"Umbra 35/?"
By Dawson E. Rambo

Author's Note : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other
tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his
property and the property of 1013 Productions and Fox Television, a
unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. All rights are reserved and these characters
are used without permission. Any characters created by the author remain
his property.

Original Posting        : September 4, 1997
Archive Entry           : "Umbra 35/?"
Classification          : MSR,AA
Rating                  : R (Language, adult themes, violence)
Casting                 : Val Kilmer, "CMDR Matthew Stone"
                        : John Glover, "Danny Graves"
                        : Ed Harris "Ron Burke"
                        : John Heard, "Adam Roche"


Enjoy!
------
The White House

        "What was that about a chemical weapon?" Teddy asked again.
        Skinner ignored him, turnning to Burke. "Is there any way you
can get all your agents out of the mansion to assemble here?"
        Burke's brows creased. "Why?"
        "Because I've got a surprise for our friend inside, and I
don't want any of your men to get hurt," Skinner explained hurridly,
his eyes never leaving the East Entrance.
        "What...kind of surprise?" Burke asked slowly.
        Skinner spun on him, eyes blazing. "Listen to me, Burke!
There's no time to fuck around. Get your men down here, NOW, or I
won't be held responsible for what might happen!"
        Burke locked eyes with Skinner for a long, silent moment and
then slowly nodded. Reaching for his radio, Burke searched his mind
for the proper code. It had to be perfect.
        "Teddy," he called. "Come here."
        They conferred for a moment, and then Burke nodded. Raising
the radio to his lips, he transmitted.
        "All House Units...this is EDP-1. Code 35, East Entrance."
        Burke pulled the earpiece from his head as the barrage of
answering messages came back, all asking the same question: What the
FUCK was up?
        "What's a code 35?" Mulder asked.
        "Sorry," Burke said, shaking his head. "That's classified."
        Mulder turned his back on the man, looking for his partner.
Scully had stepped down off the Suburban's running board and was busy
readjusting her assualt vest, making sure the load of extra magazines
and other goodies was distributed evenly on her small form.
        "Well," Mulder said quietly, "...it's about showtime, Scully."
        He glanced at his watch. 11:45am.
        Almost at the same moment, Secret Service Agents started
pouring out of the East Entrance. "Teddy," Burke called, "get a
headcount. Let me know when everyone's outside."
        Mulder did the math in his head and quickly dialed his
satellite cellular. A moment later Vice Admiral Jake Karn answered.
        "Mulder? That you?"
        "Sir, yes, sir," Mulder said. "What's the status of Six?"
        "SEAL Team Six is airborne, awaiting further orders."
        Mulder nodded, stepping up onto the hood of the Suburban,
looking around. Cupping the mouthpiece, he shouted to Burke, "Where's
the National Security Advisor's office?"
        "Second Floor, near the end!"
        Mulder saw where Burke was pointing. To Karn, he said, "Ok,
have them come in from the west and set down on the front lawn. I want
one platoon to enter through the west entrance, and one from the south
entrance. We're going in from the East. Have them come up on frequency
two."
        "Two, got it. Stand by..."
        Mulder glanced up as he heard the high-pitched sound of an
overpowered turbine engine pushed to the limit. He saw the helicopter,
a RH-53D in SOC configuration come screaming in, low over the trees.
        The side doors were off, and Mulder watched as two ropes, one
on either side, streamed out of the helicopter, just barely nudging
the ground. From a height of almost a hundred feet, SEALs started
appearing on the ropes, moving so quickly towards the ground it almost
looked as if they were actually falling out of the chopper.
        In seven seconds, all sixteen men were on the ground. Eight
moved west, eight moved south, MP5's up and ready, cutting the pie,
scanning the target zone.
        "SIX SIX," a voice called on the radio.
        Mulder smiled. Karn wasn't fucking around; these men were
disciplined, ready to shoot and loot.
        "Six," Mulder called back. "This is Unit One. Hold at the
entrance until further word. Get ready to take the doors and windows
out. Our target is on the first floor."
        "What's the status?" the CO called back.
        "Chemical weapon," Mulder radioed.
        There was a pause, and then an out-of-breath "Roger that..."
        Mulder turned to Skinner and Burke. "Ok...here's the plan.
SEAL Six is going to assult the first floor from the west and south.
Graves wants us to come and find him. Of that I'm sure. But the SEALs
will worry him, because if they threaten his mission, he'll have to
detonate. He'll wait until they start coming upstaris, which they
won't. As soon as I give the GO order to the SEALS, I'll tell them to
make as much noise as possible, to make it loud and noisy. That will
give us the cover we need to get upstairs and to the Advisor's office
before Graves can figure out what's going on."
        Scully thought about it. Not bad for a plan ripped together in
about five seconds. She would have liked more time to plan and explore
other, less violent and destructive options, but time was the one
thing they were sorely lacking.
        Skinner didn't even blink. "What are our orders?" Burke asked.
        "Stay here. When we get the weapon, we'll call you and you can
come in and take all the credit. If we're lucky, this will all go down
with a minimum of shit."
        "Teddy!" Burke called. "What's the count?"
        "We're one short!" Teddy called back.
        Burke glanced around, matching names to faces. "Who's
missing?"
        "Roche!" he called back. "Adam Roche!"
        Scully and Mulder exchanged a quick glance. Brother? Husband?

***
The White House
First Floor Secret Service Command Center

        Adam Roche, brother to Lieutenant Ally Roche, quickly dialed
the combination on the heavy-weapons locker and cracked it open. He
took a Witness Protection Shotgun and a CAR-15, quickly loading both.
His orders were clear: He was to make life as difficult as possible
for any persons attempting to enter the White House until he heard
from the man upstairs.
        He felt the tingle of excitement running through his body and
smiled. He'd waited a long time for this day. The day of Change,
he'd started calling it years ago. The day when all the bullshit he'd
put up with protecting one prima-donna president after another were
over. A New World Order, he thought.
        Pulling back the charging lever on the CAR-15, Roche moved to
the East Entrance. Time to rock and roll, he thought.

***
The White House
Outside, East Entrance
11:47am, Sunday

        "Shit!" Mulder hissed. "We should have thought about that!"
        Scully nodded; Graves wasn't the type to leave any angle
unexplored. Well, she thought, at least it was only one Secret Service
Agent they had to deal with.
        Mulder turned to Burke. "Intel dump. Nutshell Roche for me.
Everything you can remember. All of it. Leave nothing out. Now."
        Burke scratched his head, thinking. Roche had been on the
executive protection detail for four years. He was a good agent, a
little aloof, but a crack pistol and rifle shot. He was certified with
the shotgun and automatic weapons. He'd come from the Marine
Corps, where he'd been a Platoon Leader, assigned to Camp David, when
he'd met a female Secret Service agent and had decided that the
military life wasn't for him. Burke told Mulder all this in fast,
gasping breaths.
        Mulder nodded, absorbing it all. He wondered if Roche knew his
sister was in federal lockup in DC. That might be a bargaining chip.
Mulder turned back to Burke. "Listen to me," he whispered urgently,
"you have got to know this...if he resists, he's one dead
motherfucker. But if we have to kill him, I'll testify that he lost
his life defending the White House."
        Burke nodded, instantly understanding it. The political
fallout that would follow the relevation that Graves had managed to
get an operative not only in the Secret Service, but on the Executive
Protection Detail would cause an investigation that would rock the
Service, the Treasury Department and the Justice Department to their
cores.
        Skinner observed all this, saying nothing. That smoking
bastard was right, he thought. Mulder's a born leader. He just doesn't
know it.
        Yet.
        Mulder glanced at his watch. 11:49. Time to stop fucking
around, he thought. He glanced at Scully, wondering if there was a way
to get her to stay here. Her return glance told him everything he
needed to know.
        Do it, her eyes said, and you'll lose me forver. My place is
by your side...partner.
        He nodded, understanding.
        Stone leaned over to Skinner, whispering. "How the fuck to
they do that?"
        Skinner shrugged. Might as well ask why the sun rises, he
mused.
        "Stone, Skinner...when we go inside, I want you two breaking
left, covering hi and low. I don't care who does which. Scully and I
will go right, her low, me high. Hand signals. Always keep each other
in sight. No talking. Nothing on the radio after I give the GO order
to the SEALs. Questions?"
        All three shook their heads in the negative.
        Mulder checked his equipment one last time.
        "Let's do it," he said grimly.

***
Vice President's Office

        Daniel Webster Graves glanced out the window and saw the SEALs
crouched by the west entrance. They were all looking towards the door,
or behind them, making sure they wouldn't get flanked.
        Glancing down at the small, baseball-sized object in his hand,
Graves shook his head. Mulder'd had a good idea, but he had to learn
that abject force was only effective when it was unexpected. Graves
hadn't planned on Mulder calling SEAL Six, but he'd been prepared for
it.
        Graves pulled the pin.
        He loosened his fingers, watching the spoon fly off the
anti-personnel grenade. It was fused for seven seconds. He counted to
four and tossed the grenade through the open window.

***
West Entrance

        The grenade took just over three seconds to fall forty feet.
It was six feet off the ground when it went off.
        The SEALs never knew what hit them.
        The grenade was designed with a two-tier impact concept. The
explosive charge hurled a mixture of razor-sharp shrapnel and white
phosporus in a 360-degree arc. Body armor was designed mostly for
small-arms ammunition, but it did stop a majority of the shrapnel from
tearing into vital organs.
        It didn't stop it from shredding the heads of four SEALs who
happened to be within six feet of the blast. They went down, dead
before they'd started to fall.
        The WP did the rest; Phosphorus burns at air temperatures, and
will continue to burn until smothered. Two additional SEALS were
incapacitated as the chemical burned into their faces, arms, legs and
neck. They danced, screaming and clawing at their skin, weapons and
mission totally forgotten in the blinding pain.
        There were two of the eight original SEALs remaining. They
looked at their fallen comrade and thought the same thing: One DEAD
motherfucker, coming right up.

***
East Entrance

        "Shit!" Mulder swore. The SEALs were now alerted that the
danger was on the second floor, not the first.
        "SIX SIX!" the radio screamed. "We need a GO ORDER!"
        Mulder hesitated, but only for a second.
        "GO GO GO GO!" he called, running towards the East Entrance,
trailed by Scully, Stone and Skinner.
        They hit the door running, wide-jawed Secret Service Agents
watching them go by.

***
Washington, DC

        The smoking had heard the radio call ordering SEAL Six into
action. It had disturbed him. To think that Mulder, his most prized
student, the one man he'd thought would be able to understand the true
nature of the mission, subconciously at least, had failed him.
Reacting to this situation with a show of overwhelming force did not
bode well for Mulder's...or the Project's future.
        After thinking about it, the man decided that perhaps his
judgement had been too rash. Knowing Mulder as well as he did, the
smoking man suspected that perhaps Mulder was using the SEALs as a
diversion, to focus Graves' attention away from something else,
something Mulder had cooked up for himself.
        Interesting.
        Diversions could be useful. Knowing how, when and why to use
them would prove very useful in the not-so-distant future. Mulder was
a natural leader, he mused. He was stubborn, opinionated, always
convinced that he was right, that his vision was the one true, correct
vision, and all that chose not to follow him were destined for defeat.
        How true that is, the man thought, and smiled. A grim,
death's-head smile.
        A decision had to be made, and soon. The smoking man glanced
at his watch. He had four minutes to make a decision. He had to be
sure. He had to be one-hundred-percent sure that Mulder was the sort
of man that was needed, that he had the capability to make the hard
decisions when the time came. For all the effort that had gone into
this mission, the smoking man now saw that it had almost been for
naught; Mulder had performed so well through it that it hadn't been a
challenge. Mulder hadn't been quite pushed to his limit. He hadn't had
to make the sort of choices that he would in the future.
        Twenty years, the smoking man thought. Twenty years of
planning, preparing, and my prize student waltzs through it like a
training exercise at his precious FBI academy. Hardly the sort of
thing that Admiral Watts had needed to give his life for. Hardly the
sort of thing that would...
        But wait, he thought.
        There was still time to pull this out, time to make sure that
Mulder was the one.
        The smoking man dialed his phone.
        A moment later, Graves answered.
        "There's a new plan," the smoking man informed Graves. "The
moment they enter the room, shoot them. Shoot them both."
        "They'll be wearing body armor!" Graves protested.
        "Go for a leg wound. Make it look good, though."
        There was a pause. "And Scully?"
        "No," the smoking man said. "Never her. Not yet."
        "Understood. The device?"
        "Which ones?" the smoking man asked. There was a short pause
on the other end, just long enough for the smoking man to make his
point known. "Do you really think I would have left something like
that to chance, Graves? My people already defused the secondary
devices in your six little toys. That was very clever, using molded
plastique to line the insides of the screens. Only someone as devious
as you would have thought of that."
        Graves waited a moment; the smoking man could hear shouts in
the background, the SEALs swarming the bottom floor. "I need a
decision," Graves prompted.
        "Go to plan 3," the smoking man ordered, and hung up.

***
The White House

        Plan three, Graves thought. Not plan 1, and (Thank God,) not
plan 2. He let out a breath slowly, trying to calm himself. He knew
what would happen next. Skinner, Scully, Stone, all lead by Mulder,
would slowly approach the office, toss in a flash-bang grenade, and
attempt to take the room by force. It was their way, their training.
It was expeected, part of the typical FBI playbook. Force, always take
by force, especially when the White House was at stake.
        But he would be ready for them. Quickly donning a pair of
deeply-tinted welder's goggles and jamming soft wax plugs into both
ears, Graves waited. The flash-bang would have no effect on him. The
second they stepped through the door, he'd shoot.

***
East Wing Staircase
Rear, The White House

        Mulder turned back and looked at Scully, who was less than
three feet away. He made the 'stop' signal with his hand, and then
'look'. Pointing at his own eyes, and then forward, he moved the vee
of his fingers side to side, telling Scully to recon the area. She
nodded, quietly moving past him, MP5 tight against her shoulder and
cheek.
        Pointing at Skinner, he gave the sign for 'rear guard.'
Skinner nodded, pivoting in place to make sure that no one came up
from behind.
        Stone glanced at Mulder, a question on his face. Mulder made
the 'hold' motion and Stone nodded.
        Scully looked back at Mulder, pointed left, shook her head,
pointed right, and shook her head again. All clear to the left and
right. Mulder indicated 'forward,' and Scully nodded, taking point.
        She moved slowly, letting the noise and confusion of the SEALS
downstairs cover her advance. If Mulder was right (and when wasn't he?
she thought,) Graves would be concerned with the 10 SEALs swarming the
first floor of the White House, not the four of them.
        She took another step.

***
        Four doors down, Special Agent Adam Roche grasped the Witness
Protection Shotgun in his hand and took a slow, deep breath. He'd
caught Scully's reflection in a hall mirror, the angle such that he
could see part of her, but she couldn't see him. In about thirty
seconds she was going to be in range, and Adam would kill the first
person in his entire life. The thought filled him with such a
delicious joy that he thought he might die from happiness. The woman
coming down the hall, wearing the ballistic body armor of the hated
FBI, stood for everything about this government that he despied.
        It was a good day for a killing, Adam thought, taking another
deep, shuddery breath.
        A good day, indeed.

***

        Scully stopped, sniffing the air. She felt like a hunting dog
on point, sensing something out there, but not knowing the direction
or type of danger. Her eyes flicked back and forth quickly, looking
for something, anything out of place.
        There.
        Slowly, her eyes tracked. Mounted on the wall was an
antique-looking brass lamp. A series of them, in fact, mounted on both
sides of the hallway, spaced evenly about ten feet apart. There was
something odd about one of them, and it took her a moment to figure
out what. She took a soft, small step towards it, hoping to clarify
her analysis.

***

        There, Adam thought.
        Close enough.
        He stepped into the hallway, bringing the shotgun up, seeing
the small FBI agent in his sights. Die, bitch, he thought.
        His finger tightened on the trigger.

***
        Scully reacted without thinking. She saw the threat moving
into her field of vision from the left, saw the short, stubby shotgun
moving towards her. Her mind calculated times and distances
immediately. She didn't have the time to move the distance she would
need to be covered; Mulder was behind her, but she was blocking his
shot.
        The face of the man holding the gun wasn't even human, she
thought, her finger tightening on the trigger.
        Her first shot took him low, in the gut on his right side. She
felt the kick of the MP5 against her chin and shoulder and let it
drift with the recoil, hoping for a second shot directly on center
mass. The bullet tore the man sideways, and her second shot impacted
him just above the kidney.
        He tumbled back into the room from which he'd come, the
shotgun clattering to the floor.
        Mulder was behind her in an instant, his own MP5 sweeping,
protecting her flank, her six, making sure that there was no one else
lying in wait.
        Slowly, Scully advanced on the man, her weapon pointed at his
feet; his head was inside the room.
        So was his arm.
        Inside the room, Special Agent Adam Roche glanced down at his
body, seeing the blood spreading in a thick, sticky pool from his two
wounds.
        Die, he thought. Gonna die soon. Losing blood...a lot of it.
        The room started to gray out, and in one final act of
desperation, he reached for the baseball-sized anti-personnel grenade
lying by his hand, pulled it to his face, gripped the pin between his
teeth and pulled. The pain was agonizing; it wasn't like the WWII
movies he'd watched as a kid. But it had the same effect; the pin came
free. With his last remaining bit of energy, tossed the grenade in a
gentle arc through the doorway and into the hall.
        Several things happened at once.
        Scully saw the object...whatever it was, arcing through the
air. Her first instinct was to shoot it, until her adrenaline-fueled
mind identified what it was. A grenade.
        Mulder, on her right side, against the outside wall, saw what
it was and realized what was going to happen in an instant. He saw
Scully's rifle dropping, clattering to the floor as she reached for
the grenade. He pivoted, saw the window in front of him and realized
that if she threw it <at> the window, it would bounce off the
bulletproof glass and explode in the hallway, killing them all.
        With strength he didn't know he posessed, Mulder swung his
right arm in a half circle, shattering the window seconds before
Scully caught the grenade in one Nomex-gloved hand, spun neatly on one
foot and threw the grenade through the now-shattered window. Mulder's
one thought as he watched his partner pitching the deadly object
through the window would give them reason to laugh in the coming weeks
and months: She sure doesn't throw like a girl.
        Skinner was moving at the same instant, shoulder-rolling by
Scully's left side as she turned. He came up in a crouch, the MP5
levelled at Roche. Three rapid shots barked from his weapon, and then
there was a brief, silent moment before Mulder realized that they were
still in danger. Flying shrapnel from the grenade could still come
flying back through the hole he'd created for its exit. He tackled
Scully without thinking, rolling in midair as the moved, landing on
his back with her on top of him a half-second before the grenade
exploded.
        Shrapnel peppered the side of the mansion, a few stray pieces
raining in through the broken window. The concussive wave of the
explosion rocked Scully against Mulder's body, and they ended up with
their faces inches apart.
        They locked gazes, and something happened inside Mulder. Like
the final piece of the puzzle snapping into place, he realized that
Scully truly <did> belong by his side. Not just as a lover or a future
wife, not just as his partner, but something above and beyond both of
those, something more. His efforts in the past to protect her, to
leave her behind when the going got rough had been pathetic attempts
to deny the true nature of their relationship. His mind replayed the
last ten seconds again and again, how Scully had dropped the file and
caught the grenade in her hand without thinking, and how he had known
she would almost before she had; how he himself had moved towards the
window, understanding in an instant that's where the damn thing had to
go. And Scully, twisting, winding up to throw before the window had
been broken, knowing he would do it, not having to tell him or ask
him.
        Knowing.
        Knowing that they could literally read each other's body
language in such a way as to be almost telepathic. She was his
partner, not in any FBI sense, but in a larger sense, larger than he
was able to grasp or describe. She was, simply, his other half.
        Scully saw all this and more cross his features in seconds.
She understood immediately what he was thinking, and a huge flood of
relief washed through her body. Finally, she thought, the most stupid
brilliant man I have ever known or loved...understands.
        Mulder opened his mouth to say something and then closed it.
Words, he thought, were so inadaquete sometimes. Scully smiled,
resisting the temptation to kiss this perfect, wonderful man.
        Skinner stood and moved into the room, Stone backing him up.
They cleared it silently, looking for any more pockets of resistence.
Finding none, they returned to the hallway to find Scully and Mulder
standing, brushing glass off of each other.
        Mulder pointed down the hallway with two fingers, and then at
Skinner and Stone, making the sign for "point" and "advance." They
nodded and moved off, leaving the partners to take up the rear.
        Slowly, the team of four approached the office at the end of
the hall. They stopped twenty feet away, turning to Mulder for
direction.
        Mulder leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and
thinking furiously. Graves was an expert at this kind of shit. He
would expect us to do the typical FBI bullshit: Flash-bang and take
the room by force. Which meant that he'd be prepared for it.
        So that was out.
        What was left?
        Mulder knew in a flash what he had to do.
        Quickly, using a combination of hand signals, he told the
other members of the team to spread out and wait for his command.
He told them that they weren't going to assualt the room, but wait
Graves out. He was expecting an attack; never give the enemy what the
expect.
        Skinner frowned but nodded.
        Stone looked fit to be tied. He was urgently pointing down the
hallway, using complex combinations of hand signals, telling Mulder
that he would go in first, taking the low left-quarter, that he would
find Graves and wax his ass in a heartbeat.
        Mulder shook his head and repeated his instructions.
        Stone repeated his.
        Mulder drew his pistol, placing the barrel against Stone's
forehead, quirking his eyebrows in a silent question.
        Stone looked back. Mulder could see the reflection of his own
death in the SEAL's eyes.
        Mulder thumbed the hammer back.
        Stone sighed silently and nodded, moving into position. Mulder
quickly holstered his pistol, wondering how he was going to be able to
control assholes like Stone in the future.
        Future? he asked himself.
        How many more of these missions do you forsee, you moron? he
wondered.

***
Washington, DC

        The smoking man glanced at his watch. 11:59. Sighing, he tried
to concentrate on the task before him. There were other students,
other Mulders spread out across the country, all of them in different
stages of the smoking man's version of training. He had to keep up
with all of them, even if Mulder was his secret favorite. In a few
moments, the future for Special Agent Fox William Mulder would be
decided by his own actions staring down a govermnent-trained madman, a
man who's insanity had been carefully cultivated over the years, a
certain fanatic craziness that had been nurtered as a delicate flower
might have been.
        He took a moment to think. If Mulder made it through this, it
was even money that Skinner would reveal what he knew. That in and of
itself was not dangerous, except for the fact that telling Mulder what
little Skinner did know was like giving fresh meat to a wolf. Mulder
wouldn't stop until he had the whole story, and Skinner <did> know
enough to set Mulder off in the right direction.
        So, the smoking man decided, if Mulder makes it through this
little test...he and I will have to have a little chat.

***
The White House
12:01

        Danny Graves glanced at his watch and frowned. There was
nothing but silence in the hallway. There had been no attempt to storm
the room, no flash-bang grenade skittering along the floor, no
heavily-armed FBI agents swarming all over everything.
        What the <fuck> was Mulder up to?
        The deadline was up!
        Graves glanced at the small device on the desk before him. He
hadn't armed it yet; all he had to do was to push the small ENTER key
with his pinky-nail and the device would start counting down.
        "Mulder!" he called.
        No response.
        Out in the hall, Mulder started at the sound of Graves' shout.
        He sounds...rattled, Mulder thought.
        Good.
        "MULDER! I'm not fucking around! I'll set this thing off!"
        Stone was visibly restraining himself from charging the room.
He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes begging permission from
Mulder to storm in and take Graves out.
        Mulder shook his head, signalling "Hold position."
        Stone snapped his head around, grinding his teeth.
        "MULDER!" Graves shouted again. "I know you're out there. If
you're not in here in ten seconds, I'll set this thing off!"
        Mulder signalled "Hold" again, and they all nodded. Skinner's
first instinct was to follow Stone, to storm the room. But Mulder was
calling the shots, and he said hold.
        Graves started shouting his countdown. "Five! Four! Three!
Two!..."
        "ONE!" he finished, and pushed ENTER.
        The screen on the HP Palmtop cleared, and four digits
appeared.
        05:00.
        04:59.
        04:58.
        "Five minutes Mulder! You have five minutes to live, you
fucking asshole!"
        Mulder touched his throat mike three times, clicking the
frequency open and closed.
        Two answering clicks. SEAL SIX was waiting for an answer.
        "Roof," he whispered. "Southeast corner. Wait for my signal."
        Two answering clicks.
        Frantically, Mulder signalled his intentions to the rest of
the team.
        Stone felt a white-hot rage running through him. After all
this, after fifteen years of tracking this bastard, Mulder was going
to let the prima-donnas from SEAL Six to take Graves down. He felt an
overwhelming wave of sadness pass through his body, followed closely
by a resentment towards the fed that he never thought he was capable
of feeling.
        Fuck this, he decided.
        Stone moved before anyone else could stop him. In one hand he
held the flash-bang that he'd been aching to use for the past six
minutes. He let the spoon fly and tossed the grenade into the room,
following behind it, knowing to keep his eyes closed and holding his
nose and blowing at the same time, trying to equalize the pressure in
his ears.
        Graves was waiting. He saw the grenade skittering in and
focused his attention on the door, the Glock 9mm levelled. He saw
Stone enter the room holding his nose.
        The flash-bang detonated, filling the room with over a million
candles worth of light, followed instantly by a crushing wave of
concussive power.
        Graves calmly centered the sights on Stone's face and pulled
the trigger.
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END OF CHAPTER 35