Jack had difficulty thinking of how to catch this man, however. But one way did stand out to him. He really disliked the notion, so kept trying to think of another way. But, each and every time, when an idea came to an end, that method came back to him. He found no other alternative. Anyway, it was for the sake of bringing justice upon a man that had nearly had another man murdered. Jack finally decided on using the method.

He began seeking out the city's secret, underground agency of hired killers, portraying a man who wanted someone “taken out.” (Again, he was very much abhorred at the idea of having this done of anyone, but, again, that was certainly not his aim. It was to bring justice!)

His search for this underground hired killers' agency took quite a bit of effort. But, after approximately twelve and a half days of searching, he finally had a spark of success. He had found it. Just a slight sliver of a hint. Such a small indication, in fact, that you nearly have to be a criminal of the darkest kind in order to notice it for it's true meaning. But Jack had been in the detective “business” for numerous years, working with criminals of all levels of villainy, nearly constantly, so had come to know how they thought and communicated, quite well. He had been looking through the Monday Morning Times, in the “Ad” section, and had picked up the very well hidden message of the whereabouts of this underground agency.

He bought a pair of glasses with fake lenses, ceased shaving for long enough to grow a scraggly beard, and ruffled his hair. All this was, of course, to make himself look as unrecognizable as possible. He put on some clothes that matched the look, including a big, dark overcoat with large, upturned collar. (Plus, when he left his apartment, he put on a dark, serious, even evil expression that seemed to promise equally evil intent, that he maintained all the while.) He arrived at the candy shop the ad had led him to, where he was “warmly” greeted by the man at the counter, who put on a bad Italian accent, and made himself appear such a jolly, harmless big man. However, when Jack quietly passed him the “code” that all criminals of the city used, the big man, showing no signs of change in expression to anyone but Jack, leaned over the counter, as if to show his “costumer” the different flavors of liquorice, and whispered, with his true accent,

“In the passage to the men's room, a meter from it, on the left.” Jack discretely nodded and casually made his way over to the small door, flush with the wall, in the shadows. Having lingered there for a few moments, and ensured there was no one around, he gently slid the door over, and, having entered, closed himself in. Producing a small flashlight from his coat, he looked around. The tunnel opened up about half a meter from the entrance, enough for him to un-envelope his 6'3” frame to it's full height, with several centimeters left over above his head.

Along this passage Jack traveled for somewhere around quarter of an hour. There was a continuous downward slope, with a floor of wooden planks with cross-beams to prevent sliding. He did his best to walk quietly. At one point he heard a muffled shot echo up the tunnel, from what sounded like a new Glock 9mm, either an 18 or a 26. A cold, hard feeling shot up his spine. He braced himself, and continued. Only a few meters farther and he came to a huge iron door, which he figured had been used previously for smuggling purposes. He gripped his steel flashlight in his right hand, and banged on the door three times. For a couple minutes he waited, standing there. The voices he had faintly heard before knocking had immediately stopped. Nothing was to be heard now. All he could do was wait. Finally, he heard the scraping of metal on metal, and saw a slot open on the door at eye-level, and indeed, a pair of dark, vicious eyes were peering through at him. It rather surprised him, and the intense, extreme evil shot at him took him back a bit, but, he succeeded in maintaining his own “evil” expression.

“Well?” the man on the opposite side of the door demanded.

“Looking for the Underground Termination Agency.” The man searched Jack's eyes even deeper. After a while Jack was convinced that his facade wasn't sufficient. That the man had found something amiss in this tall, skinny fellow. But finally, the man closed the slot, and Jack could hear him stalking off a few steps, and sliding a bolt, an action followed by the noise of a system of old gears working to open the door, which indeed finally gave way, and creaked open, pivoting inward, to the right.

Slowly and carefully, Jack began walking forward. As was his habit in such situations, he kept alert, doing all he could to defy, intentionally or not, the characteristic of only being able to look in one direction at a time, but, keeping his entire manner in check, so as not to arouse suspicion as to his true identity, and the falsehood of his facade.

The man that had “welcomed” him impatiently waved for Jack to follow, and Jack sped up a little. Then, however, there was the cold muzzle of a handgun suddenly thrust to the back of his head from behind. Three more henchmen appeared from the shadows then, all bearing sub-machine guns. The man that had opened the slot on the door had retrieved a similar weapon from his coat, and turned around to face Jack.

Now, although he had been through countless situations of a similar nature before, Jack had never gotten over the extreme displeasure that arose in him when there were multiple guns pointed at him, and even more so when one was pointed at his head. But, he reluctantly raised his hands, bringing them up wide beside him. The bulky, prominent-looking man to his left motioned toward Jack, and he was searched. And oh, how he disliked being parted from his Ruger LCR!

When he had been searched sufficiently, he was finally permitted to speak.

“Never seen you b'fore, lad, and if you'd been here I would have. We hear you're looking for the Underground.”

Jack glanced at the speaker, the same that had motioned for the others to search him.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Why?” Jack glanced around, and replied,

“Why does anyone seek out the Underground?” Jack said with a dark grin. The man at first glared at him harshly, and did indeed for a while, but finally broke a grin of his own and laughed.

“Give him back his weapons.” He had apparently altered his opinion of this him, of which Jack was greatly relieved. Still grinning, the man began walking farther up the tunnel, followed by the rest. After a short distance, the small group came around a turn and to a large, open room, a bit more sophisticated than the dark passageway of dirt and wood. Jack kept a sharp lookout for anyone that looked slightly like that man back in the woods at the lieutenant's. He'd been reviewing in his mind every day since that one, the very brief encounter he'd had, and the fleeting glance he'd caught of the man. It'd been such a tiny glance though! If only though, he could just hear a word or two from him. He remembered that rough, coarse voice so well. All that restrained him from actually repeating it himself was the difference in voices. He had it so memorized. If only he could just catch a word. One word.

“What's your name?” Suddenly he found himself more fully wrapped up in his front. The leader of his welcoming party was engaged in conversation with an even more prominent-looking man, whom was now eying him extensively.

“Uhh, Jack.” The man waited for a last name, but got none, so finally nodded.

“Right. Now, tell me what you need.”

“Well,” Jack grinned, partially genuinely. “Know a Mr. Brunsfield? I think he's had business with the Underground before.”

“Yes! A fine man, a very shrewd businessman, at that. Now what about him?”

“Oh, his choice in those he hires for... such jobs, is absolutely amazing. Is there any possible way I could acquire his assistance in the matter? That is, the matter of hiring someone from the Underground.” The man thought for a moment, then replied,

“I think we could arrange that. He's out of town now, and will be for an undetermined amount of time, but-”

“A number?”

“Ah... yes. Here it is.” He scribbled a number down on a scrap of paper and handed it to Jack.

“Right. Though,” Jack hesitated, glancing at the number. “Would one of his men happen to be here? That might be the most direct way of getting a hold of the right man.”

“Ah, well...” he looked around. “Yes. Over there,” pointing. “In the gray jacket.” If it hadn't been for the man's pointing, however, Jack would never have found the man to which the other was referring. Every single man in the room appeared to be wearing gray of some shade or another.

“Mike!” the man beside Jack called out. Mike came over. He bore a heavy limp.

“Yeah,” he said. It was him.... Same voice.... Same limp.


“Mike, this fella's looking for an employee. I've got some business to attend to, but I'll be around.” He walked off. Mike eyed Jack for a moment, then said,

“How much?”

“Oh, no need to worry about that, my friend.” They both grinned. The two exchanged some more talk on the matter, and Jack ended up with Mike's card, as well.

He was accompanied as far as the large iron door. Past that, he traveled alone, with his flashlight held at his side.

Back at his apartment, Jack was glad to be himself again, in his usual style of clothes, and with a more well-kept appearance- shaved, with a small goatee.

The next day he went to the police station by cab, picking up some coffee on the way, from one his most-frequented coffee shops. The inspector always had some coffee on, but, quite frankly, Jack's and the inspector's tastes on the subject differed quite a lot.

At the station, Jack hooked up his phone and punched in the number of the man Mike, from the Underground. The officers around him were preparing to record and track the call. Jack looked around at them, and they gave him the thumbs up. He hit the call button.


“Hello?” Deep, hard voice.

“Yes. Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“Jack. You'll remember me from the Underground yesterday.”

“Ah, yes. The job?”

“Well, first, I'd like to get the number of one of your employers, a Brunsfield? I'd like to communicate with him somehow.”

“Oh, uh, sure.” He gave a number. Jack then held up the piece of paper he'd just scribbled it onto, next to the supposed number of Mr. Brunsfield he'd been given at the Underground the previous day. He grinned. The numbers were different.

“Thank you. Now, about the job, I...” He had hit “Play” on the CD player next to him, which had in it a CD with the sound of police sirens recorded onto it.

“Uh, I...” He made the sound of a scuffle over the speaker of his phone, and at length hung up.

He slid the phone onto the table and again examined the new number he'd been given. Looking at the CD player, though, he realized it was still playing, so he reached over and turned It off.

Inspector Burrow picked up the number from the previous day that said “Mr. James Brunsfield” on it.

“Jack, why would you ask for this man's number when you already have it?” he said. Jack handed him the piece of paper onto which he'd scribbled the new one.

“What do you notice about those two numbers, inspector?”

“They're... different?”

“Exactly.”

“But...” the inspector gave a bewildered look.

“Why would anyone at the Underground just give the actual number of people involved in the business, to anyone that walks in there?... that gets in, of course,” he explained. “Though, I must confess, I hadn't considered that when I asked for this one.” He tapped the paper with the first number.

“But what makes you think this Mike person would give you the real number, when the other man wouldn't?”

“Ah. But if a man of authority in the place had brought a “costumer” to him, that was looking for someone to hire, wouldn't that seem much less likely to arouse suspicion? That would seem perfectly normal.” The inspector thought about this briefly, then replied,

“Yeah, I suppose so.” He then smiled and nodded at his friend and partner's ingenuity.

Jack punched in the newly acquired number and again looked up for the thumbs up from the officers. Again he hit the call button.

“Hello?”


Having assured that it was indeed the now infamous Mr. Brunsfield, and the team of police having tracked the phone the man had answered with, Jack again smoothly ended the conversation, this time with the simulated recording of heavy traffic and a wreck.

The phone was tracked to a business within the city, NorthEast Imports. So he is here.

Inspector Burrow and his men began to try and find anything and everything that could be found about the man.

Jack assumed that Mr. Brunsfield had been at work when the call was made, as the place was a business. He'd called around eleven in the morning, so most people would've been at work at the time, he figured.

So, Jack went to the business, alone, and asked for “a Mr. James Brunsfield.”

“Yes,” the lady at the desk replied. She typed the name into the computer before her, and, having glanced over what came up, she said,

“Oh, he's left for lunch. Did a few minutes ago; I remember now.” She smiled.

“Ah. Thank you. But, when should he be returning?”

“Well, he usually takes a 45 minute lunch break.”

“A'right... Thanks.”

“But, I can leave a message for you, if...”

“No, but thank you.” He considered his options.

“But,” returning to the desk.

“Yes?”

“Please be on the lookout for him, and note when he returns, if you'd be so kind.”

“Of course.” She again smiled.

Jack walked down to a nearby cafe and ordered something. Just as he sat down, the food steaming, his left pocket started buzzing.

“Hullo?”

“Jack. Got some stuff on Brunsfield.”

“Ahh, good.”

“He lives in Oakleaf Apartments, room 21b. Works as a secretary, for the owner of NorthEeast Imports, where the phone tracked to. 39 years old. That's about it.”

Jack nodded.

“Most helpful. Thank you, inspector.”

Jack ate his fish and chips, had a Coke, and walked back to the NorthEast Imports, about half an hour after leaving.

But he sat there for another half hour. Asked after the man's return numerous times. Nothing. Finally, shortly after having asked again, and no one having come in since, he leaped up from his chair and briskly made the door. Remembering exactly where Oakleaf Apartments was, since it was on one of the main streets on the way to the police station from his own apartment, he caught a cap and arrived there shortly.

Having payed the driver and reached the desk, he again asked after “a Mr. James Brunsfield.”

“Ah, yes. Room 21b. But, he's not here at the moment. Let's see....” looking at the computer screen. “He checked in at 12:38, and back out at 12:52.” Jack's shoulders dropped.

“D-did he say anything as to returning?-”

“Nothing.” Jack thought for a moment.

“Thank you.”

He wandered off to the side, considering his options. What could he possibly do to find this man? Not at his workplace, not at his place of residence. The local pub? Nope, not doing the pub, Jack thought. Then his left pocket again commenced buzzing. It was a text from the inspector. In it were three pictures of whom it said was Brunsfield, ones you might find in a file of him of some sort: one from the front, one from the right, and one from the left. Under it read,

“Jack- Hope this will be beneficial to us in our attempt to find him.”

As do I, inspector. Jack closed his eyes momentarily, trying to get even a brief moment of relief from the overwhelming situation. But, a scuffle and yelling voices outside, quickly brought him back to his full senses. A cluster of young, scruffy fellows, were in a fight, and two policemen were trying to break it up. Slipping his phone back in his pocket, he rushed outside to offer some assistance. He grabbed the collars of two of the rowdy lads, and yanked them apart, only to find himself the target of a number of harsh blows from either side. Once he got his grounds, however, he managed to block and duck a few, and step out and away. This time he directed his attention to one at a time. He pulled one out and against the wall, hard enough to keep him there for a moment, then shoved the other out from the fight, in a different direction. But, he soon found himself being shoved and yanked at by the policemen.

“No, officers, I'm-” but he got pushed against the wall, with such force that he was momentarily without breath. And before he could explain further, he was hand-cuffed, ordered to silence, and shoved into the back of an officer's cruiser.

Having ridden a short distance to a nearby police station (not the one Inspector Burrow was based at, unfortunately), he was herded into a cell and left there. Well, this is lovely. After several hours of sitting in that quiet, hot cell, the door was finally swung open, and he, along with the youths that had been in the fight, was taken to a courtroom in the adjoining building.

There was only a judge, a jury, and a four policemen present. Jack was held separate from the other, younger lads. He figured this was because he was no longer young enough to be sent to a Juvenile Hall, whereas they were.

“You young men,” the judge began, pointing and glaring at those to which he referred, “have disrupted the peace. You have violated the laws of the city by fighting on the street. And you,” turning his gaze and finger directly at Jack, “should know better, being so much more advanced in years than these young ruffians, than to do such a thing.”

Jack started out boldly,

“Your honor, may I-”

“No.” He was cut off.

“You shall have your chance to speak freely. But for the time being, what's your name?”

“Mason... Jack.”

“Well, Mr. Jack Mason, why were you fighting in the stree.... Jack Mason?”

“Yes.” He heard a quiet gasp from amongst the jury. He glanced over, and it was then that he saw someone he thought he recognized. The man seemed extremely shocked and disturbed, and was just sitting there, staring at him blankly. Jack just couldn't remember where he'd seen him before. He knew he had somewhere, but-

“The detective?” The judge's question jerked Jack back to now.

“Y-yes, sir”. The man at the tall desk considered this for a moment.

“Then why, sir, were you fighting in the street?”

“I was not, sir. I was assisting the officers, or trying to, in breaking it up.”

“Ah. Well, because of your name as a detective, I choose to believe you.”

Jack's hand-cuffs were unlocked, and he was escorted to the door at the back of the courtroom. Looking back, he again glanced at that familiar face. Who was it? Jack knew he'd seen him somewhere before, but where? Who in the world... Brunsfield!



In the tiny lobby there was a man at a desk that looked as if it had been through both World Wars. Jack received back his phone, Ruger LCR and holster, and suchlike, at this desk, under the supervision of a police officer. Then he was let out the door. Immediately he called Inspector Burrow.

"Jack! What happened to you man, I thought you-”

“Burrow. Bring a number of officers to the... Justice Courthouse,” glancing up at the sign above the double doors. “Don't take a second longer than necessary.”

“Uhh, right, but...”

“It's Brunsfield.” After a pause, Jack could see him grinning.

“Right.”


The inspector arrived with five other officers.

Jack quickly re-entered the courthouse, passed the man at the old desk in the small lobby, and boldly strode into the courtroom.

The judge gave an alarmed look.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he burst out in a rage.

“If you'll excuse us, your honor,” Inspector Burrow said. “We'll just remove a criminal from your hands.” The judge looked puzzled, and glanced at the youngsters that had been brought before him for trial.

The inspector's men made a semicircle around the jury's booth. The judge, and the jury, quite understandably, looked all the more extremely puzzled.

All but one. He sank low, low in his chair. So low you'd think he'd have fallen off.

“Brunsfield... come on down. It's over.”

Then, two more policemen entered the courtroom, holding by either arm another familiar looking man.

“Mike!!” A ghostly appearance covered Brunsfield's whole being.

Mike stood there, held by the two officers, shooting hate at all he saw, but especially Brunsfield.

“Sergeant, take them away.”