A/N: This chapter is a little shorter. I'm in the middle of studying for mid term exams.

1100, 6 January 2005

The restaurant was on the rich side of the city, on a main street. The place was crowded, and there were cars and carts and pedestrians filling the streets. It was the perfect place for a terrorist to disappear, and the perfect place for Pedro to meet Goshen.

Pedro Guermancho was a short man, with oily skin, graying hair, and a round belly. He looked like the man any Mexican would mistake for his abuelo. But Pedro was no mans grandfather. He was a smuggler. Marijuana was his main cargo, but he had carried cocaine, heroine, and even Cuban cigars. He sat at a table near the back of the restaurant, with a clear view of the entire place. There were three Americans at the bar, and one of them was uproariously drunk. Pedro smiled. "Drink up, my friends, for tonight, I poison your country."

One day last month, a man had approached him with a proposition. The man was not Spanish, though he could be mistaken for such.

"I will pay you one hundred thousand American dollars," he had said, "If you can bring several of my brothers across the border."

"Of course, my good friend. How may of your friends would there be?"

"Fifteen."

"Ah, I can do that, amigo, but to bring such a large group will require…"

"One hundred fifty, then."

"Muy bien, amigo."

And so it was agreed. He was introduced to Goshen, and the date was set for today. Tonight, Pedro would make more in one night than he could make in a month of smuggling crushed leaves.

The Americans were becoming obnoxious. One of them spilled his drink, and demanded a refill. 'This has gone on enough,' thought the bartender. "I am sorry, my friend, but I think you have had enough." Who became drunk before lunch, anyway?

The man grabbed the bartender's shirt. "One more, man, that's all."

The Americans friends tried to calm him. "Hey man, it's cool. We'll just go to another bar." He looked up and apologized to the frightened Mexican. "Sorry."

The drunk tossed his sober friend away, onto another patrons table. He lunged across the bar at the bartender.

A fight ensued. Soon, punches were being thrown, and everyone was fighting everyone. People rushed for the exits. By the time the restaurant cooled down, everyone was gone. And Pedro was being driven away in handcuffs by the not-so-drunk American and his friends.

Mike Loo smiled, "Bloody good acting, Jack."

"Thanks, it was nothing."

"Yeah, but did you have to hit me so hard?"

"You had to make it to Pedro's table. Besides, I can't do it back home, I'll be grounded."

Captain Luke McBride grinned. His team had done well on their second mission. The Sparta project was shaping up nicely, he thought. They gathered their own intelligence, planned and executed their own missions, and played by their own rules. And they loved every minute of it.

It was time to expand their operation. He would talk with Colonel Dumont about it when they got back to Honduras.

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Two days later…

"Mr. President."

"Hi Paul! Good to see you again."

"Thank you, sir."

"What can I do for you?"

"Sir, I have a request from Colonel Dumont, the commander of the Sparta Project."

"I got their mission reports. I'm impressed."

"Yes, sir. As you know, the project was initiated during the Cold War. The idea was to find orphans, whom nobody would miss, and train them to be supersoldiers. The Sparta Project was a test. Those orphans are grown soldiers now. There are three teams of four each, plus a command team. Once these men are old and done, however, there are no replacements. The administrations previous to yours have refused to authorize the training of any more children."

"And now you're asking me."

"Well, Colonel Dumont is asking. He thinks their missions prove that the idea worked. He thinks we should begin, um, 'full production of the goods.' It does take nearly twenty years to train these men. That's why they're so good. The downside is, unless we keep a steady stream of them coming, the project is only good once."

"Ah. I see. Let me think about it, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

As General Paul Dukeman left the room, the President shook his head. 'How would the American people react if they found out I'd taken their children and turned them into brainwashed supersoldier robots? Not very well.'

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