"Umbra" 6/? By Dawson E. Rambo Disclaimer : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his copyrighted property, the property of 1013 Productions, and the property of Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. The author believes that the use of copyrighted characters in the forum known as "Fan Fiction" is protected under the "Fair Use" statutes of US Copyright law. No infringement of any copyright is intended. Characters created by the author remain his property. Original Post : May 5, 1997 Archive Entry : Book I, Chapter 6 Classification : Action Adventure, Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder, Mythology Rating : R (Adult Themes, Violence, Adult Language) Shippers: WARNING. DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER. Buckle up, shippers. This chapter is a bit of a bumpy ride. Enjoy! See the end for definitions of words that I use herein. =============================================================== -6- "Wake up in the morning and I raise my weary head got an old coat for a pillow and the Earth was last night's bed I don't know where I'm going only God knows where I've been I'm a devil on the run a six-gun lover a gamble in the wind... I'm going down in a blaze of glory take me now, but know the truth I'm going out in a blaze of glory and Lord, I never drew first, but I drew first blood" Bon Jovi "Blaze Of Glory" National Reconnaissance Office Vint Hill Station Scully quickly disconnected the call and turned to face Matt. Her mouth moved, as if she wanted to say something. Instead, she turned away, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts, a thousand unanswered, unasked, terrible, haunting questions. There was so much she didn't know; so many people with so many different agendas. Who could she trust? Mulder, without a doubt. But Stone? Could she trust him? For some reason, some unnamable, unknown reason she desperately wanted to trust the man in the car next to her. "How's your mother?" he asked, trying to start a conversation on a safe topic. Scully shook her head, biting her lip. She didn't want to drop into an inane discussion about Maggie Scully, about home and hearth and children and dogs and houses with white picket fences. It was too dangerous, too familiar a topic to talk about. Especially with this man. "I have some questions," Scully started, her voice making it clear that she would brook no arguments. The last time she had used this voice had been in the death row cell of Luther Lee Boggs, when she was scared and afraid that her new partner, her new friend might be dying because of some action the convicted murderer had taken. She remembered that anger, that white-hot place inside her she so rarely visited. Now, however, she welcomed the warmth, used it to focus her thoughts, her emotions. Concentrating, she went to that place, and drew the emotions she found there around her like a shield. "I would imagine you do. I'll answer as many of them as I can," Stone replied, starting the car and putting it into gear. The tacit admission that he knew there were issues between them, between them as two investigators on a potentially explosive case, and between them as two people, a man and a woman investigating something different, something equally dangerous, equally able to detonate in both of their faces, was an incredible relief to Scully. Mulder would have tossed off some wiseass remark, thrown up some verbal shield against his true emotions, his real feelings. There was none of that with Matt Stone, and Scully welcomed the change. Or was it? Was it a change? The man sitting across the car from her was a trained intelligence agent, a man who had spent the better part of his career living in the twilight of existence, in the space between shadow and darkness, living a life dedicated to taking one version of the truth and twisting it to suit his needs, a life spent hunting the real and imagined enemies of his country and making them pay with the ultimate price: their lives. A term Scully remembered from astronomy popped into her mind; Stone was a man who lived in the umbra of existence. A man who was comfortable being a facile liar. Was it a change? Or just another tactic in an endless series of tactics designed by such men to avoid the real questions? "I need straight answers, Matt," Scully said. He didn't answer for a long moment, and Scully was wondering if he was going to when he finally spoke. "I'm glad we're back to `Matt,'" he said. "We never left, for what it's worth. But we may not be staying there long, Commander, if I don't start getting some straight answers to some very sticky questions. And as far as I'm concerned, the answer to any of my questions that begins with the phrase, `I'm sorry, but that's classified' is not a valid answer. Do I make myself clear?" "As crystal," Matt said, and then added, "but I may be forced to give you that answer, as much as I would like to tell you everything." Putting the car into gear, Matt navigated his way out of the NRO facility, turning back onto the highway and accelerating. "Shoot," he said, his face open and inviting. Scully mulled the series of questions she wanted to ask. Choosing one, she began. "I find it very hard to believe that the US military, whatever branch it was you were all working for, sent someone that looks like Major Haynes into Iraq during the war. To say she sticks out like a sore thumb would make that phrase more trite than it already is. Explain to me why she was selected for the mission and what her specific role was." Matt mulled his response for a few moments. "Are you going to answer me?" Scully asked. "I'm thinking. Give me a minute." "It was a straight-forward question, Matt." He turned to face her, his jaw set. "I'm deciding how much, exactly, to tell you." Scully felt the white-hot anger rearing up inside her again. "Dammit, Matt! You should tell me all of it! You shouldn't have to think about it!" "Listen to me, little girl-" That did it. Dana felt her composure snap, a clean break between her normal, reserved self and the devil that dwelled within her Irish soul. "If you ever call me that again, Commander Stone, you can forget about any chance at...whatever it is that we're trying to do here. I am _not_ a little girl, Commander. I am a Special Agent of the _Federal Bureau of Investigation,_ and I am a medical doctor. Furthermore, I have seen things and done things that if _you_ were to be made aware of would probably make that manly-man SEAL macho persona you lug around like a badge of honor go running off into the sunset with its' tail tucked firmly between its' legs. DO I make myself clear?" Stone's face was closed, the mask of his features befitting his name: Stone. "Understood," he said. "But let me tell you something, Special Agent Scully. Imagine the worst thing you have ever done, the most horrific thing you have ever seen, and I will personally guarantee that I have seen AND done worse." "Too bad I'm not a man," Scully scoffed. "We could just unzip and figure out who's the Alpha Male right off the bat." Her voice was dripping with poorly concealed contempt. "Yes," Stone said, startling her. "Too bad you're not a man, Dana. Then I wouldn't have to deal with all this bullshit. A man, without me having to explain it to him, would understand what I'm trying to protect you from." Scully twisted in her seat until she was fully facing him. "What is it, Matt? What are you hiding from me?" His expression was incredulous. "You just don't get it, do you? It's not you specifically, Scully. It's not you, not at all. It's who you are as a...I don't know...representative of the real world. I haven't felt like a part of the real world in fifteen years." 1982, Dana thought. Stone continued, warming up to his topic. "You...all of you. All of the people that sit at home, fat, happy and ignorant. You have no idea what is done behind the scenes in your name, to protect you, to shield you against the monsters and the demons that stalk the shadows." Scully felt her anger notching up another click. "Yes, Commander, I do know, all right? I've been there, on the front lines, with you and all the others. To use a phrase you might understand, I may not fight in the same theater of operations, but I am without a doubt a soldier in the same war! So don't you hand me that-" "Scully! You can't understand! No matter how much you claim to, and I think I might just be falling in love with you for saying it, you are NOT part of the same army that I am! Your job is to find the truth, to bring it to the light where it can be examined and qualified and quantified. MY job is to hide things like that! To bury them in desert graves, to make them go away for all time!" Bury in a desert grave? Scully thought. And then, on the heels of that: Falling in love? That was ridiculous. They'd met yesterday, for God's sake. But his words sent a chill up Scully's back. "Fine," Scully finally said. "We'll agree to disagree about that. Now, tell me: What was Heather doing in the desert? What was the mission? What was her job?" Matt thought about it again, and it angered Dana to no end that he was actually editing his thoughts, that he was considering what to tell her and what to keep secret. "What I said in the SCIF is as far as I can go into about the mission. We were sent to kill Saddam. As insane as it seems, Heather had good cover. She was covered as a journalist. She had network ID and the whole bit. One of the guys even lugged in a Sony DXC-M3A camera and a bunch of videotapes. We even did a few standups here and there so if she was captured, she'd have video proving that she was filing reports from the front lines. She knew if she was captured that she'd probably be tortured, raped and then murdered, but she was like me, Scully. She knew what had to be done...and why...and was willing to step up to the plate to take a swing." "Why, Matt? Why did it have to be done?" "If I have to explain that to you, you will never, ever understand, Scully." Dana decided to accept that, for the moment, and go on. "She knows something, Matt. I feel it." "What makes you say that?" His casual tone of voice told Scully that he felt the same way, but wanted to hear her reasoning. "A couple of things. First, the way she greeted you, like a long- lost lover, and then lost it when she found out that we wanted to protect her. She just totally overreacted. Another thing...she knows things she shouldn't know." Stone laughed. "It's her job to know things that other people don't know or aren't supposed to know." "Like the fact that my partner got his doctorate in Psychology at Oxford? Which also means she knows his name?" That brought Matt up short. "When- Oh, right. When I left. What else did she say?" That question brought a blush to Scully's cheeks that couldn't quite be explained away by anger or lively conversation. "She said not to trust you." And then, Scully decided to tell him everything. Maybe it would crack that oh-so-sanctimonious shell of his. After all, if she could be one-hundred-percent truthful with him, even when it was embarrassing... "She said you were very good looking and great in bed." The car swerved as Stone turned to face her, and then he wrenched his attention back to the road, correcting the skid like an expert. "She also said," Scully continued, "that you are a pathological liar and cannot be trusted, and that I should not put my life in your hands." Stone said nothing for almost two miles. Then, finally: "Do you agree with her?" "About which part?" Scully asked. "I don't know. All of it. Any of it." "Well, I don't know if I can trust you, Matt. You haven't given me much to work with. And until you do, I think I'd better reserve comment on the rest of it." Stone nodded. "Where are we going, by the way?" "Heather's apartment. I want to check up on the TechServ guys." Stone flicked the turn-signal and changed lanes. "Guess you don't need directions..." "No," Stone said, without thinking. "I've been there before." I bet, Scully thought, and again that unfamiliar, unwelcome emotion welled up inside her: Jealousy. *** Office of Fox Mulder Federal Bureau of Investigation J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC "Mulder," he said, answering the phone. "Mulder! It's Langley. Turn on your fax machine and lock the doors. I asked an online associate of ours to take a crack at the records of your Commander Stone, and he hit paydirt. Normally we'd ask you to come over, but the second we finish faxing this to you, we're going to burn it and forget we ever saw it." Langley paused. "After this, Mulder -- we're even." The phone went dead in Mulder's ear at the same moment the fax machine behind him hummed to life. Twisting his chair, Mulder watched as the first page inched their way out of the machine. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET:EYES ONLY NO COPIES 19 OCTOBER 1982 AFTER ACTION REPORT OPERATION JOVIAL CLOWN Frowning, Mulder got up and went to lock his office door. Once again, the Gunmen had come through, prowling in places they had no business being, uncovering the truth. It's a dirty job, Mulder thought with a grin, but someone's got to do it. *** Major Heather Haynes' Apartment Georgetown The TechServ van was, to the untrained eye, just another sport utility vehicle with deeply tinted windows. The plate was from Kentucky, giving it a little bit of credence as an out-of-town sightseers' car. Only to Scully's trained eye would it appear as anything else. There were no huge groups of external antennas to give it away as a surveillance van. Gone were the days where wads of whip antennas and the smaller, circular DF antennas would telegraph to the world that the FBI was sitting on someone's house or place of business. The engineers at the FBI Technical Services Unit (TechServ) had made some advancements over the years. The external antennas and laser audio microphones were built into the SUV's luggage rack. Pinhole video cameras peeked out on all aspects. The inside was crammed with several hundred thousand dollars worth of electronic equipment. It saw everything and missed nothing. It was capable of receiving video, audio and infrared transmissions from remote cameras and microphones placed up to two miles away. "Pull over," Scully said, pointing. "There." "Why?" "Look at the rear bumper of the SUV. See how the license plate light is on?" Stone looked and then nodded. "Sure." "That means TechServ is inside, placing the bugs. When they come back out, the light will go off and then we can get in." Stone followed Scully's instructions and parked the car. "What kind of bugs are they placing?" Scully thought about it for a second, considering all the options TechServ had available to them. "Probably audio, video and infrared. Motion and heat sensors on all external doors and the roof. Phone tap. If she has a modem, modem tap, cell tap if she has one." "That's quite a list!" "Yeah, we like to be thorough." Stone ignored the comment and used the edge of the rearview mirror to study his temporary partner. She was frowning slightly, her gaze narrowed in concentration as she watched the apartment building. Major Heather Hynes lived in a twelve-story luxury high-rise, complete with all the latest amenities. Stone remembered with some fondness the Jacuzzi-equipped Roman bathtub. Forcing such thoughts from his mind, Stone returned his attention to the task at hand. Scully. Oh, he thought, how to win the heart of the fair Scully? Then his little voice spoke up; Is it her heart you want, Matty, or her body? The cold part of him, the part that had emerged from the desert one hot October afternoon answered. Either. *** Special Agent Fox Mulder's Office Federal Bureau of Investigation J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC The more he read, the sicker Mulder felt. The classified after- action report for operation JOVIAL CLOWN had taken the better part of half an hour to slowly inch its' way out of his fax machine, and if the Gunmen did have an ounce of sense in any of their bodies, they would have kept their word and started shredding it immediately. Even for someone as jaded as Mulder, the fax made him sick to his stomach. To think that the government of the United States, even the Reagan administration, was capable of...this! Sections of the report had been blacked out. But not all of it. He scanned the figures again. Almost three hundred dead. The last sixty shot execution style, one round to the back of their heads. All of them already wounded, incapacitated by twenty-millimeter rounds. He read the same paragraph over and over again, unable to get the images the words evoked out of his mind: PURSUANT TO NMCC ORDER 780-101982 AFTER [XXXXXXX] ARRIVED ON SCENE, CONTACT WAS MADE WITH ACTION OFFICER [XXXXXXXX] ABOARD USS NIMITZ (CVN69) STEAMING OFF STRAITS OF HORMUZ. AFTER BEING INFORMED OF 58 SURVIVING INDIGENOUS AGENTS, [XXXXXXXX] WAS ORDERED TO EXECUTE PLAN [XXXXXX] PER NATIONAL SECURITY ACT 1947 BY ACTION OFFICER. GROUND FORCES COMMANDER REPORTS THAT FOUR ELEMENTS OF [XXXXXX] TEAM[XXXX] REFUSED TO CARRY OUT PLAN [XXXXX]. AIR SUPPORT COMMANDER, WHO WAS ON SCENE DUE TO DEPARTURE OF AIRCRAFT AFTER TAKING UNFRIENDLY FIRE, VOLUNTEERED TO EXECUTE PLAN [XXXXX]. THIS OFFICER HEREBY RECOMMENDS AWARD OF THE [XXXXXXXXXXXX] FOR ACTIONS TAKEN BY AIR SUPPORT COMMANDER ON THIS DAY. LTCMDR [XXXXXX], USN PERSONALLY EXECUTED PLAN [XXXXX] WITH RESPECT TO THIRTY OF SIXTY REMAINING INDIGENOUS AGENTS. The report went on and on. As far as Mulder could tell from the report, the mission in Libya had been highly, deeply classified. Stone had been flying air support for the mission, and had apparently been shot down. Then, on the ground, if the report could be believed, he had personally executed 30 wounded prisoners by shooting them in the back of the head. Mulder's blood ran cold when he thought about Scully sitting no more than three feet from such a man. But...how could such a thing have taken place and still be secret? Mulder wracked his brain but could not remember reading or hearing about a single thing related to what was in front of him now. He had to confirm this. Before he told Scully, he had to be sure. Picking up the phone, he dialed. The line was picked up, but no one spoke. "Mulder," he said. "Confirmed," a male voice answered after a moment. "I need to know about an operation. All I have is the code name." "Mr. Mulder," the voice said, cold, distant, reproachful. "All I need to know is if it took place. I'm trying to confirm if the after action report that I'm reading is a truth or a lie. I won't ask you to confirm or deny the contents of the report. Just tell me if the operation took place. If I give you the name, the date and the location, will you confirm it?" The voice pondered the question. "Perhaps." "October 19, 1982. Libya. JOVIAL CLOWN." Mulder wasn't sure, but he thought he heard the voice gasp. "Mr. Mulder, you are delving into areas where you do not belong. That operation has no connection to your stated mandate." "I'm aware of that. My partner is currently working with whom I suspect was the man awarded some kind of medal for his actions on the ground after the ground forces refused to carry out the orders of the action officer. Do you know of whom I speak?" "I am...aware of the name, Agent Mulder." "Is the after action report accurate?" The voice laughed. "And then some, Mr. Mulder. The report only tells half the story, because the participants themselves only knew half." "What should I do?" Mulder asked. The voice didn't hesitate. "I would suggest that you get your partner out of the arena of operations as soon as possible, Mr. Mulder. If she is...associating with this...person, she could be in grave danger. He is known to be...unstable. Unpredictable. Quite a patriot, if you know what I mean." "Does he smoke?" Mulder asked, knowing that the voice would understand the question. "Not directly. Secondhand." Mulder grimaced at the sick joke. "Can he be trusted?" "Again, that depends. If you ask him to go to a place, and perform an action, a specific kind of action, in the name of national security, then he is as dependable as death. Otherwise, I cannot comment." "Can't or won't?" "Can not, Mr. Mulder. As I said, I am only tangentially aware of the person of which you speak. We may not be speaking of the same person. But if we are, then your partner is between a rock and a hard place, is she not?" Click! Mulder slowly replaced the phone; his contact had confirmed all he needed to know. `Between a rock and a hard place.' Between a Stone and a hard place, Mulder thought. His first desire, his overwhelming desire, was to call Scully and order her, as her nominal superior, to get the hell out of there and report back to the Hoover building ASAFHP. But without proof, there was no way she'd listen. And Mulder was loathe to invoke a personal favor from her. The immediate gain, getting her out of that monster's clutches, would be overwhelmed by the agony he would go through over the next months. Scully would never let him forget that he'd felt he had to `rescue' her from the clutches of the Bad Man. She wanted to be treated as an equal, a full member of the partnership. Well, now was the time. Mulder glanced at his watch. It was just after 1430. He had almost ten hours until he was due to replace Stone on the stakeout. Time to do some more research. *** FBI Surveillance Van Sierra Six Outside Heather Haynes' Apartment 1730 Hours "Baker one to Sam Six," the voice on the radio called. Picking up the high-powered, scrambled two-way radio, Scully answered the car that was assigned to trail Heather home from the NRO. "Go, Baker One." "LOOKER has left Area One. Heading back to Area Zero." Scully grimaced at the call sign the team had picked for Haynes. Looker, indeed. She wondered what her call sign was. "Confirmed, Baker One. Six out." Scully dropped the two-way on the seat to her left. Stone was seated to her right. She was very aware of him in the close confines of the van. The two technicians assigned to this detail were preoccupied with their equipment, as such types were wont to do. Stone and Scully were relegated to listening to the radio crosstalk and inhabiting each other's space. She could smell him, he was so close; she could feel the warm pressure of his leg against hers, and to be truthfully honest, it was not a totally unwelcome sensation. Mulder had his little touches, but aside from those few times when one or the other's emotions had boiled over due to some trauma, they had not really touched much, Scully thought. Part of her was fine with that and probably even encouraged it with her body language and demeanor. Encouraging such behavior with her partner could only lead to... What? Disaster, she was sure. Let's be honest here, Dana. Mulder's pretty damn cute. More than once she had found herself glancing into his eyes and felt her emotional footing falter just a bit. It would be easy, she knew, to get lost in those eyes and never emerge again. Her friendship with Mulder was without a doubt the most significant, meaningful relationship she had ever had, bar none. And as intimate as it was, they had both decided by mutual, unspoken agreement not to take it any further. That did not mean that the desire, the attraction was not there. Far from it. She remembered holding his hand. Feeling his arms around her. She remembered wanting more of that, more of everything that Mulder represented, and on the heels of that, the alarm bells ringing in her head and her heart. Mulder was intoxicating, but so was Tequila, and she wasn't taking bets on which would give her a worse headache come the morning. Scully was quite clear on that: She loved Mulder, but was not in love with him. That particular Pandora's box was better left unopened. Locked in the closet. A basement closet. Locked inside a safe inside a basement closet in the bowels of the Pentagon, guarded by a platoon of fierce man-killing Marines. But, she was a fully functional, grown woman in the bloom of her youth, to turn a trite phrase. She had...hungers, needs that weren't addressed by the wonderful, intricate, complicated relationship she shared with Mulder. Needs that were growing more incessant with every moment she spent with Matt Stone, USN. Scully was very aware of his masculinity. And that part of her that was aware of him as an extremely virile, masculine male presence was also shouting `traitor!' at the top of its' tiny mental lungs. Mulder may not have been a Navy SEAL, and he might have a tendency to lose his gun at inopportune moment, and he may have the habit of getting the stuffing kicked out of him on a few occasions, but he was just as much a man as the knuckle-dragging Naval commando sitting next to her. So why, then, was she so...disturbed by Stone? Why, Dana? There was something, she knew, very deliciously decadent about the thought of lowering the defenses she'd spent the better portion of her personal and professional life erecting against the world. Something so...Harlequin about dropping all the pretense, all the back-and-forth jockeying for position that passed as male-female relations in the latter half of the twentieth century and just being...female. Just being...what? Taken? Ravished? Scully turned her head slightly and looked at Matt's profile. His beard was starting to show, the rough little nubbins on his face darkening his features and making Scully suddenly think about how that rough, scratchy skin would feel like rubbing against certain portions of her body. The van suddenly felt very confining. "Is it hot in here?" Scully asked, shrugging out of her trademark formless trenchcoat. "Hadn't noticed," Stone said, his own thoughts not very far away. He noticed the way Scully's body moved when she took the coat off; he could see the outlines of her soft, feminine curves as they stretched the silk blouse she wore to the breaking point. Nice, he thought. Very, very nice. *** The killer spotted the FBI SUV almost immediately. Well, of course, he thought with a grin. I helped design parts of the damn thing. The plate light was out, so he knew they had already been inside and had wired the place from top to bottom. Well, that's ok, he thought. Nothing like a challenge. Although this won't be much of one. *** "Baker One to Sierra Six," the car called. "Six, go one," Scully answered. "LOOKER has arrived home." Scully craned her neck and saw LOOKER, AKA Major Heather Hynes wheel her pigeon-blood red Mazda Miata around the corner and down the ramp into the apartment building's garage. So she is, Scully thought. "Affirmative, One. Take up blocking positions one block east." Scully watched as the TechServ droids found Heather with the thermal imager and followed her from the Miata to the elevator. "We have LOOKER. All units, take up assigned positions." The six other cars keyed their radios with various forms of "Ten Four" and "Roger" to signify they had received the message and were ready for a long night. Scully glanced at her watch. "Mark her home at 1739," she said to the droids. They mumbled assent as one of them bent to write in the log. Sighing, Dana Scully sat back to wait, trying not to think of the interesting, sexy man seated not six inches to her right. *** The killer waited almost half an hour before making his move. It was quite simple, once you knew the rules, he thought. Approaching the building, he took out the first of two small electronic devices that had been developed for use overseas on installations that were guarded in much the same way that this one was. The device worked very well on solid-state electronics. With a few taps of the devices' buttons, the killer had entered the building undetected. The heat and motion sensors on the door he had been used had been `told' electronically to ignore the pressure and heat passing under them as part of their internal diagnostics checks. They reported nothing, and the four people sitting in the FBI SUV not more than a hundred yards away had no idea that he was in the building. Moving up the stairs, the man repeated the function at the stairwell door on Heather's floor. Once the door clicked softly behind him, he took the second of the devices out of his pack, and started using it. It was even more ingenious than the first one. It was set to scan for the frequencies being used by the FBI team. It found the audio frequency first, and then shortly after that, the video frequency. Two long, sweaty, agonizing minutes later, it found the frequencies the infrared transmitters were using. What the killer did next was simplicity itself. Inside the device was what amounted to a massive VCR on a set of high-density memory chips. He recorded ten minutes of activity inside Heather's apartment, including the television and the sounds of her moving around the apartment. Ten minutes was all he would need. Once he was satisfied, the killer killed the recording and moved down the hall towards Heather's door. Standing outside of it, he counted to five and prayed that anyone inside the SUV wasn't looking directly at the monitors. He pressed the SEND button. *** Scully had returned her gaze to Stone. She was trying not to stare, but finding it very hard not to. His face was a mixture of classic good-looks and the world-weariness of someone who had seen things and been places that no one should have to see or visit. A flicker on one of the monitors caught her eye. Tearing her attention away for a moment, she spoke to one of the two droids. "Check number three," she ordered, quietly. The technician punched a few buttons and took a reading. "Transmitting Ok. Nominal interference levels. All normal, Ma'am." Scully raised the radio to her lips. "All units, report." *** In his ear, the killer heard Scully's radio request. The radio receiver he'd tucked into his ear had been previously tuned to the FBI tactical frequency. He listened as all six blocking units reported that there was no trouble. Satisfied, he removed the electric lock-pick from his pocket and gently inserted it into Heather's door. It took him six seconds to unlock the door, the battery operated pick working as quietly as a whisper. He dropped it on the carpet and drew the 9mm suppressed Browning HiPower he wore in a shoulder holster. He gently kneed the door open. Heather was on the couch watching television and reading the newspaper. She felt the current of air across her head and twisted, her eyes wide with alarm. "You!" she hissed. "Yes, Heather, it's me." "You! You're-" "No. I'm not. But you are." The killer brought the pistol up in one smooth motion, the front and rear sights aligning as if by magic. It had taken years of practice, hours a day, six, seven days a week, but he could draw and fire the weapon as naturally as most people pointed their finger. The pistol made a soft "pfffft!" sound, and Heather Haynes suddenly had a third eye. The killer walked over to the body and stood over it. "One left," he whispered to himself. Stone was close, the killer could feel it. Probably in the van, watching the monitors, thinking nothing was wrong. It would be so easy to just hit the END switch on the transmitter, returning the van to the live video feed and wait in the closet. So tempting. Once Stone was dead, the next part of the plan could commence. All the people that were directly responsible for his personal hell were almost dead. He had one left to go. And then he could go after those indirectly responsible. In the most spectacular way possible. The killer glanced at his watch. He had four minutes of video left. A part of him was sad. The game was almost over, and none of them had really gotten to play yet. Each of them had been so easy to take. It was almost as if they'd all wanted to die. Hadn't they learned anything? The killer decided that the stakes needed to be raised, just a little. He checked his watch again and saw that he had less than two minutes. He moved quickly, searching the apartment for what he needed. He found it in the front hall table, in a small drawer set into the wood. A deck of cards. He extracted the card he needed from the deck and carefully placed it on Heather's chest. Eighty seconds. He wiped the gun clean, and then carefully applied a thumbprint to the slide, and then another to the suppressor. Sixty seconds. He moved to the door, closing it behind him. Fifty seconds. He moved down the stairwell quickly, almost forgetting to use the first device on the exit door. Thirty seconds. Outside, turn left, walk down the street. Sit down on the bus bench. Fifteen seconds. Deep breaths. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Playtime's over, Matt. *** The screen flickered again, and Scully was turning her head, away from the monitors this time, back towards the face that was so interesting, to mesmerizing. But her eye caught a piece of the image that was on the screen, and all thoughts of subtle flirting with the dangerous Naval officer was forgotten as the horror of what her eyes were seeing filled Scully's senses. She almost stood inside the van, but stopped herself in time, reaching for the radio instead. "All units, move in, move in!" she called, already twisting to unlock the back door. Stone was following her, shouting at her as Scully dashed across the street. "What?" Standing in the road, Stone watched as the six blocking FBI cars moved in. He glanced back in the van and saw the now-live video feed of Heather's dead body slumped over her couch. Leaning into the van, he saw the playing card on her chest and muttered, "Shit!" Turning, he took off after Scully. *** Heather Haynes' Apartment Georgetown 2130 Hours Mulder flashed his ID at the door, and the DC cop let him pass. He moved into the room gingerly, taking care not to step into anything that might be evidence. Hands on hips, he stood in the living room, turning in a slow circle, trying to piece it together. The crime scene technicians were still working the place over. There was a small circle of red tape behind and to the left of the couch. A small folding placard sat in the middle of the circle with the number "1" on it. Spent shell casing, Mulder thought. Skinner's voice drifted in from what Mulder suspected was the bedroom. "Well, how DO you explain it then?" he asked. Mulder had an idea of who he was talking to, and what about. He moved to be by his partner's side, where she needed him... Or, apparently not, Mulder thought, freezing in his steps. Scully stood, her chin jutting forward, arms crossed across her chest, jaw set, taking the best Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner had to dish out. "I don't know, sir. We'll have to go over the video and audio tapes in the lab. Somehow, the killer gained entrance to the apartment and murdered Major Haynes." "You were in the van the entire time she was in the apartment?" Skinner demanded. "Yes, sir." "And you had your full attention focused on the monitors? At all times?" "We had four people in that van, sir, and none of us saw a thing." Commander Matthew Stone was standing behind Scully, his mere presence visibly offering her support. Mulder turned quickly, before Scully could see him, and moved to the kitchen. The voices from the bedroom drifted off, and Mulder decided to concentrate on something else. Anything else. The evidence technician from the DC Homicide unit was using the kitchen table to sort and catalog the evidence. Holding out his ID, Mulder asked, "Mind if I look?" "Nothing leaves the room," the tech said, "But go ahead." Mulder looked at the collection of glassine bags on the table. The Browning HiPower, complete with the suppressor still attached, was in one bag, the shell casing in another. Mulder could see the telltale dark flakes of fingerprint powder on the gun and the casing. "Any prints?" "Mostly clean," the tech admitted. "But I found-" "A right thumb somewhere on the gun, clear as day?" The tech nodded. "That's right. And one on the suppressor. How'd you know?" "Lucky guess. What's with the shell casing?" "Bulgarian surplus, circa...oh, about 1965." Mulder nodded. A favorite of Special Ops units worldwide. Tons of it lying around gathering dust. Totally untraceable. "Anything else of any use?" "This," the tech said, handing Mulder the playing card, also in it's own glassine envelope. Turning it over in his hand, Mulder felt his blood run cold once again. It was the Jack of Spades. Blackjack. VF-221. Naval Fighter Squadron 221, "The Blackjacks" was the unit (then) Lieutenant Commander Matthew Stone had been assigned to on October 19, 1982. Mulder turned at the sound of Skinner's voice, dropping the card back on the table. "Mulder, what are you doing here?" "I came to offer Scully..." Mulder started, and then realized how patronizing he sounded, and stopped speaking. "Support? Very nice, Mulder, but she's already gone home." Home? Mulder thought. How did she get- "Commander Stone was gracious enough to offer her a ride," Skinner said, as if reading his mind. "You, Agent Scully, and Commander Stone will all report to my office, oh-eight-hundred tomorrow morning to go over the...circus this investigation has descended into." Skinner thought about asking the obvious question, like...where had Mulder been when all this was happening, but resisted. He would give Mulder the same chance he was offering Scully and Stone. "Go home, Mulder. Get some sleep." Mulder snorted. As if. But he took the advice. He left the crime scene and made his way down in the elevator. He'd heard the preliminary reports on the radio on his way into the scene; he knew that Stone was in the van with Scully when the murder occurred, so he was not directly involved as far as Mulder could tell. But one thing was for certain. Stone knew the killer, or the killer knew Stone. *** Apartment of Special Agent Dana Scully 2223 Hours Stone pulled the Caprice to a stop at the curb and killed the engine. Scully started to get out of the car, but a restraining hand from Stone stopped her. "Dana." Her name from his mouth was an urgent, eager whisper, and Scully felt the fire run up her spine and detonate inside her head at the exact same, precise moment the alarm bells in her heart started ringing. "No," she said softly. "Not tonight." "You need-" "You have no idea what I need," Scully whispered, turning to face him. "I need a friend tonight, Matt." "I can be your friend," Matt offered, using the time-honored line of all men using anything they can think of to gain entrance through the magic portals: The apartment door. "I already have a friend," Scully answered. "I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early." Matt removed his hand and nodded. "Good night, Dana." "Good night, Matt." *** Apartment of Special Agent Fox Mulder 2240 Hours Mulder dug the chirping cellphone from his jacket pocket. "Mulder," he answered, his voice slurred by what passed for sleep in his life. "Mulder, it's me." Scully. Her voice washed over Mulder, a comfortable, familiar wave of warmth and tenderness. "Scully," he said. "I hate to ask you, Mulder...but-" "Anything, Scully." "Can you come over? I need someone to talk to." Mulder stood, reaching for his jacket. "I'm on my way." ================================================================== End Chapter 6 "Blaze Of Glory" Music & Lyrics by Jon Bon Jovi. Produced by Danny Krotchmar. From the motion picture soundtrack "Young Guns II" Copyright 1990 Polygram Records. All Rights Reserved. Used without permission, and no copyright infringement was intended. Author believes that short quotations constitute "Fair Use" under applicable US Copyright Laws. For the purposes of this medium, the author can be contacted at: drambo@sonic.net End Notes: I want to take this opportunity again to thank all of you that have taken time out of your busy lives to write me regarding my stories. I don't get back to all of you as quickly as I'd like, and for that, please accept my apologies. I read every note I get, and I answer them all, too. My ISP has been having recurrent mail server problems, so if I didn't answer a note that you sent, please don't be offended. On a lighter note, for those of you that are writhing in pain as I move Scully and Stone closer together, and are in bad need of an MSR fix: If you haven't already read it, you should most DEFINITELY check out a story called "12 Degrees of Separation" by Paula Graves. This novel-length MSR is -- bar none -- the best piece of X-Files Fan Fiction this author has ever read. I literally could not put it down. I read it in one sitting, and was distressed when I got to the end of it, because there was no more to read. If you haven't already read this story, I strongly urge you to hit one of the archives (http://gossamer.simplenet.com) and download and read this story. It is quite simply, the yardstick by which all other X-Files MSR stories should be judged. Werdz: ASAFHP - As Soon As F**king Humanly Possible CVN - Navy jargon for Aircraft Carrier (CV) Nuclear (N) CVN69 is the hull number of the USS Nimitz. NMCC - National Military Command Center - The "war room" in the Pentagon made famous by such movies as "Wargames" and "Clear & Present Danger" SUV - Sport Utility Vehicle. Like a Blazer, or a Bronco or a GMC 1500/Sierra, etc. TechServ - Technical Services Group - black bag unit of the FBI, responsible for bugging and other shady operations. Usually operates with the sanction of a court-ordered warrant, but has been known to dip its' wick into places that it shouldn't.