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# THE WITNESS

### Book 1 in the George 'Mac' McClain Series

### Will Decker

Copyright 2007 by WILL DECKER

Smashwords Edition

WILL DECKER has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased, or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

THE WITNESS is a work of fiction. The resemblance of any characters to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Names, characters, places, brands, media, situations, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

This eBook may not be re-sold or given away except with written permission from the author or as otherwise permitted through special promotions.

A special thank you to everyone that has made this story possible. My beta reader, my proof reader, and to you the greatest readers ever. I sincerely hope you enjoy this work of fiction.

Will

More Exciting Stories by Will Decker:

DRIVEN

UNREQUITED LOVE

FIRE BABY

HYBRID KILLERS

The 'HEÄLF' Collection:

MORTALITY REVISITED

CLONE WARS

DAY OF NIGHT

REGENERATIONS

HORSPAW

The 'Mac" Collection:

THE WITNESS

TOXIC RAIN

BETRAYAL

RECORD KEEPER

DEATH IN THE DUNES

WIT-SEC FAIL

SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed.

Every book is a standalone story-NO Cliffhangers!

If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to leave a review. Authors starve or eat based on reviews. Thanking you from the bottom of my stomach, WILL

Table of Contents:

And so the Story Begins

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Discover More Exciting Stories by Will Decker

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### And so the Story Begins

What was once a grand and secluded hunting lodge in the western fringes of the southern Oregon Cascade mountain range that catered to high powered politicians and wealthy industrialists, had over time metamorphosed into a dilapidated, rundown bar with low cost rooms for rent by the hour, day or month. And no longer was it private and secluded, now it just existed on the fringe of society. Everything changed with the advance of civilization and the new college campus just a short distance up the road. But as rundown and lowly a place as it had become, it was still home to a few regulars such as myself and my good friend Larry.

Larry, loyal to a fault and always up for a challenge, knew instinctively when I came around so did trouble, and this time was going to prove to be no exception.

Tethered to a small trailer out behind the main building is his personal little two-seater helicopter. It was grounded after discovering a minute amount of oil seepage past the main seals on the turbine housing. In the meantime, because he can't stand being grounded for more than a week, two at the most, he has borrowed mine. They are identical little birds with only the slightest of individual quirks giving them each their own unique personality. But their similarities outweigh their differences, and while his is down waiting on repairs, mine suits him just fine.

The old lodge is the only watering hole within many miles and except for the Friday night crowd of drunk college kids, usually a quiet spot far from the hubbub of civilization that generally sports little more than the sound of night birds and during mating season, frogs.

But tonight things are different. A large group of motorcycle banditos-Hell's Angels wannabes near as I can tell-found the place the day before and are creating quite a ruckus. Although a devout fan of the two-wheeled crotch-rocket and a bit of a biker myself, I have no idea what's drawn them here. Nor do I get the impression that all of them really wanted to be here.

My own ride, a stretched out '58 Beazer Road Rocket from the UK is parked in its usual place under the overhang of an old and neglected woodshed next to an equally weathered and decrepit line of rotting fence that separates the shed from an overgrown and long disused pasture. During the light of day, the fence appears as if being swallowed up by the lush green growth. Inside the shed there is still a small amount of pucky firewood making it impossible for me to fit my ride within its moldy confines. But that is just as well, since the roof doesn't hold back much of anything anymore anyway.

In a leather shoulder holster worn smooth from use and tucked neatly beneath my left arm, I carry a piece for personal protection, of which I've had use of on more than one occasion. A tool of my trade and nothing more. However, for safety's sake, the ammunition is buried beneath a change of clothes and a bottle of fine West Indies rum deep in the bottom of the black leather saddlebags strapped to my bike. Because I'm prone to a short temper, I keep the ammo separated from my piece for the simple reason that in the time it takes to retrieve the ammo, I will generally calm down. At least, for the sake of the person triggering my ire, I better calm down.

Tonight, however, I'm not in the least bit angry. Having just finished a favor for a friend, I have some jingle in my pocket, a dusty trip in the rearview mirror and a date with an old friend; I'm in a fairly good mood.

Still, I am a tad concerned regarding the gang of bikers, since there doesn't really appear to be any apparent reason for their being here in this out of the way place unless they're running from something or hiding from the law. It also means that I'll have to venture through the throng of drunk and possibly antisocial malevolents without any means of defending myself, short of my own two hands, which generally causes me no qualms. Yet, tonight I feel like a stranger in this place that I usually refer to as home.

Walking slowly and casually down the dirt path leading to the old wood shed and my bike, I am less than fifty feet from it when I hear the familiar whoop-whoop-whoop of a heli-copter coming in low over the trees and realize immediately that my good friend is returning with my own small bird. Though I don't begrudge him the use of it, I feel relief at hearing its approach.

The little two-man chopper will never be as close a friend to me as my Beazer, but it is still a friend that brings me another means of escape, something I've been perfecting my entire life. Houdini doesn't hold a candle to me when it comes to escaping the strangle hold of women, work, and life's responsibilities as a whole.

The sound of the low-flying chopper draws all eyes skyward, toward the encroaching blackness hovering threateningly above our heads with the coming of night. It is the distraction I need, and I hurriedly move forward across the open terrain, taking full advantage of reaching my ride before their attention turns toward me. Whenever a stranger moves among a close-knit group, he stands out and draws attention to himself, no matter how inconspicuous he behaves.

Upon reaching my bike, I quickly drop to one knee and reach within the nearest satchel. My groping fingers close on the comforting feel of the rum first, the curves of the bottle almost sensual, before closing around the square-edged corners of the box of .357 Magnum ammunition. As I pull the ammo out from under the change of clothing, a seductive looking young woman with full breasts and a nice curvaceous ass wrapped snuggly in denim grabs my upper arm with a surprisingly firm grip. Spinning to face her, I am immediately taken aback by her eyes; they are of the deepest midnight and frightened beyond measure.

"Help me, please," she whispers in a tense voice, her lovely features twisted with anxiety and fear. "You have to get me out of here. Please, you cannot leave me here."

Her plea only emphasizes my earlier premonition regarding the fact that not all of the bikers desire to be here. Yet, her plea rings much more desperate than simply a need for a change of scenery and I immediately wonder if she hasn't hooked up with the wrong dude, someone that can't appreciate the finer gifts of a beautiful woman.

Slipping the box of ammo into my inside vest pocket so that no one, including the girl can see what it is, I casually close the flap on the saddlebag and while still holding the bottle of rum in my right hand, use my left to gently ease her clenched fingers from my upper arm. To my surprise, her nails have broken the skin, leaving four little dimples of blood in a line on my bicep.

"Miss," I say in a slow drawl, my eyes taking her all in while remaining determined to make a clean getaway without injuring her pride too deeply. "You made your choice when you joined up with this sorry bunch, now you have to live with it. I'm sorry, but you're asking the wrong man. I'm not in the hero business of rescuing good looking women that make bad choices."

"But I didn't!" she quickly stammers, her eyes darting about nervously as she reaches for me and grabs my arm again before I can pull it away. "This was never my choice. They caught me trying to get away from some bad people almost two weeks ago. It isn't my fault that I'm here. You have to get me out of here before they take me back to them." She openly sobs for a moment, catching her breath in a gasp before falling against me. "Please, you have to take me home. I don't know how much longer I can stand this."

Her voice is rising with hysterics and I know in that defining moment that I believe her. My opinion of this bunch of ruffian lowlifes also dropped a few more notches from low to lower.

Unfortunately, though genuinely distressed by her situation, her hysterics are going to draw unwanted attention toward us, something we don't need. I need to calm her down and quickly. Using the only resource at my disposal, I put a steadying hand on her shoulder while pushing my prized bottle of rum at her. "Here, take a swig, it'll do you good."

Her hysterics come to an abrupt halt, only to be replaced with immediate hostility as she angrily hisses, "I don't need booze! I need you to help me get away from here!" And then, in a calmer, resigned voice, she adds, "I think they're going to kill me."

Since she wasn't interested in the rum, I decided it was prudent of me not to waste any on her. Instead, though I sensed immediately that I was going to regret it, I say, "No one is going to kill you. Trust me." I continue studying her and liking everything I see. "You are much more valuable to them alive then you will ever be dead. Come with me."

Rising, the bottle of rum now held securely in my left hand, I keep a grip on her with my right hand firmly clamped to her upper left arm. If this is some sort of trick or ruse to catch me off guard, she was going to be close at hand.

Moving stiffly, yet willingly, as if suffering from severe soreness in her joints, she keeps pace with me. Sensing that we are being watched, she instinctively throws an arm around my waist, and falls into step, making it easier to move quickly among the drunken and disorderly crowd of bikers. Glancing at her from the corner of my eye, I am again taken aback by her strained yet lovely features. In that defining moment, I become her unwitting slave from then forward. If I have a weakness for West Indies rum, I have an even greater weakness for damsels in distress, especially beautiful damsels in distress.

My hand relaxes its grip on her upper arm and slides casually down around her waist, noting the smooth firmness of the flesh beneath the thinly worn fabric of her blouse. Her hair, a rich darkness hinting at Native American or maybe even Latino, is braided loosely, the braids hanging almost to her waist. Her face, although naturally olive-complected is further enhanced with a deep tan, and not just from recent exposure to the sun and wind. Her breasts ride firm and high, the nipples pressing hard for escape against the thin material of her blouse, while her stomach lies hard and flat. And, as if that isn't enough for one woman to possess, she has the fullest, most inviting pair of lips that I can ever remember. Even dirty and disheveled as she is, she sets my heart to racing.

As I continue studying her surreptitiously from the corner of my eye, I feel a growing desire within my loins. If we don't reach the darkness beyond the sodium yard lights soon, others will see my desire also. But then, it's possible that we aren't being questioned or challenged simply because it is assumed that I am a paying customer of hers. After all, it seems the logical conclusion that if they had indeed kidnapped her, it was to sell her into slavery or prostitution, both of which means that someone is watching us and will be waiting to be paid either before we consummate our deal or soon there afterwards. Someone is going to be sorely disappointed, and it isn't going to be me.

That is the only explanation that makes sense of her previously frantic words. Moreover, not knowing what drugs they may have forced her to take to keep her compliant, there is no telling how much of what she said is simply drug-induced fabricating. Once I get her alone and someplace where we can talk without drawing attention, I can question her in more detail. Maybe then, I'll get the real story.

Although I expect the challenge at any moment, I don't give up hope that it is coming later rather than sooner, because our deal, if there was one, isn't about to be consummated anywhere within the vicinity of this crowd.

As we move beyond the limited reach of the parking lot's sodium bulbs, we advance into the softer glow of light emanating from the wall mounted sconces and a neon sign lining the whitewashed exterior wall of the lodge just as the chopper dips into view over the asphalt strip. It is the only place within miles that is open enough to safely set down a small helicopter, and my friend and I use it regularly, often storing our birds in the small backyard behind the main structure.

Under normal circumstances, Larry would have settled the bird down on the asphalt and met me at the bar within minutes. But tonight isn't normal, and when he sees the bikes and bikers strewn all over our miniature helipad, he quickly pulls up and disappears back into the darkness beyond the reach of the parking lot lights.

Someone, clearly not using all of his mental resources, fires a shot into the air. This sets off a chorus of hooting and yelling. To my relief, the small bird doesn't waver, the shot having gone wide and afar.

"Hurry," I say under my breath, gripping her arm once more and guiding her swiftly along the length of whitewashed wall before pushing her through the only opening on this side of the building.

The tableau before us catches me completely off guard. The place is a mess. Tables and chairs lay strewn and busted about the floor. Broken glass intermixed with booze, blood, beer, and what is unmistakably vomit.

Meanwhile, Jake, the proprietor of the place, is nowhere to be seen, probably having taken shelter in the basement beneath the heavy wooden trapdoor located in the floor behind the bar. He will be safe down there until the party leaves or the law officers from up north finally find him. We are regular business partners, Jake and I, but we aren't really friends, and I don't worry about him as such; he can take care of himself, as I'm certain he has enough weapons and ammo in the cellar to hold off the US Army. At the moment, it is the girl that has me more concerned, not to mention my own safety.

The sound of the chopper suddenly grows louder, and I realize that Larry must have seen me duck into the side door with the girl. From his vantage point in the sky, the parking lot and the surrounding grounds would have appeared well lit and visible. From the sound, the chopper is now directly overhead the tavern when I hear the sound of splintering wood, and I realize that he is attempting to set the little bird down on the roof. But if he is thinking of rescuing me, he had to have seen me with the girl and realize that all three of us aren't going to fit in my little bird. Unless he is only creating a distraction so I can improvise a means of getting out of here with the girl.

No sooner does the engine start winding down, then a chorus of gunfire erupts from the parking lot and the patrons in the bar start whooping and hollering in response, pulling their own weapons and shooting into the ceiling. To my immediate relief, the turbine winds back up to speed and the little bird lifts off, making haste once again into the inky blackness above.

From the sound of the engine, I know he hasn't been hit, thanks in great part to the inebriation of the bikers.

"Come," I instruct the girl, having drawn the conclusion that there isn't any refuge to be found in or on the tavern.

"Wait!" she suddenly cries out, her body going stiff and unwilling to move while her eyes lock on the naked body of a young woman stretched out on one of the last standing pool tables.

There is a puddle of blood soaking into the felt material of the table and slowly dripping onto the floor. The woman has apparently been raped and badly beaten. Whether she is dead or simply unconscious, I am unable to tell from this distance. Though it pains me to no end, I realize in that split second that there is nothing I can do for her if I intend on helping the one in my grasp. Turning away in search of an avenue of escape, I realize also that our entrance is beginning to draw unwanted attention. The men in the bar, having figured out that the little bird is no longer on the roof, are looking for something else to focus on and my unfamiliar face means only one thing to them; I'm open game and I could very well be their next target.

Sensing our imminent danger, I order her for a second time to stick close to me and, dodging the rubble strewn across the floor, I hurriedly guide her down a narrow hallway that leads to the rear exit. Because the trash dumpsters are in the front parking lot for ease of access and all the deliveries are made through the front door, this exit is rarely used, even by Jake. It was probably installed simply as a fire escape to satisfy building codes when the place was remodeled several years prior, and that is exactly what it is being used for now.

Reaching the door, I put my shoulder against it and heave. It flies open with a rusty squeal of hinges and we swiftly push our way through. Turning back, I slam it shut and search about quickly in the semi-darkness for something to jam against it. To our good fortune, my eyes come across an old garden rake. Keeping my back pressed against the door, as I am sure more than one noticed us scurrying out the back, I hurriedly instruct her to fetch it. With understanding comes action and she lunges forward, retrieving the rake and turning back just as the first of the men inside the lodge crash solidly against the other side of the door. Jamming the broken handle under the latch, she quickly jumps down on the tines, driving them deeply into the soft, moist earth.

"That should keep the bastards in there," she says with conviction before turning to face me, a wild look flaring in her eyes as she adds, "We should set the place on fire and burn them all to Hell."

Though I may share her sentiment, I could never perform such a heinous act. Instead, I shake off the thought and turn toward the darker area beyond the reach of the small sconce lights. There is a path along the far side of the building leading back to the parking lot. It's well worn and trampled down from use and I hope they don't find it too quickly in the dark.

"This way," I say, taking her by the hand and pulling her toward the small helicopter strapped on a two-wheeled trailer. It's Larry's crippled bird and though it shouldn't be flown for both safety concerns and to prevent causing more damage to it that will add to the cost of repairs down the road, desperate times call for desperate measures, and I'm sure my friend will understand. Moreover, as he is flying mine, I don't really have a lot of other options open to me if I'm going to get out of here in one piece with a beautiful girl in tow.

Climbing up on the trailer, I unlatch the passenger's door and reach down for her hand, first pulling her up onto the trailer and then pushing her into the seat before passing her the bottle of rum. Not mincing my words, I hastily instruct her to fasten the seat harness before re-latching the door.

On the ground again, I scramble around the trailer, quickly undoing all the tie downs. It takes less than a minute, though it seems like hours. Out of habit, I instinctively check the rotor, and then stop to catch my breath. Larry must have been watching from the darkness above, because he suddenly swoops in low over the parking lot, drawing their attention back to the sky and buying me time. Hopefully enough to get the little bird airborne.

Not understanding my own actions, I pull out the box of ammo and draw the stainless steel weapon from the shoulder holster. Wasting precious seconds, I carefully insert a round into each chamber, and then return the weapon to its holster and the remaining ammo, less the box, to the inside pocket of my vest while letting the empty box fall to the damp grass below the trailer.

The little bird is now unfettered and waiting to be fired up so that it can shed its heavy burden and take flight. With the ease of repetition, I enter the cockpit and strap myself in. With practiced precision, I flick off the safety covers and toggle the switches in their proper order. Our birds are kept in tip-top condition, they are always in a state of readiness, and except for the minor oil leak, now is no exception.

Slowly, too slowly, the rotors start to rotate, the whine of the turbine growing steadily louder. I suddenly worry that the bikers are hearing the noise and realizing that another bird is getting ready to take flight. If they find us before we reach the apparent safety afforded by the darkness above us, we'll have no chance of escape, like a sitting duck. All it will take is one man hanging on a skid to keep the fragile little bird grounded. Moreover, these little helicopters were not intended for combat service and thus, they offer no protection from gunfire, to either the engine and controls, or its occupants!

The whine of the engine has grown extremely loud to my ears, though I know it's not above normal, when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Without thinking, I throw off the harness and swing out of the cockpit, drawing the gun at the same time.

I am both relieved and alarmed by the fact that there is a law enforcement officer standing at the back door, his weapon also drawn. He glances back at me, but I don't recognize him. Although I am familiar with almost all of the law enforcement officers that work this area, his face draws a complete blank. Fortunately, he is more preoccupied at the moment with his radio, and the conversation that he's having over it, then he is with me.

Suddenly, his attention turns to the rear door that we just exited, and even above the growing whine of the engine, I can hear angry voices and banging coming from the other side.

In one fluid movement, I am back in the cockpit, my weapon returned to its holster and my hands on the controls, no time to refasten the harness or to wait for proper temperatures and pressures; there may not be time to lift off.

To a staccato of gunfire, I push the throttles to their furthest setting and glance skyward, toward our expected destination. To my dismay, I see the barrel of a rifle protruding unsteadily over the ridgeline of the roof. It is suddenly very apparent to me that someone has no intentions of letting this bird escape.

Glancing over at my passenger, I am struck by the chalky grey hue of her face in the green glow of the instrument panel. It suddenly dawns on me that this has to be much bigger than just a biker gang pimping runaway girls and street urchins. For some reason, they feel they can't afford for her to escape, and they're willing to blatantly usurp the law and kill innocent bystanders in order to prevent it from happening.

The little bird is rising slowly, much too slowly for my liking.

"Open your door!" I yell at her over the whining roar of the turbine.

She looks at me questioningly, almost as if expecting me to throw her out if she does as I ask.

But then, hugging the bottle of rum to her chest with her left hand, she opens the door with her right, pushing it all the way ajar. The cool night wind rushes in from the downdraft of the rotor, carrying with it the sounds of the engine and increasing the noise level within the cockpit tremendously.

Seeing me draw my weapon, she suddenly flinches, certain that I intend now on shooting her if she doesn't jump. Seeing the look of hurt, disappointment, and fear on her face, I draw little pleasure from it. Yet, it makes me glad inside that she feels something toward me, even if it is only disappointment.

"Lean back!" I shout at her over the rushing roar of wind.

She has no sooner pressed herself into the back of the seat, then I take aim at the tavern roof and let loose five quick shots, spacing them each less than a foot below the ridgeline and in the vicinity of the wobbly rifle barrel. Instead of being jerked back, the barrel slowly slides down and out of site, confirming that at least one of my bullets found its mark.

My spirit slips downward in relation to the rifle; it goes against the grain to shoot someone without looking them in the eye. For the briefest of moments, I feel that I am no better than the bushwhacker I just shot.

Slipping the weapon back into its holster, I shake off the feeling of regret and grab the controls with both hands while stepping hard on the left rudder, dipping the bird away from the tavern. As if on a slide, she slips down and to the side, quickly approaching the stand of trees surrounding the small back yard while rapidly gaining in airspeed.

Using the momentum of the downward slide, I pull up on the controls and step down on the right rudder, instantly reversing my momentum. As if on a long chain connected to space, the small bird reaches the top of the pendulum, and hovers for a moment before sliding back down, its speed increasing even faster as we fly back toward the rear of the tavern. When I am barely halfway across the small yard, I jam my right foot down on the rudder control and swing the tail section into alignment behind me, moving nose-first toward the looming backside of the tavern. It appears that I intend on crashing head-on into the rear wall of the tavern, and I almost laugh as the officer and several others run for cover. But my speed is good, and she lifts easily, despite the combined weight of two passengers. With ease, she carries us lightly over the rooftop.

The parking lot appears panoramic beneath us, the dry dirt glowing a dull greenish brown under the influence of the sodium halogen lights shining down from their poles. The bikers out in the parking lot are looking up into the night sky, trying to pinpoint our location from the whine of our engine while shielding their eyes from the glare of the downward facing lights. Several are armed with handguns, while one or two are waving rifles around; all are searching for a target in the advancing night sky. I am relieved to note that none appear to be brandishing automatic weapons.

Depressing the left rudder, I bank away from the danger of their weapons, rising slowly above the advancing silhouette of darker blotches that I know to be the tree line encircling the pub. Larry's nowhere to be seen, but I'm not surprised; he would have killed his running lights the minute he recognized the dangerous situation on the lot below. As soon as we are a safe distance, I'll try raising him on the radio. In the meantime, there is little chance of an air-to-air collision.

Circling around the rear of the pub as we gain altitude, I see the deputy's silhouette against the open back door conversing animatedly with the men from inside. His mannerisms clearly express his upset and agitated frame of mind. Whether because I snatched this beautiful woman away from them, or simply because I humiliated him in front of the others, I don't know. But their eyes turn as one toward the night sky and the sound of our engine. Although I am certain that they can't see beyond the glare of the sodium lights, he appears to be staring directly into the depths of my very being. Because he doesn't pull up his weapon and shoot aimlessly into the night sky, I realize that he is the deadliest adversary down there.

In that moment, I also realize that I have stumbled into something a lot bigger than just a single kidnapping for prostitution purposes. The officer down there has just realized that his prey is sitting next to me in this little bird and if he had known that while I was still earthbound, my passenger and I would surely be dead now. As it was, he thought I was just another biker with his babe searching for the missing girl.

With the realization that the law's involved, and not in a good way, I take a deep breath and look over at my passenger with new respect and interest.

Sitting next to me in the helicopter, the bottle of rum squeezed tightly between her full, firm looking breasts, as if able to draw comfort from the contents contained within it, she makes a very comely sight, and not simply because it's my favorite brand of rum. For obvious reasons, I am overcome with a sudden desire to help her, to literally be her knight in shining armor.

### **2**

"Name's George, but most people just call me Mac." The engine was a strong steady whine, moving us swiftly along above the treetops. I'd flown this area so frequently as to know every little dip in the terrain and where the high trees stood. It was second nature as I followed the lay of the land with ease, marking my progress and taking my position from familiar silhouettes against the darker background of dense forest. Although we are safely away from the lodge, I don't want to risk turning on the running lights. There is no way of knowing who might be looking for us.

"Tara," she says in a shaky voice, barely audible above the drone of the engine.

Like myself, she doesn't offer up a last name, and I don't ask. It is enough for the time being that we have a handle to refer to each other with.

"Tara," I repeat softly, testing the flow of it over my tongue and discovering that I liked the taste of it. Without making it obvious, I glance over at her sitting huddled with my bottle of rum in the darkness. Yes, indeed, the name absolutely fit her.

Just as I was about to ask her if she had any idea as to why that bunch of assholes was trying to kill us, the radio chirps up. It's a small radio with a very limited range, used almost exclusively for two-way communication with Larry, or acknowledging take-off and landing clearances at the larger airports.

Picking up the mike, I acknowledge the familiar voice of my friend in the other bird, "Go ahead, Egghead One."

"I don't know what the Hell you stirred up back there, but I'm low on fuel, going to take this bird to home port."

"Copy that." I should have seen that coming. He'd been out almost all day with my bird and would be low on fuel by the time he reached the lodge. We keep a couple of fifty-five gallon barrels of aviation fuel on hand there with a mechanical hand pump for refueling. Yet, tonight they might as well have been on the moon for all the good they were to us. And to make matters worse, I was heading due south while homeport was due north, Larry's backyard.

When I didn't immediately continue, he broke the silence with, "Assume you're trailing and will explain that incident back there in the near future."

After a moment of thoughtful indecision and a quick glance at Tara, I respond, "Negative. Taking stealth route. Will call when I have answers. Watch your six and see you soon, Egghead Two out."

There was a long moment of silence before he answered, "Copy that. Shout if I can be of further assistance." Even through the static of our weakening signal, I could hear the frustration and defeat in his voice. Larry was a player and he didn't appreciate being left out of the loop, especially by me.

We sit in silence for a moment, when Tara suddenly speaks up, "He is a good friend?"

"He's the best. I wouldn't have lasted this long without him."

Despite the ordeal of just a short while before, her voice is soft, almost sensuous, when she slowly continues, glancing over at me out of the corner of her eye, "Someday, you will have to tell me about him."

Despite a moment of jealousy, when I glance in her direction, I see a sparkle in her eye that even the dark of night can't extinguish. It might have simply been a reflection off a tear in the corner of her eye, but in the moonless void surrounding us on all sides, I prefer to believe it came from within her, and my jealousy is quickly forgotten as a smile lights up my face.

"Someday, I will do just that."

In the darkness, I can just make out the lighter white of her teeth, and realize that she is smiling back at me.

"Where are we going?"

"Someplace safe that no one else knows about." When she doesn't answer, I add softly, "Someplace we can talk so I can figure out what the Hell is going on."

We ride on in silence for the next hour, our course veering slightly east of due south. The place I have in mind is an old fishing camp that is only infrequently visited by the more adventurous of fishermen due to its remote location and inaccessibility. If I'm lucky, it'll be deserted at this time of the year when fishing has tapered off in favor of hunting. But if we find it occupied, I have ways of dealing with such contingencies; this isn't my first rodeo.

We crest a small rise in the lay of the land and a panoramic view of the open desert and scrub pines opens up before us. Even without a moon, I can make out the winding snake of highway leading across the desolate plain.

With my bearings reconfirmed, I switch on the running lights, still keeping the bird low to the ground. If we are spotted by a casual observer, they won't think twice about a small helicopter flying along the highway. But there doesn't seem any point in showing up on radar screens when we haven't filed a flight plan. Even though we are nearly a thousand miles from the Mexican border, we still might appear suspicious. Ever since 911, everything out of the ordinary is suspicious today.

Moreover, I still have no idea who wants Tara and why! But my questions will hold until we reach a safe haven. Once there, however, I intend on getting to the bottom of this. After all, it's not every day that I possibly kill someone protecting a beautiful woman in distress and not know the reason why.

As the moon gradually rises, the asphalt below known as highway 447 slowly turns into a black snaking ribbon that glistens like wet oil against the dryer backdrop of desert. While appearing sinister and threatening, it also makes it easier to follow. There is a small cabin on the bank of a seasonal fishing lake that is fed from snowmelt called Diamond Lake. It is really nothing more than a decrepit shanty, but it will afford us a safe refuge and privacy. Although it doesn't belong to me personally, since I'd never taken the time to even find out if it sat on federal land or private, if anyone is currently using it, I'll just have to politely move them along. I don't like to if I don't have to, but I still carry an official looking set of credentials that I can flash around if it comes to that. More than likely, though, the only inhabitants it might be harboring will be of the four-legged variety and not the two-legged.

With the rising moon glaring down on us, it becomes increasingly easier to see her features as she sits next to me, still clutching the bottle of rum against her chest. She possesses some of the most striking features that I'd ever laid eyes on and the moonglow only accents what is already beautiful to behold.

"It won't be much longer," I say, hoping to draw her into a conversation. For obvious reasons, I want to know her better; I want to hear her story, why she is on the run and how she came to be mixed up in that melee that we left behind at the lodge. But for reasons that I can't explain, I also wanted to know where she came from and more importantly, where she wants to go. It was too early to think we were in a relationship or that we ever would be, but I was drawn to this mysterious woman with the dark hair and darker eyes in a way that made me nervous.

Was it lust stirring in my loins, or was I just drawn to the mystery surrounding her? Whichever it was, I suddenly wasn't sure how to proceed now without coming off sounding like some kind of a hick.

She visibly relaxes and slumps down in the seat as if a large weight is pressing down on her before turning her large seductive eyes toward me.

But I quickly realize that I'd misread her; I'd mistaken her new position in the seat as one of relaxation, while in reality, it is a blatant sign of defeat, and her next words crush my ego. "You can't help me. No one can." She rolls her head away and stares off across the desert, not realizing how her simple words had cut me, hurting me deeper than they should have.

But then, she doesn't even know me. To her, I am nothing more than a cowboy that rides bikes, shoots people, and flies a tiny helicopter barely large enough for two people, forget the baggage!

Although I don't understand why, it suddenly becomes more important than anything else in the world that I win not only her trust, but also her affections. And though I can't remember the last time a woman had such a profound effect on me, common sense dictates that I take her to the nearest police station and turn her over before I get anymore involved.

Yet, I know that I won't. In fact, I can't. The moment I saw her, I became her pawn. Without even trying, she had cast a spell on me, tying me to her for the duration of this adventure if not our lives.

My hurt quickly turns to anger and I fire back, sounding just like the hick that I despise, "You have no idea as to what I'm capable of."

To my surprise, she is quick to sense my hurt and anger and her tone is soft and placatingly smooth as she replies, "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair of me. You're absolutely correct; I don't know you beyond the fact that you have already saved my life. For that alone, I am eternally grateful to you." Slowly, she looks away from the panoramic desert and turns her face toward me. To my surprise, she is smiling; a large, open-mouthed smile displaying a bright set of evenly spaced teeth; a very inviting smile. For the first time since we'd met, she appears relaxed and finding something entertaining in my frustration and discomfort.

If I hadn't been concerned before, I should be now. Whenever women find a man's discomfort entertaining, they are already weaving their web around him. But I'm not concerned. In fact, I'm finding the whole notion rather entertaining myself. She isn't dealing with a rube that just fell off the banana boat. This old horse has been around and he isn't going forward blindly or hesitantly.

"This safe place that you mentioned, how much farther is it?"

"Quite a bit farther. We should be there before morning, though."

"I saw something," she suddenly blurts, and then quickly turns away, the fear in her eyes apparent even in the dim reflection off the cockpit side glass.

My interest is immediately piqued, and I don't want to wait until we reach the cabin to hear more. Yet, before I can pursue her statement with a line of my own questioning, she turns back to face me, her eyes searching mine, groping for either strength or a reason to continue. Whether she finds what she is looking for or not, she hesitantly continues, her voice barely audible above the rush of the wind and the steady whine of the engine. "They want me dead because I witnessed something that I wasn't supposed to have seen."

"If they were going to kill you, what were they waiting for?" I blurt unthinkingly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to sound so callous."

"You misunderstand," she softly replies, ignoring my apology. "That bunch of wannabe hard-case bikers caught me, but they're not the ones that want me dead. They were only going to turn me over to..." her voice trails off without finishing.

"That motley gang of low-life's was only holding you for someone else?" I ask, even more perplexed. "Who else? And what was in it for them?"

"You shouldn't have gotten involved," she suddenly blurts. "I never should have asked you for help. Now they're going to kill you too."

"No one is going to kill anyone," I calmly reply, trying to reassure her. Her grip on the bottle visibly tightens, her knuckles growing white in the green light of the instruments and a shiny tear forms in the corner of her eye. My reassurance has no impact on her slippery grasp of the situation. Before my eyes, she is sliding into despair, her fear of someone or several someones is rapidly eating at her resolve to remain strong. "We'll be landing soon. You'll be safe there, and then you can tell me the whole story. I'm certain that once I have all the facts, I'll think of someone that I can reach out to for help. Despite my fall from grace, I still have lots of friends in high places," I add with a light chuckle.

"Are those also your friends?" she comments dryly, her head twisted to the right so that she can see the road snaking out behind us.

Using the limited rear vision mirrors, my heart skips a beat when I see the red and blue flashing lights off in the distance. Traveling at almost one hundred knots just above the surface of the road, I never considered the remote possibility that we could be tracked from above, or overtaken from behind.

"Egghead one," I trigger into the mike. "Egghead one, this is Egghead two on channel one." The squelch scratches for a second followed by complete silence. I purposely hadn't used proper radio etiquette for the simple reason that if Larry heard anything, he would read the warning into it. Yet, I wasn't surprised that he didn't answer. If he'd stuck to his homeward course, we would be many miles out of range of each other by now.

"It's gaining on us," she says, still staring backwards through the Plexiglas side curtain. "Can we go any faster?"

Glancing at the tachometer, which is already fluttering in the yellow zone, I fear that if I push the little bird any faster than I already am, we won't be making it to Diamond Lake at all. Yet, with a patrol car overtaking us in a flat out chase, we won't make it either.

Our only option lay in taking an alternate route across unknown country and cutting back toward our destination from another direction. Of course, this also means that we will have to find a small airfield along the way to refuel and top up the oil reservoir. Although it isn't a severe leak, running at such a high speed for an extended length of time, she is bound to be spewing a dangerous amount of oil, if the seal doesn't fail completely.

Pressing down on the left rudder, I gently ease the nose further over to the east, changing our course away from the highway. At the same time, I ease back on the throttle, both to conserve fuel and oil, while also increasing my reaction time between seeing an obstacle and rising over it.

"You're slowing down!" she says anxiously.

"We don't have any choice but to leave the highway and work our way across unknown terrain. We either slow down or increase our altitude, which makes us more visible from the eyes in the sky," I calmly answer her, speaking as if I did this sort of thing every day of the week.

Instead of answering, she continues watching the flashing lights until they disappear behind the terrain separating us from them. Then, slowly, her eyes turn forward, taking in the undulating ground as it swelled up and down before us. The minute she mentioned the flashing lights, I'd cut my own. But with the light of the moon, visibility wasn't half bad. Flying at just mere feet above the ground was almost like playing a video game, but with much more dire consequences if I misjudged even one move.

Without a doubt, the occupants in the car would be radioing our change of course to someone, and that someone would more than likely be dispatching a bird to intercept us. And since our little birds aren't equipped with radar, we have nothing to warn us of approaching aircraft but our own two eyes.

"Why did you try to call your friend?" she asks out of the blue, momentarily distracting me, and causing me to overreact to a small hillock that suddenly crops up in front of us.

Jerking back on the controls, we shoot upward, barely skimming the crest, and then even quicker, we drop back toward the ground, our bodies straining against the harnesses before I can bring her back under control. The reaction took us higher than I'd have liked, but at least we are still in one piece.

"I'm sorry," she says calmly, not at all reacting to the close call we'd just had.

"And so you should be!" I angrily shout at her. "Are you purposely trying to kill us?"

"I said, I'm sorry."

My anger is short lived, however, as I ease the throttle back even further, bringing the little bird to fewer than thirty knots; just enough ground speed to keep the controls responsive.

"It's okay. I didn't mean to jump on you. It's just that you startled me. What were you asking about my friend?"

"I was just wondering why you were trying to contact him, is all," she answers rather demurely.

"I wanted to warn him." I hesitate for a moment before continuing, suddenly doubting my strategy of waiting to question her. Changing tact, I ask instead, "I think it's tine you tell me what you saw and who it is that wants you dead?"

Even in the dark of the night, I can see her skin turn a lighter shade of pale. "If I'm going to be able to help you, I'm going to need all the details. You need to make me as dangerous to them as they obviously feel you are." After a long moment of silence, I continue, "Even if you don't tell me everything, they're going to assume that you have, and they're not going to let me live anymore than they intend on letting you live. So you might as well tell me what you saw and who wants you dead."

The little bird is steadily moving along, the ground undulating beneath us while I expertly work the controls, keeping our skids just mere feet, even inches at times from touching down. Inside, we are constantly being jostled from side to side and up and down, as if on a roller coaster ride.

Just as I am about to press her to open up to me, she asks again, "How much farther till we reach this safe haven of yours?"

Although her words could have been intended with a touch of sarcasm, she speaks them resounding of defeat.

"It'll take us a little longer than I had originally hoped, what with having to stop for fuel along the way. Plus, now that we know they are definitely on our back trail, it's important that we remain concealed from them, and that means flying slower over unknown territory."

"What if that cop wasn't chasing us?" she asks, giving me a moment to pause. "What if he was just responding to a call and it had nothing to do with us."

"Although I hope you're right, we can't really afford to take that gamble. If we're going to error, let it be on the side of caution."

"All right, I'll tell you everything that I know when we get to this safe place of yours," she replies matter-of-factly.

"Fair enough," I agree, imitating her tone of voice, and then adding, "In the meantime, take good care of that bottle. I'd be really heartbroken if anything should happen to it."

She smiles then, and her face, already highlighted by the moon, lights up even brighter. And though I've been with more than my fair share of beautiful women, none could hold a candle to her. She was by far the most beautiful woman that I'd ever met, and of a sudden, I wasn't interested in meeting any more.

Looking out over the wide expanse of desert surrounding us, an occasional sodium yard light could be seen in the distance, silently reminding us that we aren't alone out here. We continue on in silence for another thirty minutes with both of us stealing surreptitious glances at each other when we suspect the other isn't looking. It's a cat and mouse game of flirtation, and she's playing it very convincingly, when without being aware of the change on the horizon, a soft glow can be seen.

"What is that?" she asks, concerned.

"That would be civilization."

"It looks like a large fire."

"No, nothing so dramatic. What we're seeing is a reflection of streetlights, neon signs, and all the other lights that people turn on at night. They're being reflected against the pollution of the day."

She doesn't say anymore for a moment, and then, when the horizon doesn't appear to be changing, asks, "How far away is it?"

"Is what?"

"Civilization."

"Thirty miles or so. Probably more, but it's hard to tell for sure."

A glint of light blinking in the night sky to our right suddenly catches my attention. At first glance, I assume it's a tower marker for a communication's structure, since they are generally located on the outskirts of larger communities. But after a moment, I realize that it's moving.

Noticing my actions, she turns to see what has captured my attention, and a small startled gasp escapes her throat before she turns back toward me and asks, "Can they see us?"

"I don't think so. We're too low to the ground, unless they're using infrared night vision."

"What's that?"

"It makes heat waves visible in the absence of light. With such capabilities, they'll see our exhaust, and there's nothing we can do about it," I calmly reply, trying not to alarm her.

After watching the marker light for a moment, I realize that it's just a private plane heading in the same general direction as us. Because of its greater speed, it quickly passes, slowly disappearing into the growing glow of light on the horizon.

When the light is no longer visible, she asks, "Is that where we're going?"

"Yes and no," I respond noncommittally. "There's a small grass airstrip just east of town that I know of where we can get fuel and oil. If memory serves me, there used to be a twenty-four-seven restaurant operating there that serves up a mean six egg omelet and hash browns, also," I lightly add, glancing at her with a smile. "But no, we are not going into the city proper, just the outskirts of it."

Returning my smile, she responds, "I am getting a bit hungry."

"Good, because it won't be much longer now."

With the lights almost due west of us, I slowly adjust my course until the glow is directly in front of the dashboard.

"What's this place called?"

"Nixon. It's just south of Diamond Lake, a sleepy little tourist trap catching people headed to or from the casinos of Reno and Las Vegas. It's just a little ways off the interstate. They're used to strangers coming and going; our presence there shouldn't raise any eyebrows," I say confidently. "Could you reach under your seat for me? You'll find a small latch just a few inches above the floor. If you pull on it, a door will open downward. Inside is a book. If you could hand it to me, I'd appreciate it."

Doing as I instructed, she sits back up with a smooth bound book, resting it on her lap while she repositions my bottle of rum. "What is it?" she asks, handing it over to me.

"An airport guide," I quickly reply, flicking on a small dash light before flipping the book open to the index. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, fine print, and vibration of the engine. But then I find what I'm looking for and hand it back to her.

Taking the proffered book, she returns it to the compartment without having to be asked. With the light on the dash dimmed, I risk turning on the running lights, which are also wired into the dash lights. Thinking quickly, I calculate course and distance between our present location, and that of the coordinates given for the airfield, and then hurriedly shut the lights off again.

"We can't risk arriving at the airfield without running lights in the middle of the night, and we can't wait until daybreak to make our approach," I say, thinking aloud. "If we come in dark, someone will ask questions. And if we wait until daylight, they may be looking for us. Our only course of action is to come in high and bright as if we belong. Although it's a county airfield, no one should be checking our flight plan."

"And what if they do?" she asks, her voice sounding a bit anxious.

"I'll give them lip service and hope for the best," I answer her with a smile.

When we are less than a mile out, I climb to two thousand feet and put on the running lights. Since it isn't required to have radios in experimental aircraft, I don't mike up, but I keep my ears on just in case the field contacted another aircraft to alert them of us.

For the moment, the skies are clear of other aircraft, and I settle her down in near the fuel pumps. The minute we touch ground, I rev down and kill the engine. A single bulb mounted on the outside wall lights up what appears to be the service shack, while a dimmer light emanates through a dirty single pane window next to a scuffed and sagging door. I know our presence is noticed, as a shadowy figure moves between the inside light and the window, his silhouette outlined against the glass. Within a matter of less than a minute, a tall lanky man in greasy white coveralls exits the building and heads toward us, not pausing in his stride as he turns his head to the left and hucks a wad of chewing tobacco out onto the dirt.

Almost immediately, the door swings again and a young kid comes running out, still pulling on a light windbreaker against the night chill.

The man turns and yells at the six or seven-year-old youth, stopping him in his tracks, "I told you to stay in the warm."

Turning back toward the open door, the youth mumbles something like, "Ah gee," under his breath and then closes the door behind him.

Before the door even clicks shut, however, the child's outline can be seen peering out of the window.

"Quite the little man you have there," I say heartily as he draws up even with us.

"Doesn't mind so well," the man grumbles, a five-o-clock shadow lining his jaw, and dark rings beneath his eyes.

Close up, he appears old and haggard; not someone that would have fathered a child within the last six or seven years. In fact, he doesn't look like he could have fathered a child within the last thirty years!

As if sensing my thoughts, he continues, his voice sounding as tired as he looks, "My grandson. His mother and my good-for-nothing son flew down to Vegas a little more than a year ago; haven't heard from them since. The little guy is quite a handful for an old man. But he's all I've got now. The missus, God bless her soul, been gone almost sixteen years." He looks toward the dark sky, silently reminiscing for a long moment.

"Sorry," I hesitantly remark, not sure what I should say, but feeling awkward in the silence. After a long moment of him standing there, silently staring into space, I can't help but feel that he has forgotten that we are still standing there, waiting on him. Feeling the impatience of the looming dawn, I suddenly break the silence by asking of him, "Are you pumping fuel tonight?"

Startled, he shoots a look toward the sound of my voice, and then recognition slowly registers in his rheumy eyes. "Oh, yeah. Let me get the key, I'll be right with you." He starts back toward the white, paint-peeling shed where he and the young child apparently live, when he abruptly turns back around and asks, "I can only accept cash at night. If that's a problem, you'll have to come back in a few hours."

"Not a problem," I quickly reply, my mind racing back to the last time I checked my wallet and remembering that I still had several hundred in large bills tucked away for emergencies; all that Boy Scout conditioning hadn't been wasted on me, after all.

While we wait for him to return, I study the surrounding airfield, noting that the restaurant is lit up inside and there are a couple of cars and a pickup truck in the parking lot out front. Just then, the old man goes past holding a jumble of keys on a fob as he heads toward the pumps.

"Where are you two from?" he nonchalantly asks.

"Up north," I casually reply before asking, "Is the restaurant open for business tonight?"

"Yep, same as every night. Fill her up?"

"Please."

The old man had barely started pumping fuel into the little bird's tank, when I hear a child's tender laugh. Turning toward the shack, I notice Tara and the young boy sitting on the stoop. They are talking animatedly and laughing at each other's words. The two of them together make a very domestic scene, one that brings out a deeply hidden need within me.

Meanwhile, the old man is either ignoring the fact that the child has not adhered to his previous order to stay inside, or he is ignoring the fact, and allowing the child to enjoy a little time with someone besides himself; someone of the opposite sex. Living out on a small dirt airstrip like this, the kid probably doesn't get many opportunities to meet other people, especially other children of his own age. All the regular air traffic probably goes through the main airport closer to the city.

But Tara isn't so much a kid, as a mother figure to the child. If what the old man had said was true, the child was old enough when his parents ran off to feel that they'd abandoned him, and that could be a tough hurdle to overcome at such a tender age, or any age for that matter.

I hadn't realized that I was staring at the two of them interacting so naturally until the old man taps me on the shoulder and says, "That'll be one-seventy-five."

Brought back to the present, I suddenly remember that I need oil for the little bird too. Although I'm not sure how bad she was leaking, I assume that she must be low. "Oil," I say, suddenly having to clear my throat. "I need to check the oil in her, but I'm pretty certain that I'm going to need some."

Turning away, he grumbles softly, "I'll take care of that for you if you want to go and get yourselves something to eat."

His demeanor had softened considerably after he witnessed the same scene that I had, and my heart goes out to him, suddenly feeling his plight as if it were my own. "Have you eaten yet?" I ask of him, following him back toward the helicopter. "Breakfast is on me, if you and the boy would care to join us."

"I'm fine," he says gruffly, resenting my charity. "But if you don't mind taking the boy with you, I'll make sure your bird here is ready to go by the time you return."

"If you're sure that would be fine," I say, not wanting to push my hospitality on him. Beneath all that grease and grime and rough exterior was apparently a proud man, and I wasn't going to have him resent me for trying too hard.

"Go on, just don't let him eat you into the poorhouse," he replies civilly, throwing me a knowing glance and a broken-toothed grin.

"Tara," I call softly, turning toward her and boy. When she looks up, I say, "Come on, let's get some chow, and bring the kid with, he's our guest this fine morning."

Smiling, they rise to their feet and hurry to catch up with me. By the time they draw abreast, they have abandoned the foot race and are holding hands, and we're outside the doors to the restaurant. While holding the door open for them to pass through, I ask the kid his name, noting the dirty and tattered condition of the green windbreaker over his equally worn and tattered coveralls. Neither his, nor his grandpa's clothes had seen a laundromat for way too long.

"Todd," the kid replies, turning a bashful smile toward me. It amazes me that he can be so comfortable around Tara, while I obviously make him uneasy.

"You go to school, Todd?" I casually question him, as we follow Tara down a long narrow aisle separating a row of booths along the front windows from the counter facing the kitchen. Two men are busily exchanging their views on an upcoming zoning change vote that will somehow affect the airfield, and thus, the restaurant, which appears to be their home away from home. Neither does little more than glance hurriedly in our direction to see if they recognize us before turning back to their heated conversation.

Before Todd can answer, Tara jumps in and accuses me of giving the poor child the third degree. It's interesting watching how protective of the youngster she is, since she's only just met him.

"Calm down," I say with a smile. "I just wanted to know who I was buying breakfast for, is all."

"Well, if it comes with so many questions, breakfast will be on me," she says defiantly.

It goes without saying that she doesn't have any money on her, but rather than force her hand and embarrass her in front of the child, I quickly back down, saying, "Let me apologize for my forward behavior, Todd. What you do or don't do is none of my business, as I've just been politely reminded. Please, order whatever you like, it's on me."

"Thank you, sir," he politely replies, still not meeting my gaze.

The waitress brings us two cups of steaming hot coffee without having to be told, as well as a mug of hot cocoa for Todd. Something tells me this isn't his first visit to the restaurant.

"Who are your friends, Todd?" she asks, eyeing me suspiciously, while hardly so much as glancing at Tara.

"We're just getting fueled and having a little work done on the helicopter out there," I reply to the matronly figure before Todd can, while indicating with a nod of my head toward the little bird sitting next to the fuel pumps. "We'll be gone right after we eat."

"He seems to have taken a shine to you miss..." the lady says to Tara, expecting her to fill in the blank with her name.

Instead of divulging any information, however, Tara pretends ignorance of her subtle hint, and instead says, "Yes, he is quite the little gentleman."

Realizing that Tara isn't going to bite, she quickly asks, "Are you all ready to order?"

"What would you like, Todd?" Tara asks.

But before Todd can answer, the waitress replies, "I already have his order. It's the same thing he has every morning; two eggs, two cakes, two strips of bacon, and a hot cocoa."

"I'll have the same, but double the amounts, and skip the cocoa," I remark quickly, and then look at Tara.

"I would like exactly what he's having," she replies, indicating Todd. "Oh, yes, hold the cocoa."

Todd finds this hilarious, and the three of us break out laughing. "Very well," the waitress answers, forcefully putting her pencil behind her ear and marching determinedly back around the counter before calling the order to the chef in back.

"Nice lady," I remark sarcastically while watching Todd's grandpa moving around the helicopter with a dirty rag in one hand and a chrome spanner in the other.

"She's all right," the child quickly responds in her defense, feeling slightly guilty for enjoying the joke. "She just doesn't trust strangers, is all."

Tara is the first to reply to his comment, though we are both thinking the same thought, "I would think that living and working on an air field like this, you would get the opportunity to see all kinds of new faces, what with the planes coming and going all the time."

"Nah, not anymore," he replies, his young voice unable to hide his disappointment. "We're lucky if we get even a single landing once a week since the new airport went in over by the interstate. They have a radio tower, radar, and even hardtop landing strips." He pauses to take a sip of his cocoa before continuing. "We sell fuel and food is what grandpa says, neither of which is all that good."

Because it came from such a young child, his comment makes me chuckle. And then, just as quickly, I sober, realizing that this young fellow is old beyond his years, and his youth isn't the happy go lucky time of life that it should be. But even more importantly, he mentioned that the new airport had radar and a conning tower, something that I should have been aware of, since I flew through here on occasion.

Tara notices the sudden concern on my face and realizes what put it there. Unable to conceal her own concern, she asks, "Will they have seen us fly in?"

I throw her a sharp look and discreetly indicate the child sipping his cocoa before calmly lying, "I'll radio the tower when we leave and update our flight plan."

The waitress brings out our orders and we all discover that we are hungrier than we'd previously realized. The food smells good and tastes even better. Trying to keep the conversation light, I remark to the kid, "If the quality of this food is any indication of the quality of the fuel I just bought, we shouldn't have any trouble with the headwinds when we head out of here."

Todd chuckles shyly, realizing that I was poking fun at his comment of earlier regarding the food and fuel.

When we're all finished with our meals, the waitress comes by and collects our plates, casually asking, "Where are you all headed?"

"Vegas," pipes up Tara, cutting me off before I have a chance to mouth something different than what she had obviously already confided to Todd. And then, taking me by complete surprise, cheerfully adds, "We're going there to get married."

Almost choking on my coffee, I suddenly understood what she and Todd had been chuckling about earlier. The waitress only gives me a suspicious look, probably wondering what a good-looking dame like her sees in a shiftless bum of a man like me. I'm not so stupid to think that I am even in her league. Yet, so long as she needs my services, I can at least enjoy her company.

"Married, huh?" she replies, continuing her close scrutiny of me while I try to hide my shock and surprised pleasure.

"Ah, yeah," I reply, struck by the spark of mischief in Tara's eyes as she looks innocently back at me, carefully turning her face away from the matronly waitress so the woman can't see her smirk.

My breath remains locked in my throat, as I take in her awesome beauty. The waitress breaks the silence, handing me the bill and saying, "Cash register is by the door, don't forget to pay before you leave."

Clearing my throat, I quickly remark, "Thank you, we won't."

She has barely moved away, when a laugh erupts simultaneously from Todd and Tara. My anger suddenly flares up, feeling as if I am the butt of some sad joke. Tara recognizes the change in my face, and quickly, placatingly, says, "What's wrong, Honey. Did I say something to offend you?"

She is enjoying my discomfort much more than I care for. Somehow, she senses my feelings toward her, and this is her way of fending me off without telling me that I'm not in her league. Other women have treated me thus before, and I recognize it for what it is.

"Finish up, we have to get going," I comment a bit gruffer than I intend.

Rising, I am suddenly distracted by the sound of helicopters approaching at a dead run, and they aren't little birds like the one we were flying. These are big birds, probably Hueys or Black Hawks; the kind the government uses for troop transport when they need special ops somewhere in a hurry. I was all too familiar with the sound of their twin turbines not to recognize them.

Reaching into my wallet, I pull out some bills and leave them with the ticket next to the cash register as we hurry toward the exit, not waiting for the waitress to get there. Yelling over my shoulder, I tell her to keep the change and follow Todd and Tara through the door.

The night air is cool and refreshing, waking all my tired senses, as I study the night sky for sign of the approaching birds. It takes only a moment to see their running lights coming in low over the horizon. They are coming from the direction of the new airfield, and they are coming straight at us.

"Hurry!" I call out to Tara, as I look around anxiously for the old man. He is nowhere in sight, and I make the decision to leave without bidding him a farewell. "You take care of yourself, Todd," I say loudly, assuming that he will just naturally head back to the shack that he currently calls home.

While I do a quick check of the little bird to assure myself that the old man had secured the engine compartment hatches and sealed off the fuel filler, Tara speaks enthusiastically with Todd. I glance at them, only briefly wondering why they haven't said their good-byes yet, while mentally, I go over a plan of escape. The birds approaching will most definitely be equipped with infrared, heat sensor technology, as well as radar. I can fly below their radar, making us almost invisible by blending into the surrounding terrain. But I can't hide my hot exhaust gases from the infrared sensors.

"Tara, we need to go!"

Instead of running around to the passenger side of the little bird, she runs directly toward me, and I suddenly realize this is going to be even tougher than I'd originally thought.

"Tara, get in," I say forcefully, speaking louder than necessary.

"He's going with us," she blurts into my face, taking me completely off guard.

"There isn't time for this, Tara, and the bird won't carry all of us, anyway. Now get in!"

Running around the front of the cockpit, she signals to Todd, who bounds after her like a jackrabbit. Jumping into the seat, she reaches out and guides him onto her lap before finding the harness and slacking it out far enough to enclose both of them.

I should have been pulling the kid out of the cockpit and sending him running for home. Yet, for reasons that I can't explain, I silently climb into the pilot's seat and start flipping toggle switches, setting everything up for flight.

The engine catches immediately, since it is still warm from our night flight, and within a matter of seconds, I lift her a few inches off the dirt pad and start taxiing forward. Glancing over at the two of them, I see two sheepishly grinning faces, happily content with themselves for the moment. And even more tickled at my chagrin.

Unable to control myself any longer, I state in a tone of voice that sounds angrier than I really am, "You're liable to get us all killed."

"Then you should have told me no," she simply states, clearly implying that she knew I was incapable of refusing her.

Moreover, I am angry with myself for just that reason!

"You do realize, of course, that we are now guilty of kidnapping a minor," I say to her, trying hard to keep up my persona of anger.

"We're taking him to be with his parents in Vegas."

"Did you forget, we're not going to Vegas," I retort sharply.

"I didn't, but they don't know that," she says slyly, hitching her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the people at the restaurant. "When they're questioned about us, they'll tell them that we're headed to Vegas, and the boy going with us only confirms that."

"His grandfather might have a thing or two to say about that," I wryly comment.

"His grandfather is gone," she states flatly. He skipped out while we were having breakfast. But then, you wouldn't have noticed, you were too busy stuffing your face," she adds with a smirk, clearly enjoying telling me something that I should have been aware of.

"Is that true, Todd?" I ask of the boy, not wanting him to feel ignored while we discuss his situation.

"Grandpa thinks you're taking me to Vegas, too. But he's already in Sparks by now, feeding the one-armed bandits with your money. And he isn't foolish enough to return to the airfield, because Mr. Bower, the owner, is going to be looking for all the fuel receipts he's collected over the last month, not just yours," he says evenly, reminding me once again of a much older individual than the young child that he is.

"This is insane," I mutter in frustration.

"It's humanitarian," Tara coolly responds, trying hard not to laugh.

"I don't think the law will see it that way when they discover they can pull legit resources in to help locate us now. By taking him with us, we have just turned the heat up tenfold."

While I'm talking, I keep scanning the skies through the Plexiglas cockpit, certain that the approaching choppers will be swinging toward us at any moment. At least they won't dare shooting us out of the skies if they know we have a child on board. No amount of spin could put that in a good light.

"We're just doing what's right," she says in a pout.

"I've done some stupid things in my life, but this has to take the cake," I reply, exasperated.

We'd been talking about the child as if he wasn't there and he suddenly speaks up out of the darkness, his voice soft and fragile sounding, "Thank you, Mr. Mac."

Guilt assails me, and I suddenly realize why I hadn't argued more vehemently while I still had the opportunity to put him out on the ground back at the airfield. Tara was right; the child was in a dangerous situation living back at the airfield with the old man. Even the matronly woman at the restaurant didn't show any overt concern for him sitting with two complete strangers. Unfortunately, my life style had taken me into places that most people never hear about. I was all too familiar with the seedier side of humanity. Child labor, forced prostitution, slave labor, and even child pornography didn't raise my eyebrows. Seeing so much injustice and cruelty had jaded me and yet, I could feel for the child and his plight.

Maybe it was Tara and the overall effect she had on me. Or maybe, I wasn't as far gone yet as I had thought myself to be. In either case, I sure could use a stiff slug of rum at the moment.

Almost as if she were reading my thoughts, Tara reaches down between her thighs, past Todd's coveralls, and retrieves my fine bottle of West Indies Rum. Without having to be asked, she slips the tax seal from the lip and screws the lid off.

Anticipating the warm fluid sliding down my throat, I am chagrined and delighted when she puts the bottle to her own lips first and takes a long draught before passing it over to me, while breathlessly mouthing the words, "I hope you don't mind."

With a smile, I reply, "Not at all." When Todd glances my way, I wink at him, not even sure whether he could even see me in the dark, and say, "You, my son, will have to wait a few years."

"They're turning," he says anxiously.

Handing him the bottle for safekeeping, I follow the direction of his anxious gaze, and, sure enough, both choppers are now turning in a gradual arc, swinging around toward the south. To our good fortune, if they are using heat sensor imaging, they didn't find us. Because their new course is taking them toward Vegas, and away from us.

"Yahoo!" I shout with joy. "Give me back that bottle, boy, this deserves a drink."

Taking the bottle from him, Tara firmly decrees, "You've had enough for now. Save some for later, once we reach the safe haven you told me about."

Begrudgingly, I acknowledge the wisdom in her words. I was flying a small single engine helicopter that was designed for only two people, and it struggled at that. Now, it was being forced to carry three, or at least what could be classified as two and one half. If I had to climb to any altitude at all, there was no telling how she would react to the controls. The little single turbine engine was working overtime already just maintaining a few feet off the turf. Acrobatics were completely out of the question.

The receding running lights of the two choppers quickly disappear over the horizon, as we continue our westerly approach toward Diamond Lake.

Not too much later, I am over somewhat familiar terrain, and I lift the nose, forcing the little bird up and over a stand of pine trees, the calm water of the lake suddenly spreading out before us. The sky is growing lighter by the minute, and the darker surrounding terrain is outlined against the lighter sky. Within minutes, I can see the clearing leading down to the water's edge from the cabin proper and what remains of the rickety old dock.

### **3**

Without hesitation, I fly on past giving the place a once over. Exhaling a silent sigh of relief, I let out a pent up breath that I wasn't even aware that I was holding when the place appears dark and deserted, setting back in the deeper shadows of the trees.

Banking up to the left and swinging around 180 degrees to line up on the cabin, I cut back on the throttle and head straight in toward the small clearing. The cabin sets barely above the level of the lake, and the clearing, although sporting a slight rise makes for an almost perfect landing pad for the small bird.

Almost before Todd and Tara even realize that we have arrived at our destination, I have the bird sitting on the ground and the rotors quickly grinding to a halt.

As if they are afraid to leave the sanctity of the chopper, the two of them sit silently and stare dumbfounded at what remains of the rundown shack. Most of the windows have jagged pieces of broken glass still embedded in their frames, while the door hangs open at an awkward angle, only the two lower hinges still resisting the pull of gravity on the rotten wood of the door.

From where they sit, they can't see the jagged hole that some varmint or other has torn through the rotting shake roof a few summers back, intent on claiming the cabin for his own. But I know it is up there and once they see it, they will probably refuse to enter altogether.

For now, though, this shack is all we have for a safe haven. With a few hastily made repairs, I should be able to make it repel water and hold in enough heat to keep us somewhat comfortable. Moreover, if vandals haven't visited it recently, there should be food stores locked away in the steel basement cache, safe from chewing varmints and 4-legged critters.

"Home sweet home," I tiredly sigh, the events of the night finally taking their exhausting toll on me. "Before we get too settled in," I start, noting that neither of them is making a move toward exiting the silent little bird. "We'll need to camouflage the chopper so that it isn't visible from the sky or lake. Except by foot, there isn't any other approach. We should be safe here for the time being."

The initial shock of seeing the rundown shack and realizing that it's going to be our sanctuary for a while is beginning to wear off. Todd is the first to recover and his youthful enthusiasm quickly sets in. Undoing the harness, he pushes open the door and slips off Tara's lap, an expression of amazement and wonder lighting up his face as he exclaims excitedly, "Wow, can we go fishing? This is just like camping!"

Slowly, more hesitantly, Tara slides her feet out the opening and gingerly sets them down on the stringy grass. When Todd makes a dash toward the decrepit dock, she quickly yells at him to stay close to her and away from the water.

"But I can swim," he whines back at her, stopping in his tracks, while obviously lying about his ability to swim in an attempt to stretch the boundaries before they can be fully established. She throws him an exasperated look before turning back toward the cabin. "Honest," he whimpers defeated to deaf ears.

Turning back to the little bird, she reaches inside and retrieves the bottle of rum, saying under her breath, "I think we're going to need a lot more of this."

Coming around the side of the bird, I study her features in the early glow of daylight. Although she is tired enough to sleep on her feet, she still exudes a beautiful glow of vitality that infects my heart and infuses my spirit with optimism.

"It may not look like much, but no one I know will associate it with me and come looking for us here. We can cover the windows with plastic bags to keep the night air out," I hurriedly add, sensing her concern over its habitableness. "With a small fire, it should be cozy enough for the short term."

"I think it will need more than bags," she utters in response, her spirit hanging on by a mere thread of hope. If it wasn't for Todd and the responsibility of him, she might have buckled at the sight of the cabin.

"Come on!" Todd yells excitedly as he runs past us toward the gaping doorway and the prospect of adventures that lie within.

With the rising sun, so too comes the rising warmth and I slowly remove my jacket, exposing the shoulder holster and stainless steel revolver. Our reason for being here is suddenly reconfirmed at the sight of the weapon, and she turns tiredly toward the cabin with me following close behind.

Watching her pick her way slowly over the dew covered ground, the swaying cheeks of her ass flexing against the skin-tight denim, I am acutely aware of the desire that she brings out in me. Despite my exhaustion, I sense a tightening in my groin as my swelling member presses against the fabric of my own pants.

It's no secret that I'm a sucker for a pretty face and a vivacious body, but this woman has something more. There is so much more to her than just simple sexual desire and physical attraction. Everything about her sets my senses to reeling. Watching her move, the soft fragrance that comes off her skin, sneaking glimpses of her features in the moonlit cockpit, and seeing how she acts toward the child only makes her all the more irresistible to me. No matter what else happens, I must have her. And since she already possesses me body and soul whether she realizes it or not, it is now her turn to reciprocate the feelings, to give me a sign that even a rum-soaked old fool like I can read.

Todd is already within the dusty, varmint ridden confines of the cabin by the time we draw near to the door. His excited squeals of laughter and excitement become infectious as he explores through the debris of abandonment.

"Keep your voice down, Todd," I gently reprimand him. "Sound carries a long distance across open water and we don't want anyone hearing us. They're liable to think it's vandals and call the cops on us. Also, we'll need firewood, but only the driest stuff you can find. And we won't light a fire until after dark when it cools down so the smoke can't easily be seen."

"Okay, Mac," he cries delightedly, running back out through the open door, hot on the trail of a new adventure.

"We can't stay here," Tara says, her funk creeping up on her again as soon as Todd is out of earshot.

"There's a cache in the basement with food and supplies," I say spiritedly, ignoring her dampening mood. "I'll get it open and then I'll get started on making this place a little more comfortable. Why don't you see what you can do about cleaning it up and I'll bring up the food that we'll need for the next couple of days?"

Instead of answering me, she turns toward the door and asks fretfully, "Couple of days?"

"Only if we have to," I quickly respond, not wanting to push her any harder than necessary. "You'll feel much better when we get it cleaned up and some food in our stomachs."

Still staring through the open door and out into the distance where Todd can be seen scrounging for sticks and other treasures that excite little boys, she asks, "Will he be okay out there alone?"

"Oh, he'll be just fine. My dad used to bring me here when I was just about his age. All the predatory animals have been hunted off and except for the lake, there isn't anything dangerous left. He's a smart boy, he won't wonder very far before his appetite brings him back."

It was the inspiration she needed. If she didn't bring up food and get the place cleaned up while I facilitated some repairs, the child would not only go hungry, but also have to cohabitate in a dirty hovel to boot. Her pride couldn't allow that to happen.

Following me down the rickety steps to the damp basement, I motion for her to stand aside while I tear a rotting piece of plywood loose from a rotting framework of studs that are standing weakly against a backdrop of moisture-laden red bricks.

My memory not being what it used to, I pull the plywood off the wrong wall on my first attempt, and have to repeat myself on the wall to the right. This time, when the plywood comes down, an undersized doorway is revealed in the brick wall. The hardware is of heavy iron forgings, much like what you would expect to find in an archaic dungeon. Although it is rusted severely from many years of existence in this dank place, the lock incorporated brass tumblers, which resisted the elements marvelously and snaps open with a quick turn of the key. The door itself is another matter. The antique iron hinges are rusted solid, and to make matters worse, the door opens outward, making it almost impossible to get any leverage against it.

"I'll get a wrench from the chopper," I suggest, turning toward the stairs.

"What about this?" asks Todd, coming down the steps two at a time while proudly brandishing a rusted, steel fire poker as if he were a pirate captain waving a sword.

"Perfect!" I exclaim, taking the proffered tool from him.

With the point embedded in the gap between the jamb and the door, I put my weight behind it and push, feeling the poker begin to bend from the force. But while the poker bends, the crusted rust begins to flake off the hinges in papery folds. Turning the poker around so that my efforts force it back against the bend, I reapply myself, and this time the door begins to open. It isn't much at first, but it's enough to allow my fingers a handhold.

"Here," I say to Tara, instructing her to apply pressure to the fire poker while I pull with my bare hands. Working together, the door grunts and squeals in protests, but against our combined effort, it begrudgingly gives way.

Rushing past us like a rabbit and not waiting for permission, Todd is through the opening before I can grab him. "Hey, it's dark in here," he cries out in dismay.

As I move toward the narrow opening, Tara also steps forward and our shoulders come together. Turning, we look at each other at the same time, our faces mere inches apart, her scent filling my nostrils, threatening to break down my self-imposed restraint. It is the closest our lips have come to each other yet and the urge to reach out and pull her to me is quickly over whelming my better judgment.

But before I can move, she quickly steps back. "I'm sorry," she blurts, her hands nervously twisting the poker around as if it were a baton.

"It's okay. I'll get the light from the chopper."

Although the cellar is dank and musty, the single pine floorboards above our heads are gapped and worm-eaten, allowing a tremendous amount of filtered daylight through. Yet the cache itself is well built, intended to keep out both moisture and rodents, and because of this, also daylight.

Once outside the cabin, I quickly scan the surrounding terrain, looking for what doesn't belong. The lake is calm, quiet, and deserted, which is completely normal for this time of year. If we have anything to worry about, it might be a casual hunter working his way along the shore in search of animal sign, as they come to drink at the water's edge this time of the year.

Within moments, I am back at the opening to the cache with the flashlight from the chopper. "Here," I say, handing it to Tara. "You and Todd are in charge of food and supplies. I have to hide the chopper and get this place weatherproofed before dark tonight."

Taking the flashlight, she comments through a strained smile, "I'll let you know just as soon as I know what we're having for lunch."

From inside the cache, Todd cries out with delight, "Peanut butter!"

"Oh lordy," I mutter beneath my breath, only just barely catching the smile on Tara's face before turning toward the stairs.

It takes most of the day to cut limbs and cover the chopper before stapling black plastic bags over the windows. The hole in the roof is another matter. I was fortunate enough to find a toolbox with a saw and staple gun, but I didn't find any tarps or other material large enough to cover the gaping hole in the roof. The only thing left to do was cover it as best I could with pine boughs and thick branches from the local shrubbery. My repair should keep the heat in, but it will do little for stopping any rain that might fall during the night. Even the dew that collects on the roof will run down the slope and finds its way under the brush.

Having done everything I can, I enter the large single room of the cabin and stand looking up, studying my handiwork from inside for the first time. Tara asks from across the single large room if I am ready for something to eat. It is already turning dark outside, thanks to the shorter days of late fall, and I quickly determine that it's safe to light a fire.

"That would be great. I'm hungry enough to eat a horse. I'll get a fire going before the chill sets in," I reply back, gracing her with a tired smile.

She sidles over to stand beside me and check out my handiwork above our heads. "Here, chew on this until I can heat something up," she says, offering me a protein bar with peanut butter spread on top. "Todd's been eating them all day. Thank goodness you had the foresight to lay in a good supply."

"They're not my supplies," I remark humbly. "My dad laid them in the last time he was here. It's almost as if he knew that I was going to need them."

"Where is your dad?" she asks, her voice curiously sincere.

"He passed away last year."

"I'm sorry," she replies softly, putting her hand on my arm for comfort. "I didn't mean to bring up any painful memories."

"It's all right," I quickly reply. "They aren't painful. He was a good man. I guess I just miss him, is all." I hesitate for a moment, and then add with a smile, "Of course, I don't believe for a minute that he would approve of kidnapping." And then, before she can argue with me, I blurt out, "But he would definitely approve of you."

"I think my dad would approve of you too, if he was still alive, and he didn't approve of anyone that I was ever with," she finishes with a short laugh.

"Dads seldom approve of their little girls' boyfriends."

She slowly turns to face me, her hands resting on both my arms with her face just inches from mine. "Is that what you are, my boyfriend now?"

The womanly scent of her unwashed body fills my nostrils. Yet, instead of finding it repulsive, I am immediately aroused. It is almost as if the slightest flaw in her makes her more real, more tangible, and much more attainable. My arms rise of their own accord and encircle her, pulling her close against me. The softness of her breasts and the heat of her body penetrate my shirt, and a longing grows in my loins.

"Where is Todd," I ask a bit breathlessly, suddenly concerned by the fact that I hadn't seen him for a while.

"He's down by the water with an old fishing pole he found in the cellar." And then, as if reading my mind, quickly adds, "He'll be down there until full dark, I'm sure."

Slowly, our faces move toward each other, the anticipation of what is to come suddenly becoming more than either of us can resist, when she suddenly pushes herself away from me.

Yet, she doesn't let go of my arms. Instead, she steers me to the far wall of the cabin and the single cot that she has made up with old blankets, probably also found in the cellar. With ease, she turns me and gently pushes me backwards until I feel the edge of the cot pressing into the backs of my knees. Slowly, I lower myself to the cot and let her unbutton my shirt, her hands moving slowly, much too slowly.

Leaning into me, she plants her knees on either side of my hips and with her breasts almost pressed against my face, she pushes my shirt off my shoulders, her warm hands gently caressing my bare skin.

But the combined weight of our bodies on the old wooden frame of the cot is too much and it unexpectedly buckles, dropping us gracelessly to the dirt-laden pine floor.

Flat on my back, my knees still in a drawn up position with her straddling me, she lurches forward, her hands on either side of my head to break her fall. The sudden weight of her on my legs causing my feet to slip out and my knees go down. With her body now flat on top of mine, the jerry-rigged door suddenly bursts open.

Reflexively, I roll to the side, ungraciously throwing Tara clear as I sweep up my revolver from where I laid it just seconds earlier. But it is still in the holster and it costs me precious nanoseconds pulling it clear.

Just as I take aim and cock the hammer, Todd's face comes around the corner of the doorjamb, grinning from ear to ear. "I caught one, I caught one," he yells excitedly, his bright eyes quickly searching us out.

In his right hand, still dangling from the hook in its mouth, is a large lake trout. In his left hand is the old rod that Dad gave me when I was about his age.

Lowering the gun, I smile embarrassedly at him and say, "Well done, Todd. Looks like we're having fish for dinner tonight."

Tara hurriedly scrambles to her feet and self-consciously brushes herself off while I rise to my own two feet, not embarrassed any longer, but actually feeling rather euphoric. Without a word, I re-button my shirt while asking Tara if she knows how to clean a fish.

Moving toward Todd, she says a bit breathlessly, "I'm sure we can figure it out. After all, it can't be that difficult."

"It's a beauty, huh," Todd says excitedly, letting her lead him to the kitchenette.

"It sure is," she agrees, her voice a little huskier than normal, while quickly throwing me a furtive glance.

In response, I throw her a wink and a smile before turning to the task at hand, and that is getting a fire built to keep us warm and give us a means of cooking the fish. There is a small tin box on the mantle over the fireplace, and I rummage through it, searching for a stick match. Todd has done a fabulous job of piling up a nice neat stack of kindling within the confines of the firebox, while stacking larger material just outside the box within easy reach. The thought that he may have done this before crosses my mind.

It takes only a moment to ignite the kindling and add a small amount of larger material, but the light outside is fading fast and the black plastic on the windows makes it feel even darker than it is. Soon, the fireplace is the only light source within the cabin, and we're sitting around it watching Tara fry the fish in an old cast iron fry pan. Hanging on a hook next to the fry pan is a large covered kettle. Tara has filled it with lake water and is bringing it to a boil in anticipation of making coffee and hot chocolate. What water is left will be used for washing, since we are all beginning to grow a little pungent as of late.

The cot is left on the floor since it isn't worth the effort of repairing the frame, so I drag it over and place it in front of the fire for Todd and Tara to sit on. With the blankets serving as cushions, it doesn't look to uncomfortable. And with Tara stretching out on it, it looks very inviting.

Forcing my thoughts back to reality, I go around inspecting the rest of the furniture in the place, which includes two stick chairs and a heavy wooden table. Dragging one of the chairs over beside the busted cot, I set myself down on it. It's not the most comfortable, but I find the entire scene before me very relaxing. I can't help but think how easy it would be to get accustomed to having the two of them around on a fulltime basis.

'But what am I thinking?' I silently and quickly reprimand myself. 'Am I getting soft in the head or what? I'm a loner; always have been and always will be. Women are only for temporary gratification and entertainment! Anything more is just plain foolishness! Any self-respecting man will tell you if he's being honest that they're more trouble than they're worth. Period.'

Yet, reminding me of my own philosophies doesn't make it any easier to ignore the fact that on some deep, primal level, I am drawn to the domestic scene before me.

During my long moment of reverie, Tara has gotten up and moved over by the table. Turning, she hands a tin plate to each Todd and me, instructing us that the meal will be buffet style. On the counter, she has laid out a variety of crackers, beside which she has also set a mug for each of us. "I put instant coffee in your mug," she says with a smile as I take the proffered plate. "I hope you don't mind."

"That fish smells good," Todd chirps up, his youthful body not even close to running out of energy yet.

Taking hold of the frying pan with a mitten-covered hand, she uses the spatula to scrape it off the bottom and divvy it up on to the three plates. "There was a good selection of spices in the cache. Your father must have been quite a cook."

"There wasn't much in the way of food that he wouldn't tackle and usually come out tasting good," I acknowledge, accepting her compliment on his behalf.

We line up in the kitchen and fill the rest of the space on our plates with crackers while Tara pours scalding water into our respective mugs. The aroma of coffee, although instant, brings up nostalgic memories of times gone-by. My father wouldn't have considered coming here without his coffee, even though it was always instant. I suggested one time that he get himself an old percolator, but he only shrugged the suggestion off, preferring the taste and ease of his instant coffee.

While Todd and Tara return to their places on the cot with their respective mugs and plates, I sit high on the old wooden chair. We enjoy the food and reign compliments on Todd for his expertise in catching such a large fish and Tara for her expertise in preparing it. With the hunger in my stomach temporarily sated, I sit back and sip at my coffee. For obvious reasons, I feel relaxed and at more peace than I can ever remember.

"Don't worry about the dishes, I'll take care of them," Tara says sarcastically, carrying our dirty utensils to the washbasin in the kitchenette.

"I'll give you a hand," I offer, taking the kettle of hot water from the firebox.

As I move in front of Todd, I notice that his eyes are shut. "Todd?" I whisper softly, not wanting to startle him. When he doesn't move, I lay him over and pull one of the blankets up around his shoulders. He mumbles a soft protest and then lies quietly, oblivious of the world surrounding him.

With the kettle in hand, I turn toward the kitchen and am immediately met by Tara, who has been watching me put the boy to bed. Guiding my hand to set the kettle safely on the counter, she moves in close and pulls my head down to her; our lips drawn together like a pair of magnets. What starts out soft and gentle, a tender exploration of each other quickly heats up and becomes forceful, our mutual passion refusing to be denied any longer.

"I want you," she says huskily, her breath hot against my cheek.

With ease, I lift her up and set her on the counter, her legs swiftly wrapping around me, her heels pressing into the small of my back as she tries drawing me closer. Her hands release my neck and hastily begin unbuttoning my shirt. When the last few buttons pop free her hands claw frantically over my bare skin, caressing my upper body.

Gently, refusing to let my emotions run free too soon, I undo the front of her blouse and slip it down from her shoulders, giving freedom to two of the firmest, most attractive breasts that I'd ever seen. Her hands slip back up the side of my head and then pull my face down to her bosom. Taking a breast in either hand, I guide first one and then the other to my hungry mouth, nibbling tenderly on her rock-hard nipples.

From deep within her, a low moan rises up her throat as she lifts my face with a hand beneath my chin, her lips searching hungrily for mine. "Please," she whispers through clenched teeth, her voice breathless.

With our lips crushed together, our tongues exploring the depth of our roaring passion, we work at the snaps and zippers of each other's pants, our efforts quickly turn frantic as our passion shoots toward an eager climax.

My pants and underwear suddenly slip down my thighs and land in a puddle of cloth around my feet, the urgency of my passion evident in my solid member. Although her pants are completely undone and my hands are able to grab the firm flesh of her buttocks, they are too tight to move down over her hips while she sits on the counter, frustrating my efforts to remove them.

Meanwhile, she takes my swollen manhood in her hands and begins stoking it. If I don't get her pants down soon, I am certainly going to be wasting my load on the floor, when suddenly Todd's voice startles us from across the cabin, "Can I have another cocoa, please?"

We freeze, our collective breaths held in our throats, while the heated life contained in my manhood of just a mere moment before is gone, the fire evaporating with the passion.

"Sure you can, Sweetheart," Tara manages, her voice broken and unsteady.

With all the grace and finesse of a water buffalo, I reach down and retrieve my fallen pants and underwear, while Tara pulls her blouse back on. Fortunately, the fire has died considerably, and we are in the flickering shadows cast by glowing embers.

Embarrassedly, I turn around to face what I expect to be Todd's questioning stare, but am immediately relieved to see only the back of his head as he stares into the dying embers. Tara slips gracefully from the counter and re-secures the front of her pants before searching the counter in the lengthening shadows to find the instant cocoa.

"I'll put some more wood on the fire," I hesitantly suggest, unable to hide the disappointment in my voice.

For reasons that I can't fathom, I raise my hand to stroke her braided hair, and then quickly stop myself, and turn toward the fire.

With the fire burning brightly, Tara brings the kettle and sets it in the corner of the fire. "It'll be a few minutes, Todd. We just have to heat the water up again."

When Todd doesn't answer her, I lean forward in my chair and look at his face. Although he is still sitting upright, facing into the fire, his eyes are shut and he is breathing slowly and shallowly, deep in sleep.

"He's asleep," I whisper softly, catching Tara's expression in the firelight. "Let's leave him just the way he is this time."

"Where are you going to sleep?" she asks, her voice suddenly betraying the tiredness in her body.

"There's room for the two of you on the cot," I whisper softly. "I'm going to slip outside for a little while and keep watch."

Her face exhibits the alarm she feels, and I quickly assuage her concerns, sorry that I wasn't more tactful. "It's okay, I won't be long. I just want to be certain that there isn't any light escaping through the windows or the holes in the walls before I settle in."

"Are you sure that's all?" she asked apprehensively, suspecting I have an ulterior motive for going outside.

"It's quite alright," I quickly reply, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb Todd. "No one knows of this place."

"What about Larry? You said he was like a brother to you. Does he know that you might be here? And if he does, what if they've questioned him and he's told them where to find us?"

Her voice was taking on a nervous edge, and yet, I couldn't dispute her words. Larry did know about the cabin. In fact, before my father passed, he used to come here with us. And since he doesn't know what's going on, he might not realize that the authorities are not quite what they seem and unwittingly expose our location, something he would never do knowingly even if tortured. But what is he going to think when he hears I kidnapped a young boy? Will he suspect that we're both hostages and by helping them find us, he mistakenly believes he is doing me a favor?

"I won't lie to you Tara," I say evenly, not wanting to alarm her, but only make her aware of the real likelihood that this place isn't as safe as I had originally believed. "There is a slight possibility that this place will be compromised and at some time in the future they will look here. But I don't intend for us to stay here any longer than absolutely necessary. For now, we need to rest and get our strength back. Then, we'll work out a plan, determine who we can trust and take action from there."

While I'm talking, she has risen from the edge of the cot and moved toward me. Standing directly in front of me, she softly pleas, "Don't leave me, Mac."

Pulling her close, I nestle my head in between her ear and shoulder and whisper matter-of-factly, "I'm never going to let you go."

She squeezes me tightly, her relief obvious, and states simply, "Thank you."

Our hold on each other lingers for a long moment, till finally I pull free and head toward the door, scooping up my leather jacket on the way.

Stepping out into the dark, I am immediately sobered by the chill of the night. A lot has happened during the last twenty-four hours. I met and fell in love/lust with a beautiful woman, probably for the first time in my life. I also kidnapped a young child, which I am proud to say, isn't the first occurrence in my life. As a mercenary, I've had opportunity to abduct several youths from abusive parents, or in the fulfillment of court-ordered custody battles. Never before, though, have I been accused of it and liable to be tried for it.

The stars are out and the night is clear. Once the moon rises, it will be almost light enough to fly without benefit of lights. It would be a good time to make a run for it. And if I were alone, I would probably do that, pushing myself beyond my endurance to put distance between myself and those that would have me. But I am not alone.

Moving stealthily down to the water's edge, I consider the other cabins and lodges situated around the lake. Most should be empty this time of year. Yet there isn't any sure way of knowing which ones are and which ones aren't. The only certain way of finding out is by hiking to them during daylight hours, and if we find a suitable one, returning at night in the chopper.

Since it isn't safe to stay here any longer than necessary, I might want to consider gathering some supplies together and going on a hike first thing in the morn.

But should I go alone and leave Todd and Tara behind, or should I keep them with me? Although it makes more sense to leave them behind, since I can make better time on my own, I am having a hard time reconciling to the separation. And the more I consider it, the more reasons I keep coming up with for taking them with me.

The night is calm and quiet. Nothing appears to be out of the ordinary. The night sounds are exactly what they should be. For now I can rest easy, catch a few hours of rest and shuteye, as disappointing as that sounds, all things considered. But by dawn tomorrow, we'll be well into the woods and far away from here.

Without even realizing that I'd done it, I'd decided that Todd and Tara were coming with me. After having thought it through, it doesn't seem prudent or safe leaving them behind. Once we find a more suitable place to stay, I can come back for the chopper. With the brush covering laid over it no one will stumble across it in our absence, even if they are looking for it.

By the time I re-enter the cabin, the fire is just a large mound of red coals. The red-tinted glow throwing just enough light that I can see where Tara has put up the dishes from dinner. I can also see Todd snuggled up in the old blankets on the cot.

What I don't see is Tara!

Where is she? Where could she have gone in the short time that I was gone? I'm certain no one entered or left the cabin while I was outside or I would have seen them in passing.

With my heart racing madly with anxiety at the thought of losing her, I spin about on my heel, my eyes searching wildly for any sign of her in the darker shadows of the cabin. But the light is weak and the shadows impenetrable. Without realizing that I'd even drawn my weapon, I grow aware of the comforting feel of the Pachmayr grips in my right hand.

"Tara," I whisper, my breath hanging in my throat with the fear of not getting an answer.

Crouching, I slowly pivot on the ball of my right foot, trying desperately to penetrate the darker shadows with my eyes. Again, I whisper, my voice slightly stronger and steadier as my body prepares for action, every sense heightened and tingling with anticipation, "Tara, are you in here?"

Todd stirs in his sleep and I spin to face him, drawing the hammer of the revolver as I do so.

"Mac, is that you?"

Her voice is tired, sounding as if she has been sleeping and is still half asleep. Feeling foolish and praying that she hasn't seen me in the poor light, I quickly holster my weapon and stand up straight.

"Where are you?" I softly ask, not wanting to wake Todd.

"I'm over here, by the wall."

Honing in on her voice, I move toward her. Only when I am almost on top of her do I see the pile of bedding.

"I've warmed it up for you," she says demurely, throwing back a layer of blankets as if opening a door, the invitation obvious. Her voice suddenly sounding playful and more awake, she adds, "I've got something in here you might like. I've been keeping it warm for you."

"You've got a lot of something's that I know I would like," I quip, my tone also playful and yet serious.

"Take your boots off first," she orders.

"If you insist. What do you have for me," I pressure her, working fast to slip out of my boots and hoping that my feet don't smell from lack of bathing.

"Boots first."

With my boots off and my jacket covering them on the floor next to us, I get down on my knees and work my way under the blankets, my back against the wall for support. She slips up close to my body, the heat of her own penetrating my shirt. Her nearness arouses me, and I have to shift my leg because of a delicate pinch that is quickly becoming increasingly painful and hard to ignore in my private area.

"Okay, the boots are off and I'm settled in. Now are you going to tell me what you have for me?" I ask, not having to feign my impatience.

"Here," she says softly.

There is the faint clink of glass striking against glass, and then my hands close on the glass that she is holding in front of her. Already, I can smell the fine aroma of my unsoiled West Indies rum as it swirls in the open glass.

Before I can speak, she says, "We'll have to share. I could only find one glass in this whole cabin, and I didn't think you would like to drink from a mug."

"You give me way too much credit for being civilized," I laughingly remark, finding it funny that anyone would think I cared whether my rum was in a glass, mug, or straight from the bottle.

After taking a long draught from the glass, I hand it back to her. If I am anything, it's not stingy, even with my coveted West Indies blend.

In the dark, I hear her swallow, and then the thunk of the glass being set down on the wooden floor. She turns back to me and whispers softly against my chest, "Do I give you too much credit for rescuing me, also?"

"Tara, it really concerns me that the feelings you appear to have for me might not be anything more than gratitude." She starts to interrupt, but I quickly continue, abruptly cutting her off. "Before you show me any more gratitude for what I have done so far, you should realize that I haven't saved you, not yet."

"Oh Mac," she sighs resignedly. "It might be true that I feel a whole lot of gratitude toward you, but I would never let anyone near me the way I have you, not simply out of gratitude. You are a good man and I would have fallen for you no matter where or how we met. So, get rid of those silly notions and give me a kiss you dumb lutz."

Without the awkward fumbling of two adolescents, our lips find each other in the dark; hers are moist and sensuous, tasting even sweeter than the rum.

After a long moment, she pulls away and says playfully, "If I were just a bit grateful, would you hold it against me?"

"Baby, the only thing I'll ever hold against you is me," I reply, sliding down onto the blankets while pulling her on top of me.

Our next kiss is long and lingering, neither of us ever wanting it to end. The feelings we are sharing are much more than just physical. No woman has ever made me feel this way, and I suddenly worry about losing her, and I'm not even sure I really have her. Yet, I'm not an insecure man. Nor am I a foolish one either, or so I believe. If and when we get to the bottom of this mess that we're currently in, she's going to return to a former life, most likely leaving me behind. And then what becomes of me? Is there room for me in her life and will I even fit into it if she wants me to? Will she expect me to change, to adapt to fit in? And if I'm afraid of changing, am I really in love?

I haven't been living my life with the intention of ever settling down. One woman, a nine-to-five job, and a boss were never my idea of a life. Moment to moment and a devil-may-care attitude have served me fine for almost thirty-seven years. I'm too old to change now! Would I even know where to start?

And could I confine myself body and soul to just one person? After meeting her, I'm not sure I could ever be happy with anyone else again. And I'm not sure I can continue living the life that I've been living, sharing only fleeting moments of passion with women that are just as fleeting. But can I give all that up, or am I kidding myself?

Reluctantly, I roll her off me and push myself back up into a sitting position with my back against the wall. With my left arm around her shoulder, I pull her into me. She doesn't ask me what I am doing or why; she simply snuggles up against me as if reading my thoughts.

"We must talk," I finally speak after a long moment of silence. Although I suspect she is expecting me to discuss the future of our relationship, there are matters of greater importance that need to be aired first.

"I thought I had made my feelings toward you fairly obvious," she says softly, just the slightest hint of annoyance in her voice.

"Your feelings toward me are much more than I could ever have wished for," I quickly reply, assuaging any feelings of doubt regarding my emotions toward her. "But you need to tell me now what you saw and who it is that's willing to pay to keep you quiet. Before I can help you, before I can help us, I have to know why that gang of lowlifes was holding on to you and whom they expected a reward from for having done so. Obviously, they were keeping you alive for a purpose. Otherwise, they would have simply had their way with you, passed you around the gang for a while to see if any of the guys wanted to adopt you for their bitch, or pimped you out for a quick profit, and then killed you when their clientele grew tired of you. A souvenir proving your death would have been good enough for most."

The silence that followed was deafening, and I feared that she wasn't going to tell me without more prompting, when I suddenly feel a shudder run through her body, and then she slowly starts speaking, her voice not much more than a whisper against my chest. "I didn't even know that what I was seeing was important until I told my sister to look. Over there, I said to her. It was a bright, sunny day, the sky a crystal blue. There were a few people body surfing in the waves, the nearest probably several hundred feet away. They were oblivious of what was going on, just as I should have been. The moment Sally turned and saw what I was seeing she started screaming, her voice hysterical with fright. It took me a moment longer for the reality of the situation to sink in, and then she suddenly jerked backwards, away from me. At first I thought she was taking a step back and tripped, but when I turned to help her up, her chest was covered in blood, and she couldn't breathe."

She stops for a moment, and I can hear her choking back sobs of anguish. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it now," I say gently, though I desperately need to hear more.

"No, I need to tell someone. At first, I didn't want to think about it, almost as if by not thinking about it, it wouldn't be true. You know, like a bad dream. If I could just wake up." She pauses and a small chuckle escapes her. I immediately worry that she might be losing control of her emotions, when she starts talking again. "It's funny, but right after I first met you, I thought maybe I was waking up, and there was still something good in the world." She laughs softly again before adding, "Of course, the look on your face when I grabbed your arm. I know what you were thinking, crazy woman got in over her head." She pauses then. "But you were different from all the rest of them. I knew immediately that you weren't with them, that you were good."

"There is good in the world," I say encouragingly, realizing for the first time why it is so damned important for her to help Todd. I laugh softly under my breath and say, "But I'm not so sure that it lies within me."

"Thanks to you, I remember the good," she says, ignoring my remark. "But it doesn't erase the fact that they killed my kid sister." Her voice trembles at the memory. "They murdered her."

Squeezing her tighter against me, I am momentarily overcome by an overwhelming need to help her, to make everything all right again. But I realize now that I will never be able to make her world completely right again. When they killed her sister, they took that possibility away.

With resolve, I shake off the feelings of helplessness that wash over me. She is still in deep trouble and I am the only one that can help her. If it means putting my feelings toward her on hold for now, then that is what I will do.

"I won't tell you that everything's going to be okay, because it never will be," I start softly, consolingly. "You've lost someone dear to you in a very tragic way. We can't bring her back. But if you turn that grief into anger, we can make the people that killed her pay! I will do whatever I can to help you accomplish that, but I can't do it alone. I need you to be strong. I need you to tell me the rest."

"They didn't have to kill her. We wouldn't have mentioned what we saw to anyone, ever."

"Tell me what you saw. Tell me everything you remember," I gently coax.

"I remember screaming for help. But the waves were too loud. No one could hear me. No one came. When I looked back toward the men, one of them was aiming a gun toward me. I thought I was going to die just like my sister. Then something came over me, and I was suddenly running. I don't remember even getting to my feet, just suddenly running." She pauses for a moment as if the memory is unwinding before her. When she continues, her voice is weak, barely audible despite the silence in the cabin. "At first, I didn't know where I was going. All I could think was that I had to get away from the men. When I looked back, two of the men had broken from the others and were chasing me. As I ran farther away from the parking lot, I was being forced along a narrowing strip of sand between the open beach and a stand of scrub pine. When I looked back again, the men had stopped and were taking aim, so I dove into the brush and pines. I remember the sticks tearing at my clothes and scratching my bare skin. But I wasn't aware of any pain. I just kept running. I couldn't end up like my sister. I felt an important need to tell someone what happened to her."

"Can you describe the men?"

"They were in suits, like the FBI on television always wear."

"What happened next?"

"I ran until I broke through on the other side. There was a lot of tall beach grass and small sand dunes for as far as I could see, so I started running until I thought I couldn't go any farther, and then I just kept walking. Every now and then, a low flying plane went over and I would hide. When it got dark, I came to a single lane road in the sand and some nice people with a dune buggy gave me a lift back to the parking lot where I'd left my car. I didn't expect it to still be there, but there it was, just as we'd left it. By now, there weren't any people around, so I sneaked down toward the beach where I'd left Sally lying on the sand."

She pauses at the memory of her sister and I decide not to push her, but to give her time to breathe. The tale she is reliving must be hellish and I didn't want to trouble her anymore than she already was.

"But when I got there, she was gone."

"What do you mean?" I gently question her.

"Her body, it isn't there. They must have taken it with them," she states, her voice incredulous.

"We'll get her back; we'll find her, Tara, trust me." When she doesn't respond, I ask her for more details of the men, hoping to distract her from the vision of her sister lying on the sand covered in blood that I am certain must be haunting her, "How many of them were there?"

She stirs slightly in my arms and then with her voice gaining strength, says, "There were five in the parking lot originally. But then another appeared out of nowhere. It was almost as if they'd pulled him out of thin air. While the others were dressed in suits, their ties and sunglasses all in order, this man was rumpled looking, his hair mussed up and a large rip up the back of his jacket so that the lining was hanging out. I remember thinking that he must be the family misfit. I can't believe that I actually thought it was funny at the time."

"How many had weapons and were they rifles or handguns?" I quickly ask of her, trying to keep her thoughts from wandering too far from the details.

She thinks for a second before answering. "Only two of the men had guns."

"Were they pistols or rifles?"

"They looked like pistols with long barrels."

Her remark didn't make sense. And then a thought struck me. "I know you don't want to think about this anymore than you already have, but it's important for me to know. The answer you give will tell me a lot about the men that killed your sister. Did you hear the bang of the gun when they shot at you and your sister?"

"No. When they shot the man in the back of the head, I didn't hear that shot either," she replies, her voice betraying her confusion.

"When they shot the other man? Tell me more about that. What man did they shoot?"

"The rumpled looking man. That's what originally caught my attention. They were the only people in the parking lot at the time and I don't think they realized that Sally and I were there. Instead of going all the way down to the beach like everyone else, we hung back in the shelter of the rocks nearer to the parking lot. From where we were sitting, we had a view of one end of the parking lot as well as the body surfers out in the water, and yet we weren't buffeted by the wind."

"Is it possible that you were too far away to hear the gunshot?"

"Oh no. When the wind died down between gusts, I could hear their voices almost as clear as I can hear yours."

"Could you hear what they were discussing?" I press her, unable to control my excitement at possibly gaining an insight into the reasons behind the entire scenario.

"Only bits and pieces, nothing that made any sense. For the most part only the one man ever spoke, and he directed the others as if he was their boss. I do remember thinking that."

"That's too bad," I utter softly, my mind trying to envision the scene as she described it so that I can figure out what's missing. "Can you remember anymore details about the man in charge? Like maybe what made him stand out from the others?"

Without hesitation, she says, "He was much older than the others. He was distinguished looking with pure white hair and although I'm not much of a man's clothing aficionado, his suit appeared more expensive looking than the others." She pauses for a moment, and then as if she thinks it funny, chuckles, "Don't get me wrong, all them appear well dressed and the suits look like they fit them well except for the crumpled looking guy's. Even without the rips and wrinkles, his suit looked as though it came off a secondhand store rack. It was too big for him, baggy looking like a hobo's."

"Would you recognize any of these people if you saw them again?"

"I'll never forget the older man's face, but I'm afraid the one's with sunglasses looked generic, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I think I do. What about the rumpled guy?"

"For the most part, his back was toward us, and after they shot him," she hesitates, her voice breaking into a stutter. "After they shot him, his face erupted in blood."

A shudder runs through her body and I pull her tighter against me. The fire is dying down and the single room is slowly growing cold, but it isn't the night chill she's feeling.

"It's okay. You've told me all I need to know for now. If anything more comes to you later just let me know. The night is growing late and we've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow. We should get some rest while we can. I'd like to be out of here before it gets light."

"Goodnight," she whispers, snuggling in close.

"Sleep tight," I whisper back, setting the empty glass down next to my jacket.

### **4**

Although I expect sleep to come hard, if at all, with her lying so close to me, I doze almost instantly. Not surprisingly, considering the developing feelings I have for her, I find her nearness comforting. The scent of her unwashed hair and body is real, not a mask purchased at a beauty shop. It is soothing and I fill my nostrils, breathing her in, trying to make her a part of me. For the first time in ages, I'm not haunted by my own tormenting dreams.

In the early hours of morning before the sun is close to rising, I awake. From years of waking in unknown environments, my body doesn't betray my conscious state of mind. Only after listening to the sounds surrounding me do my eyes finally open, and then just enough so as to adjust to the lack of light. When I'm certain that we are still alone, do I physically stir, moving stiffly at first to erase the resistance in my joints.

Trying hard not to disturb Tara, I slowly get to my feet while slipping the shoulder holster into place beneath my left arm. Without even realizing that I'm doing it, I pull the weapon and check the loads, using only the knowledgeable touch of my fingertips.

There is still a small amount of kindling and fuel next to the firebox, so I throw it in and retrieve a pot of water for making coffee and cocoa. Todd is still sound asleep on the broken down cot, and I'm careful to step around him.

As the fire catches, the light forces the shadows in the cabin to recede, and I step outside to take care of business.

When I return, Tara is stirring instant coffee into a couple of mugs and Todd is sitting up on the blankets sipping on a mug of cocoa.

"Good morning," she says brightly. "Coffee is on."

"Sounds great," I reply, stepping toward the kitchenette. "Good morning to you all. How did you sleep?"

"This is like camping out!" Todd quickly offers up, unable to hide his exuberance and youth. "I could do this forever."

"I'm not surprised," I remark wryly, before meeting Tara's gaze. "And how did you sleep?"

"Like a princess in her protective knight's arms," she replies with a smile and a wink.

"Good, I'm glad to hear you're all enjoying yourselves because it's about to get rough."

"Can I go fishing today?" Todd asks excitedly.

"Maybe later. First, we have to find us another place to stay."

"Why?" he questions naively, unaware of the circumstances that are currently dictating the course of our lives.

"We need to tell him what is going on," Tara says softly, yet firmly.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," I begrudgingly agree, preferring instead to leave Todd's childhood naivety intact.

"What are you two talking about?" Todd pipes up, his curiosity piqued as any inquisitive eight year old's would be.

"We don't want to scare you, Todd," Tara starts, moving over next to him. "But there are some bad men after us and if they find you with us, they're liable to do something bad to you too."

"We're not going to let anything bad happen to you Todd," I quickly interject when I see the color drain from his face. "We just think it's important that you realize why we are hiding from everyone."

"I thought you were hiding because you were afraid people might be thinking that you'd kidnapped me," he says with a profound sense of maturity.

"That too, honey," Tara hurriedly affirms, putting an arm around his shoulder. "But we all know that you're not being kidnapped, don't we?"

"Of course, silly," he says lightly, trying hard to maintain a brave face.

"We're going on a hike today, Todd, and it's important that we avoid any hunters or other people we might run into. Do you understand?" I gently ask of him, trying hard to treat him like the adult he so wants to be.

"Sure. If we see anyone before they see us, we hide. That's easy. I'm not a baby," he proudly adds.

"No, you're not a baby," Tara affirms.

"Finish your drinks, you two. We need to get moving. Pack up anything that you think might come in handy if we have to spend a night in the woods," I suggest before throwing back the last of the dregs in my mug and adding, "Just don't overdo it; stick to necessities."

Taking the flashlight, I head into the cellar and check the cache for anything that might come in handy. Aside from additional matches and some fishing tackle that Todd obviously overlooked, there are only more tools and food too difficult to prepare on the run. After throwing together a dark blue pillowcase with the items I've collected, I relock the cache and return to the cabin proper to find Todd and Tara ready to go. It doesn't escape my notice that someone has taken the trouble to extinguish the fire so that it won't be smoldering later when the sun comes up.

Heading through the door, I step to the side saying, "Come on." As they follow me out, I casually observe their individual bags. Aside from the bulk of blankets, they appear to have been even more frugal than even I would have been. "I need to double check that the chopper is well-covered before we go," I softly announce, heading toward the little bird.

While doing a quick walk around it and finding it well concealed, I can't help but feel like I'm leaving a friend behind. But I quickly console myself with the fact that I'll be returning for it shortly.

Moving off toward the north, I quietly instruct Todd and Tara to fall in behind me, but to remain close so that we don't become separated in the dark. There are many game trails and manmade trails crisscrossing through the woods and even without benefit of light, we move along at a brisk pace.

After thirty minutes of traveling, I notice the first pretense of daylight filtering through the thinning branches and stop for a breather. Tara is the first to speak, asking me if I know where I am going.

"Most of these trails were made by deer and other large game animals," I explain. "But if you look closely, you'll notice that some are more trampled with less intrusive side branches. Those were made by kids during the summer going from cabin to cabin. Almost all the cabins that are habitable along the shore are vacation retreats and summer homes. The less inhabitable, like the one we just left are hunting and fishing cabins. If anyone deciphers my connection to it, I want us to be as far away as possible."

They sip on the only canteen of water and then Todd says he has to go. "Pick a tree, my young man," I lightly suggest with a knowing smile.

He looks first at Tara, who simply shrugs, and then glances around at the nearer trees as if there might be one that is better than the others before turning back toward me and accusingly suggesting, "You're pulling my leg."

"Well, you can always wait until we find an outhouse," I offer in a more serious tone of voice, trying not to grin.

"Okay. But don't look," he says quickly, suddenly running stiff-legged toward a stand of larger trees. "Be sure and wait for me," he yells back over his shoulder, his right hand reaching for his crotch to stem the flow.

We're both looking after him when Tara says, "He's such a darling."

"I know you feel you're doing the right thing, but surely you realize that you can't keep him."

"Even if I can't raise him as my own, we will always be connected during our time on this planet," she murmurs, content with that knowledge for the time being. "I will always look out for him, even if I can't be there with him."

Looking at her face in the predawn light, I understand completely what she is saying. For as long as I live, I will always be there for her, even if we can't be together. Glancing back toward the tree that Todd disappeared behind, I murmur in agreement, "I'm sure you will be."

In a moment, Todd comes running back, still securing the straps of his coveralls. "You ready to go on?" I asked of him, trying hard to keep a straight face.

Picking up his bag of supplies and the old fishing pole, which I didn't begrudge him in the least, he stands waiting like a real trooper.

"How much farther?" Tara softly inquires, slinging her pillowcase over her shoulder. She'd found an old red checkered hunting jacket in the cabin and had slipped it on. At first, I wasn't too keen on the bright color, but then decided that if anyone saw her, they might just assume she's another hunter in the woods and think no more of it.

"An hour, tops," I promise.

Although she looks to be in great physical condition, the lack of sleep from the previous two nights, combined with the ordeal that she'd endured at the hands of the bikers was beginning to wear on her. The braid of long, dark hair was coming apart in little wisps, much as I was certain, so was her fortitude.

Moving as quickly as was safe, we travel more than five miles along the eastern shore of the lake when I change course and turn due west. Because I want to find a refuge where we can remain for a reasonable amount of time in safety, I have purposely kept a goodly distance from the shoreline, crossing single lane driveways only when necessary and passing up on the nearer cabins.

When we come to a well-worn path leading back toward the lake, I decide we are far enough from the old cabin combined with the tiring legs of all three of us, that I turn up it. Within fifteen minutes the rear of a cabin draws into sight. "Wait here," I whisper to Todd and Tara, indicating for them to lie low behind a small hummock covered in blackberry vines. "I'll be back for you as soon as I find out whether or not it's occupied."

"Be careful," Tara whispers concerned, her hand softly touching my left arm.

With a cavalier smile, I turn and head toward the rear of the cabin, angling off to the left at the last moment when I see the worn driveway off to my right.

The sun is well clear of the horizon by now, so I can't tell if there are any lights on in the rooms or not. The only way to verify whether it's inhabited or not is to physically look into each window, and then, I still won't know if there is someone on the second floor until I enter. Not seeing a vehicle in the driveway is encouraging, though.

Moving toward the south wall, which only has windows on the lower level, I slip up next to it and surreptitiously glance through the window on my right. The main room is laid out before me, complete with stuffed elk and bear heads mounted on the far wall, book-casing a large river-rock fireplace that extends to the ceiling of the second floor. To my left is the kitchen, but from this window, I am unable to see into it.

Moving along the wall, I come to the kitchen window. Quickly, I peek around the frame and survey the interior. Like the main room, it too is devoid of people. Studying it for a moment, my suspicions that the cabin is currently unoccupied are further bolstered by the fact that the fridge door is wedged open for ventilation.

With my confidence soaring, I move around to the shore side of the cabin, studying the view out across the lake and making certain that no fishermen are trolling past before turning toward the large plate-glass windows. On this side of the cabin, both the main floor and the upper level is almost all glass with large wooden beams. Since there isn't anyone around, I walk out on the sloping lawn and look back up toward the cabin. Through the glass on the second level, I can just make out the upper part of a large four-poster bed.

Quickly, I move around to the north end of the cabin, stopping only when I come to the front door and the pebbled walk leading off to the drive. The first place I check is under the doormat, to no avail. Then I sweep my hand along the top of the doorjamb, also to no avail. "Everyone leaves a hidden key," I mutter aloud to myself. "You never know when family will want to use the place."

I am about to move along the side of the building when a smooth gray rock catches my eye. I've seen lots of river rocks, but none so smooth that they actually reflect sunlight. Picking it out of the bed of cedar shavings, I am not surprised when I turn it over and discover a small metal trapdoor just beginning to show rust. Using my fingernail, I pry the door open and reveal a dull brass key. Both the plastic rock and the key look as if they have been lying out in the elements for so long the owners probably don't even remember putting them there.

Dropping the fake rock, I insert the key and unlock the front door. Moving on tiptoes, I slip inside and close the door behind me. Carefully, I remove my shoes for fear of making noise on the highly polished hardwood floors. In stockinged feet, I first inspect the foyer closet on the right, only to discover a complete lack of coats or other paraphernalia.

From there, I move to the left, a second closed door that leads into the downstairs bathroom. Aside from some towels and face cloths hanging for display, there isn't any evidence of recent use.

Having already inspected the kitchen from outside, I hurry across the main room and go up the stairs to the loft, taking them two at a time. When I reach the top, I am pleased to discover that the place is truly uninhabited and that the view is not only magnificent, but from up here, we'll be able to see anyone that tries approaching from the lakeside of the cabin.

Realizing that Todd and Tara are waiting out in the woods for me, I make a quick survey of the room and then retreat down the steps. I have barely reached the last step when the door suddenly opens and to my surprise, Tara walks in with Todd close on her heels.

They are carrying all of the supplies between them, and they look up in surprise when they see me coming across the room toward them. Slightly angered, but relieved also, I reprimand them for not having stayed put.

Sensing my anger, Tara weakly argues in their defense, "We got tired of waiting and were worried that something might have happened to you."

She says it with such a pouting expression, I couldn't have remained angry with them even if I tried, which I didn't. "Lock the door behind me and don't light a fire. We don't want anyone knowing we're here."

"We just got here," Tara sighs resignedly. "I thought you weren't going to move the helicopter until after dark."

"I'm only going to find the utility room. All these cabins along the lake have their own generators and propane tanks. Once I find it, I'll have us up and running in no time, complete with hot water and a gas range; all the comforts of home."

"I'm going fishing!" Todd suddenly cries out, bolting past me toward the door.

"You know what to do if you see anyone, right?" I quickly demand.

"Yeah, I know," he says resignedly, stopping just short of the door.

"What do you do?" Tara asks of him.

"Hide before they see me. Can I go now?"

Tara glances at me for confirmation before saying, "Be careful, that water's probably cold."

Without another word, he shoots out the door, leaving Tara and me alone in the large room.

"Don't worry, he'll be just fine," I say encouragingly before heading out the door myself.

Along the back wall of the cabin is a sloping cellar door with a large hasp and padlock. To my surprise, the padlock is keyed the same as the front door of the cabin. Lifting the doors aside, I discover a string hanging across the opening. It is obviously a pull cord for a light, but without any power, it remains dark after a quick experimental tug.

For the briefest of moments, I debate returning to the cabin for the flashlight, and then remember the matches in my jacket pocket. Lighting one, I step forward and discover a grouping of ten gallon propane bottles. Shaking out the match for fear of igniting a gas fire, I search by feeling in the dark for the valves. Tracing them with my fingers, I find where they all come together into a master gang valve with a regulator and slowly turn it open. There is a short hissing sound followed by silence. When I sniff the air above the valve and don't detect the odor of gas, I determine the setup to be safe.

After a moment of groping in the dark, I come across the water heater and from experience, know exactly where I need to put the match to light it. Within moments, the old water geezer is roaring as it warms the water that will heat the cabin and give us each a shower.

Yet, unless I can find the generator and get some electricity into the system, the well pump won't work, and thus the tank of soon to be heated water will all be for naught.

Groping in the dark, I discover an apparatus with an engine mounted off to one side. It appears to be a fairly new unit and when I sniff around it, my olfactory glands are treated to the pungent aroma of diesel fuel. It takes only moments longer to find the key hanging in the ignition and after a moment of pre-heating, she springs to life, the batteries still in good nick.

My first impulse is to shut down the noise, but then I realize that the sound doesn't carry far beyond the confines of the small cellar. Although the diesel is exhausted through a pipe in the wall just below the main floor of the cabin, the muffler is relatively new and of a quality design, absorbing almost all of the sound emitted from the engine.

Turning back toward the entrance, I find the string and jerk on it, delighted when the single bulb glows brightly near the center of the room. With the light on, it takes only minutes longer to figure out how the well pump and other utilities are engaged and brought on line.

Pleased with myself, I head back upstairs to the main room, closing and locking the cellar behind me. I find Tara in the kitchen, sorting through the foodstuffs in the cupboards. "Try the faucet," I say proudly when she looks up.

The first water through the line is brown with rust, but after a few minutes, the line clears and the water begins to turn gradually warmer. She lets out a small squeal of delight before turning the taps off and prancing out of the kitchen like a young fawn.

"Where are you going?" I ask, slightly miffed that she took off without a word.

"I'm going to take a shower and then I'm going to wash some clothes!" she yells from the main room, her blouse already coming off her shoulders as she dashes up the stairs.

Not certain what I should do, I lamely yell after her, "The water won't be ready for at least a half an hour or so."

"Then why don't you come up here and get ready with me," she replies coyly from the top of the stairs, her bare breasts teasing me.

Everything suddenly seems perfect with the world and I shoot across the main room, my jacket left on the stairs next to her blouse.

But when I reach the top of the stairs, she is standing with her back to me, looking through the only closet in the loft. She is topless, the top button and zipper of her jeans already undone.

Stepping up behind her, I slip my hands around her waist and pull her bare skin against my bare chest. "What are you doing now?" I ask, not really paying any attention to the contents of the closet as I press my nose into her hair and inhale deeply.

"It's full of clothes," she says a bit breathlessly, gasping only slightly as I run my hands down her hips, dragging her jeans down and exposing her bare ass.

She starts pushing hangers aside, inspecting the variety of materials and cuts while I slide out of my shirt and discard it on the floor. Quickly, I undo my belt and let my pants drop to the floor. Stepping out of the pile of material, I kick it aside.

When I move up behind her, my erect manhood gently prodding her buttocks, she deftly steps aside, her feet dancing out of her discarded jeans as she retreats suddenly from the closet doorway with a handful of clothes. Speaking as if she is unaware of my condition and desire, she says almost too casually, "Some of this stuff should fit you, too."

Flabbergasted, confused, and a bit frustrated, I stand naked outside the closet door. Not sure where I should look, my eyes drift to the large plate glass window, beyond which I can see Todd standing on the dock, the old fishing pole held in his hand as he pokes at something floating on the water.

Meanwhile, Tara has laid out a display of clothes on the bed and is studying them intently. Her back is to me and my eyes naturally inspect the fine curvature in the small of her back. There is a sensual rise to her buttocks, a natural defiance of gravity. They are firm and well shaped. Her thighs too, are firm, a fine display of muscles and tendons. Above her narrow waist is a proud set of shoulders, no indication of a slouch.

When she leans over the edge of the bed to reach the farther placed hangers, I am invited to a full display of her womanhood. Only when a small whistle escapes my lips does she remember my presence and slowly turns to face me, her dark braid now little more than a tangled mess of loose ends.

"See something you like?" she asks coyly, sweeping her right hand to indicate the selection of clothes still hanging in the closet.

Clearing my throat to hide my embarrassment, I shyly reply, "Yes, I do." And then, my courage bolstered by her knowing smile, I add, "But you haven't put it on the bed yet."

"Do you think we can just take what we want, or wouldn't that be right?" she asks, a double meaning to her words.

Her eyes move slowly over the full height of my nude body, appearing satisfied with what she sees. "I think that as long as our intentions are honorable and our need genuine, there is no harm in it," I reply, my words also spoken with twofold meaning.

Slowly, she moves toward me, the clothing strung out on the bed behind her all but forgotten as she takes my swollen manhood in her right hand and brushes her rock-hard nipples against the dark curly hair on my chest. Her skin is smooth to the touch, glowing with a silky luminescence in the morning sunlight.

"Take me," she whispers breathlessly, pulling me back to the bed.

Reaching down, I place my hands on her buttocks, reveling in their firmness, and lift her onto the bed. Slithering backwards, she stops and reaches behind her, carelessly flinging the garments and hangers to the floor, their importance of a minute ago all but gone. Her breathing is shallow and rasping, her eyes appearing dreamy as she tears the band holding the remnants of her braid together and shakes her head, giving it final release.

Slowly, she lies back on the bed, her hair framing her face on the silk pillowcase. With slow determination, I run my hands up her thighs, savoring the way she trembles at my touch while taking in the full beauty of her nakedness in the light of day.

Feeling empowered, I reach behind her knees and raise her legs, spreading them aside as I move in closer. Leaning forward, I grasp her left nipple with my teeth before sucking the entire breast into my mouth. A small cry of anticipation escapes her lips and I let her breast fall free, the darker aureole surrounding the nipple wet with my saliva.

Dragging my tongue along the side of her neck, I tenderly suckle on the skin beneath her left ear and then take it in my teeth and gently nibble on the lobe. I can feel her moving beneath me, trying vainly to align herself with my swollen member.

Forcefully, I press against her lower body, purposely preventing my manhood from entering her, despite her frantically increasing efforts.

With her nails clawing into my back, her body convulses in a mixture of desperation and frustration. Her breath is hot against the side of my face, coming in quick shallow pants, the air hissing noisily through her teeth. I kiss her closed eyelids, her hands reaching behind and through her legs, finding my throbbing penis. It takes all of my willpower to keep from ejaculating in her hands and I quickly realize that she is purposely trying to force my climax.

With a loud intake of breath, I give in to her ministrations and allow her to guide me into the folds of her wanton womanhood. Though I try my damnedest not to ejaculate, she lets out a shuddering gasp and arches her back, lifting me physically into the air like a bucking bronco while clenching her hot folds around my manhood, squeezing and pulling with the throes of her orgasm. It is more than I can resist and my body does what is only natural. With an unrestrained pleasure, I begin jerking convulsively in response, further exaggerating her climax.

In a sweaty heap of tangled flesh, we collapse atop the silken sheets of the bed, neither one wanting to separate from the other.

Planting my elbows on either side of her, I slowly raise myself up so that I am in a position to look down into her face. Her hair is plastered to her forehead and her eyes are closed in contentment. There is a dreamy quality to her features, almost angelic. Without a doubt, she is by far the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. Every single thing about her excites me.

Like a butterfly taking flight, her eyelids flutter and open. A smile turns up the corners of her mouth and I bend down and kiss each corner before our lips are drawn back together, our tongues instantly resuming the hungry search of each other's mouth.

After a long moment, I pull away from her and look into her eyes. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever known," I whisper softly.

Her back arches up and she kisses me gently before dropping back to the sheets, her body exhausted. Smiling mischievously, she whispers, "You probably say that to all the women you lay."

Her comment strikes me as rather vulgar and exciting coming from such a lovely face and it immediately stirs the coals of my still smoldering passion. Although I recognize it as a tired attempt to make small talk, there is a mixture of truth in it thinly disguised as pillow talk. We're not virgins and we aren't going to pretend to be anything more than we are is what she said in that one simple sentence, and yet, so much more.

Feeling my manhood growing against her bare skin, she chuckles softly and quips, "Was it something I said?"

Taking my swollen member in her hand, she carefully guides it back to her warm and slippery womanhood. No effort is required as it quickly slides into place. "We're a perfect fit," I breathe huskily, my breaths growing shorter and quicker.

Her reply is simply a long trembling sigh that I feel through the entirety of her body.

Planting my hands on either side of her, I ease back onto my haunches while being careful not to slip from within. In response, her groin muscles contract, squeezing my manhood firmly. My body is already rising toward another climax, but my mind is not ready. Our future time together is uncertain, at best, and it's extremely important that we don't waste a single second of what we are currently experiencing; though I know it's not reality, I want this moment to last for all eternity!

Desperate to experience all of her, I slip my hands around to the small of her back and lift her by the small of her waist. Her back arches higher to meet me and her head rolls back against the pillow, her breath now coming in loud, frenzied gasps.

She suddenly convulses beneath me, triggering an acute physical response despite my determination otherwise.

Spent and physically exhausted beyond my own expectations, I slowly lower her back to the bed and roll off to her side, carefully placing my left arm beneath her head so that our faces are only inches apart. And though our bodies are covered in sweat and bodily fluids, we're immune to all but the closeness of each other. She snuggles into me, moving her head down and murmuring softly against my chest, the warmth of her breath tingling my tired senses while my nose draws deeply of her scent in the air surrounding us. My eyes slowly droop with contentment when the front door suddenly slams shut. Someone just came in!

**5**

In one fluid movement, I roll from the bed and scoop up the stainless steel magnum. Tara rolls onto her side, following my movement. With the weapon in my right hand, I hold my left index finger to my lips, signaling her to be quiet. The fear and concern in her eyes brings out a new level of primal protector instinct in me. I am suddenly nothing more than a wild beast protecting its mate, and I will do whatever it takes to keep her safe; whatever it takes.

Slipping past the edge of the bed, I move to the top of the staircase and glance furtively around the top post. From my position, I have a full view of the main room below and I see Todd in new Macintosh raingear sporting a stringer of fish in one hand and my old rod and reel in the other.

"Look what I caught!" he yells excitedly up at me, my silhouette against the bright glass of the window behind me making a clear target that is hard to miss.

With a casual wave of acknowledgement, I rock back on my bare haunches with a deep intake of breath and soak in the overwhelming sense of relief.

Tara, also naked, slips up beside me. Resting a hand gently on my shoulder, a mischievous grin on her face, she rises just high enough for Todd to see her face and says down to him, "Well done! Can you guess what we're having for dinner?"

Grinning proudly back up at us, he says with mock annoyance, "That's just silly."

"Take them out back, Big Guy. I'll be down in a minute and we'll get them cleaned," I yell down, slipping back to the far side of the bed and retrieving my clothes. The front door slams shut as Todd exits with his catch of fish and I suggest that Tara take advantage of the moment and hit the shower.

"What about you?" she asks coyly.

"I'll take mine after the fish are cleaned," I reply without thinking, while slipping into my dirty clothes.

"That's not exactly what I meant," she says with a pout.

With understanding comes disappointment. Taking her still-naked body in my arms, I pull her tightly against me, relishing the feel of her firm breasts and rock-hard pebbles against my chest. After a long moment of silence, I hold her away from me at arm's length and slowly move my gaze from her feet upward until I can look into her eyes.

With purpose and all the strength of mind I can muster, I ask of her, "Promise me that this is not just a passing fancy. Promise me that you will always be here with me, no matter what may come our way. You must promise me, because after knowing you as intimately as I do now, I can't stand the thought of never being with you again."

While a tear wells up and slowly breaks loose from the corner of her left eye, she declares her sincerity in an unwavering voice with one single word, "Always."

We kiss long and hard, our sexual passion having been spent on the silk sheets of the bed with the promise of more to come. Smiling happily, all the worries of the world closing in on us momentarily forgotten, I reluctantly let her go. "I better get down there before he cuts himself," I say blithely, my mind on nothing but her.

"Put your shirt on first," she says with a smirk, lasciviously licking her lips with a playful sparkle in her eyes.

Hastily, I throw on my shirt and shoes, then sling the holster over my shoulder as I head down the stairs three at a time. My feet are dancing and my body bursting with newfound energy as I head out the front door and join up with Todd by the fish cleaning station on the edge of the woods behind the cabin.

He smiles up at me as I approach, super proud of his catch. "These are some nice fish," I congratulate him, picking a fillet knife from the selection in the rack. "I might be a little rusty at this."

"Do you want me to show you how?" he offers, his voice dead serious.

"And where would you have learned to clean fish?"

"I showed Tara," he says proudly.

"Well, that's funny, she failed to mention that little tidbit," I chuckle.

He laughs along with me for a moment and then his face turns serious as he watches me slit open the fish and begin cleaning it. After a long moment of silently looking on, he suddenly asks, "What's going to happen to me?"

With all that was going on, Tara and I hadn't really had the time to discuss his future and I was suddenly embarrassed by that fact.

Lamely, I tell him that I'm not sure, but that we will sit down later with Tara and discuss it. I do stress the fact, however, that we only want what's best for him and what will make him happy too.

For the moment, he seems satisfied with that. And then, his next question reminds me again just how mature his thoughts can be. "Do you like her as much as she likes you?"

"What makes you think she likes me?"

With a loud sigh as if exasperated with being treated like a child, he says, "I could see you guys from the lake."

"Sorry about that. You do realize that you're actually a little young to know about such things, don't you?"

"I'm not that young," he argues, looking down at the cleaning table, his pride momentarily injured.

"Just because of what you saw doesn't necessarily mean she likes me. So where did you get that from?"

"She told me," he bashfully admits, now staring down at the cleaning table to avoid making eye contact with me.

"When did she tell you that?" I ask, my interest definitely piqued as I forget about the fish on the cutting board and direct all my attention toward him.

"Back at the air field."

"She told you that she likes me way back at the air field?" I demand, incredulously.

"You won't leave us will you?" he asks shyly, naïve to my momentary outburst of elation.

Turning back to the task at hand so as to hide my surprise from him, I reply a bit gruffly, "I said we'd talk about that later."

In silence, he watches while I finish cleaning the fish and washing the waste down the open drain with the short hose and sprayer. I take my time cleaning the knife before returning it to the holder with the others.

"They're your fish, so why don't you take the honors of presenting them to the lady of the house," I suggest with a smile, handing him the metal tray with the fillets lined up as if on display.

"Sure," he agrees happily, the cloud hanging over him all but forgotten as he takes the tray and heads off toward the cabin.

I watch him for a moment and then give the surrounding terrain a cursory inspection before giving pursuit. We reach the door at the same time and I hold it open for him so he doesn't have to struggle with the tray and then follow him in, closing and locking the door behind us.

As we head to the kitchen, I notice the strong smell of soap and shampoo permeating the air as it comes wafting out of the bathroom. Glancing in that direction, I notice the door is standing open and everything within is covered in condensation. Automatically, my eyes drift upward to the loft. Tara is at the top of the stairs and just starting down. Our eyes meet and a smile lights up her already beautiful face.

In my absence, she bathed and put on fresh clothes from the closet. Despite her earlier indecision about what to wear, I'm delighted to note that her choices are practical for our current situation and not simply fashionable. On her feet, she's wearing calf-high soft leather boots sporting a moderate amount of insulation evidenced by the wool pile protruding from the tops. Yet, more importantly, they are water-resistant. Tucked into the boots is a pair of camouflage pants made from military grade rip-stop material. They sport many utility pockets in addition to being water-resistant and tear proof. Clearly, the owners of this cabin have expensive, but utilitarian tastes.

Topping off her choice of clothing is a tight-knit olive green sweater, beneath which she has slipped on a matching green tee. Her hair is still wet and hanging loosely about her shoulders.

Waiting at the bottom of the stair for her, when she reaches me, I lift her off the last two steps and spin around, setting her lightly upon the floor near the center of the main room. "You are a vision to behold," I proudly comment, admiring her from every angle as she twirls around for my benefit.

I was about to say more when Todd suddenly shouts from the kitchen, "Wow!"

Together, we race in a panic toward the kitchen, only to find Todd sitting at the counter staring into a small-screen television.

"What is it, Honey?" Tara anxiously asks of him.

"It's a TV," Todd replies in awe. "And it works! Look at that," he says happily, turning the picture so that we can see it too.

On the screen is a reporter standing in front of a sign on the Vegas strip. There is a picture of Todd in the upper left hand corner of the screen with a caption that I can just make out. It says 'Abducted Boy'.

"Turn it up," I shout at him, startling both him and Tara.

The reporter is saying that despite witnesses leading authorities to Las Vegas, they have been unable to turn up any evidence of the child. Unsubstantiated reports claim that the boy's parents live in Las Vegas and that the boy was just hitching a ride here to find them. Until they find the boy or the couple that took him from his grandfather, authorities are treating it as a kidnapping. As of this time, only Nevada state officials are involved with minimal assistance from the Oregon State Police and California Highway Department.

"That's me!" Todd cries excitedly, pointing at the corner of the TV screen as he realizes what he is watching.

"Yes, that's you," I solemnly reply, inwardly relieved that the search seems to have taken authorities to Las Vegas for the time being.

The platter of fish is sitting next to the stove where they were set down and forgotten upon discovery of the TV. As I move toward them, Tara suddenly gasps. Spinning back around, I follow her terrified gaze toward the TV. The news has returned to the studio as they discuss other current events.

Even before I can ask her what it is, I see the distinguished gentleman's photo on the upper left hand corner. Tara is trembling and I put a comforting arm around her, drawing her against me. "That's the man at the beach, isn't it?"

"Yes," she stutters, her entire body trembling.

Beneath his photo is a caption that says, 'Federal Judge Garner'. In silence, we listen to the story. It would have us believe that presiding Judge Garner is being forced to throw out a major case involving organized crime and racketeering across several state jurisdictions due to the accidental death of a key witness.

Next, the judge's photo is replaced by a shot of the late witness, a man by the name of Roger Riley. The picture appears to be taken from his driver's license, since there isn't any blood or damage to his features.

Tara's reaction at the sight of the man dispels any doubts that he was the man she witnessed being executed.

Before I can stop him, Todd starts flipping channels with the remote until he stumbles upon an old cartoon of Daffy and friends. But it doesn't matter; we'd already heard enough to know what we needed for the time being. Not only were we being hunted by local and state authorities on kidnapping charges, but also by the mob. If I were to call my bookie, I could probably find out what the odds were on us living beyond the week.

Still holding Tara in my arms, I suddenly remember the Black Hawk helicopters. Neither the mob nor the state authorities would have been able to bring in that kind of firepower on such short notice. That's the kind of artillery only a federal judge could wrangle in the middle of the night on US soil.

"The media isn't being told everything, Tara," I say softly, not wanting to draw Todd's attention. "And I'm not just talking about the assassination. There wasn't any mention of a manhunt involving federal agencies, and those choppers we saw going south the other night were definitely flying under federal authority."

"They didn't mention Sally," she stated numbly, letting me lead her toward the stove and away from Todd.

"I'm sure she was mentioned on a more local level, probably in the newspapers. They'll be very careful that her demise isn't connected to them in any way shape or form. You're the only one that can make that connection and for that reason alone, they can't allow you to live."

"Oh Mac, what am I going to do?"

"Don't worry, Tara, I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you," I whisper encouragingly, holding her tight.

She's on the verge of tears when she shakily says, "It's nice here, having you and Todd with me. But it's not reality. We can't stay here forever. Eventually, we have to leave." Her voice cracks and she swallows back her despair before adding, "Where can we go?"

"It's all right, Tara. I never intended that we were to stay here. We're just going to get our feet beneath us and then I'm going to find a phone and launch our own campaign. By the time I'm finished with that judge, he's the one that's going to be in hiding," I finish confidently.

Tara rubs her eyes to clear the tears and I take her hands in mine and kiss the knuckles. "They're going to pay for what they did to your sister if it's the last thing we do."

"I believe you," she says softly, pressing her face against my chest.

"Now come on, before I rub stink and fish guts all over your new wardrobe, let's get these fish going. Did you find any other food in the pantry?"

Smiling, her resolve coming back, she turns and pushes me away from her, saying coyly, "Go take a shower, you'll find all the right clothes laid out on the bed for you. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of dressing you."

Back-stepping out of the kitchen, I smile back and, feigning sarcasm, remark, "Isn't that just like a woman. Never satisfied with the man they meet, always intent on changing him. First it's the clothing. Next, it'll be my deplorable habits. Before long, my friends won't even know who the hell I am," I continue grumbling, a smirk on my face as I turn and head toward the bathroom.

The water heater, which also heats the entire structure through pipes in the floors, does not leave me wanting for hot water. After a long and luxurious soaking, I wrap a towel around my waist and quickstep up to the master bedroom, which is also the only bedroom in the cabin. Although I hadn't given it any thought prior, it suddenly dawns on me that the cabin is either owned by a single person, or by a couple bereft of children. And now, for reasons that I don't understand, it seems important, as if I'm overlooking something more.

While dressing myself in the clothes that Tara laid out on the bed, I can't shake the vague feeling of unease this new understanding has on me. Yet, no matter how I try to fit it into the bigger scheme of things, it seems completely irrelevant.

As I head back downstairs feeling like a new man in my new outfit, which consists of camouflage pants matching Tara's, a thick gray turtleneck sweater, and a Cabella rain slicker, my senses are treated to the magnificent aroma of frying fish.

"How do you like the duds, Good Looking?" Tara asks with a smile as I enter the kitchen.

Todd is already eating; a plate of hash browns and fried fish in front of him, while his attention is glued to the small screen TV. Glancing past his head, I notice that he's still on the cartoon network that he found earlier.

Grabbing a seat at the counter next to Todd, Tara steps over from the stove with a heaping plate of steaming hash brown potatoes and several fish fillets with a nice crispy brown coating. Setting it down on the counter before me, she gives me a quick peck on the cheek.

"Wow," I remark in good spirit. "If just letting you pick out my clothes can warrant that kind of response, by all means, you go girl."

"I just couldn't help myself," she coyly replies, throwing me a surreptitious wink. "They're a good fit."

Although I'm thinking the same thing about her new outfit, especially how her breasts seem somehow accentuated by the snug fit of the sweater and the pants only heighten the allure of her shapely rear end, I decide to keep the thoughts to myself. Just looking at her quickens my heart rate and raises my blood pressure.

Picking up the fork, I turn the subject serious by asking if she saw or heard anything new on the news. "Todd found the cartoons and I didn't want to spoil it for him."

"I haven't seen these before," he pipes up defensively, having eavesdropped on us.

"You go right ahead, Youngman. But when your program is over, I need to catch some more news, if that's all right," I casually remark to him.

"No problem," he absently replies, his attention never shifting from the screen.

"You really shouldn't sit that close to the screen," Tara admonishes, her voice falling on suddenly deaf ears.

Bringing her plate from the stove, Tara takes the unoccupied stool next to mine with Todd on the other side. "This is delicious, Tara," I compliment her.

"It's nothing really. Anyone can make hash browns and fry fish."

"Then it must be the choice and amount of seasoning you used, because I haven't eaten this good for ages," I press on, enjoying the smile that lights up her face. "You know," I start, my voice growing solemn. "It may be selfish on my part, but I'd do anything in this world if it brings that lovely smile to your face."

A bright pink blush rises up the sides of her neck, infusing into her cheeks and highlighting her olive complexion. "You're a real silver tongued fool," she wryly remarks.

"Ouch! That hurts," I reply, feigning pain. Leaning over so I can put my mouth next to her ear, I softly whisper, "Wait till the next time we're alone, you'll be calling me more than a silver tongued fool."

"Shame on you!" she cries out, playfully pushing me away. "Eat up before your food gets cold."

"You two need to get a room," Todd admonishes us without looking away from the screen.

"The man that knows everything," I remark sarcastically. "When you finish that, hit the shower," I command. And then, as an afterthought, add, "I'm sure Tara has an outfit ready for you too."

"Touché," she says heatedly. Then, as soon as we all continue eating and silence ensues, she says softly, "As a matter of fact, I do have a few things set out for him. They might not fit too well, but I didn't see a washer and dryer, so we'll just have to make do. There are safety pins in the drawer in the bathroom, so I can always pin and tuck what's too big for comfort."

"Look out, Todd, we're all in trouble now," I flippantly remark.

My comment warrants me a raised eyebrow from Tara and I quickly return my attention to the plate of rapidly disappearing food. No sooner than I finish off the last tidbits, Tara takes my plate and stacks it atop her own before setting them in the sink. When she turns back toward me she is sporting the bottle of rum and two tumblers.

"Ready for a sip?"

"I would absolutely love one. Can we take it in the main room?" I suggest, rising from the uncomfortable stool.

Instead of taking the largest recliner facing the fireplace, I head straight for the overstuffed sofa. After dropping heavily into it, she hands me the glasses to hold. When she finishes pouring a goodly amount in each, I sadly note the reduced level left in the bottle. Walking over to the mantel, she sets the bottle in the place of honor atop it and returns to the sofa, where she carefully drops down beside me. Holding her glass out in front of her, she lifts her feet off the floor and curls up against me. There is an antique coffee table setting in front of the sofa and I lift my boot-clad feet and plunk them down on the marble top. It is not my nature to disrespect another person's property, but I'm feeling tired and uncaring. There are many more injustices in this world than how I treat someone else's furniture.

"What's next, Mac?" Tara wearily asks, her voice betraying the strain she's been under lately.

"Later, when dark is encroaching, I'll sneak back to the old fishing cabin and collect the helicopter. Larry will never forgive me if I let anything happen to his bird."

"No, that's not what I mean," she says quietly. "I'm talking about us and Todd. Where do we go from here? Since you've met me, you've been accused of kidnapping, the US government is after you for unknown reasons, and now it seems, there is at least one mob family with your name on their number one hit list."

"I've been in worse situations and I'm still kicking," I casually remark, taking a sip from the tumbler and then savoring the smooth golden glow of the rum sliding down my throat.

"I never should have asked for your help. It was wrong of me."

"Why did you?" I ask on a whim, hoping to draw out more about what Todd told me earlier regarding her instant liking of me. Even my ego needs a little polishing now and again.

Once again, she doesn't disappoint. "The moment I saw you, I knew I could trust you. It was what I saw in your eyes, you have kind eyes. When you looked at me, you saw the trouble I was in, and instead of asking a lot of questions, you just took control. You saved my life that night. You killed for me. No one else would have done that and you didn't even know me."

Before I can respond, I need another long sip. Throwing my head back and studying the ceiling for a minute, I speak softly and concisely, my voice emanating with all the sincerity in my soul, "Tara, the minute I laid eyes on you, I knew you were special. Call it love at first sight or any other silly thing you want. But it's gospel truth. Until I met you, there was something missing in my life and I didn't even know it." My throat suddenly seems dry and constricted and I take another long sip before continuing. "Honest to God, Tara, I still don't know what it is about you that drives me so crazy and makes me feel things I never thought I was capable of feeling. There's something extra special between us that I've never experienced before in my life. But now that I have, I will never be the same man. I don't think I can go back to what I was before you came into my life. You make my life worth living, Tara, and I sincerely mean that."

Suddenly feeling like a blubbering fool, I jerk upright, my feet coming off the coffee table and landing on the floor with a crash. "Listen to me," I spout angrily. "I can't even carry on a rational conversation without sounding like a wet-eared wimp. I'm really sorry you had to sit through all that drivel."

"Oh, Mac!" she cries out, reaching to pull me into her. "You're so right. The way you feel is exactly how I feel. Please don't feel ashamed of what we have," she desperately pleads, her voice cracking as tears run down her cheeks. "I couldn't stand to lose you," she whimpers, throwing her arms around my neck and burying her face against my chest.

I can feel the wet of her tears and her soft sobbing as it wrenches at me heart.

"Please, Tara, I can't stand it when you cry," I console, pushing the strands of her hair from her face so I can use my thumbs to wipe at her tears. "I'm so sorry that I made you cry."

"You make me so happy, Mac. I love you," she says, her breath hot against my ear.

"I love you, too, Tara. Until I met you, I've never really known what love was."

Her kisses are warm and wet against the side of my face and I'm suddenly glad that I took the time to shave, even though I did draw a little blood in the process. I can't believe that I'd been considering growing a beard for a disguise and am really glad that I decided against it when I considered how lame they are and used the razor that I'd found in the bathroom instead.

Turning my head toward her, our lips quickly find each other. I delight in the salty taste of her kiss and our passion is swiftly fanned into a burning pyre.

Carefully, I turn on the sofa, working my free hand around her back and pulling her on top of me. Although we are fully clothed, we feel the heat of each other's passion through the clothing, further fueling the other, when suddenly Todd walks into the main room and says loudly, "The news is back on the TV."

Laughing, we reluctantly untangle from each other's arms and legs, neither of us embarrassed by what Todd might be thinking or having seen. Rising, I head into the kitchen and pull up the stool before the TV. Todd was correct, the news is on.

Glancing at the clock on the microwave, I'm surprised to see that it is already a little after four in the afternoon. Turning toward the window, I note the length of the shadows outside and the already dimming daylight. Although it is warm and comfortable within the walls of the cabin, I realize that it is only an illusion and the outside temperature is much cooler.

After watching the news program from start to finish, I come away having learned little more than we learned from the earlier broadcast, except that there is a frost warning for the night and football season is underway.

When I re-enter the main room, Tara is sitting on the sofa where I left her, but the bottle of rum is now on the coffee table with our tumblers. Todd has disappeared and the bathroom shower is running.

"So, you're going to try cleaning the little man up, huh?"

"Please don't laugh at him when he comes out. He is a very proud boy and I don't want him feeling silly because of the clothes he has to wear."

"I'll do my best, but I make no promises," I tease.

Flashing me a knowing smile, she asks, "Drink before you go?"

"Please." Dropping onto the sofa next to her, I accept the proffered drink before saying, "I'm not sure I could ever get used to this."

"What's that?" she asked, leaning toward me, genuinely interested.

"A woman that doesn't begrudge me my rum. Cheers," I remark happily, clinking my tumbler against hers.

"To you," she says, taking a sip.

"Before I go, we should discuss what we're going to do about Todd. He's already asked me questions concerning his future."

"Then we should tell him what we will try to do for him, as well as the reality of what might happen," she says evenly.

"Maybe you should tell me what those two things are. You know I am behind you one hundred percent, but we have to be realists for his sake," I remark, sipping judiciously of the rum. It is the only bottle we have and there's no telling when next we'll be able to procure more.

"The reality is that he will always be involved in my life and vice versa. But I have to face the fact that he may not be allowed to live with us."

"I like that," I interrupt her. "Us. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Stay focused, Mac," she gibes, playfully hitting my arm.

"Okay, I can live with that. What you're trying to tell me is, if we get through this ordeal alive, your intentions are to adopt Todd and marry me, or in the reverse order?"

"Don't make me sound petty!" she says heatedly, her eyes sparkling with fire. Her hair has dried and for the first time since meeting her, I am witness to its fullness and length. It is beautiful hair, shiny and black with auburn rays highlighted by the fading sunlight slanting in through the patio doors.

"I'm sorry," I humbly reply. "Sincerely, I would like nothing more than to be married to you with Todd as my son. Nothing could make me happier or prouder."

"Thank you. But I won't hold you to that," she says softly, the heat of her anger having dissipated as quickly as it flared leaving her lips pouting and the fire still sparkling in the dark depths of her eyes.

Taking her in my arms, I kiss her long and hard, feeling the passion stirring within us like a physical being. When we separate, I see the promise of a wonderful night ahead. "You can tell Todd how much we both would be honored to have him as our son. Just don't get his hopes up too high. We are a long ways from being out of the woods here."

Retrieving the Cabella from the arm of the recliner, Tara holds it open for me to slip into, while apprehensively telling me to please hurry back.

"I won't be any longer than absolutely necessary," I reply, taking her in my arms and kissing her gently on the lips.

Without another word, I head out the door into the dwindling light of day. As an afterthought, I turn back toward her and say, "Lock the door and don't use any lights without closing all the blinds first."

"I know," she replies, lifting her hand in a weak attempt at a wave.

Instead of working my way through the woods, which would be shorter in distance, I determine that I can make better time by sticking to the roads. At a brisk walk, sometimes almost a run, I follow the driveway east until I reach the main road. By now it is already dark, the last hint of dusk just a faint memory. If my timing is correct, I should reach the old cabin just before the moon rises, giving me a point from which to navigate the little bird.

For the first mile or so, I jog along, my breathing steady, the night air crisp and exhilarating. Because it's the off-season, the road is deserted. Hunters and late-season fishermen should have already headed back to town or returned to their camps for the night.

So it comes as a surprise when I see the glow of headlights approaching from the south. They are still quite a distance off, so there isn't any need to panic. But as a precaution, I reduce my pace slightly and start paying more attention to the terrain directly next to the road's shoulder, subconsciously assessing the time it will take to reach cover when the lights get closer.

My haste stems from nothing more than a selfish need to reduce the time of separation between Tara and me. And yet, the need is sufficiently adequate to prevent me from seeking cover sooner rather than later. When I should have been well off the road and lost in the thick of cover growing along the roadside, I am still jogging down the side of the road when the vehicle's headlights disappear behind a dark solid object still a goodly distance off. Instinct is telling me to take cover, yet in my haste, I push on and suddenly find myself blinded by the lights of the oncoming vehicle as it comes racing around a sharp bend in the road.

If I duck for cover now, my actions will appear suspicious at the least and the local cops might be called to inspect for possible vandals working in the area. The nearest cabin to my present location is still the one where Tara and Todd are hiding and the most likely one they will check first.

My only option is to play along and act as if I belong. It is much too far to have jogged from town, so I need a destination that is closer and still plausible.

As the vehicle closes on me it begins to slow down. When it is less than fifty feet distant, I lower my head and hold my hand over the top of my face as if shielding my eyes from the lights. At the last minute, I smile and wave, continuing to jog along.

Although the vehicle was originally slowing, now it begins accelerating again, hopefully having decided that the stranger jogging along the side of the road at night isn't looking for a ride or help of any kind and is best left to his own devices. After all, there are all kinds of strange and eccentric people that come out to the country from the city and still feel the need to do what they do in the city.

When I am certain that the driver cannot see me in the darkness behind him, I stop and turn around studying the vehicle for a minute to see if it continues beyond the driveway that I recently exited or slows to turn in. For a long minute, I subconsciously hold my breath, waiting anxiously for the verdict. From this distance, I cannot see the driveway, but only if the brake lights should come on or not at the right time to make the turn will I know if that is where it is headed.

Already, the sound of the engine is lost in the darkness; only the flickering of the taillights to indicate the vehicle's progress. When they finally disappear for the final time, I can only assume that the vehicle has continued beyond the driveway leading to Tara and Todd and I exhale loudly, not sure how long I'd been holding my breath in.

Now, because I realize that I am not alone out here, my feet begin to run. It has become more than just my longing to be reunited with Tara that drives me forward. I would not be able to forgive myself if something should happen to her or Todd in my absence.

With my heart hammering and my chest sucking air in large gulps, I pass several more darkened driveways before coming to the over grown footpath that is the only trail leading to the abandoned fishing cabin. Without hesitation, I charge forward through the brush and tall grass. Several times, I find myself off the trail, but quickly reorient myself with the stars and continue charging forward.

In my breathless haste, I come running heavy-footed into the small clearing near the doorway to the cabin, stopping only when I realize that the door is hanging ajar in the dark.

Standing frozen, I slowly reach beneath my jacket for the magnum. When we left, we were extremely careful to leave the ramshackle building as securely sealed as was humanly possible. It would have take the ingenuity of a human being to open that door, or the extreme brawn of a full grown black bear, which I know haven't inhabited this area of the US for quite a few years.

Holding my breath, I slowly take a step backwards, retreating for the cover of the brush. Only when I am less than a foot from ducking into it, do I turn to the side and cautiously begin skirting the edge of the small clearing, working my way around to the shore.

As I round the edge of the cabin, I see the pile of brush covering the helicopter. In the dark, it appears untouched. Either whoever opened the cabin didn't find it, or they left it undisturbed so as not to alert anyone to their presence. But if the later were the case, why did they leave the door to the cabin standing open?

Moving quickly, I circle the chopper, taking only a minute to inspect it through the brush for any evidence of having been tampered with. When I find nothing obvious, I work my way back to the cabin from the other side. If someone is hiding within, hopefully they'll expect me to return from the same side in which we left.

Standing next to the open door, the gun cocked and at the ready in my right hand, I slowly peek around the doorjamb, my senses acutely attuned to every sound and smell emanating from the old and rotting structure. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I dumbly wonder how much longer it will stand before completely collapsing into little more than a pile of decaying rubble.

The smell of fried fish lingers cloyingly in the air, as well as the dead remains of last night's fire. Holding the magnum out in front of me, I step through the doorway, cringing at the loud creaking of rotted wood beneath my feet.

In a far corner, I hear a rodent scurrying for cover and I freeze, expectantly awaiting the roar and flash of a gun muzzle.

But the rodent retreats to his hiding place and only silence ensues. Cautiously, I take another step into the darker confines of the cabin, less annoyed this time by the sound of the creaking timbers as they adjust to my weight.

To my immense relief, a cursory search of the cabin, including a quick look into the cellar, turns up nothing. Returning to the doorway, I study it closely to see if I can determine the reason for its being open. My fingers immediately fumble over a rash of deep gouges in the old wood in the vicinity of the hasp.

With a small chuckle, I realize that the smell of fried fish attracted a family of raccoons. Their claw marks are suddenly very familiar to me, having had to deal with them since I was a small kid coming here with my dad. They were, after all, the main reason for the secure cache in the cellar.

Slipping the weapon back into the shoulder holster, I exit the cabin, momentarily debating whether it's worth the time or effort re-securing the door.

Having decided that it isn't, I return to the chopper and hastily pull away the loose brush, leaving it where it lands. While I work, my concern for Tara and Todd grows, forcing me to quicken my pace. I can't help but feel the time spent sneaking around and in the cabin is lost time that could have been better spent getting me back to them.

With the limbs and brush clear of the cockpit and blades, I swing open the access door on the pilot's side and jump in, forgoing a more thorough inspection of the exterior, though it goes against my grain to be so cavalier. Under normal circumstances, I would never have considered taking the bird into the sky without first doing a preflight walk around. But these aren't normal circumstances.

Flipping on the correct sequence of toggles, I listen to the slowly increasing whine of the turbine while growing increasingly impatient to be in the air and back with Tara.

To my delight, the moon is just rising, its first silvery rays of light stippling through the surrounding branches. Pushing the throttle forward, I feel the bird grow lighter, forcefully pushing the ground away. Within a matter of moments, I am above the trees with an unobstructed view of the moon before me.

Relishing the feel of the little bird surrounding me, I bank her back toward the reflection of the moon on the lake's surface, and level off just mere inches above the oily black water. Pulling back on the throttle, I head south and east, away from Tara and the luxurious cabin that she and Todd have taken refuge in.

It takes all my resolve not to fly straight back to her, but I must make a quick pass around the southern part of the lake and see how many cabins are occupied. There isn't any way to hide the sound of the chopper and over water at night, I have no doubt that everyone within twenty miles has probably heard it.

Feeling fortunate, I notice very few lights along the shoreline and most of those that I do see are little more than security lights, the dwellings themselves sitting dark and empty in the deeper shadows.

Banking around and going back the way I came, I once again continue on past the cabin with Tara and Todd, curious to what she must be feeling as she hears the chopper going past.

After making a quick inspection of the country to the north and west of the cabin, I bank around again and search for the right silhouette against the moonlit sky.

As I approach the general vicinity of the cabin, a flashlight suddenly comes on and moves in a side to side motion. It appears much nearer to the lake than should be possible and I quickly realize that someone is waiting out on the end of the dock for me. My heart soars and I almost flip on the landing lights just to see her face when I think better of it and slowly guide the bird up on to the back yard before setting her down.

Even before the blades stop rotating, Tara is pulling the door open and throwing her arms around my neck, pulling me half out of the cockpit. Reaching frantically for the harness release, I clutch at her, never wanting to be separated from her again so long as I live.

When we finally pull apart, I light-heartedly comment, "Did you miss me?"

Playfully, she hits me on the arm and says, "I was worried about you."

"I know," I sincerely remark before adding, "I was worried about you and Todd, too."

We hug each other again before I ask of her, "Where is the little man?"

"He's glued to the cartoon network."

"You would almost think he'd never seen cartoons before," I jokingly reply.

"I don't think he has, or at least not very often," she says, her tone of voice serious. "He told me his grandfather didn't have a TV and they didn't watch cartoons on the TV at the restaurant. But even if they had, he was only allowed in there when he was having a meal." She hesitates for a moment before adding, "I wouldn't be surprised if that wench of a waitress didn't steal his lunch money or demand a tip just because she knew she could get away with it. No one's ever looked out for him before, Mac. He's had to fend for himself his entire life."

"Well he's got you now and I don't think he could have asked for a better guardian angel."

"If I didn't know you any better, I'd swear you were trying to butter me up," she says with a coy laugh. "You aren't trying to get into my pants by any chance, are you?"

"Am I that obvious?"

Putting her face up to mine, we kiss long and gently, savoring the nearness of our touching lips. When we finally pull apart, she says huskily, "It isn't necessary, you know."

Although I seriously wanted to pursue the subject, there were more pressing concerns to deal with. Unlike the old fishing cabin with its unkempt surroundings, I couldn't just drag brush over the little bird to conceal it from casual observation. Here the lawns were clean and wide open, a large expanse of grassy slope rolling gently down to the shore of the lake. A large pile of brush setting out on the lawn like a burn pile would be almost as conspicuous as the chopper itself, maybe even more so.

That's it! This is a wealthy individual's cabin, after all, and a small chopper sitting out in the front lawn wouldn't draw any undue attention.

Then again, we could drag it around to the rear of the cabin. But if we receive unexpected visitors approaching down the driveway, we'll be caught on foot with no way of using the chopper for escape.

"We'll leave the bird out here on the lawn in plain view from the lake," I casually state, making her abruptly aware of the fact that my mind isn't always on sex.

"But what if someone sees it?" she hurriedly asks, glancing out over the moonlit water.

"This is a high-end piece of property, a small chopper sitting on the front lawn won't draw any undue attention," I respond, slipping my arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. "It's beautiful tonight," I say softly, admiring the view.

Glancing up into my face, she whispers equally softly, "Yes, it is."

With a gentle pressure, she moves me forward until we are standing on the end of the dock. There is a soft breeze blowing across the placid water creating barely distinguishable ripples. My nose detects just the slightest hint of wood smoke and I make a mental note of the direction from which it is blowing.

After a long moment of silence, each enjoying the other's nearness, the hairs suddenly rise on the back of my neck. My instincts have kept me alive on more than one occasion and I don't lightly ignore them.

"Don't move," I whisper softly, casually glancing over my right shoulder while feigning to kiss her on the side of the neck.

In one of the plate glass windows on the second floor of the cabin, I can just make out a silhouette of someone standing in the dark. Despite Todd watching TV in the kitchen there is no evidence of habitation, nothing to draw so much as a casual glance in the direction of the place.

### **6**

"There's someone in the loft," I whisper in her ear, holding her tightly against me to prevent her from suddenly moving or turning around.

"It's probably Todd," she whispers back. "He might have gone up there to see what is taking us so long in returning."

Her statement makes sense and I really want to believe it, but I'm not going to take any chances. "Come," I whisper. "Stay with me and move casually as if we suspect nothing."

Her grip tightens around my waist and together we stroll back up the lawn. When we reach the shadows of the building, I slip my hand inside my jacket and withdraw the magnum. Approaching the front door, I silently instruct her to remain next to the wall within the cover of the deeper shadows and then silently slip away from her.

Before inserting the key and turning the handle, I glance back at the spot where I'd left her, satisfying myself that she is indeed out of harm's way before entering the cabin.

The door opens noiselessly and I silently slip into the darker interior, quickly pulling the door shut behind me. Once inside, I wait for a moment while my eyes adjust to the shadows. The first thing I notice is the lack of light from the kitchen. The small TV has been turned off so maybe Tara was right after all and it was Todd in the loft looking out the window for us.

Yet, if I put myself in Todd's position as a young boy, it made more sense to actually go outside in search of us. But I'm not a young boy and putting myself in his position is a far stretch from reality.

Moving stealthily across the main room, I quickly hurry up the stairs, cringing at the creak of dry wood rubbing against dry wood. When my head comes level with the loft, I study the area directly between the windows and myself, searching for the outline that I'd made out from the ground below.

When I don't see it, I slip up into the loft and sidestep to the right, directly toward the bed. It takes only a moment for me to see the rise in the bedding, and realize that it is much too small of a mound to be an adult.

Softly, I question the darkness, "Todd?"

Murmuring comes from the bed and I instantly understand what has happened. Moving to the side of the bed, I verify my suspicions with a soft touch on the side of his face before pulling the bedding up around his little frame.

"Goodnight, Todd," I whisper, realizing that it was the angle from below that made the silhouette of his small frame appear larger than it really is.

As I move away from the bed, he speaks up, my kind words having woken him. "Mac?"

"Yes, Todd. What do you need?"

"Tara said that you and her are going to adopt me if you can. Is that true?" he timidly asks.

Not wanting to lead the child on or give him false hopes, I suddenly realize that what I am about to tell him is to prevent me getting my hopes up too. "Todd, no one would make me prouder to call my son than you. But we're in a lot of trouble, not the least of which is that we're being accused of kidnapping you."

"But that's not true!" he quickly argues. "I'll tell them it's not so."

"I know you will, Todd. But it's more complicated than that. There are bad men after us. Men that want to do harm to Tara and it's up to us to protect her from these men. Until we can get that business handled, everything else has to wait. For Tara's sake, we need to be brave and put our own needs on hold," I say with all honesty and sincerity, hoping the mature part of him will understand.

"I understand," he says disappointedly. And then his voice cheers up and he says with conviction, "We'll take care of her, won't we Mac?"

"You bet we will," I heartily agree. "Now get some sleep. You've had a long day."

"Good night, Mac."

"Night, Todd," I softly concur, tucking in the bedding around his shoulders for a second time.

Another voice suddenly startles me as it softly adds, "Good night, Todd."

Rising, I grab hold of Tara firmly by the shoulders and guide her down the stairs and toward the kitchen. Sternly, I reprimand her, keeping my voice low so Todd won't hear. "I told you to stay put outside by the door!"

"I heard you," she nonchalantly replies, hiding a smirk from me.

"Then why didn't you do as I ask?" I demand, trying to sound angrier than I was.

"I was worried about you," she says defensively, the smirk turning into a pout.

When we reach the kitchen, I turn her around to face me, and with my face inches from hers, firmly scold her. "In the future, when I tell you to do something, you do it. You don't think for yourself, you just do it! Do you understand?"

"Only that you want me to do something," she says coyly, enjoying my aggravation. "Does that mean when we're making love too?"

"Tara, this isn't funny. There might come a time when our lives depend on you doing precisely what I ask of you. My ability to protect us will be greatly impaired if I can't count on you being where I asked you to be."

Her voice betrays her sincerity in the darkness and I realize she isn't fooling around any longer when she says, "I'm sorry, Mac. From now on when you tell me to do something, I'll do it. You can count on me, I promise."

"I'm sorry too that I was short with you," I apologize.

Moving close to me, her voice again teasing, she says, "Now what would you like me to do?"

"Turn on the TV so we can catch some news," I state firmly, holding her by the shoulders.

"You're no fun," she says resignedly as she turns away and flicks on the TV.

"I'll show you later how much fun I can be."

Smiling, she offers to fix coffee. Together, we drink coffee and watch the little TV, hoping to hear more about our situation. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, there is little more to add to what we already know. It appears that the search for Todd and thus Tara and I is still centered on Vegas. When the news is over, we switch it off and sit silently in the dark, our empty mugs on the counter before us.

After a long moment, I say, "Tomorrow, I need to find a phone that can't be traced back here and place a few calls. There are a few people in high places that know me well enough to know that I wouldn't kidnap a child. They'll be able to help, if I can come up with a plan. It won't be easy convincing the authorities that a federal judge is guilty of murder or conspiracy to commit murder."

"What if you can't find anyone to help us?" she asks, her voice anxious with fear.

"As long as we're together, we'll find a way," I say, sounding more confident that I'm feeling since I have no idea as to what we are going to do if my contacts should treat me as a pariah, preferring instead to believe a federal judge than an alcoholic loser. It's not as if I've stayed in touch with them unless I've had a need of them. Except for Larry, I have no associates that I see socially. But I don't think I'll share that tidbit with Tara.

"If you want to share the bed with Todd, I'll stretch out on the sofa. It's been a long day and I'm about done in," I casually suggest, stretching my arms and yawning.

"Would you mind if I stayed on the sofa with you?" she timidly inquires, not moving in the darkness.

"Baby, I would love nothing more than for you to join me on the sofa. In fact, I think I saw extra blankets in the closet. I'll get them and meet you in the main room," I tell her encouragingly, genuinely excited at the thought of her lying next to me.

I follow her movement across the kitchen by the sound of her footsteps. When she draws abreast of me, she stops and turns to face me. "Thank you, Mac."

"Don't mention it," I casually respond.

"You truly are one of a kind," she replies sincerely before continuing on out of the kitchen and across the main room to the bathroom.

Savoring the scent of her in the darkness, I stand in silence, unmoving, when a sudden ripple vibrates through the floor. Even before the concussion fades an echo like distant thunder resounds across the lake.

Without giving thought to my actions, I bolt across the main room and out the front door. Turning toward the lake at a dead run, my boots slip on the dew laden grass and my feet almost go out from under me. But like a wild animal, my instincts and natural agility correct for the poor footing and I continue on toward the dock.

But it isn't necessary for me to reach the dock in order to see what has happened. The sky to the south and east is alight with fire like the Aurora Borealis!

My heart racing, I turn and charge back to the cabin. Tara is already coming out the door and we meet on the stoop. "What is it? What's happening?" she anxiously demands, her voice betraying her fear though her face is a mask in the dark.

"Get Todd, we have to get out of here now!" I command before turning back to the front lawn and the little chopper.

I'd gone less than ten feet when I remembered my bottle of rum and then chastised myself for even thinking of it at a time like this. Yet, as I do a quick preflight around the chopper, a smile comes to my face and I slowly relax. It's just like old times; nothing really matters so long as I've got my rum.

As I go around the passenger's side, I open the cockpit and leave it that way for Todd and Tara. Of course, I realize that things do matter. No longer is it just me against the odds. I've found someone that means something more to me than anyone or anything else ever has and I can't ignore that. Yet by the same token, I can't afford to let that influence my judgment or I won't function efficiently in a time of crisis when it might mean the difference between life and death.

Sitting in the pilot's seat and listening to the engine starting to whine, I suddenly wonder if it was Larry that gave me up without realizing what he was doing. Although that seemed the most logical explanation for them finding the old fishing cabin, I couldn't bring myself to believe he would be that naïve.

Larry and I go a long ways back. If he saw the kidnapping report on the news, the last thing he would believe is that I actually kidnapped someone, especially a child. He knows me better than that.

And he also knows that I must be in deep trouble for taking his bird when I knew that it was suffering from mechanical problems, even if they were slight. He would also be wondering why I hadn't contacted him yet. For those reasons alone, he would find any questioning from anyone suspect, including law enforcement officers. Having been shot at would be enough to make him clam up until he heard directly from me.

As much as I wanted to contact him and let him know what was going on, the opportunity just hasn't presented itself. If I'd called him from the restaurant at the airfield and they have a trace on his phone they would have known where we were even sooner than they did.

Yet, there wasn't any mention of new leads on the news reports that we caught on the television. Does that mean the local and state law enforcement agencies aren't involved in this search? Or did Larry really inadvertently give us up?

Of course, there is always the possibility that they questioned someone who knew my dad and they talked about the old fishing cabin. Putting our direction of escape together with its location wouldn't take much brain power to come up with our whereabouts.

Whatever the case, it's irrelevant now. Right this minute the only important thing is finding someplace safe to hide Todd and Tara. Fortunately, there are still a couple of places we can go that are within range of the little chopper, even carrying the weight of three people. The trick is going to be reaching one of them without being seen.

Tara reaches the little chopper first, a small satchel clutched tightly in her right hand. Todd is close on her heels. He, too, is carrying a small bag. But held firmly in his right hand is the old fishing pole I gave him.

As Tara climbs into the passenger's seat, I yell at her that Todd needs to leave the fishing pole behind. "I already told him that there isn't room," she yells back, placing the small bag on the floor between her feet.

Todd hands her the small bag he is carrying first, which she places on the floor next to hers, and then hands her the fishing pole. Although she is acutely aware of me watching her, she takes the rod and wedges it between the seats, carefully insuring that it doesn't interfere with my operation of the machine.

Purposely not acknowledging my scowl, she gives Todd a hand as he climbs onto her lap and together they pull the safety harness into place. With a soft swooshing sound, the door is pulled shut and it's suddenly quiet enough within the cab to carry on a normal conversation.

Ignoring my scowl, Tara turns toward me with a slight smile and says, "We're all set."

"I can see that," I gruffly mumble, unable to work up a real sense of anger toward them.

Pushing the throttle all the way forward, the small bird slowly lifts off the ground and then hovers for a long moment just a couple feet off the grass, unable to rise any higher. Pushing the stick forward, it feels as if we are going to scrape along the ground as the tail rises and the nose dips back toward earth, just barely clearing the upright blades of grass. Using the foot pedals, I turn her out toward the water and let her pick up speed as she slips down the gradual slope of the lawn, the black oily water appearing more threatening than I remember.

By the time we reach the water's edge and the dock is slipping by on the right, we have sufficient air speed to slowly gain in altitude and I quickly bank her back to the right, planning on hugging the shoreline to avoid detection.

With our air speed steadily increasing, I slowly lift the nose until we are just above the tree tops growing along the edge of the lake. From our vantage point in the sky, I can see the flames from the old fishing cabin in my rear vision mirror. Tara and Todd are unaware of the fire raging behind us and I see no point in making them aware of it. If they see the damage and destruction of the old cabin it will only cause them unnecessary worry.

For the moment, I have matters of more importance to deal with. First and foremost, I have to decide on the safest location for Todd and Tara. Although I am tempted to try a desert crossing and head due south for Vegas, the last place Judge Garner or his cronies would expect us to run toward now, my better judgment is telling me to go south and west into Napa Valley where we might find some help in the way of old friends. Crossing the cascades with an overloaded bird will be a bit treacherous, but no less dangerous than getting caught out in the middle of nowhere with no witnesses to our demise. Thanks to my wild-west reputation, it would take very little fabricating or explaining when we are all killed in a shootout in the desert. They may even go so far as to pin Todd and Tara's deaths on me, fabricating a story around me using them as hostages and me killing them when my demands aren't meant.

We were definitely dealing with some serious players. Not just anyone can come up with the type of incendiary device that took out the old cabin. And was it fired from a boat, land, or out of the sky via a Blackhawk helicopter?

Although the answer could affect my immediate plans in a very large way, the part of me that logged such information away for future reference sincerely hoped that some day I would discover the source, but only for reference purposes. In the meantime, I intended on keeping this bird as close to the tree tops as is physically possible.

"Where are we going?" Tara suddenly asks, having moved past the guilt of allowing the fishing pole on board.

"Someplace safe," I simply reply, still not one-hundred-percent certain of my plan.

"That's what you said about the old cabin," she says accusingly. "And that's what you said when we moved into the luxury cabin," she adds with a smirk. But when I don't bite, she grows serious and asks, "What caused the explosion, anyway?"

It was a direct question and there didn't seem any point in lying to her. Obviously they'd seen the fire after all. "An incendiary device. I don't know anymore than that."

She takes a moment to digest it before asking, "Where did it come from? And if they knew we were there, how long will it take before they realize they didn't get us?"

"Good questions," I smile at her, impressed that she was thinking so clearly despite the stress. There was more to this girl than I first realized. All bullshit aside, I started, "I have a hunch that it might have been launched from one of those Blackhawk birds we saw back at the airfield. But that's only an educated guess. So far as them discovering they missed us, probably not until first light. By then the ashes should be cool enough for them to sift through. How long that will actually take depends on the experience of the crew. In the meantime, I doubt if the Blackhawk will be sitting idle waiting." I pause for a moment before adding, "Of course, I might be completely wrong about that. There is the other scenario where they simply over ran the cabin with ground forces and grenades, not taking any chances on us being able to shoot back. But either way, they won't know until first light that they didn't get us."

"Where will we be by sunup?"

You're just full of good questions," I reply with a grin, liking her more by the minute. "Somewhere in the Cascades. I've got a few places in mind where they shouldn't be able to find us. We'll hide throughout the day in case someone happens to see us flying low and reports it. Even though it will mean night flying and hugging the ground to avoid radar, we should be able to see anyone on the ground before they see us, unless they're sitting in the dark."

"And then what?"

"I've got some friends in Napa Valley that will help us out," I tell her with more confidence than I'm really feeling. I also neglect to tell her that flying at night over a mountain range with an overloaded bird that is leaking oil is downright foolhardy. But I have a feeling she's already figured that one out.

Todd suddenly asks, "Can I have a piece of candy?"

"Candy?" I curiously inquire. "We have candy?"

"Sure," she replies to Todd, stretching an arm down to retrieve one of the bags on the floor by her feet while saying to me, "He found a cache of supplies in the cellar while I waited out on the dock for you."

"It figures he would find a stock of candy," I sarcastically remark before turning to look at his face in the dim light and asking, "I don't suppose you found anything useful, huh kid?"

Before he can answer, Tara sharply retorts in his defense, "They're energy bars. I think the owner of the cabin is a health nut with only one vice."

"And what would that one vice be?" I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Like you, he has a penchant for fine West Indies rum," she smugly replies, turning up her nose to exaggerate her meaning.

As I begin to formulate my next question, she anticipates my words and says, "Yes, Todd insisted that I include a bottle with the supplies. Though I'm sure the extra weight has put all of our lives at risk."

"Thanks, Big Guy," I sincerely remark, while silently reprimanding myself for having balked at him bringing the old fishing pole along. In a way, it was quite a compliment to me that he put such a high value on my gift to him.

"You're welcome," he says quietly, already chewing away on the energy bar that Tara fished out of her bag.

"Are you hungry? We have energy bars and high calorie bulking drinks," she says with a smirk.

"Do I look like I need to bulk up?"

In answer, her hand slips stealthily across to my lap and playfully squeezes the inside of my thigh. "I think you're fine just the way you are," she says with exaggerated innocence.

Placing my hand on hers, I give it a gentle squeeze in reply and regret. Tonight could have been something extraordinary for us if it hadn't been so rudely interrupted.

But I'm not one to cry over what might have been. Instead, I look for ways to improve what is. For the time being, we are together and healthy. And for the time being, that is more than enough.

"Did you get a look at the label on that bottle?" I ask, anticipating a prize.

"I'm sure you won't be disappointed," she coyly replies.

"I'm not a baby," Todd suddenly pipes up. "I know what you're talking about."

"What are we talking about?" Tara presses him, misunderstanding his concerns.

"You know what," he says disgustedly.

"You're right, Todd. So we'll change the subject," I quickly interject, remembering my own feelings and insecurities at his age. "Why don't we talk about fishing, instead? That's a subject we can all join in."

Having second thoughts about having interrupted our playful conversation that discomfited and discluded him, he tiredly replies, "I think I'll just look at the stars for awhile, if that's all right."

"Sure," I sympathetically reply. "Would it be too much trouble to break out that bottle of rum so I can take a look at it?" I ask of Tara, giving her hand another squeeze.

"No trouble," she quickly replies, reaching down beside her seat for the satchel. Within a matter of moments, she's retrieved the bottle and is screwing the cap off.

"What are you doing?" I ask incredulously.

"I am going to have a shot. Would you like one?"

My instinct is to protest, yet, I am unable to resist, despite needing to keep all of my senses alert and unaltered or hampered by alcohol. At any moment, I may be called upon to use my quick reflexes to avoid catastrophe. "Yes, I would love one," I resignedly accept.

Tara takes a long swallow, holds the bottle out in front of her so that Todd doesn't have to inhale the fumes, and then gasps for breath before replying, "Damn, that's good stuff. I think you'll approve of Todd's find."

Taking the proffered bottle, I too take a long swig. Unlike Tara, I don't feel a need to gasp for my next breath and instead, simply savor the warmth of the distilled sugar cane as the fiery liquid runs down my throat.

Handing back the bottle, I agree with her earlier comment and acknowledge the quality of the rum. "It is exceptional," I remark, licking my lips and silently thinking that it's much better than the discount stuff I usually buy.

We fly on for a little while longer before the western bank of the lake gradually looms before us. The beach is clear, moonlit sand running north and south like a lighter colored ribbon in the night.

To this point, I've kept the throttle pressed forward, pushing the little engine at maximum-safe RPMs just for this moment. Pulling back on the stick, the nose lifts skyward and a small gasp escapes Todd's lips as the forward windscreen is filled with nothing but stars.

"How's that for star gazing, Big Guy?" I ask, glancing over to see the awe in his face.

When I reach six hundred feet elevation in relation to ground level, I taper off and drop back a hundred feet to gain forward speed and avoid a stall. Because I am concerned that if there is a Blackhawk involved in the destruction of the old fishing cabin and that it more than likely has radar and infrared capabilities on board, I don't want to stay above the trees any longer than absolutely necessary to find a road that we can follow by moonlight.

To our good fortune, we are barely over the trees when we see a path cut through the trees almost directly below us. It is a paved driveway that cuts in from the south and leads due west.

Our stomachs rise from the negative g-force of descent as I literally drop the bird back down to ground level by quickly guesstimating impact and then compensating at the last moment. It is a dangerous stunt that might have left a lesser pilot impacted on the asphalt, especially with such an over-burdened bird.

But when it comes to this little bird, I am not just an ordinary pilot; I am an exceptional pilot! When it comes to flying by the seat of my pants, especially without benefit of lights or gauges, I have no equal, though Larry might argue that point. This bird and I are as one. I can feel the stress and strains on the airframe as if they were being applied to my own body.

The drive was cut through the trees with sufficient room for two vehicles to easily pass, with an adjoining grass verge to either side. It is more than sufficiently wide for the blades of the chopper so long as I remain centered near the middle of the lane.

With our airspeed at just over forty MPH, we zip along the infrequently winding lane at an elevation of approximately ten feet. Without that shot of rum, I'm not sure I would have the cojones for such daring flying and I'm about to ask Tara for another.

But it's not to be. Before I am ready for it, we come to the intersection of the main road. If not for the moon's bright glow, I would not have seen it coming in time to adjust my course and avoid crashing head on into a stand of trees.

Banking hard right, the overhead rotors almost striking the asphalt, we make the turn and find ourselves shooting down a two-lane highway in the direction of California.

With an open expanse of road ahead and no danger of hitting anything, I turn to Tara and suggest another hit on the bottle. To my amazement, she is still holding onto it, her knuckles visibly white.

Without further encouragement, she opens the cap and takes a swig before passing it over to me, her voice a bit breathless as she says, "I didn't see that coming. We might have crashed back there."

"All that matters is that I saw it," I calmly reply with a lopsided smile. "Cheers," I add, taking a long swallow to calm my nerves before reluctantly handing her the back the bottle. It doesn't escape my notice that she takes another quick sip before stashing it back between her feet.

We fly on in silence for a while, when headlights suddenly break over a rise in the road ahead. Without breaking stride, I lift the nose and rise to a safe fifty feet. With no running lights on, my main concern is being silhouetted against the stars in the night sky while I'm confident that our engine noise will be drowned out by the sound of their tires on the pavement.

"Will they see us?" Todd asks, concerned.

"No," I confidently reply, and then qualify my response with, "They're moving too fast."

Within a minute, the vehicle has passed beneath us and I lower the bird back down to ten feet. We continue on this way through most of the night; lifting and going over the sporadic traffic as we encounter it while hugging the road. When the sun begins to brighten the eastern horizon, I glance at the fuel gauge and start wondering where to set her down for the day.

Almost as if on cue, a small mom and pop gas station/general store suddenly appears on the side of the road just ahead of us. Looking out over the horizon to my right and not seeing any yard lights, I put the little bird in a gently bank, turning in that direction. Tara reaches over to the side and grips the grab bar, Todd sound asleep in her arms.

The moon has been down a while and the ground is only a darker shade of dark. Being forced to slow to a crawl, I hunt frantically for a dry ravine or gulley; somewhere I can hide the bird for the day. In the back of my mind I'm thinking that if I can't find something soon, I will be too far from the service station to comfortably hike back.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the ground grows more visible with the breaking day. Suddenly, I can just make out a darker stretch of country just a short distance ahead. Yet, even before I reach it, the sun shoots over the horizon and then just as suddenly as the sun breaks, I drop over the lip of a wide ravine and disappear from sight.

Setting the bird down on the ground, I immediately kill the engine and exit the cockpit, quickly scurrying back to the lip of the shallow canyon. Studying the sky, my ears piqued for any sounds that don't belong. Not hearing the thump-thump of helicopters, I finally exhale and relax for the first time since before the explosion back at the cabin and settle back on my haunches.

The sound of footsteps scrabbling up the slope behind me causes me to turn. Reading the relief on my face, Tara knows instantly that we are alone and she too visibly relaxes.

"You might want to make Todd comfortable," I suggest with a weak smile of encouragement. "This is where we're camping for the day."

Instead of retreating down the ravine to the chopper, she lowers herself down next to me and casually studies the eastern sky. "It's beautiful," she softly remarks, observing the brightening hues of purples and oranges.

"Fortunately, we'll only be exposed to the sun for a short while. This time of the year, it rides fairly low on the southern horizon. In midsummer, it can get downright uncomfortable out here in the open," I remark, thinking back to another time.

Her next comment catches me off guard, when she suddenly says, "I saw you studying the fuel gauge just before we landed. I don't know about you, but I've never heard of a mom and pop service station in the middle of nowhere selling aviation grade fuel." She doesn't say anything for a moment, as if waiting for me to respond, and then accusingly adds, "I thought you said we could make it to Napa Valley on a tank of fuel. Were you wrong or just trying to make me feel better at the time?"

"No, I wasn't wrong. Unfortunately, we didn't start off with a full tank of fuel. Todd's grandfather ripped us off. If we hadn't had to leave in such an all-fired hurry, I would have topped them off myself. But with those Blackhawk choppers coming toward us, we had no choice but to hightail it out of there." I took a breath and then resignedly add, "There didn't seem any point in concerning you over it and I certainly didn't want Todd overhearing such a thing about his grandpa. The kid's had to live down enough already, thanks to his family."

"Thank you. That's very considerate of you," she says gently, putting a hand on my arm. "But what do we do now? Can that little chopper fly on regular?"

"It might," I wryly grin. "But we can't just fly in and say, 'filler up', now can we?"

"No, I suppose not."

"I can hike back there and get us some coffee, though. Maybe even donuts," I say with an ironic smile. After a long pause, I become serious again before continuing, "I need to make a phone call, Tara. We can't go much farther with the little bird unless I bring in help. Unfortunately, if my friend's phone is being monitored, we'll be tipping our hand and all Hell will come raining down on us."

From left field, she suddenly suggests, "Why don't we hitchhike to your friends in Napa Valley?"

"Surely, you jest," I laugh before thinking it through.

Hurt and angered by my light dismissal of her idea, she angrily replies, "No! I happen to be dead serious. Haven't you ever had to thumb a ride before?"

"Yes, I've been forced to use my thumb on occasion. With varying degrees of success, I might add. But never under these circumstances. In case you've forgotten, we're fugitives from the law. Our faces have been plastered all over the country. In fact, there are probably flyers hanging in the gas station windows just up the road."

Suddenly looking more hurt than angered, she timidly replies, "You're right, as usual. I hadn't considered that."

Feeling ashamed at having laughed at her suggestion, I tenderly apologize. "I'm sorry. I should have been more respectful of your idea. It's not as if I have anything better to offer."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she says coyly, snuggling in close. "You did offer coffee and donuts, as I recall. Or were you just teasing me again?"

"Not at all. I never tease," I add with a grin, kissing her lightly on the top of the head.

While I set out across the desert in the direction of the highway, Tara returns to the chopper to check on Todd. When I've gone just a short distance, I glance back and am relieved to note that even in the light of day the ravine is unnoticeable from even a short distance.

When I am less than a quarter mile from the highway, I suddenly wonder if it would be more prudent of me to approach the store from the west rather than the east. Moreover, if I approach from the west, the proprietor won't find it suspicious when I continue on in the same direction, making the return trip shorter.

With that decision made, I veer west and continue a course that keeps me parallel to the highway and yet far enough distant that by remaining to low ground I'm invisible from the highway.

Within the hour, I have traveled well beyond the store and am moving back toward the highway again. As I approach the two lane blacktop, I notice that the traffic is well spaced out, mostly long haul truckers hauling their loads to and from the population centers of California with a smattering of fast moving cars and the occasional pickup thrown in. I make the assumption that the pickups are likely to be carrying armed hunters coming out of the California interior while the cars are probably just traveling salesmen and casino bound tourists. By timing my crossing of the final stretch of terrain before reaching the highway proper, I can run from cover and be on the roadway before being seen. Once on the highway, I will appear as nothing more than a hitchhiker on his way to Reno.

There is little cover the last few hundred feet, so I wait in a shallow ditch until the highway is clear for as far as I can see in both directions. Then, when I'm certain that the last passing care is far enough in the distance to not take notice of someone running out of the ditch, I bolt from cover, not stopping until I am striding casually along the shoulder in the direction of the store. I purposely walk toward the oncoming traffic because I don't want anyone stopping to offer me a ride this close to my destination.

Fifteen minutes later, I am pushing open the old wood and glass door with a tiny tin bell dangling from the top. As the bell sounds its tinny sound, I am accosted by a mixed aroma of stale sawdust and staler cigar smoke mixed with something even less pleasant as well as a gruff old voice calling out 'good morning' from a far corner.

"Good morning to you," I call back, glancing around quickly to familiarize myself with the interior of the building while letting my eyes adjust to the darker shadows.

The layout is typical of most old buildings built in the twenties and thirties. The front of the store is all large paned glass looking out on the pump island with aisles running perpendicular to it. Directly to my right, running along the farthest wall, is a large wood counter with a heavy glass front. There is a clear pathway leading directly to the counter so that the man operating the till can see who's coming and going while keeping an eye on the pumps out front. All pretty much a standard arrangement.

At the moment, the proprietor is near the rear of the store where he is busily moving inventory, having been alerted to my entrance by the jingle of the little tin bell.

Glancing down at my feet, I take notice of the well-worn, pine plank floor that hasn't seen any maintenance in many a year, adding to the questionable charm and ambience of the place. The ceiling is high with a stamped tin-plate covering most of it, a few missing here and there along with many years of cobwebs hanging thick in the corners.

The frail old man working his way along the back of the counter appears as ancient as the building itself and I quickly realize where the place gets its distinct ambiance and character. That indistinguishable odor now has a source. "What can I do for you?" he asks in a cigar-tortured voice while eyeing me over with a scrutinizing eye that drifts past me and to the empty fuel island out front where there should be a vehicle waiting. At least Tara had the foresight to select hunting garb for me so that I don't appear too out of place for this time of the year.

Before I can tell him that I'm just picking up a few items for the road, he asks. "How'd you get here?" lifting one eye as if expecting me to lie.

"I walked the last mile or so," I casually reply. When he doesn't respond, but just stares at me suspiciously, I quickly continue, "I rode most of the night with a trucker headed for Reno. He knew about this place so I asked him to drop me off before we got here. That way, I could take care of my constitution in the desert and not have to trouble anyone."

"Sure," he mumbles, possibly believing my story. "I appreciate that, since we don't have public restrooms anyway," he gratefully acknowledges.

"That's what the trucker said. He comes through this way all the time and said he knew all the rest stops and that this place wasn't one of them."

"So, why didn't you continue on to the Fly and Buy just up the road?" he asks, still a bit suspicious, but not wanting to create waves.

"When you gotta go, you gotta go," I laughingly reply.

He grunts in acknowledgement and states, "I don't accept anything but cash and major credit cards," putting my itinerary behind him and moving on to the business at hand.

"It'll be cash," I reassure him. "Do you have a pay phone? I didn't see one outside."

"Far corner, by the soft drink machine," he answers, indicating a spot directly behind me.

Turning, I thank him and head toward it when I suddenly have second thoughts. Following my instincts, I decide to leave the phone call for last, feigning a need for coins, even though I had planned on the call being a collect call. If the call is traced or monitored, I wanted as large a head start as possible.

Moving up and down the aisles, I notice that the old man has lost interest and returns to his busy-work at the back of the store. When I've gathered up a large armload of supplies and have fixed two large cups of coffee with lids, I head to the cash register. Almost as if on cue, the old man comes scurrying from the rear, reaffirming my belief that he hadn't stopped watching me after all.

"I'll need some change for the phone too, if that's not a problem."

His expression changes at the sight of my cash and he suddenly starts behaving like an old friend, wanting to talk about the great herds of elk still roaming freely through the high plains. Once started, he doesn't shut up and I slowly back pedal towards the payphone, my head nodding up and down like a wobble-head doll.

Only when I turn my back to him and start dialing, does he finally grow quiet; probably because he's more intent on eavesdropping on my conversation than carrying on a discussion. Judging by the looks of the place, news and visitors were few and far between.

Speaking softly so that the old man can't hear, I make the call as short as possible. With my paper sack of goods held securely beneath my arm, I bid him farewell and head out the door, his voice droning after me. Cutting through the pump island, I head east down the highway, glancing back occasionally as if watching for the right vehicle to beckon with my thumb.

Within a mile, the road dips slightly and I drop from sight of the store. Using the cover offered by the natural lay of the land, I cut out into the desert at a terrain-eating jog, being careful not to spill the coffees. When the ravine draws into view, I slow my pace and study the surrounding terrain for movement, especially my back trail. Not seeing anything, I drop over the bank to see Todd and Tara sitting in the chopper, the doors standing ajar to create a cross breeze.

Seeing me approach, they jump out of the little bird and come running to greet me, their relief at my return evident in the expressions on their faces.

Todd is the quicker of the two and catches me off guard when he un-expectedly throws his arms around my waist. "We were scared that you might not come back," he says excitedly, gripping me tightly in his little arms. Then he quickly steps back and corrects himself, "Tara was more worried than me. I knew you'd be back."

"Thanks, Todd. Your confidence in me is sincerely appreciated," I reply. "Here, can you take this for me?" I ask, handing him one of the paper sacks and ruffling his hair with my newly freed hand. When he turns to head back to the chopper, I quickly stop him. "Whoa there Big Guy." When he stops and looks back up at me, I reach into the bag and retrieve the two cups of coffee and then tell him, "There are donuts in there somewhere, if you're hungry."

"Oh wow!" he says excitedly, hurrying back toward the chopper with the bag held precariously in his little hands.

"There are sodas, too," I mutter unheard, knowing he'll find them all on his own.

"Thank you," Tara says, taking the proffered coffee. "I can really use this." She takes a sip and glances back toward Todd before asking, "Any problems?"

"None," I casually reply, trying to decide if I should tell her everything, or hold back some of it to keep her from worrying excessively. Deciding that she can handle the whole story and is deserving of it, I solemnly continue, "I called my friend in Oregon and told him where we are. As you know, it's possible that his phone was tapped or a trace initiated. Either way, we need to stay alert today. It would also be a good idea if we made camp a little ways away from the chopper."

Though she appears concerned, she isn't frantic. Instead, she calmly asks, "What did you tell your friend, besides our location?"

"I told him that his bird is still airworthy, though in need of fuel, and to bring the cavalry," I teasingly reply.

Giving my arm a reassuring squeeze, she says, "Everything will work out for the best, I'm sure."

"Come on, let's get some of those donuts before he finishes them all off," I joke, smiling encouragingly.

When the donuts and coffee are all gone, I suggest that we gather everything of use together and distribute it between our packs and bags. After double-checking all the compartments on the chopper to be sure nothing of use is left behind on the off chance that we don't or can't make it back to it, I take the lead and head due west of the ravine, traveling parallel to the highway, but out of sight of it. Todd, with his youthful energy constantly runs out ahead of us and then just as quickly returns, sometimes bearing found treasures, sometimes just telling us of his finds with unbound enthusiasm.

During the times of his absences, Tara and I discuss the potential future and what would make us both happy. Although it seems like a stretch, considering our current situation, we discover that we are both longing for a stretch of solitude and peace in which we can explore each other more intimately. The little time we've spent alone together will always remain a precious time for both of us. No matter what the future holds, no one can take that away from us.

When we are approximately two miles from the chopper and about the same distance from the highway, I call a halt. Tara and I are both feeling the physical strains of the journey, as well as the lack of sleep. While Todd, on the other hand, still appears refreshed and overflowing with energy and enthusiasm.

There is a shallow dip in the terrain, and I lead the way down the gradual slope until we are at the lowest point. Near the bottom is a small stand of mesquite, the branches appearing dead, yet still bearing enough foliage to provide cover from above should we be forced to retreat into it.

"We'll rest here for the rest of the day," I say, dropping the bags I'm carrying. "We'll take turns watching for intruders from the rim, and Todd, since you have the most energy, you've been elected to go first."

"All right!" he says excitedly. What do I do? Do I get the gun?"

"Hold on one minute fella," I laugh, noting with humor the shocked expression on Tara's face. "No one is going to use this gun but me. Okay?" When Todd sullenly nods understanding, his face betraying the depth of his disappointment, I continue with his specific instructions, indicating the precise place I want him to take up his position. Speaking to him as if he were a soldier in my command, I finish with, "Now go to it. We're all counting on you to keep us safe," watching him slowly shuffle up the slope with a can of soda in his left hand and a stick in his right to fend off snakes with.

Before he is even halfway up the slope, Tara turns on me. "You could have been a little gentler with him," she scolds under her breath, not wanting the boy to hear her. "He feels much older than eight, even if he isn't."

"It's also important that he realize the seriousness of the situation. My friend will understand the hidden meaning in our conversation, and although he will know where the chopper is hidden, he should be the only one that knows we are in this position. But if anyone else deciphers the encrypted meaning or our words, our enemies will also know we are here. And if that happens, our life or death might be determined by the maturity of that child up there. This is not the time to mollycoddle him."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," she reluctantly agrees. After a long silence, she asks, "What are we going to do when your friend gets here?"

Although, I was hoping that I wouldn't have to tell her before it actually started going down as I know she won't agree to it, I can't lie to her, either. Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and begin explaining what I've determined we must do and what I have already laid out with Larry.

"When Larry arrives, he'll be bringing fuel and oil for the bird we left in the ravine. We'll top up the one he's bringing with fuel and then we'll take it to a mutual friend of ours in Napa Valley. The one in the ravine will go back across the border into Nevada to that little airstrip where we picked up Todd and get fuel there before returning to Oregon.

"Who is the 'we' going to Napa Valley?" she skeptically questions.

This is the part I was hoping not to have to tell her about until it was actually happening. But now that she brought it up, it's time to bring it out in the open and let the cards fall where they may. "The 'we' in that statement is you and I, sweetheart," I hesitantly begin. When she doesn't say anything, I slowly continue. "Todd is going back to Oregon with Larry."

"No!" she suddenly lashes out with hurt and anger. "No. I won't let you separate us, Mac. I promised him my help and I'm not going to leave him now."

Taking her by the arms and holding her tight, I try to explain why we can't keep Todd with us. But she refuses to listen, stammering instead that she never expected me to betray her like all the other men in her life before me had.

"Listen to me!" I command, raising my voice involuntarily. Glancing up the slight rise, I see Todd has turned and is looking down at us. I wonder how much he can hear and although I am struck by a shot of guilt, it just as quickly passes. "We're not abandoning him, Tara," I firmly argue with her, pulling her against my chest for comfort. "It's important that we're able to move with speed and stealth and we can't do that with a child slowing us down. Trust me, Tara, it's for all of our best interest. Larry will take good care of him and keep him safe until we can resolve this."

"But I promised him," she argues weakly, her resolve to be angry with me crumbling in the embrace of my arms.

"We both promised him, Tara. And we're not breaking our promise, it just has to be done this way," I gently console her. "It's for Todd's sake too, though I doubt he will see it that way either."

She grows heaving in my arms and her legs grow weak. Slowly, I ease her down to the ground and we sit on the sand in silence for a while, staring blankly in the direction of the child. When it appears that she has made peace with the idea of giving Todd's care over to my friend, I try tactfully to get her talking on another subject. "You know how I feel about you, Tara," I begin. She nods slightly, indicating that she heard me. "Yet, I know almost nothing about you. I don't know where you're from, what you do for a living, what your dreams and hopes are or anything else."

Smiling weakly, as if she finds my comment humorous, she asks softly, "What would you like to know?"

"Everything. Tell me all about you, Tara..."

Laughing now, she starts by telling me her full name. "Tabitha Reynolds. But I've been Tara since I can remember."

"Tabitha," I softly pronounce it, liking the way it rolls over my tongue and off my lips. "It's a pretty name."

"Thank you." She pauses for a moment and then takes a deep breath and begins anew. "My mother was born a Nicaraguan. She met my father when he was there working as a field agent for the CIA. They fell in love, married, moved to San Diego, and had me. He was killed right after my sister was born and I was still a small child. It was supposedly an accident, but knowing the field of work he was in, I sometimes wonder. My mother died when I was a senior in high school. Her death was of natural causes, nothing suspicious there. She was a good woman, tall for her race, with handsome features. People were always telling me that I got the best they both had to offer." She smiles self-consciously, her color rising slightly.

"Not knowing either of your parents, I would still have to agree with that," I sincerely remark, making her even more self-conscious of her beauty.

"Anyway," she says quickly, trying to brush off the compliment. "The government saw to my education, since my father was still on active duty when he died. As I said, it was suspicious. Then, when I graduated from college, I moved out of the foster home I loosely called home, and found an apartment so that I could arrange for my sister to come live with me. For the first time since our mother died, we were together and happy. We were enjoying life; working, dating, everything that normal young people are supposed to do. And then, that awful day at the beach when everything went so drastically wrong."

She falls silent, remembering the death of her only living family member.

"Do you have any aunts or uncles on your father's side of the family?" I ask, hoping to bring her back out of the morose mood that is threatening to overwhelm her.

"No. My sister was my last living relative and now, I don't even have her."

"We'll get the men that did this," I gravely promise.

To my surprise, she turns her gaze on me and says, "I don't care about those men, Mac. I just don't want to lose anyone else in my life."

Her meaning is crystal clear. All she wants is a future with Todd and me. No more pain or death. She'd seen and felt enough for one life.

"Life has been hard enough on you, Tara. From now on, it will only get better," I say with more confidence than I genuinely feel.

Around two in the afternoon, I relieve Todd, leaving him in Tara's care. She is determined that he will eat something more nutritious than the remaining donuts that have been our fare so far today.

Settling down on the sandy slope, I study the area directly surrounding us. Because I expect any visitors looking for us to head to the site of the chopper, I wasn't overly concerned at leaving Todd in charge of our security.

Now that dusk is beginning to draw near, I suddenly wonder if I shouldn't do one last scouting of the area surrounding the little chopper. It would be to our advantage to know if there are any unwelcome visitors in the area before they know where we are.

Scurrying back down to where Todd and Tara are sitting, I quickly explain my concerns to them. Tara grows visibly anxious at the thought of us being separated and while Todd does his best to keep a stiff upper lip, he too seems a tad nervous over my departure no matter how brief.

"We can go with you," Tara suggests, though she realizes the impracticality of her statement.

"I'll only be a few minutes," I reply, readying for an argument.

To my surprise, she relents without arguing, "Please, hurry back."

With a glance toward Todd, I ask, "Are you up to pulling another shift of guard duty?"

Exhibiting childhood exuberance, he smiles excitedly and gets to his feet. With a nod of affection toward Tara, I climb out of the depression with Todd close on my heels. Pausing to give him parting instructions and what to watch for, I head off directly toward the ravine containing the little chopper. When I reach a vantage point, I study the highway for a few minutes, verifying that there aren't any noticeable changes in the traffic patterns of earlier.

Satisfied that I'm seeing the same type and amount of traffic, I continue on toward the ravine. By the time I am in a position to study the terrain surrounding it, dusk is almost upon the high desert and the shadows have grown long. Unless they use lights, it is already too late to make out images against the darker shadows and textures.

Although my cautious instinct is telling me to move in for a closer, more thorough inspection of the area, the cavalier part of me that lives by the seat of my pants is already itching to return to Todd and Tara. With the decreasing light of day, they will become increasingly concerned by my absence, which has already been longer than I'd intended.

As I rise from my crouched position next to a mesquite bush, I hear the distant whine of a single engine aircraft. It is a familiar sound and my heartbeat flutters with relief. Throwing caution to the wind, I run full out, hurrying to rejoin Todd and Tara before Larry can get there.

With my breath heaving in my lungs, I crest a small rise with less than three hundred feet to go and discover that he has already landed and is busy making his introductions to Todd and Tara.

Knowing he is flirting with her, I strain to yell across the distance, "Watch your step there, old friend."

Flashing a broad smile of straight white teeth, he teasingly calls back, "My step is just fine, it's yours that has me concerned."

Having almost caught my breath, I continue at a brisk walk the last short distance separating us and grasp his hand in a familial grip, pulling him against me in a brotherly hug.

"Damn, it's good to see you," I excitedly tell him. "I'm going to assume that you've made all your introductions," I add with a knowing wink intended only for him.

"You could have warned me," he replies teasingly, running an exaggeratedly lascivious eye over Tara. "I would have come faster had I known."

"Down boy," I joke back, playfully placing a restraining hand against his chest.

Tara and Todd are both smiling broadly, amused by our open and unashamed affections toward each other.

"There are a few things in the chopper that I thought you might need. I didn't really have much time and I wanted to make certain that I wasn't being followed before I left, but I did what I could."

"You did just fine," I gratefully acknowledge. "Let's get this bird fueled up first and then you can take the rest over to the other bird."

Following me to where the little chopper is sitting, we quickly set to siphoning the cans of aviation fuel into the chopper's main tank until the foam starts bubbling around the filler neck. What remains is more than either Larry or I can carry alone so I suggest that we all hike back together, sharing the weight of the fuel between us. Moving single file with me leading the way and Larry bringing up the rear, we slowly and silently hike back to the ravine. Even Todd is quieter than usual. It is almost as if he knows what is coming.

Upon arriving at the ravine, I take Tara aside while Larry begins fueling the little bird from the fuel containers. Todd has taken an instant liking to Larry and it isn't necessary for me to ask him to stay behind and help Larry with the fueling. Of his own volition, he is making his services available to Larry whether they are wanted or not. But I can see that Larry has already adopted him and taken him under his wing.

Once alone with Tara, I quickly explain that I intend on leaving it up to her to explain to Todd that he is going back to Oregon with Larry. I have no doubts that telling him will be as difficult for her as it will be for the little guy to hear it. But for his safety and ours, it is the only choice we have.

"I haven't even said anything yet and already my heart is breaking," she says softly, the hurt coming through in her voice. "I understand that it is for the best, but that doesn't make it any easier."

Holding her tight, I consolingly tell her, "We will be reunited very soon. And Larry will look after him as if he were his own. He won't let anything happen to him. I promise you."

"I trust you, Mac," she says on the verge of tears.

Returning to the ravine, we find Larry and Todd just pouring in the last of the fuel. Off to the right is a small pile of empty containers. Looking toward Tara and me, he says with a hint of disappointment, "I would have liked to brought more, but I was a little cramped on room and weight."

This was my cue to bring up Todd's going back to Oregon with him. "Speaking of weight and space, we have a little dilemma of our own."

"Oh, and what's that?" he innocently asks.

"There isn't room in the chopper for three people, the supplies that we need, and a full complement of fuel. I was thinking that maybe you could take Todd with you back to Oregon and look after him until we catch up with you."

"No! No, I'm not leaving you," Todd suddenly cries out running over and throwing his arms tightly around Tara's waist. "Please, you promised me!" he angrily shouts, looking up in to Tara's eyes as his voice breaks into sobs and tears well up in his eyes.

Tara drops to her knees and takes him into her arms, holding him tightly to her bosom while gently stroking his head. "It's all right," she says over and over, her own voice cracking with hurt and pain. "It'll only be for a short while. Just until we can get things straightened out."

"You promised," he whimpers weakly, his face pressed hard against her, the anger draining from his voice as it's replaced with disappointment and frustration.

While this display is going on, Larry stands off to one side looking on at the display of emotions playing out before him. After a few moments, he says consolingly to me, "I'll take good care of him, Mac."

"I know you will."

Tara is telling Todd that it's time for him to be strong and he slowly stands upright, weaning himself from her support. Through teary eyes, he looks up at Larry and Larry smiles down at him, saying kindly, "You know without these fuddy-duddies around, we'll have some pretty good times. They probably haven't been doing anything but sucking face since you've been with them, anyway."

A weak smile slowly brightens Todd's tear-streaked face as he reluctantly pulls away from her, trying hard to be mature and not a sniveling little kid. "Heck, I'll even let you fly the bird, if you'd like," Larry suddenly blurts, winking at the look of chagrin that immediately comes to Tara's face.

"Now wait a minute! I didn't say anything about him flying a helicopter," she argues, truly concerned for the child's safety.

Knowing Larry as well as I do, I know that he probably will give the controls over to Todd, but only in so far as to letting Todd believe that he is flying, even if he isn't. And so, I playfully go along, adding, "Sounds like a lot of fun to me. What do you say, Todd? You want to try flying one of these little birds?"

"Cool," he says excitedly, his face lighting up in anticipation. "Can I really?"

"Sure. Why not?" Larry says, throwing another clandestine wink toward Tara as she grows increasingly more concerned.

Turning to Tara, Todd excitedly says, "Wow! Did you hear that? Larry's gonna let me fly the helicopter!"

"Yes, I heard," she says, excited for him, yet a bit nervous at the thought.

"Maybe if Tara is good, I'll let her fly mine," I add with a grin.

Todd, his cheeks pink and damp from tears, momentarily forgets the painful separation that is coming and smiles up at me. Tara smiles at me too and I have to fight down the urge to scoop her up in my arms and hold her tight. In that moment, I couldn't be prouder of her.

Larry, sensing the break in the tension, takes the opportunity to get things moving. Like me, he realizes that our time is limited before the search catches up with us. "We need to get airborne, big guy. Do you have all your gear?"

Suddenly remembering the old fishing pole, he looks questioningly at me. "Don't worry about it Todd, Tara and I will make sure nothing happens to it."

Throwing his arms around me, he fights back another bout of tears as she says, "Thank you, Mac." Then he quickly runs back into Tara's open arms and for the briefest of moments, I feel a twinge of jealousy that is quickly replaced with an overwhelming sense of pride.

Forcing myself to look away before I too break into a tears, I say to Larry, "I had the oil topped up on her with the last fueling, but you might want to double check it if you know what I mean." When I had him on the phone, I shared with him our experience getting fuel and why we were so low. "The oil seal doesn't appear to be leaking any worse than it had," I add.

"Yeah, I think I might just do that," he says, his voice betraying the bitter feelings he is harboring toward someone he's never met, yet already dislikes. He would have liked to say more, but refrains out of respect for Todd. After all, it's not Todd's fault. And if there was something good to say about his grandpa, no one can question the fine boy he was raising.

After checking the oil and doing a quick preflight inspection of his bird, Larry makes his farewell to Tara and me and then climbs into the pilot's seat. Todd, trying hard to act like a grownup, gives Tara a meaningful hug before reaching out to shake my hand. "Take good care of her," he says, his voice wobbly with emotion.

Tara, bursting with pride and unable to restrain herself, suddenly grabs him in a bear hug and pulls him tight into her embrace, refusing to let go even when Larry hits the starter on the chopper. As the blades begin to slowly spin, Tara just as slowly leads Todd to the open cockpit and helps him get strapped into the seat. After giving him one last kiss on the cheek, she closes the door and steps back. Reaching out, I take her by the arm and lead her a safe distance from the whirring blades while she looks on, her gaze locked on Todd as if burning the memory of his face into her mind for all eternity.

"I don't want him to go," she says softly, barely audible over the roar of the single engine as it lifts them away from us.

"He'll be alright," I tell her, feeling a tug on my own heartstrings. "Come on now, we've got a long ways to go."

Though we feel the urgency growing within, we stand and watch the dark shadow of the lightless chopper as it fades into the sky, gradually becoming one with the night.

### **7**

Taking her hand in mine, I lead us back across the desert to the small chopper. Our supplies have already been stowed on board and I contemplate taking the time to see what goodies Larry stashed for us. But knowing we don't have time to waste, I put the thought out of my head and instead do a quick preflight walk around before climbing into the pilot's seat. Tara is already strapped in and ready to go when I casually comment how I could sure use a stiff one.

"Here," she says, offering me an open bottle of rum. "It's not half bad."

Taking the proffered bottle, I put the rim to my lips and throw my head back, filling my mouth with the smooth, yet fiery liquid. While savoring the heat as it slides down into my belly, she says, "He's quite the guy."

"Don't be getting any ideas," I threaten, taken aback by her comment, and yet, not. Holding the bottle before me while contemplating another swig, I think better of it, contemplating the long night ahead of us, and then agree with her, "Yes, he is quite a guy. If I didn't have so damn much testosterone flowing through my veins, I might even be attracted to him."

"If you didn't have so damn much testosterone flowing through your veins, I'd be fighting you for him," she teases. "But as it is, you're all the man I need. Now give me that bottle back before you change your mind."

"What? You're a mind reader now too?"

To the steady thrum of the little engine, we head toward the southwest, flying just above the treetops. It feels good to be flying my own bird again. Even little things like the contour of the seat remind me of all the hours I've logged in her. In addition, without the added weight of a young boy, she feels light and giddy in my hands, ready and willing to be put through the paces.

We make good time and by the crack of dawn the cascade mountain range is well behind us. Below us is a gradually thinning forest as the ground steadily levels out and the trees are now in groups or stands surrounding farm houses and the woods are replaced with rows of vegetables and lengths of irrigation pipe. Despite what one is led to believe, Napa Valley is not just vineyard after vineyard but a conglomeration of small farmsteads.

Tara has been awake all night, though she hasn't spoken much more than a word or two. The vacuum that Todd's absence created is weighing heavily on both of us and I've felt it might be best to leave her to her own brooding, giving her time to adjust to not having Todd sitting on her lap.

Glancing over at her now in the growing light of morning, I notice for the first time that she is looking tired with dark circles surrounding her eyes. "I'll find a small airfield where we can refuel and maybe even grab a bite to eat," I say over the hum of the little bird's engine. "If we're lucky there might even be a motel handy and we can get us a little shuteye before the last leg of our journey."

"That would be good," she says without any enthusiasm. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear she was suffering from a hangover.

But I know better, and it isn't a hangover that is holding her down. Her dismal mood is from having to break her promise to Todd. Although she realizes that it's for the better, she is having a hard time getting past it. Her mood is a solid indicator of the type of person she is and if I had any doubts before, I can see now that she takes her word of honor very seriously. And I am just as certain that Todd, though disappointed, also understands why we had to separate.

Reaching into the compartment just beneath the dash on the passenger's side, I withdraw an old pilot's guide with an extensive list of airports and their respective amenities by location. After a brief examination of the index, I flip the guide open to the pages I'm looking for and study the map that appears.

When Tara sees me squinting at the fine print and finer details on the map, she offers to look at it for me.

"Thanks," I say with sincerity, both relieved that she is speaking and because I really was having difficulty seeing the small print in the weak light.

"Do you want me to give the GPS coordinates listed by the airfields or just show you where they are on the map?" she asks after a few minutes of familiarizing herself with the guide.

"Since we don't have a flight plan filed anywhere, if you could just point them out on the map in relation to where we are, that would be good," I suggest, glancing over at her with a grin.

"How do I know where we are?" she asks, looking completely perplexed and studying the map even harder as if the answer lies somewhere in the finer print. And then when she sees me grinning at her, understanding blooms and she realizes that I was aware all along that she didn't have any idea where we were. "You ass!" she says angrily, slapping the open map down on her lap to empathize her frustration with me. "You're just trying to make me feel stupider than I really am. Well, you can find your own damn airport because I don't need to be treated like an idiot."

If it weren't for the fact that I'd studied the navigation methods of the ancient mariners, I too wouldn't have a clue where we were after flying all night without benefit of lights or radio. And although I am rusty and not very proficient at flying by the stars, even on a good night, I still have a rough idea of our position and after seeing the maps it takes me only a minute to guess our approximate location.

"I'm sorry, Tara, really, I am. Even I would be hard put to pinpoint our exact location right now."

A small grin appears at the corners of her mouth and she looks into my eyes and says, "Apology accepted. Would you like to know which airport has all the amenities you've just promised me?"

"Promised you?" I smile back.

Holding the map before my face, she says, "This one right here," indicating a small airplane icon on the map with her index finger.

"What kind of amenities are we talking about?"

"You just get us there and I'll show you," she replies with a smirk.

It did my heart good to see her spirit returning so quickly. She was proving to be quite a tough girl, considering everything she'd been through lately.

Squinting to see the map so as to calculate our course corrections, I do a rough estimate of time to arrival in my head, and then say, "You just hold onto those thoughts for another hour."

"What thoughts?" she asks innocently, prudishly raising an eyebrow.

My course adjustments will be taking us just south of Sacramento, an area that will have lots of radar surveillance and lots more people. The unpopulated spaces with low risk of being seen were behind us. From now on, we will have to be diligent, keeping a vigilant eye on our back trail as well as ahead and to the sides.

Because of our low altitude, which is keeping me busy enough just avoiding trees and power lines, I have to depend on Tara's efforts also. Glancing over at her, I'm relieved to see that although she's tired, she's awake and alert. "If we're going to reach my friend's place, I'm going to need your help," I casually comment, studying the gauges to avoid making eye contact.

"Whatever you need, all you have to do is ask," she remarks suspiciously, raising an eyebrow as she looks over at me while refolding the map book.

"I'm not going to lie to you," I reply sincerely, turning to make eye contact. "We're heading into very populated territory. If I continue flying this low, someone is bound to report us to their local sheriff's department which will in turn place a call to the FAA and I have no doubt that will send up an alert to the people looking for us. What we need is to look like a couple out for a joyride, which is good, until it draws the wrong attention."

"So, where do I come in? What can I do?" she asks, her voice reflecting her concern.

"I need you to keep an eye out in every direction open to you, from the ground up. Shortly, I'll need to climb to at least two thousand feet to meet FAA requirements for flying over densely populated areas. When that happens, we're going to pop up on radar screens all over the western hemisphere. For our own concerns, we almost have to assume that the wrong people are going to connect us to that blip and then the clock will start winding down at an ever increasing pace."

I pause for a long moment, studying the approaching landscape before continuing. "When the clock starts winding down, we'll have to move even faster than we have been. Seconds could spell the difference between life and death."

Glancing toward her, I notice that she is studying me even more intently than before. Yet, when she speaks, her voice is calm and serious. "I sure could use a cup of Joe."

Smiling, I look back toward the approaching scenery and then with a natural grace and ease, pull back on the stick and bring the nose up to a twenty-five degree climb. The little bird responds effortlessly, almost as if happy to be free.

When we reach minimum legal altitude, I level off and study the surrounding sky, already wary of the Blackhawk helicopters that are surely on their way. And for the first time ever, I feel like a sitting duck.

For the next thirty minutes, we fly in silence, nervously studying the sky as well as the ground. The scenery below us is quickly growing more populated with suburbs and fewer farms, forcing us to climb to a five thousand foot altitude.

Breaking the silence, I comment that it would be nice to have our own radar system onboard.

"What are we going to do when they find us?" she asks, her question catching me off balance.

Speaking truthfully, I respond, "We're going to take evasive action unless they back us into a corner."

"Can this little helicopter outrun one of those Blackhawk helicopters?" she asks, her voice sounding wishful.

"Not a chance in Hell," I bluntly reply, suddenly wishing I had used a little more tact. Seeing the increased worry on her face, I quickly add, "But they don't have the cagiest pilot ever born flying them, either. I can make this little doll do things they can't even imagine. One minute they'll have us in their sights and the next they'll be spinning in circles chasing after their own tail while we disappear down a rabbit hole."

"You almost make it sound plausible," she smiles back. "But I think you're just trying to make me feel better and for that, thank you." I'm about to say something more when she cuts me off, "Seriously Mac, before you feed me anymore bullshit, do you even have a plan?"

I find the sudden change in her from cowering damsel to brassy femme fatale very enlightening, if not a bit exhilarating. She is turning into an even stronger person than I had originally given her credit for being. And with what is sure to come, I can't hope for anything more.

"Tara," I start slowly, picking my words with care. "I've been flying through life by the seat of my pants since before I can remember. I've landed in some pretty bad situations, where few have survived. And yet, I am still alive and kicking. Considering that I've never been one for making plans, I've come quite a distance." I pause for a moment, staring unabashedly into her beckoning gaze, savoring the depths of those dark brown eyes. "And Tara," I slowly continue, my voice growing husky with emotion. "I've never had more reason in my life than I do now to succeed."

Reaching across to me, she strains against the harness to place her lips against the stubble protruding from my cheek before softly whispering in my ear, "Thank you."

She has barely settled back into her seat when I advise her to hang on and pitch the nose down, putting us on a heading toward a small valley surrounded by a dense stand of trees. The sky is clear and the nearest house almost a quarter-mile distant.

Pulling back on the throttle and the stick simultaneously, the nose suddenly comes up and we're thrown forward against the restraining harnesses just seconds before the skids hit the ground.

"What is it?" she asks a bit breathlessly while craning her head around wildly, searching the skies for helicopters.

"Hurry, get out of the chopper!" I order her while frantically unbuckling myself.

Doing likewise, we both jump out of the chopper from either side almost in unison. Running around to her side, I grab her by the arm and pull her along behind me. Moving swiftly, I lead her through small stands of brush and around trees, searching frantically ahead for a small, moss-covered sward that I'd spotted just before landing.

When it suddenly blossoms before us, I drag her to the cushioned ground and order her to remain quiet. For a long moment, we lay huddled together, our faces almost touching while we listen intently for any warning sounds. Aside from our heaving lungs, all is quiet, almost too quiet.

When she starts to ask me what brought us to ground so suddenly, I hold a finger to her lips to silence her. Momentarily subdued, I place my lips over hers and gently and caressingly kiss her. Her response is immediate, despite not knowing our situation.

Her breasts are firm, the nipples pressing hard against my chest. As if reading my thoughts, she reaches down and pulls her sweater up, revealing full, firm breasts. Hungrily, my mouth suckles first one and then the other as if unable to decide which tastes the better.

I feel her lips against the top of my head and I suddenly miss their moist caress against my own. Raising my face to hers, I softly whisper before our lips touch together, "I love you."

Her tongue slips into my mouth, exploring and tasting the depths of my rising passion. Her hands slide down my chest, searching for the button at the top of my pants and finding it. In one fluid motion, my pants part to reveal my blood-engorged penis while my sweater slides up my chest, revealing a lean, hard belly.

Our mouths hesitantly part and she looks into my eyes as if seeing into my soul. Confirming that my intentions are good, she languidly slides down the length of my body, her mouth and tongue eagerly exploring every part of my abdomen and lower extremities.

The heat of her passion is carried through her mouth and I feel the fire igniting all over my manhood. Rolling onto my back, she follows me over, her mouth holding on tightly to my shaft.

Leaning forward over her feverishly moving head, I swiftly worry her pants down to her knees, unable to move them any farther without forcing her to move and unwilling to do that. She feels good, so good that I never want it to end.

Suckling like a calf, my hands fondling her breasts and rolling the rock hard nipples between my fingers, she draws me toward a climax with an almost practiced ease. And then, when I'm ready to explode, she releases me from her hungry mouth and climbs on top of me, swallowing my manhood into her hot, moist womanhood.

With my hands clamped firmly on her breasts, I let myself burst inside her, and she moans in unison, the tremors of her climax in synch with mine.

Looking up into her beautiful eyes, I whisper breathlessly, "Oh, Tara, I never knew what I was missing until you came along."

"Are you telling me that I was your emergency?" she asks breathlessly, trying hard to feign anger, her breath rasping warm against my chest.

"You will always be my emergency, Babe."

We lie on the damp moss for several long minutes in silence before slowly growing aware of emergency sirens in the distance. Though it probably has nothing to do with us, we cannot afford to take the chance.

Rising, I help her to her feet, surreptitiously taking in the beauty of her olive skinned body before she can rearrange her clothing.

"Let's get back to the chopper, just in case the sirens are because of us. Some local might have seen us go down, and assuming we crashed, called the local sheriff's department. If we're lucky, we can get out of here before they arrive. The last thing we need is a nosey deputy hounding us with a lot of questions. Eventually, they might put us together with the kidnapping, even though Todd's no longer with us," I breathlessly explain to her while leading her back through the trees to the small clearing with the little chopper.

When we reach the chopper, she plants her feet firmly and forces me to stop. Alarmed by her actions, I turn back toward her. Surprising me, she throws her arms around my neck and kisses me passionately on the lips.

When she finally releases me, I breathlessly ask, "What was that for?"

"That was just to let you know that no matter what happens, I'll always be yours."

Stupefied by her behavior, I stand motionless while she swiftly climbs into the passenger seat. "Don't just stand there all day, those sirens are getting awful close!" she calls out to me, bringing me back to my senses.

The engine is still warm and quickly responds to my commands. As we rise above the trees, we see two patrol cars with their lights flashing, bouncing and banging along an old farm lane. Within a few minutes' time, they'll be upon the clearing.

But even as they rapidly approach from the north, we are flying below their line of sight toward the southwest, using the treetops for cover until we leave the small stand of trees behind.

"Do you think they saw or heard us?" Tara asks, relieved to be back in the air and moving, even if it meant bringing their moment of closeness to an early conclusion.

"Because of their vehicle sounds and traveling along a rough path, they would not have heard the engine of the chopper," I state confidently. "Moreover, I'm certain that the trees blocked us from their view long enough for us to drop over their horizon."

Glancing toward her, I notice that she has a bottle in her hand. The cap is off and she is handing it toward me. "I never did get used to the cigarette after sex, so let's see if rum works to calm the heart," she says almost nonchalantly.

Unable to refuse the proffered bottle, I throw it back and take a long swig, savoring the raw heat as it burns a path to my belly. After a long moment, I wink at her and say, "Nope. Only makes me want to go again."

"Music to my ears," she says sensually, grinning toward me while running the tip of her tongue along the length of her lips.

Within a half an hour, we come into view of a small paved airfield. It consists of a single main runway and a couple of shorter grass strips intersecting the main strip at varying angles. The main strip is also the main taxiing route to the fueling pumps. Set farther back from the airfield than the pumping station is a large hangar with a smaller one connected to it. On a placard over the smaller hangar is a sign stating they do aircraft engine maintenance and repairs while the larger hangar appears to be the structural repair shop, maybe even some of the rear space inside donated to storage of smaller crafts. A weathered sign over its main doors simply states 'DECKER AIRMOTIVE' in large print.

Set even farther back from the hangars, yet still connected by paved walkways wide enough for golf cart type traffic, is a small cluster of buildings. The sign over the largest and tallest of the structures states that it's a hotel, the rooms all facing out over the other buildings toward the airfield.

Next to the hotel on the left is what appears to be a restaurant while on the right, a small service station with several rental cars parked outside. These latter are probably for the occasional businessman that flies his private plane into the Sacramento area on business.

Although there isn't any tower proper, I am certain that someone is in charge of monitoring air traffic in and out of the airport. Someone also has to be available for filing flight plans and such and that someone is probably in the smaller of the two hangars, subsidizing his meager stipend as airfield manager by knuckling wrenches.

Since I'm in need of fuel, I'll need to talk to him without raising any suspicions, and that might get a little tricky, since we don't have a flight plan filed. Of course, he won't know that, and I won't be the one to inform him.

"I'm going to set her down next to the fueling station and walk over to that small hangar," I casually remark, indicating my objectives with my index finger. "While I take care of getting this bird fueled and find an out-of-the-way place to park her for the night, you can get us checked into a room at the motel."

"What should I use for a name?" she asks with a smirk. "Mr. and Mrs. Smith?"

"How about something a little less conspicuous, like Mr. and Mrs. Decker, maybe?"

"If you insist," she remarks sarcastically, and then takes note of the name on the larger hangar. "Not very original though, is it?"

"It'll do just fine," I admonish her, feigning hurt. "Carry something with you, even though you'll be paying with cash. Believe it or not, it makes you less conspicuous than someone traveling without so much as an overnight bag. And we don't want to be memorable, though I doubt if you won't draw the attention of every male within twenty miles."

"Why thank you, Mr. Decker," she flirtatiously retorts, flicking her hair aside with a flourish and giving me a come hither wink.

"If anyone asks, just tell them we've been elk hunting in Nevada, it's not as if we're not dressed for it."

With the little chopper setting next to the fuel dump, I watch with admiration as Tara struts toward the motel entrance. As if sensing my scrutiny of her backside, she spins around and gives me a little wave before continuing on under the carport and into the main lobby doors.

Reluctantly, I tear my gaze away from the motel entrance and swing toward the smaller hangar which is standing open and head toward it at a brisk pace. When I am less than fifty feet from the open bay doors, a man in his mid-thirties sporting grease streaked coveralls and a train engineer's hat comes walking out, wiping his hands vigorously on a blue rag equally stained with dirty oil and grease.

"Howdy," I call out, slowing my pace to appear more relaxed than I'm feeling.

"Hi," he mumbles, looking past me at the small chopper. "What can I do for ya?"

"I'm in need of fuel and a place to put her for the night. Preferably someplace out of the weather."

"Just one night?" he asks, his eyes now taking me in, probably estimating my worth. Even with the proliferation of small aircraft, it's still a rich man's hobby.

"For now," I reply, and then remember the view of Tara heading toward the motel and the sway of her backside in those camouflage pants and think better of my reply. "Maybe longer," I quickly add with a little wistfulness in my voice.

"After we get her topped up, if you like, I can drag her into the bay here, if you're certain that it won't be for more than just a few days. She'll be under cover and I'll settle for an even fifty bucks a night plus the fuel. If it's going to be any longer than that, I'll have to pull her out, though. I have a job arriving in three or four days and I'll need the bay."

It was a fair deal and I didn't have to worry about it being spotted from the air. Of course, he wouldn't know about that. "If you're sure it's no trouble. That sounds good to me."

"We talking cash?"

"Absolutely," I reply, fishing out my wallet. "I'll give you fifty now for the first night and a deposit on the fuel, if that's all right. The missus and I will be staying at the motel." I was about to give him my fake name and then cringed inwardly, remembering that Tara was using the name on the front of the hangar. He was bound to know that it was a fake.

Before I can continue, he takes the proffered cash and then lets me off the hook with the name, "When you're ready to leave, just look me up and I'll drag her out on the deck for you. We can settle up the balance then."

"Thank you," I reply, not sure if he suspected that I was running from someone or something and was willing to turn a blind eye for a couple of tax-free dollars. Or if a description of the chopper and us is already circulating through the small airfields and he is fully aware of whom we are. But because most people won't turn a blind eye where an abducted child is concerned, I had to believe he hadn't heard the law was looking for us.

When I enter the motel, Tara is waiting in the lobby. Jumping up and hurrying to greet me, she throws her arms around my neck and gives me a passionate kiss on the lips. "Hi Honey. What took you so long? Have you forgotten that I'm starving?"

"Are you sure that's what you want now?" I teasingly ask while glancing around the lobby and noting the receptionist watching us closely. I throw her a wink over Tara's shoulder and she nervously glances away, turning her attention to a stack of brochures that she is busily sorting on the counter. "Come along then," I reply, my disappointment obvious.

No sooner are we out of the lobby and heading toward the restaurant, then Tara turns to me and says she got us a room overlooking the airfield so we can keep an eye on everything that comes and goes.

"Did the receptionist raise her eye when you checked in under the name Decker?" I ask, curious to see how she handled it.

"Not really. It's not as if the name isn't very popular, after all. How did it go for you?"

"Couldn't have been better," I state proudly, and then feel a niggling under the collar when I remember how the man purposely didn't ask me my name. But I wasn't going to concern Tara with my suspicions since they might not have any merit anyway. "We still can't afford to let our guard down, however," I add instead.

The restaurant isn't anything fancy and after a quick meal eaten in a booth facing the airfield, we head up to our room. From the vantage of the second story window, I am pleased to note that the little bird has been placed on a portable dolly and is being dragged toward the smaller hangar. With her goes all hope of a quick departure and I feel a sudden tension in the pit of my stomach at the thought.

Yet, there comes a time when we have to relax and put our faith in our fellow man. This is one of those times. And since the police aren't here already, they probably aren't coming, at least not because a man in his mid-thirties wearing grimy coveralls called them.

Momentarily lost in my thoughts, I'm suddenly aware of Tara's voice calling to me, telling me that she is headed to the shower. Turning, I see a pile of camouflage clothing on the floor and the bathroom door just closing. The thought of her in the shower with hot water and soap dripping off her naked skin is more than I can stand and I hurriedly undress, dropping my clothes on top of hers.

Quietly, hoping to surprise her, I enter the bathroom. The water is already running and steam is cascading over the smoke tinted shower doors. Beyond them, I can see her shapely silhouette as she runs the soap up and down the length of a raised leg, the lather a thick white like whipped cream running down her calves. Already, my manhood is throbbing with anticipation and I take pause, fearing for the briefest of moments that I might not last long enough to satisfy her.

But my fear is fleeting as I've never suffered from such problems before.

Sliding the glass door aside, she softly asks me to soap her back, handing me the large bar of soap. Standing behind her, I start at her shoulders and gently rub in the soap, building up a generous amount of lather in the process. When my erection accidentally prods her between the cheeks of her ass, she trembles slightly beneath my caressing hands. For just a moment, my thoughts to those of a thoroughbred mare, anxiously waiting to be mounted by her stallion.

Working the bar of soap over her smooth skin, I lather up her shoulders, slowly working my hands downward to the small of her back, her hands stretched out to brace herself against the shower wall. Tenderly, moving slowly, I run the soap down each firm cheek of her backside, massaging the lather in with a firmer touch. Even over the sound of running water, I hear her soft moans of pleasure.

Continuing down her right thigh, I gently caress behind the knee and then move over to the hollow of her left knee. Moving even slower, I start upward, running the bar of soap up her inner thigh. To my delight, her moans are growing louder and her body shifts restlessly before me in anticipation. Again I am reminded of a thoroughbred waiting to be mounted by her stud.

Rising back to my full height, I firmly force the bar of soap up the crack of her ass. She gasps at the indignation and reaches around to grasp my wrists.

Before she can get a firm hold of me, I let the soap drop to the shower floor and firmly grab a handful of cheek with each hand while lifting slightly, just enough to upset her balance.

In response, her hands fly out against the shower wall to steady herself from falling. With her footing secured beneath her, I move my hands around to the front of her waist and pull her backwards. Her feet shift slightly and her body tenses with uncertainty.

With my lower body pressing confidently against her, I run my hands over her flat tummy, moving almost casually toward her breasts. Her breasts are full and firm, the nipples hard little pebbles beneath my fingertips. She moans at my touch as I roll the little stones between my thumbs and forefingers. There is just the slightest shift of her lower body and I instantly sense the pressure increasing against my manhood.

My breath is hot and ragged against the left side of her cheek when she shifts again, allowing my swollen member to slide up between her wet thighs. Without speaking a word, she is slowly coaxing me into position, inviting me to partake of her sweetly delicious fruit. Almost casually, I slide my hands down the front of her torso, continuing down over her tummy and only stopping when I feel the head of my penis protruding beyond the space of her womanhood. Taking my member between my right index finger and thumb, I turn it upward, separating the folds of her womanhood.

She gasps with a sudden intake of breath and I pull upright, the head of my penis involuntarily retreating from between her thighs. As I rise upward, my lips rake the length of her back and finish by suckling on the nape of her neck. Her skin is clean and refreshed by the water, its taste sweeter than summer wine and more intoxicating to the senses.

Using my left hand, I reach down and guide my manhood up the slot between the fleshy mounds of her ass. With a gentle pressure, I force the head forward, carefully exploring the possibilities. With a gasp, her body tenses before me and then relaxes, growing increasingly pliant against my increasing pressure, her subtle movements slowly allowing my manhood in.

With calculated tenderness, I force myself against her, thrilling to the husky rasp of her breath as her back arches down and her buttocks rise to further facilitate my entry. Trembling, she reaches up and grabs hold of the showerhead for support, the side of her face pressing against the warm tiles of the shower stall.

Slowly, a mutual rhythm develops between us, gradually increasing in tempo with our quickening passion when Tara suddenly lets out a low, deep wail, and savagely grinds her ass into me, almost knocking me off balance. Gripping either side of her waist, I pull her hard against me, my manhood driven deeply within. With each climatic clenching of her lower body, my own climax draws nearer until I can no longer restrain myself. With a sudden deep thrust that has her crying out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, I explode, my thick hot juice erupting like a volcano within her.

But instead of releasing me, she clenches harder, holding my manhood hostage. When my breath finally stabilizes, I whisper hoarsely in her ear, "Did you have something else in mind?"

Her hand reaches down between her thighs and grabs my scrotum. With a practiced shifting action, she centers my testicles between her fingers and squeezes, causing me an increasing amount of pain.

When I try to pull away, she squeezes me tighter with her sphincter muscle on my manhood and turns her face away from the tile wall until she can see my own face. With a wicked grin, she squeezes my testicles even harder and I feel an excruciating pain within the pit of my stomach.

"What are you doing?" I demand, suddenly losing interest in the sex and concerned only for the immediate pain she is inflicting on my balls. "That hurts, damn it!"

With a sudden hard tweak that sends a sharp pain through the depths of my stomach, she abruptly releases her grip on my scrotum and stands upright, leaving my shriveled manhood hanging limply from my groin.

Her face red with anger, she turns on me and pummels her clenched fists against my chest. "Don't you ever try that on me again!" she angrily lashes out.

Grabbing her by the wrists, I am taken aback and confused by her outburst. "I'm sorry! Really, I'm sorry," I plead with her.

I am still pleading with her and spouting my apologies for misunderstanding, when she suddenly collapses against me, her anger turning to an outburst of tears. Before I realize what is happening, she is sobbing into my chest.

Releasing my hold on her wrists, her hands fall limply to my waist while I pull her tighter against me, all the while telling her softly how sorry I am.

Then, just as suddenly as she anger came on, she becomes apologetic and her sobs turn to whimpers. "I'm sorry, Mac," she says through an onslaught of tears, pressing the side of her head against my chest. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's all right," I gently explain, shifting my feet in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain emanating out of my gut. "You didn't do any real damage, aside from injuring my pride," I lie.

"No, it's not all right. I shouldn't have hurt you the way I did after all you've done for me."

Her tone and reasons for apologizing are beginning to unsettle me. I was of the impression that we were in love, and now, she is sounding as if her entire reason for making love with me was just a way of paying me back for all I'd done. This was not something I cared to hear and I wanted her to stop.

"Tara! Stop it! You don't owe me anything. I love you and I thought you were in love with me."

A cloud passes across the dark depths of her eyes as she looks at me, trying to see through the mist. And then, as if recognition suddenly registers, the cloud is gone and she smiles up at me, saying, "Of course, I love you too."

Her lips rise to mine and we kiss long and passionately. The pain in my stomach slowly subsiding as I try to put the strange experience of the prior few minutes out of my mind.

Naked, holding each other tightly, the warm water of the shower cascading over her bodies, time is all but forgotten as well as the troubling experience of just moments ago. Only when the water begins to cool do we remember where we are and exit the shower.

### **8**

Grabbing a towel off the towel bar, I turn to her and gently start wiping off her shoulders and back. Playfully, she takes another towel from the bar and rubs it across my chest and down toward my limp manhood. With the towel held in her hands, she grabs my deflated member and caressingly dries it off, giggling impishly at the reaction she elicits from it as it slowly climbs out of its slumber and rises to attention. She is like a little girl, giggling and shrieking with surprise and excitement as if seeing a man for the first time.

Wrapping the towel around her hair while she continues playfully teasing me with her towel, I grab her by the shoulders and roughly pull her up against me. She releases her hold on the towel and lets it drop, my erection pressing hard against her naval. She takes a quick breath and then lets it slowly escape, her eyes now studying mine.

With my lips pressing hard against hers, our tongues exploring each other's mouths, my hands slide down to her still damp buttocks. Cupping a firm cheek in either hand, I lift her off her feet and carry her to the bed, my manhood wedged between her thighs. Without releasing my grip on her buttocks or removing her lips from mine, I position myself over her and then slowly lower my manhood toward the heat of her passion.

Not surprisingly, her hands guide me to the right place and I slip easily into the warm, moist depths of her need. A small moan of pleasure rumbles from deep within her throat as her body gyrates beneath me, bringing me to a quick and heated climax. This time when I come, she reaches down with her right hand and caressingly massages my manhood, coaxing out every last drop of molten liquid.

Slowly, reluctantly, I roll off of her and lie motionless on my back, trying hard to catch my breath. Following me over and climbing on top of my naked body, a mischievous smirk on her face, she rises into a sitting position and straddles my stomach, her full breasts hanging tantalizingly near to my face. Teasingly, she lowers them until I can just lift my head enough to catch a nipple between my teeth. It feels like a small hard pebble within my mouth, but tastes sweetly of her scent while the firm soft flesh of her breast rubs against the side of my cheek.

Holding her nipple firmly in my teeth, I slowly lie back, pulling her with me. Already my penis is growing hard with anticipation and by her reaction I can tell she is aware of it prodding her from behind.

"You devil," she says playfully, reaching behind her and guiding my erection to her clitoris. "Is there any end to what you're capable of?"

To answer her means losing my grip on her nipple. Instead, a choked garble escapes my lips. With my hands grasping both cheeks of her sweet rear, I lift her up and down, setting the tempo for both of us. After only a couple of lifts, she picks up the rhythm and begins rising and falling of her own accord, her breath growing more frantic and ragged with each stroke, driving me deeper into her and then pulling back until I am right on the edge, ready to fall free.

My own breath grows quick and shallow, my heart racing to keep pace with the demands being put upon it. The towel falls from Tara's head and is lost in the mess of bedding as we climb frantically toward yet another orgasmic climax.

Suddenly, her breathing slows and she takes long, deep breaths. I feel her tighten on my swollen member with one last enormous effort and then she collapses upon me, her body trembling atop me.

Using my hands on her buttocks, I forcefully massage the flaccid and abused flesh until my own orgasm explodes within her, my body arching up in a last gasp of ecstasy.

Exhausted and out of breath, she simply gasps before rolling heavily to my side, "You bastard."

"I love you, too," I whisper softly beneath my breath before closing my eyes in contentment and dozing off to sleep.

We lay in our mess of bedding and rumpled sheets for all of that day and into the wee hours of night before stirring. Tara is the first to rise and immediately heads off to the shower, this time to enjoy a lengthy soak beneath the scalding water alone. As she exits the bathroom, I roll over and study her splendid shape, wrapped like a fine cigar in the motel towels.

"That looks like a wonderful idea," I comment, rising naked from the bed.

Unaware of my swollen penis, I follow her gaze downward and then look back up to catch a fleeting smile cross her lips.

Standing naked in the middle of the room, I watch as she slowly slinks toward me, her hips swaying seductively from side to side. Reaching out, she takes my refreshed manhood in her hands and gently massages it. When it begins pumping up and down of its own accord, she sidles up close and letting the towel drop to the floor, guides it between her wanton thighs. As if mounting a stallion, she gently directs it through the labyrinth of her female lips, slipping it into her moist mound.

With my breath rasping noisily through my open mouth, I notice the honey drops of dew clinging to the dark mound of pubic hair. The sight of me penetrating her sends adrenaline rushing through my veins.

Slowly, our steps moving as one, we dance about the room, interlocked at the groin, each little movement sending thrills of excitement through our united bodies. Never before in my life, can I remember feeling this complete and satisfied with a woman. None have ever made me lust so hungrily for their touch, their gentle caress, or the scent of their body.

Our steps are in rhythm to a music that only the two of us can hear and we soon climax as one, our orgasm as synchronized as our dance of love.

Only when my limp penis falls from her grasp does the dance reluctantly end. Pushing me away, she says a bit breathlessly, "Don't use all the hot water this time."

Taking the hint, I collect several towels from the bed and retreat to the bathroom. After a refreshing shower and a quick shave, I leave her the freedom of the motel room while I run down to the restaurant and get us something to eat and some hot coffee. Just the thought of hot coffee perks me up and I almost skip all the way to the restaurant.

Looking toward the runway, I suddenly pull up short. There, setting next to the fuel docks are two Blackhawk helicopters.

Stunned, I stare toward the two birds, unable to move. And then, seeing only one man dressed in a black suit with dark shades covering his eyes and watching intently as the mechanic fuels one of the helicopters, I realize that the rest of the crew and passengers must be in the restaurant. The same restaurant that I am currently standing outside the front windows of.

Turning my head toward the ground and shading my face with the palm of my hand as if the sun is in my eyes, I quickly retreat to the motel entrance and literally take the steps three at a time.

Charging through the room door, my heart skips a beat when I don't immediately see her. And then, hearing the shower running, I remember that she was going to take another shower and clean up while I fetched us something to eat.

Hurrying across the room to the bathroom door, I go to turn the knob and discover that she's locked it behind her. It was the only precaution she took in my absence against intruders. I made a mental note to talk to her in the future about locking all doors behind her.

"Tara!" I call out, rapping the back of my knuckles against the thinly veneered door. "Tara!"

As I'm about to smash my way through the flimsy door, the shower stops and her voice answers, "Mac, is that you?"

"Tara," I call back, relieved. "Hurry up. We have to go. Now!"

Suddenly, the bathroom door flies open and she emerges with a towel in her hand, swiping more than wiping at her bare skin. On the bed is her intended wardrobe and she heads straight for it. While she hurriedly gets dressed, she looks questioningly at me for answers and guidance.

"They're here," I say, my voice anxious and still a little short of breath from running most of the way back. "Two Blackhawks, parked on the fueling dock. One man with the birds, I'm assuming the rest will be in the restaurant."

"What if they just stopped for fuel and something to eat?" she asks, her voice sounding hopeful.

"Too much coincidence," I say determinedly, dashing any hopes.

"Then what are we going to do if we can't fly out of here?"

"We'll have to find us another mode of transportation. But that isn't our biggest problem," I hesitantly add.

"What is?" she anxiously asks.

"We're so close to my friend's place that they must have figured out where we were going. It's the only explanation that makes any sense. They wouldn't have come this way for any other reason."

"What about Larry? What if they made him talk?" she nervously inquires as if expecting me to blow up at her for thinking such a thought.

"He'd die before he would give us up," I offhandedly retort, making my point that it's not even a consideration.

Thinking quickly, I say more to myself than for her benefit, "We're going forward as if they don't know we're here. But because they're in the restaurant and on the airfield, we just need to find a less conspicuous way of leaving." Continuing my train of thought aloud, I add, "I'll come back for the chopper when it's safe to do so."

"But what if they do know where we're heading? What if they're already there too, waiting for us?" she says anxiously.

"Then we had better hope that we see them before they see us," is all I can tell her.

While we were talking, we packed together our meager bags and finished dressing. At the last moment, before opening the door and heading out, I stop and draw my weapon. With a practiced ease, I flip open the cylinder and roll it, making certain that all chambers are loaded with fresh rounds. After slipping it back into my shoulder holster, I take Tara in my arms and kiss her hard and passionately, reminding her of what we have while silently hoping that it's enough to keep her strong.

Moving on the balls of my feet, I lead her through the door and down the far stairwell, heading toward the auto rental office. Although I'd briefly considered stealing one of the few cars in the parking lot belonging to the motel or restaurant staff, I'd just as quickly dismissed the idea. If it turns out that the presence of two Blackhawk helicopters is merely coincidence, we'd be tipping our hand by drawing attention to the area.

Once again, I'm laying out a wad of cash, watching in dismay at the dwindling supply remaining in my wallet. I'd always been one to carry a lot of cash with me and I'd replenished my stash with a loan from Larry, but I hadn't anticipated such items as car rental deposits, which can be very steep. The alternative is using a credit card, which I know will pop up on someone's computer screen even before we can turn the key in the ignition.

Grimacing, I pay the man behind the counter and accept the keys to a light blue sedan. The tank is full of fuel so reaching our destination shouldn't be a problem.

Behind the wheel and pulling away from the airfield, I begin wondering whether Decker will report us to the authorities when we don't return for the little chopper and pay off the tab. Or if he will cut me slack, figuring he has the chopper for collateral. And even though he can't sell it the way it sits without proper papers, he probably has outlets for the parts which will net a larger return than selling it as a unit anyway.

But there isn't anything we can do about it for the time being. If the Blackhawks are there operating on a tip that we'd been spotted, then we made the right choice hitting the highway. But if they are there for any other reason, then I'm not only out the cash but also the intimate time I could have spent with Tara. And for that reason alone, I'm extremely disappointed.

We stick to side roads and back roads until we are south and west of Sacramento. Along the way, we stop and pick up fast food and coffee to go. It isn't the fare that I was anticipating at the motel, but it tides us over and the coffee isn't half bad.

"How much farther?" Tara asks, her face turned toward the window studying the scenery flying past.

There is a longing in her expression and I wonder whether it is for the perceived normalcy she sees in the houses and lives of the people going by in the window, or if it is simply for this adventure to be over. "We can't bring your sister back, even if we get the guys behind her demise."

Her head swings toward me, the pain in her eyes obvious. "How did you know I was thinking of my sister?" she demands.

"It was that or something too bizarre to believe," I smile back at her and then consolingly add, "It isn't much farther now."

Outside the windows there are endless rows of grapevines. Here and there can be seen an occasional group of field hands or tractors working the rows with tanks of blue liquid mounted on them. Wine tasting booths abound, many with tempting pictures and generous offers to entice the traveler off the road.

Tara's expression turns serious and her attention focuses on the single lane gravel road and where it might lead when I suddenly hang a left off the hardtop. Kicking up a plume of dust, I suddenly remember my manners and slow down to a crawl.

"What is it?" Tara asks, concerned by my sudden deceleration.

"Vintners take it as a sign of disrespect when you carelessly cover their fruit with dust and the last thing we need right now is upsetting anyone that might be an ally."

As we follow the road around a turn to the right and then follow it down into a low valley, the hacienda suddenly appears before us, it's beauty enough to take your breath away. It's a palatial estate once owned by a Mexican dignitary, long before California seceded from Mexico and became a state of the union.

After initially falling into disrepair, Greg and Gina Lott found upon it and after mucho dollars and several years of hard work, managed to restore it to its former grandeur. And although the original holdings of several thousand acres had been whittled down to less than ten when Greg and his wife Gina purchased it, through a calculated campaign employing his usual cunning and irresistible charm, Greg has managed to tie over six hundred of the original acres back to the homestead.

Both Greg and Gina were high-powered attorneys from San Francisco that decided to opt out in the early nineties to pursue a passion for fine wine instead. They brought all of their energy and passion that made them each successful attorneys in their own right to this latest venture and it has proven to be a wise move. Not only is their business of winemaking financially solvent, they feel they have found their true calling and with it, true happiness.

"Prepare yourself, Tara. You are about to meet what will appear to be two of the most humble and demeaning people in the world. But don't let their mild-mannered exterior fool you. Beneath the facade of humility and charm are two of the most cunning, passionate, and determined people you will ever meet. As their guests, you couldn't ask for hosts that are more generous and entertaining. As their adversary in the business arena, they'll skin you alive and broil your flesh. And if you wince while they're doing it, they'll simply see it as a sign of weakness and turn up the heat. They can be ruthless, and although their services come at a high price, they are worth every penny. That is if they even decide to take your case."

"I'm glad they're your friends," she sighs with relief. And then, after a moment of silence while drinking in the view before her, asks, "You made it sound as if their services are still available and yet, I thought you said they retired from the corporate world to pursue their hobby. Which is it?"

"I'm sorry," I reply, refreshing my memory of the place while slowly pulling up to the front entrance. "I guess I should have been a little more specific. When I said they opted out of the rat race, I didn't mean it to sound as though they retired. They simply sold their practice in San Francisco to their partners and set up a new business here, using the vineyard as a distraction. Although they love playing the part of a vintner, they still freelance, working for only the most elite of clients around the world and taking only cases that hold an interest for them. They also still consult on a regular basis with their ex-partners in San Fran." As an afterthought, I quickly add while pulling the sedan to a stop, "They have much too much energy and passion to be happy simply making wine."

Turning the engine off, I sit looking through the front windscreen, not certain of what I am waiting for, yet feeling hesitant, all the same.

Tara suddenly interrupts my thoughts, asking, "How do you know them? Were you a client of theirs?"

Slowly, without looking at her, I reply, "No, they were clients of mine."

We exit the car, feeling the full brunt of the mid-fall heat that is generated late in the afternoon. The moment the sun begins to sink into the horizon the air will grow cool, setting the sugars in the fruit. Soon, very soon, the pickers will set to work on the grapes. Already, the local population is swelling with immigrants that come to work in hopes of making a few dollars to send home.

Thankfully, she doesn't ask any details. Not all of my freelance work was respectable or admirable or even moral. And when clients of this caliber hired me it usually involved elements that they couldn't risk getting directly involved with or were best handled by less conspicuous agents that most weren't even aware existed.

The large, heavy wooden doors suddenly swing open and a small boy comes flying out onto the veranda crying loudly and excitedly over and over, "Tara, Tara!"

Tara's face lights up with glee and she runs forward to catch the child flying toward her. Throwing their arms around each other while crying and laughing with joy, they hold on to each other tightly for a long time.

Coming down the veranda behind Todd is my loyal friend Larry. Behind him are Greg and Gina. Everyone is smiling which I take as a good sign. Taking Larry's hand, I shake it and thank him for making Todd and Tara's reunion possible.

Greg stops beside Larry and extends his hand, "Long time no see."

"It's good to see you both," I say, making eye contact with first Greg and then Gina.

"You shouldn't be such a stranger," Gina adds, smiling and stepping down to put us on the same level before wrapping her arms around me in an embrace. After a brief, warm hug, which is Gina's way, she turns the conversation toward Tara, whom is rising from her knees and still holding Todd tightly to her while he latches his arms around her thigh in a death grip. "This must be the beautiful Tara that we've heard so much about."

"Now-now, Gina," Larry quickly interrupts, a brief flush of crimson shooting across his cheeks as he throws a nervous glance in my direction.

Giving him a knowing wink, I turn to Tara and make introductions. Gina immediately takes Tara by the hand and leads her and Todd back up the veranda. It's the first time I've ever seen Gina warm up to a stranger so quickly and I wonder just what Larry told them or if it was Todd's influence on her. Either way, I was thankful for it.

As their voices drift off, I turn to Greg and ask him if Larry has explained the situation to him yet or if he's been too busy spouting nonstop about Tara.

"Well," he slowly starts, his eyes alight with mischief as he throws a sideways glance at Larry. "At first, when he couldn't stop talking about a woman that he'd recently met and extolled her beauty and virtue in no uncertain terms, Gina and I just assumed he was exaggerating. We didn't believe for a minute that such a goddess could exist. But now that I've seen her with my own eyes, I can see that his descriptions, though a tad colorful, are indeed a far cry from the real beautiful woman that she is." He stops for a brief moment, but yet, the light is still in his eye when he adds, "And it is not just anyone that Gina takes to so quickly, especially when that someone is a very beautiful woman. At this point, I would say that you are a very lucky man, Mac. But if I'm not mistaken, your dear friend Larry here has feelings for the same."

"My dear friend Larry here and I go back a long ways, Greg. If I say that I would trust him with my most valued possession, I mean it with all my heart. And I trust him even more with Tara."

Still feeling mischievous, Greg says, "You can say that only because you have not heard all that he has said about the woman."

"Nice try, Greg, but I'm not biting," I laughingly quip.

During this little bantering between Greg and me, Larry hasn't said a word. Now he speaks up on his behalf for the first time. "Greg, Mac," he slowly starts, considering his words carefully. "You both know that I am a sucker for a pretty face and a hot body. Why else do I hang around with you guys so much?"

"Hey, hey, enough of that," I retort, punching him lightly on the arm while Greg mouths a few words of profanity questioning his manhood.

"But seriously," Larry begins again when our ribbing tapers off. "She is a very charming woman and I am happy for my friend here. You deserve her Mac and I will do whatever I can to ensure you two have every opportunity at happiness."

"All right, enough already!" Greg pipes up, grinning broadly. "You're going to have us all crying in a moment if you don't stop. This is a vineyard, not a nursery."

"Don't worry about it Larry. We go back much too far for me to worry about you trying to steal a girl from me."

"That would never happen, Mac. Hell, I can't keep up with all the girls pestering me now!" he adds, giving me a serious wink.

"Come on boys," Greg cuts in, throwing an arm around each of us and turning us toward the veranda. "I have a premium bottle of rum in the library just waiting for this occasion."

It was cool within the confines of the hacienda. Greg wasn't kidding about the rum; it was an excellent bottle, something currently not available in the states. And although I seriously wanted to know more about it origins, it would have been uncouth of me to question its arrival at his estate.

We were well into the lower half of the bottle when Gina brings in Todd and Tara. Both of her guests appear freshly clothed and I notice for the first time that Gina and Tara are very close in size. Gina, although a dozen years older, is still a very fine looking woman and I wonder briefly while under the influence of the rum why I hadn't notice that before.

"Dinner will be served soon," Gina says in a matronly manner while going to sit on Greg's lap.

Tara moves directly to where I'm sitting and gently settles like a butterfly on the arm of the overstuffed reading chair. Feeling amorous from the alcohol, I throw an arm around her waist and playfully drag her off the arm and on top of me.

"Hey!" she cries out, her voice serious. "Careful."

Feeling abashed, I quickly apologize, giving her a gentle boost so she can resume her perch on the arm of the chair. Instead, she lands on her feet and goes to sit next to Todd.

An awkward silence ensues in which Larry is the first to break it. "We were going to head back to Oregon, but then I decided to scout around and see if anyone was following us. When I was certain that we were flying unobserved and alone, I changed course and came straight here. I figured if you ran into trouble, I could be more useful if I were closer at hand. Plus there was the chance that they may have figured out your destination and if that were the case, I could wave you off before you got here."

"I appreciate that Larry. I'm sure Tara does too," I add, studying Tara and the child together.

"So, Mac, where is the bird?" Larry asks. "We were all listening for it since Todd and I first got here. The last thing we expected was you to pull up in a car."

"Yeah, about that," I begin, and then tell them about the Blackhawk helicopters showing up at the airport where we were staying and having to leave the little bird behind. When I make a remark about going through a lot of cash really fast thanks to having to put a deposit on the rental and all, Greg excuses himself for a moment and heads down the hall toward the bedrooms and his office.

When he returns, he is holding a gold credit card. "Here, use this until we get things squared away. No one, including our all-seeing government, will be able to trace it back to you."

"Thanks, Greg. I'll pay you back every cent with interest," I sincerely respond.

"Don't worry about it," he says with a wave of his hand. "If memory serves me, we still haven't paid off our debt to you."

"You're much too generous. Thank you."

With the effects of the alcohol wearing off, my mind begins to wonder what we will do next. But before I can speak, Greg says, "I've made a few calls to some of my associates in the justice department."

"Can they be trusted?" I blurt out without thinking.

"They have no knowledge of your Judge Garner or any of the crime lords associated with him," he replies, no offense taken at my question. "If we can bring them proof of the story as I told it to them, they will be more than happy to listen. But they couldn't stress enough the importance of solid evidence and not simply verbal testimony. No one wants to take on a federal judge without overwhelming cause and rock solid evidence," he states, the tone of his voice underlying his seriousness. "Because any slip up can turn into a career wrecker, no one is going to go out on a limb for us, and I don't blame them in the least."

Larry speaks next, concerning himself more with our immediate plan of action. "I'll head out tonight with the rental car so I arrive back at the airfield at first light and pick up the other bird. Since my face isn't on any wanted posters, I can do a little snooping around while I'm there and see if I can find out exactly what the Blackhawks were up to."

"Good idea," I agree, absently watching Tara and the child snuggled together in an overstuffed chair designed for one. "Tara and I will need another vehicle."

"You can use the service pickup. It's in the garage down by the fields. Mingo should have left it full of gas and ready to go," Gina quickly offers. "But that can wait. Right now we are going to eat," she says, waiting for everyone to follow her into the dining hall.

Begrudgingly, we rise from the comfort of the overstuffed reading chairs and follow. The main dining hall is decorated with authentic Mexican artistry and native Indian braided rugs. The table is of a long, heavy plank construction with a smoothly sanded and finished surface. The chairs are of the same type of heavy wood styling. The entire ensemble looks like it could have been original to the homestead. It makes me feel as if I have just stepped back in time.

"Please, be seated," Gina graciously offers.

"You have a beautiful place here," Tara says kindly, while allowing me to hold a chair out for her.

"Why, thank you," Gina modestly acknowledges. "The tapestries are indigenous to the area and the Mexican pottery and artifacts were brought to us by the seasonal help."

"Yeah," Greg suddenly interrupts. "They discovered that my wife would pay top price for the stuff so they make a point of bringing truckloads of it with them when they return each season to work the fields."

"That's not entirely true," Gina quickly cuts in, her voice apologetic. "I make my needs known to them before they go home in the winter and as it happens, they bring me items of interest back the following year. It's only proper that I pay them for their trouble."

Smiling, Greg concedes, "The items do add a touch of authenticity to the place, I guess."

With Greg seated at the head of the table and Gina in the first place at his right, we all sit down to the feast laid out before us. Going with the ambience of the hacienda, Gina has prepared a variety of that include a selection of tacos and burritos with all the fillings and condiments native to Mexico. On the side is a plate of corn on the cob and a buttering dish, tomatoes, sliced apples, and several bottles of their prized wine.

Rising, Greg selects a bottle of wine and proceeds to fill the tumblers. "I would like to make a toast," he starts, standing at the head of the table with all eyes on him. "To this fine meal that my beautiful wife has prepared for us and to the wonderful company that we are blessed with today. Dar gracias!"

All respond, "Dar gracias!"

As Todd goes to take a sip from his tumbler of wine, Tara reaches out and takes it from his hand. "You're too young for that," she gently scolds.

"I am so sorry," Greg intercedes on Todd's behalf. "I misjudged the young man's age. I will get him something more appropriate to drink."

"I can drink wine," Todd argues, reaching for the glass that Tara just placed out of his reach.

"No," Tara firmly replies as Greg hurries off to the kitchen only to quickly return with a glass of non-alcoholic Sherry.

"Here, my young man. This has the same adult flavor without the underlying punch," Greg says while smiling at Tara apologetically.

She throws him a mildly disapproving look and then quickly smiles around the table. Gina, however, is not finished with her husband and adds, "You should know better, Greg."

Humbly, Greg mumbles, "I forget my manners, sometimes."

"And your morals too, so it would appear," Gina finishes.

The rest of the meal goes quickly with only small talk involving the weather and how it will affect the grapes. With the addition of food to my stomach, the alcohol from the wine and rum is quickly absorbed and my thoughts clarify.

Greg is the first to rise from the table and suggest we all sit out on the veranda to enjoy the last dregs of warmth from the setting sun. Gina begs off, deferring to the dishes and cleaning of the table.

"I'll lend you a hand," Tara quickly offers, as the men and Todd head out with tumblers and a fresh magnum of wine in hand.

"Thank you, Tara. I don't usually accept domestic help from my guests, but I think I will make an exception today. I would be grateful of your assistance," Gina graciously replies.

With a fresh apple in one hand and a tumbler of wine in the other, I plop down in one of the wicker chairs lined up on the veranda. Although the sun is still a ways from the horizon, its progress is almost visible to the naked eye and already the sky is changing colors, the once clear blue turning a hazy purple shot through with golds and oranges.

So as not to risk spilling the deep red contents of the tumbler on my lap, I set it down on the planking of the veranda and concentrate on the apple. Greg drops heavily into the chair on my left, while Todd sits on my right and Larry on the other side of Greg.

"Would anyone care for a cigar?" Greg offers.

"I would!" Todd pipes up excitedly.

Softly, yet firmly, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and say, "I don't think so, Big Guy."

"Ah, gee. I can't have any fun," he whines.

"Didn't Uncle Larry let you fly the helicopter?" I ask, realizing that I'd just referred to my dear friend as 'Uncle' Larry.

Larry is the first to catch the phrase of familial meaning and quickly retorts, throwing me a sidelong glance, "Uncle?"

Ignoring him, Todd begrudgingly admits that yes, Larry had let him take the controls.

"And wasn't that fun?" I pressure him.

In the same tone of voice, he again begrudgingly replies, "Yes."

In the background, I hear Larry again mouthing the single word, "Uncle?"

"Thanks Greg, but no, I'm trying to cut them out," I reply to Greg's offer of a cigar, ignoring Larry.

"That's almost sacrilegious, my friend. What is that woman doing to you?" he asks jokingly.

"What makes you think it's the woman?" I argue playfully.

"Because if there is one thing I have learned during my days on this earth, and that is that man gives up his vices for only one of two reasons, a woman, or death," he quickly replies.

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?" I remark sarcastically, smiling at him. Then, my voice turning serious, I ask, "So what is your answer to this mess I currently find myself in?"

"Is that the mess involving your feelings for a woman? Or the mess involving the woman?"

"You know what I mean," I curtly reply.

"Uncle?" Larry says again to no one in particular.

"All right already, Larry. It was a simple slip of the tongue. Can you let it go?" I brusquely remark.

The sun is just turning into a flaming ball of ruddy hues when Gina and Tara step out onto the veranda.

"It's so beautiful," Tara exclaims, stopping and placing her arms across her chest as she looks into the setting sun.

"More than a century ago, someone had that same thought and that's why the veranda was built to face west. I can only imagine how many voices have spoken those same words from this same spot over the years," Gina remarks, her gaze absorbing the splendor of nature in all its grandeur. "Although I've watched it a thousand times, I never grow tired of seeing it again and again."

In a matter of just a few short minutes, the splendor is over and darkness enfolds us. In the far off distance, we can see a smattering of yard lights and a lengthy line of red and white lights from the highway. A dim yard light slowly glows brighter in the yard where the cars are parked, its light offsetting the darkness and gradually blinding us to all but the brightest of the farther lights.

"Don't worry about anyone surprising us," Greg says casually, as if reading my thoughts. "Unless they approach with their lights out, we'll see the reflection on the far ridge over there shortly before they reach the crest in the drive. You can't miss it."

Larry slowly rises to his feet and says, "Thank you for all your hospitality. But it's time for me to hit the road."

Gina quickly implores of him, "Are you certain that you shouldn't take a nap before you go. It's a long drive for one person to make at night."

"No, no, I'll be fine."

"Here," Gina says suddenly, stepping toward Larry with her hand out. "Take this, Greg has his own and we have a land line. No one should be monitoring the frequency and you can call when you know something or just to let us know you made it safely."

"Thank you," Larry says, taking the proffered cell phone. "I'll call the minute I know something, even if it's nothing important."

Gina gives him a brief hug and tells him to be careful. "I'll be back before morning," he says to all of us.

"We'll be waiting for your call," I tell him, as he heads down off the veranda and sets out toward the parked rental.

Greg is the first to speak. "We need a plan. Although Gina and I can watch over Todd indefinitely, you and Tara can't just remain on the run and as much as we enjoy your company, eventually the search for you two will come in this direction. At some point, someone is bound to remember the work you did for us and put two and two together. Hell, even the calls I placed to my contacts in the justice department might let something slip accidentally or to the wrong party and before we know it, they're on our doorstep."

"Greg, as much as we appreciate everything you've already done for us," I sincerely reply. "I think it's time for Tara and me to come up with a plan that won't drag our friends down with us if it goes awry."

"Nonsense!" Greg says sharply. "Don't even try to cut Gina and me out of this. You were there when we needed help and now we have an opportunity to finally even the score. You can't deny us that. I won't let you!"

During my past dealings with Greg and Gina, I learned much about their characters and I didn't expect anything less from them. Still, it did my heart good to know we had such staunch allies.

Tara spoke up before I could acknowledge his generous offer of assistance. "Thank you both. But we cannot possibly risk endangering either of you in what is really only my problem. Already, I have dragged Mac into more danger and hardship than I had any right to do."

Now it was my turn to speak up and I suddenly realized why she was acting so different as of late; she was feeling guilty and remorseful for having gotten me involved in her problems.

"Hold on there just one minute!" I hotly blurt out while jumping to my feet, hurt and angered that she could think such a thing. "I would have done the same for anyone, not just because I fell in love with you."

My words leave them in a vacuum of shock and silence. Tara and Gina both look at me agape, astonished by my outburst. Tara is the first to regain her composure, saying, "Even though you love me, it isn't fair that I have asked of you what I have."

Greg, unaffected by my words, senses that Gina is about to say something and immediately silences her with a stern look.

Unaware of the subtle communication between them, Tara and I continue our conversation as if we are the only two people left in the entire universe.

"I've been in love with you since the moment I laid eyes on you," I proudly declare, my gaze locked on hers. "And I think you've felt the same way about me. At least, I believe you have."

"Yes," she says weakly, slowly moving toward me.

Unable to wait for her to reach me, I step forward and pull her into my arms. Our lips hungrily clash together, oblivious of our audience until Todd pipes up and asks, "When will Uncle Larry get back?"

Slowly, reluctantly, we draw apart. Staring into each other's eyes, Tara says softly without looking at him, "He'll be back before you get out of bed in the morning."

"Will he let me fly the helicopter again?"

"When you're old enough, I'll personally teach you to fly," I distractedly mutter, not wanting to let Tara out of my sight or embrace.

For a long moment we stand holding tightly to each other when Gina's voice says softly to Todd, "Come along, Todd, I'll show you where your bedroom is."

Silently, I wish Greg would take his leave too. Yet, I realize somewhere in the back of my mind that we have way too much to discuss yet this night. Regrettably, my longing and desire for Tara will have to wait.

With tenderness, I give Tara a soft peck on the cheek and then slowly retreat to the chair next to Greg's while guiding Tara into the one opposite his. Despite a sudden thirst for a stiff shot of rum, I keep it to myself, realizing that I need a clear head for what is to come.

Holding hands and sneaking quick, furtive glances at each other, we sit in silence waiting for Gina's return.

Within a matter of minutes, she comes through the open doors with a tray containing a bottle of rum and several empty tumblers held out before her. Setting the tray down on the small wicker table, she sternly advises, "This is for after our discussion and not before."

"No argument here," I genially agree.

My past dealings with Greg have left a mental image of him in my mind as a quick decisive thinker and tonight turns out to be no exception. While Tara and I were busy flirting with each other, Greg was mentally devising a plan of action.

"If we intend on spilling a little light of day on these people, we need to draw them out of the shadows. The best way to do that is to get the media involved. Somehow, we need them so preoccupied with covering their asses so they don't have time to worry about us," Greg calmly states as if reading facts, his mind buzzing through possible scenarios.

"We need to take them all the way down, not just make life uncomfortable for them," I state with determination. "For what they've done to Tara and her sister, they're going to pay, one way or another."

"We can worry about making them pay later," Greg argues, wanting first to take control of the situation and buy us time.

"I would rather they pay first, and then what's left of them we can turn over to the media," I continue to argue, being more a man of action than planning.

"I know what your idea of paying is, Mac, and I can't openly be a party to it," Greg argues, his eyes absently studying the golden hue of the rum as it twinkles in the glow of the yard light.

"We have to do this Greg's way," Gina says in his defense. "Any other way is foolhardy, especially when you consider what is at stake."

It isn't necessary for Gina to explain what is at stake; we all understand that she is referring to Todd's future and what kind of a life Tara and I might be able to offer him if we have to remain on the run for any length of time.

Rising and pacing to the edge of the veranda and back, I stop before the wicker table, studying the un-opened bottle of rum. There was a time when I believed that I could actually think more clearly after a brisk shot of the stuff. Experience has since taught me the fallacy of such beliefs. Until we come up with a viable plan of action, the rum remains off limits.

"What are you suggesting?" I ask of no one in particular, yet unmistakably expecting Greg to speak up.

Slowly, deliberately, I turn away from the bottle of rum and stare out into the night. A long silence ensues while we wait patiently for Greg to disclose his plan. There isn't any question as to whether he has one or not; Greg always has a plan. That is why he's such a successful attorney. No one has ever caught him off guard!

"Let's have a shot of rum first," he says, reaching for the bottle.

Aghast, we all turn and look at him. "You won't look at me like that when you hear what I have to say. Now, let's have a drink."

Pouring himself a tall glass, he passes the bottle to Gina, who in turn fills our glasses before returning the half empty bottle to the table. Holding up his glass, he says, "Here's to the future of our children."

No one asks him to explain.

We all take a moment to savor the fiery liquid as it slides down our collective throats. Greg is the first to speak. "One would think it might be sacrilegious to serve rum in a vineyard, but desperate circumstances call for desperate measures and all that hoopla." He sits back in his seat as if relaxing, but in reality, he is only regrouping for the charge ahead. Anyone that has watched him at work in either a courtroom or a boardroom has seen this apparently innocent gesture before. It always comes right before the assault.

Yet, he is not in a courtroom, or a boardroom, either, for that matter. But he is still in an arena and one that will require him to sway his friends and family to see things through his eyes. If there was any other approach to the problem at hand, he would eagerly consider it over what has been formulating in his mind since Larry first told him of the predicament involving Tara and I. But try as he might, his thoughts keep returning to the initial reaction he felt and the one that is the basis for the plan that he is about to disclose.

"I mention desperate measures for a reason," he says slowly, measuring each word carefully before mouthing it. "It isn't necessary for me to tell you that we face desperate circumstances, that really goes without saying." He pauses for a moment and then asks if anyone would care for a refill. When no one answers him, he turns to the bottle and sloshes another large dose into his glass. Setting it carefully back upon the table, he looks first at Tara and then toward me.

"I don't have to tell you either that I'm not afraid to take chances or to cross a line in the sand if I feel the ends justify the means. But we can't just go picking off federal judges and heads of crime families. Even the CIA isn't that bold.

"We need to cull the bad from the good, segregate those that mean us harm from those that are simply doing their jobs."

"And how do you propose we do that?" I ask, a sense of dread creeping over me as I try to get a step ahead of him.

Almost cautiously, I move over next to Tara and take her hand in mine. "We need to let them know where they can find Tara," he says in a rush of breath.

"Are you nuts?" I ask incredulously. Tara's other hand comes across her lap and grips my forearm. "If they know where we are, they're going to call in local agents to arrest me for kidnapping and possibly shoot me in the process. How is that going to help Tara?" I demand, frustrated and disappointed by his ridiculous idea of a plan.

Calmly, Greg says, "You haven't let me finish. I didn't say we were going to tell them where you are. What would be the point in that?"

"I distinctly heard you say that we should tell them where Tara is!" I almost shout at him. "What's the difference between telling them that and telling them where I am?"

"The difference, my friend, is that legitimate law enforcement officials are hunting you for the kidnapping of a child," he says calmly, ignoring my angry outburst. "There isn't any outstanding warrant for Tara. In fact, except as a possible person of interest in your case, she isn't on the radar anywhere."

"Now, I remember why you're so damn successful," I grudgingly apologize. "But how do we get the word to only those that we want to hear it and not the rest of the world?"

"That's the easy part," he says with a smile. "We have the distinct advantage of knowing who the players are, they don't."

"I've been involved in some crazy shit in my day, but I'm still not crazy about using Tara as bait," I weakly protest.

"We only have to use the illusion of Tara for bait." This time, he looks directly at Gina and smiles. "You know, from the back, you two could pass for sisters."

"No!" I protest loudly, releasing Tara's hand and spinning around to face Greg. "That isn't any different than using Tara and it's just plain foolhardy. These people don't want to arrest her, they want to kill her, in case you've forgotten. If they even get a risky shot at putting out her lights, they're gonna take it, and there isn't any way we can protect her from that. Have you forgotten what it's like when they take out a contract on someone? Even the federal government with all of its resources at its disposal can't keep someone alive when the mob wants them dead! This is just plain stupidity, Greg! If this is the best you can come up with, then we need to go back to the drawing board, because I can't be a party to something so ludicrous."

"I can," Gina says softly, yet clearly. "I believe in my husband, Mac. If he says it's safe, then I'm in agreement."

"That is all well and good, Gina. But you forget, your husband is a white-collar mercenary and we're dealing with the real thing here. Trust me, I know the difference and I know that your husband means well, but he is out of his league this time."

"No! No one is going to risk their life for me," Tara says determinedly. "I appreciate everything you all are willing to do for me, but this isn't your problem." Meeting my gaze, she quickly adds, "It's not your problem either, Mac. I love you more than you will ever know, but if I let something happen to you, any of you," she quickly corrects, looking beyond me to Greg and Gina. "I will never be able to live with myself. This is my problem and it's time that I deal with it before anyone gets hurt."

Rising, she turns toward the door. Reaching out, I grab her by the shoulder and spin her around. "What do you think you're going to do?" I demand.

"I'm going to call the local authorities and tell them where I am and what I witnessed," she states matter-of-factly.

Holding her tightly, I start to tell her that we'll all be dead before the local sheriff even gets off his duff and into his cruiser. But Greg speaks first, "That would be the stupidest thing any of us could do, Tara."

Turning on him, she says, "Didn't you just say that you were going to use me for bait to draw them out? Well, what's the difference?"

"Please, Tara, calm down, let's not do anything irrational. I only intend on the bad guys thinking they know where you are. I don't intend for anyone to actually know," he says, clarifying his earlier idea. "With Gina's help, we stage a sighting that can be substantiated by witnesses, even if those witnesses are only watching closed circuit cameras. No one will ever be in danger, Tara; you have to trust me on that."

"I think I'll have that refill," I say, moving toward the bottle. "Anyone else?"

Tara is the first to speak, her voice on edge, "Please."

After refilling everyone's glasses, I stand next to where Tara has taken a seat and think through all that has just happened. "He has a good idea, Tara," I say softly, anticipating my role in it. "Greg, you'll take care of logistics, just like the last time."

"Now you're talking," he says with a smile.

"Gina, you're going to act the part of the witness they want dead."

"I've been known to be a drama queen," she says with a flirtatious wink.

"Where do I fit in?" Tara asks rather apprehensively.

"You're going to be in a safe place looking after our future. When the time is right, you have to go to the press and spill everything, from start to finish, including proving that I didn't simply kidnap Todd."

"But it's my fault they're after us. There must be something more I can do."

"Baby, just be waiting for me when it's all over. That's more than enough," I smile at her. "We'll take care of the rest."

"I think it's time we all hit the hay," Greg suggests, studying the empty rum bottle. "Morning will come around soon enough."

Rising, we all shuffle through the door into the hacienda, leaving our empty glasses where they're setting. Inside, Gina says, "You remember where the guest room is, Mac?"

"Sure, we can find our way. Thank you again for all your hospitality," I sincerely add. "We'll see you in the morning."

Greg replies, his voice gruff with emotion, "We owe you more than we can ever repay, so let's be done with all this gratitude crap. Okay?"

Smiling and grateful for their generosity, I simply reply, "If that's how you want it. But it doesn't change the fact that we appreciate everything you're doing for us and we'll always be in your debt."

"Goodnight, Tara and Mac," Gina says with finality, afraid that her husband is going to start into a long-winded diatribe of whom owes who. "Oh, Todd is in the small guest room on the right just before you reach our door at the end of the corridor."

Tara answers her with a simple, "Goodnight, and thank you."

Following Greg and Gina down the long corridor, we stop and look in on Todd. In the dim light cast from the nightlight, we can see him snuggled comfortably beneath a light blanket, his face angelic in sleep. Closing the door without making a sound, Greg and Gina continue on to the master suite while I lead Tara back to the guest bedroom halfway along its length. Upon entering, I flip on the light switch, illuminating a spacious room that doesn't appear to have changed since the mid eighteen hundreds. The back wall opens out onto a large deck while off to the far right is a massive four-poster bed with a canopy and net curtains to keep the bugs off at night.

The furniture, though sparse, includes a heavy wooden armoire and dresser with a large beveled glass mirror. Off to the left is a spacious bathroom with a fully tiled shower. The adobe plaster on the walls appears a soft rust color in the subdued lighting.

"This is lovely," Tara breathes, moving lightly on the balls of her feet toward the bed. Alighting on the edge, she kicks off her boots and lies back, swinging her feet up. As I move toward the bed, she says in a quiet voice, "They love each other very much."

"Yes, they do," I concur.

"Do you trust me that way?"

"Which way?" I ask, feigning ignorance.

"You know what I mean?" she pouts, rolling onto her side to face me.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I kick my boots off and start to rise to use the rest room. Before I get my feet under me, Tara hooks my belt with her left hand and pulls me back off balance. Landing heavily on the bed, she swings her legs around to encircle my waist and wraps her arms around my chest, pulling herself tightly up against me.

Mistaking her intentions, I halfheartedly remind her that we have a long day ahead of us.

"Do you think we'll have what they have some day?" she asks, catching me off guard, her voice revealing a deep-seated longing.

Resting my hands on her knees, I say what comes to mind, "I thought we already had something special."

"We do," she says almost too quickly.

"Then I guess I don't understand your question," I press on, fearing where this conversation may be heading. "We have Todd, we have each other, and we have a future to build our relationship on. Greg and Gina didn't start with anything more, babe."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," she softly agrees, her legs slipping loosely off to the sides and her arms releasing their hold on my chest.

"Something is bothering you," I gently state.

"I know you trust Greg's judgment and I'm sure that even he believes he knows what he is doing. But I can't get the picture of them shooting Sally out of my head and I couldn't bear living if something like that happened to any of you," she says in a rush. "They're ruthless people and they're going to stop at nothing to kill me. If they believe Gina is me, then how am I to feel if they succeed?"

"Trust me, baby, I've been in stickier situations and so has Larry. We can take care of ourselves. Between the two of us, nothing is going to happen to Greg, Gina, Todd, or especially, you. Now quit your fretting and let's get some sleep," I say confidently.

Almost inaudibly, she agrees.

While I'm in the bathroom freshening up, she undresses and slips between the sheets. Upon my return, I drop the netting so we can leave the door to the deck open and take advantage of the cool breeze blowing in. Undressing, I place the magnum beneath my pillow and then slide in between the sheets next to her.

In the dark, I feel her arms reach out for me as she moves closer, the warmth of her naked flesh brushing against mine. Lying on my back, I become acutely aware of the fullness of her breasts pressing against my chest as she snuggles her head under my chin and softly reaches down between my legs.

Discovering my engorged manhood, she lets out a soft murmur of delight. Moving her head up to the side of mine, she whispers in my ear, her moist tongue sliding the length of my chin. "Are you always like this?"

"It's the effect you seem to have on me," I say huskily as her fingers slide tantalizingly up and down the length of my swollen shaft.

Her own voice husky with emotion, she says in the moment before slipping her tongue into my mouth, "This is the effect you have on me."

Simultaneously, she slips a soft, silky leg over my waist and rolls up on top of me as if climbing into a saddle. With gentle precision, she mounts my iron hard shaft and slowly slides down its length, the moist warmth of her folds encapsulating my throbbing manhood. We have just started and already it is almost more than I can stand.

Her lips are hot and wet, smothering me with affection. As she slowly moves up and down on me, I grasp the firm flesh of her ass with my strong hands and squeeze them together while assisting her gyrations. Moaning loudly with pain and ecstasy, I release my grip on her buttocks and slide my hands up her waist, loving the tremors of her flesh as I work my way around to her breasts, taking their fullness in the cups of my hands and massaging them roughly.

"Oh baby," she suddenly cries out as the full length of my shaft penetrates her, her heated breath raking across my face as her body convulses on mine. "Ohh God!"

The sound of her passion sends electric current through my lightening rod and I explode in a torrent of hot fluid, my orgasm carrying her high off the bed.

We fall back together, my passion spent, her laughs hysterically sharp. "Whew, what was that?" she asks, her breath coming in short spurts while her hands go back to my groin in search of more.

"Tara," I softly plead. "Todd is in the next room, we don't want to wake him. And morning will be here before we know it."

From all the sexual exertion as of late, my body is crying out for a respite. And yet, she appears tireless, her own sexual need insatiable. I want only to cuddle, to feel close to her, while she needs a physical release that I may not be able to give her.

"He is sound asleep," she argues determinedly.

The low light coming in through the open door leading out to the deck casts her face in shadow, highlighting what appears to be a wicked, almost evil grin of lust and desire. A cold shiver runs down my spine despite the warm night air trapped in the room, the sight compelling me to look away.

Taking a deep breath, I turn back and instantly realize that it was only the shadows playing a mean trick on her. Now, her face appears soft and sensuous and I suddenly long for her warmth and nearness.

The former harshness of her touch becomes soft and gentle as she continues trying to coax more life into my flaccid member. Reaching up, I take her face in my hands and guide it down to mine. Our lips find each other effortlessly in the shadows and we kiss long and tenderly.

Her hands slide up my chest, the growing manhood forgotten in the moment. A brief sensation of relief and disappointment passes over me only to be just as quickly forgotten as we fall into each other's embrace, our lips sealed together and unbreakable.

As her lithe and naked body falls comfortably into the fold of sheets and bedding next to me, we hold each other tightly, neither wanting to break the enduring bond of our kiss.

After a long time, our lips regrettably separate and we stare into the shadowy depths of each other's eyes. "Don't ever leave me, Mac," she softly pleads, her voice almost inaudible. "If you ever do, I swear I'll hunt you down and kill you," she says with more force. "And that's a promise."

"If I should ever be so stupid, you have my permission to put me out of my misery," I say lightly, expecting her to react accordingly to the humor in my voice.

Instead though, her comment as well as the manner in which she says it leaves me feeling slightly uneasy. "I won't be hunting you down to do you any favors," she coldly remarks, her voice almost frigid. The tone of her voice is in sharp contrast to the heat emanating from her bare flesh.

As if mutually understanding that the conversation is over, we both squirm around and adjust our positions in the bed until she is lying on her back next to me with my right arm beneath her head. We remain like this for almost fifteen minutes, neither talking nor sleeping, simply staring up at the print-work embedded in the canopy, when she suddenly reaches over and takes my left hand in both of hers and guides it to her bare left breast.

Purposely, she rubs my fingers over her hardened nipple and then presses the palm of my hand against the fullness of it. Then, without a word, she moves my hand down to the soft, moist area between her thighs before placing it on her chest, covering her heart. Confused, I remain silent, waiting for an explanation. No woman has ever acted like this toward me before and I'm not certain how to respond when she says softly, "This is yours now, don't ever forsake it for another. Every part of me belongs to you. I will never deny you anything you want that I am capable of giving."

That cold chill runs down my spine again and I remain silent, almost hoping that she assumes I have fallen asleep. After another long moment of silence, she finishes right before falling asleep with, "I expect no less from you."

### **9**

Morning comes fast and hard. After a restless night of trying to figure out the woman next to me, I suddenly hear Larry's voice out in the darkness. Whipping off the covers, I jump out of bed and hastily throw on my clothes. Moving on the balls of my feet, I stealthily exit the room before Tara stirs.

Entering the kitchen, I find Greg and Larry sitting at the table drinking coffee and deep in conversation. Gina, still wearing a night robe, is busily whipping up batter for pancakes. She is the first to acknowledge my entrance. "Here," she says gaily, placing a hot mug of coffee on the table near the other two. "How'd you sleep?" she asks, turning back toward the counter. But before I can answer, she says, "Breakfast is just going to be a simple fare of flapjacks with syrup and butter. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. In fact it sound's great," I reply, nodding acknowledgement to Greg and Larry as they stop talking long enough to look up. "Learn anything last night?" I ask, directing my question toward Larry.

"Not as much as I would have liked, I'm afraid."

"Any problems getting my bird back? Decker didn't charge you extra for keeping his mouth shut, I hope," I add lightly, as if finding it funny that he might have held Larry up for a premium.

Greg speaks for the first time, his mood somber. "I've been thinking about the details of our plan," he starts. "I know you won't like this, but it might help toward bringing our idea to a successful conclusion."

"Something tells me I'm not going to like what I hear," I say, my voice hiding the nervous tension I'm feeling inside the pit of my stomach. Between Tara's bizarre behavior last night and now this, I'm not sure I can take much more.

"You're not, but I still want you to consider it before you throw it out," he says sternly.

"Okay, go ahead. I promise I won't disregard it without giving it all of my consideration, just for you."

"Don't be so damn flippant," Greg admonishes, feigning anger. "It's too damn early in the morning."

"Sorry, go ahead," I reply, exaggeratedly humbled.

Without turning away from the stove, Gina says, "Don't worry about him, Mac. He's just putting his game face on."

Ignoring his wife's comment, he starts, "If you turn yourself in the legit cops will go about their usual business and we only have to contend with the ones on the take that have been bribed to kill the witness."

Cutting him off, I quickly remind him that if I turn myself in there is one less to look out for the 'witness' as he so fondly keeps referring to her. "Also, in case you've forgotten, there's more than likely a contract out on her. And not that I'm unable to take care of myself, but if there's a contract out on me too, I'll be a sitting duck in some local sheriff's hoosegow just waiting to be taken down!"

"No," comes a firm voice from the doorway causing everyone to turn and look.

"Tara, we didn't know you were up yet," Greg says quickly, his voice sounding as one that was caught telling a secret.

As Tara sits down next to me, Gina sets a cup of coffee before her with a 'morning', and then hurriedly turns back to the griddle and picks up the pitcher of batter that she'd been working on. A loud hiss erupts as the wet mixture falls on the hot iron. Steam and the smell of cakes cooking assail our nostrils.

"He's not going to turn himself in to anyone and leave me out in the cold all alone," she continues, her voice leaving no quarter for argument.

Never before had a woman spoken in such a manner deciding my future and I wasn't sure how to take it this time. Should I be grateful because we were in agreement, or should I be resentful because no one tells me what to do?

Yet, before I can decide a course of action and speak up, Greg tries to calm her. "We're only trying to decide what is best, Tara. No one is going to do anything until we do."

"I understand that you're a powerful and successful attorney, Greg," she starts, her voice too calm for the situation. "You have become used to people doing as you suggest because you are usually correct and it works out for the best. But this time, you are wrong. If you let Mac turn himself in it will be the same as signing his death warrant, and possibly mine too."

"Come on Tara, surely you don't believe that," Larry pipes up, trying to calm the situation.

Between driving and then flying all night, his face is haggard and there are dark circles beneath his eyes. I make a mental note that he needs rest before we do anything.

"It's not up for debate, Greg. In fact, I think if the shoes were on different feet, Gina would agree with me completely," she says firmly, looking toward Gina for confirmation and getting it.

"It's true, Greg. I would no sooner let you turn yourself in than advertise my whereabouts in the local paper," she says in the same determined tone of voice that Tara had used.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, I am suddenly flattered by Tara's conviction and my hand slides over the heavy wood of the table and encircles her much smaller hand. "I have an idea, though it's a bit stretched," I offer up, allowing Gina to attend to the cakes before the heat of the griddle burns them.

"Let's hear it," says Larry, his face belying his eagerness.

"We use my surrender to law enforcement as a diversion." Before the protestations from Tara can get started, I clarify my words. "We find someone that looks like me and use them for a diversion, but unwittingly. Even the person we select to be the patsy won't know what's going on until it's all over, if then."

"How do you propose we do that?" asks Greg, his interest piqued.

"Every day, there are thousands of people walking down the streets of San Francisco. We wait until someone resembling me comes strolling along and simply make an anonymous tip to the police. The people looking for Tara will be listening for just such a call and assume that she is with me. When all the attention is focused on this poor guy who doesn't have a clue what's going on, we make another anonymous tip. Only this time, we call a certain judge and pretend to be a player that is looking for a payoff for information. With the right approach, the judge is going to think he's being blackmailed."

"I'll make that call," Greg says, taking advantage of my slight pause to catch my breath.

Spurred on by Greg's openness to my idea, I forge forward, paying close attention to their expressions. "It's imperative that you sell him on your legitimacy or the whole plan will crumble. We won't get a second chance at this," I add with earnest.

"You forget," he replies with a smirk, "I make my living conning people. It's what attorneys do. He'll be a pushover because he's motivated to believe."

"That may be true, Greg, just don't underestimate him," I sternly remind him, thinking only of the consequences if he fails.

"He won't," cuts in Gina, setting a huge platter of cakes on the table before us. "He realizes as well as you do the stakes this time around."

Smiling at her, I simply say, "I know, and I'm sorry if I sound like I don't have faith in anyone sitting at this table. You all know that isn't the case."

"We know," Larry says. "Now let's eat, I'm starving."

Taking plates and passing them around, we are all digging into the food when Tara suddenly says, "I'll get Todd. This is one of his favorite breakfasts."

"Let him sleep," says Gina, moving around the table refilling coffee mugs. "I can make more later."

"Are you sure it isn't a problem, because I can have him join us now," Tara insists, beginning to rise.

"No, no, you sit down. He'll be fine. It sounds as though he and I are going to be the only ones around here today and it'll give us time alone to bond," Gina says lightly in her best hostess manner.

"Thank you," Tara says a little apprehensively, settling back into her chair and picking up her fork.

"Really, it's quite alright. It'll be fun," she adds, sensing the tension in Tara. "Does anyone need anything before I sit down?" When no one says anything, she finally sits down and joins the rest of us.

During breakfast, there is little conversation. With our stomachs full and our plates clean, Gina rises and collects the dirty dishes. "I'll give you a hand with those," Tara quickly offers, rising and collecting the butter platter and syrup pitcher.

As the two of them tackle the domestic chores, an occasional nicety can be heard going back and forth between them. I find myself relaxing to the sound of their bantering when Greg's manner again turns serious and he says, "I'm all in agreement in setting up the distraction in San Francisco. It's close to hand and we can move back and forth relatively quickly. But does anyone have a place in mind as to where we should draw the judge and his henchmen to?"

Larry speaks first while I give it more thought. "It needs to be in a location where innocent people won't get caught in the crossfire and we can keep the situation under control with as little risk as possible."

"I know where, and I also know how to make it believable," Tara says from her place by the sink, drying the dishes as Gina washes them.

We all turn and look at her, surprised and anxious to hear what she has to say though none of us expected it nor are we prepared for it.

With a mischievous expression, she smiles at me and says with finality, "Right back where it all started, where they killed my sister. We take them right back to the same place they killed Sally."

Even Gina stops what she's doing and turns to listen. The silence in the room is enormous and Greg is the first to break it. "That's genius, Tara! I can't believe I didn't think of it first. It'll be a piece of cake convincing that old fart that you return to the scene of the crime on a regular basis to pay your respects to your sister. We set the time by simply telling him you go there at the same time almost every day. Damn! You are really something special, Tara. Don't ever let this clod believe otherwise."

Smiling at me, our gazes meet and I know she sees how proud I am of her in that brief moment.

After a long minute of silence, a niggling at the base of my neck grows slowly more noticeable. And then, I finally understand what it is that's bothering me. Though I don't want to rain on the current mood, I feel strongly that it needs to be brought up. "We are forgetting something."

"What's that?" Greg asks, his tone hesitant as the others all look in my direction.

"We can't use Tara for the bait. There's no way I can agree to that. And I know you suggested we use Gina last night, but that isn't acceptable either. There are too many variables, too many things that can go wrong. Neither Tara nor Gina are trained for this type of an operation."

"I really don't mind, Mac," Gina pipes up.

"He's right, Gina," Greg says sympathetically.

"It's only right that I be the bait," Tara states determinedly. "I've been saying it all along and I'll say it again, they're after me and no one else. If anyone should take the risk it should be me."

Jumping to my feet and bumping the edge of the table and knocking the coffee mugs askew, I loudly object, "No one in this room is going to be used as bait!"

"Sit down, Mac," Greg tiredly commands. Both his voice and his demeanor suggest that he is tired of the arguing. "As it just so happens, I have a few friends that aren't connected with the justice department. And although we will call in their assistance when we get to that point, we will also take advantage of the giving nature of a dear friend of mine in the actor's guild. He's done makeup on some of the biggest stars in Hollywood and I know if I tell him about our situation, he'll be here in a heartbeat to help out."

"What are you suggesting, Greg?" I ask, concerned that we are dragging even more innocent people into the mess.

Looking straight at Larry, he says, "I think this friend of mine could have Larry here turning male heads in a gymnasium, even if all he had on for clothing was a tutu."

Larry's head snaps up, his full attention focused on Greg. "What are you suggesting?" he nervously asks.

"You don't mind being the bait, do you Larry?" Greg says with a smirk.

"No," Tara cuts in. "No one will be the bait except me."

"We've already gone over that, Tara," I plead with her, not willing to rehash what has already been established.

"Then tell me, Mac! Or you, Greg, what is my part in this, because you're not going to leave me behind wondering and worrying about what's happening out there. I want to be there when those bastards are made to pay for what they did to my sister! I need to be there," she adds with finality.

"Someone needs to stay behind and look after Todd," Greg starts, believing that he might change her mind with the right approach.

To everyone's surprise, including mine, I suddenly blurt out, "She's right. If it was my kin that they'd hurt, I would have to be there too, even if it were only as a spectator."

"Thanks, Mac," Tara replies from the bottom of her heart.

Not believing that I am actually saying the words, I continue, "I think if Tara is willing to draw them out, we should let her. Larry will be much more valuable to me on the perimeter of the sight dishing it out than in the middle of it taking flak."

"He's right, Greg," Larry happily concurs, obviously relieved that he might not have to dress up as a woman after all. "I can do much more damage from cover than I can standing out in the open waiting to be shot at."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Greg argues. "Someone is going to be shot at and I refuse it to be a woman."

"Surely, you didn't mean that the way it sounded, dear," Gina says sternly, shocked that her husband would make such a sexually biased statement.

"He's right though," I concur. "There is a very real possibility that someone is going to be shot at. But with Larry and me working the perimeter, we have twice the chance of taking out any shooters before they can get a shot off."

"I trust them, Greg, why can't you? It is my life on the line, in case you've forgotten," Tara remarks acidly, while looking hard at him across the table.

Shifting uneasily in his seat and looking uncomfortable for the first time since we sat down to breakfast, Greg studies Tara for a long moment before speaking. "Okay, I won't stand in your way," he says meekly, meeting her gaze. And then with a much firmer tone adds, "But that doesn't mean I'm in agreement."

Trying to lighten the atmosphere in the room, Gina says, "In other words, if he's finished arguing, he sees the merit in your plan; he's just not willing to admit it."

Rolling his eyes, Greg looks over at Gina and a smile slowly turns up the corners of his mouth.

Just then, Todd comes stumbling through the doorway, rubbing vigorously at his sleep-encrusted eyes with the backs of his hands. Though groggy, he seems self-conscious of everyone looking at him.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Tara says first, starting to rise.

"Stay seated, dear," Gina says quickly, rising and guiding Todd to the empty chair next to Tara. "Would you like some flap jacks, honey?"

Still rubbing his right eye with the back of his hand and studying the group around him with his left, he nods confirmation to the offer. When he sees Larry looking back at him, his face immediately brightens and his sleepy eye is all but forgotten.

"Hey, sport," Larry fondly addresses him. Not waiting for Todd to reply, he continues. "You know, when I was doing my preflight last night, I found something in the engine compartment that shouldn't have been there."

Everyone is listening to the story, wondering where he's headed with it. Our curiosity is quickly satisfied however, when he rises from the table and says, "Don't go away, I'll be right back."

Stepping into the entrance foyer, he quickly returns with my old fishing rod in his right hand. "When I first saw it, I thought the dipstick had fallen out. But then I recognized it and realized that I'd used this same rod and reel on several occasions myself."

Todd's eyes light up with glee and he jumps off the chair and runs around the table to the doorway to retrieve the rod. Giving Larry an affectionate hug in the process, he says, "Thank you, Uncle Larry."

As Todd returns to his seat, the rod held tightly in his little hand, Larry says, "I understand that you've already caught some fine fish with that pole. Maybe you can show me how it's done, because all I ever caught with it were old tires and swamp grass."

Smiling and nodding his head vigorously up and down, Todd emphatically agrees to go fishing with him without saying a word. "I will assume that means yes," Larry chuckles.

Setting a large plate of cakes and a tall glass of milk before the child, Todd enthusiastically digs in, enjoying the home-cooked fare with all the fervor of the adults sitting around watching him eat.

"Before anyone goes fishing, you need to catch you some shuteye," I say, addressing him with all the compassion of a concerned brother.

"Sounds good," he replies, striding past the table. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to lay down for a couple of hours." Looking toward me, he adds over his shoulder as he goes through the kitchen door, "Greg can fill you in on the little bit I learned at the airfield."

"Thanks, Larry," I respond, watching him go.

Before I can ask him, Greg says, "The Blackhawks were only refueling. According to Decker, the mechanic, they're operating on a tip that the fugitive kidnapper is somewhere in the Sacramento area. However, they're avoiding the larger airports, going on the assumption instead that their fugitive is going to stick to the out-of-the-way mom and pop airfields where he's less likely to be recognized."

"We already knew most of that just from supposition," I reply unenthusiastically.

"Yeah, and I would hate to read anymore into it, but it sounds like they've profiled you."

"That wouldn't take much; I am pretty much a creature of habit."

"And some habits you have," Tara pipes up with a laugh. "Do your friends know that you..."

"Enough already," I abruptly cut her off, a self-conscious grin turning up the corners of my mouth. "Unless you're ready for me to share what I've learned about you since we met, you might want to put a lid on it."

Everyone grows silent, afraid of being the next target, when Todd innocently says, "They fart a lot."

"Excuse me!" Tara demands, feigning anger to hide her embarrassment.

"Well, Mac does anyway," Todd innocently corrects himself.

This last statement causes everyone to crack up with laughter.

When the laughter dies down, I suggest that Tara and I take the pickup and make a run toward San Francisco to check out possible places to set up our unsuspecting decoy. Todd immediately demands that he accompany us, but Gina quickly diverts his disappointment with plans for baking cookies and how she needs someone with strong arms to stir the dough. Not to mention, she will need someone with discriminating tastes to let her know if they are worthy of serving to guests or not.

He falls for the ploy and Tara and I waste no time making a hasty departure before he changes his mind.

We find the truck in fairly good condition, despite a heavy layer of dust from disuse. Fortunately, Greg never took the time to have the vineyard logo emblazoned on the doors, which I find strange, considering the size of his ego. But that is neither here nor there.

Moving down the gravel road at a steady speed that doesn't kick up too much dust, I sigh with relief when we hit the pavement and can pick up some speed. When we have gone a little more than twenty miles, we come across a full service truck stop offering showers and a video lounge attached to a restaurant on the side.

As I begin to make my turn into it, Tara glances at the fuel gauge and says, "We don't need gas. Why are you pulling in here?"

"A dirty truck draws more attention than a clean one, believe me," I casually remark.

We sit in silence while the soapy water and spinning brushes roll over the truck's windows, leaving us detached from the world outside.

"What happens when this is all over?" she suddenly asks, breaking the silence. "What really happens with you and me?"

"First, we get through the next forty eight hours. Until then, I'm almost afraid to consider," I reply softly, feeling more relieved than I should have when the light of day shines through the front window and we're heading back out toward the road. "Here we go," I mutter, my voice betraying my relief.

"Men," she sighs resignedly.

I have never been one to plan beyond the moment and I'd never even considered with any seriousness the possibility that I would eventually meet someone that would demand just such a thing of me. But I can see now that is exactly what has happened. Sitting beside me is the most beautiful woman that I'd ever met and it would be a lie to say that I don't want more than anything else to spend the rest of my days on this earth with her. Yet, until we can clear up this mess we're in, it's imperative that I keep my mind clear and focused on the mission at hand. After that, we'll just have to wait and see.

We continue on in silence, each stealing furtive glances at the other as the traffic slowly grows more congested the nearer to the city we get.

"It's beautiful," she says softly, watching the scenery drift by the window.

"We're close enough in," I offer, turning down a street that's signed city center. "We just need to find a place that is usually crowded so it takes the police a while to find our decoy. Once they lay hand to him, they'll figure out real quick that he's not their man and then so will the judge and his cohorts."

"What happens then?" she asks, her voice a traitor to her worry and concern.

"If everything goes off without a hitch, it'll all be over by then," I say with assurance.

"And if it doesn't ' _go off without a hitch_ ' what then?" she asks accusingly.

"It will, so don't worry about it," I reply a bit too sternly.

"But what if it doesn't?" she demands more forcefully, an edge to her voice. "What happens then?"

"I know what you're thinking, Tara, and I won't let that happen," I growl through clenched teeth.

"If something goes wrong, Mac, someone dies," she says firmly, mouthing what I'm not even willing to think about, much less speak. "And that someone will be me," she adds sensitively, almost victoriously.

"I won't let anything happen to you, Tara," I angrily respond, frustrated and annoyed by the direction our conversation has taken. "We don't need to talk about this anymore," I add, trying not to let my anger show though I am clenching the wheel hard enough to turn my knuckles white.

"It's okay, Mac, you don't have to worry about me. I won't be angry or disappointed in you if something goes wrong. I owe you so much already," she humbly states, her eyes staring ahead, yet not focusing on anything in particular.

Slamming my fist against the steering wheel, I turn and face her, my voice ringing with frustration, "Damn it, Tara! I love you! Why can't you remember that?"

"Look out!"

Without thinking, I react to the car shooting into the intersection from the right and jerk the wheel around hard to the left, hoping to avoid the idiot without crashing into anything else. However, the pickup truck doesn't respond like a sedan and the mud tires on the rear quickly lose their hold on the hard pavement. Before I can correct the over-steer, our ass end swings around and the front end slams up hard against the center island curbing.

We are now facing in the wrong direction with oncoming traffic swerving and honking at us, the idiot in the black sedan having continued on through the red light and quickly disappearing in the flow of traffic.

"Damn it!" I mutter under my breath, wrenching the key in the ignition to restart the dead engine. "Are you alright?" I ask, concerned, but not overly worried.

"I'm fine, just get this thing going before a cop shows up," she says, her voice shrill with the tension and excitement of the moment.

Even before her words are out of her mouth and I have the opportunity to throw a sarcastic expression her way, I hear the dying groans of a weak battery that is about to expire.

When I let go of the key, Tara excitedly demands, "Keep trying! What are doing?"

Figuring that the engine flooded when the wheels locked up with it running, I press the pedal clear to the floor and say a silent prayer while holding it there, hoping that we don't have to abandon the vehicle. Because remaining in it if it won't start isn't an option. We can't afford questioning by a patrolman, even if this situation isn't our fault.

Turning the key, the engine roars to life, a blue cloud of smoke temporarily engulfing us. Revving the engine hard to keep up the RPMs, I shove the gear shift into first and let the clutch go a little too quickly. It surges forward, stutters for a moment, and then takes off toward the oncoming traffic. Wrenching the wheel to the left, I spin the back tires and let her come around in a controlled skid. Hitting second gear and then third, we are quickly back up to speed and moving with the flow of traffic again.

Less than a mile further, we come across a large strip mall with a flea market going on all along the outer perimeter. The mall itself must cover more than four square blocks and it's teaming with people on foot. Thanks to all the booths and tents scattered about, it's impossible to see more than fifty feet in any direction.

"This is perfect," I utter, my voice upbeat as I join the melee of incoming and outgoing vehicles. "Take down the address and we'll pass it on to Greg."

"But won't he need to be here to make the call?" she asks, concerned.

"There are payphones along the side wall of the building over there," I agree, wondering how I could have overlooked the fact that all 911 calls show origination area. Greg will have to make the call from the bank of payphones along the wall or it'll appear to be a bogus tip right from the gitgo. "Of course, he'll be using his cell phone," I think out loud. And then louder, "Cell phones take time to be traced, even with the GPS turned on. It'll work."

Pulling the truck into a vacant spot between two other vehicles, I quickly check the gauges, making certain everything is copasetic before turning off the ignition. "We might as well check the place out while we're here," I say with a relaxed smile, studying her in the passenger's seat and longing to be someplace private with her. Instead, I say, "Those cakes of Gina's were damn good, but they're not sticking to my ribs like I thought they would. Maybe we can grab a bite while we're looking around."

She smiles back at me in response as if reading my inner thoughts before climbing out of the truck and heading toward the nearest row of booths, leaving me to catch up.

The first vendor has a large display of mostly Indian artifacts set out and we linger for a moment, studying the foreign made labels and then laughing as we move on to the next vendor. It feels good to laugh and hear her laugh.

After about an hour of rummaging through the wide variety of booths and tents, we come across a vendor selling deep fried dough, or elephant ears, as I called them when I was a kid. Unable to resist, I order several dipped in powdered sugar with a couple of mugs of beer on the side, the foamy head spilling over the rim when he sets them before us.

Along the sidewalk outside the building are several picnic tables, some taken over by freeloading peddlers, but a few still vacant this early in the day.

Laying claim to one, I set the mugs down and we sit next to each other, our backs to the tawny hue of the brick building. Eating our deep-fried dough and sipping at the sudsy beer, we watch the crowd slowly growing in number. What had been a fairly good gathering when we first arrived almost doubled in number by early afternoon.

"You think this is a fairly normal turnout?" I ask of Tara, not really expecting her to know any more than me, but simply making conversation as we watched people strolling by.

"Hold on," she says, rising and marching over to the nearest table with a man and woman selling Rolex look-a-likes.

Watching her, I am impressed by her casual ease with complete strangers. Within a matter of seconds, she has won their trust and they are eagerly answering her questions. With a smile, a laugh, and a casual wave of her hand, she dismisses them and returns to our table, swinging her hips with the swagger of victory as she approaches.

"You're quite a smooth operator," I say with pride, smiling into her large dark eyes. "What did you learn?"

"That maybe, I've been in the wrong line of work all my life. These kids are raking in the bucks selling cheap knockoffs to people that should know better," she replies, shaking her head in disbelief.

"That's all well and good, but did you learn anything that'll help us?" I press her, feigning impatience as I take a swallow from my mug.

"Yeah, actually I did. I learned that unless the fog from the bay comes this far inland, which sounds like it's a very rare occurrence, or God forbid, it rains, this is the hot spot," she says with a flourish, dropping down on the bench so close to me as to catch part of my leg under her own.

Just her nearness is able to send chills up my spine with anticipation and promise. "Those jeans really do look good on you, by the way," I remark lamely, aware of a growing tightness in my crotch.

Smiling mischievously, she suddenly bounces up and plants herself in the center of my lap, smack dead center over the rising bump. "How do they feel on you?"

Kissing her on the nape of the neck, I whisper in her ear, acutely aware of the stares our playful actions are drawing from the swelling crowds moving past, "This is neither the place nor the time to make a spectacle of ourselves. But, if you can keep these thoughts in the back of your mind, maybe we can pick up later in the privacy of a room."

"I'm sure there'll be new thoughts in my mind by then and they'll serve your debauched purpose just as well," she whispers back, smiling innocently at a couple of youngsters staring at us.

"Will I really get to try your pants on?" I whisper in her ear, feigning innocence.

For a reply, she elbows me sharply in the ribs. "Who are you kidding? You know you don't want to try my pants on, you only want me to take them off."

"I just can't help myself around you," I softly reply, pretending to be hurt by her accusation.

With me nibbling on her earlobes and kissing the nape of her neck, we sit on the top of the bench for a while longer. Finally, satisfied that we'd found the ideal place to report a sighting of me, I suggest we cruise a little farther down along the row of tents.

"Did you see something of interest?" she asks, bouncing off my lap and gracefully landing on the balls of her feet.

Taking her hand in mine, I lead her toward a tent with a Harley banner flying out front. "I should have known," she sighs resignedly.

"Hey, careful now. If you're going to hang out with me, you need to look the part," I advise her. "I'm not just a pretty flyboy, after all," I add, guiding her across the pavement toward the booth.

Within the confines of the tent, we find a wide variety of riding apparel, other miscellaneous items that have no obvious connection to riding, and a wide variety of drug paraphernalia, everything sporting the Harley logo to increase its intrinsic value. I am immediately struck by the observation that this isn't what I was looking for. This is only the type of stuff that weekend wannabes would eat up and nothing a serious biker would even consider.

Or so, I originally believe until I see the box of used merchandise sitting in a corner behind the makeshift counter. Moving toward it, I recognize an authentic leather jacket, riding pants, and headgear, as well as a miscellaneous collection of other items.

With my interest piqued, I ask the scruffy-looking dude behind the counter if the stuff in the box is for sale.

"Yeah, but it's mostly junk and wore out garbage. If you're looking for a set of riding duds, I got a fine selection over there that'll fit you," he says, putting no value on the items in the box because they're neither new nor made in Korea or Mexico.

Even while speaking to me and indicating the far section of the booth away from the counter, his eyes remain hungrily on Tara, his unkempt beard and dirty clothing supposedly making him appear more authentic to the uninitiated.

"I'm not interested in riding apparel," I casually remark while debating the merits of planting my fist in his ugly mug. "I'm interested in that box of stuff. Would you mind if I check it out?" I ask, not waiting for an answer, but moving around the counter and retrieving it.

For the first time since entering his tent, he forgets about Tara and says in his most intimidating tone of voice, "Hey! You can't be back here. This area is off limits."

Ignoring him, I set the box on the counter and begin withdrawing the contents, laying them out on the counter one item at a time while I check them over. To my immediate amazement, the pants and jacket are a woman's cut and about Tara's size. "Here," I say to her, interrupting her study of mock native-American jewelry displayed in shadow boxes on the counter that every biker is supposed to be gaga over. "Try these on."

Taking the handful of leather articles, she looks at the man behind the counter questioningly. Suddenly realizing why she is waiting, he nervously points toward an arrangement of drapes hanging from a shower rod at the opposite end of the counter.

"Don't even think about it," I say gruffly, reading the guy's thoughts. Under normal circumstances when a woman tries on clothing, the man wonders off or stands on the far side of the drapes and waits. Meanwhile, he moves to the far wall behind the counter and catches a slit-eyed view of the person changing. This time, however, though he's hungering for a glimpse of the beautiful woman in the makeshift changing room, he doesn't dare move for fear of suffering my wrath.

When she comes out wearing the leather pants and jacket over nothing more than a black silk bra, my breath catches in my throat and all I can think is, "What did I do to deserve her?"

"How much?" I ask, noting that he too is unable to take his eyes off her.

"Whew," he lets slip, suddenly realizing that I'm giving him a stern look, not certain if he is referring to what he plans on charging for the goods, or just out of admiration for the beautiful woman standing before us.

As if suddenly realizing that I'm studying him and not Tara, he jerks around and looks nervously from me to her and back, unable to make up his mind as to whether my silently implied threat of pain is worth the risk or not.

"I'll tell you what," I finally suggest. "I'll give you a hundred bucks for the entire box. I know that's at least four times what you probably paid the poor sap that brought it in."

Not waiting for an answer, I count out the money and lay it on the counter. "A word of advice," I say to him, lifting the box off the counter. "The next time a fellow rider comes in down on his luck, you better give him what his stuff is worth. Because if I ever hear otherwise, I'll be back."

"Yes, yes sir," he stutters, believing every last word.

"Don't forget your clothes," I remind Tara. Hurriedly, she retrieves her other clothing from the dressing booth and rejoins me by the front opening of the booth. "Take care, now," I nod at the man as Tara sets her folded clothes in the open box tucked under my left arm and slips her hand into mine.

Snuggling up close to me, she softly, almost sensually, says, "Thank you. No man has ever purchased clothes for me before. At least not used clothing."

"It was clean and it fits. Very well, I might add," I remark, pushing away without letting go of her hand and checking her out from head to foot and then back up to her head before pulling her back in close. "What more do you want?"

"You."

"You have me," I reply, unaware of what is going through her mind.

"I never knew what a turn on it is for a man to buy a woman clothes," she says, her voice a little huskier than normal.

"Thank you," I naively comment. "I'm glad you like them."

"Oh, baby, you have no idea how I like them," she says emphatically, swinging her hips against mine. After a moment, she asks, "Do we have to go straight back?"

"No, of course not," I reply, still unaware of what is going through her mind. "Is there somewhere else you'd care to go?"

Planting her feet and jerking me around, she throws her arms around my neck and pulls my head down to hers. Kissing me passionately on the lips, she breathes, "Anywhere we can be alone." And then, pressing her bosom against my chest, she cuts off any reply I might make by forcing her lips against mine.

Leaning to the right, I slip my right arm down behind her legs and scoop her up into my arm, the box still cradled securely under my left. Balancing her on my right arm with her arms wrapped tightly around my neck to maintain the perch, we work our way through the gawking crowds and strangers that act like they've never seen two people in love before until we reach the truck. Opening the passenger's door with my left hand, I carefully place her on the seat like a trophy and lean back in to give her a long, lingering kiss. When our lips eventually part, she smiles up at me.

"I think I know of just the place," I state a bit breathlessly. "Fasten your seatbelt."

We pull out of the mall and head east on the interstate. After a few miles, I take an exit and head into the hill country. The homesteads gradually growing sparser until I finally see the sign I'm looking for.

Turning off the pavement, Tara asks, "Where are we going?"

"I was going to get us a room, but we can't stay out all night or Todd will worry himself sick. This is the next best thing," I finish, flashing a smile.

"It's a park," she says a little befuddled.

"Very observant of you," I mock. "And this time of the year it's bound to be deserted."

"I told you that I wanted to be alone with you, I'm not exactly an exhibitionist. When I say I would like to be alone that is exactly what I mean, not on display for all of mankind and nature to watch," she says, the tone of her voice clearly indicating that she isn't going to change her mind.

"Don't worry. I'm not an exhibitionist anymore than you are. As it turns out, there are some very nice cabins along the lake and they're very secluded. Plus, since the campground isn't managed during the off-season, we don't even have to check in. We'll just pick one we like and make ourselves at home for a little while."

"And, if I might ask, how do you know all of this?" she demands.

"If I tell you everything, I'll lose my aura of mystique," I jokingly reply. It isn't necessary for her to hear about the time I hid out here in the middle of winter with another endangered client. Some stories are better left unsaid.

With practiced ease, I guide the pickup down a single lane road bordered by overgrown shoulders, dodging the larger potholes and taking the smaller ones in stride. We pass a miniature playground with a swing set and merry-go-round, equally overgrown and neglected appearing, the brown paint peeling off the metal structures in large flakes. Then we enter the thicker woods, leaving the more open day use area behind. Through the trees, we catch glimpses of sunlight glittering off the surface of the lake. When we come to a tent camping area, I'm relieved to note that the sites are sitting empty and neglected as well. Continuing on through the tent camping area, we eventually reach our destination as we come to the cabin area.

The cabins are individual, one-room log structures, each sporting a bed with attached kitchenette area. The only restrooms are community buildings with steel reinforced doors locked securely with deadbolts for the winter.

The cabins, however, are more accessible and experience has taught me that it takes only a minute to pry off the single privacy lock. Instead of wasting time going further into the woods, I select the first one we come to and park the truck in front. Jumping out, I lead the way to the door and with ease, pry the lock off and swing it open.

Turning to Tara, I scoop her off her feet and carry her over the threshold, mimicking the newlyweds we feel like. Laughing and giggling, I head straight across the room to the bed and drop her gently onto it. Like the year before, all the bedding has been left in place. Though I question its cleanliness, we are lost in the heat of the moment and within seconds, our clothes are in a heap on the bare wooden floor.

Compared to the warmth found out in the open sunlight, the cabin is cool and damp, tucked securely beneath the shadow of the trees. The chill on our flesh only adds to the excitement of the moment and we hold each other close. Her nipples are hard little rocks and I know without having to be told that it's not from the cold.

Lying atop her naked body, I wriggle and squirm my ass until my swollen member finds the wet, hungry folds of her womanhood. A slight moan escapes her lips as I slide in and our bellies press together.

Trying hard to control the moment, I plant my elbows on either side of her and lie still, our bodies joined in intimacy. When she senses my lack of movement, she too stops moving and her breathing slowly stabilizes.

"What is it?" she finally asks, cocking her head to the side and listening intently for an unheard sound.

"It's nothing," I whisper softly, staring into the deep, dark pools of her eyes. "I just don't want this moment to ever end." My voice comes out almost sad with emotion.

She gazes into my eyes and a small impish smile slowly lights up her face. My manhood clenches involuntarily and she squirms beneath me. With a childlike voice, she says, "That's not fair."

Then her hands slide down my back and she reaches around until she finds my scrotum. With tenderness, she tickles my balls, and when I wriggle, she grins wickedly in response. "Now, who's not playing fair?" I ask, pushing into her and then quickly pulling back and holding.

In response, she lifts her lower body against me, forcing my member deeper into her and then falling back to the bed before doing it again. It takes only a couple of these maneuvers on her part before I can't control myself any longer and grasp her by the shoulders to keep her from being driven headfirst into the head of the bed by the force of my passion.

To the rhythm of squeaking springs and loud, passionate breathing, we make love, over and over, until neither of us is able to move. Spent and exhausted, we lie next to each other on the undersized bed, acutely aware of its small size for the first time.

"I'll never be able to walk the same again," she says with a warm glow on her face.

"I'm not even going to try," I respond tiredly.

"Try what?"

"To walk the same as you," I reply without opening my eyes, not fully aware of what she's talking about and then suddenly realizing.

When she hits me in the side with an elbow, I quickly apologize, "I'm sorry, but I can't promise that it won't happen again."

"I'd be disappointed if it didn't," she laughs. After a long moment of silence, she asks in a serious tone of voice, "When do we have to be back?"

"We'll get going in a little bit."

"Do we have to? Can't we just stay here forever?" she pleads, rolling over onto her side so that she is looking down on me. "I'm afraid."

"You have nothing to be afraid of Tara," I confidently remark. "I won't let anything happen to you, ever."

"You're only human, Mac, even if you forget that sometimes when we're making love. You can't promise me that nothing will go wrong, you can only promise me that you will do everything within your power to prevent it," she says in all seriousness.

"You're absolutely right, Tara. I am only human and I cannot be anything more. But I've been around and I know what I'm talking about when I say you'll be alright," I ardently state.

For a long moment, she doesn't say anything and then she says in a voice that is barely audible, "I trust you, Mac. I truly believe that you will do everything within your power to keep me safe. But if something goes wrong tomorrow, it's important for me that you know I won't blame you. No matter what, I will always love you and I won't blame you if something goes wrong."

The tone of her voice and the context of her words send a chill down my spine. It's almost as if she's had a premonition and having had premonitions of my own, I take them very seriously.

The chill in the room grows uncomfortable and I rise from the bed leaving her naked body exposed to the cool air. Throwing my pants on, I tell her to wait a moment and head out to the pickup and retrieve the box with her other clothing still piled on top.

"Here, you might want to put these back on," I suggest, handing her back her jeans and shirt.

After dressing, I dump the contents of the box out on the mussed up bedding and study the items with interest for the first time.

The last thing to fall from the box and land on top of the heap of miscellaneous items is a leather biker's wallet. It is well worn; even the chrome chain is now a dull yellow. Picking it up, I flip it open and am surprised to see a face looking back at me.

It's the driver's license of an old man, his hair thin and wispy gray, thick gray stubble on his sunken cheeks and a dark scar running diagonally across the right side of his face, just below the eye. At one point and time in his life, he probably had to wear an eye patch, judging by the proximity of the scar to the eye socket.

Although I'd seen a hundred such faces before, I didn't recognize this one and continue to flip through the credit card pockets. The wallet is devoid of cash as well as anything that might be used to withdraw cash or identify a bank.

"What is it?" Tara asks, her voice drawing me out of my thoughts. "You've been studying that wallet for awhile now. Is there something of interest in it?"

"Yes, I think there is, but I'm not exactly sure what it is," I say, my thoughts still trying to get a handle on something that remains elusive. "Here," I finally say, handing her the wallet. "What do you make of it?"

Taking the wallet from me, she flips it open to the driver's license and seeing the name, instantly throws out the comment, "Jack Smiley. He must be dead or why would he have gotten rid of his ID?"

"Yeah," I demure. "Judging from the picture, he didn't look too healthy then."

"He might have contracted something like aids from sharing needles," she offers, her voice sympathetic.

"Or he just lived a hard life, taking only what he needed and wanting nothing more," I quickly state in his defense. He was a fellow rider and I didn't like his past being defined so simply with no proof. My own road wasn't the smoothest and yet, I didn't do drugs. And I didn't believe for one minute that I was an alcoholic either, though I had a soft spot for West Indies rum.

I also had a soft spot for women, but I wouldn't classify myself as a sex addict, though every time I look at Tara, I feel a stirring in my jeans.

"This is some knife," Tara says, changing the subject.

And then it hits me, the niggling that was bothering me. "What's wrong with this picture, Tara?"

"What do you mean? Aside from having purchased a box of items that I am going to assume used to belong to a fellow by the name of Jack Smiley, very possibly a dead biker, I have no idea what you're getting at," she says with a questioning expression.

"That's it exactly," I declare. "Everything in the box, from the wallet to that knife, belongs to a man. And yet, the leather clothing belonged to a woman! And not just any woman, but a woman with one hell of a figure, I might add."

"Thank you," she smiles at me. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Smiling back, I assure her that it was indeed intended as a compliment. Thinking aloud, I mutter, "Although we will never know who this guy was or how his stuff came to be in this box, much less the leather riding gear of a young woman, we can use it to our advantage."

Curious, she asks, "And how do you propose that?"

"I think Jack Smiley had a daughter. And when Jack passed, she donated all of his worldly possessions, including her riding gear, and made a drastic change in her life."

"And what does that mean to us?" she presses me, her curiosity piqued.

With a mischievous grin, I say, "Just call me Jack, Mrs. Smiley."

"No one will believe that's a picture of you."

"You'd be surprised how little people actually study the pictures on I.D.s. Except, of course, your friends. And they only look at them so they can poke fun at you," I add with a sardonic laugh.

Sidling up to me, she takes the collar of my shirt in her hands and asks, "Does this mean we have to consummate our union, Mr. Smiley?"

"Most definitely, Mrs. Smiley," I reply, lifting her off her feet and setting her on the counter of the kitchenette.

Pulling her shirt up over her head, a sparkle of light suddenly catches my attention, and I turn toward the front window, noticing for the first time that the sun had gone down and dusk was quickly turning into night. Coming down the lane through the trees is what appears to be a white pickup, possibly a Forest Service vehicle.

"Quick, get dressed and get back in the truck," I command, pulling her shirt back down and spinning around to grab the cardboard box off the bed after quickly throwing everything back in it.

We move quickly, not bothering to lock the door behind us, just pulling it hastily shut. By the time the white vehicle with a Forest Service emblem now clearly visible on its side pulls into the clearing along the front of the cabins, we are sitting in the truck with the engine running.

"Now you'll see what I mean," I murmur through my teeth.

Parking behind us to block our exit, the man gets out of his truck and approaches the driver's side window, which I quickly lower.

"Hello there, sir," I say in my friendliest of voices. "What can we do for you?"

"Do you realize this is a closed campground?" he asks, waving his flashlight around the interior of the cab though the flashlight feels like overkill.

Glancing past the glare of the light, I notice that he is simply a Forest Service employee and not a law enforcement officer. Yet, because all their trucks are equipped with two-way radios, I don't discount the fact that an LEO might be on the way, however unlikely.

"We've had some problems in here with vandalism lately," he continues. "Would you mind if I could see some ID? You don't have to show me if you don't want to, but a law officer will be along shortly and I'm sure he'll demand it," the guy says as unthreateningly as possible.

I remind myself that he is just doing as instructed and that he would much rather be at home with the wife and kids than out in a cold, dark, deserted campground when his shift is over or close to it. "No problem, sir," I calmly remark, producing the ID of the dead biker. "This is the Missus," I add, indicating Tara.

He only briefly glances at the ID of the dead biker and hands it back to me, saying, "I'll make a note of it on my incident report. But now that you know this place is closed for the season, I'd appreciate it if you could just back on out and not come back." And then, as if he'd forgotten that he should drum up business, adds, "Oh, by the way, this is a reservation campground. If you would like, I can get you the reservation information."

"No, thanks," I quickly decline. "That's not a problem. We were only taking a break from the road and probably won't be back this way again. But thank you for the offer. Good night," I add in a tone of finality.

"Good night now," he says, his voice belying his relief at having the moment of confrontation over.

No sooner, than the truck moves on, I back away from the cabin and fall in behind it. Because it's a single lane, one-way road, I feel compelled to do so and we follow the man all the way around the campground until we are almost back to the entrance before he pulls off to the side and waves us on past.

### **10**

Once we are back on the main road heading east again, Tara turns to me and says, "Okay, you were right, Mr. Jack Smiley."

I look at her and we both break out in laughter.

By the time we reach the hacienda it's midevening and Larry is sitting out on the veranda with the others drinking a beer. Before the pickup even draws to a stop, Todd comes running, calling out to Tara.

"What's up honey?" she asks, jumping out of the truck and hurrying to meet up with him.

The child's excitement is contagious as he grabs Tara by the hand and pulls her toward the veranda. "Wait till you see what Uncle Larry bought me," he blurts excitedly, unable to restrain himself.

"What did uncle Larry get you?" she asks, hurrying embarrassedly past everyone sitting on the veranda with barely a 'howdy' before disappearing through the doors and into the darker regions of the hacienda proper.

By the time I reach the veranda, carrying the box of items, Tara and Todd are nowhere to be seen. "What you got there, fella?" Larry asks, eyeing the box curiously.

"Just a few items we picked up at a flea mart near San Fran," I casually reply before saying my greetings to the others.

"Are you hungry, have you eaten yet?" Gina asks, once again falling into the role of hostess. "There's a large kettle of chili on the stove and corn muffins warming in the oven," she quickly adds, getting to her feet in anticipation.

"That would be divine, Gina, thank you. I'm sure Tara could use some of that too if you see her. I'll be right in."

When she has gone, Greg asks, "What did you find?"

"The perfect place," I comment. "I'll give you directions later. Any news on this front?"

"I've made a few calls to some of my closer contacts and set a few things up for tomorrow." When I start to protest, he raises a hand for silence, and adds, "Don't worry, I didn't give any specifics or names. I basically just told them to keep tomorrow's schedule clear and to be expecting a call."

"Good," I sigh, relieved that he hadn't gotten overzealous and muddied the waters with too many loose cannons.

"I'll go to this mall you found and make the first call to draw off the police and then I'll place another call immediately after and talk to the judge. I'll tell him about Tara and how she returns to the spot of her sister's death to mourn on a regular basis. By the time I finish with him, he'll be there in person carrying a pile of cash or with a hit man to silence the witness and the informer," Greg says enthusiastically. "Either way, we take him down," he concludes.

"Even if he shows up with a suitcase full of cash for the informant, he's going to bring a hit man to finish off the witness, though I doubt he will allow either to leave alive. But either way, he goes down for solicitation of murder, if not first degree murder on at least one count," Larry says determinedly.

"Let me worry about prosecuting him," Greg says with a malicious grin. "I have the right connections for that. You just worry about keeping Tara safe."

Stepping through the doorway and hearing Greg's comment, Tara smiles at me and says, "I don't have anything to worry about." And then glancing at Larry, adds, "With these two men looking out for me, I'll be just fine."

Directly behind her, Todd adds, his voice indignant, "What about me?"

"You're my rock, baby doll," she quickly amends.

"Gina saved us some leftovers, if you're hungry," I say, heading toward the doorway.

Turning, she and Todd lead the way into the kitchen leaving Greg and Larry alone on the veranda. Gina is just setting the steaming kettle of chili on the table next to a heaping mound of cornbread muffins and a bowl of butter when we walk in.

"What would you like to drink?" she asks, always the perfect hostess.

"Beer would be good," I say, looking to Tara for confirmation.

Todd quickly pulls up a chair next to Tara and says in a comically deep voice, "Yeah, beer would be good."

Giving him a stern look, Tara says, "I don't think so, young man."

Pulling a couple of beers and a bottle of orange soda from the fridge, Gina apologetically says, "This will have to do for now," setting the bottle of soda before the boy.

"Ahh, man," he whines, disappointed.

"Mind your manners, Todd," Tara says sternly, giving him a threatening look.

"I'm sorry," he says humbly to Gina. "Thank you for the soda."

"You're more than welcome, young man," she replies with a smile. And then adds for our benefit, "Help yourselves and if you need anything else, please feel free. I'll be out on the veranda with the boys."

"Thanks, Gina," I say with sincerity, watching her go. "So, what was all the excitement about earlier?"

Todd's face quickly lights up, the sullen mood of a moment earlier instantly forgotten. "Larry bought me a tackle box full of fishing stuff to go with my rod. I got bugs, flies, floats, and all kinds of cool stuff," he rattles on excitedly.

"Good for you."

But before I can offer to take him fishing, he quickly continues. "And Larry says he's going to take me to his private lake up in Oregon where the fish are this big!" he says, holding his arms out to his sides as far as they'll go.

"Wow, that sounds like fun," I say, sharing his excitement. "Do you think he'll let Tara and I tag along, or is it a private party just for the two of you?"

"It's a secret place that nobody else knows about, only Larry," he says conspiratorially. "But if you promise not to tell anyone, I'm sure Larry won't mind, he likes you guys."

"I'm glad to hear that," Tara says, spooning out a generous helping of chili into two bowls. "Because we like Larry too."

"I can't wait until I get old enough," Todd says, disappointed by his youth.

"What's that honey?" Tara asks, slobbering a hunk of butter on a muffin. "What can't you wait until you're old enough for?"

"Larry says when I get old enough, he's going to teach me to fly his helicopter," he proudly answers.

"Did you guys move the helicopters today?" I ask of him, wondering what had triggered the conversation to go in this direction.

"Yeah, we drug them around with the tractor and filled them with gasoline and oil. Larry showed me how to take care of them after they've been flown," he adds, his little chest puffing out with pride. "He also showed me what to look for in the pre-flight inspection, when you walk around and look at the helicopter before you fly it."

"Wow," Tara says, impressed by his use of big words. "Even I don't know how to do that."

"There aren't many women pilots, 'specially helicopter pilots," he says in an authoritative tone.

"Where did you hear that?" I ask, curious of what all Larry has been telling the child.

"Larry told me. He also said that some people are naturals and that after watching me at the controls the other night, I'm a natural too," he adds, proudly jutting his chin out. And then, before Tara or I can say anything, he continues, "Larry also told me that you and him are naturals too."

"He actually said that, huh?" I ask, surprised that Larry included me in his compliment and wasn't too busy boasting about just himself.

"Yup," he answers distractedly, not putting any importance to the question.

However, Tara picks up on the hidden meaning in the question immediately and gives me a playful smile, humored by my insecurities.

Suddenly bored with us and afraid that he's missing something out on the veranda, he excuses himself to rejoin them.

Tara looks after his departing figure, a sad twinkle in the corner of her eye. "What's wrong honey?" I ask, concerned by her sudden mood swing.

"Oh, it's nothing really. It's just that we've been gone all day and then just like that, he's had enough of our company," she says sadly, the chili and cornbread momentarily forgotten.

"Don't worry about it," I sympathetically tell her. "That's just the way little boys are. I guarantee you, if he falls down and skins his knee, you'll be the first person he comes running to for succoring."

"I wish I could believe that."

"Then believe it. If either of us should be hurt by his behavior, it ought to be me. Have you noticed that all he can talk about is Larry? Or did you notice how he couldn't wait to get back out there and be near Larry?"

"You're right, as usual," she concedes.

"Of course, I'm right," I laugh lightheartedly. "I also happen to know that before you can go to bed and have your dessert, you need to finish your supper."

"You're an animal," she laughs, spooning into her chili.

When we finish, we put the leftovers in the fridge and wash the dishes. After such a wonderful meal, we feel that it's the least we can do. While we're doing the dishes, I can't help but feel even closer to Tara than when we're in the throes of lovemaking. It's a domestic moment, something which I've had relatively few of in my life.

With the dishes dried and put away, we grab a handful of cold beers and head out to the veranda. It's getting late and I'm about to send Todd to bed when I think better of it. He's going to have a long day alone here with Gina and he's old enough to realize that something important and dangerous will be taking place. Even at his tender age, he will be worrying.

Also, I know Tara will want to be near him for as long as time permits before we head out in the early morning.

So, instead of sending him to bed, I say, "Todd says you guys fueled and serviced the helicopters today. It sounds as if he's going to be one hell of a pilot some day."

Todd beams at my words, his eyes shining brightly in the reflected glow from the yard light. "Yep," Larry says proudly. "He's a natural born flier. When he took the controls, you couldn't even feel a change in the flight of the little bird the transition was so smooth."

Todd is beaming so proudly at Larry's words, I worry for a moment that his head is going to burst when Gina says, "I think it's time for a young man to be off to bed."

As Todd starts to protest, I suggest softly, "It's alright, Gina. Tonight is special."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," she concedes.

"Here's a pad and pencil, Mac, if you could write down that address or some brief directions. I'm sure I'll find the place," Greg says, handing me a small note pad and pencil.

"Here's the address," I say, handing him a crumpled scrap of paper. "But I'll give you some simple directions, too. You've probably driven past the place a thousand times, just never paid it any mind," I tell him.

"You say there are payphones."

"Yeah, a whole bank of them along the northern wall of the building. The whole thing covers more than four square blocks and according to the people we spoke with, it's always a busy place. The cops could easily spend an hour searching for me before they find someone that resembles me. And by that time, it'll all be over," I say decisively.

"Good," Greg says, slipping a cell phone from his jacket pocket and studying the illuminated reader. "I'll use this phone to call Judge Garner. It's an inexpensive throw away that can't be traced. However, I have no intentions of throwing it away, because its memory chips will contain evidence of the phone call. Just one more piece of the puzzle that will show the corruption of a federal judge for what he is."

"When we get there, we'll scout the area from the sky and select the most strategic positioning for Larry with his fifty caliber sniper rifle. Probably some place high with a wide view of the area and yet providing enough cover so that he won't be spotted if they also do a flyover," I say with authority. "I'll be in cover much closer to the rendezvous site. When we're set, I'll call and let you know it's time."

Greg leans forward in his chair and in a serious tone of voice says to Larry and I, "I know the two of you are more than capable in many situations that would cause lesser men to crumble. But God forbid if anything should go wrong, please look out for the innocent."

"We won't let anything happen to her," I state matter-of-factly. "Just don't call in the cavalry before we're finished doing what we do. We have to keep control of the situation and the only way we can do that is by keeping outsiders out, if you know what I mean."

"I'm just going to have them ready, you're going to make the call when you need them," he advises me.

"And so I shall, when the time is right," I agree. What I can't tell him is that, if the situation goes wet and Larry and I are forced to take out the players to protect Tara or ourselves, that call isn't going to be made. The news crews are just going to report what appears to have been a gang war where a tourist by the name of Judge Garner somehow got caught in the middle; a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Todd will show up and Greg can work on arranging custody for Tara while making my name associated with any kidnapping disappear. He has the connections to make that happen, with the correct evidence, which he'll have. It will work out in the end, one way or another.

And yes, sometimes the end does justify the means.

We work on the fresh beers for a few minutes in silence, casually watching the moths buzzing around the yard light, when Gina says, "We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow and I'm about done in. I'm going to bed." When Greg begins to rise, she holds out her hand to stop him and says, "You go ahead and stay up if you want. I'm just feeling tired tonight."

As she heads into the hacienda, it strikes me that although she makes a fine figure in a tight-fitting pair of jeans with nary a gray hair on her head, the worried expression on her face and the stiffness in her walk reminds me that she is by no means a young woman any longer. "Goodnight, Gina, and thank you for the fine chili and cornbread."

"It was my pleasure," she says over her shoulder.

Something tells me that long before any of the rest of us wake, she will be up fixing coffee and sandwiches for us to take with on our separate journeys. She has always been the stalwart individual that does for everyone else, tending to their needs while ignoring her own. I realize as if for the first time with any depth how lucky a man Greg is for having her. Accompanying this realization is a sudden pang of guilt for accepting her hospitality so cavalierly.

Without even realizing it, at some point during my conversation with Greg and Larry, Todd has slithered over to sit on the adobe brick next to Tara. Although they aren't speaking, her hand dangles over the side of the chair for Todd to hold onto. Her expression is that of a woman contented.

Startling me back to the present, Larry gets to his feet and says, "Morrow will come soon enough. I'll see you all then, Goodnight."

He is followed by a low murmuring of 'goodnights' from the rest of us. Like Larry and Gina, I too am exhausted. But I am almost certain that if I suggest going to bed, it will bring disappointment to Tara as she soaks up Todd's undivided attention and I am unwilling to do that to her. Instead, I turn toward Greg and leaning forward on the edge of my seat, say, "We appreciate everything that you and Gina are doing for us. If there is ever anything you need, all you have to do is ask."

"I've always known that about you and Larry," he says with a smile, watching Todd lose his battle with sleep in an effort to prolong his stay with Tara. Speaking softly so as not to disturb the child, he continues, "I've been around a lot of different people doing what I do. Some were upstanding citizens, always taking the high road and doing what they believed was the right thing to do. And then, I've been around the extreme opposite, the likes of which I would have been taken asunder if it weren't for individuals like you and Larry. You're much more than just street smart; you're also kind and just men, willing to lay it all down for what you believe to be the righteous thing to do. You two are a rare breed and Gina and I both feel fortunate to have met you guys. We also feel fortunate to have met a woman capable of throwing a harness on this hoss," he says, smiling toward Tara.

Smiling back, Tara says graciously, "It is I that has been honored to have met two of the most wonderful people ever. For the rest of my life, I too will be indebted to you. If there is ever anything I can do for you, please, don't hesitate to ask."

"Then let me say this," Greg begins, his voice growing in bravado. "And I speak for Gina here, also. Promise that you will not be a stranger when this is all over and that you drag these two heathens and that young man next to you with every chance you get to visit us here."

"That's the easiest promise I've ever made," she smiles gratefully back at him.

"Good! Now, if you'll excuse me, I too must be off to bed. Tomorrow will be a long day and a very important one. It won't do to bring anything less than our A games, there is way too much at stake," he winks at Tara, knowing she understands his hidden meaning.

Rising, she catches him before he reaches the door and throws her arms around him, hugging him close. "Thank you, Greg," she says sincerely.

In response, Greg nods vigorously, nervously pulling away from her and exiting hurriedly through the door. For the first time since I've known the man, he is speechless and caught unprepared for her open display of appreciation and affection.

"You have quite the effect on the male population," I remark with a smirk, setting down my empty beer bottle.

"I'll just be a minute," she replies, smiling naughtily as she helps Todd to his unsteady feet and tenderly guides him through the open doors.

Her expression clearly said that she didn't intend for me to wait out on the veranda, but instead, to meet her in the bedroom. Rising, I gather up the empties and head inside, closing the two massive wooden doors behind me. After dropping off the handful of empties, I sidle on down the hall and into the bedroom where we spent the night before.

Sitting down on the side of the bed, I consider everything that has happened to me since meeting Tara at the tavern. A lesser man would simply have sold her out and turned her over to the judge. He might be willing to pay quite a sum of money; enough for an average Joe like me to live a lifetime of leisure on.

But I've never been a lesser man. In fact, I've set my standards so high that I have but few friends capable of living up to them; Larry being my main man. We go way back, to before the war even. If there is anyone that I trust my life to, it would have to be him for the simple reason that he's saved it so many times.

And then there's Tara, the most beautiful woman that I've ever met. She excites me, she fulfills me, and she makes me feel proud of myself without even trying. No woman has ever done so much for me and I've let myself fall in love with her. Whether this is a good thing, like Gina believes, or if it will turn out to be the curse that takes me down, only time will tell.

Where Todd fits into all of this, I have no idea. He's a nice lad and I have a real fondness for him. But I'm not exactly a family-type of guy. My home is nothing more than a bare plank floor in a room above a shabby bar in the woods of Oregon. I can hardly take a wife and child there to live. It's not what the child welfare people would call a well-adjusted home environment.

If we all stay together when this is over, it'll mean some serious changes in my life. The bike sitting next to the old woodshed up in Oregon will have to find a garage and the little bird a backyard.

And that's just for starters!

This dude will have to give up the life of a mercenary bounty hunter and go back to work in the civilized world. No more freelancing for questionable and usually tax free fees. But a regular paycheck earned by working a nine-to-five job and possibly wearing a tie.

Of course, since I have a few of those questionable bucks stashed away, I won't have to find a job right off. I'll have a little time to weigh my options and filter through my choices before I run out of money.

"Who am I kidding?" I say out loud.

At just that moment, Tara walks through the doorway, her outstanding figure silhouetted by the dim light from the hallway, leaving just enough for the imagination to fill in the blanks. "Who you talking to?" she asks, cocking her head to the side as if listening for another presence in the dark.

"No one," I quickly sidestep. "Just thinking out loud, I guess."

Closing the door behind her, she flicks on the light, a dim little unit of a table lamp setting upon the dresser. In the hazy light, she appears as a wraith, ethereal and alluring. Moving on feet that don't touch the cold tile floor, she moves toward me, slowly unbuttoning her blouse to reveal the heavenly fruit of her bosom restrained in the black silk bra.

Her voice comes to me through the haze, soft and sensually enticing. "Are you really all that tired?" she asks, stopping before me and letting her blouse drop to the floor at our feet.

Leaning back, I watch mesmerized as her bra follows the path of her blouse, releasing the harbored flagships of her magnificence. Even in the dim light, I can see her nipples standing hard and erect, staring at me accusingly.

With a deft flick of her fingers, the front of her jeans fall open revealing a dark, tangled mass of pubic hair. Falling back onto the bed, I brace myself against my elbows and try to stand my ground as the jeans slide down, or did she just float up and out of them? My mind is playing tricks on me and I'm not sure where reality ends and the surreal begins.

Naked, her warm flesh crowding me against the soft resistance of the mattress, I feel her hands undoing my pants and then she steps back, dragging my jeans with her. In the absence of restraint, my penis springs up, hard as rock and willing to perform.

Desperately, I try rising off the bed, but it's too late, and she forces me back with the strength of her desire. I am only a man, too weak to resist her charms and she mounts me, her breath hot in my face. A heart is beating wildly, threatening to burst from its confining chest. Yet, I am not certain whose heart it is, hers, or mine.

She transforms into a wild animal atop me, her moans turning to cries of passion and I suddenly worry that everyone in the house will hear. Rising up on her haunches, she drops suddenly, driving my shaft deeply into her secret place. Another scream escapes her lungs and I look nervously toward the patio doors, suddenly wishing that I'd had the foresight to close them.

But then, I think, how was I to know? It's been a long day and we'd made love all afternoon. How can any woman possess such desire, such an insatiable need?

Her body suddenly trembles and convulses and her inner thighs squeeze my penis, pulling on it with extreme force. In her moment of climactic orgasm, she cries out like a wild animal and yet, she doesn't relent. I am too shocked to come and my manhood too afraid to dwindle in stature. Mistakenly, she misreads the swollen hardness of my organ as a need to match her own inexhaustible ardor and again, she rides the torrential storm of passion, our bodies glistening with a heavy layer of salty sweat.

In a time like this, when you are intimately one with a beautiful woman that wants nothing more than to satisfy your every need no matter how primeval that need may be, a man's thoughts should be on nothing but the moment being shared. Guiltily, I am thinking of the shower that I will need when we are done and then the softness of the bed and sleep.

Her breath comes short and ragged, the beating of our hearts thrumming loudly in our ears. With the night dwindling away, she continues her assault on my manhood. Only when the juices of passion no longer flow and the spirit is flailing, does she collapse in a heap next to me, my swollen member numb to the ordeal.

"There is no more," she rasps between breaths.

Rising to her knees, I watch her from a detached place in my mind. Taking my erection in her hands, she guides it to her mouth and licks the tip of it. I want desperately to feel something, anything. But there is only numbness.

With extreme tenderness that I cannot feel, she slips her lips over the head of it and suckles wetly, trying vainly to draw something from the empty well.

When I can stand it no longer, I take her by the shoulders and force her upright. "It's okay, baby. We don't always have to satisfy each other."

The words are no sooner out of my mouth than I realize that I said the wrong thing. No one, man or woman, ever wants to feel inadequate when they are trying to please another. My words make it sound as if it's her fault that I am unable to climax.

Her face twists up in anguish and I silently chastise myself for being so stupid and inconsiderate. Almost hastily, I pull her to me, embracing her gently and whisper softly, "That's not what I meant. Please, don't take it wrong."

But it's too late and the damage has been done. Pushing me away, she says, "I need a shower. We have a long day ahead of us and I don't want to smell all sweaty."

Moving stiffly, consciously averting her eyes from mine, she grabs her clothes off the floor and hurriedly heads into the bathroom, closing the door noisily behind her. It is a long time before I hear the water running.

"What have you just done?" I ask myself, speaking aloud as if talking to a friend. "In less than a week, you have gone from wanting to marry the most beautiful woman you've ever met, to literally pushing her aside. If I ever thought you were a fool, I sure do now."

Getting off the bed, I feel a strong need for a shot of rum and after putting my pants back on, head down the hall and into the kitchen. Gina left a light on over the counter and I find a bottle of rum in a shelf above the fridge stocked with a variety of liquor.

Not feeling a need for a glass, I open the bottle and put the rim to my lips. It goes down smooth and fiery, bringing back thoughts of when Tara and I were first alone together and she'd handed me a bottle of rum while we flew along at just above ground level. For the first time in a long while, I thought I was in love and we didn't know the first thing about each other. We just went forward hard and fast, trusting entirely to fate.

When she picked up Todd at that little airfield, I actually believed that we might get married one day and raise the child as our own. Looking back now, I have to wonder where my head was at. Is it possible that I was that desperate for affection, for someone to love that would love me back?

Throwing the bottle to my lips again, I take a larger swallow and move to sit down at the table, my legs suddenly feeling too weak to support me. This was not a good time to get drunk and I had no intentions of doing so. But I was definitely making a date for the near future. Just as soon as we wrap up this business with the judge, I am going to dive right in and get lost for a long while.

After taking yet another huge swallow, I set the bottle on the table and think of how she deserves so much more than I can offer, or am willing to offer. It's one thing to say you're willing to settle down and find a regular job, it's quite another to actually do it. And if I did do it, how long could it possibly last. This was my life! This is what I do. Without the adrenaline that comes with being shot at and shooting back, I would simply die.

I'm about to take another swallow when I feel hands on my shoulders. "Are you coming to bed?" she asks in a very tiny voice.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," I say softly, regrettably.

Moving around to the side of the chair, she lowers herself to her knees and lays her head on my lap. The fresh scent of herbal shampoo wafts strongly from her wet hair, filling my nostrils. Before I am even mentally aware of it, I am overcome with desire for her. It takes all of my willpower to fight it and remain sitting in the chair, my hands flat on the table for I dare not touch her. To touch her would only weaken my resolve.

"Please," she begs, her voice cracking as tears run down her face. "I love you, Mac. I will always love you no matter what. Why can't you see that?"

"I can, Tara. I can see that more plainly than I can see the light above the counter," I softly reply while trying hard to be kind, yet knowing that I'm failing miserably and there is no easy answer. "But you don't really know me, Tara, and I'm not so sure you would feel the same way about me if you did."

"What could you possibly tell me that would make me change my mind?" she demands more forcefully.

"Tomorrow, you will see the real me, Tara," I say slowly, deliberately. "Tomorrow, I will do whatever it takes to make the world right for you again. When that is done, you tell me if I need to say it out loud for you. You tell me if I have to speak it out to you!" I continue almost angrily, my voice rising with the fervor and frustration of being the man that I am.

"No matter what happens tomorrow, I will still be the woman that I am today," she angrily counters. "And my sister will still be dead! How can you make that right?"

Rising, hurt and angry, she stalks off, her feet slapping loudly on the tile floor as she recedes hurriedly down the hall. But she doesn't go to the room we're sharing. Instead, she goes to the room that Todd is sleeping in.

Having lost my appetite for rum, I screw the lid back on and put the bottle away before returning to the empty bedroom. Morning isn't far off so I take a hot shower and put on a fresh set of clothes before going out to the choppers. This is a regular workday for me and I have a few tools to make ready before anyone else is up.

Just as I'm finishing up, Larry approaches carrying a thermos in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. "Good morning," he says cheerfully, sounding well rested.

"Morning," I grunt back.

"Gina has a fresh pot of coffee on and a bag of goodies for you too," he continues, enjoying my surly mood. His assumptions for my lack of sleep are only half correct, but I have no intentions of sharing that with him.

"Here," I say, handing him a modified sub-machine gun with a silencer attached. "And here's an extra clip, just in case you have to do some close up work."

He takes the proffered weapon and ammo without comment before moving on to the cockpit of his bird. After putting the items in their secret cache, he retrieves a fifty-caliber sniper rifle from another cache. It's a fold up model with a pre-mounted laser scope in a crash resistant case. Effective range depends on whose operating the business end of it. Larry is one of the best I've ever worked with and I know he'll have us covered.

"Tara up yet?" he asks, trying to draw me out while inspecting the contents of the case.

Instead of answering his question, I say, "Don't forget your nine-millimeter."

"It's always with me. Kind of like you and that old magnum," he chides. "So, were you and Tara up late?" he asks again, not letting it slide.

"You'll work the perimeter alone, while I stay in close. So pick a place of concealment that gives you a view of the entire area and not just a pie slice."

"You're avoiding the question, Mac," he teases, unwilling to let it rest. "We've been all over the mission before, it's the same thing over and over."

"It's never the same thing over and over," I harshly snap back at him.

His voice serious, Larry says, "You're absolutely correct. Every mission is unique and this one probably more so than any other. But if you're having a problem using Tara for bait, let's discuss it now, before we're in the thick of it."

Without thinking, I blurt out, "Let's leave her behind and pick up Lisa. They're about the same size and they both have long dark hair. The judge will never know the difference until it's too late."

Larry stops in his tracks and studies me for a long minute before speaking. When he finally does, I don't like what he has to say; his words are very unsettling. "If you were anyone else, I would say that you weren't up to the mission today. But I know you, Mac. You're as solid as they come or I never would have grown so attached to you. However, we've been doing this a long time, most of our lives as a matter of fact, and we've both seen people lose their nerve. If that's what's happening here, you better be telling me now before someone's life goes to hell."

"I'm alright, Larry. I didn't want to say anything until later, but things have gone kinda south between Tara and I," I tentatively tell him.

"This won't have an effect on you in the field today, I hope," he says, slightly apprehensive.

"No, I'm fine. You can count on me."

Just then, Greg comes out of the darkness carrying a couple of thermoses and more brown paper sacks. "Gina asked me to bring these along," he says, his voice almost cheerful. It was beginning to annoy me, the way everyone was so damn chipper.

Taking the thermoses and bags, I throw them nonchalantly into the cockpit of my little bird, planning on finding them a proper place to ride when we get ready to fly. "She also asked me to make sure you both come back to the hacienda and let her wish you well before you leave. By the way, where's Tara?" he asks, looking past me toward Larry.

Turning, Larry and I look at each other before I answer Greg's question with a question of my own. "Did you check Todd's room?"

Looking concerned, he says no, they had no reason to. "But Gina was intending on getting the boy up before we all left so he could say his goodbyes. She's probably already found her," he finishes, uncertain whether to question what happened or not and why Tara would be sleeping in Todd's room.

To my dismay, Larry relieves his curiosity and concerns without my consent. "Mac is thinking of substituting another woman for Tara. It seems they had a little tiff last night and now he wants to do this without her."

"I see," he answers softly, his mind whirring. Although I expect him to try talking me out of making any last minute changes, he asks instead, "Whom do you intend to substitute and is there time to pick her up and get her on board. We can pay her, if that's what it takes."

Larry answers before I can speak. "There isn't enough time unless we reschedule and re-plan the entire mission. The only woman we trust enough and could possibly use for this job is almost a day away. And that's if she's not already preoccupied," he quickly adds.

"What is she, an actress or something?" Greg innocently inquires.

"Nothing quite so glamorous," I say, letting it slide. Larry is absolutely correct; it's much too late in the game for last minute substitutions, even if Lisa is available.

"She's a call girl," Larry finishes, causing Greg to raise his brow.

"All right," I concede. "We go as planned. Tara will fly with me. Larry will scout and then hike back in. I'll drop Tara off and then double back on foot after stashing the bird. When I call you, Greg, you'll start the ball rolling."

"Everything to plan," Larry says in high spirits. They're the same words he says every time before embarking on a dangerous mission, almost as if mouthing the words will make them come true. And in retrospect, so far they have.

Packing away the weapons and ammo, we do a quick radio check on our two-ways before returning to the hacienda. As we enter the kitchen, Gina looks up from the hot stove and gives me a nervous smile. Todd and Tara are seated next to each other, their backs to the doorway.

Turning around in his chair, his mouth full of hash browns and eggs, Todd excitedly calls out a good morning, oblivious of the tension between Tara and me.

"You're up early, sport," I say in return. "Big day planned?"

"Yep," he says, food dribbling from the corners of his mouth. "Aunt Gina and I are making cookies today."

"Wow! That sounds great. Will you save me some?" I teasing ask.

A cloud passes over his expression and then he begrudgingly says, "Yeah, I suppose."

"Now, now, that's no attitude to have," Gina reprimands him. "There'll be plenty to go around for everyone. Of course, you may have some," she adds, meeting my gaze. A quick understanding passes between us like two old friends. She is a very perceptive woman and she doesn't need to be told that Tara and I come from two completely different worlds and the chances of us making it together in the long run are less than astronomical. In fact, if the truth be told, they are quite dismal. Insurmountable would be even more realistic.

"Sit down, coffee is ready and I have a large skillet of food to dispense with here," Gina says, grabbing a fistful of mugs from their respective hooks above the counter and setting them in a group on the table for everyone to help them self.

"Thanks, Gina," I say, taking a seat next to Tara and sliding a mug over.

When the pot is passed around, I offer Tara a refill. "Thanks," she says softly, trying hard not to let her emotions show through for Todd's sake.

It hurts me tremendously to know that I am the cause of her pain and it is little consolation believing that I am doing this for her own good. But we have no future beyond the moment.

Filling plates with food, Gina hands them around and although we each accept one, only Larry digs in. "This is delicious, Gina," he says appreciatively. "I can't wait to try the cookies."

"Ahh," Todd whines, looking pleadingly toward Gina for support. "They'll eat them all," he says, crestfallen.

"Then we'll just make a bigger batch," she says encouragingly.

Almost instantly, his face lights up with relief. "All right," he happily agrees.

While we sit in silence, picking at the food on our plates, there is little conversation around the table. Mostly, the only comments being made are Larry's complementing Gina on her wonderful cooking abilities. Even Greg is silent for the most part.

When Larry finishes his food, even taking extra slices of toast to mop up the runny egg yolk, he sits back in his chair and looks toward Todd. "I better quit if I'm going to have any room left for cookies," he taunts.

In response, Todd furrows his brows and gives Larry a menacing look.

"Well, daylight is about to break," Greg hesitantly remarks, not certain how to kick off such an operation.

"Here," Gina says, setting a thermos on the table before me. "You might have need of this."

Sliding the thermos closer to me, I thank her and begin to rise when Tara suddenly says, "Wait." Slowly, almost as if in unison, we drop back into our seats, the tension in the room barely sufferable. "I need to say something before we go," she starts, her voice brittle with emotion.

"It's all right, Tara," I start to say, when she abruptly silences me.

"No, it's not alright, damn it!"

Silenced and subdued by her sudden outburst, we wait for her to continue. "I'm not making excuses for my behavior, but this last week has been very trying for me."

I'm about to agree with her, when she throws me a stony glare, immediately silencing me before I speak.

"I witnessed a cold blooded execution. My sister was killed. I was kidnapped by a gang of low life's and I was rescued by a very brave man. When I look back on it, I see why I fell in love with that man. After all, what woman wouldn't have?" She smiles weakly at me before continuing. "And lest I neglect to mention him, I also discovered the love of a young child." This time, she looks lovingly down at Todd who reflects her adoration with his own.

"But I realize now that my affections were misguided and imprudent. Mac, you're the most wonderful man in the world and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. I know that you would do anything for me, except love me unconditionally. You, like me, were caught up in the moment and for that, I will always be grateful. Now, however, the time has come for reality and since time is wasting, I will get to the point. I want to thank each and every one of you for all you have done for me; I will never forget it, even if I can never repay you. No matter what happens today, I will remain eternally in your debt and hold no blame."

Realizing that she'd finished, we all rise, some muttering softly for her not to worry about repayment, others simply moving toward the door. It was time to go and there was no turning back.

Noticing that Tara is hanging back, I do likewise, waiting to talk to her in private. "Thank you for that. But it is I that will forever be in your debt and not the other way around."

Putting her arms around me and tenderly embracing me, she says softly, "You are much too kind and generous a man for me. I will remember you fondly when we have gone our separate ways." When I start to break down, intending to argue with her and apologize for my recent behavior, she silences me with a finger over my lips. "You know as well as I that it will never work, Mac. We had our run, but now it's time to move on. You will do this last thing for me today and then I will go back to my life and you to yours. Don't argue with me and make it more difficult than it has to be because it is what it is and nothing more."

"Yes," I say weakly. "Although I really wanted it to be different, in my heart I think I knew all along that it couldn't be and I was only fooling myself. You are and always will be the most beautiful woman that I've ever met. That will not change. Nor will the depth of my feelings toward you ever change. And someday, who knows, we might even take another shot at it," I add with a nervous twang.

It was important for me to add that last thought even though I know in my heart that I am not ready to face the finality of something so warm and dear to me.

"Come, the others are waiting on us," she says softly, her voice on the verge of cracking.

Silently, we walk out to the clearing beyond the side of the hacienda where the others are waiting by the choppers. Larry is doing his pre-flight for the umpteenth time while Greg and Gina stand before mine with Todd held protectively between them. Leaving Tara to say her goodbyes to Todd, I do another quick pre-flight of my own.

Satisfied that all is ready, I end up next to Tara and the others. Larry quickly saunters over, his voice anxious, "We need to get in the air if this has any chance of going down by noon."

"Right behind you," I say lightly, my nerves held in check. After saying his goodbyes to Todd and a quick nod to Greg and Gina, Larry climbs into the cockpit of his bird and hits the starter.

Within a matter of seconds, his chopper is whining impatiently and anxious to shed the ground and be gone.

"It's time," I yell over the thunder of Larry's engine, guiding Tara to the passenger's seat. With Todd between them, Greg and Gina retreat back toward the hacienda. Closing the cockpit door and moving around to the front of the chopper, I reach out and snag Greg by the shoulder. Speaking close to his ear so that he and he alone can hear, "If you haven't heard from me by one this afternoon, assume the mission has been aborted."

Nodding that he heard, but not asking any details, he hurries to overtake Gina and Todd while I turn and hurry around to the pilot's side of the cockpit. As I climb in, I notice that Tara has picked up the brown paper bags from the floor and is stowing them in the compartment beneath her seat while carefully wedging the thermoses so they won't fall over during flight.

Strapped in and feeling at home for the first time in a while, I flip the necessary switches and hit the starter button. While I let the engine reach operating temperature and monitor the pressure gauges, Larry does a flyby and heads north.

Pushing the throttle all the way forward, the little bird literally jumps into the air and after pointing the nose down for speed, we head north after Larry, giving chase. Moving past the hacienda, Tara waves at Todd and the others while I lift the nose and gain altitude while still picking up speed.

With Larry setting the pace almost two miles ahead of us, we follow along in silence.

When the radio suddenly squawks to life, I involuntarily flinch and Tara gives me a sidelong glance of concern. "Egghead one to egghead two, radio-check on channel 5. Do you copy?"

"Egghead one, copy, loud and clear," I respond. "Go to head in five."

"Copy, head in five."

"What's that mean," Tara asks, looking over at me.

"Sometime within the next five minutes, I'm to try raising him on the ear-bud set. It's supposed to have a range of five miles, but it doesn't usually stretch to more than three," I nonchalantly explain to her while pressing the power button on the small radio clipped beneath the lapel of my jacket and repositioning the ear-bud in my ear.

"Hey Larry, do you read?" I say without speaking directly into any visible mike.

In my left ear, I hear him reply, the signal coming loud and clear through the unobstructed sky. "Copy. We'll stay on this frequency unless we pick up chatter."

"Copy that," I respond, pressing the power button down to save the batteries.

Glancing over at Tara, I am again struck by her beauty. She is by far the most awesome woman that I've ever had the privilege of knowing and I will probably kick myself till the day I die for letting her go.

She sees me studying her and asks if I would care for some coffee. "Sounds great," I acknowledge.

Retrieving one of the thermoses from the floorboard, she unscrews the cap which doubles as a cup and sets it between her thighs. After removing the stopper, she begins to pour the supposedly hot liquid and then suddenly stops. Turning toward me with a crooked smile, she says, "This isn't coffee."

Glancing across at her lap, even in the dim light cast by the gauges I can see that the liquid is much too weak appearing to be coffee.

Before the words leave my mouth, the aroma of rum assails my nostrils. Chuckling, I comment, "That Gina is quite the host."

Her tone serious, Tara asks, "Do you think this is wise?"

"I think she intended that for you, Tara. Her idea of calming your nerves."

"It would be rude of me not to partake, now that you put it that way," she says, putting the cup to her lips. Taking a breath to cool the fire in her throat, she hands the cup to me.

"Thanks," I respond, taking the proffered cup while silently wondering again why I was letting her get away. Before putting it to my lips, I make a toast, holding the cup out toward the windscreen, "To today's success."

That was exactly what I needed to take the edge off the dawning day. Even as Tara returns the stopper and cap to the thermos, the first golden rays of sunlight are breaking over the horizon to our right. "It looks as if today is going to be dry and clear," I casually comment, figuring there is no safer way to open the lines of communication than with a discussion of the weather.

Looking off to the east at the first streaks of daylight in the predawn, she says almost inaudibly, "You really hurt me, Mac."

Though I knew it was inevitable, I was hoping that she had moved beyond that until after the mission was over. Yet, I understand that despite the short time we'd spent together, a deep bond of mutual need and perceived trust had developed between us. Such a bond would not easily dissipate even if it were broken.

"I am truly sorry for that, Tara. It would appear that we came across each other when we were both in need and for selfish reasons, I exploited your need," I say gently, not wanting to hurt her anymore than I already have and yet, wanting her to understand me better and where I was coming from.

"It should have been enough that you were willing to help me with no strings attached. I never should have complicated it and turned it into something more than it really was," she says, trying to explain why she allowed the relationship to develop.

"I know I pushed for more than I should have," I start, when she cuts me off.

"No, I led you to believe there was more to give on my part than there was. Don't blame yourself for taking advantage of the damsel in distress, because if I had thought my feelings toward you weren't as deep as they were, I never would have allowed it."

Not in the mood to argue with her, I say instead, "I have feelings for you Tara. It would be a lie on my part if I were to deny them. Yet, they are not sufficient for us to make long-term plans on. We would be doing each other a disservice to believe otherwise."

"I know that now. And although I still feel hurt by the way you dumped me, I will get over it." She pauses, her eyes on the rising sun. "No matter what happens today, I will always owe you my life, Mac. That won't change."

"And I will always cherish the memory of what we shared, even if it was for such a short time."

The next few hours pass in silence, the dark outline of Larry's little bird directly centered in the windscreen ahead of us. Moving steadily northward, we gradually slide off to the west, eventually drawing into sight of the Pacific Ocean.

With the sun high above the horizon, daylight is bright upon the landscape except in the lower valleys and along small rivers and streams where the fog is thick, blocking out all sight of the ground.

To my growing dismay, the fog along the beach grows increasingly denser the farther north we travel, its soft puffy fingers reaching farther and farther inland, sometimes stretching several miles in width. For as far as the eye can see, it only looks worse, the breaks growing steadily fewer and the consistency growing steadily denser.

As if reading my thoughts, Larry's voice suddenly comes over the radio. "Egghead two this is Egghead one. Do you copy?"

"Loud and clear, Egghead one. Go ahead," I respond in my most official sounding voice.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Affirmative," I respond. "Maybe it'll thin by the time we reach Brookings. The air there is generally warmer than north or south."

"You know the fog is generally thicker there than north or south," he flippantly replies.

"Let's not lose perspective," I calmly answer him. "We're still nearly an hour out."

"Copy. Egghead one out."

The radio goes silent and Tara looks over at me, concern and apprehension marring her beautiful features, "What does that mean?"

"At this point, it means nothing. It's still too early to worry over. By the time we reach Brookings, it may have burned off," I say in my calmest of voices, not wanting to alarm her.

"And what if it hasn't burnt off? What then?" she demands.

"Normally, I would say that we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. But I'm going to be as honest with you as I can, Tara. We are going forward with this mission irregardless of the weather. I could care less whether the sun is shining brightly or if it's pouring down rain and the fog is so thick we can't see two feet in front of ourselves. We are going ahead with our plan and we are going to be successful," I staunchly assert.

The expression on her face doesn't soften with relief. Yet she realizes that whatever comes our way, her ordeal is going to reach its conclusion today, one way or another.

"I only wish I had half your confidence," she whispers half to herself, studying the view out the side window.

"Coffee?" she suddenly asks, bringing me out of my reverie.

"Sure."

This time the thermos she opens and pours from actually contains a brew of strong black coffee. Despite not having the fiery bite that the rum possessed, the caffeine is precisely what the doctor ordered and after the first few swallows, my senses come alive.

With our destination less than ten minutes out, I raise Larry on the radio and advise him to switch to portable. Although we have no doubts that we were being tracked on radar, we don't want anyone eavesdropping on anymore of our conversation.

As he banks hard left, I continue on for sixty seconds before making my own cut. Within a matter of minutes, we have lost sight of each other and then we are in the thick of the blanket, visibility down to zero.

Since the little birds aren't equipped with flight instruments, we are literally flying by the seat of our pants. The only redeeming grace we have is that the altimeter is calibrated to sea level as we are just mere feet above it.

Speaking through the mike concealed beneath my jacket collar, I advise Larry that I'm going to drop down to the Smith and follow it northwest to the sea.

"Copy that. I'm going to climb over the ridge and then drop down to rendezvous point from the north. Blink me when I pass over."

"Will do and safe flying," I answer back, understanding that he intends to reach the beach north of where Sally was killed and then fly south along it until he is approximately a quarter mile beyond before finding a place to set down.

Meanwhile, I will circle the point one time just to be safe and then deposit Tara at ground zero. From there, I will move off approximately a quarter of a mile to the north and conceal the chopper in the dunes along the beach.

With the bird concealed, I will circle back on foot and take up a vantage point near the parking lot so that I can keep an eye on who comes and goes as well as watch Tara.

While Larry is going to find a vantage point on the high ground to the south of ground zero to cover us from, because of the fog, he will approach on foot until he has visibility of the area. Any high-flying bogies will also be his responsibility with the fifty-caliber.

However, even though that's our plan, we will make amendments on the fly as needed. Due to the dense fog, the longer range of the fifty-caliber will be virtually useless and better left in the chopper than weighing Larry down while the submachine, though nowhere near as accurate, will provide much better cover in close; a slight change in the plan that Larry will do without discussion since we think so similarly, or so I assume.

As we come out on the beach, the sky opens for just a fraction of a second, long enough to see an empty parking lot and I allow myself to breathe a sigh of relief.

Setting down on the soft sand near the tail of the trail leading back to the parking lot, a gentle spray of sand is churned up by the rotation of the blades mixing with the swirling fog and fanning outward.

Instead of simply letting the blades idle, I realize that it will be necessary for me to cut the engine before I let her out or she'll be pelted with wet sand.

Turning the latch, I tell her, "Wait. Let me shut her down first."

"It's not necessary," she says firmly, misunderstanding my reasoning. "I know what to do."

"Yes, I'm sure you do. But that doesn't mean you have to wear a blanket of sand while you're doing it," I joke, trying to keep the situation light.

As understanding dawns on her, she releases her grip on the latch and shyly looks toward me, "Thank you," she says demurely.

With the engine winding down, I reply with a smile, "No problem."

When the blades come to a stop, she opens the door and sets her foot out on the sand and then stops and turns back toward me. Leaning over the seat, she kisses me long and warmly on the lips. When we separate, her eyes lock on mine as if she is going to say something. And then, without a word, she hurriedly backs out of the cockpit and closes the door behind her.

Without so much as a wave of her hand, she scurries off in the direction of the parking lot, her figure disappearing almost instantly into the dense fog as it closes in heavily around the silent bird.

Flipping the starter switch and depressing the button, I wait only as long as it takes to get up enough RPMs to give me lift and head off in a northerly direction.

Deciding to gamble on the fog bank staying in place, I set the chopper down on the beach near the sea wall just out of reach of high tide. It seems like a waste of time concealing it among the beach grass covered dunes if it's not necessary.

When the engine is again silent, I flip the cell phone out of my jacket pocket and press Greg's number. Glancing down, I discover to my dismay that there isn't any service, a critical oversight. When I consider our proximity to Brookings, it seems impossible that there isn't any cell service here.

Scrambling out of the little bird, I charge up the nearest dune and check the display again, my heart pounding.

Still nothing.

Speaking into the concealed mike, I calm my voice and ask, "Larry, you read me?"

"Loud and clear," he comes back, laughing slightly. "That was very gentlemanly of you to wait for the sand to settle."

Ignoring his sarcasm, I advise him of the problem with the cell phone and being unable to contact Greg. "Can you check your phone and let me know if your situation is any better."

A second later he answers back, "Negative, no service here either."

Rather than waste time fretting over what is, I return to the chopper and restart the engine. Pushing the throttle forward all the way, I lift off and head out over the ocean, the light bird gaining altitude quickly. Circling back toward the beach, I check the cell phone display and gratefully see four bars.

Pressing the speed dial button programmed for Greg's phone, I'm relieved when he answers before I even hear it ring. After apprising him of the situation regarding the fog, I tell him to go ahead and make the calls.

Wishing us luck, he hangs up and I pull back on the throttle and drop back to the beach. Within a matter of minutes, I am armed with my magnum and a submachine gun equipped with a silencer and several spare banana clips of ammunition. In my pockets, I also included several spare cylinders and a speed loader for the magnum.

### **11**

Although I normally keep my magnum in my shoulder holster, this time I strap it to my calf and conceal it within my boot since I have my hands full with the submachine gun.

Moving along the beach at a brisk walk, my adrenaline still held in check because I realize that it will take time for the judge to make his calls and then get himself here, I silently curse the fog. While it makes it difficult for the assassins to see us, it also takes away Larry's unique ability to neutralize an enemy target from a safe distance. The machine guns, though deadly, are inaccurate, subject to jamming, and pretty much useless beyond a range of one hundred feet. Moreover, the assassins will be using pretty much the same weapons as us. Our only edge is in the element of surprise, which isn't really an edge at all when everything is considered. The minute they arrive, they will be prepared for anything, even us.

In that respect, the fog is our ally. Even if the judge has access to the Blackhawk helicopters which didn't appear to be equipped with infrared sensors, they won't be able to see us before we hear them and can pinpoint their location.

On the other hand, if the Blackhawks do have infrared technology on board, but the pilots simply weren't using it the last time, this time they might be. And if that's the case, the fog will do little to conceal us from them. We'll be sitting ducks in a shooting gallery!

When I am less than half way to ground zero, Larry's voice breaks over the two-way. "In position. Has call been made?"

"Affirmative." From experience, we never ask each other for their position and we maintain strict radio silence, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Even if the Blackhawks aren't using infrared, they may be monitoring with a wide spectrum scanner. Such an instrument will pick up any radio signals in the area, including, but not limited to CB chatter, police bands, and even forest service frequencies.

Since conditions are not as we had hoped, it is up to me to calculate Larry's position. This is where our length of experience working together comes in handy. Understanding that the fifty-caliber has been taken out of the equation, he will want to be in close enough to keep an eye on the players, especially Tara. And yet, he will need to be deep enough to be effective against the Blackhawks and still be able to change position without fear of being discovered.

Moving toward the parking lot, I can almost feel Tara's presence off to my right, nearer to the ocean where her sister was killed. Perceptive of the pain and anguish she must be feeling, my heart goes out to her, hardening my resolve to make the bastards responsible pay.

Looking skyward, I watch the heavy clouds of white mist slowly drifting inland, a slight, almost imperceptible breeze pushing them in off the ocean. Assuming that Larry is concealed at the top of the nearest dune due south of the parking lot, I take up a position along the trail leading from the parking lot to the beach where Tara is mourning the loss of her sister.

Unless they approach from the beach, they'll have to get past me in order to reach Tara. Also, when they hit the parking lot, Larry will give me a head's up that they're coming. And when the fighting starts, if there are more than I can deal with, his job will be to create as much disruption and confusion in their ranks as possible, preventing them from forming any kind of organized front. Yet, even more importantly, he has been tasked with taking out as many of the un-friendlies as he can to prevent them overrunning my position at all costs. Whatever it takes, none can be allowed to reach Tara alive, excepting the judge.

Although it went against my better judgment, because I was feeling guilty for the way I'd treated her, I agreed to let her face the judge one on one without my interference. At the time I agreed, I believed that it might bring closure for her, allowing her to put this episode in her life behind her. Hopefully, it's not a decision that I live to regret.

Sitting on the damp sand while surrounded by swirling eddies of thick moist clouds, my hair soaked and my clothes damp to the skin, I find myself slowly growing more cantankerous by the second. Larry and I'd sat through worse conditions for far longer than this, but then I was a younger man and such working conditions seemed to add mystique and a touch of machismo to the job. Now I am just a middle-aged man that is growing to appreciate his creature comforts.

Just when I begin cursing softly under my breath for not thinking of bringing one of the thermoses from the chopper, Larry's voice peeps in my ear, "Heads up."

Two little words and the cold, damp conditions of our surroundings are instantly forgotten. With my senses on high alert, I listen intently for the sound of helicopters yet, I hear nothing. Visibility is still at less than five feet with an occasional denser cloud that denies me even that.

Shifting my weight on the balls of my feet, I crouch on the side of a dune, the beach grass almost reaching to my waist. When I chose the spot to wait, I checked behind my position carefully to verify that I wouldn't create a silhouette if I should have to rise suddenly into a standing position. The only thing I hadn't considered was the slope of the ground and I was beginning to feel the strain of holding my position without sliding down to level ground.

Crouched with one leg stretched downward and the other bunched up tightly beneath me, I could feel a cramp taking shape in my bunched thigh.

Without making a sound or knocking any loose sand down, I slowly shift around on my heels and try to straighten out the cramping muscle. I have no sooner started to move when I hear a male voice in the fog coming directly toward my position.

Listening intently, I quickly realize that the man is having a one-sided conversation and that he must be speaking through a two-way radio to someone else. My instinct is to take him out, but it will give away the mission if I move too soon. The plan is for Larry to start the party and if he is doing something special, my premature action might screw it up.

Until I know more about the players, such as how many there are and where they are, I need to remain hidden unless someone tries getting past me to reach Tara.

And then I chastise myself for not having thought to give Tara a weapon. I was so preoccupied with our dissolving relationship it hadn't even occurred to me. How could I be so damn stupid?

"Speak to me," I whisper, hoping Larry can tell me something.

"Two SUVs, six men in fatigues, all armed. Judge not present," comes back over the earpiece.

Just as I admire his stealth skills at obtaining such intelligence without tipping his hand, I hear the dreaded whumping sound of a large helicopter approaching swiftly along the shoreline from the southwest.

Damn. Blackhawk!

Even before I can move, I realize it must contain the judge and more than likely more armed men, and it's going to be on the far side of Tara. They planned it just this way, to trap her in the middle. How could I be so stupid? I should have seen this coming. This is the price I'm paying for getting too close to my client.

With Tara's protection priority number one, I abandon my post and move hastily along the trail leading toward the beach. Behind me, I hear the man on the two-way still talking softly in the mist. His voice is reassuring to me that they aren't expecting a trap and we still possess the element of surprise.

With the sub-machine gun held levelly at waist height, I abandon the rougher terrain adjacent to the trail and charge down the trail proper at a reckless pace.

I have gone less than fifty feet along the trail when a bright beam of sunlight burns through the thick layer of mist, exposing the trail for almost one hundred feet in both directions. It is as if the Red Sea has parted and I'm as exposed as a duck in a shooting gallery.

With no time to take cover, I race forward until a man's voice rings out behind me. Yet, even before I can turn, I hear the pop of a nine-millimeter automatic and realize that I am taking fire.

The first round kicks up sand a few feet to my rear, the gunman having underestimated the distance between us and the limited range of the weapon. The second shot cracks loudly in my ears as it breaks the sound barrier mere inches above my head. In his haste, he over compensated, a rookie mistake.

But his actions have also betrayed his training and I subconsciously recognize them as those employed by Special Forces; his third shot will be the kill shot and my time is about up.

Yet, I too cut my teeth in Special Forces and as such, realized early on the shortcomings of their training. It wasn't just luck that brought me out of the jungles alive or earned me several Medals of Honor on the untamed city streets. Long ago, if I had not adjusted my training to compensate for reality, I would have been killed.

But I had adjusted and retrained myself to survive and now as the gunman compensates his aim for the kill shot, I am already firing my kill shot. Even as his finger squeezes the trigger and a spout of flame erupts from the nine-millimeter gripped in his meaty palm, my own nine-millimeter bullet is mushrooming against his chest, knocking him backwards and sending his shot into the sky as bullet fragments tear through his heart.

And then, as if a curtain were closing on a masterful stage at the end of an act, the sun fades to gray and the mist closes back in, cutting me off from view before the gunman's lifeless body even has time to hit the sand.

Spinning back around without having slowed, I continue my charge toward the beach, acutely aware that the chopper has gone silent and Tara is quickly running out of time.

In the distance behind me, I hear an un-silenced handgun barking, the shots evenly spaced as if the shooter only has a vague idea of his target but confident in their overwhelming numbers.

Although I am immediately concerned for Larry, more importantly, I realize that the war has begun in full earnest. We are not here to take prisoners and if the men we kill believe they are on the side of good, we cannot worry about it or take blame for their misconception of reality. There were probably times when Larry and I took lives believing it was for the greater good when we were nothing more than pawns in a power struggle.

A sudden loud thump, followed immediately by a hot blast of air sends me stumbling forward, almost as if a giant hand slapped me hard on the back, driving the wind from my lungs and propelling me forward faster than my feet can move.

Landing in the soft sand, I try to rise, but can't catch my breath and I momentarily lay in the wet sand struggling for air. In the back of my mind, I am thinking quick and hard, reassessing the situation. It didn't seem logical that crime family assassins would use stun grenades or anything more powerful than their usual armament of handguns and rifles.

The realization suddenly sinks in that we are not fighting crime family mobsters. Between the dead gunman with the Special Forces training and now stun grenades, there is only one plausible answer.

"Larry," I whisper, the air searing my lungs like those of a newborn baby taking his first breaths and experiencing life in the harsh cruel world of reality.

When he doesn't immediately answer, I slowly stagger to my feet and continue down the trail, a sudden dread taking hold of my heart.

Behind me, I suddenly hear the loud thunderous report of a fifty-caliber sniper rifle. At first, I don't understand and then I realize that Larry is still fighting and he has removed the silencer from his rifle to intimidate his opponents.

As if in confirmation of my suspicions, his voice comes breathlessly through the ear-bud, "Priority one."

In two words, he has told me everything I need to know. He is still in the battle and on the offensive, but has concerns for Tara's safety. He too realizes that the Blackhawk has outflanked us and he is counting on me to secure Tara's safety; that is priority one!

Stumbling forward on feet that feel like lead weights attached to rubber limbs, I hurry down the trail toward the beach, the fog seeming to grow denser with each step closer to the beach I get.

The fifty-caliber barks again and I hear a man screaming in agony. A second boom rings out followed by immediate silence. "You're slipping, Larry," I mutter under my breath, knowing he heard me.

The echo of the fifty has no sooner died off than I hear the staccato of automatic weapons. This time there can be no mistaking the sound. There are more than two shooters laying down cover with M-16 assault rifles. Because of the fog, they are shooting blind in a crossing pattern, hoping only to keep their target down while one or more advance on his position.

To their grave misfortune, they are underestimating their adversary who has probably already moved fifty feet from where he took his last shot, if not further. While they think they are flushing the quarry, he is moving onto their flank and just when they least expect it, he will take out another.

But that is Larry's fight and I have my own concerns, primarily, priority one, who is directly ahead of me.

Having gotten my wind back, I quickly pick up speed and charge out into the open space where Tara should be waiting. But she is nowhere to be seen and the tightness in my chest becomes a physical pain as panic grips my heart with cold tentacles. Somehow, I must have missed her in the fog.

A muffled gasp.

"Tara," I breathe softly, breaking all the rules for staying alive.

A shot rings out less than twenty feet to my left, the bullet slicing the air where I was standing just a fraction of a second earlier.

Then someone nervously calls out orders, sending men into danger while he cowers in the shadows. Again, I hear the muffled voice of someone struggling to be heard. A gagged voice.

My heart skips a beat as I realize they have Tara. The next sound I hear is the frightened voice of a man ordering a pilot to make ready for takeoff.

We are so close, I can hear the pilot's footsteps in the sand as he retreats to the silent chopper and yet, because of the dense fog blanket covering us, we are invisible to each other.

Suddenly, I hear a loud thunk as the heel of a boot strikes a shin followed instantly by a loud curse from the same gravelly voice that gave the orders to the pilot. "You bitch!"

With their positions now engraved in my mind, I stealthily advance on their flank and run head on into one of the judge's private security goons. Not even taking time to aim, I squeeze off a rapid burst, catching him full in the chest and sending him reeling over backwards.

Without hesitating, I continue on toward the spot where I believe the chopper to be sitting, hoping to reach it before the pilot.

But I am too late as I hear the twin turbines winding up, the whirring of the rotors swiftly gaining speed and I can feel the downward rush of wind in my face. With the sound and wind though, I have my direction and I waste no steps reaching the big black bird. Until I am almost on it, it is invisible to me in the blurring wet mist.

At the last second, the blades whirring over my head, I come face to face with the pilot and nothing more than a thin screen of Plexiglas separating us.

Startled by the sight of me stepping out of the whirling mist, his eyes lock on mine and for the briefest of moments he freezes. Then, to my surprise he moves remarkably fast, reaching inside his suit jacket for the familiar weapon carried there.

But his hand catches in the loose straps of the unfastened harness hanging across his chest and he is imperceptibly slowed. As if realizing that the fraction of a second has cost him his life and he is about to die, he freezes, his hand still resting on the butt of his weapon while his eyes plead with mine for sanctuary. A full second passes while we stare into each other's eyes. It seems much longer and then in resignation as if the realization that this is a dual to the death dawns in his mind, he pulls the weapon clear as I put two slugs in close succession into the windscreen. The first round shatters the impact resistant Plexi-glass directly in line with his forehead, the second going through the newly formed hole and entering his head unimpeded. He is dead before he realizes I've even fired my weapon. In my mind, I gave him all the sanctuary he deserved.

The sounds of our brief struggle and the increasingly louder report of the submachine gun, which decreases the efficiency of the silencer with each shot fired, has drawn another combatant into the swirling wind and mist enshrouded arena.

Turning to head back in the direction of the approaching judge and Tara, a bullet suddenly strikes the windscreen just beyond my head, striking at an acute angle before ricocheting off into the mist.

Acting reflexively, I drop and roll while simultaneously feeling a sharp tug on my right calf, just below the knee. Without giving it anymore thought than that I must have nicked the anemometer protruding from the front of the chopper, I plant my right foot to push up into a shooting stance when my leg buckles beneath me and I tumble ungraciously into the wet sand.

Rolling onto my back, the pain in my leg now crying out for attention, I lay the submachine gun across my chest with the ejection port pointed toward the sky and lay down a long burst of lead into the fog beyond the chopper, sweeping from left to right while praying that I haven't misjudged Tara's location, the spent brass from my weapon raining down on me.

In response, I receive return fire from an un-silenced thirty-eight caliber handgun in the form of three quick shots, each one closer than the one before until the last kicks damp sand in my face. Too close for comfort.

Frantic to find cover and subconsciously aware that the judge and Tara must be approaching from the opposite direction as the shooter, I crawl toward the passenger's side of the Blackhawk while dragging my useless leg along behind, a trail of blood marking my passage. The pain is intense as I grit my teeth and try my damnedest to ignore it.

Reaching the right side landing gear, I pull myself up into a sitting position with my back against the wet metal rim, listening intently for the shooter with the revolver to approach from the west while watching and waiting for the judge to approach from the east. Glancing down at my leg, I see blood soaking through my pants just below the knee and forming a puddle on the surface of the packed sand. It isn't spurting, so I'm fairly confident that it's only a jagged flesh wound. Still, it hurts like hell, and I can't make my leg work below the knee.

"Larry, if you can hear me, I'm in cover beneath the big bird and I'm down to one pin," I breathe softly, my mouth close to the concealed mike.

I am neither surprised nor worried when I don't get a response. He will understand immediately that I've been wounded in the leg and am unable to move from cover, such as it is. But he will also know that I am in control of the area in the immediate vicinity of the Blackhawk and no one is going to be leaving with it while I'm able to draw breath.

A loud concussion breaks the momentary silence and a smaller shockwave rolls through the disturbed air. It is all the confirmation that I need that Larry is still alive and kicking. Because the explosion is farther off, he is either leading them away while he whittles them down, or they have taken off on a goose chase while he circles back to this side.

Suddenly, an outbreak of fully automatic weapons erupts, the unmistakable sound of M-16s. This is immediately followed by the sound of Larry's larger caliber sub-machine gun and I can't help but think they must have caught him in the open. With only two clips of ammo, we are not prepared for a long, drawn out firefight. Get in and get out. That is our motto. Every second we linger on a mission is one more second in which death can draw nearer.

Larry's sub-machine gun rattles on for a full clip before going silent while the M-16s continue firing sporadically.

Although I have enough troubles of my own and I still haven't located Tara or the judge, I worry that Larry is caught in a bind for him to take such drastic measures.

Then, over the steady beating of the automatic weapons, the fifty-caliber suddenly booms three times in rapid succession and the automatics fall silent.

Smiling, I realize that Larry was just up to his old tricks and had used the sub-machine gun to draw them out and then played possum. For military trained operatives, I can't help but think they were too green to be sent on a wet mission.

My joy is short-lived however when a round from the revolver suddenly punches into the strut next to my head and then ricochets off into space.

Glancing to my right, I scramble frantically away to the south, away from the relative safety of the landing gear. Yet, I can see nothing in the swirling fog or hear anything over the sound of my own breath rushing loudly in and out of my heaving chest. But the shooter had to be close enough to see me. It was just my good fortune that he's a terrible shot or I would be dead.

Another shot rings out, this time kicking up wet sand from a small hillock only inches from my face. Without thinking, but acting on instinct, I roll toward the source of the report, hoping the shooter is expecting me to run in the opposite direction like a normal person would that is fearing for his life. But I'm not a normal person and I have little fear of dying. My only concern is Tara and surviving for her sake.

Realizing that the shooter can't see me any easier than I can see him and that he must be targeting the sound of my heavy breathing, I force myself to take shallow, quiet breaths while slowly working my way back toward the chopper, my leg dragging limply along behind. The pain is searing further up my leg and the bleeding isn't abating any. Still, I control my breathing and continue edging forward on my belly, ignoring the discomfort.

And then, to my surprise and delight, the shooter's silhouette slowly materializes, gradually growing more substantial against the dense backdrop of swirling white mist. Moving slowly while holding my breath, I pull the sub-machine gun up to my head and sight along the short barrel. He is crouching low, the handgun held out before him as he moves silently toward the open door of the Blackhawk, taking for granted that it is shielding him from view and not realizing that his prey is slithering back toward him.

With his head lined up at the end of the barrel and the distance now less than fifteen feet, I confidently squeeze the trigger, and nothing happens!

No click against a dead cartridge, no slide action snicker to mock me, no nothing, just silence. It's as if the trigger is welded in place, resisting the pressure of my finger.

If it wasn't for the tire of the Blackhawk, I would be clearly visible to the shooter and I fear that any movement will attract his eye, drawing his attention to my precarious and exposed position. With something to sight on, he will not miss again.

Yet, I cannot un-jam the damn weapon without moving. Nor can I draw the magnum from its concealed holster in the top of my right boot, now saturated in blood. Even if I try, he will have ample time to pull off several shots before I can bring the weapon up and draw down on him. I couldn't ever remember feeling so helpless and so screwed. Is this what the pilot felt just before I killed him, I wonder silently while praying for a miracle?

With the gun held out before him, he turns and heads stealthily toward the rear of the helicopter, only his lower body visible to me beneath the fuselage. He is dressed in a dark suit, a small six shot thirty-eight special with a blued steel barrel and wood grips clutched in both hands. As he moves, I follow his progress with my head, hoping he doesn't turn and look down.

Slowly, I lay the sub-machine gun on the ground next to the wheel assembly and lean toward my right foot. Because of the bullet wound, I am unable to drag my foot up closer to my reaching hand.

He stops, listening, his head darting first one way and then another as he releases one hand from his weapon and places it along the sleek black body of the chopper. Risking a glance down at my foot, I subconsciously estimate the time it will take to draw the weapon, swing it up and around, and get a kill-shot off.

Suddenly feeling lightheaded, I realize that I've been holding my breath all this time. Opening my mouth, I cautiously exhale, trying not to make a sound. Although the shooter in the dark suit is distorted by the mist, I have no illusions that he will recognize me as his quarry if he just turns and looks in my direction. It's a miracle that he hasn't seen me yet.

A muffled cry comes from up the trail and I realize that I'm running out of time. To my good fortune, the shooter also hears the sound and freezes, raising his weapon toward the noise. Yet, his movements indicate that he is unsure of the source and slowly turns toward it, his actions causing him to turn directly in my direction.

Without any other options, I calmly reach down toward my boot, trying to remain calm and not waste any movement. My hand closes around the familiar Pac Myer grips and I flick the snap with my thumb.

The shooter hears the sound at almost the same time that he sees me stretched out by the wheel of the chopper. With no hesitation, he swings his weapon toward me and squeezes the trigger. Pulling the magnum up and roll out on my back, I squeeze the trigger even before the barrel comes in line with his chest.

Both weapons discharge simultaneously and I see him thrown backwards by the energy of the magnum's slug. Simultaneously, the tire next to me explodes and the chopper suddenly tilts, its weight slumping over to the side.

Despite the ringing in my ears from the repercussion of the magnum, I hear a man swearing and a woman's scream. Almost immediately, from further off, I hear a short burst of automatic weapon fire and then the deep bellow of the fifty-caliber.

Suddenly, I'm aware of footsteps swiftly approaching in my direction, but I dare not shoot for fear of hitting Tara. Instead, I roll under the chopper, coming out on the far side. Using the lower lip of the cockpit for a handle, I pull myself into an upright position, balancing against the hull of the Blackhawk for support. When the pilot died, so did the engine and rotors as his slumping body fell forward onto the control panel.

Materializing out of the mist, I recognize Tara first, but she isn't alone. There is another shape, a larger shape, that of a man. He is holding her tightly against him, his left hand twisted tightly in her long dark hair so that she cannot pull away from him.

Carefully, before they see me and realize that I'm there, I move along the nose of the chopper until I can rest my arm on the windscreen to steady it. Holding the short-barreled magnum at the end of my arm, I clearly see the old judge forcing Tara along, a small silver handgun held against the side of her throat with his free hand. It appears to be a twenty-five auto. It's a short-ranged weapon that can do a hell of a lot of damage to soft tissue. It is generally referred to as a purse gun because of its small size, allowing it to fit unnoticed in a woman's handbag.

Just then, the sun breaks through like an epiphany and the judge sees me leaning against the front of the chopper. Stopping in his tracks, he turns to put Tara's body between us for a shield. Seeing me, there is a mixture of relief and pleading in her eyes. Surprisingly, she doesn't appear so much scared as she does angry.

In that moment, I am prouder of her than I have ever been before. And I am also more scared for her than I'd ever been about anyone before.

The break in the mist exposes only a small area surrounding us, not more than fifty feet in any direction. It gives the eerie illusion that the gods above are clearing the stage for the final act. I just pray that it isn't Tara's or mine.

Her clothes are wet and covered in sand as though she'd been rolling on the ground but I don't see any signs of blood. While the judge's pants are sporting a large tear across the left knee exposing pale white flesh and a nasty scrape, he too is covered in wet sand. Without a doubt, they've been struggling.

I wonder briefly if he's dispatched any men further up the trail that might be returning at any moment. It surprised me that he'd had the foresight to dispatch a sentry out toward the beach and that oversight on my part had almost cost me my life. If there's another sentry, they will be coming up behind me. But if there's another, wouldn't they have joined in the firefight earlier?

Under different circumstances, I would have expected someone with the proper training to be in command. But even with my limited knowledge of the judge, I know he's too egotistical and can't relinquish control of anything. A regular micro-manager in the truest sense of the word.

We study each other in silence, trying to gauge the other's reaction. Though I am puzzled by the fact that he didn't kill Tara when he first came upon her, I am also relieved. An assassin wouldn't be wasting time like this and that further confirms that the judge is calling the shots.

"Who are you?" he angrily demands, his face contorting with rage.

With the sights of the magnum centered on his forehead, I debate taking the shot. Only in the movies do the bad guys die instantly. In reality, the body can do many unexpected things, the least of which is twitching. Almost every man I've ever shot, no matter how quickly the death, has convulsed and twitched for anywhere from several seconds to several minutes. No one just dies, even the heroes. All in all, it's quite a messy business.

If I take the shot and he convulses, the fingers clench, the toes curl, he shits his drawers and Tara dies. Not good. Even if he just flinches, the gun goes off and Tara dies. Unless or until he moves the barrel away from her, I cannot take the risk of shooting him.

But he doesn't know that. Maybe, just maybe, he believes I am holding his life in my hands. If that is the case, then I still retain a little power, maybe even enough to dictate the outcome of this confrontation.

When I don't answer him right off, he jerks Tara's hair, reiterating his control over her and then shouts again, "Who are you?"

"Let her go and we all live," I casually reply, trying desperately to keep the situation calm while taking control of it without revealing my desperation.

He smiles wickedly, as though he can see through my veneer and realizes that I can't take the shot so long as he is holding the gun against her tender flesh, the carotid artery directly beneath the cold steel barrel.

"You, back up!" he demands, taking a step forward and kicking her feet and jerking her head back sharply when she resists him. "Move!" he harshly commands, forcing her forward.

"I can't," I lie. "I've been shot in the leg, I can't walk."

His eyes glance down at my leg, yet the gun doesn't move. Moreover, I'm not certain how much of what I am telling him is true. If I try to step away from the support of the chopper, will my leg buckle under me, or can I hobble for a short distance? Until I actually have to move, I won't know.

What I do know is if I move, I lose ground and have to lower my weapon; neither of which can I allow to happen. For psychological reasons, I have to stand my ground and make him surrender something.

"If you don't move, I will kill her," he threatens, his voice belying the fact that he is not used to people not doing as he orders.

"You kill her and you die. It's as simple as that," I respond evenly, keeping my personal feelings and concern for Tara out of my voice.

The wicked smile returns, but he stops his advance. It is a small victory for me, one I take gladly.

"When this story gets out, my life is over anyway," he says, his voice growing heavy with defeat. "My record as a judge hard on organized crime will be exposed as the sham it is. What will be left for me isn't worth returning to."

If I can engage him in conversation, he might relax and let down his guard for a moment, giving me the opportunity I need. But I definitely didn't like the direction this conversation was taking. I needed to keep him thinking that he might still come out the victor here or there is no telling what he will do. Change the subject.

"Why did you kill him?" I nonchalantly ask. "Why not just let your browbeating buddies take care of it?"

"The man betrayed me. He went to the Attorney General and turned state's evidence against me. I had to make an example of him before someone else decided it was the right thing to do," he says almost matter-of-factly, the tone of his voice giving me hope that he's moving away from a death wish frame of mind.

"So, with their assistance, you met him in this out of way place and put a bullet in the back of his head," I state, clarifying what Tara witnessed. "So, who are the goons with the M-16s?"

"They're just money-grubbing mercenaries. They have only one allegiance and that is to the almighty buck. They're a dime a dozen on the street. But then, you probably already know that," he sarcastically adds, hinting at my own means of subsistence.

It wasn't necessary for me to ask about the helicopter or the men in dark suits. A federal judge can requisition almost anything without having to explain himself and the two men I just killed were more than likely his personal staff, nothing more than paid guns.

His voice no longer hinting at defeat or a readiness to die, his openness can only suggest one of two things, he either doesn't plan on me living or he's confident that I can be purchased like all the rest of his goons.

However, he isn't making any offers or proposals to me. With the change in his demeanor and voice, I expect him to offer up a bribe, it's not as if such an act would be unfamiliar to him, and yet, nothing is forthcoming.

Am I missing something?

Trying a different approach, I bark at him, "Let the woman go!" If he wants to kill himself, I'll be the last man around to stand in his way, just so long as he doesn't kill Tara first.

"Why?" he angrily demands, no longer the congenial judge. "If it wasn't for her, none of this would have been necessary," he argues, gesturing with his head to encompass the surrounding area. And then, his voice turning calm again, he says, "It almost seems a shame that I don't kill her now, after all the resources and favors I've had to call in to make it happen. She has cost me literally millions."

"Wait!" I shout at him, my voice on the verge of panic. "We can still work something out here. The woman doesn't have to die."

"There is nothing left to work out," he says, his voice suddenly sounding of defeat again, yet somehow different.

It dawns on me then that he is not ready to die. The defeat in his voice has become an act to prevent me suspecting the truth behind his next words. "You've killed my pilot, taking away my means of escape. I cannot leave here if I want to. And besides, there is no where for me to go."

"There are two vehicles in the parking lot. You can take one of them and drive out of here and disappear for good," I quickly suggest, hoping he bites despite the growing desperation in my voice.

"I am not a fool! Do you think I have forgotten about the men you have deployed at the parking lot? If I let her go, you will kill me without pause. If I don't let her go, a sniper takes me out before I ever leave the parking lot." He pauses to catch his breath before adding, "I am not that stupid!"

I was right; he's not ready to die.

"There is another way for this to end," I start apprehensively. "Since you don't know how to fly this helicopter and you're not foolish enough to believe that you'll be allowed to drive out of here, why don't you let me fly you out of here?"

"And how do you propose we work that out?" he asks, unable to hide his eagerness.

"I'll put my gun down and you let the girl go. You know I can't move with this bum leg, so it's not as if I'm going to run off," I say almost jokingly and yet deadly serious. If I can get him alone in the chopper, I'll dump it in the sea and kill us both, just so long as Tara lives. "We start there. Can you trust me that far? You can keep your gun, just let the girl go."

Although he is suspicious, he feels he has nothing to lose and bobs his head quickly up and down, indicating for me to throw down my weapon.

Moving slowly, so as not to startle him, I let the barrel dip down and then relax my grip until the weapon dangles loosely from my index finger. Using the chopper for support, I push away from it and moving exaggeratedly slow while throwing the magnum out and away. It lands on the wet sand a little more than twenty feet distant. It might as well have been a mile for all the good it was to me.

But it served its purpose and now it is up to me. "Okay, I made the first move, now it's your turn," I say calmly, one hand steadying me against the chopper while I hold the other out from my side. "Let the girl go. You have more to worry about than a girl that probably can't even make a positive ID of you. With your money and resources, you can go anywhere in the world and live out a life of luxury. Am I right?"

Although he lowers the weapon from directly under her jaw, he doesn't turn it away completely. It is almost as if he is still undecided what his next action will be and his hesitation is making me extremely nervous.

Speaking softly, I remind him, "We have a deal, judge. The sooner you let her go, the sooner we get in the air. This bird probably has enough fuel on board to take us all the way to Mexico, or Canada, if you prefer. But we must get going, now." I highly doubted that the Blackhawk could carry enough fuel for that length of trip, even if it were topped up. But it didn't matter either way; I had no intentions of going either north or south. I just wanted him to let Tara go and then take us out to sea. What happens after that will be up to the powers that be.

Nervously, he glances around, noticing that the fog is closing back in. A slight breeze picks up from the west, pushing more of the dense mist inland. The sun slowly burns out and visibility becomes barely enough for us to see each other.

Not waiting any longer for him to make up his mind, I confidently remark, "When the judge releases you, Tara, I want you to turn and run up the trail toward the parking lot. You'll find someone waiting for you there," I add, not sure who or what will be waiting in the parking lot, but confident that it will prove less deadly than remaining here with the judge.

Slowly, he untwines his hand from her hair and lets her go. She stands like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. Her freedom has just been granted, but she is too numb to take advantage of it.

"Go, Tara," I command, my heart in my throat.

Hesitantly, she takes a gingerly step away from the judge, not sure what to expect. When he doesn't hold her back, she takes another and then begins to turn away in the direction of the parking lot and the promise of life.

Just as I let my breath out in a deep sigh, she stops and turns back toward me, her eyes looking at me as if they know what I am planning and she wavers, silently pleading with me.

"Go, find Larry," I say sternly, trying not to let the judge hear the pleading in my voice.

The judge, not understanding her reluctance to leave us, suddenly grows wary of the situation and suspecting something, reaches out for her, the weapon again aimed at her.

"Tara! Go now!" I command before the judge's hand can close on the fabric of her jacket and pull her back to him.

This time she listens and turning suddenly, runs away, quickly disappearing into the roiling mist.

With his hostage gone, the judge hurriedly approaches the helicopter, feeling exposed and vulnerable despite the heavy cover of fog, his weapon now pointed in my direction.

"What do you need?" he asks, his little handgun aimed at my mid-section.

"First off, we have to get the body out of the pilot's seat," I answer him casually, not wanting to agitate him anymore than he already is.

Instead of waiting for me to move, he slips around behind me and reaches into the open cockpit, grabbing the dead pilot by the shoulder fabric of his dark suit and drags him out of the chopper, the lifeless body dropping heavily to the packed sand. Then, stepping back, he points the gun at me and orders me into the seat.

No sooner do I drag my leg around and physically climb into the seat does he scramble around the nose of the chopper and swing up into the co-pilot's seat.

"Let's go," he orders, the gun once again leveled at my mid-section.

"It ain't exactly a car," I mutter softly, studying the console and trying to pinpoint the main instruments and controls while trying to figure out what the dead pilot did to cause it to die in the first place.

Having flown a wide variety of aircraft, mostly military, it doesn't take long to figure out the controls and reset what's wrong. After all, most civilian aircraft are nothing more than modified military craft.

With everything figured out, I continue stalling, hoping to buy time enough for Larry to come to my rescue, though I know it's a long shot and at some point the judge might change his mind and decide just to end it all yet.

"You get this thing in the air now or I'm going to shoot you in the other leg," he says harshly, pointing the barrel of the twenty-five toward my left kneecap.

"You do that and this bird will never leave the ground," I advise him. "You see those pedals down there," I continue, nodding toward the rudder controls. "It's going to be hard enough flying this thing with only one good leg. It'll be impossible with none."

"Then I suggest that you get us in the air now," he says a bit too calmly, his mind having crossed the line between threatening and actually doing.

With the time for hesitation over, I begin flipping switches and checking gauges. It's no surprise to learn that the bird is carrying only a quarter of its total capacity of fuel. Because they had to take to the air with no advance warning, it might have had less than a half of a tank with which to begin this journey and it consumed half of that getting here.

Mentally, I try calculating the distance based on fuel consumption and time between Greg's call till the time they arrived here. We had assumed that the judge was in Sacramento, but knowing what I do now, he was closer, much closer. Added to that, the SUVs in the lot arrived here ahead of the chopper, which meant the judge called in help from a local source.

These thoughts and more are going through my mind while I adjust the knobs and switches that keep this bird running, though this this newly learned knowledge has no bearing on my predicament. The only logical reason behind them is simply to preoccupy my mind so that I don't think ahead to the inevitable.

However, I am thinking ahead to what is coming anyway and the inevitable splash into the sea.

Slowly, the engines increase in volume and the rotors begin picking up speed. Due to the flat tire, I am leaning awkwardly in the seat and I can't help but notice the judge, although strapped securely in his harness, is leaning up against the cockpit hatch.

Although he never lets down his guard and the little gun remains centered on my mid-section, he glances nervously out the window, trying hard to penetrate the fog.

Watching him, I realize that even if he were to point the gun somewhere else, I wouldn't be able to escape on my bum leg before he put a bullet in my back. Listening to the engines and watching the gauges come up to speed, I think silently that Tara should have made it to the parking lot by now. Even in the dense cover of fog, Larry should have found her and then I remember the concealed mike under my collar. If it's working, Larry is looking for her along the trail and she should be in a safe place by now.

But if it is working, why hasn't he advised me of what's happening?

Fresh concern blossoms in my mind and I worry that Larry isn't alive and I just sent Tara straight into the cougar's den.

"Larry, Larry, Larry," I repeat softly, hoping he takes the hint and gives me an update of his situation.

"Shut up and get this thing in the air!" the judge says harshly, not amused by my mutterings, but also, not suspicious of them.

To a silent ear-bud, I push the dual throttle assembly forward and the right gear lifts off the sand, leveling the bird. Almost immediately, the entire chopper lifts and we are airborne. The view out the cockpit makes one feel as if they are at the center of a tornado as the fog and wet sand spirals down before fanning out and rising back up.

Using my one good leg, I press the left rudder and swing the nose around so it's pointing toward the open sea, though visibility is almost nonexistent.

Not used to the antics of the bird, she swings around much faster than I'm expecting and with my right foot unable to correct her, she rocks and groans savagely through the airframe. Without warning, the tail section slams into the hummock behind us, the guarded rotor instantly stopping our momentum and jerking us up hard against the restraining harnesses before leaning over dangerously off kilter.

The judge, nervous already, suspects that I am doing it on purpose and yells at me over the sounds of multiple alarms ringing in the cockpit. "Get this bird in the air now or I'll put a bullet in your guts!"

Apologetically, I yell back, while anxiously studying the gauges and flipping switches to silence the alarms. "If you can do any better, why do you need me?"

"I'm warning you!"

"Go ahead! Put a slug in me and see where it gets you! You think you got problems now," I scream back, my own anger and frustration getting the better of me as I fight the controls with only one good foot and a bird that is trying to move a mountain of sand with its tail.

"Where in the hell are you Larry and why don't you answer me?" I silently cry out.

Slipping sideways around the lower extremities of the hillock, I gradually manage to clear it and maneuver the chopper in a crab-walking side slip toward the beach, not wanting to risk another uncontrolled spin. Just the fact that we're moving is enough to calm the judge and he visibly relaxes.

Moving sideways at an altitude of less than three feet and quickly gaining speed and momentum, a thick spray of saltwater suddenly rises up around us from the backwash of the rotors as we slip out over the dark and foreboding water. The turbines suck in the dense spray and several red warning lights come on. If I don't climb soon, we will be in the water before I am ready.

A breaker wave catches the landing gear and tugs sharply at us, trying to suck us into its cold depths. Using the controls, I jerk back, trying to avoid using the rudders.

But it's no use and the nose suddenly pulls up while the tail rotor drops down. It hits the water like an outboard motor and I quickly lose all remnants of control. The chopper spins wildly to the left, pinning the judge up against the cockpit door while throwing me hard against the middle console, knocking the wind out of me and possibly cracking a few ribs. Then the landing gear catches another wave and we're jerked downward, the force pressing us up against the upper limits of the restraints before the whole bird tips over at an almost impossible angle before the rotor clips the surface of the water once and then twice before snapping off and throwing everything out of balance.

Hanging onto the column for support and unable to breathe, I see the judge flailing wildly in his harness, the handgun nowhere to be seen as he must have dropped it in his attempt to hold on.

Despite the panic and confusion of the moment, I am suddenly aware of a voice in my ear. It's Larry and he's trying to tell me something, but I can't make it out over the shrill whine of the twin turbines as they race wildly out of control.

Something on the floor strikes against the side of my left foot and even with all the commotion, I look down. Though I am certain that the end is near, I am not panicked. Death is nothing more than the end of life. Some cheat it for a while, but no one beats it forever and I've never been afraid of it. It's the survivors that carry the burden.

Resting wedged between my right foot and the control column shaft is a nine-millimeter automatic.

The dead pilot's handgun.

But before I can reach for it, the chopper pitches over and the passenger's side slams sideways into the water and I am suddenly suspended from my harness and looking down on the judge's unconscious form below me. The turbines scream in protest and shutter to a grinding halt.

There is a roaring in my ears and I realize that it's the sound of water gushing in through the shattered canopy, covering the judge's body even as I watch. It suddenly dawns on me that we are sinking, the cockpit quickly filling with water as the bird slowly sinks toward the bottom.

Stunned from the impact and still struggling through the pain of breathing, I slowly and painstakingly move to unlock the restraints. The inrushing water strikes me full in the face and I gag on it, inhaling a mouthful that burns my already tortured lungs. Coughing and spitting seawater, I'm harshly reminded of the dire situation that I now find myself.

By the time I worry the harness loose, I am struggling to keep my face above water in the small confines of the cockpit, the entire chopper now submerged in the frigid water as it continues sinking toward the ocean's depths.

Planting my left foot on something soft and pliable, I twist the latch on the door and push upwards. Despite a tearing pain through my chest, the door surges outward, helped along by the remaining volume of trapped air.

But my good fortune comes with an onrushing of cold water catching me in the middle of sucking in air which turns to water and I swallow another mouthful of the salt-laden liquid while trying to extricate myself from the rapidly sinking chopper.

Kicking off with my left leg, something suddenly grabs hold of my right, the pain excruciating despite the numbing effect of the cold water. At first, I believe that my wounded calf is caught on the controls or radio gear and that my pants, torn through from the bullet, has snagged on something. But when I try jerking free, I realize that it's the judge, still strapped in his harness, holding onto my injured leg. Whether he is trying to hold me under or trying to pull himself to the surface, I'm not sure and I don't really give a damn.

Selfishly, I kick out with my left, trying desperately to break his hold. But he hangs on with the tenacity of a death grip, which I guess it is.

Looking upward through the open cockpit door, I see the surface swiftly slipping away and with it any chance at surviving. Fighting panic and with no air left in my lungs combined with the increasing pressure of depth, I have but seconds to break out of the cockpit and swim for the surface or I will surely die.

Desperately, I kick at the hand gripping my right foot with my left, unable to get any momentum in the thick water. When it obstinately refuses to let go and I can feel my life light growing weaker with each thunderous beat of my heart, I reach down and find something with which to pull myself back. My head is pounding from the pressure when the cockpit suddenly stops its descent and settles on the bottom. I hadn't realized that we'd gone far enough out to sea to be in such deep water and then realize that it probably settled in the river channel which would run deep enough for navigation clear out into the ocean. If I could just get to the surface, I might find myself closer to shore than I realize. But first, I must get to the surface and fast.

Grasping frantically with my hands, I find the clasps on the harness restraining the judge, and click them open. Realizing what I'm doing, his grip slides up my leg to my waist and locks his fingers through the gap between my pants and my bare flesh.

Struggling against an overwhelming pain in my head and chest, I turn back toward the open door of the cockpit directly above my head and again kick down with my left foot, trying to eradicate both of us from within the cockpit.

But my foot slips downward along the dash, not finding any purchase as it breaks off knobs and switch levers. Praying that the judge is helping and not fighting me, I realize that he is no longer moving. Finding the lip of the cockpit and gripping it with numbing fingers, I pull myself upwards, dragging the judge with me, his unconscious form locked securely in my belt by his dead fingers.

With no regard for the judge's extremities, I'm suddenly aware of the control console beneath my left foot and push down with all my remaining strength, my body finally shooting up and out of the cockpit.

Vaguely, I'm aware of the judge's head striking against the inside of the cockpit framing and then bouncing free, the judge unconscious and oblivious of what is going on around him.

Free of the cockpit, I kick with my one good leg for the surface, my damaged chest on fire with the water that I've inhaled and my throat constricting for lack of air. As we draw towards the surface, instead of growing lighter, the sky is growing steadily darker, the light drawing down to a small circle surrounded by black.

Since I am not a stranger to being knocked out and unconscious, I instantly realize what is happening to me and I try desperately to fight the growing dimness. Shaking with adrenalin and anger, I kick out even harder for the surface, yet my progress seems inconsequential. The light only continues to grow dimmer and my resolve weaker. The fight doesn't seem worth it any longer, the struggle too great. I can feel myself about to give up, to succumb to the cold water and accept defeat.

Yet, I cannot! So long as there is an ounce of life in these bones, they will not surrender. Forcing my eyes wide open, I ignore the pain wracking my body and spread my arms out, pulling with my last bit of willpower for the surface when I suddenly break through. Coughing and spitting out seawater while simultaneously gasping in mouthfuls more that are now mixed with air, I struggle to stay afloat.

God wonderful and precious air!

For several long moments, I struggle and cough up seawater before I can finally breathe, all the while fighting to remain afloat and not sink back beneath the surface.

Only then do I remember the judge's body submerged in the water below me, his fingers locked in a death grip on my belt.

Looking around and seeing land less than three hundred feet distant, I realize that my suspicions were correct and the chopper had indeed crashed in the navigable channel of the river, the current slowly carrying me farther out to sea with each passing minute as I fight to get my strength back.

Reaching behind my back, I dislodge the judge's fingers from my belt and turn to face him. With rough hands clenching his collar, I pull his head to the surface and see the gash in his forehead from when I pulled us out of the cockpit. If he was conscious at that point, the concussion would have rendered him unconscious. In an unconscious state, he would have breathed in seawater until he drowned. And even if we were on solid terra firma, I didn't believe any amount of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation would bring him back.

He was dead and if I didn't get out of this current before it carried me out to sea, I was going to die as well.

Pushing off from the dead judge's body, I set out at an angle toward the beach, hoping to compensate for the pull of the current. After several long minutes of struggling with only one leg and arms feeling like lead with a tearing pain in my chest with each broad stroke, I realize that my angle on the beach isn't enough and I am still drifting farther out to sea.

Correcting for the pull of the current and the error of my first calculations, I set out again, noting that the judge's body has drifted almost thirty feet farther than I have. It isn't much, considering the amount of effort I had to exert, but I am making more progress than not. In addition, my breathing is getting better as less and less seawater regurgitates up the back of my throat and into my nose. With more air reaching my lungs, I feel the strength returning to my limbs and my strokes are growing more powerful despite the increasing pain in my chest from striking the console in the chopper.

When I stop to rest again, I am halfway to the beach and still on course. The judge's corpse has drifted out beyond my range of vision and it fills me with renewed optimism. This time I set out determined to reach the beach before stopping to rest again.

After what seems an eternity, I pause long enough to raise my head and look ahead. Just beyond my reach is the wet sand of the beach and my right leg suddenly drags along the bottom. Using the momentum of the waves, I let the ocean push me forward and then brace myself against the backwash until I am on solid ground. Too weak to rise, I lie on the wet sand and breathe deeply while regaining my sapped strength and taking stock of the damage to my body.

Weak and in pain, I sorely need to rest when I hear the unmistakable sound of Larry's fifty-caliber booming through the dense fog.

Shocked back to reality, I realize that the battle is not over and I cannot rest. Tara is still in danger!

Shakily, I get to my feet and then fall forward, my numb right leg buckling beneath me. Rolling over into a sitting position, I look down at it and see fresh blood soaking through the soggy pants.

Though the pain has receded into numbness from cold or blood loss, it has never been more imperative that I find Tara. Priority one! On hands and knees, I recklessly crawl forward, unarmed and unable to fight yet determined to help.

From having been in the water, the concealed mike has been rendered useless and the ear-bud, even if it still works, is no longer in my ear.

Fifty feet from the beach, I drop to my belly, exhausted by the effort and the increased loss of blood brought on by movement. Breathing heavily, each intake and exhale of breath wracking my body with pain, I rest for a minute, only to be startled by a short burst of small caliber fully automatic weapon fire. This time there is no return fire and I worry that Larry and Tara have succumbed to the attack.

Struggling back to my knees, I continue inching forward, finally reaching the place where the Blackhawk had originally landed. Unable to find the magnum in the loose sand beside the trail, I stumble onto the sub-machine gun still lying where I ditched it and extract the clip. It is still over half filled with live rounds and I blow the sand from within, even that effort bringing on a sharp pain in my chest.

Sitting upright, the effort of blowing leaves me light-headed and I lean over from the pain, waiting for my eyes to refocus. As the spots retreat from my vision, I see a nine-millimeter auto lying next to the rut dug into the hummock when the tail section of the chopper slammed into it.

Dragging myself over to it, I inspect both it and the clip, only to discover that it contains less than three rounds. Working the slide mechanism proves it to be functional and I carefully transfer ammo from the nine millimeter sub-machine gun into the clip from the handgun until it is fully reloaded, fourteen rounds total leaving just less than a quarter clip for the submachine gun.

Although the boot holster was not designed for an automatic, I jam it in and slip the restraining strap over. It refuses to snap securely as the nine millimeter won't go in as far as the magnum, but then that proved to be a disadvantage the last time anyway.

Working the slide on the sub-machine gun until I'm confident that it won't jam again, I lock the clip back into place and work a bullet into the chamber. Now I just need to find Larry and Tara.

Struggling to keep the sub-machine gun out of the sand, I craw slowly up the trail toward the parking lot, each foot a painful challenge that needs surmounting and yet, I can't shake the feeling that I wasted way too much time already on the weapons.

Halfway there, I am again startled by the boom of the fifty-caliber, but it is immediately followed by fully automatic return fire from several small caliber M-16s. The quick exchange of fire affirms that Larry is still alive, but what about Tara?

The cool sea air on my soaked clothing is no longer enough to keep me cool as I begin perspiring from the exertion. With sweat running down my forehead and into my eyes, I continue on toward the parking lot. The fog, although cutting visibility down to less than twenty five feet, is still a factor and I suddenly find myself on the edge of the pavement.

Being careful not to put the machine gun into the sand, I roll off to the side of the trail until I find cover next to a small fence constructed of treated wood poles. It is designed only as a means of showing the parking lot boundary to prevent vehicle traffic on the footpaths, but it gives me a feeling of cover none-the-less.

Lying there, I swipe at the sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand and wait for my breathing to stabilize. Meanwhile, I listen, hoping to hear where the fighting is taking place. Without bearings or knowing what is going on, I can't assist and I can't risk accidentally shooting Larry or Tara. If I don't hear anything soon, I will be forced to search the parking lot or do a perimeter search on hand and knees. Considering my current condition, I might as well commit suicide. The only time I'm not making any noise is when I'm sitting still and even then, my breathing is so loud and raspy even to my ears I can't trust myself to hear anything else short of gunshots.

Just as I'm about to give up on waiting for some sign of who is where, a male voice says, "Holy shit!"

Spinning around, the post next to my head explodes in a deadly shower of splinters, the wood fragments stinging the side of my face and right shoulder.

Even as I'm moving, I'm bringing the barrel of the little machine gun around and squeezing the trigger. There isn't time to see or sight on the target, only time to react. As his next burst kicks up sand beside and behind me, I feel the sub-machine gun bucking in my hand and the sound of bullets thunking dully into human flesh.

Unable to see out of my right eye, my left eye witnesses a man in khaki coveralls on his knees and slowly falling forward, a pattern of red splotches across his midsection. The plastic front grip of the M-16 he was shooting is splintered from the impact of my bullets and lying in pieces off to the side of his collapsing body.

The burst from the sub-machine gun threw many rounds on either side of the assailant also and now only a few live rounds remain in the clip.

Cautiously, I reach up and touch the tender skin around my right eye socket. And though nothing is protruding and my hand comes away clean, already the eye is swelling shut. With my left hand, I gingerly feel along my right shoulder. There, I find several splinters protruding through the material. Not giving any time to think about it, I yank them out and check for bleeding.

To my relief, there is little blood and the arm works fine, if not a little stiffly. But more importantly, I have given my position away and I need to move.

On the upside, Larry now knows that I'm still in the battle and he will know my next move from experience.

Crawling toward the downed soldier, I quickly inspect him for anything of use such as grenades or another weapon. Except for several more clips of ammo for his rifle which are useless to me, I find nothing, not even ID.

Leaving everything, I continue crawling along the perimeter of the parking lot. If Tara thought she was safe when she left the chopper, she would have gone straight out into the center of the lot hoping to find Larry.

So that is what I must do.

Once away from the post barricades, I move in a crab-crawl across the pavement, every inch sending excruciating pain through my body. Although there is no cover out on the pavement, I find movement is slightly easier and it takes me little time to come to the first of the vehicles.

Cautiously, I approach the open doors on the passenger's side. The vehicle is deserted, no sign of Tara. Dragging myself around to the driver's side, I pull myself up and check the ignition for keys. When my hand slides over an empty socket, I check quickly beneath the seat. It too, gives up nothing of use and the visor is too much of a stretch for me in my current condition.

Carefully, I consider the method the vehicles would have entered the lot and deduce that they would have come in one behind the other and then split in opposite directions only to turn one hundred eighty degrees until they faced each other from across the lot.

Dropping back down to the wet pavement, I set out slowly in a straight forward direction from the nose of the deserted vehicle. Within minutes, I come across a second SUV, this one also deserted. Only then do I think of disabling them and curse myself for not having thought of it sooner. The only explanation for not thinking clearly is the fatigue and I wonder how it's affecting my reflexes.

Grabbing a handful of wires from under the dash, I give a hard yank, the impetus of my effort causing me to fall back to the pavement in extreme pain.

I am debating returning to the first vehicle and doing likewise when the fifty-caliber booms three times in rapid succession. The sounds came from the area I'd just vacated on the western edge of the lot.

Crab crawling, I make for the southwest corner of the parking lot and run head on into Tara, who is running wildly toward me.

Recognizing me, she drops down on her knees and throws her arms around my neck, crying hysterically with panic and relief. Because of the noise she is making, I don't hear the footsteps chasing her and two men are on us before I can move her aside and pull up the sub-machine gun. Stopping in their tracks, unable to believe the sight before them, the first man smiles wickedly and squeezes the trigger of his M-16.

Only one shot rings out and Tara flinches against me. Pulling out the empty clip, he casually reaches into his fanny pack for another, a wry smile of victory on his face when his partner is suddenly thrown sideways, the fifty-caliber bullet literally lifting him off the pavement and carrying him almost five feet laterally before dropping his dead ass.

Glancing to his left, the smile now a rictus of fear, he reflexively locks in a full clip and slides the bolt home.

But he is too late as I pull up the sub-machine gun and squeeze off the last three rounds, each one taking him full in the chest and driving him backwards several hesitant steps.

Still, he refuses to go down and steadies himself while raising the fallen barrel of the fully automatic rifle and squeezes the trigger.

Tara's body is between the soldier and I and I watch in horror as a pattern of slugs rakes across the pavement separating us, ricocheting wildly toward the sky as they draw steadily closer.

With the weight of her on me, pinning me to the ground, I can't even reach the nine-millimeter in my boot holster. There is nothing I can do but look on helplessly in horror as the stream of bullets advances.

Another loud boom crashes closer to our right and the stream of bullets suddenly veers off to our left as the assailant takes a fifty-caliber slug through his left arm and into his chest cavity, killing him instantly.

In the silence that follows, I drop the empty sub-machine gun and grab Tara by the shoulders. Her eyes are open and I can see the pain within. Her breathing is shallow and ragged.

Larry steps out of the mist, moving toward the first body and kicking it to assure himself that it's dead. He is moving slowly, unsteady on his feet and I notice a bright red stain seeping through his jacket. It appears to be originating from just under his left arm, the blood soaking a large patch covered with wet sand.

Staggering toward us, he stops and kicks the nearer body, satisfying himself that it too is dead before approaching us. His face is pale and drawn with pain and he has a precarious hold on his weapon.

"You don't look so good," I tell him affectionately, the effort causing my pain.

"Yeah," he replies, trying to force a smile. "But then, even on my worse days, I still look better than you."

"Tara," I say, trying to get her to focus on me. "I think she's been hit, Larry," I breathe as he drops heavily to the pavement next to us.

The rifle falls from his grip and clatters loudly in the silence of the deserted parking lot. "Let me have a look?" he says, his right hand moving roughly over her back.

At his touch, she groans softly and her eyes flutter and then focus for a moment. "That hurts," she gasps softly.

Relief floods through me and I settle back down on the pavement, no longer able to hold my head up. Looking skyward, I notice that the sky is growing brighter and in the distance, I hear Larry's voice. He is telling me that it's deep and will need medical attention soon, but that she will live.

"Larry, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, what are you whining about now?"

"Don't let me forget my magnum. It's somewhere back there in the sand," I mutter, though I don't understand the importance of my own words.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure Greg's friends will sweep the area when they get here," he adds.

Tara coughs, her entire body shaking on top of me with the effort. "It hurts," she whispers, her head lying on my chest.

"Damn right it hurts," I reply softly, not wanting her to know how much pain just the weight of her on me is causing because I am so happy just to be alive enough to know it. "It's when it quits hurting that you need to start making your peace."

"Amen to that, brother," Larry intones. He too has lain back on the pavement, patiently watching the sky swirl and eddy above us.

After a long while, Larry asks me if the judge said anything before he went. He is curious as to why the judge would kill a man when the mob had specialists for such work. "The judge took it personal when the man turned state's evidence against him." It wasn't necessary for me to explain the dead goons; he recognized them for the mercenaries they were the minute he engaged them.

After an interminable period of time in which we all slip out of consciousness and back several times, the first of Greg's friends begin to arrive. In the growing gloom of evening, I notice the bright three letters stenciled across their backs, FBI. Though I never had much use for them before, seeing them now was a great relief.

Ambulances and medical staff arrive next and we are loaded up and carried off for more intense hospital care.

During our hospital stay, Greg and Gina bring Todd by for several visits while we remain in a secure wing of a hospital somewhere in central Oregon, the exact location undisclosed for security reasons.

Since Tara can identify the other men involved in her sister's killing, they put her in protective custody along with Todd, whom they allow her to adopt after receiving a release of abandonment from his legal guardians. I see her on the news occasionally during the trial and then she disappears into the witness protection program while my life continues on without her.

Larry and I return to the tavern in the woods of Oregon with the choppers and proceed to drink the place dry. My ride is still intact and under a tarp next to the decrepit woodshed, the last of the low life gangbangers long gone. I had feared they would take the loss of the girl out on my ride, but they were too busy making tracks of their own so they wouldn't be around to answer the multitude of questions that arose from the shootings.

Somewhat to my relief, I learned later that no one actually died that night, only a few broken bones. The guy on the roof won't be walking right for a while, having broken both legs in multiple places when he struck the ground.

Sitting at the bar with Larry, the place deserted except for the two of us, we are reminiscing and wondering what life would be if we had made different choices.

"You know, I was actually looking forward to taking that kid fishing."

"On your private lake, I heard," I jibe him.

"Well," he slurs, the beer and rum having a profound effect on his speech. "When there ain't no one else on it, whose is it?"

"It's all yours, Larry," I placate him. Tired of thinking of what might have been, I add, "For me, I think I'm going to call it a night."

The words have no sooner left my mouth, than two of the most beautiful women I'd ever laid eyes on walk through the door.

West Indies rum can be so good for your vision!

### THE END

More by Will Decker:

(Each story is a standalone novel)

DRIVEN

UNREQUITED LOVE

FIRE BABY

HYBRID KILLERS

The 'HEÄLF' Collection:

MORTALITY REVISITED

CLONE WARS

DAY OF NIGHT

REGENERATIONS

HORSPAW6

The 'Mac" Collection:

THE WITNESS

TOXIC RAIN

BETRAYAL

RECORD KEEPER

DEATH IN THE DUNES

WIT-SEC FAIL

SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed.

If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to leave a review at your place of purchase because as everyone knows, authors starve or eat based on reviews. Thanking you from the pit of my stomach, WILL DECKER

