Harry waited in a cafe on the second-floor concourse, inside the cavernous Union Station. He observed the throngs of people migrating on the ground floor while the space above him was abuzz-ed with drones and MAVs performing their tasks, some on surveillance, some for protection, and like their human counterparts crisscrossed in swarms without hitting each other. The air seemed thick and antiseptic, hard to breathe; the CO2 scrubbers must be down, he imagined. Being here rubbed him with an irritating itch. At this moment, a strange sensation crept over him, one he can't remember ever experiencing. It was a mix of anxiety and nostalgia.

Once an instructor at the Farm, Harry DeWitt had taught many green recruits the trade crafts they needed -- surveillance, recruitment, infiltration, how to cultivate unspoiled legends; how to survive in the wilderness, at sea, underwater, in a gas chamber, some of them more brutal than the program allowed, and how to endure a rolled-up ops when an agent fell into enemy hands.

Over his career, there were two notables. The girl was watching his back at this moment, perched high inside an air intake vent with a silenced rifle, looking down at the mobbed concourse. The male, a student Harry had hoped never to cross paths again, was due to appear -- at his request. It was akin to waiting for a leopard to show and hoping it had eaten.

While watching the currents of passengers with curiosity, Harry recalled his two protegees at the Farm. He'd shown them each how to compartmentalize thoughts, control emotions, and keep an even disposition, things the girl and boy mastered easily. He'd pushed their cognitive performance and stress, teaching them to devalue everything they held dear.

On the antisocial spectrum, Porsche was a functioning sociopath; she knew how to interact with people, her indifference concealed. In contrast, Lockheart functioned in the deeply impaired end, psychopathic, with extreme traits that were disinhibited and egotistical, and he regarded people not as stepping stones, but as sheep. Well acquainted with his capabilities and his flashpoints, which were profound and numerous, Harry would be the first to admit that Lockheart was smart, unpredictable and highly lethal.

"Subject acquired," a voice chirped in Harry's inner ear. "He's on his way to you. Northwest entrance. You should see him in five . . . Three . . . Now."

Wearing a turtleneck under a thick wool jacket, Lockheart seemed organic and genteel, not synthetic as the current outlandish fashion of masks, visors and Obscura cloaks.

The two men spotted each other; neither showed emotional misgivings.

Lockheart approached the table and looked down at his old teacher, then pulled out a chair to sit. Neither extended his hand. Master and student exchanged stares until a mechanical server appeared.

The robo-waiter took Lockheart's order: coffee, black, no sugar. Harry already had his espresso in a demitasse, getting cold.

"So you want to talk?" Lockheart opened.

"Heard you're back in the Agency's graces again," Harry replied.

"And you're with Midland Corporate Intel. A rare post. Congratulations." His tone shifted from cordiality to seriousness. "Rarer still is your interest in Fednik business."

"My interest is the same as yours, Milo."

"Is that why you sent dear old Porsche to trip me up?" Lockheart chuckled. "She still holds a grudge against me?"

"Hell has no fury -- you know the saying."

"Tell me, she's humping for scraps still?" Lockheart sneered, his eyes scanning the ceiling.

"Tell that prick to go fuck himself," Porsche scratched in Harry's ear.

Lockheart's face took a harder edge, his emotions changing on a dime. Some men got hot when stirred to anger, some became cold as a corpse. "You're running interference. Porsche killed my men. I have reasons to crush you using every means afforded me --"

"She said it was self-defense," Harry replied even-keeled, keeping a poker face. "And I'm here to propose a truce. Ceasefire?"

He scoffed. "You're trespassing into where you don't belong."

"The greatest victory is that which requires no battle -- Sun Tzu. Listen to what I have to say before you dismiss it."

Lockheart shrugged, the chill turned biting.

"So where is our girl, Porsche? I don't see my sweetheart anywhere." Lockheart feigned looking around, agitated.

"I'm lined up, got him between the eyes. Just say when."

"She sends her regards," Harry said, keeping a calm demeanor.

"With telescopic sight in hand and crosshair on my forehead, no doubt?" Lockheart waved in all directions, not knowing where she hid.

"Keep waving, I can reach you from right here, asshole."

"You would need her to have an advantage over me," Lockheart said.

The coffee arrived. Lockheart took a big sip of the hot liquid without flinching. "You wanted this meet, so talk. I don't have all day, DeWitt."

"A few days ago, you and your crew took something that didn't belong to you."

Lockheart seemed surprised.

"What is it we're speaking of?" Lockheart asked as his eyes scanned the domed ceiling for possible nooks where a sniper could be.

"A Honeywell 5000 series CSU -- cranial storage unit."

Lockheart looked confused at first, then his eyes narrowed. He lowered his voice in a mock display of discretion, "You mean the head?" then laughed out loud, the humor disjointed and cruel.

"The merchandise is spoken for."

"Yeah, by Director Moreau. But I relieved him of it."

"The arrangement had been promised to my paramountcy. We expect to take possession."

"Are we in arbitration this moment?" Lockheart scoffed.

"I'm giving you a chance to sort things out."

"I never pegged you to be in the body parts business."

"The data," Harry answered, keeping cool.

"Heads up, I'm seeing movement. He's got friends and they're breaking cover. I count two, no three," Porsche broke into Harry's thoughts.

"You got a receipt of ownership by any chance?" Lockheart chuckled. "No? Oh, well."

"Whatever they're paying you, I'll double it."

"What makes you think I still have it?"

"Oh, you do. The head's in cold storage. Just give it to me."

Lockheart sneered. "Not a chance."

"Milo, do you even know what's in Moreau's head?"

"Not my concern."

"Small mind, small errand, a clerk sent by masters to collect," Harry said, sipping the last of his espresso. "When will you wise up?"

Lockheart's eyes flashed dangerously.

"I'll tell you anyway -- you have in your possession the entire data scope of Project Carnivora, from proforma designs to fourth stage performance results."

Lockheart bent his bottom lip into an inverted U. "Never heard of it."

"Defense Advance Research Project, Catalog Number: Alpha Zero Zero dash Eight, codename Carnivora -- it's a bio-augmentation program aimed at creating the perfect soldier."

"So what?"

"You still don't get it. We're talking organic enhancements that mimic animal traits." Harry sighed. "Increase the number of olfactory receptors and you can track a target from half a mile away -- by smell, or sniff out a person's lies by his chemical changes up close. Double the number of retinal rods and you could see in the dark better than the best ocular implants; up hemoglobin count and you could stay underwater for half an hour. Bone densification, variable muscle fiber -- you could outrun an Olympic sprinter, and keep up the pace for twenty miles without cramping. And those are just the first phase possibilities. Now do I have your attention?"

Lockheart may have shown disinterest at first, but his enlarged pupils just betrayed him. "Go on."

"Second stage is the piece de resistance -- hemonite coagulant enrichment that could accelerate regeneration and myogenesis -- aka, rapid healing. The blueprints are all in Moreau's nugget. Now, shall we talk?"

Harry allowed Lockheart a moment to digest.

"What do you suggest?"

"Turn it over to me."

"I'd be begging for someone just like me to come along and take my head too," Lockheart mused.

"We can provide protection and asylum to you and your crew. You can disappear under our fief umbrella and retire rich beyond your dreams. Whatever you desire. All you have to do is give me Moreau."

"I'm neither stupid nor impulsive."

"Or loyal to anything," Harry said. "Give me Moreau and get paid. Be selfish. This is your golden ticket."

"Just for fun -- give me a figure. What are you willing to part with?"

"Five, seven million at most."

"Always the sand-bagger." Lockheart scoffed. "If you're here, then it's probably worth a hundred times more."

"Name your price then."

"Fifty million."

Harry sat back. "Be serious."

"All right. A hundred mil, and not one penny less. If you can't come up with that amount, then you're not serious."

"Sit-rep, final count -- eight tangos, all around you. Careful leaving, Uncle."

Hearing Porsche's warning, Harry carried on without missing a beat, "I'll run the numbers up the food chain and see."

"Why should I listen?" Lockheart said, his demeanor shifting. "For that matter why should I sell it to you? If it is as valuable as you say, then let the market bid for it."

Harry saw the crooked wheels turning in Lockheart, and shook his head. "The data is useless to you," Harry said. "But not to someone with the right network and backing."

"Like you?" The sneer was cutting. "So full of yourself."

"Try to fence the data in the open market, and you'll be flagged without question. Once your master knows, you're shit out of luck. They'll fish your corpse from the Potomac."

"Don't try to scare me, Uncle. You know better. I do the fishing . . . And the dunking."

Harry exhaled. "You have three choices: a pat on the back from your employer when you deliver Moreau's head; a knife up your culo by the same, if you're caught stealing. Or you can get paid big what you deserve, the proper way, the safe way. You decide."

"Remember my price -- one hundred followed by six zeroes," Lockheart repeated. "Take that to your boss."

Harry exhaled.

"If you agree to my demand, take out an ad in the Dupont Discourse. I'll be watching. You have 'til tomorrow. Nice seeing you again, Uncle." Lockheart got up and walked away

Harry got up as well, taking the opposite direction.

"Keep moving to the exit," Porsche said, directing him. "You got a tail on the move. Woman in orange Obscura and green visor, forty yards behind, four o'clock off your left shoulder. Can't miss her, the hot blond."

"Anyone else?" Harry mumbled, double-timing through the crosscurrents of commuters. He'd suspected he would be tailed. Hell, Harry remembered teaching that very lesson long ago -- a maze of crisscrossing corridors and adjoining train platforms was the ideal escape venue.

"Only one as far as I can tell."

"I'm leaving your visual range, heading downstairs. Bug out, we'll meet up later."

* * *

"Madam," Harry said, catching Regent Augustine in her office, her image appearing on his terminal.

"You're not in Chicago." It wasn't a question. "Spending a lot of time back East, anything I should know about?"

"I'm still on the Moreau affair."

"There's more beyond death, apparently. I'd appreciate an update," Augustine said, her tone patient.

"Apologies, ma'am, I had to go dark for this . . . I made contact with the man who took the head."

"Nasty business." Augustine feigned to shiver. "For what purpose, Mr. DeWitt?"

"Carnivora."

"I thought we agreed the program is toxic," Augustine said.

"Moreau and the project together is a difficult packet to swallow, but now that they're apart, Carnivora is attractive as an acquisition, infinitely more desirable as a stand-alone. Now no one can say we abetted a renegade thief."

"So, you're on a shopping spree."

"Yes, ma'am."

"It's also why you decided to call now." She sighed. "So how much will it cost our treasury?"

"One hundred million -- that was the price tag he demanded."

"Absurd." The Regent balked.

"Considering its potential, it's a bargain."

"A bargain?"

"Would you prefer TexPax holds the patent and monopoly on this technology?"

Augustine kept quiet.

Knowing he was getting through to her, he pressed, "The tech is proven and Caracas was its proving ground."

"Caracas is a quagmire."

"For different reasons, ma'am," Harry said. "I need your approval to proceed . . . Or we walk away."

"How do you plan to verify what you bought is legitimate?"

"The fund release is contingent upon data verification by one of Moreau's scientists."

"And you have secured such an individual?"

"Before his death, Moreau gave me the names of his entire staff for admission into Midland. That isn't the problem . . . No, the problem is the buy amount."

"You realize I'd have to appear in front of Carlyle for this sum? And this would take time."

"Yes, but your word can act as guarantor which the banks will issue their letters of credit against, payable upon verification. So what will it be, ma'am?"

"Dammit, Harry, I'm under enough stress from the business with Red City and the upcoming Conclave. I don't need this distraction." She dragged the silence out until it broke. "I'll have a memo drafted for Midland Central Bank. I'll be guarantor. Do it, close the deal."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Then come home. I need you here."