it begins

We made it into the fish camp around 9pm. Gloria was not happy with those accommodations either. She complained in a rather loud voice, too bad no one else could hear her. It was indeed hard to sleep in the cabin we all shared. It was more like an old style army barracks than a cabin. At least there weren't any top bunks to deal with.


I managed to sleep well enough so that I was fairly rested when we left for breakfast. With breakfast I began packing carbs and calories. Yes it was a one day mission, unless we had a problem, then it could be a ten year mission in a Cuban jail. I was pretty damn sure that they didn't serve pancakes in the Cuban prison system. I managed to pack more calories and carbs during lunch as well. Lots of greasy french fries and hamburgers. the hamburgers I ate with just the meat and an onion under two thick pieces of texas toast.

We met the skipper of the fishing boat at 1pm. The boat was seaworthy but like all the boats on the Swamp Thing sub contractor list, it looked as though it wouldn't make it away from the dock. Since no one in their right mind would attempt anything in such a rust bucket, it didn't get checked often. In the Florida gulf area most of the crime was drug related. Those guys tended to go for faster, fancy boats.

We sailed in the boat to a spot about twenty miles from Cuba, then put out the fishing nets. I found a spot and napped. It didn't seem that any of the others could manage it. Some were sea sick and some were excited. Me, I was just tired from the dramamine.

I was well after dark when I packed a couple of bean tacos into my stomach. I ate the tacos for the carbs, so I raked off all the lettuce and tomato. I would be in terrible shape for a couple of days after the mission, but I could also go a couple of days without being in a weakened condition. One just never knew when that extra taco would make a difference.

We hit the beach with the tourist hotel at 2am. The ride ashore had been rough in the lightweight rubberized boat. Eddie and I moved slow to the edge of the pool of light. It was cast by the hotel's patio lighting Eddie wore night vision goggles, and I had a ten power scope mounted onto the strange little lightweight sniper rifle. I also carried an AK47 slung over my shoulder.

The armament was always prepared by the armorer at Swamp Thing. He chose them for the mission. In this case he chose a Remington .22 magnum rifle. It fired a high velocity, but lightweight slug. When I asked, he said it was chosen for the sound of the rifle. In Cuba the sound of it popping once or twice wouldn't cause much of a stir. I had no idea, so I took his word for it.

Eddie looked around with the google whispered the location of a couple of heat images. I checked them out with the scope and found them to be tourist heading into the hotel. I was looking for armed men or men in uniform. Since I didn't see any, I sent in our extraction team.

The other four men went into the hotel dressed as tourists. The plan was for Jason and one of the henchmen to station themselves near the lobby. From there they could easily keep an eye on the front door. The other two would go grab the scientist. The four of them were armed with Hypodermic syringes as well as the AK47 with cut down stock. Everything was well hidden in straw beach type bags. The Plan was that the syringes would be used on any guards they found. They might be used on the scientist if it became necessary.

The complete mission should have taken no more than twenty minutes. The grand plan was that we wouldn't fire a shot. We were supposed to have missed the two man security patrol by ten minutes. It was a good thing that I had no faith in pre mission plans, because the security team was running late.

Eddie alerted me ten minutes into the mission. The two head signature were still in the darkness of the building. When they the turned corner, they went from green blobs to armed security police in uniform. I couldn't see their holstered weapons, but I knew they were there. There was no decision to make, I shot them both in the head as quickly as possible. The head shots with the high velocity hollow point slugs made a terrible mess, I am sure. I didn't plan on being around to see the mess. We tripped the switch which sent the signal telling the other that it had changed to a hot mission. At that point it was still grab El Doctore, but a second signal could be sent that meant, it's every man for himself.

gloria and the ride down

"It stinks in here," Gloria said somewhere in Georgia.

"You don't need to use that tone with me," she said that as I answered her in my obviously damaged mind.

"What tone, I just stated the obvious. Hundreds of men have used this van. There is a smell of tobacco smoke, farts, gun oil,and fear embedded in the upholstery. I doubt that all the orange cleaner in the world will ever get it out."

"So are you afraid?"

"This mission is undermanned, mostly under equipped, so yeah I'm afraid. Worst of all, as best I can tell they have chosen us like law rockets, we are completely disposable operatives. Someone just may know more than they are telling."

"Do you think you are supposed to die in Cuba?"

"This could be some kind of political statement more than a real mission. You know just to prove the boy wonder is willing to do something, without actually changing the status quo. This maybe kinda like a predator fired missile but with real people, nothing but symbolic."

"I will not have you killed just to make some political points," Gloria demanded.

"Not much you can do sweetie. This is real people stuff here."

"You could walk away," she said flatly.

"Not really, this is the beast I chose to ride years ago. Besides what's a one legged man to do, play ice hockey?"

"No of course not, go home and join PETA or something," she replied.

"Time to stop for gas and coffee," The mission commander said turning onto an exit ramp.

the plan

We left the compound at nine the next morning. There was no rush to be on the road we had a long drive and then a long wait. So we had a large leisurely breakfast before getting into the van for the fourteen hour drive.

We drove one of the company vans from the compound. Planes leave paper trails, as do trains, and buses. The best way to get from the compound to the Florida based fishing boat was by the company van. The van had a logo very close to one of the air freight companies. The cargo was five men and a quarter ton of arms and ammunition.

During the long drive we went over and over the plan. I didn't like my part in it all that much, but it was what they paid me well. They paid me not to like it, if I did like it, the pay would have been less I'm sure.

We were expected to reach the fishing cabin outside of Fort Meyers around midnight. We would sleep in one tourist/fisherman's cabin until the next morning. At that time we would drive to a private dock and board a run down fishing boat for the trip to Cuba. We would lay of the coast with the nets out till well after dark. Then we would make the quick run into shore.

Eddie, my spotter, and I were going to guard the approach while the others grabbed the mad scientist. I read a lot about the North Koreans and their nuke program. I figured the mad scientist had something to do with that. The N.K. madman might just be getting ready to do a nuke deal with one of the Castro boys. The Government of the people would not be happy with that at all. Even the wonder boy would have to do something. It looked as though we were the something.

Guarding the approach meant killing anyone in a uniform who got near the hotel's rear door. Jason was going to guard the front door from inside the hotel. Between the two of us, we might be able to buy a few minutes if the feces hit the oscillating device. Of course it was just as likely that we would all be killed. It was not a very large operation but sometimes those are the safest, I told myself. I told myself that but I double checked my life insurance policy.

The Swamp Thing compound was inside a monitored fense. Sure they had some armaments but the real danger was in the computer system. I'm sure all the black bag stuff was not stored anywhere available to the hackers, but still it had to be a concern. They had fifteen different encryption programs. The only non secure phone line in the compound was Betty Jo who never ever talked about black ops on the phone.

From my cabin in the woods I passed through only one town large enough to have a Krispy Kreme donut shop open 24hours a day. I left home at 3am so the donuts were in the car by 5am.

The sugar and caffeine from my only pit stop, woke me up enough to make it all the way to the poorly marked dirt drive which led to the Swamp Thing compound. There was a simple red and blue reflector on a rusty sign post which held a sign which was equally rusted. The sign said Saunter.s ferry lane, but the dirt path of a road was ten yards away from the sign. If one turned at the reflector, as he normally would, he would find himself in a rather nasty ditch. One filled with stagant water and punji stakes make of gutter spikes. It was a sure way to ruin a tire.

The disabled car would be surrounded by armed security guards in a matter of minutes. Nuclear power pants would envy the security of the former boyscout camp. Since I knew the secret of the rusty Saunters Ferry lane sign, I slipped into the poorly maintained dirt drive without indecent. I made it all the way to the compound fence before the gate guard signaled me to stop.

"Ricky, they must be pulling all the stops."

"Oh how so Carlos?"

"I just cleared Jason through. You two in the compound on the same day is something I haven't seen in a long time." He looked thoughtful before he continued. "Should I put a cleanup crew on standby?"

"That would be up to Jason," I replied seriously. I could understand the guard's concern. Janson and I did have a history. The son of a bitch stabbed me, but then I guess it was only fair. I did break his arm with a folding chair once. And he had a mild concussion from the fall from the second story window of a hotel in Panama City. He always blamed me for that.

I could usually tell from the people assembled what kind of job it was. Jason wasn't much of a hint, since he was the kind of guy one would describe as a generic thug. There were more than a few of those in Swamp Thing's inventory. They could cut a guard's throat or lay down covering fire, but they had no real specialty. Without a specialty they were interchangeable. That also made them easily replaced if a mission went sour. They were the kinds of guys in every army who got picked for the rear guard.

I preferred to work alone or with a sniper team. It has been my experience that teams who prepared for a real firefight, usually got into one. In a real firefight your side is almost always going to take casualties. It's just one of those laws of nature.

The quarter mile to the camp was along a dirt road that was a lot better maintained after I passed the gate. Just another security measure. It was easier to hide the compound than to defend it. I did like the way the boss thought.

"Where do you want this BJ?" The forty pound over weight bleach blonde behind the desk looked up.

"On the table with the coffee pot like always," she replied. She also put on a beautifully warm smile. It was a smile I didn't see often from anyone.

After the donuts were in place I turned and asked, "So who all is in the barrel?"

"Here," she said slipping me a duty roster.

"Jason I know, and Eddie of course, but these other two are new to me." I didn't like working with new people.

"They are more muscle," the voice came from the converence room doorway.

"So Miles, who is going to be leading the team?"

"Get a cup of coffee and a handful of donuts and come on in." The old time green beret gone soft suggested. Miles was the planner and logistics expert for Swamp Thing. He probably knew exactly where all the bodies were buried. If the feds over ran the camp, most likely the boss would shoot him.

I had three donuts and two cups of coffee before the strangers joined us. Jason came in with the strangers. He either knew them or didn't want to chat with me. It could have been Miles he was avoiding, but to my knowledge Miles had never tossed his ass from a hotel balcony. In my own defense it was only after he tried to kill me with his beloved world war 2 parachute knife. I had the great pleasure of breaking it's blade, while I dripped blood all over the hotel room.

The hospital in Panama City was so small the same doctor who xrayed Jason also stitched up my thigh. It was all in all one of my more memorable vacations. Most of the time that was our cover. Just a bunch of tourists out drinking and whoring around. The usually held up until the body count got over a half dozen. After that we usually were quietly on our way out of the country. Sometimes with the local government's help but just as often scrambling to find our own way out. The order was find your own way to the extraction point and don't be late.

"Looks like we are all here," Miles said smiling at the assembled I looked around and there were six not five of us. The team leader's name was never on the roster. I never quite understood the logic in that. The leader's name never appeared on the paperwork, but we all knew him by the end of the job. His identity in briefing and paperwork was just a code name.

"The man on my right is Richard." I nodded "Beside him is Eddie, the two of them are the sniper team for this job. Jason, Willie, and Everette," he said pointing to the three of the other operatives. "Will be team security." That mean the muscle and cannon fodder if necessary. Of course after the objective we were all expendable usually.

"The leader for this operation will be code named water rat." We all chuckled. The leader names were always so cornball. "So I will turn this over to Mr. Rat."

The man who stood to address us was definitely european. The cut of his clothing and the look of his shoes gave him away. He was most likely some kind of cold war commando judging from his age. I could guess nothing about the job based on that fact. The Soviets had been all over the world so this guy could easily have special knowledge about almost anywhere or anything.

"I know you all have been kept in the dark, so let me give you a couple of hints," the rat suggested. "If after the hints anyone wishes to leave, that would be the time. Standard rule 7 applies after this morning." Rule 7 was simple after the vague outline, if you stayed, you were in till the very end no exceptions.

"The job is very simple sounding. We go into cuba remove a visiting expert. Extraction is by boat. Not a fancy cruise ship this time Ricky. I'm afraid it is a zodiac."

"You do know I get seasick in rubber boats?" I asked it smiling.

"You will manage, they are still making Dramamine." Miles suggested.

In a very thick eastern European accent Mr Rat said, "The target will be staying at what was once the Cuban version of the Ritz hotel in New York. Soviet Generals and diplomats have stayed there for years. Since the demise of the Empire, the guards are now Cuban." He must have noticed the looks from the foot soldiers because he added. "They are not the revolutionary soldiers from the Vietnam era. They are the soldiers after twenty years of no real military aid from Moscow. Also it is the age of inferiority complexes. There will be very little resistance should the plan disintegrate into an assault."

"The plan is for a clandestine insertion not an assault," Miles quickly added. "The blunt force entry is a last resort"

"But the truth is that it may become necessary. We can not leave without the target. Let's take a break and let you guys get to know each other." Miles made the suggestion. It was the time for each of us to decide whether we were in or out. It wasn't a good mission, but then if it were a good mission Swamp Thing would not be the one with the contract. Swamp Thing took jobs the CIA couldn't. The CIA could not assassinate anyone, but they could pay Swamp Thing to do it, but only if the payment was labeled janitorial services. The boss always said that they could call it macaroni for all he cared, as long as the checks were good. The job as outlined was a simple snatch, not that it would be simple.

"Ricky, I have heard a lot about you," Willie said.

"If it was from Jason, it's all a lie," I laughed.

"The way I hear it you tossed that prick off a balcony. Too bad it wasn't higher," he said.

"I can see we are going to get along fine," I replied. "Anyway that was a long time ago. I have mellowed since then."

"Right," Everette commented. "I hear you do clean jobs. If that is true, then I will be happy to work with you. I am sick of leaving a trail behind."

The trail he meant was collateral damage. "I did my time for the one that went really bad and I learned from it. Killing civilians is bad business." I might as well get it out before someone else did, I thought.

"Plus they don't pay for them," Jason suggested. He had obviously been listening to at least part of the conversation.

"Another good point," I replied. Might as well play nice. Jason was a good man to have on your said and a bad man to have against you. It might come down to the later but no sense rushing it.

There were so many mission launched from the boyscout camp that it make more sense to serve meals. Not only was it easier, it prevented operatives from getting drunk and spilling their guts to stangers in short skirts. From the time of the briefing until the small plane took off, we were confined to the camp. I didn't mind. The food was good and they had a first rate satellite TV package.

the road to nowhere

I was almost invisible leaning against the tree. I was hidden under a plastic camouflage tarp, which I had lined with an insulated blanket. The only parts of me not covered were my eyes. The antique .22 magnum rifle lay beside me under the tarp. I had arranged the tarp so that I could easily slide it off me and then raise the rifle for a quick shot.

The exercise was more to sharpen my skills, than it was about killing the small game. I delivered the small animals to a share cropper commune several miles away. I wasn't about to kill small game just to kill it. If I couldn't find someone who needed the meat, I would have cooked and eaten it myself. I would much rather feed the hungry, than to eat the animals myself.

I sat leaning against some tree, in some part of the forest, almost every winter morning. Now and then, but not often, my cell phone would vibrate as it did that morning. I gently moved the tarp aside just enough to read the caller ID. Since it was Betty Jo with Swamp Thing, I answered it. The day's hunt was already ruined so there was no need to move slowly.

"Good Morning Betty Jo what's the problem?"

"You are being summoned."

"Oh, now who would want a worn out old man?"

"Jeff, that is for me to know and you to come find out. Be in the office tomorrow morning around ten and you will find out."

"Should I bring anything.?"

"Donuts," she replied.

Swamp Thing got it's nickname from the fact that it was located inside the great dismal swamp of eastern North Carolina. It was located twenty miles from the nearest town. The town was so small it had only one grocery store and one diner nothing else. The people who worked in the aministration of Swamp Thing lived in a compound, which had started life as a boy scout camp. The cabins which were designed to hold six camper now held one employeed at least a few days a week.

Since I lived just a five hour drive from the compound, it was possible for me to drive there from my home. Most of the other part time employees had to fly into a regional airport, rent a car and then make the same five hour drive. Only two had their own small planes, those could land on a dirt airstrip, which got minimal maintenance from contractors hired by Swamp Thing.

"Donuts it is, how many should I bring?" It was a subtle way of asking would it be a meeting with someone or a briefing.

"Three dozen Krispy Kreme should do it."

"Can do, and jelly filled for me and you."

"Of course," she said with a giggle, not befitting a middle aged woman.

I put it out of my mind until I got home. At that time I gave it the thought that it deserved. Three dozen donuts made it a briefing. That made it more than just a one or two man operation this time. That happened now and then, but it was the exception not the rule. Swamp Thing used men generally who were not good at taking orders. A partner is a friend, three operatives require a boss type relationship. Me and most of the others were just not good with that kind of structure. It was a stretch every time I went on one of those things. A constant fight to keep control of my emotions. Now imagine a dozen armed men struggling to keep from killing the boss every minute of every day. It did not make for a good situation in any way whatsoever.

"So you are going to do it anyway?" Gloria asked.

"Yes I am going to do it. If I were to refuse too many jobs, Betty Jo would stop calling," I informed her.

"So?"

"So, I need the money. You can't live in this kind of luxury without a job." Gloria looked at the small but filthy fishing cabin before she answered.

"Yeah this is real luxury. Even the slums of Bagdad are cleaner."

"What I need is a good woman," I said smiling.

"You have a good woman, me. What you need is a bad woman to make you clean this place."

"Just as soon as I get back," I promised.

I oiled the antique rifle before I put it away. Being an antique the finish was pretty much gone. It had to be oiled with every use to prevent rust. I paid a lot for the small caliber rifle because it had a big caliber type sighting system. I had never seen such a good sight on such a small bore rifle. Most likely when it was made, a hundred years ago, it had been a match rifle. A rifle used in competition like the olympics or something similar.

midnight visitor

I spent the night with Gloria, my own personal ghost. Gloria didn't stay in one place as ghosts are supposed to do. Nope. Gloria followed me around from place to place. Last night she showed up in my bed in the middle of the night. You guessed it, Gloria and I made love. It was a first for my sick mind. I mean come on sex with a ghost. Yes I do question my sanity now and then. I did it last night as much for the verbal exchange after as for the apparitional sex act.

After the sex she said, "You did good today. You let that jackass at the restaurant live."

"Gloria, you know I don't kill unless I am being paid."

"Jeffy, you know that isn't true. You just found a way to make killing pay. You would do it for nothing, if you wanted someone dead."

"Killing is a last resort, not a first option. The guy in the cafe was far from a last resort."

"So what would you have done, if he had decided to test you?"

"Most likely put a blade to his throat and toss him out."

"And if he came back?"

"Then it might be headed to a 'final solution' kind of ending."

"See, if you wanted him dead, he would die, payment or not."

"Yes but I have never had anyone decide they wanted to go that far over a gallon of gas."

"If you say so. Now I have to go." At that point she was indeed gone leaving me to doubt my sanity yet again.

Home again, home again

From ninety degree weather to forty degrees is a dramatic change. That was the difference between the temperature on the cruise ship and the temperature inside my dad's fishing cabin. I have been living in the shack for three years, but it was still his cabin. Where ever he is I hope he knows that it is being used by me. He would like the fact that I finally came to enjoy the old place. I had hated it as a kid, but kids hate everything their parents love. It's a law of nature like getting old, I guess.

I was almost surprised to see the place standing. Then again I always was after a trip of any length, especially during the winter. I was never too sure of the shack's wiring, but I had to leave the power turned on during the winter months even when I was away. If I didn't leave it on, the water pump at the well head would freeze. Then I would really be screwed. My dad had used a light bulb in the well house to keep it warm. I wrapped the pump in a heat tape with thermostat. Nonetheless the power had to be left on to keep it working. That seemed to be a risk but an unavoidable one.

When I left for a trip, I turned the water off at the pump. In the winter I would then have to drain the water from the pipes to keep them from freezing. A burst pipe was no fun at all. I had made a few improvements in the shack, but I kept them to a minimum. I underpinned the shack with fake rock like those used for mobile homes. The shack had only eight windows, so installing storm windows was a snap. During my forced vacation of three years, I installed those and a couple of storm doors.

I could have insulated the walls, but then I would have had to replace the siding. I liked the old weathered board and battens. It made the place look like the shack it was. I did spray ground up old newspaper into the ceilings from the outside. The metal roof got painted as well. The place was still only about forty percent fuel efficient but even that much helped.

The only heat had been a wood stove when I moved in. I lived with that for all of my parolee days, but during the last six months I had been traveling more. As a consequence I had less time to do chores, so I found an antique coal stove. I knew I was on the EPA hit list, but I really didn't care since they have the worst assassins. It would be years before they got around to me.

I liked the coal much better than wood. I could get more heat from a much a lower volume of fuel. Not only that it was easier to store the fuel and the stove gave me better control of the heat levels. At the same time the stove was installed, I had a metal liner installed inside the chimney. My dad's idea of a chimney had been an unlined concrete prefab block kind of thing. The liner would be easier to clean and much safer the chimney sweep assured me.

So that day, I turned on the water and lit a fire in the stove before I did anything else. The shack was just one big room, so the one stove seemed to work pretty well. It did take a while to heat the large volume of air that had been twenty degrees over night.

While it heated up, I drove to the diner about five miles away. The diner had started life as the two car work bay of a service station. The service station was no longer pumping gas, but it was still a pump your own location. The warning, 'credit cards only', was posted in big letters.

I ordered breakfast at five in the afternoon from a window booth. I had promised myself that I would eat no more than one meal a day at the diner. I also promised myself it would be breakfast, so no matter the time of day, I ordered breakfast.

I watched a middle aged man pull his fancy car up to the pump, remove the nozzle, stick it into his gas tank opening only to find that nothing happened. I was pretty sure that the drive of the big shiny new car could read, he just hadn't bothered. He seemed to be really upset as he walked to the diner.

"Can anyone here make that damn pump work. I am almost out of gas." He was a big man and menacingly angry.

The teenaged girl behind the counter was intimidate, but there was nothing she could do. "I'm sorry sir, it is credit or debit card only."

"Obviously I don't have a credit card," he replied in a still angry voice.

"I'm sorry sir, there is nothing I can do. I have nothing to do with the pumps, I work here in the grill."

I noticed that the cook didn't come to her rescue, but then why should the older lady get involved, there was nothing she could do either. I knew I should have stayed out of it, but the diner was the only thing standing between me and my lousing cooking. Therefore it was defuse the situation woth the stranger, or take the change that he might just decide to break the place up.

"Tell you what friend, Give me twenty bucks and I'll swipe my card for you," I suggested. "You can pump the twenty and be on your way."

"And if it won't hold twenty?" he replied angrily.

"Never mind," I said standing. I walked over to him as I said, "Tell you what friend, why don't you just drive to the next station. It's only about ten miles into Gulf." Gulf was the name of the closest town.

He was bigger, but he didn't have that hard look about him. He just looked angry. Being angry just might get him killed, if he couldn't get past it.

"I don't know if I can make it that far." he said more reasonably.

"Well you should have thought of that two minutes ago. Now your only choice is to pray." He looked at me and got the message. Most people did since they tell me I have dead eyes, whatever that means.

The man wasn't overtly angry when he left the diner, he was just seething. I did hope he wouldn't have a heart attack. Actually I think the waitress wished him a quick death. Teenager's emotions seem to run wide open all the time.

My breakfast came while I was having my discussion with the angry stranger. Deloris the teenager placed it on my table, then refilled my coffee. I found it all waiting for me. She had rushed to do it since it got her away from the angry stranger.

"Thanks," she said unenthusiastically when I sat down. She didn't have any real understanding of what might have happened. To her I just said a few words and it all went away, no biggy. What she didn't know was that it might have escalated into violence, if I had been in the place. Even with me interceding he might still have been a drunk or a bad assed redneck. In either case there could have been violence. Things like that happen everyday. They usually end just like that incident had. Then on a different day the guy pulls out a pistol and kills everyone. Life is a crap shoot, but the teenager didn't have a clue what might have happened. Unfortunately I did and it did not make me a better man for it.

The journey to where I was.

The cruise ship gave me three days to relive my life, such as it had been. It had hardly been roses and cinnamon buns in the mornings. It had been more like weeds and dog crap on your shoes.

From a poor southern mill family to the United States Army. It was a familiar route where I grew up. Most all the super marksmen came from a hunting background. I was no exception. On an almost daily basis, I had hunted small animals . Some years, the family depended on them for food. I never killed for sport, everything got eaten. There were also no hunting seasons for the poor of Chatham County. I hunted every day that I wasn't in school or working.

Since the only weapon the family could afford was a .22 rifle, I learned patience and how to make the shots count. My dad not only taught me by example, but also by rationing the cartridges. Three per hunt. When they were gone, he sent me to the car to wait. It wasn't too many years until I returned at the end of the day with some, if not all, of the ammunition still in my pocket. If there were missing shells, there were dead animals in my flour sack.

I did two years of my three year enlistment as a sniper assigned to a rifle company. I had a dozen or more confirmed kills when I stepped on the land mine. The rag heads had a nasty habit of taking half the charge from the mine. War with the Russians had taught them that it was better to injure a soldier than kill him. It take two more soldiers to get him off the battlefield, if he is screaming.

Besides it was a good reminder, not just to him and his family, but to everyone who saw him, just what shitty war it was. Nothing like a man with both legs blow off to make enlistments falter. In my case I lost only one leg. Just some kind of lucky break I guess.

You know that is kind of a stupid statement. I didn't lose the damn thing, it was on the stretcher with me till I got to the trauma unit. If anyone lost it, the medics did.

"So I see you are writing your autobiography again," it was Gloria's voice.

"What's it to you?"

"You know you could make it a little more glamorous. All the guys on the other side do that. They are all heroes, while you are just a victim to hear you tell it."

"I'm no victim, but I'm no hero either."

"Well you could tell some of the good things you did as well as the killing."

"You don't know what I have done. All you know is that I managed to get you killed."

"Right, why don't you just put on a swim suit and let's go lay by the pool."

"Right, you in a bikini with your veil, and me in a small suit with my scars and titanium leg. What a sight that would be."

"You know I wouldn't be caught dead in a bikini. Oh yeah," she said. Gloria sometimes forgot that she was dead. After a moment she changed the subject. "Don't forget the CIA years. I love when you think about those."

"Why do all you rag heads hate the CIA?"

"Just give that some thought," she suggested.

"Besides they don't use near as many snipers since they have sold the world on how great that drone thing is." I replied.

"Yes, now instead of killing one wrong person, you can kill fifty at a time. No wonder us rag heads hate the CIA." With that she vanished. She had a hard time with arguments. She liked to give her view then leave before I could respond. On that subject we actually thought alike, so I wouldn't have had a good comeback.

The killing the wrong man crack was a direct slap at me. The reference was to the incident that got me a prison term. There is just no excuse for shooting a corrupt politician's brother by mistake. To appease the government somebody had to take the fall. Since I wasn't really on the direct payroll of the CIA, I took the fall. They even managed to put the blame on Swamp Thing, who I had never even heard of at the time.

I got five years for the shooting. I was lucky not to do life. Two of those years I spent in a medium security country club close to home. The location didn't matter since nobody came to visit me anyway. After two years I was released on parole. I took my nickel and dime disability pension, and moved into my dad's old fishing cabin.

I managed to make my first two visits to the parole office before Swamp Thing came calling. That isn't their real name, but it kind of fits them. A term of any parole is that the parolee not carry a handgun, I never have had much use for them anyway, Swamp Thing found a use for me even with that condition. Not as an employee, since that would be bad for business. I was after all a convicted felon. No, I did contract jobs for them, mostly things no one else would do. The three years finally ended and the jobs for ST increased in number and complexity.

Which after two more years led me to a cruise ship. I realized all by myself that I was just thirty and already well into my nine lives. I knew that I needed to retire, but I just hadn't been able to kick the addiction to that adrenaline rush.

Even when I was on parole and trying like hell to be good, so I could stay out of the joint, I was sticking my nose where it didn't belong.

"Jeffery Burk?" the man in the toy sailer suit asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"The Captain asked that I suggest you take your meals in the cabin." He was a very officious little prick.

"Oh why is that?"

"He is afraid some of the passengers may have seen you come aboard. It would be awkward, if they were to begin asking questions."

"I see."

"Actually it would be better if you remained in your cabin at all times."

"I'll give it some thought. Thanks for passing that along." The smile I gave him didn't seem to comfort him much. Some folks said I had a very forced and unnatural smile. It was forced that first morning for sure.

"Should I tell the Captain that you agree."

"Tell him whatever you like, but I'll give it the consideration it deserves." I know it all sounds too formal for a mill village boy. I picked up the better vocabulary and speech patterns from a white collar con man doing time with me. He taught diction and public speaking to all the medium security, and government's special prisoners. We were all better men for it, I might add. Most of them went back to the board rooms better able to convince the fish to swim along. I, on the other hand, learned how to play word games with the best of them. He also taught those of us from a more primitive background, which fork to use with lobster. He loved being Professor Higgins. It was a good thing he didn't do his time in a real prison. He would have been shanked the first time he put his hand on Bubba's shoulder in that fatherly way.

I really had not wanted to go to the huge dining room for dinner. I mean I had nothing to wear, but they did give me a day, and I had the Swamp Thing credit card for emergencies. I took the run of the ship.

I bought a fancy pair of cotton slacks and a club type blue blazer. I even found a strange looking patch to have sewn onto the pocket. Should anyone ask, I planned to tell them it was Maxwell Country Club's official blazer. That was the inmates name for the federal prison attached to Maxwell Air Force Base. Screw the tourist anyway, who cared what they thought, or knew. I came out of Columbia clean.

"So you have convinced yourself yet again that you have a right to be happy," Gloria stated flatly.

"Don't you ever get tired of being a pain in the ass?"

"Why should I? If it weren't for you, I would be married and have a family."

"Yeah married to a rag head terrorist, with a couple of terrorist brats running around a Madrassa somewhere."

She tried to slap me before she vanished. She couldn't, she was a figment of my sick mind. I laughed, but only after she was gone, just in case.

extraction

I left the small room in the four story building one minute after the Hector exploded. I left with nothing. I mean absolutely nothing but my fake passport and a small wad of US Dollars. The Boss had sent me a message detailing the operation as much as could be anticipated. One of the things anticipated was that a man carrying a case with a rifle inside was likely to be shot on sight. If not, at least subjected to some very severe interrogation. Best not to be seen with one of those cases.

Also a man found with a huge roll of hundred dollar bills after an assassination might create some interest. Lowest on the list, but still on the list, was a gringo in a nice suit trying to get the hell out of Columbia. That also was likely to raise an eyebrow or two. The Boss had decided that it would be best, if I made my way to the coast in a taxi. What the hell, two hundred miles in an old columbian taxi, I couldn't afford the attention created by a newer one, would be a trip to remembered.

"Mr. Jeff, there is most likely going to be a checkpoint on the highway leaving Medellin," the driver said. The driver had been recommended by someone in the American government. I figured that the Boss worked hand in hand with the CIA. It's probably how I got the job in the first place. I guess you might say I had filtered down through the legitimate army programs, to the murky CIA jobs, and finally down to Swamp Thing Ops.

The guys at Swamp Thing liked me because I had once killed a man with a piece of notebook paper, or so they told each other. Actually the easiest way to kill a man with a piece of paper is to wad it up and force it into his throat. Yes I had done that, but he was unconscious at the time. The result of a blow on the head with a very heavy golfing trophy. Still the myth persisted, and I didn't discourage it. Oh yeah, the paper was a plan to dump ricin in the water system of an America town.

"Well we have to stop for it. I think I can get through, if the word hasn't filtered down about the Lawyer." Now you might wonder why a drug lawyer would warrant such a quick search for the shooter. Okay I'll tell you, he was in the running for president of Columbia. With the drug lords backing him, he had a good chance of winning. The current U.S. president might think he could negotiate drugs out of existence, but a lot of guys in the murky waters thought he was the enemy. The drug lawyer I mean, not the president. Okay maybe some of them thought he was did as well. Either way the lawyer was a big fish down there.

"Papers," the soldier demanded. He didn't look a bit friendly, of course they never did. Since the other soldiers were just smoking and hanging out, they didn't appear to be on high alert. The driver handed over his ID card, just before the soldier collected my passport. Things were tense a few minutes while he pretended that he could read my passport. Finally he handed both back to the driver and waved us on. The clerical dickie had worked one more time, I thought.

I realized that I hadn't taken a breath for the whole two minutes that the soldier had held my fake passport. If he began questioning me, the story about being a missionary would never hold up. There just weren't all that many legitimate reasons for a gringo to be in Columbia. Their only major exports were coffee and cocaine. I didn't think I could pass for a coffee expert any better than a Missionary, so the Boss went that way.

"So you whupped them again," Gloria said. I have never met an Arab with a southern accent, so it sounded really strange coming from her.

"For the moment yeah, but the odds are on their side," I whispered under my breath. There was no sense giving the driver an excuse to put my crazy ass out of the cab. "Now you either leave, or be quiet the driver is nervous enough already."

If you were to ask me how far it was from Medellin to the coast, I would have to tell you that it is six hours in a beat up old taxi. It is the only thing I know for sure. I'm not even sure there were crows there, let alone how far they fly.

The driver stopped for, not so cheap gas, once. I bought a hand full of American candy bars at the same time. Candy and American soft drinks were probably the biggest imports, led only by American hundred dollar bills from the drug trade.

"So this is the Boss's idea of a safe house?" Gloria asked after the driver left use outside the run down shack. "My God Jeffie, you can see the sky through the roof."

"Well be glad that it isn't the rainy season," I replied. Since we were alone, I could speak in a normal voice.

"How long will we be staying in this honeymoon suite?" she asked.

"Gloria, I will let you insult me if you like, but I will not sleep with you. That is just too weird."

"Don't flatter yourself. I would never sleep with the man who got me killed."

"I have told you a hundred times, the man with the bomb killed you not me."

"You changed the outcome of the operation and it got me killed. You can't change that damn it." She really was angry. She was also picking up the vocabulary of an agent. She should be it was all she heard these days.

She had heard all the arguments before, so I simply said, "Let's just not talk anymore for a while. The pickup should be in a few hours. They said sometime after dark."

I heard them coming long before they arrived at the door of the shack. Since there would likely be no metal detectors along the route of this extraction, I had concealed a small knife in my boot. I had it out as I stook behind the ruined door of the ruined shack.

"Yankee," the voice said with a passable Spanish accent.

"Clipper," I replied with an American southern accent. His accent might save his life, but mine would get me killed in most parts of the world.

"Get your things and let's get a move on man. We need to meet the big boat in half an hour."

"I have no things, let's go," I answered.

An hour and fifteen minutes later I was being shown around the stateroom on a cruise ship. "If you need anything more, don't hesitate to ring," the young woman said.

"Actually I probably need some new clothes." I said it because the clothes I had worn from Medellin were a mess. Instead of answering she opened the small closet's door. Inside were four hangers with a shirt on each. Also there were two hangers with worn blue jeans, one pair on each hanger. "Well you do think of everything."

"Someone does for sure," she said as she turned to go.

"I don't like that blonde bitch," Gloria said while the cruise ship employee turned down my bed. I didn't answer..

The lawyer's end

"So Jeff how you get here?" The question came in broken english from a very oily looking man.

Yes I was tempted to explain about airplanes and Helicopters but I instead I answered, "Not many places for a sniper to work, if he isn't in the military."

"So you were in the American Army?"

"Yep, that's the one."

"Why you not work for CIA. I thought everyone worked for CIA."

"Oh I worked for them a few times, but they are more a freelance gig. Every time they get a new boss, the fire all the killers. Then after reality sets in they hire new killers. I just like a steadier gig."

"I no understand?"

"Neither did I the first time they sent me packing." I looked at the building across the street where the next victim would appear in about half an hour. "After the second time, I knew that it was not for me." The building was two story with a deck on top. The soon to be deceased drug cartel lawyer would soon be taking his last meal on the roof deck.

"So now you work for the boss full time?"

"Yes, there seem to be a lot of people who need to be switched off." I looked at the watch one more time before I spoke again. "Manny, you need to go on down and bring the car to that side door. I don't want to get there and find you gone."

"Of course, it may be difficult to find a place to wait." The local version of the Mafia henchman replied. The boss would use anyone, I thought.

"Yes, go find us a good one." I was more worried about Gloria, than I was Manny. Glory would be along any minute. I just didn't need the two of them talking at the same time.

He was out the door only a few seconds when she appeared. "So Jeffie, you are going to shoot a drug lord?"

"It seems so."

"Good, it's time He turned his attention to them."

"There are a lot of worse people in the world," I replied

"Obviously he felt like this was important."

"True, ours is not to reason why etcetera. Too bad that removing this cancer won't kill the patient."

"My Goodness Jeff, are you getting poetic?"

"Not a chance, Just a shame he isn't with about a hundred of his clients."

"I expect He has his reasons."

"Yes I'm sure he does." I lifted the British .303 world war 2 sniper rifle off the desk. I attached it to the tripod, which set well back from the window. I certainly didn't want anyone to see me or the flash from the rifle. Adding three more meters to the shot wouldn't make much difference. I could either put it in his eye, or in his nose, he would still be just as dead. The exit damage would compensate for any slight variation in the entry point.

"So how do you feel about this one?" Gloria asked.

"I don't feel anything. He wants him dead and I need the money. Everything else is pretty much immaterial."

"Do you mean that if it were a mother with children, you would do her in front of them."

"Of course not there are always options in setting up the shot."

"So if Hector there comes out with his wife and kids, you will walk away."

"The place is paid for by Hector alright, but his mistress lives there. If he comes out with his mistress, she might well be wearing his brain. I have it on pretty good authority that it doesn't wash out."

"You are a cold bastard," Gloria said.

"I know." If Gloria had been real, she would have noted the sadness in my voice. Being a cold bastard wasn't much of a life.

My right ankle itched like hell. I did a lot lately,when I worked. The problem was that my right leg was missing from the knee down. It seems as though my military career ended with a bang. Land mine in the LZ. How that happened I still didn't know.

Hector came out before I could finish feeling sorry for myself. He wasn't very tall to be so powerful a man. They said he could bribe almost anyone. Those he couldn't bribe he either intimidated or had killed. That, they said, was the Columbian justice system.

The boss decided that they needed one more player in the game down there. I wasn't the player, the boss was. The order for Hector's elimination came with instructions to make as large a statement as possible. A simple head shot would have been easier, but wouldn't make much of a statement.

When he seated himself, I tickled the trigger. The copper jacketed lead slug was so hot I could almost see the smoke as it traveled through the air. The heavy slug hit him between the legs. Blood began to spurt from the artery which the bullet cut. I watched through the scope while the man quickly bled to death. I sat there ready to kill anyone who tried to help him.

Hector Bled out before my eyes. After I was 90% sure he was dead, I put a second round in his head. I didn't get paid to leave him alive so I made damn sure he was dead.

"It's time to go Jeff," Gloria said with urgency in her voice.

I nodded as I turned to the door. I made it to the waiting car. I even managed to survive the drive to the airport. Manny looked terrified as he approached the checkpoint by the airport gate. I could only hope that he was more afraid of the boss than the local drug lords or the cops.

my new friend

"Morning Jeff," the middle eastern looking woman said. I was in the middle of cooking my own breakfast when she appeared from out of nowhere. Gloria did that almost every day lately.

"Come on Gloria give it a rest." I said it trying to ignore her. If I gave her too much thought she would drive me totally insane. Of course, there were those who thought I was insane already. I thought yet again, they may know more than I do.

"You mean give you a rest?" I nodded. "You know I can't do that."

"Can't or won't?" I asked quietly.

"They are the same thing in my case." She actually smiled.

"You know Gloria. I have no idea why you are here. I mean, why me?"

"You know why I picked you."

"Of course I know. I mean why you and why me?"

"Ah I see what you mean now. There are thousands of people being killed everyday. Why am I the one who refused to go peacefully? Maybe it's because it really wasn't my time to go. If you had chosen the right man to kill, then I might still be alive."

"The one I did kill was wired up just like the other one. The one I didn't get to fast enough."

"Yes but who knows how many suicide bombers just lose their nerve. The one you killed might have run away, if you had shot the other one instead."

"You know that he pulled the trigger on that bomb outside the building instead of inside only because I was going to pop him next. There would have been ten times as many deaths, if he had gotten inside."

"Yes but that would have spared me, since I was outside in a car driving by. No matter how you slice it Jeffie, you are responsible for my death."

"And you plan to make me pay by driving me crazy?"

"No, I plan to help you avoid making that kind of mistake again. I know things you can't know. I can go places you can't go."

"But you don't really exist. You can't know more than me, since you are a symptom of my sick mind. It must be that I have finally gone crazy from all the blood and death."

I had finished scrambling the eggs by that time. "Now go away while I eat. You make it very hard to enjoy my food."

Just as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished.

"I want to help," the big man said,.

"You bet your ass you are going to help. There are no witnesses only soldiers in this army." I smiled to let him know that it was a joke. It was only half a joke. I sure as hell didn't want anybody around who wasn't invested in the caper. I didn't want to go back to prison. Especially not for doing a good deed.

"So what is the plan?"

"The first thing is to study the photos and maps." The photographs had been made by Big Ed. We decided the fewer people who knew, the less chance of going to jail. Big Ed had been a cop, so he had no desire to be inside. He knew that I had been a con, and I didn't want to go back. We made a pretty good team. We were two guys with a lot to lose, which made us good partners in crime.

"Okay, so we go in from this vacant farm here," I said. "It's about a five mile walk to the barn they use as a dog fight arena."

"That's way to fancy for what these animals are doing to those dogs inside that old barn." Big Ed said it with real anger in his voice. He really did have a hard on for dog fight people.

"Yeah, well we need to get a move on. I want to be there to watch the arrivals. I want to make sure we have a nice crowd for the big show."

"I still don't know what we are going to do when we get there," he said.

"Oh, it's a surprise. Trust me you will like it."

"I don't trust anyone," Big Ed said with a hard look.

"Well this time you don't have a choice. Just slep the bag for me and at the proper time all will be revealed." I laughed softly. It was time to enter stealth mode.

The five mile walk took over three hours. It was slow going since my parter was called Big Ed for a reason. He was at least fifty pounds over weight, but he did his damnedest to keep up. We were in the tree line about fifty yards from the old concrete block barn, when we stopped. We sat in the cold for another hour while cars drove into the grass covered meadow being used for a car park.

When it looked as though most, if not all, the players had arrived, I began to prepare for the show. Not the dog fight, that was going to be canceled, my plan was for the alternate ending of the day's entertainment. In place of the dog fight, I planned panic and fear for the audience. Well if not they weren't entertained at least Big Ed and I would be.

First I used the throw away cell phone to call the local Sheriff. I explained that I was about to strike a blow in the Jihad. Then I mumbled Allah Akbar before I gave the phone to Big ED. "Don't lose this till we get out of the area."

From the black duffle bag I removed what must have looked like a very short, single barrel shotgun. It was in fact a gas grenade launcher. I wore a camouflaged outfit, which most likely would be of no use at all. I moved quickly through the brush to get closer to the barn. I put the first canister of CS tear gas through the open hayloft door. I fired two more canisters through a couple of closed glass windows. Those window probably opened into a tack room or maybe some little office. It didn't matter the canisters would be spewing their noxious smoke into the air. The gas would infiltrate the whole building. The barn would take weeks to air out. It might never be free of the noxious powder.

I slipped back to the woods and used my heavy pull cross bow to shoot up a couple of fancy cars. That particular action served no real purpose except to make me feel a bit better about the operation. I put the bolts through the glass and even the doors of the fanciest cars. One of them was most definitely a pimpmobile. It was a big Mercedes all fancied up. I expected that the owner of that car would be really pissed, but hell that was the fun part of gorilla warfare. It is designed to just piss people off.

The flying crossbow bolts tended to keep the players away from the car park. I had no idea that it would work out like that, but it froze them in place until the Sheriff's men showed up in strength. Mentioning terrorist guaranteed me a good turnout.

Big Ed and I took that as our cue, so we slipped away quietly. It was late afternoon when I threw the black duffle bag into the truck of the small foreign car. Big Ed didn't much like the size of the car, since he couldn't relax in the small seats. He had complained all the way to the farm, but he didn't complain at all on the way back to the city.

The first bridge over water that we encountered, became the launching pad for the throw away cell phone. The grenade launcher was a loaner, so I had to get it back to my buddies at Swamp Thing. The crossbow could have been dropped along the way, but I didn't figure it would be a problem, since I was driving home that very night.

On the drive back to town neither of us mention the dog fight caper. However when Big Ed stepped from the car he said, "You were right I did like that."

"Well we will have to do it again, but not any time soon," I said.

When I got home from the two day drive, I had an email with newspaper articles about the mysterious goings on in upstate New York. It seemed that some Muslim terrorist attacked a dog fight in progress. Since extremist had never done that before, the local Sheriff declared that it was a mistake he expected. The dogs, a mixture of breeds and conditions, had all be taken by a local rescue group.

I noted with some satisfaction, that the group carrying the cages of dogs to a waiting bus, all wore biker jackets. I was sure that somewhere among them was Big Ed. I only hoped that his smile didn't give us away, that or his big mouth.

Gorilla warfare

I had spent the day working on an old jeep. One I had picked up at an auto auction in D'ville. I was covered in grease and about to step into a tub of hot water. I had no shower and no running hot water in the shack. I had to heat the water on either the kitchen stove or on the wood stove in my one large room. There was a chemical toilet just outside the rear door. The shack had never had a bathroom. It was a real shack, not just a cutesy name.

"Hello," I said into the cell phone.

"Richard Burke please," the male voice asked.

"I'm Richard Burke, but I'm not buying anything."

"Well then it's a good thing I'm not selling anything."

"Okay, so what can I do for you, Mr?" I ended with a one word question.

"They just call me Big Ed."

"Well Big Ed, what can I do for you."

"You don't remember me? Gee I'm hurt." the voice said.

"Why should I remember a name I never heard?" I was losing my patience with the game.

"I thought you would want to know what happened to the wet pit bull."

"Oh, so you are one of those bikers who took the dog. I hope you found him a good home." I had been a little skeptical at the time of the incident. I would like to have stayed around to see what happened but I had to leave town that night.

"He is living in a high rise townhouse now. The toughest thing he has to do these days is keep his new owner's daughter amused."

"Good, it sounds like he has a better life than me."

"Me too," he replied.

"So is that all or is there more?" I had a feeling there would be more.

"Well since you seem to be an animal love I was wondering if you would do us a favor?"

"That depends, but I have to tell you I'm not an activist. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time."

"How do you feel about dog fighting?"

"I feel like people who fight dogs are cowards. Now if they really want to go into a ring with a pissed off pit bull and fight him with their hands, I probably wouldn't care."

"Well there is a dogfight circuit and one of the stops is in upstate New York. We got a lead on them, but the guys who runs it know all of us."

"So you want me to come in and be what? the Sheriff."

"No we want you to come in and kick ass. We have been dealing with cops and judges for a couple of years. Best we can do is get them in jail for a few months. The punishment don't fit the crime at all. You come in and find out where it is going to be held and we will swoop down and make them pay."

"And what you gonna do when they call the cops? Since they just get a few months for dog fighting, and you will get a couple of years for assault, who wins."

"They ain't gonna call no cops. These guys think they are some bad asses."

"So they hunt you down. It don't sound like you are gonna come out on top no matter what."

"What do you suggest?" Big Ed really did seem to want my opinion.

"Gorilla warfare."

and the rain came down.

I sat around all day watching Sara sit around. A few people came by to have their books signed. A few even chatted with Sara for a few minutes. Sara's expression would change often. She was fully engaged in the task at hand. She didn't seem to think herself above her readers, I liked that about her. Even though we spoke very little, I took a liking to her.

Her manager was a different thing all together. The woman seemed to have an angle on everything. Even lunch was a photo op for her. The delivery boy wore a pizza restaurant uniform, you know one of those red striped shirts. He handed Sara a pizza and she handed him a book. Of course there was a photographer right there to capture the memory. It was all so cornball, I spent a lot of time biting off laughter.

The whole day was a total bore. As a matter of fact all ten days were. There were no crowds to hold back, except at a couple of talk shows. At those times the show's security people handled everything. Just like most real jobs, in the real world, it was a boring way to make a living.

The one interesting thing that happened took place on the last day. If it had not been the last day, I would never have done what I did. I take my responsibilities seriously, but it was late afternoon on the last the last day, so it just happened.

It was cold and rainy in New York. I stood just inside the doorway of the bookstore looking out into the dark miserable day. I saw the Hispanic kid and his dog as they passed. Since the book store was beside an upscale department store, I was a bit surprised when the kid tied the dog to a signpost. He almost made it to the door of the department store before I made a move.

"Hey, you aren't going to leave that dog out in the rain are you?"

"Why?" the kids asked.

"Because it cold as hell and the dog shouldn't be out in the rain. Take him in, or take him home, but get him out of the rain."

The kid wasn't as young as I thought. He walked toward me before he answered. "You mind your own fucking business."

"I'm making this my business. You either take care of that dog, or I'm going to take care of him for you."

"You touch my dog and I'll kill you," he said with pure malice in his voice. "You don't know who I am do you?"

"Nope, and I don't give a crap. You heard what I said, get that creature out of the rain and do it now." I tried to sound just as menacing as he had. I seriously doubted that I made it.

"The kid took two steps back and came out with a flip blade knife. Back off man or I'm gonna cut your balls off." People who stop in the middle of a potential fight to give a warning are complete idiots. Once he pulled that knife, he should have moved toward me not away.

He gave me the time and space to raise the cane forcefully. I could have tried to break his arm with the first strike, but frankly his testicles were an easier target. I heard the pop as the weighted cane struck his tight jeans. Then he got very pale and went to his knees.

He was no threat on his knees trying to decide whether to scream, cry, or barf but I broke his arm anyway. No sense wasting a chance to make damn sure there was no more fight left in him. Of course, being able to punish him a little was a nice little bonus. I looked around and noticed for the first time that a small crowd had gathered.

"Somebody should have told him not to screw around with the handicapped." The people began to laugh. I'm taking his dog into that bookstore. If anybody feels the need to call a cop, I'll be in there drying this guy off."

"What about him," a women holding red umbrella asked. "Shouldn't you call him an ambulance or something."

"Hey," I said touching him with my foot. He looked up pretty miserable. I know I should have felt sorry for him, but I didn't. After all he did pull a knife on me. I spoke in a whisper. "The lady thought I should call you an ambulance. So you're a fucking ambulance." I know it was evil, but I had always wanted to do that. Sometimes you have to stop, even in the rain, to smell the roses. Not to mention kick an ass hole when he is down.


The dog was a pit bull. Even with his scars he came along peacefully. He was happy to be out of the rain. Sara had seen at least part of the commotion from the door of the book store. When I stepped inside, she took the leash from my hand without asking. She and the dog disappeared into the ladies room. She had absolutely no fear of the dog, even though his face was covered with scars.

I stood shivering in the bookstore while dripping water all over the hardwood floor. I would have expected the manager to complain, but instead he brought me a roll of paper towels. The teenager from the coffee counter brought me a bar towel. I never did get warm but at least I got my skin as dray as possible.

"What are you going to do with him? You can't take him on the plane." Sara asked upon her return.

"I guess I'll rent a car and drive home." I kept Sara and the dog between me and the door, so I was the first to see them enter. Two guys with tattoos and biker jackets would tend to make any upscale bookstore customer nervous. Even I was thinking seriously of the knife in my sock.

"Is that your dog?" It was the biggest of them who asked.

"He is now," I replied.

"Well, if you are from around here, you should be careful. Guys like his last owner don't like to lose face."

"Then you're telling me I should have just killed him."

"It might have been easier. Now if you want, we can take care of the dog and find him a good home." He said it as he slipped his hand into his pocket.

Instead of coming out with a gun or knife, it was a business card. According to the card, he and his friend were part of a hard core biker animal rescue group. I laughed at the image his card created in my frost bitten brain. Yeah it was a nervous laugh, but still a laugh. "If you can find him a good home, he's yours."

The smaller, greasier one took the leash from Sara. She smiled timidly at him.

"I can tell by the drawl you're from down south. If you are going to stay around a while, I'd like to buy you a drink." It was the big one speaking again.

"I wish I could, but I have to escort the ladies to the airport, then get on a plane myself."

"Too bad," he said.

I never did see a cop. I found it encouraging that a crowd of fifty people saw it all, and no one felt as though a cop was needed. If it had not been a helpless dog, I wonder if they would have acted differently. People tend to take animal abuse pretty damn serious. Well unless the abuser plays football.

prep work

I had this strange feeling that I was being used. What I was being used for I had no idea, but most likely it had to do with selling more books. Since Sara Marlow wasn't some kind of political hack, like most of the recent best sellers, she would have to come up with another angle to sell her books. It was possible that I was going to be the angle. I didn't like it, but since I wasn't breaking any conditions of my parole. I went along for the ride. I called my P.O. for permission because this one just didn't smell right.

I explained to her that I had been asked to provide some security consulting for a book tour. I also explained that I would not carrying a firearm. All I was going to do was to make recommendations to keep the writer safe. She didn't need to know that I would be more directly involved. Since gainful employment was one of the markers used to measure my progress, she was thrilled. She didn't need to know the details of how I got the gig. I doubted that she would approve of even a splinter offshoot of swamp thing being involved in my life again. Liberals really hated swamp thing and all it stood for. Me, I just liked to get paid.

After the author's manager headed off to her room, I got a cab at the curb. "Take me to the closest Walmart," I demanded. He didn't seem to approve of my destination, but I just didn't care. Since I had to fly commercial in order to meet the time restraint, I couldn't bring any of my toys.

I moved a buggy through the aisles of Walmart as efficiently as possible. I actually knew what I wanted, it was just a matter of finding everything. First I bought a hollow metal cane from one of the aisles near the pharmacy. Then I bought a couple of bags of aquarium sand and gravel. Two large candles also found their way into my buggy. A couple of rolls of black tape, along with a set of heavy weight steak knives joined the cane and sand. In the hardware department I found their smallest dremel set. I made sure that it had the set of tiny implements before I put it in the buggy.

In the sporting goods section I found a target master sling shot. I'm not real sure slingshot is technically the right name for it, but it said that on the box. I added a large box of marbles to the buggy. After all a slingshot needs ammunition. My purchases came to less than the cab ride. It didn't matter I was just glad thats I could find everything with just one stop. I could have bought more things, but my few purchases were likely be more than enough.

It was very late when I finished changing the Walmart items into weapons of self defense. With the addition of the aquarium sand and gravel to the hollow cane, I had added a couple of pounds of weight . I used the candle wax to plug the ends. That and the return of the plastic caps to their places at the ends of the cane left nothing to indicate that any changes had been made.

The steak knives were still suitable for carving, but I didn't have T-bone in mind. None of the knives maintained their handles. I used the black electrical tape to cover the metal shank, which had once been encased in plastic. The knives were easier to conceal without the thick plastic handles.

A little careful work with the dremel tool and I had reshaped two of the knives. I added a good point and thinned out the blades a bit. They weren't exactly competition quality throwing knives, but I knew from experience that they would do in a pinch. Two of the others had no point, but were much sharper once I finished with them. They would do quite well for slashing away at an enemy, if it came to that. I figured anything over four knives was overkill, so I stopped there. It was late, and I was tired, so I turned it. There were the usual dreams but they weren't any worse than most nights, so I slept pretty well.

When I woke at seven the next morning, the message light was lit on my phone I had slept almost an hour longer then I would have managed at home. I didn't have to try to revive a fire in the motel, so I was able to sleep in. The message informed me that my little group would assemble at 9am for breakfast in the motel restaurant. I showed up half an hour early and the rest of the group showed up a half hour late. It was not a good beginning.

Sara Marlow looked very different in real life. She was not so professionally made up. Her face looked almost faded as did the rest of her. Her hair was washed out blonde but obviously colored by someone who was good at their job. Her body, as I had guessed from the photographs, was several pounds over weight. Not so much as to be unattractive just enough to be noticeable.

The manager made the introductions. "Sara this is Richard Ames. Mr, Ames, Sara Marlow."

"Hello Miss Marlow," I said extending my hand to her.

She shivered when she took my hand. "Is anything wrong?" I asked that more as a courtesy, than from any real concern."

"Nothing," she said self consciously.

"So, what is the plan for today?" I asked it of the manager.

"Sara will be signing books and talking to fans at the Barnes and Noble in their downtown store."

"What are the times?"

"Noon until 7PM," Sara replied.

"Very well, I'm going to head on down to the store. I want to look around before you arrive. I should know more when I have a chance to talk to the manager." Since there had been no specific threat, I felt just fine leaving them to make their way to the store on their own. I was pretty confident that I was no more than window dressing. I felt that the whole thing was no more than a huge publicity stunt. Somewhere along the line there would be a TV interview or something like it.

nuts and bolts

"Ricky it's me Betty Jo." She was very cheerful for a Monday morning. That meant she had bad news to deliver to me.

"You sound mighty chipper did someone die?"

"I don't know, have you been out and about?" The insinuation was in her voice.

"You know I don't kill people any more."

"It's the, any more, part that keeps your parole officer up nights."

"So what on your mind BJ?"

"You know I hate when you call me that. You only do it when you don't need money."

"Not true, I do it whenever you have that all full of yourself tone of voice. So what is it that your Ivy league security people can't do?"

"You ever heard of Sara Marlow?"

"No, should I have?"

"Don't you ever watch TV?"

"They don't have cable this far out. They barely have electricity. I catch the news and a few old TV shows or a movie on line.?"

"Sara is making the talk show rounds. She is a big deal psychic."

"Sorry, I never heard of her."

"Well she has heard of you. Of course maybe it is just her manager who has heard of you."

"What the hell is that all about?"

"Beats me, but they want to hire us to guard Sara during a book tour, but only if you are the bodyguard."

"Why me?"

"I don't know, but they are willing to pay the rate times two for you."

"That makes no sense."

"None at all, but the boss said to offer it to you. The decision is yours. The boss is afraid that it is some kind of scam."

"Sure does sound like it."

"If you want it, drop me an email before lunch. I have to give her an answer. I will email you the details, if you want it."

"Is she for real?"

"Who knows, I do know she is making big bucks at it. She has been for some times, so it isn't just a media hard sell. They have a hold on the tail and are chasing the dog."

"How long is the book tour?"

"About two weeks," Betty Jo said.

"Oh hell, send me the info. Tell her she has a body guard."

"Ricky, When you get there, if this looks hinky just say no and leave."

"You can count on it. When does the gig start?"

"Not till Wednesday. You have to meet them Wednesday night at the hotel in DC. The book tour starts there with a couple of days of book signings. Then there is a book TV show over the weekend. There might be some sight seeing involved."

"Right," I replied pushing the disconnect button immediately.

Since I had a couple of days, and it was squirrel season, I decided to go stake out a spot. Finding squirrels around the shack was nothing more than walking into the woods out back. Fifty paces then sit on a fallen log and wait. That was all it took. Killing one of them was a different story entirely.

It was a condition of my parole that I not own a firearm. I had absolutely no desire to go back inside, so I avoided the possibility that some game warden would bust me. I did my hunting without firearms. It actually was more challenging to hunt with a crossbow.

Yes I had a collection of crossbows. Some I made myself, some I bought new, and some I bought to restore. It was as good a hobby as any. On that Monday morning I chose a fiberglass bow with a light action. Light meaning the draw weight was around 150lbs thus it released the bolt at a slower speed. One of the high draw weight bows, about 400 lbs, would embed even a blunted bolt into a tree. I tried not to fill the trees around my house with alum bolts. I sure as hell had no desire to climb a tree in order to recover a piece of alum tubing.

The low tension bow fired a ten inch bolt. The bolts from that light in the ass crossbow traveled at only about twenty miles per second. About half the speed of a normal crossbow, if there were such a thing. The bolt would hold it's trajectory for about twenty yards before it dropped much.

I packed the bow and five bolts into the woods. Once in place I spanned the bow,inserted the bolt and waited. The crossbow was a replica of an 11th century bow. It was made with modern materials. As a replica it had no safety. The nut could be tickled accidentally so I kept it pointed downrange at all times.

Since I had painted the bolts fire engine red, they were fairly easy to find, unless they got tangled in a tree. I fired three bolts, all of them missed their marks. Since I recovered them all, even though I didn't kill anything, I considered it a successful hunt.

Later that day I got the details of the job. It was just as Betty Jo said, I was to baby sit the psychic. Betty Jo sent along a few publicity pictures for me. I suppose it was so that I could recognize the client without a lot of hoop or la. The client was attractive enough but not gorgeous. She really seemed to be more pleasant looking than anything else. From the pictures she seemed to be around my age. At the time I was thirty three so give or take a couple of years she was around thirty five.

I was met in the lobby of the Airport Hilton, located just outside the Ronald Regan International Airport, by Sara's business manager. Since I didn't have his picture, he had to recognize me. I thought I might have to wear a rose in my lapel but obviously he had seen a picture of me.

"Mr Ames," The thin man said as he approached me. "I'm Edward Wilson. You can call me Eddie."

"Alright Eddie, before we waste any time let me advise you that I do not carry firearms. I also am not a marshal arts expert. That being said, I'm not quite sure why you asked for me."

"Sara would agree to a bodyguard only if he was not armed. She has a thing about men with guns."

"What kind of thing?"

"She thinks that she will be killed on this trip by a man with a gun."

"If I felt that way, I would want a man with a cannon." I meant it.

"I agree, but she is convinced that it is fate. She agreed to have you with us on the tour just to make sure no one else gets hurt. I chose you, because I have been told that you are competent even without a firearm."

"Well I am still alive." I gave it some thought before I went on. "Does Ms Marlow have any reason to feel that she is in danger?"

"She is a psychic. She doesn't need any evidence. She says that she just knows this trip is going to be the end of her."

"If she feels that strongly, why do it?"

"She is on a mission. A mission to have her book read by as many people as possible. She does not want to leave her daughter the legacy of a fraud, but of a woman who can see things others can't. She will go anywhere and do anything to further that goal. "

"To be honest she sounds a little out in left field, but I will do what I can to make sure she is wrong about this trip."

"That's all I can ask," Eddie said with an inappropriately wide smile.

I just hate when people send inappropriate signals.

trees and hot dogs

On that Monday morning I was at my shack in the woods where I spent my time fishing, hunting, and doing just as little real work as possible. One of the things I had to do was to cut wood for the winter. It was simple, do that amount of work or freeze to death in my bed.

So first thing that morning, I was off to cut down a tree. The tree was on a piece of property owned by an old family friend. He had been sort of a drop in caretaker of the shack while I was away. Away being two years in a country where they still killed people for fun, then five years in a U. S. federal prison for shooting one of the locals in the back. At least they had the decency to put me in a country club prison. I should have gotten a medal, but I got ten to twenty for murder.

You just can't mix politics and bullets. Unfortunately I learned that a little late in life. What would have gotten me a medal one day, got me a felony record the next. Yes I am bitter as hell about it. If I had been on a federal payroll, I would have gotten a slap on the wrist. Since I was working for an oil company, I got arrested. At the time the left wingers thought all oil company employee were part of the devil's horde.

I bring this up because I had an afternoon appointment with my parole officer. Even she knew it was all bullshit. Still the rules are the rules she had informed me on our first meeting. She had to assess whether I was likely to go shooting anyone else while still on parole. To do that I was supposed to go in once a week, but she changed it to once a month.


"Hey Rex, thought I'm come take down that tree for you," I suggested.

"Help yourself. If you are going to haul it off in the jap pickup, you are going to have to make a lot of trips."

"Yeah I know, that's one big mother of a tree."

Rex shook his head. If his long gray hair hadn't been so greasy, it would have moved like a TV commercial. Instead it stayed pretty much in place.

The tree he wanted taken down had been dead long enough so that the wood would be usable instantly. It would burn quickly, but it wouldn't soot up the chimney. It was a trade off. I had some green oak, which I could burn over night. It would burn slower and hold the fire better.

I planned to get the tree on the ground before I went to my meeting with the P.O. To accomplish it I had borrowed a chain saw from another friend. The chain saw was a large one so it made the first cut pretty quickly. After cutting the 1/4 notch on the north side of the tree, I move around to the south side and made the cut that would have brought the tree down. That is if it hadn't been so large. The saw started to choke about half way into the trunk. That left me with a pretty good sized piece of the tree I couldn't reach.

I began working the wedges into the tree. Between the wedges and a couple of cuts on the sides, the tree finally broke off. Since I didn't top it first, it was a risky trip down to the ground. If it had gotten hung in the neighboring trees, I would have been in a world of crap. I got lucky or maybe my planning was better than I thought, Either way it fell right where I had hoped that it would.

I had never cut such a large tree, but since my dad had grown up in a lumber camp, I has some idea what I was doing. It also might have been in the genes. I laughed at that thought. I spent what little time I had left stripping the tree of dead limbs. Those would make good kindling.

"So Richard, what have you been up to since our last meeting?" My P.O. was at least fifty pounds over weight. She might have been attractive without the excess weight, and if she were a few years younger. As it was she reminded me of my old main aunt.

"Oh I caught about twenty pounds of catfish last week. This morning I cut down a tree."

"Good, it sounds like you are staying out of trouble."

"Oh I am." I had never told her about Executive Security Company. She didn't need to know everything. My deal with them was a cash under the table arrangement. E.S.C was a twig of the same tree I fell from in the middle east. I suppose it was their idea of looking after their own.

"That's good to hear. So are you looking for a job yet?"

"You know the payout package from the 'Swamp Thing' got invested in their stock. It sat there growing while I was in the joint. War is a good investment it seems. I don't need to work for a while." I said it hoping she would believe that it was true. Well technically it was true.

"In the joint. I would hardly call the facility you did your time in, the joint."

"Well whenever I can't make a midnight snack, it is prison to me."

"You don't seem to have gained any weight since your release."

"No, I still can't make a snack. I keep forgetting to buy anything to snack on." I didn't mention that it was a constant struggle to keep my weight down.

"Well stay out of trouble and I'll see you on the 21st of next month."

"Yes Ma'am." She was in a hurry to move on to her next parolee, so I left the room quickly. I was in just as big a hurry to get out of the federal building.

Just like always I walked two blocks to the Dog House restaurant. I ordered three hot dogs with everything, then moved to a rear corner to eat. The Diet Coke was the only concession to my attempt to keep my weight down.

The black kid came in carrying a shotgun. He was big for his age but obvious still a teenager. He was also waving the shotgun around like a character from a bad 1940 movie. I had seen a few of those over the years. He had probably picked that time of day because the place was almost empty. He demanded the contents of the register. The cashier tried to get it open but she was terrified so the register got jammed.

"Open the fucking register or I'm going to blow your head off." He said that way to loud. I didn't want to know what he was thinking, but he had told me anyway. He was scared and he just might shoot the cashier in his a panic state of mind. The odds were about fifty, fifty that she was going to die. If he did that, leaving witnesses would be stupid.

I told myself that I should sit there and do nothing. I was about thirty feet from him, so it made no sense at all for me to do anything but mind my own business. I had probably seen too many movies. I know I had seen it done in at least three or four. Yes I had practiced it for hours, so it wasn't something out of the blue that I just came up with.

I yelled, "Cops." Then I threw the heavy cut glass sugar holder at him. She swung the shotgun toward me. I had hoped to hit him square in the face with the sugar holder, but it missed. I did hit him a glancing blow, which gave me a chance to move toward him. I was much faster then his decision making ability. If he had been a trained killer, I would have been very dead.

When the shotgun went off, it was in the direction of the ceiling. I had him on the floor with the gun butt on his throat when the owner came from the kitchen. He took a slow look around and said to me, "You gonna' have to pay for that hole in my ceiling."

"In a pigs ass," I whispered.

flash fiction faux kidnapping

As usual when the call came, I was covered in grease. I wasn't always covered in grease, but Betty Jo ,seemed to know just the wrong times to call. I looked at the caller ID before I answered, so I knew who was on the line. "Hello Betty Jo, what's on the schedule now."

"You aren't going to like it," she said with a smile in her voice. Betty Jo loved to rattle my cage.

"Then I just won't do it," I suggested. I wasn't her employee, even though almost all my real income came from Executive Security Company.

"Of course you can refuse any assignment, I have just never seen you do it. You are my most trusted agent."

"Then why do I always get the crap nobody else wants?"

"Because, my dear Richard, you don't have a squeaky clean background." We both knew what she meant, so I didn't bother to ask for an explanation.

"That is true enough, but you don't seem to mind when it is a crap job."

"Only the crap jobs, as you call them, will accept you."

"Yeah I know, so what is it this time?"

"Just another brief case delivery."

"Really is it legal?"

"If it were legal, I could get one of the others to do it."

"One of these days I'm going to get jacked up, and I'm taking you all with me."

"You might be planning to try, but I doubt that you will. There are far to many perks to taking the heat all by yourself."

"Money isn't much good to a man in prison."

"Then don't get caught doing anything illegal," Betty Jo said.

"So give me the details," I demanded. There was no sense arguing with Betty Jo. She had all the answers. I was the unarmed man in the battle of wits.

"There will be a ticket to Atlanta at the airport for you. You have two hours to make it to the airport."

"How about my gear?"

"You will have to improvise. That's what you do best isn't it?"

"So you keep telling me. Is anyone going to meet my plane?"

"The client will send someone. Good luck Richard."

Betty Jo was right about one thing. I didn't like riding shotgun in a money drop. It wasn't just dangerous, it was working with a civilian. Most often it was working with someone who was in a highly agitated state of mind as well. Not only that it was someone who thought that for the five grand, they should get a nursemaid, an assassin, and someone to solve all of his or her problems.

I cleaned up as best I could, then topped off the travel bag. The quarter size black duffel bag stayed mostly packed all the time. The working gear, that could pass through airport screening, stayed in the bag. I added a couple of shirts and some underwear.

From the time I got Betty Jo's call until I left my shack in the woods less than an hour had passed. I arrived at the local airport just in time to clear security. The flight down was uneventful, and it even arrived on time.

The woman, who held the sign with my name on it, looked no more than twenty. She had to be an employee, it was obvious that she hadn't put up five grand for an escort.

"Richard Ames," I said to her. She didn't speak just nodded. Since I always carried the small duffle bag onto the plane, we were out of the terminal in moments. We were in the Limo when she finally spoke. "Mr. Ames, I work for Mr. Richie's firm. He asked me to meet you and fill you in on the way to his office." That time I just nodded.

"Mr. Richie's son Edward has been abducted. Since Mr. Richie is a well known criminal lawyer, he fears one of his less law abiding clients in involved. We have defended some rather nasty characters over the years. He called your boss to arrange for someone to actually make the drop."

"So Mr. Richie won't be going along. is that okay with the kidnapper?"

"They were still negotiating that point when I left for the airport."

"Either way it's all the same to me." I replied. Actually I preferred to go alone.

"Mr. Ames," the just past middle-aged man in the five thousand dollar suit said as a greeting.

"Mr. Richie, I presume." It was the best I could do at being serious. Richie might be my better in some things, but we were playing on my turf. At that moment he was the rookie.

"Yes, Jay Jay filled you in I hope." He nodded to the woman as a signal for her to leave.

"She gave me the bones."

"Do you need more?"

"That depends on what you expect me to do."

"Deliver the brief case with the money and then bring my son home. Not more no less."

"Then you don't want me to make the arrangements?"

"No, the meet is set." I didn't like that at all. I would have preferred to set up the exchange myself. "I need to see the place where the exchange will be made before I walk in there."

"I'm not sure that is such a good idea. They said to play it straight or my son would die. They may be watching the site."

"If I can't see what I'm walking into, then you can take the money yourself, or maybe send in Jay Jay." I gave him a minute, When he didn't respond, I turned to the door. It wasn't a bluff. Seeing the spot in advance was the bare minimum of preparation I would accept.

"Alright, I'll have Jay Jay take you."

"In her car not the limo," I answered emphatically.

"Very well," he replied.

The car was a modern midsize piece of plastic. It wouldn't stand out at all. The exchange was to be near the car parking area of a small upscale neighborhood park. I could imagine how it would go down. The kidnapper would see the money, then he would bring the kid, and it would be done.

Of course, it stank to high Buddha. If it went down that way, I would see one of the kidnappers and their car. The car could be stolen of course, and the kidnapper could be disguised, but it still seemed very amateurish. Amateurs worry me, because they are easily spooked.

Something about it just plain reeked. No kidnapper, no matter how amateurish, would bring the kid to the meeting. Just too much chance the cops could roll them up right after the kid was delivered. Richie had to know that as well. Something about this was really ripe.

If it was a fake, why would he need someone else to deliver it. No he really thought there was some danger in the delivery. The kidnappers had to know for a fact that Richie was going to go along. How could they know that he wouldn't call the FBI?

The only answer that made sense was that it wasn't a kidnapping. It was a simple exchange. Money was going to be exchanged for something of value. Something Richie didn't want the cops to see. Something being held by a dangerous man. The kidnapping was just a ploy to prevent anyone from knowing that he was being blackmailed. He would get sympathy instead of whatever he would get, if the information got out.

The fact that it was blackmail only mattered to me, because it meant that it could be really bad guys making the exchange. It ruled out some friend of his son's trying to make a quick buck. It also meant that I could expect the blackmailer to act reasonably. That is as reasonably as blackmailers act.

After a good piece of steak at a nice restaurant, I went to the park. I sat on the concrete bench as I had been told. I also tried to read the newspaper, as I had also been instructed.

"You got something for me," the woman with the baby stroller asked.

"Yes, do you have a package for me?"

"It's in the stroller."

"You managed to get a teenager in the stroller?"

"What teenager? I have an envelope in the stroller, that's what this is all about."

"I need to call the client to be sure that is what he is paying for," I suggested.

"Okay, but do you see that man by the green car?"

"Yes, I assume that he will shoot me, if I don't hand over the money?"

"That's right," she said.

"You know that bluff would work on a lot of people. It just won't on me. But lady it's not my money. Let me call the man, if he says do it, then it's your money as far as I'm concerned."

I made the call on my cell phone. "So this isn't your son after all, it's about saving your ass. Do you want me to make the exchange for an envelop."

"If the envelop has a pistol inside, do it," Richie demanded.

I opened the brief case and took one of the money packets. "Call this my charge for being threatened."

"The deal is off." she said angrily. She tried to remove something from her purse. I knew it was a weapon. Even though she hadn't been expecting me to lift the money, I had been expecting her to pull something. I had a very heavy, thick blade steak knife. It was a souvenir left over from lunch. I spun her around, then I held the steak knife to her throat. I also arranged her so that her body shielded me from the car park.

I carefully reached into the stroller to remove the thick manila envelop. The envelop had some large, heavy metal object inside. That was a good thing, since papers can be copied easily, hard evidence is another thing altogether. I walked backwards while dragging her along the bike path until I was out of sight of the car park. I pushed her hard and climbed aboard the Wal-mart Mountain bike. I had hidden it in the trees before I went to lunch. It's the kind of thing you can walk away from, if all goes as planned, if not you can use it as an escape vehicle. Obviously, I was riding it into the sunset. As Betty Jo said, I knew how to improvise.

"What have you done?" Richie asked.

"I saved you eighty grand, and I got your pistol."

"Those people will kill me."

"If they wanted to kill you, they wouldn't have blackmailed you. Just tell them I dropped off the pistol, and you had no idea that I stole the money. Tell the rest is between them and me. It's a total win, win for you."

When it sank in he asked, "Don't you want to know why the pistol is so important?"

"Hell no." I said.