Just as Charlotte and I round the final bend towards the south conference room, Dunham bolts around the farthest corner from the hallway, where I presume the veterinary office is located. He is gripping a cell phone, his eyes wide with a good amount of enthusiasm, as he dashes towards us, once eye contact is made. He stops in front of us, breathless, before beginning to speak.

"Anne's going to be fine," he says in a rush. "Dr. Gresham is incubating her now and we can check on her in a few days."

"That's great," I reply.

"Is that a M.P.?" Charlotte asks.

"A what?" I demand.

"A Mission Phone," Dunham replies. "Yes, it is. We just got a hit off the drugs in Lady Berkshire's pearl necklace. It's the right grade and weight of the pearls and I want to go check it out."

"You will take Jenny with you," Charlotte replies, pushing me forward. "Go and see Tutu and describe the location and she will outfit you appropriately."

"Charlotte, Jenny doesn't..." Dunham begins.

Charlotte raises her eyebrows. "Dunham," she says quietly, "I may not be the one in charge here, but I am second-in-command. Your uncle signed off on your partnership with Jenny, and you will adhere to the P.C.O.C. at all times, because it is in the bylaws."

"P.C.O.C.?" I ask, feeling completely stupid.

"Oh, for god's sake," Dunham mutters.

"Partnership Code Of Conduct," Charlotte replies efficiently, silencing Dunham's annoyed tones with a look. "Go on," she says, pushing me gently against my shoulder blades towards Dunham. "Go upstairs and see Tutu immediately—I'll send her a message letting her know that your case is H.P."

I inhale ever so slightly, but Dunham interrupts me.

"Before you ask—" he says shortly.

"High-Priority?" I ask, giving him a half smile.

Dunham checks himself underneath Charlotte's severe glare. "Yeah, actually," he replies, grabbing me by my wrist. "Come on—upstairs to Tutu."

I can hear Charlotte speaking softly in her phone as I am pulled away, and know that I am permitted to question Dunham about the mission, yet I must ask careful questions so as not to get a rise out of time. "What can you tell me about what you heard on the M.P.?" I ask him.

"Our Parisian headquarters are located in part of The Louvre," Dunham tells me carefully as we approach a set of elevators, pressing the buttons impatiently. "In point of fact, the main hallways are part of the museums themselves—hence the paintings," he continues. "There are hidden walls and doors throughout this place, which lead to our domains."

"Yes," I say, forcing myself to keep the contempt from my voice as the elevator dings and opens for us. "And where have the pearls been located?"

"The Eiffel Tower," Dunham replies as we step into the elevator. "Underground, of course, so as to keep tourist hands off of them, plus all the other jewels and trinkets S.O.J.O.U.R.N. has likely stolen in this heist."

"What if someone buys them?"

"What?" Dunham asks, tinkering with his phone and barely glancing at me, all the whole scrolling through the information provided.

"Does S.O.J.O.U.R.N. plan on selling the necklace so as to produce a sample of this cocaine to a potential buyer?" I ask, wondering what had been unclear about my first statement. "I mean, you yourself say that this is top-quality stuff, even though it's a new cut. Perhaps they need to sell it inside the pearls as a means of a sample, and grow their profit margins from there..."

Dunham lifts his head from his phone, the preoccupation leaving his eyes as he considers this, staring ahead at the elevator doors. "Perhaps you're right," he allows as the elevator doors ding again.

We step outside together, turning the corner and making our way towards Tutu's showroom on one of the topmost floors of the building. As we entered, Tutu was measuring another agent and had just cut a thread on the costume. The agent thanked Tutu, walking over to the mirror and admiring her new suit as Dunham and I stepped forward. Tutu was replacing her silver scissors into her little work kit at her waist as she turned around, raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows at our harried expressions.

"Everything all right?" she asks us.

"We have to go underground," Dunham replies. "Lady Eleanor Berkshire's missing pearls were found beneath the Eiffel Tower."

Tutu raises her eyebrows, darting over to a rack filled with fabrics in various colors. "And the source is reliable?" she asks.

"Completely," Dunham assures her, and Tutu gives him a tight smile as she continues to sift through the clothes.

"Here we are," she says, and proceeds tossing various things to Dunham. "You will need the appearance of a buyer—yet a frugal one," she says, automatically calculating in her mind what we would need. "On the other hand, who really knows about the condition of the underground of the Eiffel Tower?" she mutters to herself before tossing us each a pair of black trousers, a white dress shirt for Dunham and a blouse for me, and stylish jackets for each of us. "Into the dressing room with both of you," she says, and I am relieved when we are each shoved into our own cubicle. "Change!" she shouts at the pair of us. "Quickly now!" she says in the same tone of voice.

I hear her heels retreating from behind the curtain, and quickly do off with my clothes from that morning, finding a sock bin—with compartments labeled for every foreseeable occasion (DRESS, CASUAL, MISSION, UNDERCOVER, etc.)—along the dressing room wall. I make a grab for a pair that looks stylish enough as I button my blouse and adjust the trousers as needed. Something clatters from behind me and, turning, I see that Tutu has tossed in some black, patent leather dress shoes and a black leather belt. I quickly put the belt on, which gives my figure the perfect hourglass look, and pull on the socks and step into the shoes accordingly.

As I step out, Tutu pulls me towards a vanity table on the back wall and pushes me into its seat, running a brush through my hair before putting it into a braid-wrapped, high bun. She then tuts to herself before motioning to me to stay where I am, and returns after sifting through some drawers behind her desk. She returns with a brooch that is wrapped in platinum and has a ruby in its center, clipping it onto the collar of my blouse, dead-center. She then turns me around and puts on some sensible makeup, before nodding in approval, and throwing a black purse at me for good measure.

"Secret compartment within," she informs me as Dunham steps out of the dressing room and adjusting his tie. Tutu pulls me to my feet, putting on my jacket—which had been draped around the back of my chair—and straightens it out. "Ah, there, now," she says, happiness emoting from every syllable, "you're perfect."

"What is this I'm holding?" I ask, holding up the bag.

"A Chanel Caviar Boy Bag," she replies, nodding to herself. "We will test products of big designers before they go public. It can be fun."

"Nice," I say.

"Here," Dunham says, handing me a wire, which is tinted to resemble exact skin color. "We always take a pigment and match it when agents are under," he explains flatly, and tapes it to my skin and, for the life of me, I can't tell where it ends and my skin begins. "Let's go—we've got to hurry. Pearls like that—you never know when someone will want to buy them."

"Good luck!" Tutu calls out after us.

"Come on," Dunham says, hauling me out of there, but not before I manage to give a small wave to Tutu. We walk towards a back wall, which leads to a dead end, although a life-size portrait of someone important gazes back at us. Sensing that I will inevitably question who the person is, Dunham tells me tightly, "That's Irving Cooper, the..."

"—first CEO of S.L.E.U.T.H.," I say, barely able to contain my excitement at putting a face to the name.

"Yes," Dunham replies, running his hands along the expensive wallpaper. He finds the hollow portion of the wall and slides a portion of it back, revealing a hidden panel, where he keys in a code. The golden frame of the portrait—holding a handsome young man with a shock of red hair and emboldened green eyes—swings back as soon as the code is accepted, revealing a long, dark hallway. "Let's go," Dunham says, taking ahold of my arm again.

We pass through the hole the portrait has left, and it swings shut automatically behind us. A series of lights come on down the corridor; I see that it is outfitted with chrome, and several small alcoves in the wall boast portraits, each with its own golden name plate. One reads IRVING COOPER—presumably in his old age—while another reads CECILIA COOPER, who is painted with a faraway smile on her lips, her eyes a silvery color, and her hair a deep brown. Further down, I catch the names of JAMES COOPER (who has his mother's hair and his father's eyes); next comes KATHERINE COOPER (who looks like an exact copy of her mother), and IRIS COOPER (who has her father's hair and her mother's eyes). Each member of this generation of the Cooper family is smiling at whomever is painting them, leading me to believe that they were either kind of were good at hiding their true feelings towards being painted.

Further down still, I noticed that the portraits suddenly merge into black and white photographs—the names MAUDE COOPER-WHITE, GERALDINE COOPER-JENNINGS, and HENTRIETTA COOPER-GRESHAM staring back at me, each with some form or other of the Cooper markings; TYSON COOPER came directly after Henrietta, leading me to believe that they were his older sisters. For the first time, I saw the pride in the family name and, despite being daughters who would normally be forced to drop their family name as society dictated, these women had stood by and fiercely kept their names when it was unpopular to do so. Finally, at the end of the hallway, colorized photos show off GRANT COOPER, MALCOLM COOPER, CHELSEA COOPER, and DUNHAM COOPER, although my S.L.E.U.T.H. partner looks perfectly annoyed due to the pose he was presumably forced into.

"You certainly photograph well," I say quietly.

Dunham pulls a face as he runs his hands along the wall again; he finds the hidden panel without much effort and keys in another code. The wall slides to the left, letting us pass, and I see blackness in front of us. Dunham doesn't move for a moment, and I wonder if he made a wrong turn somewhere. However, I am shocked when he reaches onto what appears to be a shelf, grabbing two pillows in one hand, and an elastic belt in another.

"What are you...? Hey!" I shout as he wraps the pillow in the belt and slides it on me immediately thereafter. "What the—?!"

"See you down there," Dunham says, lifting me ever so slightly so that I am horizontal, and then lies me down in what appears to be a chute.

"Dunham Cooper, don't you—!"

"Bye!" he says.

"—dare!" I say, the scream ripping through my throat as I am pushed head-long into the darkness before me. I slide, quickly, down the slide, curving one way and then another, leading me to believe that this was once a laundry chute with the top cut off—then rearranged for a quick getaway of some kind. Looking up—by this time I have stopped screaming—I see a driver for S.L.E.U.T.H. who immediately reaches out for me, catching me before I can hit the ground.

"Are you all right, Agent Melinsky?" he asks, taking off the pillow and elastic band and tossing them in a laundry bin.

I nod, unsteady on my feet as I heard Dunham sliding down behind me. "I think I'm all right. I—I mean I'm fine, I—"

"Surprise!" Dunham shouts, catching me from behind as he zooms in, his grip upon my waist sending shivers down my spine as he tosses me in the air before I turn around, and then he catches me again before I hit the floor. "Was that eventful enough for you?" he asks.

I curse myself inwardly from flushing. "Sure. Real fun."

Dunham peers around me, towards the driver. "You can bring around the car now, Harrison," he says politely, and I hear the footsteps of the driver retreating towards the cars.

Dunham pulls me down, so that his lips are at my ear. "Never mention how I look behind a camera again," he warns me.

"N-no problem," I manage to get out, his breath hot on my neck.

"Now then," Dunham says, lowering me to the ground so that I can walk on my own, yet retains a firm grip upon my hand. "We've got to pretend that we're husband and wife—or at least romantically involved on some level. Think you can do that?"

I nod. "Yes."

Dunham chuckles as we walk to the edge of the concrete, and he looks up at the headlights in the distance—Harrison won't allow us to be late. "It's not like you're not half in love with me already, Jenny."

I flush more deeply, angered that he would even suggest such a thing. "What are you talking about?!" I hiss.

He peeks over at me, obviously enjoying my discomfort and anger. "Don't be stupid, Jenny. If you were stupid, I would've had an easier time wiggling out of my obligation to babysit you."

"You're not my babysitter," I reply in a clipped tone as Harrison drives up, gets out, and opens the door for us. "You're my partner," I say, begrudgingly allowing Dunham to help me into the back of the car.

"A glorified babysitter," Dunham rules.

"Charming," I reply, rolling my eyes as he climbs in after me, shutting the door behind him as Harrison gets into the driver's seat and begins to drive through the rest of the parking lot. "I know you're not my biggest fan here, Dunham Cooper, but at the very least, I should be treated with respect."

"The only respect a partner has to give for another is keeping them informed about various aspects of a mission that they may be otherwise unaware of," he replies, almost as if he is reading from some impersonal stationary. "That's all you need to know, at this moment of your first undercover assignment, Jenny Melinsky."

"Where'd you get that line?" I demand hotly as the concrete ceiling parts, revealing a ramp for the car to climb out onto the street. "Your great-aunt's personal stationary?"

Dunham's mouth goes into a thin line; he is not amused. "You'd be correct in your assumption that I'm not your biggest fan, Jenny."

"All right, fine," I say, forcing myself to keep my tone somewhat civil, although annoyance ends up winning. "Can you at least do the decent thing by telling me why you seem not to like me at all? Granted, we haven't known each other all that long... But can you honestly tell me that your dislike stems entirely from me giving you those round-house kicks to the jaw?"

Dunham stares straight ahead. "That is certainly some of it."

"Well, I do apologize for justly defending myself," I tell him, angered that he would become angered about something so mundane.

Something beeps from within Dunham's inner breast pocket and he investigates. It appears to be a map on a screen, with a red dot illuminated by a graph and a green line going towards it. "We're almost there," he says, nodding to himself, leaning forward in his seat. "Just around this next corner, Harrison."

"Yes, Agent Cooper," Harrison says from the front seat.

Dunham turns back to me, his eyes locking with mine. "Look, you said that you could act like my significant other of some kind."

I nod, unsure of where this is going. "I did."

"Prove it."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he replies.

Hand holding and giggles aren't going to cut it here, Melinsky, something tell me then, so I do what only an agent can do best—I fake it. I lean forward then, literally throwing my arms around Dunham and kissing him on the lips. The chemistry between us is red-hot, and I find my heart skips a beat when he puts his arms around me, and I tentatively do so to him. I find it hard to keep quiet when he angles his head ever so slightly, and his lips part beneath mine. I angle a bit ever so slightly as well, and something else comes into play in the following moments. I feel the car slowing down then and, not wanting Dunham to be the one to pull away, I take matters into my own hands and do so on my own.

"Wow," Dunham says, his eyes hazy.

I give him a tight smile. "Was it as bad for you as it was for me?" I ask.

Dunham narrows his eyes ever so slightly. "That is something unnecessary for any kind of discussion," he replies.

"Noted."

Harrison stops the car and we thank him before Dunham helps me out. We walk along the cobblestones before we get to a gate, which opens automatically for the two of us. We then arrive at a rounded door, which Dunham knocks on; we wait for a moment, and in that moment, Dunham turns to me.

"You're here as arm candy," he informs me. "I know it's degrading, but I want you to appear hopelessly in love with me. If they think you're stupid, if something bad happens, they won't suspect you. This is for your own protection, Jenny—do you understand?"

I nod, not altogether liking it. "I understand," I reply.

"Good—and if you're uncomfortable at any time, scratch the inside of your left arm," Dunham says as the door opens. "Henri and Marguerite Bonheur," he states next, almost as if charming a maître d' into giving us a reservation at some in-demand restaurant.

The man looks shifty to say the least, and he scrutinizes the two of us longer than necessary, but at last he shrugs, opening the door and leading us inside. The man's nose is long and large; his skin is a burnt olive color, and his hair is black and greasy, slicked back into a shoulder-length ponytail. He sports a matching mustache that comes to a point at his chin—which is just as greasy and dark as the hair on his head—which I can automatically picture him pulling at when the going gets tough. He wears a black, button-down shirt, with a purple vest above it; the vest looks like it is made of silk, and has deep blue-silver stripes on its surface, which shimmer as he leads us down a narrow hallway. The suit pants he wears hug him in all the wrong places, and his shoes squeak with every step he takes, leading me to believe that they are brand-new.

We come to a wooden door with peeling paint; the paint is a ruddy red color, while the natural pale brown of the wood peeks through the peeling parts. The man takes ahold of the faded golden doorknob and opens it; the door makes a far eerier squeak than the mans' shoes do, and the rickety staircase that greets our eyes next, I know, will make no exception. I am relieved when the man goes first, and Dunham moves quickly after him, and soon we are moving down the spiraling staircase with only a few bare bulbs for light. The door swings shut behind us halfway down, and I find that the sudden noise frightens me so much that I let out a small squeak and pull closer to Dunham. Panicked, I turn to look at him, but he merely gives me a thumbs-up as we drift deeper and deeper downward.

We walk into another hallway as we reach the bottom of the stairs, except this one is much danker than the first. I think I hear water dripping from one surface and landing on a second, and the smell of mold and moss greets my nostrils. Doing my best not to hold a hand to my nose, Dunham and I continue to follow Pointy into another section of this underground abyss. We reach another door, and this time, Pointy knocks on it with his index knuckle, and a small panel from it slides to the right, revealing a pair of dark brown eyes, which are freakishly bloodshot on either side of the cornea. I sense Dunham stiffening slightly at this, and I wonder if eyes like this make him queasy.

"The Bonheur's," Pointy tells the door opener.

"Bien," the man behind the door replies.

The door is then opened immediately and we are pulled into a whole other world entirely—it looks like something straight out of a grainy documentary on the black market. Quite the opposite of a farmer's market and more like an auction, my mind tells me as Dunham and I step completely inside and look at all the jewels on the tables before us. There are rows and rows of diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, pearls, and many other jewels on the first table, each laying besides expensive chains of silver, gold, and platinum. Another table has sparkling rings while another still has bracelets, and one in the back caters entirely to earrings. It is then that I tug on Dunham's arm ever so slightly, and nod towards the middle table in the room—the one that is all about necklaces.

Dunham squeezes my hand in thanks as we step forward, towards the necklaces, and manage to evade various salesman in the process. I notice then that the only women present are those who are dressed similarly to me—arm candy. It leads me to believe that that's all women truly are in this back-handed, dark underbelly of society, and then I question how many others are in the same boat as we are. Could there be other S.L.E.U.T.H. agents working here, trying to save a beloved piece of jewelry for a close friend or family member? Or were there any simply here just to keep an eye on us in case something went wrong?

"Which one do you like?" Dunham asked as we approached the table.

I let out a giggle that anyone refined enough to describe it would do so as delicious as I ran my hands all over the pearls before me, feeling like an absolute fool. "I like so many of them, darling," I say, batting my lashes at Dunham. "It's so difficult to make a sound decision without..."

"Champagne?" says a voice next to me, and, upon turning, I see an elegantly-dressed gentleman with a silver tray, full of champagne flutes.

"Oh, thank you!" I gush, taking one and sipping it before turning back to the pearls and ogling them some more. "This one," I say, finding Lady Berkshire's from the mix rather quickly. These, I remembered, boasted a golden pendant from the bottom with a mother of pearl in its center; on the other side, I remembered the elegant font of a monogrammed 'B'. I noticed a small button on one side and, reaching out, pressed it, and inside was an old-timey photograph of Lady Eleanor and her husband, Lord Alphonse. I remembered initially calling him Alfred in passing to Charlotte, but my stepmother had patiently explained that Alfie was indeed short for the French name of Alphonse. The eponymous Swan Lake Suite by Tchaikovsky filled my ears upon the opening of the pendant, and I quickly snapped it shut, a blush blooming on my cheeks as I raised my eyes to the necklace purveyor, who merely smiled and turned to Dunham.

"That is running for ten thousand Euros," the man informed Dunham, his voice a thick, Russian accent.

"May my wife try it on?" Dunham asked.

"Of course," the man replied easily, gesturing there an expensively-cut mirror was on the opposite end of the table.

I handed over the necklace to Dunham and moved my hand along the dark blue velvet table runner as we passed. I stood before the mirror, turning coquettishly to Dunham for a brief moment to ham it up before he leaned down and brushed his lips upon my cheek. I turned back to the mirror as he unclasped the necklace and put it around my neck. I held the pendant to my throat, admiring how lovely it looked against my skin.

"Do you like it?" Dunham asked, placing his hands on my shoulders, his breath hot on my neck as he rested his chin upon it.

I inched my neck back so as we were standing cheek to cheek. "Do you like it?" I asked him, in a thick French accent, making my voice higher and subservient to his, and batted my lashed ever so slightly.

"It would be lovely for you to wear it to that estate dinner next week," Dunham said, never taking his hands off me. "Along with that mink fur I bought for you just a few weeks ago..."

"And that black silk dress which hugs every inch of me," I say, letting out a quiet giggle, which turns into a squeal as Dunham rakes his hands over every inch of my body. "You can afford it, mon amour..."

Dunham smiles at me, our eyes meeting in the mirror. "You're right," he replies, and gives me a final kiss upon the cheek as he slowly, reluctantly to the untrained eye, lets me go. Turning to the Russian purveyor of the necklace, he takes out an expensive, black leather wallet, where I see the brightly-colored Euro notes, still foreign to me. He has them organized by value—I catch the numbers one hundred, two hundred, and five hundred inside the wallet—and proceeds to count them out as I turn back to the mirror to admire myself.

The Russian purveyor takes ahold of the notes as they come to him, smiling in approval and weighing them in his hand. He then holds each up to the light briefly before nodding to himself in approval, and sticks out his hand. "Pleasure doing business with you, Monsieur...?"

"Monsieur Bonheur," Dunham says with a smile, shaking his hand. "And the pleasure is mine, sir." Dunham then puts an arm around my waist, staring deeply into my eyes. "My dear, thank the gentleman."

"Thank you, monsieur," I say with a smile.

The Russian man bows. "My pleasure Madame Bonheur," he replies.

Dunham turns me around as we make our way back out the way we came; as we walk, I see plenty of girls ogling the jewelry at other tables around us, all in sales situations with their boyfriends, partners, or husbands. Dunham keeps a firm hand on me as we walk past, and I feel safe in his strong arms as we continue through the press of people. Just as we are about to turn around and head up the stairs via the door we came, a voice from behind us stops Dunham from walking, and his hands grow cold.

"What is it?" I whisper to him as the door creaks open for us, but the man is not there, and I am immediately ill at ease.

He pulls me suddenly around the bend, and I let out a squeal of pain at the pressure on my arm, but he clamps a hand onto my mouth. "Get upstairs and back to Harrison!" Dunham hisses in my ear.

I wriggle out of the grip upon me. "But—!" I protest.

"Don't be stubborn—you're still learning," he says under his breath, the latter part of the sentence gentler. "Go upstairs, get into the car with Harrison. Tell him that something unexpected came up, and that I have something urgent to take care of that pertains to...the organization."

"I'm staying with you..." I tried again.

"No," Dunham said, desperation in that one word. "Get out—now."

"But, Dunham..."

"So help me, Melinsky," he whispered, pulling me to him and kissing me full on the mouth.

I feel my knees going weak, and latch onto him immediately, and hate myself for acting so stupid. A part of me dies inside as he pulls away, and I curse myself for the forlorn glance my face automatically morphs into.

"That's for Georgie," he said, shaking his head, "although she'll never know about it, but you will." He sighs for a moment, looking around in a panic. "You have got to get out of here, Jenny—now."

"Please," I say, making a grab for him, "don't leave me..."

Dunham looks piteously at me for a moment, but the look seems to die behind his eyes almost immediately. "I have to," he replies, shoving me towards the door so hard that I nearly fall into the staircase. "Get back to Harrison," he tells me, and vanishes around the corner.

Picking myself up, I look around, and find that there are no eyes upon me whatsoever, so I decide to take a peek around the corner, despite Dunham's abrupt demands for me to get out of there. I place one flattened hand upon the wall, and look around the corner, seeing a man who is no older than Dunham standing there, and notice then that he wears the badge of S.O.J.O.U.R.N.—a rather unattractive cobra, its hood erect, ready to strike; he wears this upon his lapel.

Inexplicably, I see Dunham taking something out of his pocket when no one is looking, and I find my jaw dropping completely when I see that he too takes out a S.O.J.O.U.R.N. emblem and pins it upon his lapel as well. He approaches the young man and taps him on the shoulder, whereupon the man turns and lets out a shout of recognition. The next moment is even more shocking for me, which is when the man embraces Dunham, and vice versa. I find myself trying and failing not to shake my head in disbelief—Dunham, consorting with the enemy, behind enemy lines...without me?!

I reach into my own lapel, where a wire has been implanted by Tutu, and turn up the volume so that I can hear what is going on in my earpiece, hidden by the way my bun is styled—covering my ears. There is static for a brief moment, and I wonder if the thick, concrete walls around us are preventing me from hearing every word Dunham and the mystery man emit. Heart pounding, I cross my finders that Dunham won't be able to hear anything on my end, and mentally cross my fingers to get a signal into his wire.

"It's so hard to get away these days," Dunham says.

"Hey, I got out—no reason why you can't, too," says the mystery man.

They walk towards the back wall. "It's different for you," comes Dunham's reply with a sigh.

There is a second sigh. "My sister—or, rather, twin sister—was the second-best Junior Agent S.L.E.U.T.H. has," comes the second voice. "You know that, and I know that; my family is full of legends..."

"Kateryn is good," Dunham acknowledges, and I realize then that the stench of rat doesn't fall far from the tree. "But the second-best Junior Agent just made Agent this past week, and it wasn't Kateryn."

"Oh, yeah?" comes the voice. "Who's better than Kateryn?"

"My partner—Jenny Melinsky," Dunham replies.

There is a laugh then. "Don't try anything, Dunham," comes the formally-unknown West child. "We've got this place surrounded. One false move, and your partner gets it—bullet to the brain. That is, if I'm feeling generous."

"What are you talking about?" Dunham asks, fear in his voice.

"Well," the mystery man says, smirking, "if I or one of my men want to have a little fun with her, who am I to judge?"

I nearly gasp aloud then when Dunham takes ahold of the mystery man by the collar and slams him up against the wall.

"You listen to me, you lowlife creep," Dunham hisses from in between his set of perfect teeth, "Jenny has more class than that. And she's more talented that Kateryn could ever hope to be. She beat Kateryn on her first and last day of junior training, besting her in ways that Kateryn could only dream of. You'd best watch yourself, Marcus," Dunham says, letting him go and walking away.

"On the contrary," Marcus says, pulling out a gun and pistol-whipping Dunham in quick succession, so much so that Dunham—shocked from the surprise attack—falls to his knees. "It's you that needs to watch yourself," he says, chuckling, and watching Dunham's skull bleed onto the floor.