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Cursing under his breath, Jeremiah Cotton went through the baffling security procedures at the entrance to the G-Team’s headquarters. His hair was unkempt, his black sweater and leather jacket looked like they had been carelessly tossed on, and the stubble on his face was further proof of his hasty departure from home.

Shortly after 0100 hours, he stepped into the control center of the special FBI unit. Its headquarters occupied the vast majority of the basement of this featureless gray building complex. There was a whole collection of high-tech gadgets, mostly high-performance computer terminals and HD monitors, which cast a ghostly glow over the large, semi-darkened room.

A first glance into the room, which resembled a cross between a NASA command center and a futuristic spaceship bridge, would give the impression that it was ruled by chaos. People incessantly scurried back and forth, moving hurriedly between the chrome-and-glass desks. Telephones were ringing constantly. Information usually came in twenty-four hours a day, from all over the world. There were experts on hand to analyze all the different types of information coming in and to determine whether they were of any relevance to national security. Only a very few of these experts had served outside of the complex and/or fired a weapon; those sorts of tasks were left up to the Special Agents.

It was only recently that Cotton had joined this elite group as its latest member, still on probation. But even he would have guessed at first glance that something was amiss, if he hadn’t already been warned by phone. There was an almost tangible tension in the air. Every member of the G-Team was present, and given the time of night, this could mean only one thing: Code Red!

Special Agent Dillagio was standing together with another agent by a water fountain. The two men were whispering to one another. On the gallery surrounding the room, John D. High, chief of the G-Team, sat at his desk behind a transparent door. As usual, he was wearing a tailored suit, but tonight he was without a tie. If High hadn’t even taken the time to put on a tie, then it was clear that very important things had to be done in a great hurry.

Standing across from High, on the other side of his desk, was Special Agent Philippa Decker. Her stance, a mixture of arrogance and poise, was impressive to behold. Both attributes were emphasized by her attire: black pantsuit, unbuttoned blazer, and a light beige blouse underneath.

Cotton couldn’t hear what the two were discussing. He could only see that Decker was speaking to High. The uneasiness that Cotton had felt since he entered the headquarters increased.

Zeerookah noticed Cotton. He waved and gestured for him to come over. Cotton ambled over to the IT genius.

“What’s up?” Zeerookah was lounging by a huge computer terminal that could compete with a mixing board for a Pink Floyd concert in terms of complexity. There were items on his desk that normally would have no business being there: a greasy pizza carton, a giant cup of diet coke, and a coffee cup with the words“I’m too sexy for this world”, filled with a liquid that looked more like muddy water than anything else.“What’re y