but the way he dealt with everything and everyone was to kill.” Riordan looked even more miserable.

“Well, Mr Riordan,” Ochre smiled, “I’ve got what will hopefully be a pleasant surprise for you.”

Riordan raised an eyebrow and watched the Spectrum captain open the door and beckon to someone. As he turned back into the room, he was followed, to Riordan’s surprise, by another Spectrum captain he recognised very well.

“But, I was so sure..” Riordan spluttered. “Then he didn’t kill you?” he frowned almost immediately as he realised it was such a ridiculous question. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Captain. I realise it was mostly my fault that you got caught and were almost killed. I -”

“Mr Riordan,” began Scarlet in a business-like, almost curt tone, “what can you tell us of Donaghue’s plans?”

“Not much,” Riordan admitted. “He didn’t tell me, didn’t trust me. I don’t think it took him long to realise that I knew something was wrong with him, but I’d never have guessed what in a million years.”

“You can’t tell us anything?”

Ochre glanced briefly at Scarlet. Yes, it was true that Scarlet frequently cut through niceties, but today he seemed almost abrupt, unkind even. It simply wasn’t like him.

“Well -” Riordan paused for a deep breath, grimacing at the effort. “Can I have some water, please?”

Scarlet merely stood awaiting the reply, leaving Ochre to round the bed and pour out a glass.

“Here, Mr Riordan, sip it slow,” suggested Ochre as he handed him the glass.

“Matt, please,” he replied as he took the glass gratefully. “I guess I’ll hear ‘Riordan’ quite enough when I go to prison.”

“Mr Riordan?” Scarlet continued. “Can you tell us anything?”

Riordan turned his eyes back to Scarlet; they were once again half-closed and his face had drained of what little colour it had previously shown.

“Something to do with the WGPC building. He wanted a schematic, guard rosters, personnel, all kinds of detailed stuff.”

“Makes sense,” agreed Ochre. “Since the swearing-in ceremony for Stewart will be taking place there. Anything else, Matt?”

“Not really. I mean, I can give you names, office addresses, that sort of thing. Not sure if it’ll help though.”

“Give us what you can, Matt,” Ochre replied with a smile, “then we’ll leave you to get some rest.”

Riordan duly furnished Ochre with as much detail as he could on remaining Syndicate members and their offices. As Ochre jotted the information down, he noticed Scarlet’s expression growing ever more sullen and dark. Thanking Riordan for his efforts, despite his pain and discomfort, the two Spectrum officers left the room and headed down the corridor to the small filing office they had commandeered.

“What’s up?” Ochre asked as soon as the door was closed.

“Nothing’s up,” replied Scarlet sourly.

Ochre caught him by the arm and turned Scarlet to face him. “Yes there is. Now, I don’t know what it is and maybe you don’t want to discuss it with me, but...”

“You know Pat well, don’t you?” Scarlet butted in.

“Yeah, for my sins.”

“What was he like in the Syndicate?”

“Well, I never really crossed swords with him. He was in New York and I was in Chicago. I mean, I knew who he was and all, but...” Ochre cut himself off in mid-sentence and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

“Did he kill? I mean, he never talks about his Syndicate days much...”

“No, he doesn’t.” Ochre’s tone became harsh. “Probably because he’s keen to put it all behind him.”

“But did he ever kill?” Scarlet persisted.

“No, he didn’t,” Ochre replied sharply.

“You’re telling me that it was just that easy for an exact duplicate to change into being a ruthless mob boss, capable of killing any and all rivals and anyone else standing in his path?”

“Hey!” Ochre bristled. “Let me take you back a few years. You’re telling me that it’s in your nature for you to kidnap and threaten to kill the World President?”

“I was a soldier, Ochre,” Scarlet replied sourly. “Like it or not, I’m a trained killer. The difference is that I killed out of duty.”

“So you think because you’d killed before that, Pat must have too? Is that it?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly it. How else would his duplicate find it so easy to do?”

“Now are you going to tell me that every person who’s ever been Mysteronised and then killed people on behalf of the Mysterons must all have been killers before, too? Because if you are, then the WGPC can’t be doing all that great a job, can they? All those uncaught murderers loose on the streets…”

“Well I don’t know, it just...”

“And me? What does that say about me, eh? My best friend’s a murderer? No, Scarlet, no, you’re wrong.”

“He killed me, Ochre!” Scarlet snapped suddenly. “He even had the gall to apologise for having to do it, because he considered me as a friend, and…”

“That wasn’t Pat!” Ochre cut in sharply. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this! And from you! You, of all people, are doubting Pat, based on the actions of a Mysteron double? You? And you expect me to understand?”

“Well you gave me a hard enough time when it was me in the same position, I thought you’d understand!”

Ochre let out a long sigh, dropping his shoulders.

“And I was wrong and stupid! Paul, Pat was no killer. Sure, he’s learned to now, but only when it’s absolutely necessary and...”

“What?” Scarlet prompted, following Ochre’s abrupt stop.

Ochre’s brow furrowed deeply. “You don’t see what he’s like later on. It eats him up, Paul.” He shook his head sadly. “Pat’s no cold-blooded killer. He wasn’t one before; he isn’t one now. He will never find it easy to kill someone. Oh sure - he’ll do it if he has no choice. If it’s his duty to do so. Because he knows his duty. But he’ll never like it. Never.”

Scarlet pondered that revelation silently for a moment. He finally lowered his gaze, feeling ashamed of his doubts.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed.

Ochre shrugged. “I know you’re not blaming Pat - not Pat himself anyway. But the shock of seeing what someone could be capable of is quite nasty. Doesn’t mean they are like that, though. I know that about you and you know it about Pat.”

Scarlet nodded as he exhaled deeply. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”

Both men’s eyes met in a gaze of mutual understanding just as the door opened, revealing the tall striking figure of Captain Blue.

“Hi,” Blue greeted them cheerily. “Did you get anything?”

“Not much,” Scarlet replied, with a dissatisfied shrug. “A few leads. How about you?”

“Zip. Those guys who tried to kill Riordan have closed up tighter than a clam. They won’t even give their names. We running an ID scan to find out who they are.”

“Don’t blame them,” Ochre commented. “I’ll bet they think Donaghue has a very long reach. They’re afraid of what he might do if they talk.”

“Okay,” Blue began, “what do you have?”

“Some names and addresses. We’ve been waiting for you so we can check them out,” Scarlet replied. “One of those addresses seems to be the gang’s main offices. We may start there.”

“Right,” Blue nodded.

“And I’ll get back to the WGPC building,” Ochre said. “We know something’s going to happen there, just not what it is yet.”

“Just don’t let Commander Stewart see you, unless it really can’t be helped,” added Scarlet.

“I’ll blend with the crowd,” Ochre grinned, “No-one will even know I’m there.”

“Yeah,” Scarlet chuckled, “that’s what I like about these uniforms - so inconspicuous!”

* * *

Kirby pushed the last wad of documents into the shredder and pressed the button; ribbons of paper fell onto the basket underneath the machine, which was already thoroughly full, and fell down to the floor on all sides. They had disposed of the last piece of evidence the police might use against them, if they ever raided the place. Minutes earlier, Ox had destroyed the computer in Donaghue’s office, after Kirby had erased the hard drive. Not that it would matter that much, Kirby reflected, looking over his shoulder, and watching as Ox was spreading gasoline all over the place. There won’t be that much left of the place in a little while.

Ox had thrown the now empty jerry can into a corner of the room. It was, as far as Kirby had been able to notice, the fourth can he had emptied that way. Kirby sniffed with disgust. The building was now impregnated with a strong, distasteful odour that was literally churning his stomach.

“Is it really necessary to go that far?” Kirby asked, as Ox came to stand in front of him.

The big man shrugged his huge shoulders. “Boss’s orders,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Better not take any chances, in case the police or Spectrum come sneaking in here.”

“We wouldn’t be in this mess if we had not attracted Spectrum’s attention to begin with…” Kirby stopped before adding another sentence. He just had noticed the odd way Ox was glaring at him. Damn. Too late to back off now… “Admit it, Ox, you’re thinking the same as me. If we had not attacked that Security Building…”

“The boss had his reasons, Mr Kirby,” Ox replied icily.

“As he had his reasons to leave the others behind like he did?” Kirby said. “Ox, you didn’t like it any better than I did.”

“Couldn’t be helped,” Ox remarked, offering his boss’s own answer to the incident.

“You really think that?” Kirby insisted. “Donaghue’s so determined to get to Stewart - it’s like an obsession of his. Ox, I’m afraid of what lengths he’ll go to to kill the man.”

“What are you saying, Mr Kirby?” Ox asked, with a suspicious glitter in his eyes.

“Ox… After the others… we might be next to be sacrificed to the boss’s obsession.”

The glitter in Ox’s eyes became hotter, and Kirby suddenly grew concerned that he had said too much; Ox might not be a very bright man, but he was excessively loyal to his boss. Especially when this boss was Patrick Donaghue. He probably didn’t like hearing someone badmouthing him. Ox, however, didn’t say anything, and turned around, reaching for another jerry can behind him.

“We’d better get moving and finish this job,” he mumbled.

Kirby shivered. “Ox, didn’t you hear a word I said?”

“I heard!” Ox snapped, turning around sharply. “Now, please, Mr Kirby: don’t say another bad word against Mr Donaghue. Or I will be forced to tell him about it. Please, I don’t want to do that.”

“I know he sent you with me so you could keep an eye on me,” Kirby moved on. “He thinks I might use the first opportunity to get out, right?”

“Will you?” Ox asked coldly.

Kirby shrugged. “Donaghue knows he can rely on you. He knows your loyalty to him. And it’s all to your honour, Ox. But, Ox… we can’t rely on him. It’s not in our interest to stay with this madman…”

“Mr Kirby…”

“He’ll be the death of us all,” Kirby continued, not letting the bigger man continue. “Ox, deep down, you know it’s true.” He took Ox by his huge shoulders, looking up into his wary eyes. “We have to get out while we still can…”

“I can’t abandon the boss like that…” muttered Ox, shaking his head obstinately.

“You would die for a man like that? Who has little interest in the lives of his own men? You saw what he did to the others. Damn it, he condemned them to death by pressing that remote control button. He killed them!”

Kirby could see that Ox’s confidence was wavering - yet, he was still reluctant to admit the truth of what was being told to him. Kirby wanted desperately to get out of the fire before it was too late - but he had little hope of escaping Ox’s vigilance. If he couldn’t talk him into joining him, he feared that he would have to shoot him. But using a gun against Ox, it would mean killing him at the first shot. He had little doubt that the big man would be able to strangle him with his bare hands if he was only wounded.

Looking at Ox, in the hope that he would not have to take that risk, Kirby heard a faint sound, coming from the stairwell beyond the door. Ox heard it too, and both men turned their heads in the same direction. Someone was coming - trying to sneak up on them, but betrayed by the creaking of the wooden steps. Kirby paled, while Ox’s face became a mask of determination. Swiftly, the giant moved toward the door.

Upon their arrival in front of the building, Captain Scarlet and Captain Blue had seen the lone car parked in the abandoned parking lot. A gleaming, brand new car, of the latest model, that seemed a little out of place, considering the surroundings. Checking out the number on the license plate gave them the identity of its owner, and they knew they might have hit the jackpot: according to the records, Josh Kirby was one of the top members of the Ben Fisher’s gang. Had been, was a more accurate term, actually - considering that his old boss had been murdered - and that he more than probably was now taking his orders from Fisher’s murderer: Patrick Donaghue’s Mysteron duplicate, now turned mob boss for the purpose of his mission.

Whoever might be in the building, however, Blue and Scarlet intended to catch them. They needed a lead on Donaghue’s whereabouts, and the possibility of finding a member of the gang in this place was a chance they were not willing to let slip by. They had entered, as quietly as possible, hoping to surprise their quarry. The first floor provided few clues that someone was there - except for the fact that the whole place was stinking with a strong gasoline odour.

They heard rushing sounds coming from the second floor and moved to climb the stairs. Scarlet took the lead, with Blue close behind. Both had their guns drawn and were careful not to make any sound. It wasn’t easy - the wooden stairs creaked under their boots as they climbed. They just hoped it would go unnoticed. They couldn’t hear any other sounds coming from the second floor, though; maybe they would surprise whoever might be up there.

When Scarlet arrived at the top of the stairs, he found himself standing in a narrow corridor. In front of him was an open door, beyond which he could see an apparently empty room. He stepped forward and stopped in the doorway. The smell of gasoline was even stronger here, and that made him prick his nose; empty jerry cans were lying in a corner, not far from him. One of them was still pouring out its contents onto the floor; it was as if it had been hurriedly thrown there…

As he suddenly became aware that there was someone there in this room, near to him, Scarlet saw a huge shadow coming from the right side of the door; big hands grabbed him by the front of his uniform and pulled him inside, with such force that his feet momentarily left the floor; he smacked face first into the wall facing him, almost knocking himself down in the process.

Seeing his colleague manhandled that way, Blue jumped forward; his forehead collided with the door, which had been slammed closed, and he was thrown back toward the stairs. His gun had escaped from his hand and clattered down the steps toward the first floor; if he had not caught hold of the railing at the last possible moment, he would have followed the same trajectory. Shaking himself, he turned his attention back to the door, behind which he could hear the sound of a furious fight.

Scarlet didn’t have the time to recuperate after his encounter with the wall before a fist hit him violently in the back, between the ribs. Twice. That hurt, and knocked all the breath out of him. He had lost hold of his gun by the third blow; it was as if huge hammers were slamming into him. Somehow, right at this moment, he guessed who was pounding into him like that.

When a big hand took him by his collar and turned him around to push his back violently against the wall, he saw he had been right; and he saw the surprise and confusion in Robert Oxbury’s face as the giant, his right fist up, ready to strike, froze instantly upon seeing the face of his victim

“You!” Ox gasped, apparently not believing his eyes. “You should be dead!”

Scarlet offered a forced grin. “Surprise, Mr. Oxbury!” he said with a grunt, and pressed his foot against Ox’s belly to try to push him away. Amazingly, it did the trick, and the giant’s hold on him broke. Ox stepped back.

That was the moment Blue chose to enter the room, through the door, breaking it down with a loud crashing sound in the process, and stumbling into the middle of the room. Ox turned on his heel to face him; Blue rarely had to face a man who was taller than himself - if he was impressed by the man’s massiveness, he didn’t show it for so much as a second and attacked on sight, punching him in the jaw. He was astounded to see that the only effect it had was to make the giant divert his eyes. He looked with wide-opened eyes as Ox slowly turned an angry stare on him, spitting out blood as he did so. A faint but distinct clinking sound was heard as something hit the floor.

“You BROKE one of me teeth…” Ox growled, glaring murderously at Blue, taking a threatening step forward. Blue didn’t wait for the giant to be on him and threw another punch; Ox literally caught the fist in his massive hand and Blue yelped, feeling as if his fingers were being crushed.

Scarlet jumped onto Ox’s massive shoulders, holding onto his head and trying to force him to let go. Grunting with frustration, Ox easily swatted Blue away, and backed against the wall, trying to squash Scarlet against it, as if he were an annoying fly. Scarlet’s back took the blunt of the shock and he grunted at the pain. It took Ox a second shove to finally force him to let go, and Scarlet fell against the wall, half-stunned. Ox’s hand grabbed him again by his collar. He peeled Scarlet off the wall and threw him, spinning, in the direction of Blue, who was coming back for a second round. The American captain was ready, and caught his colleague as he almost fell to the floor.

“You all right?” Blue asked hastily.

“Never felt better!” Scarlet gasped.

Blue hurriedly pulled him back to his feet as Ox was coming in, charging like the proverbial bull. Both Spectrum agents were ready for him and hit him with the same punch - which had the effect of stopping him in his tracks. More blood spilled from his mouth, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He shoved Scarlet aside like a rag doll and encircled both his huge hands around Blue’s throat. The blond officer gasped, searching his breath, trying to break the bigger man’s grip. His knees started to buckle.

“You Spectrum officers are really a pain,” Ox growled between his teeth, looking down into the face of the gasping man.

“Thanks for the idea…” wheezed Blue. His booted foot went up and hit Ox where he thought it would really count; it did have the desired effect of making Ox loosen his grip. Blue shoved his arms upward between Ox’s, forcing him to release him - and hit him with all his strength in the mouth again. For the first time, the giant’s legs swayed.

He was finally brought down when Scarlet, coming back once again, now determined to finish it off, broke a wooden chair he had found lying in a corner directly onto the man’s skull. Ox’s knees gave way and he fell heavily on the floor, moaning, at the feet of the two Spectrum officers, who were looking down, breathing hard.

“Not very refined,” Scarlet panted, looking at the piece of wood still in his hand. He threw it away. “…But effective nevertheless.”

“Can you believe that guy?” Blue replied, shaking his right hand. He grimaced. “I think I broke a finger or two…”

“Not to mention he nearly snapped your head off like the cap of a Coke bottle…” Scarlet reflected.

“You weren’t doing any better against him, I will remind you!”

“Well, at least, teamwork got the job done…”

Scarlet carefully leaned over to pick up his gun from the floor; that’s when he noticed a shadow trying to slip throughout the still-open door. Another man, that neither he nor Blue, all too busy with trying to bring Ox down, had seen up until this moment. And who was now making a break for it. Scarlet brought his gun up, training it on the man. “Hey, you! Not so fast! You’re not going anywhere!”

Amazingly enough, that was the moment that Ox chose to straighten up from the floor, taking Scarlet and Blue totally by surprise, and pushing them away from him. The gun spat a wild shot into the ceiling as Ox ran toward the exit, pushing aside Josh Kirby, who had stopped in his tracks upon hearing Scarlet’s warning. Kirby fell back, and let out a cry of pain, as the big man stepped over him and all but jumped down the stairs, making them creak noisily under his weight. Blue and Scarlet were at the top of the stairs just as he reached the first floor, Scarlet getting ready to shoot to stop him.

“You might kill him,” Blue advised, stopping his colleague from pulling the trigger. “We may need him alive.”

“You’re right,” Scarlet grumbled, putting the gun away and starting to run down the stairs. “I’ll go after him. Stay with the other one and see what he knows!”

“Be careful!” Blue called after him. His colleague had already disappeared through the door, running after the fleeing giant. Blue looked down at the man lying on the first upper steps of the staircase. His right foot was at an odd angle, and he was moaning piteously, gritting his teeth against what seemed like an enormous amount of pain.

“Okay, mister, what’s your story?” Blue asked him harshly.

Kirby looked up at him, his face pale and contorted with pain. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” he exhaled with a whimper.

“Are you, now?” muttered Blue with a frown. “Now you’re going to tell me what you were doing with that monster-man - and where in Hell we can find Patrick Donaghue!”

* * *

The Mysteron duplicate of Patrick Donaghue looked coldly out of the window, with his binoculars, in the direction of the WGPC building. From where he was standing, he could see the front entrance very well, where police, officials, journalists, television crews and the merely curious had gathered in packs to attend Ian Stewart’s swearing-in ceremony as the new Supreme Commander of the World Government Police Corps. There was a multitude of policemen on the ground, along with Spectrum agents, working together now to provide security. Vehicles of both organisations were spread around, at strategic points - surveillance vans and patrol cars, and even a SPV and two MSVs which had transported Stewart and the World Court judge who would preside over the swearing-in.

Donaghue scoffed loudly. A large stage, with a lectern, had been put up in front of the building’s entrance, with microphones and speakers. The news had it that the ceremony would be performed outside. It was so much like Stewart to decide to do that - an obvious, arrogant way of telling the ‘terrorists’ who had recently threatened his life that he would not be intimidated. Donaghue imagined that Colonel White wasn’t too happy with this new development. Probably, the Spectrum commander had debated the point, and protested loudly. And of course, considering what Donaghue was seeing now, he had lost the argument.

It didn’t matter that much. Soon, Stewart would be dead. And all those preparations outside would have been for nothing.

Donaghue had just checked on his men’s positions. There were three snipers on the roof, with long-distance rifles, ready to shoot whenever they received the word from their boss. Other men, armed with handguns, were standing surveillance at various windows. A driver was waiting at the wheel of his van, in the sub-basement garage, ready to make a quick getaway with whoever remained of his companions, if it became necessary.

Everything was ready.

What a shame… Donaghue mused, almost feeling sorry that they were all making all that effort for nothing.

He checked the ammunition in the Spectrum-issue colour-coded gun he took from the table behind him. Perfect. The magazine is full. He put it back on the table, then picked up the red-coloured tunic laid next to it. Scarlet’s tunic, that he had kept since the moment he had captured the indestructible agent. He slipped into it, over the dark Spectrum uniform he was already wearing. Scarlet was taller, perhaps a little leaner than himself, but the tunic was of the same size as Magenta’s, so it fitted perfectly. Donaghue pulled the zipper up and fastened the belt. Then he checked on the hidden knife in his right sleeve; one flick of the wrist was enough to operate the mechanism allowing the knife to slip into his hand, ready to be used if he needed it. He would rather put a bullet into Stewart’s brain, he reflected, but if all else failed, he would be more than satisfied to slit his throat instead.

He put the knife back into place. His hand then reached for the phone. And he quickly tapped in a number he knew by heart.

“Spectrum New York HQ. How can we help you?”

“I have information about the whereabouts of Patrick Donaghue’s gang,” Donaghue then said, in a very calm voice. He looked out through the window, his features becoming cold. “You’ll find them in the 2020 Building, just in front of the WGPC Building. Their snipers have a grand view of the stage on which Commander Stewart’s ceremony will take place…”

There was a surprised - but short - pause. “Can I ask your name, sir?”

“I’m just a concerned citizen doing his duty. JUST be sure Spectrum arrests those scum.” With that, Donaghue hung up swiftly. No sense permitting Spectrum to trace the call just yet. They didn’t need to know it was coming from the same building he just had mentioned. A quick survey of the building by the Angels and or helicopters would prove to them that he had told the truth.

Quietly, he took the brilliant scarlet cap from the table, and tore away the mic from the visor, not wanting anyone to try to contact Scarlet - and find him out instead. He put the cap on, before looking himself in the mirror. His hair was longer than Scarlet’s, and thicker… But the illusion, at a distance, would work perfectly. That would be all he would need to enter the WGPC Building without attracting too much attention - while the rest of the Donaghue gang would unwittingly cause a diversion for Spectrum.

He picked up the gun again and put it into the holster. “Right. Now down to serious business.”

He left the room, took the stairs down, and directed his steps to the unguarded rear entrance. Nobody from inside the building noticed when he came out and quietly walked away, not looking behind, and taking a detour in order to enter the WGPC building.

He failed to see the tall, bulky man who had arrived seconds earlier, stopping his car on the nearby parking lot, and who was looking in his direction with an odd look of confusion splattered on his face. Robert Oxbury had recognised his boss, wearing the uniform of one of the Spectrum officers he had just fought a few moments earlier, and apparently abandoning the surveillance building, and the rest of the gang. He slowly got out of his car, not taking his eyes off Donaghue’s red-clad silhouette as he was walking away.

Ox didn’t know what it could mean. He had no idea of what might be going on. But he had every intention of finding out.

He closed the door to his car and started to follow his boss at a distance.

* * *

To Ochre, it was almost unnaturally peaceful around the WGPC building. On the few visits he had made, the place had been a hive of activity with lots of coming and going of, amongst others, police, prisoners and their legal representatives. Today, the place was still and silent. The building only contained those people authorised to be there on the protection roster for Commander Stewart and the World Court Judge who would swear him in to his post as Supreme Commander of the World Government Police Corps. Despite reports to the contrary, Ochre sensed that something was wrong and it frustrated him that he didn’t know what, exactly.

“Calm down or leave me alone!” grumbled Magenta. “I can’t bear your pacing any longer!”

Inside the large Spectrum surveillance van, Magenta and Ochre were manning an impressive array of monitoring equipment. Over the previous thirty minutes, Ochre had paid less and less attention to the screens, which had revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and become firmly convinced of his assertion that something was wrong. As large as the van was, the sheer volume of equipment held within dictated that Ochre had to turn every three or four paces and the sheer monotony of it was driving Magenta to distraction, away from his surveillance instruments, and it irritated him.

“Something’s wrong,” Ochre explained.

“I know,” Magenta answered curtly.

“You do?”

“Yes, you’re losing your grip on reality! Now sit down! You’re making me dizzy.”

Ochre frowned. “Something’s wrong!” he repeated.

“What’s wrong, Rick?” Magenta asked tiredly.

“I don’t know,” Ochre sighed. “Something.”

Magenta smiled sympathetically; it was rare for Ochre’s police instincts to fail him. “I’ll do a sweep with the cameras.”

Ochre watched over Magenta’s shoulder as the van’s first camera performed a full sweep of the area but discovered nothing untoward. Magenta shook his head as he looked up.

“Can’t shake it, Pat,” Ochre shrugged. “I’m certain that…” He was suddenly interrupted by an incoming communication, and lowered his cap mic. “Captain Ochre.”

“Captain, this is Sergeant Holroyd, Spectrum Headquarters New York.”

“Yes, Sergeant, what is it?”

“We’ve had an anonymous tip-off, sir. Members of the Donaghue gang on the roof of the 2020 building with sniper rifles.”

“Get one of the Angels to overfly the building,” Ochre replied urgently.

“Melody Angel has already confirmed unusual activity on the roof of the building, Captain.”

“Good work, Sergeant. Out.”

“What is it?” asked Magenta, intrigued.

“I’ve located my nagging doubt,” Ochre replied distractedly, before once again lowering his microphone. “Grey, get the commander inside, we have trouble.”

A rather perplexed Magenta watched on the monitor, where he could see Grey hastily following those last instructions, while Ochre was making a further call to Captain Santini, the leader of one of Spectrum’s special commando teams. Ochre explained the situation and plan of action, with Magenta listening intently, frowning deeply as his colleague referred to the men in the 2020 Building as ‘Donaghue’s Gang’.

“They’re not my men,” he grumbled, as he got to his feet.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ochre asked, ignoring Magenta’s complaint.

“Coming with you.”

“Oh no, you’re not! You’re in no fit state to go rushing around fighting. Remember what Colonel White ordered? You’ll stay right here, understand me?”

“Yes, mammy!” Magenta grumbled, sitting back.

“Just stay out of trouble. Not too much to ask, is it?” Ochre frowned as he opened the door and stepped down from the van to meet the commando team. “Captain Santini?”

“Sir.”

“Right, let’s go.”

Magenta stared miserably at the monitors and watched Ochre lead the commando team towards the building opposite. If he were honest with himself, his friend was right. He wasn’t physically capable of storming the building, but he hated it when Ochre was right. He could be unbearable. Magenta sighed as he continued to watch the monitors. Everything was happening on the roof. It was going to be a very dull watch. Leaning back in the chair, Magenta was secretly grateful that he was allowed to rest. He was feeling rough, and finding it difficult enough just trying to remain seated upright; he had rather underestimated just how bad he felt. Still, with any luck, the problem would be resolved shortly. Ochre and his team would catch the gang unawares and hopefully that would be that. Magenta allowed himself a half smile; he knew that sounded too easy.

Glancing to his left as he caught a movement from the corner of his eye, Magenta brightened as he saw on another screen Captain Scarlet heading towards the WGPC building. He flipped the communications channel switch, but immediately switched it off again. He had to keep Scarlet informed about the current situation, he knew that, but it would be best discussed face to face, of that he was certain. Well - for him, anyway. That was a good enough excuse. Anything other than remaining cooped up in this van! Of course, if he said one word to the effect that he had left the van without authorisation, Scarlet would be down on him like a ton of bricks. He knew that Scarlet would be furious with him for risking his health and potentially placing himself in danger, but, he told himself, there were very few options available to him. Sure, he could contact one of the WGPC guys and ask for Scarlet to report to the van, but he was perfectly happy to pretend not to have thought about that option. Throwing down his headset onto the desk, Magenta headed for the doors at the back of the van. He knew that he shouldn’t, but then, hadn’t his whole adult life been based on ‘things he shouldn’t’? He was hardly straying from expectations.

Closing the doors to the van, Magenta stared in the direction that Scarlet had been walking. Gone already.

“He’s quick on his feet,” Magenta complained. “Or maybe it’s just that I’m not right now,” he corrected himself with a frown.

It wasn’t a problem. There was only one place Scarlet could be headed - into the WGPC building itself. At as brisk a pace as he could manage, Magenta set off after him.

* * *

For Ox, it had not been difficult to get ahead of his boss, Patrick Donaghue. Despite his size and sheer bulk, Ox was surprisingly light on his feet, stealth playing quite a significant part of his job.

He now stood in the shadows and watched with discontent as Donaghue, dressed in a Spectrum uniform, approached the building. Ox’s mind was in turmoil. He had always believed that ‘Mr Donaghue’ would return to lead the Syndicate back to its former glory, despite Mr Riordan’s protestations to the contrary. He knew, he’d felt it. But as he stood, staring as the man in question approached, he wondered if he had been right. Yes, it was him - of course it was him - but so much had changed, more than Ox truly wanted to accept. For the first time since he had been entrusted with the role of enforcer within the mob, years ago, he found himself doubting his boss. He had always been loyal, almost obsessively so. No one would dare utter a word against Donaghue in his presence, even now when things were obviously so very bad. Josh Kirby had earlier feared the possible repercussions of voicing his concerns.

Now it was Ox’s turn. As much as he hated to admit it, Mr Donaghue had let them down. It was unthinkable and he felt betrayed, even hurt. But he was determined to know why.

“Mr Donaghue,” he called as he stepped from the shadows. His huge form stood not quite in Donaghue’s way. It was intimidating enough in itself, but the giant couldn’t quite bring himself to threaten his boss.

Donaghue stopped in his tracks and frowned in obvious surprise.

“Ox, I didn’t expect to see you here,” he replied uncertainly.

Ox paused for a few seconds, realising that this would be no easy task.

“Ox?”

“A lot of the men are dead, Mr Donaghue…” Ox left the sentence hanging. He felt awkward and uncomfortable.

“Yes, that’s unfortunate, but I never said it would be easy,” Donaghue replied callously. “Have you destroyed the evidence?”

“Yes. No. Not quite.” Ox shook his head. “Mr Donaghue, you never killed before. No one ever died. You never did nothing like this. How could you come back and tear the gang apart like this?”

“Ox, I have a job to do. Please go. We’ll discuss this later.”

“No, Mr Donaghue, you’ve gone too far,” Ox replied, barely believing that he was saying the words. “There’s been too much killing. It has to stop! Nothing is that important. You’re not like this…”

“Oh, but you’re wrong, Ox. Ironic really, don’t you think? If not for you, I think the men would have bailed on me long ago.”

“Don’t do this, Mr Donaghue, please. Prove me wrong about you.”

Donaghue sighed. “I’m sorry, Ox, truly I am, but you’re far from wrong.”

Ox’s brow furrowed, as he stared in confusion at the man standing before him. Glancing down, he froze in stunned silence as he noticed the pistol in his boss’s hand. It was a total shock. There was no way that he could comprehend his fate in the brief moments allowed to him. Ox barely felt the bullets enter his chest; there was almost no sound, as the shots were muffled by the gun’s silencer. Heat washed over him in waves as he clasped his hand over the gaping wound. One last brief glance into Donaghue’s eyes revealed that his boss had no remorse for his actions, not even a glimmer of compassion. In too much pain to do little more than gasp, Ox slipped silently to the ground. Without even a backward glance, Donaghue walked on towards the WGPC building and his intended target.

* * *

The downed man was the first thing Magenta saw as he rounded the corner. The blood was hard to miss, but what was harder was the fact that he recognised the man. Even from that distance and angle, his features were clear. Magenta’s heart leapt into his throat as he defied his own injuries to run to the man he had once called his friend. In the distance, he saw Scarlet heading inside. Magenta was confused. Surely he’d seen the injured man? He would never just ignore a man lying dead or dying, almost in his path.

“Ox?” Magenta’s eyes were wide with the horror of the sight before him, and were inexorably drawn to the gaping chest wound from which blood still oozed. “Ox!” he cried, shaking the man’s shoulder.

It was only the briefest of flutters at first, but Magenta saw immediately that Ox was still alive. Ox was badly injured, and Magenta had seen enough of those kinds of injuries to know they were fatal. The giant would be dead in a matter of minutes. He cursed himself over and over for leaving his cap in the van. Calling for help would have to wait until he was inside the building.

“Mis… Mr Donaghue?”

“Easy, Ox, I’ll get some help for you. You’ll be okay.”

“The men, boss… why? Why did you leave them to die?”

“No-one else will die, Ox and especially not you, my friend.”

“Why… Why d’you shoot me, boss?”

“I didn’t…”

Shock suddenly hit Magenta. And realisation dawned on him. That hadn’t been Scarlet he had seen earlier. The peculiar behaviour was suddenly explained. He should have realised - the walk wasn’t Scarlet’s at all. How blind could he be? That was his walk.

The Mysteronised Donaghue.

A Mysteron was entering the WGPC building and Magenta knew his intentions.

“I’m sorry, Ox, I have to go. I have to put an end to all this. I’ll call for someone to help you, I…”

“I… I knew you wouldn’t… leave me to die.” Ox gave the faintest of smiles and then, grunting noisily, closed his eyes and stopped moving.

“Ox?”

Magenta didn’t receive any answer from his motionless friend. His jaw tightened. A low, disgusted and angry growl rolled into the Irish captain’s throat, as he got to his feet and looked with fiery eyes in the direction of the WGPC building.

‘I won’t have my name dragged through the mud,’ he thought with righteous fury. ‘No more killing. You’ll be this Mysteron’s last victim, Ox. I swear it!’

***

In a small glassed-in room not far from there, where he had set up his operational office, Lieutenant Tan was checking on the latest reports from Spectrum security patrols on the premises, while Police Captain Anthony Brealey, seated on the other side of the desk, was doing the same with the reports handed to him by WGPC personnel. Both men were growing more concerned as time passed, fully aware that the closer they were to the swearing-in ceremony, the closer they also were to the moment when Donaghue’s gang would attack. Already, the earlier alert from Captain Ochre had served as a reminder that the time was now very near. From what they had last learned, Spectrum was presently leading an assault on a nearby building, where snipers and members of the gang had been spotted earlier. Since then, they had had no further news that the WGPC building was threatened. Maybe, as far as they knew, the danger had been averted.

Tan’s epaulettes flashed suddenly, and the lieutenant lowered his mic to answer the call. “Spectrum officer approaching door number two, sir,” he heard the voice in his ear.

He rose from his seat and walked to the door to open it and see who might be coming. From where he was standing, he could see the glass door, behind which two Spectrum men were standing guard, one of them holding a Mysteron gun. He saw the tall figure clad in the very recognisable bright red uniform, coming their way with a quiet enough step, while apparently fiddling with the mic of his radiocap. “That’s Captain Scarlet. He seems to have trouble with his cap mic. Let him pass, Tremaine. No need to check him out with the Mysteron detector.”

“S.I.G.”

“Another one of your colour-coded officers?” Brealey grunted from behind. “Seems there’s an awful lot of those in your organisation, Lieutenant.”

“That colour-coded officer is one of Spectrum’s best operatives, Captain Brealey,” Tan informed the WGPC officer in a calm voice. “He might have come to offer better back up for the operation.”

“Oh,” Brealey said with a quiet nod. “Then if he has trouble with his communicator, it might be better if we greet him properly, wouldn’t it? He might have interesting information to give us concerning what’s going on outside.”

Tan concurred and stepped out of the office, followed closely by Brealey, to walk down the corridor toward the glass door, his eyes set on the officer in the red uniform who had nearly arrived there.

He opened eyes wide with surprise when, upon reaching the guards, ‘Scarlet’ suddenly pulled out his gun and shot the first one at almost point-blank range. Tan stopped in his tracks, as the second guard was shot too, before his very eyes. By that time, he had seen the man’s face - and knew instantly it wasn’t Captain Scarlet, but the Mysteron double of Captain Magenta that everyone had been looking for. He reached for his own gun, lowering his cap mic at the same instant.

“Damn it! It’s…”

He never had time to draw his gun or to call for help. From behind him, Brealey suddenly gave a violent shove that sent him face first into the wall, knocking him off balance, and sending his cap flying from his head. Then, his own gun in hand, the WGPC captain used the butt to hit the Spectrum lieutenant over the head with such violence that it drew blood. Tan gave a loud moan and slid to the floor, where he lay unconscious.

Brealey quickly took the key from his belt and ran over to the door, which he unlocked and opened wide for Donaghue. He helped him haul the two dead guards inside and hid them inside a closet, into which they also threw the still unconscious Tan. Brealey locked the door and, puffing with tension, turned to the Mysteron agent standing by his side.

“I can’t believe that went as well as you thought it would, Donaghue,” he mumbled.

“With your help, it did,” Donaghue replied. “I had no doubt it would succeed.”

Brealey gave a deep frown, sighing as he recovered his normal breathing rate. “Using that Spectrum uniform to enter was a great idea. They didn’t suspect you, thinking you were one of their own.”

Donaghue smiled thinly. More importantly, they thought I was Scarlet. And so they didn’t use the Mysteron detector on me… That gave him the advantage of being able to come close enough to strike without them being suspicious of any wrong-doing.

“Stewart is in Room 7A - seventh floor. You can’t miss it.”

“Certainly not, since you’ll show me where it is.”

“Oh no, Donaghue,” Brealey replied, taking a step back. “The deal was to help you get inside. Then it’s up to you. I’m not going any further with you. While you busy yourself with Stewart, I’ll get rid of that Spectrum officer before he denounces me as your accomplice.”

“Lieutenant Tan is of no consequence to you,” Donaghue replied coldly. “I need you, Captain Brealey, and you will help me. There’s no turning back for you now.”

“There’s nothing you can do to force me, Donaghue,” Brealey replied arrogantly. “And indeed, you need me. You will need my help again to avoid capture - and get out of here alive.”

“So you think that can protect you from me?” Donaghue raised his gun, much to Brealey’s alarm. He apparently didn’t expect this. “You’re wrong, Earthman.” There was but a single gunshot; a bullet between the eyes, Anthony Brealey was propelled against the wall and rolled onto the floor, dead. A mere moment later, two circles of green eerie light slowly traced across his prostrate body…

Then the Mysteron double of Patrick Donaghue raised his eyes and met those of a new Captain Brealey, standing over the dead body of the man whose face he wore.

“Now, you will help me,” Donaghue said coldly.

The new Mysteron duplicate nodded his consent and turned on his heel, preceding his accomplice in the direction of the elevator.

* * *

“Are you sure it’s wise to stand in front of that window, Captain Grey?” Commander Stewart asked in a sceptical tone.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Commander. Spectrum took additional security measures for your protection. All of the windows here and in the room housing the World Court judge have been lined with a reinforcing, bullet-proof material. It’s totally transparent, but no bullet will pass through, I assure you.”

“Then it would take someone quite extraordinary to get to us?”

“Yes, Commander,” Grey nodded grimly. Knowing exactly who was trying to kill Commander Stewart worried him even more. If there was anyone more likely than Patrick Donaghue to find a way to break through the tight wall of security, then Grey had never met him, and seriously doubted that he ever would.

“You seem concerned, Captain. Is there something I should know?”

“No, sir,” Grey smiled reassuringly, “I’m sure everything will be fine this time.”

Before Stewart could comment on Grey’s obvious lie, a buzzing noise drew Grey to the internal communicator.

“Captain Grey,” he announced as he answered the call.

“It’s Captain Brealey, sir,” came the voice over the radio. “ Captain Scarlet has just arrived, I’m bringing him to you now.”

“Thank you, Captain, we’ll be expecting you,” replied Grey, thankful to receive the additional Spectrum presence. Scarlet’s help certainly wouldn’t be too much in the circumstances.

“You’re being relieved, Captain?” Stewart asked with a surprised tone in his voice.

“No, sir. We’re just stepping up security, that’s all.”

Stewart nodded, quietly impressed.

Only moments later, a knock at the door was heard, followed by a call. “Captain Brealey, sir.”

Grey checked the monitor linked to the corridor beyond the door. The image on the screen confirmed that it was indeed Captain Brealey. Behind him, partially obscured by the tall, broad figure of Brealey, stood Scarlet. Everything seemed quite normal. As soon as Grey opened the door, Brealey strode in and handed Grey an open file, drawing his attention to some photographs contained within.

“Captain Grey, these men have been spotted in the vicinity. Are you familiar with any of them?”

Grey gave the photographs a cursory glance, and passed the file back to Brealey. It seemed very strange for Brealey to be bothering him with this detail. If they were members of the Donaghue gang, then it would be highly unlikely that he would know them and surely it was more appropriate for the WG police themselves.

Far too enthusiastic, thought Grey. That’s what happens I suppose when individuals want to impress Spectrum with their competence. He even blanked his own commander. He’ll be in trouble for that later.

“No, sorry, I don’t recognise any of them. Scarlet...” Grey began as he turned to face who he thought was his colleague. His eyes opened wide with surprise as he spotted the Mysteron sporting Scarlet’s lost uniform. Reaching for his gun, he yelled, “Commander, get down!”

Grey’s gun was barely out of its holster before the heavy file in Brealey’s hands came crashing down on the back of his head and neck. Not suspecting Brealey to be a Mysteron, Grey had allowed him to get behind him. Believing his only foe to be immediately in front of him, the blow had come as a complete surprise. The dazed captain staggered forward, raising the gun and firing as he did so. The shot missed its target, the valiant effort drawing mocking laughter from the Mysteron.

“Not good enough, Grey,” Donaghue commented coldly. His own gun was now in his hand, trained on a stunned Stewart, making sure that way that he wouldn’t make any unwise move. Brealey had pulled the gun from Grey’s grasp and swiftly removed the cap from his head. He pushed him to the floor, at the foot of a large, solid, round table; Grey’s hands were pulled behind him and secured with handcuffs behind one of the table’s sturdy legs.

“Now then, Commander,” Donaghue began, as he walked toward his intended victim, “We have some business to attend to.”

“Donaghue!” Stewart gasped in disbelief as he suddenly recognised the man who had spoken as the former New York mob boss. “Patrick Donaghue! I can’t believe…”

“It’s not Pat Donaghue,” Grey corrected, raising his head, his voice slurred. “He’s a Mysteron…” He tried to move to check the sturdiness of his handcuffs, but at the same time, Brealey smashed the barrel of his gun against his face, knocking him half-unconscious. “Shut up!” the Mysteronised man barked at him.

“Brealey, are you insane?” Stewart snapped angrily. “You, siding with that…”

“That what?” Donaghue raised his gun, pointing it directly under Stewart’s nose. That compelled the man to shut up instantly; he stared down into the barrel, before raising his eyes to look into the cold eyes of the Mysteron.

“Where have you been?” he grumbled. “You just disappeared. No sign of you for the last few years - were you afraid you were going to get finally caught? Were you feeling the heat, Donaghue?”

Donaghue permitted himself the faintest of smiles. “You really have no idea what you’re dealing with here, Commander…”

“I know a sleazeball when I see one, Donaghue,” Stewart hissed between his teeth. “I always knew you were one, but never would I have thought you would sink so low, you basta…”

“You have mere minutes to live, Commander,” Donaghue cut in implacably. “I suggest you choose your last words carefully. Soon, you will be executed, as the Mysterons ordered, right in front of that window.”

“What do you hope to achieve?” Stewart asked angrily, hoping to stall what seemed to be inevitable.

“You REALLY don’t know what you are dealing with, Commander,” Donaghue replied with another faint, sneering grin. “This will be a double victory for the Mysterons. Beyond that window is the world’s press, broadcasting live. What they will see is ‘Captain Scarlet’ - Spectrum’s number one agent - murdering Commander Ian Stewart. Pictures beamed around the world, live and uncensored. No amount of denials from Spectrum will quell public fears - after all, everyone will have seen it with their own eyes. It will certainly be the end of Scarlet’s career and the beginning of the end for Spectrum. Then, Commander, who could stop us exacting our revenge on you, pitiful Earthmen?” Donaghue finished with an air that was a chilling combination of superiority and malice.

“Earthmen?” Stewart repeated with a furrowed brow. “What are you…?”

“If you really believe all that, Mysteron, then you’re seriously underestimating us all!” Grey suddenly interrupted from his place, having regained a little of his senses, trying hard to sound as though he were certain that help was on the way. His intervention certainly wasn’t to Brealey’s taste, for the Mysteron agent kicked him violently in the side, making him gasp in pain.

“I told you to keep your mouth shut, Earthman!”

“Be careful, Captain Grey,” Donaghue said in turn, glaring coldly in Grey’s direction. “Those strands of hope you’re clinging to are very fragile.”

Donaghue turned to Commander Stewart who stood opposite him, his bearing erect and noble. Half-stunned by the last attack from Brealey, Grey managed to look up at Stewart, frustrated that he was unable to prevent his murder and yet at the same time, impressed by the courage he was displaying.

“You face death, Commander.” Donaghue’s expression, whilst still cold and dispassionate, exhibited the slightest flicker of what might almost have been respect - perhaps a remnant from the real Pat Donaghue’s own regard for the man and his abilities. The two of them stood briefly, eye to eye, unmoving until Donaghue himself broke the tension and forcibly dragged Stewart in front of the window and forced him to his knees. Stewart’s pride and determination to face the situation without exhibiting fear was still very much in evidence, but it was clear that neither would Stewart pass up the opportunity to fight. Donaghue was able to see that, and exhorted his intended victim to put his hands on his head.

“You know the drill, Commander,” he said, in the same merciless tone he had used ever since he had entered the room. “Palms up… Now, that’s better. I know you won’t be trying anything to escape your fate.”

With an expression filled with loathing, Stewart eyed both Mysterons carefully, hoping to see an opportunity to save himself. His situation seemed desperate.

Donaghue smiled as he noticed the buzz of activity outside as the representatives of the world press noticed Commander Stewart held at gunpoint at the window. He carefully kept out of view for now, glancing at the bulletproof covering over the glass, ironically meant for Stewart’s protection, which would actually assist in his execution by protecting his killer.

Satisfied that the moment had come to carry out the Mysterons’ orders, Donaghue placed his finger firmly on the trigger and prepared to step forward in full view of the watching press.

To his right, the door suddenly burst open, distracting Donaghue long enough for Stewart to lower his shoulder and barrel into his legs. Knocked off balance, Donaghue stumbled backwards; the shot meant for Stewart instead embedded itself in the wall. Regaining his footing, Donaghue turned furiously toward the newcomer and was momentarily taken aback by the sight of the man who had just entered the room.

“Magenta!” Grey cried a warning. “Brealey’s a Mysteron!”

Magenta spun to his left, as he caught the movement of Brealey raising his pistol. At the same instant, Grey raised his legs and pushed his feet hard behind the Mysteronised policeman’s knees, bringing him down. Grateful for his colleague’s intervention, Magenta fired twice, felling Brealey instantly. The distraction was enough time for Donaghue to act. Leaping forward, he grabbed Magenta by the waist and wrestled him to the ground. Slamming Magenta’s right hand viciously on the floor was enough to make him lose his pistol.

“So,” the Mysteron finally said, looking coldly into his double’s face, “you’re not dead after all? But I can feel you are weak. I’m surprised you have the energy to stand, never mind put up the feeble effort you’re managing now!”

It was true, Magenta was struggling under the weight of the Mysteron; whatever move he tried to free himself was countered. It was all he could do to keep Donaghue from pointing the gun in his direction.

“That’s the problem with fighting yourself.” Donaghue stared coldly down. “I know all your moves.”

All the while, Commander Stewart, whilst obviously stunned at the scene before him of two men wearing the same face and fighting it off, still had the presence of mind to edge towards Magenta’s dropped gun. From the corner of his eye, Donaghue spied him as it was almost within his grasp.

“No, Commander.” He turned his own pistol towards Stewart.

With a grunt of effort, Magenta took advantage of the distraction and heaved his body to the left, pulling Donaghue with him. Donaghue pulled out of his grip and hauled himself to his feet, landing a vicious kick on his human counterpart as he did so. Temporarily disabled by violent tearing pains from behind his ribcage, Magenta gasped for air and tried desperately to focus his blurred vision.

Seeing Stewart finally place his hand on the lost gun only served to spur Donaghue into action. He lashed out with a second violent kick, this time forcing Stewart’s hand against the floor, almost crushing it in the process; Donaghue watched with satisfaction as the pistol skittered away once more.

“Magenta!” yelled Grey.

Now on his knees, his vision blurring with pain and weakness, Magenta had never looked so pale. Driven by sheer determination, plus a considerable measure of anger at the misuse of his name and reputation, Magenta launched himself forward as Donaghue stood back from Stewart, getting his balance again and ready to pull the trigger.

Hurried footsteps and voices could be heard beyond the open door, now closely approaching the room, but Donaghue would not be distracted or denied this time. He squeezed the trigger - and screamed in frustration as he saw Magenta crash into Stewart’s side, shoving him away. A short, desperate cry of pain from Magenta as he fell was the first indication that the bullet meant for Stewart had found another target.

Donaghue turned towards the door in time to see Captains Ochre and Scarlet, weapons drawn, heading towards him. He tried to shoot at them, but his gun refused to fire. Growling with anger, he overturned the large desk behind him, managing to secure himself a brief respite, as it threatened to roll onto the downed Magenta. Ochre and Scarlet rushed forward to halt its progress, and laid their hands down on the edge of the desk just in time to prevent it rolling onto Magenta’s legs and crushing them.

A frustrated Scarlet turned to see Donaghue fleeing from the room.

“I’ll get him, you take care of Magenta!” Scarlet barked, breaking into a run.

“S.I.G.,” Ochre replied, as he bent over his field partner with concern in his eyes. “I thought I told you to stay in the van?” he muttered as he held a cloth down firmly over the bullet wound on his friend’s shoulder, in order to stem the blood loss. Lowering his cap microphone, Ochre continued, “Urgent assistance, Room 7A, officer down.”

“Ha!” Magenta weakly replied to his remonstrance, “you just want all the action for yourself…”

“You stupid Irishman!” Ochre snapped, as he closed the communication channel. “You nearly killed yourself!”

“You don’t get rid of me that easily,” Magenta grimaced, as Ochre pressed harder with the now blood soaked cloth.

“Well, stop bleeding then! You need this stuff!”

“Er...excuse me?” Stewart interrupted somewhat hesitantly.

Ochre looked up. “I’m sorry, Commander. Are you all right?”

Stewart shook his head dismissively. “I’m fine, but...” He paused as he tried to find a way to phrase the question. “Rick? Rick Fraser? Is that you? And… Patrick Donaghue?” The rest of the question wouldn’t materialise, so shocked was he by the sight before him.

Magenta managed a weak smile as he looked up at the man who, several years ago, had tried so very hard to arrest him on a number of occasions but had never managed to make the charges stick.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Commander,” he managed, despite the pain.

“But how… what…” Obviously lost for words, Stewart looked in the direction where the Mysteron doppelganger and the Spectrum officer wearing the same coloured uniform had disappeared. “You just… saved my life…” He frowned deeply. “But if YOU are Donaghue… then WHO was that other man - that other Donaghue… who tried to kill me?”

Magenta grimaced a pained smile. “My evil twin?” he suggested feebly. He could see the perplexity in Stewart’s face - and the annoyance in Ochre’s.

“Stop the pleasant banter,” the American officer replied with bad humour. “You need your rest, Captain. Keep quiet.”

“Can somebody get me out of these handcuffs?” came a frustrated voice from the other side of the room.

Both Ochre and Stewart turned their heads towards Grey. Ochre grinned as he seemed only now to notice his predicament.

“You should learn how to pick locks,” Magenta commented between two painful coughs.

Grateful to finally see the arrival of a medical team, Ochre casually tossed a set of keys to Commander Stewart. “If you don’t mind, sir.”

“Er, no, of course,” replied Stewart, still unable to fully accept the presence of a man who he believed to be dead and the former mob boss working side by side as Spectrum officers.

“Ochre, how did you know there was trouble?” asked Grey as he rubbed his wrists to restore circulation.

“It was rather easy to figure out when we found a mammoth of a man lying in the parking lot, not far from one of the WGPC building door - and who Scarlet identified as a member of the Donaghue Gang.”

“That’s Ox,” Magenta then murmured. “I - I found him too. Ochre, I know I shouldn’t have gone after that Mysteron agent, but… when I found Ox dying, I…” He closed his eyes and sighed. “…I had to stop the killing.”

Ochre snorted. “Well, I don’t know if ‘your friend’ will live, but…”

“Ox’s alive?” an astonished Magenta interjected. “I- I thought he died…”

“He might not survive the day,” Ochre said. “But he was still alive when we found him, and handed him to the medics. Tough guy like that, hard to kill.” He looked over at Grey. “We then entered the building, and we found the real Brealey’s body. And Tan locked in a closet, he told us what had happened to him. Then it was easy - we heard the sounds of gunshots and fighting that obviously were coming from this room.”

“Tan’s okay then?” replied Grey with a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, they just knocked him out.”

“Are you okay, Commander?” asked Grey, turning to his charge.

“Yes, Captain, thank you, I’m quite fine.” He turned to Ochre, with an inquiring stance. “You will have to explain all this to me later, Rick. At least, I hope you will…”

“Whatever we’ll be allowed to tell you, Ian,” Ochre replied with a forced grin. “It’s a long story… as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Ochre suppressed a smirk as Commander Stewart, nodding thoughtfully, settled himself in a chair.

“We should have been assigned to him all along,” Ochre whispered in Magenta’s ear, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so quiet!”

***

In pursuit of Patrick Donaghue’s Mysteron double, Captain Scarlet saw him pushing open a door and disappearing behind as it closed. Scarlet opened the door in turn, and found himself in a narrow stairway. He could hear footsteps echoing from overhead and raised his eyes to see the silhouette of Donaghue rushing up toward the roof. He followed suit, not wanting to lose his quarry; he made a call with his cap mic to report their positions and request the Spectrum Angels and helicopters to assist once he was on the roof.

He took a second to stop and get his breath back when he reached the door leading out into the open, and behind which he knew Donaghue had disappeared. No doubt, he thought, the Mysteron was waiting for him on the other side. Carefully, his gun well in hand, he opened the door and looked about, searching for any sign of his quarry. He couldn’t see any trace of him, but he knew he could only be somewhere out there. He stepped out, looking around once again, taking into account any possible hiding places where Donaghue could be. There wasn’t much of anything onto the flat roof of the WGPC building. At the other end of it, there was a helicopter pad, presently empty - which was a good thing, since Scarlet didn’t doubt one instant that if a craft had been there, the Mysteron would have instantly seized the chance to take the helm - and would possibly have crashed it against the building at the very storey where his prey was kept. At this point in his mission, Donaghue had absolutely nothing to lose, and would do anything to see it complete.

He had to be stopped at any cost, not only in order to protect Stewart before the start of the swearing-in ceremony, but also for Captain Magenta - the real Pat Donaghue - who certainly wouldn’t appreciate that there was a Mysteron double of himself loose in the world, capable of killing any and all for his masters.

Scarlet took one more careful step onto the roof, his senses on alert. Still nothing - and it was beginning to get unnerving. A sound from over his head made him look up and he saw an Angel craft passing by. Its pilot surely had a grand view of the roof, and would be able to tell him where he would find his quarry. He lowered his cap microphone.

Then he heard a new, creaking sound, that made him spin around.

From the top of the booth that housed the staircase, he saw a red and black silhouette jump at him. He didn’t have time to raise his pistol to shoot, before his attacker landed heavily on him, bringing him down roughly to the ground. The shock drove the air out of Scarlet’s lungs and half-stunned him; the gun escaped from his grip and clattered away, out of reach.

Scarlet gasped when Donaghue’s hands encircled his neck tightly and started to squeeze his throat; he grabbed for the Mysterons’ wrists, trying to force him to let him go. Donaghue leaned on him, his face an implacable mask of coldness.

“I need your gun, Scarlet,” he said between his teeth. “I need it to finish my mission. You won’t be needing it - I’m sure you won’t mind lending it to me, my friend.”

The last words made Scarlet see red. Gritting his teeth against the pressure on his throat, Scarlet found the strength to remove Donaghue’s fingers and then pushed his hands up, slowly. “I… am… not... your… friend!” He pushed his opponent up and sent him flying head over heels. Taken by surprise, the Mysteron made a spectacular flip before falling on his back.

Taking advantage of this moment of reprieve, Scarlet got back to his feet and reached for the stunned Mysteron, forcing him to stand, and then sent his fist into his stomach, angrily. Donaghue bent double.

“First of all,” Scarlet said between his teeth, “this tunic isn’t yours…” In a fraction of a second, he had unzipped the tunic and had literally torn it from Donaghue’s back, roughly pushing the Mysteron away from him. With a disgusted gesture he threw the tunic away from him, as if it had been dirtied by the simple fact that it had been worn by his opponent. He then advanced threateningly toward Donaghue, who, temporarily stunned, was regaining his balance after such a violent shove. “Secondly,” Scarlet continued, pointing an accusing finger at him, “I’m friends with Pat Donaghue…” He sent his fist into the Mysteron’s face, angrily. “The REAL Pat Donaghue. Captain Magenta, you remember? The man whom who just got shot to protect your would-be victim…”

Donaghue tried a punch at Scarlet, who stepped back to evade him, before hitting the Mysteron in turn, with an uppercut to the jaw, throwing him back. “You are not even fit to polish his shoes… Let alone bear his name.”

Donaghue shook himself, trying to regain his composure. He wiggled his jaw, as if wanting to put it back in place. “I can see you’re very angry with me, Paul - can’t blame you, actually, after I dropped you in the river… But somehow - I knew you would get better. After all, you always do.”

“Well, it’s NO THANKS to you!” Scarlet barked, his fists clenching. “If not for Riordan, Spectrum might not have found me at all! You’re NOTHING but a murderer! A Mysteron duplicate dragging my friend’s name through the mud…”

“Then what does that make you, Paul?” Donaghue asked tauntingly, stepping back as Scarlet approached. “Another ‘Mysteron duplicate’, just like me? An impostor trying to live a life that isn’t his own?”

Scarlet narrowed his eyes, a murderous expression on his face. “I know who I am,” he seethed ominously. “And I know who you are - and who you are not.” He stopped his advance, barely two feet away from Donaghue, who was now standing close to the edge of the roof. Scarlet was watching him very closely, wary of what he might be up to now. “You can never be Patrick Donaghue, even at his worst.”

The Mysteron duplicate nodded very slowly; discreetly, he was keeping his right hand out of Scarlet’s view. One flick of the wrist dislodged the knife that was hidden inside his sleeve. It slid down into his hand, inconspicuously. Scarlet was nearly close enough for him to use it. “Well, I’m sorry to hear you say that, old friend…”

Goaded by the last remark from the Mysteron, Scarlet took another step forward. Donaghue avoided the coming fist and tried to strike in turn. Scarlet’s other hand caught hold of his wrist before the knife struck. The two men were holding together in a close hand-to-hand tussle, each peering into the other’s face, the knife between them, only centimetres from Scarlet’s chest. “I have to kill you - and finish my mission,” Donaghue said between his teeth, struggling to try push his knife into his opponent.

“That’s what all Mysterons say,” Scarlet replied implacably. His hand gave a sudden twist to Donaghue’s wrist and he pushed with all his weight, driving the blade deep into the Mysteron’s abdomen and then up to his heart. Donaghue gave a deep throaty cry, his free hand clutching his opponent’s shoulder; his eyes opening with obvious disbelief that the Spectrum officer had not hesitate to stab him so viciously.

“And for the last time, I am not your friend,” Scarlet finished icily. Feeling Donaghue falling backward, he freed himself from his clutches; Scarlet tried to grab Donaghue when he saw him tumbling over the side of the roof, but wasn’t able to hold him. The Mysteron fell, and crashed into a series of power lines beside the building and entangled himself in them. Scarlet half-covered his eyes, against the violent display of electric flashes that surrounded the Mysteron’s body. He heard a cry of pain, amidst the loud crescendo of sizzling sounds. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see. The flashes gradually died down, as smoke mounted from the point where the Mysteron double of Patrick Donaghue hung from the cables, what was left of his body and uniform still burning. His face was still recognisable enough - and from where Scarlet was standing, he could see his eyes, wide open, staring into nothingness.

He gave a disgruntled sigh and stepped away in disgust, his stomach nearly churning. Seeing an electrocuted dead body - especially one who was wearing a friend’s face - wasn’t a pretty sight.

The door from the booth behind him flew open and Scarlet turned around, tensing. Captain Blue appeared in the doorway, his gun drawn, and ready to use it. Both men relaxed when they saw each other and Scarlet gave a deep sigh of relief. He left the side of the roof and walked toward his colleague, reaching for his cap as he did so. Blue walked fully onto the roof and approached him.

“Is it finished?” he asked, watching as Scarlet casually picked up his gun from the ground to re-holster it.

Scarlet simply nodded. “Yes, over and done.” He turned around, looking toward the edge of the roof from where Donaghue had fallen. The Mysteron duplicate of his friend was dead - but killing him wasn’t something he had liked to do. He felt as if he had killed Magenta himself. It was a really bad feeling; he felt sick in the stomach. But also, he felt somehow relieved. Not that he had settled HIS score with the Mysteron, but that he had somehow righted a terrible wrong. Pat was a good man. He certainly didn’t deserve that an evil, alien creature had been killing people, using his name.

“Come on,” Blue said, patting his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s go down. We still have some unfinished business to attend to.”

Scarlet nodded his agreement. He followed Blue to the door leading to the stairs, at the same time lowering his cap microphone for his report to Colonel White concerning the final fate of the Mysteron agent.

* * *

When Scarlet and Blue came back to Room 7A, they found that the paramedics had already arrived, and were carefully putting Captain Magenta onto a stretcher, with Captain Ochre standing close by and surveying the scene like a vigilant watch dog. At a short distance from them, Captain Grey was keeping Commander Stewart company, as they, too, were watching with interest. The Irishman was pale, and a dressing had been applied to his wounded shoulder, a red dot marking the place where he had been shot, but he looked more relaxed now. When they all saw Scarlet coming back, all eyes, save for the medics’, turned to him. Grey made a step forward. “It’s finished?”

Scarlet nodded, noticing that Grey, too, was very pale. His face was bruised, and he had blood on the back of his neck. He gave a look in Magenta’s direction, and back again at Grey. “I think you should go too, Grey,” he noted. “You need medical care too. Captain Blue and I are relieving you.”

Grey gave a deep, slow sigh, seemingly letting go of all his tension. He nodded, reaching for his cap he had put on a low table. “I suppose you’re right,” he commented. “I need the rest. I’m busted.” He turned to Stewart and saluted him briskly. “I’m leaving you in good hands, sir…” He didn’t wait for a reply and accepted the helping hands of a medic, who came to escort him towards the door, while Captain Blue was taking his place beside the commander.

“You too, Captain Ochre,” Scarlet said. “I think it would be better if you leave the premises before someone else from the WGPC sees you and recognises you. I think Blue and I can cover things from here. You can go back to the surveillance van.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Ochre acknowledged. “After I have seen Captain Magenta to the medicopter, Captain, if you don’t mind…”

Scarlet moved closer to Magenta. The medics were raising the stretcher to a level that permitted them to stand in order to finish preparing their patient. Magenta grimaced a little, and then looked at Scarlet who was gazing down at him with concern. He reached out for him and Scarlet took his hand comfortingly. “You got him, Paul?”

“Yeah, I got him,” Scarlet replied quietly. “He won’t use your name to hurt anyone anymore.”

Magenta gave a deep sigh of relief; it seemed to send a shooting pain through his shoulder and he grunted, closing his eyes. Scarlet tilted his head to the side.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I guess I will be, now,” Magenta replied, opening his eyes. “I’m just not used to getting hurt, I think.” He smiled thinly. “I still don’t know how you can do it over and over again, taking bullets like you do. ” he added. “The pain is terrible… And I’m not sure the pay is worth it…”

Scarlet chuckled at his friend’s attempt at a joke. He squeezed his hand as the medics finished making Magenta comfortable, and seemed ready to go. “You did fine, Captain Magenta,” he said with an assured tone and a broad smile. “That was a great job you did today.”

Magenta smiled in turn, his eyes closing tiredly; his hand let go of Scarlet’s, as the stretcher started to roll away and the medics took him out of the room, with Ochre following closely behind. “I’m not sure it’ll be enough to keep me out of trouble with the colonel, though,” he slurred faintly. He wasn’t sure if anyone had heard him. With a sigh of contentment, he closed his eyes completely and allowed himself to sink into a state of partial sleep.

* * *

EPILOGUE

Comfortably propped up in his bed, Matt Riordan was looking with a murderous stare at the TV set installed at the other end of his room. The news coverage he was hearing right now was the latest in a long series of reports that the W.B.C. had been broadcasting since the events of the preceding week. The present coverage was relating how the last of the now infamous Donaghue gang had been finally rounded up by the WGPC special forces, arrested and soon to be prosecuted for their numerous crimes.

For what it was worth, Riordan thought with grim reflection, the Mysteron was right. With Ian Stewart in office, the gang would be unable to pursue its activities. In effect, the gang was almost completely dismantled. There were ‘survivors’ of course, who would join other gangs, or try to pick up the pieces of the Ben Fisher or Gabriel James gangs - but the ‘Donaghue family’ was finished. There was no-one left from it.

With Ox in the hospital, Riordan had heard, still fighting for his life, with the doctors unsure if he would make it or not, he, Matt Riordan, was the only surviving member.

Some good it’ll do me, Riordan reflected. He was heading for prison, as soon as he was fit enough to leave the hospital. And if Ox survived, he’d soon follow behind.

What a mess it was…

Riordan looked down at the newspaper by his side, on the bed, open at the page he had been reading lately. With the catchy title of ‘Death of a notorious crime syndicate boss’, the lengthy article on it was a retrospective of the ‘life of Patrick Donaghue’ - fictionalised at best - a young and successful mobster who had climbed up the difficult steps of his professional trade from conman to head of a powerful syndicate, all of it almost by the sole strength of his character, charisma and astuteness. To finally die, still at a young age, when he tried to get rid of his worst enemy - the now all-powerful Supreme Commander of the WGPC, Ian Stewart. There was a bad black and white photograph of a half-burned body hanging on electric cables, where it had fallen - a picture that had been taken at some distance from the incident by a reporter who had been sent to Stewart’s swearing-in ceremony that day. Policemen and Spectrum officers had made it impossible for anyone to get close enough to the body to actually see the features, and that gruesome photo of the dead man was as close as they were able to get. There was a small photo insert next to the article - a Photofit picture of ‘Patrick Donaghue’ at the peak of his career. The photo was a good likeness, Riordan had to admit, but still, it clearly wasn’t enough to be an accurate portrait of its subject.

And besides - none of it was true. It wasn’t Pat who had died this grisly death trying to kill Stewart. And that the newspapers, the television and all the other media would think that it was Pat and would drag the name of his friend - who had been a good man - through the mud was a constant frustration for Riordan.

The fact that Spectrum didn’t seem in any hurry to present a disclaimer was a total injustice in Riordan’s point of view. Pat was one of their own - he was probably killed in the line of duty, for this… murdering duplicate to take his place. And Spectrum would let people believe he was a homicidal maniac? How could they do that to him? That was so unfair.

On the TV screen, the news coverage was dragging on - and yet again, Riordan heard the commentator mentioning the name of the ‘infamous criminal Pat Donaghue’. Irritated, Riordan grabbed the newspaper and threw it towards the TV set. Of course, the paper never reached it, and spread onto the floor at the foot of his bed. Riordan took the remote control and tried to shut down the television set, but the batteries in the remote were either weak or dead - he couldn’t do it. He let out a frustrated sigh.

He was on the verge of throwing the remote control at the television when the door opened to let two men enter. Their appearance distracted Riordan’s attention away from the television. He recognised Captain Ochre, marching up front; the shorter man behind was dressed in civvies, but there was a multicoloured badge on his jacket, and his face was displaying an implacable expression of righteousness. Even Ochre’s bearing seemed official. Riordan straightened up a little and put down the remote. This is it, he thought, with an impending sense of doom. Spectrum has come to officially tell me I’m off to prison. Oh well… I knew it would end up that way. I just hope they’ll remember I helped save one of their officers.

While his civilian companion stood next to the bed, Captain Ochre stepped toward the television set to switch it off - for which Riordan was particularly grateful. He imagined that Ochre was about as angry as himself to hear false news of his friend’s death, and couldn’t bear any more of it.

“Mr Riordan…” Ochre came back to stand beside the other man. His tone was still amenable enough, but his companion’s stare was still an icy one as he looked down at Riordan. “This is Special Agent Martin Conners, of Spectrum Intelligence…”

“Mr Conners…” Instinctively, Riordan presented his hand - which Conners blatantly ignored. Almost uncomfortably, Riordan looked up at Ochre. “Captain Ochre… I would say I’m glad to see you, but under the circumstances…” He hesitated and cleared his throat. He didn’t know quite how to handle the situation. The best way, he thought, was probably to cut to the chase. “So… when will I be transferred to police authority?”

“You are under Spectrum authority, Mr Riordan,” Special Agent Conners replied. If it were possible, his tone was even more glacial than his stare. His words rang threateningly in Riordan’s mind. He knew that he had been under Spectrum’s protection for the last few days, and that they needed him for information and testimony. But now that all that dreadful affair was finished, surely, they didn’t need him anymore. He always assumed that when that happened, he would be handed over to the police and then would face trial for his criminal actions. That he was apparently staying under Spectrum’s guard was worrying. He could be charged with far more serious accusations - such as terrorism, although he couldn’t see how they might pin that on him. Probably, because of his involvement with the ‘Mysteron’ Donaghue? If they were able to do that, it could mean he would spend the rest of his life in the de Witt penitentiary. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Conners,” Riordan said, as politely and calmly as he could, “I always thought that, when Spectrum was done with me, I would be handed over to…”

“You thought wrong, Mr. Riordan,” Conners cut in abruptly. “Spectrum has not yet finished with you. In fact, it’s only the beginning.”

Riordan’s face paled visibly, as he watched the man open a folder he was holding under his arm. Conners addressed a sideways look at Captain Ochre, who was still standing by his side, almost rigid, waiting silently. “Mr. Riordan, you have to understand that the situation you have been involved in must stay strictly secret. That’s why we kept you away from prying eyes, under our constant surveillance and… protection. No-one was able to come into contact with you and we made sure that you would not contact anyone from your end.”

“Yes… Yes, I know all that already, Mr. Conners.” Riordan would have given anything to at least have had access to a telephone during his ‘incarceration’. He would not have called for his lawyer - he hadn’t even asked for one. He would not have tried to contact a friend - he wasn’t sure he had any left now. But he would have certainly tried to contact Sarah Donaghue. Pat’s sister had surely heard the news and must be devastated by it. He would have wanted to talk to her, tell her the truth, comfort her… But it had not been possible. Spectrum made sure he would not get close to any communication device of any kind.

A glance in Ochre’s direction made Riordan wonder if the captain had not contacted Sarah on his own. After all, Ochre was a close friend of Pat, maybe he had talked to her…

The voice of Conners brought Riordan back to his present situation. “Mr. Riordan - I’m sure you realise that it’s imperative that this affair continues to stay a secret. The Mysterons’ true nature can’t be revealed in its entirety to the public. Already, too many rumours have spread around the globe - we’re just lucky enough that the majority of people consider them lies or exaggerations. It must continue to remain that way.”

“Mr. Conners, I’m not even sure I understand completely what the nature of those… Mysterons… is,” Riordan replied. “It’s like I’ve just fallen into a nightmarish movie… I’m not sure I believe it, and I’m certain nobody will if I ever tell them about it! Which would not be my first choice,” he added quickly, seeing the warning glance in Conners’ eyes.

“I’m sure of it,” Conners answered in a falsely syrupy tone. “That’s why we must take special measures in your case, Mr. Riordan.”

He looked down into his folder and took a paper from it, reading it silently as he did so. Riordan saw a frown appear on his face. That’s not good for me, he thought.

“I have to be honest with you, Mr. Riordan, this… special procedure is being carried out against my best advice,” Conners continued, producing the paper. “This is a certificate of full immunity. It’s not unconditional, of course. It’ll be effective only if you agree to work for Spectrum from now on, and for as long as you continue to work for the organisation. Of course, considering your… shady past, you’ll be on probation at first - and subjected to close surveillance, until such time as you prove that you’re worthy of our trust. Which I doubt very much will ever happen.”

From the moment Conners had started talking about immunity, Matt Riordan’s eyes had grown wide - and had not stopped widening until the end of the Spectrum Intelligence man’s speech. With a trembling hand, he took the paper from Conners’ hand and was now reading it very quickly, unsure if it was real.

Immunity… But with conditions.

“What… what’s the alternative?” he asked, raising his head to Conners.

The latter raised a brow. “There is no alternative, Mr. Riordan,” he said in a very icy tone. “Or rather - you wouldn’t like it. It wouldn’t be very pleasant for you.” He left the explanation hanging, and closed the folder in a very brusque gesture. “I suggest you take that opportunity and hold on to it for dear life. It’s the only chance you’ll ever get to become an honest man. Not that I think you deserve it.” He turned his back on the open-mouthed, silent Riordan and walked toward the door to open it. “An agent will come to pick you up in two days and take you to your new assignment. I advise you to be here. Of course, you’ll be watched to ensure that you will be… Good day, Mr. Riordan.”

He didn’t wait to hear Riordan’s possible reply and stepped out, closing the door behind him. Still flabbergasted by the news, Riordan kept staring at the now closed door; he barely noticed the faint smile on Captain Ochre’s face. Now that Conners had gone, the officer was starting to relax.

“Wow,” Riordan finally murmured. “I can’t believe it… I… I fully expected to spend the rest of my life in prison and now… that Conners offers me this.”

“Mr Conners has got nothing to do with this, Matt,” Ochre then said. His smile had broadened, and he was now removing his cap. Now he seemed completely at ease. His eyes were brightening with enthusiasm. “He was merely the messenger of an administrative decision. Since you already found out a lot about the Mysterons and what they are able to do, and since you have had contact with Spectrum senior staff and know the secret identity of two of its members - that’s me and Captain Magenta - it seemed a good idea to… ‘hire’ you, so to speak.”

Blackmail me into accepting the offer is a more accurate description, Riordan pondered. But of course, he knew Conners was right. It was his only chance to start anew, to have a honest life after all those years of living on the fringe of the law, to escape the enemies he had made for himself, especially these last few days. He knew it would mean a very different life, probably he wouldn’t have benefit of all the luxury he had been accustomed to. But what else could he do? Besides, he was willing to do it.

Pat had done the same. That would be a fitting tribute.

“Captain Ochre… I… thank you for this opportunity. I won’t disappoint you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Matt. It wasn’t my idea. As I said, it was an administrative decision. You should thank Colonel White. But I doubt you’ll ever have the chance to meet him and do that. Once you receive the proper training, you will be assigned to one of our ground bases.”

“Where will I be sent?”

“I don’t know. But you won’t stay in New York, that’s a certainty. You must leave the city. Disappear totally, so people will forget about you. As far as everyone is concerned, Matt Riordan, member of the Donaghue gang, is better off considered dead.”

“If that’s what it takes… I can live with that.” He looked over the dark screen of the television set and gave a deep sigh. He had certainly picked up that Ochre had talked earlier about Pat, almost as if Pat was still alive. Now was perhaps the chance to tell the captain what had been bothering him lately. He started, with a slight hesitation in his voice. “Captain, I… I must say I’m… grateful for Spectrum’s intervention… but…”

“But?” Ochre said with a furrowed brow. “I sense there’s something bothering you, Matt.”

“It’s not… me, actually. But don’t you think Spectrum ought to also do something for Pat?” Riordan gestured angrily toward the television. “They’re dragging his good name through the mud - the media, that is. They’re passing him off as a murderer - they’re saying how he died a criminal’s death… But that’s not true. It wasn’t Pat who did all those horrible things. Pat was a good man. Why doesn’t Spectrum set the record straight? They owe it to Pat!”

“Indeed,” Ochre answered with a slow acknowledging nod. “But I’m afraid it’s not possible, Matt.”

“Another ‘administrative decision’?” Riordan scoffed.

“We can’t tell the truth to the world. That would be telling about the Mysterons. Or, at least, giving further substance to the rumours that are already out there… Besides,” Ochre added quickly, seeing that Riordan, obviously disgusted by the statement, was getting ready to protest further, “it would seem that this… incident… might also have its usefulness after all.”

“What usefulness is there in letting people believe that an evil man died under the identity of a good one?” Riordan grumbled.

Ochre shook his head. He inhaled deeply, before letting his breath go very slowly. “It could be useful when the good man wants the world at large to believe he’s dead,” he said very carefully.

At first, Riordan didn’t seem to register what Ochre had just told him; he stared at the captain without any expression on his face other than utter confusion, apparently struggling to understand what he meant. A frown appeared on his brow. “Wha-what are you saying now, Captain? What do you mean?”

There was a large smile on Ochre’s face when next he spoke. “I think you understood perfectly what I meant, Matt.”

Riordan’s eyes widened with disbelief. “P-pat…?”

“… Is alive and well.”

“B-b-but… the Mysteron agent… the double…”

“We call them ‘duplicates’, Matt.”

Riordan nodded vaguely, acknowledging the information, but not really listening to it. “He said Pat was dead and that he had taken his place,” he said insistently.

“He also told you Captain Scarlet was dead, didn’t he?” Ochre cut in pointedly. “And you know that wasn’t the case.” Ochre paused a second, before continuing, more quietly, “The Mysteron agent only thought Pat was dead. Obviously, he was wrong.”

“Pat’s alive,” Riordan murmured, still obviously shaken by the news. “I… can hardly believe it… How…?”

“It’s rather a long story, Matt,” Ochre sighed. “And a complicated one. I’ll leave the explanation to Pat himself, when next you see him. But the bottom line is that Pat - Captain Magenta - has been very lucky.”

“The luck of the Irish,” Riordan remarked with a smile, thinking that he himself had had some of that rub off onto him today. He chuckled, shaking his head. “You Spectrum officers are really a tough bunch, Captain! I can hardly believe you want me to be a part of your organisation. Me, a Spectrum agent?”

“We don’t expect you to be an ‘agent’, Matt,” Ochre said with a short laugh. “But you’ve got abilities that may be useful for Spectrum. For example, you’re very adept with computers.”

“I’m not as adept as Pat is himself,” Riordan defended himself with modesty. “Far from it.” He paused a second, as an afterthought came to the front of his mind. “You said that Pat will explain to me when I next see him. I… haven’t seen him yet.”

His voice sounded sad, and indeed he was sad inside. Knowing what he had gone through, why hadn’t Pat come yet to visit him in the hospital? Why hadn’t he shown any sign of life at all and already come to start explaining all about that Mysteron double of his? Unless…

“He’s all right, isn’t he?”

Captain Ochre gave a deep sigh. “Captain Magenta has been through a lot,” he confirmed, “and spent some time in the hospital. But he has been recuperating these last few days, and should be back on duty shortly. I know you’re wondering why he hasn’t come, but he couldn’t, Matt. And he couldn’t call you. What would you have thought if you had heard his voice over the phone?”

“That the Mysteron double was alive, and after me,” Riordan answered with a shiver. “But if Pat had come with you, Captain…”

“Just like you, he has to keep a low profile, avoid New York, at least for the time being. This whole terrible affair with the Mysteron duplicate put too much of a spotlight on Pat’s former life and the Syndicate he ran. Considering how the events have unfolded, it sounded a judicious idea now to at least use them to Pat’s best advantage. The world at large will believe New York mobster Patrick Donaghue dead - like they believe WGPC Commander Richard Fraser to be dead. That part of his life will now truly be behind Pat.” Ochre shook his head, and put on his cap. “But now that you know, and I’ve prepared the ground for him, he’ll contact you shortly. He’s been very worried about you, when he heard how you ended up in the hospital.”

“Where is he now?” Riordan asked thoughtfully.

“He had some… personal business to attend too. Very important, family business.”

Ever so slowly, Riordan nodded. Family business. Of course, that was certainly what Pat needed to do first. He would want to see Sarah and tell her exactly what had happened. That was the most sensible thing to do. And maybe he contacted the rest of his family in Ireland. The news of his ‘death’ must have made the headlines of many papers around the world, and even though Pat wasn’t on the best of terms with his father, he would certainly feel that he should at least tell him that his son didn’t die a criminal.

“Thank you for your visit, Captain,” Riordan said, watching as Ochre was preparing himself to leave. He lifted the document that Special Agent Conners had left him, and that he was still holding in his hand. “And thank you… for a new lease on life.”

“It may be an administrative decision, Mr. Riordan,” Ochre said with a broad smile, “but you won’t be surprised to learn that it was Pat’s suggestion to begin with.”

That made Riordan smile in turn. “I bet he had to plead and submit a lot of guarantees to your commander to make him accept that suggestion!”

“You don’t ‘make our commander accept’ anything he doesn’t want,” Ochre retorted. “But he knows Pat, and trusts his judgement.” He held out his hand. “I want to be the first to welcome you to Spectrum, Matt Riordan.”

Riordan shook the hand, vigorously. “Do tell Pat to take it easy. And that I’m expecting news from him as soon as he’s able to free himself.”

“I will,” Ochre promised. As soon as he’s back from Ireland.”

Riordan nodded. Ireland. So he was right. Pat had gone there to see his parents. Probably, his sister Sarah was there, too.

He wonder how it was going there, how Pat managed to confront his father.

Probably, it wasn’t the easiest thing for him to do.

* * *

The Spectrum Patrol Car stopped a few yards from the door leading to the residence of the small Innisfree dairy farm. It had been three years, Captain Magenta reflected, since he had come to this place. Since his father had thrown him out, to be precise. Despite the fact that he had wanted so very much to come back since that fateful day, Magenta had not found the courage to do so. Even now, he still wasn’t that sure that it was such a good idea. Facing his family, especially his father, after all that had happened, would be so terribly hard for him.

They thought him dead. Well, his parents did, anyway. How could he come to them now? How would they react upon seeing him alive? I’d rather face Mysterons, Magenta thought grimly. Well… Almost.

“Not getting cold feet, are you?”

Magenta turned to face Captain Scarlet, sitting behind the wheel of the car. His British counterpart was looking at him questioningly. Magenta uncomfortably shifted on his seat, and stroked the back of his head with his free hand. He was so nervous, his black hair was damp.

“Why am I here?” he murmured. “How can I do it? They read the papers… saw the TV news… They know about what happened in New York… They think I’m dead!”

Scarlet nodded thoughtfully. “That’s why you must see them,” he said insistently. “Pat, you can’t let them believe you died a criminal, a murderer, in fact. You must tell them the truth. Don’t you think they deserve that?”

“And what truth? That I gave up my syndicate in New York three years ago to enrol in Spectrum? And that I couldn’t find the courage to even tell them that?” Magenta grunted loudly. “I don’t even know if my father would believe me. Heck, I don’t know if I would believe myself! What if he feels I should have told him earlier? What if he’s angry at me for not telling him?”

“Patrick…” Scarlet reached to take his friend’s good shoulder, carefully avoiding the one that had been hurt recently, and squeezed it encouragingly. “It’s now or never. You have to tell them NOW. You can’t know how they will react… until you speak to them?”

Magenta’s face hardened. He was really tempted to turn around quickly and run as far as he could from this place. He felt that he wasn’t ready. But his friend’s words had reached him. Much to his annoyance.

“Why did I ask you to come with me?” he muttered.

“Because you needed me to be the voice of your conscience?” Scarlet offered with a brief smile. “Or perhaps it’s because I had to do exactly the same thing two years ago when I had to face my own family?”

“Before you say it, Scarlet, I really hate it when you’re right,” Magenta grumbled.

Scarlet smirked knowingly. “You know I am.”

Magenta gave an involuntary laugh. “You HAD to say it?”

“Yeah, for two reasons,” Scarlet replied cryptically.

“Which are?” Magenta asked in a tone that suggested he already regretted the question.

“Well, firstly -” he grinned, “- it’s true.”

“And secondly?”

Scarlet gave an exaggerated shrug. “It made you laugh.” He watched the smile widening on his friend’s face. That had worked. “Now, go and find them, tell them.”

Magenta heaved a heavy sigh. It wasn’t Scarlet’s cajoling that drew his noisy response, it was the sight of his sister, Sarah, who had just stepped out of the farmhouse and seen the Spectrum car, parked at some distance from it. He could see the look of concern etched clearly on her face as she ran from the farmhouse to the car, obviously wondering what was going on.

“Okay,” Scarlet began, “you can start with Sarah.” Turning his head, Scarlet watched, dumbfounded, as Magenta tried desperately to merge with his seat, his head bowed. By the time he looked up once more, Sarah was at the side of the car.

“Miss Donaghue,” Scarlet greeted her as he opened his door and stepped out.

“Captain Scarlet,” she replied, with a thin, forced smile. She remembered the officer. She had met him all those months ago, when Pat had finally told her about his life as a Spectrum officer.

Scarlet looked into her eyes. She had clearly been crying - of that, there could be no doubt. But behind the sadness, he could see hurt, anger and disappointment. She was surely wondering what had happened for her brother to have apparently left Spectrum, to return to the mob and die the way he did. It was all he could take. Leaning back inside the car, he vented his frustration.

“Out!”

Startled by the loud cry, Magenta snapped his head up, his eyes wide and mouth open in astonishment.

Sarah’s eyes followed Scarlet’s gaze, widening as they reached the object of the English captain’s outburst.

“Pat?” she breathed. “But…” She turned her head to face Scarlet’s sympathetic smile as she struggled to find the words. “…How?”

Slowly, uncertainly, Magenta stepped from the car, his movements akin to a hospital patient taking a first few tentative steps following a major operation. Rounding the car gingerly, he appeared to be trying to start a sentence numerous times before finding the right words.

“You remember a few months ago when you found out that I joined Spectrum?”

Numbly, Sarah nodded as he approached her.

“Well, it’s like that… sort of… not what you were originally led to believe.”

“How articulate you can be,” Scarlet commented dryly.

Now standing only two feet from Sarah, Magenta scowled and continued. “There was a guy… He looked like me, used my name… That’s all. It wasn’t me.”

“It’s been nearly two weeks,” Sarah replied pointedly, stunned but angry.

“I’ve been in hospital.”

“Your hands look okay.”

“Er, yeah,” Magenta replied, puzzled by the remark. He didn’t want to tell her about his injured shoulder and how it was still itching. That Doctor Fawn had agreed to let him out of sickbay so soon after his ordeal was little short of a miracle.

“You could have made a phone call!” Sarah snapped, finally specifying what his apparently thick mind didn’t seem to comprehend.

“You thought I was dead, how could I call? ‘Hi, sis, how’s it going? By the way, I’m not dead…’ I would have given you a heart attack!”

“Don’t get clever with me, Patrick!” she retorted heatedly. “We’ve been to Hell and back here!”

“It’s not like I planned all this,” Magenta replied in a similar tone.

Scarlet’s eyes widened in utter surprise as the diminutive Sarah swung a furious right hook at Magenta’s jaw, catching him completely unawares; he spun backwards, his shoulders pressing against the shiny red finish of the car before dropping heavily to a sitting position on the ground. Tentatively putting a hand to his jaw, he looked up, at first bewildered and uncertain. Without having time to even try to speak, Magenta was almost smothered by his sister’s arms as they wrapped around him, Sarah knelt at his side, tears flowing from her eyes as she murmured almost incomprehensible complaints against her ‘stupid big brother’. He stifled the groan that almost escaped his lips when in her warm embrace, she squeezed his wounded shoulder a little too tightly for his comfort.

“Pocket, I’m sorry, really, I never meant for any of this.”

Sarah pulled back, drying her eyes as she did so. “I know.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m ashamed to admit, I believed what they said on TV.”

“I should have called. Well, I tried to, in New York. But I guess you’d already left.”

Sarah nodded. “Almost straight away after I saw the news. I had to come here. Had to be with Mammy and Pappy when… I’m sorry, Pat, I…”

“Don’t be. I saw the news too! I almost believed it, and I KNEW it wasn’t me!”

Sarah emitted a short awkward laugh. “Better late than never, eh?”

“Did you… tell Pappy and Mammy about me being in Spectrum?”

“No.” Sarah shook her head. “After the news, I didn’t know what to think anymore… so I kept silent.”

“Right,” Magenta replied thoughtfully. “I have to speak to Pappy. Tell him everything.”

Sarah’s expression darkened once more. “Oh, Pat, I’m so glad. Pappy’s barely said a word since we heard.”

“That bad?” Magenta frowned. “I knew he hated me, but…”

“Hated you?!” Sarah cried, astonished by the statement. “Pat, he loves you. The news… it broke his heart.” There was a dumbfounded expression on Magenta’s face at this revelation. She smiled as she took his hands, “but you can mend that easily enough.”

“I let him down,” Magenta admitted sadly.

“So make up,” came the simple reply. “You’re both ready now.”

Magenta took a deep breath. “Where is he?”

Sarah let out a deep sigh and turned her eyes downward. “Where he’s been almost every minute since we heard.”

“Where?” her puzzled brother asked.

“In the stables.”

“Stables? Why?”

“With Pellinore, of course.”

“The horse I bought him?” Magenta, choked with emotion, stumbled on the words.

Sarah smiled again. “He loves him. And when he heard the news about your… death, it was as if that horse was the last thing that still ties in to you.”

Magenta looked towards Scarlet, silently pleading. His English colleague took the hint almost immediately and stepped forward.

“Miss Donaghue? Perhaps I could follow you indoors and explain everything to you and your mother… while Pat goes to talk with your father?”

Sarah smiled at Scarlet. He was tactful, she’d give him that. Getting to her feet, she waited as Magenta did the same and dusted himself down, methodically. Squeezing his arm, she smiled and nodded.

“It’ll be fine,” she added encouragingly.

Magenta found himself nodding in response. Taking a deep breath, he turned his eyes in the direction of the stables.

“Good luck, Pat,” Scarlet offered.

Magenta turned to face Scarlet and Sarah; he suddenly seemed calmer, as if the decision, having been made, was now much less of an ordeal.

“Thanks, Paul. Oh, and Sarah?”

“Yes?”

“Good right hook,” he replied, moving his lower jaw with his hand from right to left.

Sarah reddened at the words, her eyes widening at the memory. “I’m so sorry, Pat!”

Scarlet snorted. “Don’t be, he deserved it!”

“Thanks, man, very supportive,” Magenta replied, with a grin as wide as Sarah’s.

“You go to the stables, Captain Magenta. Now!”

“S.I.G…” Magenta exhaled deeply and nodded. It was time.

***

It was only a short walk to the stables but each of Magenta’s steps was slow and filled with trepidation. He wasn’t prepared. No, that wasn’t true, he’d gone over this moment in his head a dozen times or more since the end of the mission. In not one of the scenarios he had imagined had he allowed himself the possibility that his father would forgive him his past. The most he had hoped for was that he was, at best, pleased to see him still alive, but there was always that nagging doubt, that terrible uncertainty deep inside of him. What if he wasn’t pleased to see him at all?

Finally, he reached the stables; he felt sick, his breathing quick and shallow. It had been here, all those years ago, that his father had rejected him totally and thrown him off the farm, insisting that he had no son. Numb at the words, Magenta had left the farm never to return until now. Had he turned around only seconds after that fateful moment, he would have seen his father overcome with grief. Perhaps if either of them had tried a little harder to put aside their hurt pride, the heart attack that almost killed Sean Donaghue only two days later would not have happened. In her attempt to protect her husband, Lily had refused to let their son visit him in hospital, so fearful was she that another fit of anger might kill him. To Pat, it had been a final condemnation by his father; their link, he believed, was irreparably severed.

Magenta pulled himself back to the present, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. The door was open. This was it. He stepped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden comparative darkness inside the stables, a flood of noises and smells assaulted his senses only serving to bring the whole episode of his last encounter with his father back to the forefront of his mind. He put his hands to his face as he tried once more to compose himself and force himself not to turn and run.

From the far side of the stable, he heard a light whinny followed by a man’s voice. The man was comforting the horse, talking to him in a reassuring, calming tone. As Magenta stepped silently closer, he saw his father, standing, slowly grooming the horse that he recognised instantly as Pellinore. It had only been a few years, but Sean looked so much older. His broad shoulders seemed to have sagged considerably. Magenta was a little taken aback; from what Sarah had told him, Sean Donaghue had made a slow, but complete recovery of his heart attack. At the moment he looked weaker, low-spirited, almost stooping - he wasn’t standing as tall and proud as the man Magenta remembered. It was hurting him; there was no doubt in his mind that he was responsible for this dejected appearance in his father.

Closer and closer, barely daring to breathe, Magenta almost choked with emotion as he heard his father’s words and realised that he was telling Pellinore about the happier times he had spent with his son when Pat had been just a boy.

“You know, Pellinore,” he sighed, as he slowly drew the grooming brush down the horse’s sleek brown neck, “I loved that boy. I never stopped loving him. He was my son, and I turned him away. Maybe it’s my fault? Maybe I drove him to it? He always said he never hurt anyone, what if I hurt him so much that I drove him to it?”

Upon hearing those words, Magenta prepared himself to protest loudly, to tell his father that it wasn’t the case, that he wasn’t responsible for anything at all. But as he took a next, tentative step, and before the words reached his lips, his foot hit a bucket which was in his path. The bucket fell over with a loud clatter, spilling water on the ground. Startled, Sean turned to see the tall figure standing only a few feet away. With the bright sunlight streaming through the open door, the man was little more than a silhouette, and Sean found himself squinting to make out the identity of the newcomer.

“Who’s there? Kieran, is that you?”

Unprepared, and unwilling to give his father a second heart attack due to the sudden shock of seeing him alive, Magenta decided to try to explain slowly and with care. He swallowed hard.

“I couldn’t let you believe the news reports. They weren’t true.”

“P-Patrick?” The word stumbled out of Sean’s mouth as he recognised his son’s voice. “But… I… is it really you?”

“Yes, Pappy, I couldn’t let you believe…”

Magenta was interrupted abruptly as his father rushed the short distance between them and threw his arms around his son in a tight embrace. At first stunned by the reaction, Magenta’s arms hovered uncertainly above his father’s back as his anxious and bewildered mind responded slowly to the unexpected response. It seemed an age before he allowed his arms to return the welcome embrace. He bit his lip against the growing pain in his injured shoulder - Sean’s bear hug was certainly stronger than Sarah’s. Magenta’s eyes closed tightly and his jaw clenched in bitter-sweet agony as he felt his father shake in his arms with gut wrenching sobs, and tears flowed from his eyes.

“Pappy,” he whispered eventually, “I’m so sorry. I’d give anything to turn back the clock. I never meant for you to be so unhappy.”

“Unhappy?” Sean returned as he drew back from his son and composed himself. “I have my son. I don’t understand how, but I have my son. How could I be unhappy?” His hands still on Magenta’s shoulders, he looked at him with a frown. “So you didn’t die in New York?” he murmured uncomfortably.

“No,” Magenta almost whispered. “It wasn’t me. Pappy, the news… it wasn’t me, not any of it.”

“Not any of it?” Sean repeated, confused by the statement. “But your gang…”

“Not mine. I…” Magenta struggled for the words. “I left the mob three years ago.”

Magenta saw the changed expression in his father’s eyes and returned a puzzled glance of his own. He wasn’t sure if Sean had heard a single word of what he just told him, as he was scrutinising him from head to toes, seemingly noticing at last the way he was dressed.

“Where did you get this?” Sean asked abruptly, tugging on the deep pink tunic.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you…”

“Did you steal it? Are you on the run?”

Sean’s tone had become suddenly angry. There was also a hint of disappointment in it, as well as worry. Briefly, Magenta had felt the power of the relief of his father at the revelation that he was alive. It had brought tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat; his father loved him, there was no way he was going to allow that feeling to slip through his fingers once more, especially not because of this new notion that his father was presently entertaining of his situation. The absurd accusation made him smile despite himself.

“No, Pappy,” he said, gripping his father’s arms and staring into his eyes. “It’s mine. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Three years ago, I left the mob to join Spectrum, but I didn’t have the guts to tell you.”

It seemed too much to take in, in only one sentence. Sean was visibly struggling with mixed feelings. He wanted to believe his son, but could he? Pat had never lied to him before, of that he was certain. Could what he was telling him now be true?

“I’m sorry, Pappy, Sarah’s known for a few months, but I begged her not to tell you. With you all thinking I was dead, I didn’t know if she’d have said anything, but she told me that after hearing the news she didn’t know what to think, so she said nothing,” Magenta continued to speak without really knowing what to say or why he was saying it.

“Sarah knew? And she didn’t tell us?”

“I asked her not to.”

“Why?”

Magenta swallowed hard. “I was afraid.”

“Of what?” Sean asked, his voice edged with confusion.

“I didn’t think it would be enough to wipe the slate clean. I didn’t want you to think that… that it was only a way to buy your approval, your affection. I couldn’t bear to lose you again.”

Sean sighed deeply, a faint smile tugging as his lips. “Oh, Patrick, you’re such a fool! I always said that Sarah got all the common sense out of the pair of you. All we ever wanted was you to lead a law-abiding life. But look at you!” A laugh escaped his lips as he spoke. “You go from one extreme to the other and you think that’s not good enough!?”

Magenta lowered his eyes and offered a weak smile. “I never thought of it like that.”

“I can’t believe you’re alive. I just can’t believe it! I prayed and prayed for your soul and look…it’s me who gets forgiven.”

“You? What have you done wrong?”

“I was proud, Pat. Too blasted proud. The number of times I reached for the phone and stopped myself from calling you... I’m sorry, son, can you forgive me?”

The words came to him with a dream-like quality. Never had he imagined a reconciliation with his father so complete and unconditional. With a sob, he pulled his father close in an embrace as tight and emotionally charged as their first.

“So,” Sean began again, clearing his throat. “You’re a colour-coded Spectrum officer then…”

“Yes.” Magenta rubbed his palms over his eyes, but his flushed cheeks and dampened eyelashes gave him away.

“That’s a rather privileged position within that organisation, I hear. How high in the rank?”

“Pretty high,” Magenta said non-committally, an amused smile starting to draw itself on his lips.

“What do I call you? Officially.”

“Captain Magenta.”

“Magenta? Well, it could have been worse,” Sean laughed. “Couldn’t you have gone for green?”

Magenta shrugged. “It had already gone. Besides, don’t you think I’m a little tall to be dressed like a leprechaun?”

Sean laughed, taking his son’s arms in his hands to look him over again. Glancing up, he caught sight of three figures standing in the doorway.

“Lily?”

Magenta turned, his eyes wide with joy.

“Mammy?”

The frail figure of Lily Donaghue left the doorway where she was standing with her daughter Sarah and Captain Scarlet, to run straight at her son, who caught her in his arms and held her, tears now freely flowing onto his cheeks. There were few words exchanged, as the two only seemed to want to bask in each other’s warmth. Finally, Lily stepped back and looked up with a beaming smile into the face of her son - whom she felt she had not seen for an eternity but whose memory had never left her.

“When they had told me all about it,” she said to Magenta, gesturing toward Sarah and Scarlet, “I didn’t know what to believe… And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to think you were dead and that you died like a criminal. I knew deep inside of me that it couldn’t be true.”

“Your feeling was right, Mammy,” Magenta said with a broad smile.

“I’m so glad that you are home, son,” Lily said in a shaking voice, hugging him once more. “You’ll have to tell us all about yourself since last you came. About Spectrum and your new life…”

“I will, Mammy.” He looked down at her, his eyes bright with happiness. “Over one of those wonderful dinners that only you can make. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamed of eating those again!”

Lily started laughing, and turned towards the doorway, still holding on to her son. Magenta felt the heavy hand of his father landing on his shoulder and looked back; Sean Donaghue was beaming proudly, his shoulders no longer sagged, the very image of the man his son remembered him to be. But it was only when they reached the door and Sarah, almost timidly, with a smile on her face, tiptoed up to plant an affectionate kiss on his cheek that Pat Donaghue truly felt like he was back home again. He fought hard not to show too many of the emotions inside of him, not in front of Scarlet, who, up until now, had been keeping away, but whose presence couldn’t be ignored for long.

Clearing the lump from his throat, Magenta faced the English officer. “Pappy, this is my colleague in Spectrum - and my friend - Captain Scarlet.”

“A good afternoon to you, sir,” Sean Donaghue said, exchanging a handshake with Scarlet

“And the rest of the day to yourself, Mr Donaghue,” Scarlet answered.

“I see my son instructed you well, Captain,” Sean remarked, his smile widening even more - if it were possible.

“He is a man anyone would be proud to call his friend, Mr Donaghue.”

“Can I invite you to a genuine Irish family home-cooked dinner?”

Scarlet hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to intrude…”

“You won’t. Any friend of Patrick is part of this family. Please. I’ll consider it an honour. You’ll be able to tell us tales of our son in Spectrum.”

Scarlet raised a brow in amusement. “I don’t know if that’d be wise, Mr Donaghue…” Seeing Sean’s puzzled expression, he continued in a confidential tone and with a nod towards Sarah and Lily, “Some of those tales are too wild to describe in front of ladies…”

Sean Donaghue guffawed loudly, while his son started turning the same shade of colour as Scarlet’s uniform. He felt the hand of his father patting his shoulder affectionately; looking at him, Pat had to admit that he had not seen his father like this, so relaxed, so happy and proud for such a long time. He looked like a changed man now, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

And frankly, Pat Donaghue could relate to that. He felt quite the same.

“Shall we go now?” Sean pointed toward the little farmhouse standing a few yards away.

As they headed in that direction, Captain Scarlet discreetly walked a few steps behind, allowing the family its private and joyful reunion, smiling as he witnessed how Pat now seemed so very close to his parents and sister.

The wayward son had finally come back to his home.

THE END