Books 5-8

The Kill List

Drifter: Part I

Drifter: Part II

Drifter: Part III

David Archer

www.davidarcherbooks.com

Sam Prichard Boxed Set: 5-8 Copyright © 2015 by David Archer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author. Reviewers may quote brief passages in reviews.

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BOOK V

Prologue

Friday night had finally come; Sam was on stage, and loving it! It was the band's first performance as a country act, and he'd been nervous about how they'd be accepted. They'd done incredibly well as a rock band with Barry Wallace, before his untimely death, and he'd worried that their rock reputation would turn country audiences against them before they even heard the new sound. Sam had invited his mom and Indie's, and then added Harry Winslow and Carl Morris, the man Sam had only days before proven innocent of murdering his own family, because he had been programmed to do it and could not possibly have prevented it.

He shouldn't have let it bother him. If the reaction at the Casino Lounge had been any indication, SBO was going to be even more popular on the country circuit than they ever were on the rock. Sam debuted seven new songs in the show, and they did a few of the most popular current country hits as well, just to keep everyone happy.

It was a fantastic show, and when it was over, Chris slapped him on the arm and said, “Tomorrow night will be even better, you'll see! These people will be telling everyone about us, and the house'll be packed fuller than it was tonight!”

The band spent an hour talking to the crowd, shaking hands and hearing how well they'd done, and they all had to sign autographs as if they were already big stars. Sam admitted to himself that he was enjoying it, even if he didn't think he'd want to do it full time.

Everything finally died down as the bar sounded the Last Call at a little after one. Sam flopped into a chair beside Indie and ordered a cold soft drink. When the barmaid brought it back, she handed him an envelope and said, “There's a guy out back who gave this to one of the bouncers and asked to see that it got to you.”

Sam took it and looked at it, then opened it up. Inside were three photographs and a sheet of paper. When he took them out, he saw that the photos were of three different people, two women and one man, whose faces had been obscured. He unfolded the sheet of paper and saw that it was typed, seemingly from a cheap, throwaway printer. He read through it once, then passed it to Indie.

Mr. Prichard, it read, the people you see in the photos will be killed within the next forty-eight hours, unless you stop me. I have been following your exploits closely, and I think that you are the one I need to make sure I stop doing this. I've been trying for more than fifteen years to kick this habit, but I can't.

Normally, I don't strike so many times so close together, but in order to get you interested, I'm going to up the odds. I need you to do only two things: discover who each of my victims is, and then do all you can to stop me before I can kill each one. The first one will die exactly twenty-four hours after you receive this note; the second will die twelve hours after that, and the third twelve hours later. If you cannot stop me before I can kill the third one, then no one can. Then there will be a fourth victim, but you’ll get no clues for that one.

Indie read it two times and then passed it to Harry. “Sam?” she said. “Any idea who sent it to you?”

Sam shook his head. “Not even a clue.”

Harry read it quickly before passing it back to Sam. “What do you plan to do, Son?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “I guess I'm gonna find a killer. Indie and I will get started as soon as we get home.”

1

Sam and Indie were in his office, going over the note and the photographs. They'd talked to the bouncer who'd received it, but he hadn't gotten a good look at whoever gave it to him in the darkness—all he knew was that the guy was very tall—and then they'd spent half the night with the police, letting them scan the items for fingerprints and DNA. None were found. Karen Parks, the homicide detective, had taken hi-resolution color copies and then returned the originals to Sam.

“I'm giving these back because it may be important to the killer for you to have them,” she said, “but don't think for a second that you're gonna play lone wolf on this one. I'm in your pocket, Buddy; everything you get, you give me too, right?”

Sam nodded. “No problem. We got any idea on who this guy's past victims might have been? He said he's been at it for fifteen years, so there must be something in the unsolved cases that would be his.”

Karen snorted. “Our unsolved homicides number over fourteen hundred, and probably half of those are from the past fifteen years. God knows how many of them might be his.”

Sam nodded. “It was worth a shot. Believe me, Karen, I want all the help on this one I can get. I don't know why I got singled out for this honor, but I wish like mad I could dump it onto you and walk away.”

She shrugged. “I'll take it if you want, but that'd piss our guy off. We know he's threatening three, maybe four people; if he thinks you're not playing, he may up the game.”

“Yeah, that's why I said, 'I wish,' and didn't try to leave you stuck with it. Just wish I hadn't gotten so much good press lately.” Especially since only about half of it was true, he thought. The rest was still classified and hadn't been released to the press.

Sam Prichard had blundered into private detective work after recovering from the gunshot wound that ended his career as a police detective. A neighbor had come to him asking for help to find her missing granddaughter, and Sam had agreed to try. When he stumbled into a National Security situation, he'd been enlisted to help stop a deadly chemical warfare agent from falling into the wrong hands, and he'd accomplished it.

Being a PI beat being bored; Sam went and got his license, and set up shop with his new helper, gray-hat computer hacker Indiana Perkins. Between her mad computer skills and his own instincts, he'd busted a murderer and freed a man who was framed for the crime in his first case, and the press had been all over him. That case had led to his spot as lead singer for a rock band, but after hearing some of the songs Sam had written, the band voted unanimously to go country, and the show the night before had been their country debut, and a rousing success.

A few more small cases had worked to build a reputation, and he was enjoying life again—especially since he and Indie had fallen in love and were married. Trouble was, Sam was a magnet for trouble, and even on his honeymoon, it found him. He'd seen something suspicious as they were preparing for their flight to Hawaii, and then again when they arrived. Both things stuck in his mind, and when the Feds announced the next morning that terrorists had planted suitcase nukes in twelve American cities, including Honolulu, where Sam and Indie were trying to enjoy their first days of married life, he'd been drawn back into National Security work. That time, he'd stopped a lone, rogue terrorist from destroying a quarter of the country, though the press was only told that he'd thwarted a plan to do some damage to Hoover Dam.

He'd been badly wounded again in that one, and it had taken time to recover, followed by another honeymoon. When he and Indie had gotten home, there were clients lined up, and he'd taken on three seemingly unrelated cases simultaneously, but somehow, they all led back to one person—a dentist who was using hypnotic anesthesia, and who had developed a method of actually programming people to do things they'd never do on their own, and then forget they'd even done them. He'd started out using it to seduce women he wanted from among his patients, but then he'd graduated to arranging “accidents” for people who gave him or his friends trouble, and then to a form of “murder for hire.”

All three of Sam's cases were connected to the dentist. First, his wife was divorcing him and wanted Sam to find out where he'd hidden his assets; second, a man whose wife disappeared had asked Sam to find her, which led to the discovery that she'd been one of his patients; and third, another man had hired Sam to find out why and how he had gotten up in the middle of the night and murdered his own family. That man had seen the dentist only that morning, and when all the threads were unraveled, Sam was able to prove that he was not the killer—he'd only been the weapon that the dentist had aimed and set off half-cocked. He'd not been told to kill his family, but to kill the dentist's wife. Unfortunately, a command not to let anyone know he was leaving the house had blown up, and when the man's son had seen him trying to go out the door, his programmed brain had interpreted the command to mean that a witness could not be allowed to live. The son's screams had brought his mother and sister to try to help him, but they also died in the attempt.

The press had gone insane over the case, and Sam was hailed as a hero. That was undoubtedly why he'd been chosen for this madman's game of cat and mouse, but Sam wasn't one who could turn down a challenge, especially when lives were at stake.

“The cops scanned for prints on all of the items,” Indie was saying, and Sam snapped out of his reverie to listen to her, “and tested it for any sign of DNA, but didn't find either. What they didn't do is scan it for any type of microscopic residue on the paper or photos, so I'm gonna try that, now.”

“Microscopic residue?” Sam asked. “You've got a microscope hidden away somewhere?”

Indie grinned. “Yeah, an electronic one. My scanner is capable of resolutions at almost twenty thousand dots per inch, which makes it a pretty good electron microscope. If we can find any environmental residues, it might give us a clue about where the note and photos were put into the envelope.”

Sam nodded. “Like, if there's a piece of a pine needle on it somewhere, then the guy might live in the woods, right?”

“Yeah,” Indie said. “I'm hoping to spot something that might be more exclusive to an area than that, but you get the idea.” She carefully placed the first of the photos on the scanner and closed the cover on it. “Let's see what we find.”

The scanner began to hum, and a moment later, the screen on Indie's computer began to form an image. Sam realized it was one of the photos, of one of the two women. The image was so large that all he could see was the upper left corner, which showed only a bit of her hair. This one was a blonde; the other woman had dark hair.

The faces on all of the photos had been blurred out, so all they had to go on was hair and general build. The photos had stock blue backgrounds, as well, nothing to give any idea of where they had been taken. Indie moved the photo around on the screen, looking at every spot and imperfection on it, trying to identify each one and get a sense of where it might have come from.

“Most of these are just specks of dust, most likely,” she said. “Here's one that might be a moisture stain, probably a drop of water that got on it somehow. Could have happened last night at the Casino, when you opened it, or anywhere else. This one is bright red, when we get it big enough to see, might be a tiny shard of something plastic. It's embedded into the photo, so it's something hard.” She kept moving the picture around, looking at it intently. “Bingo!” she said suddenly. “Here's your first clue, Sherlock!” She pointed to a spot at the very edge of the woman's left arm, where a tiny line of green was visible.

Sam looked and nodded. “Aha!” he said. “The clue! Now the only question is, what is this clue?”

Indie grinned. “That, my dear Watson, is a residual group of pixels from before the background was inserted by whatever program the killer used to edit these pictures. That's not a green screen; the color is too dark. That is part of whatever was in the original background.”

“And so, this tells us exactly what?”

“Well, it tells us that this woman posed for this picture in front of something that had that shade of green on it. That could be a car, a building, maybe even a sign, but it's definitely an object that was actually in the picture.”

Sam thought for a moment. “Is there any way to peel away the blue stuff?”

She shook her head. “If I had access to the original digital file, I could, but not from one that's been printed. The layers have been erased, so all that's printed out is the top layers you see on the screen.” She scrolled the image to the blurred-out face. “Now, there is a very slim possibility that Herman can figure out what distortion was applied to this part and undo it, so we can see the face. Let me put him on it, and then we can get a couple hours of sleep.”

Sam nodded. “That sounds like a good idea to me. I'm beat, but even a couple of hours will get me in better shape to deal with this.” He waited until she stopped typing, then took his wife's hand and led her to their bedroom. Sam set an alarm on his phone for eight AM, and they were both asleep within minutes.

The sun was getting high by the time the alarm went off, and Sam woke to find Indie already up and in the shower. He went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, and had just finished when she came out. He grabbed clean clothes and went for his own morning ablutions.

When he had finished, Sam went back to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Indie was already at the table with her own, and she smiled as he sat down.

“Would you like some breakfast?” she asked. “I can whip up some scrambled eggs and sausage.”

He nodded. “Fuel for the investigative engines,” Sam said, and Indie grinned. “Sounds good, Babe.”

She stood and leaned down for a kiss as she walked past him to the refrigerator, and Sam took the chance to pinch her bottom. “Ouch!” she squealed, and slapped his hand, but the smile on her face told him that she liked his attentions.

Sam grinned as he watched her moving about the kitchen. Indie had beautified his life, he often told himself, and watching her was one of his favorite pastimes. She blushed a lot when she caught him just looking at her, but that was because she'd never had a man look at her so lovingly, and she knew it. A beautiful woman is watched a lot, even stared at and ogled, but it won't be until she finds the man who looks past her beauty that she'll know the look that only comes through love-colored glasses. Indie enjoyed knowing that Sam thought looking at her was a great way to spend time or take a break from work.

Sam was in love, and so was Indie. It meant that they could trust each other and depend on each other, and they'd proven themselves over and over.

The sound of sausage sizzling in the skillet was almost musical to Sam, and when Indie slid a plate of eggs and sausage links in front of him, he inhaled deeply of their aroma and moaned in delight. “Baby, you make something as simple as this smell and taste like a hundred-dollar plate at a fancy restaurant. I'm so glad I was smart enough to marry you!”

“Yeah, me too,” she said. “Who else would get you out of trouble the way I do?”

Sam grinned, but dug in to eat, and Indie did the same. When Kenzie was gone to stay with her little friends down the street, they didn't need so many words to communicate their feelings to each other; the look in Sam's eyes when he glanced at her, the glow in her own when he happened to look up and find her watching him—words couldn't express those things well enough.

They finished breakfast, Sam loaded the dishwasher, and they went out to the office. Indie sat down at her desk, while Sam took the chair he'd put beside her in the early morning hours. She turned to the computer. “Okay, Herman, show me what you got!”

The screen lit up when she touched the mouse, and there were several links on the page. Indie looked at the data beside each one and pointed at the first. “Herman did several versions, trying different formulas to undo the scrambling that was done to the faces. Each link is one of the results. Ready?”

Sam nodded, and she clicked the first link. An image came up that was almost the same photograph, but with a slightly distorted face visible. Indie looked at it, then glanced at Sam. “Look familiar at all?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “I can't make out eyes or lips,” he said, “and they're the two most recognizable features. Of course, we probably don't know the people in the pictures, anyway.”

“True, but I'm betting that these people are not just your average citizens,” Indie said. “My gut instinct is that they're going to be at least a little bit well known, so there's a chance we might have seen them on TV or something.”

Sam shrugged. “I hope you're right.”

She clicked the next link, but it was even more distorted than the first one. She went through them, one by one, some of them better and some of them worse. Each of them was distorted in a different way, as Herman, the program Indie used for her hacking and cracking, had tried different algorithms to undo the damage done by the sender.

It was the eighth photo that suddenly made them stop and stare. It was almost perfectly clear. “Okay,” Sam said, “I'm thinking you were right. I don't know who she is, but I swear I've seen that face before.”

“Yeah,” Indie said, “same here. I don't know her, but I know I've seen her somewhere. TV, you think?”

Sam nodded. “Could be,” he said, and then he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, can Herman do facial recognition? Would he be able to spot other pictures of this woman?”

Indie made a face. “He can do basic stuff. If we had an idea of some website where we might find more pictures of her, it's possible. Got any ideas?”

“Not right at the...” He suddenly froze and looked at her, and together they said, “Facebook!” Indie turned back to the computer and set Herman to scanning female Facebook members within fifty miles, using his facial recognition algorithms to look for pictures that resembled the woman like the one on the screen.

“Done,” she said, “but I'm sure it's gonna take a while.”

Sam nodded. “That's fine, at least we're doing something. Send that one to Karen, and let's see about the others.”

Indie nodded, emailed the picture to Karen Parks, and then put the second photo into her scanner. She captured the image and told Herman to apply the same algorithm used on the one they'd chosen, and a moment later, the new, less-distorted picture began to appear. It took a moment for it to come into focus completely.

This was the other woman. Once again, Sam had the nagging feeling that he should know her, but his memory was failing him. Indie stared at it for a few seconds, then shook her head. “Nothing. You?”

“This one doesn't even look familiar. I wonder how I'm supposed to find people from messed-up photos, when I have no clue who they could be even when the photos are unscrambled.”

Indie added it to Herman's facial recognition queue, then sent it to Karen and loaded the last photo. Herman did his thing, and the image came in. They were looking at the almost perfectly clear face of a man in his fifties.

Sam let out a low whistle. “Okay, this guy I know,” he said. “That's Caleb Porter; he was a lawyer here in town, ‘til he got nailed for embezzling millions of dollars from a few of his clients. He sold off everything he had and managed to pay them back, so he only served about a year in prison. When he got out, though, it turned out he'd found Jesus in the joint and he started a church out in Aurora. Super guy. His church makes a lot of money, but he's well known for giving it all away, everything but what he needs to keep it going.”

Indie nodded. “I know him,” she said. “Kenzie and I stayed at their shelter for a little while, but the way they're set up, you can only stay two weeks at a time. I got into one of the others that didn't have that restriction, so I never went back, but I can tell you that the people there are as good as they come. They treated us great, and the ladies cried when I had to take Kenzie and leave.”

“Well, at least it gives us a place to start. I wish we knew which one of these people would be first on the list. Send that to Karen, and ask her to call me when she gets it. I doubt she's even out of bed yet.”

Indie nodded and did what he said, then looked up at him. “Where do we go from here, Sam? Any ideas?”

Sam sat and thought for a minute. “Well, I'm guessing that the killer expected us to unscramble these photos, so he'd guess that I'll know Porter, I think. He might think I'd know them all, but I doubt it; he'd want to choose people that would make this harder for me, not easier. By putting Porter into the mix, he's probably expecting me to focus on him as the one I know best.” He ran his hands over his face and sighed. “I wish we had any other leads on the women. I'm pretty sure one of them will be first.” He sat forward again, and said, “Let's see if we can put together anything about this guy's MO. Let's look at all unsolved murders over the last fifteen years, I'd guess about a fifty-mile radius.”

Indie typed at Herman and turned him loose. The screen began to fill with links as he found things that matched her search parameters. Indie looked at Sam. “I told him to check news sources, but also to scan through police files. Sometimes they don't let any information out about certain cases, and if this guy has a specific MO, they might have a file on him.”

“Karen didn't think so, but she isn’t in cold cases. If our guy did something in her district in the past two years, she'd have a file on it, for sure, but anything older than that would go to the basement.” The basement was a police nickname for the cold-case squad, based on the fact that their office was down in the lowest level of the building.

“Okay, it seems kind of odd,” Indie said, “that she'd assume the police wouldn't have come across this guy, somewhere along the line, doesn't it?”

“I think she's basing her assumption,” Sam said, nodding, “on the fact that there hasn't been any sort of press activity regarding a long-running series of related killings. There's no doubt police have come across his individual killings before, but the cases haven't been connected, whether from lack of due diligence on the part of the officers involved, or simply because they just didn't seem to be related for one reason or another. If Karen doesn't know of any such related cases, we're gonna have to assume he's slipped through the cracks, somehow.”

“Okay, so I let Herman do his thing, then. Any guidelines you want me to give him?”

“We're gonna get a lot of results; we need to think of ways to filter them down. Let's start with any files closed by exception. What that means is that the cops know who did it, but there's a reason they can't make an arrest. Could mean there isn't enough evidence to get a conviction, or that the evidence was compromised and can't be used, or even that the killing was sanctioned by the government.”

“Okay, we'll cut those out,” Indie said. “How about if we eliminate all files with a prime suspect, too? Most of those would probably be right, wouldn't they? So they wouldn't be our guy, right?”

“At least some of them, yes. What we need are the ones that happened here in our area with no known motive, no suspects. We can look for patterns in them, see if anything seems to fit this guy.”

Indie tapped keys for a few seconds, and then hit the enter key. “Even for Herman, this will take a little time,” she said. “What else can we do?”

Sam thought. “What about the note?” he asked. “Think your super scanner can find anything on it?”

“Let me try.” She took the note from its envelope and laid it on the scanner. A moment later, it began to hum as the light moved down it. It took almost five minutes to scan the whole thing and render the image. Once again, it was far larger than a normally scanned document, and Indie began moving it around as she studied it for anything that might lend a clue to where it had come from or who had sent it.

“There's little bits of stuff all over it,” she said, “but I don't know what it is. We could send it to a lab for analysis, but that would probably take weeks...”

“We don't have weeks,” Sam said, “and I have more confidence in you and Herman than in the police lab. I've seen the mistakes they can make that let criminals walk free, so I'd rather trust you with this.”

Indie looked at him. “I can't do all the things they can do, though, Sam,” she said. “There may be chemical residue on this that could tell us exactly where it came from.”

“And the lab took samples from it last night, remember? They did enough tests to say there was no DNA on it, so I'm sure they have enough samples to check for chemicals and such. Tell me what you think you're seeing.”

Indie turned back to the screen, hiding the smile she couldn't contain. She stared at the screen as she manipulated the image, watching the dots and blotches that represented the impurities in the paper.

“That looks like a crystal, maybe salt or sugar. Our guy might have put this together while he was eating dinner.”

“That doesn't help us. What else do you see?”

“Well, that could be a speck of black pepper, which fits with salt and sugar. Could mean he was eating, or having a cup of coffee. Let's see what else I can find.” She continued scanning the document, moving it around on the screen so that she could see it all. There were several other spots that seemed to catch her attention. “Look at this,” she said. “It's a discoloration of some sort, not sure what it is. Any ideas?”

Sam stared hard at the screen. “I'm not sure,” he said. “Almost looks like a blot of mustard, don't you think?”

Indie shrugged. “Could be. Definitely looks like mustard. It's just that it's so small, that's what makes it hard to tell.”

“So, what we’ve got is evidence that our perpetrator was having lunch somewhere,” Sam said. “I'm thinking that he wasn't at home, simply because most people would be more careful at their own homes then they would be at a restaurant or someplace like that.” He leaned in closer to look again. “Yeah, looks like mustard to me.”

Indie moved the image around some more, and pointed out a few other spots that seemed unnatural. After a moment, she pointed to another one. “Here's one,” she said. “That's a fiber from something, and I would bet that it's from a pair of gloves. Seems like we have a man who likes to eat with gloves on. Wonder how many restaurants see that on a daily basis?”

“Okay, now that's interesting,” Sam said. “I would have expected him to use rubber gloves, or plastic, but not cloth gloves that would leave fibers behind. That seems like a pretty amateurish mistake.”

Indie nodded. “It does, doesn't it? The trouble with that is, we are dealing with a serial killer who has not been caught in 15 years, or so he says. That makes it seem pretty unlikely that he would make such a stupid mistake. Sam, I think he deliberately threw you a clue, here.”

Sam shrugged. “Not much of a clue, when I don't have any way to identify what kind of fiber it is. Unless you or Herman can do so in some magical way that I'm not aware of?”

“Nope, sorry,” she said. “Our magic doesn't go that far, I'm afraid. Best I can do is point these things out and let you figure out what to make of it. Remember, you're the private investigator, here, not me. It's up to you to play Sherlock Holmes. I'll stick to being Watson.”

Sam laughed. “Well, it doesn't tell us a whole lot, but it does give us something to work with. I can ask Karen to have officers checking with restaurants to see if they remember someone eating with gloves on last night. You never know, they might come up with something that way.”

Sam took out his phone and dialed Karen's number. As he'd half expected, it went to voicemail. “Karen, it's Sam. Listen, Indie found a fiber on the note that looks like it might have come from a nice pair of gloves, and there's salt and pepper and a splotch of mustard on it, too. Wonder if you can get someone checking restaurants, see if anyone recalls seeing someone eating a sandwich or hotdog or something with gloves on, or putting gloves on after eating. Thanks, let me know.” He hung up.

With nothing more to go on, Sam decided to pay a visit to the preacher, Caleb Porter. He told Indie where he was headed, had her print out copies of the note and photos to take with him, then kissed her goodbye and went out through the garage to get his Corvette. As he backed out of the garage, he noted that the air was cooling off; fall was upon them, and when you’re a mile high, that means winter isn't that far away. He rolled the window up, but didn't turn on the AC as he usually did. Just letting some air come through the vents was cool enough.

2

The ride to Pastor Porter's church wasn't a long one, and Sam was there in just about forty minutes. The church was in an old factory building, one that Porter had talked a former client into donating, and then managed to get volunteers to contribute time and money on the remodeling. Sam knew that many people considered him a con man, but apparently, this particular prophet managed to keep some honor in his home town, because he had more than a million dollars a month coming through his offering plates.

The church was said to be “always open,” so Sam parked the Vette as close to the front doors as he could, then used his cane as he walked up to it. A tall man inside opened the door for him and asked if he could be of service.

“Possibly,” Sam said. “I'd like to see Reverend Porter. My name is Sam Prichard, and I'm a private investigator.”

The man's eyebrows went up. “Oh-oh,” he said, “don't tell me the Pastor's in some kind of trouble.”

Sam smiled. “Not that kind, anyway. I'm not here to investigate the church or Reverend Porter, just to ask him some questions that might help on a case I'm working on.”

The man stuck out a hand and Sam shook it. “In that case, I'm happy to take you to him. I'm Darrel Unger, by the way, a Deacon here. Follow me, he's in his office.” Unger led the way down a long hall, and turned to look at Sam over his shoulder as they walked. “Is this connected to one of our church members? I'm not asking what it is, I'm just curious.”

Sam grinned; he'd known a lot of curious people over the years, and in his experience they always wanted desperately to know whatever it was they swore they weren't trying to find out. “I'm afraid I can't say,” he replied honestly, and Unger sighed and nodded, continuing on in silence.

They came to an area that had several offices laid out rather nicely, and he led Sam to the biggest of them. The sign on the door said, “Rev. Caleb Porter, DD”, and Unger knocked politely before pushing it open. Porter sat at a desk inside, a Bible open in front of him. He looked up and smiled, and Sam thought the smile seemed quite genuine.

Unger said, “Caleb, this is Sam Prichard, a private investigator. He said he wanted to ask you a few questions about a case he's working on. I hope it's okay I brought him in?”

Porter smiled and rose, and Sam was struck by his height; the preacher stood a good four inches over his own six-foot frame. Sam had the fleeting thought that everyone in the church took growth hormones. “Of course it is, Darrel,” he said. “Come in, Mr. Prichard, have a seat.” He looked at the Deacon. “Thanks, Darrel, that'll be all.”

Sam took a chair that faced Porter's desk, and the preacher sat down in his own again. He glanced at his Bible and read aloud, “And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell.” He smiled up at Sam. “I've found that the Lord speaks to me through His Word in very personal ways, sometimes. I woke up this morning with that verse going through my mind, and haven't been able to shake it. I was just sitting here reading the whole passage and praying about it when you arrived. I know who you are, of course; your reputation precedes you.” He stood again and came around the desk, extending his hand. “Caleb Porter, formerly a sinner, later a prisoner, and today a servant of Jesus Christ. What can I do for you, Mr. Prichard?”

Sam smiled, liking the man despite himself. “Reverend...”

“I don't care much for titles,” Porter said with a grin. “Just Caleb will do fine.”

Sam inclined his head in thanks. “Caleb,” he began again. “Then it's just Sam, for me. I'm here because I was given some pictures last night, and a note that says the people in them will be murdered over the next couple of days, unless I can find and stop the killer. The pictures were distorted, the faces unrecognizable, but my wife, who's an absolute genius with computers, managed to unscramble them, and one of them—” he held it up “—looks a lot like you. What do you think? Is this a photo of you, Sir?”

Porter leaned forward and looked closely, but did not attempt to take the photo from Sam. “That's one of my old publicity shots, from last year. They took out the background – it was taken right here in this office – but that's me, all right.” He stood straight again, then leaned back against his desk. “Ironic, isn't it? I wake up thinking about not fearing death, and then learn that someone wants to kill me.” He closed his eyes and stood there for a moment, then opened them and looked at Sam. "Mr. Prichard,” he said, “do you know Jesus?”

Sam smiled. “I do,” he said. “Sometimes I'm pretty sure He wishes I'd be friendlier, but we do talk a lot.”

Porter smiled. “Good. I'd hate to face Him and have Him ask me why I didn't ask you that question before I died. Now, what can I do to be of assistance to you?”

“Well, to be honest, I'm hoping you might have some idea of who it is that might want to kill you. I doubt this person is actually connected to you, since most serial killers choose victims they don't know personally, but I can't be sure of that, so I'm trying to cover all the angles.”

Porter sucked in his bottom lip and shook his head. “I could probably make a list of people who might not mind all that much if I died, but I don't think they'd actually take any action.”

Sam nodded. “I didn't really think so, but I'm trying to hit all the possibilities.” He showed the preacher the photos of the two women. “Any chance you recognize either of these ladies?”

Porter took the photos and looked at each one closely, but shook his head. “I don't think so. The second one looks a little like one of the ladies in our congregation, but I can't say it's her. Doris Blevins is her name.” He turned and went to a bookshelf, then withdrew a large book and flipped through its pages. “Here she is,” he said. “This is our yearbook from last spring. This is Doris, right here.” He held the book out and pointed at one photo.

Sam looked at the one he indicated, and then at the one in his hand. “No, I don't think that's her,” he said. “I wish it had been, that would make my job easier.” He looked up at the preacher. “So, the question that remains, then, is where are we gonna hide you for a few days? The killer says he's going to kill one of the victims around one AM tomorrow morning, and each of the other two twelve hours apart after that. If I don't stop him by the third one, he says there will then be a fourth, but he won't give me any leads at all on that one.”

Porter looked down at the floor and closed his eyes for a moment. Sam could see his lips moving, but there was no sound, and he knew the preacher was praying. A moment later, he opened his eyes and looked at Sam.

"Sam,” he said, “I can't go into hiding.”

Sam stared at him. “That's up to you, Caleb, but if not, I'd suggest hiring a bodyguard. I can get the police to assign you a detail...”

Porter smiled. “You're not understanding me. Remember the passage I quoted when you came in? 'And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell.' I must place my trust in my Savior, and if it's time for me to leave this world, then that's okay with me. God will decide whether or not I die, not this poor soul who wants to play games with you.” He sighed. “I'd greatly prefer it if no one knew about this. Is that possible?”

Sam sat there and just looked at him for a moment. “I can try. The police have all of the information I have, including your picture. They may not be as willing to stay out of it as you want them to be, though.”

Porter nodded. “We'll let God handle that, then, too. I think He's capable, don't you?”

Sam stood and took a business card out of his pocket to give to the preacher. “If you change your mind, or have any thoughts that might help me, please call me.”

Porter slapped him on the back. “I certainly will, Sam. Thank you for coming.” He extended a hand again, and as Sam shook it, he said, “I love you.”

Sam's eyebrows went up an inch, and Porter laughed. “I love you, and everyone else,” he said. “Christ commands us to love one another, remember? How can I do the work He's called me to do if I'm not willing to follow His commandments?”

Sam grinned. “Okay,” he said. “And in that case, Caleb, I love you, too.”

“Great! Hey, we'd love to see you at our Sunday morning service! Bring the wife and kids, we're fun for the whole family!”

Sam nodded. “I'll give it serious thought,” he said. “Indie and I have talked about finding a church, but things have been pretty unsettled lately. Maybe it's time.”

Sam left the office and found his way back to the front doors, where Unger was waiting. “Well, Mr. Prichard,” he said. “Get everything straightened out?”

Sam smiled and nodded. “I think so,” he said. “The Pastor was very helpful. You have a good day, now.” He slipped through the door that Unger held open and hobbled back to his Corvette.

He saw the note sticking up from the windshield wiper before he got to the car, and a shiver went down his spine. He walked up to it, took his Swiss Army knife from his pocket, and pulled out its tweezers. Using them, he tugged the note free and saw that it was a single, folded sheet of paper with no envelope. It was typed in the same way as the last one.

Mr. Prichard, it read, I'm delighted to see that you're on the case! Even better, that you've already determined the identity of one of my targets. That pleases me, so I'm going to give you a few more hints.

One of the women will be the first target. She lives alone near the Denver-Arvada line, and owns a business that caters to new mothers. If you can determine who she is before the deadline tonight, I will let her live.

“Aw, crap,” Sam said, as he took out his phone and dialed Karen Parks again. This time, she answered. “Karen, it's Sam...”

“Sam!” she said. “We're going over these pictures. The man is Caleb Porter, we're sure of it, and I've got officers on the way to tell him right now.”

“Call 'em off,” Sam said. “I'm at his church right now, and he does not want to hide or have protection, says he prefers to trust God. That isn't why I'm calling, though, Karen; I've got another note, and this one was put on my car while I was in talking to Porter. I'm going back inside to see if just maybe they've got cameras on this place and got a shot of whoever did it. And you don't have to say it, I'll wait right here till you show up!”

“You—you'd better!” she said, and hung up on him.

Sam turned back toward the church and Unger opened the door again. “Forget something, Mr. Prichard?” he asked.

Sam shook his head. “No, but while I was inside, someone put a note on my car. I don't suppose you might have seen who did it? Or that you've got security cameras on the front parking area?”

Unger frowned. “We don't have any cameras, I'm afraid, and I didn't see anyone out there. Of course, I was gone for a bit, went to the little boys' room for a few minutes. I don't think anyone would have known I wasn't at my post, though.”

Sam looked at him. “Somebody did,” he said. “The police are on the way here now, and they're going to want to check every computer and printer in the place. If this note was typed up here, we need to know it.”

Unger stared at him. “Couldn't have been,” he said, “unless the Pastor did it. He's the only one here that has a printer of his own; everyone else uses the big one that's hooked to all the computers.”

Sam nodded. “Then let's see that one,” he said. Unger shrugged and led the way back down the same hallway.

The main office was staffed by three ladies, and they were more than happy to let Sam look at the printer. He glanced at the note again and saw a thin, dark line running down the page about three-fourths of the way to the right edge. That would be from a flaw in the printer, and would be as identifiable as the scoring on a bullet.

He asked one of the ladies to print something, anything. One of the ladies smiled and clicked something on her computer, and a page came out a second later. Sam snatched it up and looked, but there was no line, and the print was much cleaner and crisper than on the note. He shook his head. “Wasn't this one. And there are no other printers in the building?”

One of the ladies shook her head. “Only the one in Pastor's office,” she said, “but he almost never uses it.”

Sam stalked back to Porter's office and knocked, then entered. Porter looked up, surprised but smiling. “Sam,” he said. “Something wrong?”

Still holding with just the tweezers, Sam held out the note. “This got put on my car since I've been here,” he said. “I need to see a page from your printer, please, right now.”

Porter looked confused, but said, “Sure.” He reached down to his computer and tapped a couple of buttons, and the small printer on his credenza began to hum and click. A moment later, a sheet fed out of it and Sam grabbed it.

No line. The note hadn't come from this one, either. That wasn't a huge surprise, since Sam had been with Porter for most of the time he'd been at the church, but he'd had to check.

Sam sat down in the same chair he'd been in before. “According to this note, he's glad I found you so quickly. He's given me a couple of hints about who one of the women is, and says if I can figure out her identity before the deadline tonight, he'll leave her alone.” He looked Porter in the eye. “No one saw him put the note on my car, and you guys don't have security cameras up. Either he's following me around, or he was here, waiting for me to show up.”

Porter frowned. “But how would he have known you'd find me?”

“My wife,” Sam said, “is a computer genius, and that's been mentioned in the press a few times. If he knows that, then he'd have figured she'd find a way to unscramble the photos, and your face is pretty recognizable around here. He'd have figured I'd know you, I think, if he expected us to clean up the pictures. Then, he'd expect me to visit you first, I would imagine. Yeah, he could have been waiting somewhere around here for me to drive up, had this note all ready to go.”

The two of them sat there for a moment, and then Porter came around and sat in the chair beside Sam's.

“Sam,” he said, “Let's pray.”

Sam only nodded, and closed his eyes. Porter began, “Dear, precious Heavenly Father, we ask Your aid in this grave matter. Sam is faced with a fight against pure evil, and we know that only You can see into all hearts and know the thoughts of all men. We ask, Father, that You touch Sam Prichard and guide him as he strives to protect innocent lives, lives that may not yet be ready for eternity. Father, lead Sam to this woman, that her life might be spared, and lead him to this person who is doing this thing, so that he can be stopped in time before anyone has to die to satisfy his evil plans. We ask this in Jesus's Name, Father. Amen.”

“Amen,” Sam said, and looked at the preacher. “Thank you, Caleb. I need all the prayers and help I can get on this one.”

Sam got up and went back to the front of the building, where he sat on a bench just inside the front doors until Karen arrived with four uniformed officers. He showed her the note, and then took a picture of it with his phone so that she could take the original back to check for prints, but he knew they wouldn't find any. The officers checked the printers, just as he had done, and then Karen spent fifteen minutes trying to convince Porter to let her put a police guard on him, but as Sam had predicted, she had no success. Finally, she told Sam he could go.

He was just leaving the parking lot when his phone rang, and he saw that it was Indie. “Hey, Babe,” he said.

“Okay, Herman didn't have any luck on photo recognition, but he's narrowed the unsolved cases down to about a hundred that might fit our guy. I've got a printout going now; are you gonna be home anytime soon, to look at it?”

“I'm on the way now,” he said, then told her about the note. “Think Herman can help us figure out who this woman could be?”

“Herman can do anything, as long as he has enough data. I'll plug this into him and turn him loose.”

“Okay. I'll be there in a bit. I love you!”

“Love you too!” she said, and the line went dead.

Sam drove for a few minutes, and then picked his phone up again. This time, he called his mother-in-law. She answered and sounded out of breath.

“Sam?” she asked. “Is something wrong? Is Indie okay? Is Kenzie okay?”

Sam smiled. “They're fine,” he said. “I was actually calling to, um—I want to know if Beauregard has anything to tell me.”

There was dead silence on the line for several seconds, and then, “Well—he says you may win the game, but not all of the hands. Does that make any sense to you?”

Sam sighed. “I'm afraid it does,” he said. “Anything else?”

Silence again, for the space of five breaths. “He says to remember Sun…Sue. Who is Sun Sue?”

“An old, dead Chinaman,” Sam said. “He said that if you know yourself and know your enemy, you can win a hundred battles. Tell Beauregard he could be a little clearer.”

“He says you have to find out as much about your enemy as you can, and that will lead you to the answers you're looking for.”

Sam sighed. “That's what I get for asking a ghost,” he muttered.

Kim said, “What?”

“I said, tell him he's the most!” Sam said, and then he said goodbye and hung up before she could say anything else. “Learn all I can about my enemy, yeah,” he mumbled as he drove.

He got home twenty minutes later, and Indie met him at the door. “Hey, Baby,” she said. “So, how did it go with the preacher?”

“Pretty good. He says he'll trust in God to keep him safe, rather than in the police. Can't say as I blame him.”

“Well, come on in and see what I've got for you. Herman's been a busy boy, and I think he's made some fantastic discoveries. Come and see for yourself.”

He followed her through the house and into the office. There, on the computer screen, was a whole list of unsolved cases from the past fifteen years. Indie sat down in her chair, and Sam took the chair beside her like always.

“Okay,” she said, “I told Herman to look for all unsolved cases from the past fifteen years that did not have a known suspect, and that seem to be similar in one way or another. These are what he came up with.”

Sam started looking through the list of dozens of headings.

Lone woman killed by a gunshot wound to head.

Single man shot in the head.

Sniper kills man walking on the road with his wife.

Gunshot claims one, leaves another.

Shot fired through window, kills a man while he’s sitting with his girlfriend.

Man shot dead while driving, car crashes into railings.

Man shot in the head while driving.

Single shot kills two.

Sam clicked on each one, reading everything he could about each case. The victims seemed to be chosen at random, but after the note Sam had gotten that day, he didn't believe that for a moment. Each of the three in the photos had been chosen for a specific reason, and the killer had apparently studied them thoroughly. Sam would bet that, if any of these were victims of the killer he was dealing with, the killer had come to know each of them quite well by the time he had pulled the trigger.

There was no easily spotted pattern to the victims. They ranged in age from around twenty up to sixty; they seemed to be equally distributed between male and female, white and black (interesting, Sam thought, no Asians or Hispanics at all), light haired and dark, big and small, tall and short. All of them had been killed by a gunshot wound, almost all of them to the head. There was no pattern to where they were killed or whether they were alone or with someone at the time.

The only oddity was that the killer seemed to enjoy killing people in front of their loved ones. At least half of the victims were in close proximity to someone else when they were shot, but in one case he had seemingly deviated from that pattern. A couple who had only been married a week were both shot through their heads when they leaned together for a kiss.

There were almost a hundred such cases. If the killer was being truthful in the first note, that would mean an average of about seven victims per year. Sam shook his head.

“I can't believe there were this many killings like this, and I've never heard about it before. That's incredible. This many cases with similar MOs should have been blasted all over the news; the FBI should have been camped out here. How on earth could this happen?”

Indie nodded. “I thought the same thing, so I looked them over. Check it out. These cases are spread over a pretty large area, from Loveland to the north, down to Colorado Springs. He didn't ever do two in one city in the same year, and usually he didn't go back to a city for at least three years. We've got two stretches when he just stopped altogether for a while; there's only one killing in all of oh four, and none at all between November of twenty ten and January of twenty twelve.” She pointed at the dates she had charted. “To me, it looks like these cases all got very little attention. None of the victims were wealthy or notable in any way.”

Sam nodded. “I see that, but now he's chosen Caleb Porter. That's out of character if this is him.”

“Unless he chose him just to make sure he got your attention, or to give you the chance to win an early round. He'd figure that Porter is off limits, now that you know about him, so maybe he wanted to give you one, so you'd feel more confident and work harder on the other two.”

Sam shook his head. “I don't think that's it,” he said. “In this new note, he said that if I can identify the woman who's next, he'd let her live, but he didn't say anything about sparing Caleb. I'd guess that he'd consider any attempt to protect Caleb as nothing more than a challenge to his talents, so I expect him to move Caleb to number one, if I find the woman.”

“Or to number three. That way, he could go after the one you didn't know, then take Porter out last. Maybe what he's hoping is that you'll finally stop him then.”

Sam rubbed his eyes. “I did something today that I never thought I'd do,” he said. “I called your mother and asked Beauregard for help.”

Indie's eyes went wide. “And?”

“He said I'd win the game, but not every hand. To me, that means I'll catch the guy, but some of the victims are going to die. He wouldn't say how many, but then he said I should remember Sun Tzu.”

“The Art of War? That guy?”

“Yeah. I'm going through all of the Sun Tzu quotes we had to memorize in the academy, trying to figure out which one is pertinent. I think it's the one about knowing yourself and knowing your enemy.”

“If you know yourself and your enemy, you can win a thousand battles? That one? I had a professor in college who used to quote that all the time, in my psych class. He said it was the most powerful advice that anyone has ever written.”

“The problem is, how do I get to know this guy? I mean, all we've got are old murders that may or may not be his work. These don't tell us anything about him, about who the man himself is, and I don't mean his name; I'm referring to his personality, the way he thinks.”

Indie shrugged. “Maybe they can. I've got access to the actual police files on all of these; let's pick some and go through them with a fine-tooth comb, and see if we can get any sense of how he thinks.”

Sam thought about it for a moment. A lot of times, there will be little details in police files that are not given to the public. Police and FBI profilers use those details to build a psychological profile of the perpetrator. If Sam and Indie could do something along that line, it might give them insights into the killer that would help him figure out the next move he needed to make in the “game.”

“It's worth a shot,” he said. “Which ones catch your eye?”

Indie looked over the list. “We've got a lot to choose from. I see two MOs, here: the ones where he takes a single victim who's alone, and the ones where he kills someone right in front of their loved ones. If we take a dozen of each and go through them, I think we'll be getting a fair sampling of his methods, and if we can figure out a pattern to them, we might have an edge.” She tapped a few keys, and the list on the screen began losing items. “I told Herman to choose twenty-four at random from each category. Let's see how he does.” A moment later, there were two groups of links on the screen, labeled “Alone” and “Not Alone.”

Sam looked at the two lists. “Random is as random does,” he said in a bad Forrest Gump impersonation. “Let's see what we've got.”

3

Indie smiled and clicked the first link in the “Alone” section, which led to a digitized version of the complete police file on the case.

Thirty-two-year-old Michael Henson was jogging along the side of Highway 83, behind the Valley Country Club, at five thirty in the morning on June fifth in 2007. Numerous witnesses came forward after the news of his murder was released to say they had seen him, and many said they saw him out there every morning. No one saw what happened to him, however; he was discovered laying half in the road by a motorist, and when the driver stopped to see if he was okay, he found that Henson had been shot through the head. Police were called, but Henson's body was the only evidence they found.

The Medical Examiner said the bullet that had killed Henson was relatively small, probably a .223 Remington, but with a powerful charge behind it. It left a small entry wound that passed through the helix (the top edge) of his left ear and penetrated the skull just behind it. The bullet mushroomed on impact with the skull, causing it to roughly triple in diameter, so that the actual impact on the brain inside was three times as destructive as it had been on the skull itself.

The brain is made up of very soft tissue, and so when a chunk of metal invades it, it can't absorb the impact as well as denser tissue, such as muscle. The distorted slug not only penetrated the brain, but also shoved it to the right of the skull with enough force that the skull there was fractured from the inside. It shattered and the skin containing it was ripped as the brain was pushed ahead of the ballistic forces and out through the resultant opening in the cranium. The mangled brain was found fifteen feet away from the body, in the grass on the side of the road.

“Kronlein shot,” Sam said. “There have been cases where the bullet shattered the skull and literally blew the brain right out of it. In the most famous case, the brain was found completely intact in the crotch of a tree.”

“Yuck,” Indie said. “It's bad enough we gotta read this stuff, do you really need to provide such graphic mental images?”

Sam grinned and kept reading. Police found no cartridges, no powder residue, and no other evidence that might have been left behind by the killer. From the way the body was found, the ME decided that Henson had still been in motion when the bullet struck and almost certainly did not know it was coming. His footprints in the soft earth beside the road showed that his stride had not lengthened, so he wasn't trying to flee, and the skid marks left by his body said his velocity was no greater than an average jogger's speed.

Based on all of the factors they could see, the ME concluded that the fatal shot was probably fired from a moving vehicle. Since the bullet struck squarely from the side of him that appeared to have been facing the road, and considering that Henson had not been aware of the danger, the shot was almost certainly fired as the vehicle passed Henson while going in the same direction of travel as he was.

“He never saw it coming,” Sam said. “What gets me is that the killer fired from a moving vehicle; that's not easy to do, not with any accuracy. Our guy would have to practice, and stay in practice.” Sam sucked on his bottom lip for a moment. “Okay, this tells us that he's obsessive about what he does. To practice hitting a moving target from a moving vehicle means that he's got an isolated place set up with a track or something, and some kind of moving target to aim at as he drives.”

Indie looked at him. “Then he's got money. He'd have to own a place like that, don't you think? So that he wouldn't run a risk of someone finding it?”

Sam nodded. “That makes sense. He wouldn't want to set it up on public lands, and if it was someone else's property, they'd discover it sooner or later, somebody would. Hunters, if no one else. And all that being logical, then he probably lives somewhere outside of any town, somewhere he isn't worried about people stumbling across him, or hearing gunshots. This guy's a hermit of some kind, but he's not one who shuns technology; he's got a computer, at least, and knows about forensics.”

“Probably watches CSI,” Indie said. “Everyone does, and they think all the stuff they see there is actually true.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “cracks me up. They show just enough real science to be convincing, then they blow it all with test results that can't possibly be true.” He sighed. “Okay, so we know the guy is probably fairly rich, which also fits with the fact that these killings happen at all hours of the day and night. If he had a job he had to go to every day, he'd probably be most active during his off-duty hours, and we'd see a pattern to it. He's aware of and knows how to use modern technology. The fact that he's using a .223 bothers me a bit; most of them are rifles, and firing a rifle from a moving vehicle would mean one of two things. He's either extremely strong, strong enough to hold and aim a rifle accurately with one hand, or he isn't working alone. Someone else would have to be driving for him.”

Indie was tapping keys. “Look at this,” she said. “Thompson Center Contender, a .223 single-shot pistol. Here's another one, Magnum Research Lone Eagle, .223 single-shot pistol. Both of them are considered hunting guns, and someone as obsessed as our guy might like the idea that he's only got one shot.”

Sam looked at her. “I think you hit it on the head, Babe,” he said. “In each of the cases where someone was with the victim, they always reported only hearing a single shot. We haven't seen a single one where he missed and had to fire again. And the single shot theory would explain why the only time he ever killed two was when he could do it with one shot! I wonder if there are any reports of someone being fired at once, and missed?”

“Telling Herman,” Indie said. “Let's go on through these while he looks that up.”

She clicked on the next link. This one was about fifty-year-old Thomas Ritter, who had been shot by the same type of round, but through the center of his forehead. The shot blew out the back of his head, also nearly removing his brain completely. Ritter had been at home in Golden, mowing his yard, when it happened. Witnesses reported hearing a shot, but no one had seen anything.

Next was Caroline Bitner. She had been driving along Constitution Avenue in Colorado Springs when a single shot came through her windshield and struck her just above her right eye. She had not died instantly, but the loss of almost half of her brain left her a vegetable on life support that was turned off a month later. She was twenty-eight years old and the mother of two children, whom she had just dropped off at day care only minutes earlier. Her car had remained on the road and slowly lost speed, drifting slowly to the right, until it was stopped by a curb. Witnesses said they heard nothing, but only saw her slump over in her seat as the car began to slow.

Then there was twenty-year-old Martin Planck. Martin was a bicycle messenger, riding through downtown Denver in May of ‘09 when he was shot from behind. The bullet entered dead center at the back of his skull, and exited through his nose, obliterating his face completely. In this case, the bullet went on to strike the driver of a passing car in the left shoulder, but its energy was so spent that it was only a minor wound. A witness said she saw a man in a gray car point something at Planck just before he flew over the handlebars of his bike, but she did not get a license number or any description of the shooter. She did not hear a shot, so police were not convinced that she had actually witnessed the murder at all.

They went through the rest of the “Alone” cases, picking up tidbits as they went. In one case, a man in Boulder had walked into his living room and found his wife, whom he had thought was still out shopping, dead on their sofa, her head almost completely blown away. Her bags of groceries were spilled on the floor beside her, indicating that she had been walking and fallen onto the sofa. A hole in the screen on the window was the only evidence that the shot had come from outside, but no one had heard anything.

Sam said, “That shot wasn't made from a moving car. Passing a house and seeing a victim, then managing to make the shot, would be pretty much impossible; he stopped and aimed that one.”

“So he's not fanatical about doing it while moving. He's willing to take an easy shot if he can get it.”

Sam sighed. “I don't think so,” he said. “My guess is that he had chosen her as a target, but didn't get to take the shot when he wanted to, so he followed her home and waited for an opportunity. He parked and watched her carry the bags in, then waited ‘til she passed the living room window and fired.”

Indie shook her head. “Then he won't give up on one just because he doesn't get to kill when he wants. It's not about the opportunity, it's about the target he's chosen.”

Sam nodded. “That's how I see it, yes. That confirms for me that Caleb isn't safe, but I already thought that.”

They found one case that stood out. Forty-two-year-old Cassie Morton had been walking her dog in a park in Longmont when she was shot, but the bullet did not strike her in the head; instead, the shot took her right through the base of her throat and all but decapitated her. This case happened in ‘08, and the place where she died was almost three hundred yards from the nearest road. A witness near the park entrance said she heard a gunshot from not far away, and saw a red pickup truck driving away at normal speeds just afterward.

“Holy cow,” Sam said softly. “A shot like that, if we're right about his choice of weapon, would take incredible skill. This guy wouldn't use a scope; it'd be useless to his moving shots. To make this one, he'd have to aim high, over the target, and count on gravity to bring the bullet down to hit what he was aiming at. He had his windage right, but it looks like he underestimated the amount of drop, so the bullet hit lower than he intended.”

Indie looked at him. “What's windage?” she asked.

“When you fire a bullet at a long-range target, you have to take a lot of factors into account, and one of them is the direction of the wind. If it's blowing at all, it can change the trajectory of the bullet, move it to one side of the target or the other, so you miss. If you're good, you can estimate how much it will move it, and aim to the side of the target so the wind can bring it to where you want it. He got that right, but he didn't aim quite high enough for a head shot, so the bullet came in low and hit her in the throat.”

Indie shivered. “You do know it's freaky that you can talk about things like that as calmly as you talk about the weather, right?”

Sam looked at her. “And that's from a girl whose mother talks to a ghost?”

“Beauregard isn't mine, he's Mom's, and I don't want to hear about it. You're the one who called and asked for his advice, remember?”

“It was a moment of weakness. I've got two more people whose lives depend on me finding this clown, and when it comes to something like that, I'll take any help I can get from anywhere!”

“Well, we're gaining some insights, so let's keep going. Ready for the 'Not Alone' group?”

“Lay on, MacDuff,” Sam said. He added, “Macbeth,” when Indie looked at him strangely. “What? You think I wouldn't know Shakespeare?”

She didn't say anything, but clicked the first link in the new group.

Charles Murphy, forty-seven years old, was sitting on his back deck with his wife, Dierdre, when he was shot. Dierdre said she heard a car moving through the alley behind their home, and then a shot rang out. She felt something splatter the side of her face, and turned to ask her husband if he had spit on her. That was when she realized that the top of his head was missing, and began to scream. Neighbors came out of the house next door to see what was wrong, and found Dierdre trying to pick up his brains and put them back into his head. The only evidence found was the marks of some worn tires in the alley.

“The fact that no spent cartridges are ever found sort of confirms the single-shot pistol theory, for me,” Sam said. “Almost all .223 rifles are assault rifles, with multiple-round magazines. They're semi-automatic, so they eject cartridges. If he was using one of those, I'd think there would have been at least a few cartridges found along the way. Granted, there are devices that catch the cartridges, but they'd add weight to the gun, and make it even harder to fire from a moving car.”

The next was the case of two killed with one shot. Twenty-three-year-old Danny Morgan and his wife of only seven days, Geneva, were at an outdoor table at a bar in Greeley. Witnesses said they were smiling and happy, and that just as Danny leaned forward to kiss his wife, a shot rang out and both of their heads seemed to explode. The bullet entered the back of Danny's skull, exiting through his right eye and removing most of the right side of his face, then entered Geneva's head just over the bridge of her nose. Because it was already mushroomed from hitting Danny but still had energy and momentum, it took out both eyes and left a hole the size of a man's fist in the back of her skull. More than a dozen people reported hearing the shot, but only one claimed to have seen the shooter, describing him as a tall man wearing western clothes, who walked calmly away as the bar's patrons began screaming. The witness said he tried to follow the shooter, but the panicking patrons overran him and knocked him down. By the time he got to his feet, there was no sign of the man.

The investigating officers discounted the witness, saying he seemed too drunk to have actually tried to pursue, but Sam thought it was probably true. “Only two kinds of people will try to follow someone they just saw commit a murder in front of their eyes,” he said. “A heroic type who believes he can handle the situation, or someone who's too stupid or drunk to know better. The panicky crowd that knocked him down might well have been himself, but I think he was telling the truth about what he saw and what he wanted to do, even if he was too wasted to do it.”

Indie cocked her head to the right. “But don't you think, if one person saw the shooter, others would have? I mean, it was an outdoor setting. A shot goes off; wouldn't most people turn to look where it came from?”

“Read the statement,” Sam said, pointing to the screen. “The couple who was killed was getting all the attention even before they were shot. Probably all of the people who might have seen the shooter were watching them and smiling as they kissed, and then they'd be in total shock as soon as they realized what had happened. Very few of them would be thinking of anything except where to go to get out of the line of fire. Our witness was probably turned away from all that, and happened to see a figure raise a gun and fire. If he was drunk, he might not have even looked to see who was shot, he would have just thought, 'wow, that dude shot somebody,' and tried to keep him in sight. Somebody bumps into him, and in his inebriated state, he goes down. By the time he gets up, our boy is long gone.”

“Then, you believe his story?” Indie asked. “That the shooter was on foot at the time?”

Sam nodded. “It fits what I'm seeing in this guy. He's arrogant, thinks he's too good at what he does to get caught. If he decided he wanted to make a shot like this, he'd choose his targets and then follow them, look for any chance to make the shot. When he sees it, he'll gauge how the people nearby are acting, and fire when he's confident he can get away.”

Indie shuddered. “Sam,” she said, “what if he's actually chosen you? What if all of this is a ploy to get you to somewhere he wants you, so he can kill you?”

Sam laughed. “Baby, this guy wouldn’t bat an eye at stalking me, and he probably is, even now. He knew I was at the church within minutes this morning, so he's probably following me. The fact that I didn't spot him is more worrisome to me than anything else, but you can bet I'll be watching everything around me from here on out.”

Indie clicked the next link. This one detailed the death of Walter Simon, a fifty-eight-year-old man who was shot as he and his lady friend, Priscilla Borden, walked along the side of the street they lived on. The shot hit him in the center of his forehead, causing his skull to explode and splattering Priscilla with gore. Priscilla said she heard the shot, but didn't see anything to indicate where it had come from. Another witness claimed to have seen an old Gremlin racing away, but Sam discounted the statement immediately.

“A Gremlin might have driven away, but it wasn't our boy driving it. He's too cool; he wouldn't risk driving in any way that might attract attention. To do so would risk him getting stopped, and even if he only got a ticket, it would link him to the time and area of the killing. He's too cool, and too smart, to let that happen.”

She clicked the next link. “Constance Peterman,” she read aloud, “twenty-one years old. In March of two thousand ten, she was shot in the side of the head as she rode a bicycle along the side of the road in Fort Collins. She had her best friend, Jill Stewart, riding right beside her when it happened. Jill said she saw a tall man driving a maroon truck pass them just as it happened, but she didn't see a gun. Right as she saw him, Constance fell against her, and she didn't see the license plate. She realized what had happened, freaked out, and by the time she got her wits back, the truck was gone.”

“He's not worried about being seen,” Sam said. “Let's see if Herman's gotten anything on missed shots, and then let's have him check out stolen vehicle reports around the same times as these shootings. He can do that, right?”

Indie smiled. “Yep!” she said, and tapped her keyboard. A new set of links appeared, this time only about a dozen of them. “Okay, these are the reports of people being shot at and missed for the same time period. There aren't many.”

“That's because this guy is good, whoever he is. Email Karen and ask her to check firing ranges for someone firing a single-shot .223 pistol. I doubt he'd ever go to a range with it, but it's worth checking out.”

Indie typed rapidly, then said, “Done. Ready?”

“Yeah, let's look at these.”

Indie clicked on the first link. In ‘07, a man named Harold Brinker had called police and reported that he had heard a shot fired as he was driving down a residential street. When he stopped to look, he noticed a bullet hole in his car, on the post just behind the driver's door, and at about the level of his head. The bullet that was removed from the car was a .223, just like all the others.

Each case was almost identical. Someone who would have been precisely the type of victim chosen in the actual shootings either reported hearing a shot fired, or saw a sudden bullet hole appear in a vehicle, wall or something else. In each case, the recovered slug was from a .223.

Sam nodded. “So, sometimes he misses, and since none of these people are on the list of victims, that means he never goes back after a target if he does. That's interesting, but doesn't tell me whether Caleb is still at risk, so we're going to assume that he is. Let's see about the stolen vehicles.”

Indie tapped, and a long list of links appeared. Sam whistled. “Well, well,” he said. “Looks like our boy can hotwire a car, too. Let's see, March twenty ten, is there a maroon pickup reported stolen?”

Indie scanned through the links and clicked on two that were reported within three days of the Constance Peterman killing. “Bingo!” she said. “Got a maroon Ford F-150 stolen the morning of that shooting. Owner said he parked it at work that morning, and when he came out at lunchtime, it was gone. Found late that night about a mile from where the shooting took place.”

They looked at some of the other reports that said a vehicle was seen, and in each case, a similar vehicle was stolen within the previous few hours, usually not more than an hour before the shooting occurred. Sam was getting excited.

“He's got money, and he's a car thief as well as a murderer. He's addicted to killing; it makes him feel high or excited, and he likes the thrill. He's daring, and likes to show that witnesses don't scare him. Most of that would fit the normal profile of a serial killer. The big difference, in this case, is that this guy isn't a glory hound; his killings have gotten very little press, and only a few of them have even been speculated as being the work of a serial killer at all, but he's never contacted any reporters, newspapers or TV stations to brag about his work. That’s unusual. This guy isn't the normal type; he's only in it for himself, and he's not able to stop on his own; that's why he wants someone to catch him.”

“And that's why he chose you,” Indie said. “He doesn't make the news, but he follows it for sure, and he's seen all the stuff that they've been saying about you. He figures, hey, here’s a guy who can catch terrorists and expose mind control and all that, he might be the one who can help put an end to my madness, too.”

Sam nodded. “Not meaning to be as egotistical as this is gonna sound, but that sounds right. He wants someone to stop him because he can't stop himself. That means that the people who do know him probably have no idea that this side of him even exists. He's probably a genuinely nice guy, when he isn't out to kill someone.”

“Mr. Brooks,” Indie said. “Did you ever see that movie, with Kevin Costner? He was this rich, successful businessman that everyone loved, but he was addicted to killing people. He went to AA meetings and talked about his addiction as if it was to booze or drugs, and even had a plan to have someone else kill him, because he couldn't make himself stop...” She suddenly trailed off, and her eyes got wide. “Except, when he got to the place where he was supposed to be killed, with the guy who was gonna do it, he backed out. He killed the other guy, instead, and went right on killing for the thrill of it.”

Sam shrugged. “Addicts always back out of kicking their habit, until they reach that point where they can't go on. This guy would be like that, too, if he gets the chance. Remember the first note? He says if I can't stop him, then he figures no one can, and so he'll go on killing. He wants this game, so that there's a chance he'll lose and his addiction will end, but he doesn't want to lose. If he can beat me, even if it means killing me, he'll do it.”

Indie nodded, but Sam could tell she was worried. “Okay, we've got a profile,” she said. “Now, let's find the first target. He said she lives alone near the line between Denver and Arvada, and she owns a business that new mothers use. Let's see what Herman can find. What are some businesses new mothers use?”

Sam stared at her. “You're asking me? I've never even known a new mother!”

Indie rolled her eyes. “Men are such wimps,” she said, then began typing, speaking softly as she did so. “Diaper service—baby furniture, baby clothing stores—pediatricians—nutritionists…”

“Nutritionists?” Sam asked.

Indie nodded. “Mm-hm,” she said. “New mothers, especially if they're breastfeeding, go to nutritionists to learn how to eat to make their milk as good for the baby as possible—what else? Oh, babysitters and day care! Some of them actually specialize in newborns, for when the mom has to get back to work in a rush!”

She continued typing, and came up with several more ideas. Finally, she hit the enter key, and turned to Sam. We'll give him some time to work, and see who all he comes up with. If we're lucky, we'll find websites with photos, so we can tell if we're getting the right woman, but once we get names, we can go back to Facebook and try looking them up that way. That should let us find her, if she's in the list.”

Sam leaned forward and put a hand on the back of her neck, pulling her to him for a kiss. “I just figured we deserve that, and I might not get another chance, once we get this list and get busy again.”

“Mmm,” she said, “look, Mr. Prichard, you need to understand one thing; I'm your wife, now, and you can do that anytime you want to! That’s in the marriage rulebook, it is, I checked. Says you are now allowed to kiss me anytime—unless I'm pissed at you, then you better wait ‘til I calm down.”

“And are you mad at me now?” Sam asked.

“Um—no.”

“Good,” he said, and kissed her again.

Herman made a ding, and they let go of each other and turned their attentions back to the screen. There were almost three-dozen links there, and they began looking through them.

Indie had told Herman to look for females whose homes were along the border between Denver and Arvada and who owned a business of one of the types she had described. He had done exactly as she'd instructed, and they began checking each link to see if any of them looked like either of the photos the killer had sent to Sam.

They could eliminate some on the basis of race; both of the women in the photos were Caucasian, so when they saw a black, Hispanic or Asian woman, they clicked back and went to the next link. One or two looked a little like one of the women, but none of them were exact.

However, some of them had no photos of the owners, so Indie had to go to Facebook and start hunting for them. The trouble with that was the number of people on Facebook that have similar names; when she typed in Julie Williams, she got almost a hundred possibilities in the Denver area alone.

Some of them she could eliminate, in the same way, by scanning the list and looking at the miniature profile photos, but some people use other things for their profile pictures; in those cases she had to click on the picture and let their pages load, then look through their photos to see if they had a match. It was a slow process, because so many people don't even post a lot of pictures of themselves, and some don't allow any but their friends to see the photos they do post, or much of their profile at all.

That didn't stop Indie, however. She merely copied the URL of the person's profile picture, then pasted it into a browser and removed a section of it, then hit enter, and she had all of their photos available instantly.

Sam's eyebrows went up. “I didn't think there was a way around Facebook's privacy settings.”

She smiled at him. “Puh-lease,” she said. “Did you forget who you’re talking to, here? Actually, that's a pretty simple hack that's all over the internet. Anyone can do that.” She went through enough of the person's photos to be sure it wasn't who she was looking for, then went on to the next name on their list.

Sam glanced at the time and realized that it was past one thirty; they'd been at this for almost two-and-a-half hours. “Babe, you getting hungry?”

“Yeah,” she said, “I am. Want me to make us some lunch?”

“How about I do that, while you sit here and babysit Herman? We've got some heat-and-eat burritos, right?”

“Yep, bottom shelf of the freezer. I could eat one,” Indie said. “And could you bring me a root beer? I'm about coffee-logged.”

“You got it,” Sam said, then got up and went to the kitchen. The burritos were right where she'd said, and since it took only three minutes to heat up three of them, he stuffed them into the microwave and got out a couple bottles of root beer and some paper plates while they cooked. When they were done, he carried them all back into the office and found Indie sitting frozen and staring at the screen.

He set her plate and drink down beside her.

“Okay,” he said, “that expression means you've got something. Give,”

Indie nodded slowly, without turning to face him. “Well, I had Herman look for baby-related businesses on Facebook, because some companies set up business profiles, y'know? Then you can find the owner of that page, and see who it is. Look.”

Sam leaned in and looked at the Facebook profile she was staring at. He got a good look at the photo, glanced down at the one Indie was holding—it was the blonde woman—and then looked at the name. Sam suddenly realized why the photo had looked mildly familiar.

“Holy cow,” Sam said, “that's Samantha Harris!”

“Yep,” Indie said. “I knew I had seen that face somewhere before, but it was still a bit distorted and I didn't recognize her right off the bat. Since when is she in business for herself?”

Sam shook his head. “I don't know,” he said. “I never asked what she did for a living. On the other hand, doesn't it seem a bit coincidental that she turns out to be a woman I met in one of my first cases?”

Indie nodded. “Yeah, it does,” she said. “Sam, it's like this guy knows everything about you. All about your cases, and everything.”

Sam stared at the screen. Like Indie, the fact that it was Samantha Harris whose profile they were looking at was bothering him. He shook his head again. “I don't know what to think. This is turning out to be pretty weird. On the other hand, if I've identified her, then she should be safe. I guess what I need to do is go and talk to her.”

Indie nodded. “Yeah,” she said, “but watch your back and look for anyone following you.”

Sam looked grim. “You can count on that,” he said. “What’s the address of her place of business?”

Indie looked. “It says she works out of her home. Same place she's lived all along.” She paused, then turned to look at Sam. “Wanna know something weird?”

“What?”

“Sometimes Herman scares me a bit. I gave him a whole bunch of different baby-related businesses to search, right? Well, one that I didn't think of was a midwife, but you wanna guess what Samantha does for a living?”

Sam looked at her. “I'm gonna go out on a limb and say midwife for two hundred, Alex.”

“Yeah,” Indie said. “Which means Herman added that occupation to his own programming.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, so?”

“Sam, Herman isn't really a person, he's a computer program. Computer programs can't think for themselves; we have to tell them what to think about. But, somehow, he did what he can't do; he deduced for himself that there was at least one other business that caters to new mothers—like, the newest mothers—and added it to his search parameters. That should be impossible.”

Sam stood there, unsure of what to say. Finally, he settled for, “Hey, Babe? As long as he's on our side, I don't care if he comes to life, but the minute he starts calling himself Skynet, I'm blowing your computer to kingdom come, got that?”

Indie only nodded, so he kissed her goodbye and left.

4

Sam knew exactly where Samantha Harris lived in Arvada, and it took him only about twenty minutes to get to her place. As far as he could tell, no one was following him, but he knew he was dealing with a pro of some sort, so he wouldn't have bet on it. He parked the Corvette in front of her door and went up to knock.

Sam could hear her moving around inside, and she answered the door after about a minute. He smiled as he saw recognition dawn on her.

“Mr. Prichard,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, Samantha, this time it's about what I can do for you. Can I come in for a few minutes?”

She stood there and looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and held the door open for him to enter. “Come on in, I guess,” she said, and he stepped past her.

He sat down on the same couch he'd sat on the first time he'd been to her place, back when he was trying to find out who really killed Barry Wallace, the singer he'd ended up replacing in the band. As it had turned out, she'd been unintentionally involved in Barry's death, and had withheld a bit of information that almost sent an innocent man to prison. The last time they'd spoken had not been pleasant.

“So, okay, what is it you can do for me?” she asked, as she sat on the other end of the couch.

Sam took out the note and pictures and handed them to her. She glanced at the photos, then read the note, and when she raised her eyes back to his, there was panic in them.

“Someone wants to kill me?” she asked, her voice shaky.

Sam nodded. “This guy is a serial killer,” he said, “and he's got it in his head that I'm the one he wants to stop him. He sent me that note and those photos last night while the band was playing at the Casino. Now, this morning, I tracked down the man in one of the photos, who turned out to be Caleb Porter, the big preacher in Aurora. While I was there talking to him, the killer left another note on my car, saying that one of the two women would be the first to die, but that if I could figure out who she was, he'd let her live. My wife and I managed to identify you, even though the picture isn't all that good; when I got it, it had been altered to make the face not visible, but my wife figured out how to unscramble it. It wasn't a perfect job, so it doesn't look exactly like you, but when we got some other clues, we were able to determine that you're the woman he had targeted.”

Samantha stared at him. “But you found me, so he's gonna leave me alone, now, right? That's what you said?”

“No, that's what he said, but we’re dealing with a serial killer, here. I can't know if he's going to honor his statement or not. Take a good look at that picture; can you tell me whether or not that is actually supposed to be you?”

She looked at the photo of herself and nodded. “Yeah, this was a pub shot that I had done back when I was singing. Somebody changed the background, and yeah, my face is a little off in this one, but I'd know that dress anywhere. That damn thing cost me almost a grand, but Jimmy said I needed it to make the shot take notice.” She handed the picture back. “I shoulda made him pay me back for it, cause that shot never got me anywhere.”

Sam sat there for a moment, and then started to rise. “Samantha, if you want, I can ask for police protection for you. I'm pretty sure they'd be willing to station an officer here, just to be safe.”

She looked him in the eye. “Do you think he's gonna try to kill me anyway?” she asked, and Sam sighed.

“I honestly don't know. A part of me says he won't, because he's playing a game with me, and I think he wants me to win, at least for now. I think he'll keep his word. But it isn't my life we're talking about here, it's yours, so it's your call.”

She looked around her living room for a moment, as if the answer was there someplace, then turned back to him. “How about if I just lock myself in for the night? Would that help, you think?”

“It might. He takes his shots from a distance, so I don't think he'd try to get inside. If you do, I wouldn't open that door for anyone, and I mean not anyone! If I show up here saying I need you to come with me, you better just assume he's got a gun to my head, and the same would go for anyone else you know. Don't trust anyone enough to get yourself in front of a door or a window. Stay completely out of sight, and you should be okay.”

She nodded. “I've got a shotgun,” she said. “I think I'll just bar the door and hunker down. Watch some TV or something, with all the shades drawn and the doors locked tight. Anybody comes in, they're gonna get filled with buckshot!” She grinned. “If he gets me, it won't be without a fight. But you see the neighborhood I live in? How well you think it'd go over if I had a cop here all night? I'm better off taking my chances this way, I think.”

She was right; the neighborhood was one that a lot of drug dealers and other toughs called home, and letting it look like she was getting chummy with cops wouldn’t be good for her reputation. He started for the door, and she said, “Mr. Prichard?”

Sam turned. “Yes?”

“Thanks.”

He smiled at her. “Just doing my job,” he said, then let himself out the door.

There was a note on the windshield, and Sam kicked himself mentally for going inside where he could not watch the car. He used the tweezers to pull it out from under the wiper and unfold it.

Very good, Mr. Prichard, it read. You found her, so I'll keep my promise and leave her alone. You now have one more to find, but here's how we'll do this one. You will keep this note secret from Detective Parks, and believe me, I'll know if you don't. The police are not to see it, not even hear about it. In return, I shall give you another hint about the third person, and if you are able to identify her in time, I will meet you at her home. If you come alone, you will get the chance to stop me, and possibly even take me in alive. If you do not, or if there is even the slightest sign that police are involved, she will die and the game is over. My next victim after that will be very painful to you personally, Mr. Prichard, but don't even think that you can figure out who it is. I'm not that transparent.

As for the Reverend Porter, I have not yet decided what I will do about him. Were you as surprised as I when he declined police protection?

Oh, yes, the hint: the person you're looking for is married. She has two children at home, and a couple more that are grown. She works as an assistant to a woman who knows you, but doesn't like you. Maybe that will narrow it down, but, then again, maybe not.

The note ended there, and Sam stood silently, reading through it a couple of times. He heard a sound and looked around to see someone come out of a house down the street; it was only a local, who paid him no attention, so he returned the favor, got into his car and drove away.

The note made it clear that the killer had some way of knowing what Sam was doing and whom he was talking to. With that being the case, he didn't want to even talk about it on the phone to Indie. In fact, he wasn't sure he wanted her to know about it at all, since it had a chilling threat in it that someone he cared about would be the next victim, if he failed to stop his adversary. The warning not to guess who it was only meant that it could be anyone that either he or Indie cared about, from Indie herself, to Kenzie, even to people he and Indie considered friends, like the Mitchells or their children. He couldn't take any chances; this note was for him, and him alone.

He thought over the “hint” the killer had given him. He was looking for a married woman who was old enough to have “a couple” of grown children, but still had two at home, implying that she had four kids, but the word “couple” could be subject to personal interpretation, so it wasn't completely reliable. On the other hand, saying she was an assistant to someone who knew Sam but didn't like him could have some potential. Now all Sam had to do was figure out which of his many enemies might have an assistant.

He got home and went inside to find Indie sitting in the kitchen with their mothers, and stifled a groan. He shoved the note into a pocket and said, “Hey, Mom, hey, Kim.”

His mother, Grace, looked at him. “Samuel, sit down! We have to talk!”

Sam sighed and sat. Indie looked at him sheepishly, and he knew instantly that this was a “Beauregard” thing. “Okay,” he said, “I'm sat. What's going on?”

“Sam, it's Beauregard,” Grace said. “He's telling Kim all sorts of things about whatever mess you're in, but he won't let her tell until you're in the conversation.”

“And it's driving you nuts, right, Mom?”

“Don't be flip,” Grace said, reaching across the table to slap his hand. “He's saved your life more than once, right? You'd do a lot worse than to listen and see what he has to say, young man!”

Sam smiled and shrugged. “I'm all ears,” he said, turning to Kim.

Indie's mom looked at him and smiled a nervous smile. “Okay, Sam,” she said. “First, Beauregard says to tell you he knows you don't believe in him, but that's okay, he doesn't mind. He says it's because of your analytical mind, that you have trouble with things you don't understand, and he can accept that because you were friends in a past life...”

“Oh, for God's sake, Kim, just get to what he wants to tell Sam!”

Kim flinched. Sam sympathized; he knew what a pain in the ass his mother could be.

“Okay, just—well, Sam, Beauregard says the woman you're trying to find is dangerous, and when you find her, you're going to be in more danger than she is, but—well, if you don't find her and stop her from getting killed, then the man you're trying to catch will decide he's won the game, and then he'll feel justified in doing something to hurt you for not stopping him, and—well, Beauregard says that means he's going to hurt one of us. Me or Grace.”

Grace's eyes went wide, but she didn't say anything. Sam sighed, and put his head in his hands. Beauregard was right about Sam not believing in him, but like Indie, he felt that Kim had some sort of psychic gift, and that Beauregard was her subconscious way of dealing with it. However it worked, Beauregard's warnings had been right too many times for Sam to discount them now.

“How is the woman dangerous?” he asked.

Kim shrugged. “He won't tell me that. He just says she's dangerous, and that you have to be careful, or you could be killed. If you get killed, then there's no one who can stop this guy, and he'll only start killing more people.”

Sam looked Kim in the eye. “Listen, Beauregard,” he said. “Let's forget what I do or don't believe. If there's one thing you and I have in common, it's that we don't want this family to get hurt. Now, if you can tell me this much, then surely there's something more you can give me, to help me win this godforsaken game of his, and put this bastard down. So, I'm begging you. Tell me whatever you can that might help.”

Kim sat there for a moment looking uncomfortable, and then her face began to smooth out. She seemed to become more serene, and Sam heard Indie whisper, “Oh, no…”

Kim's eyes closed for a second, and then they opened and focused on Sam.

“Hey, ol' buddy,” she said, but the voice that came out of her was not her own; true, it came from her vocal chords, but there was a southern masculinity in it that Sam had never heard before.

Sam swallowed; Indie had told him about her confrontation with Beauregard just a few days earlier, and how it had unnerved her. Now he was face to face with what he was sure was just a schizoid splinter of his mother-in-law's own personality, and he wasn't sure what to do or say.

“Um—Beauregard?” he asked.

“Yup. It's good to see you again, but I have to say, you're a sight better looking now than when we last saw each other at Valley Forge. Of course, you had a better go of it there than I did, since you lived through it. I froze to death.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Um—I thought Valley Forge was in the Revolutionary War, not the Civil War.”

“Oh, it was,” Kim said. “I got the privilege of being reborn in time to be old enough to serve in the War Between the States. You didn't; you got back the last time in nineteen and nineteen, but you were in the Second World War. You died in the Philippines, but that's not what you want to talk about, so let's save that for another day.” Kim sighed, a deep sound that spoke of age and weariness. “I'm afraid I can't tell you everything you want to know, Sam. Some things are visible to me, and some are not. What I can tell you is this. If you find this woman, it's going to be a dangerous moment for you, but I don't know how. All I know is that if you are not very, very cautious, you will not survive it, and that would be a very bad thing. Your enemy will take your death as failure, and if you fail to stop him for any reason, he will strike at one of these ladies in retaliation. One of them would die, and I cannot see which one.”

Sam stared at Kim, wondering what to say, what to ask, what on earth to even think! “Tell me this, then,” he said. “How can I find this woman? All I know about her is that she is married, she has children, two of whom still live at home, and she supposedly works for someone who knows me and dislikes me. Can you give me any help with that?”

Kim looked up at the ceiling for a moment, her finger tapping on her chin. Sam felt a chill go through him when he realized the gesture seemed familiar, but couldn't recall where he'd ever seen it before. He stared at Kim, and after a moment, she looked at him again.

“I can give you only one more thing,” she said, still in that eerie voice. “That person she works for is someone you wouldn't think would dislike you, but does. I don't know who she is, but that much I can see. When you figure out which of your female friends is false, and has a helper to do things for her, you'll know who it is.” She sighed again. “I'm afraid it's hard to come out like this, and wears me. I'll be going for now.” She closed her eyes again, and seemed to sway for a moment. Then her face went back to normal and she opened her eyes. She yawned. “Goodness,” she said in her own voice. “Did I doze off?”

Grace was on her feet. “Doze off? You didn't doze off, you flibbertigibbet; you went to Neverland and let Beauregard take over! And what do you mean, not telling me that we're in danger? Am I not enough of a friend to know that?”

Kim looked stricken. “I'm sorry, Grace, Beauregard said I couldn't tell anyone until Sam was with us! I have to do things his way, or I'm afraid he'll go away and I won't have him to guide me anymore!”

“But you should have...”

“Mom!” Sam said. “Enough! I'm gonna find this guy and stop him, so don't worry about it! Alright?”

Grace sat back down and looked abashed. “You're right, Sam, and I'm sorry, Kim. I know Sam will do all he can.”

Kim looked at Sam. “You met Beauregard?” she asked.

Sam nodded, too weary to try to argue the point. “I guess so,” he said. “I wish he'd be more help, but I guess I should be grateful for what I can get.”

“What you need to understand, Sam,” Kim said, “is that Beauregard can't see all the little details. He gets flashes, I guess is how to say it. I know he wishes he could tell you more, but he can't.”

“It's okay, Kim,” Sam said. “I've got some clues, and everything helps.” He sat there for a moment, and then took out his phone and looked at the time. It was almost three thirty, and the band was scheduled to play again that night at the Casino from eight until midnight. He thought about how to handle things, and an idea hit him. He couldn't involve police, but there was one source of help he was willing to bet the killer didn't know about, so he took out his phone and dialed Harry Winslow's private cell number.

Harry was an aging secret agent. After years with the CIA, he'd been moved over to Homeland Security sometime after 9/11, and for the past couple of years, he'd been working undercover in Denver, running a drug ring because that was one of the most popular ways for terrorists to get money and weapons into the country. When Sam had stumbled across Harry’s operation on his very first case, he had thought Harry was the bad guy, but when he found out the truth, the two of them had fought side by side in a battle against almost a dozen professional assassins and won, capturing a high-ranking American agent who had gone rogue.

Then, when the terrorist plot had come up, Harry had recruited Sam because he was short-handed, and Sam had ended up saving the country again. Harry was still in deep cover, and Sam knew that even the local cops had no idea who he really was.

“Sam?” Harry answered in his old southern drawl. “I'm going to guess that you're not calling to invite me over for a barbecue, so what can I do for you?”

“Harry, do you remember Beauregard?”

“As if I could forget,” the old man said. “And incidentally, when you see Kim again, you can tell her that he was right once more. I was told unofficially this morning that I'm being promoted. Uncle is bringing in new blood for the local operation, and I get to set up a whole new field office here, with actual agents and everything! No more undercover drug operation, isn't that wonderful?”

“Gee, Harry, does that mean you won't be calling me every time you get into trouble?”

Harry laughed. “Son, you can't get that lucky! Now, tell me what it is you need from your old buddy today?”

“Beauregard says the killer I'm after is likely to go after Mom or Kim if I fail to stop him,” Sam said. “Can you get me any kind of cover on them, invisible cover? Just in case?”

Harry was quiet for a moment. “I gather you don't want police involvement?”

“I don't dare,” Sam said. “This guy seems to know everything about me, including who I talk to there and what about. I need help that won't show up on his radar.”

“Sam, in the drug organization, we have enforcers, people who will do whatever they're told without question—but make no mistake, these are not good guys; they are criminals. I get their loyalty and obedience because of the money I pay and the fact that, old and decrepit as I am, I scare the hell out of them. I can put a few of them around your family, and I can personally assure you that they are as deadly as they come when it gets down to carrying out my orders. This is all unofficial, of course, and all they'll know is that the people they're protecting are people I care about who may be in danger from person or persons unknown. With your permission, I'll start setting it up right now, and I've got enough of them to put some on your wife and daughter, as well.”

“Do it,” Sam said, “and thank you.”

“Hey,” Harry quipped. “Gotta take care of my best secret agent, right? Where are the ladies now?”

“Right here at my kitchen table. Kenzie is down at the Mitchells' place; she'll be staying there again tonight.”

“Tell them not to look for my people. They won't see them, and if they did, it would probably give them nightmares.” The line went dead, the same way it always did when Harry was done talking.

Sam looked at the women at the table. “Harry's putting some people on to watch over you, and he says they're up to the job. If I miss, this guy won't get to any of you.” He looked at his wife. “And that includes you and Kenzie. He says you won't see them, but they'll be there.”

Grace smiled. “I just love that old man. If he were only ten years younger, I'd marry him!”

Sam smiled. Harry had survived a long time, through the Cold War, the start of the War on Terrorism, and almost all the way through the Obama Administration, but there was no way he'd live through a month under Grace's thumb. He made a note to remind Harry how lucky he was to be in his seventies.

“Indie and I have to go to the office for a bit,” he said, “so you guys just hang out here for a little while. Harry's people should be here soon, and then you can go. Are you coming to the show tonight?”

Indie stared at him. “Sam? You're going to the Casino tonight, with all this going on?”

He nodded. “I think it might shake our guy up a bit. If he thinks I'm cocky enough to go ahead and perform, then he might do something to expose himself. The first victim, this woman I've got to find, is scheduled to be killed at one AM, and we'll be off the stage at midnight. If we can figure out who this woman is, then I can get to the showdown in time. If we don't—well, then I may have to cancel at the last minute.”

They went to the office, and Sam showed Indie the note he'd found on his car.

“So, this woman works for someone who doesn't like you, another woman, if Beauregard is correct. How many women do you know who have assistants?”

“Darned if I know,” Sam said. “But Beauregard also said the woman she works for is someone I think is my friend, but really isn't. That sort of threw me, cause I can't think of who that could be. I have very few female friends, and I don't know that any of them have assistants. On top of that, I'd be willing to trust my life to just about any of the ones I can think of; this is a hard one.”

Indie stared at the note. “She knows you, but doesn't like you, and the woman you have to find works for her. Okay, let's start by listing all your female friends and what they do for a living.”

Sam sighed. “Okay, let's see,” he said. “Karen Parks, but her assistant is a guy named Brenner, so she's out...”

“I'm putting her down anyway, so we get a complete list.”

“Okay. Candy and Janice from the band, but I doubt either of them has an assistant for anything. Anita Mitchell, she's a housewife. Carol Spencer, the lawyer, I'm sure she has an assistant. Who else we got?”

The two of them sat and went through every female Sam could think of that he knew, but none of them, as far as he could tell, would fit the description he'd gotten from either the killer or from Beauregard. He listed every female cop, every female doctor, every female attorney, even every female bar manager he'd ever known, but still, he couldn't find one that he believed could fit the description of someone he thought of as a friend, but who didn't actually like him. Those he thought of as friends he was sure of, so he felt certain that he had to be missing something.

5

“What about people from your past?” Indie asked. “Maybe from when you were shot, like nurses, physical therapists, doctors?”

“Nurses don't usually have assistants,” Sam said, “and my doctors and physical therapists were all male. My gut says this is someone I've met recently, but I don't know who it could be. A woman who doesn't like m, but who I think of as a friend. I can't think who it can be, I really can't.”

Indie rubbed her eyes. “Okay, let's try another angle,” she said. “What about women you only know socially? Who would you think of as a friend, who might have an assistant?”

“Babe, I haven't had a social life in almost a year...” He trailed off suddenly. “Wait a minute—before I met you, I dated a few women, none of them more than once. I'm trying to remember—no, none of them would fit. I don't think of them as friends, and I'm pretty sure none of them had any sort of assistant.” He shook his head. “Geez, I'm drawing a blank, and someone's life is at stake. This isn't good!”

“Yeah, well, don't forget that, according to Beauregard, your life is at risk here, too. If you find this woman, you're going to be in danger somehow, and Sam Prichard, I do not want you getting yourself killed! Remember that you promised Kenzie you wouldn't get shot again! She'll be so mad if you do...”

Sam realized that Indie was crying, suddenly, and he reached out and pulled her into an embrace. He just held her for a moment and let her regain her composure, whispering that he loved her, and would come home safe, no matter what.

“Sam,” she said, wiping her eyes and sitting up again, “think. We're running out of time; it's almost five already.”

He shook his head again. “I'm just at a loss. I can't think of any woman I know of that might fit. Heck, I don't even seem to know that many women, at all, now that we're going through them, do I?”

Indie was staring at the list on the pad in front of her, and shook her head. “Not really. What about—no, that wouldn't make sense. She hates your guts, for sure.”

Sam wrinkled his brow. “Who?”

“Well, I was thinking of Sheila Smith, but she's sitting in jail awaiting trial for murder, thanks to you, so I don't think you would think of her as a friend, and I doubt she has an assistant of any kind, now, anyway. It was a random thought.”

Sam was staring at her. “Something just hit me,” he said. “Beauregard said, 'surprisingly, it's a woman' that this woman I'm looking for works for.”

It was Indie's turn to look confused. “Yeah?”

“Who's the most surprising woman I know? And the last time I saw her, I could say it was on friendly terms.”

Indie stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head. “Sam, who? I got nothin', here, help me out.”

Sam smiled. “Bill Miller,” he said. “Remember, he's not actually a man, just lives as one because of his past, and a small genetic defect.”

Indie's eyes flew wide open. “Oh, good heavens,” she said, “you could be right. But does he have an assistant?”

“Only one way to find out, without scaring them off.” He took out his phone and called up a number, then dialed it on speaker so Indie could hear.

“You got Jimmy,” came the answer.

“Jimmy, it's Sam Prichard,” Sam said. “I need to ask you a question.”

“Sure, Sam, what do you need?”

“Jimmy, you know Bill Miller. Does he use an assistant for anything? A female assistant?”

Jimmy Smith was quiet for a moment, then said, “Well, yes, come to think of it, he does. Lady named Dora McCann. Why?”

“Just something I'm working on,” Sam said. “You ever talk to Bill about what happened to Barry?”

Once again there was a moment's hesitation. “Yeah, he called me one night not long after you got me out, and we talked. He was about half drunk, wanted to let the whole world know how much he hates us all. I know you know the score, what with him and the kid and all, but if you ask me, he was as much in love with Barry as anyone could be. Just never said so, and now he hates the whole world because Barry's gone.”

Sam sighed. “I'm sure he isn't too fond of me, then.”

Jimmy laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “You could say that,” he said. “You not only made him relive the worst night of his life, you took Barry's place with the band. He isn't likely to forgive either one of those.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Okay, thanks, Jimmy. Talk to you later.” Sam hung up and turned to Indie.

She was tapping keys on her computer, and Sam saw that she was on Facebook. “I'm checking Bill's Facebook, to see if Dora McCann might be on his friends there—and here she is.” She clicked on a link, and a new profile came up. The picture on the upper left was of a dark-haired woman in her early forties, and when they compared it to the unscrambled photo, they both agreed they'd found the intended victim.

“Okay, now what?” Indie asked. “If you go near her, Beauregard says you'll be in more danger than she's in. How are you gonna handle this one?”

“In the last note, he said if I identify this woman, he'll meet me at her home, and I'll get my chance to stop him. The way I read that, he wants me to meet him there at the time he set for the killing, which is one AM. He doesn't want cops involved; he wants a showdown between him and me. If I go to the police, he'll know it, and then he'll either go ahead and kill her, or if he can't, then he'll go after someone else, probably Mom or Kim. If I do things his way, I think the reason I'll be in more danger than her is because he'll be expecting me. What I've got to do is find a way to tip the odds in my favor, so he won't have the edge he thinks he's got.”

Indie stared. “And? I'm listening, Oh Great One, so what's the secret plan?”

“Know your enemy, and yourself,” Sam said. “That's the advice we got, remember? After going through so many cases, and dealing with this invisible man and his notes, I think I know him fairly well. He isn't out to shoot me down in a drive by, like he usually does; this time, he wants to face an opponent he feels is worthy of him, and right now he's thinking I'm that guy. He said he'd meet me at her home, and I'm sure he means tonight. I've got to keep that appointment.”

“Sam,” Indie said, “I'm scared. What about if you call Harry back and get some of his people to help, to go and be there before you show up? I've got her address, here...”

“If our guy sees anyone else there at all that he isn't expecting, he'll either go ahead and kill her, or bolt and declare himself the winner by forfeit. Then he'll start going after people I care about. I can't let that happen. I'm going, and I'm going alone.” He smiled and pulled her close for a kiss. “How about let's go make some dinner? We can invite Mom and Kim to stay and join us.”

Indie smiled, but it was weak. “If you get yourself killed, Sam Prichard, I'm going to tell Beauregard to make sure he haunts you forever.”

Sam looked stricken. “Oh, come on,” he said. “Being dead would be enough punishment, don't sic him on me, too!”

She managed a laugh, and they went to the kitchen. Grace and Kim were still sitting there. “Hey,” Indie said, “I'm making beef stew and noodles for dinner, you guys want to stay?”

“Sure,” Kim said. “We don't know when we can leave, anyway, and if Sam's gonna go and sing tonight, we thought we'd just tag along for that and stick with you.”

“That's a good idea,” Sam said. “We know who the victim is, and I'm going to meet the killer after the show. Keep your fingers crossed that it goes well, please.”

No one commented on the tears that Indie kept wiping away as she opened cans and boiled noodles.

* * * * *

When dinner was over, they all went to the living room and watched some TV for a bit, but Sam was anxious, so they left for the Casino a little early. Sam and Indie went in the Corvette, with Grace and Kim following in Grace's Cadillac. Indie would go with their mothers after the show, so Sam could keep his appointment. Sam had the Glock in its holster, and a second gun, a little thirty-two caliber that Harry had given him, tucked into the back of his jeans. He prayed that he wouldn't need them, and that the vest he was wearing would keep the audience from noticing that he was armed.

The band was getting their gear out when he and Indie got there, and he and Chris talked about the order of songs for the night, and some minor changes Chris wanted to make to a couple of them. Sam was agreeable, and then asked for a spot for an acoustic solo. Chris grinned.

“New song?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “Not a new one, but one I haven't done before.” He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Chris. “You might join in on backup, if you feel like it.”

Chris read through the lyrics and smiled. “Man, this is good stuff. We gotta work it in; let's bring it to rehearsal this week.” He looked at Sam. “So, how goes the hunt for the killer? Any luck?”

“Some, but I can't talk about it. I'll let you know tomorrow, if everything goes according to plan.”

Chris nodded. “Got all my fingers and toes crossed for you, Sam, and so do the others. We weren't sure you'd make it tonight; I'm glad you did.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I wasn't sure either, but I think it's best if I keep up appearances for now. Let's give 'em a show, right?”

Chris slapped him on the back and went to help set up. Sam, Indie, Grace, and Kim went inside, and he found the ladies a table not too far from the stage. Sam got a coke while they were waiting to get started.

“This isn't easy, you know,” Indie said, “sitting here and acting like everything's normal when I know you may be going out to get killed in a few hours.”

Sam took her hand. “Baby, I promise you, I'm coming home tonight. No matter what happens, I plan on coming home to you, alive and well.”

She sniffled, but managed a smile. “I'm gonna hold you to that one, Sam Prichard.”

“Good, because I mean it.” He kissed her cheek, and then he heard Chris calling his name, and went up to the stage.

It was time. The announcer introduced them, and Chris struck a chord on the guitar, and they launched into “I Got Married In The Elvis Room,” a fast-paced, funny song that got the audience up and dancing within seconds after it began.

The show was fun, and the crowd loved them even more than they had the night before. Sam saw several faces he recognized, but there were a lot more people in the place than there had been for their debut, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. The thought crossed his mind that the killer was probably out there in the crowd, somewhere, and he caught himself looking closely at the taller men in the big room, but none of them stood out to him. All of them seemed to be with someone, and he figured the killer for a loner. He couldn't see anyone that set the hairs on the back of his neck to standing up, so he hoped he was wrong.

They got through the first set and to their break, and Sam sat down at the table again. Indie seemed to be in a better mood, and he figured the music had a lot to do with that. He wondered how she'd react to the song he was going to do. It wasn't one she'd heard before, and it wasn't one of his lighthearted songs; this one spoke of heartache and lost love, and he couldn't help wondering if he was cursing himself, somehow, by singing it that night.

Too late now, he figured. He'd already gotten Chris excited about it, and Chris was like a bulldog; once he got his teeth into something, he didn't let go.

The break ended and he kissed Indie again, then got back up on the stage. Chris nodded and handed him an acoustic Yamaha, and he settled himself onto the stool he used when his hip got to bothering him too much.

“Okay, folks,” he said. “I'm gonna do one now that you haven’t heard before. This is one I wrote a while back, and I had it going through my head today, so I thought I'd dust it off and sing it. Hope you like it.”

He strummed the guitar, and played a few notes, then began to sing. (Click to listen)

Never been quite strong enough to take things as they come,

I just pretend they're better than they are,

So when I got back home today, and found the note that you left,

I told myself you wouldn't go too far,

You said that you were leavin', that you found somebody new,

And won't be comin' home tonight,

But I lie here and tell myself that it simply isn't true,

Thankin' God that my heart will let me lie,

So let me lie here and tell myself that you’re not really gone,

Let me tell myself you didn't say goodbye,

I don't wanna face the truth tonight, let me lie here in my dreams,

I know I'm lyin' to myself but let me lie,

Morning comes much later when you're sleepin' all alone,

And even later when you haven’t slept at all,

But the creakin' of the door tells me that it's time to face the dawn,

As our little girl comes down the hall,

When she asks me where her mommy is, my lies all disappear,

When I tell her that you've gone, she starts to cry,

But I promise you'll see her, with a whispered, silent prayer,

“This one time, please, God, don't let me lie!”

As I lie here and tell myself that you’re not really gone,

Let me tell myself you didn't say goodbye,

I don't wanna face the truth tonight, let me lie here in my dreams,

I know I'm lyin' to myself but let me lie,

Never been quite strong enough, to take things as they come…

There was a moment of silence in the room, and then the crowd erupted with applause. A few people rose to their feet, and then everyone else followed, in a standing ovation that made Sam blush with pride. He looked down at Indie, though, and saw a worried look on her face, and wondered again if he had somehow chosen the song as a way of saying goodbye. Maybe he subconsciously expected to die, he thought, but then he shook it off. He'd survived worse than this guy; he'd survive this, too.

A sudden thought hit him. Who, he wondered, could have known that Bill Miller was really a woman? Okay, granted, he wasn't actually a woman, he was a hermaphrodite, but someone who only knew part of the story—that he used to be Wilhelmina, and now lived as a man named Bill—might come to the wrong conclusion. As far as Sam knew, only he, Jimmy Smith and Barry's sister and her husband knew the truth about Bill, so he was dealing with someone who knew only part of the truth.

The band struck up the next song, and Sam had to put his thoughts into the back of his mind for the moment. He let it simmer there as he sang, and made it through one song at a time, but that thought kept nagging at him. Finally, between two songs, he got out a pen and a receipt he found in his vest pocket, wrote a quick note, and had a barmaid take it to Indie.

She read it, looked up at Sam and nodded, then took out her phone. He could see her talking on it, one finger plugging her open ear, as he and the band did “You've Made The Difference,” and when she hung up and looked at him, the expression on her face told him that she had the answer.

It was all he could do to finish the set, and when the show was over, he hurried down to her. She leaned close so that he could hear her but no one else could, and said, “I called Bill Miller like you said, and managed to convince him it was a life-or-death situation without giving any details. He says there's only one other person who knows he used to be a woman, but wouldn't know all the details, and that's his counselor. He goes to the counseling center at Caleb Porter's church, Sam.”

Sam froze and stared at her face. “Did he say who it was?” he asked.

“Yep! The man's name is Darrell Unger! And guess what else—he was gone on a mission to South America from September of twenty ten until December of twenty eleven!”

“Oh, dear God,” Sam said. “That explains the note at the church! But this is only circumstantial evidence, it'd never hold up. We can't get an arrest on this—I've got to play it out, but at least now I know who I'm dealing with.”

Indie shook her head. “Sam, please,” she said, “let the police handle it now. You don't have to do this, you know who it is...”

“Babe, we can't prove anything. Unless I can get proof, knowing is almost worthless. If I'm going to stop him, I have to catch him in the act.” He leaned down and kissed her quickly. “I've got to go, Babe, but I'll be home before you know it! Find Porter's number and call him, let him know that it's Unger, and tell him to be careful!”

He hurried out the door and to his car, glancing at the windshield but not seeing any more notes. He looked around the parking lot and saw that there were many cars leaving, so there would be no way to tell if one of them was following him as he left. He'd have to wait and see if he had a tail once he got on the street.

There was no one tailing him, he concluded a few minutes later, but then, why would there be? Darrell Unger, if he was the killer, would know where he was going and would be waiting there, somewhere out of sight, most likely. Sam would have to be careful, if he was going to keep his promise to come home.

It was a twenty-five minute drive to where Dora McCann lived, and Sam found the place with no problem. He parked the Corvette right in front of her house, killing the lights just before he pulled to the curb. The moon was pretty bright, so he didn't have the advantage of true darkness, but he wanted as little light as possible for this confrontation.

He sat in the car for a moment, letting his own eyes adjust to the lack of light, then stepped out carefully, looking around as he did so. The neighborhood was one that was designed like small-town America, with trees and hedgerows all around. There were a million places where someone could hide, and Sam didn't have a clue where to look. He moved slowly toward the house, up the walkway that led to the front door.

There were no lights on inside, and Sam hoped they didn't have motion sensor lights set up outside, or he'd suddenly find himself in a spotlight that would probably get him killed. He hadn't told Indie, but he felt that the killer had actually chosen to play the game in order to make Sam his next victim. He was desperately hoping and praying that he could outwit a murderer who had been getting away with his crimes for a decade and a half.

He didn't have any delusions, though; Sam knew he was literally walking into a death trap, and that the odds of his survival were against him.

When he reached the front of the house, and his heart sank. It was only twenty ‘til one in the morning, and he should be in plenty of time, but he could see that the front door was standing partly open. He thought quickly; the last note had said that the killer would meet him at the victim's home, so Sam carefully pushed the door further and peered inside.

He could see the living room, though it was dark. There didn't seem to be anyone there, and he walked inside carefully, drawing the Glock as he did so. He held it out in front of him, the way he'd been trained to do at the Academy, as he moved further into the house.

The living room was clear. There were two doors leading out of it, one to the kitchen, and one to a hallway. He checked the kitchen first, cleared it, and saw that the back door was still closed and locked securely with a deadbolt. No one would be coming in that way without making a lot of noise, he knew, so he went back to the hall. There was a bathroom straight ahead, and he saw two doors to the right and one to the left. The one by itself would almost certainly be the Master Bedroom, so he went toward it.

The door was open just an inch, and he got to the far side of the door quickly, then used his toe to push it a bit further. A glance inside showed him Dora McCann laying in the bed, wide awake and staring at something out of his line of vision. He knew she had to be looking down the barrel of a gun.

“Unger?” he said in a normal tone of voice. “It's over, Unger. I found her like you wanted, so it's you and me now, right?”

A shot rang out, and a bullet came through the wall just to the side of his left shoulder. Sam rolled to his right, moving away from the door as rapidly as he could. He heard clicking sounds, and a moment later another shot came through next to his face, spraying his cheek with debris from the shattered wallboard. Sam rolled again, keeping as quiet as he could, but he knew it was only a matter of time before a bullet found him. The hall ended in a blank wall, and there was nowhere else to go.

He cursed himself for getting into an indefensible position. There was no cover, nothing to hide behind; he was exposed, and the only thing he could hope for was that Unger would come out into the hall, but he didn't expect it. He tried to put himself into the killer's mind, and thought about what he'd do next. As soon as the thought struck him, Sam rolled back toward the door, just in time to escape another shot that came through the wall right where he'd been crouched a split second before.

The killer had expected him to move toward the corner and get low, given him reasons to do so, and then tried to use it against him. Sam yelled, “Agh!” as loud as he could, doing his best to make it sound like a cry of pain and shock, all the while aiming his gun at the doorway. His gambit paid off, as a figure stepped out into the dark hallway, and Sam yelled, “Freeze and drop it!” The figure suddenly fell backward into the hall, and Sam was up instantly, his gun aimed down at the man's face.

It wasn't Unger. The man who lay there was a stranger, and his mouth was taped shut with duct tape, his hands bound behind his back. Sam realized his error too late, and turned to look into the room just as something struck him on the head, and he went down into darkness.

He woke to find Dora McCann kneeling over him, and the man he'd almost shot standing behind her. “Just hold still, Mister,” she said. “You got a nasty gash on the head, here, and I'm trying to clean it up a bit.” He felt her touching the throbbing monstrosity that used to be his head, and sat up, pushing her back.

“Where is he?” Sam asked.

“He's gone,” the man said. “He said to take care of you, and not to call the cops, or he'd come back and kill us.” The guy was obviously shaken. “Who the hell was he?”

Sam sighed. “Was he a tall guy? About six four?”

“Yes,” Dora said. “You called him Unger, right? Is that his name?”

Sam nodded. “As far as I know, that was almost certainly a man named Darrell Unger. He's also a serial killer, and he's been playing a game of cat and mouse with me for the past couple of days.” He touched the back of his head, and his fingers came away bloody. “Apparently he's winning, at the moment.”

“Well, what do we do now?” the man asked. “If I can't call the cops, what am I supposed to tell the insurance company about the bullet holes in the wall?”

Sam stared at him. “Don't worry,” he said, “you'll be talking to the police, and then you can call the insurance adjusters. I'm gonna call them now.” He took his phone out of his pocket, and dialed Karen Parks's cell number. She answered with a mumbled, “H'lo?”

“Karen, Sam Prichard. I know who the killer is, but he got away from me. I'm at 5122 West Hanshaw. I just stopped him from killing anyone, but he managed to knock me senseless in the bargain.”

“I'm awake,” she said. “Who is it?”

“I'm ninety percent sure it's a man named Darrell Unger, a counselor at Caleb Porter's church,” he said. “I'll give you the details when I see you, but you might want to put an APB out. He's probably gonna rabbit, now that he knows I know who he is.”

“I'm on it,” she said. “Stay put, I'm on the way.”

“I'll be here.” He cut the call, then dialed Indie.

“Sam?” she answered, sounding frantic.

“I'm okay,” he said, “and the McCanns are alright. Unger tricked me, though, knocked me out and got away. I just talked to Karen, and she's on the way out here. I'll be home after I deal with her. Everything alright there?”

She sighed. “It is now,” she said. “I got a look at what must be one of Harry's people as I got home, and he's right; I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley, but all he did was smile and nod. Sorta reminded me of that guy from The Green Mile, if you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, well, Harry would only send the best,” Sam said. “I guess Mom and Kim got home okay, too?”

“Yes, and your mother called to tell me there were two of them trailing her and Mom. She asked me if I thought she should call Harry and thank him, and I told her it could wait ‘til tomorrow.”

Sam smiled. “Good call,” he said, finally getting up off of the floor. He saw his gun lying there, and realized he'd fallen on it, so he picked it up. “I'll call when I get done here, Babe. Go on and get some sleep, I don't know how long I'll be.”

“Okay, Sam, I'll try. Love you, Babe!”

“Ditto,” Sam said, and hung up. He looked at the McCanns. “It just hit me—where are your kids?”

Dora looked at him sharply. “They're staying with friends for the weekend. Why?”

Sam smiled. “I just realized they hadn’t come screaming out of their rooms when the shooting started, is all, so I wanted to be sure they were safe. I'm glad they weren't here to go through this.”

“Yes,” Dora said. “So am I. Now, would you mind telling me what it's all about? How did you know to come here? I mean, we woke up to find this man standing over us with a gun, telling us to be quiet, and then he made poor Richard get up and taped his hands and his mouth—Lord, we thought he was going to kill us!”

She'd led Sam and her husband into the living room, and offered Sam a seat on the couch, but he shook his head and motioned for them to be quiet for a moment. He walked through the house, checking every room, before coming back and sitting.

“Well,” he said, “I got a note given to me a couple nights ago, from someone who claimed to be a serial killer. He said he had chosen three victims, and wanted me to figure out who they were before he could kill them. You were number three, I'm afraid. He had told me if I let the cops know about you, he'd kill you for sure, but if I met him here, he'd let you go. I was actually hoping I'd get to catch the bastard, though.”

“But if you know who he is, why didn't you just pick him up? Aren't you the police?”

“Oh, no, Ma'am,” Sam said. “I used to be, but now I'm a private investigator.” He took out his ID and showed it to them. “Sam Prichard,” he said. “The police are on the way here now.”

A car's headlights shined into the room as he said it, and a second later, the red and blue flashers of a cruiser began playing across the walls. There was a knock, and when Richard yelled, “Come in,” two uniform officers looked inside, guns in their hands.

Sam held up his ID again. “It's clear as far as I know, fellows. Come on in.”

“Mr. Prichard?” one of them asked, and Sam nodded.

“Yeah, I'm Sam Prichard. Karen on the way?”

“Yes, sir, she should be here any minute. She told us to come on over and secure until she got here.”

6

Karen showed up a few minutes later and took over the investigation. She spoke with the McCanns, and then took Sam outside into the waning moonlight.

“Now, would you like to tell me what on earth is going on here? I get a call in the middle of the night saying that you've identified the killer you've been after in this mess, and that he's almost killed another victim but knocked you out, instead. Why wasn't I told about this, Sam?”

Sam took the note out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Because he seems to know everything I'm doing, who I talk to, even details about my cases that no one should be able to know. If I'd called you and he'd got wind of it, I'd be waiting for him to strike at my family by now. I couldn't chance it.”

She read the note. “Okay, I can see that,” she said. “I put an APB out on him, and officers went to his place to check on him there. You may be right about him, Sam, because he's not at home, but we've got a warrant to search his place on the way right now.”

“I'm pretty sure it's him,” Sam said. “According to Bill Miller, he was the only person who could have known a certain detail that was used to lure me here, without having all of the facts straight. And the pattern of killings that Indie found fits, because there was a year that no killings happened, and it matches the year he was gone on a religious mission. Add in the fact that everyone who's gotten any glimpse of the killer says he was extremely tall, and we've got enough to bring him in for questioning. He can't possibly have alibis for all of these murders, Karen.”

She nodded. “Well, if we find him, we'll definitely be asking the questions. The question right now, though, is where do we look? If he knows you've identified him, he isn’t going to go back home, and if he's after your family, now...”

“My family's covered, at least for now. I called in some favors from Uncle Sam, and you don't want to know the details, I promise, but worse yet, I couldn't tell you. Just rest assured that there are meaner people than Porter watching over my wife and family.”

She shook her head. “How am I supposed to write this up?” she asked, but walked away and back inside before he could answer. He followed and stood by while she finished up. She left shortly, saying she was done for the time being, but she made him promise to come by on Monday and make a full statement.

Sam headed for home. He was tired, he was frustrated, and he wished he'd never gotten into this mess. If Karen wanted to, she could have his license over not bringing her into this last part of the case, but he didn't think she'd be quite so vindictive. He'd done her a lot of favors in the past, and he knew he had just put himself on the hook for more in the future, but that was okay with him.

He was almost home when his phone rang, and he looked to see a number he didn't know.

“Hello?” he said, dread filling him.

“Hello, Mr. Prichard,” said Darrell Unger. “I've got to give you credit for figuring out who I am, and I'll even be honest and say I never expected that. I never thought you could do that. You're every bit as good as your reputation says you are.”

“Then why did you back out of our deal? We were supposed to meet at McCann's place, remember? You tried to kill me; that wasn't part of the plan, the last I knew.”

“Actually, that was just my reaction to you calling out my name, Sam—may I call you Sam? We know each other fairly well, now, I think, don't you?”

Sam sighed. “Where are you, Darrell? Let's bring this to an end. I've given everything to the police, and it's just a matter of time before they find you. When they do, it could be bad; let me bring you in peacefully.”

“Sam, I want to, I really do,” Unger said. “I know you won't understand this, but I really do want this to end. The trouble is that I can't seem to stop on my own, and when I try, things—well, they don't go the way I intend them to go. I've been doing this for so long, it's just not that easy to stop. I thought, you know, when I went away, that would be the end of it. Especially after I found Jesus, I was so sure I'd be free of this demon, but then I slipped, and gave in to the temptation just once, and that was that. I was hooked all over again.”

Sam shook his head in frustration. “Then let's end it, you and me. Tell me where you are, and I'll come right now. I'll take you in, and no one has to get hurt. Maybe you can run a mission in prison.”

There was silence on the line for a minute, and then it was Porter's turn to sigh. “Maybe so—but it's not that easy for me, Sam. I can't just give up; that's why I wanted you to catch me. If you can't do that, then I don't know what to do, now.” More silence. Sam was about to ask if he was still there, when he spoke again. “How about this, Sam? One more round to our game? I'll give you one more chance to stop me, but we'll raise the stakes a bit. I've already been to your mother's place, she was going to be my next—but you've got people watching them, and I bet you're surprised I saw them, aren't you?”

Sam caught his breath. “A little, yeah,” he admitted.

“Well, I did. I knew guys like them in prison, and I can tell you, the ones I saw were enough to make me change my plans. I'm sure you've got them on all of your family, so I won't be trying that—let's see, who else could I pick?” He started humming the Jeopardy theme song, and Sam's skin started to crawl. “Okay,” Unger said suddenly, “I've got it. This one's for all the marbles, Sam, winner take all. Meet me tomorrow morning, eight AM, at the place where your life began, and it'll be just you and me.”

“The place where my life began? What is that supposed to mean? I was born in California...”

“Sam, think about it. Where did your life really begin? I'll see you there in the morning. If you figure it out and make it, we'll bring this to an end, one way or another, because only one of us will leave there alive. If not—well, then I guess I'll just move along and find somewhere else to go—but someone you do care about will be gone.”

“Come on, Darrell, where could you go? You've got warrants out for you, now, and you're not exactly all that hard to spot. It won't be long before you're caught.”

“Oh, Sam, don't worry about me. I know how to vanish if I want to, and being as I have this risky hobby, I've always had backup plans. I have a dozen different names and faces, and a bank account for each and every one of them. I'll be fine. Just be thinking about where your life began, and maybe I won't need any of them. Oh, and—once again, Sam, this stays between us. Just because I can't get to your family right now doesn't mean I never could, right?”

Sam shuddered as he heard a loud crack, and he knew the phone had been tossed out the window. A moment later, he heard what sounded like an engine getting closer and closer, and then it went dead. Where did my life begin? he asked himself. What on earth is that supposed to mean?

He drove on home and put the Vette into the garage, then went into the house and to his bedroom. There was a car in front of his house, and the man in it was every bit as big as Indie had said he was.

When he got inside, he saw that she was sleeping, so he was very quiet as he got undressed and into bed, but he was still awake three hours later when the sun came up, trying to think of where his life had begun.

* * * * *

Sam felt something soft on his face and smiled, then opened his eyes. What he had thought must be Indie, kissing him softly, turned out to be Samson the cat sniffing at his lips. He smiled when he saw Kenzie standing beside the bed, covering her mouth and trying not to laugh, then grabbed the cat gently and hugged him.

“Aw, Samson,” he said, “did you miss me?”

“I did!” Kenzie yelled, and then she jumped up onto the bed and threw herself onto him. He let go of the cat and caught his daughter, tickling her as she laughed and squealed, and then Indie jumped into the middle of it, and he started tickling her, too. Within seconds, he had both of them squealing and screeching in absolute delight, and he realized what a lucky man he really was.

He stopped the tickling and pulled them both into a hug, kissing each of them over and over. Indie sighed contentedly, but Kenzie kept on screaming for him to let her go, so at last he did.

The child sat up on the bed and looked at him. “Daddy!” she said scoldingly, “you tickle too much sometimes!”

“Oh, I do, do I?” he said, and reached for her again, and she fell into fits of laughter once again as he tickled her unmercifully. When he let go this time, she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a hug, and then asked, “Where did Samson go?” The cat had apparently decided to make an escape while the tickle-fest was going on, and she slid off the bed to go in search of him.

Indie lay down beside him and smiled. “She loves you,” she said, “and so do I. Good thing you came home safe, Mister, or I'd have had to kick some butt!”

Sam smiled and held her close. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Almost one in the afternoon,” she said. “Anita just brought Kenzie and Samson home a few minutes ago, and when I said you were sleeping, Kenzie said it was time for you to wake up. I couldn't think of a valid argument, so I followed her to see what happened. Now I'm glad I did.” She pulled his face down to hers for a kiss.

“Mmm,” he said, “me, too. Although I'm getting a little hungry; guess I missed breakfast, so what's for lunch?”

“It's Sunday,” Indie said. “We serve breakfast all day on Sundays, here. What do you want?”

He pursed his lips in thought. “Hmm, lemme see. How about steak and eggs, with hash browns and toast on the side? Maybe some grape jelly?”

Indie kissed him again. “It'll be cooking when you get out of the shower,” she said. “You stink, you're all sweaty.” She wrinkled her nose to emphasize her point.

“Yeah, well, you try standing on a stage and singing under hot spotlights, then chasing a lunatic killer, and see how you smell!”

Indie's face went dark. “So, how did it go with Karen?”

“She's pissed at me for not letting her in on it, but when I showed her the note, she understood. They've got an APB out on Unger, but I don't know if they'll find him.” He told her about the phone call he'd gotten, and she rolled onto her back.

“Oh, God, Sam,” she said. “I thought this would be over by now. What's that supposed to mean, 'where your life began?' He's crazy. Let the cops have it, please?”

“Honey, I don't know if I can. I can't even figure out where he's talking about. I mean, 'where my life began’—I don't know what that's supposed to mean. It's like he knows stuff about me that I don't even know about myself. And like he said, just because he can't reach you right now...”

Indie just looked at him, then patted his arm. “You'll do whatever you have to do, I know that. I just want you safe. Get a shower, and I'll make your breakfast.” She rolled off the bed. “By the way, I did get ahold of Caleb Porter last night. He didn't want to believe me about Unger, but he agreed to be careful.” She turned and headed for the kitchen, with Sam's eyes glued to her pert behind until she was out of sight.

He got up and went to the shower, taking care of other bathroom necessities along the way. He was one of those guys who didn't take a long time in the shower, and he was in the kitchen before Indie even had the eggs in the skillet. A small T-bone was sizzling in another one, and the aroma was fantastic, so he got himself a cup of the coffee that was already on and sat down at the table.

He could hear Kenzie in the living room, singing along with one of the programs she'd found. He didn't know what it was, but the song was about Noah and the Ark, so he assumed it was one of the Sunday programs she liked. It made him smile to hear her it, and he whispered a little prayer of thanks for his family, as he often did.

He watched Indie cooking, one of his favorite pastimes, and grinned when she looked around once and caught him. As she usually did, she said, “What?”

Sam replied, as he always did in these moments, “Just enjoying the view, Babe.” Indie blushed, and Sam chuckled. “I'm planning to enjoy it a lot closer later tonight,” he added, and she turned even redder.

Indie had eaten a little earlier, but she made herself another egg and some toast, and sat down to join him as he ate. She smiled at him when he moaned in delight at the flavor of the steak.

“I'm glad you like my cooking, Mr. Prichard,” she said, and he nodded emphatically. “Good,” she added, “because you’re stuck with me! I've got a piece of paper that says you can't get rid of me, no matter what!” She pointed to where she had hung their framed marriage license on the wall over the table. “That's why I hung it up there, so you'd never be able to forget it!”

Sam smiled. “Baby, trust me, I could never forget! That was the most wonderful day of my life.”

They looked at each other, both of them having the same thought at the same time. “Sam,” Indie said first, “could that be what he meant? Your 'current' life—could he be talking about our wedding?”

Sam sat there for a moment, thinking, and then his eyes lit up. “I don't think so, but we're on the right track. My 'current' life began when I was shot, and lost my job as a cop, I think. If that's it, then it would be back where that happened, that warehouse downtown.”

Indie was quiet for a long moment. “I don't like it, Sam, I don't like the idea of you going in alone to face this guy. We know he's a killer, and a deadly shot, and now he's not even bothering with the 'one shot, one kill' idea; I'm scared, Sam.”

He started to smile, but then decided she deserved his honesty. “So am I, Babe,” he said. “But I'm more scared of him getting away. If he does, we'll never be free of him. We'll always be looking over our shoulders, and we can't keep bodyguards around every day for the next twenty years or so. I've got to go and face him, Babe, but we'll do it my way, this time.”

She looked into his eyes. “What's your way?” she asked.

Sam smiled, then. “This time, just as I go in, I'm gonna call Karen and let her know where I am and what's going on. That way, he can't escape; they can surround the building quietly while he and I are inside, and then announce. Between us, we can take him down.”

She nodded, clearly not satisfied, but happier than she had been before. She rubbed her arms as she sat there looking at him. “Whatever makes it so you come home to us, that's all I want. Okay?”

“I'll come home, Baby. I've got way too much to live for, and I can't imagine God would give me such wonderful gifts as you and Kenzie, and then let anything permanent happen to me.”

She leaned over and kissed him, and Kenzie chose that moment to come running into the room. “Mommy, Daddy, you gotta come see! You gotta come see what Samson can do!”

They both got up from the table and followed Kenzie into the living room, where they found the cat perched on top of the long curtain that hung over the picture window. He seemed quite proud of himself for being there, but a bit confused as to how to get back down, and Sam and Indie both laughed as Samson meowed at them in what was easily translated as, “Help!”

Sam reached up and got hold of him by the scruff of his neck and brought him down, taking a moment to hold him and rub his ears. The cat snuggled into him and began to purr.

“Samson,” he said. “You've just learned a valuable lesson. Sometimes, no matter how tough we think we are, we need help to get out of a bad situation. Now, if you're as smart as you think you are, you'll remember that and stay off the curtains!”

“And if he's as silly as I know he is,” Indie said, “then he'll be right back up there in about ten minutes, whining for you to come help him down.”

Sam smiled. “Maybe,” he said. “But he'll learn. Cats are like people that way; they eventually do learn from their mistakes.” He handed the cat back to the little girl. “Here, Sweetie, try to keep him down off the curtains, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, but Sam had a hunch he'd be rescuing the cat again before long. He and Indie went to the kitchen and sat down at the table again.

Indie looked at him for a moment, and then said, “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

Sam smiled. “I know how much I love you, and that's all I can think about.”

She smiled back, but it didn't last long. “So, you think it's the warehouse he's talking about, then?”

“I do,” Sam said, “but I wish I could figure out how he knows so much. It's like he knows everything about me, and I can't imagine how anyone could know so much, when I'd never met him before yesterday.”

Indie shrugged. “There's been a lot about you in the newspapers, lately. Some of the stories might have mentioned you getting wounded that day, how that's what led to you becoming a PI.”

“Maybe,” Sam agreed. “Still, he knows who I talk to, where I go, even when I talk to the cops. Could he be bugging my phone?”

“I guess it's possible,” Indie said. “I know how to clone a phone, and then I can hear everything that goes through it. It's like picking up an extension, you can listen to both sides of a conversation.”

“I wonder if Unger would know how to do that.” Sam chewed his cheek for a moment, deep in thought. “There's still so much we don't know about this guy. I wonder what Herman can find on him?”

Indie shrugged. “Since we know who he is, I hadn't thought about it, but let's go see.” They got up and headed for the office after peeking in on Kenzie. The little girl and the cat were both on the couch, and both staring at the TV, where a cartoon cat was trying to catch a mouse that was smarter than he was.

“That's me,” Sam said as they walked through the hall to the office. “I'm the cat, and Unger is a really big mouse.”

“Then we need to build a better mousetrap,” Indie said. “I want this guy caught, and fast.”

“Ditto,” Sam said as they sat down at her desk. “So, where do we start?”

“Well, we'd made some notes when we were trying to figure him out. We decided he must have money, and someplace where he could practice his drive-by shooting skills. Let's see if any of that fits Unger.” She tapped the keyboard for a moment, and then waited. A few seconds later, Herman went ding, and the screen began to fill up with links.

There were a few news stories about Darrell Unger, most of which talked about various philanthropic works he'd been involved in. He was definitely wealthy; his father had been one of the founders of a large company in Denver, and he still owned a substantial portion of it, even though he didn't work for it. His net worth was estimated at around forty-five million dollars, and he was known to be a generous benefactor to several local charities and hospitals.

Unger lived in a high-scale gated community, but in the links Herman had found, there were several references to other land holdings. One of them was a large section of land outside of the county, almost twenty thousand acres that he reportedly used as a private hunting preserve. Sam pointed at the screen. “If we had time, I'd bet I could go out there and find targets set up around a road. That would be where he'd practice his shooting. He might be out there now, laying low, but I doubt it; he's hiding someplace that no one would connect to him, you can bet on it.”

Indie nodded. “And look at this one,” she said, clicking another link. “He's known for his big appetite, and loves to visit different restaurants each day. Check the photo.”

Sam leaned in and looked, and saw a photo of Unger posing at the door of a well-known eatery, and instantly saw what Indie was getting at: he wore a pair of nice dress gloves on his hands, even though the picture was taken in early May, when it wouldn't have been very cold.

“No doubt this is our guy,” Sam said. “I just wish…

“Whoa!” Indie said suddenly. “Sam, look!” She pointed at the screen, and a news story.

The picture was of a woman, and was about fifteen years old. The caption under it read, “Louise Unger Victim of Shooting.” The story underneath it told more, and Sam began to read.

Police in Denver County are investigating the shooting death of Louise Unger, wife of local businessman Darrell Unger. Mrs. Unger was killed last night while riding a horse along Highway 83, not far from her home, and was apparently the victim of a random shooting. Police are searching for witnesses, and anyone with any information is urged to contact Sheriff's Office.

Darrell Unger was in Los Angeles at the time of his wife's death, police say, and was reached early this morning with the news. He flew home immediately to meet with his wife's family.

Mrs. Unger is survived by her husband; her mother, Diana Jacobs of Denver; and one brother, Daniel Jacobs, also of Denver. Funeral arrangements will be announced.

“Holy—Darrell Unger was Danny Jacobs's brother in law! I knew Danny'd had a sister who was murdered, that was why he joined the force, but I never knew anything about her. If he and Unger had stayed close...”

“Then that might explain how he knew so much about you, at least until...”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “until Danny got killed. But Danny knew a lot about me, and if they talked about any of it, he could have a fair amount of info about me in his head.” Sam sighed. “I think I'm right,” he said. “It's gotta be the warehouse. It's closed down, still; no one uses it for anything. It's where my old life ended, that’s for sure, so it could be said it's where my new life began. It's the perfect place for the endgame.”

Indie looked up at him. “Endgame?”

“The last moves, like in chess. When you're wrapping up the game, that's the endgame. That's what Unger's trying to do, play out the end of it. He wants to get killed, I think, or else kill the person he thinks is good enough to take him down.”

“You,” Indie said, staring at him.

“Me,” Sam answered. “That's why I'm changing the rules. If I let Karen know just as I go in, there won't be time for him to get away. I can keep him busy, while she and the police surround the place; then, when they come in, there won't be anywhere for him to go.”

She sat there and looked at him for another moment. “God, Sam, I hope you're right.”

They both jumped as Sam's phone rang. He looked to see that it was a call from Porter's church.

He touched the button to answer it on speaker. “Hello?” he said cautiously.

“Sam? This is Caleb Porter calling.”

Sam smiled into the phone. “Hey, Caleb,” he said. “How're you doing?”

Porter laughed, but it was tinged with irony. “Well, I've had better days. I wanted to call and thank you for having your wife call and warn me last night. When she said it was Darrell, I was rather disbelieving at first, I'm afraid, but the more I thought about it through the night, the more I came to accept it. Darrell's been a little odd the past week or so, and one of the things I remembered is that he made the comment just the other morning that none of us know how long we've got on this earth except for God and Death. I thought at the time that was a strange thing for a Christian to say, but if he's actually who you say he is, then he might see himself as Death for his victims, don't you think?”

Sam nodded. “I think you could be right. We know that he tends to use a single shot, as if he's proving to himself, or to someone, that he's so good at what he does that it's all he needs.”

“Yes, there's an article in the Sunday paper about the killings that are being linked to him. So many of them, I was just shocked. Darrell has always seemed one of the nicest men I've ever known. We just ordained him a Deacon a couple of months ago.”

“I knew he was a Deacon,” Sam said, “but I didn't know it was so recent. When he met me at the door of your church the other day, he mentioned that he was.”

“Well, it just goes to prove that we never know about people, do we? No matter how well we may think we know someone, we can't see what's in their hearts; only Jesus can do that. We can only pray for him, and of course, pray that he gets stopped before anyone else dies.”

“True,” Sam said.

“Listen, Sam, that was one reason I called, but the other is to invite you to come to church this evening. I was hoping you'd be there this morning, but when I didn't see you, I decided to call and ask again. I'll be preaching on Cain, who murdered his brother Abel; I think it's an appropriate premise for today, don't you?”

Sam glanced at Indie, and she nodded. “I think it's perfectly appropriate,” Sam said, “and I think you can count on us being there.”

They could hear the smile in Porter's voice. “That's wonderful, Sam, I'm looking forward to seeing you and meeting your family. Be sure to catch up with me, please?”

“Sure will,” Sam said. “We'll see you this evening.” He hung up the phone and put it away.

Indie smiled at him. “You okay with this? Going to church, I mean?”

Sam smiled and nodded. “I'm fine with it, Babe. Part of having a family is making sure they get everything they need, and I know you and I both believe in God, in Jesus. I think it's time we took Kenzie to church.”

Indie leaned back into him. “They have a special church service for kids, and I'm sure she'll like it. They start at six, so we probably should start getting ready a little early. You want to eat dinner before we go, or after?”

“Are you kidding? I just had breakfast a half hour ago, and it's almost two, now. I couldn't eat anything that soon, so I'll go for after. How about Kenzie, has she eaten?”

Indie nodded. “Breakfast and lunch down at Anita's, and I'll give her a snack before we go, to tide her over. She'll be fine.”

They went back into the main house and found Kenzie sitting on the living room floor, looking up at Samson on top of the curtain again. “Come on, Samson,” she was coaxing the cat. “Just jump, I'll catch you!”

Samson spotted Sam and Indie, and began meowing loudly. Sam sighed and reached up for the cat, who let himself be picked up again, and then handed him back to Kenzie.

“Okay,” he said, looking sideways at Indie, “maybe he isn't all that smart after all.”

7

Sam, Indie and Kenzie climbed out of the Ridgeline, their truck, in the front parking lot of the church, in an area labeled “Visitors.” Sam glanced at the big Chevy Tahoe that had followed them in, and nodded at the two big men who rode in it, but they just looked at him and sat there, parked a couple of spaces over from the Ridgeline. He shrugged and led his family into the church.

The place seemed different, this time, with people everywhere. Two gentlemen met them at the door and led them to the sanctuary, which was nicely built in what used to be one of the big assembly rooms, from when the building was a factory. It was large, capable of seating more than a thousand people, and even though they had gotten there a little early, there were many people already seated.

“I'm a little nervous,” Sam said to Indie as they dropped Kenzie off at the children's church in another large room. “I haven't actually been to a church service in several years. I think the last time was when Mom was dating a man who was a gospel singer, about ten years ago. They talked me into going one night to hear him sing. Man, what a voice!”

Indie smiled up at him. “Somebody famous?” she asked.

Sam shook his head. “Nope,” he said, “but he could sing! When he did Amazing Grace, it sent chills down your spine.”

“Hmm,” she said, still smiling. “Wonder how you'd sound on that one?”

“Maybe one day we'll find out,” Sam said. “I'll ask the band how they'd feel about it.”

They found seats near the back of the room and sat. Several people sitting close by came over and welcomed them, and a few of them recognized Sam's name. The new article that morning had mentioned his involvement in the case, and a couple of people seemed less glad to see him once they knew who he was, but most only said how awful they felt that their deacon was turning out to be such a man.

“I've known Darrell for four years,” said one man, “and I never would have thought he had it in him to harm a fly. You just never know about people, do you?”

“I'm afraid not,” Sam said. “I was a policeman for several years, and I never did get used to finding out what people are capable of.”

Someone began to play a bit on a piano, and everyone hurried to take their seats. A man came to the pulpit and smiled.

“Isn't it good to be in the house of the Lord tonight?” he asked,

A number of people called out, “Amen!”

The man picked up a book and said, “Our first song tonight will be number one seventy-two in the Blue Book, Blessed Assurance.”

The pianist began to play, and everyone began to sing.

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine,

Oh, what a foretaste of Glory Divine…

Sam and Indie sang along, reading the words not from a hymnal, but from a screen behind the pulpit, where a projector displayed the words for everyone to see. Sam glanced around to find that most of the people were doing likewise, though a few were holding books in their hands. They finished that song, and then two more, and then the offering plate was passed around. Sam put a fifty in it as he passed it to the person to his right.

After the offering, a young woman got up and sang Amazing Grace—Indie nudged Sam and grinned—and then Caleb Porter stepped up to the pulpit.

“So good to see you all this evening,” he said. “It's always good for my heart to know that people are here to listen to an old sinner, saved by Grace, share the Word of God, because guess what? Every preacher you'll ever see, every pastor you'll ever hear, everyone who stands up to preach the Gospel and teach the Word—every single one of us is a sinner saved by Grace.”

There were a few Amens from around the room, and Porter smiled. “Tonight, I'm going to tell you a story, a story from Scripture. It's actually a pretty short story; it's just sixteen verses long. It’s one that most people are familiar with, and you’ve most likely heard it dozens of times.

“It's a story about a murder, and yet—it's about a lot more than that. With the things that are happening in our community, nay, right within our very church, right now, I think this is a fitting message for tonight. I know that some of you are pretty upset about what's going on with our Deacon Unger, and the fact that we've learned something disturbing about him, but I think that God has allowed this to happen in our church so that we can learn something from it, and I believe He put it on my heart to bring this message tonight.

“The story is found in Genesis Chapter four, verses one through sixteen. It's the story of Cain and Abel, which I'm sure you've already figured out. I want to read it to you from Scripture, first. I'm not going to bother with the verse numbers, but we're starting with verse one, for those who want to follow along in your bibles.

“Now Adam knew Eve his wife, and she conceived and bore Cain, saying, "I have gotten a man with the help of the LORD." And again, she bore his brother Abel. Now Abel was a keeper of sheep, and Cain a tiller of the ground. In the course of time, Cain brought to the LORD an offering of the fruit of the ground, and Abel brought of the firstlings of his flock and of their fat portions. And the LORD had regard for Abel and his offering, but for Cain and his offering he had no regard. So Cain was very angry, and his countenance fell. The LORD said to Cain, 'Why are you angry, and why has your countenance fallen? If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is couching at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it.'

“Cain said to Abel his brother, 'Let us go out to the field.' And when they were in the field, Cain rose up against his brother Abel, and killed him.

“Then the LORD said to Cain, 'Where is Abel your brother?' He said, 'I do not know; am I my brother's keeper?' And the LORD said, 'What have you done? The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground. And now you are cursed from the ground, which has opened its mouth to receive your brother's blood from your hand. When you till the ground, it shall no longer yield to you its strength; you shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth.'

“Cain said to the LORD, 'My punishment is greater than I can bear. Behold, you have driven me this day away from the ground; and from your face I shall be hidden; and I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will slay me.' Then the LORD said to him, 'Not so! If any one slays Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.' And the LORD put a mark on Cain, lest any who came upon him should kill him.

“Then Cain went away from the presence of the LORD, and dwelt in the land of Nod, east of Eden.

“Now, even though this story does contain a murder, I want you to understand that it is not a story about the crime of murder. I think we need to be cautious not to let ourselves get sidetracked into talking about the right and wrong that pertains to murder. I’ve never murdered anyone, and I doubt that any of you have, either. If we're only going to talk about murder, then this story won't apply to you or me, and we can all go on home right now.

“I'd say this is more like a story about a person who, as we've just seen, became a murderer, but it's really a lot more than that. In truth, it's a story about God. That shouldn't be too big a surprise, since that’s what most of the Bible is: it's the story of God.

“But here's the kicker. Whether I like it or not, this is also a story about me. And whether you like it or not, my friends, it’s also a story about you.

“Let's look again at this story. Verse one says, Now Adam knew Eve his wife, and she conceived and bore Cain, saying, 'I have gotten a man with the help of the LORD.' And then Verse two: And again, she bore his brother Abel. Now Abel was a keeper of sheep, and Cain a tiller of the ground.

“The story begins pretty simply. We've got two brothers who are born, the very first brothers ever to be born in the whole world. Brothers. I guess it could just as easily have been sisters, but God tends to pick on the males. Throughout the Bible, we find stories about brothers, and brothers don’t always do very well in Scripture. It seems like they're always in some kind of conflict, especially in the book of Genesis. Think about Jacob and Esau, Isaac and Ishmael, Shem and Ham, even Joseph and his brothers.

“I guess it would be nice to be an only son, to have your Father’s affection all to yourself, but your brother is always right beside you, always there. As Christians, we are called upon to worship God, and to share His abiding, unlimited, unconditional love with our brothers. And that’s where the problems come in. You see, we can handle loving and worshiping God on our own, but that brother of ours? Sooner or later, your brother is the one who complicates things, because—get this—God loves Him just as much as He loves me. And if I'm going to be honest about it, then I might start to wonder if the Father loves him maybe just a little bit more than He loves me.

“Now, the brothers in this story have their differences, as most brothers do: one of them is a shepherd, and one's a farmer. In this country, it wouldn't be hard to make this a story about the struggles of race, or of social classes. But that’s not what this story is about.

“These brothers are close; they may even have been twins. Note that the passage says Eve conceived Cain, and bore him, but there is no mention of conceiving Abel; it only says that she also bore him. Whether or not they were twins isn't important, though; it's only important that they were brothers.

“Verse three: In the course of time Cain brought to the LORD an offering of the fruit of the ground. And Verse four: and Abel brought of the firstlings of his flock and of their fat portions. And the LORD had regard for Abel and his offering. And Verse five: but for Cain and his offering he had no regard. So Cain was very angry, and his countenance fell.

“Both of the brothers brought offerings to lay before God. Both of them bring what they've got. What they're doing is acknowledging that God is the One Who gives both the crops and the livestock. They have both come to do as they ought to do, to worship God. When they get there, to whatever they might have used for an altar, God accepts Abel’s offering.

“But he rejects Cain’s. From the rest of this story, we can see that Cain was angry! He was jealous, because God favored his brother over him! Cain was the eldest, and in all of the Old Testament, we learn that the eldest is the one with the Birthright, he's the one who inherits the larger share, he's the one who becomes head of the family or the clan when his father passes away.

“And yet, in this story, God rejected the elder, and favored the younger. In his anger, Cain did the unthinkable; he rose up and murdered his own brother! He committed a sin, and then, when God confronted him about it, he even tried to lie his way out of it! He actually tried to convince God that he didn't know what God was talking about!”

Porter closed the Bible in front of him. “I wonder how many here have ever tried to lie our way out of something with our parents.” He raised his own hand. “I know I did, anyone else?”

Sam looked around the room and saw several hands go up, then looked at Indie and grinned as he raised his own. A second later, he saw her raise her own, and she grinned back.

“Of course we did! We were children, and like children, we knew that if Momma or Poppa found out for sure what we'd done, we were going to get a whoopin'! An Amen'll fit there!”

A dozen people called out, “Amen, Preacher!”

“Now—I wonder how many of us have tried to do what Cain did, and lie our way out of it with God? Ever have those thoughts going through the back of your mind, the ones that say, 'well, it wasn't my fault,' or 'I don't know what made me do that, but I couldn't help it,' any of those things? Sure you have, we all have; that's Satan's best trick, his ability to get us to convince ourselves that the sin we commit isn't our fault at all! When we believe that lie, then it's hard for us to accept that we've done wrong, and so we're reluctant to confess that sin to God, to ask forgiveness—and if we don't, then Satan's won. He's gotten us to put the biggest wall up between us and God that we can, just by refusing to accept our guilt and acknowledge our responsibility, and accept the free gift of forgiveness that God gave us when His Son died on that cross in our place.

“See? I told you the story wasn't really about murder. It's about the refusal of human nature to accept responsibility for our own actions, about our natural desire to avoid guilt, even if it means we pass up the free forgiveness that God has offered to each and every one of us.”

He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. “Today, we're all saddened, because one of our number has been found out as a murderer. There is enough evidence now to make it certain that he's been committing these atrocious crimes for many years, and has only now been found out. He was discovered by the work of a man I consider a local hero, because he challenged that man to stop him, and he's well on his way to doing just that, I believe. And I also believe that the reason he made that challenge is because he reached a point of knowing he could no longer lie to God, and say, 'this isn’t my fault.' He has reached a point of knowing that what he's doing is wrong, and I believe that the Holy Spirit has convicted him with the desire to make it stop, to make it end!

“But don't leave here tonight thinking, 'I'm just thankful that it was him, and not me.' Brothers and Sisters, God is not one to regard one sin as greater than another! If there is sin in your life, and you’re trying to lie your way out of it, if you're refusing that responsibility, then you are refusing the conviction of the Holy Spirit, and I would that you would come to realize that before it's too late! If you refuse this gift that God has offered, the alternative may be an eternity in Hell! Please don't...”

Sam yawned, and as he did, he turned his head and put a hand over his mouth politely, trying to hide the fact that he was yawning at all. If he had fought it off for another minute, it would have been too late. He happened to face the back of the church for just a second, and when he opened his eyes after the yawn, he was still looking at the back of the room, and there was a man there, a big, fat man, sitting all by himself.

Sam noticed he was pointing at the preacher, and then he realized that he wasn't pointing, he was aiming a gun…

Without thinking about what he was doing, Sam snatched a hymnal from the rack on the back of the pew in front of him and threw it at the man as hard as he could. It missed, but when it hit a woman in front of the fat man, it got his attention, and he turned to face Sam, and even through the mask and makeup, Sam knew it had to be Darrell Unger.

The woman screamed in surprise, and everyone turned to see what was going on, as Unger stood and aimed again at Porter, but Sam was on his feet and moving. “Unger!” he shouted, and suddenly people were up and on their feet, many of them running and screaming, and the two deacons who were sitting closest to Porter leaped up and grabbed him, shielding him with their own bodies. Unger turned and looked at Sam again, and raised his gun, the big single-shot pistol that Indie had suspected it to be, and he fired once and then turned and ran out the doors into the hallway. Sam ran as fast as he could, hobbling on his bad hip, but by the time he got to the hallway there was no sign of the killer.

Sam went back into the sanctuary to find Indie, and saw a crowd of people around where he'd been sitting, and a cold fist grabbed hold of his heart. He shoved his way in, and when he saw Indie lying on the pew they'd been sitting on, blood all around her head, he screamed, and then people were holding onto him, keeping him back. A man pushed past him, saying that he was a doctor, but Sam knew there would be no hope, and he wept, his sobs coming from somewhere so far down inside himself that he was having trouble even breathing.

He was pushed down onto a pew, and then someone was holding him and praying in his ear, and he vaguely realized that it was Reverend Porter holding him. How long they sat there, he didn't know; it must have been only minutes, but it seemed like hours later that paramedics were rushing in, and the crowd around Indie parted to let them through.

Sam tried to get up again, tried to go to her, but Porter and another man held him back, urging him to let the paramedics do their jobs, and he collapsed again in grief and resignation. He'd seen what Unger was capable of, he knew that a shot from that gun would be fatal, it had to be…

The paramedics had her on a stretcher, and they were wheeling her out, and Sam saw that her face wasn't covered. There was a mask over her face, and a lot of gauze wrapped around her head, and he felt the first glimmer of hope.

A man came to him and said that they were taking her to the hospital, and that he could ride along with her.

“I, um—I've got to get my daughter...”

“My wife is going to get her, Sam,” Porter said, “and we'll bring her to the hospital. You go with your wife, we'll be right there, I promise you. Go!”

Sam felt hands helping him up, and he followed the stretcher. One of the paramedics helped him into the ambulance after they got Indie inside it, and he sat there beside her, looking at her face. It was still covered with blood, and Sam began to wonder how he was going to tell Kenzie that Mommy was gone, how he would cope with her all alone.

They got to the hospital, and Indie was rushed into the ER. Someone led Sam to the desk, and somehow he managed to give them his insurance information, and then they put him into a small room to wait. Porter and his wife came in with Kenzie, and she crawled up onto his lap.

“Daddy? They said Mommy got hurt?” she asked, and Sam began to weep as he led her.

“Yeah,” he said. “There was a bad man at church, and he hurt Mommy. She's in with the doctors now, Sweetie.”

“Did she get shot like you did?”

Sam nodded. “Yes, Sweetheart, Mommy got shot. She's hurt pretty bad...”

“Mr. Prichard?” someone was saying, and he looked up into the face of a man he didn't know. “Mr. Prichard, your wife is going to be alright. She's been hurt, yes, but it's not life threatening. The bullet went across the side of her head, and she's bled a lot, but she'll be okay. I'm Doctor Elkhart, I'm a surgeon at the hospital, here, sir, and she's going to be fine. We just took her to get some X-rays, but from what we can tell, she's just been grazed and it knocked her out. She's awake, if you want to come and talk to her when she comes back. You can bring your daughter, too. Come on, I'll show you to her room.”

Sam stared at the doctor, but Kenzie was off his lap and tugging on his hand, so he got to his feet and followed. The doctor led them to a room off the ER, and Sam sat down in a chair to wait for Indie to be brought back from her X-rays, with Kenzie in his lap once again.

A moment later, a nurse wheeled Indie in, and Sam stared. She was sitting up on the bed, with the back of it raised, and her head wrapped in bandages and gauze. She was smiling, though he could tell they'd given her something potent for pain; her smile was lopsided, and when she saw Sam and Kenzie, she began to giggle and stretched out her arms.

Kenzie didn't hesitate; she was off Sam's lap as soon as the bed stopped moving, climbing up onto it beside her mother, and then Sam was on his feet and beside the bed. He looked down at her and a sense of peace and wonder came over him.

She'd survived. Somehow, Indie had survived the shot that had already killed dozens of people. Porter had told him that no one else had been injured, so the bullet had only grazed her head, and then must have ended up in a wall somewhere.

“Hey, Ba-a-aby,” Indie said, stretching it out flirtatiously. “They said I'm gonna be Ooooo-Kaaaay!”

Sam wept, but they were tears of happiness. He leaned down and wrapped her in his arms, and held her close, enfolding Kenzie into the family hug, as well.

“Oh, Indie,” he said. “I thought I'd lost you.”

“Hm-mm,” she said, “you can't get rid of me that easy! You're stuck with me, Buster!”

“Mommy,” Kenzie said, “you got shot!”

“I know,” Indie said to her, smiling. “Now I'm like Daddy, huh? I got shot!”

Sam couldn't stop the grin. He knew that when those painkillers wore off, Indie was going to be in an entirely different mood!

“I don't like it when you and Daddy get shot, Mommy!” Kenzie said seriously. “It's gotta stop!”

“I agree with Kenzie,” Sam said. “It's gotta stop.”

Doctor Elkhart was standing by and smiling at the exchange, but then he touched Sam on the elbow. “Just to bore you with the specifics, your wife has suffered a non-penetrating head wound, and while she did lose some blood, it's not enough to cause her any harm. The bullet clipped her just above her left ear, and in fact it entered the skin there and made a small tunnel under it, exiting the skin about an inch behind the ear. It didn't do any serious damage to anything other than skin and underlying tissues, although she's likely to have a mild headache for the next few days. I don't anticipate any kind of long-term effects.”

Sam nodded. “What about, like, medications and such?”

“Oh, I'll give her something for the pain, and she'll need antibiotics for about a week, just to make sure we fight off any infection the bullet might have carried along with it. Other than that headache, she should be able to get back to normal within a day or so, and even that should pass within three or four days.”

Sam thanked the doctor, who smiled and left them alone. He turned back to Indie, and said, “You hear that? He said I have to let you take it easy for a few days.”

“Ah, what does he know?” Indie said. “I'm ready to go home now, take me home and let's make dinner.”

Sam chuckled in spite of himself. “I don't think you're quite up to cooking yet, Babe,” he said.

There was a sound at the door, and Sam turned to find Karen Parks standing there. She crooked a finger at him and he nodded, holding up a finger to tell her he would be a minute, then turned back to Indie.

“Baby, the cops are here, and I've got to go and talk to them. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, “but gimme a kiss!”

Sam smiled and complied, kissing her gently on the lips. “Be right back,” he said, before heading out to where Karen was waiting. They walked down the hall a bit, to get away from the door.

“I heard she's gonna be alright?” Karen asked, and Sam nodded.

“Yeah. Doc said it just grazed the side of her head, knocked her out. God, Karen, there was so much blood, I thought he'd killed her for certain!”

“I can imagine,” she said. “Head wounds bleed like crazy, even when they aren't serious. The important thing is that she's going to be okay, Sam. Can you tell me what happened? We're getting statements out at the church, but I want to hear what you know.”

Sam nodded, and led her to a bench near the wall and they sat down. “We went to church; Porter called and invited us, and we decided to go. Everything was going along, and I—I think I yawned, and it made me look over to my right, and I saw a big man there, and at first I thought he was just pointing at the preacher, but then I saw the gun, and I knew it had to be Unger. He was dressed up like a big, fat man, and he had his face all done up to look fat, too. When I realized what was happening, I grabbed a book and threw it at him, but it hit a woman in front of him, and that got his attention. He saw me, and stood up and aimed again, but I was yelling and people started looking around and some of them were screaming, and he turned and pointed the gun at me and fired. I ducked, and it missed, and I took off after him, but he was faster than I was. By the time I got out of the room, he was gone, and I know he knows his way around there, so I'd never find him. I went back in to get Indie, and that's when I found out he'd hit her. Someone called paramedics, and then they brought us here. That's about it.”

She nodded. “You're sure it was Unger, though?”

“No doubt,” he said. “Single-shot pistol, big and tall; even with the fat suit, I knew it was him.”

“Sam, we searched his place. Unger's kept a journal of every killing, and there were a lot more of them than we thought. You only found the ones where he used the single-shot; there were others, some of them even more brutal than those; he liked to get up close and personal now and then, so some of our missing persons cases are being cleared up. This guy was a combination of John Allen Muhammad and Ted Bundy. He shot some from a distance, and some he abducted and took somewhere to kill them. I've had a cold case unit going over all the cases you sent us, and I don't know who's gonna get fired over it, but someone is. How so many obviously connected cases went undiscovered is beyond me, but thankfully, I didn't have any of them. He hadn't struck in my district for years, so they were all before my time in homicide.”

Sam shrugged. “He spread them out pretty well,” he said. “Unless all the different departments compared notes pretty often, they'd go down as isolated cases. Maybe it's time to set up a committee to do that sort of thing.”

“That's on the politicians, I'm just a cop,” she said. “All I want is to nail this bastard before he can add another notch to his gun. He's got way too many now. Where do we look for him, Sam? Any ideas?”

“He owns a lot of land,” Sam said, “but he called me last night and said he's got backup plans, always has. New identities, names, faces, bank accounts, everything. I don't think he's gonna go back to anything connected with his real life, so he's on the move.”

Karen looked at him. “He called you? When was I gonna hear about this phone call?”

Sam sighed. “He's got someone inside the force, Karen, and I think he's got someone in your section. He knows when I talk to you, and if you weren't alone, I'd have kept it secret even now. If you tell anyone, I'd have to say there's a good chance he'll know I've told you, and then he'll declare the game forfeit, and all bets are off.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “When he pointed the gun my way, Karen, I thought I was dead for sure, and when he missed I just thought I'd gotten lucky and someone had jostled his elbow at the last second. The truth was, he wasn't aiming for me, he was aiming at Indie, and he's a good enough shot that I have to wonder why she isn't dead. If he decides to come back after her, or Kenzie...”

Karen sat there in silence for a moment. “Chalk it up to God watching over her, Sam, and let it go. Now, tell me what else you haven't told me.”

Sam looked at her. “He wants me to meet him tomorrow morning, and he gave me a cryptic clue that says I'm to meet him where my life began. I'm guessing he means my current life, and the way I see it, it began when I was shot on my last Vice raid. Remember that one? You were new in homicide then; it was a warehouse downtown.”

“I remember,” she said, nodding. “I was called in because there were fatalities, but you'd been taken to the hospital by then. You think he wants to meet you there?”

“Yeah. Nine AM,” he said. “I was planning to call you just before I went inside and let you know, so you could surround the place and get him, even if he gets me.”

Karen nodded again. “Okay,” she said. “After this, I figure you're planning on going after him there, so I'll keep my mouth shut ‘til then, but at five minutes to nine, I'm rolling toward that warehouse, and we'll have it completely surrounded by five after. No one but me will know anything until I call it in at five ‘til. But, Sam—don't take stupid risks in there. I know you want revenge, right now, but that'll only cloud your judgment, and you'll get yourself killed. I don't want to charge him with another murder, and especially not yours, you got that?”

Sam grinned. “We're in agreement on that, Karen. I've got too much to live for.”

8

The doctors wanted to keep Indie overnight for observation, and though she protested, Sam put his foot down and she stayed. He called his mother to come and pick up Kenzie, which started a temper fit; Kenzie wanted to stay with her Mommy, but the nurse helped Sam explain that Mommy was going to be sleeping a lot because of the medicines they were giving her, and so she couldn't stay, anyway. When Grace and Kim showed up, followed by their rather ugly bodyguards, Kenzie had accepted it and was looking forward to the ice cream they had promised her. She was scheduled to start school in a few days, and her grandmothers were excited about the chance to spoil her rotten for a while before that.

Karen had stationed an officer outside Indie's room, just to make sure Unger didn't come to try to finish what he'd started. Sam left the hospital and was looking for a cab when the big Tahoe pulled up in front of him. One of the two men, both black, said, “Get in. We takin' you back to yo' car.” Sam looked at them for a moment, and then got into the back seat.

“We didn't expect no trouble in church, man,” the driver said. “We're sorry we wasn't there, and we didn't know what was goin' on when the fat man come out, or we'd have got him.”

Sam looked up. “Did you see what he was driving, by any chance?”

The other man nodded. “Green Caddy, all we know,” he said. “When we saw people come out screamin', I went in and saw what was goin' on, and Michael, here, he go after it, but it was empty just a couple streets down. Looked like he had another car stashed there, and switched out.”

“I asked a couple people did they see anything, but wasn't nobody there wanted to talk to me,” Michael said. “We don't talk to cops, but I told Old Man about it, and he got word to somebody who did. Maybe they find out what he's drivin' now.”

Sam nodded. “Maybe,” he said, “but thanks for trying. I mean that.”

“We doin' what we do, man,” said the passenger. “Old Man tell us he need a favor, he get it.” The rest of the ride was in silence, and Sam saw that police were still at the church when he got there. Since he'd already given Karen more than he should have, he got into the Ridgeline and drove away.

He had started toward his house, the Tahoe right behind him, when his phone rang. He looked to see a blocked number and answered.

“Prichard,” he said.

“Sam,” he heard Unger say, “I think you're a lot better than people say you are. How in the world did you know I was there?”

“Because I'm smarter than the average bear,” Sam said. “I didn't know it, actually, until I happened to look over just as you were aiming at Porter. Glad I stopped you, by the way, but now you've made this a lot more personal. You shot my wife, you son of a bitch!”

“Yeah? From what I hear, your wife's gonna be okay, so I guess God was taking care of both her and Porter, tonight. I don't usually miss a shot, but let's not talk about that. Let's talk about tomorrow morning. Are you going to show up alone?”

“I'll be there,” Sam said. “I got cornered by a cop from homicide, and had to tell her where, but I gave her the wrong time. We'll have an hour all to ourselves, you and me.”

Unger was silent for a moment, and then said, “I'm surprised at myself, but I actually believe you. I think you want this end game as much as I do, now. Then you've figured out where to go?”

“The old mattress warehouse, downtown, where I got shot on my last police case. That's where my life began, at least as I know it now. But make no mistake, Unger. You said this was for all the marbles, and I'm holding you to that. Only I'm upping the stakes a little higher—because only one of us comes out of there alive. Understood?”

Unger was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Sam—that's exactly what I want. I'll be waiting.” The phone went dead.

Sam drove on home, and once he had parked the Ridgeline in the driveway, he walked out to the two men in the Tahoe.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I think this will be over tomorrow, one way or another. For tonight, though, I don't need you here; but if you would, I'd appreciate it if you'd go back to the hospital and hang out near my wife's room. If someone who stands about six four tries to go near her, I would very greatly appreciate it if you would—change his mind.”

The passenger looked at Michael, who nodded. He turned back to Sam. “Any special way you want us to do that?” he asked.

Sam smiled. “I figure you can probably come up with more creative ideas on that than I can.”

The two men smiled back at Sam. “Sleep good, Mr. P,” the passenger said, and Michael put the truck in gear and drove away. Sam breathed a sigh of relief; if Unger tried to finish what he'd started, Sam had a feeling he'd miss their appointment in the morning. Those two looked like either one of them could take Death into a dark alley and convince him to find a new job.

He went inside, and the first thing that struck him was that the house seemed dead and empty. He had to make himself go up the stairs to Kenzie's room, just to reassure himself that the past few months had not been a dream, but then he went into his own room and felt Indie's presence there, and sat down on the bed. A moment later, he was joined by Samson, who jumped up to lay beside him and purr. Sam picked the cat up and held him in his lap, stroking his head.

He felt tears trying to come, but he knew that he needed to stay focused on the situation, keep his mind on what was going on in the morning, so he only sat there for a few minutes. He got up again and went to his closet; there was something stashed in there that no one knew about, something not even Dan Jacobs had known about, and he wanted it with him for the morning. He had to get a stool and stand on it to reach the place where he kept it tucked out of sight, in a hidden compartment he had built special just for this one thing. He slid the false piece of wallboard aside and reached into the hole behind it to withdraw a small box, then closed the hole and took the box to the bed. He sat down again and opened it.

Back in oh three, Sam had been nearing the end of his rookie year, and he was still holding on to his sense of honor and justice. He was a uniform cop, and was partnered with a female officer first class named Patricia Lincoln. Pat had been a great cop, with three years under her belt, and she'd taught him many things that stood him well over the years. She'd taught him how to trust his gut, and how to talk to the people on their beat; she'd even shown him that people weren't all that different, no matter how things might appear on the surface.

The one thing he hadn’t liked about her had been that she had become cynical. She felt that most people were good enough from day to day, but that under the right circumstances, everyone was a criminal with the capability of doing harm to his brother. She never trusted anyone but her partner, she told him, because everyone else would let you down. She kept a “hole gun” stashed in a throwaway holster on her leg, a gun she could throw down in the event she shot a perp who was unarmed, and often told Sam he should get one. He didn't want to, he said, because he'd never fire on someone who was unarmed. She would laugh and tell him he wasn't old enough to know the reality of life, yet, but that when he finally got there, he'd have a hole gun of his own. He'd smiled and thought she was wrong.

And then one night, when they responded to a domestic disturbance in a high crime neighborhood, they'd found themselves surrounded by locals who didn't want the abuser arrested, and when Pat had ordered them all to back off, a shot had rung out. Pat took a bullet to the chest, and before Sam could even react, the crowd was running in every direction. He saw the shooter, but didn't have a chance to pursue or even return fire with the mass of people in the way, so he'd called it in and tried to take care of his partner until help arrived.

“Sam,” she said in a fading whisper, “take my gun—hole gun...”

They had been her last words, and he'd slipped holster and all off her leg and into his pocket. He'd never seen her backup gun before, and was surprised to find that it was a little Glock 30-S forty-five.

A hole gun was one that wasn't registered, a gun that could be tossed aside when you shot someone who seemed to be a threat, and then learned that they were unarmed. Despite his protests to Pat, he actually had come to the point of carrying one, and when it came to it, he had dug out this little gun of hers and strapped it to his own ankle. He'd never had to use it as a throw-down, but he'd carried it, just in case the day ever came when he needed it. Better to bruise his conscience a bit than to have his career ruined because some perp's partner ran away with the gun that justified the use of deadly force. Sam had decided that having it and not needing it was better than needing it and not having it, so he'd begun to carry it about a year after Pat had died. He thought she'd have been pleased that it was her gun he carried.

The little gun had a magazine that was loaded with the same seven rounds she had put there twelve years earlier, and before he touched it, Sam slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. He worked the action a couple of times to make sure it hadn't suffered any dust, rust or corrosion that could jam it, then began to disassemble it. He cleaned the gun as if it was the one his life depended on, oiled the mechanism lightly, then put it back together quickly. He slid the magazine home, then wrapped it up in a piece of cloth and shoved it into the inner pocket of his leather vest. If it happened that Unger showed up without a weapon, Sam would use the unregistered gun to justify the bullet he planned to put into the man's brain, regardless. As he'd said, he only planned on one of them leaving alive, and he intended to make sure it was him if it was humanly possible to do so.

Sam looked down at his bed, thinking about Indie. He thought about that very morning, when he'd been awakened by Kenzie and Samson. He thought about what life would be like if he lost them, any of them, and then a rage began to build inside of him.

How dare this son of a bitch attack his wife? None of them were any part of his little game, and it infuriated Sam that this lunatic had dragged him into it so deeply that his mother and mother-in-law had to hide behind criminals. He feared for his wife's very survival and he was prepared to commit murder, if that's what it took to put Unger out of commission. So many disruptions in his life, and all because a sick man enjoyed killing innocent people, and was hoping that someone could stop him, were enough to make Sam pretty angry.

His phone rang, and he snatched it up to see who was calling. It was Karen Parks, and he answered quickly.

“Yeah?”

“Sam,” Karen said, “my officer at Indie's room says there are two very large men there saying that they intend to keep him company tonight, and that you sent them. Both of them are pretty well known to DPD, Sam, so I've got to ask you. Is this really necessary? We've got a police watch on her twenty-four and seven.”

Sam grinned. “Let's just say that I think those guys would be one heck of a lot more effective at stopping Unger than the rookie you told to sit there and watch her door all night. Let 'em stay. They won't cause any problems, but if Unger shows up there tonight, you and I can both sleep in tomorrow.”

She laughed sarcastically. “I couldn't,” she said. “They'd have me down there writing it all up. Fine, then, they can stay. See you tomorrow.” The call ended, and Sam let the phone fall into his lap.

Sam forced his anger back down. Emotion would get him killed; he had to go into this with his mind calm and focused. He got up from the bed and went into the living room, Samson right behind him. He set an alarm on his phone for six AM, just in case he was to doze off, and then sat down in his old recliner. Samson jumped up into his lap and paced around for a few seconds, then lay down and made himself at home.

Sam leaned the chair back, ready to just let himself rest for a while, and then the alarm was going off. He jumped up as if it were a burglar alarm rather than a wake-up, and Samson almost flew off of his lap in surprise, but then he realized that he'd somehow managed to fall asleep after all. It was six AM, and he rose to go to the bathroom. A quick shower made him feel a bit more alive, and a call to the nurse's station on Indie's floor told him that she'd had a good night, as well, but was still asleep. He thanked the nurse, and went to the kitchen to heat up a breakfast sandwich.

There was this niggling doubt in Sam's mind that kept insisting he was going to die. He had agreed to meet a known killer in a place where there would be ample hiding places and cover, and where he was sure his opponent would be hiding even before he arrived. He didn't really know the building, other than the small part he'd seen the day he was wounded, and he'd be willing to bet a fair amount of money that Unger knew it quite well; he'd probably studied it, preparing for just such a contingency as this.

Either way, it didn't matter. Sam was going in, and he had every intention of coming out alive—and alone. Unger was going to die, and Sam didn't care whether he had his single-shot pistol, an entire arsenal of weapons, or no weapon at all. There was no way Sam was going to take the chance that this son of a bitch was ever going to see the light of day again, and come back after him or his family. This wasn't about justice, not anymore; Unger had bought himself a death sentence by shooting Indie, and Sam was Judge, Jury, and Executioner.

The sandwich wasn't much, but Sam didn't want a big breakfast weighing him down, not this morning. He already had the disadvantage of his hip, so he wanted to be as light on his feet and as quick on his reflexes as he possibly could. Academy training had shown him that a light breakfast before any heavy activity was always best, and he'd never forgotten it.

He walked through his house and wondered if he would ever see it again. The living room where Kenzie played, with her toys scattered around it; the kitchen where they ate almost every meal, unless their mothers came over. He walked out to the office and looked at the desk where he and Indie had been sitting together less than twenty-four hours ago, when Caleb had called to invite them to church…

There was a page on the screen of Indie's computer, and Sam sat down and looked at it. It was a list of links, the kind of screen that Herman always displayed when Indie told him to search for information. He glanced at the top of the screen to see what the original query had been, and then a chill went down his spine. It read, “SEEK 'Indianhead Mattress Co.' AND 'Denver CO' AND 'Warehouse' AND 'Division Street' AND 'blueprints'.”

Indie had said that Herman had been doing things he shouldn't be capable of doing, and this looked like one of them, but at the moment Sam could only be grateful. He wouldn't have known how to find this kind of information, but hopefully, Indie's super-smart computer did.

Sam clicked the first link, and a set of building drawings came up on the screen. He had to think it through, recalling his few moments in the warehouse, but the drawings were definitely of the same building, and he began studying it.

Besides the eight big doors that were designed to let trucks be loaded and unloaded from the building, there were four other entrances. One went into the office area, and two went into the main warehouse—it was through one of those that he and other police and federal agents had entered the day he was shot—and one more opened from an alley into a workshop, where warehouse equipment would have been serviced and repaired.

Unger would have all of these doors covered. What Sam needed was to find another way in, a way that the killer would not be expecting. He studied the drawings carefully, and then realized that he was looking at only the ground floor. He clicked back, then clicked the second link on the page, and saw another set of drawings open up.

The building was only two stories tall, and this set of drawings showed the second floor. There were no actual doors leading out of this level, but Sam noted that there were two fire escapes attached to windows, the kind with counterweighted ladders that would slide down and lock when someone's weight was put on them. Neither was accessible from the ground, however, and he doubted there would be any way he could reach one of them. Even standing on top of his truck would not get him high enough, so he kept looking.

He clicked another link, this one showing the utility schematics of the building. He saw what appeared to be an isometric view, like a three-dimensional wire frame view used in Computer Drafting programs to let you see various features of a building in their actual locations within it. This view also covered the roof of the building, and Sam zoomed in when he saw a hatch drawn in that led into the air ducts. By following the duct work, he saw that if he could get in through that hatch, he could easily get into the employee break room that was on the second floor. The air duct there was large enough for him to crawl through, and the design showed that the vent was actually a maintenance hatch, a door that he could open from inside or out.

The only question would be how to get onto the roof. Sam glanced at the time and saw that it was nearly seven, and he knew he'd have to leave within the next couple of minutes. He looked at the computer for a moment, and then closed the windows that were open.

He'd seen Indie feed data into Herman many times, and he knew that if he clicked the little icon on her desktop that looked like a picture of a cartoon mouse, Herman's interface would open up. He didn't actually know how to use the program, but he clicked on it anyway.

A page opened up that had an input box dead center on it, and he let his fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment. What have I got to lose? he asked himself, and then he typed, “How do I get on top of the Indianhead Mattress Warehouse on Division Street in Denver CO without going through the building?”

Herman displayed a caricature of a mouse with a finger tapping its chin, as if thinking, and then there was a ding, and a list of links appeared. Sam clicked on the first one, and saw a bird's eye view of that block of Division street appear.

The warehouse was marked with its name, and Sam looked at the buildings on either side. One was an office building for an insurance company, and it rose at least seven stories. He doubted there would be a window that would open onto the roof of the warehouse next door, and he couldn't jump or climb down from its roof, so he went back and looked closely at the one on the other side.

This building wasn't as tall, only three stories, and belonged to a real estate brokerage that was out of business. Unlike the insurance building, it was not directly attached to the warehouse, and had actual windows facing the roof. The gap between the two buildings wasn't more than four feet, Sam guessed from the picture. He could make a jump like that, even with his bad leg.

That was his ticket in, he thought. If he could get into that building, which shouldn't be too hard since it was sitting empty, then he could get onto the roof of the warehouse and make his way in through the ducts. He said, “Thank you, Herman!” and hurried out through the house. He grabbed his vest on the way, patting it to make sure he'd put the little forty-five in the hidden pocket.

He didn't bother getting the Corvette out, but went straight to the Ridgeline and climbed in. He started it up and backed out of his driveway, then turned it toward downtown and floored the accelerator.

The drive took him all of twenty minutes, and he arrived at just before seven thirty. He had no doubt that Unger was almost certainly inside the warehouse already, and he saw no sign that Karen was jumping the gun on him, so he felt sure that the game was about to come to an end, one way or another. If Sam could kill Unger, it would be over for sure, but he felt in his heart that, if things went the other way, Unger would be satisfied with Sam's death, and wouldn't bother his family anymore. There wouldn't be any point to it, and Unger seemed to be about making a point.

Perhaps someday, some psychiatrist would investigate the case and find out what motivated all of Unger's previous killings, but all Sam cared about was bringing his murderous career to an end. If he failed at that, then he could at least die with the knowledge that he'd done what it took to protect his family.

He parked a half block away and got out, walking close to the buildings so that he wouldn't be visible from a window in the warehouse. The empty real estate office was just ahead on his left, and he reached it in less than a minute, then looked the front door over. It was a normal double glass door, like so many office buildings use, and it was chained shut from the inside. That meant that whoever had done it came out through another door, and he stayed close to the building as he approached the narrow gap between the office building and the warehouse, then slipped into it.

He followed it to the end, and found himself at the back of the building. There was a door there, a standard “back entrance” type with a single doorknob that had a keyhole in its center. Sam tried the knob, but it was locked, of course, so he looked around for something he could use to break it. There was a four-foot-long piece of steel bar lying there, probably something used to prop the door open at one time or another, but Sam only saw it as a pry bar. He picked it up and considered using it like a sword, to try to bust off the knob, but that might not get him in and would make a lot of noise. Instead, he braced one end of it against the doorframe, and laid the bar across the top of the knob, then put all of his weight on its outer end.

The knob popped off as if it were made of plastic, snapping the locking mechanism out with it. Sam looked into the hole and saw that all he had to do was use a finger to push the bolt aside, and then he was in the building.

It was dark inside, and he took out his phone to use as a light as he found the stairs that led up to the third floor. The higher he went, the lighter it got inside, as light from the second- and third-floor windows came in, and a moment later he found an office that overlooked the roof of the warehouse next door.

The gap between the two buildings seemed negligible in the photos, and when he was walking through it, but from up here, it looked a bit like the Grand Canyon. He checked the window and saw that it was a simple latch, then studied the roof next door for a moment before he slid it open. He was sure that Unger was not on the roof, but he'd bet the man was on the second floor somewhere, so he wanted to make as little noise as he could.

He looked quickly around the rooms close by and found a narrow table that was at least ten feet long, with legs that folded under a steel frame. He picked it up and carried it back to the window he'd opened, then began to slide it carefully out over the open space between the buildings. By keeping all of his weight on the end close to him, he was just barely able to make it reach the top of the other building, but it was sloping so badly that he was afraid it would fall as soon as he got onto it. He pulled it back far enough to unfold the legs on his end, then pushed it back through, and the legs acted like a hook to hold it in place.

It was ten minutes to eight. He took a deep breath, said a short prayer thanking God for the family he had and asking, if it was God's will, to be able to see them again when this was over, then climbed onto the table and let himself slide down it to the roof of the warehouse.

He landed without making any serious noise, and walked slowly and carefully to the hatch he'd seen in the drawings. It dawned on him then that it might be locked, but he'd come too far to worry about that at this point, so when he got to it and saw that there was no lock through its hasp, he said another prayer of thanks, then tugged carefully upward.

Luck, or perhaps it was God, was with him, because it swung up without making a sound. Sam looked down into the hole and saw a ladder, so he climbed over the edge and started down. When he got to the bottom, he was careful to keep his feet out near the sides of the shaft, where they'd get the best support and be least likely to make the metal of the duct flex and pop, then lowered himself to his hands and knees.

The duct ahead was dark, but there was a small amount of light some distance ahead. The break room had a window, he recalled, and so a little light must be coming in that way. He began crawling, and that's when he remembered that crawling was one of those activities his physical therapist had warned him not to do.

Oh, well, he thought, too late now! He started off toward that slight glimmer of light, moving as slowly and quietly as he possibly could, refusing to give in to the pain that wanted to make him groan out loud. It took him two minutes to crawl the fifty feet to the vent in the break room, and he stopped and listened for a full minute before he pushed the latch and opened it up so that he could slide out onto the floor.

He heard a sound and froze, then carefully drew his own Glock from its holster. The sound had come from downstairs, he thought, so he began to move quietly toward where he knew the stairs would be from the blueprints he'd studied. As he walked through the hallway, he heard the sound again.

What was that? he thought. It wasn't metallic, it almost sounded like something soft striking something hard, but not with a lot of force. It was rhythmic, too, a repetitive sound that was almost like a steady beat, as if it were somehow mechanical, but not quite.

He stepped onto the first step leading down, and his luck ran out as it creaked loudly. He froze, but a moment later, he heard Unger's voice.

“Well, Sam,” the killer called out. “Seems like you found a way in that I didn't anticipate. That's clever of you; maybe you really are the man I thought you were in the beginning.”

Sam listened, but didn't reply. The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere to his right down below. He made his way on down the stairs and then stopped at the bottom, out of sight, his gun held high and at the ready.

“C'mon, Sam,” Unger called. “This'll get boring if I'm the only one talking. Though I don't think you can find me just by the sound of my voice; this place has some amazing acoustics, sounds just echo all over the place.”

Sam heard the rhythmic sound again, and tried to place it, but it still wasn't familiar enough to identify. He waited to see if Unger would speak again; even if he couldn't positively locate the man from his voice, he hoped to at least get a sense of which direction he was in. At the moment, he seemed to be off to the right of the staircase.

“Sam, you're not playing,” Unger said, and this time there seemed to be a touch of anger in his voice. “The whole purpose of this little scenario is to find out which of us is the better man. The one that leaves alive, well, he's the winner. Speak up, Sam, let me know you’re really here.”

“I'm here,” Sam shouted, counting on the volume of his voice to make it echo and throw Unger off a bit. “So, how do you want to do this? Old-west shootout style? Meet in a hallway and draw on the count of three?”

Unger laughed. “Now you're getting into the spirit, Sam,” he said, and Sam caught a split-second direct sound before the echoes began to reverberate around the building. Unger was somewhere toward the front of the building, but still to the right, Sam was sure. “We could do it that way, but I think of what I do as more of a hunt, you know, a stalking of my prey. I don't choose my targets randomly, Sam; there's always a reason why I decide on one of them, did you know that?”

Sam hesitated. The more he talked to this madman, the greater the chance that Unger would find him first. If he didn't, though, there was always the chance that the killer would decide he wasn't playing and leave; go after Indie again, or Kenzie. He couldn't let that happen.

“I figured there was a reason for each one,” he said loudly, “but I hadn't been able to figure any of them out. You've got me on that score.”

Unger chuckled, and the eerie sound of the laugh worked its way through the whole first floor. Sam looked around and realized that he was just outside the very area where he'd been shot, and suddenly he knew that this was where the showdown would take place.

“Let me give you a lesson in the mind of a serial killer, Sam. You see, the profilers all think they can figure us out by watching our victims and looking for patterns like gender, age group, hair color and such, but there are so many other things that can draw us to a target. In my case, I go for people who offend me in one way or another. Some of them are women who refused my attentions; some are men who interfered in my business plans; some of them were just people who cut me off in traffic, but every single one of them offended me in some way.”

Sam shook his head; Unger had what he would consider a God complex, feeling that he had the right to life or death over people who did not do what he wanted them to do. “Sounds like a pretty flimsy reason to kill someone, Unger,” he said. “What about Porter? How did he offend you?”

“Caleb Porter offends me by his very existence!” Unger spat. “He goes away to prison, and then comes back all saved and preaching the gospel, and everyone welcomes him with open arms! What about the people he bilked for millions of dollars? All you hear about are the ones he paid back, but not everyone got theirs, did you know that? But Caleb, he's all forgiven, now, and he's been on TV over and over, and met governors and the president, and everyone points to him and says, see, rehabilitation works! One of these days, someone's gonna get to looking closely at the church's books, and I think you'll find that Caleb Porter isn't any different than he was before he went to prison!”

The rhythmic sound came again, and this time, Sam could tell that it was coming from within the warehouse room itself, right where he'd been shot. He had made it to one of the doors that led into the room, and there was a small window in it, so he carefully popped his head up and peeked through it.

There was a chair, right in the middle of the floor, and Sam was looking at it from the back. He could tell that there was someone in it, and for a split second he was ready to burst through the door and open fire, empty his clip into Unger, but then he froze. Unger wouldn't be sitting there, especially since he knew Sam was coming from upstairs. The only way to the warehouse from the stairway was through this hall, and the chair was perfectly positioned to have its back to the doors.

Whoever was in that chair was there as a bait, and Sam had almost fallen for it. His anger at Indie's shooting had almost made him take what was probably an innocent person's life, and Sam couldn't handle that thought.

On the other hand, he knew then that he and Unger were not alone in the building, and when he looked again, he realized that the rhythmic sound he'd been hearing all along was from who ever was in the chair, thumping the back of it with his or her own head. That told him that whoever it was knew he was coming, and had been trying to warn him of the deception. He looked one more time, taking a couple of seconds to try to take in the whole picture, and that's when he saw the shoes. They were small, very small, though they looked like a man's uniform black shoe. There was only one person he knew who wore shoes like that, and she'd also be the only one who would have known that Sam was coming to the warehouse that morning.

Unger had Karen Parks as a hostage.

9

Sam leaned against the wall, thinking hard. If Unger had Karen, then he had to have taken her in the early hours, probably as she was leaving to go to work. She was known for sleeping in, now and then, so it might be a few hours before anyone missed her, and since she'd never made it to work, she wouldn't be setting up the surrounding Sam had asked for, so there was no help coming. This left it all between him and Unger, and Karen's life was probably intended to be another stake in the pot.

Sam pushed the door open and stepped into the warehouse, looking around as he did so. There were no obvious hiding places, but he was sure Unger was watching him as he moved slowly and cautiously over to where Karen was tied to the big executive's chair. When he came into view, she gave him a look that was seething with anger, and he knew it was because he hadn't let her know the truth. If he had, they might have had a chance to nail Unger while he was setting up this trap, and at the least there would be people on her team who would have some idea of what must have happened to her.

He didn't have time to apologize, and doubted she'd listen to it if he did. He nodded to let her know he saw her there, and kept his eyes moving around the room.

“So, you decided to change the rules again? Why is Karen here? I thought this was supposed to be just you and me?”

“The game, Sam, the game is between you and me,” Unger said. “The prize, now, that's where Detective Parks comes in, and I'm afraid you put her into the pot when you told her about our little meeting this morning. I couldn't risk letting her get people around us, not even late, because that might tip the odds in your favor. If the game is going to be fair, Sam, it has to be fair to both sides, won't you agree with that?”

Sam reached towards Karen's face, intending to pull away the duct tape that covered her mouth. He was sure he wouldn't like what she had to say, but he thought she'd at least appreciate the gesture.

BOOM! A single shot echoed through the room, and a bullet struck the floor beside Sam's left foot. He hadn't seen the flash, but the sound had without doubt come from his right, and he spun to try to get a shot off.

There was no sign of Unger, nothing he could see that afforded him a target. He was about to turn back to Karen when Unger spoke again, but his voice came from farther away.

“No touchee, Sam,” Unger said. “Try to release her again, and she's dead. That's the only warning I'm giving you, got that? Now, move away from her, and let's get on with this.”

Sam moved away from Karen, looking in the direction he thought Unger's voice had come from. “You want to get on with it, fine,” he called out. “Step out and let's do it. Tell you what, I'll even up the odds a bit. Are you watching?” He thumbed the magazine release button on his pistol, and caught the mag with his other hand as it dropped out of the grip. “You've got one round in the chamber, and so do I. We can do this duel-style, if you want; step out here and we'll both fire on the count of three.” He slipped the magazine into the pocket of his vest as he spoke.

There was silence for a moment, and then Unger laughed again.

“Sam, you're something,” he said. “I didn't actually expect you to be willing to face me in a duel, and frankly, I'm not willing to face you in one. The game isn't going to be that simple, I'm afraid. What I've got in mind is a bit more suspenseful, a bit more exciting. After all, since this is going to be the end of one of us, we ought to get as much of a thrill from it as we possibly can, right?”

Sam heard a sound off to his left, and when he spun to look, he saw a door swinging shut. He stared at it, because Unger's voice was still coming from his right.

“Here's what I've got in mind, Sam. You come find me. If you can find me before I make my way back to where you are right now, then there's a good chance you can keep me from killing Detective Parks. If not, then she is going to die, and then—then I'll face you in that showdown. That is, provided you don't make a mistake while you're hunting me and give me the chance to take you down. In that case, I'll leave the Detective alive, you have my word on that. I'll even make an anonymous call to make sure someone finds her later today. Those are the rules of the game, Sam. Ready to play?”

Sam looked at Karen, and saw that most of the anger was gone from her eyes. He smiled at her, and her eyes tried to smile back.

He called out, “I'm ready, you sick son of a bitch! Let's play!”

The lights went out. Sam dived onto the floor to his right, rolling past the chair in which Karen was sitting, and coming to a stop on his knees with his gun aimed toward the door that he'd seen closing. Suddenly the lights came back on, and Sam was up and moving instantly, making his way toward that door. He got to it and looked carefully through the glass window before he pushed it open and went through it.

He was in another hallway, one that led toward the offices of the building. He could go either to his right, or to his left. If he went left, there was another hallway that went off of this one, making a right turn to go toward the very front of the building.

He went right, moving stealthily and watching each and every door he passed along the way. Most of them were open, so he looked inside quickly, then cleared each room, the way he'd been taught in the academy, before moving on to the next one.

He came to the last door and found it to be an entrance to another hallway. There were no lights on down this one, which made him wonder if Unger had gone the other way, but his gut was making him think this was the way to go, so he moved into it. He'd taken a few steps when he heard Unger's voice again, this time coming through the intercom system of the building.

“Very good, Sam,” Unger said. “You've got good instincts. You've got me cut off at the moment, but there are three ways out of this section, and unless you’re very lucky, you won't know which one I'll choose. One of them will lead me back to where the Detective is waiting to learn how good a player you are, but the other two will take me into other sections, where I'll have to work a little harder. Which way do you want to block, Sam? Let's see if you can figure out which one is the right one to give your friend a few more minutes of life.”

Sam stared around himself, trying desperately to remember the blueprints Herman had showed him an hour earlier, but all he could see was a short hall that led to a flight of steps. He started to turn away and head further down the hall when a feeling hit him, and he suddenly went to the stairs and looked up. There was no wall at the top of the stairs, and he realized that it would look straight down into the center of the warehouse, and right at where Karen was sitting. If he'd gone the other way, Unger could have gone right up those steps and fired once, and Karen Parks would be dead.

“Bravo!” Unger called. “Excellent move, Sam. Now I've got to take one of the other two ways, so you need to find out which one I choose. If you pick right, then you might get a shot at me; choose wrong, though, and I might get one at you. Your move, Sam!”

Sam heard a click as a door closed somewhere below him, and hurried back down the stairs. The click had seemed to come from his right, but he wasn't sure; the wall to his right might have created an echo reflection, throwing him off. He reached into his pants pocket and took out a coin, then flipped it down the hall to his left and listened as it hit the floor.

It echoed, reflecting off the wall to his right just as he'd thought. He turned to his left and moved as quickly as he could, coming to a pair of doors that were directly across from one another. The one to his left seemed to lead back to the center of the warehouse, but when he glanced through the window on it, he saw that it went into a room that had no other exits. He turned and went through the one on the right, ignoring the common sense that said it was leading him away from Karen.

He came to a hallway that crossed the one he was in, and stopped just short so he could snap his head around and look each way. He looked first to his left, and saw that it led straight to the equipment maintenance room he'd seen on the blueprints, so he looked right.

Unger was standing there, his big pistol aimed right at Sam, and it went off as Sam snatched his head back. The slug hit the wall beside him and sent shrapnel of drywall and wood flying at him, but he had ducked away just in time for it to miss the chance to do him any serious injury. He bounced back instantly into the hall and aimed his Glock, but Unger was gone, and this time there was only one way he could have turned. Sam hurried, limping as fast as he could, to the door he had to have gone through, and caught a glimpse of Unger moving through a door on the other side of the room.

Sam didn't follow, but instead turned and went back the way he'd come. His gambit paid off, as he saw Unger's shadow hit the floor in front of him. Sam raised the Glock and when the man himself ran across the hall, he fired, and heard Unger let out a shriek of pain as he fell forward.

Sam snatched the magazine out of his pocket and slammed it home, and then worked the slide to chamber another round. He dropped the magazine out again and put it back into his pocket, continuing the game with a single chambered round, but when he swung around the corner, he saw that Unger was up and gone.

There was a streak of fresh blood on the floor, though, so the shot had been good. He'd hit Unger, and like a wounded animal, the pain and blood loss should begin to slow him, make him erratic and less sensible.

Unfortunately, it could also make him even more dangerous. Sam hurried forward, peeking around the next corner that led toward the warehouse. When he saw no sign of Unger, he sped around it, still hobbling as quickly as his bad hip could bear.

He came to another intersection, looking around the corner again. There were drops of blood, here and there, some of them fairly large, which told Sam that he had hit a spot that had arterial blood; the larger spots were from the spurting that comes from the heart pumping and arterial constriction that aids in blood flow, while the smaller ones were drops that fell between spurts.

Unger was hurt, but the blood loss wasn't so great that it was likely to be fatal, or even debilitating. Sam could follow the trail, but Unger would be expecting him. He made sure to snap his head around every corner and look before stepping out.

“Unger,” he yelled, “you're hit. It's just a matter of time, now. See the big spots of blood? Those are arterial blood spurts, and they mean you're bleeding out, slowly. We both know you can't go and get medical help, so why not give up now? The cops would arrest you, but they'd have to take you to a doctor, too.”

Unger's voice came through the intercom again, and Sam realized he must be wearing a microphone and transmitter that he'd wired into it. “Sam, I'm not an idiot, and I don't appreciate being talked to as if I were one. I'm not bleeding so badly that I'm in any danger, so don't try to bluff me into a surrender. All you'll do with talk like that is piss me off.” He laughed, but there was a cough at the end of it, and Sam thought maybe he'd hit a lung. “Besides, we had a deal, remember? Only one of us leaves here alive? I'm moving in a pattern that will take me back to the Detective, Sam, and might even give me another shot at you. Are you ready?”

Sam sighed. “Bring it on, Unger. I'm ready to blow you away and get this over with.”

“Ah, bravado! I like that! Do you know, Sam, you are not the first I've hunted this way? I've played this game a half dozen times. I've chosen different people to bring into a similar scenario, gave them a gun and turned them loose, then hunted them down. It's far more satisfying than just stalking them, because they have the chance to fight back—though you're the first who has managed to wound me. Only one or two of the others ever even got a shot off, before I killed them. I'm nearing a passage that will let me get past you, if you’re not careful, Sam. Detective Parks will be so disappointed if you don't stop me, you know.”

Sam was trying to recall the blueprints, and he thought he knew the passage Unger was talking about. It would be part of the same one that the shooter who got him that day had come through, and Sam felt a small tremor go through him as he entered the hall that would lead him to it, but he didn't slow or hesitate. He moved into it and followed it to the end, where he hoped he might actually be a step ahead of the killer.

He looked around the corner and saw nothing but a windowless doorway at the end. There was no light, and he couldn't see any blood; he didn't know whether Unger was ahead of him, now, or behind him, and it was an important question. If he was ahead, Sam would be walking into a trap if he went through that door; if he was behind, then Sam would need to walk backwards as he went to it. Either way, he was exposed and vulnerable from one direction or the other.

He sighed and eased himself around the corner into the passage, then put his back against the wall and moved slowly along it as he approached the door. He kept his head moving, turning one way, then the other, watching for any sign of movement from either direction, ready to fire as soon as it came.

He's got me rubberneckin', Sam thought, almost laughing at the old term. He hadn’t actually heard it used in years, but whipping his head back and forth made him think of the old Elvis song, and he had to force himself not to laugh at the absurdity of even thinking of such things in a life-or-death situation like this one.

He took another step and his foot slipped; he looked down and could barely make out a smear that he was sure was blood. That meant Unger had made it through the door ahead of him, and would probably be waiting when he opened the door to step through. He moved silently across the passage to the other side, then got down low, crouching as far as he could without sending his hip into spasms of pain.

He reached out and put his hand on the door, then suddenly shoved it hard, throwing it open. As soon as it swung wide, a shot rang out, and he saw the flash of Unger's muzzle, so he fired back directly at it. He heard a loud thwack, and Unger screamed again, and Sam was up instantly, slamming the magazine into the gun and jacking the slide to chamber another round. This time he didn't even bother to drop the magazine out, but fired again in the same direction, then rushed through the doorway to where he expected to find Unger laying on the floor.

There was no one there, and Sam ducked quickly. Another shot came from off to his left, along the path that led back to the main area of the warehouse, but this time he didn't see anything. He stood up and went in the direction of the shot as fast as he could move, hoping with every step to trip over Unger's body, but when he got to the door at the end, the one that led back towards Karen, he still hadn't encountered an obstacle, so he threw it open and hurried through it.

Unger was limping ahead of him, loading his gun as he moved, and getting closer and closer to where Karen sat in the chair, still bound and unable to move. As Sam watched, Unger flipped the barrel up and raised the gun, aiming at Karen's head, and Sam pointed his gun and fired, pulling the trigger again and again until he saw Unger fall.

He hobbled closer, and saw that Unger was still breathing. The big man rolled onto his back, his gun still in his hand, and tried to raise it to aim at Sam, but he was hit in that arm as well as several times in his chest and back, and he didn't have the strength to lift it. He got his arm up a few inches, and then the gun fell from his fingers to the floor, and Sam kicked it away.

The big man lay there for a moment, then he looked up at Sam. “I guess—I guess you win,” he said. “Go ahead, then—finish the game.”

Sam looked down at him and aimed his gun at Unger's head. The killer stared right into his eyes, as Sam's finger tightened on the trigger. All he had to do was squeeze a little tighter, just another half ounce of pressure, and Unger would be dead. His gun was lying there beside him, still loaded, so he could claim the shot was fully justified...

And then Sam lowered the gun. “No,” he said. “You're not gonna drag me down to your level. I'm not giving you an easy out, Unger. You're going to pay for every single one of the lives you took, and the people you terrorized.” He took his phone out of his pocket and dialed 911.

“This is Sam Prichard. I have a wounded murder suspect at forty-seven nineteen North Division Street. I need police and an ambulance as fast as possible.”

He hung up the phone and turned to release Karen. As soon as he had her hands free, she slapped him across the face.

“That,” she said, “is for not telling me the truth about when you were meeting Unger. Later, I'll thank you for saving my life, but for right now, Sam Prichard, I'm so pissed at you I could just about rip your face off! Now, give me your phone!”

Sam handed it to her, and she dialed her assistant, Brenner, while he looked Unger over and applied pressure on what seemed the most dangerous of his wounds, the one in his arm. The other rounds had hit what Sam thought were non-vital areas, and he made himself a promise to spend more time at the firing range.

An ambulance and three squad cars arrived within minutes, and the paramedics got Unger stabilized, then transported him to the hospital. Karen sent three officers along as escorts, to make sure he didn't get away, though it was doubtful he could possibly have managed to get up or move on his own. He had lost a considerable amount of blood, and had lost consciousness by the time he was loaded up and hauled away.

* * * * *

Sam sat at the interview table as Karen and Brenner grilled him for more than four hours. Because he had, in fact, managed to save her life, Karen decided against making any charges against Sam, and even modified her own report to say that Sam had called her early that morning to say he was going to meet Unger at the warehouse, but that Unger had abducted her at gunpoint as she was getting into her car to head downtown and start getting a team together to go and take him down. When Brenner started to object, she looked at him and said, “Let me tell you something, Brenner. Sam Prichard is a better cop than any dozen of you so-called detectives that they're promoting these days. He's saved my ass more times than I can count, so if I have to lie to save his, then I'll do it. And if you dare to contradict me, I flat-out guarantee you that I've got enough pull to make sure you're directing traffic before the day is out, because you know what? I've saved the ass of several of our superior officers, and they don't forget, either! So shut up and write your report to agree with mine!”

Brenner shut up and did as he was told.

Sam was allowed to leave the police department administration building around noon, after he and Karen had made sure that their statements matched and they'd each memorized the points they might be questioned on. He got a ride back to where he'd left the truck, then headed straight for the hospital to see Indie.

When he got there, he was surprised to note that the two men who'd driven him back to his truck the night before were still sitting down the hall from Indie's room, even though the police guard had already been withdrawn after Unger's arrest, and he told them that the problem was over. The two stood and walked out without saying a word.

Grace, Kim, and Kenzie were waiting with Indie in her room, and his mother told him that they'd been trying to call him for a couple of hours. Sam checked his phone and saw that it was dead; he'd forgotten to put it on the charger the night before, and it hadn't even occurred to him that morning at all.

Sam went to Indie and sat on the edge of the bed, where she was sitting up and holding Kenzie cuddled up close to her. He put an arm around her, and said, “We got him, Babe.”

Indie smiled up at him, and tears began to run down her cheeks. She leaned her face into his shoulder, and he pulled her even closer. “Sam,” she said, “I've been so scared all morning. I knew you'd be there, and when we couldn't get you on the phone, I got so scared...”

“Shhh,” he said. “It's okay, it's all over. He's down in surgery now, most likely, because I put a half-dozen bullets in him. He's going to face charges on every case we can tie to him, and I think it'll be enough to make the governor refuse to stop this execution.”

“I knew you'd be okay,” she whispered. “Even when we couldn't reach you, somehow I knew. Mom said Beauregard told her you were okay, but we still wanted to hear it from you.”

Kenzie touched his arm, and he smiled down at his daughter. “Hey, Baby girl,” he said. “You been taking care of Mommy for me this morning?”

“Yes,” she said calmly, but there was a worried look on her face. “Daddy, did you get shot again?”

Sam smiled and waved his arms to show her he was unhurt. “Nope, not even a scratch! I'm all good, Sweetie.”

Kenzie smiled, then, and Sam almost broke into tears at the relief in her face. “I'm glad, I don't like it when you and Mommy get shot.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, his eyes wide like hers. “Me, neither! It hurts and it makes you grumpy!”

“Hey,” Indie said, “I got shot and I'm not grumpy!”

“Yeah? Just wait ‘til those pain pills wear off.”

“Dr. Elkhart came in a while ago,” Grace said, “and he said Indie could go home after lunch, so we're just waiting for the nurse to bring her prescriptions and convalescence instructions. You got here just in time to take her home.”

“You think? With that bandage on her head, our neighbors are gonna think I traded her in for an Indian girl,” Sam said.

“Hey, this bandage is keeping my head together! The nurse said they only cut a little bit of my hair, right around the wound, so if I brush it right, no one will even see it.”

Sam grinned. “Good, cause I don't know if I could handle you with short hair. Your hair's the real reason I fell in love with you, y'know.” He kissed her cheek. “You know darn well I don't care about that; you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, Indie, with or without hair!”

Indie slapped his face lightly. “Yeah, sure,” she said, “I bet you say that to all the girls!”

“Only the ones that matter,” Sam said, “because you're all the girls that could ever matter to me.”

“Aw, that's so sweet,” said Kim. “Sam, I want to talk to the doctor for a minute, why don't you come with me?”

Sam started to decline, but when he glanced at his mother-in-law, he saw something in her eyes that made him change his mind. “Sure,” he said with a grin. “I want to thank him, anyway, for taking such good care of my baby doll, here!” He slid off the bed and followed Kim out of the room.

They'd gone about fifty feet, far enough to be sure no one in the room could hear them, when Sam stopped and said, “Okay? What's the message?”

Kim grinned sheepishly. “That easy to see through me, is it? Beauregard says to tell you it isn't over just yet. He won't say any more than that, but he says you'll know what to do.”

A chill went down Sam's spine. “Go back and stay with Indie. Don't let them leave until I come back.” He took off down the hall toward the elevator.

Police and sheriff's prisoners were treated in a special room on the ground floor of the hospital, just behind the public emergency room. Unger would have been brought in through the ER entrance, then moved back to that room before being seen by a doctor. Sam pushed the down button on the elevator and waited impatiently for a few seconds as it rose to his floor, then rode it down just as impatiently. When it opened on the main floor, he hurried out and straight toward the ER.

Sam went through the double doors that led back to the secure area, and knew instantly that Beauregard had been right once again. One of the three policemen who had accompanied Unger was standing just outside the door, his face ashen and his gun drawn. When Sam came rushing in, the officer turned and pointed his weapon at him, and Sam waved his hands and identified himself.

“Whoa, man, I'm Sam Prichard, I'm the guy who brought Unger down! Where is he?”

The cop stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “I don't know—I went to the bathroom, they were just getting ready to take him up to a room, but I had to go, and when I got back a minute ago...” He pointed at the door into the secure treatment room, and Sam slowly walked over and looked through the small glass square.

The other two officers, a nurse, and a doctor were on the floor, and there was blood everywhere. There was nowhere inside where Unger could have been hiding, so Sam turned back to the cop. “Call Karen Parks, right now!” he yelled, and ran as fast as his hip would allow back the way he'd come. He grabbed a nurse and said, “You've got people down in secure ER, blood everywhere, get people back there now!” He ran on.

He didn't know where Unger was, but he'd bet his life he knew where he was going. Still in a hospital gown, and barely able to walk, the bastard was going after Indie, Sam was sure of it! He rushed back to the elevator and hit the button for it again, and when it opened, he was inside and stabbing at the button for the fifth floor instantly. The doors closed and the elevator began to rise, while Sam danced up and down on his good leg, willing it to go faster. He should never have left Indie, he thought, he should have stayed there and waited for Unger to come…

When the doors opened again, Sam hurried back to her room, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he got there and saw that all of them were safe, that Indie and Kenzie and Grace and Kim were all sitting there unhurt—but then he saw the looks on their faces, and knew that Unger was in the room, that he'd just run in and let the bastard get behind him. He turned slowly, and sure enough, there he was, leaning against the wall behind the open door, a policeman's service automatic in his hand.

“Sam,” he said with a twisted, lopsided grin, “you should have killed me when you had the chance.”

“Unger, this is over,” Sam said. “Even if you kill me now, you can't get out of here, there's nowhere to run, no way to escape. Give me the gun and let's let it end the way it's supposed to...”

“It didn't end the way it was supposed to, Sam!” Unger screamed at him. “You were supposed to stop me, take me down! I didn't want to get caught, Sam, I wanted to die! As long as I'm alive, I can't stop this, I can't help it! It's a need in me, it's something I can't control, a demon that won't let me alone! The only way out was to die, and you took that from me!” He had tears in his eyes, and his face was a grimace of pain and rage, as he held the gun shakily in his left hand. “You took that from me, Sam,” he said, calmly this time. “So, I'm going to take from you, now.” He flicked his eyes at Sam's family, all gathered on or beside the bed. “I'll let you choose, Sam. Which one can you best stand to lose? Your mother? Your wife? Oh, how about the mother-in-law? Every man hates his mother in law, right? How about if I take her?” He started to raise the gun away from Sam and aim it at Kim.

“No!” Sam shouted. “No! You're not taking anyone, Unger. You even breathe wrong at this moment, and I'll take you down and I guarantee you that you'll spend the rest of your miserable life in a straight jacket, so all you can do is sit there and think about the fact that you can't go anywhere, you can't kill anyone, you can't even feed yourself—”

The gun swung back to Sam. “Then maybe I should just kill you, Sam! Maybe that would be enough to get me through, you think? If I kill the one man who could get the better of me?”

Sam smiled. “It might,” he said, “but you won't. You won't kill me because there's this little, tiny bit of hope or doubt or whatever you want to call it, somewhere deep inside you, that says you might get loose again someday, and if you do, then you want to be sure that I'm out here, ready to stop you again. You can't risk killing me, because I'm all that stands between you and the world, Unger. And you think that if you hurt any of the people I love, then I'll go ahead and finish you off, but I won't—I'll take you down as soon as you move that gun off of me, and then you'll spend every day for the next fifty years going crazy because you can't feed your addiction.”

Unger glared at Sam, but didn't say anything, and Sam knew he had found something that scared him worse than death. Outside, they could hear the sound of sirens screaming toward them, and cars screeching to a stop on the street.

“On the other hand,” Sam said, “you can walk out of here right now, gun and all, and there are a dozen cops waiting to help you get what you want. They won't be willing to take you alive, they'll just want to pay you back for those poor guys downstairs, and they'll give you exactly what you wanted me to give you. It's your call, Unger; you hurt my family, I'll make sure you live in misery for many, many years. I'll campaign to make sure you don't get the death penalty—or you can walk out the front door and it'll all end, just the way you wanted.”

Unger stared at him for another moment, then took a step forward, away from the wall. Sam moved back a step, and Unger began walking backward out the door, the gun still on Sam. Sam followed, and he heard Indie calling to him, begging him to come back, but he had to be sure, so he followed Unger all the way to the elevator, and waited for it to open.

Unger looked him in the eye. “If they don't kill me,” he said softly, “if I ever do get out—you'll kill me, right?”

“Yes,” Sam said simply.

“Swear it,” Unger said. “Swear it before I go.”

Sam swallowed. “I swear it,” he said. Unger got into the elevator and the doors closed. Sam sagged against the wall as the numbers beside it went lower and lower, and just a moment after they stopped, Sam heard what sounded like popcorn, the sound of a hundred shots being fired rapidly from a dozen guns, all coming up through five floors of a modern building, and he knew that he'd never have to keep that promise after all.

Sam walked back to Indie's room, and found his family all huddled together on the bed, so he just sat down in a free spot and wrapped his own arms around them.

10

The hospital was on lockdown for a couple of hours, as police dealt with the panic that Unger had caused. Karen Parks came and found Sam, and got his statement about his final confrontation with the killer, then let him take Indie and his family home. He called Harry Winslow to let him know that the emergency was over, and that the bodyguards could all go back to whatever criminal activity they enjoyed most.

“So, it's really all over, then?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, it's over. Unger took about forty rounds, and I'm told there wasn't enough left intact to identify, so it's a good thing the whole shooting was recorded by the hospital's security cameras. Otherwise, we might be looking for this guy over our shoulders for years to come, but there's no doubt he's dead.”

“Well, that's what he gets for messing with Sam Prichard, right? Okay, Sam, I'll call them off; you take your family home and get some rest, Son, you deserve it. You never know, you might have to save the world again tomorrow.”

Sam smiled into the phone. “I'm thinking about going back into retirement, Harry, or maybe just sticking to music for a while. I didn't have this much trouble when I was on the force, for cryin' out loud!”

Harry laughed. “You won't retire, Sam,” he said. “I've come to know you pretty well, Son, and you're a lot like me; neither one of us could say no when we're needed. And speaking of that, if you were to want a better job, I've just been promoted to Denver's Homeland Security Director; I'd be proud to say I've got Sam Prichard on my team.”

It was Sam's turn to chuckle. “I think I'll stick with being a free agent,” he said. “Besides, I know you well enough to know you'll call me in if you really think you need me.”

“Ain't that the truth?” Harry said, and then the line was dead.

Sam finally got the okay to leave the hospital around two thirty, and then had to calm Indie down while a nurse insisted on taking her down the elevator in a wheelchair; she wanted to walk, even though she was wincing every time she tried to move, but at last she gave in and got into the chair. Sam went out and got the truck to bring to the front doors, and then helped her climb up into it. Kenzie got into her car seat on her own, and Sam buckled her in. Then he got back behind the wheel and drove them all home.

Indie looked over at him as he drove. “Sam,” she said, “were you serious about retiring?”

Sam shrugged. “I don't know, Babe,” he said. “I like being a PI, but I always thought a PI's life was pretty boring, mostly just watching people and asking questions that nobody wants to answer; I've had enough adventures to last a lifetime, I think, but I don't know that I really want to quit.”

She smiled. “Good,” she said. “I don't think I'd like being just a country singer's wife. Granted, I could do without all the, um, excitement...”

“That means Mommy doesn't like getting shot, either,” Kenzie said, and Sam and Indie both laughed.

“Yes, that's exactly what it means,” Sam said to their daughter, “and I agree with her! No more getting shot, right, Kenzie?”

“Right!”

They got home, and Sam helped Indie into the house, where Samson proceeded to let them all know how displeased he was that Sam had forgotten to refill his bowl or clean his litter box. Kenzie volunteered to feed the cat, and Sam took care of the litter, and then they all sat in the living room and relaxed with a movie.

Sam and Indie sat on the couch, cuddled up together like always, and they ignored the phone for the rest of the day. Most of the calls were from reporters, and Sam didn't feel like giving them a statement on this case, so they let all of the calls go to voicemail. They watched a movie that Kenzie chose, about a snail who dreamed of being a race driver, and Sam thought it was hilarious, but he forced himself not to laugh after he noticed Indie wincing from the motion every time he did.

Sam had a thought. “By the way,” he said. “You remember you said Herman has been doing things that he shouldn't be able to do?”

“Mm-hmm,” Indie said, carefully not nodding as she did so.

“Well, this morning, I went out to the office just to look at something, and there was a list of links on the screen. I clicked one to see what it was, and Herman had somehow gotten it in his head to get me the blueprints and schematics for the warehouse building.” He looked at her. “Indie, is your computer coming to life? I mean, isn't that sort of impossible?”

Indie smiled, and carefully twisted herself around so she could see his face better. “Yeah, that's impossible,” she said, “but that wasn't Herman, Babe, that was me. I woke up about four this morning and was waiting for a pain pill to kick in, and it hit me that if you had the blueprints, it might help, so I called up Herman and told him to get them for you, but then the pain pill hit and I fell asleep before I could send you a message about it. I'm glad you found it; did it help?”

Sam kissed her gently. “Did it help?” he repeated. “It probably saved my life, and Karen's too!”

When the movie ended, it was almost five thirty, and Sam asked, “Anybody hungry?”

Indie smiled. “I'm starved,” she said. “It's true what they say about hospital food not filling you up!”

“That's because they don’t want to risk spending any of their profits on food the patients might like, or they'd never get them to leave. What would you like? I'll make dinner tonight.”

Kenzie yelled, “Spaghetti!” and Indie smiled and said that sounded good to her, too, so Sam went into the kitchen and set a pot of water to boil while he dug through the cabinets and found spaghetti and sauce, then started frying some ground beef to go into it. Forty minutes later he set three places at the kitchen table, and invited Indie and Kenzie to come and eat.

“Daddy,” Kenzie said as she twirled noodles onto her fork, “is that bad man dead, now?”

Sam looked at Indie; they'd decided to wait and let Kenzie bring it up, rather than trying to explain it to her before she was ready to hear it.

“Yes, Sweetie, he is,” Sam said. “Did he scare you pretty bad?”

Kenzie sat there for a moment, twirling the fork, and then she set it down. “Yesterday,” she said, “at children's church, they told us about God, and how when you're in trouble you should always ask God to help you. When that bad man came in and everyone got scared, I closed my eyes and asked God to help us, and He did.”

Sam and Indie shared a glance, and Indie asked, “He did?”

Kenzie nodded her head. “Yes,” she said. “I said, 'God, help us, cause there's a bad man and he wants to hurt us,' and then Daddy came back in and I knew God sent Daddy back to make sure the bad man didn't hurt anybody. But when you were talking to him, and he said he wanted to be dead, I knew God was gonna make him be dead, too, so he wouldn't hurt anyone anymore.” She picked up her fork and took a big bite of spaghetti. “This is good, Daddy,” she said, and then went on eating.

Sam and Indie looked at each other, and Sam asked the question they were both thinking. “Do you think it's time we started going to church regularly?”

Indie smiled. “I did sort of like it there,” she said. “Caleb's a pretty good preacher.”

They finished dinner, and went to watch another movie—this one was an older movie about a pro football player who found out he was the father of a six-year-old girl when she showed up at his apartment with a note telling him her mother had to go out of the country, and it was time for him to take care of his child—and it was so delightful that even Indie was laughing in spots, with sort of a, “haha, ow, haha,” pattern to it.

After that movie, Sam declared bedtime, and not even Kenzie argued. Because her Mommy was hurt, she let Sam go up and tuck her in, and by the time he got the story read and the lights out, Indie was in their bed and sound asleep. Sam crawled in beside her and put an arm around her as she slept, and it wasn't long before he felt the arms of sleep coming to cuddle him, as well.

Morning came, and for once, he woke before she did. He slipped out of bed and took his shower, found her still sleeping when he was finished, and went out to put the coffee on. While he drank his first cup, he sat down at the table and started going through all the phone messages from the night before.

Most of them, as he'd known they would be, were from reporters. He made notes of the few he would be willing to talk to, deleted the rest, and then came across one message that caught his attention. It had been the last call of the night, and had come in after they had all gone to bed.

“Mr. Prichard,” a woman’s voice began, “my name is Joellyn Finer. I'm calling because I've been told that you're the best Private Investigator in the area, and I've got a problem I need to be solved. It's probably not something you're used to dealing with, though, so I'll be brief, and I hope you'll call me back. You see, I never met my father, and I know very little about him, because he disappeared during the Vietnam war. Everyone thought he was dead, but I've just heard from someone who knew him that he's turned up alive, and I would like to hire you to find him and find out why I've never met him. If you’d call me back, I'd really appreciate it...”

BOOK VI

Prologue

“Daddy,” Kenzie said as she twirled noodles onto her fork, “is that bad man dead, now?”

He'd known the question would be coming, because the little girl had been terrified when Darrel Unger, the serial killer who had challenged Sam to catch and stop him, had come into her mother's hospital room and threatened them all. Sam looked over at his wife, Indie; they'd decided to wait and let Kenzie bring it up, rather than trying to explain it to her before she was ready to hear it.

“Yes, Sweetie, he is,” Sam said. “Did he scare you pretty bad?”

Kenzie sat there for a moment, twirling the fork, and then she set it down. “Yesterday,” she said, “at children's church, they told us about God, and how when you're in trouble you should always ask God to help you. When that bad man came in and everyone got scared, I closed my eyes and asked God to help us, and He did.”

Sam and Indie shared a glance, and Indie asked, “He did?”

Kenzie nodded her head. “Yes,” she said. “I said, 'God, help us, cause there's a bad man and he wants to hurt us,' and then Daddy came back in and I knew God sent Daddy back to make sure the bad man didn't hurt anybody. But when you were talking to him, and he said he wanted to be dead, I knew God was gonna make him be dead, too, so he wouldn't hurt anyone anymore.” She picked up her fork and took a big bite of spaghetti. “This is good, Daddy,” she said, and then went on eating.

Sam and Indie looked at each other, and Sam asked the question they were both thinking. “Do you think it's time we started going to church regularly?”

Indie smiled. “I did sort of like it there,” she said. “Caleb's a pretty good preacher.”

They finished dinner and went to watch another movie—this one was an older movie about a pro football player who found out he was the father of a six-year-old girl when she showed up at his apartment with a note telling him her mother had to go out of the country, and it was time for him to take care of his child—and it was so delightful that even Indie was laughing in spots, with sort of a, “haha, ow, haha,” pattern to it.

After that movie, Sam declared bedtime, and not even Kenzie argued. Because her Mommy was hurt, she let Sam go up and tuck her in, and by the time he got the story read and the lights out, Indie was in their bed and sound asleep. Sam crawled in beside her and put an arm around her as she slept, and it wasn't long before he felt the arms of sleep coming to cuddle him, as well.

Morning came, and for once he woke before she did. He slipped out of bed and took his shower, found her still sleeping when he was finished, and went out to put coffee on. While he drank his first cup, he sat down at the table and started going through all the phone messages from the night before.

Most of them, as he'd known they would be, were from reporters. He made notes of the few he would be willing to talk to, deleted the rest, and then came across one message that caught his attention. It had been the last call of the night, and had come in after they had all gone to bed.

“Mr. Prichard,” a woman’s voice began, “my name is Joellyn Finer. I'm calling because I've been told that you're the best Private Investigator in the area, and I've got a problem I need solved. It's probably not something you're used to dealing with, though, so I'll be brief, and I hope you'll call me back. You see, I never met my father, and I know very little about him, because he disappeared during the Vietnam war. Everyone thought he was dead, but I've just heard from someone who knew him that he's turned up alive, and I would like to hire you to find him and find out why I've never met him. If you'd call me back, I'd really appreciate it...”

1

Most private investigators never have to deal with serial killers, no matter what the novelists say. Sam Prichard wasn't most private investigators, however, and just the previous week had seen him doing exactly that. The strange case had been thrust upon him and had almost cost him his life, and the life of his wife, Indie. It had finally ended with a showdown that required Sam to outwit the man, saving his entire family in the bargain.

Indie had been wounded, grazed across her head by a bullet that had been meant to kill her, and it had taken a few days for her to get back to normal, but she was finally there. Sam had been checking phone messages, keeping track of potential cases and automatically dismissing any that involved following unfaithful wives or husbands, or trying to trap people into doing something wrong. There had been one call the day after Indie had been released from the hospital, though, that had caught his attention, and it was time to learn more about it.

Sam and Indie were in the office, working on their quarterly business reports, when the day's first (and only) appointment showed up. The woman who parked beside the sign that read Sam Prichard, Private Eye was dressed casually, but there was something that seemed elegant about her, as she entered through the office door with a smile on her face.

Indie looked up and did a double take, then found her manners. “Hello,” she said. “I'm Indiana Prichard, and this is my husband, Sam. I didn't mean to stare, but did you know you look a lot like Jennifer Aniston?”

The woman laughed. “Yeah, I hear that a lot,” she said. “I've actually been one of her stunt doubles; back in twenty ten, she did a movie called The Bounty Hunter, and I was the one who got tossed out a window for her. I was hoping it would turn into a career, but it didn't, so now I'm in the catering business.”

Indie smiled. “Catering is good, too,” she said. “I always thought I'd want to do that, if I could cook.”

“Don't believe her,” Sam said as he rose to his feet and extended a hand. “She's a wonderful cook; she just likes keeping it in the family, and I'm in favor of that, too. I'm Sam Prichard, and I'm guessing that you're Joellyn Finer.”

Joellyn shook his hand and nodded. “I am, and I'm glad to meet you. I've heard a lot of good things about you, and of course the newspapers are sort of full of your name, right now. The more I read about how you caught a serial killer that no one even knew was out there, the more sure I am that you're the man I need to talk to.”

“Well, have a seat,” Indie said, “and tell us how we can help you.”

Joellyn sat down in the chair Indie had pointed to. “So, as I said the other day, I've been told that my father has shown up here in the area. He disappeared in Vietnam, you see, right after I was born, and I never met him; now, my uncle—his brother—says he turned up last month to come and visit their mother, my grandma, who's dying of COPD. He walked into her house like he'd never been gone, acting like nothing was out of the ordinary, until Uncle Jim got in his face, and then he said there was very little he could tell them about where he'd been for all these years. A little while later, he left, but he's been back a couple of times since.”

“That sounds like he isn't really trying to hide, then,” Indie said, but Joellyn shook her head.

“I tried hanging out at my grandma's place to see if I could meet him,” she said, “but he won't show up if I'm there. I even tried hiding my car somewhere else and sneaking in the back door, but he still seems to know and won't show up. The only time he turns up is when no one but Grandma and Uncle Jim are there.” She sighed, and looked at her hands. “I want to know where he's been, and I want to know why he never came back to my mom and me, if he was still alive. Everyone thought he was dead, you see, and this has been a real shock. My mother refuses to believe it's really him, but Uncle Jim says there's no doubt; I just need to know, Mr. Prichard, and I want you to find him and make him talk to me.”

Sam sat there for a moment, thinking about it. “Ms. Finer,” he said, “I might be able to find your father, if it really is him; however, that doesn't mean I can get him to talk to you. Unless he's done something illegal or is wanted in connection with a crime, I can't actually force him to do anything. And while I think running out on his family is a pretty despicable thing to do, it's not a crime.”

Joellyn nodded. “I know,” she said. “I guess I really just want you to find him, and tell me how I can go to him. If he still won't talk to me, then I'll deal with it somehow.”

Sam looked at her, then glanced at his wife. Indie nodded, and he turned back to the client. “I charge a thousand as a retainer, and I get two fifty a day plus any expenses I have to lay out. I'm confident I can find him, but what happens after that is up to you and him. Deal?”

Joellyn smiled. “Deal. Is cash okay?”

Sam grinned. “Legal tender, they call it,” he said as Indie made out a receipt and took the money. “Now, tell me what you can about your father and uncle.”

“Well, my father's name is Kenneth Long; Finer is my married name, even though I'm divorced, now. He was born January fourth, nineteen forty-nine. He grew up in Denver, played basketball in high school. He married his high school sweetheart, my mother Margaret Wilkins Long, in nineteen sixty-seven, and joined the army a month later. In August of sixty-eight he was deployed to Vietnam, and spent seven months there on active duty. On March fifteenth of sixty-nine, he went out on a patrol with his squad, and only a few of them were ever seen again, until he walked into my grandma's house last month. Some of them turned up as POWs and were released at the end of the war.”

Sam cocked his head. “Was he ever declared dead by the Army?”

“No, he was MIA, and because there were no reports of any fighting near where he disappeared, and the rest of the patrol was found as POWs, either alive or dead, it was assumed that he was also captured, so he was left on MIA status. That meant that my mom kept getting his pay and allowances, and she still gets them. As long as there's the slightest possibility that he's alive and not a deserter, they said, she keeps getting his pay.”

Sam grunted. “If he's running around the USA, then I'd have to say it’s highly unlikely he's been a POW all this time. Sounds to me like your mother has a vested interest in it not being him; if it is, the government may want her to pay back all that money.”

Joellyn frowned. “That hadn't occurred to me, but I guess it's a possibility. My biggest concern is finding out why I haven't heard from him before now, why he never came back to us or even got in touch.”

“There are a lot of stories about MIAs and POWs turning up alive, and at least some of them have some basis in truth. I remember one just a couple of years ago, a Sergeant Robinson, who claimed to have been captured and held prisoner for years, then escaped and started a new life with a woman who rescued him. It was a big fuss, but then a few days later, it came out that it was a hoax, and the long-lost soldier was a Vietnamese man who had been trying to pass himself off as an MIA for years. In other cases, it turned out they were never captured at all, but had either taken their discharge there and stayed, or deserted and stayed. Your father sounds like he might fit the latter category.”

Joellyn shrugged. “I can't disagree with you, but I admit I'd like to know. What else can I tell you?”

“You say it's your uncle who's seen him most?” Sam asked.

“Yes. He's seen him at my grandma's house four times, now. I asked him to tell him I want to see him, but he said my father only shakes his head and walks away when he mentions me. Uncle Jim, that's James Long, he says the only thing my father will tell them is that he was a prisoner for a couple of years, and then after he was rescued, he said he was recruited by the CIA to stay there and work for the government as a spy. If that's true, then maybe he won't be in so much trouble after all. Like I said, none of that actually matters to me; I just want to look him in the eye and find out why I grew up without a father.”

Sam sighed. “Okay, I'm going to need all the information you can give me on your father, your uncle, your mother and grandmother, everyone connected to this. I'll find him if it's possible, and tell you if it isn't.”

The three of them sat and talked, and Indie made notes, writing down everything Joellyn said that related to her father or the case in any way. Sam made sure they got addresses and phone numbers for everyone that they could, knowing the magic that Indie could work through the internet when it came to tracking people down. They got everything they could think of, told Joellyn they'd be in touch if they needed anything else, and said goodbye as she left.

“I'll get Herman on this, see if there's any info he can find on Mr. Long,” Indie said. “You're gonna start with his brother?”

Sam nodded. “That's what I'm thinking, yeah. If good old Uncle Jim can't tell her anything, though, then he won't have anything to tell me, either, so there's no point wasting time asking questions. I think we'll see what I can find out by just keeping an eye on him. If Daddy doesn't know I'm watching, then he shouldn't have a reason to hide, right?”

“Right,” Indie said, “but if you talk to the uncle first, and he mentions to Daddy that there's a PI looking for him...”

“Exactly. Then he disappears into the woodwork like a cockroach when the light comes on.”

Indie looked closely at Sam. “Something about this case is really bugging you, isn't it?” she asked, and after a moment's hesitation, he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm trying to get myself into the mind of a man who has a family, but either runs out on them, or doesn't do everything he can to get back to them when he gets the chance. If he just bugged out and decided not to come home, I wanna know why—but if he really was captured, and then didn't come home when he finally got rescued or escaped, then I want to know what the hell is wrong with him, what did they do to him that would make him refuse to come home to his wife and daughter?” He ran a hand over his face, and then looked Indie in the eye. “I've got you and Kenzie,” he said, “and if something took me away from you for a long time, I'd spend every waking moment trying to escape and get back to you, and if I managed to get free, there is nothing on earth that would keep me from coming home.”

Indie smiled and reached over to touch his hand. “I know,” she said. “And I want you to know that if anything ever did happen to you, I'd never give up believing you were coming back, unless they showed me your dead body—and I'm not sure even that would stop you!” She added the last part with a wink, and both of them laughed.

“Yeah, well,” Sam said. “Me and Death have been getting to know each other a lot better than I like, lately. I can't say he's a guy I really like hanging out with, though, so if he ever wants to come for me, he'd better bring help!”

Indie squeezed his hand. “Okay, then,” she said, “let's see what Herman can find out about this guy. What should I put in the filters?”

Sam thought about it for a moment. “Well, we've got his name, date of birth, and the date of his disappearance, so let's begin with those. I wish we had the names of the other men who disappeared with him; there might be more of the missing ones who have turned up alive, if he did.”

Indie smiled and tapped at her keyboard. “Let me have Herman search the news stories around that date, and we might find them. With a little effort, I think I can get you anything you want on those guys, all of 'em. What else?”

“Let's just go with that, for starters, and I'm gonna do a little old-fashioned detective work on the phone. There's one guy I can think of who might be able to help me get a line on this clown, and I haven't talked to him in a few days.”

Indie was nodding, a big smile on her face. “Harry Winslow,” she said. “Tell the old codger I said hi, please.”

Sam grinned and took his phone out of his pocket, then tapped the icon he'd put in to identify Harry's number—a cartoon picture of Elmer Fudd. He heard ringing on the other end, and then the southern drawl of Harry Winslow answered the phone.

“Sam, boy,” the old man said with a smile in his voice, “to what earth-shattering disaster do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“Harry, now, that hurts,” Sam said. “You're implying that I only call you when there's something wrong, or when I need something. Can't I just call up and say hi to an old friend?”

There was a chuckle on the other end. “Well, of course you can,” Harry said, “but the question is, will you? Never mind that, Sam, how's that lovely wife of yours? Headaches all gone, now? Except for the ones she gets from you, I mean?”

Sam grinned. “She says she's back to normal, and sends her love to you. As for the headaches, I don't think those will ever go away completely as long as we're in this business.”

“Probably true,” Harry said. “So, what's the headache that has you calling an old man during his lunch break?”

Sam glanced at the time on his phone and saw that it was only half past ten. “Lunch break?” he asked. “They got you on a different schedule than the rest of us, huh? I don't get lunch for another two hours or so.”

“Yes, but you didn't get awakened at four AM by a frantic technician who thought that a message from DC that made reference to a party this coming week was a coded message for my eyes only. He's spending the next two weeks in some intensive training in non-classified message protocols, and I'm at Red Lobster. Care to come and join me?”

“Another time, maybe,” Sam said. “Right now, I do have a question for you. I've just taken on a case involving a man who went missing back in nineteen sixty-nine in Vietnam. He was never declared dead, just kept on the MIA rosters all this time, and now he may have turned up alive here in the city, claiming that he's been working for Uncle Sam over there ever since he was released from a VC prison camp. I'm wondering if you think there could be any truth to the story.”

“Well, Sam,” Harry said. “I've heard of such stories before, and it's possible there could be some truth to some of them. I know that a lot of men who never were accounted for simply chose to stay there, though.”

“Yeah, I know about some of those,” Sam said, “and the cases of people claiming to be former POWs who really weren't. The thing about this one is that the guy showed up here when his mother took sick, but he refuses to see his wife and daughter, who is my client. How can I find out if he's for real, Harry?”

“Got a name?”

“Kenneth Long,” Sam said. “Date of birth oh one, oh four, forty-nine; went missing on patrol in Vietnam on oh three, fifteen, sixty-nine.”

“The Ides of March,” Harry said. “Give me half an hour and I'll get you what I can.”

As always when Sam was talking to Harry, the line went dead without another word, and he turned back to Indie. “He's gonna do some digging, too. Herman find anything?”

“He found the news story from when Long and his buddies disappeared,” she said with a grin. “Listen to this: March seventeenth, nineteen sixty-nine. Seven American GIs are listed as missing in action after their patrol failed to report back to its designated unit on Saturday. Military sources say the patrol was a routine measure to observe and report on North Vietnamese troop activities in the region, which was only a few miles south of the demilitarized zone. Despite an intense search of the area of the patrol, there have been no signs found of any firefights, and no sign of bodies or injuries. According to Captain John Morris, their commanding officer, it was as if the men were simply taken by the darkness, leaving no sign that they were ever there. The missing men are listed as Second Lieutenant Charles Martin, twenty-six; Staff Sergeant Michael Bull, twenty-nine; Corporal Kenneth Long, twenty; PFC William Shine, twenty; PFC Gary McCall, twenty; PVT James Murdock, nineteen; and PVT Aaron Beasley, nineteen.” She looked up at him. “I've already got Herman running each of them through every military database I can get into. If there's any information on them, even just that their remains were identified, he'll find it.”

Sam leaned over and kissed her. “You do realize that Herman is half the reason I married you, right?”

Indie giggled. “Yeah, but he can't do some of the things you like most about me!”

“That's true,” Sam said, and kissed her again. “I noticed that Long was a corporal in that patrol, so he was in the chain of command. I'd love to hear what actually happened that night; strikes me as pretty odd that there would be no signs of any kind of struggle, but a seven-man patrol disappears completely. That sounds almost impossible, but apparently it happened.”

"Just got a hit,” Indie said. “James Murdock. He was a private in that patrol, and was recovered in Operation Homecoming in nineteen seventy-three. He claimed that the patrol was captured without a shot being fired, when Lieutenant Martin was suddenly overtaken by a number of VC, and he ordered everyone to surrender. According to his account, two of the men refused and ran off into the surrounding jungle; one was PFC Gary McCall, and I bet you can't guess who the other one was.”

“Long, no doubt,” Sam said. “Interesting; he didn't fight, but refused to surrender. Anything else?”

Indie nodded. “Yeah, he says he saw McCall again a couple of days later, when they were taken to a holding facility on the way to a prison in Hanoi. McCall told him he'd been wounded by enemy fire as they ran off, and was captured the next morning. Long had escaped, and was planning to try a rescue, he said, but they never saw him again and assumed he was dead. Some of the others died while they were in the prison, including the lieutenant and Sergeant Bull. As far as Murdock knew, only he, McCall and Beasley survived.”

Sam shook his head. “If Long was never captured, then I wonder where he was all that time. Of course, he might have been captured at a later date, or taken to a different prison. I wonder if Murdock might be available and willing to talk to me.”

Indie shrugged and smiled. “Had a feeling you'd want it, so I tracked down his address and phone number. He lives in North Carolina, and he's almost sixty-six, now.” She scribbled something down on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.

Sam looked at it for a moment, and then took out his phone, but before he could dial the number, it rang. Sam glanced at it, then mouthed, “It's Harry,” and answered it.

“That wasn't a half hour,” he said.

“Sue me,” Harry answered. “Here's what I've got for you, Boy. Your guy was listed MIA, even though some of the men from his patrol were later identified as POWs. He may be a spook of some kind, but if he is, it's so covered up in red tape and BS that I can't cut through it quickly. He's still listed as MIA from the Nam, and his wife is collecting his pay, never has made any effort to have him declared dead. Could be she knows something, but maybe she's just not interested in being single again. Lot of MIA wives kept getting the hubby's pay, and just shacked up with a new guy if one came along.”

“So there's nothing you can find that indicates he's telling the truth? Indie found a reference in the news that indicates he may never have been captured at all, or at least not when the records say he was.”

Harry laughed. “Son, I can't find anything says he was captured; just missing. For all I know, he might have been on CIA payroll when he went over there; you'd be shocked how many recruit soldiers were turned into assassins before they ever got out of training. They were sent over and into normal units with special orders that superseded any that came from their commanding officers, and their COs knew it. They were attached to a regular infantry or artillery unit, but answered to the CIA handler who would come and visit periodically. That often created some interesting problems for their commanders."

"I can imagine that it did," Sam said. "But what would that have to do with him disappearing into the woodwork for so many years?"

"Sam, boy," Harry said, "that's the kind of question that often got people killed back in those days. In fact, I'm not sure you should be asking any questions at all about this guy. However, since I know you, I'm sure that's not gonna slow you down. The only thing I can do in this case is offer you some advice, and you know what advice is worth, right?"

"It's worth exactly what you pay for it," Sam said. "Go ahead, Harry, I'm listening."

"Sam, the smartest thing you can do with this case is to run from it. As far as you can and as fast as you can. That's the best advice I can give you at this time. Now, having said that, and knowing that you're not gonna listen, I'm going to offer you the second-best advice I can. Be sure you keep a gun handy, and do not, I repeat, do not, let that man get behind you. If he's one of the assassins that we sent over there, he's not a man even I would want to face in a dark alley.”

"Okay, Harry," Sam said. "Can you imagine any reason one of those people would be showing up now, running around loose here in Denver?"

"Sam, I wouldn't have the slightest idea what could bring one of them back home, if they hadn't come back on their own years ago. That's why I'm saying not to let the guy get behind you; something about this is bugging me, and I don't know enough to put a finger on it. I'm hoping you're gonna keep in close touch with me on this one, son.”

"I've got a feeling you can count on it, Harry."

2

Sam hung up the phone, then sat and looked at it for a long minute. Indie stayed quiet, waiting for him to be ready to say whatever was on his mind. She knew him, and knew that he would; he always shared his thoughts with her when he was ready.

“Harry thinks Kenneth Long may be more of a problem than we anticipated. It could very well be that he was some sort of government assassin back in the Vietnam era. I guess there were such guys who were sent over there with special orders, men who were used as special assassins, probably to eliminate enemy officers and such. Harry seems to think that Mr. Long might have been one of those."

Indie's eyebrows went up. "So, he thinks you should be careful?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "He basically said he wants me to keep in close touch with him, and let him know what's going on with this case. I think he's afraid something might happen to his favorite private eye."

"Well, in that case," Indie said, "I definitely want you to do exactly what he asked of you. You're pretty important to me, too, you know."

"Don't worry, baby," Sam said with a smile. "He's got me thinking I definitely want him on my team, on this one." He glanced down at the slip of paper in his hand. "But right now, I think I'll see what Mr. Murdoch has to say about our friend Kenneth Long."

Sam dialed the phone number Indie had written on the piece of paper, and listened while the phone rang. A moment later it was answered by a woman's voice.

"Hi," Sam said. "Would Mr. Murdoch happen to be around?"

"Why, yes, he is," the woman said. "Hold on just a moment, please."

Sam waited a moment, and then a gruff man's voice came on the line. "This is Jim Murdoch," he said. "How can I help you?"

"Mr. Murdoch, my name is Sam Prichard, and I'm a private investigator in Denver, Colorado. I'm calling because I have a question you might be able to help me out with."

"Well, Mr. Prichard," Murdoch said, "how can I be of service, sir?"

"Mr. Murdoch, back in 1969, you served in Vietnam with a man named Kenneth Long. I know that you were captured and held prisoner for a while, and that Long disappeared during that same patrol. I was wondering if you ever heard anything about him again, after you were captured."

There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line. Sam thought he heard the door closing, and then Murdoch spoke again. "Mr. Prichard, I haven't thought about Ken Long in many years. Can I ask you what in the world has you looking into him?"

"Well, sir, I was hired this morning by his daughter, who had always believed that he died during that patrol. However, according to his brother, Mr. Long has shown up here in Denver in the last few days. He seems to be alive and well, but he claims that he was held prisoner for some time, and was then recruited by the CIA after his release. Is there any possibility that you would have any knowledge of whether there could be any truth to the story?"

Again, there was a hesitation. "Mr. Prichard, I have no idea what might've happened to him after he ran out on us that night. Several of us thought he would be arranging a rescue, but of course that never happened. I spent more than two years locked up in some of the worst conditions that you can ever imagine one man inflicting upon another. I watched several of my buddies die in there. The only one of us who escaped that night was Long. When I was finally released, I found out that he had never been captured, but what really bothered me was that he never even went back and told anyone what happened to us."

"To be honest, Mr. Murdoch, that's part of what's bothering me about this case. There's no evidence Long was ever actually captured; he claims he was held prisoner for a few years and was then released and recruited by the CIA, but he never contacted his family back here in the states. That strikes me as kind of odd, but it also struck me as odd that if he wasn’t captured during the patrol, then why didn't he report back to your commanding officer and let Uncle Sam know what happened to you guys?"

"That's exactly my point, Mr. Prichard. Why would he not have done so? Just one moment, sir," Murdoch said, and Sam could hear noises like a door opening and closing. "Forgive me, I just wanted to be sure my wife is not listening. See, she knew Ken back then, and never could understand why he would've abandoned us. I'd just as soon not have her thinking about it again. However, to answer your question, there were things about him that were strange even before that patrol. He would go out occasionally on his own, into the bush. We always thought it was strange that he might be gone two or three days, and no one said anything. If we asked questions, we were told that he was out on a special assignment and to stop asking, and he would never tell us anything. When he got back, sometimes, he would be up at the captain's hut for hours. Debriefing, we figured, from whatever special assignment he'd been out on. The only thing we ever knew for sure was that, after one of his special assignments, some top officer from the other side would no longer be a problem for us."

"So you think he was taking out enemy officers?" Sam asked.

"I think that it's a very distinct possibility," Murdoch said. "I also think that I'd rather not be thinking about this at all. You see, there were other strange things going on around that time. If you know about the patrol, then you know about me and the others who were captured that night. But I'll bet you never heard of Jimmy Simpson."

"Jimmy Simpson? No, I don't know that name. Who is Jimmy Simpson?"

"Private Jimmy Simpson was a new kid. He came in with replacements for some guys we'd lost in an earlier skirmish, and he was about as green as you could get. He was fresh out of AIT, barely even knew which end of his M-16 to hold onto, and which end to point at the enemy. He wasn't even 19 years old yet, and he thought Ken was some sort of super soldier. Jimmy wanted to be just like him. He followed him everywhere, all around our compound, and one night when no one was paying enough attention and we weren't expecting to go out on any missions of our own, he followed him right out on one of those special assignments."

"And? There has to be more to the story than that."

"Oh, there certainly is. As I said, Jimmy followed Ken out into the jungle that night, and when Ken came back without Jimmy, several of us got in his face about it. Jimmy was just a kid, and we weren't going to stand for him being abandoned out there in the jungle. Well, Ken was about as shocked as he could be; he had no idea the kid had followed him. When he found out, he turned around and went straight back out into that jungle without even bothering to go to his debriefing. He was gone for several hours, but sure as the dickens, he came back with Jimmy. The kid was alive, but he was terrified. So scared that for quite a while, we couldn't even get him to talk." Murdoch paused, and Sam heard a cigarette being lit. "Mr. Prichard, you do realize that this is completely off the record, right? That if I'm ever asked under oath about these things, I'll deny that I ever told you anything at all? You do understand that, right?"

"If that's what it takes," Sam said. "I'm only out to find out why Mr. Long disappeared on his family, not to make trouble for you or any of the other survivors. That I promise."

"Good enough, then," Murdoch said. "Well, it took us a couple of days, but we finally got Jimmy to open up to us. He said he followed Ken a few times, just to see just what the special assignments were all about, because he hoped someday to earn the right to some of those assignments himself. Apparently, he was a lot better at following silently than most of us, because he managed to follow Ken for several clicks without being spotted. When he saw Ken hunker down and watch some VC troops ahead of him, Jimmy dug in to watch Ken. As he was telling us about this, he suddenly started crying, and I mean alligator tears just flowing down his face. This kid was terrified, because of what he saw just moments later. He said Ken suddenly leapt forward right into the middle of about two-dozen VC, and began swinging a machete in his right hand while firing an M-16 from his left, until not one of those gooks was left alive. Now, that would've confirmed his opinion of Ken being some kind of special super soldier, but for what happened next. He said Ken took that machete and began slicing an ear off of each body, and stuffing those ears into a bag that he pulled out of a pocket. Well, that was weird enough, but then Jimmy swore he saw Ken drag a VC captain's body into the middle of the clearing, cut that captain's heart out and eat it." Sam heard Murdoch take a deep drag on his cigarette. "And we asked Jimmy why he was crying, and he said it was because when Ken came and found him, he had warned him not to say anything about what he'd seen, if he didn't want to die. Of course, we told Jimmy that Ken was just jungle crazy, that it got to some guys that way and they became pretty strange. We told him nothing would happen to him, and not to worry because none of us would say he told us anything."

Murdoch took another long drag, but didn't say anything more. Sam asked, "Mr. Murdoch? What happened to Jimmy Simpson?"

"Mr. Prichard, I have no idea. You see, sir, when we got up the next morning, Jimmy's hut was empty. There was blood all over the place, but Jimmy was never seen again. The captain told us that a VC Sapper had apparently gotten through the compound fences that night and taken him. Let me tell you, there wasn't a single one of us who was gonna argue the point." Another long drag. "Mr. Prichard, I do believe, sir, that I have said all I care to say on the subject. And I truly would appreciate it if you would make sure my name never comes out of your mouth. At least, not if you speak to Ken Long."

"Don't worry, Mr. Murdoch," Sam said. "I never heard of you, and I've never spoken to you."

Sam ended the call, and turned to look at his wife. "Well, it seems Harry was right," said. "Mr. Long is a very dangerous individual, and apparently was one of the assassin types that Harry was referring to. And if Mr. Murdoch is telling me the truth, he may also be a cold-blooded murderer."

"Sam," Indie said, "I'm beginning to wish we had never taken this case. You want to see what Herman's dug up?"

Sam leaned forward and scooted his chair closer to hers. "Sure, baby," he said. "What's he been up to?"

"Well, you remember that we just sort of turned Herman loose on this guy, right? I had told him to look in some government databases, but when he tried, it actually set off some alarms. Kenneth Long is classified top secret, and just trying to dig into him is enough to set off alarms on several different levels."

"Oh, oh," Sam said. "Are we going to need Harry to get us out of trouble?"

She grinned at him and winked. "Oh, come on, baby, you know me better than that! I designed Herman to spot such traps and get out fast, sweeping up after himself as he did so. There isn't much chance anybody has a clue who was behind the momentary breach, so don't get Harry's feathers riled up just yet. The point is, Ken Long is not just a former POW who decided to drop in on mommy. There's something seriously bad about this guy, and frankly, I'm not sure what we've gotten into. But I can tell you I don't like it, not one little bit."

"Yeah, I'm not sure I do either, but at least I'm only working for his daughter. I can't see that being something that's going to upset him too much, and to be honest, I think I'd rather approach him head on than let him find out by accident that we were trying to learn anything about him." He leaned forward and kissed her. "I'm going to go keep an eye on his mother's house for a bit," he said, "and just see if maybe he might pop up. Don't dig too deep; you never know, he might have people telling him if someone tries to track him down."

Indie nodded. "Okay, babe," she said. "You just be careful out there, you got that? You better come home safe to me, or I'll sick Beauregard on you!"

Sam grinned, and made a cross with his fingers. "Let's leave Beauregard out of this," he said. "This strikes me as one of those cases where he's gonna stick his nose in sooner or later, anyway, and I'd just as soon not have to deal with him before it's absolutely necessary." He got up and started toward the door that led into his garage, but a twinge in his bad hip made him stop and lean against the wall. “Ow,” he said, and stood there for a moment, then turned and went back to where he had left his cane leaning against the wall by his desk. “Must be gonna rain today,” he growled as he turned toward the door again.

Indie tried to suppress the chuckle, but it slipped out anyway, and Sam grinned as he walked into the garage. He got into his Corvette, and pushed the button on the remote to open the garage door so he could back out.

They had gotten the address for Joellyn's grandmother's house from her during the initial interview. Sam knew the neighborhood, so he drove that direction without bothering with GPS. It wasn't a very long drive, and he pulled up in front of a house down the street about twenty minutes later.

One of the most boring aspects of being a private investigator was surveillance, but it was also one of the easiest. Sam had been adept at surveillance even when he was a police officer, so it wasn't a problem for him. All it meant was sitting in the car and watching a suspect’s location, or someplace you expected the suspect to appear. It just wasn't a problem, or at least that's what Sam kept telling himself.

Two hours later, he wasn't so sure. There had been no activity, with no one visiting the house and no one leaving it. He hadn't seen any cars on the street, and in fact, there had been no traffic of any kind. That in itself seemed a little odd. Of course, there was no way that Long could have blocked the street from regular traffic, and if he could, then Sam probably wouldn't be sitting here, either. The lack of traffic was almost certainly just coincidental, but still bothered Sam.

Ironically, it was just at that moment that a vehicle approached the house he was watching. A late-model, nondescript Chevrolet sedan pulled up in front of the house and parked. Sam's attention perked up as he watched to see who might get out of the car.

A moment later, the driver’s door opened and a chubby, balding man stepped out of it. He didn't seem to be paying any attention to what was going on around him, but there was an air of awareness about him, as if he could sense the fact that Sam was watching even though he never looked in that direction.

Joellyn had given Sam and Indie a photo of Long when he was a younger man. Sam held it up and took a closer look, and concluded that with the extra weight and lack of hair taken into account, it was Kenneth Long who had gotten out of the car. He made his way to the front door of the house, apparently unconcerned about who might be watching, but again, Sam got the feeling that this man was completely aware of his surroundings.

He knocked on the door, and it was opened only a moment later. Sam saw a man's face, and figured it was Kenneth's brother, James, who smiled and let him in. There was no sense of awkwardness or unease in either of the men, though Sam recalled Joellyn saying that Jim was shocked at his brother's reappearance. He must have gotten over it, Sam thought, because he sure doesn't look upset now.

Sam fired up the Corvette and took the next right turn, then the next, and followed that street for a couple of blocks before turning again to come back to the street the house was on. He parked a block away, facing the same direction as Long's car, so that he could follow from a distance when the man finally left.

Then it was time to wait, again, and Sam sat there for more than an hour. The thought of calling Joellyn and telling her that her father was at her grandmother's house crossed his mind, but he wasn't ready to end this case just yet, and frankly, he wasn't sure how Long would react to being cornered by his daughter. If this man was a dangerous as he seemed to be, and as callous, then it was possible that he might even harm his own child. Sam wasn't ready to make a judgment call on that, just yet.

The front door opened, and Long stepped out. He glanced up and down the street before his feet touched the ground outside, and Sam knew without a doubt that he'd been spotted. Still, Long went to his Chevrolet and got into it as if there was nothing amiss, started it up, and drove off down the street at a leisurely pace.

Sam started the Corvette and followed, turning at the corner just as Long had done. The Chevy was almost to the next intersection, still moving at a normal speed, and Sam allowed himself to hang back as they made their way across the city. A mile from where they turned, the Chevy suddenly whipped around a corner to the left, and Sam followed when he got to it.

The Chevy was nowhere in sight. Sam looked for the closest places where it might have turned off again, but there was nothing between that intersection and the next except an alley that had a chain link fence stretched tightly across it, with only inches between its poles and the sides of the buildings that flanked it.

Still, Sam looked up the alley through the wire, but there was nothing there. It was as if Long's car had vanished into thin air. He cruised slowly along the street for a moment, thinking.

The car had been a block ahead of him when it turned onto that street, so it was possible that Long had just floored it and raced ahead to the next intersection. Sam pressed his accelerator and hurried up there, but there were no vehicles in sight, no matter which way he looked. He stared ahead, but he didn't believe the car could've made it to the next intersection in such a short time.

Instinctively, Sam glanced into his rearview mirror and spotted Long's Chevrolet sitting right behind him. The short hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as he wondered how the man had gotten behind him without being seen. Even if he'd raced around the block, he could not have gotten there so quickly. Somehow, Sam had actually passed him right there on the street. It seemed impossible, but the facts are the facts. Long was behind him, and there was no other explanation.

Sam looked at Long's face in the mirror, and saw an ice in his eyes that was unnerving. The man knew Sam was playing stare down with him, and not only did he not blink, but he held eye contact better than anyone had ever done when Sam wanted to pour on the glare. Sam wasn't accustomed to people who could meet him eye to eye, but he wouldn't let that show. He smiled into the mirror and waved at Long, then pulled over and parked on the side of the street.

Long parked his Chevrolet just behind the Corvette. For a long moment, the two men simply sat in their cars and looked at each other in the mirror, but then Sam opened his door and stepped out of the car. He reached back into the open window to grab his cane, then began walking slowly towards Long.

Long pushed the button and lowered the driver’s window on his car, looking at Sam without a smile. "Mr. Prichard," Long said. "You're a private investigator, are you not, sir?"

Sam was surprised that Long had identified him so quickly, but then, he may have spotted Sam's license plate before he even went into the house. "I am," he said, "and I've been retained by your daughter to try to get you to sit down and talk with her."

"I'm sure you're aware that that is unlikely to happen," Long said. "I've already sent word to her to that effect. There are reasons, which I cannot and will not go into now, why I don't want to have any contact with my family."

"But that isn't quite true, is it?" Sam asked. "After all, you're visiting with your mother and brother, and they're your family, also. Your daughter simply wants to know why you've never been in touch with her all these years. She thought you were dead all this time, and finding out that you’re alive has been a shock."

"I'm sure it must've been," Long said. "I can't say I'm not sorry about that, or that I'm not sorry that I haven't known my daughter. On the other hand, it's been over 45 years, so I can't really see that there is much hope of making up for all that time now. If she wants closure, then she should have me declared dead. I don't think there will be any opposition from the Department of the Army."

Sam let out a sigh and leaned down closer to Long's face, resting his arm on the roof of the car. "Come on, man," Sam said, "can you really imagine that there could be any closure when she knows for a fact that you're actually alive? All she wants is to sit with you for a couple of hours and have you explain the reasons why you never came home. From what your brother has said to her, there must be something you can say along that line. Can't you give her the courtesy of looking her in the eye while you say it?"

"Mr. Prichard," Long said, "it took me one phone call to find out who you are, and learn that you have been highly instrumental in handling some, shall we say, sensitive matters for certain government employees. I know who those employees are, and generally the types of things you've done for them. That tells me that you probably know more about me than you're letting on right now, so I want you to consider the possibility that giving her that courtesy is literally beyond anything I can do. I'm certain there are things you have done in the past few months that you've been cautioned not to ever speak about; my very existence is classified deeper than any clearance you could possibly have. So let's quit dancing around this issue, and get it through your thick head, and then hers, that I'm dead. Regardless of the fact that I've been seen alive, I assure you that Uncle Sam would much rather have it that way."

Sam stood up again. "I can relay that message," he said, "but we both know it won't satisfy her. How about this? What if I could get her to settle for a phone call? Would you go along with that?"

Long let the ghost of a smile cross his face for a second, and shook his head as if in disbelief at Sam's tenacity. "You can tell her that all I would agree to is 15 minutes on a phone call." He took a pen and piece of paper from the seat beside him, scribbled a number on the paper and handed it to Sam. "Tell her to call this number at exactly 6 PM this evening. Tell her 15 minutes, and that's all. She needs to have her questions ready before I answer the phone."

Long started his car, put it in reverse, backed up and then whipped it out and around where Sam was still standing. Before Sam could get back to the Corvette, he was gone. Sam hobbled back to his car, got in and drove off towards home.

3

Sam pulled into his driveway a half hour later, and didn't bother to put the Corvette into the garage. He had a feeling he'd be needing it again before the day was over, so he just left it parked in the drive next to the Honda Ridgeline that was their family vehicle, then got out and headed toward the front door.

Sam had bought the house more than ten years earlier, when he was married to his first wife, Jeanie. She had loved it at first, and talked about how the three bedrooms upstairs would eventually be filled with the children they would have, but the more Sam got into working extra shifts, the more she got into finding ways to occupy her excess of free time. The end result had been a new boyfriend, a surprisingly peaceful divorce, and Sam with the house to himself. Except for a very short period when his mother had needed a place to stay, he'd lived alone in it until Indie and Kenzie had come along.

Sam had been a cop, and a very good one. He made his way through every division until he ended up in vice, and that's where he felt he’d found his true calling. He'd seen the damage drugs could do to people in their lives, destroying families, literally ruining the lives of both children and adults. Bringing drug dealers and drug manufacturers to justice had given him a great deal of satisfaction.

But then, one day, on what should've been a routine takedown of a drug distribution operation, Sam had been shot three times. All three bullets had been deflected by his Kevlar vest, but unfortunately, they were deflected downward into the joint of his right hip. When he'd awakened in the hospital, he'd been informed that his days as a policeman were over, and he had slowly resigned himself to simply being Sam, the ex-cop.

As frustrating as it was to give up a career, Sam had learned to deal with it. He had adapted, allowing himself to get to know his neighbors and become part of their local neighborhood swap. Besides being a police officer, Sam had the skills of a master mechanic; since a bad hip didn't hinder him from doing tune-ups or brake jobs, he often found himself working on neighbors’ vehicles in exchange for help with other things, like plumbing and wiring in his house. The arrangement was a great one, and it led him to some terrific friendships.

However, helping neighbors can sometimes turn into something bigger than you ever expected. When a lady who lived nearby had a granddaughter who turned up missing, Sam's former policeman status led her to ask for his help. Before he realized what he was getting into, Sam had blundered into the field of private investigation.

One of the peculiarities of the case was that the little girl’s father was a drug dealer who worked his deals through the Internet. Sam, being only moderately computer literate, had decided that he could use the help of a hacker. He had placed an ad in search of one, using a code phrase he'd learned from some of his former arrests. When a beautiful young woman had answered his ad by literally tracking him down as he ate dinner at a fast food restaurant, he learned that she was homeless, along with her four-year-old daughter. He had proposed a simple trade, giving her and her daughter rooms in his house while she worked with him on the missing child case.

That young woman was Indie, and once she was sure there were no unwelcome strings attached to the offer, she had accepted. Sam had given her money to buy groceries, and to show her appreciation she had made a nice dinner for the three of them and cleaned his house better than it had been cleaned in a long time. Sam had told her he had a lady who came by once a week to clean up, but hadn't mentioned that that lady was his mother, and Indie had suggested that he hire a new housekeeper. Sam took her advice, and offered her the job, on top of what he had promised to pay for helping him crack the drug dealers’ website.

Indie was overwhelmed at the prospect of the job that not only paid well, but provided her and her daughter a place to live. She had desperately been seeking a way to get back on her feet, and this seemed like a godsend. She accepted the offer, which made all of them happy. Indie was delighted to have a home for herself and her daughter, Kenzie; Kenzie was delighted because she thought Sam was a great guy; and Sam was delighted because he enjoyed both of their company and because he loved looking at Indie. Looking at her made her feel a bit self-conscious, so he usually only did it when she wasn't paying attention.

Within days, Kenzie was making hints about Sam becoming her new daddy. Her father had died in a military training accident before she was born, so she'd never had a father figure. Indie thought Sam would definitely be an acceptable candidate, but she didn't think that the prospect would interest him, so she began to think about ways to make the idea appealing.

Sam was way ahead of her. By the time she'd been with him a week, he knew he was falling in love, but just didn't know how to say so. The prospect of another long-term relationship was frightening, and yet the thought of her getting away, especially taking Kenzie with her, was more terrifying than anything else he had ever been through in his life. He decided that he simply couldn't let that happen, and so he bought a ring, waited for the perfect opportunity, and proposed. Indie had accepted, Kenzie had approved, and life had gotten better.

Somewhere along the line, Sam had found out that he was a pretty good private investigator. He had found the missing little girl, which had involved blundering into matters of national security and led to a working relationship with an old secret agent named Harry Winslow. He had also stumbled into the position of lead singer for a local rock band turned country band, and their performances were quite popular in the surrounding area.

Sam enjoyed performing, especially since he was a very good songwriter, and actually wrote most of the songs the band performed. He'd been a singer in high school and college, but never really thought of tackling any of it professionally; lately, however, the idea had begun to appeal to him.

In the past two months, Sam had been shot and nearly killed on more than one occasion, and on his last case, Indie had been shot. Sam thought she was dead at first, and the thought of anything happening to her scared him to death. Fortunately, the bullet had only grazed her head, but the fact that head wounds bleed a lot made it look much worse than it was. Nevertheless, it had been very terrifying to Sam. As a result, he had seriously been considering leaving the private eye business and going into the music full time. He just hadn't figured out how to bring up the subject to Indie.

It wasn't even that he thought she would object. His hesitation was founded in the fact that he didn't want her to think that he was afraid. The truth, however, was that the thought of anything happening to her, to Kenzie, or to anyone else he loved was more than he could bear. In the short time since he'd gotten his PI license, he’d gone up against terrorists, madmen and a serial killer; now, it looked like he was dealing with a genuine government assassin. How crazy could one man's life actually get?

Sam brought his reverie to an end as he entered the front door. Something smelled good, and he called out for his wife.

"Indie?" Sam called. "Where are you, baby?"

Indie stuck her head through the door from the kitchen, so that he could see her through the dining room. "I'm in here, honey," she said. "I'm making a late lunch, you want some?"

"Boy, do I ever! I swear, nothing makes me hungrier than sitting in the car waiting for something to happen."

Indie laughed. "And? Did anything happen?"

Sam sighed. "It did," he said. "Mr. Long decided that we needed a little face to face, so when I tried to follow him, he pulled a fast one and got behind me. I pulled over and he was good enough to talk with me, but he insists that he does not want to meet with Joellyn. He says the best he can do is a phone call, and gave me a number for her to call later this evening. I'm guessing that if she doesn't call then, she'll never get to talk to him."

Indie's eyebrows went up. "Did you call her yet?"

"No, not yet," Sam said. "I actually wanted to wait until I got back home with you before I did."

Indie shrugged. "Okay," she said, "want me to get her on the phone?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, go ahead," he said. "Might as well get it over with."

Indie walked out to their office for a moment, and came back with a scribbled note in her hand. She picked up the house phone and dialed the number she had copied from Joellyn's file. "Joellyn? This is Indie Prichard. Sam wanted to talk to you for a moment." She handed Sam, the receiver.

"Joellyn? It's Sam. Listen, I actually got to speak to your father for a few moments today…"

"Oh my God," Joellyn said through the phone. "Oh my God, then it's really him?"

"Yes, it's really him," Sam said. "The thing is, he says there are reasons why he cannot meet with you. The best I could get him to agree to is a phone conversation this evening at 6 PM. I have a number for you to call, and he says to call at exactly 6 if you want to talk to him."

"Why, that arrogant bastard!” she said. "After running out on my mom and me, you'd think he would at least have the decency to be willing to look me in the eye as he explains to me why he did it! Wouldn't you think?"

"Would I think so? Yes, I admit I would. Unfortunately, it's not up to me or you. The ball is in his court, and if this is all he's willing to give you, there's nothing you or I can do about it. I'll be happy to give you the number, if you want it."

"Okay, fine," she said with a loud sigh. "I'll call him, but I'd still like you to find out where he's staying. I want to look him in the eye and ask questions, and he's not getting out of it this easily."

Sam gave her the number, and she repeated it back to be sure she had it right. "Yeah, that's it," Sam said. "Good luck."

"He's the one who's going to need luck," she said, "whenever I get my hands on him!"

She hung up without another word, and Sam set the phone down. He looked at Indie. "Sure would be nice," he said, "to make the client happy once in a while. Have you noticed that most of our clients end up dissatisfied or unhappy for one reason or another?"

"Oh, I don't know," Indie said. "At least a few of them have been happy. I mean, the band was happy when you found out what happened to Barry, and I think Jimmy Smith was fairly happy that he didn't go down for murder, even though his wife turned out to be the killer."

Sam gave a lopsided smile. "I guess you could be right," he said. "Maybe I should just give it more time, or look at it differently." He put an arm around her and pulled her close, kissing her gently and then looking into her eyes. "So, what was that you said about lunch?"

"I said I was about to make me some, and invited you to join me. Don't get excited, though, we're only talking Ramen noodles, here. Would you rather have beef or chicken?"

"I'll take the chicken," Sam said. "What time does Kenzie get home?"

"School gets out at three fifteen,” she said, "and I have to be there at least 10 minutes before that if I want to get a decent spot in line. Because of safety concerns, they only let a few cars in at a time to pick up kids. I need to be parked in the line so that she doesn't have to stand outside and wait too long before I get there to get her. Wanna go with me to pick her up?"

"Sure, baby," Sam said. "I'd like that."

The microwave oven beeped, and Indie set a bowl of Ramen noodle soup on the table in front of Sam. She handed him a fork and a bottle of root beer from the refrigerator while her own bowl of soup was heating up. Sam waited for her to get hers before he started eating.

"So, how do you think Kenzie's first day of school is going?"

Indie smiled. "By now, she probably has at least one teacher ready to pull her own hair out, and I'm sure she's made at least a dozen new friends. Hopefully some of them will be in the neighborhood, or not too far away, so that she can go and visit them or have them over from time to time. I know she likes the Mitchell twins, but I think she needs more of a social circle than she's got."

Sam grinned. Jim and Anita Mitchell's twins were around Kenzie's age, and they enjoyed having her over. There was supposed to be an arrangement whereby Kenzie would spend a night or two at the Mitchell's house, and then the twins would come to the Prichard home. For some reason, though, it had all been pretty one-sided so far, with Kenzie spending quite a few nights at their house. Sam and Indie had met the twins, and they were pretty well-behaved children, so they were looking forward to actually having them spend the night with Kenzie instead of the other way around.

"Well, she's meeting some kids at church, now," Sam said. They had recently begun attending services at a local church that had been involved in Sam's most recent case. In fact, it was the very church where Indie had been shot. In spite of that horrible fact, all three members of the Prichard family had liked the church, and had decided they wanted to go back. Sam had been impressed by the pastor who had been the target of a serial killer but refused to hide behind police protection. "Frankly, I think she's more likely to make good friends at church than at school, but you just never know."

Indie laughed, but she was nodding. "You may have a good point, there," she said. "At least, at church, we have reason to believe the parents are trying to raise their children properly, and teach them some decent morals. In schools, nowadays, you just don't know what kind of family the kids might be coming from. I don't think there's anything that scares me more than when I hear about all the school shootings, and then I think about Kenzie being in one of those schools. It almost makes you want to move to some small, tiny little town, but that doesn't seem to be the answer. They've had school shootings even in some of those places."

"That's very true," Sam said. "Baby, if I could think of someplace to move this family to where I knew you and Kenzie would always be safe, we'd be packing already. This house wouldn't mean anything to me, the Corvette wouldn't mean anything, and anything else that stood between us and that safe place would get tossed aside without a moment's thought. The trouble is, there isn't any such place, or at least I can't imagine where to find it. The best I can do is make every effort I can to keep us safe right here where we are. And that's exactly what I intend to do."

"Sweetheart," Indie said, "I know. Believe me, there is no one on earth I trust more than I trust you. Sam, you proved yourself to me even before I fell in love with you. I know you would do anything it takes to keep us safe, no matter what it cost you. That's just one of the many things I love about you, babe.”

Sam felt his face grew warm, and knew that he was blushing a bit under his wife's praise. "Thank you, baby," he said. "My goodness, but this soup is good! Did you do something special with the recipe?"

Indie burst out laughing. "You dope!" she said. "There is absolutely nothing you can do with the recipe for Ramen noodle soup!"

"Oh, but my dear, I so beg to differ!" Sam said. "I realize that you have never been a bachelor, but trust me when I say that the addition of some chili powder or just about any other spices can turn plain old Ramen noodle soup into a delicacy fit for a single king! Why, I'm quite sure that if it had been available, Elvis would have happily eaten Ramen noodle soup with hot sauce or Cajun seasoning. I shall have to prove my point to you one of these days, and prepare you a bachelor's feast, just so that you can see how creative a single man can be."

Indie got up and walked around the table to put her arms around her husband. She looked into his eyes, then leaned down and kissed him on the lips. "Mr. Prichard," she said, "have I mentioned today how much I love you?"

"Only once," Sam said. "I actually think that I'm ahead of you today, I think I've said it three times already. That means you owe me a couple more, but I'll take a few extras just so that you can get a head start on me for tomorrow."

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Indie said, punctuating each with a kiss on his cheek. "There," she said, "I think that puts me ahead by one. If you catch up, then I'll just have to add a few more. Can't let you get ahead of me, now can I?"

"Nope, uh-uh, no way," Sam said. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you! There, that puts me at least four ahead. When you catch up with me, then we’ll work on the next batch."

They were interrupted by the ringing of Sam's phone, and he pulled it out to see that it was Harry calling. Indie sat down in his lap as he answered the phone.

"Hey, Harry," Sam said. "What's up?"

"Sam, boy, I've just received a call from an old pal at Army intelligence in DC. It seems that somebody, a certain person whose name should not be mentioned aloud over a phone, has been checking you out. Have you managed to stumble into that person?"

"Actually, yes, I did," Sam said. "I spotted him at the location he's been visiting, and while I was tailing him away from there, he spotted me. We spoke, and I told him about my client and what she wanted, but he has declined to meet with her. Instead, he gave me a number to have her call him. Said that was the best he could do. Why?"

"Because it turns out that individual has gone rogue. Do you have any idea what that means?"

Sam's eyebrows rose a half inch. "If it means what I think it does, it means he's no longer in the employ of our mutual uncle. Would that be close to correct?"

"Son, he's not only no longer in the employ of, he's listed as number three on the international most-wanted list! There's only a couple above him on that list, and both of them used to hang out with a fellow named bin Laden!"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Sam said. "If he's gone rogue, then how is he checking me out?"

"Well, now, that's a bit of a story. You see, it seems that our rogue had a friend in Army intelligence. He has kept that friendship alive, for what he does not know is that his friend was already under suspicion for other things. As a result, all of his communications are monitored. Your boy called him up a bit ago, wanting information about a certain Sam Prichard, who was parked outside his mama's house. The people doing the monitoring saw the flag that came up when your name was run through the computers and decided that they should report upstairs. The fellow upstairs happen to be an old friend of mine, and when he realized that you are one of my assets, he decided to give me a call."

Sam was shaking his head. "Okay, Harry," Sam said, "now that we've gotten through that, would you care to translate it all to plain English? Remember, you're talking to a gumshoe here. Us private eyes aren't always the brightest bulbs in the pack."

"Translation to English: Long has gone into the private sector, hiring his services out to the highest bidder. He's not only not supposed to be here in Denver, he's not even supposed to be in this whole country. He was dropped off American rosters more than 10 years ago, when it was discovered that he was hiring himself out to people who wanted other people dead for their own personal reasons. In fact, there's a bounty on his head that's higher than my operating budget for a year! Most likely, the only reason he didn't kill you on sight is because he's just a little worried about what would happen when I found out about it. So far, he hasn't managed to get the US of A to expend a lot of resources to bring him down, but taking out one of our fair-haired boys would be a way to get us interested in doing just that. He's a row, but he's not a total idiot."

"Harry, what do you want me to do?"

"Do? Sam, boy, I want you to stay as far away from that son of a bitch as you possibly can! God only knows when I'm going to need you to save my bacon again; I want to make sure you're whole and healthy when I do! Do you understand me, boy?"

"Harry? Is there any effort going on to bring him in?"

"Not at this moment, no. I've been told to leave it be, at least for now. As long as nobody gets hurt while he's in town, we're prepared to look the other way and let him slip out just as unnoticed as he came in."

Sam thought for a long moment about what he had just heard, while one eye watched Indie's face. "Harry?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone line. "Yes, Sam?"

"Just how much is your operating budget, anyway?"

"In this dinky little office? Just a little over a million. Tell me you're not going to try to collect that reward, Sam. Please tell me that."

"Oh, my goodness, Harry," Sam said. "What kind of an idiot do you think I am? You surely don't think I'd try to take down a professional like this all on my own, do you?"

"Now, Sam, you listen to me and you listen good! Long is not the kind of man you've ever dealt with before. Yes, I'll grant you’ve been up against some good ones, but you've never dealt with anything like this guy. He's not even one that I'd want to mess with, and that's usually a line that gets said about me, not by me! I want you to give me your word you're going to stay as far away from him as you possibly can, Sam, and I want that word right now!"

Indie's eyes were wide and frightened, and boring into Sam's own. If anything helped him make the decision, that was it. "Fine, Harry," Sam said. "I'll stay away from him, you have my word."

Both Harry and Indie breathed a sigh of relief at the same time. Harry said, "Don't go back on that, Sam. I need you, boy; I need you alive and well. Don't you forget that."

Sam caressed his wife's back and gave her a wink and a smile. "I won't forget, Harry," he said. He grinned as the line went dead, just as it always did when Harry was done saying whatever he wanted to say.

"So what was that really all about?" Indie asked.

Sam sighed. "Seems that Mr. Long is no longer the government agent he used to be. He's been fired, and is now considered a rogue assassin."

Indie's eyes went wide. "Oh dear God, Sam," she said. "How do we get mixed up with these people all the time? How on earth can so many crazy things happen to one private eye?"

"Well," Sam said, "if this was a detective novel, I'd say that the author has an incredibly cruel and sadistic imagination. Unfortunately, since this is our lives, I'd have to say that I just have really, really bad luck when it comes to clients." He patted Indie on the bottom, and she got up off of his lap.

Sam glanced at the clock on the wall, and saw that it was almost three. Kenzie would be getting out of school soon, and he was looking forward to hearing about her first day. He nudged Indie and nodded toward the clock, and she grinned. "Yeah," she said, "we better get going."

They headed out the door and got into the Ridgeline, with Indie behind the wheel. She started up and backed out of the driveway, then turned in the direction of the school. It was about ten minutes away, but as she had explained to Sam earlier, it was best to get there early to get a good parking spot in the pickup line.

They pulled up in the line of parents, and Indie complained that they should've come a few minutes earlier. "Look," she said. "There's probably fifty cars ahead of us, which means that Kenzie will be standing outside for a good ten minutes before we get there to pick her up."

Sam looked out the windows and then turned to look at his wife again. "Well, it's a nice day," he said. “I can remember standing outside a lot longer than ten minutes, waiting for a ride after school. Good grief, sometimes it seemed like it took my mom an hour to get there to pick me up.”

"That was a different world, Sam," Indie said. "Today, some areas consider it child abuse if the parent isn't there waiting as soon as the kid comes out of the school."

"Oh, good grief," Sam said, "how stupid can they get? What if the parents have to work? What if they have jobs, and live in the real world?"

Indie shrugged her shoulders. "Hey, I'm just telling you the way things are. It's just best if I'm here waiting before she ever comes outside."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "Okay, okay, I get it. Hey, why don't we just go out for dinner tonight? After all, it's Kenzie's first day at school and I think that calls for a celebration, don't you?"

Indie smiled over at him. "I do indeed," she said. "You know, Kenzie has been wanting to go to that new pizza place, the one with all the games."

"Pizza, it is!" Sam said. "I think I can stand a little pepperoni and some arcade time, myself."

4

Kenzie was delighted to see them pull up, and was even more excited when they told her they were taking her out for a celebration dinner.

"Can we go to Bingo's Pizza?" she asked.

Sam looked at Indie with a look of total shock on his face. "Mommy," he said, "did you let the secret out? How did she know that's where we were going to go tonight? Did you tell her?"

Indie shook her head, her eyes wide and a smile trying to burst out of hiding. "No, Daddy, I didn't say a word. I think she's just so smart that she figured it out all by herself."

"I didn't know," Kenzie said. "I just asked if we could go there because I've been wanting to! Mommy didn't tell me, I promise she didn't! Are we really going there?"

Sam twisted in his seat so that he could look at his daughter. "Yep," he said. "Mommy and I decided that we're so excited about you being in school that we should take you out and have a little private party, just the three of us. And you know what else? I heard they even have go-kart races there! I bet that you and me can beat Mommy in a go-kart race, what do you think?"

Kenzie laughed with delight, but shook her head. "No! No, me and Mommy against you!"

Indie looked at her daughter in the rearview mirror, and yelled, "Yay! Us girls gotta stick together! We'll show Daddy, won't we, sweetheart?"

The nice thing about a place like Bingo's is that there are plenty of things to do, so even if you get there way too early for dinner, you can still have a good time until you're ready to eat. That's exactly what the Prichard family did. Sam, Indie and Kenzie let themselves have fun, playing arcade games and racing each other in go-karts—they were electric, and could really drift around the curves—and before they knew it, more than two hours had passed and they were all getting pretty hungry. They made their way to the dining area, where there was an endless buffet of different types of pizza and desserts.

It was nearly eight PM by the time they were all tired enough to give it up and go home. Indie let Sam carry Kenzie out and buckled her into her car seat, but then she gave him the keys and let him drive home. It wasn't a terribly long drive, since Denver simply isn't that large of a city, and they got home before nine. Indie carried her daughter inside and up the stairs, while Sam got her backpack and followed. He didn't always go upstairs for the tucking-in ceremony, but this time he decided to. Once they had the little girl in bed and off to sleep, they made their way back down the stairs and into their own bedroom.

Sam rolled out of bed the next morning in time to join Indie and Kenzie for breakfast. They had a good time together, and then it was time for Kenzie to head off to school again. Sam rode along as Indie drove her to school, and they were back home well before eight AM.

"So, did Herman come up with anything on our guy?" Sam asked as they got back into the house.

Indie shrugged. "After you left, yesterday," she said, "I came inside and did some housecleaning, and I had just gotten done when you showed up. That's why I was making a late lunch. Let's go see what he found, shall we?"

Sam grinned and got to his feet. "After you," he said. "You know I would follow you anywhere, don't you? There's just something about that wiggle that makes me want to follow you."

Indie glanced back over her shoulder and smiled at him, then stuck out her tongue as she hurried down the hall. Sam hobbled along as quickly as he could, but she was already seated at her desk when he got to their office.

Herman had apparently been busy, because there was a lot of data on the screen. Sam didn't know what it was at first glance, but he was confident that his wife would and that she would explain it to him. This was her world, the world of computers and information; she was his guide to that world, and he had learned to trust her.

"Well," Indie said, "it looks like he's found a few things." She clicked one of the first links on the page and a whole new screen opened up. This one was a reference to the patrol that was lost the night Long disappeared. Indie scanned over it quickly, with Sam looking over her shoulder, then pointed at the comment that had been left by a visitor to the site more than two years before. "Hey, look at this," she said. "Here's someone who claims to have seen Long alive in Pakistan, right around the time when bin Laden was killed. Basically, he's just asking what Long could possibly have been doing there. He wasn't part of any American mission, he certainly wasn't connected to the SEAL team that went in, so why would he even had been in that country? It's a good question."

"It's more than a good question, it's a question that should've been asked in more official settings. Somebody should've been asking questions about this guy for years, now, I think. What else we got?"

"Let's see," Indie said, as she closed that screen and clicked another link. This one opened what looked like a PDF file, apparently some sort of official document that listed various sightings of Long. "Holy cow! Check this out, this guy has been all over the world! And look at the dates, some of these would match up with major events in recent history. Good grief, look how far back these dates go! We got him in Tehran, during the Iran hostage crisis in seventy-nine; he was in Beirut, Lebanon in eighty-three and eighty-four, when car bombings were used on our embassy there, and he's been somewhere close to almost every Islamic terrorist attack since two thousand! Look at this list—here's Calcutta, India, Karachi in Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Greece, Yemen, Libya, Egypt—look, he was in Benghazi when the ambassador was killed. Sam, somehow, this man has been close to almost every major foreign terrorist attack in the last 40 years or more!"

Sam whistled, and shook his head. "Baby, there's something really strange going on here. I think it's time to give Harry another call."

He didn't get the chance. His phone rang only a second later, and somehow he didn't even need to look to know that it was Harry calling.

Sam answered the phone by saying, "Harry, how did you know I was about to call you?"

Harry chuckled. "I didn't, but that doesn't surprise me a whole lot. Son," Harry said, "you manage to fall into the biggest buckets of poop that I've ever seen, but somehow you tend to survive them. I'm not sure how you do that, but I hope it's a talent you haven't lost lately. Your connection to this case has stirred up a hornet's nest up in DC that's got people calling me right and left, wanting to know if 'that special man of mine' can bring this person in."

"Oh, Lord, Harry," Sam said, "and what have you been telling them?"

"Why, Sam, I've been saying that I have the best man possible for the job, of course," Harry said. "I mean, you wouldn't want me to lie, would you? Truth be told, I don't know of anyone better suited to this type of job than you, so when my superiors are telling me to have you bring our mutual friend in, I'm telling them that all I can do is call and ask. You don't work for me, I reminded them. Unfortunately, the fact that you're a free agent is something they don't seem to be able to grasp, up there. I'm trying to reeducate them, but I can't seem to find the book called Reality For Dummies."

"That's because there isn't one," Sam said. "Reality is something you have to learn by experience, and even dummies are not immune to that. Good Lord, Harry, what am I supposed to do? I'm sitting here at the moment looking at a list of disguised appearances around the country that just happens to coincide with almost every major terrorist activity for decades! That's what I was calling you about, to let you know that we'd stumbled across this information. Didn't you just spend fifteen minutes a bit ago convincing me to stay as far away from him as I possibly could? "

"Well, Sam, boy, I know, and I guess I may have jumped the gun on that. Somebody bigger than me has decided we need to do something about this guy, and you know damn good and well that you're the only hope we got. Therefore, the first thing were going to do is get your family some protection. We can't let this mess endanger your wife and little girl. After that, you and I can discuss what to do next."

"You know what, Harry?" Sam asked. "I don't know that I want to get in the middle of this. I don't think I want my family in the middle of this. And I sure as the dickens don't want to put them in any danger. I don't know who this guy is, and I really don't care, to be honest. He's not my problem; all I did was hire on to locate him for his daughter. There's no way on God's green earth that I could have possibly anticipated him being involved in whatever the hell it is he's involved in. I think I'm going to bow out of this, and let you figure it out on your own."

"Now, Sam, I can completely understand how you feel," Harry said. "The problem is, we don't know why he's in town, other than to visit his mama, but it seems odd that she's been sick a few times in the past, and he's never bothered to show up. The people upstairs are thinking that there's something more going on than just him having an attack of homesickness. Sam, if he's up to something in his normal line of work, then we probably need to put a stop to it as quickly as possible."

Sam was shaking his head emphatically. "No, Harry, I said no. Good grief, then, don't you remember what we just went through? Indie was wounded, and even Kenzie and our mothers were threatened by a madman with a gun, and from what you tell me, this man makes that one look like Peter Pan! How do you expect me to react? I'm sick and tired of having my family end up in danger, and every time I get mixed up with you, that's where they end up!"

"Now, Sam, that's not entirely true," Harry said, "or at least not as true as you make it sound. Granted, working with me isn't the safest thing you've ever done; on the other hand, look at how much you've accomplished. Sam, son, you are literally the best agent I have ever known, and this is another case of your country calling upon you for help."

Sam looked at Indie, who was staring at him with her eyes wide. She could only hear his side of the conversation, but he was pretty sure she knew the gist of what Harry was saying.

"Okay, first off, Harry, what makes your bosses think that there's any danger in his presence? Maybe the guy really is just here to visit his sick mother, did anyone think of that?"

"As I just said, Sam, she's been sick before. The woman has COPD, for crying out loud, this isn't the first time she's been near death! It is, however, the first time Long has bothered to make an appearance. Now, it would seem a pretty big stretch of the imagination to believe that he's aware she's sick this time, but hasn't been before. Wouldn't you agree with that? That being the case, the speculation in DC is that he was in the country, and probably in this area, for some other reason, and simply took advantage of the opportunity to be close enough to see his mother before she dies."

"Aw, c'mon, Harry," Sam said. "Even if I swallow that, what makes you think there's any reason for me to get involved?"

"Well now, Sam, I can think of one good reason for you to get involved, and that would be the fact that Long has a tendency not to leave a trail behind them. Knowing that you're connected, through me, it's not gonna take him long to decide that you're a loose end he wants to tie up."

Sam rubbed a hand over his face. Somehow, he had already come to that conclusion on his own. Just knowing the type of person Long was pretty well told him that he was already in danger. Of course, that meant his family was also in danger. No matter how he looked at it, Long was becoming his problem.

"Hang on a second, Harry," he said. "Let me try to explain this to Indie." He muted the phone without waiting for permission, and looked at his wife. "Harry's right, baby, this is going to be a mess. Long is bad news, and Harry's bosses are figuring it's kind of odd that he shows up now, even though his mother has been sick and near death before. It sounds like maybe he's got other reasons for being around here, and if that is so, then it could be a serious national security problem. In any event, like Harry says, it's not gonna take him long to decide he doesn't like the fact that I even knew he was here. If he decides to strike out at me, I don't want you and Kenzie anywhere he can reach."

"Sam, let's just get out of town," Indie said. "Let's go grab Kenzie from school and just get out of town. This guy is out of your league, baby, he's a professional killer! Come on, Sam, I can't take a chance of something happening to you!"

Sam sighed. "Babe, the smart move right now is to get you and Kenzie somewhere safe. I'll deal with this however I have to, and once it's over, well—maybe it's time I look at quitting this business after all. Between the money we've saved up and my pension, we can live pretty well, and maybe the music will pay off."

Indie leaned forward and put her face in her hands. "And what if Long is already watching us? For all we know, he could be listening to this conversation right now. Where are we going to go that could be safe?"

"Well, what I'm thinking," Sam said, "is that we'll give Beauregard's two girlfriends a call and have them come get you and Kenzie, and the four of you can go up to that vacation spot you enjoyed a while back." Sam winked at Indie, and she rolled her eyes at him. Beauregard, of course, was the name given to her mother's imaginary spirit guide; both her own mother, Kim, and Sam's mother, Grace, were firm believers in Beauregard, so referring to them as his girlfriends was a simple little code that she understood instantly. The vacation spot was also an easy one to figure out, because it referred to his father's old cabin in the mountains, where they had hidden during the terrorist incident a few weeks back.

"Okay, so that makes some sense, but then what are you going to do? You're still in over your head, baby. This guy is bad news; he's not the kind of lowlife that you've dealt with around here."

Sam grinned. "No," he said, "he's the kind of lowlife I had to deal with the last time you were hiding in that particular vacation spot. I actually think I'm getting to be pretty good at dealing with his type of people."

"Sam!" Indie yelled in his face. "You nearly got yourself killed dealing with that type of people! I'm not sure that inspires a lot of confidence on my part!"

Sam picked up the phone again. "It's what we got to do, baby," he said, before speaking to Harry again. "Okay, Harry?"

"I'm here, Sam," Harry said.

"Okay, first off, I'm getting a pretty strange feeling about this whole situation. Just how sure are you of the people who are wanting us to get involved in this?"

"Sam, my boy, it amazes me how you always manage to ask just the right questions. My big problem with this is that I'm not sure who's behind our involvement. Is it possible were being played like puppets? This is government, Son, of course it is. Does that make it any less our duty to do what we can to eliminate dangers to our country?"

Sam sighed, and shook his head, even though Harry couldn't see him. "No, it doesn't. Have you got anybody we can put on Indie and Kenzie and Beauregard's girlfriends, while they pack up and head out to the vacation location again?"

Harry chuckled. "Sam, I've had people watching all of the above for the last hour, including your mother, who seems to be on a shopping spree," he said. "I'm putting together a team right now and will send my personal car to pick them all up. That's the car they had out there the last time, the one with the built-in Wi-Fi. You just never know when that might come in handy, right?"

"Absolutely," Sam said. "I'll make sure Indie knows that you thought of her. Talk to you soon."

The line went dead instantly, and Sam looked at his wife. "Can you make a phone call through Herman? One that nobody could trace?"

"Yes. It's not actually through Herman, but I think that that's what you're asking me. Let me guess, you want me to call mom and start setting this up?"

Sam nodded. "Yes," he said. "And tell her that I don't want to hear a single word out of that dead Civil War soldier!"

"Even after he saved your life how many times now? You should learn to be grateful, Sam. Don't worry, I'll tell her." She turned to her computer and started tapping keys, and a moment later she slipped a headset over her ears. A dial pad appeared on her screen, and she punched in her mother's cell phone number, then told it to dial through. "Hey, mom?" she said a moment later. "It's me, how are things going?"

Sam could actually hear Kim's voice coming through the headphones, as she said, "I've been sitting here waiting for you to call. Beauregard told me an hour ago that you'd be calling. He also said to tell Sam to remember that things are not always as they appear, and not everyone who's a bad guy is really a bad guy."

Indie glanced at Sam, knowing how loudly her mother had spoken and guessing that he had heard. He rolled his eyes, and she winked and replied. "Yeah, well, that's partly why I'm calling, mom," she said. "We took on a new case this morning, and it's turning into one of those messes that Harry gets involved in. You remember Harry, right? Well, this mess is big enough that Sam and Harry think that you and Grace and Kenzie and I should all go up to the cabin for a little while."

"Yes, yes, I know," Kim said. "When Beauregard told me you'd be calling, he said we'd be going up there. Grace is out picking up groceries now to take along. She should be back in about half an hour, and will be headed your way then."

Sam leaned forward. "Kim, don't bother coming this way," he said. "Harry says he's sending a car with the team to make sure you're safe, all of you. They'll bring you over here, and then you can all go to pick Kenzie up at school and they'll take you up to the cabin."

"Okay," Kim said, "Got it. I'll let Grace know."

Indie smiled. "Okay, mom," she said. "And Sam says to tell Beauregard thank you."

Sam glared at her for a moment, but then he grinned and nodded. As much as he hated to admit it, Beauregard—whether he was a real ghost, or just a figment of Kim's imagination—had a track record of being accurate, and his advice had saved Sam's life more than once, as Indie had said earlier. He wasn't sure what it meant, that not all bad guys are bad guys, but he intended to be sure of what was going on with Long before he made any decisions on how to deal with the situation. If that cryptic clue was a reference to Long, it could mean that this whole thing was some sort of set up, and Sam didn't want any part of such a mess. He did, however, plan to let Harry know what Beauregard had said, since Harry was aware of just how many times that imaginary ghost had been correct.

"You know Kenzie is going to be pretty upset about this," Indie said, after getting off the phone with her mother.

"Why would she be upset?" Sam asked, his eyes wide as he looked at his wife. "If there's one thing she enjoys doing, it's hanging out with her grandmothers. Good grief, they spend more money on her than they do on themselves! She makes out like a bandit every time she gets near them."

"Yeah, well, it won't take her long to realize that her trip to the cabin means Daddy's got himself in some kind of trouble again. You know she hates it when you put yourself in danger; she's scared to death you're going to get killed! And frankly, her mother feels exactly the same way!"

Sam shook his head. "So we make this an adventure for her," he said. "We don't let on that there's any problem, we simply say that you four girls are going on a camping trip in the mountains while I'm getting some paperwork done. That way, it won't be such a big deal."

Indie looked at him from the corner of her eye, and Sam could tell that she wasn't going to go along with him on this. "She's a child, Sam," Indie said, "but she isn't stupid. One of these days you're going to figure that out, and I hope it comes fairly soon. If you try to tell her that this is just a random camping trip to the cabin, and that you're only doing something simple like paperwork but it's keeping you from coming along, she'll see through you as if you were glass. You're not going to fool her like this, trust me."

"Well, what do you want me to say? 'Gee, honey, Daddy's sorry but there's a crazy man who used to be a soldier and Daddy has to go catch him for Uncle Harry.' You think that'll work? Will that be any better?"

"Of course it won't be better, but at least it would be honest! Sam, you've got to respect her, or she'll lose all respect for you! You've got to talk to her as if you expect her to understand, and then she will. As long as you treat her like a person, she’ll accept anything you have to do or say, but if you start trying to pull wool over her eyes, all you're going to do is alienate her. You don't want to lose the bond you've created, Sam, trust me on this. When you lose it, it's almost impossible to get it back."

Sam sank down into his seat and brooded for a moment, but he knew his wife was correct. Kenzie deserved to hear the truth, although it might need to be toned down just a bit. After all, she wasn't quite five years old yet. He was just about to tell Indie she was right when his phone rang again.

A quick glance at the phone told him that it was Joellyn calling. He hit the button to answer. "Hello," he said.

"Mr. Prichard," Joellyn said shakily. "Mr. Prichard, I'm not sure what I've gotten myself mixed up in, but to be perfectly honest with you, at this moment I'm terrified."

Sam put his phone on speaker and motion for Indie to pay attention. "Joellyn? Tell me what's going on."

"Well, I called my father last night like I was supposed to," she said, "and we talked for just a few minutes. Like you said, he told me he couldn't explain why he ran out on us, and I guess I got mad and told him off. That didn't seem to bother him, but when I told him that I had hired a private investigator to track him down so that I could come and confront him face-to-face, he told me that if I were to do that, he would be forced to kill me. Dear God, Mr. Prichard, what kind of man would threaten to kill his own daughter just for wanting to look him in the eye?"

Sam shook his head, looking at Indie. "I'm not sure what to tell you, Joellyn," Sam said. "It seems to me that the smart move would simply be to let him go on his way. To be honest, I have learned that he's not the kind of man you really want to be close to, anyway. At least, that's how I see it."

"Oh, Mr. Prichard, it's not that easy. He called me this morning to tell me to warn you to stay away, something about not paying attention to the people who want you to come after him. He says he knows he'd never get to your family, but that there are other people you wouldn't want him to hurt. Mr. Prichard, he said to tell you that if you come after him, I'll be one of the first to die."

Indie's eyes went wide, and Sam suspected that they were only mirror images of his own. "Joellyn," he said, "I can't imagine that it's anything more than a threat, intended to make me back off. If he calls you again, tell him this—say that I and others are beginning to think there's something fishy about the whole situation, and that I would like to simply talk to him. Tell him I'll be more than happy to settle for a phone call, and that I'm sure he can manage to call me from an untraceable line."

"If he calls me, I'll tell him. Please, Mr. Prichard, don't do anything that will get me hurt. I don't know why he is so determined to keep his secrets, but I know I don't want to be on the receiving end of his anger. I've gotta tell you, I have talked to some coldhearted people in my life, and while that may be my biological father, I hope and pray that there is no part of him in me anywhere. He's got to be the most evil man I have ever spoken to."

Sam made a face that said he wasn't sure whether that was true or not. "You know, Joellyn, someone told me just a little while ago not to always assume the bad guy is who you think it is. Now, I'm not sure what that means, but I'm downright certain it has something to do with your father. Please try to get him that message if he calls you, since I'm fairly certain the number he gave me is probably dead, now."

"Oh, no," she said. "At least, that's the number he keeps calling me from. Maybe if you try, he'll answer. Believe me, I would just as soon never speak to him again, but if he calls me again, I'll give him your message."

The phone went dead, and Sam set it down on the desk. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands, and felt Indie's hand caress his neck and shoulders. "Babe," she said, "you've got to relax a bit. You can't let yourself get all tensed up, not when your life could depend on your reflexes."

Sam looked up at her and smiled. "Baby, this isn't tension, it's preparation. Somehow, I'm being drawn into some weird cat-and-mouse game, and you know how I feel about those! I get the very distinct impression that someone is trying to use me against Long, but I'm not sure there's a valid reason to do so. There's something about this case that just isn't adding up. It's not making any sense, and I think even Harry senses that."

Indie's eyebrows went up in the center, the way they did when she was tackling a problem that didn't make sense logically. "Sam, are you trying to say that someone set Joellyn up to come to you? She's the only reason we’re involved in this case at all, but from what she said, she only chose you because of all the press you got over the Unger case. How could that have been a setup?"

"No, I'm not saying that she was set up, or that she's part of the setup itself. What I'm saying is, now that we've been drawn into this mess, somebody has decided that they want something done about Long, and apparently that I'm the one to do it. Indie, baby, I think I'm being set up to kill this man. The only problem with that is that I haven't seen any evidence that he's actually done anything wrong, other than just be a lousy husband and father. Last time I looked, neither of those were capital offenses."

"Sam," Indie asked, "what in the world are you gonna do this time?"

"Same thing I do every time, Babe," he said. "I'm gonna do my best to do whatever's the right thing to do, and live through it at the same time."

5

Harry's driver, George, arrived an hour later with Grace and Kim, and two Homeland Security agents who had been assigned to protect them all. These were new guys that Sam didn't know, but he knew Harry well enough to know that both of them had been checked out over and over before they got near Sam's family. Those two waited outside, while Kim, Grace and George went into the house.

"George," Indie said, "it's great to see you again. How have you been?"

The driver smiled and accepted the hug Indie gave him. Not long ago, he had been assigned to keep an eye on Indie, Kim, Grace and Kenzie, and keep his limo close by so that Indie never lacked for Internet access. The cabin they were staying in at the time, it seemed, was so far off the beaten path that even cell towers couldn't find the spot.

"I've been good, Miss Indie," he said. "I was delighted when Mr. Harry said I'd be seeing you folks again today."

"Don't let him fool you," Grace said. "George is just happy he's going to get to sample Kim's cooking again. He went nuts over her ham and beans last time, remember?"

"Oh, yes, I remember," Indie said, chuckling at George. "But I think he also liked sharing peanut butter and jelly with Kenzie, and watching Disney movies over and over."

"Well, of course I did," George said. "Disney movies are fun, and there ain't nothing like peanut butter and jelly! Especially in good company!"

"Okay, okay," Indie said. "Look, I've got everything packed for me and Kenzie, but I want you all to wait here while Sam and I go to pick her up from school. I think it would be best if she heard this from me and him together, rather than just having it thrust on her as a big surprise with all of us showing up to pick her up. Like I told Sam, she's a child, but she isn't stupid, and she's going to know there's something going on. I think it's best if Sam and I explained to her together."

"Good point," Kim said, and Grace nodded her agreement. Indie had already called ahead to the school to let them know she would be picking Kenzie up early, so she and Sam slipped out to the Ridgeline and drove off toward the school. When they got there, they parked out front and walked inside, because it was necessary to show their ID before the school would let them take their daughter away.

Kenzie was waiting in the school office, with her backpack on the floor in front of her feet. She looked nervous, but held out her arms for Sam to pick her up as soon as he walked into the room. He told her to wait a moment, while he and Indie showed ID and signed her out, then scooped her up into his arms while Indie grabbed the backpack.

The whole thing went better than they expected, and once they had explained to Kenzie that Daddy had to go and help Uncle Harry with another bad man, she simply told him to be sure he didn't get shot again, and to make sure the bad man didn't get to hurt anyone else. Sam gave Indie a rueful grin as he drove them all home.

Another trip to the cabin, Kenzie knew, meant more fun times with her grandmothers, and she was delighted when she found out that her old friend George would be there, as well. She and George had hit it off when she found out that George's favorite movie of all time was Disney's Mulan. Then, when it turned out he could make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, they were friends for life!

Kim and Grace had everything loaded into the car by the time they got back, so after a few minutes of quick reunion and some hugs and kisses for Sam, they were ready to go. Sam held Indie close and whispered his love for her into her ears, and then kissed her goodbye and held the door for her to enter the car. He looked at the two bodyguards, and their nods of acknowledgment told him they knew he was telling them to make sure his family was safe. One final smile at George, and he tapped the roof of the car as they backed out of the driveway and headed off toward the cabin.

Once again, Sam was alone, and it wasn't a feeling he enjoyed. He wandered back into the house and pulled the slip of paper with Long's phone number on it out of his pocket as he did so. He sat down in his recliner, took out his phone, and punched the number in.

"I got your message," Long's voice said. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to make of it, but I got it."

"Then let me try to put it into clearer terms," Sam said. "Somebody is pulling strings up high to try to get me involved in bringing you in. My contacts aren't sure who's pulling those strings, and that makes them and me uncomfortable. Now, we’ll add in the fact that someone who has never steered me wrong has advised me not to consider you a bad guy until I'm absolutely certain that you are, and frankly, I'm just about as confused as hell. Is any of this making any sense to you?"

"It could be," Long said. "The few people I can still trust don't know much about you, Prichard. For example, no one knows just what your security clearance really is. Can you tell me, in such a way that I believe it?"

Sam laughed. "I don't even know what it is," he said. "I can tell you that I know what really happened at Hoover Dam, because I was there, thwarting the attempt to destroy a big part of our country by dumping a suitcase nuke into Lake Mead. Does that tell you anything?"

Long was silent for a moment, and then chuckled. "Tells me you're a man who doesn't quit, I can say that. I heard a few stories about what happened out there. Not bad for an amateur."

"Yeah, okay, so I'm an amateur," Sam said. "Tell me something, Long; just what on earth are you doing here, in Denver? From what I'm hearing, when you show up someplace, somebody usually dies.”

“There's a fair amount of truth in that, but it's not always the case. Sometimes, I just go where I'm needed to either make things happen the way they should, or keep them from happening the way they shouldn't.”

“Okay. And which is it this time?”

Long hesitated. “I'm no longer popular with the people you know, Prichard, but that's because we don't see eye to eye on some things. Now and then, I show up in the background of something that those people are up to, something I disagree with, and I make sure they don't get away with it. In this particular case, I came here to stop a certain transaction from taking place, and I've already done so. Since I grew up here, and knew my mother was dying, I decided to stop in and see her. It was stupid of me, and led us to this little dance we're doing now, but no one ever said I was smart.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “And you? What's got you so involved in me and my little problems?”

“I'm a private eye, who gets drafted now and then to help out the government. I've been doing what I could, and that's what I'm gonna keep doing. Now I've got people saying they want me to try to bring you in, but if I'm reading them correctly, it sounds more like they want you put down like a mad dog. Care to enlighten me as to why that might be?"

Once again, Long was quiet for several seconds, and then he sighed. "You've got these powerful people," he said, "and the only thing they know how to do is be powerful. They are in positions that make them responsible for the welfare of many, but the truth is that the only thing they care about is just how powerful they are, and how much more powerful they can become. Do you play chess, Prichard?"

"Yes," Sam said. "I'm not great, but I play."

"Good, then you'll understand some of the analogies I have to throw at you to make you understand what's going on here. In chess, you got your king and your queen, right? The king is the piece that must be protected, but the queen is the most powerful piece. She can move in any direction, can strike from any distance. She's the most deadly of them all, right?"

"Right, I got that."

"Okay, now assume that your king is compromised. No matter which way he moves, it's check, but the queen is not in a position to strike and save them. What does she do?"

"She's not the only piece who can strike," Sam said. "She sends another piece. A knight, a bishop, maybe even just a pawn, but another piece who can strike to save the king."

"Precisely. Well, among those powerful people, there are those who are kings—they're powerful, but they must be protected at all cost—and those who are queens. A queen is powerful in her own right, but at least some of her power derives from the king. She's got to protect him, no matter what. Still with me?"

"I think so," Sam said. "If I'm reading you correctly, a queen is not necessarily a female. We're talking position, not gender, right?"

"Yes, yes, you're getting it. The queen is anyone whose power derives from someone more powerful than themselves, someone that must be protected at all costs. The king is a bear, tenacious, firmly entrenched in his position; the queen, on the other hand, is a fox. She is sly and cunning, and while she may seem small and beautiful, she can be deadly if she's cornered. She gained her position by knowing how to manipulate everyone around her, and you can bet that everyone she knows is indebted to her. Any of them will do what she asks of them, as long as it doesn't put them in danger. Do you see where her secret lies, now?"

"People owe her favors," Sam said, "and will do what she wants, but only as long as it doesn't put them at risk, right? Well, then it's simple. All she has to do is let them know that failure to do what she wants is the greatest danger of all. She has to let them know that that's when her pawns will strike, without warning and without hesitation. I'm guessing that that's where you come in; you are a pawn, am I right?"

"Prichard," Long said, "I'm damned glad you're an amateur. Not too many people would've seen that as clearly as you just did, not without a background in politics."

"Yeah, well, if there's one thing being an ex-cop gives you, it's a pretty thorough understanding of internal politics. While you were talking, I just put it into terms I could understand from the Department. I'm pretty sure politics works the same way on every level."

"It most certainly does. Now, since you understand the politics involved, let me try to explain the rest of it. For a lot of years, I served a queen who was loyal to her king. Where she sent me I would go, and what she told me to do, I would do. I've served her since I was a very young man, making my first entry into the world of politics and intrigue, but a few years ago I began to realize that her loyalties might be changing. There were factions within her ranks that were not as loyal to the king as their position suggested they should be, and it became fairly obvious that those factions were manipulating her pawns in order to strengthen themselves, rather than protect and empower the king. Are you still keeping up?"

"I think so. This queen that you served—I'm thinking she had a very short name? Only three letters?"

"Yep! You got it. Now, keep that in mind, and think about those factions I'm referring to. Why would those factions, who were only part of the total organization, begin trying to strengthen themselves? Why would they take their support away from the king?"

"Well, I would imagine it's because they want the power for themselves. That would make sense, that they would remove support from the king while building up their own power base."

"Ah, ah, ah. Nope, it's not that simple. Think about who the queen is, and then think about who the factions are. We're talking about groups within the CIA who should be supporting the king—the American government—but instead, are building power bases of their own in lending their support to other entities. Some of those entities are within the CIA itself, but some are not. Some of them are parts of foreign powers, other countries who may or may not be our allies. Would you care to speculate on why they would be acting this way?"

Sam shook his head, trying to focus on all the different images that were running around inside it. Long was trying to tell him something, he was sure of it, but he couldn't quite figure out just what it was. "The only thing I can think of is treason. Are you saying that parts of the CIA are actively working against the interests of the United States of America?"

"Ding, ding, ding, ding! Give that man a cigar! Good job, Prichard, you just proved you have a brain. Now, tell me this: assuming you're one of those factions, what are you going to do about a pawn who refuses to support any action of the queen that is treasonous to the king?"

Sam nodded, suddenly beginning to understand where Long was going. "You eliminate that pawn," he said. "Is that what you're trying to tell me? Are they out to eliminate you?"

"Well, you might say it's a mutual desire for elimination. There are those who think their plans will work better if I'm not around, and I think that America will last longer if they're not around. Needless to say, I'm working on my plans and they're working on their own. Normally, this isn't a big issue for me, but apparently I got sloppy by coming to visit mom. On the other hand, who would have guessed that my daughter would hire the one private eye in the whole state of Colorado who has national security connections? Go figure, what are the odds? You learned enough about me and my disappearance to ask questions of your superiors, which sent up red flags all over the intelligence community, and let the people who want me to find out I'm in town. Of course they're going to try to use every asset possible, namely yourself, to get me out of the picture."

"Okay, now wait a minute," Sam said. "If you’ve honestly got evidence of treason within the CIA, why haven't you come forward with it? Is it some sort of pride thing? You have to take them down or they take you down?"

Long laughed, a deep and hearty laugh. "Oh, my goodness, I needed that! Thank you, Prichard, I haven't laughed like that in years. No, it's got nothing to do with pride. It has to do with the fact that we’re dealing with people so deeply entrenched that any evidence I might be able to point to would be destroyed before you can turn your head to look at it. Can I prove what I'm trying to say? No. Do I know it to the very depths of my being? You bet your ass I do! I've seen good men killed to keep their secrets. Hell, I've killed a few of them myself. That was before I understood what was really going on, but now that I do, I'm determined to do all I can to save my country. I'll probably die trying, but that was something I agreed to long ago, to give my life doing all I can to protect and serve my country."

"But if you can prove what you're saying," Sam said, "then maybe I can help you. I do have connections, you know."

"Yes, you do," Long said. "Harry Winslow is a good man, one of the best. I don't know him personally, but I know who he is, and I know you can trust him. Like me, he has stuck his neck out for his country more than once. Unfortunately, there's not a lot he can do to help me in this situation. The people involved are far more powerful than he is, and he isn't even part of the company anymore. HS has its place, but the company looks down on it as if it were a redheaded stepchild. No, I've got to ride this one out on my own."

"Well, where does that leave me? What am I supposed to do about the pressure to bring you in? If you're for real, then what I want to do is let you do your thing, let you do whatever it is you're trying to do to protect my country, too. On the other hand, if you're lying to me, then what I really want to do is break you into a few hundred little pieces. Now, from what I understand, that wouldn't be so easy to do; however, as you pointed out, I'm not a man who gives up easily. So tell me, Mr. Long, where do we go from here?"

There was silence for about ten seconds, and then Long said, "I'll call you back in a bit." The phone went dead.

Sam looked at the phone in his hand, wondering just what it was he was supposed to do. He knew that Harry's people wanted him to bring Long in, which could mean anything from arresting the guy to putting a bullet through his head. If Long was telling the truth, then no matter what Sam did, he'd be helping those who were a threat to the USA.

He wanted to call Harry, but he wasn't sure if that would be a good idea at the moment. It was quite possible that Long had ways of knowing what he was doing, even who he was calling. A call to Harry could set things in motion that should be avoided. It would be better to wait for Long to call him back, and see if there was anything else he could add to help Sam figure out his next move.

He waited. A half hour passed, and Sam began to wonder if he were being played, if Long was using this time to make a getaway. He thought about trying to call the man back, but decided to wait it out. He was playing a hunch, that there was something about Long he could trust. He didn't know why, he didn't know what, but something told him that Long was not the enemy.

The phone rang, and Sam jumped almost out of his chair. He looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Long's number.

"Yeah?"

"Sorry about that," Long said. "You're not the only one they got hunting me down, and it was time to move in order to avoid a trap. Now, where were we?”

Sam smiled into the phone. “We were at the point of trying to figure out why I should believe you, and what I can do to help you if I do. Got any suggestions on either one?”

“Just one that I can think of at the moment,” Long said. “Ask yourself this: if I'm lying, why haven't I already come and killed you? We both know I could, and that you can't stop me. Now, there's not really anything you can do to help me, so if I'm not being honest, why are you still alive?”

“That leads to another question, though,” Sam shot back. “Why are you even bothering to talk to me at all? I mean, assuming you're telling the truth, and assuming that I can't be of any help to you, what's the point in explaining any of this to me?"

"That is a good question. Maybe I just jumped at the chance to have someone listen, someone who wasn't automatically assuming that I was the enemy. That's not something I get very often. However, the truth is a little less altruistic than that. Just the fact that you have been asked to bring me in tells me that at least someone believes you're capable of it. If you are, then I'm hoping to turn you to my side. I've at least got a chance of living longer that way, wouldn't you think?"

"I'm not planning to try to kill you, Mr. Long. At this point, I don't see any reason to think of you as my enemy, and that's the truth. On the other hand, if what you're telling me is true, then you definitely need all the help you can get. It sounds like you're dealing with some pretty heavy corruption on a grand scale, and I just don't see how in the world you intend to do anything about it on your own. I'd love to help, but you gotta give me something to work with."

"Sam—may I call you Sam? Sam, I wish I knew what to give you. I can give you names, but they would mean nothing to you. Even your friend Harry wouldn't know most of them, and wouldn't have any way to deal with them if he did. Unfortunately, there isn't a lot of true interagency cooperation in DC, so it's highly unlikely that he would have enough clout to do much good."

"You might be surprised," Sam said. "I can tell you that Harry has surprised me and a lot of others at times. He can be a pretty wicked old fellow, when he needs to be."

"Oh, I don't doubt that at all. As I said, I don't know him personally, but I've known his reputation for more than thirty years. Your old friend there has done more wet work than any fictional assassin you would care to name. He's a very dangerous man, make no mistake about it. Even as old as he is, I'm not in any rush to tangle with him. That ought to tell you something."

Sam left. "Well, it just proves you have a brain. I don't know about all the wet work, but I fought side-by-side with him a while back, and there are very few people I would trust more to have at my side in a firefight."

"Hey, you're preaching to the choir; you don't have to sell me on Harry Winslow. As I said, I've known his reputation for a long time. The thing is, that still doesn't mean he can help."

Sam sat forward in his chair, the urgency of the situation beginning to get to him. "Isn't it worth a try? Look, from what you're telling me, we’re dealing with a threat to national security. If factions within the CIA are working with foreign powers against the interests of our country, then something definitely has to be done about it. Apparently you have decided to take it upon yourself to see that that something gets done, but you're just one man. So, okay, maybe you're like Rambo, one man who’s as tough as an entire platoon of regular soldiers, but even a one-man platoon can't take on an entire battalion. The people you're going up against, who obviously know who you are and what you're capable of, are going to sit back and prepare. They're going to fortify themselves in every way they can, so that no matter what you do you can't reach them."

"You're right, you're absolutely right. They’re ready for me, so the only hope I've got is to find a chink in their armor, a loophole I can exploit and use against them. Now, unless you've got some suggestions along that line, I'm beginning to think there's not a lot of point to this conversation. Got anything more to add?"

Sam rubbed his temples. "Look, Ken—I can call you Ken, right? What have you got to lose by talking to Harry? You don't even have to talk to him in person, we can do it over the phone or you can relay through me. Trust me, I know Harry well enough to know that if you're telling it straight, he'll think of a way to help. What have you got to lose?"

Long was quiet again for a few seconds, and then Sam heard him sigh once more. "The only thing I've got to lose is my life," he said, "but that's been on the line longer than you've been alive. Okay, let me give you the basics, and you can approach Harry. If he thinks he can help, then we'll see about a meeting. Deal?"

"Deal," Sam said. "Fill me in."

"Okay, here it is without all the mysterious stuff," Long said. "There are a lot of conspiracy theories out there, you know that, right? Well, not all of them are bogus. One of the reasons that I used Kings and Queens and chess in my earlier analogy was to set the stage for this explanation. There are many different factions in the CIA. Each of them is led by someone who has some sort of powerbase within the organization. Each of those leaders has formed an alliance with someone in our government, someone they expect to rise to the highest levels. Get where I'm going?"

"I think so," Sam said. "These people tie themselves to the coattails of whoever they expect to eventually occupy the White House, right?"

"Bingo. Now, some of them, back in the late eighties, hooked onto a former CIA director named Bush, and that paid off pretty well for them, wouldn't you say? Quite a few of them rose to power in various areas of the government, and some of them are still there. A few others, particularly in the last few years, have chosen other people in the government to support. More than one have thrown their backing behind a senator or congressman, but a few are interested in a certain former First Lady, who later became Secretary of State. She managed to pull off a few amazing feats during her term at the State Department, even though she had a few fiascoes during her tenure as well, and there are some powerful people in other countries that would love to see her in the presidency. Some of those factions have decided that helping her achieve that goal is the best way to make sure they maintain the power they got, and increase it as time goes on. Now, what that boils down to is that those factions will take whatever action they believe is beneficial to her run for the White House, whenever it happens. In short, whatever she wants to happen, in this country or others, they'll do all in their power to bring about."

"But what does that have to do with working against the interests of our country? Okay, I can see where those factions might try to accomplish things that will help put their candidate in that office, but isn't that just politics? How does any of that constitute treason?"

"There you go, now you're thinking! Those simple things don't constitute treason; however, it's quite possible to put together several different actions, none of which on their own cause any real problem, and have a cumulative effect that can cause problems in other countries that will almost invisibly undermine the candidacy of any opposition she might have. And before you go jumping to conclusions, don't assume that she's aware of what's going on behind the scenes to put her in office. You'd be amazed at how many presidents, senators, congressmen, governors, even mayors get elected not because of their own merits or actions, but simply because someone else sees the potential in personal or political gain for themselves in having that candidate win a particular race. The candidate may think that his or her victory is some great mandate from the people to do whatever was promised during the campaign, but the truth is that someone else simply figured, hey, if he wins, then it pays off for me in the long run. It's really that simple, but you'd be amazed how many politicians never understand it."

Sam's mind was reeling with all of the information that was being crammed into it. "So, basically, what you're saying is that this candidate, this former First Lady, may think she's manipulating things to help her win the election, but the truth is that she's just as manipulated as everyone else. Her candidacy means more to these factions than it does to her, am I right?"

"Dead on the money. The truth about politics is that it's like an iceberg. That little bit on top that you can see? That's nothing; the real power, the real impact, is hidden underneath, and there's so much of it that can't be seen that it's essentially an unstoppable force. Now, when you got a candidate—that's the little part on top you can see—who has a highly visible profile but is easily manipulated, then you have a winning formula for some invisible, unstoppable force to come into power behind that candidate. The candidate, once elected, will either play ball with the force behind it or be eliminated. Remember Kennedy? He thought he could wield the power once he had it, but the truth was that it was never his to begin with. It belonged to the force behind him, and when he refused to do what that force wanted, he was eliminated."

"So then, there really is a shadow government? An organization within the government that pulls the strings on everything else?"

"Well, of course there is! But you're still not seeing all of it. Sam, if things worked the way they were supposed to, the government would consist of those elected officials that the people voted into office, right? Well, in reality, the government is itself nothing but a collection of shadow governments. Those shadow governments change, because what they're made up of is the factions behind the candidates. The more powerful the faction, the higher their candidates, their iceberg tips, will go. But like everything else, factions gain and lose power over time. One faction may be strong enough to take over a large part of the government this year, but two years from now, unless that faction is very cautious in maintaining its position and power, someone else will be ready to tip that iceberg."

"Then what's changing? If this is the way politics works, why are you opposing the system now?"

"Because there's one faction that's been at work for the last ten years or so, and it's thrown its support behind the former First Lady. Understand, this faction doesn't care if she wins the election; even without a win, she'll be positioned right where they want her, in order for them to gain the most power out of her candidacy. Frankly, they don't even care whether she wins the nomination for her party, because the biggest impact she has for them is simply the fact that she's running. Her desire to hold the office of President of the United States is the fuel this faction needs to accomplish his goals. Sam, can you figure out just what those goals might be?"

Sam thought through everything he'd been hearing, trying to find the thread that would tie it all together. Everything he knew about politics, everything that Long had been explaining, all of it was swirling together in his brain and he was trying to make sense of the mixture. Something about the former First Lady running for president was what this faction was using to build its power, but if they didn't care whether she won the election or not, how much power could they gain? But Long had said it wasn't about the election, and certainly not about a victory, but just about her desire to hold the office…

"There's only one thing I can think of," Sam said, "that can make any sense of the things you're telling me. Are you trying to say that there are factions within the CIA that want to see an escalation in Islamic terrorism against the United States?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, and I'm really surprised you figured it out. Certain conservative Islamic nations do not believe that women are fit to hold office, at least as far as the extremists and jihadists go, and I’m talking about the places where they’re the ones in power. Her candidacy for president infuriates some of them, and those factions are manipulating them into stepping up their actual acts of terror. That Hoover Dam thing you dealt with not long ago? I'll bet that if we dug deep enough, the nuclear material in those suitcases passes through the hands of CIA operatives somewhere along the line."

"But, dear God, what's the point? Are they simply out to destroy America?"

"Sam, Sam, if only it were that simple. It's all about globalization, Sam. One world, one government. Do you want to know what is standing in the way of the New World order? It's the one thing that America is most identified with, and the one thing that those jihadists hate as much as they hate Israel. You know what that is, Sam?"

6

Sam's eyes suddenly wide open. "Oh my—it's Christianity. What you're saying is that these factions are out to destroy the Christian religion, which was the very foundation of the United States of America."

"You got it. Take a good look at the last eight years, and you'll see that this same faction has been at work all this time. Trouble is, the current machine is on its way out, and hasn't accomplished the goal. If you look closely, you'll see that there has been a lot of activity that was designed to further the influence of Islam within the United States, even to the point of having fundamental Christians reclassified as a terrorist group. All that has been accomplished by one sitting president, even in the absence of any major terrorist attack. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not a very religious man, but that has nothing to do with the fact that terroristic attacks on Christianity can lead to the destruction of my country. I can either sit back and watch it happen, or I can stand up and fight. Personally I choose to fight.”

Sam sat back in his chair and stared straight ahead. “Okay, this is definitely on the mind-boggling side of things. Ken, how in the world are you gonna fight this? Are you talking about assassination? Good, God, man, all you’re going to do is get yourself killed!”

Long laughed. “Oh, I do like you, Sam. You've given me more good laughs than I've had in forever, I swear. No, this is one case where assassination is not an effective tool, believe it or not. Even if I could get to the people in the high echelons of these factions, it wouldn't do any good to eliminate them, because someone else would take their places within minutes. No, in this situation, the only real weapon I've got is exposure. If I can expose what's happening, and thereby break down their plans, then I've got a good chance of breaking this particular faction, shattering it, so that it will take it a long time to get back into power. That's what I'm out to do, and that's why they'd love to have you take me out.”

"Well, the worst part of this is that everything you're saying is making sense," Sam said. "That makes it hard to justify doing anything to take you in, or shut you down. Listen, I know I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but I seriously believe that going to Harry is the thing we need to do. I'll work with you, I'd be glad to on this, but we need some serious help, and Harry can give it to us."

"Well, like I said, I handed all of this to you so that you could take it to Harry. If he's willing to help, great. I'm not sure about meeting with him, yet, because I'm not sure how far I trust him. As I mentioned before, I know him only by reputation. You've worked with him, but I haven't, so I'll let you deal with him and I'll check in with you later. I'll keep this phone active, so if you need to reach me on it you can. It can't be traced, and there's no GPS in it. Tell Harry that, so he won't waste time trying. I'll call you back in an hour." The line went dead.

Sam sat there for a few moments, all of the incredible facts he just been given swimming in circles around his head. He had never realized just how convoluted and corrupt politics could be, and the education he'd just received was something most people never learn at all. Those who do usually learned over the course of several years, in college or while involved in political campaigns.

Sam opened the contacts on his phone and punched the picture of Elmer Fudd with his thumb.

"Harry?" Sam said when the old man answered. "Are you sitting down?"

"Sam, I'm an old man. I'm almost always sitting down. What have you got?"

"Harry, if Kenneth Long is telling me correctly, and I believe he is, the people who are pulling your chain to try to get me to bring him in are enemies of our country as surely as the terrorists we took down a few weeks back. I've spent the last hour getting an education in politics that I wish I'd never even heard of. Good Lord, I've got images of icebergs rolling around inside my head, but they have nothing to do with the ocean. They’re visual aids on how politics really works, and they're giving me a freakin' headache!"

Harry laughed, long and hard. "Sam, boy, politics is the biggest joke that mankind has ever invented. Unfortunately, it's also one of the most dangerous games that can be played, mostly because you never know whom you're truly playing against. I learned that many, many years ago. Now, are you trying to tell me that you believe we should leave him alone?"

"Leave him alone? Harry, if he's right, we need to throw all the support behind him we possibly can! According to him, the people who want him brought in are part of a faction in the CIA that wants to see globalization as soon as possible, and intends to escalate terrorism in our country and possibly others as part of their plan to make that happen."

"And he may well be correct," Harry said. "There are always many such factions, but unless you know who the players are, there's not a lot you can do about them. Does he have names? Can he identify the people and forces behind the threat?"

"I get the impression he knows who he's up against, and I've been trying to get him to come to you. He says there's not anything we can do to help, is he right about that?"

"Are there things we can do? Of course there are. The real problem is a matter of loyalties. It doesn't matter how good or pure your quest might be; if you don't have people on your side who are loyal to both you and your country, and at the same time your opposition has people loyal to its leadership, then there's a good chance you're going to get your butt handed to you."

"Then where do we start? How do I convince this guy that we're out to help him? If this is a genuine threat to America, then we have to act. Where do we start, Harry? Long says it requires exposure, showing them for what they are. Will that really help?"

"It could," Harry said. "Unfortunately, most of the time, exposure only results in starting a new conspiracy theory. God knows, we got plenty of those already, from who killed Kennedy to where was Obama born? Some of them even make sense, but without proof, they’re worthless. We don't need more of that. We need something we can use to shut these factions down. Now, if your boy can help with that, then maybe there's something we can do that will actually get somewhere. If not, I don't know what to say. When it comes to terrorists that I can point a finger at, I can issue orders and get something done. Unfortunately, when it comes to shadows in the DC alley, I don't know who to shoot."

"Okay, then what's my next move? Give me some guidance here, Harry. Tell me what to do. From what you've said, officially, Long isn't working for the USA, but whoever he is, I believe he's doing what he thinks is right in trying to protect this country."

Harry didn't say anything for a few seconds. Sam had never heard him speechless before, and was starting to get nervous, but then he spoke. "Sam, if you really believe what this man is saying, then I'll back your play. Talk to him, get me names, at least one good, solid name that I can send up the line. Tell him I need someone I can get dirt on; that's the only way I'm going to make anyone else listen. There are people I know who can shake things up, but I've got to be able to give them something concrete, something visible and provable. Tell him to get me something, and let me start shaking cages from my end."

"I'm supposed to hear from him within an hour or so. I'll let you know what I can get." Just as Sam expected, the line went dead.

Sam got up and made himself a cup of coffee, thankful to Indie for the pot she had set up not long before she left. That made him think of his wife, and he decided he had time to give her a call. He tapped her picture in his contacts, and put the phone to his ear.

"Hey, baby," he said. "Where are you?"

"I'm crammed into the middle seat of this stupid car," she said, "because Kenzie decided she wanted her grandmas to share the big back seat with her. Just so you know, the middle seat is not very comfortable. And we're still on the interstate; in fact, only been on it about fifteen minutes or so. Still about forty-five minutes out to the cabin. How are things going back there?"

"Actually, you can tell old Beauregard that his advice seems to be accurate again. I had a long talk with our new friend, and I'm pretty sure he's not the actual bad guy in this scenario. We're digging deeper, but I think Harry agrees with me on that. If he's telling the truth, then Mr. Long has been fighting to protect our country from some very domestic enemies."

Well, I have another message for you from that old spook," she said. "He says to tell you to keep your eyes open, because you're going to have to know when to jump, and which way. He says it will be a split-second decision that you have to make, and everything you're doing will depend on it."

Sam sighed. "Ask your mother to tell him that if he won't be more clear in his advice, I'd just as soon he not bother to send me any. Half the time I end up more confused after he advises me than I was before. That gets pretty frustrating, y'know? Anyway, I just wanted to hear your voice. I love you, baby. Give Kenzie my love when you get a chance, too."

"I love you, too, babe," Indie said, "and I will. You know she loves you, too. You be careful; make sure you jump the right way. Give me a call later, when you can, and keep me up to date. Let me know if Herman and I can be of any help."

"I will," Sam said. "Bye, baby."

"Bye-bye, babe."

Sam hung up the phone and sipped his coffee, just sitting and waiting for what might happen next. If there was one thing he had learned from all of his adventures, it was that you just never knew what was around the corner.

He looked up at the clock and saw that it wasn't quite eleven, yet, but he was getting hungry. He got up and went to the kitchen, looked into the refrigerator and found some leftover cube steak from a couple nights before. He slapped one between a couple slices of bread, and carried it back to the living room with him. There's just nothing like a cube steak sandwich, Sam thought to himself.

He was halfway through the sandwich when he heard his refrigerator open, and the chill went down his spine. He suddenly cursed himself for not having a gun on him at the moment, but it hadn't occurred to him he might need one in his living room. There was no doubt in his mind that it was Long in the kitchen, so he decided to play it cool.

"Cube steaks on the second shelf," he called out, "and the bread is in the bread box. Mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise are in the fridge; help yourself. Coffee cups are in the cabinet over the coffee maker."

"Thanks," came Long's voice in reply. "I'll be right there."

He came into the living room a moment later, sandwich in one hand and coffee on the other. Sam didn't see any sign of a weapon, not even a holster or a bulging pocket. Long sat down on the couch and nodded in Sam's direction.

"So, how did it go with Harry?"

"Harry says we have no reason to doubt you," Sam said. "He also says there are things we can do to help, but he needs a name, someone he can get some sort of dirt on to let the people above him know that this is a real situation. Got anything you can give him?"

Long pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling as if deep in thought. He took a bite of his sandwich and then nodded. "David Glenn," he said. "David is a messenger, the kind you don't want to have bringing a message to you. He has a tendency to leave a mess behind him, loose ends that should be tied up, but he gets in a hurry and doesn't bother. If Harry can get someone to look closely at his last few trips overseas, he'll find some pretty obvious and glaring connections to some very bad people. Remember a few weeks back, in the news, a few of our embassy people in Libya were in an auto accident; one, a girl, was killed, and three others were injured badly enough to be sent home? David was there, and he used something called a 'line snatch' to damage the brakes on the car. That's what led to the wreck, and Harry should be able to find evidence to back that up."

"What on earth is a line snatch?" Sam asked.

"It's a set of steel hooks with a long wire attached to them. You hang the hooks on the brake lines of a car, and let the wire drag along behind. Sooner or later, one of the wheels will run over that wire, and the hooks will snatch the brake lines loose, spraying brake fluid everywhere. Next time the driver steps on the brake pedal, nothing happens, so the car sails right into an intersection, a tree, a wall, whatever, without slowing down."

"And this David, he used this trick to cause a car wreck? Okay, what was the reason?"

"The girl who was killed was a low-level clerk in the embassy, but she had been making some minor progress towards setting up a new series of peace talks in the Middle East. Because she and the daughter of a Libyan official had become friends, she was able to get the ears of some important people. That allowed her to introduce them to some others, who were then able to use her friendship and connections to bring up the possibility of a new round of negotiations. If she had lived, those talks would probably be starting within a month from now. When she died, though, and the rest of her team suffered serious injuries and were sent home, the whole thing broke down. She had gained their trust, but the people involved are not willing to start over with someone new. Those peace talks may be years away, now."

Sam sat there and stared at his guest for a long moment. "How did you get in here, anyway? I thought I had the house pretty well locked up."

"Oh, you did. Those digital combination locks are excellent, but what most people don't know is that there is always a master combination that can open any of them. How do you think locksmiths are able to get them open without breaking them? I memorized most of the master combinations years ago, and they only update them every five years or so. But don't worry, your average burglar wouldn't have a prayer of getting in."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks, that’s such a comforting thought. So, shall I call Harry? Get him on the phone while you're sitting here?"

Long shrugged. "Might as well," he said. "I guess it's either that, or you and I fight to the death. I can't say as that sounds like a lot of fun, so let's talk to Harry."

"Yeah," Sam said, "talking to Harry sounds like more fun to me, too." He tapped Elmer Fudd on the nose, and turned on the speaker function. A moment later, Harry answered.

"Harry, I'm sitting here with Kenneth Long. We've been talking and I told him what you asked for. I'll let him give you the name he brought up."

"Harry," Long said. "I think this is the first time we've ever gotten to talk."

"Indeed, I believe you are correct," Harry replied. "I'm afraid I never even heard of you until now, but to be honest, from what I've read and heard over the last couple of days, I wish I had had you on my team."

Long laughed. "Well, I have definitely heard of you, and I would've said that I wish I'd had you on my team. It's the fact that I know some of your accomplishments that makes me willing to even discuss this with you today. I thought you had retired fifteen years back. Somehow I missed your transfer to HS, but that may be working in both our favors today. Now, as for the name you need to look at. Try David Glenn. He's a messenger and cleanup man for Grayson Chandler. Do either of those names ring any bells?"

"Oh, yes, I know who both of them are."

"Good, that'll save some time. Chandler is one of the major players in globalization today. He's very good at keeping it under wraps, but anyone, anywhere who wants to build a power base in the New World order will be doing all they can to get on his good side. Now, he won't be easy to reach, but Glenn, on the other hand, tends to be a little sloppy in his work. It shouldn't take much to tie some internal cleanup jobs to him, which will make him a hot potato to Chandler. If we can get our hands on him, there's a good chance we can get him to give up information that would expose some of what Chandler is doing."

"Before we go that far," Harry said, "just what is it that Chandler is doing that you believe is creating a threat to our country?"

"Chandler, and others like him, are working together to bring globalism about. In order to accomplish that, they’ve got to eliminate its major opposition, which happens to be organized Christianity, and particularly Protestant Christianity. That means he needs to support and strengthen Islam, so he's organizing many different groups that provide funding, weapons and supplies to Islamic militant organizations, and doing all he can to incite them into taking action against the largest stronghold of Christianity, which is the United States. One of the ways he's doing that is by backing a famous female presidential hopeful, since the thought of a female head of state is pretty much unacceptable to those organizations."

Harry didn't say a word for more than a minute, and Sam began to worry. If Harry came back with the wrong thing, Sam could find himself in a fight to the death. Long looked chubby and out of shape, but there was something in the way he moved that said he could handle himself a lot better than Sam could.

"Mr. Long," Harry said, "you have put us all in a very precarious position. There seems to be merit in what you're saying, and I've known about some of Mr. Chandler's activities for a while now. However, as you're fully aware, getting any evidence against people in positions like his is almost impossible. If we could do so, then there is the possibility that we could prevent some future terrorist attacks from ever taking place. We might also help to preserve the sovereignty of our nation, which is certainly to be desired in accordance with the oaths that we have taken to uphold and defend our Constitution against all enemies, whether foreign or domestic. Now, you are sitting there with the best agent I've ever had, and I'm sure you're aware that he isn't even on my payroll. If we throw our support behind you, and fail, not only will you and I go down, but we will take Sam Prichard down with us. He has already saved this country twice, so I know his integrity. I have also come to trust his judgment; he has decided to trust you, and so I'm willing to take the chance that I can trust you, as well. What do you see as our next step, sir?"

Long leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes for a moment. Sam watched him, but didn't say anything, and a moment later, the man sat forward again and leaned toward the phone. "First, we need to shake Chandler up a bit. He's not the only one involved, but he's definitely the big fish in this pond. You need to get started on David Glenn, bringing some light onto his most recent activities. If you can just get a few people looking closely at him, that will be enough to start the ball rolling. Once we get that going, we can start working on baiting Chandler into making a mistake."

"What kind of mistake do you have in mind?" Harry asked.

"I'm not sure yet, but it will have to be something big enough to expose him, expose what he's been doing. That's a necessity. Considering that he's wanting me so badly, I'm thinking we might have to use me as bait, lure him into a trap of some sort."

"All right, then," Harry said, "let me see what I can do. I'm going to suggest that the two of you might want to head towards DC. That's where Chandler is based, so any action we take will have to happen there. How about it, Sam? You up for a road trip?"

Sam grinned. "Hey," he said, "whatever my country needs me to do."

7

They decided to wait until dark, so that not even Sam's neighbors would see them leave together, so by the time they decided to take off, it was nearly eight PM. Long's car was stashed down the alley from Sam's house, and he went to get his clothes and things from it while Sam packed a bag of his own, slipping his Glock and its holster onto his belt, and then they tossed their things into the space behind the seat in the Corvette, climbed in and headed out of the city. Sam called Indie to tell her what was going on.

“So, wait a minute,” she said. “You're saying that you and Long are taking the problem to Washington? Then, why am I hiding out here at the cabin? I thought Long was the guy we were hiding from?”

“He was, initially, but things seem to be changing. I've had an education on politics today that would blow your mind, and has certainly blown mine. Turns out there are things I never knew about how the country works, and they're coming home to bite me in the ass, now.”

“So where does that leave us, then? Do we go home, or stay in hiding?”

“For right now,” Sam said, “I think I want you to stay put at the cabin. This thing is crazy, Babe, and it's likely to get even crazier before it's over. Keep your phone on and I'll keep in touch, but I think I'd rather know you were safe there, at least for now.”

Indie sighed into the phone, and Sam could visualize her face as she did so. Her eyes would be half closed, her lips partly open, as she let all the frustration of not getting her own way slide out of her. She never let herself get mad at him over these things, thank goodness. “Fine,” she said, and he detected just a hint of a pout in her voice. “But let me know as soon as I can go home, okay? Kenzie just got into school, and I don't like pulling her right back out like this.”

“You got it, babe. Just take care of yourselves, okay?”

“Yeah, and you do the same. And tell Long that if anything happens to you, he isn’t bad enough to keep me from coming after him.”

Sam laughed. “I will,” he said, crossing his fingers. “I love you!” He ended the call on that note, before she could find another way to keep him on the line.

“Sounds like you've got a good woman,” Long said, and Sam nodded.

“The best,” he said. “I don't know what I'd do without her, now. She and our daughter are what make life worth living.”

Long looked at him for a moment, just watching Sam drive. “I didn't want to run out on my family,” he said suddenly. “It wasn't like that, not even a little bit. I wanted to come home, I wanted to be there when my little girl took her first steps, when she started talking, when she started school—it wasn't by choice that I missed all those things, it was to protect them.”

Sam glanced over at him. "Someone threatened your family?"

Long nodded. "I wasn't as lucky as you," he said. "I didn't have someone like Harry Winslow to give me direction, or even to give me orders. I had a handler, someone who simply made sure I knew who to kill and when to kill. They sent me into South Vietnam with orders to kill specific targets, VC officers and soldiers who were known to cause problems for us over there. When I objected, it was made very clear to me that I had not just enlisted, I had sold my soul. If I so much as hinted that I didn't want to follow orders, someone explained very clearly to me just what could happen to my wife and child. That's why I don't want to get close to Joellyn now, because if I do, then she becomes something that can be used against me. When you live on this side of the darkness, you can't afford anything that can be used to sway you one way or another."

"So, it's like they say in the spy novels? You can't have any kind of relationship that lasts more than a few hours?"

Long laughed. "More than a couple of hours is probably too long. I gave up even thinking about women long ago, just because if I liked one, she became a liability. That's no way to live."

Sam thought about it. "When I first met your daughter, I wondered what kind of man you could've been, that didn't come home when you could. Of course, I only heard the official story, that you had been captured and then rescued. Now, well, I guess I can understand things a little better. And it's not that I think you need my understanding, I simply wanted to understand it for myself. I don't know how I would have survived, had I been in your shoes. I can't imagine not being able to come home and see my wife and child, just can't imagine it."

Long waggled a hand in the air in front of himself. "No one ever knows what they'll do in a particular situation," he said. "If anyone had ever told me that I would end up like this, back when I was in high school, I would have said they were nuts. I never would have believed that I could be a killer; heck, I rarely even went fishing because I hated killing and cleaning the fish. When I went hunting with my buddies, I was the guy who always missed my shot."

"Then how in the world did you get here? What kind of training could do this to a man?"

"It wasn't so much training, as survival. When I made it through basic, and was sent off to sniper school because I was a very good shot, it suddenly dawned on me that when I got out of training, there would be people trying to kill me, and the only hope I had of keeping them from it was to kill them first. Once I got that through my thick head, it wasn't all that difficult to think of them as targets rather than as human beings. Just like in basic training, targets fall down when you shoot them. By the time I had racked up a half-dozen kills, it didn't matter to me anymore whether they were targets made of plastic or of flesh."

Sam shook his head as he guided the car onto Interstate 70. "Man, I thought I had it rough when I stumbled into all of this national security stuff. I can't imagine what it must have been like for you. Some of the things we found online—can I ask questions, or would you have to kill me if you answer?”

Long chuckled at that. “There's some things I could tell you that would require me to make sure you couldn't ever repeat them, but I like you, so I won't share those things. Go ahead, but be warned—you may not like the answers.”

Sam nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, “because you probably won't like the questions. Let's start with the Iran Hostage crisis. According to one file we found, you were somewhere in Tehran when it went down. What were you doing there?”

“I was there as a consultant to Crandall Oil,” Long said. “Now, if you understood the world I live in, you'd know that being a consultant means I was there to eliminate certain opposition to Crandall's efforts at securing oil leases they wanted from the de facto Iranian government. Remember that the Shah had been deposed and was gone, and the new government going into place was something of a theocracy, or at least it was planned to be. Some of the so-called officials that were suddenly occupying offices in that government were more interested in personal gain than in serving their country, and wanted ever bigger and better bribes from Crandall. Trouble was, no matter how well or how much the company paid off, the officials wanted more. Someone in the area of the CIA that handled me decided that we needed to give them the idea that cooperation was the way to get what they wanted, and that demanding more money was the way to get dead. It was purely coincidental, but you've heard about the six diplomats who escaped? The ones they snuck out of there as part of a phony film crew? Well, as the students were flooding into the embassy, two different groups walked away, trying to escape. The idea was for them to go to the British Embassy, but they didn't make it. One of them was rounded up by students and forced to go back to the to the US Embassy, but the other almost got through. The trouble was that the British Embassy was also surrounded by protesters, so they couldn't get inside. One of them, Bob Anders, lived not too far away and decided he wanted to take his group to his house, to try to hide there. Well, as I said, it was purely coincidental, but when he decided to detour to his place, I happened to be standing on the corner, and he spotted me. He knew who I was, and why I was there, so he asked me to help them get to his house. I did, and then went on about my own business, and never knew that they were stuck there. They ended up hiding with the Canadian ambassador and some of his staff for almost three months. Of course, by that time, I was long gone."

Sam glanced over at him. "This is weird," he said. "What you're talking about, to me, is history; to you, it's memories, something you lived through. That's amazing to me."

"Yeah, well, that's life."

"You were talking earlier about that former First Lady who became Secretary of State. I noticed that you were also at Benghazi when that Embassy was attacked. Were you connected to that in some way?"

"No, though I think I should've been. I was there on a simple elimination job, taking out a foreign agent who was causing us some troubles. I was in a different part of the city, and the whole thing was over before I even knew what was happening. If I had known, I might have been able to get there and help."

Sam drove in silence for a while, and they passed into Kansas. It wasn't late in the day, and Sam wanted to make time while he could. There wasn't a lot of traffic on their side of the highway, and the Corvette was cruising along beautifully.

“This is a nice car,” Long said after a half hour of quiet. “I'll bet you built it yourself?”

“Pretty much,” Sam said. “I bought it at a police auction, after it was seized in a drug raid. She'd suffered some damage, and needed a lot of TLC to get her back to top shape. When I got shot and retired from the force, she's what kept me going for a while, there. I needed something to help me focus, y'know, keep me thinking of myself as alive and well. The Vette did the trick.”

“She's sweet. Cars are another thing I never got to hold on to. In my life, anything that becomes a habit is something that can be used to track you down, and if it's any kind of addiction, even the way a hobby can be addicting, then it's another liability. Car like this, an enemy might use it as a threat to hold over your head. I can't have anything I'm not prepared to let go of in an instant.”

Sam smiled. “I'm glad I don't live in your world,” he said. “I like my car, I like her a lot.”

“Yeah, I'm sure you do. I'd like her, too, if I could and she was mine.”

The silence settled back in, and they rode along without speaking for a couple of hours, then Sam announced a need to stop and stretch his legs. Long nodded, and agreed that he could use a short break himself, so they pulled off at a gas station at the next exit. Sam went into the bathroom, while Long stood out in the store and watched the traffic that came in and out, and then Sam kept watch while Long made himself more comfortable. They each grabbed a snack and a soft drink, then got back into the car and headed out again.

“I haven't been to DC in years,” Sam said, “not since I was there in college. Has it changed a lot in the past decade?”

Long looked at him. “You're asking me? Do you think I hang out there? This will be my second trip to that city; the first was when I was called in to meet some people who needed information I happened to have, back in Reagan's day. I didn't leave anything there I cared about, and wouldn't be going there now if it weren't for the need to make sure Chandler and his cronies get what's coming to them.”

Sam smiled. “Great. We're on our way to what may be a trap, and neither one of us knows the lay of the land. Sounds like a great setup for success, doesn't it?”

Long shrugged. “One of the things I've learned is that there isn't any formula for success. You either accomplish your mission or you don't, and if you don't, then all you can do is try to get out alive. So far, I've been lucky on that score.”

"Got any idea what we should do when we get there? What our first real move should be? Maybe some sort of a hint so I don't walk in and blow whatever it is we're trying to do?"

"Not even a glimmer," Long said. "On the other hand, I suspect we'll know exactly what to do by the time we arrive. Unless your pal Harry is doing something extraordinary in covering for us, there's very little doubt in my mind that the people who want to shut me up are fully aware that we're coming that direction. That being the case, I think our first move will be pretty obvious by the time we get there."

Sam shook his head. "So, if somebody is shooting at us when we get there, then it's pretty obvious we should check back, right? I think I could've figured that one out on my own."

"Yeah, probably," Long said with a laugh. "That one shouldn't be too hard for anybody to figure out, but then, I have known a few who weren't that bright. Maybe someday I can tell you a few stories."

"Nah, I'm good," Sam said. "All I want to do is get through this one, and get back to my family."

It was nearly seven PM by the time they stopped again, to grab a bite to eat and gas up. Sam gave Indie a call as they got back on the road and talked with her for a few minutes, saying goodnight to Kenzie even though he knew they wouldn't get her into bed before ten. When he finished that call, he decided to try Harry again.

"Sam, I do believe we have opened a can of worms," the old man said as he answered. "It seems that we are not the only ones paying close attention to Mr. Glenn, and some of the things he's been doing in the last few months. Just by mentioning his name, I have set off a bit of a storm up there, and it seems that Chandler and others are doing all they can to distance themselves from him quickly."

Sam had the phone on speaker, and Long was nodding. Sam said, "Ken, here, doesn't seem surprised. Are you?"

"Not particularly," Harry said, "but things are definitely happening more quickly than I had anticipated. Glenn is out of the country, and there have been orders sent out to have him return immediately. Now, whether he will obey those orders or not remains to be seen. All I'm trying to do is keep an eye on the situation so that I can advise you on who to contact when you arrive."

"And we appreciate it," said Long. "There has to be someone up there who stands to gain by seeing Chandler come down. At the very least, we need someone who can see the big picture and is willing to step up to the plate to help us stop this faction from succeeding in their goals."

"Yes, that's how I see it, too," Harry said. "At the moment, I'm testing all of my contacts and trying to see which of them would be best for you gentlemen. I don't want anyone knowing that the two of you are on this trip until we're actually ready to make a move."

"Good. That's how I want it, also. The more surprise we have on our side, the better our chances of success and survival. Remember, this isn't a strike mission; we're not out to draw blood or kill anyone, we're simply trying to shed light on something that wants to stay hidden in the darkness."

“Yes, we know,” Harry said, and Sam agreed. “That's why I want the proper ally for you as soon as you get there. You, Mr. Long, are expendable; you've known that your entire professional life, just as I have. Sam is not, or at least, we want to keep him alive and healthy for as long as we possibly can. And just so you know, that's not entirely because I'm afraid of what his wife would do to me if he got hurt, but I'll confess that it's in there.”

Sam laughed. “It'd better be,” he said. “I know Indie, and it's definitely one of the things you need to keep in the forefront of your thoughts.”

“Yes, I'm sure it is. I'll let you know if I learn anything else, boys, but it's time for this old man to have a bite to eat.” The line went dead.

Long looked at Sam. “He's a man of few words, isn't he?”

“Only ‘til you get to know him, and then it's hard to get him to shut up. But if Harry says he's got your back, then you can count on him. The first time I met him, he was holding my wife—she was just an employee at the time—as a hostage to get me to keep an appointment to meet with him, but as soon as we got together, he basically let me make him my prisoner so that I'd have reason to listen to the story he wanted to tell me.”

“Then, you probably got to hear all about his time with the SEALs and on the Al Qaeda desk, right? Those are true, but don't believe him if he tries to say he wasn't a killer; Harry Winslow has a confirmed kill list that no one has matched since his days in the field.”

“Yeah, I know he's been there,” Sam said. “All he'll say about it is that he's done what had to be done, and it wasn't always nice, but it isn't hard to read between the lines. Harry's a good man, but he's a hard man, too.”

“True. Right now, to be perfectly honest, I'm kind of glad he's willing to go with us on this. With his support, it's possible we can pull it off and manage to keep the USA intact a few years longer.”

Sam turned to look at him. “A few years longer? Then you expect globalism to come sooner or later, now matter what we do?”

“It's coming, there's no doubt about that. I'm not going to delude myself into thinking I can stop it, but I'm going to do all I can to delay it. I don’t want to see it in my lifetime.”

Sam shrugged. “I'm sure none of us do, but if it's inevitable...”

Long looked over at him. “You go to church, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “We just started, actually, but I've gone to church off and on since I was a kid.”

“Did you know that every government on earth studies Bible prophecy? That's because, over the past three thousand years or so, there have literally been hundreds of Biblical Prophecies that have come true, and so clearly have they come true that in some cases, it was possible to see it coming true as it happened. The prophet Daniel, for example, foretold a King of Macedonia that would conquer Persia, and set Jerusalem free from Persian dominion, and when Alexander the Great was shown this prophecy, he was so amazed at how accurately it described him and his kingdom that he went into the Jewish temple and made a sacrifice to the Jewish God, then left Jerusalem undisturbed. He went on to conquer the Persian Empire, just as Daniel had predicted.”

Sam stared at him. “So, you're saying that prophecy says globalism is unavoidable?”

“Absolutely,” Long said. “So many of those prophecies have come true that every nation has a department that studies it, and particularly the books of Daniel and Revelation. The New World Order is coming, Sam, and all I'm trying to do is slow it down a bit.”

Sam shook his head. “What was that you said a while ago, about not being a religious man?”

“Oh, I'm not,” Long said. “You don't have to be religious to know that there's something to prophecy. I mean, look at Nostradamus, and all the things he wrote that seem to have predicted everything from Hitler to Apollo Eleven.”

Sam looked at him again, and then drove on without speaking anymore for a while.

8

Grayson Chandler was a man who knew his way around Washington, which he should, since he'd been there for more than forty years. At sixty-two years old, he'd gone from an unpaid intern on the staff of Senator Strom Thurmond in nineteen seventy-three to the Senior Islamic Analysis Desk of the CIA, and he had the personal cell numbers of literally hundreds of American and foreign politicians. He knew who to call to get a favor, and there were plenty who knew that he was the one to call if you needed something done quickly.

Chandler often told himself that, despite what most people believed, he was easily the most powerful man in the United States, simply because he knew where so many bodies were buried. He should; he'd buried some of them personally, and many more had been on his orders. When you had that kind of information, you could get anything else you wanted, whether it be other information, money, power or whatever it took to help someone else who had a problem they needed dealt with. He'd dealt with a lot of problems for people in Washington, and for many people in other places around the world.

He had a team of people who handled those problems for him, and it was one of those team members who was on his mind that evening. David Glenn, a man he'd often used the past few years to get things done, had suddenly come under some sort of unexpected scrutiny earlier in the day, and Chandler had to figure out just how to best handle the problem. It wasn't that big a deal, he knew. Luckily, Glenn was out of the country at the moment; if nothing else, he would simply have the man vanish, just as so many others had done when they became liabilities. There was always someone ready and willing to take their places, and it was easy to leave a fake trail showing that an agent had gone rogue. After all, in a world where money was what most people worshiped and prayed for, almost anyone could understand why someone would betray his country for enough of the stuff.

Another email came in, and he glanced at it to confirm that it was on the same topic; someone at Homeland Security, it said, was calling for Glenn to come and answer questions about the accident in Libya, and once the questions began, Chandler knew, they wouldn't stop. Glenn had been around since the Monica Lewinsky scandal, and if Chandler had been told about Lewinsky only a day sooner, that fiasco could have been contained. Glenn would have done what was necessary, and Monica would have joined a few other girls who suddenly vanished.

Oh, well. He typed up a message to one of his assets in Baghdad, encoded so that only the man it was intended for would know what the message truly said, and sent it off. Glenn would cease to be an issue before the sun rose again.

Now, to find out who in HS was making waves—ah, well, what a surprise. Harry Winslow, eh? And just the day before, he'd sent word through proper channels requesting that Harry's people deal with another problem, namely Kenneth Long. Long was in Harry's yard at the moment, messing up some of Chandler's minor plans and making surreptitious visits to see his sick mother. Chandler didn't have anyone who could get into Denver without leaving a trace that would be hard to explain, but he'd forced Long out into the cold years ago; the man was listed as a rogue, and so he was fair game for anyone who could take him down. One of Harry's superiors said he had a man who could get things done, so Chandler had made the request.

And now Harry was asking questions about Dave? That made it sound like Long was getting to someone on Harry's team, and it was probably that greenie who kept bumbling into NatSec matters. That was going to be an issue, because Harry was rather well entrenched. He could get some serious ears, if he really wanted them, so it behooved Chandler to start working on a way to deal with the questions that were bound to come up.

He picked up his phone and dialed a number from memory. “Oscar?” he said, when it was answered. “Hey, it's Grayson, how you been?”

He could sense the immediate tension in the other man's voice, and it made him smile. Chandler had always liked knowing that people feared him, for fear was just the most basic from of respect.

“I'm doing okay, Grayson,” Oscar said nervously. “And you?”

“Not bad, not bad. Listen, I have a little problem, and it occurred to me that you might be the one to help me out with it, are you game?”

“Yeah, sure,” Oscar said; no one ever declined to help Chandler with one of his problems, because those who had done so in the past seemed to have their entire worlds crumble around them. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, it shouldn't be too big a deal. What I need is to get a lead on Harry Winslow's man in Denver. His name is Prichard, and I know you've got an asset there, right?”

Oscar Rogo was almost seventy, but his mind was as sharp as ever. He'd been with the IRS for more than forty years, and had gone into private sector consulting when he’d been forced to retire, but he'd built himself a network of people he could trust, and used it to keep track of things that might help him solve problems for his clientele. One of those people, as Chandler said, was in Denver.

“Yeah, I can call Frank Monetti, there. What do you need to know?”

Chandler smiled. “Just ask him to check up on Prichard, see what he's up to at the moment. If he can get an idea of who he might be hanging out with, that could help me out, too. And, Oscar, thanks! This could mean a lot to me, and I'll owe you one.”

“Hey, no, you don't owe me anything,” Oscar said. Like a lot of others, he didn't want Chandler owing him any favors, because somehow, when he paid up, it turned out that he overpaid and you ended up owing him a lot more. “Glad to help out a friend, no problem! I'll call Frank now, and get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Hey, thanks, Oscar, this is really terrific of you! Talk to you soon!”

Chandler ended the call, and sat back in his chair, taking a sip of vodka from the glass he held in his hand. He'd come to love the smooth feel of the liquor as it slid down his throat, and the way it relaxed him without dulling his wits. He couldn't afford to let anything do that to him, he knew, no matter how safe at home he might think he was. There were always enemies waiting or any opportunity to pounce on him, take away all he'd worked for all these years, and he couldn't risk that happening.

So, okay, he'd dealt with Glenn, and by morning he should know what Prichard was doing with Long. If Long had actually gotten to Harry, that might get a little messy, but it shouldn't be too hard to deal with. After all, Harry was an old man, and there were essentially undetectable drugs that could make an old heart fail suddenly. Who would be surprised if Harry died of heart failure, after all he'd been through over the years?

The wild card in all of this would be Prichard. While he wasn't an actual government agent, he'd been so instrumental in foiling plots against the country that he could probably get someone to listen to him, if he really wanted to. Maybe it was time he found out just who Chandler was, and why it was wise not to cross him. Once he heard from Oscar's man, he'd send someone in to get a little leverage on Prichard. Maybe the guy had a wife or kids; they were always good leverage.

All of that could wait until morning, though. It was getting late, and he'd promised Janice that he'd watch some TV with her that night, so he capped the vodka and drained the last of it from his glass, then rinsed it in the sink on the bar. This was his den, his personal domain, and not even Janice would come into it uninvited. He set the glass to dry and then went to find his wife in the living room.

* * * * *

From Denver to Washington was a drive of almost seventeen hundred miles, and Sam had figured it for about twenty-four hours, not counting stops. At midnight, he'd reluctantly let Long have the keys to the Corvette, because he was having trouble keeping his eyes open and didn't want to stop. When he woke up, it was almost seven the next morning, and he was feeling pretty well rested.

It struck Sam as odd that, only the morning before, he'd been worried that Long might be a danger to him and his family, but now he was on a cross country journey with the man to try to prevent a traitor from handing over control of America to some global government that was predicted thousands of years before. Sam had grown up in church, something his father had insisted on when he was young, but he'd never gotten deeply into any of the prophecy stuff; hearing that so much of what was happening today, and what had already happened in the past, was predicted in such amazing detail that it could be understood even by a layman was quite a shock to him. If he lived through this, and didn't end up in some federal prison for aiding a rogue agent, he'd start looking into it.

For now, though, all Sam really cared about was figuring out what to do next. If Long was right, then there were people in DC who were actively working against the best interests of the USA, and neither of them was willing to let that continue.

He looked over at Long, who was driving. “Where the heck are we?”

Long grinned. “We'll be hitting Chicago in about twenty minutes. This thing'll really cruise; I've been making some good time.”

Sam grinned. “Yeah, she'll get right on down the road. Last time I had her out on the Interstate, I was being chased by people I thought were out to kill me and the man I'd gone to track down. I was pretty glad I hadn't skimped on the engine, then.”

“I'd imagine so. Feel like grabbing some breakfast and taking the wheel for a while? I'm starting to get tired, and I could use a bite to eat before I crash.”

Sam nodded, and pointed to a sign for a Bob Evans Restaurant that was coming up at the next exit. Long smiled. “Biscuits and gravy, here I come!” he said, and Sam laughed.

The exit appeared on schedule, and they followed the signs to get to the restaurant, then parked the Vette in front of the building and went inside. They both made the restroom their first stop, but Sam was in and out quickly, while Long needed to take a few extra minutes. Sam wandered through the gift shop that was attached to the restaurant, and bought Kenzie a couple of toys, then found a wall plaque that said, “WIFE stands for Witty, Intelligent, Faithful, Exotic, and don't you forget it, Buster!” and smiled as he bought it for Indie. Long came out as he was paying for his purchases, and they went in to find a booth.

A waitress brought them coffee and took their orders, then left them to look around the place. The company bought lots of farmhouse-type antiques to use as décor, and Sam got a kick out of seeing so many things he knew only from reading about earlier times. He saw what he thought was a butter churn, and another item he figured must be used for stretching fence wire. Long seemed amused by his curiosity.

“What?” Sam asked. “I suppose you know what all those things on the walls are for?”

Long looked around. “Well, most of them, anyway. Don't you?”

Sam shrugged. “Most of them,” he said. “I always sort of wished we'd lived in the country when I was growing up. I think I would've been a great farm kid, y'know?”

Long took a sip of coffee and shook his head. “And I grew up on a farm, hated every second of it, and wanted to live in the city. When my dad died, I was sixteen; Mom and my brother and I all moved into Denver as soon as Mom could sell the farm, because she didn't know how to run it, and my brother and I were too young. A neighbor made an offer, and she took it, and we lived okay for a while.”

Sam looked at him. “What made you join the Army? You said you were more the pacifist type, so I'm curious why you'd join up, especially when we were at war in Vietnam.”

“Ha!” Long said. “I actually got a choice handed to me—go to the Army, or go to jail for two years. I'd gotten into some minor trouble with some buddies, breaking into some abandoned buildings and such. Well, one of them wasn't completely abandoned, because the company that owned it, a brewery, kept some beer stored there, and we stole some of it. Of course, we got so drunk that we got caught, and the judge gave me that choice. I was already engaged to Maggie, Joellyn's mother, so we got married and a month later I signed up for a four-year hitch. I had no idea I'd turn out to be such a good shot, or that I'd get drafted into this life, but by the time my daughter was born, I knew I'd never be able to go home again. The rest I told you, about how I came to accept it all.”

Sam nodded. “Seems to me that you got the shaft,” he said. “I mean, you never even got to go home and meet your kid, or be with your family. Why couldn't you have had a secret life, like they show in movies? Have a home life with the family, and go off on missions that are disguised as business trips?”

“You, my friend, have watched too many spy movies made in Hollywood. Most real agents don't get to have families, not if they're going to do their jobs. A family is nothing but a bag of liabilities and limits; they can be used against you as a threat, and the more you worry about anyone ever finding out about them, the less effective you can be. And if you stop being effective, then someone up at the top of the food chain decides that you know too much, and a new young guy, who's just like you were when you began, gets sent to put you down.” Long caught the surprise in Sam's eyes. “What? You're shocked that after years of doing what we do, our final reward is going to be a bullet in the head? Guys like me, Sam, we know it all along. The people who pull our strings know that we know where bodies are hidden, and that makes them nervous. When we're no longer useful, or we get old, they have to get rid of us in order to protect themselves.”

“Is that why you went rogue? To make it harder for them to track you down and kill you?”

Long grinned at him again. “Let me explain something to you,” he said. “I didn't 'go rogue,' not at all. I simply became a liability to someone up high, maybe even Chandler himself. Someone I'd done a job for, somewhere along the line, declared me rogue in order to discredit me. That's why I can't just go to someone with the things I know and expose people like that, I have to find someone I can trust. You and Harry would have been the last ones I would have expected to help me out, but now that you are, I'm not going to waste the opportunity. If we make it, we'll have done something good.”

“And if we don't?”

“Well, then, we'll probably be dead, all three of us. I'll be shot down and buried as a John Doe, Harry will die of a heart attack or something similar, and you—you'll be posthumously awarded a medal, probably, maybe for getting yourself killed while saving the world from a madman who looks like me.”

Sam shook his head. “You're just the most cheerful and optimistic guy, aren't you? Don't you ever get tired of expecting to die that way?”

“Gotta die somehow, and when it happens, I don't figure I'll really care too much about how it comes.”

Sam looked at him, and a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Tell me something,” he said. “With all this talk about prophecy and the Bible, do you believe in life after death?”

Long waited a moment, as the waitress brought their orders, but when she was gone, he nodded. “I do,” he said. “When I learned about how accurate those prophecies are, I began to study them, and it hit me one day—how could there be a God who could inspire all of these people to write down these things that come true, and not be life beyond this world? Now, do I believe I'll go to Heaven? That's not something I'm willing to talk about, but yes, I do believe that it isn't over when our bodies die.”

Sam watched him eat for a moment, and then dug into his own breakfast. They ate in silence, and a half hour later they were back on the road.

* * * * *

Harry Winslow lived in a nice neighborhood in Denver, in a house that he had bought not long after first moving to the city. He lived alone, having never married, and enjoyed his solitude to some degree, though he often wondered what life might have been like if he'd taken a less violent path. Now and then, a thought of Martha Lowenstein crossed his mind, and he wondered if she were still living. He hadn’t seen her since they were both in college, and he'd made the choice to go into the Navy rather than ask her to marry him. By the time he'd become a SEAL and decided on a military career, she had dropped out and become a hippie, devoting her time to protesting the war in Vietnam and American politics in general.

Oh, well, those days were long gone, and he was sure she would have forgotten him many years before. He puttered around his kitchen as he usually did in the mornings, making himself some breakfast. On this particular morning, he chose oatmeal with cinnamon, since he needed the fiber, and had his usual single cup of coffee. He carried both of them to the table that sat just inside his back door, and dipped his head for a couple of seconds in the habitual grace he'd learned from his mother: “Thank you, God, for this day and its blessings.” He didn't know if God was listening, but he figured it couldn't hurt to acknowledge Him in case He was.

At seventy-five years old, Harry was still in pretty good shape. He could still run an obstacle course that would leave many younger men gasping for breath, he maintained his black belts in five different martial arts disciplines, and he could still see and hear as well as ever. That was important to him, and he had his vision and hearing checked twice a year, just to be safe.

His phone rang, and he picked it up, expecting it to be Sam calling, but the number was blocked. He looked at the phone for two rings, and then answered it.

“Harry Winslow,” he said.

“Harry!” came a voice through the line, and Harry thought it sounded familiar. A second later, he knew why. “It's Grayson Chandler, Harry, how have you been?”

Harry let himself grin widely enough for Chandler to hear it in his voice. “Why, I'm doing pretty well, Grayson, and yourself?”

“Not bad, not bad,” Chandler said. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything; I just wanted to get in touch early this morning, see if maybe there's something about the David Glenn issue that you might want to talk about.”

“David Glenn?” Harry asked. “Oh, that's the guy I asked about yesterday, isn't it? Is he one of yours?”

“Now, Harry,” Chandler said, “we both know he is, and we both know why you're asking about him. I've taken the liberty of having both our lines scrubbed, so we can talk plainly. I'm hoping you'll tell me why you're suddenly so curious about Dave.”

Harry smiled even wider. “Well, Grayson, I'll tell you,” he said. “I've come across some intel that says he's been doing some unsanctioned wet work, and if he's one of yours, then I have to assume he's doing it for you. Considering the results of his actions, it sounds a lot like he's manipulating things to bring certain events to a head, and since those events are not in line with what I envision as the best interests of my country, I'm going to find out just what it is you're up to. Care to save me time and trouble, and just fill me in?”

Chandler laughed. “Harry, there's nothing to tell. Dave may have gone independent. From what I'm hearing this morning, he was told by someone last night that you were looking into his activities, and has disappeared. I think you scared him into hiding, Harry.”

“Oh, well, then I'll just have to dig deeper, I suppose,” Harry said. “Grayson, there's no point in beating around the bush, here. We're both pros at this, and we both know where it's going to end up, if we don't reach an agreement. If you can back off the program you're working on, I can back off the pressure I'm going to bring down on you. That way, you don't need to send your assassins after me, and I don't need to send any after you. Deal?”

Chandler was silent for a moment. “Harry, there isn't any program, and neither of us needs to send anyone after the other.”

“Glad to hear that,” Harry said, “but if there’s one thing I learned about you Langley spooks while I was there, it's that the only way to tell if you're lying is to watch and see if your lips are moving. I've already got enough to tell me that they're moving now, because your program is pretty clear. Since you're lying about that one, I'm going to have to assume you're lying on the second part, and that you've already got someone ready to move on me.” Harry sighed. “I shouldn't be too surprised, since I've already got someone coming after you, as well. I'm sure you remember Ken Long, don't you? He used to do some work for you now and then, surely you remember him?”

Chandler's silence, Harry knew, meant that he was carefully planning his next words. It also meant that he was trying to figure out a way to determine just how much Harry already knew and could prove.

“I remember Long,” Chandler said, all the pleasantness gone from his voice and manner. “He went bad a few years ago, and I asked your people to ask you to bring him in. I guess you decided not to go there?”

“Well, we were going to, but then he sat down with one of my boys and told him some things that made us think maybe we should bring him in a different way—like to testify on Capitol Hill. Of course, that offer to put everything on hold still stands, though, if you want to take me up on it.”

“Harry, you know, I'm regarded in DC as something of a fortune teller. It's amazing how often I can predict what's going to happen, so let me give you a little demonstration of my abilities, okay? One of two things is about to happen, and it's actually up to you to decide which one. Either Kenneth Long is going to show up on a police blotter with a bullet through his head, or you will. If you tell me it's going to be Long, then I'll expect to see a report to that effect within the next two hours. If not, then your corpse will be found sometime today. I've already got someone on you, Harry, so you can't avoid making the choice. Is this pathetic attempt at burning me worth dying over? Especially since I've got enough people hunting Long and your boy, Prichard, right now, to be sure that neither one of them ever gets to talk to anyone? Oh, and incidentally, I know they've left Denver, so I'm fairly sure they may be on the way here. Am I right about that?”

Harry laughed. “Grayson, don't threaten me. I've got my reasons for doing what I'm doing, and I'll see it through. Tell whoever you've got watching me to be sure they don't let me see it coming, will you? I'm tired, today, and I'd just as soon not have to kill anyone.” He hung up the phone and leaned forward to eat his cooling oatmeal.

Eight minutes later, Harry Winslow rose and carried his bowl and spoon to the sink, rinsed them out, and put them into the dishwasher. When that was done, he went to his bedroom and began getting dressed for the day.

He heard the soft click of the back door as he was buttoning his shirt, and listened for the barely audible squeaks that came from the third and ninth steps on the stairs. When he heard the third step, he turned away from his dresser and went to the closet, opened the door and reached inside. He stood there, waiting, until he heard the ninth step, and then he withdrew his hand from the hidden shelf and produced the silenced Ingram machine pistol that he'd grasped, moving quickly to stand beside the large armoire that stood next to his closet door. That left him facing the doorway with a minimal profile, so when the two men burst into his bedroom with their own guns held out before them, all it took was one squeeze of the trigger to fire off a twelve round burst that struck them both through their heads. Both of them fell, and Harry lifted the barrel of his Ingram to point at the ceiling. He waited three minutes before moving, and then peeked around the bedroom door and down the stairs. No one seemed to be waiting there, so he looked back at the two men he'd just killed.

He didn't know either of them, but that wasn't a big surprise; there were so many new players on the field lately that he couldn't possibly know them all. Neither of them would be identifiable, of course; there would be no ID on them, and fingerprints and other forms of identification methodology would come up empty. He took out his phone and called his office.

“Ron? It's Harry. Listen, Son, I need a mop crew out at my house, ASAP. Got a little mess here that needs to be cleaned up. Yeah, two of 'em. Okay, I'll be in before too long.” He cut off the call, then punched another quick dial icon.

“Hey, Harry,” Sam said as he answered. “How's it going?”

“Well, I've got two dead men lying here bleeding all over my bedroom floor, and Grayson Chandler called this morning to tell me he was going to try to have me killed, unless I give him your friend, there. I declined, hence the need to have my carpet replaced.”

Sam whistled. “Wow,” he said. “I never would have guessed he'd try to take you out! Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, other than adding two more deaths to my conscience. Oh, wait, I don't have a conscience—I'm fine.”

“Still, Harry,” Sam said. “We must be onto something if he warned you and then tried to kill you. Can you use that against him? Show someone his call to you, and then the attempt on your life?”

“Not really, no. He didn't call on a line that would be provable, and there won't be any way to connect these men to him, that I can assure you. There isn't really any value in this, other than to let you know that you're definitely on the right track. I should probably thank him, because at least now we know for sure that he's the one behind the problems we're out to solve.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “and from what Ken's been telling me, he may even be the Antichrist!”

9

Grayson Chandler was growing more and more anxious by the moment. He'd told Harry that he had people watching him, and even given him the courtesy of a warning, but he'd never have believed the old man could take out two of his best, not on his own. That seemed to be what happened, though, since neither of his men had checked in at the time appointed. The only reason they would fail to do so, he knew, would be if they were dead or captured, and these guys were pros; there was no way they'd allow themselves to be captured.

He'd called Harry from a blind phone while he was on his way in to the office that morning, and when Harry had refused to cooperate, he'd used the same phone to tell Mark and Lenny that they had the green light and a kill order. They should have reported back to him within fifteen minutes that the old fart was dead, but it was now almost an hour later, and there was no word from them. He was half surprised that Harry hadn't called him through his official line, just to gloat, but Harry was also a pro. He wouldn't even take the attack as an insult; it was just part of the job to a guy like him.

He checked the special monitors he'd installed, and verified that there were no eyes or ears installed in his office since the day before, then called Harry again on the blind.

“Hello?” Harry said.

“Harry,” Chandler said. “You must be tougher than you look. I'm guessing my guys are dead?”

“Not at all,” Harry said. “However, they're being skinned alive at the moment, so they're a little busy. I think one of them will be ready to talk to me fairly soon, and then perhaps we can get this all over and done with.”

Chandler laughed. “Funny, Harry,” he said. “If either of them was alive, you wouldn't be. Well, well, I guess I underestimated you. You can rest assured that I won't do so again.”

“Then I can only assume your next shot will come from a distance? Grayson, let's cut to the chase, shall we? I'm not going to put myself in a position where you can get a shot at me, not for a few days, at least. You can still take my offer, and just shut things down. After all, you know I'm not going to let you succeed at what you're trying to do, so why not just sit back and enjoy your position?”

“Aw, c'mon, Harry,” Chandler said. “You don't even have a clue what it is I'm trying to do, so stop being coy. Give up Long, and nothing will happen to you or Prichard, but if you keep this up, I'm going to arrange your funerals, even if I have to set it up for after I'm gone. You know me, Harry, and I don't lose gracefully. Give me Long, get out of my way, and I'll be sure to remember and take care of you when this is all done. There could be worse things than having me owe you something this big, right?” Harry was quiet for a moment, and Chandler grinned. “Thinking it over, aren't you? C'mon, Harry, come in with me.”

“I was thinking it over, that's true. The problem, Grayson, is that I absolutely do know what you're doing. You're trying to set yourself in a position that will make you indispensable to the head of the global government that you anticipate. Having you owe me a favor could be every bit as big as you say—except that I wouldn't want to be on the side of that global leader, so I don't want any favors from his right hand man. Read your prophecy, Grayson; you're treading a line that may not leave you a way out.”

“Well, you surprise me, Harry. You're close, very close; and I happen to be very well read in prophecy, so I know exactly what line I'm walking on. We're coming to that time when everything comes to a head, and while some believe the Biblical predictions, there are other ways to interpret the events that will unfold. Why would I want to be anyone's right hand man, Harry, when I can be the one who's pulling the strings that control the puppet in the palace?” Chandler laughed again, and Harry felt something he hadn’t known in fifty years, as a frisson of fear went down his spine. “You can't stop me, Harry, and if you really knew prophecy, you'd realize that already. The global power will come to be, and I intend to be well installed in the ceiling above it when it does.”

Harry sighed. “Can we stop it? No, probably not, and I'm not sure we'd want to. On the other hand, if I'd met Hitler when he was a young corporal, and known what he would become when he rose to power, I like to think I'd have done everything I could to kill him, or stop him. If it turned out to be impossible, so be it, but I would have tried. Now you're asking me to look the other way while you become even worse than he was? Nah, Grayson, I have to oppose you, and if you don't back down, then I have to do all I can to stop you.”

“As you say, then, so be it. I've tried to give you a way out, Harry. If you’re going to be stubborn, then I guess I'll have to be ready for you. Take care, Harry; I won't miss again.”

“Later, Grayson,” Harry said. “I'm sure we'll talk again.” He cut off the call, and then took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. For the first time in almost fifty years, Harry Winslow was afraid he might not succeed in carrying out the mission he'd set for himself.

In nineteen ninety-one, Harry had been introduced to a man named Isaac Lambert, who was one of the eight-man panel who advised the President of the United States on the significance of biblical prophecy. Lambert had shown Harry various interpretations of what Christians call “end times” prophecy, including the rise of the Antichrist, the reformation of the Roman Empire (the ten horns), and the final battle that will take place at Armageddon when the world moves against Israel. Harry had been astonished at the impact of all this information, and had no doubt that the events they predicted would come to pass. Knowing that, he wasn't terribly surprised to find that someone like Chandler was trying to position himself to be near the top of that pinnacle of power.

Harry was scared, all right, because he had set himself a mission to try to thwart a man who may be the Antichrist, and since the Antichrist was part of prophecy, he just might not be stoppable.

He called Sam, who answered almost instantly. “What's happening, Harry?”

“Well, Sam, Boy, I think we've got a situation on our hands. I just talked to Chandler, and he's convinced he's going to pull this off. He's got himself set up in his mind as some sort of prophet of the new order, and I'm pretty sure he thinks he's actually destined to be at the head of the world government.”

Sam had the phone on speaker, and Long said, “Harry—he's trying to set himself up as the Antichrist?”

“Actually, I don't think so,” Harry said. “I think he's trying to be the false prophet.”

* * * * *

Chandler wasn't afraid. He had accepted years ago that he was destined for this time and this position, and he had sought out the kind of advisers who could help him to plan it out. Bible prophecy experts came from many different schools of thought, and while there were certain parts of the prophecies on which almost all of them agreed, there were differing opinions on the final outcomes. Christianity claimed that after the battle to destroy Israel, Jesus Christ Himself would appear and reign on Earth for a thousand years, but other faiths saw things differently, and Chandler had found several that seemed to agree that the global empire would last forever, so that was the interpretation he chose to believe, and that was why he was doing all he could to put himself into the position of leadership of that empire. He had come to an understanding that led him to believe that the old Babylonian Gods were real and powerful, and devoted himself once a day to prayers to Shamash, the Sun God.

Shamash would be the God who would rule the world, and by aiding him in bringing his global rule to power, Chandler hoped to be his Regent here on Earth.

For now, though, he had to do some things the earthly way. He picked up his blind phone again and dialed a number, then waited for the woman who owed him favors to answer.

“Sandra? It's Grayson...”

* * * * *

Sam was driving, watching the Northern Indiana scenery slide by on either side of the Corvette. He'd been thinking for the past hour about the things Harry had said, and the more he thought about it, the more shaken he became. Finally he did the only thing he could think of, and called Indie.

“Hey, Baby,” he said. “Just needed to hear your voice.”

“Hey,” she answered with a smile. “Sure is about time! How's it going?”

“Well, we're still on the road, and got a few hours to go before we get close to DC. We've decided not to go right into the city, because there are too many cameras; we're sure now that someone is anticipating us, so we don't want to be too easy to find.”

“Okay,” she said, “then be careful—and, Sam—oh, God, there isn't any other way to say it, but Beauregard wants me to give you a message.”

Sam let out a sigh, and said, “Yeah, I had a feeling he might. Go ahead, I'm listening.”

Indie took a deep breath. “Okay, here it is—he says you should listen for the Trumpet, because that's when you'll have to make your move. If you wait for the Trumpet, he says, then you'll stop the Great Evil, but if you don't, then you'll fail and the world will never be the same.”

Sam Prichard drove his Corvette down the highway, and wondered why he'd been chosen to handle something that should have only been in the province of Preachers and Prophets.

He let his foot fall hard, and listened to the engine roar.

BOOK VII

1

There are men in our world who are darker and more evil than most people will ever imagine. Even those who have come across them have a tendency towards disbelief, allowing themselves to deny even the evidence of their own senses.

Sam Prichard didn't have that luxury. He was a man who had to face reality, even when reality was something he'd rather ignore.

"Okay," Ken said, "so what you need to understand is who the kings of the north and south are. The king of the North is Russia. The king of the South, on the other hand, is old Babylon, which we now call Iraq. They will form an alliance and will move to make war against the nation of Israel. According to the Bible, that will be the final battle before Christ comes again."

Sam shook his head. "So, what you're telling me is that all these nations that have been following the Antichrist, the Beast, will turn against him? But I thought he was supposed to be the great ruler, the one who would come and fix all the problems of the world?"

Nodding his head, Ken said, "Right, that's how the world will see him, at first. He'll be the one to bring peace to the Middle East, by creating a peace treaty with Israel that will seem to solve all the problems that have plagued the region all these years. The problem comes in when he decides that he's more than just a leader, and actually demands that people worship him as if he were God. That's when the ten kings, the ten nations that had been backing him until that point, will rebel against him. He will have established his headquarters in Jerusalem by that point, so in order to attack him, his enemies will invade Israel."

"And Israel is special to God, so He won't allow it to be destroyed, right?"

Ken nodded again. "Exactly," he said. "According to Bible prophecy, that will be one of the bloodiest battles ever fought on earth. The blood of the soldiers who die will run in streams, it says, as deep as a horse's bridle, but Israel will not be defeated."

Sam looked up at him. "And at this point, Christ returns to rule the earth?"

"Yep," Ken said. "That's how it works out. Now, I don't know if we're actually coming up to that point or not, but I do know that an awful lot of the things that have to happen to allow this to occur have happened. There are only a few things left, according to prophecy, that have not yet taken place. One of those, of course, is the rise of the Beast, the Antichrist himself. Our guy Chandler, who apparently follows a different view of how these prophecies all play out, is trying to maneuver himself into a position that will allow him to control that Beast when he appears. In biblical prophecy, this would seem to mean that Chandler is the person referred to as the false prophet. The false prophet, and I don't claim to understand how all this works, is the one who will be telling people what to do in the name of the Beast, wielding both political and religious power. It looks like Chandler wants that job."

"And in order to get it," Sam said, "he needs to bring on the one world government, the New World order or whatever it's called, so that he can figure out whose strings it is he's planning to pull. Right?"

"Bingo!" Ken said, pointing a finger at Sam. "But I don't think he's just waiting to find out who it is, I think he's trying to put someone in that position."

"Wouldn't that be going against the prophecies? Trying to overrule God?"

"Not necessarily," Ken said. "If Chandler is the false prophet, if he is the one who was destined by these prophecies to fulfill that position, then it's quite likely that he's doing exactly what God would want him to do. I mean, that would be his place in all of this. My position is simply that, if he's just a wannabe, as I think he is, then he needs to be stopped. Frankly, I've read these prophecies over and over, and there are still things that need to happen before we reach that time. In my opinion, Chandler is trying to bypass those things and make it happen sooner. If that's the case, then I don't think God will mind if we put a stop to Chandler's plans."

Sam leaned back against the wall. He was sitting on the bed in the motel room they had gotten the night before, in order to get some rest before they made it into DC. No matter how things went when they got there, they knew it wasn't going to be pleasant. Chandler wanted them dead, and there was very little doubt that he had a number of assassins out on the prowl, looking for them.

"Taking down a guy like Chandler isn't going to be easy," Sam said. "We're talking about an experienced CIA agent, and from what Harry says, he's a pretty dangerous man himself. Even without his goons, there's a good chance that he could spot us coming and take us out before we can get to him. Is that right?"

Ken smiled grimly. "He's a badass, all right. I doubt there are any official records of how many people he's killed, but I'd personally bet that it would go over a hundred. As for those whose deaths he has ordered, I'd probably put that number well over a thousand. In his position, Chandler can order the elimination of minor functionaries in just about any country that his desk oversees. Now, it's a common practice to cultivate those functionaries by letting them see how easy it is to have them killed. What you do is, you approach one of their assistants and ask him or her if they would like to have their boss's job. You may have to go through a few of them before you find the one who says yes, but then you simply eliminate the boss and everyone under the boss who is over the one you made the deal with. Now you've got someone in that position you, A, owes you a huge favor; B, knows you can have him or her killed as easily as you got rid of those above them; and C, is therefore not even inclined to risk pissing you off. Chandler probably has dozens, if not hundreds of those people in place in different countries, so it's highly likely that he can arrange just about anything he wants, and just about anywhere in the world."

Sam shook his head. "No man should have that much power," he said. "No wonder this guy has a God complex. He feels like he can do anything already, and get away with it."

"And the worst part of that? He's right," Ken said. "I would just about bet you that Harry is the first person Chandler's gone after who wasn't dead an hour later. This guy is accustomed to getting what he wants, and what he wants right now is all of us out of his hair. The sooner we can either expose him or kill him, the more likely it becomes that you and I will live to see another sunrise."

Sam sat forward, turned and put his feet on the floor. "Just because I'm the curious sort, what kind of odds would you give us as it stands right now?"

Ken shrugged. "Right now? Maybe one chance in thirty. As much as I hate to say it, it's not very likely that we're going to find anyone on Capitol Hill who doesn't owe him some pretty big favors. Now, what that means is that anyone we approach is probably going to be afraid to have anything to do with us. By that, I mean that they will be a lot more afraid of making Chandler mad at them than they would be of not doing the right thing by helping us expose him. Right and wrong are not the same concepts on Capitol Hill that they are in the rest of the world; while we might see getting rid of Chandler as the right thing to do and a good thing for our country, most of our senators and congressmen would see it as losing the guy who can fix any problem they run into. To them, that would be about as wrong as it could get. Politics needs people like Chandler, and politicians need him even more."

"So what you're telling me," Sam said, "is that if I go to my Congressman tomorrow and say that I've got evidence that Chandler is committing treason against our country, he's more likely to pick up the phone and tell Chandler I'm there than he is to help me put a stop to Chandler's plans. Is that how it works?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much it."

Sam put his elbows on his knees and rested his face in his hands. The thought crossed his mind that he had never been so angry and so scared at the same time. "Then we have to kill him." It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

Ken nodded again. "Yes. We have to kill him. I'm sorry, Sam, I know this isn't the world you're used to, but it's the one you blundered into. If I thought I could actually do this alone, I'd drop you off somewhere to hide out until it's over, but Chandler is probably the most dangerous target I've ever taken aim at. I need help, and I need backup. And, if the worst-case scenario happens and I end up dead, I need you to get to Chandler and finish the job."

Sam looked up at him. Only a couple of days ago, Ken Long was nothing but a man whose daughter wanted to talk to him, and so she hired Sam to find him. That's what private eyes do, so Sam took the job. Little did he know that he was buying himself a ticket into the Twilight Zone, where men tried to manipulate not only other men, but even the gods into doing their will. Now Sam, who considered himself to be only moderately religious, had been drawn into a plot that was straight out the book of Revelation in the Bible.

* * * * *

Grayson Chandler worked for the CIA, running the Senior Islamic Analysis Desk. What that meant was that he controlled a fairly large room where top analysts said and did nothing but go over intelligence regarding Islamic activities, and particularly those involved with terrorism and anti-Semitic or anti-Christian activities. It was his job to take the information his underlings brought to him and decide what parts of it should be sent on to other agencies, or up to the President of the United States. His reports always got top priority, because if anyone was going to spot an impending terror attack, it was likely to be him or one of his people.

This position made it possible for him to gain lots of leverage in countries that were likely to be targets of Islamic terrorism, as well as countries where Islam, whether extreme or fundamental, was the prevalent religion. In the former, leaders courted his friendship in order to be warned of upcoming activities that could affect their nations; in the latter, they did so in order to be made aware of military or clandestine activities designed to limit or eliminate Islamic power. Either way, Chandler was the man that everybody wanted on their side.

This made him an extremely powerful man, but it wasn't enough for him. Like everyone who has tasted great power, he desired even more and planned all of his activities accordingly. In nearly forty years of service, the last thirty of which had been with the CIA, he had developed an incredible instinct for choosing future power players. It was said that if Chandler favored you, then you were destined for great things. The only question was what his favor was going to cost, because it always came with a price.

Somewhere in those years, Chandler had become aware of the Prophecies Desk, another section that was devoted to the study and analysis of religious prophecy. He had managed to get himself transferred into that section for a few years, back in the early nineties, and he used the time wisely. That section was run by an eight-man panel headed by Professor Isaac Lambert, one of the world's leading experts on the subject. He had spent many hours with Lambert, making certain that he understood all of the different viewpoints related to prophecy and how it affected the United States of America. This included Judaic, Islamic and Christian prophecies, as well as those from some even more obscure religions. Some of the most intriguing prophecies came from the ancient Babylonian and Mesopotamian religions, and those were the ones that Chandler found most interesting.

Of particular interest were some of the unusual prophecies relating to the Babylonian sun god, Shamash. While some Mesopotamian scholars considered him a minor deity, there were many experts in the field who believed that Shamash should be regarded as the supreme being. Because there were so many deep references that made such an implication, there were even those who believed that Shamash should be considered the foundation upon which the Hebrew God, Jehovah, was created.

By following their reasoning, as well as spending time studying with some of Shamash's followers, Chandler had come to the conclusion that Shamash was the Great God who would eventually rule the world. Because certain prophecies relating to him seemed to follow the general outline of the biblical prophecies — although with Shamash being placed as the power behind the one that Bible prophecy referred to as the Antichrist and an entirely different outcome that left that powerful figure in control of the civilized world — Chandler had decided that he had the opportunity to seize control and install himself high in the councils of Shamash.

Of course, he fully understood the way the rest of the world would see him, and he didn't care. What did it matter to him how he might be perceived by those whom he would one day rule? At this point, all he cared about was establishing his power. Yes, that meant following along with Christian prophecy to a point, but that was simply because the future, as he saw it, would progress along a similar path. The journey didn't concern him; all he cared about was the final destination, and that's where he intended to be victorious.

It was incredible, he thought, knowing the future and how it would turn out. It made him wonder just how stupid his enemies could become, to try to keep him from achieving that which had been predestined for thousands of years. Sometimes it actually made him laugh, and he understood completely what Shakespeare's Puck meant when he stated, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

* * * * *

"Okay, so we have to kill him, there's no way around it, right?" Sam asked. "You know, it's a little hard for me to get my mind wrapped around the idea that I'm on the way to commit a murder. I mean, I've always been the guy who tried to prevent such things, y'know? How am I supposed to justify to myself the idea that I have to go and take a man's life in order to do what's right? Can you explain that to me? Because I'm not having any luck trying to figure it out on my own!"

"Youngster, you just hit on the dilemma that faces every assassin on his first mission. No matter how much training he's had, no matter how many times it's been explained to him why he has to do the job he does, he still has to figure out how to justify it to himself. It's one of the most difficult things any man can do, and he has to do it on his own, no one can do it for him."

Sam looked at Ken, and shook his head. "You're not helping. I'm trying to cope with this, and you're not helping."

Ken shrugged, and chuckled at Sam. "What did I just tell you?" he asked. "This is not something anyone can do for you, or even help you to accomplish, you've got to figure it out on your own. The question is simple enough: Which is more important? This man's life or saving your country? Once you figure that out, you'll know the answer. Then you can decide where you stand on the question."

Sam started to answer, but that's when his phone rang, and he lifted it to see that it was Indie calling. He held up a finger to tell Ken to be quiet, then answered. "Well, hello, Gorgeous," he said.

"Hey, Baby," Indie said. "Just wondered how you're doing this morning, and thought I'd give you a call. I miss you, and Kenzie says to tell you she loves you."

"Babe, I miss you and Kenzie more than you can possibly imagine," Sam said. "The more I learn about this mess, the more I wish I'd never returned Joellyn's phone call. I mean, I just don't see me as the guy who's supposed to figure out how to stop the Antichrist, but somehow I got stuck with the job. Do me a favor and call Caleb and see if he has any advice on how to deal with the Antichrist and the false prophet."

Indie laughed, but there wasn't a lot of humor in it. "I'll call him if you want, but are you sure you want anybody to know what you're into right at the moment? From what you've said, this almost sounds like one of those things Harry refers to as so classified you have to be dead to read it."

"Yeah, good point," Sam said. "No sense getting Caleb involved in this insanity with me. So how's everything going there? You staying safe?"

"Ha! Harry added extra security, after he found out who you're dealing with. There's a small army camped outside the cabin right now. Mom and Grace are having fun, running outside and passing out coffee and cookies. I don't think either of them has ever had so much male attention, and they're just not sure how to handle it."

"Yeah, well, as long as those guys know not to mess with you, you're okay. If any of them starts flirting, just remind them that Harry owes me favors. That should be enough to scare them half to death, so they'll back off quick. And if that doesn't work, just sic Beauregard on them. Nobody can stand up to him."

"Sam," Indie said, "tell me you're going to come back to me. Tell me you're going to come back safe."

"Of course I am, Babe," Sam replied. "Nothing else Harry's thrown at me has been able to kill me, so I'm pretty sure this one won't do it, either. I'll be home, and tell Kenzie that I'll do my best not to get shot again. I know how she worries when I get shot."

"Well, gee, I wonder why that would worry her," Indie said. "I mean, it's not like I ever worry about things like that, now do I? No, not me, not ever!"

Sam smiled into the phone. "Baby," he said, "I promise you I'll be away, and home safe. One way or another, as soon as this is over, I'm coming home to you. All the Antichrists and terrorists in the world can't keep me away. I love you, Baby."

"I love you, too, Sam. You came along and turned my whole world upside down, and now I don't know how I could live without you. Don't you ever put me in that position, and I mean not ever! God knows, you've come close a couple of times already, and I'm not going to put up with it. You can go save the world all you want to, but you have to come home safe to me when you're done. Got that?"

Sam grinned back the laughter, and it even infected Ken, who was sitting on the other bed. "I got it," Sam said, "don't worry, Baby. Listen, we're just about to get on the road. I'll give you a call later this afternoon, and let you know what's going on then. I love you, Babe."

"Okay. I love you, too. I'll talk to you then, Baby."

Sam cut off the call, and looked over at Ken. "I'm not sure what was so funny," he said, "because when that girl says she wants me home safe, she isn't kidding. Trust me on this, I know."

Ken nodded. "Then, you trust me on this. I can't make any promises, but I'm going to do my best to make sure you do get home safe to her. You're a very lucky man, Sam Prichard, to have someone who loves you that much. That's not a luxury I could ever afford, you know. I never got to know my own daughter, so I'm going to do everything I can to make sure you get back home to yours. Maybe that'll buy me a little bit of good karma, you think? God knows I could use it!" He got up off the bed, and picked up the small bag he had brought into the room with him. "You ready? We've still got about a hundred miles to go, but I think we should stretch that a bit, and take a longer way into the city. We know Chandler has people watching for us, and I'd just as soon not give them the chance to collect whatever bounty he's put on our heads. Like it or not, we have a mission, and an awful lot of the world is counting on us pulling it off. Not just our own country, but others as well; there's an awful lot riding on us stopping this egotistical maniac."

Sam picked up his own gear, and started toward the door. "It just seems to me that somebody like Harry should be able to pick up the phone, call the president and say, 'Excuse me, Mr. President, that there's a lunatic loose in the CIA who wants to bring on the battle of Armageddon. Could you slap him down for us?' That would solve the problem for us, wouldn't it?"

Ken rolled his eyes, and shook his head at Sam. "Okay, have you bothered to take a look at who's in the White House right now? The number one Islamic sympathizer in the entire freaking country is currently living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in DC. How do you think he got there?"

Sam stared at him. "Are you trying to tell me that the President of the United States owes Chandler favors?"

"What I'm telling you is that if you made that phone call you were just talking about, Chandler would hear about it before you managed to put the receiver down. Don't you remember the fuss a while back about just where the president was actually born? How do you think so many things got covered up and whitewashed? At least two federal judges ruled that the evidence showed that the president was not a natural born US citizen, and yet he's still in office. A political campaign can't arrange things like backdated birth certificates and modified school records, but the CIA can. Are you catching on yet?"

Sam looked at him for another moment, then simply turned and walked out the door. When Ken followed, he found Sam shoving his bag behind the seat in the Corvette, so he did the same with his own and then got into the passenger seat and shut the door. Sam slid in behind the wheel, put the key in the ignition and cranked the big engine up. He put the shifter in reverse, eased out the clutch and backed away from the room, then shifted into first and headed for the highway.

There was a small restaurant near the exit, and Sam pointed. "Want some breakfast?" he asked.

Ken nodded. "You know what? That sounds like a good idea. After all, it could be our last meal. We might as well enjoy it, right?"

Sam didn't answer, but downshifted and turned the car to enter the parking lot. He pulled up beside the building, shut it down and set the parking brake before getting out.

The two of them walked in and chose a booth near the window, where Sam could keep an eye on the car and Ken could watch for the death squad. They both ordered coffee from the bored waitress, and they both ordered the steak and eggs that was the house specialty, and waited without talking until their orders arrived. The food was surprisingly good, and Sam grunted in appreciation.

"Well," he said, "at least, if it turns out to be our last meal, it was a good one."

Ken grinned at him and nodded once. "It's actually better than I expected it to be," he said. "Pretty darn tasty, to be honest. I've eaten in so many restaurants in so many places around the world, that sometimes I forget what a decent meal tastes like. This certainly isn't bad."

They finished eating, and walked back out to the Corvette. They were just about to open the doors when a car pulled into the parking lot in a hurry, its tires squealing, and four men jumped out. Sam and Ken reacted almost as one, spinning to face the car and drawing their weapons in a single movement.

The four men who had exited the car suddenly froze, seeing a pair of automatic pistols pointed at them. None of them was armed, and the panic in their faces told the two instantly that they were just some guys in a hurry to get breakfast, and not a group of CIA assassins. Both men holstered their weapons, muttered apologies and got into the car, and Sam quickly drove them away. In the rear view mirror, he could see the four men staring at them and for the first time cursed the fact that his car was rare and noticeable.

"Well, we scared those poor guys half to death," he said. "Think that will lead Chandler's people to us, somehow?"

"No doubt about it," Ken replied. "Those boys will be calling the police, and anything to do with you or me is undoubtedly flagged to get Chandler's attention. If they got your tag number, then he'll know we were here in fifteen minutes. Maybe less. I think you'd better take the next exit, and start driving randomly for a while. They're going to be expecting us to be heading for DC, and of course we are, but that doesn't mean we can't take a detour to throw them off our trail."

Sam nodded, and when the next exit appeared he eased up the ramp. It ended at a road that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, a two-lane blacktop that only went north or south. Sam took a left and headed north, and because they seemed to be out in the boondocks, he opened up the big engine and raced the car up the road at more than a hundred miles an hour. When he saw a town approaching a few miles up the road, he dropped his speed back to the limit.

The road he was on met a state highway in the middle of town, so Sam took another left, actually heading away from their destination. Once they got out of town, he opened the car up again, and only minutes later came upon another highway headed north again. He took that turn, as well, and followed that road for about twenty miles before turning east once more.

"There aren't enough roads in this part of the country for me to throw them off for long," he said, "but maybe that gave us a little bit of an edge. This road should take us close to where we're going, and we can figure out the last bit of the trip when we get into the city." He glanced over at Ken, who simply nodded. "So how are we going to get close to this guy if I can ask? I mean, you do have a plan, right?"

"I've got several," Ken said, "and which one we use depends on what's going wrong at the moment. One thing you can be certain of, no matter how we try to plan, Chandler is going to be one step ahead of us. You see, he knows exactly what we are out to do, which is put a bullet in his brain. He'll be thinking through how he would plan to do that if he were in our shoes, so whatever plan we come up with, he will have already thought out. Now, that means that we better have more than one plan, so when one starts to go wrong we can simply switch to another. Make sense?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "It makes so much sense that it actually scares me," he said. "Somehow, I think I'd be happier if I didn't understand you at all. But what I was really trying to ask, is what our first step should be when we get to the city. Can you tell me?"

"Yep," Ken said. "Our first step is to stay alive. If I had to guess, I'd say there are probably two dozen armed men trying to track us down right now, and half of them are in that city keeping their eyes on the most likely approaches they think we would use. The mistake they're making, however, is in thinking that we're going to try to get to Chandler in his office. Now, granted, I've done some incredible things in my career, but I'm not Tom Cruise, and this isn't Mission: Impossible. Maybe in the movies, some super spook could slip right into CIA headquarters, but I don't see it happening in real life, and certainly not with two guys whose faces have targets painted on them. No, what we will have to do is draw Chandler out, away from his office and away from his goons. In order to do that, we've got to have something he wants. And it will have to be something he wants badly enough to risk his life to get it."

Sam's eyebrows went up a notch. "And we've got something he wants that bad?"

Ken smiled at him. "We don't," he said, "but you do."

Another notch. "I do? Care to enlighten me on that?"

"Sure," Ken said. "You have my head. And you're willing to serve it to Chandler on a platter!"

2

Ron Thomas tapped on his boss's door and waited until he heard the old man inside call out for him to enter. One thing you never did was walk in on Harry Winslow without his consent; those who did so had a tendency to end up dead.

"Ron," the old fellow said in his southern drawl, "what might you have for me this morning?"

"We got an ID on one of the bodies from your house," Ron said without preamble. "Somebody didn't do a good enough job of scrubbing his past, and we got a hit on his fingerprints. He's an ex-Marine named Robert Hawthorne. He was recon, with an impressive body count in Afghanistan. No family, no living relatives, and just the kind of guy the company likes to go after for wet work."

"And have you anything that ties him to Grayson Chandler? Any kind of link at all? Knowing the name of a man I just killed doesn't help me unless I can link him to the bastard who sent him after me."

Ron shook his head. "I've got Kathy working on it, and Jeff is digging into it as well, but so far there's nothing. That's why they use guys like him, so there won't be any connections. Unless somebody slipped up even worse than they did in not clearing his prints out of all the computers, we’re not going to find anything to connect him to Chandler. Harry, you know that, so don't get mad at me for not being able to do what can't be done."

Harry chuckled. "Gotta keep my top man on his toes," he said. "How do you think I learned enough to get where I am today? It was from an old scoundrel just like me. I'm just passing on the same kind of training I received. One day you'll thank me."

Ron grinned and nodded. "Probably," he said. "Anything I can do for you this morning?"

Harry finally looked up at him. "Yes," he said. "Send Eduardo out for some doughnuts, but not the ones we usually get. There's got to be someplace in this city we haven't already gone, so pick one of those. And have somebody bring me another cup of coffee, mine's just about empty."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Well, there's no sense in that, now, is there? I'll get you a cup, be right back." He turned and walked out of the office, and went to the break room they had set up when they moved into the new building. He took down one of the big Styrofoam cups that were stacked on the counter, and filled it with coffee from the urn that was marked “Battery Acid.” Only he and Harry could stand to drink the coffee out of that one, because it was so strong that if they left the spoon in it for a couple of days, it would dissolve. At least, that was the rumor.

He carried the cup back to Harry's office and knocked on the door again. Even if you were bringing a gift, you still didn't walk in on Harry unannounced. Harry told him to come in, and he set the cup on the edge of Harry's desk. The old man opened the door without looking, reached in and took out what looked like a stirring stick which he stuck into the coffee. He held it there for a couple of seconds, then pulled it out and looked at the end. It was still white, so he dropped it into the trashcan, then picked up the cup and took a sip.

"Good stuff," he said. Ron knew that was his dismissal, so he turned and left the office again. He stopped at the security room and asked Eduardo to go and get the doughnuts. "Harry's a little paranoid again," he said, "what with Chandler after him, so run over into Aurora. I think there's a couple of places on the main drag there, so get a couple dozen regular glazed, and then a couple dozen assorted. That ought to cover us." He reached into a pocket and counted off a couple of twenties, which he gave to Eduardo. "Don't forget to bring me a receipt."

"No problem, chief," the big Hispanic said. "You want anything else while I'm out?"

Ron shook his head and headed back to his own office. This place was a far cry from the little two-man operation he'd run for the last couple of years, while Harry was in deep cover as a drug lord. Only a few of the local cops had ever even heard of him, which only went to show how well Ron and his assistant, Jeff, had done their jobs. Ron had enjoyed seeing the looks on the faces of those cops when it was revealed that Harry was the Homeland Security agent who had been instrumental in thwarting the most devastating terror attack our country had ever known. Now that Harry was running the HS office in Denver, he had a natural budget to work with, a real staff that included genuine agents and intelligence analysts, and a very nice office building only a stone's throw from the state capital. It was nice to feel like you were finally getting the respect you deserved, Ron mused.

He sat down at his desk, turned to the computer monitor and began scrolling through the reports his people were constantly posting to their internal server. Ron was something of a legend in the agency, already, because he always seemed to be right on top of whatever his people were doing. So far, no one above him had caught on to the fact that he required all of his analysts to keep notes on the computer of everything they read, did, or even thought about the information that came through their hands. What kind of supervisor would he be, he wondered, if he hadn't left himself a way to look at those notes?

What it boiled down to was that he was basically looking over all of their shoulders at the same time, so that as soon as one of them made an observation, it was available for him to read on his monitor. It was an incredibly simple system, but it worked. When he had shown it to Harry, the old man had patted him on the shoulder and said, "Thank God you're on our side."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ron asked him, and Harry smiled.

"It just occurs to me that if Hitler had had this little system of yours, he would have seen all of his strengths and weaknesses long before the allies had a chance to use them against him. I suspect that, had that been the case, we'd probably all be speaking German about now." The old man had simply turned and walked away without another word, and Ron wondered if he had just been handed a compliment or an insult. He never did figure out for sure which one it was.

Islamabad — something going on with Achmed Tubal's group there. Sent request for clarification.

David Akbar in London is meeting with investors from Syria later this week. He's looking for funding for some new weapon designs; we better keep an eye on this.

Denver international, security officers there say there's a discrepancy in the number of passengers that have passed through the airport in the last forty-eight hours. Flight records versus debarkation counts are showing that eight people got off of flights that they never bought tickets for. Three flights involved, originating from Los Angeles, Chicago and Miami. Three extra people on each of the first two, and two on the one from Miami. Somehow they all boarded the flights without passes, and were ignored in the pre-takeoff count. The flight attendants are being flagged for questioning. This sounds a lot like the way we get people into other countries, by bribing or seducing the flight attendants into ignoring our people in the pre-flights. Considering the current uproar with people trying to kill the old man, I'm going to recommend sending our own people out to sit in on those interviews.

That last entry had come from Ginger Martin, one of the girls that Ron himself had recruited. She had been busted by the FBI a few months before, when they determined that she was planning some of the most daring daylight bank robberies in recent history. She had a knack for spotting patterns in security personnel behavior, and could exploit those patterns to create plans that allowed a crew to get into and out of bank vaults without being seen except on video, and then only when it was too late. That crew had been run by her uncle, who had somehow realized just how talented she was with computers and had been forcing her to help him plan these crimes.

Under the circumstances, Ron had been able, with Harry's help, to get her charges dismissed on the condition that she work for HS for at least five years. Her security clearances were limited, and she was on twenty-four-hour monitoring, which meant that all of her cell phone conversations were recorded and analyzed, and there were cameras and microphones hidden in her car and her apartment. Because of the way she had come to work for the government, she was considered a high risk, and so every move she made was under scrutiny. Fortunately, she didn't know that, so she was able to go on with a fairly normal life. As long as she didn't end up dating the wrong person, or offer to sell information to someone, she'd probably be fine.

She tapped on his door at that moment, and he looked up and motioned for her to come in. Unlike Harry's office, his was surrounded by glass. Ginger stepped inside and closed the door behind her, then took the chair in front of his desk.

"What's up, girl?" Ron asked. He was fairly sure he knew, but he wanted to hear her say it.

"Something funny out of the airport," she said. "According to their security office, we've had eight invisible men fly in on flights in the last couple of days. I bet a couple of them would be the ones Harry took out, but that means there are six more wandering around town. My guess is that some of them are probably looking for the old man, wouldn't you think? They put out an order for the flight attendants to be questioned about this, and I think we should send someone out to sit in on the interview."

Ron looked at her for a moment. "Who would you send, if it were up to you?" He asked.

"If it were up to me, I'd send me, of course. I think I'd spot a lie faster than anyone else, and I'm certain that I could figure out exactly how they pulled this off. In my mind, there's only one of three answers. Bribery, drugs or seduction."

Ron cocked his head to the right, and grinned. "You’re forgetting blackmail," he said. "A threat of some unbearable consequence can make people do things they never do under normal circumstances."

Ginger shook her head. "No I'm not," she said, "because extortion is nothing but another form of bribery. You can bribe someone by offering them something they want, or with the opportunity to avoid something they would consider unpleasant. Either way, they make the choice that they consider most beneficial to themselves. It’s still bribery, no matter how you look at it."

Ron considered what she had said for a moment, and then nodded. "You're right, of course," he said. "Not very many people would be capable of seeing it that way, but you did. I'm impressed. When is the interview scheduled?"

"Tomorrow morning, 10 am. They're going to have all of the flight attendants gathered up together, and interview them one at a time. They had to reshuffle some of their schedules to get them all back to Denver, but their security office was pretty adamant about it."

"Yeah, I would be, too. Okay, you're on this. I'll put in an order for you to sit in on the interview, and to record it with both video and audio. You may want to go back over it later, so that way you can. Oh, and incidentally, good work."

Ginger grinned, and Ron thought he saw a hint of a blush, as well. It was really too bad that the agency didn't allow dating amongst its employees, because he suspected that she kind of liked him. Oh well, rules were rules. Besides, he sort of had a girlfriend. At least, when she wasn't mad at him for missing dates or being ridiculously late.

The morning dragged on, with good points and bad ones. Eduardo got back with the doughnuts, which was always a high point around the office, but then one of the secretaries got a call that her daughter had gotten sick at school. The lady wasn't essential to their operations, so Ron told her to go ahead and leave.

Of course, he checked out the situation to make sure that the child's illness wasn't part of some ruse by their current enemies. Even a secretary, under the right circumstances, can be turned into a spy or an assassin. It had happened, many times in the past, and would undoubtedly happen again in the future. Ron just wasn't going to have it happen on his watch.

His phone rang suddenly, and he jumped. The phone on his desk didn't ring very often, and when it did, it usually wasn't good news. He picked up the receiver. "Ron Thomas," he said.

"Well, Ron, Boy," Harry said, "I knew who I was calling, but thank you for telling me that I got through to the right person. I'm just checking in, have we got anything new?"

Ron shook his head, even though he knew Harry couldn't see him. "Afraid not," he said. "The only thing of any interest is something we basically already knew, that we've got some spooks coming in through the airport. I've got Ginger going out to sit in on the interview with the flight attendants tomorrow, just so we have our own idea of what's going on there. Besides the two you killed, there are six more floating around the city, and I've already stepped up our security watch around the building. Anybody shows up here snooping around, we'll spot them. I told the boys we want them alive, not dead. Of course, you know how that goes; they're usually under orders not to be taken alive."

He could hear Harry sigh through the phone. "Fine, fine," Harry said. "If you hear anything new on Sam, I want to know about it instantly. Sending him with Ken Long into DC is a lot like when Daniel got tossed into the lion's den. I'm afraid that boy had better be praying pretty hard, if he has any hope of getting out of this one alive."

"Harry, a couple months ago I would've agreed with you," Ron said. "The thing is, Sam Prichard is probably the most natural agent either one of us has ever seen, and considering what an old fart you are, that's saying something big. If anybody can pull this off, it will be those two. The real question in my mind is how you're going to keep Uncle Sam from deciding to burn them both, and all of us, when it's over. Got that figured out yet?"

Harry chuckled, and Ron felt the shiver that always ran down his spine when that happened. "Son, what you need to remember is that, next to Chandler, I probably know where more bodies are buried than just about anyone else in government service. There aren't too many people who will risk pissing me off if they can avoid it. That will be especially true once Mr. Chandler is not around to try to protect them. If our boys get the job done, I'm not worried about the repercussions. On the other hand, if they don't, I strongly suspect that we should start studying up on our Sunday school lessons."

It was Ron's turn to laugh, but it felt sour to him. "Harry, do you really believe there's any room for us in Heaven? After the things we've done?"

"Why, Ron, why would you ask such a question? Even Judas Iscariot could have been forgiven, so that means there's hope for an old codger like me. I can honestly say that almost everyone I ever killed not only had it coming, but benefited our country by making their exit. What about you? I don't think you've ever killed anyone yet, have you?"

"Harry," Ron said, "haven't you ever heard of the Fifth Amendment? I'll just hope you're right, be sure to say my prayers at bedtime. I'll let you know if I hear anything."

"You do that, Son, on both counts." The line went dead instantly.

Ron shook his head. Harry was one of the strangest old men he'd ever known, and he often wondered what it would have been like to have known him when he was younger. From the stories he heard, Harry was probably America's answer to that famous British super spy. Ron wondered what might've happened if Harry Winslow had run into James Bond. It certainly would've been a battle of dinosaurs, because each of them was about as outdated as a T-Rex.

Ron went back to reading his notes, but there was nothing of any great importance coming through them. He fought off the temptation to call Sam, knowing that Harry would call him when he got impatient enough. Something was definitely going to go down in DC within the next day or so, and it was quite possible that the whole world would be different when the sun came up afterward. If Chandler managed to come out on top, it would be highly doubtful that anyone would ever get another chance to take him out. He had so many powerful friends that it wasn't likely he'd ever be vulnerable again.

* * * * *

Harry was thinking similar things, but from his perspective, this mission was something that had been coming for a while. No, he hadn't known what Chandler was up to until Ken Long had been thrown into their laps, but there was a part of Harry that always believed that some Divine Providence had been directing the events of his life for many years. To him, that Providence was what he thought of as God, and he wasn't above whispering a prayer now and then.

On that particular day, considering the mission and all that was riding on it, Harry had reached the conclusion that God had thrust Sam Prichard into his life. Like Ron, Harry had never seen a man who was better suited to the work of a secret agent then Sam was, but he had become so fond of the young man that it broke his heart to see him forced to do things that so violated his own moral codes. Some recruiter at some college had certainly missed out failing to find Sam Prichard and sign him up for the CIA, or even the FBI. Their loss, however, was Harry's gain, because even when most of Capitol Hill thought Harry was safely out to pasture, he had suddenly discovered the young man who had already saved the country twice. Sam's accomplishments had been the foundation upon which Harry's superiors had been forced to build his new position, establishing a full Homeland Security office in Denver, to replace the satellite office Harry had been running secretly for almost a decade.

There was no more secrecy; Harry Winslow was now known as Homeland Security's man, and half of Capitol Hill was frightened. As old as Harry was, he knew things going back as far as the seventies, things that everyone in DC wanted to keep buried as deeply as possible. It wasn't even necessary to know what those secrets were, to be aware that if Harry ever decided to let go of all he knew, heads were certain to roll, and they would be rolling right down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Harry thought it was funny. While he did have his own version of the dead man's stash – a large batch of files that would be released to various members of the press if anything happened to Harry – he had enough safeguards on it that there was little risk that anyone would ever see any of those files. Instead of having it set up so that they would be automatically released if he failed to login to some secret server, he had spent a lot of money having a program written so it would simply scan various news sites looking for a death announcement about him, and then check certain other websites that were less public, looking for cues that would say whether his death was natural or not. If it was death by natural causes, the files would instantly be shredded and destroyed; if not, then an awful lot of reporters were going to get emails that would keep them up and awake for several nights.

Harry didn't want to ruin anybody's reputation, but he did want to live as long as possible. A dead man's stash was simply a new form of life insurance, and it was fairly common in the political and intelligence communities. By now, Harry was sure that Ron had one of his own, and he made a note to ask. If the boy didn't have one, it was time he got one set up. He knew where a few bodies had ended up, already, which made him a liability to some people.

A light blinked on his phone, telling him that someone was trying to reach him. He picked up the receiver. "Yes?"

"Mr. Winslow? You've got a call coming in from New York; do you want to take it? It's — it's her."

Harry smiled. "Well, of course I'll take it," he said. "Put 'er through." He waited for a moment as the phone made clicks and beeps, and then he heard that famous voice.

"Harry? Are you there?"

"Why, Sandra," Harry said. "What a surprise. What can I do for you, my dear?"

"Harry, you're no fool. You know exactly why I'm calling you. I got a call from our dear friend Grayson, and he's asked me to try to get you off his back. I don't need to remind you, do I, that I have certain information regarding your last trip to Europe that I'm pretty sure you don't want to get out?"

Harry burst out laughing. "If you are referring to my dalliance with a certain member of the British royalty, I can assure you that I could care less who found out about that! In the first place, who would believe it? And in the second, who cares? Those people do more stupid stuff in a half hour than our Hollywood stars can do in six weeks. And while we’re on the subject of who knows what about who, do you really want to go there? Have you forgotten who was standing in the room with a certain First Lady, when she overruled her husband and demanded that a church full of men, women and children be burned to the ground? Do you honestly think I didn't manage to get copies of the monitoring tapes from that office? Don't threaten me, darlin', unless you're ready to play in the big leagues. I like you, kiddo, I really do, but I could destroy you in a matter of seconds, and you know it. Don't ever make me do it, okay? I'd really hate it."

The lady on the other end of the line laughed, a hearty laugh that said she'd gotten exactly the response she had been expecting. "Trust me, you old buzzard, I never will. I promised Grayson that I would call you, and I did. Can I call him back and tell him you said you'd consider it?"

"You can if you want to lie," Harry said. "The only thing I'm going to consider is what dance I plan to do on his grave. Things have gone too far, and whether you believe his take on the prophecies, or the Bible's, either way, things are coming to a head. I don't know about you, my dear, but I want to be on the winning side. Now, Chandler is putting all his chips on some weird Mesopotamian God that he thinks can whip all the rest of them. I've read up on that one, that Shamash, and what bothers me is that I can't find any record of his prophecies that have already come true. On the other hand, a nice, long read through the Good Book will show you hundreds of prophecies that can be proven to have come true already. My favorite is how Daniel was able to predict that Alexander the Great would attempt to invade Israel hundreds of years before he was born. When he showed up to begin that invasion, the Jewish high priest simply showed him the prophecy which so obviously pointed to him, and he was so blown away by it that he not only didn't invade, he went into the Jewish temple and made a sacrifice to the God Jehovah. Pretty amazing that the prophecies could be so detailed, isn't it? I think I'm going to stick on the side of the God who can pull off a coup like that. That's what you can tell Chandler, and you can tell him also that I think it’s disgusting he's hiding behind a girl. You have a great day, my dear, okay? We'll talk later." He hung up without even saying goodbye.

Harry leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. If Chandler was reaching out that far, then he was more worried than he was admitting. There was something that Harry was missing, and he knew it. Now all he had to do was figure out what it was.

For some reason, Chandler was getting scared. He was calling in favors that he should've saved for once he got his plans in motion, and that told Harry that he was worried about what Sam and Ken were likely to do. Somehow, he had come to the conclusion that there was a chance he was going to lose this gambit. What could be making him nervous? That was what Harry had to figure out.

He sat forward again, and picked up his cell phone. He tapped the icon for Sam and held the instrument to his ear. Sam answered on the second ring, and Harry smiled.

"Sam, Boy, how are you, Son?"

"Still on the road, Harry, how's it going on your end?"

"Sam, I'm not sure. I just got a call from somebody big enough that it tells me Chandler is getting nervous. He's rattling chains he shouldn't be rattling, not yet. He should be saving some of these people for when he really needs them, with the program he's put in the motion. I'm not sure what's got him scared, but something does. For some reason, he thinks you just might get to him. Any clue what could bring that about?"

"Not yet, Harry. Ken's got a plan, but we haven't done anything about implementing it yet. You got any ideas?"

Harry scowled. "Nothing, nothing at all. I don't know what's got him rattled, but we need to figure it out, so we can use it against him. Anything that makes him nervous can strengthen our position, so if we can figure out what it is, it improves the odds of our success. Keep your thinking caps on, and let me know if you come up with anything."

"We will, Harry. Ken is looking at me with his eyes wide, so I don't think he knows any more than I do. On the other hand, we’re only about an hour out of the city now, and we're coming in through some residential areas. Wish us luck."

"You know I do," Harry said, and then he hung up again. In the Corvette that was nearly seventeen hundred miles away, Sam looked over at Ken and muttered something about Harry lacking in social skills.

Harry wasn't worried about being sociable; he was worried about how to keep his country and its sovereignty intact. Globalization would come, that he knew, but that didn't mean he was looking forward to it. As long as there was breath in his body, he knew he would fight the concept and do all he could to delay it or stop it if that were in his power. That was the whole reason behind the mission his boys were on right now, and the fact that Chandler was nervous was giving him just a little touch of hope.

3

"It's called the Matomic building," Ken said. "It was actually built not long after World War II, by an Italian immigrant named Jerry Miaitico. Because we had just taken out Hiroshima and Nagasaki not long before, Jerry wanted this building to be one that could withstand an atomic attack so he built it with an incredible amount of steel girders. That's how it got its name: M for Miaitico, plus the word atomic, equals Matomic. Once it was built, Jerry leased it to the federal government. Its very first tenant was an organization that was considered top-secret at the time, the Atomic Energy Commission. Ironic wasn't it?"

Sam grinned. "Sort of fitting, if you ask me."

"Yeah, it was. There were a lot of little diversions along the way, but eventually the government set out to force Jerry to sell them the building. They even tried to take it under eminent domain, but he found himself an incredibly bright lawyer by the name of Herschel Shanks, and Shanks actually wrote a brief that beat the government at its own game. That didn't happen often, but in this case it worked out well. Jerry's daughters inherited the building when he passed away, and they eventually sold it to the government for an incredible fortune. Three floors of that eleven-story monstrosity ended up dedicated to the CIA. Now, mind you, this was before the CIA settled in Langley. That's where their headquarters is now, but they still maintain their offices in the Matomic building, and since it's only a block from the White House, that's where Chandler's senior Islamic desk is located. I think the reasoning is because, if he comes up with something critical in the way of a warning about impending terrorist activity, and for any reason it's considered too sensitive for the extremely secure phone lines in DC, well, then he can just take off and jog down the street to brief the president. Don't look at me like that, I know how stupid that sounds, but that's exactly how stupid Washington politics can be."

Sam held up his hands as if to ward off his comment. "Hey, I'm just along for the ride, remember?"

"Ride, my aunt Mabel," Ken said. "You're driving, remember? Okay, turn right at the next light. We don't want to get too close before we park this thing. If we had half a lick of sense, we'd have hidden it somewhere and stolen us a station wagon. Something that wouldn't stand out like a sore thumb, anyway. You and your hot rods!"

Sam made the turn and then pointed. "All day parking, ten dollars. Looks like a good place to leave the Corvette, don't you think?"

Ken nodded. "It'll do," he said. "You do have comprehensive insurance on this thing, right? I mean, when it gets stolen, somebody's gonna send you a nice big check, right?"

Sam pulled into the parking lot and chose an empty spot. "I hope you're being a smart Alec," he said, "but yeah, I've got theft insurance. Just hope I never have to file the claim. I've got years of work invested in this car. I'm not sure I've got it in me to do all that again."

Ken was flipping through several debit cards that he'd taken from a pocket, and passed one to Sam. "Swipe this one to pay for the parking," he said. "It will lead back to either of us, so hopefully Chandler won't know the Corvette is here for at least a few hours. That ought to give us a little bit of a head start on them, a chance to find a position where we can spot the killers coming. Let's go, out of the car. We can't afford to sit in one spot for more than a few minutes, not in the city."

Sam got out, leaving his bag behind the seat, and he noticed that Ken did the same. That almost made him nervous, because it implied that they wouldn't be needing a change of clothes. As far as Sam was concerned, the only ones who didn't need a change of clothes were dead men.

He swiped the card Ken had given him in the machine, punched in the number of the parking space he had taken and waited for a moment while it printed a receipt. The system was completely automated, so that when he went to leave, he would hold the receipt up to a reader on the exit gate. The reader would scan a bar code, and decide whether Sam was paid up, or owed more money. If he was within the time allowed for the all day, ten-dollar fee, then the gate would open and let him go. If not, it would demand more money before opening.

"They get you coming and going," Ken said. "This city has more ways to fleece money out of you than anyplace else I've ever been in the entire world. Doesn't matter how tight you hold onto your wallet, trust me, somebody here will get money out of it."

Sam grinned at him. "That wasn't my money they just got, it was yours."

"No, it wasn't," Ken said, grinning back. "That card was a phony, backed up by some fictitious bank account somewhere in New Jersey. Whenever I'm sent out on a mission, I end up with some of those. A few years ago, I figured out that they don't ever cancel them once I'm done, so I just started holding onto them. I mean, you never know when you might need an extra fifty bucks or so, right? Some of the ones I've got only have a couple hundred dollars on them, and some of them have a few thousand. It's just nice to have something to fall back on."

Sam blinked. "Yeah, I'll bet it is. I take it those are expense accounts?"

"Yeah, something like that. Whoever I'm working for gives me one to use for the expenses of the mission, I'm assuming so that they can keep track of where I'm at and what I'm doing. When the mission is over, they tend to forget about those little accounts, so I just hang onto the cards for emergencies. Like having something put back for a rainy day, you know? I've been living off of them for the last two years, now. Ever since I went off the reservation and onto this mission."

They had parked near the corner of I Street and twentieth, and were walking in the general direction of H Street. Chandler's office was in the building there, and while they didn't want to get too close, they needed to be closer than they already were.

As Ken had suggested, the plan was to try to use him as bait. They had to find a way to get Chandler alone, and that wasn't going to be easy to do. The only thing that he might want badly enough to risk coming out of his secure location would be the chance to shut Ken down for good.

Of course, that meant convincing him that Sam was willing to turn on Ken and hand him over. In order to do that, Sam would have to do the best acting he'd ever done, convincing Chandler that all he wanted was the chance to go home and live a normal life with his family. If it worked, Chandler would meet with them and hopefully, they would get the chance to take a shot that would put an end to his power in the political world.

"Okay," Sam said, "now, assume something goes wrong and he just decides to put a bullet in each of our heads. We'll be dead, and he just rides off into the sunset, right?"

"We're not going to make it that easy for him," Ken said. "He has a life here, he's well known. We meet in a public place and he can't risk taking a shot at us. Someone would whip out a cell phone, and he'd be on YouTube ten minutes later. He can't take that chance." He grinned. "I, on the other hand, am a spook. They can post me on the Internet all they want to, and if anyone can identify me, more power to them. All it will do is add to the mystique of my reputation. I can assure you, it wouldn't be the first time that I had been caught on camera in the middle of an assassination. I've probably already starred in a few videos, that doesn't mean anything to me."

"But do you really think he'll be alone? If it were me, I'd have a half-dozen people hiding in the crowd, so that all I had to do was point the finger and stand back and watch while we got blown away. We know he has goons; why wouldn't he bring several with him?"

"You misunderstand me; I'm assuming that he will. Hopefully, I can spot them before they spot us. We'll need to take them out, first, before we can get close enough to Chandler to do the job." He reached into a pocket and pulled out what looked like a hearing aid. He handed it to Sam and pointed at his ear. "Put that on," he said. "Tuck that little wire inside your ear, it's got the speaker on it. I've got one, too, they’re like little telephones. The microphone is super sensitive, and can pick up what you say, even if you whisper. Once we get the meeting set up, we'll turn these on so that we can work together on taking out his backup. Just remember, once you've identified one of them, you can't hesitate. It has to be a shot and it has to be fatal. You can't capture these guys, and you can't turn them. All you can do is kill them."

"I understand," Sam said, and he reached back under his jacket and withdrew a pistol from the waistband of his pants. It was smaller than his Glock, a thirty-two caliber automatic with a silencer, one that Harry had given him once before when he was warned he might have to shoot first, and ask questions later. "I'm ready, and I'll do what I have to do." He slipped the little pistol back into hiding.

Ken smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "I don't doubt your courage, Sam," he said. "You've got bigger cojones than just about anyone I've ever known. You've already taken on things that even I would've hesitated to tackle. I'm not a bit worried about your courage, but that doesn't mean that you can overcome a lifetime of conditioning that says you can't just walk up and shoot someone through the head. Not too many people can do that, not without going through a little bit of self-recrimination. The trouble is, you won't have time to argue with yourself about whether you are doing the right thing. You have to take the shot, take it quickly and make sure it's right between the eyes."

Sam stopped walking and turned to face him. "Look, Ken, I get it," he said. "And just between you and me, it won't be the first time that I've gone into something knowing I was going to kill someone. That whole terrorist nuke thing at Hoover dam? Trust me, I had every intention of killing that kid. Not only did he have a nuclear bomb that he was planning to use against my country, but he had murdered my best friend and former partner. He bought himself a death sentence the minute he pulled that trigger." He turned and started walking again, and Ken grinned as he followed.

"Like I said, Sam, I wasn't worried about your courage. Now I'm less worried, and more sure we’re going to find some way to pull this off."

They kept walking for a couple of blocks, and then turned left. Sam noticed two men suddenly paying attention to them as they turned the corner, and he caught Ken's eye. "You see them?" he asked.

Ken nodded. "Yeah, I did. One of them seems to be talking to his wrist, so he's telling someone up ahead that we're coming in their direction. Are you ready?"

"Ready as I'm ever going to be," Sam said. "I see two up ahead who seem to be looking this direction, as if they're expecting to spot someone." He turned and glanced over his shoulder. "And those two back there are following us, so I'm guessing were about to be squeezed in the middle. This is the part where you pull one of your magic tricks out of your little black bag, right?"

"Something like that," Ken said. "How accurate is that little gun of yours? Say, at thirty feet?"

"Pretty accurate," Sam said, "and we're about to find out, anyway. The two had have just been joined by a third, so we've got five altogether. Two behind and three ahead. How do you want to play this?"

"Well, the street's pretty crowded, so they're not gonna start shooting unless they can get us in the open, away from other people. The longer we can stay bunched up with all these other sheep, the longer they're going to delay taking action. They're following protocol, not firing into crowds; luckily, we don't have that disadvantage. The moment, and I mean the very moment, that you're confident you can fire three shots and take three down, you draw and fire. While you're doing that, I'm going to take out the two behind us. You get the ones in front because you can keep them in sight, I'll take the ones in back because I've got years of experience at rapid target identification. Everything is on you, when you fire, so will I."

Sam swallowed hard. Ken was right, and he could see the three men who were waiting ahead of them; in a matter of seconds, either all three of them would be dead, or Sam would be. He kept walking, trying his best to look unconcerned, until he was close enough that he was sure he could hit all three targets. He knew that it had to be head shots, there could be no possibility of survival.

Two more steps, then one more, now! Sam drew the little thirty-two of his waistband and raised it in one smooth motion. Pop! Pop, pop! Three shots, barely making any noise through the silencer, and all three of those men were down. Even as he was firing, he heard the two louder booms from Ken's gun as he shot the two men behind them.

The crowd around them was screaming, some people running while others dropped to the ground. Ken spun and grabbed Sam by the arm, propelling him forward at a run. "Put the gun away," he hissed, and Sam shoved the little pistol back into his waistband as they ran.

They ran past the three men Sam had shot, and turned a corner, suddenly finding themselves in another crowd that didn't seem to be aware of the shootings. They stopped running, then moved into the crowd and through it.

Sam looked at Ken. "I don't get it," he said softly, "your gun wasn't silenced. Couldn't these people hear your shots?"

"They probably did, but gunshots are so common in DC that most people just ignore them unless they're happening right close by. Check it out, we're only about four blocks from the White House, but there's enough street crime and drug activity here that anyone who heard the shots will figure that's what it's about. Nobody would even suspect that it might have to do with political intrigue, even though we are smack in the middle of Intrigue Central. Crazy, isn't it?"

Sam shook his head and kept walking. "What's crazy is that we just killed five people, and I don't even hear a police siren. Nobody's running after us, screaming for us to stop — that's wild, Man." He glanced at his hand, which was trembling slightly, then looked back at Ken. "So, after that, I'm guessing that Chandler knows we're here, wouldn't you think? I'm sure at least one of those guys got word to him through a com link."

Ken shrugged, rubbernecking the area and looking for new threats. "That would be a safe bet," he said. "That means it's time for you to make your call. Look, there's a Starbucks up ahead. The Matomic building is only a couple doors down from there, and that's where his office is. Right now, that's where he'll be. I don't know about you, but I could use a latte."

Sam rolled his eyes, but followed Ken into the coffee shop. He took a seat with his back to a wall, positioned so that he could see every entrance, and waited for Ken to get his latte. When he came back to where Sam was sitting, he handed over a straight coffee, as well.

"Chandler's not going to want to come over here," he said, "he'll want to pick a different spot to meet. What you got to do is make sure that it's somewhere very, very public. Make it – make it the front steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Tell him you'll meet him there in an hour, and that you got me disarmed and restrained."

Sam looked at him for a moment, and then shook his head. "This is crazy, Ken," he said. "We’re talking about turning you over to him, without weapons and in handcuffs. He can put a bullet through your head as soon as he's got you in sight."

Ken reached into his pocket and produced a pair of handcuffs that he handed to Sam. "You used a lot of these in your time, right? See anything odd about this pair?"

Sam looked them over. "Looks like a pair of regulation police cuffs, to me." He handed them back. "Why?"

Ken grinned, and put the cuffs on himself. When he had them securely snapped around each wrist, he held them out to Sam. "All good and secure?" Ken asked.

Sam felt the cuffs and nodded. "Yeah, good and tight," he said.

Ken chuckled, and hit the two cuffs against each other. Both of them flew open, and literally dropped from his wrists. Sam's eyes went wide, and Ken laughed. “Houdini specials,” he said.  “I got these from a magician, a guy who does all those escape acts. He gets put in these, and then he goes into a box or something, but the next thing you know, he's free and standing in the crowd beside you. They're wonderful.”

"That's pretty cool," Sam said. "So, I hand you over wearing those, and then as soon as the two of you are out of sight, you pop free and then — then what?"

"If everything goes according to plan, then one well-placed strike with the heel of my hand and Mr. Chandler is no longer a problem. The problem with that is that things never go according to plan, so I'll have to wing it as I go along."

"And what am I supposed to be doing all this time? How am I supposed to know whether you succeed or not?"

"That depends on Chandler. I'm not sure what he'll do about you, he may want you to come along as he takes me in. If he does, then he'll want you unarmed, as well."

Sam shook his head. "I think if I go along with that, we're both dead. Giving up my weapon and letting him have us both strikes me as a very bad idea."

"You're not thinking properly," Ken said. "He'll be alone, so there'll be two of us against the one of him. That increases our chances of success. Remember, this guy is as tough as I am; he's not going to be easy to kill, especially without weapons. Nevertheless, we've got to get the job done, somehow. I'm not dead certain what his next move is, but I can guarantee you that it will put America in a worse position on this whole global stage issue. He's got to be stopped before he can make that next move."

Sam took a sip of his coffee, hissing because it was extremely hot. "Lord, I don't know how these people stay in business; they must burn the lips off of most of their customers." He looked at Ken. "I guess that's part of what's making me so nervous, that we don't know what it is he's doing. How do we know for sure that killing him will put a stop to it?"

"Look at the prophecies," Ken said. "Chandler is trying to bypass some of the things that have to happen. If he can do that, then the globalization he'll be bringing on won't be the real thing, and it's possible that it will mess up the situation so badly that the genuine fulfillment of prophecy could be set back years, maybe even decades. That would be enough of a disaster on its own, but a side effect of his activities is his determination to eliminate organized Christianity. Every prophecy from every other religion makes it plain that in order for their view to come to fruition, Christianity must be destroyed. Now, the most powerful tool Chandler has in his arsenal for attacking and destroying Christianity would be Islamic jihad. If he can orchestrate effective Islamic attacks on Christians in various places around the world, including right here in the United States, then some of the people he's got positioned in other countries will begin to gain power. That power will be thrown behind him, making him even stronger than he already is. Sam, he's got to be stopped. Everything our country stands for, everything it was founded on and built on is literally hanging on the edge of a cliff, ready to be toppled over to its destruction. There are very few of us who even see the danger, and we are all that's standing between life and death."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. I just wish I knew more about how this is going to play out. If we had some clue what it is he's really up to, it might even give us a better idea of how to move against him. But if this plan is all we've got, then I guess we have to go for it." He looked at Ken. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready as I'm going to be," he said. "Let's do it."

Ken handed Sam a cell phone, a number already punched in and simply awaiting activation of the call. Sam looked at it for a long moment, and then pushed the green button and held it to his ear. He heard ringing, and then a tentative answer.

"Hello?"

"My name is Sam Prichard," Sam said. "I think we have business to discuss."

There was a silence on the other end for a moment, and then Sam heard some beeps and whistles. A second later, the voice came back on the phone. "What kind of business might we have between us, Sam Prichard?"

"I have Kenneth Long," Sam said. "And I've come to the conclusion that I don't want to be on your bad side. That sounds to me like there might be a potential arrangement for us to make. We can each get what we want, and come out ahead."

"And what is it you want, Mr. Prichard?"

"To be able to go home to my family, and live a normal life. Maybe some sort of job, something I can do to keep that normal life when the world goes crazy."

"And in return, you're willing to give up Mr. Long?"

"Good Lord," Sam said, "isn't that what I just told you? Look, I've got him disarmed and in handcuffs. I'll hand him over, and then you can do with him as you please. I just want out of this mess."

Again there was a silence, and for a moment Sam thought the connection had been cut. Just when he was about to ask if anyone was there, the voice came back. "What about your pal, Harry? I know that he and I are not on the same team, so why would I assume that I can trust you?"

Sam sighed the phone. "Look, Dude, there's something really weird going on here. I don't know what it's all about, but I've got people screaming at me about Bible prophecies and stuff from Babylon, and I don't know what any of them are smoking. The only thing that sounds like it could be true to me is that the world is about to change, but I've been seeing that coming for a long time. Now, if there's one thing I know about change, it's that you have to know which side of the fence to be on when it happens. What I want is to be on the side that will let me raise my daughter and not be involved in any more of this international crap. As for Ken, all I know about him is that he's some kind of government hit man, so if he gets whacked, I'm not going to lose a lot of sleep over it. Now, can we make a deal? Because if not, then I'll have no choice but to throw back in with Harry and Long, and that's not what I want to do."

"Mr. Prichard, tell me what you’ve got in mind. When and where do you want to meet, and how do you want to hand him over?"

"One hour from now, just you, alone, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. That's a nice public place, don't you think? Ken will be with me, his hands cuffed in front of him and covered with his jacket, and I'll have him covered with a silenced automatic from a few feet away. At this point, he knows I don't have anything to lose. If he tries to run, or cause any commotion, he's dead and he knows it. And incidentally, he thinks I'm turning him over to a Justice Department investigator. I gave him a song and dance about how Justice wants him, and told him that Harry had sold him out. He laughed at me and said that so many people at Justice owe him favors that he'll be back on the street ten minutes after I hand him over."

Sam heard Chandler chuckle. "That's pretty shrewd, Mr. Prichard. It's also probably pretty smart, because if he knew you were bringing him to me, there's a good chance you would end up dead. Very well, one hour from now. I'll come alone, as you requested, and I expect you to do likewise, with the exception of our friend Mr. Long. You give him to me, and I will give you a card with a phone number. That number will always be able to reach me, no matter where I am in the world, and will entitle you to certain favors that will help you to achieve your goal of living a normal life with your family. Those favors might include jobs, ways to avoid problems that others might face, things of that nature. Is that agreeable?"

"That'll work just fine," Sam said. "Like I said, all I want is to go home to my family. If I can call on you now and then when there are problems, that would be cool, but mostly I just want out of this mess."

"I believe we have a deal, Mr. Prichard. I'll meet you on the steps in one hour to make our exchange. Do you know what I look like?"

Sam shook his head in futility, since Chandler couldn't see through the phone. "Nope. Not a clue."

"I'll simplify it for you then. I'll be wearing a red nylon windbreaker and a green baseball cap. The cap says Chemtronix on it. And don't worry, I know exactly what you look like."

"I figured you did, since I've already had to take out five of your people. One hour, then. Don't be late, or I'll be gone. This is a one-shot offer."

"Yes, I'll admit I was surprised that you were able to take them down. On the other hand, they were all fairly new; I should've sent more experienced people after you. If you cross me, I won't make that mistake a second time, I want you to be aware of that."

"I'm not planning to cross anybody, and I don't want to be double crossed, either. I keep telling you, all I want is to get out of this mess. If that's acceptable to you, then you can have Long and I'll go my merry way on home. I've got a wife and little girl waiting for me, and they both made me promise to come home safe. That's all I want to do, keep that promise."

"One hour, Mr. Prichard. See you then." The line went dead.

Sam took out his own phone and punched the icon of Elmer Fudd. Here he answered a moment later.

"Sam, Boy? What's going on?"

"We just set up a meeting with Chandler," Sam said. "Ken will be wearing some trick handcuffs that he can escape from, and the idea is that I'm supposed to let Chandler take him. Our story is that I just want to get out of the whole thing, and that I'm willing to betray him or you or anybody to get what I want. At the moment, I think Chandler is going for it. If he does, I'm probably going to be arrested for murdering him. I'm really hoping you can take care of that, if it happens."

"Son, if you can take him down, I'll get you out of trouble. Just be sure they take you alive, because I'm not real good at bringing people back from the dead." He ended the call without another word. Sam looked at the phone for a moment, then shook his head and put it away.

4

Chandler put down the phone and stared at it for a moment. Not for a single second did he believe that Sam Prichard truly intended to hand over Ken Long, and yet he was quite intrigued by the opportunity to find out what their game was. Prichard was Harry Winslow's man, and had already demonstrated some uncanny abilities for an untrained agent. There was a game afoot, but it wasn't the one they were presenting.

He picked up the phone again and dialed a number that would ring in another office within his section. "Stone? It's Grayson. What kind of eyes do we have on the Lincoln Memorial?"

The young man on the other end of the phone line made a polite chuckle. "There are twenty-two security cameras around that complex," he said. "I have digital access to all of them. What are we looking for?"

"I'm going to be meeting someone there in just a little while. I want you to be watching, and ready to notify backup if I need it. I also want to be sure we have a record of the meeting."

"Well, I can get video off security cameras. If you want audio, then you're going to have to wear a wire. There are a few microphones around the complex, but it's doubtful you'd be close enough that I could pick up any audio."

"Yes, I understood that. I'm leaving now, I'll stop by your office so you can give me a transmitter. Got one ready?"

"Yep. I've always got a few handy, all charged up and ready to go."

Chandler smiled into the phone. "Good job," he said. "I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

He hung up the phone and rose from behind his desk, slipped on his windbreaker and cap, then walked out past his secretary. She glanced up at him and smiled.

"Going out for a bit," he said. "Hold down the fort for me, will you?"

The woman laughed. "Yeah, sure," she said. "Are you going to be gone long? You got a few people who were hoping to see you this afternoon."

"No, I shouldn't be very long. An hour, maybe a little more. I'll be back by lunch time. Can I bring you anything?"

"No, I'm meeting my husband for lunch. Thanks anyway."

Chandler smiled and walked away, turning down the hall towards the office where Gary Stone handled their electronic communications network. "Electronic communications" was a euphemism for the room where Stone controlled all of the electronic monitoring equipment that allowed him to tap into video and audio all around the city. It was also his electronics workshop, where he and his staff developed all sorts of gadgets that Chandler and his people found useful.

"Okay, Stone, what you got for me?"

Gary Stone looked a lot like the typical movie computer nerd. He stood about five foot eight, and wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses, just like the comedy sidekicks in most of the college movies. He looked like a kid who was always trying to get his grades up, but in truth, he had an IQ that probably rivaled some of the greatest thinkers in the world. Chandler considered him a terrific asset, and a particularly exciting feather in his own cap. He found this kid while he was still tinkering with science fair projects in high school, and recruited him even before his graduation.

"Here you go," the kid said. He handed Chandler a small device, about the size of an old book of matches. "Just stick this in your shirt pocket and I'll be able to hear everything within about ten feet of you. We'll record it all, so if we have to clean up the audio later, we can do that."

Chandler looked it over, and grinned. He slipped it into his pocket and patted the boy on the shoulder. "Good job," he said once again. "You're going to be on the monitor yourself, right?"

"Yep! When you said we were watching a meeting of yours, I figured you would want me to handle personally. So that's what I'm going to do."

Chandler glanced around the room, noting that several of the people there were sneaking surreptitious glances at him. That didn't surprise him, simply because none of these people would be there if they weren't the curious sort. He waved at them all, causing several to duck down behind their computer monitors in a hurry. That gave him a chuckle, as he turned and walked out the door.

He made one other stop before leaving the building, in the little office that dispatched his agents. The girl on the computer there told him that there were four men within a few minutes of the memorial, and he told her to have them positioned close by as soon as possible. He’d let her know, through Stone, if he needed them. He didn't bother to notify Stone, because he expected the boy to be listening already.

It was less than a mile to the Lincoln Memorial, just down Eighteenth Street, alongside the White House complex. There was no point in trying to drive, since most of the roads were blocked off due to unofficial traffic, and it was a nice day so he decided to simply walk. That would take less time than getting a car and going around the long way to come up to the memorial from the south. He hoped to get there in time to see Long and Prichard arrive, but he guessed they were probably already there and waiting for him.

That was okay. He didn't have any delusions that this meeting would actually result in the end of Ken Long's tenure as the thorn in his side. He didn't know what these guys were up to, but unless they were willing to commit murder right out in the open in broad daylight, he wasn't too worried. Besides, he didn't plan to get close enough for them to make a serious attempt, not unless he was absolutely certain that neither of them was armed. They were playing their game, but he was out to play his own.

* * * * *

Sam and Ken had left the coffee shop immediately after ending the call to Harry, and walked down Eighteenth Street toward the memorial. They had about an eight-minute head start on Chandler; he would be walking the same route in just a few minutes.

"He's going to want to frisk me," Ken said, "so I need to find somewhere to get rid of this Colt."

Sam looked at him. "Just give it to me," he said. "I've still got room in my waistband for one more gun, it won't matter. Besides, we might need it." He reached out and accepted it, then slipped it into the left side of his back waistband. His light jacket hung down over it, concealing both of the weapons he had tucked there. "Worse comes to worst, you can drop those funny cuffs and snatch it out quick. If things go wild, I'm not going to bother with the thirty-two, I'm going for my big Glock. With this guy, I'm more interested in stopping power than stealth."

Ken nodded. "If the shooting starts, just put as many bullets into him as you can. And the more you can put into his head, the happier I'll be. Odds on, he's got some sort of body armor under his clothes. He's known for at least thirty hours that we were coming, so he's as ready as he could possibly be."

"Yeah, and in that case, you know he's got people moving into place on us by now. Do you think we can spot them again, and take them out? Good Lord, Ken, the Lincoln Memorial is going to be pretty crowded with tourists, isn't it? Do we really want to start shooting in a situation like that?"

Ken shrugged. "What you got to get to your head is that the most important thing to think about at this moment is putting a stop to Chandler. That's not just something we want to do, it's what we have to do. That's the mission, and anything else that gets in the way is what we call collateral damage. It sucks, but it happens."

"Okay, well, now you've run up on the part that I can't just wrap my head around. I know we need to stop Chandler, but I can't do it at the cost of innocent lives. If he's got people on scene, we can't open fire in the middle of a crowd of tourists; I'm not saying I won't return fire, but I won't start the shooting."

Ken glanced at him, but kept walking. "Okay, I can live with that, but don't get in the way of what I have to do. I promise you, I will never deliberately let an innocent person get hurt, but if the only shot I've got at Chandler has to be through someone else, then I'm going to take the shot."

Sam didn't say anything, but kept walking alongside. It was only a few moments more before the World War II Memorial came into view, and Ken pointed off to the right. The famous reflecting pool was laid out in front of them, and Sam saw the Lincoln Memorial at its other end.

"That's where we're going," Ken said. "Keep your eyes peeled for potential shooters. Odds on, they're here."

"Oh, gee, and I was hoping you were going to tell me we were all clear. I'm watching, don't worry."

The two of them turned and began walking across the National Mall toward the Lincoln Memorial, following the walking paths around the lake at Constitution Gardens and making their way across the grounds. The path they were on took them past the Vietnam Women's Memorial, and they stopped to admire the statue of a nurse holding a fallen soldier.

"Two men watching us, over by the Vietnam Wall. See them?" Ken asked.

Sam nodded. "I do now," he said. "Think they're his?"

"Too early to tell," Ken said. "Let's just keep an eye on them, see what they do. Come on, let's go on."

They started off again toward the granite building that housed the statue of our sixteenth president. Sam tried not to act like a tourist, but since it was his first visit to DC, he was having trouble not gawking at all of the sights. Ken elbowed him. "Come on, Buddy, hold it together. If we get through this alive, I promise to bring you back and get you a guided tour.”

Sam sneered at him. “Don't be a smart ass,” he said. “I'm on the ball, I just never saw this stuff before, and if things go wrong here, today, I might never get another chance.”

Ken grinned, but it wasn't pleasant. “You actually have a good point,” he said. “If Chandler gets his way, this will probably be a UN World Heritage site before long, and then us Americans may not be allowed to come and see it at all!”

"Yeah," Sam said, "so I got to take advantage of it while I can. Who knows if I'll ever get another chance?"

"You won't get one if we're dead," Ken said. "Gawk all you want, just make sure you keep your eyes open for the real threats. Those two back by the wall aren't watching us anymore, so I don't think they were any risk, but I'm sure there are others here that are. Peel those eyes, Man."

They made it to the steps of the Memorial without incident, and Ken preceded Sam up the stairs to get a good look at the giant statue of Abe Lincoln.

"It looks like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders," Sam said. "I wonder how he'd feel if he knew the kind of thing we're up against, today. Terrorism, nuclear threats from all around the world, racial violence all around the country — I just can't help but wonder what he'd think of what has become of the country he fought so hard to keep together."

Ken shook his head. "I don't know, but don't idolize the man. If you studied your history, you know he wasn't quite the hero he's made out to be today. The entire Civil War was fought not because of slavery, like kids are being taught today, but because the president and the federal government completely disregarded the rights of the states who chose to secede from the union. Thousands of Americans on both sides had to die because Lincoln and his cronies simply threw out the Constitution. Every state has the right to certain levels of self-determination, according to the Constitution; unfortunately, ever since Lincoln's day, the federal government has disregarded those rights. Any attempt by states to run themselves the way they see best is met by threats of withholding federal funding that the states have become dependent on. The national Highway system, the welfare program, so many things that seem commonplace today are federally funded, so if the state decides it doesn't want to play ball the way the feds want, they simply cut off the funding and then that state has to fit all those bills itself. The states don't have that kind of money, because unlike the federal government, they can't create it out of thin air. Better go back and read your history, before you start worrying about what Mr. Lincoln might think of our America, today."

Sam turned and looked at Ken. "Good grief, Man, is there anything about this country that you won't complain about? Seems like no matter what we talk about, you've got to be a downer. No wonder nobody likes you that much."

Ken shrugged. "I face reality, my friend. I suggest you learn to do the same."

Sam shook his head. "We better find a position, and take it now. Remember, you're supposed to be my prisoner, and as far as Chandler knows, I'm keeping a gun pointed at you. Maybe we better make it look good, don't you think?"

Ken nodded towards the front of the building. "Let's go to the bottom of the stairs, and you stay a good five feet away from me. Get your pistol in your hand, but keep it tucked under your jacket and stand so that it's aimed at least loosely in my direction. The idea isn't that you've got me covered every second, but that you've got a weapon you can bring to bear to shoot me quickly if you had to. You watch me, and I'll watch everyone else. If for any reason we get separated, remember that you can communicate with me through the earpiece."

They made their way down the steps, and took a position toward the south end of the building, at the bottom of the stairs. As instructed, Sam stayed about five feet back, and turned so that the Glock in his hand could be pointed quickly in Ken's direction. Ken stood there with his hands covered by his jacket, which was draped over where they were cuffed in front of him.

The crowd was fairly dense, and moving around a lot. Because they were standing still, Sam and Ken were conspicuous, and they knew it. Sam had to fight the urge to keep looking around, and keep his eyes on Ken the way he would if he were really the man's captor.

"Ever feel like a bug on a plate? That's sort of how I feel right now," he said softly.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Sort of feels like the whole world is watching us right now, doesn't it? Of course, they could be, there are enough video cameras around this place to put us on every TV screen in the whole freaking world."

Sam glanced around instinctively, but then caught himself and looked back at Ken. "Video cameras, you say?" he asked. "You mean, like security cameras? The kind that are recorded everywhere?"

Ken nodded. "Yeah, why?"

Sam snatched out his phone and dialed quickly. He whispered a silent prayer, hoping that he had just a few moments to pull off a miracle. He heard ringing through the phone, and then it was answered.

"Sam?" Indie asked. "Sam, are you okay?"

"Babe, I don't have time to talk. Listen to me, and listen close. I'm standing on the National Mall in DC. Right in front of the Lincoln Memorial, in fact. There are security cameras all over this place, is there any chance that you and Herman can hack into them Like, quickly?"

"The Lincoln Memorial? Holy cow, Sam, I don't know. Why?"

"We're about to come face-to-face with Chandler," Sam said. "Now I'll be honest, and there's a chance this could go pretty bad, Baby, but the big risk is that he's got people watching us that we can't see. If you could get into those cameras, maybe you could spot a problem before it becomes one we can't handle."

"I'm feeding Herman even as we speak," Indie said, "and he's pounding all of the video security systems in DC, right now. There's a chance — okay, bingo, we got a hit! Those cameras are monitored by the security office of the National Mall and Parks Service, we're hunting a backdoor now. Come on, Herman, you can do it," she muttered. "Come on, come on — yes! We're in! There are, let me see, thirty-two cameras there close to the Lincoln Memorial. All I can do is scan them one at a time, Babe, can you stay with me on the phone?"

"I can for at least a few moments," Sam said. "You're looking for probably two guys together, and there will be something about them that says they're dangerous. If they seem to be talking to their hands, that's a big red flag. Scan fast, and tell me what you see."

"I'm scanning, I'm scanning! Nothing there — nope, nothing there — I'm checking the cameras closest to the memorial first — nothing there — okay, whoa! I've got two men, both of them look like they belong in some spy movie, and I swear they're both trying to hide behind a lamppost. If I've got their position right, then it looks to me like they're looking toward the front of the memorial. Is that where you're at?"

"Yes," Sam said. "Where are they? Which direction from the memorial?"

"Okay, that camera is north east of the memorial itself, so — there's a lamppost just north of the memorial, maybe 50 yards from the structure. Can you see it from where you're at?"

"No, not at the moment, but I'm moving. Ken, move to the north end of the building; Indie sees what may be shooters watching us. They're by the lamppost north of the building. Okay, Babe, I see them. They're far enough away right now that I'm not too worried about them, and I can keep an eye on them from here. Look around and see if you see anything else."

Ken caught Sam's eye. "Sam," he said softly, so that it came through in the earpiece, "we have to take them out."

Sam covered the mouthpiece of his cell phone, and hissed, "No way, there's way too many innocent people around. Besides, if we start shooting, Chandler is going to run. Like you said, he's the important target. Besides, I got an idea." He picked the phone back up to his ear. "Hey, Babe? Can you call the Park Service police here and try to get them on those guys? If you could get the local cops to hassle them for just a few minutes, that would probably cover us."

"That I can," Indie said. "Mom!" Indie called out. "Mom, bring your cell phone. Sam needs your help, call this number and tell them that the two guys in trench coats that are standing by the lamp at the north end of the Lincoln Memorial just tried to rape you."

Sam listened with a grin as Indie's mother, Kim, called the Park Service police and put on an incredible act, hysterically demanding that the two men be arrested immediately. Indie gave him a whispered running account of the act her mother was putting on, and less than a minute later, one of the security golf carts was racing across the grounds towards that lamp. Two officers accosted the two men, and it was obvious that they were going to be occupied for a little while.

"That was great, Babe," Sam said. "Now, do me a favor and keep looking. If you see anyone else that looks suspicious, do whatever it takes to interfere with them the same way. And, Babe? Remember that I love you. I've gotta go." He hung up the phone and stuck it back in his pocket. "Two down," he said softly enough for it to go through the earpiece. "If she sees anymore, she'll do what she can."

"That's good," Ken whispered back. "Chandler is at two o'clock."

Sam looked in the general direction Ken indicated, and spotted a man wearing a red jacket and a green hat. He checked his position and made sure that he was still pulling off the look he was after, of a man watching another man he was holding prisoner. He kept one eye on Chandler as he approached, but the man stopped twenty yards away and watched them.

"Mr. Prichard," he called out. "I'd like to see your other hand, please."

"That hand's a little occupied," Sam said. He nodded his head toward Ken, who was standing there looking at Chandler as if shocked at seeing him appear there. "As you can see, I kept my end of the bargain. Are you going to keep yours?"

Chandler watched them both for a couple of minutes without saying a word, and Sam didn't push. There was something about the entire experience that was surreal, so strange that Sam wasn't sure if it was even truly happening. He simply waited, just to see what might happen next.

Some activity over towards the Vietnam Wall Memorial caught his eye, as two golf carts of security officers converged on a couple of men who seemed to be lurking behind it. Sam wasn't sure, but he thought it might have been the two they spotted earlier. If they weren't part of Chandler's crew, they wouldn't be hurt by a little delay, and if they were, the delay might help keep Sam and Ken alive. He sent a mental thanks off to Indie, and another one to God for bringing Indie into his life.

He turned his attention back to Chandler who was still watching him. His patience was growing thin, and he was sure Ken was getting pretty restless, as well.

"What's it going to be, Chandler?" he asked. "Do you want to go through with this or not?"

Chandler grinned at him, and then pulled away his windbreaker so that Sam could see the pistol on his belt. "Prichard, neither one of us is stupid. I'm not sure what it is you guys are up to, but one thing I'm sure of is that you're looking for a chance to put me down. Now, I'm not going to give you that chance, and if you go for it, things are going to get very, very ugly. Your friend there wouldn't hesitate to take a shot at me, but somehow I don't think you're quite up to that."

"Play him out," Sam heard whispered in his ear. He moved his own jacket so that Chandler could see the Glock in his hand, then smiled. "I might surprise you," he said, "but I already told you what I wanted. I want to go home, and live my life, without looking over my shoulder for you or your goons. If you can give me that, you can have this guy. Otherwise I'm going to walk away, and that means that all bets are off and you won't see me coming. Maybe you think I'm too much of an amateur to pull it off, but if you’ve read my file you'll find that I've already surprised a few people. I willing to surprise you, too, but it won't be very pleasant."

Chandler laughed. "Why, Mr. Prichard, you've surprised me already. You're actually standing here, face-to-face with me. Not too many people are willing to do that, knowing the things you know. Now, let me tell you how this is going to go. I've got people watching you right now, and while you may have delayed a few of them — and by the way, I'm really curious how you did that — there are three more you haven't spotted. Two of them have you in the sights of high-powered rifles even now, and the third is merely waiting for me to give him the word. He's another one you'd never see coming. So, as I was saying, let me tell you how this is going to go. Neither of you is going to take a shot at me, because you'd be dead before you managed to aim and squeeze the trigger. I'm not going to take Long with me, because I'm sure you've got something rigged up that he figures will give him the chance to kill me as we leave. I haven't gotten to where I am by being stupid, and I'm not going to start now. So, here's what's going to happen. You're going to wait until I’ve walked away, and then you and your friend are going to go and find a room. You're going to hole up there until you hear from me. When you do, I'll have something to offer you that you'll both find far too good to turn down. Oh, and just so you'll know I'm telling you the truth…" A bullet, from what was obviously a silenced, high-powered rifle, struck the dirt less than a foot away from Sam's feet. "That's just so you'll know that you don't have a chance of taking me out, right now. Fair enough? Like I said, go get a room and wait. I'll be in touch later today."

Chandler turned and began walking away, and Ken spun to look at Sam. "Take the shot," he whispered through the earpiece, but Sam shook his head.

"You saw that sniper shot," he whispered back. "We'd both be dead, and that would be the end of the mission. We'll play this his way, for now, and see what we can do to turn the tables when we get the chance. I don't see any other hope."

Ken stood there, staring at Chandler as he walked away, and Sam could tell that he was nearly in a rage, but there was no help for it. If they tried to take him at that moment, all they would accomplish is getting themselves killed. Sam knew that Ken would be angry, but he had to play it the way he felt best.

They stayed put until Chandler was well out of sight, and then Ken flipped his jacket up over his shoulder, showing Sam that he already had the cuffs off. They were in his hand, and he slipped them into his pocket.

"Well," he said. "I don't know what to say. We had him, he was right here. Sam, I know you're no coward, but you should've taken the shot. Yeah, we’d both be dead, but if you'd played it right he'd have gone down with us. I know you want to get home to your family, but Sam, taking him out is worth both our lives."

Sam nodded. "I understand that, Ken, I really do. He didn't walk away because I was afraid, he walked away because I didn't see any hope of getting a clean shot. The second my pistol came into view, my head would've exploded, and you would never have gotten the chance to make a move of your own. They'd have taken you out just to be safe. I had to make the call, so I made the best one I could. If you're pissed, so be it, but it wasn't up to you at that moment, it was up to me. Now, come on; let's get back to the car and go find a room."

Ken shook his head, but he began walking along with Sam. "You know what? You are probably the only man in the world, right at this moment, who could get away with talking to me like that. Whether I like it or not, I still need you. The mission isn't over, and it's going to take both of us to complete it. Yeah, I'm pissed, but I'll get over it. Let's do what we got to do."

It took them half an hour to get back to the parking lot, and Sam was relieved to see that the Corvette was still there. It was, however, drawing a lot of attention, and he spent the next fifteen minutes answering the questions of the four young men who were standing around staring at it. Ken stood over out of sight during this time, his Colt forty-five back in his own belt, so that he could keep a close eye on the situation in case it turned out to be a setup.

Apparently it wasn't. All four of the young men insisted on getting a selfie with Sam and his Corvette. Ken laughed, and shook his head as he got into the car with Sam.

"Next time," he said, "remind me to make sure I pick the car we travel in!”

5

"What a lot of people don't realize is that one hacker can usually see what another hacker is doing," Indie said. "While I was hacking my way into the Lincoln Memorial security systems, I ran across a trail of another hacker who was doing the same thing. Now, this guy is good, but maybe he just wasn't as careful as he should've been, because he left a door open that Herman was able to get into."

Sam had her on speakerphone, and was holding the device out so that both he and Ken could hear what she was saying. "Okay," he said, "so what did you find out?"

"Well, that backdoor led right back into what I'm guessing is your Mr. Chandler's offices. Right now, Herman has a backdoor into the computers there, and it seems like most of them are pounding away on things related to Islamic countries. The user account of the main operator is the one that was doing the hacking, and he spotted Herman poking around inside his computers; now, most guys would have locked it down, tried to kick Herman out. Not this guy, though, he decided to start a conversation. He asked who Herman was, and of course Herman just relayed the message back to me."

"Indie," Sam said, "can this guy track you back to where you're at?"

Indie laughed. "Are you kidding? With this super satellite relay Internet system that Harry's got in his limousine, nobody could pinpoint a location on us. It's not possible. So, knowing that, I sent back and told him that Herman was a friend who wanted him to know that he was working for a very bad man. Here, let me read you off the whole conversation. By the way, his name is Stony. Check this out.

"Stony: well, hello there. Who might you be?

Herman: a friend you haven't met yet. A friend who wants you to know that you work for a very bad man.

Stony: is that so?

Herman: yes. The man you work for is trying to change the whole world so that he has the chance to rule it himself.

Stony: why should you care?

Herman: I don't believe anyone should play God. Do you?

Stony: what does that matter to me? If he rules the world, he'll still need me. Why shouldn't I go along?

Herman: read Revelation chapter 13. Your boss wants to be the Beast. Is that the side you want to be on?

Stony: and I saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns. I've read it. Many times.

Herman: and what are you going to do about it?

"Okay, then at that point he sent me this string of numbers, a time stamp. What that means is that he wants to talk again at a particular time. I ran the time stamp through a converter, and it comes out to a little after five this afternoon. I've kept the back door open, so that I can talk to him again then."

Sam felt a chill run down his spine. "Baby, this is making me nervous," he said. "Why would he want to talk to you again?"

"Well, I'm not sure, but it could be that he knows what his boss is up to and isn't happy about it. I mean, he knew the scriptural reference I threw at him; it's possible this guy is a Christian, or a Bible student, and not a bit in favor of his boss becoming the Antichrist."

"Or maybe," Sam said, "he's just fully aware of what his boss is doing, and likes the idea of being the top computer geek in the world! If Chandler gets into a position to rule the whole freaking planet, then it's highly likely that he's going to take his computer guy with him, especially if the guy has been loyal all along. Are you sure they can't trace you back to where you're hidden?"

"That's one thing I'm certain of, Baby. There's no way in the world anyone could trace me back to here. But, Sam, my gut instinct says this guy could become an ally. Imagine if we had somebody inside Chandler's offices, how powerful that could be. He's already made it pretty clear that he's not going to make it easy for you guys to stop him. If we could get someone in his organization working on our side, we'd have a better chance of stopping him. Right?"

Ken held out to get Sam's attention. "Sam, she's right. At the moment, you and I are at Chandler's mercy, but as she has a chance to turn someone inside his section and get intelligence that we can use, she's got to go for it. You keep telling me how smart your wife is, well, after this, I believe it. Don't cut her short; she's doing the best thing she can do right at the moment. If she can get anything out of this guy on the computer, we need it, no matter what it is."

Sam shrugged, but then he nodded. "Yeah, I know, and you're right. But, Indie, remember that this isn't like one of our normal skip traces; this isn't the normal hacking you do. These guys are deadly, all of them, and I don't want you taking any chances that could possibly lead them back to you. Do you understand that? Don't take any risks, Babe."

Sam could hear Indie smile through the phone, and knew she was excited about doing her part to help him. "I'll be careful, Honey, I promise. But, Sam, this is too good a chance to pass up. If I can turn Stony to our side, there's no telling what information he could have access to. You stay safe, and I'll call you after I get through talking to him. I love you!"

Sam couldn't help it, he smiled. "I love you, too, Babe. I'll talk to you then."

The phone went dead, and Sam set it down on the bed he was sitting on. He and Ken had checked into a motel on the outskirts of DC, and were waiting to hear from Chandler, as he had instructed them. The clandestine phone that they had used to call him earlier in the day was laid out on the nightstand between the beds, since they expected him to call back on that number.

"That's an incredible woman you got there," Ken said.

"Don't I know it! She's already saved my ass more than once." Sam got up and walked over to the mini fridge, opened it up and took out a bottle of root beer. They had stocked it up with a stop at the convenience store next door to the motel, and Sam looked at the microwavable sandwiches for a moment before choosing one. He glanced over his shoulder at Ken. "You hungry?"

"Yeah, heat me one up too, would you? Sounds like a good idea."

Sam tossed the root beer in his hand over to Ken, then grabbed another for himself while he got a second sandwich out. He popped the packages open, stuck them into the microwave and set the timer for three minutes, according to the instructions on the sandwiches. While they heated, he got each of them a couple of the paper towels they had grabbed at the store. He handed some to Ken, and grinned. "Here, those things get pretty hot in there."

When the microwave dinged to tell them it was done, they each got their sandwiches and sat back down on the beds. Ken picked up the remote and turned on the television, switching channels until he found a local news program. They sat through about fifteen minutes of it before they finally caught a report of the five men who were killed earlier that day in the city.

Strangely enough, it was listed as a drug-related shooting incident, and the DC police reported that they had suspects in custody. Sam looked over at Ken, with his eyes wide and his eyebrows high.

"Think that could be Harry's doing?" he asked.

Ken shook his head. "Nope," he said. "That's Chandler. Harry might get them to say it was a drug case, but he'd never convince DC to name a suspect. On the other hand, it's a safe bet that the chief of police probably owes Chandler a favor, or a dozen of them. If he wants those killings to be swept under the rug, some poor schmuck is going down for them. It's that simple."

Sam looked sour. "Doesn't it seem strange to you that somebody could have as much power as Chandler's got, but nobody is doing anything to put a stop to them, except guys like us? To me, it would seem like all of Congress, the president, just about anybody would want to slap this guy down! He's a danger to the whole country, maybe even the world. Why is nobody paying attention?"

Ken looked at him for a moment, and then sat up and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Sam, when you were in school, was there a schoolyard bully that took everybody's lunch money, and just did whatever he pleased?"

Sam nodded. "Of course," he said, "Jerry Sheppard. I think every school had a Jerry Sheppard, the guy who shook down all the smaller kids and picked on everyone. And, yes, before you ask, I was one of the guys who stood up to him and got stomped into the ground but that didn't stop me; he never did get my lunch money. Of course, he did stomp me pretty good, now and then."

"Well, Chandler is just a schoolyard bully. The trouble is that he's got the biggest schoolyard in the world, and everyone is afraid of him; he's got so many secrets locked up inside his head, and hidden in God knows how many other places, that everybody who might be big enough to deal with him is scared to death to try. If those secrets get out, then it's a pretty safe bet that all of them will be tarnished, if not destroyed completely. Good grief, even the big political families, the ones who aren't even involved in politics anymore — the Kennedys, the Bushes, all the big names — if he dumps his stash of secrets, things will come out that will destroy all of them, and probably cause most of our history books to have to be rewritten."

Sam grinned. "Maybe that would be a good thing," he said. "Maybe we'd finally find out who was the second shooter on the Grassy Knoll in Dallas, or who really was behind JFK's assassination."

"Nah, Chandler hasn't been around that long, but it's a safe bet that he's got some ideas on who was really behind the attacks on the World Trade Center. You know, an awful lot of demolition experts claim that the only way those buildings could have come down the way they did was with explosives planted on various floors far below where the airplanes hit. There's really not much chance that that wasn't an inside job; you can bet it was orchestrated by people like Chandler. Hell, he may have done it himself. After all, it was supposedly Islamic terrorists, right? And that's right down his alley."

It took Sam a minute to digest all of what Ken had said, and then he shook his head. "Man, you know you're destroying my confidence in the government, right?"

"HA! In that case, I'm doing you the biggest favor anyone's ever done for you. Think about it, Sam, if they have people like me working for them, how far can you really trust them? I'm not a man, I'm a gun; they don't send me out to do a job, they aim me at someone and then they pull my trigger. What kind of government keeps people like me on their payroll?"

Sam stared at Ken for a long moment, and then sighed. "A government that doesn't care about the will of the people. That's what kind."

"Bingo! You just nailed it right on the head." He laid back on the bed again, kicking off his shoes and closing his eyes. "Wake me when Chandler calls, will you?"

"Yeah, right," Sam said. "I think I'm going to take a little nap of my own. Hopefully, one of us will hear the phone."

Sam laid back on the other bed, and threw his arm over his eyes. Within moments, both of them were snoring.

* * * * *

Gary Stone was a nervous young man. Someone had found a back door into the computers that were his responsibility, and he was fairly sure that it would not be good for his employer to find out about it. If there was one thing that he knew Grayson Chandler was fanatical about, it was security. If The Man found out that someone had hacked into his section’s computer system, it was a fairly safe bet that Gary would be the one to suffer. Would he survive it? Well, that was a question he didn't know the answer to, and didn't really want to find out about.

The worst part was that the hacker seemed to know an awful lot about what the boss was up to, things that no one was supposed to know, not even Gary. The only reason Gary knew was because, as system administrator, he had access to every part of the network, including private email accounts. Things he had stumbled across by pure accident that led him to install keystroke loggers in the system, along with extremely secure back doors that allowed him to check the logs from outside the office. He could even do so from his phone, and the things he had read that enlightened him to the point that he began to study prophecy all on his own.

Besides having an extremely high IQ, Gary was also an incredibly fast speed reader. Within a week, he knew more about prophecy than Chandler did, and his photographic memory made it possible for him to review the information in a split second. When the hacker had made reference to Revelation 13, Gary had known he was dealing with a serious professional. There were people out there who saw just how crazy Chandler had become, and were trying to stop him. Whoever Herman the hacker was, he had to be working with some of those people. Gary wanted to know more, before deciding whether he wanted to let the boss know about Herman, or join forces with him.

Whatever he decided to do, he would have to make a decision soon. Things were coming to a head, and there were people preparing to do Chandler's bidding, knowing full well that they would be bringing disaster right home to the United States. Some of the things that Chandler was planning now would make 9/11 look like a Sunday picnic. He had almost managed to pull one of them off just weeks ago, when one of the terror cells that his people controlled began planting small suitcase nukes around the country. If it hadn't been for some vacationing private detective, those devices would have gone off as planned, resulting in a nation that would happily give up its freedoms as part of the price of safety and security from future terror attacks. Unfortunately, the plan had been foiled, but then it almost accomplished even more when one lone terrorist went rogue and tried to use one of those bombs to contaminate Lake Mead. It was a brilliant plot, because it would have resulted in millions dying of either thirst or radiation poisoning, it would've caused millions more to relocate out of the southwest US. The overcrowding alone would have cost millions more lives, as people fought over food, water and the simple right to live.

If that single terrorist had accomplished what he had set out to do, Chandler's plans would have advanced by ten years or more. It had come so close that Chandler could taste it, so now he was orchestrating events just as horrific, in order to speed up the process himself.

Ironically, it was that same private eye who had stopped the rogue terrorist, and was now out to stop Chandler himself. It was almost comical, the way this guy kept coming, without even knowing the connection between Chandler and the mission that had almost gotten him killed. As Gary looked through all of the prophecies that were unfolding, he began to realize that there were other things happening that seemed to be directed by an unseen force. The constant reappearance of this private eye was one of them, and while Chandler was determined to get rid of the guy, Gary wasn't sure it was even possible. There was something about this guy, Prichard, that made Gary wonder if he were exactly the man it would take to bring Chandler's plans crumbling down around him.

All of that led Gary to believe that Prichard might somehow be connected to this Herman character, and if so, Gary wanted to know how that connection came about. If Herman was working for Prichard, or working with him, somehow, then Gary wanted to know it. If it came down to a choice between Chandler and Prichard, Gary wasn't quite sure which side would be the one to be on. All he knew was that there was going to be some sort of a climax coming, and the one thing that was certain was that his world was never going to be the same afterward.

He looked at his computer, and realized that it was time. He opened the connection into the section network, and logged in through the back door that would allow him to communicate with the hacker, Herman.

Stony: Herman, are you here?

Herman: I'm here. What is this all about?

Stony: that's what I want to know. Who are you, and how did you get into our system? What's your connection to all of this, and what do you know about my boss and his plans?

Herman: let's not worry about how I got in. As for your boss, I know that he is trying to set up the new world order that so many people are afraid of. He's trying to make a global government, one that will be run by someone who is nothing but his puppet. Apparently you read the prophecies, so you know just how bad things will get for the rest of the world. Someone has to stop this, and that's where I come in.

Stony: who are you working with?

Herman: who says I'm working with anyone? Maybe I just stumbled across something that I knew would be terrible, and decided to try to do something about it.

Stony: I don't buy that. There are people out to stop the boss now, and one of them has been causing him problems for weeks and doesn't even know it. Does the name Sam Prichard mean anything to you?

Herman: who is Sam Prichard?

Stony: you hesitated. That tells me you know who he is, and that means you are probably working with him. Let's get serious, now. If the boss finds out I'm talking to you like this, it will probably mean my head. But I don't want to see him running the world, and especially not as the Beast. Does your man have a real chance to stop him?

Herman: it would probably mean both of our heads. Yes, I know him. What did you mean about Sam causing problems for your boss for weeks?

Stony: he stopped the suitcase nukes. Boss worked months planning that out, but Prichard managed to stop it, then stopped the crazy one who almost got away with an even bigger bang. Everything I've seen says Prichard doesn't know the boss was behind that, but for some reason he's here in DC and the boss is worried.

Herman: a lot of things are starting to make sense, now. And where do you stand?

Stony: I wish I could say that I stand in a forest in Montana, but I'm a computer geek, not a survivalist. This thing is going to get very bad, and I can either stay close to the boss and ride his coattail, or I can turn against him and hope I choose the right train. If he can be stopped, he should be. I'm just not sure I'm willing to die trying. Get me?

Herman: I get you. Look at it this way, if you side with us you might die trying, that's true. But if you side with him, then there's something worse than dying waiting for you. If you read all of Revelation, then you'll understand what I'm saying.

Stony: yeah, I know. Lake of fire and all that, right? I know what you're saying, even if he isn't the one in the book, he's trying to be. If I were God, I'd lump him right in with the rest, and anyone who helped him. Doesn't really leave me a lot of choice, does it?

Herman: the choice is the one thing you do have. You can decide to help him accomplish what he's trying to do, or you can decide to do what's right.

Stony: and what if he's right? What if he really is the one the prophecy is about, and this is his destiny?

Herman: even if it is, do you want to be on that side? As you said, lake of fire and all that. Is that what you want?

Stony: of course not. I'm not an idiot. This is just a lot to think about. It's scary, you know what I mean? Geez, I'm only nineteen. The boss would cut my throat in a second if he knew I was talking to you like this.

Herman: well, those are the best reasons I've heard yet for you to switch sides. And just for the record, I'm not a whole lot older than you. I just have my reasons for being on the side I'm on.

Stony: it just hit me. One of the reports about Prichard said his wife was a hacker. Don't know how I let that slip my mind, I never forget anything I read. That's you, isn't it? Hello, Mrs. Prichard.

Herman: no fair. I don't know your name.

Stony: tell me something. Does Prichard really have a chance to stop the boss? Or is it going to get me killed if I switch sides now?

Herman: if anyone can, Sam can. If you've read reports about him, you should know that by now.

Stony: yeah, I read them. I know. Doesn't mean I'm not scared, you know? So, if I decide to help you, what do you need me to do?

Herman: I'm just guessing but I think Sam would want any information you could give him that might prove your boss is breaking laws.

Stony: I don't think that would help much. I don't think there's a judge anywhere that would do anything to him. And I know that he has enough dirt on enough people to make sure he wouldn't stay locked up for long. That isn't the way to do this, if you know what I mean.

Herman: in that case, the real question becomes when and where. When and where can Sam catch him alone?

Stony: check back with me in two hours. I'll give you a decision then.

Herman: okay. Two hours.

Stony: okay. And my name is Gary.

Gary sat back and looked at the screen on his laptop. He wasn't sure how it had come about, but somehow Sam Prichard's wife had hacked into his system. He could go to the boss with that information, and it would probably solidify his position.

Or he could throw in with the Prichards and whomever was working with them to stop Chandler. Considering the enormity of the attacks that Chandler had planned for the next few days, he didn't have any trouble determining what would be the right thing to do; the only problem was whether he had the courage to do it. If he helped Prichard, it meant that he must willingly and knowingly help set his boss up to be murdered. That was a pretty big leap from his normal job as computer system administrator, and since he'd never even thought about doing any kind of "wet work" before, the very idea of it made him a little queasy.

He needed to think, and he only had a couple of hours to come to the biggest decision of his life. He wasn't sure he had what it took to do what Prichard would ask of him, but at the same time, he wasn't sure he could live with himself if he were still with Chandler when he managed to set himself up as a dictator over the entire world. Sooner or later, Gary figured, he was going to come to this crossroad; this decision was undoubtedly part of his own destiny, and he wasn't likely to be able to escape it.

Why did it have to come down to this? No matter how he looked at it, the only way to stop Chandler was by killing him. Could he live with himself if he helped Prichard to do that? Oh, hell, could he live with himself if he didn't?

Gary had worked very hard to be sure that Chandler believed in his loyalty. He'd figured out in his first days on the job that anyone Chandler doubted seemed to disappear, and permanently. He'd put a lot of effort into making sure that Chandler was confident that Gary was a man he could count on, could trust completely. Anything less, Gary knew, would get him killed.

So why in the world was he now sitting here, knowing without any doubt that he was about to make the decision to betray his boss? He had asked Mrs. Prichard for two hours, even though he already knew what his decision would be. Like he'd said, there really wasn't much of a choice, so he was going to do what he had to do.

He went into the secure back door of the system through his laptop, and began reading the keystroke log of Chandler's notes. Everything the man typed, regardless of what program he might be using at the time, was stored in that log, and Gary thought it was kind of ironic that Chandler uses his computer's notepad as a brainstorming device. Every wild idea he had was typed there, and once Gary had gotten used to reading the various kinds of personal shorthand Chandler used, he was able to follow the evolution of each idea from its original conception all the way through to the final plan that Chandler intended to set into motion.

There were three current plans that he was focusing on. The first involved the choreographed assassinations of three European leaders. Those would be the British prime minister and the presidents of France and Germany. Each of these people stood in the way of some part of Chandler's plan to give Islam a greater foothold in Europe. Therefore, they had to go, and he had made arrangements for some small, splinter terrorist groups that were loosely connected to Al Qaeda to use suicide bombers to kill them. Sure, there would be others killed in the blasts, but that was the price you paid when you had to get past a lot of security. In France, for example, there would be four bombers who would all detonate at the same time in different parts of the building where the president would be planning to give a speech. The explosives would be sufficient to bring the building down, killing everyone inside. Mission accomplished.

The second plan involved the sinking of two famous cruise ships, one from the Princess line, and one of Disney's. In this case, however, credit would be claimed by a small group that was purported to be a remnant of the Branch Davidians, the offshoot Christian sect that was the focus of the Waco debacle in nineteen ninety-three. Immediately afterward, there would be an uproar that would lead to the classification of nondenominational Christianity as terrorist groups. Within days, small, nondenominational churches would begin to be raided by federal agents, who would be looking for any connection to such things as militia groups, the NRA, even any evidence that the members enjoyed hunting. Chandler had already arranged for a federal court ruling that would make it a crime for any nondenominational Christian to own a gun; all the judge was waiting for was word from Chandler that it was time to make the ruling. The result would be a small scale civil war, as militia groups began to stand up at such churches and resist the raids. This would lead to bloodshed, and each incident would lend more credibility to the decisions of the courts.

It was the third plan, however, that had Gary ready to turn against his employer. The first two were bad enough, and the loss of life would be great; the third one made both of them seem like nothing, though.

In just over two weeks, Chandler had the most horrific tragedy that Gary could imagine planned. More people would die than on 9/11, and most of them — because of the emotional impact it would generate — would be children. Twenty-seven schools were targeted, in different cities around the country. They were large schools, each with thousands of students, ranging in ages from five years up to fourteen. At exactly 9 am Eastern time, all of them would experience the same thing: a gasoline tanker truck, carrying eight thousand gallons of gasoline and a couple of hundred pounds of high explosive, would crash through the doors and into the buildings. The explosives would detonate, rupturing the tanker trailers and sending thousands of gallons of flaming gasoline in every direction. The burning liquid would flow down the hallways and into classrooms, while the flames would shoot up stairways, reaching as high as the third and fourth floors.

Chandler estimated that between forty and sixty thousand children would die, with half of them burning to death and the rest dying of smoke inhalation and heat strokes. The shock would devastate the entire nation, but when the news came out that it was the work of Al Qaeda, the uproar would be greater than any other had ever been, and Americans would begin hunting and killing Muslims in retaliation, leading to a whole new holocaust and threats of war against the United States from every Islamic nation in the world.

And in the midst of it all, Chandler's hand-picked new world leader would arise, ready to bring peace to the world. Within days, the entire world would be amazed at the wisdom and courage of this person, and a clamor would arise for even more counsel. Every nation on earth would work with this new figure, and before anyone realized what was happening, most of them would be recognizing a new order, where Chandler's puppet made the rules, and the world followed them.

It was all in place, and there was only one hope to stop it — and his name was Sam Prichard.

6

Stony: Herman, are you here?

Herman: I'm here. You're right on time.

Stony: look, this isn't easy for me. The trouble is, no matter how I look at it, I can't let things go on the way they are.

Herman: I can imagine. And I really do understand, but things like this have to be dealt with.

Stony: yeah. I know, but it's still not easy. I need to send you some files, do you have a secure protocol we can use?

Herman: give me a minute. Let me see what I can work out.

A couple of minutes passed before Herman came back. Gary was starting to get nervous, but then:

Herman: okay, I hijacked a server that we can use as a relay. Ready for the FTP data?

A moment later, Gary logged into the server Indie had hacked, and uploaded a file that detailed the events Chandler was planning. He told her he'd give her some time to read through it all, and went to his new kitchen to make himself some dinner. Two frozen burritos and a couple of Little Debbie cakes later, he looked back at his computer.

Herman: oh my God.

Stony: yeah. I know what you mean. Now you see why I feel like I don't have a choice.

Herman: this is absolutely unbelievable. I don't know how any human being could do such things.

Stony: it's called power. I haven't been around here long, but I know that people will do anything for power, and this guy has more of it than anyone else.

Herman: okay then, we have to stop him. And we have to do it before he can do any of these things. Did you find me a where and when?

Stony: working on that. I know he's up to something, just not sure what it is. There's some travel planned in the next few days, and I'll see what I can find out tomorrow. Keep this channel open, I don't know when I'll be in touch but I may have to get something to you quickly.

Herman: okay. I'll keep it open. Good luck.

Stony: thanks I'm gonna need it.

Gary read through the chat session again, and wondered how much longer he would live. He was putting his life on the line, and he knew it. If Chandler found out what he was doing, he'd be dead before he even saw it coming.

* * * * *

Indie read through the documents once more, and wiped the tears off her face again. Chandler had already planned the assassinations of three of the most important European leaders, namely the British prime minister and the presidents of France and Germany. He had arranged for some smaller terrorist groups that were somewhat tied to Al Qaeda to take them out with suicide bombers. Collateral damage would be a nuisance, but it was inevitable, so he merely planned to accept it and let it add to the uproar.

Then he planned to sink a couple of cruise ships, both of which would be full of happy tourists from all over the world, and blame it on American Christians. That would give certain politicians the chance to have Christians who weren't affiliated with any of the major sects labeled as terrorists, so that nondenominational churches could be raided by feds. It wouldn't be hard to tie them to things like militia groups and the NRA, so it would be only a matter of time before it would be illegal to belong to one of these splinter churches.

The worst plot, though, was the one that involved burning thousands of school children to death. That was the one she couldn't believe, the one that seemed impossible for any human mind to conceive.

Of course, she realized, it wasn't a human mind she was dealing with. Chandler might be a man, but he was trying to think like a false god, and so he was capable of greater cruelty and atrocity than even Hitler might have come up with.

The things that she was reading just didn't seem real; it didn't seem possible that a human being could conceive such plans, and yet she was looking at proof that one had done just that and she had to get word to Sam, and quickly. She picked up her phone and punched the speed dial for his number.

"Hey, Babe," came Sam's voice as he answered.

"Sam, this thing is so much bigger than we imagined," she said in a rush. "Chandler has got three major events planned over the next couple of weeks, and they’re guaranteed to bring us to the precipice of World War Three. He's got it planned out so that just being a member of a nondenominational church will get you listed as a terrorist, and make it illegal for you to own a gun, but that is nothing compared to his big finale. He's planning to hit a bunch of elementary schools with gasoline tanker trucks and bombs, and Sam, he's planning to kill thousands and thousands of kids. He's got it rigged to look like an Al Qaeda or ISIS attack, so that people will start killing Muslims in the streets. All of this is a setup, so that he can have his Antichrist figure step into the spotlight and start calming things down, and he's already got everyone in place to make it happen. Sam this is all going down, we've got to stop it!"

Sam's eyes were wide, and he put the phone on speaker so that Ken could hear it as well. They were still waiting for Chandler to call, and beginning to wonder if he was going to at all. "Indie, go through that again so Ken can hear it."

When she had done so, Ken's eyes were as wide as Sam's. "Holy cow," he said, "I never had any inkling he was that close to making this happen. Sam, you should've taken the shot! It would've been worth it, we should've tried!"

"If we had, we'd both be dead and there would be no one left to stop him. We’ve got to think our way through this, Ken, not shoot our way through it."

"Well," Indie said, "I've got Gary, that's the computer guy in his office, on our side. He's working on finding out just when and where you might be able to get to Chandler, catch him alone and do what's got to be done. He's the one who got me the files about these plans, and before you ask, I've already sent them off to Harry. I imagine one of us will be hearing from him anytime now."

"Yeah, probably," Sam said. "Chandler's supposed to be calling us, to discuss whatever it is he wants to talk about. We haven't heard from him yet, and we’re starting to wonder if we're going to. This waiting is nerve-wracking, but there's nothing else to do at the moment."

No sooner had those words left his lips, then Ken's secret phone began to ring. He glanced at Sam and made a motion like he was cutting his throat, and Sam took his phone off speaker. Ken answered the other one while Sam whispered to Indie that he would have to call her back later. She agreed, and let him go.

“Yeah,” Ken said.

“Mr. Long,” Chandler said. “Good, I was hoping to get to speak to you. I'm assuming that Mr. Prichard is there, as well?”

“Yeah, we're both here. Tell me what you want, Chandler, and why I shouldn't be trying to kill you right this second.”

“Calm down, Long,” Chandler said. “You need to get two things through your head: First, that you can't stop me. I'm far too smart for you to outwit, and there isn't anything you can do that will let you beat me at my own game. And the second thing is that this is an opportunity for you. See, I could use a man with your talents, and I'd even be willing to take your friend on, too. He says he wants to be able to live a normal life, but he can live a far better one if he's working with me. There's a new world coming, and if you guys are smart, you can have a place in it. If you're not, then there's no place for you at all. Is that hard to understand?”

Ken made a face. “It's not hard to understand, Chandler, it's just too sick for us to stomach. You're a sick bastard, and a mad dog, and the only way to deal with a mad dog is to put a bullet in its head. I've got yours all ready, and you could make things a lot easier if you'd just let me know where to find you.”

Chandler sighed. “You stupid jackass,” he said. “I just told you, there's nothing you can do to stop me, so why are you bothering to bluster so much? Good Lord, are you so full of yourself that you actually believe your own press? Ken Long, the Great Assassin—you really ought to find a way to gain some humility.”

“I'll be humble the day I see your body laid in a hole in the ground. Until then, you can expect me to stay just as arrogant as you are, you son of a bitch.”

“Look,” Chandler said, his tone one of condescension. “Let's just agree to disagree, then, shall we? I've already taken steps to be certain you can't get to me, so this is really just a courtesy call, anyway. I'm done playing this game, Long, I've got too many other things that need to be taking up my time. By the time you realize what I'm up to, I'll be so far out of your reach that it won't be possible for you to do anything that could even annoy me, so just go on and find something else to occupy yourselves."

The phone went dead, and Ken looked up at Sam. "He's left the country."

"You can't be sure that," Sam said, but Ken was nodding his head.

"Trust me," Ken said. "The way he was just talking, about being out of our reach? He's gone, out of the country. And I'll guarantee you there's not a trace anywhere of where he went. He wouldn't use commercial transportation; he'd be going on some clandestine or diplomatic flight, and there's no way to find out which one. We blew it, Sam. We just freaking blew it."

Sam stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the phone that was still in his hand. "Maybe not," he said. "Indie's got this guy inside his office talking to her, maybe she can get it out of him."

Ken shrugged. "Maybe she can, if the guy is for real, and if there's anything in the office that will say how Chandler left the country, or where he was going. It's quite possible that he didn't even bother to let anyone in his office know that he was leaving, let alone where he was headed to. That's fairly common in the intelligence community. It's called not letting the left hand know what the right hand is doing."

Sam punched the button to call Indie back, and set it to speaker. When she answered, he let Ken fill her in on what Chandler had had to say.

"Hang on," she said. "Let me see if Gary is still at his computer." They could hear her tapping on her keyboard for a moment, and then she spoke again. "Yes, he's there. Give me a minute to talk with him and see if he knows anything about this."

She fell silent a bit, then, but through the phone they could hear her tapping on her keys. Sam grinned at Ken, who was shaking his head. "Give her a chance," Sam said, "she's a pretty amazing girl."

Ken nodded. "I can tell that, already," he said. "If I had had one like her, you'd be amazed at how different recent history would be. A lot of the things that have happened in the last thirty years might never have happened at all."

* * * * *

Back in Colorado, Indie was having an incredible conversation with Gary Stone.

Herman: your boss has closed and fled the coop. Sam and his partner just talked to him, and they believe he has left the country. Any details on this?

Stony: nada. I hadn't heard anything about it. Are they sure? Let me check some things, give me two minutes.

Herman: okay, waiting.

Stony: well, they're right. He sent an email to one of his people in Libya a couple of hours ago, saying that he would be arriving in Jerusalem tomorrow afternoon. He's apparently hopped onto a diplomatic flight, I don't have any other information than that.

Herman: any idea what he's doing in Jerusalem?

Stony: my guess it's got to do with phase one of the plans I sent you earlier. My gut feeling is that he's going there to start launching the assassinations. I know he's got some people there that he works with from time to time, and I use the term people loosely.

Herman: this is a disaster. There's no hope of getting him back within reach before his plans go into effect, now, is there?

Stony: Mrs. Prichard, let me ask you something. Does your husband want him bad enough to go after him in Jerusalem?

Indie's eyes went wide as she looked at the screen. She picked up the phone. "Sam? He's going to Jerusalem. Gary wants to know if you want him bad enough to go after him there."

Sam and Ken answered in unison. "Yes," they said together, and Ken added, "ask him if he's got any idea on how to get us there."

Indie turned back to the computer.

Herman: they say yes, any idea how they can get there?"

Stony: holy crap I should have known this was going to happen! How do I get myself into these things? Look, the only way I can help them is if I talk to them directly. Give me a number to call them on, then I'll do what I can.

Herman: Gary, can I trust you? This is my husband we're talking about.

Stony: look, lady, I understand how you feel, that we don't have time to play around. Give me a number, or I'll give you mine and you can have them call me, I don't care. Let's just get this thing happening before I chicken out.

Indie sighed and gave him the number, adding a warning that if he did anything that got Sam hurt, she would personally track him down and disembowel him. He sent back a promise that he would do only what he could to help Sam accomplish his mission, and then he was gone.

"Okay, Sam? Look, I had to give him your number. He's going to call you right away and see what he can do to help you. Listen, let me warn you, this guy is just a kid. He's only nineteen, and he's scared to death."

"Okay, Baby, I got it. I love you, and thank you for all your help. I'll be in touch." He hung up the phone.

Sam set the phone down on the nightstand, and got up to grab another root beer from the mini fridge. He had just opened the bottle when the phone rang, and he hurried back to snatch it up. "Hello?"

"So, listen," a voice said nonchalantly, "I was chatting with your wife and she suggested that I might be able to help you out with a problem." The voice was high and squeaky, and Sam could tell the boy was scared.

"Yes, she told me you'd be calling. I want you to know how much I appreciate this. I understand you might be able to help me with some travel arrangements?"

"Yeah, maybe," the nervous voice said. "Do you have passports with you?"

Ken muttered a curse, and Sam groaned. "No, I'm afraid we don't. Is there any way around that?"

"Oh, great," Gary said. "Yeah, we can handle it; I was just hoping not to get that deeply involved." He sighed. "Okay, look, we're gonna have to meet up. I live in Arlington; how long will it take you to get over here? The address is forty-two ten Eighty-Second Street, apartment 224."

Sam punched it into his GPS, and looked at the ETA. "Looks like we're about twenty-eight minutes from you. Do you want us to come to your place, or meet you somewhere else?"

"Just drive by, and I'll follow you. I know what you're driving, so just keep going and I'll follow. Get out of Arlington and look for a restaurant, we can stop there."

Sam looked at Ken, he nodded. "Okay, and what are you driving? Just so I know if the right car is following me."

"I got a new Mustang, candy apple red. Trust me, I won't be hard to spot. Just get over here, let's get this thing going. I'm scared enough as it is; I don't need to drag it out any longer than necessary."

The phone went dead, and Sam and Ken were up and moving instantly. Not knowing whether they'd be back or not, they grabbed their bags as they headed out the door to the Corvette. They were in the car and on the road less than a minute after the call ended.

The drive to Arlington was uneventful, even though Ken kept looking around, expecting gunshots to come from somewhere. Apparently Chandler had decided that they were no longer a threat, since nobody was coming after them. That was good, but it also showed them just how confident he was that he had beaten them at their own game. Now they were banking everything on a kid who was basically just a computer nerd.

Stopping Chandler was more critical than ever, though, so they would take whatever chances they had to. If it meant they had to trust a nerdy kid in glasses, then so be it. They were on the way to deal with a total nutcase, and needed any help they could get.

"Okay, this is Eighty-Second Street coming up," Ken said. "Turn right, and his place should be about a block up."

Sam turned the corner, and his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the display. "It's Harry," he said, and then answered. "Yeah, Harry?"

"Sam, that wife of yours is going to give me gray hair!"

"I don't know how to tell you this, Harry, but it's too late. You've already got gray hair, and lots of it."

"Yeah, whatever. Did she tell you about this file she sent me? Great guns, this guy is such a maniac, I just can't believe it."

"Yeah, she told us. I can't believe there isn't someone we could go to with this information, someone who would have him locked up in a heartbeat. I mean, this is the worst possible kind of treason, but according to Ken there's not anyone who's likely to stand up to him."

"And unfortunately, he's correct. Chandler knows where way too many bodies are buried; no one is going to go up against him as long as he's alive. That's where you boys come in, and Indie has just filled me in on what you're up to now. Jerusalem? For real, Jerusalem?"

"Yeah, that's the way it looks. We're meeting up with Chandler's own computer geek; he says he can arrange some sort of passport and some transportation. Can't say I ever wanted to go to Jerusalem, but it looks like I get to, anyway. Lucky me, huh?"

"Luckier than you think," Harry said. "It's one place I always wanted to go, and never managed to get myself sent to. If I were twenty years younger, I'd trade places with you in a split second."

"What's twenty years got to do with it? I've fought beside you, remember? You probably have a better chance at taking Chandler out then we do."

The car eased past the apartment building, and a bright red Mustang slid out of the parking lot and in behind it. Sam kept going, and the Mustang followed.

"Well, in any event, you let me know if you need anything. If that kid can't get you onto a diplomatic flight, let me know, because I can. I'll also send you the phone number of one of our people in Jerusalem. He can supply you with weapons and other gear you might need once you're there."

Sam was nodding. "Good, Harry, that was one of my concerns. The other is how we're going to find Chandler once we get there. Any ideas on that?"

"I've got a couple people over there I can put to watching him when he arrives. The man at the number I'm texting to you will know how to reach them, and put you in touch with them. I want you to call me before you leave the country, so we can compare notes. This thing is crazy, Sam, we've got to put a stop to it."

"Harry, we will if it's possible. Just start getting a backup plan ready, just in case. If we go down, somebody has to step up and take over."

"Sam, you're getting me excited. I think I might just decide it's time for me to visit the holy land, myself. If I do, I'll find you, don't worry about finding me." The line went dead, and Sam wondered if the old man were serious or only kidding. Knowing Harry, it wasn't a joke.

Sam kept driving, as the kid had told him to do. It wasn't long before he found himself going out of Arlington, and shortly he was in Alexandria. Ken pointed at a Waffle House™, and he turned in to the parking lot. The Mustang followed him and parked beside the Corvette.

He and Ken got out of the car, just as a short, skinny kid climbed out of the Mustang. The boy wasted no time.

"Okay, real quick," he said, holding up a smart phone. "I need each of you to stand up against the white wall, there, so I can get a picture."

Sam and Ken looked at each other, but the skinny kid with the iPhone didn't look like much of a threat, so they did as he asked. Sam went first, and then Ken took his place as the boy took their photos.

"Okay," the kid said, "let's go in and sit down. We need to be as far away from everybody else as possible, okay?" He led the way inside the restaurant.

They took a booth in the corner, which seemed to be as far from everyone else as they could possibly get. Gary opened up the case he was carrying, and produced not only an ultra-thin computer, but a small printer, as well. He connected his phone to the computer with a cable, and began tapping on the keys and the screen.

"What I'm doing," he said, "is creating a couple of passports. I happen to have some official paper blanks, and I've gone ahead and filled in some basic info, including your height, weight, hair and eye color, things like that that I was able to get from files on each of you. What I'm doing now is adding the photos I just took, so that I can print them out. Don't worry, I've had to do this a couple of times for other people; once it's all stapled together, it's as real as it gets."

Ken looked at the skinny kid. "Who are you, and where did you come from?"

"Gary Stone, and pleased to meet you. No, don't tell me your name, frankly I don't want to know it. It's bad enough, I know his." He pointed at Sam. "Just knowing people like you is enough to get me killed, and I'm trying very hard to live long enough to collect Social Security."

"I don't know why you're bothering, there won't be any money there by the time you’re old enough, anyway." Ken grinned at the kid. "Don't you pay any attention to conspiracy theories?"

"Not if I can possibly avoid it," Gary said. "Good grief, man, I live in a conspiracy theory! I'm trying to get away from such things, don't you understand that? And then guys like you show up, and throw prophecies into the mix. There's just no fairness in this, I'm telling you, there's no fairness in it."

Some papers started feeding out of the printer, and Sam leaned over to get a look at them. He saw his own face peeking off the page, but the information beside it said that his name was James Davis. From what he could see, Mr. Davis was from Bakersfield.

"I hope nobody asks me too many questions," he said, "because I've never even been to Bakersfield."

"If anyone is asking that many questions," Ken said to him, "our covers will already be blown and they'll probably be walking us towards the firing squad."

Gary glanced up at Ken, then looked at Sam. "Yeah, what he said. If anyone is getting that curious about you, you're already in trouble."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I get it. So what can you tell us about this trip to Israel? Any idea who he's going to see there? Any hints on how we can get to him there?"

Gary shrugged his shoulders. "The only address I have is fifteen hundred Chopin Street in Jerusalem. It's some sort of business, but I don't know what. All I know is that we've had to ship things there, so that he could get them when he arrived. I think it may be a safe house, but I'm not sure. The only thing I can tell you is that it's likely he'll be in and out of there while he's in the city."

Ken leaned forward. "And how do you plan on getting us there? Got that worked out yet?"

Gary grinned. "Actually, I do. You're going as special messengers for the Prophecies Desk. As it happens, I've done a few computer favors for them, and was able to ask for this one in return. Of course, Julie over there thinks that you're my uncles, who have always wanted to go and visit the holy land, ever since you both graduated from seminary. I told her that one of you had cancer, and this was the only way you'd ever be able to make your dream come true, so she agreed. And you guys had better appreciate it, because I'm going to be dating her for the next couple of months, and she's not exactly the prettiest girl I've ever known."

Ken grinned at him. "I'll make you a bet, kid," he said. "If you date her for two months, you'll find she's a lot prettier than you thought she was when you started. Hundred dollars on that, shake on it."

Gary grinned back. "No bet," he said. "I've been through that before, back in high school. Besides, she's one of the nicest girls I've ever met. That's one reason I was willing to ask this of her."

"Okay," Sam said, "So we're your uncles, right?"

"Oh, that's just what I told them over at Prophecies. You don't need to know that for anyone else. All you got to remember is that you, Mr. Prichard, are James Davis from Bakersfield, California, and you, whatever your real name is, you're Stanley Clark from Las Vegas, Nevada. Think you guys can remember those names?"

"Kid," Ken said, "do you know how many names I've used? One more isn't going to matter. I can remember it long enough to get on a plane and off a plane, and that's all that matters to me."

"Good enough. So, anyway, your flight is leaving at 11 pm tonight, from Dulles. Just go to the diplomatic gate, it's not hard to find. Great big sign over it says 'diplomatic gate,' so it shouldn't be a problem. Your names – the names on your passports, that is — will be on the list at the gate, and they'll have your boarding passes for you. Incidentally, if you've never been on a diplomatic flight, then here's a word of advice. Don't drink the champagne."

"Why not?" Sam asked, and Ken began to laugh.

"Because, they don't serve champagne on diplomatic flights. It's an initiation that they like to try to pull on newbies, and just trust me when I say you don't even want to know what's in that glass. If it's offered to you, just smile and say no thanks."

Sam looked from Ken to Gary, and shook his head. "Okay," he said. "Somehow, I think I'd better just take your word for it."

Gary nodded. "You'll be a lot happier if you do."

Suddenly, Ken burst out laughing, and pointed at Gary. "I get it," he said. "You fell for it, didn't you?"

Gary looked at him, and glared. "Do you want these passports, or not?" He finished assembling them, then produced a stapler and hit each one twice. He folded them and handed each to the man whose picture it contained. He turned back to his computer and began tapping keys again.

Sam looked at him. "What now?"

"Those passports won't do you much good, without ID to back them up. I'm generating you each a new driver’s license, under the name on your passport."

Sam shook his head, and looked hard at the computer and printer. "Good grief, kid, is there anything you can't do with this rig?"

"Yeah," Gary said. "I can't print money with it. Well, actually, I could, but sure as I tried, I'd get caught. Somehow I don't think I’d do well in federal prison, and besides, I get paid pretty good to do what I do."

"Well, I'm glad you do," Sam said, "and at this moment, I'm just glad you’re on our side."

Gary looked up at him. "Let's get something straight," he said. "I'm not on your side, I'm on my side. It just so happens that the interests of your side and my side coincide at this moment. And I'm not sure I could say that again to save my life."

7

Ron Thomas tapped on the door to Harry's office, and waited to be invited in, as always. It was almost nine o'clock in the evening, but Harry was sitting at his desk when he entered.

"Ron, my boy," Harry said, "tell me something good that I really want to know."

"Harry, you know I would if I could," Ron said in return, "but I just don't have anything that great. I checked out that kid you told me about from Chandler's office, and you're right. He's one I'd love to have on our team. Think there's any chance we can get him?"

"Well, if things go according to plan, he's going to be looking for a new job real soon. I'll make a point of putting in a request for him if that opportunity becomes available. What about those travel arrangements I asked you for? Did you get those worked out?"

"Well, yes and no. The quickest I could get you into Jerusalem will be the day after tomorrow. There's another diplomatic flight going out tomorrow afternoon, and I can arrange to get you there in time to get on it. You'll hop a military shuttle tomorrow morning at 6 am, and that will get you to Dulles for the dip flight. It leaves around two in the afternoon, so you would arrive in Jerusalem day after tomorrow, about 10:30 am, their time."

"Good, make it happen. The most important mission in the history of the world is going down over there, and I'll be darned if I'm going to sit here and miss out on it. Even if I get there late, at least I can say I was there for the mop up. That's better than nothing, I guess. Any word from Sam?"

Ron scowled. "Harry, you know good and well that he doesn't bother calling through the switchboard. He calls you on your cell phone, and is probably the only person I know of who can get away with that as often as he does. Sometimes I wonder if he's your long-lost son or something."

"He's not, but I'd claim him in a heartbeat if he was willing. There's something special about that boy, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't love him like he was my own. But don't get your feelings hurt, Ron, Boy, I feel the same way about you, you know."

"Oh, goody," Ron said, "I can claim two of the deadliest men in the world are my emotional family. Gee, Pop, can I borrow the car this weekend? Huh? Can I, can I? Huh?"

"Don't act like an idiot, Ron, you know how I hate that. Anything else?"

"Nope, I just wanted to fill you in on the flight. You know, you probably ought to get some sleep. You're going to be in the air early in the morning, and you won't get much chance to rest before you arrive in Jerusalem. You're talking nearly twenty hours in the air, altogether."

Harry looked up at Ron and smiled, reaching out to stroke his Colonel Sanders beard. "Well, and I can probably do that if you would get the heck out of my office. Go on, Son, I'll be fine. Who's taking me to the airport?"

"That'll be me," Ron said. "George and your car are still out at the cabin in the mountains."

"And that's exactly where I want them to be."

Ron knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he turned and left the office. As soon as he was out the door, Harry picked up his cell phone and punched the button to call Sam. Sam answered on the first ring.

"Hey, Harry," he said.

"Tell me something good, Sam," Harry said, almost echoing the words he had said to Ron just moments before.

"Well, we just checked in for a flight to Israel, and no one is looking at us funny, so I guess we're ahead of the game. I got your text message with the number for your man in Jerusalem. Anything special I should know about that guy?"

"Only that I've given instructions to follow your orders as if they were my own. Anyone who knows me, knows I wouldn't say that unless I have the utmost confidence in you. My people there will have weapons and just about anything else you might need, and they should have an idea of where Chandler is by the time you arrive."

"All right," Sam said. "I don't know anything else to tell you, not at the moment. Ken is sitting in a chair, sound asleep. I wish I could do that, but I'm too stressed out. Listen, Harry," Sam hesitated, then went on. "Harry, if anything happens to me…"

"They'll both be well taken care of, Sam. I made those arrangements the minute you left for DC. In the past, I've always had a strong gut feeling that you would survive whatever got thrown at you, but I'll be honest and tell you that this time, I'm scared. Scared enough that I'm getting on a flight for Jerusalem myself tomorrow afternoon. I'll be a day behind you, but I'm coming."

Sam grinned. "You old fart. You just don't want to miss out on the excitement. Just don't expect us to wait for you; if we get a chance to take Chandler out. After seeing what he had planned, I think it's a tossup which one of us wants to put the bullet in his head the worst."

"No, it's not. I'm quite certain, Sam, that you want to kill him worse than either I or Ken, simply because you have a baby girl at home that you know and love. Neither of us ever had that luxury, so while we might be infuriated that Chandler would target children, we can't feel it the way you can. Just remember that it doesn't matter who gets the shot; it's just important that someone does. Chandler must be stopped, no matter what the cost."

Sam nodded into the phone. "Don't worry, Harry, I know that. And I won't let you down."

"Why, Sam — you never have." The line went dead.

The woman who had checked them in for the flight suddenly picked up a microphone and announced that they were boarding. Sam reached over with a foot and kicked Ken's chair, waking him up. "Come on, Stanley. They're singing our song."

Ken got up, rubbed a hand over his face, then picked up his bag and followed Sam down the ramp and into the airplane. Most of the aircraft was allotted to cargo space, for diplomatic shipments; there were only a couple of dozen rows of seats, so they grabbed two side-by-side. Sam was a little quicker, and got the window seat. Ken didn't seem to mind, because he buckled his seat belt and was snoring again within seconds.

Sam took out his phone and called Indie one more time, telling her and Kenzie how much he loved them and promising their daughter that he would be back home as soon as possible.

"And, Daddy," little Kenzie said, "be sure you don't get shot again. I don't like it when you get shot."

"Don't worry, Sweetheart," he said. "I'll do my best. I love you."

"I love you, too, Daddy," Kenzie said. Sam said goodbye to both of them, and turned the phone off before the plane began to move away from the terminal. A part of him was terrified that he might never see them again, but a bigger part was terrified of what would happen to them if he failed in his mission. He closed his eyes and uttered a prayer that God would help him to achieve what he had to do.

Suddenly the plane began to move down the runway, and then the nose came up and the rumbling stopped as the wheels left the earth. Sam felt the bumps as the landing gear was tucked away, and he was on his way to Jerusalem.

* * * * *

The flight made one stop, in Germany, where it stayed on the ground for less than twenty minutes. Two passengers and several parcels got off the plane, and then the doors were shut while the plane was refueled, and then it turned around and was back in the air again. A flight crewman — there were no flight attendants on board — offered Sam and Ken brown paper bags that each contained a couple of turkey salad sandwiches, a bag of chips and a banana. On the other hand, there was a cooler full of soft drinks, and they were told to help themselves to all they wanted. Sam dug through the ice for a couple of minutes before he concluded that there was no root beer, and settled for a Coke.

There weren't a lot of people on the flight, and most of those who were seemed to be sleeping a lot. A couple of people tried to strike up conversations, but Sam and Ken made it clear they weren't interested in being friendly. Sam felt a little rude, but it was safer than making a mistake that would give away the fact that they were phonies.

They both dozed in and out as the plane flew on through the air, and finally woke up the last time when the pilot announced they were making their descent towards Ben-Gurion airport at Tel Aviv, Israel. Sam sat up and watched out the window as the plane came down, and finally touched the runway.

This time, the plane taxied all the way to the terminal. It parked near what Sam guessed was the equivalent of the diplomatic gate, and some portable stairs mounted on a truck were driven up to it. A flight crewman opened the door, and everyone was allowed to disembark.

An Israeli policeman was waiting at the bottom of the stairs to guide them all to the appropriate line for diplomatic visitors. Because they had diplomatic passports, none of their bags were searched and they did not pass through customs, but were led to a table where a bored man glanced at their passports, stamped them and waved them on past. Five minutes after climbing down the stairs, Sam and Ken were climbing into a taxicab.

"We're going to Jerusalem," Ken said, "the King David Hotel. See if you can get us there without racking up a ridiculous charge, and I'll throw in a hefty tip. How about forty shekels?"

The driver smiled and nodded vigorously. "King David Hotel," he said. "King David Hotel, yes, yes!" No sooner had they shut the doors then the car lurched forward, tires squealing as the driver hurried to collect his tip.

Sam looked over at Ken. "The King David Hotel?"

"Yeah, it's a pretty nice place. I figured, what the heck, I've got a couple of cards that still have some money on them, we might as well stay somewhere nice. After all, we're here to save the world, right?"

Sam chuckled. "I guess so," he said. "Think I should call Harry's friend now? Or wait till we get settled into a room?"

"I'd wait, I think. I think that would be best. It's not that late in the day, so we can take the time to get a bite to eat. I don't know about you, but those sandwiches just didn't do it for me."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I have to say I could sure use something decent. Can you get a good steak in Israel?"

"The best," Ken said. "Trust me, there's a restaurant at the King David that will put a steak in front of you that will make you drool, and when you taste it, you'll think you've died and gone to Heaven."

"Okay, fine, but shut up about it until we get there. I'm starving!"

The ride took about forty minutes, with the driver being careful not to take any detours, or rack up any extra miles. Sam took out his phone and called Indie to let her know they had arrived safely, but it was only 6 am in Colorado, so he told her he loved her and let her go back to sleep. A moment later, his phone rang and he saw that it was Harry.

"Good morning, Harry," Sam said.

"Son, I'm about to get on the plane that will take me to Washington. Sometime after I get there, I'll be getting on another plane that will be chasing the one you just got off of. When I get the chance, I'll call and find out how things are going for you there, but just expect to see me sometime tomorrow, before noon."

"Assuming we’re still alive," Sam said. "I'm looking forward to it, Harry. It's about time you got off your lazy rump and got back out here in the field with us grunts. Do you want us to try to pick you up at the airport?"

"No, I'll make my own way to wherever you are. If you've already got the mission accomplished, then will simply celebrate together. If not, then we'll see what I can do to help."

"Sounds good. See you then." As always, the phone went dead before Sam could even say goodbye.

When they pulled up in front of the hotel, Ken simply tossed the man a fifty-dollar bill and got out. From the look on the driver's face, Sam concluded that he was happy to see it.

"They take American money here?" he asked.

Ken nodded and smiled. "They love it," he said. "The exchange rate is about four shekels to the dollar, for an Israeli national. If you or I tried to exchange dollars we'd only get about three and a quarter shekels each. When he exchanges that, he'll end up with almost two hundred shekels, as opposed to maybe a hundred shekels if I'd paid him that way."

"No wonder he was smiling," Sam said. "Sounds like a pretty good racket."

They entered the hotel, and Sam was impressed at its splendor. He was even more impressed when he realized that Ken was paying over four hundred dollars a night for their room. Knowing that the card Ken was using was a phony, and had come from one of his prior assignments, he didn't say a word, but just kept a smile on his face as if he belonged there.

Even though they only had carry-on luggage, a bellman was assigned to show them to their room. They rode up the elevator with the bellman talking nonstop, offering to get them tour guides, special accommodations, which was another way of saying, "I can get you anything you want." They thanked him, but refused any special services, and Ken slipped him a twenty-dollar bill as soon as he opened the door of their room for them.

"Can't say I wasn't glad to see him leave," Sam said. He looked around the room, and whistled. "What a place," he said. "I thought I'd stayed in some nice hotels, but none of them compare to this."

"Yeah, I've been here a couple of times. It's always a nice place to stay." He walked through the room, checking all of the amenities. It was actually more of a suite, with a sitting room and a separate bedroom. There was a king-size bed in the bedroom, but the sofa in the sitting room folded out to one that was just as big, and almost as luxurious. "You can have the bedroom, Sam. I'll stay out here."

"Okay, but there are some things we need to do first. First off, I'm gonna call Harry's man, and arrange for some weapons and Intel. Then, you're gonna show me where to find that steak. After that, if nothing else is going on, we can worry about who sleeps where."

He took out his phone and dialed the number that Harry had given him. It was answered a moment later, and Sam was surprised when he heard a woman's voice on the other end of the line. "Hello, a mutual friend gave me this number and told me to call when I got here."

"Oh, then you must be Samuel. Yes, I've been expecting your call. I have a package for you, and if you tell me where you're staying, I'd be happy to bring it to you."

"Oh, well — okay, then. We're at the King David Hotel, room 640. I think we're going to get a bite to eat, would you be joining us very soon?"

The woman laughed. "Why, yes, I can be there in about fifteen minutes. Is that an invitation to join you for dinner? It's a little early for me, but I wouldn't mind."

"Yes, it is. We'd be happy to have you join us, and perhaps you can fill us in on some of the events happening here in the city that we need to be aware of."

"Oh, I'm quite sure I can. And as I said, I have a package for you, anyway. Very well, I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Perhaps we can meet in the lobby? Near the concierge? I'll be easy to spot, because I'll be wearing a dress. This time of year, most ladies will be wearing slacks. Oh, and I'm a blonde."

"Okay, then, we'll see you when you get here. Oh, can I get your name?"

"Sure. It's Natasha. Be there shortly."

Sam hung up the phone and turned to Ken. "Well, Harry's man is a woman," he said. "I invited her to join us for dinner; hope your phony credit card can handle that. She said she's bringing a package for us, and will bring us up-to-date on what's going on. We're supposed to meet her down by the concierge in about fifteen minutes."

Ken nodded. "Okay. That doesn't leave us time for a shower, but we probably ought to change shirts, at least."

Each of them did so, and Sam took the opportunity to run a razor over his face. All of that took up ten minutes, so they left the room and took the elevator down to the lobby. The concierge desk was surrounded by chairs and couches, so they went over and took seats. They'd only been there a couple of minutes when a lady entered, a blonde-haired lady in a modest dress, carrying what looked like a salesman's sample case. She glanced at the two of them and broke into a grin, while Ken suddenly groaned.

"Natasha Minsky," he said. "I'm gonna kill Harry when I see him."

The woman walked directly to them, so Sam and Ken stood. She smiled broadly, looking at Ken. "Why, Kenneth," she said. "Harry didn't tell me you were coming. If I'd known, I could've baked a cake."

Sam looked her over. She was a blonde, all right, but it was the kind that came out of a bottle to cover gray hair. She was also, if he was any judge, at least in her mid-fifties. Ken looked up at him with a weak smile. "Natasha and I have worked together in the past, on an assignment in South America. Remind me to tell you her history, someday."

Natasha waved a hand as if to dismiss the past. "History is not important," she said. "What most definitely is important, however, is your current mission. Harry sent me a lot of information, and I've been doing some digging on my own, as well. This monster has to be stopped, and right away. His first moves are scheduled for within the next forty-eight hours, but that's as close as I can pinpoint them."

Sam looked down at the case she was carrying. "Should we take that up to the room, or take it into the restaurant with us? I don't know about either of you, but I'm ready to eat."

"We can take it along. I’ve got some files in it that you might want to look at while we have dinner. And yes, I'm starving. I don't usually get to eat this early, but I missed lunch today so it's kind of a blessing for me."

Ken pointed across the lobby to the entrance of the restaurant. "The La Regence," he said. "Sam wants a steak, and their fillet of beef financier is going to be the best steak he's ever met in his life. Shall we?"

They entered the restaurant, and at Ken's request, they were seated in the corner, off by themselves. The waiter took their orders and then left them alone, and Ken asked Natasha to give them an update on Chandler.

"We've got three people keeping him under surveillance," she said, "and they're very good at what they do. They switch out often, and change clothing and hair so that he never realizes it's the same people. He's made two stops, one in Tel Aviv, and then one here on Chopin Street. That's where he's been for the last few hours, and from what we can tell, it must be his local headquarters. If he leaves, I'll be notified, and I'll pass the word on to you."

She had opened the case, and withdrew two files which she handed over, one to each of them. "The first photo you see there is the building on Chopin. It seems to be some sort of office building, but no one seems to know much about it. Some small company that does public relations work, that's all we can get."

"What about security, bodyguards? Is he moving about alone?" Ken asked.

"No, he has an entourage of five or six people with him. They were waiting when he got off the plane, and our people said they were with him the entire time until he got to Chopin Street. We have to assume they'll be with him if he leaves, as well. There are photographs in the folder, showing him and the entire group."

Ken flipped through the photos, as Sam did likewise. Sam, of course, didn't recognize any of the faces except for Chandler's, but Ken let out a curse.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, and Ken muttered the same word again.

"See this guy?" He pointed at a tall man in the photo with Chandler. "That's David Glenn, the one I was telling you about. When Chandler told Harry that he had gone rogue, I assumed that Chandler had him put down. Obviously, I was wrong, and I can tell you that he is one formidable opponent. Chandler uses him for assassinations, but his real specialty is personal security. He's very good at keeping someone safe and alive, and I'm sure that's why he's with Chandler right now."

"Well, let's face it, that would make sense. He may not know we've come to Jerusalem after him, but he knows that there are people out to stop him. He's gonna want whatever security he can get."

Ken was nodding. "Yeah, it's just going to make it a little harder to get to Chandler. And it would be a safe bet that the rest of those men are David's hand-picked people. None of them will be easy to get past."

Sam leaned forward and looked Ken in the eye. "I'm going to tell you something. I'm not a bit worried about getting past those people, because if they get in the way, I want to go right through them. As far as I'm concerned, if they're working with him, they are just as bad as he is. If I have to take a page out of his book, and blow them all up to get to him, that's fine with me."

Natasha grinned and looked at Ken. "Your friend, here, has the same fire in him that you used to have. Remember Venezuela? That's how you felt about Torres, and you got him. I was impressed."

"Sam has a lot on the line on this mission," he said. "He has a wife and little girl back home, and he wants to get back to them. At the same time, he knows what will happen to them if Chandler manages to pull off what he is up to. That's what gives him the fire, but I'm hoping to help make sure he gets to see his family again."

The woman turned and looked Sam over. "There must be something special about you," she said. "Harry Winslow told me I'm to obey your orders just as if they were his. He's never given me instructions like that before, so that tells me he has the ultimate confidence in you. Now, frankly, I'll do as he says, but I don't know you like he does and so I don't have that confidence in you. If you get me killed, Sam Prichard, I'm going to be so pissed off at you!"

Ken winked at Sam. "Word to the wise, don't get her killed. She's a former Soviet agent, came over to our side after the fall of communism. If there's one thing she knows how to do, it's hold a grudge. I don't think even death would be enough to keep her from getting her revenge."

"I'll bear that in mind," Sam said. "So, Natasha, do you have any ideas on how we can get to Chandler?"

She shook her head. "Not at this moment, no. Right now, I'm waiting for my surveillance team to let me know when he moves again. That may give us some opportunities, and that's all I can hope for, don't you agree?"

Sam shrugged. "I just want to put a stop to this madman, and at this point I don't care how I do it. He's a mad dog, and the only way to deal with a mad dog is with a bullet in its brain."

"What about hardware?" Ken asked. Natasha picked up the case, and tilted it so that Ken could see inside, and then did the same for Sam. He saw that there was an assortment of weapons in the bottom of the case, and nodded his approval.

The waiter brought their meals, and they switched to small talk as they ate. Sam made so many moans of Epicurean delight that Ken began to chuckle at him. "That's pretty good, isn't it?" he asked, but all Sam could do was nod his head vigorously as he continued to chew.

The meal was delicious, for all of them, but soon it was over. Natasha accompanied them up to their room, and they spent some time looking at other parts of the file she had brought. There were photographs that showed the building on Chopin Street from different angles, including from the roofs of nearby buildings. "I've thought of putting snipers up there, to try to take him as he leaves, but from what I can tell, it looks like there may be cameras watching those roofs. Up on top of that building, in the photos, can you see those things that protrude upward? I believe that those are security cameras, so I think any activity on the nearby buildings would be detected."

Both of the men nodded, agreeing with her assessment. "I think," Ken said, "our best bet is going to be trying to catch him on the street. If we can get him while he's in a car, or moving from vehicle to building, then we have a chance of making a good strike. I don't want to miss, because I don't think we'd get a second chance. This guy knows so many secrets that he's surely been the target of assassination attempts in the past, so the very fact that no one has taken him down says he's a pro at anticipating and surviving them."

"Agreed," said Natasha. "But you also can't forget that he is playing on prophecy. Jerusalem is the center of the three greatest religions on the earth, so given the chance, there's no doubt in my mind that he would attempt to make his actions appear to fulfill some prophecy. Now, according to Harry, Chandler is into some old Babylonian/Mesopotamian prophecies regarding the sun god, Shamash. Those prophecies also predict the rise of a Beast-like figure, but without the appearance of Jesus at the end of his reign. His followers believe that he will rule the world for the rest of eternity, and will in some way become immortal because of his allegiance to the sun god. If Chandler gets the opportunity, I'm sure he'll try to take anything we do and fit it into one of those prophecies."

"I'm not concerned about any fulfillment of false prophecies," Sam said. "As a Christian myself, I follow the view of the biblical prophecies, including those in the Book of Revelation. If it should turn out that Chandler truly is the false prophet, the second Beast of Revelation, then so be it. From what I've learned, if that's the case then the Rapture should be coming any day, and my family and I won't need to worry much about it. The problem is that I don't believe that's the case, so this madman is trying to force things to happen outside of their time. In order to do that, he's willing to sacrifice literally thousands of lives, including the lives of many thousands of children. That would make him the greatest murderer in history, in my book. Granted, there have been genocides that have killed more people, but I can't imagine any single murder event that could kill so many, and have such a devastating impact upon an entire nation as his plan to wipe out all those schools."

Natasha nodded sadly. "I agree with you," she said. "But while you would hate to see so many of your children die in that attack, I don't believe you have seen the big picture. By laying the blame for it upon radical Muslims, Chandler will be launching a whole new form of warfare upon the Islamic people. Every American, especially the many thousands who will be connected personally to the children who die, will be ready to see Muslims die in retribution. Thousands of your people will take up weapons and begin to murder every Muslim they can find, in the belief that they are somehow avenging those who have been lost. This is Chandler's true plan, for it will cause Muslim nations to demand action against your country, and it could lead to a third world war. It certainly will, if something doesn't happen, but that is the rest of his plan. His puppet, whoever it is, will suddenly arise with the answer that will bring peace. Every nation that is screaming for your destruction, because of Chandler's control over those in power within them, will accept that puppet's suggestions and agree to some form of peace. Other nations' leaders, also under threat of some kind of exposure by Chandler, will similarly bow to this puppet. With so much support, it will be a matter of no more than weeks or months before the world is ready to accept that person as some type of global leader. Any nation that resists, will of course face extinction, for it will not be able to stand against an army of millions, an army made up of the armies of a dozen nations, or more."

Sam shook his head. "And thus is ushered in the New World order. You know, I understand that the true Antichrist will be a monster as far as his actions against the people, but at this point I have trouble imagining anyone who could be a greater monster than Grayson Chandler."

"Well, now you know why I've been trying to stop him for a couple of years," Ken said. "I didn't have any idea just how bad he could get, just how evil he truly is, but I knew that he had to be stopped. I was just concerned about the threat to our national sovereignty, but this — this evil is so far beyond anything I had imagined that I — all I know is, he has to die."

8

Sam left Ken and Natasha talking in the sitting room, while he went to take a shower. The long flight had left him feeling less than fresh, and he wanted to get into some clean clothes. When he got out, he got to take a look at the weapons Natasha had brought them.

There were an identical pair of silenced nine millimeter pistols, as well as a pair of heavier forty caliber Glocks. Sam was delighted at these, especially when he found three additional magazines for each pistol, and two boxes of extra ammunition for each.

In addition, in the bottom of the case, he found a box that he opened. Inside was a weapon he'd never dreamed of, a strangely modified Colt forty-five government model that, when assembled, would have a longer barrel in the shoulder stock. A laser sight tucked under the barrel would presumably give this weapon some incredible accuracy at medium range. This was a carbine, a short-to-medium-range sniper's weapon, small enough when disassembled to smuggle into a building under normal clothing, but powerful enough to do the job. A pair of long, thirty round magazines were provided, and both of them were full of forty-five caliber ACP rounds.

Since Ken was still busy talking, Sam chose the pistols he wanted and left the others. He showed Ken the carbine conversion, and saw the smile that it brought to his face.

"I haven't used one of those in a long time," Ken said. "They can be pretty sweet, especially when you need to get into a tight spot to shoot from."

"I can imagine," Sam said. "I think it would be pretty sweet, as you say, if we got a chance to use this on Chandler."

Ken shrugged. "We might. On the other hand, I'd give my left arm for a good fifty cal sniper rifle, right now. I could just about reach out and touch him from here with that."

"Sorry, boys," Natasha said, "didn't have any of those in our arms room. When I looked at what was available, I felt like what I brought was the best selection."

"Relax, beautiful," Ken said. "No one is complaining, just wishful thinking. This is one of the most important targets I've ever gone after, and probably one of the most difficult. I'd happily take a SCUD missile, if I knew I could reach him with it."

"Sorry, I didn't have any of those, either. To be honest, it didn't occur to me you might want explosives. I do have grenades, and I believe there are some LAWS rockets. Those can do some damage to armored cars and tanks, so they might be useful against a normal sedan. If you want them, I'll get them for you."

Sam looked at Ken, but he only shrugged. "It's almost impossible to guess what you might need," he said. "Carrying rockets and grenades around is much more dangerous, and considerably more noticeable, than just packing iron in the form of automatic pistols. Even that carbine is easier to conceal down your britches than grenades or rockets."

A phone rang suddenly, and Natasha pulled one from her purse. "Hello? Yes, this is she. All right, keep me posted. Let me know if he stops for any length of time, and where." She ended the call, and Sam was reminded of Harry. Like him, she didn't even bother to say goodbye.

"That was the surveillance team," she said. "Chandler and his people are on the move. They climbed into a van and seemed to be headed into the business district. They're keeping them in sight, and will let me know if he stops, or changes direction."

Sam got up and began pacing around the room. "Okay, that's great that there watching him, but that doesn't really help us. We should be out there, on his tail ourselves. That way, we can take the shot when the opportunity comes."

Ken shook his head. "It isn't that easy, Sam. It's not like you see in the movies, where the secret agent is always on top of the bad guy. In real life, we spend a lot of time just watching and waiting. If we can get some idea of a routine, or if he stops somewhere we can be certain he'll stay for a while, then we can make a move. Until then, we wait and let the Intel come in."

"I hate waiting," Sam said, and then he went and stood by the window, looking out over the gardens and pool.

The afternoon wore on, and although there were more reports from the surveillance team, none of them were helpful. The only thing that seemed to be of value was when one of the team managed to get close to Chandler and overheard him telling one of his people that they would be meeting up with someone important late the following afternoon, and a particular restaurant was named for the meeting.

"There it is," Ken said. "That's our opportunity, our window. We can be there, waiting for him, since we know he'll be there tomorrow. Natasha, where's this place at?"

"It's actually not far," she said. "It's off of King George Street, in the downtown triangle. I know the place; it's not very big, and the front is open to the street."

Ken furrowed his brow. "That's odd," he said. "It sounds like the perfect place for an ambush, so I can't imagine why he would choose it. That's almost like saying, 'Here I am, come and get me.' I can't imagine why he would choose such a place, it doesn't make sense."

"Maybe it does," Natasha said. "Depending on who it is he's a meeting there, it could be that the choice of meeting place was theirs and they chose this one so that they could see a threat that might be coming. I mean, nobody really trusts Chandler, they're just afraid of him. Right?"

Ken shrugged. "That's true, and it's possible that someone else chose the location. It's even possible that it was chosen specifically because it would be a good place for an ambush. Maybe someone else is planning one."

"Somehow, I don't see us getting that lucky," Sam said. "I think that's just more of your wishful thinking."

Natasha stood and faced them both. "Well, either way, it doesn't matter," she said. "It's still the best opportunity we’re going to get, so we need to go and look it over, figure out how to position for the morning. Maybe we can even find ways to use the other weapons."

Sam shook his head. “No, no rockets, not into a restaurant. I understand there may be collateral damage in missions like this, but I want to avoid any we can, all right? Same for grenades; they'll be fine if we can use them against him, or even his little group, like in a car or something, but not in a public setting.”

Natasha turned to Ken. “Great, you brought Opie Taylor with you. Harry swears by this guy, Ken, but I'll be honest—if he can't handle it, you should have left him behind.”

“Shut up, Natasha,” Ken said suddenly. “I've already fought beside Sam, and I trust him, too. If you've got a problem, then go on home, and we'll handle this alone. Otherwise, just help us do our job. And without any further commentary, all right?”

Sam was watching them both, and suddenly started laughing.

“What's so funny?” Ken asked, and Sam laughed even harder for a moment.

“I was just surprised,” he said, “because you said she used to be a Soviet agent, but she knew who Opie Taylor was! I had to stop and think for a minute, before I remembered that Opie Taylor was the kid from the old Andy Griffith show! That's old Americana, Man, it just cracked me up that a Russian spy would use it like an old American would.”

Ken and Natasha both looked at him as if he had lost his mind, so he just shrugged and turned back to looking out the window.

An hour later, they'd come to the conclusion that the restaurant offered the best possible opportunity to get a shot at Chandler, so they agreed to go for it. They followed Natasha down to her car, and she drove them to where the restaurant sat on King George. Since they knew that Chandler and company were all safely tucked away back on Chopin Street, they parked the car and went inside.

The place was about thirty feet across, and twice that in depth, with the entire front wall made of glass doors that slid into the walls on either side. When it was cold, they could be closed, but since the weather was warm, they were open. Several of the tables had been dragged outside, onto the sidewalk, and there was a festive atmosphere inside the place.

They took a table near the back, and ordered soft drinks, with Sam delighted to find that the place carried a brand of root beer, called Virgil's. It was stronger than what he was used to, but it was root beer, and he was happy.

“I'm thinking,” Ken said, “that if we could get a spot over there, across the street, we could probably get a pretty clear shot at him no matter where he might sit in here. The only problem is how to position ourselves so that he won't see us. Any ideas?”

Natasha stared at the area he was indicating. “What about a truck, like a delivery truck? UPS, something like that?”

Ken shook his head. “Too obvious. Anything that he can't see into is likely to make him turn and run. I know it would, if it was me. No, we need something that won't look like it could be hiding us, but still does.”

Sam was also looking at the spot, and an idea was trying to form in his mind. He let it settle, and then grinned.

“Hey,” he said. “You're not thinking it through all the way. You're thinking of how to hide us while we take the shot, right? Well, why hide at all?”

Ken looked at him. “Well, not getting shot dead before we get our jobs done comes to mind as a pretty good reason. What are you thinking?”

Sam pointed. “The whole front is open onto King George Street. If we wait until we know he's inside here, we could come in and start blasting right at the front door, basically. We'd have the element of surprise, and if we could get hold of some automatic weapons...”

Natasha nodded. “I can get H-K machine pistols, ten millimeter. They're pretty nasty, especially up close like this would be. The problem I see is that if you drive up here in a hurry, by the time you get out of the car, his bodyguards are going to know who you are and they'll be able to open fire before you can.”

“True,” Sam said, “if you drove up in a car. The sound of the engine, the doors slamming open, all of it would give you away. On the other hand, if we were just hiding up the street a little ways, we could wait ‘til they were inside and sitting down, then just stroll up at our leisure and walk in with our guns blazing. It's the same way the Chicago mob used to get rid of their opposition; they didn't bother with anything fancy, they just walked in and started firing point blank. If it worked for them, it ought to work for us, too.”

Ken looked around, and then nodded. “It's worth a try,” he said, “but I don't like the idea of putting all our eggs into a single basket. I'll make the hit, with you waiting as backup. With a pair of those machine pistols, I should be able to take the whole lot of them out in about eight seconds.”

Sam was shaking his head. “I don't like that idea,” he said. “I think we should go in together, and get it done. We can't take a chance on him getting away, Ken, we just can't.”

"Sam, it's a suicide mission. It won't matter if I get them all, at least some of them are gonna get me, too, and I don't see any way around that. I don't have a family waiting at home, you do. I go alone.”

Natasha reached over and laid a hand on his. “Kenneth, are you sure? As you say, it's suicide. Oh, you might survive, but only if we can get you to surgery in time. Think it through, before you commit.”

“I'm already committed, Natasha. This guy has to be put down, and this is the best shot. If I fail, then Sam will still be out here, and can try again. It's the best way.”

Sam stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once. “Okay,” he said, “you're the pro at this thing. I'll be the backup—but, Ken, I don't want you to get yourself killed, especially if you can't get Chandler. Don't throw your life away unless it buys us what we need, which is him in the grave. Deal?”

“Deal,” Ken said. “Let's get out of here. I feel like a drink, and this isn’t where I want to have it.”

They got up and left, then went back to the hotel. Ken planned for them to be in position the next afternoon by four, so that they'd be ready when Chandler showed up, but that left him a lot of hours. They went to the hotel bar, and Ken ordered a whiskey sour.

After five of them, he finally allowed Sam to drag them back up to the room. He didn't even bother to fold out the couch, but just flopped onto it and passed out.

Sam went into the bedroom and called Indie. She was delighted to hear from him, and he was careful to keep his voice and manner light.

"Hey, Babe," he said. "Just wanted to hear your voice before I hit the hay. What's Kenzie doing?"

"She's gone with your mom; they went to get some groceries. George and one of the men went with them. She'll be upset that she missed your call."

"Well, you tell her that I love her, and that my work here might be over tomorrow. If it is, then I hope to come home the day after that. How's everything else there?”

“It's going okay,” she said wistfully, “but I wish you were here. Sam, this is the craziest thing that we've ever been mixed up in, and it scares me. I'm terrified something bad is going to happen.”

“It'll all be okay, Babe,” Sam said. “Ken says I'm just the second string, here, and he gets to go take care of the job. Like I said, if everything goes according to plan, we'll be done here tomorrow afternoon, and then I'll be on the way home to you.” He sighed. “I think I'm ready to go into music full time, what would you think of that?”

He heard something that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a sob, but the smile in her voice was unmistakable. “Sam, that would be my idea of Heaven, right at this moment!”

They chatted for a few minutes longer, and then said their ‘I love you's’ to one another. Sam hung up, and whispered a prayer that it wouldn't be the last time he ever heard her voice, then climbed into the bed and laid there for an hour before he got to sleep.

Sam woke the next morning, looked at his phone and saw that it was nearly ten in the morning, and wondered how much sleep he still needed in order to feel human. He didn't worry over it for too long, though, because he knew where he was and why he was there, so he rolled out of the bed and went to the sitting room to check on Ken.

He had risen earlier, and left a note saying that he'd been down in the restaurant, having breakfast. Sam washed his face and went down the elevator to find him. When he saw him sitting in the same spot where they'd had their dinner the night before, he waved and joined him.

“I figured you'd be here on time,” Ken said, “so I ordered you some coffee. Be warned, it's strong and nasty, compared to the stuff we're used to.”

“As long as it has caffeine, I'm happy,” Sam said, but he grimaced after tasting the coffee. He picked up a sugar bowl and added several spoons to the cup. “What's good for breakfast here?”

“Get the shakshouka,” Ken said. “It's poached eggs in tomato and veggie sauce, and it's awesome! And tell them to add a side of herring.”

Sam looked at him doubtfully, but ordered the meal when the waiter came. When he'd gone, Ken looked at him and smiled.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, “that I've really been glad to get to know you, Sam Prichard. You're an amazing fellow, and a good man to have at your back. If things go bad this afternoon, I want you to know that.”

Sam scowled. “I still wish you'd let me go in with you. Together, we might have a chance to get it done and survive.”

Ken smiled. “I'd rather know you're ready to back me up and make sure Chandler dies, if for any reason he escapes me. That's the most important thing you can do for me, Sam, I'm serious. I need...”

Sam's phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “It's Harry,” he said, then answered.

“Hey, Harry.”

“Sam, I have now realized a lifelong dream, and landed in Israel. I'm in a taxi and on my way to Jerusalem, so where the heck are you?”

“We're at the King David Hotel, Harry, and sitting in the restaurant. How far out are you?”

“I'm guessing that I can be there in about thirty more minutes,” Harry said. “Stay there, and you can buy me something to eat; I'm famished.”

The line went dead, and Sam put the phone away. “Harry's here, and on the way. I can't wait to hear what he thinks of this plan.”

Ken smiled. “He'll hate it, but so do you, so that's no surprise. I'm more worried that he'll try to put the kibosh on it. I'm going in there after Chandler, Sam, and neither of you is gonna stop me, got that?”

“Hey, I'm not arguing,” Sam said. “I just think you're an idiot, but there's nothing new about that. Maybe Harry can talk some sense into you.”

Harry came walking into the restaurant a half hour later, and Sam waved to show him where they were sitting. He waved back and made his way through the tightly packed tables to get to theirs, and sat down. He looked at Sam's empty dishes and blinked.

“Tell me they have steaks here,” he said, and Sam laughed.

“Get the fillet of beef, Harry, I had it last night and it's incredible.”

Harry placed the order when the waiter appeared, and then Sam and Ken began filling him in on the plan to hit Chandler that afternoon. Harry asked a few questions, nodded at the right places, and finally said, “Sounds to me like the best way to go about it. When you call Natasha, tell her we need a third machine pistol, though.”

Ken scowled. “Harry, I'm going in alone, I already explained that to you.”

Harry looked at him. “Did I say anything different? I simply want to be armed, in case the bastard gets past you and comes running my way. Do you blame me?”

They took Harry's bag up to their room when he'd finished eating, and he took the chance to lie down for a short nap on the couch. They were scheduled to meet with Natasha there at the room at two, so Sam and Ken went and shared the bed for a couple of hours, themselves. When they rose at one thirty, they found Harry up and using a laptop computer to study the area around the restaurant.

“I've got it all figured out,” he said. “I see how you want to handle this, Ken, and I think it could work, but look at this: Here, right to the north of the restaurant, there's this little narrow alley. It's just about wide enough for us to hide in single file, and it's invisible from the street. I'm thinking that if Sam and I were in there, then when you go in from the south end, we could strike from the opposite side. They wouldn't know for at least a few seconds what hit them, so we'd have a good chance of making the hit and coming out of it with all of us alive.”

Ken stared at him. “You're not gonna let me do this my way, are you, you old bastard?”

Harry grinned at him. “I've been in this business a lot longer than you, Son, remember that? Besides, there are times when you just have to do something, and I'm having one of those times. I need to be in on this, Ken. Just deal with an old man's stubbornness, okay?”

Sam laughed. “You can't beat him, Ken, you might as well just face it. We're all going to be in on this, and it's gonna be better that way.”

The three of them talked over the plan until they were all sure of what was expected of each of them, and by the time Natasha showed up, they were ready to get rolling. She gave Harry a hug, and kissed his cheek, then handed him the machine pistol he'd demanded.

They piled into her car, and she drove them to the restaurant so that they could all get into position. They knew that it would be a long wait, but they felt better about being there early, and each of them had spent long hours in waiting before. It wasn't anything new to them, and they were all able to find a way to get comfortable.

Ken sat on a rock behind a bush that was about twenty yards from the place, while Harry and Sam had to sit down on the ground. Each of them had an earpiece in that Natasha had provided, so that when the surveillance team saw Chandler coming their way, they would be notified a few minutes early. That way, they could all get to their feet and be ready to move once all their prey was inside.

That call came at four forty, and the three of them readied themselves. One of the watchers confirmed that Chandler was in the car when it pulled up in front of the restaurant, and that he did get out and enter the place. Harry held up a hand to keep Sam from moving too quickly, and then he motioned for them to go.

They came around the north side of the entrance just as Ken came around from the south, and all three of them saw the group of men that was sitting at the table in the back. Chandler looked up at them, and his face registered shock at the site of Ken and Sam, and then Sam raised his gun and began firing. Chandler and his own men began shooting back, and Sam saw Chandler drop to the floor, and then Harry came around him, and everything was happening fast.

There were several other people in the place, and they all began screaming and trying to run, and Sam was shoved aside by a man who was holding a child. He caught his balance, and leveled his gun once more, but then another man ran into him and he fell to one side. He hit a table, and slid off of it to the floor, and for a split second he was looking Chandler in the eye, but before he could even react, there was a foot coming down on his face. He pushed it off, and a man fell beside him, but Sam was fighting his way back to his feet. He tried to move forward, to get to Chandler, but a burst of gunfire came at him out of nowhere, and he ducked instinctively.

Something hit him again, and he fell onto another table, but by the time he could get up and see what was going on, the place where Chandler had been was empty. Four of his men were down, including David Glenn, but Chandler was gone. Sam spun around, looking for Ken, and saw him on the floor, his shirt covered in blood. He started toward him, but stepped on something, and when he looked down, he saw that he was stepping on Harry.

There was a bloody spot on Harry's face, and as Sam looked at him, he saw that blood was oozing out of it. Harry's mouth was working, but there was an odd look in his eyes, and Sam suddenly forgot about Chandler, forgot about Ken. He dropped to his knees and pulled the old man up to himself, and listened to see what Harry was saying, but it was too faint.

He looked down at the old man, and as he did, a blankness came over his eyes, and Sam stared at him.

He looked up and saw Ken, who was trying to get to a sitting position, and then he heard the sirens. He looked back down at Harry's lifeless face, and suddenly wondered if maybe Chandler really was the Beast.

And then he began to cry.

BOOK VIII

Prologue

Harry came walking into the restaurant, and Sam waved to show him where they were sitting. He waved back and made his way through the tightly packed tables to get to theirs, and sat down. He looked at Sam's empty dishes and blinked.

“Tell me they have steaks here,” he said, and Sam laughed.

“Get the fillet of beef, Harry. I had it last night and it's incredible.”

Harry placed the order when the waiter appeared, and then Sam and Ken began filling him in on the plan to hit Chandler that afternoon. Harry asked a few questions, nodded at the right places, and finally said, “Sounds to me like the best way to go about it. When you call Natasha, tell her we need a third machine pistol, though.”

Ken scowled. “Harry, I'm going in alone, I already explained that to you.”

Harry looked at him. “Did I say anything different? I simply want to be armed, in case the bastard gets past you and comes running my way. Do you blame me?”

They took Harry's bag up to their room when he'd finished eating, and he took the chance to lie down for a short nap on the couch. They were scheduled to meet with Natasha there at the room at two, so Sam and Ken went and shared the bed for a couple of hours themselves. When they rose at one thirty, they found Harry up and using a laptop computer to study the area around the restaurant.

“I've got it all figured out,” he said. “I see how you want to handle this, Ken, and I think it could work, but look at this: here, right to the north of the restaurant, there's this little narrow alley. It's just about wide enough for us to hide in single file, and it's invisible from the street. I'm thinking that if Sam and I were in there, then when you go in from the south end, we could strike from the opposite side. They wouldn't know for at least a few seconds what hit them, so we'd have a good chance of making the hit and coming out of it with all of us alive.”

Ken stared at him. “You're not gonna let me do this my way, are you, you old bastard?”

Harry grinned at him. “I've been in this business a lot longer than you, son, remember that? Besides, there are times when you just have to do something, and I'm having one of those times. I need to be in on this, Ken. Just deal with an old man's stubbornness, okay?”

Sam laughed. “You can't beat him, Ken, you might as well just face it. We're all going to be in on this, and it's gonna be better that way.”

The three of them talked over the plan until they were all sure of what was expected of each of them, and by the time Natasha showed up, they were ready to get rolling. She gave Harry a hug, and kissed his cheek, then handed him the machine pistol he'd demanded.

They piled into her car, and she drove them to the restaurant so that they could all get into position. They knew that it would be a long wait, but they felt better about being there early, and each of them had spent long hours waiting before. It wasn't anything new to them, and they were all able to find a way to get comfortable.

Ken sat on a rock behind a bush that was about twenty yards from the place, while Harry and Sam had to sit down on the ground. Each of them had an earpiece in that Natasha had provided, so that when the surveillance team saw Chandler coming their way, they would be notified a few minutes early. That way, they could all get to their feet and be ready to move once their prey was all inside.

That call came at four forty, and the three of them readied themselves. One of the watchers confirmed that Chandler was in the car when it pulled up in front of the restaurant, and that he did get out and enter the place. Harry held up a hand to keep Sam from moving too quickly, and then he motioned for them to go.

They came around the north side of the entrance just as Ken came around from the south, and all three of them saw the group of men that was sitting at the table in the back. Chandler looked up at them, and his face registered shock at the site of Ken and Sam, and then Sam raised his gun and began firing. Chandler and his own men began shooting back, and Sam saw Chandler drop to the floor, and then Harry came around him, and everything was happening fast.

There were several other people in the restaurant, and they all began screaming and trying to run, and Sam was shoved aside by a man who was holding a child. He caught his balance, and leveled his gun once more, but then another man ran into him and he fell to one side. He hit a table, and slid off of it to the floor, and for a split second he was looking Chandler in the eye, but before he could even react, there was a foot coming down on his face. He pushed it off, and a man fell beside him, but Sam was fighting his way back to his feet. He tried to move forward, to get to Chandler, but a burst of gunfire came at him out of nowhere, and he ducked instinctively.

Something hit him again, and he fell onto another table, but by the time he could get up and see what was going on, the place where Chandler had been was empty. Four of his men were down, including David Glenn, but Chandler was gone. Sam spun around, looking for Ken, and saw him on the floor, his shirt covered in blood. He started toward him, but stepped on something, and when he looked down, he saw that he was stepping on Harry.

There was a bloody spot on Harry's face, and as Sam looked at him, he saw that blood was oozing out of it. Harry's mouth was working, but there was an odd look in his eyes, and Sam suddenly forgot about Chandler, forgot about Ken. He dropped to his knees and pulled the old man up to himself, and listened to see what Harry was saying, but it was too faint.

He looked down at the old man, and as he did, a blankness came over his eyes, and Sam stared at him.

He looked up and saw Ken, who was trying to get to a sitting position, and then he heard the sirens. He looked back down at Harry's lifeless face, and suddenly wondered if maybe Chandler really was the Beast.

And then he began to cry.

1

The sirens seemed to be everywhere, as more and more of the Israeli police began to swarm the little restaurant. It seemed like half of them didn't know how to shut their sirens off, but merely left the cars sitting there with the sirens screaming. Sam had been helped on to his feet, while paramedics loaded Harry onto a stretcher and rushed him out of the building. Another couple of paramedics had Ken sitting in a chair while they went over him, but he was trying to brush them off.

“Just who are you, Mr. Davis?” Sam looked up at the man who had asked the question.

“I already told you,” Sam said. “I'm Jim Davis, an American tourist. My friends and I stopped in here for a bite to eat, and apparently we walked into a gunfight.”

The man who was questioning him looked around at the carnage in the little restaurant, then looked back at Sam. “My name is Boaz Ben Yazdi,” he said. “I am an Inspector with Israeli Police. I have spoken with many tourists, from many countries including the United States. Only very seldom do I find tourists carrying automatic pistols like these that I find all around you. Can you explain to me where they came from?”

“Inspector,” Sam said, “like I told you, we walked into some sort of a gun battle. There were several men on each side who were shooting, and then, just as suddenly as it began, some of them ran out and got into cars and raced away. That's all I know.”

Ken caught his eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod. This was the story they had practiced and agreed on, just in case things went bad. From Sam's point of view, things had just gone far worse than they ever could have expected.

Ben Yazdi smiled at him. “Of course, that's what you told me. But, you know, that leaves me wondering — here we have four men dead, and all of them are holding firearms of one sort or another, but for the other side, you're telling me they all ran out unharmed. Is that correct?”

Sam grinned. “Actually, now that you mention it, I remember that they picked up one man who had fallen and wasn't moving, and one of them was helping another man who looked like he might've been shot in the leg.”

Ben Yazdi nodded at this, and his smile grew even wider. “Ah, yes, now it makes more sense. The attackers took their wounded and dead with them. Is that right?”

“Well, I guess that's how it looked.”

“Mr. Davis,” Ben Yazdi said, “even before we began to speak, I knew that you were not who you claim to be. Too many of the patrons here saw you with a machine pistol in your hand, so it is rather apparent to me that you are one of the combatants in this altercation. When I add to this information the fact that there is a record of your arrival on a diplomatic flight from the United States, even though neither you nor your friends are listed on any diplomatic roster, it becomes rather clear to me that I'm dealing with what must be special agents of an American task force. The only question that remains unanswered to me, then, is why such agents are here. Now, you can tell me, or I can simply detain you until I get the answers I seek. And incidentally, since you are not on any diplomatic roster, if it turns out that I'm correct in my assumptions then it is highly likely that you will be spending a great deal of time here in Israel. I can't say that you'll get to enjoy much in the way of tourism, and the accommodations might not be as luxurious as they are in the King David Hotel, but at least you'll get three meals each day. Well, most days.”

There was a slight commotion near the entrance of the restaurant, and Ben Yazdi turned to see what was causing it. A blonde woman could be seen arguing with one of the constables who was standing outside, holding what appeared to be an ID case up in front of his face and pointing to it. The inspector gave a sigh of resignation. “Well, Mr. Davis,” he said, without looking back at Sam. “It appears that your cavalry has arrived. If you had told me I would be dealing with Natasha Minsky today, I might very well have simply let you go. Since you didn't see fit to warn me, however, I might now consider it an insult that requires retribution.” He glanced at Sam, and then put on smile as Natasha approached them.

“Inspector,” Natasha said, “it seems that some of my new aides blundered into some sort of trouble, here. That's unfortunate, since I was just in the process of adding them to my unit roster.”

Ben Yazdi took her hand, bent low over it and kissed it gently. When he stood, there was a twinkle in her eye, but the smile on his face remained as cold as ever. “Natasha,” he said. “As always, it is a pleasure to see you again. I'm assuming that you're going to give me some reasonable explanation for all of this?”

Natasha laughed delightedly. “Oh, good heavens, no,” she said. “How could I possibly have an explanation? The only reason I even know that something happened is because I was scheduled to join them here for dinner. You can imagine my surprise when I got a call from our embassy saying they had overheard your dispatchers saying that there had been a gun battle here. Well, I just had to come and see for myself what was going on.”

“In that case, I'm going to hazard a guess that these new aides of yours would be Mr. Davis, Mr. Clark and the unfortunate Mr. Milner, who just left in the ambulance. Would I be right?”

“Indeed, you would. They just arrived yesterday, and I was getting all the paperwork done today. I don't know why they were so lucky as to walk into this situation — I'm too busy being thankful that I was running late. Why, it might've been me who was taken away in the ambulance.”

“Yes. So,” Ben Yazdi said, “what you're telling me, then, is that all three of the men are part of your diplomatic mission, and therefore possess diplomatic immunity. Is that correct?”

“Why, yes, I suppose that is how it turns out. I do hope this won't cause any hard feelings between us.”

“Oh, Natasha, we both know that it will. Why pretend otherwise? On the other hand, you're saving me from a great deal of paperwork, for all I need do now is report that the three individuals the witnesses all have stated were involved in the attack on these people could not possibly have been involved, since they are all low-level aides to an American diplomatic mission that deals with tourists who run into financial problems. That solves so many problems for me. How can I thank you?”

Natasha smiled and patted him on the cheek. “We can talk about that the next time you have an evening free, Boaz,” she said. “How long has it actually been since you took me to dinner? I think it's a couple of months now, isn't it?”

Ben Yazdi nodded, his smile still as cold as it had been. “At least that long,” he said. “Perhaps this Friday night?”

“Why, Boaz, you old charmer! I will be waiting by the phone for your call.”

Natasha stepped over to where paramedics were still working on Kenneth, and looked down at him. “Are you going to live?” she asked.

“These idiots claim that the holes in me don't seem to have gone through anything important, and managed to go all the way through without leaving any lead inside me. If they're right, then I probably won't bleed to death internally, or die of lead poisoning anytime soon. Have you got us out of here?”

“Of course,” she said. “Don't you know that I simply live to pull your ass out of the fires you get it into? I got you listed as three of my people, so that no matter what happened here today I could try to cover you. Seems it was a wise precaution.”

“Yeah, I'd say so. How's Sam?”

She glanced over her shoulder, then looked back at Ken. “I haven't spoken directly to him yet, but he was keeping his wits about him. That's the most important thing, at this stage. Let's get them out of here, and we'll find out how he's holding up.”

She hooked her head at him, and he pushed the paramedics away as he got to his feet. They walked back over to where Sam was still sitting in the chair he'd been in when Ben Yazdi was interrogating him. “Come on, Jim,” Ken said. “The boss lady's here, and she says it's time to go back to work.”

Sam nodded, and got to his feet. For once, he hadn't managed to get himself shot. The impacts that had knocked him down more than once had simply come from people trying to get out of the line of fire. He followed them out of the restaurant and down the street to where Natasha had parked her car.

When they got inside the vehicle, with Sam in the back seat and Kenneth in the front, Sam put a hand over his eyes. “The sons of bitches killed Harry,” he said.

Natasha looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Harry knew what he was getting himself into,” she said, “and we all know the risks involved in what we do. However,” she pointed to the ear piece in her right ear, “I got word while I was still talking to Boaz that the old buzzard isn't dead. Apparently, taking a bullet through your right cheek is enough to send you into catatonic shock, so you can be forgiven for thinking he was dead. He also took one in the chest, punctured his right lung. They were going to rush him into surgery as soon as he got to the hospital.”

Sam stared into the mirror at her eyes. “Lady, if you're lying to me to keep me on the team…”

“Relax, Sam,” Ken said. “She's a genuine bitch, and she'd lie to you about almost anything, except whether a man on your team is alive or dead. If she says Harry's still kicking, then he is. And that's great, but the question I want an answer to is where the hell Chandler got off to.” He looked meaningfully at Natasha.

She shrugged her shoulders as she drove. “Got nothing, so far,” she said. “Some of our people tried to follow as he took off, but he was running scared. It's hard to keep surveillance on someone who's panicked. We know a few places he goes, so we'll be watching them. He'll turn up, his kind always do.”

“Let's hope so,” Ken said. “We're running out of time on this guy. His assassination plots are set to be triggered within the next few days—we can't let them happen. As far as we know, he has to give the order himself. If he's dead, he can't do that.”

“What about underlings?” Natasha asked. “If he has a deputy, someone he trusts with his administrative control…”

“As far as we know, Chandler doesn't allow anyone to know what he's doing. The only reason we have the information we do is because one of his people has a conscience. He got it to Sam's wife, and don't ask how that came about, and she got it to us.”

Sam, in the back seat, leaned forward so that he was almost between them. “Look, we have to get him. This isn't a game, and it's not a sport, where our team might come out ahead of his team. This is about saving lives, and lots of them. We're not just looking at the lives that might be lost in his absolutely diabolical scheme, but what about the lives that will be lost in the wars that could result? This jackass is trying to set the Muslim world against the Christian world. We're already on the brink of war in that arena; it wouldn't take much more than a firecracker to set it off. That's exactly what Chandler is out to do, because it will bring everything closer to where he wants it to be.”

Ken turned in his seat so that he could look Sam in the eye, and doing so made him wince. He had taken three wounds that went all the way through, and while they apparently didn't do any critical damage, they definitely tore up some muscle tissue. Almost every move he made for a while was going to hurt. “Sam, you don't have to tell us, you're preaching to the choir. We understand exactly what the problem is, what we're up against. Unfortunately, unless you've got a crystal ball stashed away, we don't have any way to identify his location.”

Sam leaned back in his seat, frustration evident in his face and manner. He ran a hand over his face, and then suddenly froze. He reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone, but before he dialed he looked into the rearview mirror again at Natasha. “Does Jerusalem have traffic cameras? Video cameras, tied into a network somewhere?”

She looked at him oddly in the mirror for a moment, and then gave a curt nod. “Yes, but it's rather secret. They installed regular traffic cameras on some high risk traffic accident intersections and it raised a public outcry, claiming that the cameras were only designed to increase government revenues from fines. That's why, when they put in the video system, it was kept secret.”

“Where is it run out of? What department?”

“The public safety department, but it's managed from an office in the building securities department, the department that oversees security in publicly accessible government buildings.”

Sam dialed his phone, and waited for a moment as his call went halfway around the world. Indie answered a moment later. “Sam? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, Baby,” he said, “but we need your help. Can you and Herman get into the security network that takes care of public government buildings in Israel? They run it out of the Israeli Department of Public Safety, but it's handled through the office that takes care of building security, because it's a big secret that the government here spies on its citizens.”

Indie hesitated, but only for a second. “We'll try. What are we looking for?”

“There's a little restaurant named Isaac's, it's just off of King George Street. Find it on the map, and then find all of the cameras closest to it. What you're looking for is a very frightened Chandler. He got away, and he's running for his life at the moment. We don't know where he's gone, so I'm hoping you can give us a lead.”

“Okay. I got enough photos of him in this computer to let Herman's facial recognition programming do its job. He can scan a lot faster than I can. It will take us a little time to get into that network, but if there's a way, we'll do it. I'll call you soon as I got something. Love you!”

“Love you more! Call me soon as you can.” He hung up the phone. “That's my wife, and she's probably the most brilliant computer hacker in the world. She wrote a program she calls Herman that seems to be able to get into just about any network, anywhere, and find whatever information we need. US Homeland Security is fully aware of her abilities, so forget about this as soon as I'm done telling you.”

“Forget about what? I never heard a thing. Let's just hope your nonexistent wife and her nonexistent friend can do us some existent good. I'm listening to the chatter from my people, and it's not going very well. They lost him within half a block of the restaurant. Pretty bad, considering he was on foot and running like a maniac.”

“Just because I'm curious,” Ken said, “why the hell is it your people didn't just blow him away when he came running out of there?”

Natasha glanced at him, with a look of disgust in her eyes. “Kenneth, I'm on a short budget! Most of the people I use for surveillance jobs and such are college students and housewives, just people who need to earn a little extra money. They are not agents, and they are not killers.”

Ken shook his head, and rolled his eyes. “No wonder things went to hell in Benghazi,” he muttered. “And to think we used to be the most powerful nation on earth.”

“Yeah, well, that was back when everyone else was more afraid of the Soviet Union's policies than they were of America's. What good is Sherlock Holmes, if he doesn't have Moriarty? Without the constant threat of Soviet communism hanging over the heads of every other nation on earth, none of them seem to feel that they need the great American watchdog, and so your country has lost a lot of respect. Add to this the fact that your last four presidents have weakened you in both foreign policy and your military, and all that greatness has gone down the toilet.”

“Hey!” said Sam. “I'll have you know, that's my country you're talking about! Maybe you're right, and we're not as powerful as we used to be, but I can tell you right now that the United States of America is still the greatest country in the world. Yeah, it may have its problems, but it’s still the best!”

Ken turned his head and looked at Sam. “You still think so? Our country is so messed up that the most evil terrorist ever born has been working right at the head of our national security. Now, he's loose on the world, and you and I are just about all there is that's available to try to stop him. You want to tell me what's so great about that?”

Sam smiled grimly. “Simple,” he said, “it's because in any other country, there wouldn't be the two of us to go after the sonofabitch.”

Ken stared at him for a moment, and then began to laugh. “Dear God, I'm saddled with an optimist. Sam, we may be down to hours left to find and stop this madman. Somehow, the two of us being the ones to do it isn't inspiring an awful lot of confidence.”

“I'll make it even worse,” Natasha said. “For all we know, Chandler may have given the orders to execute his plans even before he left Washington. Killing him may not stop them.”

“She's got a good point,” Sam said. “Maybe we should change our attack, try to take him alive. That way, we can at least try to get enough information out of him to put a stop to whatever is going on there, to whatever is already set into motion.”

“Holy Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Ken said, his hands over his face. “Sam, do you have any clue how hard it's going to be just get close enough to kill him? Now multiply that times fifty, and you're looking at a pretty good picture of our chance of taking him alive.”

Sam sat back in silence as Natasha drove, and when he got quiet, so did they. They rode the rest of the way back to the hotel without speaking, and once Natasha had parked the car the three of them walked in silence into the hotel and the elevator. Ken pushed the button for their floor.

“Three different people in the lobby made sure to watch us get into the elevator,” Sam said.

“Of course,” Natasha said. “Boaz is nothing if not efficient. Those would be his people, sent here to watch you, but not to interfere. Like any good policeman, he simply wants to know what's going on in his jurisdiction. Since I can't tell him the truth, he's going to try to find out in his own way.”

The elevator opened, and they went to their room. Natasha followed, of course, then went straight to the bar once they got inside. “I need a drink,” she said. “Anyone else?”

Ken raised a hand as he sat on the couch. “Make mine a double of whatever you’re drinking.”

“I don't drink,” Sam said, and both of them stared at him.

Natasha shook her head. “You stay around Harry long enough, you will.”

Sam looked up. “Speaking of Harry, any updates?”

Natasha grinned as she handed a glass to Ken. “Apparently he's in surgery now, and a nurse has told my people there that it's going very well, he's expected to survive with no major complications. You can probably be talking to him in a few hours, if you want.”

Sam shook his head. “I don't want to talk to him. All he'd do is read me the riot act for letting Chandler get away. I'd much rather we have Chandler in custody somewhere by the time I talk to Harry.”

He was still standing, so Sam wandered through the room and checked for any signs that it had been searched. He found a few things that looked slightly out of place, but he couldn't be certain that actually been moved. Everything they had brought with them was innocuous, and the only thing in the room that could connect them to weapons or clandestine activities was the empty salesman's case, the one Natasha had used to bring them their weapons. They hadn't left anything behind that could be incriminating, so he went back out front and sat down beside Ken.

“Both of you need to get some rest,” Natasha said. “Sam, you're lucky enough not to have any holes in your body that God didn't put there, so you should go and get a shower, now. When you're finished, I can help Ken to get a bath, and clean his wounds, change his bandages. Then you should both get some sleep. I'll stay here tonight, so as soon as any word comes in, I'll let you know.”

Sam nodded, and got back up from the couch. “A shower sounds good,” he said. “I won't be long.” He walked into the suite's bedroom and got a change of clothes from his bag, and was singing in the shower a few moments later, his voice carrying all through the suite.

If anybody had told me,

That someone like you,

Could ever love me,

The way that you do,

I'd've said, "You're a liar,

There's just two things I believe,

Only fools play with fire,

And there's no love for me.”

Natasha looked at Ken. “Do you have to put up without all the time?”

“He sings with some band back home,” he said. “I guess singing in the shower is how he rehearses.”

She looked towards the bathroom door, and then shrugged. “Well, he isn't that bad. Beats listening to your snoring.”

When Sam came out of the shower, Natasha helped Ken get to his feet and to the bathroom. She shut the door behind them, so Sam sat down and picked up the remote for the TV. Channel ten was running its news program, so he left it on and watched.

The announcer, a gray-haired man, smiled into the camera as he spoke. “… And the Russian president says that there will be severe implications for the country's relationship with Turkey after this incident.”

Sam watched the program for about fifteen minutes, keeping an eye on the scrolling ticker that rolled along the bottom of the screen. All of the news headlines for the day appeared there, but the only mention of the shootings at the restaurant was a brief comment by the announcer that what appeared to be a random shooting had occurred. He stressed that the government had found no connection to any terrorist activity or group, and that Israel police were investigating.

Sam shook his head, and began flipping channels. He found the government-sponsored channels, as well as those that were designed primarily for tourists, such as the Western Wall channel and others. There were a couple of channels devoted strictly to music, both American and Israeli, and he listened for a few seconds to each of them before moving on.

He found a movie, one he thought he'd seen before but couldn't remember for sure, and just left it on to create some background noise. It gave him the opportunity to tune out for a bit, and relax. After a couple of minutes, he stretched out on the couch, tucking one of its pillows under his head.

With everything that had happened, Sam didn't believe he'd be able to go to sleep, so he was startled when his telephone rang and it woke him from a dream of being at home with Indie and Kenzie. He sat up quickly and grabbed the phone from the end table.

“Hello?”

“Sam? Babe, it's me,” Indie said. “I think I got you something.”

“Baby, that would be great. What is it?”

“Okay,” she said, “if you get on Hebron Road, and go south a few miles, you'll come to Asher Viner Street, going off to the east. It's like an exit there, take it and follow the road to the east about a mile, you'll pass a bunch of fields on the right, like farm fields. That will bring you to a circle, take it out to the Northeast, and you'll come to another one in like a quarter mile or so. If you turn right there, you'll be on Moshe Barazani Street. He turned in at the third drive on the right about an hour ago, and went inside. As far as I can tell, he hasn't come back out.”

Sam smiled and the phone. “Baby, how on earth did you manage this?”

“Well, like I told you, I had enough pictures of him that Herman could start a facial recognition search. It paid off, because he spotted Chandler on foot by King George Street, but I guess he had called someone because a moment after that, the camera got him getting into a car. Herman just kept scanning, though, and kept spotting his face at different intersections. By scanning all of the cameras along a particular route, he could keep looking for him and get an idea of where he might turn up next. When he turned off onto Moshe whatever street, it just happened that the camera could see the house where he parked. We saw them get out of the car and go in, and I've been watching that camera, but he doesn't seem to have come back out. Of course, I can't see the back of the house, so I can't be sure he's still there.”

“Indie, baby, you're as awesome and wonderful as ever,” Sam said, “and I'm even starting to like Herman a little bit. This is incredible, and might be exactly what we needed. If you see anything change, please let me know immediately. I love you!”

“I love you, too. I'll call you if anything changes at all.” She hung up, and Sam looked at the time. It was almost midnight, but he didn't feel that they could wait until morning. He called out for Ken, and he and Natasha came out of the bedroom a moment later.

He quickly filled them in on Indie's call, and Natasha shook her head. “And how is it we haven't already recruited this girl?”

“Sam beat us to it, he married her,” Ken said. “Seems that she's part of the package deal we get when Harry calls on Sam, though, so that helps. She's definitely a whiz at this stuff, I've seen a bit of her in action before.”

“Fine, okay, whatever,” Natasha said. “Just as long as she's on our side, that's all I care about at this moment.” She had reached into her big purse and produced a tablet computer, on which she was calling up a map of the area Indie had described. “The third driveway,” she mused. “Oh, this is not good. That is the home of an attaché from the Libyan Embassy. I know her, and frankly, it would surprise me if she were knowingly involved in any of Chandler's plans. She's not a militant, not in any way.”

Ken scowled. “Are you saying that this woman has diplomatic immunity? That we'd be invading Libyan soil if we go in there after him?”

Natasha was nodding her head. “That's exactly what I'm saying,” she said. “As far as any government is concerned, that house is in Libya. Any entry that is uninvited can be construed as an act of war.”

“Well, you said you know her. Can you get us an invitation?” Sam asked. “I mean, as far as we know, Chandler doesn't know you're involved, right?”

Natasha gave him a look that could have peeled paint off his Corvette. “And I'd very much like to keep it that way,” she said. “I'm off the reservation on this, working only as a favor to Harry Winslow. If my superiors find out what I'm doing, it could mean my job, possibly even my freedom.”

“Natasha, come on,” Ken said. “When have you ever worried about what your superiors might think? And as for your job or your freedom, you know too many secrets for anyone to seriously pose a risk to either one. Now, can you get us in there, or not?”

“To be honest, I would doubt it. If she's involved, she's going to probably refuse, and at the very least she would let him know that someone was coming. Even if we got in, he'd be ready for us, and then there's that whole war on foreign soil thing.”

Sam shook his head. “I don't care,” he said. “We have got to capture this guy, and find out somehow whether he's got his plans already set in motion, or if he's got someone ready to give the orders. We have to stop the things he's up to, no matter what it takes.”

2

“You cannot stay here,” Yusrah said. “If what you say is true, then your own countrymen are trying to kill you. I cannot risk involving the embassy or any of my family or staff, here, in your troubles. You have to go, now.”

“Yusrah, don't even think about trying to turn your back on me now,” Chandler said to her. “You owe me far too much, and I will collect on that debt. Remember that you would not have your position, were it not for me. I can remove you just as quickly as I installed you, and before you consider any plan to eliminate me, remember that I have people who know where I am even now. Should anything happen to me, their orders are to make certain that retaliation finds its way back to you. Any questions?”

“Mr. Chandler, this is not about failure to pay my debt. It is about keeping what is between us in the secret level where it must remain. In that, I have no choice, for if it becomes too widely known, then we will both be endangered.” The attaché seemed to think over her options. “It is also not about whether I fear you or not. I will do all I can to help you, as I have agreed, but I can be no help to you if I am exposed and removed from my place.”

Chandler grinned at her. “Well, at this moment, we are both safer with me sitting right here. No one can touch me within your home, and it will give me a chance to find out just what is going on behind the scenes. I have absolutely no interest in walking into a trap when I leave here, so you're just going to have to put up with me for now. And incidentally, I'm hungry. My afternoon has not gone well, as you know, and I could use something to eat.”

Yusrah inclined her head in submission. “Feeding you will not be a problem,” she said. “I have an excellent kitchen staff, away from some of the finest restaurants in all of Israel. I shall order for you a full dinner.” She rose from her chair and started out of the room.

Chandler caught her hand as she passed him. “Yusrah, don't make the mistake of trying to betray me while you're out of my sight. Remember, I never bluff. If I tell you that retaliation will find you, you can count on it.”

She looked down at him. “I have no intention of betraying you,” she said. “I am only going to the kitchen to arrange your dinner. Are you becoming paranoid, Mr. Chandler? I can imagine that having your own men attempting to murder you could cause you to see the dangers around every corner, but you can relax. You are not in danger here, not from me or my people. Not only do I owe you a great debt, but my country also owes you. The position you have offered us in the order that is to come is one that we could not have expected under other circumstances. I am not one to bite the hand that feeds me, Mr. Chandler, and my country is not one to forget to whom it should be grateful. Now, if you will excuse me?”

He let go of her hand, and she smiled as she proceeded out of the room. Chandler glanced over at Yusuf, the driver who had picked him up and brought him here. “Go with her—make sure that arranging dinner is all she's up to.”

Yusuf smiled, and rose to follow Yusrah. It was obvious from his demeanor that he enjoyed following her down the hall. Chandler admitted to himself that she was an attractive woman. He wouldn't mind a dalliance with her, and he knew that he could have it with the snap of his fingers. However, he hated to become romantically involved with a woman he was likely to have to kill. It left such an ugly taste behind, killing someone you've made love to.

He reached into a pocket and took out a clean phone, then dialed the number for Gary Stone back in the states. It took three rings for Gary to answer.

“Hello?” The computer nerd said.

“It's me,” Chandler said, counting on Gary's recognition of his voice to be all the identification he would need. “Things have gone crazy over here. Have you heard anything about any official sanctions against me?”

Gary had prepared himself for the question, knowing it would be coming at some point before the day was over. “No, sir, I haven't heard anything like that. Is there something wrong?”

“You're damned right something's wrong,” Chandler said. “I sat down at my scheduled meeting a few hours ago, and was almost killed by a death squad attack, some of our people. I got away, but I lost some good men and I'm pretty damned pissed. I want you to dig into everything you can find, and see who's behind them. I recognized all three—they were Kenneth Long, Harry Winslow and that man of his, Sam Prichard. I think Winslow was killed, Long was wounded but may still be alive, I'm not sure about Prichard. Find out for me and get back to me on this number. And Gary, don't waste any time!”

Gary nodded into the phone, just as if he were being sincere. “Yes, sir, I'm on it. I'll get back to you as soon as possible.” He ended the call instantly, the way he always did.

While Chandler was waiting for his dinner, late as it was, Gary was just about to have his own a little earlier than usual. He had microwaved a chimichanga, poured himself a glass of orange juice and was just about to chow down when Chandler had called. After he hung up, he looked down at his food and pushed it away. Something about talking to Chandler just ruined his appetite.

Gary had barely had any sleep since meeting with those two men a couple nights before. He had finally begun to relax that afternoon, mostly because he hadn't heard from Chandler and had allowed himself to hold that those men have done what they had planned to do, which was eliminate Gary's boss from the face of the earth. That phone call told Gary that things had not gone according to their plans, and that was going to make it much more difficult for them to accomplish their mission.

Gary had read through Chandler's notes a half-dozen times, and he was literally terrified of what would happen if those men failed. Chandler had to be stopped, but Gary didn't know what he could do to stop the sonofabitch. He was just a programmer, a hacker, he'd never had any training with weapons or strategies. There was not really anything he could do, other than the offer what clandestine support he could to those who were trying to do what was right.

Absently, he picked up the orange juice and took a sip, then thought over the day back at his office. He knew that a lot of the muscle there was extremely loyal to Chandler, so there was no hope of recruiting anyone from inside that part of the organization to help him deal with the problem. He passed them over without a second's thought, and then began looking at all of the rest of the staff of the senior Muslim desk. He poked through all of their computer terminals, scanned all of their emails, tapped all of their phones and read through their text messages — only one person, a girl in the analytics office, even seemed to be aware that Chandler was going off the deep end, and her attitude was one of, “What I don't know, or pretend not to know, probably won't hurt me too badly.” That was the way most people would respond, by sticking their heads in the sand like a bunch of ostriches. Far be it from the human animal, other than a few spectacular examples, to want to stand up against the threat to all of his fellows. Most people were simply cowards, only concerned about self-preservation. In Gary's opinion, those were the ones least worthy of any preservation whatsoever.

But then, there were those spectacular individuals, the ones who stood out in a crowd because they would never just sit back and shut up. These were the ones who would fight against all odds for what they knew was the right thing to do, regardless of how it might look to everyone else, regardless of how the law might see it. They were the ones who accepted the responsibility for the safety of the rest of their race, and Gary Stone had met a pair of them just a couple nights before. He had honestly put a star on his kitchen calendar to mark the day.

On the other hand, they weren't the only two he had met that day. There was another one, one whose face he had not seen, but whom he knew even better than those he'd met in person. He went to his computer, ran all the scans to make sure no one was tapping into it or watching what he was doing, disabled the keystroke loggers that were required by his security clearance and which supposedly could not be disabled, and then sent a message.

Stony: Herman, are you there?

He waited for about three minutes, and then the response appeared on the screen.

Herman: I'm here. What's up?

Stony: just heard from the boss. Sounds like your boys didn't do too well. Got a sit rep on them?

Herman: just sent them some Intel a little while ago. I know things went bad, but not how bad. Any news on them from your end?

Stony: I hear one may be dead, another wounded, no word on your guy, though, sorry.

Herman: my guy is okay. He didn't say anything about fatalities or wounds, so don't know.

Stony: Herman, my boss is crazy.

Herman: you want to tell me something I don't know?

Stony: look, I got nobody my end I can trust, and I mean nobody. If he finds out I'm talking to you, no one will ever find my body. That's the world I live in. But right now, I know it's my time to decide which side I'm on, and I only got two choices, him or you. If I choose him, I'll be worse than Hitler's top man, but if I choose you, I will probably end up dead and not very far off. Then again, I never expected to live forever, but I do want to be able to look in the mirror while I am alive. Guess that means I got no real choice, I choose you. Tell me how I can help?

Herman: keep doing what you're doing. Get us everything you can on him and on his plans. I know they're worried about whether someone is ready to make his plans happen if he falls. Who is back up? Is there a backup?

Stony: there is one, don't know who. I'll see what I can find out, but don't hold your breath waiting for me. Keep the channel open. I'll get back to you as soon as I can, and hopefully I'll find something worthwhile. Tell your guy I'm on it, and if they've got anybody who could cover my back, I'd appreciate it.

Herman: will do. Good luck.

Gary sat back and looked at the computer, and a strange sense of accomplishment went through him. He had come to that point that every man reaches sooner or later, the point where he has to decide where he stands, and he had made the decision that felt right to him. He knew what the consequences most likely would be, but he had made the decision that he couldn't live with the alternative, so he stood on what he believed. Gary was proud of himself, more proud than he had ever been.

So, he thought, they need to find out who Mr. Chandler's backup man could be. All I've seen in the notes are references to “M,” who seems to be the one to take over if anything happens to the boss. He ran through all of the people he could think of whose last names began with M, but he didn't know of any who might conceivably fit the bill for the backup man or woman.

He opened Mad Maggie, his own special hacking program. He fed into it every connection he could find to Chandler, every relative, everyone who owed him favors, every person who served on the committee that oversaw his activities, and instructed the program to look for anything about any of them or anyone connected to them that might make them a likely candidate for M. When he had the program ready to go, he hesitated with his finger over the execute button, reminding himself that once he executed the search, there would be no going back. This was the point at which he truly made his commitment to his choice, and for a brief few seconds, he seriously considered changing his mind and letting Chandler find out about the men he had helped.

He looked at the execute button, and smiled. “Oh, what the hell! This is bound to be a lot more fun!” His finger stabbed the button, and Gary Stone became a man.

Back in Jerusalem, Chandler was wolfing down the unusual meal of fish, rice and spices that have been set in front of him, and finding it quite enjoyable. He was sitting up close to Yusrah's desk, using it for a table. She sat on the other side, watching him with interest.

“You eat as if you believe there won't be any food left for you when this is gone,” she said.

“Something like that,” he replied. “The way things are, I don't know for sure when I'll get another chance to have a meal, so I'm going to eat as much as I can right now without slowing myself down. That's a survival tactic, one we learned in the field. Eat when you can, rest when you can, for there is no way to predict when you will get another opportunity.”

“Oh, I quite understand the philosophy,” she said. “Believe it or not, I was not always a desk jockey. Isn't that what you Americans call a diplomat? Someone who rides a desk all day?”

Chandler shrugged his shoulders. “That would be one of many derogatory terms we use,” he said. “There are lots of others, but I never cared for that type of tomfoolery. If I have something to say about someone, or about how they do their jobs, I prefer to say it to their faces. It's so much more satisfying to see the look in their eyes when they realize what I can do to them.”

“I know precisely what you can do to me,” Yusrah said. “You do not frighten me, Mr. Chandler. I resigned myself to the type of death I will suffer long ago, and frankly I have lived long past the time when I expected it to claim me. I do not aid you because I fear you, I aid you because I desire the rewards you have offered me. The same is true of my country. Can we therefore dispense with talk of threats and retaliations, and discuss what help you may need from me at this time.”

Chandler looked at her as he chewed his latest mouthful, and then shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said. “I have three men I need to meet with in the morning, so I need secure transportation to the café down the street from the French Embassy. That's where we are meeting, and of course I want that kept under the tightest secrecy. I got lucky today—I can't count on being that lucky if they catch up with me again. Oh, and I'll need weapons. I had to ditch mine, and Yusuf has only a handgun. I do not wish to be caught unprepared again.”

Yusrah nodded. “We have weapons, and I can have one of my drivers take you to your meeting. Now, the question then is, will you be returning here? As I've said, that is not a comfortable position for me or for my country. You need to find another place to stay.”

“I won't need to come back, not tomorrow. The men I'm meeting will have new accommodations arranged, so I'll thank you for your hospitality and move along. However, remember that I will need you next week, when everything goes into motion. Your outcry must be loud and unmistakable; you are ready, aren't you?”

“Of course we are ready,” she said, and he could hear the frustration in her voice. “Remember, Mr. Chandler, the things that you are doing will result in the deaths of many of my countrymen. Even more, it will mean deaths for those who share the Muslim faith throughout the world. The sacrifices are necessary, we agree, but that does not mean that we take them lightly. On the contrary, we take these sacrifices and our responsibilities quite seriously, and expect of you to do the same. These are the lives of my brothers and cousins that are being spilled upon your battleground. They must not be wasted.”

“On that we agree,” Chandler said. “None of what we're doing can be wasted, none of it can be ineffective. This plan has been laid for thousands of years, and is only now coming into its time. Shamash has waited a long, long time for someone to bring his prophecies into reality. These prophecies were made almost five thousand years ago, more than twenty five hundred years before the birth of Christ. They foretell this age, when the societies of the earth are becoming more and more corrupt and evil, so that they're heading towards what can only be their own ultimate destruction. If Shamash allowed it to continue much longer, there would be no world left for his people to rule. I am fortunate to have been chosen, and everyone who helps me will be rewarded. This really is an incredible opportunity.”

“But it comes at a price,” Yusrah said. “The rest of the world will see you only as a monster, and the Christians will call you the Devil, or worse.”

“So what? They won't even know who I am. I'm not a fool, you know; there are those who are well suited to being out in the public eye, and then there are those who can make the plans and decisions that are necessary in order to properly rule something as large as a whole world. That's me. I've got people in place to be the ones out front, the ones who point the fingers of blame where I want them pointed, and then offer the answers that the world needs in order to survive. Let the world think what it wants to, as long as they obey and do as they're told.”

Yusrah rose once again and walked out of the room. Chandler watched her go, and like Yusuf, he admired the view. There was no doubt that she was an attractive woman, and had kept herself in shape. Women weren't his concern right now, however, because there were much more important matters he needed to attend to.

First, he needed to deal with the problem of these two rogue agents who were trying to gun him down. While he might actually understand their reluctance to allow his plans to go through, he could not allow them to succeed in their attempts to stop him. It was just too important that he accomplish the things Shamash had set before him.

Chandler often wondered how it was that so many religious scholars failed to see that Shamash must be the true God over all. All of the other religions, he was convinced, had merely copied so much of what Shamash had done, so many of his prophecies and predictions. Was it so difficult to see what was right before your eyes? Apparently, for some, it was.

Chandler finished eating and got up to leave the office. He had already been assigned a room, and it was getting quite late, so he decided to go and get some rest. Yusrah would take care of the details for the morning, so he could relax, at least for a little while. He followed the hallway to get to his room, and sat down on the bed to take off his shoes. He was incredibly tired, and could feel himself trying to doze off even as he lay back on the bed.

* * * * *

“We can't sit back and do nothing,” Sam said. “As it stands right now, we don't know what he's up to, where he's going – we've got no intel!”

Sam's phone rang, and he snatched it up. It was Indie calling again, and he answered quickly. “Hey, baby, what you got?”

“I just talked to that computer guy a little bit ago, and he's working on trying to get you some kind of information. I told him that I thought one of the things you're concerned about is who Chandler might have ready to take his place, if anything happens to him. Is that right?”

“Yeah, it is. In fact, that's sort of the big issue, right at the moment. We're trying to decide whether we should just eliminate him, or try to take him alive so that we can hopefully get that information out of him.”

Indie was quiet for a moment, and Sam knew she was wrestling with the knowledge that he was talking about killing Chandler, about cold blooded murder. Sure, she knew it was necessary, but that didn't make it easier to handle. “So, if this guy could get you that information, then there's a possibility you wouldn't have to expose yourselves to so much risk, am I right?”

“That about sums it up,” Sam said. “The other problem we've got is that that place you located belongs to another country's diplomatic mission. We can't do anything there, nothing at all. If we had any way to know when he might be leaving, or where he might be going when he does, that might give us a better chance of success. If you happen to talk to your friend again, ask him about whether he could get us that information.”

“All right, I'll get ahold of him and see if he has any ideas on that line. Other than that, how are you doing, Sam?”

Sam looked at Natasha and Ken, and shrugged his shoulders. Natasha had her own phone out, and was whispering furiously into it. “Baby, I wish I'd never heard of any of this,” he said. “I wish I was back home in our house, with you and Kenzie, and didn't even have any clue these things were going on. Trouble is, I do know, and I can't sit back and hope that someone else can deal with it. That's just not my way.”

He heard Indie hold back a sniffle. “I know that, Sam,” she said, “and it's part of why I love you so much. Okay, so let me get this straight. You need any information you can get on where and when Chandler might be going from where he's at now, as well as any info on who he might have as his second-in-command, or backup person. Am I missing anything?”

“Not that I can think of. I guess the big issue, right now, is whether taking him down is going to be enough to stop his plans. If we knew that for sure, it could make a world of difference. As long as we're not certain of that point, then we could just be making things worse.”

Indie gave a sarcastic laugh. “Well, then maybe it's a good thing that you haven't had greater success before now, right?”

Sam smiled. “Yeah, I guess that's right. Thanks for rubbing my nose in it.” He closed his eyes and thought for a moment, then opened them again. “Something else,” he said. “Ask your buddy if he can get us anything on the people Chandler might have working with him from other countries. That could be critical, and the first one he could be looking at is the woman who lives in that house where he's hiding right now. She's some sort of helper in the Libyan mission; ask him to find out anything he can on how she might be involved, or her government.”

Indie said she'd get hold of Gary right away, told Sam she loved him and hung up. He looked at Ken and Natasha, who were sitting there watching him as if hoping he was about to pull a miracle out of his ass. He shrugged and smiled.

“Well, she's trying to get us some serious intel, so that we know what we're up against. She's got somebody in Chandler's office who's willing to feed her information, and beggars can't be choosers. We need whatever we can get, as far as intelligence. Keep your fingers crossed that she does us some good.”

Natasha shook her head in irony. “Ken,” she said. “If someone had told me a week ago that today I would be sitting here with a rogue agent and an ex-cop turned private eye whose wife does better cyber work than the entire cyber warfare division of the company, and that the fate of most of the free world probably depends on what our little band can do, I would have refused to believe it. And if whoever it was managed to convince me that it was true, I would probably have gone into my bedroom and blown out my own brains.”

Kenneth Long burst out laughing, and it took him a moment to get himself back under control. “Natasha, you would've done no such thing. Just the absolute incongruity of the whole concept would have been enough to make sure you would stick around just to see what might happen.”

She looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and rolled her eyes. “You're probably right,” she said, “but that doesn't mean that I wouldn't have been smarter to blow my own brains out. Let's face it, we don't exactly have a lot of hope, here. I mean, come on, there's a pretty good chance we're about to see the entire world turned on its ear. Boys, if we don't stop him, this insane plan of his to turn so much of the world against itself is probably gonna work! You take all of these countries and pit them against each other, you're going to have chaos. Now, if somebody steps up who can get enough of their attention long enough to make them listen to a plan that could bring clarity to it all, then you got yourself a new world leader. I don't know about you guys, but that scares the hell out of me!”

Sam grinned. “Not long ago, I would have agreed with you completely. The thing is, I just had an incredible crash course in prophecy, and as far as I can tell, there's still a very, very slim chance that Chandler really is a part of what's supposed to be happening, even if we disagree, he and I, on which prophecies to believe. Now, I think he's a fake, and that he's simply trying to take power for himself that is not intended to be his. If he's not real, then he's nothing but a terrorist, a monster, and a monster needs to be put down. Holy crap, haven't you guys ever watched Supernatural? Monsters have to die, just ask Sam and Dean!”

“Well, there's not much doubt he's a monster,” Ken said. “I guess the only real question remaining is what we have to use against him. Silver bullets? Wooden stakes? What's it going to take?”

“Sam and Dean – and incidentally, that's one of my favorite American television programs – those two never had to deal with anything as evil and real as Grayson Chandler. Somehow I doubt that even with all the information they had on monsters and such,that they could have found a reference to the special, magical weapon that is necessary to deal with one like this guy. I don't think we need silver, I think plain old lead will do it; however, I'll confess that I'm beginning to think we need to sanctify it with prayers and maybe some holy water!”

Sam leaned forward and buried his face in his hands again. “Look, if we can't touch him where he's at, then we've got a mess on our hands, already. Natasha, can you put someone out there to watch, see when he leaves and which way he's going?”

“Already done,” she said. “I took care of that while you were on the phone with your wife again. I'll have three people watching him from three different angles within twenty minutes. If and when he moves, we'll know it.”

Sam nodded. “Kinda figured that's what you were doing, good job. So, I guess the only thing for us to do right now is to try to get some rest. Natasha, just be sure to wake us if you get any word. Now, get off my couch, I want to try to snooze as much as I can between now and whenever all hell breaks loose. Next time we get Chandler in our sights, I don't want his luck holding out any longer. I don't care how many false gods he's got on his side, I want the son of a bitch's throat in my grasp, and I want his balls where I can crush them if that's what it takes to break him.”

Natasha grinned, then took Ken's hand and led him back to the bedroom. He didn't put up any resistance, Sam noticed, although it was doubtful he was capable of much more than resting. Something about bullet wounds had a tendency to eliminate thoughts of any other activities, unless those activities were necessary to survival.

Sam moved back to the couch and adjusted the pillow, then lay down and tried to relax.

3

Herman: Stony, are you around?

Gary Stone saw the message appear in a box on the right of his screen.

Stony: I'm working. What's up?

Herman: talked to my guy. We know where your boss is, but he's untouchable as long as he's there.

Stony: yeah, DI. If they do anything there, could trigger WW3.

Herman: bingo. Can you get anything on when he might move and where to?

Gary didn't type anything for a couple of moments, and Indie knew he was probably thinking it over. A moment later, she saw the little icon that indicated he was typing.

Stony: don't know anything yet. If I were to call him and say I had some way to know your guys were going to move on him, he'd probably head out fast, but I wouldn't know where to. We might use that as a last resort, make him jump out in front of them, right? Meanwhile, I'll try to figure his next move while Maggie is working on identifying his Number Two.

Herman: Maggie?

Stony: lol. My version of your Herman. Maybe someday we can introduce them, let them play chess.

Herman: introduce a pair of AI programs to each other? Scary. Suppose they hit it off and give birth to something that decides people are no longer necessary?

Stony: Good point, I'd hate to be grandpa to the Terminator or something worse.

Herman: yeah. Bad enough we got your boss. The things he's out to do would be just as bad for humanity as Skynet.

Stony: all too true. Okay, let me get back to it. If I get anything, I'll let you know.

Gary sat there and stared at his laptop's screen. He wasn't sure exactly who Indie was, but she had guts, he was sure of that. She had to know that her computer could be traced when she was talking to him, and for all she knew, he could be playing her, stringing her along to keep her and her husband guessing about what Chandler knew or didn't know.

He reached for the keyboard again, and began entering information into Maggie. One of her built-in functions was to scan all the computers in the offices that Gary worked in, and he told the program that he wanted rapid notification of any internal messaging through the system, from or to Chandler. When he had finished giving the program these instructions, he started looking over the results he had been getting from his previous search.

Like Indie's Herman, Mad Maggie displayed results in a list of links to other files, whether on Gary's own computer, somewhere in the network from the office or even on the web. The first page of results showed literally dozens of links, and he began scanning through them.

The first twenty all seemed to be of people connected to Chandler through his personal life. Gary had told Maggie to look for anything that might connect particular individuals to the “M” that kept turning up in Chandler's notes, and she had done her job. Maggie had searched through all of Chandler's notes about people he knew, looking for any “M” notation, and had found several. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to tell her to ignore a capital M that was part of a name or word, and to look only for instances where it appeared alone. He rolled his eyes and began re-writing his instructions, then turned the program loose once again.

That took only a few minutes, and then he was surprised to see that Maggie had already flagged some of Chandler's internal messages for his review. He popped open the page and looked them over.

The first message on the page seemed to be from Chandler to some unidentified woman in the international transactions office, asking her to forward to him a copy of a report she had done on Yusrah Almagia, a senior attaché in the business bureau of the Libyan Embassy to Israel in Jerusalem. The report had to do with transactions made between Libyan businesses and some companies in Europe, companies that kept turning up over and over in Chandler's notes. Klockenbrink Electronics, Fuhrler Engineering, Burkschwitz and Meierminsk, a law firm, and many others all had sent substantial sums of money to various companies in Spain, Austria, Italy and Great Britain, each of which was apparently approved by Ms. Almagia. Gary made a list of the transactions and added the companies behind them to Maggie's search parameters. The program would look up each company's officers and major stockholders to see if any of them might fit the profile he was building on “M.”

The next message appeared to be from someone, possibly an analyst, over at the Russia desk. It said that Stas Nicklovitch, who was one of Russia's most brilliant biologists, had perfected a strain of wheat that was almost gluten free, would grow to harvest in eleven days and actually added nutrients to the soil. This feature allowed it to be replanted within a day of harvest, and it would grow well even in temperatures as low as the mid forties. This would allow it to produce as many as twenty five full crops per year in most climates, and sometimes more.

This announcement had been suppressed, the message said, in accordance with Chandler's instructions, and no news of the development had been allowed out of Nicklovitch's laboratory farms. Unfortunately, this had required the elimination of two of his assistants, Sabina Petrov and Yevgeni Utkin, who had tried to leak the information to WikiLeaks. Professor Nicklovitch was very upset about their deaths, but said that he understood the necessity, since the announcement of such a potent food source would mean the chance for many third world and less-developed nations to begin to feed their starving populations in ways that they had not been able to do previously.

Gary sat back in utter shock and stared at the monitor. A discovery of this nature could conceivably mean an end to world starvation; for Chandler to withhold it until he could have it announced to support his plans for world domination was to allow thousands, maybe millions, to starve to death when it wasn't necessary. He forced himself to accept the reality of what he was seeing, and went on.

The next few messages were simple and innocuous, having to do with staff members asking for time off, others wishing Chandler a happy birthday – Gary hadn’t even known it was coming up – and other such things, so he skimmed through them quickly and went on.

The one after those, however, brought him up short. It was a terse message from an unidentifiable agent of Chandler's in Rome.

Thought you'd like to know that another Cardinal has come on board with us. That makes eight of the most prominent Cardinals, and gives us a solid majority in the College of Cardinals since so many of the others will follow their leads. The only holdout among the ones you wanted locked in is George Cardinal Simmons from Boston. He's here, right at the moment. Should I take any action on him?

Chandler was trying to manipulate the College of Cardinals? But why? The current Pope was in good health, so there wouldn't be a Conclave anytime soon – unless, of course, something unexpected should happen to the pope!

“Great God in Heaven,” Gary whispered to himself, “he's going to have the pope assassinated!”

* * * * *

“He's moving!” Natasha said loudly, and Sam was up in an instant. “I just got the message, he's left Almagia's house and is heading this direction. Let's get out of this room, we're sitting ducks here!”

Ken was on his feet and slamming another pistol under his jacket, so Sam grabbed one and did the same. He took one of the Glocks that Natasha had brought them the day before, then snatched up a couple of the extra magazines. Natasha took the remaining nine mil, and they headed out the door toward the elevator.

“How could he know where we are?” Sam asked. “Did anyone in our office know?”

“No one,” Natasha said. “At this moment, I'm wondering about the man your wife has been talking to. Perhaps she let our location slip, and he passed it along?”

Sam shook his head angrily. “She wouldn't make that mistake,” he said. “Believe me, she's smarter than all of us put together, and her instincts are excellent. She'd never give him any information he could use against us.”

“Well, if he's coming for us, then somebody did,” she snapped back at him. “My watchers say that he's just turning onto King David Street, coming from the south. If he's coming to the hotel, he'll be here in two minutes.”

“Then he'll find us waiting for him, in the lobby,” Ken said. “There's no point in worrying, we've simply got to be ready for whatever may happen.”

“Who's worried?” Natasha asked. “I never worry, I simply like to be prepared. I've found that it tends to keep me alive. Anything wrong with that?”

The elevator opened, and they stepped into the lobby. A quick look around told all three of them that there was nothing unusual in sight, so they spread out and walked in different directions, instinctively posting themselves where they could all watch the front door, but keep an eye on other entrances, as well. A couple of minutes passed, with no surprises, so Sam looked over at Natasha.

She was looking back in his direction, and hooked her head to tell him to come her way. He quickly stepped across the intervening space, and joined her just as Ken did.

“Surveillance says he turned on to Paul Emile Botta Street,” she said. “He's apparently meeting someone for breakfast at Shlomo's. It's a popular place—indoors, quiet, secure; I doubt we could get in close enough to see him without being spotted.”

“Great,” Sam growled. Another chance we can't do anything with. Let's get down there and try to catch him as he's leaving, maybe we can at least follow him to somewhere we can try to take him.”

Natasha rolled her eyes as if frustrated. “Okay, then let's go. We can follow, maybe, but remember that we're still looking at risk, here. If we take him down and he has someone waiting in the wings, we're back to square one, except we don’t know who we're looking for. We can't risk that, Sam.”

Sam smiled. “Who said anything about taking him down? I want to take him in, as in capture the sonofabitch! You let me have him for an hour, we'll know who his backup is.”

Ken put a hand on his shoulder. “You can't count on that, Sam. Chandler is a religious fanatic, even if his religion is something so out there that none of us can understand it. I've seen religious fanatics withstand tortures that would crack anyone else.”

“Well, we'll never know if we just stand around here talking about it, for God's sake, let’s go!” Sam stormed away from them and headed for the door.

Ken looked at Natasha and shrugged. “He gets this way, sometimes. I think we better follow him, don't you?”

She laughed. “If we don't, God only knows what kind of mess we’ll have to clean up. Let's go.” The two of them followed Sam out the door and towards the parking lot.

Sam hadn't gotten that far ahead of them, and even with Ken limping a bit, they caught up with him before he got to her car. He glanced at each of them.

“Glad to see you decided to join the party,” he said.

“Wouldn't miss it,” said Ken. “I hear tell it could turn out to be quite a blast.”

“That's what I'm hoping for,” Sam said with a grin. “In fact, I'm counting on it.”

They climbed into the car and Natasha got behind the wheel. She started up and backed out of the parking space without a word, then turned on to King David Street and headed for the intersection, already signaling her turn. The light was green when she got there, so she made the turn with no problem. Just a couple of blocks later, she pulled over to the side of the road and parked.

She pointed across the street at what appeared to be a small but fairly nice office building. “That's Shlomo's,” she said. “The big building a couple doors down is the French Embassy, and there are those who think Shlomo's is simply a part of their mission. I think more Embassy business gets done in Shlomo's than it ever does in their offices. Odds on, Chandler is meeting with French Embassy staff right now.”

Ken nodded. “It's even worse than that,” he said. “I bet you the sonofabitch is in there eating breakfast. You know what I'd give for a big plate of pancakes right now? Or French toast?”

“Shut up, you're making me hungry,” Natasha said. “We don't have time to worry about food right now. That was always part of your problem, Kenneth, you always let inconsequential things distract you when there are more important matters to attend to.”

“There is nothing more important than breakfast— it's the most important meal of the day! Didn't anyone ever teach you that? Oh, wait, I forgot. You're Russian, for you would be lunch that's most important, right?”

“Would you two grow up?” Sam asked. “Natasha, where are your surveillance people? Are you still in touch with them?”

“We did grow up, and we didn't like it, so we went back to acting like children just to annoy you. Yes, they're inside, still keeping an eye on Chandler. I've got a couple on him right now, a man and a woman. They don't look out of place in there, so he probably hasn't noticed them at all. I instructed them to let us know the moment he starts to leave.”

“Good. Then I guess all we can do is wait.” Sam leaned back in the backseat of the car and tried to relax. “If I doze off, wake me when the fun starts. I'm for snatching the sonofabitch right now, if we can. Only question then is where we take him.”

“If you figure out a way to grab him, I can handle that part,” said Natasha. “There are still places around here where you can do that type of thing. You snatch him, and I'll show you where.”

“Sounds good,” Sam said. “Like I said, wake me up if things start happening.”

The three of them relaxed and waited, with Ken and Natasha keeping an eye on the restaurant. A half hour passed, and then an hour. Sam actually managed to doze off for a bit, but the other two sat there wide awake the whole time. They played a game of tic-tac-toe on scrap paper to occupy themselves.

Suddenly, Natasha's eyes lit up. “He's up,” she said, “and headed for the door. Apparently he's leaving with whoever it is he met with here. They'll be coming out the door in a second, there are six of them.”

Sam sat up and looked toward the door. “Six of them?” he asked. “Do we have any idea how many might be armed?”

“If they're French Embassy, Sam, you can assume they all are. They're almost certainly DGSE, Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure. They're sort of like the CIA, though a bit more inclined to be public about their affairs. Duck down, here they come.”

* * * * *

It was after midnight, but Indie couldn't sleep. She was sitting on the bed, computer in her lap and Kenzie snoring softly beside her, when the message box appeared.

Stony: Herman?

Herman: I'm here.

Stony: I found some stuff, but I don't think you're going to like it.

Herman: Gee, that's comforting. How bad is it?

Stony: Bad enough to make me wish I'd never taken this job, I can tell you that. My boss isn't just playing off the prophecy angle; he's actually orchestrating things to make all those prophecies seem to come true. He's got a solution to the world hunger crisis, a way to bring peace to the Middle East, new medical breakthroughs that his puppet can take credit for, you name it. He's planning to rule the world within the next month, I swear.

Herman: Okay, but we knew he had to have some of those things, or he couldn't pull this off. What's got you so upset?

Stony: He's got everything set up. Herman, it's all in place and ready to go. There isn't any Number Two that I can find, but he's got people in place to make sure each aspect of his plan comes off without a hitch. He's got assets in place in every country including our own, and anyone who isn't willing to play ball his way is going to be eliminated. Care to guess who's first on that list? I'll give you a hint: he lives in the Vatican.

Herman: Wait a minute, he's going to assassinate the pope? I thought he was after some European leaders? The Pope isn't in the file you gave me the other day.

Stony: No kidding. Think I would have left that out if I'd known about it? I just found this stuff, and it's scaring me to death.

Herman: Got any timeline? Anything we can use to try to head it off?

Stony: Not yet, working on it. Thing is, I've been reading his internal messages, and he's got people in the office who are working with him to pull this off. This plan of his is designed so that each individual part of it takes its cue from the one before, as in, item B can't happen until item A hits the news. If the pope is item A, like I think he is, then as soon as he's whacked, item B will be triggered, then item C, etc. As far as I can tell, he's got each item primed and paid for and ready.

Herman: Paid for?

Stony: Yeah. He's funneled billions of dollars from a dozen different countries into this project. Some of those countries have agreed to cooperate with his plan, because he's promising them special favors when it all goes down and he's BMOC!

Herman: Well, come on, Stony, there's got to be something we can do! What can you give me? There's got to be something!

Stony: First thing that comes to mind is to tell your old man to back off. As far as I can tell, the only one who can stop this from happening is the boss himself, so if he gets killed, we're SOL! He's already given everyone their orders, they're just waiting for their cues.

Herman: Then let's nail those people! I'm sure Sam could get someone to go after them, round them up so they can't do their jobs!

Stony: Thought of that, but there's a catch: I don't know who any of them are. The email addresses he's using are ones he set up. They're accessed through an anonymizer system, and scrambled so that you have to have an encryption key to read them. All these people need to do is log in the way he tells them to, and they can talk all day long without anyone ever knowing who he's talking to. Even his is a wild card. We couldn't prove he sent or received any of these emails.

Herman: Great. Thinking. You said you're reading his internal messages. Can you send messages out as him?

Stony: I thought of that, too, but so did he. Each of his operatives has a code word that he gave them in a face-to-face meeting. If he sends them any order to change plans, it has to contain that code word, and I have no way of knowing what they are. I figure he must have a list somewhere, but I can't find it.

Herman: I'm calling Sam. He needs to know all this, now. Don't go away.

Stony: I'll be here.

She slipped off the bed and took both the computer and her phone out into the hallway. The cabin wasn't huge, but the loft it had once had had been expanded into a second floor, and she and Kenzie were sharing the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. Her mom had the other one up there, and Grace got the main one down on the ground floor. Poor George had to sleep on the sofa, but he said it was really comfortable.

She sank down onto the floor and called Sam, who answered instantly.

“Babe, it's me,” she said, “and you gotta listen. You can't kill Chandler!”

“Yeah, we'd already figured that out,” Sam said. “What made you think of it?”

“I'm talking to Gary, and he said Chandler's got this all set up so it's like a domino effect. Each part of his plan will go off as soon as the one before it does, and he thinks the first one is going to be the assassination of the pope. That's all set up, but he doesn't know when it's supposed to happen.”

“Sheesh,” Sam said. “Doesn't this guy ever quit? So, has Gary got any ideas how we can stop him, then?”

“Well, maybe,” Indie said. “He says Chandler's got a list of code words somewhere, and all the people he's been sending orders to know that if he changes the plan, he has to give them their code word, the one he told them when they were together. If he doesn't use that word, then they'll know it isn't really from him, and the plan goes ahead. Gary can't find that list; if you can, then he could send out messages that would tell them all to stand down. It's not much, but it's what we've got.”

Sam sighed. “Great. Well, you called at the right moment. We're just about to do our best to kidnap Chandler, so at least now we know what we need to try to get out of him.”

Indie could hear the tiredness in his voice. “I wish I had something better to give you. I miss you, Sam. I want you to come home.”

“I will, babe, I will,” he said. “Just as soon as this is all over, I'll be home. Kiss Kenzie for me, and tell our mothers hello. And if your mom happens to get any advice for me from Beauregard, let me know, okay?”

Indie couldn't resist a chuckle at that. “I will, babe, I promise.”

She hung up, and pulled the computer back into her lap.

Herman: Okay, I told him. He's going to try to get that list of code words out of Chandler.

Stony: Okay. Wish him lots of luck, because we all need it.

* * * * *

Sam scowled as he put the phone back into his pocket. “Indie's been talking to handler's computer whiz again. He says the plan is rigged so it will go off with or without Chandler, and the only way to stop it is with some code words that only Chandler knows. If we can take him and make him talk, we might be able to stop it all. If not, then...”

“You're always so optimistic,” Ken said, but Sam didn't even crack a smile. They had just watched as Chandler and an entourage of five men and a woman had left the restaurant and climbed into a small van to drive away, and Natasha was trying to follow and keep them in sight, while not getting close enough for them to be sure they were being followed.

“That's what we’re dealing with,” he said. “Chandler's got agents in place all over the world I guess, and each one knows that when something particular happens – one of the events he's set up – then that's their cue to make their event happen. The only way to stop them is a message from Chandler that contains a code word he gave them, and I guess it's a different word for everyone. If we can get that list, then Gary can send out the messages that will stop it all. Otherwise, nothing can stop it before it's too late.”

Ken and Natasha looked at one another, and Ken shook his head. “Geez, this thing gets better and better. I thought I was just out to stop a guy who was trying to bring on globalism and destroy our national sovereignty, and now we're dealing with the fact that we're after a madman who makes Hitler look like a Boy Scout.” He sighed, and turned in the seat to look at Sam. “What you're saying is that if we'd killed him back in DC, or even last night, we'd still have to deal with whatever it is he's got set up, right?”

“Something like that,” Sam said. “I don't know if whoever he's got set up as a puppet is still gonna take charge if that happens, or if it's just that all his disasters will go off and we'll be dealing with the aftermath, it could be either way. All I know is that if we want to stop these things, we need that list of code words or whatever.”

Natasha shrugged her shoulders and looked angry. “That settles it, then. We have to take him alive, and we have to make him talk. No other way, right?”

Sam shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “No other way.”

They continued to follow the van, which went out of Jerusalem on Highway 60, traveling to the north. They'd been on the road for about twenty minutes at that point, and the van seemed to be cruising along at a steady clip. The road was empty out that far, and Sam found himself just watching the scenery flow past.

“Hey, hey, what's this?” Natasha asked. “They're pulling off, turning onto a dirt road. Do I follow?”

Sam sat forward, and grunted. “If you do, they'll know we're here and following. We'd have to move right in, and to be honest, if we try to take them on our own, I'm not sure we'll be able to do it. There are seven of them and three of us, and that doesn't strike me as great odds.”

Ken nodded. “I agree with Sam. Go on by, go another half mile and then turn around. We'll have to park and walk in, most likely, just to do a recon. Try to see what we're dealing with here.”

Natasha nodded and moved into the left lane, slowing to let the van get further down the road and away from the highway. By the time they passed the road it had turned off on, the vehicle was almost out of sight. Natasha pressed the accelerator, then, and sped up to get to where she could safely turn around.

It was almost three minutes before she got to a place where she could do so, and then she hurried back to the entrance to the road. There was no sign of any vehicles, so she turned in and followed the track for a short distance, then pulled over and stopped behind a small hill, out of sight of the actual road itself. Sam had his phone out and was looking at the area on Google Earth.

“Okay, we've got a good-sized residential area off that little side road up ahead, to the north. If they've gone into there, we'll never find them. If they went straight ahead, on the other hand, there's nothing much but a whole lot more desert. I see a couple of big buildings out there, no clue what they might be.”

“Hang on,” Natasha said, “and I'll see if I can find out.” She took out her own phone and dialed a number. “Itzak, it's Tasha. Get my GPS location and tell me what's around here that might interest DGSE agents. Of course I'll hold, idiot, what else am I going to do?” She covered the mouthpiece and leaned over to look at Ken. “Do you know how hard it is to get good people lately? No, of course you don't, you work alone. Never mind, but trust me, it's—yes, I'm still here. Yes? Really? Well, well, isn't that just interesting? Thank you, Itzak, I'll make it up to you later.” She hung up the phone and smiled. “Well, one of those big buildings is the research lab of a joint French-Israeli company named Fire Flower that's been working on a process for making a better fuel grade methanol than what's currently available. Some of the unofficial reports that Itzak has seen indicate that they've been successful. If he's right, then they can now produce a pure methanol fuel that any car can run on, and for less than a nickel a gallon. The process is simple enough to be set up just about anywhere there's a surplus of vegetable matter to use for fermentation.”

Sam had both eyebrows about as high as they would go. “That's great news, unless you own stock in Exxon, but how does it help us?”

Ken chuckled. “Sam, you must be getting tired,” he said. “Chandler wants to be the force behind the Antichrist, so he's got to be able to solve all the big problems facing the world. Fuel and energy are two of the biggest ones there are. Safe bet that it figures in to his plans.” He turned to Natasha. “Do you know how far up the road it is?”

“Not me,” she said, “Sam's the one with the maps. Sam?”

Sam looked at his phone. “There are two buildings, and I don't know which one it would be. One is about a mile and a half ahead, and the other is, oh, twice that. Three miles, give or take a thousand feet, I'd say. And that one is surrounded on the photo by crop fields, so that's probably the one we want.” He looked out through the windshield as if he could see the building in the distance, even though there were hills blocking the view. “I wish I'd grabbed that carbine. We might have had a chance for some sniper work.”

Natasha grinned. “If we do, there's something in the trunk that's even better. M21, the old American sniper rifle. I snagged it yesterday, just on the off chance we might need it. It happens to be one of Kenneth's favorites.”

“Sure is,” Ken said. “One of the finest long range weapons ever made, in my humble opinion, and I mean bar none! Get me to somewhere I can see down onto that building, and I can pick 'em off as fast as they can come running out!”

Sam looked at him for a moment, and then smiled grimly. “You're giving me ideas. Let's go get a better sense of the range, shall we?”

Natasha put the car back into gear, and they moved toward the building where they hoped to find Chandler.

4

The building was right where Sam had said it would be, and they found a place to hide the car from view that was less than half a mile from it. Ken and Sam climbed a hill and found a spot for Ken to hunker down with the rifle, and then Sam went back to the car and Natasha.

“Here's what I've got in mind,” he said. “I've got an idea on a way to spook Chandler out of there and herd him toward Ken. Once they're away from any possible help, Ken's gonna pick off his escorts, starting with the driver to stop them. Once they're isolated, then, you and I will move in and take him alive.”

She nodded as if this were what she'd been expecting to hear. “Kenneth is good,” she said. “He'll take out the others, and all we should have to deal with is Chandler, himself. We should go on past the building, just in case they try to go out that way. Even with handguns, we should be able to send them back toward Kenneth.”

“Then let's do it,” Sam said. Natasha started the car and put it into gear, and Sam stayed low in the seat as they passed the building where Chandler was apparently playing God. Sam looked at it, then glanced at Natasha. “Natasha,” he said, “I've got an idea.”

They went half a mile past the structure, and found another small hill to park behind. Sam took out his phone and scrolled through the recent call list until he found the one he wanted, then told the phone to dial it.

A tired and nervous voice said, “Hello?”

“Hi, there,” Sam said. “This is James Davis, remember me?”

Sam heard a swallow on the other end of the line. “Whole lot better than I want to,” Gary Stone said. “Can't say I was expecting you to call me tonight. Is there a reason I shouldn't hang up now?”

“Just the fact that you're in too deep to quit now, and eventually you're gonna need me and my friends. Listen, kid, I need one little favor and then I'll do my best to leave you alone, got it?”

A sigh. “What's the favor?”

“I need your boss's cell number, the special one he uses just for his secret contacts. I want to give him a ring.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, no way! If I were to give you that, he'd know it was me. See, it isn't one number for everyone, it's one phone with a dozen or more numbers that ring to it. As soon as it rings, he knows who's calling. If I give it to you, he'd know you got it from me, and I wouldn't live ten minutes after that.”

Sam rubbed his eyes, thinking. “Okay, then help me out, here. He's in a building, and I know where. I want him to come out of there in a panic, so that my people and I can pick off his henchmen and take him into custody to get you a certain list of code words. How can I make that happen?”

It was Gary's turn to think, and Sam could hear the wheels turning in his head as he mumbled to himself. “Let me ask you, didn't you have a man from HS with you, who got killed when you went after him?”

Sam scrunched his eyes. “Harry? Harry's not dead, as far as I know. He was wounded, but pulled through.” He glanced at Natasha, who was nodding.

“Okay, good, even better. Yesterday, he called me and wanted me to find out all I could about you and your friends, and he thought Harry Winslow was dead. He asked me to find out if there were any official sanctions against him, which there aren't because everyone is too afraid of him. I'll call him right now and say that I just got a message that Winslow isn't dead, and has sent a team out after him. Tell me where he is, so I can make it sound like he's only got a few minutes to get out, and he'll run right to you. But, let me tell you, man, if you miss this time, I'm done! Don't call me again, and I mean it!”

Sam grinned. “Deal. He's at the Fire Flower labs in Israel. Tell him Harry's alive, and that there's a military strike team coming to take him into custody. Say he's got fifteen minutes to try to get out of sight again. We'll do the rest.”

He heard the kid sigh once again. “Man, you'd better, cause I want to live long enough to get old! I'll make the call as soon as I get off, so be ready.” The line went dead a second later.

Sam called Ken and told him to be ready, then cleared his phone and watched the building. He was standing on top of the car, using the zoom function of his phone's camera like binoculars, so that he could actually see the entrance doors.

He counted less than a hundred seconds before those doors burst open and several people came flying out. He'd expected to see Chandler and his six escorts, but more than a dozen people were scrambling into cars, and it was only by chance that he actually spotted Chandler getting into a sedan, rather than the van that had brought him there. The van was the first vehicle out of the parking lot, followed by that sedan. Sam punched his phone to get Ken back on the line, praying that he'd answer.

“Yeah, what?” Ken growled.

“Chandler, he's not in the van! He's in the red sedan behind it, just him and one other person, the driver!”

“Got it!”

Sam cut the call and hopped down onto the hood and then the ground, swinging himself into the open door. “They went toward Ken, let's go!” Natasha slammed the car into drive and floored the accelerator, spraying dirt and sand and rocks behind them as she roared out of where they'd been hiding.

Up the road, Ken had been busy. As Sam and Natasha came into view, they saw the van lying on its side off the edge of the road, and the sedan was nosed into a hump in the sand. Chandler was out of the car, lying on the ground. Natasha slid to a stop close to him, and Sam was out of the car with his Glock aimed at Chandler's forehead.

“Freeze, you crazy bastard,” he said, and Chandler looked up at him with a face full of confusion. It cleared up a second later, and Chandler laughed.

“Good lord,” he said between guffaws, “you actually turned my own people against me? I never would have believed that little geek could have the balls, but that's the only possible explanation. He spooked me right into your plans, didn't he? That little snot! Wait till I get my hands on him!”

Sam shook his head, as Ken came jogging slowly toward them. “You're not going to get your hands on anyone, Chandler,” he said. “You're going with us, and you're going to tell us something we want to know. After that, if you've been cooperative, then we'll see what we can do about getting you a comfortable cell in a super max prison somewhere. If not, then you'll simply die very painfully. That choice is entirely up to you.”

He bent down and frisked Chandler, taking his cell phone and a small revolver, then grabbed his shirt and hauled him to his feet, wincing as his bad hip complained about it. The man was still chuckling.

“Prichard,” he said, “you're such a dreamer. How many times have you guys tried to take me out, now? And can you even guess how many others have tried? Shamash has always protected me from you and your kind, and he always will.”

Sam shrugged. “Sorta looks to me like he's taken a hike on this one, Chandler. In case you hadn't noticed, you're a prisoner, now, not the guy calling the shots.”

Chandler shook his head, his smile undaunted. “I don't know why, but Shamash wants me with you for the moment, or you'd never have gotten me. But I can guarantee you this, Prichard – there's something coming that will take me back out of your hands. Shamash isn't going to allow his work to be stopped, not this close to seeing them all come to fruition.”

Sam shoved Chandler into the back seat, and then climbed in beside him as Ken got into the front. With both of the men aiming handguns at him, Chandler was docile, but he kept smiling.

“So,” Sam asked Natasha, “where to?”

The woman laughed softly. “Oh, trust me,” she answered, “I know just the place.” She drove back toward the highway they'd left earlier, and turned back toward the city of Jerusalem when she got there. They'd been back on it for about three minutes when they saw a number of Israel Police vehicles racing back the way they'd come.

Sam looked at them as they passed, then turned to Chandler. “If those were the guys you were counting on, I think you're out of luck.”

Chandler looked amused. “Shamash is a god, Prichard, the most powerful of them all. He doesn't need puny mortals to do his will, but sometimes he chooses one he finds worthy as a special warrior, or a messenger. I'm one of those, and that's why he's protected me all these years. When he sends someone after me, it won't be local cops, trust me. It'll be one of the lesser gods who serve him, and you’d better hope you don't piss him off at the time. Gods don't like to be annoyed.”

Sam stared at Chandler and shook his head. “Jesus, you're really crazy, aren't you,” he said, and Chandler began to laugh again.

Ken looked at Sam. “Can't I just kill him?” he asked, but Sam shook his head.

“Not just yet,” he said. “We need those code words; it's the only way to stop his plans.”

Chandler's laughter became raucous. “Code words? And you think you can get them out of me? You stupid idiots, why would I give them to you? All I'd have to do is give you some fake words, and then all of my people will know that you've got me, and then they'll ignore even me if I tell them to stand down, which I wouldn't do. You're screwed, gentlemen, and if you had any sense at all, you'd know it. All of the works I've set up for Shamash will come to pass, just as he told me they would, and there is nothing you or anyone else can do to stop them, now!”

Ken looked at Sam. “Just lemme kill him, please? He's right, we can't ever be sure we got the right codes, so there's pretty much no chance we're gonna get anywhere with this plan. If I kill him, then at least we know he won't live to enjoy any of it.”

Sam looked at Chandler. “The worst part of that is, you're right,” he said to Ken. “We've got him, but it won't help us in the long run, because he can actually use us against ourselves.” He studied Chandler's face for a moment, then leaned back against the door of the car. “Go ahead, kill him,” he said, and Ken grinned as he pressed the barrel of the rifle against Chandler's forehead.

Chandler's eyes went wide as he saw Ken's own widen in delight, and realized that he was about to die. He stared as Ken's finger began to squeeze, and then closed his eyes.

The rifle went “click,” as the hammer fell onto a firing pin that had no cartridge to strike, and suddenly it was Ken who was laughing loudly. He turned to Sam. “Oh, man, you shoulda seen your face! You didn't think I was really gonna pull the trigger, did you? You thought I was bluffing!”

Chandler was gasping for breath, but he began to smile again. “You see?” he said. “Shamash protected me! You were out of bullets, and you didn't know it! Shamash protected me.”

Ken stopped laughing and looked at Chandler, then held up his right hand. In it were three bullets. “I didn't run out, you jackass, I unloaded. I just wanted you to realize that I could kill you any time I want, and your little fake god isn't gonna stop me when the time really comes. Give me half a reason, and that time will come right soon. Now, you wanna rethink your opposition to giving us those code words? Seems to me you'd rather sit in a cell and be alive than let me put a bullet through that empty head of yours.”

Chandler forced his smile to stay and firm up, but there was something about it that said he was shaken. “I'm not giving you anything,” he said. “You can't stop me, and you can't win. In fact, I'll give you one last chance to join me, how's that?”

Sam was watching him closely, and didn't buy his act of bravado. “You're such a fake, Chandler. I don't think you even believe your line of crap about Sham-ass, or whatever you call him, you just want a name to hang on the stuff you're doing.”

Chandler sneered, as Natasha made a hard left turn and then accelerated again. “Well, then, you need to check your source of information, Mr. Prichard. Shamash has quite a following, in reality, although it's kept somewhat secret. We followers are known as Babbarites, and we worship him in a number of powerful rituals. His magic is far greater than any other in the world, and we...”

“Aw, shut up or I'll tell Ken to kill you for real,” Sam said, and Chandler closed his mouth with a shrug. Sam turned to Natasha. “How much farther to wherever we're going?”

“About five more minutes,” she answered. “It's a small warehouse that's been set up for things like this, when we've got to keep someone isolated and might need to dispose of them permanently. It's swept for any kind of surveillance every few days, and I made sure it was clean again this morning. I've got keys, and no one will come near it for at least a couple of days. That's how long we've got to crack him.”

Chandler laughed again, and Sam scowled. “I don't think we've got that much time,” he said, staring into the madman's eyes.

They arrived a few minutes later, just as she had said they would, and she used a key to turn a switch that opened an overhead door, then drove inside. A button inside on the wall let her close it down once again, and then the lights came on.

“Bring him and follow me,” she said, and Sam dragged Chandler out of the car. Ken got out on his own, moving stiffly after the workout of hurrying down to the car earlier. They all followed her into the back rooms that they could see.

Natasha went to a cabinet at the back wall, and reached inside to press a button that was disguised as a screw head. As soon as she closed it again, the whole thing began to rise up from the floor, and an empty box appeared before them. “Get in,” she said, and led the way. Sam grinned as he realized that it was some kind of an elevator, one that he was sure must take them into a cellar below the main floor, but when it descended, he saw that the cabinet above was several inches wider in both directions, so it stopped in its original position as the elevator continued on down. It had a small light on its ceiling, and they could see each other clearly.

The shaft was smooth, but it was obviously cut from natural rock, and Sam guessed that it must have descended at least twenty feet or more. When it stopped, Natasha stepped off and into what appeared to be a fair-sized room. She apparently knew where the light switches were, for they were suddenly in bright light that overwhelmed the little one on the elevator cage. That one winked out a moment later.

There was a table in front of them, and several chairs. Some of them were austere, but some appeared to be quite comfortable, and Ken dropped into one of those. He had left the rifle in the car, but had his pistol in his hand. “So, now can I kill him?”

Natasha grabbed Chandler and shoved him toward one of the plainer chairs, and Sam saw that it had straps on it. Together, he and Natasha strapped Chandler down at wrists and ankles, and then Natasha went to a small cabinet that stood beside the table, reaching in to withdraw a box that was full of different kinds of cutting implements. She set it on the table and turned to Chandler.

“Mr. Chandler,” she said, “we haven't been formally introduced. I'm Natasha Minsky, and I work for the United States government. My role there is sort of flexible, but let's just say that one of the reasons they hired me is because I have a certain expertise in extracting information from reluctant sources. Since you have worked for the CIA, I'm certain you're not going to be one who believes that line about how we never resort to torture, so I'll give you the courtesy of explaining what's about to happen.” She showed him the contents of the box, then pointed down to the floor beneath the chair. “As you can see, there are drains under your seat. That's because you're going to be losing a lot of blood, Mr. Chandler, and it has to go somewhere. I'm going to skin you, you see, a tiny bit at a time, until the pain reaches the point that you can't withhold the information we want. I'd tell you that you could save yourself a lot of suffering by simply giving us that information now, but it wouldn't be true. I'd skin you anyway, just to make sure you had been telling the truth.”

Sam stared at her, unsure of what to think, and then she turned and took a pair of rubber gloves from a box full of them that he hadn’t even noticed on the table. He guessed that she must have taken it from the cabinet, as well, and when she had them on, she selected a thin knife and turned to Chandler.

“I'm not bothering with antiseptic, Mr. Chandler, because you're not going to survive, anyway, at least not for long.” She stepped toward him, and Chandler's eyes got wider and wider until she held the knife just over his right forearm.

“Remember, Prichard,” he said, his voice high and shrieking, “if you let her do this, you're throwing away any chance to be on the winning side! If you help me now, and stop this madness, I can find a place for you that will be high in my councils! You can be a powerful man, Prichard!”

Sam looked at him, and then noticed that Natasha was looking his way, and appeared to be amused. Inside, he was horrified at what she was about to do, but something in her manner told him that she wasn't bluffing. He swallowed his bile, smiled at Chandler and said, “Go for it, Natasha.”

The screams that permeated the building were louder than Sam had ever imagined possible, but Ken just sat there. Sam sat down in another armchair near him, and a few moments later, he saw that Ken had fallen asleep. Chandler's screams, as Natasha removed one square inch of skin at a time, cutting a square in the flesh of his chest with the blade, and then using a pair of pliers to grab it and rip it away, grew more intense with each piece she took but Kenneth Long merely slept through it all.

Sam couldn't sleep. He waited until Natasha had stepped back after removing about the fourteenth piece of skin, and caught her attention.

“You're not asking him any questions,” he said, and she shrugged.

“At this point, he still thinks something is going to happen to save him, so he'll make stuff up to try to appease me. He has to reach the point of knowing that there's no hope, before he'll be willing to talk, and then he won't be asking me to stop and let him go—he'll be begging me to kill him and make the pain end.”

“And that's when you'll know he's telling the truth?”

“Oh, he'll probably never tell the truth. Sam, he's got nothing to lose, now, except his whole plan. If he tells you what you want to know, then he's beaten, and you've won. Until he believes he's going to die, he won't tell you what you want to know because he hopes to get out of here and wants to see your face when you realize he beat you. Once he accepts the inevitability of his own death, though, then all he wants is to have that one final victory, that final revenge, to die knowing that you failed to stop his plans. He's not going to tell you the truth, Sam.”

Sam stared at her. “Then—then why are you doing this to him?”

“Because he deserves it,” she said simply. “If you can't handle it, then leave. The keys are in the car, and I can have someone come for me when I'm finished.” She glanced at Ken, still snoring in the chair. “Take him with you, would you? He's a bundle of bad memories, for me.”

Sam stood there for another long moment, and then turned and kicked Ken's chair. “I'm leaving. Are you coming, or staying here?”

“He's going with you,” Natasha said. “I told you that.”

Ken looked at Natasha, and then at Sam. “I guess I'm going with you. Where are we headed?”

“To find Harry,” Sam said, as he stepped into the elevator cage. “And pray like mad that he knows what to do next.”

“Shaare Zedek Medical Center,” Natasha said as the elevator began to rise. “Room three twenty.”

Sam nodded, then looked once more at Chandler. The madman was glaring at Natasha, but he began to whimper as she turned to him with the knife raised again. He began to scream as the elevator ascended into its shaft, and Sam was thankful when the sound died out a moment later.

“She says he's never going to tell us the code words,” he said to Ken, and the assassin nodded.

“Most likely he won't,” he said. “That's all he's got left to use against us. Oh, he might, when the pain gets bad enough, but there's no way to know for sure. If we try to use whatever he gives us, it's odds on that we'll be shooting ourselves in the foot.”

“So we're beaten? Is that what you're saying?” They stepped out of the elevator and walked toward the main room, where the car was waiting, as the elevator and cabinet descended into place once more.

“We're not beaten until it's too late to stop things,” Ken said. “As long as something hasn't happened yet, then there's always the chance you can stop it. That's what we've got to look at now. Do we have any leads on who any of his people are?”

They got into the car, with Ken taking the wheel. “Not that I know of,” Sam said. “All I know is that this Gary kid thinks the first thing that's supposed to happen is that the pope gets killed, and that's the thing that signals everyone else to set off whatever they're supposed to do – the other assassinations, the cruise ships, the school attacks, all of it.”

Ken pushed the button that opened the overhead door to the street, and then started the car and put it into gear. “Let's go see Harry,” he said. “Maybe he'll have some kind of an idea what to do, because I'm fresh out.”

5

They drove into Shaare Zedek Medical Center forty-five minutes later, following GPS directions on Sam's phone. The parking lot was big, and by the time Ken found a parking place, another twenty minutes had passed. They got out of the car and made their way inside, both of them limping for different reasons. Ken even looked a bit like he belonged there, with some of his bandage showing through the collar of his shirt.

A stop at the information desk told them where Harry's room was located, and they rode a more civilized elevator up to the third floor. Signs that were printed in several languages made it easy to find the old man, and Sam had to laugh when he heard Harry's voice even before they got to his room.

“I can assure you, my dear, this is not the first time I've ever been in a hospital,” came the old Southern drawl, and Sam grinned. “Just hand me the damned thing, I know how to pee in it!”

Sam and Ken turned the corner into the room, and saw a very frustrated young nurse standing there in front of Harry. “But, Mr. Winslow,” she was saying, and only turned around when she saw the big smile spread across Harry's face.

“Sam, boy!” Harry said, “And I see you've still got that other rapscallion with you, so at least I know you survived! No one here would tell me a blessed thing, and I've been going nuts all day! I was just about to call Indie, and see if she knew anything, but I was scared to death it would be bad news! Come on in, maybe you can convince this little girl that I don't need her to hold my wee wee for me while I make a whiz!”

Sam chuckled again, and turned to the nurse. “Honey, if he says he can do it, I'd just let him. Arguing with him always ends up with something bad happening, and you just seem too nice for that.”

The girl started to say something, but them gave Sam a look of disgust and shoved a urinal into his hands. “Fine, he's all yours,” she said in deeply accented English. She turned and stomped out of the room, and Sam tossed the urinal onto the bed.

“Harry, it's good to see you're alive. The last time I saw you, your eyes were glazed over and you looked pretty dead, to be honest. When Natasha said you were alive, I didn't quite believe it.”

“Now, Sam, I've told you before, I'm a hard son of a gun to kill. Believe me when I say it's been tried by the best, but I'm still here. The question is, did we get anything done? What's the situation on our problem?”

Sam and Ken both looked to be sure there was no one in earshot, while both of them sat in chairs that were close to the bed. Ken said, “We missed him at the cafe, Harry, but then Sam's wife found him for us at the home of a Libyan diplomat. Natasha's surveillance people tailed him this morning to a restaurant down by the French Embassy, and we were able to tail him after that to a place out in the desert. We were about to try again when Sam's wife called; seems that computer kid of Chandler's had found some pretty heavy stuff, that his entire plan is set up like dominoes. One part goes off, that triggers the next, and so on. As far as we know right now, the first phase is the assassination of the pope, but we don't know when or how or who; we've got nothing but a message to Chandler saying that it's on, but no way to ID the sender. According to Gary the Wonder Kid, the only way to call it off is to get a list of code words Chandler gave to his ops, words that can confirm that a message really is from him, so we snatched Chandler instead of killing him. Tasha's working on him now, her specialty.”

Harry sat there with a long face. “He won't give up anything,” he said. “Once she gets hold of him, all he'll be able to think of is finding a way to beat us, and that means never giving us a way to stop his plans.” He sighed, and leaned back against the raised bed. “Sam,” he said, “all we know is that the pope is at risk, right?”

“Right.”

Harry cleared his throat. “I can only think of one plan that might have any merit to it, but I'm not sure how you're going to feel about it.”

Sam looked at the old man, and then rolled his eyes. “Since when have you ever cared what I thought? Give it to me, Harry.”

The old man grinned at him. “That's the spirit, boy. I've been saying for weeks now that if I ever had a son, he'd have been you! Okay, here it is. Take Ken and head for Rome, and call that beautiful wife of yours and have her meet you there. Get that kid of Chandler's, too — you'll probably need them both. My idea is this: I know one person at the Vatican I trust, and I can get him to listen to you, but the best he might be able to do is give you some possible suspects for whoever Chandler is working with there. Between the four of you, you might be able to figure it out and track him down in time to stop the assassination—assuming it's not too late already.”

Sam sat there for a moment, and then shook his head. “Harry, you’re asking me to put Indie in danger, again. I can't do that. I almost lost her over Darrel Unger, Harry. I can't risk actually putting her into a case like this one.”

“But, Sam,” Harry said, “that's why I told you to take Ken with you. His job is to keep her and the other kid safe, while you track down Chandler's agent. Now what I'm hoping is that his man there might have information on some of the others, and that he won't be as fanatical as Chandler. If he's got intel you can get out of him, then we stand a chance of putting an end to this whole situation before anyone else can get badly hurt. Can you see my logic, Sam?”

Sam sat there and stared at him for a long time, and none of them spoke. Ken let his eyes wander around the room, but he didn't look directly at Sam, and Harry merely stared right back at Sam. Several minutes passed, and at one point the nurse came back in, but Harry lifted the empty urinal and waggled it at her, so she left again without a word.

Sam finally sighed, and took out his phone. It was almost noon, so it would be just about six a.m. back home. Indie had called him early that morning, and then again a couple of hours ago, so he knew she'd been awake most of the night. He looked at Harry.

“You arranging the flights?” he asked, and Harry grinned and nodded. Sam dialed his phone and waited a moment for Indie to answer.

She got it on the second ring. “Sam? Babe, are you okay?”

“I'm fine, honey,” he said. “Listen, I was wondering—how would you feel about a trip to Rome?”

There was dead silence on the line for almost five whole seconds, which is a long time on an international phone call. “Sam, did my mother call you?” Indie asked him, and he squinted in confusion.

“Your mother? No why—oh, don't tell me! Beauregard?”

“Huh! Mom came in here a few minutes ago and said Beauregard had just told her you might be taking me on a long trip, way across the ocean. I thought maybe she meant a vacation or something, but...”

Sam sighed. “Babe, I can't tell you all of it right now, but I need your help in Rome. Ken and I are going to be leaving here shortly and heading there, and we'll be bringing your pal Gary in, too. Harry's hoping that between the four of us, we might be able to stop the disasters Chandler had planned.”

Indie smiled into the phone. “How do I get there?” she asked simply.

“Harry will make arrangements,” Sam said, “and he'll send word to George, I imagine. I guess you'd better start packing, baby. Kiss Kenzie for me, and tell her I love her and we'll be home soon. Love you!”

“I will,” Indie promised, “and I love you more!” She hung up before he could engage her in the ritual argument over who loved who more.

“One down,” Sam said. He dialed again with the phone on speaker, and smiled when the phone was answered with a groan.

“Please, please, please don't tell me you blew it!” Gary said, and Sam wondered if he was hearing tears in the kid's voice.

“We got him,” he said, and the sound of a sob came through loud and clear. “Thing is, he isn't going to give us what we want, so we've got to find another way to stop his plans from happening. We need your help, buddy.”

There was a silence for a moment. “Help how?” Gary asked.

“I'm with my old pal Harry, and we'd like to bring you into our team. We need you to fly to Rome and help me and my wife try to track down the one who's supposed to arrange the pope's assassination. Are you willing to do that?”

Gary was quiet for a moment. “Can your old friend Harry do anything to make sure I don't get burned along with the rest of Chandler's people, if we pull this off?”

Sam raised his eyebrows at Harry as he said, “I'm pretty certain that if you help us out, we can guarantee you immunity from any kind of prosecution.” Harry nodded, but stopped when Gary went on.

“Prosecution?” he squeaked at Sam. “Who the hell is worried about prosecution? I want to know if you can keep me alive!”

“Yes,” Sam said. “You come on with me, and I'll put you under protection. Deal?”

Gary hesitated for a moment, then, “Well, I guess so. Do I use my real passport, or make one up?”

Harry waved for Sam to bring the phone closer. “Young man, my name is Harry Winslow, and I've been advised about what a help you've been. I'll arrange for someone to come and get you within twenty minutes. He'll identify himself by saying that he has an extra pizza. Go with that man, and he'll get you to Rome safely.”

“An extra pizza? God, you spooks are so corny, couldn't you think up something better than that? How about saying, 'your presence is needed in the land of the Caesars,' or something like that?”

“Gary, just go with the pizza guy, and I'll see you in Rome. I'll fill you in then.” Sam hung up, ending the call before he could get frustrated. He looked at Harry.

“So, the plan is for me to get Indie and the whiz kid to Rome, and try to use their skills to ferret out who Chandler's man in Rome might be, then get him to tell me who else he knows of who was involved, right? You do realize that this is a pretty flimsy plan, don't you, Harry?”

Harry smiled. “I don't think so, Sam,” he said. “If there's one thing I know about you, it's that you’re a cracker-jack investigator, and if the clues are there, you'll figure out who the bad guy is in time to stop him. Go to Rome, and set those two to digging. If they turn up any clues at all, then I know you'll find the bastard, and then you can either make him talk, or track him back to fine others. Either way, I think it's our best hope to stop the things Chandler has set into motion.”

“Thing that bothers me,” Ken said, “is why he'd have it all set up to go ahead if he wasn't there to enjoy it. I'm not saying he should have expected to be caught or anything, he's a maniac, and they never believe anyone can beat them—but most of them don't put something like this on a timetable, they want to give the order themselves. That's what's odd about this mess, to me. Why wasn't he planning to give the order that started it all, so he could watch it all unfold on the news from somewhere comfortable?”

“Maybe he was,” Sam said. “Maybe the guy in Rome, if Gary's right and the assassination of the pope is the first shot, maybe he's waiting for Chandler's call to go ahead.”

Ken shook his head. “He said there was no way to stop it, even if we did manage to kill him, remember? That means he knew it would go off even without him. No, for some reason, he didn't worry about being in a place where he could be safe and comfy while he watched his plans destroy the world as we know it. It was set up so that it would begin whenever some special condition was met, and if we could figure out what that condition is, then we'd be ahead of the game.”

Sam looked from Ken to Harry and back. “Maybe the Pope is going to give a speech, or put himself in position to be accessible, and that's what makes the assassination possible.”

“That might be it,” Harry said. “The Pope is often giving speeches and making appearances. Your job would be to figure out which one it might be, then, and how the assassin might plan to do it. If you can get a lead like that, then it could be a game changer.” He hooked a finger at Sam. “Give me your phone.” he said. “I need to book you a flight, and then you boys need to go and get packed.”

Sam handed over the phone, and listened with half an ear while Harry told someone to take the two of them to Rome on the soonest possible flight, even if it meant making a special one. Then, he began issuing orders about getting Indie and Gary onto flights, and Sam grunted when he heard Harry rattle off Gary's address without even slowing down.

Apparently he had the clout to back up his demands, because the person on the other end agreed to everything Harry wanted. Harry hung up and looked at Sam.

“You've got two hours. Go to your hotel and get your things, then get to the airport. You'll meet a man named Jackson at the diplomatic flight line, and he'll take you past everything. Don't take weapons, of course, they and everything else you might need in that line will be provided when you get there.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Did they tell you I got shot in the chest? Doctors said the bullet went clean through my lung, and they thought I was dead when I arrived. But my heart was still going strong, so they took me on into surgery. For the record, this is the eighth time I've been shot, and the third time I've almost been declared dead on the scene.” He opened one eye and focused it on Sam's face. “The next time I volunteer to join you on a mission, Sam, do me a huge favor and tell me to butt out, would you? I'm too old for this crap!”

Harry was snoring a few minutes later, when the nurse came back in. She took the still-empty urinal from his hand, rolled her eyes, and stormed back out of the room.

Sam and Ken left the room right behind her, and took Natasha's car back to the hotel. They got their bags, checked out and drove back to the airport, leaving all of the firearms in the car's trunk, and then found the diplomatic line once again. A skinny fellow was standing there, holding a sign that said, “Sam.”

“You must be Jackson?” Sam asked, and the guy smiled as he looked up from the magazine he was reading.

“I am,” he said. “You must be Sam and Ken, right? Just follow me, please, I've already got you cleared and your plane is waiting.” He turned and went toward a door that led out of the terminal, and the two men followed him.

Their plane turned out to be an Air Force cargo plane, a C-5 Galaxy, and Ken groaned.

“What's the matter with you?” Sam asked.

“Cargo flight,” Ken said. “We're probably gonna be sitting on boxes or mailbags. This will be one of the worst flights of your life.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” said Jackson. “There's no cargo. From what I was told, whatever you’re doing has presidential authorization to utilize any resources, so this flight was ordered up for the express purpose of carrying you two to...” He looked at a card in his hand. “To Rome. You'll be sitting in the passenger cabin, on the upper deck, along with the flight crew. The seats aren't bad, I've ridden in them myself.”

A loadmaster crewman met them at the entrance to the aircraft and showed them to the passenger cabin. They took seats that would leave them off by themselves, and the crewman told them they'd be airborne within fifteen minutes. They heard the big engines coming to life a moment later, and Sam said, “It's like any other flight.”

There was no answer so he looked over at Ken and found him sound asleep already. Sam grinned and leaned his own seat back. They were on their way to Rome, with no idea what might be waiting there. Sam whispered a prayer for strength and guidance, and a special one asking God to keep Indie safe through this mission.

His phone rang, and he looked at it to see Natasha's number. He answered quickly.

“Hello?”

“I just thought you'd want to know,” Natasha said, “that Chandler died ten minutes ago.”

Sam swallowed. “Really?” he asked. “Did you get anything out of him?”

“Well, he never did give me any code words, but I got one thing I thought might be useful. It was his last words, actually, as he was realizing that his phony god wasn't going to save him after all. He said, 'She'll make all of you pay for this.' I tried to ask him who he meant, but that was all I got.”

“She? Sounds like there's a woman involved, then. Could he have been planning to put a woman in charge?”

“Considering that he was going up against a large number of Muslim nations, I'd find that unlikely, but I suppose it's possible. I mean, theoretically, whoever he was putting out there was supposed to unite the nations and bring peace right?”

Sam thought for a moment. “Natasha,” he said, “what happens to him now?”

“I've already run what was left through a grinder, Sam. He's in the sewers, on his way to a fitting destiny for a pile of crap like him.”

Sam hung up and put his phone back into his pocket. He leaned back and tried to get the mental image of Chandler, with half his skin removed, out of his mind. It took a while.

The flight from Tel Aviv to Rome took just under four hours, mostly because the military flight was forced to route around certain areas in the countries which it overflew. There were certain areas where the airspace was restricted to nonmilitary aircraft, so any flights with any type of military designation had to go around them.

They landed at da Vinci airport, in Fulmicino, Italy, and found a young woman waiting for them when they got off the plane. “Mr. Prichard? Mr. Long?”

They admitted to being the men she was looking for, and let her lead them through the airport. They had to flash their phony diplomatic passports at one point, but were waved on through as if the person who looked at them just wanted them out of his hair.

“My name is Maria,” the girl said in an obvious Italian accent. “I have a car waiting for you, according to my instructions. We have arrangements made at a hotel, and I will drive you there, but after that you'll need to drive yourselves around. I was not told to provide you with the driver, so once I deliver you to your hotel, someone will come to pick me up.” They followed her through the terminal and out toward the parking areas, where she led them to a somewhat rough looking little sedan. “I was told to inform you that everything you might need is in the luggage compartment. I am only a civilian employee, so I don't have clearance to discuss your reasons for being here. I was told that if you need any further assistance beyond what I can give you, that I must contact one of my superiors.”

They climbed into the car, with Sam in the back seat and Ken riding shotgun. “It's been a while since I've been in Rome,” Ken said. “What hotel have you stashed us in?”

Maria started the car and drove them smoothly out of the parking area, toward the street. “You've been put into the Royal Palace Hotel. It is a surprisingly luxurious hotel, one that your country has a contract with for visiting diplomats and dignitaries. I've never stayed there myself, but I've been told that it's a wonderful experience.”

“Separate rooms, I hope,” Sam said. “My wife will be joining me later, maybe tomorrow or tomorrow night.”

“Actually,” Maria said, “you are in a suite with adjoining rooms. I was told that there are others coming, a woman and another man, and to make sure that there were sufficient rooms for all of you. Unfortunately, the largest suite they had available has only two bedrooms. The two additional men will have to share a room.”

“That's okay,” Ken said. “If he snores, I'll just shoot him.”

Maria made a face, but said nothing. Sam laughed. “Ignore him, he's all talk.”

“You didn't say that in Israel,” Ken said.

“In Israel, we weren't being driven around by a young lady with no security clearance. Hush up, now. You can talk all you want after we get to our hotel rooms. I'll just shut the door, so I can ignore you.”

They made their way through the streets, with Maria handling the car like an expert. Ken grinned at her. “You drive pretty good,” he said. “How long before we get to the hotel?”

“Well, the hotel, of course, is in Rome,” she said. “That's about forty-five minutes away, and by the time we get through the city itself to the hotel, you're probably looking at about an hour. Are you hungry? I was told that if you wanted to stop to eat before you go to the hotel, I was to take you wherever you want to go.”

“Tell you what,” Ken said. “Why don't you pick us a spot to eat? Choose someplace you'd like to eat, since this is all going on the government credit card anyway.”

Maria glanced at him, shyly, but with a grin. “I know a place, a place I've always wanted to go to eat but could never afford. Would that be all right?”

Ken reached into his pocket and pulled out his stack of credit cards, looking them over. “Yeah, I think that'll be fine. It's not some kind of fancy place that only serves weird stuff, is it? I mean, do they serve steaks there?”

Maria nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes sir,” she said. “They have the finest steaks you have ever tasted. I have heard many who visit your Embassy speak of it, but I've never been able to go there. Are you sure this won't get you into trouble?”

Sam laughed. “Honey,” he said, “trouble is the last thing we're worried about right now. If we can make your day by taking you out to dinner at this place, then maybe it'll chalk up something good on our karma. Worth a try, anyway.”

She smiled brightly. “All right! This is exciting!” She drove on, talking rapidly about the restaurant and all that she had heard of it. By the time they got to Rome, Sam felt that he and Ken could probably make a living by simply telling people about this fabulous restaurant, and then charging them a few dollars to give them the name and address of the place. They'd heard all the wonderful features so many times that he was sure it would be impossible for them to forget any of it.

The place was called Primo al Pegneto, and Sam was glad they were using Ken's funny credit cards. Each course of the meal cost more than an entire meal at any place he'd ever been back home in Denver. The food was divine, however, and he happily ate his share of it.

* * * * *

Indie was packed and ready, and Kenzie was already figuring her take for putting up with it, this time. When both her parents were gone, it meant she had to stay with her two grandmothers, Grandma Grace and Grandma Kim, and staying with them meant getting lots of shopping in. Grace had a fair amount of money, and loved spending it on Kenzie, which meant that Kim had to spend some of her own money to keep up, and Kenzie had it made when they started competing!

“Tell Daddy I miss him, and I want him to come home with you,” she said to Indie. “I don't like it when he has to go away to work. Don't we have enough bad guys here for him to catch?”

Indie smiled, and let her eyes go wide. “Yes, we do, but sometimes there are people who are so bad that it takes someone special to catch them, and that's when they call your Daddy in. This bad guy was so bad that Daddy had to chase him halfway around the world, and now he has to go to another place to catch him, and he needs Mommy to help. Isn't that exciting?”

Kenzie nodded, her own excitement level still building on thoughts of a trip to the mall. Since George was taking Mommy to the airport, Mr. Harry had said it was okay for them to all go home, so Kenzie and her Grandmas would be going to Grace's house. Kim lived there in Grace's spare room, anyway, so it wouldn't be a huge issue.

Indie kissed her daughter goodbye, hugged her mother and mother-in-law, then got into the limo's big back seat. George hurried around to the driver's seat, and they were off, bouncing along the gravel road until they got down to the main paved road that led back toward the Interstate.

Rome! Among the many places Indie had always dreamed of one day visiting, Rome held a special spot in her heart, for it was one of the most well-known places in all of history. The Caesars, the Coliseum, the Vatican—there were so many incredible places to visit and see, and she found herself hoping that she'd get the chance to do some sightseeing while she was there. Maybe, if they were able to finish up whatever Sam had to do somewhat quickly, there would be a couple of days they could spend just being tourists. Indie would love that!

The ride to the airport, with one stop at Sam and Indie's house to pick up her passport, took a couple of hours, and then George handed her off to a young woman who led her through the diplomatic processing line, and fifteen minutes later she was on a plane. The airplane wasn't as big as the one she and Sam had flown on to Hawaii, but it was still pretty large, and she was surprised when the flight attendant had her sit in the front row, then began closing the doors.

“Excuse me?” Indie asked. “Aren't there other people on this flight?”

“No, Ma'am,” the attendant replied, shaking her head. “This is a specially authorized flight, and you're the only passenger. That's all I was told. Can I get you anything before we take off?”

Indie shook her head, her eyes wide. A whole airplane, just for her? What on earth was going on?

The flight took off, and the attendant asked again if Indie wanted anything. “Maybe something to drink, for right now,” she said. “Are we flying straight through to Rome?”

“Oh, no,” the attendant said. “This flight is only going to Philadelphia, then you're getting on another plane there that'll take you to Rome. Again, that's all I know.”

Indie swallowed and smiled. She took the half size can of Coke and tiny glass of ice she was offered, and sat back to enjoy the flight.

The flight was only a little over three hours long, so Indie landed in Philadelphia at just after three in the afternoon, eastern time. She let the flight attendant lead her to the diplomatic gate, where another young woman was waiting to take her into another room.

“Hi, you're Mrs. Prichard, right? I'm Stephanie, with HS. I work with Harry, sometimes, when he needs something from the home office. He told me to meet you here and make sure you get introduced to your fellow passenger.” She led Indie through a second doorway, and a short, skinny kid stood hastily to his feet. Indie broke into a big smile.

“Stony?” she asked, and Gary Stone's eyes went wide.

“Oh, wow, are you Herman?” He smiled, and Indie dropped her bags and wrapped him in a hug. “Wow, you're even prettier than I...” He trailed off, and his face turned red.

Indie giggled. “Gary, I'm Indie,” she said, “and I'm delighted to finally meet you! When they told me we'd be working together, I was tickled! I've never gotten to work with another real hacker before. This is gonna be exciting!

Gary got out of the hug, and stood there trying not to let his shyness get the better of him. It wasn't easy, especially when one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever seen was standing there smiling at him, but he kept his cool until Stephanie announced that it was time to get them onto their plane.

This time, they were going on a commercial flight with British Airways, but because of their diplomatic status, they were boarded first. They were seated together, and even though Gary had the window, he willingly gave it up to Indie when she said she wished she'd gotten it. They chit-chatted a few minutes about normal things—Gary talked about his boring life, and Indie showed him pictures of Sam and Kenzie on her phone—as the other passengers were boarded, and then the announcement of impending takeoff came over the loudspeaker. The engines began to whine louder, and the big plane moved backwards for a moment, then began rolling toward the runway.

Indie was always amazed that something so huge could move so fast, but when the scenery alongside the runway began moving past at racetrack speeds, she felt her face split into a big smile. A moment later, the nose of the plane rose into the air, and then the rumbling of the wheels fell silent as she found herself on her way to the land of the Caesars and the Gladiators. Gary was leaning forward to look past her, and she grinned at him.

“We're on the way to Rome, Gary,” she said, and he smiled back.

Too bad she's already married, he thought.

6

Rome is a city full of history and atmosphere, one that is so blessed with art and beauty that it has become a cliché as far as tourism is concerned. A visit to Rome is merely to be expected when one is going on vacation to Europe, for no one should ever pass up the opportunity to see all the wonders that exist there.

Sam Prichard was as amazed as anyone else by the sights of the ancient city, and he and Ken had spent most of their first afternoon and evening acting like automotive tourists, just driving around in their beat up sedan. He didn't want to get out and wander around too much, considering that they were both armed and there seemed to be police just about everywhere.

They'd taken the two suitcases from the trunk up to their suite, and Sam had been tickled to find another Glock in one of them. He had threaded its holster onto his belt within a second, and then spent ten minutes filling four magazines and stuffing them into pockets.

Sam had his Homeland Security ID, which theoretically authorized him to carry a concealed weapon in any country that was an ally of the United States, but he didn't want to test it. Ken, on the other hand, had several different forms of ID, none of which were real, that would almost certainly get them both locked up if they were scrutinized too closely. Sam didn't want to test those, either.

There's only so much a man might want to do, however, without his wife, at least in a place like Rome. They cruised around the city for a few hours and then went back to their hotel. Sam didn't know how long it would be before Indie arrived, but he wanted to be refreshed and sharp when she got there. He hadn't seen her in days, and he'd missed her terribly.

For what was reported to be a luxury hotel, the Royal Palace had some amenities there were normally found only in discount lodgings. One of those was a laundromat for the guests, and after one whiff of the inside of his travel bag, he just picked it up and carried it to the laundry room. The whole thing, duffel and all, got dumped into the washer, and he fed it coins until it was ready to start. Another machine dispensed laundry detergent, and Sam was sure he paid it far more than the actual prices listed, just trying to get the box out of the stupid machine.

A half-hour later, he transferred it all into the dryer, which resulted in another battle with the coin slot. Since the dryer started up, Sam figured he must have won. Another hour saw him as the true victor, as he carried a bag full of clothes back up the elevator and didn't worry about whether the other passengers might be offended by the odor.

Clean clothing in hand, Sam went for the shower, blissfully unaware that Ken was pulling the pillow over his head in the other bedroom as Sam sang his heart out about how beautiful his wife was. The shower, unfortunately, wasn't sufficient as instrumental music to back up his vocals. Ken told himself that he would have a talk with Sam about this issue come morning, just like he'd done every time he heard Sam singing in the shower.

The sound of the water and the singing ended abruptly, and Sam vigorously toweled himself dry. He slid into his clean underwear and a T-shirt, then made his way back to his bedroom, fell onto the bed, and rapidly slipped into dreamland. His dreams, however, were of the screams Grayson Chandler had uttered as Natasha carved bits of skin from his body. Sam would never forget either the sight or the sounds that he had experienced that day, and only the knowledge of the things Chandler had planned to do to thousands of people, including many thousands of children, allowed him to go back to sleep after the nightmare woke him up.

In the next room, Ken wasn't having any trouble sleeping. While Sam was new to a world where you sometimes ignored the Geneva Convention in order to save lives, Ken was right at home. This was his element, and he was very good at moving through this world. Men like Chandler, who thought they could literally rule the world, were ultimately terrified of men like Kenneth Long, who would let nothing stop them from doing what they believed was the right thing to do. You could not dissuade them, you could not escape them; the only thing you can do with men like Ken was to kill them, but that wasn't often an easy thing to do.

Both of them slept until the sun came through their windows in the morning, and then each of them rose, looked out the window, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

* * * * *

Their flight landed at da Vinci airport at just after nine thirty in the morning, and Indie and Gary were hustled off the plane before anyone else. This time, it was a young man who met them as they were brought into the terminal.

“Hello, and welcome to Italy,” he said. Unlike Maria, he had no discernible accent, which made sense just a moment later. “My name is Joshua Smith, and I've been assigned to get you to your hotel. I understand you'll be meeting the rest of your team there?”

Indie extended her hand, and Joshua took it. “Hi, Joshua,” she said. “I'm Indiana Prichard and this is Gary Stone. Yes, we're meeting my husband and another man here this morning.”

Joshua smiled as he nodded his head. “Then, let's get you on the way! From what I understand, whatever you're up to is pretty important. Let's not keep the others waiting. If you’ll follow me, we'll go collect your luggage, and I’ve got a car waiting right out front.”

“Sounds great,” Indie said, and Gary only nodded as he followed along. Joshua led them through the airport terminal to baggage claim, past the diplomatic line where they only had to flash their passports at a clerk who was just as bored as the one who waved Sam and Ken through the day before, and out to a waiting limousine. The two of them climbed into the back, while Joshua stowed their luggage in the car’s big trunk. A moment later, he climbed in with them and tapped on the glass that divided the car into two segments. The driver apparently got the message, because the car moved out smoothly. Moments later, it was on the road toward Rome and the Royal Palace Hotel.

“Your team is being housed at the Royal Palace Hotel in Rome,” Joshua said. “I'll warn you that, although it is considered a fairly luxurious hotel, this isn't going to be the most awesome hotel experience of your lives. The plumbing rattles, the air conditioning is sporadic at best, and rumor has it that at least a half-dozen ghosts are wandering through the hallways. On the other hand, thanks to a special contract with the United States government, it has the best Wi-Fi you'll ever find anywhere in Europe. That's because it has its own dedicated satellite uplink connection, and that's tied right into the hotel's Wi-Fi. Now, most guests don't get access to that particular Wi-Fi connection, of course, but Mr. Winslow made it clear that he wanted you guys to have the fastest and most powerful Internet connection possible. Well, in Rome, that means the Royal Palace Hotel.”

Indie laughed. “Gee, all that and a haunted hotel, too? What more could a girl ask for?”

“You can ask for whatever you want,” Gary put in, “but when Uncle Sam is paying the tab, what you're going to get may be completely unrelated to what you asked for. I learned that months ago, when I first took this job. I had to throw a royal fit just to get a decent computer to work with. Anything that has to go to the government accounting office for approval is likely to get chopped and slashed as if it was an actor in a low-budget ninja movie.”

Joshua chuckled, and he and Gary did a fist bump. “Amen, brother, you got that right! I had to raise Cain this morning just to get this car, Your other guys were picked up in one of our old beaters. Don't get me wrong, the car will run fine, but it looks like crap. Somebody said they would need a car to get around in, so that's what they got assigned to them. Personally, I think that stinks.”

“Yeah, well,” Indie said, “if I know my husband, as long as it has four wheels and a motor, he'll be happy with it. He loves cars, any kind of cars.”

The conversation dawdled along, but Indie and Gary were more interested in the view outside the windows of the vehicle. Coming in on highway A91, they were treated to some amazing views, including the Coliseum and the Trevi fountain, two of the most recognizable landmarks in the world. It wouldn't have surprised Indie to know that her husband had driven past both of them several times the night before.

They arrived at the hotel at ten thirty on the dot. Indie had insisted that they not call ahead, because she wanted to surprise Sam. Sure, she admitted, he knew she was coming, but he didn't know exactly when she would arrive. She warned Gary and Joshua both to just shut up and let her enjoy herself.

Fortunately, Sam and Ken had finally given in to the sun's insistent demands that they get up, and were seated under one of the umbrellas in front of the bistro next door to the hotel. When the limo pulled up in front of the hotel's entrance door, which was merely a single door cut into a solid wall, both men took notice. When Gary stepped out of the car, they recognized him, got up and hurried over just in time for Sam to catch Indie in a hug as she got out.

“Oh, my goodness,” Indie said. “Oh, Sam, I was trying to surprise you!”

“Baby, just seeing you is surprise enough! I was blown away when Harry told me to call and ask you to meet me here, but this is big enough and important enough that I can understand why he'd want you on it with me.” He kissed her, then turned to Gary. “So, kid, I gather you're on our team, now?”

Gary shrugged, but nodded his head. “Looks that way,” he said. “Listen, I've brought along everything I could snag out of Mr. Chandler's computers, notes, everything. But I've been pounding on this stuff for a couple of days, and I just haven't come up with any answers. I'm not sure why they wanted me over here with you, but I'll do whatever you tell me to do.”

Ken patted his shoulder. “That's all we can ask of you, youngster. Hey, we're just grabbing breakfast, you guys hungry?”

Joshua had climbed out with them, and unloaded their luggage. That done, he was standing by without interrupting. He took this cue to speak up. “Okay, it looks like I've done my job and delivered you where you're supposed to be,” he said. “I gave you both my card, if you need anything you can reach me on the phone number there.” He turned to Sam and Ken and extended a hand. “Gentlemen, it's rather obvious that I can leave these good folks in your hands. If you need anything, they know how to reach me. Whatever you're up to, I wish you all the best of luck, and I mean that very sincerely.” He turned and closed the back door of the limo, then stepped up and climbed into the front seat with the driver. A moment later, the car pulled away.

“Well, the guy could at least have given me the chance to thank him for bringing you to me,” Sam said, “but Ken's question still stands. You guys want some breakfast?”

“I'm starving,” Gary said. “I'll tell you a secret about those overnight flights—they figure since it's overnight, they don't need to feed you a real meal. They give you a snack, instead. I need more than a snack, I'm a growing boy!”

Sam grinned. Indie nodded, and said, “I'm not a growing boy, but I'm definitely hungry. Should we take this stuff to your room first?”

They all agreed that it would be a good idea to carry all of their luggage up to the suite, so the four of them made a procession of it. Indie had brought two suitcases, some of which contained extra clothing for Sam, as well as her carry-on with her laptop in it. Gary, on the other hand had only one suitcase full of clothes, but he had two more cases full of electronic gear that he said he brought along, “just in case.”

Indie was delighted to find that she and Sam would have a room of their own, and managed to make Gary turn red by warning Sam that she planned on making him make up for lost time later when they went to bed. Poor Gary, on the other hand, decided he would rather sleep on the couch in the sitting room than share a bed with a professional killer. Ken didn't help by joking around about needing someone to cuddle, and he finally apologized to Gary after Sam told him he was being a jerk.

“We can put everything away later,” Indie said, “let's get downstairs to the food! I hope it's good!”

“No kidding,” Gary said. “On the other hand, it won't take much to be better than the cheese sticks and pretzels they gave us on the plane. The pretzels were bad enough, but I think the cheese was at least twenty-five years old.”

As they got into the elevator, Ken quipped, “Hey, don't you know that cheese gets better with age?”

“Then maybe it wasn't cheese. I mean, to be honest, I couldn't really tell for sure. It was sort of yellow, but it was more gooey than cheese should be. At least, I thought so.”

“Hey, I didn't eat any. I left that stuff alone,” Indie said.

The bistro wasn't much as far as bistros go, but they did offer a light breakfast menu that included eggs and sausage. The sausage was Italian, and spicier than what most Americans are accustomed to, but all four of them thought it was delicious.

“So, okay,” Indie said, “all we've got, then, is a general clue that the pope is going to be assassinated, right? So how do we figure out when and where? Anybody got anything on that?”

Sam shrugged. “Not quite yet,” he said, “but Harry gave me a number to someone he knows at the Vatican. He told me not to call until you were here, and that you and Gary would figure out why. Got any inkling on that?”

“That's an easy one,” Gary said. “That means he wants a tap on the guys phone line, so that we'll know if he calls anyone after you make contact. I'd say it's pretty good odds that he'll be calling somebody as soon as he's off the phone with you.”

Sam looked at him. “But why? If he's a friend of Harry's, why would he be calling someone else?”

Gary looked at each of them in turn, and then shook his head. “I thought you guys knew who you were up against,” he said. “Since you brought me in, I'm guessing that my old boss is no longer among the living, but that doesn't change the fact that he was a genius at this kind of crap. Remember that he spent years and years studying how terrorists work, and looking at the mistakes they made. He's not going to leave any loopholes in his own plans, they're going to be so airtight that you can't pierce them with a missile, let alone anything else. We're dealing with a man who could look at Hitler's entire operation, see the flaws in it and easily write an operational plan that would've made it a smashing success. If Osama bin Laden had had half of Grayson Chandler's brains, we'd all be Muslims by now. Just because he's dead doesn't mean he's beaten, trust me on this. Anyone he had working with him is not going to stop being scared of Chandler just because he's dead.”

“You're talking about his dead man's stash, right?” Ken asked.

“I'm talking about a whole lot more than that,” Gary said. “Chandler had people all over the freaking world who did nothing but make sure that other people did what Chandler wanted them to do. These folks aren't on a payroll, they don't collect a paycheck every Friday, they get paid in power. Chandler gave them enough knowledge to make sure they could always accomplish whatever he wanted them to do, and then he made sure he had enough evidence of what they did to see to it they were buried if they ever turned on him. He has that system so well-built that just being dead won't stop it.”

“But do we have any idea who these people are?” Ken asked. “You can tell us all day long that he has these people, but unless we know who they are that does us no good. What else have we got on them?”

Gary shook his head. “I could identify a few of them, but not many. The point, though, is that these aren't the people that we're looking for right now. The people I'm talking about are the ones that those people are looking over their shoulder for. I can assure you, just as sure as we're all sitting in Rome, that the people who are going to carry out these plans for Chandler have not one, but two separate and complete motivations. First, they want to make sure they are in the power elite when all this goes down, but second, and just as important to them, they want to be sure that they're not on the target list when it's over. Anybody who gets in the way, or who doesn't do what they're supposed to do, is going to be on that list.” He pointed a finger at Sam. “You call that friend of Harry's, but not until we got everything set up so that we can see who he calls afterward. I'll guarantee you, he's going to be calling someone, and that will give us another lead. Considering we don't know how soon this is all going to go off, I'll take any lead we can get right now, won't you?”

Sam nodded. “Absolutely,” he said. “I'm with you, a hundred percent. We've got to find some way to get to whoever's behind the assassination of the pope. If that's the trigger, then we need to know who the trigger man is, and right away.”

Indie leaned forward. “Gary,” she said, “what about the people in this guy's office? He may not make any phone calls at all—the people watching him could be right on top of him all the time. What about that situation?”

Gary looked at her, and shrugged. “You could be right,” he said. “There's not a list of Chandler's muscle out there anywhere, at least not one that I'm aware of. All I can tell you is that we need to ID this guy, the one you're supposed to call, as quickly as we can. Then we can be all over him, watch every move he makes until he leads us to somebody who leads us to somebody, etc., etc. Geez, it almost sounds like you're on a witch hunt. That's how they use to track witches down, back in the dark ages, by getting one person after another to point fingers. As long as they could point at someone else and claim they saw that person doing something evil, they got to walk away. It was the poor woman who couldn't or wouldn't accuse someone else who ended up burning at the stake.”

“If that's what it takes,” Ken said, “then so be it. We don't have the luxury of time, this is all about to start happening. If we don't come up with some answers, and real soon, people are going to start dying. I'm not Catholic, and I'm not all that crazy about the pope, but I don't want to see him get killed.”

“Nor do I,” Sam said, “but I'll be honest enough to admit that I'm a lot more worried about those thousands and thousands of school kids, not to mention the innocent people on the cruise ships. The Pope, the politicians, people who choose public life always know, somewhere in the back of their minds, that assassination is one of the risks they run. People on a cruise and kids in their classrooms should never have to worry about things like that.”

“I agree with Sam,” Indie said. “Yes, we need to stop the pope getting killed, but we have to remember that this is just a step on the way to stopping all the rest of the killings. If I understand all this correctly, it's the killings, and their aftermath, that Chandler was counting on to put his people in power, right? So, whoever it is that's expecting to step into that position is already in place, somewhere. He's just waiting for his cue in this big script, and then he can step up and say whatever it is he supposed to say to make people believe he's the new Messiah, right?”

Sam nodded. “Right. Although, there is something new that indicates that his new Messiah might be a woman, rather than a man.” He looked sideways at Ken. “The last words Chandler said was that someone he called she would make us all pay. Sounds like maybe he has a woman groomed for that position.”

Gary looked thoughtful for a moment, his eyes half closed as he ran this new data through his mind. “A woman?” He asked. “Holy cow, surely it couldn't be…” He shook his head vigorously, as if trying to clear a mental image he didn't want to see.

“Gary?” Sam asked. “Gary, what are you thinking?”

Gary looked him in the eye, and Sam pulled back a bit in surprise at the look of pure terror on the boy's face. “Look, I don't know anything for sure,” he said, “so this is nothing but conjecture, but I can only think of one woman who would want the kind of power Chandler was offering, and who might be willing to allow these kinds of atrocities to happen in order to get it. If I were to say that I'm thinking of a certain ex-First Lady, I'd bet it wouldn't take you five seconds to figure out who I mean.”

Sam, Indie and Ken all sat back suddenly, and their eyes all went wide. Indie was the first to speak.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “I know there are lots of ugly stories about her, but get real. She'd have to be willing to sacrifice thousands of innocent children, and I just can't imagine any woman who could do that.”

Gary shook his head. “Okay, something you need to get through your head is that we aren't dealing with men or women here, we're dealing with people who want power. They don't think like you and me, and a human life, to them, is nothing but a bargaining chip. You've heard the old conspiracy theory, how it was really her that ordered the fire that killed all those Branch Davidians in Waco? Well, according to documents in Chandler's files, that ain't just a theory, it's a fact.”

Ken nodded his head. “I've heard from other sources that that was true,” he said. “I'll even be honest enough to tell you that I know personally of several times when her name was invoked as the authority behind a kill order, both when she was first lady, and later as Secretary of State. And before you get all humane on me, let me tell you that I know of things just as bad that were done by lots of other politicians from our country. It's like Gary said, human lives are nothing but bargaining points to people like that. Chandler was pretty much running the black market on power, buying and selling it as he chose, and I can guarantee you that every purchase and every sale involved the loss of human lives. If she's the one, I can't say I’d be all that surprised.”

“Well,” Sam said, “some of the conspiracy theorists have been trying to claim that she was antichrist for years now, so it's quite possible Chandler would've felt like she was ideal for the job. Still, we don't know anything, not for sure. I think we need to stick to what we do know, which is that our immediate goal is to find out who's behind the assassination of the pope.”

Their breakfasts were finished by this time, so the four of them got up and went up to their rooms. Gary immediately began unpacking some of his gear, and Indie was fascinated by a lot of the devices he pulled out of his bags. While he explained each item to her, the others merely watched in silence.

“This thing? That's a Wi-Fi snoop. What that does is it logs on to any Wi-Fi network, and then records all the activity of every device connected to the network. Makes it possible for someone like you or me to go in and basically replay everything that happened on that network for however long the snoop was in place. We can run searches, look for files of any type, check download logs and even see what may have been downloaded, see any videos that may been watched — pretty much lets us know what everyone on the network was up to.”

“Like an activity monitor,” Indie said, “the kind of thing that big corporations use to see what their employees are up to online?”

Gary laughed. “An activity monitor is to a Wi-Fi snoop about like what a caveman would be compared to one of us. Pretty primitive, and not nearly as effective. If I can get that gadget within range of any Wi-Fi network where, for instance, we might have a suspect who is likely to be checking his email or some such, and pound my way through passwords until I get it online, then within a matter of minutes we'd be able to read all of that suspect’s emails, messages, virtual chats, see which dating sites he was playing around on and even check out books on his Kindle library account. Heck, we can probably order pizza with his credit cards. I brought three of those, because sometimes it's easier to put one in place than it is to retrieve it.”

“Gotcha,” Indie said. “What about that?” She was pointing at a small plastic box that had several different digital readouts built into it.

“That's a gizmo that only existed in science fiction novels until a couple of years ago,” Gary replied. “That's what's called a code picker, and it's very useful for opening these high security doors that only open when you've got the right digital key in your pocket, transmitting a signal. It's the same principle as the new cars that don't need a key to start. As long as you got the appropriate transponder in your pocket or on your person, somewhere, all you've got to do is push the button and the car starts up. Well, assuming you want to get through one of those doors or start one of those cars, but don't have the transponder you need, this little gadget solves your problem. In a matter of seconds, it can pick out the right code that should be transmitted in order to open the lock or start the car.”

Sam grinned. “I got a new nickname for you,” he said. “I'm just going to call you Q.”

Gary grinned back. “Want to know something funny? Q was always my favorite character in all the old James Bond movies, because he always had all the cool gizmos and gadgets. I think if I had half a chance, I could come up with even better stuff than he did.”

“I'll tell you what,” Sam said. “You do me right in this mission, and I'll twist some arms to try to make sure you get that chance. Deal?”

Gary let his grin broaden into a smile. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “you got yourself a deal, there!”

“Okay, if we can bring the spy movie fan convention to a close,” Ken said, “maybe we can move on to more important things. Like figuring out who it is we got to track down here in Rome, everybody up for that?”

“Of course we are,” Indie said. “We're just figuring out where to start, right at the moment. Gary, what do we need to do so Sam can make his phone calls?”

Gary was setting up his computer, which was a whole lot bigger than Indie's laptop. It was portable, in the sense that it seemed to be built into a fairly large and very sturdy suitcase, but there was something about it that said it was years ahead of what she had.

“What on earth is that?” She asked in awe.

Gary grinned at her, a smug grin that said he understood exactly what she was asking. “Eurocom Panther 5SE,” he said. “Twelve core Intel Xeon processor, thirty-two gig of RAM and 6 TB of hard drive space. This thing is an entire IT command center, all by itself. Heck, it's got eight different operating systems installed. I can run Windows, Linux—you name it and I've got it.”

Indie stared at the computer for a moment, then turned to Sam. “I want one,” she said simply. Sam grinned, and looked at Gary.

“Okay, just curious, but what does one of those puppies cost?”

Gary shrugged. “This one was specially ordered, and ran about twelve grand. If you don't need all the different operating systems, you can probably get one for less than ten.”

Sam whistled. “Put it on your Christmas list, baby, and I'll see what I can talk Santa into. Meanwhile, let's get both your computers up and doing their jobs. Gary, you never did answer her question.”

“Well, first things first,” he said. “What we'll need to do is lock onto the number you're going to call, got that handy?” Sam dug out a piece of paper and passed it over to him. “Okay, now what I'll do is go into the major telephone service here, and do a highly illegal tap on that line.” He sat down at his computer and began tapping on its keys like a piano virtuoso playing a master composition. Indie stood at his shoulder, watching everything he did. Sam noticed that she nodded a lot, as if approving of his actions or techniques.

A moment later, Gary handed the slip of paper back to Sam. “Okay, I've locked on to that number. What I've done, is built a virtual clone of that phone into this computer, so that I can hear and record everything that goes through that number. That includes touch tones, so any number that gets dialed on the phone will be displayed right here on my monitor. Okay, Mr. Prichard, you can call whenever you're ready.” He plugged in a set of headphones and slipped them over his ears.

“It's just Sam, Gary,” Sam said. “Okay, I'm calling now.” Sam dialed the number from the paper into his phone, and then listened as it rang. It was answered a moment later by a man's voice.

7

“Hello?” The voice seemed slightly hesitant.

“My name is Sam Prichard,” Sam said, “and I was given this number by Harry Winslow. He told me to call whenever I got to Rome.”

Again there was a slight hesitation. “Well, Mr. Prichard,” said the voice, with a slight but discernible Italian accent, “any friend of Mr. Winslow is a friend of mine. How can I be of service to you?”

“Well, I'm here on business,” Sam said. “There's a situation that I've been asked to try to prevent, a situation that could have grave consequences for the entire world. Do you have any idea what the situation is I'm referring to?”

“I'm afraid that I do not,” said the voice. “And worse, I have forgotten my manners. My name is Vito, Vito Mangione. Now, can you be a little more specific about the situation?”

“Is your line secure?” Sam asked abruptly.

“It is,” Vito said. “You may continue.”

“Okay, good,” Sam said. “I've been working with Harry on a case involving a rogue American agent. This man's been orchestrating a plot to bring about a global government, actually following a great deal of biblical prophecy regarding the end times. Now, he hasn't been going at it from a Christian perspective, but was following some weird Mesopotamian religions, but it comes out pretty much the same.”

“Following biblical prophecy? Are you talking about the Book of the Revelation?”

“Yes, exactly,” Sam said. “The man's name was Chandler, and he was basically setting himself up to be the puppetmaster behind the antichrist and the false prophet. Now, that's how we would see them from the Christian world, of course, but he had a different viewpoint on it that fit his own religious beliefs. All I know about that is that he didn't see the end of the story the same way that we do.”

Vito was quiet for a moment. “Chandler? I don't believe I've heard that name. Is it someone I should know?”

“Not that I'm aware of,” Sam said. “The issue right now is that his plans involve creating some terrible disasters, acts of terrorism on a scale like we've never seen before. He designed his plan with several steps, each one worse than the one before, and each is triggered by the one before it. From what we've been able to determine, the very first step, the very first tragic event, is the assassination of His Holiness, the pope.”

There was a gasp on the line. “But this cannot be! Who would do this terrible thing?”

“That's the problem were dealing with,” Sam said. “We've got to figure out either who is arranging it, or who the actual assassin is, and the big problem is that we don't know when this is supposed to take place. Do you know if the pope has any special appearances scheduled in the next few days? Anywhere that might make him vulnerable to an attack?”

“Actually, no,” said Mangione. “His Holiness is taking some time for personal reflection, and is not leaving his chambers for a few days. If this thing you speak of is to happen soon, it would have to be, how do you say it, an inside job? It would have to be someone with access to the papal apartments. That would be nearly impossible; I cannot imagine anyone who could have such access and entertain such thoughts.”

“Look, Vito,” Sam said, “I'm part of a team from the United States that's been assigned to stop this from happening. Officially, no country is recognizing any of the things that I told you as fact. This man Chandler had so many people involved in his plots, and has amassed so much influence, and you can read between the lines on that, that even our leading politicians are scared to go against him. Now, he, himself, is out of the picture; unfortunately, he designed this plot to continue even without him or his involvement. What that means is that whoever is supposed to do these things is probably going to go right ahead with their part of the plan. The disaster is that if that person manages to bring about this assassination, it's going to set off another round of assassinations throughout Europe, followed by the sinking of some tourist cruise ships with all lives probably lost, and after that there will be an attack on American schoolchildren that I can't even describe.”

“And how many, Mr. Prichard, are in your team? Do you have the sufficient forces to do what must be done?”

Sam sighed. “There are four of us. Two of us are computer and intelligence experts, and the other two are investigators. We're what you've got, and we need your help. Can you give us any kind of leads that we can follow, anything to help us try to get a jump on the situation?”

Once again, there was silence on the line for a matter of several seconds. “Mr. Prichard,” Mangione said. “If it were not for the debt that I owe to Mr. Winslow, and the fact that you have invoked his name, I'm quite certain that I would consider you a lunatic and hang up on you. However, if Harry Winslow sent you to me, then he had a reason.” There was humming on the line, as Mangione was apparently thinking through what he wanted to say next. “At this point, I don't know what to say. I'll need to think about it. I have the caller ID, can I reach you at this number?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “Vito, please understand that we don't have anyone else to go to in Rome, at least not right now. If you come up with anything, anything at all, and I don't care if it sounds crazy to you, call me. Let my people take it and run with it, and if there's something to it than it will give us a chance to head off this disaster. If not, well, that we will have eliminated one possibility, right?”

More humming for a moment, and then, “Very well. I will call you after I have given this some thought. Goodbye for the moment, Mr. Prichard, but I will call you again soon.”

“Thank you, Vito,” Sam said. “I'll talk to you then.”

Sam ended the call, and looked at Gary. The skinny kid nodded, and pointed at his monitor while unplugging his headphones.

A dial tone suddenly could be heard through the speakers on the computer, and then there were a series of tones, as Mangione dialed a number. Sam touched Gary on the shoulder, and whispered, “Can he hear us?”

Gary shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “It's a one-way connection. We can hear him and everything that goes through his phone, but he can't hear us at all.”

Sam nodded, just as someone answered the call Mangione had made.

“Salve?” the call was answered in Italian.

“Ho appena avuto un interessante chiamata telefonica,” Mangione said, also in Italian. “Un agente Americano retiene che ci sara un tentativo di assassinare Sua Santita!”

“Well, crap,” Sam said, “it'd be nice if we knew what he was saying!”

“He said he got an interesting phone call from an American agent who thinks someone might try to assassinate the pope,” Ken said. “Or something close to that, my Italian's a little rusty.”

The person Mangione had called said, “English. Did he say who it might be?”

“No,” he said. “There is a group of them, special investigators from America. He said there was an American rogue agent who is essentially trying to take over the world, and he has laid a plan that involves the assassination of His Holiness.”

“And do you believe there is any truth to the story?”

“This agent was sent to me by Harry Winslow,” Mangione said. “That is enough to tell me that Harry Winslow believes it, and that is enough to tell me it must be true. If there is one man who always has his facts in order, it is Harry Winslow.”

“Who is this agent? And did he tell you who the rogue agent was?”

“The man who called me was named Sam Prichard,” Mangione said. “He said the rogue agent's name was Chandler. That's all I know at the moment.”

“Chandler? Oh, mio caro Dio! And do you know anything about where Chandler might be?”

“Prichard said that Chandler was no longer in the picture. I assumed that to mean that he is no longer alive. He also said that the problem they are facing is that Chandler's plans will go on with him or without him. They don't know who is behind the assassination, and have asked me if I can give them any leads. Carlo, I don't know what to do. If I go to His Holiness, I will probably not be believed, and I would have to expose these Americans. If our governments are turning a blind eye to this situation, then I fear what would happen if I try to take that path.”

“Yes, yes,” said the man called Carlo. “I agree completely. Vito, my friend, it appears that you did not know Chandler, and in that you are very fortunate. Chandler is, or was, a power broker. He makes it possible for people to gain power, whether that power be political, financial or in some other medium. Now, the way that he always did this was by making certain that he always had information that other people did not wish to see come to light. By merely threatening to expose that information, he could direct the paths of entire nations, sometimes even groups of nations. There are so many things in our world today that were conceived in his diabolical mind that I doubt I could possibly identify them all. If he has conceived the plan that you speak of, a plan that calls for the assassination of our beloved Holy Father, then I am forced to believe that that assassination will take place. He will have devised a means for its accomplishment that will probably be beyond our ability to detect.”

Mangione sounded like he was about to panic. “But Carlo,” he said, “we have to do something! We can't simply sit back and allow it to happen. What can we do?”

“I agree, I agree,” said Carlo. “Let me think. Give me some time to think this through, and I shall return your call. For now, keep this between us and God.”

“Yes, I will. Please, Carlo, if you can think of anything we can do, let me know.”

The call ended, and Gary's fingers flew furiously over his keys. “What I'm doing,” he said, “is getting a lock on our friend Carlo, there. Odds-on, he's about to make a call of his own, and I want to know who he calls, don't you guys?”

“Absolutely,” Ken said. Sam nodded his agreement.

Gary sat back, and sure enough, a new sequence of tones was heard through the computer. There was ringing, and then the call was answered. This time, the person called seemed to be speaking native English.

“John Spencer,” he said, answering the phone. “How can I help you today?”

“John, it's Carlo. I think we may have a problem.”

“Carlo? What kind of problem? It's gotta be serious for you to call me on this line. Fill me in, buddy.”

“Do you remember Grayson Chandler? There are some American agents in the city who are claiming that he has orchestrated a plot to assassinate the pope. Do you know anything about this?”

“Holy Mother! I know Chandler, but I never heard anything about this kind of thing. Who were the agents, who are they with?”

“All I've heard is that Harry Winslow sent them,” Carlo said. “The only name I've heard is Sam Prichard. I think he must be the agent in charge. The last I knew, Winslow was in America's homeland security agency, but I don't think anyone ever believed that's all he was doing. I mean, he's Harry Winslow, anyone who wanted to retire him would probably have to do it with a bomb!”

“Prichard, that's not a name I know. And this guy said Chandler was behind this whole thing?”

“Yes, and as far as I know, Chandler must be dead. There was something about the Americans being worried because the plan will go off even without Chandler being alive to see it through. John, do you know anything, anything at all, about a plan to assassinate His Holiness?”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, but then he came back on the line. “I don't know of anything,” he said, “but I did run across something a few days ago. There was a package that came in, and I thought at the time that it seemed odd-sized and heavy. We were told to just hold onto it until someone came to claim it, and we were told to release it to the person who gave us a certain code phrase. That code phrase struck me as odd, also, because it was something about white smoke from the chimney. Since the pope is alive and healthy, I thought that was a strange choice for a passphrase.”

“Oh, my dear God!” said Carlo. “There would have to be a connection—that would be too great a coincidence to be believable. Do you have any idea what was in the package? Was it a weapon of some sort, do you think?”

“I have no clue what was in it,” Spencer said. “Could it have been a weapon? Possibly. I can't say that it wasn't, but I can't say that it was. The package was long, probably more than three feet long, maybe eight inches tall and ten inches wide, and must have weighed almost twenty pounds. It could have been a weapon. I mean, a package that size could hold just about any kind of rifle, including a disassembled sniper rifle. Man, I wish I'd paid more attention.”

“What about the man who picked it up?” Carlo asked. “Do you know anything about him? Were you there, did you see who picked up?”

“No, I'm afraid I wasn't there. It was picked up day before yesterday, while I was out to lunch. Let me see if I can get Jeffrey to tell me anything. I'm going to put you on hold for a few minutes, okay?” He didn't wait for a response, but put Carlo on hold immediately.

Sam leaned forward and looked at Gary. “We got any idea who that Spencer is?”

Gary tapped a few keys, and then smiled up at Sam. “John William Spencer, Political and Economics Officer at the US Embassy to the Holy See. This guy is right smack in our embassy to the Vatican! And this Jeffrey he's talking about is Jeffrey Montrose, who would be his superior.”

Indie had taken a chair and pulled it up close to where Gary was working on his computer at the desk, and was staring at him with wide-eyed wonder. Sam put a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to face him. “It's sort of like,” she said, “like – like if you got to meet Sam Spade, or any other hero you might've had growing up. Gary might be a kid, but he's probably one of the best I've ever seen at the type of thing he's doing right now. I plan to learn a lot over the next few days.”

Sam grinned. “I've got a hunch that might go both ways. From what I gather, you've done an awful lot without having all his fancy equipment and supercomputers. There are probably things he could learn from you, too.”

“No doubt about it,” Gary said. “We talked on the plane about a lot of things, and to be honest, I'm absolutely amazed at all she's done without any special equipment, or some of the training I've had.”

Suddenly, the hold music they'd been listening to ended, and Spencer came back on the line. “Carlo? Listen, man, Jeffrey won't give me anything on the guy who picked up the package. I'm not sure what's going on here, but it's making me nervous. Can we meet up? Someplace outside?”

Carlos let out a sigh. “Let's go to the pizzeria,” he said. “I can be there in about an hour. I just need to finish up a few things here, and then I can be on my way.”

“Okay, Pizzeria Colombo?”

“Yes, that's the one. I'll see you there in an hour, maybe a little more.” Carlo hung up the phone, but Spencer seemed to linger on the line for a moment longer. After a few seconds, the line went dead.

“Okay, kids, we're on to something,” Sam said. “Do we have any idea who Carlo is?”

“Not a hundred percent certain,” Gary said, “but I think it could be Carlo Santorini.” He tapped a few keys on his computer, and a photograph appeared on the monitor. “According to a State Department security file on the Vatican, Santorini would be an assistant to the prefect of the papal household. Now, that sounds like he'd be way up in their organization, but that isn't necessarily the case. The prefect would have dozens, maybe even hundreds of assistants, all of them people who serve as butlers, and such, to the pope. There are also a lot of Benedictine nuns who work there, doing the cooking and cleaning and such.”

“Then, if that's him,” Ken said, “then he'd have access to the pope, himself. And you say there may be hundreds of people like him? Good God, all it would take would be one. If Chandler could turn one of these guys, all he'd have to do is slip something into the pope's food, or rig up a grenade to go off or something. How many freaking people are we going to have to check out, anyway?”

“As many as it takes,” Sam said. “What I'm wondering is whether we should crash that little meeting of theirs at the pizzeria. Seemed to me that Spencer had something he wanted to say, just not over the phone.”

Indie nodded her head in agreement with Sam. “Yeah, I sort of got that same feeling. It was like he knew something, but he was worried about who might overhear it, maybe even right there in his office. Might be worth somebody going out there and listening in.”

Ken looked from her to Sam and back again, then nodded his head. “Okay. You two go. I look like crap, but you two could look like a couple of tourists. I think you should go and listen in, see what you can find out. I'll stay here with Einstein Junior, in case those guys make more weird phone calls.”

Sam smiled. “Okay, sounds good,” he said. “Indie, do you want to freshen up or change? It's a little early for lunch, and will still be early an hour from now. We can wander in and grab something to drink, act like we're just resting and cooling off. Taking a break, you know?”

Indie jumped up and got into one of her suitcases, kissed Sam on the cheek and hurried into the bathroom. She came out a few minutes later looking like she just stepped out of the covers of a fashion magazine. She was wearing jeans and a designer T-shirt, and had done something quick and perfect with her makeup, brushed her hair (so that the clipped spot wasn't visible), and all three men froze and stared. Ken and Gary quickly regained their composure and looked away, but Sam just smiled as he looked at his wife.

“Baby,” Sam said, “you get more beautiful every single day!” He looked around at Gary. “Can you give me the address of that pizzeria they mentioned?”

Gary gave it to him, and Sam posted into the GPS on his phone. They made sure they all had each other's phone numbers, and Sam led Indie down to where they had to stash the car in paid parking.

Having almost an hour to get to their destination meant that they had an easy forty minutes of free time, so Sam decided to show off a bit by cruising around the parts of the city he had become familiar with the night before. As he pointed out different landmarks, he couldn't help being delighted with Indie's reactions, and he found himself wishing that they really were just tourists. Being mixed up in this mess was frustrating enough when he was far from home and love, but now it was even more frustrating because he couldn't spend the time enjoying it with her the way he wanted to.

Still, cruising around the city with her was a lot more fun than it had been with Ken the night before. The Italian drivers were just as crazy in real life as they always are in the movies, so they had their share of thrills and chills before they finally had to go on and find a place to park. Sam found a place not far from the pizzeria, another paid parking lot that took a few more of his coins, and then he and Indie strolled hand-in-hand up the street, weaving their way in and out of the crowds of natives and tourists who were always flocking around the streets this close to the Vatican. They found the pizzeria, slipped inside and took a table.

Carlo Santorini, decked out in the robes traditionally worn by members of the papal household, was already there, occupying one side of a booth. Sam and Indie pretended not to be watching him, and ordered soft drinks when the chance arose. It was as they were sipping them that a large man wearing an American-style business suit entered the establishment and sat down across from Carlo. The two men smiled at each other and shook hands.

“You seemed rather worried,” Carlo said, “when we were on the phone. Did you learn something, John? Something you couldn't say at the time?”

Spencer spread his hands as if to say that he wasn't sure. “I honestly don't know,” he said. “I was just told in no uncertain terms that the contents and recipients of packages that come through the embassy are none of my business. Now, that's the first time I've ever been told anything like that, and it was really quite a shock. I'm not sure what's going on, Carlo, and I would hate with everything in me to think that Jeffrey might be involved, but something just isn't right.”

Carlo nodded, and Sam got the feeling that the man was worried. “Yes, yes, I understand,” he said. “But, John, this warning is coming from your own countrymen. Chandler – oh, my, if Chandler has truly set his mind to something like this, and if he is willing to sacrifice the pope – John, I don't know what else to think but that the world has gone insane.”

“No,” Spencer said, “it's not the world that's gone crazy, it's just Chandler. On the other hand, is that really such a surprise? Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Who was it that said that? Oh, never mind, it doesn't matter. The fact is that it's true, and Chandler has had the closest thing to absolute power that any man has known for decades, at least since Hitler's time. How could it not have driven him mad?”

“Agreed, agreed. What do we do now?”

“Well, it would help if we knew who these American agents are, how to reach them. I don't have any idea who might be running an operation against Chandler, because, frankly, I don't know anyone stateside who would have the nerve. You mentioned Harry Winslow, and I suppose he might be one of the very few who would have the courage, and probably isn't worried about anything Chandler might have on him. If all the old stories about Winslow are true, there just isn't much I can imagine that would scare that old man.” He looked around the room, and actually made eye contact for a split second with Sam before looking back at Carlo. “What do you think? Can you get us in contact with those agents?”

Carlo shrugged. “It was Vito Mangione who called me, and I don't know how much he actually knows. Perhaps he can reach them, all I can do is ask. What would you have me tell him? What should he say to the agents?”

Spencer sucked in his bottom lip for a moment, then smiled. “Tell him that if he can reach the agents, he should tell them that they have two allies inside the Vatican. I would suggest that you have him give them my name, and my personal cell number. You have that, right?”

Carlo nodded. “I have it,” he said. “But do you think that is wise, to give it to them? If they know who you are, what if they were to contact your Jeffrey? If he is involved, that could be very bad for you.”

“That's why I said my personal number,” Spencer said. “Hopefully, they'll be smart enough to call me on that, and not try to come visit me at the office.” He let his eyes roam around the room once more, and once again they met with Sam's.

Sam grinned, trying to look buffoonish, but there was a narrowing of Spencer's eyes that told him the man was not a fool. Sam winked at him, then rose, taking Indie's hand and leading her over to where the two men sat. Sam slid in beside Carlo, while Indie smiled and sat beside Spencer.

“Mr. Spencer,” Sam said. “I'm Sam Prichard, and this is my wife, Indiana. We are part of the team that you're discussing right now.”

“Yeah,” Spencer said with a grin, “I've been watching you while you were watching me, so I figured you must be. John Spencer, which you obviously already know. The fact that you're here tells me you had a tap on our phone, and I'm not even going to get into the legalities, or lack of them, on that. If what Carlo was told is true, we've got something a whole lot bigger to worry about than whether you had the right to listen in on my phone calls. What can you tell me, Mr. Prichard?”

“Well, I gather you know who Chandler was. What you may not have known was that he's apparently spent the last several years developing a plan to make it appear the biblical prophecy was all coming to fruition, complete with Antichrist, the false prophet, all of it. The gimmick was that he had it in his head that all of those prophecies really came from some old Babylonian religion, and that he could manipulate them to leave himself in the driver’s seat. He has someone ready and waiting to fill those roles, while he would be sitting in the background pulling strings like a puppeteer. We don't know who that person is, and even though there is little speculation, we don't even have enough leads to even point fingers at anyone. What we do know is this. Chandler set up a plot in several stages, each of which is a bigger disaster for the world. It starts here, with the assassination of the pope. When that hits the news, the next item, which we believe is a series of assassinations around Europe, will be implemented. When that one is announced, it's the cue for the third, and again, we believe we know what that is. If we are correct, it will be the sinking of some cruise ships loaded with tourists and vacationers, most of them probably Americans. That one is particularly diabolical, because it's designed to make Americans turn on small Christian organizations the same way they now treat Muslim groups.”

“But then it gets worse,” Indie interrupted. “After that one, he has it all set up for what looks like a Muslim organization to attack a whole bunch of schools, while the kids are in class, using gasoline tanker trucks as suicide bombs. We’re talking about the deaths of thousands of children, and the plot seems to be designed to make Americans scream for the complete annihilation of all Muslim people.”

Spencer's eyes were wide, while Carlo's were closed and they could hear him fervently whispering in prayer. “Dear God,” Spencer said, “you're talking about the opening salvo of World War III! An attack like that — there's nobody in the world who could prevent that turning into a global conflagration.”

“Unfortunately, that's where you're wrong,” Sam said. “At least, that's what Chandler believed. Whoever his puppet is, he or she would step up and somehow bring peace to the world. Of course, that peace will come at the price of national sovereignty to every nation that subscribes to it. One global government, one ruler. Yeah, they'll dress it up in nice, pretty language about constitutions, and parliaments or Congress or what have you, but the real truth of the matter will be that Chandler's puppet, now that he isn't around to pull the strings, will be the de facto ruler of the whole world. That's what we’re out to stop, and the first step is to find out who's behind the plot to assassinate the pope. We're hoping and praying that if we can do that, we can find out who's handling the next item, and so on until we find the actual puppets themselves.”

Spencer stared at him, and then reached out a hand to Carlo. The old priest grasped Spencer's hand, as both men looked at Sam and Indie.

“I don't know exactly what we can do, and I can tell you that I have reason to believe that someone in the office I work in at the embassy to the Holy See could be involved in this,” Spencer said. “But Carlo and I are old friends, going back to when I got my first job over here at the Vatican Embassy. If there's one thing I can tell you, it's that he can be trusted, and I'm pretty sure he would say the same about me. You've got two allies, right here. You tell us what we can do, and we're in.”

8

“Okay,” Sam said, “what we need to do is figure out who could have been on Chandler's payroll inside the papal apartments. That's assuming, of course, that the assassination attempt is actually planned for the next few days while the pope is not moving about in the public. If not, then we may not be looking for someone inside at all.”

Carlo had been sitting with his face in his hands, and looked up and Sam for just a moment. He spread his hands as if in desperation, and then lowered his face back into them. “I know everyone in the prefecture and the papal family,” he said. “I cannot imagine any of them who would harm His Holiness. The very concept would be anathema.”

Spencer picked up his cup and took a sip of the strong, Italian coffee. “He's right,” he said. “Just to imagine someone being within the papal family who could harm the pope, that's just not conceivable. These people are vetted more thoroughly than any candidate for a Supreme Court justice. I mean, look at Carlo. He's almost 70, now, and I think the youngest person in the prefecture is probably a nun in her 50s. You get into the papal family by being chosen after a fairly long life of devotion to the church. These people are known for their piety, not for any kind of greed or desire for power.”

Indie shrugged. “Pious people make mistakes, too,” she said. “Chandler was into blackmail, not just bribery. If he found something on someone in there that they didn't want exposed, it wouldn't be that hard to convince them to do what he wanted in order to avoid that exposure.”

“That's very true,” Sam said. “That's one of the reasons that so many people in governments all over the world were afraid of him, and won't step up to prevent his plans from going into action, even though he's dead now. We're not sure if he had some sort of organization in place that would expose the information he used to force cooperation, or if it's some kind of automated device or system that will send that information out if certain conditions are not met. All we know is that even other governments are afraid to interfere in this situation.”

Spencer looked Sam in the eye. “Then, I'm going to ask you a point-blank question. What makes you so determined to stop it, if even the government hasn't taken a stance against it? What makes you more certain of your position than they are of theirs?”

Sam gave him a shark toothed smile. “I give you a point-blank answer,” he said. “What makes me more certain of my position is knowing that there's no way in the world I could sleep at night if I allow these things to happen. Look, Chandler was following some weird old religion that was all about taking over the world and forcing your will upon it. Or, his will, in this case. I don't know where you stand on religion, though your position makes me think that you have at least some confidence in the Christian perspective, am I right?”

“You're absolutely right,” Spencer said with a smile of his own. “I served the church long before I served the government, and my loyalties haven't changed.”

Sam nodded. “Okay, then that being the case, I have to point at biblical prophecy. From everything I've been told, there are certain things that have to happen before the rise of the Antichrist. Since those things haven't happened, Chandler was trying to create his own version of the end times, rather than follow the script that God laid out. If you take all of that into consideration, then there's no way that we can even speculate that Chandler's plan should go forward. The fact that our governments are refusing to take action only speaks of their cowardice, not of the rightness of any plan Chandler came up with.”

Carlo dropped his hands to the tabletop. “Gentlemen,” he said, “oh, and my dear lady, let me remind you that we are still talking about some of the most horrific things that man has ever conceived. His Holiness would willingly lay down his own life to prevent these other atrocities; I know him. The problem is that, in this situation, what we have to do is stop that from happening. We must find a way to stop this assassination, to stop the person behind it. But how do we stop them, when we have no clue who they are?”

Sam looked at the old priest. “Father, let me ask you this,” he said. “What will be the pope's response if we tell him about this plot? Would he cooperate with us in our efforts to keep him alive?”

“Oh, I'm certain he would,” Carlo said, grinning. “As holy as he is, there is that part of him which is still human and does not wish to die. If we said to him that his death would serve a great purpose, he would not hesitate to walk into the jaws of death itself, but since this case is precisely the opposite, and his death will trigger even greater tragedies, he will certainly want to do whatever it takes to prevent that.”

“Then how do we get to him?” Sam asked. “I think we need to speak with him directly, if possible.”

Carlo shook his head. “That will be a problem,” he said. “I cannot take anyone into the papal apartments when His Holiness is sequestered, this way. The Swiss Guard have to approve every visitor, and will not accept any applications at this time.” He looked at Spencer. “Perhaps, John, you can make some arrangement?”

“I can try,” Spencer said. “Carlo is right, in that the Swiss Guard is declining applications for an audience with His Holiness during his voluntary sequestration. However, I know a few of the officers and might be able to get one to issue a summary approval. If that doesn't work, I can go to the ambassador, but I have no way of knowing whether he might be involved in this plot, himself. My office chief warned me to keep my nose out of it, when I tried to find out who picked up an unusual package the other day, and since he's never spoken to me that way before, I have to wonder if perhaps Chandler got to him. If the ambassador is also involved, I could be putting my life on the line just to ask the question.”

Sam nodded, and glanced at Indie before he answered. “Spencer, you're right,” he said. “You could very well be putting your life at risk. What you got to remember, though, is that the whole world is at risk if we don't find a way to stop this assassination. If there were a way I can take that risk upon myself for you, I would be glad to do that, but at the moment it seems like you're the man.”

Spencer laughed, and reached over to gently punch Sam in the arm. “Well, as a matter of fact,” he said, “it just occurred to me that we might be smarter to let me introduce you to the ambassador, so that you can bring up the idea of getting to His Holiness. I got a hunch that you'd know pretty quickly if the ambassador is involved, and I'd be willing to do whatever I can to get you out if that were the case.”

Indie reached across the table to put her hand onto Sam's. “Babe,” she said, “if you go in there, I'm going with you.”

Sam winked at her, not a bit surprised at her determination, but even less inclined to go along with her decision. On the other hand, their current setting was not the place to discuss it, so he didn't say anything to her in response. He looked again at Spencer.

“Okay, so first, you're going to try talking to these Swiss Guard officers, right?”

Spencer nodded. “Yes, sir, that's what I’ve got in mind.”

Sam nodded. “All right, then,” he said. “If you're successful, we'll know it because of that unmentionable wiretap we didn't discuss earlier. If you need to get hold of us for any reason, all you got to do is pick up your phone and start talking into it. We got it set so that we hear pretty much everything that goes through it. In fact, when you go in to talk to your boss about this, be sure to keep it on in your pocket. That way, we'll hear everything that goes on and we can even record it.”

“Well, that sounds good, anyway. It's nice to know somebody's got my back.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I know exactly how you feel on that. Now, we've got to get moving on this, right away. We don't know what our deadline is, what possible scenarios may already be playing out. How soon can you get a response back from those officers?”

Spencer looked at his cup for a moment, and then back up at Sam. “Well,” he said, “I really don't want to try doing that over the phone. The smart move would be for me to go and visit them face-to-face, don't you think?”

“Yeah, I'd say that would be best. I hate to say it, but if it's that easy for us to put a tap on you, it's probably just as easy for anyone else who wanted to. So I'll amend my question, how long before you can get to them and get their response, then relay that response back to us?”

Spencer shrugged. “If I leave right now, I could probably talk to them within the next thirty minutes. There are only two that I really need to check with, and luckily they're both in the same office. If I can catch them together, we can be finished in a matter of minutes. They'll either say yea or nay, it's about that simple. Give me a number, and I can call you directly. All I'd have to say is something simple and harmless, like if I say that I'm really enjoying the weather, it means for you to come on, you're in.”

Sam grinned, then took out a pen and scribbled his number onto a slip of paper, which he passed to Spencer. “The sooner you can get moving on this, the better. I'd suggest you go now. That'll give us and Carlo the chance to get to know each other better, right, Carlo?”

The old priest looked up at Sam with a nervous smile on his face. “Mr. Prichard,” he said, his Italian accent adding a syllable here and there. “Please don't think that I am not willing to do anything I can to aid you in protecting our pontiff, but to be honest, this is all extremely overwhelming for a man of my years. How can I know, for instance, that you are who you say you are? How am I to know whether to trust you, or to keep you as far from His Holiness as I possibly can?” He clasped his hands together in front of his face and closed his eyes, and it was obvious that the movement of his lips was the subvocalization of a silent prayer. He continued silently for a full minute, as Spencer rose to leave, nodding to Sam and Indie as he departed. A moment later, Carlo finally opened his eyes, but he turned them to Indie rather than to Sam.

The old man's eyes bored into the young woman's, and she was slightly taken aback for just a moment. That didn't last long, however, because Indie was a strong young woman who had already been through a lot in her short life. She smiled at the old man and then reached over and put her hand on top of one of his.

“My dear young lady,” Carlos said to her, “it is as I pray that I believe God has shown me that there is a truth within you, a truth that is greater than that within your husband. This is not to say that he is not an honest man, only that he has lived and worked in situations that have required him to be able to dissemble when necessary. You, I sense, are a woman full of love, and full of hope and happiness. We know, from the thirteenth chapter of the first epistle to the Corinthians, that love is the greatest of all of the virtues. Love never fails. Though everything else may pass away, love never fails.” Carlo put his left hand over the one Indie had laid on his right. “And so it is that I must ask you, is this all true? Is it you and your husband, and those with you, whom I should trust?”

The old man's eyes never left Indie's, not even for a second. She smiled and looked as directly into them as she could. “Father Carlo,” she began, “this is the first time I have ever had to work with Sam on one of these missions, but if there's one thing I know for certain, it's that he is the most honest, trustworthy, loyal man that has ever lived. I left our daughter at home in America to come and help him here, because I know that what he is doing is the right thing to do. Yes, you can trust us, because we want the same thing that you do. We want to stop these things from happening, all of them, from this first attempt to assassinate the pope, all the way through to each of the most horrendous things this evil man dreamed up.”

Carlos smiled back. “Do you know,” he asked, “that there was a time when, despite everything the Bible taught me, I honestly believed that evil was nothing more than the selfishness of man. The whole concept of a personal devil, of a Satan who was an individual spirit that actively sought to destroy what God hath built, that concept was so foreign to me. Satan would've been part of God's creation, yes? How, then, could he have turned against his father, his creator, how could he seek to destroy the very race of mankind that God created to be his children?” The old man closed his eyes for a moment and raised his face toward the ceiling, as if looking through it with spiritual eyes that allowed him to see directly into heaven. A soft smile crept across his lips, and Indie found herself staring at him and wonder. “And so, I prayed for God to give me understanding, to help me to discern the spirit of evil, and do you know how He responded? God raised me up from where I served as the pastor of a very small church, and brought me to Rome. He installed me in the Vatican, and made me a helper and a student of all those who serve His Holiness, who strive to teach and interpret the Word and Will of God unto the church. In this place, where Holiness should abound and fill every corner, every little space, I have learned more about evil than in all the rest of my life, and in all of the places I have seen. Greed, jealousies, envy, falsehoods, even lusts have I seen among all of these Holy Brethren and the Holy Sisters who serve alongside them.”

Indie shrugged, then kept smiling at the old man. “I guess people are the same, no matter where you go. We're all human, and we all make mistakes, right? I think that a lot of what we think of as evil is really just a matter of people not understanding what it is they should do, not really being sure how to do it. For the most part, that doesn't mean that they're bad people, it just means they're human. But then, of course, you run across people like Chandler, people who are so evil that they don't care who they hurt or how badly, as long as they get what they want. That's all that matters to them, getting their way, getting everything to go the way they wanted to go.”

Sam leaned toward Carlo. “I can understand what you're saying,” he said. “I understand what Indie has been saying, too, that most of the time it isn't about real evil as much as it's about people just being selfish and greedy. That goes along with what you said, what you originally thought evil was. The thing is, it's become clear to me lately that there really is such a thing as pure evil, and while I may never have quite believed some of the Bible stories about demons being cast out, I can tell you that if I have ever in my life come face-to-face with a man who was possessed, it was Chandler. When I got the word that he was dead, as terrible as this sounds, I felt nothing but relief. The world is simply better off without him in it.”

Carlo had turned to look at Sam. “Indeed, I do understand. I do agree. I will put my trust in you, and I will pray to my Father in Heaven that he will lead you and guide you.” The old man rose to his feet. “I shall go now, and begin doing what I can do to find any clue that may help you. May God lead me to the person behind this awful plan, so that you may stop him from doing his deed, and thereby prevent even worse things from happening. You shall be in my prayers, both of you and all those with you.”

Carlo turned and walked away, leaving the little pizzeria with his head held high. Sam looked at his wife. “Think we ought to grab some pizza, take it back to the hotel with us? We may be sitting around for a while.”

Indie shook her head. “Those guys can get something to eat if they get hungry,” she said. “I've got a hunch that you're going to be hearing from Spencer pretty quickly, and we're closer to him here than we would be back at the hotel. If you're hungry now, then let's get something to eat, but I'm not.” She held up her glass and grinned at him. “But you could get me another glass of Chinotto.”

Sam took her glass and smiled, then rose and went to the little counter to get it refilled.

There were so many things going through his mind that he found himself wondering just how real this whole situation could be. Ancient prophecies, he was sitting in Rome, just outside the Vatican, talking with officials from inside the Holy See – the whole thing felt like he'd been caught up in a Dan Brown novel, but too many things had happened for him to believe that it was all in his imagination. When Indie's glass had been refilled, he carried it back to the booth and sat down across from her again.

“I'm going to check in with Harry, real quick,” he said, taking his phone out of his pocket.

“Okay,” Indie said. “Tell the old goat I said hello.”

Sam punched the Elmer Fudd button on his phone, and waited for a moment while the international connection went through. Harry was still in the hospital in Jerusalem, of course, but Sam had hadn't spoken to him since he and Ken had left Israel.

“Sam? Is it you?”

“Harry, come on, now, who else would be calling you on my phone?” Sam asked with a laugh. “Just wanted to check in, let you know that we've made contact with some people in the Vatican and we're working on getting a lead on who we need to locate there.”

“Good, good,” the old man said. “I gather you've heard the news? About Chandler?”

“Yeah, Natasha called me yesterday as we were waiting for the plane to take off. Ken and I have been trying to figure out who the 'she' might be that he's referring to. Gary thinks it could be Sandra, but I'm not so sure.”

Sandra Ross, the current Secretary of State, is a highly manipulative and dangerous individual, and has been making a bid to become president of the United States one day. The mere thought of this was terrifying.

“This whole damn thing is so convoluted,” Harry said, “that I wouldn't be all that surprised to find my own mother involved in it somewhere.”

“Well, I just wanted to bring you up to date. Indie and I had an interesting meeting with a man from the office of the embassy to the Vatican, and an old priest who works in the pope's own household. Between the two, were hoping to get a lead on how Chandler's assassination plan was supposed to play out.

“Excellent! What's your plan of attack when you find out who to tackle there in Vatican City?”

“Well, my first step will probably be to try to reason with them, but that hasn't worked on anyone connected to it so far, has it? Harry, I don't want to kill anybody, if I can avoid it, but I'll be blunt and honest. If it's the only way to stop this plan from coming off, then I'll do what I have to do. Ken is all set, I think he's just waiting for me to turn him loose on somebody.”

“Well, that's kind of understandable,” Harry said, “when you consider that he has devoted his entire life to protecting this country by doing the jobs nobody else wants to do. To him, this is just the way you handle things, and it's probably chafing at him a bit that he has to let you hold the reins. Of course, that's one of the reasons I wanted you in charge, too.”

“Gee, thanks, Harry,” Sam said, sneering into the phone. “By the way, Indie said to tell you hello. When we get to figuring out what this is going to cost Uncle Sam, I think another expense paid trip to Europe might be in order. One we can use as a vacation, and be real tourists and sightseers for once.”

“Sam, you pull this off and I'll pay for it out of my own pocket if I have to! Hell, I might even pack up and come with you! Or would I be too much of a damper on your good spirits?”

Sam put the phone on speaker and looked at Indie. “Harry wants to know if he could come with us on a vacation to Europe, or if he put too much of a damper on us.”

Indie smiled, and took the phone from Sam's hand. “Harry? You old buzzard, if you want to take a trip with us, you're more than welcome. Just don't get all jealous and upset when I lock you out of the room now and then, so I can have Sam all to myself.”

Harry laughed heartily, and then groaned a couple of times when the laughing made him hurt. “I don't think there would be any problem there,” he said. “I think I can understand you kids wanting some privacy, now and then. I vaguely recall certain things about my younger days that might explain why you'd want them.”

Indie laughed. “Harry, you're not fooling anyone,” she said. “I'm pretty sure those memories aren't that far back. And if they are, then all you got to do is flirt with my mom or Grace a little bit—they both got the hots for you.”

“Okay, you're embarrassing me, now,” Harry said, but there was a chuckle in his voice. “Sam, I appreciate you keeping me up-to-date. If you need anything, and I mean anything at all, don't you hesitate to call. Doesn't matter what time of day or night, if you call, I'm going to answer.” The line went dead, the way it always did when Harry was finished talking on the phone.

Sam put the phone down on the table, and smiled at his wife. “Could be nice,” he said, “if we managed to wrangle ourselves a European vacation at Uncle Sam's expense.”

Indie reached across to hold hands with Sam. “Sam,” she said, seductively, “you don't really think Harry would try to come along with us, do you?”

Sam laughed. “Well, if he does, then we have to bring Kenzie along, too. The two of them can babysit each other.”

“Hmpf,” Indie said. “That would be a tossup on which one of them was really in charge.”

“No it wouldn't,” Sam said. “Kenzie would have Harry wrapped around her little finger in about eight seconds flat, and he'd be doing her bidding for the rest of the trip. The old man would probably spend most of his retirement savings just buying her all the goodies she wanted.”

They were both startled, suddenly, when Sam's phone rang again. He glanced at it, but didn't know the number. It was a local cell number, so he answered it quickly.

“Prichard,” he said.

“Mr. Prichard, it's John Spencer. I spoke with my two friends, and they've agreed to arrange for me to meet with His Holiness. I asked about bringing you with me, and they said they preferred that I speak to him alone at first. If he wants to meet with you, then they'll arrange it. I'll be meeting with him in about ten minutes. Sir, is there anything in particular you want me to say to him?”

“Well, we don't have any idea whether he knows who Chandler was, right? Assuming that he didn't, then I guess the best thing to do is simply try to explain to him what Chandler was up to. Spencer, do you feel like you understand it enough to explain it to the pope?”

“I've got the gist of it, sir,” Spencer said. “I think I can make him understand the general plot, and that seems to be the important part, don't you think? He needs to know that this whole convoluted plan involves everything from replacing him with some puppet of Chandler's, and from that, triggering a whole plethora of other troubles and disasters.”

“Yeah, that pretty much covers it. All right, how soon do you think you can let me know what happens?”

“Oh, I'd say you'll know pretty shortly. They're waving at me to come on, now, so I've got to get off the phone. I'll call you back as soon as I possibly can. Later, dude.” The line went dead.

Sam looked at Indie. “Well, you are partly right,” he said. “Spencer is on his way in to see the pope, right now. Hopefully, will have some response back from him pretty soon.”

Indie suddenly shivered, and looked at Sam. “Do you ever wonder,” she asked, “if maybe we've actually stepped into some twilight zone kind of thing, where devils romp around and prophecies come true?”

Sam shrugged. “Baby,” he said. “I think we were all born there.” He sat there and held her hand in silence for a few minutes.

After ten minutes had passed, Sam suddenly couldn't sit still anymore, and got up, pulling Indie along with him. Holding her hand, he led her out the front door of the restaurant and they began walking down the street.

“Sam?” Indie asked. “Where are we going?”

Sam glanced at her, and for some reason she felt a chill run down her spine. “I just felt like we had to get out of there,” he said. “I just couldn't sit there anymore, waiting. This whole thing could start at any moment, and we have no idea how to stop it. It's driving me up a wall, it's driving me crazy.”

Indie looked at her husband, and her heart went out to him. “I know,” she said. “It's getting to me, too. I feel like I'm sitting here twiddling my thumbs, wasting time, when I should be out doing something. I wonder if I should be sitting back at the hotel, working with Gary on the computers, but he's so far beyond me, I don't know what I can do to be of help. I feel better, just being here with you. Is that selfish?”

Sam shrugged, but he smiled at her. “If it is, then we're both being selfish. I feel better, too, having you with me. I don't think I want to be tackling this without you, not right now.”

Sam's phone rang, and he pulled it out to see the same number he'd seen before. “It's Prichard,” he said.

“Mr. Prichard,” came Spencer's voice. “I am sitting here with His Holiness, the pope. I've explained what's going on, and he has asked me to express to you his gratitude for your efforts to preserve his life. He has asked the Commandant of the Swiss Guard to immediately secure the papal apartments, so that no one inside can leave, and of course, no one outside can come in. Every person who is employed in any capacity that allows them to get near the pontiff is being systematically rounded up at this moment, and a full investigation is being launched. Now, the idea isn't so much to catch the perpetrator, though, as to see who tries to take off. As it happens, the Commandant has special authority and connections with Italian government authorities, so it's highly unlikely that anyone on that list could get very far. All forms of public transportation are being put on restriction immediately, so that every passenger must produce identification and be checked against the list of names and photographs, all done through facial recognition computers when ever they go to buy a ticket.. In addition, no one can drive out of the country without going through a checkpoint. I suspect we'll have some idea of who it is we’re looking for within the next hour, and the Commandant has arranged for any suspects to be made available to you for questioning.”

Sam's eyes were wide, and he whistled. “Holy cow,” he said, “Spencer, that's incredible. Great job!”

“Aww, shucks, partner, I didn't do nothing!” Spencer said. “Seriously, sir, all I did was tell His Holiness what you told me, and he did the rest with a phone call. Oh, I hope it's okay, I did have to give your number to the Commandant. That's all right, isn't it?”

“Of course it is,” Sam said. “Now, we just have to hope that we round up the right party.”

9

With nothing left to do but wait, Sam and Indie decided to go back to the hotel. Ken and Gary were happy to see them, especially when they were brought up to date on the pope's response. Both men wanted to hear all the details, and as soon as Sam and Indie were done talking, it became obvious that Gary had just as much to say.

“So, okay, I've been doing a lot of digging,” he said. “Remember, just before you left, we were speculating on who Chandler might have been referring to, in those cryptic last words of his. Well, I went on the assumption that it would be someone easily recognizable to the American public, but also to the rest of the world, and that it would be someone that at least a fair number of people would regard as a potential world leader. Now, if we add in the fact that it has to be a woman, it don't matter how you try to slice it, you're only going to come up with one name. Now, I realize that we're all sick and tired of conspiracy theories, but if you go back through all of Chandler's personal files and notes, an awful lot of the things they said about Mrs. Ross have at least some basis in truth. You are aware, aren't you, that she's been accused many times of being the antichrist? Well, try this on for size. Back when she was first lady, there was a rumor that went around that she decorated a Christmas tree with some…” Gary glanced at Indie, and turned a bit pinkish before going on. “Well, that she used condoms and little male figures who were, um, let's just say they were obviously very male, that's the rumor that went around. But I got to poking around in some of Chandler's personal files that I copied from the office network, and I found a couple of amazing photographs of a tree decorated exactly that way, and would you like to guess who's in those photos? That doesn't really have much to do with this situation, but if you're looking at the overall picture, it shows some pretty strange vibes, wouldn't you think?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Pretty strange, yeah, I'll go along with that,” he said. “But what does any of this have to do with Chandler? Or any kind of connection between them?”

Gary grinned and nodded, his glasses bobbing up and down on his nose. “I was getting to that,” he said, “don't be so impatient! I can show you about three dozen different files that connect Sandra to an organization called the Muslim Sisterhood, and a number of documents showing that she deliberately arranged for certain Christian organizations to be stifled while at the same time, and very publicly, she was promoting tolerance and acceptance of Muslim principles. She and her top aide, Huma Abedin, both members of the Muslim Sisterhood, are apparently pretty close to other members, who include the wives of high-ranking officials in many Muslim countries. Man, this lady has Chandler written all over her!”

Ken shook his head at Sam. “Don't let yourself get excited,” he said. “Don't get me wrong, I'd love to pin this on her, but I have my doubts. I mean, first off, if she were really the one Chandler was grooming for all of this, I can't believe he would've let all these rumors go crazy. He could pick up the phone and make anyone disappear, anywhere in the world, and we know that to be a fact. That being the case, I just can't see him allowing all of those rumors to fly around Sandra if he really had any inclination towards using her in his plans. And frankly, I can't see why in the world he'd want to use her. I mean, after what happened in Benghazi and so many other screwed up situations, and then the whole thing about her having some blood clot in the brain – I don't know, but to me, all of those things would make her 'hands off,' if I were the one making those decisions.”

“Then, you're not swallowing any of this, this whole concept that she's the one Chandler wanted to put in place? I don't know, I've got to admit that from what little I know, she almost seems like the ideal candidate. And let's face it, she's got the political clout. There are still people who think she'd make a great president.”

Indie shuddered. “Oh, Lord, I hope not in my lifetime, or my daughter's!”

Sam laughed at her. “Baby, I'm in complete agreement,” he said. “The thing is, none of this is getting us any closer to figuring out what to do next.” He looked at Gary. “Now you're getting a taste of what real investigation and fieldwork is like,” he said. “It's mostly just sitting around and waiting, hoping to get the next clue in time to do something with it.”

“Oh, I understand that,” Gary said. “I had to go through every debriefing report, every after action report, every analysis report – some days I thought my eyes were going to fall out from staring at the monitor.” He looked at Indie. “You ready to get to work? You can set up on the other side of this table, and we can coordinate our searches so that we're covering twice as much data.”

Indie smiled. “Sure, glad to. I feel like I'm just in the way, standing around here like this. Give me a minute.” She grabbed her laptop case and got it out, and had it set up a moment later. Gary gave her the log-on instructions for the super Wi-Fi the government kept at the Royal Palace Hotel. Moments later, she had her computer live and running. “Okay,” she said, “where do you want me to start?”

Gary grinned. “I'm sending you some links; these are pages online that are secretly connected to Chandler's plans. You'll be going in through a proxy I've set up, so you won't need all the passwords for each site; what I want you to do is search them for anything you think might give us any idea of what to do next. Turn Herman loose, and see what he can find, y'know?”

“Okay,” she said, “I see them. So I'm running through your computer to get to these pages?”

“Yep,” Gary said. “I'm already logged in, so by running through the proxy in my system you don't have to worry about logging in to each and every one of them. Using those links, Herman can go in and scan all of the pages without any problem.”

Indie smiled. “Sweet! I'm on it!”

Sam sat down beside Indie, and the two of them started discussing search parameters for Indie to feed into Herman. That meant that, since she had already given him the links to search, they needed to tell him what to look for.

“This Mesopotamian God that Chandler seemed to worship was called Shamash. Let's look for any reference to him, especially to any prophecies concerning him. That would give us at least something to start with. Then, let's look for any reference to Mrs. Ross. If he's honestly got her in his plan to be the figurehead, then we ought to be able to find some mention of her, somewhere.”

Indie nodded. “Yes, but the more I think about it, the less I believe it. He would want someone believable in that position, someone reliable. She said so many gaffes that it's just beyond comprehension to think that anyone would accept her as the new world leader.”

Sam shrugged, but looked her in the eye. “Really? If you studied your history, you know there was a time when a fair number were prepared to accept a man like Adolf Hitler. You'd be surprised what people will accept, when they think it will make life easier for them. I always got a kick out of psychology professors, with their references to prime motivations. In my experience, the prime motivation of mankind is always nothing more than, 'Me! Me!' People want what makes their own lives as easy as possible, and they don't really give a rip how it may affect anyone else. If she steps up after the disasters Chandler planned, then yeah, I could see the world accepting her. You got to remember that we live in a very sick society.”

Indie made a face. “Yeah, I know,” she said. “Still, makes you wonder how sick it could be.” She tapped her keys, giving Herman his instructions and then turning him loose to do his thing. The program almost instantly started dinging to tell her it had found something, and even Indie looked surprised. She glanced at both Sam and Gary before she clicked on the first link to appear. It was in a page of Chandler's notes, apparently, like a journal he was keeping. Indie read it aloud, so that they could all hear it at once.

“M has no idea just how important she is to the whole plan, but I'm sure she is the one Shamash refers to in the ninth line of the twenty second prophecy: “The woman of power is made first among my councils, and is given the place of leadership, for my hand shall be hidden, I say, behind her veils.” As far as I can tell, this means that the world's new leader is to be female, and won't that be a shock to all those Muslims. Shamash wants his real power, which is me, to be concealed. I'm to be the real ruler, while M takes the credit and gets the praise. No wonder I've always been the one to work behind the scenes. That was always Shamash, preparing me for the most important role I would have to play.”

Indie read the passage again, as Sam and Ken looked at each other. “Who is 'M?'” Sam asked. “That's the question we have to answer.”

Ken nodded. “Yeah, but at least we do know we're looking for a woman. Just having that confirmed is a pretty big plus, right now.”

“Yeah, I have to agree,” said Sam. He turned back to Indie. “Now the question is, how to identify that woman. If it is Sandra, I still say there should be some reference to her, somewhere. If it's not, then we ought to be finding something to indicate who it is.”

“Herman's still looking,” Indie said. “We gotta give him time. Be patient, baby, he'll come up with something. Doesn't he always?”

There had been a few more chimes while the reading and talking was going on, and Indie turned back to the computer to see what they were. She clicked on the first link in the list, and found another page of notes. She scanned through them quickly, but didn't find anything that told them anything new, so she skipped on to the next one. This one looked like a page with links to other websites, and for a moment she got excited. When she clicked the first of the links on the page, it went to a news story about the Benghazi incident, a story that pointed out how Sandra Ross had avoided repeated orders to testify about what happened there. Seeing that, Indie thought she might be onto evidence that Mrs. Ross was the M they were looking for, but when she clicked the next link she found a story about a train derailleur derailment in India, and then the next one was about an election in an African country. None of them seemed to be related at all to Chandler's plans, but then it suddenly hit her.

“Sam!” Indie said. “Look at this!” She pointed out the reference to Benghazi, then the train derailleur and the election, which the article indicated had not gone the way the people expected to go. The next article after that one was about the death of an ambassador from Nigeria, and the one after that detailed the bombing of a US military installation in Afghanistan.

Sam looked, read through the articles as she showed them to him, but then just looked at her. “Babe,” he said, “I don't get it. What do all these things have to do with Chandler's plot, or with finding out who M is?”

Indie grinned. “I didn't get it at first, either,” she said. “We told Herman to find things that were related to Chandler's plans, and that's exactly what he did. The trouble was that we were thinking of things he was planning that were yet to come, while Herman put two and two together and figured out that all of these were parts of his plot, as well. The death of our ambassador in Benghazi? A train goes off the rails in India? Take a good look, in every single one of these incidents, someone powerful is eliminated. In Benghazi, the US ambassador died, and was, of course, replaced by someone else when the time came. In India, when that train went off the tracks, over a hundred people died, and three of them were government officials. If you catch the footnote on that story, they were the three who were opposing India's leadership on some new governmental reforms. The Nigerian ambassador to Egypt is assassinated, and a week later there are some new agreements between those two countries that nobody thought were possible under the old guy. Sam, all of these are things Chandler arranged, every single one of them.”

“She's right,” Gary said, and Ken echoed him a second later. “That's exactly what he did, he arranged things like these in order to create vacancies that allowed him to put puppets of his own into place. I'll be honest, it never even occurred to me that Benghazi could have been one of his, but when I look at it now, it's pretty obvious.”

“Ironic, isn't it?” Ken asked. “I was using Benghazi to justify why I didn't believe he'd want to use her, and now it turns out that she was basically just holding the bag for him on that one. Sort of looks like he stuck it to her, doesn't it?”

Sam nodded. “It does, but it doesn't necessarily eliminate her as a candidate, either. We don't know what arrangement might have been made on that, or how it might conceivably have benefited her.”

Indie crinkled her eyes at him. “Benefited her?” She asked. “Sam, she got raked over the coals on that one. I don't think there was much benefit to her in it, anywhere. I'm not defending her, don't get me wrong, but I can remember all that stuff on CNN about how the senators and congressmen were screaming for her blood over that.”

“Yeah, I remember that too,” he said, “but it's quite possible that was nothing but camouflage. They may have wanted that big fuss, just to keep anyone from speculating on what have been behind that event. Since everyone was looking at Sandra, screaming that she should have done something or somehow prevented that tragedy, no one was paying any attention to whoever it was that stood to gain from it. Maybe we should be looking at that.”

Ken shook his head. “I don't think so,” he said. “Just the very fact that not one of us can think of who took over after Chris Stevens was killed says it's probably not that great a connection. It was passed off as a terrorist act, an attack by terrorists against the United States. Stevens and the others who died were supposedly just collateral damage, but now that we know Chandler was involved, then we know that someone stood to gain something, and probably from the fact that Stevens died.”

“Laurence Pope,” Gary said, staring at his monitor. “He was appointed as ambassador to Libya in October 2012, about a month after Stevens was killed. Anybody want to take a guess who was behind his appointment?”

“Oh, let's see,” Sam said, “would that be Sandra Ross?”

“Nope!” Gary said. “The suggestion for the appointment came from none other than Grayson Chandler, who is listed as an advisor to the president on matters related to diplomatic relations with Muslim nations. On the other hand, Mr. Pope had retired back in two thousand, and had to come out of retirement to fill that slot. His entire career in the diplomatic corps is about as exemplary as it could get. I mean, this guy has never had a blemish of any kind on his record, not even the slightest little black mark. He's about as clean as a man can get, and at seventy years old, he's pretty well retired, again, now. I can't find anything to indicate a connection to Chandler, no real benefit that he might've gained from Stevens' death.”

Sam leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “So we're back to square one,” he said. “Seems like this whole thing is twisted around in so many directions that is almost impossible to figure out where any part of it could be going.”

“Well, if you were Chandler, isn't that the way you'd want it?” Indie asked. “Let's face it, nobody would want their plan to take over the world to be completely obvious to everyone, would they? If you were doing it, wouldn't you build it in such a way that every clue someone thought they found simply led them down another dead-end road?”

“I guess I'd try,” Sam said. “On the other hand, how hard would it be to anticipate every possible attempt to figure out what you're doing and throw roadblocks up in front of them? Any mind that could do that would be pretty frightening. I know I could never pull off something like that, and frankly, I don't think I know of any other human being who could.”

Ken suddenly looked up at Sam. “A thought just ran through my head,” he said. “Remember the other day, we were on the way to DC when Harry called. He said something that I thought was odd, he said that Chandler seemed to be scared that you were going to stop him. Remember that?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I remember.”

Ken cocked his head to one side. “Here's what's bothering me,” he said. “Up until you got involved with me, Chandler had never even heard of you. And yet, for some reason we don't know, as soon as he heard you were involved in my efforts to stop him, he started getting nervous. Now, why is that, I wonder? Anybody got any ideas?”

No one did. Gary turned to his computer and started tapping keys rapidly. “I'm telling Mad Maggie to run a search on any correlations between Chandler and Sam Prichard. Let's see if there's a connection somewhere that we're not aware of.”

Gary turned his computer loose, while they all continue to watch what Herman was up to. Every few minutes there was another ding from Indie's computer, and they would all look to see what Herman had come up with next. There were links to more of Chandler's notes, but none of them gave any further indication of who the infamous M was, and there were links to more news stories about events that probably had Chandler's fingerprints all over them, but nothing that seemed to be useful. Time was passing, and everyone was getting uptight.

Suddenly, Mad Maggie signaled a result, and Gary spun his chair and rolled back to his side of the table. Everyone waited while he looked at what Maggie had reported, but when he gave a low whistle, they all hurried around to see for themselves.

“Okay,” Gary said, “this is a page from a scholarly work on the prophecies of Shamash, from a Doctor Abdul Teresh, who actually interpreted some old Mesopotamian tablets that were found about a hundred years ago. He was particularly interested in the prophecy of what he calls, 'the bright one,' which is the name that he gives to a prophesied figure whose purpose is to ferret out unworthy people in the high councils of Shamash. In other words, the bright one is supposed to be someone unknown, who comes out of nowhere, to defeat and destroy those who try to use their position for personal gain, rather than serving the true will of Shamash.”

They all looked at one another, and then back at Gary. “So, what prompted the whistle?” Ken asked. “We all thought you were on to something.”

“Yeah, well, don't sell me short,” Gary said. “You're gonna freak when I read you the actual prophecy itself, are you ready? Here goes.” He pointed at a section of text that was in italics on the screen. “And when my hand shall be stretched out to touch the whole earth, when that hand is prepared to hold all in its grasp, but shall drop into its brother a portion for itself, then shall my hand be false and full of sin. And there shall arise from the city on the mountain one to throw down my hand, and to punish and destroy my false hand, and his name shall be Sam-per-shar, he who shines.”

There was nothing but silence in the room. Each of them looked at each other, but no one dared to speak. A minute passed, and then another, and finally it was Indie who broke the stillness with her voice.

“The city on the mountain? We live in Denver, the mile high city in the Rocky Mountains. And the name, is anybody here going to say that it's just a coincidence? Sam Prichard — Sam-per-shar?”

Ken was shaking his head back and forth. “Well, I think we can see what it was about you that shook him up. If he truly studied those prophecies, then somewhere along the line he would've seen this one. Knowing you were from Denver, and having a name so close to the one in this prophecy? Hell, man, that would send chills down my spine if I were him.”

Sam shrugged. “One of the things we been going on all this time is that none of the prophecies of Shamash had shown any sign of coming true, so I'm not going to go putting a lot of stock into this one, no matter how it looks. As far as I'm concerned, the only thing about me that should've scared Chandler was the fact that he was messing with my country. This isn't helping. This isn’t giving us anything we need to figure out how to stop everything he put into motion. Let's get it done, come on — we've got to get some idea of who it is we’re actually trying to stop.”

Gary and Indie went back to work, letting their computers scan through thousands of pages of documents and websites in search of any information that might tell them what their next move should be. Even as good as the computers were, there was so much data to sift through that they knew it was going to take a while. Sam and Ken sat down and tried to think of new angles of their own, but they weren’t having any luck.

Sam took out his phone and called Harry. The old man answered on the second ring, and Sam could hear the smile on his face through the line.

“Sam, boy, it's good to hear from you again. Where are we?”

Sam smiled back through the phone. “Hi, Harry,” he said. “We're making a little progress, I think. The Pope has agreed to some heightened security measures, and they're rounding up just about everyone who could conceivably get to him right now. The Italian government has set up facial recognition, looking for any of his household employees who decide to try to flee the country. With any luck, we'll have some ideas soon of who it is we’re looking for. At the very least, I think we've managed to put a kink into Chandler's plans.”

“Glad to hear it,” Harry said. “Every minute that goes by makes me worry that we've missed something important.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Sam replied. “Hey, listen, remember a few days ago, you called and said how it almost seemed like Chandler was a little bit scared that I was going to get to him? Well, Gary ran across something interesting. There's an old prophecy of Shamash that actually says something about a man from the city on the mountain who would come to stop somebody who was trying to do what Shamash wanted, but for his own personal gain. Strangely enough, the name that prophecy gave to that person sounds a lot like my name.”

Harry burst out laughing. “Now, wouldn't that be a kick in the pants? For him to see the person coming after him in the very prophecies he was trying to use to justify his own actions. That's amazing, Sam.”

Sam chuckled along with him. “Yeah, I kinda thought you'd get a kick out of that. So how are you doing? Everything going okay there?”

“Oh, I'm fine. I'm driving the nurses here crazy, because they seem to have this wild notion that I'm going to do things their way, rather than the way I want to do them. I can't imagine how they could be that silly, but they are. And here comes one of them, right now, who seems to be under the impression that she's about to give me a bath. And do you know what? I think this is once when I just might be cooperative. You let me know if you need anything, Sam, boy, but I'm gonna have to go for now.” The line went dead.

Sam laughed, and then had to explain to everyone what was so funny. All three of the others got a chuckle out of it, but then they got back to work. Gary found a few more prophetic references to the bright one, but nothing is clear as the first. Indie kept coming up with more and more items that appeared to be Chandler's handiwork, but still wasn't getting any closer to knowing who the infamous M could be. They were all getting impatient, but nothing seemed to be going in their favor.

And then Sam's phone rang. He picked it up to see Spencer's number, and answered quickly.

“Prichard,” he said.

“Sam, I think we've got something,” Spencer said rapidly. “The Commandant just got a call from Rome's chief of police, and they have someone in custody right now. It's a man who has been a part of the Prefecture for more than a dozen years, but the moment the roundup was announced, he left like his tail was on fire. Went straight to the airport and tried to buy a ticket to New York City, but he was picked up and brought in for questioning. The Commandant suggested we turn him over to you, first. They have him at the Questura Centrale. That's the main police station, their headquarters. You can go there and ask for the Capo della Polizia. Just tell them your name, they know who you are.”

“That's great, John,” Sam said. “What's this fellow's name? The one they picked up?”

“Oh, right,” Spencer said. “Just a second, I've got it here. Okay, here it is. His name is Harold Slater. He was an American priest, spent more than forty years as a priest in Albany, New York. Came here back in oh-three and has been working in the Vatican in one position or another, ever since.”Sam scribbled down all of the information Spencer had given him. “Okay, thanks, John, I'm on it.”

He quickly told the others what Spencer had said, then looked at Ken. “Let's go,” he said. “I'll be good cop, you can be bad.”

Ken grinned and got to his feet. “Let's do it!” he said.

10

Sam and Ken made it downstairs and to the paid parking lot where they kept the car in just a few minutes, and Sam let Ken drive since he was much more familiar with the city.

“I'm frankly surprised that the capo is going to even let you near the suspect, let alone question him,” Ken said. “They're not usually that open to joint investigations, especially with the US. The only thing I can figure is that they don't want to piss off His Holiness.”

Sam grinned. “Yeah, probably not. I would imagine it gets a little nerve-racking, having God's right-hand man sitting right in your lap, all the time. I can imagine they're a little cautious about getting him riled up.”

“Well, I certainly would be. Don't get me wrong—personally, I don't think the Catholics have figured out that they're not exactly following Christian teaching. It flat amazes me that so many people could go to a church and read the Bible, and never quite notice that a lot of what they're being taught is in direct contradiction to what the scriptures say, but then, I've never been a Catholic, so maybe there are things about it I'm not seeing. I can't say I know everything, so maybe somebody else does.”

Sam shrugged. “I'm pretty sure I don't. I know what I believe and that's good enough for me, but I don't claim to have any answers for anyone else. All I want to do is get this case over with, and then go home and retire, again. I've got a band back home that's just hoping I get back in time for the next gig we've got planned, at some new place that's opening up. Just think, when I get back to the microphone, I may just decide never to stop singing again!”

“Hmph. Probably the smartest move you make. Get as far away from this racket as you possibly can.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I'd be lying if I didn't say I was ready. I've got a wife and little girl who need me, and I'd like to be around for them. One of my biggest fears, every time Harry's tapped me for one of these missions, is that I would die and never get to see them again.”

“I understand that,” Ken said. “I wish I had known my family, and able to be the father that Joellyn needed, but the truth is that I just couldn't have handled trying to balance the two lives. When I was recruited, they made it clear that the country needed me so badly that any sacrifice was worthwhile. I fell for that, hook, line and sinker. They had me, and I think they knew it.” He glanced at Sam, then turned his eyes back to the road in front of them. “I'm not going to tell you your country doesn't need you, Sam, obviously it does. You've already saved it more than once, and here you are working on it again. What I am going to say, though, is that you aren't the only one who can do that. When this one is over, take your chance to get out. Walk away, don't look back, just say goodbye to Harry and everything that's part of his world. That's the best advice I can give you, and probably the best advice you've ever had in your life.”

Sam sat there quietly as the car rolled through the streets of Rome. He looked around him at the incredible mixture of structures, some of them thousands of years old, some of them as new as last week. Rome was an amazing city, but Sam was wishing he had never seen it at all.

They pulled up at the questura, and found a place to park the car. They got out together and entered the building, asking a uniformed officer where to find the office of the capo. He gave them directions, and they found the office with no trouble.

An officer greeted them as they entered, and Sam said, “I was told to come here to question a suspect who may be involved in the plot to assassinate the pope. My name is Sam Prichard, and I am with United States Homeland Security.”

The officer looked at him strangely, and then shrugged his shoulders. “I know nothing of any suspect who is trying to assassinate His Holiness. Are you sure you have come to the right place?”

Sam looked at Ken, who looked just as confused as he was. He turned back to the officer. “I was contacted by a man from our embassy to the Holy See, and he told me that you had a suspect in custody. A priest named Harold Slater. They told me to ask the chief of police, because I was supposed to interrogate this man.”

“Just one moment,” the officer said, and picked up the telephone. He spoke rapidly into it in Italian, glancing at Sam more than once as he did so. After a moment, he nodded into the telephone, then hung up and turned back to Sam. “I am sorry, Signore,” he said. “We have no such suspect, and no such person by that name. I just asked our inspector general if we know anything about a plan to assassinate the pope, and he assures me that we do not. I wish I could help you, but I don't know where to turn.”

Sam and Ken looked at each other again, and then Sam bolted out the door. Ken was right on his heels, and caught up with him by the time he got back to the ground floor and the front doors. They got to the car at the same time, and jumped inside. “Go, go, go!” Sam shouted. “It was a trick of some sort, to get us away from the room.” He had his phone out and was already dialing Indie. The phone rang twice, and then she answered.

“Sam?” She started to say something more, but Sam cut her off.

“Grab Gary,” he said hurriedly, “and get the two of you out of that room, right now! We were sent on a wild goose chase, you've got to get out of there, now!”

“We what? Oh, Sam, oh my God…”

“Hurry, babe, get out of there now! If you can get into another room, go there, if not then start down the stairs. Don't use the elevators, anybody coming up would be coming that way. Hurry, go—Ken and I will be there as fast as we can. Go to the bistro for now, we'll meet you there.”

“Okay, we're going! What about the computers? Oh, never mind, we're leaving them. Come on, Gary, we've gotta go now! Sam, I love you and I'll call you when we get to the bistro.” She hung up, and Sam knew she was probably dragging Gary away from his precious equipment.

The car was racing through the streets, and Ken was surprised that they hadn't picked up a police escort, with the way he was screeching around corners. It'd taken them almost fifteen minutes to get to the police station, but he was trying to cut it down to ten on the way back. He kept his foot down on the accelerator, and was amazing Sam with his ability to weave in and out of traffic, avoid hitting cars who had the right-of-way in every intersection they came to, and generally avoid killing them both as they raced back to the hotel.

They slid to a stop in front of the bistro, and Sam was out of the car in a split second. He dashed inside, but there was no sign of Indie or Gary, so he spun and rushed out again. They ran into the hotel together, and Sam began rushing up the stairs while Ken took the elevator. The elevator was old and rather slow, so they actually got to their room at the same time.

The door was open, and there was no sign of either Gary or Indie inside. There was, however, a woman sitting at the table where the computers were set up. She turned to face them as they entered, and they saw the gun in her hand instantly.

“Hello, gentlemen,” she said.

“Natasha?” Sam asked in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here? Where is Indie, and Gary?”

“They're in the bedroom,” came another voice, and Sam spun in shock. There, just behind the door into the room, stood Grayson Chandler. Sam could see that his chest appeared to be heavily bandaged, but he was certainly alive. “At the moment, they're alive. Whether they stay that way or not is largely dependent on what you decide to do in the next few moments.”

Kenneth Long was standing just behind Sam, his own eyes wide and unbelieving. “Natasha, Sam,” he said. “She sold us out.”

“I suppose you could say that,” Natasha said. “I prefer to think of it as choosing the winning side. As Chandler and I were having our little talk, he told me just how complete his plans were, and that there was only one little detail he hadn't quite settled on yet.”

Sam scowled at her. “Let me guess,” he said. “That little detail was the final identity of the woman that he intended to put in charge, the woman who would appear to be some great Savior of the world, while he pulled the strings from behind.”

“You're close,” she said. “He had someone in mind, already, but it is absolutely amazing what a man will barter for his own life. No, the only little detail that wasn't settled was the matter of when all of this would be launched, and since you were already racing up here to try to stop things, I made him a simple proposition. His life in return for putting me in that top spot, and since he was ready to launch everything, anyway, we simply decided that now is the time to do it.”

Sam's mind was racing, as he put together all the little details that had to fit into the scenario in front of his eyes. “Spencer,” he said. “Spencer was one of yours, all along, right?”

Chandler nodded. “John has been with me for a couple of years now,” he said. “Ironically, I had called him just a few hours earlier to tell him to keep his ears open for any investigators who might be snooping around the Vatican. Imagine how surprised we were when the people you called ended up calling him. He immediately figured you'd be listening in on the conversation, so he set out a bait by asking old Carlo to meet with him, knowing full well that you'd show up. Well, one of you, at least. Then he just played it by ear, telling you what you wanted to hear so that he’d be able to send you in whatever direction we wanted you sent when the time came.”

“And Carlo? Is he one of yours, too?”

“No, not at all. He was just a tired old man, who didn't know who to trust.”

“Was?” Sam asked. “You killed him?”

Chandler shrugged his shoulders. “Didn't have to. The thought that someone he knew might be trying to hurt the pope was more than he could take. He had a heart attack an hour after you saw him last, and I'm afraid he didn't make it.”

“Okay, so let's just cut to the chase. What you want? What will it take to bargain for my wife's safety?”

Chandler smiled. “Well, I could just make you beg. Or, I could ask Natasha to give you a taste of the same treatment she gave me, that would be pretty poetic justice, wouldn't it? But don't worry, I'm not quite that vengeful. I know that all of this is nothing more than a test of my faithfulness and loyalty to Shamash, so I don't hold any grudges. No, it's a lot simpler than that, Sam. I need you on my side. I need you in particular working for me.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Sam, let's not play games. If you refuse, then all four of you are going to die. That should be pretty obvious. On the other hand, if you cooperate with me, you and your wife will live and I'll even give you that computer nerd kid. I'm sure you can find a way to use his talents, so we'll put him under you. The only one who has to die is Long. And don't worry, I'm not going to make you kill him. Trust me when I say I'm going to enjoy doing that one myself.”

Sam stared at Chandler for a moment, then looked at Ken. The two of them eyeballed each other for a few seconds, and then Sam turned back to Chandler. “How do I know you'll keep your word? How do I know my wife isn't dead already?”

Chandler looked at Natasha. “Would you do the honors, my dear?”

“My pleasure,” Natasha said. “Just one moment.” She got up from the chair she been sitting in and walked over to Sam's bedroom door. She pushed it open, and waved for someone inside to come out.

Gary and Indie came out of the room, followed by two men who were holding pistols aimed at them. Sam walked calmly over to his wife and put his arms around her, then kissed her gently. He pulled back and looked into her eyes, and then he winked.

Indie's eyes went wide, but she didn't say anything. Sam turned away from her and looked at Chandler.

“Okay, she's alive, I see that,” he said. “Since you're holding the bargaining chips, why don't we discuss this job you have for me? Mind telling me more about what it is?”

Chandler smiled, and then slowly and somewhat painfully settled himself onto a chair. “It's actually pretty simple,” he said. “Basically, I need you as my personal right-hand man. Natasha will be the premier, the figurehead world ruler. I'll be sitting safely in the background, somewhere, calling the shots. When I need specific information about someone or something, you'll be the guy I turn to. With these two computer geniuses, and your own abilities as an investigator, I figure you can do just about anything I might need done along that line. In addition, the only one who will know your position will be Natasha. That way, if I need to send a message to her that can't risk going to any normal channels, I can send it to you and she'll know that it's genuine.” Chandler smiled again, a shark toothed smile that made Sam nervous. “Of course, the job comes with more rewards than just your lives. You'll have wealth, power, beautiful homes in different parts of the world – you will live a life that will be the envy of millions, and all you’ve got to do is accept it.”

Sam turned to Natasha. “Should have known I couldn't trust you,” he said. “Soon as Ken said you were a former Soviet agent, I should have simply known you'd stab me in the back if you got the chance. Just out of curiosity, who else did you stab in the back? Who is supposed to get your job? Was it Sandra?”

Natasha smiled. “No, and I was surprised, myself. The woman's name was Milligan, and she was actually a pretty sharp operator. She's a British woman, a low-level staffer in the British Embassy in DC. She had been compiling information on new technologies that could solve world problems for years, and that's how Chandler stumbled across her. Don't worry about her; he's already called and let her know that she's been demoted. Like everyone else, he knows where her bodies are buried, so she's not going to raise any fuss.”

“I'm sure she won't,” Sam said. He turned back to Chandler. “Well, looks like you're holding all the cards. I wish I could think of a way out of this mess, but it seems you've outsmarted me.”

Chandler laughed aloud. “Oh, Sam, don't feel bad,” he said. “I've outsmarted more people than you can imagine. When you left me alone with Natasha down in that basement, I knew then that Shamash hadn't abandoned me or failed me. I knew that I could turn her, that I could get her to betray you. Do you know why? Do you know why I was so certain of that?”

Sam said nothing, but nodded his head. Chandler cocked his head to one side and stared at him. “Really, you think you know?” Chandler asked Sam, who nodded again. “Then, please,” Chandler said with a smile, “please enlighten me. Tell me what you think the answer would be.”

Sam looked at him for another moment, then said, “It's because of another prophecy. The one about Sam-per-shard. You figured, if that prophecy refers to me the way it seems to, then as long as I was there, I'd be winning. Once I left, though, then that prophetic influence that you felt surrounds me would be gone, and so you could use your old charm and powers of persuasion, the way you always have. Am I right?”

Chandler was still smiling, but his eyes were wide in surprise. “Actually, you're dead on the money. That was exactly it. Once you left, whatever power you had over me was removed, so she began to listen to what I had to say.” He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “Just between you and me, she was pretty easy to turn.”

Ken was still standing just inside the doorway, and Natasha had returned to her chair. Gary and Indie had come into the room far enough to stand beside the table where their computers were set up, and their two guards were standing just a few feet away from them, with their guns still aimed loosely in their direction. Chandler had seated himself in one of the easy chairs in the sitting room, and Sam had moved to place himself directly in front of the madman.

“Natasha,” Sam said, “you were easy to turn against me? Is that true?”

Natasha smiled at Sam's back. “But of course I was,” she said. “After all, wasn't that our agreement, Sam?”

Chandler's smile faltered, and his eyes went wide. He moved suddenly to bring his gun to bear on Natasha, trying to lean around Sam to do so, but that's when he noticed that the two guards suddenly had their own pistols pointed directly at him. Sam leaned forward and snatched the gun from his grasp, spinning it deftly to point right back between his eyes.

“But this is impossible!” Chandler shouted. “I beat you, I had beaten you!”

Natasha stood and stepped up beside Sam, to look down at Chandler. “You know, Chandler, when Harry Winslow told me he was sending a civilian private investigator to Jerusalem to put a stop to your plans, well, I'll be honest, I thought the old man had finally lost his mind.” She looked at Sam appraisingly, then turned her eyes back to Chandler. “The more I worked with him, though, the more respect I had for the natural intelligence of this man. While Kenneth and I were thinking like spies, like secret agents, like any of those other cliché words you might want to think of, Sam Prichard was thinking like an investigator. He was looking at all you have accomplished, not the way we would, thinking in terms of international incidents, or the potential for war – he looked at it as a series of crimes, and while we were trying to spot the opportunity to avoid political disaster, he was looking for any flaw in your plan, something he could exploit to turn it against you, and when we knew we had the chance to get you within our grasp, he saw one that was too good to turn down.”

Chandler was staring at her, and his mouth had fallen open. “You,” he said. “While I was trying to turn you against him, he was using you against me.”

Natasha smiled and nodded. “Oh, indeed he did. While he and I were waiting for you to flush out of that building, he hit me with his proposition. He asked me point blank if I thought I could handle you alone, and that's when I had to tell him about my — shall we say — specialty. Then he proposed that I torture you only far enough to get you to the point of desperation, while he left me alone with you so that you would try to turn me. He suggested that I demand the number one position, that you'd be willing to trade that for your life, and it was his idea that I make you call Miss Milligan on my own phone, so that I would have not only evidence that she really was your planned puppet, but since he'd also suggested I have all of the activity on my phone traced, that call led our agents straight to her. She was in custody, with a complete news blackout on it, before you and I came up the elevator. And incidentally, she has squealed her little brains out, giving up everyone she knew that was involved in your plans.” She smiled again, then stepped closer and leaned down to kiss Chandler on the cheek. “And, just so you know, it was also Sam's idea for me to demand that you give me access to your dead man's stash, so that if anything happened to you, I could keep control over the rest of your cronies. I'm delighted to be able to tell you that my phone was on full bug status as you gave me the access codes for it all, and homeland security now has complete copies of it. So, all of those high-powered politicians from around the world that you've been protecting and manipulating all this time? Well, let's just say that they're all likely to rue the day they ever even heard of you. Chandler, you bragged a few moments ago that you outsmarted so many people. Well, it just delights me to be able to tell you that Sam Prichard outsmarted you.”

Chandler was staring at Sam. “You — you really are the bright one, aren't you? You really are Sam-per-shard.”

Sam shrugged. “I don't know about that,” he said. “When Natasha called me to tell me you had died, well, that was our signal that you had taken the bait. I knew that by the time I got to Rome, you'd already have gotten word to your people here, so when John Spencer was so anxious to be helpful, I suspected he must be one of yours. I'll grant you, I fell for the wild goose chase, I actually thought that, to keep me from suspecting, they really did have a man hunt going on for people who might have had access to the pope, so I went down to the police station expecting to really interrogate someone who may or may not have been one of yours. When I realized that it was just a decoy game to get me away from Indie and Gary, well, then I could only pray that Natasha had things under control.” He looked over at his wife, smiled, and then looked back at Chandler. “I'm happy to say that, unlike yours, my God answers prayers.”

Three minutes later, the room was filled with agents from the CIA and a couple of other alphabet soup groups Sam had never heard of before. Chandler was taken into custody, and Kenneth Long was delighted when he was informed that, by order of the President of the United States, he was to escort Chandler to a special holding facility that was set up specifically to house arrestees who were charged with high treason. Along with that order came a presidential pardon, one that had been hastily arranged and signed at the insistence of an extremely irate Harry Winslow, and another order reinstating Long as a special agent of the United States.

Ken came to Sam before he left with his prisoner and their escort, and shook his hand. “Sam,” he said, “I gotta tell you that I thought you were nuts when we first met. And I'll even be honest enough to tell you that I still thought you were nuts as we were headed for DC together. But, buddy, if I ever have to go into another situation like this, I'm going to come drag your ass out of retirement. Just out of curiosity, though, when was it you were going to get around to telling me about this little plan you and Natasha came up with?”

Sam grinned. “When I knew whether or not it worked. You don't think I would've admitted to it if it failed, do you?”

The two men wished each other the best, and Ken told Sam not to be surprised if he showed up at the Prichard house one day soon. He was making plans to visit his daughter, and said he just didn't think he could handle coming to Denver and not seeing the best friend he'd ever known.

Sam was surprised when little Gary walked up to him, reared back and punched him right in the face. He was still staring at the kid when Gary said, “I don't know if you just thought this was funny or what, but coming face to face with that man, after you had told me he was dead, just damn near gave me a heart attack! And if you had all this all set up, why in the world did you even need me here?”

“First off, bringing you wasn't my idea, it was Harry's. And we did need you, it was your genius that managed to tap the phones that led us to John Spencer, so you did good, kid. As for you coming face-to-face with Chandler, well, let's just say I wasn't expecting that one either. When I saw him here, and you and Indie were nowhere in sight, my own heart just about failed. I'm sorry you got scared, but I think you can safely say you earned any gray hairs you got out of it.”

Indie wrapped her arms around Gary in a hug, and smiled at Sam. “Just so you know, Sam, when those people came bursting in with their guns in their hands, Gary jumped in front of me. He was willing to give his life to try to save me. I think you can go a little easier on him, don't you?”

Sam looked at Gary, and smiled. “Go easier on him? I think I'm going to demand that he gets a medal!”

The debriefing lasted only a few days, and then Sam and Indie were able to go back home. George and the limousine picked them up at the airport, and drove them to Sam's mother's house, so they could collect their daughter. Of course, that meant also collecting all of the new toys, stuffed animals, and video games her grandmothers had bought for her. George happily loaded it all into the car's huge trunk, and then he drove the family home.

It took a few days for things to settle down, and then Sam started rehearsing with the band again. Like many of the things he'd been through in his life, Sam expressed his feelings by writing them into a song. The song he wrote after this adventure got him a standing ovation when it debuted at their next concert. (Click Here To Listen)

Free Man

I look around my country and my tears began to fall

For the freedoms that we all once knew, Lord, we've almost lost them all

But deep within my heart I swear, I'll never be a slave,

Before this free man wears their chains, they'll put me in my grave,

Our fathers came here long ago to escape from tyranny,

And they built a mighty nation with a plan to keep it free,

But I watch our Constitution being trampled on the ground,

Behind the noise in the voices, there's a call to make a choice, can't you hear that trumpet sound?

Chorus

So I'll stand to defend my country,

And I'll stand up for the truth,

And I'll stand as a shield to freedom,

And I'll never back down, I'll never turn and run,

I want my country back, I'm a free man!

Each night before I close my eyes, I get down on my knees,

And ask God to bless this nation and to help us keep it free,

But as long as those in power leave the law out of their plans,

And put themselves above it, they'll destroy this once great land,

For the sake of all that we hold dear, it's time to make a stand!

Chorus

So I'll stand to defend my country,

And I'll stand up for the truth,

And I'll stand as a shield to freedom,

You can't chain a free man, freedom's in his heart,

I want my country back, I'm a free man!

So I'll stand to defend your country,

And I'll stand up for the truth,

And I'll stand as a shield to freedom,

And I'll never back down, I'll never turn and run,

I want my freedoms back, I'm a free man!

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About the Author

David Archer was born and raised in Bakersfield, California. He is a fiction author and novelist, writing in the mysteries and thrillers genre. His approach to writing is to hit deep, keep you entertained, and leave you wanting MORE with every turn of the page. He writes mysteries, thrillers, and suspense novels, all of which are primed to get your heart pumping.

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Table of Contents

The Kill List

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

Drifter: Part I

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

Drifter: Part II

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

Drifter: Part III

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10