"You Will Not Talk About Fight Club" (Spycraft/SFA) Updated 3/18

The bulk of this mission was taken from a plot hook in AEG's Pan-Asian Collective Chamber Book. The entire story is accordingly set within their Shadowforce Archer Campaign setting.

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Dramatis Personae:

Sting: A laconic pointman from the Archer Foundation.
Toil: An Archer Foundation Fixer who strikes with deadly precision and hides an even deadlier secret.
Worm: One of Room 39's premiere snoops
Cowboy: a rugged southern Company triggerman who lets his bullets do the talking
Tai-Pan: a martial artist from the Pan-Asian Collective tormented by his father's death
Omerta: the team's former facewoman, running from her past as a mafia princess

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Cowboy shouldered open the briefing room door while he gulped the remnants of a cup of coffee. The rest of his crew -- Sting, Toil, Worm and Tai-Pan -- was already seated, patiently waiting for the Archer Foundation Lord to give them their next mission. Sting sat at the end of the table, absently staring at a blank sheet of paper. He did that a lot. Cowboy dropped into his usual chair next to Worm, tossing him a pack of gum at the same time.

"There you go," he muttered. The small British man tore into the foil paper like he hadn't eaten in months.

"Thanks Cowboy," Worm said as he folded a stick into his mouth. "want a piece?" Cowboy shook his head, waving his partner off with his right hand.

"Is this all of us," Toil said, looking toward the door.

"Don't know," Sting mumbled.

As if on cue, the door swung open. The team's usual Lord, Agamemnon entered the room with a slight Asian man in tow.

"Agents," he said, nodding at the team. He stopped at the head of the table opposite Sting and gestured at the man next to him. This is Ingot, a PAC Dai Lo. He'll be handling your Op Brief. Ingot?"

"Thank you," he said in very calculated English. Agamemnon moved to the far corner, folded his arms and leaned back slightly. "A few months ago, while following a lead, four of you came across and underground fighting club in Taipei." Worm, Toil and Cowboy knowingly glanced at Sting. "And while it wasn't part of your mission objective, you got a good look at the culture there. Since that time, we've discovered that club is in fact part of a larger organization called Arena."

Tai-Pan sat forward, a look of concern on his face.

"I thought we shut down Arena in the early 90s?"

"You're right. We did. But it's back. It's become the WWF of underground fighting -- people worldwide are filling up warehouses across the collective and gambling on this loathsome bloodsport. Heading it up is the former Arena champion." Ingot picked up the remote in front of him on the table and clicked it. A mugshot projected on the wall. The man's face was twisted into a fierce scowl. His eyebrows were missing, clearly burned off from repeated brushes with fire. His shorter blond hair was a mess, unkempt and wild. His eyes stared wildly back at the camera, almost glaring through it at the photographer. His upper lip curled into a snarl. Twin scars marked each side of his face. "Flashfire."

"I thought he was killed in that standoff with the Hand of Glory?" Worm said.

"We did too, but apparently he's back. Our intelligence shows us that he's installed himself, once again, as Arena Champion and he's holding a tournament in two weeks to determine the number one contender for his championship. That's where you five come in. You're to head to Taipei where at least one of you will establish a cover as a fighter looking to get into the tournament," Tai-Pan smiled. "The rest of you will serve as his entourage, manager, trainer or even just fans of the bloodsport looking to gamble a little. Since you don't have a faceman, you will be supplied with the appropriate cover information. Your mission is to determine whether or not Flashfire the real deal, apprehend him and help close down Arena. Good luck, agents."

***

Sting eased the car into a space near a battered dumpster behind the restaurant.

"We're here," he muttered, turning to Tai-Pan. He jolted upright in the seat. Shortly after they'd left the car rental agency, the huge half Chinese, half British man had slumped against the door at his side and quickly fallen asleep. Fully awake now, he stretched his arms in front of him, rolling his massive shoulders inside the leather jacket he was now wearing.

"This thing itches," he hissed, hooking a finger under the collar.

"How do you think I feel about this thing," Sting said, pointing to the fake mustache and goatee. "I can't touch my face at all, or Moy will know right away. And these," he spread out his fingers, covered with gaudy rings, "make me feel ridiculous." A pair of partially tinted gold-rimmed glasses, along with a newly-pressed three-piece suit and patent leather shoes completed the look.

"At least you got to keep your hair," Worm chimed in. He ran his hand across his freshly shaven head. He was wearing gray sweats with the word "BEAST" clearly printed across the front of them.

"Whatever. Let's do this," Sting said. All three men got out of the car slowly and headed around to the front of the restaurant. The last time Sting and Worm had been here, they were chasing a rogue Foundation Pointman with a penchant for gambling. It hadn't ended prettily, either.

Tai-Pan opened the door and held it, waiting for his teammates to pass. Once inside, they were immediately greeted by the hostess, an elderly woman with a pleasant face.

"We're here to see Moy," Sting said, handing her 1000 yuan. "Tell him there's a potential business partner waiting for him." The woman peered at each man, one at a time.

"Why don't you have a seat first," she gestured to their left. "Something to drink?"

"Water," Tai-Pan growled as he sat.

"Make that three," Sting said. The woman scurried into the kitchen, quickly disappearing. A young man quickly appeared with a pitcher of water and three glasses of ice. He meticulously set them out in front of each of the men and slowly filled them, smiling wide the entire time. After the waiter had left, Worm carefully glanced around the place, scanning for potential trouble. The restaurant was fairly busy for a post-lunch crowd. Most of the patrons were business men grabbing a late lunch, while at the very back of the dining area, a family of four was enjoying their time together.

"Place is clean. Looks like Moy's got his goons in the back."

"Think he's still running fights in the basement," Sting mused.

"Doubt it. When they thought we were the cops before, the people cleared out fast, remember? There's no way they'd come back if they think the joint's been compromised."

"I don't mean to be rude," Tai-Pan interrupted. "But why the hell don't you guys have a faceman for this op? These outfits are ridiculous."

Sting and Worm paused, uncomfortably looking at one another.

"We...had some problems," Worm said.

"She got pissed and quit. We haven't had a replacement assigned to us yet." Sting couldn't get the words out fast enough.

"That's all you're..." Tai-Pan drifted off as the elderly woman returned, with a large bald Chinese man dressed in black pants, a black turtleneck and a black blazer following behind her. She nervously gestured to him and then scurried into the back again.

"Who are you," the man barked. Sting hopped to his feet and extended his hand.

"Alex McDermott. I represent this man over here, and we'd like to talk with Moy about a business partnership."

The big man hesitated.

"Moy's not here. Come back later."

"Well I certainly think he is," Sting's hand slid into his pants pocket, and returned with another 1000 yuan. The big man took it, pocketed it and paused.

"Follow me," he turned and motioned over his shoulder as he headed through the kitchen. Once inside, he led the three men past the walk-in freezer to a door. He forcibly knocked four times and the door swung open. Standing there was a handsome Asian man with a medium build wearing a pair of jeans, a white button-down shirt and a brown leather jacket.

"Well," he looked at the big man.

"I think they want in," he said.

The smaller man glanced at the three agents.

"Who are you," he snapped. Sting extended his hand.

"I'm Alex McDermott. I represent this man -- The Beast. And this is his trainer, Nigel Marsden. We heard about your...activities," he said very pointedly. "And we want a piece of the action. But what we'd really like is to talk to Moy."

The smaller man glowered at them for a moment, as if mulling over a serious decision.

He turned on his heel and headed back into the room.

"Pat them down. If they've got weapons, kill all three of them," he said over his shoulder to the big man.

Sting shrugged and put his arms out to his sides, smiling.

"I might as well be first, yeah?"

The big man said nothing.

Papercuts,

A Spycraft story hour...extremely !

Good thus far...definitely interested in reading the next part.

-LW

Part II

Toil sat in the lotus position, emptying the negativity from his mind. He inhaled deeply.

The burning incense helped soothe his spirit. The words of his master echoed in his head.

"Flow like water and watch your enemies fall."

He inhaled again. He had just started his ninjutsu training before he was assigned this mission, but the results were already noticeable. He was focused now. He moved with catlike grace and was more readily aware of his surroundings than ever before.

"Flow like water and let my enemies fall," he whispered. "Flow like water and let my..."

The door to his hotel room burst open.

"What the hell," a gruff voice said.

His concentration broken, Toil turned his head. Silhouetted in the doorway was a tall man, dressed to the nines in a tan suit, leaning on a black cane with a brass top piece. He had a thick mustache that spilled down over and past his mouth.

"You look like a skinny Wilfred Brimley, Cowboy," Toil said, emotionless.

"What in the hell are you doing in here?" Cowboy waved his hand in front of his nose. "Is that incense? It stinks." He switched on the light in the room.

"I'm working on my meditative exercises."

"Right. That Ninja stuff. Look, if we're going to maintain our cover, we need to go spend some money. And besides," Cowboy's voice shifted to a loud, obnoxious southern drawl. "I need you to translate cause I no speaky the language. Get dressed, my man. We've gotta go." Stifling a laugh, Toil hopped to his feet and moved to the closet. He hated this kind of work.


"So let me get this straight," Moy bellowed, as he sat back in his chair. "You think I run some kind of fighting circuit?"

Sting nodded his head. They were seated around a table in the back room of the restaurant. After the big man, who Moy had introduced as Ko, had patted them down and granted them access, he moved across the room and stood by the door, his arms folded in front of him. His eyes never left Tai Pan. The smaller man left the room shortly after.

Moy was a small man with a pockmarked face and black hair that he kept carefully combed. He wore a gaudy hawaiian shirt and a pair of American khakis. On his right hand, he wore a gold ring with a huge ruby and a thick gold rope chain around his neck.

"No. I know you do," Sting countered.

"And where would an upstanding American businessman such as yourself come across this information?"

"Madame Butterfly's," Sting said, offering the name of a prominent brothel and one-time associate of Moy's. Before he could continue, the door to the room swung open and the smaller man came in. He glided across the room to Moy's side and inaudibly whispered in the man's ear. When he finished, Moy smiled.

"Xian here says you're who you say you are and your stories check out." He stood. Xian moved to beside the door opposite Ko. Moy extended his hand to Sting. He readily shook it. "Your boy's in. We needed a 16th fighter anyway."

"So when can I set him loose on the others," Sting asked.

"Two nights from now. Be at the loading dock out back at 11. I'll have a car take you to the site. I can promise you that he's going to be fighting men the likes of which he's never seen," Moy cautioned. "This is Arena. This is the big time. You lose, you die."

Tai-Pan nodded grimly.

"I won't lose," he hissed.


As Cowboy and Toil entered the warehouse, they were overwhelmed by a wall of noise. Buying "directions" to the place had been easier than they had expected, thanks to Cowboy openly throwing money around the past two nights. Hundreds of people had packed into the converted building. Gymnasium style bleachers lined all four of the walls and they were almost filled to capacity. A wall of security guards stood between the spectators still streaming in. They stopped each one of them, searching for weapons. Two large men stopped them and cautiously patted them down. As a result, Cowboy loudly lodged his protests in English. If the men understood, they didn't seem to respond. Once past the guards, the spectacle got louder. Hard rock music blasted from overhead speakers. The ring was in the center of the room surrounded by four chain link fence panels standing 15 feet high, designed to keep audience members out as much as it was to keep the fighters in. The ring ropes had been replaced with barbed wire, much like the makeshift ring Moy once housed under his restaurant. They had little give and if a fighter happened to get tangled up in them, he was rendered helpless until he managed to free himself. On the south side of the room, between the east and south bleachers, three lines of people, roughly 50 deep, emanated from a single table.

"Bets," Toil said, bringing the table to Cowboy's attention.

"Well go spend me some money then," Cowboy smiled. "I'll find us some seats."

Cowboy moved to the nearest set of bleachers and waded up the steps to two empty spots. He sat down and scanned the crowd. He immediately spotted Sting sitting in the west set of bleachers, right at ringside. Apparently people managing and representing the fighters got the best seats.

"Sting," Cowboy whispered almost inaudibly. "We're here." Each of the agents had cochlear implants surgically implanted, allowing them to hear their teammates so long as they remained within a one-mile radius of each other. Cowboy watched Sting as he raised his left hand to his face and began scratching his right cheek, covering his mouth with his palm at the same time.

"I hear you. Where are you?"

"South. Top row."

He watched as Sting turned to his location, and scanned the crowd until he spotted his teammate.

"Gotcha. North bleachers."

Cowboy craned his neck. There was a large section of the North bleachers in the front two rows that were still vacant.

"What's that for," he said.

"Dunno. We'll find out."

A few moments later Toil returned, holding a receipt-like slip.

"I put you down for ten grand on a fighter called The Beast," he said, raising his voice so the others around him could hear him.

"Is he a hoss," Cowboy drawled.

"Yessir," Toil nodded.

"Good, good." He patted the fixer on his shoulders.

"Excuse me," a woman said from behind them. Both men turned. A middle-aged couple—clearly American tourists—sat behind them. The man had a protrusive pot belly and salt-and pepper hair. He wore a solid blue Polo shirt and a pair of weathered blue jeans. His wife was similarly dressed, wearing a heavier flower print button-down blouse and an equally-weathered pair of jeans. Her brown hair was pulled back into a neat pony tail.

"You're Americans," the woman asked. Cowboy smiled widely.

"Why yes, little lady, we are. My name is Lawrence J. Niven the third, and this is my assistant, Richard. We're from the great state of Texas."

"Isn't this exciting," the man asked, almost like he was ignoring Cowboy's response. "Margaret and I are here on vacation and we wanted to gamble a little. Boy, were we surprised when we found out about this place," Margaret giggled along with her husband's story.

"We're from Idaho," she added. "We've never seen a real fight like this before."

"Well, you all enjoy yourself tonight," Cowboy said, turning back to face the ring.

"Who did you bet on," the man asked, clearly not getting the hint. He put his hand on Cowboy's shoulder in an effort to stop him.

"Why, I bet on a big fella they're calling The Beast."

"We bet on the Tarantula," Margaret said, barely waiting for Cowboy to get the words out.

"Good luck to you both." Cowboy said.

As soon as he had turned his attention back to the ring, the music had stopped. A well-dressed Asian man made his way into the ring.

"Welcome to Arena," He bellowed. The audience began cheering and applauding. "Our first fight will be underway in moments. But first, let me introduce the reigning and undefeated Arena champion, the man known as Flashfire!"

From behind the north bleachers emerged two tall blonde men wearing brown uniforms with red armbands. They walked with military discipline and stopped on either side of the cage door, with the man on the left side holding it open.

"Hand of Glory," Toil whispered.

Two blonde women, wearing in barely-there dresses came next. They moved to the vacant seats in the north bleachers and sat down, eagerly drinking in the crowd's attention.

When Flashfire emerged, the crowd erupted. He was wearing black pants and a black turtleneck with a vulgarly oversized and modified flame thrower on his back. Around his waist was an equally large title belt. Two more Hand of Glory operatives followed behind him.

At the door to the ring, The Hand of Glory operative that wasn't holding the door darted up the steps and spread apart the middle and lower ring ropes, making it easier for Flashfire to enter the ring. Flashfire clambered in and moved immediately to the southeast ringpost. He climbed to the second rope and triggered his flame thrower, belching a jet of fire into the air. The crowd ate it up. He repeated this on the other three ringposts, and then moved to the center of the ring, snatching the microphone from the announcer's hand.

"Arena is back! Let the fights begin!" he shouted.

He dropped the microphone where he stood and exited the ring, moving to sit between the two blonde women in the bleachers. His Hand of Glory entourage followed suit, sitting around him, while scanning the crowd and the warehouse for any apparent trouble.

The announcer picked up the microphone and tapped the top of it, checking to see if it was on. He glanced down at the card in his hand and inhaled deeply.

"This is our first fight of the first round of the Arena tournament. Introducing first, from parts unknown, the man known only as The Beast!"

The crowd cheered hesitantly, more from the anticipation of seeing the impending fight, rather than out of recognition.

Tai-Pan walked to ringside from the same entrance Flashfire used. He wore a pair of loose fitting black martial arts pants and nothing else. Worm followed close behind him, still wearing his "Beast" sweats. Tai-Pan got in the ring, while Worm moved to the space between the chain link wall and the ring.

"And his opponent. From Dublin Ireland, he is Chemo!"

Through their cochlear implants, the agents heard Sting gasp audibly. Tai-Pan risked a confused glance at Worm.

"Sting had to fight the guy under Moy's place last year," Toil said whispered. "It didn't go well."

Chemo was a huge man, standing nearly seven feet tall. He was hairless, with his huge head mottled with scar tissue. His left eye had scarred shut long ago. He wore an ancient hunter greed hooded sweatshirt missing the drawstring, a pair of cutoff denim shorts, and an ankle high pair of brown leather hiking boots. Once in the ring, he removed his shirt and tossed it to the ring announcer. Tai-Pan and Chemo both moved to the center of the ring, staring each other down. Sensing the coming chaos, the announcer bailed out of the ring, shutting and locking the fence door behind him.

"The fight ends when one of you gives up, can't move, or dies," he said into the microphone. Tai-pan offered his right hand in a show of sportsmanship. A laugh spread through the crowd. Chemo glared at it, as if studying it for a moment.

He spit in Tai-Pan's face.

The crowd went berserk.

Surprised, Tai-Pan's outstretched hand immediately went to his face to reflexively wipe the spittle away. And at that moment, Chemo struck. He balled his right hand into a tight fist, striking Tai-Pan in the left temple, staggering him. He didn't let up. He hit Tai-Pan five more times, twice in the face, once in the neck and twice in the chest, knocking him to the canvas. Blood oozed from Tai-Pan's nostrils.

The crowd instantly jumped to its collective feet, excited by the sight of blood. Flashfire remained seated, clearly unimpressed by the spectacle.

"Crap," Cowboy gasped.

"Nigel, get in there!" Sting screamed at Worm.

Overwhelmed at the sight in front of him, Worm stood at ringside gaping. Sting's order snapped him back to reality. With Chemo facing away from him, Worm leapt onto the ring apron and eased his way between the bottom and middle ropes, preparing to attack.

But as worm reared back, his baggy sweatshirt sleeve snagged on one of the ropes' barbs. His feet went out from underneath him. His body twisted and the ropes, designed to ensnare an unlucky combatant, did their job. His right arm was wrapped up tight. He was trapped and helpless. Metal bit through the shirt sleeve, breaking the skin and drawing blood. Worm desperately shook his arm and the wire, trying in vain to free himself.

Shocked and amused by the developments, the crowd offered a mixture of boos, laughs and cheers. Hearing this and sensing something amiss, Chemo whirled. His good eye went wide and his nostrils flared. He stalked over to Worm like an angry predator. His hands again clenched into tight fists.

"I'm gonna fix you good, you little puke," he spat. His left arm snaked out and grabbed Worm's right ear. He pulled him straight up off the canvas, almost to his feet. Instantly, his right arm flashed out and connected with Worm's nose. The force of the blow shot him backwards and caused the wire to tighten on his arm even more. Chemo held tight and struck him in the eye again. Worm cried out in pain through clenched teeth. "Teach you to mess with my fight, you little bastard. Gonna rip your bollocks off and feed 'em to..."

Unknowingly, Worm's mishap had bought his partner some time. With his attention diverted, Chemo hadn't seen Tai Pan recover and get to his feet. Before the Irishman could finish his sentence, Tai-Pan launched himself at Chemo, landing a flying kick squarely on the side of his head. Chemo tumbled across the ring haphazardly. The crowd roared even louder, further pleased by the development.

Ignoring his partner, Tai-Pan pressed on, punching down at Chemo as he struggled. The blow landed just above the right eyebrow, busting an already-scarred portion open and causing blood to flow out and onto the canvas. Chemo roared and launched himself at Tai-Pan, tackling him. The two struggled, with Chemo trying to pin his opponent down. Tai-Pan managed to escape. Both men hopped to their feet.

Tai-Pan lunged forward, sweeping Chemo's legs out from underneath him . He quickly set upon him, landing a series of rapid knuckle punches on his solar plexus. The irishman grunted, and fumbled to get his hands up to stop the onslaught. He managed to stab a finger into Tai-Pan's eye, causing him to flinch. Taking advantage of the opening, Chemo punched his opponent in the throat. Tai Pan staggered backwards. Chemo leapt up again, charging in a bull rush. Tai Pan waited and then jumped, leapfrogging his attacker with a grace the majority of the crowd and Chemo had never before witnessed. Shocked, Chemo stopped short of the ropes and turned directly into a palm strike that sent him flying backwards, his arms flailing at his side. He toppled into the ring ropes, where his outstretched arms were immediately wrapped up in the wire. The crowd was at a fever pitch at this point -- they knew the end was near.

A panicked look spread across his scarred face.

"Listen, mate..." he pleaded, struggling to get his arms free.

Tai-Pan advanced on his opponent. Chemo kicked his feet out, hoping an errant blow could topple his opponent. Tai-Pan slapped them down and stood over Chemo. He drew his fist back, measuring the man. And then struck. He pummled Chemo over and over until his face was mottled with blood. Tai Pan paused.

Chemo had stopped moving.

Tai Pan stepped back, soaking in the crowd's frenzied cheering.

"Help," Worm called weakly.

Tai-Pan darted across the ring and quickly pulled Worm's arm loose from the barbed wire trap. The sleeve of his sweatshirt was stained with blood. He rubbed his arm gingerly and looked over at Chemo.

"He's not moving."

"No," Tai Pan said, watching the ring announcer as he unlocked the door to the ring. He gripped the microphone tightly and moved to Tai-Pan's side.

"You kill him," he whispered to the fighter.

"No," Tai Pan repeated.

"You still win."

"Good."

The announcer switched the microphone on.

"Your first winner," he gently grabbed Tai-Pan's wrist, raising his arm over his head. "The Beast!" Tai Pan raised his other arm, nodding his head in celebration for the audience's benefit. The crowd roared with approval.

"One down, three to go," Tai Pan mumbled to himself.

LOVE this Story Hour so far.

Nice descriptive writing for the combat sequences. Very, very cool.

Keep up the good work.

Thanks for the feedback, Ledded. I REALLY appreciate it.

Part III

After the final match of the night, Sting hurried through the departing crowd to Tai-Pan's private locker room. He found him laying on his back on a bench, his hands and face wrapped in ice packs. Worm kept watch by the door.

"That was a close one out there," Sting said. Through the ice pack, Tai-Pan nodded. Sting turned to Worm. "You didn't do much good though." Worm managed a smile and stood.

"You know me and luck. It always seems to be bad for me. What's our next move?"

Before Sting could answer, the door was thrown open. Moy barreled in, with Flashfire following closely behind.

"Here you are, Flashfire," Moy said over his shoulder. He turned and nervously darted out of the room, never making eye contact with the German. Tai-Pan quickly sat up, pulling the icepack from his face.

"Pleasure to meet you," Sting said, extending his hand to shake. Flashfire pushed past him and moved directly in front of Tai-Pan.

"You put on a good show tonight. How come I never heard of you," he asked.

"Don't know," Tai Pan shrugged. "I did Abu Dhabi a couple years ago. Been fighting mostly in Detroit. No one's been able to put me down for three years straight."

"Is that so?" Flashfire moved closer to Tai-Pan. "We'll see about that. I've got my eye on you." He turned to leave the room, but stopped in front of Worm.

"I saw what you did tonight, too," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "That was pretty funny."

"Uh thanks," Worm said with a nervous laugh.

"Yeah. Yeah. Funny." Flashfire laughed loudly and then abruptly stopped, his face suddenly stone cold. "You do that while I'm fighting your guy and I'll kill ya. I'm serious. I'll fry the skin off your little body. Try it and see."

"Y...yes...yes sir." It was all Worm could manage as Flashfire stormed out of the room. After a long, uncomfortable pause, Sting sat down.

"Tomorrow night, we're going out on the town. We've got covers to maintain," he said.


It was the line of cherry red crotch rockets parked outside the club that drew Tai-Pan's attention. The three men had been driving around the area for about twenty minutes, looking for a club that would get them noticed. Most were too seedy or too upscale for Tai-Pan's careful taste. But this club, called Wayward, with its techno bar meets roadhouse vibe was exactly what he was looking for. And the fact that it was currently filled with a youth biker gang -- commonly called bozosuku -- made it perfect. The minute they stepped into the club, all eyes were on them. Tai-Pan stood there for a moment, silently looking the patrons over, and then moved to the bar.

Before he was able to sit, a young bozosuku blocked his path. He was short, with spiky bleached-blonde hair. He wore a black leather jacket over a silvery t-shirt and leather pants His gang's emblem was on the back of his jacket.

"I don't believe you paid the cover charge," he mumbled.

"I didn't, because there isn't one," Tai-Pan said, glaring at the punk.

"No, see, this is the Cruiser's bar," he said, pointing at the back of his jacket. "And all non-cruisers have to pay. Since you and your friends aren't cruisers, you need to pay." He put his hand out, expectantly.

Defiantly, Tai-Pan slapped the punk's hand away and started to move towards the bar again. The rest of the gang gaped in shock.

"I don't think you heard me," he said as he grabbed Tai-Pan's right arm. Tai-Pan turned and grabbed the punk's hand, twisting it backwards. There was a loud popping noise. The bozosuku cried out in pain, his eyes going wide. With his right hand, Tai Pan delivered a palm strike that sent him to the floor, skidding into a pool table. Embarrassed, he struggled to his feet. He looked over each shoulder at the other gang members behind him.

"C'mon," he shouted angrily, "Let's show 'em what we do to people who don't pay the cover."

In all, six bozosuku moved on the agents. One of them twirled a cue stick, hungrily eyeing Worm. Sting grabbed a beer bottle from the bar and shattered it, holding the neck with sharp angles jutting from what was left of the body.

"Don't kill 'em," Tai-Pan said, barely loud enough for his partners to hear.

The punk with the cue struck first. He moved to swing the stick over his head until Worm caught his elbow and quickly disarmed him. Worm clutched the stick by it's narrow end and swung it sideways like a baseball bat. The thick end connected with the punk's left jaw, drawing blood and sending him to the floor, unconscious.

"Now why couldn't you do that during the fight," Sting said as he casually tossed the beer bottle to the punk in front of him. Instinctively, the gang member caught it and looked at it, confused. Expecting this, Sting grabbed a barstool and swung it over his head. The punk went down in a heap of broken wood. The gang's leader angrily charged Tai-Pan, who swatted him away, sending him crashing into one of his fellow gang members. The two punks smacked into another pool table. Seeing the opening, a third gang member advanced on Tai-Pan. He swept his legs out from underneath him and disabled him with three rapid knuckle punches, knocking the wind from his body.

Another gang member had grabbed up the broken bottle and lunged at Sting, catching him in the side with the broken glass. He then kicked Sting in the face and sent him staggering backwards into the bar. Worm turned and swung his pool cue again, landing it squarely in the back of the punk's head. Dazed, he hobbled forward a bit and then whirled, advancing on Worm. He swung the cue again and the punk ducked this time, following up with a blind charge. Before he could land a blow, Tai-Pan delivered a flying kick that took him down, sending the broken bottle tumbling across the floor.

That left the leader and one remaining bozosuku. The leader pulled a gun. Somewhere in the bar, a girl screamed. The gang member next to him backed up, shock crawling across his face.

"You're gonna pay now," he spat. Tai-Pan shook his head, disappointed. With one deft move, he disarmed him. The gun skittered under one of the pool tables. He delivered a roundhouse kick that dropped the gang leader where he stood. The punk behind him ran for the door.

"Anybody else," Worm called out, trying his best to sound threatening. Another gang stepped forward, his hands up. He was tall and thin. He was swimming in his jacket, it was so large. He moved toward Tai-Pan.

"Uh, sir, I...uh...sir," he said, timidly. Tai-Pan glowered at him. "Since you beat our boss...our leader...that means you're our leader now. Rules are rules."

Tai-Pan paused for a second. He looked at Sting, silently questioning the decision he had to make. Sting nodded.

"All right," Tai-Pan said, flatly. "All right." The punk moved to his former leader's fallen form and pulled the leather jacket from his limp body. He stood up and handed it to Tai-Pan.

"What do we call you?"

"Beast. I'm the Beast."

A few members of the gang began to move forward, less afraid of the three men than they were before. Two of them took jackets off of two of the fallen punks. They gave the jackets to Worm and Sting.

"What should we do, boss," another punk asked Tai-Pan.

"Clean this place up. Get those guys on their feet. And get me and my partners a couple beers," he said. The punks went to work immediately. The gang member that gave Tai-Pan the jacket didn't move.

"I'm Sammo," he said. "I'm your lieutenant. If you need something, tell me." Tai-Pan regarded the man carefully. He glanced at Sting.

"I'm okay. It's a small cut. I just need a bandage," Sting said, checking his wound. Tai-Pan nodded.

"Okay Sammo. Here's my cel number." Tai-Pan wrote a number on a corner of a napkin and tore it off, handing it to the man. "If you see or hear anything...interesting...about Arena around here you call me and tell me. Understand?" Sammo nodded. "You know what Arena is, Sammo?" He nodded again. "Good. I'm a fighter in the circuit. I want you -- all of you -- to show up at the next fight to support your leader." Sammo nodded again. "Good man. Now where's my beer?"


Returning to their suite, Sting noticed the message light flashing on his phone. He dialed in and played the message. Tai Pan flopped onto one of the beds.

"McDermott, this is Xian. Moy wants to meet with you tonight about some pressing business. Call me as soon as you get this." Xian left his phone number and the message ended. Sting scribbled it down on a message pad the hotel had provided and then dialed the number.

"This is Xian," a voice said.

"This is Alex McDermott. What can I do for you tonight," Sting said.

"We need you over here at the restaurant as soon as possible. Moy wants to talk to you."

"We'll be right there," Sting said. He turned to Tai Pan. "Don't get comfy. Moy wants to talk with us."

"Any clue about what," Worm called from the bathroom.

"Didn't say. We'll need to get over there as fast as we can. Worm, call Toil and Cowboy on your secure phone and let them know what's going on."

"Will do," Worm said, closing the bathroom door behind him.

Sting sped across town, cautiously checking for tails, deathly afraid their cover had been blown and they'd been made. For all he knew, they could be driving to an execution. On a secure line, Worm advised Toil to abort if they hadn't heard from the three of them in 24 hours. When they arrived at the restaurant, Sting parked the car in the same spot he had a few days ago. They walked around the back of the building, carefully scanning their surroundings. At the top of three concrete steps was a white door clearly marked "office" in black stenciled letters. Tai-Pan banged on it fiercely. The door swung open and Ko emerged, silently. He motioned the men inside. He led them down a short hallway to Moy's office. He opened the door and again motioned them inside. Moy was there, again behind his makeshift desk with four chairs in front of it. He was wearing a red and white Hawaiian shirt this time. Xian stood to one side of the door. Ko entered and stood opposite them.

"Sit," he barked. All three men did so.

"Evening, Moy," Sting said, smiling.

"You should know I don't quite trust you yet. Call it instinct. At the fights the other night, I planted some of my associates in the crowd. They're out there to listen. And what they hear, they report to me, you follow?"

Only Worm nodded.

"My associates heard two individuals in the crowd talking," Moy continued. "I believe they were cops looking to shut us down." Worm strongly resisted the urge to glance at Sting. "To prove yourselves to me, I want to you to go to their hotel room and bring them back here by any means necessary."

"What are you going to do to them when we get them here," Tai-Pan asked.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, Beast."

"Where are they," Sting asked, suppressing his nerves. He was well aware that the entire situation could be a set-up -- they could be going right after their fellow agents.

"Their hotel and room number are here." Moy slid a folded slip of paper across the desk to Sting. "Be discreet." Sting palmed the slip and stood up, moving toward the door.

"C'mon guys. Let's go to work."

Excellent SH!

Where's the next installment???