Sometimes imitation is NOT a form of flattery….

Cromwell returned from the men’s room and went to sit down next to Murphy. He was missing the flash from his beret. This was no accident. Murphy nodded and handed Spc. Cromwell his tray.

“What the f***!” Cromwell asked as he laughed. “You’re ate up, SGT.”

The tray contained the new McD’s Speed Racer Happy Meal. Murphy was laughing to himself as Cromwell shook, his head.

“You needed to cheer up, soldier!” He jibed.

Plus, if the crew at this McD’s was in Mak Attax, and onto the Delta Greens, something about this happy meal wouldn’t be as cute and cuddly as they advertised. Murphy was seeing if he could smoke out the chumps. Cromwell would eventually learn. Besides, the boy was too skinny even for the Army. He could really use the burger and fries.

Cromwell had hid the beret flash in a corner of the rest room. It would record any charge usage or acquisition occurring on the premises. The data would show up in Cromwell’s next excel sheet. This little gadget had been one of his better hacks.

Rollins turned on his laptop and opened his email as per usual. He had parked his truck in an abandoned hotel lot and had pulled the trailer around back. To be even less conspicuous, he had gone into the trailer and was using the laptop by flashlight and battery. The net came in through an antenna he’d rigged from the cab of the truck back to the trailer. Today, however, it would avail him nothing.

Rollins received an email from his supervisor. As per usual, Dre “Poker” Watts was an unhappy man. Today he was also a very frightened one. The mail message was entitled “Hail is Forecast: Las Vegas Area.”

This meant that anyone working for The Sleepers in the vicinity of Las Vegas was in danger. Someone had blown their cover and was in the process of wiping out agents. Three had died within the last forty-eight hours.

This was as bad as the Voelker fiasco that happened six months back. Two fiascos in one year would endanger their ability to keep things hushed up…

As Rollins read on, it seemed all three of the agents had been found dead with a note on their person reading. “The rest of us deserve a break today.” The Mak Attax had struck again.

It was then that Rollins noticed something wasn’t right. He had increasing trouble catching his breath. He began to see thick, green smoke in the back of the trailer.

Thus, Rollins took a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it over his mouth and nose. He squatted low and worked towards a door in his trailer.

SFC Len Bartleby leaned his ear against the side of Rollins’ trailer. He then pointed his arm towards a small door on the side of the trailer. His thumb pointed down and his finger indicated the direction of the suspected enemy.

SFC Ken Maines nodded and leveled his carbine. The range was maybe fifteen feet. One shot should do it.

Rollins began to fumble the door open and emerge in clumsy fashion. He removed the handkerchief and lost his footing. As Rollins fell about four feet, his rapid pratfall caused Maines’ first round to miss and penetrate the side of the trailer.

The second round didn’t. Rollins went out fast. His brain shut down as the slug from a .38 Caliber Carbine entered through his skull, expanded and deformed.

“F***.” Commented Maines. “Now we better find the round.”

“Aren’t you gonna’ dress him up first, Sergeant.” Bartleby asked.

“Oh yeah!” Maines agreed. He left a button on the dead Sleeper Agent’s lapel. It read “The rest of us deserve a break today.”

“Call Jackson.” Bartleby remarked. “He needs to know the canary got bagged. Then let’s find that round that missed.”

“I still can’t believe I missed one today.” Maines groused, as he walked over to the trailer to examine the entrance hole of his first round.

“Lawless, you are an over-eager, egregious Noobie!” The Manager Fumed. “This got into the NOCWEB and mundanes are putting on their blogs!”

“I know, I know.” Coy Lawless admitted in a shamed voice. “But no one will believe it.”

“No one MUNDANE will believe it!” The Manager said. The vein towards the middle of his forehead pulsed in a non-encouraging fashion.

Lawless had a grim vision of it popping and bleeding out right down the obnoxious, fat meatball face. Lawless had to put a cork in those visions. There was that time in Santa Barbara that he’d imagined what a cheese-grater would do to a certain local official’s face…..

“So what do we do?” Lawless asked. “Are The Sleepers after us?”

“Worse!” The Manager exploded. “A copy cat is whacking Sleeper Agents that were mentioned in the paperwork you posted. At least I F888ing hope those three dead people are Sleeper Agents.”

“Oh, f***!” Lawless groaned.

“Yes, you cretinous moorlock! Oh F&&& indeed!” The Manger finished. Then he just kind of bleakly stared out the office window. What decision would he make without any particularly palatable options….