This report finds the team embarking on what may be our best-planned, albeit most hazardous mission yet. We are out for revenge on Flaky Flinn and many things Scottish. We intend to accomplish this through a crafty combination of computer hacking, explosive devices, submarine tracking, Indian Reservation infiltrating, and a (hopefully) profitable stock deal.
Right, I’ll start at the beginning.
I return from Marseilles to my neat and orderly apartment, make a martiki (now that Paris has shown me the secret recipe), grab the newspaper and sit in a comfy chair. Let’s see … another Clinton investigation, an earthquake, unrest in a banana republic, and some terrorists took over a reception for the Crown Jewels in Turkey before blowing up a shipyard… Giving thanks that I was not involved in any of these events, I sip my drink.
After a restful night’s sleep and a boring return to work, my life is back in order. I call Kill-More carpets to come do a blessedly routine cleaning.
I do have one untouched lead related to the contract on Jack and Paris, so I call Linette in San Diego (we haven’t been anywhere near her ISIS turf, so I can still call and ask for favors!). She agrees to go talk to Harley Grant (the man who brought the passports to the Russians that (Up)Chuck spotted on South Padre Island). Unfortunately, her lunch with him yields no results, although he is nervous about that topic.
Having at least attempted to pursue that lead, I go back about my mundane daily life. Then the phone calls start. Not from Jack, who hasn’t bothered to call me in over a week, but from the rest of the team. It seems that we are getting the band back together because the Scotland mission is rearing its ugly head once again. Have I mentioned that I hate Scotland?
Through a series of phone tag messages, we manage to come with a … plan. We are going to annoy Flaky Flinn and company to death! I call the missing Jack and leave a message on his cell phone: "you’re a stupid idiot, call me back, hugs and kisses, Sheila."
Then, while I make a call to ISIS to get the cracker hackers working on disrupting the Internet Service provided by the Jaguar Club, (Up)Chuck uses his law enforcement contacts to check for unusual activity on the Northeastern seaboard of the United States and Paris goes to visit with Himself about the buying and selling of a large amount of Dillion Pharmaceutical Stock.
Jack finally calls me back and I find out that he’s in Scotland. If he survives this latest fit of stupidity, I may have to kill him! I tell him to come see me. Then I cook. I’m telling you, miraculous things have happened since Jack and I - um - combined resources. He can hit things he shoots at and I can prepare a gourmet meal!
Are you still confused? Well, let me clear it up for you. The team ((Up)- doesn’t Bambi live near here - Chuck, (Nun) - can I pass for Chinese - Chuck, Jack the International Stock Broker Cabaret Terrorist Payne, Paris the Lovely International Smuggler Mulhare, John - I KO’d some guy with a single blow so now I think I’m cool - Rossi and me - Gourmet chef Sheila) meets in New York for a little impart session. (Nun)Chuck has some wild tale about working with Her Majesty’s Snootiest - MI6 - and encountering an army of mercenaries in Turkey who stole a Russian submarine from dry dock, before blowing up the shipyard. (Up)Chuck has gathered information that the tribal elders of the St. Regis Indian Reservation are concerned about possible drug activity on their land. Our check of the latest intelligence on the Quickening staff reveals they have several new members who are Russian. Paris tells us that Himself has agreed to provide us with new IDs, $250,000 start-up funds and a safe-haven along the St. Lawrence River.
We combine this intelligence to figure out that Flaky Flinn’s nefarious plan includes shipping his precursor drugs in the stolen Russian submarine to the US-Canadian border and smuggling them in through the St. Regis Indian Reservation. Damn, we must be good, because in retrospect, these all seem like pretty thin connecting threads.
Never one to allow an opportunity to sell a bizarre and without-much-of-a-foundation story to the authorities, I call Snotty Ass Dellinger who is thrilled, as always, to hear from me. We agree to meet the next day.
Since we have the evening free, Jack takes me to meet Checkers, the cat, before we go out for drinks.
The next day we all go to Flash Studios for our ID photos. Jack, mad that the photographer implied that I needed some de-aging in my photo, hits him. I tell him that’s not such a good idea, because these people would be more than happy to collect on the two million dollar price on Jack’s head. We hurry through the picture taking process because Paris and I are becoming ill at (Up)Chuck and Rossi’s testosterone-ridden pathetic come-ons to the cute assistant.
Then (Up)Chuck, Jack, Paris and I go to meet Snotty Ass, who, as luck would have it, has brought along Agent Michael (the idiot I had - um - experiences with on the Caribbean Cruise). Jack and I sit on the opposite side of the table.
(Up)Chuck regales him with our story of how a Russian Submarine will be carrying drugs across the Atlantic to be smuggled into the US through an Indian Reservation. He tells Snotty Ass to think about what a hero he’d be if he catches a large drug shipment and returns a stolen Russian submarine. Paris barely manages to contain herself as (Up)Chuck tells Snotty Ass that we are not interested in profiting from this mess. Snotty Ass suggests that Paris should go to the reservation as a smuggler and take (Up)Chuck as her bodyguard.
As Snotty Ass dangles from the end of our fishing line (having bit hook, line and sinker), somewhere on the other coast, Maggie Malone and Luke Devereaux are being called back into action, and on the other side of the Atlantic someone named Trevor Thine Hardwick (who works with Britain’s Snootiest, Mitchell and Fiona), has faked his expulsion from the Special Boat Service (he must not have been good enough for the SPOATS!) and is obtaining employment with Flaky Flinn’s organization.
So that’s where we are: trying to find a stolen Russian submarine somewhere in the (we hope) Atlantic Ocean. This is too much. Didn’t anybody lose a needle in a haystack that they need us to find? It would be easier to find a food that doesn’t bother (Up)Chuck’s digestive tract or a heterosexual male that’s not attracted to Paris, the agent, not the city, than it will be to find this stupid submarine.