L'Iroquois was on another hunt— the drug money has been stolen once again and fallen into this french city in the mountains.

His silenced Beretta 92 in the pocket of his long fancy black trench coat. His black leather gloves on. And his cold gaze.

He currently was at the Jandarmerie, acting like an FBI agent, with the I.D. that still had the little smear of blood of the actual FBI agent that L'Iroquois killed to get.

"What are the leads on the case, you said?" Iroquois asked as he looked at the head of police sat at his little desk.