Agent DaCoy: One More Mission

Agent DaCoy: One More Mission

by

Paul J. Bagnell

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Published By

Paul J. Bagnell on Smashwords

Agent DaCoy: One More Mission

This ebook-in-publication data/copy is on file with the Library of Congress.

ISBN: 978-0-9866159-4-8

Copyright 2013 & TM by Paul J. Bagnell

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Dedicated to:

Madonna B.

Acknowledgement:

Much thanks to my friend Gastavo for creating the Jon DaCoy cover art.

*****

Table of Contents

C1: Blackout Man

C2: Explanation Exercise

C3: Hard Realization

C4: Scratch Post Inn

C5: Mission Cap

C6: Stress Doctors

C7: Impossible Adventure

C8: Twin Voyage

C9: Steel Wings of Destiny

C10: Bring-It-On Vibration

C11: Furious Plight

C12: Corporate Combat Scheme

C13: Antiterrorist Unit

C14: Ballroom Teaser

C15: Russian Billionaire

C16: Tail Stink

C17: One More Door & Sleep

C18: Best Half-Brothers

C19: Killer Dreams

C20: Merging Powers

C21: Combat Force

C22: The Attack Plan

C23: Satellite Fever

C24: Global Damage Doctor

C25: Giant Kill

C26: Firing Line

C27: Rumble Tumble

C28: Catch & Break

C29: Blinded Love

C30: Past Signs

C31: Big Brother Syndrome

C32: Hot Blooded & Swift Fists

C33: Smash & Burn Strategy

C34: Flight & Abu

C35: Coiled Expression

C36: Ready Approach

C37: Full Circle Command

C38: Communications Objective

C39: Confrontation Countdown

C40: Blood Bath Surprise

C41: Global Secrecy Plan

C42: Fugitive Salad Special

C43: Convergence Brotherhood

C44: Last Laser-Spy Breath

C45: Presidential Acknowledgement

C46: Sting & Coyle

C47: Guns & Battle

C48: Mission Architecture

C49: Reinstatement Tactics

C50: Impossible Confusion

C51: Confinement & Heightened Chaos

C52: Hard & Fast Kill

C53: Maze & Complexity Syndrome

C54: Money & Flight Detonation

C55: Ground & Pound Treatment

C56: Shoulders Might

C57: Conclusive Rest & Relaxation

C1: The Blackout Man

Doctor Banter eased into the hard leather examination room bench across from where his mentally crippled patient sat. Mr. Jon DaCoy, the doctor said with a dry smoker’s mouth. According to the county District Attorney's imposed clinical decree, my psychological evaluation is complete, although I'm totally unsatisfied with the court's imposed medical constraints and allotted duration. He sucked his lips as if his lungs craved a king-size haul of cigarette smoke. Much to my regret I must release you to the village Sheriff's department for transport back to Spring Valley lockup. Even though I haven't completely concluded my psychoanalysis, my request to broaden your treatment plan has been (he bent forward) flatly denied.

DaCoy exhibited no abnormal behavioral symptoms; he sat as still as concrete; then he cracked a reserved smile and stretched his six-foot-three inch frame in the fortified steel medical armchair. He pulled his flat brown hair back away from his observant blue eyes as he inhaled a lungful of sterile hospital air. It was obvious that he possessed an athletic build—developed from years of cardiovascular and strength training—when he inflated his chest with a ton of pent-up energy. By his calm demeanor and clean appearance, no jury would believe he was capable of committing a horrendous act against humanity. Surely, the evidence surrounding the investigation would condemn him to a life sentence if he were lucky.

The doctor opened a manila-colored file folder and drew out a standard hospital release form as if it were the first time he'd ever seen one. Jon, I reviewed your medical dossier a hundred times. Much to my anxiety, I can't understand how a man of forty-six years was born at the ripe old age of twenty-one, the doctor said with a concerned smile as he stripped off his eyewear. Maybe you can comment truthfully while we wait for your secure transportation.

DaCoy ignored the doctor's delicate analytical extraction tactics. You think I killed my wife, don't you? he said, and rocked back in the chair with his hands knotted behind his head and stared at the doctor with a less than friendly expression.

Well, Jon, you know I can't answer that; but I will note one thing. My detailed evaluation clearly indicates that you're one hundred percent physically healthy, and according to my professional opinion, fifty percent mentally fit to stand trial and to answer to the charges. Banter glanced at his watch; it indicated 8:25 a.m. Jon, in a few minutes you'll be leaving us. From now on, your future rests in the hands of the New York State justice system.

Jon shifted his lean two-hundred and twenty-five pounds in the chair when a heavy woman in hospital greens banged on the door, and a heavy man walked into the room. His badge glared: Deputy Daley. He was a large, heavy, sturdy-looking man about five-foot-ten with a thick chest and jolly girth that hung over his belt. Presumably, the unhealthy result of years of overeating and late night indulgences. Daley, obviously a former football linebacker, barked with an overconfident New England emphasis, a defensive shield used to screen a bellyful of self-pity and growing discontent for life since he injured his knee on the field in his second year of pro ball and was retired to pasture. Now he wore a blue patrol jacket that was unnaturally tight around the waist, which didn't seem to hide his gut from hanging out. OK, hotshot, Daley barked and pulled off his dollar store shades; the years of frustration showed as he stared down at DaCoy. You think this fruitful medical facility is a fancy-dancing spa for dirt-bag, crap-ass butchers like you? He cracked a pissed-off smile.

DaCoy read the cop’s badge. "Deputy Daley, just slap on the standard nickel and take me back to the slammer and leave the amateur jokes for the professional criminals and don’t breathe your donut breath on me. It’s making me sick.

The big man hunched closer. He planted his tactical boot on the seat of the chair and arched forward for a clean view of his prisoner’s clear eyes. Don’t call me Daley. To you and all your shit-bag kind, it’s Deputy Dal. Got that crap-bag? The big man elevated his fat mass to his natural height and planted his foot flat on the floor. The last crap-holder that called me Daley got a fist shoved down his voice box.

Well, I haven’t yet been served breakfast; and what you’re serving, sounds a bit more tasty than hospital grub, DaCoy retorted bluntly.

Dal grinned militantly and said: A real wise guy looking for the nightstick over the neural computer, as he mashed his hands together. So, once you leave this State-funded paradise, the things you've enjoyed here the most will just become a toasted memory. He straightened out his chest with a force that dictated authority. Now, you’re my prisoner and in my world, a world where crime does not pay; so, step out of line and feel the force of my size 12 leather stomper up your fanny.

Deputy Dal, the doctor said as he stood forward, enough of your vulgar police force brutality; put your signature on this custody authorization form. (He pushed the file folder toward the end of the medical supplies cart.) And then take your recovering, mentally strained human cargo and get going. The doctor faced DaCoy. There seemed to be a need to spiritually embrace the man, but he remained footed. I’m sorry Jon. You’re on your own now; take care of yourself.

DaCoy attempted to peacefully extend his hand in the doctor’s direction, but Deputy Dal knocked it downward, and still.

Doc, don’t worry about this shit-maker; hopefully, DaCoy’s going to the electric chair for his killing ways, Deputy Dal said as he latched onto the paperwork and scrolled his John Henry across the form. It'll be my pleasure to take this killer off your hands and out of society. DaCoy, just remember, no fancy business. There hasn't been an escape from my custody in the ten years since I've been with the department. And any man who'd slaughter his wife in cold blood, in my opinion, deserves the death sentence.

So, fat man, DaCoy said with an inflamed confidence, you're pretty sure I killed my wife.

DaCoy, did I tell you to speak? I've seen the murder scene photos; hell, even been to the murder scene. You're nothing but a dirt-bag shit, living a dirt-bag shit life. You don't deserve to live with the rest of us decent folks. Dal placed his hands on his hips, a pose which made his torso appear twice as fat. I've heard all about your martial arts routines and fancy kicks and lovey-dovey presentations. You prancing-type guys remind me of a bunch of sissies dancing around kicking your feet like flower-picking ballet dancers.

I practice the art for mental well-being and self-defense—nothing else; so screw you.

The fat man laughed with what sounded like a constipated gut. Do you see these? Dal held up his large hands and squeezed them into balls that looked like oversized grapefruits. These are what got me hired as a deputy; these will keep me here, and these will keep you under my control until I lock you up; and if I were authorized to do so, throw away the key.

Deputy Dal, would you excuse me, Doctor Banter said quietly, I have other patients to appraise and cure, and turned towards DaCoy. Jon, I’m defeated for an explanation: twenty-five years of practicing clinical psychiatry, he fondled the smudged lenses in their black rimmed frames with his clean white medical smock, your case history is the most odd and troublesome.

It comes with years of mind-fuck practice; don’t lose your mind over it, DaCoy added as he watched Doctor Banter ease the door closed and disappeared.

DaCoy, shut up and don't get too comfortable, Dal ordered forcefully and pulled a set of handcuffs from his duty belt. If you're thinking about resisting, (he gripped the handle of his gun) don't make me pull the trigger.

DaCoy understood the implications of unnecessary gunfire.

You're scum and filth, Dal scolded. I'd blow you away for a shit-covered nickel. Just give me a crap-induced reason.

DaCoy extended his arms, clenched his fists, and eyed the fat man's clumsy movement as he waited for the shackles.

I've seen your type before; you think you're a hurricane, but you're nothing more than a bag of cow-shit wind, Dal babbled as he jingled the handcuffs as if dangling a dainty tea cup by his fat fingers.

I'd say you have plenty of wind in that shit locker, DaCoy said; he was beginning to loath the fat man's personality.

DaCoy, hopefully, the legal system is going to screw your balls into a light socket and pull the switch, (he was about to snap on the irons) but till then…once I'm through with you, you're going to wish you were never spawn out the cow's manure factory.

DaCoy seized the moment; he rammed his fist outward like an exploding piston that shot out from an engine crank and struck the fat man on the sternum; the force knocked the wind from his fat body.

Dal staggered upright, gasping for air and holding his chest. He surrendered the handcuffs to the floor, expressionless, unable to regain his breath or focus his watery eyes on his prisoner and appeared to be on the verge of toppling over.

Sorry, Deputy Daley! Now I need your service jacket, sunglasses and your gun belt. Just for the record, I didn't butcher my wife; someday I hope you'll believe that, DaCoy admitted as he started to remover the deputy's belt and jacket. A little large around the waist, aren't we? he verbally poked as he donned the fat man's jacket; and eased the big man into a chair. You relax and don't take a heart attack; we wouldn't want that, would we?

Just then, a voice bellowed from Dal's communications device positioned in the deputy's jacket, now confiscated by DaCoy.

Dal, Roddy here; what's taking you so long? Do you need my assistance?

Who owns this squeaky mouth, fat man—your partner? DaCoy asked and handled the talkie.

The fat man couldn't command his husky body or tempered voice and continued to struggle for breath as his vocal cords seemed temporarily disabled.

Roddy, come on up, DaCoy ordered in a roly-poly tone. I’ve had some trouble with DaCoy; the S.O.B. didn't want to submit so I knocked him a ham sandwich.

Dal, not again; I'm on my way up, Roddy replied wholeheartedly.

Well, then, fat man, DaCoy said; by the time your partner arrives, I'll be on my way to New York City. (He laughed with a lungful of memories.) Losing a prisoner is extremely embarrassing, especially for an obnoxious gorilla like you. Once you get back to the jail you're going to have a lot of explaining to do, he said as he cuffed the deputy to the chair.

Dal tried to cuss, but he was still winded and witnessed DaCoy leaving the room and quietly closing the door.

Simple as cake from an oven, DaCoy declared silently as he strolled down the long corridor and past a team of hospital staffers, who seemed preoccupied chatting about what they did last night and what patients were causing the most disturbance in their sections.

DaCoy intensified his already hurried steps. Staff members cordially acknowledged the officer without identifying him as a cop impersonator seconds before he disappeared into an empty stairwell that led to the main floor. He flew down three flights, two and three risers at a time, until he reached the bottom. There was only one security officer posted at the main foyer monitoring the system and sorting miniature mounds of smart-looking paperwork. DaCoy hurried past the duty officer and waved nonchalantly; the duty guard returned the law enforcement gesture.

The deputy's vehicle was parked in the emergency zone; its four-ways flashed hazard-red. Spare keys were installed in the fat cop’s front jacket pocket. DaCoy inserted the key and cranked the engine; then he pulled away. He glanced in the side view mirror and expected to see the fat man running out the front door screaming Stop that man but there was no dramatic event. The thought seemed comical in a strange way. He saluted the main-gate pay clerk, who just glanced up from a textbook and instructed forward. DaCoy was free—the first time in over a month—it felt uplifting. He knew his wife was alive. Why would she fake her own death? That was a burning question that he'd first solve, and a good place to start searching was in the Village at Zoba's place otherwise known as The Skull Bar.

C2: The Explanation Exercise

Roddy charged through the examination room door fully expecting to see DaCoy on the floor. Holy crap, Dal, (Roddy seemed totally surprised) What happened? He helped his fat partner upright and stable.

Just uncuff me and don’t ask stupid questions Dal said and contorted his mouth.

Roddy was obviously classified as a new recruit, less than a year’s experience in Spring Valley Sheriff’s Department. He was, minimally, five-foot-eight, and seemingly got employed because of his father's political connections within City Hall. I heard you say that you knocked him cold and made him see Tweedy; yet, you were bunched up on the chair like a baby.

Shut up Roddy, Dal barked and straightened up his crumbled mass. DaCoy must have used some of that fancy ballet-dancing, voodoo black-magic hand work on me. Son-of-a-bitch lifted my gun; that goddamn jacket cost me seventy-five bucks plus tax, and I hope my keys weren’t in the damn jacket. He crunched his fists. When I find him: I'll rip out his lungs and eat 'em for bloody, payback-time breakfast, Then he headed towards the room’s exit.

As soon as Dal and Roddy arrived at the precinct to inform their captain—who was on the phone and ordered them to wait outside the office—that they lost their prisoner and the police cruiser, things didn’t look too secure. They fully understood that the continuance of their bimonthly paychecks were in serious jeopardy, and the general public was at risk. Captain Braylin stood at the door and drew the window shades as if to contain his ex-wife's verbal fire within the office confinement. The two turkey oddballs couldn't understand the nucleus of the captain’s heated ass-chewing, yet they didn’t want to know.

The two physically dissimilar dodo cops were nervous. It was common knowledge within the office that Braylin served in several precincts during his twenty-eight-year career on the force and was very tough on the men. During his younger years he was recruited by the secret service primarily to protect VIPs. His poker face and droopy eyes masked the years of stress and worry that came with the job and the responsibility for the ongoing training and mentorship of twenty-five badges and command of the gun shop. He stood in the doorway and shouted, You two knuckleheads get in here; you've got a lot of explaining to do. I sent you on a very simple task and have you come back without our man.

Sir, Dal admitted bravely, he punched me; I couldn't breathe; I'm lucky to be alive.

He punched me! I couldn't breathe! You sound like a real banana. What the hell am I going to do with you two tomatoes? My head's already on the chopping block. The white media would love to burn my sorry African American ass on the evening news if, or when, they find out Jon DaCoy—who, by the way, wasted his freaking wife—escaped and that I'm responsible for this fiasco. Braylin took a deep breath, expelled a moan and then sunk into his swivel chair.

Captain, for what it's worth, Dal said carefully, I heard DaCoy say he was going to the city.

New York City. Braylin's spine straightened as if big-city-light greed was setting in. I'd go get DaCoy myself, but somebody has to supervise all you screw-ups. He had to think, if not, he'd crack their heads and satisfy his anxiety. Your reward for stupidity is that I'm sending you two bean-heads to do the dirty work. Dal, Roddy! I'm ordering each of you to go to the Big Apple and find that good-looking bastard as quick as you can. He tossed them a mug shot of DaCoy. I'm giving you two lovebirds twenty-four hours so get going and don't come back without our killer.

C3: The Hard Realization

DaCoy passed through the Holland Tunnel en route to the First National Bank in Manhattan. His body and mind seemed feverish. He powered down the police cruiser's driver-side window and breathed deeply. It was extremely warm for a September day with little or no breeze at least in Manhattan.

There was always a unique experience when he visited New York. He could go for days without sleep and only face a fraction of the city's endless diversity and always enjoyed the unpredictable atmosphere when he and his wife, Dana, drove down from their upstate manor for an evening of dinner and dance. Regretfully, he never told her the truth of his secret profession. Maybe that was a giant mistake, but he knew she suspected something other than - him being a financial consultant for an international investment firm. He remembered what she said to him one day out of the blue. Jon, you're attracted to danger. I knew it the first time we met. You made me feel alive with excitement. Danger, she was right about that. It was his middle name. There was no one more experienced than he. Looking death in the eye and smashing the world's most notorious terrorist masterminds was something he did with skill and accuracy. Now he was facing murder charges. He had to prove his wife was still alive. An obvious but a forced solution—he'd reassume his secret life as an Industrial Protection Agent.

The uneven pavement's lumps, bumps and humps and the cruiser's grumpy V-8 power plant frayed his overactive mind—a jarring, through-provoking combination that seemed to dislodge a neural nest of seeded memories collected over a twenty-five-year career span with the Industrial Protection Agency—while he stopped and waited for the stop-light signal to change green. As he so boldly remembered, he had just finished prep-school and had no immediate ambitions to attend university or to live in a dead-end job. That regular Thursday morning community newspaper arrived on the doorstep. There was a strong scent of autumn's urgency in the air. He anxiously thumbed through the employment section as a small, square, plain-looking advertisement seemed to jump out at him. It stated—WANTED; Young Men and Women to Fill Security Sector Positions Abroad. He was curious and called the number. He was eventually introduced to a man identified as Mr. Marquee. After a detailed selection process and chosen from a group of ambitious individuals, he soon began an untraditional education with ten others—three of whom were women. When the grueling physical testing and psychological mind-games had been completed, Mr. Marquee singled him out and revealed. It is reserved for few and considered an honor. He just listened, not knowing what to expect and allowed Mr. Marquee to continue. Over the years our country has been blistered with plots of destruction. Our secret forces have become infested with operatives who'd gladly sell their mother's soul to the highest bidding extremist. Within the private security industry, I am known as Boa, a veteran contract agent for the American government's classified security sector. I am offering you the opportunity to train within our group and serve the country that cradles you by day and protects you by night. The IPA is a secret organization which fights to protect corporate industrial secrets. We are licensed agents for hire. We are citizens of no country; and in an odd way, citizens to all member countries. Now it is a worthy decision and an important life. It is a big step; but if you accept my offer, your life will begin anew and you will be inducted into the secrecy of the Industrial Protection Agency and become an agent for life.

I somewhat understand the stringent implications, but why choose me?

I have recruited many successful agents for the FBI and CIA. Your aptitude and endurance is strong. You will make an excellent protection broker. With time, new opportunities will emerge; and after an intensive training program, you will be ready to manage and deploy covert operations. I must also inform you, all new IPA agents are issued new identities and a family list of contacts, which you can rely on anywhere in the world...

The early years faded from DaCoy's wandering mind—a twenty-odd-year career had passed—all so quickly. All he had left were memories and the legacy he'd created within the IPA. A year ago, he left the organization with his last mission completed. No agent had ever left; retirement was impossible. The upper brass only considered him on a leave of absence and could be recalled at any time. He recoiled his skewed memory and depressed the accelerator once the traffic light glowed green and sped through the busy intersection.

The trail of employment thoughts mentally soured him. Boa had told him years ago that the agency is for life; yet he wanted out. Maybe they'd make an exception since he was their top producer, and had served long enough and deserved an amicable retreat now that he was married. There was no retreat, only one more mission. Top management sent him to the United Kingdom in search of a rotten apple, a turncoat agent named Stark Raven. Stark had a strong declaration for death. It was a mission he'd never forget. DaCoy you'll never take me in breathing was Raven's last words.

DaCoy remembered the villainous tone and scolding expression on Raven's face when he escaped from the military chopper's belly over the English Channel. A diabolical laugh filled the night's sky as he fell hundreds of feet and disappeared in the channel's choppy, salty waters somewhere near Dover. Jon ordered the pilot down, but there was no sight of a body, only waves and a dense blanket of silver fog. It was a failed mission—the first of his long career.

His memories faded as he pulled onto Avenue of the Americas. City traffic was slow; then he turned onto West 34th Street. Again he reminisced about Raven and his incomparable arsenal of skills. The man was instrumental in implementing security when the U.S. government attempted to silently pass a bill that would permit the printing of an international currency in Brussels. Raven was a master crook, one of the industry's best, and a former son of the IPA who broke away without authority. He seized an opportunity to get rich and used his new wealth to gain a stronghold in the new eastern European-bloc countries. In doing so, he formed an alliance with the most criminal of men in East Europe and South America and promised them global security.

A mission flashback constricted his vocal cords. Raven stay down and in the grave, DaCoy grunted and gripped the steering wheel as the police cruiser came to a complete stop. He jammed the gear shifter in its park position and waited to catch his wits.

Around the corner from the bank entrance was a perfect place to hide the police vehicle. He tucked the keys above the sun-visor and partially stuffed the gun belt and cop jacket under the passenger’s side seat; then he entered the First National Bank, which seemed dwarfed by the Empire State Building. He stood in the foyer and surveyed the scene. The First National was undergoing some internal renovations, which were nearly complete, except for some decorative masonry work around the newly created senior associate offices that bordered the excessive amount of marble floorage and its stilted ceiling with a security catwalk overhead, a system which employed an armed guard and a slew of surveillance cameras that panned back and forth and digitally captured the bank's steady clientele. Clearly visible in front of him was an eager team of customer service reps, hungry to serve customers from behind polished polymer high-impact resistant glass shielding.

Mr. DaCoy, I'm Sandy Calbert; it's so nice to see you again after so many years. The bank manager stepped out from behind the protective barrier and said What can I help you with today?

He extended his hand like a well-mannered southern gentleman. It's been a while since I've been here, and I'm happy you remember me.

Yes, of course. You're one of our very well-endowed financial customers, and we appreciate your investment loyalty. So, Mr. DaCoy, what can I help you with today?

He observed the guard overhead as he stepped beneath the catwalk. I want to access my safety-deposit box, he said quietly.

Very well, that’s not a problem, Ms. Calbert replied, and led DaCoy to the security vault. Two thick-neck armed guards stood salivating like pit bulls waiting for an action. Mr. DaCoy, your hand signature is required, as she instructed her client to place his hand on the wall-scan activation system.

VERIFIED flashed on a small digital window, and the heavy, transparent polymer vault door popped open.

They stepped into the secure area where the security boxes were located. Mr. DaCoy, hopefully, you remember there's one more security check remaining—a retina scan is required. Please, stand in front of the optic lens verification laser; the procedure is harmless. DaCoy's eye was mapped and an optical image flashed on a monitor; the database crosschecked and verified the client’s identity as100% foolproof. Then the lock popped.

DaCoy seemed impatient and tugged the large metal storage box from its berth.

Ms. Calbert calmly pointed to an empty security booth where he could conduct his business in privacy. Mr. DaCoy, she said politely, please buzz for assistance when you're ready to leave; I'll be most happy to escort you through the security parameters.

Thanks, he replied and closed the booth’s door. He placed the box on the desktop. He could almost hear Boa's words ringing in his ears saying: A good agent is always prepared, and flipped open the large metal lid and removed a black leather jacket, black jeans, black combat shoes, a small case which housed a special-issue model Gline 9mm handgun, along with a set of special contact eye lenses designed for night vision sight, and twenty thousand in cash. At the bottom of the box sat two dozen well-organized bundles of money, which, apparently, accounted for three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in U.S. currency, as well a number of scattered photographs partially shrouded by the bundled cash from view.

He held one of the photos of his wife; for a few brief seconds his mind drifted back to a time when they first met. She was beautiful with long brown hair, olive completion and a perfect smile worth a million kisses. The photo was taken a year ago in Mauritius. It was a time, which marked the beginning of a new legitimate life as an international finance consultant, a much less dangerous occupation.

Do you mind? she said, and pointed to the teak lounger beside his.

DaCoy removed his sunshades slowly and smoothly. He saw a sweet, young figured woman wearing a skimpy, yellow two-piece bathing suit and holding a plush white towel over her arm. No, no, I don't mind; he sat up and watched her cover the long chair with the long towel before she stretched out.

It's beautiful here, she said, and inhaled a huge breath of clean salty air—the weather, the ocean; it's my first visit to Mauritius—and you?

No, I've been here many times before, he admitted, and looked into the endless sky. I come here to Flic en Flac at least once a year. To be honest, I planned to come with a friend, but she bailed out at the last moment.

Your significant other couldn't make it? she probed.

No; nothing like that—just a lady chum from my secondary school days—more of a reunion; and you, you're alone?

Yeah, seems pathetic; but I'm here all by myself, she said, and sat sideways on the chair and faced him. I woke up one morning last week, took a deep breath, and said Indian Ocean, here I come. She looked at her new handsome friend, her eyes appeared squinty from the sun. Pardon my manners. (She touched his hand) I'm Dana Travis; and you are?

Jonus DaCoy but please, call me Jon. (He held her hand for several lasting seconds.) He knew he found a very special woman; the woman he'd spend his life with forever.

His memories dissipated as he slid the photo of his wife into his jacket pocket, then salvaged a worn-out newspaper clipping that he kept safe in his shirt.

It stated that Jon DaCoy, a wealthy financial consultant, was found next to his wife's chard remains in a wooded park area outside Spring Valley. An anonymous phone call tipped off the Sheriff's Department as to where a smoldering body was discovered at the scene. Deputy Rossfield stated: I’ve never seen anything as foul as this crime during my ten years with the department; this is one sick man.

DaCoy took a deep breath and thinking about that August day produced a bad taste in his mouth. During his 30 day stay at Spring Valley Hospital, he had time to rethink that fuzzy, gruesome event. He and his wife were driving to New York City, Broadway to be exact, to see Hamlet and to stay a few nights at the Plaza and to celebrate their first anniversary together. His memory was returning; he was positive she drugged him that evening, presumably, a slow- acting but effective drug. Dana was driving as he recalled. She never liked driving, but that evening she insisted and drove to a secluded area and parked by a wooded stream; by that time the drug had already taken affect. Another vehicle followed. Two burley men got out and approached from the rear. DaCoy sat dazed, slumped over, unable to move; but he could hear them talking in code yet couldn't focus his eyes straight. One man yanked the passenger's side door open and rolled him from the vehicle; then they dragged him to a clearing. Dana said with a sharp French accent; Place the corpse across from Agent DaCoy and ordered one assailant to bring a can of petrol. The other operative poured whiskey down DaCoy's cocked-open throat while she fired two shots into the warm corpse; then she placed the gun in his possession. Torch the body, she ordered, and hurried back to the assailants' vehicle to avoid the fire show.

DaCoy said nothing to Doctor Banter even though he remembered most of the questionable incident. His wife's dental records matched the remains, and the police had a positive ID; but he knew his wife was alive and well. He had to find her. He leaned back in the bankers' chair and speculated. What if she were working for Stark Raven? Anything was possible. He donned his black leather jacket, jeans, and black combat boots and handled his black special-issued gun. A microchip hand implant synchronized the weapon’s triggering mechanism; the gun and electronics were bio-metrically activated for his use only. He holstered the exclusive technology and stashed the 20-grand in his inside pocket. He knew where to go for answers; hopefully, questions wouldn't garner a blood bath. He buzzed Ms. Calbert, and concluded his business.

When DaCoy stepped outside, it was a nice overcast day. He flagged down a cab in front of the bank, jumped in, and slammed the door on two more.

I guess you didn't hear of sharing? a Wall Street stockbroker-type shouted like a pansy man-boy.

DaCoy just snarled: Get lost before I rip you a new exit, and sat back with a face of steel.

Where to Mr.? the cabbie said without a care and repositioned the rearview mirror.

The seedy part of Alphabet City; take me to the Skull Bar.

Mr., you want to go to the Skull? The cabbie turned around, apparently, worried.

Listen cabbie, why the hell not?

That's in East Village’s worst neighborhood. I heard lots of stories about the Skull Bar. Once I even saw large muscle-bound apes, ugly enough to shatter glass; tattoos up one side and down the other. They wouldn't even step foot in that place—too risky. He gulped a mouthful of air as if stressed. I was down there many times, just driving through gives me a bad stomach.

DaCoy sat forward, Driver don't worry about the bad dudes; just take me there as he stared commandingly. So cabbie, he leaned back to enjoy the ride, what's your name?

The driver peeked around, Pezz, but my friends call me Parrot. I have a habit of talking too much, perhaps a nervous condition.

Well Mr. Parrot, take me to the Skull—no questions asked, and there's a hundred-dollar note in it for you, a gesture of my friendship to you.

Okay my friend, I appreciate that; but if you get yourself messed up or dead, don't say I didn't warn you.

The Skull Bar was near the projects. Over the years this area was known as a haven for subversive activities. The arrival of Zoba, also known as The King of Crime made this area a more dangerous neighborhood. Even ruthless Jamaican drug dealers, corporate terrorists and mafia hit men feared Zoba's bad behavior yet they still did business with him.

Parrot arrived in a grungy, roughed up area where a number of vile slayings went unsolved several months ago. Parrot slowed his speed. Mr., I sense you're a fearless fighting machine, but can I take you to the safety of Upper West Side, no one will think any less of you.

No, keep going. Today, I feel like dishing out king burgers and side orders of busted chops.

The unhindered drive was foul with Gypsy brothels and exotic night clubs; each offered more than lust or dancing as their main course dish. Russian roulette had become the most financially lucrative endeavor for the various underground organizations over the last few years, not the type of place a regular guy would call Home Sweet Home. The Skull Bar was located near an unimportant intersection around the back of an old, brown-colored brick building and out of view. The biker's reputation frightened away many except those who were tough and dared to risk life or limb. Along the side alleyway, a dozen hogs with enough chrome plating, which no doubt, could be seen from outer space, were parked in military formation. A mean-looking enforcer with tattoos etched from fingers to shoulders watched DaCoy step from the cab. The monster-size doorman was definitely one of Zoba's paid apes. If customers weren't frightened off by one of Zoba's prized primates, they were welcome to a night of pissing down drinks and an ass-smacking, goddamn, goodtime, barroom brawl and a story they'd tell, no doubt, someday from prison.

Parrot positioned the steering column shifter into its park position, and said: (urgency filled his throat) Sir, are you positive that you don’t want me to take you back?

No, it's fine, DaCoy relayed and handed him the fare and an extra hundred bucks. Mr. Parrot, thanks. Now get the hell out of here before the sun goes down, and you don't make it home. He shut the cab door. He stood for a moment and watched as the cabbie bolted off before he headed inside the alleyway where a chromed crew of parked hogs decorated the bar's shady exterior entrance. He entered through the open steel door; the big door goon just stared at him.

The club's dark interior appeared seedy, dimly lit, except for the banana-shaped runway—dozens of colored ceiling strobes tweaked on and off over the shiny tiles where a middle-age beauty queen was performing her striptease act to a bouncy ’70s disco-sucks medley. He observed some of the grease-balls that looked like throwbacks from cheap horror movies—rough and dangerous-looking, but they weren't an immediate threat. DaCoy advanced towards the long, shiny chrome-plated bar that stretched the entire length of the crummy joint, where one big-breasted male bartender fixed cocktails for the big bare-breasted barmaids who served the private cubicles.

What’ll ya have stranger? the chrome-top bartender said in a steroid-affected tone.

DaCoy stood at the bar as if studying the goon's augmented demeanor. Give me a lime soda and no fancy accessories.

A fruit guy with a wise mouth; one sissy drink coming up, the bartender muttered and began to mix a whisky and lemon.

DaCoy scanned the bar. He seemed to be evaluating everyone’s occupation to determine the type of weapon each were packing. None noticed his covert observation; they were too busy watching the naked artist perform her act with boiled eggs and a top hat.

One sour whisky - that'll be 10 bucks, the bartender said with a heightened volume to compensate for the outdated thump-thump music.

Mr. Bar Man, this is one wild place; and I'm immensely enjoying my stay, DaCoy admitted falsely. And I'd enjoy my stay more immensely if I could find an old friend of mine; his name is Zoba.

There's nobody by that name here, the bartender replied forcefully; you got the wrong place; drink up and get on your way.

DaCoy dropped a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the bar. I don't believe you; go tell Zoba, I've got a present for him. I'm going to let him live.

The bartender scooped up the cash; then went to the end of the bar and made the call.

A few seconds later, two very large goons came down a set of stairs reserved for VIP Clientele and stood behind DaCoy. Zoba talked about the great Jon DaCoy, but you don't look that great to me, the swarthy skinned muscle-head said as he punched one hand into the other while glancing across to his Hispanic bouncing partner.

Greatness comes in all shapes and sizes; looks are deceiving, DaCoy replied and splashed the whisky into the first goon's face; and with a striking blow from the palm of his hand, drove the muscle-head to the floor holding his crushed and blood-gushing nose. The muscle-head's Puerto Rican partner backed away; he wasn't having any part of DaCoy's animosity, or risking losing a mouth of teeth. DaCoy, you must have balls of cast iron to come in here. You'll probably need all the armor you can carry to get out of here in one piece, the bartender said. A sawn-off shotgun rested on the bar.

Push my button for punishment, and you'll see this place turned inside out. Now take me to Zoba.

The bartender reluctantly holstered the weapon barrel on his shoulder and made another call. He led DaCoy up two flights of stairs to the crime master's suite. Luxury equaled money; for a guy who just got out of the pen two years ago, he didn't waste any time gaining control of the classified industrial information trade in the East and soon to expand into the West. DaCoy, wait here, the bar man ordered. Zoba will see you now, and swung open the door to a large office that looked more like the headquarters of a multinational than a satellite data transmission thief.

DaCoy entered without much concern for security. The office was posh with thick sky-blue carpet and mahogany walls. A hand-crafted desk from a large West Coast cedar sat in front of a large, no doubt bullet-proof, oval-shaped decorative windowpane. Business has been excellent, Zoba admitted, and flexed his right fist; four, 24 karat heavy gold rings—one on every finger—attracted DaCoy's attention. DaCoy, Zoba sounded brave, or shall I say Mr. Secret Agent? stood behind his cedar desk; a designer serpent-head letter opener was visible on the desk. Have a seat my ego-swollen friend. What do I have the sick pleasure of your unannounced visit? Zoba sat his six-foot-six inch muscular frame into the leather chair. He pulled his long, straight, thick black hair back away from his high square forehead as he studied DaCoy.

DaCoy also studied the criminal. The guy wore arms that were at least eighteen inches or more in circumference and complexly tattooed with vulgar super-villains and fire-breathing dragon bitches. The criminal shaved every morning, but he had a permanent twenty-four hour, chin-stubble affliction. He wore a black silk shirt, black leather vest, and biker pants styled to match; his sinister attitude matched his sinister attire.

Agent DaCoy, I heard you've got hard trouble. His voice seemed flavored with brawn. For years I've dreamed of killing you; now you sit here in front of me. He laughed as if in control. I could dispose of you right here and now, but I'm more interested in your visit and what you have to offer.

The same old Zoba, hasn't changed a bit but you lost your French accent and found a new tattoo style. DaCoy noticed the large serpent-like etching coiled around the goon’s neck with the head of the asp on the right side of his face.

I heard you left the agency last year to get married to some smelly bitch. I wasn't aware that agents of the IPA were entitled to such luxury, Zoba said and horse laughed as if to mock the IPA's strict philosophy. Without the security of your organization, I'd expect, you'll be sent up the river where you'd join all your enemies. Zoba leaned back in his chair and placed the letter opener in the top desk drawer out of DaCoy's reach.

Skull-Head, I sense you’ve educated yourself in prison and lost the French distinction; but today, I'm looking for my wife so shut up with your wisecracks.

Your wife is dead. You killed her. The man who spent his life putting global criminals behind bars will soon be amongst them, the most ruthless killers living between your toes, Zoba said intensely. Do you remember this? and pulled his long hair back from his long forehead and exposed a long scar that ran from the top of his skull down the left side of his face to his chin. Those who don't know me, call me Skull. He glowed with pride. I'm not a forgiving man so I kill them for less than that. Now look at me, the head importer of drugs and money laundering. For fifteen years now, his voice intensified, I looked in the mirror and each time I thought about you, DaCoy, the man who gave me this scar. Today I'm back, and I want my retribution.

DaCoy agreed that his method of capture was extreme, but he couldn't help think back in time, as there was a second of silence between them. Some years ago, Zoba headed a small band of amateur computer hackers who tapped into the Pentagon’s information system and assessed top secret documents; they robbed electronic files that contained locality and data specifics where deteriorating toxic gas canisters, developed for use in chemical warfare, were stored. The information was there for access. Zoba obtained detailed blueprints of the high-security weapons terminal in the State of Oregon. He planned to hold the U.S. government at ransom for millions in exchange for the electronic source. If the government wouldn't agree to his extreme terms, he'd surrender the documentations to terrorist friends who were willing to exploit them. It was a simple mission. He was deployed to retrieve the hardcopy from Zoba. The IPA was tracking Zoba's movements and collecting information. When he caught up with the self-acclaimed Master of Crime in an abandoned warehouse along the border of British Columbia and Washington State, DaCoy eliminated Zoba's crime mates one by one until Zoba was the last. They exchanged gunfire from opposite sides of the warehouse. Zoba had an illegal police-issued P9S. DaCoy had his trusted Gline 9mm. The IPA's most skilled and trusted killing machine deployed ninja-like tactics, and dropped down from an overhead support beam and clubbed Zoba over the head with a steel tube; the force of impact opened a nasty gash from the top of his head down to his chin that required over a hundred stitches. When the commotion settled, Zoba was down, blood covered and in IPA custody.

The past dissolved into the present. DaCoy sat rude and mean. He tossed a tidy packet on the table. That's five thousand; now Tattoo Man, start yapping before I make the pretty serpent side of your skull match the ugly scar side.

Zoba didn't flinch; even the bundle of money wasn't enough motivation. I'm trying to remember about your wife, but I can't remember slapping her around.

DaCoy tossed another five thousand on the desk. That's ten; maybe that'll help you remember. Now, start singing! You don't want me to call in the feds, check every nook and cranny, even your ass.

Zoba reached out and clutched the cash; the word MONEY was tattooed across his grubby knuckles. He flipped through the bundles and smelled them. You know, DaCoy, I'm addicted. There shouldn't be any amount of green that'd make me talk to you, but one smell and I am completely out of control.

So, let's hear it then?

Your wife, a beautiful woman, is from France. The word around here is that she came yesterday from Europe. DaCoy, you've become quite the topic of discussion within my circle of criminal influence; and I'm sure many of your tree-climbing colleagues are betting you'll fuck up and go in the ground for killing your wife's imposter.

DaCoy seemed impressed with Zoba’s covert operations.

Over the last several weeks, my industry informants gathered some unique information on the IPA.

What garbage information, crap-head!

Boa, your organization's commander and chief, your head honcho, your deputy kingpin has sold you out. Apparently, there was never an agent leave the IPA; maybe this was their way of dumping you, the agent who holds more classified secrets than any top ranking official in U.S. military, probably even more than the current President. DaCoy, you're a walking, fucking time bomb ready to explode in the IPA's face. Skull leaned forward and stared at DaCoy. Your own agency wants you dead.

That's a load of bullshit. I've known Boa all my IPA life. So listen up, ass-wipe; tell me what I want to know, or I'll put my boot through your head and increase the surface area of your ugly face.

DaCoy, I know why no one came back to kill you; you're too fucking mean. As I just said your wife returned here to New York City yesterday. I don't understand what your wife has to do with the IPA faking her death; maybe she's an agent or a double agent or just a good piece of ass or Jon DaCoy's perfect little whore is a super spy with the IPA, or just a super whore on the prowl for dangerous sex.

First you say Boa set me up and now you say my wife could be an agent or whore, DaCoy laughed as