Sweat dripped down Marcus Stone’s face as he squatted in the shade next to a shed and watched the Air Force personnel get the big transport plane that was parked a couple of hundred yards away, ready to fly. As he lit up another cigarette, Stone’s mind ran over the chaotic jumble of events that had yanked him from the streets of New York City and left him deposited at a secret airfield in the Honduran jungle.

Just a couple of weeks ago he had been the commander of Code Blue, the New York City Police Department’s answer to the threat posed by the superpowered villains that seemed to be drawn to the city like a dog to a bone. He had created the unit, led it on a number of operations and ultimately, had led it to its annihilation at the hands of a team of superpowered assassins (as seen in FW #47). Then he had participated in retaliatory mission against the assassin’s employer, Hector "The Razor" Gonzalez, President and resident drug lord of the island nation of Costa Verde. The strike team, a mix of mercenaries, the survivors of Code Blue and an ancient pair of ex-superheroes had gone in under the command of a washed up Army Colonel. The mission was a disaster. Inadequacies in planning, tactical intelligence, preparation, etc. had doomed the mission from the beginning and it resulted in 90% of its participants ending up dead, wounded, imprisoned or missing (as seen in FW #48). The Commission on Superhuman Activities, reluctantly and after much debate, had allowed Forceworks to attempt to rescue the members of the team that were presumed to have been captured.

A new mission was organized and a new team, under operational control of Stone, had been put together. Like it’s short-lived predecessor, it too was cobbled together from disparate elements due to necessity. The members included the three former members of the NYPD, a hi-tech cat burglar, a couple of government operatives (one a hero the other an assassin) and more than a half-dozen mutant criminals on furlough from the Vault. That mission had been moderately successful and had resulted in one soldier rescued, one of the "New York Massacre" assassin being captured and a large number of enemy casualties. In addition, Forceworks spirits had been buoyed at the news that some of the personnel from the first mission had escaped the island nation in a stolen aircraft that later rendezvoused with the team in Honduras (see FW #49). However, the initial euphoria that Stone had felt was only temporary. He was once again awash with the waves of guilt, grief and shame that threatened to swamp his soul.

"Gotta another smoke?"

Stone, startled out of his silent reverie, squinted into the sun as he looked up at the stocky figure with the deep voice. "Yeah," he replied as he shook a cigarette from the pack and handed it to the man. The killer leaned against the wall and looked down at Stone squatting among the two dozen cigarette butts littering the ground.

"Guess you have a lot on your mind; you’re smoking like a chimney," Bullet said.

Stone didn’t reply. Bullet shrugged then turned to walk off, "Thanks for the smoke."

Bullet, as he headed back to the hangar where the other team members were hiding from the sun, was filled with admiration for the man’s stoic demeanor. His father had always said, "Carry your own water," and Bullet knew that was exactly what Marcus Stone was doing.

Robin Chapel looked up as the tall, lean Army officer intruded into her domain: the Operations Center of Forceworks. Colonel Delbert Granville Tremens strode purposefully over to where Chapel stood conversing with Peggy Carter, the team’s Director of Communications. He interrupted the conversation. "Status report, Chapel."

"Colonel Tremens, the converti-plane with Genji Odashu, Piston Rostov and Mother Majkowski left Honduran airspace an hour ago. The USAF transport aircraft carrying the rest of the team and the wounded are about 30 minutes behind them," Chapel replied evenly.

"What of the new additions to our ground and support teams?" Tremens asked.

"A Mr. Gordon Hunter, the External Operations Liaison for the Vault, will be bringing the selected inmates down in a couple of days. The others are scheduled to arrive periodically over the same time frame. I’ve already made the proper arrangements to receive them."

"Good…you are turning out to be quite proficient, Chapel."

"Why, Colonel Tremens, so are you," she replied.

Chapels jibe earned immediate results as Tremens back, already ramrod straight, seemed to get just a bit stiffer. He said, "Good day, Ladies," then stalked out of the Operations Center. Peggy Carter’s grin dissolved into infectious giggles. Chapel briefly laughed too then got serious again.

"Peggy, when does the flight from New York get in?" Chapel asked.

"In a couple of hours. I’ll be going to the airport and picking her up myself. Should be quite a surprise," Peggy said.

"Yeah Peggy…and it might be our only chance to get Marcus Stone to stay with Forceworks."

Bobbi Chase AKA Blindside wearily eased her body into the seat next to the two men who had been talking quietly for the past couple of hours. "You okay, Bobbi?" Tork asked.

"Yep…I just can’t seem to go to sleep," she responded. "and I guess I’m ready to talk about what happened in Costa Verde."

"Are you sure, Bobbi?" Stone asked gently. "You can wait until we get back if you want."

Bobbi thought a moment. "No, I would rather go ahead and do this now."

They were on the run. The sun was up, but it was still dark under the triple canopy of the Costa Verdean jungle. Lifeline called a rest break, so he could check the bandages around Hardcase's abdomen, then after switching out stretcher-bearers, they pushed on.

Bobbi Chase was soaked in sweat, tired and hungry. Perspiration dripped down her face and off her nose as she walked behind the stretcher to lend a hand when traversing over the rough spots. Occasionally she would glance behind her to make sure that Amelia Greer was still back in the rear with that bow and her razor-sharp arrows. At the front of the group was that big Hispanic female cop that was built like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Ever so often Bobbi would get a glimpse of her, rifle in hand, out on point, but more often she just saw the woman’s handiwork: the broken brush when she had to clear a path for the stretcher coming behind.

Piston, the tough-as-nails Russian, and Lifeline, the team’s medic, were silently carrying the stretcher where their dying boss lay. Sergeant-Major Harry "Hardcase" Malone was a dead man; there was no doubt. Bobbi had seen too many people die to be mistaken. He had been gut shot by a round that had gone through his body armor. Probably Teflon coated she thought. He was pale and weak even though he was obviously trying to stay alert. Hardcase was aptly named. He had refused morphine even though the pain must have been horrendous. Said he wanted to be awake if something happened.

"This mission was screwed from the start," she thought to herself as she reviewed the events of the previous night. The insertion had gone well and the team had deployed to their assigned positions around the Presidential Palace without detection. They had even infiltrated the grounds of the palace when bad luck struck them full in the face. Zeke Hamilton AKA Shotgun had broken his glasses while going over the wall of the palace and as a result he didn’t see the errant branch that tripped him in the dark. When he fell his finger must have been on the trigger of his shotgun (strictly against standard operating procedure) because it went off.

That’s when things went to hell in the proverbial hand basket. The hidden floodlights that suddenly came on a few moments after Zeke’s accident blinded them all and completely ruined their night vision. Machine guns, firing from concealed bunkers, began to fire in controlled bursts and in set patterns. Zeke, leaping to his feet, was chopped into ribbons in seconds. Bullets stitched Timebomb, that cute Frenchman, as he made for cover. Axe, lying in the prone position, was laying down covering fire. A buzzing occurred and Super Sabre appeared out of nowhere riddled with bullets. He may have been fast, but he obviously couldn’t outrun a bullet. That’s when the glowing man appeared.

The man, identified as Zapper by the intell weenies, was glowing with the Electro-magnetic energy his mutant body generated. The energy he was throwing were sizzling, scary bolts of destruction as he began to vaporize the trees and bushes the team was hiding in and around. I was firing and trying to dig a hole with my teeth when a series of shots rang out. The .50 caliber round that Jesus Suarez’s (AKA Ranger) sniper rifle fired produced a distinctive sound and more importantly, a distinctive effect. Zapper’s head came apart like a melon. One moment it was there the next moment it wasn’t. Needless to say, the glow stopped immediately as Zapper’s plug had obviously been pulled. That’s when the wailer appeared.

This Hispanic looking guy had stepped out into the yard, opened his mouth and started wailing. I knew this guy was bad news so I introduced his larynx to a double tap from Mr. Colt. I never could stand wailing men anyway.

Things were starting to look up at that point and for a brief moment I actually thought we were going to get away with it. That’s when the banana republic shooting club showed up. The Costa Verde National Army didn’t seem to be very well trained, disciplined or equipped; however, they more than made up for their inadequacies through enthusiasm and numbers. There were a heck of a lot of these guys. It was definitely time to skedaddle. Amelia must have had the same idea because that’s when she threw one of Timebomb’s nasty little devices at the wall and blew a hole in it. I said, "let’s go!" and ran through the hole. Amelia and I both took positions behind the rubble to lay down covering fire, so our comrades could flee. I could also hear that big gun of Ranger’s firing, but then a hail of tracers lit up the tree he was perched in and his weapon fell silent. That’s when I saw the woman run out of the smoke.

It was "Rigger" Ruiz, one of the cops that survived the New York Massacre" and over her shoulder she was carrying Hardcase who was yelling and bleeding like a stuck pig. Close behind her were two of our guys, Piston and Lifeline.

I screamed," where’s everyone else?" and Piston replied in his broken English, "we are it!" I paused for a moment as Piston and Lifeline began firing at the advancing troops. On the edge of the floodlights, I could see more men moving to encircle us. We were outgunned, outmanned and cut off from our extraction point. In addition, we had a seriously wounded Harry Malone with us. The choices were easy: run or die. So, I led the remnants of the Harriers and Co. out into the nearby jungle. After the first couple of hours, we finally were able to break contact with the pursuing troops (thanks to Amelia’s silent death in a quiver). I have no idea what happened to the others. Communications went down at the beginning of the mission and was never restored. That’s when we began to walk out. We had no idea where we were going, but it had to be better than where we’d been.

A few hours later, we were taking another rest break when I noticed Amelia nervously fingering her bow and staring back the way we had came. I left Malone’s side and quietly eased my way to where she was crouched and whispered, "What’s wrong Amelia? Hear something?"

"I feel something…we’re bring followed."

I immediately began to watch and listen. Amelia’s eerie gut feelings had saved the Harriers on several occasions and I had spent too much time in SHIELD’s Esper Division to doubt the existence of psychic hunches. I glanced back at the others and saw that they had seen our watchful behavior and taken heed. They were intensely scanning the jungle also. We stayed in that watchful readied pose for nearly an hour before I finally gave the signal to move out. I kept everyone in their previous positions, with Rigger on point, Amelia in the rear, and the rest of us in the middle.

We moved like that for the entire first day, with rest breaks becoming more frequent as we became increasingly fatigued. We refilled our canteens every time we came across water, being careful to purify it with halazone tablets before drinking it. Of course, Lifeline, refused to allow Hardcase to have any water because of his open abdominal wound. Hardcase accepted it stoically and never complained. He knew as well as the rest of us that giving water to a person that’s been gut shot would just make it worse.

About an hour before dark, we halted and set up camp. Amelia and Piston went out foraging and returned with some edible plants, which we used to supplement our limited supply of field rations. We put Hardcase under a make shift hooch, I set a guard roster and we went to sleep.

Guard duty that night was spooky. Sitting in nearly pitch black darkness, listening to the sounds of the jungle and knowing that Amelia remained convinced that we were being followed combined with the fatigue and stress of the last day had left me a nervous wreck. I was nervously starting at every sound with my eyes intensely straining into the blackness to see what had made the noise. It felt like my guard shift would never end, but eventually I woke my relief, Amelia, and then lay back down and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The next day passed uneventfully and we made good time (even though we had no idea where we were heading), but Amelia steadfastly maintained that we were still being followed. Again, Amelia and Piston went out foraging and returned with a nice fat juicy snake. They took it some distance away, gutted it and cleaned it then we cooked pieces of it using heat tabs. Luckily, it was dark by the time it was ready to eat, so we didn’t have to actually see what we were eating. I had the first guard shift and when Amelia replaced me, I bedded down and fell into a deep fatigue induced sleep.

The next morning, someone shaking me violently awakened me. I woke in a terror-filled daze and was reaching for my weapon when I realized that it was Lifeline. "What’s wrong?" I asked whispering.

"Amelia’s missing," he whispered back and then pointed at something nearby. My eyes followed his direction and I saw a pool of mostly dried blood on the ground just a few feet away from where I was laying.

We hurriedly woke Piston and Rigger. I had Lifeline stay with Hardcase at his hooch while the other three of us began to recon the area around the campsite using a corkscrew pattern. Within ten minutes we had found our friend.

She had been crucified to a tree with her own razor sharp arrows. My training immediately took control. I had Rigger and Piston keep an eye out while I checked out the body. I approached cautiously, checking for booby traps or tracks, but found none. Then I examined her body and tried to piece together what had happened. I waved away the bugs crawling around her face, then gently lifted her head from where it was resting on her blood soaked shirt. The wide slash across her throat told me the manner of her death and I found that fact oddly comforting. It was unlikely that she had been nailed to this tree while still alive. I quickly broke the arrows that were holding her up, lowered my best friend’s body over my shoulder and then headed back to our camp with the other two escorting me. When we entered the campsite, Lifeline’s stricken face told the tale, but I waited to hear his words before letting my heart hurt anew. Harry "Hardcase" Malone, former Sergeant Major in the Royal Marine Commandos, former agent of SHIELD and the founder and leader of the Harriers, had died in the night.

We spent most of the morning digging shallow graves with sharpened sticks and then piled rocks over the top of them to try and keep the animals away from them. When we were finished the four of us talked the situation over. Piston stated in his broken English that it was obvious that Amelia had been right and that someone was stalking us. Rigger Ruiz, who hadn’t said twenty words since we had met her, pointed out that Amelia’s killer could have easily finished us all but hadn’t. She then suggested what was swiftly becoming apparent to all of us: the murderer was toying with us. I ventured that we needed to go ahead and move out since the killer knew exactly where we were. Lifeline remained silent throughout the exchange. After we packed up our campsite and ate a quick meal of half-cooked snake meat, Lifeline, eyes swollen and voice hoarse with suppressed emotion, gave a brief eulogy to our fallen comrades and we moved off into the jungle. I glanced back one last time to the clearing where my best friend and my mentor would rest forever and whispered, "you two take care of each other." Then we moved out of sight.

With the need to carry the stretcher gone and the jungle thinning a bit, we covered a lot more ground than we had the past couple of days. The memories of the deaths of our friends, both at the palace and in the jungle, combined with the sense of dread that had fallen over the four of us spurred us onward. That night, two of us remained awake the first half of the night and two of us the last half. No one would be left alone again. The night passed uneventfully.

About mid-morning on the next day, as we were cresting the top of a hill, we heard the sounds of an engine. The small Dakota bush plane passed directly over our heads as we crouched down hiding in the bushes. After it had passed we leapt to our feet and then watched it disappear into the valley below. It never came back up. The four of us were filled with excitement as we moved out at a rapid pace because we knew that somewhere in that valley was an airstrip with a plane sitting on it. We moved for the rest of that day and deep into night, stopping to rest and refill our canteens periodically. A couple of hours into the next morning, we began to hear the sounds of civilization ahead. Thirty minutes after that the village came into view.

The village was made up of about fifty or so squalid shacks with a sad dilapidated church with a steeple being the largest structure. Next to it, was a grassy airstrip with that old Dakota transport plane sitting next to a shack and a fuel tank. As we retreated back into the jungle to circle around and get closer to the plane, a thrashing in the bushes to my front drew my attention. As I took a step forward to check on Rigger, who was on point, something leapt out of the bushes and knocked me down.

I heard the sounds of the others fighting as I attempted to struggle to my feet. My breath had been knocked out of me and all I could manage was to flip over on my side to see what was happening. Lifeline was down and not moving. I couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. Our assailant, clad in a dirty red suit with black web designs on it, was squared off against Piston, who was in a classic boxers stance. Tarantula, the infamous assassin, had a definite advantage. A spike protruded from each glove and from each of his boots. As I lifted my rifle, I noticed that its action had been severely bent by the force of the blow that had knocked me down. It was useless.

As the two men danced and feinted around each other, it became obvious that Tarantula was toying with the slower man who was already bleeding from a half dozen minor wounds. As I reached down to draw my pistol, a sudden burst of automatic rifle fire laced Tarantula with holes and sent me cringing into the dirt. I looked over my shoulder and saw that big woman, Rigger Ruiz, firing her assault rifle on full automatic with one hand while holding a heavily bleeding stomach wound with the other. A few moments later, the firing stopped as her magazine fell empty. She stood there for a brief moment holding the smoking rifle, then dropped to her knees and slowly fell onto her face in the dirt. I pulled myself to my knees and turned to look at the others. Piston was crawling out of the bushes where he had taken refuge from Rigger’s wild barrage and Lifeline appeared to be waking up. Tarantula was gone. I just sat there and gaped at the patches of his blood on the ground.

Piston recovered his rifle and then came over and effortlessly pulled me to my feet. As he did the same with Lifeline, he said in his broken English, "the village will have heard the firing, we have to go for the plane." I scrambled over and checked Ruiz. She was still alive, but was seriously hurt. Lifeline gently pulled me away, checked her vital signs and then flipped her over on her back. He washed some of the dirt away from the wound with water from his canteen then efficiently bandaged it up while Piston and I watched out for possible threats. As soon as Lifeline was finished, he and I pulled her moaning to her feet and each of us taking an arm, we moved out directly for the plane with Piston in the lead.

As we exited out onto the airstrip, we could see that a hundred or so villagers were gathered at the edge of the strip watching the jungle. Most of them drew back fearfully as we began to cross the airfield and approached the plane. The bush pilot, a short fat balding man wearing a flight jacket, stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly with a gesture of the big Russian’s rifle. Piston forced the man at gunpoint to refuel the plane from the nearby tank, while Lifeline and I got Ruiz aboard. A few minutes later, Piston sent the watching villagers and the pilot scurrying away by firing his rifle into the ground near their feet. Then he climbed into the aircraft, did his preflight procedures and flew us the hell out of there.

Piston headed for a secret airfield in Honduras that the Harriers had operated from when working Central America and the Caribbean for Uncle Sammy in the past. When we got into radio range of the base, we discovered that Forceworks, who had performed another operation on Costa Verde, was headed for the same place. We had survived.

Bart Rozum led the newcomer down the hall to his new room.

"Boy…I sure hate that I missed the last mission," the stocky older man said for the umpteenth time.

"Well Mr. Petruski, you know we tried to contact you but we couldn’t find you," Rozum replied.

"Yeah…I was lazing around in the Bahamas and catching some sun…got more of a burn more than a tan," the man known to the superhero world as Trapster said also for the umpteenth time.

With some relief, Bart saw the door to Trapster’s room appear.

"Here you go sir," Bart said as he unlocked the door and put Petruski’s duffel bag on the floor next to the bed. A moment later, Bart became slightly embarrassed as the socially inept Petruski dug out a dollar bill and tipped him.

The government vans that had carried Forceworks from the airfield pulled through the heavily guarded main gate and dropped the team’s members off at the rear entrance to the Compound. The evening air was cool, but comfortable. Robin Chapel and Peggy Carter along with a group of soldiers met them as they exited the vehicles.

"Welcome back…you did an outstanding job," she announced loudly as she walked directly up to Stone and shook his hand. "Good job Marcus, the Commission and the President are all very pleased with the job you did."

"That’s good, when does my flight leave to take me back to New York?" he replied.

"Well. Lets go inside and talk over a few things while these guards unload the vans and get the inmates back to their cells."

Stone stopped and looked at Chapel. "Only Mentallo needs to go into a cell and needs to remain under sedation. The rest proved themselves as far as I’m concerned."

Chapel said, "fine…I’ll talk to the Colonel about it." She then directed the soldiers to have them put them into rooms.

Peggy Carter helped unload Mother Majkowski’s wheelchair from the van he had been riding in and then helped to get him in it. He seemed embarrassed. As he gruffly thanked her, he noticed a particular twinkle in her eyes. "Could she be interested in me?" he thought. "Nah…couldn’t be," he assured himself as Peggy pushed his wheelchair up the ramp and into the building.

"Good job Stone," Tremen’s said as Robin Chapel and Marcus Stone entered his office. "Glad to have you aboard."

"I’m not aboard. This was a one-shot deal. I’m going to New York to see my wife as soon as this conversation is over and I’m not coming back."

"Now wait, let’s talk about this for a second…" Tremens responded.

"There is nothing to discuss, as far as I’m concerned the subject is closed."

Chapel chose that moment to change the subject. "Well, okay Marcus, let’s talk about some other issues. Colonel Tremen’s, Stone has asked that most of the convict members of Forceworks, with the exception of Mentallo, be billeted in their own rooms instead of cells."

Tremen’s, taking his cue, said, "Fine. If you feel they’ve earned it." Stone nodded in surprise. "Any other suggestions, Stone?"

Stone thought for a moment then said, "Alfredo Morelli should have his explosive collar removed."

"Do you feel that’s wise, Marcus? After all, we did get him out of prison for this mission," Chapel responded.

"He’s no threat. I think he actually enjoys the idea of being a part of the Commission’s Strike Team and if you leave it on him, he’ll just have the incentive to figure out a way to remove it."

Tremens seemed concerned, "You think that’s a real possibility?" he asked worriedly.

"The man’s a genius and an expert at escaping from things that try to hold him whether it be a cell, a collar around his neck or responsibility," Stone replied. "Given time, I have no doubt he would have escaped from Ryker’s Island Prison where he was being held. Trust me, you’re better off removing the collar."

Tremens thought for a moment then nodded. "Okay, Stone, if you really think that’s the proper course of action. Anything else?"

"Yes…I was wondering what you are going to do with Stealth (Captured by the team in FW#49)."

"He’ll stay in our hospital until he gets well enough to be moved to the Vault. Then I expect that he’ll be tried and convicted," Tremen’s replied. Oh, and by the way, we’ve put an INTERPOL alert out on Paralyzer. Hopefully, he’ll turn up soon."

"Well, okay. Good luck with Forceworks, of course I’ll keep everything that’s happened to myself. Now, how about that ride to the airport?" Stone asked.

Chapel responded, "A car and driver are waiting out front with your bags already loaded."

"Thanks," then without another word he left the office.

"Everything ready Chapel?" Tremens asked.

"Yes sir…I talked to her at length today. Now, all we can do is hope it works," she replied.

John Walker, the hero known as U.S. Agent, looked down at the sleeping woman in the hospital bed. She had likely saved his life during the last mission when she had interceded to stop him from getting rolled over by enemy tanks. As a result, she lay in this hospital bed with internal injuries and badly broken leg; however, the doctors had assured him that she would recover in time (as told in FW #49).

Walker couldn’t understand why Mist Mistress had bailed him out in spite of the fact that he was the one responsible for putting her in the prison for superhuman criminals that was so aptly named, "The Vault."

He shook his head in wonder, whispered a very quiet, "Thank you," then picked up his duffel bag and left the room. He passed Bart Rozum on the way down the hall.

As U.S. Agent passed him in the hallway, Bart muttered to himself, "I guess I can have my room back now." (Bart was evicted from his room by US Agent in FW #49).

A commandeered car and driver dropped John Walker off at the airport an hour later and he flew out for home.

The driver dropped the confused Stone off at a brick house in one of the housing areas on the base. When Marilyn, both the one true love of his life and his wife, answered the door, he just held her tightly.

Bart lugged the two heavy duffel bags down the hall as he led the latest newcomer to his room. The only thing the older man with the muscle bound arms carried was some kind of bow shaped case and a couple of quivers of arrows. The man hadn’t spoken much except through grunts. Not even when Chapel introduced him to Bart as "Trickshot."

"Seems like an odd name," Bart thought as he carried the man’s bags into his room.

Stone angrily exited the car that he had summoned to bring him back to the Compound. He strode past the guards at the front door, ignoring their polite words of greeting.

He stormed into the Operation Center, walking past a startled Robin Chapel and directly into Tremens office. A few moments later, she heard a thud.

As she entered the office, she saw Tremens sitting on the floor holding his jaw with a very angry Stone standing over him. "What’s going on here?" Robin asked excitedly. Stone’s head swiveled to look at her.

"I punched him because I couldn’t punch you. I don’t hit women," he snarled. "You manipulated me."

"Yes I did. I’m sorry I had to do it, but I think it was necessary," Robin replied evenly.

"Marilyn told me that you had talked to her and convinced her that I should stay with Forceworks. She said you even had the Vice President of the United States talk to her on the phone!"

"That’s right I did," Chapel said. "And I’d do it again if I that’s what it’ll take to get you to stay with Forceworks. Your country needs you Stone."

"That’s just what Marilyn said. Okay, you got me. I‘ll stay, but on my terms. I run the field operators without interference from either of you, " he said as he helped Tremens to his feet.

"That’s fine, Stone, I wouldn’t have it any other way, " Chapel said. Tremens, still holding his jaw, weakly nodded his assent.

Stone stepped towards the door, then paused and turned to look directly at her. "Oh, and the next time you try and manipulate me…I may forget about my rule against hitting women."

He stalked out of the room and headed for home. Marilyn wanted to go shopping for furniture.

Oddly, Frank Bohannon didn’t seem very upset at the news. John "Mother" Majkowski had just told him that Martin Fletcher AKA Supersabre, his oldest living friend and comrade since World War II, was presumed dead from the attack on the palace, but Crimson Commando didn’t seem upset at all. He just gave a wry little grin and said, "We’ll see."

As Mother rolled his wheelchair out the door of the infirmary he realized that he couldn’t remember Fletcher’s body being among those that were shown hung from the walls of Hector the Razors palace on SCN. He would have to look into this as soon as he finished reviewing the information that they had just received from a source in the former Soviet Union.

Chapel stepped into the smoke-filled room, walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. As the off-duty soldier in the flower shirt drew her a beer, she looked around the room, noting with satisfaction that her order placing it off-limits to all non-operational personnel had been obeyed. Robin knew that the members of Forceworks would still be wound up from their mission, so she wanted them to have the place to themselves.

The bartender handed her beer to her and then she walked over to say hello to the former mutant terrorists known as the Resistants. The three of them, Quill, Meteorite and Occult were in a corner away from everyone else and they fell silent at her approach. Robin thought to herself as she exchanged pleasantries, that they would bear some watching. That’s why, even though she had assented to putting the convicts in their own rooms, she had also had their rooms wired with visual and audio monitors. She would know their every move. The three mutants never invited her to sit down and seemed uncomfortable in her presence, so she quickly moved on to another table.

The three relatively whole members of the Harriers, who after a brief discussion, had decided to remain with Forceworks, were sitting in another corner having a wake to mourn the death of five of their members and the terrible injuries of two that lay in the infirmary. They greeted her then solemnly invited her to join them. She assured them that she could only stay a minute then just sat quietly and listened.

Bobbi Chase was telling the other two: Piston and Lifeline about how difficult it had been for her to call the families of the dead Harriers and break the news to them. Harry "Hardcase" Malone, whose wife had died of cancer a few years before, had left a son attending a military school in England without a father. Jerome Henderson AKA Axe had left his mother in lower Alabama (which he jokingly referred to as LA) without a son. Zeke Hamilton AKA Shotgun had left a pair of grieving parents to run their comic book store alone. The little Frenchman, Louis Joubert AKA Timebomb, had left the pretty French farm girl he was intending to marry without her future husband. Amelia Greer AKA Longbow, had no family but the Harriers and the members of her tribe on an Indian reservation in upstate New York. When Bobbi mentioned that their "Big Payoff’s" would be going to the families except in Greer’s case, Robin asked her what the phrase meant.

Bobbi explained that the "Big Payoff" was an inside joke among the Harriers. It referred to the million-dollar life insurance policy from Lloyd’s of London that Hardcase maintained on each one of them. It was intended to support their families in the event that they were killed. Robin listened to them reminisce for about another fifteen minutes, then feeling out of place, she politely excused herself and went to take her empty glass back up to the bar.

The most reclusive member of Forceworks, Bullet, was at the bar getting a refill. As she placed her empty glass on the bar, Bullet leered at her while looking her up and down.

"Wanna go back to my room and have a little fun, Chapel?" Bullet drunkenly asked.

"No thank you, but I appreciate your little offer," She responded then immediately changed the subject.

"I understand you have a son in New York," she said.

"Yep."

"Would you like us to have him brought down here to stay with you? We had Stone’s wife flown down to join him here," Robin asked.

"Nope. I’m sure he’s fine."

"You sure?"

"I’m positive. It’s a sink or swim world and he needs to figure out how buoyant he is."

Chapel shook her head and left the room.

As she returned to her quarters, Robin saw the wickedly handsome Alfredo Morelli entering a room with one of the pretty young nurses.

At least someone was having fun.

"Pleased to meet you," the man with the cowboy hat and blue jeans said. "I’ve got your prisoners in the truck."

"It’s nice to meet you Mr. Hunter. I’m Robin Chapel, the Director of Operations for Forceworks."

"Call me Gordon. Y’all ready to take them?"

"Certainly," she responded as the gestured the military personnel forward.

Within a few minutes, Gordon Hunter, the External Operations Liaison for the Vault, with the assistance of a man in a blue costume had unloaded the prisoners from the truck and turned them over to the soldiers.

As the soldiers led the prisoners into the Compound, Hunter and the blue suited man approached. "This here’s Blue Shield." Robin reached out and shook his hand. "Yes. Joseph Cartelli. I took the liberty of reading your file. We appreciate you joining us."

"It’s only for a little while Ms. Chapel. Until you get your team stabilized," Cartelli answered.

"I understand. Now, how about we get these inmates checked in."

As they entered the building, Colonel Tremens approached. Robin quickly made introductions while they watched the in processing of the new arrivals commence.

Each was scanned for weapons then they had a collar securely fastened around their necks. The collars were designed to explode upon the command of whomever they were programmed to respond to…currently the senior members of Forceworks. One by one the new arrivals went through the process. The first two were intended for service in the medical section. One was a pretty black woman and the other was a real oddity: a man with a human head mounted on the body of a gorilla. The third and last one was a tall, muscular man with a scarred face and a blond ponytail hanging down his back. He was destined to be an operator on the field team. After fastening a collar on his neck the soldiers then proceeded, under advice from Hunter, to leave the locking mechanism on his right arm. The first two were led to the infirmary by a group of armed escorts while the third man was led off to his room. As the man with the blond ponytail approached the door that led into the Compound, he noticed that the door was starting to swing open. He swiftly reached out and yanked it open and an unbalanced Bart Rozum nearly fell onto his face.

Tremens snickered and muttered, "Serves the little freak right." Chapel glared at him as Bart approached. "What’s up Bart?" Robin asked.

"Well, that other new guy…the weird one is here."

"Did you get him settled into his room, Bart?"

"No ma’am, he stopped to fix a leaky toilet in the public restroom."

"Really? How odd…" Tremens interjected.

"Not really Colonel," Chapel replied. "Captain Ultra used to be a plumber."

"I think Mr. Bullet used to be one too," Bart said.

"Really? What makes you say that?" Robin asked.

"Well, he was in the restroom when Captain Ultra started talking about fixing that toilet and plumbing. Mr. Bullet started laughing, so the Captain asked him what was so funny. Mr. Bullet told him that he had plumbed some leaks in his day but not the kind that leaked water. When the Captain asked him what they leaked, Mr. Bullet replied that they leaked information. Then he just laughed and walked out of the room."

"Bart, don’t worry about it. Just go ahead and make sure all of the new people have everything they need," Chapel ordered. "Okay Ms. Chapel," then he ambled off.

"I hate to interrupt, but I really have to be getting back to the Vault, so I might as well collect up that prisoner I’m taking back with me," Gordon said. "Where is Mentallo?"

"He’ll be along in a few minutes. I told the guards to wait until this area was cleared of the newcomers," Tremens responded.

"How are we going to ensure that he keeps he mouth shut?" Chapel asked.

"Oh…I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s been taken care of."

A few minutes later, a heavily drugged Mentallo was brought onto the loading area. He was missing a few teeth from where Stone had punched him (as seen in FW #49) and one of his hands appeared to be in a cast. One of the soldiers escorting him said, "Sorry for the delay. We had to run him by the infirmary and get that hand put in a cast."

"What happened to his hand?" Chapel demanded.

"I dunno ma’am…when we went to his cell to pick him up, all of the fingers on his right hand had been broken. Some of them in several places," the soldier responded. "We asked him what happened and he refused to talk about it."

"What about the surveillance cameras in his cell?" Robin asked.

"Well, somehow the cameras to his cell got turned off. Don’t know how," the soldier replied.

"Take him away Mr. Hunter. He’s all yours. We wouldn’t want to make you late," Tremens said.

As Gordon Hunter led the prisoner out to his truck, Chapel looked pointedly at Colonel Tremens. "Something you want to say, Chapel?" He asked.

She thought for a moment then silently shook her head no.

Tremens gave a weasel-like grin then turned and left the room.