

Trust No One

Book 1 in the Mac Davis thriller series

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By L. J. Breedlove

Published by L. J. Breedlove

Copyright 2013 L. J. Breedlove

ISBN: 9781301283705

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook site and purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the work this author.

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. While place descriptions and news events may coincide with the real world, all characters and the plot are fictional.
Dedication

This book is dedicated to William Baldyga. Without your input and your stories, this book would never have been written. And to all those who return home from war to deal with war's aftermath.
Prologue

Somewhere in the Southwest (May, 2005) -- The Marine fire team hadn't been together very long: two eighteen year olds fresh out of training camp waiting to go somewhere -- anywhere but here, muttered Danny Brown, a Bayou kid who had no taste for the dry heat of the Southwest -- plus a transfer from Missouri and a team leader with two years experience at not quite 20. Team leader Mackensie Davis thought the heat of El Paso beat Afghanistan any day.

"We're supposed to be looking for weed?" Troy Maxim asked in a loud whisper, when the four were told they were one of the many teams loaned to the Drug Enforcement Agency for a sweep. "Shiiitt," he said, dragging out the sounds to two syllables. Maxim, was a tall, broad-shouldered black man whose parents were both doctors in Chicago. His street talk fell flat, but no one laughed any more. He'd shown a couple of white boys that being from the 'burbs didn't prevent him from whupping their asses.

John Blankenship said nothing. He rarely did; the Marine Corps was a family business. His father and both older brothers were Marines. He planned to make a career of it. If the Marine Corps wanted him to look for marijuana fields, he'd look for marijuana fields. His last post in Missouri had been recruitment; he was glad for something a bit more active.

Mac Davis snorted. He would search for weed, although he figured they'd find as much weed back on base, most certainly in town. Not a little of it belonged to him.

"Not just marijuana," the DEA agent said irritably. "Although we're talking plantations here, not a couple of pot plants and a grow light. There are meth labs, coke warehouses, you name it, along the border. They mule the raw ingredients in from Mexico, process it here, and sell it in New York, Chicago, Dallas. We want to interrupt that flow."

Davis nodded. "Yes, sir," he said, with just enough drawl to be a bit insulting. The DEA agent glared at him, but didn't fall into the trap of chewing out someone for saying yes sir.

"We'll drop you in, you can hump your way out to a pick up point here," the agent traced the route on the mission map. The land he pointed to was a hilly region west of El Paso, east and south of Roswell, New Mexico. Isolated, bleak, described as rolling hills with a few trees, but only if you considered pinion a tree. Mostly rocks, canyons, dry land, some ranches making it on grazing. The only industries -- drugs and wetbacks.

"Plot and record," the agent emphasized. "We don't expect you to make arrests, or in any way let your presence be known. Some of those places are well defended. We'll send in more power than small teams of Marines to clean out the places you identify. This is a low-profile, recon mission, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," the four chorused. No one mentioned the additional reason: it wasn't popular to broadcast that Marines were operating on American soil. The citizens at home might get uncomfortable about that.

"0600," the agent said and dismissed them. Just kids, he thought, shaking his head. Four big, overgrown kids. With weapons. He shook his head again. He was dumping a dozen teams in a 100 square mile area. He just hoped they didn't shoot each other.

Day four. Troy Maxim and Mac Davis studied the map. It was an easy thing to say back in a city to locate drug operations on a map; another thing in rough country to even know where you were much less write it down.

Not that they were writing everything down. The team had agreed early on that pot fields under a certain size could be ignored. If some white dude was working a bunch of illegals on a large field, they wrote it down. If someone was running a manufacturing plant for meth or crack, they logged it.

"Can't come back with an empty map, man," John Blankenship pointed out.

"How can you eat this shit?" Danny Brown said, poking through his Meal Ready to Eat -- MRE -- and looking disgusted. The four of them had been spread out over a small hillside that shielded them from view. They'd hiked most of the night until they'd found a spot they could blend into, defend themselves if necessary. A couple of hours of sleep and they regrouped to plan an early morning exploration. Even in May, the heat could reach the mid-80s.

"I learned early to eat what was available," Mac said levelly. "I suggest you learn it too." No one said anything. The fire team was close; but no one was close enough to Mac Davis to ask questions. He was a mystery even to his best friends. He was tough, he was cold, and so far no one had bested him.

Davis was six-two, built from two years in the Marine Corps -- his first tour of duty in Afghanistan had bronzed his skin. He had with medium dark hair -- what the Marines had left of it -- and a skin color that defied racial categories. He marked white on the forms, but under the heavy sun, he'd darkened to a TexMex tan. He passed for Mexican in border bars, until he spoke. His border Spanglish couldn't pass for white, much less brown, a buddy said good-naturedly. But then Mac didn't talk much.

He smoked Newports, listened to rap music -- rhymes with crap music, Danny had muttered once -- hung out with the black guys from San Diego and East St. Louis. He might have been black, but for the clear gray eyes. The black guys called him Shadow. Mac never explained why.

He was a good source for booze, weed, or whatever. And when he went in town, he seemed to know every girl there. None of the girls seemed to find his cold eyes, or the grim lines around his mouth, to be as frightening as his fire team did. But then, even his buddies agreed that when he smiled, the lines weren't so grim and the eyes weren't so cold.

His team would follow him anywhere; they'd already found out that the safest place to be in a brawl was at his side. But they didn't understand him, and they didn't ask questions.

The four shouldered into their packs, and followed Mac away from their camp. It looked like no one had been there.

There was an area to the south of them Mac wanted to check out. It was a bit off their assigned route, but not much. He'd seen some trails the day before that looked like they were made by men, not by whatever passed for a deer in this area. He had an itch; the team agreed to check it out.

Mac led the way at a dogtrot. He wanted to cover some territory early in the day before it got hot. He traced his route back to the trail. A good sixty paces south, it forked. Mac gestured Danny and Troy to take the east trail, he and John headed west. His instincts were on full alert, although he couldn't say why. Even so, he almost ran over the top of the two men with a radio unit before he saw them.

The land was deceiving; it looked wide open clear to the horizon where bleached brown met bright blue. Truth was the land was gutted with canyons, pocked with outcroppings of rock. Hard to see what was right before you; it didn't seem right that it was equally hard to find cover when you needed it.

Mac dove for cover in a small swallow, with John close behind him. Too late to fade away. The two men, mid-thirties and fit, whirled, and one fired. It came close enough that Mac heard it go by.

Mac sprayed the area with his M-203, an M-16 with a 40mm grenade launcher below the regular barrel, while John Blankenship tried to raise the other two on a hand-held.

"Where the hell are you," Danny's voice came back. "We're in trouble here!"

Mac gestured at John to shut the thing off. He had the two pinned down, but they weren't acting scared. It might be a case of who had whom pinned, Mac thought. He motioned to Blankenship to return fire, pulled a 9mm out of its holster, slung the M-203 across his back, and slid across the ground, following the contour of the land, hoping that sagebrush was a better cover than it looked. Move, stop, glide.

Mac felt himself switch into the hunt. Something inside him, settled in, tightened. His senses seemed more alert; he could hear more, smell more. He made little sound normally; now he made less.

He eased from one shadow to another, blending with the sparse vegetation and rock. He moved in close, not stopping until he could hear them.

"We've got problems," one said into his radio. "Some fuckers in drab just walked over us. Fire is being exchanged. Got that? Fire is being exchanged."

Mac waited until there was a pause in the man's words, blam. The slug caught the man in the throat, blood gurgled out through the jugular. When his partner whirled to see where the shot came from, firing as he looked, Mac was no longer there. Blankenship put a round in his back.

Mac paused, wishing there was time to search them. He started south. John fell in behind him.

"Who were those fuckers?" Blankenship panted. "Drug makers with radios and perimeter men?"

Mac didn't reply. He was breathing easily, focused on the path ahead of him. He didn't know enough, but the man's communication worried at him. Trouble, he thought. We've bought ourselves a whole packet of trouble.

"Aren't we going to help Danny and Troy?" Blankenship added.

"See if they're broadcasting," Mac said softly, but kept moving. John turned the radio on low, listening intently.

"Mac, you got to come get us," Danny said scared. He sounded as if he'd been repeating himself. Forgot every radio protocol he knew, Mac thought disgustedly. "They've got eight men out here; Tory's been hit, not bad, but I can't get him out alone. What the hell is going on? I didn't see anything, and then they were firing at us. They are uphill from us, you hear? We are dead meat, man, if you don't get here soon. Come get us."

Mac motioned for John to turn it off. "He's talking on that thing and firing at the same time?" John asked, keeping his voice low. "I knew Danny didn't ever stop talking, but this is a new record even for him."

Danny was a sharpshooter bar none, or they wouldn't have lasted this long, Mac thought. For all his down home, good ol' boy ways that set Mac's teeth on edge, there was no one he'd rather have shooting for him. Troy wasn't bad either. But the odds weren't good.

"We've got to pull those men off. Won't get far hitting them head on. Got to give them something more important to do."

"Like what?" John asked.

Mac grinned. It made John veer away warily. "We burn their barn."

Mac kept heading south. He figured if his two attackers and this other team were perimeter, it stood to reason that what they were defending was not far away. He had to be close. If he'd guessed wrong.... Mac set his jaw grimly. Then without much warning, the ravine opened into a small valley. Mac stopped and dropped. He looked at his watch, ten minutes since they'd hit those two dudes with the radio. Come on Danny, Mac thought, hold them a bit longer.

In the clearing ahead was a large barn, a house, several outbuildings. Normally it probably looked like a small ranch, but now, men were running all over the place, loading vehicles, grabbing weapons. Mac watched with narrowed eyes. It was fucked, he thought, something's not right.

"More than pot," John observed.

"Shit, yeah," Mac said. He moved warily around rim of the valley until he was directly behind the largest structure. Now that he was closer he could see the barn was sturdier than it first looked. Someone had carefully added the weathered wood to look like a barn, but no animal had ever been invited in for a hay dinner, Mac thought sardonically.

"How we going to fire that thing?" John asked anxiously.

Mac grinned again. It wasn't any more comforting than the first time. "That, my friend, is a cocaine plant. Do you know how cocaine is made?"

Blankenship shook his head. Hell, he was still afraid to drink a beer, being underage and all. What did he know about cocaine? But he could believe that Mac knew more about it than he should.

Mac eyed the building. It took heat to make cocaine. Lots of heat. He shouldered out of his pack and stashed it. He unslung his M-203. Blankenship watched without understanding. But he didn't ask. He figured Mac would tell him when he was ready. Or not.

"Okay," Mac said. "If I get spotted, you send down a round of fire and then head up that hill. You got to get out of here, call for a pick up -- don't come after me, you hear?"

Blankenship nodded. "I don't have the big radio," he pointed out. Troy carried the main set that the team used to make reports back to HQ roughly every 24 hours by a pre-determined schedule.

"Yeah, you're going to have to work your way over to team four. They're about twenty miles due west of here. You get within range of them, they can call for backup."

Blankenship frowned. "That's going to be too late to help much," he objected.

Mac looked at him levelly. "You won't be going for help," he said. "You going after a team to clean up these fuckers. And bury us deep, you hear?"

Blankenship swallowed hard. He nodded. The two men they'd surprised were the first he'd ever seen die. The first he'd killed; hell, the first time he'd shot at a real human being.

Mac nodded once. He studied the field and the building again, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd set the state record for the 100 meter a couple of years ago; he hoped he still could. He darted down the hill, going for speed not stealth. Everyone was too busy to pay much attention. Apparently they weren't expecting company.

Figured your perimeter could handle it, hey? Mac thought grimly. He flattened himself against the wall of the barn. He could hear shouting inside, more trucks getting ready to leave. He shook his head. It didn't make sense, he thought, then shrugged it off. He slid along the building until he was at a window near the cooking plant. He balanced his weapon on the windowsill, took aim and fired off a grenade into the furnace. He was off at a run further south to a spot he'd already identified as his next observation point.

He heard a shout, and then shots. He dropped to the ground, flattened as best he could, and looked over his shoulder. Three men were starting up the hill toward Blankenship's position.

Shit, Mac thought. He stayed down. John should be hightailing it up that hill, he hoped, if the dump fuck didn't fuckin' wait around for Mac.

When no sounds of capture or even shots being fired, Mac looked around. Should be a generator around somewhere, he thought.

Washington, D.C.

May 2005

"We've got a call for Howard Parker, sir, is he still with you?" the switchboard operator asked.

"Yes, he is," said Jake Dugan, assistant to the Secretary of Defense. "Put it through."

Howard Parker reached for the phone set. "Parker," he said curtly. "What? Hold on a bit."

He gestured toward the speakerphone. "You're going to want to hear this, too," Parker said. "Okay, Agent Barantoski, start again."

"Yes, sir. It seems one of the DEA agents heard some rumors about drug activity in a certain part of his region and borrowed a platoon of Marines to quarter, search and report. One fire team stumbled upon our perimeter men this morning. Two Marines were trapped on the northeast corner, but two others were able to penetrate the perimeter after a shoot-out with two men on the northwest corner. The two Marines proceeded into the facility. The furnace exploded, followed by the generator."

Agent Barantoski paused for breath. "Go on," Parker said. Dugan looked like he was trying not to laugh.

"One of the Marines trapped by our men was able to get a call out for backup. At that point we were alerted to the situation and were able to be among those who responded. At the facility, we found a Marine corporal in charge; he had the wetba... illegal workers sitting along side the house with their hands on their heads. Four of our men were under guard by two other Marines. The fourth Marine was resting with a leg injury."

Parker said with deceptive mildness, "And the other eight of our men?"

The sound of the agent swallowing was clearly audible. "Four are dead, sir. Two were able to load the jeep with incriminating evidence and get out; they've reported in. The whereabouts of the other two is unknown at this time."

"I see."

Agent Barantoski blurted out, "Sir, you've got to get back here A-SAP and take over damage control. We've got people who aren't in the know making decisions, and all hell is breaking loose."

"I'm on my way, Agent Barantoski," Parker said. "Have someone waiting for me at the airport. Slow things down as much as you can. And get those Marines back on base!"

"Yes, sir!"

Dugan burst out laughing, not the least intimidated by Parker's glare. "Four Marines, hey? Makes you proud of the old unit, doesn't?"

"It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't had to be back here politicking," Parker grumbled.

Dugan sobered. "If you hadn't been back here politicking, the new Secretary would have pulled your plug and then where would your operation be?"

Parker rolled his eyes, but didn't disagree. "It's a hell of a thing anyway, lobbying for a project selling drugs."

"It keeps an information pipeline open that we all need," Dugan said.

"I know." Parker was silent for a moment, then shook his head and sighed. "Pointless to argue about it. We've got the operation going; it's my job to see it successful."

"Just out of curiosity, how many people did we have on site?" Dugan asked.

"Four CIA agents, eight contracts, and apparently four illegal workers," Parker said sourly. "Scramble me a jet, Jake, and then you get to go tell the Secretary that his discreet little intelligence operation just got a little less discreet."

Dugan waved him on, but as Parker closed the door behind him he could hear Dugan humming "From the halls of Montezuma..."

Parker opened the door back up. "And ship those Marines to the Gulf or where ever they might likely get blown to bits, will you?"

### CHAPTER 1

Washington, D.C. (Nov. 15, 2012) — The man behind the desk continued to read a document, ignoring the aide who had just entered the room. Howard Parker at 59 was successful, powerful. You didn't get -- or keep -- that kind of power or success by being friendly. Power kept was power used. He believed it firmly, practiced in on small occasions like this, wasn't afraid to use it when it needed to be used on larger occasions either.

The aide cleared his throat. He was used to the treatment, and started in without waiting for acknowledgment. "We've received the report from the security firm," he began. The man showed no interest. "The report shows no blemishes. Your background checks out as clean as they've ever seen."

The man looked up at that point. "They did a thorough job?"

The aide shrugged. "They vet corporate bigwigs for companies all the time. Background checks are their main income. My guess is that if they say you're clean, the FBI won't find a thing either."

"It isn't your guess I want to hear," the man said, stressing the word guess.

"No, sir." The aide cleared his throat again. "There is one thing, however. An aide to Senator Murray from Chicago has been asking questions."

The man frowned. "What kind of questions?"

The aide shook his head. "Just asking about you, whether your name was coming up for anything in the next cabinet. The questions got back to us."

"Chicago? Murray? She's not a player. Why would an aide of hers being nosing around? Who is he?"

"Some young guy named Troy Maxim." The aide shrugged. "Could be a supporter of yours. Although working for Murray...." He trailed off. Murray was as liberal as they came, not likely to be a fan of his boss. "But he was in the Marines, I believe -- he may know you."

The man frowned, tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk. He turned to his computer, typed in a name in a search prompt, and punched in the number that appeared into the phone. He asked the person on the other end a question, and waited impatiently for an answer. When it came, he grunted, then jotted down four names and handed it to his aide.

The aide looked at the list. Troy Maxim was at the top.

"Check these four out. Start with the Marines, see if the others are still in. I want to know where they are now, what they're doing. Top priority, you understand?"

The aide nodded his head. "Yes, sir." He didn't ask questions. He was pretty sure he didn't want to know what his boss was doing.

Howard Parker leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. "I want that nomination," he said.

"Yes, sir," the aide said.

The preliminary report on the four was alarming, Parker thought. How the hell could one person be in the wrong place at the wrong time so frequently?

He dismissed John Blankenship as a potential problem. He was still in the Marines, doing embassy duty in Saudi. Danny Brown was a wildcatter on an oilrig off the coast of Louisiana. Not a real threat, although Parker ordered a profile to be developed on him just in case.

But the other two. God Almighty.

Troy Maxim, son of well-to-do doctors in Chicago, graduate of Northwestern, aide to the notoriously liberal, anti-military Senator Abigail Murray.

"I want to know all about him," Parker said to his former protégé, now at the FBI, who had brought the report in. "Who are his friends, where he lives, who he sleeps with. I want to know any dirt, any possible ways of getting a handle on this kid."

"He's nearly thirty," the FBI agent said mildly. "Not a kid."

Parker ignored the comment; he was looking at the summary of the fourth person on his list. He shook his head in disbelief.

"And this one. A goddam reporter? For the Seattle Examiner? In my own back yard!" Parker stabbed the preliminary report with his finger at each damning detail. He turned to his computer Rolodex, searching for a name. "Donnelly. There's a police detective out there who owes me a favor or two. I'll get with him. Have him dig. We have to be prepared to bury this guy. A damn reporter."

The FBI agent frowned. "Aren't you over-reacting? I can see tracking this Maxim guy, but profiling a reporter can come back and bite you."

"You don't understand," Parker said. "And I can't tell you the details. Trust me. This isn't just a matter of my political future, but also of national security. We have to be ready to move quickly to contain any problem here."

The FBI agent stood up. "I'll get it going," he said.

"Get 24 hour surveillance on Maxim ASAP."

"Got it."

Parker nodded. He waited until the agent had closed the door behind him, then leaned back and closed his eyes for a brief moment. He opened them, looking around his office as if for the first time.

The office was spacious, a fourth floor corner window office of an anonymous government building in Foggy Bottom. One wall had photos of important people, awards and commendations and medals. The other wall was filled with shelves of books. Nothing personal. No pictures of his wife or son. No sports trophies. Or vacation souvenirs. He snorted.

His title was as bland as the building, a national security analyst for the Department of Defense, although his office was actually part of the State Department complex. The title did nothing to reveal the power he pulled. He looked out the window. Lights were coming out over the city.

Parker shut down his computer, carefully locked his desk. He shrugged into his wool overcoat, and went to the outer office, locking his door behind him. His aide had already left for the night. Parker locked the outer door as well, and took the stairs to the ground floor.

On impulse he took the Metro to the Mall, walked to the Lincoln Memorial. It never failed to move him. In spite of all his personal problems, Abraham Lincoln had taken care of his country. Parker approved of that.

He turned toward the Capitol walking briskly in the early evening. The Washington Monument loomed over the Reflecting Pool. A few people were out, but not many. It was cold, in a brisk way, but no snow. None of D.C.'s ugly winter yet. All the years he'd been here, he still hated the winters. At least in Seattle the snow had the decency to stay in the mountains where it could be admired and occasionally visited.

He smiled at his own whimsy. For all the horrible winters and the sweltering, humid summers, there was no place to be but here. This was the most powerful city in the most powerful country of the world.

I have served this country all my life, he thought wonderingly. Politics and the military had always swirled around him; his family had been involved in both for generations -- that and dairy farming. Back in those days military and politics were pretty much the same in the Washington state, thanks to Scoop Jackson and men like him. Men like himself, he thought.

Then ROTC at University of Washington. Then the Marines. A command in SE Asia. Back to the states. Various posts, but here was home. D.C. was where he belonged. He retired from the Marines at the end of his 20, went to work for the CIA, then back over to the DOD.

Nominated for Secretary of Homeland Security. He smiled. He wanted the power, he could taste it, but more than that, he wanted to accomplish the things he could do with that power. For the country. Patriotism might have gone out of favor, he thought, but he was a patriot and proud to be so.

All the things he had done, those he could talk about and those he never would, he'd done for the country. Including the operation that had gone so tits up. He shook his head, pulled out his cell phone.

"Yo."

"Make sure you've got a watch on Maxim 24/seven. He's got to be watched. His phone tapped. If he starts to go public, we need to know immediately. No delays."

"Got it."

Parker continued on his walk, faster now, headed toward the next Metro station, and home to Fairfax. His wife would have dinner waiting. Or the cook would. He couldn't remember if Sarah was here or in Seattle. It didn't matter. He walked on.

Someone was watching him, he was sure of it. Troy Maxim tried not to walk too fast, to not look over his shoulder. A mugger? A police officer wondering what a black guy was doing in this part of Georgetown?

I live here, damn it, he thought angrily. He might be better off in Adams Morgan or some part of town where blacks were more common. But he liked the nightlife of Georgetown. He'd only been questioned by an officer once. It just freaked him out, that was all. He loitered in front of a store window to let who ever was back there catch up. No one did. He looked back, casually, he hoped. No one. Troy didn't find that reassuring. He was being followed, he was sure of it. If the person was staying out of sight, it meant.... Troy stiffened a bit.

Am I paranoid? he wondered. There had been odd looks among other Senate aides and staff members. People asking for him at his apartment complex but not leaving names. He walked faster, his hands in his pockets. He wished for a weapon. Senate aides were not supposed to be armed, weren't supposed to need a weapon.

He let himself into the foyer of his apartment complex. The security guard nodded to him. "Cold tonight," he said. "Snow maybe?"

Troy smiled. "Maybe, but I don't think so. It's not that cold."

The guard shrugged. "We had someone try to get in again, earlier," he said. "Seems like if they're thieves, they'd find easier pickings."

Troy hesitated. "Tried how?"

"Tried to come in through the parking garage. Pretty good at it, actually. Avoided the cameras, all the way to the elevator. But they didn't have a key there, so the alarm went off." The guard shrugged again. "They were gone before we got down there. Almost professional."

"Not as good as you guys," Troy tried to joke. His voice seemed to clog in his throat.

The guard smiled. "We hope."

Troy took the elevator to his fourth-floor, one-bedroom apartment. He liked the space, plenty for one man. Especially for a man who had gone from Marines to dorm room to here.

Another attempt to get in the building. Troy shook his head. It didn't have to have anything to do with him; there were probably a hundred people in this building. He felt a chill along the back of his neck just the same.

He flipped on the lights; the light on his answering machine was blinking. He hit replay.

The first was from his mom. He would call her back a bit later. The second from a woman he'd been seeing -- she hoped she'd see him sometime this week? He hesitated, not sure he wanted to continue seeing her. Or was the paranoia eating at him? Making him a hermit.

The third message was from a voice he didn't recognize. There was no name given. "Listen. You've been asking questions you don't need to ask, about a man who doesn't need you asking questions. Stop. We will be watching you. If we have to be more convincing, your family lives in Chicago. Your grandmother lives outside Atlanta. We can get them. We can get you."

Troy swallowed. He hit replay, listened to the message again. Listened to it a third time. It wasn't a prank, he thought. It was real. Someone wanted him to stop asking questions. The only questions he'd asked lately -- beyond do you want three copies of this or four -- were about Howard Parker's name being mentioned for the Department of Homeland Security.

The phone rang. He jumped. Hesitated, then answered it.

"Hello?"

"Troy Maxim?" a man's hesitant voice said.

"This is he."

"You've been asking questions about Howard Parker."

"So?" Maxim said cautiously.

"I have some information you might want."

"What?"

"No way. I have to give it to you."

Troy hesitated; the earlier threat scared him. It wouldn't hurt to be wary. "How do I know you aren't trying to set me up for something?"

"What?" They were both silent, then the voice continued. "I heard you were asking questions about Parker and his possible nomination. I think... I think the nomination is a really bad idea. You can't know. Parker... he's ruthless, mean."

Troy interrupted. "Lot of men are ruthless, especially here. Is he corrupt?"

"Decide for yourself."

With some reservations, Troy agreed to meet.

"I don't want to see you, be seen by you. Just give you some stuff."

"Sure," Troy told the source, soothing him. Chances were the stuff wasn't worth much, but what the hell. If someone was willing to threaten him, maybe there was more to it.

"Meet me at Rich's tomorrow night. Sit at the bar."

Troy followed the instructions. The next night he was seated at the bar in Rich's, a quiet, drinkers' bar not far from his apartment. Unexpectedly, the bartender carded him.

"Hey," Troy protested. "I'm thirty for God's sake."

The bartender shrugged. "So let's see some ID."

Troy dug out his wallet; handed over his driver's license. The bartender wanted another piece. Furiously, Troy handed over several more pieces.

The bartender apologized. Gave Troy a drink on the house. Hardly mollified, Troy looked around. Where was the little jerk that set this up, anyway?

Troy waited a half-hour. No one showed. Feeling put upon, he slid off the bar stool and started to leave.

"Sir!" the bartender called. "You forgot your briefcase."

Troy started to deny it was his, then met the bartender's eyes. "Damn," he said. "Thanks."

He picked up the briefcase -- which he'd never seen before -- and left the bar.

He waited until he got home to look in the briefcase. A couple of sheets of paper, and a computer disk. He read the sheets, swallowed hard when he realized that Parker had ordered an investigation of him. The computer disk wouldn't work in his PC. Troy frowned. A Mac disk? He'd have to find one and try it.

He was looking for a safe place to hide the disk in his apartment when he heard light scratches at the door. He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, barely breathing. He took a deep breath. "Who's there?" he called. The noise stopped. Barely audible at all, steps moved away from the door.

Troy sagged against the doorframe. Shit, he thought. Shit. Shit. Shit.

He looked at the disk in his hands. It had to be all related, he thought. Coincidence? He snorted. He didn't believe in that kind of coincidence. He went to his desk, pulled out a couple of other files. No time to make copies, but he knew what his files said. The disk? How could they know about the disk? He just got it tonight. Unless it was a set up. Plant something on him. The papers had seemed valid, however.

What now? He made a couple of calls. Then called the airlines, booked a flight. Thank God for American Express. It was Friday night. He could get this stored away and still back at work on Monday.

He threw some things into a backpack, and left his apartment, carefully locking up. Some instinct said to move fast. He did.

The FBI agent made his report in person to Parker, at Parker's house in Virginia. The house was gracious, the work of Parker's wife more than anything. Parker didn't care much. His natural environment was his office. But you had to have the trappings of success. It meant things to some people. Gave you credibility. Parker never complained about Sarah's expenditures. She made him look good.

"So you lost him," Parker said, looking at the man in front of him. Steve Addison was a solid man, about six feet tall, with light brown hair and brown eyes. He gave little away, even now. Ten years ago, he'd been a Marine lieutenant, whose assignment had put him under Parker's scrutiny. Parker had liked what he saw. He was able to give Addison's military career a boost; they'd stayed in touch over the years. Parker could count on him, to a point, to be loyal.

"Yeah," Addison admitted. "Tailed him to a bar, thought he was out for the evening. So we decided to try getting into his apartment to plant that bug in his phone. Damned difficult apartment complex to get into -- had to flash a badge, finally. Turns out he beat us home. Scared ten years off our lives, hearing him call out to us."

Parker frowned. "So you didn't get the tap in."

"No."

"And you scared him, and he ran."

"Looks like it," Addison said. "We beat it out of there. He must have come out while we were trying to figure out what next. Didn't see anything of him this morning. He doesn't answer his phone. He's gone." Addison shrugged. "I called a source at the telephone company, got his phone calls. Don't know what he said, so not as good as a bug, but...." He handed the list over to Parker.

Parker scanned it. The Seattle area code jumped out at him. "Hell," he said.

"Yeah. He made a call there, and one to Brown in Shreveport, Louisiana. I pulled his phone calls for the last few weeks -- he's called Brown before. First time he's called Seattle."

"Check the airlines?"

Addison nodded. "Found a ticket for Maxim to Chicago. Except he didn't get there. We had someone waiting at the airport for his flight. He apparently got off at a stop along the way -- he chose a goddamn puddle jumper flight -- we're looking."

Parker tapped the phone records. "Chances are he's in Shreveport or Seattle."

"We're looking," Addison said. "We'll find him."

"You got his apartment staked out?"

"Sort of." At Parker's frown, he said defensively, "This is all off the books, you know? I don't have unlimited resources. There is a limit to how wide a net I can cast. Unless you want to make it official?"

Parker shook his head. Hell no, I don't want it official, he thought. Dumb ass. "No, I'd like to keep it on the QT for a bit longer. It may get to that, however."

"What about Shreveport?"

"Easier. Brown lives with his sister who's a second grade teacher. Pretty girl. He works for Arco out in the Gulf, one week on, one week off. Works hard, parties hard. Never had a complicated thought in his life."

Parker thought about it. "If Maxim has any brains he'll go to Seattle."

"Yeah. That's what I'm betting on. But," he paused as his cell phone went off. "Yo."

"We found the ticket. He went to Seattle. Plane got in there about an hour ago, before we could get an agent to meet him. We've lost him."

"Thanks." Addison hung up, turned to Parker. "You heard?"

Parker took a deep breath. "Start the containment plan we talked about. We are on minus time."

"Are you sure?"

Parker knew Addison wasn't comfortable with the containment plan. Sometimes Fibbies didn't have what it took. They always want to color between the lines. Addison had been more flexible ten years ago.

"It's going to take a week to get it in place," Addison said. When Parker started to say something, Addison went on, "Unless you make it official."

Parker glared at him. Addison didn't flinch. "Do it," Parker said finally. "Unofficially."

Addison called the office Monday morning. "He's back," he said with no preamble.

"Maxim?"

"Yeah. He showed up for work this morning."

Parker paused, thinking how much if any this changed things. "Roust him."

"For what?" Addison asked. "Don't ask me to put my job on the line here, Howard. I'm in your corner, but I like being an FBI agent. Gathering information is one thing. Rousting a congressional aide is another."

"Did you check out all those phone calls that he'd made?" Parker said.

"No," Addison said warily.

"Several were to the FBI."

"To who?"

"Don't know," Parker lied. He knew good and well who Maxim called. "But your neck is on the line right along with mine, here. You're in too deep to start quibbling."

Silence. "I need some kind of reason," Addison said plaintively.

"Suspected violation of the National Security Act," Parker suggested.

"What?"

"Maxim is about to spill national secrets."

"Yeah, but to the FBI!"

"And may have already shared them with a reporter."

"One who apparently already knew."

Parker sighed. "Look you're asking me for a pretense. Here it is. You pull him in for questioning. Then you let me take it from there."

"And I'm off the hook?" Addison said with relief in his voice.

Parker smiled. "I'll have someone ready to take Maxim off your hands immediately. You'll be turning him over to the Marines. What more could you ask for?"

"Well why didn't you say so?"

Three FBI agents were waiting for him outside Senator Murray's office when he left at 6 p.m. Addison had chosen the location deliberately. Destroy Maxim's credibility. He wanted it so that even if Maxim talked, no one would listen. Two of the agents who were picking him up knew nothing. The third agent, a Parker loyalist, could handle things. He knew what to do. He detailed the third agent to report the results directly to Parker. Addison stayed in his FBI office, hoping to stay out of the loop for good.

"Troy Maxim?" one agent said, flashing his badge.

"Yes," Maxim said warily.

"We want you to come with us for questioning."

"What about?"

"That will be explained at the other end," the agent said.

Other members of Murray's staff were in the doorway watching. Maxim hesitated.

"Do you have a warrant?"

"Do we need one?" the second agent asked. Amazing how FBI agents look alike, Maxim thought. He would have a hard time telling these apart if he ever saw them again -- well two of them. The silent one was a bit older, looked more like a city cop, or ex-military. The other two, however, were the tall, lean, early 30s types in suits.

"Or tell me what you're wanting to know."

"Violation of the National Security Act," the first agent said.

"What?" Troy asked, confused.

"You're just being asked to accompany us for questioning," the first agent repeated.

"He doesn't have to go," someone said from the doorway. There was a mutter of agreement. "Make them come back with a warrant, Troy."

"Is that what you want? We want your assistance in an investigation. But we can get a warrant."

Troy hesitated again. It could be in relationship to his call to the FBI, he tried to reassure himself. The badges were real. But this seemed awfully public. He thought the FBI guy he'd talked to wanted it to stay discreet.

The older agent took his arm. "Come on," he said. His voice was that of a long-time smoker, low and rough. Troy started to shake him off, found he couldn't. The other two agents fell along side him, and he was muscled along. He doubted that his coworkers even realized he was going without a choice.

He started to protest.

"You want to make a scene?" said Gravel Voice. "We can take you out in handcuffs."

"I thought you just wanted my participation in an investigation," Troy protested. They went out of the building, past the security guard. A car was waiting in front in a no-park zone.

"Right." Gravel Voice shoved him in the back seat, got in beside him. "You know the reality, asshole."

Shit, Troy thought. This does not sound like the good guys.

### CHAPTER 2

SHREVEPORT, LA. (Tuesday, Nov. 27, 2012) — Danny Brown looked out the window of the helicopter as it landed at Arco Field. He was always ready to get off that damn oilrig by the end of his week shift. He liked the work, liked the guys he worked with. And he really liked the money. But one week on a rig the size of a city block with a hundred guys -- and maybe a dozen women -- well, that was enough.

He hopped out of the copter, grabbed his bag, and trotted toward the parking lot. Home was in Shreveport, a two and half hour drive north. He stashed his stuff in the lockbox of his pickup, a Chevy Silverado that every state patrol cop on Highway 171 knew. He patted it lovingly. He'd been torn between the dark blue and the sliver, finally gone with the blue. Behind the wheel, he grinned, started it up, and gunned it out of the parking lot. Free.

And God damn it, he was going to get some answers from Troy as soon as he got home. He tried dialing Troy's number in D.C. but there was no answer. He dialed home, but no answer there either. He glanced at his watch; his sister must be working late.

Some of the guys teased him about living in Shreveport with his sister, but Danny didn't care. She was all the family he had. His kid sister. They'd grown up in Shreveport, she'd gotten her teaching degree and got hired there. He made good money, the two of them had a house together. One of those old South style houses. Three stories, white, lots of trim around the large front porch. He loved it. One of these days, one of them -- hopefully both of them -- would get married, have kids. And there'd be real family again. He'd missed that feeling since his parents died when he was fourteen.

Being out on the oilrig for Thanksgiving this year really sucked, but Kristy had promised they'd celebrate it this week with all the trimmings. He smiled. Turkey, stuffing, potatoes and gravy, sweet potato pie. Kristy was a damn fine cook.

But, God damn it, he wished he'd asked Troy more questions or something. Yeah, yeah, Troy was an old Marine buddy, but in hindsight, he wasn't happy to have taken that package for him. What was Troy into?

Danny wasn't worried about drugs, or any of that shit. Troy wouldn't need to hide that crap with him. But the more he'd thought about it -- and he'd had a whole week to do nothing but think -- the more he realized how scared Troy was, and how odd it was he'd come to Louisiana. It wasn't just a short little jaunt.

Danny brooded about it for the long drive. He drove fast -- to hell with the cops -- with a country station blaring as loud as the stereo would crank.

He slowed down when he reached the edges of Shreveport, tried calling his sister again. Where was she? Wouldn't be at school this late.

"Come on, boy," he said out loud. "She's probably out with friends, stopped at the grocery store, whatever."

Still, one of the things he loved Kristy for was the lengths she went to make a home for the two of them. She understood his desire for family -- even if it was just the two of them. She wouldn't be some place else when he was due home. He couldn't remember a time, ever, when she hadn't been waiting at the door, with the smells of a good meal wafting around her.

He turned off the main thoroughfare into the quiet neighborhood they lived in. Old trees lined the streets. The houses and yards were well cared for. He smiled. He liked what he'd been able to do for his sister, for himself. It beat the hell out of the foster homes. Four years of being tossed from home to home, his sister in tow behind him. He wasn't going anywhere without her. The system had caved.

He pulled into the driveway, opened the garage door, rolled in. The garage was a white shed unattached to the house. An old house in an established neighborhood.

Danny got out, grabbed his duffel bag, and trotted into the house through the back door. "Kristy, I'm home!" he called out, entering the kitchen

He stopped in his tracks. "Holy shit," he whispered. The kitchen had been trashed. Every drawer was opened, dumped on the floor. Flour scattered. Dishtowels in a heap by the stove. The oven door was ajar. The dishwasher door was completely off.

"Kristy!"

Scared now, Danny dropped his bag, raced through the house. Each room was like the first. Torn apart, thoroughly searched, then trashed in rage at not finding whatever the person was looking for.

"Kristy?" Danny took the stairs at a trot. The upstairs looked like the downstairs, only worse. Mattresses ripped with a knife. Clothes torn and thrown around.

"Kristy!" His voice sounded like some old dog wailing for its owner.

The message light was blinking. Please God, let Kristy have been away when this happened, Danny prayed. He pushed in the access code, did it wrong the first time, fumbled through it again.

There was one message.

"Listen asshole. We know you've got what we want. We have your sister. We'll trade. How's that? You sit tight. We will be in contact with you."

Danny stood in the middle of Kristy's bedroom, listening to the message again and again. He was breathing hard. His muscles in his shoulders hunched, fists clenched. He wanted something he could hit. He hung up the phone. It rang.

"Hello?"

"You got our message?"

Danny looked around him. "Yeah."

"Then listen up. We'll trade. You give us the package Maxim gave you, and we let your sister go."

"I don't have any package," Danny said urgently.

"Don't give us that shit. We know Maxim brought you a package a week ago. We want it."

"I don't have it!"

"Then you can say good bye to your sister."

The phone went dead. Danny looked around him wildly. He didn't have the package. Troy had asked him to put it in a safe place. He had. Yeah, so safe you can't find it again, he thought wryly. Like the crayons he'd hidden as a kid. Couldn't find them himself. Well it wasn't quite that bad....

The phone rang again. Danny grabbed at it. "Yeah!"

"Thought it over?" said the same gravely voice. A smoker, Danny thought.

"Look, you have to believe me. Yeah, Troy came here. He asked me to hold something for him. But I didn't. You got to believe me. If I had it, I'd give it to you."

"Troy says he gave it to you."

"He's lying. Look, you turn Kristy loose and take me. She's got nothing to do with anything! She teaches second graders, for God's sake."

"Look you dumb shit, we need that package. You can't get it for us if you're locked up here, now can you? We keep your sister. You find that package. When you do, you leave open your garage door. Someone will be in contact."

There was a dial tone again. Garage door. Someone was watching the house. Danny thought furiously. He wished he'd told Troy no. He'd been wishing he had told him no. But now....

He dumped the dirty clothes out of his duffel bag, stuffed in some clean ones. He looked at the book that fell out of his bag, hesitated, and stuffed it back in.

He was going after Troy. He left the house as it was, left the car in the garage. Cutting out the back through the alley, he jogged down to the street behind his house. It was early evening, dark enough to give him some protection. He got out to the main thoroughfare, caught the local commuter to the city center. The Hilton had a bus to the airport, he caught it. Bought a ticket to D.C.

Washington, D.C. is too much for a country boy like me, Danny thought, as he took the bus into the city from Dulles Airport. Hustle and bustle. People moved too fast, going places he didn't understand. He'd been to Troy's place Christmas before last when Troy had just moved to Georgetown. The city was fine when you were with someone who knew his way around. He'd liked seeing the sights, and Georgetown had some pretty happening spots.

Trying to navigate on his own, however, stressed him out. He used the buses simply because he understood buses, could watch out the window, see if he was going right. He didn't know what to tell a taxi driver, and the Metro scared the hell out of him. The Iraqi desert wasn't this bad, he thought ruefully, but then he hadn't been alone there. He didn't do well alone.

He found Troy's apartment complex, watched it all afternoon. He saw Troy's parents -- recognized them from the pictures Troy carried -- come out once, and go back in. Shit, that didn't look good, he thought. What were they doing here? They lived in Chicago or someplace like that. The second time Troy's dad came out alone; Danny walked up to him.

"I'm Danny Brown, a friend of Troy's," he began.

Dr. Maxim nodded. "I remember Troy talking about you," he said. "Have you seen him? Heard from him?"

Danny shook his head. "Not since about a week ago. What's happened?"

"He's missing, oh God, we...." Dr. Maxim shook his head, blinked back tears. He started to walk away.

Danny touched his arm. "Please. Tell me what's going on."

Dr. Maxim turned back toward him. "He's disappeared. Twice I guess. His office -- he works for Senator Murray, you know -- says some FBI agents came and got him last Monday -- a week ago -- to ask some questions. He didn't show up for work Tuesday, called in sick, the phone log says." Dr. Maxim shook his head. "When he didn't show up for Thanksgiving, we were alarmed. Started calling. No one has seen him. When did you say you saw him?"

"The weekend before that," Danny said, figuring it out. "FBI? What would they want with him?"

Dr. Maxim shook his head. "We flew out here last Friday. Asking questions. Finally filed a missing persons report. Don't think they took it seriously until we showed him Troy's apartment. It had been completely trashed. And it's a secured building!"

Danny took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "No word? No messages? No nothing?"

Dr. Maxim shook his head. "He wouldn't have missed Thanksgiving without saying something! We thought maybe a girlfriend, but he'd have told us. And the apartment...."

Danny started walking away. Shit, he thought. Dr. Maxim called after him, "If you hear from him?"

Danny turned and nodded. "I'll let you know," he promised.

God damn it Troy, what the hell did you do? he thought. He found himself a bar, ordered a Bud, sat down to think it out. He needed to go back to Shreveport. He could get the package, somehow, and open that damn garage door. Trade it for Kristy. Let Troy... he trailed off there. Would they really let Kristy go? He thought about that for a bit. No, he decided. He didn't see how they -- whoever they were -- could let either of them go. Too risky. The FBI angle confused him. He thought about that. Didn't sound like going to the cops would help matters, he decided.

What now? He drank a second Bud while he thought about it. Go back to Shreveport. See if he'd missed anything at the house that would give him some clues. Hell, he hadn't looked at all, hardly. And then.... Danny sighed. He'd think about that when he needed to.

### CHAPTER 3

SEATTLE, WA (Wednesday, Nov. 28, 2012, 10 p.m.) -- Mac Davis lined up his shot, shifted his eyes toward the side pocket and tapped the five ball. It angled off the rack and into the pocket. He straightened up, a tall, well-built man in his late twenties, and stretched his back. He took a deep breath, smelling cigarette smoke and old beer. Betty Lavotte's "Let Me Down Easy" played in the background, her soulful voice echoing through the bar. Pretending to study the lay of the balls on the table, he let the crowd's interest build. More bets were placed. Good pool hustling was part theater, he thought. He leaned down for his next shot.

"Someone lookin' for you, Mac," the bartender said.

Mac didn't glance from the table. "How's she look?"

Johnnie Calhoun, owner, bartender, bouncer, snorted in appreciation. "It's a guy."

"For real? He'll wait," Mac said. The guys watching the game laughed. His opponent didn't. Money was riding on the game, and right now he was sweating. Mac smiled at him; he was likely to clean the table. His opponent didn't smile back.

Mac leaned down, lined up another shot and tapped it in.

"Maybe you want to take a look at this guy. Go see what he wants, get him out of here. He's causing some tension, you know?" Johnnie's voice had enough anxiety that Mac looked around.

The man wasn't hard to spot. He didn't belong. Johnnie's was a smoky run-down bar with a couple of pool tables and a nearly all black clientele. Mac was the only white man in the room, and people would have look closely to tell. Mac's features wouldn't be described as "black", but that was true of half the others in the bar. Mac's skin was darkened by a summer of sun. He was lighter than most in the bar, but not all. His hair, right now, was short, brown and tightly curled. Even when people looked close, many weren't sure if he was white or black. His gray eyes added to the confusion. Some guessed Hispanic. Hell, even Mac's mother wasn't sure.

Leaning at the bar just inside the door was a white man who clearly didn't belong. He was too old, late 40s probably, while the rest of the crowd was under 30. He was tall, fit enough, with brown eyes and brown hair. His skin had the permanent tan of an outdoorsman from some place like Texas. The brown hair was cut short, too short. Police? Military? The Rolex on his wrist was enough to draw attention, and flashes of gold jewelry were catching the eyes of more than one man. Mac figured he would be good for $10,000 if he was rolled, and that didn't count what was in his wallet. If he hung around here much longer someone was going to follow him out to the parking lot and find out if his wallet was as rich as his rings. Mac grunted and turned back to his game.

"Don't know him," he said.

Johnnie waited until Mac straightened up from his next shot. "He knows you. And if you don't get him out of here there's going to be trouble. I don't need the cops busting my joint, you know?"

Mac sighed. He looked at the table. He could see the shots he'd need to clear it. The uppity asshole coming in here bragging he was up here from L.A. and he'd be glad to give pool lessons to any of the brothers in little ol' Seattle. He needed the lesson Mac was teaching. Mr. L.A. was sweating now, knew he was done for.

Mac glanced again at the stranger. The bar was tensing up. It was a Wednesday night; a fair number of regulars were here. He didn't care about the jerk, but he liked Johnnie. Johnnie didn't need the grief.

Mac handed his stick to one of the guys who had money riding on his win. "Finish the game?" he said. "Don't fuck up."

He walked to the door. "Hear you're looking for me."

"Mackensie Davis?" The stranger had a slight accent. Mac couldn't place it. The man looked upper-class Texan, but the accent didn't fit, not quite. Maybe an East Coast overlay? What did Harvard-educated Texans sound like anyway?

"This isn't a place for strangers to come looking for me," Mac said.

"It's urgent. Your... aunt told me I could find you here."

Mac noticed the hesitancy on the word aunt. He doubted his aunt had told anyone where he was. Not without calling down here and telling him. His eyes narrowed. "So talk."

"Somewhere more private?"

Mac shrugged. "Nothing wrong with right here."

The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to Mac. "My daughter."

The girl was pretty. Seventeen or thereabouts, brown hair, brown eyes. A smile that lit up her face. Mac glanced at it; a ghost of familiarity tugged at him.

"So?"

"She's missing, ran away from her mom. Been gone a week. Someone thought they'd seen her, downtown." The man paused, swallowed hard. He gave the appearance of being distraught, but his eyes never left Mac. "Walking the streets."

"I don't know her," Mac said, not smiling. He looked at the picture again. She didn't look like a girl who'd run away and be turning tricks in a week. She looked like a runaway who'd end up dead in an alley -- too innocent to know how to survive.

"The police can't seem to do anything, told me to look you up."

Mac scowled. "Me? What cop told you that?"

"Justin Donnelly."

Donnelly was no friend of his. The bastard was setting him up for something. Mac just couldn't figure out what. The guy's story sucked. Seattle wasn't the kind of town where a runaway playing hooker was hard to find. If a pimp were operating somewhere, the cops would know him or could find him. This wasn't L.A. He looked at the girl's picture again.

The stranger was watching him intently. Mac didn't like it. Something, bad vibes maybe, said the man was looking for something besides his daughter.

"Look, step outside, let's talk," the stranger said, turning to the door. Mac hesitated. Johnnie caught his eye, gestured with his head toward two empty seats at the bar.

Damn, Mac thought. The guy was a dumbfuck to be coming in here. He started back toward his pool table, stopped when he saw Johnnie watching him. Johnnie didn't say anything, but his eyes....

"Keep my winnings for me, will you, Johnnie?" he said disgustedly. He followed after the stranger, slipping the picture into his shirt pocket.

Mac stepped out the door and stopped, puzzled. Where did he go? Warily he looked around, shaking his hands loose. Something bad here -- the hair on his neck crawled.

A shadow moved to his left, Mac whirled to face it. Something crashed into the base of his skull from the right. Played me for a sucker, he thought, as he went down.

He came to when fresh air hit him. Two men were dragging him from the trunk of a car. Mac stayed limp. Not a robbery; he didn't have anything on him worth stealing. Besides thieves didn't walk into a bar and ask for their marks by name. Had to be a hit. Been a long time since anyone wanted him dead.

"Lot of work to cart him down here. Could have just left him in the parking lot," one man grumbled.

"He said take him out and throw him in the Sound. Make it look like he fell or jumped or whatever. So we do what he says."

Neither voice sounded familiar. Neither sounded like the man in the bar. Mac focused on keeping his breathing shallow and slow, his body limp, his eyes half-closed. A dark Lincoln idled in front of him. A shadowy shape sat in the front passenger's seat. The man who had set him up? Or had the guy in the bar been a victim to these two thugs as well?

The men were breathing hard as they carted his dead weight. Older, big, a bit out of shape, Mac thought. But that had been a precision tap on the head. He had a thick skull or he'd still be out. He fought to stay limp, not wanting another tap. Staying limp was harder than it looked. His body wanted to fight; his mind said flight was the better option. Both his mind and his body wanted to tense up and move. Stay limp, he commanded himself. The odds were against him.

Even so, it was hard when they swung him over the edge of the dock of the ferry landing into the Sound. He had time to grab a deep breath before he hit the water hard, sinking down in the cold, dirty water. The cold sharpened his senses, cleared his head. He stayed below, swimming strongly with the current, intent on getting out of sight of the men overhead.

Holding your breath wasn't as hard as going hungry when you're six, and beating up the fat kid for his lunch money so you could eat. Holding your breath wasn't as hard as being on your own on the streets at twelve, running drugs for the gangs because that was how you survived. If he could out wait that sniper in Afghanistan, he could hold his breath a little bit longer.

The Sound was deep and dangerous if you got pulled out away from the docks. And dirty. He could feel the oil slicks coating his body and his hair. He didn't want to make a move too quick, but the filth in the water made his skin crawl.

A bit longer. A bit farther down the docks. If he could survive what he had survived, he could hold his breath long enough to survive now.

He surfaced, gasping for breath. The water was dark and merged with the dark sky. The sky was overcast, no moon. On the bank, city lights sparkled against the sky. Ahead was the ghostly outline of a pier. He couldn't see anyone. Sloppy, he thought. Should have made sure I was dead before I went in. Should have watched longer than a man could hold his breath. He watched the pier for a few more minutes, and then started swimming. The current was powerful, and he didn't try to swim against it, content to swim only hard enough to get out of sight and climb out.

Cold. Too cold. He started to swim harder. Hypothermia was a real possibility, no matter what time of the year. Shit, the water was cold.

It took a while for the sounds of the night to change, to include the crashing of water on the pilings. Mac kicked powerfully toward the sounds, reaching up and eventually pulling himself out of the water. He lay there, shivering, letting the water drain out of his clothes and shoes. His head ached; and there were other pains as well from the swim.

Someone had just tried to kill him, and he had no clue why. He pulled himself to his feet and started toward a phone. No wallet. No keys. No phone.

A small, all-night grocery ahead. An elderly Chinese man stood behind the counter.

"I need to make a phone call," Mac said.

"Pay phone outside," he said.

"Do I look like I've got some spare change in my pocket? I just need to make a local call."

"You leave, no trouble, you leave now," the store owner repeated.

Trouble he had already. In disgust he followed the old man's instructions to the pay phone outside. Should be grateful to find a working pay phone.

Strange. He'd been out of the game two years \-- since college. No drug deals gone bad, no rival gangs, no enemy soldiers, shit, there wasn't even any girls with jealous boyfriends that he could remember. No one should have a reason to order a hit on him.

He dialed collect.

"Shorty, it's me," Mac said.

"What's up," coughed out the voice on the other end of the phone.

"I need you to come downtown and pick me up."

"For real?" Shorty laughed. "It's getting late, and you know I have to teach in the morning."

"Listen jackass, grab your shit and meet me downtown in ten minutes," Mac barked at his long-time friend. He gave Shorty the address. "Better come strapped too."

"For real," Shorty said with a new sense of seriousness.

"For real," Mac said as he hung up the phone.

While he waited, he made a mental list of questions to pursue. The girl, she still seemed familiar. He touched his pocket. He still had her picture, that might be useful. How had they known where to find him anyway?

Donnelly. How did they know that asshole? Mac dialed another number. Collect, again.

"Jules, you know Donnelly?" Mac asked.

"The cop?" a wary female voice said.

"Yeah. Need you to watch his ass tonight."

"I don't know. I don't need to be hanging around a cop's place."

"J, someone tried to kill me tonight. Came using Donnelly's name."

She was silent. Mac waited. She had good reason to not want cops to notice her. Not like this.

"Yeah. Just watch, right?"

"Just watch," he agreed.

A black Lexus pulled up at the curb. "Got to go, Jules, wait for me there. I've got something to take care of first."

Mac was greeted on the passenger side of the Lexus by a thick plume of smoke. "Damn, Shorty," Mac said. "How can you smoke so much damn dope and teach the future of America?"

Shorty just shook his head. "You know, it ain't no thing. Damn, you didn't tell me you'd be all wet. You're going to ruin my leather seats."

"Shut up." Mac climbed in the car. "We need to get home. See if Lindy's okay."

Shorty looked at him, saw the seriousness on his face and headed the car back downtown and then up the hill to 33rd Street. "Your aunt? Why her?"

"They came looking for me at Johnnie's. She's the only one who would know where I was tonight."

Shorty slowed down as he approached the house Mac shared with his aunt. The house looked out over the Sound, and like a lot of Seattle houses, it had a garage at street level with the house above. In back, the house was at ground level. A lot of slope on the lot.

"See anything?" Shorty asked as he slowly went by the house.

Mac studied the street. Quiet. The red car had been there for a long time. None of the cars looked unfamiliar. He saw no one. No lights were on at the house. "Drive around the block," he said.

Shorty turned north, then back around. It was quiet. Too quiet? Mac hesitated. "I'll roll through the back," he decided.

Shorty parked in view of the back gate. "Think I'll come along," he said.

Mac opened the back gate slowly, stopping it short of the point where it always squeaked. He eased through. Shorty followed him silently, his gun in his right hand, hanging loosely at his side.

The back door opened into an enclosed porch and from there to the kitchen. Shorty went to the left; Mac to the right. They listened, no sounds. Shorty slipped into the living room. He looked around. "We're alone," he said softly.

"Lindy?" Mac said in a low voice. He listened, hearing nothing. "Lindy!" he called louder, with more urgency.

A sound came from the dining room. Both men flattened against the wall, listening intently. Mac slid along the kitchen wall, moving cautiously to the doorway to the dining room. The sound came again, a moan. He slipped around the corner into the dining room.

"Shit!" he whispered. His aunt was tied to a dining room chair, her face battered. She moaned again.

"Lindy," he said, kneeling beside her. Shorty flipped on the lights and went to look at the rest of the house.

Mac pulled a blindfold off his aunt's eyes. "Can you hear me?"

"Mac?" she asked with a sob. Tears ran down her cheeks. "Mac. They were looking for you. I'm sorry. I had to tell them where you were. They were hurting me."

"You did right," he said gently, untying her wrists. "Everything is going to be okay." He checked her arms and legs, looked at her face carefully. No permanent damage, he thought. Designed for maximum pain and shock to get her to talk. Someone knew what he was doing.

"It's okay, Lindy," he repeated. "Did you get a good look at them?"

She shook her head, then moaned. "No, grabbed me from behind. Blindfolded me. Hit me. Wanted to know where to find you. I told them I didn't know. You were a big boy, didn't tell me where you went. But they said guess. I knew you'd be at Johnnie's. Didn't want to tell them...."

"Hush," he soothed. "It's okay. I'm all right. I'm right here. I'm going to call an ambulance, get you to a doctor. Everything is going to be okay."

Lindy shook her head. "Why did they want you? Is it Toby?"

"I don't know," he said grimly. "I'll call him. But first, we got to get you to the hospital."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, as he stroked her hand.

Shorty came back. He shook his head. "Empty," he said.

"Stay with her," Mac said. "Let me call 911."

The phone was beeping with a message when he picked it up. He called for the ambulance and then checked the message.

It was Jules. "What the hell are you trying to do to me? I show up at Donnelly's and there's cops everywhere. Lights flashing, street taped off. What kind of shit is this? I'm out of here."

"Sorry, J," he muttered, wondering what he'd walked into. That sounded like a crime scene to him. First he'd get Lindy to a doctor. Then he'd go hunting. No one messed with his family. No one.

### CHAPTER 4

SEATTLE (Thursday, Nov. 29, 2012) — By the time Lindy was asleep in a hospital room, Mac was an hour away from his six a.m. shift. He thought about calling in sick, but took a shower, dressed in his khakis, button-down shirt, and headed down to the Seattle Examiner.

Two middle-aged women glanced covertly at him and decided to wait for the next elevator from the parking lot. As Mac rode up to the newsroom alone, he thought about offering to show them his tattoos. It happened about twice a week. He shrugged it off, refusing to admit how much it bugged him.

He checked the fax machine as he made his way to his desk. Nothing new there. He looked around the corner to his desk, where the night cop reporter was just finishing up. The desk had a scanner, although modern technology had rendered it almost useless, a cell phone, a telephone with the message light blinking, a computer with messages taped all over it, and papers piled haphazardly everywhere. It pissed him off that Seth couldn't tidy up the desk when he was done, but when he had said something Seth Conte had looked at him as if he didn't know what he was talking about. And surveying the newsroom, Mac guessed he might not see anything wrong with a desk piled high with paper. At least Seth had the sense to wash and store his coffee cup instead of letting it set out like half the reporters.

The city editor looked up, saw him, and gestured with her head. He obediently dumped his backpack at his desk and pulled up a chair next to her desk.

"What's up?"

Janet Andrews was a tall, broad-shouldered woman in her late 30s who didn't care if she looked her age or not. She had light brown hair streaked with gray that she wore in style she referred to as "barely combed", pulled back some days, down others. Today, it kind of looked like both, Mac decided, pulled back, but falling out of the rubber band. She raked her hand through her bangs which left them sticking up oddly. It was not a good sign. Mac read his boss's state of mind by the disarray of her hair. It didn't get this bad usually until deadline, and the day had barely started.

"Somebody tried to kill a cop last night," she said.

"Who?"

"Justin Donnelly. It's your story. Get going."

It still amazed Mac that he was indeed a cop reporter. Most of the guys at Johnnie's, for instance, had no clue and less interest in what Mac did for a living. If asked, Johnnie would have shrugged, and said "a little of this, a little of that." Mac's friends knew he did something down at the newspaper; he'd gone to college after all.

His closest friends knew he was a cop reporter for the Seattle Examiner, something that made them laugh. "Talk about having knowledge of your subject," Shorty said once. "Don't it feel weird?"

Mac had shrugged. "They didn't have a sports job open."

He'd been covering cops for two years now. Sports jobs had opened up, and he hadn't bothered to go talk to the editor about them. He liked the cop beat -- its adrenaline rushes, the street talk, the cynicism. He felt comfortable there.

He didn't much like cops, but every job had its drawbacks.

"Do we know anything?" he asked.

Janet shook her head. "Not much. Went down sometime last night. Conte picked up some stuff, we can run a short piece in the bulldog if we have to, but I want more than that. Especially by morning."

"Online breathing down our necks?"

"Some. But it isn't on the competition's site yet. Haven't heard it on television yet either."

Mac nodded. The newspaper axiom, get it right, get it first was more problematic now than when it had first been said -- whenever that was. "OK, I'm on it," he said.

Janet nodded, turned back to her computer. "Damn machines," she muttered. Mac got out, relieved that her harried air appeared to be related to something beside him.

He decided to go down to the police station rather than start the calls. You could pick up stuff better that way.

The PIO, public information officer, was brief. "We don't know much," he said, sliding a press release across his desk. "Detective Justin Donnelly was shot at home last night. He is in stable but critical condition at Swedish."

Mac glanced at the press release. If the occupational hazard of being a cop reporter was to start writing like a cop talked -- the reverse was worse: cops trying to write like they thought reporters wrote.

"He going to be okay?"

The PIO shrugged. "He's in a coma. Vitals are good. But the damn bullet actually pierced his skull. Had to go in and get it."

Mac winced. He had some gunshot scars, himself. One left a crease just above his ear. But thank God no one had to go digging around in his brain to get it out.

"Where did it happen?"

The PIO gestured to the press release. "For God's sake, Mac, it's all in there."

Mac rolled his eyes. "Come on, Pete, you say it happened at his residence. What the heck does that mean? He was outside picking up his newspaper? Someone broke in? Give some detail."

Pete sighed. "The detectives aren't saying much, even to me," he admitted. "It's pretty tight. The grapevine isn't even buzzing. All I know is that it happened about 8 p.m. last night. He was at his dining table. Someone shot him from his balcony, through the glass doors. I can't picture it -- Donnelly lived on the third floor. I guess someone could get up there. Anyway, Rodriguez is handling the investigation. You want more, go see him."

"Thanks Pete," Mac said, getting up and leaving. He sauntered through the halls of the station. He nodded to a cop he knew, who only frowned in return. A second cop scowled at him. Mac didn't show anything outwardly. He tested the waters with two other cops. No one was in a friendly mood, this morning, he thought. In general because an officer is down, or at me?

Rodriguez was at his desk. He looked up, saw Mac headed his direction and frowned. It was consistent, Mac thought, amused.

"Who the hell let you in here?" he demanded.

"Come on, Nick, I'm in here all the time." Mac plunged into his topic. "I'm sorry to hear about Donnelly. What can you tell me? We don't have this kind of thing in Seattle very often do we?"

"I thought you two didn't get along," Nick Rodriguez said, resting a hip on his desk.

"We don't. Don't mean I want to see the guy shot." Mac was indignant. "Was he working on any case?"

Rodriguez studied Mac for a moment, saying nothing. Mac met his eyes. What the fuck is going on, he thought. He didn't look away.

Rodriguez looked down at his desk, tapped his pencil for a moment. "The PIO has all we're releasing at this time," he said stiffly. "So get out and let me work."

"Sure."

Mac got back in his 4-Runner and drove out to the hospital, picked up their report on Donnelly's status. He checked the fire department for their run records. On the cell phone, he called the PIO back for a bio on Donnelly. The secretary said she'd fax it over to the newspaper.

Mac looked at his watch, 11 a.m. Time enough to grab a bite to eat and check out Donnelly's apartment complex. He stopped at Wan Luc's ordered his usual rice bowl with chicken. Used the chopsticks. "Almost as good as me," said the owner, as he took away Mac's bowl, just as he did every time Mac came in.

Donnelly's apartment complex was on First Hill. Mac drove by. Yellow police tape looped across the front yard. Uniformed officers were standing about. A couple were patiently picking up every stray bit under the balcony three stories up.

Mac found a place to park, walked back to the complex. Two other reporters were there, and one television station truck. He nodded to them. They all knew each other. Small town, really.

Mac showed his press pass to the officer on the sidewalk. "Anybody finding anything?"

The officer shook his head. "No, but I wouldn't tell you if we were," he said good-naturedly.

Mac laughed. "Great." He wandered down the sidewalk, looking up at the balcony. Another officer was on his hands and knees patiently going over the floor of it.

It was an older building, built on a slope like so many buildings in Seattle. The third floor was really only two, two and a half floors off the ground at Donnelly's balcony, Mac estimated. The beige stone building had mature evergreen trees around it -- large rhododendrons, other things, Mac didn't recognize by name. Large enough to support a man, however. A person could go up one at the corner, work his way from balcony to balcony.... Mac shook his head. Unlikely. Three balconies? Too easy for someone to see the person. More likely, flung up a climbing rope, went right up. Wouldn't take no time at all if you knew what you were doing.

"They figure out how the shooter got up there?" Mac asked the same officer. Bored officers talked eventually, Mac believed.

The officer shrugged. "Wouldn't be hard with a climbing rope. But we don't know. Left the site damn clean."

Mac nodded, took one more walk past the building, and then walked back up hill to his car.

Back in the newsroom, Mac picked up the fax of Donnelly's bio, flipped through his notes and started to write. Janet was gone for the day. An assistant editor called up his story on his screen and looked it over. He grunted. "Good enough."

Mac sighed, flipped off his machine, and got out before something else happened to stop him. His body ached. He felt like he'd inhaled some of that crap that floated loose in the Sound. Ought to be the punishment for anyone caught flipping shit into the water -- toss them in.

He went home to a silent house. He popped in a CD, turned it up loud. The message light was blinking; he listened to the messages.

A long one from Anna Marie, Lindy's lover, saying she was going to pick Lindy up at the hospital and Lindy would stay with her for a while. Mac liked Anne Marie fine if she'd just shut up. She dithered, about everything, and at length. He wondered how Lindy stood it.

And then from Jules: "You bastard. You had me sitting outside a cop's apartment while he's getting shot? Cops think you did it!"

Mac called Jules back. "What the hell do you mean, cops think I did it? Did what?"

"I don't want to talk to you here," she said.

"J, level with me. What are you talking about?"

She lowered her voice even more. "Just a bit of a rumor. But something. Something about a reporter. About bad blood. Your name."

Mac was silent, thinking rapidly. It didn't make sense. "PIO said it went down about eight," Mac said. "I was at Johnnie's."

"I don't know," Jules was careful not to use his name. "But I can't talk now. You haven't told anyone, have you? About me?"

"Of course, not!" he said, insulted. "It happened much earlier than when you were there anyway."

"You do get yourself into some messes don't you?" Jules said, amusement showing in her voice. "Call me when you're back to being Clark Kent will you?"

"So what am I now, Superman?" he said, teasing.

"Or his evil twin." Jules hung up. He grinned. It wasn't just her beauty that had attracted him once.

He hung up the phone slowly. Cops linking his name with a shot cop. He didn't like the sounds of that. Besides, Donnelly had gone down before he was hit. He wouldn't have had reason to go for Donnelly until after that. Sent those bozos his way. If he had. Used Donnelly's name, for whatever that was worth.

It worried him, the attack, the cold looks today, the snippets of rumor. Mac knew what Jules was talking about, just words caught here and there. Nothing much, but worrisome. He was glad Lindy was out of the way, safe. Hell if someone went for her at Anne Marie's she could talk them to death.

Thinking of Lindy reminded him of the next call he needed to make. He dialed the number.

"Yo," said the voice that answered.

"Toby, it's Mac."

"What's up, bro?"

"Someone beat up your mom last night and tried to kill me," Mac said bluntly. "You involved in something I should have known about?"

"You mean something someone would be after my family for? Hell, no. I'd have warned you if something was coming down," Toby said. "Don't make no sense for someone to go after you all without threatening me first. What would be the point?"

"No turf wars, no bad debt, bad product, bad customers?"

"Ah man, always those things. But no one's coming after me. And anyone who'd know about you all would know better to take you on anyway. Did they hurt mom? She okay?"

Lindy and Toby didn't speak to each other. Toby didn't like his mom being a lez, as he said, and Lindy referred to her son mockingly as the drug lord. They occasionally passed messages through Mac, who rolled his eyes at their distaste for each other's "alternative lifestyles."

"She'll be fine. They roughed her up, some. Looking for me."

"It don't have nothing to do with me, Mac. I swear to God, it doesn't."

Mac believed him. "Okay. How are your girls?"

"Beautiful, more beautiful every day," Toby said proudly. His wife and his daughters were the joys of his life.

"Give them my love," Mac said.

"Will do. You take care of my mom, you hear?" Toby said seriously, and then laughed. "I'd say take care of yourself too, but someone coming after you, they deserve what they get."

"Right," Mac said, not mentioning how close they'd come to killing him last night.

Mac stretched experimentally. He needed a workout, get the kinks out of the muscles after last night.

He locked up carefully. Tossing his gym bag in the passenger seat of his car, he drove to the YMCA. He was a regular there. Six nights a week. Weights. Run laps on the track. Tuesday and Thursday nights basketball. He held to a close routine. People left him alone. He'd catch someone eyeing him, but usually a dead stare shooed them away. He didn't do the chat bit. Focus was key.

He weighed ten pounds less than when he left the Marines. Not bad for nearly 30. He wanted to drop 2 percentage points of body fat over the next year. Not with gimmicks. Already he'd cut out processed sugars, added a bit more protein to his diet. Now he was experimenting with slower, fewer reps of a slightly higher weight, followed by two sets of lower reps. Shoulders, arms, one night. Legs the next. Abs every night. Sticking to the basics.

He watched others sometimes. They didn't work at it. They didn't sweat. And they were the same size, the same poor shape as they were when they came there. Hell, one woman who walked the treadmill three times a week must weigh 300 pounds. She'd been coming in for six months. Mac had the urge every now and then to walk by and crank up her pace, put in a few hills and make her sweat.

He ran laps for an hour. He still did a six-minute mile. He didn't speak to anyone. No one spoke to him. Tuesday and Thursdays was a bit different -- he'd been playing hoops with the same guys for a year. He was one of the old guys. Young guys, twenty or so, thought they could run over him. They soon found out they were wrong. He grinned at the thought, sweat dripping down his face. He liked it when some 20 something tried to jam it down the center only to be stopped by him. It wasn't height, these young guys had three, four inches on him, it was all about strength of will. Mac knew what it meant when he set himself in that center lane and committed himself to standing up to the faster kids. And he knew they'd fold.

The stress was gone when he went out to his car, drove home. His mind was thinking clearly again. And the thought that kept echoing was, I need to be carrying.

When he got home, Mac pulled a nine out of his closet. It didn't have a serial number on it. He cleaned it. Found bullets for it. He hesitated, then loaded the weapon and tucked it in the bottom of his backpack. He'd feel better having it on him. He could leave it in his rig, didn't want to set off the metal detectors at the Examiner or the PD. Be a bit hard to explain that. He grinned.

He turned on the television to ESPN. He fixed supper, chicken and broccoli ate it, washed the dishes.

"The picture of the girl," he said aloud. He retrieved it from the washer in the laundry room where he'd set it to dry. He took it in the living room with him, set it on the coffee table. Looked at it. Familiar, but not familiar. He couldn't put a name to her, couldn't fill out what the rest of her looked like.

It was frustrating. Mac flipped through the channels, stopping for a moment on MTV to listen to a music video. Had he seen her on television, maybe? Why that ghost of familiarity?

He glanced at the clock, flipped to King 5. He sneered as one reporter stumbled over place names. King 5 didn't have much on the attempted murder; he checked out the other stations. They had less.

Contented that he had indeed covered the story the best -- even if it wasn't going to be out until the morning -- Mac flipped back to ESPN. There was Gary Payton talking trash; periodically he glanced at the picture of the girl. Who was she?

### CHAPTER 5

SEATTLE (Friday, Nov. 30, 2012, 6 a.m.) -- Janet Andrews was waiting for him at the employee entrance when he got to work the next morning.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded. She gestured with her coffee cup. "Cops are looking for you."

"They often are," he said wryly.

"It's not a story, Mac," Janet said firmly. "They said it was personal. Something to do with Donnelly? They want you to come down to the cop shop for questioning. I'm supposed to call them when you show up. So what's going on?"

Another reporter came in to the building. Both fell silent until she left. "Come on," Janet said. "Let's go down the street. We can't talk here."

Mac trusted Janet Andrews, as much as he trusted anyone at the Examiner, so he walked out of the building with her and down the street to the coffeehouse she frequented. It was a dark hole in the wall, with jazz music and foreign newspapers left on the tables. More paper, Mac thought ruefully. The barrista knew them, brought over a large coffee with cream for Janet and a Mountain Dew for Mac.

"I don't know how you can drink that stuff at 6 a.m. in the morning," Janet grumbled as she always did.

"And I don't know how you can drink coffee at all," he responded. And smiled. It warmed his face.

"We've been friends nearly since the day you arrived, right?" Janet said.

Mac shrugged with agreement. An odd friendship, even for him, and he specialized in odd friends. She was ten years older, white, middle class, had a house in Magnolia. Single, some ex in the past somewhere, he thought, and a workaholic. Who would have thought she'd be able to understand him? You'd expect her to be one of those ladies who wouldn't ride the elevator with him.

"Since the day you, ah, intervened, after I accidentally kicked Ballota in the head," Mac agreed.

She laughed. "Accidentally kicked Ballota in the head," she mimicked.

His third day at work. A bunch of them were standing in the break room talking. Ernie Ballota was shadow boxing with him a bit.

"Knock it off," Mac said, trying to focus on what the young female reporter from Lifestyles was telling him. He turned away from Ernie to pay better attention to Adrianna, who was far cuter and more his type than Ernie Ballota would ever be.

When the next punch came, Mac only caught the motion of it out of the corner of his eye and reacted instinctively.

"You kicked me in the head," Ernie wailed from the floor. "And broke my glasses."

There was silence until Janet Andrews spoke from the doorway. She leaned against the doorjamb, took a sip of coffee. "Marines or Seals?" she asked.

"Marines," Mac mumbled, thinking shit, this may set a new record for the shortest held job he'd ever had.

She'd nodded, looked at Ernie. "Go see a doctor, Ernie, get your glasses fixed. Put in for workman's comp. Next time realize that not everyone thinks being attacked is just play. You're lucky he didn't kill you."

She had looked at Mac. His hair was almost shaved off -- he'd had dreads, but figured that might not go well on a new job -- and he was standing there, muscles bunched, fists clenched. "You either pulled your kick, or you've been out long enough to lose some of your reflexes," she said.

"Pulled it," Mac said. "Saw her there," he nodded toward another reporter standing silently behind Ernie. "Was afraid I'd hit her, too."

Janet nodded. She looked at the others in the room. "The reflexes stay around a long time."

The reporters looked at Mac, some with understanding, some with a bit a fear, but they nodded.

Mac reached down and helped Ernie up. Ernie hesitated, but he took the hand.

"So let's get some work done," Janet said firmly. Everyone else filed back to work, and she took him for a walk around the block to get rid of the excess adrenaline.

Sitting across the table from her now, Mac grinned at her. "Could have been the shortest job tenure ever held at the Examiner."

Janet shook her head. "Not a chance. Had a reporter once who left for lunch his first day and never came back. Said he'd had enough."

Mac shoved the newspapers around on the table. A headline caught his eye -- another metro newspaper -- the New Orleans Times Picayune -- was reducing to a three-day-a-week newspaper. He tapped the story. "You see this?"

Janet nodded. "Saw it on the wire yesterday."

The newspaper industry was in a state of flux. It was more complicated than the typical mantra of newspapers are dying. Small town newspapers were doing fine. Ethnic papers and other niche publications were booming. Websites were doing well. The problem was revenue from websites didn't fund the huge metro papers like the New Orleans Times Picayune . Or the Denver papers, or the Detroit paper. The Seattle P.I. had gone to online only five years ago or so. The Seattle Times was family owned and staying the course, but there had been layoffs.

"You hear anything about us?" Mac asked. The Examiner was locally owned and controlled, so it didn't have the huge corporate overhead that dragged chain newspapers under. But still, advertising was down. Fewer pages were being printed. Web was increasingly important.

Janet shook her head. "Nothing that drastic. At least not yet," she said. "Although we may see layoffs again soon." She leaned across the table and tapped his arm. Mac looked at her startled. She rarely touched him. "You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you?"

Mac told her what had happened Wednesday night.

"What do you have to do with Donnelly? Do the cops know about the attack on you?"

"No. And I don't have anything to do with Donnelly, although I was planning on beating some answers out of him. Those bastards came using his name." Mac shrugged. "Then I came to work, you said Donnelly had been shot. The rest you know."

She nodded, and reached for her cell phone. "Nick, it's Janet Andrews." She paused. "No, he hasn't started work yet. Why you all looking for him, anyway?"

She listened again. "Come on, Nick, give," she said, listened some more.

"You think Mac tried to kill him? How come? Don't give me that confidential crap. This is a reporter you're talking about. You arrest a reporter for the attempted murder of a cop, and you're going to have media from God knows where descending upon us."

She shifted the phone a bit, used to the larger phones a person could tuck between shoulder and neck. Mac cracked his knuckles and stretched his hands. "Okay. If he comes in, we'll come down together. I'll have the Examiner's attorney join us. Not necessary? Of course the Examiner will represent him. He's a reporter."

She listened a bit more, said good-bye and hung up. Looking at Mac thoughtfully for a moment, she tapped her fingers on the table. "You have witnesses to where you were for most of Wednesday night?"

"Yeah. Except for the hour or so that I was in a car trunk, tossed into the Sound, and crawling my way out," Mac said.

She snorted. "Donnelly had your juvenile files on the table when he was shot. They now have his blood on them."

"The cops think I killed him because he had my juvie records?" Mac asked incredulously.

"Yeah. You got anything in those records that would be worth blackmailing you?"

Mac laughed. "For what? I'm a reporter, remember? You know all too well what I get paid. Donnelly was just an asshole."

She laughed too. "Cops been reading too many thrillers," she said. "Maybe it was better when cops were functionally illiterate."

She sipped her coffee, keeping her eyes on him as if he'd disappear if she looked away. She sat the cup down, ran her hand through her hair. "Anything in those records you would rather I didn't know about?"

Mac hesitated. "I doubt there isn't anything you haven't guessed," he said slowly. "I was pretty wild."

She rolled her eyes, watched him carefully. Mac looked around the cafe. There were other serious coffee drinkers with cups in hand and newspapers to hide behind. One man was smoking, in spite of the signs, and no one said anything. Normalcy.

He'd never seen anything like it until he had fought in a war, three undeclared conflicts, and one relief action that still woke him with nightmares.

He looked at the woman across the table, wondering what she'd understand, how much to say. Or to say nothing. She was watching him patiently, letting him decide. He looked at her hands, noticed once again the scar on her left wrist. She had things in her past, too, he thought. Things she doesn't talk about.

"Mom was 15 when I was born. Not sure who my father is," Mac said. "By the time I was six, I was running wild. By the time I was 12, I was pretty much on my own."

"Where was this?"

Mac shrugged. "Chicago, San Antonio, East St. Louis."

"You got around," she observed. "Although not to the best of places."

He shrugged again. "My uncle -- Lindy's ex -- was living in Vallejo with his new wife. Toby, my cousin, is a year older than me, and his dad had custody of him. So I was shipped off to live with them.

"They tried. But both of us were wild. My uncle's black; Toby looks like him more than like his mom. So pretty soon, Toby's in deep with the Crips, and I'm on my way." Mac paused, thought about how much he owed Toby for insisting that Mac not get too involved. Too bad he hadn't taken his own advice.

"By the time I'm 15, Lindy's got her act together up here. She's bought a house, teaching at the university, and so both of us are shipped here." He shook his head and laughed ruefully. "Like turning wolves loose in new pastures. We ruled this place."

"And so you developed a juvie record," she said sardonically.

"Yeah. MIPs, mostly. Curfew violations. Carrying a weapon. I don't know what else they might have. Suspected gang affiliate probably written down somewhere."

Janet looked away, calculating something, and then laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"That'd be about '99, or so right?" He nodded. "Well so when cops were talking about the California gangs moving north -- taking over, recruiting -- that'd be you and Toby?"

Mac laughed too. "Us, and others like us. Lots of Californian families tried the same thing -- get the kids out of the gangs. Probably were some recruiters too. But yeah. Me and Toby."

A lot of things he'd done weren't in the police files, Mac knew. He'd been lucky enough -- at the time he'd thought it was about being good enough -- not to get caught.

"When I was 16 we got caught with a boosted car. I did detention, but Toby was 18 and he did time. It made me think," Mac said slowly, choosing carefully what he wanted to tell and setting aside the rest. "I could have gone to college; I had football scholarship offers all over the state. Track too. But that would have been just more of the same. So I walked into a Marine recruiter's office and signed up. A month after graduation I was in the Marines. Four years later, I was back, going to college with the help of Uncle Sam, and the rest you know."

"Minus the parts you have no intention of telling me," she observed. "Doesn't sound like something that could be used as blackmail against you."

"Shit, you wouldn't need the records to find it out," Mac said. "Some of the older cops remember me. They don't say anything, but they know. You could ask around. You could just ask me."

Janet nodded and finished her coffee in one long swallow. "Look, Mac. I don't know what's going on, but I'd suggest we do what I told Rodriguez we'd do: go down to headquarters, have Leatherstocking meet us there. You tell them what you know, and we clear this up."

"This probably isn't job related," he said. "I can handle it."

"Possibly," she conceded with a nod. "But it may be job related. Doesn't happen very often, but it's happened. You can get up and walk out of here, and I'll tell Rodriguez you never showed for work this morning. But then you're on your own. You play it my way, you've got a hot-shot attorney on your side, the power of the newspaper, and you got me," she added with a smile. "I'll free you up for three days to tell me if this is a story or not."

"If it is?"

"Then you follow it and write it."

"And if it isn't?"

She shrugged. "Then take a week's vacation and follow it up. You don't have to do this lone soldier mode."

Mac nodded slowly. "Okay, boss. Let's go talk to the cops."

Michael J. Leatherstocking was a tall, slim man in his 40s who was given to wearing impeccably tailored suits in a town where nobody much cared about such. He looked like the successful, rich attorney he was. And no one suggested that his client be questioned down in lock up. Instead, they were shown into a conference room. Two detectives sat at the table. Leatherstocking took a seat opposite them, and gestured to Mac to sit beside him. Janet took a chair on the other side of Mac. Two uniformed officers stood at the door.

"My client is willing to cooperate fully with this police investigation," Leatherstocking told the detectives. "However, the newspaper has some concerns about how this proceeds. Police should not be questioning a reporter of his knowledge of a crime."

"We should when we think he did it," growled Nick Rodriguez. He was standard cop issue, in his 40s, beefy but no gut yet.

"Oh, come on, Rodriguez," Mac said disgustedly. "You think I tried to kill Donnelly because he was going to tell what was in my juvenile records? I didn't know he had them, until Janet told me this morning. But even if. I wouldn't have killed him over it. Now, if he'd tried to blackmail me with them, and showed up the next day with a black eye and a broken nose, yeah, then sure, come looking for me. But kill him for it? What was he doing with those records anyway? They're supposed to be sealed."

"That is being investigated as well, Mr. Davis," the other detective said smoothly. He was a black man who had stayed in better shape than Nick Rodriguez had. "Right now, however, we are talking about your movements Wednesday night."

"Were there other files found at Donnelly's house?" Mac asked, his reporter instincts kicking in.

"That's enough! We'll ask the questions. Where were you Wednesday night?" Rodriguez said angrily.

Mac shrugged. "I played pool at Johnnie's until about ten, eleven. People will remember. Got out to my car, my keys were locked inside it. Called a friend to come get me, he took me home. When we got there, someone had broken in and beaten up my aunt. I called an ambulance and spent the rest of the night down at the hospital. Got my car this morning on my way to work."

"You file a police report on that break in?" the other detective asked.

"I don't know you," Mac said.

"This is Detective Stan Warren," Rodriguez said, a bit too hastily. "He's in charge of the investigation."

Mac nodded. "I assume the hospital filed something."

"And you have witnesses to the rest," Warren said.

Mac shrugged. "Yeah, except for the hour or so I spent trying to break into my own car."

"Donnelly never told you he had your juvenile files."

"Look, it wasn't that long ago. People down here know about that stuff," Mac said with exasperation. He looked over at the uniformed officers. "Joe, you tell him."

One of the older officers at the door nodded. "It's true, Lieutenant. I hauled him and his cousin home more times than I like to think about. Us older cops, we remember him. No big deal. Your aunt going to be okay, Mac?"

"She'll be fine," Mac said.

"Do you own a gun, Mr. Davis?" Warren asked.

"Sure. All licensed, and carefully stored."

"You own a Glock?"

Mac nodded warily, uncertain where this was going.

"We'd like to run tests on it."

"Not without a warrant," Leatherstocking interjected. "I don't see what grounds you'd have for it. Do you have any evidence that points to my client being in the vicinity of Donnelly's house Wednesday night?"

The detectives said nothing. Mac wondered suddenly if his guns were where they were supposed to be. Had the men who'd beaten Lindy had time to find his guns? Shit, he hadn't even thought to look. He was getting slow, life'd been too good. He'd gotten the nine out; didn't check the others. He wanted to kick something.

"So what you've got is an injured officer. A dirty cop who had files he wasn't supposed to have. And the best suspect you can come up with is a reporter who's got witnesses for his whereabouts? Gentlemen, you've got nothing," Leatherstocking said, standing up. "Do you have further questions?"

"The hell I've got nothing," Rodriguez said angrily. He stood up too, leaning on the table. "I've got a cop in IU with a bullet in his head! He's in a coma and the name he's muttering is Mac Davis. " His face turned red.

Mac said nothing. The thought that came to his mind was if he'd done it Donnelly would be dead, not in a coma. Didn't seem real astute to say so, however.

"Wasn't me," he said.

"Then why is Donnelly saying your name?" Rodriguez demanded.

"Guilty conscience?" Mac said flippantly.

"This isn't going anywhere, gentlemen," Leatherstocking said firmly. "My client has cooperated. If you want to ask more questions, call me and I'll arrange another interview."

Mac pulled out his notebook, wrote down Johnny's Bar, and Shorty's name and telephone number. "I assume you can find the ambulance and hospital records without my help," he said dryly.

Nick Rodriguez took the list, glanced at it and handed it to the uniformed cops. Joe looked at the names and shook his head. "Shorty that scrawny Filipino kid you used to run with?"

"Yeah, he's teaching high school math out in Bellevue these days," Mac said.

Joe shook his head again. "They'll check out, Nick. But we'll run them."

Leatherstocking headed to the door with Mac and Janet following behind him. Janet turned at the door. "Is there anything new in the investigation?" she asked. "You've scrambled my day to hell with all of this. And I'm not going to be able to use Mac on the story."

"We aren't in the habit of calling the newspaper with information," Stan Warren said stiffly.

Nick Rodriguez rolled his eyes. "The PIO will call, Janet. But, we don't have much more than we had yesterday -- except for Mac here, and I doubt if you'll be printing that."

Janet nodded and led the way out the door. Leatherstocking escorted the two of them out to the sidewalk. "It doesn't sound like they've got much, although I don't like the Glock bit. You sure it's where it is supposed to be?"

Mac shook his head. "Break in that night, remember? I didn't think to check them. They're in a locked box under my bed."

"Well, I'd do so now, and I'd have a witness when I did it," the lawyer said. "I think there was quite a bit that you didn't tell the cops. How much of what you said was true?"

"Most of it. I left out a few things."

"Can they pick holes in it?"

"If they try hard enough, I suppose," Mac admitted. "But the people they are going to be talking to aren't the kind to volunteer much." It would help if he could get a hold of Shorty to tell him to not complain about the wet seats to the cops. As if he would.

"Okay. Janet knows how to reach me if I'm needed again. But I think you're in the clear." He waved down a taxi and left them.

Janet glanced at her watch. "Hell, it's already 10 a.m. Here's a list of phone numbers for me. Stay in touch. Remember you're working for me on this story, so keep me up to date, you hear? And if you need something holler."

Mac nodded, put the business card in his pocket.

"Mac," she said, and he stopped and looked back. "The cops aren't stupid. Someone is bound to wonder why you of all people couldn't break into your own car."

His smile was lopsided. "I'm out of practice? Car locks are better these days?"

She ignored that. "If they find out about those thugs and that they used Donnelly's name when they came looking for you, the cops will have the motive they're looking for. You can't tell me you wouldn't have been headed after Donnelly if you hadn't had to take care of Lindy."

"Yeah, but the hit on Donnelly happened before the hit on me," Mac pointed out. He shook his head. "It doesn't make much sense."

"Take care of yourself," she said, and turned to walk away.

"I always have," Mac said.

### Chapter 6

SEATTLE (Friday, Nov. 30, 2012, noon) — Three weapons were kept in the locked box under his bed. Weapons he never intended to fire again, but kept anyway. The two weapons he'd smuggled out of the Marines were still in the box; the third, the Glock was gone. The pennies on the corners of the box were still there. Rocking back on his heels, Mac thought about what that meant. Whoever is behind all this knows me, he thought, chilled. Knows my habits. Not even Donnelly could have researched this. He thought about the Glock, its history. Should be clean. No way to link it to... anything; no prints of his on it. Still, he was being set up and the knowledge of it sat like a lump in the pit of his stomach.

Then he checked the rest of them: the 38 in the brace of the bed in his room. In the kitchen pantry was a 12 gauge, and another 9 mm was in a wicker basket under an end table in the living room. Readily available to a man who might need one in a hurry.

Lindy rolled her eyes and humored his paranoia, as she called it. He wondered if she was trying to reach the shotgun in the kitchen when the men caught her.

So. Somewhere in the city was his Glock, probably a weapon in an attempted cop killing. He winced. He hadn't asked Lindy what time she'd been tied up. Obviously she'd been in that chair for some time, if the men had time to beat her up, get his gun, shoot Donnelly and still be at Johnnie's by 10 p.m. He did a slow burn at the notion that she'd been injured that long without help. One more item on his list to get payback for.

The telephone rang while he sat there thinking. He let it go to the answering machine. Then Mac recognized Danny Brown's drawl. "Mac. I need you. Are you there? Pick up the phone. Mac, listen. I'm in trouble. Big time trouble. I...'

Mac picked up the phone. "Yo."

"Mac, I'm at the airport. I need you."

"SeaTac?"

"Please Mac, I'll explain when I see you. For old times sake?"

Mac grunted. He didn't do that nostalgia bit. But for curiosity's sake? "I'll be there in thirty," he said.

Mac sorted through the backpack he used for work: left the reporter's notebooks, recorder, laptop, backup battery, charger, pens, pencils, a small camera, a thumb drive, a USB cord. He took out the file folders on the two stories he was working on and tossed them on the desk in his room.

Then he added the tools of a former trade: extra 9 mm ammunition, a razor sharp box-cutter, and the 9mm gun with no serial number. Buried at the bottom, he could still reach them, but they weren't noticeable if someone looked in the pack. He tossed a workout towel over them.

Danny Brown, he thought. It'd had been years since he'd seen him although Danny routinely sent a Christmas card. About the only one Mac ever got.

"The girl in the picture," Mac said out loud.

He went downstairs and picked up the picture of the girl he'd been given last night. It looked a bit worse for the wear, but still had that haunting familiarity. He'd seen the picture before -- not the girl. Danny Brown's kid sister. What was her name? Kristy?

Kristy had been sixteen when Danny enlisted, and she had written her older brother faithfully. Danny would take out the picture and pass it around to the others in the fire squad as they'd sit out in the Afghanistan mountains and he'd read her latest letter. Sometimes they'd hear the same letter six, seven times before they'd get mail and Danny would have a new letter. For four guys barely out of their teens, she'd had all the value of a pinup girl and a reminder of home, mom and apple pie -- even for Mac who had never had home-made apple pie in his life.

She'd be 25, now? Something like that. So what were his thugs doing with her picture from ten years ago? Why would thugs bring a picture he might recognize? Why risk that? Any picture would do for their purposes. Wouldn't it? Mac frowned, mulling that over.

He was on his way to the door when someone knocked. He unzipped the backpack, putting his hand on the nine.

"Who is it?" he called across the room.

"Stan Warren."

Mac silently padded across the room, peered out a window. Warren had stepped back from the door to be easily visible. Mac opened the door.

"What do you want?"

"Can I come in?" Warren said patiently.

"Got a warrant?"

"I just want to talk, for God's sake."

Mac looked at him, still in a tailored white shirt, dark suit, dark shades in his pocket. He glanced out the street, noting the car he assumed Warren was driving. It hadn't been there a bit ago anyway. "Can I see some ID?" Mac asked politely, still not opening the door far enough for Warren to wedge himself in.

"We were introduced just this morning!" Warren said heatedly.

Mac waited.

Warren smiled faintly. He reached in and pulled out a blue folder with a gold shield. "Well? Now can I come in?"

"We can talk on the porch, FBI Agent Warren," Mac said. He let his gun fall back into the backpack. "Make it quick, I'm on my way out." Glancing quickly around the neighborhood, Mac stepped out on the porch and gestured toward two wicker chairs. He took the one where he could most easily dive for cover if someone started shooting from the street.

Almost absent-mindedly, Warren adjusted the other chair to give himself a similar advantage.

"So you're not who Rodriguez told Leatherstocking you were," Mac said conversationally, his eyes on the street, not the agent. "Brave man to lie to that attorney."

Warren shrugged. "Who gives a damn who some attorney thinks I am."

Mac glanced at him. "Most of the local cops know better than that. Shit, even if they are perfect, he wins most times. But you're not a local cop. Not even a local FBI agent."

Warren eyes narrowed. "Call the Seattle office. They'll ID me if you don't believe me."

"Oh, no doubt you're FBI. You're just not Seattle FBI. Hell, you don't even know how to park properly on a hill," Mac said disgustedly, motioning to the car on the street. "You'll be lucky not to be chasing that thing down the hill the way you're parked. No, I'd guess D.C. myself. You got an East Coast attitude. 'We're not in the habit of calling up the newspaper and volunteering information,'" Mac mimicked. "So just why is a D.C. agent doing investigating the attempted murder of a local cop?"

"You seem to know it all," Warren said. "You tell me."

Mac looked at him consideringly. "Not enough time to fly you out here for this. You had to be out here already on something. Something that crossed this investigation. And you had enough clout to invite yourself in. So what does bring you to the hills of Seattle, Agent Warren?"

Warren half-smiled in appreciation. "Not bad for a punk reporter," he said. "So let me tell you a few things. First, if you've got any notion of going Rambo on this, forget it. You're way in over your head, no matter what kind of bad ass you think you are."

"And exactly what am I supposedly over my head in?" Mac asked.

Warren ignored the question. "Second. You left things out in your story this morning. You've got a bump on your head as if someone slugged you with a blackjack. Your hands are scraped, and you're moving a bit stiff. Now I don't think you got that at Donnelly's; I don't figure you for that hit at all. But it's time you told what did happen. Then let the pros handle it."

Mac looked at him for a moment. "You think you're tough enough to handle whatever this is?"

Warren grimaced. "Me personally? To be honest, I'm not sure. But the institution of the FBI? We've got the resources to handle almost anything."

Mac snorted. "After Waco? Ruby Ridge? You got more faith in institutions than I do."

"I don't care what stories the cops tell about you when you were a kid. I don't care that you were a Marine. These men are professionals."

"Right."

Warren was silent for a moment and then said slowly, "Donnelly didn't have just your juvenile records. He had records from Vallejo, your military records, your college file. He had a clipping of every goddam story you've written. That man was collecting a profile on you."

Mac frowned. "For who? Not for Seattle P.D. Who else was he working for?" When Warren didn't answer, Mac thought about it. "Who else did he have files on?"

Warren didn't answer that either. "You'd best be thinking about all the stuff you've got to explain to Rodriguez \-- he's going through that file and taking notes."

He stood up, pulled a business card out of his pocket, and handed it to Mac. "When you realize you're in over your head, try to call me before you end up in the bed next to Donnelly," Warren suggested. He walked down the steps and over to his car. The agent paused, checked out the other cars on the street and how they were parked before getting in and driving off.

A careful man, Mac noted as he watched him leave before returning into the house. He attached his pager to his belt, and picked up the phone to dial the office.

"Hello," Janet Andrews said.

"It's Mac. You still got sources in D.C. from your bureau days there?"

"Some. The Examiner bureau has plenty. What's up?"

"You know that Stan Warren who sat in on our meeting this morning? Well, he's not a local cop. He's FBI. And more than that, he's a D.C. FBI agent. What does that say?"

"FBI. That explains a lot." Janet paused. "How did you find this out?"

"He paid me a visit," Mac said, tucking the phone under his chin. He zipped up the backpack. "I figure someone can check him out. Find out what he is working on."

"Yeah, someone should be able to find out. You at home?"

"Gotta go the airport. I'll be on my pager."

"Take a cell phone."

Mac rolled his eyes. "And broadcast everything to anyone?"

Janet snorted. "Anyone who'd bother to be listening. All right. I'll page you when I hear something."

Mac set his backpack between the seats of his 4-Runner, making sure he could get into it easily. He pulled out of the garage, drove down the hill, detouring around construction on the overpass and getting on Highway 99 through the west side of Seattle. He automatically avoided the congested I-5; they could just rent it out for parking as useful as it was as a freeway.

Danny Brown, he thought. It was typical Danny that when he got himself into a mess he'd come running for Mac to bail him out. Always had. And damn if he didn't keep bailing him out. Mac sighed and focused on his driving.

Mac drove quickly, confidently. He didn't speed, stayed with the flow of traffic. You could get noticed, speeding. In his drug-running days, he'd learned not to get noticed. His eyes stayed on the road; his mind was in a different time and place.

Danny Brown. Troy Maxim. John Blankenship. The four of them were a fire team in Marine Recon for two years. Did some stuff in Texas then were transferred to the Afghanistan. Saw each other through two years there, back stateside for a bit, then Blankenship applied for embassy duty and got it. The group was split up. But for two years, there were three men Mac could rely on absolutely. He bet his life on it more than once.

Good times, bad times. Mac shook himself out of the memories, got on 518 to the airport. He still heard screams in his nightmares sometimes, felt the heat, saw the waviness of the horizon as heat rose from the sand. Sometimes the screams were from the men who had died out there. Sometimes the screams were his and no one came.

### CHAPTER 7

SEATTLE (Friday, Nov. 30, 2012) — Stan Warren was sitting two blocks away when Mac drove by.

"Now where is he headed?" Warren wondered aloud. He didn't try to follow him. He had a new appreciation for Mac Davis' caution. Davis would spot him. Hard to track a paranoid, he thought. No cell phone. Answering machine with no outside pick up commands. Computer wasn't on except when he was using it; not linked to the Internet at all. Damn guy must physically unhook the wires when he didn't need to send an email or a fax, Warren thought with exasperation and reluctant admiration. He was still using his own vehicle, however; Warren wondered how long it would take him to ditch that rig for another.

Warren thought of Nick Rodriguez still reading Donnelly's profile of Davis and getting increasingly closer to a stroke item by item. Warren snorted. He didn't need to read the file; he knew what Mackensie Davis was the minute he saw him. He wondered what the profilers at Quantico would make of Davis. Sociopath? Paranoid? Killer?

Warren didn't give a damn about that either. He'd been working this investigation 24-seven for two weeks. Warren knew his subject was dirty, but proving it could be another story. And God knew the man was connected. Warren didn't know who he could trust, even within the FBI itself. When that kid from Senator Murray's office disappeared.... Hell, the last known people to see him were FBI agents. He just didn't know who.

So here he was, sitting on a goddamn street in Seattle, hoping a punk turned Marine turned reporter -- a reporter for God's sake -- could be aimed and fired at his target.

He shook his head. He'd tried reporting his concerns to his chief. It hadn't been particularly useful.

"What do you have really?" the chief had asked, somewhat reasonably. "An aide for a liberal senator asking questions. Not even making allegations, for God's sake. Howard Parker has an outstanding career -- military, CIA, DoD. You don't get that kind of jacket without having done some missions the public probably shouldn't know about."

"The aide's disappeared," Warren had argued.

"Probably took a long Thanksgiving break, Stan. Don't be a paranoid. You got lots of names to get vetted. Move on."

Warren had shut up.

He knew Parker was connected to practically everyone in town. Or, maybe the right way to put it is that almost everyone in town owed Parker for something, he thought now. And Parker wasn't the least bit shy about collecting. His jaw tightened at how far-reaching Parker was willing to go to pull in favors he felt he was due.

Warren thought about his own career. He was 47 years old. He'd had a very good career. Navy. Police. FBI training school. Moved up the ranks. A lot of commendations. A lot of respect. The respect mattered. Mattered a lot, when you're a poor kid from the hills of West Virginia. Mattered to him, mattered to his ma, mattered to his kids.

He'd gone home after his talk with the chief, and looked at himself in the mirror. "Won't look good with a beard," he told himself. "Best be able to look at myself in the mirror."

He'd assigned out the other background checks to his team. Assigned out Howard Parker as well, as a matter of fact. Then he came to Seattle. Got in town in time for the attack on Donnelly.

He picked up his cell phone, dialed a D.C. number. "You finished with that background check on Mac Davis?"

"Yeah. Who the hell is he?"

"Someone who wandered into my background check. I got curious," Warren said. "Give me the highlights."

The man did.

Warren got out of his car, walked up the street to the house Davis had just left and let himself inside. Davis was indeed an interesting young man, he thought. Let's see if he finds a bug or two.

He wandered through the house. Mac's aunt's house. It had a bohemian edge to it that didn't belong with what he knew of Mac Davis. A macrame plant hanger, for God's sake -- he hadn't seen one of those in decades. He smiled. There was interesting art on the walls, originals, not posters. But then Lindy Davis was an art professor. He doubted art professors hung posters of cute kittens on their walls. Probably get denied tenure.

He stopped in front of one painting, done in reds and blacks, and swirls. He liked it. Didn't particularly know why, but it said something about the world he lived in. He looked at the artist's signature. Lindy Davis. He frowned. What would an art professor know about his world?

He found the phone, installed a bug. He went upstairs, put another bug in the phone there. He checked out Mac's computer; it was turned off. And unplugged from the phone jack. He shook his head in bemusement.

He found the locked case under the bed, spotted the pennies. Took them off, set them aside in exactly the order he found them. Looked inside. No Glock. Two semiautomatics. But not the weapon the city cops were asking about. Did that mean it was the murder weapon? Or had Davis decided he should be carrying? Warren carefully closed the box, put the pennies back on the edge. The same pennies in the same spot. He didn't know if Davis was that paranoid. The pennies were sappy anyway, he thought. Somehow, he'd bet, that it was a ritual not a security device. He frowned, hoping he hadn't missed something more subtle. Shrugged. Couldn't be helped now.

He looked around the room. It was two rooms and a bath, really, one used for the office, the second a simple bedroom. The suite was clean, neat, with no frills. Very little personal impact here, Warren thought. A few photos. He looked at them. One of four Marines -- God, they looked young, he thought -- Davis, Maxim, Brown, and what was the name of the fourth? Blankenship, the one in Saudi. A picture of him and a young black man, Warren made a mental note to find out who that was. Another picture of three women in clothes that reminded him of the eighties. His aunt? His mother?

There were bookshelves. Quite a collection of books, and even more CDs. Warren glanced along the shelves. Journalism, history, military history, and Dean Koontz. He snorted. The CDs covered a spectrum of rap, hip-hop, jazz and R&B. He squinted at the titles and artists, recognizing enough to get a sense of the styles. Getting harder every year to see anything, he thought sourly.

He opened the closet doors. Clothes hung neatly on hangers all facing the same way. Shoes were square with each other. While Davis wasn't a clothes collector, he most certainly liked his athletic shoes. Warren counted ten pair at least.

He was careful not to touch. He could see boxes on the shelf above the closet rod, and wished he dared check them out. He didn't. He hated neat-freaks -- even though his own apartment was almost as tidy as this one -- because they noticed when something wasn't properly in its place.

Well, he'd done what he came to do, he thought as he went down the stairs with light footsteps. The phones were bugged. He had a better sense of the man who lived here, and the aunt he lived with.

He stopped again at the painting. Was it a flower, a deep red rose? He didn't think so. He let himself out of the house. On the sidewalk to his car, it came to him. The painting was about pain. He didn't know how he knew that, but he was sure. Damn, he thought with surprise. I didn't know an artist could do that.

### CHAPTER 8

SEATTLE (Friday, Nov. 30, 2012) — Danny was waiting for him by the express baggage check-in, just as Mac had told him to. Mac pulled next to the curb, leaned over and opened the passenger's side door.

"Get in," he said tersely.

Danny tossed a duffel bag into the back of the 4-Runner and climbed into the vehicle. "Man, am I glad to see you," he said. "It's been a long time."

"Be quiet until I get us out of here," Mac said. "See if anyone is following us." He pulled into traffic going through the airport and then started to circle through a second time.

"Hey, you missed the exit," Danny said.

Mac just glanced at him, and he subsided. Mac watched his mirrors. No one else seemed to be circling twice. He exited this time, took Highway 99 again, and exited into an abandoned warehouse parking lot with plenty of empty space on three sides and the highway overpass on the fourth. He felt better when he could see flat barren concrete in all directions. Nothing for anyone to use to sneak up on him.

Getting the 9 mm out of the backpack, Mac slid it under his jacket. He got out of the 4-runner, leaned against its hood.

"OK, now talk," Mac said, glancing around. He pulled out the picture of Danny's sister. "Start with why the guys who tried to kill me two nights ago had a picture of your sister."

Danny glanced at the picture. "It is Kristy," he said. "The picture I carried in the Marines."

"So what is a picture of Kristy doing in Seattle?" Mac repeated patiently.

"She was teaching school in Shreveport. We bought a house there together. I stay there when I'm in port. I'm working on the oilrigs in the Gulf, did you know that? Good money, work one week, one week off. And it's nice to have a place to come home to." Danny was rambling.

"So why would killers have a picture of her?" Mac repeated. Again.

"Because they have her," Danny said. He didn't look at Mac. "She doesn't have the shadows and ghosts you and I have. That's all that kept me sane over there, knowing that she was back home and she'd never know what it was like. Even now when the nightmares get me and I think what the fuck, there's Kristy. Now she's involved in a mess she didn't make, and I'm going to be responsible for the shadows and nightmares in her eyes."

Mac glared at him, and Danny fell silent. "Let me get this straight. You get yourself in over your head in some deal with killers. They kidnap your sister, and you come running to me? What kind of pussy are you?"

"Just listen, will you?" Danny shouted, then more quietly, "Just listen."

Mac nodded. "I'm listening."

Danny walked a few steps away, hands jammed into his jeans pockets. He stared at the overpass, his back to Mac. "Troy called me couple weeks ago. I keep in touch with most of the guys, even you some. Troy's family got him a fine gig in D.C. working for a senator from Illinois. He's been having tons of fun, and really likes being in the know. Likes being in the thick of things. "

Mac prompted, "So he called you."

"Yeah. He said he'd uncovered something of national importance, and he wasn't sure where it would lead. Could he count on me? And I said, sure Troy, if you can't count on your friends who can you count on?"

"And then?" Mac now knew who his aunt's lover reminded him of and why her dithering drove him crazy.

"He said good. It might not come to much but he'd be in touch." Danny turned and looked at Mac. "Didn't hear from him until about two weeks ago when he showed up on my doorstep. He looked scared. Serious. We talked awhile, and he gave me a sealed package to hold for him.

"'Hide it,' he said. 'Don't give it to anyone. Nobody. I don't know how deep this goes. If I don't come for it, toss it out to sea and pretend you never heard of me.'

"You took the package."

"Yeah. You wouldn't have, not without knowing what was in it, but Troy was scared, man. Nothing scares Troy. I took the package, and.... I hid it." Danny let out the breath he was holding. His eyes didn't meet Mac's.

"So three days ago, I come in from my shift on the oilrig, and the house is totally torn apart. Someone had gone through everything. They took lots of shit, including my footlocker with all my military stuff -- medals, a diary, letters, pictures -- including that one of Kristy. A message on the voice mail said they had Kristy and I was supposed to get the package Maxim brought me and... and give it to them. Then I'd get Kristy back."

Danny closed his eyes. "Sorry, this is rambling. I haven't had any sleep in days. Too scared to close my eyes."

"You always rambled, sleep or no sleep," Mac said sourly. "So you obviously didn't do what you were told."

"No. I couldn't give them Troy's package. Besides, what are the chances they'll let her go?" Danny shook her head. "So I went to D.C. to Troy's place. He's disappeared, his family is in shock, think he's dead somewhere. I don't know if he's dead, or just hiding. I didn't know what to do. Somebody jumped me in D.C. -- I suppose it could have been a mugger, but...." He trailed off.

"So then what?"

"I went back to Shreveport. Someone at the house waiting. I got in close enough to make sure it wasn't Troy. Was nobody I knew. So I came here."

Mac thought about the story, what Danny had said and what he hadn't. He'd never been a very good liar; the story had holes. Big, giant, holes. "You come here under your own name?"

"Of course," Danny said surprised. "They check ID at the airport, you know."

So he'd been tracked every step of the way. Mac didn't doubt Danny could hold his own in a fight. He'd fought in a few bar fights beside him. Oilrigs weren't for pussies. But Danny was still alive because the killers wanted the package more than they wanted to kill Danny.

Mac started to press harder on a few points, when a light flicker caught his eye.

He looked up. A car was parked along the highway above the warehouse. Someone was watching them. Binoculars, he thought. "Get in the car," Mac said. "Don't hurry, just turn casually as if you're done looking around and get in the car."

"What?" Danny looked at Mac's set face and did as he was told. Danny casually tapped Mac on the shoulder as if he'd told a good joke, and opened the truck door. Mac got in the driver's side, and locked it.

"What's wrong?" Danny asked.

"There's a dark blue Ford up on the highway. Watching us. Saw the glint of binoculars," Mac said tersely.

"What are you going to do?"

Mac's pager went off. He glanced at the number. Janet. His stomach growled. "We're going to mosey out of here, as if nothing is more important than getting some Kentucky Fried Chicken for supper. Then we're going to my place so you can sleep."

"Who's the page?"

"My boss," Mac answered briefly.

"You're really a reporter? Hard to believe." Danny shook his head. "Not what I would have pictured you doing."

Mac snorted. Most people who knew him from earlier days pictured him in jail somewhere.

"Tell me honestly, Danny. Do you have that package with you? In your duffel bag. On you? In this town somewhere?"

Danny shook his head. "I told you, Mac, I don't have the package. Truthfully, it's somewhere I can't get to right now. I swear to God, I'm telling you the truth."

"You never could lie worth a shit. I count at least three lies you've told so far. This had better be the truth."

"I haven't lied to you. I may not have told you everything, yet. But nothing I've said is a lie. I don't have the package with me." Danny met Mac's eyes and didn't flinch.

Mac nodded. He pulled onto the highway and looked in his mirror. The blue Ford was still sitting there. Bird watchers, maybe, he thought sarcastically. In a big Ford. Buy American. The government does. Right.

Just as he started to take an exit onto South First Avenue the blue Ford pulled in behind him. The driver rolled down his window and stuck a blue light on the roof. Mac hesitated, and then pulled over. It could be Warren, he thought. Or it could be trouble. Most likely trouble.

"Tell me for sure, now," he said to Danny. "You don't have the package with you, right?"

"I do not have the package with me," Danny said steadily. His face was white as he glanced at the car with the flashing light behind them.

Mac pulled over, raised his hands where they could be seen easily by the approaching men. Danny did the same.

"Get out of the car, please," one man said at Mac's window, while his partner stood back and to the side.

"What did I do, officer?" Mac said politely, not moving from the car.

"Get out of the car," the man repeated. His partner stiffened, his hand moving to the shoulder harness inside his jacket.

Mac kept his hands in view. "Can I see some identification?" he said. "You're in an unmarked car, not wearing uniforms. I apologize, but I was attacked recently, and so I'm a bit jumpy these days. ID?"

"We don't have to tell you anything," the second man growled. He was the older of the two, maybe 50, beefier, short-cut gray hair. Been in the military and proud of it, Mac guessed. Much like the men who'd dumped him in the Sound. Didn't sound quite the same, however.

The man at the car window, however, was more polished. Slimmer, better looking suit, haircut at a salon instead of by a barber. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a blue folder with a gold badge in it. FBI badge. "Now get out of the car," he ordered.

Mac looked at the badge. "I didn't know they had FBI agents doing traffic these days," he said dryly. He ignored Danny who was trying to catch his attention. Stay calm, dude, he thought at him. Just stay calm.

"We got a tip you were picking up a drug carrier at the airport. We want to search your vehicle," the second man said.

Mac laughed, but his eyes stayed cold. "You've got the wrong car, guys. I'm just going to get out my wallet, OK?" He reached carefully for his wallet, handed it over to the nearest FBI agent with his newspaper identification showing. "I'm a reporter for the Examiner. I'm just picking up a friend who's on vacation."

"Right. As if being a reporter makes you too respectable to deal drugs?" asked the one Mac had mentally dubbed Tough Cop.

"And FBI agents do DEA work?" Mac said back. "Look. If you want to search my car, let's all go down to the police station -- it's only a few blocks away. Or if you need someone to vouch for me, call Agent Stan Warren."

Smart Cop looked at Tough Cop out of the corner of his eyes. "How do you know Warren?" he asked, handing back Mac's wallet.

"Talked to him this morning." Mac didn't add what about.

Smart Cop nodded. "Well, I think we have the wrong vehicle, too. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Davis." He nodded again, and headed back to his car. Tough Cop hesitated, looked at Mac, as if he wanted to say more or shoot him or something. Mac said nothing to give him a reason, and the agent slowly followed his partner back to their car.

Mac rolled up his window, put the car into gear and back out onto the highway.

"They didn't want to go to the police station for some reason," Mac mused out loud. "Or like the name Stan Warren."

"Mac," Danny said slowly, once they were underway, "You know I said someone was waiting at my house in Shreveport?"

"Yeah," Mac said, taking the exit ramp. The more he thought about it, the more Kentucky Fried chicken sounded good. Why had those two wanted to toss his rig? The drugs bit was bogus. Something Danny was carrying? Or something they thought he had?

"It was that guy, the FBI agent."

"What?" Mac turned to look at Danny. "Which one?"

"The older guy. The one that stood back a ways. Why would the FBI be waiting for me in Shreveport? In my house?"

Mac glanced in his rearview mirror. "Shit, if I know. What the fuck has Troy stirred up?"

It wasn't until after the two of them had finished the fried chicken and Danny was sacked out in Mac's room, that Mac remembered he was supposed to call Janet. He dialed her at home.

"Bout time you called," she said when she picked up the phone.

"Sorry. Got stopped by some FBI agents. Thought I was a drug dealer," he said.

"Yeah, right. Look, I've been in meetings all day about this story. You've got a hold of something big, we think."

"Tell me."

Janet had called a friend who still worked at the Examiner's D.C. office. He'd made a couple of calls and then called her back. "Stan Warren is heading up the background group for the new cabinet nominations," she said.

"Which means?"

"Come on, Mac. He's the key FBIer to do records and background checks on all the people the president is planning to nominate for his incoming cabinet. You don't think he'd take time out to sit in on an attempted murder investigation for the fun of it, do you?"

Mac was silent. Janet went on. "My friend at the D.C. office went to his chief with the info as well as telling me. He's fairly slobbering at the chance to get at this story. The bureau chief calls the managing editor, the M.E. calls me and then we have a meeting to end all meetings."

"And?" Mac prompted.

"I argued, successfully, that it was your story. Yes, you're just a beginner, yes, this is a bigger story than a cop beat story, yes, you may be too involved in the story, yes, yes, yes. Still, it's your story." She paused and then continued, "That is, if you plan to be a reporter on this thing and not the Avenger." She waited to see if he would say anything. Mac didn't.

"Mac, I put my reputation on the line, and possibly my job," she continued slowly. "Most certainly your job is on the line. You got to decide now, what it's going to be? If you can be a reporter, then fine, it's your story to run with. If you can't, then tell me now. Jason will be glad to take the story off your hands, and I'll put you on leave to go off and play Avenger games."

Mac had considered Janet's earlier insistence to the cops that he was a reporter and this was a story as a fib to allow her to call in an attorney for him. This was personal. He was involved. He'd been attacked. His aunt had been attacked. People he knew were in danger. By all rights, he ought to tell Janet to give the story to someone else. He'd be free then to pursue this his way. No rules but one: Get the bastards before they get you.

If he stayed the reporter on the story, there were rules. Not many, but some. He had to come back with a story that could be printed. It had to have provable facts in it. He couldn't just bury the bodies and pretend he'd been in Hawaii the whole time. His name would be attached to this.

But he couldn't say give the story away. To his own surprise, he wanted the story. He could almost taste it. Something was up involving nominations of people for some of the highest positions in the country. Shit, yes, he wanted the story -- what reporter wouldn't?

"I want the story," he said finally, shaking his head at himself.

"No playing Avenger?"

"No playing Avenger," he said, adding to himself, for now.

Janet heard the unspoken part, apparently. "If that changes, Mac, you gotta tell me, you hear? I'll put another reporter on it, no questions asked. This is too big a story to taint because you're off playing macho Marine."

"I hear. So tell me more what you found out?" Mac asked. It wasn't the macho Marine side of him she should be worried about, he thought.

"Just some conjecture. Stan Warren has an impeccable reputation. He's supposedly one of the good guys. Near as anyone knows, he can't be bought or silenced. I suppose he can be killed, but no one's proved it yet. I gather a few have tried. Decorated war veteran, commendations for service in the Bureau, yadda, de yadda. He's 47, divorced, has two kids, with whom he was a good relationship. Bring him back by again, will you?"

Mac snorted. "Just what you need, a long-distance relationship with a FBIer."

"Yeah, well. Anyway, he's one tough dude, and straight as they come. That's something everyone agreed on, Jason says."

"Jason is your friend in the D.C. bureau?"

"Yeah, Jason Whitcomb. I have all kinds of telephone numbers from him for you. He says if he can be of any help, just give him a call, day or night."

"I bet."

"Seriously, Mac, Jason's a good reporter. And he will help you. You may need him at that end."

"Give me the numbers," he said. He wrote them down on a scratch pad and tucked the sheet in his wallet next to Warren' card. "Do we know who he is personally investigating? I gather he has a team of folks to do this."

"Yeah, it's a big job. No, we don't know who's on his list. I gather the FBI doesn't know either. He's been somewhat hard to get a hold of these days. Jason's source said there's some consternation about it at the Bureau."

Mac fiddled with the pen in his hand. "I need a list of all the possible positions Warren could be investigating," he said finally. "And who's rumored for those positions. Start with those positions that traditionally require military background, DOD, FBI, CIA, NSA, Department of Homeland Security. Jason might be able to help there."

"Okay. Why those?"

"That seems to be the connection with me," he said. "I got a call from an old Marine buddy. His house was ransacked."

"Got it. Set your FAX to receive in the morning. I'm working the early shift again. I'll send the list on."

Mac woke Danny up. "You up to going out?"

"You mean like to a bar?" Danny said, sleepily. "What time is it?"

"About ten. There's someone I need to talk to."

"And you can't just call them on the telephone?" Danny got up and headed toward the shower. "Give me a few minutes."

Mac could hear the music down the block from Bohemian as he and Danny walked toward the bar.

"Rap," Danny said.

Mac nodded. He DJ'd here some nights when things were slow, mixing songs, making people dance. It was a form of music all its own, he thought. This was a Friday night crowd; the place was packed.

"Mac," the guy at the door said, waving him on in. Danny followed along. Mac shouldered his way through the crowd, nodding to some, a few low fives.

"What's happening," one guy shouted at him.

"You seen Jules?" he shouted back.

The guy gestured his head toward the back. "She's sitting with friends near the dance floor."

Mac turned toward Danny, but he'd already disappeared into the throng of people. Mac saw him chatting with a girl. He smiled.

Mac bought a pitcher of beer, grabbed a couple of glasses and headed in the direction of the dance floor. He stood off a bit, watching Jules at the table. She was beautiful, he thought. Tall, slim, long straight black hair, blue eyes. The combination had enthralled him once. They'd known each other it seemed forever. Back when they were teens running the streets. After the Marines, he'd looked her up. They'd dated for a while. She'd broken it off, finally. He had been relieved, he thought now.

She looked up, saw him. He saw the hesitation on her face. He held up the pitcher, gestured to a spot along the bar. She smiled, got up and came over. He watched her come toward him, watching her body move to the music.

"Didn't expect to see you here tonight," she said. Mac poured her a beer. He didn't touch the one he poured for himself.

"Friend from out of town came in. Thought we'd come down and listen to some music for a bit."

"Friend?" Jules looked around. Mac pointed out Danny. "Not bad. Not bad at all. You going to introduce me?"

"He lives in Louisiana," Mac said mildly.

She shook her head. "That's what I don't need \-- a long distance romance. Already had one of those with you."

"I was right here," Mac objected.

She patted his knee. "Physically," she conceded. "But emotionally? You were some place else."

Mac didn't say anything. Old news, this conversation.

"Cops questioned me this morning," he said.

Jules pulled back a bit. "So I hear."

Mac grabbed her hand; she didn't resist. "What else do you hear?"

She hesitated, looked back at the table of her friends. Courthouse friends, Mac knew. He could name some of them.

"Donnelly is still in a coma, but he was mumbling your name earlier," she said at last.

"Rodriguez said something like that," Mac said with a nod. "What else?"

She rubbed his knee while she thought. "You know he had a file on you? Had your juvie records and everything?" At Mac's nod she went on, "Rumor has it he had more than one file and the other one is on Howard Parker. They are about to shit bricks over there -- a bad cop collecting data on him for God's sake. Can you imagine?"

"I don't suppose anyone thinks that's motive for Parker to kill him," Mac said bitterly. "I'd like to see that file."

"Dance with me?" Jules asked wistfully. He smiled and pulled her out to the dance floor.

"Any time, babe, any time."

### CHAPTER 9

SEATTLE (Saturday, Dec. 1, 2012, early morning) — Mac woke up to the sound of the fax machine spitting out pages. He was instantly awake, no drowsy awakening. He identified the sound as the fax, relaxed for a moment. Janet's list of nominees. He looked at the clock: 7:30 a.m. He got up, padded into the shower.

First on his agenda was an old Marine buddy who needed to do some more talking. He dressed in baggy jeans, T-shirt. He laced up his New Balance, shrugged the jeans down over them.

Quietly he went down the hall to guest bedroom where Danny slept. Danny was snoring. Mac unzipped Danny's duffel bag, carefully rummaging through the bag: jeans, shaving kit, and a book. Mac pulled it out. Danny hadn't been much of a reader; Mac didn't suppose that changed much.

The book turned out to be a diary. Mac opened it, thumbing through the pages. Nothing marked, nothing stored in there. Why was a man on the run carrying a diary, for Christ's sake? Mac's own name jumped out of him. He began reading.

"Me and Mac and Troy got chewed out this morning for fucking up that bar last night," Danny had written in a barely legible scrawl. "Mac has a black eye. My arm is in a sling. Troy is limping. Troy made all the apologies. Mac would have gotten us into more trouble mouthin' off, but Troy made him agree to keep quiet. The owner says we did several thousand dollars worth of damages and we'll damn well pay for it. The guy Mac threw through the window is in the hospital. Still, it was a damn good fight."

Mac snorted. He remembered that fight. He was pretty sure the black eye had come from Danny's own elbow.

"Hey, give me that," Danny said, sitting up quickly. "You're going through my stuff!"

"Yup."

"How come?"

"Because you're not telling me everything," Mac said, holding up the diary as evidence. "Why lug this around?"

"It's a diary I kept when we were stationed in Texas."

"I see that."

"Troy asked me if I still had them. When I said I did, he asked me to read through that one and see if it made me remember anything unusual. I took it out to the oil platform to read last shift." Danny shrugged. "I don't know what he expected me to find."

"Didn't know you kept a diary."

Danny shrugged again. "It seemed like something to do. A teacher I had, he said he'd kept one in Nam and that he was glad he had. I'm not much of a writer. Didn't want you to know about it. You'd have flipped me shit every chance you got. Troy knew."

Mac grunted. The diary was like one a high school girl might keep with a lock and key. He would have been unmerciful back then if he'd known.

"So did you read it?" Mac asked, still idly thumbing through it.

"Yeah. Lot's of bar fights. Lot's of fantasy about girls," Danny said ruefully. "I don't see much that would be important."

Danny reached for the diary. Mac held it away from him. "Aren't you going to give it to me?"

"Shit no. I'm going to read it," Mac said without pleasure. He didn't need to be reminded what a bunch of punk kids they'd been.

The diary was just what Danny had said it was: a list of bar fights, fantasies about women, and bitching about the boredom of being stationed in Texas. The diary covered the six months before the four of them had been shipped to the Gulf.

"Find anything?" Danny said, rising up on one elbow from his position on the bed. He'd been dozing on and off for the last hour while Mac read.

"No. You had a shitty imagination about sex. Other than that...." Mac shrugged. He tossed the diary back at Danny. "Get dressed, will you? Janet faxed over some information I want you to take a look at."

"And breakfast?" Danny asked hopefully, flinging back the covers.

Mac nodded. He ducked into his room, grabbed Janet's list, and went on down to the kitchen. When Danny came down a few minutes later, Mac was absorbed into the list of names; Danny quietly found the eggs and bread and cooked breakfast. Mac didn't look up until Danny put a plate of food in front of him.

"Thanks." Mac went through the list again; he recognized many of them. Faces on television, names in the paper. One name stopped him.

"Danny, does the name Howard Parker mean anything to you?" Mac started paging through the end of the diary he'd just read.

"Yeah," Danny said, swallowing first. "He's that asshole who led that fucked up joint DEA mission, remember? We damn near bought it on that one, on a no-brainer."

Mac found the passage he'd just read and read it again.

"Anybody else on this list you recognize?" Mac said. He handed over the pages.

Danny looked through them. "Well, I think this dude, Francis McGregor, wasn't he one of the higher ups at the base when we were there?"

Mac nodded. "Yeah. Sounds right. And I think Norman Bishop was in Desert Storm."

Mac picked up the phone, called Janet. "Can you get me bios on Norman Bishop, Francis McGregor and Howard Parker?"

"Sure. I'll fax them over. What about Parker?"

"I knew him when I was in the Marines."

"Really? He's from this area, you know. Old family. He or his family own more of Snohomish County than I like to think about. Made big money when development moved out that way. His cousin has been a state senator for that district for a decade or more. Howard Parker made a military career -- Marines I think. It's a pretty spectacular bunch. We did a feature on them not too many years ago. I'll have someone dig it out for you."

"He live out in Snohomish?"

"Hell, no. He's got big digs out on Lake Washington, with alarmed gates and security guards. He's still military some way, I think. Director of Homeland Security would be a big deal for Seattle."

"Any local ties to Francis McGregor?"

"Not that I know of. But we'll check it for you." Janet paused. "Mac, you think Warren is out here about Parker?"

Mac shrugged. "I assume you've looked over the list. Any other locals?"

"A few. Puget Sound is home to a lot of military. A lot of military like to retire here. Scoop Jackson saw to that. So others may have come through here at some point in their careers."

Scoop Jackson had been Washington's U.S. Senator for a couple of decades. Thanks to him, military dollars had flowed to the Puget Sound and to Boeing and other industries. Mac looked at the list. "Let's check for that, to be sure," he said slowly. "It makes sense that if Warren is here, then there's some connection to the region." He kept looking at the name Howard Parker. Thought about Donnelly's research. It felt right. "But I want Parker's bio as fast as possible."

"OK. He's got a reputation for being a cold-hearted son of a bitch, but killing a cop doesn't seem his style."

"If he's got money, he'd hire it done." Or call on his connections in and out of the military. Mac was beginning to place him better. Parker had always been connected. A manipulative, cold-hearted son of a bitch, as Janet had called him.

Mac glanced at Danny who was gesturing to him. "Got to go. Get me that bio." He hung up. Looked at Danny. Danny motioned to the floor.

Mac tensed, listening. He heard the soft sounds of creaking floorboards that Danny had heard. Someone was out there; that board was just inside the front door. Shit. They'd stayed here too long. Silently, he picked up his backpack, added Danny's diary and the faxed pages.

"Think I'll take a shower," Mac said casually. "You should get some more sleep."

"Don't use all the hot water," Danny said, moving just as silently, tying his shoes, shrugging into his jacket.

Mac turned on the kitchen sink. "What do you hear from Blankenship?" he asked over the sounds of running water. Normal sounds. Reassuring sounds to those just feet away, he hoped.

"He likes the embassy, but says women in veils are hard to date," Danny said, following Mac to the back door.

Mac hoped it still opened silently as it had when he'd been a teenager sneaking out of the house. He looked out the window. He didn't see anyone up close to the back of the house, probably watching from the street. Didn't want some neighbor calling the cops about someone sneaking through the back yard. Walk up the front door, that was okay, but neighbors didn't like men going in back gates. Well, watchers on the street could be avoided.

Mac took a deep breath and shoved the door open in one smooth move. He went out the door, dodging quickly to the left. Danny followed him. Staying close to the house, he moved around the side to a hole in the hedge to the Sanfords' house, down along the side of that house to the side street a block away from his own home.

Mac grinned at Danny, motioned for him to wait. He picked up a rock and threw it through the basement window of Sanfords' house. The burglary alarm went off. He expected the men in his house were having second thoughts about staying much longer.

"Now saunter as if you own the world," Mac said, heading out to the street. He turned right, heading down hill, cut through an alley to the all night grocery on the intersection of Olive and 38th. He went inside. "Hi, Harry," he said.

"Mountain Dew?" Harry asked, reaching into the cooler.

"And a Dr Pepper," Danny added. He picked up a package of cigarettes and tossed them on the counter too.

"Burglary alarm going off at Sanfords," Mac offered.

"Damn alarms," Harry grunted. "If it ain't some dog setting off the house alarm, it's kids setting off car alarms. Does anyone do anything? Hell no. Nobody comes. Nobody cares."

"I hear ya, Harry." Mac plunked a $5 on the counter waved off the change. "Can I use your phone?"

Harry motioned to behind the counter.

Mac punched in Shorty's cell phone number.

"Yeah."

"I need a ride."

"Who do you think I am, Tonto? Or his horse? What was his name?"

"Shorty, don't give me any crap, okay?" Mac hissed through clenched teeth, turning away so Harry couldn't hear. "Someone just broke into my place. They've got to have my car staked out. I need you."

"For God's sake, Mac, I'm a school teacher. I drive a Lexus. Smoke a little pot, okay, but I live in Bellevue. The 'burbs man. You've got me running the streets again? Where am I supposed to find you?"

"Where are you now?"

"I am doing my laundry at the apartment complex," Shorty said. "Like normal people do on a Saturday morning."

"Meet me at the Examiner," Mac said, thinking rapidly. "I'll leave word with the parking attendant to let you in. There will be someone waiting for you -- an old Marine buddy of mine named Danny. If he doesn't sound fresh out of Louisiana, it's not him."

"Gotcha."

"Thanks, Harry," Mac said, turning around.

"Anytime, kid. Say hello to your Aunt for me."

It required two bus transfers for them to get to the Examiner, but Mac wasn't in any hurry. He and Danny sat silently. Mac didn't try to think about the meaning of things, he concentrated on staying in the moment, of being aware of what was going on around him. The dude with the loud voice, the chatty schoolgirls, the man in a business suit, Mac watched them all. He watched the driver, saw him chat with an old lady while she fumbled for her coins. He watched the street, the stops, the people waiting for the bus. Mac got off two stops before his transfer point with Danny padding along behind him. He glanced around casually to see who else got off. No one. Of course, it wouldn't take a genius to figure he'd head for the newspaper and meet him there, Mac realized. One step at a time.

The second bus was already packed, and both of them stood, holding on to the bar, as the bus lurched down the hill to the waterfront. Overly full buses was one of Mac's least favorite places. "Not as bad as a Afghani bus," Danny murmured softly.

Mac snorted. "Nothing is as bad as a Afghani bus." But he felt the muscles in the back of his neck unclench a bit at the memory of the crowded, raucous buses of third world countries. "No chickens," he added.

"I sat next to a woman holding a pig, once," Danny said reflectively. "They don't smell as bad as you'd think."

The bus spilled them all out at the ferry terminal. Mac followed the crowd out the door and then north along Alaskan Way. Shoppers and tourists. Street bums in army fatigues, panhandling. Kids on skateboards, roller blades and bicycles.

Too many people. Too much jostling, shouting, talking. Horns blared. Cars weren't moving. Pedestrians waited at the crosswalks and then swarmed across the street. Mac drifted among them. Not hurrying. Working at not being noticed. Fat lot of good it did, he thought sourly, seeing a lady lock her car door as he crossed the street in front of her. What does she think? I'm going to carjack her in a traffic jam? He circled around the Examiner building, an old brick building in Belltown and went into the parking structure attached to the building.

"What's up, Mac," the attendant cackled as he always did. He was a small man with bad skin who'd not had many brain cells before he drank them away. Mac made a habit of chatting with him when he was on duty. "You're not supposed to be on foot when you come here."

"My ride will be along," Mac said easily. "You let him in? He can park in my spot."

"Your spot?" the attendant laughed again. "Got your name on that place you park in, do you?"

"Nobody else parks in it," Mac said, laughing along with him. "So when this Filipino dude in a Lexus shows up, introduce him to Danny here and have him back into that spot. I'll be down in a bit."

"Sure thing, Mac. What's it going to hurt? Want me to buzz you upstairs when he shows?"

"That'd be great. His name is Shorty."

"I can do that," the attendant nodded. "Shorty. Danny. So what's going on?"

"Danny's an old buddy from out of town, we're going to show him the sights," Mac said. "Shorty's got a Lexus to drive. Think we'd take my rig?"

The attendant laughed again. "Gotcha."

Mac nodded at Danny who settled in on the cement step at the attendant's cage. Mac went in through the entrance to advertising, smiled at one of the girls who worked in classifieds and went up the back stairs to the newsroom.

People nodded at him, mostly intent on what they were doing. Mac nodded back, picked up a Mountain Dew in the break room, and sat down at an empty desk near his own. He pulled out the diary, checked the dates and names, and went on the Internet for telephone numbers of the DEA in southwest Texas. He jotted them in his notebook.

Janet dropped a bunch of paper on his desk. "Your fax is off," she said. "What are you doing here anyway? It's your day off."

Mac took the pages, looked through it. Parker's bio. He nodded his thanks. Janet stopped at another reporter's desk to talk about a story on her way back to her desk. He read the profile the newspaper had run on Parker and his family a few years back. A powerful man with a powerful background.

He logged into the assessors database online. Pulled up a list of all of Parker's properties, printed it out.

Mac's phone rang. "Davis," he said.

"Mac, it's C.J. Kellerman," said a familiar voice. Still, it took a moment for Mac to place the name.

"Kellerman," he said. "I didn't expect to hear from you."

"We need to meet, Shadow," the man said, using a nickname Mac hadn't heard in a long time.

Mac was silent for a moment. "How about we meet on the pier your boys threw me off of the other night," he said at last.

"Weren't my boys, Shadow. If they had been, they wouldn't have fucked it up. But yes, that pier will be fine. Say, thirty minutes?"

"Better make it an hour," Mac said, glancing at his watch. "I need to put in some time in the office, or they may decide I don't work here anymore."

"Sure, Shadow," Kellerman said easily. "In an hour at the pier."

Mac hung up the phone slowly. I respected that guy, he thought. More than anybody, I admired him. What's he doing in this mess?

Mac picked up his phone, buzzed Janet through the intercom. "Find us a private office," he said tersely. "I need to fill you in." He started typing up notes into his computer.

"Right." Janet hung up, called him back in a few minutes. "Conference room A. 15 minutes?"

"Right." Mac said, barely pausing in his typing. He buried the file in a private directory he'd set up the second week he'd been on staff, and made a printout. He picked it up from the printer and walked into the conference room with Janet behind him. She closed the door.

"So give," she said. "What's up?"

There was a knock on the door; the assistant projects editor, usually referred to behind his back as Precious Kevin, stuck his head inside. "Thought I might join this conversation, get filled in," he said.

"No," Mac said flatly. Janet looked at the table in front of her.

"Why not?" he said belligerently. "The story belongs in our unit."

Precious Kevin was a few years younger than Mac. He was small, soft, and always put together just so. Preppy. Mac couldn't stand him, hadn't liked him from the day he started, a kid with no experience, but a master's degree from Northwestern. Connections, the office gossip concluded. It sure wasn't brains.

Mac looked at him. "Beat it, Kevin."

The editor hesitated, met Mac's eyes and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

"That for me?" Janet asked as if nothing had happened. Mac slid her the notes.

"Here's what I know," Mac said. "I know Howard Parker is up for a nomination he wants very badly. Eight years ago, I was a Marine on loan to the DEA for patrol in the southwest -- New Mexico, Texas. Hard to tell just where the borders are down there. We busted a coke warehouse, damn near got killed. The DEA mucky-t-muck who came out to take credit for it was Howard Parker.

"I don't know what made Troy -- an old Marine buddy -- suspicious, or what exactly he suspects. He's an aide for a Senator from Chicago these days. Started asking questions. He's disappeared. The third member of that patrol had his house torn apart in Shreveport, and his kid sister kidnapped. The fourth is abroad, and apparently out of it."

"You don't have a story yet," Janet observed.

"I know. I just got a call from my old sergeant, he wants to meet -- on the pier I was thrown off."

"You think it's a set up?"

Mac shrugged. "Possibly. If so, better that you have insurance. You have enough there to turn it over to Jason or whatever the hell his name is in the D.C. bureau, and bust the story."

"Why are you meeting this guy, if you think it might be a set up?"

Mac hesitated. "Kellerman was my hero when I was joined. I looked up to him. He was what I thought a Marine should be. Later I worked with him training at a survival school. He was tough." He thought for a moment and then smiled. "He used to do this introductory speech at the survival camp. 'We're going to teach you to survive no matter what. If you have a weapon you will use it. If you have only your knife, you will use that. If all you have are your teeth and bare hands, then damn it, you'll survive using those.' And then he reaches down pick up a live chicken and bites its head off. Everyone got the point."

Janet looked at him blankly, then shook her head and laughed. "That's not the best way to kill a chicken," she said. At his surprised look, she added, "I used to be a farm girl."

"You?"

"Long story. Anyway, killing a chicken is easy. You just wring its neck. Pick it up by its head, swing its body around, and the weight of the body will break its neck. Cleaning it without a knife or something might be difficult, but killing it...."

Mac stared at her.

"Not as impressive as biting its head off, however," Janet added. "Didn't you know how you kill a chicken?"

Mac grimaced. "I'm the original city kid. I doubt I knew that chicken came from anything but KFC until I was in the military. And then it came from the freezer."

"Hardly the point, anyway, I guess," Janet said with a shrug. "I can see why you want to give this guy a hearing, I guess. Are there precautions you can take?"

Mac set aside the issue of how to kill a chicken and returned to the issue at hand. His lips quirked in a half smile. "Oh, yeah. Precautions are on the way."

"Good." She hesitated. "You want to be wired for sound?"

"Hell, no," Mac said. "He'll check me out for that. I doubt this is a for-attribution meeting. But what he says, I'll remember."

"Give me a call when you're done, OK? At home. I'm about to go off duty here," Janet said. "Save me a sleepless night."

The message light was blinking on Mac's phone when he returned to his desk: The parking attendant. His ride was here.

Mac left the building on a different floor than he'd entered it, and walked down a flight of stairs to the main level of the parking lot. He could see Shorty's black Lexus parked near the attendant. Shorty and Danny leaned against the hood.

"Let's go," Mac said, walking up to them. They jumped.

"Where we going to?" Shorty said, starting to unlock the car.

"We aren't going to need the car just yet," Mac said. "I got a call." He explained.

"I dunno, Mac," Danny said, after hearing about the telephone call. "I would of taken Kellerman's word for just about anything."

"Yeah," Mac acknowledged. "Why I want to hear him out. But I don't want to be stupid about it. Like the man said, if those boys the other night had been his they wouldn't have fucked up."

"So you think it's a set up?" Shorty asked.

"Maybe. Maybe persuade first, take me out if that doesn't work," Mac said. "Here's the plan."

### Chapter 10

SEATTLE (Saturday, Dec. 1, 2012, 2 p.m.) \-- Mac was standing on the pier right at the hour. He leaned against the railing and watched the crowd stroll by. Tourists for the most part. A few commuters headed toward the ferries to the rich places like Bainbridge Island. His stomach growled. The man who walked up to him was both familiar and unfamiliar. The easy gait, the cautious eyes that noticed everything, the alertness -- Mac would recognize those things anywhere. The lines and the gray in his hair were a shock.

"Hello, Shadow. Long time," the man said. He leaned against the pier next to Mac.

"You staying in past your twenty?" Mac asked abruptly.

Kellerman winced. "You know how to make an old man feel old, don't you?" he said. "No. I'm not. A non-com, attached to the Pentagon? I'm about as high as I'm going. I could stay there, but it's time to get out." He looked Mac over. "You carrying?"

Mac rolled his eyes. Kellerman laughed. "Yeah. Of course, you are. Are you wired?"

Mac shook his head. "Didn't figure this was on the record."

Kellerman hesitated, then accepted Mac's word for it. "On the record. A goddamn reporter. Who would have thought?"

Mac looked at him out the corner of his eyes, not losing sight of the busy street across from him and the one above that on the hill. Seattle went up steep from the docks. "You ready to tell me what this is all about?" he asked.

"You looked up to me when you were first in," Kellerman began. "I was your model of what a Marine was supposed to be."

Mac shrugged. "Yeah," he said. "So?"

"Well the man I looked up to when I was a boot was a man named Howard Parker. He was tough. But he stood for things, you know? The right things." Kellerman paused, his eyes watching the same hillside as Mac. "He was wrapping up his twenty when I was just in, but I about worshipped that man. He got active in politics, no surprise. Did some stuff for various agencies."

"Including the DEA," Mac said.

"Yeah. Now he's close to being nominated for Secretary of Homeland Security. He deserves it. He's good. He understands the military, understands what this country needs. He can help restore this country's defenses. We need him in that position. You can understand that, can't you? You've been there." Kellerman paused. "He stands for the same things that you fought for. He's a true patriot."

Mac fought back a wince. "Patriotism these days includes trying to kill a cop, kidnapping civilians, not to mention trying to kill me?" he asked without looking at Kellerman. "And don't give me crap about breaking eggs to make omelets."

"Well it's true, and you know it," Kellerman said defensively. "Sometimes the things you have to do to get to the right end aren't pretty. That's the first thing you learned as a Marine. Wasn't it? Well?"

Mac was silent. When Kellerman realized he wasn't going to answer, he went on, "Mac, look, I can't defend everything that's gone down in this mess. I wish I'd been included from the beginning, but I was out of the country. I know you. I would have handled it differently. Hell, we'd have had this talk at the beginning. You, me, Troy. We could have worked things out. All Parker wants is to continue the fight that we fought for as Marines. Is that so bad?"

Mac shook his head. "I don't know why you fought," he said levelly. "I enlisted because it seemed better than the streets and jail. I fought because the Marine Corps paid me to fight. All this patriotism crap? Not for me, Kellerman. Iraq? Why did we fight that war? For the good of our country? Turns out no WMDs, no links to Al Queda. For freedom and democracy in the Middle East? Shit. We fought that war for Exxon gas. So don't give me the bullshit. Parker wants power and money, just like everyone else."

Kellerman laughed without amusement. "Still cold, aren't you?"

Mac ignored that comment. "So what happened in west Texas, C.J.?" he asked. "Why did we nearly buy it on that mission? What is he covering up?"

Kellerman shook his head. "It isn't what it seems, Mac," he said. "Parker was in D.C. when you all were ordered to survey that area, or he'd have headed it off. No one was supposed to know about that set-up."

"No shit," Mac said. "Cocaine manufacturers generally don't want anyone to know. You telling me that Parker wasn't on the take in that fuckup?"

"Parker may have been wearing DEA tags, but he was working for... a different part of the government," Kellerman said slowly. "He was part of a cross-jurisdiction effort to infiltrate the Columbia drug lords."

Mac shook his head. "You may buy that, but it smells like shit to me," he said. "If that were the case, he wouldn't care if the Feebs find out now. He'd just close-door it. Parker was on the take."

"No." Kellerman was adamant. "If it came out even now, it would make Ollie North look small time. One thing to run arms to contras. It's another thing to sell cocaine."

"Sure is," Mac said with little inflection.

"Look, I can understand why you're pissed. But if you back off, I can clean this mess up. Parker will get the nomination. That's the right thing to happen, Mac."

And you'll have a job when you get out, Mac thought but didn't say. Instead, he asked, "You remember that stunt you used to do with a chicken?"

Kellerman snorted. "Hell, yeah."

"Do you know how best to kill a chicken?"

"You wring its neck," Kellerman said. "But that would hardly have made the point, would it?"

"Did you ever think that some recruit one day might go hungry because they couldn't bring themselves to bite a chicken's head off? And didn't know there was a better way?" Mac asked curiously, turning to look at Kellerman for the first time.

"Not likely. It made you men sit up and take notice. You thought I was tougher than God. And you needed to think that if you were going to learn what I had to teach." Kellerman looked at Mac in puzzlement. "Does this have something to do with Parker?"

Mac shook his head. "No, I just wondered. Look, what you say, makes some sense, but I need to think it over. And it would help if Kristy Brown and Troy Maxim showed up. Can you give me a few days? Maybe clean up that part of the situation -- as a gesture of good faith?"

Kellerman hesitated. "Sure, Mac. That seems reasonable." He started to raise his hand to put it on Mac's shoulder.

"Don't!" Mac said sharply. "Just drop your hand back down. Don't do anything I might think is a signal to your sniper up there."

Kellerman dropped his hand back to his side. "What makes you think I've got a sniper?"

"As you said, if those had been your boys last night, they wouldn't have fucked it up," Mac said. "So I took a few precautions myself. You make any kind of gesture, and my sharpshooter will fire. You trained him; he won't miss."

"Danny Brown," Kellerman said with a sigh. "Still, you'd be dead."

"I didn't come with just one backup, C.J.," Mac said.

"You always were a cautious son of a bitch," Kellerman said, with a half smile. "Okay, so how do we get out of this without either of us getting shot?"

Mac didn't move away from the railing. "Let's talk just a bit longer," he said comfortably. "I'd like to hear how you justify shooting a cop, kidnapping a girl, beating up a woman, and not incidentally, trying to have me, Troy and Danny killed."

Kellerman looked troubled. "There's a greater good," he said slowly. "But the truth is, it boils down to loyalty. Mine for Parker; Parker for his country. Is it too much to ask that you'd back off out of loyalty to me?"

"I'm loyal to me," Mac said flatly. "I take care of me because no one else is going to. And I take care of mine. You been messing with my family, my friends. And no, I don't think you can justify all this with some shit about greater good and loyalty. Platoon, corps, country, God -- you believed in that shit, which category does all this fall in?"

Kellerman shrugged. "Platoon, I guess. Parker was my platoon leader, and he always will be."

"Then get him to turn Kristy Brown loose," Mac said. "You know that isn't the way to be."

"Parker is paranoid about what's in Maxim's notes, Shadow. Maxim won't talk about what he's got proof of. The only weak spot we've got is Danny Brown. And his weak spot -- besides being a bit short in brains -- is his fondness for his sister. Parker isn't going to give that up unless he gets those documents."

"So why shoot Donnelly?" Mac asked. "I thought he was on your side."

Kellerman rolled his eyes. "God, Mac, it's been fucked from the beginning. Do they sit down and talk to me -- who knew you guys? No that would be too smart. So they hire cops they know to do profiles on each of you. Donnelly was profiling you." Kellerman shook his head in disbelief. "Something he found in your past made him curious about Parker. When the Feeb fuckup showed up to pick up the research on you, Donnelly said he wasn't quite done. Then he started asking questions about Parker. Shouldn't have even connected Parker to the investigation."

"And so the Feeb panicked? Called for a hit?" Mac asked skeptically. "What the hell did Donnelly ask?"

Kellerman shrugged. "Don't know. The FBI don't share information easily. Anyway the Feeb decides to clean house, so to speak, kill you, kill Donnelly, ruin your rep, discredit the whole deal. Too complicated, bound to go wrong."

Mac nodded in sympathetic agreement. Complicated operations always went sour. Keep it simple stupid was good advice no matter what you did. "So why do the cops think I shot Donnelly?"

Kellerman smiled without humor. "Same reason they kidnapped Danny's sister. Leverage. Dumb fuckers."

Mac stood away from the railing, stretched, cracking his spine. "Yeah? And what do you think Parker is going to do now? Turn Kristy loose to talk? Let Troy go? Right. And what? You'll be conveniently out of the country when that goes down? And Parker's Feeb fuck-up can finish what he started?"

Kellerman said nothing.

"Who's the FBI part of this mess?" Mac asked. Kellerman didn't answer. Mac hadn't expected that he would.

Mac sighed. "Right," he said with disgust. In a different tone, he added, "OK, now without any strange gestures, or getting too close to me to pull a knife or the gun you've been fingering in your left pocket, we're going to walk slowly across the street to that black Lexus over there. When we get there, I'll get in back, you get in the front. I'll have my gun on you then, so don't try anything. We'll drop you off at your sniper's location. You can untie him. Got it?"

"Got it," Kellerman said without inflection.

The two men sauntered slowly across the street, both of them with their hands in their jacket pockets. When they got to the car, Shorty opened the front passenger door. C.J. Kellerman slid in. Mac closed the door behind him, and opened his own back door and slid in.

"Everything OK?" he asked Shorty.

"Slick as shit," Shorty said, as he pulled back out onto the street. "Danny may look like a hayseed, but he's fast in a fight."

"And my man?" Kellerman asked sharply.

"Your man's just fine," Shorty said. "Unless Danny's been beating on him since I left. He's a bit pissed about his sister being missing."

No one said anything as Shorty navigated the twisty roads up toward Pike's Market. He pulled into an alley, honked the horn twice sharply. Danny poked his head out around a corner, and then nudged another man out ahead of him.

"You can get out," Mac said. Kellerman opened the door without a word and got out. Danny slid into the car in his place. Kellerman stopped, gestured to Mac's window. Mac rolled it down.

"So tell me. About the chicken," Kellerman began. "Were you the Marine who went hungry because he didn't know how to wring a chicken's neck?"

Mac's eyes were cold. "Not me," he said. "I did what you showed us to do -- and bit its damn head off." The window rolled up, and the Lexus backed away, leaving Kellerman looking after them.

"Now what, boss?" Shorty asked, cruising slowly down Pike Place, dodging tourists, kids, and the homeless.

Mac pulled his backpack from under the back seat, handed Shorty a piece of paper with a list of addresses on it. "We scope out these properties," he said.

Shorty glanced at it. "Who we after? Bill Gates or something?"

"Howard Parker," Mac said shortly.

Shorty yelped. "Fuck, Mac, couldn't you have found a smaller fish to fry than that? Like a barracuda?"

"What's the matter he on your school board or something?"

Shorty shook his head. "No that's a different Parker -- cousin I believe. Seriously, Mac, you think Howard Parker is behind all this?"

Mac reached for Shorty's cell phone. "You're sure this thing is scrambled?" he asked for the umpteenth time.

"Yeah, it's scrambled," Shorty said. "Which of these places do you want to start with?"

"Start out and work in," Mac said, punching in Janet's home number.

"It's me," he said. "I'm safely back in the car after Kellerman."

"Did you learn anything?"

"Yeah, it's Parker, all right. Have to prove it."

Janet hesitated. "There's someone here looking for you -- Agent Warren. I haven't told him anything but that you'd be checking in. He seems to know stuff anyway. Want to talk to him?"

"Warren? At your house? Yeah, put him on."

"What did you think I gave you that card for?" Stan Warren asked. "Going off to a meet with Kellerman? Don't you think you could have used a bit of back up? What, you wanted to give him a second chance to do the job right this time?"

"I provided my own backup," Mac said. "Backup I trust. He says he wasn't behind the first attack -- as he said, his boys wouldn't have fucked it up. Seems maybe Parker has strings into the FBI as well as the Marines, Agent Warren. You?"

"Sh... No, not me," Warren said, his voice cold.

"Didn't think it was," Mac said, settling into the back seat comfortably. "But you've got rogues in your bureau, Agent. I suspect I've met a couple of them recently at a stop. They said it was because I was suspected of picking up a drug dealer at the airport. One's a heavy set, ex-cop, ex-military type, smoker voice. Probably 50, proud to be tough. His partner is smoother, younger. Dresses better. Has a bit more class, been to college instead of the Army perhaps? Recognize them?"

"White?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you just described 90 percent of the FBI," Warren said dryly. "I suppose you could identify them if you saw them again?"

"Yeah, so could Danny. One of them was part of the break-in at his place in Louisiana. You do know about that don't you?"

"Yeah, I know about that. Anything else?"

"They didn't like me mentioning your name, or suggesting they follow me down to the nearest cop shop to do their search. Nor did they know there wasn't a police station where I pointed. Not local, either, Agent Warren."

"Seeing there are fewer than two dozen local FBI agents, that doesn't narrow the field."

"Who do you have watching me?" Mac asked, changing the subject. "Are you sure he isn't in Parker's camp?"

"What makes you sure I've got someone watching you?"

"You know too much." Mac thought a moment. "Actually, you know more than that. You got a mole in Parker's camp."

"Well just don't shoot anybody until you're sure they're shooting at you."

"You warn your agent, and your mole, that I won't hesitate to shoot everyone in the room. Let God sort them out," Mac said coldly. "Your men had better speak up fast."

"Got it."

Mac looked at Danny. "You're being awful quiet."

Danny shook his head as if trying to wake up. "Kellerman bothers me, Mac," he said. "Maybe I should give over those files. Are you sure Troy was on the right side of this?"

Mac shrugged. "No. But I do know Troy didn't kidnap your sister, beat up my aunt, or try to kill me."

"Yeah."

Mac hesitated. "Danny, those files. They are in a safe place, aren't they? I mean, if federal agents showed up and demanded them, could they find them?"

Danny snorted. "Not without warrants and a couple of court orders. This place doesn't welcome the government in for any reason. And then they'd still have to find them."

"Good."

Danny was silent for a moment. "Why?"

"Because those files are the only things keeping your sister alive," Mac said bluntly. "They get those files before we get your sister -- and Troy, I think -- they'll kill them both."

"Kellerman?" Danny asked painfully.

Mac was silent. Danny groaned and went back to staring out the window.

Shorty went through a MacDonald's drive through on the way of the city. "It's four o'clock," he said. "Figure we need to eat."

Mac unwrapped a hamburger, took a bite. He was hungry, he discovered. He swallowed, took another bite.

"It'll be dark by six thirty," Shorty said. "We still going to case these joints?"

"You got anything better to do?" Mac asked.

Shorty raised his eyebrows. "On a Saturday night? Shit, Mac, getting stoned and grading papers would be more fun than this."

"You're really a school teacher?" Danny asked, his mouth full. "You weren't shitting me?"

"He's really a school teacher," Mac said dryly. "Let me see the list. He's got property in Snohomish -- the old home place, I guess. Some commercial property in Bellevue, a cabin at Snoqualmie Falls, another on Whidbey Island, and probably the main house on Lake Washington."

"I've read about that one," Shorty said. "The house Bill Gates had to beat to be the biggest in town."

"Whatever. Suppose we swing through Snohomish and Snoqualmie Falls tonight," Mac said. "Hit the others tomorrow morning."

Shorty nodded, pulled the Lexus out of the parking spot and onto the street. "You guys bunking down at my place?" he asked.

"That all right? We can't go back to my place," Mac said.

"Yeah, Caroline is pissed 'cause I'm out with the guys tonight," Shorty said, dryly. "She's at her place sulking, picturing me out drinking and dancing without her. So, my apartment is available, shall we say."

"Well, y'all up North sure know how to have a fine time on the town," Danny said, gesturing with the last bite of his hamburger.

Snohomish was a ways out from downtown Seattle. Mac was glad it was Saturday -- almost impossible to get any speed at five on a weekday. Too many people moving out away from downtown and then having to commute in. Still, the traffic was never good. Mac listened to Shorty mutter at drivers who were too slow, in the wrong lane, or just basically in his way. It meant nothing. Shorty always yelled at other drivers.

Snohomish wasn't much of a town, known mostly for its antique stores -- Lindy occasionally came up for the day and would come back with all kinds of weird stuff. Once through town, the countryside was primarily green, even in early December. Mac looked out the window, not participating in the chitchat between Shorty and Danny -- punctuated by Shorty's discussions of the failures of other drivers. He wasn't fond of the countryside. It held no attraction for him at all. He was a city kid. The only countryside he'd ever experienced was in the Marines, when he primarily was trying to get through it without getting killed. When he looked out at the trees and hills, he saw places for the enemy to be hiding, spots that could have a land mine planted, danger all around.

The first address was a farm nestled against the green hills. It was a real farm, still in operation it looked like, on the old road to Monroe. There was the white farmhouse, the red barn, various other buildings whose use wasn't apparent to Mac. Old Macdonald's farm, he thought sourly. Shorty drove by slowly.

"Nothing conspicuous about us," Mac observed.

"You could be walking," Shorty pointed out. "We need to get in closer?"

"Don't bother," Danny said. "They aren't here."

"What makes you say that?" Shorty asked.

"Kid's toys. Tricycles, bicycles. Some family with kids lives here. We sure this is the place?"

Mac looked at his list. "It's the place."

"Then Parker's got it leased to someone, someone who probably actually farms it," Danny said. "You wouldn't use a place with kids to hide out kidnapped victims -- the kids would blab too much."

Mac nodded. "Good point. Snoqualmie Falls, next," he said.

The road from Snohomish to Snoqualmie Falls was winding and dark -- but a fun road to drive a good car on, Shorty explained, shifting smoothly into a lower gear as he hit the hills.

"Course, I can think of more fun people to have along on a moonlight Saturday night," Shorty observed. "It isn't even raining."

"Can't we all," Mac said. He pointed at a turnoff. "Take that road, I think." He compared the GPS to the address. "Yeah, about a mile up this lane, we want to go left."

The lane wasn't paved. Shorty concentrated on avoiding potholes and washboard. Everyone was silent; Mac kept his eyes on the road. Danny stared out the window at the dark woods.

They stopped at the top of the drive, fifty yards from the cabin. Wealthy people didn't use their mountain cabins during the wintertime unless they were ski cabins. This one wasn't, too low for that. It looked deserted from where they sat. It was hardly a cabin either -- one of those trendy log homes with two stories, a big porch, balcony above, lots of glass windows.

"Man sure knows how to rough it, doesn't he?" Mac muttered.

"There's nobody here," Danny said. "Are you sure, he'd stash them on his own property? He's pretty good at deniability."

Mac opened the door and got out. "Best way to keep control of the situation," he said. "Especially a powerful man like Parker, he's not going to get raided by the cops on a whim. Already got security in place probably -- he's the type."

Shorty and Danny got out the car. "What about here?" Danny said. "He's probably got security here, too."

Shorty surveyed the place. "Yeah, I see the wires. We going in, Mac?"

Mac shook his head. "Just looking around. It feels too deserted for them to be here, but we'd be foolish if we left without looking, and they were tied up in back somewhere."

"I'll stay with the car," Shorty said.

Mac nodded and gestured to Danny. Danny and Mac padded silently around the house; fading from shadow to shadow. The garbage cans were empty. The back windows were shuttered tight. No sounds of human occupancy. Rustling wind in the pine trees; that was about it. Danny leaned close to Mac's ear, cautious even now.

"Not here," Danny said softly. Mac nodded head in agreement.

Both whirled at a rustling sound -- Mac reached inside his jacket, going for his gun.

"Don't shoot," Shorty called softly from the shadows.

"Jesus Christ, Shorty," Mac growled. "You want to get yourself killed?"

"You've got a phone call, Mac, on my cell phone," Shorty said. He sounded freaked by it. "I think you'd better take it."

Mac reached for the phone. "Who is it?" Mac asked.

Shorty shook his head. "How would anyone know to call this number to get you?" he whispered back. Mac shrugged.

"This is Mac Davis," he said into the phone.

"We need to have a talk young man," said a deep, rumbling voice. "Kellerman says you're a reasonable man."

Mac's eyes widened; he looked at the phone as if it could bite. Parker? he mouthed to the others, and then gestured them toward the car. They nodded understanding and moved out to stand watch.

"I doubt Kellerman said anything like that," Mac said dryly.

"Well, he said you could be reasoned with," the voice acknowledged. "What will it take to reason with you?"

"Let the woman and Maxim loose," Mac said.

Parker snorted. "Do you realize how much trouble I can cause you? I can make your life hell."

"Seems to me the trouble is going your way," Mac sparred.

"Minor inconveniences," Parker said. "Let's try this: You persuade Brown to give up the package Maxim left with him. You drop the story, tell Warren that you all had mixed up a couple of DEA missions, and I'll call back my men."

"And in return, I get what?"

"I won't destroy you."

There was silence. I am sitting at this man's cabin talking to him, Mac thought. Does he know where I am?

"And Donnelly?"

"The cops don't have enough to convict you. Unless I help them, they never will."

"Maxim and the girl?"

"We'll trade the girl for her brother if he brings Maxim's packet."

"Then what?"

"That won't be any of your concern," Parker said coldly. "What you need consider is what happens to you if you don't cooperate."

Mac looked around at the wealth displayed so casually in the middle of the woods. He smiled grimly. "Maybe you've got it wrong, Parker. Maybe you should be worried about what I can do to you."

"You? A God damn drug dealer turned reporter. Your name should be struck from the Marine roll."

Mac laughed. "You've got room to talk, Parker. I may have been dealing, but you were fucking manufacturing the stuff. Your operation makes mine look like kids sharing dope."

"It isn't the same thing at all!" Parker shouted. He got control of his voice and added, "I have never done anything but for the good of this country."

"Tell that to the crackheads who bought your coke in Los Angeles and Chicago," Mac taunted. "You sold the dope on American soil didn't you? Used the leverage with the cartel, used the money to build a power base, siphon a bit off for your personal stash. And you preach to me? Shit."

"We needed that information stream," Parker said defensively. Mac listened. Would Parker blurt out some necessary pieces to the puzzle if he got him on the run?

"Right," Mac drawled. "Why don't you tell that to the press? Pardon me, I guess you are telling it to the press, aren't you?"

"You can't prove a goddamn thing without Maxim's info!"

"Can't I? I was on the mission too. I saw the same things Troy saw. And I'll get more, Parker."

"Son, you've got nothing," Parker began. Mac interrupted.

"I am not your son," he said. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He fought to keep his anger under control; the very word was a button he didn't like pushed. "Unless, you know something my mom doesn't even seem to know."

"Probably a good thing, you aren't," Parker said without an ounce of humor. "I doubt either of us would have survived the experience. My own son is bad enough -- I don't need to add another loser to the family tree."

Mac smiled coldly. Parker was trying to needle him just as he had poked hoping for something to spill. Mac eased back against the porch step a bit.

Parker went on when Mac didn't respond to that. "And you are going to lose, you know. I have more than twenty years of experience, connections, and power over what you have."

Mac laughed deliberately. "You know what they say: Do you have twenty years of experience or one year twenty times? You haven't learned much from those twenty years, Parker."

"The hell you say," Parker said furiously; the needling had gotten him again. Mac filed the information away. The old man wasn't used to having someone stand up to him. "I hold all the cards in this game."

Mac's eyes were cold; the chill entered his voice. "I cheat at cards. You best watch your back. I'll be coming for you."

"I'll bury you," Parker said. "By the time I get done with you, you'll be dead. Everyone will be blaming you for all of it. Unless you're willing to negotiate."

Mac reached into his backpack, dug out a cigarette lighter. He flicked it. "Can you hear the sound, Parker?" he asked.

"Yeah," Parker said warily.

"You know where I am?"

"With your buddy and Brown. In a black Lexus, license plates AMD 324," Parker said, expecting to intimidate with his knowledge.

Mac flicked the lighter a couple more times. "I'm sitting on your doorstep, Parker. It's pretty out here. Quiet, remote. A good place to hide people, except they aren't here. Be a long time before someone got a fire truck up that lane."

"What the hell?" Parker spluttered.

"You'd better check your hole cards, Parker. You've got more to lose than I do." Mac turned the phone off. He sat quietly for a moment, listening the silence. Then he got up and padded back to the car.

"Let's go," Mac said as he got in the car.

Shorty nodded and carefully navigated his way back out. "Was that Parker?" he asked.

"Yeah," Mac said. He tapped the folder on the dashboard. "I've got some reading to do."

"What did he want?" Danny asked anxiously. "Is Kristy okay?"

"Kristy's fine until he gets the information he wants," Mac said. He didn't mention Parker's proposed exchange. Danny might be idealistic enough to think Parker would keep his end of the bargain.

"How did he get my cell phone number?" Shorty demanded.

"He didn't say. But he knew your license plate number. Kellerman probably passed that on. We're going to need to ditch this car," Mac said.

"And then what?"

"Then I've got a packet of information to read," Mac repeated, tapping the folder from the newspaper's files.

"That's it?" Shorty asked. "That's all you're going to tell us?"

Mac leaned his head back against the headrest. "The rest wasn't important," he said.

### Chapter 11

SEATTLE (Saturday, Dec. 1, 2012, 10 p.m.) \-- Parker slammed down the phone and turned to the other man in the room. "Goddam little prick," Parker said furiously. "And you think we could have reasoned with him?"

"Won't ever know now," Kellerman said. He was leaning back in his chair, a toothpick in his teeth. "That wasn't exactly what I call reasoning with him."

Parker blew out air through his lips. "He found the buttons to push," Parker admitted. "What do you think he'll do?"

Kellerman shrugged. "I don't know. But I would bet my retirement that he won't back off. There's no back up in that boy."

Parker looked at the man he almost considered a son. Actually, he liked C.J. better than his own son.

"Why is he so touchy about son?" Parker asked, curious about the only reaction he managed to provoke out of the bastard.

Kellerman shrugged. "I don't think he knows who his father is. Always a bit feisty about words like son, or bastard or son of a bitch. Guys learned not to use those words around him. Even if you wanted to provoke him, you generally didn't want that much provocation."

"I see," Parker said, not really caring. Son of a bitch described him perfectly, and he wasn't thinking of his parentage. He relaxed, leaned back in his chair.

This was the only room he liked in the Lake Washington house -- his office. It was located on the second floor, overlooking the Lake. He had his desk set up so he could see the lights on the other side of the Lake. He looked out there now.

He sighed. "You been to talk to Maxim?"

Kellerman nodded. "And the girl."

"Maxim say anything?"

"He said something about a disk. That he didn't know what was on it," Kellerman said with a frown. "It worries me. Do you know anything about a disk?"

Parker shook his head. "Someone feeding him information," he guessed. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Yeah. He truly does not know what Danny Brown did with the package. He insists on that, and I have to say I believe him."

"What about the girl?"

Kellerman snorted. "That girl told me to go to hell in no uncertain terms. But I don't think she knows anything. She acts as if she's seeing Maxim for the first time. My guess is her brother kept it all from her."

Parker studied the younger man. "You know all three of them," he said at last. "What do you think? You think Brown brought the package to Davis?"

Kellerman shook his head. "Our reports are that Brown insists he cannot get to the package. I'd guess he hid it down there somewhere. Maybe out to sea on the oil platform."

"Can we get on and check?"

"Not a chance. Oilmen are a suspicious, hostile bunch. They don't know you, they aren't going to talk to you. Any one who even looks official? Showing up wanting on that rig? They'd never believe you weren't from the EPA or some Green Peacer in disguise."

Parker sighed again. That made sense. They might have to try it, although if Danny Brown were dead, it was unlikely anyone else would get the package either. That might have to do.

"I don't know why you didn't get a hold of me before you went after the three of them anyway," Kellerman said plaintively. He'd said it before.

Parker shook his head. "Should have," he admitted. "Should have trusted where your loyalties would be."

Kellerman looked hurt. "Have I ever crossed you? God damn it, Howard, you've known me since I was eighteen!"

Yeah, Parker thought, but these three kids were your team once. "I didn't want to put you in a place where you had to make a choice," he said. "Not because I doubted your choice, but because the choice itself would be painful."

Kellerman shifted uncomfortably. "Not as painful as this," he said quietly. He didn't meet Parker's eyes. "I went prepared to kill Davis today."

Parker nodded. It would be as if he had to have Kellerman kill Addison or another one of his men who'd been with him. He'd do it; he'd pull the trigger himself if he had to. If it were called for. Hell, he had pulled the trigger himself, once. It still didn't rest easy.

"If I had been brought in when you first heard about Maxim, none of this would have happened," Kellerman complained again.

"Maybe." It was a measure of his fondness for C.J. that he didn't snarl at him. What was done was done.

"Is it really this important, Howard?" Kellerman asked. "So you were running an undercover activity in Texas. So these three -- four -- Marines know about it. Do you really think it would cost you the nomination if it came out?"

Parker was looking back out the window at the lights. Kellerman didn't know everything, he reminded himself. "Yes. It might even send me out of D.C. I'd be done."

Kellerman shook his head, but accepted it. Parker could see it written on his face, the acceptance. He almost sighed with relief. Kellerman was important. His loyalty was important.

"I'll try talking to Troy again," Kellerman said. "But you'd best have a back up plan."

Parker smiled fondly at him. "Have you ever known me not to?"

Kellerman laughed with him. "Guess not," he admitted as he left the room.

Parker watched him go. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk. There were things C.J. was better off not knowing, he told himself. Starting with the details of the original fuck-up. But C.J. didn't need to know about what his other agents were doing either.

He dialed a local number. "Start the clean up operation," he ordered. "Take him down."

"Yes, sir," the voice responded. "With pleasure."

Parker put the phone down more gently this time. He liked this FBI agent that Addison had assigned to him. He did what was necessary very efficiently. He'd once been a cop, that helped. Not a lot of class, Parker thought with some amusement, but by God he got things done.

He turned to his computer, punched up another name and number. A local number. The voice sounded groggy when he answered, but he woke up fast, when Parker started talking.

He checked his phone messages. Nothing. He frowned. Should have caved in by now, Parker thought. Should have responded. More pressure. It was time to up the ante. He was due more than this kind of disloyalty. He looked at his watch. It was three hours later on the East Coast, way too late to make that other call. He'd make it in the morning.

Parker looked out at the city lights again. To the north, he could see the lights that marked the 520 bridge. The floating bridge. It was beautiful. Anything else he could do, he thought, only half aware of the beauty he stared at. He thought through it all. The wheels were turning. The D.A.'s office had its heads up. His agent would see to it that the evidence was where it was supposed to be. He was having breakfast with another young protégé who could be trusted to carry out his wishes at the Examiner. He thought about arranging a golf date for Sunday afternoon. Decided against it. Don't want to be seen in this, he decided.

Nothing left to do. Not tonight. Wait and see what happens. There were always more favors to call in, more strings to pull.

Trump that, you son of a bitch, he thought savagely.

Troy looked up when the door opened. Kellerman.

He was playing poker with Kristy and the two guards. Kristy had been winning all night much to the dismay of the young male guards. Troy figured if they'd quit getting suckered by her southern belle drawl, they'd do better. But then, he wasn't doing any better himself.

Kellerman gestured to the guards. They put down their cards and left. "Don't peak at them," one warned Kristy. "We'll finish the hand later. I got a feeling about this one."

Kristy smiled at them; Troy watched the guards melt. Hell, the smile wasn't even directed at him, and he couldn't resist it. He looked at Kellerman.

"I think you need to go to your room, Kristy," Troy said. "C.J. wants to talk to me."

She looked at the two of them. "No. I'm tired of being excluded. You all kidnapped me and brought me here. You can damn well talk in front of me."

Kellerman shrugged. He pulled up a chair and sat on it backward, arms folded on the back of the chair. "Ms. Brown, right now, you are an innocent bystander. There is every chance you will be eventually released. But only if you remain ignorant and innocent. It is in your best interests to leave this room. But if you want to stay, I'm not going to bodily carry you our of here."

Kristy hesitated. Troy watched her think it through. She nodded, went into her bedroom and closed the door.

Troy shook his head. "You ought to let her go, C.J.," he said wearily. "She isn't a part of this."

Kellerman sighed. He rested his head on his arms for a moment. "It's all fucked up. Why don't you just tell me what it is you know, what you have as evidence and how we can get it back. Then we can start cleaning this mess up."

Troy just looked at him. He'd known Kellerman as a Marine; not as well as Mac had, but he'd known him. Mac had idolized him, always telling stories about him. Weren't too many men Mac admired.

Now, he's a tired man, Troy thought. He looks like hell. Even in the few days he'd been here, he's aged.

"God, C.J.," Troy said. "I don't know what I know that's worth all this. I saw his name on a list of possible nominees. It rang a bell. I rummaged around, connected him to that DEA mission in Texas/New Mexico in '05. Did some checking on it -- found out that there was something weird about it, about a cover up. Heard a rumor that it was actually a CIA operated Coke warehouse."

"So what did you do?"

"I called a friend at the FBI, got a name of who I should talk to. Talked to him. He said he'd take it from there."

"And that's it." Kellerman looked skeptical.

"That's it." Well, he'd done a bit more checking, but he wasn't going to talk about that. Then Kellerman would want names. And then what?

"What about the disk you mentioned? What's on it?"

Troy was silent for a moment. He had done nothing but think about this for several days. He wasn't even sure how many days he'd been here.

"What day is it?" he asked.

Kellerman looked at his watch. "Saturday, December 1, almost midnight."

Troy closed his eyes. He was so damn tired.

"The disk," Kellerman prompted.

"I got a call. Someone gave me a disk. I don't know what is on it. I panicked, and I ran," Troy said.

"You didn't look at it?"

Troy shook his head. "It wouldn't work in my computer, a Mac disk, I guess. Someone tried breaking into my apartment, and I got spooked. I packed up everything and hid it with Danny."

Kellerman shook his head. "You bought a ticket to Seattle," he observed.

"I'm not stupid, C.J., I knew whoever was after me would check the flights. I booked one home to Chicago. Got off in Memphis, booked a flight to Seattle. Caught a bus to Knoxville, and a flight there to Shreveport."

"What were you planning to do when you got back to D.C.?"

Troy shook his head. "I was planning to wait to see what the FBI did." He laughed without mirth. "What they did was come for me."

Kellerman sat quietly for a moment. "What was on the disk?"

"I don't know!" Troy said frustrated. "I don't know."

### Chapter 12

SEATTLE (Sunday, Dec. 2, 2012, 8:30 a.m.) — Janet Andrews was at a near run when she hit the newsroom. She was wearing black leggings and T-shirt, looking like she was heading toward the gym, not the office.

Mac looked up from his computer when she came flying through. She's off today, he thought, frowning. He started to say something, but she strode past, not appearing to notice him.

At the door of the conference room, she slowed down, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. The she opened the door and went in.

Mac turned back to his computer, typing up the small incidents he'd collected from the various police and fire departments. He had a call into the P.D. to follow up on Donnelly, but no one had returned the call yet. Sunday's were slow.

He looked again at the conference room. Frowned. Tried to type. What story could have pulled her in on a Sunday morning, he thought, except for mine? He thought about it a brief moment more, then walked past the conference room to the fax machine. Checked the machine, nothing there, no surprise. Walked back past the door. He could hear raised voices.

Ah, hell, they can only fire me once, he thought, and opened the door.

"Howard Parker is a good man," the assistant projects editor said.

It figured it would be Precious Kevin, Mac thought. "Sorry I'm late," Mac said pleasantly. "My invitation to this meeting went adrift apparently."

"You weren't invited to this meeting," Precious Kevin snapped.

"Neither was I, apparently," Janet said dryly. "But seeing it is Mac's story, I say both of us should be here, don't you think?"

"Yes, Janet," the publisher said. "Mac, sit down. I'm glad you are here. Maybe you have more information about this subject."

"What exactly is the subject?" Mac asked.

"You are pursuing some vendetta against Howard Parker, and you want to know what the issue is?" Kevin said waspishly. He turned to the others. "He's been using this newspaper for his own personal vendetta against a well-respected individual in our community, and cops have been investigating him for the attempted murder of a police officer. And he is a drug dealer to boot. This meeting is about damage control."

"Drug dealer!" Mac said, startled.

Janet raised her eyebrows. "Interesting. First, Mac was questioned; no charges have been pressed."

Kevin interrupted her. "They will be."

Janet's voice got colder. She did not like being interrupted. "Second, it is my opinion that the investigation is meant to pull him off the story and discredit his sources. Third, Mac has not been targeting an individual -- well respected or otherwise -- he's been investigating the activity of the FBI in Seattle as they appear to be investigating one of our public figures. The drug dealer accusation is a wild one -- I have no idea where that particular slander might have come from. Actually Kevin, I'd be interested in knowing how you know all these things."

"I have my sources," he said defensively.

"And they are?"

"I don't have to tell you that!" he said outraged.

"I'd like to know what public figure we're talking about myself. Did someone say Howard Parker?" the executive editor said. "I was in the meeting yesterday that said the FBI agent was out here checking on possible Cabinet members, but sounds like things have happened since then."

Janet nodded. "Late last night Mac got confirmation from some of his old Marine sources that Howard Parker is being considered for Secretary of Homeland Security. However, there are some concerns about Parker's activities. Mac is beginning an investigation into what the allegations might be. Apparently, there is some intersection between Mac's own Marine career and the allegations. I haven't had a progress report this morning for the obvious reason that I am not supposed to be working this morning."

"And you think Howard Parker whacked a cop to set up a reporter to pull him off a story?" the executive editor asked.

Janet winced and laughed. "Probably not that straightforward a frame," she admitted. "But I am sure Mac didn't shoot at the police officer. And I am sure that Howard Parker's career is under question by the FBI. Finding out the rest is what we have reporters for."

"Give me a break," Precious Kevin interjected. "That's pretty far fetched. Howard Parker is a fine man. Reporters don't get framed for murder or attacked or whatever. At least not in the United States they don't."

"Don Bolles," Janet murmured, catching the executive editor's eye. He flinched, frowned thoughtfully. The Special Project's Editor's lips twitched.

"Who's he?" Precious Kevin demanded.

"Bolles was killed to prevent the investigation of mob activities in Arizona in the seventies," Mac said. He'd been content to let Janet handle it so far, but he couldn't resist showing up Kevin at least once.

"So?"

"So, a group of reporters from across the nation took leave of absence to go to Arizona and finish Bolles story. They then formed an organization -- Investigative Reporters and Editors -- to keep investigative reporting alive in this country. Believe you went to one of their conferences last year, Kevin," said Steve Whitman, Kevin's boss in special projects.

"Whatever." Kevin dismissed the topic. Janet and Mac exchanged glances. Mac carefully did not look at the executive editor who had been one of those early reporters who had gone to Arizona.

"So how did you hear about these allegations so early this morning?" the executive editor asked suddenly, looking at Kevin.

"Yeah, especially 'cause I haven't heard some of them," Mac muttered. He subsided at Janet's glare.

"I got a call from Mr. Parker," Kevin said reluctantly.

"You know Parker?" Whitman asked.

"Sure. I grew up with his son. Howard Parker is like an uncle to me. Saw to it that I got through college. He called and wanted to know why I was participating in a vendetta against him after all he'd done for me," Kevin said. "I couldn't believe what he told me. It obviously had to stop right away. For the sake of the paper."

Janet settled back into her seat. So did several others around the table. Parker did have connections, Mac thought. He obviously had a habit of doing favors when he could, calling them in when he needed to.

"And just what did you tell Parker about an on-going story?" Whitman asked.

"Nothing! I just listened. And then I called the publisher and suggested we'd better have a meeting."

The publisher tapped his fingers on the table. 'I'd already gotten a call from the advertising manager. We've had two accounts call this morning and threaten to pull their accounts if we were going to be a tabloid paper and keep a cop killer on payroll. I don't need to tell you that cannot afford to lose advertising. The day when I say let them go -- they need us more than we need them -- is long gone."

Mac knew that 20 years ago, the publisher had done just that. He'd stood down a major retailer over a story. The retailer pulled advertising for a month before conceding and returned to the pages. Now, the paper would run the risk that an advertiser would do just fine without newspaper ads and never come back. Or at least, that was the fear.

Whitman whistled through his teeth.

Janet leaned forward. "Kevin, when did you have breakfast with Parker? It's barely nine now."

"About 7 a.m. -- he said he knew I'd have to be in the office today." Kevin looked confused.

"Nevertheless we do have a reporter with questionable background under investigation on an attempted murder charge," the publisher began. "This does make the newspaper look bad."

Janet opened her mouth. The executive editor shook his head, and she closed it.

"Young man, do you have anything to say about this?"

Mac hesitated then replied, "I have been assigned to cover a story," he said. "I want to continue doing so. I did not shoot at Officer Donnelly. And I don't know where Kevin got the rest of the garbage. He'd better be able to back it up."

He glared at Kevin, who squirmed uncomfortably. He didn't meet Mac's eyes.

"I see." The publisher tapped his fingers thoughtfully. "We can't afford to be alienating our advertising accounts needlessly."

When several editors started to protest, the publisher raised his hand to stop them. "I'm not saying stop pursuing the story. But we have other reporters. Lots of them," he said somewhat sourly. "I think the best thing to do is to put Mac on leave with pay until the police clear him. I think we need to treat this as separate from the story, and let it be his personal business," the publisher continued. "We can re-evaluate this on Monday. By then, the police may know more."

"That's ridiculous," Mac protested. "I haven't done anything wrong!"

"Your credibility has been tainted," the publisher said, meeting his eyes. "If we tackle a public figure of this magnitude, we must be completely above reproach. It may be that you have done nothing wrong, but sometimes the appearances of things matter as much as the truth."

The executive editor nodded. "Janet, you and Steve work out how the investigation should best continue. Mac, take a couple of days off. Finish what you're writing and go fishing, or something."

Janet nodded, and stood up, leaving the room quickly. Mac followed her. Outside she leaned against the wall, breathing slowly to quiet the trembling in her legs. Mac was breathing hard.

"I cannot fucking believe it!" he said, his teeth clenched.

Whitman stepped out. "Calm down," he advised. "Let's get out of the hallway." He gestured toward his office.

"What are you going to do about Precious Kevin?" she asked, once inside.

Whitman's grin wasn't a happy one. "He'll be lucky if he's got a job in obits when I'm done with him."

"He'll be lucky if he isn't writing his own obit if I get my hands on him," Mac said. "That bastard is trying to take my story away from me!"

Whitman's smile warmed. "Is that what matters the most to you?" he asked curiously. "Kevin is trying to get you fired, and possibly lynched or at least jailed."

Mac shrugged. He'd been under fire before.

"So what are we going to do about the story?" Janet asked.

"Bob said it was up to us to decide how it was handled, didn't he? So, we continue with the investigation. "

"And the reporter? You want to use Jason?"

Whitman smiled. "I kind of like the reporter we've already assigned to it, don't you?"

Janet's smile was real for the first time that morning. "Suits me," she said. "How about you Mac?"

Mac looked at the two of them warily. "You mean me?"

"You're the reporter on the story aren't you?" Whitman said. "Did you hear the Exec Ed say anything about taking you off? The M.E.? Hell, even the publisher neglected to mention that."

"So that's why the exec cleared you two out so fast," Mac said, the light dawning. He smiled. It wasn't comforting, but neither Janet Andrews nor Steve Whitman were the least intimidated by a reporter going after a story.

"Yeah, so get the hell out of here before someone figures out the gaps in those instructions," Whitman said. He pulled out a business card, scribbled some additional numbers on it. "Call me or Janet if you need stuff. Don't come back to the office. You hear?"

Mac's smile was genuine as he took the card. The smile startled both editors. "I'm on it, boss," he said.

Mac returned to the newsroom, filed his cop blotter stories, shut down his computer. He looked out to the reception area. Three uniformed police and Rodriguez were standing at the front desk to the newsroom. Janet was talking to them with great agitation. Mac hesitated. Then he turned quickly and walked out the employees' back door.

Precious Kevin was coming out of the men's room when Mac passed by. "You are going to be in jail," Kevin hissed. "And I will come down and gloat in your face."

Mac looked at him. "If so, you better hope I don't get out. Because when I do, I'm going to come looking for you."

Kevin paled, stepped back. Mac pushed through the outer door without looking back.

He didn't know the police were looking for him, he told himself. He was not fleeing arrest -- not yet. But he needed to check on what Shorty and Danny had discovered this morning going through the file of material he'd accumulated on Parker.

He'd come in by bus that morning. Shorty's friendship could be counted on for a lot, but giving him a ride to work at 6 a.m. might be asking a bit much. He walked down the ramps of the parking garage, exited out a pedestrian door, and up to the bus station where he caught a bus out to his house after only a short wait.

He went in through the front door. Stopped. The place was completely tossed. The sofa pillows were on the floor. Cushions were cockeyed. A vase was on the floor, broken, the flowers wilted beside it. Mac picked up the vase pieces and dead flowers, dumped them in the trash. Books were pulled off the shelves and onto the floor. Mac winced. "Lindy will be pissed," he said out loud. The words echoed in the empty house.

Upstairs had also been thoroughly searched. Mac shook his head. Whoever had done this had not worried about being discreet. Thorough, he thought, looking at the slashed mattress in his room, but not discreet. The locked box under his bed was open, the weapons were gone. Mac picked up some of his clothes, tossed them in the hamper. Gave it up as a much bigger project than he had time for at this moment.

Mac went out to the parking area behind the house. The 4-Runner had been searched as well. The front seat was slit. Right, as if we had had time to hide anything there, Mac thought. "Fuckers," he said.

He went back in the house, found a blanket in the linen closet, took it out to the car. He spread it over the seat. Two tires were flat. Mac changed one using the spare, got a snow tire out of the garage to replace the other.

He popped the hood, checked everything carefully, looking for loose wires, extra wires. He checked the oil, rubbed some between his fingers. It all seemed good. He slammed the hood down.

Mac stood back, looking at the vehicle, thinking it over. He bent down, looked underneath. A bug. It figured. He popped it off, gave it a toss into the ditch. He went around the back, looked again. A second bug. He thought about that. Were they being careful? Or did he have more than one tracker? He looked around the car again, saw nothing more amiss.

He opened the driver's door, but didn't get in. Leaning over, he put his keys in the ignition, hesitated, then turned it over. He didn't know if he could outrun a bomb, but he was ready to give it everything he had.

The engine hesitated then revved. Mac waited, then sighed with relief. He got in, slammed the door shut.

Shorty's apartment was a one-bedroom place in an apartment complex the size of a small town, where you could easily walk into the wrong apartment if you didn't check the number every time you went home.

Well, not into Shorty's apartment. He had it locked, deadbolted, and safety chained at all times. Being a math teacher in a ritzy suburb hadn't erased the lessons he'd learned along side Mac and Toby. Seeing most of their b&e had been done in ritzy suburbs.... Mac knocked; it was Danny who let him in after checking the peephole.

Shorty had eggs and bacon going on the stove. "Aren't you back early?" he asked.

"They've put me on leave," Mac said grimly. "With pay. The police's questions have lessened my credibility, the publisher said."

"So what does that mean? We can throw away all this crap?" Shorty said gesturing to his dining area. The dining table was covered with the Parker file; Mac had still been at it when Shorty and Danny had called it a night. Apparently Shorty and Danny started reading things while he'd been running.

"No such luck," Mac said, snagging a piece of bacon. "Janet and some editor named Whitman want me to stay on the story."

Danny looked confused. "Don't they work for the publisher too?"

"Yeah," Mac said, grabbing another piece of bacon.

"Want some breakfast?" Shorty said dryly, and glanced at the clock. "Lunch actually."

Mac nodded and Shorty dished up three plates. Danny said over a mouthful of food. "Don't anyone down at your paper follow orders?"

It struck Mac funny, and he laughed. Danny and Shorty looked at each other. Mac sobered. "Not in the sense we learned to do," he said, then snickered again thinking of the near anarchy the newsroom lived in compared to the regimented life of the Marines.

"See anything?" Mac said, gesturing to the piles of paper.

Shorty punched another number into the calculator near him and hit total. He grunted, and sat back in his chair. "Kellerman told you Parker was running a coke factory for the good of America --he must of been, because he sure doesn't have anything financially to show for it," Shorty said. "He was over-extended when the 2007 crash hit. He was in the toilet. He's come back -- there really is something to be said for family money \-- but he's not as rich as people might think."

"Oh come on," Mac protested. "Big houses, retreat places. What do you mean, he's not rich?"

"I didn't say he wasn't rich, just not that rich. I pulled stuff from my online service. Inheritances, investments in real estate instead of stocks, nothing speculative ever," Shorty shrugged. "Quite frankly I don't think wealth is his thing."

"Power is," Mac said.

"That could be. I don't think he's dirty. Not on the take financially anyway."

Danny looked at Shorty. "You can tell all that from those things? I thought you just taught math."

Mac snorted. "How do you think he afford to drive a Lexus? Live in an apartment like this? On a teacher's salary? Shit, he's probably the only teacher in Bellevue who can afford to live in his school district. He does stocks."

Shorty took a bite of egg, swallowed. "Less trouble than stealing cars," he said. "Put me through college."

Danny shook his head. "What am I doing hanging out with you two brains?" he asked rhetorically. "Not anything going to put me through college. Damn near didn't make it out of high school. Kristy got the brains in our family. I just got the muscles."

"Well, she'd look damn silly with muscles like yours," Mac said, snagging another strip of bacon.

"Yeah. So where is she, oh brainy ones?" Danny said.

"It doesn't really matter if he was on the take or not," Mac said, thinking it through. "He's crossed the line now."

Shorty nodded. "Probably not for the first time," he agreed. "But not for financial gain."

The doorbell rang. Shorty looked up. "We expecting anyone?" he asked.

"It's your place," Mac said. "Caroline?"

A heavy fist pounded on the door. "Not Caroline," Shorty said.

"Open up. Police," a man called. "We have a warrant."

Mac looked around. "No back exit," he murmured. "What are you doing in a place with no second exit?"

"I'm a Bellevue school teacher, damn it," Shorty hissed. "I don't need back exits any more."

"You do now," Danny observed. "We going to sit here, or is someone going to answer that door?"

Shorty took a deep breath. "Coming," he called. "Don't break it down, I'm coming."

He parted the curtains of the front window and looked out. Two cruisers were in the parking lot, their lights flashing. A couple of uniformed officers were on the landing. They had weapons drawn.

Shorty frowned. Mac and Danny sat still, watching him. "Look officers, I'm going to open the door," he called from his position beside the door. "No one needs to get antsy. I don't know why you're here, but I'm sure it can be worked out quietly. Safely. OK?"

"Sure," one officer said agreeably. He didn't holster his sidearm, however. "We don't want any trouble. We have a warrant for the arrest of Mackensie Davis. He comes out, and we don't even need to come inside."

"What do you want him for?" Shorty asked.

"We're just helping out the Seattle P.D.," the officer hedged. "He's wanted for questioning, all I know."

Right, Mac thought. He cracked his knuckles. "Of course, officer. I'll be glad to cooperate," he called. Danny sighed with relief. What the hell did he think I was going to do, Mac thought sourly, start a gunfight right here?

Mac stood up, emptied his pockets, handed Danny everything. He took Janet's phone list out of his wallet. "Call her," he said tersely. "Have her get Leatherstocking down to the police station, ASAP."

Hell, the publisher had pretty much cut him loose, Mac thought. He jotted down another number on a piece of paper. Lot's of that, he thought, tearing off a corner. "And here's where to reach my aunt. If Janet...." he trailed off. Danny nodded with understanding.

Shorty pulled open the door, careful not to stand in front of it. No one fired.

Mac walked to the door, his hands held away from his body, visibly empty to police. "I'm Mac Davis," he said calmly. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

Two officers grabbed him; Mac let them. They angled him against the porch railing, patted him down. Mac submitted to the pat down; it was thorough. He didn't protest when they jerked his arms behind him and put cuffs on him. If you can let someone throw you in the Sound, you can submit to this, he reminded himself. For now.

With an officer on either side, Mac turned around to walk down the sidewalk. Curious faces peered out of neighboring windows. Mac ignored them.

Walking up the sidewalk, however, was someone he knew. "Rodriguez," Mac said tersely. "If you needed to talk to me, you could have just called. I came the last time."

Nick Rodriguez looked at him. "We're arresting you on charges of attempted murder," he said. He looked at one of the uniformed officers. "Read him his rights."

Mac paid no mind to the officer as he pulled a card from his chest pocket and read the familiar litany. He focused on Rodriguez. The detective met his eyes coldly.

"When did you decide you bought this cock and bull theory?" Mac asked when the officer was done.

"When we found your Glock with your prints on it, and matched to the bullet they pulled out of Donnelly's kitchen," Rodriguez said.

"What!" Mac said, startled. Prints -- that gun was clean when it went into that locked box. How the hell....

"We'll take over from here, officers," Rodriguez said to the uniformed officers from Bellevue. He gestured to two other detectives from the Seattle P.D. "Take him downtown and book him."

### Chapter 13

SEATTLE (Sunday, Dec. 1, 2012, 1 p.m.) -- The booking procedures hadn't changed much. Different jail, same assholes, Mac thought sourly as he submitted to a complete strip search. He dressed in jail garb, no belts, no shoestrings. Everyone was professional, no one commented even though some of them knew him, had been quoted in his stories. No one met his eyes. He was just as glad.

He wanted to scream I didn't do it! No one would believe him. Everyone in here said they didn't do it, regardless of whether they did or not.

Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, was Toby's advice when they ran the streets together. Of course, neither of them ever expected to do the time. He'd sat in a jail cell at seventeen, waiting to see if they were going to try him as an adult or treat him as a juvenile, listening to the sounds around him, and promising himself no matter what he'd never be in a jail cell again. No matter what he had to do to prevent it.

But here he was, in a holding cell with three other men. The door clanged shut, and Mac winced, showing expression for the first time since the police had knocked on the door.

"Well, well," began one of the other men, a white man with hell tattooed on his knuckles.

Mac stared at him, and he stopped in mid-sentence. He took in Mac's tattoos on his forearms, evaluated the muscles under the baggy prison pants and shirt. Mac continued to stare him down until the dude looked away.

Damn cold eyes, the man told himself. No use fucking with the psychos. He wasn't going to be in long; those eyes promised much more trouble than he needed.

"I want that bunk," Mac said, pointing to one where one younger white guy stretched out. He started to protest, looked at Mac, judged accurately his hair-temper and the muscles. When the older man said nothing, the younger man moved. The third man, a black man probably barely 20, looked at Mac with a half-smile.

"So what you charged with, boy?" he asked.

Mac moved in close and fast, grabbed the front of the man's shirt, jerked it up tight against his neck. The man squawked.

"I don't call you boy, you don't call me boy, you hear?" Mac snarled. It was a relief to attack something, anything. The young man saw the desire in Mac's eyes and he nodded quickly. Mac let go.

The older man, leaning back on his bunk, said, "So meaning no disrespect, what are they charging you with?"

"Attempted murder," Mac said flatly. "They think I tried to kill a cop." There was silence.

Mac stretched out and looked at the bunk above him. He could already feel the claustrophobia closing in on him. Being in a jail cell felt like being buried. No fresh air, the smells of men, vomit, piss, and disinfectant that did nothing to cover the other smells. No daylight. Just bulbs that would stay on 24-seven. No distractions, unless you could pick a fight with someone else, and that was likely to bring down more trouble than a person wanted -- either because you misjudged the person you attacked, or from the jailers. Mac didn't need more trouble. He was in plenty.

He tried not to think about the Glock. Should have reported it stolen, he berated himself. But no, you got sidetracked, didn't think that through. The prints disturbed him; they must have had the Glock when they threw him in the Sound, he figured. Shoot at Donnelly, find him, knock him out, press his fingers against the gun, toss him in, and then.... Had they just held onto the Glock as backup? Waiting to see if they needed to go that far? That kind of planning made Mac sweat. What else had they planted? How long ago had the frame started?

His face reflected none of the thoughts coursing through his mind. He stared at the bunk above him and tried not to put too much hope in Janet Andrews. It scared him that his freedom was riding on her. He did not like depending on anyone.

Hard enough to depend upon Shorty or other friends. Risky to count even on family. Janet Andrews? What was he to her? He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then focused on making his breathing even. There were cameras, someone was watching. He wasn't going to let them see him sweat.

He wasn't even sure he had a goddamn job, he thought, keeping his eyes on that bunk above him. If the publisher was shitting bricks over the police questioning him, what was he going to do when he found out he was actually in jail?

So much for going straight and clean living.

Jail. Mac could hear men's voices from other cells, although he'd effectively silenced his own cell. Shouts, incoherent, drunks still coming off their Saturday night spree. Talk, complaints, denials, swapping stories, bragging about what they'd done, what they would do. Mac closed his eyes. Even though the cells only had a real wall on one side and bars on the others, you really couldn't see much from cell to cell. The bunks took up most of the space. Mostly you heard the others, smelled them.

Juvie jail had not been much different. More hysteria, more sobbing. Lot's of bluster. The boys had whispered about what to expect, what to fear. About being someone's bitch for some bigger guy. About jailers, and work duties.

Mac, at 17, had been nearly full grown. He already had the tattoos on his calves, biceps and forearms. He was known. There were Crips in jail who knew him, knew his cousin. His cellmates had been wary, quiet. He had stayed silent, knowing the silence would be seen as fearsome. He would not look scared. Looking scared would be looking vulnerable. He wasn't going to let anyone see him flinch.

He and Toby had boosted a car -- a beautiful Mercedes coupe. A friend had a buyer in California. It hadn't been the first car they'd sent on its way south. Just the first time the cops had pulled them over. God damn taillights were out. The officer had scanned them with his flashlight, and rightly suspicious of two young men driving a fancy car, had called it in. A second patrol car joined them. Mac had wanted to run, but Toby made him sit tight.

"You're a juvenile," he had said, his voice low. "Don't add on trouble."

"You're not," Mac had protested. Toby had just celebrated his eighteenth birthday a few months before.

Toby just shook his head. "It ain't just about me, bro," he said. "It's what best for you and me. And it isn't good for you to be running."

Even though it had been Mac who had popped the lock and started the car, Toby had been the one to drive it. Seniority had its perks, he had said with a laugh, wanting the joy of driving one of the smoothest machines on the face of the earth. Mac had grinned and let him.

Toby got a five-year sentence, served eighteen months. Mac had gone through juvie court, charges were dropped but he remained under court supervision until he was eighteen. The court had been willing to let him join the Marines -- the Marines weren't taking car thieves -- and say good riddance, said the attorney his aunt had hired. Mac had stood it all stoically, knowing and hating it that he was getting off lightly while they threw the book at his cousin. Knowing that in part, it had been Toby's decision not to flee the scene, that made it possible for the attorney to get him off. Knowing that Toby took the fall for it all, so his younger cousin would have a second chance. He owed Toby. It didn't matter that Toby had gone back into the life, the gangs, the drugs, the dealing. He owed him big time.

"Mackensie Davis," a jailer said at the cell door. Two uniforms stood with him.

Mac opened his eyes, sat up. "Yeah."

"Rodriguez wants to talk to you," one of the officer said.

Mac rolled to his feet, went to the door. The jailer opened it, moved Mac out, locked the door again behind him. An officer put cuffs on him. "This way," he said and escorted Mac down the hall.

The interrogation room was small. The walls were gray cement block. The table with four chairs were gunmetal gray as well. The whole room looked battered and ill-used.

Rodriguez was standing off to one side talking to another detective when the officer escorted Mac into the room. Rodriguez looked up, gestured him to a chair. Mac sat down, a bit awkwardly because of the cuffs on his wrists. His balance was off; he slowed his moves to compensate. He rested his cuffed wrists on the table.

Rodriguez set a tape recorder in the center of the table. He sat down, turned it on. Identified himself and the other detective on the tape. The second detective pulled out a legal pad.

"This is Sunday, Dec. 2, 2012 at..." he paused, glanced at his watch, "4:30 p.m. The suspect, Mackensie Davis, was read his rights at the arrest." He looked at the uniformed officer standing next to the door. "Read them to him again, Stan."

Stan did.

Rodriguez continued speaking into the recorder. "If you want, you can have an attorney called to be present during this questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, the court will appoint one for you. Do you understand this?"

Mac nodded, and then at Rodriguez's scowl, said "Yes."

"Do you wish to call an attorney at this time?"

Mac hesitated. "Has Leatherstocking contacted you?" he asked at last.

"Not yet."

"Then no, I do not wish to call my attorney at this time," Mac said slowly. It was Sunday. Waiting for a court-appointed attorney would just lengthen it. Better to trust Janet to come through. He ground his teeth a bit, then forced himself to relax.

"You have been arrested on a warrant issued by the court based on information from the district attorney's office for the attempted murder of Detective Donnelly," Rodriguez said, avoiding Mac's eyes.

Mac's eyes narrowed. "What information was that?"

Rodriguez ignored the question. "Let's start by walking through your movements last Wednesday night."

"Got off work at 2 p.m. went to the gym. Worked out for two hours. Went home, listened to some music. Lindy came home, we had dinner. About eight I went to Johnnie's to play some pool."

"And then?"

Mac sighed and shrugged. "'Bout ten p.m. some dude came into the bar looking for me. A cock and bull story about his runaway daughter and that Donnelly had suggested me as someone who could help. Didn't make sense. Johnnie was sweating it because the dude looked like he had money, and the bar crowd was taking notice. So I took him outside."

"This isn't part of the story you told Friday," Rodriguez observed.

Mac shrugged. "When I walked out the door someone hit me with a blackjack. I came to as they were throwing me into the Sound. Worked my way south, got out. Called a buddy -- Shorty -- to come and get me. Lost my keys, wallet, everything in the Sound." He thought about that, gave a half shrug. "Or they rolled me while I was out. Whichever."

"So you did not lock your keys in your car as you told us."

Mac raised one eyebrow. "I said I was locked out of my car. That was true. I didn't figure the rest was any of your business and it made no sense."

Rodriguez showed no emotion. "So this Shorty took you home."

"Yeah. When we got there we found Lindy tied up to a dining chair all beat up." Mac's jaw tightened. He swallowed to loosen it enough to talk. "Took her to the hospital. By the time she was okay, it was time for me to go to work. Janet had me work the Donnelly story for the day."

Rodriguez tipped his chair back on two legs and looked at him. "We don't like it when people change their stories. Makes us suspicious."

Mac didn't flinch. He said nothing.

"Any witnesses to this?"

Mac thought. "Johnnie, Shorty. And the grocery owner, you know that elderly Chinese man runs an all night quick stop on Bell? He might remember that I came in all wet. Wouldn't let me use his phone. Had to call Shorty collect from a pay phone."

Rodriguez glanced at the other detective who wrote it down.

"You and Donnelly didn't get along."

Mac shrugged. "He's an as... a jerk," he said. "But no big deal, you know? He'd harass me when he saw me, but I didn't deal with him much."

"When did you hear he was building a profile of you? Did someone he talked to tell you?"

Mac frowned, puzzled and shook his head. "Didn't know until you told me, Nick. If he was talking to people, he was pretty good. My guess is he hadn't talked to my family or close friends or I would have heard."

Rodriguez let his chair come down with a thud. "But you were pissed at him when those dudes used his name to set you up."

"Sure," Mac admitted. "But, that was like, ten, eleven o'clock. The timing doesn't make sense. Whoever hit Donnelly was pissed off at eight o'clock. Wasn't me." Mac half laughed. "And I wouldn't have shot at him for it. I was toying more along the lines of beating some information out of him. Hard to get information out a guy when he's dead."

Rodriguez grunted.

"So explain how your Glock got to the crime scene."

Mac shook his head. "The thugs hit Lindy sometime about eight. Theoretically, they could have stolen the gun then. Timing would be tight." He thought about it, shook his head again. "Truth is, I don't know when the last time was that I looked in that box. It could have been stolen earlier."

"With your prints on it."

That was the piece that bothered Mac the most. But he wasn't about to admit that he knew the gun was clean when it had been in the box. "It is my gun," he said. "Stands to reason it might have had my prints on it."

"No one else's. No smudges."

Mac shrugged.

"How long you been dealing drugs at the Examiner?" Rodriguez shot at him suddenly.

"Dealing drugs at the Examiner?" Mac shook his head. "No way. That what Donnelly says?"

"Donnelly is still in a coma."

"Is that in his file on me?"

"The district attorney's office got a tip that said Donnelly was pursuing a lead to that effect."

Mac frowned. "Wouldn't you have known what he was working on?"

Rodriguez shrugged the question off without replying. "So you deny that you are dealing drugs."

"I'm clean."

"Prove it."

Mac shook his head. "Can't. You know that. Besides, I don't have to. You'd have to prove I'm dirty." Mac shrugged. "And you won't be able to do that. I'm not dealing."

"Toby Little. Who is he to you?"

Mac sat back a bit warily. "Cousin. Lindy's son."

"Vallejo says he's a dealer."

Mac looked at Rodriguez steadily. Finally Rodriguez said, "Well?"

"Was there a question you asked me?"

"Your cousin a dealer?"

"You have to ask him. If Vallejo thinks he is, they haven't busted him for it."

Rodriguez sighed with disgust. "You'd best cooperate. You're in deep here. We're going to bust your ass."

Mac said nothing. Rodriguez gestured to the uniformed cop to take him out.

Mac stood up carefully, started for the door. He turned back to ask, "You say the district attorney's office got a tip?"

"Yeah." Rodriguez didn't look up as he disconnected the tape recorder.

"Not you?"

Rodriguez looked at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. "You know something about this you aren't telling?"

Mac looked at him steadily. "Who's the other file on, Nick? If Donnelly pissed me off, who else is pissed?"

"Take him out of here." Rodriguez waved him off. When Mac glanced back, however, Rodriguez was standing in the door of the interrogation room watching him. He had a scowl on his face like something was bugging him.

"They're going to take you before the judge first thing in the morning, arraign you. Put you in the general population," the officer volunteered in a low voice.

"Quick."

"Yeah. You piss someone off big time?"

Mac snorted. "Maybe so."

His cellmates shut up when the jailer put him back into the cell. Mac ignored them. He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had been. Then he dropped on to his bunk to think.

His thoughts weren't good. Whoever was orchestrating this was determined to get him in the general population fast. Things happened to people there. The holding cells were watched. The assholes in this cell were typical lowlifes, petty shit, property crimes mostly, he'd guess. The long-term prison cells, however, although they were watched, there were blind spots, corners where the cameras didn't reach. The full spectrum of criminals was there; Mac had no illusions about what could happen in those cellblocks.

If someone wants me dead bad enough, it would happen, Mac thought, lying on his back, his arms folded under his head. Is Parker that connected? Enough to pull off a prison murder? It happened.

Shit, how did I get in this mess anyway? he wondered. Damn meeting this morning bothered him the most. He'd tried to fit in, to play by the rules there. Suspended. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Damn preppy little Kevin fit in. No one was busting his ass. Whitman might say he was going to fire the prick, but Mac would bet Kevin would still be there.

Did he really have friends there? Not like Shorty, of course, or even Danny or Troy. He occasionally went out after work with some of the sports writers. Had even gotten in to sit in the press box of a couple of Mariner games.

Janet Andrews. He'd worked for her mostly, although there were a couple of assistant news editors who rotated through the various shifts. He found them for the most part easy enough to work with. Beat assignment reporters like him had lots of autonomy. He kept his editors informed what he was working on. They told him stuff to do sometimes. Especially cops, the routines were driven by what happened in the city. He often worked the early morning shift, catching up on the things that went down the night before. Editors seemed pleased with his work. Suggested he learn to spell, occasionally. His performance reviews had been good; he'd gotten all the various merit pays each review.

I get along with people, well enough, he thought. But I don't belong, and they know it.

He wondered if he would ever belong anywhere. The gangs, the Marines -- he'd felt like he had a spot there. College? He snorted. Bunch of stupid little white kids whining because daddy didn't give them enough money. They had plenty of money to buy product.

He'd come to like the Examiner, he admitted to himself. He liked reporting even better than he had thought he would in college. Reporters were such an odd lot anyway, how could he not find a place to be?

"Hey Davis. You got a visitor. The detective says you can see her." The jailer opened the cell.

Mac stood up. Her? Must be Janet, he thought. He held out his wrists; restraints again. The jailer walked him down to a visitor's room.

He entered it, stopped in surprise. It wasn't Janet after all sitting on the other side of the glass divider. He sat down in the chair across from her.

"Jules," he said blankly. "What the hell are you doing here? Not that I'm not glad to see you."

Jules took a long shaky inhale. "I'm so sorry, Mac," she said in a soft whisper. He leaned forward to hear her. "I knew it was coming down. Was in the courtroom when they swore out the warrant, of all things. But I couldn't tell you. I'm sorry."

"Wouldn't expect you to," Mac said. "God, Jules, what do you think I am? I wouldn't ask you to risk your job, and probably a felony conviction."

"But you could have run, gone to Toby, gotten clear," she whispered. She looked around the room. They'd be listening, she was sure.

"Ancient history, babe," he said gently. "I'm too old for that kind of crap now."

"You're not mad?"

He shook his head. She took a deep breath and gave him a relieved smile.

She swallowed. "I talked to some friends. They say the tip to the D.A. came from a FBI agent. That's why they're taking it so seriously. "

"Name?" he said urgently.

She shook her head. He leaned back disappointed. "I also heard more about the file Donnelly was collecting -- you know the second file?"

He nodded.

"Well, it was a mess, not like yours. Yours was organized, had a list of exhibits inside the folder. Like he was summing it up?" At Mac's encouraging nod, she went on, "But the second file, it looks like he was just starting it."

"How'd you hear all this, J?"

Jules smiled. "A young cop."

"Go on."

"Well, my friend says, you can tell the chronology of when Donnelly found the stuff about you. And he says there's speculation about the two files, because it looks like something made Donnelly start looking at Parker, based on something he found in your file. Does that make any sense?"

"Yeah." Mac shrugged. "Probably something around 2005."

Jules frowned. "Maybe," she said slowly. "But the time Donnelly was focusing on with P... with the second file, was 2007."

"07?" Mac sat back in the chair. "I was back in Afghanistan."

"I don't know Mac, that's what the scuttlebutt says. That help any?"

Mac nodded slowly. "Everything helps." He smiled at her, saw her try to smile back. "You coming here, that means a lot."

Jules smiled then, touched the glass and then she was gone.

Mac sat quietly, thinking about 2007, until a jailer took him back to his cell. Not 2005. Well, how about that.

Dinner was served in the cells. Mac tasted it, shoved it away. The older man asked for it, Mac nodded. After the jailers came back for the trays, Mac dropped to the floor, slowly did 250 situps followed by 250 pushups. The floor was gross, but he couldn't stand the adrenaline pumping through his system with nowhere to go.

2007? he thought again as he laid back down on his bunk. Shit, the four of them weren't even together then.

He wished there was somewhere to pace. He did his best thinking when he was moving. 2007.

He almost sat up straight as it hit. It wasn't what he was doing in 2007 that was the key; it was what had Donnelly found Parker doing? Mac filed that away. He wouldn't find the answer in here. He needed out.

Jailers marched a prisoner down the aisle. He was a young druggie coming down hard, Mac guessed. He was sobbing and laughing at the same time. The guards put him in the cell next to his. The hysterical laughing, sobbing sounds were punctuated by retching. Mac closed his eyes. It was going to be a long, long night.

### Chapter 14

SEATTLE (Monday, Dec. 2, 2012, 8 a.m.) Nick Rodriguez replayed a tape of Mac's jail cell entrance. "Well?" Rodriguez said to the man standing next to him. "That look like a nice innocent kid to you?"

"Cut the shit, Rodriguez," Stan Warren said. "We both know the last time Mackensie Davis was innocent he was in diapers." He paused reflectively. "I might not even bet on that."

Rodriguez snorted. "He tried to kill a cop," he said stubbornly.

Warren shook his head. "He's being framed," he said with certainty. "Do you really think the man you just saw dominate a jail cell in less than two minutes would toss a weapon with his prints still on it? Where you would find it?"

Rodriguez shrugged, half-agreeing. "You're seeing him as a reporter. We've reason to believe that he hit Donnelly because he found out that Donnelly was getting close to exposing him as a drug dealer. "

"Currently?" Warren shook his head. "I don't think so."

"You admit he's dealt drugs in the past?"

Warren laughed at Rodriguez's indignation. "I didn't say he was an angel. I said he is being framed for Donnelly's hit. It takes him out of the action. I need him back in."

"You running him?"

"Right. I wish. No running that boy." Warren hesitated. "You read his military file?"

"Some. What Donnelly had of it."

"One piece isn't there, not all of it anyway. Command over there was conflicted about whether troops should be sent in to push Al Qaeda back. They'd push into the Afghani villages; we'd push them back out. Usual compromise: do a bit, but not enough. So a call comes in -- Al Qaeda had pushed into one of our strongholds again. Instead of sending in enough troops to do some good, they compromised by sending in one Marine Recon team to harass them, see if they'd leave."

"So Davis was on that team," Rodriguez prompted.

"Yeah, leader of it. He and his team identified the site, called in for an air strike. Command was still compromising, no air support. So Davis and his team took the site, turned it over the villagers. They learned there was another hot spot not far way, so they decided to check it out -- while command found their asses, I believe is how Davis described it later."

"Even then he had a way with words," Rodriguez said dryly. He'd served in Desert Storm and had a good idea of how command worked.

"Yeah. By the time Command caught up with the recon team to haul them home, they'd pushed them out of three villages. Davis got chewed out for superseding orders. And it disappeared from any known files. I got it from one of Davis' C.O.s. The Marines still tell stories about it. The C.O. I talked to still wonders what would have happened if they'd given Davis three more days."

"And why are you telling me this?"

Warren sighed. "I've got a problem. It isn't one I can solve through normal procedures. I've tried. My problem has connections you can't believe. Every piece of evidence that he's dirty is brushed off. And yet, I am increasingly convinced he cannot be allowed to hold Cabinet office."

"Who?" Rodriguez asked.

Warren shook his head. "You don't want know." He looked back at Mac. "There is a very happy wolf wearing sheep clothes. He likes being among the sheep. He doesn't bother them. The sheep think he's just like them. And he likes that. Regular meals, safety, dry place to sleep. What's not to like?"

"Just say it straight, man."

"I need a predator. He's the one I've got. I need him to take off the sheep mask and go hunting. He can't do that from jail."

"Can't just turn him loose," Rodriguez objected. "Too much evidence, too much...."

"Pressure from above?" Warren finished softly. "See what I mean?"

Rodriguez sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

Warren smiled. "Someone from the newspaper will probably spring him. Don't oppose bail. "

Rodriguez nodded slowly. "Then what?"

Warren said, "Then stay out of the way. Getting between a predator and his prey is dangerous."

An officer stuck his head in the observation room. "Both Leatherstocking and the assistant DA are here, Nick."

Rodriguez nodded, waving the officer away. "You want to sit in on the questioning?"

"Nope," Warren said. "The farther behind the scenes I am the safer I am." He joined Rodriguez and they walked down the hall together.

### Chapter 15

SEATTLE (Monday, Dec. 3, 2012, 9 a.m.) \-- Mac again was escorted to an interrogation room, a larger one, with a wooden table, and chairs that matched. More people in the room today.

"That's not necessary," Leatherstocking objected to the cuffs. The officers ignored him. Mac sat in a chair, his hands cuffed in front of him.

"I'd like to talk to my client before we proceed," Leatherstocking said, apparently repeating an earlier request. That too was ignored.

Mac looked around the table. Leatherstocking sat to his right, perfectly dressed as usual. Rodriguez didn't look as hostile as he had when he'd arrested Mac. Mac noted the change, but couldn't guess why it might have occurred. The third man at the table was a young man from the district attorney's office. Jim Peterson? Something like that. Mac had watched him try a case once; not one of Seattle's more impressive legal minds.

Mac leaned over to Leatherstocking, ignoring the other two. "I don't want to talk to them," he said firmly. "I need out of here. Get me arraigned, bail posted and out."

Leatherstocking shook his head. "Unless they've got more than they did, you could walk out of here without charges. You don't want a record."

Mac snorted. He looked at Rodriguez and Peterson. "They think they've got more," he said. "They found my Glock with my fingerprints on it. It matched the bullet in Donnelly's place."

Leatherstocking raised an eyebrow. "So your gun was stolen during the burglary the other night?" He said it loudly enough to be heard.

Mac smiled in appreciation. "Apparently. But there's bound to be more. I need to be out of here -- before the frame gets worse."

Leatherstocking looked at Mac considering. Mac met his eyes easily, but he couldn't tell what the older man was thinking. Leatherstocking nodded slowly.

"Gentlemen, I am advising my client to be silent," he said, turning back toward the table. "Either arraign him or release him."

Peterson shrugged. "So be it. See if there's a judge who can hear it. I'm ready."

Rodriguez said mildly, "Are you sure you've got a case, Jim?"

Everyone stared at him.

"Case? God damn I have a case!" Peterson said indignantly. "You thought I had a pretty good case yesterday."

Rodriguez shrugged. "Been thinking. Some things don't add up right. Been nice how this case fell into the DA's lap on a Sunday morning."

Mac leaned forward, put his elbows on the table and listened. This was getting good, he thought. What was with Rodriguez?

"We have the weapon. It matches, and it has his fingerprints on it. We know what Donnelly was investigating scared him. We know when and how and why. That isn't a case?"

"Donnelly awake and talking?" Mac asked.

"No, he's still in a coma," Rodriguez answered, still mild.

"So how did you determine what it was that Donnelly had?"

"We got a tip," Peterson said. "And it's checking out. Right down the line."

Mac sucked on the inside of his cheek. How much more would Peterson spill before he woke up and shut up?

Leatherstocking injected a question. "All this on an anonymous tip? You're a trusting soul, Jim."

"Wasn't anonymous," Peterson said triumphantly. Rodriguez stiffened at that comment. News to him, Mac thought. He isn't going to like that. "And this is a case you're going to lose, Leatherstocking. To me."

Leatherstocking sighed and stretched. "I doubt it. But I've lost before; my ego can handle it." He looked at his Rolex. "It's getting late, gentlemen. Let's getting moving. Still isn't too late to turn him loose."

Rodriguez looked as if the idea had appeal but said nothing. Peterson just snorted, and gathered up his files. Rodriguez motioned to the police officers to take Mac to the courtroom holding cell. "This way, gentlemen," he said sardonically to the other two.

It took a half-hour to get before the judge. Leatherstocking was looking at the courtroom door with concern when Mac took his seat beside him. "Thought she'd be here by now," Leatherstocking said under his breath.

"She?"

"Janet Andrews. She had to go to the office first for some meeting about this. She should be here by now."

Mac looked at him. "You talk as if you know her. Personally."

Leatherstocking glanced back at the door. "Janet's been with the paper a long time. She's one of the best editors there, best in the state, in my opinion. When the Examiner gets hauled into court, I always try to get her to be the one who takes the stand. She thinks fast, understands nuances. Damn good at handling cross examination."

Mac nodded. "They going to let me post bail?" he asked. "Will the newspaper stand bail? Or do I need to get a hold of my aunt?"

Leatherstocking doodled a minute on his legal pad. "We'll see if Janet's here before then. We've still got the arraignment."

"That won't take long," Mac said.

Paterson presented the charges to the judge. Mac said not guilty. The issue of bail brought protests from Paterson.

"This is a man who is accused of trying to kill a police officer to protect his drug dealing activities," Paterson said. "We request no bail."

Leatherstocking rose languidly. "If the state thinks my client is a drug dealer why are there no charges? It is inappropriate to make such slanders of character when the district attorney's office is unwilling to even charge him with the crime. We request bail be set at a reasonable amount. My client is a respected reporter for the Seattle Examiner. He is a decorated Marine with family here. And he is innocent. He has no reason to run away from these accusations."

Leatherstocking sat down. Paterson repeated his concern about turning loose a possible cop killer. Mac leaned over. "Can you call a witness?"

Leatherstocking shrugged. "Sure. But Janet still isn't here."

"Call Rodriguez."

Leatherstocking raised an eyebrow at Mac, turned and looked at the police detective. "Are you sure?"

"No. But I'm willing to risk it. He's different than he was when he picked me up yesterday morning. He's been having second thoughts about something."

Leatherstocking nodded. He stood up, was recognized by the court. "Your honor, we'd like to call Detective Rodriguez to the stand. I believe his views of my client and the case against him might be instructive."

Rodriguez started, gave Mac an odd look. He approached the witness stand and was sworn in. Paterson was spluttering. Leatherstocking approached the detective as if it were a normal step to call a detective as a witness for the accused.

"This case has moved quite rapidly since Friday, hasn't it?" Leatherstocking asked easily. Peterson objected as not germane to the issue of bail. The judge agreed.

"Do you oppose bail for my client?" Leatherstocking asked directly.

Rodriguez hesitated. "No," he said at last.

Peterson objected; the judge overruled him.

"Why?" Leatherstocking asked.

"I don't think the accused is likely to run," Rodriiguez said uncomfortably. "He has too much at stake here. His Marine record speaks for itself. He's employed. His roots are here, his family, his friends."

Leatherstocking looked at the detective for a moment, but then walked back to his chair. "No more questions."

Peterson stood up, opened his mouth, shut it. Tried again. He shook his head and sat down. "No questions."

The judge looked at Mac. Mac met his eyes squarely. "Bail is set at $100,000. Will the Examiner be posting your bail?"

Leatherstocking looked back at the door once again. "That is our current intention, your honor," he said without a blink. Mac looked at him out of the corner of his eyes. Something wasn't right, he thought, then laughed to himself. Shit, a lot wasn't right about this scene. But then, why would Leatherstocking even expect the Examiner to post bail for a reporter on suspension?

"She'll be here," he whispered to Mac in reassurance, as he headed to the clerk's office to do paperwork to post bail. Mac wondered which of the two of them he was trying to reassure. Mac reached for his legal pad, scribbled down Lindy's address and a phone number where she could be reached.

"Just in case," he said. Leatherstocking nodded.

The bailiff and Rodriguez escorted Mac back to the jail. "You put me on the spot," Rodriguez observed. "Peterson is going to be after my neck on that one. Why?"

Mac shrugged it off. "You seemed to be having some second thoughts," he said. "And that asshole pisses you off anyway."

Rodriguez laughed, gave him a sloppy two-fingered salute and left Mac to sit alone in a holding cell and wait.

Now that he had time to consider the whole thing, Mac too wondered why Janet wasn't at the arraignment. Obviously she'd managed to call Leatherstocking and get him down there. In spite of the suspension. Did Leatherstocking even know about that? Mac's shoulders were tight, hunched. He tried to loosen them, thought about dropping and doing pushups, but didn't want to entertain the guards who might be watching. It was all Mac could do not to pace. He wanted out. He wanted to get his hands around Parker's throat and choke some answers out of him.

It took an hour before he was allowed to change back into street clothes and be escorted out of the lockup. Janet was standing next to Leatherstocking when he got to the waiting room. He was enormously relieved to see her. "What took you so long?" he asked curiously, as the three walked out into the sunlight. It was mid-morning and the unseasonable dry weather was still holding. Seattle was a pretty city, even if it did rain for eight months of the year, and it had never looked better. Mac sighed with pleasure.

"Complications at the office," Janet said vaguely and changed the subject. "I called your friend Shorty back. He should be here to pick you up." She looked around, pointed to a battered pickup. "There."

Mac stopped, looked at the pickup. "You've got to be kidding. Where did Shorty come up with that?"

Janet laughed. "It's mine actually. I use it to haul garbage to the dump, that sort of thing. Shorty wanted a ride that wasn't connected to you. He seemed to think my truck was the perfect camouflage."

Mac laughed, shook his head. "Shit, I guess. No one would think either of us would be caught dead driving that thing. It ever occur to you to wash it? Maybe paint it?"

"Nope," Janet said cheerfully. "You still got my numbers and Whitman's? Don't forget -- call us direct. We've got a leak at the office."

"Precious Kevin?" Mac asked.

Janet shrugged. "Be my first guess. Speaking of stories, how are you doing on nailing down one in this mess? In between jail time, I mean."

Mac rolled his eyes. "I'm on it, boss," he said, and headed for the pickup. He stopped, looked at it and shook his head. Danny leaned over and opened the passenger door for him.

Janet and the attorney watched them drive off.

"You going to tell him you personally stood bail for him?" Leatherstocking asked quietly.

"He's not big on trust, you know," she said, watching the pickup jerk as Shorty mastered the cantankerous truck. "He doesn't need to know that the paper is being an asshole."

Leatherstocking squeezed her shoulder. "They'll come through in the end," he said confidently. "They really are pretty good journalists."

Janet nodded. "I know. But sometimes timing is the important part. Actually, as many strings as Parker is pulling, I'm surprised bail was even allowed."

Leatherstocking frowned thoughtfully. "There's more than one string-puller, I think," he said slowly. He looked at his watch. "Got to run. Keep me posted. And I won't bill these hours until the Examiner gets its head out of its collective ass."

Janet laughed. "Good. Bail is one thing, but I can't afford your rates."

### Chapter 16

SEATTLE (Monday, Dec. 3, 2012, noon) — "What? You think this is an undercover rig?" Mac asked as he climbed in the pickup. Danny slid over, shoved Mac's backpack toward him with his foot. Mac reached in, checked to make sure his weapons were still in place. Comforted by their feel, he leaned back against the seat.

"Not anybody going to believe I'm driving it, is there?" Shorty said. He swore as the pickup jerked when he let out the clutch. "And nobody going to believe they let you out of jail once they had you. I figure we're as undercover as we get."

Mac snorted. "Aren't you supposed to be at school? Teaching the future of tomorrow?"

"Called in sick. They got a sub," Shorty said briefly, not looking at Mac.

Mac nodded, didn't pursue it. Shorty took teaching seriously for all the jokes. Mac doubted he'd ever taken a sick leave day before. The school would be sure he was in the hospital -- probably raising a collection for flowers already.

"Any thoughts about where we find Parker?" he asked instead. "Or his two hostages?"

"I'd guess at his home on Lake Washington," Shorty said. He exited onto Highway 520 to go over the bridge. "That's got enough security to stop anything short of an armed invasion -- and even then I'd want a tank. We can see it from the bridge in a bit."

He gestured to Danny who pulled out an Examiner article about the house when it was built, and spread it out on his lap.

"Look," Shorty said, jabbing at the plot line. "It's built back from the Lake. You can see it from the water; sits back with probably 50 yards of open ground between the shore and the house. The house is huge, 30,000 square feet. You could fit a fucking Nordstrom in it. Electrified fences on both property lines, with an electrified gate at the top. The house is one-third up the hill; cars park at the top off the road -- and it's a dead-end road -- every thing is hauled down to the house in a little train. A guard station at the top of the hill; and a second one at the house -- both ends of the tram. If our embassies were designed this well, we'd quit having people killed in them."

"Keep your hands on the wheel," Mac said, studying the drawing and pictures. "But he's not rich?" he added sarcastically.

Danny grinned.

Shorty shrugged. "Maybe I'm getting jaded by teaching in a high school where the kids get a Mercedes coupe for their 16th birthday," he admitted. He pointed out the windshield to the south of the bridge. "There. That's the house."

He slowed down as much as he could, but it still didn't give them much of a look. A big white house sitting on the slope to the water. A security cabin at the top of the slope was just barely visible.

"We need a better view," Danny said, as they passed the view and on to the shore.

Shorty nodded. "Best way to do that is by water. We can rent kayaks at Enatai Beach." He tapped the map. "It's just a couple of miles down the shoreline from there. Just innocent duffers out kayaking."

"In December," Mac added dryly.

"Feels like kayaking in a rowboat," Danny grumbled as they launched the rental kayak. It was a cold gray day; the beach caretaker had been surprised anyone wanted a kayak at all, but he took their money and hauled out the three tubs.

"Most folks who rent here want something stable," Shorty said. "These things are stable."

"Like I said, rowboats," Danny said as he began to paddle. "Red, plastic rowboats."

Mac said nothing, focusing on getting an even stroke going and as much speed as possible out of the tub. Danny shut up to concentrate on catching up with him. Shorty drifted along behind.

The shoreline was dense with fancy houses, each one more elaborate than the next it seemed. It took fifteen minutes before the three of them reached the Parker place.

"Man oh man," Danny said, letting his kayak drift while he looked up at the white mansion on the hill. "They don't make them like that in Shreveport."

It looked even more unassailable in reality than it had on paper, Mac thought. He saw no way to breach it from the shore. Too much open territory. He drifted closer.

"Careful," Shorty warned softly. "Someone with a pair of glasses might spot you."

Mac nodded and started his kayak on to the north. He went almost to the 520 bridge before the chop forced him to turn around. He headed back south to the rental shop. They slowed again as they passed the Parker house.

Mac shook his head.

The three of them waited to talk until they were back in the pickup. Shorty turned the heater on; it was cold on the water even if the weather was dry for the season. Nothing happened. He cursed, hit the dashboard above the heater with the flat of his hand. The fan kicked on.

"We aren't going to be able to just sneak in there," Danny said, stating the obvious.

"No shit," Mac said. "Let's take a look at the top."

Shorty navigated the twisty turns onto Bellevue Way, then chugged along past the high school where he taught and then through city center. He turned west, slowing to 20 miles per hour, as he followed the road along the backside of Medina, a neighborhood even ritzier than Bellevue proper. The road was narrow and busy. Moms in their Volvos and BMWs transporting kids. Traffic slowed to a crawl, made worse by traffic cops sitting along in key spots to prevent folks from going too fast through the neighborhood.

Mac slouched in his seat. These white flight neighborhoods make him itchy. Take your money out to the suburbs, then incorporate so you could run your own town and schools and not let your tax dollars go to support those other people. Those less fortunate. He mimicked their precise, prim voices in his head. Here there were no potholes under the swings at the elementary school. The high school could offer French and Spanish and Latin. And had money for chemistry labs. Shit. Wasn't that way down in the city schools. Made Mac glad he covered cops where the good guys and the bad guys came better labeled.

Then he thought about his current situation, and decided maybe that wasn't true on the cop beat anymore either.

The Parker place was the third house from the end of the road. Shorty drove by silently. Turning around required backing up. Danny winced and shook his head. Shorty stopped.

"Well?" he said.

Mac frowned. "We aren't going to be pulling any frontal assault on this place either. The people who built those gates were serious."

The three of the sat silently, watching the house, or to be more exact, watching the gate and guardhouse.

"Someone's coming out," Danny said suddenly. The gate slowly swung open, and a small van, with tinted windows, pulled out. The gate closed behind it.

"Follow it?" Shorty asked.

Mac nodded. "Don't let them see you," he cautioned.

Shorty rolled his eyes. "Yes, boss."

The van wasn't headed to any place particularly interesting -- the local Safeway store. Mac studied the two who got out. These men hadn't been out of the military long. The haircuts, the well-muscled shoulders, they might as well been in dress uniform. He didn't recognize them, but they were young, and he'd been out a long time. Seemed like forever.

"Now why do you suppose Parker has guards like that running for groceries?" Mac said softly.

"Janet said if Parker is here, he's not admitting it," Shorty said. "I like your boss by the way, even if she treats this pickup like shit. Official word is that Parker is in D.C."

"I think he's here," Mac said. "He wouldn't let someone else run this operation. He's here somewhere. Although probably not at the house. So just who are they feeding at the Parker residence?"

"Don't go leaping to conclusions," Danny said. "He probably has live in help and guards and all kinds of people running that place even when he isn't there."

Shorty grinned. "Even in this neighborhood, however, you generally don't send the Marines out for your beer and pizza."

"Ex-Marines," Danny corrected. "Be my guess."

Mac nodded. "Especially in this neighborhood," Mac corrected, still watching the van. "That's something the household help can usually handle."

Danny nodded in agreement. "I'd say we've found them."

"Bingo," Mac said.

The two guards loaded groceries into the back of the van, climbed in front and drove away.

"So now that we know where they are, how are we going to get them out?" Shorty asked.

"This isn't the ideal vehicle for being inconspicuous outside that gate. And we need to watch for awhile," Mac said. "Any bright ideas?"

The three sat silently.

Shorty sighed. "We need a green van -- road maintenance thing. It's the only thing that no one would notice."

Mac nodded. "Set up a couple of barricades around a rough spot in the road, look bored, and barely busy. That would work."

"Jules still working at parks and rec?" Shorty asked. "Their vans would pass."

"No, she's working as a court reporter. Did the training and everything," Mac said. "Besides, she told me not to call her again until I was back to being Clark Kent."

Danny snickered.

Shorty sighed. "I guess I got to call my old man, then, huh."

"What's he do," Danny asked.

"What do you think a first-generation Filipino does in this town?" Shorty said sarcastically. "He's a gardener. We can borrow some stuff, make this pickup look like yard service."

"No gardener in this town would drive this rig," Mac said disgustedly. "Not with out a fresh coat of paint, at least. And we can't drive one of your dad's -- they might trace it back to him."

Shorty grimaced, but didn't disagree.

"How hard would it be to hot-wire a city truck?" Danny asked.

Mac ignored that -- he was on bail for God's sake, he wasn't going to hotwire a truck. He reviewed what he needed: A way to discreetly run surveillance on a place built and guarded by paranoids. Then the itch in his brain made itself noticed and he grinned.

"Son of a bitch," he said softly. Not discreetly. "We're going to run a press stakeout."

"Say what?" Shorty asked.

Mac laughed. The answer wasn't in his past, but in his present. "Let me use that cell phone," he said.

Parked down the street from Parker's mansion, the three sat in the pickup while Mac spent an hour on the phone, and Shorty and Danny watched. He talked to Janet first. She promised to make a few calls, send a reporter and a photographer.

"By the time you get done it probably will generate news anyway," she said.

Mac then called a buddy at a television station. "You heard the news?" he asked casually. "Howard Parker -- you know him? -- he's going to be nominated for Secretary of Homeland Security. Coming into town today, supposed to be an announcement tomorrow."

Mac listened for a moment, laughed. "Yeah, I'm going to be staked out at the house for the afternoon and evening. We'd like to have it in the paper when it hits the streets."

At a second station he was an anonymous tipster. At the Seattle Times, he told the political reporter he was a press agent for Parker.

Mac was still making calls when the first television truck slowly rolled past them. Mac grinned. "How's that for a beautiful sight?"

"I don't get it," Danny said, confused. "You want witnesses to us breaking and entering?"

Mac grinned again. He felt high with the sheer joy of making up the news. "You've never seen a cluster fuck like a news stakeout, Danny Boy," he said with glee. "You remember the Iraqi War, don't you?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So watch what happens."

It was a satisfying gang-bang of a press stakeout, Mac thought, as he surveyed the scene. Within a few hours of his first call, three television stations were there with their trucks; reporters were doing stand ups in front of the gate to Parker's place.

Janet had kept her word. The Examiner had a photographer and another reporter there. Both ignored Mac. Or maybe just didn't see him. The Times had a couple as well. A helicopter flew over.

"We're outside Howard Parker's place on Lake Washington," one big-eyed, brown-haired reporter said breathlessly into her microphone. "Rumor has it that Parker will be arriving here sometime in the next hour or so to make an announcement about a possibility of a spot on the President's new cabinet."

Mac led the way through the throng, pausing to listen to the various stand ups going on. If television was lucky, there would be something for the 6 p.m. news, with more to come for the news at eleven.

A couple of radio guys were setting up microphones next to the King 5 truck.

"This could be a big plus for the region," said another television reporter, a young black man, who gazed earnestly into the camera lens. "Howard Parker has been a loyal favored son to the region...."

"Hot damn," Shorty breathed as he squeezed through the throng behind Mac. Danny trailed along behind the two of them. Another van pulled up. Not media, this time, Mac noticed. Protesters. Even better. Who's inspiration was this? Janet's? He grinned.

The protesters had hastily made picket signs \-- "Americans Have Rights Too." Generations too late for that one, Mac thought sarcastically. "Democracy for Americans Now" and "Stop Spying on Americans." The protesters organized themselves into a group and then pushed through the media to reach the front gates. A few cameras turned in their direction; a couple of reporters headed that way. Some protesters moved closer to the fence. A better backdrop for the photo op, Mac observed.

"We want Parker. We want Parker now!" the protesters chanted. "Say hell no, you won't go."

Mac worked his own way slowly through the crowd, headed toward a position close to the gates, but next to the property line. He had a camera around his neck, a notebook in his hands; no one paid any attention to him. He shouldered his way to the spot he wanted, stopping the protest of the Associated Press reporter with a raised eyebrow. Danny and Shorty stopped beside him, and the AP reporter faded back, grumbling quietly.

"Now what?" Danny asked.

"We wait. We watch." Mac looked around, the crowd was growing. An officer pulled up in a marked car. He sat quietly, watching. Seattle area police had learned that it was not a good idea to bust up a protest with the media watching. It looked bad to the folks at dinner.

Mac frowned at the cop's arrival. He didn't want cops breaking up his game. He made a mental note to not make any noise. This had to be a silent b&e. Well, he listened to the escalating noise around him. Somewhat silent. The chanting of the protesters got louder.

Shorty took a step back and into the bushes of the house next door. He stuck his head out. "I think I can go down along this property line and stay hidden," Shorty said. "There might be a break in the fence."

Danny grinned. "I can about guarantee a break," he said, pulling a knife out of his pocket.

"Right. With a pocket knife."

Danny smirked. "Wildcatter's pocket knife," he explained. "We don't just cut string out there."

Mac nodded to the two of them. "See if you can find a likely spot. Cut it open but don't go through until I get there. We need a diversion."

"And how will you do that?" Danny asked.

"You'll know when you hear it." And so will I, Mac thought with amusement.

Danny followed Shorty who was already disappearing into the shrubs that lined the property line.

Mac turned to the AP reporter who still wasn't far away. "I hear Parker is actually inside," he said casually. "What do you hear?"

The AP reporter shook his head. "Heard he's due in about supper time."

"I don't know," Mac said. "I saw a limo pull away just as we were arriving."

"Really?" The AP reporter turned to his right. "Hey, Jacobs, you hear anything that Parker may have snuck in earlier today?"

"No shit?" the reporter from the CBS affiliate said. The noise level was getting intense and he had to shout back. "That would figure. When's he going to come out? I got a deadline to make, you know?"

"What did you say?" another reporter called over. "Parker's here? Well, get him out here."

A cameraman from NBC put his lens through the gate bars, to film some footage. His soundman banged on the gate. "Come on, guys, open up. We want to talk to Parker!"

Some of the protesters helpfully amplified the request. "We want Parker!"

The guard didn't respond. "Hey, you in the guardhouse," a reporter yelled. "Is it true? Parker's going to be on the President's cabinet?"

Come on, come on, Mac thought in frustration. Respond. The banging on the gate got louder. More vehicles pulled up along the street. There wasn't any way to get a vehicle out through that. Security wasn't going to be following them, once they got what they came for. Janet's rattlebang pickup was parked in a driveway two blocks down; the house had looked vacant. Mac hoped it stayed that way.

Finally, the guard came out of the guardhouse and up to the gate.

"Mr. Parker is not here. We don't expect him, either," the young guard said. He was private security, not the same caliber as the two earlier.

Two groups then, Mac observed. Say four to eight Marines? For a 24-seven shift. Maybe. Another set of on-site security. Two? Maybe four. They'd rotate home.

"Right. Well you'd better expect him," said the NBC reporter, putting her hands on her hips. "He's on his way. Unless, of course, he's already here."

The guard glanced at the pretty woman who made nightly appearances on his television station. "Believe me," he insisted. "He's not here."

Two protesters used the guard's distraction to boost a third over the gate. The man inside started trotting down the slope to the house, a poster held high over his head. Don't send Parker, it said. The cameras immediately focused on him.

"Stop!" the guard ordered. He started to pull his weapon, looked at the television cameras behind him and thought better of it. "You're trespassing!"

The protester didn't hesitate as he continued to trot down the slope to the house. The guard spoke into his lapel button, and headed down the slope after his prey. Behind them, the other protesters shouted encouragement to their colleague and jeered at the guard. Three others tried to climb over the fence as well.

Mac grinned, and slipped down the fence line to find Danny and Shorty.

### Chapter 17

SEATTLE (Monday, Dec. 3, 2012, 6 p.m.) — Danny and Shorty had a hole cut in the fence at the base of the hill, parallel to the water end of the house. Less than 30 feet from the fence was some kind of patio/deck with a big glass door into the house.

"Any problems with the fence?" Mac asked, looking at the hole. He could still hear the melee at the top of the hill.

"Nah, they turned off the electricity to the gate when the reporters showed up, I guess," Danny said. "Stupid shits have the gate wired to the same circuit as the fence. Can't turn one off without turning off the whole shebang."

"Thank God for stupidity." Mac described the scene above.

"We going to go in now with all the fuss up there or wait?" Shorty asked.

Mac hesitated. The guards would most certainly be distracted now; but he wasn't used to running a rescue operation with the whole world watching -- or at least three dozen media people. If they waited, however, the guards would turn on the fence and notice the hole.

"We've got to go in now," he said finally. "Get them out while the guards are busy."

"The guards may be busy, but what about the others?" Danny asked. "There's two sets, here. Parker's usual security guards, and some hot-shot squad watching their captives."

"That's how I figure it," Mac agreed. "They've got to be somewhat distracted, too. They're human. You can't have all that going on without watching it, thinking what to do if someone does make it to the house and finds two kidnapped victims."

Danny shook his head doubtfully. "It's Kellerman," he said. "Do you think he'll link the media with you?"

"You want to back out?" Mac said. "It's your sister, your call."

"No," Danny conceded. "You're right. This is likely to be the best chance we get."

Mac turned to look at the house and yard. The door looked good. Too good. Still, the house had been built for a family to live in, not as a jail. He scanned the side of the house. Large-paned windows marched along the wall. About midway up the slope, a wing of the house jutted out toward the property line. Mac visualized the assessor's diagram. That was a guest suite, he figured, and above it was another one.

"Okay," he said. "Shorty, b&e time. You go for that door. It's probably alarmed. When the alarm goes off, you head back here and wait. Danny and I are going in through the windows of that bedroom suite there. Kristy and Troy might be there, or more likely, upstairs above it. We're going after them. When they come out, you grab them and get gone. Don't wait for us. Get them out of here."

Shorty nodded. "What about you?"

"We'll be right behind them, but if we get held up, we'll meet you back at my place."

"Should've brought two vehicles," Danny grumbled. "I hate walking home."

"We've done it before. At least it ain't no fucking desert. We've got 7-Eleven to get drinks all along the way."

Danny laughed, worked his shoulders to loosen them, and nodded to Shorty. "Go for it, man," he said.

Shorty darted out across the yard, flattening himself along the house wall. Mac nodded at him, and he went for the door. "He's got good hands for this," he murmured, his eyes intent on Shorty.

"Yeah, but has he used them since he was seventeen?" Danny asked. "He's a goddam math teacher now."

Mac grimaced. He and Danny weren't no fucking Marines any more either. He watched carefully. The door cracked open a hair. Mac sprinted toward the guest wing with Danny on his heels. He was vaguely aware that Shorty was already half-way back to the hole in the fence.

The windows were shoulder high. Danny went up on Mac's shoulders, put a rock through one. He slashed at the grid between panes with his knife until they gave way. He crawled in, and then gave Mac a hand up.

Mac looked around the room -- bedroom. Empty. He set his backpack on the floor, pulled out the two nines and handed one to Danny. He motioned to the door; Danny nodded, took up position beside it. Mac framed the other side, reached over and pulled the door open. Nothing happened. Danny peered around the edge, motioned clear and went through the door. Mac waited a five count and followed him. The bedroom opened into a sitting room; another door to the left turned out to be a bathroom. All vacant. Mac took point for the next doorway -- to a main hall with a staircase at the end. It was all quiet. Too quiet. He checked a door on the other side of the hallway -- another empty bedroom.

A door at the lake end of the hall was locked from the other side. They'd apparently separated this wing from the other. Now if they were just in the right side of that door.... Piece of cake, Mac thought wryly.

He motioned Danny toward the steps to the next floor. Leapfrogging from wall to wall, the two of them went up cautiously.

The third door they tried upstairs yielded results. In a large, walk-in closet, Kristy and Troy were tied to chairs and gagged.

Danny untied Kristy's hands while Mac stood guard at the door. Kristy jerked of her gag and threw her arms around Danny. Tears ran down her face. No sound, however, Mac noticed with approval. Mac cut Troy loose.

"Glad to see you man," Troy said softly, shaking out his hands and arms. "What's going on out there? We were all fixing a late lunch when they hustled us in here and tied us up."

"Just a little diversion," Mac said tersely. "Getting in here wasn't just an Avon call."

"You're Mac, right?" Kristy said, keeping her voice down as well. "Danny tells stories about you."

Mac grinned at her, and her eyes widened at how it warmed his face. "They are probably true," he said. "Don't hold it against me, okay?"

She smiled back tentatively.

"We getting out of here?" Danny said, looking at his sister and his old friend.

Mac nodded. He lined himself out against the door to the hallway, and gave the all clear sign. Danny motioned his sister and Troy ahead of him. Troy went through the door, flattened himself against the wall above the stairs, and motioned Kristy to join him. Danny went next, and then on down the stairs. Troy followed him, tugging Kristy behind him. Mac waited at the top until he heard Danny tap the wall, then he padded down the stairs, past the three others, and along the wall near the door of the guest suite they'd entered through.

He motioned to Danny, who led through the door into the room, with Troy and Kristy close behind him. Mac backed into the room, closed the door.

"Okay," he said in a whisper to the others. "Take a deep breath. Relax." He watched as Kristy struggled to follow his instructions. He didn't want her running out of breath half-way to the fence. Amateurs had a tendency to hold their breath under stress. Hell, even professionals did. Mac noticed Troy was having to work at breathing too.

"Danny's going to go out the window first," Mac explained. "He'll guard from the ground. I'll be up here, go out last. Troy, you take Kristy and head for those shrubs over there. A friend of mine will be waiting for you -- short Filipino, goes by Shorty. Danny will be right behind you, and I'll follow last. That's thirty yards of nowhere to hide, so once you move away from the wall, you don't stop, you got that?"

Troy nodded. Kristy looked scared, but she nodded too. "Troy, your job is to get out of here, with Kristy; no matter what happens behind you."

"I heard you the first time, man," he said impatiently. Mac met his eyes, and Troy nodded. "Okay, okay. I get out of here, with Kristy, no matter what."

Mac nodded satisfied. "If something goes wrong, you call my boss, Janet Andrews at the Examiner. She'll take things from there."

"Janet Andrews. Examiner." Troy repeated.

Mac nodded at Danny who was keeping watch through the broken window. Danny took a deep breath and let himself out the window slowly. A tap on the wall. While Mac guarded their backs, Troy let Kristy down onto the grass below, then followed. Mac rotated, stationed himself at the window.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs. Shit, he thought. Someone rattled the door. Mac didn't hesitate. He swung out over the edge of the window and dropped down. Kristy and Troy were just ten yards away from the safety of the hedge.

Mac surveyed the roofline. That's where he'd be, if he were keeping watch here, he thought. He didn't see anything. More sounds inside the house.

"Go," Mac ordered. Danny nodded and headed at a dead run toward the hedge. Go, man, go, Mac said under his breath as he kept his weapon trained on the window to his right and his eyes on the roof line above.

Danny was ten yards from the shrubs, when shots rang out from a semi-automatic just barely visible over the edge the roof. Mac identified the spot and fired shots back. Someone raised up just enough to look for Mac. Mac fired a few more shots -- not that a nine was going to do much at this distance. The head disappeared. Mac reloaded.

Danny was down, not moving. Shorty's head poked out of the woods. Mac ran, dropped beside Danny, trained his gun on the roof. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a head in the window they'd just dropped from. He fired a shot; the head disappeared.

"Get out of here," he shouted at Shorty. "Get them to safety. Leave Danny to me. Go on!"

Shorty nodded, grabbed Kristy as she was about to run out to her brother, and he and Troy pulled her into the woods.

Mac swept his nine across the roof, firing a couple of shots at a head that popped up. He didn't care if he hit anyone. Just as long as they couldn't fire down.

He waited a minute. No other head or gun barrel showed it self. Still at ready with the nine, he looked at Danny. The shots had riddled his back. Mac winced. No way, he thought. Just no fucking way he's making home from this one. He gently rolled Danny over. No point worrying about further damage, he thought. Shit.

"Hey, buddy," he said softly. "How you doing?"

Danny opened his eyes. "Mac," he said weakly. "This sucks."

Mac shook his head. "You just hang on. We'll be hearing sirens any minute. Doctors and pretty nurses."

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter," Danny said. "I'm not going to make it away from this. Should never have let Troy drag me into it. What was that saying you used to say? Don't do something your ass can't cover?"

"Don't let your mouth write checks your ass can't cash," Mac corrected him. Danny never did get that saying quite right.

"Yeah," he said, fell silent a bit. "But I got Kristy out. She is out, isn't she?"

Mac soothed him; grimness deepened the grooves around his mouth. "You got her out, buddy. Mission accomplished."

Danny sighed. "You promised me once you'd never let me die alone. You remember?"

"Yeah," Mac said. Danny had gotten hung up on that in the Gulf. Dead was dead in Mac's book, alone or not. But he had planned to take out a few of the enemy for an escort when he went.

Mac didn't bother to deny Danny was going to die. Shit, if he lived, he'd be dead from the neck down. He'd rather be dead, himself. "But you got to hang on, man. There's something I got to do."

Danny closed his eyes. "It was Kellerman, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"You going to get me company? How did you use to say it? An escort to Valhalla?"

"You just hang on, man. I'll be back."

"I ain't going anywhere," Danny said, a weak attempt at humor. Mac patted his shoulder.

In one fluid movement he was on his feet and moving toward the closed-in porch. The plans had shown an outdoor stairway to the roof just to the north of that wing. He crouched low, listened and then moved swiftly around the corner. A guard was looking up the hill toward the reporters who were even more out of control now that shots had been fired.

Mac tapped the guard back of the neck with his nine, catching the guard's semi-automatic before it could clatter against the wall. He let the body drop on its own. He didn't bother to check him for signs of life. He was either dead or out for a long, long while. He remembered clearly just how the tap should go.

Other skills and talents were awakening as well. He felt the cold, clear adrenaline rush through him. His mind was sharper. His eyes, cold and gray, could see better; smells came pouring in. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be on the hunt.

He moved up the steps silently, his nine still in his hand, the guard's semi-automatic slung across his chest. A second guard stood at the landing. He too had been distracted by the protesters. Unprofessional, Mac thought, as he put the nine to the man's chest. The guard froze. Mac turned him, tapped him at the base of the skull. He gently lowered the man to the ground. He was close enough now that any sound might give him away. He slung that gun across his back.

Mac crept along the half-wall that separated the stairway from the roof patio where he could hear the small sounds of men on watch. Shifting feet, the clack of metal hitting the wall, a long sigh.

"Shit!" one voice said loudly. "Where did he go?"

"You were supposed to be watching him!"

"I was! He was just there!"

"He isn't there now," interrupted a voice Mac recognized. "Where did he go?"

"Maybe he left?"

"Hell, he wouldn't leave a wounded man alone," said someone who sounded almost familiar. "And if his partner was dead, he'd pack him out. He's here somewhere."

Mac stepped around the half-wall into sight. "I'm right here," he said.

Kellerman straightened and turned toward him. "Shadow," he said.

Mac looked at him. "You shot him in the back. In the goddamn back, Kellerman."

Mac shook his head, clearing the rage that burned red behind his eyes. "He was once a man under your command. And you shot him in the back. Do you no good. Your hostages were out. Why?"

"Troy said he didn't know where Danny hid his records. We figured if Danny was dead those records die with him," Kellerman said simply. "So we decided, last ditch, we needed Danny dead."

Mac laughed. The others winced at the harsh sound. "Well, you were wrong. Danny told me where they were," Mac lied. "Danny never could keep a secret."

Kellerman shrugged, gave Mac a lopsided smile. "Win some, lose some. Besides, you're not out of here yet."

"So Parker told you to, and you shot one of your own men in the back."

Kellerman hesitated, stopped by such a cold evaluation. "Yeah," he said, finally. "I guess I did."

Mac looked at the other men, back to Kellerman.

"Parker here?" he asked the older of the other guards, a black man. Mac thought it might have been his voice that had sounded familiar.

"No. Left in his boat about two hours ago," the man said.

"I know you?" Mac asked, not taking his eyes off Kellerman. Mac wanted to be after Parker. He was disappointed but not surprised that Parker was gone. Kellerman wasn't the real enemy.

Going to be difficult to sweep this mess under the rug. Mac thought of the news media banging on the gates outside. He smiled; by the look of them the others didn't find it reassuring.

"Maybe," the man said. "You served with a cousin of mine. We partied a time or two."

Mac nodded, filing the information away. He studied Kellerman who stood easily in front of him. Still no hesitation, there, Mac thought. Kellerman was a man who believed in what he was doing. Believed in who he was doing it for.

"Kellerman, you willing to testify that Parker told you to shoot Danny if you got the chance?" Mac asked.

Kellerman smiled, shaking his head. "You know I won't do that, Shadow. If I had to testify, I'd say all this was my idea, that Parker didn't know a damn thing about any of it."

"Shadow?" one of the other younger guards whispered. "That's Shadow Davis?" Someone shushed him.

Mac looked at Kellerman, looked at the other Marines. "Do you know what this is all about?" he asked Kellerman. "What happened in 2007?"

"07?" Kellerman's puzzlement looked real. "Troy was going to reveal one of Howard Parker's black-bag jobs. Parker got scared. Called in the FBI instead of the Marines." The joke fell flat.

"So what are you going to do, Mac? Shoot me? An unarmed man?" Kellerman asked, with a half-smile.

"Yes," Mac said, and pulled the trigger of one of the semi-automatics, putting a round in Kellerman's chest. He landed against one of the chairs, half on the table.

"I didn't think you would do it," Kellerman whispered. "I...," he trailed off. Mac said nothing, waiting for the breathing to stop. When it did, he looked at the other guards who still held their hands out. They looked shocked.

"Any of you want to pick up where he left off?" he asked. They shook their heads. Mac wiped off the semi-automatic down carefully. He tossed it into the pile of weapons. Wiped the other one down, added it to the pile.

"One of you must have a number to call for clean-up," Mac said, holding the nine at ready in case someone got brave.

The older man nodded. "Yeah, I got a number."

"You call that number. I think you'll find that I was never here, because you were never here. And Kellerman? Kellerman is in Europe someplace."

The man nodded. He was careful to not move his hands, to not move at all. He knew the craziness that battle made in some. He wasn't planning to do anything to set off Mac's hair trigger. The others looked scared. Mac watched them carefully. Scared and young was a bad combo, tended to make men think about being heroes.

"Sorry about your buddy," the leader offered. Mac's jaw clenched. He looked at Kellerman's dead body. He wanted to spit, make some last statement. But he couldn't find anything to say. Two buddies died today, he thought awkwardly, groping for the words. And they were deaths he planned to lay at Parker's doorstep. His jaw hardened. Kellerman had to pay for Danny, but there was still Parker.

"You've got two down on the stairs," Mac said. "You might want to check them out. But don't show your head over the ledge. And don't even think about coming around the edge of the house. I see anybody, and I will kill you."

Turning quickly, he moved lightly down the stairs.

"That's Shadow Davis," one voice said shakily.

"Yeah," said the laconic voice. "You've crossed the Shadow and lived to talk about it -- although I wouldn't recommend talking about it. This kind of thing is best filed deep."

Danny was still alive when Mac trotted across the lawn and dropped down beside him. Mac surveyed the roofline, checked out the rest of the area. He could hear sirens now getting closer. He held the nine loosely.

"How you doin' man?" he asked.

"Did you get him? Kellerman?" Danny asked weakly.

Mac nodded. Danny sighed, and relaxed a bit as if that removed a burden.

"Promise me you'll take care of Kristy."

"Not a problem," Mac said with a smile. Danny's little sister had grown up to be a fine-looking woman.

"Serious, Mac. She's all I have -- I'm all she has. Parents died when we were young. She'll be alone now. That's not good."

Mac gripped his shoulder. "I'll see to her," he promised quietly. Danny searched his face, and satisfied, he closed his eyes.

"Don't leave me to die...," his voice trailed off. Mac watched carefully for a sign of breathing. There was none. He checked his pulse at the neck. It was still. Leave it to Danny to talk right up until his heart stopped, Mac thought.

"Go in peace, my friend," he whispered. "You've got your escort."

### Chapter 18

SEATTLE (Monday, Dec. 3, 2012, 7 p.m.) — Mac watched the house, the roof and the shorefront over Danny's body. He almost shot Nick Rodriguez and Stan Warren as they came around the corner of the house. He shoved his weapon out of sight, in the back of his pants, and shrugged his shirt down over it.

"Bout time you showed up," Mac said.

"Got a call from my ma," Warren said. He looked at Danny's body. "Dead?" Warren asked. Mac nodded. Warren glanced up at the roofline.

"Parker here?" he asked next.

Mac shook his head. "They took him out by boat hours ago -- about the time I got out of jail," he said with a glance at Rodriguez. Rodriguez was calling for an ambulance for Danny's body.

"No way to pin it on him?"

"No."

"Damn," Warren said. There was a note to his voice Mac couldn't quite place. Warren turned away to start back around the house.

"You quitting, Agent Warren?" Mac asked softly.

"You win some, you lose some." Warren shrugged. "If I'm not going to win, I don't need to let the landslide bury me."

Mac filed that statement away. Something going on there. He'd figure it out eventually. "If you give me a ride, I'll introduce you to someone you want to meet, however," Mac said matter-of-factly.

Warren came back to him. "OK," he said slowly. He didn't ask who.

Rodriguez covered his phone, and said, "You two aren't going anywhere without me. For one thing, I'm pretty sure a shoot-out at the Parker place is a bail violation, and for the second, I drove."

Mac snorted. He stretched his hands behind him, cracking his spine. The adrenaline and focus were leaving, he felt drained without it.

"OK," Rodriguez said, shutting off the phone. "We can go."

Mac shook his head. "Not until the body goes," he said.

The three waited in silence. Several times Warren started to say something, but stopped. Mac was too tired to care. He'd killed a man today -- a man he had known for a long time, had respected once. He never had to do that before.

There were bodies in his past. Faceless enemies in war, for instance. Twice during college he'd taken on an enforcer job. He had needed the money; his friends had needed his abilities. But he swore he wouldn't do that again. The money was good, but the price was high. He'd kept the Glock under his bed as reminder.

'Course, it wasn't under his bed anymore. Ironic, he thought, years later that Glock was being used to accuse him of a murder he didn't commit.

Today was different. An eye for an eye, and all that. Still, he'd walked up to a man, and shot him point blank. It made him feel drained.

And angry. Mac could still feel the rage burning hot deep inside of him. He wanted Parker. Kellerman had not been a bad man. Parker had used Kellerman -- a pawn in some shitty game, sacrificed for Parker's fucking career. Kellerman had been loyal to Parker; and in return? A bullet to the gut. Wasn't right.

Kellerman had been surprised Mac shot him. "I didn't think you would," he'd tried to say. Mac scowled, bothered by it. What had Kellerman expected? For Mac to let Danny die without retribution? He could have had him arrested, Mac guessed. Maybe they could have adjoining jail cells. With Parker's strings, chances were that Kellerman would be out, the charges swept under the rug -- after all Danny was shot trespassing in a town that didn't like trespassers. The semi-automatic weapons might be a bit hard to explain.... Mac snorted.

The medics came around the end of the house with a stretcher, and Mac set aside his thoughts to focus on getting Danny's body hauled out. He watched the medics take the body away.

"You said you had a car?" he asked.

Mac escorted the two men up the front steps to his house. Kristy opened the door. "Danny?" she whispered.

Mac shook his head. "He didn't make it," he said as gently as he knew how. "I'm sorry."

Kristy nodded silently, tears welling up her eyes. She stepped back to let them inside.

Shorty was sprawled in a leather armchair usually reserved for Mac as it had the best view of the TV; Troy was on the couch. Someone had tried to pick things up a bit. The cushions were back on the couch, but it still wasn't up to normal housekeeping standards. The television had a basketball game on; no one was watching.

"Agent Warren, Troy Maxim," Mac said.

"We've met," Warren said. "But I'm damn glad to see him safe and sound again."

Mac repeated, "You've met. I see."

Troy said nothing, looked at no one.

Mac gestured to Kristy. "This is Kristy Brown, Danny's sister." She held out her hand, both Warren and Rodriguez shook it.

"Nick Rodriguez. Shorty." Mac completed the introductions.

"Did you ever see Howard Parker?" Warren asked urgently.

"Shit, no," Troy said. He had his head tipped back against the couch, his eyes closed. He hadn't looked at anyone. "Kellerman. Some FBI dude I don't know. A couple of others. But Howard Parker kept his deniability all the way through."

Warren grimaced, but didn't look surprised. "Start from the beginning," he said, taking a dining room chair. Rodriguez leaned against the wall. Mac urged Kristy to the center of the couch, sat next to her.

Troy sighed, sat up. "I blew it," he said simply.

"That we know," Mac growled. "Tell us what we don't know."

"I suppose you think you could have done better," Troy snapped back.

"I did do better."

"Then why didn't you help when I called you?" Troy said, enraged.

Shorty flicked off the television. "You called Mac?" he asked curiously. He looked at Mac.

"You said you had something you needed guarded and who better than the best Marine you ever served with?" Mac began, so angry it was hard for him to get the words out. It had been bugging him for days now.

"Yeah, and you said you weren't into that shit," Troy said.

Mac leaned forward to glare at Troy around Kristy. "Did you for one fucking moment think about what business I am in these days?" he asked, dangerously still. "I'm a fucking reporter. Did it ever occur to you that if you had said, hey bro, I've got the dirt on one of the nominees for Cabinet, you want the story? That I wouldn't have done everything in my power to help you?"

Troy looked at him blankly. Warren snickered. Even Rodriguez blinked.

"I don't think of you like that," Troy said lamely.

"Not many people do," Warren murmured, his lips twitching with amusement.

"Shit," Mac said with disgust. He leaned back against the couch. "Talk, then."

Troy looked at his hands. "We're up shit creek," he said. "I don't know where Danny hid the papers."

Warren frowned. "Why does that matter? You know what was in them don't you? Between the two of you?"

Troy sighed. "Oh yeah, about the drug thing in New Mexico. But that's not all of it. It's all I had when I talked to you. When I called Danny the first time. But then someone called me. Offered me more stuff. He knew what I had, said there was more. That operation wasn't even the worst of it. So he said."

Troy paused. Mac leaned over Kristy, grabbed Troy's face and forced him to look his way. "If you don't tell the story without the melodramatic pauses and sighs, I am going to bust you up. Is that clear?" Mac said through clenched teeth. "Talk!"

"There'd been some pressure at work -- Senator Murray said she'd gotten a call from someone saying I was spying for a foreign government. She didn't believe it -- the guy should have said I was spying for the Republicans. That might have worried her."

Troy told about getting the briefcase, about someone trying to break in. "That's when I called Mac," Troy told the attentive group in Mac's living room. "I knew I needed backup. I didn't know what I had, didn't think about anything except getting backup. Mac chewed me out, hung up on me."

Mac growled low in his throat, Kristy looked at him anxiously. She patted his arm. He forced himself to smile at her.

Troy hurried on. "The briefcase had a computer disk in it, and three or four folders of pages. Someone had gone through a computer downloaded current stuff, then through paper files and copied them. Some of it made sense, but a lot of it was just ... stuff. It was going to take time to sort it. The computer disk was Mac, and I have a PC at home." Troy ran his hand over his close-cropped hair and sighed. He caught Mac's eye and hurried on.

"My girlfriend said she was stalked one night. The security guard at my apartment complex said someone had tried two nights in a row to break into it. The night I got the tip, I also got a threatening call. Someone said my family would die if I pursued my investigation. One by one." Troy swallowed.

Warren interrupted. "Did it sound like they knew what you had? Or just the questions you'd been asking? What we'd talked about?"

Troy shook his head as if to clear it. "Just my questions. I was terrified. What if they knew I had more files? So I ran. I took the files to Danny."

"And the kidnapping?" Warren asked.

Troy shrugged. "They were waiting for me after work the day I got back. Said they were FBI, probably were, they had badges. Said I was wanted for questioning in the violation of the National Security Act. I started to protest, but they hustled me out to a car. One guy, older guy with a gravelly voice, tapped me out as soon as I ducked inside the back."

After that, he'd been shifted from place to place. Questioned. Threatened. "Finally, I told them I had backup plans. If I died, someone would release everything."

"That's not the instructions you gave Danny," Mac observed. "He said you told him to dump them in the ocean if you ended up dead. If Kristy hadn't been kidnapped, he probably would have."

"If this was too much trouble for me to handle, you really think Danny could have broken the story?" Troy asked. He saw Mac's expression and swallowed hard. He hurried on.

"So the next thing I know I'm flown out here in a military jet, and taken to the house you just busted us out of. And then they brought in Kristy."

Warren nodded. "It wouldn't be hard to figure out that you'd go to one of your three buddies -- especially if they think that's all you've got. Seeing Blankenship is still in Saudi, that narrowed it down to two. They make a run at Danny, get Kristy. It's a possible, but not for sure; they try a bit of blackmail. They take Kristy's picture with them, flash it at Mac. He doesn't seem to click into it, so they aren't sure there either. They toss him in the Sound."

Mac frowned. It didn't add up completely. Why shoot a cop with his gun, frame him and then try to drown him? It seemed like overkill.

"I guess," Troy said tiredly. "Anyway without those files, all I've got is that he ran an undercover mission for the DEA/CIA ten years ago. Not enough to scuttle a nomination -- hell, look at Ollie North. They elected him for that kind of embarrassment."

"What do you mean, not enough?" Kristy burst out. "He had us kidnapped. Danny's dead because of him. You're going to let him be on the Cabinet?"

Now it was Warren's turn to look hassled. "Every time I dig up something on the man, he slides out of it. Someone pulls a string. Someone smoothes it out. Troy's story was the most promising. This other stuff sounds even better. But...." Warren shrugged. "Unless you saw him in all this, none of the cover up is going to fall to him. Kellerman will take the fall for most of it."

"What about the drug operation?" Mac asked. "That would be pretty embarrassing if it came out."

Warren nodded. "I'm still going to pursue that. The more I learn the more I'm sure that Parker shouldn't be one of the leaders of the free world." He rolled his eyes at the phrase. "But Troy is right. In some circles that kind of black bag mission would raise his stature. And I'm afraid some of those people are going to be the ones deciding who is on this administration's cabinet."

Mac said slowly. "Bad publicity, however...."

Warren looked at Mac, no emotion showing. "You got enough for a story? One your paper would print? Hell, right now, you don't even have a job, technically."

"True," Mac admitted. Shorty snickered, the first sound he'd made in an hour. At Mac's glare, he sank back into watchful silence.

"If wasn't for the fact that your boss has more balls than most men I know you'd still be sitting in jail waiting for your aunt to post bail," Warren said sourly.

"I doubt your boss would appreciate the description," said a crisp voice from the kitchen door. "And what the hell happened to my house?"

Mac looked at his aunt. "Now is not a good time to be surprising us, Lindy," he said. The others in the room relaxed. Rodriguez sheepishly eased his hand off his gun holstered under his left arm.

Lindy turned back to the kitchen. "If you all are that jumpy, food sounds in order. You can explain about the house later."

Kristy made a movement as if to go help her, but Mac shook his head. "You need to hear this," he said.

Mac sighed, then shrugged. "So, the answer is no, I probably couldn't print a story based on what I have now," Mac admitted. "Danny's death would incriminate me, for one thing, and I'm still on bail." He glowered at Rodriguez.

"Not for long, surely!" Kristy said with surprise.

Mac smiled at Rodriguez with no humor apparent. "Yes, detective, explain that to her."

"Parker is pulling in favors and pulling strings all over town," Rodriguez admitted. "Including some in the D.A.'s office. You have to admit the Glock and the fingerprints are pretty damning. Those charges will stick for a while."

Kristy fidgeted on the couch. "So you all think there is nothing to be done, and he walks," she said flatly. "I take my brother home and bury him. Parker goes on to be one of the top men in the country -- I can watch my brother's murderer on national television. That's what you all are going to let happen?"

Mac watched the others. No one wanted to meet anyone's eyes. So who let the idealist sit in on this meeting, he thought with amusement.

Warren stood up. "I hope it doesn't turn out that way," he said. "But without more than this...." He shrugged. "I'll pass on the concern about the drug operation and how all this went down. Maybe sane heads will rule." His tone said he doubted it.

Mac followed Warren and Rodriguez onto the front porch. They went on to Rodriguez's car, talking about something. Getting quite chummy, Mac noticed. He sat in the porch chair, looking out, trying not to think, not to feel. It had begun to rain, ending the unseasonable dry weather. It wasn't a torrential rain, like that in some places he'd lived. It was a steady drizzle, wetting down everything. It always seemed to Mac that he was damp most of the time from October to May. Most Seattlites didn't bother with umbrellas, you got wet, you dried off, you got wet again. He sighed. He almost wished for a good old storm, with lightning and thunder and a downpour of rain. It would suit his mood better than this steady, monotonous gray rain of Seattle.

"May I join you?" Kristy said quietly from the front door.

Mac shrugged, gestured to the other chair. "I'm not likely to be good company," he said.

She sat down, reached for his hand. "You rescued us," she said simply. "And I haven't even said thanks."

Mac flinched. "I fucked up. If I hadn't fucked up you wouldn't have been kidnapped in the first place, Danny wouldn't be dead, and C.J. ...," he trailed off.

She stroked his hand. "Right," she said, a soft southern lilt to her voice told him she was poking mild fun at him. "You take too much upon yourself."

Mac shook his head. "No, I'm not," he said in a low voice. She leaned forward to hear him, and he cleared his throat, spoke a little louder. "If I had helped Troy when he called, it wouldn't have turned out like this."

"You didn't owe him that."

"Yeah, I did." Mac searched for the words. "You gotta be loyal to your friends, your family. You gotta take care of them, because they're the ones who will take care of you. Troy has saved my butt, I don't know how many times, and I've saved his. He had the right to call me for help, and I... I fucked it up."

Kristy was silent for a moment. "Why did you say no then?"

Mac looked out at the dark street glistening in the rain. A car drove by.

"I work downtown," he said slowly. "I go to the office in nice clothes and polished shoes. The people I work with, they've got college degrees like I do and we gripe about things like the rain, and the Mariners, and the traffic. My friends and I go out to a bar listen to music, debate the merits of the new rappers compared to old school hip-hop. We dance. Laugh. Go home, make love, maybe. Good things, you know."

"Normal things."

"For you maybe. I know you and Danny had some rough times growing up, but I...." He shook his head, steadied his voice.

"So when Troy called, I was pissed off. I didn't want to go back to a world where I had to be the biggest, fastest badass just to stay alive. So I said no way. I'm not going back. I'm going to stay where it is warm and light and clean."

Kristy protested, "You couldn't have known what would happen."

Mac gave her a wry smile. "Didn't matter. Troy had the right to ask, and I wasn't there for him. Danny was. He wasn't up to doing what needed to be done, but he gave it the old Marine try -- you don't have to come back, but when the orders come, you have to go out. Your brother was a man, Kristy, and you should be proud of him."

Kristy sighed. "He practically worshipped you and Troy, you know. I've heard stories about you for years. Danny wanted family, wanted it in ways I will never understand completely. When mom and dad died, he was determined we were staying together. Somehow he managed it, and that isn't easy in the foster system. People thought he was weird for living with me, but it wasn't like that. He wanted to marry some day, wanted me to marry. Wanted both of us to have lots of kids. So we'd be family, you know?"

Her voice faltered, she stopped, and then went on with a firmer voice. "He thought of you as brothers, you and Troy. You're right, he was a good man. But his death isn't your responsibility. He'd be the first to tell you that. You're a good man, too, I think. You just do the best you can."

Mac shook his head. "No. I'm not good. That's the point. Troy came to me first because I'm tough." He shrugged. "I fucked up."

"Mac?" Shorty's voice came from inside. "Your aunt wants you."

"Coming." Mac looked out at the rainy street one more time. Kristy stood up, tugged at his hand, pulling him back inside the house.

### Chapter 19

SEATTLE (Monday, Dec. 3, 10 p.m.) -- Lindy came back into the living room. "Cops gone?" she asked.

"Yeah. What are you doing here anyway?" Mac asked.

Lindy handed a platter of sandwiches around. "By the way, I'm Lindy, Mac's aunt."

Mac introduced Kristy and Troy.

"You were saying," he prompted.

"I got a call from some attorney. Didn't give his name. Said he wanted to set up a meeting with us for tonight at 10:30 -- without the police. Wanted me and all of you." She smiled at Shorty. "Well, he didn't specifically say you, Shorty, but you're always welcome here."

"An attorney? Was it Leatherstocking?" Mac asked.

"Didn't say. Is that the attorney at the newspaper? Why would he want to meet with me?" Lindy looked at Mac sternly. "And what did the officer mean about you being on bail?"

Mac shrugged. "Long story. They think I tried to kill a cop the night you were beaten."

"Did you?"

Kristy's eyes widened at the matter-of-fact question. Mac smiled at her, and she relaxed again.

"No."

Lindy nodded. "OK then. Eat fast. It's almost time." She looked around the living room with dismay. "Did the fuckers need to trash my books?"

Kristy choked. Mac laughed out loud for the first time in days. Even Troy came out of his funk long enough to smile at Lindy's indignation.

"I'll help you pick them up," Shorty volunteered.

"Later," Lindy said with a sigh. She shook her head. "What kind of people are these thugs who trash books anyway?"

Precisely at 10:30, a youngish man in a gray suit walked up the sidewalk to the front door and knocked. Mac checked him out from the front window. Shorty walked by on the sidewalk below, whistling -- their signal that the attorney was truly alone. Mac nodded, and Lindy let him in.

Shorty came around through the back door, leaned against the dining room doorframe.

"I am Joseph Stein, an attorney with Blackwell, Tsuga and Bledsoe," the attorney said, still standing in the doorway. "I have been asked to convey the condolences of certain parties to you for your recent inconveniences."

"Inconveniences?" Kristy said. Her voice trembled. Mac took her hand, ignoring Troy's sour look.

The attorney nodded in her direction. "Especially to you for your loss, Miss Brown," he said with sympathy. "May I sit down?"

Mac released Kristy's hand. "I'm going to pat you down," he said flatly, walking up close to the smaller man. Joseph Stein swallowed but said nothing. He sat his briefcase down beside his feet and held up his arms. Mac patted him down thoroughly. "Now the briefcase."

Stein opened it. Mac checked it for any weapons or possible bombs. Nothing but paper. He gestured toward a chair.

"Thank you." Joseph sat down, took out a piece of paper with a list on it. Looking a bit sheepish, he took out a pair of thin wire-rim glasses and put them on. "Lindy Davis, Mac Davis. Kristy Brown. Troy Maxim. You're not on my list, but you must be the other person who has been traveling with Mackensie Davis," he said looking toward Shorty. Shorty didn't respond.

"It was brought to the attention of a partner in our firm that one of our most prestigious clients was getting bad advice on how to proceed with a difficult situation involving you. The partner has intervened, and the client has... ahhh ... listened to reason. I have been dispatched to bring the situation to closure."

"Say what?" Troy said, faking his street drawl. Mac tried not to wince. Some things never changed. "You want to put that into language I can understand, bro?"

The attorney looked at Troy coldly. "You have a degree from Northwestern University and are currently an aide to Senator Murray. I believe you are perfectly capable understanding the English language, so don't give me any of that fake jive shit."

Mac almost smiled. He had figured the man was another of Parker's goons, one who dressed a bit better and spoke a bit better. However, Parker -- or at least his attorney -- didn't hire fools, it appeared.

"I think what Troy is trying to say is why don't you get to the point?" Mac said easily. "So you've been delegated to settle with us. You're unarmed. What precisely are you going to do?"

The attorney ignored him and focused on Kristy. "First, Miss Brown, accept the condolences of the firm and of our client in the death of your brother. That was the act of an unscrupulous subordinate. It cannot be undone, but the burden can be made easier for you." He handed her a piece of paper with a check attached.

Mac peered over the edge of it. On it was an itemization of debt -- what Kristy and Danny owed, including the Shreveport house, he guessed -- and costs of burial, flying the body back to Louisiana, and so forth. The bottom line said pain and suffering. The total came to $250,000. Kristy flipped over the page and looked at the check. It was a certified check for that amount. The signature was something, something Bledsoe, the law firm partner.

Kristy started to say something, but Mac squeezed her hand and shook his head. She subsided, but he could feel her trembling. He wanted to see where this was going to go.

The attorney waited a moment, and then went on, "Lindy Davis. You have also suffered bodily injury, your home burglarized. Your medical bills will be covered in full, of course, and our client hopes this will make up for the inconvenience and pain." He handed her a piece of paper and a check as well. She looked at Mac, followed Kristy's lead and said nothing.

The attorney let his reading glasses slide down on his nose and looked at Troy and Mac without much favor. "You two present a more difficult problem," he began. "However, our client is not ungenerous, especially when he is made to see the errors of his previous advisers. In return for the two of you dropping your harassment of our client, we are prepared to let bygones be bygones, as they say. We are also willing to compensate you both for your troubles during the last few days."

He handed another sheet and check combination to Troy and then one to Mac. Mac looked at his. It listed the items to be cleared: He could return to work, pressure would be removed for prosecution on the attempted murder charges. And a check for $50,000 was attached. Another certified check. No strings to Parker of course. In return, Mac would agree to drop the story he was currently working on.

"Which story would that be?" Mac asked innocently. "I'm working on several."

"Please do not be foolish, Mr. Davis," the attorney said wearily. "It wasn't easy to convince our client that this method would be the best. He would just as soon let you, in particular, rot in jail."

Mac grinned at that. He dug a pen out of his backpack sitting near his feet, and scribbled a signature. He detached the check, folded it and put it into his wallet. The paper he handed back to Joseph Stein.

"You aren't going to be bought off, are you?" Troy protested. Lindy, following Mac's example, signed and returned the piece of paper as well.

"I am on bail for attempted murder because of your harebrained chase of ghosts from the past," Mac said. "I am suspended from my job. I've been attacked. Lindy's been attacked. If Parker wants to...."

The attorney interrupted. "Please, no names. I can neither confirm or deny who our client is. I want to make that perfectly clear."

"Fine. If your client wants to clean up all that and give me some money, that's just fine with me. Besides, I have no story. Remember? If there was a story, and I doubt it, it died with Danny. This money is enough to pay off some debts."

"Well, I'm not going to do it."

The attorney looked at Troy sternly. "Mr. Maxim. It seems to me that you have no place left to go from here. While I do not know all the particulars, I do know that your witchhunt will have no lasting impact on my client. Even if he fails to get the nomination at this point, there will be future nominations. You, on the other hand, have no place to go with this. Do you understand? Even if you had the records supposedly in Mr. Brown's custody, you probably would not have prevailed. If you continue, I have been instructed to file a slander suit against you. Evidence of violation of the National Security Act will also be presented to the FBI for investigation."

Troy interrupted. "That's what those fakers said when they kidnapped me. I have not violated the National Security Act."

Joseph Stein raised one eyebrow. "You took an oath as a Marine to not reveal the details of your operations, did you not? You have made threats to reveal them now. That constitutes a violation of your oath. You had to be aware of that fact."

Troy sat silent for a few moments. Everyone watched him. He scribbled his name on the bottom of the paper and threw it at the attorney. It fluttered to the floor. The attorney quietly retrieved it.

When Kristy started to say something, Mac looked at her quietly. She opened her mouth, closed it, looking between Mac and the attorney. Then she sighed and signed the paper.

"I'd like to tell you to fuck off, Mr. Stein," she said in her sweet southern voice. Mac choked, then smiled in appreciation the contrast between the words and the accent. "But I can see Mac's point. Danny is dead. And I'm just realizing I don't have even the money to get him buried. Telling you where to go will not bring him back. This will at least get him buried."

Joseph Stein bowed his head in her direction. "I will convey your words to our client," he said. He gathered the signed sheets and stacked them neatly in his briefcase.

"So we are in agreement?" he said, locking the case and standing up. "There is no story, Mr. Davis assures us. All injuries have been compensated for. There will be no further pursuit of our client?"

Mac stood up too. "You have our signatures to that," he said pointing to the briefcase.

"Indeed. It is too bad that we were not brought into this at an earlier date," Stein said, almost complaining. "None of this was necessary. We could have reached a reasonable consensus without all this violence. But sometimes our client reverts back to his earlier days and listens to people he calls 'men of action.'" The attorney's tone was disdainful. "See where that got him. Have a nice evening," he said, opening the door. "Again, my apologies and condolences, Miss Brown, Ms. Davis. And you two," he looked at Mac and Troy, "stay out of trouble, will you?"

He left and there was silence in the house. Shorty moved to the window, and watched the attorney walk down the street. "He's gone," Shorty announced. "That's fucked. I didn't get nothing. They could have at least reimbursed me for my gas hauling you guys around."

"I can't believe you made us sell out," Troy complained.

"I made you?" Mac said. "I didn't make you do anything."

Kristy was looking at her check. "I suppose if you wanted to make some kind of statement, you could tear it up and send it back," she said. "I don't feel good about it myself."

Mac stood up. "Look. I am not going to pursue this and watch people get hurt and killed," he said. "Who's going to be next, Troy? You? Kristy? Me? For what? For a ten-year-old story? No way. Just no fucking way."

"Mac," Troy began.

"I promised Danny I would take care of his sister. Pursuing this shit will set her up as a target. You want that? Look who they paid off, will you? What do you think they're trying to tell us?" Mac took a deep breath, lowered his voice. "If having paid us off, makes them feel more secure, I'm all for it. I do not know what you ran into, Troy but it isn't right to drag families and friends into it, too."

"What if family and friends want you to pursue it?" Kristy asked.

"Doesn't matter. I know you'd say go for it, prosecute the man who killed Danny, but what about Troy's parents, his two sisters, and his grandmother -- they've already been threatened. What about Lindy? She's been beaten. Don't you guys see that they don't care who they hurt?" Mac looked at Troy's sullen face. He shook his head. "I'm going for a walk."

No one said anything as he walked out the door and down the sidewalk.

Why couldn't they see it? He didn't want to be responsible for their deaths. He was already responsible for enough.

Mac hunched his shoulders to keep the rain from running down the back of his neck and under his shirt. He jammed his hands in his pockets. And just walked. Thinking. Fuming.

Happy's Market still had its Coors sign lit. Mac went inside. "A Mountain Dew?" Harry asked.

"Yeah." He opened his wallet, got out a couple of bucks. Need to get all my cards and ID replaced, he thought absently. The certified check glared at him accusingly. Mac took the Mountain Dew, popped it and took a long swallow.

"Wet night to be out walking," Harry observed.

"Yeah, but walking helps to think." He took another gulp.

"Night like this, thoughts get dark and bleak," Harry said, not looking at Mac. "Some thoughts need to be seen in the daylight."

Mac looked at the old man in surprise. Harry noticed his look, smiled briefly and wiped at the counter. "Tell your aunt hello for me," Harry added, his usual words to Mac.

Mac nodded. "I will," he said automatically. He finished his pop, set the can on the counter as he left.

Black night, black thoughts. The old man was right, Mac thought ruefully. His thoughts were black enough. He headed down hill toward the main thoroughfare, where the lights were brighter. Even on a Monday night, people would be out and about. He walked past a cafe advertising vegetarian sandwiches and lentil soup, past the Starbucks, then across the intersection, Peets. Tully's was down the street. Mac shook his head. Seemed people needed a coffee fix every 30 paces these days. A used bookstore, its lights dimmed at this time of night. Two more cafes, a pub -- God forbid that it be called a bar in this neighborhood. People out, laughing, having a good time. Groups of people. Few loners like him. People looked at him out of the corners of their eyes as they passed by. Wondering what he was doing out here, he supposed, alone, wet. He thought about going into a bar. Order a drink. Been a long time since he'd had a drink. He could remember the taste of it, the feel of it as it hit your system, the warm glow it would give him.

And then there would be another, and another. Finally someone would have to cart him home. Or throw him out in the alley. Mac walked on.

Focused on his own misery, it took him a bit to realize he was being followed. He shrugged it off. Troy or Shorty, he thought. Still, he took a detour around a block, got a better glimpse of the tail. Not Troy or Shorty. Not anyone he recognized.

He shrugged, walked on. But it made him think. What had been the point of tonight's buyoff? Yes, buyoff, he told himself sternly. You were bought off. Did Parker figure to end it here? What was he really up to?

Mac pondered that for a few blocks. Did he trust Parker to stay bought? Would Parker trust him?

Mac frowned, turned back toward the house. Parker over-reacted to Troy's questions. All his actions had been of the highest caliber of paranoid. Now he's gonna let bygones be bygones?

"I don't fucking believe it," he said out loud. A couple sharing an umbrella looked at him and hurried on. Mac ignored them.

If it was all a lie -- an expensive lie at that -- what was Parker's real plan? Mac brooded on that as he climbed the last hill home. The light was out at Happy's Market; he'd gone home, too.

If everyone had been on the above board, what would happen? Kristy would go home, bury Danny, return to teaching. Troy would return to D.C.; Mac would go back to writing about cops and robbers.

We'd separate, Mac thought. Easy to arrange for accidents later on. A mugging, a car accident. That seemed more like the paranoid Mac knew Parker to be. He grinned. Takes one to know one.

He opened the door. No one had left, not even Shorty.

Kristy jumped up, put her hands on his shoulders. She studied his face.

"If you weren't thinking of everyone else but yourself -- forget your aunt, your friends, their families -- what would you do?" she said before he could say a word.

Mac hesitated, thought about that one. He couldn't look away from Kristy, had a hard time looking at her and thinking about telling anything but the truth. What would he do? If he just had to think about himself.

"I want to go after Parker," he said simply.

Kristy searched his face. "Because he killed Danny? Ordered it done, I mean?"

Mac hesitated. For more than that, he thought, but couldn't quite find the words. "Among other things," he said finally. "But most certainly for Danny's death." And Kellerman, he thought. For making me be the one who killed him.

She kissed him, then pulled back, looked at him again. "Then I think you'd better go after him. Find a way to do it that keeps people safe, if you must, but go after him."

Mac frowned at her. "You might be at risk," he warned.

She smiled and shook her head. "I'm going to be right by your side, helping. Where could be safer?"

"You will not!"

She grinned at him, not the least bit intimidated by his words, Mac noticed. She kissed him again. This time, Mac was ready, and he didn't let her get away quite so quick.

"So what does that mean?" Troy asked plaintively. "You told the attorney the story was dead with Danny."

Mac released Kristy, although he kept one arm around her.

"That story is," Mac said. "But there's always another story."

"You took his money, signed that you wouldn't pursue the story anymore," Troy added.

Mac shrugged. "Man's going to be handing out checks and amnesty I'm going to take it."

"You'd better make sure that amnesty is going to really be handed out, before you count on it," Shorty observed. "Seems like you're taking that on faith."

Mac nodded. "I thought of that."

"It doesn't bother you that you promised?" Troy asked.

Mac snorted. "Someone was following me out there," he said. "Didn't recognize him. Got to thinking. Parker's a first-class paranoid, right?"

Troy shrugged, nodded in agreement.

"And he's going to turn us loose? I don't think so."

Shorty said slowly, "You think he'll come after you later."

Mac nodded. "I don't think we've got much choice. I think it's get him, or he'll get us, one by one, sometime when we aren't looking."

Mac shrugged. Took out his wallet and looked at the certified check. "So I figure it's a good thing he's willing to trying lulling us with money. We're going to need a war chest."

Shorty grinned. "Had me worried, bro, I was afraid you'd changed."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you were starting to sound almost responsible there for a moment." Shorty got up and stretched. "I've got some teaching to do tomorrow; I'm going home."

Mac held out his hand. Surprised, Shorty shook it. "Thanks, Shorty," Mac said sincerely. "I... Well, just thanks."

Shorty nodded, then hesitated. "Shit, I've got your boss's pickup! Be the laughing stock of the neighborhood. You want to give me a ride home?"

### Chapter 20

SEATTLE (Monday, Dec. 3, almost midnight) -- Howard Parker nursed a brandy, holding up the snifter to the lights from the city streets below. Sitting in a comfortable chair looking out the glass doors of the penthouse suite of the Ambassador, Parker felt relaxed, safe. The Ambassador was an old hotel, immaculately restored with marble tile floors, high ceilings, and all the gracious amenities. Not for him the brand new. He liked the old-fashioned services at the Ambassador. He liked the fact that he was greeted by name, treated as royalty. He kept the suite rented year round. He and his wife came here after events at the SAM or Benaroya Hall. He stayed here often when he was in town, never going to the house at all.

He liked it better than home, than any of the homes he owned actually. Perhaps because at home were family members with all their own wants and whiny demands. Here there were only his chosen few. Here was peace and quiet.

"Your young attorney should be here soon, shouldn't he?" Parker said, turning to the attorney who sat in the chair beside him.

"Should be," Jake Dugan, a partner in Blackwell, Tsuga and Bledsoe, said comfortably, examining his own brandy snifter. "You should have come to me a whole lot sooner, Howard." It wasn't the first time he'd said it.

"Apparently," Parker said, avoiding the eyes of the third man in the room.

Dugan wasn't the dashing young Marine he'd been when he and Parker first met. He wasn't even the sardonic assistant to the Defense Secretary he'd become. Now, Jake had perfectly cut gray hair, a solid but heavy body that was the result of pampering instead of exercise. He appeared to be the successful corporate attorney he was.

He's lost his edge, Parker thought. He's settled in. He and Jake were the same age. They'd been Marines together from the beginning, what? Thirty years ago? More than that. A long time.

C.J. crossed his mind, and he winced. A different generation of Marine, but no less loyal. They had discussed the need to get Brown if they lost control of Maxim, but he hadn't expected it to come to this. He felt as if he he'd sacrificed a knight to get his opponent's pawn. He hadn't expected Davis to kill C.J. Fired pointblank at him, the others said. They were all disturbed by what happened. Freaked out, one of them termed it. It had been like an execution.

Parker looked into his snifter as if he'd see answers there. What kind of young man could do that? Walk up to a former sergeant and shoot him? He'd read the dossiers on all three of the young Marines -- Maxim, Davis and Brown. He had not seen this coming. He ought to order Davis taken out just as you would a dog gone feral. Shoot him point blank. Jesus.

A knock at the door pulled him out of his musings. The third man eased his jacket back away from the gun holstered under his arm, and went to the door. When Joseph Stein identified himself, he let him in.

"Well?" Dugan asked.

Joseph Stein took out the signed pages and handed them to his boss. "All done, sir," he said. "They argued a bit, but they took the checks, signed the papers saying that they would not pursue the investigation."

Jake Dugan looked through the signed forms and nodded. "I expected a bit more struggle," he said.

"The death of Danny Brown seemed to take the wind out of them, sir," Stein said. "Davis said that without the records Brown hid there was no story and he might as well recoup something. The others seemed to follow his lead. Maxim fussed a bit. Maxim challenged the Security Act bit, but I explained that he was revealing secrets he had sworn not to reveal. That deflated him."

Dugan nodded.

"They say anything else?" Parker asked, not looking at the young man.

"The young woman, Kristy, said she wanted to tell you to fuck off for having her brother killed. But she said she thought having the money for his burial was more important."

Dugan hid a smile. "Thank you Joseph. I appreciate you spending your evening on this."

"Not a problem, sir." Joseph Stein recognized the dismissal and left without looking at Parker.

There was silence until the door locked behind Stein.

"You think this is really going to stop them, Jake?" Parker asked.

Dugan shrugged. "They really don't have anything to go on. Oh, Maxim and Davis could probably stir up some publicity if they went public with their story, but they really don't have much. The records could be duplicated, I suppose, but I think Brown's death took the drive out of them. Pay them off."

"We'll have them watched, of course."

The third man nodded. "Yeah, I have them under surveillance. And we might not want to drop the charges against Davis right away," he said. "Make sure he's going to stay bought. Once they're dropped, we will have the devil's own time bringing them back."

"Davis," Parker said. His jaw tightened, and he shook his head.

The three men sat in companionable silence for a while longer. Finally Jake Dugan struggled to his feet. "This has been a pleasant evening, Howard. Don't be a stranger. Judy would like to see you, too."

Parker rose to his feet smoothly, conscious of the difference between he and Dugan now. Go to the gym for God's sake, he wanted to scream at his friend. And not just for the massage. He said nothing of the kind. He shook his hand, promised to join him and his wife for dinner soon, and closed the door behind him.

He leaned against the door. "Well?"

The third man shrugged. "Buys us time," he said. "They should relax. We eliminate some loose ends -- Ms. Davis is likely to be satisfied with her settlement and not pursue police investigation. Ms. Brown will be too busy settling her brother's estate and arranging for his burial. She will return to Shreveport. That leaves Davis and Maxim."

"You think they'll let their guard down now. Separate," Parker said, pouring himself another brandy. He held up the bottle. The other man shook his head. Parker sat down, looked out over the city again. "I wasn't sure you were going to be with me on this," he said.

His companion shrugged. "You did what you could to bring my Dad home. You took care of mom, when the Marines denied her benefits. When she called, said you needed my help, how could I refuse?"

"Your Dad was a good man," Parker said. "He died doing what Marines do. The Marines should have taken care of your mom."

The man nodded. He sat quietly for a few moments, then reverted back to the current situation.

"Both of Maxim and Davis have some real messes to clean up in their own lives," he said. "We'll keep some pressure on Davis, he's the dangerous one, I think. Maxim will go back to D.C. to Murray's office."

Parker nodded, thinking it through. "I'll make a call or two in the morning, get Davis back at work on other stories." He stressed the last. His guest laughed.

Parker shook his head. "Who would have guessed. A goddam reporter. In Seattle." He'd said it, thought it many times before. Now he said it without rage, just a kind of bemusement. He hurt over C.J.'s death. Time to mourn later, he told himself. Couldn't go soft now.

"There is something else."

"What?" Parker sat his drink down.

"Maxim says someone brought him a file just before we busted up his place. There may be more than his own notes in those lost records."

"A file?"

"Yeah. You got other skeletons in the closet?"

Parker sighed. "I ran covert ops for the Marines. Then ten years of covert ops for the CIA. There is nothing I've done that I'm ashamed of."

"But?"

Parker laughed. "There isn't much I haven't done, either."

"So what would be on a computer disk? Maxim didn't have time to look before he started playing hide and seek."

"A computer disk?" Parker felt growing alarm. "A computer disk. Where did he get this stuff?"

"He isn't sure. A source he never saw. He isn't sure what's on it. I'm sure he knows more than he was telling. So is there stuff out there that can sink this nomination? Besides the New Mexico operation?"

Parker sighed, feeling suddenly old and very tired. "I don't know any more," he said. "I just don't know. But we'd better find out."

Parker sighed again. "You also should know one of the Marines that was there today says Davis told C.J. that he knew where Brown hid the files."

"Was he telling the truth?"

"Your guess is good as mine," Parker said sourly. "You are monitoring Maxim and Davis?"

"I know every move they make," said Stan Warren from the other chair. "If they find out something, I'll be the first to know."

Parker nodded. "Good. That's good."

### Chapter 21

Seattle (Tuesday, Dec. 4, 2012) — Mac slept until ten, something he couldn't remember doing in a very long while. Kristy and Lindy were putting the house back together, chatting as if they had known each other forever when he came down the stairs. He nodded at them, went into the kitchen to fix some eggs.

"Good morning," Kristy said, coming into the kitchen.

Mac saw her pause when she saw him at the stove, but he ignored it. What, she thinks I can't cook? "Morning," he said. tipping two eggs over easy onto his plate. "Troy up yet?"

"Haven't seen him."

Mac took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. "How are you holding up?"

Kristy nodded. "I'm okay," she said. "Your aunt and I've been talking. She helped me make arrangements for Danny's body." Her voice trembled a bit at the end.

"Good," Mac said. "When do you plan to fly out?"

"They'll ship the body out Thursday. I thought I'd make reservations for the same day."

Mac nodded. "Make reservations for both us, will you?"

"You're going with me?" Kristy asked, looking pleased.

"Make three reservations," Troy said from the stairway. He looked at Mac's plate. "There any more?"

"Eggs in the refrigerator," Mac said. "You decide you're still in this?"

Kristy opened the refrigerator, got out eggs. She wiped out the skillet Mac had used, started breakfast for Troy. Troy sat down at the table.

"I started it," Troy said. "I'm going to help finish it."

Mac nodded. "Thought you would."

Mac emptied his backpack on the dining room table. Under Kristy's startled eyes, he set aside the two nines, what little ammunition he had left, the box cutter. Picking up a reporter's notebook -- a narrow notebook, 3" by 8", that said reporter's notebook right on it -- Mac began making a list. There was much to do. To start with, he needed to get his 4-Runner home from Shorty's and into the shop. Janet's pickup needed to be returned. Mac toyed with having it cleaned and repainted, grinned and put it on the list. The house needed to be restored to its usual order. Mac had found it hard to go to sleep, because he wanted to get up and clean his suite of rooms. Eventually he had. Order had been restored.

He needed to go to the bank.

Arrangements for Danny's burial could be delegated to Kristy.

"Mac, phone." Lindy called from the living room where she was restoring order to her beloved books.

Mac picked up the phone. "Hello."

"Mac, it's Janet. Have you read the morning's paper? Quite a bit of excitement at Parker's residence. Protesters. No Parker, however," she said.

"Really?" Mac wrote down pick up the newspapers on his list.

"Really. Some people claimed they heard shots, but that couldn't be confirmed. You okay?"

"I am. Danny's... dead. So is C.J."

"The man you met at the pier?"

"Yeah."

Janet sighed. "I'm sorry," she offered. "I know you cared about them both."

When he didn't respond, Janet continued, "I've been asked by the publisher to tell you to report for work, your regular shift. Tomorrow, 6 a.m."

"Oh yeah?" Mac looked at his watch, not much more than twelve hours since the attorney had left with his signed papers.

"Yes, and I'm informed that the Parker story has been investigated and found to be... non-existent."

Mac grunted.

"And I'm wondering how the publisher knew all of this before I did."

Mac smiled. Trust it to Janet to see the interesting point. "I don't know. Probably because he heard it from someone besides me."

"So is the story dead?"

"Between you and me? I haven't decided. To the rest of the world? As dead as Danny."

"I see. Anything else I should know?"

"I'll be returning your pickup later today," Mac offered. "And I'm going to need some time off. Starting Thursday."

"How come?"

Mac hesitated, then answered slowly, "I have to go to a funeral. In Shreveport, Louisiana."

Errands took up most of the day. The bank. Swapping vehicles around and getting them repaired. Mac drove Janet's pickup through the car wash before returning it. Cleaning the house. Making arrangements for the funeral in Louisiana. Talking to Danny's boss. That had been a difficult conversation for Kristy. Mac ended up finishing it.

"She telling me right? Danny Brown's dead?"

Mac rolled his eyes. No, she's making it up, you dumb shit, he thought. "Yes. He intervened in an assault on a woman, didn't see the man's gun. Saved her, though."

"Sounds like Danny," said the boss, Sonny Barber. "That boy never backed away from a fight."

"No, he didn't," Mac agreed. "Did I hear Kristy say there'd be men from the platform who would want to attend?"

"Oh, yeah. Danny was well liked. Funeral going to be in Shreveport?"

"Sunday 2 p.m."

"We'll be there. Those of us who aren't on duty."

Mac suggested casually, "Kristy, Danny's sister? has expressed a wish to see the platform where Danny worked. She never has, you know. Meet some of the guys she's heard about. Think it would be possible to arrange a memorial service out on the platform?"

"Maybe," Sonny Barber said slowly. "I don't see why not. We've had spouses tour before. Not much different, hey? Who'd come out with her?"

"Me and another old Marine buddy of Danny's, probably," Mac said, keeping his voice casual. "We're kind of acting in place of her brother right now. There was just the two of them, you know."

Sonny Barber digested that. "I'll clear it with the bosses. Damn straight, if the lady wants to see where her brother worked, she should. Died a hero, didn't he?"

"Why did you tell him that story," Kristy demanded, when he got off the phone. "First of all, that's not how Danny died, and second, I've never expressed any interest in seeing an oil platform!"

Mac laughed at her. "Well, express it now," he said. "This may be the only way of getting on that platform. And I'm pretty sure that's where Danny hid Troy's package."

"Oh." Kristy thought about that. "And the other?"

Mac looked away. "Wanted Danny's buddies to know he was a hero," he said softly. "Even if they can't know the details."

Kristy hugged him and went to help Lindy with dinner. Mac watched her in bemusement. He could get used to her hugs and touches, he thought. Then he reached for the phone to make some more calls.

Wednesday morning, Mac was at work promptly at six. He nodded at Janet, tidied up the desk he shared with Conte with his usual grumbles, and started making his phone calls: police and fire departments in Seattle and the surrounding communities.

"Got a missing woman in Ballard," he called over to Janet, about eight a.m.

"Any details?"

"Some. Might be good, there's supposed to be a friend of the missing woman who fears foul play and says the woman's boyfriend was violent."

"Check it out," Janet said, jotting the story on the runsheet. "See if you can find that friend. And get a picture. How old is the missing woman?"

"Twenty-six."

Mac made some more calls, typed up his story and filed it in Janet's queue to be edited. "Think I'll go out to Ballard," he said. "Look around. I'll try to get that picture, too."

Janet looked at the clock; it was noon. "Leave it be; I'll have someone else follow up. Get some lunch and finish up anything you've got going. When are you going to be back from the funeral?"

Mac shook his head. "Don't know really. Can I have a week?"

Janet nodded. "Don't forget to tell Rodriguez where you are -- don't want you violating bail."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mac ate at Wan Luc's as he always did. The waiter complimented him again on his use of chopsticks. It felt good to be back in the routines of his life, even if just for a day. Back at the office, he went through his notes for the last couple of weeks. He followed up on some items, filed updates on a couple of them.

"Do I do the follo on Donnelly?" Mac asked.

Janet laughed. "No, I gave that story to Conte."

"Right," Mac said with some disappointment. He called Rodriguez anyway.

"Yeah," Rodriguez said when Mac identified himself. "What do you want now?"

"How's Donnelly?"

Rodriguez's voice lightened. "The doctors are optimistic for the first time," he said. "He's regaining consciousness. Not coherent, yet, but the Doc is hopeful."

"Good," Mac said, wondering whether Donnelly would be a help or a hindrance in his own case. Who did Donnelly think tried to kill him? "Listen, I've got to go to Louisiana, take Danny's body back for burial. You got a problem with that?"

"No." Rodriguez hesitated, then asked, "How long you planning to be gone?"

"A week."

"File the information with court clerk. Don't want your boss losing her bail money."

"The Examiner, you mean?"

Rodriguez was silent for a moment. "Your editor posted the bail herself, Mac. I thought you knew."

Mac hung up the phone, walked over to Janet's desk. Leaned on it. "You didn't tell me you posted my bail bond personally," he said quietly. "You didn't need to do that."

"You weren't supposed to know."

"Rodriguez mentioned it."

"Ah." Janet took off her glasses, cleaned them, put them back on again. Then she sighed. "This is a good newspaper, Mac. It generally does the right thing. It's aggressive about covering the things it should cover. Eventually the publisher and the editors would have done the right thing. Eventually. But I was going be God damned if one of my reporters sat in jail waiting for them to get their heads out of their asses."

Mac grinned at her. "Don't pull any punches, there, Janet. Tell us what you really think." he said.

"Don't you have any work to do?" she said, waving him off.

He turned to walk away, took a few steps. Turned back. "Thank you," he said simply.

She smiled. "You're welcome."

He called the court clerk, gave Kristy's address and phone number as the place where he could be reached in Louisiana.

He paged through his notes, looking for the stars that meant follow up on this. One note was a bit more cryptic that most. DEA case? El Paso? Check federal court records.

Forgot about that, he thought. Probably won't tell me anything new, but then again, you never knew. He leaned back in his chair, looked at the clock. One, two hours later there? He had time. Mac shrugged, looked up the telephone record on the Web. He punched in the long distance code and the number of the county court clerk in El Paso.

"Records, please," he said.

A female voice answered with a Texas drawl. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for the verdicts on some drug dealers who were arrested about ten years ago," Mac said, giving her the dates. "DEA bust out in the foothills. Howard Parker was the arresting DEA officer."

"Don't want much do you, honey?" the woman said. Mac could picture her: 50, bleached, teased hair, elaborate makeup, tight clothes and a body carry a few too many pounds. A good old Texas gal.

"If you don't ask, you don't get," he teased back.

"I'll bet you get all you want," she said with a laugh. "What do you want this for, anyway?"

"I'm a reporter," Mac said. "Doing a background piece, and found a string that led here. You know how it goes."

"Reporters," she snorted. "Yeah, we know reporters. Okay, honey, just hang on a bit and let me see what I can find."

The hold music was Waylon Jennings. Mac closed his eyes. It took ten minutes before the woman came back on.

"Got it. Not much of a lead for a story, though," she said doubtfully. "You sure this what you want?"

"I don't know -- what's it say?"

She gave him the names. Six men had pleaded guilty to misdemeanor possession, intent to sell. Four of the men were illegal aliens; they'd been turned over to Immigration and supposedly deported. The other two served six months in the county jail and were released.

"I doubt it would have come here at all if the DEA hadn't been directly involved," the clerk said.

"When was the verdict handed down?"

"December 7, 2005," Darlene said.

"Can you fax me the case?" Mac asked, trying to assimilate what she'd said. Misdemeanors? Six Hispanic names? No white guys, no big amounts confiscated? Well, that went hand in hand with it being a CIA undercover operation, he guessed. But who then were the men who took the fall? Why didn't they just make the whole thing go away. The more he thought about it, the more surprised he was to find any case at all.

"Are you sure it's the one you want?"

"Nope, but if it's not, I'll know who to ask for when I call back," Mac said cheerfully.

"Sure, honey, what's your name?"

Mac told her, and hung up. He looked at his notes. That didn't match his memories at all. And it was unlikely he'd forget that fucked up mission. Did it help knowing this? Well, if nothing else it did confirm that something strange had gone down on that case. But he knew that. Why a case at all? He picked up the faxes, jammed them in his backpack. One more thing to check out. Some time.

Kevin was standing in his way when he turned around. "Yo, jailbird," he said.

Mac looked at him, his perfectly cut, blond hair, the preppy khakis, the button-down shirt. One discreet little earring. The newsroom was quiet, straining to hear and see what Mac was going to do.

"Bet he slugs him," someone muttered behind him.

"I wanna see," another voice replied.

Mac smiled, after all the crap he'd been through in the last few days, Precious Kevin was almost amusing. He walked up close to him. Kevin backed away. Mac stalked him, pushing him finally to the wall, where Kevin had no place to go.

"Kevin," Mac said softly, riveting Kevin's attention on him. Deer in the headlights, Mac thought. "Pick up the newspaper almost any day of the week and there's my byline. I may be a lot of things, including a jailbird, as you say, but one thing I am that you're not, is a reporter. You are nothing but a fucking file clerk with a fancy title. So stay the fuck out of my way."

Mac held Kevin's eyes, for a bit longer, then backed away, satisfied he'd made his point. Steve Whitman was approaching his assistant; his expression didn't bode well for the young man wilting against the wall. Mac grinned.

Janet was standing by her desk when he walked by. "See you when I get back," he said.

She shook her head, glancing at Kevin who was now in an earnest conversation with his boss. She hid a smile. "Call me if a story turns up. Seeing as you're a reporter, you say."

He nodded slowly. "I think one just might."

In Texas, Darlene hung up the phone, faxed the judgment and sentencing reports, and put the case file in a pile to be returned to the morgue. A man came behind the counter, perched on her desk. She looked at him without favor.

"What's happening, Darlene," he said easily. "Saw you had to make a trip to the morgue."

She shrugged, not looking at him. She didn't like him. Hadn't the day he'd started at the courthouse, wouldn't the day he left. "Reporter called wanting information about an old case."

The man picked up the case file, thumbed through it. "Oh? Reporter from where?"

"Seattle," she said shortly. "You through wasting my time, mister? I do have things to do."

"Sure, Darlene," he said, tapping her on the cheek. It hurt. He smiled nasty-like and went back down the hall.

His eyes were cold and there wasn't even a nasty smile on his face when he entered his office and dialed a number he knew by heart. "I thought you said he was going to be stopped," he said to the person who answered.

"He's stopped," the person replied.

"That's what you think," the Texan said. "He just accessed the case file. You'd better tell the boss."

"Shit," the D.C. man said. "The boss has been having a hizzy fit as it is. We're all taking a lot of heat. Went out to take charge himself. Says if you want it done right....

"Yeah? Well, I hear tell it isn't going well out there either," the Texan said.

"So I hear, some big fuck up. But I didn't have anything to do with it, all I care about these days."

"Well tell the boss the file's been accessed."

"I'll tell him."

"Better you than me," the Texan said softly and hung up.

### Chapter 22

SHREVEPORT, LOUISIANA (Sunday, Dec. 9, 2012) — Mac, Troy, and four roustabouts carried Danny's casket through the cemetery to the burial place. They set the casket, covered with an American flag, on the platform at the grave, and stepped back, standing at the graveside at parade rest, shoulders square, eyes straight ahead, hands clasped behind them. A color guard from the nearby base stood at attention as well.

There had been a memorial service at the Baptist chapel, but Mac figured the graveside services would be no briefer. The Baptist minister had known Danny all his life. It seemed as if he was going to detail every moment of it. Well, there might be a few moments Danny hadn't told the preacher, Mac thought irreverently, careful not to let anything show on his face.

After the graveside services, everyone was expected back at the Brown home for potluck. Food had been arriving all morning from neighbors, friends, church members, Kristy's fellow teachers, parents of her students. Some men from the oil company had shown up with a dozen cases of beer -- to chill, they said. Kristy had thanked them all.

Mac glanced over at Kristy. She was dressed in black, even with a hat and a small veil. Southern traditions, he supposed. She looked subdued, quiet. No wailing. She'd shed tears, plenty of them, Mac knew. He'd see her disappear to her room, come back red-eyed, but controlled. He admired that. The last few days had been hard on her. Harder maybe even than the kidnapping. From what Troy had said, her guards had taken awfully good care of her. Mac shifted slightly to avoid smiling at the picture that conjured up. But Danny's death. Then coming home, making all the arrangements. Telling Mac's manufactured story of his death again and again. Knowing it for a lie.

The newspaper had been by to do a feature on Danny dying a hero. Mac almost regretted his lie. Something simpler might have been easier on every one. He'd written the obituary. First one he'd had to write since Newswriting 221 in college. For some reason the first story a journalism student wrote was an obit. Mac never had figured out why. Classified ad clerks usually wrote them up at most newspapers, near as he could tell. Or they were submitted by the family. You're a reporter, you write it, Kristy had said. So he wrote his first for-real obit.

He and Troy had volunteered to clean Danny's room and take most of his clothes and things to Goodwill. It hadn't been easy. Danny had been a packrat, and the assholes who kidnapped Kristy had tossed every item, emptied every drawer, and slashed open every box. The whole house was a mess -- just what had those assholes thought might be hidden in a ten-pound bag of flour for God's sake? Kristy had spent two days cleaning, sorting, straightening. Mac had suggested she hire a cleaning service for the kitchen and living room areas, but she hadn't wanted it. Therapeutic cleaning? Mac wondered and went back to sorting through Danny's things.

The minister led the mourners in a song that everyone but Mac seemed to know. As a pallbearer, he could stand silent, grateful he didn't have to try and fake the song.

"Just as I am, without one plea,

But that thy blood was shed for me.

And that Thou biddest me come to thee,

O Lamb of God, I come! I come!"

Shed blood. Song didn't make much sense to him -- no Sunday School in his childhood -- but he understood spilt blood. Yeah, Danny had shed his own blood because of him, he thought grimly. He could feel his face tighten, a pulse in his jaw jumped.

He thought the song might mean the end was near, but the preacher seemed to be just warming up. Mac's mind drifted.

For the first day, Troy and Mac had worked in silence. Only when Kristy was around did the two of them make any effort to talk. Saturday morning, however, when they were reboxing Danny's medals, Troy had looked at him.

"You hating me 'cause I got Danny killed?" Troy said. "If so, you can't hate me more than I do."

Mac sat back on his haunches, looked at Troy, then he shook his head and looked away. "It took both of us to get Danny killed," Mac said bitterly. "I should have told you to bring your package to me. Danny'd still be alive."

"Can't know that," Troy observed. He handed Mac another medal. Mac put it carefully in the velvet-lined case Danny had used to store his medals in. Not like the cardboard box his own were tossed in.

"No." Mac hesitated, stuck out his hand. Troy shook it.

"We're going to get the fucker," Troy said.

"Yeah, we are." You hear that, Danny? We're not done yet, Mac thought.

Things became better after that. It had been bad to have things strained between the two of them. Not that they hadn't been crossways of each other before. But this wasn't something that could be eased by taking Troy down and pounding some sense into him.

"Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound,

That Saved a Wretch like Me."

Even Mac had heard this song before. Suddenly he wondered who handled C.J.'s funeral; he had a new appreciation for how much went into getting someone buried. The service, funeral arrangements, picking out the casket, arranging for a headstone -- just notifying everyone. He almost wished he could attend the funeral for C.J. Say good-bye right. Did C.J. have a family? Mac thought for the first time. A wife and kids? He didn't know. Probably. Probably had teenagers. It chilled him. Was some kid fatherless because of him?

"When We've Been There Ten Thousand Years

Bright Shining As the Sun,

We've no less Days To Sing God's Praise

Than When We'd First Begun."

This time the preacher did seem to be done, as he gestured to the color guard. Two soldiers in dress uniform stepped forward, folded the flag that draped the casket. With a salute, they handed the flag to Kristy. Another soldier played Taps on his trumpet -- Mac had had to insist a real person play it, not just some recording -- followed by a 21-gun salute. Three guns, seven shots. Mac felt each shot as if they were blows to his body.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Good-bye friend, he said to the casket. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry.

The potluck at the house was a form of a wake, Mac decided. People reminisced, cried, hugged each other. Mac finally escaped out to the back porch. Danny's buddies from the oil platform had claimed the room for their own. The beer was flowing freely.

Mac accepted a beer, popped the tab, set it aside. In the all male room he relaxed for the first time in days.

"Hear you're bringing his sister out to the platform for a memorial service," one man said. He was forty, average height, brown eyes, brown hair -- the hair cut short in front, but longer in back. He had an anchor tattoo on his left forearm. Mac thought his name was Pete.

"Yeah," Mac said. "She's never seen the platform. Thought it might give her some closure to see it, pick up Danny's things, have someone say a few words." He shrugged.

The men nodded.

"Be good for the company to do that for all our wives and families," another man observed. Dave? Mac thought. "My wife is just sure there's some orgy going on every week when I'm gone."

"Yeah? She sees you with Mary Beth, and you'll never convince her otherwise," Rock teased.

"Shit," Dave said, drawing it out into two syllables. He threw a beer can at his tormentor, a man who looked like he'd been carved out of blocks of the rock he was named for. The can clattered against the wall. Everyone froze at the noise. "Sorry," Dave muttered. "Didn't mean to make noise."

"You knew Danny from the Marines?" asked Bill, a short stocky man with bulging biceps.

Mac nodded.

"He a fighter then, too?"

Mac smiled. "He started a few."

Bill shook his head. "He surely liked to fight. Guess it's no surprise he'd finally pick a fight too big to handle."

"But he did rescue the girl, didn't he?" Bud, the youngest of them, asked anxiously.

Mac nodded. Maybe the story was more true than he'd realized. "Yeah, he rescued the girl."

"Hope the bastard gets what he deserves," Pete said viciously.

Mac smiled. "Danny got his escort to Valhalla," he said.

"Valhalla?" Bud asked. "Where's that?"

Sonny rolled his eyes. "Vikings believed God \-- they called him Odin -- had a special heaven for warriors, called Valhalla," he said to the younger man. "Tradition had it that you wanted to take your enemies with you to gain entrance there."

"Oh," Bud said. "They didn't teach us that at Sunday School when I was a kid."

"It's a myth," Sonny said patiently. "And I don't reckon the preacher would appreciate it being taught at Sunday School."

The other men laughed. Seven of them had come to the funeral. Pete had brought his wife, a nice woman who was inside helping Kristy serve food. Bill, Dave, Rock, and Bud had been pallbearers. Sonny was Danny's foreman; all them worked on the same crew. They were dressed in suits, go-to-meetin' clothes, Pete had called them, but ties were loosening, shirt collars were being unbuttoned. They talked. Told stories about Danny, about spending a week at a time on a platform no bigger than four city blocks. Mac listened.

"Danny act odd last trip out?" he injected at one point.

"Danny? No odder than usual," Pete said. "We're all odd, man, and no lie."

Rock shrugged. "He was touchy, I thought," he contributed. "Like something was on his mind. He didn't hide things very well."

Mac grunted. "Worst liar I ever saw."

Everyone laughed. "No lie," Pete agreed.

Mac wandered out, checked on Kristy, poured his beer down the kitchen sink.

Sonny was in the doorway when he turned around. "Don't drink?" he asked.

Mac shrugged. "I drank enough in the Marines for four lifetimes, decided that was enough."

"You don't have to fake it for us," Sonny said, not moving. "We won't care. Hell, half of us are on the wagon some time or another."

"Habit. Makes people think I'm having fun, too."

"Yeah. Why were you asking about Danny's last trip out?"

Mac shrugged. "Not sure. He came up to see me, said it was important. Then he got killed before he could tell me what it was. Said he had something he'd send me."

Sonny looked at him for a moment. "Lot you're not telling us," he observed. When Mac started to protest, Sonny shook his head. "That's okay. No need to tell us everything. You think he was going to be a whistle blower?"

Mac frowned. "About the platform?" He shook his head. "No way. He loved what he did. This was something else."

Sonny nodded, thought a moment. "You talk to Mary Beth, when you get out there. She couldn't come to the funeral, but she was close to Danny. He was sweet on her. Hell, we're all a bit sweet on her, including me, and I'm old enough to be her father." He contemplated that, shook his head. "If he was worried about something, she'd know."

He looked at Mac carefully. "The man who killed Danny," he began, hesitated, and went on, "He's dead."

"Yeah," Mac said. "He's dead."

Sonny just nodded, didn't ask anything more. He stood aside and let Mac pass into the room before following. Mac took a second beer, and Sonny just shook his head. When the men decided to move to a bar Mac was included. "Finish the evening like Danny would have wanted us to," Pete said solemnly.

"In a bar fight?" Mac asked laughing. He felt better knowing Danny had been a part of this crew, had heard the stories about him. Told a few of his own.

"Damn straight," Pete said.

Mac, Troy and Kristy drove to Gulfport in Kristy's Saturn with Mac at the wheel. Troy was scrunched up in the back seat. "Take a flight home," Troy muttered, his long legs tucked up behind Mac.

Mac was feeling pretty good for a man who had had no sleep. The eight of them had closed out the bars in town, gone out to the strip by the base where the bars stayed open 24/seven. A soldier with too much liquid courage had obliged them by picking a fight. They'd beat it out of there just as the sirens pulled into the parking lot.

They'd dumped Pete back at his hotel room for his wife to patch up -- he'd managed to cut his lip. The others, for all that they had been drinking steadily for twelve hours, piled in to Rock's motorhome and headed south. One case of beer had been kept for the journey home.

"Helicopter leaves at seven," Rock explained. "We don't have to be sober, but we do have to be there."

"Hell, man," Bill added, "never flown out sober."

No booze on the platform, Sonny said. They'd get out there, sleep it off, and be straight and narrow for a week.

Thank God for the no booze policy. He had a headache from just watching those boys drink. Not only that, they had infected his language; he was starting to sound like a damn southerner. He'd be doing y'all soon.

If Kristy had slept she didn't look like it. Now, quiet and pale, she mostly looked out the window on the drive. "You okay," Mac asked quietly.

She nodded. "Tell me again, why are we going out here?" she asked wearily. "I'm not sure I can stand too many more funeral services."

Mac reached over squeezed her hand. "We need on the platform," he explained again. "That packet is out there, I'm sure of it. We need that disk. We need to see what Troy had that got everyone all fired up."

She attempted a smile. "You're beginning to sound like you're from around here," she observed.

"God forbid," Mac said, not joking.

Troy snorted. "Then what?" he asked. "You got a plan?"

"Then Kristy goes back to school, finishes out the term. You got to go to D.C. -- get some excuse ready for your family, and your coworkers. Everyone's got to act as if they're going to go back to normal."

"No way," Kristy said, roused by the idea that she was going to be left behind. "I'm going with you."

"You can't. It won't be safe," Mac said.

"Being alone will be?" Kristy demanded. "What's to prevent them from taking me again? Don't tell me you wouldn't give up the packet if you had it, if they threatened me."

"You can come with me," Troy suggested.

Kristy glanced back at him. "No offense, Troy, but you were sitting in the same room I was. I want to be with the person who got me out of there. Not the one who got me kidnapped in the first place."

Troy grimaced but didn't argue. "Where will you being going, Mac, that isn't safe for Kristy, anyway?"

"I'm going to have the packet and the disk by evening," Mac said. "Where I go won't matter, after that."

"And me," Kristy said firmly. "I'd feel safer next to you than anywhere else. Besides, I'm in this just as much as you two."

Mac glanced in his rearview mirror. He didn't see anyone who looked to be following them. But then, it wasn't a secret where they were headed. "Someone tailed me all evening last night," Mac said. "A couple faces at the funeral didn't belong -- didn't quite fit in, you know. And I'm pretty sure the house has been watched since we got here."

Both of them were silent while they digested that. "Why?" Kristy burst out. "Why are they watching us?"

"To see what we're doing," Troy murmured.

"Don't joke with me, explain."

"Actually, he's right," Mac soothed. "They -- Parker's men -- are watching to see if we are really going to take the money and back off. So we have to look like that's what we're doing."

"And what are they going to make of this trip?" Troy asked.

Mac signaled, moved into the passing lane, goosed the speed a bit. He wasn't fond of how visible the red Saturn was, but he liked how it handled on the freeway. To bad General Motors had discontinued the cars. "One of two things," he answered. "Either they think it's a memorial service, or they figure we're out to get your packet back."

Kristy looked at him. "And if they think it's the second?"

"Then they'll be waiting for us when we get back."

Troy drawled from the back seat, "They'll be waiting anyway. Can't afford to guess the other way and be wrong. They'll have to check it out and see if we bring back the package."

Mac nodded. He glanced at his watch. The helicopter was going to come back after its usual run, pick them up at ten. They'd be right on time.

"So what do you plan to do about that?" Troy demanded.

"I'll figure out something," Mac said.

They pulled into the parking lot at ten 'til the hour. The pilot was waiting for them at the small terminal drinking a cup of coffee. He looked young to Mac. When had that happened, he wondered sourly.

"You all ready to go?" the pilot asked. He shook Kristy's hand. "Ma'am, I'm real sorry about Danny's death. We all are."

"Thank you," she said quietly. "What's your name?"

"Hec," he said. "Well, Hector, really, but everyone calls me Hec."

He escorted them through the terminal. As they started out onto the tarmac, two men in suits approached them. One held up an FBI badge.

"FBI," he said. "We want you to include us on this trip."

Before Mac could protest, Hec demanded, "You have a warrant?"

"No," the agent said soothing him. "We just want to join Ms. Brown's trip. This isn't about the platform. It's other business."

"Right," Hec drawled. He looked at Kristy. "You expecting him?" She shook her head.

The pilot looked back at the two agents. "You come back with official paper if you want on my copter. Until then, you're on private property. You've got two minutes to be off it."

"Really," the agent protested, "We couldn't care less about the platform. We're FBI, not EPA, anyway."

Hec shook his head. "Doesn't matter who you are. You are not on my list, so you don't go out."

The agents hesitated, looked at each other. Hec looked at his watch pointedly.

"We're leaving," one agent said finally. Both turned and walked away.

Hec watched to make sure they truly left. "Damned government," he muttered. "If it isn't them, it's environmentalists."

"You handled that as if you were expecting them," Troy said as they again headed across the field.

"It's been tried before. Reporters sometimes. I've got strict orders. No one goes on the platform unless it's been approved by higher ups. No matter what."

"What would you have done if they had a warrant?" Troy asked.

Hec shrugged. "Call my boss. He calls someone else. And finally Arco's men in suits show up to handle it."

Mac looked over his shoulder. The two men were sitting in a Ford Taurus outside the field gates. They'd be waiting when they got back. But they weren't going to be on the platform. Maybe Hec didn't look too young after all.

### Chapter 23

GULF OF MEXICO (Monday, Dec. 10, 2012) — The employees of Arco's oil platform 2004 were very solicitous of Kristy Brown. The bosses vied to be the ones who escorted her to the assembly room for the memorial service. Every roughneck, roustabout, and support staffer came up to tell her how sorry he was.

Danny was obviously well-liked, Mac thought. But most of the reaction was due to Kristy's quiet beauty and warmth. People wanted to be around her. Shit, he wanted to be around her, didn't he?

The flight out over the water had been beautiful. Hec helped Kristy into the co-pilot's seat; Mac and Troy perched on the bench seats in back.

Been six years since I rode in one of these, Mac realized. At least no one's going to expect me to jump out of this one. Yet. Hec briefed them on the safety features. Showed them where the life preservers were. "I've never gone down yet," he had said cheerfully. "But there's always the first time."

The day was clear with little chop. Hec flew low so they could see the water. The platform looked small at first, but it quickly grew larger until it loomed on the horizon. He circled the platform, giving them an idea of its size -- two football fields side by side, he said. One hundred fifty men, well and five women, were out this shift too. He zipped back out again, approached higher, and landed on the helipad.

Sonny Barber and his crew were waiting. Sonny helped Kristy out of the pad. He introduced her to several management men, who solemnly shook her hand. Mac and Troy tagged along behind, pretty much ignored.

"We pump 200,000 barrels of oil a day, and 120,000 cubic feet of natural gas," Sonny explained. He gestured toward the drills, pushing down 20,000 plus feet. "Everything is monitored electronically. The slightest sign of a leak, the computer shuts us down."

He explained the drilling apparatus, introducing Kristy to each person on duty. "We work 12 hours shifts for seven days," he said. "Some companies have two weeks on, two weeks off. Some like it better that way, others our way."

The living quarters were actually quite nice, although small. Satellite television. Smoking was allowed in certain places, although a butt overboard was grounds for severe discipline.

"I said we'd make the guy fish it back out," Sonny said cheerfully. "So far we haven't had to."

Danny's room was sterile, nothing on the walls, nothing in closets or drawers. Someone else lived in it the week he was on shore, Sonny explained. Danny stored his stuff in a locker. Normally, he'd be emptying his locker, unpacking right now. Other rooms showed signs of life, although they still had the feel of a hotel room. A nice hotel, but not home.

They'd help Kristy go through Danny's locker after lunch, Sonny said.

Lunch was very good. Mac had heard the meals on the platforms were excellent, and it seemed to be true. The buffet served corn chowder or chili, chicken, barbecued spare ribs, makings for sandwiches, several kinds of salads, a variety of vegetables, including a vegetarian entree. Pie seemed to the favorite for desert.

"Our chef is out of New Orleans," Sonny said. "He's excellent."

Mac drifted over toward Pete while they stood in line to be served lunch. "Introduce me to Mary Beth, would you?" he asked quietly.

"Sure." Pete looked around. "Over there," he pointed, to a table where a young woman sat alone. "Come on. I'll take you over."

Mac wasn't sure what he expected Mary Beth to look like. He suspected it took a certain kind of woman to work on an oil platform with 150 men. Mary Beth was in her late twenties, about average height, but muscular, brown hair and eyes. Her hair was braided down her back. She was wearing a blue-gray jumpsuit, with Anderson stenciled above her chest pocket. No make up. Her face glowed with health and fresh air, although fine lines already showed at the eyes from the sun. She smiled at Pete as he approached.

"Mary Beth, this is Mac Davis," Pete said. "He came out with Danny's sister. Said he'd like to meet you."

Mary Beth held out her hand, Mac shook it. "You'd better get some food. They feed us pretty good."

"So I hear," Mac said. Pete patted Mary Beth's shoulder and rejoined the line. Mac pulled out a chair, sat down.

"Sonny tells me you and Danny were pretty close."

Mary Beth sighed. "Yeah. Hard to believe he's dead. I guess I don't believe it. Not really." Her lips trembled, and she pressed them together tightly. "That his sister? Kristy?"

Mac nodded. She smiled. "I'd like to meet her. Danny was really proud of her." She toyed with her food, pushed it away. "How did he die?"

Mac repeated the story. She nodded. They sat quietly for a few minutes.

'Danny was.... Oh, I don't know, how to say it," Mary Beth said finally.

"You two in love?" Mac asked, somewhat uncomfortable.

She shrugged. "Not quite. But it was going there, I thought. Neither of us were quite ready to settle down, but given time.... Danny would have been a good husband." She grinned, and it brightened her whole face. "Given that the man couldn't tell a successful lie to save his soul, you'd always know if he were being faithful at least."

Mac shook his head and laughed. "That's the truth," he said. "Worst liar I know." He hesitated. "Mary Beth, Danny had something he wanted to give me, something important, a packet of stuff. He died before he could tell me where to find it. Sonny thought you would be the one who would know where he hid it."

Mary Beth frowned thoughtfully. "That why he was so antsy last shift?"

"Probably."

"Not in his locker?"

"We haven't looked through that stuff yet," Mac explained. "Sonny said after the memorial service. But I'm betting he would have hidden it somewhere else."

She sighed. Closed her eyes, leaned back slightly in her chair. "Danny was all wired when he came out last shift. Wouldn't talk to me about it. But you could tell something had happened, was happening."

She opened her eyes, looked at Mac. "This related to why he died?"

"Not really," Mac lied.

"If I help you find it, will you let me see what it is?"

Mac hesitated.

"I just want to make sure he wasn't going to do something stupid, you know, about the platform."

Mac shook his head. "It is not about the platform," he assured her. "It's something to do with when he and I were Marines together."

"Ah. Now that makes it clearer." She gestured to the sandwich on her plate. "You want that? Grab it and come on."

Mac snagged the sandwich and followed her out the door. She led him down a hallway, stopped at a locker, pulled out two slickers and hard hats. Handed him a set. Mac shrugged into the slicker, stuck the hard hat on. Followed her out a door that said authorized personnel only. It took them outside, along a girder walkway. It was windy, cold and noisy. The wind blew too hard to talk above it, almost too hard to even think. Mary Beth steps were sure and even, Mac followed closely. She ducked behind a huge cement pillar of some kind, probably 15-20 feet in diameter. In the lee of the pillar, it was quieter. There was a small seat, looked like a lawn chair of some kind, and a locked box.

"Danny came here when he wanted to get away from people," Mary Beth explained, now that she could be heard above the wind. "I was probably the only person he showed it to. We'd come here sometimes."

She looked around at the box. "He said he liked to be able to see the horizon and think. If he stashed something, it'd be here in the box.'

Mac crouched beside the box. It was welded to the T-beam behind it. Wouldn't stay any other way. It had a combination lock on it. "You know the combination?"

"My birthday," she said steadily. "01-20-84."

Mac set the codes, missed one, swore softly. His hands were cold. He spun the dial started over again. He opened the box. Inside were a pair of binoculars, a small flask, and a package wrapped with newspaper and bound with string. Mac pulled it out.

"That what you're looking for?" Mary Beth asked.

Mac untied the string. Inside were several folders and a computer disk. "Yeah. This is it." He looked in the box. Nothing else. Mary Beth nodded.

"You want to read it here?" she asked. "I'll wait."

Mac gestured her to the chair, he sat on the box itself. He opened the files, paged through them. The first file was evidently Troy's work. He had documented Parker's career. There were notes from an interview with someone about Parker's role at the CIA. A print out of a story about the CIA's connection with drugs and the Contras. Parker's resume. Troy's own log of what happened when they busted the coke warehouse in the badlands along the Texas-Mexico border. A copy of a memo about the jurisdictional dispute over the case. The case file, which repeated what Mac had gotten.

The second folder must have come from Troy's secret source, Mac thought. In it were the memos ordering background reports on the four of them who were on the mission. The memo was dated November 16. That might be useful in clearing his name somewhat, Mac hoped. The next set of pages was a background report on Parker himself. Mac frowned, what the heck was this for? He read through the attached memo. Light dawned. Parker had ordered a background search on himself! To see what a headhunter might find? Huh. What had he been afraid someone would find? The background report, however, appeared to be quite complimentary. Mac frowned thoughtfully. More copies of correspondence. Mac paged through it but nothing leaped out at him. He'd read it more thoroughly, but Mac didn't see what was worth killing Danny for.

He picked up the disk, slipped it into his back pocket. The papers he put back in the folders and retied the package as close to the original as possible. What he really wanted now was a computer.

Mary Beth was sitting quietly, looking out to sea. He touched her shoulder lightly. "Ready to go back?" he asked gently. She nodded.

Mac reached down, gave the combination lock a spin, and then followed Mary Beth back out into the wind.

The memorial service was just starting when Mac and Mary Beth slid into the assembly room.

"That's Ben Herraz," Mary Ellen whispered, as they found seats in the back. "He's kind of like a chaplain for us, usually hold Sunday services."

Mac nodded. He looked attentive, but his mind was elsewhere. He mulled over what he needed to do. How he was going to pull it off. Was Kristy serious about wanting to be with him for protection? Mac thought about that. It made him nervous to have her vulnerable, he decided. She was right, too easy for someone to think snatching her would work as well a second time as it had the first.

Herraz led everyone in singing Amazing Grace again. This time Mac mumbled along. At least this guy's speech was shorter than the preacher's had been, he noted. As people began to leave, Mac turned to Mary Beth. "You going to be okay?"

She tilted her chin out, nodded. "I'll be fine." He squeezed her shoulder, and went to find Sonny.

"I need to make some plane reservations," Mac said softly. "Any way I can use a phone?"

Sonny grunted. "Come meet our reservations officer. She'll take care of you." They walked down the hallway together. Sonny eyed the package. "That what you came for?"

Mac nodded, then grinned lopsidedly. "Want to look?"

Sonny nodded. Mac untied the package, handed over the files. Sonny paged through them. "Not about the platform," he agreed with relief and handed the files back.

"No," Mac carefully tied the package up again. "You're a bit paranoid here, aren't you?"

"Is it paranoia if they are really out to get you?" Sonny asked, turning into an office.

Mac shrugged. "Probably, but then, I'm a fan of paranoia myself. Keeps a person alive."

Sonny laughed. "I bet you are."

An older woman looked up. She was wearing half-glasses that she let slide off her nose. They dangled from a chain around her neck. "Sonny," she greeted him. "And you must be one of our visitors."

"Mac Davis," Mac introduced himself. He shook the hand she held out to him.

"I'm Bertha," she said. "What can I do for y'all?"

There was a map of the Louisiana coastline behind her. Mac walked over to it. "Troy needs to be dropped off where the helicopter picked us up," he began. "But Kristy and I need to be in El Paso as soon as possible. I was hoping you all would be willing to put us off at a commercial airport where we could have tickets to El Paso waiting."

"El Paso?" She typed something into her computer, brought up a reservation screen. "Sure, we can do that. Put you down in Port Arthur, you can catch a flight at 4 p.m. on Southwest, put you in El Paso at 6:30 p.m. You want me to make hotel reservations too?"

Just like that.

Mac pulled out his wallet. "Can you take cash?"

"Nothing wrong with that," she agreed.

At his request, she booked both the plane and hotel reservations in Arco's name. "You running off with that girl?" she asked cheerfully.

Mac laughed. "I wish."

Troy stuck his head in the door. "Hey, Mac, we've got all of Danny's things. You about ready to go?"

"Just a minute," he said, without turning around. Bertha printed out confirmations, handed them to him. "Anything else?"

"One more thing," he said. "Could you make copies of this for me? Two copies?"

Once again, he untied the package, handed over the documents. Bertha ran them through the copier behind her, handed them back. Mac remade the package. Then he borrowed a large mailing envelope, stuffed one copy in it, addressed it to Shorty. Bertha took it.

"Nothing about the platform in there is there?" she asked.

Sonny snorted. "I already read them," he said.

Bertha nodded. "Good. That it?"

"Thanks, Bertha," Mac said gratefully. He put the second copy in a folder with the reservation confirmations attached to the outside. "You're a life saver."

"Get on out of here," she said waving him off.

Troy had a hand truck with three boxes on it. Kristy stood near him. She looked exhausted. Troy's eyes widened at the package in Mac's hands. "You found it," he said.

"Yeah," Mac handed it to him.

Sonny glanced at his watch. "Come on, Hec's waiting," he said, urging them down the hallway.

"So you got something figured out yet?" Troy asked as they walked toward the helipad. He clutched the package. "Those agents are going to be sitting right where we left them this morning waiting for us."

"Kind of," Mac said. "How do you feel about driving that Saturn to D.C.?"

Troy looked at him, grinned. "It handle as well as it looked this morning? You bet. But what about the package? And how are we going to get past those agents?"

Mac grinned. "They won't be there," he said confidently.

Hec was waiting for them inside the pilot's shack. "Ready to go?" he asked cheerfully. "Bertha says I'm landing in Port Arthur first. Then Sulphur."

Troy looked confused, but Mac nodded. "You have to file a flight plan don't you?"

Hec shrugged. "I call the airport at headquarters, tell them where I'm going," he agreed. "Not really a flight plan, per se. Why?"

"Those agents," Mac said. "I don't want them hassling us about what we saw when we get back. I figure they'll be listening to your flight plan. Can you tell them you're going to drop us off in Lake Charles, then take some Arco execs to Port Arthur, and then you'll be in to Sulphur?"

Hec's eyes narrowed. "This got anything to do with the platform?" he asked suspiciously.

Mac shook his head no. Sonny sighed. "Maybe we are getting a bit paranoid out here," he muttered, then said louder, "It's okay, Hec. I've checked it out. Nothing to do with us \-- just the little lady."

Mac's eyes widened at the phrase little lady. He glanced at Kristy out of the corner of his eye. She didn't even notice, he thought. Must really be tired.

"Okay, then," Hec said, his cheerfulness returning. "Sure, I can take you to Lake Charles."

Mac shook his head. "We won't really be going there," he explained, and couldn't help but grin. "But the FBI will."

Hec laughed. "Be glad to file that report. So we land at the airport in Lake Charles, take off. Then where?"

"A quick drop at Sulphur. Troy's going to pick up the car."

Hec nodded. "And then on to Port Arthur. Got it. Let's get going then. I'll wait until I'm in the air to file the new plan."

"Would you get in trouble if you neglected to mention that brief stop at Sulphur?" Mac asked, climbing in back. Hec helped Kristy into the front. This trip, she looked like she needed it. Mac hoped she could hold up for the next leg of the journey. They had several hours of travel yet to go.

Hec shrugged. "Doubt it, but I've been in trouble before. It didn't seem to hurt me none," he said.

Troy crawled in beside Mac. "So then I head to D.C.," he said, "In the Saturn, with the package. With those two agents following behind?"

"Maybe," Mac agreed. "They'll figure it out eventually I suppose. I don't think they'll expect you to drive, however." He hesitated. "It's still dangerous, Troy. They may leave a spotter behind at Sulphur to watch the Saturn. Or they may not take the Lake Charles bait. If you can get to the Saturn, there's a nine under the passenger's seat."

Troy rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to have a shoot out with the FBI," he said. "It's not likely to advance my career one bit."

"These may not be real FBI, and even if they are, I doubt they're assigned to this legitimately," Mac cautioned. "They don't want a ruckus to explain either. Waving a gun around ought to at least make them cautious."

"Humph. And where will you and Kristy be?" Troy shouted in Mac's ear to be heard over the noise of the helicopter. "Port Arthur?"

Mac shouted in Troy's ear in return. "We're going on from there. Best you don't know where."

Troy's eyes narrowed, he looked at the package. "You made copies," he said, enlightened.

Mac grinned at him. "If you have to, give them the damn package. But be sure to put up a good fight for it."

Troy nodded enthusiastically. "Now that I can handle."

Mac turned sober. "And Troy?" he said. "Don't let them take you hostage again. They aren't going to let you go a second time."

Troy took a deep breath. He nodded.

### Chapter 24

SULPHUR, LOUISIANA (Monday, Dec. 10, 2012) \- The Lake Charles feint went off without a hitch. Hec set the helicopter down near the hangar, waited long enough so that someone could have hopped out and then took off again.

Mac looked down to see three agents pop out of the terminal door, and start purposefully toward the hangar. He grinned. Hec glanced back, gave a thumbs up sign.

Twenty minutes later, Hec was landing at headquarters in Sulphur. Troy hopped out and waved them off. Hec lifted, circled around to watch Troy get to the Saturn. Suddenly, Kristy handed her headphones back to Mac. Mac put one earpiece up to his ear.

"What?" he said into the mouthpiece.

"We've go a problem," Hec said, pointing to the ground. Mac crouched between the pilot and Kristy, looking out. Two agents were standing between Troy and the Saturn as Troy exited from the small terminal building. Troy stopped. The two agents walked toward him. One had a gun in his hand, Mac thought.

"Can you put down on the parking lot pavement?" Mac asked, gesturing down with his hands. Hec grinned, circled the lot, and turned his thumbs up.

"There's room. We going to pick him back up?"

Mac shook his head. "Let me out. Then put back out and wait."

"Roger."

Hec really was very good as a pilot, Mac thought with admiration. He put the helicopter down close enough that the men had to brace themselves against the whirling air. Mac got ready to hop out. Hec stopped him with one hand, then reached under his seat. He pulled out a 45 pistol, a big imposing, clumsy weapon.

"Want it?" he asked, offering it.

Mac grinned, took it, and prepared to drop down to the ground.

Mac dropped, landing in a crouch. Even though the drop was only a few feet, it still jarred. He ignored it, ran for the Saturn, and was hidden behind it when he motioned the helicopter off.

"Drop it," Mac called out, as soon as the copter was gone far enough for the agents to hear him.

"FBI!" one agent called out confidently. He flashed a badge toward Mac. The other one, the one Mac suspected had a gun drawn, said nothing, and kept his eyes on Troy. Troy stood still, the package still in his hands.

"I don't give a shit," Mac said. "Drop the fucking gun. Now."

The FBI agents hesitated, looking at Mac's position. Protected by the car, a 45 clearly visible, he had the drop on them. The agent with gun set it down on pavement.

"Now, you, with the badge," Mac said. "Take your gun out slowly, put it down on the ground too."

The agent did.

"Good. Troy, kick those guns away, and pat them down."

Troy smiled. He seemed to take great pleasure patting them down. One holdout weapon. He took it, stepped back, pointed it at them.

Mac stepped around the car. "I believe you two were warned this morning that this is private property and you would need a warrant," he said calmly, walking up to them. "You got one?"

The men were silent. Mac walked up close to them, took their badges out of their pockets. He took the badges back to the Saturn, opened the car, found paper and pencil in the glovebox, and jotted down the agents names and badge numbers.

"What are you going to do with that?" Agent number two, Neil Wood, according to his badge, asked.

Mac ignored the question. "So who were the three agents waiting for us at Lake Charles?"

No one said anything. "Agent Mark Lowell, your turn to answer questions here," Mac said, looking at the first agent's badge.

Lowell sighed. "Called the P.D. there. Asked them to send over some detectives to detain anyone getting off the Arco helicopter. Implied we suspected you of drugs."

"You do like that drug gambit, don't you?" Mac said. "And then you waited here. Who assigned you?"

When neither answered, he repeated the question. "Agent Wood, who are you reporting to?"

Wood just glowered at him.

"Agent Lowell?" He didn't respond either.

"Let me explain something to you two," Mac said softly, his face inches away from Wood's face. Wood wanted to take a step back, but wouldn't give in. "Either you answer my questions, or I call FBI headquarters in D.C. and Troy and I start asking questions there. Questions like what do the higher ups think you're working on? Like what are you doing on Arco property after being warned off? Like do you have a warrant for Troy here that allowed you to detain him and threaten him with a gun? Civil rights violations. Trespassing. Acting without orders. Not even North Dakota will be taking you two when I'm done."

Lowell sighed. "Steve Addison gave us the directions. We aren't acting without orders."

"These orders come through normal channels?"

Neither answered. Mac nodded. "I didn't think so. Anything on paper? I'll bet not. You two just became expendable, you know that?"

No response. Mac looked at Troy. "You ever see either of these before this morning?"

Troy looked them over. "I don't think so."

"What bureau you two out of?"

"New Orleans," Lowell said.

Mac nodded, handed their badges back. "Troy, take those three guns of theirs and give them a good toss out in the ditch over there. Wouldn't hurt if they landed in some water. Then you get in the Saturn and head it home to Shreveport, you hear?" Mac kept his gun trained on the two agents.

Troy trotted off to the ditch and then slid into the Saturn. Mac and the two agents watched silently.

"For your information," he said as he backed toward the terminal, "Steve Addison has gone rogue. Orders from him are on an independent job. If I see you two again, I'll assume you've followed his lead. And I'll shoot you as quickly as I would any foreign enemy. Clear?"

Mac kept his gun trained on them, until he was at the terminal door. He shoved it in the back belt of his slacks when he entered in the terminal, shrugged his jacket down over it. Several Arco employees were standing there watching.

Mac just nodded at them, walked briskly through the building to the waiting helicopter.

"Let's go," he shouted as he swung himself up and into the body of the copter. "We've got a flight to catch."

Hec put the copter down at Port Arthur's airport, walked with them into the terminal to make sure their reservations were in order.

"You are a heck of a good pilot," Mac said, and grinned at him. He held out his hand and Hec shook it.

"It's been fun," Hec said with amusement.

Mac laughed, fished out a business card from his wallet. "I owe you, man. If you ever need anything, give me a call."

Hec looked at the card. "A reporter?" he yelped. "And you tell me it's not about the platform?"

Mac shook his head. "You all gotta work on the paranoia," he said. "After a while, I start wondering if there is a story out there."

Hec opened his mouth. Closed it without saying anything. Pocketed the card. "You all take care," he said.

Kristy hugged him. He grinned, touched his cap in a sloppy salute and sauntered out to his helicopter.

A thousand miles separated Port Arthur and El Paso. Mac and Kristy had seats together, but neither spoke. Kristy looked like she was napping; Mac hoped she was. She worried him, looked too tired. He was content to sit, look out the window and not think.

Mac got them through the airport at El Paso, picked up a rental car and headed to a medium nice hotel by the base. Kristy didn't say anything until after they checked in and he handed her a key to her room.

"Two rooms?" she asked, looking at the key card. Mac nodded. "I'd just as soon stay in yours," she said. "I don't mean... I'm nervous about being alone. I have nightmares... thinking they're coming for me. I could handle it at the house, knowing you and Troy were just down the hall, but here...." She looked at him anxiously. "Would you mind?"

Mac took her hand, pushed the button for the elevator. "Whatever you want," he said. "I know about nightmares."

He opened the door to his... their room, checked it out. He looked at Kristy. "Would you like to nap or eat?"

"What about you?" she said, sitting on the bed. Then she looked stricken. "We have nothing, no clothes, not even toothbrushes."

Mac sat on the other bed. "I need to go out for a bit," he said. "If you want to nap, while I'm gone, that's fine, or we can eat first, and then you nap. I'll pick up things while I'm out. I won't be gone long. Just need to make a couple of calls, and I don't want to make them from here."

Kristy nodded. "Nap," she decided. "You'll come back as soon as you can?"

"Yes," he promised. "Lock the door, don't answer it, not even for hotel people, or room service. Don't answer the phone. Put the safety chain on. When I come back, you check through the peephole to make sure it's me before you take the chain off."

Kristy nodded. He squeezed her shoulder on his way out. "You'll be fine," he said.

It was chilly out when Mac left the hotel. He walked around the building checking out the entrances and exits; did the same for the parking lot. The only suspicious person was himself. He started the rental car, backed it out of its spot, and eased into the flow of traffic. It really wasn't that late, he thought, although he was damn tired. He needed a public library. And a phone.

A small branch library was three blocks from the Army base. It was even open. Mac was grateful. He went in, asked to use a Macintosh for an hour. The librarian took his driver's license, escorted him to a machine.

Mac pulled out the mysterious disk. The Macintosh accepted it, but when he tried to open the file, it said application not found. He tried using Microsoft Word and Excel. No go. He sighed. Nothing seemed to be easy these days. He logged into his Gmail account, emailed the file as an attachment to himself and to Shorty. He checked through his own mail, sent one to Janet telling her he would check in with the D.C. bureau in a few days. Could she prepare the way for him to have some workspace?

He logged off, pocketed the disk. Thanked the librarian and retrieved his card. "Is there a pay phone around here?" he asked. She pointed to one near the restrooms.

Mac called Shorty first.

"Speak."

"What kind of a greeting is that?" Mac demanded, laughing.

"Works doesn't it? How are you doing, man?"

"I'm fine. Look, I've mailed you a package, and emailed you a file I want you to take a look at. The file was on a Macintosh disk but it won't open. I want to know what's in it. You're the best hacker I know."

"I'm the only hacker you know," Shorty grumbled. "And if you knew any real hackers you wouldn't call me one. The package?"

"Data. Look through it. See what you think. It's from Danny."

"My line is clean," Shorty said. "No need to be cryptic."

"See what you think," Mac repeated, ignoring his reassurance. There was no such thing as a clean line. An agent with the right equipment could be a block away and listen in. You'd never know. "I'll check with you later."

"Fine. Troy called. Said to listen to the evening news tonight. He's outside Atlanta, said Parker's just been nominated for Homeland Security Secretary."

"Shit." Mac glanced at his watch. "Got to go. I'll call."

He hung up, pulled out Stan Warren's card. Getting a bit battered, he thought ruefully as he punched in the numbers for Warren' cell phone.

"Hello."

"Agent Warren," Mac said. "You know who this is?"

"Where are you?" Warren said with urgency. "I thought you were going to stay in touch."

"And here I am. You've still got rogues in your agency, however," Mac said, he flipped open his notebook. "Agents Lowell and Wood out of New Orleans? They were waiting at the Arco field for me. You know them?"

"No."

Mac gave him their names and badge numbers. "Said they got their orders from a Steve Addison, out of D.C. Orders didn't come through channels. You know him?"

"Steve? Yeah. I know him." Warren hesitated. "You get the packet?"

"Does it matter? I hear Parker's nomination is public." Mac looked at his watch, looked outside. "Got to go, Stan. I'll be in touch." He hung up the phone, walked quickly outside and got into the car. He needed a mall. A pretty woman was waiting for him.

"Mac! Wait! Shit," Stan Warren said. It was too late, there was nothing but dial tone in his ear.

He looked over at the other agent in the room. "Did we get a location?"

"El Paso." The technician shrugged. "That's all we had time for."

Warren looked around the small hotel room in Dallas, Texas. "Same state at least," he said sourly. He dialed a number.

"Howard Parker, please," he said. "This is Stan Warren."

The person on the other end put him through without question.

"Stan, how are things going?"

"Damn it, Howard, I thought you were letting me run this!" Warren said angrily. "You got Addison running a sting as well?"

Silence. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure what happened," Warren said with disgust. "I just know that Davis just checked in, and he knew Addison's name. He'd run into something. And now he's running. What is Addison up to?"

Silence. "I'll check into it."

"Good," Warren said. "I hear the nomination has been made. Congratulations."

"Too soon for congratulations," Parker said. "It can still go tits up if we don't control this situation. So much for the buyoff, that got us what four days? And he had a funeral to go to."

"So what, you want to kill him?"

Parker was silent. "Yes."

"Who are you going to send after him?" Warren asked. "It cost you Kellerman to take out Brown. When you lost Kellerman you lost your former Marines. Pretty high price."

"Higher than you can imagine," Parker said. "You think you could take out Davis?"

Stan Warren looked at the technician, whose eyes were wide. The recorder was running. "Anybody can be killed," he said flatly. "Even you or me. The problem with Davis is that he's savvy, he's wary and he's a goddamn reporter. People will ask questions if he turns up dead. Lots of questions. You haven't met his boss. She's a smart woman you do not want on your tail."

"She can be fired."

"And Maxim? And Brown's sister?" Warren shook his head. "Let it go for a while, man, let's see if Davis can find anything. Then if you want to take him out, we'll talk. At this stage you just stir up the snakes."

There was dial tone. Warren closed his eyes. How the hell did I get into this anyway? he thought wearily.

He opened his eyes, looked at the technician. He held out his hand for the thumb drive with the recording on it; the technician quickly gave it to him as if he didn't want to touch it any longer than he had to. "Go on home," Warren said. The technician didn't need to be told twice.

Warren ordered in room service, including a bottle of wine. He had the feeling that getting drunk was going to be highlight of his evening. Getting drunk alone, he amended sourly.

He sighed, stretched. He pulled out his address book, flipped through the pages. Called a couple of people. One in El Paso.

"Long time no see," the person said at the other end.

"El Paso isn't exactly on the way to anywhere," Warren said with a laugh. "Hey, do you remember a Marine, come through Fort Bliss in about 2005? Named Mac Davis?"

"Hell, Stan, you expect me to remember a Marine from ten years ago? They're never here very long. What did you say the name was?"

"Mackensie Davis. Mac Davis."

"Davis. Mac Davis. Oh hell, I do remember that one. He still alive? Always figured he'd piss someone off and they'd put a hole in him out of sheer exasperation."

Warren snorted. "That's the one. He's in El Paso. Will be asking questions. I figure you'll hear about them."

"Yeah, so? You want me to shut him out? Or help him?"

"Treat it like routine," Warren said. "I just want to know what he's asking."

"That I can do," the man said. "No problem. You going to come out this way?"

Warren hesitated. "I'm not sure yet."

"Be good to see you. Paint the town red."

Warren looked at the wine bottle waiting for him. "Maybe," he sighed. "I'll let you know."

The second call was to D.C.

"Warren, here," he said. "Got some names for you. Steve Addison, Mark Lowell, Neil Wood. Check them out will you?"

"Got it. You hear the news? They announced Parker as the nomination for Homeland Security."

"Yeah, I heard."

Warren hung up the phone, popped the cork on the wine, poured a glass. Couldn't be an alcoholic on wine could you? he thought. Right. That's why they call them winos. He sipped it. Sighed. "Getting too old for this," he said out loud. "Too damn old."

### Chapter 25

EL PASO, TEXAS (Monday, Dec. 10, 2012, 10 p.m.) — Mac sat by the window in the hotel room, reading through the documents that had caused so much grief. A small lamp was angled just at the table in front of him, protecting Kristy from the light.

Mac put the pages down, rubbed his eyes. For the life of me, I cannot see what is worth all this trouble, he thought.

He no longer believed Parker had panicked, over-reacted. It didn't ring true with this resume, these missions, these skills. Parker was a stone-cold, calculating son of a bitch. He did not panic. Not over this collection of public documents.

Mac sighed. He got another Mountain Dew from the sack of groceries he'd brought in earlier. Empty boxes of Church's Fried Chicken were piled in the garbage. He glanced at the bed where Kristy was curled up, sleeping. He'd found everything they needed at Target, toothbrushes, toothpaste and the like, underwear, a couple of packages of T-shirts and jogging shorts, jeans for the both of them. Nothing fancy, but Kristy's eyes had lit up when she saw the clothes. She'd riffled through things, headed for the shower. He smiled briefly.

He sat back down, took another gulp of Mountain Dew. The clues had to be here. Could Parker think Troy knew more than he did? Always possible. For damn sure, Troy didn't have much.

He kept asking himself what was he missing? What was so important to warrant killing someone to get it back, to stop the information? He picked up the pages, started through them, put them down in disgust. He damn near had them memorized.

Approach it from a different angle, he told himself. What is there in here you didn't already know? He went through the pages again.

And this time he found it. An early DEA report of the bust, not the court records, but the original DEA report before Parker had appeared on the scene. Paid to be in the Senator's office to get that report, Mac thought. In it was a list of names, non-Hispanic names.

He scrambled through the pages, looking for the court report. His copy was in Shreveport, but Troy had a copy. Names of the convicted.

Bingo.

Mac sat back in his chair, and sighed with satisfaction. Got you, he thought. The names were different.

Mac jumped when hands, Kristy's hands, he identified quickly, massaged his shoulders. "Aren't you tired," she asked softly.

"Yeah," he said, stretching under her hands. "But this thing had me bugged."

"Figured it out?"

Mac shrugged. "I don't know yet, but I've got a string to pull on now." He looked around at her, smiled. "How are you doing?"

She sighed, pulled up a chair next to him. He massaged the back of her neck, gently. She was wearing the jogging shorts and an oversized T-shirt. She looked good in them, Mac thought. She sighed again, with pleasure this time, rolling her shoulders and neck slightly under his fingers.

"Have you ever been afraid?" she asked, not looking at him.

"Yes."

"Not afraid because someone is shooting at you, or you're in danger. But afraid, and you don't know why or who, you're just afraid."

"Like in a nightmare."

She nodded. "But it doesn't stop when I wake up. It's there all the time. Two men -- government agents -- broke into my house and took me! Just like that. They kidnapped me. Wouldn't let me go." She shook her head. "They treated me fine, but I was afraid. All the time. I still am."

He put his arm around her, pulled her against his shoulder. She relaxed there. "It will get better with time," he said quietly. "But don't let anyone tell you that you shouldn't be afraid, or laugh at it. Your fear is real, and it is likely to keep you safe."

"Safe?"

He hesitated, looking for the words. "A man without fear takes risks he shouldn't take," he said slowly. "The one man you don't want in your squad is someone whose wife just dumped him back home, or whatever, so he thinks he's got nothing left to lose. He takes risks. Likely to get himself killed and everyone around him. A man who is scared, he stays low, doesn't draw attention to himself."

He paused, thinking it through, then continued, "You'll remember to lock doors, and check through the peephole before opening it. You'll be more aware of who is around you and what they are doing. You'll be more cautious. And that's good. Fear is your body's way of saying pay attention, you're in danger."

She sighed. He stroked her hair softly.

"I feel safe with you," she said. "The fear got worse when you left. I was so scared I was hyperventilating. What if you didn't come back? What would happen then?"

Mac nodded. "You'll get better at being alone again," he promised. "Until then, I'll be here."

He thought about that, then said ruefully, "If I don't fuck up. I did today."

"When?" Kristy raised her head enough to look at him.

"I thought I had it all figured out. Pull those agents off the Saturn, send them to Lake Charles. Put one over on the dumb cops." He shrugged. "I underestimated them. Underestimated their resources. They didn't have to go to Lake Charles, they just called ahead to the P.D. there and vice cops show up at the airport. Could have been a disaster."

"Because you weren't afraid enough?" she asked.

He thought about it. "Hadn't thought about it like that," he admitted. "But I'll be more wary in the future."

She tapped the pile of documents. "So tell me what you're looking for," she said, determinedly more positive.

"I don't know. You know the one thing worse than looking for a needle in a haystack?"

She shook her head, smiling.

"Trying to prove there is a needle in the haystack."

She laughed. "Have you found if there is a needle?"

He nodded. "I think I have. Don't know what it means, yet. But I will." He stretched. "What does 2007 mean to you?"

"2007?" She shrugged, not moving from her place against his shoulder. "Five years ago. I was 21."

"Young aren't you? My last year in the Marines."

"Did you go to college right after?"

Mac nodded.

"Five years ago," she mused. "President Obama was getting elected, first black president in the White House -- I was so excited to be able to vote for him. I don't know. It wasn't that long ago, but it's hard to remember precisely what happened that year and not the year before or the next year. Why?"

Mac relaxed in his chair. "Obama's election. A Democratic administration," he repeated. "Kristy, you're a genius."

She smiled at him sleepily, stifling a yawn. "Does that mean we can turn off the light and go to bed now?"

Mac started, looked at her quickly. She didn't mean it as an invitation, he told himself. "Sure sleepy head," he said lightly. "Go back to bed."

The hotel had a small gym to Mac's relief. In the morning, he and Kristy both worked out for an hour. Kristy knew what she was doing, he noticed. They had breakfast.

Over breakfast, Mac told Kristy Parker's nomination had been announced.

She was silent. "So it's over?"

Mac shook his head. "We got maybe a week. Hearings will probably go pretty fast, Congress will want to go home for Christmas. And some Cabinet positions you just don't want to leave vacant."

"A week," Kristy repeated.

At nine, Mac called Shorty from a pay phone down the street.

"It is seven a.m.," Shorty complained.

"Stuff it. If I called any later you'd be on your way to school."

"So true. Troy called. He's in Atlanta. He says the Saturn is sweet, no sign of agents, and he expects to be in D.C. some time tomorrow."

"OK, and the file?"

Shorty yawned. "The file is a proprietary relational database file."

"Say what?"

"Probably a computerized address book. Someone downloaded Parker's Rolodex and gave it Troy."

Mac was puzzled for a moment, and then grinned. "Hot damn," he said softly.

"I don't get it."

"What's the one thing we keep running into with Parker?" Mac asked.

"He's damn well connected." Shorty paused, made the leap and laughed. "You think this will reveal all his connections."

"Past, present and future," Mac said. "Can you open it?"

"Yes and no. I can open it using a database program, but because it's some kind of simplified commercial software, without the program itself the fields may not mean much. So you might have a name with two addresses, but you might not know which one is the current address and which one is an old one. Things like that." Shorty pondered it for a moment. "Or I could run past the computer store, see if any of the most well known appointment calendar programs will open it. But what do you want me to do then? It's apparently got more than a thousand records."

"Records meaning entries?"

"Yeah," Shorty said. "I can print it out, but then what?"

"Can you translate it to a Excel spreadsheet?"

"Be one large file, Mac, but if I can find the original software, yeah, I can probably do that."

Mac thought it through. "Okay, then. Print it out, send it to Troy Maxim at Senator Abigail Murray's office. You can find the address -- she's the Senator from Illinois. Email me the Excel file as an attachment. Then make copies of it all and take it to Janet for safekeeping."

"Got it. Check your email this evening."

Mac hung up the phone. And just who do you know that I know? he thought. Parker's Rolodex. Holy shit.

But he didn't have to wait for that list, he had his own list of names to work. The disappearing coke makers, and the poor saps who took the fall for it. This time at the public library, Mac and Kristy both got a computer terminal.

"One hour," the librarian cautioned. "We usually having a waiting list all day."

The two of them split the names. It became routine. Check the telephone directory, do a local search, do a Web search. The last was almost worthless. No matter how unique the name there always seemed to be more than one person with the name.

Nothing definitive -- he could sort through the Web search, but it didn't seem worth it. The librarian came by. Mac stopped her.

"Is the El Paso newspaper online? Searchable?" he asked hopefully.

"Searchable for the last five years," she said. "A fee if you pull an article. Before that it's the microfiche."

Mac groaned, and the librarian smiled. "No stranger to research, I take it," she said.

The search through the last five years was quick. Nothing. Mac sighed. "How about we get some lunch," he suggested.

He'd planned to tackle the microfiche after lunch -- look through 2005 to 2007. But the magnitude of it alarmed him. The El Paso paper wasn't a huge paper, but reading nearly three years of a daily newspaper wasn't high on his list of ways to spend the afternoon. Over the best Mexican food he'd had in a long time, Mac decided on a slightly different strategy.

"Let's hit the court house first," he suggested, licking the grease off his fingers. "Birth records, police records, marriage licenses, car registrations. They had to exist some time." He shrugged. "Of course, I'm not sure they were even from Texas, could have been from New Mexico. That part of the country is wild. Could have been from any where."

"Death certificates, too," Kristy said, swallowing a big bite.

"Yeah." He grinned. "Let's go talk to Darlene."

Darlene was exactly as Mac had pictured her, fifty, bleached blonde, and nobody's fool. "Your newspaper can fly you to El Paso to check out an itty bitty drug bust?" she said, hands on her hips, when Mac introduced himself. "You got some ID?"

Mac gave her a business card. "I told my boss there's this woman in Texas, I gotta go see," he teased.

Darlene rolled her eyes. "I just bet you did," she drawled, but she was smiling. "OK, let's see this list of names."

Mac handed it to her. "How networked are you to other county/state databases?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Honey, this is Texas, and El Paso to boot. Share information? We ain't going to be doing none of that, now, you hear? Communists would just love to be able to get all that information about our God-fearing patriotic citizens."

"You have much problem with Communist infiltration here?" Mac asked, laughing.

Darlene looked over the top of her glasses. "We get Yankees and Mexicans. If any of them are Communist, they haven't been announcing it."

Kristy smirked. "Damn Yankees, you mean," she murmured.

Darlene laughed. "Got that right. I was old enough to vote before I found out that wasn't one word." She looked at Kristy curiously. "You sound Southern, yourself."

"Louisiana," she said. "I'm just helping out."

Darlene's fingers tapped over the keyboard as she talked. Every now and then she'd hit print, and move on. Mac watched her, fascinated by the combination of patter and efficiency.

"OK, most of your people show hits, 'course some of them I gave you in that drug bust of yours. Not much since 2007 on any of them," she said, her words more crisp now that she was being official. "Two names show up as arresting officers, rather than as criminals. That make any sense? I did a global search, not just for the case cite."

Darlene pulled the stack from the printer. "Here's what we got. Want me to call down to the auditor's office and clear the way for you to do records search down there?"

"Thanks Darlene, I'd appreciate it," Mac said gratefully.

Darlene nodded. She made the call and then turned back to them. "I don't usually stick my neck out," she said quietly. "I like my job. Been here a long while, and I plan to retire from here. But I can tell you that you've got a couple of names on there that are going to ring people's bells a bit. You watch your back, you hear?"

She turned around, picked up a pile of files and left for the back room. Mac called his thanks after her, but she didn't even look back.

The auditor's office had a public terminal and they were glad to let them look up their own records. "If Darlene says you're all right," a young clerk said cheerfully, "Then you're all right in this building."

Mac nodded his thanks, sat at the machine and punched in the names. Kristy fetched print outs from the printer. Birth, marriage, death. Car registrations were in a separate database, but could be accessed from the same machine. Property ownership was down the hall, but Mac figured it would take too long to sort through that for people who seemed to have disappeared by 2007.

"I didn't know you could get this stuff on people," Kristy whispered, watching with fascination as the computer coughed stuff up.

"You ought to watch Shorty work," Mac said. "This is simple stuff. People do it all the time as hobby -- genealogy, you know? Same thing. Shorty gets incredible stuff if you ask him to. But he pays for some services."

On a hunch, Mac asked the clerk if they by any chance archived old courthouse telephone directories. She laughed. "Yeah, we've got 'em on a shelf in back, God knows why. What years you looking for?"

"2004, 2005, 06, 07," Mac answered.

Bingo. One name appeared in them all: Joey Hightower. He copied the information down. Sheriff deputy. He asked for the 08 book. No Hightower.

"Now what?" Kristy asked as they left the courthouse.

"How do you feel about microfiche?" he asked smiling at her.

"That the inventor of it ought to be shot," she sighed. "Back to the library?"

"Unless you want to go back to the hotel room, take a nap while I go back."

She shook her head. "Library is fine."

"Good," he said. ""Cause if you read the microfiche, I can work through this pile of stuff."

Kristy smiled. "OK," she said. "You sure know how to show a girl a good time."

Kristy was good at research, too, Mac discovered. While he read through all the records he had, developing chronologies for the people on his list, she read microfiche, narrowing down the material to the news and society sections. Mac might not have included the society section, but it made sense when she explained. That was where the small stuff of about normal people was published. Good news, not just the tragic.

The sheriff deputy was the key, Mac discovered as he worked his way through the chronology. Joey Hightower was a local man, born and raised in El Paso. He'd been 22 in 2007, about the same age Mac was at the time. Local boy made good, in a small fashion, he supposed.

He died in 2007. Kristy handed him the story about Hightower's death, just as Mac was finishing his chronologies. Burglars had been interrupted by Hightower's return home one night. They'd killed him, injuring his wife and baby boy. There appeared to be no leads. He was listed as being with the DEA at the time of his death.

"He died protecting her and his son," Kristy said, her face white. She'd read all the coverage, which had gone on for weeks.

"I'd like to find her," Mac said, tapping his fingers on the table. He looked in the phone directory, no Linda Hightower. "I suppose she's remarried."

Kristy nodded. "Let me see if I can find out."

"You're volunteering to read more of that stuff?" Mac teased. Microfiche made his head hurt and his eyes ache.

"I want to know what happened to her and her son," she said. "Do you think...."

Mac shook his head, interrupting her. "Don't talk about it," he warned. "Not here."

She nodded her understanding and returned to the microfiche reader.

Mac looked at his chronologies. Some names, he had discarded. Those who were turned over to Immigration didn't leave much of a trail. Two names didn't register anywhere locally. Be hard to find them unless he came across a string somewhere later. He wished he could access the DEA employee database for 2005. Be interesting to see what names would show up there. Or the CIA?

That left five names. Joey Hightower, Robert Hilliard, James Jackson, Rob Springer and Allen Clayton.

Hilliard, born in a town just outside El Paso in 1952, no record after that.

Jackson didn't show up in the birth records but he had gotten married in 1996 in El Paso. He'd been 25 at the time. Nothing else.

And Allen Clayton, who had been the arresting officer on a drug bust in 2005 and showed up on the DEA list for the warehouse bust, had died in 2006. He'd been sixty.

Kristy had found his obit too. He'd died south of the border on a vacation. Bandits. Right.

Then there was Rob Springer. For some reason, Darlene had put a red star by this name. Mac hadn't even seen her do it. Springer showed up in traffic violations: speeding, parking in no parking zones, running red lights. The tickets tapered off, but there was one in 2010 for doing 35 in a school zone. Mac frowned. So Springer was still around two years ago, but didn't show up in the phone book.

Unlisted number? Mac mulled that over, went out to the pay phone, called the auditor's office. Got the young helpful clerk, identified himself. "Could you look up a name for me in the current directory? I forgot." He gave her Springer's name.

She laughed. "I don't have to look him up, he works up in the district attorney's office. He's one of their investigators. Want his number?"

"Sure," Mac said, jotting it down. He hung up. So one of the six who had really been at the warehouse was still alive. Working at the courthouse. Mac smiled.

### Chapter 26

El PASO, TEXAS (Wednesday, Dec. 12, 2012) — At 7:30 a.m. Mac waited in the courthouse employee's parking lot. Three parking places were labeled D.A. Investigators. How convenient, Mac thought, warming his hands in his pockets. Thanks to Springer's traffic violations, he even knew the vehicle he was looking for: a black Dodge Ram. He wasn't ruling out that the man might have more than one vehicle. But it was a start.

The pickup pulled into the spot at 7:50 a.m. Mac walked up quickly to the driver's door before Springer could get out. "Rob Springer," Mac said.

"Yeah?"

Springer was 45ish, military gone a bit soft, short blond hair, blue eyes. He wasn't afraid, barely even annoyed yet.

"I'm Mac Davis."

Springer's eyes narrowed. Mac opened the door, shoved Springer over into the passenger seat, started up the car and pulled out of the parking spot.

"I suppose you're going to tell me you've got a gun or some such thing?" Springer said, settling into the passenger seat.

Mac grinned at him. "Nope."

"Going to tell me where we're going?"

"Cristo Rey."

"Ah." Springer subsided into his seat, looking out his window.

Mount Cristo Rey was an isolated landmark. Three miles off I10, sitting right on the Mexico border, the famous statue of Christ sat at the top, the fourteen stations leading to it. Once it had been a journey for the pious. Now tourists were warned to only go in groups because of its isolation. Vandals and hoodlums partying up there. Mac had been one of those hoodlums as a Marine, he supposed with a snort. It was known as a good place to party. Pick up the booze and weed, invite some women along, and you could have a pretty good time year round. Especially when you were too young to be allowed in the bars, and you couldn't exactly take a woman home to the barracks.

The parking lot was deserted. Wednesday morning in December the place had no draw for tourists or partying soldiers. Mac parked the car, gestured to Springer to get out. He took the keys, got out himself. He pointed to a trail that led slightly to the south of the hill. He'd be damned if he would call the bump a mountain. He thought hill might even be generous.

Springer preceded Mac slightly as they walked out of sight of the parking lot.

"Here's good," Mac said, stopping at a small clearing in the brushy growth.

Springer looked at him. "Long way to come just to talk," Springer observed.

Mac went in low and hard, a punch to the belly doubled Springer over. He came down on his back with his fists linked, then used his knee to catch Springer's face as he went down. Mac grabbed Springer's hair, pulled his head up, smashed his fist into the man's nose. Again.

The beating took five minutes. Maximum pain, blood, little permanent damage except the broken nose. But Mac figured it had been broken before, so no great loss. He threw the man out flat across the rocks. Springer moaned, and curled up to protect himself from the expected kick.

It didn't come. Springer opened one eye to look at Mac. The other was swelling shut. Mac reached into his back pocket, pulled out a digital recorder.

"Now we're going to talk," Mac said. He started the recorder. "You are on the record, as you can see. You're Rob Springer and you were one of the men out at the coke warehouse that us Marines busted in 2005. Correct?"

Springer groaned. "I'm not going to talk to you."

Mac stopped the recorder, but it back in his pocket. He swiftly kicked Springer in the stomach. Springer gasped for air. Mac waited. Started recording again. "You are on the record. You're Rob Springer. You were one of the men who was busted at the coke warehouse in 2005. Correct?"

Springer hesitated, saw Mac shift to kick him again. "Yes!" he said.

"Who were you working for?"

"You know all this," Springer whined.

Mac knelt beside Springer, grabbed a handful of hair, pulled him up close. "Look you piece of shit," he said softly. "You answer the questions, and I give you a ride home. You don't answer the questions, I break a leg and leave you here. You get slow at answering questions, and I break a finger, or maybe blacken your other eye, take out a tooth or two. Your choice."

Mac turned on the recorder again. "Who were you working for?"

Springer looked at Mac's cold gray eyes. He swallowed. Having no doubt that Mac meant his threats, he sighed and answered, "I was pulling my check from the DEA, but did some contract work for the CIA. When the CIA wanted to set up a drug operation moving cocaine in and out of Central America, who better to run it than some DEA guys along the border? We knew how it worked. Hell, we'd been trying to stop it with absolutely no success for years."

"Who was the person in charge from the CIA?"

Springer hesitated. Mac set down the recorder by Springer's head, reached for a finger. "Howard Parker," Springer said hastily.

"So after we busted it, Parker started clean up. Couldn't let you guys stand trial after all. Where did he find the guys who did go to trial?"

"They were contacts we bought from. Grabbed them the next time they went through customs, a little hocus pocus at the courthouse and Juan and Jorge are doing time for a small bust instead of Rob and James."

"So the operation continued."

"Oh yeah. We were turning over money," Springer shook his head, then winced. Mac didn't let go of his hair. "One of the CIA's most successful operations: coke bought guns in El Salvador, the pipeline kept information flowing about Colombia cocaine lords."

"Right," Mac said. "We still got Colombia drug lords, we lost whatever we thought we were doing in El Salvador, and the CIA sold drugs in L.A.'s black neighborhoods. Successful. So when did it get shut down?"

"We moved it after your bust. Too many people could have noticed something weird going on. Moved it farther into New Mexico. Then when it looked like Bush wasn't going to get re-elected, the powers that be decided they didn't want to explain this operation to a Democratic administration. Orders came down to close it."

"When was that?"

"Summer 2007, there about."

"So then what happened?"

"We closed it down."

Mac started to break a finger, saw the confusion in Springer's eyes, rephrased his question. "What happened to the men who were actually out at the warehouse that day?"

"They found other jobs, I guess," Springer said evasively. "Like I did."

Mac impassively bent Springer's index finger of his left hand until it popped. Springer screamed. "What happened to the men?" Mac repeated, his voice level. "Robert Hilliard?"

"Hilliard and James Jackson were CIA all the way. They were re-assigned to some other project before you were even back at base that day."

Mac nodded. "And Allen Clayton?"

"He was CIA, too, but his contacts in Mexico were too good to reassign him. He bought it one day when he was in Mexico."

"You kill him?"

Springer shook his head in denial. "No way. Doubt I could. He was hard-core CIA. I'm just a town clown with a bit of education the DEA picked up."

Mac nodded. "And Joey Hightower. You one of the burglars that shot him up? He wasn't CIA."

"Joey. Joey was a sheriff's deputy full of enthusiasm, but he grew up here, knew the area, knew the people. He kept us informed. He didn't even know what we were doing out there. Wide-eyed innocent."

"So what was he doing out at the warehouse when we busted it?"

"He got wind of the DEA's operation with you Marines. He hiked in to warn us. Got there maybe a half-hour before you guys did. We figured we could take you."

"You were wrong. So why did Hightower get killed?"

"He was disillusioned. Couldn't cope with it. Started drinking, talking too much. Tried to get him to shut up. I liked the kid, you know? We all liked the kid." Springer fell silent.

"And so in the 2007 clean up a hit was ordered?"

"Yeah."

"Who ordered the hit?"

Springer shook his head.

"Who did the hit? You and who else? Clayton?"

"Clayton wouldn't do it. Said it was wrong."

"That why he bought it in Mexico?"

"I don't know. I didn't want to know. But I figure, who else would tip off banditos? Hell Clayton knew that area better than anyone, even the Mexicans living there. He had to have been set up."

"So Clayton refused. That left you to pull the trigger on the kid you liked."

"I didn't kill him! Okay, I was there, but I didn't pull the trigger."

"Who did?" Mac was remorseless.

Springer shook his head. Mac reached for the middle finger, started bending it slowly. Springer winced, then blurted out, "Parker, he shot him."

Mac let go of Springer's finger, sat back on his haunches and looked at him. "You expect me to believe that?" he said softly. "Parker did his own dirty work?"

Springer closed his eyes, sighed, opened them again. "You have to realize, what it was like. There was no money left. We'd shut everything down. No personnel. Parker was out of power. He came back, the bastard would, but at that point, he had nothing. And here's this kid mouthing off in every bar in town. Naming names for God's sake. Joey was innocent, but he wasn't stupid. He'd done a bit of research, had some names. Too young to do anything but talk. Trying to work up the courage, I guess. Or hoping someone would follow up on his words. I don't know."

"So you and Parker go out to do a hit."

"He didn't tell me that. We were just going to be there when Joey got home, reason with him. Scare him good, you know?"

"Didn't go down like that."

"Hell, no. Joey got physical; Parker pulled a gun and shot him. First bullet went wild, hit his wife, grazed the kid in her arms." Springer paused, went on, "Parker set up a big trust fund of his own money for the wife and kid later. Got me the job with the district attorney. Even attended Joey's funeral."

Mac regarded the man. Springer had forgotten the recorder. He was talking now because it felt better to say it. Nothing like a lot of pain to get someone's attention focused.

"What else?"

Springer looked confused.

"What else has Parker asked you to do over the years since then?"

"Small things. Keep an eye on that file, let him know if anyone asked for it. Maxim did, then you. Some errands here and there, not related to this. Information mainly."

"He tell you to watch for me?"

"Yeah. Said to take you out if you showed up."

"That why you came out here?"

"Bad decision, huh? Figured I could take you with your own gun."

Mac nodded. Was why he hadn't brought one along. He turned off the recorder, put it back in his pocket. He helped Springer up. Once up, he could hobble along with a bit of help.

"I'll dump you off at the emergency room," Mac said, opening the car door for him. "Amazing how brazen these muggers are these days."

Springer leaned his head against the seat back. "And don't mention your name, I suppose."

Mac slid in behind the wheel. "Depends on who you want to hear this recording," he said, driving out of the parking lot.

"What do you mean?"

"Right now, I don't need to use your name," Mac said. "I can write this story without naming you. I'd suggest you get some bandages and take a vacation with no forwarding address for a week or so, but then you can come back here and get on with your life."

Springer snorted. "And Parker? He isn't going to be looking for me? He'll know."

"You got a stash, right?"

Springer half shrugged. "Yeah."

"Enjoy it in Mexico, or where ever. Watch the newspapers for a week. You'll know when it's time to come home."

"And Parker?"

Mac shook his head. "Parker won't be a problem any more."

Springer just closed his eyes. "If you say so."

"But Springer?" Mac waited until Springer looked at him. "I wouldn't call Parker if I were you and confess. He's not likely to take kindly to this. Surprised he didn't kill you years ago."

"I couldn't incriminate him without incriminating myself. Texas is pretty hard on murder during the commission of another felony. You get death row for that. I figured Parker would weasel out of it, and I'd be left holding the bag. He made sure I knew that would happen. And I made myself useful."

Springer opened one eye to look at Mac. "Can I ask you something?"

Mac shrugged. "I guess."

"Did you feel anything out there? Beating me up?"

Mac's mouth twisted. "No."

Springer nodded. "Parker is like that. One cold son of a bitch."

"So everyone says." Mac saw a hospital sign, exited from the freeway, pulled up in front of the emergency room. He got out, helped Springer out of the car, handed him his keys. Springer pocketed them automatically.

"This sounds stupid," Springer said. "But, good luck. I hope you get the SOB."

Mac laughed. "Takes one cold SOB to get another?"

"Something like that," Springer admitted. "I'm no bleeding heart," he said, "but it makes me break out in a cold sweat to even think about taking Parker on."

Mac walked him into the emergency room, got the attention of a nurse, and while she was fussing over Springer, walked through the building to the front entrance, flagged a waiting taxi. He got in, gave the name of his hotel.

Mac felt his pocket with the recorder in it. Holy shit, he thought. I wonder how many others Parker has blackmailed into delivering favors? The Rolodex was going to be very interesting.

The rental car was parked in front of the hotel, Mac was glad to see. It meant Kristy had gotten her tasks done, and was safely back in the room.

She'd remembered to safety chain the door, and she checked through the peephole before letting him in.

"How did it go?" he asked, shrugging out of his jacket.

"I didn't get much out of Joey's widow," Kristy said. "She said it was a long time ago and she'd moved on. Joey's son has two sisters, now. She's got a new life."

"Yeah, one Parker helped fund," Mac said.

"Like the check he gave me."

Mac nodded. "Did you get the tickets?"

Kristy laughed. "Yes, although the travel agent was a bit flustered when I paid in cash. Flight out of here at 3 p.m. one hour lay-over in Dallas, direct to National from there. And I got some clothes. D.C. is a bit dressier than jeans and T-shirt."

Mac smiled. She looked at him warily. "Did you talk to Springer?"

"Oh yeah we talked." He pulled the recorder out, played it for her.

"Do you really think Parker killed Joey Hightower himself?"

Mac nodded slowly. "I can believe it. This isn't proof, alone, 'cause Springer obviously could be lying. But it's a start."

"You beat it out of him," she observed.

"Yeah. That bother you?"

She half-shrugged. "Lots of things bother me. But it's a different world since they kidnapped me. Some things don't bother me as much as they would have before."

"Some women friends have said I scare them."

Kristy frowned. "You have a lot of rage," she said slowly. "It just sits there under the surface, waiting. And then it bursts out."

Mac shrugged, looked away from her. "The anger is always there," he admitted. "But...," he hesitated, not sure what he wanted to say.

She reached over, touched his face. "I'm not afraid of it," she said simply. "I'm not afraid of you at all."

He met her eyes, searching them. She didn't look away. "I thought you said you were afraid all the time," he said gruffly.

She chuckled. "It'd be scary to have that anger directed at me," she said. "But I think you control who you focus on. So far, you've focused on my enemies. I like that just fine."

Mac laughed. She hugged him. "I'm hungry," she announced.

"Fine. And then I have to download Shorty's file." He explained his theory that Parker's Rolodex was going to have others like Springer in there. "I figure he has all kinds of connections from benevolent to out and out blackmail. We'll just have to figure out which ones are which."

"How many people?" Kristy asked as they left the room with their things.

Mac shrugged, grinned at her. "Oh a thousand or so calls to make," he said. "Hey, there'll be three of us, what's the problem? We've got all weekend."

### Chapter 27

DALLAS, TEXAS (Wednesday, Dec. 12, 2012, 6 p.m.) -- The Dallas Fort Worth airport concourse was noisy. Mac plugged one ear to better hear as he punched in the telephone number for Stan Warren.

"Agent Warren," Mac said, when he recognized the voice who answered. "I have something I want you to hear."

"Mac?" Warren said. "Where are you?"

"Never mind that, I won't be here long enough for you to catch me," Mac said. "I hope you're recording all this."

Mac pressed the play button on the recorder. The recording was already cued to Springer talking about Joey Hightower and his death. When the words "Joey got physical, Parker pulled a gun and shot him," finished, Mac stopped the recording.

"Well Agent Warren?"

"Who is that?" Warren said slowly. "Can you verify it?"

Mac laughed. "Only two people know what went down that night, well three, but Joey Hightower is dead. So it's just one man's word against another."

"Somehow that sounded like a forced confession," Warren said.

"Doesn't matter for my purposes. Cops can't force a confession, but this isn't going to be tried in a court of law. I'll try it in the newspapers as they say."

"So where are you now?"

"Doesn't matter," Mac repeated. "Just thought you'd like to hear the recording. I've got a printout of that computer file too. Want to know what's on it? A thousand names from Parker's computerized Rolodex. I wonder how many other stories are buried in those names?"

"His Rolodex? Listen, you've got to...."

"Sorry, Warren, I've got to go." Mac hung up the phone. He looked at Kristy who was standing at his side. "They called our flight yet?"

She shook her head. "Why do you bait him like that?" she asked as they walked down the concourse to their connecting flight.

"Because Agent Stan Warren is playing some game in all this that I don't quite understand," Mac said. "I don't trust him."

"Then why talk to him at all?"

"You never know when you just might need a cop. I like having him handy." Mac grinned and reached for her hand. "Besides, I enjoy baiting him."

Five miles away in a hotel room off the Dallas Beltline, Stan Warren threw his cell phone on the bed and swore at it. "He didn't stay on the line long enough again, did he?" he asked the technician who was monitoring the phones this shift.

The technician shrugged. "Actually, he's here in Dallas," she said. "That's all the trace could show. But I can tell you that there's really only one place that sounds like that \-- DFW, the airport. I'd bet he was just changing planes and called in."

Warren swore again. "Did you get his recording recorded ?" he asked sourly.

"Yes, sir." The technician hesitated. "What do you want me to do with that?"

"Give me the thumb drive and forget you ever heard it."

"Yes, sir!"

"And pack everything out of here. We're done here. He's got to be headed to D.C. or Seattle, maybe. I'll bet on D.C." Warren reached for his phone, called the travel desk, got a flight booked for later in the evening.

About fifty miles outside D.C. Troy Maxim was having dinner -- catfish and hushpuppies -- in a down-home restaurant. The food was good; the beer was cold.

Shorty had been very explicit the night before. "Mac says you're probably being followed or at least tracked in the Saturn," Shorty had said. He was to have an early dinner in a town on the train line. Park the car in a visible location. Eat dinner, leave either with a group where he might not be noticed, or out a back exit. Get on the train for the D.C. airport.

"You need to be at National airport by 10 p.m.," Shorty emphasized. "Go to Hertz, they'll have a car for you, in your name. Wait at the counter. Mac and Kristy will be joining you there."

Troy thought it seemed like a lot of hocus pocus, but had given up trying to figure out what Mac was up to. Just do as you're told, he reminded himself. Not all of Mac's plans worked -- the Lake Charles feint had been a flop -- but he'd seen Mac pull off amazing things -- in big things like recon missions to smaller things like bringing off a party when everyone was under age or having a ready supply of weed. Besides, his own efforts had worked so well. He grimaced.

Troy finished a second plate of food and agreed to a refill. He hadn't noticed anyone following him, but then, as Shorty had pointed out the best way to track someone wasn't necessarily with your eyes. Every time he used a credit card, every time he passed a cop car, someone could be taking notice.

Troy could see that, but then how did Mac think he and Kristy were going to get into D.C. without tripping those same computers? He sighed. The young waitress, a pretty black woman with cornrowed hair, put down another platter of food. Troy smiled at her.

"You going to eat all of that," she teased.

"Maybe." Troy said with a laugh. He glanced at his watch. "I need to catch a train," he said. "What's the fastest way to walk from here to the train?"

She shrugged. "On foot? Takes forty minutes to get there. Unless, you go out the back door and down the hill behind here, then it'll take you fifteen minutes."

"If you'll let me out the back door, then I bet I can eat all this platter before I go," Troy said.

She laughed. "I bet you can."

"We've lost them," the agent reported to Addison.

"All of them?" Steve Addison massaged his temples. It was nearly midnight. His wife murmured sleepily by his side, he stroked her shoulder to reassure her.

The agent told him the story, Addison sighed and hung up. He got up, pulled on some clothes. He wasn't going to make the next call from here, or undressed, he thought grimly. Parker was going to be pissed.

He was right about the last.

"How in the hell could three civilians lose trained FBI agents?" Parker demanded.

"Well, two of those civilians are trained Marine recon," Addison said defensively. "Davis is as devious as they come."

"So what happened?"

Addison sighed. "Things were going pretty good. We'd been tracking the Saturn all across the South. At first we thought they were all together, but then you said no, they'd split up. So we started watching airline tickets. Sure enough, Davis and the girl were scheduled to fly into D.C. today, land at National at 10 p.m. Maxim and the Saturn stopped for dinner at a catfish restaurant in Virginia. We figure he's going to pick them up. An agent has the car under surveillance."

"And so?"

Addison rotated his shoulders. "The Saturn is still in Virginia outside the restaurant. My agents are white, they stick out there, no one gives them the time of day about the car or the young man who ate there earlier. Nothing."

"And the airport?"

"Yeah, I had someone waiting there. He spotted the two get off the plane, but he's not sure what happened then. Couldn't cover all the exits by himself. He found out that they picked up a car at Hertz, under Maxim's name, but when he checked the car is still in the Hertz parking lot. Key in the drop box. He figures while he was checking out there, the three took the subway."

"You continue to underestimate the number of men you need to be using," Parker said coldly.

"Damn it, Howard, I had two men on stake out at the Shreveport house who have disappeared on me." Well not exactly disappeared but they weren't returning phone calls any more. Addison wished he could find that easy of a way out. "One agent tailing Maxim, one agent at the airport. One watches Maxim's apartment complex. And this isn't even an official operation! What the hell do you expect?"

"Competency," Parker said. "They haven't shown up at the apartment?"

"Apparently not. I haven't heard from that agent at any rate."

"Hotel? Other friends?"

"Possibly," Addison said. "I'll check it out. Maybe you could check with your contacts at the Examiner in the morning see what they know. Or have someone pull Davis's chain about bail?"

"I'll do that." Parker hung up, leaving Addison with a dial tone in his ear.

Addison hung up the phone. Come to think of it, why hadn't the agent watching Maxim's apartment called in? He called his cell number. No answer. With growing dread, Addison finished getting dressed. Time to take a look-see himself.

Addison drove slowly by the Georgetown apartment complex. It was quiet. At 2 a.m. it ought to be, he thought. He saw the car checked out to his agent. A person was sitting in it, apparently asleep. Addison grunted, found a parking spot. He walked up to the car, opened the door.

"You don't get paid to sleep on the job," he growled.

The person who shoved a nine in his gut wasn't his agent.

Mac grinned. "Agent Steve Addison?" he asked, gesturing with the gun. "How about a cup of coffee upstairs?"

Addison sighed. "Why not? You already got one agent up there."

Mac nodded. He slipped the nine back in his jacket pocket, got out of the car and locked it. "Two actually. The last report from your agent at the airport was made from the apartment."

Addison sighed again. He walked toward the apartment complex, hands in his pocket. When he passed under the streetlight, Mac stopped.

Addison looked back at him, saw the expression on his face. "You going to shoot me for it?" he asked mildly. "Otherwise, I'd like that cup of coffee."

"So did you find your missing daughter?" Mac drawled walking closer to Addison. Addison looked at him warily. Mac slugged him in the stomach, doubling him over. "Do you know how fucking dirty that Sound is? Shit. Didn't even do it right."

Addison caught his breath, straightened. "Hardheaded SOB," he said.

Mac snorted. "Upstairs."

Upstairs, two agents looked up sheepishly as their boss walked in. Addison waved off their comments. "Save it," he said wearily. "I just walked into the same ambush."

"Coffee?" Kristy said brightly. Addison smiled at her and nodded. He took the cup, sat at the dining room table with the other agents.

"I assume you have some point to this besides humiliation," Addison said dryly.

Mac straddled a chair. "Here's how it lays, guys," he said evenly. "You have been acting outside of jurisdiction. Now these two claim they didn't know that. They do now." He tapped the recorder on the table in front of him. "And their stories are on the recording. With their names and badge numbers."

Mac nodded at the first two agents. "You can go." They didn't need to be told twice. Troy trailed along behind them to see that they got out of the building.

Steve Addison eyed the tape recorder warily. "If you think I'm going to confess to anything on the recording," he began.

Mac interrupted. "Addison, you don't have many choices. I can call other FBI agents to come here, listen to the recording and arrest you. I can identify you as the person who came after me. That will probably get you nailed for trying to kill a cop."

"Whoa," Addison said urgently. "What cop?"

Mac looked at him skeptically. "Don't try to bullshit me," he said. "You broke into my aunt's house, beat her up so she'd tell you where I was. Then you stole a gun out of my lock box, shot a cop who was profiling me for Parker, got me, knocked me out, pressed the gun to my hands, and then dumped me in the Sound. That ring a bell?"

"I had nothing to do with shooting a cop," Addison said. "I'd do a lot of things for Howard Parker but that's not one of them."

Mac turned on the recorder. "You're Agent Steve Addison and you are being recorded. Do you acknowledge that?"

"Yeah."

"You and a couple of men broke into my aunt's house and knocked her around to find out where I was, is that correct?"

"We thought you were home. One of my men had you staked out. Then when we get there, you'd gone -- out the back," Addison said. "Parker had a tight script he expected us to follow. When you weren't there, we needed to find you fast."

"So you beat up my aunt to get her to tell you."

Addison shrugged. Mac went on, ignoring his silence. "You went to Johnnie's with a hokey story and rapped me over the head. Why such a story and why use Kristy's picture?"

Addison sighed. "Parker figured if Maxim or Brown had been in touch with you, you'd recognize Kristy's picture. You didn't seem to, but I couldn't tell for sure. Parker didn't want you running around available either. He had a hard on about a Seattle reporter getting drawn into this. The more he learned about you, the worse he got. So he told us to take you out."

"Then you went to Donnelly's house, used my Glock to shoot at him from the balcony."

"That's where you're wrong. None of us went upstairs at your aunt's place. I didn't know anything about someone shooting a cop. I knew Parker had a police officer profiling you, and he didn't like what he was hearing." Troy came back in, nodded at Mac and took a seat at the table.

"So how did my fingerprints get on the Glock, Addison?" Mac asked. "That gun was clean when it left my lock box."

Addison didn't answer. Mac stopped the recorder, backed up to an earlier marker. "Listen to this," he said, and played a part of Springer's story.

"Who is that?" Addison asked when Mac stopped the recording.

"No need for you to know," Mac said. "Pay attention to what's important here. First, no matter what Parker's got on you, you've got on him. Second, you might notice that I had no problem beating up a source to get him to talk. I'd enjoy doing that with you."

"You could try."

Mac snorted. Looked Addison over briefly. "I'm tougher than my aunt was," he said.

"Your aunt was no pussy," Addison admitted. He sighed, gestured to the recorder. Mac turned it on.

"Parker told me to take you out, put you in the car trunk, drive to a certain location and meet a man. We did. The man came up to the car, opened the trunk, looked at you. I would assume he pressed the gun to your hand at that time. We then drove to the dock and threw you in. Probably why you had time to revive before you went in the water."

Mac nodded. "Who was the man?"

"No idea. We sat in the car looking forward. The man was only a shadowy figure in the rear view mirror. I didn't want to be there, didn't want anything to do with it. I was counting all the ways I regretted getting sucked into one of Parker's missions."

"So why did you get sucked in?"

Addison shrugged. "Nothing so entertaining as that other tape. Years ago, I was a young Marine assigned to the Pentagon. I worked for Parker. He...," Addison hesitated, looking for the words, "he's a very charismatic man. He believes in what he's doing. I was very loyal to him. He needed a courier. Although it most certainly wasn't in my job duties, I was more than glad to be a courier for him. Flattered that he trusted me."

"And?"

"And, I got stopped coming out of El Salvador in 1995. Stopped me as a spy. Tossed me in jail. Parker got me out. I was grateful. When I left the Marines, he helped me get into the FBI. I figured I owed him."

"What were you carrying when you came out of El Salvador?"

"Nothing coming out, thank God, or they probably would have shot me," Addison said. "I don't know what I took in. A packet. Money, maybe. Intelligence? Parker was into a lot of things in Central America. I didn't want to know."

"Did it ever occur to you that Parker got you into trouble? Rather than being grateful he got you out?"

Addison laughed. "Yeah. Years later. Believe me it's been occurring to me a lot lately. But see, he kept it off my record. It's not on my resume at the FBI either."

"Ah."

Kristy poured more coffee for Troy and Addison. She handed Mac a Mountain Dew. While Mac paused to take a sip, Troy injected a question, "Did you send those goons after me at the office?"

Addison shrugged. "You could be charged with violating the security act," he said mildly. "They were just doing their job."

"Bullshit," Troy said belligerently. "Since when is doing their job to drug me and hold me captive?"

Mac interrupted. "That security act line is a bunch of bullshit," he said. "You all keep trying it, but whistleblowers are protected -- and Troy is an aide to a Senator. If he has knowledge of wrong doing by a federal official it is his obligation to investigate and report."

Addison smiled and shrugged. "It works," he said.

"Who were those agents?" Mac asked. "They the same ones who tossed the house in Shreveport and kidnapped Kristy? What the hell were you thinking of?"

"I didn't have any part of that," Addison said. "Thank God. I located another agent who admired Parker, and who had the same lack of scruples Parker has. He took over that part of the operation, beginning with detaining Maxim. Then he got the bright idea that kidnapping Ms. Brown here would somehow work. Went to shit in a hurry."

"So Kellerman gets pulled in."

Addison hesitated. "Yeah. What happened to him anyway? He seems to be out of the picture, and Parker isn't talking about it."

Mac ignored that. "So who is Gravel Voice? The agent you found for Parker? Long-time smoker voice?"

Addison shook his head. "I'm not ratting out others," he said. "Me fine. I'll tell you what I've done, but not others."

Mac shrugged. They'd find out eventually. "Was Gravel Voice with you the night you tried to kill me?"

Addison thought that over before answering. "No," he said slowly.

"He knew what he was doing, right? He worked directly for Parker, knew these orders were not coming through chain of command?"

"He knows that, yes."

"Could he have been the shooter at Donnelly's?"

"Donnelly is the cop?" Addison hesitated, shook his head, then shrugged. "I don't know. I can't imagine it, but.... I don't know. Seattle is Parker's turf, it would stand to reason he's got plenty of connections there."

Mac thought of the long list of connections he was waiting to go through. Might pay to do a search by location. He set that thought aside.

"Anyone else who has been working directly with Parker?" Mac asked. "I don't care about agents who were doing what they were told, not realizing the orders were unauthorized."

Addison thought that over. "I don't know for sure," Addison said slowly. "The agent you call Gravel Voice knows he's taking orders from outside the Agency. I think there may be someone else. Just things. Parker knew you had rousted my agents in Louisiana, for instance. I didn't tell him that. Hell I didn't know. Just knew they weren't returning my calls. I don't know how he knew."

Mac tipped his head up at that. Not too many sources for that information. Something to think about.

"So you can vouch for my whereabouts for most of that evening, correct?" he said.

Addison laughed. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"So you could tell the cops and the courts that I was under surveillance at the time and therefore could not have been the shooter at Donnelly's place."

"Is that what Parker is framing you for?" Addison shook his head. "He's getting too convoluted in his plotting. Should have just stuck to one thing."

Mac snorted. "Yeah, kill me or frame me, but trying to do both might have been his undoing."

"Or maybe he didn't expect you to die, just have unexplainable gap in time and no memory of touching a gun," Troy suggested.

Mac nodded. Possible. Still too complicated to be successful.

"So, yes, I can vouch for you, but if you think I'll have any credibility or a job or anything left after Parker knows I've talked, you're incredibly naive."

Mac flipped off the recorder. "You got vacation time coming?"

Addison half-shrugged in agreement.

"I suggest you and your wife take a trip to the Caribbean or some nice warm place for the next two weeks. Leave now. Call her from here, have her pack you a bag, and we'll take you to the airport," Mac said.

"I have to come back some time," Addison protested. But he took the phone.

"Parker won't be a threat much longer," Mac said. "You'll be able to come back. Call your wife. Then you need to call a certain Detective Rodriguez in Seattle and explain about your surveillance of me and why I am not the shooter they're looking for."

"Surveillance? Is that what you're willing to call it?"

"I am, for now," Mac said. "I see you in my space again, and I will kill you." He shrugged. "And who knows? Maybe some day I'll need a favor from a Fibber, and give you a call."

"You and Parker," he muttered.

"What about me?" Troy said indignantly. "He had me kidnapped. Kristy was kidnapped. He beat up your aunt. You're going to let him walk?"

"He was following orders," Mac said coldly. "Orders he should have refused. But I don't want him, I want the man who gave the orders. I forgot that when Kellerman shot Danny, and I was wrong. I'm willing to do what ever it takes to get Parker. The first step is to cut him off from his network. El Paso is severed. His Marine connection is dead. This cuts a major portion of the FBI off for him. I want him to call people and have them hang up on him. I want him alone, helpless. I want him to pay."

"Shit, you can be ruthless," Troy said in the silence that followed.

"You bought into this mess," Mac said. "Kristy and Aunt Lindy trouble me -- they didn't ask for all this crap. I guess you could say, however, that Parker paid them for Addison's crimes." He looked at Kristy. "What do you think?"

Kristy looked at Addison. "Who was the man who kidnapped me?" she asked. "Give us his name and I'll call it square."

Addison looked at her, his face sagged. He looked at Mac. Mac raised one eyebrow but said nothing. Addison looked back at Kristy. "His name is Bill James. He's stationed here."

She nodded. "Turn him loose," she said.

Mac handed Addison a cell phone. "Call Rodriguez first," he suggested. He gave Addison the number.

Addison took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Then he dialed the number. "You do realize what time it is?" he said, as the number rang.

Mac grinned. "Yes."

Rodriguez answered the phone sleepily. Addison explained who he was, repeating the information patiently. He told Rodriguez about his surveillance of Mac the night Donnelly was attacked. He listened.

"He wants to talk to you." Addison handed him the phone.

"Yeah," Mac said.

"Is this for real? What the fuck does he mean surveillance?"

"You remember what I said happened that night? We've agreed to call that surveillance."

Rodriguez hesitated. "This agent will stick to this? I'll use what I've got to get the charges dropped. But who knows? Who did shoot Donnelly? This Addison?"

"He says no," Mac replied. "I'm working on finding out who that was. I'll get back to you on that."

"You will." Rodriguez snorted. "How about not at 3 a.m. in the morning next time?" He hung up.

Mac handed the phone back. "Call your wife," he said. "Troy will take you to the airport."

Addison looked at the phone in his hand. "You really think you can take Parker out," he asked.

"Yes." Mac's voice was level, cold. Addison looked at him, nodded. Then he called his wife.

"One more thing," Mac said, after Addison was finished. "I want all the phone numbers you have for Parker."

Addison blinked, but didn't protest. He pulled out his wallet, took out a piece a paper, handed it over to Mac. "Keep it," he said. "I don't plan to need it again."

### Chapter 28

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Thursday, Dec. 13, 2012) — Kristy shook Mac awake at noon. She jumped back startled when he woke up swinging. "Sorry," he muttered. "Best just to call my name."

"I guess," she said shakily. "Stan Warren is on the phone for you."

Mac sat up. He'd ended up on the floor for the night. Kristy had been given the bed. Troy got the couch.

"Heard from Troy?"

Kristy nodded. "He called a bit ago. Steve Addison and his wife got their flight just fine. He dropped off the car, took the train back to Virginia to get the Saturn and bring it here."

Mac nodded. He went into the bathroom, splashed some water on his face. Came out and took the phone. "Good morning," he said.

"Look Mac, we've got to talk," Warren said urgently.

"So talk."

"Face to face."

"No. This is just fine. What's on your mind?"

"Steve Addison didn't show up for work this morning," Warren said. Mac had the feeling that wasn't what Warren had wanted to talk about.

"Addison? Parker's contact?"

"You know where he might be?" Warren asked.

"Not a clue," Mac said simply. "Anything else you want to ask? 'Cause I've got another name for you."

"Yeah?"

"The FBI agent who kidnapped Kristy is a guy named Bill James. He's out of D.C. You know him? Gravely voice? Big man, fiftyish, probably a former cop somewhere?"

"You sure?"

"So I've been told. We've all run into him, so to speak. We can give positive ID."

"I'll check it out." Warren hesitated. "You started work on that Rolodex?"

"Why? Are you in there?" Mac asked and then hung up the phone.

Kristy shook her head. "You are so rude to him," she said.

Mac grinned at her. "He loves it," he teased. She laughed.

"What are we doing today?" she asked. She went into the kitchen. "You want some breakfast?"

Mac followed her in to the room. "You don't have to cook for me," he said, taking the skillet from her hand. She looked at him with surprise.

"I don't mind, I like cooking," she said. "And it makes me feel useful in this."

Mac opened the refrigerator, took out some eggs. "You've been shopping," he observed.

Kristy nodded. "I asked the security guard downstairs where was a place that could deliver. He helped me out."

Mac nodded his approval. Good, he thought, she didn't just go waltzing out to the store. Wary was good. He scrambled the eggs, made toast. "You want some?" he asked.

Kristy hesitated, then nodded. "If I let you cook for me, will you be easier about letting me cook for you?" she asked as she took the plate.

Mac smiled, one of the genuine smiles that lit up his face. "Deal," he said.

"So what are we going to do today?" Kristy repeated.

"Going to go down to the Examiner bureau and start calling those names." He nodded in the direction of the printout from Parker's Rolodex.

"All of them?" Kristy asked with dismay.

Mac shook his head. "No, I'm going to do some sorts," he said. "But we're going to need more than one computer and some Internet connections. The Examiner has those."

Kristy gathered up the dishes, put them in the sink.

The Examiner bureau was in a ramshackle building off the Blue Metro Line -- down by the FBI building, Mac noticed with amusement. D.C. was a city of pale cement sidewalks and government buildings that provided a bland backdrop to the hustle of people who never looked at each other, never looked at the buildings. You always knew if you were in the tourist areas where people rubbernecked all the time, or in government canyons where no one looked around.

The building housing the Examiner was sitting on a corner, maybe a bank at one time, Mac thought. Unlike the surrounding buildings, it was red brick, darkened with age and pollution. Things seemed just a bit off true -- windowsills, for instance. Apparently, the building was home to several newspaper bureaus and a couple of trade organizations. The Examiner was on the third floor. The elevator creaked, the floors were wood but needed to be refinished. The hallway to the office was dimly lit.

Inside the suite of rooms however, was a small, modern newsroom with the hum of computers, ringing telephones and voices. Mac took a long slow breath. When did a newsroom start feeling like home, he wondered.

"Can I help you?" the reporter closest to the door asked.

"Looking for Jason Whitcomb. I'm Mac Davis."

The young woman smiled. "We've been looking for you. Jason asks if you've shown up about every fifteen minutes." She punched a number into the phone. "Jason, Mac is here."

She smiled at Kristy. "I'm Julie," she said.

Kristy smiled back. "Kristy."

A lanky man with stooped shoulders and wire rimmed glasses ducked out of an office. "Mac? Come on back," he called.

Kristy hesitated, but Mac pulled her along. "You're part of the team," he said to her, as they walked back through the three cubicles that housed reporters. The cubicles were generous. Mac figured that once there had been more reporters here. One of the first layoffs had included most of the bureaus, including this one. It was a testament to the kind of publisher the Examiner had that there was still a bureau at all. Mac didn't really understand why newspapers were cutting their editorial product, when that was what they had to sell. It was like saving money by continuing to produce the colorful boxes for cereal and cutting back on the cereal in the box. Sooner or later people were going to notice. He pulled his thoughts back into order.

Up close, Jason looked to be approaching 50, his thinning hair was gray rather than blond as it had appeared to be from a distance. The sign on the door said bureau chief.

Jason saw Mac's glance at the door. "Chief's in New York this week," he said. "I get to be acting chief in his absence." He gestured toward chairs. "Have a seat. Janet said to expect you today."

Mac paused to look around the office. It had a bank of windows along one side, and book shelves on the other three. The desk was pushed up under the window; a small table with chairs around it filled the end next to the door. At least, Mac assumed that was the configuration underneath a multi-layer of paper, magazines, reports and books that covered every surface.

Kristy said nothing, just moved the books out of a chair onto the floor and sat down. Mac sighed and did the same. He pulled out his recorder and started the tape from Springer.

"Shit," Jason said almost reverently when the recorder got to the part about Hightower's death. Mac said nothing; he queued up to another spot when it was done, played Addison's story.

"Not a good guy," Jason observed when the recording was done. "Ignoring your unusual reporting style, I'd say we've got a story here. What's your plan?"

Mac pulled out the computer disk with the Parker's Rolodex file and the printout of it. He explained what it was and how he'd gotten it.

"I want to do some sorts on the computer file, then start calling people. Asking them about Parker, how they know him, has he done favors for them, asked them for favors. I figure there are other stories like these two. I want more of them."

Jason nodded. "That could take a while."

"Kristy will help," Mac said. "And Troy Maxim, an aide in Murray's office, will be here to work on it, too. What I need is a computer and some phones."

"Wouldn't mind making some of those calls myself," Jason said, fingering the printout.

It took Mac an hour to get the file sorted the way he wanted. The majority of the names fell into two areas, D.C. and Seattle. He made a printout of names in the D.C. area and handed it to Jason. The names in Seattle he kept for himself, the third list he handed to Kristy.

"You might just look through the names first," he suggested to Jason.

Jason grinned. "Can't wait."

Kristy looked at her list with some skepticism. "I'm not a reporter," she said.

Mac shrugged. "People talk to you. If you get something good, or someone who doesn't want to talk but you think there's something there, just holler. One of us will be glad to take over from there."

Mac took the Seattle list. His first goal was to figure out who was unusual on the list. He sat back down at the computer, called up the Examiner's website and started plugging in names to the search engine. Some names he could identify by himself. Kristy worked the phone from the table. Jason pulled the desk phone around and worked from it. Mac half listened.

Julie stuck her head in the door. "Troy Maxim is here."

"Send him back," Mac said.

Troy looked tired when he came into the small office. The clutter didn't seem to bother him either, Mac noticed sourly. He slouched into a chair at the table. "Car is in the garage," he said after being introduced to Jason. "I called in, talked to Senator Murray. Told her the whole thing. She says the confirmation hearing is scheduled for 2 p.m. on Monday. If we can get her the material by Monday morning, she will be more than happy to take it to the committee."

"I'll bet," Mac said.

"Are we working a story or a Senate investigation?" Jason objected.

"We're working a story," Mac said. "One I expect to run in Monday morning's newspaper. At that time Murray will have all the information she needs."

Jason looked satisfied. "Then we've got work to do. This isn't the kind of story you run at the last minute," he observed. "We've got to have an attorney look at it. The powers that be in Seattle will go over it. We can't file it Sunday at 4 p.m., an hour before deadline."

Mac nodded. "When should we shoot for?"

"I'm sure that the executive editor would like to see it Friday before 5 p.m. so he doesn't have to work the weekend, and doesn't have to pay Leatherstocking weekend rates," Jason said with a laugh. "But if we can pull it together by noon on Sunday, we can give them a draft of the story. That's nine their time. Gives them time to piss in it, make it their own, and time for us to fix it again."

Kristy and Troy looked bewildered, but Mac grinned. He and Jason were going to get along just fine.

Jason handed Troy some of names from his list, and found him a phone in the newsroom.

At four, Mac excused himself. "Anyone want coffee?" he asked. Vigorous nods. He went down to the street lobby, found a pay phone. He punched in Rodriguez's number.

"Rodriguez."

"It's Mac Davis, Detective," Mac said, holding the receiver between his shoulder and ear. He flipped through his notebook. "I've got some names for you to check out."

"What, I'm your personal investigator?"

"These names are from the Seattle area, who appear in Parker's Rolodex who remain unidentified," Mac said calmly. "About twenty names. My guess is your shooter might be among them. Unless you think Parker hired the mayor to do it."

"Mayor would have fucked it up," Rodriguez growled. Mac didn't point out that as far as a hit went, it hadn't been a rip-roaring success. "Give me the names."

Mac did, spelling them carefully, and providing contact information. He could hear Rodriguez typing them in. When he was done, Rodriguez grunted.

"Five of them with significant police files," the detective said.

"Which five?" There was silence. "Come on, Nick, it's public record."

"You and your goddamn public record," Rodriguez grumbled but he gave him the names. "We'll be checking them out. DA's office tried to revoke your bail this morning, by the way."

"What?" Mac yelped.

"Yeah, said there was reason to believe you were planning on leaving the country because you were in El Paso and everyone knows how easy if would be for you to slip across the border. Implied you were Mexican to begin with, and would just be going home."

"I'm not Hispanic." He didn't think he was anyway.

"So I told the judge. The chief of detectives had a little chat with the judge and the D.A.'s office and played the tape I made of your last call. Charges were dismissed."

"Dismissed?"

"Yeah, I objected, of course," Rodriguez said cheerfully. "I figure you're guilty of something, why not this? But the tape was pretty clear."

Mac leaned his head against the wall of the booth. "How's Donnelly?" he asked at last.

"He's going to make it. He's groggy, doesn't remember anything of that day, particularly. Still doesn't like you, of course, but he is adamant that you didn't know about his profile."

"I told you that," Mac interrupted. "If I'd known, he'd had a black eye, not a hole in his head."

"He confirms he was doing the profile as a favor to Parker. He assumed it was something official."

"Seems to be Parker's style."

"Yeah, well, take care, and don't shoot anybody out there, OK?" Rodriguez said.

"Thanks, Nick," Mac said quietly.

There was just a grunt at the other end and then dial tone.

Mac enjoyed the feeling of relief and freedom for a moment, then he pulled out Addison's list of telephone numbers for Parker. He got him on his third try.

"Parker," said the deep voice Mac remembered from their previous conversation.

"This is Mac Davis," Mac said in his professional voice. "I'm a reporter from the Seattle Examiner. I would like to ask you a couple of questions for a profile we're working on."

"Davis? How the hell did you get this number?" Parker said with irritation.

"Does the name Joey Hightower mean anything to you?" Mac asked, ignoring Parker's question.

Parker was silent. Then he sighed. "Where are you? We need to talk."

"We are talking. About Joey Hightower. He was one of your contract employees in the drug operation, wasn't he? Died in 2007. A burglar."

"Springer tell you this?"

"And what about Allen Clayton, Parker? Seasoned CIA agent who gets killed by Mexicans when he's been going there all his life? Hardly seems likely. Seems like working for you is a dangerous business."

"So you got a question, you said," Parker growled.

"Yeah, I got lots of them. But what I really want to know is how did you become a killer? Kellerman and others tell me that you are a man people are willing to die for. When did you cross the line, Parker? Was Hightower your first kill?"

Parker was silent. Whatever he had expected this wasn't it. Mac went on, "Think back. What was your first black bag op?"

Parker sighed. "Long time ago," he said slowly. "Lot's of water since that bridge."

"Yeah?"

"I've read your Marine files, you know," Parker said. "You cut some corners yourself."

"Yeah. So tell me, when did you realize that you had to make decisions and act on them, because waiting for a decision above was like Waiting for Godot."

"A literate man? How interesting. Southeast Asia, I guess. When you were out in the field, you couldn't wait for instructions. They didn't know what the hell was really going on. So you did the best you could."

"You were what, twenty-five? A boot Leuy?"

"Yeah. Supplies didn't show up. Jungle warfare -- people shooting at you when you can't see them, can't chase them. Kids you gave candy to could be throwing a grenade the next time you saw them." Parker fell silent.

"So you did what needed to be done," Mac said sympathetically. He adjusted the phone, shaking out the cramps in his writing hand.

"Sure. And got promoted for it. As long as you're successful, people will ignore your methods. If you're not successful, you're dead, so what difference does it make?"

"After that?"

"Found out stateside wasn't much different. Still people shooting at you when you can't see them, still supplies, resources not being there when you need them."

"And people still ignore the methods as long as you bring in the successes," Mac said.

"And you're dead if you don't," Parker said with a half-laugh.

"So was Hightower the first time you killed one of your own men to get the success," Mac said in the same sympathetic tone of voice.

"Shit." Parker hung up. Mac hung up the phone thoughtfully. He reread his notes, flagged a couple of good quotes. Closing the notebook he headed back upstairs.

Parker stared at the phone on his desk as if it were contagious. What had possessed him to tell that kid all that? he wondered. Tired. I'm getting tired. He looked out the window of his office. He could clearly remember the first time he'd led a raid on villagers for supplies, then parlayed them on the black market for things he needed. Procurement. He snorted. Small potatoes in hindsight. He hadn't slept well after the first time. The second time was easier. It always was.

He picked up the phone, dialed the El Paso courthouse.

"He's not in," a pleasant female voice said in answer to his request for Springer. "He called in yesterday, said he'd had a bad fall, was going to take a week of vacation time to heal up. Can I take a message?"

Parker thanked her, hung up, tried another number. No answer. Tried another. Still no answer. He grimaced. Should have had Warren take Davis out in Texas.

He dialed another number. "Steve Addison is on vacation," said a recording. "Please leave your name and number and he will return your call when he returns."

Parker called Addison's home number, got a similar message.

"Sir, you've got a phone call," his aide said, sticking his head in the door.

"Who is it?"

The aide told him and Parker picked up his phone. "Yes, Senator, how are you today?"

The Senator told him in no uncertain terms how the day was going -- shitty as hell. The usual good-natured Texas drawl was gone; this was the Harvard lawyer talking now. He'd gotten a call from the Seattle Examiner asking questions about past favors exchanged. He hadn't appreciated it. If Parker wanted his support on this nomination, whatever was going on needed to stop. And stop now.

Parker agreed, soothing him, reminding him of their long history together. Of rough times in the past that they'd seen through together.

The Senator snorted. "That was then, this is now, pal," he said.

Succeed or die, Parker thought, returning to gazing out the window. He called a number. "You still think you can take him out?" he asked the gravel-voiced man who answered.

"Yeah."

"Tonight."

"OK. What about the people with him?"

"Whatever you have to do," Parker said.

Then he called Warren. "He's got too much, Stan. He's got to go."

"I thought you were going to get his bail revoked," Stan Warren said.

"Didn't work, they dismissed charges. My source didn't know why," Parker said with annoyance. And fear. How had that happened? That charge had been airtight. He'd created it, it ought to be. "Take him out."

Warren was silent.

"You can, can't you?" Parker taunted. He was an expert at pushing buttons; he didn't hesitate now.

"I don't know," Warren said. "It's not really my field of expertise."

"If you don't, I'll get someone who can," Parker said. He didn't mention he'd already done just that.

"No, no," Warren said slowly. "Leave it to me."

### Chapter 29

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Thursday, Dec. 13, 2012) — Mac stretched wearily. He felt like he had been on the phone for fucking forever. The main office was quiet and dark. The receptionist had gone home at 6 p.m.; other reporters had straggled out for another hour or so after that. Mac glanced at the clock; it was eight. He looked at the others. Troy had finally fallen asleep, his head on the table. He'd gotten very little sleep the night before; Mac didn't begrudge him how. Kristy was still dialing the phone, her pleasant southern accent beguiling people into talking about that great man -- or ruthless son of a bitch. Whichever. Jason glanced up at Mac. Shook his head.

"Amazing," he said simply. "It's hard to believe."

Mac shook his head. "Shouldn't be," he said. "How do you think things get done in the field? You make it work however you can. Pretty soon the lines blur. Parker came home, but his methods didn't change."

"I guess." Jason shook his head. "So you're saying he's no different than the others?"

Mac rotated his shoulders. "He crossed the line. At some point he started sacrificing his own men for his career rather than sacrificing for his men. One thing to roust the enemy for your troops. Another thing to roust your troops for yourself."

"You see it like a military man," Jason said. "I'm a civilian through and through. So maybe that's how military men see it. But I think the guy is one of the most ruthless sons of a bitch I've ever seen. And I've worked in D.C. for twenty years."

"No argument," Mac agreed. "We got enough for a story?"

Jason snorted. "Yeah, we've got enough."

Kristy interrupted, her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone. "Mac, I think you should talk to this woman," she said. "You need to hear her story."

"Her?" Mac said. There'd been very few women in Parker's Rolodex, few in his world, Mac suspected.

"Her name is Mrs. S.R. Warren," Kristy said, handing the phone to him. He looked at her questioning. "His mother," she said.

"Mrs. Warren, my name is Mac Davis," Mac said pleasantly, reaching for his notepad. "Kristy probably told you that we're working on a profile of Howard Parker. I understand you know him."

"Know him? I should say I do," a firm but obviously elderly voice replied. "He's one of the finest men alive."

"We've heard that a lot today, talking to people," Mac said smoothly. "How do you know him?"

Her husband had been a Marine, she told him, killed behind enemy lines. Covert ops. The Corps wasn't going to pay his survivor benefits. She'd been a young widow with a son to raise. Then Howard Parker had come to her. Said it wasn't right, he'd made an endowment for her and her son.

"Yes, he's known for doing things like that," Mac said. It was true. Parker had once taken care of his own. "Has he ever asked you for anything in return?"

"Never. Put my son through college, he did," she said firmly. "When he told me my son wasn't willing to help him out in an operation he was running now, I was just ashamed. After all that man has done for me and for my son. I called my son up and said you help that man. He's a good man."

"Yes ma'am," Mac said agreeably. "What did your son say?"

"At first he didn't want to. You men, sometimes," she said. "But I told him it was only right. He should be proud to help out a man like Howard Parker."

"What did he want your son to do?"

"I'm not sure I know. It seemed pretty hush, hush, national security stuff you know? My son, he's at the FBI now, so he deals with those kinds of secrets too."

"What was your husband's name?"

"Stanley R. Warren. My son's name too. Mine's Elmira, Elmira Warren. You just tell those readers of yours, that Elmira Warren knows a great man when she sees one. Why when I saw that Mr. Parker was going to be Secretary of Homeland Security, I was so proud."

Mac thanked her and hung up. He looked at Kristy who was watching him with big eyes. "She doesn't understand what she did at all, does she?" Kristy whispered.

Mac shook his head. Parker, you really are a son of a bitch, he thought.

"So Warren sold out?" Kristy asked.

Troy lifted his head groggily. "Warren? What are you guys talking about?"

Mac just shook his head. "Depends on if he did what his mama told him to," he said.

The conversation with Mrs. Warren seemed to end the calls for the evening. It was nearly nine. Bleary eyes gazed at him waiting for instructions. He rotated his shoulders, shook out his arms.

"You got a safe place to go?" he asked Jason.

Jason shrugged. "Thought I'd stay with friends in Dupont Circle. I live out in Silver Springs -- Maryland \-- but I don't feel like going out there and then coming back in early in the morning. I assume early in the morning?"

Mac nodded. "You live alone, or you got wife and kids?" he asked. Jason shook his head with a half-smile on his face. "No partner, no significant other? These guys take hostages," Mac pursued. Jason shook his head again. "I'll be safe in Dupont Circle," he promised.

Mac nodded. "Then you need to leave now. Use your usual routine, but use the metro. You didn't drive in did you?" Jason shook his head no.

"If Parker has got someone stationed out front, won't they shoot him?" Troy objected.

Mac shook his head. "If we all left at once, sure. But the shooter is only going to get one chance. Gunfire is going to draw all kinds of cops here. He isn't going to shoot at Jason here, knowing we're inside still."

"Makes sense to me," Jason said, standing and stretching. "I'd blow off your concerns, but the evidence is on your side. How are you going to get out of here? Or are you planning on spending the night?"

Mac looked around the office mess and shuddered. "No, we're going. Out the side door to the parking garage where Troy left the car." He held out his hands for the keys. Troy handed them over reluctantly.

"Won't Parker have someone there, too?" Jason said, shrugging into his coat. He opened the front door, closed it after all of them were in the hallway and locked it. He rattled the knob to make sure it was locked.

"Yeah, I have a plan for that," Mac began.

Troy groaned. "You always have a plan."

Mac's plan was simple and direct. He was learning from Parker that complicated plans went awry. Keep it simple, stupid, he told himself. Troy and Kristy would wait by the side door. He'd go after the car, bring it around, pick them up.

"What makes you think you can do that without getting shot?" Jason asked.

Mac shrugged. "I'm betting I'm faster and smarter," he said and grinned. "Want to place a side bet?"

Jason rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. And how do I collect if I win?" he asked and headed out the front door.

Mac laughed. He stretched out his legs and arms a bit. Met Kristy's worried eyes. "It will be okay," he promised. "Really."

The problem with simple plans is that someone else is likely to fuck it up, Mac found the minute he left the building. A tall, dark shape moved away from the wall. Mac dropped into a defensive posture.

"It's okay, Mac. It's me," Stan Warren said softly. He didn't approach any closer.

"Back off, Agent Warren," Mac warned, his voice low, almost a growl. Adrenaline was beginning its work; his breathing was shallow and rapid.

"I'm not a threat to you," Warren repeated.

"Aren't you?"

The two men stared at each other for a moment.

"Talked to your mom today," Mac said almost conversationally. "Does Parker know you're not a threat?"

Warren shrugged. "Parker believes what he wants to believe," he said tersely. "I...."

Mac looked at him waiting for him to finish the sentence. When he didn't, Mac asked, "There a shooter in the garage?"

"Don't know," Warren said. "Parker's into redundancy, these days."

"So if you don't take me out, someone else is out there waiting?" Mac shook his head. "Back off, Warren. I don't trust you. I'll give you this one chance, but the next time I see you uninvited I'll assume you're the enemy. Back off."

Warren hesitated, then nodded, and turned to leave.

"You know what happens to a man who tries to straddle a fence too long," Mac called softly after him. "He ends up with no balls at all."

Warren' shoulders hunched. He looked back over his shoulder. "I know where I stand," he said. "Maybe no one else does, but I know."

Mac gave him a sloppy two-finger salute, but he didn't take his eyes off of him until Warren was down a block and turning the corner. Then he refocused on the parking garage next door. Out, down the block, fifteen paces, he estimated. The stairs were dangerous, someone could shoot down and he'd be trapped. Go up the ramp, more room to maneuver, cars to hide behind.

Act as if, he reminded himself. There is a sniper there. Tell yourself that until every muscle and nerve believes it. He took a deep breath, slowed his breathing. Then walking briskly, his head bowed as if from the cold, he walked down the block and darted into the parking garage.

The first ramp was bare of cars. He stayed close to the wall, watching, listening. A car started up above, its engine echoing in the silent garage. Mac made it up to the turn onto the first parking level. He listened. Nothing. His eyes adjusted to the dimly lit gloom. Nothing moved.

The sniper wouldn't be able to see him clearly, he thought, as he moved around the corner and onto the first floor. He'd wait where he could see the car, see Mac head toward it to be sure he had the right man. Still Mac didn't take chances. He stayed close to the wall, prepared to duck behind a car if something happened. Turned the corner to the ramp to the second floor.

He hoped the shooter was watching the stairs, not the ramps. He sprinted up the second ramp, flattening himself against the wall. Listened. Nothing. Troy said the car was parked just around the corner of the ramp on the outside wall. He'd be able to see it when he ducked around the corner. But the shooter would be able to see him when he moved out too.

This was the most vulnerable moment of the operation. Mac took his time. He visualized ducking around the corner, do it at a crouch. Most shooters aimed for the chest or head, he would be lower than that. He felt for the clicker that unlocked the door, took it in his hand. As soon as the door sounded, the shooter would know he was here. Do it too early, he gave himself away. Too late, and he stood beside a car waiting for the door to unlock. He took a deep breath, crouched and moved.

The first shot reverberated off the wall above his head the minute he was around the corner. A piece of concrete flew off. Mac clicked the door unlocked, and scrambled across the pavement in one fluid zigzagging movement. A second shot. It missed again. Not by much. The shooter was good. Mac hoped he was better.

He reached the car, pulled the door open. A shot shattered the glass in the driver's window. Mac flung himself across the seats, fumbled for the key, and put it in the ignition. The Saturn started up smoothly, to his relief. He could have fucked with it, Mac realized belatedly.

He stayed down, closed the car door, and using one hand to drive, backed out of the spot. No shots. He twisted himself around in the car, not easy in a Saturn, and started the car down the ramp. No one. He peered out, barely visible over the steering wheel. Nothing. Still wary, he turned the corner, down the next ramp. No shots. He sat up, gave the car a bit of gas and gathered speed for the last down ramp. If the shooter was still here, he'd be waiting, Mac thought.

A shadow moved, Mac reached under the seat, grabbed the nine. He pointed it out the broken window, fired. The shadow yelped, and Mac shot out of the garage into the open street.

He pulled to a stop in front of the door to the building. Troy pulled Kristy out behind him, opened the back car door shoved her in and then slid in himself. Mac was moving before Troy had the door closed.

"We heard shots," Kristy whispered. Troy held her head down below the seat. He too stayed low.

"Yeah, there was someone waiting."

"You okay?" she asked.

"I'm okay. Winged him." Mac made a turn at the corner, another turn a couple of blocks later. He took a state street, it would send him diagonally across town, he knew. He watched the rearview mirror. Finally, he sighed, pulled over.

"Where are we?" Troy said, sitting up cautiously.

"Haven't a clue," Mac admitted. "It's your city. Get up here and drive us home."

Troy parked the battered Saturn in a guest spot in his secured parking lot. His own car was downtown if it hadn't been towed weeks ago. "They got in this far, before," he warned as the three of them headed toward the elevator. "Be wary."

Kristy bit her lip, but nodded and followed Troy. Mac brought up the rear, the nine in his hand tucked in his coat. He watched carefully, his back to the other two. The elevator pinged; Troy herded them into it. Mac didn't relax until they were in Troy's apartment and had checked all the closets. Then he put the safety on the gun, shoved it in his pocket. He stretched out in the leather chair.

"You going to protest if I cook dinner?" Kristy asked shakily as she took off her coat.

"Not a word," Mac promised.

Mac went into the bedroom, shut the door, while Troy helped Kristy in the kitchen. He picked up the phone and dialed Parker's home number.

Parker answered.

"Your shooters missed," Mac said, without preamble. Parker said nothing. Mac continued, "Talked to Elmira Warren, today. That was a fine thing you did for that family. Took care of your men, there. Heard that a lot today. But that was in the '90s. By 2007 you can shoot one of your men point blank, order another one killed by Mexican bandits. I don't get it."

Parker was silent. Mac let the silence continue. Finally Parker said, "Sergeant Warren died obeying my orders," he said at last. "Hightower was going to betray me."

"Is that how you justify it?" Mac asked. "Clayton too?"

"Clayton refused an order! I told him to take out Hightower, and he said he wouldn't. The boy's just shooting his mouth off, he said. It won't go anywhere."

"But you were afraid it would."

Parker snorted. "We could see Bush was not going to be re-elected. That pansy Obama was going to be president. What would he know about the necessities of war?"

"What war was Hightower the enemy in?"

"He was aiding the enemy, shooting off his mouth like that. People were beginning to listen, to ask questions. I couldn't afford that."

"What enemy was he aiding?" Mac pursued.

Parker said angrily, "People were out to get me, don't understand? People who were looking for a chance to bring me down. One mis-step, one bungled operation. That's all they needed. And I'd be nobody."

"I see," Mac said. "So Hightower was aiding your enemies in politics. Not enemies of the United States. You killed your own man because of your personal enemies."

Parker was silent. "Enemies of me are enemies of the United States," he said at last.

"Obama supporters? Liberals, Democrats?" Mac asked, adding to himself, sane people? "All of them are enemies of this country because they disagree with you?"

"Someone has to make the hard decisions," Parker snarled. "That someone was me. I did the things that needed to be done for this country. Things that other people didn't want to get their hands dirty doing. Things that were hard, sometimes. I got them done. I deserve credit for that!"

"So what were you doing in Central America?" Mac asked.

"Where did you hear that?"

"Come on Parker, I heard it okay? What hard things were you doing down there. The Contras? What else? Panama? Were you the reason I slogged through Panama for six months?"

Parker laughed. "Probably," he said. "We needed to roust out Castro's influence down there. Sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better."

"So you worked to destabilized the region, then sent in military to help re-establish order."

"Well not just me, of course," Parker demurred. "But I had a role in that, yeah. And we did it."

"So in the late seventies, you were in Asia, the eighties you were in and out of Central America. Come home to be a drug lord. Somewhat of a come-down wasn't it?"

"I had the contacts," Parker said. "We caught a smuggler who had the operation already going. Turned him, expanded it. It grew."

"Must have been pretty scary when reporters started writing about it in the mid-nineties."

Parker's laugh was cold. "Discredit the bastards. Turn a few sources to deny they'd said anything. Not hard. Besides, there's been stories like that for fifty years. No one really believes them. Or disbelieves them. Rumors."

"And poured your product into L.A."

"Don't know where the cocaine was sold," Parker said, disinterested in this line of questions. "Not my job. Coke flowed out, money flowed back."

Mac shifted the phone to his other ear. Checked to make sure the recorder was still running. A dead battery right now would be a bitch.

"So you shut that down. The Democrats come in, you kill two of your men. That was a low point in your career. You were so low on power and money then that you had to pull the trigger yourself. Not like sending the Marines into Panama."

Parker didn't say anything. Mac went on, "You seem to have regained your position and power. How did that happen?"

"I realized that I had to take care of myself," he said slowly, reflectively. "People owed me. I made sure they remembered that. I showed them I wasn't afraid to collect. If they didn't pay up, there were consequences."

"Consequences?"

"You pay for what you do," Parker said, regaining his confidence. "If they didn't want to pay me for rescuing them, they could pay for their original crime."

"And people like Sgt. Warren's son? What crime is he paying for? And Kevin at the Examiner?"

"I paid for their education. This is the interest payment," Parker said coldly.

"So who did you hire to kill a cop? Didn't that bother you some?"

"Donnelly you mean? Half-assed cop. But he could research. Wasn't expecting that his curiosity would direct him to me."

"What did?"

"He got curious about why I wanted to know about you," Parker said. "My man went by to pick up your profile, and Donnelly was asking all sorts of questions. The wrong questions. When my man called in, he recommended we take Donnelly out, blame you for it. Kill two birds with one stone."

"Complicated," Mac observed. "Didn't work out real well."

"No," Parker said.

"Didn't work out in Louisiana either. Nor tonight. What does that tell you?"

"Have to do it myself," Parker said coldly. Then he laughed. "Hard to believe these conversations, isn't it? Kellerman said you and I were a lot a like. Perhaps he was right."

Mac smiled grimly. "Kellerman died because he bet on you rather than on me," Mac said flatly. "You're making the same mistake."

Parker laughed. "We'll see won't we?" he said, and hung up. Mac turned off the recorder and sat in the silence until Kristy called him to supper.

### Chapter 30

WASHINGTON, D.C., (Friday, Dec. 14, 2012, 1 a.m.) — Mac sat at the dining table, the only one awake. He could hear Troy's snores from the bedroom, and the gentle breathing from the couch where Kristy slept. Kristy had insisted, pointing out that Troy had had very little sleep the night before. That meant the floor again for Mac, and he wasn't in any hurry to seek it out.

He was tired, tired past sleep. He sat in the quiet dark and thought about Parker and Kellerman and himself.

He shouldn't have killed Kellerman, he thought. It hadn't brought Danny back. But then, Kellerman wasn't alive to kill anyone else either. And what about Parker? Just how was this all to end?

Kristy touched him gently, said his name. He smiled at her. "I seem to keep waking up and finding you sitting and thinking," she said softly. "Do you want the couch? I can sleep on the floor as well as you."

Mac shook his head. "Can't sleep," he said.

She sat down at the table next to him, close but not touching. "What are you thinking about?"

Mac half-laughed. "About a dog when I was a kid."

She smiled quizzically. "Oh?"

"When I was in Vallejo, the family next door had this dog, a Rotweiller," Mac said, thinking back. "I liked that dog. We'd never had pets. That dog was almost like my own dog." He paused, went on slowly, thinking it through. "The summer I was fourteen, the dog started acting weird. I noticed it, the family that owned it noticed. But none of us did anything."

"Rabies," Kristy said softly.

Mac nodded. "Yeah. And then the dog bit one of the kids, a four-year-old boy. You know what the treatment is for rabies?"

"A series of shots, in the stomach."

"The dog had to be put down, of course. Should have been done earlier. But no one wanted to kill the family pet."

"And you think Parker has gone rabid," Kristy concluded.

Mac nodded. "Stories we've heard say he was a good man, once, a cold, calculating son of a bitch, maybe, but he took care of his men. One day, he started taking care of himself, and expecting utmost loyalty from his men. And then, finally, he crossed the border and he killed one -- for being disloyal."

"Rabid."

"Yeah, but no one stopped him. He got results, he played the game better and harder than anyone else. So people looked the other way."

"You don't have to be the one that puts this rabid dog down," Kristy protested.

Mac looked at her quickly, then away. How had she known that he had been the only one who could get close enough to the dog to kill it? He'd taken Toby's nine out of his underwear drawer, called the dog, softly wooing it. Hoping that somewhere in the dog's head he'd remember Mac as a friend. The dog had been foaming at the mouth, raging against the virus that ate its brain. Mac had gotten as close as he dared, not wanting to miss, not wanting to watch the dog suffer. And he'd put a bullet in the dog's head. Everyone praised him for doing what needed to be done, but he'd gotten sick and thrown up in the bushes. He winced at the memory.

"That's what we have dogcatchers for," Kristy said now. "For rabid dogs. For rabid people we have cops and courts. You don't have to kill Parker."

"Yeah? So we call in Stan Warren?" Mac shook his head. "Parker has to go down. And I don't know anyone else who can do it."

"I'm not concerned about Parker," Kristy protested softly. "I worry what it will do to you. Killing that man who killed Danny, that eats at you. I see it when you think no one is looking."

"C.J. was my friend," Mac said flatly. "Parker means nothing to me."

"I know, I know. It's different. But what do you become? When do you cross the line between being a good, if hard, man to being a killer? Parker has earned his death, but I don't want you to be his executioner."

Mac let out a long slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He nodded. "Yeah," he said, realizing she was right. He touched the side of her face gently. "Thanks."

She smiled at him, the impish grin that he liked. "So when are you going to kiss me anyway?" she said, holding onto his hand.

He laughed. "When this is all over, you ask me that again," he said. He yawned. "Go to sleep, 'cause I am. And if you don't move fast, you will be sleeping on the floor."

Mac wasn't sure if it was the smell of coffee, which he detested, the sound of soft voices, or the fact that the floor was damn hard that woke him up. But it was the phone that brought him up off the floor.

"Mac, it's Jason," Kristy called.

"Yeah," Mac said, rubbing at his eyes.

"Cops have been here this morning asking if any of us were working late and heard shots fired next door in the parking garage," Jason said.

"What did you say?"

"Said I was the last one out and didn't hear anything when I left. They thanked me for my time. What happened?"

Mac explained. Jason grunted. "This is getting a bit deep for me," he admitted. "Are you coming in here today? I'm thinking about hiring some security."

Mac laughed. "You've got two former Marine recon working for you, and you're going to hire some overweight security cop? Think, man."

"That's what Janet said this morning," Jason said with a sigh. "How come she trusts your defense skills so much anyway?"

"I kicked a reporter in the head, by accident, my third day at work," Mac said straight-faced.

"By accident?" Jason asked. "Never mind. So you coming in?"

"I don't think so," Mac said slowly. "I can write here, email it to you. We're pretty safe here, as long as we don't go out, or let anyone in. You can edit it, send it to Seattle. Talk over the phone, whatever."

"OK. Bureau chief is coming back from D.C. at five today, wants to look at the story. Can you have a rough done by then?"

"I'll have it," Mac promised and hesitated. "Do you think we can push this thing into Saturday morning paper? Five here would be two back in Seattle. Plenty of time to get it in."

"Saturday isn't the best day to break a story like this," Jason objected. Sunday was out; its deadline was earlier than Saturday's.

"Yeah, but once it runs, Parker is less likely to be shooting at me."

Jason laughed. "There is that. OK, I'll see what I can do. We're going to have to ask Parker for comment, you know. That might be a bit problematic."

"Already have."

"What? When?"

"Been talking on the phone with him. Got his numbers from the FBI agent who went on vacation."

"He know you were a reporter?"

"Yup. Did it by the book."

"God damn," Jason said almost reverently. "He talked to you?"

"One conversation is in my notes, I'll send you a transcript. The second I recorded, too tired to take notes. A bit of a problem there, I didn't tell him I was taping."

"We can finesse that," Jason said absently. "Can I hear the tape?"

Mac fetched the recorder, pressed play, held it to the receiver. Troy and Kristy came out of the kitchen to listen.

"Well?" Mac asked when it was finished.

"Quite the conversation you had," Jason observed. "So get writing. What are you waiting for?"

Kristy handed Mac a plate of eggs and bacon. "And no back talk," she said, her hands on her hips. He thanked her meekly and ate.

Troy had a cup of coffee in his hands. "I'd like to go into the office," he said. "You got a problem with that?"

Mac swallowed. "You're big enough to make your own decisions," he said. "Go ahead if you think it's safe."

Troy hesitated. "I need to talk to my Senator," he said.

Mac gestured to the phone. He took another bite of egg.

Troy sighed. He took the phone, went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Writing isn't easy, even, or maybe especially, for those make a living at it. Mac always snarled at people who said they'd be a writer but it just didn't come easy for them. It was such a struggle, not like it is for you, they'd say. Hardest thing I've ever done, he'd tell them. They'd just say yes, but you don't understand how hard it is for the rest of us.

Mac didn't know any writer who thought it was easy. He liked the quote about writing consisted of sitting at your computer and sweating drops of blood over it. The more important the story, the harder it was to organize, to find the right words, to tell the story the best you could.

He sat at the computer, typed up a transcript of his conversations with Parker, sent them to Jason and to Janet. He roughed out a lead and an outline, then he got up and paced a bit.

Kristy handed him a Mountain Dew, he thanked her and sat back down at the computer. A few minutes later, he hollered a question at Troy. Troy answered. Mac typed. He printed something, edited it, and went back to the keyboard.

Troy dug out a deck of cards, and he and Kristy played hearts at the kitchen table doing their best to ignore him. "He always like this?" Kristy asked. Troy shrugged.

"I've never seen him doing anything but fight," he said.

Kristy looked at Mac muttering at the keyboard. "You sure there's any difference?"

At noon, Kristy made sandwiches for the three of them, and slid one into Mac's hand. He thanked her, took a bite, sat it down unfinished.

"I'm going to do laundry," Kristy said a bit later. "Anyone got clothes they want washed?"

Mac looked up from the computer. "Go with her, Troy," he said. He returned to his writing.

The silence of the apartment got through to him. He looked around, wondered where they'd gone, then remembered about the laundry. Mac got up, found the cell phone, took it into the bedroom.

He flipped through his notebook, found the telephone number he'd scribbled down from Parker's Rolodex. "Mrs. Kellerman?" he said to the woman who answered.

"Yes?" Her voice was wary.

"I served with your husband, years ago. I was sorry when I heard of his death."

"Yes. Thank you," she said dully. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

Mac ignored that. "I'd lost touch with C.J.," he said. "Do you have kids?"

"Four. The oldest is seventeen, going to college next year. The youngest is twelve. He can't believe his dad's not coming back this time." There was a sob in her voice.

"Do you have money? Did C.J. have life insurance, a pension?"

"C.J. provided for us," she said firmly. "He was a good husband and father. What he did was risky and he knew it. He made sure we'd be okay that way. That's what I told that Parker man when he came by here. We didn't need his kind of help. I suppose I shouldn't say that, Parker might be a friend of yours too."

"No, he's no friend of mine."

"C.J. thought the world of him, but I never liked him. I'm sure he had something to do with C.J.'s death, but no one will tell me how he died." She sighed. "Sorry to dump all that on you. I do appreciate your call."

"No problem. Some of the guys and I pooled some money, thought we'd set up a trust fund for the kids education," Mac said, looking at his cashiers check from Parker. "Maybe tomorrow or the next day I could bring a check by?"

He heard her catch her breath. "How kind of you all," she whispered. "How very kind."

Mac hung up the phone and turned around. Troy stood in the doorway with an armload of clean laundry. "I heard what you said," Troy said finally. "You're going to give C.J.'s widow your check from Parker?"

"Yeah."

Troy put the clothes down on the bed, began putting them away. "I figured that's what you were using to fund this adventure of yours," he said.

Mac shrugged. "I've got some money put away. I'm using that." He laughed shortly. "Maybe I'll file a travel voucher with the Examiner."

Troy didn't ask where Mac had gotten his money. He suspected he didn't want to know. Mac hadn't gotten out of college too long ago and who had money when you graduated? Not legally anyway. He pulled out his wallet, found a pen, and signed over his certified check to Mrs. C.J. Kellerman. He handed it to Mac. "It would make me feel better, too," he said.

Mac nodded.

It was a hard story to write, Mac thought as he sat down at the computer again. Maybe it was because he wasn't sure exactly what the story was. Not like the stuff he usually wrote: man robs/kills, cops arrest. Straight forward. But this was about a man who was nominated for one of the highest unelected offices in the country. A position of untold power and he was a scumbag no better than the crooks he usually wrote about. Man robs/kills.

He was trying to leave himself out of the story as much as possible. That meant leaving out most of the recent happenings. Focus on the drug factory. Focus on Joey Hightower's death.

But the story was more than about the abuse of power, what was the saying, power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely? He wanted this to be a story about Howard Parker. The good, the bad.

He got up, got another Mountain Dew. Stretched. Did pushups and sit-ups, squats and lunges. Kristy and Troy watched him in silence. He ignored them. Kristy went to take a nap.

At 3 p.m., Mac printed out the story. It was the best he could do, he decided. He wasn't sure how good it was, but it was the best he was capable of. He read it through. Handed it to Troy who read it, handing each page to Kristy when he was done.

"Well?" Mac asked when they were done.

"It's good," Kristy said into the silence. "Makes you understand Parker. Even if you don't like him or what he's done, you can understand him."

Troy grunted. "You left out a lot of the last few weeks," he observed.

Mac shrugged. "Up to the newspaper if they want to run that, but you might make sure your Senator shares that part with her colleagues."

"I'm sure she will," Troy said. "It's a good story, Mac. Didn't know you could do this."

Mac reread it. Made some edits. It was good, he thought.

The story started out:

"One of the most common phrases used to describe Howard Parker is 'a cold calculating son of bitch'. It's usually said with admiration.

"Howard Parker, who has been nominated for Secretary of Homeland Security, wouldn't argue with the description. 'Someone has to make the hard decisions,' he said Thursday. 'And I did. For the good of the country, I did what needed to be done.'

"But somewhere along the line, Howard Parker crossed the line. The decisions he made furthered his own career, not just the good of the country.

One of those decisions cost Joey Hightower his life. Hightower, a young sheriff's deputy in El Paso, Texas,...."

Mac reread the story one last time on the screen, then logged into Troy's Internet provider again, and sent it to Jason and to Janet. When it came right down to it, she was his real editor. He called Jason to let him know it was there.

"Hold on," Jason said. "Let me pull it up and read it."

If writing was hard, editing was frustrating. And the more editors, the more frustration. As Jason had said the day before, all the editors would have to piss in it to make it theirs. Starting with Jason, it appeared.

Kristy and Troy played more cards.

"Seattle wants a sidebar telling about how you got involved in all this," Jason said on his fourth or fifth call. "Can you write it?"

"I guess," Mac said. He hung up and called Janet. "You want a sidebar? What all do you think should be in it?"

"Good to hear from you, too," Janet said dryly. "Primarily your role in busting the coke factory ten years ago, your buddy's discovery of Parker's role in it. His plea for help led to your investigation."

"And Donnelly? That go in?"

Janet hesitated. "Put in something," she decided. "We can always pull it out."

"What about all the stuff that went down at Parker's place?"

"That we leave out I think," Janet said.

Mac hung up, cracked his knuckles and started writing again. The phone rang. Kristy answered it. "For you, Mac," she called out, then returned to the card game.

"Davis," Mac said into the phone.

The voice on the other line was the Examiner's publisher. "Just read your story," he said. "It's hard to believe. I know Parker, know him well. Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir," Mac said firmly. "I'm sure."

The publisher hesitated, then added, "Parker called me an hour or so ago. Said you were still pursuing a vendetta against him. Wanted me to intervene, stop the story. Wanted to know why you were still on staff at all."

Mac was silent.

"I hear charges have been dismissed against you," the publisher said.

"So I understand," Mac replied.

"The story runs," the publisher said finally. "It's a good job, Mac. I wanted to tell you that myself."

Mac grinned with relief. "Thank you."

And soon it was done. The calls tapered off. A copy editor called at 9 p.m. to read a suggested headline to him. Mac felt honored; no one had ever consulted him about the headlines for his stories before. Leatherstocking called at 10 p.m. to say he'd seen the final version and approved it. And finally, at midnight, Janet called.

"The press is rolling, Mac," she said. Her voice was jubilant and exhausted at the same time. Mac figured she'd been at work for fifteen hours or so.

"Yeah?" Mac said. "Is it on the website?"

Janet's voice was puzzled when she said it was.

"Good," Mac said. "There's someone I want to show it to."

He hung up the phone, rolled Troy off the couch. Ignoring his protests, Mac flopped onto the couch, pulled up a quilt and was asleep in minutes.

### Chapter 31

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Saturday, Dec. 15, 2012 8 a.m.) -- Mac walked into the outer office of Parker's suite in Foggy Bottom. He'd had to call around to find Parker on a Saturday morning; he wasn't surprised that the man was in his office. Parker's aide looked up, when he walked in, then paled and swallowed nervously when Troy and Kristy followed.

Mac had protested against Kristy's involvement and lost. She'd cooked breakfast and told him to sit down and eat it. "I like doing for you," she declared, hands on her hips. "Get used to it."

Mac looked at the aide, noted his nervousness and the Macintosh on his desk. Well that explains the mysterious source, Mac thought. Pity the poor bastard clerking for this man.

"Parker in?" Mac said, jerking his head toward the inner office. The aide gulped and nodded. Mac headed toward the door. "You might want to call the cops," he said over his shoulder.

Parker looked up from a document he was reading when Mac opened the door. He reached for the desk drawer.

Mac moved swiftly toward him, slammed the drawer on his hand, and shoved Parker's face onto the desk. "Give me a reason, and I'll make you eat that gun," Mac growled. Parker said nothing.

"Slowly pull your had out. It had better be empty."

Parker did as he was told. He glared at Mac, no fear, only anger. Mac slammed the drawer shut with his knee. "I wanted to make sure you saw the Examiner this morning," Mac said. He went to Parker's computer, opened a browser window and typed in the address. Parker swiveled in his chair to look.

Mac watched Parker's face pale as the story loaded onto his screen. "Read it," Mac ordered. Mac moved out of his way, back to the other side of Parker's desk.

Parker needed no prompting. He hit the page down button, scrolling rapidly through the story. Followed it to the second page and to the linked sidebar. He sat back in his chair.

"I suppose you think that means something," Parker said.

Mac nodded in appreciation. No whining. A cold bastard indeed.

"It means you're done in this town, Parker," Mac said levelly. It was odd, this was the first time they'd been face to face. Mac leaned on his desk and spelled it out for him. "No one will touch you now. Your power base is over. Your career is done. You will probably serve jail time. Rodriguez has a got a lowlife singing a story about being hired to kill a cop, and Rodriguez is pissed. Even if somehow you don't serve time you'd better be prepared to spend the rest of your life on hobbies. Maybe you can take up knitting."

"You been practicing that speech?" Parker asked. He forced an amused smile. "You really think your puny story is going to get any attention at all?"

Mac gestured to the phone. "Call a connection of yours, Parker. See who's taking your calls. Go ahead. Maybe the Senator who's carrying your nomination. Call him."

Parker shook his head. "Get out," he ordered. "Get out of my office before I call the cops."

Mac backed to the door, not taking his eyes off Parker, never forgetting the gun in the desk drawer.

"I'm rather disappointed," Parker drawled. "I expected you to settle this man to man. To try and kill me before I killed you. You're getting over-civilized."

Mac grinned. "That's the first time I've ever heard that said." He opened the door, backed through it, shut it.

"You kill him?" a familiar voice asked from behind him.

Mac whirled to face Stan Warren, then moved toward the center of the room to give himself more space. He glanced at Parker's aide. "I said the cops," Mac said mildly.

"I was already on my way here," Warren said. "I have an arrest warrant."

"For whom?"

Warren laughed. "We arrested Bill James this morning. He's got a bullet hole in his right shoulder. Says you put it there."

Mac shrugged. "Possibly, but if so, he was shooting at me at the time. I'm surprised, actually. Didn't see who it was, but I didn't think he would do his own dirty work."

"Bill's not afraid of doing his own dirty work as you say. Besides the man he hired was posted out the front door waiting for you there."

"Oh?"

"We've detained a number of agents for questioning. Can't find a few, like Steve Addison. You shoot him too?"

Mac shook his head. "Heard he took his wife on vacation."

Warren laughed. "Saw your story this morning, by the way. Congratulations. Ought to win you some awards."

"Cut the bullshit, Agent Warren," Mac said. "Why are you here?"

"He's here because he needs to finish the job he started," Parker's cold voice said from the doorway of his office.

Both turned to look at him. He stood in the doorway, his eyes burning, but the revolver held steady in his hand. "Just got a call from the White House," he said. "They're pulling my nomination."

Mac said softly, "Troy, get the civilians out of here." He could hear Troy urging Kristy and Parker's aide out the door.

"What did you expect?" Mac asked. He moved slightly in Parker's direction. Parker glared at him, then focused on Stan Warren.

"And you, you pussy, you're the real reason for this. If you had killed the bastard when I told you to, I'd be Secretary of Homeland Security. But you ball-less wonder, you couldn't do it."

Warren slowly pulled his hand out from his jacket, his service revolver in his hand. He trained it on Mac.

"Day late and a dollar short," Parker said with disgust. "You sure you are your father's son? There was a man who knew how to follow orders."

"And he died for it," Warren said.

"Better to die a soldier than live a traitor," Parker said flatly.

"You know, all the time I was growing up, I heard about how Dad's CO had come through for us, forced the Marine Corps to pay his pension, saw to it that I got a good education. And I never knew who it was. Mom can be a bit vague about details sometimes," Warren said reflectively. Mac moved closer to Parker. No one seemed to notice.

"Then Mom called," Warren continued. Parker nodded, a satisfied half-smile on his face. "Told me who the CO was, who I owed. And you collected your favors."

Parker nodded. "I was dumfounded myself when I realized who was in charge of background checks," he said. "I'd watched your career. You did your father proud."

"He wouldn't be proud if I killed a man on your say-so," Warren said, and he shifted his stance so that his weapon was trained on Parker. "You're under arrest, Parker. I have a warrant in my pocket."

"Why you son of a bitch!" Parker snarled. Mac seized that moment, moved after Parker's gun. Parker saw his movement, fired. Mac winced as the bullet burned past his arm, but he didn't hesitate. He grabbed Parker's forearm, brought it down as his knee came up. He felt the bones in Parker's arm break. Parker's grip loosened on the gun, Mac took it away from him, slashed in across his face, then brought it down on his head.

Parker grunted, doubled over. Mac smashed the butt of the gun into his nose, feeling the satisfaction of blood splurting. Parker curled into a ball, protecting himself. Mac kicked him in the balls.

"Mac!" Warren said loudly, keeping his distance from the brutal beating. "Mac, for God's sake, don't kill him. We'll be doing paperwork for a week."

Mac stopped, the gun still in his hand. He was breathing hard as if he he'd been running. His shoulders were hunched.

"Come on, man," Warren said again. "We don't want the hassle of filing the paperwork on the bastard."

Mac looked at the gun in his hand. At the man at his feet. He could put a bullet in the man's head. He wanted to. Wanted it badly. He could claim it happened in the fight to get the gun away from him; Warren might back it up.

Might not. Kill him too? Mac took another deep breath, slowly turned around. Warren had his gun pointed down a bit, but Mac had no doubt he'd be hard to take. He was watching Mac carefully.

"Let it go Mac," Warren said. Mac's eyes bothered him, they were full of rage. He wasn't entirely sane, Warren thought. Well, he'd known that. Now he would face it full on. "Right now, you're a hero, saving an FBI agent from a madman with a gun."

Mac looked at him, looked at the gun in his hand. "You got some cuffs or something?" Mac said through clenched teeth. "Tie this bastard up, will you?"

"He hit you?" Warren said, coming forward with restraints. Useless, Parker wasn't going anywhere. He wanted Mac to give up his gun. Was afraid to ask for it.

"Just a burn," Mac said. "Fucking hurts!"

"You didn't have to do that, you know," Warren said. "I'd have shot him. Resisting arrest."

Warren bent over Parker, tried to find some undamaged body part to put the restraints on. Gave it up. He straightened, put the restraints in his back pocket. Held out his hand.

Mac gave Warren the gun, pushed up his sleeve to look at his arm. A bloody scrape about three inches long. Hurt like hell. He looked up at Warren.

Warren was looking at Parker's gun in his hand as if he didn't know quite what to do with it.

"I liked your mom," Mac said lightly. "Couldn't have your mom mad at you, like that."

Warren snorted. "When did you decide you trusted me?" he said.

Two U.S. marshals were busting the door down. Mac whirled, tensing at the sound of wood shattering. Warren made calming motions with his hands, careful not to touch Mac.

"It's under control," Stan Warren said loudly. "We'll need a stretcher." People crowded in the hallway, peering in, drawn by the sound of gunfire.

"I told you I don't do trust," Mac said. "But the best way to take someone out is to get in close." He shrugged. "Figured it would become clear eventually which you were doing."

Mac looked for something to stop the blood from his arm. Warren handed him a handkerchief.

"Actually, I thought maybe you'd set me up from the beginning," Mac admitted, dabbing at the blood. The adrenaline rush was fading, leaving him tired. "I figured there had to be two people organizing the events the night I got tossed in the Sound and Donnelly got shot. It didn't work otherwise. Couldn't figure out which role you might have played."

Kristy fussed over Mac's arm. He started to shake her off, and then with a grin, let her continue. Warren snorted.

"I figured you for the Machiavellian type, the sort who likes to be behind the scenes pulling the strings," Mac continued. "But I couldn't tell what you were aiming to accomplish."

Warren half-laughed. "I guess you pegged that about right," he admitted. "I was trying to get you off the dime, and having the dickens of a time doing it. If I'd thought of tossing you in the Sound to make you mad, I might have done it."

The U.S. marshals stood looking at Parker, still curled in a ball. They glanced warily at Mac. Warren handed them the warrant. "Post an armed guard around his hospital bed," he said wearily. "If he regains consciousness, we've got a lot to talk about."

Warren looked at Mac. "So you decided the pen is mightier than the sword? I half-expected Parker to be dead when I got here."

Mac shook his head, watching as the marshals entered the elevator behind EMTs carrying Parker on a stretcher. "The pen might be mightier," he muttered, "but at least with the sword you know it's over."

Warren laughed. "Yeah, you do."

"Shit," Mac said suddenly, looking for a phone. "Speaking of words, my boss will kill me if I get beat on this story now. Where's the freaking phone?"

### Epilogue

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Sunday, Dec. 15, 2012) — Mac and Kristy walked down the Capitol Mall, strolling past the reflection pool, toward the Lincoln Memorial. Kristy wanted to see D.C., collect stuff to take back to her second-grade class. She'd been taking snapshots with Troy's cameral all day. It was cold now, and getting colder. They were forecasting snow for later in the week.

The two of them had been doing all the tourist sites. Mac's arm was in sling, although he thought he could have done without it. They'd seen the Smithsonian, the Air and Space Museum, where he'd still be if he'd had a choice. They'd gone to the Museum of Art, the Capitol, the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress. The Washington Monument was behind them. The Lincoln Memorial was the next stop on their agreed-upon list, then the Vietnam Memorial. Kristy was hinting she'd like to tour the White House. Mac was trying to decide between pleading his arm hurting, or giving her the tour she wanted. Plenty of time to decide, he thought, as they strolled hand in hand. No one was shooting at him.

Earlier in the morning he'd gone out to see C.J.'s wife. He'd given her the two certified checks totaling $100,000. She'd stared at them with disbelief.

"I don't even know your name," she said looking at him. "100,000 dollars!"

Mac had nodded, handed her a piece of paper with Shorty's email address and telephone number on it. "Bank those checks," he warned. "They're just like cash. Then call him, he's a friend of mine. He'll help you make it go even farther."

"I will always remember how much I owe you," she said, tears filling her eyes. "If you ever need anything...."

Mac had shaken his head vigorously. Was this how it had started for Parker, he wondered. "You don't owe me a thing," he said with certainty. "Just raise some good kids, you hear?"

She'd kissed him and then went back into her home.

He'd talked to Janet last night. She had been elated with the stories. "You've most certainly impressed Jason and his boss," she said. "They're talking about offering you a job. Are you interested?"

"No," Mac assured her. "I'm coming home to Seattle."

"Good. When? There's all kinds of follow up stories that need doing."

"Actually, I'd like that vacation time," Mac said. "There's a girl I'd like to spend Christmas with."

"Vacation? At a time like this? This is your story!" she'd protested.

"Is that what you would have done? Stayed home and worked the story?"

Janet had been silent for a moment. Then she sighed. "Yeah. Still would, I suppose." She was silent again. "Take the girl somewhere warm, Mac. You're right, there's other reporters to take it from here."

"I'll stay through Wednesday," Mac compromised. "Most of the story will be over by then. So, if I come back to Seattle, do I get a pay raise?"

Janet laughed. "I'll see what I can do."

Stan Warren had called shortly after that. "He's not dead, but he's not ever going to be the man he was," he said. Mac had done serious, permanent damage: two broken ribs, and a broken collarbone, a concussion. Smashed testicles from that last kick. "But he's conscious. Making threats."

"Should have hit him harder," Mac said coldly.

Warren laughed, but he was under no illusions that Mac was joking.

"I keep wondering why the CIA didn't show up in this," Mac said. "He called in markers from everyone else."

"I'm only guessing, but I doubt he wanted anyone to know he'd had Clayton killed," Warren said. "Some of those agents aren't to be messed with."

"Yeah," Mac said doubtfully. They'd never know for sure. Mac suspected there was more that could be discovered about Parker's past. Someone else's job.

"I've been authorized to offer you a job at the FBI," Warren said, changing the subject.

"You want me to become a cop?" Mac yelped.

"An agent," Warren said, sounding insulted at being lumped in with cops. "What's the matter with that? It's a step up from being a reporter."

"No way, man," Mac said. "Besides I would never pass the background check."

Warren laughed. "So you're going back to Seattle? Say hello to your editor for me."

"Why don't you call her yourself?" Mac asked, thinking of Janet's moody reply to his vacation request. "I thought the two of you hit it off."

Warren sighed. "Two workaholics have no business trying to conduct a long-distance relationship. Won't work. And neither of us are likely to change, not at our ages."

"So go visit for Christmas, forget relationship," Mac said.

"Maybe," Warren said, but Mac didn't think he would.

Now, standing at the Lincoln Memorial, Mac studied the statue. Impressive. But it was freaking cold. He reached inside his coat, pulled out two airline tickets and handed them to Kristy.

"What's this?" she asked, looking at them.

"I thought maybe you'd like to spend Christmas with me somewhere warmer," Mac said, smiling at her. "What do you think?"

"Mexico?" She opened the tickets. "Wednesday?"

Mac nodded. "I asked for some time off, being wounded and all," he said and grinned. "Want to go?"

She hugged him, smiling. "I'd love to spend Christmas in Mexico," she said, laughter in her voice.

Mac kissed her.

"About time," she said, a few minutes later, her face rosy in the wind. "Do we have time for the White House tour?"

Mac laughed. At least it would be inside. "We have time for whatever you want," he promised.

###
Postscript

Hi, I'm the author of this book, and I hope you liked it. I liked writing it! As a former journalist, I wanted a reporter protagonist who could solve problems. Mac came into being, based on my reporting experiences as well as others who had the military experience as well.

In particular, I wanted to create a military hero who was under 30. There are many great mysteries and thrillers created with military heroes, but most of them served in Vietnam. Vietnam vets are in their 60s and 70s in real life. I wanted someone who fought in the Middle East and came home to civilian life.

If you liked the book, please write a review at your favorite ebook retailer. Or put in a good word for the book on your Facebook page or other social media site. Epublishing works because people sing out when they find books they like. Reviews don't have to be lengthy. Two lines about what you thought will be much appreciated.

I have written more books! Look for them at your ebook retailer, or sign up for my newsletter, and you will get the first announcement of future books, and a few other things. (Oh and you get a freebie for signing up too.)

You can visit my web site, ljbreedlove.com where I blog about my books, but also about the books I like to read and the writing process. I hope you'll join me there. You can also find me at @ljbreedlove on twitter, where I focus mostly on politics, and on facebook at L.J. Breedlove.

Thanks again for reading this book!

L.J. Breedlove

