Mogadishu, Somalia
December, 1990

The convoy, made up of three Somali National Army troop trucks – top-heavy, aging transports that always looked on the verge of tipping over, manufactured in South Africa and kept in service until time eventually caught up with them – sped through the dark, narrow streets of one of the capital city’s countless decaying residential neighborhoods. The hour neared midnight, so the streets were mostly clear, but these days, Mogadishu was a city that never truly slept. Sleeping through mortar rounds and gunfire was difficult enough, but trying to quiet one’s thoughts to the idea of one’s family’s impending starvation was even less likely.

The trio of trucks pulled a hard left between rows of ramshackle buildings, and the lead one blared its horn. Three men near a barrel in which a fire crackled reacted in both panic and wisdom and jumped into an alleyway, just at the truck mowed the barrel down, sending it briefly sailing, then tumbling, down the unpaved street, its embers splaying every which way. The men had been fortunate. Most of the time the truck driver didn’t bother to use the horn.

The fire the men had stood around was not for warmth, for this was Mogadishu, and even in December and at this late hour, the temperature was in the high 70s, Fahrenheit. It, like so many other fires that burned in all quarters of the city, was for illumination, as no lights shone anywhere but for the government buildings and the fancy hotels. This was not the result of the current war that raged in the city, the one that the innocents of this neighborhood were trapped in the middle of. Months ago, the government of President Barre had sold off the generators that provided most of the city its electricity. Mogadishu was a city that had both literally and figuratively fallen into darkness.

The troops in the trucks, soldiers still loyal to Barre, were on their way to a late night confrontation with more of the forces invading the city, forces made up of fighters from the united northern and southern clans, ones intent on overthrowing Barre and his government, backed and armed by Ethiopia and battling street by street with the SNA. The fighting had been raging for weeks, and the outcome was clear to no one. Civilians, collateral damage, could only huddle in what was left of their homes and wait for the gunfire and explosions to stop, but the end was nowhere in sight. The loyalist soldiers, perched on the planks on either side of the trucks’ cramped rears, clung to both their AK-47s and their belief that they had chosen the right side.

Distracted as they were by their thoughts and fears, those in the rear truck didn’t notice a figure, dressed all in black, leap from a low rooftop as they passed and fall silently toward their rig’s roof. The tall man landed confidently and went flat, spreading out and making himself as invisible as possible. His pants and long-sleeve pullover were black, as was the thin backpack strapped to him. Black leather gloves covered his hands, and his long hair, also black, was pulled back in a ponytail. Dark Gargoyle sunglasses covered his eyes, which would seem an odd sight to anyone who might have spied him in the dark, late night, but the specialized glasses were equipped with state-of-the-art night vision that allowed him to see his surroundings bright as day. Had he been spotted, and were the observer to look closely at his black boots, they would have found it equally odd to find that they were cowboy boots.

As the trucks made more sharp turns and sped toward the combat zone, the man held sure to the roof, and managed to pull a flat electronic device from his belt. He held it to his face and watched the digitized city map on it scroll past. With the press of a button, he zoomed the map out, revealing a blinking light somewhere ahead on its display. He rode the truck for many blocks until he noted its path was veering away from the indicator light. He slid the device back in its holster, looked ahead, and made a quick and sure decision. He raised himself to a crouch and waited, and when the convoy passed an abandoned marketplace, he leapt from the speeding truck onto a canvas tarp that once covered a thriving fruit market. He rolled twice, letting his momentum carry him, then came up running without hesitating. Reaching the tarp’s end, he leapt for a building adjacent to it as the convoy made another turn and disappeared from sight, never knowing they had provided taxi service for him that night. His hands caught an open, glassless window, and he hoisted himself up and got a boot under him, pausing to check inside to make sure the dark building was as empty as it looked. With both feet beneath him, he hopped up and grabbed a makeshift power line that had run juice illegally between the building and the one across the way when electricity was still an option for the citizens of the seafront city. With a couple of acrobatic swings, he flipped himself up onto the roof, going low, rolling once, and coming up in a crouch.

Twostep quickly took in his surroundings. Fires were burning in a building in one of the hot zones in the distance. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire was barking somewhere many blocks away (but not many enough). He turned his head left, and found he had a clear view of the black expanse of the shark-infested Indian Ocean. He checked his right and behind him before he pulled his digital map out again and considered it. He eyed it, and the buildings around him, reconciling the clean, two-dimensional interpretation of Mogadishu with the burned-out mess that was its reality, and looked for his next path. The good news was that with all the aging, collapsing buildings built up against each other as they were, rooftop travel, the safest, was definitely doable. With a last look at the map, he stowed it away, silently quickstepped to his building’s edge, and jumped easily across to the next one, heading for his destination.

He bounded from building to building, ears and eyes sharp, watching for any unwanted audience. There was no such thing as city planning in cities like this one, one like so many he’d been in during his time with SHIELD. The buildings were thrown together, all different colors, but faded, like someone had forgotten to turn off a rainbow and left it out in the sun for years too long. The occasional ads and frequent graffiti were a strange mix of English and Arabic. The layout of the neighborhoods he passed through reminded him, all too appropriately, of a house of cards. To his right, the high tower of the Union Mosque kept an ominous watch over the metropolis that seemed, to him, to look thousands of years old.

His boot struck the edge of another rooftop, and he jogged easily across it. He realized that he’d reached the end of his high road for now when an uncharacteristic wide expanse opened up ahead. At the lip of the building, he crouched and carefully looked over it. A fire burned in another steel barrel, but no one gathered around it. The remains of a scorched sedan sat lifeless across the way. Seeing the way was clear and quickly deciding on the best way down, he slipped over the side, holding briefly to the edge with his gloved hands, and dropped to a small balcony that he hoped would take his weight. It did, and he crawled over its side, took its rusted iron bars in his hands, dropped and swung, gauged the drop, and let himself fall to the dirt street below. His boots and powerful legs took the impact, and he landed with his hands on the earth, turning his gaze left and right before he hurried off to a less exposed alley. A mortar round blew something up in another neighborhood behind him.

He turned into the alley and found himself facing a scrawny and dirty dog. He froze, and the dog stared him down, baring its teeth and uttering a low, menacing and feral growl, one whose tone was unmistakable. Twostep stayed still and calm, and took a quick look behind him for any late night passersby. Turning his attention back to the challenging dog, he reached slowly behind him, and into a pouch on the back of his belt, below the backpack. He unzipped it carefully to keep the noise down, never taking his eyes off the mongrel, and pulled his hand slowly back around. Using both hands, he unzipped the plastic baggie, reached inside with his fingers, and pulled out two hunks of leather-tough beef jerky. He held one out and waved it slowly. The dog’s growling stopped and it tilted its head, sniffing the air, and it took an involuntary step forward – an anxious step that blew the mutt’s tough-guy attitude, as did the twin wags of its tail.

Grinning, Twostep tossed one of the hunks toward the dog, who jumped up on two legs and caught it in mid-air, dropping its head to the dirt immediately and chewing enthusiastically at the jerky. Taking another look behind him, back toward the street, Twostep walked quietly and calmly toward the dog. Reaching it, he dropped the other piece of jerky on the ground in front of it, and the dog gobbled at that hunk as well, its thin tail wagging more. He paused to pat the dog’s head before checking that the way ahead was clear and then moving on.

He stayed in the shadows and close to the buildings as he made his way further into the city, keeping landmarks that he’d picked in sight and replaying the image from the map in his head. He shifted routes slightly when he came across civilians, ones either wandering the streets aimlessly or sitting together by a burning barrel – such as the family (or, more likely, what was left of a family) made up of an old woman with her head wrapped in a cloth and three small children, all dozing blanketlessly around her, that kept him from the alley he’d chosen – or would scale a building and take to the roofs again for a time. At one roof edge he halted, hearing muted voices below, and carefully peered over to spy a small group of dangerous-looking men, clearly conducting some kind of black market transaction. The black market was the city’s leading industry these days, a fact that was the main reason he found himself on the African continent tonight. He decided not to risk a leap over them, backtracked, and slid his way down a water pipe, taking the low ground once more and avoiding them.

At the mouth of an alley he was leaving, he heard the grind of an approaching engine. Taking a quick look around and gauging the vehicle’s distance, he darted across the empty street ahead in a full run. He took a leap and vaulted through a (thankfully) glassless first-floor window just as the engine roared into the open. Pressing his back to the wall and ducking, he watched as the pickup, one with a 50-caliber gun mounted on the back, sped by, and the lack of uniforms on the occupants told him these were rebels. He waited for it to pass, but then heard another, which he surmised was following it. Not liking the busyness of that street, he slunk further back in the darkness of the quiet building, deciding to exit on the street opposite and get back on his path.

As the truck’s headlights lit up the street, he backed out the room’s doorway, one whose door was conspicuously absent, and crept into a hall. He found his way at the other end of it blocked with piles of broken furniture, and rather than try to negotiate the obstacle, he slipped though another doorless doorway.

And was greeted by a man with a gun.

Stupid, stupid, stupid…

Twostep’s muscles didn’t so much freeze as ready themselves. Without hesitation they lowered his stance just slightly, adjusted the twist of his ankles and his weight on his boots, and let his fingers go slack in anticipation. And they kept his eyes locked on the stranger’s—perhaps the most vital part of a defensive stance.

The man looked to be in his early forties, and was Hispanic—something that was not only wrong for this side of this town, but wrong for this TOWN—and was standing, stiff and disciplined, with an AK-47 held high, up to his tilted head. His aim on Twostep looked radar-locked. His eyes, even squinted, were quietly dangerous—not in the crazed, unpredictable way, but in the more frightening way of a man who was completely calm in such a situation. He wore nondescript black trousers and, oddly, no shoes, with a stained white tank his only covering above the waist. The stains looked like a combination of dirt, smoke, oil and—if the poorly bandaged wound on his right shoulder was any indication—blood. Below that cloth wrapping was a tattoo that pegged him for U.S. Special Forces; Rangers, to be exact. But the style and the age suggested that was a long time ago and a long way from here.

They stared each other down, neither moving, as another truck sped by outside. The headlights lit the room slightly, giving the armed man a better look at Twostep. Twostep himself could see just fine with his special shades, enough to see every hair in the other man’s expansive mustache. Twostep’s legs stayed ready as he tried to read the man’s eyes, and the men were left in dark and quiet as the truck noise faded into the African night.

Your move, partner, Twostep thought.

The man looked him carefully up and down—with his eyes, his head never moving—and the rifle stayed locked in aim, even though the bandage said it was probably painful to keep it that way. If it hurt, the man never showed it. Finally, he straightened his head. He lowered the gun just slightly, perhaps to gauge Twostep’s response. Twostep, still primed to move, stood back up straight and let his hands slowly lower to his sides.

The man lowered the gun all the way, then sighed.

“At ease, soldier,” he said, tiredly. His voice was deep and harsh, and powerful even in a near-whisper.

Twostep watched him carefully as he slowly slung the rifle over his shoulder on its strap and relaxed his stance. Only then did Twostep take the chance to shoot a view glances around the room and its exits, verifying that they were alone here.

“Didn’t mean to intrude,” Twostep said, quietly, still not losing his caution.

“That’s okay,” the man said. “You were expected.”

Huh?

The man studied Twostep’s face. “I assume you’re looking for me?”

“Uh…” Twostep said carefully, confused and deciding if this was one of those just-play-along situations. His instincts told him otherwise, so he went with them. “No offense, partner, but I don’t even know who you are.”

The aging soldier shook his head and cracked a small, humorless grin. He sighed again. “Figures.”

He turned and took a few steps, heading for a spot in the corner where a canvas bag was resting. Looking around one more time and keeping his senses sharp, Twostep followed him.

“You’re family?” the man said more than asked, taking the gun off his shoulder and using it to brace himself as he took a seat next to the bag with his back to the wall.

That phrase raised Twostep’s eyebrows and piqued his interest. It was a phrase he knew well.

“Yourself?” Twostep asked him diplomatically, standing close, but not too close, to the man.

“Major Edward Castillo. RONIN. Tokyo branch.”

This caused another eyebrow raise. “You...uh…seem less…Japanese than I would have expected.”

Castillo nodded knowingly, reaching for a pack of cigarettes in the bag. “U.S. advisor, long-term exchange. Forgive me for not having on badge on me at the moment.”

“Uh huh,” Twostep said, dubiously, crouching down to make sure he was out of window sight. “You wouldn’t happen to have today’s password on you then, would you, partner?”

The man grinned, lighting a match and, with it, lighting his cigarette. “Saint Nick.”

Twostep grinned back.

“Twostep,” he said, relaxing. “THUNDER Division.”

Castillo nodded. “I figured. I’ve seen your file. There’s a short list of white men I’d expect to be running around Mogadishu in cowboy boots with a ponytail and no gun.”

And here he thought he was undercover.

“You’re a long way from home, sir,” he said.

“I could say the same.”

“Well, THUNDER’s never far from anywhere,” Twostep grinned, pulling out the company line. “Helicarrier’s up on the clouds off the coast. I rowed in and came in on foot. Recon.”

“For?”

Putting all his cards on the table, Twostep said, “THUNDER’s dropping at dawn if I find what we’re looking for. Doktor Nacht is in country with his gang looking to get his hands on a very nasty bomb. Intel has it the deal’s going down here, tomorrow.”

Castillo nodded, but sardonically. “Typical,” he gruffed. “Intel’s right. I’ve been here deep cover for almost a week. Been on the Broker’s trail. We got word he was dealing big boom to a major player. I was sniffing out the merchandise.” He puffed his cigarette bitterly. “We’re looking for the same thing, cowboy. You’d figure somebody in command could pick up a goddamn phone and figure that out.”

Twostep nodded back, sarcasm in his voice as well, but his mind racing at this handy shortcut to his mission. Such shortcuts were few and far. “Yeah, S.O.P. Guess our fax machine’s been clogged up with holiday jokes. How’s your luck been?”

Castillo looked down at his shoulder. “How’s my luck look?”

Twostep grimaced a bit, looking at it, and started pulling his backpack off. “Mind if I take a look at that?”

Castillo regarded his shoulder and shrugged with the other. Twostep kept low and knelt next to the man as he pulled a compact med kit from his pack. “Paramedics ain’t my rate, but I hold my own. What happened?”

Castillo stayed stoic as Twostep gingerly unwrapped the improvised bandage. “I got nabbed by the locals, three days ago. Wasn’t even by my target. Soldiers. They’re keeping a close eye on all outsiders around here. My Red Cross cover didn’t hold. They got me at a marketplace and I tried to break for it. Didn’t make it. Not as young as I used to be, I guess. ”

Twostep checked out the bullet wound. Wasn’t bad, as gunshots went. At least the bullet went clean through. But it was showing signs of infection. Probably because of the disturbing burns on and around it.

“Those what I think they are?” he asked, quietly.

Castillo nodded. “Cuban cigar, I think. Nothing but the best for local secret police. They had a lot questions for me. I wasn’t what you call cooperative. They thought I was CIA. Please. I haven’t been CIA since Juice Newton was still in the top forty.”

Twostep pulled out a clean bandage and a small vile of alcohol. “Well, we’ll get that cleaned up. Doesn’t look too bad.” He tried to sound casual about it. One of those tricks they teach you in medic training. “Wish I could say it wasn’t going to hurt. Want some morphine?”

“Nah,” Castillo said, and reached into the bag next to him with his good arm. He came back out with a half-full bottle of local rum. “This has been doing fine so far.” He unscrewed the cap with his fingers, took a swig, and exhaled thickly.

“Fair enough,” Twostep said, getting the alcohol (the non-local kind) open and getting to work. “So how’d you get clear, anyway?” Keeping the patient talking was another one of those handy tricks.

Castillo gritted his teeth and grunted as Twostep did his business. “I waited for my moment. It’s always there if you wait long enough. Got out and stole a truck. I knew that wasn’t going to get me out, so I crashed and burned it in an old shut-down restaurant. Got away and left them thinking I burned up with it. Gave me time to fade into the city. Don’t know if they think I’m still alive.”

“Wouldn’t they figure it out when they didn’t find a body?” Twostep asked as he swabbed.

Castillo shook his head. “There was a body.”

“Oh,” Twostep said.

“Pro-active soldier jumped the truck and tried to take me himself. Hopefully they thought it was me after the fire went out. At least they did for a while. Didn’t feel any heat on me when I was getting away.”

“Couldn’t find a phone?”

“A working one on this side of town? Not likely. No, been waiting for deep night to make my next move.”

“Well, don’t you worry none,” Twostep said, carefully bandaging the cleaned wound. “I’ll radio it in. We’ll get you pulled out of here.”

“Hell you will.”

“Pardon?” Twostep asked, wiping his hands on his shirt.

“My mission’s not done yet. I leave when it is.”

“Uh…” Twostep said, he hoped diplomatically, as he shut up his aid kit. “No offense, sir, but you ain’t exactly all together. I think your part here is done. You earned yourself a bus ticket home.”

“I’ve been worse,” he sighed. “Hell, kid, I hiked across half of Laos with a splinted leg and a piece of shrapnel in my belly. Not going to let a little ventilation sideline me. This needs doing, and it’s my job.”

“And I’m happy to finish it for you, boss,” Twostep said, sitting down. “Don’t pay it no mind. I’m fresh, I’ve got a team in wait, I’m good to go. You can sit this one out.”

“Well, there’s something you DON’T have.”

“What’s that?”

Castillo grinned. “You don’t know what the son of a bitch looks like.”

Twostep blinked. “You got a visual on Broker?”

“Seen his face,” Castillo affirmed.

Okay, NO ONE had seen the infamous dealer’s face. That’s what made him so good at what he did. That was something most intelligence agencies in the western world were salivating for.

“He showed personal?”

“Guess he wanted to handle something this big himself. I got the bastard’s number. No way I’m backing off. Not after the week I’ve had. And if you SHIELD hotshots want him, you need me to find him. I got his face, I got a location. You’re going for him, you’re taking me with you.”

Twostep blew out a breath and scratched his head, reading the other man’s face. It was not the face of a man who took no for an answer.

“Warehouse in the eastern ghetto?” Twostep asked.

Castillo shook his head, and with a little smug annoyance. “Abandoned factory six blocks over from it. Your intel is old. The deal’s going down at sunup. And I’m going to make damn sure he’s verified on-site before a bunch costumed flying bulldozers crash in and started tearing up the place and making him rabbit. You THUNDER boys want your bad guys? They’re all yours. But RONIN gets the Broker, and I’m bringing him in.”

Twostep ran it all through his head. “I’d better make a call,” he said, reaching into his backpack and unfolding a thin headset.

He put the earpiece in, extended the mic, and turned a dial on the side of it. “Alamo, this is Bowie. Come back.” A pause. “Uh, yes, sir. Insertion gold. But…we’ve got a bit of a…wrinkle here.”

Castillo took another swig of rum and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and letting Twostep relay all the info and get his response. Somewhere outside, muted gunshots were being exchanged. He smiled slightly as he listened to Twostep, sounding a bit embarrassed, request confirmation of Castillo’s identity and current deployment. Procedure was procedure, after all. Once Castillo was cleared, the rest of the details were discussed.

“Yes, sir,” Twostep said, looking at Castillo as he spoke to his invisible superior. “I understand. I’ll update you when we have something put together. I’ll get the team up to speed. Bowie out.”

“Bowie,” Castillo repeated, grinning.

“You can be Santa Anna if you want,” Twostep grinned back. Castillo barked a weak, quiet laugh.

Twostep did something else with the radio dial, then paused as he waited for a response. When it seemingly came, he started speaking in flawless French, something that took Castillo aback. Castillo watched him as he spoke in low tones, tones that sounded anything but military. Twostep looked a bit awkward, and maybe a little uncomfortable at Castillo watching him as he spoke. He finally ended the call with a few words that were a near whisper.

“That sounded personal,” Castillo noted, taking himself another swig.

“Uh…” Twostep said, again looking uncomfortable. “Just…one of my teammates.”

“I don’t speak the language,” Castillo said, “but for some things, you don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” Twostep sighed, scratching his head again.

“The French girl, obviously?”

“Minou. Yeah.”

Castillo tsked good-naturedly. “Company ink, son.”

Twostep grinned tiredly. “Things got…complicated on a mission in Afghanistan a little while back. We were pinned down, trapped in a bombed-out building, didn’t know if we were going to make it out. She was scared and… You know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Not a very good idea.”

“Probably seemed pretty good at the time, though, huh?” Castillo said with a crooked, knowing grin under his giant mustache.

“Yeah,” Twostep smiled back, politely, but obviously wasn’t feeling very glib about the subject. Castillo seemed to notice that.

“Life is short, kid,” he said, and maybe it was something in his voice, but he seemed to Twostep to suddenly age a few years. “You take your happiness where you can find it. Don’t overthink it too much. Just enjoy it when you get it. Nothing washes away the pain like the right voice whispering in your ear in the dead of night. The right hair draped across your chest. You find someone who fits that bill, details don’t much matter. Just be grateful.”

Twostep considered that for a moment, and they both sat in silence for a few seconds until a too-close mortar went off, bringing them both back to the moment and turning their eyes toward the window. Ghost-like, faraway screams followed, drifting in with the warm night air.

“So, what’s our status, then?” Castillo asked, getting them back on subject.

“Looks like you got your wish, Santa Anna. I was sent in to eyeball the target site and verify and call down the THUNDER when it all starts. That still goes. Now you’re going with me.”

“No, you’re going with ME…” Castillo corrected, taking another sip from the bottle, but this time putting the cap back on and setting it aside.

“We’re to check the locale, make sure all players and the merchandise are in-house, then send the signal. My team will drop, bring the house down, mop up the bad guys, grab the boom-boom, you and I will get us a Broker, and we all extract before the army knows what’s going on. Hopefully they’ll be too distracted by the actual war going on here to pay too much mind to our business.”

Castillo nodded his approval. “Good. We’ll lay low here until pre-dawn, then start working our way over. Assuming they’re not still looking for me and doing house-to-houses, that is. Then we’ll have to stay mobile.”

“You sure you’re up for this?” Twostep had to ask, one more time.

Castillo pulled out another cigarette and put it between his lips, then reached for the matches.

“It’s what I do,” he said, simply, lighting a match. His voice grew either more relaxed or just more tired. “’Up for it’ never enters into it.”

Twostep watched him light his cigarette and considered the other man. He got the impression that for all the things he, himself, thought he’d seen? It wasn’t a fraction of what Castillo had seen in his time. He decided then that he not only respected the man, but liked him.

“Guess we wait,” he said, pulling his own pack of cigarettes – Marlboros – out of his belt, along with cheap commissary lighter (black, of course).

Castillo grunted in the negative and shook his head, and tossed his own pack to Twostep. Taking the cigarette out of his mouth, he said “Smoke the local. Don’t want anyone walking by and smelling Americans.”

Having caught the pack, Twostep nodded his thanks for the gesture. “Much obliged.”

“So what do I call you?” Castillo asked as the Texan lit his cigarette. “Do I have to stick with Twostep, because I don’t know how long I can hold this straight face.”

Twostep switched his cigarette to his left hand and extended his right to Castillo. “Nathaniel Pharaoh,” he said, and they shook firmly. “It’s a pleasure.”

“That’s right,” Castillo said, remembering. “I remembered you had a name that was hard to forget. I remembered that, but I forgot the name. I AM getting old.”

“Old men don’t do what you do, Major,” Nathaniel said, respectfully. “You got a lot of guts, you don’t mind my saying.”

“Nah,” Castillo said, dismissively. “I just got no other skill sets worth a damn but for shit like this.”

“I doubt that, sir.”

“Speaking of skills,” Castillo diverted, “you said parmedics wasn’t your rate. You were regular SHIELD before THUNDER, right?”

“Yes, sir. Agent third class. Primary rate in energy weapons. Secondary in martial combat. Savate. Got a lot more mileage out of the secondary.”

“I should say. So how does an agent third class end up with super-powers and end up on THUNDER?”

“That’s, uh…” he said, apologetically. “Kind of classified, sir. All due respect.”

“Yeah,” Castillo said, studying him. “I noticed that in the file. Thought I’d see if I could catch you off guard.” He grinned. Twostep grinned back, but said no more.

“Are you one of the dead?” he asked, next.

There was a time, in its early days, that SHIELD was made up entirely of “dead” men, men who were either MIA or whose deaths were manufactured to allow them to take on new identities in SHIELD. New names, new lives – invisible men with no backgrounds, no ties, no way to trace or compromise. This made them the perfect intelligence operatives. As the organization grew, and branched out into other national organizations like RONIN (Japan), UNCLE (U.S.), LIRA (Italy) and the recent Canadian addition, BRAND, personnel needs kept this option from being viable any longer, at least on the wide scale. But there were still quite a few of these reborn agents in the main SHIELD organization. These men and women were known to others simply as “the dead”. The air of mystery that surrounded them for this reason tended to make the men, historically, more attractive to female agents, so “living” agents were often known to pretend “dead” status to improve their chances on long helicarrier cruises.

Twostep’s eyes drifted off, and he nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, quietly.

“Figured. With a name like that. Didn’t sound likely you were born with it.”

“Yeah, well,” Nathaniel smiled. “There was another Agent John Smith on board already, so…”

“They stick you with it or you come up with that?”

“I did.”

“Can I ask?”

“Uh, well. Momma always wanted us to read, though Daddy could care less. She made me read the Scarlett Letter when I was pretty young.”

“Hawthorne.”

“Yeah. Just always thought Nathaniel was a cool name. And Pharaoh, well… I’ve always been a card player. And liked the old west. They played a lot of Faro. That’s with an F-A-R-O. I just kind of changed it up a little.”

“I gotcha. So, you actually from Texas, then? Or SHIELD send you to redneck school to learn that accent?”

Twostep laughed. “’Fraid that’s classified, too. Sorry.”

Castillo shrugged (with one shoulder).

“Between you and me,” Twostep said, confidentially, looking around the room for any eavesdroppers, “I’m actually from Boston. I don’t want to give anything away, but my initials were ‘J.F.K.’”

“I KNEW that whole thing was too shitty of a cover story to be real. I figured you’d be showing up again.”

Twostep laughed again, liking the man more. “So, you?” he asked.

“Dead? No. Afraid what you see is what you get. L.A. to Viet Nam, Army Rangers. Then to CIA, then to RONIN.”

“Bet you kind of…stand out in that office,” Twostep noted.

“You know what the first words I heard spoken in Japanese were the day I reported for duty?”

“Nah,” Twostep said, shaking his head.

Castillo grinned. “’There goes the neighborhood’.”

They both laughed at that, trying to do so quietly, and seemed lighter in spirit for the comradery they’d each unexpectedly found.

“So they sent you in here alone, into a war zone, no costume and no backup?” Castillo asked. “And no gun, I point out again?”

“Well,” Twostep said, “actually, I sort of volunteered.”

“Always wanted to see the bright shining star of Somalian civilization?”

“Nah. I just figured…everybody else is going to this big party up on the carrier tonight, and I…I don’t care much for parties. And don’t get me wrong, I have nothing but respect for the team, but…sometimes I just think I…work better alone.”

Castillo nodded, knowingly.

“You?” Twostep asked. “A major? Going for extended deep cover, solo, when you could have ordered any number of—”

“Younger?”

“—Lower ranked operatives in to do the same job? Including ones the right…uh…color? Why you?”

Castillo sighed. “My mission plan. When you want a thing done right, you do it yourself. I’m a volunteer, too, I guess.”

“We’re not very smart fellas, are we?” Twostep noticed.

Castillo nodded. “Guess that explains it.”

“What’s that?”

“Why two Americans find themselves in a dark building in Mogadishu on Christmas Eve.”

This made Twostep think of something, pull up his sleeve, turn his wrist over and check his (black) watch.

“Hey, it’s after midnight. Christmas Day. What do you know?”

Castillo nodded. After a moment’s thought, he reached for the bottle and held it toward Twostep. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

Twostep grinned, took the bottle, nodded and unscrewed the cap. “And to you, sir.” He toasted and took a swig of rum. And made an unpleasant face. “Wow.”

“Shitty, isn’t it?”

“That it is,” he agreed, but took another shot before handing it back. Castillo took it and had another swallow himself.

“Blame the guy who left this bag in the truck,” Castillo said. “Not that I’m complaining, since there aren’t any liquor stores open around here. So we’ll call it a Christmas miracle anyway.”

“Think Santa comes to Mogadishu?”

“Not if he doesn’t want to get his fat ass shot out of the sky. And the kids down here would toss the toys and eat the fuckin’ reindeer. ”

Twostep made a noise of remembrance and reached behind him, pulling a plastic bag out. “Jerky?” he offered. “Damn, I didn’t even think. You probably haven’t eaten in forever.”

“Been a while,” Castillo confirmed, taking the bag, but his casual words were betrayed by the look of ecstasy on his face when he tore off a piece with his teeth and started to chew.

“At least it RHYMES with turkey,” Twostep offered.

Castillo grunted through his chewing and swallowed. He spoke before biting another piece off. “I can only imagine the spread you’re passing up at that party up there.”

“Oh, yeah,” Twostep said, involuntarily looking up toward the ceiling. “Chef does up a hell of a number. Real top notch. Bet they all ate like kings. Probably heavy into the cocktail phase right now. The Colonel actually insists on making the egg nog himself. He calls it Nick Nog. You could clean barnacles off a battleship with that stuff.”

“Sounds like Nick.”

“You know the boss?”

Castillo nodded. “Met in the Nam. He was the one who recommended me for the RONIN post. Knew I spoke the language and knew the culture. Guess I owe the crazy one-eyed bastard.”

“He’s quite a guy.”

“Yeah, he knows his business. Knows his drinks, too.”

“Not too shabby at cards, neither.”

“You throw cards with that cheating dog?”

“Yeah,” Twostep laughed. “We got a regular game up there. Chief sits in when he can. Lets us use the command lounge. Standing order, rank or no rank – first one out serves cocktails the rest of the night.”

“Nick ever…?”

“Once. Went all in against my nut straight. Wasn’t pleased. I don’t expect promotion anytime soon.”

Castillo cackled. “Would have paid to see that.”

“So, missing any big Christmas fun back in Tokyo? Fish heads NOT roasting by an open fire?”

Castillo’s laugh dwindled and he took another bite of jerky. “No,” he said. “Don’t care much for the holiday anymore. Rather just be working.”

“Hm,” Twostep said, nodding. He should have just let it go, but found himself asking, “Nobody special back there waiting with a stocking for you?”

Castillo’s sigh made Twostep regret asking. “No. Not for a few years now.”

“Oh,” Twostep said, and let it stay at that…but he’d already put it out there, so…

“My wife and son died in a fire in ’85.”

“I’m sorry,” was all Twostep could think to say after a moment.

“Yeah,” Castillo said, reaching for the bottle. “It was a house fire. No evidence of arson was ever found, but I’d made a lot of enemies in the Japanese underworld, so the file stayed open for a couple of years. Nothing but suspicions. Not that it matters. Not going to bring them back.”

Twostep remained silent as Castillo took a long draw of bad rum and recapped the bottle.

“Not that I didn’t do my best to find out," he said after a cough. "Think I burned down half of Tokyo. You think I had enemies before that? I busted up every syndicate, cult, every half-connected pachinko parlor. For a while I was the number one man on the Yakuza hit list. Takes a lot to get that honor. After that, the brass thought it might be better to move me into international operations. They were probably right.”

“All that, and never any leads?”

“Nope. If it was a hit, and they wanted revenge, maybe that was the whole idea. Leaving me never knowing for sure. Never getting closure. Always wondering if the hit was meant for me, and my family paid the price. I can think of a couple of warlords with that kind of long-term thinking and sadistic sensibilities. Of course, I went after those first. Any they’re either behind bars or dead now.”

The balmy air in the room had gotten much heavier, and the two men sat in silence.

“So, no,” Castillo finally said. “Not a fan of Christmas. Reminds me of too many things I’d rather forget.”

Twostep just nodded. After a moment, without words, he tossed the pack of cigarettes back to Castillo. Castillo caught it, pulled out and lit another one.

“And you?” Castillo asked. “Is it just parties you don’t care for, or Christmas parties?”

“Yeah,” Twostep admitted, feeling he was obviously in the right company to say it aloud. “Not a fan, either. Christmas stopped being Christmas after my momma died. After that… Well, let’s just say things got dark. For a long long time. I didn’t have what you’d call a…normal family. Not a lot of Rockwell moments after that. I’d just as soon the yuletide pass without me. So, I’m not usually a lot of fun at those things. Might as well be the one on the clock.”

“Even with a little French thing waiting under the mistletoe, huh?” A ghost of Castillo’s grin came back.

“Yeah. Imagine that?”

“So, to sum up,” Castillo said. “We basically volunteered for dangerous infiltration ops just so we wouldn’t have to sit around singing O Holy Night at our office parties. That about right?”

“Sounds like it,” Twostep sighed.

“Well ain’t we a couple of Grinches?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Twostep said, holding out his hand, and Castillo put the bottle in it.

Castillo laughed tiredly and carefully moved his bad arm around, feeling it out for later use, perhaps.

Twostep wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and screwed the cap back on loosely. “Well, hey,” he said. “At least we got New Year’s coming, right? Nineteen ninety-one. New Year, new start…”

“Same old shit…” Castillo finished.

“Now, now,” Twostep said. “Ain’t necessarily so. If there’s one thing us dead men believe in, it’s fresh starts. Me, I like New Year’s. Chance to look back, take an honest look at the mistakes you made, decide you’re not going to make them again and maybe try a few new things.”

“Sounds rosy all over. Got some plans, do you?”

Twostep shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Castillo picked up on the hesitation.

Twostep looked around the room, looking either like he was trying to collect his thoughts or if he was deciding whether to speak them aloud.

“Truth be told?” he finally said. “I’m thinking about getting out.”

This surprised Castillo. “No kiddin’.”

Nathaniel looked for a moment liked he regretted saying it, like maybe that had better stayed in his head. But he went on. “I’m just…not sure anymore. About all this. What we do.”

“What we do? We keep the world safe, kid.”

“But do we make it better?” he asked, suddenly earnest. “I mean, look at us, man. We’re sitting smack dab in the middle of one of the biggest hellholes on Earth. People are starving out there. Not hungry…starving. Kids. And they’re not starving because of draught or famine. They’re starving because their asshole of a president is hording all the food the U.N.’s sending in and playing Let’s Make a Deal with it. Are we doing anything about that? Why aren’t we here to kick his ass and hand out some chow?”

“Politics,” Castillo had to answer.

“Exactly,” Twostep said, firmly. “What the hell, man? While the governments that pull our strings are writing nasty letters and issuing condemnations, the people of this city, and this country, are dying off by the thousands. Why can’t THUNDER come in and do something about it? Why can’t Nick tell us to guard Red Cross stations and let the people who need the food get to it? But no, we just sneak in here, take care of our own problem—and it’s a big problem, don’t get me wrong—and ignore everything going on around us. Because some committee decided that we don’t want to rock the boat and destabilize things or some shit. And I can’t do dick, because I got orders.”

“Orders is all we got. We’re soldiers. We follow. That’s the job. We don’t get to play games with the big picture. Everybody starts doing that on the battlefield, the whole thing goes to shit and nothing gets done. That’s the way it works.”

“Well maybe I’m tired of taking orders,” Twostep said, looking down at the floor. “Maybe I’m tired of other people deciding right and wrong for me. Maybe it’s time I make my own decisions.”

“Like…what? Go civilian?”

“Maybe,” Twostep said, looking back up. “I had this thing, not too long ago. I hooked up with those Forte folks. Not for long, just to fill in while they were down a couple of people and dealing with all that Intercrime shit. You remember.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“It almost got me killed. But you know what? It felt good. I felt like I was in control. Like I was doing good. Those civie heroes, they really get it done. They don’t answer to nobody. They see a problem, they see somebody in trouble, they go to work. They don’t care whose feathers get ruffled about it. That’s heroin’. At least, that’s how I always thought it was supposed to be. Bad guys do bad things, good guys take ‘em down and bring ‘em to justice.”

“Sounds appealing, all right,” Castillo said. “I’ll give you that.”

“Just something on my mind,” Twostep said, exhaling. “Guess I’ve been in too many hot zones with a leash on lately. Having trouble seeing my way.”

“Happens to all of us,” Castillo said. “One time or another. We start to wonder why we’re doing it. For most of us, it passes. Me? Soldiering is all I know. You’re in a unique spot, though. I can’t do the things you do. I guess if I had some way to make a difference in another way, I’d think about it. I get what you’re saying.”

Twostep looked lost in thought.

“But it’s complicated, isn’t it?” Castillo asked, sensing something.

Twostep met his eyes. “Yeah. There are…complications.”

“Ones that make that choice even harder?”

“Something like that.”

“Didn’t knock the French chick up, did you?” Castillo asked, grinning, purposely lightening the mood.

It worked, and Twostep laughed. “No. Not THAT kind of complicated.”

“Well…biggest choices are always the toughest. Sounds like you got a lot to think about this year.”

He nodded. “I might.”

“Remember what I said earlier about life being short?”

“I do.”

“There you go. It’s nobody’s life but your own. You got to answer to the voices in your head before anybody else’s. See where the old heart takes you.”

Castillo tossed the pack of smokes back Twostep’s way. There was a unique form of telepathy shared among smokers.

“How about you?” Twostep asked, lighting up. “Got any big resolutions?”

“Me?” Castillo asked, running his fingers over his mustache, thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Kind of.”

“Well, do tell, Santa Anna.”

Castillo’s eyes tightened as he tried to put words together for what was in his head. When he looked like he was satisfied that he had them, he said, “I’ve decided to live.”

“Hmm,” Twostep said, blowing smoke. “Kind of a…general…resolution.”

“See, I got this shrink,” Castillo said, like Twostep hadn’t just spoken. “RONIN shrink. They’ve been making me see one ever since…well, a grief counselor after the fire, but the shrink later after I finished my little war against Tokyo. Lady shrink. Skinny, gap-toothed, hair pulled back so tight that I’m always waiting for blood to start dripping down her forehead. All the personality of a water buffalo. You’ve not BEEN shrunk till you been shrunk Japanese-style.

“Anyway, comes a point recently when we’re having one of our mandatory talks. I’m just back from the Balkans, led a team in to get a kidnapped scientist out of a hidden REIGN base. Real dangerous op. We pulled it out, though. So I’m in her office, and she knows about the op, since she gets to read all my mission files. She points out that I got another commendation. Well, yeah, I guess, says I. She asks me what I think all those commendations represent. I tell her I’m not sure what she’s asking. She rephrases but basically asks the same thing. I’m getting annoyed, and I ask her what SHE thinks they represent.

“Now you’ve been in SHIELD for a while, so you’ve sat with some kind of counselor at least once, probably a few times, right?”

Twostep nodded. Gone was the age of James Bond. Organizations like SHIELD sent their people in for the death-defying world-saves, yes, but now they wanted them to talk about their feelings afterward. The twenty-first century was clearly on its way.

“So you know that none of those types ever ANSWER a question. You ask one, they just answer with another question. And then start writing stuff down. They’re more likely to drive you batshit with that than cure you of it. So you can imagine my stupefication when I asked a question and she just came right out and gave me an answer.

“She said, ‘I think you’re trying to kill yourself’.

“Just like that. Just threw it out there. All this time, never answering shit, and she drops that. I didn’t know how to react. Not just to what she said, but that she actually said something that didn’t sound like somebody was pulling a string on her back. I was about to come back with some smartass remark about ritual suicide being her country’s thing, not mine, but before I could she started talking again. She says it’s her opinion – I didn’t even know she HAD opinions – that I keep planning and going on all these high-risk ops because I’ve decided that I deserve the death penalty for not being there to save my family. And that since I’d never admit that to myself, I’m wrapping it all up in the flag of duty and honor so tight that I can’t even see it. That I’ve got nothing left to live for, and I’m looking for an acceptable way out.”

“Wow,” was all Twostep could think to say.

“I didn’t know whether to be pissed off at her or really turned on. Don’t know why, but this sudden switch in her made me think for a sec about shoving everything off her desk and taking her right there.”

Twostep laughed.

“But since I didn’t feel like discussing THAT thought with her, I went with being pissed. I thought she was full of shit. And I really did. But that’s been in the back of my mind since, something I’m sure would bring her no end of pleasure to know. And I’ve been sitting here in the dark with that running around in my head, and I’ve realized she’s right. Somewhere along the way, I gave up, and didn’t even realize it. I thought I’ve just been doing the job. But it’s more than that. I’ve been thinking I’ve got nothing left to live for. Without Natsu. Without Gai. He’d be six now.”

He went silent after that, and Twostep let him.

“I think they’d want me to move on. They’d want me to be…happy, I guess. I’m not sure how to pull that part off, exactly. But it starts with sticking around long enough to find out.”

“I think you’re right,” Twostep said, quietly. “For what that’s worth. Maybe that’s the Christmas present they’re giving you, huh?”

Castillo smiled weakly. “Maybe.”

“So what’s that mean for you, then?”

“A new start,” Castillo said, taking a breath. “I think I need to get out of RONIN. Too many memories there. I’m thinking of a transfer to SHIELD. Maybe a helicarrier station.”

“There you go,” Twostep said brightly. “Be swell to have you there.”

“Maybe get into training. Shaping new agents. Maybe get out of the field for a while.”

“I’m sure Nick could make that happen.”

“Yeah,” Castillo sighed. “He still owes me for a thing. He’d be happy to get the debt off his shoulders. At least the food would be better, right?”

“And a hell of a card game every Sunday night,” Twostep grinned.

“Maybe,” Castillo said again, thoughtfully and quietly. “Maybe.”

They both, at the same moment, heard the stamp of rushing boots outside the window. Castillo’s hand was on his stolen rifle in a heartbeat, and he pulled it to his lap. Twostep popped up to a crouch and spun on his boots, spreading his gloved fingers out on the floor beneath him, ready to spring to his feet. Some yelling accompanied the bootfalls. From the sound of the boots, Twostep counted maybe a dozen men, maybe more, surely not less.

The two men waited, tensely, and listened as the running men passed by, and waited to hear if those boots were going to start hitting wood floor inside the building. But they kept on down the street. Neither man moved until the boots and the yells faded, and eventually disappeared.

“Goddamn Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Castillo whispered. “Always when you’re in the middle of dinner.”

Twostep relaxed, turned back around, and took a seat back on the floor. “Maybe they’re just out looking for some figgy pudding.”

Castillo kept his gun with him this time. “Okay,” he said. “Guess now’s as good a time as any to take a look at your map and get us a game plan. In case we have to move fast.”

“Good enough,” Twostep said, pulling it out.

“And if we find any boots in a size thirteen along the way,” he said, looking down at his bare feet, “I’m going to a lot happier going in there.”

“We’ll see if there’s a K-Mart en route. Pick up a fruit basket, too, so we don’t barge in there empty handed. That’d just be rude.”

Twostep turned on his map and turned his eyes to Castillo’s. “Okay. Here’s the deal. We do this quick, we get our Broker, we pull out, and we don’t get killed at any point along the way. We hit the carrier, get you to a real doc, you get a shower, and I’m buying breakfast. And then we crack open a bottle of Kentucky whiskey have ourselves a Christmas toast. Sound like a plan?”

“Mission sounds golden, soldier,” Castillo smiled. “You have a go.”

At 05:30, local time, elements of SHIELD and SHIELD’S THUNDER Division pulled a daring lightning strike mission in the middle of war-torn Mogadishu, capturing the elusive European super-villain Doktor Nacht and his team of powered operatives, as well as the infamous arms dealer known as the Broker. An experimental nuclear weapon stolen over the summer from a lab outside Moscow was recovered and liberated by SHIELD.

Major Edward Castillo of RONIN received the Director’s Commendation for his bravery and crucial part in the mission’s success. He returned to RONIN and transferred from international ops back to local enforcement, spending much of his time planning, not executing, intelligence operations. In March of 1992, just over a year after the Mogadishu op, he transferred from RONIN to SHIELD command, serving aboard the famed helicarrier. A decade later he would transfer to the States, accepting an offer to head the famed Seattle office of UNCLE.

Twostep, in a controversial move steeped in compartmentalized debate, resigned from SHIELD and became a freelance hero, joining up with the Forte hero team in Seattle. His resignation came in February of 1992, and he missed Castillo’s arrival by one month.

The two men drank their toast together on Christmas morning of 1990, drinking to their mission success, and to fresh starts and new beginnings. They never saw each other again.

On October 18th, 1999, Castillo accompanied Colonel Nick Fury to Seattle and attended the funeral of Twostep. He stood before the casket and saluted, and was reported to have mouthed three words:

At ease, soldier.

 

END.

 

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