"This is Harry DeWitt," Alex introduced Warchild to the watcher.

Warchild remained reticent.

Papa wasn't; he approached and grasped Harry's hand with both his huge paws. "Thank you, thank you for all you've done for us."

"Call me Harry." The old crow smiled warmly. "You're safe now, all of you. There is hot food, shower, and change of clothes inside. Shall we?" Harry gestured for them to accompany him inside the warehouse.

They met up with Bonnie inside a reception space converted from an empty office. There were several cots and blankets already prepared.

Bonnie burst into tears, the emotional strain too much for her to bear.

"Now, now, not good for the baby," Harry said as he patted her trembling shoulders. "When are you due?"

"Tomorrow," wife and husband replied together.

"The doc will make you comfortable," Harry ordered the physician to gently usher her to her bed.

"She's going to have it here?" Papa asked with wide eyes.

"Hospital is out of the question, too risky. Besides, I've chosen a qualified pediatric physician and we spared no expense bringing in equipment and staff. Your wife's in very good hands." Harry turned to the doctor. "How is she?"

"Other than hypertension and slight dehydration, mother and child are perfectly fine."

"Have you given her anything?" Papa asked.

"I was about to give her a mild sedative to help her sleep."

Papa nodded his approval.

"Bless you, sir," Bonnie said, led away by the physician.

Alex and Harry both watched Bonnie being led away, with Papa glued by her side.

"Now that she's taken cared off, I'd like to know -- who are you, Mr. DeWitt?" Warchild said warily. "Why do we deserve such generosity from Midland? What's the real price tag?"

"A strange way to show gratitude," Harry said, looking over to Alex.

"Without his help, we'd be in a world of shit," Alex said with a tinge of embarrassment and scolded. "Try not to be an asshole all your life."

"No, he's entitled to be wary," Harry corrected her. "Yes, Mr. Mars, there is something I have in mind. When you feel up to it, I'd suggest we all sit down for a talk. There's much to discuss and time is scant."

"It's your show," Warchild said.

A quarter of an hour later, the four remaining Cerberus congregated in an office kitchen and sat around a pot of coffee. Rotter's wounds were cleaned and dressed, and at this moment offered little discomfort, judging from his wide grin. Likewise, Papa was so ebullient rain clouds couldn't dampen. The wet towel was Warchild, sitting with his arms crossed opposite of Alex. Neither looked at each other.

At the head of the small table was Harry. He began a slow recount of what had happened from the moment the Caracas video was aired as the first fallen domino.

Rotter mumbled. "We didn't deserve this."

"Your existence is evidence of the PIP's tampering with a foreign government . . . Aggravated with the coming Conclave."

"Sons of bitches," Rotter muttered.

"What about the others?" Warchild asked.

Harry turned it over to Alex.

"They're gone," she choked and looked away quickly.

"There were devastating consequences," Harry said under his breath. The men knew what he meant. Alex got up from the table to compose herself elsewhere.

"The deaths were made to look like freak accidents," Harry continued in her absence.

"And do you know this?" Papa asked, impressed.

"We were following leads stemming from Moreau's murder."

"Holy shit, Director Ian Moreau?" Rotter exclaimed. "He's dead?"

"I came to see him," Alex said rejoining the table. "To get his help about getting us some T-Stoff. The next day, I found out he was killed."

"The meds!" Papa sat up, alarmed. "I'm behind, two days now I think."

"We all are," Alex said in an impassive manner. "This is why we're here."

Harry told them Moreau had downloaded the entire project into a CSU with the intent to defect to Midland. But he had lost his head.

"I know who took it," Harry paused. "The same man who pursues you and killed your friends."

Warchild looked at him inquisitively. "Who is he?"

"A devil I trained."

"You trained?"

"I wasn't always with Midland."

"So you had a hand in all this?" Warchild accused.

"There are deep roots in the world. Go back far enough and we're all related."

"You tell me his name."

"His name is Lockheart."

"But there's another he goes by -- the Sandman," Alex added. "Psychopath killer."

"So are we," Rotter said.

"Cute." Warchild grimaced with a twisted smile.

"So what does this sick joke have to do with us?" Papa asked.

"He took Moreau's head -- literally. Carnivora could keep you alive only if we can access the chem-sequence in time."

"So says the killer's mentor," Warchild carped. "Don't dangle it in front of us. Say what you came here to say."

"Warchild, you watch your tone," Alex snapped.

"That's all right. Right now, Lockheart is taking the drive to sell it to the highest bidder. That happens, everyone loses."

"And you want us to hit him?" Papa said.

"To retrieve the data -- and save yourselves."

"And Midland walks away with the prize," Warchild said.

"Yes, we want it too."

"I can't get involved," Papa said. "My family -- Bonnie's about to pop. I can't take any more risk."

Harry said softly. "How do you feel?"

Papa hung his head, knowing the truth.

"Doing nothing is the same as suicide, Pete. With no T-Stoff to counteract the ravaging cancers, Bonnie would be a widow in a week or month -- and your children without a father. You will hold your newborn in time to die."

Papa bit his lips hard, turning them purple.

"You have to reconsider."

"I'm feeling kinda good," Rotter said.

"It's the painkillers they gave you," Harry said.

"I didn't take any." Rotter shrugged.

"I'll leave you all to make your decision," Harry said, getting up.

As soon as the old crow left the kitchen, Warchild was the first to say, "I don't trust that man. Why would anyone do this?"

"We're all here breathing -- because of him," Papa said. "I'm indebted. You should show a little gratitude."

"How bout you, Rotter?"

Rotter thought for an instant and said, "I guess I'm in. Where else am I gonna go? Tired of running anyway. Time we dish out what they've been cooking."

"We're the dead walking," Alex said to the others. "We got nothing to lose."

"Is that the only reason?" Warchild mused, his eyes narrowed.

"What are you getting at?" Alex returned his glower.

"Honesty."

"We all have our crucifix to bear. Mine is my own."

"Is it going to compromise us as it did before?"

"Before --" Alex rose from her seat, trembling. "You want to open that wound again, don't you?"

"Let's everybody calm down," Papa said.

"Yeah, we were just getting along," Rotter said.

"She carries emotional baggage and will cost us all," Warchild snapped. "You two conveniently forget?"

"Then fuck off," Alex said. "And die on the street like a dog . . . Or stay and do something about it."

Papa uttered, "Yeah."

They all waited for Warchild, who never broke his glare from Alex.

"Don't be a dick and leave us hanging," Rotter said.

Warchild finally gave a nod.

"Then I'll let DeWitt know we're all in this -- together."

"Together," Rotter and Papa concurred.

"If we go, we go all the way," Warchild said.

"Deal," Alex said.