Battle Road

by

Frank Gerry

This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical

events, actual people, or real places are used only in a fictional

manner. Other names, characters, places, and events are completely

the creation of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real people,

living or dead, actual events, and actual places is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Frank Gerry

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

To Janet,

My North Star

Preface

In the spring of 2003, my wife Janet and I visited the memorial for the Battleship Arizona in Pearl Harbor. We were on our honeymoon, having fun and enjoying our time exploring the Hawaiian Islands. Everything about Hawaii is amazing; the sun, the beaches, the mountains. It's  breathtakingly beautiful.

I'm glad we took the time to make the trip over to the memorial. Because it was more than just the solemn experience of paying our respects to those who perished that infamous day. For me it was an epiphany for what it means to be an American.

While I stood facing the giant white wall in the Memorial, listing the thousands of names of those who died, I began to think of all the men and women who died fighting to establish and defend our country. Actually, I thought of all the people who died face first in some mud soaked battlefield so that I could have fun on an exotic tropical island.

I thought to myself, what can I do to honor all those men and women. The answer came to me easily. I could honor them by doing my best to participate in the democratic process and to always speak out for what was right. To carry on what they fought for in whatever little way I could.

The idea for this novel came about from my observations of the political landscape in America during the Great Recession, after our first African American president was elected. It was a time, still is to a degree, of intense anger and fear by certain segments of American society. A political movement was born, which grew out of that anger, the Tea Party.

While I watched the behavior and the language the Tea Party, I grew more worried by the day. I listened to their members violently shout down opposing viewpoints at town hall meetings. I listened to their leaders vow “No compromise” in the halls of Congress. I saw the growing strength of these Tea Partiers and their attempts to turn back the clock on women’s rights, suppress the rights of gays and lesbians, and further inject their religious beliefs into our nations laws.

I do not deny these people have a right to their opinions. What concerned me was their undemocratic language, their extremist actions, their hate filled speech, and their apparent unwillingness to engage in political dialogue.

This book is my way of speaking out. It tells a possible story of what could happen to our country if people stopped talking with one another. If Americans stopped making compromises to live in peace with one another.

Frank Gerry

April, 2014

ONE

Karl Olsen paced back and forth in a parking spot along Beacon Street in the Back Bay section of Boston. He smoked a cigarette, a Paul Mall, which was nearly out. He didn't go for those wimpy vaporizers that nearly everyone used nowadays. A real cigarette was the only way to get a solid rush of nicotine. He stopped and stood perfectly still for a moment, inhaled the last of the butt, and let out a stream of smoke into the evening sky. His mind wandered off from his task at hand as he began swaying from side to side.

Darkness had fallen earlier than usual on the overcast November evening. Olson stopped his swaying and stood facing his beat up Suzuki motorcycle, an old electric drive. He noticed some dried encrusted dirt on the side of the battery casing and started rubbing it off with his thumb. He looked around from time to time, trying to adjust his eyes to the dimming light, and keep watch of the sidewalk. His helmet and duffel bag lay on the curb next to him. Three extinguished Paul Malls where strewn about his feet.

A couple of blocks away, a brisk wind swirled a few reddish brown leaves along the sidewalk as John and Lynne Davidson strode past. The couple were taking their evening walk along Beacon Street. A routine that got them out of their townhouse for some exercise and stress relief at the end of the day. Their usual route took them down to Massachusetts Avenue where they could head over to the Charles River, for a relaxing stroll along the Esplanade, with magnificent night time views of the Cambridge skyscrapers illuminated across the river.

John Davidson was the larger than life celebrity CEO of Mainstreet Financial, one of the largest financial service conglomerates in the nation. Although Davidson became well known in his earlier years within financial circles across the globe as he built his corporate empire. It wasn't until he hosted his first Christian ministry on prime time TV in the mid 2020's that he became nationally famous.

Olsen continued chained smoking. He changed his motion back to his original pacing of to and fro. His shoulders hunched as if to ward off the cold. Dressed in a dark red leather motorcycle outfit, he blended into the shadows of the darkening street. Olsen purposely chose the spot to park his bike for the way the nearby streetlight cast it's light. He could see the faces of anyone approaching along the sidewalk.

At twenty five minutes past four, John and Lynne walked under that streetlight. “Like fucking clockwork,” Olsen murmured to himself. His heart began to beat faster, his breathing more labored. A bead of sweat dripped down the right side of his forehead. He started the engine to his motorcycle as he had planned. The electric motor whirred.

The Davidson's held hands as they walked past. Enjoying their evening, they took no notice of anyone in particular around them. Their conversation focused on the new mega-church they were building in one of the wealthier suburbs of Boston. John Davidson usually didn't talk with his wife about financial matters or his duties as one of the senior Deputies in the Freedom Party, preferring to keep his work separate from his home life.

Olsen could feel his heart pounding even harder. He wondered whether he was going to faint. As the Davidson's walked past, he stepped onto the sidewalk and followed the pair. Four, five, six, he counted in his head the number of his footsteps. He pulled down the zipper to the top of his leather suit. Nine, ten, he found himself unable to stop counting. Twelve, he pulled out his silencer equipped 22 automatic handgun from his underarm holster. Fourteen, fifteen. In a blur of motion, he managed to take a few quick steps, put the barrel of the gun nearly to the back of John Davidson's head, and pull the trigger. Eighteen, the pop from the silencers muzzle was barely noticeable. He swung around and slowly walked away.

Davidson was dead before he hit the sidewalk. The 22 caliber titanium jacketed slug almost certainly having ricocheted back and forth within the mans skull. Lynne Davidson never saw a thing. Her body frozen while she watched her husband collapse onto the concrete.

Twenty one, twenty two, Olsen continued his counting. He appeared to be in a state of shock as he walked slowly, almost hypnotically, towards his idling motorcycle. He dropped the gun into the street, and just stood there, frozen with a blank expression on his face.

It was only a matter of a few seconds before the dead mans wife finally realized what had happened. She fell to her knees and began to scream, bringing Olsen back to his senses. A few nearby pedestrians rushed to her aid. Blood smeared across her jacket as she held her husbands head. “Oh my God, help me, Oh my God. John! John!” she cried, tears flowed down her face.

Time was running out. Olsen knew he had to act fast. They'd be over head within seconds. As planned, he reached down and pulled out of his duffel bag the brand new Khymat grenade rifle with laser targeting and inserted the circular magazine of armor piercing rocket propelled grenades. The magazine was full with twenty five rounds. “Enough to do some serious fuck'n damage,” he said out loud while admiring the weapon. He was back to his old cocky self.

He put on his motorcycle helmet, lifted the visor, and switched on the helmets digital camera, transmitting the video back to Command. Then he just stood there, by the side of his bike, waiting a bit anxiously. A few seconds ticked by. Nothing happened. He looked up and down the street, scanning the air. Nothing. He knew it wouldn't be long. He began fiddling with the controls to the targeting system of the Khymat, making sure it was functioning properly.

Within a minute, the first drone came flying down the street at about twenty five miles per hour, thirty feet above street level. At the same time, a police siren roared in the distance. Olsen readied the Khymat rifle, slowly taking aim against the drone hovering above him. But held off firing. He focused the green luminescent targeting display of the rifle, taking his time adjusting the targeting system in preparation to fire.

Olsen's primary assigned task was testing the effectiveness of the Israeli made Khymats against Homeland Security's newest reconnaissance drones. The non-lethal drones assigned to patrol city streets. The assassination was important. But testing the weapon was vital.

This generation of reconnaissance drones were the latest tool in the Department of Homeland Security's arsenal. They were hockey puck shaped flying discs, five feet in diameter by two feet thick. Constructed with an outer layer of dark tinted lexan and equipped with video and infrared camera's, laser targeting, listening equipment, and “smart” programming. Negatively charged plasma, magnetized with powerful lightweight electromagnets provided the lift and thrust for flight. Gone were the old internal combustion engines with rotating propellers. These drones carried no weapons, designed instead to be the eyes and ears for Homeland Security, as well as, the targeting systems for the nations fleet of weaponized attack drones, such as the latest generation of Reapers.

Olsen prepared to fire. Before he could pull the trigger, he caught sight of more drones flying in fast from both directions of the street. Something was wrong. He swung his head from left to right counting three, four, five of them in all. This wasn't supposed to happen. One drone followed by a backup was the expected response in a situation such as this. The police siren grew louder. Another siren could be heard from the opposite direction. “What the fuck is going on?” he spoke aloud. He targeted the closest stationary drone, acquired the target lock and fired. The tiny missile struck it's prey, penetrating the exterior shell and instantly exploding. The hover drone fell to the street in flames. Before Olsen was able to acquire a target lock on the next drone, it and the other remaining drones began evasive maneuvering.

This generation of hover drones were programmed to respond to and avoid ground based laser targeting systems. More probable was that by then the drones were being manually controlled by their command center and were issued the instructions for evasive action. A single human pilot located in a far away bunker controlled a dozen or more of the semi-autonomous drones.

Olsen knew he could shoot down one or possibly two more hover drones in time. Getting all of them was not likely to happen. He had no options left but to try. He stood there sweating, trying to put a lock on one of the drones bouncing back and forth in random patterns. Five seconds passed, no target lock, ten seconds, nothing. At fifteen seconds, bingo, target acquired, he pulled the trigger and the second hover drone fell to it's death. “Fuck yeah!” he yelled.

Simultaneously, all three remaining drones fired their targeting laser beams at him. Three red dots marked his chest. The hover drones maintained their laser fixes as they maneuvered back and forth. Sweat poured down Olsen's face. He knew he couldn't outrun them on his old motorcycle. Not now. Not on these congested city streets during rush hour. Not with Reaper attack drones on patrol over the skies of New England having certainly been dispatched to his coordinates. His only chance of survival was shooting them all down before Homeland Security arrived or before getting hit by an anti-personnel missile, launched from three thousand feet in the darkness above.

The screams from Lynne Davidson continued to echo throughout the street. She was inconsolable. Bystanders finally managed to pull her away from her husband and bring her to safety down a flight of concrete steps leading to an entrance to a lower level condominium. Olsen could hear the good Samaritans speaking quietly as they got the victims wife to safety; “Terrorists....... I think there's only one of them.” The rest of the street was deserted, the civilian bystanders having already dove for cover.

Olsen desperately fired the Khymat rifle again. This time the targeting failed, the grenade veered off it's mark and burst into the red brick exterior wall of the townhouse on the opposite side of the street.

His options were quickly diminishing.  The soldiers should have been here by now, he thought. He knew a single shot by Homeland Security soldiers with the same laser targeted weapons as he held in his hands would send a smart bullet directly into one of the red dots on his chest. The other thought continually filled his mind. The thought of a missile appearing out of the darkness and striking him before he could even blink an eye. His heart began to race harder if that was even possible.

Olsen fired again. This time it was a lucky shot, hitting another of the hover drones dead center. He took no joy in the sight of it falling to earth ablaze. Again, he wanted to run, get on his bike and take off. He knew he couldn't. The drones would pursue, with lasers trained on him.

The first Homeland Security military police cruiser with it's sirens blasting screeched around the corner onto Beacon Street. “Oh fucking shit, fuck me!” Olsen stumbled backwards. More sirens could be heard on the way.

He regained his composure, though continued stepping backwards onto the sidewalk as he managed to fire off a round. It was another good shot, hitting one more of the drones in mid air. One red dot remained on his chest. The cruiser slammed on it's brakes a hundred or so feet from him. The car skidded to it's left before finally coming to a halt.

Olsen struggled to get a targeting lock on the remaining drone. He spoke aloud, “If I can get that last son of a ......” He stopped in mid sentence. Any hope he had left escaped him as he watched another hover drone fly in low over the Homeland Security cruiser.  The two soldiers from the cruiser positioned themselves behind their opened doors with guns drawn. “Drop your weapon and get down on the ground! I won't say this again. You've got three seconds,” the soldier from the drivers side of the car commanded. The second hover drone moved into position, beaming it's targeting laser squarely on Olsen's chest.

Olsen knew if he got caught, there was no way he could withstand the torture. He would talk. He would tell them everything he knew and more. He spoke aloud, barely perceptible even to himself, “I can't betray them.” His mind suddenly drew a blank trying to remember just who 'they' were. He struggled for another moment trying to remember the names and the faces of his commanding officers and colleagues. There was nothing. It was like the images were hidden behind a curtain. Just out of sight. Suddenly, a fuzzy image of a older man with long white hair seeped into his mind for some reason. But he couldn't make out who it was, it was all a blur.

He switched the Khymat rifle to full automatic. Then fought to get air into his lungs, before running into the middle of the street and firing a volley of grenades at the soldiers. A barrage of the small missiles smashed into the cruiser, destroying the bullet proof glass and armored plated doors. Metal and glass shards exploded in every direction. The tall soldier on the drivers side was killed instantly with a direct hit to the front of the head. The other soldier, his left leg below the kneecap blown off by a strike to his lower calf, fell to the ground in unbelievable pain. Though in a blink of an eye, the soldier managed to roll over and sit up against the side of the car. Ripping the sleeve of his uniform off to start a tourniquet.

A second Homeland Security cruiser screeched to a halt behind Olsen, closing off the street. Olsen spun around, firing another volley of missiles. He kept his finger on the trigger this time, emptying the magazine. The police cruiser turned into a mangled burning wreck. Both of the soldiers inside, bloodied and collapsed, appeared dead. “Yeah, you think so motherfuckers! You think you can beat me. Fuck no!” Olsen yelled as loud as he could at the burning car in front of him. His entire body shook as he held the Khymat rifle with one hand in an exaggerated macho manner. “Fucking right.” He shook his head up and down, still yelling profanities as he grabbed his duffel bag to put the rifle away. Two laser beams remained trained on him. It didn't matter. He was out of grenades. His only chance now, he thought, was trying to outrun the drones before a Reaper got into firing range.

The surviving soldier from the first cruiser managed to quickly tie off the tourniquet to his leg. The blood loss had slowed to a drip. He knew he might just make it if help got to him in time. He also knew he had only seconds before he'd lose consciousness. With all his remaining strength, he stretched his right arm over to where his service weapon lay on the ground, trying as best he could to stay upright and not fall over. His fingers managed to cup the gun and drag it towards him. When it was close enough, he took the gun by the handle, quickly switched off the safety, raised it above his head with both hands, and squeezed off a round through the passenger side door window. He only needed one shot.

The smart bullet weaved it's way through the darkened city street. A fraction of a second later it landed on one of the red dots marking the assassin's chest. Olson never saw it coming. Blood, shattered bones, and disintegrated organs exploded outward as his body instantly shredded to pieces. Like his first victim, Karl Olsen was dead before he hit the street.

TWO

“What the … ,” Dylan Fraser yelled as he swerved his SUV into the left lane to avoid being hit by an old beat up shitbox of a car that had pulled out in front of him. It was driven by a long haired teenage punk, with three other punks in the car laughing hysterically. Probably stoned out and on their way to High School. “Fucking idiots,” Dylan spoke to himself in a calmer tone. The boys sped away, continuing to drive recklessly.

That was me ten years ago, he thought. He briefly remembered back to the old days, all the good times; drinking with his buddies, smoking weed, getting wasted, and doing crazy shit. “Which one was I, the driver or one of the kids in the back seat?” he continued speaking aloud to himself. Mental images of his youth raced through his mind. Suddenly remembering he wasn't a leader, he was one of the followers. But hell, it was a kick ass time.

Dylan refocused on the present. He was still pissed at the little snots. He had just bought the metallic green StarCrusier sport utility vehicle a couple of weeks earlier and had that 'Oh my God, I can't get a scratch on it' mentality. The Chinese made StarCrusier was the most popular car for the 2037 model year, not to mention the three previous years, as well. It had a translucent carbon fiber body and completely computer controlled. It was the epitome of cool. In both looks and features. The waiting list to get one was over a year. Except for Party members of course.

Dylan was suffering from another hangover. This morning it wasn't as bad as usual, really no more than a moderate headache. The new car smell from the StarCruiser wasn't helping any. He listened to some soft jazz hoping it would relax his slightly throbbing head.

His commute took him through the back roads out of Boston to the city of Burlington. It was a better route and much less stressful than taking the highway. The back roads had little traffic on most days. The highway, in contrast, had seemingly endless traffic congestion.

This morning turned out to be an exception. As Dylan turned off from a side road and drove onto Middlesex Turnpike in Burlington, the traffic suddenly came to a crawl. An accident, he thought. The traffic managed to move along but it was slow going. Dylan tapped his fingers on the molded black plastic console of the car while slouched down in his drivers seat. He reached over to fiddle with the display to the sound system, tapping the display and moving his finger back and forth across an image of a radio frequency spectrum. Finally settling on his favorite Christian rock station. Using the manual controls instead of asking the computer to change the channel just gave him something to do.

A few minutes later, when the Christian rock tune ended, Dylan snapped out of his commuter trance. He shook his head from side to side trying to keep himself awake. It occurred to him to see if he could find out what was holding things up. At least it was something to occupy the time. Rolling down his window and sticking his head out, he couldn't see anything other than the reflection of police strobe lights bouncing off cars and buildings.

He straightened himself up and stretched up as high as he could, pressing his forehead against the roof of the car. Looking ahead by the expressway on ramp, he could just barely see three Homeland Security police cars in the right lane with their lights flashing. It appeared they had stopped a car for something. Speeding? Dylan slapped the steering wheel with both hands and in his anger let his native Boston accent uncharacteristically slip out, “You gotta be frigg'en kidd'in me. All of this for some punks go'in too fast!”

A few moments later the satellite radio station started playing one of his favorite songs, “White Light” from the Christian rock band HigherCalling. Dylan slouched back into his seat to sing along with the tune. He was resigned to the fact that he was just going to have to wait.

Traffic was down to two lanes and was being directed by one of the Homeland Security troopers. While the cars inched along, Dylan looked about as he continued singing. He glanced down over his left shoulder to see a balding middle aged guy in the passenger seat of the car next to him checking out his StarCruiser. Yeah, you wish. Dylan smirked sarcastically at the man. He knew the jealousies his new SUV evoked. Or so he believed.

After a couple more minutes of stop and go traffic, Dylan finally reached the police scene. Homeland Security soldiers, dressed in black fatigues, had pulled over a car with several older teenagers and were in the process of arresting them. Dylan passed by just at the moment the soldiers were putting the boys into the back seat of the cruisers. They looked like clean cut college kids, no more than eighteen or nineteen.  I wonder what they did, he thought, before  finally managing to get free from the traffic.

He didn't think about the police scene for long. The DJ on the satellite radio station cut off the end of “White Light” and launched into a particularly stupid monologue. Dylan let out a fed up gasping sound. “I pay money to listen to this crap?” He decided to listen to the news. “Athena, switch to NCR.”

Athena was the name he assigned the sport utility vehicle’s on board computer. Although, Hal was probably the most popular name people gave to their computers, Dylan never liked that name. Nor did he like the male voice used by most computers. The female voice was much more soothing. “Locking on XM frequency 1-1-5-6, National Christian Radio,” the synthesized female voice echoed from the sound system. The local NCR station was in the middle of it's morning news broadcast; presenting the news about the landslide presidential elections, the cooler weather on the way, and another great month for the stock market.

At twelve minutes past eight, Dylan turned onto the parking lot to building three of the regional headquarters of the Department of Homeland Security. Dylan spied the available parking spots. Good, not many cars yet, he thought. The parking lot closest to the entrance of the building was usually filled by eight o'clock every morning. Though this morning was one of the exceptions since it was the day after the presidential election. Most of the employee's of the Department of Homeland Security that worked in his building would have been out late the previous night celebrating the re-election of President Thompson. It was an unspoken rule that everyone in DHS, as Homeland Security was popularly known, participate in at least one of the celebrations that went on election night. Expressing patriotism was an important aspect of  job security.

Carrying a computer briefcase in one hand and fumbling with his trendy dark green necktie in the other, Dylan casually made his way across the parking lot to the heavily guarded entrance. Only a few other employee's were making their way in as well. The main entrance to Building 3 had decorative four foot high granite vehicle barriers placed before the bridge walkway leading to the main doors. Only foot traffic could approach. The entire complex was designed for security. Inside of the primary barbed wire security fence, a concrete moat thirty feet wide and fifteen feet deep completely encircled the complex, making it impossible for terrorist car bombers to penetrate. A no fly zone existed for a two mile radius. The latest generation of electronic jamming hardware, radar controlled Gatling guns, and surface to air missiles at the ready.

Dylan crossed the narrow walkway and flashed his badge to the DHS troopers armed with battle enhanced M32 assault rifles. One of the soldiers in the guard post nodded his head, giving Dylan the OK to proceed. He moved on to the thick, bullet proof glass doors where he stopped for a fraction of a second to glance at his own reflection. Once inside the foyer of the double doors, Dylan swiped his badge across the magnetic card reader mounted on the wall. The locking mechanism of the inner door made it's clicking sound as it unlatched, mechanically sliding the door open, allowing him to proceed to the security checkpoint. It was all part of the morning routine.

Dylan walked down a roped off lane leading to one of three security checkpoints located in the center of the lobby. He choose the line with the fewest people. But that was always risky. You never really know which line will move the fastest.

While he waited in line, Dylan stared blankly at the ubiquitous posters hung across the walls of the lobby. Dozens of the three foot wide oval shaped posters of a red letter “T”  in a blue and white background decorated the drab unpainted concrete walls. At the bottom of each poster were the words 'Re-elect President Thompson'. The posters had been up for months. But Dylan hadn't given them much thought until today. His mind focusing on how long it would be before the maintenance staff would finally take them all down.  No doubt to save them for next time, he thought.

He finally reached the security checkpoint and placed his briefcase onto the conveyor belt of the weapons detector. Turning to his side, he leaned forward and put his head level with the eye scanner. A low intensity aqua blue laser scanned his right eye while a security officer looked him over menacingly. Every morning Dylan saw the same few security guards at the checkpoint. And every morning they had the same mean look across their faces. While he waited for the scan to complete he wondered whether the security guards were under orders to act the way they do. They couldn't really be that psycho. Could they? he thought.

A green light flashed above the scanner. The security guard looked genuinely disappointed, as if he wanted the light to flash red and have the chance to pull out his machine pistol. “Move ahead,” the guard uttered, while motioning Dylan to walk through the metal detector.

Dylan cleared security and grabbed his briefcase before heading off to catch the eight thirty church services in the chapel before work. He didn't want to have to go back downstairs for the nine or nine thirty services. They were usually more crowded. And today he knew they'd be jammed packed with everyone arriving late.

THREE

Dylan's full name was Edward Dylan Fraser, Jr. Preferring the name Dylan to distinguish himself from his father. Dylan Fraser had been a software engineer for the Department of Homeland Security for the past year and a half. At twenty seven years old, he had earned a reputation at DHS as one of the top software engineers. Although he was assigned to work on many of the best projects, Dylan's specialty was developing quantum encrypted digital signal transmissions. Specifically, digital transmission control systems for Homeland Security's fleet of reconnaissance and weaponized aerial drones.

At eleven that morning, a gentle knock came on Dylan's office door. A woman's voice spoke above the hum of the office's heating and air conditioning system. “Good morning.”

Dylan swung around in his faux black leather office chair to see a tall, blue eyed, blond woman standing in the open doorway. “Good morning Grace. Did you have fun last night?”

“I had a wicked good time,” Grace was prepared with her response, “We all went ov'ah to Agent Williams house where we partied until midnight. Plenty of good food and beer. I was told that was the best re-election party our department ev'ah had.”

Dylan nodded his head as he listened, forcing a grin on his face. “Well, it sounds like I missed out on a great time.”

“Yeah, what happened to you? I really wanted ta'h hang with you last night,” she said, all the while attempting to act casual. She moved across the office and sat at the end of Dylan's desk.

Dylan briefly stared at Grace's exposed thighs as she sat cross legged with her hands modestly tugging her black skirt for more coverage. “I have a presentation to give at a meeting today. I went home early for one last go over and catch up on my beauty sleep.” He lied.

He shifted his stare from her legs to her eyes. Dylan didn't care about the celebrations for President Thompson. Nor did he enjoy hanging out with his DHS colleagues either. The truth was he couldn't care less about politics. Nor did he care about anything to do with work as soon as the proverbial bell rang at the end of the day.

The previous night Dylan had showed up at Williams' party to make a brief obligatory appearance. Then slipped away to meet up with some friends at one of their favorite downtown bars, had a few beers, actually more than just a few, and hit on some of the local college girls. Titties and beer, that's where his real interests lay.

Grace moved her long strawberry blond hair away from her face. She was without any doubt quite attractive, thin, still somewhat girlish, with nicely shaped breasts that matched her tall frame. She spoke shyly, with her voice almost cracking. “Friday, a group of friends are getting togeth'ah. I thought...., I mean..., would you like to go?” She looked down coyly at him for a second before averting her eyes to the floor.

Dylan knew this was coming. It happened more often than he liked to admit with the various women he had slept with. Although Dylan wasn't exactly a ladies man, the women did fall for him. He had good looks, a little taller than average, with short dark hair, and an athletic build. He could be brilliant and charming.

“Grace,” Dylan said, as he rolled his seat to the middle of the office and reached over to close the door. “You're a beautiful, beautiful, Christian woman. I'd be very proud to settle down with you and raise a family.” He paused, searching for the right words. “The problem is, I'm not ready to commit to any kind of serious relationship at this time in my life. And I wouldn't want to lead you on in any way because I value our friendship.”

Grace froze where she sat. It was evident she didn't know how to respond. A look of hurt rose across her face. For weeks she had daydreamed of him professing his love for her, his shyness was all that prevented him making the first move. She was certain all he needed was the right push from her to finally profess his love.

“What is it? Is it me? I would be a wonderful wife.....”

Dylan stopped her from going any further. “Grace. No. I told you. I'm just not ready for any kind of long term commitment. Really, I'm too young for that. Trust me.”

Grace's facial expression went stone cold as she got up and moved across the office. Turning to Dylan as she opened the wooden office door, “It's true what I've heard isn't it. I didn't want to believe it. But it's true.” Her tall body went straight and rigid. “You've been sleeping around with those whor'ahs in the city. Those bitches that don't even believe in God.” She swung away from the door in a huff, her blond hair swirling side to side as she hurried off.

Dylan jumped up from his chair and stepped out of the office to catch a glimpse of Grace marching down the hallway. A few of the engineers in the neighboring offices timidly peaked their heads out to see what the commotion was. Dylan stood frozen, until it dawned on him to shrug his shoulders in an exaggerated manner. He gave gave an almost comical facial expression that conveyed, 'women, what can you do'. It worked. He managed to break the tension with his colleagues, slowly backed slowly into his office,  and quietly closed the door.

His comical expression turned into a slight, contained smile. He leaned against the back of the closed office door, looked up at the cheap drop down ceiling tiles, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that was easier than I imagined,” he whispered to himself. Though he knew he'd have to smooth things out in the morning. Grace had a lot of female friends at DHS. The last thing he wanted was to screw up any chances he may have with them.

FOUR

Agent Mike Goodman stood on his front porch to his antique New England colonial home. He punched in the security code on the keypad next to the faded red door, while balancing a couple of plastic burlap bags of groceries with one hand and his brown leather brief case in the other. The LED above the keypad turned green followed by the locking mechanism making a clicking sound and the door opening slightly.

It was five minutes past three o'clock in the afternoon. Wednesday's were his day to leave work early and spend some time with his family. He'd still be putting in a full day of work. It would just be done later that night in his home office.

Goodman pushed the door open with his right foot and walked in. “Daddy!” yelled the two little girls in unison. Emily, age five, and Jennifer, age three, ran to greet their father in the front hallway. The girls hugged his legs and vied for his attention as he tried to put down his bags.

“How's my little princesses,” Goodman said, bending down to give his little girls a great big hug. “Good.” “Good, daddy.” The girls gleamed seeing their father. Suzanne Goodman walked into the hallway, wiping her hands on a towel she was carrying, and leaned over to kiss her husband. “Hello Dear,” she said with a tired yet warm expression.

“Kids, let your father get in the door,” Suzanne Goodman pleaded. She picked up the grocery bags, “Can you take the kids out for a while? Maybe bring them bike riding. I need a break. An hour is all I need.”

“OK, will do,” he said, putting his briefcase away in the rectangular wall safe installed in the hallway. “What do you think girls? Where do you want to go?” He knew what the answer would be. Emily and Jennifer jumped up and down in front of their dad. “Bike path, Bike path!” Emily yelled while Jennifer clapped her hands enthusiastically shouting, “Yeah!!!”

The kids loved to ride their bikes whenever they could. Jennifer with her orange tricycle and Emily on her new Sunray bike with training wheels. The bike path was the old Minute Man trail that ran through their Arlington neighborhood. The old trail was in disrepair. Cyclists could no longer ride from one end to the other as they had decades earlier, but sections still remained that were good enough to ride on. The kids didn't ride very far anyways. It was perfect for them.

“OK,  you know the drill,” Goodman reminded the kids, “go find your helmets. I'll get the bikes out.”

Goodman carried the bicycles out of the garage, checking that each one was mechanically functioning properly. When he was finished, he stood in the driveway for a moment facing the quiet street. The smile on his face disappeared. He moved his head back and forth, scanning the neighborhood for anything askew. Satisfied everything looked good, he headed back inside the house and got his briefcase out of the temporary wall safe. He carried it down the basement stairs to his office, punched in the codes to the lock, and slowly pushed opened the heavy metal door. He switched on the lights and stood transfixed in the doorway entrance inspecting the room. His eyes squinted while he slowly, methodically scanned the room from side to side. Verifying that everything was where it should be. Certain that no one had intruded into his windowless sanctum, he moved over to his desk and took off the jacket to his dark gray suit and removed his underarm holster and gun. He placed the jacket over the back of the office chair and put the handgun in the side drawer of the desk next to the Karlin machine pistol in it's quick release holder.

On the wall behind the desk, Goodman placed his right hand on the identification display to the office safe. A series of red laser lights scrolled down across the screen reading his hand print. A half a second later the identification display turned green allowing him to proceed to enter the numeric code on the keypad to the safe.

With the safe opened, Goodman placed the briefcase inside, then pulled out a square metal lock box. The box was old, the lock long since broken and unused. He opened and surveyed it's contents. Nodding his head, he placed the box back inside, closed the safe, and checked to make sure it was locked. This was his daily ritual, each and every day. Then he double checked the safe was locked.

Goodman grabbed a jacket hanging from the coat hook next to the office door and headed out. He checked that the metal door was locked behind him and quickly headed up the stairs. His smile returned.

The girls rode their bikes out of their driveway and down the quiet neighborhood street as their father ran to keep up. The Minute Man trail was only a block away, so Goodman didn't have far to jog. Though, at his age he knew he needed all the exercise he could get.

Once on the bike trail, the girls circled back and forth or side to side, really just messing around. Being on the bikes and moving was all that counted. “Hey dad, watch this,” Emily yelled as she rode around with one hand in the air. Jennifer rode her tricycle nearby, keeping an eye on her sister's antics. The girls were having the time of their lives, as they seemed to do every time they got the chance to ride their bikes and see their dad.

It was getting late in the afternoon and growing darker. Rain clouds were moving in. Goodman stood watching the kids riding in circles on the bike path. These moments were his solace from the realities of the world. Possibly the only thing that kept him going.

Mike Goodman was forty eight years old. One of the few high ranking African-American Agents with the Department of Homeland Security. He held the rank of Major, though that was more of a ceremonial title since nobody any longer paid attention to military style ranks. Those were leftovers from the early days of DHS.

Goodman answered his nations call to duty to fight in the War On Terror by joining the Marines at age eighteen. He served with a distinguished record, earning two Purple Hearts in  Operation Iranian Freedom, promoted to sergeant in the first PAC-Rim war, and earning a Silver Star in Central Africa, and finally achieving a battlefield commission as a second lieutenant during the Turkestan engagement

It was military intelligence that Goodman discovered was his true calling, rising to the rank of Major by the end of his second tour of duty in Operation Venezuelan Freedom. He returned to America as a hero to continue to fight the War On Terror At Home with Homeland Security.

Sitting down to dinner that evening at quarter past five was a little earlier than usual. Suzanne had baked a macaroni casserole and served it with a garden salad. Not that the kids or Goodman ever enjoyed eating salad.

After Goodman finished saying grace, Suzanne began her usual dinner conversation, “How was work today dear?” Trying not give away state secrets, Goodman typically responded only with generalities that would make the news the following day. Not that his wife was a security threat. But he didn't want to take any chances of being bugged. He knew the vibrations of his words could easily be picked up by lasers beamed at any of the dinning room windows. He used this technology every day on ordinary Americans. Someone could just as easily do it to him.

“We caught another domestic terrorist this morning. A college girl. She was caught spreading treason against the government in her Twitter messages to a group of students.” Goodman ate a spoonful of the baked macaroni. It was still too hot. He swallowed it down fast and took a swig of the beer in front of him. “It wasn't tough catching her considering she was sending out unencrypted transmissions. These younger terrorists I guess are just too stupid to know we monitor all communications. Makes my life easy.” Goodman poked at his salad with his fork before finishing his story. “By this afternoon we had the Federal Court in Boston classify her as an enemy combatant. She was on a military flight to one of our prisons before I left the office. She won't be committing any more acts of terror ever again.”

“That's great news, Honey. Hopefully, she'll discover the Lord Jesus Christ with the prison education programs,” Suzanne said as she took a paper napkin to wipe up some food Jennifer spilled on the table.

Midway though supper, Suzanne brought up her days news. “Oh, Emily is going to have to sleep in Jennifer's room again tonight. The heating system isn't getting any heat into her room. I called for service but they couldn't get here today. They said they'll be here first thing in the morning.”

Goodman's face tensed up, his right hand turning into a fist. “That god damn heating system hasn't worked right since we bought it. I'm going to speak with those thieving sons of bitches about getting a warranty replacement.” Suzanne hushed him, “Your language Mike, not in front of the children.”

Goodman forced a smile. “I'm sorry girls.” It was important for him to raise his children well. He was determined never to act in front of his family like his own drunken, sadistic father did every night of his own childhood.

The girls slowly ate their baked macaroni. Blowing on each bite to cool it down, while swinging their heads back and forth at each parent as they spoke.

FIVE

The rain came down in buckets that Wednesday night. At ten minutes past six Jack Brooks stepped out onto the courtyard of his condominium building in the Brighton section of Boston. Known as Brooksie by his close friends, he wore a tan brown leather overcoat and a full brim Texas style hat to try to stay dry. Brooks stood in the courtyard looking up at the lights shimmering on the falling rain drops. He inserted the ear buds from his digital media player into each ear. “Hope it doesn't any get worse than this,” he mumbled to himself while selecting some  jazz music from Dexter Gordon. While the music started playing, he pulled his hat down low, tugged at the lapel of his overcoat to help keep the rain out, and headed out into the rainswept darkened street.

Brooks was Dylan Frasers' best friend. A lawyer by profession, Brooks worked for one of the oldest and most prestigious law firms downtown. He specialized in corporate law, an area of the law he didn't particularly like and knew he was never going to make Partner. Though, until he could figure out what kind of career he wanted, the job paid the bills.

At the end of his street, Brooks turned right, walking down Commonwealth Avenue towards Allston Village. He was meeting his female friend, Joanne, at the Karma Club for dinner. She was his only female friend since there was no way he was ever going to get her into bed. Joanne Neely was a lesbian, and the two shared their common bond of commiserating about their unsuccessful relationships with women. When the two got together, Brooks would describe how he invariably screwed up his relationships with women one or way or the other. More often than not by sleeping with any young beauty that he'd meet. Joanne on the other hand would usually bring up the fact that she always sought unattainable women. Currently, she was having an affair with an older married Christian woman that would never leave her family.

Brooks stopped and leaned against the side of a building to get out of the rain. He was in no particular hurry since Joanne wasn't going to be there at the time they agreed. He hadn't known her for that long, but he knew her well enough to know that she was never on time for anything. Getting out of the house for a drink, even if it was by himself, was really all he had on his mind.

Leaning against the wall, he looked both ways up and down the sidewalk. A couple of people were out, but with the rain pouring down as it was, he knew no one would notice a thing. He pulled out of his coat pocket a heavily stained electric vaporizer. It had a half a hit remaining of high grade marijuana, a new strain called 'Kamikaze' he purchased at the corner coffee shop. He pressed the 'ON' button, waited for the green LED, and took a big hit. He held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could, then exhaled. The stream of smoke jetted out into the dark rainy sky. He pushed himself off against the side of the building and rolled his head. “Yeah! Now that's some wicked shit,” he said aloud. No one was within earshot. He looked around again, as if trying to get his bearings on which way to go. He continued in the direction he had been walking previously. His head down trying to keep the rain away from his face.

Having made his way a few blocks on Comm Ave, Brooks raised his head to notice that on the other side of the street about a block and a half down a police raid was going on. He picked up his pace a bit to see what was happening. Approaching the scene, the rain had lightened up enough for him to see that five or six State Police cars with their lights flashing had blocked the traffic for both directions on Commonwealth Avenue. The Green line MBTA trolleys were stopped dead in their tracks. Homeland Security armored assault vehicles were lined up in front of a building. The magnetized plasma of  hover drones crackled overhead as they roamed back and forth in the night sky.

The few people who where outdoors that evening were quickly walking away from the scene. Brooks did a double take. No, they were more than walking fast. They were fleeing the area. As he got closer, he noticed he was the lone figure still making his way towards the commotion. A sense or urgency surged within him. He didn't want to miss anything. What could this be?, he thought while he hurried his pace. Reaching the blocked off area, he recognized the building immediately. It was the old Phi Beta Kappa fraternity. Homeland Security troops were removing the occupants and lining them up in front of the armored vehicles.

“Those boys know how to party,” he said aloud, thinking back to all the drunken times he had spent there as a student. A hover drone flew directly overhead, the noise snapping him back to the reality at hand. National Guard soldiers with M4 assault rifles lined the sidewalk directly in front of him. Slowly it began to dawn on him that this was more than a police raid on a bunch of frat boys drinking beer or underage smoking of the latest designer cannabis. Something serious was up, he thought.

“Move along,” ordered a soldier walking towards Brooks. The soldier carried his rifle across his chest in the standard position. “What's going on?” Brooks yelled through the drizzle, his eyes squinted the way they usually do when he's stoned. Brooks pulled his leather cap up higher on his head to see, then removed the earplugs to his digital music player. “Move along, now! That's an order,” the soldier yelled, while drawing nearer and swinging his weapon outward though facing down towards the ground. “Ahhhh, yes sir.” Brooks wasn't about to argue with a man holding an M4. The sidewalk was blocked so Brooks had to turn around and walk back a few yards for the nearby side street. He took his time walking. Keeping an eye on the events across the street. The soldier followed a few yards behind.

Across the street, the Homeland Security soldiers appeared to be finished rounding up the students. Securing them in an area in front of the assault vehicles. Most of the students were standing in the rain with nothing but jeans and tee shirts. Many wearing no shoes. “What the hell is going on,” Brooks muttered under his breath.

A student in a bright yellow tee shirt suddenly broke from the roundup and started running. Soldiers could be heard shouting for the young man to halt. The student kept running. Brooks stopped and turned to watch. Then, what sounded like rapid taps from a hammer, muzzle flashes from three maybe four automatic rifles burst out. With the light cast by a nearby street lamp, Brooks could see the young mans body jerking in spasms, hit by multiple bullets, before crashing to the ground. Brooks jumped back instinctively, shouting out in the rain, “Fuck me!”

Within seconds, the corralled students, in one massive movement rushed the soldiers. Screams and chaos ensued. Soldiers fired their automatic weapons, mowing down small groups of the young men. Other students overwhelmed soldiers, killing them with their own weapons.   Hand to hand fighting ensued. The National Guard troops from Brooks side of the street began running towards the fighting. Bullets ricocheted everywhere. Several flying past Brooks and hitting objects nearby.

Out of nowhere the butt from the soldier's M4 rifle landed squarely on Brooks' right shoulder. The force of the gun flung him to the side, almost knocking him to the ground. “Get out of here now!” the soldier yelled before running to join the fight across the street.

Brooks scrambled away, able to reach a full speed run while looking back from time to time. Bullets whizzed by his head. He prayed to God none would hit him. He finally managed to get around the corner of the nearest building and took cover. He stopped and leaned back against the building to catch his breath. Looking up, he gave a quick thanks. When he was ready he peered out from the corner to see what was going on. The bedlam was over by that point. All he could see through the rain and the darkness was the shadows of the soldiers standing over the dead and the injured. It was time to get as far away as possible. Brooks hurried down the side street, looking over his shoulder from time to time as if expecting Homeland Security troopers to arrest him. He managed to get to the Karma Club about fifteen minutes later, navigating through side streets the entire way.

Brooks stood in the rain outside the restaurant, shaking and out of breath. He scanned the area carefully, observing the street traffic and pedestrians. Everything seemed normal. No hint of the insanity that had unfolded minutes earlier. He finally calmed down enough to open the door and walk inside. It was still early, the restaurant wasn't crowded yet. It was a seat yourself kind of place. He took the farthest and darkest available booth from the entrance.

Waiting for someone to serve him, Brooks looked around observing the people inside the restaurant. He watched them eating, talking, drinking. It was surreal. His mind raced with everything that went on.

A waitress walked up to his booth, “How are you doing tonight? Can I get you something to drink?” She held out a menu.

For a moment, Brooks continued to stare at the people around him, not acknowledging her existence. Brooks came to. “Oh, I'm sorry.” He took the menu in her outstretched hand. “I, I've just had the worst day. I'll take a Boston winter ale and a shot of Jack Daniels. Thanks.”

“Coming up,” the woman said with a smile before spinning around and heading for the bar.

Brooks downed two rounds before he was finally able to make a call on his v-phone. It rang several times times before switching over to video mail. He raised the phone higher to get his face centered in the picture, “Dylan, pick up buddy. Where are you? Something unbelievable just happened. I'm at the Karma Club. Call me as soon as you can. This is really important.”

No sooner had Brooks put down his phone, Joanne walked into the restaurant and spotted her friend in the far booth. She was dressed in a black leather jacket and black jeans. Her long brown hair tied in a pony tail sticking through the opening of a faded blue Red Sox cap. Joanne was what some might call a hippy chick. She was liberal, artsy, and very intelligent. She was in her early thirties, with a medium build, and very pretty. She didn't seem to have a regular  job. Or at least one that any of her friends knew of. Everyone simply assumed she came from money.

“Hi there Brooksie.”

Brooks looked up to see Joanne squeezing into the opposite side of the booth. He returned a quick almost imperceptible greeting to her. Joanne settled herself in.

“Well that had to be the warmest greeting you've.....” She cut herself off in mid sentence seeing his face, “You look white as a sheet. Are you feeling OK?”

“I'm sorry Joanne. You won't believe what I just saw happen.” He took a couple of swigs off his beer before starting in on the details of the events he witnessed a few minutes earlier. Joanne removed her jacket and settled into her seat while listening to his story.

Brooks described every detail. Sometimes re-telling a certain aspect of the story a second time to make sure she got it. Joanne listened intently, absorbing what he had to say. When he was finally finished, Joanne responded, “Well I'm glad you're alright. You could have been walking on the other side of the street and who knows what might have happened!”

Brooks hadn't thought about that. The idea began to make him feel better. “You're right, I should be glad I didn't get caught in anything.” He began to get the color back into his face.

Joanne looked around the room then directly at Brooks, “So what do you think is going on?” He shook his head, “I have no idea. Hopefully we'll find out on the news tonight.” Brooks and Joanne had never spoken about the news or politics before. In fact, he never really cared about it all that much, like most people.

The two friends sat at the table in silence for a few moments while they thought about what to make of it all. Joanne was the first to break the silence. “I've heard people talking about shit going on across the city. You know, like violence breaking out. I haven't heard a lot. Just rumors.”

Brooks shook his head, acknowledging what she was saying. “Well they're not rumors any more.”

“You know, let's forget about it for now. Let's enjoy our evening. Besides, I want to talk to you about Stephanie, my new girlfriend. I need your advice.” Brooks perked up, straightening himself in the seat. “Yeah you're right. There's nothing we can do about all that shit. Let's have a good time. So....... what's going on with you and Stephanie?” he said, then took another swig of beer.

SIX

At six thirty Dylan finally arrived home from the office. The entire city was locked up in a traffic nightmare during the evening commute. One of those rare events that usually happens once or twice a year when for whatever strange reason the entire traffic system just crashes to a halt. And to make matters worse, there was no wireless communication for the entire time: no v-phone, no network connection.

Communication systems had crashed throughout the metropolitan Boston area. Nobody knew why. The only thing still working during the commute was satellite radio. National Christian Radio surmised the problem was due to one of the mainframe computers in the city's infrastructure command center going down.

Dylan breathed a sigh of relief after closing the door to his condominium behind him. It had been a long day. He dropped his briefcase next to the hallway closet as he took off his jacket and hung it up. The condominium was brand new. So was everything in it: new furniture, new paintings, new appliances. The place even smelled new. It was decorated in the monochromatic modernist style with varying shades of  white. The walls were white, the furniture was white, the rugs were white, the TV and all the appliances were even white. The colorful artwork and decorations provided the contrast.

The building was a thirty story high rise built on the site of the last  remaining city block of old Brownstone homes in Boston's South End. Or to be more precise, the last available block of the old Brownstones. The Boston preservation society had bought up all of the buildings on one block in the early twenties. Tourists were just now beginning to flock to the area to see the old architecture of the homes people in the nineteenth and twentieth century once lived in.

Dylan changed out of his work clothes. Putting on the same pair of  navy blue sweat pants he's had for the past four years, and his favorite gray tee shirt with the emblem of the Patriots Super Bowl win of 2033. He walked into the living room, issuing orders for the home computer. “Zeus, set the lights to seventy five percent and turn the TV on, channel seven eighty eight.” The computer system set the lights in the apartment accordingly and turned on the two hundred and ten inch 3-D Ultra-HDTV that took up most of an entire wall. Channel 788 was broadcasting the local news. Dylan stood in front of the massive screen. “Increase sound level to six point five,” he said. The news was broadcasting the story about the evenings traffic logjam. The male and female co-anchors were trading witty banter about the story.

Dylan walked over to the kitchen. He didn't intend to watch the TV yet. It was just a routine to turn it on when he got home. Acting as a companion, the chatter from the television made the place a bit less lonely. He opened a door to one of the upper cabinets and pulled down a bottle of twelve year old scotch. The cabinet was jam packed with every imaginable type of alcohol; vodka, gin, whiskey. All top shelf exotic, expensive brands. Definitely no rot gut.

After pouring himself a double over ice, Dylan made dinner the way he did most every night whenever he was home alone. Taking a frozen meal from the freezer and tossing it into the microwave. Tonight it was a gourmet Indian chicken korma dinner. Not a cheap frozen dinner that most people might buy from the supermarket. This meal was prepared by a chef down at Fredo's, a specialty food shop around the corner that catered to the professionals who dominated the neighborhood. He'd buy a dozen of the gourmet meals at a time and freeze them.

The bell to the microwave rang at the same time as the home video phone signaled an incoming transmission. Ignoring the phone, he took the container out of the microwave and used his index finger to check the temperature. It was still a little too hot to eat. The phone switched over to video mail while he started scooping his dinner onto a plate, taking his time to scrape every bit out of the microwave bowl and licking the spoon. “Awesome,” he said aloud.

Dylan brought everything into the living room and put it on the glass coffee table. He kicked off his slippers and sat down to enjoy his dinner. The last of the local evening news was still on, reporting about a grizzly manufacturing accident up in Maine. The story held his attention for a few moments until he grew bored. “Zeus, search the TV for New England Patriots.”  The TV screen changed to a teal green background with white letters that read, “Searching....” A dot appearing every second as the search was continuing. Simultaneously, Zeus's synthesized male voice broadcast from the speaker system, “Searching, New England Patriots”.

Moments later the giant TV screen displayed twelve individual windows, divided into three rows down and four windows across. Each window displayed a different digital video feed that contained the story or news clip of the search parameters. Seven of the windows contained digital video of the Patriots. The eighth window had last Sunday's game ready to play. The remaining windows were empty, with just a white background.

“Zeus, play screen four, then play screen one.” The entire TV screen filled with clips from the last Pats game while the reporter provided commentary. Dylan picked up his fork and took a small bite to check if his dinner was cool enough. It was still too hot. He washed it down with a swig of the scotch.

“Zeus, display today's phone messages,” he issued the voice command while sitting back in the couch with the drink in his hand. He grew a little impatient waiting for his dinner cool. The TV screen displayed 'Three video messages for November 5, 2036' while Zeus spoke the words over the the sound system, Several other video messages were marked as spam and stored in the junk mailbox. He'd check those later, making sure the computer didn't accidentally mark a good message as spam. It's been known to happen.

Zeus's digitized voice echoed through the sound system again, “Message one of three.” The TV displayed a snapshot of the person calling, a middle-aged woman wearing  a T-shirt that read 'Mom's for Christ'. Zeus continued with the identification of the caller, “Elizabeth Fraser, incoming message one thirty three pm, November fifth two thousand thirty six.” Dylan ordered the computer to play the message. “Hi Eddie,” Dylan saw his mother's image flash large as life upon his TV screen. He hated the name Eddie. “Give me a call when you get home tonight, dear. I'm planning for our Thanksgiving dinn'ah. Are you still seeing, what's her name, Evelyn? Will she be joining us?” I haven't seen Evelyn in almost a year, Dylan thought. I must have told her at least six times. Dylan's mother could be seen fumbling with her old fashioned hand held remote control unit before finally saying good bye, “God Bless you.”

Zeus reported the next video message, “Message two of three. “Patricia Hennessey, incoming message five fifty two pm, November fifth two thousand thirty six.” A young perky blond appeared on the high definition television. “Hi, Dylan. Remember me, Tricia? You gave me your number last week at the Station 9 Nightclub. Call me on this number, let's get together for drinks. See ya.” Dylan spoke aloud before the next message appeared, “Oh, I'll definitely be calling you.” He took another long swig from his drink, almost emptying the glass.

Finally the TV displayed “MESSAGE 3 of 3: Encrypted Transmission, incoming message 6:48 PM, 11/5/36. Please enter your quantum ssh encryption key.” Zeus echoed the same words. “Why the hell is someone sending me an encrypted video message?” Dylan downed the last of his drink. “Zeus, produce my q-ssh encryption key. My authorization; soccer22  dash 1399 dash 3341comm.” Zeus performed the quantum calculations within a few seconds and displayed the message.

Jack Brooks appeared on the high definition television screen. He was a bit disheveled and obviously excited. “Dylan pick up buddy. Where are you? Something unbelievable just happened. I'm at the Karma Club. Call me as soon as you can. This is really important.”

Dylan was used to Brooksie's wild stories. What is it now, he thought. He was tired from a long day and in no mood to listen to another of his friend's wild adventures.

He pushed forward on the couch and checked his dinner. It was ready ready to eat. He swirled the the ice cubes in his glass and sipped the remaining mixture of water and scotch. “Zeus, call home,” he ordered. The calling signal from the phone rang a couple times over the sound system before the face of a  middle age man appeared on the giant display. “Hi, Dad. How are ya?” Dylan smiled as he saw his father. “Good to see you, son. I'm doing good for an old man,” the elder Fraser said. Dylan laughed, “Come on Dad, fifty five isn't that old. Besides what are you going to say when you're eighty five?” “I'll figure that out when the time comes,” the elder Fraser said, letting out a laugh. “Hey I'm call'n mom back about Thanksgiving. Is she around?”

SEVEN

Agent Goodman stood in front of his oak desk and stretched his arms out as far apart as they could go. He let out a brief yawn. The home office in his finished basement was beginning to get a little too cold. He walked over and manually turned up the old fashioned thermostat to sixty eight degrees.

A modern voice controlled computer had never been installed in the old house, which Goodman didn't really mind. He had spent most of his life in Marine barracks, tents, or foxholes. An antique house without all of the computerized home conveniences was just fine for him. Not to mention saving tens of thousands of dollars on upgrades. Money that could go towards the kids education someday.

Reclining in the black leather chair to his desk, Goodman could hear the faint sounds of the TV in the family room above on the first floor. He recognized the girls cartoon show they watched nearly every night at that time. Before focusing on his work, Goodman put his hands behind his head and leaned all the way back in his chair, and just sat there looking up at the basement ceiling.

Less than a minute later the computer on his desk beeped, jolting him back into the awareness of his surroundings. A window had popped up on his display notifying him of an incoming video transmission. Goodman straightened up and pushed his chair in a little closer to the computer. “Engage transmission.”

A middle aged Hispanic woman with obviously died pitch black hair appeared on the screen. “Hi Mike. I've got some news for you,” Senior Agent Selma Rivera spoke in a straight forward manner over the computer video link. Rivera was a member of the National Command Staff for Homeland Security. She was stationed in Burlington and had worked together with Goodman throughout his career at DHS. In fact, it was Rivera who hired Goodman out of the Marine Corps.

“Good evening Agent Rivera. I'm hoping it's good news,” Goodman said. Rivera didn't respond to his friendly banter. She went right to business. “I just got out of a command meeting and wanted to say congratulations. The decision was made to assign you to lead the counter terrorism efforts in the New England security zone. You've been promoted to Senior Agent. Your command is effective at eight am tomorrow morning.”

Goodman wasn't surprised with the news of the promotion. He expected the job after the failures of the previous counter terrorism chief. He knew his experience made him the best person for the position. Political infighting would have been the only barrier. “Thank you, Selma. I know it was you who pushed for me. I'm not going to let you down.”

Senior Agent Rivera let out a slight smile, “I know you too well, Mike. I know you'd never let me down. Be in my office at eight thirty. Skip the morning prayer services. This is more important.” Goodman responded in standard military fashion, “Yes, Ma'am.”  Agent Rivera could be seen on the video display reaching over to shut off the video camera while saying goodbye, “God bless you.” He replied in kind.

Goodman took notice of the clock sitting on his desk. It was twenty past seven. Before his conversation with Agent Rivera, he thought he'd be able to finish his work in an hour or so. Now he knew he wasn't going to get to bed before midnight.

Connected to the Homeland Security high speed encrypted network, Goodman began downloading the field reports from that evening's operations on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston. Viewing the number of dead and wounded he shook his head. He knew from his overseas assignments that more terrorists would be created that night. Regardless of the piss poor handling of the operation, he had his job to do. As the new Counter Terrorist Chief one of his first jobs would be personally overseeing the interrogations of the rounded up terrorists.

Before starting work on his new assignment, Goodman opened the files on his tablet  computer to the project he'd been working on, his most important since starting at Homeland Security. An almost imperceptible grin crossed his face while he swiped his thumb across the display of the tablet, leafing through the pages of the documents. He was beginning to realize that in his new position he was now free to proceed as he liked, unfettered by anyone. I'm the goddamn boss now, he thought while flipping though the documents until he found what he was looking for. The title of the file read: “Fraser, Edward Dylan, Jr.”

EIGHT

The next morning, Dylan was in his office pretending to review lines of computer code. If anyone knocked on his door, that's what he'd have them believe if they walked in. He was actually spending his morning goofing off; surfing the net, tossing a foam mini basketball through a hoop stuck on the wall with a suction cup, and snacking on M&M's. Most days Dylan worked hard. But today a lot weighed on his mind. He had to go down to Grace's office and smooth things over with her. He was doing whatever he could to delay taking that walk.

The office v-phone signaled an incoming transmission at nine thirty am. Joanne Neely was visible on the other end. Her hair was a mess as if she had just got out of bed. She was wearing plaid pajamas and sipping a mug of coffee. He picked up the call. “Hi Joanne, how are you?” He considered Joanne to be more of a 'friend of a friend' than anything else. He'd only hung out with her and Brooksie a few times. Dylan actually liked Joanne and respected her regardless of the fact that her politics were somewhat radical and even possibly subversive. Joanne took another sip from the mug and spoke into the phone. “I'm doing well, thanks. Hey, the reason I'm calling is I'd like to pass along an invitation for a party I'm having at my place Friday night. Last minute sorta thing.”

“Well, I'm kinda...” he spoke hesitantly before being cut off. “Come on, Dylan. It'll be fun. This is why I called you instead of having Brooksie invite you to the party. I knew you would make some lame excuse,” she said, finally getting the chance to take another sip of her coffee. Dylan didn't answer right away, giving Joanne another chance to speak. “Actually, I have a girlfriend that will probably be there. You should meet her.”

Girlfriend...., his face betrayed his thoughts. Again, before Dylan could get a word in, Joanne spoke up. “Uhhh noooo, not that kind of girlfriend. I can see your expression. She's not one of my artsy, feminist, liberal friends. She's just really cool and I think you'll like her.” She took another sip of coffee.

Dylan hated to be fixed up on dates. Most of the fix ups he's ever had ran the gambit from awkward to miserable. Though it was still a better way to meet women than in bars. He finally spoke, “OK, I'll be there. But only if you promise a casual no pressure introduction.”

Joanne acquiesced, “I promise. I promise. So, good. Stop by anytime aft'ah six thirty.”

“OK, I'll see you Friday. God Bless you,” Dylan said his usual good bye.

“Ahhhh, yeah. You too. See you then,” she said, while powering off her video phone. Dylan's computer screen went blank for a second before switching over to video of a gentle waterfall in some remote tropical rain forest.

Dylan returned from lunch at quarter to one that afternoon. A high priority message icon flashed on his computer screen. “Computer, play voice mail,” he said, while sitting down and getting himself settled into his office. “Hello Mr Fraser. This is Agent Goodman. Please meet me at my office at one thirty this afternoon. I checked your online calendar, your schedule is clear.” Man, not much time, he thought. Dylan had intended to walk down to the third floor to see Grace right after lunch. Though, now it occurred to him that maybe meeting with Agent Goodman was a good thing. He could wait another day before seeing Grace.

At just that moment however, by sheer coincidence, Grace stood at the open door to his office. She spoke apologetically, “I'm sorry for the terrible things I said yesterday. It was totally uncalled for.”

“Hi, Grace. I'm glad you stopped by. I planned on going down to see you today but my schedule is so hectic. And I didn't want to use the phone.” Dylan responded in a truly genuine manner, that surprised even himself.

“Well, it was all my fault. I feel so stupid. I acted like a schoolgirl. If you're not interested in me I can accept that,” Grace said. Her face betraying a look of wounded pride.

Grace entered his office and closed the door behind her. She continued, “I need to talk to you about this privately.” Dylan agreed and offered her his office chair. She sat down and took a deep breath. Dylan leaned back against the side of his desk, trying to make her has feel as comfortable as possible.

Grace spoke slowly at first, eventually speaking in a more evenly paced manner. “Dylan, I should have said this before but I'm asking you to not tell anyone, I mean no one, about our encounter this past Labor Day. If word got out that we had sex, well, you know that DHS management would terminate my employment. I've worked so hard in my career. I can't loose my job because of this.”

Dylan pushed his body sideways along his desk, moving a little closer to her. “I understand Grace. I won't say a word to anyone.” He paused for a second, looking down at the floor before bringing his head up to look her in the eye. “Though, to be honest with you. I did tell one person, my best friend. He doesn't work here and isn't a Party member. I'll talk to him tonight. Ordinarily, he would never say anything. Though, I'll make sure of it.”

A slight smile almost broke out across Grace's face. “Thank you.” She let out a sigh of relief and leaned back in the office chair. She continued to speak, “You know, this is so fuck'in unfair. If our bosses found out about us, I would loose my job and you would only get a fuck'n reprimand. They're such a bunch of fuck'n hypocrites!”

Dylan had known Grace for over a year. And in all of that time, he had never heard her say a foul word. Not ever. It took him a moment to think of what he needed to say. “Wow, uhm, You're right. It's completely unfair. It's just the way it's always been. I think. But you're right. They are a bunch of fucking hypocrites.”

Grace stood up and gave Dylan a hug, speaking into his ear, “Thanks.” Dylan said nothing but nodded his head, giving her an acknowledging glance while she opened the door to leave.  “I'll see you around,” he said in quiet voice. Dylan smiled as he watched her walk away. I'll be seeing you naked in my bed before long, he couldn't help but think.

At exactly one thirty, Dylan knocked on Senior Agent Goodman's office door. Dylan looked through the glass side widow that ran the length of the door frame to see Goodman talking on his phone. Seeing Dylan, Goodman motioned with an upright forefinger that he'd be with him in a moment.

Dylan had never personally met Goodman. While he was waiting he wondered why Goodman wanted to speak with him. It was fairly common for Investigative Agents to meet with engineers at the start of a new project to go over the specifications. Usually Agents wanted to make sure their requests for certain features in the software or hardware would be included in the final release. Or later in the development process, Agents might want to speak first hand with the engineers to make sure everything was going smoothly. Because after all, the Investigative Agents were the customers.

However, Dylan wasn't currently working on any new development projects. He was doing sustaining work, mostly fixing a number of bugs for the communication systems on Homeland Security's reconnaissance drones. Why an Agent would want to speak with him now was, to say the least, perplexing. Adding to the mystery, there was a temporary placard tacked up next to Goodman's door that read 'Senior Agent'. Since when did a Senior Agent ever have anything to do with DHS software engineers. Never, as far as he knew. The only thing Dylan could think this meeting could be about was possibly being assigned a new development project. Though, new assignments were always made by his manager. It was all very strange.

The office door opened and Mike Goodman stepped out to shake Dylan's hand. “Come on in, Dylan. It's nice to meet you,” Goodman said with a friendly smile. “Hello Agent Goodman. Or do I call you Senior Agent. I've never spoken to a Senior Agent before. I'm not certain how to address you.” Goodman smiled again. He could be as charming and likable as he wanted to be. “Just call me Agent,” he said while waving Dylan into his office.

Goodman closed the door behind the two of them. Then motioned Dylan to sit in the chair that faced the front of his rather large antique wooden desk. “Please, sit down,” Goodman said. Dylan looked around the room as he sat in the chair. The office itself was large. Much larger than the offices for engineers. The desk was positioned in the middle of the room so as to face the doorway. Goodman walked around the desk and sat down, his back to the office windows.

Dylan squinted a bit while he sat facing Goodman. The sun was starting to shine on the side wall of the office, reflecting the light into the room. “Oh, I'm sorry I'll increase the shading,” Goodman said noticing Dylan's discomfort from the glare. “Computer, increase outside window tinting to sixty five percent.” The office grew noticeably darker with the increased gray tint of the windows.

“As you can tell, when it comes to computers,” Goodman said while he pointed with his two open hands over the computer on his desk, “I'm old school. I just can't bring myself to give a name to a machine. Like it was a person.” Dylan nodded his head and gave a slight smile in an attempt to convey his understanding. He didn't know what else to do.

Goodman pushed his seat up to the desk and began typing on the virtual keyboard display to his network computer. His fingers banged away against the glass display for a few seconds before he began speaking, “I apologize for the short notice.” He turned his head to face his guest, “And I apologize, I have to finish this on my computer while we start our meeting.” Goodman turned his head back to face his computer screen.

Dylan responded with an agreeable acknowledgment, forced a somewhat bigger smile, then looked around the room again.  He thought to himself how long did he have to wait until Goodman would just get to the point. Finally, Senior Agent Goodman started speaking. “I've been reviewing your record here at DHS. And I have to say I've been very impressed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dylan said, almost as an automatic response.

“Are you happy with your job?” Goodman asked. The question was completely unexpected. Dylan had never heard of Agents asking if  engineers liked what they were doing. He was a little dumbfounded and answered the question as best he could, “I don't really know how to answer you. What do you mean?”

Goodman anticipated the uncertainty his meeting would have and was prepared. “Fair enough. Do you like what you're working on. Is it challenging? You feel you earn enough money? There are several reasons I ask. First I want to make sure that someone of your caliber stays here at DHS. We certainly wouldn't want to lose you.” Dylan paused to give these questions some serious thought.

Goodman continued typing at his virtual keyboard display, “Take your time, answer when you're ready.” He was setting up a lie detection system unbeknownst to his guest. It was top secret technology at DHS. A device that utilized a remote, hidden MRI scanner and an infrared heat sensor.  Recording brainwave activity was extremely accurate in detecting whether a subject was telling the truth or lying. MRI lie detectors had been around for decades. Though the subject was always required to lie in the machine like a hospital patient. Transmitting and receiving MRI signals across a room was new. Combined with measuring the minute changes of heat emanating from the skin around a subjects eyes made the system one hundred percent accurate.

“I like my job, well enough. More money would be good,” Dylan said with a brief nervous laugh before continuing. “And to be honest, no I'm not challenged enough. I'm a little bored with my projects.”

The MRI system was operational, Goodman began watching Dylan's brainwave activity and skin temperatures in small windows displayed on his computer screen. Yellow, purple, red colors flashed across the outline of a face and a translucent three dimensional grayish skull. Goodman had no idea what the colors signified. The computer performed the analysis, displaying in capital green letters across the bottom of the screen, “TRUTH.”

“OK then.....” Goodman paused, nodding his head and leaning back in his chair. Finally devoting his full attention to Dylan. “The reason I called you here today is because we have an opportunity for an engineer with your skills. I want to offer you the job. I've read your resume. I've talked with your supervisor. And I've talked with some of your colleagues. You're the man for the job. The work involved our highest security projects. If you accepted the position, you'll have to undergo more stringent security background check, of course. We've got some pretty cool stuff in the pipeline. There's no need to give me an answer right away. Think about it. Sleep on it. Take some time to make your decision.”

Dylan delayed his response a few seconds to avoid looking too overly eager. A somber expression spread across his face. “I've already thought about it. The answer is yes. I've wanted a top clearance job since I first started here. Everyone knows those are the best jobs. Working on the newest cutting edge technology. I just never believed I'd get to top secret level this soon.”

A half second later the computer screen flashed the word “TRUTH.” Goodman looked pleased. “We only accept the best and the most loyal. I'm sure you'll appreciate the pay increase, as well. Before we get started with the process I have to ask some preliminary questions.” “Fire away, then,” Dylan grinned.

After asking a series of mundane boilerplate questions, Goodman got to the series of key questions he needed to know. Do you believe in God, are you a Christian, are you politically conservative, are you loyal to President Thompson, are you loyal to the Freedom Party? Dylan responded with the correct answers to each; yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes. Goodman's lie detector reported what he had hope to see for each question: TRUTH.

“We'll have investigators look into your records more thoroughly. It's merely a formality at this point. Let me be the first to say congratulations on your new job Mr. Fraser,” Agent Goodman said, leaning across his desk to shake Dylan's hand.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your confidence. You're not going to be disappointed,” Dylan said. He put on his best poker face trying to hide his excitement.

NINE

At quarter to seven Friday evening, Brooks pulled his car into the driveway outside of Dylan's high rise in the South End. He pulled into the only outside guest parking spot that was available and revved the engine a couple of times to prevent the car from stalling out. Satisfied the engine wasn't going to die, he pulled out his v-phone and called up to Dylan. “Yeah I'm down in front now,.... OK, good.”  His old Ford didn't have a built in computer with an in dash video phone. A standard feature in every new car. Actually, his vehicle didn't have much of anything that was still working.

Brooks tapped his fingers on the console while he waited. The glow of the dashboard instrumentation illuminated his face in shades of greens and oranges. A few minutes later Dylan opened the passenger side door and got in. “Hey,” Dylan said, carefully putting a bottle of expensive French vodka on the floor behind his seat. Brooks replied with a quick, “Hey,” before putting the car in reverse. Dylan fumbled with the seat belt. The pulley mechanism that retracted the seat belt was another thing on the list that needed fixing. “Brooksie, man, you need to get a new ca'h, a BMW like all your lawyer pals drive,” Dylan said. He finally managed to get the seat belt clicked into the buckle.

Brooks looked over at his friend and smiled. “How many times have I told you I'm not really into cars. Why waste my money on these things. I walk everywhere I need to go or take public transportation. I should just get rid of this old shit box.”

Dylan shook his head slightly, “With that kind of socialist attitude, no wonder why they never let you join the Party.”

Brooks looked over at Dylan, “You know I love you brotha'h. But you have to quit with that Freedom Party bullshit.” The two friends went silent. They've had this conversation many times. Each recognizing that their friendship was more important than their political differences.

“Open the glove compartment, I've packed the vaporizer with some of that Kamikaze weed I was telling you about,” Brooks said. Dylan banged on the top of the compartment with his fist. The door flung open. He searched through papers and other crap before finding the vaporizer. “I'm good, I already took a hit,” Brooks said.

Dylan took a long look at the vaporizer, shifting the device around in his hand to view it from different angles. “Just what I needed. I was out. I didn't have the chance to get to the store,” Dylan replied. He hit the 'ON' button and waited for the green light.

They headed towards Joanne's apartment in West Cambridge. The party was probably already getting started. As they drove, Brooks told the full story of the military assault he witnessed at the fraternity. It was the first time he had the chance to talk to Dylan about it. “Once I saw that there was nothing on the news about it. I didn't think it was a good idea to say anything over the phone. The last thing I want is my phone conversation flagged by Homeland Security.”

Dylan looked puzzled. “Are you sure about what you saw? Because something like that would have had to be on the news.” Brooks was ready for his friends obvious point. “Exactly! That is the most troubling thing. I mean, the deaths of those student's was bad, of course. But the really troubling thing was why this wasn't reported in the news. I didn't know whether to call the TV stations and find out or just keep my mouth shut.”

Dylan was taking it all in, “Well you were smart not to call anybody.” Brooks thought about what he saw for a few more seconds before adding, “Something really bad is going on. Why wouldn't that have made the news? I mean any news. I searched everything.”

The two friends became silent again as they drove over the Longfellow Bridge towards Cambridge. Dylan wondered to himself if Brooks really wasn't exaggerating an ordinary police bust. He just didn't know what to make of it.

Brooks turned the car onto Joanne's street. At that time of the evening, they'd still be plenty of on street parking available. Most of the residents of the upscale neighborhood were doctor's, lawyers, and other workaholic professionals. “I don't see any spots,” Brooks spoke as he drove slowly, looking for a space. “Over there,” Dylan called out, pointing to an empty area between two cars. “Nope,” Brooks responded after seeing the fire hydrant. They drove past Joanne's apartment building unable to find a space. Brooks continued driving to the end of the street, still nothing. He was about to take a left and try the next side street when Dylan spied a car leaving from the corner parking spot, “On your right, he's leaving.” “Excellent,” Brooks said with a big grin on his face.

After Brooks pulled into the spot, Dylan looked at his friend, “Timing is everything.”

“That's true, hey you want another hit before we go in?” Brooks asked.

“Nah, I don't wanna get too fucked up. You know me. I can't talk to people when I get really high. I have a nice mellow buzz going right now.”

“Me too. Just right,” Brooks added.

Dylan reached back and grabbed his bottle of vodka before climbing out of the car. Brooks pulled out a case of still cold micro-brewed beer from the back seat.

They walked towards Joanne's place carrying the booze. Dylan spoke first, “Lets not talk about the shootings you saw the other night. Let's just have a good time. We'll talk more about that later.” Brooks was in total agreement. “Absolutely, I intend to get laid tonight. I'm not about to bring up any dreary topics that will bring everyone down, including myself.”

“Great, so lets party,” Dylan said. He let out a loud howl like he was a college kid again.

Brooks did the same.

They reached the porch entrance to Joanne's apartment. It was an old triple decker that was beautifully restored, located in one of the last remaining historic neighborhoods of Cambridge. Joanne lived on the third floor. Brooks rang the bell and turned to Dylan, “Oh, I forgot to mention, Joanne has a slice lined up for you tonight.” Dylan shot back, “Yeah she mentioned it to me. But I told her I didn't want to get fixed up. I'd meet her, but no expectations.” Brooks let out a hearty laugh, letting his friend in on the secret, “You don't know women at all do you. Of course she's going to have expectations. She'll just be more nonchalant about doing it.”

Joanne opened the door before Dylan could respond. “Hey you guys. Come on in,” she said. Joanne was feeling good. She looked as if she'd already had a couple glasses of wine. She gave each of them a big hug as they entered the doorway.

The party seemed as if it had been going for quite some time as they made their way through the open doorway to the third floor apartment. Every room had groups of men and women partying while they tried talking to one another over the classic rock music piped in by the sound system. The smell of marijuana floated through the air. Joanne tried to introduce Brooks and Dylan to everyone within earshot as she led them around. People looked up or over and said their “hello's”, though nobody was going to remember each others names.

The apartment itself was decorated in the artsy revisionist 2020's style; big shapes with squares and circles, dominated with the use of vibrant colors. It looked as if a revisionist art student had free reign with the decorations. A little overdone, but overall it gave the apartment a hip atmosphere.

A banned rock tune by The Slashers started playing on the sound system, “Pay up, pay up, pay through your nose.....” Joanne pointed down a hallway, “The bar is in the kitchen over there. I'll catch up with you later.” “Alright, thanks,” Dylan replied. Brooks was already half way down the hallway, still carrying his case of brew.

Dylan caught up to Brooks in the kitchen, who was by then trying to put his beer down on top of the kitchen counters that were already fully packed with everyone's party supplies. He just ended up pushing the case into everything, hoping nothing would come crashing down on the floor. “You want one?” Brooks asked his friend while prying open the top of the case. Dylan found a home for his bottle of vodka, putting it next to several other bottles of booze by the sink. “No thanks. I'm gonna have drink,” he said.

While Brooks opened his beer and took a swig, Dylan surveyed the kitchen. A twenty something African American man with wire rimmed glasses sang along with the music as he fixed a drink at the makeshift bar at the end of the kitchen counter. “Rock your bed, as they steal your dead....” An exceedingly attractive young blond swayed to beat of the music as she waited for her drink. She was well on her way to catching a buzz. “Thanks,” she said, as the man handed her the drink to be made. She eyed Brooks while heading out of the kitchen. Giving him a big flirtatious smile. Once she was out of sight, Brooks turned to Dylan, “Oh, yeah, she's mine tonight. But first I gotta keep these beers cold.” He started pulling the bottles out of the cardboard case and bringing them over to a galvanized steel tub filled with ice and beer on the floor next to the refrigerator.

Dylan approached the apparent bartender, “Hi I'm Dylan.” The two men shook hands. “Hi, I'm David Whitney. What can I get for you.” Dylan looked around the makeshift bar. “I think I'll have a vodka tonic. How about using that vodka, it's pretty good.” He pointed to the French vodka he brought. “Pretty good? This stuff is wicked. My personal favorite,” David said. He picked up the bottle and looked it over carefully, as if savoring the sight of the label. He had  obviously consumed a couple of his drink creations already.

“Dread, dread, off with your head” David sang the last line from The Slashers tune as he handed the vodka tonic with a wedge of lemon to Dylan.

He took a quick sip, “Awesome drink, man. Thank you.”

“All in the line of duty, my friend,” Whitney said, taking a sip of his own nearly empty drink.

An attractive forty something woman with short blond hair wandered into the kitchen. “Can I have one of your world famous martini's, David,” she said.

“Certainly, madame.”

Dylan leaned back against the kitchen counter sipping his cocktail. He stood there awkwardly for a moment before introducing himself to the woman. “Hi, I'm Dylan.” He reached over and shook her hand. “I'm Stephanie. It's nice to meet you.” The two exchanged small talk until David handed her the martini with a raspberry. “Thank you, Sir,” Stephanie said, before whisking off.

“Now you know why I like being the bartender,” David said, taking a sip from his cocktail. Brooks had finished putting his beers on ice and walked over to the two men. David took another sip from his drink, finishing it, then swirled the ice cubes in the glass before putting it down. He leaned back against the kitchen counter in the same position as Dylan was in, eying out the various bottles of booze next to him.

“Who was that blond that was here earlier,” Brooks asked, without introducing himself.

David let out a quick laugh. “Yeah she's tasty, alright. Her name is Marla,” he answered, then picked up the bottle of French vodka that Dylan had brought. He took another look at the label, thinking of what kind of drink he'd have next. He looked at Brooks again, “She has a boyfriend, man. A big guy. Somebody you don't want to mess with.” Brooks smiled a big shit eating grin, “They all have boyfriends. Think that's ever stopped me before my friend.” Brooks gave the men a nod and walked out of the kitchen in search of Marla.

“That must be Brooksie. Joanne told me he was a dog,” David said with another quick laugh.

“Well, he's not the Don Juan he pretends to be. But yeah he is a dog.”

David smiled. “I'm going to have to keep a close eye on him tonight. See how he does it.”

The two men let out a hearty laugh. “Changing the subject,” Dylan said, “That song that was just playing, that you were singing along to, that song in banned. Do you know that?” David let out an even bigger laugh than he did earlier. “Of course, man! By the Patriot Communications Act. Everyone knows that.” He then began making himself another drink. Dylan pressed the subject, “Aren't you at all worried about being arrested?” David's playful demeanor changed to a more serious tone. “You're just as guilty as I am, dude. The government doesn't care if you like the music or not. They'll arrest you for just listening to it. But don't worry. The neighbors are all cool.”

TEN

The interrogations of the latest group of terror suspects went on all day and into the evening. Deep inside Building 6 of Homeland Security headquarters, Senior Agent Mike Goodman stood with several plainclothes officers behind the one way glass mirror of the command room. The group of four men and three women were silent as they peered into the adjacent interrogation chamber.

The chamber was bare with unpainted cement brick walls and a single steel door that was just starting to rust due to the cold and dampness. A single spotlight shone over the naked male prisoner in an otherwise near pitch dark room. From the ceiling a stainless steel chain dropped down from a mechanical pulley. The prisoner hung by his hands, with leather straps securely attached. Two Homeland Security Detectives dressed in black uniforms stood to either side of the prisoner while the Senior Detective beat him with a hollow rubber baton.

The Senior Detective was a large, overweight man in his early fifties. He looked to be at the very least two hundred and eighty pounds. He scowled at the prisoner, emanating a viciousness designed to instill fear into his victim. The two junior associates were learning the ropes. One was a leathery faced man in his mid twenties with a shaved head. The other was a heavy set muscular woman in her late thirties, with closed cropped blond hair, and a tattoo of a winged serpent etched upon her the side of her neck.

Goodman was directing the interrogation from the command room that night. Usually the Detectives did the work themselves without interference from senior officers. If a command officer was overseeing the work of the Detectives, it was usually carried out by an officer at Agent level. It was rare for a Senior Agent to bother themselves with overseeing the interrogation of terror suspects. With his promotion to head of counterinsurgency in New England, Goodman was intent on overseeing all of the interrogations of the terror suspects rounded up from the college frat house a few days prior. Also, it would be a good chance to train the junior officers in interrogation techniques.

Goodman looked over the group of officers assembled before him. “The point is to make the suspect feel as helpless as possible. You always start with an hour or so of water boarding before commencing with beating the prisoner. Not severe. Just enough to soften them up. Give them a whiff of things to come,” he said, checking to make sure the officers were all listening. “Your interrogation methods will differ depending on whether the prisoner is male or female.  For men, you begin by stripping them naked. During the interrogation, you threaten castration. Women, you leave fully clothed and strip them during the interrogation. Removing one article of clothing at a time. All the while giving them the impression that they'll be raped if they don't cooperate.”

One of the female officers cut in to ask a question, “What if they won't talk even with these kinds of interrogations?” Goodman gave the younger woman a stern impatient look, “I've only explained how to start the interrogation. We have a lot ground to cover, we'll get to it. Just keep in mind, we can make anyone talk. We just have to find and exploit a prisoners weaknesses and fears. The problem is the subject can only tell us what they do know. Let's take our seats and get comfortable, shall we?” Goodman made a gesture with his right arm towards several chairs in the room that sat behind the two way mirror and the control desk containing video monitors and other digital equipment.

After the officers settled down, Senior Agent Goodman began his lecture once again, “As I said, we can break anyone. The problem is our enemies have come up with some clever defensive strategies. As you know, the rebels have organized themselves into small guerrilla   fighting units or cells. These cells contain no more than six or seven members. Usually each member only knows one or two other cell members. Then, only one or two members know the identity of their cell commander. And only the cell commander knows the information on their upper command officers.” The junior officers glanced back and forth between Goodman and the activities in the interrogation room.

The Senior Detective stopped beating the prisoner, handed the baton over to one of the associate Detectives, and began his 'bad cop' routine as he's done thousands of times before. Grabbing the prisoners hair and pulling his head back, the Senior Detective leaned over and spoke menacingly into his ear, “OK, so you know I'm not fuck'in around here. You're going to tell me what I want to know. No fucking bullshit either. Got that motherfucker!”

The prisoner winced with his head pulled back but refused to speak. The female Detective slammed her fist into the prisoners stomach. She played the second 'bad cop' in the DHS interrogation tactics of 'bad cop – bad cop'. She stepped back as the other junior Detective leaned forward to yell at the prisoner, spraying spit across his face, “I didn't hear you motherfucker!”

The prisoner shook his head up and down wearily, “yes, yes.” His face betraying his agony and terror. “What's your name?” the Senior Detective yelled as he once again pulled the helpless man's head back. A few seconds later the man was able to speak coherently, “I have rights. I'm an American citizen. You can't do this to me.”

All three Detectives stepped back a couple of feet while mocking the prisoner with laughter. They each paced in a circle around the prisoner while continuing their taunts. The Senior Detective managed to blurt out between his laughter,  “What a dumb fucking idiot you are.”  The tattooed woman stepped up and landed another punch to the prisoners stomach. Shaking her hand after wards, demonstrating how much she enjoyed punching the young man.

Allowing the prisoner to recover somewhat from the last body blow, the male Detective leaned over and shouted in his ear, “Should I call a lawyer for you. Would you like that?” The young man shook his head up and down, naively thinking for a moment there was a possibility of being given due legal process. That was, until all three detectives let out a another roar of laughter.

The Senior Detective moved over to stand directly in front of the prisoner. “You really are a fucking idiot, aren't you college boy? Alright, I'll spell it out to you then. The only rights you have are what I give you. As of this morning, Homeland Security Federal Court ruled you to be an enemy combatant. Unless you cooperate with us, no one will ever hear from you again. I mean that, fuck face. I can put a bullet into your fuck'n brains right now and no one would give a rats ass. In fact, my colleagues here would prefer that so they can get out of here and go home for the night.”

The Senior Detective stepped backed again. His associates repositioned themselves on either side of the prisoner. The Senior Detective took a deep breath, waited a full second, and spoke with a more calming tone, “So, let's start over. There's no reason why you have to be here and put yourself through all of this unpleasantness. Just tell us what we want to know. Nobody will know it was you who talked. I promise you that. We'll get you out of here right away and into the infirmary. So, lets start off with an easy question. What's your name?” The prisoner stared dead into the eyes of the Senior Detective, then glanced slowly over at the woman Detective, then back at at the lead torturer, “Fuck You is my name, you piece of fat, fucking filth.”

Quickly flicking a switch on the console to speak into the microphone, Goodman stopped the Senior Detective from striking the man in the face. “Stop right there Chief. Use the pain sticks, then start the questioning again.” The Senior Detective begrudgingly lowered his fist upon hearing the instructions through his communication earpiece.

Goodman turned to his officers, “As you can see our detectives like their jobs a little too much. It's important to keep them in line. A suspect with their bones broken or skulls crushed in doesn't do us a lot of good. The pain sticks are effective at this point. It's basically a highly charged cattle prod with lots of voltage and very little current. The subject will experience extreme pain, but it won't kill him. It's just the next step in our bag of goodies.”

Satisfied that his orders where being carried out by the Detectives in the interrogation chamber, Goodman continued his lecture. “As I mentioned, we can break anyone. The problem is the terrorists have been using hypnosis to protect their organizational structure. Individuals are hypnotized to erase all memories of who their fellow cell members are. Cell commanders are hypnotized to delete all knowledge of their upper command structure. In most terror cells, there's a core group consisting of the cell commander and one or two individuals who know each others identities. They work together, bringing in the other members of the cell only when required. All communications are done with prearranged codes.” Most of the officers shifted their attention away from the interrogation and onto Goodman. Finding his words of more interest than the activities in the torture chamber.

Goodman shifted his position in the seat to get more comfortable. “Basically all of these terrorists are programmed with only the knowledge they need to carry out their assigned missions. So when we do break one of these motherfuckers, they can't tell us a god damned thing. And that's really the entire reason why we haven't been able to crush the terrorist rebellion.”

He paused to make sure the officers understood what he was saying. “So catching ordinary criminals like this young man before us tonight gives us our best chance at identifying existing terror cells or stopping new ones from being formed. In all likelihood he's been in contact with terrorist rebels that were trying to recruit him. Yet, he wouldn't actually be a soldier at this point and wouldn't be hypnotized. He's really just a terrorist wanna be. We've been successful numerous times with this approach.”

Goodman rubbed the back of his neck. “If there aren't any questions at this point, lets head over to the next interrogation room.” He stood up, motioning his officers to follow. Before leaving he turned on the microphone once again, “Detective, I'll be over in interrogation room seven. If you learn of anything important contact me immediately.” The Senior Detective turned to face the mirror. “Yes Sir, understood.”

While the officers were leaving the command room, the junior male Detective finished spraying the prisoner with a water. The female Detective, having already checked the charge levels on the pain sticks, handed them out. The three detectives paced once again in front of the subject. “I think we're gonna have a lot of fun here tonight,” the Senior Detective said with a smile. A bit of saliva dripped from the left corner of his mouth.

ELEVEN

Dylan had spent the past forty five minutes hanging out in the kitchen talking with David Whitney and a host of other characters. The kitchen was getting a little too crowded when Joanne walked in and spotted her prey. “Dylan, Dylan, what are you doing in here all night? I've got a friend I'd like you to meet.” He didn't have much of a say in the matter. He was literally dragged by the arm out of the room. “I'll see you later, dude,” David managed to say before his new friend was gone from sight.

Looking over the buffet spread across the dining room table, stood an attractive Asian woman, no more than five feet three inches tall, with long straight jet black hair. “Tien this is my friend Dylan,” Joanne said, doing her best trying to play the part of matchmaker without being too overly serious about it. “Dylan this is Tien.”

“Hi,” Tien said a little nervously. She offered her hand to Dylan. “It's nice to meet you, Tien.” Dylan said, shaking her hand gently. “I have to go check on the …... well, I have to check on something. I'll talk to you two kids later,” Joanne said. Then hurried back to the kitchen.

The two strangers looked uneasily at one other for a moment. They each let out a friendly laugh breaking the tension. Dylan spoke first, “This is awkward. I didn't know Joanne was going to march me right up to you like that.”

“Well, if she hadn't how was I going to meet you? You've been hiding in the kitchen all night,” Tien said with a smile on her face.

She's interested in me, the thought raced across his mind.

“I'm not really all that much of a party type of guy.” Dylan looked down at the floor for a second, a little embarrassed. What the hell, he thought. He hadn't been shy around women since  High School.

“You mean like your friend over there.” Tien pointed over to Brooks who was sitting next to Marla in the middle of a group of people in the living room. At just that moment Brooks moved his arm around Marla's waist. Tien glanced back at Dylan with a sarcastic smile. “Your friend seems to be a party type of guy.”

A woman Dylan had met earlier in the kitchen, he thought her name was Julie or Julia, was handing out beers to people in the living room. Brooks took one with his free hand. Marla opened it for him.

“Well, he's my friend. But I'm not anything like him,” Dylan said, continuing to look in the direction of Brooksie. Tien turned to face Dylan. “I get it. Marla over there is my roommate. And I'm nothing like her,” she said.

Dylan turned to give her his full attention. “That's funny how we both have friends who are a little wild. That's something we have in common.”

“Yeah, that's true.”

“Can I get you something to drink, a beer, a glass of wine?” Dylan asked, noticing Tien didn't have a drink in her hand. “No thank you. I don't drink alcohol. And I'll get myself a soda in a little while. But thanks for asking,” she said.

“No wonder I didn't see you in the kitchen earlier.”

“Yup, no need for me to hit the bar.”

A few awkward seconds passed before Dylan could think of what to say. “So, Tien, is that your full name or is that short for some kind of really long Chinese name that I'd look foolish trying to pronounce,” Dylan asked playfully. “Actually, my first name is Tien-Mu. Though, only my parents call me that,” she said, taking a step over and picking up a plate from the dining room table. “Do you mind, I'm starving. I was just about to eat when I saw Joanne dragging you in here.”

“No. Not at all. I'm hungry too.” He walked over to the end of the table, picked up a paper plate, and looked over the buffet spread across the table.

They carried their food over to the corner of the dinning room for a little more privacy, taking a couple of empty seats. Tien spoke first, “So, what do you do for work, Dylan?” “I work as a software engineer for Homeland Security. DHS as most people call it. I mostly work in communications. Writing software code for transmitting, receiving wireless digital signals. That sort of thing,” he said, trying to tone down the pride in his voice.

“No kidding,” Tien appeared surprised. “Joanne told me you were an engineer. But she didn't mention you worked for Homeland Security. So you must be a Freedom Party member to have that kind of a job, right?”

Dylan took a few seconds to finish swallowing his food. “Yeah, you have to be to work there. They signed me up during the hiring process.”

“Wow, I have to say, you're the first Freedom Party member I've ever met in person. I mean, I've seen Party members of course. We've had them speak at grade school and things like that. But actually know someone, you're the first.”

“I'm glad to hear I was your first,” Dylan said with a grin.

She smiled back, shaking her head letting him know she got his humor.

“Seriously. What do you do for work?” Dylan asked, trying to change the subject.

“I'm an account manager at American International Investments over on Franklin street in Boston. Really boring stuff. But it's a start. I graduated with a Masters degree from Harvard Business School so my goal is to make VP someday.”

“That doesn't sound boring. It sounds pretty cool to me,” he said earnestly.

Some small talk ensued while they ate. Neither wanting to divulge too much about themselves upon a first meeting. “Can I take your plate?” Tien asked, after finishing her dinner and seeing him holding an empty plate. “Uhm, yeah, thanks” he said. Handing her his plate, he looked into her eyes. A strange feeling unexpectedly hit him in his gut. She returned the glance, then smiled before walking over to trash barrel at the other end of the dinning room. Dylan stood up to meet her before she made her way back. “Shall we join the party. Looks like quite a conversation going on,” she said, nodding in the direction of the living room. “Yeah, sounds good,” he said.

A song from the outlawed rock group Nemesis began playing on the sound system as Dylan and Tien squeezed into the crowded room. Tien sat on the armchair of a couch. Dylan sat next to her on an ottoman he pulled over to the side. “Dylan, my man, how's it going?” Brooks called out over the chatter when he saw Dylan sitting down across the room. He was half in the bag. Dylan nodded and forced a smile to his friend.

About twenty people filled the living room. The topic of discussion was the recent violence that appeared to be escalating around the city. Everyone was telling of what they saw or heard. Brooks, buzzed and forgetting his earlier agreement with Dylan, had already disclosed the details of the events he witnessed at the fraternity in Boston.

Stephanie, whom Dylan had met earlier in the kitchen, was nestled into a leather armchair with Joanne, was the next to speak, “I saw troops exchanging gunfire with two masked gunman in the middle of Boylston Street by the old Prudential Tower.” She ran her fingers along the back of Joanne's neck absentmindedly as she spoke. “Both gunmen were killed along with at least four innocent bystanders. And just like Brooksie said, there was no stories about it on the news. I checked every news station, internet news, blog postings. There was nothing,” she said, looking around the room checking to see whether people actually believed her.

Rick, a boyish looking twenty something with a heavy Boston accent spoke next. “There's fight'n go'in on everywhere in the metro area and the gava'ment is keep'n it quiet. I've talk'd with friends who've seen shit happ'n in Somerville and Dorchest'ah. It's like a fuck'n uprisin.” Dylan gave Brooks a glance, So he wasn't bullshiting me with his story.

Joanne spoke up, “Yesterday I drove over the Mass Ave bridge and I saw that they're building concrete fortifications. Both sides of the bridge. They looked like bunkers for roadblocks.” She took a sip of her white wine, then added, “I'm getting a little scared by all this.”

Tien gave a slight shake of her head to David Whitney standing off to the side of the living room. He nodded back, then walked into the center of the room, “Hey, I think people need drinks, come on this is a party! What do you say, Joanne, Rick, Dylan? Who wants what?” The woman, who's name Dylan thought was either Julie or Julia, opened a cooler next to her and started handing out cans of beer.”Come on people, let's party,” she said, while cracking open her own can of brew.

Marla stood up and ran her hand through Brooksie's hair before making her way over to Tien. Leaning over, she spoke lightly, “Hey can I talk to you for a second.” Tien looked at Dylan, then trailed Marla into into the dinning room.

Allowing a couple of seconds to elapse, Brooks got up and sat next to Dylan on the ottoman. “I can't drive you home tonight buddy. I'm taking Marla back to my place,” Brooks spoke quietly. He couldn't prevent himself from glancing over over at Marla. “No problem. I expected it as usual,” Dylan said. He tried to be nonchalant, looking around the room before stealing a glance at Tien. “Looks like things are going good between the two of you,” Brooks said, then added, “She's smoking hot, man.” Dylan looked over at Tien once more, “Yeah, she's amazing.”

Marla and Brooks made a quick exit out of the apartment without a lot of fanfare. They had one thing on their minds. The party had shifted away from the talk of the scary events throughout the city and got back to the usual fun.

David Whitney approached Tien and Dylan with two very full drink glasses in his hands. “I saw that you didn't have any refreshments so I took the liberty of making you a couple of drinks,” he said. He carefully handed one of the drinks to Dylan. “A vodka tonic for the gentleman.” Then handed the other to Tien, “And a diet coke with a with a slice of lime for the lady.” Tien reach over for her drink, “Thanks David.” “Yeah, Thanks a lot David,” Dylan added. “You're welcome,” David said, spinning on his heals and heading back to the kitchen.

By one thirty in the morning the party was thinning out. Tien looked around the room, “Looks like it's time to get going. You want a ride? Your driver left with my roommate.”

“Yeah, I could use a ride. Thanks.”

“Great, lets get going then.”

The digital clock read ten past two in the morning as Tien pulled her Lexus into the circular driveway at the main entrance to Dylan's high-rise condominium.

“I had fun tonight. I really enjoyed meeting you,” she said, putting the car in park.

“It was a pleasant surprise meeting you. I had no idea what Joanne was getting me into. But I'm glad she introduced us,” Dylan said.

“Yeah, I thought the same thing. I've always had the worst experiences getting fixed up. I was surprised too.”

Dylan finally garnered up his courage, “Are you free next Friday night? I know a great place for sushi in the Back Bay. It's really good.” Tien frowned and shook her head slightly, “Oh, I can't. I've got plans Friday night.” Dylan defensively cut right in, “Oh, OK, well some other...” Tien stopped him from uttering another word, “You didn't let me finish. Next Friday is one of my girlfriends birthdays. But I'm free tomorrow night if you don't have any plans. I'd be free next Saturday night as well.”

Dylan smiled and thought for a moment, “Yeah, tomorrow night is good.”

“That sushi place. Were you talking about Maki Maki?” she asked.

“Yes, that's it. Have you been there?”

“No I haven't but everyone is saying it's the best in town. Here let me give you my number and address,” she said, pulling out her v-phone, tapping an icon, and holding it up in the air. Dylan hit an icon on his phone, then watched the data transfer display. “OK, I have it.”

In the soft glow of the dashboard lights, Dylan looked into Tien's eyes, trying to act cool and nonchalant. “So, how about I pick you up at seven tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that works for me. I'll see you then.” She paused, “So I guess this is good night.”

“OK, I'll see you tomorrow,” he said while opening the door and stepping out. He walked over and stood by the entrance to his building, watching her drive away.

TWELVE

At five minutes to four on Saturday evening, David Whitney adjusted his eye glasses while standing on the corner of Massachusetts Ave and Beacon Street. He was dressed in old jeans and a mid length black leather jacket. He wore a dark blue baseball cap, with the visor pressed down to conceal his identity as much as possible. A nylon duffel bag was strapped across his back. His head still throbbed from the night before, no amount of aspirin seemed to help.

He walked over and pretended to read the menu on the window to a restaurant at the corner, trying to blend into the busy street. From his vantage point he could see the newly constructed military checkpoint on the near side of the Mass Ave Bridge. Where he stood, the arc of the bridge prevented him from being able to view the checkpoint on the far side. Though, he knew it was there.

The sun was setting fast, but there was still enough light to observe the checkpoint. It  appeared to be hastily constructed using large pre-cast concrete blocks to form a roughly ten foot by ten foot square bunker with a single steel door and no windows. The edifice was situated half atop the sidewalk and half jutting into the street. Mounted on top were a myriad of lights and cameras. The two outbound lanes were merged into a single lane to allow room for the concrete bunker and a pedestrian checkpoint walkway. It was designed to control and monitor the flow of both cars and people. From the reports dispatched from Command, construction was underway for similar checkpoints on all of the bridges in the metropolitan area.

Whitney counted two uniformed Homeland Security soldiers manning the closest checkpoint. It didn't appear to be operational as of yet. The gates for the road and walkway remained in the upright position as traffic freely moved past. The armed soldiers walked back and forth, not really doing anything other than trying to look busy. Or rather, trying to look menacing with their M4's slung across their chests.  The soldiers were probably just waiting for their orders from central command for the post to become operational.

By five past four, Whitney finished his scouting work and walked up Massachusetts Avenue in the opposite direction from the bridge. He took the right at Commonwealth Ave. Twenty yards from the intersection he stopped to talk with a white man leaning nonchalantly against a wrought iron fence reading a tourist map. The man looked young, no more than nineteen or twenty. He wore an old faded black and gold Bruins 2031 Stanley Cup championship hat.

David spoke first, “Excuse me, would you know where I could find a good pizza place around here?” The young man responded, “I don't know. I'm into Texas ribs myself.” The code words were correct. The two men shook hands. “Just call me Joe. What's the situation?” The anonymous man inquired quietly while removing the Bruins hat to wipe his forehead. Whitney looked around carefully. “It's a go. Two DHS troopers armed with M4's. Our people are in place across the river. They have in their sight two DHS soldiers on the other embankment.”

“Good. I'm glad they're not National Guard,” Joe informed his new accomplice. Whitney looked around again, “OK, so you got everything?” Joe looked around, as well, before responding. “Yeah, I've got everything.” “Good, Any other questions with the plan?” David Whitney wanted all bases covered. Joe shook his head, ”Nope.”

Whitney studied his watch, “One minute. We have to get our timing right.” Joe grew antsy, “I know, I know.” The digital watch read 4:20. “OK, lets do it,” Whitney said. The two men gave a final survey of the area before heading off. They walked back in the direction of Mass Ave then left towards the bridge. Reaching the intersection of Beacon Street, the men separated on queue. Whitney removed the duffel bag from across his back and slung it over his right shoulder. He picked up his pace to get about twenty feet ahead of “Joe”. The foot traffic on the sidewalk leading to the bridge was light. There were only three people between Whitney and Joe, a forty something Asian couple holding hands and a tall, dark skinned student who looked to be from India or Pakistan. Several people were walking in front of Whitney, separated by maybe twelve to fifteen feet.

Approaching the checkpoint, Joe tried to move in closer. He walked as close to the Pakistani student as he could without appearing odd. He needed to get his timing right. At that point, he was perhaps fifteen feet back. Good enough. Whitney adjusted his hat lower over his face as he approached the checkpoint. He was sweating nervously. He walked past the first soldier, who stood in the blocked off area of the street perhaps ten or twelve feet before the concrete bunker. The soldier was looking at the oncoming cars, not paying attention to the pedestrian traffic.

A moment later Whitney reached the bunker where the second soldier stood. He came up alongside the soldier, standing a couple of feet off to his right side. Whitney dropped the duffel bag and rushed the man. In one swift motion, he pulled out of his jacket a 9mm automatic handgun and using his left hand pushed the M4 assault rifle hard against the soldiers chest. The Homeland Security soldier looked stunned. He was helpless as he watched the barrel of the automatic handgun lifted to his forehead. Whitney fired a single shot before the man could blink. The soldiers' helmet was all that prevented his brain and skull fragments from splattering across the concrete outer wall of the bunker.

The Asian women behind David Whitney stopped in her tracks and screamed in horror. Her husband, in a protective manner, pushed her off to the side and onto the ground. The other civilians in the vicinity hit the ground at the same moment.

The other soldier, hearing the discharge of a weapon, turned to see his buddy's lifeless body slumping down against the wall of the bunker. Whitney swung his handgun around to take aim at the soldier. The trooper brought his weapon to bear at the exact instant. Before either could take a shot, Joe squeezed the trigger of his 45 caliber handgun point blank into the back of the soldiers neck, killing him instantly. “Fuck'n, Motherfuck'in Nazi,” he shouted while firing several more rounds into the still twitching body of the soldier as he lay on the ground. Joe holstered his gun then began kicking the dead body violently. Whitney grabbed his bag and shouted, “Get going!”

The small crowd of pedestrians had scampered away from the checkpoint area. Traffic on the Boston side of the bridge had stopped. Drivers started abandoning their vehicles and running for cover. Joe crossed the street to the oncoming traffic of the bridge. He pulled out a flare from his jacket, ignited it, and held it above his head for a few seconds to stop the cars from reaching the concrete checkpoint. It was also the signal to their people stationed on the Cambridge side of the river. Within two or three seconds, the DHS soldiers on the Cambridge side bunker came under automatic weapons fire from several of the buildings on Memorial Drive. The soldiers took cover in their bunker, effectively pinning them down.

Joe dropped his flare onto the middle of the road as soon as the cars were stopped and ran back towards the checkpoint. Inside the concrete bunker, Whitney was on his knees setting the charge to the C4-B explosives packed into the green duffel bag. Joe reached the doorway of the bunker, peered inside, then backed out to keep a lookout. He alternated between keeping his eyes on the timer of his watch and for movement in any direction.

Ten seconds passed, then fifteen. Joe stared at his watch nervously. He shuffled backwards into the doorway. “Time's running out. We're at twenty seconds, man!” Whitney worked feverishly to insert the last of the detonator wires into the plastic explosives. “Ten seconds. ....... five,” Joe counted down the seconds that remained if they wanted to get away cleanly before any hover drones could possibly arrive. “Zero.” Whitney finished setting the detonators and hauled himself up and towards the door in one motion. “Lets go!”

They ran back towards the Boston side of the river, then down the ramp to the bicycle path along the Charles River. They looked up from time to time as they ran. Their luck was holding out, no drones yet. At the end of the ramp the men separated. Joe taking a left, Whitney taking a right. Neither man saying a word nor making a gesture of goodbye as they took their different escape routes. They had only seconds remaining.

The blast went off as planned. The interior of the bunker and the makeshift roof were completely destroyed. The concrete wall closest to the blast partially crumbled, while the other three walls remained intact if not a bit charred. No civilian casualties. Whitney labored deeply for air as he ran, paying no attention to the explosion. He made it fifty yards down the bike path to the car pulled over on Storrow Drive. Onrushing cars swerved to avoid hitting the parked car, blaring their horns as they drove past. Whitney climbed over the vehicle barrier, panting like a dog, and got into the car. Joanne Neely sat behind the wheel. “Get in, close that fucking door,” she yelled frantically. Whitney moved slower than she would have liked. “I can't run that far next time,” he said while closing the door and trying to catch his breath. Joanne paid no attention. She floored the gas pedal, screeching the tires as she sped the car away.

At about the same instant, Joe reached his destination. Under a grove of Norway maple trees in the Charles River Park, a man sat on a Harley motorcycle revving the engine. Joe jumped on the rear seat of the bike, putting on the helmet his accomplice held out for him. The back tire of the motorcycle spun in the dirt as they made their way to the nearby exit through the vehicle barrier on Storrow Drive.

Entering the roadway, Joe heard the familiar crackling sound of electrified plasma. Looking up, he saw what he feared the most: a hockey puck shaped hover drone flying overhead. It had stopped in mid air, and remained stationary fifty feet above their heads. Joe tapped the driver of the bike on the shoulder and pointed upwards. “Fuck!” the man screamed. He gunned the bike, and roared down Storrow Drive. The hover drone followed in pursuit. The Homeland Security pilots in the control center had probably spotted the suspicious motorcycle by pure chance.

The driver pushed the Harley to maximum throttle. The hover drone was in full pursuit. The motorcycle reached fifty miles per hour, leaving the drone easily behind them. A second hover drone came at them from ahead, joining the chase. It too soon fell further back, as the motorcycle hit sixty, then seventy miles per hour on Storrow Drive. The men weaved in and around the cars traveling on the roadway. The hover drones fell out of sight. The driver pushed the bike even faster, eighty then eighty five miles per hour. Other drones joined the chase, only to be left in the dust.

The men were in the clear from the pursuing machines. These latest model hover drones were intended for monitoring city streets. Their top speed of only thirty five miles an hour was never designed to chase fleeing vehicles. Joe let out a sigh of relief at just the same moment he heard his driver yell, “Shit!”

Joe looked up to see the traffic on Storrow Drive coming to a stop. The bike skidded to a halt. With nowhere to go, the driver steered the Harley over to the right, squeezing in between the cars in the right lane and the vehicle barrier. The four pursuing aerial drones caught up with the men. There was no openings to the vehicle barrier in sight.

The driver steered the bike onto the center lane, and gunned it as fast as he could manage. It wasn't fast enough. The targeting laser from the lead hover drone landed on Joe's back. A moment later, the driver of the motorcycle saw an opening in the roadway vehicle barrier, cutting off a car to make their escape.

On the other side of the vehicle barrier was the Charles River Bike path. The same path Joe ran on minutes earlier, a mile or so back, to get to his getaway motorcycle. “Floor it!” Joe yelled. The driver accelerated as fast as he could on the bike path. A second drone targeted the men, two red dots marked Joe's back.

The drones continued their pursuit, breaking off from time to time to avoid trees, power lines, and pedestrian bridges. The driver managed to get the bike up to forty then forty five miles and hour. By sheer luck, the targeting lasers lost their mark when the drones had to veer off to avoid hitting another tree branch. An anti-personnel missile, fired from a Reaper, lost it's target at the last second and landed no more than ten feet behind. Spraying shrapnel is every direction. Several pieces pelted the bike.

The driver of the Harley quickly looked back to catch a glimpse of the explosion. “Yee-hah, motherfuckers!” he yelled out triumphantly. He never saw the next aerial drone flying in fast from the side, and painting the bike with it's laser as soon as it was in range. By the time the young man noticed the red dot, it was too late. The incoming missile hit dead center on it's mark, just below the handle bars. The explosion blew out the front tire and killed the driver instantly. The bike flew forward end over end.

Joe was thrown into the air, landing head first onto the asphalt bike path. He bounced like a rag doll several times, shattering most of the bones in his body. Once he and the burning motorcycle came to halt, the Charles River bike path became eerily quiet. The traffic on Storrow Drive came to a stop. While all of the joggers and pedestrians jumped for cover or hurried away from the scene.

Joe regained consciousness moments later. He was on his back looking skyward. His body too broken to move. A hover drone flew in about twenty five feet directly above him. He stared blankly at the arcs of magnetized plasma shooting off in random directions. The sirens grew louder in the background. He tried to reach the capsule in his top shirt pocket, but couldn't move his right arm. It was broken and pinned behind his back. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he murmured to himself. Blood spurt from his mouth as he swore.

He struggled to move his left arm, moving it only a few inches before giving up. He spit up more blood, then tried moving his left arm again with all his remaining strength. This time he was able to move the arm further, closer to his chest. He struggled for several more minutes. Finally, he was able to retrieve the little white pill and push it into his bloody mouth.

Joe laid in that spot unable to move for what seemed to him an extraordinarily long time, as if time had come to a halt. He shifted his gaze away from the hover drone and into the darkening sky, debating to himself when to bite down on the poison capsule lodged between his teeth. He could hear the police cruisers finally arriving, stopping on the roadway, no more than  fifty feet from him. The first star of the night was out. No, it was a planet, he realized.

Hearing the pounding of feet from the Homeland Security police quickly approaching, Joe knew it was time. He bit down hard on the capsule and tried his best to swallow the liquid. He couldn't do it, his throat was too swollen to ingest the poison. Two Homeland Security soldiers came into his view, their guns drawn. The last words he heard before losing consciousness was one of the officers calling out, “Get the kit out. I think we'll be able to capture this one alive.”

THIRTEEN

Dylan rang the buzzer of the condominium, in the Mission Hill neighborhood of Boston, a little after seven o'clock Saturday evening. He stood in the brightly lit, glass walled foyer of the building, eying the pink marble stonework of the hallway on the other side of the glass. It exhibited a luxurious elegance, common for the upscale neighborhood. He was sharply dressed in a dark overcoat with a stylish blue suite and gold colored tie, carrying a bouquet of flowers at his side.

“Who is it?” a blond woman's face was displayed on the video screen above the buzzer. Dylan recognized Marla from the previous night. “Hi, it's Dylan.” A moment later the locking mechanism to the glass entryway door made a loud click. Dylan pushed the door open, walked down the corridor, and took the elevator to the ninth floor. Marla stood in the opened doorway, “Hi, come on in.” Before he could utter any kind of greeting, Marla turned and walked inside. He followed her in without saying a word. Shutting the door behind.

In the living room, she turned to face Dylan, “We never got formally introduced. Hi, I'm Marla.” She picked up her half filled glass of white wine from the coffee table and took a sip. She was dressed in a tight fitting tee shirt, about two sizes too small, cut off at her mid-riff, and a pair of black athletic sweat pants. “It's nice to meet you Marla,” Dylan said.

“Make yourself comfortable. She'll be out in a minute. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“I'm good, thanks,” he said.

“Well, I'm topping off my drink. Speak up if you change your mind.” She looked back at Dylan as she walked off into the kitchen, checking to see if he'd thought it over and wanted anything.

Dylan took off his overcoat and sat down on the sofa, putting the flowers on the coffee table. A couple of minutes later Tien walked into the living room, just as Marla was returning from the kitchen. Tien was wearing a sleek red dress along with a pair of matching red high heels. Her black hair was done up in a fashionable style. Dylan stood up, stepped towards her, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Wow, you look beautiful. I love your hair, it looks great,” he said. Tien smiled, “Thanks.” Dylan handed her the flowers, “For you.” “These are beautiful. I'll put them in water,” she said hurrying off to the kitchen.

“Have fun you two,” Marla said, carrying her topped off glass of wine to her bedroom.

At the Maki Maki restaurant, they sat at a table off to the side of the main room. The restaurant was crowded and a bit noisy, typical for a Saturday evening.

“I'm guessing you were able to get a reservation here because you're a Party member,” Tien said coyly. “Another perk I suppose. Comes in handy,” Dylan replied. The waiter arrived with their drinks. “Cheers,” Tien said, holding up a glass of iced tea. “Skoal,” he responded likewise with his diet coke.

“So, how long have you lived in Boston?” Tien asked.

“I've lived here all my life. I grew up in the suburbs and moved to the city to go to school over at MIT. Lived in Allston after graduating. And when I had enough money, I bought a place in the South End. How about you? How long have you lived here?”

Tien sipped her iced tea and looked around the room briefly before turning her gaze towards Dylan. “Eight years now. I moved here to go to Harvard when I was eighteen. I've lived all over the metro area; Cambridge, Somerville, Back Bay. I lived in Allston for a year and a half. We were probably neighbors.”

“Yeah, we probably were. Seems like everyone I meet has lived in Allston at one time or another.”

“The student ghetto, as we always called it,” Tien said.

“So where were you born?” Dylan asked, while taking a sip of his diet coke.

“I was born up in Connecticut. Grew up in the same town. A little coastal village on the commuter rail were my parents could take the train into Manhattan.” She took another sip of her drink, then continued, “My mother is a professor at NYU, she teaches political science. And my father is a senior vice president at AmeriPharm, a big drug company. They still take the train in every day together.”

“So does your family still live in the area? Any brothers and sisters?” Tien asked.

Dylan rubbed his fingers across his chin. “I come from a big family. Three brothers and three sisters. All older. I'm the baby of the family. Mom and dad still live in the same house I grew up in down in Scituate.”

The waiter finally arrived with their food. “Sauteed udon noodles with vegetables for the lady. And tenzaru noodles with shrimp tempura for the gentleman,” he said. A second waiter arrived carrying a sushi boat of assorted maki and nigiri. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” the waiter asked. “I'm good, thanks,” Dylan replied. Tien smiled, “Everything looks good.”

Dylan poured soy sauce into his small dish and starting mixing in wasabi. “How about you, any brothers or sisters?” He asked while the two prepared their dinners. Tien leaned over her plate, “This smells so good.” She picked up her chop sticks. “I'm an only child. I think my parents were too busy with their careers to have a big family.” She scooped out some of the noodles, swirling them in her chopsticks.

While they ate, they couldn't resist uttering the usual 'ummm's'. The food really was that delicious. “This place is every bit as good as  everyone's been saying,” Tien said. She twirled her chop sticks in the noodles again to pick up another bite. “I know, huh. These noodles are 'oh my god' good,” Dylan said.

The couple were  nearly finished with their sushi when Tien asked her first predetermined question of the night. “So what made you decide to work for Homeland Security?” Dylan looked directly into her eyes and gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, “It was the best job around after I got my engineering degree. And as far as the engineering work I do there, well, I work on some pretty cool stuff.”

Tien nodded her head as she thought to herself the best way to prod forward, “How do you feel about what you're doing there? I mean, how do you feel about the technology that you make and how it impacts people lives?” Tien took the last sip of ice tea in her glass. Dylan answered automatically with what he's been telling himself ever since joining Homeland Security, “I work on projects that help protect our country from terrorism. So, I feel pretty good about that.”

Tien was slow to respond, not wanting to push any harder than she felt could, “Have you ever given it any thought as to who those terrorists are?” Before he was able to answer, the waiter approached the table to check if the couple needed anything else. Tien raised her hands to indicate no, “I'm all set, thanks.” “We'll take the check. Thanks,” Dylan said, shifting his glance from the waiter to Tien.

“OK, uhm, you asked about fighting terrorism,” Dylan said, as soon as the waiter left. “You know, I don't really bother myself with politics. I mean who does, right? I just do my job. Go home, have fun. The big bosses can figure out who the scumbag terrorists are. That's their job.”

After dinner the two caught the ten o'clock movie at the old art deco movie theater in Brookline. The classic Beatles film “A Hard Days Night” was playing. The theater was pretty much packed. Typical for the ten o'clock show on Saturday night. Dylan and Tien sat in the back row sharing a medium popcorn. “I like sitting in the back. It's more comfortable for me,” Tien whispered, while the movie was just getting started. “Yeah, I feel same way. I hate being crammed in and surrounded by a lots of people while I'm trying to watch a movie,” Dylan whispered back. Each had seen the movie numerous times in the past, so it wasn't like they had to pay a lot of attention to the Fab Four up on the screen.

After the movie, Dylan drove Tien home. He pulled his StarCruiser SUV into an available guest parking spot near the front of her condominium building. “I had a great time tonight,” Dylan said, trying to act nonchalant. He thought how to kiss her at the right moment without  being awkward. That first kiss is always tricky to pull off. Tien was quick to respond, “I had a wonderful time tonight, as well.”

“Well, good night,” Dylan said. He leaned over and gave Tien a kiss on her lips. She responded with a short but passionate kiss. “Uhmm, would you like to come up for a drink?” she asked. Though before he could answer, she stipulated, “I mean just for a drink. I'm not inviting you up for sex. I really just don't want this night to end. Not yet.” Dylan looked into her eyes making sure he understood what she was saying. He let out a quick nervous laugh, then responded, “I promise. I won't make any moves. In fact, I promise even if you break down and make any moves on me, I'll stop you. How's that?” A huge grin spread across his face. Tien let out her own laugh, “Come on, let go upstairs.”

They sat on the living room sofa drinking lemon flavored seltzer water, chatting about pop culture and anything they could think of. Tien kicked off her shoes and dimmed the lights to make the room more cozy. “That's cool that you're a Beatles fan too,” Tien spoke quietly, trying not to wake Marla who had gone to bed early. “I love that movie. Besides the music, I just love watching those guys ham it up. It's kind of funny,” Dylan said, speaking softly. A silence ensued between them. They looked into each others eyes, communication a feeling between them that something special was going on. Dylan moved slowly towards her. Tien lunged for him, kissing him passionately. He pulled her close, feeling her breasts pressed against him. She ran her hands wildly through his hair as they kissed.

After several minutes, Tien pushed back. “Wow, that was......... that was........ something,” Tien couldn't find the right words. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to push things,” Dylan cut in. “That's OK, that was both of us. It was nice. You're a  really good kisser,” she said. “You're pretty good yourself,” Dylan returned the compliment. Tien stood up and offered him her hand. “Come on. Let's go into the kitchen. I'll make some decaf,” she said. He took her hand and followed her.

They sat on the tall stools to the kitchen island drinking their coffee, listening to jazz music playing on an old fashion radio, and talking into the early morning hours. Eventually Dylan spoke aloud what he was thinking, “Educated, athletic, christian, conservative. Come on you can't be that perfect. You have to have a flaw in there somewhere.” Tien laughed, “Hopefully someday you'll find out and still like me.” In wasn't much later on when Tien noticed Dylan trying to suppress a yawn. She gave him a knowing smile, took his coffee mug, and put it down on the counter. She gently took hold of his hand and led him to her bedroom. Reaching the bedroom door, Tien turned to face Dylan, “Remember what we said in the car?” Dylan nodded, “Yeah I said I wouldn't let you take advantage of me.” She let out a quiet laugh, turned and led him into her bedroom.

Tien issued a voice command for the computer, “Lights on, fifteen percent.” She walked over to her bureau while at the same time letting out her hair. “You can have that side of the bed,” she said pointing to the right side. “I like to sleep on the left side.” “That's fine with me,” he said. Tien removed her bracelets and placed them on the top of the bureau in a small open box. “The bathroom is down the hall first door on your right. There's a new toothbrush in the cabinet, you'll see it.” “Alrighty then,” Dylan said before heading out of the room.

Tien took off her dress, then her bra. She slipped on an old tee shirt and headed out of the room to use Marla's bathroom. When she returned she found Dylan in bed, lying on his side, his arm propping his head up. He looked tired yet managed a bright smile. His clothing was in a pile on the floor. She smiled back at him and shook her head in a playful manner. “Computer, lights off,” she said, before climbing into bed and snuggling up to him.

FOURTEEN

“Match point,” Dylan yelled to the other side of the brightly lit indoor tennis court. “Come on bro, give me what you got,” Brooks called back. Dylan served the ball, it was good. Brooks hit a nice return. The ball went back and forth, both men scrambling from side to side, until Dylan was able to hit it to the far side of the court where Brooks couldn't get over in time.

“Yes!” Dylan yelled. He pumped his fist in the air. Brooks threw his racket to the ground in frustration. He bent over and put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He didn't look so good.

The two friends played tennis at the Watertown indoor tennis club every Monday night. In the warmer months when the sun was out until much later in the day, they usually just found local public courts. But by the late Fall, it was time to play indoors. “Good game, man,” Brooks said as he met up with Dylan at the net in center court. “Yeah, good game,” Dylan answered.

They were evenly matched tennis players. Though lately, Dylan had been on a roll winning almost every set they played. The next two players who were waiting behind the fence jogged out to take their place. Dylan walked over and sat down on one of the benches in the warm up area, opening his water bottle and taking a gulp. Brooks tossed his racket on the bench and sat next to him.

“I have to stop smoking if I ev'ah want to beat you again,” Brooks said.

“Then it looks like you're nev'ah going to beat me again, man.”

Both were covered with sweat and tried catching their breath in between gulping down mouthfuls of bottled water.

“Lindsey called me today and confirmed they'll meet us for drinks at the Oak Bar at nine thirty tonight,” Brooks said. He took another swig of water and wiped his forehead with his towel.

“What do you mean 'they'll meet us'. Who's 'they'? You said that maybe your new girlfriend might join us for dinner. That was it,” Dylan responded. “I could have sworn I told you we were meeting Lindsey and her friend Karen tonight. Anyways, Lindsey told me that Karen is smoking hot and she loves to party. You can thank me later.”

Dylan shook his head. “I'm not going out with you tonight. I'm not meeting any of your bimbos.” Dylan got up and stood in front of his friend. “I told you how I felt about Tien. I'm  serious.”

Brooks stood up and confronted Dylan. “Come on! This is me you're talking to. I know you better than anyone. Maybe better than yourself. Tien is a nice slice, sure. But she's just another slice. You've had, what, four dates so far. And you haven't even slept with her yet. So why are we even having this conversation?”

Dylan tossed his towel on the bench and took a few seconds to respond. “I'll say it again one more time. All I think about is her. I think about her when I get up in the morning, when I go to bed at night, and every moment in between. I've never felt this way about a woman before in my life. Ever!”

Brooks put his hand on Dylan's shoulder. He had a serious look and an even more serious tone in his voice. “Trust me, I know you. After you finally get her into bed, you'll be head over heels in love. Then after a few weeks, six weeks tops, you'll be eying out another delicious slice. Come on, you've been in love how many times now? I can't even keep track. Buddy, this is who you are. I know it and you know it. And you're going to kick yourself tomorrow if you pass up on this opportunity with Karen.” He took his hand off Dylan's shoulder and reached down to pick up his tennis racket.

Dylan felt his stomach tighten, wondering if Brooks was right. He spoke slowly, trying to get his head straight for his words to come out right. “This time is different. Sure we've done a lot of partying and met a lot of girls. And what I thought was love turned out to be lust. But this is different. The moment I first laid eyes on Tien, I fell in love with her. It's killing me that I can't even tell her that because she'll think I'm some kind of pathetic creep.”

“She wouldn't think you were a creep,” Brooks laughed, “She'd know it.”

“Do you know why, Brooksie, I've been beating you every match? The reason is I haven't had a drink in weeks. Probably a month. Not since I've met Tien. Think about it, when was the last time since  you knew me that I didn't have a drink in my hand.”

Brooks looked somewhat amused. “You said the same thing last year with what's her name, Emily, Evelyn. Whatever. It's fine. I'll tell Karen you weren't feeling well.” He paused for a moment, the question popping into his head, “You haven't stopped smoking weed, too? Have you?”

“I'm especially done with that. I emptied my last baggie down the toilette weeks ago. I haven't felt this good in years.”

FIFTEEN

“I can't believe how warm it is out tonight. For the second week of December can you remember it being this warm?” Tien asked Dylan. The two walked arm in arm along Hanover Street in Boston's North End, having just left one of the nicer eateries in the area.

“I don't care if the government says global warming is propaganda spread by the terrorists. Seventy three degree's at night in mid December just isn't right,” Tien said. “Well, officially as a Party member, I'm required to correct any misinformation and inform you that global warming doesn't exist. But, damn, I agree. Seventy three degree's is messed up,” he said playfully.

Tien pressed her body closer against Dylan as they walked, her arm around his waist, his arm around her shoulder. “I shouldn't have eaten so much. But I couldn't help myself. That meal was so good,” Dylan said. “I told you to take the rest home. I've got dinner for tomorrow night. And you've got nothing,” she said teasingly.

They walked for a while without saying a word. Occasionally looking into each others eyes and smiling. People passed them on the sidewalk, perturbed at the couple in their way. At the end of Hanover Street the lights from the dome covering the Faneuil Hall marketplace came into view.

Tien finally broke the silence, “This is our first weeknight date. Do you know what that means.”

“We're engaged?”

Tien hit him in his side playfully. “No, you jerk. It means you couldn't wait till the weekend to see me again.”

“I hadn't thought about it like that. But yeah, you're right. I couldn't wait till Friday night to see you again. I couldn't wait another day. Not another minute,” he said. He turned and looked into her eyes for a moment before they embraced and kissed one another.

At the Faneuil Hall dome, they made their way through the security entrance, leaving the dark city streets behind. Crowds of people walked to and fro on the cobblestone walkways inside the well lit, environmentally controlled Boston landmark. The two of them meandered around for awhile. “Want to check out that chocolate store over there?” Dylan asked. Tien was silent. She stood frozen, with a distant stare. “No I can't do this any longer,” she said. “I was really just thinking about taking something home. And it's just fun to look around, see what they have,” he said.

Tien pushed herself away from Dylan, turning to face him. “I can't do this any longer,” she said. People swarmed past the couple.

Dylan's eye's narrowed, he shook his head halfway back and forth. “Do what?” he managed to say.

“Listen to me. I have so much to tell you. I don't know where to begin. And I know whatever I say you're not going to like it.” A look of pain spread across her face.

“Now you're starting to scare me, Tien. What is it?” He looked out at the people milling about before looking into her eyes. Tien looked down then back up again at him. “You have to hear me out. Listen to what I have to say before saying anything. OK,” she said. “OK,” Dylan responded slowly.

“I've fallen in love you, Dylan. I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you. I didn't think that ever happens in real life. But it did. And it wasn't suppose to happen.” Dylan tried to speak but Tien raised her fingers to his lips. “I'll just start with the hardest thing. I lied to you Dylan. Everything I've told is is a lie. Everything. I didn't grow up in Connecticut. My parents don't work in Manhattan. I have four brothers and sisters. I never went to Harvard. I'm not even a Christian. I'm an atheist.” Tears began falling from her eyes.

Dylan looked like a deer in headlights. “What are you talking about?” was all he could bring himself to say. Tien looked down at the cobblestones they stood on, then turned away from him.

“Tell me. What's going on, Tien?” This time Dylan was more forceful in his tone.

She turned back to face him. “I never expected for this to happen. For how I feel about you. But the things I've told you, I had to say those things. I can't tell you why. Not now. All I can say was I had no choice. And I swear to you I will tell you why. Soon but not now.”

Dylan ran his left hand through his hair. He looked around at the crowds of people. Then turned back to face her. “What the hell are you talking about. I don't understand what you're saying. Just tell me will you!”

“I can't tell you now. I know that sounds so fucked up. But I can't. If I did, I'd be putting you in danger. I'd rather walk away and never see you again than see something terrible happen to you because of me.”

He grew more flustered. He ran both his hands through his hair this time. His body grew stiff. “What the fuck are you telling me?” he said. His stomach started to twist. “My life changed the day I met you. I've never felt like this towards anybody in my entire life. I thought this was it, the real thing. Now I find out everything was a fucking lie!”

Tears fell from Tien's eyes. “My life changed the day I met you, as well. Everything changed for me.”

Before she could explain further, Dylan cut her off. “You said you can't tell me anything. Why?” Tien tried to take his hand. He shook her off. “This is difficult to explain. What I can tell you is everything in your life is a lie. Everything you believe in is a lie. The books you read, the music you listen to, the media, your church, your friends, your teachers when you where young, your bosses at work, the government. Everyone lies to you every day. I'm standing here in front of you telling you I won't lie to you anymore,” she said.

Dylan stepped back a foot. “So everyone's a liar but you. Fuck!” he said, taking another step back. “And you're an atheist, too. No. No. I don't know what to believe. Especially you right now.” He took out his wallet from his back pocket and shoved a couple of twenty dollar bills into her hand. “Here, take a god dammed taxi home. I don't want to talk to you right now.”

Tien tried to grab his arm, “Dylan, no. You don't understand.”

He shook free and walked away without looking back.

SIXTEEN

At nine fifteen the next morning, Jim Hayden sat in Dylan's office. The two engineers were going over quantum encryption methodologies. Jim was one of the newer software engineers for Homeland Security and Dylan was assigned to be his mentor. Jim pointed a finger at a diagram on his tablet computer. “I still don't get how you can change the superposition, the quantum state, of a qubit.  Wouldn't even measuring the superposition destroy the state it's in?”

Dylan did not want to be in the office. He wanted to stay curled up in bed with the blinds closed. If it wasn't for Senior Agent Goodman calling a hastily scheduled meeting for today, that he was required to attend, he would have called in sick. Besides, deep down, he knew that getting back to work right away was the best way to get over Tien, get over her lies. Her betrayal, the thought entered his mind.

Dylan began his lecture, “We don't need to know exactly how the state of the particle is measured or changed to form the qubit for our code development. Having a general idea is all we need to know. But it is fascinating stuff. I'll forward you a link to some good info explaining it if you're interested.” Dylan tapped away on the display to his virtual keyboard, sending Jim the web page to the documentation.

“For our purposes all we need to know it that qubits can have the value of zero, one, and both simultaneously. So our quantum interpretations are based on time, the picosecond we select for our calculations. But more importantly setting the value of one qubit will instantaneously change the value of the entangled particles, whether that's the second, third, fourth, or one millionth qubit regardless of it's location. In other words, everything is effectively transmitted instantaneous across time and space. No more digital pathways for electrons to flow at a snails pace as in the olden days. And all we need to do is to write the code to take advantage of these massively parallel, instantaneous quantum threads.”

Dylan continued explaining the inner workings of quantum computing, most of which Jim had already learned in school. It wasn't until Dylan began describing encryption that Jim took a more intense interest. “Originally, and up until recently, scientists believed that quantum encrypted codes where unbreakable. That you'd have to change the laws of physics if you wanted to break them. Until that is, Homeland Security scientists came up with algorithms that could decipher each qbits possible state in combination with every other qbit value for quantum key codes. We found that our quantum computers arrayed in massive super computing grids could make these kinds of computations possible. It's mind boggling, the decillions of simultaneous computations. But we did it. So now we have an entirely new method of encrypting digital signal transmissions.”

The video phone in Dylan's office signaled an incoming transmission. Senior Agent  Goodman was on the display. Dylan excused himself and engaged the transmission, “What can I do for you Agent Goodman?” Goodman spoke with a somber tone, “Please stop what you're doing and report to conference room 318 in Building 5 immediately. Our meeting has been pushed up and it's important for you to get here asap. We'll be here waiting.” Goodman terminated the transmission without saying another word. Jim looked quizzically at Dylan before speaking, “Well, that sounded pretty serious. I'll see you tomorrow then.”

Dylan sat in his chair for a moment after Jim had left the office. He spoke in a low, soft voice to himself, “We'll be here waiting?” Who the hell is we, he thought. He didn't like the tone of Goodman's words. They didn't sound good at all. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe he should have stayed in bed with the covers over his head after all.

Dylan stepped into the open doorway of  the conference room in Building 5. Seated at the long rectangular conference table were Goodman, two male and two female Homeland Security officers, along with two other officers dressed entirely in black with no insignias. Goodman looked over and saw Dylan, “Shut the door behind you and take a seat if you would.”

Making his way to the conference table, Dylan couldn't help himself from focusing on the officers attired in black. They stood out. One was an older heavy set man. He looked to be the senior officer. The other was a middle aged blond woman with a red serpent tattooed on her neck. He couldn't recognize which division the black uniforms where from. Who the hell are they? he thought.

Goodman sat in the center of the conference table. The other men and women talked quietly among themselves or viewed files on their computer video displays. Only Goodman paid any attention to Dylan as he took his place at the table. Goodman spoke up, “OK, lets get started. Dylan, let me introduce you to everyone. Starting on your left is Agent Wilson, Agent Chang, Senior Agent Rivera, Senior Detective Friedman, Detective Perez, and Agent Greene.” Each person nodded or lifted a hand as they were introduced. Dylan learned it was the Detectives who were the officers wearing the all black uniforms without insignia.

Senior Agent Rivera, a fifty something year old Hispanic woman, actually probably closer to sixty, stood and addressed Dylan. She paced back and forth along a small area behind her chair. She appeared to be the most senior officer.  “We called you down here, Dylan, because of the situation that has arisen that involves you. But more importantly because we need your help.” She placed an emphasis on the word 'but' for some reason. “I'll do anything I can to help,” Dylan responded quickly. He was more than a little nervous sitting in the room with all of these  officers, not to mention the Detectives who looked mean as hell. What the fuck is going on? was all he could think.

“Well, we're going to ask a lot from you. I mean a lot. So, you better listen to everything we say very carefully before you volunteer,” Senior Agent Rivera said as she stopped her pacing to look directly at him. Dylan shook his head up and down, then shrugged his shoulders, “OK, I'm listening.” Rivera sat back down in her seat, issuing an order while waving a hand at one of the agents, “Agent Wilson why don't you provide the background.”

Wilson, a slim, pretty brunette who looked to be in her early thirties began speaking, “Approximately eight weeks ago the terrorist activity in the Northeast sector began escalating. We went from isolated terror attacks to numerous all out assaults at our infrastructure. We have responded with additional resources, including more troops, drones, etc.”  Agent Wilson stopped to take a sip of her coffee. “We are in the process of increasing our visible presence by creating checkpoints and outposts. Increasing our patrols, both on the ground and in the air. Our counter terrorism strike force has been doubled and they are making good progress.”

Agent Chang, an older, balding Asian male cut in, “But not good enough progress. We're basically heading into an insurrection in the Northeast by homegrown criminal terrorists who think they're freedom fighters. I mean, these terrorists have delusions they are modern era Minute Men with Boston once again leading the way for the revolution. If we do not destroy these terrorists now, they just might be right, and we could see this spread to other regions of the country.” Senior Agent Rivera interjected, “This is top secret information, not to leave this room. Do you understand that, Dylan?” Dylan turned to her, “Yes, I do. Very much so.”

Goodman initiated an MRI lie detector aimed at Dylan, then he spoke, “At this point, Dylan, I'm sure you're wondering why we're telling all of this to you. The reason is simple, you're involved. In fact you're in the center of all of this. Whether you like it or not. And we need your help whether we like it or not.” Goodman lied. Events were lining up exactly as he intended.

Dylan looked around the room, trying to conceal his emerging panic. Agent Greene was the next to speak, “Mr. Fraser, it came to our attention seven weeks ago of a plan by terrorist leaders to convert a member of our DHS Engineering staff. To be more precise, convert one of our engineers to their side for the purpose of acquiring digital transmission encryption technology for our fleet of aerial drones. In other words, they wanted to obtain knowledge of jamming or taking control of our fleet of drones.”

Dylan looked at Goodman, then at Agent Greene, “We'll if there's anything I can do, I'll do it. I know pretty much everyone in the engineering staff here in Burlington.” Awkward silence filled the room until Goodman broke the tension, “It's you Dylan. They intended to turn you. Convert you to their side.”

For a few seconds Dylan froze up, not fully comprehending what was just said. His face turned red. “I don't understand, .... I, I would never …...,” Dylan stammered out his words until he was cut off mid sentence by Senior Agent Rivera. “We're going to explain everything to you Dylan,” she said. “But first I want to say that what we're about to tell you will be rather unsettling. You may be embarrassed, feel a lot of anger, and so on. The important thing to remember is that all of us in this room know that you are a loyal Freedom Party member and a good Christian.” Silence filled the room as Rivera stood and walked over to Dylan's side. Putting her hand on his shoulder in a motherly way, trying to reassure him before continuing to speak, “We know that you will do your duty to you country above all else.”

Looking up at Senior Agent Rivera, Dylan shook his head in a positive way and was able to mutter, “Of course.” Agent Greene addressed the group once again, “Seven weeks ago we were tipped off by one of our informants embedded within a terror cell of the plan to convert Dylan, here.” Each of the computer screens around the conference room table suddenly displayed a video of Tien-Mu. Dylan's mind raced, Tien! Agent Greene went on, “The subjects name is Tien-Mu Chang. 26 years old, a terror cell commander in the Boston area. Her orders were to seduce and convert Dylan to their cause.”

Dylan felt like he just got punched in the stomach. Oh that fuck'in bitch, the anger plainly visible on his face. All her lies suddenly made sense to him. The video screen displayed Dylan and Tien in various locations during the past few weeks. There were video's showing the two holding hands, kissing in public, entering Tien's apartment. Agent Greene opened a manila folder  and began reading the reports DHS agents had written during their surveillance. The list went on for a while.

Sweat ran down Dylan's temples. Agent Greene went on reading from the reports, “From listening devices beamed into the terror suspects bedroom, there did not appear to be any illicit sexual activity that took place during the nights that the subject of our surveillance, I mean Dylan, spent with the terrorist suspect.”

“Did you have sex with her Dylan?” Goodman asked after the details of the surveillance was completed. Dylan felt his head starting to spin. He didn't look well as he answered, “No...... no, I didn't.” The MRI lie detector displayed on Goodman's computer reported; TRUTH. Goodman saw the distress in the younger man, “Agent Wilson could you get some water for Dylan please?”

Goodman shifted his attention back to Dylan, “The important thing is for you to be completely honest with us.” Agent Wilson grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge in the corner of the conference room, handing it to Dylan. He took a sip, then a gulp, before continuing with his answer. “No I didn't have sex with her. I have to admit I wanted to. But I didn't.” Goodman's lie detector again reported Dylan was telling the truth.

The thought of Tien now repulsed Dylan, That lying, manipulating whore.

Goodman expanded his questioning. “OK, good. The point of the question was to determine how compromised you may have become. The important question I need you to answer is how did you feel about her now?” Dylan drank more water, gulping down almost the entire bottle. He took his time answering, pausing for perhaps fifteen seconds. “I have to admit I was ......, I kinda fell for her. She's beautiful, intelligent. I mean she was hot and I thought she was really into me. Who wouldn't have fallen for a slice like her.” Dylan looked over at the women officers in the room, “I ….. I mean attractive woman.” The female DHS officers didn't seem to care, simply nodding their heads to acknowledge his answer.

Goodman pressed for his original question again, “How do you feel about her now?” Dylan hesitated, the flood of emotions he was attempting to suppress in front of these people could no longer be held back. He pushed his chair back and raised his voice, “How do you think I feel. I feel fucking betrayed, used, pissed off. I thought she fuck'in liked me.” Goodman fought to contain his smile. He was satisfied, the lie detector reporting exactly what he wanted to know.

Dylan pushed his chair towards the conference table and leaned forward. He placed his elbows on the table, and covered his face with both hands. Senior Agent Rivera spoke next. “Your life is going to change today, Dylan. With your help we are going to crush the terrorist command structure in one fell swoop. As of right now, you are promoted to a field agent with a rank of captain. You're drafted out of necessity to execute a plan developed by Agent Goodman.” Dylan straightened himself up in the chair and turned to Rivera, “Plan, Field Agent, Captain. Are you fucking kidding me? I'm sorry. I mean are you kidding me? I'm not an agent. I'm an engineer. I know how to write code, implement software applications. Now you want me to be a field agent fighting terrorists? I don't know the first thing about being an agent.”

It was Goodman's turn to speak. He was prepared for such a response. “Dylan when I met with you a few weeks ago I knew you had what it takes. I saw the kind of man you were. You are a loyal American. And just as importantly you have the balls that are needed to do your duty no matter what. You just don't realize it yet.”

Dylan didn't know what to think. His mind went blank.

Agent Wilson tapped on her keyboard and produced a presentation that appeared on everyone's display. “Before Senior Agent Goodman describes his plan. I'd like to discuss the background a little.” Wilson presented the details of the brain washing techniques used by the terrorists to protect their command structure. “The terrorists use a verbal password that restores their memories. Like when you see a hypnotist onstage and he says a word to bring them out of their hypnosis. Without that password, there's no way we can get any information out of them.”

Senior Agent Rivera noticed how Dylan was fading fast from the overload of information. She stopped Wilson from continuing any further. “I think Dylan needs to take a break. Not to mention some coffee, as well. Let's take fifteen minutes, shall we?”

SEVENTEEN

“OK, lets get going. We've got a busy day ahead of us,” Goodman said. All of the officers were by then back in the conference room. “Please turn your attention to your computer screens,” he ordered. Cups of coffee sat on the table in front of each person. Senior Agent Riviera spoke to Dylan, “This is going to be difficult for you watch. But there's no way around it. You have to bear with us.” Even with just having a break and getting some coffee, Dylan's head continued to spin. Riviera's words only made him more apprehensive.

The computer screens on the conference table began displaying video. A dozen police cars with their lights flashing blocked the street in front of a high rise office building. National Guard soldiers with assault rifles lined the road. The video zoomed in at Tien-Mu as she was being escorted out of the building by a half dozen Homeland Security Agents. Her hands were handcuffed behind her back. Tien, her name jumped into Dylan's head as he watched. He maintained a poker face, not wanting to display emotions of any kind. Finally, the video showed the Agents pushing her into one of the police cruisers and being whisked away.

“At zero eight hundred hours this morning, the terrorist cell commander named Tien-Mu Chang, the subject we had been previously discussing, was taken into custody and brought here to one of the detention centers,” Agent Goodman said. The two DHS Detectives at the far end of the table talked to one another in a hushed, private conversation. Goodman began describing his plan to the group, “As we know, and how we just started explaining to our new captain here, standard interrogation techniques are useless with terrorists due to their hypnosis techniques. Therefore, we're going to try something very different. And very unorthodox.”

All of the DHS Agents knew the plan, having previously discussed and approved it. The discussion now was for Dylan's benefit, as well as for the Detectives attending the meeting. Goodman went on, “The plan is fairly simple in it's concept. Dylan, Tien-Mu Chang knows you work here. You're going to break her out of the detention center and convince her you are on her side. Or at least convince her you're not working for Homeland Security.” “What!” Dylan began to protest. Though before he could say he'd never be able to pull off such a scheme, Goodman raised his hand to stop him from saying another word. He continued describing the details of the plan. “The prisoner will be taken to an interrogation chamber by Senior Detective Friedman where his interrogation beatings will begin.” Dylan picked up on the word, beatings.

“At that point,” Goodman explained, “the plan is to have Dylan enter the interrogation chamber, flash an DHS Agent badge along with official papers, and stop the procedure. It will all be choreographed to give the impression that Dylan has risked everything by stealing the badge and paperwork in order to save the woman 'he loves'. Dylan and the prisoner will then escape from the building and go into hiding. All the while we'll have tracking devices embedded in the subject's clothing. Dylan will also carry a transmitter.”

Dylan looked around the room. All eyes were upon him. Everything seemed surreal. It was all happening too fast. He doubted he could do what they asked.  Think, goddammit think,  raced though his head while looking around at the officers in the room.  He finally managed to speak, “This won't work. For starters how could I convince Tien that I could stand up to him?” Dylan pointed to Friedman. “This guy looks like he wouldn't take shit from anyone. He looks like I could point a machine gun in his face and he wouldn't blink.”

Friedman let out a haughty laugh. The other officers joined in with the laughter. Goodman raised his voice to speak over the group, “That's for sure. Detective Friedman is one mean motherfucker. But, you are going to stand up to him. You're going to do it by being firm and pretending to pull rank. This is all going to be acting. He'll be acting just as you will be.” Senior Agent Riviera cut in, “Keep in mind Dylan, you are an officer now. You are expected to carry out your duties as a military officer to the best of your abilities.”

I am so fucked, Dylan thought to himself. “Yes, Ma'am.” He portrayed a dead serious appearance.

Senior Detective Friedman leaned back in his seat, put his hands behind his head, and smiled at Detective Perez before speaking, “Otherwise, we're going to make her scream in unimaginable agony while we get the information out of her our way. And that won't be pretend. We may only get the info on her terror cell. But that's good enough for us. Maybe not for Agent Goodman. So it's your choice my friend.” Friedman starred at Dylan with an evil smirk that told him he meant every word.

Agent Goodman continued, “Dylan the next part of the plan is the most important. After your escape, you have to stay with her. You must convince her you have thrown everything away in order to save her. That there's no going back for you. You'll have to figure out how to best convince her of this. You'll have to appear genuine. You'll have to appear vulnerable. We'll go over all of the details as we get you prepared for the mission. The point is, she's going to need to return to base, find a safe house, or notify her command. In order for her to do that she'll need to get the coded password to re-acquire her memories. That's why you have to stay with her long enough for her to get that password. Once she does, you'll initiate your tracking device immediately. We'll be there within minutes. After she has regained her memory we can break her during interrogation and crush the terrorist command structure in this region.”

All of the officers in the conference room could see Dylan's face was white as a sheet. Several thought to themselves the young man was going to either faint or vomit. Goodman spoke again, “We need an answer now Dylan. Will you help us? I can order you to carry out this mission as I would normally order any officer. But we need you to willingly want to help us. Your ability to convince the subject of your sincerity in helping her escape is the most important aspect of the mission.”

Dylan looked around the room. He took the last sip of the lukewarm coffee in his mug. Senior Agent Riviera chimed in, “You can save a lot of lives, Dylan. And crush these terrorists now before things get out of hand. If you don't, you leave us no choice but to employ our normal interrogation techniques with the Senior Detective here.” Dylan looked at Friedman. He struggled to find the right words. Nothing would congeal in his brain. Forced to come up with something, he dispensed with the decorum expected for an officer of his rank, and just blurted out what was in head. “This is so fucked up! I came in to work this morning thinking how much of a shitty day it was. Now I find everything is even worse than I could have ever fucking imagined.” Everyone in the room remained silent, their eyes fixed on him, awaiting his answer.

Dylan rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, then slid his hands behind his head to message the back of his neck. He needed time to think, but knew he had none. In that instant he also realized the moment Goodman asked him to participate in the mission, he never had a choice. The seconds ticked by. He just needed time to wrestle with everything he was being hit with. “Yes, I'll help you,” Dylan finally said. Then added, “I'll do the best I can. But I have to say up front that I have a lot of doubts I can pull this off.”

Goodman smiled and talked reassuringly, “Dylan, we're going to go over everything you need to accomplish this mission. Any problems you have, we'll figure them out. We know you have the smarts to improvise with the plan. You'll be fine.”

“OK then. So, when do we start?” Dylan asked earnestly. Goodman smiled, much broader this time, “We start right now. You'll go with Greene and Friedman. They'll start your training. I'll stop by at noon. We'll have a quick lunch and continue your briefing. Time is of the essence. This afternoon you'll have a practice run, then we go for the real thing at sixteen hundred hours.”

Senior Agent Riviera concluded the meeting, “Welcome to the team Agent Fraser. Don't worry about any of your current assignments. I'll contact your manager and inform her that you've been re-assigned. And who knows maybe you'll enjoy field work. I bet you'll make a great Agent someday.”

Everyone stood from their seats and started to leave. Friedman approached Dylan and slapped him on the back, “A machine gun to my face, huh. That's a good one. Though, ya know, I think we can use that. If you pull a sidearm on me, I think that would be completely believable. Let's talk about using that during your training.”

EIGHTEEN

A Homeland Security soldier, with a short barreled machine rifle slung across his chest, opened the steel door to the second floor holding cell in Building 6. He entered the cell first, clutching the rifle, his finger on the trigger. He was followed by Detective Perez and two additional soldiers. Inside the cell, Tien sat on a rusty metal bench with her back against a bare cinder block wall. Her legs were crossed, with her hands lying on her lap, still handcuffed. She was a bit disheveled, her hair messed up and in tangles. But was otherwise unharmed.

Tien looked up at the black uniformed woman with defiance.

“Get up bitch, we're taking a walk,” Detective Perez ordered forcefully. Tien slowly stood up and looked at Perez, “I thought they'd send some tough guy Agent. Instead I see they sent a lowlife dike bitch.” Detective Perez smiled. She was unfazed by the insults. She had interrogated so many terrorists, she was used to that kind of bravado. Besides, this prisoner was the most important of her career. She knew if she handled things well she would be in line for the next available Senior Detective position.

“In a little while, we're going to see just exactly who the bitch really is,” Perez said in a calm, slightly sadistic voice. She issued orders for the men to take her. Two of the soldiers grabbed Tien, one on each arm, and dragged her out of the holding cell. They managed to carry her down a maze of underground corridors, until finally entering the dimly lit Interrogation Room 4. A single spotlight shone down from the center of the ceiling. Detective Perez closed the steel door as she followed behind.

“Tie her the usual fashion,” Perez ordered. The soldiers remove her handcuffs and attached leather straps to her wrists and ankles, connecting the straps to rings at the end of chains hanging from the ceiling or bolted onto the floor. “Fuck all of you,” Tien  swore while struggling with her chains to no avail. When the soldiers were finished, she stood standing in the center of the room, her arms above her head, her legs spread apart.

Perez inspected the bonds carefully. “Good job men. You may leave,” she said after being satisfied the prisoner was secure. She walked slowly in a circle around Tien, not saying a word at first. She caressed the prisoner with her left hand as she circled in a counter clockwise  movement. Perez stopped and leaned forward, grabbing one of Tien's breasts. She spoke slowly and menacingly, “I have to admit. I'm hoping you won't be cooperative. It's been a while since we're had a prisoner as pretty as you.”

“Fuck you,” was all that Tien could manage to say. She struggled again with her chains, pushing her head as far away from Perez as she could. The detective walked behind her prisoner, softly putting her hands on Tien's neck. “You should know, the Senior Detective is one truly twisted motherfucker. Personally, I think the man is a psychopath. I've gotten sick seeing the things he's done. And that's saying a lot. Because you should see the things I like to do to pretty young things like you. Oh wait you will,” Perez said with a short laugh. Tien said nothing, looking away from her tormentor as best she could. She couldn't tell if it was all an act or the detective was truly sick.

“Your fate is in your own hands now. We'll be starting in a little while. I suggest you think about it while you wait,” Perez said. She walked away and left the the interrogation chamber, leaving Tien tied with the spotlight shinning directly overhead. She could not see into the darkness beyond the cone of light engulfing her. The chamber was eerily silent between the sounds of the chains being struggled with. After ten minutes, the room began to spin.

NINETEEN

It was ten minutes past four o'clock. Dylan Fraser stood outside the door to Interrogation Room 4. His heart was pounding fast and he was having difficulty breathing. He was leaning forward against the concrete wall, using both arms to hold himself up. Agent Greene stood next to him, having just finished speaking with Agent Goodman on his v-phone. “One minute to show time, Agent Fraser. Everything is a go. Friedman and Perez have already started their interrogation.”

Dylan nodded to Agent Greene, letting him know he was ready, then took a deep breath. “Thanks for all your help, Agent,” Dylan said, for the fourth time that afternoon. The plan had changed during the preparations for the charade. Dylan had convinced Goodman the best course would be for an Agent to accompany him to stop the interrogation. The reason being, it would be more believable if Dylan had got help from a friend who was a senior officer. She would never believe a software engineer, by himself, could barge in and overrule DHS Detectives. Agent Greene was the man chosen to go in with Dylan.

“OK, gentlemen, proceed!” Goodman issued his orders over the video phone. Greene acknowledged the command and put the v-phone into his back pocket. He turned to Dylan, “Ready?” “Let's do it,” Dylan responded, trying to pump himself up. His stomach felt like it was full of lead. He thought he was going to get sick and vomit before he made it past the doorway.

Dylan forced himself to open the steel door. He entered first, walked in as normal as he could, then picked up his pace as soon as he saw the scene. Tien was tied spread eagled, her blouse ripped open. She was being beaten with a rubber baton by the woman, Detective Perez, introduced to him in the conference room that morning. An unknown male Detective also holding a baton stood behind her. Dylan yelled almost frantically, “Stop!” Greene rushed to keep up with him.

“Who the fuck are you?” Senior Detective Friedman yelled. Detective Perez stopped beating her prisoner on queue. A look of complete surprise come across Tien's face. “I'm Agent Dylan Fraser. Agent Greene here and myself are taking custody of this prisoner immediately.”

Friedman laughed out loud as if to say 'fuck you'. He thought Dylan was perfect so far. Friedman reached over and took a look at Dylan's ID badge. “You think so? Well, Mister Dylan  Fraser it says here you're just a whiney, piece of shit Captain. You have no authority to remove this prisoner that I am in the middle of interrogating.”

Agent Greene brushed past Dylan to face off against Friedman. Giving a forceful performance, Greene stared into Friedman's eye's without blinking, “It's my authority that we're taking this prisoner. It's come to my attention that there could be a mistake in taking this woman into custody. We are going to take over until we can determine the facts.” Friedman, acting incensed, yelled back, “The fuck you are! You have no authority here! Get the fuck out of here before my associates and I pummel the both of you.”

Right on queue, Dylan lunged for a metal rod lying on the nearby table holding the instruments of torture. At the same instant, Greene pulled out his 9mm automatic and pointed it directly into Friedman's face. Dylan held the associate Detectives at bay while Greene confronted Friedman. Agent Greene continued to play his part, “I out rank you no matter where we are. You're just a lowlife detective with delusions of grandeur. If I pulled this trigger right now it would be well within my rights considering your gross insubordination in time of war. So stand down, now!”

Friedman feigning a temporary defeat, issued his order to his associates, “Why don't you go home detectives. It looks like we're done for the day.”  He continued his charade with Greene, “I'm not through with you. I'm taking this to the fucking top. I'll have that bitch back in my custody by tomorrow morning at the latest. That I promise you. Sir.” Friedman saluted in a derogatory manner as he and his detectives left the room.

Once Friedman backed off, Dylan tossed the metal rod back onto the table and rushed over to help Tien. Dylan placed his hand her cheek, “You're going to be alright.” He rushed to untie her hands. Agent Greene went to work untying her legs. Tien was stunned, not knowing at first how to react.  “I.... how did you?” she managed to say. Dylan cut her off mid-sentence as he finished untying her left wrist. “I found out about your arrest this morning. I asked my friend Agent Greene here to help us. He's one of the good guys.” Greene looked up for a moment to chip in, “Can't say it's nice to meet you under these circumstances.”

Tien pulled the top of her blouse together with her left hand. Then put her her right arm around Dylan, to hold herself up. They walked slowly out of the Interrogation Room. “Thank you, Dylan. Thank you, Agent Greene,” Tien said. All that she could think of at the moment was her gratefulness for being rescued from those monsters.

Dylan and Agent Greene brought Tien to one of the prearranged guest rooms in the residence wing of Building Two. The rooms were meant for temporary lodging of Homeland Security personnel on assignment from different parts of the country. More often than not they were used for sexual liaisons between DHS employees. The rooms were small but comfortable and had to be signed out beforehand. Using the room was all part of Goodman's plan.

Dylan punched the codes into the the keypad for the lock and pushed the door open. He continued playing his assigned role, “I checked this room out earlier under a colleagues name. We won't have long. But we can rest up here.” Agent Greene closed the door as he followed the two into the room. Tien made it to the couch in the middle of what looked to be a living room of sorts, and collapsed.

Greene turned to Dylan and gave his final instructions. “The package should be delivered to your office by now. I couldn't take the chance and have it delivered here. You're on your own from here on out. Good luck to you both.” Dylan shook the Agent's hand, “Thank you so much for everything.”

Dylan locked the door behind Greene, then went over and sat beside Tien on the couch. He placed his hand upon the side of her face, “Everything is going to be alright I promise you.” Tien began to cry, more of a sorrowful weeping, “I am so sorry. I have so much to tell you. But the first thing I want to say is I'm sorry I got you involved in all of this.” Dylan knew they were being watched, though had no idea where the cameras were hidden. He had the acting role of his lifetime before him.

“We'll talk later when you're ready. How do you feel? Are you injured?” he asked. “I'm OK. Just a little bruised,” she answered. “I'm so relieved to hear that. If you were hurt ….., well, let's be thankful you weren't,” he said before getting up and heading over to the kitchenette to get a glass of water for her.

“We gotta get you out of here tonight. But we have to clean you up first. Get you some new clothes. I need to get over to my office to pick up the ID badge and your clothing that Agent Greene has left there. The plan is really simple. We're going to just walk right out the front door. As if we were employees leaving work for the day.” Tien sat up on the couch, her back against the armrest. She handed him back the empty glass of water. “Dylan, I have a lot to tell you. You must have read my file. I want to tell you everything,” she said.  He was again quick to cut her off from saying more, “Yes I read it. And I was pretty fuck'in pissed off at first. Probably still am,” he replied. She looked puzzled, asking, “Why did you help me then?” Dylan had prepared himself earlier in the day on how to best answer such a question. He looked her in her eyes, “I really don't know why. I think, maybe..... I just had to. I have a lot to tell you, as well.”

Tien and Dylan looked carefully at one another, examining each others facial expressions for what seemed an eternity. A thousand words silently exchanged between them; of doubt, sorrow, and forgiveness. Dylan broke the silence, ”We have to keep our focus on getting you out of here. We can talk all we need to later. I have to get to my office to get our stuff. I'll be back within ten minutes. In the meantime, get yourself cleaned up. You need to look like you put in a full day of work and you're ready to head home.”

“Ten minutes? Can you make it sooner?” she asked. A worried look crossed her face. Dylan stood up, “I have to walk over to another building and back. All the while walking as normal as possible. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can.” Before leaving, he turned around and gave her a final instruction, “I'm going to lock the door behind me. Don't answer the door for anyone. I mean no-one. When I get back be ready to get the hell out of here.” Tien shook her head up and down acknowledging what he said, “OK.”

Once he had left, Tien got up off the couch and walked to the bathroom. She washed her face slowly as she stared into the mirror. It was difficult to comprehend all that just went on. She played with her hair, trying to make it presentable. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion for her. Everything seemed surreal, confusing. After toweling her face dry for the last time, she stood motionless in front of the mirror, starring blankly at her reflection.

TWENTY

Dylan walked down to the first floor of Building 2 for his prearranged meeting with Senior Agent Goodman. He found Agent Greene and Senior Detective Friedman waiting there, as well. Friedman was the first to congratulate Dylan, “You were great in there. Seriously, 'I'm Agent Fucking Dylan Fraser'. That was perfect, man. Even I believed you.” Dylan shook Friedman's outstretched hand.

“Yes, congratulations. Very well done,” Goodman added while shaking Dylan's hand. “Now the hard part. You're going to be on your own from here on out.” Dylan nodded his acknowledgment to Goodman. Agent Greene reached over to be the last to shake his hand.

After the congratulations were over, Friedman provided Dylan with two Homeland Security soldier uniforms with officer insignia, boots, and two new ID badges. “The tracking devices are hidden inside the uniforms. We thought it would be easier for you both to get out of the building wearing these. And we had an additional badge made for you, as well. You're now both Detectives.” Dylan took the uniforms and slung them over his shoulder. He dropped the boots by his side and put the ID badges in his pocket.

Greene provided the instructions on how to use the tracking devices. “Your locator is removable. It's hidden here.” He showed Dylan the secret pocket hidden under the arm. “We expect you'll be ditching the uniforms at some point. So make sure to take your tracking device with you,” Greene said. Goodman handed Dylan a faux credit card. “This is your signal device. Keep it on you at all times. When you're ready, place your thumb on this insignia for four seconds, like this. It's only activated by your thumbprint.” “OK, I got it,” Dylan said, putting the credit card in his wallet.

Goodman provided Dylan with further last minute instructions. “As soon as the subject has re-acquired her password and her memory and, you press that god damned signal ASAP. Do you understand?” Dylan looked at Goodman as if to say 'What am I an idiot? You've told me that two dozen times', but restrained himself from saying anything other than an obedient yes.

Dylan looked at his watch, “I should be getting back. I don't want to alarm her.” Agent Greene handed Dylan an empty duffel bag. “Here, for the uniforms and boots. It'd look suspicious if  anyone saw you carrying them in your arms. We don't need any unforeseen mishaps.”

“Any other questions?” Goodman asked. Dylan paused for a moment, “No. I'm as ready as I'm ever gonna be.” Goodman ushered him over to the side to privately add one last bit of information, “You're on your own from this point. We're keeping your mission secret. So you can just as easily get killed by our side as you can by theirs. If things turn to shit, you'll need a code, just between you and I. Remember the words 'King's Chapel'. That way I'll know the message is from you. God Bless you on your mission.” “God Bless you,” Dylan responded.

Dylan returned to the room to find Tien fast asleep on the couch. He stood frozen in the living room momentarily, not knowing what he should do. Eventually deciding the best course was to let her sleep for a while. As much as he wanted to get out of there, he knew if Tien wasn't at one hundred percent the whole endeavor could fall apart.

At ten minutes to six in the evening, he sat down on the couch and gave her a gentle nod. Tien awoke, alarmed to see Dylan wearing a black DHS uniform. “It's OK. Agent Greene left these uniforms. One for each of us. He had to guess at your size. He also got us these badges. The picture on your badge looks good. We'll have no problem getting out of here.”

“How long have I been out?” Tien said. She swung her body in one motion to get off the couch and into a standing position. She seemed to be back to her old self. Dylan handed her the uniform. “I let you sleep for an hour and a half. You needed it,” he said. Tien held the uniform in front of her. She stared at it for a few seconds before tossing it down on the couch. She knew things didn't add up. “What's going on Dylan? Are you working for them? This is too easy, getting me out of the interrogation room, now apparently getting me out of the building. Do you think I'm stupid?” she said, taking a step back and folding her arms in defiance.

Dylan knew he was between a rock and a hard place. He knew that he had to get her out of there no matter how he did it. It was time to open up and bit and give everyone a show. “I know you're a terrorist leader. I know the only reason we went spent the last few weeks together was so you could use me, manipulate me. So when I discovered you were arrested and being held in detention, my first thought was good let you rot there. But, I couldn't let the thought of you in one our prisons out of my head. I felt my head was going to explode. I couldn't sit there and do nothing. For good or bad, right or wrong, I had to do something. I had to get you out of there no matter what. So, that's what I'm going to do. We're just going to walk out of here, get in my car, and drive away. I'll drop you off wherever you want to go. Wherever you'd feel safe. And you'll never see me again. It's that simple.”

Tien's mind raced with scenarios, possibilities, and strategies. Overall, she was confused. It just didn't all add up. But she knew her best chance at escape was with Dylan. She had to trust him long enough until they got out of the building. “OK, I'll buy that for now. So what's next?”

“We just walk right out the front door. We have to be calm, relaxed. You have to look like you've just finished a long day, you're tired. You just want to go home. Besides, Security doesn't check people leaving, only people coming in. Nobody is going to look at your badge or take a laser scan of you eyes.” Then he added, “But we have to get out of here now. While there are still employee's leaving the building. We need to blend in.” Dylan took a step towards the couch, picked up the uniform, and handed it back to her. “You don't have to trust me. But please, let's just get the hell out of here.”

Tien took the uniform and walked into the bathroom to put it on. Dylan checked his keys, his wallet, and his mobile v-phone. He walked over near the closed door to the bathroom. “Do you have any more questions,” he spoke loud enough for her to hear through the door. She opened the door and walked out, “No. I'm ready. Let's go.” Dylan handed her the ID badge, “OK, Let's go!.”

Dylan opened the front door to the apartment and headed out. Tien followed. They walked down the empty hallway together. Tien walking a little too fast, got ahead of Dylan by a step. “Slow down, walk with me. Relax and concentrate on your breathing,” he said. She knew he was right and she knew her life depended on it. They didn't run into any DHS employee's until they got into Building 3. Most everyone would have already gone home for the day. Five o'clock was the normal quitting time. But there were always people who worked late.

Just as they hoped, they ran across a couple of employee's on their way out. Tien and Dylan nonchalantly followed them down the hall. Two engineers that Dylan recognized crossed their path. Dylan looked down. The engineers were engrossed in a conversation and paid no attention them. Nor did anyone else that walked by.

Dylan and Tien made their way into the front lobby of Building 3. About a dozen people were walking out of the building at the time, coming from the different corridors that led into the main lobby. They walked past the security station. The guards took no notice. They continued walking, more at ease at that point. Dylan gave her a quick glimpse to make sure everything was alright.

They had only twenty five feet to go before reaching the exit door when a woman's voice called out from behind. “Dylan. Dylan, is that you?” Dylan spun around to see Grace Howard walking towards them. She had been no more than a dozen feet behind them as she was leaving the building for the night. Damn, was all that he could think. A sick feeling hit him in the pit of stomach. One of the guards in the security station took notice of them. “I thought that was you. Hi,” Grace said catching up to the pair. “Hello, Grace,” was all that Dylan could muster to say.  She looked quizzically at his soldier uniform, then at Tien. “What's going on. Why are you wearing that?” she asked.

Dylan looked at Tien then over to Grace. “Well, first, I'd like you to meet my colleague, Susan Tran. Susan this is Grace Howard,” he replied confidently. Maybe a little too confident. Grace and Tien smiled and nodded to one another in acknowledgment. “Do you have a new job?” Grace asked. He looked down at his uniform to give himself another full second to come up with an explanation. “Yes, actually, I've been promoted to a field agent. We're …...,” Grace cut him off in mid sentence upon seeing the name on his ID badge pinned on his chest. “Kevin Johnson? Why does your ID say Kevin Johnson?”

The security guard got up from his seat in the center station, keeping his eye on the three people talking a few feet away. His interest was aroused.

“Grace, I'm undercover. You weren't suppose to see me. We have to go. Walk with us out to the parking lot. I'll explain,” he said, as he watched the security guard move around his station and begin walking towards them. Tien turned and started walking first. Dylan followed motioning with his hand for Grace to come along. “Let's go,” he said.  She did.

The three of them reached the main doors and headed outside. The security guard turned around and headed back to his station, not giving a second thought to the three people who just left.

While crossing the walkway over the buildings vehicle barrier, Dylan spoke to Grace firmly. “I'll tell you everything I can tomorrow. Right now we're in a rush. I don't have the time to talk. And I can't tell you much anyways. This is highly secret.” Dylan lied to Grace once again. He had no choice.

TWENTY ONE

The parking lot to Homeland Security's Building 3 was eerily deserted that evening. Most employees having already headed home for the night. The florescent spotlights encircling the lot cast an orange tinged glow into the cloudy night sky. The pair hastily made their way to Dylan's StarCruiser and climbed in. They tried to be nonchalant with every step and every movement they made. “Athena, start the engine,” Dylan issued his ignition command. Neither of them bothered to put their seat belts on. The thought of a quick escape was the only thing on their minds.

Dylan carefully drove out of the parking. Not too fast, not too slow, just trying to drive like he did every day on his way home. He found it difficult at first. Though, it got easier once the sight of the Homeland Security complex disappeared from view. Tien looked all around, in every direction and above them. She carefully surveying every car on the road. She wanted to keep track of any cars that may be following them, especially multi-car surveillance teams. Those were harder to detect, but she was trained to watch for them.

Dylan banged the steering wheel with the palm of his left hand. “Yeah! We made it. God damn we made it,” his voice raised in victory. Dylan was genuinely sincere that they had gotten out of the Homeland Security complex. Nothing in his entire life did he ever want more. Tien glanced to him with a curt smile, “So far so good.” Dylan turned the SUV onto Middlesex Turnpike, heading towards Boston. In his excitement he started driving too fast. “Slow down, Dylan. Take it easy,” Tien spoke in an authoritative voice. He knew she was right and slowed down to the speed limit.

Having driven a few more miles and making it to the back roads of Arlington, Tien could see that they weren't being followed. She confronted him, “Are you going to tell me now what's going on? We don't just walk out of the heavily guarded regional headquarter for Homeland Security. I want to know the truth. You're working for them. I know it.” Dylan responded by putting his index finger up to his lips as if to say be quiet. Then he started mouthing some words, hoping she'd understand he was trying to say there could be electronic listening devices planted in the car.

Tien nodded she understood. She was willing to follow along for a little while longer. He spoke aloud, “I told you everything already. I just wanted to get you out of there. That's it. You don't have to trust me. I'll drop you off anywhere you want to go. I'll pull over right here and let you out if that's what you want.” Tien started to sense that there was more to the story but would have to wait. She knew then that she could trust Dylan for the time being and played along with the questioning. “Yeah, and after you drop me off. What happens to you? Do you think you can just waltz back to your office tomorrow morning like nothing happened? You'll be in one of their interrogation chambers before noontime tomorrow.”

Maybe she understands, Dylan thought. He gave her an approving look and nodded his head. He continued the charade, “I didn't give it a lot of thought. Tonight I'll empty out my savings and I'll catch the first flight to a Caribbean Island. From there I'll fly to Brazil or Argentina. I'll just disappear.” “Oh, good plan Romeo. Like you wouldn't be on a no fly list at all of the airports. And even if you were lucky enough to get out of the country. You know full well DHS agents would track you down eventually and bring you back.” Tien spoke in a sarcastic tone proving she could act as well. “We're going have to come up with something better than that. Just let me think,” she added.

Dylan was pleased. He knew if Agent Goodman was listening and he was pretty certain that he was, Goodman would no doubt be convinced Tien was falling into his trap.

This buys us more time, he thought.

Dylan continued to drive the back roads until reaching the shopping mall in Watertown. He took a right into the main parking lot of the mall, then drove around the back to reach a smaller lot that was less used at night. “Where are we going?” Tien asked. Dylan put his finger to his lips again, then spoke, “We need some time to think. Were getting off the road. I know this area, it's a good spot.” Tien gave Dylan a quizzical look but played along.

A single car was parked near the far the corner of the lot. It was backed into the parking spot, the car's front end facing forward. Dylan drove towards it. The running lights of the parked car flashed on and off one time as they approached. He looked over at Tien and once more put his finger to his lips. Dylan pulled the StarCruiser along side the solitary car and parked.  His drivers side door facing the other vehicle's driver side door.

Dylan pointed to the manual door handle on Tien's door and quickly put his fingers to his lips, indicating to her to get out of the car without using the computer voice controls. She did. He  exited the SUV immediately after. By the time Tien walked around the back of the SUV to the driver side, she saw Jack Brooks standing in front of the open door to his car. “What the hell is going on?” Brooks lamented to his friend. Before Dylan could say a word, Brooks caught sight of Tien. “Hi Tien, how are you doing?” he asked. She froze in her footsteps, not uttering a word.

Joanne Neely jumped out of the passengers side of the car and ran over to Tien. “Thank God you're OK.” She cried, embracing Tien in a bear hug. “I never thought I'd see you again,” Joanne said, wiping the tears away as stepped back a foot to give Tien room to breath. “I'm good, I'm good” Tien repeated herself. Dylan grew angry with the unfolding scene, “What's she doing here?” Brooks looked perplexed. “What's she doing here? What are we doing here?”

Dylan shook his head and grabbed Brooks by the arm, leading him a few feet to the rear of his car.  “We need to get the fuck out of here fast. Where are our clothes? Once we're out of here I'll tell you everything.” Brooks opened the trunk and pulled out two small plastic burlap bags with clothing and shoes. Dylan grabbed the bags and sprinted over to Tien. “Come on, follow me.” They ran to the opposite side of the SUV.

Dylan looked in the plastic bags and handed one to Tien. “We have to move fast. Take all of your clothes off. Every single piece, everything. These shoes and clothes will have to do for now.” To Dylan's surprised, Tien didn't say a word as she stripped off her clothes in a matter of seconds. He expected her to complain of being out in the open, or of the cold, or the mismatched clothes she was putting on. She knew in an instant why the clothes had to come off. She also started to have a feeling in the pit of her stomach that Dylan may be genuine.

Joanne and Brooks got back in their car and waited. Tien finished dressing first and stuffed all the clothes into one of the bags. Dylan opened the back door of the StarCruiser and threw almost everything he had onto the floor; his wallet, video phone, keys, badges. He looked over the final item for a few seconds, the faux credit card tracking device, before tossing it on top of the pile. He kept his cash and one bank card, just in case. Tien tossed the bag of clothes onto the back seat. Dylan slammed the door. “Alright, we're outta here.” Tien was already making a dash to the getaway car.

Brooks drove off once they were all inside. With the car speeding away, Dylan turned to look back through the rear windshield to see his prized SUV for the last time. He turned to Tien. “Now I think we have a lot to talk about.”

TWENTY TWO

“Is somebody going to tell me what the hell is going on?” Brooks asked no sooner than having driven a hundred yards outside of the Watertown Mall. The other three occupants let out a collective laugh. They laughed not only to let out the tension, but also because it really was funny that Brooks was the only one who didn't have a clue what was going on.

“I'll tell you everything. Just get us out of here fast. We've got quite a story for you Brooksie,” Dylan said. He looked at Tien again, this time with an expression of relief. She didn't acknowledge him, instead she leaned forward in her seat to talk with Brooks, “Head over to Cambridge. Take the back roads. We need to find a quiet place to park the car for a couple of minutes.” Cambridge was the next city over from Watertown. There weren't any back roads at that point, but Brooks knew some less busy streets.

They drove on in silence. Tien was calmed by the presence of her friend Joanne. “Take the second left,  River Street is quicker. That will take us to Fresh Pond,” Joanne said.  “OK,OK, I'm just gonna do what all of you want me to do. I'll take the left. I'm an accomplice now. And somehow I just know this is all going to end badly. Mark my words,” Brooks shook his head for added effect.

Tien finally looked over at Dylan, giving him a smile. A minute or so passed before Dylan spoke to his friend, “Jack, you have no idea how much I appreciate you picking us up. Thank you buddy. I knew I could count on you.” Brooks could never remember a single time when Dylan called him by his actual first name. “I can't wait to hear the story. This bett'ah be wicked good,” he said.

Tien spoke next, “It's good to see you're OK, Joanne. I didn't know whether the entire group had been compromised. Though, I am surprised to even see you here.”

“She's one of you. She's another terrorist?” Dylan asked incredulously.

Tien responded firmly, “A Patriot. And yes, who do you think made friends with Brooksie and introduced the two of us.”

“Sorry, Patriot. I'm still just getting use to all of this,” Dylan said.

“Oh, this is just great. I can't wait hear what you're going to tell me,” Brooks butted in sarcastically. He thought for a second then turned to Joanne, “You're still a lesbian, though, right?” Joanne smirked at him before answering, “Sorry to disappoint you buddy, but, ah, nope. We thought that was the best way to establish a friendship with you.” Of all the news he'd heard so far, that disappointed Brooks the most.

Joanne turned around to speak with Tien, “As soon as I heard you were arrested I got out of sight. I left work and went over to Brooksie's place. He let me spend the day there while he went to work. I was expecting to leave town tonight. That was, until he came home early in the afternoon, complaining about having to find some cloths for Dylan and you. When I heard that I made it a point to tag along.”

Brooks slowly shook his head from side to side, “This story is getting bett'ah and bett'ah.”

Tien spoke over Brooks' complaints, “Joanne, did you contact David?” “Yeah, he's OK. He's already gone underground,” she said. Tien nodded, “Good. Then you're next. We'll drop you off in Cambridge. Get out of sight ASAP. I'll contact you when the time is right.” Joanne protested, “I should stay with you. We can handle the situation together.” Tien pulled rank, “You know the procedure in this situation. We split up and go underground. Besides, I'm not asking you. That's an order.”

Reaching Fresh Pond Parkway in Cambridge, Tien issued Brooks further instructions, “Drive over to the supermarket at the end of the mall. Find a dark corner we're we can stop and drop Joanne off.” “Alrighty then,” Brooks said as he pulled into the entrance of the mall, then drove around to the far side.

Once they found a spot to park, Tien got out, followed by Joanne. “I need your v-phone,” Tien gently commanded her friend. “I can't give it to you. I need it for ….. ,” Joanne couldn't find the right words at first, then collected herself. “For letting my family know that I'll be going away for awhile,”

“You can do that with an encrypted messages once you're safely away,” Tien said. “I need to contact Command. That takes priority,” she spoke more forcefully, holding out her hand. Joanne had no choice, handing over her phone begrudgingly. They hugged one another. “Stay safe and I'll see you soon enough,” Joanne said.

Brooks got out of the car and gave Joanne a hug. “Take care of yourself,” he said. Dylan followed. “Be careful,” he said, as he hugged her. Tien spoke last, “I'll contact you in three days. You know the procedure.” Joanne bade her final farewells then walked towards the supermarket.

Senior Agent Goodman paced back and forth in one of the Command Centers at Homeland Security's headquarters in Burlington. He was chain smoking, issuing various orders, and trying to get updated status on the mission. “Have they moved yet?” He loosened his tie further. “No Sir. The subjects have been stationary for three minutes,” one of the junior DHS Agents called out.

The Command Center being used was one of the mid-sized rooms, with just two rows of console stations, four stations per row. Each station had a computer with several monitors along with various communications equipment. Against the main wall was the operations display screen. It was nearly twelve feet wide and took up most the wall. At the rear of the command center sat the operation commanders desk. Only six agents were working the command center. The need for secrecy required a small group of trusted officers. The room was abuzz with activity. Agents yelled back and forth as they monitored the electronic tracking and listening devices, controlled various hover drones, maintained communication with other DHS departments, as well as, coordinating efforts amongst themselves.

Senior Agent Goodman turned and walked over to the other side of the room before asking his next question. “What about the audio? Can we hear anything yet?” The agent who was responsible for the listening devices installed in the SUV was quick to respond, “Not yet, Sir.”  Another agent called out, “We're checking the diagnostics on the listening device now, Sir.  Hold on, OK, we just got the return signals. They all came back with positive results. Everything should be working fine, Sir.” “Damn it,” Goodman shouted. Agent Greene who was leaning against the wall next to the main door of the Command Center approached Goodman and spoke to him privately, “Agent Fraser is most likely improvising at this point in his mission. Though sending in a high altitude drone, keeping it as high as possible, and in stealth mode would be advisable, Sir.”

Goodman pondered his options. He had not wanted to tail Dylan's SUV with hover drones. If their subject spotted them, the mission would be blown. Everything counted on Dylan executing the plan. A minute passed while Goodman paced the room. He looked at Greene with a serious expression, then began issuing commands. “Send in one high altitude drone over the vehicle. Stealth mode. Maintain a six hundred foot level. I want two more drones at the same altitude, kept back four hundred yards. I also want unmarked police cruisers to get over to the mall right now. But keep them back until I say the word.” Several agents called out, “Yes Sir,” before proceeding with their tasks.

“It should take about five to six minutes to get those drones in place, Sir,” Agent Greene said. They both knew how long it would take. Greene was just talking out loud. One of the agents spun his chair around from his console to address Goodman, “Drones are airborne and on their way, Sir. ETA five minutes.” Another Agent stood up, “We have Watertown police sending two unmarked cruisers. ETA is four minutes.” A third Agent called out, “Three unmarked DHS patrol cars dispatched. ETA is seven minutes for the first cruiser to arrive.”

Agent Greene broke the silence as they awaited the drones to arrive on station. “We know they didn't have any additional clothing when they left the building, nor did they have any in the vehicle. That means they must still be in the car and wearing the uniforms. The tracking signals installed in the SUV and in the uniforms are reporting identical locations. All we're missing is the audio transmission. And you know we've seen listening devices malfunction while the diagnosis telemetry reported everything was good. Most probable scenario is that Agent Fraser got off the road to provide the subject with an explanation of how they managed to just walk out of DHS Headquarters. I imagine he has one hell of a story he's giving her.” Goodman nodded.  “I hope you're right. But sending in the drones is our best course of actions to take at this point.”

Tien rushed back to the car after saying her goodbye to Joanne, jumping into the front seat. Brooks sensing the urgency, drove off before she finished closing the door. “So where's this friends house you mentioned? I'll tell you the whole story as we drive,” Dylan said. Brooks shot back, “Start talking! I want to hear whole story.” Dylan replied, “OK. You got it buddy. But it's going to take a while”

Dylan proceeded to tell them both of the meeting he attended that morning with the DHS officers and Goodman, what he first thought about Tien's betrayal, the plan to penetrate the terrorist high command. He described the acting he did to get Tien out of the detention center and out of the Homeland Security complex. It all started to make sense to Tien. But she knew it wasn't the complete answer. Brooks on the other hand was more confused than before.

Dylan went on with his explanation. Turning his gaze toward Tien. “The real question is why. Why did I do what I did?” Dylan pointed to a restaurant parking lot up ahead, “There, pull over in that lot. I have to talk to Tien in private” “Yes Sir, Captain. That is your rank, right?” Brooks said with another shake of his head.

Tien and Dylan got out of the car and stood a few feet apart, under the dark star filled night. Only the distant street lights illuminated their faces. Dylan spoke in a somber tone, “I didn't know what to think after what you told me last night. I was really angry. Then this morning when I found out about your involvement with the terrorists, I mean, Patriots, your plans for me, your arrest, I mean everything, I was in a daze. Seriously, I was tripp'n. Half of me wanted to follow my instructions from Goodman and get back at you, to really hurt you. The other half of me just wanted to curl up in a ball and die. During my training for the mission today, I was left alone by the Agents for a few minutes and I had time to think. I mean, really think about everything. And it hit me like a ton of bricks. I guess you'd call it an epiphany.” He paused, reaching forward to take hold of Tien's hands. She willingly accepting it. “I realized ... It just all came to me at once. That it wasn't a matter of what I thought. I realized what mattered was how I felt. I knew at that moment that I simply had to follow my heart. For the first time in my life, with all this insane shit happening all around me. By just following my heart, I came to understand what you were trying to say to me last night. That everything in my life was a lie. But I couldn't hear it when you were trying to tell me.”

Dylan shifted his body a little more forward and looked directly in her eyes. “Tien, I fell in love with you the first moment I saw you. I fell more and more in love with you every day. There wasn't a moment that went by that I didn't think about you.”

Tien attempted to speak, but Dylan stopped her by raising one of his hands. “Before you say anything. I just want to let you know it's OK. I understand you had your job to do. I accept that. And I did what I did today knowing full well I was just another assignment for you. But none of that matters. I'm going to help you however I can. No matter what.”

“Are you going to let me speak?” Tien asked in a lighthearted fashion. Dylan shifted back a few inches, preparing himself for the expected letdown. He was prepared for it. “I feel the same way about you. I fell in love with you the first night we met. I do love you so incredibly much. I really do, Dylan.” A few tears fell from her eyes that she managed to wipe away. “And yes, it's all true about my assignment. But once I met you, everything changed. I never expected to fall for you. By the third date, I canceled my assignment. I wanted to tell you everything. But I couldn't. Finally, I tried to tell you last night. But it all went wrong.” She wanted to continue her explanation, but was prevented by Dylan who lunged forward to kiss her. Tien returned the kiss passionately.

Brooks was touched by the sight of the two lovers, but was more nervous than ever. He waited a minute before getting out of the car and yelling over the cars' roof, “Alright already you two. We need to get out of here!” Tien and Dylan continued to kiss one another for a few seconds longer, then stepped apart, nodded to each other, and dashed to the car. Tien jumping in the front seat, Dylan the back. They drove away carefully and under the speed limit.

Brooks told them of the safe house while he drove, “I've been house sitting for a lady friend who's vacationing in Spain. She has a beautiful home in Belmont.” He paused as a street light turned green, focusing on his driving for a moment. “She got it in her divorce. You'll be safe there. But you can only stay a couple of days. She'll be back on Friday.”

“UUAV #16 is over the vehicle now, Sir,” the agent responsible for the hover drones informed her commander. “Video is coming up on the main screen in three, two, one.” The greenish glow of night vision video flashed across the huge display screen on the wall. The image came in and out of focus, until the correct focus was shown. A single SUV in the corner of a parking lot was visible. A smaller video display popped up in the upper corner of the screen. A picture within a picture containing the infrared imagery.

“Are they inside?” Goodman asked. Agent Greene stood at his side. The video screen showed the camera angle on the vehicle slowly changing. The drone was being maneuvered from straight above to the side to peer inside the SUV. The infrared display showed no heat sources other than the vehicle's engine.

Agent Goodman again swore aloud, though more to himself than to anyone in particular. He knew what they were going to find. “Bring the drone down closer. Get a cruiser over there now. And send in the other drones. We have to start scanning the area.” A side view of the SUV was being shown on the central display on the wall. It was evident there was no one inside.

Goodman turned to Greene, “I think that motherfucker Fraser fucked us. Why else would he have abandoned his car and obviously dumped the tracking devices?” Goodman smashed his fist against the command desk. “When we catch that fucker, once we're finished with him, I'm going to personally put a bullet through his fucking brains!”

Agent Greene chimed in, “It's just as likely that he's improvising his mission. He may be acting in such a way to convince the subject to trust him. Either way, Dylan and the terrorist leader would be expecting an all out search for them. Which we should do.”

Goodman nodded his head. “Your assessment may be correct. But my gut is telling me he fucked us and he's already fled. It's a manhunt now. We'll see who wins this game.”

Before he had confirmation that the subjects had disappeared, Goodman walked over to the side of the first row of console stations and began barking a series of orders. “Agent Amaral, get the State Police on the line. Agent Tran contact Commander Stevenson, inform him I want all available DHS patrol cars searching for our subjects. Gonzalez, get me the drone fleet commander on the line. And who's in charge of the street level video surveillance for that area?  Find out how they left the area. Did they have any help? ” A flurry of  “Yes, Sirs” where heard across the command center.

One of the agents in the room called out, “We have the Watertown police approaching the vehicle now, Sir.” Goodman walked over to the agent. “OK, they're at the car. They're reporting no occupants in the vehicle. Hold on...they've found Homeland Security uniforms in the back seat.” Agent Greene walked up behind Goodman. “He must have had help. He had to have someone pick them up at that location and provide a change of clothing. This was thought out beforehand. He would have had to make a call this afternoon before the operation began.” Goodman turned around to face Greene, “Get the phone records to his office and his v-phone. Get in touch with the other Agents training him today. Find out what office phones where nearby his training and get those records. And let's get a list of his friends. It's more than likely that it's one of his friends that gave him assistance.” “Yes. Sir,” Agent Greene responded. “I think this Mr. Fraser is a lot more clever than we thought,” he added before heading over to the command desk to make his calls.

Goodman walked over to the front of the room and stood in center of the central display. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he addressed everyone in the room, “This operation is now officially a manhunt. We'll be moving to Command Center 1 in fifteen minutes. I expect everyone to make the transition on time.” Goodman walked back to his command desk where Greene was sitting. “Agent Greene, I want all available on duty Agents assembled in twenty minutes in Conference Room 1. And we'll need eight more Agents for the operation. Get it done.”

“God damn it to Hell!” Goodman said to himself after sitting down at his command  desk. He put his hands atop his head and blew the air out of his lungs. He knew he had only a minute to himself before he had to place the call to to Senior Agent Riviera. Informing her of his apparent failure.

TWENTY THREE

Homeland Security officers began filing into Command Center 1 to attend the briefing on capturing the fugitives. Agent Greene stood at the doorway greeting the officers, making inquires with some and joking with others. Goodman sat at the head of the large command table. His suite was disheveled, his tie undone, and a five o'clock shadow growing darker upon his face. He slouched in his chair, staring at his cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of him. He seemed far off, engaged in deep thought.

With Homeland Security officers still trying to make their way into the doorway, one of the agents assigned to work the command center that night, Agent Smith, ran into the conference room. He dodged and weaved passed the officers to make his way into the Command Room. “Excuse me Agent Goodman. I mean Senior Agent,” he said as he tried catching his breath. He stood at attention three feet from Goodman. He held a mobile v-phone in his right hand. Goodman looked up at the agent with annoyance. “What is it Smith? If you don't have any news that we caught that son of a bitch Fraser, then it better be damn good.”

Agent Smith held up the video phone for Goodman to take. “We have a field agent calling in. She says her code name is N Omega. She stated she lost her phone and couldn't call you directly. She had to call the main switchboard. Which routed the call to me. I ran over here as fast as I could. I didn't want to take the chance of switching the call and possibly loosing her.” Agent Smith continued to hold the video phone in front of him obediently. Goodman sat up straight in his chair, his eyes grew wider. Without saying a word to the agent, he quickly grabbed the phone as he jumped to his feet.

“Give me some good news N,” Goodman said. He moved the v-phone up in front of his face to watch his agent describe her recent activities. He nodded his head up and down as she spoke. “Good job! OK, stay where you are. We'll have a cruiser there in a couple of minutes. In the meantime provide your information to Agent Smith.”

Goodman handed the v-phone back to Smith. “This is top priority. I need you track down the GPS coordinates of our agents v-phone.”

TWENTY FOUR

By quarter past seven that evening, Brooks had made a quick exit after giving Dylan and Tien the tour of his lady friend's home and handing them the keys. He felt uncomfortable being around the two lovers, not to mention wanting to get away from the huge mess they were tangled up in.

Dylan and Tien acted a bit awkward at first. To ease the tension, Tien began walking around the living room admiring the decorations. Dylan walked in the opposite direction, eying the architecture and the furniture. The house was a beautifully restored English Tudor. “Brooksie' friend obviously did quite well for herself in her divorce. Someday I'd like to have a home just like this,” Tien mused. She continued meandering around the living room. “Yeah, me too,” Dylan said, picking up then quickly putting down what looked to be an expensive vase.

Tien pulled out of her pocket Joanne's v-phone, “I'm going to contact my command. Inform them of my status. It's just a simple one way communication. The procedure of re-acquiring my memories and finding a safe house is a lot more involved. I'll have to do that later on.”

“OK, I'll let you do your thing.” He continued looking about the house, making his way down a wide hallway leading to the kitchen. In the hallway, he stopped to investigate what was behind a door. Ah, the garage, he thought. He peeked his head in the doorway and flipped the manual light switch on the wall. “Oh, you got to see this,” Dylan called down the hallway to Tien. He eyed a classic 2017 green Jaguar sedan in perfect condition. Walking up to the car, he slid his hand along the curve of the hood. Tien followed him into the garage a moment later.

Dylan knew his cars. He wasn't what some would call an auto enthusiast or an expert in the field. It was just an interest, something he liked and read a lot about. “You can't buy a car like this anymore. Definitely a V-8. Probably has a has a six hundred, six fifty horse power engine. A real gas powered engine too, no crappy hybrid electric or hydrogen fuel cells.” He continued to caress the car with one hand while taking out of his pants pocket the key chain with the house keys that Brooks had given him. One of the keys had a Jaguar insignia. Maybe just a little spin around the block in the morning, he thought.

Tien wasn't excited. It was just an old car. She continued tapping away on the v-phone. “Huh, this is weird. Joanne's phone doesn't seem to be working right.” Dylan didn't pay attention to what she said. He circled around the vehicle, marveling at the vehicles' beauty.

“I'm going to see what in the kitchen. I'm hungry,” she said, heading out of the garage. Dylan snapped out of his enchantment, realizing he was hungry too. “Wait up.” He jogged to catch up to her.

In the kitchen, Dylan looked over Tien's shoulder as she opened the refrigerator door. It was almost empty, but there was a few things they could eat. Dylan spotted a six pack of bottled beer on the top shelf. “Not my brand but it will due.” Tien grabbed two of the beers, handing one to Dylan. “After a day like this, my preference not to drink alcohol, forget that,” she said.

He pulled off the side of the fridge a magnetic bottle opener, opened Tien's beer, then his own. Dylan smiled, “Skoal!” She raised her bottle to meet Dylan's, “Cheers!” Dylan guzzled a third of the bottle before putting it down on the counter. “You're right, after a day like this!”

Dylan gave Tien another smile, then a more intense look. She returned the smile, then looked away, momentarily afraid to look into his eyes. He moved closer to her, lifting the bottle out of her hand and putting it on the counter. Tien turned to face him, looked into his eyes, and  moved closer to him. They kissed slowly, tenderly at first. Tien threw her arms around his neck. He brought his hands around her waist. They kissed more passionately, kissing faster and harder, throwing themselves completely at one another. Dylan undid most of the buttons of her shirt, pulling it off, over her head. Tien unbuckled his belt, then the waistband button to his jeans.

It was only a few seconds later before Tien managed to summon her will and push him away with both of her arms. “Stop! We have to stop,” she said halfheartedly. “What, what is it,” he protested. She spoke more forcefully, “No, we can't do this!” She managed to break free from him and stood a few feet back. She wiped her forearm against her mouth. She took a deep breath before picking up her shirt from the floor. “We have to stay alert. Keep on our toes right now. We don't know what to expect here.” There was an awkward pause before Dylan spoke, “I apologize. It was my fault getting carried away like that.” Tien was quick to respond, “It's not your fault. It takes two to tango.” She put her shirt back on. “We have to stay in survival mode.” She put a hand on Dylan's arm, rubbing it softly. “I know this sucks. But our job right now is to stay alive.” “Yeah....you're right,” he said.

Tien changed the subject. “Joanne's v-phone isn't working for some reason. The web browser isn't connecting to the net. It's reporting a strong 7G wireless signal.” She tapped away at the display for another few seconds. “Can you take a look?” She handed the phone over to Dylan. “Did you reboot it?” he asked. “No, I wasn't sure if it was password protected. And I can't call Joanne's land line. It's be too risky. Even if she was still at home.”

Dylan looked over the v-phone. “OK, I'll take look. I may have to reboot it.” Tien started walking out of the kitchen. “There's a laptop on that small desk in the living room. I'm going to try to use it. Hopefully she has her password written down somewhere.” Dylan went to work on the v-phone. But not before taking another chug of beer, finishing off the bottle.

He fiddled with the phone for a couple of minutes, it was no use. The phone and browser apps were locked. Everything else appeared to work normally. Strange, he thought. Then powered off and on the device. While he waited  for the phone to boot up he opened the refrigerator door, kneeling down to get the best view of the bottom shelf. “There has to be something in here we can eat,” he spoke to himself. He pulled out an unopened package of Monterrey Jack cheese and grabbed another beer.

The v-phone had booted up by the time he walked into the pantry. There wasn't much of anything on the shelves. The owner probably wanted the cupboards bare, like the refrigerator,  before leaving on vacation. Off to the side, in the back of one of the shelves, Dylan spied an unopened box of rice crackers. “Yes!” he couldn't contain his enthusiasm for the simple treat.

He tapped away at the v-phone settings in between cutting up slices of cheese and stuffing the food in his mouth. What the hell is this. He discovered that the phone had a virtual private network established that blocked the network browser app. Even stranger, the VPN stayed up between reboots. He cut a bunch more slices of cheese, putting them on a plate, next to the remaining crackers.

Dylan carried the plate of cheese and crackers into the other room, placing them on the desk by Tien. “Thanks,” she said, picking up a cracker and placing a slice of cheese on top. “There's something strange with Joanne's phone. There's a VPN running that I can't identify and I can't stop. Do you use fixed, non-terminating VPN's to connect to your command centers?”

Tien looked quizzically at Dylan. “No. We use VPN's but they're designed to always terminate automatically after the transmission is complete. That's a standard security measure. Anyways, I can't find a password written down anywhere. So I'm going to try to enter the list of the usual passwords. Then I'll try to guess at what the woman might have used. It's worth a try,” she said. “If I had my v-phone I'd call up a password breaker and be in that computer within three minutes. But then again, if I had my v-phone we wouldn't need that laptop,” Dylan said with a grin. Tien ate a couple more crackers. “True,” she said, nodding her head in agreement.

“I'll let you be,” he said, taking another swig of his beer.

Dylan strode aimlessly around the house, while Tien went to work on the laptop. He took the stairs to the second floor, wandering about without any particular destination. Peaking his head into a bathroom, then a guest bedroom. He entered the master bedroom, admiring the furniture and the king size bed. Opening the closet, he looked around, then mindlessly ran his hands over the rack of woman's clothes. Clothes, something stirred in his mind. It was a long day, so many things had happened. He thought what he really needed was to climb into bed and get a good nights sleep. With Tien by his side. Then it hit him. “Shit!” he yelled out loud, putting down the half empty beer and running out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

Tien looked up at the ceiling when she heard Dylan swear, then back at the laptop. She had her own problems. She couldn't gain access to the system, the owner was one of the few people who actually used a secure password. She leaned back in her chair. “No luck,” she said to herself.

Dylan was out of breath when he reached the family room. “Who else knew about your plans to try to convert me to your side?” She stood up and shrugged her shoulders, “Just Joanne. David knew I was to try to get close to you. But he wasn't provided the details of the plan. All our assignments are on a need to know basis. Why do you ask?” He got up close to Tien and grabbed both of her arms. “Goodman knew of your plans for the past seven weeks. How could he have known that?” he said. Tien's facial expression changed from puzzled to serious. She suddenly realized she wasn't thinking as clearly as she should have, as she was trained to think. She grew angry with herself for not grilling Dylan with more questions about everything he knew. “Joanne would never have betrayed me. I mean, I trust her with my life,” she said. Dylan shot back, “If she's the only one that knew. Then it had to be her that was the informant who told Goodman of your plans. It couldn't be anyone else!”

They each gave one another a wide eyed look, acknowledging the possibility of betrayal.  Immediately, without saying a word, they began checking their clothing for tracking devices. Quickly examining his shirt and pants, Dylan could find nothing. He sat down to take off his shoes. Tien checked the seams to her shirt first. Nothing. She checked the pockets to her jeans. She felt a lump the size of a quarter in the change pocket located above the right side pocket. She dug the circular object out and starred at it for a brief moment. “God Dammit!” she raised her voice. Dylan pounced to his feet, his left shoe untied. She placed the tracking device into his hand, as if to prove it existed. Dylan clenched it in his hand.

Tien was enraged. “She must have planted it while she was helping Brooksie bring a change of clothes for us,” she said. Dylan turned in a half circle, his left hand holding the back of his head. “It doesn't add up. Why hasn't Homeland Security already arrested us by now?” Dylan asked. “Unless,” Tien paused to formulate her idea, “Unless, she stored her codes for the tracking device in her v-phone. This phone. DHS wouldn't know what signal to lock in on if they didn't have the codes, usually a serial number. Maybe it was plain dumb luck me asking her for the phone.” “Yeah, but the phone has GPS!” Dylan said frantically. “It would take longer for them to get the customer data from the phone company and trace the GPS signal. But not that much longer,” Tien said, a worried look crossed her face. “We have to get out of here,” Dylan said, running for the kitchen where he left the car keys on the counter. Tien threw the tracking device and v-phone on the floor, before dashing off to follow Dylan.

Tien reached the door for the garage first. Once inside she turned on the lights and rushed over to the panel on the wall, looking for which switch opened the automatic garage door. Dylan following behind a fraction of a second later, hit the unlock button on the key chain for the Jaguar as he ran. The car emitted a chirping sound, followed by the clicking of the doors unlocking. Thank God, he thought. Dylan jumped into the drivers seat and jammed the key into the ignition. The Jaguar roared to life. Tien couldn't find the switch. The labels where screwed up. Then it dawned on her. “Open garage door,” she called out. The garage doors began to open.

Tien ran around to the passenger side and jumped in the car. “How much gas do we have?” she asked once inside. Dylan put the car in reverse, swung his right arm across the back of the passenger side bucket seat, and looked over his shoulder to drive. “Three quarters of a tank,” he responded as soon as he had the chance. Once out of the garage and into the circular driveway, they both saw the shooting arcs and blueish illumination of magnetized plasma from the hover drone above them in the darkness. “Shit!” Dylan yelled. Tien lowered her window down, sticking her head out to scan the air above them for other drones.

Dylan floored the Jag and sped down the driveway, gravel and dust spun into the air. Tien called out, “Only one drone.” She rolled up her window to keep the cold air out. “Take a left,” she said. Dylan took the left out of the driveway without hesitating. Police sirens could be heard in the distance.

“If you hadn't figured about Joanne, we would have been in handcuffs in another five minutes.”

“We were lucky,” he said.

Tien looked around, “We're gonna need all the luck we can get now.” She opened her window once again and stuck her head out. “It's still with us. Only the one, though” She rolled the window back down. “Hover drones always get to their destination faster than the police can arrive.” It was an obvious point, but Dylan wasn't going take the time to discuss the fact he knew that bit of information.

No sooner had Tien finished speaking, they saw the first flashing lights from a police cruiser dead ahead. It was coming straight at them, no more than a quarter mile away. “I have to turn around,” Dylan said, looking into the rear view mirror. Tien grabbed his arm and spoke firmly, “We have to ram them off the road. We'll never be able to turn around in time to outrun them. With the laser targeting from the drone, they'll be able to take us out in a couple of shots.” Dylan looked at Tien in alarm, quickly realizing she was right. He put his seat belt on, she followed suit.

Dylan stepped on the gas. The police cruiser closed in fast, sirens blaring, lights flashing. At one hundred yards, both cars continued head on towards one another. They closed to fifty yards. Dylan thought to himself, 120 mph collision. Twenty five yards. Tien yelled out, “Hold On!” The head on collision imminent, they screamed out in unison. At the very last second, the police cruiser veered off and flew into a patch of trees. Creating a horrific crashing sound. The sirens went dead.

“Yeah!” Tien yelled triumphantly. She turned to look back at the crash. Dylan howled in celebration at the same instance. However, the joy was short lived. A second cruiser careened out onto the street from an intersection the Jaguar had passed just seconds earlier. The Homeland Security cruiser, turning on their lights and sirens, followed in full pursuit. The hover drone fell back and out of targeting range. The road curved sharply to the left, then the right, slowing the Jaguar down. They came upon another curve in the road, this time sharper than before. The Jaguar screeched to the side as Dylan tried to keep the car on the road. The drone caught up, it's laser hitting the rear windshield of the Jaguar. The DHS cruiser just barely out of range to fire their weapons.

The road straightened out, Dylan floored the gas pedal,  pushing the car up to eighty, then ninety miles per hour. The targeting laser beam quickly dropped off the back of the car, the slower aerial drone unable to keep up. The police cruiser, not having the engine power of the Jaguar, also began slipping away.

A traffic light came into view ahead. Tien called out, “Take the left, we can get over to Arlington from there.” Dylan acknowledged her directions. The lights turned red as they approached. Dylan spun the wheel and took a sharp left, screeching all four tires. A single car crossing the intersection veered out of the way, running off the road, it's horn blaring. “Push it, Dylan! They'll have Reapers above us in minutes if we don't loose them now.” Tien knew Homeland Security tactics. She studied them extensively as part of her training. Though Dylan was well aware of the arsenal of Homeland Security weaponized drones. Neither one wanting to speak aloud the fact that without electronic jamming there was no way to evade a Hellfire III missile fired from a Reaper attack drone.

Dylan pushed the Jaguar up to a hundred miles an hour. On the secondary road, he dared not go any faster. He weaved in and out of the few cars in their way. The DHS cruiser fell further behind, the drone was far out of sight. They reached Route 2, one of the main highways in and out of Boston. Dylan drove past the on ramp. “We'll have to lose them on the back roads,” Tien said, looking over her shoulder at the cruiser in the distance. “Hold on,” Dylan said. At the off ramp to the highway, Dylan slammed the brakes and swung the wheel hard to the right. The car skidded sideways before driving onto the off ramp, going the wrong way. “What are you doing?” Tien screamed. Dylan drove down the off ramp. He swerved to the left to miss a car on the ramp, then to the right avoiding another.

Tien put her arm on his shoulder before raising her voice to speak, “On the highway, we'll be in the open. If any Reapers have made it to our location, they'll easily be able to spot a car going the wrong way. Reapers have their own targeting systems. They'll strike us before we make it to the next off ramp. We have to go back!”

They were past the off ramp and on the highway at that point. Two oncoming cars  swerved away, barely missing the Jaguar. Dylan looked over at her, realizing his mistake. “OK. Hold on!” He slammed on the brakes and turned the steering wheel hard over. The car spun in a half circle, facing the right direction. Dylan floored the gas pedal once again. The Jaguar's engine roared, the tires laid down rubber, and sped away.

The DHS cruiser maintained it's pursuit, driving down the off-ramp, and making it  almost to the highway. Dylan brought the speed of the Jaguar up to seventy, as he drove past the police car coming down the ramp. Before reaching the overpass, he swerved the Jag to the left hand lane. A horrendous crashing noise came from behind. Tien turned around to see the Homeland Security cruiser turned into a pile of smoking twisted steel. Evidently hit head on by an oncoming utility truck that was still spinning on it's side. The DHS cruiser suddenly burst into a fireball.

A hundred yards past the overpass, Dylan spied the off-ramp to the opposite side of the highway on his left. They were in luck, no barrier divided the median strip. “Hold on,” he called out. He swung the car onto the grass strip. The Jaguar went airborne, slamming down hard at the bottom of the small dip in the center of the strip. The car bounced violently, shaking Dylan and Tien around, held in only by the straps of their seat belts.

Dylan drove in the center of the medium strip another fifty yards or so. The car still bouncing up and down nearly uncontrollably. “Better than an amusement ride,” Dylan yelled. “Get us out of here,” Tien yelled back.

At the right moment, when there was a break in the traffic, Dylan spun the wheel and floored the gas pedal. The car climbed the grass incline and launched onto the highway. Hitting the pavement, Dylan slammed the brakes and spun the steering wheel to align the car in the right direction of traffic. Several cars managed to steer around and avoid colliding with the Jaguar, the drivers blaring their horns.

Dylan floored the gas pedal once more, reaching the off-ramp in a matter of seconds. He slowed the car down, exiting onto the main street and blended into the vehicle traffic. A collective sigh of relief went through both of them. They knew the DHS cruiser had probably been in constant radio contact with their command base. And in all likelihood, their last reported position would have been traveling westbound on Route 2. They knew they had some breathing room.

Dylan turned off at the first street that they came upon, keeping to the posted speed limit. Again he took the next turn, then the next after that. They wanted to get as far away from the main roads as possible and into quiet residential neighborhoods.

Tien let out a sigh. “We may be safe for now. But you can be sure they have a small fleet of drones airborne right now looking for us. We have to ditch this car, and do it fast. We need to look for any mid to late 20's model hybrid electrics. Those are easiest to hot wire.”

After no more than five minutes of searching they came upon what they were looking for. Dylan slowed down, parked on the opposite side of the street, and killed the lights. In the driveway to what would be considered a moderate sized mansion, sat an older model hybrid electric car. “I'd say it looks like a mid twenties, perfect,” Tien said.

“Probably belongs to their teenage son judging from the look of that house,” Dylan added.

Tien opened the glove compartment looking for any kind of tool she could use. “Why their son and not their daughter?”

“Come on, would you let your daughter drive that thing?”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. Uhm, do you have any change. I need a coin. A quarter works best.”

“No I have nothing, other than cash.”

There was nothing in the glove compartment of use. Tien felt around with her fingers in the center console, pulling out a quarter from the bottom of the cup holder. “Great, this will work. Give me a couple of those house key's from the chain.” She pointed to the key's dangling from the steering column. “A medium size one and a large one.”

“I can check the trunk for …...” Dylan tried to say he'd look for some tools but was cut off. “No time for that,” she said, “We need to move fast.”

He stayed in the Jaguar while Tien got out and headed into the darkness. She quickly walked over to the house directly across from the old hybrid electric, walking across the lawn, being careful to remain in the darkness as much as possible. Luckily no dogs were out. Tien crept up behind one of the cars in their driveway. Looking around to make sure no was out on the street, she could see the people through the windows in their home. A woman was working in the kitchen, drinking what looked to be a glass of wine. Two small kids were running around in what was probably the living room. Tien knelt down on the ground and used the quarter to try to unscrew the rear license plate. The first screw she tried didn't budge. She pulled out of her pocket the two key's and sandwiched the quarter between them. Using her fingers from both hands, she twisted with all her strength. The screw moved slightly, a fraction of an inch. Tien exhaled, took a deep breath and tried again. This time the screw moved a half a turn. She repositioned herself and went at it again, this time the screw spun off easily.

She poked her head above the trunk when she was finished removing the other screw and pulling off the plate, making sure the coast was still clear. Satisfied, she crept along the drivers side of the car to work on the front plate.

With the plates in hand, she hurriedly walked across the street to the old car. Once in the driveway, she could see the people inside their home. A man and a woman were sitting in what appeared to be a family room, watching a big ultra high-def TV. A light was on to one of the upstairs bedrooms, probably the kid who owned the car.

Tien found the car unlocked. Not a big surprise, most of the cars in the neighborhood were probably unlocked. Especially an old junky hybrid electric. The interior light came on as she opened the door and slid into the front seat, quietly closing the door and killing the light. She dropped the stolen plates on the passenger side floor, then felt around in the dark with her right hand for the service panel below the ignition keypad.

Most American automobiles had voice activated ignition systems by the early 2020's. A keypad with a digital display was used as the manual backup should the voice controls fail.

She looked up at the house to make sure no one was looking out any windows before using the larger of the two keys to pop off the cover on the dashboard to the service panel. It took just a couple of tries before the cover flew off. She looked up again, nobody was around. She reached inside the dashboard and felt the surface of the circuit board holding the single input connector intended for a technician's diagnostic cable. She used her finger to feel the contour of the of the connector, checking if it was the right type. It was.

Tien peered around the perimeter of the car once again. OK, lets do this, she thought. She opened up the glove compartment, pulled out a sheet of paper, and carefully folded it several times. She put the end of the smaller key inside the folded paper, using it as an insulator. Then jammed the key forcefully into the right side of the connector, shorting the ignition keypad, and resetting the code back to the original default setting. A serious security flaw that wasn't discovered for a number of years. Nor was a recall ever issued by the big American car companies.

Tien sat up straight in the drivers seat, looked behind her in the rear view mirror, then looked over at the house. Everything appeared good. She punched the default code into the keypad: 1, 2, 3, 4. Each  number appearing in the display. The electric engine whirred, barely making a sound. I can't believe how easy this is, she thought, as she slowly backed out of the driveway.

Dylan followed Tien down the street and out of the neighborhood. They drove the back roads for a few minutes until Tien noticed an undeveloped parcel of land between two homes. It was perfect. She pulled the old car up to the side of the road, keeping the engine idling, but killing the lights. She got out and waited for Dylan to pull up to her.

“Drive the car in there as far as possible. Cover it up with whatever you can find,” she spoke quietly. After he drove past and into the field, she headed back to the hybrid electric to get the stolen license plates put on.

TWENTY FIVE

Tien drove the stolen car through the residential side roads of Arlington and Belmont, until they reached the city of Cambridge. Hiding in the busy metropolitan streets would be safer than the quiet suburbs.

Once in the city Homeland Security and local police cruisers with their light flashing passed by in what seemed like an endless procession. Dylan ducked his head each time they passed. A single occupant in the vehicle would draw less notice. The sky buzzed with hover drones, zipping from side to side or back and forth above them.

Tien spotted a gas station with a mini-mart that appeared to be deserted of customers. She pulled into the parking lot and parked on the far side of the store that was less noticeable from the street. She turned to Dylan, “We need food, something to drink. We're running on adrenaline now. Those cheese and crackers we had aren't going to hold us.”

Inside the store, a teenage male clerk sat behind the counter playing a video game on his tablet computer, taking no notice of the couple entering the doorway. “How much money do you have?” Tien asked, pretending to browse at some canned goods stocked on a shelf. Dylan stopped at her side and rummaged through his pockets, pulling out the bills he had stuffed there earlier when they abandoned his StarCruiser in the Mall parking lot.

He pulled out six twenties, a few tens, and a few crumpled two dollar bills. “A hundred and fifty six bucks, not much,” he said. “Good. We'll need to save sixty for later on. But this is more than enough for now,” she said, taking all the bills. They quickly chose a couple of diet sodas and bottles of water, along with some prepackaged sandwiches, chips, and cookies. They wanted to move fast. But not too fast to draw suspicion. On their way to the counter, Tien spotted a circular rack with cheap tourist baseball caps with the Red Sox logo on them. “We'll need these,” she said, grabbing one for each of them.

Dylan put the food and drinks onto the counter, while Tien tossed the hats down. The clerk looked up from his game, then shook his head in obvious contempt upon seeing Tien pull out the wad of cash. “Lady, come on. Nobody uses cash anymore.”

“It's a long story. But we both left the house tonight without our credit cards,” she said in a convincingly apologetically tone. The teenager scanned the items and fumbled for the right combination of cash register commands. “That'll be seventy four fifty five.”

Once back in the car, Dylan slouched down in the passenger seat. Tien did the same. He opened the plastic grocery bag and searched through it, handing Tien her soda, the chips, and a sandwich before taking his own and looking it over. “Tuna salad. Nothing like a four day old prepackaged tuna salad sandwich from a gas station,” he said. Tien peeled back the plastic cover to her sandwich, looked at the label, and took a bite. “I don't know. I can't imagine anything better than my chicken salad sandwich here. The expiration date is today.” They looked at each other and let out a chuckle.

They took their time eating their dinner and relaxing in the mini-marts parking lot. Nobody had pulled up to the store or gotten gasoline. It was as good a place as any to rest up.

“Homeland Security will flash our pictures on every TV screen, every internet news outlet, every mobile device there is. We need to get to a computer with net access as soon as we can. Once connected I'll be able to log on to a secure web site where I can obtain the location of my assigned safe house.” Dylan listened intently. He knew she was the one in charge from here on out.

“Ready?” Tien asked. They had rested for about ten minutes. “Yeah,” he said, before reaching over his shoulder to pull down his seat belt. They both knew it was time to go.

Tien pulled the car out of the parking lot and headed towards central Cambridge. Police and DHS cruisers continued to periodically drive past them at high speeds with their lights and sirens blazing. She turned left onto a minor boulevard heading to Davis Square in Somerville, where the traffic and police activity lessened quite a bit.

On the  outskirts of Davis Square, Tien turned onto a quiet side street and found a parking spot. “We won't find any place to park closer to the square. We'll dump the car here. We have to assume it's already been reported stolen. There's an old internet cafe in the Square......” Dylan cut her off. “I know the place. The Elm Street Cafe, near that barbeque joint. Probably the last surviving internet cafe.”

“Yup. That's the place. After we get network access, we'll take the subway to our safe house.”

“Wouldn't a cab be better, avoid the camera's in the subway?”

“No, we have to assume all the taxi drivers have seen our face by now. Our best chance is blending into the crowds.”

“You're the boss,” he said.

They got out of the car and walked down a dimly lit side street. “Wear your hat down low like this,” Tien said, pushing her hat low over her forehead. He followed her lead. They walked quietly, looking around carefully with each step they took. Reaching the end of the street, just as they turned the corner onto the busier main street of Davis Square, a hover drone on routine patrol flew directly over head. It startled Dylan. He looked up at the machine instinctively. “No, no, look down,” Tien said frantically. It was too late. She spoke in a more calm tone. “They're going to identity our location. Hopefully, with any luck, it'll take them a few hours before computer analysis will identify your face. We have to move faster now.”

At the end of the block they reached their destination. A blue sign with white lettering hung above the front windows, THE ELM STREET INTERNET CAFE. Underneath, in smaller print, 'Established 1996'. The cafe catered to Tuft University students that wanted to get away from their dorm rooms or libraries for a change of scenery. A cool place to hang out, grab a cup of coffee, and surf the internet.

Dylan opened the heavy glass front door for Tien. The sign on the door listed the hours of operation: open weekdays till eleven. They'd have to work fast. They adjusted their eyes to the brightly lit cafe. There were only a few customers, mostly 20 something's sitting around the various tables and couches with laptops or tablets. The cafe was decorated with the retro look of the early 2010's. Posters of Lady Gaga, Justin Beiber, and the like adorned the walls. A Beyonce tune played on the sound system.

Tien approached the young woman with bright red hair sitting behind the counter. She was reading a book on her tablet, hardly paying attention to her customers. A sign on the wall behind the woman stated the rates: '$85 dollars an hour, $45 a half hour without quarterly pass'. Tien pulled out the crumpled bills Dylan had given her. “We need a laptop for half an hour,” she said, handing the woman a couple of twenties and a ten. The woman took the bills, a quizzical expression on her face, as if to say 'what do I do with these'. The woman fished around in the draw below the desk, pulling out a five dollar bill. “Take computer sixteen over there.” She pointer her finger to a table against the far wall. “We close in thirty minutes.”

Tien moved hastily to the table. Dylan followed, taking his time. A laptop computer with the screen folded down sat atop the table. Tien sat down and lifted the display. The computer was is sleep mode. Tien looked around the room while putting on the headset with a microphone, making sure she was safe from prying ears and eyes. She spoke quietly into the microphone, issuing commands to open the web browser. Checking if there was encryption software installed on the system, she discovered there wasn't any. She would have to download and install an open source version herself. Time was going to be tight.

At quarter to eleven, Tien had finished installing the encryption software. She went to work making the secure connection to her secret network. Most of the other patrons of the cafe had cleared out. The woman behind the desk looked up at Tien and Dylan, eying them for a moment before returning to her book. Tien entered her memorized identification and a series of passwords, moving through layer after layer of security firewalls. She got though the final layer, entered the security challenge, and was presented with the web page interface she was seeking.

The young woman got up from her chair behind the desk and called out to the few remaining patrons, “It's ten fifty five people. Please finish up your work.” Tien spoke to Dylan without moving her eyes from the screen, “I just need two more minutes.” Tien entered her identification then clicked on an icon of a house to initiate the final process of being assigned her safe house. She waited, nothing happened at first. Another few seconds passed, still nothing. Finally, the information appeared on the screen. “Yes!” she said out loud though still under her breath. She wrote the information onto a small paper scratch pad next to the computer. Then put the entire scratch pad in her jacket pocket. The information provided was the address and key codes for the doors. She recognized the address as one of the newer mid rise condominium buildings in Downtown Crossing, Boston.

With her remaining time, Tien left an encrypted voice message on the web site. Informing her superiors of Joanne's betrayal and Dylan's defection. Once she was done, she deleted all the computers' tracking information, then issued a command for a program she had downloaded to delete everything on the computer before corrupting the operating system. Dylan, looking over her shoulder, was impressed with her work. “Very clever. Unfortunately DHS engineers can put most of the data back together in a matter of hours. They won't get the information on your communications. But they could pick up enough tidbits to put pieces of the puzzle together,” he said.

Tien frowned, “It'll have be good enough. At least it buys us more time.”

“Yeah, but here's an old trick us software engineers like to do.” Dylan winked at her while he unplugged the laptop. Being careful not to be seen by the woman at the desk, he scrapped off the white plastic label and swapped the computer with the identical laptop from the adjacent desk. Tien couldn't help but smile at his boyish charm.

They walked out of the cafe saying good night to the young woman. Once outside they made a beeline for the Davis Square train station.

TWENTY SIX

At 10:35pm, the female police officer approached the abandoned vehicle partially hidden in the bushes of the empty lot. An elderly neighbor had called the police as soon as he saw the lights in the field earlier that evening. Teenagers were always partying there, breaking beer bottles, and making too much noise. The neighbor wasn't putting up with their crap any longer.

The officer pushed a branch off the rear of the car and shined her flashlight on the license plate. They were Massachusetts plates. At first she thought this was just another routine call. Probably delinquent punks dumping another stolen automobile. She moved another branch away from the side of the car, instantly recognizing the outline of the classic Jaguar.

In the command center at Homeland Security an agent monitoring the police communication channels stood up from his console and rushed over to the front of Senior Agent Goodman's desk. “Sir, we've found the car. It's been abandoned in a residential neighborhood in Arlington.” Goodman stopped what he was doing on his computer and slapped the top of his desk with an open palm, “Yes! This is our start. I want DHS Agents to the get to the scene as soon as possible. I want tire impressions taken of any nearby tracks. Are their any nearby surveillance cameras?”

Goodman got up from his seat and walked over to the group of agents responsible for communicating to the various local law enforcement organizations. “Find out if the Arlington police have any reported cars stolen from the area. I want an answer in under five minutes. Also, get me the Arlington Police Chief on the line.”

The five minutes Goodman set as an arbitrary deadline came and passed. “Have we got a response? And where's that God damned police chief?” Goodman asked. He continuously checked his digital wristwatch. An agent called out, “We're being told to wait. Arlington police  have a call coming in now that may be of interest.”

At the eight minute mark, Arlington Police Chief James Fitzgerald called the Homeland Security command center and was routed over to Goodman. Fitzgerald spoke first, “We just got a report a few minutes ago regarding a stolen automobile on Claremont Ave. That's about a half a mile away from the location of the Jaguar we discovered. My officers are transferring the details to your agents now. The stolen vehicle was an older model Ford Vista 2024. Body color, maroon. The owner believes the theft occurred between eight thirty and ten o'clock tonight.”

“Great, send the information out Chief.” Agent Goodman said. “One more question. If you had stolen that car, then dumped the Jaguar in that field, what direction would you head in?” The video display on the Goodman's monitor showed Chief Fitzgerald looking off in the distance, motioning with his finger to someone he'd be right with them. The Chief looked into the camera, responding, “Traveling in the direction from where the theft occurred to where the Jaguar was recovered, ah, that takes you out to Mass Ave. If it were me trying to get away, I'd stay on Mass Ave and drive east into Cambridge. It's easier to hide in the city.” “Good to know. Thanks Chief.” Confirming exactly what Agent Goodman thought.

Agent Carmen, a senior level officer, working the late shift reported to the command center as ordered. She walked up to Goodman. “What can I do, Sir?” Goodman tapped his pen on the top of the desk absentmindedly while issuing his orders. “You'll be taking over at midnight. See Agent Smith to get caught up with the details of the case. Then report back to me.” As soon as he was finished with Agent Carmen, Goodman got up from his chair and began issuing orders to the various agents, “I want all the digital recordings from every fixed surveillance camera in Harvard Square, Porter Square, and Davis Square analyzed. And I want the all data analyzed from every hover drone on patrol in Cambridge.”

Agent Goodman knew he had to think like his prey. They would ditch the stolen vehicle in Cambridge and either walk or take public transportation. No, he thought, they wouldn't try to cross military checkpoints or risk being caught out in the open by surveillance drones. The fugitives, he reasoned, would escape via public transportation. “I want all the video from the Cambridge mass transit stations. Get those face recognition computers running overtime. And I want every available agent here reviewing the video. It's going to be a late night,” Goodman ordered.  He knew it was already too late to shut down the transit system. Tracking them was his only option.

By midnight, Goodman was exhausted. He'd been up for nearly twenty hours. He handed the command over to Agent Carmen. “If anything of importance comes up, I want to be notified immediately,” Goodman ordered before heading off to one of the residences in Building 2. The computer analysis of all the surveillance recordings would take hours, if not the rest of the night.

TWENTY SEVEN

Tien and Dylan took the elevator up to the forth floor of the mid rise condominium. They leaned against the wall of the elevator and against one another. It was a little past twelve in the morning. The adrenaline that kept them moving all day and night had been exhausted. “I could sleep for a week,” Dylan said. Tien looked up at him. Her eyes were as red as his. “It's to be expected. Our bodies have been under heavy stress for over sixteen hours.”

Getting off the elevator, they searched for unit 414. The condominium number that Tien was given. The condo was at the end of the hallway. “Here goes nothing,” she said, punching in the code for the keypad on the door. The locking mechanism beeped twice, a green LED flashed, and the door opened with a clicking sound. “Lights on,” Tien said, entering the apartment first.

The condominium was cold and had an odd smell, a brand new smell, as if no one had ever lived in the place. Dylan and Tien walked around, inspecting the place the way  people often do when they enter a hotel room for the first time. “Set temp to seventy degree's,” Tien said. The synthesized male voice of the home computer responded, “Setting heating system to seventy degrees Fahrenheit.”

The condominium was clean, a spotless clean. It was a one bedroom, sparsely furnished, and plainly decorated. It didn't have a lot of space, but it was more than they needed.

Dylan checked the kitchen. There were lots of cans and boxes of food in the pantry. There wasn't much in the refrigerator, mostly food in sealed jars, a twelve pack of soda, and unopened condiments. Items that would last a long time. The freezer, however, was packed with frozen dinners. He took a couple of the frozen meals out and tossed them into an empty self of the refrigerator. With a yawn, he grabbed a can of soda. Though before opening it, he took a second look at the soda, realizing it had caffeine, and put it back.

Walking into the living room with a glass of water, Dylan was surprised to see Tien holding a handgun. She was standing in front of what looked to be a hidden panel containing a small armory of weapons. She didn't pay attention to Dylan entering the room while she inspected a 9mm automatic. Pulling the ammunition clip out, she checked that it was full. Then made sure the firing mechanism was well oiled and functioning. She slid the clip back in and placed the gun down on an end table next to the hidden panel. “Do you know to how to handle a firearm?” Tien asked. Without waiting for his answer, she reached for one of the machine pistols hung on the rack inside the panel and pulled it down. She inspected the gun, pulling out the ammo clip as she had done for the handgun.

Dylan didn't respond at first. Not until she put the machine pistol back in it's spot on the rack and turned to face him did he answer. “No, not really. I was going to say how I use to shoot 22 rifles in camp when I was like twelve years old. But somehow I didn't think you'd appreciate that story.” He smiled and took sip of water.

Tien closed the door to the panel. “Well, you're gonna have a crash course starting in the morning.” She picked up the handgun on the table and verified the safety was on. “But right now, it's time for bed,” she said, carrying the gun with her into the bedroom. “I'll second that,” he said, putting the glass of water down on the coffee table and following her.

The DHS command center grew quiet after midnight. Every available agent in the room studied video surveillance on their computer screens. Facial recognition computers were running full throttle. However, human observation and intuition were still the most important aspect in these kinds of manhunts.

At five minutes past two in the morning, Agent McGowan, sitting in the fifth row of the command center stood up and walked over to Agent Carmen. “We've found something, Ma'am. A maroon 2024 Ford Vista was discovered near Davis Square by one of our patrol cars. We ran the plates. The registration doesn't match the vehicles' make and model. This is probably the car. We're checking the vehicle identification number now. We should have those results in a couple of minutes. I'll route that data to your computer.”

A smile crossed Agent Carmen's face. “Good work. Yes, we'll assume this is our car until we know otherwise. Have that car gone over with a fine tooth comb. They may have left clues. Everyone, let's focus our video surveillance on Davis Square.” She walked over to the far end of the room. “Agent Epstein, pull up the data for all of the drones patrolling in Davis Square. Focus on the time period of eight thirty to eleven.” She picked up her v-phone to make a call to Goodman.

TWENTY EIGHT

Dylan awoke at nine thirty the next day. He stretched and rolled over to his side to see that Tien was no longer in bed. He rolled again onto his back.  Noticing the smell coffee brewing in the kitchen, his senses started to return.

He waddled into the kitchen still half asleep. His hair was a mess, his clothes wrinkled. He found Tien sitting on the stool at the kitchen island made of white engineered stone, intently reading the news on an older model tablet computer. A mug of coffee by her side. “Good morning. Coffee is right over there. I took out a mug for you too. It's right there.” She made a pointing gesture towards the coffee machine while keeping her eyes fixed on the computer screen. She was engrossed in the news reports she was reading. “Good morning,” he said while pouring himself a cup of brew and rubbing his eyes.

Once Dylan took his first sip of coffee, Tien put the tablet down to speak with him. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a baby. I would have slept all day if I didn't force myself out of bed. You look up and at 'em. How did you sleep?” He took another sip of the coffee.

“Fine. I would have slept all day myself if I could have. I got up at seven. How are you feeling?”

Dylan shrugged his shoulders, “OK.”

“Good, because I have a lot to talk to you about. I wanted to give you the chance to wake up first. I got online this morning with my commanding officer. Unfortunately, I have some bad news. Homeland Security arrested Brooksie late last night.”

Dylan woke right up. He put his coffee cup down, then slammed the palm of his hand against a kitchen cabinet, “Fuck. What are we going to do?”

Tien shook her head, “Dylan, I'm sorry but there's nothing we can do.”

Dylan was pissed. “What will they do to him?” She took a sip of her coffee before responding. “He'll tell them everything he knows. Then they'll torture him some more. But I don't think it will be too bad for him. I'm certain Joanne will collaborate the fact that he doesn't know anything.” Dylan calmed down, accepting the situation. He slowly realized Brooksie's fate was sealed the minute he helped them escape. I shouldn't have involved him, he thought.

“We've been ordered to stay low. Make like Anne Frank and stay here in this place for the next week. We'll have some fresh food delivered tomorrow,” Tien said.

“Just sit here and do nothing!”

“We're the top news story this morning. Apparently we've committed a series of grisly murders across the State. We've even killed a couple of children. Our faces are pictured everywhere, on every media device there is.”

Dylan sat down on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. He starred off with a blank expression.

Tien became worried about him, but thought it best to just let everything sink in. She continued, “It was clever of Homeland Security to add the part about the children. I'll give them that much. Everyone hates child murderers. People are going to remember our pictures. And of  course Homeland will blast the story on all of their media outlets until we're caught.”

“That's just fucking great,” he said, shaking his head.

“You need to say calm. Keep your head together. We'll be alright as long as we stay focused. Speaking of, after we work on your firearms training this morning, we'll prepare our makeup and disguises.”

“Sorry, you're right.”

Tien reached over and put her hand over his. “We're going to make it. Also, just to let you know. I was assigned a new mission once things have cooled off. I have to track down a high level Freedom Party official and terminate her. It's a top priority. My guess is they assigned it to me to keep me busy. Keep me occupied while we're hiding out.”

Dylan listened, taking it all in, yet his gears were grinding in another direction. “I got it. I know how we can help Brooksie. We take out Agent Goodman. We kill him.”

Tien let out a quick gasp. “And I thought you where going to tell me you had your own ideas how you'd keep me occupied while we were hiding out. With long days together, trying to kill all that time.” She smiled playfully at him. “I'm sorry,” he said, “But I'm thinking, it's personal for Goodman. Right now he's after us because I screwed him over. Betrayed his trust. He's not going to stop, ever, until we're killed or captured. That's why he has Brooksie. If we assassinate Goodman, there won't be anyone in Homeland Security command that has a score to settle. They just might let him go. He's not a part of this. He doesn't know anything.”

Tien thought he made sense. “I'll bring it up with command.” She knew full well she would never be given permission from command to work with someone who had zero tactical experience. “What do you think? Are we a team?” Dylan asked. Tien didn't want him to loose hope for his friend. “I'll think it over. But keep in mind, my command has to approve any missions we undertake. It's unusual for field operatives to make such requests. But not altogether unheard of. Depends on the situation. However, if we get a no-go from command there is no mission. Do you understand. Nor is there any further requests. Their orders are final,” Tien said, with a somber expression. “OK, OK,”  he acknowledged.

Tien picked up her tablet computer again. “There's frozen waffles in the freezer. I already ate,” she said. After Dylan threw some waffles in the toaster, Tien responded to the question he had asked earlier. “Thinking it over, yes we are a team. But only on one condition. I'm in command. You follow orders from me. And I follow orders from my commanding officers.” “Alright, yeah. I'm good with that,” Dylan agreed, without thinking twice about it. “After breakfast, we'll start in with your weapons training. If we want to survive, we have to be prepared for anything. And be prepared as soon as possible,” she said.

While finishing up his breakfast, Dylan heard Tien gently knocking on the hallway wall between the kitchen and living room. Still chewing his last bite of food, he got up to observe her listening to what part of the wall sounded hollow. “First things first,” she said. She opened a hidden door, showing Dylan the makeshift escape tunnel. “Every safe house has an emergency escape route. This one is a vertical shaft between the walls. It goes down five stories; four floors and into the basement. In the basement there's a hidden door leading to the sewer system.” She showed him how to use the ropes and harnesses for the pulley system. “It can't be an electric elevator. If we were surrounded and had the power cut off it'd be useless. So, we use this for high rise buildings.” She hit a light switch on the side of the tunnel wall and peered down the shaft to verify the battery powered lights were functioning. Dylan gave the ropes a good look over, before peering down the shaft. “Let's just hope we don't need to use it,” he said.

Tien wasn't going to waste any time. She shut the lights off to the tunnel and closed the hidden door before leading Dylan into the living room. She walked over and opened the panel to the weapons cache. An array of weapons hung on a rack before them. “OK, let's get started, we have one modified M4 assault rifle with missile launch tube, one combat Gatling machine gun, two machine pistols, four 9 millimeter automatic handguns.....” “Uhmm, I only see three 9 millimeter's,” Dylan cut her off. “You saw me take the fourth last night.” She took one of the  handguns down off the rack, checked the safety was on, and handed it to him. “Hold on to this. Keep it pointed down for now. From this moment on, always keep it on you or nearby. We'll start your training with it.” Dylan looked the gun over, from side to side, then pointed it down.

Tien leaned over and pulled open one of the drawers beneath the rack of guns. “An we have an assortment of ammunition, magazine clips, grenades, missiles for the M4, about two pound of C4 explosives with detonators, a few thousand US dollars, and this.....” She pulled out from one of the larger side drawers a shiny metallic suite case, about eighteen inches square and ten inches deep. She carried it over and put it on the coffee table.

“Sit down next to me,” Tien requested. They sat down on the couch together while Tien opened the case carefully. Dylan recognized what it was immediately. “Nice! A German made digital transmission jamming set for airborne drones. Actually any kind of battlefield drone; land, sea, or air. These are issued to soldiers in the field. It'll detect the presence of weaponized drones like our Reapers.”

“Yeah it detects Reapers,” Tien added, “Though, more importantly, it'll jam the targeting of anti-personnel or Hellfire missiles. It's not 100% effective. But it gives us a good chance of surviving a Reaper attack.” She checked it's battery charge level before continuing, “This may be our most important weapon.”

Dylan looked over the device, thinking to himself for a moment. “This is why the rebellion wanted me, wasn't it. You can interfere with the trajectory of Hellfire missiles. But you can't take active control of the communications to the Reapers, or reconnaissance drones for that matter.” Tien didn't mince her words, “Yes. That's exactly why we wanted you. Imagine if we were able to use those Reapers against Homeland Security itself. Or at the very least, block the communications. Those drones would fall out of the sky. They still want you to help us in this area. I didn't tell you this earlier, but, my orders are to see that you are safely brought into command headquarters after we've laid low for a while.”

Throughout the remainder of the morning and into the early afternoon, Tien showed Dylan how to operate each weapon. Explaining how to fire, how to load, where the safety latches were. “The M4 also fires these,” Tien held up a five and a half inch long explosive missile. “These are the cheaper versions of the laser targeted smart missiles. These you just point and shoot.” She proceeded to show him how to load the missiles into the M4.

Tien held up one of the machine pistols. “If we're outside in a public place you always point these automatic weapons downward. If you accidentally pull the trigger in a crowd of people, with full auto on, you could kill I don't know how many people with a single burst. This is a serious weapon. And memorize the location of the safety switch for every weapon. Feel for it with your eyes closed. You'll always keep the safety on until you need to fire it.” Dylan took the machine pistol out of Tien's hand and studied it thoroughly. Tien added, “I can't say it enough, memorize the location of the safety.”

Dylan practiced loading the magazine clip into the machine pistol. Then flipping the safety switch back and forth. He raised a valid point, “Why don't we just keep the safety off at all times. Then we don't have to worry about it.” Tien shook her head side to side, then labored to answer him. “OK, that's a fair question. There are several reasons we keep the safety's on and I should have told you. I'm rushing.” She took the weapon back from Dylan and held it up for him to see and make her point. “These automatic weapons have hair triggers. They're designed to fire with minimal pressure on the trigger. Because of that they can fire accidentally. If we don't have the safety's on we could kill ourselves or each other. We could kill civilians. Or we could give our positions away at the wrong time. Got it?” “OK, got it,” Dylan replied. She removed the ammo clip and handed the gun back to him.

“Alright, now I'll go over how to fire the weapon,” she said, “Keep your feet apart, like this.” Tien planted her feet in a firm stance.

Dylan mimicked the stance. “OK.”

“Now hold the weapon out with both hands. You left hand holding the barrel. Your finger on the trigger.”

Once the preliminary training was over, Tien turned to face Dylan. “As I mentioned in the kitchen earlier, I'm in charge. You do what I say, when I say. You don't hesitate. You don't question me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, completely,” Dylan answered. He wanted to say something funny but thought he better not.

“Good, because our lives depend upon it. I'm going to bring you in to headquarters when we're given the go ahead and provided the plan on how to accomplish that. But if something goes wrong we may have to fight. Hopefully not. But you have to be prepared.”

Tien paused and looked at Dylan with a serious expression. “There's something else I have to mention. This is the most important thing. More important than anything else you do. Listen carefully. I can't be taken alive. If we're surrounded, about to be taken captive, I have this pill to swallow.” She held up a small white pill for him to see. “I'll need to keep this on me at all times from now on. It's painless, kills in under thirty seconds.”

“No, you can't do.......” Dylan was stopped from protesting. “Listen. We're not playing games here. This is for real. These guns are real. When we go out there, we're not fucking around. This is life or death. So listen. It's not always possible to take the pill out and swallow it. I could be injured or knocked unconscious. You have a direct order from me, a standing order. If we're about to be captured and I can't swallow this pill. You have to shoot me. One shot into my head. Understand. Not in my chest. One shot to my head.”

“I can't do that. No way.” Dylan cupped his hands behind his head.

“You're orders are to keep your sidearm with you at all time. And to save the last bullet in your gun for me. A head shot.”

“I can't.”

“Dylan, I know the location of headquarters now. Hundreds of people could die if I'm captured. Not to mention setting our cause back. This is not a request. I am ordering you. You agreed to fall under my command. That's why I just confirmed your agreement a minute ago. So, this is how it goes. Otherwise, we split up right now and you're on you own. We never see each other again. It's your choice, what's it gonna be?”

Dylan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes Sir. One shot to the head. I promise.”

“Good. So let's make sure we never have to face that situation. Do you have any other questions?”

He looked at her then at the weapons on the rack. He needed to ease the tension. “Yeah. Where the hell do you get all this stuff. It's enough for a small army.” Tien was amused, she knew what he was trying to do. “We're well funded by countries all over the world. Israel, South Africa, Venezuela, Libya. Countries that America once helped are now helping us fight for our freedom.”

Tien looked at her watch. “Alright, it's almost one o'clock. Time for lunch. You've had enough weapons training for one day.” She pulled out two large black duffel bags from one of the drawers in the wall and handed them to Dylan. “But first we need to be prepared to leave in a moments notice. Fill each bag evenly.” She started pulling down the weapons from the rack and handing them to Dylan. “One bag for me, one for you. Put the the M4 in my bag. And split the cash too,” she said. Tien left the Gatling gun in the rack. It was too big to carry. Lastly, Tien brought over the jamming device from the coffee table. “You should have room in your bag for this.”

“After lunch, we work on our disguises. I'm thinking we'd both look good as blonds.” Tien said with a wry smile.

TWENTY NINE

At four o'clock that afternoon, Dylan peered out of a window of the condominium to see the sun's red orange rays fading for the day. Days were short in New England during mid December, during the entire winter for that matter. He stared out across the city, thinking about all the choices he had made over the past couple of days. Choices that had changed his life forever. The thought that his death could come at any time was sinking in. That Tien could die at any time. A bullet into her head, he kept repeating to himself.

He tried pushing the images of their deaths out of his mind. But it was of no use, until his thoughts turned to Tien and his love for her. Even if he was destined to love her for only a little while, he thought, it would all be worth it. He felt alive. And for however long his life would be, it was still better than the numb existence he had known before.

He ran his fingers through his hair. The sensation was strange. His fingers feeling the freshly cut, stubbly, crew cut length hair. Tien walked into the room, “Well, how do you like it it?” Dylan turned away from the window to see Tien's hair cut short, just above the shoulders, and dyed blond. “Wow, you look hot. It's going to take me a while to get use it though,” he said. It was common for twenty something non-Christian women to die their hair bright red or blue. Or young Asian women to dye their hair blond. But Tien as a blond, that was going to be tough to adjust to.

She sat down on the couch, leaning back to get comfortable. “Did you read the documentation for the jamming device?” she asked.

“Yeah, I read it. I'm all set with that,” Dylan responded.

“Good, we have to know every …... ,” Tien stopped in the middle of her sentence. “Where's your sidearm?” she said, noticing Dylan's underarm holster was empty.

“It was heavy. I just put it away for a minute,” he said, while raising his hands in a manner to express 'alright I'll get it'. He walked across the room and picked the gun up off a table and holstered it. “I know, I know. We have to be prepared at all times,” he said. Tien was satisfied. It was only his first day of training. She knew it was going to take time for him to get everything.

Dylan walked over to the couch and was about to sit down next to her when a loud screeching alarm sounded from Tien's tablet computer in the kitchen. She looked at Dylan with worry. He didn't know what to make of it. Tien sprinted to her computer, Dylan followed. Video on the tablet showed Homeland Security troops rushing into the front entrance of the building. “Shit!” Dylan yelled. Tien dropped the tablet. “Follow me!” She dashed back into the living room, Dylan stayed on her heels. “Get our jackets, put mine in my duffel bag. Grab your bag and get down the tunnel. I'll follow.”

Tien went to work quickly. Opening the weapons storage panel, she pulled out the remaining C4-B explosives, along with the detonators.

Dylan shoved their winter jackets into the duffel bags, zipped them up, and slung his over his back. He opened the door to the makeshift escape tunnel and sat down, his legs dangling into the vertical shaft. He turned the lighting system on, then pulled out a black heavy duty plastic harness from a compartment behind the secret door and put it on. It wrapped around the upper part of his body and under his arms. It fit similar to a life sling the Coast Guard might use to pull a victim out of the water. The harness attached to mountain climbing type clips affixed to the lines of the escape system. He hooked his sling in, then pulled out a second sling for Tien and got it ready. Checking what else was in the compartment, he found a third harness, a flashlight, and a map. Dylan tapped the flashlight, checking whether it worked. It did. He took a quick look at the map, seeing that it was for the sewer system beneath their building. He stuffed the map and the light into his duffel bag and called out to Tien across the room.  “I'm ready!” He shifted his duffel bag around his shoulders, checked the pulley system to make sure he knew how to use it, and waited for Tien.

“Get going now! I'll be right behind,” Tien screamed, as she finished inserting two wire prongs into the first brick of the plastic explosives. The wires were connected to a detonator that used a remote sensor for the trigger. She attached the bomb gently to the wall in the front hallway. Then dashed across the room to connect the trigger sensor to the front door. She listened through the door for a moment, her heart was beating fast, but didn't hear troops on their floor yet. She ran back to set the second brick of C4-B explosives inside the weapons cabinet.

Tien sprinted across the room once more, grabbing her duffel bag on the way to the escape tunnel. She sat on the edge of the tunnel, looking down at Dylan. “Go, go, go!” she yelled. He wasn't making fast enough progress. She quickly put the harness on and slid into the tunnel. Before descending, she held herself steady, managing to close the door behind her. Just in case the explosives didn't detonate. It might buy a couple of minutes.

Dylan was no more than twenty five feet down the shaft. Tien dropped down quickly. By the time she caught up to him, they were  at the the second floor level of the building. They could hear the sounds of the DHS soldiers kicking in the doors to the nearby condos on that floor.  Dylan was still moving too slowly. Tien whispered, “Move faster. As soon as they open the front door upstairs the whole place is going to blow, including our overhead pulleys.” “That's not good,” he said, scrambling downwards faster.

He lowering himself as fast as he could. Tien followed closely, getting nearly just above his head. They managed to lower themselves three and a half stories, down to about the middle of the first floor, when they heard what they thought were DHS soldiers kicking in the doors to the condominiums on their floor.

“Let go of the rope. Just drop!” Tien whispered as loud as she dared. Dylan hesitated to let go, still lowering himself as he looked up at her. Tien let go of her rope, yelling, “Jump!” Dylan jumped. They fell in unison as all hell broke loose from above. The explosion rocked the entire building. A fireball engulfed the top of the vertical shaft. The pulley system was destroyed instantly causing debris to fall. Dylan and Tien fell into the darkness. Their bodies banging back and forth against the walls.

Dylan landed feet first, before crashing on his side. Tien fell on top of him. Dust and debris rained down on them in the pitch black darkness of the basement. A few seconds passed. Tien moved first, pushing the debris off of her. She felt Dylan beneath her. He wasn't moving. She rolled off him, feeling for where his head lay, while coughing from the dust. She shook his shoulder and spoke to him softly in case DHS troopers where nearby. “Dylan, Dylan, are you OK?”

He began to move, coughing from the dust as he came to. He heard Tien speaking to him. He wasn't sure at first what she was saying. Quickly he came to his senses, sitting up, and feeling for Tien. “Are you OK, Tien?” he said. In the pitch blackness, Tien responded with a whisper, “Shhhh, speak softly, I'm OK.” “There's a flashlight in my bag,” he said. Each of them finding and opening the duffel bag nearest them. Tien pulled out the flashlight and turned it on. They  looked like survivors of a volcanic eruption. Tien playfully reached over with her forefinger and wiped a line across Dylan's forehead. They smiled at one another, just glad to be alive.

THIRTY

Agent Chang listened on his communications headset to the latest status information from the senior DHS officer in the field. He stood inside the mobile command post, a few feet away from Senior Agent Goodman and Agent Greene. The command post, parked two block away from the condominium building under siege, was an extra large tractor trailer truck with every imaginable computing and communications gear arrayed in consoles on either sides of the walls. A dozen agents manned their stations.

Goodman continued to personally command the operations. It was essential for him to be at the scene when Fraser was apprehended. In fact, he would have preferred to lead the soldiers into the building himself if he could have. Agent Chang called out, “The third floor has been swept. No sight of the fugitives yet. They're proceeding to the fourth floor, Sir.” Goodman nodded to acknowledge the information. “There's no way they're going to escape,” Agent Greene said. He was the second ranking officer at the scene. It was his job to see that the building was surrounded, with no possibility of escape. National Guard troops encircled the entire building. Armored assault vehicles blocked every street. A small fleet of hover drones patrolled the entire area. Assisted by State Police who blocked all traffic in a four block radius.

Goodman paced back and forth, he lit another cigarette, then called out to Chang, “Tell me what's going on.” He began to wonder whether the surveillance tracking supervised by Agent Carmen was correct. He reviewed the video recordings himself, but wasn't one hundred percent sure. Even the computer analysis wasn't conclusive. But Agent Carmen had a hunch the two people recorded exiting the City Hall Plaza subway station were their targets. It was a man and woman with the same general physical characteristics. Though more importantly, it was the way that the pair kept their hats low to cover their faces. Goodman agreed it could be them. It took the rest of the night and most of the day to painstakingly trace their route with an assortment of DHS surveillance cameras, and requisitioned video from as many business' in the areas as was possible. Eventually tracking the pair to this condominium building in the Downtown Crossing section of Boston.

“Soldiers are now sweeping the fourth floor now, Sir,” Agent Chang called out. No sooner had he finished his update, a massive explosion rocked the building. Goodman swung around to view his video display in time to see a fireball on the west side of the high rise. Eight Homeland Security soldiers were incinerated instantly. Shards of glass, concrete, and brick rained down on the soldiers and vehicles located below. Deep black smoke billowed out from the hole in the side of the building as fire spread out across the fourth floor.

Dylan stood in the dark sewer, his feet submerged in cold filthy water. He reached up to grab the duffel bags being handed down to him by Tien. She sat in the opening of the trap door in the buildings basement. Her feet resting on the first step of the rusted metal ladder. Dylan slung the bags over his shoulder and helped her down. She was more than capable of making the decent on her own. Dylan was more concerned with the ladder breaking and Tien falling. He was lucky to have made it down himself.

The foul smell of the sewer was overwhelming. Tien coughed harshly from the fumes, almost to the point of throwing up. Dylan leaned over Tien and placed his hand on her back, “OK, take it easy. Breath shallow until you get used to the smell.” Tien took a minute to regain her composure, finally getting used to the foul odors. “I'm good,” she said, taking her bag from Dylan. She fished a machine pistol out, re-zipped and slung the bag over her shoulder. “Let's go,” she said, cocking her gun.

The sewer tunnel was an arched shaped semi-circle made of concrete bricks. It was no more than eight feet high and twelve feet wide. Old LED lamps were positioned overhead in the tunnel every hundred feet or so. Illuminating the tunnel just barely enough for human eyes to see.

Dylan studied the map with the flashlight. “OK, which way?” Tien asked. Dylan pointed to the left, “I think it's that way.” He studied the map further. “Yeah, it's definitely that way. I just had to get my bearings.”

They started walking down the tunnel. Their feet swishing through the sewer water. “Get your machine pistol out, we need to be ready,” Tien ordered. He fumbled with the bag, as he walked, finally getting the weapon out without spilling everything into the muck. “Remember my instructions about the safety switch on your weapon. Ignore what I said. That's our standard operating procedure, orders from command. Down here, though, you shoot any God damn thing that moves. Got it?” Dylan let out a low, slightly nervous laugh before acknowledging her new orders, “Yeah, I got it.”

They continued in the direction that Dylan originally indicated. Tien in the lead, one hand carrying the flashlight, the other her machine pistol with a red laser sight. Dylan picked up the rear, carrying the heavier bag with the electronic jamming equipment. “We need to get at least five city blocks away. That should get us outside any standard sized perimeters that DHS would have set up,” Tien said. Dylan looked behind him, thinking he heard something. Probably a rat.

“What are our chances, do you think?” he asked. Tien looked back at him. “I don't want to guess the odds. The truth is we'll be lucky to fight our way out of this one,” Tien spoke softly to avoid her words echoing down the tunnels. Dylan knew she was right. Still, he didn't like the sound of it.

They made their way a few hundred yards further, until the sewer branched off in different directions. Dylan stopped to study the map more closely. Tien walked back to shine the light above him, casting more light on the map. Finally convinced of the right direction, he pointed down one of the tunnels, “That way.”

Agent Goodman ordered more troops into the building to secure the other floors. Then ordered the fire to be put out. The explosion convinced him they were close. He was certain the fugitives were using the explosion to cover their escape. He barked out a litany of commands to various Homeland Security agents in his vicinity. “Get troops in those adjacent buildings. Put a secondary ring around the entire neighborhood. Bring in more drones.”

It took about ten minutes for the soldiers to extinguish the fire in the apartment. Agent Chang received an update from the commanding officer who was finally able to get into the gutted apartment to inspect the remains. Chang turned and walked the few feet over to Goodman, “They found what looks like an escape shaft. It leads down to the basement.”

Goodman understood the situation immediately. “They're in the fucking sewer. Get men in there right now. Get on the line with the city's sewer department. I want schematics for those tunnels downloaded to our computers within two minutes.”

“Agent Greene,” Goodman called to his second in command. “How the fuck did you miss the sewers?” Goodman didn't want an answer. He cut Greene off before the officer could give an excuse. “You're going down there yourself and lead the effort in hunting them down. And I'm changing the standing orders. Shoot on sight. I want those motherfuckers dead.” “Sir, with all due respect,” Greene replied, “We should assume that the target has reacquired her memories. Capturing her alive should be our objective. Capturing Fraser alive could be useful in breaking her.”

Goodman thought it over for a minute. “Fuck it. It doesn't matter any longer. Countermand my last order. Take them dead or alive.”

Dylan and Tien traverse an additional three hundred yards of sewer lines. They walked silently as they wound their way through various passages. They knew it wouldn't take long for Homeland Security to figure out they were in the sewer system. Tien broke the silence, “Soldiers are probably already down here. We need to take the next manhole exit.” Dylan took a moment to study the map. “Yeah up ahead. There should be a main tunnel. Then be a smaller tunnel leading to an exit,” he said. The tunnel they were traversing narrowed even further. Crouching as they walked.

Reaching the end, Tien stuck her head out, peering both ways into a wide cavernous section of the sewer system. It looked to be thirty feet wide and twenty feet high. The tunnel, although still dark, was slightly brighter. Higher voltage lamps lit the entire length, as far as they could see. The map indicated this was a newly constructed main channel. They could follow it most of the way across the city if they chose. Dylan pointed to their left. “That way, about twenty  yards up, the second tunnel on the right leads to our way out.”

They walked side by side as fast as they could, pushing their legs through the almost knee high sewer water. Tien shoved the flashlight into her bag and took hold of her machine pistol. She looked it over once again, making sure it was loaded and ready to fire.

They made it almost twenty yards, passing a smaller sewer tunnel branching off to their right hand side. Dylan checked the map again. I hope I'm right, he thought. They trudged on through the filthy water. The small tunnel they were looking for was no more than five yards away. Suddenly voices could be heard in front of them. Lights flashed from Homeland Security soldiers in the main tunnel about seventy five yards ahead.

Dylan turned to Tien, “Run!” The two ran as fast as they could. Splashing about as they leaped from foot to foot through the water. They gave up trying to be silent, speed was the essential thing. Beams from a several powerful flashlights along with red laser sights swung back and forth within the tunnel. A  red laser landed on Dylan as he ran. Tien stopped in her tracks, unloading several controlled bursts of automatic fire. The DHS soldiers dove into the filthy water for cover. The soldiers lights no longer shining.

Dylan jumped into the entrance to the side tunnel, dropping his bag once inside. He cocked his gun and leaned against the wall. Tien ran towards him. The soldiers opened up with  automatic rifle fire. Bullets flew around Tien, ricocheting off the walls, and hitting the water. Dylan leaned out of the tunnel, swung his machine pistol towards the soldiers, and held the trigger for a continuous burst of covering fire. The soldiers automatic fire stopped, giving enough time for Tien to leap into the side tunnel. A fraction of a second later a barrage of bullets from the soldiers let loose.

Three red laser targeting beams crisscrossed up and down across the entrance to the side tunnel. Then a forth laser beam. Followed by a fifth. In a course of three seconds, a dozen red lasers swayed back and forth across the tunnel, searching for their prey.

Dylan pulled out the empty magazine clip from his machine pistol and tossed it on the floor. He was shaking and trying to calm his breathing down. Tien fought to catch her breath while she spoke, “You did good. I'm really proud of you.” She handed him an ammo clip from her bag, then took one for herself. Dylan loaded his gun and moved to the opening of the tunnel. He stuck his gun out past the entrance so only his hand and wrist were exposed, firing off a quick burst. Tien leaned back against the tunnel wall. Her machine pistol locked and loaded. She held the gun in her right hand,  holding it high, pressing it against her breasts. She spoke while still catching her breath. “We have to get out of the sewer now. Or this is where we die. They've already called in our position.”

The main channel became quiet. The red laser beams continued to swing back and forth. Tien handed the flashlight to Dylan. “Get moving and find that manhole exit. I'll be right behind you. I'm going to set explosives,” she said. Dylan opened the map and began looking at it. “Fuck the map. Get moving, now!” she said, almost frantically. She moved up to the tunnels entrance and unleashed another burst of fire into main tunnel. The soldiers returned the fire. “You don't wait for me. I'll be there,” she said, then fired another burst.

Dylan didn't say a word. He dropped the map and rushed down the tunnel. As he sprinted, Tien yelled out, “When you get up above, if you see anyone holding a gun, you shoot them. OK.” Dylan acknowledged her with a quick 'OK' while he was in mid stride.

Tien fired another burst from her machine pistol, emptying the magazine clip. Again the soldiers returned fire. A bullet grazed the top of her hand. She realized how lucky she was she didn't have her hand ripped off. She licked her wound before reaching into the duffel bag and pulling out more ammo. She loaded her gun then searched around the bag again, finding the brick of C4-B and the detonator. It was only a timer detonator. It will due, she though.

Tien knelt down in the tunnel and started wiring the detonator to the C4-B. Her hands shook from the cold and the adrenaline pumping through her veins. The soldiers were getting closer, probably no more that thirty yards away. She knew she was lucky that the soldiers weren't shooting rocket propelled grenades or smart bullets with explosive charges. Such explosions could rip through the natural gas lines that crisscrossed the sewers, potentially killing everyone inside. That was her plan for them.

Tien turned towards Dylan. He was climbing a ladder, about twenty five feet down the tunnel, his flashlight aiming at the ceiling. She picked up her machine pistol and fired several controlled bursts out the entrance. Her automatic fire only intended to for the soldiers to think they were being fired on. Hopefully to buy her more time. She turned around again to look at Dylan, he was at the top of the ladder. The sounds of the soldiers were getting closer.

Tien punched the keys to the detonator, setting the timer for forty seconds. Enough time, she estimated, to get away. She waited for Dylan to clear the exit. “Come on, come on,” she muttered to herself. Dylan was taking too long. The soldiers were now no further than twenty yards. She fired off another short burst into the tunnel. She looked behind her, Dylan was gone. It was time. In quick succession, she armed the detonator, hit the start button, picked up her duffel bag, and ran like hell.

THIRTY ONE

Dylan stood at the top of the ladder, trying to push the manhole cover up with his left hand. It wouldn't budge. Shoving the flashlight into his pocket, he balanced himself on the ladder while pushing with both arms against the cover. It moved up by an inch before falling back down. The steel cover weighed at least a hundred pounds and he didn't have much leverage. He took a breath and balanced himself again. This time using all of his strength, he managed to push the manhole cover up and away.

He peeked his head up through the opening. It was dark out, night time had already fallen. A car sped by, then another. The manhole opened to a busy street. Cars drove past in both directions. Lucky enough, though, the opening lay directly in the center of the road. Luckier still there was a nearby streetlight, enough to see.

At first Dylan ducked his head down with every oncoming car. Then popped it back up again when he thought it safe. He couldn't find an opportunity to climb up into the street. It didn't matter, he knew he had no choice but to move. He threw his duffel bag up onto the street, then practically jumped out of the manhole in one fluid movement. Cars swerved to miss him at the last second.

Dylan brandished his weapon at the traffic speeding towards him. Hoping that was enough to keep any of them from running him down. He fired a quick burst from the machine pistol into the air for one car that apparently didn't see him standing in the middle of the road. The car swerved to the side with a high pitch screech, then drove past without slowing down.

Tien reached the manhole opening, pushing her bag through first. She threw her left arm into the air, allowing Dylan to reach down to pull her out. No sooner had Tien got to her feet, she yelled, “Run!” They made it only halfway to the sidewalk before the explosive detonated. Fire and black smoke ejected skyward through the manhole opening. A fraction of a second later, another more powerful explosion rocked the street, knocking them off their feet. They fell forward onto the hard cement of the sidewalk. The street buckled in several places, fire and smoke billowed out all around them. The natural gas lines had ruptured. In all likelihood killing every soldier below in the sewer.

Tien was first to roll over and sit up. Dylan was slower to get up. “You OK?” Tien asked. He nodded his head. “Yeah, how about you?” Tien got to her feet. “I'm fine.”

Dylan was the first to notice them. Two hover drones flying down the street, in their direction. They flew in tandem, one flying directly above the other, probably on a standard sweep for the fugitives. “Drones!” he called out. Tien picked up her weapon. “Grab my bag,” she said, then ran into the street. She aimed the red laser sight at the windshield to the first car that approached. The vehicle wouldn't stop, it swerved to the right and sped up, nearly hitting her.

The drones flew past on the other side of the street. Flying no further than fifteen yards, before both drones stopped simultaneously, then headed straight for them. The drones stopped  almost directly overhead, hovering thirty to thirty five feet above street level. Within a second,  as if on cue, the drones separated, moving about fifteen feet apart. Once in position, their laser targeting beams shot down. One dot on Tien, the other on Dylan.

Time was up.

“Fuck!” Tien screamed, as she ran towards the next oncoming car. It was a Massachusetts State patrol car. Tien aimed the laser beam directly at the driver behind the windshield. The cruiser skidded to a stop. Dylan rushed to the passenger side, Tien to the drivers side. The State troopers were sitting ducks inside their unarmored vehicle. Tien squeezed off a quick burst of fire over the cruiser's rooftop. She lowered the gun, the laser directly on the officer behind the wheel. The troopers had no choice, they slowly climbed out, raising their hands into the air. Dylan took the sidearm from the cop on his side. Tien did the same for the cop on her side. “Get down! Lie down spread eagle!” Tien yelled at the men. She turned to Dylan. “You drive.”

Throwing the duffel bags in the back seat, Dylan jumped behind the wheel. Tien ran to the passengers side. She opened the back door, then fired on one of the overhead drones. Letting loose a sustained burst of machine gun fire, hoping to get lucky. Sparks flew off the drone, pushing it back and off kilter somewhat. But it didn't get knocked out. With her gun out of ammunition, she dove into the back seat. “Go, go, go!” she yelled, while slapping the back of  the drivers seat.

Dylan sped off, trying to figure exactly what street they were on. The hover drones followed in pursuit. Tien got the duffel bags opened as fast as she could. She bounced from side to side as Dylan swerved the cruiser past the buckled street and then around the street traffic. She reloaded her weapon, then reached forward, grabbed his machine pistol and jammed in a loaded magazine clip. “You did good, Dylan,” she said while cocking the firing mechanism to his gun and handing it back to him.

Dylan found his bearings, seeing the signs for the highway, and headed for it. He looked down at the instrument panel. “Shit! We've got less than a quarter of a tank of gas.”

“Just get on the highway. I'll get the electronics going. If we can get to the O'Neil Tunnel before being hit by a Hellfire, we've got a chance. Let's just hope this jamming device works,” Tien said. Dylan didn't ask any questions, he was focused on getting to the on ramp as fast as their stolen State patrol car could take them. The hover drones still trailed behind. Sometimes falling back, then catching up, depending on the traffic. Tien continued to bounce around in the back seat as she rummaged through their bags. She retrieve the remaining ammo clips for the machine pistols, only two left. She pulled out the M4 assault rifle. She counted six self propelled rockets and five ammo clips for the rifle. She quickly arraigned everything for quick access. Lastly, she got out the stainless steel case for the German made electronic jamming device. She opened the cover and powered it on. The device made a humming sound as it initiated it's power on sequence.

The hover drones fell out of laser targeting range. Dylan found the switch to the patrol cars sirens, turning it on momentarily to get some slower moving cars out of the way. “OK, jamming is operational,” Tien called out. They had almost reached the on ramp to the highway when a Homeland Security cruiser swerved out from a side street with it's sirens blaring. A State police cruiser followed seconds later. More sirens could be heard in the background. A whole lot more sirens.

Dylan made the turn onto the ramp. He floored the gas, bringing the car up to sixty, then seventy miles an hour. The DHS cruiser screeched as it followed onto the on ramp. The State cruiser close behind. Dylan brought the patrol car up to eighty miles an hour by the time they reached the highway. The police cars following in pursuit.

Tien held the jamming device on her lap. Keeping an eye on the screen for any sign of target lock by an airborne Reaper. She knew the device had flaws. It could only jam the guidance signals of an inbound Hellfire III missile. It couldn't change the flight path of the missile. Once a Reaper fired it's missile, it could fly anywhere including the trajectory it was heading on. She put the device carefully to the side.

Dylan kept the gas petal floored, pushing their speed up to ninety seven miles per hour. The more powerful Homeland Security cruiser closed in. Tien shouted to Dylan, “Block your ears.” Before he knew what she was talking about, Tien blasted out the glass of the rear windshield with her machine pistol. Shards of safety glass flew everywhere inside the car and out.

Tien loaded a rocket into the M4. She twisted around and crouched on her knees in the back seat, aiming the assault rifle through the rear window opening. She pushed glass away from the top of the seat as she took aim at the approaching DHS cruiser. The M4 made a swishing sound as the rocket exited the launch tube. The armored DHS cruiser swung hard to the left, the rocket missing by no more than two feet. “Damn!” Tien yelled out. She opened fire with the weapon, sustaining her fire till the ammo was out. The cruiser swerved right, then left, sparks flew everywhere with the onslaught of the automatic weapons fire. The bullets had no effect.

The State Police car in pursuit pulled up even to the Homeland Security cruiser, as if they were racing to be the first ones to take down the fugitives. Tien slid back into the seat, reloading the rifle. She called out over noise of the rushing wind to Dylan, “Drive straight when I tell you to!” At just that moment, a hail of bullets slammed into their car. Shards of glass from the passenger side window blew inward, covering Tien. Dylan ducked his head. “Motherfucker!” he screamed, while steering the car from side to side to prevent the patrol cars from overtaken them.

Tien got up, swung the M4 out the back window, and took aim at the State Police patrol car. She yelled to Dylan, “Drive straight.” The trooper in the passenger side of the State patrol car, having reloaded his gun, stuck his machine gun out his window and began firing. Bullets flew past her head, hitting the car all around her. She took a breath, aimed at the the grill of the State police car, and squeezed the trigger. The rocket hit the front end, causing the car to explode in flames. It swerved to the side hitting the DHS cruiser, knocking it to the side and almost off the road. The State Police car swerved in the other direction of the road, crossing over several lanes before hitting the vehicle barrier. It rolled side over side before coming to a rest as a mangled wreck of smoke and flames.

The DHS cruiser lost some ground with the hit. But quickly continued the pursuit. Tien reloaded her assault rifle with another missile. Dylan steered the car sharply to the left to avoid hitting a slower car in their path. The DHS cruiser changed lanes to follow. The soldier in the passenger side reached out and fired his machine pistol. Bullets flew wildly about. A few hitting the car. Tien aimed her M4 for the cruisers front grill. Took careful aim, and let the missile fly. At just the instant she took her shot, Dylan took a sharp turn to the right to avoid hitting another car in his path. The missile flew wildly off target. “Arghhhhh!!!!!” Tien screamed bloody hell while emptying the magazine of the rifle, hoping to hit a tire. There was no effect on the cruiser, the bullets bounced harmlessly off the armored plating or bullet proof glass.

Dylan swerved the car to the left, changing to the center lane. The DHS cruiser changed lanes to follow. The soldier in the passenger side stopped firing momentarily, probably to reload. Tien sat back in the rear seat and grabbed her duffel bag. She rummaged through it until she found the one grenade she had asked Dylan to pack. She yelled up to Dylan, “I'm going to blow that fucker to hell!”

She knew she only had one chance. She pulled the pin to the grenade and began counting. It had a six second fuse. The soldier in the DHS cruiser recommenced firing. This time with another more accurate weapon. Bullets tore throughout the fleeing car. Tien counted to two, lifted herself up to throw the grenade out the rear window. At the count of three, while in motion to throw the grenade, a bullet ripped into her right shoulder. She screamed in pain, dropping the grenade out of her hand and onto the trunk of the car. It bounced around until finally sliding off. It landed on the road, bouncing a few times, before exploding under the DHS cruiser. The patrol car burst into flames, flew out of control, and slammed into the median strip concrete barrier.

“Are you alright? Are you hit?” Dylan asked, yelling above the noise of the rushing air through the broken windows. He tried to look at her in the rear view mirror. She managed to sit down in the seat to inspect the wound. “I took a bullet in my shoulder.” She opened her shirt to see the blood beginning to ooze. There was no exit wound, the bullet was lodged in her shoulder blade. She looked around to find something to act as a bandage, there was nothing other than her own clothing.

“I'm going to pull over,” Dylan yelled.

“Don't you dare. You keep going. Do you hear me!”

He knew she was right. He had no choice. He had to keep driving.

Tien slowly removed her jacket, grimacing with pain on every movement. The sound of more police sirens in the distance grew louder. The blood continued to flow out of the wound. With her left hand she pulled at the front of her blouse. Ripping off the buttons to the top of the shirt. With the second pull, she managed to rip off the remaining buttons, and get her blouse off.

She rolled the shirt into a ball, pressing down hard to try to stop the blood. Dylan again looked at her in the rear view mirror. There was nothing he could do.

Tien leaned back in the seat. Unbearable pain shot through her shoulder. A warning signal emitted from the electronic jamming device. She pulled the case over with her bloody left hand. “A Reaper has target lock on us!” she yelled. Dylan didn't need to be told. He knew as soon as he heard the warning tone.

Another, different signal tone emitted from the device. “We have an incoming Hellfire!” Tien yelled. She punched in the command with her good hand to disrupt the missile's trajectory. “Six seconds to impact!” Dylan swerved to the right as far as he could go. Is this evasive enough. He didn't know. Then it dawned on him. “Hold on,” he screamed, then slammed on the brakes as hard as he could. The car's tires locked up, laying rubber on the roads surface. The car slid to it's side. The missile flew directly overhead, slamming into the highway in a ball of flames twenty yards ahead. Debris from the explosion rained down on their car.

“Get moving. That Reaper still has another Hellfire!” Tien called out. Dylan punched the gas, screeching the tires. He steered in the wrong direction of the highway. There was no oncoming traffic, all the cars having halted with the explosion of the State Trooper's vehicle. Dylan counted to six. “Hold on again!” he said, then slammed the brakes while spinning the steering wheel. The jamming device once more signaled a warning alarm. Dylan floored the gas. “The second Hellfire is on it's way!” Tien screamed. She punched in the commands to the device once more.

Dylan pushed the car to accelerate as fast as it could. Tien continued to monitor the jamming device. “Three seconds to impact! Two, One!” The missile landed wildly off the mark, at least a hundred yards behind them.

“Nice driving Mister. Now lets get the hell out of here!”

She pulled the bloody shirt off her wound, readjusting the bandage to find a clean, blood free side, then pressed down hard again. She laid her head back against the seat, relaxing a bit, still keeping an eye on the display to the jamming device.

“Tunnel's up ahead,” Dylan said. He looked in the rear view mirror at Tien, not knowing how badly hurt she was. A half a minute later, they were inside the O'Neil tunnel. Safe for the moment from airborne attack drones.

THIRTY TWO

Dylan drove the battered car out of the tunnel on the third exit ramp he came upon. He took the first left, then the next right. He drove on quieter city streets, trying to bypass busier intersections with DHS surveillance cameras. A few minutes later, they came upon a main road, Dylan had no choice but to take it. He recognized the area as South Boston. “Southie” as the locals still called it.

“Pull into the next parking lot you see,” Tien said. “We need to ditch this car fast. They know where we are. It'll take them only minutes to call up the surveillance video in the tunnel.” Tien labored to speak, her breathing becoming more difficult.

About a quarter mile up, Dylan pulled the State Police cruiser into a parking lot of a strip-mall. He drove around looking for an early to mid-20's model year American made hybrid electric car, the kind that Tien had taught him were easy to hot wire. He didn't search long before he found just what he was looking for, a 2024 or 2025 Chevy SUV in what looked to be pretty good shape. He pulled the tattered police car into an empty space a couple of parking spots away.

Tien was getting light headed. She felt sick to her stomach and thought she could pass out at any moment. “I need a pen and a piece of paper,” she spoke urgently. Not saying a word, Dylan rummaged through the center console, finding a small paper notebook and a pen, quickly handing her both items. Tien managed to scribble down an address and handed it him. It was barely legible, with blood smeared across it, but he could make out all of the letters. It was to a location in the city of Dedham, just to the south of Boston. “This is where we're going,” she managed to say. “It's an office building. When we get there pull into the parking garage, drive down to the lowest level.” Tien paused to get her breath. “Now lets get a new vehicle.” She leaned back in the seat and applied pressure to the wound, “Fuck! This hurts.”

The Chevy SUV was unlocked. It was old, the owners probably didn't care one way or the other if it was ever stolen. Dylan helped Tien into the front passenger seat, then tossed the bags into the back seat, before sprinting around to the drivers side.

“You have to make sure that the connector type is trapezoidal shaped,” Tien said.

Dylan reached through the service panel and felt for the connector. “Yeah it is.”

“Good, now jam the key into the right side to reset the ignition code. Don't worry about insulating the key. It's not the car's ignition current flowing through the connector, it's just the current for the keypad switch. You'll get a tiny zap.”

“OK, here goes.” Dylan pushed the key into the connector, shorting the circuitry, then punched 1, 2, 3, 4 into the keypad. The electric engine whirred and the instrument panel turned on. “Alright we have three fourths of a tank of gas, batteries are fully charged,” Dylan spoke calmly. After what they had been through, stealing a car was child's play.

While he put the car in reverse and and started driving out of the parking spot, Tien issued more instructions. “Forget changing the plates, we need to get out of this area as fast as we can.” She fought to remain conscious. “Once they find the cruiser it won't be long till they pull the security videos to the lot and see what car we stole...... arrghhh …..Son of a Bitch!” The pain in her shoulder jolted her back to full consciousness. She re-applied pressure to her wound. “We need to find a car in the next town. Find a residential neighborhood. Steal some license plates first.”

Dylan drove south, away from Boston and in the direction of the adjacent city of Quincy, being careful to obey every street sign and speed limit. “Car, turn on GPS mapping.” Tien tried to get the mapping system started. Nothing happened, no computer synthesized voice returned the acknowledgment. “Voice commands must be broken,” she said, hitting the on button to the GPS. “Don't punch in the address I gave you. We don't want that information in the hands of Homeland Security if we're captured. Change that, if you're captured. You know what you have to do if we're about to be captured.” Dylan looked over at Tien, giving her a slight nod of his head. He just didn't want to have to say the words.

Tien looked like hell. No sooner had they passed the city limits to Quincy, Dylan spoke out loud what he was thinking, “I say the hell with going to Dedham. We need to find you a doctor as soon as possible.” Tien shifted her body to face him. She spoke in a firm but calm voice, making sure he understood every word, “The address I gave you is the headquarters for the regional command. I was under orders not to disclose that information to you, of course. But the circumstances have changed. You have to get us there as soon as possible. They'll have medical facilities there.”

Dylan put his foot down on the gas pedal, pushing the car faster. He still drove carefully to avoid being pulled over, but drove more aggressively. At the next red light, he held up the bloody note paper to take another look at the address that Tien had written, moving it near the instrument panel to be able to read it. The light turned green. He turned his head to look at Tien before accelerating. She had slipped into unconsciousness.

Senior Agent Goodman and his subordinates remained inside the mobile command center parked in Boston's Back Bay. “Anything yet?” Goodman asked Agent Chung. Reports were continuously flooding in from the patrol cars and hover drones. But nothing yet on the whereabouts of the fugitives. “Have we got any results on the surveillance video in the tunnel?” Goodman asked. Agent Greene, standing behind a couple of agents at their consoles, called out, “We're having a network problem with the server that stores the video surveillance to the tunnels. We have technicians looking at the system right now. They'll have an answer for us momentarily, Sir.”

The events of the evening had failed miserably. The police roadblocks setup at the end of the O'Neil tunnel and each of the exit ramps were established too late. The remaining police cruisers in pursuit of the fugitives, further back on the highway, were trapped in the traffic jam created by the Hellfire missiles. By the time the police finally got through the traffic, the fugitives were long gone.

Goodman wasn't giving up. “I want more Reapers and hover drones airborne. Get online to Hanscom Field,” he yelled, before walking over to Agent Greene at the other end of the makeshift command center. “Get more roadblocks setup throughout the metro area. Shut down the highways. And I want the fugitives descriptions sent out to every police officer in eastern Massachusetts. They would have ditched the state police cruiser by now.” Goodman turned and again yelled out to the agents in the command room, “I want all reports of stolen vehicles as soon a possible. I mean every single missing car!”

Agent Goodman took a deep breath of air. He'd have to be reporting his status to Senior Agent Riviera in another minute. He swore under his breath once again. Though before making that call, he addressed the entire group in the command center, “OK people. Listen up. We're packing this operation up and moving back to headquarters in Burlington. I want to see everyone  back there in forty five minutes. I want any important reports sent directly to me while we're in transit. And I want updates from everyone once we're back in operation.” Agent Goodman walked out of the trailer, his head hung low.

THIRTY THREE

Dylan stopped the stolen Buick sedan in front of the rather plain looking office building. Tien was lying face up on the back seat of the car. He double checked the address that she had written on the note paper. Comparing it with the display of the navigation system. It was the right address. But it sure didn't look like the right place. The building appeared to be deserted. The car's headlights reflected on the glass entrance way of the building. He sat frozen for a moment, carefully studying the stainless steel lettering of the address above the glass doors.

Dylan turned to look at Tien behind him once again.  I pray this is the right place, he thought as he put the car in gear and drove over to the entrance of the concrete parking garage. It was dimly lit with only a few dirty light bulbs still shining. He steered the car to the left and down the ramp to the lower parking level. A single car was parked near the middle of the lot. A  rusty sign pointed to another lower level. Still not entirely convinced he was at the right place, he drove down the ramp to the bottom parking lot. It was deserted and even less illuminated than the higher parking levels.

Dylan drove the Buick around the parking lot in a wide full circle, looking for something to show him he was in the right place. There was nothing. It looked like an ordinary, crappy garage parking lot: dirty concrete walls, oil stained spots here and there, with a few pieces of liter strewn about. What the hell now, he thought. He stopped the car in the middle of the garage and put it in park. He looked again at Tien and grew more worried. He got out of the car and walked back and forth with his hands raised, swirling around a few times. Nothing happened. He  started jumping up and down, waiving his arms frantically in the air, calling out as loud as he dared. Ten seconds passed, fifteen, then twenty. It was futile. He stopped. There was nothing there. Complete silence. Darkness. No sign of anything. His mind raced with what to do. It was time to get out of there and get Tien to a hospital.

Suddenly it occurred to him, If this is the place, they don't know me. And they can't see Tien lying on the back seat. He rushed over to the back passenger side door. The door was locked, he thought to himself he probably locked it automatically to keep her from falling out. He sprinted back to the drivers side and hit the button to unlock all the doors. And just as fast, he sprinted back around to the passenger side. He wanted to pull her out head first.

Dylan carried her with both arms, walking in a wide circle, gently swirling her limp body from time to time. “Is there anyone here,” he called out to the empty parking lot. Several seconds passed. Still nothing happened. He continued moving in circles. Tien's head hung lifelessly back, as a dolls head would. Twenty seconds past, then almost thirty. Nothing happened.

“There's nobody here,” Dylan spoke aloud, letting out a sigh before carrying Tien back to the car. He had almost reached the Buick when he suddenly heard a loud motorized humming noise from behind him. He swung around to see a false door opening on one of the walls of the garage. The door itself was big, wide enough to drive two cars through. Several people sprinted out of the door, four men and a woman. One of the men, carrying a sub machine gun stayed behind the others, sweeping his head back and forth.

Two of the men, without saying a word, took Tien out of Dylan's arms. At the same instant, two other people, a man and a woman rushed out of the secret door pushing a wheeled stretcher. Dylan followed behind, watching the men carefully transferring Tien onto the stretcher. No one said a word, everyone knowing their roles, and acting as quickly as they could.

The silence was broken by the woman who was with the first group of people out the door. “Who are you?” she asked with a serious no nonsense expression on her face. She definitely was in charge of the group. She appeared to be in her middle twenties, shoulder length blond hair, a bit on the thin side and short, probably no more than five feet two inches tall. The man with the sub machine gun stood behind and  off to the side of her. His weapon pointed at the ground but in the direction of Dylan.

Dylan looked around at the group, then followed behind as soon as they started moving Tien on the stretcher. “My name's Dylan Fraser. She's Tien-Mu Chang. She's one of yours. She needs medical assistance right away,” he said, trying to keep up with the stretcher. The blond woman's expression eased somewhat. She turned around to face the man holding the machine gun, “Take care of that car.” She had fallen behind a few feet and ran to catch up with Dylan and the group. “We know who she is. We're going to take good care of Tien.” She paused for a moment, then added, “By the way, I'm Helen.”

The group rushed past five armed sentries, the massive door started closing as soon as everyone was inside. Helen maneuvered herself in front of Dylan. She raised her hand to signal him to stop. “We need to let the medical people take care of her for now. You need to follow me,” she said. One of the armed guards took a position to the right of Dylan, another directly behind him.

Dylan shook his head and tried to walk around her. “I'm staying with her.” Helen jumped to the side to get in front of him once more. Dylan stopped. “There's nothing you can do for her. If anything you'd only be in the way. Besides, I'm not asking you. I'm telling you.” Helen said, using both hands to indicate the presence of the two men carrying M4 rifles.

“Let's try this again. Shall we?” Helen said, smiling politely while gesturing with her right arm to their intended direction. Dylan looked past Helen to see Tien being pushed through a set of doors and out of sight. He was worried for her, though he knew this woman was right. He couldn't do anything more to help Tien. He did his part by getting her here. “You'll see her very soon. If they operate, you'll be there when she wakes up. For now, please follow me,” Helen said, turning to walk down a corridor. Dylan followed hesitantly, the two guards trailed behind.

They walked through a labyrinth of office hallways, then down a flight of stairs. The building was buzzing with activity. People walked busily to and fro carrying stacks of folders, or wheeling plastic containers. Soldiers dressed in civilian clothes, their automatic weapons slung over their backs, hung out in small groups, smoking e-cigarettes and joking around. Dylan was amazed by the sight. He never imagined that the insurgency had this many people. From his conversations with people at Homeland Security, the news media, whoever, he always imagined the insurgents where a rag tag group of miscreants hiding and plotting in dingy cellars. He never conceived that they could be operating in this capacity.

Helen brought him into an empty conference room and closed the door behind them. She waved her hand, “Sit down anywhere.” Dylan remained standing. He looked about the room apprehensively. She walked over to the head of the conference room table and took a seat. “Would you like something to drink? Water, coffee?” she said, while leaning forward to move the phone console closer to her. “Yeah, I'll have some coffee. Black. And a bottle of water.” Dylan took a seat next to Helen while she made the call.

They sat together engaged in small talk for a few minutes. The room was a basic no frills conference room that middle managers from a typical corporation would meet in. Cheap, fabric covered office chairs surrounded a twelve foot long blueish gray laminated conference table. Standard issue furniture. Helen flashed a forced smile whenever he looked her way. A knock came on the door, a middle aged woman with graying hair and thick glasses entered. The woman carried a tray with a pot of coffee, mugs, and a bottle of water. She placed the drinks on the table. “Thank you,” Dylan told the woman. She looks like my mother, he thought.

Dylan looked around the room trying to keep occupied while he sipped the steaming hot coffee. After a few minutes of waiting, Dylan finally said aloud what he was thinking. “I take it you're  suppose to baby sit me until the brass gets here?”

Helen forced another smile, “That's right.”

Dylan pushed her a little, “So, who am I waiting for?”

“You'll be meeting our commanding officer.”

He continued to look around the room, growing further agitated. “I want to see Tien. I want to know how she's doing.” Helen put her arms on the table and leaned towards Dylan slightly. “Just so you know. Tien is a good friend of mine. I care about her very much. There's no place I'd rather be right now than over in the medical area. But I have a job to do. And whether you like it or not, you'll be required to follow our rules until we figure out what to do with you,” she said, then leaned back in her chair.

They sat facing each other in silence. Neither one knowing exactly what to make of the other. Helen was the first to break the silence, “While you're meeting with the 'brass' as you call it, I'll head over to see how Tien is doing. I'll let you know how she is as soon as you get out of your meeting. Is that OK with you?” Dylan was happy with that arraignment. “Helen, thank you. I don't mean to sound like a jerk. I'm worried about her. It's been a really long couple of days. You have no idea.”

THIRTY FOUR

Dr. Beck walked into the conference room a few minutes after seven pm. In one arm, he carried a stack of folders, stuffed with papers that looked as if they'd fall out any second. In his other hand, he carried an open can of diet soda. Helen and Dylan stood. “Thanks Helen. I'll let you know when I need you.” Helen gave Beck a nod before turning to Dylan. “As I said. I'll check in with the medical staff and see how she's doing.” Dylan smiled, “Thanks.”

Beck plunked down the stack of papers on the table. He reached out to shake Dylan's hand, “Hello Dylan. My name's Doctor Richard Beck. I'm the commanding officer around here. Please, sit down.” Beck motioned for Dylan to sit in his seat.

Dr. Beck actually looked like a real doctor. He was in his mid sixties, a little pudgy around the mid section, average height, with long flowing white hair. His face had a lot of character, as if weathered by years of worry. He was well dressed, wearing an expensive dress shirt and slacks, with a platinum watch. Dylan could make out the name 'Breitling' on the face of the watch, a name he'd never seen before. Dylan's first impression of the man was that we was an old monied aristocrat, born and raised in privilege.

Dr. Beck leaned forward in his chair, putting his arms on the table, his fingers entwined. “Well, it's finally nice to meet you. I've been curious about the man whom Tien cancel her mission for. I've never seen anyone do something like that since I've been in charge here. Which is a long time. So, you must be very special to her.”

“She's very special to me,” he said.

“You've had a rough few days. I've read Tien's report she submitted this morning. Detailing your escape from DHS headquarters. And I've heard a little about your ordeal this afternoon. We've been monitoring Homeland Security communications.”

Dylan straightened his posture slightly as he shifted in his chair. “Yes, Sir. I have. Uh, we have. Tien and I.”

Beck beamed a friendly smile. “You don't have to call me sir. I'm not your commanding officer. You may call me Dr Beck. Some people like to call me Chief. I'm good with that too.”

“OK, I'll try to keep that in mind.”

Beck began sifting through the paperwork piled in front of him. “We've switched back to storing all our documents on old fashion pen and paper. It turns out to be the most secure means of storing data. Nobody can hack into these.” Beck tapped the pile of paperwork with his knuckles, a smile crossed his face.

“I know you're tired. And I know you're worried about Tien. So I'm going to keep this brief. First, a little about myself. I'm a medical doctor. Cardiac surgeon over at Mass General. I'm widowed, no children. And exactly how I ended up as one of the senior officers of this organization, well, let's just say it's a mystery to me,” Beck said, while leaning back in his chair.  An awkward few seconds passed, while he studied Dylan intently, sizing him up.

The momentary tension broke as Beck reached forward and took the top folder from the pile in front of him. He scanned the pages quickly. “Paperwork may be secure, but it takes a hell of lot more effort.”

Dylan waited patiently not knowing quite what to make of the man before him.

Beck lifted his eyes away from the documents. “I want to ask you a few questions. Discover what you know, what you think. OK, so, what is your understanding of the terrorist insurgency. What do you believe?” He pulled out what appeared to be an expensive pen from from the top pocket of his shirt and began jotting notes on a blank piece of paper.

Dylan was taken by surprise. He thought he's have to prove himself. Prove somehow that he wasn't working on behalf of Homeland Security. He swiveled his seat back and forth a few times, putting together the pieces of his thoughts on the matter. “OK, uh, if I were to answer your questions last week, I would have said that the terrorists were criminals intent on destroying our country.” Beck didn't respond, he just started writing notes.

Dylan realized the older man wanted more from him. “Well, to go back, for prospective, the War on Terror started decades ago when we fought against the Islamic extremists. The assholes that blew up the New York skyscrapers. But as we all know, the War on Terror expanded to fight the homegrown, American born terrorists. Turning into the War on Terror at Home. This led to the need to reform the Federal government to better handle the war. Keeping America safer. And over the years the number of terrorists have grown until we have reached the point where it can be called a rebellion. But, these last few weeks everything changed. I don't know what's what anymore.”

Beck was pleased with Dylan's honesty so far. “So, up until a few days ago, then. Why would you have thought the terrorists wanted to destroy our country?”

Dylan was quick to answer, hearing the reason a thousand times at school, at work, in the media. “Their goal was turn this country into a God-less cesspool. Take all of our money and property so lazy ass people and immigrants wouldn't have to work. Turn our country into a socialist nightmare. Again, that's what I always believed until recently.”

Dr. Beck probed further, asking the real question he was after. “What made you change you mind?”

Dylan paused, thinking how best to answer. “I met a girl that made me doubt everything I believed. Everything I was taught. A girl who opened my eyes to the truth. Or maybe better put, opened my eyes to who I really was. Though what the truth is, I'm still trying to figure that out.”

Dylan facial expression turned more serious. “There's more to it. What made me decide to throw everything in my life away to try to save Tien was, well, yes, I fell in love with her. But yesterday when Tien was arrested, I didn't know what to believe. I was being torn in two. Then it hit me. They were about to torture Tien. I discovered that Homeland Security tortures people. They torture Americans. And like the proverbial light bulb going off in my head, I realized that a just society does not torture human beings. Not only that, I realized a government that tortures it's own citizens to maintain it's power could never be legitimate. No fucking way. Period. Excuse my French. Once I put the pieces together, that the woman I was in love with, who felt so strongly to fight against this government was about to be tortured, I made my decision in a millisecond.”

Dr. Beck knew Dylan was telling him the truth. He didn't need brain scanning equipment to tell him when someone was honest with him. He spoke to Dylan as a father might speak words of wisdom to his son, “Love will do that to us. Open up our world for us to see things that we may never have otherwise.” Dylan let out a cheerful laugh, nodding in agreement with the older man.

Dr Beck collected his papers, quickly stuffing them into the folders in front of him. “That's it for tonight. We'll talk more tomorrow. Get some rest,” he said, while punching in the numbers to call Helen on his v-phone. “Oh, if you're wondering. All our phones are encrypted. Homeland Security can't listen in on us,” Beck said, seeing that Dylan was looking at his phone with a quizzical expression. “How do you know that they haven't broken your encryption codes? They're pretty good at doing that.” Dylan asked. Beck smiled and shook his head in an agreeable manner. “Two reasons. We're constantly changing the codes and we have agents embedded within DHS. We'd find out if they broke our codes.”

Dr Beck rose from his chair, Dylan followed. The men walked out of the room together,  making small talk. Outside the conference room, Dylan found the two guards still standing on either side of the door, one holding a 9mm handgun with a silencer. Helen was walking towards them in the hallway.

“One thing you should know,” Dr Beck said. “If I thought you were lying. Hernandez here,” Beck motioned to the man holding the 9mm, “would have put a bullet in your head before you could have gotten out of your seat.” Dylan's facial expression changed to distress.

Dr Beck smiled to ease Dylan's nerves. “I also liked your answer about not knowing what the truth is. I always keep in mind a saying from the Buddha, 'Trust no one who claims to know the truth. Only trust those who claim to seek the truth'. Words I find very useful sometimes.”

“Helen will take care of settling you in, whatever you need. She'll also be handling your debriefing. It was nice meeting you and we'll be talking soon.” Beck shook Dylan's hand, then headed down the corridor carrying his stack of manila folders.

THIRTY FIVE

Tien opened her eyes, though just barely. They were still half closed, but wide enough to see Dylan sleeping in an upholstered chair beside her bed. She looked groggily around her dimly lit makeshift hospital room. A small night light casting a blueish white glow was plugged into the far side of the room near a push cart holding medical supplies. She looked down to see an IV needle inserted into the top of her left hand.

An old analog clock on the wall above a white board read five thirty. Tien wondered if it were morning or night. She had no way of knowing since the converted boardroom had no exterior windows and the doors were closed. She wondered how long she's been there, how long she's been unconscious. Her head began to spin. She felt sleepy. Dylan shifted his position in the chair as he slept. She glanced over at him again, then at the bandages covering her shoulder. There was no pain. The drugs were doing their job, she thought. A moment later she drifted back into unconsciousness.

At seven thirty that morning, Helen pushed the door open to Tien's recovery room. She was carrying a couple of mugs of coffee along with a few manila folders. Dylan was awake and reading a two day old newspaper. He hurried over to help her get through the door without spilling the coffee, though she managed to get past the door before he could assist. She handed one of the mugs to him. “I made it the way I thought you said you liked it.” Dylan took a sip. “Yeah it's good.” Actually, it wasn't that good, he was being polite. It didn't really matter anyway, he was just glad to have a cup of hot coffee in front of him.

“I wish you would have taken one of the guest rooms,” Helen said with a hint of concern in her voice. She was speaking softly, trying not to wake Tien. Dylan shrugged his shoulders, “I was fine, really.” He spoke in a hushed voice, as well.

Dylan's borrowed cloths were rumpled. He looked like he hadn't got any sleep. He rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of his left hand while massaging his neck with his right hand. Letting out a yawn, he glanced over at Tien sleeping, then back to Helen. “Thanks for the coffee. I appreciate it.” He took another sip.

The door to the makeshift recovery room opened again. This time an older Latino woman, in her mid forties, wearing faded jeans and a red tee shirt entered the room. She greeted the two with a pleasant 'good morning' as she walked past on her way to check on Tien. Helen took another sip from her mug. “This is Clarisa. She's one of the nurses. She'll take good care of Tien while we go have some breakfast. Afterward we need to talk about a few more things.” Dylan stared at the nurse attending to Tien, only half listening to Helen.

Clarisa approached Helen and Dylan. She spoke to Dylan in a warm caring tone, “She's going to be fine. I'll be checking on her every few minutes. If she wakes up I'll call Helen right away.” She smiled and placed her hand on Dylan's arm to re-assure him. Dylan nodded his head, then asked, “How long is she going to sleep for. Is this normal?” Clarisa smiled again before answering, “Everyone's different. She could wake up in five minutes or five hours. She was awake after surgery. Now she's just recovering. Her body needs sleep. But she looks good. Nothing to worry about. The doctor will be here in a little while to check on her.” Dylan's mind was eased a little.

Helen and Dylan had breakfast in the cafeteria on the first floor. It was small room, as far as cafeterias go, seating perhaps thirty people. A single cafeteria employee handled all the work preparing the food. They both had bacon and eggs, which turned out to be surprisingly good. While they ate, they kept their conversation light, chatting about mundane topics, trying to avoid anything of a more serious nature. Helen took her final bite of the toast and finished her coffee. She tossed what was left of the toast on top of her plate, at least a third of her food remained. She was full. Dylan, on the other hand, had already consumed his entire breakfast. He was just nursing the last of his coffee while he waited for her to finish.

They each grabbed another cup of coffee before leaving the cafeteria and heading over to the stairwell. Helen's office was only two floors up. She always took the stairs instead of the elevator. It was her only exercise these days.

Helen opened the door to her office and entered, beckoning Dylan to follow. “Take a seat.” Helen sat behind her desk. Dylan took the seat in front. The office was a well lit, average sized managerial office with windows that overlooked the highway. It was clean and tidy, with everything in it's place. The desk itself was spotless, not a single paper or any kind of junk was strewn about. Strangely, for an office desk, there was no computer. Only a video phone sat on top of the desk.

Helen checked for messages on the office video phone in case Clarisa or the doctor had tried to contact her office instead of her v-phone. There weren't any. “No word yet about Tien,” she said, before opening one of the manila folders she had been carrying.

Dylan looked around the room as he waited for Helen to read through the documents. There was nothing in the room to look at of any interest, except for Helen. He couldn't help but notice how well her breasts filled her low cut blouse. He felt guilty each time he nonchalantly stole a glimpse of her cleavage. Stop it, he thought.

“OK, sorry for the wait. I want to get everything straight,” Helen said. “First, we're going to get started with your background, education, employment. We need to get all of your information before we can proceed further.”

Dylan nodded, “OK.”

“Dr Beck will be here in a little while. Afterward, we'll talk more about, lets see, it's, uh, digitally encrypted control transmissions for UAV's; Unmanned Aerial Vehicles. Aerial drones. Is that correct?”

Dylan looked at her matter-of-factly and simply replied, “Yup, that's it. Quantum encrypted digital signal transmissions to be precise.” He tried his best to keep his eyes averted from her breasts. She continued jotting down her notes. “We'll only cover high level descriptions. To inform our engineers exactly what it is you'll be teaching them.”

“Hello,” Dr. Beck said, as he knocked on the side of the opened office door. Helen hadn't finished collecting her background information. But that could wait. They both stood as Beck entered the room.

“I apologize for being early. My previous meeting was cut short and I thought I'd head right over here,” he said, putting his manila folder on top of the desk.

“Quite alright, Sir,” Helen said.

“I'll give you a call when I'm done,” he said, while trading places with her behind the desk. Before stepping out of the office she smiled and nodded at Dylan to indicate goodbye.

Dr. Beck relaxed a bit behind the desk before he began speaking, “Yesterday you told me you didn't know what the truth was. Today, I'm going to point you in the right direction. If you're going to help us it's important for you to understand what's going on. It's important for you to want to help us.” Beck emphasized the word 'want'.

Beck leaned back in his chair again. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. “Dylan, the entire reason we are fighting is to restore the Constitution. That's really all there is to it. It's that simple. We're fighting for our country, for our democracy, our right to live in freedom.” Beck stopped talking, intentionally waiting for Dylan to respond.

Dylan sat in his seat not knowing what to say. Or even if he was supposed to say anything. After a few awkward moments, he realized Beck expected him to say something, anything. He tried to express himself as best he could, “I think I've known the truth all along. But what could I do? I'm just one person trying to survive, going along with the flow. I think it's easier to believe what you're told than to ask questions.” Thoughts crashed inside Dylan's head of the complicity and complacency of his former life.

Dr. Beck continued his lecture. “The end of our democracy didn't occur when Thompson was elected president and the Freedom Party gained a majority in both houses of Congress, immediately disbanding the Republican and Democratic parties. The end of our Republic didn't occur when the Freedom Party repealed the twenty-second Amendment to the Constitution, enabling Thompson to be elected President for life. No, our democracy ended long before those events.”

Dylan's face betrayed his confusion.

“To quote the Bard, 'The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves',” Dr. Beck spoke solemnly. He hoped Dylan would understand the meaning of his words. Dylan shifted his position in his chair. He looked even more uncomfortable than before.

Dr. Beck smiled as he went on to explain, “Dylan, you already know why our Republic ended. You just don't realize you already know. You told me that you chose a safe existence all of your life. Well, so didn't the American people. It started decades ago when our leaders used the War on Terror to manipulate fear in people in order to gain political power for themselves. As our Constitution eroded slowly, piece by piece, the American people did nothing. Over and over again, they chose imaginary safety above freedom. They chose comfort above their duty to protect the rights and freedoms for future generations. And by the time a group of Christian extremists calling themselves the Freedom Party came to power with their mantra of 'No Compromise', our Republic was over. Compromise, of course, being the foundation of democracy.”

Beck let his words sink in before continuing. “The American people are to blame for the end of our democracy. Not any power hungry tyrant. Not an extremist political party. In a democracy our leaders can only do what we allow them do to.” Dylan shook his head. “I knew there was something wrong. My whole life, deep down, I knew. But what could I have done?”

Beck ignored his question. “Slowly over time, a few thoughtful intelligent people started standing up, speaking out what had happened to our country. They of course were jailed or never seen again. But the numbers grew. Eventually a political movement was born. It was called the Democratic-Republican Party. It was short lived, Homeland Security crushed it early on. I tell you this as part of our history. A history that will never be told by the state run media. All references to the political movement was erased from the digital records. This was the beginning of the War on Terror at Home as it was officially called.”

Dr Beck took another break, taking a sip of the bottled water he had brought with him. Dylan sat transfixed, amazed at what he was hearing for the first time. “We had no choice,” Beck continued, “with our political leaders arrested or dead, no political options available to us, our only recourse was to fight. How I got involved, let see, I volunteered to work as a chief of staff  for a friend of mine who became an upper level official in the Democratic-Republican Party in Massachusetts. When the leadership  was arrested, I don't know why I wasn't. Somehow I fell through the cracks. Or was just lucky. I don't know. Eventually, I managed to go underground and help establish the resistance. We've got bases in every State now. But it was slow, painstakingly slow getting started. It took years. We're at the point now, as you probably know, that we have an outright rebellion against the illegal regime in Washington.”

Dr Beck was finished with his speech. He looked content that he explained what he needed to as briefly as he could. “The question now,” Beck asked, “is what are you going to do. Will you join us as a Patriot and fight for your country. Fight to restore our Constitution, so that future generations will know what it means to grow up in freedom. As our forefathers had done for us?”

Dr. Beck sat back in his chair, folding his arms, trying to get as comfortable as possible. He spent too much time behind desks these days. Dylan looked directly into Dr. Becks eyes, without hesitating answered, “Yes Sir. I wholeheartedly, absolutely want to be part of your cause.” “Excellent. You'll swear in later on, when we get another officers to witness the oath. Helen will be your immediate CO, um, commanding officer. And let me just say, congratulations.” The two men spent several minutes talking about their lives, their interests, their families. Dr. Beck was interested in every new recruit. Especially, recruits he thought held potential.

Breaking way from a mundane line of conversation, Beck changed the subject. “We already have a lot of software engineers. We need soldiers. Your experience these past couple of days is more valuable than you realize. We could use a good field agent with your smarts. That's where I'd like to assign you. How would you feel about that?”

Dylan thought it over. With so much having happened these past few days, his life turned upside down, it was difficult to process it all quickly. “Yes, Sir. I'd like that.”

“Good. First you'll transfer all of your knowledge on drone communication technology. We have some of the brightest engineers there are. They just need your inside knowledge. Once that's complete you'll start your tactical training. This command center has a training facility down in the basement. You'll learn weapons, explosives, tactics from the best people we have. Eventually we'll discuss the strategies we use along with our countermeasures.”

The desktop video phone began to beep, signaling an incoming transmission. Dr. Beck hit the receive button. Helen's face popped up on the display. “Excuse me, Sir. I didn't want to disturb your meeting. But we have good news for Dylan,” she said. Dylan stood up upon hearing there was news for him. Beck swung the display over so both men could see. “Tien just woke up. She was asking for you, Dylan.”

THIRTY SIX

A group of about twenty five men and women, mostly in their mid to late twenties, were assembled in one of the conference rooms of the command center. They were waiting for the meeting to begin. Most were joking around, drinking soda or coffee, trying to kill the time. Some were holding private, somber conversations amongst themselves. Tien and Dylan sat next to one another at the far end of the conference table. David Whitney sat on the other side of Tien.

Dylan was chatting with the group of people sitting behind him, while David and Tien held their own conversation. It had been three weeks since Tien's operation. Her arm was still in a sling and sore as hell even with the pain medication. But otherwise she was back to her old self.

Dylan had undergone extensive training in weapons and guerrilla tactics at the facility. Learning assassination techniques with handguns and sniper rifles, the proper use of various machine guns, bomb making, and pretty much everything he needed to know to get started in the field. Now all he needed was the experience.

In between his training, Dylan had taught the software engineers all he knew of quantum encrypted digital signal transmissions used by Homeland Security. The transfer of information to the engineers was more work than anticipated. Mostly due to the fact that Homeland Security would have undoubtedly changed their encryption methodologies. Dylan worked overtime with the team of engineers to find a solution to that problem.

Dr. Richard Beck walked into the conference room carrying another armful of paperwork and a tall bottle of sparkling water. He was usually on time for his meetings, fifteen minutes tardy was out of character. His usual smile and lighthearted demeanor was gone. The men and women stood at attention as he entered. “At ease, make yourselves comfortable,” Dr. Beck ordered. He took the seat at the head of the table. He dispensed with his usual pleasantries. “I'm sure you've been aware things have been crazy around here lately. The rumors you've probably heard by now are true. We lost one of our command headquarters outside of Hartford,” Dr. Beck said. The pain expressed in his face was evident. “We suffered heavy casualties. A lot of good people died. Many more captured.”

Tien and Dylan looked at each other with wide eyes, then looked around the room, before turning back to Dr. Beck. The elder man opened the top folder on the desk in front of him. “The organization of our operational teams in the field had flaws which led to this disaster. And the missions those teams were asked to carry out were ineffective. Now we're going to regroup and fight a guerrilla war the way I believed it should be fought in modern twenty first century America.”

Beck paused, allowing himself to organize his thoughts. “No longer will we send armed squads to engage in direct military assaults against government positions. That was insane. We can't fight government forces head on.” Dr Beck took another sip of the sparkling water while he flipped through the paperwork in front of him. “No longer will we organize in teams of six to eight individuals. That was too easy to break. Capture one team member and the entire team could be compromised. From now on we'll be focusing on targeted assassinations and the destruction of the technical infrastructure by using Strike Teams comprising of two agents; the Strike leader and a technical specialist. Strike Teams will be able to move faster, hit more effectively, and evade capture more easily.”

Dr. Beck stood from his chair and stretched his arms a bit before pacing behind his seat. “The new plan will be referred to as Operation Battle Road. It will consist of three phases.” Beck paused his explanation while looking around the room. “Does anyone know what the reference to Battle Road is?” Tien shrugged her good shoulder. Everyone else shook their heads, murmured 'no', or looked around the room quizzically. Beck wasn't surprised. “All of you here are officers, the leaders of our fight for freedom, and God willing our future political leaders. It's important that all of you know our history. We need to learn from the tactic's our minuteman forefathers used to defeat the British.” Beck paused again, thinking how best to explain the history to his class of young rebel leaders. “OK, well, in April 1775, as every school kid knows, the British marched on Lexington and Concord. In Lexington, the Minutemen were quickly defeated before they managed to run away. It wasn't until later in the day at the battle of Concord that the small American force stood their ground against the Redcoats. The strongest military force in the world at the time. History records that neither side won a military victory in that battle. However, the Americans won a symbolic victory. Though in reality, if there wasn't a river with a narrow bridge standing between the two armies, the British would have easily defeated the untrained American militia and we'd probably still be speaking with a British accent today. No, the real victory that American Patriots had won on that day was what became known as Battle Road. Farmers, shopkeepers, and men from every walk of life came from all across Massachusetts to fight the Redcoats on their march back to Boston. The patriots hid behind stone walls, trees, whatever cover they could find along the road and picked off British soldiers one by one with their muskets. The British suffered heavy losses. It was because of those guerrilla tactics that the British never ventured outside of their fortified positions in Boston again.” Dr. Beck took another sip of his sparkling water. “Everyone here needs to learn their history. Especially this chapter. We need to use a modern day equivalent of the tactics used that day on Battle Road. That's the only way we'll defeat our enemy.”

While Dr. Beck sat back down in his seat, Tien raised a question, “Who will we target for assassination?” Dr. Beck smiled, “Good question. Phase One of the plan is to use Strike Teams  to assassinate government officials, Freedom Party members, Homeland Security personal, etc. At the same time we'll have Strike Teams consisting of engineers working to destroy their technical infrastructure; communication hubs, database centers, internet servers. We especially want to hit their databases. If we can knock those out, we can effectively cripple the government. However, we know we'll never be able to topple the government by these means. Every time we kill someone, or disable a computer center, another person or another computer will take their place. That's where Phase Two comes into play.”

Beck inhaled trying to catch his breath. He was speaking too fast. “Phase Two will be psychological warfare. This is where we'll defeat the enemy. From our assassination campaign we will have built up a reputation as ruthless killers. With that reputation, we will use the threat of assassination on selected targets to force compliance with our demands. We will extort our targets to carry out what we want them to do. For example, we could threaten a DHS official we'll kill everyone in their family unless they delivers state secrets. We could put a gun to a Freedom Party officials head and tell him the bullet will be saved for his wife unless he corrupts central databases, and so on a thousand times. I believe with these methods, we'll be able to cause enough instability that the government would cease to function. The dictatorship will crumble as the gears to it's machinery stop turning.”

The men and women in the room broke out in applause, some speaking out to indicate their agreement. David stood up and began speaking, quieting the group, “I had been involved in a number of direct assaults on military positions. And I can tell you it was a wasted effort. We lost several people, all for nothing. Each time we blew something up or killed soldiers at some outpost, the government just rebuilt what we destroyed or sent more troops.” David turned to face Dr Beck. “I'm behind you a hundred percent, Sir.” Everyone in the room nodded or signaled their approval.

Beck looked please. He raised his hands to quiet the room. “The third phase is a coup. We have the loyalty of a sizable number of senior officers in the leadership of the Armed Forces, from Joint Chiefs, to DHS corp commanders. Once we create enough instability in the regime, those officers will move to seize the government. We have plans in place to transition to civilian government once stability in the country is achieved.”

The v-phone in Beck's pocket signaled an incoming transmission, he took a look at the caller ID. “I have to take this call, it's important. Take a coffee break. I want everyone back in their seats in ten minutes.”

Dylan, Tien, and David walked out of the conference room together. “I think this plan will work. It's brilliant,” Dylan said.

“I agree, it is,” quipped Tien.

“You know, it was Beck who developed the plan and pushed for it at Senior Command. It wasn't until our recent losses that Command finally came around to Beck's thinking,” David said.

“It's because he knows so much of our history that makes him a great leader,” Tien added.

“Let's hurry up or there won't be any coffee left,” Dylan said, while picking up his pace.

The group of rebel leaders where back at their seats in under ten minutes. Dr. Beck looked at his watch before standing in front of the group and continuing to describe his plans. “As I stated, the use of Strike Teams is the means we'll use to carry out this plan. Field operation commanders will control three to five strike teams. These field commanders will never know the identities of the strike team leaders. And each Strike Team will never know the identity of their Operations commander. All communication channels, codes, passwords will be setup beforehand from our Central Command Centers. As usual, all agents will be hypnotized to cleanse memories before being assigned to the field.”

Dr. Beck stopped speaking long enough to make sure his young officers were taking everything in. “Any questions?” he asked. Alisha, a tall, slim African-American woman near the back of the room spoke out, “Sounds pretty straightforward. Though, has the concept of assassination strike teams been tested in the field?” Beck smiled. “Excellent question, Alisha. Yes. I've been using strike teams for most of the past year. Analyzing whether one, two, or three individuals would be the most effective. We reached the conclusion that two individuals is best. Working in a buddy system, solving problems as they arise, watching each others back, and so on. Anyone else have a question?” he asked, looking around the room carefully. No one had anything to say.

“Tien, I'm assigning you to be a senior Operations Commander. You'll take the post as soon as you're fit for duty. You deserve it, congratulations,” Beck said. Everyone in the room clapped, showing their support. Various people across the room spoke out offering Tien their congratulations. “Yes Sir. I'll do whatever it is you need of me,” she said. Dr. Beck looked genuinely pleased.

“Alisha, you're also being promoted to Operations Commander,” Beck said. The room erupted once again in applause. Dr. Beck looked at Dylan. “Dylan, I'm assigning you to initially work with Tien as her technical specialist. I have a very interesting cover for the two of you. Which is why I went against my better judgment of assigning you to work together. But I think this will work.”

“Yes Sir,” replied Dylan.

“Everyone else, you'll be getting your command assignments during the next day or two. The command staff is just finishing up the work now. Any questions? Good. OK then. Attention!” Beck commanded. The young officers all rose to stand at attention. “You're dismissed,” he said, then went about collecting his papers from the conference room table.

THIRTY SEVEN

The next day, Thursday evening at quarter to six, Dylan stopped by the cafeteria to pick up a couple of sandwiches, chips, and soda's before heading over to the temporary living quarters in the east wing of the office building complex. The sandwiches weren't much of a dinner. But he learned to get use to eating them since they were served four nights a week.

Dylan knocked on the hollow wooden door to Tien's makeshift apartment. Formerly an executive's office suite with large glass window facing the highway, blacked out for secrecy. Having an apartment was one the benefits of her recovery process. Nearly everyone else slept in cots setup inside office cubicle’s.

Tien opened the door, a white fabric sling held her arm. “Alright, I'm starving,” she said, seeing the food. She stepped to the side, letting Dylan get past her, before closing the door behind them. “Al Jazeera should be on in a minute,” Dylan said, referring to the only remaining legitimate news organization in America. He walked over to the old, ragged couch in the corner of the room and put the food on top of the plastic crates used as the coffee table. The tiny fifty inch TV on the wall was already on, though the sound was nearly all the way down. Tien picked up the old fashioned remote control unit, turned to Al Jazeera, and increased the volume while she sat down next to Dylan.

“Push over a little,” she said, trying to make room for herself so that her arm with the sling didn't push against the side of the couch. Dylan had already opened her diet root beer and was just opening the container for her sandwich. “Oh, sorry,” he said, just barely audible while pushing against his side of the couch. Tien leaned forward to grab her soda and turned her head towards Dylan. “Someday we're going to remember back when we use to sit in this old flea infested couch. In a room not much bigger than an actual closet.” Tien leaned back in the couch with her drink. “And we're going to laugh about it. We're going to tell stories about it for years to come. Each year remembering something different about our time here,” she said, all the while grinning at him with the silliest look on her face. “You're probably right,” Dylan said, before letting out a brief, acknowledging laugh.

Silence ensued between them, each staring into the others eyes. Tien was first to break the pause. “I love you, you big geeky techo-nerd.” A full two seconds flew by before Dylan could respond. His tongue tied trying to find a witty comeback. “I love you, you brainy golden haired girl.” Tien was still dying her hair platinum blonde. She smirked at him with a wide grin, “Oh, that's a really great comeback. You're such a smooth talk'ah.” She leaned over to the coffee table and picked up her sandwich.

It was getting near eight o'clock. Dylan was laying back in the couch. His stack of notes strewn about the couch and floor. His feet laying on top of the plastic crate coffee table. He had long given up studying for the night. Surfing the TV channels instead. “What a pain in the ass to have to keep pushing a button to find something you want to watch. I miss my home computer finding what I want for me. People in the old days had it tough,” Dylan spoke in a hypnotic monotone while clicking through the television channels.

Tien was in bed reading. Transfixed to the information in front of her. She didn't pay attention to what he was saying. “Really, that's nice,” she said. Not that she usually paid attention to any of his intentionally asinine statements.

Tien had removed her sling, resting the sore arm on her stomach. Using that hand to prop up the paperwork she was reading for their upcoming assignment. They were given entirely new lives, new jobs, new identification, new social security numbers, a home, cars.  Dr. Becks staff had created entire life stories for each of them; where they grew up, went to school, their fourth grade English teacher, their boyfriends and girlfriends in high school, what colleges they went to, what foods they like.

Dylan got up from the couch and stretched. A mischievous expression crossed his face. He walked over to the side of the bed that Tien lay closest to. “I think you need a break. Come on, dance with me,” he said while gently tugging the manila folder with it's stack of papers out of her hands, then taking hold of her good hand to beckon her to stand up. Tien looked up into his eyes. She smiled. Pulling herself up from the bed to her feet. Dylan put his arms around her waist, she pulled him close. They danced in silence, in a slow whirling motion. He was careful not to touch her injured shoulder. “Ordinarily this is where I instruct the computer to play some soft jazz,” Dylan said, while tilting his head back slightly to get a better view of her face. “I bet you had lots of experience doing that,” she teased. “All the more experienced gained to do this.” Dylan tilted his head down and leaned forward in a slow deliberate motion to kiss her. Their eyes locked on one another. Dylan moved most of the way forward, stopping just shy of her. Allowing Tien to finish the motion by closing her eyes and extending her lips to meet his.

They kissed passionately, until Dylan clumsily grabbed hold of her bad shoulder. Tien let out a screech, “Aaargh!” She took a step back. Her left hand reaching for her opposite shoulder. Her head crunched over to the right side.

“Oh shit, I'm sorry. Come on, sit down Are you alright?” Dylan asked, while motioning her to the side of the bed.

Tien sat down, Dylan sitting next to her. She lifted her head straight up to look at the ceiling, and began laughing hysterically. He gazed at her wide eyed, then began to smile. “This is just too funny,” she said, quieting her laugh. “Every time we go at it, something happens; aerial drones, car chases, a bullet. We've had the worst luck. What's a girl have to do to get laid around here.” She started laughing again.

Dylan laughed. She was contagious and it was funny. “It might make a good story someday,” he said.

“Yeah, we could write a book. Call it 'Insurgents In Love'.”

They laughed together once more.

As their laughter subsided, Dylan rubbed her back gently. “How's your arm feel now,” he asked. “Better. I think it just hurts when I strain it. Or extend it too much,” she replied. Dylan smiled at her, “Well, I think we'll just have to be very careful not to strain your arm then.”

Dylan stood, gently reaching for Tien's good hand in a gesture for her to rise. She stood and faced him. “I love you so much,” he said. “I love you,” she responded. He looked into her eyes while he slowly undid the buttons to her blouse. Her arms remained by her side until the last button, where she helped him slide the shirt off, exposing her lacy red push up bra. A small bandage still covered her bullet wound. Dylan leaned over and kissed her neck passionately. His right hand caressing her breasts. She extended her neck skyward. Breathing heavily, she slowly unbuttoned his shirt with her good hand.

THIRTY EIGHT

It was a bright and cold morning. Hovering around twenty six degrees. Not unusually cold for late January. A light dusting of snow fell overnight. Covering the existing dirty snow already on the ground. The movers where finished delivering the last piece of furniture to the modest single family bungalow in the quiet neighborhood of West Newton, a nearby suburb of Boston.

Dressed in winter coats and hats, Tien and Dylan took a break and stood together in front of their new home. A house bought and paid for by funds supplied by any number of foreign countries supporting the rebellion. They watched the workmen gather their moving blankets and dollies. Dylan's beard was mostly grown in. With dark rimmed eye glasses, it would be difficult for anyone to recognize him. Tien, on the other hand, was still recognizable. Her hair was now a short, stylized, golden brown. Whenever she left the house she covered her face with a pair of large eye glasses, the kind that were the latest fashion. Still, facial recognition computers could possibly pick her out of a crowd.

“Good job you guys.” Dylan handed the delivery foreman a hundred and fifty dollars as a tip. “Thanks a lot. We really appreciate your hard work,” Tien added. “You're welcome, enjoy your new homes, folks,” the foreman said before heading off. Tien rubbed her gloved hands together, then snuggled up against Dylan. They stood watching the workmen jump into their truck and head off down the road. When the truck was finally out of sight, as if on queue, the pair turned and faced the front of their new house. Tien put her arm around him and leaned her head against his shoulder. He returned the gesture, putting his arm around her shoulder.

Tien was the first to break the silence. “Do you think we'll ever experience this for real someday. Being married and buying a home together. Struggling to make the payments. Arguing over which paint colors to use. Doing all those thing that normal people do?”

Dylan thought it over for a few seconds, searching for the right words to use. But he couldn't find any that would comfort her. “I don't know how to answer that Tien. We both know our personal longevity is measured in weeks or months, but not years.” Tien had been looking up at Dylan while he spoke. She did her best to hide her pain of the reality that he expressed. Tien's voice cracked slightly as she began speaking. “I know. Sometimes I think this nightmare will be over with quickly and we'll just start new lives together and we'll all be happy. But that's not going to happen. I know it. I have to keep reminding myself that we have to fight, to sacrifice so that our children will know what it is to grow up in freedom. It's our duty.”

The couple stood in silence before their house for another minute before Tien took Dylan's hand. “Do you realize how incredibly lucky we are? We share a love that most people spend their entire lives without ever knowing is possible. And if we can have that even just for today, isn't that true happiness?” she asked. A tear formed in the corner of Dylan's eye. He was touched to the very core of his soul. He leaned down and kissed her tenderly. Tien reciprocated, placing her arms around his neck. When they finished, Dylan spoke first, “I'm alive because of you. What I mean.” Tien stopped him from speaking another syllable. “I know exactly what you mean,” She smiled up at him, “For the first time in my life I feel truly alive, as well.”

The moment was interrupted by the next door neighbor. “Hello, there.” Tien and Dylan turned to see a heavy set, middle-aged, black woman approaching them carrying a brown paper shopping bag. “Hi, I'm Maggie Preston. I saw you out here and thought this might be a good time to stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood. This is for you,” she said, handing the paper bag over to Tien. “It's a quiche, with bacon. I figured you could use a homemade meal for lunch instead of going out for fast food.”

“Thank you,” Tien and Dylan said in unison.

Maggie went on, “My husband won't eat anything unless there's some kind of meat in it. So I figured I'd make something you'd both enjoy. I hope you're not vegetarians.”

“That's so kind of you. No we're not vegetarians,” Dylan said, before starting in with their prepared response. “I'm Bill Hines. This here is my lovely wife Stephanie.” Tien piped in, “Everyone calls me Steph. Thanks again for the quiche. We'll have for it lunch. The stove is really the only thing we have at this point. The microwave is buried somewhere under a pile of boxes.”

Maggie smiled with a grin from ear to ear. She seemed like a genuinely warm person. “You're going to love this neighborhood. The people are great. Not a single nasty person. The Newton school system is the best, do you have children?” the middle-aged woman inquired. “No, but hopefully someday soon,” Tien responded. She continued the ruse. “We're from LA. Well, I should say we've lived in California for the past eight years. Bill grew up on the North Shore. I'm originally from New Jersey. And we're finally making the move back East for Bill's new job.”

“Well, after you're settled down, in a few weeks, you'll have to come over for dinner. Meet my husband Walter. The kids are all grown and off at college. So, we always enjoy having company,” Maggie said. Dylan sensed the woman was about to engage them in a long conversation. “I think that's a great idea, Maggie. We'd love to have dinner with you and Walter. But, I don't mean to be hasty. But we really do have to get going. As you can imagine,” Dylan said as he lifted his hand towards the house.

“Of course, I'm sorry. Well, it was nice meeting you. Good luck with everything,” Maggie said, as she walked away. “It was nice meeting you Maggie. And thanks again for the quiche,” Tien said.

“Actually, I think it would have been a pleasant dinner. She seems like a really nice woman,” Dylan said, alluding to the fact that they will never sit down to dinner with Maggie and Walter. Their instructions where clear, it was important to meet the neighbors, appear friendly, and lay the foundation of their new identities. But at the same time they had to keep their distance to avoid exposing their deceptions. Any number of slip ups could occur at a friendly  dinner date. They were taught it was always the smallest details that could trip them up and blow their cover

The house was a mess. Moving boxes full of everything needed for a home filled the entire first floor. Furniture was left wherever the movers thought it should go. Neither Dylan nor Tien had ever stepped foot in the house before. They had no idea what was in most of the boxes. Nor did they know where any of the furniture should go. They had their work cut out.

Tien walked into the cluttered living room and peered through the curtains left behind by the previous owners. She saw the street was empty. Mrs. Preston was already back in her home. “She's probably on the phone by now, talking to her friends about what nice new neighbors she has,” Tien spoke loudly for Dylan in the other room.

He followed into the living room, shaking his head as he entered. “You know, it's the damnedest thing. I keep trying to remember the building were we spent the last couple of months living in. Nothing. I try to remember the names or faces of the people I met, our superior officers. Nothing. I can't remember a thing. Though, I can remember all of the details of our mission, all of my training, and my entire life.”

Tien moved away from the curtains and started looking over some of the boxes. “It takes getting use to. That's for sure. I don't think I was ever comfortable with the hypnosis until my fourth or fifth mission. I found that not thinking about it helped. Which is tough of course, because when you try not to think about something you end up thinking about it even more.” She let out a big laugh. “Unpacking and getting our house setup will get your mind off of it.”

Tien started looked around the boxes, moving them from side to side, trying to read their labels. “Lets find the boxes marked 'Glassware'. Our ammunition and explosives should be packed in those. Let's get it down into the basement and stored safely. Then we should look for the guns.”

THIRTY NINE

Dylan pulled his silver Chevy sedan into the driveway and drove all the the way to the garage door. Close enough for the recharging cord to reach the plug on the rear passengers side of the car. It was the the forth time that week he managed to make it home at five thirty. Reinforcing the illusion for the neighbors that he was a professional who came home every night for dinner.

He put his v-phone, with all of the days reconnaissance video and audio notes, into his top pocket, grabbed his empty briefcase, and headed into the house. Plugging in the car's recharging cord on his way in.

“Hey,  I'm home,” Dylan said, as he closed the front door behind him. He put the briefcase down on the floor, leaning it against the hallway wall. “I'm in the office,” Tien called back. Dylan took off his coat and walked over to the downstairs office.  It was really a small den that Tien used for her office. There were bigger bedrooms upstairs she could have taken, though she preferred being downstairs.

Tien was sitting at her desk, engrossed in her paperwork spread out everywhere. The use of computers to store data was only allowed on systems not connected to the internet. Homeland Security could trace everything on the net, every computer, every tablet, every v-phone. Standard operating procedure for the rebellion was simple; don't connect anything.

Dylan walked up behind Tien and put his hands on her shoulders, massaging them as she continued to focus on the documents in front of her. “How are you, sweetie?” Dylan tried to comically mimic what a real businessman would say to his wife after a long day at the office. Tien remained fixed on her work. “Huh..... Oh, I'm fine. I've been working on the McCallister case all day. Did you get the surveillance video on his hotel that I asked for?”

Dylan continued to massage her shoulders. “Yeah I got it.”

Tien never broke her concentration on the papers in front of her. “There's no way we can hit General McCallister. Other than a suicide attack. And I don't even see how we could do that.”

Dylan moved over to her side to look over the paperwork with her.

“The General always travels in motorcades of six cars.  We never know which car he's in. The front and back vehicles are armored Humvees with 50 caliber machine guns. And they always travel with escort motorcycles. They're prepared for our motorcycle assassination teams, roadside bombs, weaponized drones.”

Dylan put his left hand on Tien's shoulder. “Looks like you need a break. Get away from it for a while. Take a look at it with fresh eyes later on.” Tien leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms out. Taking Dylan's hand into her own. “You're right. I've been totally obsessed. I'm not going to solve this tonight. What do you want for dinner?” Dylan thought for a moment, “What about Thai. I think I'm in the mood for Crazy Noodles.”

It was getting late in the evening, twenty past nine. Tien was lying against Dylan on the couch. Each of them reading magazines on their tablets while watching one of the new TV shows of the season. Another crime drama. It was a repeat of the pilot episode. Neither one of them were really watching the show. It was just on in the background. Something to relax by and keep them company.

Out of the blue, Dylan blurted out, “I know how to get at General McCallister.” Tien put her tablet down on the coffee table and turned to face Dylan. “So, YOU know how to get the bastard. Nobody at Command can figure it out. I've been working on it for a week. And you spend ten minutes one morning taking a look at his downtown hotel residence and you know how to do it. Well I'm all ears Einstein,” she said with a grin, letting him know she was joking.

A big shit eating grin spread across Dylan's face. “His compound is protected by squads of soldiers. Blast proof walls, bullet proof glass. Every imaginable high tech defensive weapon deployed. Right. Well, think about it. Those high tech weapons are designed to stop other high tech weapons. So …...we use low tech weapons. And I know just what to use.”

“Don't leave me in suspense. Come on...... tell me.” Tien shook Dylan's shirt.

“We use old fashion model airplanes loaded with explosives. The kind that use analog radio signals with control boxes. Homeland Security doesn't have anything to stop them. Their surface to air missiles wouldn't be able to hone in on the heat source from their small engines. Their electronic jamming devices are all designed to shut down digital transmissions. Nobody's used analog systems since the First Pac Rim war. Their radar controlled Gatling guns would never have a target to shoot at. Balsa wood and C4-B explosives wouldn't provide a radar signature.” Dylan looked genuinely pleased with himself.

Tien sat silent for a moment before smiling. “I don't believe it. You're right. This is it.” She thought more about it. “This is how we'll hit McCallister. Alright I'll admit it. You are a fucking genius. OK, so.....we'll need two planes to do the job. We'll fly them right into his hotel room at night while he's sleeping. The first airplane will be used to blow out the bullet proof glass. The second plane would follow directly behind and be detonated inside his bedroom.”

“You can't buy these old model planes anymore, of course. But I know some old timers, friends of my fathers, that have basements full of these planes,” Dylan said.

He leaned closer to Tien and put his arm behind her neck. “Since, you don't have any more work to do tonight. I have just the thing to keep you busy.”

Tien smiled. “I bet you do. You horny devil.”

FORTY

The alarm clock rang, the digital display read seven am. Dylan hit the off button and rolled over to the center of the bed. The bedroom was dark and cold. “Oh, man, I hate winter mornings,” he said aloud, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. Tien was already up. She usually got up at least an hour before him. He lifted the covers and rolled one more time, right out of bed. It was Friday morning and he had a full day of reconnaissance work ahead of him.

He shaved and put his clothes on, then shuffled down to the kitchen. He could smell the coffee as he walked down the stairs. Tien always brewed a big pot, more than enough for both of them. She sat at the small eat-in kitchen table, staring at her cup of coffee. Her eyes were a little red. Seeing him enter the room, she turned and looked up. “We need to talk. I just got a message from Command.” Tien breathed deeply. He stopped in his tracks, becoming fully alert. Her words jolted him awake more than any coffee could.

“What is it?” his mind raced as to what it could be. “It's not my parents is it?”

She shook her head, “No, why don't you sit down and I'll tell you.”

Dylan walked carefully over to the table and sat down. “What is it?”

“Command got word late last night, from one of our inside sources, that Brooks was killed yesterday. I'm so sorry, Dylan.” Tien got up and sat on his lap. She gave him a hug, a long, comforting one. An embrace Dylan didn't want to let go of. A few tears fell from his eyes. He hugged her a while longer before gently pushing her away and standing up from table.

“The official reason was he was shot trying to escape. But our source believes he was  intentionally murdered. Ordered from the highest ranks of Homeland Security.”

“Fuck!” Dylan said. He clenched both of his fists and ran them across his head. “It's all my fault. I got Brooksie killed,” he said. Tien walked over to his side, trying to comfort him without saying anything. She knew there wasn't anything she could say.

“Fuck Command too!” Dylan's rage grew. “I can't even remember who those assholes are but I can clearly remember them telling me Brooksie would be safe. Homeland Security wouldn't kill him, they said. He was too valuable. He was their leverage against me.” Dylan leaned with both hands against the kitchen island. “I should have done something. I should have gotten him out of there myself.”

Tien rubbed his back. “There wasn't anything you could have done. There was no way you or anyone could have got Brooksie out. It wasn't your fault.”

Dylan backed away from the kitchen island and faced Tien. “Yes there was. I could have killed Goodman. He's the one that ordered Brooksie's execution. He did it to get back at me. If  Goodman was dead, nobody else would have given a shit about Brooksie.” Dylan looked down and shook his head. Tien knew he was right. She searched for more words to try to comfort him, but couldn't find any.

“I made the mistake. No one else. I should have listened to my gut instinct. But I was so wrapped up in myself. Trying to play the part of the good soldier; waving the flag, saluting my senior officers. I was trying to save the world. Where all along I should have been trying to save my friend.”

“I'm so sorry. I should have realized that, as well.” Tien sat back down at the table, putting her hands over her face to stop herself from crying.

“I'm going to kill him, Goodman,” Dylan said matter of factly. “I'm going to kill that motherfucker!” Tien shook her head. “Command will never allow it. Not by you. If they do make that decision, it will be carried out by other agents.”

Dylan half sneered and half laughed. “I'm not requesting permission. I'm not requesting anything from Command. I'm going to do a job. A job on the side that Command doesn't need to know anything about.”

Tien became adamant. “That's not how we do things. You follow your orders. I follow mine. Nothing else. We're in a war and we're soldiers. Like it or not.”

Dylan smiled and looked straight into her eyes. “We're volunteers. We're not professional soldiers. They don't pay us any money. Everything we have around us, it's all to get a job done for them. It's not for us. This time, the war is personal. I'm off the clock. I'm doing this. You can either join me or stay out of my way.”

Listening to how he spoke, Tien knew there was no way she could stop him. She knew he had to do what he had to do. She cleared her throat, “In all likelihood, Goodman killed Brooks to flush you out. He probably calculated the act would enrage you enough to come after him blindly. You would trip up, one way or the other. Trust me on that. He would kill or capture you. And  in the end, he would win.” Dylan tried to speak but was stopped by Tien. “If we do this, we do it my way. I'm in command. I'm the Strike Leader. You'll be my specialist. Nothing's changed. Do you understand me?”

Dylan stood frozen, stunned for a second, trying to process everything. “Yes, I agree. And you're right about everything. We need to be careful. Plan everything out very carefully. You're in charge, I trust you completely to get this job done right.”

Tien nodded her head, continuing her instructions, “Good, then we'll take our time. Wait things out. Then hit that motherfucker. In the meantime we'll continue our planning on McCallister. I'm thinking we'll assign that hit to Strike Team D instead of doing it ourselves. That will give us more time to prepare for Goodman.”

“Yes, Sir,” Dylan responded in military fashion to give her a sense that he is on board with her decisions. Tien grinned in acknowledgment. “One more thing. I'm proud of you. I know you're hurt, angry. I know you blame yourself. But I'm proud of you for your emotional intelligence and not flying off into a rage. You vented, but stayed cool. You understand we have to be professionals. And that we're a team. We sink or swim together.”

“Besides,” Tien added, “Once Command finds out about this, we'll both be busted down to paper pushers never leaving headquarters. That is, of course, if we survive this mission.”

FORTY ONE

Agent Goodman sat at his desk in his dimly lit home office swiping his thumb across the display of his Android tablet. He was reading documents for work and got tired of saying, “next page,” or “down page,” while he read. He preferred to swipe the display instead. It was easier. Sometimes newer technology isn't always better.

The upstairs was quiet. No sounds of the high def TV, no laughter, no little feet running around. Goodman had sent his wife and kids away to stay with his parents in upstate New York. It was a precautionary measure. He knew he was a target now and didn't want to risk their lives. He missed them all the same.

At nine thirty five pm the computer signaled an incoming transmission from work. It was Agent Green on the screen. “I'm sorry to disturb you at this time Sir, but we have a person claiming to be Agent Fraser on the phone. Voice and facial recognition is confirming it's Fraser. And he's only willing to speak to you, Sir. We've got traces going on the line right now but I don't think we're going to get anything with it. He's got the transmission pretty well protected.”

Goodman couldn't prevent himself from looking surprised. He never imagined that Fraser would contact him. It took a few seconds to regain his composure. “What do you make of it, Agent?” he asked.

“He wouldn't say anything to me, but honestly, my first thought was we may have made a mistake in our assumptions. He may have been legit the whole time.”

“Transfer the call, let's see what the fuck is going on,” Goodman said, pushing his chair closer to the desk and straightening himself up.

Dylan appeared on the computer screen. His face had a green luminescence from the dashboard of an automobile. Dylan was the first to speak, “You piece of shit motherfucker. You fucking betrayed me. You had no faith in me and you fucking betrayed me. I just wanted to call you and let you know that I had everything under control. I had everything you wanted on the terrorists and more. Now, you don't get squat. Instead I'm going to kill you. Do you understand me.”

Goodman took a breath, trying to gauge the situation. “It was you who betrayed me. You were under strict orders.......” Goodman was cut off from speaking further. “I had to change the plans. I had to improvise to make them believe. And guess what. It worked. They bought me hook, line, and sinker, motherfucker. I had everything for you. Not just a single command center. I obtained information that would shut down the entire rebellion in most of the eastern United States. I got it all. Instead you killed my friend, you ...”

It was Goodman's turn to cut Dylan off, “Dylan, stop and listen to me carefully. Yes, I did think you turned traitor. I was certain of it. But I didn't kill your friend Brooks. He's alive and well. I faked his death. It was a ploy to try to bring you out of hiding. I didn't kill him because I thought he'd be useful to us in the future. Though believe me, after talking with him for a couple of minutes, I wanted to kill him. He's a fucking pain in the ass.”

Dylan's face went blank. He starred at the camera for what seemed at least five seconds. “If that's true, I want to be brought in. I want my life back. I want this nightmare to be over with.”

Goodman smiled, trying to ease Dylan's nerves. “Come into headquarter tomorrow. We can talk there, everything's going to be alright.”

“No,” Dylan said firmly. “I want to see Brooks first. I want to see him in person. Out in the open. And I want to turn myself over to you personally. I don't trust any of your trigger happy henchmen. If I see Brooks, then I'll know you're telling the truth. I'll apologize to you then in person for insulting you. And, ah...... telling you I was going to kill you. I was pretty worked up.”

Goodman countered his offer. “I'll have Brooks out in any public square you want. But I won't be there with him. I'll have Agent Greene outside with Brooks. I'll be nearby. That's my offer.”

Dylan rubbed the tips of his fingers back and forth across his face with one of his hands as he pondered his response. “OK, that sounds fair.” Deliberately waiting another few second, he continued with his demands. “I want to see Brooks in the center of Harvard Square in Cambridge, by the news stand, at ten thirty tomorrow morning. I don't want anyone else around. No policemen, no Homeland security. Just Brooks and Green.”

“I'm glad things have turned out the way they have Dylan. Everything is going to be OK. I'll see you right after you make contact with Agent Greene.”

“One other thing. If I see any cops, if I see any drones, anything at all other than Brooks and Agent Greene you'll never see me or my information ever again,” Dylan spoke in a more solemn tone.

Goodman contained a snarl from crossing his face. “Alright, we have a deal. I'll see you tomorrow. Ten thirty, Harvard Square. God Bless you.”

“God Bless you,” replied Dylan, terminating the transmission.

FORTY TWO

A fog was visibly rising off the dirty snow banks in Harvard Square. Rising into a murky, overcast sky above. Typical mid March weather when the temperatures climb into the high fifties in New England. The snow cover in the Square and surroundings parks had mostly vanished from the morning's rain, exposing dirt and debris along the sidewalks.

“Testing, testing, can you hear me Mrs Robinson?” Dylan spoke through this Bluetooth earpiece for his v-phone in his back pocket. He was wedged into a church steeple. Technically it was the belfry of the steeple. He had cut out a rectangular hole from the inside. Giving him a perfect vantage point over the buildings of Harvard Square.

“I hear you loud and clear Benjamin. What's your time?”

Dylan checked his digital watch once again. “I've got nine fifty eight, thirty six seconds.”

“Check, I have thirty four seconds past. Good enough,” Tien spoke quietly through her earpiece.

He waited in the wooden cubby hole high in the church. It was tight a fit, and difficult to move around with his body armor beneath his jacket. The view was obscured by the fog, though with his mini binoculars he could see well enough. At six minutes past ten, Dylan saw the first Homeland Security officer emerge onto a rooftop adjacent to the section of  Harvard Square where the old Newsstand stood. The area that Brooks and Greene were suppose to be. Moments later another officer appeared next to the first. Then another. They were dressed in black; black boots, black hats, black body armor. They moved fast, crouching as they quickly made their way to the edge of the rooftop. Staying out of sight from below. Dylan observed them move almost in unison, probably about ten feet apart, towards the edge of the roof. Before reaching the edge, as if on queue, each of them put a down a knee and unslung their sniper rifles.

Dylan focused his binoculars on the other buildings. He could see several more sharpshooters on the building directly across from the first group of soldiers he spotted. Then more on another building to the left. He counted nine sharpshooters in all. Every angle of the Square looked to be covered by their sniper fire. If you are still alive Brooksie, I'd never have lived long enough to see you, he thought.

Dylan scanned the sky for drones, none were visible. They'd be holding them back, he figured. Out of sight somewhere close. Maybe higher up, hidden in the fog. It was definitely meant to be a low profile operation. A trap he was never meant to walk out of.

“I found them,” Tien said. She had just taken a left onto Garden Street with the stolen Subaru hatchback and saw the large metallic gray, unpainted trailer. Without question the Homeland Security mobile command center. “It's parked at the far end of the Cambridge Commons, on Waterhouse Street, by Mass Ave.”

She took a right onto Waterhouse Street and parked the car near the intersection, in an illegal spot. The only spot she was going to find. But more importantly, far enough away from the command truck so she would not be noticed. She scanned the sidewalks and park for any signs of plainclothes police. The park was clear of any people. She couldn't anyone on the streets that looked out of place.

Dylan echoed back on the radio, “Check, at the far end of the Commons, Waterhouse by Mass Ave. The sharpshooters are in place just where we expected. They don't have a line of sight on the Command truck. We're in luck. It's a go.”

He climbed down from his perch and exited the church, carrying a medium sized black travel suitcase that he had brought in with him. It was ten fifteen. Exactly on time.”What are we looking at?” Dylan asked as he walked through Harvard Yard.

Tien got out of the car for a better vantage point of the command vehicle. “Looks like the standard security, two DHS cruisers, one parked in front and one in back of the trailer. Two soldiers per vehicle. They're wearing body armor. No sign of any drones.”

Dylan stopped and looked around the Yard. It was the normal pedestrian traffic of Harvard co-eds. Nothing out of place and nobody within earshot. “Check, two DHS cruisers. Standard setup. Are you ready Mrs. Robinson?”

Tien had already walked back onto Garden Street to get out of view from the Homeland Security police. “I'm ready.”

“Thirty seconds, that's it,” Dylan said, reminding her they had to complete the final part of their mission in under thirty seconds.

“I know the plan. Just tell me when,” Tien talked as loud as she dared.

Dylan looked around one last time. “Now,” he said. He place the suitcase on the ground, pulled out a v-phone from his jacket pocket, and hit the preset number to the Cambridge Fire department. “Hello, there's a fire in one of the buildings in Harvard Yard. I don't know the name of the building. I'm just walking through the Yard. There's smoke everywhere. You gotta get here fast.” He hung up. Then hit the second preset number on the phone. “Hello, police. This is Jim Lester at the Harvard Coop in the Square. We're being robbed. There's two white men with guns. They already shot one person. We need help.” Dylan hung up and tossed the phone on the ground, it didn't matter if anyone saw him.

He pulled a second v-phone from his other pocket and swiped the screen to open the display. “Now the fun starts,” Dylan said to himself, though Tien was listening of course. She said nothing. He picked up his suite case and carried it towards the tall iron gates at the northern edge of the Yard. As he walked, he lifted the v-phone higher to see the display and pressed the first icon on the screen. A flash grenade in a trash barrel detonated at the southern side of Harvard Yard. Screams ensued. People started running in every direction away from the point of the non-lethal explosive. Dylan tapped the second icon. A smoke bomb detonated in a trash bin behind one of the buildings in the Yard. More screams where heard. People were yelling 'fire'.

Dylan made his way outside of Harvard Yard, reaching a rack of motorcycles adjacent to the ivy covered brick walls of the Yard. Sirens were heard nearby, they were loud. He walked to his motorcycle, putting the black suitcase down on top of the bike. He looked at his watch, then at his v-phone. He tapped a third, then a fourth icon on the screen, detonating additional flash grenades and smoke bombs on the other side of the Harvard campus, down by the Kennedy School. He opened the suitcase and removed a machine pistol, pulling out the clip and checking it was full. Satisfied, he quickly pulled the firing mechanism back, inserting a round into the chamber. He shoved the gun into the left side holster under his jacket. Lock and loaded, he thought. Next out of the suite case was a black 9 millimeter automatic handgun. He cocked it and put it into the holster on his right side. Lastly, removing the Khymat grenade rifle with a full magazine inserted.

Dylan slung the rifle across his back and pulled out the ammo clips from the bottom of the suitcase, jamming them into his jacket pockets. He climbed on his motorcycle and put his thumb on the start screen. The engine started right up. The gas powered bike roared.

By the sound of the sirens blaring, Dylan judged the Cambridge Fire trucks were on Mass Ave. They were stopped at the main entrance to the Yard by Harvard Square, blocking the road, jamming up the Square. More sirens blared in the background, they too were very close. Dylan lifted the v-phone into view once again and hit the next intended icon. Several more flash bombs and smoke bombs went off. Six in all. These explosions surrounded the center of Harvard Square, where Brooks and Greene were suppose to have been. More panic ensued, people screaming or yelling as they fled in every direction.

The last icon on the v-phone remained. Dylan eyed it for a short while. He wanted to pause for maximum effect. He counted to ten, then tapped the icon. A series of very loud explosions were heard. They went off one after the other in series. Four, five, seven, nine. Ten explosions in all. Bombs that Dylan and Tien had planted on the roof tops surrounding Harvard Square the night before. These were the big bombs. Quarter bricks of C4-b, these where intended to do damage, with the hope of killing or injuring as many snipers as possible. Or at least disorienting them for a little while.

Tien looked at her watch as she walked back to her car, trying to get her timing right. She opened the rear hatch and pulled out a maroon colored baby stroller. It slid out easily, as she had practiced. The interior fabric of the carriage had moved to the side exposing the four bricks of C4-b. She quickly pushed the fabric to cover up the explosives. It was a reflex. At this point it didn't matter if civilians saw anything. She leaned into the back of the car and lifted the canvas tarp covering her weapons, putting the Khymat rifle in the carriage first, followed by the M4 assault rifle with laser targeting. She covered the rifles, then pulled out two magazines for the M4, filling her coat pockets. Then picked up her trusty 9mm automatic, cocking the gun, and putting it into her holster under her leather jacket.

“Ready,” she called out to Dylan.

“OK, let's do it.” She heard him respond.

Tien pushed the baby carriage along the sidewalk towards the mobile command center. She was on the opposite side of the road from the truck. Fifty yards back. She walked hurriedly, but not too fast to draw attention.

Forty yards now. The Homeland Security officers closest to her where standing together, guns drawn, looking in the direction of the pandemonium over in the Square.

Thirty yards. She could see the officers rocking back and forth. They're nervous, she thought.

The folded out metal steps to the entrance of the command center faced the street, on the far side from her location. The door was open, though nobody stood in the doorway. She was now twenty yards away. She slowed her speed down a bit. Not  just to get her timing right, but she didn't want the officers to take special notice of her. At ten yards away she heard Dylan in her earpiece, yelling over the roar of an engine. “Fuck'n A.” At that same moment she saw him in the distance crossing over Mass Ave on his motorcycle, onto Waterhouse Street, with one hand clutching a machine pistol.

Zero yards. Tien was adjacent to the two DHS officers standing in the middle of the street. A parked car sat between them and her. They paid no attention to her, their focus suddenly shifting to the motorcycle in the distance. She heard with the earpiece, “Tap, tap, tap, tap....” Dylan opened up with automatic gun fire. One of the DHS officers, from the first car further down the street from Tien, was hit and thrown backwards onto the ground. He rolled over on the ground and tried getting up, the body armor may have saved his life, but it's still like getting hit with a baseball bat to the chest.

Tien pulled the M4 out of the baby carriage. She raised the rifle to her shoulder and stepped to her side for a clear shot over the the hood of the parked car.

Dylan swerved his motorcycle to the side of the road, sliding to get behind a parked car. He was down fast. The DHS officer still standing, opened fire. Bullets tore through the vehicle, shattering all the glass. The downed officer, finally getting to his his feet, opened fire with his machine pistol. The parked car quickly became a mangled wreck, with tires exploding, smoke billowing out of the engine.

Dylan raised his gun above the trunk of the car and fired through the broken out windows. He fired with a sustained burst, emptying the magazine. He aimed high, only to give the impression he was returning fire. Tien was out there, he made sure not to hit her. The ploy worked, the DHS officers took cover. Though he was pinned down were he was.

A red dot marked the side of the head to one of the DHS officers across from Tien. Pop! She squeezed off a single round from her M4. Blood, brain matter, and bone fragments splattered in a conical spray from the other side of the man's head. Blood splattered on the second officers face. He turned to see what had just happened, when he caught sight of Tien. The look of sheer surprise, then horror crossed his face, as a red dot landed on his forehead. Before he could move a muscle, pop, Tien fired her second shot.

The remaining two Homeland Security officers focused on Dylan. Unaware of anything behind them. One of the officers fired his weapon continuously, laying down a covering fire, while the other officer worked his way around to the side, attempting to flank Dylan and get a clear shot at him.

Tien moved in between the two parked cars that were next to her, still keeping her cover, but getting an unobstructed view of the police shootout with Dylan. She was about to line the cross hairs of her rifle scope up with the red dot on one of the officers, when two Homeland Security agents, dressed in slacks and white shirts and ties, jumped out of the front door of the command center. They were carrying M4 assault rifles. Tien lost her target as she looked up. The agents started firing their rifles, full automatic, in the direction of Dylan, continuing the cover fire as the officer got closer to flanking him.

“Anytime now, Mrs Robinson,” he called out over his earpiece.

Tien pushed the rifle firmly into her shoulder and took aim once more. She had four targets. Pop. She took out one of the Homeland Security agents right off. He fell face first. The second agent was fast on his feet. He swung around to see Tien fifteen yard behind. He moved to the side, Tien's shot grazed his shoulder. The agent opened fire, without having the time to take careful aim, his rifle down by his side. He let out a short sustained burst, the weapon had only six or seven rounds left in the magazine. Tien stood fixed in place. Her eye never leaving the sight of her scope. The bullets flew around her. One grazing her arm. Another piercing her coat. The agent scrambled to reload. It didn't matter. Tien had the red dot dead centered on his white shirt in less than a second. The agent, seeing the dot, knew it was over. He looked up at Tien, just as she pulled the trigger. He flew backwards several feet, his dead body landing ass first.

The flanking Homeland Security officer, seeing what was happening behind him, opened fire with his machine pistol in Tien's direction. She ducked for cover. The bullets hitting the car and ricocheting off the street. The other officer did the same. They both realized they were exposed to Tien's line of sight and tried to lay down enough automatic fire to get themselves behind cover. It was too late. Dylan jumped up, his Khymat in his arms, and fired a single grenade at the the flanking officer. The missile struck him right in the chest. His body armor offering no protection as the projectile exploded, tearing off most of his head. The remaining officer threw down his weapon and begged for mercy. At the same time, someone inside the mobile command truck reached out and swung the entrance door shut.

Tien dropped the M4 and rushed over to the baby carriage. She pulled out the Khymat, slinging it around her back.

Dylan sprinted over to the surviving officer. “Run as fast as you can and I might let you live.” He did. As Dylan watched the soldier run down the street, he saw the first hover drone coming in fast and low over the Commons. Another followed closely behind. “They're here,” he shouted. He looked at his watch, the thirty seconds was up.

Tien managed to get the carriage off the sidewalk and through the closely parked cars. She pushed the carriage across the street and shoved it under the center of the mobile command truck.

Dylan aimed his Khymat at the oncoming drone. Once it was in range, the green illuminated targeting system flashed the word “Locked” on the screen. Dylan pulled the trigger. A fraction of a second later the drone exploded mid-air. Two more drones flew in high from the Mass Ave side of the Commons.

Tien ran over to where Dylan stood. “I'll get those. You get that one. Get going,” she said, indicating which drones they should get. Dylan sprinted to where the motorcycle laid behind the shot up parked car. He took aim at his assigned drone. The drone suddenly began evasive maneuvers. Tien acquired target lock on her first drone and pulled the trigger. The explosion was loud. Dylan finally got a lock on his drone and blew the thing out of the sky. He tossed the Khymat on the ground and pulled the motorcycle upright.

Two more drones came in over the street, at about thirty feet altitude. Tien got a lock on her second drone shooting it down in a fireball. Dylan screeched the rear tire of the bike as he got it going.

“Just two more of these fuckers,” Tien screamed. She aimed at one of them, it started it's dance to avoid ground based weaponry. Didn't matter, her targeting display read 'Locked'. She pulled the trigger, killing the aerial drone. The remaining drone fired it's targeting laser, marking a red dot on Dylan's chest. “Move it!” Tien yelled. He gunned the bike, screeching the rear tire once again.

The laser beam dropped of him as he got the bike past the end of the mobile command truck for cover. The drone moved it's position to pick up targeting lock again, flying directly above Tien. She was ready for it. She took careful aim, straight up, it was an easy target. The targeting display quickly reported 'Locked', she pulled the trigger. As it was hit, the hover drone spun around in a circular motion, then exploded. It fell straight for her. Tien dropped the Khymat and dove out of the way. Missing her, literally by inches.

Tien rolled over on her back and sat up. She looked at her hands. They were pretty badly scraped up and started bleeding where the tiny pebbled had embedded in her palms. “Are you alright, can you move,” Dylan called out. Tien looked about, then jumped to her feet, picked up the Khymat, and ran to him without saying a word.

Dylan had already taken the five inch wide nylon strap out as planned. He pulled it around Tien once she had jumped up on the bike, sitting backwards. Her back against his. She adjusted the strapping across her stomach with one hand, holding the Khymat with the other. Dylan snapped the buckle of the strapping together and tightened it around him.

More drones flew into sight from around the corner of the Command vehicle. Tien readied her Khymat. “Three more!” she called out. Before she could finish her sentence, two additional hover drones came in fast above Waterhouse Street. “Make that five,” she said.

Dylan engaged the clutch and gunned the throttle. The motorcycle skidded to the right, then a little to the left as he took off as fast as he dared. He turned right onto Garden Street and floored the bike once he was able. The hover drones followed in full pursuit, moving up and down, and side to side, avoiding the tree branches overhanging the street.

Tien pulled out of her jacket pocket the remote detonator. A simple black plastic box, with a  push button switch covered by a protective clear cover, and a single LED light. She flicked the cover up with her thumb. The LED turned red. She immediately pushed the button. A fraction of a second later the baby stroller bomb detonated. The explosion was deafening, even from as far away as they were.

“Bye bye, Goodman you motherfucker!” Dylan yelled into the onrushing wind.

Tien was rocked side to side on the bike as she tried steadying her Khymat rifle. “Drive straight,” she yelled. A red dot landed on her chest from the lead drone. “I'm painted,” she called out.  Dylan began counting the seconds in his head, One, two, three, four. Tien took careful aim, got target lock, and blew the lead drone to fiery pieces. The red dot no longer on her. Seven, too late, Dylan thought. He swerved the bike hard over to the left, at the very instant a two foot long anti-personnel missile came in fast from above. The missile exploded on the pavement a few feet back and to the side, a piece of shrapnel lodged into Tien's boot. Dylan didn't want to think what would have happened if Tien didn't get that shot off in time.

They also knew they didn't have to worry about Hellfire III missiles. They were useless in tree covered streets with tall buildings on either side. Not to mention with zero aerial visibility. The threat came from the anti-personnel missiles carried by the lower flying attack drones.

Dylan slowed the motorcycle down to take a left onto Huron Ave. Two drones got into targeting range. They fired their lasers, two red dots marked Tien's chest. Dylan started his count again. He didn't need to be told they were marked, he knew. He gunned the bike again, driving straight down the center of Huron Ave. Traffic passing on either side of them. Three, four, five, Dylan counted in his head. Tien took another shot, killing one of the drones.

Dylan managed to get the bike moving over fifty miles per hour, then close to sixty. The second drone with target lock fell back out of range. On the count of seven, he swerved the bike hard over to the left, narrowly missing an oncoming car. Two anti-personnel missiles came crashing down just feet away from the tail end of the bike. This time closer that the first strike.

“Arghhh. Fuck. I'm hit,” Tien screamed in pain. Shrapnel hit her in the leg, the chest, and face. Her body armor protected her chest. But the shards of burning metal tore her flesh on her leg just below the knee and on her cheek. Blood started to flow from her face.

Dylan kept the bike close to sixty, the drones couldn't keep up. Sirens were blaring in the distance. “How bad are you hit?” he yelled. She pulled out the small piece of metal sticking out of her cheek. “I don't know. Got hit in my face and leg. Face isn't bad. I don't know about the leg.”

“Apply pressure, we'll take care of that once we're in the car,” he said. They had prepared for possible injuries, storing a first aid kit in the getaway car.

Dylan slowed down to turn right onto the Parkway. He floored the bike as fast as it could go. The Parkway had no trees or tall buildings, It was open to the sky. They were easy prey for Reapers if the fog cleared.

Once the drones were out of visual sight, he took a turn onto the first side street. Then the next right, then left. Getting into tree lined residential streets.

“OK, stop the bike already,” Tien said.

The plan was to dump the Khymat rifle and untie themselves as soon as possible. Allowing Tien sit on the back of the bike in the normal position, drawing less suspicion. Though, the adrenaline pumping through Dylan's vein's kept him driving like their lives depended on it.

“Alright, yeah. You're right.” Dylan pulled the motorcycle over to the side of the road. Sirens could be heard over on the Parkway.

Tien hopped up on the back of the bike, sitting forward. “Do you think we got him, Goodman?” she asked.

“I hope so. Anyone in that command truck is definitely toast.”

Tien applied pressure to her leg wound. “Let's get to that stolen getaway car. I'm having trouble stopping the flow of blood from my leg.”

FORTY THREE

Tien was laying on the couch in the the living room to their safe house in West Newton. Her legs were propped up with several pillows. Blood was beginning to ooze through the bandages.

The six o'clock news was being broadcast on the TV mounted to the wall. Dylan smiled as he carried a tray into the room. “I made some tea. All we had left was some peach tea. We're running low on everything,” he said, placing her cup on the coffee table that was pulled up close for her to reach.

“Thanks,” she said without taking her eyes off the TV. She didn't want to miss anything on the main news story of the day; the terrorist attack in Harvard Square.

Dylan took notice of the blood. “We have to change those bandages in a little while.”

“Shush, I wanna watch this,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the TV.

Dylan kicked back on the love seat next to the couch. “It's still too hot,” he said to himself, after taking a sip of the tea.

A minute later the news switched over to a story of a van crashing through a doughnut shop. Tien turned to Dylan. “Apparently the terrorists set off a gas explosion next to the Cambridge Commons. Destroying a supermarket food truck,” she said, filling him in on what he missed while making the tea.

Dylan laughed. “Those terrorists are a bunch of idiots. Modern day Three Stooges.” They broke out in laughter together.

“How's the leg?” Dylan asked. He had sutured her leg wound soon after getting home earlier that day. Using nylon fishing line to make the stitches.

“It hurts like hell doctor.”

Tien turned the TV down and turned back towards Dylan. “Why I am the one that's always getting shot or blown up?” Tien lamented, half joking.

“Bad luck, shear bad luck.”

The wound to her face wasn't that bad. Really just a nasty cut. Butterfly bandages were all that were needed. A gauze pad covering the bandage to soak up the blood.

“We're going to need to get you medical treatment. That fishing line is going to have to be removed. Better to have that done by a real doctor,” Dylan said.

“I don't look forward to returning to headquarters. We're going to have our asses chewed out. They'll know that Cambridge was us. And we're going to have to tell them the truth,” Tien said while picking up her tablet computer. An icon appeared on the screen just as she turned the display on. “Speak of the devil, we have a coded message.”

Tien tapped on the icon, going through the security protocols, answering the challenge questions, providing the quantum encryption keys. Finally the message was displayed. She read the communication to herself.

“What's it say?” Dylan got up to try to look over her shoulder.

“It says, we failed. Command knows we tried to kill Goodman. They're informing us that Goodman is alive and well. He was never in the mobile command center. He was at Homeland Security's headquarters all along.”

Dylan put his hands behind his head and walked over to the center of the room. “Sonofabitch!” his voice rising at the end of the curse. “Goodman must have smelled a trap all  the while he was setting one for us. That clever fucking bastard.”

“Oh my God, we have good news,” Tien said, trying to read as fast as she could from her computer screen. “Brooksie is alive and well. And he escaped from detention.”

Dylan spun to face her, then raced over to sit by her side.

Tien finished reading, then conveyed the message. “With all the commotion we caused today, and the destruction of their mobile command center, there was a lot of confusion going on at headquarters. Apparently, one of our agents embedded in DHS Headquarters helped Brooksie escape during the turmoil. He's at an undisclosed safe house right now. He's a little bruised and battered but doing OK.”

Dylan let out a sigh of relief. He put his arm gently around her shoulder. “I thought he was dead for sure. I felt so guilty.”

Tien put the tablet down. “I know. I saw how it was eating you up. None of this was easy. But at least now we know he's OK. This confirms those original reports of his death were intended all along to to bring you out in the open so they could kill you. And you should feel good knowing that it was our actions today that enabled his escape.”

Dylan, lost in thought for a moment, nodded his head. “Yeah,....... true.”

“Another thing,” Tien continued. “We've been assigned to assassinate a top Freedom Party official. Looks like they were impressed with our worked today. Guess we're not in the doghouse after all.”

“They need people like us,” Dylan said, his attention refocused back to Tien, “people not afraid to take action, if we're ever going win this war."