Well, it's been two months now since the day Chip Robinson came to our home and dragged us off to some desolate field in London. Two months since we decided to join the Red Hammer Society. Two months since we left New York...our home.

While I am a bit homesick, I'll be the first to admit it that things are rather nice around here. It sure is a hell of a lot different from New York but hey...that could be a good thing, right? First of all, we're making more money than we ever did in the city. The people here, despite my previous doubts, are easy to work with and easy to socialize with. And the most pleasant thing about Red Hammer...no, not just Red Hammer, about London in general, is the quiet. Now I don't mean quiet as in like there's no noise, I mean quiet as in the way it looks. There's no flashing signs shattering the innards of my eyeballs, there's no screaming and yelling amongst a river of heavy traffic, there's no cloud of smog replacing the sky. It's...nice. Relaxing. Soothing, even.

Of course I will always, ALWAYS be a New Yorker. Nothing can change that, no matter how nice this place is. And...I'm drifting off in thought again. Need to stop doing that...pay attention to what's going on, Guy.

The New York Bushin shook his head and rubbed his eye, "Ugh, is it time yet?" He asked in his usual monotone speech.

"Nope...Jason'll point his little laser-pointer at this piece of paper I've got sitting here. That's when we move in," Steven replied. His pale, albino skin and hair seemed to almost glow in the moonlight. It was interesting, because his tuxedo blended in perfectly with the darkness of the night...as if it was just a head suspended in mid-air.

"Oh..." the two mercenaries were sitting atop the slate-tiled roof of an all brick building. Their orders were...strange. They were to, and this is a direct quote from Miss Clemer, "sneak into Mr. Raymond Pistachio's kitchen and retrieve his recipe for mint cream cookies". Yes, you heard correctly...steal a recipe.

A tiny red dot appeared on the blank sheet of paper Steven had placed next to him, "That's our signal, Guy. Ready?"

Guy nodded and the two of them leapt off of their post onto the grass in front of the front door. Like two drifting feathers, they landed softly without a sound. That was their specialty, stealth. Everyone in Red Hammer had his or her own specific specialties. Jason was good with computers and technical stuff like that...for example, he's the one who cracked through this Pistachio guy's security system. Chuck and Borrah's specialty was...rather obvious from the moment you saw them. Et cetera, Et cetera.

The buzzing voice of Jason chirped within the Bushin's ear, "Okay you guys, it should be pretty simple from here. The locks were apparently operated by the security system, so I managed to get the doors un-locked for ya'. So go ahead and get that...ahem recipe..."

Those little ear-communicator...um, things really came in handy during those missions they did. Yet another reason why Red Hammer was better than New York.

Steven carefully twisted the doorknob, making a small clicking sound, and pushed open the door revealing a dark hallway that had one room to the right, a living room at the end, and a stair-way leading upstairs to the left.

The tuxedo-clad albino peeked his head around the corner of the room to the right to see if anyone was inside. He signaled for Guy to move on-ward, meaning it was clear.

Guy slipped around the corner and cautiously walked inside the room. It was the kitchen. A very ordinary kitchen, just like one that you would see in all of the sitcoms. Black and white patterned tiles on the floor, white walls and a while refrigerator and counter-tops that matched the floor exactly.

The two mercenaries quickly began digging through all of the drawers and cabinets, searching for one that contained recipes. When Guy knelt down and opened the drawer closest to the floor, he discovered it was full of tiny sheets of paper with various ingredients and such scribbled on it...

Bingo.

Let's see here...Mango Mania...Strawberry Whipped-cream...Apple Nutmeg Pie...California Pacific Martini...Mint Cream Cookies...Freudian Cheesecake...wait...

Guy flipped back to a small, ragged piece of paper with a tiny picture of little lime-green cookies on it, "Psst! Steven...I got it. Let's go."

"You did?" the albino looked up from the drawer he was rummaging through. "All right then, let's get the heck out of here."

"Um, Miss Clemer...?" Jason decided to speak up in all of his teenage glory as his female boss gazed intently at the recipe. "We're...well, the three of us are kinda...hmm, I'm not really sure how to put this, uh..."

Miss Clemer looked up at the spikey-haired boy and smirked, "You gentlemen are wondering why I sent you on a paying mission where your lives could have possibly been in serious danger simply to get a tiny, miniscule recipe, correct?"

"Uh...yeah, that's...pretty much the jist of it."

"Well then, I'll show you instead of telling you," the stern woman-in-red opened a drawer to her desk and removed a pencil. She used the eraser end to frantically erase away the words to the recipe.

Now they'll never know how to make mint cream cookies...too bad. They sounded good...

"Gather around here, under the light and look closely," she held the paper up to the ceiling light to it shined through. Even though it hadn't been totally erased (someone should invent an eraser that does), you could clearly see something opaque drawn on the paper. It resembled a map of some sort.

Steven shrugged, "Okay...so what's the significance of that?"

"Well, Steven, if you would be quiet for a second perhaps I could tell you. This map that I have just shown you is the map to the Blackjack's hideout. At least, I think it is."

Both Jason and Steven's jaws dropped in unison. Guy, however, had no idea what the hell they were talking about.

Miss Clemer took note of this, "I can understand your confusion, Guy, since you're still pretty new here. Either of you care to fill our friend in?"

"Yeah sure," Jason said, leaning against the well. "In all honesty, we know next to nothing about Blackjack. All we know is that they pop up every now and then and really dick over our missions...but we have no idea why they do that. The name 'Blackjack' may or may not even be the name of the organization, we just call it that because every time they show up, they're wearing these white masks with the 'club' signs on each cheek. You know, like the 'clubs' in a deck of cards? That's...about it, sadly."

"Wait a second," Steven waited for a pause in the conversation to speak up. He didn't really like being rude. "Miss Clemer, explain to me one thing. How on earth could you possibly have known that that was on that specific recipe?? I mean, I realize that Red Hammer has its connections and so on but...that's very specific and even more random."

"Ah, yes. I figured one of you would ask them some time or another. I heard rumors from a source whose name I cannot reveal even to you, that Raymond Pistachio of 'Happy Farm Pistachios' is involved with the Blackjack organization. So, about a month ago, I had one of our more attractive members just so happen to meet him at a bar that he frequented. She ended up going home with him, and you know what comes after that. Once she had established a somewhat stable relationship, she got him very, very drunk one night. All she had to do was whisper the word 'blackjack' and she saw him glance over to the kitchen. Then she e-mailed me letting me know she dug through the kitchen and discovered what you three have just now retrieved. Does that answer your question?"

"No, not exactly," Guy spoke up for the first time since returning from the 'mission'. It still confused him a whole, whole lot. "Why didn't she get it and bring it here herself?"

Miss Clemer laughed heartily and smiled at him, "Because, Guy, if she had disappeared suddenly he might have noticed and caught on. That's a risk we just can't afford to take."

The Bushin nodded and decided that it would be best not to say anything anymore. Listening was good, that always worked the best for him.

Wow! This is like, so neat! I've never arm-wrestled someone this good before. I mean sure, Rob-rob was good an' all but Chuckie here...he's GOOD-good!

Borrah shook his head to try and make himself concentrate harder on the battle. Arm-wrestling was more than just a silly 'game'. It was more than some stupid 'sport'. It was...it was like a duel. A duel of pure, big, strong testosterone stuff! And that's what Borrah craved. Being the bestest of the best! The strongest of the strong! The coolest of the cool! And that was what arm-wrestling was all about...at least, to Borrah anyway.

"Shit!" Chuck yelled as the veins in his cranium began to bulge out like sea snakes. His hand was now just inches away from the cold, cold table.

Jettaron watched on intently...he was about to make two hundred dollars if Borrah would just...win...this...MATCH! HE DID IT! "Yeeeehaw!!! That's right, Borrah! You're the man!!! Woohoo!!"

The two combatants both collapsed headfirst on the table.

"God damnit, Chuck!" Chip whined like a two-year-old as he handed Jettaron his money bill-by-bill. "I just lost two-hundred bucks 'cause o' you!"

Chuck was gasping desperately for air as he spoke, "Sorry...about that...Chip. He's just...really...damn..strong..."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever man. I'm goin' for a walk or somethin'."

"I wouldn't go anywhere just yet, Chip," Miss Clemer hollered from her office. "Everyone, I want you to come in here for a moment. I think we've got our hands on the biggest mission since the time we smuggled illegal immigrants from Cuba."