"Kitchen!"
"Clear."
"Second floor!"
"Clear."
"Study!"
"Clear."
With a team of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents swarming in, the two-story apartment was surrounded in a matter of seconds.
The result?
Empty.
However...
Inside the guest room.
Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, dressed in a black tactical bodysuit, stepped inside. Her eyes immediately landed on a very prominent bullet hole in the wall directly opposite the door.
But there was no bullet inside the hole.
"Director."
"Status."
"He's not here."
Natasha pulled out her phone and connected with Nick Fury at the Operations Center. She stood in the guest room, scanning the surroundings. "The team has gone down to extract the building's surveillance. But if I'm not mistaken, Agent 83 definitely came here. However, there's nothing left to find."
At that moment, Nick Fury was also at the Command Center reviewing street surveillance near Fifth Avenue.
Zero results.
The footage had been swapped.
Soon, an agent found Natasha. "Ma'am, the apartment's surveillance system was breached by an external signal yesterday. All footage was modified. We've traced the source of the signal."
"Where?"
"Brooklyn..."
"..."
Natasha frowned at the report. This lead was useless. That address belonged to the house of Liz, the family where Agent 83—Megan Walsh—was staying while posing as a Canadian exchange student.
The surveillance had been hacked and modified by Agent 83 herself.
Natasha looked up at one of the agents who had been monitoring Locke's apartment twenty-four hours a day. "You're the agent in charge of surveillance here. Did you not hear anything last night?"
The agent shook his head. "Ma'am, Locke Broughton didn't come back at all yesterday. The lights never even went on. Naturally, there was no sound in the listening devices. That's normal."
'We didn't even know an agent had slipped in secretly yesterday.'
'And nobody told us.'
'Even though we surveillance agents are a step below field agents, you can't just dump this mess on our heads the moment something goes wrong.'
"Wait."
Natasha frowned, looking at the surveillance agent. "What did you say? This Broughton didn't come back yesterday?"
The surveillance agent gave an affirmative hum and looked at Natasha. "That's right. We also had two people tailing the target. After leaving school yesterday, he went home with a classmate named Gwen Stacy. His phone signal has been positioned there the entire time. So, you say there was someone in his house last night? How would we know? The lights stayed off, he wasn't home, and there was no sound. Isn't that perfectly normal?"
He was the leader of this surveillance team.
In short: they weren't taking the fall. It was the Operations Department's fault for not communicating beforehand. Now that your person is missing, what does that have to do with us?
Natasha didn't bother listening to the agent's excuses. She asked directly, "Where is he now?"
The agent checked his watch. "Today is Saturday, no school. The target is still at Gwen Stacy's house—"
Before he could finish his sentence, Natasha was already out the door.
Nick Fury at the Command Center had spoken.
He wanted Natasha and Coulson to bring Locke Broughton in.
Regarding Agent 83, he wanted her found—alive or dead.
No one could simply vanish into thin air without leaving a single trace.
But... Nick Fury's wish was destined to fail.
It's true that no one can make a living person disappear from the Earth without a trace; even a burial requires a location.
But Locke had a cheat.
Agent 83 was lying quietly in a slot within Locke's inventory.
There was no other way. Locke had originally intended to swap back with his clone and quietly dump her in the Hudson River at night, but he hadn't been able to go home, so the plan was delayed.
Fortunately, time is frozen within the inventory. He didn't have to worry about the body smelling, rotting, or bloating if he kept it there for too long.
Locke woke up feeling refreshed.
After washing up, he headed down to the living room to find Gwen's mother, Helen, had already prepared breakfast.
Bacon sandwiches and hot cocoa.
"Good morning, Helen. Morning, George."
Locke greeted them both. He used to call them Mrs. Stacy and Mr. Stacy, but after three consecutive times of them telling him not to be so formal, he had switched to their first names.
As for the two boys who were also up, Locke ignored them.
"Where's Gwen?" Locke asked as he pulled out a chair. "I saw her bedroom door was open."
Helen handed a plate of bacon sandwiches to Locke and pointed upstairs. "She's up there jumping rope. Don't mind her. Would you like hot cocoa or coffee?"
"Bour—"
Locke looked at George, who was sitting opposite him watching him. He caught himself just in time. "Do you have any coffee with a Bourbon flavor?"
George let out a laugh. "Where did that Bourbon at your place come from anyway?"
Locke took the coffee Helen handed him, said thank you, and looked back at George. "I assure you, I only have one ID. My driver's license clearly states my age is sixteen. I haven't used any fake identification."
Businesses that provide alcohol to anyone under twenty-one face severe punishment. And as for someone drinking in public under twenty-one, they wouldn't just be taken to the station for fingerprinting—the violation would be recorded in their personal file.
Of course, Locke knew George was aware he drank; after all, George had been to the Star Tower.
However, *I didn't use a fake ID* was Locke's answer to George, and it was what George really wanted to know.
Last month, President Bush's two daughters, Jenna and Barbara, were arrested by police for using someone else's ID to buy alcohol and drinking in public. The District Attorney had filed charges very quickly.
If Locke were caught, he wouldn't be able to avoid a trip to court either.
Hearing this, George didn't press further. He just picked up his coffee and smiled. "Thunder Brand. You have good taste."
Thunder Brand Bourbon was the finest bourbon produced by the Thunder Distillery in Kentucky, the home of bourbon itself. A single bottle wasn't cheap; it cost a whole "Franklin."
Put it this way: George was a Captain now, but his annual salary was only about 70,000 USD. Meanwhile, the money Locke made in two or three hours at night was nearly George's entire yearly salary, and then some.
Locke smiled. "When I turn twenty-one, if you'd like a drink, I'll send you a few bottles."
George laughed heartily.
Just then.
*Ding-dong!*
***
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