On the night of the run, half of Rita's team emerged from the relative safety of a hanger facility and briskly walked across an over-manacured field toward the tarmac, some 50 meters beyond.

The thick grass was heavy with dew in the rapidly cooling night air and it made faint "sssshp ssshp" noises underfoot.

As the three stepped onto the runway's dark surface and began to make their way among its alligator cracks, Fenris surveyed their position. Save for the pavement and his companions, there was not much to be seen.

He and Thugg were clad in a pair of "borrowed" corp-sec uniforms, of which the previous owners, he figured, wouldn't need for at least another twelve hours. And like some perverse honor guard, the two of them marched a pace behind their resident technophile, who, on the other hand, was wearing his own uniform; the green nomex itself, proving to be the best of all possible camouflage for their current situation, although the hastily velcroed Ares patches didn't hurt.

As they made their way to the far end of the airstrip, the field's running lights struggled vainly against the onset of the evening's mist. This was a private facility, owned exclusively by Ares Aerospace, and hours ago the majority of its employees had either finished their work before the sun's departure or made excuses to remain inside, out of the chill.

The map in Fenris' head showed them to be just short of the halfway point. And he was about to relay this, when Revver froze abruptly, as a small tractor loomed into view.

Being completely out of his element, the rigger looked back briefly to his teammates for support, but their stern expressions of 'stick to the plan' and 'act like you belong here' merely ushered him forward. In short, they did little to relieve his fears, such as, what if the driver has comms?

But the Ares Haul-All and its wageslave driver sped by without so much as even noticing them; electric motors dopplering down an octave, as tug and man raced past in single-minded pursuit of the warmth, promised by the very hanger buildings which the runners had only just left behind.

In its wake, the mist briefly parted, allowing the running lights to reach their pinnacle brightness, momentarily outlining the trio in a hazy half-glow, before once again succumbing to the night's murky greyness. With the immediate danger averted, they resumed their course.

This part of the mission called not only for the appropriation of a dragon, but also the supplantation of her crew. So far, Fenris thought, it was running like clockwork. Now if they could just remain undetected, until they were airborne. Peering into the fog, he could almost distinguish her outline in the distance.

At the far end of the airfield, the cold, armored beast waited amid swirling tendrils of mist, as a light dew formed on her wings.

*
*
*

Not bad, Rita had thought, once they'd all departed the Klub. Although bush-league when it came to the streets, she had known better than to presume she could plan this operation all by herself. Right away, she'd realized that achieving her desired degree of success would require everyone's cooperation--during the design, as well as throughout the run.

Admittedly, she had been a bit surprised when no one had balked at 'being in' on the planning. But the anticipated verbal objections never occurred. One of the pluses of working with soloists, she'd decided.

Equally amazing was the fact that no protests had been raised at her insistence on using 'soft ammo' for the mission. A few of them had raised their eyebrows, but that had been all.

She had stated that it would be strictly tasers or at the very least non-lethal ammo as their primary loads. And that the secondary, lethal rounds, were only to be used as a last resort, arguing that their opposition was just doing their jobs, and shouldn't have to pay for the mistakes of Harlton or Steiner.

(Even the two guarding her apartment had been following orders, she'd reflected, but their sloppy behavior had earned that "security lesson.") When Rita had finished making her case, she braced for the onslaught.

But instead, Fenris matter-of-factly announced that given a day or so, he'd be able to supply them with whatever calibre stun-rounds they'd need. Apparently he held similar views when it came to ammunition.

He'd have to drop the 'or so' part, she'd commented, before setting the tone for the rest of the briefing by introduced the group to Buzz, who actually managed to keep his story short.

After that, the others related their bio's. The bulky, nomex-suited human with the multi datajacks and golden cybereyes had gone next. He'd apparently had his vocal cords modified as well, since when he announced his name as, "Revver," his voice carried across the room in lilting, tonal harmonics. He was a clinical technophile and his specialty was rigging.

Fenris and the elven mage, Naxis, had given their individual stories, each carefully avoiding the parts of their aforementioned encounter.

They were followed by the fatigue-clad ork, who'd stood up and said, "name's, Thugg, I'm a merc." Then he'd seated himself again figuring, he hadn't needed ta fill 'em in on all the gory d-tails; and he hadn't.

The last to speak had been the other human, with the single datajack. His working name was "Dain" and he was, among other things, a private investigator, a bodyguard, a security specialist, and a bounty hunter -- a self-styled, Sixth World jack-of-all-trades, specializing in digging up data, recapturing skip-traces, and defeating security systems.

Then, introductions in order, the seven of them had gotten down to the actual fleshing out of the plan. Using simplicity as the rule, what they eventually came up with was nothing short of brilliant (even if it had, as Naxis perpetually interjected, taken most of the night to strategize).

All that had really been necessary had been for the participants to become familiar with each other's strengths and abilities.

Fenris, with some surprisingly sophisticated assistance from Thugg, had devised the tactical framework. And once Revver piped up that, of course he could handle dragons, the rest had simply fallen into place. They'd then rehearsed a dry-run of it, before disbanding in pursuit of supplies, solitude, and sleep.

All of this had transpired two nights earlier.

Presently, there was only one part of their plan that Rita found both personally unpleasant, yet at the same time rather perverse. Her operation required the acquisition of Bryce's limousine, which is how she came to find herself back in the tunnels beneath Ares Seattle.

"I'm glad you reconsidered," the suit walking beside her said with a smirk.

"I think you are enjoying this a bit too much, 'Bryce,' " she shot back.

Her escort made no reply. But it did feel strangely customary --almost natural, being down there beside him, walking through all-too-familiar corridors. No second thoughts! She scolded herself, stay focused on the mission!

From their present location, she could clearly see the end of the corridor, which spilled into the actual parking garage. Behind them lay the site's maintenance facilities.

She had chosen this passageway, due mainly to its remoteness and since few of the techies could afford the prohibitive, in-house costs associated with the corp's sheltered garages. It didn't receive much in the way of traffic. Typical corp mentality.

As if to emphasize this fact, only every third overhead fluorescent was lit, casting them into distinct zones of light, shadows, light, shadows. Probably due to some energy-efficiency plan, Rita mused sourly, hmmph so much for night vision.

In the narrowness of the hallway, she was literally boxed in--she and her 'escort' were maintaining a discreet distance between themselves and their chauffeur for the evening. And even though he was dressed in Ares livery, it was painfully obvious that this was not Bryce's usual driver.

Eventually, he reached the end of the pedway a few paces ahead of them and as he stepped into the garage proper, he straightened his hat, pulling it down a bit farther and adjusting the lapels of his jacket, as if in preparation to be photographed.

Then not two seconds later, the chauffeur walked into the range of the first of Ares' "hidden" security cameras. By pretending to look at a smudge on some senior exec's mint-green limo, he carefully averted his face from the camera's impassive gaze, before moving on.

The other two followed him through the first row of cars, but as they reached the next, the chauffeur split off, as if in pursuit of more pressing business. Three more rows and a dozen meters to the right, Rita knew, lay Bryce's personalized parking stall, complete with his shiny, black Nightsky and his regular chauffeur.

She had been fairly certain that Cromwell would be here at this hour. But as they approached, she made no false moves. Everything had to look natural.

"Sir?" He squinted up in surprise, momentarily suspending his polishing operations. "I wasn't expecting you so soon." The chauffeur made to open the passenger's door, but then stopped midway through the laborious action and peered accusingly, "wait, you're not Mr. Harlton!"

"Of course I am!" Snapped not-Bryce, stepping forward. "Now carry on with your chauffeuring, or, uh," he stumbled for words, "... or I'll fire you on the spot!"

From behind him, out of sight of the driver, Rita raised her eyebrows in exasperation. 'Lame,' she thought.

In defiance, the chauffeur peered more intently. "You may look like him, but you're not him!" He began to reach for his corp-sec bracelet.

Rita weighed the odds. If she went for her gun, she'd have to shoot past not-Bryce and the armored Nightsky's door, all before Cromwell could pop his wristband--her jazzed reflexes against his feeble nerves? Why not.

She drew.

And with a 'fizZT,' the chauffeur collapsed to the pavement, before she could even squeeze off a single shot.

"Whoa! Hold it," yelped Dain, as he stared down the barrel of Rita's Pulsar, "me, friend!" A wisp of smoke curled from the end of his taser.

He was standing roughly where Cromwell had been. The fact that he was dressed identically to the unconscious man on the ground, only served to make him feel that much more vulnerable.

"What kept you?" Naxis snapped, from within his 'Bryce illusion,' while Rita thumbed her pistol's safety, then reholstered it.

"Never mind," she ordered, checking her retinal display, "the clock is running."

With that, the three of them set about their ugly work. She and Naxis quickly purloined Cromwell's body, while Dain slipped into the driver's seat and popped the secure-lock on the Nightsky's trunk. The lid sprung up with a metallic click and in went the chauffeur. He'd be sore when he awoke, Rita told herself, but otherwise unharmed.

Dain continued to work on the limo's controls, as Naxis and Rita took positions in the rear seats.

A tense moment passed.

Then another.

The longer they remained here, the greater their chances for detection.

"I thought you said you could hot-wire it," Naxis harumph'd, at last.

Rita checked her clock again. "Dain...?" She asked.

"Um, yeah," he said, without breaking stride. He'd removed a section of the teakwood dash. "This one's wired for a VCR, but our friend in the trunk, back there, doesn't rig. So, I've had to bypass his personality lock-outs and..."

The Nightsky's engine thundered to life. "...well, whadda you know?"

As they left the parking garage behind, Rita finally allowed herself to relaxed a bit. Phase one was complete. "Now," she ordered mimicking Naxis, " 'carry on with your chauffeuring, or I'll fire you on the spot!' "

It can be said, that the elven combat mage was less-than amused.

At the battle-proven PanzerProof™, outer gates, which also served to mark the boundary between Ares Arms' wholly-owned corporate territory and that of the UCAS, Dain lowered the passenger window and slowed enough for the guard to make a visual on the still-scowling 'Bryce,' before heading toward the docks.

*
*
*

High above a remote, seaborne, shipping facility, Ares Aero flight 3102 hovered, awaiting landing authorization. As the automated systems chattered back and forth in a complex ballet of IFF technology, its pilot casually reduced the heavy AH-1's altitude, bringing it to a scant 35 meters above the choppy waters of the Puget Sound. This was in accordance with Ares' SOP and he knew it put the twin-rotored helicopter well within range of the site's defensive weaponry.

Simultaneously, the chopper's two-man crew in the back made a final check of their gear and weapons. Once ground-side, there would be little time to inventory and sling the connex for dust-off. And since this particular pod's cargo consisted of classified weapon prototypes, policy dictated that they go in 'heavy.'

After a lengthy pause, the dockside computer begrudgingly granted the necessary clearance and a blue, console light began to wink unseen before the rigged pilot, who cybernetically initiated the complex landing maneuvers.

Upon touchdown, the crew vacated smartly, just as a blue, open-topped jeep pulled into view. It had a stylized Ares logo painted across its front hood and the word "security" had been stencilled below the space where its doors should have been.

Proximity to the helicopter made any type of meaningful conversation impossible, so the newly arrived guard simply motioned for the two to climb in. Once they did, he drove them a short distance across the dock to an utterly unremarkable, connex container.

It too bore an Ares logo, and had it not been set apart from a much larger stack, it would have been completely indistinguishable from all of the other seven-meter boxes.

This location was relayed to the pilot who throttled-up the engines, lifting the helicopter back into the air, where he manuevered to a station, five meters above the designated cargo pod.

*
*
*

"Heads up, you two," Dain called back, "the gatehouse's coming up." The small grey building and its accompanying four-meter gate, were tightly sandwiched between two larger warehouses.

As the Nightsky rolled to a halt, an older-looking human stepped out of the hut toting a chipboard and although the heavy-set man was wearing a Knight Errant uniform, he didn't fit the stereotypical picture which the security provider liked to tout on its recruiting holos. He also seemed in no particular hurry to reach the limo.

'Bryce' powered down his window and leaned out a little. "Snap it up, man! I don't have all night!" Rita had spent most of the trip across Seattle coaching his Bryce-isms.

The security guard put some effort into it, approaching the car more quickly. "Director Harlton?" He sputtered, "we weren't expection you so soon."

"My cargo's here, isn't it?" The last he spat in an accusiatory manner, as if the wrong answer would bring all the blame in the world down about the ill-fated guard. Rita's tutoring appeared to be paying off.

"Well, yes sir," he answered meekly. In spite of the evening's chill, the man was beginning to sweat.

"It had better be. What's your name?"

"Rogers, sir," the KE answered. Then he held up his chipboard and cringed, adding, "if you could just slot here ..."

Naxis had been hoping to frighten the man into forgoing this formality, but he extended an Ares Identi-Eze anyway.

As the guard placed it in the reader, Rita only hoped that Buzz had managed to deck into their system. If not this run was over now.

In point of fact, Buzz had managed to sleaze his way into the dock's security sub-processor, well over half an hour ago. During which time, he'd set about rearranging their analysis algorithms. Then he'd slipped over to the gate's terminal, where masked himself and fragged with the ensuing game of solitaire. Who says the computer never cheats?

Buzz was having so much fun helping the guards lose, that he nearly missed the incoming ident request on Naxis.

The security check flew past in the form of a small faceless manikin. Almost instinctively, Buzz started to chase it down, but then lit upon the vantage of a nearby switching system and watched as the icon was automatically rerouted and detoured through his makeshift network.

Of course the badge was a fake and yes, it set off a large number of system flags. But thanks to his handiwork, three separate levels of alarms were convinced that they'd gone off without making a sound, while simultaneously assuring the main security processor that the person in question was indeed their "Senior Director of North American Operations."

In the real world, the light on Rogers' chipboard flickered green and he carefully handed the ID back to its owner, asking hesitantly, "anything else, sir?"

"Secure this gate once we're through," the suit barked. "I've got ten-million in hardware in there, and nobody gets through without my say so."

Dain pulled off before the Knight Errant could reply.

*
*
*

From the high, spartan cockpit of the Ares AH-1 Dragon, the pilot waited impatiently for the word to dust-off.

He had performed the tedious, double-redundant, in-flight diagnostics, including stress testing the cargo-locking mechanisms.

He had thrice-checked the weight distribution computations for the chopper's twin rotors.

He'd even reprogrammed the autopilot twice.

Finally out of sheer boredom, he'd shifted his attention, jacking-out to focus it back on meat-space, specifically, on the approaching Nightsky.

From his vantage, the ground vehicle seemed to weave its way through an artificial canyon, formed between the numerous mountains of stacked, cargo pods. He watched, with an expression usually reserved for uninteresting trid programs, as the long, black limo pulled alongside the security vehicle, a mere ten meters from his position. The car had scarcely come to a stop before its rear door flew open.

Back at ground level, 'Bryce' wasted no time with the guard. Approaching the jeep, he briefly flashed his corp ID and pointed at the cargo container, which was already secured into the helicopter's spindly framework, making the AH-1 look like a complete vehicle, once again.

Inside his masking spell, Naxis frowned at the slight delay while the man performed a database search for the shipping records. Then he glared as the guard fumbled with the chipboard's data-cable, all the while maintaining a corporate expression of bureaucratic blandness across Bryce's features.

After an excruciating period of ineptitude, the connection was completed and the manifest was transferred into Naxis' pocket secretary. Then the combat mage spun on his heels, heading straight toward the cargo pod, with the guard lumbering behind.

Up ahead, the ground crew, who had finished "mating" the helicopter around the container, now stood before its door. As the suit approached, they noted his stern expression and moved off to one side, allowing him access to the security keypad.

Naxis brushed past and strode up to the mag-lock's controls. For a moment, he stood before the panel and scowled, peering down at its illuminated buttons. He could feel his heart beating heavily in his throat; the roaring twin propwash was well into the process of delivering him a major headache; and his ears were ringing from the pressure.

To the ground crew he appeared on the verge of passing out. But before they could act, the mage compelled himself to relax and, doing his best to ignore the deafening engines as well as the bits of debris they were kicking about, he carefully began to punch in the "borrowed" day-code.

The fact that he was fully aware it might fail, forcing him abort to the fallback plan, didn't help matters at all.

There he was finished. And after a few tense seconds, the lock popped open.

Naxis let his breath out, then momentarily turning his attention back to the ground crew, he motioned for the chromed sergeant to accompany him inside, while indicating that the orkish corporal was remain there with the Knight Errant guard.

As the three nodded in affirmation, he boldly entered the container with the sergeant in tow.

Once inside, with the water-tight door safely pulled shut, the mage exclaimed, "Will you look at all this drek!" His voice sounded strange, almost broken, as it echoed back, mingling with the muffled roar of the rotors.

Mounted along both sides of the entire seven-meter length were rack after rack of Ares Arms' prototypes, all dress-right-dressed, from cases of next generation Predator handguns to military-style Alpha's and HVAR's. They were stacked three racks deep in some places, which scarcely left room to walk down the center aisle.

"...even my previous employer's armories," Naxis continued, while conducting a nominal inventory, "weren't anywhere nearly as well stocked."

The gillette made no reply. Instead, he just stared in silence for a moment, taking it all in.

The container was packed from one end to the other, with little wasted space. Fastened into the gaps between the racks, were all sizes of metal, ammunition crates, stenciled and grouped by caliber.

And there were cases of pyrotechnics and demolitions gear and gyroscopic mounts and targeting systems--literally wall to wall weapons.

Naxis glanced up from the manifest, "...she'd said it would be big, but I had no idea."

From within the "borrowed" sergeant's uniform, the former company 'operative' allowed himself to become aware of the babbling elf and flashed him a lupine grin, "enough mayhem to fuel a revolution."

*

Out at the Nightsky, Rita was becoming restless--bordering on edgy. The fact that she'd lost contact with Naxis and Fen as soon as they'd stepped into the container hadn't been part of the plan, never mind the fact that the two couldn't stand each other. Perhaps pairing them together hadn't been the wisest of decisions.

"What is taking so long?" she said at last. The plan also didn't call for her leaving the limo, so she'd settled for opening its moonroof.

"Well, they do have to make it appear like an inventory," Dain replied from the front seat.

She was going to reply something about 'boys and their toys' when Buzz' voice burst into their headsets.

"Heads up! We've got trouble at the gate. Apparently, some clown arrived here in a public taxi, claiming to be the real Bryce Harlton."

"Damnitall!" Rita swore. "Can you block him?"

"I have, so far. They ran his ID past me twice," Buzz crackled, "but he's really impatient--screaming and making a big fuss, too. I don't envy those guards."

He had shifted his focus back to the camera inside the gate house. "Looks like they don't believe him yet," he continued, "one of them's pulling out a pair of cuffs. Maybe they'll restrain him or...oops."

"Define: 'oops,' " Rita shot back.

"Oops, as in, now they're checking his story on a vox-comm, which I don't have access to."

"Alright, I read you. We are nearly done here. Just hold your position and keep me posted."

"Copy, boss-lady." And Buzz broke the connection.

"Heavy on the nearly," Dain echoed, "until those two finish up in there. I tried to reach them again, but with the door closed our comms still can't penetrate the box."

"Damn," Rita fumed, "Bryce must have left the charity ball early."

"You want me to make an excuse and go get them?" Dain offered.

"Not just yet," she began, "let them have a few more..."

Repeated blasts from the facility's klaxon cut her off.

"Boss-lady!" Buzz broke in, "you've got company! Seems your ex-beau just stole himself a jeep!"

"Dain, I have reconsidered. Go!"

To be fair, the Knight Errant guard didn't know what to make of the confusion. At the sound of the alarm, he'd immediately lumbered into action, not-quite sprinting the ten meters, back to his jeep to radio in.

Halfway there, he had passed the rude suit's chauffeur going the other way. And just as he'd begun to feel smugly self-satisfied that he didn't work for a boss like that, the facility's second security vehicle burst around a corner, narrowly avoiding a row of cargo boxes.

Its screaming tires could be heard above the chopper's drone, but its driver, the KE noted, wasn't one of Ares' grauds.

The man wasn't even wearing a uniform. Instead, he appeared to be covered with large, colored dots and he was standing up in the jeep's seat, waving his free arm and yelling--as if anyone could hear him.

...and his hair was bright orange ...and he had a huge red nose?

All of this proved to be far too much sensory input and the guard did the only thing he could think of: he drew his sidearm and levelled it at the approaching madman.

Things happened quickly after that.

In one smooth motion, Dain drew, spun, and planted his stun baton into the base of the passing Knight Errant's neck. The startled guard scarcely had time to drop his own weapon, before crumbling to the ground in a heap.

Almost simultaneously, Rita popped out of the limo's moonroof and, bracing her elbows on the hood, drew an easy bead on the approaching jeep. She briefly made eye contact with its driver, then without hesitation, triggered her vat-grown reflexes and emptied the Pulsar's clip.

In the few seconds before the volley of darts slammed into Bryce, sending him unceremoniously crashing to the pavement in fits of convulsions, he did manage to recognize his former 'employee'. And to his credit, before completely succumbing to a taser-induced unconsciousness, he knew.

Thugg, meanwhile as if on queue, had flung open the cargo pod's door and extracted his two mistified teammates. And as he and Fenris scrambled up to the helicopter's cabin, the ork briefly paused to look back, realizing that the elven mage no longer looked like Bryce Harlton.

After sighting in and shooting, Rita nearly suffered a moment of retrospect before snapping into action. She couldn't believe what a release it had been and the wide-eyed look on his face had been priceless.

After six years of being under his smarmy thumb, she (and certainly, he) deserved it. Had she known, she would've worked it into their plan. Back to the job at hand, she chided herself and almost felt guilty over her enjoyment--almost.

With a command to the hydraulics in her legs, she gracefully leapt out of the Nightsky's roof and landed a few meters from where the Ares Veep lay bruised and twitching.

As she sprinted the remaining distance to him, Rita keyed her comm, ordering Naxis to do something about the runaway jeep, before anyone was seriously hurt, then she switched to Revver's channel.

"Alright, flyboy, immediate dust-off, soon as your crew is aboard."

That last had been directed at Dain. "I'm on it," he said in turn, not adding his two yen about chromed-out speedphreaks.

He and his normal reflexes were still in the process of snapping a pair of nylon cuffs on the unconscious Knight Errant guard.

A moment later, he pulled the black limousine up to his two teammates. Then with a soft click, he popped its trunk again and they quickly chucked Bryce's twitching body in next to Cromwell's still one."

"Ick," not-Bryce whined as he lifted, "he's still tingling."

"Harmless risidual discharge," Rita half-answered with a smirk, "mostly."

On their way out of the facility, Dain drove past the two remaining, gate-guards, puffing and sweating as they ran--vehicleless--toward the soon-to-be infamous crime scene.

He slowed the limo enough for Naxis to power down a window.

"Terrorists!" Not-Bryce bellowed after them, "sabotoures! They're trying to destroy my shipment!"

The intercom crackled, "nobody's minding the till up here. Soon as you're throught, I'm jacking out."

"Roger, front gate," Rita answered, "see you on the other side. Oh, and Happy Halloween."

"Move it!" Naxis continued to shout in a frighteningly realistic Bryce portrayal. He was practically leaning out of the window, himself. "Run faster! That's what we're paying you fo..."

He'd have kept on, had Rita not pulled him back inside, adding, "hit it, Dain!"

And he did, leaving the bewildered Knight Errants far behind.

*
*
*

Some three hours later, thanks to an anonymous tip to senior Ares management, Bryce would be found, severely drunk, bound and gagged in an upstairs 'party room' at the "Sisters of No Mercy," a 'B & D' Brothel and Discotheque, catering primarily to trolls.

A later Matrix trace on the Nightsky would show it to have been towed and impounded by Lone Star Security Services for "double-parking in front of a fire hydrant while blocking a pedestrian throughway."

On the following day, Cromwell would be discovered asleep its trunk.

*
*
*

Ares Aero 3102 flew due North-West-North, five meters above the waters of the Puget Sound--all systems green.

Two minutes after their South-Westwardly departure from Ares' private docks, Revver had slipped beneath the radar net and assumed his present heading.

The virtual gauges, over to his right, showed their airspeed to be 165 kph and that fuel consumption was still holding at a steady 238 meters/litre.

Hmmm, she was doing better than he'd estimated. He updated the autopilot's instructions with the new data. A glance at the Nav-stat showed their position about to coincide with the crosshairs he'd programmed, while awaiting landing clearance. Time to begin their final approach. And with a thought, Revver cut back the Dragon's engines.

"Tres minutos!" He intoned over the intercom. "Tres minutos!"

In response, Thugg and Fenris re-checked pressure regulators, zipped up wetsuits, and then silently watched the remaining seconds tick off.

Exactly three minutos later, the cabin suddenly lurched upwards as their cargo was cut loose. Revver watched the seven-meter pod splash into the Sound's dark waters, sinking quickly beneath its surface.

"Time to get wet, dirt-boys," he called back, dropping their speed to a crawling 40 kilos per hour, "the window's opening ...Ahora!"

And the two ex-soldiers simultaneously bailed out from opposite sides of the chopper, followed twenty seconds later by Revver, himself.

By the time he'd swum the chilly distance to them, they'd already made a couple of experimental dives. But for the moment, the rigger was more interested in the rapidly vanishing Dragon.

He had fed the autopilot a Nap-Of-the-Earth (Nap-Of-the-Sound, actually) course which would take her out through the Strait of Juan de Fuca to the Pacific Ocean. From there, she would head due West for another two kilometers, then pop up into the offshore radar net, making slow, half-klick circles and ignoring the heck out of all Ares transmissions.

She was to continue to do this until (1) she ran out of fuel, (2) someone managed to board her, or (3) she was shot down.

Revver shifted his cybereyes to ten-power and watched her depart, accelerating he knew, back to cruise-speed.

A minute later, as she completely disappeared from sight--just one more black spot, lost among the evening's backdrop, the other two resurfaced and glanced up to see what was so fraggin' interesting.

And he almost told them but then simply shook his head and returned to the task at hand, deciding they just wouldn't comprende.

Off in the distance, a fishing trawler finished hoisting anchors, as the three of them dove beneath the surface once more. This sole witness to their little deception fired up its engines and slowly began heading toward their position.

In the time it took the runners to locate the "liberated" cargo pod, the Scandinavian vessel had covered the intervening kilometers and was already in position to deploy its extra-heavy winches.