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The doors burst open beneath a torrent of combat boots and bullet-proof vests.� For a strangled second, fatalistic silence nestled into the fake oak beams and nicotine-yellow walls.� Then, the moment was broken by a monotone voice muffled by a riot helmet:�

"Take them down."

A taste of rebellious America seared the staid atmosphere of the pub as Jubilee responded by bringing the 4th of July to town.� After that, any battle strategy either side may have formulated degenerated into a free-for-all melee, the like of which the establishment hadn't seen since Harry the Bastard's day.

Everett quickly synched with Sean to produce an ear-bleeding sonic wall, erected to protect the blissfully ignorant customers from the fight's fall-out.� And whilst Monet, Jubilee and a dull granite Paige formed a shield around her, Emma continued to concentrate on altering the drinkers' perceptions.� Just a brawl between two meatheads - if you drink your pint and don't make eye contact, everything'll be alright ... .

As the groups engaged, Angelo noticed one of the enemy position himself in the gap between the wall and the cigarette machine.� The man was armed with a sinister-looking black gun, a sort of Cold War nightmare that dripped painful death.� Even as the youth watched, the sniper was fixing Emma in his sights.

With a yell, Espinosa raced towards the assassin.� Cal's eyes covered the young man's movements.

"That gun - a Genoshan assault rifle!"� he shouted, his voice scalded by fear.

Before Angelo had cleared half the distance, the gunman gave a screech of terror;� a scream that transformed into a bubbling, gurgling, choking last breath.� The rifle clattered to the floor, closely followed by the sniper - clutching his throat as if he was trying to hold it together.� Chamber, standing beside his grinning 'brother', could clearly see the operative was dead.

<What the bloody Hell did you do to him?>

"Kill or be killed.� It's the only thing these bastards understand."

Jono was about to launch into a moralistic tirade when he saw Skin dropped by a blow to his cranium as he reached for the fallen gun.� Ethics withered in the heat of his bio-blast as he pounded his friend's assailant across the room.

"Nice,"� Cal commented, his eyebrow arched.� "Lacks finesse but definately effective."

The tattooed man chuckled to himself as he watched Starsmore let rip.� No wonder Black Air wanted him so badly - must have beat themselves black and blue for ever letting him slip through the net.� Still laughing, he half-turned to search for another operative to murder.� Caught sight of a gloved finger squeezing a trigger ...

... and gnawing death was chewing a path towards him, faster than his thoughts could react.

The moaning projectile penetrated his torso, became a ravenous dog inside his body.� Molten teeth masticated on sinew and gristle, mauling through abdominal viscera and splintering into his lumbar spine.� Mercifully for Cal, death was quick in anaesthetising the agony.

His thin carcass slumped to the ground without so much as a whimper.� The fight stopped almost immediately as all eyes dropped to regard the pool of blood spreading out from under the body.� For a ponderous second that bar and all within seemed to become herniated from time like a sanguine Brigadoon.� A heartbeat spanned an eternity, a gasp of horror fossilised and crumbled to dust.� And a young man felt himself drown in the still-warm gore.

Then, Monet hurled herself at Cal's killer.� The gun shattered between her fingers as she wrestled it out of the assassin's grasp.

"Murderers!"� Paige was near-hysterical, her bare legs splashed with Cal's blood.� "You didn't have to kill him!"

One of the pseudo-policemen - a small, sly-looking, forty-something with serpentine eyes - produced a paper from within his uniform and waved it in the air.

"I'm afraid we did, Miss,"� he droned, his tone a funeral dirge.� "He was a highly dangerous criminal wanted on five counts of murder.� Less than three days ago, he killed two of my best men."

Sean sneered.� "And Black Air have no qualms about killin', do they?"

"Black Air?� Is that what he told you?"� A warrant card thrust itself under Cassidy's nose.� "D.I. Truman, Special Branch.� If you doubt my credentials, please - feel free to check with my superiors."

Everett was gazing down at Cal's body, a little bit taken aback at how easily� Sean seemed to accept Truman's story.� And Jono was just standing there, virtually emotionless.� Something didn't quite gel ... .

And, as he questioned, so he became aware of a sudden unease crawling through his brain.� The youth frowned, closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on riding with the feeling.� When he opened them again, everything had changed.

He was still in the pub but now it was empty of everyone but the two teams.� His friends stood in a cramped circle surrounded by the armed enemy.� Something told him not to react - to buy into whatever psychosis that had effected the others.� Another pang of disquiet.� Everett half-moved his eyes in the direction of a figure lurking at the bar.� A hauntingly pretty brunette in grey fatigues matched his stare then looked away, guilt misting her hazel eyes.

An operative� he had seen with a broken nose passed him by, his wounds miraculously healed.� All the more amazing was the gunman apparently slain by Cal but now as animated as Lazarus.� The lively zombie was busy handcuffing a catatonic Jono whilst chatting to two comrades engaged in dragging a re-animated Cal to his feet.

" ... like clockwork, mate.� Just like Hex said."

"Still, I'm bloody glad we managed to tranq the bastard before he cottoned on.� You see what he did to Baker and Noade?"

Everett was suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to blink.� Once, twice, clarity obscuring with each sweep of his eyelids.� Figures became amorphous shapes, voices drifted into the diffracted distance.� It was as if he was falling to sleep, his senses winding down into the nonesense of dream.� But it wasn't HIS dream, was it?� A sensation of deft fingers daubing a fascade of reality onto the canvass of his mind ...

"I can't believe you're letting them take him!"

Synch snapped to with a jolt.� He was standing in a puddle of blood watching as two policemen dragged Cal's limp corpse out of the door.� Emma was comforting a distraught Paige as her on-off paramour was frog-marched away from her side.

"Detective Inspector Truman says he's wanted in connection with an Animal Rights bombing campaign four years ago.� We can't oppose the law, Paige."

Was it Everett's imagination or was Emma talking as if she was reciting a script?� Again, that feeling of edginess.

"Now, lass.� If he's innocent, he'll be on the next flight home.� C'mon - we've got our own plane to catch, kids."

On Sean's order, the team filed out of the pub like somnambulists.� Synch followed them without knowing why it made him so uncomfortable.� Outside, he glanced over at the Black Maria and stopped in his tracks.� The feeling of unease seemed to be emanating from that vehicle.

"Quit slacking, Ev and pick up the pace!"� Jubilee grabbed his arm and yanked him down the road towards the others.� "Or d'ya want to spend the rest of your natural in a four TV channel country?"

Groggy, doped eyes prised themselves open to view a blurry world he thought he'd never see again.� Hadn't he died?� The memory of the biting bullet stung more than where it had entered his body;� even in his drugged state of mind, Cal realised that was because he'd never actually been shot.

A name wormed its way onto his swollen tongue - a name that made the nervous brunette sitting opposite him glance up with remorseful eyes.

"Peyote!"� Clumsy hatred tripped over his numbed lips and sprawled itself across the interior of the van.� "You fucking trecherous bitch - !"

"He's awake!"� The masculine voice was terrified.� "Dose him up with the inhibitor sedative!"

Cal felt a needle pierce a vein in his arm.� Liquid euphoria hitched a ride on his blood cells, scattering its plump, fluffy cushions throughout his body.� Couldn't think straight ... couldn't spark the right neural pathways to ignite his mutant power ... .� He relaxed back into his restraints and hated himself for it.

"Your anger is misplaced, Hex."�

Cal's glazing eyes stumbled over towards the small, forbidding man perched on a seat by the rear doors.

"At least Peyote knows her duty, which is more than can be said for you.� Yes, I could be very displeased, my friend, if you hadn't been instrumental in helping us to retrieve our elusive property."

The little man nodded towards an unconscious Starsmore strapped securely to the seat beside Cal.� If his speech centres weren't immersed under a ton of candy floss, the young man might have apologised to his brother.� As it was, all he could do was squeeze out a penitent tear and watch as the road flashed� by.

And with every mile into the journey, so a 23 year old plan came closer to fruition.