"Thank you, yes I authorize it". Philip Seymour disconected the phone and looked out his large bay window. Two months had passed since his little girl had vanished. Two long months. Now the PI he had hired had a lead and even proof that she was still alive. He just needed a little more money to get her out. Enough to hire "deniable assets" to perform the extraction.

November the Second, Two thousand and Sixty Four. Seven a.m.


Mirage

"Right, I know it's early darling, but I got a hot job that needs to happen fast. Noon, Issaqua, Fifteen Troll bar. Don't forget my "Fingers Fee", hahaha."

Danny
"Fast Eddie here bub, wake up you lousy drek head. Fine, don't answer the phone. I got ahot deal for you pal, noon Issaquah, Fifteen Troll Bar, be there for the money.

Hawk Wing
"Good morning Hawk, sorry for the early interuption. I have a lucrative offer for you. It is time sensistive so be at the Fifteen Troll Bar by noon today."

Ramirez
A text message appears in your field of view. Issaquah, Noon, 15 troll Bar.

Sparks
The knock on your door was followed with the woosh of a slip of paper sliding under neath it. A simple message appears. Noon, Issaquah, 15 Troll Bar - Fat Charlie".

Damn, the old man sure likes to wake up early. Sparks thinks as he squints at the note in the darkness of his bedroom. Another hour or so of shut-eye won't hurt.

With that thought the young dwarf hops back into bed, sets his alarm for 0810 and is asleep again in less than five minutes.

Excellent! Lucrative offers, almost always lead to professional runners. A large troll looms over a workbench where a disassembled sniper rifle lays in a briefcase. With unnatural agility the big hands of the troll delicately place every item back together, and places them back in their designated places in the indented foam. He was in the middle of his morning routine check of his rifle. He walks out of his "shed" which had a tarp of leathers on top of it. The shed also housed a small study room where he mostly had a small libraries worth of Troll Rights books. He reminisces for a moment every morning on some of the old hunts symbolized in some of the more "exotic" of the leathers in the pattern.

He goes into the kitchen and starts heating a griddle with some oil over a small campfire to make himself some breakfast. He puts out some food for his dogs, the two large rottweilers. This day he gives them the store bought dried food. The last hunt was still in the freezer, but he still had it hanging, there, cleaned, skinned, gutted, but uncut. Fresh meat was such a rare and valuable thing that he rarely ever ate it himself, but he'd often sell the meat for extra income. He figured the dogs will get their treats when he gets around to cutting it up.

Walking out of the small tent like house and into the woods of the salish. He whistles for his dogs to come around. He puts their bowls on the ground as they lumber over and start gobbling up the food. He pats them both on the head as he breathes in the fresh air. He liked the way his home looked in the sun. From the outside, it looked like 3 large Teepees, but on the inside basic modern amenities were still there, even matrix access. He walked back inside through the flaps of leather that stand in the doorway which almost never closed.

The oil was heated so out of the refrigerator he grabs a few eggs and cracks them into the griddle. He slowly stirs them up with a fork while adding some pepper. before eating them straight off of the griddle. He puts the kettle over the fire as soon as he's done. He spends his free time by relaxing outside listening to music, tending to his small vegetable garden, or cathing up on the news on the trid.

As the time rolls around, he showers, shaves and puts on his "clean" face, well as clean as trolls can get. He dresses with just boxers and a thin white T shirt under his Form Fitting Armor. He puts on his Armored vest next before putting on a tribal leather outfit, filled with feathers and beads hanging off of all different parts. His skin always slightly darker than the average salish from the dermal plates on his skin, was tanning from the summer months in the outdoors. He grabs his "briefcase" and a duffel bag carrying his sword, urban armor, and his SMG. He wasn't quite familiar with those mode of travel, being more used to marching around in a backpack, but he smiled as his favorite perk of his current life glistened in the sunlight. He would swear that the "Beemer" would growl and try to talk to him as his dogs and him would walk past it at night. He started it up and sidled all his gear in a little "saddle pack" on the side of the bike.

Then he zipped away, enjoying the long trail to Issaqua. The border from Salish to SSG being no problem as he almost knew half the workers by face. He made sure he didn't speed often, but he enjoyed weaving through traffic when he knew no Star could find him in the mobs. He decides to get to the place early, especially if he had the room to speed on the way. He was timing it so he coulf get there by 11:00 but when he comes in earlier than expected he just chuckles to himself.

Having arrived, he figures he should check the place out. Considering himself an activist he strolls in with a big toothy grin on his face. This gotta be called the Troll Bar for something!

Issaquah...

It wasn't exactly next door, but at the present moment, Reynaldo Ramòn Ramirez cared very little. The slightly overweight dwarf stood as tall as he could in the small open hangar door, looking down the airstrips. With nothing but a pair of flamboyant red and yellow box shorts, the rigger stretched and yawned like a bear coming out of hibernation. One hand went to scratch an itch off his hairy chest as he dragged himself back in. He loved morning. Well, it wasn't "morning" itself that he liked, it was breakfast.

From the open door, soft mariachi music could be hear echoing inside the large aircraft hangar. Reynaldo headed back in, grabbing a small handheld GPS pad from one of the working tables. Punching in coordinates with one hand, he kicked a rather large refrigerator opened.

Issaquah... about 45/50 minutes drive.

With a grunt, Reynaldo dropped the device on the counter, and started gathering his gear for the morning.

Two fresh eggs, a small container of sour cream, a large bloc of jack cheese, a cup of fresh salsa (he had prepared last night) drained of all its juice, and some lard. vigorously beating the eggs and sour cream togheter, he reached over to a low spice rack and added some, cumin and garlic powder. Heating the lard in a medium round frying pan, over medium heat, he poured in egg mixture and turned heat to lowest setting.

Once the eggs were almost set, he flipped the omelet over, placing the cheese and salsa on half of the omelet. He then folded it top over to help melt the cheese. Covering the pan with foil, finish melting the cheese, Reynaldo left the omelet to cook for about three minutes, before sliding it into a hard plastic disposable plate.

A mixed drink of tequila and artificial orange juice in one hand, his breakfast sitting balance on his own chest, Reynaldo watched the news broadcast on his beaten up trid.

If the day was as good as the breakfast, it would be one damn good day. Around eleven, the rigger finally decided to get dressed up, fired up his SUV, and went on his way.

<buzz buzz buzz….>

The pocket secretary on the dresser vibrated gently, alerting no one in particular that a voicemail message was waiting. Across the bedroom, Danny was hardly in the mood for a phone call after the long Saturday night football game. Though an otherwise pretty decent condo, the floor was littered with old clothes and empty soy protein containers. The sun was just coming up, and Danny struggled to wake up at such an early hour. After stalling a bit, he finally reached for his pocket secretary and checked the message.

Eddie must have a right good job ahead to be ringing me at this hour. Maybe we’re pinching something worthwhile, but I hope we don’t have to bodge it all up together at the last bloody minute.

”Copy that Eddie. I’ll be there.”

Stepping out of bed, he decided to look up the location on his GPS unit and plot a course to the meet point.

Issaquah, never heard of it. Looks close to the border, awfully dodgy if you ask me. Better get prepared for the worst.

After a quick workout at the mini-gym and a shower, he put the UK sports feed on the trid to catch the previous night’s scores. The highlights ran while he put in another shake mix packet into the blender with some ice. The gritty, soy taste was masked by the artificial vanilla flavoring, but who could tell with a 2-a-day habit. Besides, the packets came in 24 different flavors.

He put on his Gucci real black leather pants, a belt, the form-fitting body shirt and a racing green sweater. He then tucked the holstered Viper behind his right hip, easily hid from all but the most trained eyes, but ready at a moment’s notice. Checking himself in the mirror, a ruggedly handsome face stared back, with typically English features, dark brown hair, and a tightly trimmed full beard.

“Well, if this ever fails, perhaps I should look into modeling,” he told himself, a smile breaking across his face. “There might be some time afterwards to chat up a few girlies at this Fifteen Troll Bar. Hmm, then again, maybe not.”

He picked up the two gear bags he had packed earlier and headed out to the Honda-GM 3220 for a trip down I-90, the GPS set to guide him there, arriving a few minutes before noon.

The road out to Issaquah starts out very modern. I-90 East is kept up and maintained by the local Saettle infrastructure. A few minutes pass Council island though and it quickly becomes apperent that the tides have changed. 20 miles to Issaqua and there are pot holes you could park a city bus in. What traffic you do see is usually heavily armed and armored. Most of the road signs have spray painted logos and other unfriendly words.

A Halfmile before the border is the 15 Troll Bar. A large neon sign with a one horned troll smiling at the street greats the patrons. The parkign lot is mud and gravel and as holey as the road. The building itself looks more like something you would see in the old west than modern Seattle. Various vehicles are parked out front, but it doesn't look crowded. The front door is a big double door, tall enough to fit the biggest troll.

Ok, speak to you later.

The telecom window on Mirage's image link closed, replaced with one generated by her sat-nav system, automatically zooming to display the town of Issaquah and highlighting the location of 15 Troll Bar.

Mirage chuckled as she climbed out of bed, hope they cater for non-trolls, or I won't reach the bar.

Her morning workout lasted an hour, then she looked in on Kikumi. The twelve year old was still sound asleep in her bed. Probably won't wake until I'm gone.


Sure enough at 10:45 the Japanese Orphan was still sleeping, Mirage left a message on the telecom, "don't open the door for anybody, don't leave the apartment, if I'm not coming back tonight I'll call Countdown and pay him to look after you again."

With that she donned her hooded long coat, makeing sure that her gold plated Manhunter was adequately concealed, picked up her kit bag and left the apartment, heading for the lock-up garage housing her Westwind.

Fifty-five minutes later Mirage's powerful sports car pulled off I-90, she'd cursed every pot hole along the route. Following the virtual dashboard's symbology she headed for the 15 Troll Bar.

What walked into the bar was something a lot of people probably didn't expect: a dwarf, not even close to a meter and a half, with hairy arms as thick as his large belly. Cowboy hat on his head, aviator glasses on his nose, just above a thick brown mustache, he wore a rather loud blue and yellow shirt with palm trees under an open synthleather jacket.

His large and round belt buckle shined from the ambient light as he walked deeper into the room, his working boots thudding on the floor. This was one rather unusual looking dwarf. The fact he was mexican didn't help to single him out.

Ramirez. Crazy, but good, pilot. Proven smuggler... but most of all... kick ass cook. He stopped in his track, changing a half smoked,and now unlit, cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.

From behind his large opaque sunglasses, Ramirez's eyes were two slit, scanning the room... and the bar. A few hop of his shorts legs and he was up a stool, not even half of his chest popping over the top of the counter.

"Hola, hombre!" he motioned to the barman.

"Tiene any good tequila chummer?"

Sod all these fragging potholes, they’re killing my suspension…

The 3220 rumbled towards the border at about 10 to noon, pulling in to the parking lot of the 15 Troll Bar. Danny spotted a Eurocar Westwind and parked next to it.

Well, this one seems a bit out of place. Perhaps the thieves will be more interested in theirs rather than mine.

As he looked around the lot and at the building, he said, “What an establishment, truly cosmopolitan. Might as well have a butchers, any road.” He stepped out and locked the car, then proceeded to the entrance.

Entering through the double doors in a confident, yet careful manner, Danny scanned the room quickly for the obvious threats while pacing directly for the bar. Spotting a rigger friend Reynaldo, he takes the next bar stool, greeting him with:

“Hoi Reynaldo, what’s a hard mate like yourself doing these days? Barkeep, a pint over here right quick! What has it been, six months?”

His English accent obvious and appearance far too chic, the two must make for quite a pair. Danny then scans the room again, this time more discretely during his conversation, looking for attractive women.

Grabbing Danny's hand in his right hand, Reynaldo reached around the Englishman with his left, giving him something of a bear hug.

"Senior Danny! What a pleasure to see you!"

Setting his cowboy hat on the bar next to him, the jovial dwarf laughed with his booming voice.

"Put that on my tab por favore!" he said when the barkeep swung by with Danny's drink.

Downing his shot of sythtequila, Reynaldo gave a hard pat in the back to the human sitting next to him.

"I am muy contente to see you senior. I had not heard from you since that time I dropped you off. I was wondering if you had made it out alive."

Hitting his empty glass against the bar, the corpulent dwarf hailed the bartender again.

"Màs!"

He turned his attention back to Danny.

"I take it you aren't here to pick up chicas?" he said looking at him from head to toe "... or maybe you are..."

Grudgingly, Sparks gets up when his alarm goes off. As per usual he takes about forty minutes to wake-up which includes showering, shaving, and eating two bowls of “Nuku-Frosties” Kellogg’s’ only glow-in-the-dark sugar covered soy flakes.

Not knowing exactly what he is heading into, but figuring that 15 Troll Bar doesn’t sound too upper-crust he puts on combat boots, dark blue jeans, and a black tank top. Grabbing a backpack he fills it with a sheathed Fineblade, a box of 20 shotgun shells (10 regular slugs, 10 explosive), and a Kevlar-lined sweater. Donning a black secure jacket, he grabs his wrist-phone, pocket sec, and credstick, and then heads downstairs to the shop.

His grandfather, Lao Wen, is helping a patient on the acupuncture table. Rather than interrupt the room’s chi by speaking, Sparks merely gives Lao Wen a short wave. Having delivered the fixer’s message the old troll knows what his adopted grandchild is heading into. He nods solemnly and then goes back to realigning his patient’s life energy with long needles. Having said goodbye Sparks heads out the shop’s back door and into the alley behind the building.

Under piles of trash, he finds his drek-box Tsarina. The little plastic, electric powered car looks like crap, but it does get him around. After getting into the driver’s seat, he triggers the thumbprint ignition and then reaches into the back seat. From under some strategically placed blankets he pulls a sawed-off Remington 990 shotgun. He might not even be able to bring it into the club he’s headed for, but it’s always good to be prepared. After racking the slide and engaging the safety, he places the weapon back beneath the blankets and hits the road.

Should be there a few minutes early if traffic’s right, he thinks as he threads his way through Chinatown’s narrow streets, heading for the highway.

Going along with the dwarf's gregarious nature, Danny wondered how many drinks the rigger had started the day off with. When you're on the job, it's better to keep that edge than lose it. Even still, his good cheer was contagious:

"Many thanks for the round, chap! Any road, I made it out of that drek-hole just fine, thanks to the pinpoint dropoff. You know me, I'm always on the pull, but this morning I've got some right serious business to do as well."

Mirage recognises the former footballer immediately, though she can't remember which team he played for, soccer isn't really her thing, but she lived in london for several years, and everybody in London recognises players from the big teams.

She watches from her corner as Danny crosses the bar to greet his rigger friend, then stands a walks over to join them, careful not to appear threatening.

She speaks as she reaches the pair, a friendly smile on her lightly tanned face, "Hi, you don't look like regulars, I guess you've got a noon appointment as well?" Mirage's voice has a thick french accent.

Hawk Wing Had entered the bar, and looked for a rather social circle of patrons. He could hold his own in conversations about Troll Rights, recent Activist activities, and the normal gripes about society today. He would show off his Troll Sized Blitzen any time anyone asked, since it was very rare for him to find, and one of his obvious joys.

The troll never really minded going high profile into one of these meets, since he never knew anyone to care about his presence. He was a man that usually stuck to himself, and came to earn his own money. Soon, however, after the arrival of the three "teammates" he decides to break off from any circles he was talking to. He goes up to the barkeep to get one more beer, whatever's on draft and cold.

Taking his beer, he walks up behind the three "colleagues" and says in a loud booming voice. "Business in the TROLL BAR? gentleman and lady?" He obviously meant to come off intimidating, but when you look at the large troll in light tribal leathers, and his arms crossed, his sheer size seems impressive. But when your gaze finally reaches up, he has a big smile on his face that almost seems to warm you right back up.

Danny spotted the black-haired beauty from across the room, sitting alone in her own corner. He tracked her movement as she approached him and Reynaldo, tucking a hand into his right pocket.

It’d be a quick draw if there’s trouble, but she looks as out of place as that Westwind out there

Her French accent and disarming statement brought an immediate smile to Danny’s face.

What a knockout!

“The only question that is on my mind, mademoiselle, is what a place like this is doing around such a classy woman. Tell me, is that a Zoé long coa----“

Startled at the troll’s interruption, Danny turned to assess the situation and find out exactly who was keeping him from getting his groove on.

“Well apparently there aren’t any secrets around here, my good chap,” patting Reynaldo on the shoulder. Looking at the troll, “My name is Danny, and yes, I’ve got some business to take care of here.”

Well, its about what I expected. Sparks thinks as he parks his car outside the club. Leaving his backpack and shotgun in the car he heads inside. At least he'd have his magic if something went wrong in there.

He walked into the bar just in time to hear a familiar voice, "Business in the TROLL BAR? gentleman and lady?"

Sparks looked around the legs of the club's usual cleintel until he saw Hawk Wing's broad back. Walking up to the troll, he reached up to pat him on the lower back saying, "Hey pal, it's been a while."

As Hawk turns around, Sparks can see the human and dwarf his troll aquaintance had been talking to. "Whoa! Danny and Reynaldo! You guys here to meet somebody? Seem's like somebody liked our work in the past."

He frowns as he looks up at the troll-sized bar and stools. "Hey, Big Guy," he says as he pounds Hawk's thigh with his fist. "Get whoever's behind there to get me a beer."

Hawk Laughs out loud at Danny's comment before getting smacked in the thigh, by the bulky dwarf at his back.

He laughs a bit more saying, "What's wrong Sparks? need a lift onto the stool?" He laughs some more as he attempts to pick up Sparks and pick him up and down, making the dwarf looks like he's jumping 3 meters in the air, before landing him on a stool. "Hey Barkeep, another beer for the big man on the stool." He throws some more cash nuyen on the bar. Before leaning off the bar and walking over to the fine lady among them.

He offers a hand and says, "Hey, the name's Hawk Wing, a pleasure to meet you madame." If the hand is recieved, he'll pull Mirage in a bit closer, and give her a kiss on said hand. Before giving her a big toothy grin.

the bartender brings out gallon sized bear mugs (obviously fine for trolls). He himself is an older troll, who is a little stupped over in height. The comradrie of the team is interupted by the door opening.

For a human he looked about average, 6 foot, mauve-ish skin, and a dark colored soul patch. He was dressed in black riding leathers, and a floor length black trench coat. His eyes were covered by the latest Oaklies. He might have been a samurai, if it wasn't for the hard plastic case strapped to his back.

"Hoi," he nodded to the group.

"Guess yer all here for the same thing eh?"

"The names Cypher."

After a quick greeting he turns to the troll behidn the bar, "the old man here yet?"

The troll nods and waggles his thumb at the backroom.

After allowing her hand to be taken, Mirage returns the smile, "And my name is Mirage, are you always so charming Hawk Wing?"

As the beers are being handed out she laughs, and says to the bartender, "Do you have any lady sized glasses? Those mugs are almost as big as me."

She falls silent as Cipher enters, tracking the stranger's approach warily until he introduces himself.

"Shall we get down to business then gentlemen?"

Swinging his short legs off the bar stool, and of course leaving a few UCAS dollars behind, Reynaldo's working boots touched down with a heavy thud.

After a firm handshake to his fellow dwarf, the mexican rigger started to walk (well, it seemed like he was sorta hopping...) towards the backroom.

"Si, si! Let us get down to el negocio"

Cypher brushes past the group on his way to the back room, his jacket swings open for a second revealing an mp5xt compact SMG slung under his arm.

The back room is a alarge meeting room with an oval table in the center. Large overstuffed chairs circle it.

Cypher plops himself down in the ne facing the door. He arranges his deck so that it is in his lap.

Standing in the rear of the room is a large, stooped over troll. Probably in his fourties. He has a little gray hair and is missing one of his tusks.

"Welcome folks, have a seat."

After giving Mirage's hand a kiss Hawk Wing blushes a bit, and says, "Unfortunately not while working."

Ironically enough, the presumed Johnson clambers through the room and calls them into the back.

Hawk nods at the older troll and the other human, and takes a seat around the conference table with his large mug in his hands. He sits there quietly waiting for the pitch to begin.

The troll keeps to the shadows as he speaks.

"I work for a man who has suffered a great tradgedy, and like all such men he would like revenge on those who perpetrated such tradgedy. There is a gentlemn, a elf named Walter Jones, he lives in a compound in the Southern Cascades, just north of Mt. Adams. . He would like you to infiltrate eh compound and kill Mr. Jones. My employer would like to avoid as much collateral damage as possible. The people their, his Sect, are not under their own minds. Once he is eliminated my employer is sure that they will be able to returrn to their own lives. The job pays Five-hundred. Any questions?"

Mirage settles herself into a seat with a good view of both the door and the Johnson, then listens to the elderly troll's offer.

When he has finished she replies coolly, "Five Hundred Nuyen? Has life become so cheap?"

"I am sorry, but if that is a serious offer then I suggest your client should try the Barrens. There are plenty of thrill gangs in Redmond who would gladly take a life for five hundred, though I doubt they would cross the border, and infiltrate this compound."

"Or avoid collateral damage."

The troll stiffles a laugh which quickly turns to coughing.

"Uh no little lady. Its Five hundred thousand, I guess I was trying to be clever. And it is for the job, not apiece."

"Oh..."

Mirage blushes, then laughs, "in that case, you have my interest."

"What know security does the complex have? And is there a specific time frame for the job?"

Hawk slowly sits forward, a blank look on his face. A vengeance hit.... hmmph whatever, worse reasons to kill a man. "Sounds fine to me. I don't think we'll have any troubles." The troll leans back in his seat again, saying his peace and coming up with plans, his mind remembering dozens of military briefings of other surgical strike attempts.

Smiling at the Frenchwoman’s faux pas, Danny took a moment to consider the offer. He had never taken a fancy to wetwork, and killing wasn’t generally his cup of tea. The blokes he got into a tussle with always lived to tell the tale.

Trip through the wilds, late autumn or early winter, high altitudes, difficult retreat… Sounds like a typical run alright. Somehow I feel pretty safe with this crew though, and the payoff is steep.

Danny leaned forward, looking in the direction of the troll wreathed in shadows:

“You’ve got yourself a deal, mate.”

Five Hundred Thousand! Holy Drek! Sparks fights to keep his eyes from popping out of their sockets. He's never been offered close to that much for a job!

"Just how dangerous do you think these Sect guys are?" he asks the troll Johnson.

"Very, they are committed to their cause and feel dying for their leader gets them into paradise. They are also probably armed with at least para-military ordinace and train pretty regular."

Hawk looks up for a minute. "You're not actually considering this militia to be collateral damage!? are you? Those outlanders knew what they were getting into if tey signed up to train with military weapons or vehicles. Unless you're meaning to tell me, there won't be civilians?" The Salish troll stares straight in the eyes of the elder trolls eyes.

(in answer to Mirage)

"The time frame is unspecific. Jones hasn't left the compound in years. And yes, anyone but the target would be considered collateral damage. I will let you deal with it however you wish, just bear in mind that the Johnsons would like it minimized. Everyone of those people, or at least the great majority are there against their will. I don't know if its magic or advanced brain washing or what, but believe me when I say that when you cut the head off, the body will die."

"What is the terrain like around the compound, is it above or below the tree-line?"

Mirage turns to Cipher, "And where do you fit into things? If you don't mind me asking."

"It's deep in the cascades so a lot of forest and ridges. I don't know the exact location of the compound.


Cypher says:
"Well moma cita, I am just like you, except I look way cooler than you slobs. I got a call about a job and here I am. I am your white knight. Your digital ranger, net cowboy, the Xtreme!"

He seems to be pretty thrilled with himself. When no one responds the way he thinks they should,

"You mean you guys have never heard of Cypher? I cracked the Renraku Ghost code in 1.7 minutes."

Danny shifts back in his chair, attempting to make a show of confidence, even though he had never done anything quite like this. The run was getting more dangerous by the minute, and the sooner they could get started, the better.

In terms of the team, the decker seemed a bit showy, but then again, they usually were. The Frenchwoman was a mystery; hot, certainly, but he was unsure of her skill set. Perhaps he could go over that with her personally. Reynaldo was reliable, and the person to have when one was so far away from civilization. Hawk would come in handy too, out there in the wilds. A bit more magical backup than Sparks would be nice, especially with this spooky out of their mind fanaticism the Johnson was talking about.

Alright mates, time to get moving. We’ve got ourselves a right heavy operation to plan.

“Do we have a contact number that we can reach you at for status of the project, when we have completed the mission, that sort of thing?”

The troll nods. He pulls out twho things. A data pad with several phone numbers on it, and a certified credtstick.

"Theres 25k on the stick, call it a good faith advance. Call me when its done, I have arranged the use of this room for the day."

He nods to everyone and leaves.

Tipping his chair back, Reynaldo’s short legs came up to prop themselves of the table, dried mud from the outside dropping from his working boots. His aviator glasses now dangling from his shirt’s collar, the Mexican rigger watched the troll leave the room as he munched on his unlit cigar.

A few seconds of silenced passed before the dwarf decided to break it…. by making some sort of guttural throat sound, followed by a big glob of dark spit (hopefully because of the tobacco) that flew a few feet to come to a rest right next to Cypher.

“Look around gringo. This isn’t the plexe. Looks don’t count for much. You seem like one engreído hombre, so you better come down from your pequeña nube right now.”

Taking a small pack of matches from his breast pocket, the rigger lit what was left of his cigar.

“Bien bien. For those few who do not know me, I am” he took his cowboy hat off and set it on the table “Reynaldo Ramirez. I fly and drive things.”

Settling his chair back down, he leaned in forward to make sure everyone could hear him.

“This… cómo dices… no collateral damage issue is going to make this operation a more complicated than it should be. Because of this, we have to be quiet and…. What is the word… Ah yes! We have to be surgical.”

He took a small GPS computer out of his pocket and started punching in keys as he spoke.

“This mountain is about 700 kilometers, flying, from Seattle. It is well within Salish territory… and close to the Tir’s border…. Which no me gusta. The good thing is that the area has many small airstrips where we can touch down… We can also, and should, seek information and fuel from the nearby Cascade Orks. I have done a few deliveries in their region.”

Cypher levels a stair at Reynaldo that teenage daughters often reserve for their fathers.

"Whatever man, I do my job you do, uh whatever it is you do."

After Reynaldo talks...

"I can probably hack in to the FAA's Delta Bravo and get us flight clearance. Are we going to fly all the way there?"

Despite his words, his attitude seems to take a notch down.

As the serious planning begins Hawk Wing pulls out a small notebook and pen from an inside pocket of his tribal jacket. He speaks up himself saying, "I am a zitizen of the salish so i can meet you down there, and so I buy gear first. If you no know, I'm your long gunner. If you no already see," The troll pulls back the long black hair from behind his left ear and shows his chip jack. "I can cover extra stuff. I guess explosives and heavy ordinance might be no go, so surgical it is. I have nightglider which good for go in, out, or recon. But flyboy maybe better bet for go in." Hope mountain friendly for small unit like this. "If there's a lot of forest, on foot may be our best bet for the op however. Though I really do hate searching caves."

Retrieving his pocket secretary, Danny set it on the table and directed his attention to Mirage and Cypher.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m your break-in chap. I can get in to just about anywhere and clear security. Also, I’m an expert climber. One possibility is having me be the inside man at this place, you know, undercover type work. Any road, Danny’s the name.”

Reynaldo looked back at Cypher.

"Well hombre, there aren't many roads in those parts... and unless you feel like hitchhiking... Si, we're probably going to fly there."

The dwarf started punching keys on his pad for a few seconds, and spoke up, without lifting his head.

"I will... how to say... run by you different airstrips and refueling stations we'll need clearance to land. Getting into the FAA will make our life muy easier."

Dropping the GPS device on the table, Reynaldo gave a quick look around the table.

"We need to set up some base of operation down in the region... The Cascade Ork might be able to help us in that area, but we will see that later. Info and recon is the name of the game for now."

"Sounds good. Maybe Cypher get first crack be info man. We need basic info. Maps, weather, local languages and others. Can you do here? so we can start prepwork. Hey, Cypher, later you mind maybe doing research to see how them get food, gear, and stuff. Maybe a manifest log on record. If Danny and Reynaldo inside as delivery men, might work good. Cascade Orks be great if someone know them. So.... when's boarding time, Reynaldo? Everyone do own prep. We can start basic planning on flight over. Also, got a TV screen in helo, Rey? In flight movie helps me relax."

Mirage smiles at Danny, then says, "Surprising as it may seem, I'm here as muscle. I'm good at watching people's backs and shooting people. Though I do it from closer range than Hawk." She nods to the Troll sniper before continuing.

"I have an extensive cybernetic sensor suite, so I should be able to see, hear or smell the opposition before we come into contact. I've done a lot of bodyguard work, so that's my specialty."

"I am also pretty sneaky, so I should be able to protect Danny or Hawk-Wing as they go about their work, this helps too..."

Mirage sends a mental signal and activates her hooded long coat's ruthenium active camouflage, leaving a disembodied head and hands floating above the table.

She deactivates the camouflage again and continues, "Personally I think we should use the helicopter for recon, and the evac, but infiltrate the complex on foot."

"The chopper is going to be too loud, given that we have too avoid collateral damage; I'd rather sneak in without the hoard of brainwashed paramilitaries noticing, kill the bad guy, then Reynaldo can come in and get us out fast."

She looks around the others, "I also think we should get away from this place as quickly as possible. We're probably safe while we're in Seattle, but all the same I've had bad experiences hanging around the initial meet for too long. Too much chance that the meeting has been compromised."

Danny had to smile at the Frenchwoman again. At first glance, he figured the most dangerous thing about her was her good looks. He liked it though, the advantage of surprise. The stealth trick was a good one, too. With the project’s emphasis on being covert, we were going to need a lot of help there.

“Aye, I second that notion of doing the planning elsewheres. Anyone have any suggestions? All I have is a flat.”

Hopping off his chair, Reynaldo crushed his cigar agaisn't the table.

"Let us meet at my place. Secure, lots of room and no one will bother us. Pierce county airport, Thun field, hangar 4. It is about 5 miles south of Puyallup."

"I guess I'm the magic man. You can call me Sparks by the way, Mirage." The dwarf looks around the room. "Anybody need a ride to Reynaldo's?"

When everyone is ready to leave, he gets into his car and heads for the rigger's place.

"Very good then. Let's meet at El Rey's hangar. I see you soon!" The troll walks back to the bar, sits down and drinks one last beer. It's 5 o'clock somewhere and then pays the man, leaving a decent tip, and walks on back to his bike to take the drive over to the airbase.

“Ok, I’ll meet you all at Thun Field,” Mirage gets up and heads for her parked Westwind, hoping that it's still there.

"Alright then. Let's be on our way."

Without another word, Reynaldo was on his way out the bar and to his van.

Danny tried his best to be last out of the room, and followed everyone back out of the bar. He exited the 15 Troll Bar and immediately looked for his 3220 next to the Westwind.

On the job now, can't take things too lightly. Time to get moving.