The Fire Triangle, A Zootopia Fanfiction -- Part One: Fuel - 78

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle—A Zootopia Fanfiction

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Part One:

Fuel

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Chapter 9 – Fire And Mirrors

(Continued...Pt. 5)

"You have GOT to be kidding!"

Nick and Judy stared numbly at the display screen atop Chief Bogo's desk, trying hard to make sense what they had just seen. Nooo...this wasn't possible, was it?

"Again, Swinton," the Cape buffalo intoned grimly, and the image froze for a split second...not that it was easy to tell; there had been no movement for the last few seconds anyway. In fact, the only thing visible in the frame was the door to locker LB6.

Then the image blinked and a tiny change became noticeable; there was now a padlock attached to the door—a hi-tech model with a glowing, blue eye.

Nick and Judy had been surprised to find Claire Swinton here when they'd arrived, and then it had been hard to decide which was more unsettling, the doleful look on her face or the expression worn by Lieutenant Albert Tufts; HE had looked like a kid who'd just caught his elder brother sneaking in after midnight...on a cell-phone cam!

That had been troubling enough, but it hadn't even begun to prepare them for what they'd just witnessed on the pig-cop's laptop computer-screen.

Nick had recognized the material immediately; the surveillance-cam footage from the locker room—taken after Ian Shortal had dropped the money, but before Conor Lewis had arrived to retrieve it.

Or that was what the red-fox had thought he was seeing...until he heard Judy gasp, "Oh, sweet cheez n' crackers!"

"What?" he'd asked, and in response, she had pointed at the laptop's monitor display.

"Look at the time-stamp, Nick!"

He'd looked... and seen that it was 12:28:08, approximately the same time they'd met up with Officer McHorn in front of the alley where Conor had disappeared—in other words, long after he'd picked up the cash.

"Wha...? Why'd the kid lock it up again?" Nick had asked himself aloud—drawing an even haughtier look from Lieutenant Tufts.

The answer to his query had come only a few seconds later—like a sucker-punch to the gut. Nick had felt himself nearly doubling over and if rabbits were capable of puking, Judy Hopps would have lost it all over the floor.

And now, here was that dark moment all over again. From the left side of the screen, Ian Shortal entered the frame, opened the locker and removed the case from the shelf where he'd left it earlier.

Then he closed the door, dropped the padlock into a pocket and walked out of the picture.

For a long moment, nobody spoke...but everyone understood. They'd been played; the show Conor Lewis had made of trying to get the 'money case' to fit into his backpack? That had actually been his laptop computer; the whole thing had been an elaborate charade, a ruse designed to deflect ZPD surveillance team from the fact that the real money-case was still inside the locker, (and to keep anyone from noticing that he'd locked it up again.)

And it had worked! Aggghhh, grrrr, Nick could have fox-screamed his head off. Misdirection, the old stage-magician's ploy was something every good street hustler knew. And nobody knew it better than this red fox; he'd discovered he had a knack for the technique while still in grade school. A friend had invited him to her birthday party and when the scheduled magician had failed to materialize, young Master Wilde had put a sack over his head and proceeded to wow the party-goers with his sleight-of paw. Ohhh, how could he have missed what Conor was up to so easily?

It was another rhetorical question and he wouldn't have had time to answer it anyway—because just then, Albert Tufts broke the silence, speaking neither to him nor to Judy, but instead to Claire Swinton.

"And no one even TRIED to detain that weasel?" he demanded.

"For what?" the pig-cop shot back, throwing her hooves in the air. "Last time I looked, there's no law says you can't store your own money in a beach locker!"

"Or even borrow money from a loan-shark," Judy pointed out flippantly ...and she was right, the laws against usury applied only to lenders; borrowers were the victims. Nick Wilde was both surprised and pleased by her rejoinder. Who would have thought this prim little bunny-scout had it in her?

Predictably, her observation prompted Tufts shift his attention to her and Nick.

"First of all, you don't talk to me that way, Officer Hopps!" he chittered, pulling rank as if he was drawing a gun. And then he blew across his pawlm in a fair imitation of Conor Lewis's earlier gesture.

"Second...you see that? That's your case...poof, gone! That kid wasn't just onto you; he was onto you from the beginning, he never even LOOKED at that money." He stood up and spread his arms, addressing the group as a whole. "Welcome to our worst-case nightmare ladies and gentlemammals, zero steps forward and ten steps back."

"Are we...really?" Rudy Gamsbart queried, raising an eyebrow. He heaved himself out of his chair, approaching the Chief's desk as if it were the bench. He hadn't spoken word until now, and only now did Nick Wilde grasp that the chamois had been biding his time.

"May I ask you something Lieutenant?" he said, speaking to the ZPD Cybercrimes Chief, "WHY was it so important for us to apprehend the Phantom's courier in possession of the money?"

Tufts regarded him as if he were a transient, begging for spare nuts, "Because without that money, we have nothing to charge him...with."

The Kaibab squirrel had just realized his error—too late, and Gamsbart pounced immediately.

"Nothing except assaulting a police officer...I beg your pardon, Officer Wilde, but would you oblige?" He nodded at Nick's bandaged arm, and the red fox dutifully raised it for all to see,. It occurred to him then that this was THIS was probably the Zootopia Deputy prosecutor's real courtroom fursona.

"You tell me," the chamois continued, speaking to Albert Tufts again, "which crime carries the heavier penalty—biting a cop or transporting money on behalf of a loan-shark?"

It was an oratorical question, and the squirrel wisely chose not to answer it; a rookie cop, straight out of the academy would have known the correct response.

Gamsbart gave everyone a short moment and then moved on, waving his hoof in the air as if trying hail a taxicab.

"And why did we need the goods to charge the Lewis boy in the first place... anyone?"

Predictable Judy was the first to raise her paw...but Chief Bogo was the first to speak. "Leverage...so's to be able to get him to co-operate."

"Yes, except for one thing," Gamsbart leaned back against the Cape buffalo's desk with both hooves on the rim, "and that brings me to my next point; why did we decide to track the Phantom's courier to his next drop, instead of taking him down as soon as he had the money? No, don't bother; I'll answer this one myself. Because we all assumed—myself included, I admit that—we all assumed that the courier probably had no idea who he was working for." He raised another finger, "Except that isn't true either. Thanks to that laptop we found on him and his having such a well-constructed fake identity, we can be fairly certain that the Lewis kid has at least a working relationship with the Phantom." He looked over at Tufts again. This time, the squirrel had to make an effort to meet his gaze. "We're not in as good a shape as we would be if we'd been able to follow him to his next drop; I grant you that, Lieutenant...but we're in a far better position than if we'd tried to bust him as soon as he exited that locker. In that case, we really would have had nothing on Mr. Lewis...assuming he didn't take the money of course." He hastily qualified his statement, and then asked "But NOW what do we have?"

Again there was no response; it was another question with a self-evident answer.

"I won't call this operation a smashing success," the chamois told them, by way of wrapping his presentation, "but I'll still call it a success."

"Remind me to buy you a case of your favorite cider when we're done here." Nick silently told the chamois...and then Albert Tufts made one last stab at conjuring up a rainstorm over the Deputy prosecutor's parade.

"Oh puh-leeze, it was only through sheer, dumb luck that Hopps and Wilde managed to get anything on the kid."

It was another gaffe and Bogo promptly gave the squirrel a look that could have melted Tundratown. As for Nick, well...who was he to turn down such a juicy opening?

"Didn't feel like a whole lot of luck to me," he said, raising his arm again while managing to look suitably hurt.

"No kidding Lieutenant, I almost died out there," Judy Hopps flared...while biting the corner of her mouth to keep from grinning.

The Kaibab squirrel stood up to respond, but was pre-empted by Chief Bogo's derisive snort.

"Honestly, Tufts...if I had a nickel for every time this department's closed a case on nothing more than good fortune, I could retire from police work right now, couldn't I?"

Everyone snickered except for the squirrel, and then the Chief was back to business as usual.

"Right, Hopps...Wilde, who'd our suspect make his call to then?"

"We don't know sir." Judy admitted, "He got voice mail and the other party didn't identify themselves."

"Most animals don't," the Chief shrugged indifferently, "Did we get a trace on it?"

Nick saw Judy looking at him, and felt a slow heat rising up in his cheeks. Ohhh great, she was going to give HIM the tough one to answer; thanks a heap, Judas Hopps.

He cleared his throat. "Honestly sir, we didn't have time; your call came in right after the kid made his." It wasn't Bogo he was concerned about; it was yep...there was that expression on Albert Tufts' face again.

"Right, let's see about it then," Bogo pressed a button on his desk intercom. "Clawhauser, need you to check with communications and see if they've got a trace on the call made by the suspect Conor Lewis on his cell-phone a short while ago. They'll know who you're talking about."

"Right-o Chief," the plus-size cheetah responded, as eager to please as ever.

Bogo disconnected and folded his hooves on the desktop

"All right then; what's our next move?"

It was Gamsbart who answered him, "Well, there's one thing the kid said during his little Usual Suspects stunt that's absolutely true; by now the Phantom knows where he is...and he's not just going to sit on that information. That tells me we need to move quickly if we hope to get anything useful out of young Mister Lewis. Accordingly, we're putting his case on the fast track; I've already cleared it with the Attorney General. Conor Lewis's arraignment will be the first case on the docket when the Zootopia Juvenile Court opens up again on Monday."

"Have you got a Public Defender lined up yet?" Judy Hopps asked. After all the times the young silver fox had demanded a lawyer, (and after all the animals that had heard him making that demand,) the AG's office didn't dare bring him into court without one; their case would get tossed like a pawpsicle stick.

"Not yet, but we hope to have someone available by tomorrow morning," the chamois told her, adding quickly, "If worst comes to worst, I've got some favors I can call in."

He didn't sound particularly apprehensive about the prospect and Nick Wilde thought he understood why. Saddling Conor Lewis with a PD who didn't want the job could only help the Deputy Prosecutor in his efforts to flip the young silver fox...and Nick wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Gamsbart had more to say on the subject, but just then, Chief Bogo's intercom buzzed.

"Chief, it's Clawhauser...they got a trace on that number the Lewis boy called; it's an answering service over in The Marshlands District, Discretionary Services."

"What, an answering service?" Nick felt his ears standing upright. "Who uses those anymore?"

"Mammals who don't want their identities known," Claire Swinton answered him, snuffling in disgust. She looked as if she'd just bitten into an unripe persimmon. "I know that outfit; back when I was in Corrections we used to have inmates calling there all the time; it just about drove us bonkers. If there's one company in Zootopia with an honest name, it's Discretionary Services. They absolutely won't reveal the names of any of their clients...not to anyone; not without a court order, and even then they'll stonewall you for as long as possible."

"So in essence what you're saying is, we can forget about figuring out who Conor was trying to get ahold of?" Judy asked the question with her ears drooping; she already knew the answer..

"That's about the size of it," the pig cop told her morosely.

Then Rudy Gamsbart cleared his throat, a rough, grating noise.

"If I may...as I was saying, we want to get that kid into court as quickly as possible; the sooner he meets the judge he'll be facing at his trial, the sooner he'll realize that his only way out is to come in with us."

He sounded supremely confident...a little too confident for a certain red fox's taste. Exactly who was this tough-as-nails judge the chamois was referring to? He had yet to mention the animal by name. Nick would have loved to ask him about it, but Judy already had her paw up.

"Mr. Gamsbart sir, I hope I'm not getting out of line by asking this, but I'm curious about something. Why did you spin Conor Lewis that line about having his 'customer' in the next room? Anyone could have seen through that one—they never even so much as talked on the phone, much less met face to face. If you HAD brought Mr. Shortal in for questioning, he couldn't have told you a thing."

"Yes I know," the Deputy Prosecutor responded coolly, "But that was the general idea, Hopps." He pointed a finger upwards, in the direction of the City Jail. "That little wisenheimer fox thinks he's smarter than me? Good, let him; Conor Lewis isn't the first juvenile offender I ever met who's taken that attitude...and he won't be the first one to regret it either."

At that moment, the young fox in question already had plenty of regrets, not the least of which was having bitten Nick Wilde—and not only because of all the trouble he was in; he really did feel bad about having done it.

He was standing in the elevator, on his way up to the Zootopia City Jail's juvenile wing, accompanied by an unsmiling polar bear, who so far had said nothing beyond 'stand here' and 'get moving'. Though for the moment the young fox's face remained without a muzzle, he could see one dangling from the big bear's belt, a silent reminder that if he even so much as thought about stepping out of line...

Dangit, he hadn't meant to bite Nick, hadn't even realized he'd done it until after the fact, but oh foxtrot, could he possibly have made a worse move? Of all the officers on the force he could have bitten, it had to be Nick Wilde. How he wished he could have told the older fox he was sorry, said he was sorry for real...but of course, he couldn't, not without admitting his guilt.

"If you ever get pinched, kid," Danny Tipperin had told him, often and repeatedly, "the only thing you say to the cops is that you want a lawyer. No matter what they tell you, no matter what kind of dumb questions they ask, even if they only wanna know how you're feeling, all that comes outta your mouth is 'I want a lawyer'...and make sure as many cops hear you say it as possible."

He had already broken that rule once, when he'd pulled that Usual Suspects troll on 'Tuff-Guy' Tufts and that chamois...what was his name again? Oh yeah, Whatever-his-first-name-is Gamsbart.

Conor knew was going to pay dearly for that little lark, no question about it...but what was done was done. It was a little too late to take everything back right now.

Actually, when you thought about it, he had broken that rule two more times—when he'd (sort of) apologized to Nick and when he'd informed the older fox that as far as he knew, Finnick had never been involved in anything illegal since the two of them first met. Danny would have forgiven him those trespasses however; he had given the cops exactly nothing and besides... Finnick really hadn't had anything to do with his activities down in Sahara Square earlier today. The way the young fox figured it, offering Nick some peace of mind was the least he could do after having bitten him.

Bitten him...

The thought made Conor's eyes screw shut, and brought his teeth together so tightly, it was a wonder the enamel didn't crack. Out of all mistakes he had made so far that one was numero uno, the big kahuna, the mother of all mess-ups. He could have gone after the older fox with claws only, but nooooo, he'd had to up and use his chompers. Yes, he'd done it without realizing it but hey, guess what? Biting a police officer, knowingly or otherwise, means a mandatory cheek-swab.

And now that they knew his identity was fake, it was only matter of time before some bright soul in the ZPD, (he thought probably Judy Hopps,) would begin to connect the dots.

"Heyyy, since we've already got a cheek swab from the kid, why not get forensics to run a DNA search while we're at it?"

When they found out who he really was...when AKER discovered Conor Lewis's real identity, he wouldn't just be toast, he'd be burnt...

"Okay quite beating yourself up and get focused," the young fox admonished himself with a mental slap, "They don't have you yet, and even if they DO order a DNA match, you'll still have some time to work things out. So get it together, babe!"

Most animals assume that a DNA test takes about as long as a blood workup; it doesn't, the results can take anywhere from several weeks to two months to come back, especially in the case of an Unsub (unknown subject,) such as Conor Lewis. Matching his DNA against that of every other fox in the national database would be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack—a haystack the size of a circus tent. On top of that, the Mammals of Zootopia didn't need to know Conor's true identity in order to convict him, (much less apprehend him.) His case-file would NOT be put at the top of the ZPD crime-lab's 'to-do' list.

Fine, except....

Except his DNA data was already on file...in the Aker Security Management database and that system wasn't just sitting there, twiddling its digital thumbs. Among the other things contained in the ASM computer files was an AI search program known as GenVi...or so the young fox assumed; he couldn't sure. He did know however that GenVi existed—and that Aker's computer systems had never been anything less than cutting edge; Kieran had taught him that. If Aker didn't have the GenVi app it was only because they had something even better, though it was hard to imagine what could possibly be; the instant the ZPD's DNA search-inquiry hit the web, the GenVi bot would spot it...and when the algorithm registered the keywords 'young' and 'silver-fox,' it would home in like a heat-seeking missile—and blow his remaining cover from here to Funbuck Egypt.

How much time did he have? Aggggh, grrrr, just his luck for this mess to happen on a weekend...

Conor already had his countermeasures in place; he'd had them in place even before he'd stepped out of that locker. (Ha...Tufts, what a moron!) He had set it up as a 'fail-safe program.' If the animal with the screen name Guildenkranz99+X#4 didn't hear back from him by 15:00 Zootopia time, he was to assume the animal he knew as Eyefelzogogud=+220^ had been arrested—and was to take appropriate action, (although he would never know for certain the purpose of that action.) And even with his watch and cell-phone confiscated, Conor knew that it was well after 3:00 PM.

Of course, when he'd made those arrangements, he'd had no way of knowing that he'd end up getting busted for biting a cop... but the first of the two texts he'd sent while making his phone call had taken care of that...or it would once Guild got a look at his case-file.

There'd been a price to pay in that message, he'd had to give Guild his real name...but without it, his fellow member of The Circle would have no idea which case-file to look for, (and Conor's name was listed right at the top of it anyway.) It was a risk, but Guild would need that file in order to carry out the next step.

The second text had been directed not to any mammal but to a machine, specifically The Beast, which should now be hard at work, activating a long dormant website that the young fox and his online cohort had prepared for just such an occasion as this. It remained only for Guild to enter the appropriate information and click 'send.'

And that was the rub; Guild didn't have all the information yet—and he wouldn't be able to obtain it until the Mammals of Zootopia assigned a public defender to The Fox Known As Conor Lewis and then arraigned him. Aggghhhh, grrr and for the hundredth time; why'd he have to go and get himself arrested on a Saturday, when all the courts were closed? It would be Monday at the earliest before...

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open.

All thoughts vanished from the young fox's head, replaced by a keen awareness of his surroundings. He was about to set foot in familiar territory.

First there'd be the administration desk, where they'd process him, read him the riot act, and assign him his cell...after which they'd take him there. Since this was only a city jail, there would be no separate wings for larger and small mammals, only separate rows of cells. That meant it would be impossible for him to avoid making contact with any of the large-mammal kids.

How much contact there 'd be depended on something else; would the kids here be confined to their cells at the moment—or would right now be one the periods when they were permitted to mingle? Conor hoped for the former; he didn't want anyone challenging him, not this soon.

Eventually, he knew, someone would challenge him; he was newbie, a fresh fish in old-school jailhouse slang...or that was what the kids in here would think was the case; the truth was something altogether different. Conor Lewis might be new to the Zootopia Juvenile Justice System, but to the system as whole he was a hardened veteran. If someone offered to fight him, he wouldn't accept the challenge; he'd go straight for the other kid without even another word. That was how you did it in the Granite Point Youth Reformatory; it was the only way you survived in that place. If someone even looked at you crossways in The Point, you had two choices; you could either fight him...or spend the rest of your stay there as a doormat.

At the Admin and Processing desk, the young fox offered only minimal answers to the questions he was asked, and nodded yes to every rule the leopard in charge laid down....although he wasn't really paying attention, he already knew the litany by heart, or at least the gist of it. Answer promptly when asked a question, no fighting, keep your cell clean, no fighting, blah, blah, blah...and NO fighting!

Conor listened, but he didn't really care. The really important rules on the inside were always the UN-written ones; never look away when an officer talks to you, but don't look defiant either, or like you're carrying a chip on your shoulder. Listen, or at least pretend to listen when an officer speaks to you, and above all show no fear, Always refer to the guards by name, but never by their first name; it's Mr. this and Ms. That. Never call them sir or ma'am unless you're ordered to.

Processing took about twenty minutes, after which another guard took charge of the young sliver fox, this one a water buffalo, who escorted him down a lionoleum tiled corridor and onto the ground floor of a three tiered rotunda.

Agggh, grrrr, no such luck about the prisoners being confined to their cells; it was mealtime and the commons was busy, with most of the tables occupied. As the buffalo marched him past the other kids Conor found he was under the scrutiny of what seemed like a zillion pairs of eyes. Most were merely appraising, but one or two were menacing; he made a mental note of those kid's faces and scents as best he could.

The important thing here was how he carried himself: don't, for heaven's sake walk hunched over and cowed, but at the same time don't even think about swaggering. Either one of those postures was practically begging for trouble. The thing you needed to do was put on your stone face and look straight ahead. Don't smile, don't frown...and whatever you do, don't glare at anyone. And keep your mouth shut; if another kid says something to you, just kind of roll your eyes at the hack escorting you...like you're saying , 'What are you trying to do, get me sent to the hole?' (Here, they probably didn't have a hole, but the message would get across and he'd be left alone. Nobody in Juvie wants to be pegged as the dude who gets other kids in trouble with the officers)

The water-buf escorted him brusquely past the commons area and in the direction of a stairway leading up to the second and third floor. Conor was neither surprised nor disappointed; duh, he wouldn't get to eat until after his cell assignment; that was SOP in any juvie jail.

As they approached the stairs however, something else caught his eye...something of so much interest that the young fox gave it only the merest glance before once again looking straight ahead. There, beneath the stairwell was a mop and bucket.

A metal bucket...

A metal bucker with a wringer handle...frankin'-A, you'd never see one of those things in any Zoo York City jail...much less a place like Granite Point; might as well pass out shivs to the kids while you were at it. Either the animals that ran this place were incredibly stupid, or else they really did have that little trouble. Conor suspected it was scenario number two; in fact, he was hoping that was the case. It would make for a complacent attitude among the administration here, something very much in accordance with his plans.

The water buffalo brought him to a cell about midway down the second tier, steering him inside, and unlocking his cuffs. The whole time he kept regarding the young silver fox with narrowed eyes, as if daring his charge to try and take a bite out of HIM.

"Like I'd EVER be that stupid," Conor thought disdainfully, massaging his wrists while the water buffalo slipped the cuffs into a belt holster.

There was pile of linens, a towel, and a blanket lying folded on the cell's single bunk-bed, (thank God, he at least had a place to himself.)

"Those are yours," the officer said, and went away, leaving the young fox to figure out for himself what to do with them.

Actually, Conor didn't need to figure out anything, he already knew the procedure; towels in the rack, sheets on the bead, then the blanket, and no you don't get a pillow. The whole time he worked, the young silver fox made certain to keep facing towards the front of his cell. Several times, he saw other kids passing by, giving him what looked like cursory glances, (but he knew better.)

All in all he was pleased by this development; the word would quickly make the rounds. 'That silver fox kid they just brought in? He ain't no greenhorn homies; knows better than to turn his back on the door to his cell while its standing open.'

Finishing up quickly, Conor left his cubicle, and headed back down the way he had come; he still had time to make the chow line, and whatever they were serving downstairs didn't smell half bad as jailhouse grub went, (not like Granite Point, where the kids used to chew ice and daub their noses with Vix before eating.)

Coming down the stairs, the young fox allowed his gaze to sweep over the gathering, at the same time sniffing deeply, searching for a familiar face or scent. While this was his first experience with the Zootopia juvenile justice system he knew a few young mammals from the hood whose stories were quite different...and there's nothing to ease the transition from street to jail like having someone to vouch for you.

Conor was about five feet away from the end of the chow line when it happened; the old saying, 'Be careful what you wish for, you may get it' slammed into him like an express train. Yes there was a familiar scent in the air...but it wasn't a welcome one.

"Craig Guilford...dangit I forgot all about him! Agggghhhh, grrrr, I should NEVER have let Nick out of his promise to me. If that psycho-yote finds out that I helped get his dad busted...Aw nuts, where the heck is he anyway?"

He let his gaze wander feverishly over the commons area, finally spotting the young coyote at a table about five yards away. He was sitting with the seats on either side of him unoccupied...even though by now the commons was packed like a subway car. Not good...

Conor quickly made his eyes move on...but apparently not quickly enough.

"Hey you...fox!"

"Aw, heck!"

"Hey, shifty, I'm talking to you. What do you think you're lookin' at, you little snot?"

Craig was on his feet with his fangs showing, the smaller species around him moving quickly away. (The larger ones all seemed thoroughly entertained)

"Cripes I barely glanced at this guy." Conor groaned inwardly, wanting to face pawlm himself clear across the room and back again.

He knew what he had to say of course. In this place there was only one right answer to that question. He spun on his heel and bared his own fangs, at the same time unsheathing his claws.

"Okay punk, let's go to the showers right now and throw down!" (In just about any jail you can think of, the shower-room is a good place to settle differences the hard way.)

Luckily, before either one of the young antagonists could make a move, another kid, a black bear got quickly in between them.

"Hey dudes, what you think you're doing huh? You already got violent tags on you; cool it before you both get muzzled."

"Then that's what's gonna happen," Conor snarled, never taking his eyes off the coyote.

"Go ahead, I don't care." Craig Guilford's voice was equally flat...and the young fox was instantly taken aback for second.

"All right, what's going on over there?" One of the officers, an elk, was moving rapidly in their direction. At about ten feet away he stopped, pointing in turn at Conor and then at Craig.

"All right YOU...get back in line, and YOU...get back to your seat right now, and then I better see the two of you keeping your distance from each other...or else." (To show what he meant by 'or else', he patted the muzzle attached to his belt.)

Craig growled and turned away from Conor, but not before shooting him a look that spoke volumes. The young fox gave it right back to him and then returned to the chow line, noting that he was immediately given back his place. Well at least he'd manage to establish himself; the other kids now knew that if pushed, this silver fox kid WOULD fight back...even against a species that much bigger and stronger than his own.

But thank goodness he hadn't needed to; he could have kissed that bear-kid for stopping it. The reality though was that he couldn't even say thanks; in juvie you disn't give even the appearance of wanting to walk away from a fight.

And also...

One thing Conor had learned a long time ago was that the most powerful weapon in a fight is attitude...and that the most dangerous attitude isn't a willingness to win at all costs, it's not caring if you lose; not caring WHAT the heck the other guy may do to you.

Conor Lewis had that attitude; he'd had it for a long time. When he'd said to the bear-kid, "then that's what's gonna happen," he'd meant every syllable. It was a creed that had helped him prevail —or at least survive—against several other opponents bigger and stronger than himself.

Unfortunately for him, Craig Guilford had that attitude as well. His declaration of "Go ahead!" had been equally sincere. If they ever did come down to tooth and claw, the young silver fox would be deprived of his single, biggest advantage.

'I've GOT to find a way to keep that 'yote up off of me...at least until after my arraignment, but how?" He racked his brain for moment, finding no solution, and then gave it up. It was his turn at the steam tables next.

After a completely unmemorable meal, he returned to his cell. There was nothing to read and he needed to let the food settle before attempting any push-ups or sit ups, so he lay down on his bunk with his head propped against the wall, keeping his eyes on the door to his cell while mentally reviewing the chord progressions for Fork In The Road by Richard Tomcat, a song he'd recently been trying to learn.

Conor was about midway through the second verse when someone appeared in the doorway of his cell, and this time their scent was welcome news.

"You Conah Lewis, right?" the spotted hyena asked him.

"Yeah, that's me," he answered, swinging off the bed and onto his feet, "And you're Shem...Treo's cousin?"

"His half brotha, but yeah, that's close enough," the hyena answered, showing all his teeth in a pearly grin. He continued to stand in the doorway, refusing to cross the threshold without being invited. Conor appreciated that and immediately beckoned both Shem and the striped hyena standing beside him into the cell. The smaller animal was vaguely familiar, although the young fox couldn't quite place him.

"So, I hear you in here coz you bit yourself a cop?" Shem asked him, leaning back against the wall and scratching his muzzle.

Conor shrugged, "What can I say, he grabbed me from behind and I flashbacked; didn't even know he was a cop until afterwards. Heck, I didn't even realize that I'd bitten him until I saw him bleeding."

It was a wholly inadequate explanation but the two hyenas seemed to find it satisfactory, then Shem's companion spoke up.

'You don't know me fox, but I was there at de gazebo in Sa'ra Square the otha night, when you made dat fossa give back your mate's guitar. Whoa, dat was some jam afta' fox."

"Yeah, what a great night, huh?" the young silver fox offered, reaching out to clasp paws with the striped hyena. Inwardly though, he was sighing wistfully. Would he ever know a time like that again?

And then it was Shem's turn to speak again.

"Listen mammal, you want us help get that coyote out your fur?"

Conor was sorely tempted to say yes but there'd be too high a price to pay later on. He immediately shook his head.

"Noooo, I can fight my own fights, guys," he said and then gestured towards the front of his cell, "But if that stupid punk does decide to make a move on me, I'd appreciate some warning if you follow what I'm bringing out."

"You got it, fox." Both hyenas said in unison, and the three of them exchanged another fist-bump. Then Shem nodded curtly at his companion, "Anotha thing, Conah... Miles gettin' out on Monday, city's not filin' chahges on him after all."

"Yeah, ain't it typical?" Conor pantomimed spitting in the corner, "They always pull that drop-the-charges stuff on Fridays, after the courts are closed...so's you're stuck in jail for the whole stinkin' weekend." He could not have been more pleased at the opportunity to make the observation. If THIS wouldn't give him cred as a mammal who'd been here, done this, nothing would.

"You got dat right!' the striped hyena said, looking equally contemptuous, and then he waved a dismissive paw. "Anyway fox, you got someone you want me take a message for you."

Conor felt his head tilting sideways as he pondered the question.

Finally, he said, "Mmmm I can't think of anyone right off the top of my head...but then I just got here. Can you check back with me later, say sometime tomorrow evening? I may have a better idea about it then."

"No problem, mammal." Miles and Shem both grinned.

Several miles away, on a mountainside overlooking the Tundratown district, Jack La Peigne was grinning too—except his expression was more sardonic than sociable.

He was perched at the top of a ski-run, peering downwards at the slope below, a sheer expanse of white that seemed to fall away at an insane angle. Three feet to his right a sign had been posted, consisting of two, simple, gloss-black diamonds, the lower of which some wag had emblazoned with a caricature of a death's head, (some kind of big cat, by the look of it.)

Small wonder it was then, that the Snow Devil ski-run was more often referred to by its unofficial nickname, the Quad Maker. Only the best and/or the most foolhardy of Zootopia's ski community dared to try it—even in winter, much less during the summer, when snowpack was much thinner.

Jack La Peigne fit neatly into both categories; he'd been an expert skier for almost ten years now and—considering all he stood to lose if he snuffed it on a ski slope NOW—could be labeled certifiably nuts for even thinking about attempting this run.

But...this was probably the last opportunity he'd get to try The Quad-Maker for a while. Tomorrow morning, as per his orders, he was going under the knife; Dr. Honeybadger was fitting him out with the latest infusion module. There would be no ski slopes for this big bunny afterwards, not for a while at least.

If Jack was crazy, at least he wasn't alone in his insanity. He had two companions preparing to make the run along with him. On his left was Rob Liger, a lynx, CEO of perhaps the most powerful media/entertainment conglomerate on the planet. Over on his other side was a marmot with deep-set eyes, Sam "Sandy' Camelson, heir to a nearly global casino empire.

On paper, Jack was the least of the trio. The corporation run by Liger was at least three times the size of the Aker group, and the Camelson family's cash reserves easily eclipsed his own.

Ah, but there were devilish details to consider. Liger had been elected CEO of his company in the wake of a brutal corporate war, a conflict between the last scion of the family that had founded it and a clique led by the firm's then Chief Executive Officer. The old money had won that fight, but it had been a pyrrhic victory and had paved the way for Liger's ascension to Chief Executive Officer. Even then, he'd been a compromise candidate—nobody's first choice, but nobody's last choice either. He could be removed from power at any time, and his board of directors never let him forget it.

As for Sandy Camelson, well...

For starters, he was the youngest of the trio by at least ten years, largely untried and mostly untested; he had yet to face his first real crisis. On top of that, it was only by way of his family 'gonnegtions' that Sandy had risen so high up in his company, a casino empire built by his father, not by him. And old Meyer Camelson wasn't as powerful as he appeared to be either; at least half his gaming houses were based in countries that could nationalize them out of his paws with a snap of their fingers. (And lately, he'd been cozying up to a number of politicians that the biggest of their number didn't like very much.)

No... of the three animals preparing to descend the Quad-Maker that afternoon, only he, Jack LaPeigne, could lay claim to being his own mammal. (And if...no, when The Fire Triangle project finally bore fruit, he'd be able to claim a whole lot more.)

"Shall we make it a sporting proposition, gents?" Sandy Camelson asked, in that annoying faux-English accent he sometimes affected, "Last one down buys dinner." He spoke with the sure-footed confidence of someone who knows that HE won't be picking up the tab.

"I'm game," Rob Liger agreed laconically. (One more fancy dinner on HIS expense account would be less than a drop in the bucket.)

"Well, far be it from me to be the party-pooper," Jack La Peigne agreed, hiding his irritation. What, did these two fools think he'd just crawled out of the carrot patch five minutes ago? If there was any animal that knew a conspiracy when he saw one, it was this not-so-stupid rabbit. His two companions were up to something, he could feel it in the tips of his ears...and it didn't take a whole lot of imagination on his part to guess what that something was.

Rob and Sandy were meanwhile adjusting their ski goggles. Jack watched them for a moment and then slipped his own goggles down over his eyes, rocking them back and forth for a second to ensure a snug fit, and then the three of them edged their way to the lip of the ski-run.

"On three?" Sandy suggested, and both Jack and Robb nodded—although the big bunny did it while forcing himself not smirk. "If this junior woodchuck is going to try and put one over on me, he should at least refrain from insulting my intelligence."

"Okay," the marmot said, and waited for a second while the others positioned their ski-poles. And then at a nod from Jack, and Rob, he started the countdown

"Ready? One...THREE!"

He pushed off fast with Liger right beside him; the Lynx had either seen it coming or—much more likely—he was in on it. Jack La Peigne could only shake his head as he watched the pair moving rapidly away from him. Good God, so obvious; these two funny-boys really DID think he was just a dumb bunny.

Instead of pushing off immediately in hot pursuit, Jack gave the pair a few seconds more, and then he eased off onto the slope and began his own descent.

About 30 yards ahead, he could see his two companions, schussing their way downhill...hips and ski-poles swinging left and right as they danced and twisted their way through a thicket of moguls.

In terms of species, both of them had the advantage over the big bunny, marmots are an alpine mammal and lynxes are built for snow-country. If Jack was going to catch up with them, much less overtake them, he would have to ski smarter, not merely faster than these two.

Either that or he'd have to be willing to take a risk that they wouldn't touch with a ten-foot ski-pole.

Luckily for him, they had already made their first mistake, heading downwards through mogul country. With every turn and rooster-tail, they lost a little more time and a little more distance on their pursuer, especially Sandy who had already been overtaken by his own youthful arrogance. He seemed to think he'd won the bet from the moment he'd hit the ski-slope and was now intent upon impressing any females that might be watching.

Aiming for the straightest, smoothest part of the run, Jack tucked himself downward, and flattened out his body, trying to create as little wind resistance as possible. It was plain, unflavored gelatin compared to the parfait Sandy Camelson was whipping up...but the big bunny was rapidly beginning to gain ground on both him and Rob Liger.

Had they been aware of what was coming up fast behind them, the pair might have knocked off the hijinks and tried to put on some speed of their own—but they were completely unaware of what was transpiring in their wake.

That had been their second mistake, forgetting that on the Quad-Maker you never looked backwards, not even for half a second...not unless you wanted to leave this mountain strapped to a gurney and comatose.

At about ten yards behind Liger and Camelson (and fifteen more to their left,) Jack eased himself up just a bit, no longer trying to overtake them, but merely keeping pace. He could afford to do this because now he was nearly within striking distance.

And there below him was his target, a jutting, nimbus-grey rock formation known because of its shape as the Praying Paws, (but thought of by the locals as the Preying Paws.) As the official name implied, there was a gap through the center of the outcropping—but you had to approach it just so; angle in from the left and then shift hard to the right at the last instant. But even if you made it, you weren't done yet...the pathway through the rock formation was both narrow and slick...slick as black ice. And then if you were lucky enough to get all the way through, that was when the real fun began.

Jack cut to the left in a wide, sweeping crescent. The rocks were coming on hellishly fast now. Closer, closer...you need to wait until they're almost in your face, until the only way to avoid ending up as a paint-ball splatter is to make that last-second turn. Almost....alllllmossst, and...NOW!

The big bunny twisted hard on his skis, at the same time slamming down on his left ski-pole and executing a fast half-pirouette. For a heartstopping instant, he wasn't sure if he'd timed it right...and then he shot through the entrance like a crossbow bolt. Down and down the chute he went, moving at what felt like terminal velocity, barely able to keep his skits from flying out from under him, the tip of his right pole clicking against the rocks like a seismograph stylus.

And then he saw the exit, an almost perfect triangle of blue sky. No time to think about that; get ready....and...

Jack burst out of the tunnel as if hurled from a catapult...and was instantly airborne, the mountainside falling rapidly away beneath him at a nearly vertical angle. Most of the face was rock; it was a long way down to the snowpack again. (Even in Tundratown, summer is still summer.)

Soaring though the air, high above the Quad-Maker, Jack La Peigne became aware of everything around him, his senses honing to a razor-keen sharpness. The figures at the bottom of the run looked no bigger than a troop of ants, yet even at this distance the big bunny could tell that some of them were pressing their paws to their faces and gasping. He heard the rush of the wind in his ears, felt the sting of every individual snowflake and ice-crystal against his face; somewhere far below, an alder-wood fire was burning, he could smell it. The taste of adrenalin in his mouth was like fine, single-crop carrot-juice.

These were the moments Jack La Peigne lived for...but now, if he intended to keep on living...

He straightened and stiffened his body, the ski poles held out stiffly behind him, keeping his skis at a steep angle. He could see the ground coming up beneath him, slowly at first...rock, rock, and more rock. And then his rate of descent seemed to increase exponentially, faster and faster, the slope beneath him still sheathed in stone.

No wait, there was the snow again...but the slope was steep, incredibly sheer. If he could just...keep his skis...at the correct angle...drop them just a little bit more...a tiny bit more...

Jack La Peigne touched down on the snow as delicately as a butterfly alighting on a flower. And then he was tearing downhill at an insane speed, his skis throwing up tails of snow and ice-crystals as he hurtled towards the end of the run.

He noticed immediately that Liger and Camelson were no longer in front of him; he had no idea how far behind him they had fallen; what mattered was that they were behind him. They were never going to catch him now, not at this speed, not now.

There was a jump right before the end of the run, and on an impulse, the big bunny went for it; up the slope and airborne again, the world tumbling crazily beneath him as he performed a midair somersault. Coming down on the other side, he felt his left ski trying to wobble, but quickly corrected it. And then there was the finish; he could see the animals gathered around applauding, a few were cheering, and one or two of the younger ones were even whooping. Among their number were trio of doe-bunnies, watching him with clasped paws and adoring faces. Wait a second, that girl on the left; could it possibly be...? No, it wasn't her.

Jack hit the finish on a sideways drift-turn, throwing up a veil of snow and then shaking himself and raising his pole in triumph. At once the acclimations rose to a fever-pitch, more whoops, more cheers, and a thousand declarations of 'Awesome!'

The big bunny ignored it all, instead turning and lifting his ski-goggles, at last able to check on the progress of his companions.

Rob Liger was still about ten yards away from the finish. As for Sandy Camelson, there he was, performing a triple somersault over the jump. Jack allowed himself a caustic smirk. Last was still last...and all the fancy moves under heaven couldn't conceal the fact that Sandy owed both him and Rob a dinner. (And besides that, a dozen cartwheels over that jump couldn't match the big bunny's leap from the Praying Paws.) He was especially pleased that it was Sandy who was bringing up the rear. That 'One...THREE!' business had been the marmot's idea and also, being as the money he'd be spending belonged to his dad, he was always a much more lavish host than Liger, (who had to explain all of his fursonal expenses to his board of directors.)

Now, watching the two of them pole their way in his direction, Jack folded his arms and smiled, ready to sample the heady nectar of victory.

It was not to be. At that moment, a helicopter came wheeling in low over the foot of the ski-run, causing most of the crowd to duck. Jack La Peigne was not among their number; he'd been expecting the chopper's arrival. He ought to, he was the one who'd sent for it...or more correctly, for the animal who had better be on board of that machine.

Bu even so..."Sweet cheez n' crackers, couldn't you have waited a FEW more minutes?"

He watched as the helicopter settled down on a nearby landing pad, (life-flights from this location were not exactly an unknown occurrence.) After a short moment, the blades began to slow and the door opened, disgorging the big bunny's head of field operations, Seth Whitepaugh, and two of his underlings.

Jack turned to his companions, who were looking at him with a mixture of wariness and confusion.

"I'm afraid I'll have to take leave of you for just a moment," he said, "Some rather important business, it won't take but a few minutes."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began to pole his way in the direction of the three wolverines—but then stopped, seeming to remember something, and turned to look over a shoulder.

"Don't forget Samuel, you owe Rob and me dinner tonight."

"I'll remember," the marmot replied, gritting his teeth like a kit informing his teacher, 'Yes, I'll remember to clean the erasers!' (He absolutely hated to be called Samuel...especially in public, as Jack well knew.)

As usual, when he caught up with Seth Whitepaugh the big bunny skipped the greetings; in fact, he didn't even speak first to the senior of the three wolverines.

"Some help with my ski-boots here?" he said, addressing the other two.

It was not a request, and they treated it as such, swiftly dropping swiftly to their haunches and undoing the fastenings and bindings.

Stepping out of his ski-boots, the big bunny stamped his feet to get the circulation going, and at last spoke to his senior operative.

"I'll see you privately in that hut over there Whitepaugh," he said, pointing with a ski-pole, and then to the others he added, "You two, make sure we're not disturbed."

As soon as they entered the hut, Jack got straight down to brass tacks.

"Whitepaugh...while I was on my way up here, I received a rather disturbing piece of news, regarding the operation earlier today."

The wolverine merely raised an eyebrow, unruffled and even less surprised

"You are referring, I take it sir, to the incident in in the alleyway behind the target?" He made no mention of Judy Hopps.

Jack clapped his paws against his elbows and then settled down on a nearby stool.

"Yes, that's correct," he said, and then raised a finger in the wolverine's direction. "Let's not beat around the bush Whitepaugh. Yes, I have feelings for Judy Hopps—but they don't matter here. If it had been any ZPD officer who nearly bought it in that alleyway I still would have summoned you here." He folded his arms, looking very grim "This early on in the Fire Triangle operation, a dead police officer—even an injured one—is a luxury we can't afford; later on perhaps, but not at present. The last thing we need right now is for the City to take sides—and that's precisely what would have happened if Judy Hopps had been killed when that power pole collapsed."

"Yes sir, I'm aware of that." The wolverine answered, nodding gravely. Whatever his employer's motivations were, he was right and they both knew it.

"Therefore," Jack unlaced his arms and pointed with a ski-pole, "I want you to take fursonal charge of our next operation; we need to make absolutely certain that this time there will be NO chance of collateral damage, not even a near miss."

"Consider it done sir," Whitepaugh nodded as if he'd been expecting this all along, (he probably had.)

"Very good," the big bunny answered, "When is it scheduled for?"

"The balloon goes up at 02:00, Monday morning." The wolverine told him. "We want it to be as close to their opening for business as possible, to insure the maximum effect—but at the same time we need to make certain that our operatives will have sufficient opportunity to escape."

"Very good," Jack nodded approvingly, "and the one after that?"

"Same time, Tuesday morning," Whitepaugh told him

The big bunny's ears shot upwards like antennae.

"Isn't that rather soon?"

A sardonic smile unzipped along the wolverine's muzzle.

"Yes it is sir...but you have to consider the character of Mark #2, temperamental, impulsive; prone to lash out violently first and ask questions never. Striking back immediately is exactly what he'd do."

"Ah yes, that's true, isn't it?" Jack rubbed at the back of his neck...and if anything, the leer spreading slowly across his features was even nastier than the smirk on Seth Whitepaugh's face.