The Double Cult Cha-Cha: An Al Squires of the Protectorate Story (Book 1)

Ch. 3.2: Anatomy of a Bust; or, When the Plot Proper Truly Begins

I'm skipping the part where I walk from the cells to the 'creepy container' isle; because, quite frankly, nothing of any importance actually happened in that particular moment in the story. So, instead, allow me to shed some light on some subjects in the story so far that some of you might be confused about, dear Readers. The ones who weren't confused, you could skip ahead to where the plot starts up again; but you'll miss some pretty exciting stuff. Plus, it'll be a hassle trying to find that exact spot, so you might as well read on.

First, the sting. If anyone wants to imagine this part like a montage set to some cool, fast-paced jazz music or something in that vein, then go ahead; it's your imagination. My personal choice would be "How You Like Me Now," by The Heavy. Technically, that's not jazz, but it has the right feel for a heist or a sting.

Now, the Protectorate had knowledge about the existence of this No-Warehouse- as well as the rumors of it being used for sentient lifeform trafficking- for years. Unfortunately, they ran a smooth and tight operation; relying on NDE's, contingency plans, top-notch security, and a 'healthy' dose of paranoia to keep two steps ahead us. Plus, they only cater to VIP-level multiversal criminals and bad guys; making it impossible for 'average' crooks and undercover Protectorate agents to gain entry. Also, it's pretty damn hard to bust something that only exists in a pocket dimension, and only the entrance is mobile; not the No-Warehouse itself. Sure, we could track it, but as you may recall, they are sticklers for protocol.

We thought we finally had an in when a member this operation had grown a conscious turned themselves to the Protectorate office, or 'Division,' where I work; wanting to put the No-Warehouse out of business and free all the captives and creatures, but with our help and a plea of immunity and witness protection. And, no, it wasn't Morrigan O'Feral that was our insider; she'd sooner die horrifically and humiliatingly before working with us 'pigs.' Nope, our 'man' on the inside was the zebra-gator from the stables earlier in the last chapter. Unfortunately, 'he' wasn't high enough in the pecking order to influence Kizven into hiring undercover Protectorate agents; let alone let us in. However, 'he' did have a crude, 'hand-drawn,' schematics to the No-Warehouse, as well as enough knowledge of what's inside and its security protocols. But, without any way of getting in, we were back to square one.

Just as everyone was just about to give up this case, it hit me: 'If they'll only let VIP's in,' I thought, 'then we'll give them one.' We have a shape-shifter in our Precinct (IE Mik), so we had to find the perfect VIP- one with the reputation big enough to be practically welcomed in with opened arms (so to speak), yet tough enough so that Kizven and company wouldn't try to screw them over- that would also require the services of Kizven's No-Warehouse. We then have Mik shape-shift into said VIP (via some DNA samples), find out where the meet will be located, have Mik and a few agents posing as the VIP's entourage meet with them in the real VIP's stead, gain access inside, gain conformation of the rumors, gain access to their security systems and contingency plans, thus keeping anyone from getting out, but letting in Protectorate portals with Unis on the other side to raid the place.

I floated my idea to the Chief; he actually thought it was a solid- if not risky- plan. That was surprising to me, to say the least. So, he sent it up the proverbial flagpole to Eternal Affairs, the Convocation, and Etheric Affairs (the first two are his bosses and all our bosses respectfully. The last one is more of a nuisance; their OK is merely a formality.) In the less amount of time that I thought it would take- another surprise- we got the green light. Then, the Chief decided that this whole plan was my brainchild, it would be only fair that I run point. I accepted that honor with the dignity and decorum befitting a Protectorate agent; then, about a minute later in the Precinct bathroom, shouted for joy and did a celebratory dance that lasted for five minutes. So, sue me, this was my first chance to run point on a big-time operation; I had every right to be excited.