

The Adventures of Chase Manhattan Volume I: Breakthrough

Stephen Tremp
All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2012 by Stephen Tremp

Smashwords Edition

Published by Three Diamonds Press. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, and actual events are entirely coincidental.

ASIN: B003WQBFV2

Edited by Marvin Wilson

Cover Art by Jeremy Tremp

Other Books by Stephen Tremp:

 The Adventures of Chase Manhattan Volume II: Opening

"Then I saw three evil spirits that looked like frogs ... they are demonic spirits that perform signs, and they go out to the kings of the whole world, to gather them for the battle." Revelation 16: 13 – 14

 The Adventures of Chase Manhattan Volume III: Escalation

"I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones." - Albert Einstein

 Salem's Daughters

A four-hundred-year-old evil is unleashed when souls of the daughters of those killed during the Salem Witch Trials find a new generation of people to murder at a popular bed and breakfast owned by a young unsuspecting couple. 
Please visit me at my blog on http://www.stephentremp.com for more information. You can email me at stephen.trempy@yahoo.com
Dedicated to my beautiful wife, Deena, and my family, who supported me while I wrote the Breakthrough series. For many days and nights all you saw of me was the back of my head as I researched and typed this manuscript. Thank you for bearing with me.
Chapter 1 Las Vegas

The floor safe creaked as it opened. Chase Manhattan, his hand on the heavy safe door, took a quick look around, then pulled it fully open. Can't be too careful. Get caught and you're a dead man, he knew.

This hole in the floor of a Sky Suite in the Aria Hotel and Casino—one of the newer five-star mega-hotels on the Las Vegas Strip—held the object of his risky business. A single item he had been hired to retrieve from an anxious and panicked research scientist in San Jose, California.

Risks were high; not only for his client, but for himself. He understood if he were caught there would be no leverage for negotiation. He would be killed—his body buried somewhere in the middle of the Mojave Desert like so many unfortunate, nameless souls who call that vast wasteland their final resting place.

There was also the danger this item could again fall into the wrong hands. He was being paid handsomely to take back the stolen nanotechnology—a breakthrough in transferring information. With this, the use of wires and printed circuit boards in computers would become obsolete. A veritable Holy Grail of the Information Age, _a quantum leap in the amount of storable data and processing speed, was now within his reach._

If it fell into the wrong hands? The catastrophic implications were the stuff of Doomsday movie writers—except real. This leap in technology could be used to enhance performance of weapons of mass destruction beyond any screenwriter's imagination.

Just a tick past midnight on Sunday evening. The thieves, he knew, were sitting in one of the nightclubs on the first floor, negotiating the final details to exchange ownership of the flash drive for a cool ten million. The device was scheduled to be delivered to Arlington, Virginia to the individual who'd paid to have it stolen. He would in turn sell it to an agent for an Eastern European group, who would then auction it on the black market to the highest bidder, regardless of their intentions.

He dared pause in his precarious mission to ponder: this tiny object, less than 30 grams of weight, had within it the capability of accelerating immeasurably the cause of good or evil in this world. And it was now in his charge.

The thieves had set off a small bomb in one of the bathrooms of his client's five-story office building. Then they called, threatening to blow up the entire building—solely to create the diversion necessary to steal the technical schematics. The operation was an inside job, masterminded by a trusted colleague whose betrayal Chase's client never foresaw.

Chase Manhattan placed the flash drive in his jacket pocket, closed the safe, and exited the posh two thousand square-foot suite. He wore dark loose-fitting khakis, a gray long-sleeved sweater, a Dodgers baseball cap, a five-day growth of facial hair, and makeup that made him look Hispanic and therefore unidentifiable. He'd taken the extra measure to change his hair color from light brown to black. Chase knew there would be agents manning the cameras in every hallway, elevator, and stairwell.

Now, all he needed to do was exit the hotel and drive through the night, return the flash drive to its rightful owner in San Jose, and collect what he liked to call his 'finder's fee'. He entered the elevator and pressed the L button, confident that in a few minutes he'd be in his rented Cadillac DTS driving across the heart of the Mojave, through the San Joaquin Valley in central California, and into San Jose.

It would be fun to stay and admire this hotel's extensive art collection and maybe play a round or two of golf in the morning. But those luxuries had to wait for another day. He needed to get out of Las Vegas—his life depended on it.

The elevator stopped on the twenty-second floor. Chase didn't give it a second thought, certain a guest was on his way to the casino or one of the nightclubs. Instead, three young men in their early twenties entered, their menacing attitude putting him immediately on guard.

One of the men—with a shaved head and a blue-and-green webbed tattoo covering his scalp and the right side of his face and neck—stood to his left. A second man wore a dark blue Armani business suit and white oxford dress shirt; his black hair combed straight back and held in place with a styling gel. He and the third man, short and stocky, positioned themselves to Chase's right.

Chase inserted his hand between the doors to prevent them from shutting all the way, stepped out and started walking down the red-and-gold-carpeted hallway toward the stairwell forty feet away. After a few steps he was aware the men were in pursuit and broke into a sprint.

With at least six or seven strides on them he reached the door, stopped and turned, pretending to pull out a handgun. Though he had a permit to carry in public in California, he didn't have this privilege in Nevada. But the ruse bought him a few additional seconds.

As he opened the stairwell door he heard the stylish leader yell to his partners. "Stockton, you and Webhead follow him. I'll take the elevator to the first floor. There's an extra ten grand for you if—"

Chase missed the rest as he fled down the stairs. He jumped over handrails, clearing each flight of stairs in a couple of leaps, with the two young men duplicating his flight and fast closing the gap. On the twelfth floor Chase had to stand and fight. With Webhead gaining he stopped, took a deep breath, and waited, ready.

"Stupid of you t' steal that flash drive. Forget takin' you out t' the desert. You gonna die right here," the tattooed man yelled as he cleared the final steps.

"You're way out of your league tonight," Chase said as he sized up his attacker.

The assailant led with a kick to his chest. Chase crouched, grabbed the man's ankle, spun him around, and threw him headfirst down the stairs. To his surprise, Webhead landed on his hands, pushed off, and performed an aerial somersault before landing on his feet on the landing below.

The second thug, Stockton, hurled himself over the staircase railing and tried to land on top of Chase, who snared him by his shirt and threw him against the wall. Using the momentum, the man ran six feet up the wall, performed a near-perfect back flip, and landed in front of Chase while entering into a roundhouse kick. Chase ducked the strike, picked his assailant up by his shirt, and threw him into Webhead who was on his way up the stairs.

Urban ninjas, Chase knew, more skilled in acrobatics and stunts that involve running attacks than traditional martial arts. Chase faked an attack, then jumped over the railing. Webhead anticipated the move and met him with a tackle. They went sprawling and struggling down to the next landing.

"The flash drive. Give it t' me or—"

A stiff palm to the jaw shut him up. Chase leaned against the handrail and slid down to the next floor where he proceeded to jump railings again.

"Give us the flash drive, amigo, an' maybe we let you live," Stockton shouted down the stairwell as he picked up the pursuit. He yelled at his partner, "Get up. After him—now."

Chase looked up as Webhead stood, pulled out a 9mm handgun, and zeroed in as he crisscrossed the line of fire.

"Don't shoot in here, you idiot," Stockton yelled, "There are cameras everywhere, and the sound will bring security."

On the fourth floor, Stockton caught up to Chase and pulled out a military style serrated knife. He jabbed at Chase's chest and slashed at his neck, then lunged at his stomach. Chase shifted his legs two feet back, seized his attacker's wrist, and redirected the strike to his right.

He raked his left hand across Stockton's eyes, then hooked the same arm around his neck and pulled his head back by his jaw. Chase slammed him to the floor and held his wrist that grasped the knife at a ninety-degree angle to the thug's body.

As he raised his left foot to squash Stockton's head, Webhead jumped onto the landing above with his handgun pointed and shouted, "No more messin' around. I'm ending this now."

Chase had no choice but to release Stockton and continue leaping rails toward the bottom of the stairway. A deafening boom echoed down the stairwell. A bullet ricocheted off the handrail, barely missing his left hand.

"You idiot, I said not in the stairwell," Stockton hollered up the stairs. "That'll bring security for sure."

Chase ran down the final two flights and burst out into a corridor that led toward boutiques, restaurants, and nightclubs. Twenty feet ahead the elevator doors opened and the dapper gang leader stepped out. He seemed more surprised to see Chase make it to the first floor than Chase was to see him.

The man blocked his path. "The flash drive. Give it to me now, and I'll let you live."

Chase stood in a free motion fighting stance, left side facing forward and his weight shifted to his right foot, knees slightly bent. "You have two seconds to make your move. Come and get it, Slick."

Chase heard a click and saw a glimmer of light reflect off a switchblade. Slick slashed at his neck. Chase blocked the strike with his left forearm and bashed the assailant's nose with his right fist, breaking it with an explosion of blood.

Slick reeled back into the elevator and bounced off the wall. He stumbled toward Chase, who kicked him in the chest. Slick fell back and slumped onto the floor. Chase pressed the sixtieth floor button and the elevator doors closed. He increased his odds of survival by one-third.

Chase Manhattan ran down the hall and into the first open business he saw; the Tetsu Teppan Grill. Only a few strides behind him were Stockton and Webhead. He heard Stockton shout, "Fan out to the left side."

Although it was off-season in Las Vegas, the night was alive with guests. There were more than twenty tables hosting late-night diners. The maitre d' and waiters stopped in mid-stride to watch Chase and his two attackers run through the restaurant.

No worries, Chase thought as he scanned the room. There were weapons everywhere. He picked up dinner plates from an empty table and hurled them at Webhead. Two of the ceramic Frisbees found their mark and shattered off his forehead, dropping him to his knees.

Stockton leapt over a row of tables to close the gap and knocked a waiter to the floor, his tray of entrées flying off in all directions. Two waiters turned and ran back into the kitchen.

"That's it," Chase muttered to himself. Must be an exit in the kitchen. He bolted through the swinging doors and weaved through the maze of tables, stoves, and ovens. Just a few more strides and he'd be through the back door.

Stockton hurtled the counters and landed in front of him as he rounded a series of cooking stations. The stocky bull of a man grabbed a frying pan and raised it over his head. "The flash drive, hombre. Give it to me or I'll crush your skull."

Chase pulled out his final ace and yelled in Spanish, "Ayúdeme por favor. Estos hombres malos están intentando robarme," meaning, "Help me. These bad men are trying to rob me."

The Hispanic chefs, already watching the chaos in their kitchen, dropped their skillets and saucepans and jumped the assailant, pummeling him to the floor. As Chase eyed a clear path to rear exit, Slick burst through the swinging doors brandishing a large hand cannon in his right hand.

Chase dropped to his hands and knees. He looked back through the stacks of pots and pans stored under the stainless steel work tables as Slick raised what looked like a Smith & Wesson M&P 45 and waved it back and forth. An authoritative voice shouted out. "The man with the Dodgers baseball cap. Where the hell is he?"

Chase looked forward. Thirty feet separated him from the back parking lot. He tried to push aside the cookware and roasting pans without making a sound. The kitchenware slid to his left and right. But a stack of baking dishes and woks spilled over onto the floor with an awful crash.

Slick spun around his way.

Do something, fast.

Chase shoved the rest of the cookware to the floor and thrust his body through headfirst, then grabbed eight feet of shelving and pulled it down. He looked back. Slick was plowing through the clamorous avalanche of crashing copper and cast iron.

Slick's nose was mangled and angled horribly to the left—already a deep purple. Blood flowed down his face. Teeth were stained dark scarlet. Top of his white oxford shirt was soaked in blood, as were his coat sleeves.

Slick dragged his sleeve across his bloodied nose again and fired off a round into the ceiling. The blast sent the chefs and cooks diving to the floor, forsaking their pounding on his stout partner, who wobbled to his feet.

Stockton held his head in a pathetic attempt to stop blood gushing out of his wound. Slick grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him forward. "Let's go, man! Find him before he escapes out the back door. We don't retrieve that flash drive? We're good as dead."

Chase eyed the door. The open work stations provided little cover. If he was going to make his dash, he'd have to stay low.

Stockton scanned left and right, then locked eyes with Chase. "There he is. Crouching behind that metal table. Shoot the stupid bastard."

Chase rolled to his right as Slick leapt over the pile of employees lying on the floor. One of the chefs reached his leg out and ankle whipped him.

"Uh Uhn. No way, mon. This be my domain. Nobody comes here'n destroys Ray Ray's kitchen."

Ray Ray stood, a mountain of a Caribbean man, and hoisted a pot of boiling water, emptying it over Slick's head. Chase didn't know which was more hideous—Slick's screaming or his skin blistering and peeling off his face.

Chase said a silent thank you to Ray Ray and backpedaled on all fours to the next workstation. The rear door was now twenty feet away.

Another chef reached up, grabbed a pan of hot au jus and threw it on Slick's face. The steaming relish streamed down his neck producing second-degree burns. As Slick wiped his face with his bloodied sleeves and tried to open his eyes, Ray Ray buried a chef's knife deep into his left thigh.

Slick let out another agonizing howl, lifted his Smith & Wesson, and fired off three more rounds, an obvious desperation move trying to hit anybody near him. Chase grimaced as Slick pulled the knife out of his thigh and stumbled toward him, still trying to wipe the scalding sauce off what was left of his face and neck.

Slick was no longer a threat. But Stockton—where is he? Chase picked up a small cast-iron skillet and looked to his left for the stout bruiser. Nothing. That can mean only one thing.

He double gripped the handle, stood, and spun right in a wide arc, swinging the pan. The thug had used the confusion to sneak up from Chase's rear. The frying pan slammed against his right eye, swelling it shut in an instant.

Stockton stumbled then leaned against a workstation to keep his balance, knocking pots and pans onto the floor and slipping on spilled sauces and foods. The chefs and cooks seized him from behind and pulled him toward the swinging doors. They again pummeled him to the ground as two security officers ran into the kitchen with guns drawn.

The first to enter shouted, "Get off of him, now."

The chefs dispersed as the guard ran to the semiconscious goon and rammed the barrel of his gun into his thick neck as he staggered to his feet.

"You so much as breathe, I'll blow your head off." He slammed Stockton back onto the floor.

Chase was back on the floor crawling on his belly. The rear exit was now ten feet away. He needed to open the door without anyone noticing. The workstations provided cover. He took one final look over his shoulder.

The second guard helped his partner and talked into his shoulder radio. "We have one assailant secured. Request additional security outside the facility."

With the attention on Stockton, Chase slipped out the back door. He ran to the front of the hotel toward the Las Vegas Strip. Luxury cars, SUVs, and limos parked in his way were no obstacle as he jumped on and over them, incurring the wrath of the wealthy owners and valet drivers.

On the other side of The Strip was his rental car. He slowed his gait to a brisk walk, felt his jacket to check—the flash drive was still there. In a few minutes, he'd be driving to San Jose to deliver the stolen property to its rightful owner and collecting his finder's fee.

"Somebody stop that man."

That voice. Chase glanced back to confirm. Webhead had come out the front doors of the Aria and was in full sprint.

"Give it up, compadre," Webhead shouted. "Can't outrun me."

Chase ran onto the catwalk that crossed Las Vegas Boulevard. He knew he wouldn't make it to the other side. A little more than halfway across, he jumped onto the ledge and looked down at the traffic flowing at forty miles per hour.

To his right, he could see his rented Cadillac DTS parked at a steakhouse on the other side of the boulevard. He considered his options as he looked back. Webhead stopped and pulled out his gun. Chase looked down at the traffic again, saw the cab of a semi-truck coming into view in the southbound lanes. He jumped as three shots echoed through the night.

Chase landed awkwardly in the center of the trailer with a loud thud and slid to the driver's side. He grasped the lip of the top of the trailer with his right hand as he rolled over. Chase saw the driver looking at him in his side mirror as he dangled and bounced perilously off the side of his trailer. The driver pulled over to the curb and jumped out of the cab, a tire iron in his right hand and his left hand clenched into a fist.

"Hey, you idiot. What the hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled with a thick New Jersey accent and a half-smoked cigar dangling from the right side of his mouth.

As Chase dropped to the pavement, two bullets whizzed by, barely missing him. They ricocheted off the pavement a few feet in front of the truck driver.

"Screw this," the plaid shirted trucker blurted out with the iron pointed at Chase. "I'll catch up to you again, punk. I never forget a face."

He jumped back in the cab as Webhead sprinted down the sidewalk.

"This guy's relentless," Chase muttered to himself, estimating he was now three blocks from his car. Webhead was still in full sprint. With nowhere to hide, he had no choice but to run into the oncoming cars. He crossed the median and ran straight up the four northbound lanes, weaving in and out of traffic.

Two semi-trucks came at him, horns blaring as traffic split on both sides. Ear-piercing rubber skidding on asphalt and twisting metal pierced the night air as cars crashing into each other halted traffic.

Chase glanced over his shoulder. Webhead was still in pursuit, making his way through a maze of dozens of stopped vehicles. Passengers began to get out of their cars and circle around Chase and his assailant. Some were livid and cursing—others just glad to still be alive.

"Gimme the flash drive, amigo, an' you can walk away. Or die right here. Don't matter t' me either way." Webhead's blue-and-green web-tattooed head added a hint of madness to his threat.

He pointed the handgun at Chase. The bystanders screamed and began to disperse. Just before he could fire, the same truck driver whose trailer Chase landed on emerged from the scattering crowd. He swung his tire iron and connected with the back of the Webhead's neck. The blow knocked the gun out of his hand and sent him sprawling facedown onto the asphalt.

"I don't know who's right or wrong here," the trucker yelled, looking down on Webhead. "But I'm going to clobber somebody tonight. And I'm starting with you, freak."

There was a brief silence as the crowd began to gather again around Chase, the trucker, and the out-cold tatted stranger. More people stopped their cars on both sides of the median and added to the crowd.

Four young guys on the sidewalk ran over, slobbering drunk, and spewed alcoholic obscenities at Chase. Truck driver cussed him out, too. "What the hell's your problem, Bub? Looks like you're the cause of all this mess."

Chase Manhattan scanned his surroundings. Traffic on both sides of the boulevard was jammed. It was difficult to see what was going on around him with all the headlights glaring directly into his eyes. But he could hear the recently terrified-into-silence crowd morphing into a raging mob.

"Hey, mister," shouted an angry lady, "I have to be in L.A. tomorrow morning for an important business meeting. Look at my car. The whole front end's smashed."

"I say we beat him senseless," yelled another man, his friends cheering in agreement.

Time to exit.

But the circle of angry and intoxicated people closed off any avenue of escape. Chase wondered if he would have been better off fighting the three thugs inside the elevator.

Three rounds fired from a large hand gun thundered through the air. The crowd scattered again in all directions, screaming and stumbling over each other in mass hysteria. Some ran across the median, jumping into their cars on the southbound lanes and tried to jockey their way into a free exit path.

Through all the confusion in the restaurant kitchen and on Las Vegas Boulevard, Chase had let Slick slip his mind—but now here he appeared again. He looked like hell, hobbling along on one good leg. He kept one hand on his wounded and bloodied left thigh, the Smith & Wesson gripped in his right hand. He gimped into the headlights of the tangled mess of cars.

Chase was stunned as he looked at the man. His face and neck horribly burned and blistered. Right eye buried under a hideous mass of blood-oozing puss. His nose was deformed and his entire face was grotesque to the point Chase figured his own mother wouldn't recognize him. Dark-red bloodstains coated his teeth and his once-white shirt.

Slick staggered across the asphalt, raised his gun at Chase, and fired off a round that missed by three feet. "You're going to die. Right here, right now. Forget the flash drive. I'm going to shoot you dead." He fired off two more rounds, this time the bullets missing by inches.

Chase didn't have anywhere to hide on the northbound side of the street. He did the only thing he could do—run through the maze of crashed cars and across the median to the southbound lanes where traffic had once again begun to move.

Slick kept coming. Drivers swerved and honked their horns. The side mirror of an SUV struck Slick on the side of his head, shattering the glass and slamming him to the pavement. He stood back up and stumbled across two lanes of oncoming cars.

Miraculously, Chase made it to the other side and onto the sidewalk. His pursuer wasn't so lucky. A blaring horn followed by screeching tires caught Chase's ears and eyes. He watched as a pickup truck slammed into his final pursuer. Chase knew that sound; the loud crack of a leg and pelvis being shattered.

Game over, Slick. You lose, Chase thought as the pulverized remains of a human being flew ten feet into the air over him and landed in a crumbled heap on the sidewalk. The man was twitching, not quite dead yet. But Chase knew he wouldn't be getting up soon—if ever.

Chase Manhattan was now free to run back to his rental car. He sidestepped the groaning, mangled body sprawled in front of him. In less than three minutes, he started the engine and drove southbound on Las Vegas Boulevard toward Interstate 15.

Chase glanced at the car radio—12:47 a.m. He removed his hat and wiped the makeup off his face with towelettes. Driving past the area where he nearly lost his life, he looked at the crowd gathering around Slick lying on the sidewalk. Traffic was still jammed on the northbound lanes, but vehicles in the southbound lanes were moving.

Red and blue flashing lights and the sirens of police cars and ambulances came from both directions. On the sidewalk a dozen security officers from the Aria Hotel and Resort gathered, looking puzzled over what had just happened. He was glad he asked for a rental car with extra-tinted windows.

Driving past the Venetian, the MGM Grand, the Luxor, and Mandalay Bay Chase saw the Las Vegas Strip hopping with life even on a Sunday night during the off-season. Pedestrians strolled up and down the sidewalks watching the outdoor spectacles of the fountains at Bellagio, the volcano at the Mirage, and the Treasure Island show.

Neon filled the night with every color of the spectrum. There was no shortage of limos lined up in front of the scores of casinos crowding the south end of the Strip. Las Vegas was teeming with spectacular nightlife.

Chase looked up and down the strip. New York isn't the only city that never sleeps.

Chase had two phone calls to make. First, he called his good friend Fred Merrill in Laguna Beach, California. Fred moved to Orange County three years earlier after selling his interest as a managing partner of a high-profile corporate investigation firm in Chicago. The white hat hacker was exceptionally gifted in searching and locating information people were vigilant in destroying or covering up.

"Most people don't realize," Fred had once said to Chase, with more than a hint of pride. "Once you put something up on the Internet, it's there forever. You can delete and empty your recycle bin all you want—still lurking in some deep remote place in the Blue Nowhere is its shadow. All you have to do is find that shadow, and you can reassemble the meta data."

Fred answered on the first ring. "Chase, how'd it go? You leaving Vegas?"

"I'm on my way to San Jose. I'll be driving back to Orange County in the morning. Everything went according to plan. Well, almost everything. Honestly, I couldn't have done this without you. Thanks again."

"I'm glad you're okay. Now listen, this is the last time I'll do something like this. The only reason I crossed the line is because you convinced me this information could not fall into the wrong hands. I'm officially retired from the business. That's it, my friend. No more."

Chase took a sip of his coffee as he looked in his rear view mirror at the dozens of flashing red and blue lights converging at the Aria Resort and Hotel. "Understood. And thanks again, Fred. See you when I get back."

Chase ended the call and dialed his best friend, Bennie Knowles.

"Chase—saw it was you on the caller ID. I sure hope you're at the airport or leaving the Las Vegas city limits. Things turn out okay tonight? Julie and I have been worried about you."

"Julie? Who's Julie? Never mind." Chase looked once more at the flash drive in his right hand and placed it back in his jacket pocket. "I'm entering the Fifteen Freeway now. I'll be in San Jose before breakfast."

"Damn good you made it out alive. But you listen to me, pal. I'm holding you to your word. This is your last adventure. You have a new career and a new girlfriend. You need to leave the superhero lifestyle behind. Starting right now."

Chase let out a long breath of relief. He accepted the fact he needed to slow down, start conducting himself like a responsible adult, and—sigh, settle down.

"Yeah-yeah-yeah. I will, Bennie. Promise. Once I drop the flash drive off to my man, I'm on my way back to Orange County—to stay. I'll get a good night's sleep and be back at the university on Tuesday. I'll only call if something important comes up. Otherwise, see you in a day or two."

Chase ended the call. He poured another cup of coffee from a thermos he'd filled at a Starbucks an hour earlier and set it in the cup holder. He entered Interstate 15 and drove toward the California border. The southbound freeway was lit up with the red glow of taillights leaving Sin City—the last remnants of tourists, gamblers, and weekenders making their way back to California, Arizona, and New Mexico.

Chase was wide awake. Adrenaline from the battle was still pumping him, and he had a large cup of hot Vitamin C for the ride. He put his right hand in his jacket pocket, held the flash drive one more time, took a good swig of Jamaican java, and settled in for his red-eye trek to San Jose.
Chapter 2 The Professor

The first major storm of the winter struck Massachusetts and surrounding New England with a vengeance. The storm was reminiscent of the Blizzard of 2003 that immobilized the city of Boston for over two weeks. November through January had been mild compared to historical records. Global warming was on everyone's mind, from politicians and end-times prophets to global corporations wanting to go green. The recent mild spell seemed to support everyone's personal agendas, but this storm challenged their theories.

Despite the blizzard, Professor Fischer left his house in Dorchester at 5 a.m. He ignored his wife's pleas to stay home as he kissed her and walked out his front door. Thirty minutes later, he drove his midnight-blue Range Rover across the Harvard Bridge, past Memorial Drive, and into the Massachusetts Institute of Technology campus in Cambridge.

His cell phone rang. The professor expected Elaine to call. He picked up his iPhone and saw his home number on the caller ID.

"Hi honey," he said.

"Nicky, are you okay? Where are you?"

"I'm pulling into the campus now."

"Nicholas," she scolded. "You must have been driving fast to make it there this soon."

"Everything's okay. Although I should consider myself fortunate I made it here safely. I can't see a thing," he said as he approached the East Garage parking lot.

Visibility was less than fifty feet. Fierce winds whipped the snow into a swirling vortex of bitter freezing cold and icy flakes, punishing anyone foolish enough to venture outside. He leaned into the windshield for a better view of the parking lot entrance.

"This storm has intensified since I left. The snow's driving hard in all directions. I can't tell which way the wind is blowing."

"Well, I'm glad you arrived safely. I wanted to make sure you didn't have an accident," a relieved Elaine Fischer said.

"As always, I appreciate your concern, my love. Thanks for calling. I'm pulling in my parking spot now. I'll call you later."

"I love you, Nicky. Be safe today. I wish you were here with me."

"I have business I need to take care of. Otherwise, I'd stay home and we could snuggle in bed. I love you too. Go back to sleep. I'll be home as soon as I can."

Professor Fischer felt the stiff, unrelenting winds drive the snow against his face as he stepped out of the safety of his SUV and into the unforgiving elements. The wind blew the snow hard enough to make the skin on the exposed parts of his face red and raw.

He ran faster than he had in years as he sprinted to the front door of Eastman Laboratories in Building 6. His cashmere sweater and wool overcoat were no match for the biting cold that easily cut through his clothes and numbed his skin.

Shivering and barely able to grasp the keychain from his right coat pocket, he unlocked the front door and quickly stepped inside. Fischer struggled against the wind to shut the door, as if the storm were pursuing him to wreak as much havoc inside as it was outside. He brushed the snow off his coat and looked around the deserted and dimly lit lobby.

He knew no one else would be there this early and thought the entire campus would be empty for the rest of the day, if not the remainder of the week. Looking back through the window in disbelief, the fury of the storm increased as the streetlamps struggled to emit their light through the snow.

Professor Fischer felt compelled to work regardless of the conditions. He was on the verge of a breakthrough that would not only redefine physics, but the way humankind perceived reality and the very universe they lived in. No snowstorm, no matter how violent and unforgiving, could stop him from moving forward with his discovery.

Alone in the building, he took the liberty to pump his fist in triumph and gave a short shout of victory as he walked down the corridor. Fischer took advantage of his solitude to reflect on his life and how he had to persevere to get to this place of triumph.

He reminisced how he was captivated by building blocks, Lincoln Logs, and then chemistry sets as a youth. He thought of times he forsook playing baseball with childhood friends, opting instead to play alone in the basement with his science projects, mixing chemicals and anticipating their reactions.

Fischer had to laugh as he was usually correct in his assumptions of their outcomes. Usually. But it was those unexpected reactions that stimulated his curiosity and fed his insatiable desire, his unfulfilled lust to discover and unlock the secrets of the unknown universe.

He smiled as he prided himself on two traits that served him well in his quests over the past five decades: knowledge and imagination. He believed both sides of his brain were in intense competition to outperform the other, to be the first to discover new things, whether physical or metaphysical, and to see how quickly the two could interact with each other.

The noted professor of physics continued to reflect on his life as he stepped into his office. Although he grew up in a lower-middle-class neighborhood of Boston, he was grateful his parents provided his family of six with a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food on the table, although they had to do without most luxuries. He forged his own path through college which included a scholarship from Columbia University in Manhattan. He then held two part-time jobs and took out loans to complete his Ph. D. at the University of Michigan.

As he laid his coat over the back of his chair, Fischer thought how he now wanted more than just the nice house, two new cars in the garage, and college funds for his three children. As a young man, his passion was to lead highly specialized teams researching and developing new technologies and their practical applications.

He had numerous groundbreaking discoveries and patents used by corporations and common people that made him a wealthy man. But he was now entering a midlife crisis. He coveted what his peers were now achieving—the fame and fortune at the next level of their professional careers.

The professor sat at his desk and booted up his computer. For ten years he knew he was onto something big—a discovery truly monumental that would change the world and forever secure his name as one of the greatest scientists the world had ever known. He grinned as he considered his name being spoken with the same degree of respect that Newton, Galileo, and Einstein had achieved.

He overcame obstacles that would crush most scientists' careers and suffocate their vision. Lacking prerequisites one needed in a large New England city—like a family name with status, and facing a blockade of state funding originating from a state senator who did have a such credentials, were the largest and near insurmountable barriers.

Fischer's jovial mood turned to anger as he thought how William S. O'Connor III publicly ridiculed him, saying his projects were foolish boondoggles and a waste of taxpayers' money. He laughed out loud at the thought. Boondoggles, indeed. This from a man who throws away more money than any politician in state history.

But Fischer found strength in his network of friends and colleagues that were finally paying huge dividends. He made a note to call one of his best allies, Doctor Gloria Newcombe, a colleague from the University of Michigan. He felt fortunate to collaborate with such a brilliant physicist from Globalized Dynamics' Infrastructure Unit, specifically the energy and transportation division.

He greatly admired Gloria, deeply involved with their Green Revolution. The initiative envisioned a world where major global conglomerates would act with ecological responsibility while earning large profits for the company and its shareholders. She was assigned the nearly impossible task of finding ways to transport large generators, locomotives, and massive prefabricated building materials around the globe at a fraction of their current transportation costs, and, of course, in a green manner.

He collaborated with Newcombe on numerous projects in the past, but nothing as significant as his current venture. Globalized Dynamics had committed a significant amount of seed money to Fischer and his small team of assistants and students regarding breakthroughs in Einstein-Rosen Bridges.

Although he knew a discovery in wormholes could someday become a reality, he also understood most people would scoff at this idea out of ignorance and fear of the unknown. Yet he was able to convince Globalized Dynamics to roll the dice and for at least one more year keep himself and his team funded, all under the watchful eye of Doctor Newcombe.

Inwardly, he mulled over the rumor William O'Connor III was running for the U.S. Senate. "That man is a greedy and incompetent buffoon who lives in the past glories of his family's heritage. He has no vision for the future. No vision for the present. No vision for change. Not that any of that matters now."

Fischer was now shouting as he scanned his emails. "I'll see to it William O'Connor III never makes it to Capitol Hill. I'll make sure he never practices politics again."
Chapter 3 William the Great

William S. O'Connor III was a career politician who believed he was God's gift to the world, or at least to the good ol' U. S. of A. He was born and bred to be a politician, and a good one at that. The patriarch of his family, William O'Connor Senior, was a Massachusetts state senator during the 1960s through the 1970s and was still alive and active in retirement. He brought about the history and tradition that began his family legacy.

William S. O'Connor III's father, William O'Connor Junior, was governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts during the 1980s through 2010. A beloved and respected leader, he would go down in state history as one of the best governors of Massachusetts.

Upon retirement in 2010, the family torch had been passed from William Junior to William the Third as the media liked to call him. William III decided at the age of forty-four he needed to take that next step up the political ladder while he was relatively young and still had much of his thick, dark, wavy hair. As president of the 189th General Court of the Massachusetts Senate and House leader, most political analysts had all but voted him in as the next governor of Massachusetts.

William III, however, had loftier aspirations and would soon announce his candidacy for the U.S. Senate. The statesman knew the current U.S. senator would not be easy to unseat. But he had a political machine of his own, along with his family's legacy, and his advisors were confident they could displace the incumbent.

On this bitterly cold and dreary Tuesday morning, William III was too excited to sleep in to his normal time of seven o'clock. He was to meet with his advisors in his State House office on Beacon Hill, hone the strategies concerning his campaign, and set a day when he would go public with news of his intent to run for the U.S. Senate.

He showered and quickly put on his robe as the frigid air of the incoming February nor'easter storm overwhelmed the single-family town house's heater. William bent down and kissed his beloved wife of twenty-two years on the cheek, the only visible part of her body that escaped the warmth and security of their down comforter. She lifted her head to say something. But he gently stroked her hair, and in a deep and seductive voice tried to croon her back to sleep.

"Thanks for letting me go back to sleep, sweetheart," she said with a soft and sultry voice, peeking up out of the blankets. "I'll make it up to you at dinner tonight, even if you won't be home until very late."

"I'll eat something on the way to the State House, Helen. You just close your eyes and sleep in."

"I'll slow cook a pot roast for you. I'll even break with your diet and bake a loaf of homemade molasses brown bread."

William kissed her on the forehead. "Maybe you could thaw out the frozen peach pie," he suggested.

"Anything for my future U.S. senator husband," Helen said, still smiling with her eyes half-closed.

Last night, William made up for lost time due to his recent hectic schedule. With his calendar filled for the next two weeks, he knew he would not have another chance to redeem himself for a while. He thought he had better give his beautiful trophy wife a night to remember, and he did. Even at the age of forty-four, William III felt like William the Great in his bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, and everywhere else their inebriated, entangled bodies ended up throughout their erotically passionate night.

William pulled up his light blue boxer shorts and did a little shake for the half-open green eyes he knew were watching. Helen slipped an arm out from underneath the warmth of the comforter, reached over to William's nightstand, and pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. She sprayed Hermes Perfume Faubourg from her nightstand on the note, rolled up the bill, and slid it into the elastic waistband of his boxers.

"A gift you can use to remember me throughout your day," she whispered.

Trying desperately not to laugh at her amorous gesture, William performed a reverse striptease as he dressed in one of his many power suits that filled a closet the size of most of his constituents' bedrooms. Such are the games couples play when intoxication lingers from the night before.
Chapter 4 Death of a State Senator

William S O'Connor III knew he had to arrive at his office early since the storm threatened to drop three feet of snow up and down the New England coast. Skipping his morning workout and forsaking breakfast, William arrived at the Massachusetts State House, the oldest building on Beacon Hill, at just past seven o'clock in the morning.

The bitter cold numbed his face as he stepped out of his black Cadillac Escalade. He wondered if he should have stayed home and slept in. At least he had the foresight to have a few members of his advisory board, the ones who lived outside of Boston proper, stay at a local hotel so the storm would not prevent them from attending the morning meeting. Rain, sleet, snow, and the advancement of a political career waited for no one.

William flipped his collar up over the back of his neck, bunched his coat as far up his body as he could, and ran from the parking garage to the front door of the State House. Once inside, he slowed to a walk and strolled through the security checkpoint. He took a moment to say a few kind words of cheer to the lead security officer, Sam McGowan, affectionately known to everyone as Sam the Security Guy.

"Good morning, Sam. How are things with you and your family these days?" William was a natural politician, able to network with the local and national power brokers, while still connecting with Joe Constituent.

"Can't complain at all, Senator," Sam said. "Didn't expect to see too many people come to work today with this weather we're having. What brings you in so early?"

"Tying up loose ends on a few matters. I have to keep the traditions of the greatest state in our union alive for our wonderful citizens."

William genuinely liked Sam. He appreciated tradition and things that stood the test of time. He remembered Sam began working at the State House when, as an adolescent, he came to work with his father. He recalled William Junior demonstrating a tremendous amount of respect for Sam. William had come to know Sam well over the years and gave him the honor he would give a member of his own family.

However, he noted since Sam started working the security checkpoint in 1983, there had been a revolving door of new guards stationed with him. The newest hire was young, clean-shaven, and according to his employee badge named Erik Davis. Davis didn't say anything to O'Connor when he entered. He merely stood at attention, looking at Sam for cues whether to speak or remain quiet.

William demanded Erik Davis, like other new state employees, earn the right to be recognized. He did not like constant change. The senator thought it was too difficult to conduct business with so much turnaround in personnel. Maybe in a year, he would acknowledge the new hire.

Walking through the spacious marble-floored corridors, William looked at the pictures of past governors and other famous personalities in the long, prestigious history of Massachusetts. His father was immortalized among the distinguished leaders of the state he so loved and cherished.

Regardless of the countless times he walked these famed halls, he always marveled at Massachusetts's deep and unique history that was unmatched by any other state in the Union. He loved the heritage reconstructed in pictures and murals that made its contributions speak complex stories in single images.

William was honored that his family's name stood among the John Adamses, Benjamin Franklins, John Hancocks, and the Paul Reveres. He was proud to be a citizen of this state and humbled to serve its citizens.

William took his time as he strolled past the Senate Chamber directly below the golden dome. As president and majority leader, his time spent sitting at the rostrum would soon end as would another illustrious chapter in his family's state history.

He took the elevator to his office on the second floor and settled into his traditional Boss black leather executive chair. His suite consisted of five rooms shaped like a cross. He utilized the largest room farthest from the hallway, using the other four as a buffer from the activity and distractions his area seemed to attract. His secretary, Margaret Adams, held down the front office and was his first line of defense.

The middle area acted as a small conference room for private meetings that were better off held away from the larger board rooms shared by other state legislatures. There were two smaller alcoves to either side. The enclosure on the left was used for storage. To the right a twin bed, reading chair, and a small table and lamp. Even state senators needed an occasional afternoon nap.

William removed the rolled up fifty-dollar bill from his shirt pocket his seductive wife had playfully slipped into the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts. Rolling it back and forth between his fingers, he thought, keep it as a keepsake? Or buy lunch with it.

He'd allow his stomach to dictate the outcome in a few hours. He chuckled to himself at the thought of his game playing formality. The large amounts of alcohol and lovemaking the night before would no doubt soon make him a very hungry man.

William booted up his computer. Sixty new messages arrived since he left the office the previous night. Strange, he thought. Typically, less than ten e-mails came in overnight, and most were spam messages promising him more hair or a Nigerian prince telling him he had won a foreign lottery.

He opened a dozen e-mails, all from different addresses but with the same brief message: You cannot put new wine into old wine skins.

"What the hell does that mean?" he said.

William was a scotch and microbrew drinker. If not for his wife's preference for finer French wines, there would not be any in his house. Continuing, he opened a dozen more e-mails—all containing the same message.

You cannot put new wine into old wine skins.

Being in politics, he'd learned to tolerate receiving odd e-mails–comes with the territory, he'd accepted long ago. But this many? All with the same message, but all from different sources? It was startling. A bit shaken, William stood to regain his thoughts and focus on the morning's agenda with his group of advisors.

That's when he saw the dark, unwelcome figure at his office door wearing a tight black outfit covering the entire body. Glaring green catlike eyes stared at the intruder, who wore a shinobi shozoku. William recognized it as the wardrobe traditionally worn by practitioners of the Japanese martial art of ninjutsu.

Stunned at the sight of the intruder, William looked the perpetrator up and down in disbelief. The covering was two pieces; a black hood and a black mask tied behind the head. The pants were tied at the knees and the ankles with a piece of thin black cloth. The boots were split-toed. The hands held a sword. The shoulders were relaxed and stretched slightly forward as the sword was held upright at a 45-degree angle.

The intruder stood in a balanced stance without bias to one side or the other. Upon closer inspection, he could make out decidedly feminine curves on the slight frame. Shaking his head and blinking his eyes, he was dumbfounded someone sent him a female assassin.

William needed to act fast. He'd always wondered what his thoughts might be if he realized he was going to die. Now he knew; his wife naked in bed on a bitterly cold Massachusetts night with a wine glass in her hand and a glass of scotch in his as he lay beside her.

This brought little comfort as he shifted back to reality and wondered how this intruder eluded security. He was even more bewildered as to how she had gotten the sword through the metal detectors.

But William wasn't intimidated. He looked the assassin in the eyes. "I don't know who you are, but you chose the wrong person to pick a fight with. I'll drop you where you stand."

Releasing the fifty dollar bill still clenched in his fist, he reached for his .38 Ruger strapped to the underside of his desk. The dark figure jumped. Two leaps and she was on top of the desk in strike position. He grabbed for the gun. Nothing but a leather strap there. Damn. The assailant had already removed it. Terror seized him. Plan B—yell for help!

Too late. The assassin struck with her foot to his throat. His larynx crushed into his esophagus. Poor William the Not-So-Great was slammed back into his chair.

"I'm a step ahead of you," the assassin spoke in a soft tone. "You're old-school, representing traditions and beliefs that prevent mankind from advancing into the twenty-first century. Now, you must die so we can advance."

William couldn't talk. He couldn't breathe. Shocked, he could only sit and look up. Unblinking sea-green eyes stared at him out of the slit mask. Plan C was simple enough—run for help. William sprang out of his chair and tried to run around the right side of his desk.

The assassin leapt onto the floor in front of him, her sword still poised for a strike. "That's not going to work."

She planted her right foot into William's left knee, crumpling his breathless body onto the plush red-carpeted floor.

Bred to be a quick thinker and make snap decisions, William could not grasp what was happening to him in these fifteen seconds. But he did know he was going to die. He could not protect himself, yell for help, or run for safety. Again, he thought of Helen and her warm body lying alone in the comfort and safety of their bed, and how she would react to the news of his death.

The assassin leaned in and spoke in a soft tone, as if she didn't want her voice recorded by the security cameras he knew was filming his death. Where the hell was Sam the Security Guy and his new side kick. What the hell was his name again?

"I won't tell you who I am. But I will say I'm going to kill you because you've thwarted progress of a scientific discovery, a breakthrough that will usher in a new era rivaling anything in the annals of history. You shouldn't have interfered with Professor Fischer's projects. You are officially an obstacle that needs to be removed."

With the softest and most graceful of footsteps, she circled as he lay on the floor, placing one foot over the other in a side-to-side manner while holding her sword over her right shoulder. He ascertained his killer, with her catlike features and mannerisms, wanted to play with her prey before killing him. William, never one to back down from a challenge, wanted to play too. He reached out with his right arm, trying to grab behind her left knee and throw her on her back.

She struck with her sword in a swift, smooth, arcing motion, severing his arm just above the elbow. "Nice try, Senator. But just like your political policies, you're too slow to keep up on changing times. Welcome to the twenty-first century."

William decided the only thing he could do was leave evidence as to who his killer was. He tried to direct the flow of blood streaming from his bisected arm in such a way the assassin would leave footprints in the carpet, leaving clues of her foot size, weight, and height. Impressions that would show what direction she took after she left his office.

Once again, the intruder anticipated his action and sidestepped the senator. As a swooning dark gloom began to overtake his consciousness, he watched as she placed her sword—with its double-edged blade—back into the scabbard strapped to her back.

Walking around to the front of his desk, careful to avoid stepping in any of the senator's blood, she leapt onto its surface and picked up his cell phone. She typed a quick line then clicked the send icon.

Then she noticed the rolled up fifty-dollar bill lying next to the mouse pad. She picked it up and rolled it playfully across her fingers, then placed it in a small pocket on her right thigh.

William, barely conscious, saw her look over at him. Murderous bitch is stealing my wife's love gift. He lifted his left arm and gave her a firm gesture with his middle finger.

The assassin shook her head in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding. You're in no position to be disrespecting me."

She jumped off the desk, landing in front of him, and planted her left foot on his shoulder to steer the flow of blood away from her. In the same movement, she grabbed William's head and twisted it 180 degrees. The snap was loud yet short, and then it was over. William's heart stopped pumping, and the blood flow from his severed arm slowed to a trickle.
Chapter 5 The Office

It was the start of another beautiful day in paradise. Chase Manhattan woke early to enjoy the sunrise making its way over the canyons and mountains and shining its rays on the West Coast. He jogged along the beach as he recently had begun to do a few mornings each week. On this particular day, less than a half mile into his run, he came upon a group of Asian tourists engaged in tai chi and stopped to join them.

After twenty minutes the group finished its routine, and Chase walked back to Main Beach where he parked his car. He enjoyed watching Laguna Beach awaken from its slumber. He found few things in life to be more interesting than the unique nuances in human behavior. Chase was convinced if he hadn't become a physicist, he most likely would have been a psychologist.

Driving on Coast Highway with the top down on this clear and sunny morning, Chase felt this day was created especially for him. He had left his previous life of adventure behind and begun a new career as an associate professor of physics at a local university. He was excited about his immediate prospects, and content he achieved everything he wanted to accomplish by the age of twenty-six.

Chase had three things going for him. First, he was getting back into shape after a year of physical inactivity. Second, he was eager to continue his controversial lecture regarding potential breakthroughs in Einstein-Rosen Bridges with his students at the University of California-Irvine later that morning. Third, he had a date with Susan Anderson.

Susan was one of the most beautiful and intelligent girls Chase had ever known. He hadn't seen her since high school, and even then, he didn't know her very well. He remembered she was attractive and kept her appearance simple. She was the quiet type who made school her highest priority and social interactions a distant second.

The previous week, at a mutual friend's house in Newport Beach where a party had been thrown, Chase met and become reacquainted with Susan. She was definitely what you call a late bloomer. They talked and immediately formed a bond. Her radiant smile, her self-confidence, and the way she carried herself was too much for him to walk away from at the end of the evening.

After taking a detour home for a quick shower and change of clothes, Chase drove north on Coast Highway toward Newport Beach. He looked at the magnificent new multimillion-dollar Mediterranean-style houses in Crystal Cove that covered the landscape.

There were thousands on the hills on the north side of the highway. Just a few short years ago, the rolling landscape was empty fields of grass and wild flowers. He wondered how so many young couples could afford to move into the area and buy homes.

Making a right onto Newport Coast Drive, Chase passed Pelican Hill Golf Course and Resort. He knew he had to take up his friend Bennie Knowles' offer to play a couple rounds of golf, have a few beers, and eat steak and shrimp at the clubhouse until they burst at the seams. Continuing along the snaking, six-lane boulevard, he ascended the steep hill in his silver Mercedes-Benz S-Class convertible while barely shifting into third gear.

Passing five-star resorts and impeccably manicured landscapes, Chase reached the top of the hill where inland Newport Beach, Costa Mesa, Irvine, John Wayne Airport, and the UC-Irvine campus opened up in a beautiful sweeping vista. The San Gabriel Mountains lined the horizon, capped with a fresh layer of white snow that descended below the 4,000-foot level. A recent storm had dropped three inches of rain along the coast and twenty-four inches of snow in the mountains. It was a crystal clear day and the air was still crisp and cool.

Chase crossed over the San Joaquin Hills Toll Road, made a right on Bonita Canyon Road, and entered Irvine. He turned left on Anteater Drive, the namesake of the local college sports teams, and entered the campus from the south.

How the school adopted the name Anteaters was still a mystery to him, as anteaters were not indigenous to the area. He felt foolish for not knowing and was too embarrassed to ask anyone. For the hundredth time, he made a mental note to Google the answer.

Chase was amazed how quickly Orange County had developed. Bonita Canyon Road was recently widened from a sleepy two-lane road to a busy six-lane boulevard. New housing, dorms, and university buildings were going up left and right. He remembered driving with his father through Irvine when he was a child, seeing mile after mile of orange groves and strawberry and lima bean fields.

Now Irvine didn't have any crops to boast. Chase missed the way things were. But he also embraced rapid and hurried change. Opportunities and new discoveries approached seemingly at the speed of light—breakthroughs not just at UC-Irvine, but at other universities, corporations, and governments around the world. He had access to domestic and global research, cutting-edge experiments he should have knowledge of, and some things he would be better off not knowing.

UC-Irvine is a diverse campus, not only in the nationality of its students, but particularly in its cutting-edge discoveries in nanotechnology, biological sciences, chemical and biochemical engineering, and especially physics. These were areas where Chase focused; seeking out opportunities and breakthroughs mankind was on the cusp of discovering.

Chase held a Ph.D. in physics and astronomy from UC-Irvine. As an associate professor at the School of Physical Sciences, he was lecturing for a professor who had fallen ill. He arrived at his office at eight thirty a.m., giving him thirty minutes to sort through his e-mails and return phone messages. Then he would follow up on the day's latest headlines before lecturing in front of eighty-seven students regarding Einstein-Rosen Bridges and some of the obstacles to breakthroughs facing science.

Chase poured his remaining Starbucks coffee into a UC-Irvine mug and warmed it in a black microwave oven he kept on top of a filing cabinet. He didn't have the catchy phrases that other people have on their coffee cups, magnets or picture frames like Caffeine isn't a drug, it's a vitamin!

However, some of the wisest words he had ever heard came from a song, and he had them matted, framed, and posted on his office wall:

You've got to know when to hold them

Know when to fold them

Know when to walk away

Know when to run

These words of wisdom had guided Chase out of numerous bad situations, and he knew they would continue to do so countless more times.

His cell phone rang, jarring him out of his thoughts. It was Bennie Knowles. Chase knew Bennie was going to ask him to lunch at the Pelican Hill restaurant.

"Bennie, what's up, big guy?" Chase said as he scrolled through his e-mails and sipped his reheated coffee.

"Are we on for lunch today? I want you to see this place. This is one of the best courses you'll ever come across. The north nine looks out over the bluffs onto the ocean. Terrific sunsets, too. I know how much you like your sunsets. It's like a bent dick. You can't beat it."

"Ha ha ha." Chase tried not to laugh but couldn't refrain.

"Trust me, this is exactly what you need to help transition to a more domesticated lifestyle. Remember, no more traversing the globe and chasing down new adventures."

"I remember. I'm happy with my new position here at the college and the prospects of settling down."

"Speaking of settling down, are you still going out with Susan tonight? She's so hot."

"Yes, I am. We'll talk more at lunch. I have to get ready for class. See you in a few hours," Chase said, still grinning at Bennie's immature comment. He had heard his best friend use that line countless times, but it always seemed funny the way Bennie said it.
Chapter 6 The Lecture

By the time Chase walked to the front of the class, his students were already talking about the murder of Senator William O'Connor III. Although the family had been notified of his death, the news was not yet public.

But details of the event had been picked up on police scanners and were posted on Internet blogs. Text messaging further spread the story across the country. Chase made a mental note to follow up on the news as soon as class ended.

He walked out on the stage in a pair of dark slacks, a dark-blue pullover collared shirt, and a charcoal-gray sport coat. He rarely wore a tie and never brought one to work. He did have one hanging from a thumbtack pressed into the wall of his office for emergencies. To date, he had experienced no such crisis that would warrant him wearing the uncomfortable nuisance.

"Okay, let's get started," he said as he paced back and forth across the stage. Chase liked to move around when he lectured rather than sit at a desk or stand behind a podium. He preferred to make use of the entire wall of chalkboards instead of using an overhead projector, writing complex equations as he progressed through the class. He also encouraged, and at times demanded, his class of eighty-seven bright and gifted undergraduate students in applied physics participate in the lively discussions.

"Last Thursday, we left off in the middle of a heated argument regarding certain applications of the space-time continuum—more specifically, the potential and practical application of Einstein-Rosen Bridges, or wormholes, as people today like call them. To reiterate, the term 'wormhole' gets its inspiration from the idea of a worm traversing from one side of an apple to the other.

"The idea is that if a worm could tunnel through the apple to the other side, then a shortcut is established. In the same sense, a wormhole through the fabric of space-time could theoretically allow matter, including people, to travel from one point in the universe, Earth for instance, to another point in another universe, such as a planet that could support life."

Victor Villanueva started the debate as he usually did every class, by standing and posing a question that challenged the instructor's premise. Victor, Chase knew from private conversations with him in the Student Union cafeteria, came from extreme poverty, growing up in a small town of less than 100 people in the middle of the Sonora Desert in southeastern California.

Victor earned his way into UC-Irvine on a scholarship. He used hard work, a few published articles on applied physics and astronomy in major publications, an innovative mind, and one of the highest IQs on the campus to gain acceptance into the physics program. Chase admired him for his hard work ethic and liked him as a promising student.

"Professor Manhattan," Victor said. "Aren't these theories and concepts just that—theories? It's been a century since Einstein proposed his general theory of relativity and Hermann Weyl propagated the concept of wormholes. Why haven't there been any breakthroughs in the area of wormholes? We've split the atom, and we have the ability to destroy the earth's surface thousands of times over. Yet, still no breakthrough in wormholes. Why not?"

Chase continued his slow pace. "Thank you for getting us started, Victor. First, Einstein's theory of general relativity supports the possibility of wormholes. Many scientists today believe wormholes already exist, only on a subatomic scale. They theorize it's possible to identify and enlarge these existing wormholes and make them stable enough so they will not collapse when matter, including people, travel through them."

Chase paused for effect and raised a finger in the air. "That's the tricky part—making the wormholes stable so that they will not collapse and destroy whatever is passing through. But you're still young, Victor. You may yet live to see the breakthrough and the practical use of wormholes in your lifetime."

A student with long brown hair streaked blonde and wearing sunglasses, who Chase wasn't even sure was paying attention, stood and asked, "So, how does this all work? I mean, how can a wormhole exist or be created?"

Chase thought this guy would have to do more than ask a generic question to pass his course. He addressed his answer to the entire lecture group. "Theoretically, Einstein said that if it's possible to distort and bend space, it's feasible space can be folded. If space is folded, it's conceivable a hole can be punched in both sides of space, thus, creating the shortcut to travel from point A to point B almost instantaneously."

A girl in the front row raised her hand.

"Yes, Erica?"

"What can be used to bend or fold space? That would require a tremendous amount of energy, right, Professor?"

"That's right. Bending space would require a source of tremendous power, such as objects with great mass, like a collapsing star. But even a planet the size of Earth rotating around the sun will bend space."

"And that brings us to gravity," said a young Asian girl. "How does gravity factor into the equation, Professor?"

Chase knew her to be a brilliant and very imaginative person and often thought she looked too young to have a driver's license. He thought of answering the question, but decided on a better tactic for teaching.

"Let's discuss that issue, class. And thank you for bringing this up." He nodded to her and smiled in acknowledgement. "There are four known forces in our universe: electromagnetism, strong nuclear force, weak nuclear force, and gravity. Can anyone tell us how gravity relates to and affects the space-time continuum?" Chase pointed to a young man with his hand raised. "Yes – Raymond."

Raymond Sutter, a tall and lanky eighteen year old with curly red hair, said, "I remember one of my high school professors had us take a sheet, fold it in half, and then loosely hold it horizontally. He dropped a basketball in the center, causing the two halves to come in contact with each other. Then he rolled a golf ball onto the sheet, and the ball circled around the indentation that the basketball made in the folded sheet."

"That is a very good example," Chase said. "And, I would add, it was the mass of the basketball that caused the indentation in the sheet. Gravity, according to Einstein's general theory of relativity, results from the curvature of space caused by energy and mass. It's the gravity we experience that draws the golf ball to the indentation in the sheet caused by the mass of the basketball."

The next question Chase expected. Julianna Sommers, a freshman, said, "What about time travel, Professor? Is it possible to travel back and forth in time? Can a person go back five years and change events they regret?"

The question received a chorus of laughter from the other eighty-six students. Chase grinned as he overheard whisperings of the possibilities that would create.

Chase had performed due diligence on the topic and was current with what the foremost theorists on wormholes thought regarding this topic. He cleared his throat and paced across the stage.

"Again, although the existence of wormholes has never been proven, Einstein's theory of general relativity supports such an idea. Theoretically, wormholes can traverse both space and time. However, many theorists today believe time travel is not possible, at least, not as we perceive it.

"If a person were able to use a wormhole to go back in time, he would end up in another universe that is similar, but certainly different and separate from ours. While he may be able to change events in that parallel universe, he would not be able to change events in his own particular universe. In other words, people could not travel back in time and change personal events."

Julianna continued the argument. "But isn't it true, Professor, astronauts travel to the future when they go into outer space?"

"That's true. While the Newtonian theories have evolved into the current dominant cosmological theories, such as quantum physics, we find that there are two concepts of time. There is internal time and external time. In our own personal world, internal time and external time parallel each other—they coincide.

"However, a time traveler experiences a significant difference in internal and external time. Newton said time is singular and uniform throughout the universe, whether you were experiencing time on Earth or in a distant galaxy. Einstein challenged Newton's consistencies of time. He said distance and time are not absolute. They are influenced by motion and mass, and that is where the difference resides."

The student with long, brown, blonde-streaked hair and sunglasses interjected. "This is what Einstein referred to as time dilation."

Chase wondered if perhaps he had been paying attention after all. "Time is relative to space. However, if you were able to travel as close to the speed of light as possible, or 185,999 miles per second, the clocks on your ship would slow down while time remains constant here on Earth.

"So if you travel to our closest star, Proxima Centauri, at 4.3 light years, spend three weeks orbiting the star, and then return to Earth at the same speed, your onboard clock would slow down. It would record that you had been gone only 24 days, 4 hours, 9 minutes, and 28 seconds, while in actuality 8.66 years on Earth would have passed.

"So, theoretically at least, an astronaut could travel in space for a specified period of time at a fraction of the speed of light. How closely the astronaut travels at the speed of light would determine the amount of elapsed time here on Earth, which could be seconds or centuries. But at this point and time, the subject of time travel can be filed under gedanken experiments."

"But it is possible to travel in time, right," asked a student in the third row.

"According to Einstein, the problem with time travel is that as you approach the speed of light, objects increase in size, so much so that they can become infinitely massive. So even if time travel is possible, it's not practical."

"Unless we violate the laws of physics," said a young man from the back of the auditorium.

"That's right," Chase said with a smile. "And that's where wormholes enter the realm of possibility. Even if it's not practical to travel back and forth in time, we could, theoretically, use wormholes to travel in space from point A to point B, almost instantaneously."

The conversation between Chase and his students continued for the next ninety minutes. He tossed his lecture notes aside and allowed the students to dictate the direction of the day's lecture with their questions and responses. Some were skeptical and outright hostile to the idea of wormholes. Others passionately took the view that a breakthrough could be imminent. After more heated discussion, Chase glanced up at the clock on the wall, which displayed 10:58 a.m. He had two minutes to wrap up his lecture.

"Okay, in summary wormholes, or Einstein-Rosen Bridges, are theoretical, hypothetical, topological, short-lived, stable, thin constructs created as needed. They are temporary, spherically symmetric static flux tubes that have two mouths, or portals, and stretch between two points, and traverse space.

"But it's important to understand wormholes do not break matter down into particles or sub-particles. Neither do they transport matter as a whole. They are portals where a person would have to step or propel themselves through. We'll pick up this thread again on Thursday. So read your books and be prepared for another two hours of controversial material. See you all then."

Chase deviated from his normal routine of talking to students after class and made his way back to his office, where he could go online to read the terrible news coming out of Boston regarding the death of one of Massachusetts' state senators.
Chapter 7 Pelican Hill

Chase was to meet Bennie in the parking lot of Pelican Hills Golf Club. He strolled around the front of the clubhouse, taking in the size and the stunning beauty of the new resort. He thought just when Orange County could not accommodate another new five-star resort, somebody comes in and one-ups everyone else.

Bennie pulled up in his silver BMW 7-Series convertible. He cruised around the parking lot, top down, sunglasses on, right hand on the wheel, and left elbow resting on the driver's side door. Chase had to repress laughter at his friend.

He's at it again; trying to look as cool as a slightly pudgy, slightly short, and slightly balding twenty-eight year old can. He watched as Bennie parked toward the back of the lot in the middle of three open spaces. Probably afraid somebody might open their car door and dent his precious Beamer, Chase thought.

Bennie, wearing a suit with a yellow power tie, walked briskly up to his friend. "Chase, glad you could make it. What's it been, a year since my first invite?"

"This place looks great," Chase said in a sedated tone, turning in a 360-degree circle. "I had no idea how amazing the scenery is here."

"I know you're more into the scenery than the ambience, prestige, and the women," Bennie said. He had the look of anticipation on his face that successful super salespersons display when about to close a big deal. Bennie sold commercial real estate in south Orange County, and he was good at it, Chase knew, very good.

Bennie continued promoting the club. "But, wait until you see the rest of this place. I have a golf cart reserved. We'll take a quick tour around the course and then come back for something to eat. Sound good?"

"I'm ready, Bennie. I think I'm going to like this place," Chase said as they stepped onto the path leading toward the golf shop.

They picked up the golf cart at the pro shop just behind the clubhouse. Bennie did the driving. It took him a while to make the rounds since Pelican Hill stood on 504 acres of prime Orange County real estate on both sides of the coastal highway. The grounds were a classic, five-star sanctuary reminiscent of classic northern Italy. Bennie first drove Chase around the 204-room resort and 128 custom villas. Next, they headed down the paved paths toward the links on the coastal side.

The Ocean North Course resembled the classic Scottish links that meander along an elevated plateau. Chase looked out on spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean and Newport Harbor to the north. The clear blue skies, temperate weather, and calm seas of sun-sequined water brought out dozens of sailboats that dotted the China-blue expanse. Chase appreciated the design incorporated the beauty of the natural landscape. Two, three, and four-story residences lined the bluffs facing the ocean.

The Ocean South Course was an 18-hole course that featured arroyos and bluffs as part of the scenery. After impressing Chase with one of the most stunning and beautiful golf courses on the West Coast, Bennie drove the cart back to the club restaurant.

"Take a look at this. The golf carts are equipped with laser range finders, and an onboard computer displays the distance to the greens and hazards."

"I'm impressed," Chase said. "You know, you could sell a toothbrush with only one bristle to a dentist if you had to. Sign me up."

"I thought so. Now, let me show you the club restaurant. The food is absolutely terrific. The surf and turf is on me, my friend."

Driving to the clubhouse and looking in the windows at the dressed-up patrons, Chase said, "Is there somewhere else we can go to get a sandwich and a couple beers? I'm not in the mood to sit with this type of crowd today."

"No worries. We can sit on the patio, eat roast beef sandwiches, and drink Newcastles on tap," came the reply Chase wanted to hear.

Bennie took off his tie and unbuttoned his top two buttons. "Okay, now I'm dressed for the patio."

They sat at a small, round, white table looking out onto the azure-tinted Pacific. Chase never tired of looking at the ocean or listening to the surf crash against the rocks. He had seen the sun rise and set over the four corners of the earth. Traveling with his parents throughout his childhood to every continent except Antarctica, he witnessed more daybreaks and twilights from the twenty-four time zones than just about anyone.

"What do you think of the Angels this year?" Bennie asked.

"The Angels are looking good. We'll definitely go to some games. I already have my calendar cleared when the Tigers come roaring into town."

A young, pretty waitress, close to six feet tall with her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, approached their table. It was obvious she knew Bennie.

"What can I get you two today? Sorry, but trouble is not on the menu, so don't even think about asking."

"Two Newcastles on tap, sweetheart. This is my good friend, Chase Manhattan. That's right, Chase Manhattan," Bennie said with a grin.

Smiling at Chase and showing a little more cleavage than she probably should have, she winked and said, "I'll be right back with your beers, guys. Don't go away."

"So, what do you think?" Bennie grinned. "Can you see yourself in a place like this?"

"I'm sold. This place is great. I can play eighteen holes this Thursday. Are you going to be around?"

"Maybe. It depends on this deal I'm working on with the guys at Irvine Spectrum. But I should be able to make it. Maybe we can make it a foursome with them."

"Sounds great. Go ahead and set it up."

The blonde waitress brought the Newcastles and Bennie ordered the sandwiches. Never one to shy away from an ice-cold beer, Bennie chugged three large gulps. Dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin in a mockingly sophisticated manner, he said, "Can you believe the weather those poor schmucks on the East Coast are having? They're already waist-deep in snow. It's so cold the pickpockets are sticking their hands in strangers' pockets just to keep warm."

"It's not so bad," Chase said. "I like the snow. I don't care for the freezing cold and the wind, but I love a good snowstorm."

"Well, better them than us." Bennie took a few more gulps from his beer. He looked at Chase with one eye open and said, "Now, tell me all about Susan. She's so hot. She's really filled out. Remember in high school how skinny she was? Do you think she's had implants?"

"Easy, turbo," Chase said as he finished his Newcastle. "This is just a first date, that's all. I have reservations at Alessa Laguna in Laguna Beach, then we'll go see Fred's band at the Marine Room Tavern. Maybe a walk on the beach, too, if it's not too cold."

Bennie motioned to the blonde waitress for two more Newcastles. "Going from the penthouse to the outhouse? Alessa Laguna is fancy schmancy. But the Marine Room Tavern? Well, what can I say?"

"It's not that bad. It's a great place to hang out and have a few cold beers. The people are a good mix, and the bands are great."

"Whatever. Hey, maybe I should tag along in the background—you know, incognito. I'll bring Rachel with me and give you an honest assessment of Susan you may not see right away."

"Rachel? Who's Rachel? Never mind." Chase laughed. "There's no such thing as incognito with you. No thanks, 'Mom.' I'll be okay."
Chapter 8 Rendezvous

Back in Building 6 at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, in a rarely used storage room that is part of Professor Fischer's laboratories, an open metal suitcase the size of a rectangular traveling case lay open in the center of the room.

Nicky entered the final codes and hit the Enter key, then stepped back. As long as the wormhole did not collapse, Staci Bevere would return with the second metal case. A third case used to execute the assassination of William O'Connor III would need to be returned by a third-party mole employed at the State House.

Nicky stood in a state of euphoria. A small corona of orange-and-yellow light appeared over valise then expanded into a six-foot-tall portal through space. A moment later a body miraculously stepped into existence. Out of nowhere. Out of nothing. The female assassin simply walked through, her sword strapped to her back.

Barely containing his enthusiasm, Nicky ran up to Staci Bevere. He glanced at his watch.

"Great time, honey. Just over thirty-eight minutes. How'd it go? How do you feel? Mission accomplished?"

Taking the silver suitcase from her right hand, he gently laid it on the table as if he were putting a newborn child down to sleep. He then closed the case on the floor that opened the wormhole in the storage room and set it next to the one Staci brought back.

He gazed in silence as the MIT grad student took off her black hood and mask. Staci spoke with an excited smile. Her entire face lit up, accentuated by her sea-green eyes, nearly perfect white teeth, high cheekbones, deep tan, and beautiful blonde hair cascading down past her shoulders. Mesmerized by her exquisite beauty, Nicky watched her movements unfold in slow motion.

"That was fantastic. It's the journey of a lifetime. I'll never get over the feeling of being in one location one moment, then being in another place the next. It's hard to explain, but I felt a sensation of ecstasy and elation. I experienced what seemed like an awareness of bliss that awaits us on the other side. It was as if I had passed through an angelic host along the way. But it's great to be back," she said, her eyes still beaming. "And yes, mission accomplished."

Nicky, a scientist by nature, was not a religious man. He knew his accomplice wasn't concerned with spiritual matters. However, he paused to consider the sensations she described. He made a mental note to follow up on what she might experience in future journeys through wormholes.

"I'm so glad you're back," he said with genuine concern. Circling around her, he noticed a number of items that also made the journey. Incriminating items such as dozens of strands of brown carpet that lay on the floor by her feet. Dust particles were on her shoulders. And, of course, there was the senator's blood on her sword.

Nicky grabbed a broom and swept the carpet threads underneath a sink. He then began dusting off her shoulders with the palms of his hands.

"You have everything you left with. Sword, two knives, and all the pieces of your clothing. Very good." Nicky spread his arms out, breaking into an enormous, triumphant smile. "Staci, I'm so proud of you. I couldn't be more pleased right now. Were you able to send off the text message to Rosie?"

"I sure did. She should be there right now, picking up the transporter suitcase I placed in his side office."

Nicky couldn't be happier. This was easier than he anticipated.

"I have to clean my sword. And we need to dispose of these clothes." Staci Bevere walked over to the deep, shop-style sink and ran hot water. "You should have seen his face when he looked up from his desk and saw me standing in the doorway with my sword drawn," she continued while looking over her right shoulder at Nicky, an effervescent smile stretching from ear to ear. Hot water splashed over the steel blade and red droplets splattered and covered the four sides of the sink.

"O'Connor didn't know what to think. He kept a .38 under his desk that I removed and placed in one of his secretary's desk drawers. Of course, that was the first thing he reached for. The look on his face when he noticed it wasn't there was even more priceless than when he first saw me standing in his office."

Nicky was laughing. "How long did you have to wait for him to arrive?"

"Almost a half hour. After that, it only took a few minutes to complete the mission and then return here."

"It was a huge risk," Nicky acknowledged. "But knowing he was coming in early this week was most helpful. By the way, we owe Khyati a steak dinner for hacking into his network and supplying us with that information. Also, this snowstorm couldn't have come at a better time. This town will be shut down for a few more days."

"Khyati's a Hindu, Nicky. She won't eat a steak."

"Oh yeah. Right. We'll take her out for a salad. Anyway, I'm confident moving forward. We have a dynamic and diverse core group and together we can change the world in unimaginable ways. With my righthand man Christopher Thompson and his girlfriend and brilliant biochemist Mina Nguyen, along with Khyati who is one of the best black hats on this planet and Guu with his muscle, I don't see anyone who can stop us from ushering in the Second Age of Enlightment."

Staci took off all items of her shinobi shozoku and placed them gently, almost ceremoniously, in a laundry bag. She wasn't a ninja. Nicky had her wear the outfit to protect her identity in public places. But she had respect for all forms of martial arts including outfits and weapons.

Nicky cast a glance as Staci put on clean clothes including a tight pink cashmere sweater he bought her to celebrate the occasion. He noticed she tried to discretely pull a rolled-up fifty-dollar bill from a black outfit.

"Is that a souvenir from your kill? I've warned you about taking unnecessary risks such as obtaining trophies."

Staci sighed as she sniffed the note. "Okay. You busted me. But the scent of Hermes Perfume Faubourg is my favorite perfume. I deduced a female had given it to him; his wife or another lover. I'm sorry, but the temptation of taking this momento must have overwhelmed my better judgment."

She looked back at Nicky, placing one hand on her hip in a most seductive manner. "A girl has to have her secrets. And by the way, I'm wondering if you bought this sweater more for your benefit than mine."

"Guilty as charged," he said with a boyish grin while reaching out and holding her hands. "Now let's get out of here and find someplace to have breakfast. I'm starving. Jimmy's Diner never closes. Let's go before we're snowed in."

"Jimmy's Diner? Sweetie, my stomach is growling, but that's not doing anything for me at the moment, lover boy."

Standing on her tiptoes, she reached up and wrapped her arms tightly around Nicky's neck, pressing her authentic, non-enhanced breasts firmly against his chest. Nicky smiled in appreciation of her, thinking how she had no need for anything artificial on her finely-tuned, athletic, twenty-three-year-old body.

"Why don't you give me a little celebration jiggy, then we'll discuss breakfast." She was only five-three and Nicky stood at six-two. Running her hands all over his dark-blue turtle neck sweater and down to something more easily accessible, she grabbed both sides of Nicky's buttocks and gave them a tight squeeze, causing him to jump.

Nicky easily relented. "Okay, just a quickie, though. It's not a good idea for us to stay here."
Chapter 9 Breakfast at Jimmy's

Inside the safe haven of Jimmy's Grill, Nicky and his accomplice Staci Bevere were the only patrons in the restaurant. Nicky picked at his veggie-cheese omelet as he tried not to stare at the voluptuous blonde-haired woman sitting across the booth.

So far out of his league, he knew. In any ordinary circumstance she wouldn't notice him if they were the only ones stranded on a desert island. But he knew power, regardless of the source, was a dynamic tool to exploit and get what one wanted. And Nicky controlled a breakthrough discovery that would not only help explain the universe but mankind's place in it.

"How can a little thing like you eat so much food? Country-fried steak and eggs and toast and a large stack of pancakes? I mean, eventually, all this junk food is going to catch up with you."

"Want to race me across the parking lot?" Staci challenged, looking up from her three plates of food with an assurance he would not accept.

"No. You'll beat me. But this is today, and tomorrow is right around the corner. You have to think ahead and plan accordingly."

"Not to worry, Nicky. The day I eat a salad is the day you'll find me in an old folk's home," she said, stuffing another forkful of pancakes and blueberry syrup in her mouth. After pausing briefly to chew her food, she continued. "How old do you think she is?"

The lone waitress snapped her gum loudly while staring out the window at the accumulating snow.

"Her hair looks natural. No gray roots. She has strong, shapely legs from years of waiting tables and possibly dancing in her younger days. Her breasts still look firm. But her face and her voice seem aged. Too much partying at low-rent bars, I bet. I'd say she's in her early forties, but she looks more like she's fifty-five."

"Twenty dollars says she's closer to fifty-five than her early forties."

"You're on. And as usual, you'll lose."

"The law of statistics is working in my favor. You'll see."

Nicky looked around the deserted diner. He felt comfortable enough to discuss upcoming events.

"I'm excited about the next phase of our project," he said, leaning in while lowering his voice. "This storm has been a blessing for what we needed to do today. But our next mark will be a little more difficult. She has one of the missing receiver cases and we need to get it back and eliminate her."

Staci swished the last remaining forkful of pancakes in the blueberry syrup and smiled with anticipation. "I'm sure you'll work out the details. You're smart and careful. As long as her receiver case is operable, you can leave the rest up to me," she said as she wolfed down the last of her pancakes.

"I'm not sure if we should do it at her lab or at her house. They both carry substantial risks. There'll be people at both locations we'll have to work around."

"I'd prefer to do it at her home."

Nicky cupped his chin in his right hand, elbow on the table. "I think the better option is at her lab. Thanks to Khyati, we know her house is always full of people. Her husband quit his job and he's always home. Her son and daughter usually have their friends over after school. Then there's the housekeeper and three barking dogs."

"Globalized Dynamics has sophisticated security," Staci said. "Either way, it's going to be an ambitious task. Maybe we can catch her somewhere between home and work? This time of year it's dark when she's coming and going to her job. Perhaps we can find an opportunity then."

"Maybe. We know she keeps it with her at all times. Take out Doctor Newcombe and bring back the receiver suitcase. That's all you have to do."

"What about the security at Globalized Dynamics? There'll be cameras and guards."

"You'd be fully clothed in your shinobi shozoku."

Staci fidgeted in her seat. "I don't care to wear that outfit. I'm not a ninja."

"I know. But it'll conceal your identity."

"But the cameras will be able to tell I'm a female, Caucasian, how tall I am, and how much I weigh." Staci stirred her straw in her glass of Coke. She was mimicking Nicky with her chin cupped in her right palm, her elbow resting on the table. "We have to know when she's in her office alone. I can't be running around a lab full of people with a sword, chasing a screaming woman."

Nicky paused for a few moments and sighed. "I don't know how I can accomplish that. Maybe you can infiltrate the lab, kill Newcombe, and then run out of the office and ..." His voice trailed off.

"That's a stupid idea. Okay, we'll just have to find a way to know when she's in her office alone. Let me think about it, sweetheart. We'll work out the logistics and bring you back safely, I promise. Rosie should be here soon with the sender suitcase used to bring you back. Finish up and let's head out to the truck."

"Are you sure you don't want some of my hash browns, Nicky?"

"I'm sure. That would be like eating French fries. They're just sliced and diced potatoes cooked in grease. No, thank you."

"Suit yourself. Aren't you going to finish your omelet? I think I see a few more veggies in there," she said in a playful, mocking manner.

"I'm not even sure this is real cheese," Nicky said, still picking at his omelet with his fork. "Or real eggs."

"Do you think Rosie will come peaceably? I don't believe she'll get into the truck with us."

"I doubt it. She's no dummy. She's seen a lot of things in her life, and I'm sure she just wants to give us the suitcase, take her money, and walk away."

"I anticipate she'll be packing one, maybe two guns. An automatic pistol for sure."

"We'll keep it simple. Rosie hands me the suitcase. I give her the $100,000. When she takes the sack of money, you reach over to my window and shoot her. Use the .22. Then we'll throw her in the back of the cab and dispose of the body in the usual way. No mess, no fuss, no muss."

The pretty, young, blonde graduate student from MIT finished her Coke with an audible slurp through her straw, loud enough for the waitress to hear. She walked over to the table and, looking at Staci's empty plates said, "You want dessert too, sweetie?"

"I'd like to have a slice of blueberry pie, but we need to get going."

Since she had introduced herself when she sat Nicky and Staci at their booth, Nicky started the conversation with their waitress that would decide the outcome of his friendly little wager. "Gladys, is this restaurant going to stay open all day?"

"Honey, we never close. And how the hell am I going to drive home in this mess? My car is half buried in snowdrifts. I've been here all night, and I'll be here all day. I doubt anyone will make it into work today to relieve me. It's just gonna be me and a cook. I don't expect many customers, so I plan to drink lots of coffee and finish a couple paperbacks I brought with me."

"Can you tell me something, Gladys?" Nicky asked in a respectful manner, pulling out a roll of cash from his pocket and laying two twenties on the table. "Could you please tell us how old you are?"

Gladys, still popping her gum, locked her eyes on the roll of cash and responded, "Honey, I'm the same age as Jack Benny."

"You're thirty-nine, Gladys? Thirty-nine is what Jack Benny told people he was on his thirty-ninth birthday—and again on the next forty-one birthdays after that." He pulled another twenty from his roll and laid it on the table. "How old are you really, Gladys?"

"I'm forty-two, going on forty-three next month."

Nicky Glanced at Staci and smiled.

Not to be outdone, Staci pulled her wallet from her purse and laid another twenty on the table. "Gladys," she said. "Can you show us your driver's license? You'll pardon my skepticism, but I'd like to verify your claim."

Staring at eighty dollars more than she expected to earn on the day shift, Gladys replied, "Sweetie, I'll be back in thirty seconds."

She ran to the other end of the cooking station, made a sharp left, and disappeared down a hall past a hanging sign stating Restrooms and Telephones.

"I assume the employee entrance to the backroom is down that hall," Nicky said.

"Well, duhhh," came the reply.

"Double or nothing?"

"No," she said as she accepted defeat, again dropping her chin into her right palm with her elbow resting on the table.

Twenty seconds later, Gladys bolted out from the same hallway waving her driver's license. "Read it and weep, sweetie," Gladys shouted, only halfway to their booth and looking at Staci. "Your honey won the bet."

"One more question. Did you ever dance, and if so, where?" Nicky asked, still holding out his roll of cash.

"I danced at bars. You know, biker bars and stuff."

Nicky laid two more twenties on the table before she could hand him the bill. "Thanks, Gladys. Hope you have a nice day."

"You too, hon. Thanks for the tip." Gladys grabbed the money with one swipe of her hand and walked away, leaving the dirty dishes on the table.

Nicky stood up with a big smile on his face and walked toward the front door. "Knowledge of human behavior once again triumphs over statistical analysis."

"I don't know how you do it, but for a physics geek, you sure do have a gift for predicting behavioral traits in people."

Nicky stepped out the front door directly into a blast of freezing cold wind and forged a path through the drifting snow. They passed by a lone car in the parking lot, a dented and rusted 1988 Ford Taurus half immersed in a snowdrift.

"That must be Gladys's car," Nicky shouted through the wind. "Like Gladys, her car has seen better days."

He could hear Staci laughing out loud through the blustering storm.
Chapter 10 Rosie

Angelina Cabrera was an immigrant from Colombia and proud to be in the United States. She had left a life of poverty, murder, and a small town run by a drug cartel. At seventeen, she made her way to the United States the old-fashioned way. She stole enough money to pay coyotes to smuggle her across numerous borders and into San Diego, where she had enough remaining cash to obtain a stolen Social Security number and other forms of personal identification.

Within fifteen minutes, Angelina Cabrera became Rosie Contreras. Working menial jobs at hotels and restaurants and as a nanny, Rosie migrated across the country before ending up in Boston.

Rosie worked hard. She rarely called in sick and was never late for work. But at thirty-three, Rosie believed she needed to make that one big hit, that one score, which would put her ahead of the game. She was also very beautiful. Unfortunately, her good looks never translated into that break she so desperately wanted.

Rosie never made more than twenty dollars an hour. At that rate, she had little to send back to her family in the small mountainside town of La Barinas just outside of Cali. Living in the United States was expensive. Most of her earnings went for taxes, rent, food, utilities, and a reliable car. Whatever was left, which wasn't much, was split between going out and having a good time with her friends.

But last week, Rosie's big day finally arrived. She was approached by a pretty, young, blonde woman with a proposition for that one big score. Now, she could finally pay off her bills, send money to her family, and clear a significant amount of tax-free cash. Working at the State House on Beacon Hill did not pay much and the people did not treat her as nice as her employers had in other cities.

Rosie accepted the offer. All she had to do was place an average-size silver suitcase in a senator's side office where he took his naps. She would open it in the middle of the floor in the early hours of the morning while picking up the trash. Then, she had to pick up a similar black suitcase as soon as she was text-messaged.

Sure, the sight of the senator lying on the floor, missing his forearm, with his head twisted halfway around his body was gruesome. But Rosie had seen much worse in Colombia. And in San Diego, Kansas City, Chicago, and Buffalo. Much, much worse.

Rosie trudged through the snow. She braced against brutal winds gusting to 100 mph and whipping snow in her face. Her back ached as she lifted her right leg and then her left out of three foot snow drifts, repeating the process over and over. The temperature was below freezing. The wind-chill factor was below zero. In fact, it was so cold no one cared what the temperature was.

But the parking lot for Jimmy's Diner was less than a mile from the State House, and she would make it there. Rosie was one tough lady. Yet it was days like this when her small hometown in Colombia did not seem so bad after all.

The yellow and red neon sign for Jimmy's Diner began to emerge out of the swirling wind and snow. Rosie gripped her Browning Hi-Power 9mm in her right hand as she approached. There were thirteen rounds in the clip and one in the chamber. She also had a Smith & Wesson model 1006 10 mm loaded with a nine-round single-column magazine in her left coat pocket for backup.

She thought this would be plenty of protection against Blondie and whoever else she might have to take down, if necessary. Rosie wasn't naïve. She knew people didn't hand over large amounts of money without there being some risk involved. But she also didn't want any trouble. She just wanted to trade the suitcase for the cash, retrace her steps to the West Coast, and disappear with another false identity.

Rosie took off her gloves so she could get a better grip on her two pieces of protection. She held the two handguns flat against her body, pointing down at a 145-degree angle. She also wore an extra-large coat, having cut the stitching at the bottom inside corners of the pockets. She could quickly raise and aim her guns and shoot without having to pull her hands out of her pockets.

This worked for Rosie on a few occasions in the past. She had practiced this maneuver thousands of times in front of the mirror over the years. After all, a young, single, and pretty immigrant girl all alone in this world needed to be able to protect herself.

Rosie took a deep breath and walked around to the back parking lot. She didn't see the black four door Ford Super Duty four-wheel-drive truck through the snow until she was fifty feet away. She approached the driver's door, stopped, and smiled at Nicky.

Rosie released the Smith & Wesson handgun and took her left hand out of the coat pocket. She reached into the large handbag strung over her right shoulder and pulled the metal case out by its handle with her left hand, holding it up for Nicky to see.

* * *

Staci understood what was happening. Rosie was carrying handguns in both pockets. In this freezing cold, that could be the only reason she was not wearing gloves. Per Nicky's instructions, she made a point to notice if she was right or left-handed when they met. She knew that in her right hand Rosie held a gun in her coat pocket. A semi-automatic for sure.

Nicky reached out the driver's window and took the small metallic suitcase, opened it and quickly inspected the contents. With a return smile, he handed Rosie a small, brown paper sack with twenty stacks of fifty crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills.

Staci waited for Rosie to open the sack and glance at the contents. Rosie obliged. With uncanny speed, she raised the Glock .22 with both hands. A well-placed bullet entered Rosie's left eye, ricocheting inside her head like a pinball, then coming to rest in her parietal lobe.

Rosie stood for a few seconds before dropping to the ground in a lifeless heap. She managed to fire off three rounds—the first in response to the Glock .22 appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Then, two more as the result of a muscle spasm as her body went into shock a few moments before her brain flipped the off switch on her life.

Staci was so quick Nicky didn't have time to move his head. The sound of the discharge was deafening inside the cab and sent him diving for the floor. Then came the three bullets that entered the truck's cab, barely missing his head as Rosie fired her Browning in defense.

With Rosie twitching in a three-foot snowdrift, Nicky and Staci jumped out of the truck. They opened the driver's side back door and threw her in head first. Nicky grabbed the sack of cash, jumped back in the truck, and pulled out onto Congress Street driving toward I-93. Nicky shook his head and rubbed his right ear.

Staci rested the handgun on her lap. "At least the streets were plowed this morning. Even though there are still a lot of big drifts, we should be able to dispose of Rosie with no problem. Do you think anyone heard the shots?"

"I wouldn't worry about it. Boston's a ghost town, and the wind is howling loud," Nicky said, sticking his pinky into his ear, his head ringing from the sound of the .22 going off next to it.

Staci turned around and looked at Rosie on the floor of the backseat. The black spot where her left eye had been was leaking a little blood. Nicky had taken the necessary preparations to lay a sheet of plastic on the floor and over the backseat.

"She's dead alright. No mess, no fuss, no muss. And her head is still intact."

"Nice shootin', Tex."

Staci saw a little smoke protruding out of the hole in Rosie's right coat pocket where the three rounds came from. "Now let's see what poor Rosie was carrying for protection."

"Put your gloves on," said a quick-thinking Nicky. "Remember, no fingerprints on anything or anybody."

Staci twisted around and leaned into the backseat, pulling rabbit fur-lined leather gloves out of her coat pockets and putting them on. She reached down to Rosie's right pocket, pinched the cuff of the sleeve, and lifted up her hand. The Browning Hi-Power 9mm was still gripped tightly in her fingers. Staci wrestled it free and placed it on the floor in the front seat.

Reaching back again, she found the Smith & Wesson model 1006 and laid it next to the first gun. She gave Rosie a quick pat down and didn't find any more weapons.

Staci turned around in her seat and looked at Nicky with a broad smile, as if she had just won an Olympic medal. "I didn't even need to lean over to your side. Did you see that? I drilled her from my side of the truck."

"You're the best," Nicky said, smiling while rubbing her thigh. "Take that freezer bag in the glove compartment, place both guns in there, and slide it under the seat. We'll have Guu dispose of Rosie later."
Chapter 11 The Detective

The Beast of the East as the media affectionately called the storm, whipped down hard on northern New England. It already dropped more than two feet of snow. Snowdrifts at least twice that high covered the landscape. Boston was brought to a virtual standstill. MIT resembled a modern-day ghost town set in one of the most progressive metropolises in the world. Widely spaced and irregular traffic braved the hazardous conditions while a few brave souls dared venture out on foot.

Captain Detective Reginald Cherry, a twenty-two-year veteran, sat at his desk eating the few snacks left in the vending machine. He wrongly anticipated the McDonalds drive-through would be open on the way to work.

"I hate snowstorms," he grumbled aloud as he leaned back in his chair and shook a bag of Chili Cheese Fritos into his mouth, washing it down with a Coke. Cherry promised his wife, Lonya, he would lose ten percent of his weight, eat better, and join a gym.

Cherry was still a tough guy, one of the toughest on the force. But at forty-four, he did not look anything like his picture on the first day on the job, the same picture Lonya made him keep in his wallet for inspiration.

Cherry stared at the folders of paperwork from his current cases and yelled to anyone who was listening. "I'd better not have to go outside in this freakin' storm today. It's colder than shit out there."

Immediately, Cherry's phone rang. After listening to the voice on the other end he leapt out of his chair and shouted, "I'll be there in a few minutes—don't touch anything," with a deep authority that demanded compliance.

Cherry ran out of his office and down the hall past Officer Rebecca McKinsey. He threw on his thick, bronze-colored coat that accentuated the brown tones in his skin and grabbed the keys to one of the station's four-wheel-drive Ford Explorers.

"McKinsey, call Vasquez. Have him meet me at the State House."

Seeing the frantic look on Cherry's face as he ran by, McKinsey stood and asked, "What's happening at the State House?"

Looking over his shoulder while straightening the collar of his coat, he yelled with a booming voice, "There's been a murder. Just get Vasquez over there now!"

Cherry jumped into the blue-and-white Explorer and sped the short distance to the state capital. He drove in the center of the streets to avoid the newly formed snowdrifts emerging from the curbs.

"Good thing the plows are out in force this morning or I'd be jogging to the site," he said aloud.

Cherry pulled up to the curb and ran to the front entrance. Winded by the time he reached the top of the steps, he understood Lonya's concern for his health. Once inside, he saw three men and one woman huddled together behind the security checkpoint. All were visibly distressed. One of the men had his arms around the woman trying to comfort her.

Cherry introduced himself. "I'm Captain Detective Cherry from the Boston Police Department. Can someone tell me what happened here?"

One man stepped forward and addressed Cherry. "I'm Sam McGowan. I'm the lead security officer who made the 911 call. These people are part of Senator O'Connor's advisory team. This is Jeffrey Hayden, Linda Mullins, and Rodney Zuckner," he said, pointing clockwise to the three. "My partner, Erik Davis, is upstairs securing the crime scene."

Cherry took a few steps into the lobby. "Sam, take me to the senator's office."

"Can't do that. One of us has to stay here at the security checkpoint and Davis is already upstairs."

"Okay Sam, give me a quick rundown on what happened and I'll go up myself."

Sam cleared his throat. "Senator O'Connor arrived at six o'clock this morning. We spoke for a minute. You know, small talk. Then he went to his office through the corridor and up the elevator. Then, Mister Hayden arrived and took the same route to the senator's office. A few minutes later, he ran back yelling the senator had been murdered."

Cherry nodded, scribbling notes while scanning the small crowd in front of him. "Sam, did you go up to his office?"

"No sir. But I could tell by the look on Hayden's face he was serious. I dialed 911. Then I told Davis to go up to the senator's office and make sure no one entered. Mrs. Mullins and Mr. Zuckner arrived together just a few minutes after I made the call."

"Did anyone else enter the building or go into the office?"

"Just Mullins. As soon as she and Zuckner entered the building, I told them the senator had been killed and they'd have to wait here. Mrs. Mullins ran past me so quickly I couldn't stop her. She also ran past Davis and went into the senator's office. Davis brought her back downstairs. Then you arrived."

Cherry inhaled deeply. He wasn't sure if the killer had left the building and wanted to know what to expect when he went to O'Connor's office. "Are there any other people in the building? Has anyone left in the past few hours?"

Sam looked at his clipboard. "There are maintenance people working. And it's possible some of the evening cleaning crew are still here. I'll check the log and see who has come and gone overnight and this morning."

"Thanks Sam. Now listen to me. My partner Robert Vasquez will be here shortly. Have him join me as soon as he arrives. And don't let anyone enter or leave the building. Hayden, you know the way. Let's go."

Cherry thought Jeffrey Hayden was as good as anyone to question since he was the first to see the murdered senator.

"When did you arrive here, Mr. Hayden?"

"Shortly after seven o'clock this morning."

"Why so early? Seems a bit out of the ordinary, especially on a day like today, when the entire city is disabled by the storm."

Hayden paused as if needing to gather his thoughts, then began to explain his relationship to the state senator. "Now that the senator is dead, I guess it's okay to tell you he was planning to run for the U.S. Senate this fall. I'm the assistant director of his advisory board. Linda Mullins is the executive director. Rodney Zuckner is our PR specialist. One of the reasons we were meeting was to decide on a day for O'Connor to go public with the announcement."

"And you were the first person to find him dead?"

"That's right, detective." Hayden dropped his head as they he spoke, recalling the events of the morning.

"Was there anyone else on this floor or in his office," Cherry asked as they approached the door.

"No sir. I saw the light was on through the sanded glass on the door, knocked twice, and entered. The first room is his secretary's. I announced myself as I walked through and opened the inner-office door. It was then that I saw him lying on the floor and—and—his ..."

Jeffrey Hayden's voice trailed off as he recalled the initial sight of the murdered senator. Cherry could see he was upset. Then a man stepped into the hallway. Cherry thought he looked like he was fresh out of high school.

"This way, guys," the young security officer motioned. "I've never seen anything like this. Heard you coming. I'm new here. Davis is the name. Erik Davis. Right this way."

Cherry still did not have all the details of the murder. He assumed William O'Connor III had been shot. He pictured the senator slumped in a big leather chair with a tiny hole between his eyes and half his head blown off the back of his skull.

Cherry walked through the secretary's office and stopped when he saw the corpse. The upper half of the body was visible from the door. The lower half was hidden behind the desk.

O'Connor lay in a pool of blood on his left side with his back to the entrance, but his head was twisted 180 degrees so that his face looked directly at Cherry, eyes wide open. On the left side of the office floor, half of a severed arm was still in the sleeve of the navy-blue blazer. Cherry looked back at the corpse, noting it was missing half the right arm.

Cherry had seen a great deal of gruesome corpses in his twenty-two years on the force—mob killings, gang killings, murders of passion, suicides, car accidents, and accidental deaths. But he was shocked to see the senator lying dead in his office. Cherry wondered if he died like this or if the killer had posed the body.

Cherry gathered his composure, turned around, and looked at Davis and Hayden. "Have either of you touched the body or anything else in this office?"

"No sir," they answered in unison.

"Both of you, step out into the hallway. I'm securing this area as a crime scene. No one is to enter."

Cherry spoke into his police radio to Officer McKinsey back at the station. "Listen up McKinsey. Senator O'Connor has been murdered in his office. I've secured the room. We need a crime scene unit and the Medical Examiner over here right away. And Rebecca, let's be discreet. No sirens."

"I'm making the calls now. What happened over there?"

"I'll give you details later. Right now, I need to take a quick walk-through of the building to see if I can find anything or anyone connected with the murder. Have you gotten a hold of Vasquez yet?"

"He was just leaving for work when I called him twenty minutes ago. He said he'll get there as quickly as he can, weather permitting."

"I also need O'Connor's address. Send a female officer to his house to break the news to his family. If he lived close enough to the station you could go yourself."

"I'm on it. Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thanks Rebecca. You're the best."

Cherry snapped an order. "Davis, I need you to stand in the hallway at the front of the secretary's door. Do not let anyone into this office, including yourself."

Cherry's voice boomed with a level of authority that made the young security officer stand at attention as if he had been in the military for a lifetime.

"Yes sir. You can count on me."

"Hayden, come with me. We're going back downstairs."

Cherry trotted through the hallways of the State House on the second floor, then made his way to the first, making notes of the elevators, staircases, windows, the back entrance, and fire doors. He worked his way to the front door and looked outside at the growing intensity of the storm. He could not see the street through the blinding blizzard and fierce winds, but could, however, make out the sounds of four car doors slamming shut.

"Sam," Cherry said. "The State House is now officially a crime scene. No one is to enter or leave the building until I say. Police officers have arrived and will take over controlling the front entrance and O'Connor's office. I need your help to round up any maintenance and cleaning people that may be in the building. That includes your new recruit Eric Davis."

"Yes sir."

Cherry didn't think Sam had anything to do with the senator's murder. But he would interview him as they made their way through the State House.

"How many cameras are in the building, and where are they positioned? I need to know if all entrances and exits are videotaped. We have to identify anyone who could be considered a suspect."

"Yes sir. I've been here thirty-eight years. I know the security system inside and out. But I'll be honest with you—hundreds of people enter and exit this building every business day. Someone could have conceivably entered the building yesterday and hid somewhere overnight."

Cherry glared at Sam in astonishment. "Are you kidding me? This is a secured government building. How could something like that happen?"

Sam was quick to retort. "We can't possibly verify everyone who enters during the day leaves the building. A person could hide in a number of places: a vacant office, a bathroom stall, a closet. Lots of places."

"Doesn't security sweep the building?"

"We sure do. Davis made several rounds during the night. He's trained to take his time and investigate anything out of the ordinary. Sometimes we have a third guard on duty at night. Just not last night."

Cherry sighed, long and deep. He assumed the murderer was already miles away.

"Okay, Sam, let's start with the maintenance and cleaning crews."

"Yes sir. I'll check the schedules, sign-in logs, time sheets, and video of all paid employees entering and exiting the building since last evening. We'll find anyone still in the building."
Chapter 12 First Date

Susan Anderson lived in Dana Point which bordered Laguna Beach to the south. Dana Point, a town of 35,000 people, has one of the few harbors in Orange County, making it a popular destination for surfers, tourists, and locals.

Chase's Hunter 450, named No Worries, was moored in the first of the town's two marinas. The forty-five foot sail boat was small compared to some of the schooners, fishing boats, and yachts berthed at the harbor. He could have afforded a larger vessel, but he learned bigger isn't necessarily better when it came to boats.

Most who own large vessels do not take them out enough to justify buying them, unless they have money to burn, his father had mentored young Chase. He noticed when he went out to his boat or walked around the marina most vessels remained moored. It seemed that the main purpose for the owners was to throw parties while docked, not for ocean use.

He didn't see the need to buy a boat for hosting parties. In fact, he rarely had more than four or five people at his house for a barbecue or swimming in his pool. His preference was to be invited to other people's houses and boats for parties so they could do all of the work—the cooking, catering, and cleanup.

Chase looked at his watch. Six o'clock. He had fifteen minutes to get to Susan's place. Chase leaned against a fence that divided the sidewalk, stores, and restaurants from the boats and watched the sunset. Clouds at different levels of the atmosphere reflected the setting sun's fading light. Brilliant colors of red turned to pink, then progressed to a bright and exuberant yellow. The culmination was a spectacular event of illumination and shadows.

Although Chase wanted to finish watching the sunset, he knew he could not keep a lady waiting. Six fifteen meant just that. He walked briskly to his car, but not so fast that he'd break a sweat. He started up his silver Mercedes and drove to the top of the bluffs overlooking the harbor. He had made a dry run the day before so that he knew where Susan lived. The last thing Chase wanted was to get lost and be late.

Susan lived just off Golden Lantern Street in a row of town houses that afforded a spectacular view of the harbor one hundred feet below the bluffs. At six fifteen sharp, he knocked on the door. He was stunned.

How beautiful she truly is. She emits far more God-given natural beauty than any sunset could ever hope to. Chase took her in with all her splendor. Susan was dressed in a simple white blouse and stylish blue skirt with low-heeled shoes and a black leather jacket, giving her a mix of a good girl/bad girl appearance. She wasn't wearing any stockings. She didn't need to as the skin on her smooth and tanned legs looked as if it was spun from deep, rich, shimmering silk.

"Susan, you look absolutely beautiful," Chase said with an ear-to-ear smile that clearly communicated he was glad to see her again.

Susan returned the smile twofold as she stepped toward him. "I'm ready to go. And you're mighty handsome yourself," she added, looking him up and down. "You've buffed up since high school. I wanted to tell you that Saturday night, but I thought I should wait to say it."

"High school. Seems like only yesterday we were there."

"Do you still keep in contact with our classmates?"

"I've lost contact with a lot of people. I did have lunch with Bennie Knowles today."

"Bennie," Susan said with a snicker. "I ran into him at a grocery store a while back and we talked for a few minutes. I think he was trying to pick me up. He kept staring at my breasts. Same old Bennie."

Chase knew he needed to change the subject and the emphasis from Bennie to the evening's agenda. "I have reservations at Alessa Laguna. It's one of my favorite places to eat."

"Mine too. I'm so excited," Susan said as she reached out and took his arm while locking her front door with the other. "Our very first date and we already have something in common. Let's go. I'm starved."

Chase opened the passenger door for Susan. "Nice car," she said with an appreciative smile, running her hands over the smooth, tan leather seats as she sat down. "I'm glad we could get together."

"So am I. And if I may say so, you've filled out quite nicely, too." Chase closed the passenger door and, unlike Bennie, he managed not to look at her breasts as he said that.

Chase drove north on Coast Highway. He passed the Ritz-Carlton, the St. Regis, and the Montage, three resorts along the coast that Alessa Laguna catered to along with other tourists and the local regulars. Ten minutes later he turned into the parking lot of Alessa Laguna, pulled up to the valet station, and tossed the keys to one of the high school kids he knew and trusted.

"I'll take good care of your car, Mr. Manhattan," said the lanky sixteen-year-old surfer.

Entering the front door, they met the hostess. "Hello, Elisa," Chase said with the freedom that comes from knowing everyone on staff.

"Good evening, Mr. Manhattan," she replied, smiling at both of them. "Right this way. I'll see you to your table."

Elisa turned and moved with a certain fluidity that demanded at least a passing glance from the people waiting at the door.

"Please have a seat. Your waiter Antoine will be with you shortly. Enjoy your evening."

She turned and walked away, her long, silky, black hair shining in the light, mimicking her movements with a delayed reaction that drew careful and cautious glances from most of the men in the immediate area.

"Ah, Mr. Manhattan. It's great to see you again," the waiter said as he approached the table. "How are you this fine evening?"

"Life is good. Thanks for asking, Antoine."

"Do you need time to look at the menus?" he asked, looking first at Susan.

Susan looked to Chase. He understood she wanted him to order for her.

"That won't be necessary. We'll have the Farfalle con Pollo Affumicato with sun-dried tomatoes in an oven-roasted tomato brandy cream sauce."

"A wonderful selection," Antoine said. "And the wine? May I recommend the 1998 Tenuta dell'Ornellaia Bolgheri Ornellaia? It's a rare and wonderful vintage comprised of several grape varieties, mainly Cabernet Sauvignon, and blended with merlot, Cabernet Franc, and Petit Verdot."

"Thank you, Antoine. That'll be fine."

"I love a man who can pair dinner and wine as wonderfully as you. This evening is off to a terrific start," Susan said as Antoine strolled to the next table.

Susan initiated the conversation. They had much in common, such as placing an emphasis on education, family, and spiritual matters. Chase found these traits in Susan far more redeeming and desirable than what he saw in other women he brought here. They were more interested in the latest celebrity red-carpet news and other mindless, trivial matters Chase only pretended to be interested in.

The dinner arrived. Chase was hungrier than he thought he would be and had no trouble finishing his meal. He marveled at Susan. For having such a thin waist, she made short work of her dinner as well. She even beat Chase by a couple of minutes.

A look came over Susan, one that Chase could not quite ascertain its meaning. He listened with great interest as she smiled and said, "Look, I'll be honest with you, Chase." She gently wiped her hands with her napkin and placed it back on her right knee. "I don't date anymore just for the sake of dating. I'm not getting any younger, and neither are you. I hope you don't mind me being so up front."

She spoke with a mixture of grace and boldness that jump-started something within Chase, an emotional need deep in his heart that cried out to be filled.

"No, no, not at all." Chase leaned into the table, letting her know he was engaged in the conversation. "I understand what you're saying. I feel the same way."

"That's good. I'm glad to hear you say that because I had my doubts up to this point."

"You did? Why would you say that? I mean, we only recently met."

"That's an easy question to answer. When we arrived here, you tossed your keys to a valet and didn't bother to get a ticket in return. And he called you by name. That tells me that you two know each other quite well."

"Okay ...," Chase said, more like a question than a response. "I'm not sure what that means."

"And then you knew the hostess by name. And the waiter."

"Elisa and Antoine," he said, looking a bit confused.

"Chase, that tells me, or any thinking woman for that matter, that you frequent this establishment often. And my intuition tells me you most likely have brought quite a few different women here, right? And probably more than just a few." Susan smiled and winked, as if to say, check and mate. She then took a self-congratulatory sip of her wine.

Chase was stumped. He felt awkward and slightly embarrassed. He finally broke the silence with a short laugh and raised his palms up off the table as if to say, I surrender.

"Okay, Susan, I won't lie. You have me pegged on that one. I have brought a number of dates here over the years. Guilty as charged."

Chase felt a burden being lifted off of him. He no longer had anything to hide. He didn't have to put on a façade to try to cover up his past.

"That's okay. I appreciate your honesty. What you've done up to this point is none of my business. It's better we get things out in the open. Relationships are built on trust, and people need to be honest in communicating their expectations."

Susan took another drink of wine and continued. "Listen, Chase, I like you. I really do. I felt strongly when we met again after so many years that we could build something together."

"I feel it too, Susan. It's like our meeting again was destiny. It has to be." He was now leaning forward. Just being a foot closer to her gave him a sense of the comfort and security he knew was lacking in his life.

"I hope so, Chase. Last year, I ended a four-year relationship that was not good for me. I hung on because I thought I couldn't do any better. In retrospect, I wasted those four years. I just don't want to go through that again. My biological clock is ticking, and I need to get serious about where my life is going. We're both adults. We don't have to play boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy tries to get girl back. No games, okay?" She lifted her glass of wine and emptied it in one single motion.

Chase regarded her. Susan knew how to hold her alcohol while allowing herself to have fun, displaying her playful and mischievous side at the same time. They finished their meals, deciding against ordering any dessert.

Their bottle of Tenuta dell'Ornellaia Bolgheri Ornellaia finished and a ray of hope emanating from his heart and, he felt sure, from hers as well, Chase paid the bill. He left Antoine a generous tip, and ended the first part of their first date.
Chapter 13 Marine Room Tavern

Chase and Susan walked arm-in-arm to keep warm as the temperature dropped to the low-sixties. It was February—off-season for tourists. Pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk was sparse, and Chase and Susan enjoyed small talk and window shopping on their way to the Marine Room Tavern. Six blocks later, Chase led Susan to a row of parked choppers, all Harleys, their front tires parked right-angled against the curb.

"The crowd sounds loud and raucous," Susan said as they approached the bar.

"No worries. Fights are rare here. This crowd consists of lawyers, doctors, accountants, and heads of companies. By day they're successful in the business world. But after hours, they're living a dream they'd longed for since they sat on their first motorcycle. Let's go in."

Chase's good friend Fred Merrill, and his band the Mulders, played classic rock and down and dirty blues. The Mulders kept the faithful patrons in the crowded bar happy and ordering drinks all night.

There were no open tables, so Chase ordered two Cadillac Margaritas from the bar. They enjoyed their drinks standing while listening to Fred's remakes of classic rock from the late-'70s and early-'80s.

"One reason The Mulders are so popular," Chase said with his mouth beside Susan's ear. "Is they can take a classic three-and-a-half-minute song and stretch it to last ten minutes. Guitar solos are supplemented by a deep-driving beat from the drummer. The bassist creates riff-type rhythms mixed with chords. Really cool."

Chase pointed at one of the band members. "That's Fred Merrill. Good friend of mine."

Fred played rhythm guitar and sang. He had a custom-made Fender, painted navy-blue with orange highlights and a large, white Old English D just behind the bridge. One commonality Chase and Fred shared was they were both hardcore Detroit Tigers fans. Chase must have inherited Tigers' DNA from his father, who was born and raised in Detroit, and had passed his love and passion for his team on to Chase.

"He's really good," Susan said, listening and swaying with the beat.

"Oh yeah. One of the best. Fred and I met two years ago when the Tigers were playing the Angels in Anaheim. Fred had seats behind me, and we were the only Tiger fans in the section. We hit it off, drank a great deal of beer that night, and found out we only lived a few miles apart in Laguna Beach."

After twenty minutes, the band took a well-deserved break. Fred set his guitar on its stand, talked over a few things with the other band members, then jumped off the stage and walked straight over to Chase and Susan.

"Chase, glad you could make it."

He looked over at Susan. "You must be Susan Anderson. Chase hasn't done justice in the way he described you," Fred said in a flirtatious tone with absolutely no shame. Fred was thirty-five, thin, tanned, and jocular with a broad smile.

Susan held her hand out, and he shook it. "So you're the famous Fred Merrill. Chase talked about you tonight on the way over here. Love your smile. You look genuinely happy, I must say. Your band is fantastic. And loud," she added with a smile on her face.

"This is the best bar in all of Orange County. At least I think it is," Fred said. "Let me get you two another drink. I think I'll have one, too."

Fred motioned to a bartender with three fingers and pointed to Susan's glass. He then held up three fingers again and shouted, "Bring us three tequila shooters, too."

"You don't mess around, do you, Fred?"

"Susan, life's too short. Why wait for your boat to come in? You have to work hard and take what you want."

Susan deftly slid her arm through Chase's while maintaining eye contact with Fred. "I know what you mean. If you don't take it, someone else will." She gave Chase a quick squeeze.

The three talked and laughed. Chase observed Susan seemed to feel an innocent bond with Fred. The drinks came.

"Alright, here's to you two. You make a great couple." Fred held up his shot glass of tequila. Chase and Susan followed and they downed their shots.

"Alright, you young kids, I have to get back on stage. Stay a while and have some fun. The Mulders are just getting warmed up. It's a pleasure to meet you, Susan."

Fred gave her one more playful grin, then gave Chase a tap on his shoulder, letting him know he approved of Susan. With that, he jumped back up on the stage and began tuning his guitar while talking something over with the bass player.

The band started up again, this time playing a nasty version of Whiskey in the Jar that got the patrons back in the mood for some hard-driving rock and blues.

Chase and Susan found a small piece of real estate on the dance floor, stopping only for another round of margaritas and tequila shooters. Then it was back to the dance floor, repeating the same pattern a few more times over the course of the night. Last call came at one thirty, and there was a mad dash for everyone to get their final orders in.

"This is one bar where few people leave early," Chase said. "This crowd typically stays as late as they can. Then they go outside to trade stories about their bike designs and long rides."

After their last drink and leaving the bar, Chase and Susan took their time checking out the bikes before walking to Chase's car. By then, it was just past two o'clock in the morning.

On the way back to Susan's place Chase felt a rumble in his stomach caused by alcohol, dancing, and the lapsed time from dinner. Susan was hungry, too.

Chase pulled into a Jack in the Box on Coast Highway and ordered his favorite midnight snack—deep-fried grande tacos. He ordered two for Susan and two for himself, with a couple of Cokes to wash them down. They inhaled their tacos, dropping shreds of lettuce on their laps, laughed, and talked about how much fun they had.

When Chase pulled up in front Susan's town house, it was well past two thirty in the morning. They both looked a far cry from when they started out their evening. The sweat from all their dancing, the margaritas, shooters, and deep-fried tacos all took their toll. Their hair was a mess, and their clothes looked like they had slept in them.

"Look, Chase, I'll make this awkward moment easy on both of us. Let's just call it a night, okay?"

"I had a great time, Susan. I really did."

Susan wasted no time, leaning over to grab Chase's cheeks between the palms of her hands and giving him a semi-wet kiss that lasted a full minute. "Thanks again, Chase. And don't forget to call me, mister. Do you hear me?" she said, smiling, as she opened her door and stepped out. "Call me."

Chase watched Susan as she walked up to her front door and let herself in. A few flicks of the front porch light let him know the night was over.
Chapter 14 Complications

The Beast of the East hammered New England with powerful winds and snow. A few local businesses were steadfast in remaining open and attempted to keep their sidewalks clear. Nicky and Staci were able to walk to a nearby Starbucks just west of the MIT campus in Cambridge. It was Tuesday evening, and forecasts predicted the storm to continue for forty-eight hours.

The events of the day continued to escalate, requiring Nicky and his core group of five followers to make decisions that were becoming increasingly difficult. Staci looked across the small round table at Nicky. She could see there was something terribly wrong as they discussed the next phase of their plan.

"We have a problem. Khyati's been following Gloria Newcombe's e-mails and telephone calls for the past few days. Newcombe definitely has plans to sell her receiver suitcase to a third party."

"Do we know who the third party is yet?"

He sighed and fidgeted in his chair, holding his hot chai green tea with both hands. "No, not yet we don't. She can follow the communications, but has yet to identify who they are. However, when Khyati started peeling off the layers of security, she discovered the messages originated from New York— specifically Manhattan."

Staci was alarmed as she began to see how easily Nicky's plan could unravel. If an unknown person had a suitcase, they could reverse engineer the secrets behind this new breakthrough. But more importantly, if a third party learned Nicky and Staci had additional suitcases, their lives would certainly be in danger.

"What if it's a terrorist group? What if they find out we have more suitcases? They'll come after us for sure."

Nicky reached across the table and held her hands. "We don't believe it's a terrorist group. Khyati thinks the nature of the communications strongly suggests it's a large, legal entity that's involved."

Staci lowered her head, acknowledging what Nicky said, then ran a few scenarios through her mind. After considering the possibilities and outcomes, she looked up at him. "It could be another conglomerate, domestic or foreign. Possibly one of Globalized Dynamics' competitors. But I doubt it. Selling out to a competitor would be too risky, and I doubt Newcombe is that ignorant. She's greedy, but not dumb."

"I agree," Nicky said. "I think she wants to sell it to somebody in another industry."

"So let's put GD's competitors on the back burner and focus on a neutral third party. What does that leave us with?"

Nicky continued, "I think it's someone who stands to make millions by brokering a deal, while the purchasing organization would, in turn, make billions. This third party could be an independent middleman or an agent working directly for someone else."

"Okay, so we're looking at New York, specifically Manhattan. That strongly implies that this third party is probably a financial institution—and one of the larger ones."

"It's either a financial institution that operates on a global scale, or possibly a private investment or equity group. We could even be looking at venture capitalists. That would be the worst scenario because they'd sell the suitcase to the highest bidder anywhere in the world, regardless of their intentions. At least with an established firm in Lower Manhattan, we could track them."

Staci sat back in her chair and took another drink of coffee. She let out a long, slow wisp of air and began tapping her fingers on the table, a nervous habit she adopted when she learned to play the drums as a child.

"That leaves us with two parties we have to deal with. Obviously Newcombe has been able to hide the discovery from her employer until now, but they'll make the connection soon enough. Then we'll have two parties committing large amounts of money and resources to come after us and retrieve these cases."

"Actually, there's an additional party involved," Nicky said.

"Right. The middle man. He'll be expecting a large commission. If he doesn't get his share, he'll want to track down whoever thwarted the exchange of the case."

Staci knew she was letting fear get the better of her. She concentrated on her breathing techniques, inhaling slowly, holding her breath for five seconds, then exhaling. She was grateful for the ever-steady Nicky, who appeared unfazed.

Nicky gave a relaxed sigh, then said, "We need to decide where to retrieve Newcombe's suitcase. The question is do we go to her office or to her home? We know she carries it with her when she leaves work. It rarely leaves her sight. We could try to retrieve it during her drive home."

Staci was quick to say, "We have no experience in running someone off the road, or hijacking, or kidnapping, for that matter. And we'd be out in the open. There'd be too many witnesses."

Nicky sighed again and took another sip of his tea. "We'll just have to be prepared to send you at a moment's notice, regardless if she's at work or at home. Personally, I think you'll have to do it in her office. Newcombe must be fascinated with the suitcase because she opens it several times a day. She doesn't know my father planted electronic devices that monitors when the cases are opened. Obviously, my father didn't trust her as much as she thinks he did. Anyway, my guess is she'll open it at least one more time, as if to say a final good-bye. Amazing how emotion triumphs over logic at the most inopportune time."

Staci slowed her racing mind and considered Nicky's words. They made sense. He understood human behavior, and he was usually right when predicting events, more so than she was using statistical measurements in her deductions.

"Why don't we send Christopher and Mina to Connecticut now? If you send me through a wormhole, the only way to get back will be for me to get a ride. And if Newcombe doesn't open the case, you can't send me. They'll have to take it by force."

"I don't trust those two. They're brilliant scientists committed to the cause, but they're not experienced in the dirtier side of this business. Then again, we don't have anything else going on right now. And time is of the essence."

"So send them to New Haven right now. It's only a two-hour drive as long as the freeways are clear of ice and snow. I'll be ready to go at a moment's notice. Like you said, Newcombe will probably open hers once more for a final look. Then you can open up the wormhole with a sender case. I step through and take care of business. Christopher and Mina then drive me back to Cambridge with the receiver case."

Nicky finished his tea. "You're right. I'll call them now. They can wait at a prearranged area a short distance from GD's laboratories. But it'll be up to you to go to them as I don't want security cameras in the parking lot capturing their license plate. Are you sure you're up to this?"

"Trust me," Staci said. "If I can assassinate a state senator, I can handle a scientist."
Chapter 15 Greedy Gloria

Gloria Newcombe was hours away from retirement. She was nervous and scared, but anxious to get the day over with. She saw the news Senator O'Connor, her partner's nemesis and the one who would attempt to shut things down on her cohort's end, was savagely slain in his office.

Initial details of the murder were sketchy. But it didn't take a stroke of genius to conclude a wormhole was created to get somebody into his office and kill him, then create a new path for the killer to make a clean escape. Gloria could read the writing on the wall. She fully understood she needed to expedite the sale of her case before the end of the day.

Gloria arrived at work at 5:30 am to tie up a few loose ends, close out this chapter of her life, and begin a new one. The transfer would happen during lunch. She would hand off the case to a Mr. Romano, a businessman with contacts in high places she only recently met.

He, in turn, would have $10 million transferred into a series of Swiss bank accounts. Gloria's husband, Brad, had resigned his job as a global wealth consultant in Manhattan a month earlier. He spent the past few weeks organizing the details of their impending new lives, including the Swiss deposits, down to the minutest detail.

Gloria had to acknowledge that her good friend Professor Nicholas Fischer of more than thirty years was a very clever and talented man. He'd done most of the work necessary to discover how to utilize wormholes effectively. She was skeptical, to say the least, when he first approached her ten years earlier regarding the possibilities of the practical use of stabilized wormholes.

But he had presented her with a compelling case. Gloria in turn was able to convince her managers at Globalized Dynamics' Infrastructure Unit to invest in the project and allow her to oversee it. It wasn't a large amount of money, at least when compared to other projects she was in charge of during her twenty years with the organization. Professor Nicholas Fischer had secured additional state funding to move forward on his many projects that included researching a breakthrough in wormholes.

Gloria reflected back, remembering nobody honestly believed Fischer would follow through on his vision. After all, the wormholes project was only one among scores of others he headed over the years at MIT, and it took a backseat to higher profile projects in the eyes of his supporters.

One of the most significant accomplishments Fischer had accomplished, she remembered, still going about her preparations, was developing uranium and plutonium power-pack batteries. He had told her he knew how to identify, open, and stabilize wormholes ten years earlier. That was the easy part, he'd said.

What was time-consuming was gathering sufficient sources of energy to open a wormhole. Each battery pack consisted of a single kiloton of fissionable uranium and plutonium kept in a separate compartment in the upper portion of the suitcases. He developed a triggering device, activated by typing in a code into the keyboard in the lower portion of the suitcase.

Genius, Gloria thought. The uranium batteries were similar in strength to the latent power contained in nuclear suitcase bombs produced by the United States and the Soviet Union in the 1970s and early-1980s. Without a compact source powerful enough to open a wormhole, the project would've remained nothing more than fuel for science fiction stories.

Fischer benefited from being in the right place at the right time, Gloria concluded, still busying herself and anxious to get the exodus over with and done. MIT had the second-largest university-based nuclear research reactor in the country, second only to the University of Missouri in Columbia, Missouri. Fischer had secured small amounts of nuclear material for various projects that he used for the battery packs.

He had been able to obtain enough uranium to build eight batteries for the three transporter suitcases and the three receiver suitcases. Gloria remembered, at the time, her only being able to speculate as to how he was able to obtain the plutonium.

I should have done a much better job of auditing where my good friend, Nicholas, was allocating the quarterly installments.

She remembered discovering where the plutonium came from and nearly shutting down Globalized Dynamics' involvement in the project. But Fischer demonstrated he could send small objects such as paper clips and thumbtacks from his office to hers. That convinced her to keep the project alive. Both scientists made a pact to continue the research in total secrecy until they could send a human being safely through a wormhole.

It was a good plan, she thought, pacing the floor, thinking noon could not arrive soon enough. Once they were sure they could successfully send people safely through wormholes, Fischer would return the uranium back to their respective projects and dispose of the plutonium. Then, in theory, they would announce the discovery to Globalized Dynamics, MIT, and the rest of the world and become two of the most famous people in the history of science.

Neither wanted to enjoy their newfound fame while spending the rest of their lives in prison. Which is where they would have wound up if found guilty of possessing and using enriched uranium, illegally siphoned out of Fischer's many projects, and purchased from other 'silent' sources.

Gloria sighed. The fame would've been nice. She used to think the recognition would be enough to satisfy. But not anymore. She wanted money. And lots of it. She was tired of earning only $120,000 a year for her amazing talents and expertise in physics. And besides, Nicholas would gain most of the recognition, and globalized Dynamics would reap billions of dollars.

What would she get? Gloria sneered at the thought. Probably a nice little bonus at the end of the year, her name mentioned in a few articles on Globalized Dynamics' Web site, and a handful of congratulatory handshakes. After that, she would soon be forgotten, overshadowed by the media's attention to Fischer, MIT, and Globalized Dynamics.

Well, screw that scenario.

She sat down behind her desk in her small, nondescript office, and decided to take one last look at the contents of the black suitcase on her lap. She took a deep breath as she unlatched the top and slowly opened the top compartment.

Although she cared far more about the money than recognition, she still felt a sense of satisfaction regarding her contributions to this once-in-a-lifetime accomplishment. She could at least take pride in the private knowledge she was a partner in one of the greatest scientific discoveries in the history of humankind.

Gloria stared at the keyboard on the bottom part of the suitcase. She gently ran her fingers across the black felt lining inside of the top of the suitcase that housed the small nuclear power-pack battery. The tremendous amount of energy required to open a wormhole meant the nuclear batteries could only be used three times before being depleted, necessitating their disposal.

Two batteries were already dead; when Nicholas Fischer had sent her the small office supplies, it took that much energy. Six batteries remained. The battery pack in the suitcase she held was fully charged. She smiled, contented, feeling smart and on top of the world of the riches awaiting her.
Chapter 16 Globalized Dynamics

An orange and yellow corona materialized above Gloria four feet off the floor. A mysterious figure began to step through it. Gloria jumped back into her chair and dropped the black case on the floor in front of her. The assassin fell on top of Gloria, sending them both sprawling out of her chair and onto the carpet.

A wide-eyed and frantic Gloria picked up the suitcase, closed it, and ran out the door, arms flailing in the air and screaming as loud as she could.

"You'll never take this suitcase from me. Tell Nicholas its mine," Gloria yelled in a panicked shout.

"It belongs to Nicky, and I'll pry it from your dead fingers if I have to," Staci shouted through the open door.

She jumped up off the floor and sprinted out after her prey. Gloria ran as fast as she could, making as much noise as possible. She screamed and used the suitcase and her free arm to swing at every piece of equipment she could reach, knocking over, breaking, and smashing monitors, microscopes, Bunsen burners, test tubes, chairs, stainless steel utensils, and dozens of other small-to medium-sized items in the lab.

It was still very early in the morning, and Staci did not anticipate many bystanders. One of Gloria's colleagues popped his head out a door as she fled past his office. "Gloria, what's the matter? Has there been an accident? Should I call the police?"

Gloria ran past him, still screaming and breaking everything within reach. "Richard, stop her," she wailed, her voice echoing through the otherwise silent laboratory. "Whatever you do, stop her now."

"Stop who?" he said, as he watched Gloria disappear around a corner.

Staci took advantage of the diversion to stealth her way up to and directly behind Gloria's colleague. Without breaking stride, Staci pulled out her twenty-six-inch, single-edged, black Ronin sword. She had selected this particular weapon for quick movements, as she knew she'd be operating in tight quarters.

She stopped suddenly to set her feet and use her remaining momentum to deliver a graceful slamming stab to the unfortunate man's chest. Staci could hear the dull cracking of his ribs before his knees gave way beneath his thin frame. He toppled over onto the floor, a lifeless body in an array of shattered glass and broken lab equipment.

Gloria had gained an additional ten steps and ran toward an exit door forty feet away, still shouting and knocking anything within her reach onto the floor. Staci knew Gloria would use her employee badge to unlock the door and escape if she couldn't stop her.

Staci rolled the corpse over with her right foot but did not see his employee badge around his neck. She didn't have time to search him. If Gloria made it through the exit door and let it close behind her, Staci would be locked inside, losing Gloria and the suitcase.

Staci rounded the corner and stopped in the middle of the corridor. She reached down and pulled out a seven-inch throwing knife in the sheath tied to her right thigh. Planting her left foot in front of her right foot, she hurled the knife at the female research scientist. The dagger entered the upper back just to the right of her spine. The initial wound did not kill her, but it stunned her, dropping her to her knees.

Before Gloria could regain her balance, Staci was upon her. She struck with her sword between the fourth and fifth ribs, puncturing her heart, and mercifully ending the scientist's life without further suffering. She pulled the sword out of Gloria's side and put it back in its sheath, picked up the suitcase and employee badge, and ran toward the exit door.

A bullet screamed past her left ear and shattered glass a few feet to her right.

Staci rolled to her right behind a row of cabinets. She didn't see who fired the shot, but she could hear footsteps of two people walking slowly and methodically toward her. Security guards, she figured. She worked her way through various work stations back into the adjoining laboratory, trying to make as little noise as possible while crawling on all fours over shattered glass. Gloria Newcombe was haunting her from the dead with scores of objects she had broken in her terrified run. Staci stopped to listen as the guards spoke.

"Just like we practiced, Hendrix. You cover the right side, and I'll take the center and the left. Just follow my lead."

His voice was confident, sure of himself. Staci hoped the second guard wasn't as competent.

"James, I've never fired a gun at anyone before."

Seems uncertain, Staci thought. He had young voice that cracked. A rookie maybe. She would eliminate him first if possible.

"It's real easy," James said. "If it moves, shoot it."

Staci had to backtrack away from the exit door. She moved deeper into the interior of the laboratory, back toward Gloria's office, which offered no escape. She had to hold her ground and take out the guards one at a time. She turned off a row of light switches on the wall, dimming the laboratory, and took refuge behind a series of metal tables. This also afforded protection from bullets.

Staci picked up a broken piece of a mirror from the floor and held it an inch beyond the bottom of the table. She saw the two guards. The one in the center of the room, James, had a short-cropped haircut, broad shoulders, and a thin waist. His jaw line was rigid, and he held his semiautomatic handgun with both hands as if he had entered the world with it. Staci understood he had a military background and was a formidable force. The second was soft and pudgy, and held his revolver like it was the first time he had ever seen a gun.

"I order you to stand up now with your hands over your head," commanded a deep and authoritative voice. The words echoed through the silent, dimly lit the laboratory. "I'm not messing around. I will shoot you if you don't immediately show yourself."

Staci tried to maneuver her way over to Hendrix—he was the easier target. But she could not do so without first crossing James' line of sight. His boots softly crushed broken pieces of glass as he advanced, taking measured steps. She could also hear the off-beat breathing of Hendrix. It would make her immediate job so much easier if she could take his gun and use it on James.

James shouted again, his commands leaving no room for misinterpretation. "This is it. No more warnings. I will shoot you dead if you do not immediately surrender."

Staci pulled out a black cloth bandana from a pocket on her left hip and wrapped one end around her left hand and palm. First, she first had to control James' right hand that held the gun and clear her body from the path of the one bullet he surely would fire. Second, she could not let him pull his arm back and give himself extra room and time to fire additional rounds. Third, she would need to take him down fast. He was too big to get into a wrestling match with, especially with a second armed guard close by.

Staci laid down her sword, gathered a handful of small pieces of broken glass with her right hand, and waited in a crouched position. When James was almost upon her, he shifted his arms to the left to clear the immediate table closest to him. As soon as he started to turn to his right, she threw a hail of small broken glass fragments into his eyes.

Instinctively, he fired off a round. Staci waited for his sweeping arc to pass her by and she struck. She wrapped the open end of the bandana around his right hand and his gun, pulled him into her, and delivered a crushing kick to his lower rib cage. Three ribs snapped and his knees buckled. A second shot was fired, just missing her abdomen.

James managed to get the words out, "Hendrix, get over here. I can't see."

He swung his left arm and thrust it in a downward motion. Staci expected the move and diverted the blow with her forearm. She reached down, grabbed a four-inch knife strapped to her left thigh with her free hand, and drove it deep into his side just below his shattered floating rib.

The handle on the knife was thinner than the blade. It penetrated his abdomen and disappeared, the skin closing over the handle so he could not pull it out. The sharp pain wracked his body and he began to shake violently, but remained erect.

Although Staci had his right hand and gun firmly wrapped up, and had a knife driven deep into his side, James managed to plow his left knee into her abdomen. Staci went sprawling onto her back with him falling on top of her.

James could not open his eyes, and blood streamed from his closed eyelids. He tried to head butt her, but Staci slid a foot to her left side. His forehead slammed against the cement floor. A third and fourth shot ricocheted off the cement. The gun was flush against her left side; she could feel the heat from the barrel through her cloth outfit.

James shouted, "Hendrix. Shoot her, you idiot! Shoot her now!"

Staci looked up to see Hendrix rounding a work station and aiming his gun at her. She used James effectively as a shield. Hendrix shook and stuttered, "I—I can't. She's—I might hit you."

James tried to roll to his side and give his partner a clear shot. Staci still had her free hand clenched onto James' shirt and pulled him back on top of her as Hendrix pulled his trigger three times. Two bullets struck him in the back; the third ricocheted off the floor and ended up on the other side of the room.

James went limp. Hendrix shook uncontrollably as he fired off two more rounds. Staci rolled out from underneath James, pulled out her last throwing knife and—while on her knees—hurled the seven-inch projectile. The knife lodged deep in the center of Hendrix's chest. He stood motionless, looking down at his mortal wound. Slowly, he raised his head to look at the black figure holding his partner's gun. She fired one round between his eyes.

Staci searched the three bodies for car keys, finding two sets, one on James and one on Gloria. She bent over and grabbed the suitcase, then ran to the exit door, rubbing Gloria's employee badge against the detector pad. She exited two sets of security doors and descended a staircase that led to the parking lot. One truck and three SUVs were parked there.

She held up the two sets of keys and pressed the alarm buttons on the key fobs. A Lincoln Navigator and a two-door Ford F15 truck beeped loudly through the dark and frigid morning. She opted for Gloria's Navigator.

Staci jumped in and set the suitcase on the passenger seat and drove toward the freeway, putting on the spare clothes she had in a knapsack strapped to her back over her shinobi shozoku. The jacket and pants were no match for the freezing weather, but the knapsack could only hold a few items of clothing.

The next town was seven exits up the freeway. She pulled off and located the predetermined Denny's restaurant that was the drop-off point for the stolen getaway vehicle and parked in the back lot.

She tucked her scabbard and sword underneath her jacket, grabbed the suitcase, and crisscrossed her way on foot through half a mile of meaningless and forgotten streets and stores before meeting Christopher and Mina behind an abandoned furniture warehouse.

"Blast the heater," she said as she jumped in the back.

Christopher Thompson obliged, pulled out onto the street, and drove toward the freeway.

Mina Nguyen, Christopher's girlfriend since high school and fellow grad student at MIT, tossed Staci her coat. "Put this on. It's much warmer than what you're wearing."

Staci took off her jacket. "Thanks," she said through chattering teeth. "I couldn't put much in my knapsack, let alone a heavy coat. That six block run in this freezing weather was brutal."

Christopher looked at Staci in the rear view mirror. "Mission accomplished?"

She held up the suitcase. "Yes. And Newcombe's dead. So are two security guards."

Mina winced. Christopher shuddered.

"I didn't want to kill them, but I had no choice. They had guns and fired on me."

Mina handed Staci a bottled water. "Well, don't worry about it. You did what you had to do, right."

"There was no other way." Staci explained the event in great detail.

Christopher glanced over his shoulder. "Okay. I believe you. Good job. Just sit back and relax. We'll be back to Boston soon enough. Nicky will be proud of you."

Ice-covered freeways made the usual two hour drive take four, but Christopher brought Staci and the receiver suitcase safely home to Nicky. Staci smiled, knowing now Nicky could move forward with the next phase of his plan that would forever change the world and every inhabitant in it.
Chapter 17 A Body is Found

Pressure was mounting for Captain Detective Reginald Cherry to bring in whoever was responsible for the murder of Senator O'Connor. It had been twenty-four hours since the brutal killing at Boston's historic State House. The governor, the police commissioner, the press, and the public were demanding answers.

The media was relentless, asking how one of the state's most beloved sons could be murdered in the sanctity of his office while no substantial leads developed. The Internet had an abundance of news posts regarding the grizzly details, as ham radio buffs listened in on police scanners and picked up the initial details of the murdered state senator. Cherry changed that by putting a moratorium on any and all information on the crime being discussed on police radios.

Sitting at his desk at six o'clock Wednesday morning with piles of files leading him nowhere, Cherry was no further along in his investigation than he had been the day before. He desperately needed three things.

First, he needed to know where the fifty e-mails with the bizarre wineskin messages originated that the crime scene unit found on O'Connor's computer. Second, he needed to locate Rosie Contreras. She was the last employee working the night shift before the senator was murdered who he and Vasquez had not spoken with.

Further complicating the investigation, Rosie had not shown up as scheduled to work the night shift following the murder. This raised red flags with Cherry, and he wondered if he would have the chance to interview her.

Finally, he needed to finish interviewing the list of known enemies Helen O'Connor had given to Vasquez. The blizzard conditions had decelerated the investigation. Snowplows were doing an impressive job keeping the roads cleared, but the storm and persistent winds continued to drop new snow and blow large drifts back onto the streets.

Cherry's first break came with his first call of the day five minutes after arriving at the station. It was the technician from the crime scene unit assigned the task of identifying the source of the e-mails.

"Detective Cherry, this is Jimmy Nielson down at the lab. We spoke yesterday at Senator O'Connor's office."

"Talk to me, Jimmy. I need some good news, and I need it now," Cherry said, sitting up ramrod straight in his chair.

"Better than good. We know who the e-mails came from. This person opened a Yahoo account and part of the package was a bundle of free e-mail accounts. All fifty messages were traced to this single account."

"Great job, Jimmy." Cherry was smiling for the first time in twenty-four hours. "What else do you have for me?"

"This account was created then quickly cancelled. But we were able to trace the original transaction via the IP address back to a local resident, Professor Nicholas Fischer at MIT."

"Fischer? O'Connor's wife identified an individual named Fischer as someone who might want to harm her husband. Hold on a minute, Jimmy."

Cherry pulled out his department-issued iPad and scrolled through his notes. "Professor Nicholas Fischer from MIT. Helen O'Connor told us there was bad blood between these two. O'Connor threatened to cut off state funding for some of Fischer's projects because he thought they were far-fetched ideas and a waste of time and taxpayer money. O'Connor publicly humiliated him at a few social gatherings and charity fundraisers during the past couple of years."

Jimmy Nielson said, "I don't know anything about that. But I do know the Yahoo account originated from Fischer's office. I'd like to have some time with the rest of his computers and laptops. I'll be able to confirm which one was used to open the account."

"I should be able to arrange that for you this morning. Thanks, Jimmie. I'll be in touch with you soon. Keep me posted on anything new." Cherry ended the conversation and called his partner, Robert Vasquez.

"Reggie, I'm just putting my coat and hat on and heading out the door now. What's up this early in the morning? I barely finished breakfast."

"We just got a break. The technicians identified Professor Nicholas Fischer from MIT as the source of the e-mails sent to O'Connor."

"Fischer. I remember the name from yesterday. He's one of the dozen known persons of interest the senator's wife identified. He's on my list of people to interview today."

"Then you have his address?"

"Yes. I've been working on an itinerary of local people of interest, and, ah–here he is, at number four to talk to."

"Good. Give it to me and meet me there." Cherry pulled his notepad and pen out, overhearing familiar noises. "What's that I hear in the background?"

"Just the wife and the kid. She has to pull a tooth out of him to get him to finish his breakfast. Ready for the address?"

He wrote the Dorchester address down as Vasquez recited it, then said, "Great, thanks. Meet me there."

"I'll be there in thirty minutes. This storm is seriously slowing down traffic, but I'll get there as fast as I can."

Cherry hung up and pressed the call forwarding option to direct calls to his cell phone. He grabbed his coat and hat and raced down the hall toward the front door. Passing McKinsey, he shouted, "Rebecca, we have a break. I'm meeting Vasquez in Dorchester to interview a person of interest."

"At six in the morning? In this storm?"

"One of the technicians from CSU identified him as the one who sent those nutty e-mails to O'Connor yesterday," his voice boomed as he jogged past her.

Cherry ran out the front door of the Sudbury Police Station and past the media. He brushed by two reporters who stepped out of their vans and gave them the standard, "No comment." He climbed into one the department's Ford Explorers, slid out onto the ice covered Sudbury Street, and drove toward Professor Fischer's house.

Cherry's next break came right on the heels of the first as his cell phone rang. "Second call of the day this early? Must be good," he said aloud as he answered. "Cherry here."

"Detective Cherry? Hey buddy, this is Phil Hampton from the Roxbury station. We've just identified a murder victim who I think you've been looking for."

Cherry knew it was Rosie Contreras. He'd been around long enough to know when a person of interest cannot be located and missed work, they were usually a suspect or they were dead. "Who is she?" The word she rolled out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"Rosie Contreras. She was found dead twenty minutes ago in Jamaica Plain with a bullet through her left eye."

"Are you sure her name is Rosie Contreras?"

"We didn't find a purse or a driver's license, but she did have her employee badge from the State House with her name and photo around her neck."

Cherry took a deep breath. "What can you tell me so far?"

"Some kids found her this morning in Egleston Square. They were playing when they came across a pair of legs sticking out of a snow bank made by the plows. Looks like Rosie died along the curb and a plow pushed her up on the sidewalk in a six-foot pile of snow. The kids dug the frozen corpse out, and that's when they told their parents. One of the mothers called 911."

Cherry winced when he heard the details. "Were you able to recover the bullet or the shell?"

"The bullet is still in her head. Small-caliber weapon, no doubt."

In spite of himself, Cherry smiled for the second time. He knew this was going to be a great day. "Phil, how quickly can you guys wrap up your investigation and get the body to the morgue? I need the medical examiner to dig that bullet out and get it over to Ballistics this morning."

"Considering one of our state senators was murdered, we can finish here within the hour. I'll call the ME and have him waiting at the morgue ready to perform the autopsy."

"Good. Thanks again, Phil. And keep me posted on everything that happens."

Cherry called McKinsey and told her to coordinate Hampton, the ME, Ballistics and inform Vasquez on the murder of Rosie Contreras. Rebecca McKinsey was a more-than-competent police officer who everyone regarded highly. Cherry entrusted her to carry out the most important tasks that he needed on countless cases. She had a better network than most officers in Boston. He was confident with McKinsey coordinating events, the Ballistics Unit would have the bullet by the time he and Vasquez were finished talking to Fischer.
Chapter 18 Professor Fischer's House

Detective Cherry arrived at Nicholas Fischer's house, a colonial two-story brick home with white fascia trim. Three rectangular bedroom windows with hunter-green shutters protruded from the second story.

It looked like the all-American house in an all-American neighborhood. Cherry wondered if a cold-blooded murderer could live in such an idyllic place. But he had seen this before; a clean-cut, respected citizen turns out to be a psychotic killer.

The detective saw lights on and activity in the living room. Someone looked out at him through the plantation shutters. He took a deep breath, grabbed his notepad, and started up the walkway to the front door. Before he reached the porch, a middle-aged woman in a cream-colored bathrobe and fuzzy blue slippers opened the door. She held her robe together at the waist with her left hand, as if this would ward off the frigid cold and protect her from the swirling wind that greeted her.

"What's the matter, officer?" she asked with a shiver in her voice. "Is everything okay?"

"Good morning, ma'am." He used his most pleasant voice. "I'm Captain Detective Reginald Cherry of the Boston Police Department. Is Professor Fischer up yet? May I speak to him?"

"You just missed my husband. He left for work ten minutes ago. What's wrong? Why are you here?"

Cherry did not want to upset Fischer's wife. She already looked disturbed just seeing him on her front step this early in the morning.

Cherry replied with his standard response. "Oh, it's nothing. Just some routine questions that we have for him."

"Routine questions?" she repeated with a crinkled face of disbelief. "Do I look stupid to you? Its six thirty in the morning, and there's a blizzard outside. What do you mean routine questions?"

The professor's wife looked severely hungover. She had yet to brush her short, matted blonde hair or put on makeup, and the wind revealed gray roots at her scalp. She planted her feet, scowled and said, "What specifically is this about?"

Cherry tipped his hat and started to turn away. "Nothing very important. I'll try to catch him at the campus, Mrs. Fischer. Thank you and have a nice day."

He did not hear the front door close, and could feel her glare burning through the back of his hat as he trotted back to his SUV. Cherry climbed into the Explorer and drove out of Professor Fischer's neighborhood. He called Vasquez, who was still in transit.

"Robert, I just came from his house. His wife said he left for work ten minutes ago. Where are you now?"

"I'm halfway there, Reggie. This storm is slowing me down."

"Meet me back at the station. Pick me up there and we'll go to the campus together. I want to get there before he has a chance to settle in and ask him if he'll consent to us searching his office and lab. I want to do that this morning, rather than spending the day finding a judge to sign a search warrant when most are probably at home tucked away in their beds."
Chapter 19 Professor Fischer's Office

Cherry called the solicitous Police Commissioner Linda Fontana, who had been hounding him the previous twenty-four hours regarding the case. Fontana was a prudent and sagacious woman who was both stubborn and belligerent when she wanted something. She didn't walk away with many lasting relationships when she accepted a promotion.

As a police commissioner, she was tenacious but fair, and Cherry respected her. He even liked her, as she made her way to the top with hard work and a savvy understanding of how the political machine worked.

The media loved Fontana, and she loved the cameras. It was an amicable relationship that helped launch her through the ranks of police officer, detective, superintendent, and finally, commissioner. Linda Fontana was an icon in the eyes of the people of Boston as she had solved some of the highest profile cases in the city's history and made them stick through the judicial process. Cherry updated her on the two breaks in the case and assured her he'd keep her abreast of any further developments.

"Listen to me, Reginald," she said in a crisp tone. "I like you. I think you're an outstanding detective. But trust me, you'd better not screw this up. I have the governor all over my ass on this one. He's calling me far more than I'm calling you, so consider yourself fortunate."

"I'm on top of this. Trust me, Linda. We've shortened the list of people of interest significantly in the past hour. We're on our way to talk to someone right now I think is involved."

Cherry could call the police commissioner by her first name privately. The two had worked their way through the ranks the past twenty years and spent considerable time working cases together. But in public, Cherry was smart enough to address her as Commissioner Fontana.

"Reginald, I don't need to remind you of the gravity of this case. You keep me updated on everything. Do you hear me? Everything! I don't want a protracted investigation that the media will expound on during news and talk shows all day long. I have other things going on right now beyond just being the commissioner, and you'd better not mess this up. If I so much as—"

Cherry ended the call. He knew this was not the smartest thing to do to the commissioner, but he had two hours of sleep and only half a cup of coffee.

"I could feel her bad attitude through the air waves, and I didn't even hear what she said. She was so hot I can turn off this heater," Vasquez said, looking over at Cherry and laughing out loud. "Man, is she wound up tight or what?"

Cherry shook his head. "I'll deal with any repercussions of hanging up on her later."

Cherry recommended Vasquez for his partner when he was promoted to captain detective after his senior partner retired three years earlier. The young man was thorough and rarely missed a detail. He printed an itinerary of the homes and offices of each person of interest they were to interview. He even had their home, cell, and work numbers.

Cherry worked with a number of talented detectives, but none had the research abilities and attention to the minutest of details that he had seen in Robert Vasquez. Cherry would take the latter two traits any day over experience and mentor his partner.

Vasquez had to look at his printout of MIT only once before driving to Building 6, known also as Eastman Laboratories. He parked in the front, ignoring the parking structure. The detectives trudged through the snow to the entrance. The door was locked. But they could see one set of footprints recently dug deeply into the fresh snow. Vasquez called Fischer's cell number.

"Professor Fischer," Nicholas answered confidently, as if he were expecting the call.

"Professor, this is Sergeant Detective Robert Vasquez with the Boston Police Department. My partner and I are at the front door of Building 6. We'd like to have a few words with you, sir."

Fischer took a considerable time answering. He cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry—you said you're with the Boston Police Department?"

"Yes sir. Please open the front door. We need to speak with you. This is an urgent matter."

"Well, ah, okay, I'll be right down. This better not be some student prank. I've had plenty of those, and—"

Cherry interrupted. "I assure you this is no prank, Professor."

"Very well, hold on."

"Sounds skeptical and definitely hesitant," Vasquez said.

The two detectives eventually saw Fischer peer out the window. Vasquez held up his badge. A quizzical look of surprise came over the professor. He unlocked the door and let them into the lobby.

"What is it, detectives? Is everything okay with my family?"

"Yes," Cherry responded. "They're fine. I'm Captain Detective Reginald Cherry of the Boston Police Department. This is my partner, Sergeant Detective Robert Vasquez."

"What can I do for you," he asked, appearing nervous, looking back and forth at the two.

Vasquez informed Cherry during the drive that Fischer never had a run-in with the law. Cherry observed the professor's eyes. The sight of two detectives in front of him must be intimidating. His mind was racing for answers.

"Can we go into your office and talk there," Cherry asked in a good-natured manner.

"Ah—sure, of course. Please follow me." Fischer motioned with his right arm and walked back to his office. The halls were empty as were the rooms that lined both sides of the corridor.

"Professor, what is it you teach here," Cherry asked, allowing Fischer to speak and perhaps give insight to possible involvement with the O'Connor murder.

"I'm a professor of applied physics. I try to make clear our understanding of the nature of matter and energy and the dynamics of the cosmos, while keeping an open mind to what we think exists but cannot yet prove or understand."

Fischer led the detectives through the five interconnected buildings to Eastman Laboratories. He explained a number of projects he was leading as best he could in layman's terms.

"Are you getting all this, Vasquez," Cherry asked.

Vasquez was scribbling notes. "Sure. The gist of it, at least."

"Good. Because I have no idea what he's talking about."

Fischer opened the door to his office and led them in. "This is my humble abode. Please take a seat."

The only chairs available were two burnt-orange plastic chairs that looked like relics from the early1970s.

"We'll stand, thank you," came Cherry's reply.

"Suit yourself. What is it that you want from me," Fischer asked as he turned to face the detectives, leaning against the front of his desk, his hands grasping the edge.

Cherry took the initiative. "I'll get right to the point. We'd like to ask you some questions regarding Senator O'Connor's death yesterday."

Fischer's eyes opened wide. "Senator O'Connor? Yes, I heard he was killed in his office." He thought to himself for a few moments, then continued, "I'm not sure what it is that you want from me."

"Did you know Senator O'Connor?"

"Well, yes. Yes, I did."

"Can you please expound, Professor Fischer? How was your relationship with the man?"

Cherry's face was no longer cordial, and now was in skeptical-detective mode. He knew the answer to his question. Their relationship had been sour at best.

"It's true we were not friends. And that is an understatement to say the least." Fischer continued leaning back on his desk while maintaining direct eye contact with Cherry. "You could say that we were enemies who opposed each other."

Vasquez scrolled through his notes on his iPad. "Helen O'Connor, the late senator's wife, claimed he threatened to cut off state funding to your department and he had insulted you publicly in several social settings."

"God rest the senator's soul," Fischer said. "It's true that I disdained the man. But surely one cannot go through life without making enemies. And I'm quite sure O'Connor made his fair share over the years."

"Right now, we're specifically interested in you," Vasquez said. "Would you please tell us where you were and what specifically you were doing yesterday morning at this time?"

"I drove here about the same time to beat the storm."

"Can you prove you were here at this time," Cherry asked.

"Well, I was probably the only one here, although there could have been another professor working."

"Did anyone see you enter the building?"

"Hmm, no, I do not think so. The storm was very strong, and I doubt there was anyone else here. I didn't see vehicles on the streets except for the city snowplows and a few cars."

"Why did you come into work yesterday, especially so early in the morning and in the face of a blinding blizzard," Cherry asked, scribbling notes in his notepad. Vasquez was doing the same.

"Well, sirs, I'm working on numerous projects, and I'm under tremendous time constraints to finish them. I also have lecture notes and student papers to work on. I was here, in my office, and in my labs."

Cherry sighed, then took a small step forward due to the limited space in the office. "Professor, I'll get right to the point."

"Please do," Fischer said with a note of defiance, crossing his arms on his chest, still leaning against the front of his desk.

"We've traced fifty emails, each from a different email address, from O'Connor's computer at the State House that he received yesterday morning."

Cherry paused for dramatic effect. "And all fifty emails originated from you, Professor Fischer. Our technicians with the crime scene unit confirmed this. The messages came from a Yahoo account that you opened."

Fischer laughed aloud. "That's preposterous. I've never sent that bloated windbag piece of shit politician an email. What are you talking about?"

"Professor, this is serious. We have proof they originated from a Yahoo account you opened. They were sent to Senator O'Connor just before he was murdered," Cherry said in a deep, authoritative voice. "And Helen O'Connor identified you as one of the most likely people to seek retribution against her husband."

The two detectives continued to stare at the professor. Fischer took on the look of a cornered, agitated, and defensive animal. His tone was one of unappreciative anger as he spoke.

"Detectives, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. I was here working in my office and my labs yesterday morning. This much is certain."

Fischer unfolded his arms and stretched them out wide, as if to say that he had nothing to hide.

"Are you positive you do not know of anyone who can confirm you were here at that time?"

Professor Fischer took a few moments to consider the question one more time. He shuffled his feet and replied, "No. Due to the storm, I didn't notice anybody in the building until after ten a.m. A few students showed up, thinking there were going to be classes."

Cherry did not want to spend time using interrogation techniques. He wanted to look at the office and labs to see if he could find anything that would link Fischer to the murder.

"Professor, I'm going to ask that you consent to a search of your office and your labs. I encourage you to comply, or I'll have to ask a judge to issue a search warrant. I strongly suggest that you cooperate with me right now."

Nicholas Fischer was dumbfounded and speechless. After a long incredulous pause, he reluctantly complied.

"Detectives, I've done nothing wrong. That being said, I understand a state senator has been murdered and Boston's finest are conducting similar searches across the city. You're merely doing your job and interviewing people of interest, of whom I am one. I'll cooperate fully with your investigation."

Cherry was grateful Fischer had agreed. Being short of sleep and coffee, he didn't have the fortitude to deal with a difficult personality. "Good. Let's get started. Do you own any guns?"

"Yes, I do."

"What kind of guns?" Cherry's eyes glinted with obvious interest. Vasquez continued writing down notes as fast as he could.

"I have three handguns, one here in my office and two at home. They're strictly for protection, though. I rarely use them except for occasional target practice a few times a year."

"What type of handguns are they?"

"I have a Glock .22 that I keep here in my office. And I have a .38 and a Smith and Wesson revolver in my bedroom at home."

Cherry now stood a few inches from Fischer. "Professor, I would like to see the gun in your office right now, please."

Fischer sighed, then shrugged his shoulders. "It's right here in my drawer." He walked around to the other side of his desk and opened the bottom drawer on the right side.

Cherry and Vasquez followed Fischer as he retrieved the black, stainless steel handgun by the tip of the muzzle. He handed it to Cherry, who held the bottom of the grip between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted the muzzle up to his nose and breathed in.

"This gun has been fired recently, Professor. Have you used it in the past few days?"

Fischer swallowed hard. "That's impossible. I haven't fired it in a couple of months. That's the truth."

Cherry placed the Glock back in the drawer. Although he suspected a connection between the Glock and the murder of Rosie Contreras, he would have to wait for the Medical Examiner to retrieve the bullet from Rosie's head before he could confiscate the handgun. But he had a gut feeling from years of experience Ballistics would make a positive match.

Vasquez took a step forward and summarized the conversation. "Professor, the senator had let you know he'd soon cut off state funding for your projects. You publicly threatened to end his career. You cannot prove you were in your office at the time of the murder. You have a recently fired handgun in your desk drawer. And we have a dead state employee who cleaned O'Connor's office the morning he was killed. In our eyes, that gives you a means, motive, opportunity, and a weapon."

Fischer looked like a boxer being pummeled by his opponent, but held his ground and rebutted. "Although I did plan to expose O'Connor for underhanded things such as misappropriation of funds I have knowledge of, I can assure you I never had any intention of murdering the senator."

Cherry felt he and Vasquez gathered enough preliminary information to take the investigation to the next level. He glared at Fischer.

"Listen to me closely, Professor. I don't want you to touch this gun. In fact, I want you to go to one of your labs and stay out of this office. Do you understand me?"

Anger and fear pinged back and forth across Fischer's face as his fists balled up. "Fine, detective," he said through clenched teeth. "I'll go to one of my labs. But let me assure you, you're picking a fight with the wrong man. I'm innocent of anything you might be attempting to connect me with. And I have enough discretionary income to buy an attorney who will make sure you're pushing a pencil until retirement."

He stared with narrowed eyes at the younger Vasquez, who looked unfazed by his threats. "And I'll end your career before it even begins. I promise you that."

Stepping out into the hall, Cherry watched Fischer lock his office and walk down the corridor to one of his labs. "Remember, Professor, if you go back into your office, you'll be obstructing a police investigation. Trust me. You don't want to do that."

Cherry and Vasquez walked out to the Explorer. The strong winds had built twelve-inch snowdrifts on the passenger side of the SUV. Cherry turned the vehicle around and headed back to the Sudbury Station on the east side of the Charles River.

Vasquez was busy transferring his written notes into his iPad and sending them to his partner. Cherry glanced over at Vasquez, then returned his attention to dodging snowdrifts forming in the middle of the streets.

"Robert, I want you to interview the union guys and other people of interest on your list this morning. They live and work close enough that you should be able to drive to them all. I'm going back to the station to make phone calls and follow up with a few people regarding the murder of Rosie Contreras."
Chapter 20 Ballistics

It was just after ten o'clock in the morning and the Ballistics Unit now had the bullet State Chief Medical Examiner Andrew Phillips took out of the gelatinized brain of Rosie Contreras. Cherry had given Dayton his cell number and told him to call the moment he confirmed the type of bullet.

Cherry was behind his desk at the Sudbury Street station, returning a multitude of calls and finishing his second cup of coffee. He was grateful for Officer McKenzie's assistance. She helped keep things organized during his very busy and hectic days. While calling the commissioner to give her an update on his visit to Professor Fischer's office, his cell phone rang. Only a few people called him on this number, and he had a good feeling this was Dayton.

"Commissioner, I have another call coming in. I think it's Michael Dayton with ballistics."

"Take the call, Reginald, and keep me posted on all developments. I have confidence in you. Remember, if you solve this case quickly, I'll make sure you're rewarded handsomely. But trust me, Reginald, if you fail ..." Her voice trailed off.

"I will." Cherry hung up the desk phone and picked up his cell phone. "Cherry here."

"Reggie, it's me, Michael Dayton at Ballistics."

Cherry was already standing. "Talk to me. What do you have?" The smile returned to Cherry's face for the third time today, a record in recent memory.

"It's a .22 soft shell. It bounced around inside her skull a few times. It's somewhat squashed and fragmented, but I can clearly read the inscription on the base of the shell."

"That was fast." Cherry looked at his watch. It wasn't even lunch and he already had the case moving forward on the fast track. Cherry was on a roll, and he was confident the day would bring more breaks in the case.

"Though we're short-staffed because of the storm, we easily identified the type of bullet. There was no problem with this one."

Cherry shouted into the phone, "Don't go anywhere, Michael. I may have the gun that fired that bullet."

"That was fast," Michael echoed Cherry's statement back to him.

Cherry slammed the phone down and ran down the hall and out the front door, venturing back out into the storm for the third time in two days. "I'm on my way back to see Professor Fischer," he yelled over his shoulder to Officer McKinsey. "Have Vasquez meet me there right away. He should be local. He's out interviewing people of interest."

"I'll call him right now," McKenzie said as she watched Cherry rush out the door.
Chapter 21 Developments

Detective Cherry was the first to reach Eastman Laboratories. The front door to the building was locked, just as it was earlier in the morning.

"I can't believe this," Cherry yelled out loud. "I should have written down Fischer's cell number."

Sighing deeply, he called Vasquez, and remembered again why he requested him to be his partner.

"Reggie, where are you? Are you with Fischer?"

"I'm at Eastman Laboratories freezing my ass off. The door's locked, and I need you to call him."

"McKenzie called me. I'm only a short way away. Hang tight. I want to go in there with you. Did Ballistics call you?"

"Sure did. It's a twenty-two soft shell alright. I need to get Fischer's gun over to Dayton right away."

"I'm on Massachusetts Avenue crossing Memorial Drive. I'll be there in two minutes."

Although Cherry's coat gave him some protection against the wind and the biting cold, his pants, shoes, and hat did not. Hands in his pockets, he jumped up and down to try to keep warm. Two minutes later, Vasquez pulled up to the front of Building 6.

He jumped out of the Explorer, his long lanky legs sprinting through the snow. Cell phone in hand, he was talking to Fischer and asking him to once again unlock the front door and let them in.

Vasquez ended the call. "I can't remember it being this cold. Fischer better get his butt out here right away."

"I see him now," Cherry said, peering through the glass in the door. "He sure is taking his sweet-ass time."

A disgruntled and annoyed Fischer opened the door and let them in. "What is it, detectives? What can I do for you now?"

Cherry stepped forward. "Professor Fischer, I need to confiscate your Glock."

Fischer was beside himself now. "You need my gun? For what reason? I had nothing to do with Senator O'Connor's death. And from what I heard, he was hacked to death, not shot."

Fischer was no longer able to maintain himself. Cherry could see a few veins protruding out of his forehead and neck.

"Professor Fischer, there's been a development in the case, and I need your Glock right now. I need to take it to Ballistics to see if it matches a bullet used in a related crime."

Fischer stared at the detectives for several long seconds. Cherry gave him his best do it now or else glare. Fischer gave an insolent shrug and led them back to his office.

Upon reaching the door, Cherry said, "I'll retrieve the gun myself. Is it still in your desk drawer?"

"Yes, it is," a dejected sounding Fischer said, looking as if in a state of shock.

Cherry pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag from his coat pocket, picked up the Glock with two fingers by the muzzle, and placed it in the brown sack. He took a pen from his shirt pocket and filled in the pertinent information on a designated white strip on the side of the bag.

"I can't believe you're coming into my office and taking my gun. I'm calling my attorney right now," Fischer said in a tone that contained a hint of arrogance. "I consider it preposterous you're attempting to connect me with O'Connor's death. I swear to you, I didn't have anything to do with it."

Cherry breathed in deeply, expanding his chest and sucking in his stomach in such a way that would intimidate most people. He was not a bad cop. But this was a method he used when a suspect became agitated and possibly unpredictable.

"You may certainly call your attorney, Professor. But whatever you do, I strongly suggest you remain cooperative. Believe me, I can get a court order to search this place in a heartbeat."

Cherry thought for a moment and continued. "Actually, I'm going to ask you to lock up your office and labs and leave the building until further notice. I'd like you to go home and stay there until I call you." He stared at Fischer, not blinking, until the professor relented.

"Okay, I'll leave. I'll go home and call my attorney. You want to play hardball, go ahead. I can play hardball, too. You'll see." Fischer looked the two up and down in disgust.

"We'll see you out the door. I'll call you later this afternoon," Cherry said.

Fischer locked up his office and labs, and the three men left the building. Fischer headed home. The two detectives drove to the crime laboratory to drop off Fischer's gun, expecting to find a match to the bullet that killed Rosie Contreras.

On the way, Vasquez said, "I thought he might spit on us, but fortunately for the professor's own sake, he didn't."

Cherry called Michael Dayton. He was grateful Dayton was one of the best in the business, and that he was fast.

"Michael, it's me. Cherry, again."

"Do you have the gun, Reginald?"

"I have it and I'm on my way over to you right now. It's a Glock twenty-two. I'll see you in twenty minutes."

Cherry had one more call to make while on his way to the Ballistics Lab at One Schroeder Plaza on Tremont Street. He called McKinsey. Before she could say, 'Hello,' Cherry started talking.

"McKinsey, listen. I just left Fischer's office. I have his Glock, and I'm taking it over to Dayton in Ballistics right now. I just sent Fischer home and told him to stay there until I contact him. I need you to park an officer in front of his house."

"Are you placing him under arrest?"

"No, not yet. But I want to keep an eye on him just the same."

"Okay. I'll send someone over there right now."

"I also need you to get a crime scene unit over to Fischer's office and labs. He consented to a search. We don't need to tape off the entire building, but I want to make sure no one enters the building until the unit has finished going over the place. We'll also go to his house later today."

After dropping off Fischer's Glock with Dayton, Cherry and Vasquez drove to Jimmy's Diner since it was close to the station and Fischer's office at MIT. Cherry knew this would be one of the busiest days of his life, and if he and Vasquez didn't eat now, they might not have a chance to eat until tomorrow. He also wanted to give the Crime Scene Unit time to set up. Finally, Cherry needed to call the Commissioner Fontana and give her an update on his progress.
Chapter 22 The Crime Scene unit

The supervisor of the Crime Scene Unit was Lauren Brackenhurst, a perceptive investigator with a degree in forensic science and twelve years of experience in some of the highest-profile cases in Boston. She was one of the best at identifying, collecting, preserving, and evaluating evidence at a crime scene.

Lauren was scrupulous and thorough. She had a reputation for writing and maintaining detailed reports that held up in court better than anyone in her field. Her team consisted of two former detectives and three technicians who solved countless cases. They were also the same CSU that performed the investigation at Senator O'Connor's office.

Cherry and Vasquez arrived outside the door of Fischer's labs a few minutes after one p.m. "Hello, Lauren. It's good to see you again," Cherry said with a big smile.

Lauren was squatting down looking at something on the floor. She glanced over her left shoulder. "Well, hello there Detective Cherry. Knew it was you. I'd recognize that voice anywhere. I'd come over and shake your hand, but you understand," she said.

Cherry looked around the modest-sized lab. The six people and their tools of the trade made the room look even smaller. "How are things going in here?"

Standing up with a clear evidence bag in her hand, she said, "Most interesting, to say the least." She wore a slanted grin that she used when she wanted to tacitly communicate she found something of significance.

"Tell me something good."

"We found blood in the shop sink over there against the wall." She pointed to her right. "There are splattered drops along the sides of the sink walls. Although it's dry, it looks relatively fresh, maybe a day or two old."

"How can you conclude that without any tests?"

"This sink doesn't look like it's been used for months. There's dust accumulated on the sides but not the bottom of the basin where water had recently been run."

"Now that's interesting for sure."

"It looks like someone tried to wash blood down the sink, but didn't do a very good job."

Cherry wanted to say he was confident the blood belonged to either Senator O'Connor or Rosie Contreras. But he didn't want to taint the investigation in any way. Besides, he was sure Brackenhurst and her team had the same idea.

"Is there anything else of interest?"

"There certainly is. But concluding on the previous conversation, the blood in the sink was well worth our time here today. We'll be able to conclude if it's human blood and what type it is as soon as we get back to the lab."

"What's in the baggie?" Cherry pointed at the evidence bag she held in her right hand as she stood up and faced him.

"These are brown fibers we found on the floor by the sink. They look like carpet fibers."

She held the bag up and looked at the strands as she was speaking, then through the baggie at Cherry. "I don't recall seeing any brown carpet anywhere in the building." She looked at Cherry and winked.

Cherry thought back to the senator's napping room that had a noticeably absent section of carpet fiber laid out in a circular shape. All five rooms in the late senator's office had dark brown carpet. Cherry smiled again. He was glad he took the time to eat, because his day was getting busier by the minute.
Chapter 23 Back to Professor Fischer's House

The Nor-easter continued to dump snow over Boston and the surrounding states during the late afternoon. More than three feet fell in forty-eight hours and drifts over ten feet high were common throughout the area.

Snowplows worked around the clock in a desperate attempt to keep the main arteries of downtown Boston and the surrounding cities clear. Forecasts predicted strong winds to continue for at least two to three days, promising the city more grief after the snow stopped falling.

Detective Cherry was back at his desk discussing Professor Fischer with Vasquez and McKinsey when he received the call he was waiting for. Michael Dayton confirmed that Fischer's Glock .22 had indeed fired the bullet that killed Rosie Contreras. Cherry had suspected as much. He gave Vasquez a let's go and get him look.

"One more thing," Cherry said to McKinsey, looking over his right shoulder.

McKinsey looked up at Cherry and smiled with confidence, telling him he could place the fate of the free world in her hands.

"Call Captain Hampton at Roxbury. I need to take Fischer over there for questioning. I don't want the media circus outside filming us bringing him in."

"I'll call him right now."

"You're the best, McKinsey. We'll be at the Roxbury station in an hour."

McKinsey was already on her way back to her desk and waved at Cherry and Vasquez as she picked up her phone.

Vasquez drove and Cherry rode in the passenger seat. It took half an hour to reach Fischer's home in Dorchester. Vasquez pulled up behind a patrol car parked in front of the professor's house. Sergeant Jayson Phinney stepped out of his car.

"How's it going, Phinney? Anything happen here today?"

"Someone in a suit and carrying a briefcase pulled up and parked in the driveway just a few minutes after I arrived. Fischer let him in the house. He's still in there," Phinney said, pointing to the black Lincoln Navigator in the driveway.

"Must be Fischer's attorney," Cherry said. "Thanks, Phinney. Stay here in case we need you."

"Yes sir," Phinney said and sat back down in his car, engine still running and the heater blasting away.

"Let's go talk to Fischer and see who his attorney is."

Cherry could see a gap in the plantation shutters and assumed Mrs. Fischer was peering at them as they approached the front door. Just before the two Boston detectives stepped on the porch the front door opened. Nicholas Fischer, along with another man, stood at the threshold.

"Hello, Professor Fischer," Cherry said, taking control of the conversation. He looked first at the professor, then at the man in a fashionable olive-green suit and brown Sanyo Newport Balmacaan coat standing next to him, then back at Fischer. "I need you to come downtown with me for questioning."

"Fine. I'll come with you," he said in a calm and self-assured manner. "Please allow me to introduce to you my attorney, Jacob Buerling. He'll be accompanying us."

The high-profile attorney nodded to the detectives.

Cherry and Vasquez recognized Buerling from previous trials. Well known in the Boston area as an excellent lawyer, he had a respectable reputation. He looked average on the surface, standing five feet ten, weighing 165 pounds, forty-four-years old, and balding. Cherry noted he was rather pale and probably never left his office or the courtroom long enough to acquire some color.

Cherry knew Buerling was shrewd and was one of the most detail-oriented attorneys in the city, known for being prepared and exploiting any weakness in the plaintiff's case. He rarely took on the sleazy cases, and mainly represented clients who had a decent reputation.

He recognizes us also, Cherry noted, remembering Buerling made it a habit to sit in the audience on at least a couple cases that all detectives in Boston and the surrounding cities were involved with.

"That's fine, Professor." Cherry looked at Jacob Buerling. "You can follow behind us. We need to go now."

Mrs. Fischer's head popped out from behind her husband and his attorney. "Nicholas didn't do anything wrong. He wouldn't harm another human being. Do you hear me?"

Cherry noticed she was dressed professionally, had put on makeup, and brushed her hair. The gray roots were also gone. She looked a world apart from when he first met her at six thirty that morning.

"Thank you, Mrs. Fischer. I appreciate the insight. Professor, are you ready to go, sir?"

"I am. But I would like to ride with my attorney, if you don't mind. After all, you're not arresting me, correct?"

Cherry didn't have to consider the question as he did not think Buerling would try to make a break for it. "That's fine. Just stay behind us and follow me."

Buerling nodded a second time, and they each walked to their respective SUVs. Fischer looked back at his wife to assure her everything was going to be okay. "Don't worry, honey, I'll be back for dinner."

Driving out of Dorchester, Cherry asked Vasquez about Mrs. Fischer. "What's the story with her? She was a totally different person just now than when I saw her this morning."

Vasquez didn't have to look at his notes and answered without hesitation. "Elaine Ann Fischer. Maiden name Brown. She's fifty-four and born and raised in Boston. She has a masters of art from Boston College, is a successful art dealer, and is very active in the community. She's also been in rehab three times for alcohol. But all in all, she's a stand-up citizen. She's never been in trouble with the law. Never owed back taxes. She's only been married to Nicholas Fischer. They were wed in graduate school during summer break."

Cherry regarded his amazing encyclopedia-brained partner, and said, "What about the children?"

Vasquez checked his rearview mirror. "Hold on, I want to make sure Buerling makes it through that last yellow light. I probably should have stopped. It's okay – they're right behind us. The children. They have three. The oldest, Denise Fischer, age twenty-six, followed in her mother's footsteps as a graduate student in theater and dance at Boston College. She's currently in New York starting a career in Broadway musicals and plays. She's talented and has already landed a few meaningful parts in a number of plays."

"Interesting. Who else?"

"Next up is Fischer's son, Nicholas Junior, age twenty-four. He's a graduate student following in his father's footsteps at MIT in physics, specifically high energy, advanced nuclear physics, and string theory. He works with his father part-time and is a teaching assistant for Fischer."

"Now that's very interesting," Cherry said as he was making notes in his iPad.

"Finally, there's little Cindy Fischer, age twenty-one. She's in her second year of undergraduate school at U-Conn. She took a couple years off between high school and college to party and got arrested twice for public drunkenness and once on marijuana charges. Her major is fine arts."

"I think once we're finished questioning Fischer, we should have a talk with his son, Nicholas Junior." Cherry looked over his shoulder to confirm Buerling and Fischer were still behind them.

Cherry sat back in his seat and called Captain Phil Hampton at the Roxbury station. Cherry knew Hampton well as they had worked a number of cases together over the past twenty years.

"Phil, Cherry from the Sudbury station."

"Hello, Reggie. How's the investigation going? Believe me, the guys here feel for you. I bet Fontana's all up and down your ass right now."

Cherry laughed and immediately became more relaxed. "I won't lie, it's stressful. Listen, Phil, I'm on my way over with a person of interest."

"Right. A Professor Fischer from MIT. McKinsey called and gave me the details. You can use the Green Room."

Cherry understood what Hampton meant by Green Room. When Cherry first joined the Boston Police Department, he worked with Phil Hampton. They used an interrogation room painted mint green on the ceiling, all four walls, and the floor when they were sure they had the right suspect. The lack of colors gave off a deficiency of perception, a sensation of sensory deprivation that helped break down a suspect's will over the course of the interrogation.
Chapter 24 An Arrest is Made

Cherry avoided the media vans at the Sudbury Station by taking Jacob Buerling and Professor Fischer to the Roxbury Station. Once inside the Green Room, Cherry along with Vasquez, Captain Phil Hampton, and two interrogation specialists, subjected Nicholas Fischer to intense questioning regarding the murders of William S. O'Connor III and Rosie Contreras.

Then came the call Cherry was waiting for. It was Lauren Brackenhurst from the Boston Crime Scene Unit. Cherry stepped out of the Green Room to take the call.

"Hello, Detective Cherry," she said in a happy and professional tone that Cherry wished Commissioner Fontana demonstrated. "We have a match. The blood in Fischer's sink is the same type as O'Connor's blood. Type O positive. And the dozens of brown carpet fibers we found at his lab came from O'Connor's office."

Cherry admired Lauren. He knew her to be a professional. She placed the integrity of her work above and beyond the demands of the job and the pressure higher-ups at the police department tried to place upon her.

Commissioner Fontana, however, displayed few of Lauren's admirable traits. Yet, that's how she rose to her current position. To make matters worse, she was a politician, positioning herself for the next rung on her professional ladder.

She made no secret of the fact she wanted to run for mayor of Boston. She made it clear to Cherry he needed to solve this case quickly. The last thing she wanted was the national media pressure that came with an unsolved case of this magnitude.

Cherry grimaced, knowing he had to call Fontana with each initial phase of progress. Receiving a call from Lauren brought a sense of calm to the storm raging outside the station and inside the department. He needed that moment of tranquility. A fourth smile came upon his face, and the record kept climbing.

"Thanks Laura, you're the best."

The conversation terminated, Cherry opened the door and looked at Buerling, then beckoned him with his head toward the door. Buerling calmly excused himself from his client and stepped out into the hall along with Vasquez and Hampton.

The door automatically closed behind the men. Buerling and Cherry faced each other, staring into one another's eyes as they both understood Cherry's phone call would tip the scales in his favor.

Nevertheless, Buerling stood at attention, exuding a veneer of confidence, both feet planted symmetrically a foot apart. He cusped his right hand over his left and his arms hung freely in front of him. His head tilted slightly back as he peered out of half-opened eyes. He had maintained this same pose while standing on Fischer's front porch. Cherry wondered if people who stood this way were subconsciously trying to hide something.

"Yes, detective," Buerling said, more like a question than a statement.

"That call I just took was from Lauren Brackenhurst." Buerling's eyes, eyelids, and facial expression never changed. Neither did his breathing. Cherry knew he had one of the best stone-cold poker faces in the business.

Again, Cherry took a deep breath and exhaled. "Brackenhurst's team expedited the testing and analysis of two particular items of interest to this case."

There was still no change in movement from Buerling. If Cherry didn't know better, he would have thought he was talking to a wax figure.

"First, the blood they found in the sink at Professor Fischer's lab has been positively identified as human blood, type O positive, the same blood type as O'Connor's. It'll be about five days before we expedite the results of the DNA, though."

Cherry eyed his opponent. Still not even the slightest twitch from Buerling. It's his way of attempting to stay in control of a situation when he knows he clearly isn't. Wait'll he gets a load of this.

"The second item of interest is the fibers they found on Professor Fischer's laboratory floor. These have been matched to the carpet in the senator's office. Even the dust particles and dirt on those particular fibers and on O'Connor's shoes and clothes are a match."

Cherry left those statements floating in the air and stared back at Buerling, determined to let him blink first. Buerling broke the silence after twenty seconds.

"I understand this is one of the most important cases in Boston's history, but how can you be sure Brackenhurst's team can safely conclude these results in such a short period of time?"

Never breaking eye contact, Cherry smiled, first through the right side of his mouth, then the left. "Mr. Buerling, due to the nature of this case, the crime scene unit and the supporting personnel at their labs has put everything else on hold the past two days. Everything. All members have dedicated themselves solely to this investigation, specifically to these two items. The blood in the sink and the brown carpet fibers. Then there are the fifty e-mails that originated from Fischer and were sent to O'Connor an hour before his murder."

"So far," Buerling said in an arrogant interjection. "This is all circumstantial evidence."

Cherry continued. "I also have to consider him as a prime suspect in the murder of Rosie Contreras. She was an employee of the State House who worked the night shift. She cleaned O'Connor's office an hour before he arrived at work. Ballistics matched the .22 bullet that killed her to your client's handgun. His prints and his prints only are on the gun, and it was recently fired."

"So, what now? Are you going to arrest my client for the murder of Senator William O'Connor?" Buerling let go of his hands.

"I have to. For his murder, and for the murder of Rosie Contreras."

Buerling rubbed his chin as he looked down at the floor. He looked back up at Cherry and said, "Let me talk to him first. As you can see, he's rather distraught right now."

"Do it now. We need to get moving. We have to have him processed and begin documenting the case."

Buerling paused in deep thought. His forehead was wrought with pronounced wrinkles as he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the back of his neck. "You know, detective," he said, as he opened his eyes. "I know the circumstances surrounding O'Connor's death and my client—"

"And Rosie Contreras' death too."

"Yes, yes, and Rosie Contreras. Please forgive me. But this just doesn't make sense. I honestly find it difficult to believe my client was involved in any way in these two terrible deaths. I'm sure you've heard this all before, but I just can't picture Nicholas Fischer committing these murders. A number of items don't seem to add up."

"Unfortunately, I see this happen all too often. An all-American person who is an upstanding citizen goes on a killing spree and commits horrible acts." Cherry shrugged. "It happens."

Buerling looked away and continued rubbing the back of his neck. After half a minute, he looked back at Cherry and met his eyes. "Okay, I'm ready. Let's go."

Cherry led the way and opened the door to the Green Room. Fischer stood, eyes wide open with a mixture of anticipation and fear. Buerling slowly walked over to him and put his right hand over his left shoulder.

"Listen, Nicky, I'm sorry. But the detective is going to arrest you and press formal charges for the murder of Senator William O'Connor." Buerling paused for a moment and continued. "You are also the lead suspect in the murder of Rosie Contreras."

Fischer withered. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor. He barely caught himself with his forearm on the edge of the table. Buerling grabbed him in a bear hug around the chest, picked him up, and sat him in his chair.

"No, no, this can't be happening to me." Fischer's voice quivered as he began to shake violently. He buried his face in his hands, moaning and mumbling softly to himself.

"Just this morning I was on the verge of announcing a major discovery. My name would've been placed among some of the greatest scientists and thinkers of the ages." He sobbed. "Now my name will be placed with some of the most deviant criminals of my time."

After a few more sobs and a slow shake of the head, he sighed and said, "From fame to infamy—just like that."

Fischer's mood changed in an instant. He bolted upright, grabbed his attorney by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him in tight. Through clenched teeth he shouted, "Help me, Jacob! Get me out of this mess."

Cherry motioned into the two-way mirror and four police officers rushed into the Green Room. They separated Fischer from his attorney and handcuffed his hands behind his back.

Fischer sobbed uncontrollably. He resisted for a few seconds, dropping to the floor in a futile protest, but the four officers picked him up by his arms and his legs and carried him out.
Chapter 25 It Doesn't Add Up

Like everyone else in the country, Chase Manhattan followed the news of the murdered Massachusetts State Senator William S. O'Connor III and Rosie Contreras. Boston Police Commissioner Linda Fontana announced at a press conference Professor Nicholas Fischer of MIT had been arrested for the two murders.

It had all the makings of a Hollywood epic, and the media wasted no time sensationalizing the story. News agencies performed their due diligence and uncovered the bad blood between O'Connor and Fischer. There was even speculation on a love triangle gone awry.

The increasingly wild theories and conjecture added fuel to the already-growing national story. Tabloid television shows milked the story for all it was worth and stoked the public's fascination.

Chase knew who Professor Fischer was. As a physicist, he had read dozens of his articles, even citing him numerous times in his dissertation as a student at UC-Irvine. Chase asked himself questions and made connections about the events that mesmerized the nation.

There were dozens of brilliant scientists and theoreticians worldwide who devoted their lives to discovering breakthroughs in wormholes. As an MIT professor and partner to some of the top global companies such as Globalized Dynamics, Fischer was on the fast track and an odds-on favorite to find the secret to unlocking this life-changing technology if it were possible.

Chase studied the professional and personal lives of dozens of these men and women, including Fischer. He had a good understanding of their character, integrity, and ethics. He wondered how Fischer could kill these two people. It didn't make sense as he tried to separate fact from fiction in the articles he read and news stories he watched.

The media learned O'Connor was attacked with a sword in his office and was severely beaten. They knew one of his limbs, most likely an arm, was severed from his body. They also reported the weapon had not been recovered.

Reporters produced a profile of Rosie Contreras from interviews with coworkers and neighbors. Although they uncovered sordid details regarding Rosie's past, the investigative reporters doubted Contreras had the ability to inflict this kind of physical damage on the state senator.

Chase asked his good friend Fred Merrill, who helped him with his recent Las Vegas adventure, to gather as much information as possible on William O'Connor III, Rosie Contreras, and Nicholas Fischer. He also asked Fred to go as deeply as he felt comfortable in uncovering any information about the murders and the arrest from the Boston Police Department not yet disclosed to the public.

Fred confirmed a sword was used but never recovered, and the police were baffled as to how one could be smuggled into and out of the State House. They thoroughly searched the oldest building on Beacon Hill three times and found no such weapon.

Video showed Rosie entering and exiting the building. Although police noticed Rosie began to carry a medium-sized aluminum suitcase in her bag a few weeks before the murder, security officers only asked her to open it the first three days she brought it.

Security confirmed she carried a few cosmetics and other feminine hygiene items. After that, they never asked her to open it again. The police were certain she could not conceal a sword in the handbag she had with her that morning.

Using sophisticated data mining and relational software, Fred also discovered an associate of Fischer, Doctor Gloria Newcombe, was one of four people murdered in the highly publicized killings at Globalized Dynamics' New Haven facility in Connecticut.

So far, the media and the Boston detectives were not aware of the relationship between Fischer and Newcombe. At least, not yet. But Chase knew it was only a matter of time before they made the connection.

Sitting in his home office Friday afternoon, Chase leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let his mind run wild. He imagined that it was possible—far-fetched, perhaps, but entirely feasible—that Professor Fischer had done the impossible. Maybe he'd found the way to utilize wormholes, used one to enter the senator's office, killed him, then made his escape. No witnesses. No problems.

But there were problems with this theory. Chase knew it would take a separate mechanism to open each end of the wormhole. Two people were necessary to make this happen. That's where the State House employee Rosie Contreras entered the picture. She was his accomplice, and he killed her to cover his tracks.

But the holes in this scenario were obvious. Why would Professor Fischer keep the gun used to kill an accomplice? He didn't seem like the kind of man who, at fifty-four-years old, could cause that much trauma on a man ten years younger and in much better shape. Chase closed his eyes, focused on imaginative solutions, then opened them after a few minutes.

The answer was obvious. What if someone stole the means to open wormholes, killed the two State House employees, and framed the professor? A breakthrough in wormholes would be a major world changer, and there would be no end to people who would kill for this once in a lifetime discovery.

He admitted it sounded crazy. The thought consumed his mind for two days as he locked himself in his house and considered the possibilities.

Fred Merrill, who supplied Chase with the room key and the combination to the floor safe at the Aria Hotel and Resort in Las Vegas, identified Fischer's attorney Jacob Buerling. Fred provided Chase his telephone numbers, including his private cell phone. Fred was great at what he did—one of the best in the business.

Chase thought he would not want a guy like Fred trying to hunt him down. Once again, he had talked a reluctant Fred Merrill into briefly coming out of retirement just one more time. He made the call.

* * *

Jacob Buerling and a staff of seven assistants and dozens of boxes of legal-sized files were packed into a conference room when his cell phone rang. Seeing the name Chase Manhattan on the caller ID, he thought a marketer or salesperson had somehow acquired his personal and unlisted cell phone number.

"Jacob Buerling here. Who is this?" he asked in a menacing tone.

"Mr. Buerling, my name is Professor Chase Manhattan, and I believe I can offer you and your client, Professor Fischer, some invaluable help with your case."

Buerling was quick to respond. "You have ten seconds to impress me before I hang up, Professor Manhattan. I'm very busy and very important, and right now I'm in the middle of a conference. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight ..."

The high-profile attorney stopped for a moment and stared at his cell phone. "Chase Manhattan," he mumbled to himself. "What kind of name is that?"

"Listen to me, Mr. Buerling. I know your client was framed. I'm a professor of physics—just like Professor Fischer. I believe he was on the verge of an important discovery. Someone else must have committed the murders and framed Professor Fischer."

Buerling snickered into the phone. "That's it? That's all you have for me?"

"Mr. Buerling, please let me come to Boston to speak with you and your client. He's hiding something that he can't tell you. I think I know what it is, but I can't talk about it over the phone."

Buerling suspected as much from his first meeting with Fischer the previous Wednesday afternoon. But he was unsuccessful in breaking through his client's wall of stone surrounding his innermost secrets. Making matters more complicated; the murder of one of his partners, Gloria Newcombe.

Globalized Dynamics was exercising extreme discretion in gathering and disclosing details of what happened in New Haven. They released a generic report to the public that a disgruntled employee shot up the place, killed four employees, and escaped without a trace.

They proceeded to bury the story with the release of a breakthrough from their Green Revolution, along with an announcement of a generous increase in their stock dividends that helped shift the media's attention away from the four murders.

Buerling gathered enough information from his personal network to conclude a professional assassin was responsible for the four murders, and that this person entered the building without a trace. His contacts ascertained the assassin was female, and she left the building with a black, medium-size metal suitcase containing something worth killing four people. Buerling's team was days ahead of the Boston Police Department in uncovering the link to the murdered state senator and Doctor Newcombe.

Adding to his migraine headache, he received a call two hours earlier from Detective Cherry. The evidence sample of blood in Fischer's sink in his lab was a definite match to O'Connor. The DNA was 99.7989 percent conclusive. Jacob Buerling understood he had few reasonable options for moving forward with his defense.

He rubbed his forehead, then said, "Okay, Professor Manhattan, I'm passing my cell phone to a Miss Dekker. She's one of my assistants who will perform a background check on you. If you are who you claim to be, I'll allow you to speak with my client and me. Hold on, I'm handing you over to her now."

Buerling handed his phone to Angela Dekker, a law student and intern from Boston College. Chase e-mailed her the information she requested. By Saturday afternoon, Angela Dekker returned Chase's phone call and confirmed Buerling had agreed to meet.
Chapter 26 Flight to Boston

Flight 942 touched down at Logan International Airport Monday at 7:48 a.m. Chase was glad he found a first-class seat at the last moment and enjoyed a good night's sleep on the red-eye flight. He had a lot of work to do and not much time in which to do it.

Chase knew he was taking a huge risk. He couldn't be certain Buerling would allow him to see Professor Fischer. He said he would perform a background check to confirm Chase was who he claimed to be. Although Chase checked out, there was still no guarantee Buerling would follow through on the agreement.

Chase understood high-profile attorneys changed direction at a moment's notice without any notification to those they deemed insignificant. He made the call as soon as he stepped into the airport terminal.

"Buerling here."

"Mr. Buerling, good morning. This is Chase Manhattan. How are you today?"

"Let's skip the pleasantries. I'm a very busy man. You've traveled a long way to talk to my client. It's Professor Fischer who you wish to speak with, not me. Am I correct?"

Chase knew he needed to get to the point. Why waste Buerling's time and risk having him discontinue the conversation.

"Yes. That's correct. Can I see him today?"

"Let's be certain, Professor Manhattan. The only reason I'm allowing you to speak with my client is because I'm quickly exhausting my resources. I've run your background check, and you seem to be who you say you are. If you can add any insight into this matter, then you will be most helpful. If not, then you will be wasting valuable time for me and my staff."

Chase walked a thin line. He was acting on suppositions and assumptions and would only have one chance to talk to Professor Fischer.

"Thank you. You won't regret this."

"If I am to regret this, Professor Manhattan, rest assured, you will do the same. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," Chase said in a respectful tone, all the while trying to suppress the disdain he was forming for Buerling.

"Professor Fischer is being held at the Suffolk County Jail on Nashua Street. Meet me there at nine o'clock this morning on the front steps. You have thirty minutes to impress me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do. I'll be wearing—"

"I know what you look like. Trust me, I've performed a more than thorough background check on you. Nine o'clock sharp on the front steps."

Buerling ended the call.

Chase was infuriated he had to meet Buerling outside on the steps. Arrogant prick, Chase said to himself. Testing my intentions by making a man used to a southwest climate wait out in the freezing cold? Or just wants to make me suffer—add sadist to his list of personality traits. Bet it's the latter. Either way, I got my shot.
Chapter 27 Suffolk County Jail

Chase hailed the first cab he saw. He wanted to arrive early—but not so early that he froze in the twelve-degree weather that didn't factor in the wind chill index. Wearing only his dark brown leather jacket and a cotton sweater, Chase wasn't dressed for a winter storm in New England. He didn't have anything to keep his head, neck, legs, and feet warm.

Chase couldn't remember the last time he had seen his breath. He paced back and forth in front of the station and jumped in place, not wanting to chance going inside to warm himself. Buerling seemed like an fastidious jerk who would walk away if he wasn't on the front steps when he showed up.

At nine a.m. sharp, Buerling opened the front door of the Suffolk County Jail from the inside. He chuckled at the sight of Chase with his red ears, rosy cheeks, and scarlet-colored nose, underdressed for the weather and doing his best to keep his blood from freezing in his veins.

"Professor Manhattan," Buerling exclaimed as he stepped out of the lobby and extended his right hand to Chase. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said with a deviant smirk.

Chase wasn't happy with Buerling telling him to meet him on the front steps while he was warm and comfortable inside the building. But Chase knew he had no leverage, so he reached out with a strained smile and shook the attorney's hand.

"Thank you for seeing me today," he said through chattering teeth. Remind me to punch you in the face later.

Buerling led Chase through the metal detectors and escorted him through a series of corridors until they arrived at the room where Nicholas Fischer was waiting. Two sheriff's deputies were stationed outside the door, one on either side.

They searched Chase, a little more thoroughly than he thought was necessary. Chase wasn't sure how much privacy he would have with the professor, and seeing the deputies wasn't a good sign.

Professor Fischer sat at a table wearing his bright orange jumpsuit. He looked like he was recovering from a long drinking binge. Although he appeared as though he showered and shaved a few hours earlier, he seemed weak, depressed, and defeated.

Chase discerned an aura of malaise and melancholy emanating from the middle-aged man. He looked pale and was in an abysmal state, as if he were suddenly transported from a world of tranquility and peace to an unknown universe filled with fear and uncertainty.

Buerling introduced Chase to Fischer, who merely nodded, keeping his handcuffed wrists and hands clenched together on the table and not offering a handshake. Chase sat down opposite Fischer while Buerling stood to the side, hands folded in front of him and head tilted slightly back, gazing out at Chase through half-closed eyes.

"I have taken the liberty of explaining to my client who you are, your background, and why you are here to see him," Buerling said, displaying little facial expression.

"Professor Fischer, first allow me to thank you for seeing me," Chase said with sincerity.

Fischer was apathetic and struggled to make eye contact. He labored just to keep his head up.

Chase continued. "I'll get right to the point. I've been following the events of this case very closely."

Fischer snorted and said in a snarl laden with sarcasm, "So has the rest of the nation, thanks to the media attention this is receiving."

Chase leaned in. "I believe there's much more to this story than what the media is telling us. As a physicist myself, I can clearly see there's something much deeper below the surface than anyone is aware of. And more than you are admitting."

Fischer looked at Chase through one eye, hands still clenched together on the table. He seemed to appear a bit surprised, and pleasantly so, that someone finally had attempted to make contact with him and dig below the surface of common knowledge.

His eyebrows lifted a little. "Oh, and what makes you say that, Professor Manhattan?"

"Most people think you killed, or had Senator O'Connor killed, to stop him from halting funding to your department and to your projects."

Fischer looked intently at Chase. Chase caught, in his peripheral vision, Buerling taking notice, as if he's not seen this particular level of interest or emotion out of his client.

"But I believe," Chase said, "your work was already completed. You didn't need any additional funding at this point. So why kill the senator? It doesn't make any sense."

Fischer continued to stare, and Chase wasn't sure if he had made a connection with the professor, or if the shackled inmate would lunge across the table in a violent fit of rage.

Chase continued. "Your partner from Globalized Dynamics, Doctor Gloria Newcombe, was also recently killed at her place of employment. The one commonality is that nobody understands how the killer was able to enter the facilities without being noticed. In the events that transpired at the State House, the killer left the building without a trace. As a professor and a physicist, I think I can see what was going on."

Chase held eye contact with his counterpart, giving him an 'I know what you did last summer look'.

After contemplating while alternating stares up at the ceiling and down to the floor, Fischer looked at his attorney. "Jacob, would you excuse us, please? I would like a few words with Professor Manhattan—alone."

Buerling broke from his poker face. He stepped forward and with a slim, crooked smile said, "Nicky, as your counsel, I think it's prudent I stay and listen to what Professor Manhattan has to say."

Chase disliked Buerling even more. He despised phony smiles and false pretenses.

Fischer raised his right hand before his attorney could say anything else while maintaining eye contact with Chase. "It's okay, Jacob. We should only be a few minutes. Thank you."

Buerling looked at the two people in front of him—first at his client, then at Chase, and back to Fischer. "Okay, Nicky. I'll be right outside the door. But use wisdom and good judgment. This case is difficult enough as it is." He then stepped outside of the room.

Fischer leaned back in his chair, his shackled hands still folded on the table. He formed a slight smile. "So tell me, Professor Manhattan, why should I allow you to help me? I don't even know you."

Chase went for the jugular. "Who from the scientific community has offered to help you? I'm the first visitor outside of your family you've had contact with. Is that correct?"

Fischer lowered his head and nodded.

"Who from your network of friends and associates has offered to help you?"

Fischer shook his head but said nothing.

"Professor Fischer, I see what's going on. Your field of expertise is the same as mine. I also delved into Doctor Newcombe's articles she wrote over the years. She had the same vision as you. I believe you've made a breakthrough in something, and I think I know what that something is."

Fischer looked up. "Why don't you just come right out and say it?"

Chase leaned in closer. "You unlocked the secret to Einstein-Rosen Bridges. You and Doctor Newcombe found out how to transport people from one place to another. Someone must have become aware of your groundbreaking discovery, stolen the technology, and used it to kill Senator O'Connor and Doctor Newcombe. They then framed you for O'Connor's murder."

A glimmer of hope surfaced on Fischer's face as he slowly sat up in his chair. He formed a quick, crafty grin, then let out a loud, boisterous laugh that echoed inside the room. Chase hoped Buerling wouldn't hear it and return.

Fischer took three deep breaths and began to regain his composure. Chase noticed a shade of color came back into his face.

"Okay, I'm the criminal court system. I'm my attorney. I've been told what you just said. Do you think that would make a good defense?" He laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks.

"I understand your problem," Chase said. "I've been theorizing the same material, searching for the same breakthrough, although with much less success, while my peers and students have laughed at me."

Fischer composed himself and continued. "Tell me, Professor Manhattan, what would you do in my situation? Would you have the police confiscate the technology that could back up my story?"

"No, I wouldn't do that. I've already thought that through. Quantum leaps forward like this could be used to further and advance society, or they could be used for personal agendas that are not in mankind's best interests."

Fischer was smiling and nodding his head, as if he were lecturing and a student just made a crucial connection. "Instead of transporting goods and people for honest and ethical reasons, the wrong people could transport dangerous material."

Chase continued the thread. "Illegal drugs could be transported across borders."

Fischer responded. "Large sums of money could be stolen from a bank vault. In and out without a trace."

Chase continued. "A terrorist could appear in the Oval Office and blow everybody up."

Fischer returned the volley. "A nuclear device could be delivered to the ten largest cities in North America and detonated on the same day. The list goes on."

The professor leaned back in his chair and heaved a deep sigh. "What else? What other disasters could this breakthrough do to harm mankind?"

"I've thought about that, too. I've been considering the ramifications of this for years. My parents were Catholics, charismatic Catholics, who believed the spiritual and physical worlds could interact. An example comes to mind; Jacob's Ladder in the book of Genesis where there was an actual, physical location here on earth where angels descended from heaven."

"But one doesn't need to be Christian to believe in the convergence of the spiritual realm, the metaphysical, and our world. Isn't that correct, Professor Manhattan?"

"Yes, that's true. Most civilizations from the dawn of mankind believed there is a spiritual world more real than our physical world."

Fischer chuckled and continued. "Stay with me. What if someone took a journey through a wormhole and brought something back with them—something they wouldn't be aware of with their five senses, yet something very much alive and ultimately unleashed on an unsuspecting world?"

Chase didn't miss a beat. "I remember when I graduated with my Ph.D. I thought I was so smart. I thought I'd discover amazing answers to problems that have plagued mankind for millennia. But I approached them in the physical realm. I remember sitting with my father and discussing this with him after I finished school."

Fischer formed a smirk reminiscent of Chase's father. "What did your father have to add to the conversation? I'm confident he had a perception of reality that was quite different than yours."

Chase nodded. "He did. He reminded me that our physical world is not so concrete after all. For example, the distance between an atom's nucleus and its electrons is vast, not to mention the distance between atoms themselves. An electron can orbit as much as 100,000 times the diameter of its respective atom's nucleus. This, of course, means solids such as these chairs we're sitting on are, in reality, made up of more space than matter."

"That's correct. It's the energy given off by negatively charged electrons attracted to the pull of the positively charged protons that causes the structural integrity we perceive when we see and touch solid objects."

"And then there's hyperspace. Parallel dimensions," Chase continued, wasting no time escalating the conversation to a higher level. "Theoretically, this is where the spiritual world could exist. A sort of parallel universe more real than our physical world. A place where angels and demons could effortlessly cross back and forth."

Fischer slammed his fists on the table. "Let's not stop there. What if a spirit, a spiritual hitchhiker, if you will, who was less than friendly, decided to latch onto a person traveling through a wormhole? Do you think that would be possible?"

Chase considered the question. "I'm not sure, Professor. If a person can travel from point A to point B, how can a spirit latch on and enter our world at the other end?"

Fischer was beaming with excitement. "Listen to me, Chase. May I call you Chase? We do not really have any idea what else is out there, but there is no reason to believe we are the only intelligent beings in the universe. That would be arrogant and asinine. There is no reason to believe whatever else is out there will necessarily have to obey the same laws of physics we do."

Chase continued. "The Bible does say a day is like 1,000 years, and 1,000 years are as a day to God. Although we may experience almost instantaneous transportation through a wormhole, time may not behave at all like we think it should within the wormhole."

Chase marveled at Fischer's demeanor. He looked like a new man, one just released from a prison. In a sense, he had been. Chase was someone Fischer could share his secrets as he demonstrated he had a balanced grasp on both the physical and the metaphysical sides of the subject.

"Chase, oh, and you can call me Nick. In fact, call me Nicky. All my friends do. Chase, I need your help."

Chase leaned back into the table. "That's why I flew all the way across the country, Nicky. Just tell me what you need."

"You obviously understand what I've been up to. There are currently six suitcases for opening and closing wormholes that I've developed over the course of the past ten years. All have been successfully tested. Three are for opening a wormhole on one end; sender cases. And three are for opening the other end; receiver cases."

Fischer's demeanor then dropped. He sighed deeply. "The problem is, they have fallen into the wrong hands."

"And you want me to locate and retrieve them?"

"Actually, I need you to destroy them."

Chase grew suspicious. "Nicky, why don't you have someone else do this for you? You have a son who works with you, correct? Why not ask him? Why waste time talking to an outsider like me?"

Sitting back up in his chair, Fischer dropped his bombshell.

"Isn't it apparent yet? The only other person who could know what I was doing, outside of the recently deceased Doctor Newcombe, would be my son, Nicholas junior."

Chase let the reality of the statement set in, then replied with astonishment. "Are you telling me you believe your son was the one who murdered those people?"

Fischer slumped in his chair. "He may not have been the actual killer, but he certainly played a major role. He planned everything. I'm pretty sure his group of friends he runs with are also involved. He made sure the murders were carried out. And, sadly, he framed me."

Chase stared intently at Fischer. He flew across the county to meet him on the premise he believed Fischer was somehow innocent of the murders. Yet Chase was hesitant to move forward with Fischer's plan of retrieving the suitcases.

"Chase, please listen to me. If there's any doubt in your heart, then you have to believe me when I say that I never killed those people. Although it's true the late senator and I disdained each other, I merely wanted to derail his political career by exposing inappropriate actions he indulged in. I swear to you, I never had any intention or involvement in murdering him."

Chase stood up and shook his head. "I don't know what to say."

Fischer stood as well. Shackled at the ankles, he shuffled over to Chase. "Just say you'll find the suitcases and destroy them. Its clear mankind is not ready for this breakthrough."

Chase had been faced with a similar decision when he agreed to retrieve the stolen flash drive in Las Vegas. He was not a person who normally broke into a place with the intention of taking items that did not belong to him, especially items that would be of special interest to police investigating the murder of a state senator.

But he understood highly advanced technologies in the wrong hands could harm countless innocent lives. In a utilitarian sense, Chase believed the moral worth of his actions and the contribution to the greater good of mankind outweighed the ethical dilemma of breaking the law.

Considering the potential consequences of Professor Fischer's son's future actions, he felt a moral obligation to stop further murders, and that the end would certainly justify the means.

"I guess I can do that."

Chase and Nicky were now standing a few feet apart, staring each other down, as if they were at the pinnacle of the most monumental negotiating session in the history of humankind.

"But there's still one more question that you have yet to address."

"Indeed, there is," an ardent Fischer replied, forming a full ear-to-ear smile. "You wish to know the source of energy the suitcases use to open the wormholes."

"Either you've harnessed the power of antimatter, or you're using nuclear material."

Nicky stepped back, still grinning. "Guilty as charged. There are only six enriched uranium and plutonium batteries left, out of eight, that I originally built. My son Nicholas must have found some of the cases and batteries and used them to kill O'Connor. I believe this is where Rosie Contreras, the murdered State House employee, enters the picture. She was used to smuggle a receiver suitcase into the State House and bring the transporter out. She was killed shortly after. Again, these suitcases really do work."

Chase was skeptical. "How can these battery packs have the energy to open and close wormholes? Wouldn't an almost infinite amount of power be necessary to accomplish this?"

Fischer laughed loud. "Chase, we're not traveling through time. Nor are we traversing from our galaxy to another galaxy. We're not even traveling to another world within our own Milky Way. That would require energy from black holes or a gravitational pull beyond our means. All we are doing is opening and closing wormholes on a far smaller scale here on planet Earth.

"Consider this. A three thousand-mile wormhole from Boston to Los Angeles would require the smallest fraction of the energy needed to open a wormhole from earth to another planet within our own Milky Way. Although a one-kiloton battery on both ends of a wormhole may seem extreme to us, this is less than a minute fraction of the energy needed to visit a nearby solar system. A three thousand-mile journey through a wormhole is not unreachable. Certainly a cross-town journey, like the one my son used to murder Senator O'Connor, is possible."

Chase understood he needed to carry out Fischer's request to destroy the suitcases and the batteries. The cases would be easy. But the nuclear powered batteries would take considerable planning.

"I'll need help. I'm not in a position to do this by myself."

Fischer nodded in agreement. "I suggest you start at my offices. The police have finished their investigations there and my son has been working in the labs. I suspect he has four of the suitcases and the batteries stored somewhere off campus. But there are still two more in one of my labs hidden in the bottom of an old oak cabinet. You can't miss it, as it is unique to everything else in the room. There's twelve inches between the base of the cabinet and the floor where I have a transporter and a receiver suitcase hidden. You can start with those."

"But how do I get in there?"

"I'll make arrangements through my attorney Jacob Buerling. My son probably doesn't realize I know he's responsible for these recent events, so we have the elements of discretion and surprise on our side. Jacob will tell him you're an associate of mine from out of town picking up a few small but expensive items that I borrowed from you. Just make it look good and pick up something that looks innocent enough, but somewhat valuable.

"However, it'll be up to you as to how you retrieve the suitcases. I suggest you send Jacob a text message to call Nicky a few minutes after you enter the building. That will be his cue to call my son and ask him to retrieve documents from my office that relate to my case. That should provide the diversion you need."

Chase took a deep breath. "Okay, Nicky, I'll do it. I'll retrieve the cases, and then I'll find a way to destroy them."

Nicholas Fischer appeared relieved and hopeful. "Thank you, Chase. I know I can count on you. Remember, the two cases in the oak cabinet do not have batteries, so transporting them in public should not be a problem. Once opened, they look like a geeky scientist's suitcase with a keyboard and not much more. They appear innocent enough."

Chase was reluctant. "Are you sure? I mean, these metallic suitcases don't sound like your average laptops one would take through an airport security checkpoint."

"Don't worry. I've taken them through numerous checkpoints without any problems. Without the nuclear batteries, of course. In fact, I took one through a TSA checkpoint here at Logan and flew to La Guardia, and then back again. It drew the scrutiny of the TSA security, but they eventually let me through with no problem."

Chase talked Fischer for another ten minutes. The elder professor enlightened Chase on other pieces of the wormhole puzzle, possible unforeseen risks, and implications that could benefit or harm humankind, depending on who possessed the suitcases and the nuclear-powered batteries he developed.

Finally, the door opened. The deputies walked in and escorted Professor Fischer back to his isolated cell. Buerling peeked into the room, glared at Chase, and gave him a firm gesture with his middle finger, then quickly left. Chase stood alone in silence for a few minutes to gather his thoughts and showed himself out.
Chapter 28 MIT

It was ten o'clock in the morning. The cab carrying Chase crossed the Harvard Bridge over the Charles River. Chase had been here once before while on vacation in New York. He had taken a day to drive up to Boston, explore the city, and spend the afternoon touring the 168 acre MIT campus.

The college stretched out along a one mile path parallel to the Charles River. Looking across to Back Bay, Chase could see downtown Boston and its skyline from an impressive viewpoint. It was beautiful to see some of Boston's tallest skyscrapers reflecting off the surface of the water.

The cab stopped in front of Building 1 at 33 Massachusetts Avenue. Spread across thirteen different buildings and linked by sunlit walkways was the Physics Department. Chase would have to meander through five buildings before reaching Eastman Laboratories.

MIT had undergone its third revitalization plan in its esteemed history as ten new major construction programs transformed the campus once again. In Chase's eyes, the progressive yet inconsistent architecture such as the Stata Center for Computer, Information and Intelligence Sciences resembled an adult version of Toontown in Disneyland. But he realized there was continuity in the complex as the buildings were interconnected, a feature that was appreciated on bitterly cold days—like this one.

Chase remembered in many sections of the campus, the buildings were not laid out in numerical order—or any order. While wandering the halls during his previous visit, he noticed Building 50 was situated between buildings 14, 18, 54, and 62.

However, buildings ending in the number 6 were all connected, but in typical MIT fashion, not in numerical order. Chase had stubbornly tried to figure out the maze of corridors without asking for help and had gotten lost.

Despite the freezing cold, Chase slowly strolled into Building 1, taking a few moments to try to get a feel for the campus once again. He passed people bundled up in parkas and scarves, walking briskly up and down the sidewalk. He thought about the warm, balmy weather he left the night before and hoped he could reschedule a flight out of Boston later that evening.

Jacob Buerling had set up a meeting between Chase and Nicholas Fischer, Jr. Chase was to meet him inside Building 1, otherwise known as Pierce Laboratory. Once inside the doors, a tall, thin, young man with short dark brown curly hair and elongated facial features trotted up to meet him. He wore a charming and welcoming smile and extended his right arm while ten steps away, covering the distance in a matter of a few seconds.

"You must be Professor Manhattan. Welcome to Cambridge. I'm Nicholas Fischer, Junior. Please call me Nicky," he said with a little more enthusiasm than Chase had anticipated.

Nicky wore black jeans, a thin, dark blue turtleneck sweater, and black tennis shoes. Chase immediately despised the man. He wanted nothing more than to retrieve the two suitcases and get out as fast as he could. He held out his hand and shook Nicky's while forcing a smile. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I appreciate it."

"Always a pleasure to meet one of my father's associates. I understand you're here to retrieve a few items you lent him?"

"That's right. I should be able to fit them into a banker's box, if you have one I could use."

"I'm sure I do. I'll take you up to the labs right now."

Nicky led Chase through the interconnected buildings 1, 3, 10, 4, and into Pierce Laboratory. Chase tried to avoid engaging in conversation and was glad Nicky carried on a monologue. He acted as a tour guide, pointing out areas of interest as they walked, detailing historical facts, famous alumni, and some of the cutting edge projects MIT was currently involved with.

"MIT is one of the most prestigious schools in the nation, having produced over eighty Nobel laureates and forty three Rhodes Scholars."

"That's quite a legacy." Chase wanted to keep his responses short. It was bad enough to have to listen to the killer. He didn't want to waste time prolonging his visit by responding.

Nicky then began talking about himself and some of his projects. Chase noted he neglected to mention anything regarding his father's breakthrough in wormholes, or anything concerning his father.

"I hope to win the Nobel Prize in Physics one day. You wouldn't believe the amazing things my staff and I are on the cusp of discovering."

Chase saw Fischer's son was nothing like his father. He was self-absorbed, and Chase was convinced he was delusional and driven by a nervous energy mixed with a touch of madness. Nicky showed no signs of sorrow or remorse that he was responsible for the recent string of murders and then framing his own father.

But Chase played along and feigned interest, occasionally nodding his head and looking around as if he were a fascinated tourist experiencing the place for the first time. They entered Eastman Laboratories, took the elevator up to the third floor, and walked to one of three laboratories the elder Fischer had shared with his son.

"The two large labs are open to students and staff," Nicky said, leading the way. "But only I have access to this third, smaller storage room that doubles as a lab."

Chase took special interest when Nicky told him about the exclusive use of the third lab as they approached the door. Chase surmised junior used this room to send the murderer through a wormhole to kill Senator O'Connor.

Nicky was still talking while he unlocked the door and let Chase in. The lab was fairly small. Chase estimated it was 700 square feet. There was nothing unique or distinguishing about it compared to any other lab. It was filled with the standard stainless steel tables, filing and storage cabinets, and a dozen computers and monitors.

Once inside, Nicky finally stopped talking and looked at Chase as if he were expecting an ovation from his long-winded discussion. Chase was completely repulsed. For a few moments, the pleasant thought passed through his mind about reaching out and punching this smug and obnoxious man in the face.

Junior would never have known what hit him. He could literally beat the hell out of him, and no witnesses were around. Instead, Chase mustered up all his inner strength and restrained himself from acting on his impulses.

"I'm impressed with the forward thinking and vision you and your staff have," Chase said, with well-acted graciousness.

"My pleasure, Professor Manhattan. I believe the breakthroughs I'm on the brink of discovering could change the world we live in practically overnight."

Chase had enough of Nicky. His hands still in the pockets of his leather jacket, he hit the send button on his cell phone that delivered the prewritten text message to Buerling notifying him to call Nicky.

Chase then looked around the laboratory. He started to list a few items Professor Fischer told him would be there, pointing to them as he called them out while Nicky continued to talk about himself and his work. Then Nicky's cell phone rang.

Nicky interrupted himself. "Excuse me, Professor."

He took a few steps away from his guest to take the call. Chase looked around the lab and spotted the old oak cabinet the professor described. It was twenty feet from him against a wall. He remained standing just inside the door of the lab and waited for Buerling to carry out his role. Two minutes later, Nicky ended his call and faced Chase.

"Professor Manhattan, please excuse me for a few minutes. I need to go to my father's office and take care of some business. I'll be right back. Please feel free to take a look around for your items. I'll bring a box back for you to put them in."

Once Nicky stepped out the door, Chase ran over to the cabinet. He bent down, opened the two doors on the front, and emptied the bottom shelf of its contents. Lacking proper tools and the time to remove the base as he had been instructed by the professor, he smashed his left palm into the floorboard and made a hole.

He pried off the thin boards lining the bottom of the cabinet. Chase stared for a few moments at the silver and black suitcases that lay side by side on the cold, gray concrete.

His heart raced as he picked up first the silver transporter suitcase with his right hand and then the black receiver suitcase with his left. In his two arms, he held one of the deepest and most sought-after secrets of the universe.

There was no time to waste. Chase tossed the contents back into the cabinet and closed the doors. He walked out of the lab and into the hallway as fast as he could while trying not to look conspicuous. Fischer had given Chase a verbal layout of his office and the labs. Since the office was farther down the hall, Chase knew he could make it back to the elevator without having to pass Nicky on his way out.

Not wanting to chance Nicky walking the halls looking for him while he stood waiting for the elevator to make its way to the third floor, Chase opted for the stairwell. He cleared four to five stairs at a time.

At the bottom Chase slowed his pace to a brisk walk and made his way back to Building I and out the front door to his waiting cab. He jumped in the backseat.

"Take me back to Logan Airport as fast as you can," he told the driver, handing him a hundred dollar bill as an incentive. "And can you zig-zag for a few streets once you cross into Boston? I'm trying to avoid an ex-girlfriend who's been following me."

Chase learned a long time ago it paid to be paranoid. He did not want to take the chance Nicky could follow him out the building and trail him. The yellow and orange taxi made a three-point turn and sped back over the Charles River and into Boston.

* * *

Back in Cambridge on Massachusetts Avenue, Jacob Buerling sat in his black Lincoln Navigator three blocks north from where the cab sped away with Chase and the two suitcases. He set his binoculars down on the passenger seat, picked up a yellow legal pad of paper, and noted the events that had just transpired and the time.

He took a sip of his coffee and cursed under his breath, wondering what this second-class citizen from Southern California was really doing. He had humored the senior Fischer and Chase only because he saw his case was going nowhere and needed a break.

But now his client pulled some type of shenanigans and was withholding vital information. He was certain an illegal activity occurred inside Eastman Laboratories.

He thought back to the information he received from one of his contacts regarding a suitcase stolen from Globalized Dynamics' New Haven laboratories. A suitcase that was worth killing Fischer's partner, Doctor Gloria Newcombe, one of their top research scientists, and three other employees.

Buerling had no idea what was inside the two cases that Chase walked out of the building with. But he had been in this business a long time, had a lot of money, a network of contacts across the country, and a prideful mean streak that would not allow anybody to make a fool out of him.

Buerling tried to catch up to the cab, but he skidded on a patch of ice and his Escalade jumped the curb. That was the last he saw of the vehicle. Buerling spent twenty minutes driving through the streets of Back Bay, but eventually had to admit he'd lost them.
Chapter 29 Missing Treasure

Nicholas Fischer Junior finished gathering the documents Jacob Buerling asked him to put together. He failed to grasp the importance of these files but followed through anyway. Nicky did not want to display negative behavior that might attract unwanted attention as the investigation of his father proceeded.

Nicky reveled in his meticulous planning and cunning. He did, however, acknowledge his biggest blunder; using the storage room to send Staci to kill O'Connor the same day his father came to work early to his office.

That event was not anticipated considering the snowstorm and the early morning hour. Father and son could have easily crossed paths in the hallways.

But overall, his excellent play-acting abilities fooled everybody, including the two detectives who questioned him about his father regarding the recent murders. Fortunately, he was in the presence of his mother, and the direction of the investigation fell mainly upon her.

For all Nicky cared, his father could rot in jail. He did not plan on visiting him again. Ever. Instead, Nicky would move forward with his vision to change the world in ways not seen since the Renaissance, the Industrial Revolution, or the Information Age.

He had more important things to occupy his attention. He would be the master architect who would usher in new global changes and advances engineered by science rather than greed.

Nicky walked back into the lab where he left Professor Manhattan a few minutes earlier, with an empty banker's box in one hand and a manila folder holding the documents Buerling requested in the other. His heart thumped in his chest when he saw the room empty.

Nicky yelled out, "Professor Manhattan. Where are you?"

No reply.

Growing suspicious a professor would take sensitive equipment out of the lab not in the protection of a box, he dropped the banker's box and manila file on the floor. His guest, or more likely an intruder, had an ulterior motive.

Nicky ran through the lab looking for anything amiss. Junior was obsessive-compulsive when it came to order. He had a place for everything and kept everything in its place.

Nicky bolted from table to table, opening then closing every drawer. If anything was missing, he would know; the items would be out of the precise order he had arranged them.

Nicky approached the old oak cabinet. Small p _ieces of splintered wood lay scattered on the cement floor. He jerked open the_ two front doors. Inside were boxes, files, and large broken pieces of the floorboard haphazardly strewn about.

He dropped to his knees and hurled the contents out across the floor, then stared at what appeared to be a hiding place between the bottom of the cabinet and the gray cement floor. A secret compartment just big enough to house the remaining two suitcases for which he had been desperately searching.

Stunned, Nicky slowly stood. His head was a swirling mass of emotions ranging from rage to terror. His father clearly understood what had been taking place behind the scenes the past few days, and had now taken the offensive from behind bars.

He underestimated his father. The last time Nicky visited him in jail, he was with his mother, and the senior Fischer was a rambling mess who struggled to put a noun and a verb together. But now he obviously had a plan. He was organized and had competent people working with him to turn the situation to his favor.

Cursing silently, Nicky ran down the hallway and descended the stairwell. He burst out the door on the first floor and ran toward Building 1, feverishly looking around the near-empty lobby. He pulled out his cell phone and called Buerling while sprinting to the front door.

Buerling's phone rang once. Twice. Nicky was breathing erratically, but composed enough to converse. "Come on, pick up you jerk of an attorney."

He kicked open the front door and was now looking out onto Massachusetts Avenue.

***

Buerling looked at Nicky's name on his caller ID. The plot thickens. He answered.

"Mr. Buerling, can you explain what's going on here?"

"I'm not sure I understand what you're talking about, Nicky."

"You send over this professor named Chase Manhattan who you tell me is an associate of my father. Then, once he's inside the lab, you call me to my office to retrieve some documents."

Buerling understood the two cases Chase walked out with were stolen, and Nicholas Fischer Senior had used him to provide the distraction. He was convinced that whatever was transpiring with the senior Fischer and Chase Manhattan, the younger Fischer was not privy to.

"Nicky, I was merely following through with your father's request to assist Professor Manhattan on retrieving personal items he loaned him, and to have you retrieve files I need for his case. That is all," Buerling said in a monotone.

"I need to speak with Professor Manhattan. Where does he live? Do you have his phone number?"

Buerling heard the urgency in his voice and knew he could have Nicky do his dirty work for him. Why go through expensive channels to uncover covert events unfolding behind his back.

"Is something wrong, Nicky? Is everything okay?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"No, um ... yes. Yes, everything's okay. He left while I went back to my office when I was on the phone with you. I think he may have taken items I was using for a very important project. I just need to verify what he took, that's all."

Buerling was skilled at interpreting what existed below the surface of a conversation, and he could hear the lie in Nicky's stammering voice. He was convinced the contents in the cases would answer the most important questions he had regarding his case. He also understood there was something else at stake transcending the defense of Professor Nicholas Fischer.

Buerling knew whatever Chase took from the laboratory was of such monumental importance that he placed the well-being of his client on the back burner and gave the secret of the suitcases his number one priority. He decided to give Chase's address to Nicky and monitor events from a distance.

"Sure Nicky," Buerling said, "Professor Manhattan lives in Laguna Beach, California. It's in Orange County, south of Los Angeles. He's a professor at the University of California in Irvine."

"California? I don't understand. Why is someone from California here at my labs?"

Jacob noticed the words my labs that Nicky subconsciously used. "You'll have to ask your father. I was merely following his instructions. Are you sure everything is okay, Nicky? Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked with a smirk on his face and a false hint of compassion that was second nature to him. "Please let me know if I can do anything else for you."

"No. No, I'm okay." Nicky's tone was bordering on blatant sarcasm. "Thanks for all your ... help. I have to go now. Please tell my father I said hello when you see him again."
Chapter 30 The Plan

Nicky dialed his good friend and one of the people in his inner circle, Khyati Dasmunsi, who he knew would be home from school. Khyati was born and raised in Mumbai, India, spoke fluent English, yet retained a little of her Indian accent. Her parents had sent her to MIT when she was eighteen to study computer science.

Like Staci, she was a nerd at heart, but lacked the extreme attractive looks and physical abilities Staci possessed. Khyati more than made up for these deficiencies in the way she carried herself and by her self-confidence and proper upbringing that translated into a particular sexiness.

She was pretty and took care of herself in a simple manner most men found attractive. On the surface, she seemed shy and even timid. But those she allowed in her inner circle of friends came to know her as fun-loving, quick-witted, and a clever practical jokester.

Khyati had worked as a professional hacker for some of the most sophisticated security system companies in the country. She started as a designer of computer and network systems, but her managers soon realized her talent for finding gaps in her coworkers' work. Originally a white-hat hacker, she went to great lengths to identify and exploit gaps in existing systems, then developed solutions to close the gaps and mitigate risk.

In short time, Khyati's expertise was in high demand. She was employed in the private and corporate world to break into their security and network systems and expose weaknesses.

Soon, the federal government approached her, employing her to find holes in some of their most sensitive security systems. Khyati did not come cheap. She could name her price.

But the security business was a game of cat-and-mouse, where the good guys and the bad guys were in a constant struggle to devise new ways to outwit each other. The latter proved to be more challenging, and paid better.

Khyati transitioned into the shady world of working as a grey hacker, where she used illegal black-hat techniques to satisfy her employer's needs, such as spying on unscrupulous people without a search warrant. These acts may not have been malicious in nature, but they were illegal acts, and crimes had been committed.

She grew bored and the thrill of being a black-hat hacker, or a cracker, soon became the outlet of her creativity and curiosity. In the past year, she found herself taking fewer honest jobs and accepting assignments that crossed the gray line into the black-hat realm.

She picked up on the first ring.

"Khyati," Nicky said before she could say hello. "I need you to find out everything you can about a Chase Manhattan in Laguna Beach, California. He's a professor at the University of California at Irvine."

"I can do that. I'm eating an early lunch now. Do you need this information right away? You sound frantic."

"Listen, my father and his attorney arranged for a man named Professor Chase Manhattan to visit the laboratory on campus. Long story short, he managed to walk away with the two missing suitcases we've been looking for."

Nicky heard the sound of a chair scooting back and Khyati walking across the room. After he'd heard a trash can lid flip open and something dumped in, Khyati said, "Chase Manhattan? What kind of name is that? Anyway, he should be easy to profile. Give me a couple hours. I'll have it for you."

"I'll be at your place shortly. I'll also need a false identity in order to fly Staci to California and bring back the two cases. She'll need a driver's license and credit cards. I'll have her get a haircut on the way over and pick up some black or brown hair dye."

"We can easily do that. I'm walking down the basement stairs now. I'll see you when you get here."

Nicky ended that call, hit the preprogrammed number for Staci Bevere, and explained the chain of events to her. Less than an hour later, Nicky heard a knock from Khyati's basement.

He sprinted up the stairs and opened the kitchen door, and was startled at Staci's new look. Gone was the blonde ponytail that she'd kept for the past fifteen years—and in its place was a flirtatious, shoulder-length angled bob haircut. Staci stepped inside the door and Nicky led her to the basement.

Nicky nodded his approval with his eyes lit up and said, "Wow! Looks great, Staci—that's a terrific look for you. Sexy."

"Men, you're all alike," she said, stopping halfway down the stairs, turning around and modeling the back of her new hair style. "I know what you're thinking."

"Honestly, I like it. It's time you lost the ponytail anyway."

"I saw a picture of Emma Stone sporting this style on the cover of an entertainment magazine at the salon and thought it'd be a good choice for this particular assignment."

At the bottom of the stairs, Staci stopped to look in a small mirror on the wall and run her fingers through her hair. "Maybe I just need a few days to get used to it."

Nicky ran his hands over her shoulders and kissed her on the neck. "I like it a lot. I can't tell you how much better you look with it."

She smiled at him in the mirror. "Well then, if you like it so much you can help me dye it black."

She shoved the bag with the dye, a plastic smock, and plastic gloves in his chest. "Okay, let's get busy."

By two p.m., Khyati had completed Staci Bevere's new identity. Nicky hardly recognized his girlfriend. But he wasn't about to complain. The makeover, meant to disguise her simple yet beautiful looks, transformed Staci to look far more like a Victoria Secret's model; wholesome, but with curves and a sensuous beauty that was confident and appealing, rocking what she was naturally born with.

Khyati snapped her fingers in front of Nicky's eyes to bring him back. "Okay, listen up—I've called a friend who works at the New Hampshire Department of Motor Vehicles and e-mailed him the picture of a certain smiling young lady sporting her new jet black hairstyle. Johnny and Mina are driving there now to pick up the driver's license."

Khyati smiled and bobbed her head in Staci's direction. "Staci, you are now Cathy Bennett of Concord, New Hampshire. It's an identity I created a few months earlier, complete with credit cards, ATM debit cards, and more than twenty four thousand dollars spread out over three bank accounts. I've booked a round trip flight for Orange County. It's the last flight leaving tonight. First class, of course. And I have a pre-paid cell phone you can use and dispose when you're finished."

"I'm impressed," Nicky said.

"Shouldn't be. Standard MO for me, you should know by now. I like to be prepared for these occasions when they arise."

Nicky bowed and said in mock acquiescence, "Pardon me. I stand corrected." They both laughed.

Staci stared in the mirror, looking at her left and right profiles and modeling various poses and facial expressions. Nicky sat on a chair staring at her and fantasized lustful thoughts about his girlfriend's new look.

He shook his head free of the bedroom images and said, "All right, people. We still have lots of work to do. Let's get to it."

The logistics for this trip were demanding, especially with a very small time frame to work with. But Nicky had an ace up his sleeve. In fact, three of them.

Three graduate students at the University of California at Santa Barbara were actively part of his new vision for the world. They had met at a symposium in San Francisco the year before regarding the latest advancements in applied physics.

They learned they had the same interests, the same disdain for the current state of the world, and the same vision for the immediate future. They felt confident they could replace the current failures caused by inefficient governments, large greedy global conglomerates, and even larger banking institutions with a science-based oligarchy leading the way with breakthroughs in physics, biochemistry, and nanotechnology.

Nicky leaked information regarding the possible breakthrough in wormholes and how they could use this discovery to change the world. The three UC Santa Barbara physics students were ecstatic about being a part of Nicky's venture, and claimed to have connections to a sophisticated, competent, organized, and vicious group skilled in the dirty work that people like Nicky did not have the ability to perform.

He made the call. He needed somebody to coordinate transportation, a hotel, a geographic overview of the Southland, and a ham sandwich for Staci.

The cost was high. It would take Nicky a full day to wire the $100,000 broken down into eleven smaller increments so he would not have to leave a paper trail for Homeland Security looking for money launderers. This was the same money he used to lure Rosie Contreras to plant the receiver suitcase in the State House and smuggle the transporter out.

But the effort and the cash would be a small price to pay for Nicky to get his plan back on track. He would retrieve the two suitcases and kill the only witness who was privy to what transpired in Boston the previous week. Nicky accepted Chase Manhattan's challenge as to who would control this brilliant, life-changing discovery.

He considered the odds. He was the home team. He still had four cases and the six nuclear-powered battery packs. He believed he maintained the momentum. He had a network of graduate students. He possessed the vision, and he was about to buy himself the services of a crime syndicate that would give him the support necessary to clean things up on the West Coast.

Nicky stroked his chin. There'll be no loose ends left, Nicky thought. He liked his odds very much. Time to roll the dice. He was ready to go.
Chapter 31 Sensei Masakata

Driving a red and white Ducati Desmosedici GP15 from Los Angeles north on the coastal highway to Santa Barbara was a dream co me true for Staci Bevere. Leaving one of the worst snowstorms in recent memory for sunny days in the mid-seventies was the source of revitalization she desperately needed. The 100-mile ride north on Highway 1 snaked its way through some of the most beautiful and expensive real estate in Southern California.

The crime syndicate arranged transportation along with a hotel and additional supporting personnel in Orange County for the next three days. Staci requested a motorcycle. It was waiting for her in a parking structure at Los Angeles International Airport. Growing up with three brothers, she became an experienced rider, especially off-road, at a young age.

Staci wasted no time making her way north on Century Boulevard and onto Coast Highway. She had no luggage as the syndicate had prepared fresh changes of clothing waiting for her at her hotel room in Orange County. All she'd brought was the knapsack on her back containing the leathers she was now wearing.

Staci's destination was a Spanish-style villa north of Santa Barbara on the seaward side of Highway 101. A half mile separated the anonymous country estate from the highway, and 300 feet of rocky bluffs separated it from the Pacific Ocean.

The ringleader of the syndicate, Sensei Masakata, rarely accepted visitors, especially strangers. But Staci came highly recommended, and a large sum of cash was wired to him the day before.

It was easy to miss the dirt-road entrance. Most drove by without noticing or giving it a second thought if they did see it. The entrance gate divided two pale pink, nondescript, fifteen-foot-high cracked stucco-covered walls that spread out over the 162-acre confine.

Staci pulled up to the call box, took off her helmet, and pushed the black speaker phone button. She uttered the Japanese words, **Al suru** **, which translated means** **to love** **.**

**The gate opened. Staci made her way up the half-mile dirt path that led to the villa where she would prepare for her main task. The scrub, dirt, and rocks dominating the scenery gave way to a beautifully landscaped yard with terraced gardens of plants and flowers, many of which she had never seen before.**

**The villa looked small at first glance. The scent of salt greeted her nostrils. She deduced that what she saw was merely the entrance. The rest of the house would descend down the slope two or three levels and stop at the edge of a cliff hundreds of feet above the shoreline.**

**She suspected there was no beach at the bottom of the bluffs, just a sheer wall of rock ascending straight up out of the water to the base of the villa. The place was more like a fortress rather than another multimillion-dollar home lining the seashore. Although the exterior was distinctively Mediterranean, she understood that, in typical Japanese fashion, the outside of the building gave no hint as to what was inside.**

**Staci expected to be met by bodyguards. Instead,** **a gentle cool ocean breeze swept around the north side of the villa's rounded walls** **and greeted her.** **She took a few minutes to relax from her ride and attempt to distinguish the different scents given off by the flowering plants in the terraced gardens.**

**Although she did not recognize all of the aromas, she was able to separate and identify twelve distinctive fragrances.** **Th** **e fact that she was to enter the villa without escort told her there were tests to pass. Smell was the first. Clearly, there were four more waiting.**

**Staci walked up to the front door, took off her black leather boots, and let herself in. The foyer was dark except for a dimly lit path of small candles extending forward twelve paces and leading down twelve steps to a second level. She slowly walked across the travertine tile, allowing her eyes time to adjust from the bright sunlight to the barely lit indoors.**

**Inwardly, she chided herself as she descended to the next level; fairly certain she passed the first test but failed the second. Had the situation demanded, she would not be able to use her sight to defend herself.**

**The third test, she was certain, was to identify who or what was in the shadows to her left and her right. She held her breath and stepped forward through the candlelit path. Staci faintly made out the sounds of breathing from three different sources, two on the left and one on the right. She was now two out of three.**

**The path wound to the right and down another set of twelve stairs where the aisle of candles stopped. The hallway had three shoji screen dividers on the right and one at the end.**

**Staci proceeded forward with cautious steps, feeling each rice paper screen on her right with the palms of her hands. Only one divider, the middle, had a slight variation in temperature. She deduced there was activity in this room and entered.**

**Four candles, one in each of the four corners of the room, provided minimal lighting. In the center was a** traditional Japanese rectangular kotatsu table. On the table sat three indigo porcelain cups of green tea that sat upon three woven straw tatami placemats and three matching coasters.

She understood she had to select the favorable tea—that is, the Japanese tea—over two close competitors. Sitting down in a seiza position and facing the door with her back to the far wall, she sampled all three.

Staci took her time smelling and sipping each cup, allowing the liquid to wash gently over her tongue, and pausing for thirty seconds between each taste. The four candles in the corners were made of herbs and lacked chemicals. As she savored the drinks, she inhaled the faint, delicate aroma of the burning candles.

Staci deduced the herbs in the candles were grown in Japan and their aroma would complement and enhance the Japanese green tea. Halfway through the three cups, she knew which was the Japanese tea. The other two were grown somewhere other than Japan, probably China or India.

There had been four tests requiring extraordinary use of each of the physical senses. Staci was three for four. Not bad, she thought, after a cross-country, red-eye flight and a two-hour motorcycle ride. But probably not good enough for the master teacher. She stood up from her seiza position, walked out of the room, and proceeded to the end of the hallway to the fourth and last shoji door.

She opened it and entered a classical Japanese room, forty-by-forty feet, with tatami mats lining the floor and a single shoji lamp centered on the ceiling. On the left and right sides, elegant sliding shoji double doors made with opaque rice paper allowed diffused light to seep through, giving off a soft amber color and allowing a soothing effect to emanate across the room.

A single-planed red cedar tree trunk divided the far wall. On the left was a tokonoma, featuring a black-and-white silk hanging scroll. On the right, a chigaidana sparsely furnished with Japanese artifacts and small paintings.

Sensei Masakata sat at the kotatsu table with his back to Staci. To the uninitiated, this might seem a bit odd. But the guest of honor sits at the seat farthest from the door with the tokonoma behind him or her. This was a good sign. Staci felt far more confident than she had before entering the room a few moments ago.

She slowly and gracefully walked to the far side of the table and sat in the traditional seiza position for Japanese women. She briefly looked at the teacher as she sat down. He was older than she imagined but had a vibrancy and energy that made him look twenty years younger.

On the table: a simple lunch in dark green bowls with pink lotus blossoms. The dishes included noodles, dried seaweed, and pickled vegetables. In the center of the table was an antique black-and-white glazed porcelain serving bottle of slightly warm sake.

She bowed her head and humbly said, "Itadakimasu," a Japanese pleasantry which means, I gratefully receive. The teacher was the first to act. He picked up the dish of noodles, placed a healthy portion on his plate, and passed the dish to Staci. She only took half the amount, which raised an eyebrow from the teacher.

"I cannot perform business on a full stomach," she said in a most humble tone.

The teacher grunted, helped himself to the dry seaweed and pickled vegetables, and passed the simple dishes to Staci. Sensei Masakata looked up at Staci with one eye as she feigned pleasure at eating the pickled vegetables. She doubted her performance fooled the teacher.

After finishing her meal, Staci placed her dishes back in the same places they were when she first sat down and set her chopsticks back on the chopstick holder. She bowed her head again and said, "Gochisosama," which translated is a simple show of gratitude for the meal just eaten.

The teacher finally spoke in Japanese to Staci. "Tell me, how many different flowers did you smell while standing at the front of the villa?"

"Twelve, Teacher. Some I recognized and some were new to me for the first time," she said in her best Japanese.

"There were fifteen in all." He frowned. "But twelve is the best to date. Nobody else has discerned more than eight distinct scents. You passed the first test."

Staci nodded her head.

"But you failed miserably the second. I could have easily killed you as soon as you closed the front door."

"I should have covered one eye for a minute before entering so at least one of them would have been accustomed to the dark."

"How many people were on the second level?"

"Three," Staci said confidently. "Two on the left and one on the right."

"Hmmm," the teacher growled in a low tone. "I'll have to have a word with my three bodyguards later. How did you know which door to enter on the third level?"

"I could feel a slight variation in temperature on the middle door."

Sensei Masakata paused for thirty seconds, then said, "Which tea was the Japanese tea?"

"The cup on the left. I had difficulty distinguishing a difference between the three, but the herbs in the Japanese candles gave me the hint that I needed."

"There is nothing wrong with using one sense to aid a second sense in making a distinction." He smiled slightly for the first time. "Very good. Even though you failed the vision test, you were able to use your other senses to pass the other."

"And my final test, Master?"

"Your Japanese is good but not great. We'll stay with English for the remainder of the day. Yes, you passed that test as well. But only because I grade on a curve for Americans."

"Am I ready to proceed, Teacher?"

"Not yet," his tone and face expressed anger. "You have a problem many Americans have. You take drugs and use alcohol for recreational purposes. They serve as a crutch when you are emotionally unstable. You need a clear head if you wish to proceed to the next level. You also take foolish chances and make bad decisions. You need to keep things simple and filter out distractions or they can become the root of defeat or even death for you."

Staci looked with mouth agape. She did not know how the teacher would possibly know this other than he was gifted in the ability to see into the inner soul and spirit of people.

"And you also smoke cigarettes. You are weak in this area and must stop. Immediately. Before we go any further."

He slammed his fist on the table for emphasis, stood up, and walked out the door.
Chapter 32 Ham Sandwich

Sensei Masakata and his assistant Ueshiba Funakoshi stood together, studying the young man sitting in zazen meditation. They watched for twenty minutes through a small one-way mirror at the southwest corner of the room. From there, they could observe the action from every angle. So far, there wasn't much to see as he sat and continued meditating in a lotus position as he had much of the day.

Sensei Masakata initiated the normal wager with his assistant. "I believe the girl, although lacking in judgment and wisdom, will prevail."

"I will gladly wager on the tall male," he replied to his master with a confident smile. "You are correct in that she lacks wisdom. She will lose within the first three minutes."

Sensei Masakata looked sternly at Ueshiba. "You mention lacking wisdom, and yet you wager on the one who so foolishly ended up here?"

"Foolishly?"

"He's a fool, and an arrogant, overconfident, womanizing, drunkard one at that. He fell right into the trap I laid for him. Followed the girls I sent to the bar to lure him to one of their homes. And he's engaged to be married. Add immoral and a cheat to his resume."

He gave a disdainful glance at the youthful man, then turned back to Ueshiba. "No wonder he's been sitting all day. He has to be confused. One day he's a salesman for a door and window company from Thousand Oaks. The next thing he knows he's sitting in the death room."

Sensei's chest jerked with a short chuckle. "He's trying to figure out how he wound up here, and how he plans to get out alive. And again I say, he will not leave alive. The girl will defeat him and make a mockery of his pathetic black belt."

Sensei laughed out loud as Ueshiba looked down at the floor, pausing in thought. He lifted his eyes back up to look at his master. "Perhaps he is a fool to have been tricked by your cunning—many men so young can be lured by the promise of sex with attractive young females. But he is tall and muscular, much larger than the girl, and I maintain he can use that to his advantage and be more than a match for her skill."

Sensei grunted and spit air. "You will lose, but I do think that the he will present her with a formidable challenge. That is why I chose him. The girl must prove herself against a worthy adversary."

"We will see. Where is the girl now?"

"I had two of our female assistants—the same two who seduced and drugged him," Sensei nodded toward the meditating youth, "take her to a quiet room where she can bathe, change her clothes, and meditate for an hour."

Ueshiba looked at a wall clock. "When does the match begin?"

"At two o'clock. The girl said to me, and this is funny, Ueshiba, she wanted to allow that much time for her ham sandwich to be prepared."

"Ham sandwich?"

Sensei started to chuckle. "Yes, ham sandwich. Apparently that is her favorite food, so she chose that term," Sensei was outright laughing now, "to call her victim." He rocked so hard in laughter, holding his sides, that Ueshiba had to laugh as well.

When the laughter subsided, Ueshiba said, "How old is the lad? He does look quite young."

"Twenty-two. He'll never see twenty-three. He's dead meat. As in ham sandwich." He started to laugh again, but stopped, returning to a more businesslike demeanor.

***

Staci looked at the clock on the wall. Two o'clock exactly. There was a soft knock on the door. The two female assistants, Miyuki and Akiko, wearing traditional white silk kimonos with wide rose colored sashes, entered. Staci thought they could be sisters separated only by a couple years. The older one bowed and spoke.

"It's time," Miyuki said.

Staci took a slow breath and gently exhaled. "I'm ready."

She rose and stood before the full-length mirror. Staci wore a black kung fu uniform with white trim, a white collar, white cuffs, traditional loop and knot closures, and black cotton-soled shoes. She was glad she didn't have to wear a shinobi shozoku. She wasn't a ninja and only wore it to mask her identity when in public and in view of security cameras.

Adjusting her belt, she gave herself a nod of determination and confidence in her reflected image. She turned, strode out of the dressing room, and let the Asian women escort her down the corridor to the death room.

At the entrance, the two assistants stepped away and motioned for her to go in. Staci took a deep breath, opened the door, and entered. A loud clicking noise pinged across the room as the door closed and locked behind her.

Staci scanned the room. It was forty-by-forty feet, large enough to comfortably move around. The walls were made of cinderblocks painted soothing amber, and thin blue mats lined the floor. The lighting was subtle but bright enough so one could clearly see his or her opponent and the assortment of weapons on the wall. Centered on the northern wall was the only door.

Lining the four walls were tools of the trade. Swords of diverse origins: black and gold tapestry samurai swords, straight-blade ninja swords, and kung fu broad swords were in abundance. Hardwood staffs, rattan escrima sticks, batons, tonfas, and nunchakus were displayed, as well as a wide assortment of kamas, sais, knives, ninja throwing spikes, and throwing stars. There were fighting fans, too. Staci noted a mirror and knew it was a one-way window through which Sensei, and probably his assistants, were watching.

Her opponent was tall and well built, she noted, as the young man rose from his seated position twenty feet in front of her. His hair was jet black, striking blue eyes, and his facial features were chiseled like a Roman statue. She didn't know his name, but thought Rocky would be appropriate.

He looks startled, Staci thought, obviously not expecting a female. And he thinks I'm pretty. Advantage me.

They both took stances three feet apart from each other, arms at their sides. She bowed and then observed. He gracefully bowed in return, his eyes never leaving hers. Staci saw survival instinct and heightened awareness in his steely eyes, noting he's over the shock of his situation, and committed to the mortal task.

Rocky was prepared for war. He assumed a traditional parallel stance with his feet a shoulder's width apart and loosely held fists just below and slightly in front of his naval.

Staci began to circle her opponent in a counter clockwise direction and quickly attacked to keep him off balance. She delivered a series of spinning kicks at his knees, mixing in a volley of punches to his ribs. Like a boxer who uses jabs early to get a feel for the opponent, Staci wanted to first test his reflexes and reactions.

Rocky stood his ground, thwarted the initial attack with graceful footwork and a few blocks with his forearms, then responded with a barrage of fast and powerful front, side, and roundhouse kicks. He concluded with an axe kick intended for her head. If connected as intended, it would have knocked her unconscious, if not killed her.

They backed away from each other. Staci felt satisfied she'd not only survived the initial sparring, but believed she identified some of her opponent's strengths and weaknesses. Only problem was, she knew the look in his eyes indicated he'd gained just as much from the initial spar.

Staci discerned that despite his nearly one-foot taller height advantage, he struggled fighting shorter people. Stay crouched and be swift, she knew to do. His higher center of gravity can be turned into a liability. He knows it, and will try to counter by using height and employing his leg power and greater reach to disable opponents from a distance, rather than allowing an adversary to step in and strike at his knees and midsection.

Rocky shouted, "Screw you and all the crazy assholes in this place. I'm going to kill you." He pointed toward the mirror. "Then I'll kill all of them and get the hell out of here."

He followed with two front snap kicks. Staci blocked them with her wrists. He faked a low-high roundhouse and delivered a jumping reverse side kick. Staci blocked them with her forearms. She noted he didn't step into her. He was doing his best to keep as much distance as possible while taking the offensive.

Staci countered with astonishing speed. She struck with two spinning kicks to the knees then pounded his abdomen with three punches. Rocky staggered back three steps. She wanted to send a message loud and clear. I know your weakness, and I will exploit it.

She stepped into him again. Front kick to the same spot where her previous punches landed. A crescent kick just missed his chin. A series of kicks to his midsection. She landed punches to both his left and right ribs. He tried to block the strikes, but Staci was too fast. She grabbed his arm and back-fist punched his face with her free hand.

"I'll kill you for that," he snarled, wiping blood from his mouth.

"Bring it," she said, settling into a backward-weighted stance.

Rocky attacked with a front rising kick. Staci anticipated his move. She grabbed his fully extended leg between her left arm and her side. Three rising punches from a bow stance slammed into to his upper stomach. Her strikes should have knocked his wind out. But he was lean, with an abdomen like Iron Man. Her punches found their target but had little effect.

The man shouted like a warrior, pulled his leg back, turned around, and ran to the back of the wall. He pulled down a sankaku yari spear and hurled it at Staci.

"You can go to hell, and I'll gladly send you there now."

Staci stopped midstride, sidestepping the projectile. "I'm a scientist. I don't believe in hell. And you throw like a girl."

The man spat as he looked around the room. "Shut up. I don't need a spear. I have a third degree black belt. I'm bigger and stronger than you. There are plenty more weapons I can kill you with."

Staci refrained from laughing. "You're not nearly as skilled in throwing weapons as you are with kicking and hand-to-hand combat. You never focused on those aspects of martial arts— thought you'd have little need of them. Wrong, you great big, athletic, think-you-can-overpower-anybody with your bare hands fella. So wrong."

He grabbed two throwing spikes and hurled them at her chest. Staci ducked and leaped forward, delivering a solid kick to his left ribs. The same area she'd struck before with a punch and a kick.

Staci tried to back him into a corner, but Rocky was quick to give himself some room to maneuver. He grabbed a second spear off the wall and circled back to the center of the death room.

Staci picked out two eighteen-inch black iron sais with aged dark brown, leather-wrapped handles. Properly used, she knew from her extensive and intensive training, the weapons were efficient in blocking, trapping, or breaking a stick, club, staff, or a spear. Armed with a sai in each hand, she matched him footstep for footstep as they circled each other. Excellent footwork, Staci observed. He's gifted in that area.

Rocky took the offensive. With graceful skill he spun the twelve-foot spear in a circular motion, a red ribbon tied to the end spinning and designed to confuse the opponent. In stride with front, side, and roundhouse kicks, he mixed in thrusts with the spear.

Staci found it difficult to distinguish the tip of the spear from the spinning red ribbon. She had six elements to track that came at her quickly and violently: two feet, two hands, a spear, and that confusing red ribbon that made it look like the tip of the spear was a couple inches away from where it really was.

He held Staci at bay a few feet in front of him. She had to go on the retreat. He continued with his frontal assault, mixing thrusts and an assortment of kicks, confusing Staci with spin moves and quick footwork.

She had no choice but to avoid his thrusts while he wasted precious energy and tires himself out. She would trap him into excessive thrusting.

The risk was high. He tore her outfit three times, nearly piercing her stomach and chest. But the strategy worked to her advantage. Rocky began to tire. His thrusts became a bit slower with less energy.

Now, Staci, the time is now. He's ripe for the kill.

Staci stood still. She brought the insides of her feet together, bowed her head, closed her eyes, and held her hands to her sides, still holding the sais. She stood her ground as she heard the man plant his left foot in front of his right. He howled and lunged forward, faked left, and thrust right.

She opened her eyes in time to roll underneath the tip of the spear, the red ribbon forced straight back due to the forward motion of the thrust. She stood in a bow stance and blocked with both weapons, moving her attacker's weapon to her left while bringing the two sais back around to strike. In one forward motion, she delivered a mortal wound to his abdomen.
Chapter 33 A Close Call

Rocky knelt on one knee and bent forward, covering the wound to his abdomen. He was losing blood and becoming weak and dizzy. He was dying. Staci expected him to take his last moments to say a prayer for his soul. But what he did next astonished her.

He stood and walked confidently toward the center of the killing room. Never taking his eyes off her, he picked up the first javelin he hurled at her. Then he slowly walked in an arc around Staci, placing her between him and the one-way mirror.

Rocky stared her down.

This was one move Staci did not anticipate. She readied herself for the attack. But instead of thrusting the javelin at her, he planted his feet, reached back, and heaved the wooden projectile at the one-way mirror in the corner of the room.

Staci ducked, turned, and watched it break through the glass. Sensei Masakata and Ueshiba Funakoshi were alert enough to step out of the way of the missile. But the two Asian women were distracted in conversation.

Neither girl saw the javelin coming. Staci watched through the shattered glass as the javelin plunged into the side of Akiko Miyazaki's head, pinning her to the wall three feet to her right.

Akiko's eyes never closed. Her lips looked as if she were trying to formulate words that could not quite escape her mouth. The javelin was embedded in a stud in the wall and held the flaccid body, preventing it from falling to the floor. Her arms and legs were limp, but her fingers were twitching.

Staci looked back at Rocky, still standing in the middle of the killing room and smiling, then back through the broken window. She could hear him say, "At least I got one of you bitches from last night."

Masakata reacted quickly. "Funakoshi, pull the javelin out of the wall."

Funakoshi grabbed the end sticking out from Akiko's head and pulled. "I can't. It's buried too deep within the stud."

"Break the other end of the javelin," Masakata fired back.

Funakoshi thrust his palm into the space between Akiko's head and the wall and shattered the spear. Masakata grabbed the still-twitching body and laid it on the floor with the projectile protruding out both sides of her head. Miyuki was beside herself, screaming uncontrollably and stomping her feet in no particular rhythm.

"Grab her. Hold her down," Masakata yelled at Funakoshi.

Funakoshi bear hugged Miyuki and pinned her to the floor while Masakata stepped back to look in on the action in the death room, careful not to let another missile take him out of this world before his appointed time.

Staci was stunned. The young man took advantage of the confusion on both sides of the wall. He pulled out three ninja stars he had tucked away in his sleeve and threw them in rapid succession at Staci's chest, forcing her to move in the direction opposite of four black kamas on the near wall. She barely avoided them streaking past her at over one hundred miles an hour. He raced to grab weapons before she could.

But Staci was too fast. They arrived at the wall at the same time. Rocky grabbed two sickle-shaped kamas. Staci pulled off a wushu whip chain for both defense and offense. She circled to the center of the room and threw her sais into the lights in the ceiling, shattering two and dimming the killing room. The sais dropped back onto the floor and she kicked them to the other side of the room.

"Poor choice of weapons," she said.

Her opponent growled and spit.

Staci spun the eight thin rods connected end to end by small metal rings with a metal dart on the end in an attempt to keep him against the wall. This was a risky move because he was close enough to grab new weapons. But it enabled her to keep him from running off, and she could close in on him and deliver the final strike that would end the battle.

She knew part of the effectiveness of the kamas is using light in the room to reflect at different angles off the shiny silver surface as the user went through his routine, twisting his arms and wrists. However, with little light in the room, he had lost this advantage.

Staci seemed to dance as she spun and moved, as if she were performing a gymnastic floor exercise. She whirled the wushu whip so fast that it looked like a helicopter blade, blending into one perfectly symmetrical silver circle.

Rocky thrust the kama from his left hand directly into the spinning chain and pulled back. The effect was like slamming a metal pipe in a spoked wheel moving at more than one hundred miles an hour. The chain jerked out of Staci's hand. He jumped at her, spinning the second kama and slashing at her head and neck.

Staci stayed on cautious alert defense, giving him time to expend more energy and lose more blood. Rocky looked confused. He faltered and stumbled as he looked for a new weapon on the wall behind him.

Time to end this. Staci performed three reverse somersaults, grabbed three throwing spikes, planted her feet, and sent three efficient throws into his left rib cage. The second entered between the fifth and sixth ribs and pierced his heart. He died instantly, his lifeless body falling forward to the floor before he had a chance to grasp his second wound.
Chapter 34 The Blessing

Staci stepped next to Sensei Masakata along the stone balcony of the Mediterranean-style garden patio. She breathed in the cool Pacific air carrying the mixed smells of the indigenous fauna and sea salt from the ocean.

She looked briefly at the mentor as the breeze blew his shoulder-length silver hair, then stared out over the sea-green ocean. She had questions but remained silent, waiting for the master to speak.

Three hundred feet below the alfresco patio, Ueshiba Funakoshi and three men lifted two body bags onto a blue and white Sea Ray Sundancer Cruiser fishing boat. Funakoshi lost the bet with his master, and the loser had to clean up the mess in the killing room and dispose of the bodies at sea. Staci was not a religious person, but she found herself saying a silent prayer for the souls of Akiko Miyazaki, and Michael.

She had asked and been told his name was Michael. For the first time in her life she had a spiritual epiphany: that somebody deserved a better fate on the other side.

"He died honorably."

"They will receive a proper blessing for their souls when they are laid to rest at sea," the master said.

Staci bowed her head and stared at the tile floor of the patio. "I feel bad for Akiko. She was an innocent casualty in this battle."

Sensei Masakata stared at her. "Do not be concerned about Akiko. All of my people understand the risks of working for me. She should have been paying attention to what was happening with you rather than talking to Miyuki. She paid the ultimate price for allowing distractions into her surroundings."

Staci looked back at the master and asked a question she never previously considered. "Master, will you bless me before I leave? I feel so alone and lost out here, and my journey is perilous and filled with unforeseen danger. I don't have time to meditate or consider the ramifications of what I'm about to do."

Sensei Masakata smiled at Staci, like a father would to a daughter who asked for blessings upon her life that would allow her to advance into the next stage of womanhood. "Yes, I will bless you."

He closed his eyes and placed both hands upon her head. Staci fell to her knees and held her hands out to her sides, palms facing skyward.

"May the gentle winds of peace blow through your spirit, soul, and body and calm the torrents of your heart. May clarity of vision replace the smokescreens that demons have blown in your face to confuse and distract you. May you find clearly lit paths that allow you to see far down the roads you are to travel, with lanterns at your feet for those paths so dark that you cannot see more than a few footsteps ahead."

Staci stood up with a sense of renewed vigor as he lifted his hands from her head. She genuinely felt as if something had been deeply imparted within the very fibers of her spirit, soul, and body. She felt stronger and more aware of her surroundings and the importance of her mission.

"Thank you, Master, for all you've done for me today. I feel I've learned more in just a few hours here than many years with other masters I have been with."

"Go in peace, and may your paths be smooth and straight," he said with a fatherly smile.

She watched as he turned and walked back into the villa without uttering another word. Then a solemn Miyuki appeared from the same set of French doors Masakata disappeared through. She guided Staci back to the quiet room where she had bathed and meditated earlier in the afternoon.

Staci changed into the clothes she arrived in and Miyuki led her back to the front door where she put on her black leather boots. Staci looked over her right shoulder and took one last look at the pink Spanish-styled villa, then started the red and white Ducati Desmosedici GP15. She left for her journey to Orange County, far more at peace with herself, memorizing, believing, and soaking in every prophetic word Sensei Masakata had spoken over her.

Staci knew rush hour traffic in Ventura, Los Angeles, and Orange Counties was brutal, and can begin as early as two in the afternoon and last until well after seven p.m. And that's if there aren't any accidents or construction projects.

But it's legal to ride a motorcycle between the lanes in California, and she made the 150-mile trek from Santa Barbara to south Orange County in just under three hours in the stop-and-go traffic. The ride was refreshing after her encounter with the young man named Michael. She needed the time to clear her head and prepare for the task that lay ahead.
Chapter 35 The Encounter

It was six o'clock in the morning and Staci pulled out of the parking structure from the Westin Hotel in Costa Mesa. Thanks to Khyati and her hacking into every electronic communication Chase had made the past few months, they were able to construct a typical Wednesday morning in the life of Chase Manhattan.

The temperature was chilly, so Staci dressed in her leathers to stay warm for the twenty minute ride to Laguna Beach. In her knapsack was a set of clothes to wear when she arrived at the beach.

She might be a bit cold once she changed, but the sun would be up shortly. Staci was convinced Chase would not be able to resist striking up a conversation when he saw her in her workout outfit.

Staci took the 405 Freeway south to Laguna Canyon Road, then rode through the canyon and into downtown Laguna Beach. She parked the Ducati one block north of Main Beach and changed into her outfit in a putrid public restroom. The smell disgusted her. People sure can be pigs, she thought, careful to watch where she placed her feet while changing.

She barely fit her leather pants and boots into her knapsack. Although the sun now peeked over the canyon walls, it was still only fifty-seven degrees. She decided to leave her leather jacket on.

The smell of fresh brewed coffee lured Staci across Coast Highway to the local Starbucks. The aroma was refreshing, especially compared to that public restroom. A hot grande Americano with cream was just what she needed to help wake up.

It was now six thirty. Time to meet Chase. Staci looked through the windows of quaint art galleries and family-owned boutiques that graced the street as she walked toward the beach. The caffeine revitalized her body and mind as she walked. She passed two restaurants open for breakfast. She needed to eat, but thought she would first try to entice Chase to take her out for her first meal of the day.

Staci walked over to the boardwalk on Main Beach and jumped three feet down to the beach. Staci loved to walk on the sand, but it was too cold to stroll barefoot. She settled for a brisk along the edge of the shore, studying the joggers and strollers.

Up ahead a quarter mile, a group of six people gathered and stretched on the packed portion of the sand where the tide had been just a few hours ago. The figures had to be the Chinese tourists performing tai chi Khyati had identified.

Staci smiled in anticipation, figuring at any moment, one of the joggers passing her would be her mark. The man who stole one-third of Nicky's suitcases and brought them three thousand miles away from their home and rightful owners.

Approaching the Chinese tourists, Staci counted eight male joggers who fit the description of Chase, at least from the backside as they ran past. One of them would stop for twenty minutes to join in on his way back. She would be there waiting for him, ready to spring a trap countless men over the millennia had fallen for all too easily.

She reached the Asian tourists and smiled as they finished their warm-up stretches. The group consisted of three couples in their mid-to-late-forties. Staci took off her jacket, laid it down in the sand, and did a few stretches of her own.

She wore a red Daytona racer-back tank top with a black sporty side-stripe appropriate for working out, yet revealing more than enough of her breasts to entice a man, especially when bending forward. Black ramble pants and a pair of white New Balance aerobic shoes completed her workout clothes.

The temperature inched its way up to sixty degrees. She did a few more stretches but needed to jump in place to keep from shivering. There wasn't a marine layer in February, so the sun shone brightly and added welcome warmth to the crisp morning air.

One of the men, about forty-five years old with a receding black hairline, led the group. He stood with his back to the Pacific and faced the rocky bluffs landscaped with multimillion-dollar homes. The rest of the group, including Staci, formed a line facing him looking out over the calm blue ocean.

These movements were the Yang short form, emphasizing breathing techniques, stability, and precision. Because of their age, she thought they might perform the Wu style that focuses on smaller, more compact movements. But all six looked to be in tremendous shape, even though they were approaching fifty.

Staci looked down the coastline and saw two of the joggers who passed her were now on their way back. The first one looked like he did not even notice the group, or her, for that matter. He ran right by as if she weren't there. She couldn't remember the last time that happened. The second jogger looked over and smiled at Staci, but kept going. She knew he wasn't Chase. Too old. And his hair was straight.

The leader transitioned from the brush-knee-and-twist-step movement to play guitar when she saw him jogging toward her. He wore matching gray sweatpants and sweater, stood six foot two, was thin, had brown, wavy hair, and a bit on the pasty side.

He slowed down fifty yards ahead and strolled the rest of the way to the group. Staci deduced he wanted to give himself time to catch his breath and not look winded when he joined in.

She chuckled. Typical male ego.

Chase Manhattan walked up to the group, stopped twenty feet away, and did a few stretches. He stepped in while they performed the single-whip movement and took his place in line next to the newcomer.

Staci had seen a picture of Chase on the UC-Irvine faculty Web page. But in person, he was better looking than she imagined. She would allow him to initiate the conversation.

Chase smiled and leaned slightly into her. "You look cold. Why aren't you wearing a sweater?"

"Oh, I have my coat," Staci said with a bright smile and a white set of near-perfect teeth. She looked over at her jacket off to the right on the sand. "I didn't expect to run into this group, and when I saw them, I thought I'd join in for a few minutes."

Staci could see Chase was already infatuated. She had seen that look before, recognized that tone of voice, the glazed look in the eyes. The leader of the group led them in separating right foot and separating left foot.

"You look like you have been doing this for a while. You're good." Staci meant this.

"I confess—I've been doing this for a while. I love tai chi. You look like you've been doing this for a while yourself," Chase said, his tone in a respectful-of-the-others hush.

"It's a great way to stretch, relax, and get a great workout," Staci said, doing her best to look incredible while going through the movements. She demonstrated the fluidity, grace, and agility of a ballet dancer or an acrobat.

Chase leaned in a little closer. "You look cold. Why don't we leave and get something to eat for breakfast? There's a terrific restaurant on Main Beach where we can eat and watch these guys from the balcony."

"That sounds like the best of both worlds. You talked me into it, mister."

She gave him an award-winning smile that seemed to raise her cheekbones even higher. Her blue eyes, thanks to tinted contact lenses, were soft and sultry. Her recently dyed jet black hair flowed soft and smooth.

Chase bent down, picked up her black leather jacket, and held it up for her to put her arms into the sleeves.

"Chivalry is still alive and well, I see. Thank you," Staci said.

"My name's Chase. Chase Manhattan," he said aloud as they left the group of Chinese tourists.

"Chase Manhattan? That's a unique name," she said, walking beside and looking up at him.

"My mom named me. She said she liked the way it sounded when she said it."

"My name is Cathy Bennett," she said, briefly stopping to shake Chase's hand. So far, so good, she thought. They continued with small talk and walked along the edge of the sand to the boardwalk.

"You'll like this place," Chase said like a promise. "They have a great breakfast and even better coffee."
Chapter 36 C'Est La Vie

Staci looked at the menu in the window as they walked up to the French restaurant and bakery. Cupping her hands to the glass, she saw French cuisine in an elegant, yet comfortable, atmosphere. The hostess recognized Chase as she greeted them at the front door.

"Good morning, Mr. Manhattan," she said with a smile. "Welcome. Are you going to sit on the balcony again today?"

Chase nodded. "Yes, we will. Thanks."

The hostess led them through the restaurant. The smell of the kitchen's bakery overwhelmed Staci's olfactory senses and triggered a spontaneous rumbling in her stomach. They followed the hostess upstairs to the small deck where she sat them at a table with a heat lamp. The panoramic ocean view overlooking Main Beach and the sparkling Pacific Ocean was spectacular.

"What a view. This place is amazing. Thanks for inviting me," Staci said with her most engaging and energetic smile.

"I usually eat breakfast here two or three times a week. I like to come to the beach early and get in a morning run."

"And tai chi," she added, looking at Chase with her big beautiful eyes.

A waiter in a white shirt and black bow tie brought them coffee, water, and menus.

"Actually, that's a group of tourists who've been here a couple of weeks. I join them after my run. I like to do tai chi on my own at home, too." Chase offered Staci cream for her coffee, and then poured some into his own.

"You're really good," she said, raising her cup to her mouth. "Hmmm, you are so right. This is great coffee."

"Thanks. I've been practicing since I was eight."

"Eight? That's pretty young. You don't see too many American kids involved in tai chi at that age," she said, looking at her menu and taking another sip of her brew.

"My parents were missionaries. They took me and my siblings on many of their trips while I was growing up. We went to China, Tibet, Cambodia, Japan, Mongolia, lots of places. During that time, we all had exposure to various forms of the martial arts."

She set her cup down and smiled. "That's cool, Chase. Martial arts, too? What forms did you learn?"

"Well, in China, Tibet, and Mongolia, I learned kung fu, mainly the Shaolin form."

She noted Chase would be adept at kicking and probably use a broader stance in combat. "That's so exciting," she said with a feigned smile as she took another drink of her coffee. "What else did you learn?"

Staci sensed Chase falsely assumed she was developing an affinity with him. She would continue to display an affable nature and get as much information as she could. This would make her job that much easier. Keep flashing those baby blues and he'll keep talking.

"My parents also took us to Japan and Okinawa where we learned karate."

Staci made more mental notes of the weapons Chase might be proficient in using, such as staffs and sais. She appreciated hand-to-hand combat with an opponent skilled at using these implements of war, shorter weapons that forced opponents to stand closer together. She already had more pertinent information on him than Khyati had been able to gather.

"What about yourself? You looked like you've been doing tai chi for a long time," Chase said.

"I do it at the gym along with yoga. I have instructional DVD's at home, too."

The waiter returned. He looked at Staci and said, "Are you ready to order, ma'am?"

She glanced back and forth over the menu. "It all looks so good."

"Don't be shy," Chase encouraged her. "Order whatever you want."

Staci sat up straight, allowing her breasts to grab Chase's attention. "Okay. I'll have the ham and cheese omelet and a stack of blueberry pancakes," she said in a perky manner, still feigning the same smile. "And a glass of orange juice."

"I'll have the roasted vegetable and fontina cheese omelet. And a glass of orange juice, too," Chase said.

Staci remembered this item from the menu and shuddered inside. The thought of eggplant, zucchini, and peppers in her breakfast was too gross for her to fathom.

Staci and Chase continued their small talk. Staci tried to gather a more detailed profile of the man she knew she would have to kill later that day.

She paused and looked out over the Pacific. "The sunsets must be wonderful." She looked back at Chase and noticed he had a slight quizzical look and was regarding her, thinking ... what?

Chase leaned forward and said, "So, Cathy, do you live here in Orange County?"

Staci realized she might have given away a clue that she was not from Southern California and needed to get her story back on track.

"I'm from Santa Barbara—born and raised," she said, looking at Chase. "I'm down here for a few days by myself to, you know, get away from it all. At least for a long weekend. I go back home Monday."

Chase gave her an inquisitive look. "Are you staying with family? Friends?"

"No. I'm staying at Pacific Edge Hotel. I stay there when I come down here, which isn't very often. Maybe twice a year."

The waiter brought their food, a welcome interruption for Staci. He placed their omelets and orange juice in front of them and Staci's pancakes in the middle of the table.

"Will there be anything else?" he asked.

The hungry eaters shook their heads no, their mouths already full with bites of their respective meals. Ten minutes later, breakfast was over. Chase asked the question she was certain she would hear.

"What are you doing tonight, Cathy? There's a terrific Italian restaurant close by. We could go out for a nice dinner, then balance the night out by going to a not-so-great bar that's only a few blocks from here. A good friend of mine plays guitar in the band performing tonight."

Staci knew she needed to get things done. Conduct business. Get in and get out. No time to play hard to get.

"I'd like that," she said in a humble manner, wiping her hands with the white cloth napkin. "This girl could certainly use a break."

"Great. I'll pick you up at seven this evening. Pacific Edge Hotel, right?"

"Yes, that's right. Let me give you my cell number." She pulled the pen from the waiter's folder, wrote down her pre-paid cell phone number on a napkin, and handed it to Chase with an innocent smile that could melt an iceberg.

"This is really your number, right?"

She tilted her head and gave Chase a goofy look. "Of course it is, silly. I may be out shopping today so call me on my cell if you want. I'll be ready to go at seven o'clock sharp. Just stop by the lobby and I'll be there."

Chase stood and walked with Staci downstairs and back through the restaurant. "I love the smell of freshly baked bread in the morning," she said in a wistful tone. "It reminds me of my childhood and my mom baking bread or croissants before we went to church."

"I guess I've grown accustomed to the smell since I come here so often. I didn't notice until you mentioned it."

Staci made yet one more mental note that Chase's senses had dulled over the years. She doubted he was as sharp and attuned to his environment now as he probably once was. She hoped his martial arts skills had deteriorated as well.

"Thanks again for breakfast," she said as they walked out onto the sidewalk. "It's nice to meet, well, a nice guy. There are so many creepy men that hit on me. You're a breath of fresh air," she said in an assuring manner.

"It's been my pleasure, Cathy. I'll walk you to your car."

She pointed to the red and white Ducati. "I'm parked right over there."

"That's yours?" he said in astonishment.

"It's my daddy's. But he lets me ride it."

Chase shook his head. "Honestly, if I had a daughter as beautiful as you, I would never let her ride a bike like this."

"You're sweet. I like that." Staci caught herself as she meant what she just said. A Freudian slip, maybe, she wondered. On the ride back to the Westin Hotel in Costa Mesa, she would hit the rewind button, search her heart, and think about what she said.

Staci replaced her aerobic shoes with her boots. Then she unhooked her black helmet, swung her right leg over the seat, sat down, and held the helmet on her lap. Chase just stood there with his hands on his hips, looking at a gorgeous woman sitting on a $50,000 Ducati.

"Thanks again for breakfast, Chase," she said, extending her right hand out. "I'm looking forward to tonight."

Chase shook her hand, looking like a man transported to a realm of heaven he'd never been before. "Seven o'clock at the Pacific Edge Hotel lobby. I'll be there," he said and nodded in confirmation.

Staci spun her knapsack over her shoulder, took out her leather gloves, and pulled them tight over her fingers and hands. She put her helmet on and kick-started the Ducati, then backpedaled the bike to the center of the street. After a smile and wave, she made a U-turn and headed south on Coast Highway.
Chapter 37 Phone Calls

Staci lay stomach-down on her bed watching the QVC network, her legs bent at the knees and feet in the air. If she couldn't shop at South Coast Plaza, she could at least look at things to buy on television. Bored after an hour of imaginary shopping, she called Nicky on her cell phone.

"Hi, baby doll," said the friendly voice from the other side of the country.

"Hey, sweetie. It's me. I miss you bunches," she said with a tone of laughter mixed with sorrow. "It's lunchtime where you are. Are you at your off-campus home eating your vegetable soup like a good boy," she asked in a tease.

"Laugh all you want. And yes, that's where I am and what I'm doing. I plan to live to be one hundred and three."

"Because I'm no fool," Staci sang, ending one of Nicky's favorite lines from a children's cartoon.

"How's progress? Were you able to meet with our mark?"

Staci didn't like the way Nicky dehumanized people. But she also believed they had a mission, a quest to fulfill which would involve sacrificing human lives—for the greater good of mankind. She justified the collateral damage as a necessary evil in order to carry out their destiny.

"I did. We met for breakfast and he's taking me out for dinner tonight. I'm sure I'll have no problem seducing him to take me to his place."

"That's my girl. I knew you could do it."

Staci was disturbed Nicky didn't sound jealous at the probability certain inappropriate acts would be committed. But she understood sacrifices were required if they were to fulfill their mission. Her immediate task was to retrieve the suitcases and eliminate Chase.

"Don't worry. I'm on top of things." She was assuring herself as much as Nicky. "I'll call you tonight when I have the suitcases, okay, sweetie?"

"Okay. I may be asleep, but call me regardless of the time. I love you, my little princess."

"I will, Nicky. I need to take a nap now. I have a big night ahead of me, and I don't want jet lag interfering with my ability to perform my mission." Staci was yawning, just talking about sleep.

* * *

Bennie called Chase from his office in Irvine. Chase was home reading box scores from Spring Training on the Internet.

"Chase, what's going tonight? Are you up for doing anything, or are you going out with Susan?"

"Um ... no," Chase said with a hint of regret. "I'm not going to be with Susan tonight."

"Why not? Susan's the best thing that ever happened to you."

The tone in Bennie's voice made it clear to Chase he did not approve of his plans for the night, whatever they were.

"Listen, Bennie," he said, his mood changing to one of enthusiasm. "I met this girl this morning. She's great. We were doing tai chi by Main Beach. She understands that part of me. And—"

"Whoa. Easy turbo. Listen to me. Susan Anderson is the girl that you need to be involved with, not some bimbo you just met."

"Bimbo? You've never even seen her." Chase was becoming defensive. But he knew Bennie's long suit was cutting through the smokescreens and getting to the root of the situation. This was a trait Chase was still developing.

"I know bimbo when I see one. Or even hear about one over the phone. It's a gift."

Chase tried not to laugh but couldn't refrain himself. "Anyway, there's nothing to worry about. I like Susan a lot. Maybe even love her. But she wants too much too soon. I'm not sure that I can do that."

"That's exactly what you need. Right now, you're on the road to nowhere. You need a girl like Susan who has her head screwed on straight."

Chase knew Bennie was right. But maybe one more fling was all he needed—just one more night to sow his remaining wild oats.

"Look, it's a harmless date. We're going to Alessa Laguna for dinner, then it's off to the Marine Room Tavern."

"Going from the penthouse to the outhouse, huh, Chase? Don't tell me that Fred guy is playing again tonight."

"He is. Fred's all right, Bennie. You just don't know him very well."

"Whatever. Since I'm your best friend and I'm sold Susan's the girl for you, I'll be at Alessa Laguna tonight. I want to see what this new girl looks like."

"No, no, no. No way, Bennie. I don't want you ruining this."

"I promise I won't come over to your table. You won't even know I'm there. I'll get a table on the other side of the room. I'll be, you know, incognito."

"Incognito is not your strength, Bennie. Who are you going to be with?"

"I don't know yet. But I'll find somebody. No worries in that department. You know me, Chase. I know bimbos, right? We'll, see you tonight." Bennie ended the call.

Chase's mind wandered back to Susan and the time they spent together. He thought he could love her. Maybe he was already in love with her. He knew he needed to settle down with a girl like her—someone who had her priorities aligned.

But the other night was too much and too fast. The thought of settling down was a paramount shift he wasn't sure he was ready for.

Chase couldn't get Susan out of his mind. His conscience told him that she was the right path for him. And in his mind, he agreed she would be the best woman for him to plan a future with.

But he rationalized he would have to transition into this role. There was no reason to jump right into this relationship. What harm could there be in one more date?
Chapter 38 The Pick Up

Staci arrived at the Pacific Edge Hotel at 6:40 p.m. She parked the Ducati on the street around the corner and walked into the lobby, which was much smaller than she had pictured it in her mind. The young clerk behind the front desk made eye contact before she had a chance to open the front door.

"Can I help you, Miss," he asked, leaning into the counter and ogling her. Staci forced a smile. She thought he was barely old enough to drive, and was probably just an annoying teenager that would keep pestering her.

"No, thanks," she said, picking out a tourist brochure at random from a slat wall kiosk literature stand and sitting down in one of the chairs. "I'm just waiting for a friend who's staying here. I'm a bit early, but he'll be here any minute."

"I can call the room and let him know you're here." He maintained steady eye contact that Staci found increasingly creepy.

She pulled her cell phone out of her purse. "I have a phone," she said in a tone that said, 'Leave me the hell alone, you little jerk.' The attendant got the message, turned around, and began keying something into the computer.

Within a few minutes, a Mercedes-Benz SLK 350 hardtop pulled up to the entrance. Staci jumped out of her chair and opened the front door. She hoped this was Chase—the creepy hotel attendant continued to sneak peeks at her.

Staci gave a sigh of relief as Chase put the car in park, walked around to the other side, and opened the passenger door. He gave her a warm and inviting smile.

"Chase," she said. "Get me out of here before I smack the hotel clerk."

Chase laughed out loud while closing her door. She noticed he took a sneak peek of her beautifully sculpted tan legs as she sat herself down into the brown leather seat.

The first thing Staci did was to sniff for cigarette smoke, hoping Chase was a smoker. No such luck. There wasn't even a hint of cigarettes. Chase got in, closed his door, and drove out onto Coast Highway heading toward Alessa Laguna.

"You look great tonight, Cathy. I hope you're hungry. We're going to a great Italian restaurant down Coast Highway a little way."

"That sounds great," she said with that face and smile that could make her a million dollars on Madison Avenue. "I love Italian food."

The sun was sinking over the Pacific with deep orange, pink, and purple hues that broke out across a deepening blue horizon. Being from the East Coast, Staci had never seen such a gorgeous sunset, and wanted nothing more than to stop and stroll down the beach and forever etch the memory in her mind.

"Another beautiful sunset on another beautiful day," she said with a sigh, looking out the passenger window. "I just can't get enough of them, although I know there'll be another one tomorrow."

"I bet sunsets are spectacular in Santa Barbara. That's a real pretty town. I've driven through it a number of times."

Staci made up her fictitious life as she went along. She was sure she would retrieve the two cases and kill Chase before the night was over. There would be need to remember her lies.

"We live a few miles inland. I remember as a kid Daddy would take us to the beach and we'd have campfires together as a family," she said, now looking at Chase. "Those were some of my best childhood memories.

"Mine, too. My parents would take us to Aliso Creek Beach. We'd make s'mores and roast hot dogs in the fire pits."

Staci was enjoying the conversation, and liked the direction it was taking. Family and sunsets. Those were two of her most favorite things. Then she caught herself. She felt she was becoming too comfortable with Chase, just as she did earlier that morning as they left C'est La Vie Restaurant.

"So, do your parents live in the area?"

Chase sighed and paused for a moment. "Both of my parents are gone now. They died two years ago on a missionary trip to the Sudan," he said in a comforting manner, as if he expected her reaction to be one of shock and mixed emotions.

Staci donned a look of horror on her face. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Chase, I didn't mean to ..."

Chase placed his right hand on her knee for a moment, squeezed, then put it back on the steering wheel. "It's okay. The question was bound to come up tonight. Better sooner than later."

Chase took the occasion to explain a little more about his youth and his personal life. "I was born in Detroit, Michigan, but raised here in Orange County. My family moved to Newport Beach when I was six. My parents were Catholic missionaries who traveled the world starting small churches, building schools and medical centers, and generally helping to make the world a little bit of a better place to live."

Staci was stunned. She remained silent while Chase told his story.

"They were also explorers and archeologists. Both held doctorates in archeology, my father with Columbia University in New York City and my mother from Yale. Some would say my parents used their careers in archeology to support and further their missionary work around the world. Others would argue they used their missionary journeys as a free ticket to explore the last vestiges of bygone worlds and cultures, while finding artifacts and selling them on the open market. In retrospect, I guess they used one to support the other."

Staci knew these details of Chase's background, except for the death of his parents. Khyati had missed this very important detail. But she thought maybe it was better this way. Her look of shock was real and she wasn't sure if she could have feigned her reaction.

He turned on his right blinker and pulled into the Alessa Laguna parking lot. A valet met him. Chase got out of the car and handed him the keys. A second valet appeared on the passenger side and opened the door for Staci.

Staci noticed the first valet did not give Chase a ticket when he turned over the key. She knew he must be a regular here. She grew more certain Chase was one of the area's more desirable and eligible bachelors and that he brought countless dates here over the years. The valets knew him, but were being discreet. Typical.

Successful men, she knew from experience, grew careless over time. They become too comfortable with their surroundings and the luxuries they enjoy. This was yet one more advantage in her favor that she could exploit later in the evening when she would retrieve the suitcases and kill Chase.
Chapter 39 Alessa Laguna

The hostess seated Chase and Staci at a table close to the fireplace. Chase took her black leather jacket with one hand while pulling her chair out with the other. Staci purposely dressed lightly for the occasion. She welcomed the warmth generated from the fire.

"This place is great, Chase," she said, sweeping her head from left to right and looking around. "I feel like we're in Italy."

"Have you ever been to Italy?"

"Twice, once in the fourth grade and once on the seventh. My parents took us there for vacations."

Staci couldn't believe she mentioned her parents. She felt she brought up a sore subject for the second time in ten minutes.

Chase hesitated a moment before responding. He gave a smile and said in a conciliatory tone, "My parents took us there when we were kids as well. I was in the ninth grade. We spent most of our time in Rome and Florence. Since my parents were both archeologists as well as Catholic missionaries, we had to visit the Vatican as well."

"Did you get to meet the Pope," Staci asked, joking.

"Actually, we did. My father arranged for us, as a family, to meet Pope John Paul II for a few minutes."

Staci's jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide in astonishment. "You're kidding me, right?"

Chase laughed. "I kid you not. We all got to meet John Paul. Every one of us shook his hand. I have a picture of us with him."

Staci was dumbfounded. Coming from a family of influence, she had met many famous and prominent people. But nothing she experienced had come close to a personal meeting with the Pope.

"How did your father arrange a meeting with the Pope? You don't just walk up to the Vatican and say I'd like to meet the Pope."

Chase looked up in the air for a few moments as his mouth slowly opened to speak. He wanted to word this right. "I'm not sure how he arranged the meeting. But I'm assuming he wrote a check, a very large check, to the Church as a gift. My brother and sisters and I guess it was probably a cool million dollars."

A young, slightly built waiter brought water and menus to the table. "Good evening," he said, smiling first at Chase and then at Staci. "My name is Antoine, and I'll be serving you tonight. I trust your table next to the fireplace is satisfactory?"

"Yes," Staci said with a charming smile that added to the warmth of the fireplace. "This place is wonderful. Thank you."

The evening progressed, Antoine brought Chase and Staci their meals, and the two enjoyed small talk, a few glasses of wine, and a lot of laughs. Chase expressed how famished he was and apologized for his unmannerly and ravenous approach to devouring his meal. Staci assured him he was just fine, go ahead and dig in.

She picked through her meal and left her plate half-finished. It was obvious the more they talked, Chase became increasingly infatuated with her. She allowed the evening to take its natural course and develop.

"So, what's up next, Chase? You said you had a friend in a band playing nearby tonight?"

Every time Staci shifted gears on a subject, she would smile, sit erect, and allow her breasts to stand at attention, but in a nonchalant and unassuming manner. Chase was smitten.

"That's right, Fred Merrill. His band plays at the Marine Room Tavern by Main Beach. Are you ready for some live entertainment?"

"You bet I am. This girl needs to stretch her legs and kick back with a margarita."

Staci leaned into the table with her chin in her right palm, elbow on the table, and staring at Chase with those big, baby-blue eyes. Her smile was contagious and full of confidence, yet also displaying innocence and mischief.

"So am I." Chase pulled his wallet from the side pocket of his jacket and removed his American Express card. He looked over at Antoine and held up his card.

"Chase, at least let me leave the tip. This must be costing you a small fortune tonight."

Staci pulled out a rolled up fifty-dollar bill from her jacket pocket—the same fifty-dollar bill she took as a souvenir from William O'Connor's office at the Massachusetts State House.

He had dropped it on his desk when Staci appeared in his doorway dressed in her black shinobi shozoku with her sword drawn. She rolled the note back and forth across her fingers similar to a poker player who rolls a chip across his fingers when he contemplates his next move.

"Sure. You can leave the tip," he said. "The meals are not as expensive as you might think. They're about thirty dollars each. And the wine we drank was only a little over one hundred dollars."

Staci continued to roll the fifty-dollar bill back and forth over her fingers. She unrolled and re-rolled it as she stared at him with her large, expressive eyes, her chin still resting in her right palm.

"I like you, Chase. You don't mind me saying that, do you?"

"No, not at all." Chase leaned into the table. "I knew I had to stop and talk to you the moment I saw you at the beach this morning," he said, his eyes set fast upon Staci.

Antoine returned with Chase's American Express card and laid it on the table. "Thanks, you two. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and come see us again."

Staci and Chase finished their night on the town at the Marine Room Tavern with Cadillac Margaritas. The Mulders were playing, and Fred took a few minutes during their break to talk to Chase and meet Staci. She observed Fred was polite and cordial, but discerned through a number of glares that Fred did not approve of Chase being with her.

Upon leaving the Marine Room Tavern, Staci insisted Chase stop at Pacific Edge Hotel on their way back to his place to pick up her motorcycle. She told him she would be up in the morning before he would be, and that she would probably want to leave, although she assured him they would be on for lunch.

At the hotel, Staci walked through the front entrance and out the back door, then made her way over to the side street where she parked the Ducati. She had a thin black knapsack tied to the seat to place the suitcases in when she left his house. Ready, she pulled around to the front and followed Chase back onto Coast Highway.
Chapter 40 Chase's House

Staci followed Chase up Blue Bird Canyon Drive and through two side streets before making a right into his driveway. She noted the trees in the front yard blocked most of the house from the neighbors on the other side of the street. There was an advantageous in the event there are any noises or cries for help from Chase when she killed him.

The garage door opened as Chase drove up his curved driveway and into the three-car garage. Staci pulled in behind him but stopped short of the garage. She turned the Ducati around and shut it off so the bike faced the street. She got off the motorcycle, strapped her helmet to the side, and walked into the garage to meet Chase.

The moon was full, and Staci knew Chase could clearly see her shapely figure walking up to him. He paused as he put his keys back into his pocket after unlocking the kitchen door.

He was mesmerized as he watched her slowly approach, one leg seductively stepping in front of the other, her shirt purposely unbuttoned to reveal more cleavage than she showed him earlier that morning on the beach and at the restaurant.

She knew she looked beyond beautiful to him right now, especially after a few glasses of wine and three Cadillac Margaritas. She opened her mouth and made a display slowly circling her inner lips with her tongue.

Staci stopped only when they were toe to toe. She grabbed his belt with both hands and pulled him aggressively into her. Looking at him with her large, wide-set eyes, she puckered her lips and slowly let out an inebriated breath of air that she ran over his neck, down over his chest, and back up his neck that ended deep inside his right ear.

He kissed her gently but firmly, running his lips and tongue over her ear lobes, down her neck, across her cleavage, and back up to her lips. She responded, sticking her tongue deep inside his mouth and playfully tugging at his lips with her teeth.

Chase reached out with his left hand, hit the garage door button to close it, and swooped her up. He lifted her effortlessly. She felt his hands moving up her thighs and buttocks as he carried her through the kitchen, the dining room and then the living room, and up the stairs. He was a man with a purpose.

Chase didn't bother to turn on any lights. The bright moonlight shining through the windows gave plenty of definition to the contour of his house and its furnishings. They continued to kiss and fondle each down the hall past a Jack-and-Jill dual bedroom and bathroom, and into his master bedroom. Staci climbed out of his arms and quickly undressed herself.

In seconds, her clothes lay in a heap on the floor. She jumped into his bed. Chase was right behind her, his clothes tossed aside and scattered across the carpeted floor.

They made love passionately from the start. Chase's seventy-five-gallon saltwater tank gave off an aura of light that allowed their shadows to accentuate their passion. A small pool of sweat formed between Staci's firm breasts. She sensed Chase pacing himself, and appreciated him for not wanting to erupt before she had a chance to be satisfied.

After a few minutes, Chase whispered in her left ear, "Why don't you get on top now? I want to make sure that you get what you deserve before ..."

"Say no more, lover boy," his erotic lover said.

Chase got off and rolled over onto his back. Staci quickly mounted herself on top of him, and two minutes later, had the best unrestrained excitement ever in her life. Much more powerful and longer lasting than what she experienced with her selfish boyfriend, Nicky.

She tilted her head back with her ample breasts bouncing in the moonlight. Sweat dripped down her face as she let out a muffled scream that lasted what seemed a long stay in heaven for both.

Staci collapsed in a heap on his chest, heaving fast and deep. Chase welcomed her with his arms and mixed in gentle caresses while gently massaging her shoulders. After a few minutes, she rolled over to the other side of the bed. Both lovers caught their breath as they gazed at the fish tank on the far wall.

Staci saw the fish swim in a graceful, carefree manner that matched her current demeanor. All of the past week's stresses were gone like vapor in the wind. She felt more serene and at peace than she had in months, maybe years. She wanted to enjoy a few more minutes of this bliss before she had to forsake pleasure and return to business.

Staci looked over at Chase with a soft and gentle smile. He smiled back and squeezed her hand. "I have to admit, that was the best I ever had. No lie. I can't explain it, but you absolutely brought out the best in me.

Staci smiled and looked deeply into his hazel eyes. "Save your breath, lover boy. I'm going outside to smoke a cigarette. Maybe two. You stay right here and gather your strength. You're going to need it. When I come back, we're going to take it nice and slow and make the evening last forever. You've got twenty minutes."

She climbed out of bed and pulled the comforter over Chase as the night was starting to cool off. She could feel his eyes on the outline of her body as she moved across the bedroom floor, her hands up and pulling her hair back over her head. Her buttocks gracefully shifted from left to right, and the slight outline of her breasts peaked from either side of her chest.

Staci walked over to a laundry basket sitting on a large off-white chair containing Chase's clean underwear, socks, T-shirts, and tank tops. She pulled out a pair of white boxers with thin blue pinstripes and slowly slipped them up over her waist. Without turning around to look, she knew he watched her every movement in the light from the moon and the fish tank.

Staci suspected Chase wore boxers, and she was glad for two reasons. First, she would look and feel ridiculous wearing tighty-whities. And guys, in her experience who wore them, were invariably jerks.

Nicky wore tighty-whities, and at the moment, she compared her tryst with Chase and boxer shorts to Nicky and his cotton briefs. For the record, Staci was far more impressed with Chase.

Staci pulled a white tank top from the laundry basket, turned around, and walked back toward the bed while slowly pulling it over her head. The shirt fit snuggly and hugged the curves of her body, leaving little for Chase's imagination.

"Twenty minutes," she said, licking her index finger and running it over the foot of the bed as she walked by and disappeared into the hallway.
Chapter 41 Valley of Decision

Staci walked down the stairs, looking at the pictures on the wall. In the dim light, she could make out what appeared to be an extended family picture. Chase's parents stood in the middle. Seven other adults who were undoubtedly Chase, his three siblings and their spouses, and six small children filled out the picture. Prominently centered in the middle of the rest of the pictures as it was, she guessed it was the last group photo of the family.

Continuing to the bottom of the stairs, she looked over the living room and the dining room. To the right, a small hallway led to two other rooms. She knew his study must be one of the two doors she was looking at. That's where she would find the hidden suitcases.

On her left, in the living room, she saw a dimmer switch on the wall and turned it slowly clockwise between her index and middle knuckles, careful not to leave her fingerprints. The entire first floor, like the staircase and the upstairs, was covered in a plush light tan carpet. The first floor was modern and sparsely furnished, with plenty of room for people to move around. She thought Chase had yet to experience a woman's touch in the house.

Staci walked over to the stereo, pulled out a Rihanna CD from the rack, and played it. Not too loud—just enough volume to cover any sounds she might make. Then she opened up the front door as if she were stepping out for a cigarette.

She entered Chase's study and took a brief look at the pictures on the walls. She stopped in astonishment at the family picture taken with Pope John Paul II. There they were—all six of the Manhattans with the Pope.

She identified Chase among the siblings. He must have been twelve or thirteen at most. She remembered at Alessa Laguna Chase said he was in the ninth grade when they went to Italy. He was ahead of the curve academically if he was that young in the picture. She realized Chase wasn't just a man with good looks, culture, and having a great taste in fine wine. He was also very intelligent.

Thanks to Khyati's superior hacking skills, Staci knew Chase purchased a fireproof floor safe and had it installed a couple days ago. This is where she would find the two suitcases.

She also had the combination as Khyati easily retrieved it from the safe company. Their firewall and security system were no match for the talents of MIT's own Khyati Dasmunsi.

In less than three minutes, she accomplished the first half of her mission. She strolled out of the study and through the front door to her waiting motorcycle. She untied the thin black twine used to tie the knapsack to the seat and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights containing her last two cigarettes and a small lighter. Then she placed the twine and the suitcases in the knapsack.

Staci was thankful for the trees concealing her movements from the neighbors across the street and on either side of the house. Chase's bedroom windows faced the back of the house, so as long as he was still in bed waiting for her, she would be alone.

Staci lit the first cigarette. It was chilly outside, but she craved a smoke. She needed to make a decision much harder than she realized on her drive to Laguna Beach a few hours earlier. She wondered if she should just get on her bike, leave with the suitcases, her mission only half accomplished, or go back inside and finish her job.

Staci had major reservations. She liked Chase and felt deeply he was a good man who wasn't out for himself in this world. This was a rarity among people who seemed to have everything going for them at his age.

She was beginning to like him even more than Nicky, and she only knew him one day. Staci sucked down another puff and blew out a large cloud of smoke. The vapor intensified in size and shape by the coolness of the evening air and the brilliance of the full moon.

She finished her first cigarette, put it out on the driveway, and placed it in the cigarette box. Still undecided regarding the second half of her assignment, she pulled out the second cigarette, lit it, and began pacing back and forth in front of the house.

Staci thought of how Chase treated her to an elegant dinner and a bottle of fine French wine, then balanced the night out with margaritas at a local bar. She had a great time. He treated her well even when his guitar playing friend Fred did a poor job pretending to like her.

She contrasted the night's events with her last date with Nicky at Jimmy's Diner. Sure, the storm prevented them from going somewhere nicer. But Nicky could have taken her out for a big juicy steak once the weather broke. After all, she did risk her life when there had not been sufficient testing to verify if it were safe for a human to be sent through a wormhole.

She killed a beloved state senator. All she got out of it was a pink sweater, a quick jump that did nothing for her, and a lousy meal at Jimmy's served by a washed-up waitress with a bad attitude.

But ultimately, she understood the global community would soon change. It would never be the same again. Nicky had a vision for the future of the world ushered in by the escalating breakthroughs in physics, nanotechnology, and biochemistry.

He and his dedicated followers were determined this discovery would not fall into the wrong hands. Not to the military or to a political group. Not to a terrorist group. And certainly not corporations who would use it for their own greedy gain rather than benefit those who needed it the most.

She lowered her head and sighed, then put out her second cigarette and placed it in the cigarette box. She took out a piece of gum and placed the empty wrapper along with the empty box of cigarettes and the lighter in the knapsack.

She then took out a pair of thin, black leather gloves, put them on, and headed back into the house. She hid the knapsack in the small shrubs that lined the driveway.

She made up her mind. Chase Manhattan must die. He knew too much. He had spoken to Professor Fischer, stole both a transporter and a receiver suitcase, and realized this historical and monumental discovery was now a reality. He has to die—and he has to die right now.

Staci Bevere fidgeted at the thought. Closing her eyes and taking three deep breaths, she sealed her heart and cleared her head. She thought back on the words the master had spoken over her. She entered a state of homeostasis, blocking out everything except for the immediate task.

Staci walked into the house, quietly shut the door, and took a look around. She was still undecided on how she would kill Chase as she strolled into the kitchen to get a glass of water before going back upstairs.

She walked to the refrigerator to see what Chase might have in there. Opening the door with a dish towel, the refrigerator light gave view to a most horrific sight—numerous bowls and Tupperware containers full of fresh vegetables and a loaf of what appeared to be nine-grain bread.

"Yuck," she said softly. "How can people eat this junk? There's no pie or cake or anything good in here."

She took a glass from the cupboard, turned on the water purifier at the sink, filled the glass to the top, and took a long slow drink. From the corner of her left eye she spotted a set of chef's knives on the counter. She finished the water and set the glass back in the cupboard.

Staci stepped in front of the twenty-three-piece Wusthof deluxe knife block. Her eyes focused on the eight-inch classic carving knife. She held it up and spun it around in her hand, then threw it up in the air over her head and snatched it hard by the handle on its way back down.

It had a good weight and balance. Sturdy, too. And sharp. Very, very sharp. The knife felt good in her hand and quickly became an extension of her. She could control it with her will just as she could any mechanical movement of her hands.

Staci cared for Chase. He deserved to die quickly, with little pain. She would go upstairs and slowly and seductively walk up to him with the knife behind her back. Then she would lunge on him, plunge the knife deep into his heart, and kill him instantly.

She didn't want him to die slowly, or even know what hit him. She owed him that for being a great guy and giving her a fun night out on the town.

Staci walked back across the carpeted floor through the living room and dining room, Rihanna's soft and amorous singing still wafting out of the speakers. She was focused and shed off all distractions--even her new heartfelt attraction toward Chase.

She climbed the stairs, careful not to look at any of the pictures on the wall, especially the family picture of Chase and his loved ones. She did not want to make eye contact with Mr. and Mrs. Manhattan. That might cause the deep guilt she vanquished to some cold, remote recess within her soul to rear its ugly, troubled head into her consciousness.

At the top of the stairs she took one more deep breath, then set her breathing on cruise control. She passed the Jack-and-Jill bedrooms and entered the last door at the end of the hall. She still wore the thin black gloves and she had the eight-inch carving knife in her hands behind her back.
Chapter 42 Fight for Life

"Hey beautiful," Chase said with a smile, still lying in bed with the comforter pulled up over his waist, his hands folded behind his head. He'd also felt the nip of the evening coolness, and had put on a pair of boxer shorts and a UC-Irvine tank top. He continued his smile as she stood some eight steps from his bed, her hands behind her back.

With a demure smile she said in a sexy coo, "Are you ready for me, big guy? Well, are you?"

Chase felt like he was in another world. A place created solely for him. They were the only people who existed, and everything around them was designed for the sole purpose of enhancing their night together. An earthquake could slide his house off its concrete foundation and Chase would not be shaken.

"I'm ready," he said with supreme confidence.

Staci took two steps toward him. Chase looked deep into her eyes. At the moment, nothing else mattered. Two more steps. He folded back the comforter to welcome her to his private little universe when she sprung like a pouncing tiger.

As she whipped the knife into strike position, a glimmering moon ray reflected off it—just in time for Chase to recognize she gripped a dagger. His instinct and reflexes overcame trust and confidence.

Chase rolled directly into her, his left hand making an arching motion that deflected her wrist to the far left side of the bed. The knife buried itself deep in the mattress. He continued his roll underneath Staci's lunging body, out of the bed, and onto the floor. Staci recovered from her failed attempt and was on her feet in seconds, knife in hand and in an attack position.

"What the hell are you doing, Cathy?" Chase shouted, breathing heavier than he had twenty minutes ago.

"I'm so very sorry to have to do this," she said, circling around the foot of the bed and walking toward him, holding the knife firmly in her right hand. "I truly am. But I have to carry out my mission."

"Mission? What mission?" he demanded. Chase stepped back slowly but deliberately, trying to buy a few seconds to recalibrate his senses, assess the sudden change of events, and react accordingly.

Staci quickened her pace, slashing the knife at his neck and forcing him to backpedal and nearly lose his balance. Chase's racing mind made the connection to Nicky Junior and the two metallic suitcases he took from MIT. He picked up a pair of running shoes from the floor and threw them at his attacker, then formed a dragon fighting stance.

"Drop the knife, Cathy. Drop it on the floor and step back. Now."

"You'll have to take it from me. And that's something you don't have the ability to do."

Chase stepped into Staci and struck with a reverse kick directed at her head that just missed. He followed with a series of alternating left and right front snap kicks.

Staci grabbed two lead crystal water glasses from the nightstand and threw them at Chase. She also threw the coasters and two glass candleholders.

He sidestepped the glasses and coasters and ducked under the candleholders, then heard the sound of glass shattering behind him and water pouring out onto the carpet. He swung his head around to see his seventy-five-gallon saltwater aquarium spilling its contents of salt water and fish onto his bedroom carpet.

Chase was enraged beyond anything in his memory. His emotions shifted into high gear. He stared down the psychopath who manipulated her way into his house and tried to kill him. Now she's broken the one thing that brought peace and serenity to an otherwise lonely life.

"I'm going to kick your ass all the way back to Cambridge."

She waited in a catlike stance with her weight on her back leg, right foot in front of her, ready for the counterattack. Chase led with a right arm punch. Staci blocked the strike and launched three snap kicks to his stomach, neck, and head.

Chase recovered and struck. Inside crescent kick. Missed. Roundhouse kick, this hitting Staci on the left side of her head. He was astounded—she held her ground and held onto the knife.

"You're not fighting an average martial arts student, Chase. I'm a professional assassin, skilled and disciplined to withstand the pain of a kick to my head."

She readied herself and jumped into Chase, thrusting the knife at his chest and midsection, then slashed side-to-side at his neck. He sidestepped and grabbed her bicep and forearm with both hands, flipping her over. He attempted to drive her head onto the floor.

Staci used her momentum and turned the flip into a back somersault and broke free of Chase's grip. She planted her hands on the carpet and went into a back flip, landing on her feet in the doorway in a fighting stance, still holding the knife in her hand.

"Give it up, Chase. Don't you get it? You don't have a prayer. Your dead meat," Staci yelled as she wiped sweat from her forehead.

Chase was determined to stay on the offensive and not allow her to dictate the pace of the fight. He charged with a barrage of kicks and rising punches from his waist, driving her out the bedroom door and down the hallway.

He fell to his left side and swung his right leg in a whipping motion. Staci jumped to avoid the sweep and rolled into a somersault as she hit the floor. She stood and landed a kick to Chase's sternum as he rose to face her.

The blow knocked him backward to the edge of the staircase and onto his back. Staci jumped on top of him, the knife still gripped tightly in her right hand. He looked up into her sweat-laden face, her jet black hair stuck to her cheeks and forehead.

It was a far cry from the smooth and silky bob that bounced off her shoulders twenty minutes ago. Her breathing was rapid and deep, yet erratic. Her eyes bulged and her lips began to quiver. Her skin was drained of its natural color and sweat caused her black mascara to run down her cheeks. She was focused—yet disoriented. To Chase, she looked as if she were possessed.

"You're starting to unravel. You know I can beat you," Chase shouted.

"Die, you freakin' thief." Staci drew her arm back and tried to drive the knife deep into his chest. He blocked the forward thrust, using his left palm to redirect the stab to the side and drove his right knee into her stomach.

Staci tumbled forward over Chase headfirst down the stairs. He hoped that would buy him a few seconds to regroup and stage another offensive.

But Staci was too quick. She grabbed him by the head and pulled him down the stairs with her. They tumbled over the top of each other, Chase still holding her right wrist with his left hand, keeping the knife at bay.

They stopped at the midway point of the staircase with Chase at the lower step. He stood and slammed her into the wall. Her head hit the family photo. The glass shattered and the impact made a large hole in the drywall, sending more family memories flying in all directions.

Chase let out a yell, then threw her over the railing onto the living room carpet below. Staci landed with a loud thud that told him she fell squarely on her back. He took a few seconds to clear his head and take a deep breath. When he looked over the banister, to his amazement, she was back on her feet.

"I don't believe it," Chase said.

Staci was lucid and alert, ready to carry the fight back to him. "You're going to have to do better than that. You're not my first mark. I've taken down better men than you."

Staci sprinted to the bottom of the stairs and leapt up to the fifth step. Chase had no choice but to place his left hand onto the railing and leap over onto the living room floor. Staci turned and jumped to the bottom of the stairs and stepped towards him, the eight-inch knife still in her right hand like an unwelcome appendage.

Staci was breathing hard. She took a moment to use her free hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead and to run her fingers through her hair, pulling it to the back of her head.

"I tried to make this easy. But now you've made me do this the hard way. Why don't you just give up right now and I'll make this painless for you."

Chase wasn't afraid. He knew he was fortunate to be alive. He should have been lying in his bed, a corpse with a chef's knife sticking in his chest, waiting for someone to notice him missing. But he wasn't about to lie down and die. Not in his own house. Chase didn't flinch, taking advantage of the break to catch his breath.

"You're out of shape, Chase. You know it, and I know it."

"You're messing with the wrong guy. You've made the biggest mistake of your life by coming in here and attempting to kill me in my house."

The living room and dining room were not separated by a wall, and offered four hundred square feet to maneuver and fight. Though sparsely furnished, there were a few items Chase could use as weapons. To his left, beneath the staircase, was a small oval side table that held a crystal, ten-inch bud vase along with five decorative black onyx oval stones.

He picked up the stones and threw them hard at her. The fourth bounced off the left side of her forehead. It wasn't a clean hit, but it made a nice thud sound upon impact. Chase knew it must have hurt like hell. The vase followed.

Staci ducked to avoid its trajectory before it shattered into dozens of pieces against the front door. Chase then grabbed the table by one of its legs and threw that too. Staci blocked it with her left forearm, and it bounced harmlessly off the wall behind her.

Chase had to get the knife out of her hand. Stepping out into the center of the living room, he stood with clenched fists to his side, issuing a silent challenge to meet him there and fight hand-to-hand. Staci accepted, and tossed the knife a few inches over his head and onto the dining room carpet behind him.

"You're delusional, Chase. You want to go hand to hand with me? You can't beat me. I'll kill you with or without a knife."

"Bring it."

The two fighters faced each other, each barefoot and dressed only in boxer shorts and tank tops. Sweat dripped down their heads and necks and soaked the upper portions of their shirts and shorts.

Staci took two steps forward and launched a powerful lunge kick at Chase's chest. He dropped to the floor and rolled under the strike, stood back up in a left forward stance, and delivered a volley of punches mixed with front snap and push kicks.

She blocked or avoided each strike while countering with a diversionary flip kick to the groin. Chase lowered his guard. She delivered a roundhouse kick that landed hard on the left side of his jaw, knocking out an upper molar and sending it flying out of his mouth and across the room.

"I'm wearing you down, Chase. Just give up."

Chase reeled a few steps. Staci shuffled into him and directed another roundhouse kick to his head. He squatted to duck underneath it, but Staci grabbed his head as he began to stand back up. She used his momentum to throw Chase onto the dining table, breaking it in half. Stunned, Chase barely rolled out of the way to avoid having his head stomped.

He grabbed her ankle, pulling it up and out and dropping her on her back. Chase was back on his feet and attacked with kicks and knee drops while she rolled back and forth. He connected to her back and left shoulder before she regained a fighting stance on her feet.

"Why don't you just lie down and die," Staci shouted, more of a command than a question.

Chase smiled with confidence. "You're not used to people fighting back. You're a coward who prefers to kill your victims in their beds."

Amidst the broken glass and splintered wood strewn over the carpet, Staci saw a letter opener among the items that were on top of Chase's dining-room table. She grabbed it with her right hand and jumped into him, thrusting the weapon directly at his heart. Chase could do nothing but swing his left arm directly into her lunge.

The letter opener lay buried three inches deep in his shoulder. Despite the initial shock and excruciating pain, he disarmed Staci by pulling back with the letter opener stuck into his upper arm.

_He stepped back and screamed as he pulled it out and hurled it at Staci's head. She shifted to her left, barely avoiding the projectile._

Chase flashed back to numerous experiences in Southeast Asia where he subjected himself to trials of duress and suffering that would land a sensei in prison in the United States. He had learned how to manage pain that would render most people inoperable.

"A letter opener? You're losing control, Cathy. You're afraid to fight hand to hand. Fine with me," Chase said.

He sprinted back into the dining room, where he tried to pick up the chef's knife. Staci saw what he was doing. She arrived there first and grabbed it with her right hand. Chase picked up a dining chair next to the busted and broken table and snapped off two legs. The sharp splintered ends made resourceful weapons.

"So you want to play rough, do you, Chase?" Staci said, breathing hard and again wiping the sweat off her forehead with her free hand. "You should have just given up back in the bedroom. Hand to hand or using weapons, it won't make a difference. You don't stand a chance."

She followed suit by shattering a chair with her left foot and picking up a splintered leg. Chase threw the remains of his broken chair, hitting Staci in the left shin and foot and causing her to reach down and make sure nothing was broken.

The two traded stabs and swings, moving back and forth between the dining room and the living room. Staci managed to knock the splintered leg out of Chase's left hand with a kick to his forearm. She still had the chef's knife and took a few slashes at him.

The action was swift. Staci cut a half-inch gash horizontally across his abdomen. Blood oozed out and stained his light green tank top, but he didn't notice as the fight for survival overwhelmed the pain and bleeding.

He landed a left kick to Staci's right hand. She lost her grip and the knife fell next to the broken dining-room table. She stood in the middle, the knife ten feet to her right and Chase to her left.

She hesitated, looked at Chase and the blood leaking from his stomach and left shoulder, then to the knife, then back at Chase. Instead of trying to finish him off with her hands, she opted for the knife.

Chase found a clear path to the wall behind him where he had a 9mm Glock hidden behind the drywall. He took five large strides, plunged his two fists through the drywall, and pulled out the already-loaded semi-automatic. He planted his left foot, and with the gun in his right hand, spun and aimed at the center of Staci's chest.

Staci saw what Chase was doing. She grabbed a sofa cushion and ducked under the ensuing five shots with a series of somersaults that vaulted her toward the far wall of the dining room. She held the pillow to her face and dove out of the window into the shrubs and wood chips in the front yard.

Her momentum carried her forward as she rolled twice, jumped up onto her feet, and sprinted toward the waiting red and white speed demon parked in the driveway, keys in the ignition.

Staci grabbed the knapsack with the suitcases she hid in the shrubs, threw them over her right shoulder, and started the Ducati. She sped down the driveway and back toward Coast Highway as fast as the curved streets physically allowed.

Chase raced to the front door, threw it open, and ran out into his driveway with eight bullets still left in the clip. But all he could hear was the sound of the Ducati screaming through the canyon.

His assailant, his date, his lover, the girl a mere thirty minutes earlier he thought was the possible love of his life, was making her getaway—in his underwear and tank top and nothing else.
Chapter 43 911

Looking around his living room and the dining area, Chase couldn't believe the damage inflicted on his house. It looked as if a small war had broken out. Shattered glass and embellishments were strewn across the carpet. Holes pocked the walls, furniture was toppled over, and pictures were knocked off the stair wall. Splintered pieces of wood from what was left of his dining-room table and chairs were scattered everywhere.

"I'm glad I opted for carpet rather than listening to the interior designer who wanted travertine in here," Chase said aloud as he considered the consequences of fighting on a hard rather than soft floor.

Stepping into the kitchen he stood with his hands on his hips and looked around at the knives, pots and pans, plates, silverware, and other cooking utensils and was thankful the fight did not continue here.

Chase gazed at the set of Wusthof chef's knives on the granite countertop conspicuously missing the eight-inch carving knife. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, and considered himself fortunate he was still alive.

Chase walked across the kitchen to the cupboards where he kept Advil, poured four tablets into his hand, and popped them in his mouth. He turned on the water, cupped his hands and drank from the running faucet, then rubbed cold water on his face and through his hair.

On the counter was a box of tea bags. He opened the individual cellophane packets and ran cool water over two, then gently placed them where his molar had been kicked out.

Feeling somewhat refreshed, he picked up the phone and started to dial 911. Catching himself, he thought what he would say. Ah ... hello, a girl just kicked my ass, destroyed my house, and almost killed me.

Then he remembered the cases he hid in his recently installed floor safe. He tossed the phone on the counter and ran to the study, careful not to step on any of the broken glass with his bare feet. Once inside, he set the Glock 9mm on top of his desk.

At first glance, he didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Like the kitchen, the study was spared any damage. Chase opened the walk-in closet door and looked down at the scattered shoe boxes that once covered the floor safe.

He knelt and spun the combination dial to the left, right, then left again. Opening the lid, the cash, watches, and other valuables remained. Everything was there—except the black and silver metallic suitcases.

Chase didn't need to assess the events of what just happened. He knew he stumbled into something bigger than anything he could have imagined when he first talked to Professor Fischer.

If he didn't act, more innocent people would die. His pride evaporated, he picked up the phone on his desk and dialed 911. He needed two things; medical attention and have the police catch this psychopath and return the suitcases.

"Nine one one. What's your emergency?" asked a pleasant female voice.

Still gathering his thoughts, Chase blurted out, "I was robbed and almost killed inside my house."

"Are you alright, sir?"

Chase shifted his weight, cleared a spot on his desk with his left hand, and sat down. "I think I have some cracked ribs and I had a tooth knocked out. I have a few cuts, but nothing life-threatening."

"Are you alone now? Is there anybody else in the house?"

"I'm alone. The girl ..." Chase's voice trailed off.

"A girl, sir?"

"Yes," Chase sighed. "Her name is Cathy Bennett. She attacked me with one of my kitchen knives and almost killed me. Then she stole something out of my safe and took off on a motorcycle speeding toward Coast Highway."

"When did this happen?"

Chase was now adding to the conversation with exaggerated hand movements with his right arm. "Just a few minutes ago. Listen, if you send somebody after her, you can still catch her."

"Are you bleeding? Do you need medical attention?"

Chase looked down at the six inch gash across his torso. "Yes, I'm bleeding, but not very much. Listen, you need to dispatch someone after this girl. She should be easy to find. She's speeding on a red Ducati motorcycle through Laguna Beach and she's barefoot. She's only wearing a pair of my boxer shorts and one of my tank tops."

"I see. And what is your name?"

"Chase Manhattan."

"Your name is Chase Manhattan? And a girl robbed you and attempted to kill you, then sped away on a motorcycle in your underwear?"

Suddenly the woman on the other end sounded like a completely different person. Her voice became lower, monotone, and downright cold. Chase knew she didn't believe him.

"Listen to me. This really happened. And my name is Chase Manhattan. You can trace this call. I'm not trying to be funny. I need you to dispatch someone to look for this girl. Her name is—"

"Cathy Bennett. Right. You already told me that."

Chase noticed she was no longer calling him 'sir.' He was frustrated and about to light into her when she said, "Okay. I'll dispatch someone right now. I'll also send a police officer to your house Mr. ah, Manhattan."
Chapter 44 Wild Police Chase

The sound of the speeding Ducati Desmosedici GP15 echoed through the canyon as Staci sped north on Laguna Canyon Road, weaving around cars coming into and going out of Laguna Beach. Traffic was light, but at her speed, she needed to dodge cars every fifteen seconds. The temperature had cooled from a balmy seventy-five degrees to a cool fifty-nine.

Staci's helmet was a Schuberth Sport S2 Bluetooth. She slowed down to reduce the noise of the bike and make the call for help with a preprogrammed telephone number entered by Sensei Masakata. An anonymous person on the other end picked up on the first ring. "This is Jeb."

"Jeb, listen. I need your help. I retrieved what I needed to but failed to drop the mark. I need to be picked up fast."

"Where are you now, Miss Bevere?" The voice was deep and loud.

"I'm heading north through the canyon. I remember there's a toll road a few miles ahead."

"When you approach the toll road, you'll see a street named El Toro. Make a right, then another right on Aliso Creek Road. I'll guide you to a place where we can pick you up."

"Got it. And let's make this quick. I'm wearing only boxer shorts and a tank top. I'm freezing my ass off right now."

"Will do. And don't hang up, Miss Bevere. Stay with me. Everything will be just fine."

"Thanks a million, Jeb."

"No worries."

After a few minutes of speeding through the weaving canyon at twice the posted speed limit, Staci saw the sign for the toll road. "I see the intersection," she said. "Make a right on El Toro, right?"

"That's correct. Then make another right on Aliso Creek Road."

Slowing down to ten miles an hour to make the sharp right turn, Staci spotted a sheriff deputy's black-and-white Crown Victoria approaching the intersection. The gold sheriff's department emblem on the driver's side door shone brightly in her headlight. All she could do was smile and wink at the deputy, who lowered his window and stared at her.

She hoped he would think she was just another nutty Southern Californian and this was nothing out of the ordinary. No such luck. He made a U-turn and turned his red and blue lights on.

Controlling her breathing and her rapidly rising heart rate, she shouted into the helmet phone, "We have trouble, Jeb. A sheriff's deputy is barreling up on me with his lights flashing."

"Lose him. I just heard over the scanner they're looking for you. There are more units driving to the area right now."

Staci tightened her grip on the throttle and shifted up to fourth gear, putting distance between her and the deputy. A second deputy's car appeared over the top of the hill in front of her with lights flashing. She had no choice but to enter the southbound San Joaquin Hills Toll Road entrance. Staci entered the onramp at seventy-five mph.

With both deputies in full pursuit, Staci opened up the bike to one hundred twenty mph. She was beyond cold now. Her hands were numb—she was having trouble holding the throttle. Her thin black leather gloves gave her little protection from the elements.

But she maintained her breathing and focus. The deputies were a half a mile behind her. She opened up the throttle even more.

"Jeb, I've got two of them on me now. Where do I go from here?"

"You need to turn around. I'm following the action on the police scanner. They're dispatching more units up ahead to block the toll road. And a chopper's on its way. Turn around and get off the exit you just got on."

Staci slowed to forty-five mph. A grassy median, two hundred yards wide, separated the northbound and southbound lanes. She had to cross.

A dip in terrain of forty feet with a slope of thirty degrees opened up. The ground was soft and water from recent rains flooded the center of the medium. She could use this to her advantage if she performed the maneuver right.

One hundred yards ahead she saw what she was looking for; a strip of ground that rose up between two large pools of water. She assessed the angle, slope of the embankment, the distance to the level terrain, and the speed of the bike.

Staci calculated she needed to slow down to thirty mph to have the best chance of successfully making this maneuver. She dropped her speed, then veered off to the right, down the thirty-degree dip, and across the island of grass.

The two deputies followed her, spreading out into a pincher formation. The headlights rose, then dropped out of sight from her rearview mirrors as they hit the incline.

Just as she expected, they drove onto the median as fast as they could to close the distance between them. They must have been doing at least sixty. She could hear the crunch of the front ends of their cruisers as they became momentarily airborne, then hit the ground.

Staci reached the earthen bridge dividing the two ponds of rain water. It was soft and muddy. All she had to do was keep control of the bike and her momentum, and theoretically, she'd make it safely across to the southbound lanes.

Her rear tire slid to the left and right as she crossed. She used her feet to keep control. Mud covered her from helmet to toe as the bike slowed to fifteen mph.

A large glob of foul-smelling mud made its way under her visor and splattered across her face. Using her left hand, she reached up and wiped the muck from her eyes while letting out a loud, "yuck!" She ripped the visor off as her attempts to wipe it clean only smeared the goo and made her vision worse.

The embankment to the other side of the toll road sloped slowly upward. Staci barely brought the bike to the graveled shoulder. Her rear tire found the traction it needed. Opening up the throttle on the northbound lanes, she exited onto El Toro Road. In the mirrors she saw the two vehicles enter the southbound lanes a mile behind her.

"Are you still with me, Jeb?" she shouted into her helmet phone. "I'm back on El Toro and bought myself thirty a minute of distance between us."

"I'm still here. Nice maneuver. I picked it up on the police scanner. Turn right on Aliso Creek Road. Two miles up you'll see a Carl's Junior Restaurant on the right."

"Carl's Junior. Got it."

"The sign looks like—"

"The sign has a yellow star on a red background. I know. I've already eaten at one twice since I've been here."

"Just past Carl's Junior is a side street that leads into an industrial area. Pull in there. We'll be parked one hundred feet up on the right side."

"Turn the heater on, would you? I'm so cold right now I can hardly grip the bike."

"It's on. Hang in there, Miss Bevere. I'll talk you through this."

Staci turned right on Aliso Creek Road and opened up the muddied bike. At just past midnight, there was no traffic passing through this sleepy residential neighborhood of Aliso Viejo. Green traffic lights were her friend and she made it to her rendezvous in one minute.

"I'm pulling in, Jeb. Where are you?"

"I see you. Look to your right." Jeb flashed his parking lights on and off. "Pull around to the back of the truck and shut it off."

Two tall and well-built hulks dressed in dark pants and black leather jackets stepped out of a black Silverado 3500HD. Staci drove up to them and stopped. Jeb's partner steadied the bike while he took her by the right elbow, helped her off the Ducati, and escorted her to the driver's side rear door.

"Please sit down in the back of the seat, Miss Bevere. I'll be right back."

Staci pulled off her backpack with the two suitcases, reached into the backseat, and placed it with care on the floor.

Jeb walked over to his partner and, with one easy movement, they picked up the $50,000 red and white Ducati Desmosedici GP15 and unceremoniously dumped it in the back of the truck. They pulled a plastic tarp over the bed of the truck and secured it with bungee cords.

Staci could hear wailing sirens approaching. Jeb pulled the truck into the Carl's Junior parking lot from the side entrance. There they watched deputies' cruisers with crushed grill plates race past on Aliso Creek Road. More sirens came from the north. After a minute of listening to the scanner and convinced they were looking for Staci a few miles away, Jeb pulled out of the parking lot and worked his way to the 405 Freeway.

Jeb looked at Staci and said, "Why don't you put your hands up against the heating vents? They'll warm up faster. We'll have you back at your hotel in twenty minutes."

"Thanks again," she managed to say through chattering teeth. "The heat feels great." Looking up, she noticed Jeb was nothing like she pictured when he talked her through the high-speed chase.

"What's the matter, Miss Bevere?" he asked with a smirk on his face.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Well, your mouth is agape and your eyes wide open. See something especially shocking?"

"Nothing. It's just that ..."

"I'm black. It's okay. I know I talk like a white person. I get this look often when people meet me for the first time after only hearing my voice. And my name is Jeb. That throws them off. Please allow me to introduce my partner, Vincent. Vincent, Miss Bevere."

"Nice to meet you," said the young white male, handing her his leather jacket. Staci thought she detected the slightest Brooklyn accent, almost as if he were doing his best to cover it up. "If you don't mind me saying so, you look like you're in pretty bad shape right now."

Vincent had a deviant grin and a tone that communicated approval, as if getting oneself into a knock-down, drag-out fight and surviving offered acceptance into his exclusive club. Staci noticed Vincent had exceptionally strong jaw lines. She discerned that together, his voice, smile, and eyes carried a particular level of demented intensity that bordered on the insane.

She observed Jeb and Vincent played very convincing roles of polar opposites, similar to the good-cop-bad-cop routine. Jeb was the leader, exuding an educated and professional calmness, and Vincent, a street-smart pit bull. Very simply, Jeb would do things the easy way. Vincent, the hard way.

Together, they were two scary people. But Staci felt secure with the two behemoths, safe knowing Jeb and Vincent worked directly for Sensei Masakata.
Chapter 45 In-N-Out Burger

Staci took a moment to assess herself, looking over her outward features starting with her legs, torso, and arms. She leaned forward and looked at her face in the rearview mirror, thinking she looked like she had a starring role in Dawn of the Dead. There was little color in her face except for the smeared mud. Her hair was matted and soaked with water and muck.

She was a far cry from her drop-dead gorgeous self from a mere hour ago. Already, her face swelled up in various places. Her left eye was beginning to close shut and ruptured blood vessels beneath her skin produced bruises in ghastly dark purple hues.

Her top lip was swollen but not bleeding. Her feet ached, the result of running through shrubs and across gravel in Chase's front yard on her way to her Ducati.

She went through an inventory of her inner body starting at her head and working her way down to her feet. There were no internal injuries and no broken bones, although a mild concussion was possible. She rubbed her throbbing abs where Chase landed a kick and knocked her halfway down the stairs.

"Is there anything we can do for you," Jeb asked with genuine concern.

She took a moment to gather her thoughts, then said, "Do either of you guys have a cigarette? I could sure use one right now."

"We don't smoke," Jeb said. "It's a bad habit. You have to take care of your body. It's a temple you live in, and ultimately, it's not your own."

Her mouth fidgeting, Staci again looked in the rearview mirror. With clarity setting in as she warmed up, she thought she looked twice as bad as she did a few moments ago.

"Well, I am hungry. In fact, I'm starved. I hardly ate since breakfast this morning. Let's find a drive-through on the way back to the hotel."

"I think we should get you back to the hotel and have someone look at you. Doctor Paschke will meet us there. She'll give you the medical attention that you need."

"Doctor Paschke? Who's Doctor Paschke?"

"We took the precaution to have one of our doctors give you an examination. Just in case." Vincent looked Staci over from head to toe and smirked again.

Still gathering herself together, Staci thought of her fight with Chase. He had beaten her up far worse than she realized. "Yeah, but you should have seen the other guy," she quipped with a smile.

Jeb and Vince both let out a deep laugh. "Good comeback. Classic," Vince said with another laugh.

"We're close to the freeway," Jeb said. "And I'm satisfied we're were far enough from the police activity. There's an In-N-Out Burger up here. If the line's not too long, we'll hit the drive-through."

Entering Laguna Hills Mall from the south, Jeb commented, "Slow night, Vincent. Only five cars in line. Are you getting anything?"

"Sure. I haven't eaten here in a while and can splurge for one night. I'll have the double-double cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. Hold the sauce."

Jeb pulled up into the drive-thru and ordered. "Three double-double cheeseburgers, three fries, and three Cokes. Hold the sauce on one of the burgers."

With Jeb's window down, Staci heard the muffled sound of a helicopter in the distance. Jeb turned up his scanner and the three listened as the deputies coordinated the search and meticulously laid out the dragnet.

"These guys want you bad." He looked at Staci and noticed how small she really was, at least compared to Vincent and himself. "How can one little girl cause so much trouble? Wait. Never mind. Women. You sure do know how to mix things up."

"Please turn it off," Staci said as she looked with fascination through the large window on the drive-through wall. She watched as a dozen employees worked together in an assembly line putting the meals together.

"I've never seen anything like this before. Nobody else has this large of a window at the drive-through. You can see everything that's going on inside. This place is so cool. Hey, what's that girl doing to the fries?"

"They cook the fries in cholesterol-free oil, and then they pat the fries down with a towel to absorb the excess oil," Jeb said.

"That sounds like something they'd do at a fast-food restaurant in California."

Jeb pulled up to the window and handed a twenty-dollar bill to a short, peppy blonde with a ponytail. "Thanks," she said as she handed Jeb the change. Staci noticed how much this young girl looked like her when she was a senior in high school.

"Is this a fun place to work?" Staci asked her in a bubbly manner, smiling brightly and sticking her head out to see around Jeb.

The girl hesitated when she got a good look at Staci. "Um, yeah, it's—it's a lot of fun. I'm saving money for when I start college next year." She forced out a smile back at Staci.

"That's great," Staci said in an encouraging tone. "I'm in college, too. I'm a graduate student at MIT finishing up my degree in applied statistics. I'm sure you'll do great. What's your major going to be?"

The girl had a startled look on her face and quickly closed the drive-through window.

Staci sat back in her seat. "Wow. What's the matter with her?"

Jeb and Vincent laughed. Vincent slanted the rearview mirror so Staci could take another look at herself.

"Oh yeah, I'm a mess. No wonder she looked at me like I'm from another planet. I guess I don't look much like a grad student at MIT, do I?"

Jeb flashed his smirk. "No, you don't. Are you sure you can eat a double-double, Miss Bevere? Your lip is swollen. You look like you're in a lot of pain, too."

"No problem. I'm so hungry I could eat if half my teeth were missing."

Staci continued to stare in the drive-through window. "I see shirts and sweaters for sale on the wall. It looks like there's a lot of the Southern California culture embedded in them. It's like going back in time to Happy Days on Nick at Nite."

Jeb looked at Staci in her dirty tank top. "I'd better buy you one. It's warmer than what you're wearing, and a lot better looking, too."

The young girl came back to the window and handed Jeb the food in one white rectangular open cardboard boxes. Jeb asked for a long-sleeved shirt. She reached under the counter for a plastic-wrapped shirt, and he paid for it.

"Thank you, sir. Have a great night, everyone." She looked once more at Staci and snapped the window closed.
Chapter 46 Bennie and Carol

After pressing the end button to terminate his call to the 911 dispatcher, Chase dialed Bennie Knowles. Chase knew his best friend would be awake. Bennie and Chase had always been there for each other over the past fifteen years.

Bennie answered on the first ring. "Chase, what's up, buddy? Is your date over so soon with that new hot chick? Cathy is it?"

"Listen, Bennie, I need your help."

"I knew she was out of your league. What'd I tell you? I told you so, but you wouldn't listen to me."

"Bennie," Chase sighed, pacing back and forth in front of his desk. "You're not going to believe this, but that girl tried to kill me tonight with one of my own kitchen knives."

Bennie laughed. "You can't get out of this one that easily. Come on. Tell the truth. Five minutes—max—is all you could handle from her, and then it was over. And out the door she went."

Chase's tone intensified. "Bennie, listen to me. She did try to kill me. She was after something I took while I was in Boston earlier this week."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, Bennie, I'm not. Kidding. You. You should see my house," Chase said, walking back into his living room, careful again to avoid stepping on broken glass.

"It looks like a tornado swept through here. She tried to stab me in the heart with an eight-inch chef's knife. We fought our way through the bedroom, head-over-heels down the stairs, and into the living room and dining room."

"Whoa. Hey, buddy. Sorry. Didn't mean to sound presumptuous. Are you alright? Where's the crazy lady now?"

"I'm okay. She jumped out the dining room window after I grabbed a gun I had hidden behind the drywall in the living room wall. I fired off a few shots, but she managed to get away."

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! You shot at her, and she jumped out your window? Chase, what's going on over there? I'm grabbing my car keys. Carol and I are coming over right now."

"Carol? Who's Carol? Never mind. Thanks, Bennie. I appreciate this. I dialed 911 to have them chase down Cathy. They're sending the police over here as well."

"Hang tight, pal—we're on our way."

Chase could hear Bennie and his latest and greatest girlfriend talking in the background. "Baby, turn off the TV. We've got to visit my good friend I was telling you about."

"Ohhhh, we were just getting comfortable, Schnookums. And Déjà Vu was just getting to the good part."

"I'll hit the pause button. I'm sure Denzel will figure out a way to save the day. Grab your coat, baby, and let's go."

"Chase, I'm putting on my jacket now. Be there in twenty."
Chapter 47 Crime Scene

Chase had been in many dangerous situations, but he was always in control. Not this time. Someone resolved to kill him in a premeditated attack had confronted him. He had limited defense for her onslaught. If he didn't have a gun at his disposal, Chase knew he'd be dead.

When he first moved into his house a few years ago, he felt a strong urge to conceal a loaded semi-automatic gun behind the drywall. At the time, he didn't have any enemies or a reason to hide a loaded weapon in such a manner. But he was thankful he listened to that still, small voice in his head and followed through.

Walking upstairs, Chase stopped halfway and looked over the damage to his living and dining rooms. The elevated viewpoint gave him a clearer perspective of what had just taken place. He looked at the five bullet holes in the wall and the broken window the assassin jumped through. The scene shouted of a lot of violence.

Chase was furious someone entered his house, stolen something of his, and tried to murder him in his own bed. He had never hit a woman before. But he wanted a second chance at the psycho-diva. But he also needed time to sort through his thoughts and decide if this was worth pursuing, or if he should count his blessings, walk away, and leave things alone.

Chase was determined to right his recent wrong turns. He thought of Susan Anderson, knowing he screwed up with her. Straightening things out with Susan had to be his highest priority.

Chase entered his bedroom and turned on his light. He grew more furious looking over the battle scene at ground zero. He considered his room his inner sanctuary, a place that was sacred, a place of intimacy where he allowed himself to be exposed. What he received in return was betrayal and a violent attempt on his life.

Chase looked down at her clothes lying on the floor in a heap. Right by his feet were her leather jacket, top, pants, shoes, and undergarments. He wanted to give them a good kick, as if she were somehow still in the center of them.

But this was now a crime scene. He needed to leave her clothing items for the police. With any luck, they'd yield clues. He knew Cathy Bennett was not her name, that she was not from Santa Barbara, and that she was certainly not here in south Orange County to get away from it all for a few days.

She was sent by someone in Cambridge. Somebody who wanted the suitcases just as badly as he did—and this person wanted no connection left back to him.

Who? Nicholas Fischer, Junior, that's who.

He looked at the slash across his abdomen and considered himself a blessed man to be alive. In the bathroom medicine cabinet was a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a roll of gauze, and trimming scissors. He closed his eyes, unscrewed the cap, leaned back, and poured the antiseptic onto the open wound.

He took a few seconds to recover from the burning sensation and wrapped the gauze around his torso, favoring his left shoulder. The bleeding wasn't pronounced, but it was still dripping.

His shoulder wound was not as bad as he feared. The puncture was small but deep. He cut a strip of gauze and wrapped his shoulder, wincing as he pulled the strip tight and folded the ends underneath.

Chase took out a clean pair of boxer shorts, gray sweatpants, and a T-shirt from his closet, then stepped into a pair of tan moccasin-style slippers his mother had given him on his birthday two years ago. This was the last gift that he'd received from her before she died, and only wore them on special occasions. This was certainly one of those nights.

While contemplating his next move, he saw red and blue lights through his bedroom window as two police cars drove up his street and into his driveway. Chase had hoped they'd come discreetly. He was sure his neighbors were awake and looking out their windows. At least his house sat back off the street and a row of trees gave him privacy from the nosy onlookers.

Chase walked downstairs and opened the front door before the police could knock. "Hey, guys, thanks for getting here so fast. Do you think you could turn off your lights? There's no reason to make all this commotion for my neighbors to see."

"Kill the lights," the first officer shouted to the rest as he reached the front door.

Chase left the door open, turned around, and stepped into his living room. The first officer followed, trailed by his partner. "I'm Officer Chappell, and this is Officer Edwards. Officers Martinez and Holston are right behind us. You're Chase Manhattan?" Chappell said as he looked around the living room and dining room.

"Yes, I am," Chase said, running his right hand through his hair.

"What happened here, Mr. Manhattan? We were sent out on a domestic violence call, but something obviously happened here tonight that's more than just a lover's quarrel."

The other two officers walked through the open front door. One of them whistled as he surveyed the damage. The last officer looked at the place, then at Chase, and said, "At first glance, I would have said you were responsible for all of this. But looking at your face, I bet it was the girl."

The other three policemen looked directly at Chase and laughed in unison.

"Alright, alright," Chappell said as he tried to don a straight face. "Dial it down, guys."

Chappell looked like a tough guy. He was in his mid-thirties with short-cropped black hair, a barrel chest, and a couple of big guns for arms. He looked like he purposely requested a uniform one size too small just so he could show the world his powerful physique. His thighs were so big they rubbed together as he walked. Chappell took out a notepad and a pen from his front pocket.

"From the top, Mr. Manhattan. Give us a summary of what happened. We can fill in the details as we go along, okay?"

"Sure," Chase said. "I met a girl today at Main Beach. She told me her name was Cathy Bennett."

"What did she look like?"

"Early twenties. Shoulder-length jet-black hair. Blue eyes. About five-three. I'm not the best at guessing weight, but she was certainly in great shape. She had a good tan."

"Then what happened?"

"We stopped for breakfast at C'est La Vie and talked for a while. We exchanged cell phone numbers and I asked her if she would like to go out to eat tonight. She said yes. That was around seven this morning."

"Okay," said Officer Chappell, looking up from his notepad. "Let's get to tonight."

"We went to Alessa Laguna and the Marine Room Tavern, then came back here."

A set of headlights came up the driveway and parked. Two car doors opened and closed. All four officers turned to look at the open front door.

"That must be my friend, Bennie Knowles. I called him right before you arrived and asked him to come over."

Bennie and Carol ran into the living room, holding hands. "Chase, are you alright? What happened here," Bennie asked, stepping carefully into the living room and looking around.

"Hey, buddy, why don't you and your lady friend just stand over there and don't touch anything," Chappell bellowed, pointing to the only corner of the living room where there was no damage.

Martinez squatted and looked at the knife lying on the dining room floor next to the broken table.

"She got it from the kitchen, Chase said. "Then she attacked me in my bedroom and down here before I finally knocked it out of her hand. The fight continued until I grabbed a 9mm I kept hidden in the wall. Cathy, or whatever her name is, saw what I was doing and grabbed a large cushion from the couch. She used it to cover herself and dove head first out the window. Then she sped off on a red Ducati motorcycle."

Chappell looked up from taking notes. "The dispatcher said she stole something from you."

"Let's go to the study," Chase said. Chappell and Edwards followed. He nodded toward the Glock lying on his desk as they entered. "I'm registered to own this gun."

Chase pointed toward the floor safe. "I had these shoe boxes covering the floor safe. When I opened the closet door, I saw they were strewn across the floor. Cathy opened the safe and stole something that I need to get back."

"What exactly was taken?"

"A couple metal suitcases used for scientific research. It's a smaller piece of a larger technical physics project I'm working on." Chase was technically lying, but he knew he could not explain the true intrinsic value of the suitcases to the police.

More flashing red lights appeared up the driveway. "That's the ambulance," Chappell said, clicking his pen closed, then folding his notepad and putting them both back into his shirt pocket. "Why don't you come back out into the living room so the paramedics can take a look at you? How do you feel right now?"

Chase lifted up his shirt and showed Chappell and Edwards the red-stained gauze wrapped around his stomach. "She cut me pretty good, but it's only a flesh wound."

Peeling back his left sleeve, Chase revealed the strip of cloth wrapped around his shoulder. "I have a puncture wound on my shoulder, but it's not that bad. She also knocked out one of my molars. And I have a few cracked ribs."

Chappelle's eyes opened wide. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize the extent of your injuries. Please, go sit down in the living room."

Chappell called for a crime scene unit as the paramedics attended to Chase. The other three officers took notes as they inspected the damage to the house. Bennie and Carol stood near where the five bullet holes punctured the wall.

"Can you two please wait outside while we conduct the investigation?" Officer Holston asked, looking at the bullet holes rather than Bennie.

"Don't go too far," Chase said as they started to leave. "The paramedics want me to go to Laguna Beach Memorial to get stitches for my stomach and shoulder."

"And your mouth, where you used to have an upper left maxillary second molar," the lead paramedic said.

Chase interjected. "Bennie, I want you to meet me at the hospital."

"Sure, Chase. We'll be right outside. Let's go, sweetie," Bennie said to Carol as he reached out and held her hand.

"Mr. Manhattan," Chappell said. "I'm going to have a team come over and dust for prints. This mystery girl had to have touched something."

"My housecleaner, Maria, cleaned the place two days ago. No one else has been here. You should be able to get a good set of her prints somewhere. She got into my safe so be sure to have them check the study, too."

Chappell reached into his wallet. "Right now, the paramedics will take you to the hospital and get you stitched up. In the meantime, here's my card. Feel free to call me anytime."

Chase thanked Chappell and placed the card into the pocket of his sweatpants.
Chapter 48 The Good Doctor

Jeb entered the 405 freeway. Staci unwrapped her double-double cheeseburger and pulled off the top bun. She removed the layers of lettuce and tomatoes and dropped them into the cardboard box next to the French fries. The onions came off next.

"That's the only nutritious part of the entire meal, Miss Bevere, and you're throwing it away," Jeb said, looking down at the discarded vegetables.

"Vegetables are not for me. I'm just a burger and fries girl."

"Suit yourself. But you should incorporate fresh produce into your diet."

"I'll do it tomorrow," Staci promised through a grinning mouthful of In-N-Out Burger's finest cuisine.

Jeb picked up his cell phone and called the good doctor. "Hello, Doctor Paschke. We're on the 405 and will be exiting to the hotel in a few minutes."

He listened for a few seconds, then said, "Yes. Miss Bevere will need a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt." He listened a little longer and said, "Uh huh. Good. Oh wait, I'll ask."

He turned to Staci who was now half way through her burger and said, "The doctor is in your room right now, waiting. She wants to know if you need anything else."

Swallowing her mouthful of food in one big gulp and wiping ketchup off her bottom lip, she said, "A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, please. And something chocolate."

"One bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. And something chocolate. Yeah, I know. She's a real health nut." He laughed and said, "Thanks again, Doctor. We'll see you shortly."

Jeb ended the call and stared out the driver's window. Driving past the Laguna Canyon Road exit on their way to Costa Mesa, he pointed to the sky. "They're still looking for you. See the searchlight? Police chopper. Still in search of a young girl in a pair of men's boxer shorts on a red Ducati motorcycle who they will never find."

"What a night," was all Staci could muster, tussling her hair and rubbing her head as she inhaled the remainder of her burger.

"We'll be there by the time you finish your fries," Jeb said.

"Irvine is a very pretty city to drive through at night. I like the Ferris wheel and the outdoor mall we just passed."

"That's Irvine Spectrum. Unfortunately, you won't be able to visit because you'll be on a plane back to Boston day after tomorrow. You'll need to stay inside your hotel room until you leave."

Staci continued to look out at the surrounding environs as they approached Orange County Airport. "The office buildings are new and big, but not so big that they block out the sky, unlike Boston and New York."

"No building in Orange County is more than twenty-one stories. I like it that way. A modern metropolis with a good economy, but not so built-up the community's personality is swallowed up and lost."

Jeb exited the freeway at Avenue of the Arts in the South Coast Metro area. He looked at his gorgeous but beat-up passenger. "It certainly has been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Bevere."

"Same here," Vincent said. "Have a safe flight back."

"Thanks, guys. I appreciate everything. I would have probably been on my way to jail right now if it hadn't been for you two."

Jeb pulled up to the Westin Hotel but was careful to stay away from the activity at the front entrance. Doctor Paschke was standing curbside. She stepped up to the passenger window and handed a small gym bag to Vincent.

"Here are the clothes you requested. I'll wait for you at the front door," she said to her patient in a kind and soothing, motherly tone.

Staci put on the sweatpants in a hurry. New pain in her shoulders, legs, and lower back—pain that was not there an hour ago—caused her to grimace as she slid the sweats on over the mud-stained boxer shorts. Numerous other pangs stabbed at her as she donned the sweatshirt over her new In-N-Out Burger shirt.

Vincent opened his door and stepped out of the truck, allowing Staci to exit onto the sidewalk. She pulled out her knapsack with the two suitcases from behind the front seat, then reached for the empty cardboard box of discarded vegetables and used napkins. "Let me throw that away."

"That won't be necessary," Jeb said. "I'll take care of it. Have a nice night, Miss Bevere."

Staci took her things, waved to Jeb and Vincent, and walked away with a noticeable limp.

Doctor Paschke placed her right arm with care around Staci and escorted her into the lobby. "Hello, Staci. Welcome back. You don't look so well."

"Thanks for being here for me. I don't feel so well."

"No worries. We'll have you patched up and ready to go in no time," Paschke assured her with a soft smile as she led her to the elevators.

"I would really enjoy sitting in a Jacuzzi," Staci said.

"My dear, my recommendation for you right now is ice packs. Lots and lots of ice packs. And don't worry, I'll be staying with you until your flight leaves in thirty six hours."

"I want to change the flight to tomorrow. I finished my mission a day earlier than expected."

"As your doctor, I can't allow that. It'll be difficult just to get out of bed in the morning. You'll need to rest all day tomorrow."

The elevator doors opened on the sixteenth floor. Paschke guided Staci, who limped down the hall to the fifth door on the right. Paschke opened the door, who walked straight to the sofa and sank deep into its cushions, keeping her knapsack at her feet.

Paschke pulled a dining-table chair in front of Staci and sat down. The doctor appeared to be in her late thirties. Impeccably dressed in a blue and white St. John wool V-neck blazer with a low cut top underneath and blue pants, Staci thought she could have come straight from a boardroom meeting. Or she could have been a high-priced call girl or a model at one time.

"Um, you're sure you're a doctor?"

"ER doctor at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles for ten years before going to work for Mr. Masakata. Trust me, I've seen it all."

"I hurt all over," Staci said, still slouched on the sofa.

Paschke pulled a notepad and pen from her black Levenger tote bag. She leaned forward but kept her knees together, her feet angled to the left and her ankles crossed.

"First, give me a rundown of the fight and all contact that was made, both to you and to him. That includes not only bodily contact such as punches and kicks, but landing on the floor or bouncing off walls."

Staci gave the doctor a brief account of the events.

"Tell me," Paschke asked. "Do you think you have any internal injuries?"

"No, I don't. I'm an expert at protecting my internal organs. I'd lose a limb before allowing someone to damage me internally."

"Do you have any broken bones?"

"No, no broken bones," Staci replied, grimacing in pain as she moved her arms and legs in circular motions and bending her joints and her neck.

Paschke stood, set the pad and pen down on the coffee table, and cupped Staci's head, leaning it to the left and to the right. Staci appreciated how gentle the doctor was with her.

Paschke pulled out a few small pieces of broken glass and fragments of drywall from Staci's matted hair. "You have a number of bruises on your face and your head. Do you think you have a concussion?"

"I don't think so. I'll just wake up with a lot of swelling and some serious aches and pains."

There was a knock at the door. "Room service," said the heavily accented voice behind the door.

"I'll get it. It's the wine and chocolate I ordered."

Staci observed as the doctor opened the door. She saw a young Latino man with a name tag of Ricardo standing with a cart draped in a white embroidered cloth. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon was on the left of the silver tray and two, one-pound bags of M&Ms, plain and peanut, were on the right.

Ricardo was quick to speak. "The kitchen and the gift shop are closed, so this is the only chocolate I could find. I had to drive to the Seven Eleven around the corner for them."

"Thank you," Paschke said as she handed Ricardo a twenty-dollar bill for a tip. "I'll take the cart." She maneuvered it in, closed the door behind her, and wheeled it through the suite's open floor plan into the living room area.

"It doesn't get any better than this, Staci. You've earned it."

"Can you please open the wine? I can hardly move my fingers," she muttered through her swollen lip as she lifted her hands and looked at her knotted appendages.

"I'll even pour it. Once you have a few glasses in you, I'll need to lay ice packs pretty much all over your body. I may have you take an ice bath depending on the extent of the swelling. So drink up. Enjoy. You'll need the entire bottle."
Chapter 49 South Coast Medical Center

Laguna Beach Memorial Hospital was only a ten-minute drive from Chase's house. The night brought in an odd mixture of patients involved in car crashes, domestic assaults, bar fights, and freak accidents.

Chase stood in front of a table in one of the many rooms inside the ER. He watched as two teenage girls scarcely old enough to drive were wheeled past with a frantic team of nurses and paramedics attending to them.

He overheard the conversations between the nurses hurrying back and forth that the girls were in a car accident on Coast Highway. A drunk driver crossed lanes and hit their car head-on twenty minutes ago. He died at the scene, and these two were desperately clinging to their lives. Chase suddenly stopped thinking about his injuries and said a silent prayer for the badly injured young girls.

To his right, a nurse led a man with blood running down the side of his head into another room. Most of the left side and the front of his shirt were soaked with blood. Chase guessed he was involved in a barroom brawl in downtown Laguna Beach.

Quite a few bikers hang out at some of the bars there, he knew, and this fellow probably said one too many things to the wrong guy. His eyes wandered to a young couple with a crying toddler receiving a nebulizer treatment for childhood asthma.

The nurse rolled the final layers of gauze around the waterproof medical patch that protected Chase's abdomen and the sutures. The doctor gave him a few stitches in his shoulder and placed his left arm in a sling to limit his arm movement. Once the nurse finished with the gauze, she helped him put his shirt back on.

"There you go. Good as new. How do you feel, Mr. Manhattan?"

Chase pulled the ball of cotton out of his mouth where the doctor stitched up his gum where his tooth was knocked out. "Better now. The pain killers are starting to work, but I still hurt all over."

He looked over at Bennie. "Thanks buddy, for coming with me."

"Chase," Bennie said. "I think you did the right thing by letting me call Susan. She's someone that you don't want to ruin a good thing with. She sounded genuinely concerned."

"I appreciate you stepping in for me, Bennie. You came through—like you always do. I owe you, buddy."

"I hope you're not mad at me for explaining to Susan what happened tonight. She needs to know the details right from the start. No more fooling around with her, Chase. She's a nice girl, and you have to treat her accordingly."

Bennie's new girlfriend, Carol, stood at his side holding his hand. She didn't speak, but her expression spoke volumes, confirming what Bennie just told him.
Chapter 50 Held Over for Observation

Chase wanted to call Officer Chappell for any new information. Were they able to find Cathy Bennett? How difficult could that be? How many girls drive a red Ducati motorcycle wearing only men's boxer shorts and a tank top late at night through Laguna Beach?

Lying in the hospital bed, Chase pulled out Chappell's card and called the police captain. He answered on the second ring. "Chappell here."

"Hello Officer Chappell, this is Chase Manhattan," he said with a wince of pain from his ribs and shoulder. The right side of his mouth was still numb from Novocain.

"Mr. Manhattan, how are you? Are you still at the hospital?"

"I'm feeling better. The doctors patched me up, but they want me to stay overnight for observation. And my lady friend is right here beside me as we speak."

Chase said the words lady friend with warmth and thanksgiving that caused a radiant smile to appear on Susan's face.

"I know it's only been an hour, but were you able to come up with anything? Did you catch her?"

"No. I'm sorry. A sheriff's deputy spotted her at the toll road and a chase ensued. An APB was posted and a chopper was even sent to the area. But she managed to elude them in Aliso Viejo. She just seemed to vanish right in thin air. From what I understand, it was a wild chase. Everything happened so fast the sheriff's department just didn't have enough time to properly respond."

Chase sighed as the sense of failure to catch her and the tranquilizer took effect. Susan rubbed Chase's right arm with both hands, stroking it up and down and massaging his palm and fingers.

Then, snapping his head up, he asked, "What about fingerprints? Where you able to lift her prints from my place?"

"The crime scene unit was over thirty minutes after you left. Your housecleaner, what was her name? Maria? She must have done a very thorough job. There were mainly two sets of prints in the house. Yours and hers. They did find a few miscellaneous prints and are following up on them. I'll let you know what they find."

"What about her clothes?"

"They took her clothes to their lab. If there's anything that will give us a positive ID, they'll find it. These people are good. Trust me on that."

There was a hesitation, and then Chappell spoke again. "However, you did say when she attacked you, she was wearing a set of thin leather gloves. That tells me she was careful not to leave any fingerprints. Before you two went upstairs, do you remember her touching anything in your house?"

Chase took a few moments to collect his thoughts. "Now that you mention it, she didn't touch anything. I opened the door for her, and we only spent a few minutes downstairs."

Susan stopped caressing Chase's arm and sat back in her chair, her arms folded.

Chase was ashamed and embarrassed as he gave sordid details to Chappell in the presence of Susan. Slowly regaining his momentum, he continued. "We went upstairs and..." Chase sighed. "I guess the only thing she touched was me."

He did not have the courage to look at Susan so Chase focused on the television mounted on the wall.

"And at this point, I assume the nurses have cleaned you up from head to toe."

"Yes, that's correct." Chase felt even more hopeless now, realizing how efficiently Cathy had covered her tracks. She was a professional killer who left no evidence of her presence—except her clothes and the destruction in his house. He still held out hope the crime scene unit would turn up something.

Chappell sighed. "Get some sleep. I'll call you as soon as I have anything important. Good night."

The tone in Chappell's voice spoke volumes to Chase. He knew the assassin had made her escape and the trail would probably run cold. For all he knew, she was half way out of California.

Chase ended the call and placed his phone on the table to his right. He had to look up at Susan, who was only three feet away and staring into his eyes, arms still folded.

"Look, Susan," Chase started. "I know I completely messed everything up with you. I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. But I am truly sorry."

"Get some rest," Susan said, unfolding her arms and once again caressing his right arm. "I'm going to sleep here with you tonight. I'll ask the nurse to bring me a blanket and pillow, and I'll sleep on this musty old chair."

"I should be sleeping on the chair, and you should be sleeping in the bed."

"Relax, Chase. We're not married. But you are in the doghouse. Make no mistake about that."

Susan stood up, gathered her composure, and started walking toward the door. "I'm going out to the nurse's station. I want to make sure they give you the best of care tonight. I'll give you the best of care tomorrow." She smiled, small and brief, and walked out the door.

Slumber was overtaking him. He thought of Susan being at his side and once again counted his blessings for the final time today. Moments later, he saw a blurry slice of light grow wide, then narrow and disappear.

He knew Susan re-entered his room. Her presence gave him the peace and serenity to voluntarily turn off his own internal light. The blackness of night overtook him, and Chase slept better than he had in months.
Chapter 51 Break in the Case

Chase rolled to his side, propped himself up on his left elbow, and sat up in his bed. He yawned and rubbed his forehead, then his eyes, and picked up his cell phone off the nightstand. The time was five o'clock in the afternoon.

Chase felt like a new man, refreshed with a sense of clarity and well-being. With events from the previous week fresh in his mind, Chase was ready to move forward and help Professor Fischer, regardless of what Nicky or Cathy would throw at him.

Despite his optimistic outlook, the aches and pains dominating his body felt worse than they did when Susan brought him home from the hospital and tucked him into his own bed earlier in the day. Chase didn't know if Susan was still in his house. He hoped she was. It was quiet downstairs, and in his heart, he pictured her taking a nap on the sofa.

Standing up a little too quickly, Chase grimaced as three cracked ribs sent pain radiating throughout his chest. Both legs were sore from his hips to toes, battered and bruised from countless kicks and punches. Not letting that reminder of his fight get the better of him, he stood up straight, flashed a smile of victory, and limped into the master bathroom.

Chase stood at attention and looked in the mirror. It was late afternoon as he looked out the bathroom window. Although the sun was setting in another magnificent display over the Pacific, Chase felt the dawn of a new day. Susan's forgiveness fueled his confidence he could rise to challenges he knew would be impossible to overcome alone.

A colossal hunger pain rumbled through his stomach. Chase was hungry. He hadn't eaten since the previous night, and was ready to devour something of astronomical proportions. His gait was labored with jerky movements as he moved into the hallway, making more noise than he normally would, hoping Susan was in the house and would hear him rustling about.

As he walked down the stairs, gripping the handrail for balance, he noticed a few of his family pictures survived the war. He smiled as he pictured Susan hanging them back up on the wall. He looked over the living room and dining room. All the broken glass was cleaned up. The furniture that was not broken was back in its original place. Dirt from overturned plants had been vacuumed. The broken furniture was gone.

The kitchen light was on. Chase walked over and peered in. No Susan. He walked back across his living room to his study. Lights emanating from the open door allowed his hopes to rise. He stopped at the threshold and stuck his head in. Still, no Susan.

She'd been in his home office and had a few projects of her own underway. Her iBook, strategically centered on his desk, spoke to Chase she not only felt the freedom to invade his personal space but she was there to help and support in this difficult and challenging time.

Chase sat at his chair and hit the Enter key to remove the screen saver. Susan had Googled local art stores that sold picture frames. He was impressed she'd take the effort to fix his family photos and place them back on the wall.

Chase pulled off a yellow Post-it note stuck to the upper left side of his flat screen monitor: Bennie called at 4:15 p.m. and would like you to return his call. I'll bring back dinner. Hope you're feeling better.

There was a hand-drawn smiley face at the bottom. Now Susan Anderson was answering his phone.

Chase liked that. Susan had courage and a bit of aggressive audacity. He leaned back in his chair. Although she didn't sign her name, she had taken time and effort to use her best penmanship. He stared at the note and took in one more trait of the person now the central figure of his life.

Chase decided to start on a few projects of his own. The first thing he needed to do; call Sergeant Chappell from the Laguna Police Department for any updates. He pulled out the police officer's business card and punched in the number.

"Chappell here."

"Hello, it's Chase Manhattan again. I'm hoping your guys came up with something—anything—on this girl Cathy Bennet. Remember her?"

Chappell sighed long and deep. "I'll be honest, I don't think we're going to get her prints. I'm working closely with the sheriff's department in Aliso Viejo. They want this girl real bad, too. Understand that, okay? There were eight deputies and one chopper committed to the chase. She seemed to just vanish like a puff of smoke in the wind."

"I can't believe this," Chase said with a trace of anger as he stood from his chair. "How can one girl elude so many people?"

"This girl is good. She's obviously a professional. We ran the prints we found at your place in every law enforcement database available. They've come back and we have zilch. Nothing. Nada."

Chase paced in front of his desk. "You've seen my house. You saw what she did to me. There were sheriff's deputies and a chopper involved in the chase. And now you're telling me that you've got zilch."

Chappell huffed into the phone. "Believe it or not, these things do happen. People commit violent crimes every day in Orange County and get away with it."

Chappell didn't sound so chummy anymore, and Chase didn't appreciate his changing attitude. The investigation had funneled down a dead-end street and the authorities would now focus their resources on other matters.

Help was needed from a different, silent source; Fred Merrill. His expertise of uncovering information people desperately tried to hide or destroy would be expensive, but Chase knew his inheritance was more than enough to pay for Fred's services.

Chappell continued with a tone that told Chase this was the last time he wanted to talk. "We'll obviously do what we can. But if I can't turn up any leads, then there's not much we can do. Understand?"

"Okay, thanks. Please call me if anything breaks," Chase said with little emotion in his voice. He didn't bother to wait for Chappell to say goodbye as he ended the call.

Chase leaned against his desk. As he lay the phone down he looked at the Post-it note. "Bennie," he said aloud, and made the call. His man picked up on the first ring.

"Chase," Bennie said. "Carol and I were just talking about you. How are things?"

"I feel great. Bruised and banged up pretty good. But my spirits are excellent. I'm at home. Susan was here but stepped out to run some errands."

"You had us worried last night. The doctors kept finding things wrong with you. How are you feeling?"

"Sore. But I'll be okay. I just need a little time to heal, that's all."

"What's going on with the psycho lady? Did they catch her? I called the Laguna Beach Police, but they couldn't tell me anything."

Chase sighed. "They weren't any help to me either. I just called Chappell. Looks like she'll make a clean getaway, whoever the hell she is."

"What do you make of that? How can a girl on a motorcycle wearing only your boxer shorts and tank top manage to elude all those deputies and a helicopter? I mean, it was at night, and there can't be that much traffic on the streets at that time."

She was a professional. That much Chase knew. He wondered if she used a wormhole to make her escape. The suitcases she retrieved from his floor safe didn't contain batteries. There was no way she could have had one on herself. But he had to leave that possibility open.

"Bennie, I need a break, one the police can't provide. I'm sure someone in Cambridge sent her out here to kill me. But that still leaves me nowhere closer to finding out who she is."

"Carol and I were talking about that all day. She couldn't leave that fact alone, which screwed up my entire night, if you know what I mean. Anyway, why would somebody from Massachusetts send an assassin clear across the country to kill you? There's something else going on that you're not letting us in on. And by us, I mean Susan, too."

Chase knew Bennie would pop this question on him. Bennie was a brilliant salesman and an even better negotiator. He didn't miss details.

"Yeah, there's more than I've let on. But events have progressed so quickly that I haven't had a chance to keep you in the loop."

"Then you and I need to sit down and get everything out on the table."

"You're right, "Chase said. "And I want to. I know you can help me. I think if we discuss everything that's happened so far, we might find the break that'll help us identify this girl."

Bennie countered. "Or we may decide we should, as you stated last night, count your blessings, drop it, and move on. Like you said many times in the past, you have to know when to fold them, know when to run."

Chase sighed, ran his fingers through his thick uncombed hair, and resumed pacing. "Maybe you're right. But I just can't get over how she just disappeared. And how can a person go through an entire evening and not leave any fingerprints anywhere?"

"Think, Chase. Think of the instances where she touched something that the police did not look at. Like your car! Chase, what about your car?"

"No good, Bennie. She made sure not to touch anything. Of course, I opened the car door for her each time she got in and out. She drove her Ducati to my house."

"What about the restaurant? She had to leave her prints on a wine glass or a plate."

"Those items would be washed."

There was a long pause as the neurons in Chase's brain produced a series of chemical synapses that began to reconstruct a recent memory. As if in slow motion, Chase saw Cathy rolling a fifty-dollar bill between her fingers, playfully unrolling and re-rolling it as her chin rested in her left hand, elbow on the table, and smiling seductively at him.

Chase slammed his fist on his desk. "That's it, Bennie. The tip. She left the tip. I paid for the dinner at Alessa Laguna last night, and she left a fifty-dollar bill for the tip. I bet her fingerprints are all over that bill!"

Chase was excited. His mood shifted gears to elation as he clenched his fists and inadvertently sent a sharp pain through his left shoulder that nearly caused him to pass out.

"Bennie," Chase said, regaining his composure. "I need you to pick me up and drive me someplace. I'm still drugged up and shouldn't be behind the wheel right now. Susan left to run a few errands. How fast can you be over here? I need to see Antoine my waiter from last night. I hope to God he hasn't spent that fifty-dollar bill yet."

Chase could hear Bennie as he told Carol, "Honey, could you pass me the remote? Better yet, just hit pause, okay? Déjà Vu for the second time in twenty four hours is too much."

Bennie returned to Chase. "We'll be there in twenty minutes," and ended the call.

Chase had one more call to make—to his good friend, Fred Merrill.

"Hey, Chase, you Tigers fan. What's going on?"

"Fred, is this a good time? Where are you?"

"I'm at Hennessy's with Nancy. What's up?"

"Long story short, I need a big favor from you. Can I meet you in an hour?"

"Sure. We're going to be here for a while. We just sat down and haven't ordered yet."

"Great. Keep your evening open. I have something important I need to talk to you about. I'll stop by with a few friends. Have some beers with your dinner. I'll pick up the tab when I get there."
Chapter 52 Antoine

Chase Googled Alessa Laguna, pulled up Website, and clicked the telephone icon. He didn't know if his waiter from the night before, Antoine, would be working. If not, he would have to ask for his personal number from the manager.

"Alessa Laguna," came the soft and sultry female voice.

"Hello. This is Chase Manhattan. I had dinner there last night with a friend."

"Yes, Chase. I remember. This is Elisa. I seated you and your date."

"Hi, Elisa. How are you tonight," Chase asked in a deeper, slightly seductive voice. He wasn't sure if Elisa would be cooperative. She was drop dead gorgeous and used to men coming on to her. He hoped she'd be receptive and help him.

"I'm doing great, Chase. Thank you. Are you calling to make a reservation for tonight?"

"Actually, Elisa, I need to speak with Antoine. He was our waiter last night. Is he working?"

"Antoine has the evening off. I think he's working tomorrow."

"I really need to talk with him. I can't wait until tomorrow. Can you give me his personal number?"

"Unfortunately, I can't do that. You understand."

Chase took a deep breath and tried to speak as sexy as he could. "Elisa, listen. This is a very important matter. I need to speak with Antoine right away. Tonight. Now. Could you please give me his cell number? I need to talk with him bec—"

Elisa interrupted. "Mister Manhattan, I'm sorry, but I can't give out an employee's telephone number. Antoine will be here on tomorrow."

Elisa transitioned from Chase to Mister Manhattan. He knew that was the end of the line. She might as well call him dreaded sir word.

"Okay, can you call Antoine and have him call me. I need to see him tonight. I can't stress the urgency of the matter."

"Sure, that I can do. "

Chase gave Elisa his cell and home numbers, thanked her, and ended the call.

* * *

The manager of Alessa Laguna, a tall, slender, beautiful woman of Asian-American descent named Celine Emerson, stood next to Elisa, trying to piece together the gist of the conversation.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"That was Chase Manhattan," Elisa said, taking a moment to let her thoughts clear. "He wants to speak with Antoine. Right away. Tonight."

"Antoine?" Celine said, taking a step back. "Why would he want to talk to him?"

"I don't know. Chase said it was urgent and gave me his home and cell numbers to give to him."

"That strikes me as odd. Mister Playboy himself. You'd think he'd be calling for your number or mine."

"And listen to this. He tried to talk with a deep voice. I think he was trying to sound sexy."

"Really?" Celine paused, and then took a big gulp of air, her eyes wide open and her right hand covering her mouth. She then burst out in laughter.

Now Elisa was giggling."Shhh. Not so loud."

"Who would of thought of that one? Not me," Celine said over her shoulder as she turned and walked away, her long black hair swaying side to side. "Wait until I tell the other girls."

"Hey, don't forget to come back with Antoine's number. I did tell Chase I'd call him."

* * *

Chase's cell phone rang. "Chase here."

"Mister Manhattan. This is Antoine. How are you? The restaurant called and said you wanted to talk to me."

"Antoine, thanks for calling me back so quickly. I have a big problem, and I hope you can help me out. And you can call me Chase."

"Of course, Chase. Anything for one of my best tippers."

"Last night you waited on me and a friend of mine."

"Oh yes, we were calling her Blackie, because of her jet-black hair. We usually see you coming in with a blonde. Very pretty, Chase. Very pretty."

Chase interrupted before Antoine could continue. "She gave you a rolled up fifty-dollar bill as a tip. Do you still have it?"

"Yes, I do. I haven't gone to the bank yet. I'm picking up my tip jar right now. Yes, here it is, right here."

"Listen, Antoine, It's very important I get that back tonight. I'll replace it with another fifty."

"Why is this so important, Chase? It looks like just another fifty-dollar bill to me. There are no phone numbers on it."

"Antoine, don't touch it. I need to lift her prints off it."

"Ohhh, this is getting interesting," Antoine said with giddiness. "What's the matter, Chase? Did you lose her number?"

Chase sighed. "I'll level with you. She tried to kill me last night, and that fifty-dollar bill is the only thing that has her fingerprints on it. She gave me a false name, so I need to lift her prints off that bill."

"You're kidding me? Laying it down as we speak, sir. Chase, this is getting really exciting now."

Chase overheard Antoine making a slapping noise and talking to someone. "No, dude, don't touch that." He spoke back into the phone, "Sorry, my roommate, Julio, he's here on the sofa listening in and was about to pick up the bill. No worries, I stopped him. I'll keep it for you to come over and pick up. Assuming Julio can keep his hands off it. He's been using it all night and day, if you know what I mean. Write my address down."
Chapter 53 Evidence Bagged

Bennie and Carol picked Chase up in Carol's Toyota Camry and drove to Antoine's condo in nearby Laguna Niguel. It was six thirty in the evening and the sun had completely set in the Western sky.

Floodlights lit the mini date palm trees lining both sides of the entrance to Las Palisades Condominiums. This was a gated community, and Antoine had called the security booth to let them in. Chase gave directions to Carol as they drove through the Mediterranean-style complex.

"Antoine lives in a very nice place for a waiter," Chase said with a grin. "Make your first right, then a right on Del Norte, and then a left on Vista Las Palmas. It's the second building on the right, number two forty two."

Carol maneuvered through the winding streets and over the speed bumps. She parked in a red zone in front of the building. "You can never find a decent parking spot in one of these places," she said, shaking her head.

Bennie and Carol exited the Camry and hurried up the stairs with Chase hobbling behind. Antoine opened the door before they could knock.

"I saw you coming. Come in, come in," Antoine said with excitement, waving them in with his right hand. Chase noticed that although Antoine looked like he'd been up all night, he sure had a lot of energy.

Antoine looked at Chase's swollen, bruised face with his left arm in a sling and gasped. "My goodness, Chase, you look terrible. When you said she attempted to kill you, I thought she tried to shoot you."

"I'm okay. I really need to catch this psycho. Can I have that fifty?"

"I have the bill right here on the table," Antoine said, leading the three into the living room.

"Uh, hello," came a sarcastic greeting from someone sitting cross-legged on the sofa.

"Oh, this is my roommate, Julio. Julio, this is everybody," Antoine said with a flip of his right wrist. Julio was frail looking, barefoot, wearing a pair of white tennis shorts that looked two sizes too small and an even tighter red tank top.

Chase leaned down and looked at the note without giving Julio a further look. "How can you be sure this is the one?"

"The note your lady friend left had been rolled up. See, it won't lay flat." Antoine held the fifty at both ends, then let go as the bill rolled back up.

"You're sure," Chase asked with a hint of doubt in his voice.

"Oh yes, I'm sure. Most of my tips are left on credit cards anyway. I only received three fifty-dollar bills this week, and this is the one she left. See, here are the other two." Antoine motioned to the other side of the coffee table to two crisp new fifty-dollar bills.

Chase pulled a fifty out of his hooded sweater pocket and gave it to Antoine. "Do you have a baggie I can put this in? I want to make sure no more fingerprints get on it."

"Baggies are one thing we have a lot of. Julio, make yourself useful," Antoine said, clapping his hands twice.

Julio rolled his eyes, trotted out to the kitchen, and returned with a Ziploc.

Chase laid the baggie sideways on the coffee table and scooped the note into it. He looked at Bennie and said, "We're going to get this psycho. I can feel it."

"This is so cool," Carol said. "Much better than sitting at home watching Déjà Vu."

Antoine clasped his hands in delight. "This is just like a dinner play I was in once—you know, where the audience participates in a whodunit murder."

Julio sighed. "Your life is so boring, Antoine."

"Just you shut your mouth," Antoine snapped. He looked back at Chase. "Please tell me there is something else I can do. Anything is more fun than watching Julio coming down on a Thursday night."

Chase placed the baggie in his pocket and headed for the door. "That's it. Thanks, Antoine. You've been a big help."

Chase could hear Antoine and Julio arguing as he walked downstairs. The three marched back to Carol's car and got in, Chase taking the backseat.

Bennie looked back at Chase and said, "Where to now, chief? The police? Are you going to call Chappell?"

Chase had already given the issue much thought. "No," he replied. "I'm not. I don't like the way Chappell has been handling things. When I talked to him this afternoon, he had the attitude he'd done pretty much all he was going to do. I didn't appreciate that at all."

"But you have to take that bill to the police," Bennie said. "This is the key to Psycho's identity."

"Actually, I want to be discreet about things right now."

"There you go again with your secrets. Listen," Bennie said, resting his left elbow on the front seat and glaring back at Chase. "You've got to level with us."

"I will. But first I have to talk to Fred. I'm going to give him this bill to lift her prints."

"Fred?" Bennie's face crinkled up. "You mean the guitar-playing dude from the Marine Room Tavern? Chase, this is getting weird."

"Trust me. I know what I'm doing. I'll clue you in on everything once we get to Hennessy's. I promise."

"I'm holding you to your word. We're your friends, the ones helping when you don't deserve this support. Especially Susan. So you'd better level up after what you've pulled the past couple of days, amigo."

Chase lowered his head slightly and nodded. "You're right. And thanks again. Trust me, though. This is big. Really big."

Bennie stared Chase down. "I know that. It's big enough that somebody from the other side of the country wants you dead."
Chapter 54 Coming Clean

Carol drove south on Coast Highway to downtown Laguna Beach. Chase looked out his window as they passed the stretch of beach where Chase met his would be killer. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, he thought he was having dinner with the girl of his dreams. What a nightmare that turned out to be.

His cell phone rang, bringing him back to the present. "I hope this is Susan," he said with a sense of renewed hope. "Chase here."

"Hi, Chase. I've been running a few errands for you and—"

"Susan, meet me at Hennessy's. I'm with Bennie and Carol. We'll be there in ten minutes."

"Okay. I picked up groceries. I'll put them in your refrigerator and see you there. Are you feeling better?"

"I feel great. Much better than I look, trust me," he said with a crooked smile, still favoring the left side of his mouth. "And thanks again for all of your help. I don't know where I'd be without you."

"Technically, you're still in the doghouse. But dinner with friends should help get you out. I'm starved. Hennessey's sounds much better than the cold cuts I was going to make."

"Great. I'll see you shortly. Bye, Susan," Chase said, and ending the call.

Bennie looked back at Chase. "I hope things work out between you two. She's a nice girl. You're not going to meet anyone better than her."

Chase rubbed his jaw with his right hand. "I'll second that."

Carol found a parking spot in front of Hennessey's on Ocean Avenue and they entered the restaurant. They spotted Fred and Nancy sitting at a round table. Two empty red baskets were all that remained of grilled turkey and avocado sandwiches and fries. They looked happy, and Chase was sure they were on at least their second schooner of beer. There was a second round table, empty, next to them.

Fred looked at Chase's face, then his left arm in a sling. "I'd shake your hand, but, hey, it's the only good one you have left. What happened? Did Cathy get you in a fight last night? Honestly, I didn't care for her. I like Susan much better."

"I couldn't agree with you more," Chase said as he took a seat at the second table. Bennie and Carol followed. "You remember Bennie Knowles. And this is his friend, Carol Gonzalez. Susan will be here shortly."

Fred reached out to shake their hands. "Hi, Bennie. Hi, Carol. This is my girlfriend, Nancy Hudgins."

Nancy, a young, pretty girl, with strawberry blonde hair and ten years Fred's junior, smiled and waved. "Hi. Nice to meet you. Good to see you again, Chase."

Fred signaled the waitress to bring two more pitchers of beer and four more glasses. "So, Chase, tell me what happened. Was Cathy in the center of all this?"

"I won't waste your time. Yes. She tried to kill me last night."

Fred's eyes opened wide. His beer stopped midway to his mouth.

Chase continued. "We went back to my place and made love. Well, thought it was lovemaking. Sex—that much I know for sure, and I mean the kind that ..." Chase looked down with a slow shake of the head, heaved a lengthy sigh, turned back and continued. "We took a break while she went outside to smoke a cigarette. When she returned, she had a chef's knife from my kitchen and she literally tried to carve me up with it."

There was a long pause at the table that provided the perfect timing for the waitress to return with the cold beer. "Here you go. Do you want menus, too?"

"We'll take four," Bennie said. "We're expecting one more to join us."

Like the precise timing of a Swiss watch, Susan walked in. Chase stood up as did Fred and Bennie.

"Hi, Susan. You look great. You're a sight for sore eyes, literally," Chase said as he took her by her hand and pulled her chair out. A round of hellos and final introductions followed.

Fred poured four beers without spilling a drop or forming more than a half inch of foam, all the while staring at Chase as he continued explaining.

"This psycho must have been a professional killer. I'm sure she's done this before. I was barely able to avoid her initial lunge with a knife. A fight ensued, and we tore my place apart. Only after I retrieved my nine millimeter did she dive out a window and escape on a motorcycle. I did manage to fire off five rounds."

Fred didn't blink. Neither did Nancy. Chase looked around the table and continued. "I dialed 911, but she got away without a trace. I spent last night in South Coast Medical Center. I'm lucky to be alive right now."

Chase looked at Susan. She grabbed his right hand and held it tight. "That's a quick rundown of what happened in the last twenty-four hours."

"But why would she want to kill you," Nancy asked. "Where do you know her from?"

Bennie listened attentively. He seconded Nancy's query with raised eyebrows.

Chase sighed as he had to recount the story in front of Susan. "I met her yesterday morning on the beach. We struck up a conversation and decided to meet for dinner. Then we stopped to see Fred's band last night at the Marine Room Tavern and went back to my place. That's when the fight broke out."

Bennie spoke up. "There's something else going on that you're not telling us. The million-dollar question. What is it?"

Chase heaved another sigh. "Okay, as you know, a week ago I flew to Boston to follow up on a cutting-edge discovery in the field of physics. It's technical, but I'll make it simple."

Fred looked at Nancy. "Chase teaches physics at UC-Irvine. He's one brainy guy who understands this stuff."

Nancy nodded with a smile and said, "I've heard—and just go ahead, I'm well aware I'm in over my head in this kind of conversation."

Chase continued. "Remember the state senator and the girl from Boston who were killed last week?"

The group nodded in unison.

"The person arrested in the murder, Professor Nicholas Fischer, is a brilliant and well-known physicist on the forefront of some ideas that have been fodder for science fiction for decades. I looked into the story and the arrest, and things just didn't seem right to me. Physics being my long suit, I recognized there was something lying below the surface of the media's attention. I decided to fly out to Boston to talk with Professor Fischer. It wasn't easy, but I was able to get into the facility where he's being held."

Fred leaned into the table. "Okay, so far the story seems innocent enough. But it's getting very interesting."

Chase continued. "At first, Fischer didn't want to talk. He seemed scared out of his wits, and not just because he was behind bars for a murder that gained national attention. I took a shot in the dark. Told Fischer I thought he was innocent and that the murders and a recent discovery of his were related."

The group at the table was silent, engrossed on what Chase would say next.

"He started to confide in me—probably because no one else, including the detectives investigating the case or his attorney, could comprehend what he was involved with. I convinced Fischer I could help, but he needed to trust me and tell me what he was working on."

Bennie tapped the table with his forefinger three times. "This is what we've been waiting for."

Chase looked around the tavern to see if anyone was eavesdropping. The waitress was three tables over serving cold drafts to a group of locals. He leaned into the group and lowered his voice.

"Professor Fischer confirmed one of his recent discoveries was used to aid in killing the senator. But he was adamant he played no role in the murder. After talking more with him, I believed he was telling the truth."

"So," Bennie asked, "do you think someone else killed the senator, found out you were talking to Professor Fischer, and then sent that psycho out here to kill you."

Chase put a 'stop' hand in the air. "Wait, there's more."

Bennie laughed. "Only you could get yourself involved in a national conspiracy like this."

Chase looked at Susan who appeared just as spellbound as the rest of the group. Everyone scooted their chair in and leaned further into the table.

"Fischer asked me to go to his office at MIT and take something. He told me how I could get in. I found the items and brought them back to California."

Bennie interrupted. "And a few days later, this wacko shows up, flashes her breasts—sorry, Susan," Bennie said, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. "And then tries to kill you?"

"That's the gist of it," Chase said.

"Sooooooo, um, that's quite a story," Fred said. He paused for a few seconds. "But how do we fit in? And what is it you took from his office?"

Chase prepared for this question beforehand. He knew he shouldn't reveal exactly what it was he took. Not at the moment, anyway. He felt compelled to be as vague, but was confident he could reveal the truth to his friends later.

"The items I retrieved were two devices—amazing instruments which include nanotechnology you'd think you would only find in a sci-fi movie. But they're real and represent an incredible milestone in the field of physics. Fischer claimed these devices could help save countless live."

"Why would that be a bad thing," Bennie asked in a restless tone.

"It's not a bad thing, any more than a gun is good or bad. Depends on who's hands it's in. This sort of light-years-ahead-of-everything-else invention can mean billions of dollars to whoever has it."

"Then why was Fischer arrested for the murder," Bennie continued, arms folded and wearing a skeptical look.

"Obviously, somebody framed him."

"Somebody steals this new technology, kills the senator, frames Fischer, and now you're mixed up in all of it and they're trying to kill you?"

Chase glanced around the table to gauge the reaction of the group. "As crazy as it all sounds, yes, that's what I think is happening."

Everyone still looked shell-shocked. Nancy turned to Fred. "Is this something we should be mixed up in? Shouldn't Chase go to the police with this?"

"Yeah, Chase, why not go to the police," Fred asked directly.

Bennie interrupted. "He did. I was there when they came to his house. The police and the sheriff's department both came up with zilch in the help department."

More silence. Chase wasn't sure what to say next.

"So Chase, where do you go from here?" Bennie said in a merry tone. "Hey, drink up, everybody. Beer's getting warm."

Bennie took four huge gulps from his beer. The others, still stunned, took little sips from their glasses.

"Yeah, Chase. Where do you go from here," Fred demanded. "And why'd you ask to meet me tonight?"

"Because," Chase said, pulling out the baggie with the fifty-dollar bill in it. "The psycho who tried to kill me last night made a clean getaway without a trace."

He laid the Ziploc on the table in front of Fred. "Except for this bill that has her fingerprints all over it. I need you to lift her prints and find out everything about her that you possibly can."

Fred picked up the baggie and studied the rolled up note. "I don't know, Chase. Why don't you just go back to the police?"

"Because this is big. Really big. There's something going on that the police won't be able to comprehend."

"But you do?" Fred said, his voice dripping with skepticism.

"Because," Chase said, his voice rising in volume and intensity. "I want one shot at this. I want to find out who Cathy Bennett really is. I want to know why Fischer's been framed for two murders he didn't commit. I want to know ..."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down a minute," Susan said. "I will quote you your own wisdom that you live your life by, and this is definitely one time that you have to know when to run." Susan had Chase's hand clenched in a white-knuckled grip.

Chase softened his tone. "Listen, everyone, I have the ability to get in and get out very quickly. So far, I'm the only one making the connections. I can sort all this out."

"Here we go again. Chase Manhattan, off on yet another whirlwind adventure. It's okay, folks," Bennie said, holding his hands in front of him like he was trying to slow down a runaway locomotive. "I've been through similar situations with Chase before. As crazy as this story sounds, this is just another day in the life of Chase Manhattan."

"You can't be serious," Susan said. "Just let it go."

Chase shook his head. "I can't. I'm already involved. I believe Fischer is innocent, and I think I can prove it."

Susan's eyes were pleading. "No, Chase. You almost got yourself killed. Let it go."

"Listen to Susan," Fred said, sliding the baggie back across the table to Chase.

Nancy wrapped both arms around Fred's neck and laid her head on his shoulder in a show of support. Bennie had an open smile on his face and sat back in his chair once more, folding his hands behind his head. Carol looked completely confused and slid her chair closer to Bennie.

Chase sighed. "Okay, I understand your apprehension. But just give me three days, and then I'll call it quits. Three days, that's all."

Chase slid the baggie back to Fred.

Fred pushed it back. "No."

Chase moved it back and leaned into Fred. "Fred, you know me. I'm not a stupid person."

"I'm beginning to have my doubts." He slid the baggie to Chase.

"Let's take a vote," Bennie said as he raised his right hand straight up. "I say let's help Chase."

"This is stupid," Susan said without hesitation, looking around the table at everybody. "I'm not going to vote."

Carol raised her hand. "This is getting exciting."

Chase raised his. "That's three. One more and I win."

He looked directly at Susan. "I need to go back to Boston. And I want your support. How about it?"

"I don't know. This is dangerous."

Bennie stuck out his barrel chest and flexed his arms. "Chase has been doing this sort of thing for years. Hey, I'll come along too. You know, to protect him."

Susan rubbed Chase's knee, looked away for a moment, then back at him. "Three days, mister. That's all you have. Then I pull the plug. And I'm tagging along."

"That's four against two," Bennie said to Fred, sliding the fifty dollar bill back to him.

Fred shuffled in his chair, picked up the baggie, and stared at the note. "I'm officially retired from the business. But I guess one more time won't hurt. What do you think, Nancy? Are you in?"

Nancy shook her hair to the left side of her head and said, "Sure. Why not? I'm bored and need some excitement right about now anyway."

Bennie lifted the remainder of his beer. "A toast. To Chase Manhattan and to another adventure."

Everyone lifted their glasses.

"Bottoms up," said Bennie. All six finished their beers and one by one, starting with Bennie, slammed their empty glasses down on the table.
Chapter 55 Fred to the Rescue

Laguna Beach was busy the following afternoon. Tourists and locals strolled along the streets and boardwalk of Main Beach, enjoying the balmy seventy-eight degree weather and cool, briny breeze coming in off the Pacific. The china-blue sky and warm sun drew people young and old to one of the most serene and tranquil destinations in south Orange County.

Fred and Nancy had stayed up all night identifying and profiling Cathy Bennett's real identity. Both were ecstatic at their results and the speed with which they achieved them. They took a brief three-hour nap in the early morning, then called a meeting at Hennessey's Tavern to discuss the results of their findings.

Chase and Susan arrived ten minutes early, only to find Fred, Nancy, Bennie, and Carol already seated on the patio. They were sipping cold beers and engaged in lively conversation. That surprised Chase, as Bennie and Fred were not the most compatible people.

Bennie was the first to see Chase and Susan walking up the sidewalk and waved to them. He poured beer from a pitcher into two empty glasses.

Susan asked, "I wonder how long they've been here?"

Chase felt and sounded suspicious. "I don't know. But I'm pretty sure Fred asked Bennie to arrive early and discuss additional information I haven't disclosed."

Susan shot Chase a glance. "I'm asking the same questions. We're not stupid."

"Susan, I promise you today I reveal everything, for better or worse. And Fred, he's smarter than most people. His gift of uncovering truths and facts people try to hide has worked against me. That being said, I humbly submit to you and Fred, Bennie, Nancy, and Carol."

Chase and Susan entered the front patio from the sidewalk, and Susan greeted Carol and Nancy with smiles and hugs. As everyone sat, Chase began the conversation. "Fred, that was fast. I'm impressed."

Fred reached into his leather tote bag, pulled out three thick manila envelopes and set them on top of the table, one upon the other. The group was silent as Fred untied the string to the first envelope.

"Let's get right down to business. Chase, you're going to be blown away at what Nancy and I have dug up on these people, I kid you not. We know who Cathy Bennett is. And we know what Professor Fischer was working on. We're pretty sure who murdered the senator in Massachusetts, and it wasn't Fischer. He didn't have anything to do with it."

Fred smiled at Chase and continued. "I took the liberty of filling in Bennie and Carol on the pieces of the puzzle you neglected to mention last night."

Chase swallowed hard. Susan looked at him and said, "I'm glad Fred is being forthright. Before we leave here, everything has to be out on the table. Do you understand me? Everything. Or I walk."

Chase looked at Susan, then around the table. Everyone stared at him. This was it. He could no longer hold back any detail, no matter how bizarre it might sound to them. Or to him.

"I understand. But you have to realize we're not talking about an average discovery such as the discovery of new planets that may hold life or a breakthrough in medicine. This could alter the way we perceive reality and our very existence."

Fred interjected. "We understand. Allow me to open exhibit A."

He pulled out a series of glossy pictures and laid them on the table. They were of a beautiful blonde-haired girl at different stages of her life; images of her winning a state decathlon at the age of sixteen, high school photos, passport pictures, her college ID, and other miscellaneous images.

Chase stood up and shuffled the pictures around the center of the table. "That's her, Fred. That's her, but with long blonde hair."

Chase downed his beer and sat. Susan followed suit. Chase liked a girl who could down a cold beer.

"Her name is ..." Fred paused to build the moment with a sense of anticipation. "Staci Bevere. She's twenty-three and a graduate student at MIT. Her specialty is applied statistics. And she has an IQ of 135. What else would you expect from someone in this field at MIT?"

Fred was still smiling, obviously excited he profiled Staci Bevere so succinctly and with such speed.

"Staci Bevere was born and raised in a family with a lot of money and influence in Miami. She has three siblings and is the third child with three brothers. Her father comes from a long history of money. He's a businessman who traveled much of her life in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East brokering huge financial deals in everything from banking to transportation. Her mother is a socialite who raised the children and mainly entertained her husband's clients. The kids went to a private school that costs more per student than many people make in a year."

Fred pulled out a recent picture of Staci Bevere's parents that was part of a story in a local newspaper documenting their charitable acts.

"She's very beautiful. And he's very handsome," Carol said, picking up the picture and handing it to Susan, who nodded in agreement and passed it on to Nancy.

"We have a name for her now. That's great," Chase said. "What else?" He poured Susan another beer, refilled his glass, then slid the pitcher to Bennie's side of the table.

"Oh, I've only just begun," Fred said with a grin. "Listen to this. Staci's not only very smart, she also excelled at sports. She was involved with track and field and gymnastics throughout junior high and high school. She was a decathlete and one of the fastest sprinters in Florida, placing first through third in various state meets. I don't know if any of you tried out for the decathlon when you were in high school, but it takes an exceptional athlete to be great at that event. And Staci was one of the best."

"She's turning out to be one Supergirl," quipped Carol, who finished her beer. Bennie picked up the pitcher, filled up Carol's glass, and topped the others off.

"Oh, our girl is very impressive," Nancy said. "There's more. Much, much more." She looked at Fred and let him continue.

"As good as Staci was at track and field, she excelled more in gymnastics, a sport her parents started her in when she was five. She not only won medals in state competitions, she was selected as an alternate in the floor exercise for the U.S. Women's National Team for the Olympics. That's no lie. Here are a few pictures of her in action."

Fred laid those pictures on top of the table and everyone shuffled through them. Chase picked up article printout of Staci receiving a silver medal. The title read L'International Gymnix Tournament, March 17–18, Montreal, Quebec. Things started to make sense to Chase. He didn't feel so bad about getting his ass kicked by the girl.

"That would explain why I threw her off the staircase on her back and she could get right back up and be ready to go," Chase said.

"My mother," Carol added, "placed me in gymnastics when I was the same age and I was involved until I was fourteen. I must have fallen off the balance beam hundreds of times. My coaches would yell at me to get back up. I got to the point where I could land hard on my back and jump back into my routine without thinking about it."

"What happened to Staci," Susan asked. "Why isn't she still competing?"

"She tore a ligament in her left knee while participating in the U.S. Women's Junior Olympics in Indianapolis. She didn't blow out the knee, but she did have to take a long time off to heal and rehabilitate. The knee did heal, but not to the extent necessary to compete as an amateur. This was in her senior year of high school. That's when Staci decided to focus her attention on academics."

Chase made a mental note of her left knee in the event they happened to meet again. "That's very impressive, Fred. Nice work. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

The waitress, a young thin girl with long light brown hair accented with blonde streaks, walked over to take their orders. She looked intently at the pictures strewn across the table. Fred, caught up in his presentation, was taken by surprise.

"She's pretty," the waitress said. "Are you people talent scouts?"

Bennie was quick to react. "Yes, we are. We'll have six chicken teriyaki sandwiches and fries. And two more pitchers of Heineken. Thanks," he said to her in an authoritative yet polite voice meant to break off any further discussion.

The waitress nodded her head. "I'll be right back with the pitchers."

All six leaned into the center of the table as Fred continued. "Okay, Staci ended up going to MIT on a scholarship. Not that she needed one, with what her dad makes. She's been there the last five years. Again, she's a very smart girl and she has world-class athletic abilities."

"What about martial arts," Chase asked. "She's obviously had formal training. I've been around them all my life. I've studied under masters from across the globe since I was seven. This girl is no amateur. She's had to have training from teachers other than the YWCA."

The others stared at Chase's bruised face. He knew what Bennie was thinking—that he's better as a blue belt than most black belts. Bennie knew that, traveling with his missionary parents throughout his childhood, Chase learned under masters in China, Japan, Nepal, and Hong Kong, among other countries. His best friend was starting to realize just what they were getting into.

Fred continued. "I have some information regarding this. In her yearbooks, Staci listed martial arts as one of her interests beginning in the sixth grade. We know her father was an avid hunter and took all four kids hunting and taught them how to shoot rifles and handguns. This was a competitive family, and it all started with the father. He pushed his kids to be the best at whatever they did. Most parents only brag about their kid's exploits with bumper stickers. But the Bevere kids, especially Staci, brought home the gold."

"That sounds generic, Fred. Do you have anything solid," Chase asked.

"Not at this time. But we're looking into her credit card purchases and her checking accounts, as well as her father's. I'm sure we can find a paper trail for her training. But we've established a pattern. Staci Bevere was once a world-class athlete and she has martial arts interests. She also has an incredible IQ and lots of money at her disposal."

"I'm impressed," Susan said, with Bennie and Carol nodding their heads in agreement. "You're both good. Very good."

Fred smiled and put his arm around Nancy. "Thanks. But we already know that. We've been doing this for years for the largest U.S. corporations and some pretty powerful people in the political realm."

Fred scooped up the photos, placed them back in the manila envelope, tied it, and placed it back in his leather bag.

"You have two more envelopes," Chase said. "What else do you have for us?"

"First, I need a cigarette," Fred said. "Come on, baby, let's go out on the sidewalk for a few minutes. I need a break."

Nancy stood up and followed Fred out, where they disappeared for ten minutes.
Chapter 56 More Fred

When Fred and Nancy returned, two new pitchers of ice-cold beer sat on the table. Bennie topped off the six glasses. Fred drank a few gulps. "Ahhhhh, that's better. Nothing like a cold beer and a good smoke when telling an interesting story."

Chase noticed their eyes were a little glazy and wondered just what else they had stepped out to smoke.

Fred opened up the second manila envelope and pulled out more documents and photos. "Here are the police reports from a Captain Detective Reginald Cherry of the Boston Police Department. These documents contain information that has not been released to the public."

Bennie leaned in with a sharp edge to his voice. "How do you have this information?"

Fred ignored the question. He gave Bennie a bit of a look, and after a quick glance at Carol that caused a flash of reflective smile, took another sip of his beer.

"I believe Senator O'Connor was killed by a professional assassin. His right arm was sliced off just above the elbow, his neck broken, his head turned around one hundred eighty degrees. What's troubling to the detectives, there was absolutely no sign of an intruder entering or leaving his office or the State House. More on this later."

Fred gave Chase a glare as if telling him he knew the parts of the story Chase was withholding.

"There was quite a bit of blood splattered around the office floor, yet there wasn't a second set of footprints. According to police reports, there was definitely a fight. They were careful not to call it a struggle. They concluded it was one-sided, and the senator was on the losing end. Anyway, if I may jump ahead of the story a bit, I would have to say that your lady friend fits the profile of his killer."

Fred flashed an exultant smile, and Chase knew he had one more crowning piece of information to deliver. "By the way, we found more than just Staci's prints on the fifty-dollar bill. Care to guess who else's we found?"

After more silence, Nancy brought her hands together in a soft clap and answered Fred's question. "Senator O'Connor's. There were a dozen prints we lifted off the front and back of the note, and his were one of them."

Bennie interrupted. "Wait. You would need access a state or federal database to make a match of his fingerprints. Being retired from the business, I don't think you have that kind of ability."

Fred briefly smiled in triumph at Bennie and winked, then continued. "There's more. Cherry arrested Fischer for the murder. The evidence included a ballistics report matching the professor's Glock and the bullet found in Rosie Contreras' head. Rosie worked at the State House where O'Connor was murdered and was on shift when he was killed. This is common knowledge."

"Tell us the uncommon knowledge," Bennie said in a bored voice to no one in particular.

The waitress walked up to their tables with six red plastic baskets of chicken teriyaki sandwiches and fries.

"I'm so hungry," Fred said.

Nancy giggled a little too much. "So am I."

The six indulged in their lunch baskets, ignoring all table manners. Fred felt the need to continue even though he was not finished eating.

"There were carpet fibers from the senator's office confiscated by the crime scene unit at one of Fischer's labs. This was not in the newspapers, nor was the senator's blood being found in a sink in the same lab. DNA proved the match."

Fred opened final manila envelope "This is where things really get interesting." He took the last bite of his sandwich, washed it down with his beer, and exhaled slowly.

"In fact, this is where the story becomes bizarre. Professor Fischer was working with a Doctor Gloria Newcombe, an employee at the time of Globalized Dynamics. She was a big shot in the field of physics and a high roller at GD.

"She knew her stuff. Fischer and Newcombe were working on a joint venture regarding a breakthrough in transportation of very large, heavy equipment that was expensive to ship and insure. GD wanted to cut costs in these areas. Fischer and Newcombe found the breakthrough they were looking for. Chase, I believe this is what you were afraid to tell us. As you said, this discovery could alter the way we perceive reality and our very existence."

Susan looked at Chase. Chase nodded, and then he looked at the rest of the table. "You're right. This is the part I didn't think you would understand, let alone believe." He finished his beer and refilled the glass.

"Doctor Newcombe was killed in her office, along with another scientist and two armed guards. Security cameras caught a ninja—a female ninja no less—slicing, dicing, and shooting these people. Sound familiar, Chase?"

Chase nodded, and once again thanked the good Lord above he was still alive.

"You are so lucky to be alive right now," Nancy said matter-of-factly. Carol shook her head as if she could not believe what was unfolding.

"The senator's murder, Fischer's arrest, and the four slain Globalized Dynamics employees are linked by one commonality: a suitcase. An average looking metallic case that enables people and things to be transported from point A to point B in a flash."

Fred paused to gauge Susan's reaction. Chase understood Fred had updated Bennie and Carol, although he was not sure they comprehended its significance.

Susan thought for a while, then looked over at Chase, who stared intently at her, then said, "Now do you understand why I didn't come right out and tell you this" He cupped both her hands gently in his.

"I—I don't know. This all sounds so futuristic. How can you transport things from one place to the next like on TV or in the movies? It sounds like Nicky and Staci can open a hole through the very fabric of space and time whenever they want."

"Susan, listen to me. I've already accepted this reality. It looks like the rest of the group has, too. You need to come to the realization that our world as we know it will drastically change very quickly."

"But why do you have to involve yourself further? These people are willing to go to great lengths to kill anyone who stands in their way. For God's sake, Chase, they killed a state senator right in his own office."

"That's why I need to go back to Boston and talk with Professor Fischer. This technology can't remain in the hands of the wrong people. I think I can get to the bottom of everything and prove Fischer is innocent. I ..."

Chase looked at each person sitting at the two tables and realized this was no longer a solo project. "We need to get Professor Fischer out of jail and retrieve all six cases."

"I agree," Fred said to everyone. "Right now, everything is localized in Boston: the people, the cases, the investigation. If we come up with a plan and move now, we can do what we need to do. If we wait, our chances of success will greatly diminish."

"Fred, why are you jumping on the bandwagon," Bennie asked. "The research you've done is great, but I thought that's the only level of involvement you're willing to commit to."

Fred took a deep breath. "Because things are going to heat up very soon. We haven't seen anything yet, people. Greed is an ugly sin, and there are a number of groups already involved who will stop at nothing to get this technology. The sooner we can stop this thing, the better."

"For the greater good of mankind? Is that what you're saying is motivating you?"

"Yeah, Bennie, something like that."

Fred didn't look up at him. He pulled out more photos from the third envelope and handed Chase a picture of Staci and Nicky Junior drinking coffee inside a Starbucks in downtown Cambridge.

"I just received this picture a couple hours ago. This is what prompted me to move quickly and call everybody here."

"That's Professor Fischer's son, Nicky," Chase said. "He's a student at MIT and worked with his father. I'm convinced he's mad."

Chase winced in a focused, controlled rage. "He's the one responsible for the murders and for framing his father. Also the psychopath who tried to have me murdered because I was getting too close to him," he said to the group in a flat, even voice. "You can take that to the bank."

Fred continued. "I asked a good friend of mine from Connecticut to drive up to Boston and follow Staci. This was easy since I was able to retrieve her credit and ATM card numbers."

Fred and Nancy exchanged glances and smiled. "We knew she was in Starbucks. He took this picture. Surprise, surprise, there's Nicky sitting with her. From what my friend tells me, they looked like more than just friends. You know what I mean, Chase?"

Fred sat back with a victorious smile. "We now know who the mastermind and the murderer are. Good ol' Nicky certainly did frame his father for the senator's murder. You were right to believe Professor Fischer was innocent. And you're right to believe you need to go back to Cambridge and stop these two."

"But why not call the police now and let them deal with it?" Susan said to the group. "Why do we need to get involved? Just call the police and biff, boom, bam they go in and arrest these two."

"Susan, it's not that simple," Nancy said, placing a hand on her arm. "What are we going to say? 'Officer, we know of two people who can transport each other around the country through wormholes and murder people.' Sure, they'd take us seriously." She rolled her eyes.

Fred continued, "There are other groups after this technology. We followed up on some relationships Professor Fischer had. We already knew about Doctor Newcombe. I sent out feelers to Globalized Dynamics. After all, two of their top scientists and two armed security guards were killed. I wondered what they were doing."

Fred finished his beer and continued. "Like all GD employees, Newcombe signed an Employee Innovation and Proprietary Agreement that outlines her relationship with the company. This means any invention made by her, including the project she was overseeing with Fischer, is property of GD. This includes the suitcases. Make no mistake. GD understands the project she was working on and the masked ninja who mysteriously appeared are connected.

"They're aggressively trying to find out what happened. They want this technology, too, and they want it now. However, I don't think they quite understand the magnitude of what Fischer and Newcombe discovered, or that Fischer is even involved at the moment. Like Fischer, Newcombe operated under a cloak of secrecy. I doubt GD knows about the breakthrough in wormholes, at least, for now. Of course, that will change."

"Do you know what actions Globalized Dynamics is taking?" Chase asked.

"Right now, it looks like they're working by themselves. They're trying to be discreet. I don't know if the Boston detectives working the Fischer case and Globalized Dynamics have gotten together yet. But I wouldn't be surprised if one party connects the dots between Newcombe and the murdered senator, if they haven't already."

Fred put the photos and documents back in the third manila envelope and all six sat back in their chairs. No one spoke for a couple minutes. The silence was broken by their waitress appearing and taking their empty baskets from the table. "Hey, guys, can I bring more beer?"

"Whew," Bennie sighed. "I don't think so. We need to take a walk on the beach."

"Bennie's right. Let's all take a walk and clear our heads," Chase said, pulling out a credit card and handing it to the waitress.
Chapter 57 Second Flight to Boston

Chase wasn't able to book four first-class tickets to Boston on a day's notice, nor could he find four coach seats. But Fred and Nancy came through again booked four empty leg seats on a private jet from LAX directly to Boston's Logan International Airport.

At $12,000 for the one-way round-trip, and $15,000 for the return flight, Chase stopped caring what this venture was costing. Fred and Nancy didn't come cheap. Chase gave Fred a check for $25,000 as a retainer when he delivered the fifty-dollar bill, and promised to pay whatever they thought was fair above and beyond the retainer fee. When Fred and Nancy were finished with what they had to do behind the scenes, the price for their services alone would approach $50,000.

Susan had taken the liberty of reserving two, five-star hotel rooms and a Ford Excursion, which added to the spiraling costs.

Chase wasn't thinking of what it would mean if he were the one to walk away with this breakthrough technology once the dust settled. That was his original intention. Right now, what he wanted most was to confront Nicky and Staci, destroy the suitcases, and if possible, prove Professor Fischer's innocence.

On Friday at 9:07 p.m., Chase, Susan, Bennie, and Carol boarded mid-sized Dassault Falcon 2000. Fred and Nancy remained in Orange County to offer support. They had Nicky's and Staci's ATM and credit card numbers and could trace their points-of-sale in real time.

Chase was stunned by the opulence and luxury of the interior. Two beautiful young flight attendants, who looked like they were dressed for a board meeting, greeted them with wide smiles and matching, near perfect teeth.

"Welcome, Professor Manhattan. My name is Denise," the blonde attendant said. "And this is Amy," pointing to the tall, lanky brunette with Mediterranean features. "You and your friends can sit anywhere you want. I'm sure you'll appreciate the accommodations."

The first four seats were arranged with two chairs on both sides of the fuselage facing each other. Behind them, two more seats were positioned side by side and positioned forward.

Susan laid their personal bags on the first two cream-colored leather chairs. "The women get the best seats."

"Wow. I've never seen anything like this before," Carol exclaimed as one of the flight attendants helped with her two carry-on bags.

"Now this is living, people. I could get used to this," Bennie said with a put on tone of royalty. "I should be flying chartered flights over first-class. I'll have to negotiate with my manager."

Chase settled into his seat, stretched his legs, and began to unwind from a busy and hectic day. Once in flight, he started to relax.

"Chase, I'm ordering apple martinis. Do you and Susan want one," Bennie asked. Carol got up from her seat and joined Bennie. Susan joined Chase.

"Thanks, but I'll pass. I need sleep. I suggest everyone do the same."

"Okay, mom. After this drink," Bennie replied, placing his arm around Carol and pulling her into him. Carol laughed. "Maybe two more. Or three."

Chase stayed awake for an hour, running over details he and Fred discussed. Susan leaned on his right shoulder, already asleep. Denise draped a blanket over them. Chase struggled to keep his eye open, and heard Bennie say to Carol, "Awww, aren't they cute? Maybe I should tuck them in."

Chase had to laugh. Carol laughed too, already punchy from finishing three apple martinis. "Okay, one more, then that's it," Bennie said. "We need to get our rest."

Chase opened one eye to see Bennie motion to Denise and raise his empty glass. After the last round, both fell asleep to the gentle hum and rhythm of the jet. Chase was the last to doze off.

Morning came quickly as the plane crossed over three time zones and caught the sun rising over the Allegheny Mountains in central Pennsylvania. Chase had left his window shade open so he'd be the first to wake. The morning's first rays of sunlight pierced his tightly closed eyelids. He tossed a few packets of Advil at Bennie.

Bennie woke, held his head, and ran his hand through his mussed-up wavy hair. He picked up the packets of Advil. "Thanks. I need these."

Bennie gave Carol a subtle nudge. She inhaled deeply, and then let out a breath of stale alcohol breath, causing him to flinch and cough.

"Whew, hoo hoo," he said, standing and waving a hand in front of his face, causing Carol to wake from her slumber. Bennie stretched his arms wide and yawned. "Hey, babe, wakey wakey. How're you feeling today?"

Carol sat up, smacked her lips, and stuck out her tongue. "I need a drink of water."

Even with her hair a mess and her morning breath smelling bad, Chase knew why Bennie was attracted to her. Carol Rodriguez was the kind of girl who seemed to look better the more she dressed down. She fit Bennie's profile to a tee.

The flight attendants walked over with two Evian bottled waters and two Waterford crystal glasses. "Thanks," Bennie and Carol said in unison.

Susan stirred underneath her blanket, her head slowly appearing from the cocoon she and Chase had spun the night before. Chase looked out the window. The ground was covered with a white layer of snow. "It sure looks cold out there. I'm shivering just thinking about stepping off the plane."

The Falcon 200 landed at 7:41 a.m. at Logan International Airport and ended what was just another routine flight with little turbulence and no delays. As Chase and the others gathered their personal belongings, the pilot and the co-pilot emerged from the cockpit and shook his hand.

Chase prepared for the inevitable. The fuselage door opened, and the frigid six-degree air greeted the four in a cruel way as they shivered and walked down the stairs onto the tarmac.

"Enjoy your stay in Boston," the blonde flight attendant said as she smiled, waved, and snapped the door closed.

"She said that with a tinge of sarcasm," Bennie said in a grumble.

Chase led the way as the four skittered over to the terminal. Once inside, Bennie was the first to say, "I need to buy a heavy coat. No way I can get by with just my leather jacket and a sweater."

The two girls nodded in agreement. "Brrrrrrr. This is the first time I've been farther east than Las Vegas," Carol said. "I can't believe how cold it is. Where's the nearest mall?"

"We should have listened to Fred and bought heavy coats yesterday," Chase said. "Let's drive to the hotel first so we can situate ourselves and drop off our luggage. Then we'll shop for heavier coats."

The four made their way through the airport to the curbside shuttle that brought them to the Hertz Rental Car facility. "I hope they have the engine running and the heater blasting when we get there," Susan said as they huddled together in the shuttle bus.

Chase kept a close eye on their bags, as he didn't want to lose any of the equipment Fred had sent them off with. The laptops contained costly, sensitive equipment and would be difficult if not impossible to replace.

Chase wasn't certain if what Fred had set them up with was completely legal. Surveillance and eavesdropping was a shady business depending on how aggressive one needed to be. In a day when no information is truly secret and can be gleaned in a very short time, there was still a lot of gray area in what was considered ethical and unethical, legal and illegal.

Their hotel, the Intercontinental Boston, was a five-star establishment located on the waterfront just a few miles from the airport. Susan reserved two suites on the fourteenth floor that offered sweeping views of the waterfront and the city skyline.

Chase pulled up to the valet parking at the front entrance and traded his keys for a valet voucher. They stood outside for a few moments and looked in appreciation at the elegant, blue-glass architecture reflecting the waters of Boston Harbor.

"You selected a real winner," Chase said. "Well done."

Susan squeezed his right hand, grinned, and said, "It better be, for the price I charged your American Express Card."

Upon settling into their rooms, Chase set up the laptops and called Fred using a speaker phone. It wasn't long before Fred registered activity on Nicky's and Staci's ATM cards and text messages.

"Thanks, Fred and Nancy. We now know where they are and what they're doing," Susan said. "You two are making our job easy. There's no way we can do this without you."

"We're a team," Fred said. "We need to trust and rely on each other if we're to make this work and come out alive."

"Listen up, everybody," Nancy said. "Enough of the formalities. We need to move fast. Nicky and Staci are sitting at a Starbucks in Cambridge and they have a receiver case in a black leather gym bag. Nicky's finalizing the details to drop it off to an unknown third party later this morning."

"Nancy's confident she's cracked Nicky's coded messages," Fred said. " Nicky's ready to kill more people who sit atop the global financial world. And probably a U.S. Senator, too. He's using a mole, a third party similar to the role Rosie Contreras played for him at the State House. Someone who has the ability to get close to at least one if not all of these powerful Wall Street moguls. It's the mole who'll position the receiver case as an exit to the wormhole so Staci can get as close as possible to their next victim."

"Although Fred and I developed an elaborate scheme to retrieve all six suitcases over the next two days, you don't have time to implement it," Nancy said, her voice rising in intensity. "You need to act now to prevent another murder."

Chase bolted to his feet. "Let's go, everyone. We're leaving."

"But we don't have a plan," Susan said. "What are we going to do?"

Chase grabbed the car keys. "I don't know. No plan yet. We'll have to develop one on the way to Cambridge."
Chapter 58 Starbucks

Susan pulled the Excursion to a stop in a crosswalk on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Prospect Street. The café was situated on a prime corner in Central Square, a lively commercial and business area a mile northeast of the MIT campus.

The four looked into the front window in a futile attempt to make visual contact with Nicky and Staci. The glare from the midmorning sun made it impossible to see inside.

A few locals gave Susan dirty looks as they had to walk around the Excursion since the length of the SUV covered the crosswalk. One man gave her the finger.

Bennie lowered the rear passenger-side window and yelled at him in a bad East Coast accent, "Hey, where do you think you are, New York or something?"

Chase gave the final orders. "Okay, we all know what to do. Susan, look for a parking spot, park illegally with your flashers on, or drive around the block until we emerge from the café with the receiver case. Then you'll drive us back to the hotel. Bennie, you and Carol enter Starbucks, scope the place out, and find a table close to Nicky and Staci. I'm calling you on your cell now."

Bennie's phone rang and he answered. "Okay, we're ready."

Susan made a right onto Prospect Street and pulled over. Chase, Bennie, and Carol stepped out onto the sidewalk. Susan blew Chase a kiss and drove away. Bennie adjusted his Red Sox cap, which he had bought at the airport to blend in, and led Carol into Starbucks.

Chase remained outside on the sidewalk. He peered into the window, using his hand as a shield to block the brightness of the sun's glare off the glass. The cafe was small with limited seating, but most of the customers were in a hurry, bought their drinks and pastries, and headed back outside into the freezing madness.

Chase saw Nicky and Staci right away. They sat at a small round table with Nicky against the wall. Staci sat with her back to the customers waiting to order.

Bennie whispered into his cell phone while they took their place in line. "There are no open tables, but I'm pretty sure a group of chatty college girls sitting to Nicky's left are ready to leave. Two young gothic-looking guys are at the table to his right. They have their laptops out, their Grande drinks, and it looks like they're here to stay."

Chase stepped away from the window. He could hear Bennie chatting with the barista as she poured their drinks.

"What's going on," Chase asked.

"The group of girls are definitely getting ready to leave, but they're taking their time. We're walking to the station for creamer now."

Chase peered through the glass again and watched as Bennie and Carol walked to the station. Then the group of garrulous girls stood and left. Moving quickly to claim the table, Carol slid against the wall next to Nicky. Bennie followed with two steaming coffees in hand, cell phone tucked between his shoulder and chin.

Bennie ended his call with "See ya," which was the signal for Chase to enter the café and confront the assassin and her lover.

Wasting no time, Chase walked through the front door. Carol didn't look up at him but maintained eye contact with Bennie as they conversed about the weather. Chase walked straight to the table and stood directly behind Staci, who sipped of her coffee.

Nicky did a double take. Chase figured Nicky didn't recognize him. His face was still bruised and swollen, and he wore a dark navy-blue knit cap pulled over the top of his head.

"What the hell's your problem, pal?"

Turning around, Staci choked on the coffee she was swallowing. "Chase, what are you doing here?" she said, too stunned to stand.

"Surprised to see me, Staci? That is your real name, right? Staci Bevere?"

Staci swallowed hard.

"Well, if it isn't Professor Chase Manhattan," Nicky said in a sneer. "I can't believe my girlfriend actually slept with a piece of trash like you."

"She certainly wasn't complaining."

"Chase," Staci said in a hushed but firm voice. "You have to be out of your mind coming here."

Chase glared back at Staci, the bruises on his face still prominent and his jaw swollen where she'd knocked out his tooth. Even though Staci had done a good job of hiding them with makeup, he knew she had plenty of deep blue and black bruises as well.

Chase grabbed an empty chair from Bennie and Carol's table and sat down between Nicky and Staci, his back directly to his companions. Chase's right foot was now touching Nicky's gym bag. He leaned into the table, his neck veins looking like crawling rattlesnakes.

"There's no way you're getting away with this. Do you understand me?"

Nicky looked as smug and arrogant as a man possibly could; like a prince who had just usurped the throne of the king and there was absolutely nothing anybody in the kingdom could do to stop him.

"Get away with what, Chase? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I know what this is all about, asshole. I know what you're desperately trying to protect. And I know you sent Staci to California to steal the suitcases and then kill me."

Nicky wore a sneer of contempt and utter disgust on his face. "Steal from you? Are you out of your mind? Are you mad? You stole them from me. I was merely retrieving what is rightfully mine."

"Those cases belong to your father, and he's the one who sent me to take them from you."

Nicky chuckled, folded his arms, and leaned back in his chair. "Oh yeah, that's right. You talked to my father. My father—the murderer of one of the most beloved politicians of our state."

One of the gothic guys next to Nicky's table, a short, fat, white guy with pasty-pale skin and a bad haircut leaned over and interrupted. "Hey man, your dad was the one who whacked that O'Connor guy?"

Chase, Nicky, and Staci all turned their heads and glared at the guy in silence until he slinked back into his chair and re-entered his electronic netherworld.

"So, what now, Chase? What does that all mean? So you talked with my father. Where's that going to get you?"

Chase talked through clenched teeth. It was all he could do from lunging across the table and punching Nicky right where he sat.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to stop you from killing more people." He turned to Staci and continued. "And I'm going to expose you for murdering Senator O'Connor and trying to kill me."

Nicky jumped out of his chair. "And just how are you going to do that? Cathy—errr, Staci, has an alibi. I mean, think about it, you cretin."

Chase rose to meet Nicky, now leaning in and talking barely above a whisper. It was all Chase could do to refrain from reaching up with his right hand and ripping out his larynx moving in and out as Nicky spoke.

"I beam her down early in the morning, and then beam her back up to the mother ship when she's finished with you? No intelligent life down there for her to see? Are you going to tell that to the authorities?"

Chase wasn't sure if Nicky was bluffing. He didn't know if Staci flew out to Southern California or was transported using a wormhole. But he wasn't deterred by Nicky's overbearing arrogance.

"I also know you're behind the killing of those four people at Globalized Dynamics in Connecticut last week. Then there's the cleaning lady from the State House, too. Remember her? That's six people dead. You tried to make me number seven and failed. Big mistake on your part."

"Listen to me, you lousy, stinking sack of white trash. What makes you think you can fly out all the way from California and come in here and threaten me? Do you know who you're talking to?"

Nicky was now yelling, and every set of eyes in the café were glued on him. Bennie tried to sip his coffee in a nonchalant manner while keeping an eye on the black leather gym bag twelve inches from Carol's feet.

Staci smacked a palm on the table. "Hey, guys, knock it off right now!"

She looked up and as calmly as she could, said, "Chase, you should leave right now. Just get back on a plane, go home, and forget that you ever saw either one of us."

Nicky's mouth ran at full speed, spewing out ramblings of how Chase made the biggest mistake of his life by tracking them down. He was also pointing his finger into Chase's chest, which was one of the things that Chase hated most. That was strike one.

Strike two was spreading out his arms in a mocking fashion, asking what he was going to do about it. Strike three was sticking his face into Chase's with his mouth still running.

Chase's right fist slammed into Nicky's jaw. Nicky reeled backwards, bouncing off the wall at an angle that made him stumble. He fell onto the table the two gothic guys were sitting at and knocked their laptops and drinks onto the floor.

Customers at other tables jumped up and started backing away, some running out the door. Staci bolted out of her chair and stood toe-to-toe with Chase.

This was the distraction Bennie and Carol needed. Carol used her right foot to slide the black leather gym bag to Bennie. He bent over, picked it up, and spun around so his back was to Staci as he headed out the door. Carol was right behind him, as were a dozen patrons.

"Get out of here now, Chase. I mean it. Get out, go home, and never come back. Do not make contact with Nicky or me again. Do you understand?"

She was looking Chase dead in the eyes, and Chase stumbled over his thoughts for a few seconds. There was a brief moment of awkward silence.

"What?" Staci cocked her head to the side.

"Your eyes. They're green," Chase said.

"What? What are you talking about? They're green. So what?"

Chase realized she must have worn blue contacts when she was in California. He couldn't believe he was momentarily caught staring deeply into the eyes of the woman who had only recently tried to kill him.

With her hair now blonde and green eyes, she was even more beautiful than she looked in Laguna Beach. Chase recalibrated his bearings. He started to turn toward the door when Nicky stood up, rubbing his jaw with his right hand.

"It's okay, folks," he said, looking around the café and holding up his hands. "Just a little lovers' spat, that's all."

He then stepped into Chase. "Listen up. I know you're not going away. Fine. Have it your way. But understand this. You've accomplished nothing by coming all the way out here. I will personally bury you. Know that. Now get the hell out of here while you still can."

Chase had finished the three things he set out to do: confront Staci, grab the suitcase, and punch Nicky in the face.

Mission accomplished. It's been a good day.

He turned and headed out the door. Once out on the sidewalk, he looked left but didn't see the Excursion. Running to the right side of the Starbucks onto Prospect Street, he saw the SUV a half block up with the flashers on, backing up fast toward him.

Bennie leaned out the backseat passenger window, waving at Chase to run up and jump in. Within seconds, Chase was in the front seat. Susan put the truck into drive, and the four drove off, making their way over the Harvard Bridge and back into Boston.
Chapter 59 Celebration

Chase turned around and leaned over the front seat. "Bennie, open the gym bag. Let's make sure the suitcase is in there."

Bennie unzipped the leather gym bag and pulled out the black receiver case. He lifted it in his right hand, as if his arm were a scale.

"So this is what all of the murder is all about. It doesn't seem possible. How can something so average-looking be the cause of so much mayhem and death?"

Chase understood Bennie failed to fully realize the immense, potential ramifications of what he held.

Carol studied the average looking metallic case and added, "It's not that big. I could fit it in my handbag."

"Although it isn't that big, it is kind of heavy," Bennie said.

"It shouldn't weight much. Let me see that," Chase said.

Bennie handed Chase the case. Chase felt the weight was considerably heavier than the two he had brought back from Boston the previous week He sat back in his seat, undid the latches, and carefully lifted the top. Taking care, he pulled off the velvety soft overlay that concealed the uranium and plutonium battery.

Susan glanced over. Her face took on a look of horror. She gasped and nearly swerved into incoming traffic. Two lead canisters with wires and numerous circuit boards revealed the most frightening sight the four could imagine.

Bennie and Carol were looking over Chase's shoulder. Susan cried out, "My God, what is that? It looks like a bomb. And not just any bomb. This looks like it can be used as a weapon of mass destruction."

The day's events had transpired so fast Chase forgot the case might contain a live battery. "Okay, calm down. No need to panic. There's absolutely nothing to worry about."

There wasn't much confidence in Chase's tone as the other three inched away from him, putting as much distance between themselves and Chase as physically possible without falling out of the Excursion.

"Um, Chase honey, I think we need to get rid of that thing right now," Susan said in a whisper, as if the vibrations of her voice might set the battery off.

"Just pull over and look for a dumpster. Bennie will toss it in," Carol said, also talking in a whisper.

"We can't throw it away. I need to bring it back to Orange County."

"Are you crazy? Susan, pull over behind those stores over there," Carol commanded in a shouted whisper. "There has to be a dumpster in the ally."

"No. We can't do that," Chase said. "We need to get this back home right away."

He put the black felt overlay back in place and closed the suitcase. "We can't just toss it in a dumpster. What if it ends up falling in the wrong hands again? Come on, everybody, let's think this through."

"Chase is right," Bennie said, braving a full but low voice, assuming the role of negotiator and taking control of the conversation. "We can't just toss it in the trash. As much as I hate to admit it, we do need to get this case back home. We can decide what to do with it once we get there."

"I'm calling Fred," Chase said. "He'll have to find us a new flight back. No way we can wait until tomorrow. Otherwise, we'll have to drive back to California. If we drive straight through, each of us taking turns, we can make the three thousand mile trek in about forty hours."

There was silence as Susan continued on Massachusetts Avenue, shaking her head with obvious uncertainty.

"Okay, call me crazy, but I think Chase and Bennie are right. I'm going back to the hotel. We need to pick up our things and get out of here. Hopefully Fred can get a flight for us today. I don't want to be stuck driving across country with a nuclear device."

Chase liked the way Susan took the initiative and organized everything with such ease. He was glad to have her back by his side. He made yet one more promise to himself that he would never lose her again.

He thought back at that moment in Starbucks where he looked deep into Staci's green eyes and felt a fleeting, false sense of serenity. He shook his head free of that thought.

She's a cold-blooded murderer.

"What are we going to tell Fred," Bennie asked. "He gave us all of this hi-tech gadgetry that must cost a bundle, planned for a sophisticated breaking and entering into Professor Fischer's labs at MIT, and we end up doing a simple snatch-and-run."

That brought a few small laughs from everybody.

"Under the circumstances, I'll consider retrieving one case a success," Chase said. "Nicky will take additional precautions to safeguard the remaining cases from here on. Once we're back in Orange County, I'm confident I can perform reverse engineering and learn the secrets of how it works. Then we can decide on what to do with the rest of the cases and batteries."
Chapter 60 Back at Starbucks

Staci placed her hands on Nicky's chest while he rubbed his jaw. He moved it back and forth, cracked his neck on both sides, then rubbed his jaw some more.

Nicky looked at the chaotic surroundings. Chairs were tipped over. Coffee and other spilled drinks covered most tables. Baristas and customers gathered their personal belongings scattered across the floor caused from patrons who had run out the door.

Nicky bent over, picked up three chairs, and set them upright. "What a mess. Can you believe that jerk coming all the way out here just to punch me?" He rubbed his jaw a few more times.

"I can't believe he found us," Staci said. "And so quickly. I mean, how did he know we were here?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Trust me, I will. He just walked right up to us with no hesitation, like he knew we were here. There's something going on. I'm asking myself the same question—how did he find us so fast?"

"And he knew my name. He called me Staci. How did he find out my identity?"

Nicky saw Staci was scared and no longer felt safe. Safety and security were what he assured he could provide when he talked her into performing acts that could land her in prison for the rest of her life.

One of the baristas walked to the table where the Goths sat and wiped it clean with a white towel, then dropped it on the floor and soaked up the spilled coffee using her feet and rubbing the towels in a circular motion.

"Hey, my laptop's broken," the short, fat, pasty-white guy with a bad haircut complained to Nicky. "Who's going to pay for a new one?"

Staci turned to him and quipped, "Ask your girlfriend."

His friend laughed out loud. "Good one."

Nicky was looking under his table for his black leather gym bag. At first he looked a bit puzzled, as he was still recovering from the punch Chase landed to his jaw. Staci saw what was now rage in his face.

"What's the matter, Nicky? What's wrong?"

"My gym bag. My freakin' gym bag. It's gone!"

Nicky was breathing hard, his eyes wide open as he slid chairs across the room and searched under more tables. His head snapped up, and he looked desperately at Staci. "Do you have it?"

She shook her head and started looking. "No, I don't."

Nicky said to the gothic guys trying to get back online. "Hey, did you see a black leather gym bag?"

"No, not me. I'm still trying to get my laptop started," bad hair guy said, hopelessly punching the keypad.

Nicky looked over to the four baristas behind the counter. "Have any of you seen a black leather gym bag?"

They all responded no.

Nicky gasped for air and wondered if he was hyperventilating. He savagely kicked two chairs over. "Somebody grabbed it during the fight. When all those people ran out the door, somebody accidentally picked it up, or they purposely stole it."

Nicky was furious, but more than that, he was scared. Somebody out there on the streets had a receiver suitcase loaded with a live one-kiloton nuclear battery. His eyes popped wide with a flash realization.

"Chase. He must have taken it," Nicky said, still breathing heavy and sweat beading on his forehead. "That's why he showed up here today. He intended to steal it."

Staci shook her head. "No, Chase didn't have the bag. He walked out empty-handed."

Nicky ran out the door and onto the street with Staci following. They looked up and down Massachusetts Avenue, then Prospect Street. The streets were bustling with cars and the sidewalks were filled with people as the lunch rush was beginning.

Nicky pointed down Massachusetts Avenue. "You run that way. I'll take Prospect Street. We've got to find my gym bag."

Nicky ran back and forth through traffic and onto the sidewalk on both sides of the street, looking at everyone, his long and lanky body nearly being hit by a taxi, then by a UPS delivery truck. After three blocks, he stopped in the middle of the Prospect Street next to a manhole emitting a funnel of steam, his hands on his hips and gasping for air. Uncaring, he stood between lanes, the recipient of numerous honks and choice words, and called Staci on her cell phone.

"Please tell me you found it."

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I've run up and down the street on both sides, but I don't see it anywhere."

"Okay, meet me back at Starbucks," a dejected Nicky said after a long, deep sigh.

He ended the call, placed his phone in his pocket, and ran back to Starbucks where Staci waited for him inside. She was talking to the manager on duty.

"Nicky, come over here," she said with excitement in her voice. "Rhonda, she's the manager, tells me they have a security camera. She can see who picked up your gym bag."

Nicky felt a flickering ray of hope flood his racing heart. "Can you do that right now," he asked Rhonda.

"Sure. I'll go in the office and look at the video. If I see who walked off with your bag, I'll allow you to take a look for yourself."

"I'd greatly appreciate it. I have my laptop in there with my entire life on it. I'm dead in the water without it," Nicky lied in his most sincere tone. Rhonda's quick nod and compliance conveyed she believed him without reservation.

One of the baristas offered to replace their drinks that were spilled in the ruckus. Staci ordered a Grande coffee and Nicky a tazo chi tea latte. He managed a smile and a small laugh as his spirits were somewhat improved.

"Maybe this is just a test," he said to Staci. "A test to see if we have the strength and fortitude to carry this through to the end."

Staci walked over to the station to pour cream in her coffee. "Perhaps. I'm not sure. But we've got to get that gym bag back today, regardless of the consequences."

Leaning against the station, Nicky looked over at the security camera behind the counter. "I hope that's not video that takes a frame every five seconds. I want to get a real good look at whoever walked out the door with it."

He paused for a moment to think. "I still can't believe that pinhead showed up here. You'd think the guy would be thankful he's still alive. Why hunt us down and come all the way across the country. He couldn't have done it for only revenge."

"I don't know. But Chase is turning out to be a worthy adversary. He almost killed me, although he did need a gun to accomplish that. And he tracked us down in a matter of days and showed up here. He even found out my true identity."

Nicky wrapped his long, lean arm around Staci's shoulder and gave her a quick kiss on top of her head. "He's a real pain in the ass, that's what he is. But don't you worry. I'll take care of Chase Manhattan soon enough. I promise you that."

Rhonda emerged from the backroom and motioned for them to join her. She sat down in her chair while Nicky and Staci stood on either side. Nicky saw himself and Staci sitting at their table. The two gothic guys sat on one side while the four chatty girls got up and left.

"So far, so good," Nicky said. "I see the gym bag on the floor when the four girls got up to leave. Then that new couple sat down."

They continued to watch as the video showed Chase entering the café and walking up to Nicky and Staci. They observed Chase punching Nicky and the chaos that followed. People started to scatter, and some ran for the door. Then Nicky saw it happen.

"There. Right there. Do you see him? That man with the Red Sox cap stole my gym bag," he shouted, pointing to the computer monitor. "He's busted red-handed. Look, his face, it's clearly visible. And the stupid son-of-a-bitch is smirking."

Staci interjected. "Can we have a copy of this part of the video?"

"I can do better than that," Rhonda said. "I'll email you that section right now."

"That would be great," Staci exclaimed. "Hopefully, we can use this to track him down."

Nicky wrote down his e-mail address on a piece of paper for Rhonda, and in less than a minute he confirmed he received it on his iPhone.

"Rhonda, thanks so much for your help," Staci said.

"Are you going to be okay?" Rhonda said to Nicky.

"I'll be fine," he said, rubbing his jaw again and putting his arm around Staci. "He's a jealous ex-boyfriend who can't accept the fact that this beautiful young lady is with me now."

Nicky and Staci walked out of the café toward the parking lot. "I'm sending this to Khyati. Maybe she can find out who this guy with the Red Sox cap is."

He forwarded the e-mail to one of the best hackers MIT has ever produced, and some fine ones indeed have come out of that prestigious institution. Nicky also included a message for her to hack into Chase's credit card purchases in hopes of finding where he was staying. Khyati had done a spectacular job profiling Chase and his day-to-day routines a week ago, and he was confident she would find his current location.
Chapter 61 Khyati's House

Nicky pulled into the driveway at 1132 Oakwood Drive in Cambridge. The two-story, red-brick house was a well-kept neighborhood built in the 1880s. Rent was not cheap, the neighborhood was safe, and many students and faculty from MIT and Harvard lived there. Khyati Dasmunsi met them at her front door.

"Hi Khyati. I hope you have good news for us."

"Good news is my middle name. Come in. Coffee and tea is ready."

Nicky and Staci followed her into the basement where a room the size of half the house held a complex labyrinth of tables and aisles containing servers, computers, screens, cables, and shelves of books large enough to rival the computer section of any bookstore.

"Have you decided on a name to call this place," Staci asked as Khyati led them down a path of servers and other related equipment.

"I will call it ..." she made a joking gesture of grandeur, and exclaimed, "The Basement. How's that?"

"I'll think of something cute," Staci said. "But sassy. Like you."

Khyati laughed at the comment. Nicky had known her long enough to know this was something she rarely did for anyone but him and his group of cohorts who she now considered family.

"Bring a couple of chairs from over there," Khyati said, pointing to at a table with three iMacs. "Gather around. I still have information coming in. I'll be able to find out what Chase has been up to with little effort."

"I know you're good," Nicky said. "But how are you able to do this so quickly?"

"The last time I was into his network, I left a couple of back doors that I can easily open. His home security system is average at best."

"So, what's he been up to in the past few days," Staci asked, directing the question more to Nicky, even though she was looking at Khyati. "He knows my name, and he shows up today at Starbucks because he knew we were there."

Khyati punched in a few commands in the keyboard. "That's the million-dollar question. He doesn't have the ability to do much more than e-mail, go online, and use Google docs from home. He must have had help, some really good help, to discover your identity so fast and know your whereabouts today."

"What about his computer at UC-Irvine," Nicky asked. "Could he have used their network and resources?"

"Possibly, although probably not from the college-issued computer in his office. I suspect he employed professional help to pull this off."

She looked at Nicky. "What goes around comes around. Bad karma, I guess."

Khyati's words pierced Nicky's heart, and he couldn't think of a comeback. "Fast forward to today. What do you have on Chase?"

Khyati pulled out the middle of three keyboards and a twenty-inch, flat-panel monitor from the back of the table and punched in a command.

"According to his recent credit card purchases, Chase is staying at the Intercontinental Boston on Atlantic Avenue. He checked in this morning. In fact, he booked two rooms."

She looked up at Nicky, who made the connection the guy who swiped his gym bag came with Chase to Boston. To say Nicky had an anger management problem would be an understatement. The anger switch in his brain could turn itself on and off at will. It took less than a second to transition to rage.

"I knew it," Nicky said through clenched teeth. "That goofy-looking guy who stole my gym bag was with him. They're working together as a team."

Staci interjected. "Who was that girl? She's in on this as well."

"That's why Chase booked a second room. They must be a couple," Nicky said.

"Maybe Chase has someone staying in his room. There could be four people altogether," Staci said.

"The new people could be computer geeks, no offense, Khyati, who have been able to track us down," Nicky said.

"In addition to discovering my identity," Staci said in a tone demanding he do something about the situation. "Now we have at least two or three more people we have to contend with."

Staci stood up and paced back and forth. "This is all wrong. Nicky, you promised me nothing would go wrong. You assured me you had all of the angles covered. What's your contingency plan? What's your exit strategy? Every great leader has one."

Nicky was doing a little pacing of his own. He considered reminding Staci that had she succeeded in killing Chase, none of this would be happening and they could move directly into stage two of his plan.

But that would be most unwise, he thought. She had performed all the dirty work. And Chase had turned out to be a much worthier adversary than anticipated. He even managed to talk to his father in jail. This was no small accomplishment, considering he was in isolation and the authorities only allowed family to visit him.

Nicky was astonished at the way Chase had mobilized his group so quickly. He understood just how committed Chase was to stopping them at any cost. He needed to strike back. Fast.

"The solution is simple. We go to the Intercontinental Boston Hotel and get the receiver case back. Khyati, do you know what rooms they're staying in?"

"Not yet. All I have is the hotel. I'll have the individual rooms shortly. But listen to this. He chartered a private jet to get here."

"A chartered jet," Staci said with her mouth agape. "Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure. This man is motivated. He paid $12,000 for the trip here. He put it on his American Express credit card."

Staci put both hands in the air. "Nicky, Chase is starting to creep me out. A chartered jet? Are you kidding me? This guy has completely turned the tables on us in just a few days. What are you going to do about it?"

She widened her stance, folded her arms and gave him a look demanding a swift and damn good answer. Khyati also glared at Nicky. He didn't have to be a psychic to read their thoughts. Nicky put his hands out in front of him, palms out and fingers spread as if he were trying to stop a speeding locomotive.

"Okay, okay, listen up. Staci and I will go to the Intercontinental Boston Hotel. We'll get the gym bag however we can. Khyati, I need you to have Guu meet us there. I'm not too concerned with the goofy-looking guy and his female partner. Staci and I can handle Chase. But we need Guu's muscle in case things get messy."
Chapter 62 The Intercontinental Boston Hotel

Chase, Susan, Bennie and Carol packed the last of their belongings and placed their luggage by the front door. Chase made one last check on the receiver suitcase he placed in a duffel bag. He disposed of Nicky's black leather gym bag along with its other miscellaneous contents in a trash can outside the lobby door.

"I'll go downstairs and pay our bill," Chase said to the group. "You three meet me in the lobby when you're finished packing."

Susan stepped forward. "Let me go. What if Nicky has somehow traced you? Since they haven't seen me, it'd be safer if I close out the rooms just in case they come looking for you. They must be desperate and are probably out of their minds right now trying to get the case back."

Chase thought for a few moments. He remembered observing surveillance cameras in the Starbucks. "That's a good idea. They could have ID'd us and be on their way here. Take your cell phone and call me if you see them. You should be able to recognize them from the pictures Fred provided. Just remember, Staci will have short blonde hair. I'll call the front desk and let them know you're checking us out with my credit card."

"Okay, honey." She planted a big kiss on Chase as he handed her his American Express card, then walked out the door.

"You're one very fortunate guy," Carol said.

"She's smoking hot," added Bennie.

"I'm one lucky guy, I know. Believe me," he tapped himself on the chest with his forefinger. "Chase Manhattan won't screw this up."

* * *

Susan walked up to the front desk. There was a short line ahead of her. After a few minutes of shuffling her feet and checking the time on her cell phone five times, she was next. She pulled out Chase's American Express and closed out the two rooms.

As she placed the credit card back into her purse, the man in line behind her stepped up to counter and spoke to the second front desk assistant. "Can you call Chase Manhattan's room for me?"

Susan's heart beat so hard she thought it would leave a permanent mark on the inside of her ribs. She looked at the man standing no more than two feet to her left. He was short and thick. Very thick. Asian. Probably Chinese. He had black hair and spoke in a deliberate cadence, his voice laced with a menacing overtone.

She stepped away from the desk, pulled out her iPhone, and called Chase. He picked up on the first ring.

"Susan, is everything okay?"

"There's a short, stocky Asian guy asking the front desk to call your room. He looks like bad news."

"Go out to the valet and get the Excursion. We'll take the stairs down. Meet us around back. Move. Now."

While Susan turned to leave, she heard the clerk make a surprised comment. "He just checked out. Just now. What are the odds of that?"

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Asian man turn around and begin scanning the area. She was halfway across the lobby when a young man and woman entered through the front door. Even though she had never seen Nicky or Staci in person, she was sure it was them. She turned and saw the Asian man walking toward Nicky.

Nicky called out just loud enough to be heard. "Khyati just texted me. They're in rooms 1404 and 1405."

"He checked out. Just as I was at the front desk. He's close by. I can feel it," the Asian strongman said, stretching out what little neck he had and looking around the lobby.

Nicky took the lead. "Staci, you go out front and watch the valet area. I'll check the lobby and the restaurant. Guu, you watch the stairs that lead out to the back. Whoever sees them first calls the rest of us. Let's go."

The three split up and walked away with discreet swiftness.

Susan hurried out the door to the valet station and called Chase again. He answered on the first ring.

"Chase. They're here. Nicky's in the lobby looking for you. Staci's right behind me on her way to the valet. The mean looking Chinese guy is going around back to the staircase. I heard them call him Guu."

"We're on the eighth floor of the stairwell. I want you to get the Excursion anyway. Staci doesn't know you. Act natural, get the SUV, and drive around to the back and pick us up. We'll have to get past Guu. Be discreet and nonchalant. Don't draw any attention to yourself from Staci."

"Be careful, Chase. I know you can take care of yourself."

Susan ended the call as she approached the valet and handed him the keys. She stood calmly as Staci approached a few moments later and stood next to her. Staci looked her up and down. Susan returned the look and smiled.

"Well, hi, there. It sure is cold. I wish the valet would hurry up," Susan said, faking a slight Southern drawl.

"It's cold, alright," Staci said with folded arms and a feigned smile. "So, what are you staying here for? Business or pleasure?"

"Business. I'm with a private equity firm in Raleigh here to work on a merger deal. I'm on my way to a meeting to work on integration projects."

"I see," Staci said, staring Susan in the eyes.

Susan didn't flinch. She was not a natural liar, but in this scenario she felt confident to stand up to this assassin without any fear. She would to be the one in control, and not be afraid of standing next to the animal who had seduced and then tried to kill her man, and who had murdered all those innocent people.

"And yourself? What's your business," Susan asked, as if she were a manager demanding an account from a subordinate.

Staci wasn't prepared to be put on the defensive and stammered for a response. "Oh, me? I'm here for a sales convention for, um—for a new winter clothing line."

Susan looked down at her and smiled. "Are you wearing the new line of clothes?"

Staci glanced at her new, white, athletic shoes, faded blue jeans, and a blue down-filled coat. "Yes, this is part of the line we're selling."

"Shouldn't you be preparing for the summer line? Spring is only a month or so away. It would seem you're a little late to introduce a new line of winter clothing."

Caught you, you nasty, lying, little tramp.

The valet pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel and stepped out of the Excursion. Susan handed the young man a ten-dollar bill, then turned to Staci.

"Have a nice day." She couldn't help adding a touch of sarcasm to her voice. "Good luck with your clothing venture."

Susan turned the Excursion around and drove to the back of the hotel instead of straight out onto Atlantic Avenue, watching Staci in her rear-view mirror. She spotted Chase, Bennie, and Carol bursting out the back door. She picked them up, performed a U-turn, and slowly drove around the side of the hotel to the front.

"Everybody bend down," Susan said. The three complied.

She passed Staci, still standing at the valet station and looking around with her hands on her hips. Staci stared into the driver's side window as she drove by. Susan had her cell phone next to her left ear and pretended she was talking to someone. She laughed into the phone and waved as she passed Staci, then pulled out onto Atlantic Avenue.

"Great timing, Susan," Chase said.

"Did you run into Guu?"

Carol answered for him. "We did. We almost made it out when we heard the door at the bottom of the stairwell open. We could hear him climbing the stairs. He was leaping three steps at a time and coming up fast."

"He was much thicker than I anticipated," Chase said, "And I definitely didn't want this monster of a man to get his hands on me. We met on the third floor. I planted my left foot squarely in the center of his chest, knocking him down to the landing. I kept running, even stepping on his head as we raced to the bottom."

"And I maced him good, right in the eyes," Carol exclaimed. "Then Bennie stopped to kick him in the ribs as he was on his back covering his face."

Susan entered the 93 Freeway and sped south, weaving in and out of traffic and looking in all three mirrors.

"Carol," Susan said. "Help me lookout for Staci. The valet was bringing her car when we left. I wouldn't be surprised if they're right behind us."

Carol leaned over her seat and watched for any car driving as wildly as Susan.

"We all did great," Chase said. "That was awesome teamwork. Now let's get the hell out of Boston."

* * *

Staci was thinking fast and feeling suspicious. Why would this woman get in her car, drive around the back of the hotel, and then come out to the front entrance again? And why was she driving an Excursion if she was alone? As the SUV sped away she memorized the license plate, then called Nicky.

"Do you see them," an impatient Nicky asked.

"Get out here as fast as you can. I think they just left. I have the license plate number."

Staci called Guu, who did not pick up his phone.

The valet pulled up with Nicky's truck just as he arrived. "Where's Guu?" he asked, looking around.

"He didn't answer my call."

"Never mind. Chase must have taken him out. Call Khyati and get her over here to find him."

They hurried into the vehicle and Nicky sped onto Atlantic Avenue. "Now I've got no choice. I have to bring this madness to a stop."

At a red light Nicky unlocked the secured center divider and pulled out the Browning Hi Power 9mm they had confiscated from Rosie the previous week and laid it on the floorboard. The light turned green and he merged onto the 93 South.

"I'm not sure where to go. I'm assuming they got on the freeway."

Nicky sped up to ninety while dodging cars on his left and right. Zooming ahead of traffic, he accelerated to one hundred mph.

"Text Khyati. Give her the license plate number. She can tell us where the car was rented from."

"I bet it's under Chase's name," Staci said. "I just know it is. That blonde-haired girl has got to be the fourth person of their party. You wait and see. As soon as Khyati comes back with the names of the other people on his flight, I bet there will be a fourth person. A girl. Woman, actually—close to Chase's age. That was her. I'm sure of it."

Staci was nervous as she talked, rocking slightly back and forth in the passenger seat. Her breathing became sporadic, and she began to wheeze and gulp for air. Her chest tightened, and she instinctively grabbed at it with her hands.

Nicky, remaining calm, pulled over to the side of the freeway. He gave up the chase and turned on his emergency flashers. He pulled out a bronchodilator from the center divider and held it to her mouth, pumping three times. Within moments, the diameter of Staci's air passage increased and she soon began to breathe normally.

Traffic sped by, and her life was unraveling in her mind's eye like a horror flick with a bad ending. But for a few minutes, Staci felt warm, safe, and secure cuddled up in Nicky's arms.

Deep inside, she believed everything would turn out well. It had to. This was their destiny. Why else would this breakthrough be dropped into their laps?

She sobbed uncontrollably, but that was okay. She knew that somehow, someway, Nicky would make everything better.
Chapter 63 Back to Khyati

Nicky drove Staci back to Khyati's house to regroup. Both were tired and depressed, but confident the computer genius would once again come to the rescue. Khyati had done so many times when they needed information on people, where they were, and what they were doing. Nicky pulled into the driveway.

"We still have time," he said. "Khyati should be able to locate Chase this afternoon. We'll find him and the suitcase. He can't hide. His rental will have a GPS tracking device."

"I wish we could get a decent meal, take a hot shower, and get a good night's sleep," Staci said with a sigh.

"The shower and sleep will have to wait. I'm sure Khyati has something we can eat."

"Then I'm pretty sure the decent meal will have to wait as well. I remember the horrors of her refrigerator."

"It's called healthy food. You should try it some time."

Khyati again met them at the door. "You two look terrible." She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. "You smell even worse. Come into the kitchen and I'll get you something to eat."

Guu walked down the stairs into the living room. Nicky looked at his face, his eyes nearly swollen shut and the surrounding skin red and tender.

"Guu, I didn't know you were here. Are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?" Nicky tried to place his hand on his shoulder.

Guu brushed past Nicky and walked into the kitchen. "Thanks. I'm okay. I need more milk."

"Milk?"

"I Googled a remedy for pepper spray," Khyati said. "There's not much one can do except use dish soap and water to remove the oils and milk to sooth the pain."

"Poor Guu," Staci said. "He's such a nice guy. Bad things just seem to wait for him around every corner."

Nicky leaned into Staci and whispered, "I wonder why he was upstairs?"

She shrugged her shoulders but managed a giggle and a wink.

They entered Khyati's kitchen. Nicky felt he had opened a time capsule back to the 1960's and was sucked into a terrible nightmare that took a turn for the worse, a black hole of retro design from which there was no escape. The kitchen looked like it had been remodeled no sooner than half a century ago and left to defend itself against the dozens of fads and fashions that followed up and into the twenty-first century.

"No matter how many times I'm here, I never feel safe," Nicky said as he sat down at the round oak table with a green tile top.

He looked around the kitchen at the teal laminate cabinets and burnt orange Formica countertops with avocado green highlights. Covering the walls was a country-themed wallpaper, complete with repeating pictures of freshly made corn bread, roosters, sunflowers, and other rural themes.

The floor was covered with off-white linoleum bearing a type of red-and-black pattern that he couldn't make sense of. Even the refrigerator and stove looked like they came straight out of an I Love Lucy episode.

Nicky noticed how immaculately spotless the house was every time he visited. He thought Khyati must be a clean freak; not tolerating a single dust particle on any surface, one picture slightly askew, or anything out of place. He nodded in approval as he looked around the kitchen. A compulsive cleaner himself, he could relate.

Nicky had to laugh as Staci, thinking it humorous to torture Khyati in small ways, would leave her kitchen chair at an odd angle to the table, prompting Khyati to walk over and straighten it.

"Nicky," Khyati said. "I know you don't like your food cold or nuked. So I'll warm it up on the stove."

Nicky knew Staci would not like whatever Khyati was serving. He grinned when she took out her cell phone, without any shame, to make a call. He remembered she had programmed the number to a pizzeria down the street for such an occasion.

Khyati took out a Tupperware container from the refrigerator containing a carrot-based puree with sun-dried tomatoes, lentils, and chickpeas. She opened the lid and brought it up to Staci.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

Staci took one sniff. "I'll have to decline," she politely said and hit the pre-programmed number, ordering a large meat lover's pizza and a liter of Coke with a text.

Khyati shrugged her shoulders as if to say, 'It's your loss, not mine.' She scooped the contents from the Tupperware into a sauce pan and warmed it up. The pungent scent of curry filled the kitchen.

"I don't know what to do," A dejected Nicky said. "I can't believe Chase was able to steal the suitcase and get away. Any word on that SUV yet?"

Khyati turned her head while stirring the Indian concoction. "It's from Hertz, a Ford Excursion rented to Chase for two days. Again, on his American Express card."

"You should cancel that card," Nicky said.

"I did."

"What about the other people? Have you identified them?"

Khyati displayed a triumphant smile. "I sure did. We already know Chase flew here on a private jet and arrived this morning. So I followed up on who else was on that flight. It took a little bit longer to find the names, but I have them."

"I bet it was Chase, one guy, and two girls, right?" Staci said, sounding confident Khyati would confirm her suspicion.

"That's right. The other three passengers are Susan Anderson, Bennie Knowles, and Carol Rodriguez. I'm searching for their DMV records and pictures."

She pulled out her cell phone. "I made an app that will notify me when the information comes in. We just need to be patient."

"I knew it," Staci said with a fist pump. "I should have made the connection as soon as I saw that blonde haired woman, who would be Susan Anderson, at the valet station."

"And Carol Rodriquez is the Mediterranean-looking female with that pudgy-faced guy who stole my gym bag," Nicky said, nodding his head. "Chase not only wanted to confront us, he planned on punching me from the very start to cause a diversion so the other two could steal my gym bag. They knew I had the suitcase in it."

Khyati pulled out a stack of paper plates, some plastic silverware and paper cups from the cupboard, and placed them on the table. She brought over the pan of warm food and set it on a farm-themed pot holder in the center of the table.

"I see you still hate doing dishes," Nicky said.

"Just one less thing to clean. Don't worry about the trash. The paper and plastic will go in the recycle bin."

Nicky smiled as he scooped some of the warm food onto his paper plate and took a few bites. "This is great, Khyati. It's sweet, yet spicy at the same time."

"That's the beauty of Indian food. It's a contrast of the best things in life."

"We call that a pepperoni pizza here in America," Staci said in a playful argumentative tone. "You balance out a sweet tomato sauce with spicy pepperoni."

The doorbell rang. "That would be my dinner. I'll be right back."

Staci returned holding the cardboard box and the liter of Coke, the smell of its contents overpowering the curry in the kitchen.

"Now this is what I call a balanced meal."

"That's what I call an upset stomach and heartburn," Khyati said. "But bon appétit just the same."

Khyati's phone vibrated. She grinned as she tapped the screen. "The results are back. Let's go downstairs and check up on the three amigos."

Nicky loved the playful banter between Staci and Khyati. They were each other's yin and yang. Complete opposites who complimented each other wonderfully. The team dynamics were getting stronger, and he was confident each member could rely on one another during crisis moments like this.

Chapter 64 Three Amigos Identified

Nicky and Staci followed Khyati down to the basement. Guu trailed, milk-soaked washcloth in hand. Khyati pulled up a chair in front of a computer screen with three different files in alphabetical order. She opened the first; Susan Anderson. Her driver's license filled most of the screen.

"Is this the girl at the valet station," Nicky asked.

"That's her, alright," Staci said, looking over the face and physical information. "All five feet nine inches and 125 five pounds of her."

Khyati opened the second file. It was Bennie Knowles. He wore a suit and a yellow power tie, and he posed as if he were having his picture taken for GQ. Nicky still thought he looked like a dork.

"That's the jerk in the Starbucks video," Nicky said, leaning over Khyati's shoulder. "He's next on our California hit list."

Guu peered through squinted eyes. "I'll be glad to do the honors. That son-of-a-bitch kicked me in the ribs."

Khyati opened the third file. Carol Rodriquez's image and information from her driver's license filled the screen.

"She looks exotic, like she has Mediterranean features," Nicky said.

Guu was able to open his eyes wider. "That's her. She's the one who maced me." He placed the washcloth back over his eyes.

"I'll start profiling them, where they work, where they live, what they like to eat. You know, the whole shebang," Khyati said.

"Great," Nicky said. "Now, what about Chase's whereabouts? We know he checked out of his room. Can you follow his rental car?"

Khyati sat at another computer and began typing commands to initiate locating Hertz's computer security system. "Hertz can track the SUV their GPS," Khyati said. "I've determined their operating system after Staci texted me the license plate number, but it will take some time to hack into an administrator's account."

Nicky looked around at the sophisticated servers and computers that filled Khyati's basement. "How long can it possibly take? Look at all this equipment you have."

"Not long at all. I need to be stealthy, and that's what takes time. But I do have another idea."

Khyati called the rental car agency. "I'd like to report one of your rental cars was in an accident. It's in a ditch and no one is in the truck. The license plate number is 55YF65."

She looked up at Nicky and smiled. "This is easier than I thought."

A few moments later, Khyati's countenance dropped. "Okay, thank you." She ended the call. "The rep said there must be a mistake. The SUV was checked in a half hour ago."

"Shit," was all Nicky could muster.

"They must have driven straight to the airport from the hotel," Staci said.

"The plane. Check the flight plans of the plane. It's chartered for a flight back to California tomorrow and Chase could reschedule it to go back early." Nicky tossed his arms in the air as he felt he already knew the outcome.

"This information will be easy to identify," Khyati said.

Less than two minutes later, she had the answer. "Chase's flight has been rescheduled. It's set to depart now. The plane is probably taxiing on the runway."

"But how could he get the suitcase past TSA," Staci asked.

"This is a private jet. They've booked what's called empty leg flights, meaning these flights drop clients off in a particular city, then fly empty to another city to pick up a new group of people. I have to hand it to Chase, this was a smart move, albeit a very expensive one. He and his friends won't have to go through security checkpoints. They're escorted across the tarmac and into the plane."

Nicky wasn't happy about the state of his plan. He had to postpone phase two that would escalate events to the next level—a phase that included murdering two captains of global banking in New York and a U.S. senator.

Chase and his group of friends had proven to be more than competent in thwarting his plans. He needed to end this escapade and bring closure to the California connection.
Chapter 65 Cheung Yu Shiquin

Chase couldn't store the receiver case at his house. He knew Staci would be back. He also felt there was a good chance Nicky and possibly Guu would be with her. He wondered if he should hide it somewhere at the UC-Irvine campus where he taught physics, but he couldn't take the chance of a maintenance worker or another faculty member finding it. Chase scoured his brain for people who could help and places where Nicky would not look—someplace close to home in Laguna Beach.

Chase also needed time to sort through the events of the past two weeks. He struggled with the idea of destroying the cases as he had agreed to do with Professor Fischer. Going back for the other five would certainly be the most dangerous job he had ever tried. It might even be impossible. He doubted whether Susan, Fred, and the rest would support him in another trip back to Cambridge.

Chase wavered on what to do. Although he knew destroying the suitcases and batteries ultimately would be best, he still wanted to reverse-engineer them.

Finally, he feared for Susan's, Bennie's, and Carol's safety. Chase assumed Nicky would be able to track them with considerable ease. After all, they found him and set an elaborate trap. Well, maybe not elaborate, he thought. But they did a good job of deceiving him with the oldest trick in the book and retrieving the original two cases he took from Nicky at MIT.

The only person Chase could trust with the receiver case, and defend himself against someone like Staci or Guu, was Cheung Yu Shiquin. The 54-year-old Chinese master mentored him when he was in junior high and high school, and more recently when Chase decided to get back into shape and revisit the passion of his youth.

He could trust his master.

Chase drove down Coast Highway with the top down, thankful for the blue skies, warm weather, and the women walking in shorts showing off their tanned legs. He shivered at the thought of the unforgiving cold in Boston. The city and its people held a place in his heart, but he was no match for the subfreezing temperatures.

Chase pulled into his master's studio; a nondescript, white one-story building with no sign or advertisement. There was a door and a single window—nothing else. Shiquin never advertised. At his age, he only worked with experienced black belts who wanted to go deeper into their art.

The door was unlocked. Chase let himself in, carrying a gym bag in his right hand containing the receiver case complete with a one-kiloton nuclear battery. The entry room was small. Asian-themed watercolor paintings graced the wall: two pandas hugging beneath a bamboo tree, a dragon in the air and a tiger on the ground set in battle, and a serene landscape of a forest emerging out of a mountain range from Au Ho-nien.

Erik Chang, a part-time assistant, greeted Chase with a bow.

"Welcome, professor. It's been a while since you've trained. We've been concerned. I trust all is well."

How long had it been since he lived a normal life? Chase checked himself. He'd been out of touch with everyone outside of Fred, Bennie, Susan, Nancy, and Carol for the better part of three weeks. He hadn't bothered to check his emails or voice mails during that time.

Now back in south Orange County, finding someone to protect the receiver case trumped everything including UC-Irvine where he worked as an associate professor physics and the local charity events he committed to support but failed to attend.

The kid who wanted to be paid for mowing his lawn had left a not-so-pleasant note on his front door. Utilities had gone unpaid. No wonder his electricity had been shut off while he was gone.

Chase returned the bow. "I've been ill and staying home resting. I feel much better now. I'm ready to renew my twice-a-week beating at the hands of sifu."

Chase could hear activity in the training room. He walked in to find Shiquin observing five men and one woman sparring in various positions. The master took his time strolling from couple to couple; interjecting while they sparred, identifying errors in techniques and decision making, and demonstrating to one student how to perform a particular movement.

At fifty-four, the teacher was still quick, strong, and decisive—and wouldn't hesitate to throw one of his students hard to the floor if it would help teach them something new.

Chase waited patiently as the master lined up his six students, and one by one, attacked. Shiquin was like a chess master who challenged half a dozen players at once, rotating around the table, and in a matter of a few moves checkmates all his opponents.

Shiquin went through the six black-belt students in humiliating fashion, each landing squarely on their backs with a loud thud. He again bowed to his defeated students, then walked over to meet Chase. Chase bowed, and addressed his master with humility.

"Thank you for meeting me on short notice," Chase said, happy it wasn't his day to spar. Looking over to the six students rising up off the mat and rubbing their backs, he knew the same fate awaited him the following evening.

Cheung Yu Shiquin opened the door to his office and Chase entered. One of the sage's most trusted students, Bobby Kwan, sat in one of the chairs.

"Master, we need to be alone," Chase said in a low, respectful, yet insistent tone.

Shiquin merely nodded. "You need to trust me. As you know, I've recently fallen ill, and if you want me to guard something of great importance, I'll need help."

Chase didn't like Kwan. The assistant loved to play mental gymnastics and tried to make people look foolish. He wore T-shirts stating I See Stupid People.

Chase enjoyed beating the hell out of him during sparring competitions. But he knew his teacher was given a prognosis of one year to live, so he reluctantly complied with a bow of the head.

"So, you would like me to hold onto an item for you?"

Chase would have to be honest with the master. What else could he say? He was beyond making up stories as he tried to do with Fred, Bennie, and the girls.

"Master, this suitcase contains the ability to alter our world as we know it. Everything you think about reality and the limits of the laws of nature as we understand them have been drastically transformed. Everything changes as of today."

Cheung Yu Shiquin looked at the bruises still visible on Chase's face, and the way he favored his ribs and left arm when he moved. "Your injuries look to be a week old, Chase. Somebody must have wanted you dead."

"Yes, Master, somebody tried to kill me. And most likely they'll try again very soon. They want this suitcase I took from them in Boston."

Chase bent over, pulled out the black metallic case from his gym bag, and handed it to him. "Regardless of what happens, they cannot get this back."

Shiquin held the case. "It has some size and weight, but all in all, appears harmless," he said as he cautiously tugged on his gray goatee.

"Hmmm. Change the limits of the laws of nature as we understand them? This sounds like the greatest scientific discovery since the splitting of the atom."

Chase looked his master in the eyes. "You don't know how right you are. I need your help. I can't keep this at my house."

Shiquin studied the underside of the case. "Tell me, what events led to up to our meeting?"

Chase retraced his steps over the past three weeks.

The sage held the rectangular box in front of him, raising it up and down and weighing it in his hands. "I suspect I do not have time to weigh my options and the repercussions of this decision. I realize with this information, I'm already in too deep."

"You didn't ask for this. But understand Master, you'll be playing a major role in the fight between good and evil, a battle that could determine the fate of countless innocent people."

Shiquin again stroked his goatee, thinking aloud. "The discovery of splitting the atom contained major repercussions, depending on who held the power. If Hitler had been first to harness the immense power of nuclear fission, then the world would be much different than what we know it to be today. Likewise, if this technology falls into the wrong hands, such as terrorists or a rogue nation, the way of life as we perceive it to be today will be severely altered."

"I know this can't be an easy decision, but ..."

Shiquin held out his hand to silence Chase. "The decision is easy. I've always known I was put on earth for a higher cause. I just didn't know what it was until today."

Bobby Kwan abruptly stood from his chair. "Teacher, do you really believe Chase," he scoffed. "This suitcase can change the limits of the laws of nature as we understand them? He can't be right in what he's claiming."

"Look at his face," Shiquin said with an askance look at his assistant. "Clearly, what I hold in my hands is worth trying to kill him."

The Master and his student debated whether to open it, and if they did, would anything happen.

Chase interrupted. "Listen to me. Do not open that suitcase. It looks harmless, but the dangers that could materialize are beyond your comprehension. I don't know what will happen if its opened, but this is the vehicle these killers use to open a wormhole and assassinate people."

Kwan laughed. Chase stared him down until he sat back in his seat.

Shiquin gently set the case on his desk. "Chase, regardless of the outcome of events, I know I will contribute something of significance to the world far more noble than anything I could possibly imagine. I will do it. I will hide and protect this for you. You have my word."
Chapter 66 Staci's Back

Staci sat on the right side of Khyati's living-room sofa dressed in her shinobi shozoku, sans the mask and hood. She leaned against the arm, her right leg hanging off the side, her left leg folded underneath. She played paddle ball with incredible speed and accuracy, annoying everyone in the room. She watched Nicky with his nervous energy, silently finalizing the finer details of the next stage of his plan, occasionally pantomiming when he had a new thought.

Khyati sat in a chair that didn't match the fabric of the sofa next to her or the carpet, but in an unexplained manner the mismatched and dated décor had a particular flow that gave off a sense of continuity. Her fingers danced at a frenzied pace across the keyboard of her laptop.

Guu stood in the center of the living room, stretching and going through motions of an advanced martial arts discipline. Mina Nguyen and Christopher Thompson, Nicky's other followers who formed his group of modern-day zealot revolutionaries, and who drove Staci back to Cambridge after she killed Gloria Newcombe, sat nearby. They were in two smaller but comfortable chairs, the only matching items in the living room, passing time playing video games on Khyati's combination TV/stereo console.

Staci stopped her paddle ball game and looked up at the clock on the wall. 11:40 p.m.

"Thank you," Khyati said. "That noise was driving me crazy."

Christopher craned his neck toward Khyati. "I have to say, the clacking sound from your keyboard is just as bad. What is it you're doing?"

Khyati spoke without looking up, her fingers moving faster. "I'm constructing an algorithm for a new application. This will help identify my cyber counterpart in Orange County. This yet to be identified party, I know, is helping Chase track Nicky and Staci."

"Chase is a very smart man," Staci said. "After all, he's a professor of physics. You don't think he could have found us without help?"

Staci caught Nicky's glare. She had made more than a simple mistake by mentioning Chase in a positive light in his presence. She still felt an attraction to him and hoped Nicky didn't recognize her Freudian slip.

"I'll give him that," Khyati said. "But there's no way he can compete in the cyber world. He has to have someone helping, and I'll find them. Oh, I'm also waiting for a signal indicating someone opened the receiver case Chase took."

"I'm tired of waiting for something to happen," Staci said, returning to her paddle ball and trying to change the subject.

Nicky broke his glare and continued pacing. "I know you're anxious. We're all anxious. But trust me. Chase will open the suitcase out of sheer curiosity. Or stupidity. They always do."

"And we have a pretty good idea of his schedule," Khyati said, looking up from her laptop. "He's been coding his conversations, but I've deciphered the basics. This morning he had a lecture at UCI, ironically on Einstein-Rosen Bridges. Tonight, he has a sparring class with his martial arts master."

"I bet Professor Numbnuts will open it before he goes to sleep," Nicky said. "All we have to do is to wait for Khyati to pick up the electronic signal, and the game is on."

"It's getting late, and we're all tired," Guu said through a yawn. "He's three hours behind us. That's a quarter to nine his time. He could be up for hours before opening the case."

Nicky panned the room of fatigued faces. "Okay, we can sleep in shifts. Guu, you, Staci, and Mina can sleep for four hours. I'll wake you up at three thirty, then ..."

Khyati jumped out of her chair. "It's open. Someone opened the suitcase." Her excitement woke the others out of their doldrums.

"Are you sure," Nicky asked.

"Yes. I'm sure. It's open right now as we speak."

Staci tossed her wood and rubber toy aside and hopped off the sofa. She tied her mask around her face and pulled the hood over her head. Now she was fully dressed in her black shinobi shozoku, only this time, she did not bring her sword. Instead, she brought Rosie's Browning 9mm equipped with a detachable silencer, two knives, a handful of throwing stars, and a syringe containing a sedative.

Nicky addressed his assassin with swift instructions. "You don't have time to chase people around like you did with Doctor Newcombe. Get in and get out as quickly as possible. In fact, don't holster the handgun. Hold it in your right hand down at your side. Check there's a bullet in the chamber."

Staci confirmed while Nicky strapped a backpack on her containing a live transporter case to open a wormhole and return home. He held her by the shoulders and kissed her on the forehead.

"You'll be okay, honey, I promise. Remember, get the suitcase and bring Chase back. In and out. I have Amy, Tory, and Phil from UC Santa Barbara in the area. They'll pick up the transporter you'll use to send yourself back. We'll get it back from them eventually."

Nicky gave Staci a quick but reassuring hug. "You'll live to breathe another day. I swear it on my honor. We'll settle down and raise a family in a world that will soon be a far different and better place for everybody to live."

Nicky entered the final coordinates into the transporter case, took a few steps back, and smiled at Staci. She forced a smile back and took a deep breath.

In an instant, an orange and yellow corona appeared. Staci looked straight ahead and boldly stepped into the conduit. Within seconds, she and the wormhole disappeared.

Staci appeared in Cheung Yu Shiquin's office. The first thing she saw was an aging sage with a look of astonishment on his face. So this is how Chase was hiding the suitcase. With is mentor.

A younger man, equally dumbfounded, stood to his right. She understood the awe of someone witnessing a wormhole opening, and beholding an assassin stepping out of thin air caused him to take a few steps back. This gave Staci the extra room—and the advantage—she needed to strike first.

With the speed of a lurching rattlesnake she struck—placing a bullet in the center of the teacher's right eye. He dropped to the floor. A red splotch of blood, skull fragments, and gray matter left a trail on the carpet before splattering in an asymmetrical circle on the wall behind him. The sage dropped to the floor with a loud thud.

Staci knew if he had not stepped back at the sight of the corona appearing in front of him, she would have been face to face with the master. He could have disarmed her, or at least held her until the second person in the room could help.

The younger man, a student for sure, gasped for air as he looked down at his dead master, then at the stranger. He could only muster, "Oh shit."

Staci shifted her aim and placed a second bullet his left eye. He, too, fell to the floor and left a similar red chunky splotch on the wall behind him.

She looked down at his T-shirt. "Who's the stupid person now?"

Soft rapid footsteps approached. Staci stepped behind the door to lie in wait. Someone was running across the matted floor. She deduced the layout. Typical. She was in the office. The training room was outside. On the far side were the foyer and the front door. She listened.

"Master, are you okay?"

A man's voice. Footsteps getting closer. Staci readied her gun and took a slow, deep breath.

Once inside, he stared in horror at the unspeakable mess before him. His sifu and companion dead on the carpet, the wall displayed the perverse design of dark scarlet fragments of what were once the contents of their heads.

He turned and started to bolt. Staci stepped out from behind the door and planted a bullet between his shocked eyes. Must be the greeter at the front door, she surmised. And the first line of defense for unwelcomed guests.

Staci looked up at the clock on the wall. 8:45 p.m. Three hours earlier than in Cambridge. Chase would be here in fifteen minutes for his personal workout.

Staci couldn't believe her luck. She would challenge Chase again, in a confined area away from the public. Then she would defeat and bring him and the suitcase back to Cambridge. Maybe get a decent night's sleep, too.

Earlier that day, Nicky called his West Coast cohorts, Amy Leong, Tory Richmond, and Phil Turnquist, from the University of California Santa Barbara. They had helped arrange Staci's first trip to California with Sensei Masakata.

Nicky had them drive to Laguna Beach to offer support. They remained in the area since late afternoon, awaiting specific instructions.

Staci walked over to the desk and pulled out a pile of letters and utility bills from the top drawer. She called Nicky on her cell phone and read him the address of the studio from the letters. Nicky called the UC Santa Barbara students with the location.

After the conversation, she unstrapped the transporter suitcase from her back and set it down beside the receiver suitcase Chase entrusted his master with. She took out the knives and set them next to the suitcases. She didn't think she needed them for her rematch with Chase.

Staci untied her hood and mask and laid them down on the floor with the knives, but left the stars in a pocket on her right thigh, just in case. She also kept the handgun in her belt. She then pulled out a set of keys from the desk drawer and placed them in her right thigh pocket.

Staci closed the door of the office and walked across the blue mats to the center of the training room. She looked around to get a feel for the place and familiarize herself with dimensions of the room.

No weapons lined the wall like the killing room in Santa Barbara. There were no household objects that could be used in a fight like in Chase's house.

It was a large room with off-white cinder block walls, mirrors lining one side, and blue pads covering the entire floor. This would be an ideal place to have her rematch with Chase. Winner takes all.

If she wins, she takes Chase back to Cambridge. Nicky would extract from him the information he needs and she will never have to see him again.

If Chase wins, she would end up in prison for the rest of her life. Or dead. And Chase would keep a sender and a receiver case and continue the battle with Nicky.

Staci paced the floor in all four directions to get a greater sense of the depth and breadth of the room. She performed a few stretches and jumped in place to limber up and increase her heart rate.

A car pulled up. The engine stopped. A car door opened and closed. A bell jingled, signaling someone entering the front door. Staci readied the handgun. She had Chase right where she wanted him.

He stood just inside of the doorway in the training room wearing a simple white double-weave two-piece karate uniform, frozen in time, staring down the barrel of the Browning 9mm semiautomatic handgun.
Chapter 67 The Rematch

Chase Manhattan was a dead man if he tried to turn and run back. Both hands in front of him, he dared a few steps toward the center of the room. Still aiming the semiautomatic handgun at his head, Staci countered by circling Chase from twenty feet away. She thought back to the evening at his house when he fired off five rounds at her.

Bet he's remembering the same night.

"Chase," Staci said in a mild, low key tone. "You know what I want right now? I want a rematch of our previous encounter."

"Um, another romp in bed?"

Staci gave him a sexy grin. "You're a funny guy. I really liked you. Out of all the men I've met, you're one of the few I felt I could build something nice with."

"It's not too late. We're still young, and with all the new discoveries our world has to offer? Together we could—"

"Enough. Please, no more. That's not going to work with me. Now drop the gun on the floor. The one underneath your shirt." She wagged her pistol at the slight bulge. "Do it. Now."

Chase hesitated and tried to say something. He looked around the empty studio, and made the connection. "You killed my Master," he yelled. "You murderous psychopath. That's it. I'm ending this right now."

She shrugged. "Sorry. Collateral damage. Nothing personal. Again, drop it. Or I'll shoot you in the head. I'm good enough to shoot you in the eye. Either eye. In fact, I'm pretty sure I can shoot you in each eye and then between the eyes before your body hits the floor. Never tried that before, but I'm eager to give it a shot now."

Chase pulled out the Glock 9mm from his belt, slowly bent over, and placed it on the mat in front of him.

"You know the drill. Step back."

Chase complied, and Staci picked up his gun. She aimed both handguns, one at each eye.

The jingle of the front door opening signaled someone arriving. Three people entered and stood in the doorway. Two young Caucasian males and an Asian female stood side by side, arms folded, stared at Chase.

Staci walked over to the young female and handed her Cheung Yu Shiquin's keys, then handed each of the men a gun. She glanced back at Chase. "Don't worry about them. They're with me."

Amy Leong turned, walked to the front door, and locked it. She turned off the light to the foyer, came back to the training room, and shut the door behind her.

Staci looked over at the three UC Santa Barbara graduate students standing off to the side of the mats. "Whatever happens, I don't want you interfering with our little rematch. This is between Chase and me."

They nodded in unison.

Staci initiated the fight with three quick spin kicks designed to force Chase to retreat. He blocked all three with his forearms and followed with a front snap kick that made Staci take a few steps back and almost lose her balance.

Chase launched an aggressive assault. Fake punch to the right side of the head. Ax-kick to the left knee. She barely avoided the kick, which would have crippled her.

Staci's sweeping side kick to the inside of Chase's left thigh slammed him onto the mats. On his back, he struck with a hook kick—again aimed at her left knee. She dodged the impact, but her ankle caught the brunt—she fell to the mat while Chase stood.

Chase stomped at both of her ankles, trying to break one or both. Staci backpedaled on all fours but knew she could not escape his onslaught.

Roll directly into him.

Being a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter has advantages. She easily rolled between his legs, sprung up behind him, and set for a decisive blow, but—

A midlevel reverse kick landed squarely in Staci's stomach, sending her staggering backward. A crescent kick to the side of her head hit its mark.

Off balance and reeling, Staci retreated in a circular motion, trying her best to block a torrent of punches and kicks. Amy, Tory and Phil watched as the two combatants passed within a few feet.

Chase was in control. Tory raised Chase's Glock and pointed it at him. Staci shook her head no and he lowered the gun.

"I know about you," Chase said. "Your background as a gymnast. You confused me with your fighting style at my house. Not this time."

Every second or third kick was now directed at her left knee. Staci understood Chase knew she once had torn ligaments in that knee and was targeting her main weakness. She wanted to play with Chase and make this battle last a while. He was a worthy opponent—someone who has studied under sages from across the globe.

But Staci had to end this before Chase gained lethal control. Clearly he was prepared for her return and could have more surprises. She needed to knock him unconscious, or at least weaken him to where she could inject him with the sedative she had in her right thigh pocket.

Staci started maneuvering to the center of the mats—a position necessary to begin her final attack. She wanted Chase to continue expending valuable energy. She feigned fear and confusion while evading and blocking his punches and kicks.

But avoiding his strikes was becoming dangerous. The more Chase attacked, the faster and stronger he became. Staci had to abandon her favorite strategy of hand-to-hand combat and keep her distance by using an array of backflips, handsprings, and cartwheels, incorporating what punches and kicks she could.

"Those moves aren't going to help you," Chase boasted. "You're wasting your time and energy."

Staci connected with a sweeping hook kick that caught Chase behind the right knee. He eHcrumpled over backward onto the mat. She reached for the syringe. With one smooth movement she brought the needle out, pulled off the cap with her teeth, and thrust it at Chase's abdomen.

Chase rolled to the side and kicked her hand, knocking the syringe out of her grasp and sending it across the mat. It landed ten feet from the three students. Amy ran over and picked it up.

Chase kick jumped to his feet. He was setting into a bow stance when Staci stepped into him. She planted her right foot on his left leg, just above his bent knee, leapt into him and kicked him in the head. Chase went down hard.

Staci motioned to Amy, who tossed the syringe—she caught it by the handle. She shoved it into Chase's right thigh, injected the narcotic, then stepped aside. She knew he would make one last desperate attempt to take her out.

Chase spun onto his side, whipped his left leg in a sweeping arc, caught Staci's ankle and flipped her over onto her back.

She lay in a compromised position, vulnerable. But the chemical was in his bloodstream, infiltrating the brain and shutting down his five senses. He began to lift himself onto all fours, but collapsed onto the mats.

Physically, mentally, and emotionally spent, Staci stood and walked around the edges of the training room. She left Chase on the center of the mats. She knew his head was spinning, his mind moving back and forth between consciousness and darkness.

Staci was panting and trying to shake off the effects of Chase's punches and kicks. She still hadn't fully healed from their encounter, and Chase had targeted the same areas of her body he had hit back at his house, along with her left knee.

"That was a great fight," Amy shouted out as Staci circled toward the graduate students.

"I have to admit, I was getting worried," Tory said. "I thought I might have to shoot Chase with his own gun."

"Are you alright," Phil asked. "Is there anything we can do?"

"No thanks. I have the situation well under control," she said as she passed by, still walking around the outer edges of the mats catching her breath.

Staci walked back to Cheung Yu Shiquin's office, stepping over the three dead men sprawled on the carpet, and retrieved her knives, hood, mask, and the two suitcases. She reappeared in the training room and walked back to Chase at the center of the mats.

"Thanks for showing up. You guys are great. We couldn't do this without you. I'm glad to finally meet all of you in person."

"No worries. Glad we could help," Amy said with alacrity, her eyes open wide with excitement and fascination. She stared at the two suitcases Staci held in her hands. "We've waited so long to get a look at all of our hard work."

"You won't believe what you are about to witness. Trust me on this one. You can't possibly imagine what we've accomplished together. Our hard work, sacrifices, and countless sleepless nights have finally paid off. Allow me to demonstrate."

She laid the transporter on the floor and punched a few coordinates into the keypad. Then she grabbed Chase's keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Amy. In her right hand she held the receiver Chase had taken from Nicky at the Starbucks in Cambridge. She bent down and picked Chase up with her free arm around his waist. Chase was too groggy to resist, let alone stop her from transporting him back to Massachusetts.

Staci looked over at her cross-country colleagues. "I wish we had time to talk more. But I need to get Chase and this suitcase back to Cambridge."

"We understand," Amy said. "I'm sure we'll meet up again."

"Be careful with the case. Of course, you know it's loaded with a live battery. Again, I wish we could spend more time together and talk about things."

"No worries, sister. We'll take care of this along with the two guns and Chase's car."

"Amy, you may do the honors and press the Enter key."

Amy obliged. An orange and yellow corona opened and enlarged. Staci stepped into it, dragging Chase along. She smiled and winked at the stunned faces. In an instant, they and the corona vanished.

At the same moment Staci and Chase left Laguna Beach, they stepped into the middle of Khyati's living room in Cambridge. Nicholas Fischer Jr., Khyati Dasmunsi, Guu, Mina Nguyen, and Christopher Thompson anxiously sat on the sofa and chairs in the living room.

Staci stood in the center of Khyati's living room. She dropped Chase to the floor. He fell into a sprawling heap of limp limbs. The five observers paused in wonder and amazement, then began clapping as they stood from their seats and approached Staci and Chase.

Staci welcomed Nicky with open arms, the first to reach her. He took the suitcase from her hand and set it on the floor, then gave her a long hug that she received with a glad heart. Guu picked up both suitcases and set them aside.

"I'll make sure these don't fall into anyone else's hands again," he said, glaring at Chase.

* * *

Chase was groggy, barely cognizant of his surroundings. But he knew he was with Staci and Nicky. He had to concentrate to make out Guu's voice, which sounded distant and garbled.

Looking up, Chase saw erect shadows and heard blended voices. He tried to estimate how many people were in the room, but just raising his head invoked a sea of dizziness and nausea. Light and darkness took turns replacing each other.

I'm going to die right here on the living room floor, Chase thought. The shadows circled him in a tight huddle. Someone bent over, seized him by his shirt, and yanked him up.

Chase struggled to plant his feet. He looked at the oversized head with no neck mounted on a pair of mammoth shoulders. Has to be Guu, and this can't be good.

Chase took a deep breath and set his feet. He bent his knees and lunged forward, head butting Guu on the bridge of his nose. No way he could assess the extent of Guu's injury, but the blow must have caused serious damage and had to hurt like hell.

The others jumped on him from all sides. On his way down, Chase thrust out his left hand, palm up and fingers folded in, connecting with somebody's yelping face. Once on the floor, facedown with four people on top of him, Chase felt another needle penetrate his right thigh.

He tried to fight back, but within seconds the drug overpowered his waking senses. Space and time folded into a swirling black abyss and he surrendered, swallowed into the bottomless ocean of a deep sleep.
Chapter 68 Trapped

Chase wasn't sure how long he had been unconscious. His first waking sight was the same as his last; shadowy figures hovering over him and distant voices blending together. But within a few minutes, the coalesced shadows began to take singular forms and he could distinguish tones and pitches between the muffled voices.

His head rolled from side to side as his senses became in tune with their environment. He knew he'd been drooling. He felt soft nylon rope wrapped tightly around his wrists and tied to the back of a wooden chair. His ankles were bound together. Chase took a few controlled deep breaths. Soon, he was able to hold his head up straight.

Looking at the wallpaper, Chase wondered if he had been transported back to a time long before he was born. He noticed the dark brown paneled walls and the green shag carpet. There was other furniture in the room, all of it old and nothing matching.

The trim around the door and the crown molding were wide, ornate, and dark. The ceiling and walls looked like they were made from plaster rather than drywall. He noticed doily ornamental heirlooms on the table next to him that he remembered seeing in his grandparents' house.

Chase understood he'd been brought back to Boston, the place he left only a few days earlier with his best friends. Now he was alone and with the most dangerous of people. Nicky bent down in front of him, hands on his knees, staring.

Staci was there, too. So was Guu. Three other people were in the room he had never seen: a pretty young woman from India, another girl with Asian features, and a white male, all in their early to mid-twenties.

Nicky slapped Chase a few times on his left cheek to expedite the waking process.

"Hey there, hot shot. How are you feeling?"

Chase spit in Nicky's face. He was repulsed the guy touched him. He tried to struggle free, but was secured tightly to the solid oak chair.

Showing restraint and self-control, Nicky acted as if he were prepared for such a reaction from his captive. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the spittle off his nose and cheeks.

"That's okay, Chase. No worries, as you Southern Californians like to say."

Nicky smiled and took his time folding his handkerchief back up into a near-perfect small square and placing it back into his shirt pocket.

Chase wasn't sure what Nicky would do, but he knew the man detested him with a deep passion. He uncovered Nicky was behind the murders and framed his father for the heinous crimes. He discovered they had the means of opening and closing wormholes. He flew across the country and arranged an interview with his jailed father. He punched Nicky in the face and stole his suitcases. And worst of all, Nicky allowed Staci to sleep with him.

Nicky despises me, and he's ecstatic I'm sitting in front of him, bound in a chair, sedated and at his mercy.

"You know, Chase," Nicky said as he circled the chair, disappearing from his peripheral view. "I used to think you were just a fool. I thought you were acting out of stupidity when you first caught wind of what was happening here. Then, after Staci almost killed you, I was sure you'd count your blessings and have the common sense to walk away."

Chase listened, pretending to be more sedated than he really was while gathering his faculties and strength. He assessed how tightly his hands and feet were bound. It would be impossible to break the nylon rope or loosen the knots that fastened him to the chair.

Nicky continued, reappearing on his right side. "But you're no fool. I realize that now. And you do have balls. You've got gonads of steel. I bet if I kicked you in the groin right now, I'd probably break all of my toes."

Most of the others in the room chuckled. One laugh missing was Staci's. Chase looked over to where she sat on a folding chair, her elbows on her knees, chin in her hands.

She stared intently at him without expression, her lips slightly parted and her sea-green eyes open wide. He looked back at Nicky, now pacing back and forth in front of him, still rambling, but the meaning of the words not resonating in his mind.

Guu sat on a sofa behind Nicky and directly in front of Chase. He wore a scowl on his face, along with a large patch of gauze taped across the bridge of his swollen, purple, broken nose. He was snarling. All Chase could do was smile while the Asian strongman reciprocated with more threatening looks.

Nicky continued to pace and ramble. Chase looked around the room and saw a young, petite Indian woman with her right eye swollen shut, sitting on a large sofa chair next to Guu and typing away at a laptop.

Obviously, she was the recipient of his left palm thrust.

She sat quietly, with a traditional green embroidered Kashmir shawl wrapped around her shoulders. He wondered how a nice-looking girl like her could end up with this group of psychotic misfits. She coldly glanced at Chase with her one good eye, then focused her attention back to her laptop.

An Asian girl and the Caucasian male sat together on a large sitting chair to Chase's left. The girl spoke. "How are you feeling, Professor Manhattan? The sedative should be wearing off by now. Don't be alarmed. I'm a chemist. You won't die from the dosage I administered."

Her boyfriend spilled a dark laugh. "At least not from the sedative."

Nicky was still talking. "Do you know why we spared your life tonight, Chase?"

He held up an open palm. "Please, don't try to answer. Allow me to explain. You see, we have only six cases, three transporters and three receivers. But due to the events of the past two weeks, I realize these cases can be stolen by the right people with the proper motivation. We, and by 'we,' I mean my group of friends here, believe we're close to making our own cases.

"The problem is we don't know how to stabilize wormholes so they won't collapse. Translation; I don't know how my father and Doctor Newcombe successfully transported objects through a stable wormhole. I don't have their secrets, and clearly my father is not going to give them to me."

Chase felt a shiver rise up his spine then descend back down. Nicky stopped pacing and bent over, nose to nose with his captive.

"But I know my father gave you information regarding his breakthrough. He didn't give it me. For some strange bizarre reason, he gave it to you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Chase shouted. "You're mad. Do you know that? You're absolutely nuts."

"Oh, am I?" Nicky shouted back, his speech accelerating faster. "I'm nuts? Let me tell you what's crazy and what isn't crazy. What's crazy is my father and Doctor Newcombe allowing this world-changing discovery to be used for corporate greed, to pad a publicly traded company's quarterly earnings, and to make their shareholders happy. What's crazy is allowing Globalized Dynamic's top management to receive outlandish bonuses while much of the world needlessly suffers in poverty. That's what's freakin' crazy."

"You had a lot of people killed. You're mad. You know it. I know it. And so does everyone else in this room."

Nicky paused before speaking again, this time in a milder and more controlled tone, stepping away from Chase.

"Let me tell you what else is wrong with this picture. My father wanted glory and a Nobel Peace Prize so he could parade that stupid medallion around his neck at social gatherings of the world's so-called greatest minds. Don't you think that's crazy, Chase?"

"Your father is a fine man, a very good man, who only has the best intentions for mankind to benefit from this breakthrough."

"Pffhhhhhh," Nicky said with a dismissive hand. "Are you as crazy as he is? Don't you get it? The only people who stood to benefit from this are investors who would gain billions. Those greedy old bastards only care about making more money while the rest of the world suffers."

There was silence in the room. Nobody moved. Every eye was now fixated on Nicky, mesmerized as they watched him pace and talk, gesticulating with his hands and animated body motions to authenticate his diatribe.

Chase now saw Nicky in a new light. He was a charismatic leader, similar to a cult figure, with his followers hanging on every word. Nobody would dare challenge him.

Chase needed to break the hypnotic effect Nicky cast on his devoted fanatics. "Tell me, Nicky. Just what do you and your groupies expect to gain from all of this?"

Nicky laughed below his breath, surprised someone had the audacity to question his leadership. "I'll tell you what we're going to do. We're going to destroy the New World Order that has its tentacles in every society on earth today."

"What the hell are you talking about? What New World Order?"

Nicky was again nose to nose with Chase. "Are you so gullible? Look around at the world. There's a quest for global domination today, as there has been in every generation before us. It's nothing new.

"Alexander the Great wanted it, and he came pretty close to accomplishing his objective. So did Rome. Genghis Khan had the same vision. Napoleon had it, too. As did Hitler. Look at the age of imperialism and colonialism. The British once boasted the sun never set on their empire. The United States is no different. The list goes on and on."

Nicky was shouting again and flailing his arms in the air. Chase tried to sort through what Nicky was saying, but the effects of the sedative were still present. He was developing a massive headache.

"Who's trying to gain global domination now," Chase asked with much skepticism.

"Don't you keep abreast of current events? Maybe you're not as smart as I gave you credit for. Listen to me. Look how the world is shifting toward free trade. Agreements like NAFTA break down individual barriers such as tariffs and protectionism. Australia and Japan have a free-trade relationship. Look at the Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation. And I assume you've heard of the Euro, haven't you. See any patterns forming, Einstein?"

Chase was starting to comprehend where Nicky was going. "There have always been free-trade agreements since man first engaged in commerce. The Silk Road extended more than five thousand miles and connected China with Asia Minor and the Mediterranean. That free-trade route helped develop great civilizations such as China, Persia, Mesopotamia, Egypt, and Rome. I think you need another course in history."

"Hmm," Nicky slowly let out. "Okay, so my opinion of your intelligence just rose a notch. But let's dig a little deeper. Free-trade agreements lead us to more common and uniform currencies besides the Euro. How far off can a NAFTA common currency be? Or a global currency?"

"So what does this all mean, Nicky? Why all the murders?"

"Collateral damage, that's all. Necessary for the greater good."

"And you'll obviously kill more people, isn't that right? You're not finished, are you?"

Nicky resumed his pacing. "It's the world's central bankers behind this façade. They're the ones making the rules and wielding all the power. Remember the golden rule; he who has the most gold makes the rules. It's not just a catchy cliché. It's the way the world runs today. They have a monopoly over money, and more importantly, credit."

"You're not going to start talking about the Illuminati, are you? Spare me the conspiracy theories. I already know you're crazy."

Nicky was quick to respond. "No conspiracy theories here. Maybe there is an Illuminati, Free Masons, or a Bilderberg group. Maybe not. Call them what you want. But for the sake of conversation, let's refer them elitists and globalists.

"Its common knowledge these people use their power to influence social and political power. The next step is to control it. In its least common denominator, it pits the families who control the world's money against the societies that they lend to. And guess who wins?"

Chase fired back. "I'm waiting for the slave theory. We're all slaves to these central banks, right?"

Nicky stepped his left foot back, shifted his weight on it, crossed his arms and smiled. "You say that facetiously, yet that's the truth. You believe in the Bible, don't you? I know you do. We've been profiling you for weeks. There's a verse in Proverbs that tells us a rich person rules over poor people, and a borrower is a slave to a lender.

"Not only do they use money and credit to make us their slaves, they're also the ones who instigate war, immorality, and the disintegration of the nuclear family. In light of the failures of our current global systems, don't you think it's time for science to rule the world?"

Chase looked at the rest of the group. Every soul in the room was fixated on Nicky. He realized in shocked horror he was witnessing the beginning stages of a cult that could very well alter world events in rapid fashion unless someone stopped them.

"So what do you plan to do? How are you going to stop all of this and make the world a better place?"

Nicky smiled wide. "You'll see firsthand how this all works tomorrow. You're going to watch Staci use a wormhole to assassinate one of the most powerful and influential people in the world."

Chase was dumbfounded at what he was hearing. He was able to foil one of Nicky's plots by stealing the suitcase at Starbucks. But now he was a prisoner. Without the aid of his friends, he was in no position to prevent another murder.

He responded to Nicky's threat. "Who is this person? You've already killed a state senator. Are you going after the president this time?"

Nicky laughed in a most condescending manner. "No, it isn't the president, you simpleton. I said we're going after someone who is one of the most powerful people in the world. In fact, you may have never even heard of him. But he sits atop one of the largest financial institutions known.

"He finances urban development projects on a global scale for developing countries. To help governments build these massive infrastructures, he provides the necessary means to secure slave labor from around the world to build the roads, bridges, and colossal skyscrapers—at less than a dollar an hour."

"What do you hope to accomplish by killing a few individuals? They'll quickly be replaced by somebody else. That's not going to alter world events."

"Not quite, Chase. The individual we assassinate will be difficult, if not impossible, to replace due to the networks he's been able to maintain. However, killing him won't necessarily change the existing New World Order. But that's only half the plan."

Nicky smiled triumphantly as he continued his discourse while his group of followers watched in silence. "We're also going to use a wormhole to deliver one of these suitcases to the World Trade Organization's headquarters in Geneva. Once the beautiful Staci Bevere hides a suitcase in one of the offices and returns home safely, the suitcase with the uranium and plutonium material will be set to explode."

Staci stood up, smiled and posed as if she were a showcase model on a daytime television game show.

Chase was horrified at the picture Nicky was painting. "You're going to blow up a city just to destroy a global organization? Is this what you consider collateral damage?"

Nicky laughed out loud. "Relax, Chase. We're not going to blow up the entire city of Geneva. Each battery has enough energy for six uses. Once five are used up, we'll plant it inside the WTO's headquarters and detonate it. The explosion will be small compared to what a fully loaded battery would be capable of. The blast will only obliterate half of a square mile."

Chase did the math in his head. He understood a ground blast would be less effective than an explosion in the air. That was the good news. He also knew Geneva sat on a plateau and a nuclear blast would not be hindered by the surrounding Jura Mountains. That was the bad news.

Chase remembered Professor Fischer told him the suitcases contained the equivalent of one-kiloton of fissionable material. As a physicist, he concluded one-sixth of the total energy would destroy everything within a 500-foot radius of the explosion. The blast wave would level or cause severe damage to buildings up to a quarter of a mile from ground zero.

Damage and casualties would extend another quarter mile out. Although limited, there was the matter of the fallout. Depending on the time of day and weather conditions, the casualties could easily be in the hundreds or even thousands.

"You'll never get away with it," Chase shouted, straining in vain to break the nylon ropes that bound his hands. "Someone will stop you. Just as I thwarted you once, someone else will uncover what you're doing and put an end to your madness."

Nicky wasn't laughing any more. His countenance changed. He again bent down and stared in Chase's face. "You've been a real pain in the ass, you know that? As a matter of fact, you frustrated our previous assassination attempt when you stole my suitcase from Starbucks. We were going to carry out the assassination that day.

"But I can assure you, I won't allow that to happen a second time. We'll carry out this same mission tomorrow. And you are going to witness Staci use a wormhole to kill our target and safely return. So just sit tight and behave, or Mina will administer another injection that will ensure you'll not foil my attempt a second time."
Chapter 69 California Connection Fights Back

Susan Anderson sat at Chase's desk in his office. Call it women's intuition; she knew something was terribly wrong. She called Chase's cell phone. He should have answered but didn't. She left a message and repeated the process.

She called Cheung Yu Shiquin's studio. No answer. She called it two more times. Still no answer. Chase told Susan Shiquin always had coverage.

Susan called Bennie. He picked up on the first ring.

"Bennie, Chase isn't answering his cell phone, and neither is anyone at the studio he went to an hour ago. I'm really worried."

Bennie's response was blunt. "That's strange. We're on our way over to the studio now. It's only ten minutes from my house. Call Fred. We can all meet there."

Susan was the first to arrive. Bennie pulled into the driveway two minutes later.

"There are three parked cars, but Chase's Mercedes is missing," Susan said, nodding toward the vehicles. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the building. "I tried to enter, but the door's locked."

Bennie pounded on the door. Looking back on the three parked cars, he said, "Somebody has to be inside."

"Keep knocking. I'm going around back. Maybe there's another door."

She ran around the small one-story building, but failed to find another entry. There were no windows on either side of the studio or on the back wall. She came around the front and tried looking in the glass door and the one small window.

"This is strange, Bennie. It's night, but no lights are on inside."

Fred and Nancy arrived. Susan filled them in.

"I'm going to call the police," Bennie said. "Maybe they can get inside."

Fred held up a forefinger. "Ah, yeah—but—you know what? At this point, we should call the police and leave an anonymous tip that there's foul play suspected inside. I think it's best we stay nameless. We always keep a few prepaid disposable cell phones we buy from Wal-Mart. I'll call them and then throw the phone away."

Nancy opened her trunk, pulled one out, and gave it to Fred.

"Do you always carry those around with you," Bennie asked, as if to say the extra precautions were unnecessary.

Fred smiled confidently, conveying he was right and Bennie wrong. "You'd be surprised how often we've had to use these." Fred called the Laguna Beach Police Department and conveyed the message.

"Okay, everybody meet at my house." Fred was in command mode. "We'll pick up events there. And Susan, don't worry about Chase. His car's not here. Whatever happened inside, he's not a part of. Let's go."

Once at Fred's house, Nancy led them to a very large furnished room with wall-to-wall electronic equipment. "We'll use the simplest and least expensive device in here to follow the action—a police scanner."

Susan listened in horror as the officer that led the team of four policemen, Captain Chappell, detailed what he saw over the police radio as he walked into Cheung Yu Shiquin's office. She knew he had an assistant, and assumed the worst about the third body. After hearing the descriptions that all three were of Asian descent, her terror dissipated, but so did much of her hope.

"He's gone," Susan said meekly. "Nicky and Staci, they came back for him. He's now in Cambridge, against his will."

Carol gave Susan a hug for support. "Are you sure?"

Susan nodded, slow. "Yeah. I'm sure. I just know it."

"Why don't you all move into the living room," Nancy said, "I'll monitor the movements of Nicky and Staci."

"I'm putting on my lucky Detroit Tigers baseball cap," Fred said as he led the way.

"I'll make hot tea," Carol added. "It's late, and everyone needs something to give a boost of energy as we strategize our next moves. Susan, you look especially haggard."

"Why, thank you for the compliment."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean to—"

Susan snickered and waved an off-hand. "No offense, just kidding, I know I must look like hell. The stress is giving me a migraine."

Bennie rubbed his temples. "I think the stress from the events of the past week, coupled with the air travel and the daily fast food, has taken their toll on all of us."

Susan heaved a sigh. "It's clear what we have to do. We have to go back to Boston. All the flights have left John Wayne Airport for tonight, so we'll have fly out tomorrow morning. If we have to charter another flight, so be it. Forget about the cost."

"You can count on us to go," Bennie said.

"Absolutely. We're here to do whatever we can," Carol said as she put their arms around Susan. "Don't worry about a thing. We know Chase is still alive. Fred and Nancy will track down his whereabouts, and we'll bring him back home safely. I promise you that."

Nancy, listening in on the conversation from the bedroom down the hall, appeared in the living room and walked over to Susan. "That's right," she said with an assuring hug. "We'll bring Chase back. We're all in this together."

"Let's start outlining our strategy," Fred said. "Nancy and I will find out who else is working with Nicky and Staci. They must have someone capable of hacking into Chase's personal information and tracking his whereabouts. They are our counterparts, and we'll identify them."

Nancy stood, quick-pumping a fist back and forth, as she thought out loud. "I'll hack into Chase's computer at home and look for signs of a black hat. I should be able to do this discreetly and trace it back to its original source."

Fred agreed with a short nod. "Nancy and I have a long night ahead of us. Susan, you get some sleep. There's nothing you can do now, and you'll need to be well rested for what you'll need to do in Boston."

Bennie looked at Susan, then at Fred. "We're going to Boston, too. The three of us."

Fred pointed to his couch. "That folds out into a sleeper. You can sleep there. Susan, you and Carol sleep in our bed. We'll wake you at six o'clock."
Chapter 70 Back to Boston

It was just after 9:00 a.m., and the Dassault Falcon 2000 waited on the tarmac, its 3 Garrett TFE731-3-1C engines running. The same pilot, co-pilot, and flight attendants as before were on the plane executing their final tasks before takeoff.

"Thanks, Fred and Nancy, for everything," Susan said as they readied to exit the terminal at Orange County Airport and cross the tarmac to the plane. "We couldn't do this without you."

"Just be sure not to use your personal credit cards on this trip," Fred said. "Susan, we only had enough time to set up an alternate identity for you with one credit card. And I've given you more than enough cash. I'm sure Nicky's group have identified some or all of you and will be monitoring your activities."

"I know you'll come through uncovering the rest of Nicky's group. You've made terrific progress since last night."

"Well, don't get too excited. I don't have their names yet. But Nancy did identify at least one back door they left on Chase's home computer. They could come and go as they pleased and record Chase's movements through his credit card and ATM purchases. It's only a matter of time before I can backtrack, so to speak, and locate the exact location these people are using. Then I'll have their names and profiles soon after."

"That's a good start," Bennie said. "I'm feeling better already."

Fred put up a quick 'stop' hand signal. "Don't. In fact, you should feel less safe than you did yesterday. We've confirmed our suspicion that whoever hacked into Chase's computer also looked into the activity on his American Express card, along with all of his other accounts. We know they're aware of the original chartered flight to Boston, and it only makes sense they would want to know who else was booked on that plane."

"And Guu would have seen you and Carol in the hotel stairway of the Intercontinental Boston a few days ago," Nancy said. "So they've been busy trying to identify you two for sure."

Carol gasped. "You mean they know about the three of us? Our identities, what we look like, and where we live?"

"Think about it. They see a charge last week for twenty-seven thousand dollars to book a chartered round-trip flight from Orange County to Boston. Don't you think they'd make it a high priority to find out who else was with Chase on that plane?"

"These people aren't stupid," Nancy said. "We assume whoever is connected with Nicky and Staci are most likely MIT students as well. That school has a reputation for producing some of the world's greatest computer hackers. They're bright, talented, and imaginative, and they're some of the best at what they do."

"So how do we cover our tracks," Susan asked.

"I've fronted the bill, partially from Chase's retainer and partly from my money funneled through your fictitious identity. We can't use any of Chase's accounts. That would set off an immediate red flag to whoever's monitoring us. I trust Chase to settle accounts later."

Bennie rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure if you're the good guy or the bad guy, Fred."

"Bennie. I am the good guy. You have to understand, I've had numerous death threats over the years from some very dangerous men I helped send to prison. People in this line of business can't be too careful."

"I thought you were retired from the business."

"I was retired. Until I met Chase."

"They're waving us in," Susan said. "Let's go everyone."

"Thanks for the sweaters," Carol said to Nancy as she hugged her.

Nancy handed Carol her jacket. "Take this, too. I'm sorry you guys didn't have time to change clothes and pack."

Once in flight, Susan relaxed in her seat, closed her eyes, and tried to rest. At least they had a hearty breakfast prepared by Fred, the self-proclaimed master of pancakes. Nancy had prepared fresh fruit, turkey sandwiches, and carrot sticks for the flight.

Not much was said during the first few hours. Flying at forty-two thousand feet and at four hundred fifty mph, they had seven hours to rest. By the time they were on the ground in Boston and set up in their hotel rooms, Fred and Nancy would have a step-by-step plan of action laid out.

The Falcon 2000 touched down at 5:30 p.m., EST. Susan, Bennie, and Carol braved the frigid air of the Northeast one more time, making a mad dash for the terminal. Susan led them to the National Car Rental counter. She was thankful Fred again rented a Ford Excursion. It could hold up under heavy winter conditions and provide a fast, roomy getaway vehicle for bringing Chase back to the hotel.

Susan stopped at a mall and the three purchased heavy coats, gloves, and hats with the cash Fred gave Susan. She then drove to the brownstone Eliot Hotel on the Boston side of the Charles River, directly across from the MIT campus.

They left the Excursion with the valet and checked in. The doorman ushered them into the split-level marble lobby decorated in a neo-Georgian style. The blend of historic glamour and traditional comfort was in direct contrast to the more modern Intercontinental Boston they stayed during their previous trip. Their deluxe suites overlooked the Back Bay and offered a panoramic view of MIT.

Bennie and Carol excused themselves, saying they would go to their suite and take hot showers. Susan went to her room and took a long relaxing bath. She sorted through the events of the past week and tried to decipher how she had ended up in one of the key roles of a transcontinental murder scheme that threatened to alter the very fabric of space and time.
Chapter 71 The War Room

It was six o'clock in the evening. After a short nap, Susan invited Bennie and Carol to her room where she set up a speaker phone and called Fred and Nancy. Carol booted up the two laptops Fred loaned them. A well-rested and refreshed Susan wrapped her arms around Bennie and Carol and pulled them in tight. "Thanks again you two, for all you've done."

She leaned back, still holding their shoulders and rubbing the back of their necks. "There's no way we could do this without you. I don't want you to feel you're not contributing, because you are."

"No worries," Bennie said. "Chase is my best friend and there's nothing I wouldn't do to help."

Susan heard the conviction in Chase's best friend's words and saw the sincerity in his eyes. She looked at Carol, who scratched at her nose and struggled to maintain eye contact, then forced a smile.

"Sure. Of course we know that. Right Bennie?"

Bennie shrugged his shoulders. "We're all in this together. Susan, I'm surprised you felt the need to ask."

Susan noted Carol's apprehension to respond. She wondered if her heart was committed to their cause, or if she was following Bennie's lead because she loved him.

Maybe, Susan wondered, Carol's objective was to protect her man. What would happen if events escalated and in an attempt to rescue Chase, Bennie's life was in danger? Would Carol pull Bennie out of harm's way, jeopardizing their mission?

Fred's voice broke Susan from her thoughts. "Hey, is anyone there?"

"We're all here," Susan said, breaking away from the group hug. "What's the latest and greatest?"

"This is what we have so far. We've identified the hacker's trail from Chase's computer. It wasn't easy, and that's an understatement."

"That's great," Susan said, feeling a surge of hope well up in her heart.

"Fred and I will make it look like you three are still in Orange County. We made some, ahem, purchases on your ATM and credit cards today at local gas stations and grocery stores."

"However," Fred interjected. "If they decide to follow up on the Falcon and see it made another flight to Boston, they'll know you're back in town. And they'll be looking for us, as they'll assume someone back here has been making it look like you're still in Orange County. We're sure they know your profiles by now, and that none of you pose a threat as a computer hacker. So it's safe to say they're searching for us, just as we're trying to identify them."

"So it's a race," Susan said. "To see who finds who first. That means we need to locate Chase tonight. Not tomorrow. Tonight."

"I'm not confident we can do this tonight," Nancy said. "Even with some of the most sophisticated equipment available, our expertise, and our network of friends, this still takes time. We have to be stealthy as we try and identify all the players and where they are. We can't just burst in. We'll give ourselves away, and then they'll disappear altogether. Believe me when I say this is a slow and methodical process when dealing with black hats from MIT."

Bennie was pacing, but Susan noticed he looked confident, like he had a good plan. "Out with it, Bennie," she said. "What's going on inside of your head?"

Bennie came to a halt. "Fred, what are Nicky and Staci up to right now? Do you know what they'll be doing tonight?"

"I'm getting to that," Fred said. "Nicky's at one of his father's labs at MIT. Staci goes to her gym at eight o'clock every Monday and Wednesday night for an intense, two-hour aerobic workout in Cambridge. She always goes home after her training and orders Chinese food. She's done this same routine for three years straight."

Bennie stopped in front of the desk where the speaker phone was set up and grabbed the edge with both hands. "Okay, here's my plan. Fred, we need your contact in Connecticut. The one you used to track Nicky and Staci last week at Starbucks."

Bennie sighed as he looked at Carol, and then Susan. "I need two things: a small handgun a stun gun. And I need them by nine o'clock."

There was more silence, and Susan and Carol looked at Bennie as if he were out of his mind.

"Forget it," Fred said emphatically. "We can't go that route."

"Just hear me out. I don't need the gun to be loaded. But I do need the stun gun to be capable of rendering a human helpless in a few seconds."

Carol gave Bennie an incredulous look. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we need to meet Staci as she's leaving her gym and take her as a hostage. Then we trade her straight-up for Chase."

Carol promptly stood. "No, Bennie, that's a really bad idea." She folded her arms in an act of defiance. "I can't allow you do this. It's too dangerous. Capturing a wild lion would be easier than taking down Staci."

Susan noted Carol's priority on Bennie's safety. She understood the woman was protecting her man. But they were here to rescue Chase which meant all of their lives were in peril. The three had accepted the risks when they agreed to fly back to Boston. Susan could not have one of the members act in their best interests at the expense of the team.

She needed to take charge. "Actually, this is probably the best plan. We can't wait, as Chase doesn't have a long life span at this point."

Bennie continued. "Can you do it, Fred? All I need is an unloaded handgun and the stun gun by nine o'clock. We'll handle the rest on our end."

"My guy's good, but I'm not sure about the stun gun. Let me get on this. I'll call you back as soon as I know."

"In the meantime," Bennie said, "we'll go downstairs and have dinner. By the way, great sandwiches today, Nancy. Thanks. They tied us over."

"Oh, you're welcome. I'm glad I could do more to help than merely perform redundant research eighteen hours a day behind closed doors with the shades drawn. You all take care and stay safe, okay?"

Susan perceived the underlying subtlety in Nancy's tone was as blatant as Carol's physical expressions and body language. They had their doubts about the mission and their place in it.

Susan chided herself for not preparing for the inevitable. Moving forward, she'd have to manage unexpected group dynamics if they were to find Chase and bring him back to Orange County.
Chapter 72 Mr. Bennett

Susan enjoyed her crunchy sautéed Atlantic halibut as best she could. She thought back three weeks when her biggest concern was what color to paint her condominium walls to compliment her hardwood floors and new area rugs.

Now she was participating in a kidnapping that involved tasing the most dangerous person she had ever known. It was still to be determined who would pull the trigger.

Bennie worked on his slow-roasted Kobe ribeye au poivre while Carol nibbled at her sweet butter-basted Maine lobster. The mood was somber and the conversation light.

"Anyone for dessert," Susan asked.

Bennie pushed his half-eaten steak toward the center of the table and looked at Carol. "Not me. I don't have an appetite. How about you, babe?"

"None for me, thanks. I'm not hungry."

"So," Susan said in an obvious attempt to break the ice. "Who do you think should, you know, do it?"

"I've been thinking about that," Bennie said, his forehead wrinkled and tugging on his chin. "I should be the one to pull the unloaded gun on Staci. I think she'd be more intimidated by a man with a gun than a girl."

"Can you hold it steady, honey bear," Carol asked. "I mean, have you ever shot a gun before? No offense, but on the surface you don't look like the type to be confident with a handgun."

Susan broke a laugh as Bennie pushed out his barrel chest and sucked in his gut. "Sweet-heart, I have a handgun at home and practice five or six times a year at a local firing range. Trust me, I have a steady hand. And I have the perfect tough-guy negotiator face."

Bennie made a series of hard-liner facial expressions Susan was sure he practiced countless times in the mirror over the years.

"Yeah, that is good. Very convincing." Carol leaned over to give her big loveable teddy bear of a man a kiss.

Susan poured cream into her coffee and stirred it, all the while looking up at the ceiling, listening to Bennie and Carol, yet at the same time, alone with her thoughts. She stopped stirring and surprised everyone by saying, "I'll be the trigger woman with the stun gun. I'm a very good shot at close range."

Bennie and Carol both looked at Susan with more than a hint of skepticism. "You don't look like the shooting type," Carol said, taking a sip of her coffee.

"I know. People see me as a sweet young thing whose greatest sin would be jaywalking. But I promise you, I can shoot straight. I have two handguns," she said with a smile of confidence. "I own a Smith and Wesson model 686 double action revolver, and a Glock .22 semiautomatic handgun. And unlike Bennie, my girlfriends and I practice twice a month."

"Well, look at you," Carol said, giving Susan a look as if she were more of a sister than a friend. "You've got some spunk after all. I'm surprised, but I can believe it. There's been a significant change in your demeanor and tone since we left. You're coming across a little darker than the Sweet Pollyanna Purebred type we've come to know and love."

"Maybe she's in the zone," Bennie said.

"Now that I've accepted my role in all of this, I guess I'm more confident in what we have to do."

Susan's pre-paid disposable cell phone rang. "Hi, Fred. What do you have for us?"

"Mr. Bennett is on his way over and should be at your room at a little past nine o'clock."

"Mr. Bennett? That's his name?"

"No. But I found a bit of irony and humor in using that alias," Fred said. "Nancy and I are burned out working around the clock and thought using Staci's alias name would be funny. Anyway, he'll have what you're looking for and give you a quick rundown on how to use them. You'll still have enough time to get over to the gym since it's a ten-minute drive from The Eliot."

"We'll expect him. Do you have anything else?"

"Not yet. Nancy's taking a well-deserved nap. We've both been up since early yesterday morning. She should be awake in a few hours, and then I'll take a short nap. We'll work through the night and focus on identifying the black hat. That's our main objective right now."

"Okay, Fred. I'll call you as soon as we leave with Staci."

Susan had the sound of confidence in her voice and began speaking in absolutes, as if there were only one possible outcome. "Bennie, leave some cash on the table. We've got to go up to my room now."

Susan knew Bennie found himself taking yet another backseat in the leadership department. First to Fred, and now to herself. She observed him trying not to let his feelings of displeasure show, smiling gracefully as he left a hundred bill on the table.

Sorry Bennie, Susan thought. But too bad. I can't be concerned with feelings right now.

The three went upstairs and waited in Susan's room for twenty minutes. Then came a knock. Bennie jumped up and walked to the door. "Who's there?"

"Mister Bennett," a voice replied.

Bennie opened the door and in strolled an average-looking man in his mid-thirties, carrying what appeared to be a laptop computer travel bag. He was five feet eight, lean, and looked to be in great shape.

Mister Bennett was clean-shaven, his hair beginning to thin at the top, and he had burning-hazel eyes. He wore pressed blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a light but warm dark blue coat.

His face was plain, with a straight jaw line that sported a slightly crooked smile. Bennett displayed an aura of confidence and sophistication that translated into one very capable and dangerous man.

Susan stepped in front of Bennie. "Thank you for coming on such quick notice. We're in a jam, and very short on time and options."

Bennett responded with his slightly crooked smile. "It's my pleasure, Miss Anderson. Any friend of Fred is a friend of mine."

He placed his travel bag on top of the king-sized bed. Susan, Bennie, and Carol clustered around as he opened it. Inside was an unloaded Smith and Wesson M&P .357 sig.

Before Bennie could ask if he could hold it, Susan picked it up. She handled it with practiced confidence, checking the chamber, feeling the balanced weight of the gun in her hand, and spinning it on her finger, then grasping the handle in mid-spin. She then handed it to Bennie, who she could tell was still trying to maintain the scant remnants of his male ego.

Bennett unzipped another compartment and pulled out a black tranquilizer pistol. He opened a black leather pouch containing three hypodermic darts. "Sorry, folks, but I couldn't come up with a stun gun on such short notice."

"Are you kidding," Bennie asked. "You brought us a tranquilizer gun?"

"I have to admit, that sounds a bit unorthodox," Carol said, echoing Bennie's surprise at the sight of the tranquilizer gun and the darts.

"My apologies. But trust me on this one," Bennett said, pulling out one of the hypodermic darts. "Each dart contains a particular sedative measured for Staci Bevere's precise age, height, and weight. We also took into consideration she'd be ending a two-hour high-intensity workout." His slightly cracked smile turned into a full ear-to-ear grin, showing a set of near-perfect teeth as white as modern-day dentistry laser technology would permit.

"I don't know," Susan said. "This will be my job, and I've never held one of these before, let alone fired one."

"Have you ever fired a stun gun before?"

Susan shook her head no.

"Well then, if you were willing to fire a stun gun for the first time, then you can just as easily fire this tranquilizer gun."

"I agree. I think the tranquilizer gun is a better idea," Carol said.

"I think so, too, Miss Rodriguez. A stun gun will only render a person incapacitated for less than a minute. You would have to have this nasty girl in your car, bound and gagged, during those few seconds. Otherwise, the effect would wear off and ..."

Bennett let those words hang in the air briefly before he continued. "However, the sedative delivered by this tranquilizer gun to the neck will render her unconscious almost instantly. Even if you shoot her in the arm, chest, or abdomen and she pulls the dart out, the sedative will take effect in less than ten seconds."

Susan held the tranquilizer gun, getting used to the feel, balance, and the weight. She held it up and aimed it at the chest of a half-nude girl in a Romanesque picture on the wall.

"I like it. I like this a lot better than the idea of a stun gun. I'll aim for the chest as I don't want to miss and have to reload."

"I thought so," Bennett said in a quiet, confident manner. "Even though you'll have three darts, you will probably only have the opportunity to fire off one. But this gun is very accurate up to fifty feet, so if you can get in close to her, say twenty feet or less, you should have no problem."

"We need to leave now," Susan said, looking at her cell phone. "It's nine forty. Is there anything else we need to know?"

"That's it," Bennett said, zipping up his laptop bag and looking at the three. "Good luck to you all. And please, call Fred immediately regarding your progress and any other significant events tonight."

With that, Bennett turned, walked out the door, and was gone.

So there they were; Susan Anderson, Bennie Knowles, and Carol Rodriquez, with the unloaded Smith and Wesson .357 and the tranquilizer gun. They huddled together, and Susan led them in a quick prayer.

"Lord, we give to you this evening. We're not sure what it is we're doing, or if this is even the right thing to do. But we're doing the best we can, and ask you honor our intentions and bring Chase and the rest of us home safely. Amen."

Bennie and Carol both squeezed Susan's hand and said, "Amen." Then the three resolutely walked out the door, went down the elevator, through the lobby, and out into the dark, freezing night to do something none had ever imagined they'd be doing.

Bennie handed the valet his slip. While they waited for the Excursion, they held hands, looked up at the stars, breath streaming out like billows of smoke, and said more silent, personal prayers.

The valet returned with their SUV. Bennie handed him a ten-dollar bill, and the three headed off across the Harvard Bridge into Cambridge to look for Staci Bevere. The hunt was on. It was time to turn the tables.

They would now take the fight directly to Nicky, Staci, and whoever else was helping them in the cyber realm. And somehow, someway, moving forward on a flimsy game plan and a whole lot of blind faith, they were determined to bring Chase back home—alive.
Chapter 73 Turning the Tables

Susan checked the time on her cell phone as Bennie approached the Cambridge Athletic Club. It was ten minutes before 10:00 p.m. and there were only a few cars remaining from a busy night. Most of New England had been housebound for nearly two weeks. But as one of the worst snowstorms in the last century passed, members of the exclusive gym were anxious to get back to their routines and lose weight gained during the storm.

Bennie drove cautiously as there were patches of ice covering large sections of streets and parking lots. Because the temperature had risen to forty degrees during the day, the melting and refreezing of water and ice made driving difficult and dangerous to the uninitiated.

"Bennie, how are you doing? You seem to be driving defensively." Susan leaned over and looked at the speedometer. "Twenty miles per hour?"

"I admit; I have little experience driving in extreme winter conditions. Even though most the streets are clear, parking lots remain shrouded in smooth blankets of black ice. It's difficult to distinguish the ice from the normal surface."

As if to punctuate his last sentence with an exclamation point, Bennie nearly slid into two parked SUVs as he pulled into the parking lot of the Cambridge Athletic Club.

Susan grabbed the dashboard to steady herself. "I see what you mean."

Bennie straightened the vehicle from its fishtail. "It's okay," he said with little emotion. "I have the situation well under control. I don't see her car in the front. I'll drive around back."

"I wonder if we missed Staci," Carol said, sounding somewhat nervous. Susan detected a disguised fear in Carol's voice. "She could have left the gym a little early."

"According to Fred and Nancy's profile of Staci, she's a creature of habit," Susan said, glancing at the digital clock on the dashboard and turning the heater down. "We have about five minutes before she leaves the gym."

Bennie steered the slow moving Expedition around the back, careful not to slide on the immanent patch of ice. The back parking was narrow and situated between the gym and a six-story brick apartment building. The lot was dimly lit. Bennie switched the headlights to high beams to better see the partially ice-covered pavement. Of the few dozen parking spots, only three were occupied.

"None of these cars are Staci's," Bennie said. "I'll circle the building."

"There's her Grand Cherokee," Susan said, pointing to one of the last cars as Bennie made the turn toward the front.

Susan smiled for the first time since flying out of Orange County. She was surprised she felt relaxed and in command of the situation, as she usually looked for someone else to take the lead in times of trouble.

Bennie parked two spots from Staci's SUV, shut off the engine, and turned off the head lights. The heat in the car gave way to the frigid air that overwhelmed the rental. Susan shivered and flipped the collar from her coat to cover her neck.

"Okay, we all understand our roles," Susan said. "We've rehearsed our lines. I'm confident we can actually pull this off. But even though it's three against one, and we have the element of surprise working in our favor, understand what Staci is capable of. Our simple yet well-thought out plan can go terribly wrong."

"We're ready," Bennie said. "Let's take our positions. She'll be walking out any minute."

Susan stepped out of the car. Pausing to take a deep breath, she pulled the tranquilizer gun out of the seat pouch and gently placed it in her belt behind her back. As the moment of confrontation was imminent, a trace of doubt attempted to eke its way into her mind.

Bennie lowered the passenger side window and Carol leaned out and tugged on Susan's jacket, making sure the outline of the gun did not show through her beltline. She clutched Susan's hands.

"You're going to do just fine," she said as she squeezed tight, looking Susan in the eyes and giving her a look of confidence. "I believe in you. You can do this. Remember, take a deep breath and hold it. Squeeze the trigger with your finger. Don't pull it. Bennie and I, we'll be right here."

Susan smiled at her companion she was fast accepting as a best friend, who she knew was trying to support her. But she understood Bennie's safety was Carol's main priority.

"Thanks for the confidence booster. We're all scared. But if we work together as a team, we'll pull this off."

Carol loosened her grip. Susan took a few slow steps back, then turned and walked to the rear of the gym where there were no lights and out of sight from Bennie and Carol.

She counted off the strides. Thirty-seven. She peered around the corner and saw Bennie practicing his best tough-guy facial expression in the rear-view mirror while Carol mouthed her line.

The dome light went off.

Two minutes later, a very sweaty, five foot, four-inch blond-haired girl emerged from the front door. She wore tight-fitting dark blue aerobic pants and matching tank top, a sweat-drenched yellow towel draped around her neck, and an unzipped black leather coat. She walked briskly to her Grand Cherokee.

In the still of the cold, crisp New England darkness, Susan heard the beep from Staci's electronic key unlock her car. Long plumes of steam emanated from the killer's mouth as the frigid, night air crystallized the moisture from her breath.

Susan pulled the hypodermic gun from her waist and held it straight down, tight to her thigh. She took a slow measured breath, exhaled, and stepped forward.

Carol lowered her window and delivered her line in a non-threatening manner. "Excuse me, Miss, is this club open all night?"

Staci politely responded with a smile as she reached for her driver's side door. "The club's open all night. The gym is practically empty now. You should enjoy a great workout on any of the machines."

Susan saw the dome light illuminate the cab. She took a few more steps toward the Excursion. Bennie leaned over to the passenger side and pointed the Smith and Wesson M&P .357 sig directly at Staci's head. A thin red beam of light zeroed between her eyes.

Still stepping slowly and lightly, Susan left the shadows, exposed by the clear moonlight. Staci's back was toward her.

Twenty more steps. Susan prayed silently Staci wouldn't see or hear her.

Bennie grinned. "Hello, killer. It's good to see you again."

Staci stiffened in a halt.

Fifteen more steps.

Staci's chest jerked with a huff-laugh and a grin formed on her face. "I have to give you guys kudos. You're far smarter than Nicky and I gave you credit for. The same goes for whoever's assisting you in the cyber-space realm. We understand you're not able to accomplish what you have by yourselves. We don't know who's helping you, but rest assured, we'll find out."

Bennie and Carol smiled and said nothing, waiting for Staci to make the connection she had so far missed. Bennie held his aim steady, directing the barrel of his handgun above the center of the bridge of Staci's nose.

"But we're pretty smart, too. You're Bennie Knowles. And this beautiful young woman to your right, she's Carol Rodriquez. We know everything about you: where you live, what you do for a living, even the apple martinis you ordered on the chartered jet Chase rented for twenty-seven thousand dollars."

Staci looked into the back seat of the Excursion. She shivered as a gust of frigid wind swept around the building directly into her still-sweating face. She slowly let out the words, "But where's Susan Anderson? If she's not in your Excursion, then, she must be ..."

Ten more steps. Confidence was high. The stillness of the night was broken by the sound of ice and frozen snow crunching underneath her boots. Her cover of silence blown, Susan stopped and took aim at Staci's midsection. Staci spun around.

Their eyes met.

Susan aimed for the upper chest that lay exposed in the unzipped leather coat and fired. The dart penetrated deep into her chest. Staci looked down and snatched the dart with her right hand, pulled it out, and stumbled. Susan stood her ground, knowing the fast-acting drug was overwhelming Staci's senses.

Staci's knees buckled. She looked into Susan's eyes and formed a knowing smile, managing to utter the words, "Clever girl. Very, very—clever—girl you are."

Staci Bevere slumped, and collapsed forward, unconscious. Susan lunged forward to catch the assassin. She wanted nothing more than to see Staci fall headfirst onto the two inches of ice and hear the crack of her skull echoing through the icy-cold night.

But they needed to get Staci to their hotel unharmed. If she hit her head on the ice and needed medical attention, they would not be able to negotiate with Nicky and trade Staci straight-up for Chase.

Bennie and Carol bolted out of the Excursion. Carol grabbed Staci's keys she dropped and punched the unlock button twice. She opened the rear driver's side, and Bennie helped Susan throw Staci in the backseat.

"Here are the keys and the pint of Jack Daniels. Follow us back to the hotel," Carol said as she handed them to Susan.

Bennie started the Excursion and Carol got in the passenger side. The entire event took less than one minute.

Once on Massachusetts Avenue, Susan looked back at the sleeping Staci Bevere. The deadly assassin who murdered numerous innocent people and tried to kill her man, now lay limp and helpless.

Susan struggled with her sense of ethics as diverse thoughts raced through her mind. She could inflict pain on Staci—a just recompense for what she had done to Chase. She shook her head free of emotional revenge, pushed aside emotions, and concentrated on bringing Chase back alive.

Susan turned on the radio. Loud heavy metal music blared from the speakers. She scanned until she reached a classical station playing Mozart's Serenade in G, K.525 Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, bringing a soothing relief to her speeding heart and stressed nerves.

The stale stench of cigarettes filled the vehicle. She opened the almost full ash tray, pulled it out, and tossed it out the window.

"Yuck."

She thought she saw a few unfiltered cigarettes in the mixture of butts and ashes. A slow, deep inhalation confirmed her suspicions. The faint smell of marijuana in the car was subdued by a thick scent of pine forest air fresher dangling from the rear view mirror. She threw that out the window too.

Susan was glad Bennie drove just under the speed limit and didn't challenge yellow lights. She didn't want explain to a police officer why Staci Bevere was passed out in the back seat of her own car. They had less than five miles to drive and there was no rush to get back.

In the parking lot of the Eliot Hotel, Susan opened the pint of Tennessee bourbon whiskey, reached over into the back seat, and poured half the bottle over Staci. She then took three quick swigs and patted some on her neck and jacket as she followed Bennie to the valet station.

It was Showtime. Time to get into character.

Bennie and Carol stumbled out of their doors. Bennie handed the valet the keys. They laughed in a most belligerent manner as they walked to the Grand Cherokee and opened the driver's side door.

Susan practically fell out. Bennie caught her and pulled her to her feet. Susan tossed the keys to the valet, purposely missing him by ten feet as they sailed over his head and landed in a snow bank. Bennie and Carol pulled Staci from the back seat as Susan walked up to the valet.

"Take good care of my car, you cute man," Susan slurred as she blew her whiskey-drenched breath in his face. She joined her two companions and together they carried Staci to the front door of the hotel.

Carol grasped Bennie's hand and squeezed tight. "We did it, baby. We pulled off the impossible."

"Was there ever a doubt," a triumphant yet visibly relieved Bennie responded. "We both performed awesomely." Bennie squeezed back, leaned over and gave Carol a quick kiss on the lips.

"You're my hero, Bennie. I really mean that."

Susan noticed Bennie looked shocked and at a loss for words. She never knew him to be like this. It occurred to her maybe no one had ever spoke to Bennie with encouraging words from the heart.

Bennie blushed as he released her hand. "We can congratulate each other once we're back inside the hotel. Our mission isn't over yet."
Chapter 74 The Lioness is Caged

The concierge opened the door and stepped out of the warmth and comfort of the Eliot Hotel. The doorman smiled at the four approaching figures and welcomed them. Susan looked at his employee name tag.

Carlton.

She opened her purse and tucked a twenty-dollar bill into the greeter's coat pocket with an Oscar Award-winning clumsy acting performance. Bennie stepped on his foot. Carlton laughed out loud. Susan imagined he witnessed similar events on a weekly basis.

"Thank you, Carlton," Susan said as she fumbled with her purse zipper.

"Thank you," he said, tipping his hat.

Bennie and Carol stumbled through the neo-Georgian décor split-level lobby, holding Staci up, her feet dragging on the marble floor and across the Persian rugs. Susan followed, laughing and slurring a few, non-coherent phrases to the concierge.

They continued their drunken theatrics and took the elevator to the sixth floor. They drug Staci down the hall past a few of the hotel's patrons who laughed at the site of what looked like four very happy people who would be feeling nothing but pain the next morning.

"Let's stop at my room first," Susan said as she used her smartphone with a keyless hotel app to unlock the door. They tossed Staci on the bed. She lay sprawled out on her back, lying still in a silent, motionless slumber that would last through the night.

Susan stood next to the bed and stared at the unconscious butcher for a few moments. She took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her hair, then laughed with clenched fists proclaimed in a triumphant manner, "We finally got you, you psychopathic bitch."

Susan reached over the bed and high-fived Bennie and Carol. "Okay, now that we have her here and incapacitated for the night, let's get started with phase two of our plan."

Susan emptied Staci's jacket pockets and found her cell phone. "Figures. Staci coded all the names in her directory. I don't know which number is Nicky's."

Susan sighed and tossed the phone down on the bed. "I have tremendous confidence in Fred," she said. "Even though he's no longer in the business, he's retained sophisticated computer equipment at his house. Typical. Most men have a hard time retiring from their work. Fred's obviously kept himself abreast of the cat-and-mouse games played out in the cyber world. He can't make a clean make from the adrenaline rush the business offers."

Carol spoke. "Last night, Nancy told me they've succumbed to the temptation of helping innocent victims of identity fraud. Fred despises cyber thieves and he'd turn the tables on the electronic predators. The marauders never knew what hit them."

Susan opened her Skype app. She called Fred from her pre-paid Wal-Mart cell phone, hit the speaker, and stood it up on the table. She echoed Chase's earlier sentiments. "I wouldn't want someone like Fred tracking me down."

Fred picked up on the first ring. "Susan, is everyone okay? Did you get Staci? Where are you now?"

"Slow down there, cowboy. One question at a time, okay?" Susan laughed with a broad smile. "Yes to all the above. And we're back at the hotel."

She could hear an elated Nancy in the background shouting to Fred to give her the phone. "Susan," Nancy's voice came on the line. "We're so glad to hear you're all safe. You hear me jumping up and down? I'm unable to contain myself."

Susan aimed the cell phone at Staci sleeping soundly on the bed, the image streaming live to Fred and Nancy. "We did it. It took all five of us working together as a team to pull this off."

Nancy clapped her hands so loud it came over the phone. "I'm so excited. We have the lioness caged. Okay, I'm giving the phone back to Fred."

Fred continued, "Staci will wake up soon. You need to tie her up so she can't escape or harm any of you. Although you can shoot her with the remaining two hypodermic darts, she'd only be sedated for less than a day. In fact, she should be waking up from the initial shot around five or six o'clock in the morning—your time."

Carol walked over to the writing desk in the corner of the suite and pulled the solid oak chair to the center of the room. "We'll tie her up to this. It looks sturdy enough to hold her. We'll need to gag her. Can't have the sociopath screaming for help and waking people on this floor."

"Good call," Fred said. "Finally, I want you three to sleep. It's eleven o'clock your time. One or two of you can sleep until three a.m. while someone watches Staci, then switch. If Nicky calls Staci's cell phone in the meantime, you know what to say. It's a straight up swap. Staci for Chase."

"That's if Chase is even alive," Susan said in a somber tone, her shoulders slumping forward and her face expressing dejection. "The odds are declining by the hour."

"Susan, listen to me," Fred replied in a stern tone of encouragement. "Don't be discouraged. Chase is alive. I know it. I can feel it within the depths of my very soul. Nancy and I are watching Nicky's every move through the use of his ATM and credit card purchases. He's ordered breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a half dozen people. This tells me they're all together. Chase must still be alive and the center of their attention. We're trying to get the address the food is being delivered to."

"Thanks, Fred. I can't tell you how much your efforts have helped and kept us going."

"Like you said, we're a team."

Bennie and Carol walked over to Susan and gave her a group hug in a show of support.

"We'll continue on with the hope Chase is still alive," Susan said. "Thanks again for all you and Nancy have done. Carol and I will sleep while Bennie watches Staci. We'll call you tomorrow early in the morning."

"Remember, we're a team. We're here for you. Chase is our friend too, and we're determined to do everything we can to bring him back alive."

"Thanks, Fred. You can't imagine how much your words of encouragement mean to us."

Susan ended the call. She looked over at Carol and sensed they both knew what they needed to do.

Without spoken instructions, Carol took off Staci's shoes and socks, stripped her to her underwear and sports bra, and shoved the rest of her clothes under the bed. This would make it difficult for Staci to get away on foot in the event escaped. Susan and Carol were forming a quick sister-type bond, developing the ability to sense what each other was thinking.

This is good, Susan thought. Team building attributes like trust were vital if they were to be successful in their mission. But she would monitor Carol's emotional state and her personal agenda to protect Bennie, the wildcard in their group dynamics.

Carol motioned to Bennie. They sat Staci up on the bed, lifted her, one on each side, and sat her in the oak chair. They tied her wrists to the backside, then wrapped her ankles together.

Staci's head flopped forward, her still sweat-soaked blonde hair sticking to the sides of her face. Carol propped a pillow behind Staci and leaned her head back for support.

Finally, Susan draped a bed sheet behind Staci to form a white backdrop. They could send Nicky a picture of the captured hellion and not give away any clues as to where they were staying. The last thing Susan wanted was Guu showing up at their door.

Satisfied with their workmanship, Susan and Carol stepped back and looked at Staci. Her head leaned back as she soundly slept. She snored lightly, but didn't drool.

"Okay Bennie, Carol and I are going to get some sleep," she said through a yawn. "Wake us at three a.m."

"Don't you two worry. I'll be okay. Staci's not going to wake up any time soon," he said as he walked to the kitchenette to make a fresh pot of coffee.

Carol, already standing next to her hero, gave him a huge hug. "You'll be fine. Just drink coffee and watch TV."

* * *

The four hours of Bennie's shift was uneventful. Staci never moved. She didn't make any noise except for a faint and consistent snore that Bennie had to turn the TV volume down to hear.

At 2:55 a.m., he started to get up out of his chair when he heard the alarm go off in the adjoining bedroom. Bennie swore under his breath as Susan had once again beaten him to the next important event.

Bennie forced a smile as the two entered the room. "I'll make a fresh pot of coffee, then get some sleep. How are you two doing?"

Bennie's spirits lifted as Carol gave him a big hug, then a kiss, then another hug. "We're doing fine, my big loveable teddy bear."

Susan walked up to Bennie and grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him squarely in the eyes. "I know things are moving fast and I've been taking control of events. But I want you to know I appreciate your support. You've taken a backseat to my leadership without complaining and I can't tell you how much I respect you for that."

Bennie stretched and yawned, attempting to mask his internal struggle with this escalating team dynamic. "I understand. No worries in the leadership department. I'm going to bed. Wake me if you need anything."
Chapter 75 Negotiations

Staci began to wake out of her slumber at just past four in the morning, a full hour earlier than expected. She rolled her head from side-to-side, dropped it to the center of her chest, and repeated the process.

Staci held her head up straight and focused her sight on the single shadowy salt and pepper figure sitting in front of her. The scene dominated her limited field of perception.

Sounds emanated from the singularity, but only indistinguishable static that crackled inside her head and caused a now-recognizable headache to explode. She could see. She could hear. But as hard as she tried, Staci could not feel, smell, or taste anything.

After a few minutes of struggling to recalibrate her senses, the black and white figure split into two independent shapes. She could make out the bright glows of the light from the television screen, but the voices were muffled and blended into one distinct sound.

Staci stared at the two figures as they came into focus. She could distinguish the difference in the female and male voices of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo. A minute later she singled out the laughter in the background.

Looking to the other side of the room, she strained to focus on two bodily shapes sitting and silently staring at her. She closed her eyes, took three slow breaths, and then gazed at Susan Anderson and Carol Rodriguez.

Confused and still not cognizant of where she was or why she was looking at her cross-country rivals, she remained quiet until her mental faculties became more in tune with her surroundings. She could now feel soft nylon ropes binding her wrists and ankles.

Staci retraced her last thoughts. Left the gym. Starving for Chinese food. Surprised meeting with Susan, Bennie, and Carol in the parking lot. What were they doing there? Then what? A gun. Two guns—one in front and one behind. Caught in a crossfire. One gun was fired.

Staci wondered why she was still alive. She remembered more. Brought Chase from Orange County to Cambridge. A wormhole and a sedative were used.

Then the gym parking lot. Shot in the chest. Expecting to see blood rushing out of a hole.

Instead, she pulled out a hypodermic dart. Falling forward in slow motion. Surroundings a blur of blended lights and colors as she slumped into Susan's waiting arms.

Trapped like a rat.

Staci tried to laugh at the irony of her situation, but only muffled snickers escaped her mouth. She thought back on Khyati telling Nicky a few days ago; what goes around comes around. This is twice fate had paid Nicky's team an ironic visit and turned their own methods back on them.

She watched Susan grab the armrests with both hands, pull herself up from her deep oversized chair, and stroll over to her. She stared deeply into Staci's semi-lucid eyes.

"If you promise to behave, I'll take the gag off. But if you scream for help, back on it goes. Understand?"

Staci nodded yes, her blonde shoulder-length hair still matted and stuck to the sides of her face. Susan pulled the gag out of her mouth and sat back down in her chair.

Staci didn't need to be fully cognizant to know her situation was not good. Susan glared at her, the professional killer, who tried to kill the only man whom she understood to be her destiny.

The man who one day will father Susan's children and provide safety and well-being for her family. She would fight with every resource she possesses not to lose her dream.

Picking up her last cognizant thought from the parking lot, Staci boldly proclaimed through parched lips, "You are indeed a very clever girl, Susan Anderson. Drugging me with a tranquilizer gun, and then, what—trading me—straight up for Chase? That the gig? I'm impressed. From one woman to another, you'd be a tremendous asset to our cause if you crossed over to our side."

Susan said with the stoicism of an ancient Grecian wise man, "That's obviously not going to happen. And what makes you think this will be a straight-up trade?"

Staci laughed so loud the throbbing in her head intensified and almost caused her to pass out. She grimaced and said in a soft compliant voice, "I need Advil. Four of them, please. My head, it's pounding."

Susan looked over at Carol and nodded an approval. Carol pulled out a bottle of Advil from her purse, put four in her hand, and opened a bottled water. She walked over to Staci, who tilted her head back and stuck out her tongue.

Carol dropped the green liquid gel caps on Staci's tongue, then raised the bottle up to her mouth. Staci swallowed the capsules and gulped down the water in one breath.

"Nicky will never give you any of the cases, if that's what you're thinking," Staci said, closing her eyes tight in an effort to clear more sleep from them. After a few moments, she opened them. "Thanks for the Advil and the water, Carol."

"Oh, I think he will," Susan said, leaning back and crossing her arms. "As committed as Nicky is to his self-delusional cause, I know he loves you deeply. He'll do anything to get you back."

Carol nodded in agreement.

"Speaking of Nicky, I'm to meet him for breakfast in a few hours." Staci used an almost diabolical tone she hoped would throw an unexpected wrench into Susan's plans.

"I'm going to call Nicky on your cell phone right now," a confident and undeterred Susan rebutted with a grin, challenging Staci's attempt to sway momentum.

Staci continued her assault. "You don't know which number is his. I've coded everything in my directory."

Susan smiled, then picked up her cell phone and punched in ten numbers.

"She's awake. I need Nicky's cell number. Knowing your considerable expertise, I figured you'd have decoded and know which one is his."

Susan winked at Staci like a smug victor about to behead its defeated opponent.

Staci refused to show any reaction.

Susan smiled and punched seven numbers. Staci recognized each note, and knew Susan's silent partners had cracked her complex code.

She gave an indignant snort and said matter-of-factly, "We're going to identify your people supporting you in the cyber realm. They're good, even very good—I have to admit—but not as good as ours. So yeah, you've won this battle, but not the war."

Susan stepped over and leaned into Staci's face. "I accept your challenge. As one woman to another, you'll lose the bet."

Susan placed the call on speaker.

"Hi sweetie," Nicky said through a yawn. "Why are you calling me so early? It's not even six o'clock yet."

Susan shouted like a smug victor into the phone, "Hello Nicky. Guess what, my good friend. We're back!"

Staci could hear blankets being tossed aside and Nicky jumping out of bed. His voice was an enraged hiss. "Who the hell is this?"

"I'm sending you a live stream, Nicky, sweetheart." Susan's voice was dripping with the unmitigated rapture of the moment. "Take a good look at this, you sick son-of-a-bitch!"

Susan aimed Staci's cell phone at her. "Say something to your lover-boy."

Staci smiled and blew a puff of air to get a lock of hair off her right eye. "Hi, honey. Sorry about all of this. What can I say? They used a tranquilizer dart on me while I left the gym last night and I woke up here. They want to trade me straight up for Chase."

Nicky's voice took on the tone of a hanging judge delivering a sentence. "Now you fools listen to me. And listen really well. You've really screwed up this time. You've kidnapped someone. My someone. You're going to prison. If you don't die first."

Susan sighed with mock fearfulness. "Oh spare me, honey. Stuff the threats up your arse, okay, Nicks? Can I call you Nicks, darling?" She laughed, then brought her voice down and intense.

"You don't scare me. Turnabout is fair play, so don't go getting all high and mighty about kidnapping, you capricious, murdering bastard. Look. You have one chance, and one chance only, to get your girlfriend and assassin extraordinaire back. I'm not going to waste my time negotiating. Understand?"

"Don't do it," Staci shouted. "I can handle this myself. These rookies can't hold me."

"It's alright, Staci. Leave this to me. Okay, Susan, you can have Chase back. He wasn't going to talk anyway. He's useless to me at this point."

"We want the suitcases too, Nicky. All six of them along with the batteries."

Although it took several seconds, Nicky's rage gave way to laughter. "You must be out of your freakin' mind," he snapped with a tone of arrogance. "Who do you think you are? Do you really believe you can come back here and demand all six suitcases? Do you know who you're dealing with, you little shithead? Well, do you?"

Susan gently smiled and walked over to Staci. She aimed the camera phone on her, pulling out the Smith and Wesson and bringing it up to her head.

Staci knew all Nicky could see was her from the shoulder up, awake and alive, but looking disheveled, against a snow-white background, and the handgun pressed hard against her left temple. Staci blew another tuft of matted hair off her left eyebrow and fidgeted as she felt the cold steel barrel push her head hard to her left.

"You're only making things worse for yourself," Staci whispered to Susan.

Susan took command of the conversation. "Listen to me, you creepy, demented jerk-wad. I'm in control here, so I really don't care who you or your little minions think you are. As far as I'm concerned, you're a deranged, two-bit cult leader of a pack of jackals who'll very soon get what's coming to them, either in this life or the next. But until then, I'm the one in control. I call the shots. Understand?"

Silence.

"Do we have a deal," she demanded more than asked through clenched teeth. Staci's head was now flush against her left shoulder, the handgun with its long-barreled silencer pressed hard against her head.

"Okay, okay," Nicky said. "You win. For now, at least. You can have one case and one case only."

"Make sure it's a live one."

"It'll be live. But without a receiver suitcase, you'll never be able to use it. It'll be useless to you. My people are prepared to die for the cause, so don't deceive yourself into thinking have more leverage than you think you have, Susan Anderson. Besides, I'm more motivated to put a bullet in Chase's head than you are to put one in Staci's."

Nicky paused for five seconds. "Take it or leave it."

Although Susan did not immediately answer, she understood a good deal when she heard one. "Okay Nicky, we have a deal. Staci and one live transporter suitcase straight up for Chase. No funny business, that is, if you ever want to see your girlfriend again."

Nicky laughed under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear. "I'll have Chase dropped off at a place called Jimmy's Diner over on State Street close to the State House. Do you need directions to get there?"

Susan laughed. "Nice try, but I'm not stupid. I'm not giving any hint as to our location."

Nicky snickered. "I had to try. Jimmy's Diner is off the 93 Freeway. Exit New Sudbury Street and make a right. You can see the bright yellow and red neon sign from the freeway off ramp. I'll have Chase dropped off before you have a chance to get there. He'll have the case with him."

"That's a good boy. Do as you're told and no one gets hurt."

"Nicky, I can't believe you're doing this," Staci yelled. "I can get out of this. Trust me."

"Um, you're tied up at an undisclosed location and just had a gun to your head. I appreciate your confidence, honey bears, but I'll handle things, okay? Oh, Susan, before you hang up, take a look at what you're doing. You've kidnapped a human being by force, drugged her, pointed a gun to her head, and threatened to kill her."

Silence.

"You, sweet little Susan Angelic Anderson. You've never had a traffic ticket or even a parking ticket. Perfect attendance in junior high. Never absent or tardy. A near four-point GPA at UCLA. You've never been late on paying a credit card or utility bill. You're truly a good girl who has never been on trouble. Now look at yourself and ask; who's the sick son-of-a-bitch?"

Staci smiled as Susan was caught off guard. Nicky and his group had profiled her and dug deep into her past. She knew Susan felt deeply violated.

"I'll be at Jimmy's Diner faster than you think. And Chase better be in one piece. Any damage to him, you can expect ten-fold to Staci." Susan ended the call.

Bennie shuffled into the adjoining room, yawning, wearing a deep blue, hotel issued bathrobe and matching slippers. Scratching his head, he said, "Good morning, everybody. Did I miss anything while I was sleeping?"

He looked to the other side of the room to see Staci awake and coherent.

"Hi, Bennie," Staci said in a light and friendly tone.

She smiled in a charming manner. Bennie stared at her and visibly shuddered. Staci might be tied up but she could still influence the situation; let Bennie see she does not feel any danger and that she's fully confident she can handle any situation that might evolve. Staci glanced at Susan and Carol and knew they all could sense it.

"Bennie," Susan said. "We're swapping Staci for Chase and one live transporter suitcase."

Staci discerned Bennie's face and deduced there was dissention in the ranks. "Oh, this is priceless. Clearly, Tubsy here thinks he should be in charge."

Bennie ignored the comment. "That's great," he said as he passed in front of Staci and made his way to the coffee pot. "How are we going to do this? Where's the trade going to take place?"

Carol snuggled up to her man before he could reach the kitchenette. "I'll make the coffee, you big, loveable, teddy bear." She squeezed his right buttock.

Staci couldn't resist. "Eeewww! Carol, just what do you see in Bennie? You're beautiful, but him—not so much. I mean, he's not terrible. But you can do so much better. Perhaps you're not the brightest crayon in the box."

Carol picked up the gag, wadded it into a ball, and reached for Staci's mouth.

"Okay, okay, I'll shut up. Can't you take a joke?"

Susan continued. "Carol and I will drive to pick up Chase at a place called Jimmy's Diner. It's not far from here. We'll be back in a half hour."

Bennie gave Staci a look of disgust that tried to disguise the embarrassment and hurt he was feeling at being the low man on the totem pole. She knew her words had found their mark.

"What do we do with her? I say we shoot her with another tranquilizer dart, pour alcohol all over her, and toss her in a dumpster in an alley. Then we call the police and tell them there's a drunk passed out in the trash."

Staci stared in disgust back at Bennie. "They're leaving me alone with you? I'm as good as free. And I might kill you on my way out. That'd be an extra bonus."

"Ignore her," Susan said. "She's just trying to get in our heads. Bennie, you'll watch Staci, and call us immediately if you think she's trying to escape. Carol and I will be back with Chase as soon as we can. We have to go right now."

Susan and Carol grabbed their cell phones as they rushed out the door.

Staci understood Bennie didn't know what to do. He had just woken up from a deep slumber. Hearing five beeps, signaling the coffee was ready, he poured a cup and added cream then looked over at Staci.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she said in a gentle, non-threatening tone, a soft smile gracing her face while accentuating her high cheekbones and sea-green eyes.

"Ummm, can you hold it? Unfortunately, there's not much I can do to help in that department?"

"I'll try Bennie, but you know how it is in the morning. This is one of the first biological functions of the body."

Staci laughed inwardly. He's dumbfounded. No idea what to do. But she already had a plan to escape.
Chapter 76 The Drop Off

Nicky was enraged. Once again, the California Connection had taken the offensive and outsmarted him. He wasn't furious over losing a suitcase. Nor was it so much about capturing his girlfriend Staci.

The root cause of his anger was Chase and his friends once again beaten him to the punch. Being the first to strike. In control. Calling the shots. They act, and he has to react. This area was his calling. His expertise. He was supposed to be the leader, not a handful of simpletons from California directing events.

Nicky kicked over his night stand. The lamp survived the fall. He picked it up and hurled it against the wall. It still wouldn't break.

Nicky started cursing, rapid and loud, but his stuttering came back. Now he was stammering again. He stopped mid-sentence and took a few deep breaths, knowing runaway emotions would derail his mission.

Staci had taught him stress was a state of mind. She instructed Nicky how to handle his anxiety, a weakness his busy and often absent parents failed to help him with, by meditation.

Change and calm his thoughts. Encapsulate stressful images, shrink them until they disappeared from sight, and replace them with positive ideas of what could be. Transition to another location. A better place. Migrate.

This was Nicky's second attraction to Staci, the first of course, being purely physical. He took a seat, back straight, chin tucked slightly down, feet planted apart. He put one palm on top of the other, resting just under his navel, and closed his eyes. He focused single-mindedly on his breathing which within a few minutes settled into a natural, slow rhythm, steadying his mind, until there was peace.

Nicky now calm rose and set his nightstand upright. He placed his bent but still working lamp on top and plugged it. Then he called Guu.

Guu lived closer to Khyati than he did, and he wanted the human transaction to occur as fast as possible. Nicky loved Staci and wanted her back before another twist or turn could bring harm to her. Besides, he suspected there might be something going on between Khyati and Guu that they were not telling anyone. Perhaps, Nicky thought, he was already at her house.

Guu answered on the first ring. Nicky could tell he woke him up by the deep grogginess in his voice.

"Hello," Guu said through a yawn.

"They're back. The three amigos have Staci held captive somewhere close by. They want Chase and a live transporter suitcase straight up for Staci."

"You're kidding me, right? They're back and they have Staci? Those three nobodies. How could this happen?"

Nicky heard Khyati's faint voice in the background. "I knew I should have stayed up all night and finished tracking their cyber partners."

Nicky continued. "Those jerks sent me a live stream of Staci tied to a chair. They had a gun to her head."

Guu grunted. "Where are they now?"

"I'm not sure. They used a white bed sheet as a backdrop. I assume they're staying at a nearby hotel."

Another Guu grunt. "What do we do?"

"Take Chase and a live transporter suitcase and drop him off at Jimmy's Diner. Right now, I just want Staci back. We can take care of Chase and his group of misfits later."

"A live suitcase? There's no way I'm going to give up a live case. Not for him."

"How about for Staci?"

Guu sighed. "I thought I was going to kill him today. I was actually looking forward to that."

"We're short on time. You'll have to trust me."

"Fine, I'll take him to Jimmy's Diner. Are you sure about the suitcase?"

Nicky didn't hesitate. "I'm sure. We don't have time to negotiate. We'll get Staci back and retrieve the suitcase like we did twice before."

"I'm dressing right now. I'll leave within three minutes."

"One more thing. They tied up Staci in her underwear and sports bra. I want you to take Chase's robe off and drop him off in his underwear."

* * *

Chase was awake. He was tired. He was hungry and dehydrated. He was cold as Nicky made sure Chase only wore the martial arts outfit Staci brought him back in.

He didn't have shoes, a jacket, sweater, or a blanket. Fortunately, his outfit was made from a thick cloth and provided some warmth as the heat in Khyati's house rose to the first and second floors.

He could now hear sounds of a large man moving about the house. Chase tried to wrestle free of the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, but they were too tight. He attempted to break the oak chair he was tied to without success.

Guu, adding drama to Chase's hopeless situation, stomped down the stairs to the first floor, across the living room directly above, then down the basement stairs. Chase prepared for the worse.

Chase shifted his thoughts to those closest to him. He would never see his one and only soul mate Susan Anderson again. He feared for her safety over his. He shuddered as he thought of Bennie, Carol, Fred, and Nancy. Nicky would have to kill all of them and there was nothing he could do.

He was powerless to prove Professor Fischer's innocence. Nicky would blow up Geneva. Chase thought of his siblings. They would never know what happened to him. Nicky would dispose of his body in a manner that it would never be found.

Guu kicked open the basement door with such force it almost tore off its hinges. He approached Chase with a knife, laughing hard and loud as he toyed with the dagger, making violent slashes in the air. Chase thought he was a dead man. But to his surprise, Guu cut the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles.

Chase was exhausted, having not eaten anything the past two days. The sedative Mina administered the night before still lingered. But he was going to fight. Guu grabbed him by the left arm, lifted him out of his chair, and ripped his off his robe, causing Chase to stumble and hit the wall head first.

"That's for screwing everything up, asshole." Guu's fist slammed into Chase's stomach as he attempted to stand. The blow almost knocked him unconscious. "You should have stayed home in California."

Guu dragged Chase out into Khyati's computer room where she waited with a live transporter case. She handed it to Guu as he leaned into her and gave her a kiss.

Khyati gave Chase a cold stare, her left eye still bruised and swollen shut. Chase had no idea they were a couple, and any thought of survival evaporated.

"Drive safe, my love," Khyati said. "The streets are still covered with ice and dangerous."

"Don't worry about me. I'll be back as soon as I'm finished with this loser."

Guu forced Chase up the basement stairs and out the side door into the driveway. Chase stumbled as Guu threw him hard into the front seat of a waiting SUV, the heater turned off. He wanted Chase to suffer a little bit more.

"Put your seatbelt on, asshole," Guu said with a menacing glare.

Gasping for air, Chase complied. But the rapid flight up the basement stairs and the frigid cold helped Mina's sedative wear off. Chase became more lucid and his mental and motor skills increased.

Chase's mind wandered back a few weeks to Las Vegas where he flirted with death. Had he failed, he would have been put to a swift end, his body buried somewhere in the middle of the Mojave Desert like so many nameless souls who now call that vast wasteland their final resting place. Perhaps, Chase thought, he was in a diametrically opposed wasteland, a cold and frigid wilderness awaiting a similar fate.
Chapter 77 Staci Escapes

Staci watched Bennie open the door as if he hadn't a worry in the world. He picked up a neatly folded USA Today that bordered the threshold. Folding it under his right arm, he walked back toward the bathroom.

She continued the war of words. "Bennie, your duty is to simply oversee a captive tied to a solid oak chair and offering no resistance. You think I understand my freedom as being dependent upon a clean transfer of captives: Chase first, me second. Simple as that. Yeah, right. We'll just see about that, chubby chump."

Bennie pointed with the newspaper and said, "You be a good girl. I'll be out in a minute."

"A minute," Staci laughed out loud, staring at his paunchy stomach. "Sure."

Staci listened to the faint sounds escaping through the bathroom door. She could hear Bennie placing his bath robe on the hook. The sound of the toilet lid being hastily lifted and clanking against the ceramic tank. A slightly overweight man sitting on the toilet seat. A newspaper being unfolded. The sports page, no doubt. The rest of the paper plopped on the floor.

Staci Bevere wasted no time. Leaning back, she used her feet to push her buttocks up off the seat of the chair and moved her elbows forward, then repeated the process until the ropes around her wrists began to loosen. But not enough she was able to free herself.

Staci squeezed her eyes tight, took a deep breath, and used her left index and middle fingers to pull her thumb out of socket. After a few moments of silent retching pain, she wrestled her left hand through the knotted rope and untied her right hand. She then loosened the rope around her ankles and she was free.

Staci stood and popped her thumb back into its socket, squelching the urge to scream. She didn't need to survey the room as she had memorized everything during the hour she was awake. There was nothing of interest with the exception of Bennie's wallet and cell phone on a night stand.

Staci walked through the adjoining door into Susan's room. She noticed the Smith and Wesson lying on the nightstand. The same handgun used by Bennie the night before. She grabbed the gun and inspected it. Noticing there was no clip or a bullet in the chamber, she rummaged around the room, looking for bullets in drawers and what few belongings Susan brought with her.

Staci laughed to herself while shaking her head. She fell for one of the oldest tricks – complying with a novice actor and an empty handgun.

Knowing the opportunity to shoot Bennie through the bathroom door was a fleeting hope, she couldn't help messing with his head. But first, she needed to use the second bathroom. She was sure Bennie would be a while, and Mother Nature did need to take its course.

Staci then searched through the luggage until she found the hypodermic gun two darts. She loaded both. Seeing Susan's yellow silk pajamas with blue flower patterns lying on the bed, she threw them on and rolled up the pant legs and the sleeves as Susan was a full six inches taller. To her dismay, there were no shoes or slippers.

Staci walked back into Bennie and Carol's room. She kicked open the bathroom door and stood in a squared-off stance, both hands tightly gripped around the Smith and Wesson and pointing it at Bennie's head.

"This will teach you to aim a gun at me. Bye, bye, you big dummy."

She squeezed the trigger four times, each empty click causing Bennie to jerk back a few inches until he was flush against the tank of the toilet. He looked down at his white T-shirt and saw no holes, no blood streaming down his chest.

Staci laughed, dropped the Smith and Wesson harmlessly on the floor, then pulled out the hypodermic gun from the back of her waistband and donned a straight face.

"This time, I'm not messing around, Tubsy."

Bennie raised his hands, eyes wide open, and tried to say something. Anything.

Staci fired off the two darts into Bennie's chest. He didn't have time to pull out the hypodermic needles. He slumped where he sat, the sports section draped over his. His head nodded down and slightly to the right while his arms dangled loosely to each side.

Staci used a washcloth to wipe her prints from the tranquilizer gun and the Smith and Wesson, grabbed the cash out of Bennie's wallet and balled it up in her right hand, then pocketed his cell phone with her left. She boldly stepped into the hallway and walked down the leopard-print carpeted hall toward the elevator.

A hotel employee with a cart and a tray of hot delicious smelling breakfast meals stood by a door and knocked. Walking by, Staci raised the top off the rounded silver platter and grabbed a breakfast sandwich, then lowered the top in one undetectable swift move. She continued toward the elevator in stride, the paper wrapper falling to the floor and trampled by her feet.

She sank her teeth into the toasted bread and tore off a large piece while waiting for the elevator to open. "Ham sandwich," she said as she looked at the exposed steaming contents and tasted the cheese covered meat. "This must be my lucky day."

The elevator door opened on the first floor and Staci swallowed the last of the meal. She picked up her brisk walk through the crowded lobby of business men and women hustling and bustling to catch a plane, a cab, or a business meeting.

Her demeanor and appearance cleared a path as everyone stepped aside to let her pass. She cruised through a group of middle-aged business women chatting with To Go cups of gourmet coffee from a barista stand in the lobby. She swiped a grande from one of the ladies, still not missing a stride.

"Hey," the corporately dressed woman shouted to Staci's backside, her voice bellowing over the loud clamor of the bustling hotel lobby. "Freakin' crazy bitch! Who do you think you are?"

Staci tossed the scarlet lip-stick-stained plastic lid aside and took a sip of the coffee. She smiled as the morning brew was made just the way she liked—strong with cream and no sugar.

"My day just keeps getting better."

Staci exited the hotel into the freezing Boston morning and stepped off the curb in front of two well-dressed business men hailing a cab. She climbed in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and tossed the wadded up roll of bills onto the front seat.

"West Cambridge, corner of Washington and Grove. And please, hurry."

The cab driver looked down at the assortment of hundreds, twenties, and five dollar bills strewn across his front seat.

"Yes Ma'am!" he said, stomping on the accelerator and pulling away from the curb. His two back tires spun in the murky slush, drenching the two business men with grayish-black ice-cold water and sludge.

Staci lay across the back seat rubbed her bare frozen feet. She opened Bennie's cell phone and called Nicky.

"Hi sweetie. I'm in a cab and on my way back to your place now."

"You're okay." Nicky sounded relieved. "I was worried sick. Where were you? Where did those cretins take you?"

"The Eliot Hotel. But I easily escaped. You haven't let Chase go, have you?"

Nicky snorted. "That was the deal. Right?"

Staci sat upright. "Please tell me you didn't. You're far too smart to know I couldn't handle these schmucks."

"Yes, I did," Nicky said in a defensive manner. "Guu will be dropping Chase and the suitcase off at Jimmy's Diner any time. He's may be on his way back to Khyati's now."

"With a suitcase?" Staci almost lost her breakfast. "I can't believe you'd follow through on that."

"That was part of the arrangements."

"Why did you do that," she shouted into the phone. "You should have known I'd escape."

"What did you expect me to do? Susan held a small hand cannon to your head?"

"She wouldn't shoot me in the hotel. She was bluffing, Nicky. She would have traded me straight up without a suitcase."

"I can't believe you're yelling at me. I'm rescuing you. I'm the hero. You should be thanking me."

Staci took a deep breath, sipped her coffee, and said with a low key tone, "Call Guu now. I'll have the cab driver take me to Jimmy's Diner."

She fidgeted when she said the words Jimmy's Diner. "Maybe it's not too late to take care of Chase once and for all and retrieve our case. I'll handle the situation from here."

Staci ended the call without saying goodbye.

"Driver, change of plans. Drop me off at Jimmy's Diner by the State House."

Staci despised the greasy diner. Of all places Nicky could pick for the human transfer, he had to select the location she associated with less than pleasant times with him.

Jimmy's Diner is where, rather than a great steakhouse, and to her considerable disappointment, Nicky had taken her for a celebratory meal. She felt she deserved much better after she successfully used a wormhole to enter and exit O'Connor's office and kill him, then kill Rosie Contreras.

But most of all, she compared that particular morning to the great evening Chase had shown her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had so much fun with a man.

Very simply, Staci thought Chase was a lot more mature than Nicky. He was better looking. And he was better in bed.
Chapter 78 The Transaction

Less than a mile away, Guu drove toward the drop-off point. Chase was wearing only his boxer shorts. Guu had looped and tied a three-foot piece of twine through the suitcase handle and hung it around Chase's neck. The fear-induced adrenaline, having a potential one-kiloton bomb as a necklace, and the frigid cold had Chase recovering quickly from the drugs.

Guu looked warm in his heavy wool coat and Russian-style trapper hat, Chase thought, as he shivered in the passenger seat. But shivering helped him recover from the hangover caused by the sedative.

Blood coursed faster through his veins, bringing fresh oxygen to his brain and muscles. Chase didn't say a word. He used the circumstances to his advantage. He felt far more aware than he did five minutes ago sitting in Khyati's basement.

But Chase knew he was in bad shape. He hadn't eaten in over two days. Guu threw random punches during the drive. Chase blocked a few. Others found their mark. More emotion. More adrenaline pumping through his blood. More of the drug wearing off.

Keep it up, knucklehead. You're as dumb as you are big.

More punches thrown, some landing on his shoulder and ribs. More adrenaline and focused anger.

Chase looked at Guu. "You're one big ugly goon. Look at that large black and dark purple bruise spreading underneath the bandage and across the bridge of your nose where I head-butted you. There's more where that came from. No way can you beat me. You're too fat, you're too slow, and you're too stupid. Strike three. You're out."

Guu focused on the early morning rush hour traffic. "Like a cat, you may have nine lives, but you've used most of them these past few weeks. I promise you, I'll be the one to kill you. Not Nicky. Not Staci. I'll kill you."

The Asian strongman laughed, the only time Chase had seen him do anything but snarl.

But Guu's joy turned to rage when he sneezed. Chase laughed, knowing the harsh burst of air rushing through Guu's nose that he broke with a head butt caused shock waves of pain. He smiled with satisfaction when Guu screamed in agony and grabbed his head with both hands, using his knees to steer his SUV.

A moment later, Guu's sardonic smile reappeared. "This isn't your stop, but close enough."

He reached over, unfastened Chase's seat belt, and shoulder slammed him against the passenger door. The door flew open. Chase rolled out, tumbling shoulder-over-shoulder across the partially ice-covered street.

Chase was nearly run over by a UPS truck as he rolled across the path of a minivan full of kids before barreling into a snow bank. The impact caused him to lose the suitcase. It skidded across a patch of ice, spinning parallel to the curb for twenty feet before coming to rest in the street.

A small crowd gathered. A man in a business suit spoke. "Hey mister, you alright?"

Chase stood on wobbly knees, knowing he must be a sight for early morning commuters to see. A man in dark blue boxer shorts and a three-day growth of facial hair being hurled from a moving car.

"Score," said a lanky homeless man in his mid-thirties, with long chestnut colored hair wearing a tattered green army jacket and baggy brown corduroy pants. He picked up the silver suitcase and raced down the street.

This can't be happening was all Chase could think. He took a deep breath and sprinted after the thief, his long legs and bare feet slowly closing the gap. I've got to stay on solid asphalt, Chase told himself as he slipped on a patch of thin ice. Have to catch him now. Feet are too numb to go much further.

***

Susan drove north on Congress Street. Two blocks ahead a thin man in tattered clothes and a wild bushy beard ran across the street. His arms pumped back and forth. The morning sun reflected bright off the silver, metallic casing of an average sized suitcase.

Carol pointed and shouted. "That looks like one Nicky's cases that homeless man is running with."

Ten seconds later, Chase emerged from their left view and raced across the street in pursuit, then disappeared behind a high rise glass office building.

"What the hell?" a stunned Susan gasped in disbelief, now idling at a red light.

"That's Chase! Running in his underwear," Carol said, wide-eyed and grabbing her forehead. "The guy he's chasing must have stolen the case."

Susan slammed her boot on the accelerator and sped through the intersection, barely being missed by two yellow and black taxi cabs. Two blocks ahead, she made a sharp right turn down the wrong way of a one-way street. She blasted the horn and dodged morning rush-hour traffic. Susan saw Chase a block ahead and lowered her window.

"Chase, over here," she screamed.

"They made a right down that alley," Carol said.

Susan followed down the narrow alley. She crushed a number of trash cans against the sides of the brick walls as she sped after Chase, horn blaring and headlights flashing as she tried to catch his attention.

Employees emptying garbage into dumpsters tossed the bags of refuse on the pavement and jumped back into their stores to escape being hit. Susan couldn't avoid running over the trash. The big tires burst the bags and spewed garbage down the alley.

Chase and the thief exited the alley. They turned left and sprinted down the sidewalk on another one-way street and disappeared around the corner.

Traffic was thick. Susan had no choice but to make a right with the flow of cars and buses and try to catch up on the other side of the block. She pulled into the first lane and cut off a half dozen cars. More horns, more fists shaking, and more middle fingers were sent her way.

"They're gone. Do you see them," Carol shouted, lowering her window and looking down another alley.

Susan drove like a maniac up and down the streets, running red lights and blasting the horn at anyone who dared step into a crosswalk. She slammed the brakes at every alley to look down both sides, then gunned the engine.

"Where are they?" Susan screamed in a panic.

"I don't know," Carol said, equally panicked. "I don't see them anywhere. Maybe Chase caught the bum and they're fighting it out in one of the alleys."

"I feel sorry for the other guy."

Susan slowed and looked to her left and Carol to her right down another alley. Nothing except more red brick walls and countless trash cans. She started to gun the engine before she turned her head to look forward.

"Look out," Carol yelled.

There was a loud thud on the driver's side of the hood. The homeless man, still gripping the silver suitcase, rolled across her windshield, his arms and legs flailing in all directions as he sailed over the hood.

She slammed both feet on the brakes. The suitcase fell from his grip while he completed his roll over the passenger side of the SUV.

He was followed by Chase Manhattan, jumping up, onto, and over the hood. He picked up the case and gripped it tight against his heaving chest as he turned to run.

Susan lowered the passenger side window. "Chase, get in the car. Now. Let's go."

Chase's froze mid-stride when he saw first Susan, then an awe-struck Carol. He opened the back door and jumped in head first. Susan stomped on the accelerator and sped off, leaving the homeless man to stagger off and disappear down an alley.

"Chase," Susan shouted with joy, trading glances in the back seat at her shivering man. "I love you," was all she could blurt out. She sped through another yellow light.

Chase leaned into the front seat and gave Susan an impassioned kiss while Carol reached over and steered.

Chase opened the heating vents in the back seat and put his feet up close to them, rubbing his toes and massaging his heels to get blood circulating. Carol tossed her coat into the back seat. Chase put it on, his forearms extending twelve inches beyond the white, fluffy sleeves.

Susan laughed at the sight of her man. "You look lovely, my dear," she said as she looked over her shoulder.

Carol giggled and took a picture of Chase with her cell phone. "You look so cute wearing your undies and my coat, albeit in a strange and disturbing manner."

"Okay, mock me if you must. I'm sure I look hilarious," Chase Manhattan said with a boisterous laugh. "I'm just glad to be back with you. I thought for sure I was a dead man. What can I say but thanks for coming for me."

"You didn't think for a moment we'd leave you to die with those sociopaths, did you?" Carol said, taking another picture of Chase.

"We'll take you back to the hotel," Susan said. "We have a very special surprise gift wrapped for you."

"What is it," Chase asked, rubbing his feet and leaning against the rear passenger door.

"It's not a what, but a who," a triumphant sounding Carol said.

Chase looked puzzled. "Okay, I give up. Who is it?"

Susan ran through another yellow light and blasted her horn as a group of business men had one foot off the curb. "Staci. We have Staci Bevere. We traded her straight up for you and a suitcase."

Chase caught her eyes in the rearview mirror, locked with them for a few seconds.

"You're joking, right?"

"We're very serious," Carol said as she leaned into the back seat. She opened her cell phone, showing Chase a series of pictures of the blonde assassin tied to the oak chair in front of a white bed sheet. "We traded her for you plus one case."

"Let's get you back to the hotel, honey. I want to pick up Bennie and get rid of Staci right now. I'll leave the card key under the mat by the door. No way are we untying her. Nicky can come and get her himself. Then it's back to Orange County, blue skies, and the warm sunshine for us. Mission accomplished."

Chase had to interject as Susan was ready to say something else. "We can celebrate this battle, but the war is far from over. We're not finished. Not by a long shot."

Susan reared her head. "What do you mean? We're getting out of here. Now. I'm driving back to the hotel. We're picking up Bennie. Then we're going back to Orange County. Clear and simple. Got it?"

Chase sighed. "It's not that simple. We don—"

"We don't nothing, mister. We risked our lives to come clear across country and rescue your captured ass. Now you're coming back to Laguna Beach with us. We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way."

Susan broke into a laugh. "If we can subdue Staci, I'm confident we can take care of a man wearing his boxer shorts and a woman's fluffy coat."

Carol joined the laughter and took another picture of Chase.

Chase pleaded with his hands. "Listen to me. I'm eternally grateful for rescuing me. But our mission, it's not accomplished. Not yet."

"Chase, you're not making sense. I think you need a good hot meal and some sleep. You're delusional."

"You're right about the meal. Stop anywhere. I need a cheeseburger and a Coke. But sleep will have to wait. We—"

"We what? No, there is no what. Look, I don't care what you do with that case. But we're going home. Now. Understand?"

Susan gunned the engine when the light turned green, forcing Chase back into his seat. "Better put your seatbelt on, my little fluffy. We're going home."

"Susan, we still need to—"

Susan again looked back and raised three fingers. "Chase, give me three reasons why we need to continue the fight. Three. Nothing less will do. And they'd better be incredible."

"I'll give you four. First, we have to stop Nicky from killing more people. Second, we need to destroy the cases. Third, we need to prove Professor Fischer's innocence. And finally, we have to go to Geneva to stop Nicky from blowing up half the city."

"Blowing up Geneva? What?"

"I'll explain it over breakfast. Which reminds me, we need to break Professor Fischer out of jail and bring him with us to Switzerland. That makes five things."

The light turned yellow. Susan almost ran it, but decided to stop. "I've run enough yellow and red lights for one episode of wild, reckless adventure. Better not push my luck."

As the SUV idled and the three occupants celebrated and updated each other on events, a yellow and black cab pulled up next to them. Susan watched as Chase looked over and glanced at a pretty young blonde in the back seat staring intently at him.

"Easy, turbo. You're with me now. No more women watching for you."

"What the ... no way," Chase muttered.

"Chase," Susan said. "What's the matter?"

"It's Staci," Chase said in an intense near-whisper. "In the cab next to us"

"That's not funny. I'm not laughing."

Susan looked to the right out Carol's window. Staci emerged from the cab's back seat and glared at Susan, then Carol, then Chase.

"Oh my God, it is her," Carol said. "How the hell? And the bitch is wearing your pajamas, Susan."

Carol lowered her window a few inches. The cabbie shouted to Staci in his thick, Middle Eastern accent, "What are you doing? You can't step out into an intersection. Are you crazy?"

"Carol," Susan shouted. "Do something."

Carol reached into her purse, pulled out a wad of bills for the cab driver to see and shouted to him, lowering the window all the way.

"There's at least three hundred dollars here. All yours if you leave that psycho standing in the street."

She balled up the cash and threw it in his lap. He picked it up, wide-eyed and smiling.

"No problem. Blondie, she is crazy."

The light still red, Susan forged ahead into the intersection. She blasted the horn as she tried to create a path through the rapid river of cars. A sudden weight on the rear bumper caused her to look in her rear view mirror.

Staci climbed onto the top of the vehicle.

"Carol. Your window," Susan said. "Close it—fast."

Too late. Staci dove through it, leapt into the back seat, and grabbed the suitcase. Susan gunned the engine. A cab clipped the back of the SUV, spinning it around and tearing the bumper off. Chase and Staci were slammed back, flailing about, fighting for the case.

"Carol, your mace," Susan yelled." Spray the crazy bitch."

Carol pulled out her mace and swung around. But Staci grabbed her wrist and snapped it, redirecting the aim to Susan's eyes and squeezed.

"You tried this on Guu. Not going work on me." Staci's elbow to the side of Carol's head knocked her limp against the passenger door.

Susan screamed, "I can't see!" The SUV swerved toward the sidewalk.

Chase shouted out. "Turn—sharp left—now."

Chase and Staci rolled around the back seat, fighting for the suitcase, trading punches and kicks. Susan yanked left and crashed into a UPS truck parked along the curb.

The front airbags deployed. The impact slammed Chase and Staci against the front seat. Staci lost her grip on the suitcase. Chase snared it, kicked the door open, and shoved her out.

"Chase, why did you tell me to do that," Susan screamed, tears flowing from her eyes as she rubbed her face with her sleeves and tried to push the airbag off.

"You and Carol have your seat belts on. We didn't. I was prepared for the impact crash. Staci wasn't. Unbuckle your belt—now—slide over. I'm driving."

Chase lunged into the front as Susan slid to the middle. He pulled the now deflated airbag to his feet and threw the car in reverse. The open rear driver's side door, still open, caught a speeding metro bus. It snapped off and spun across the asphalt in a hail of sparks. Chase put the Expedition in drive and raced down the street.

He lowered his window, stuck his head out, and smiled and waved at Staci with his left arm stretched a full foot beyond the white fluffy sleeve's cuff.

"Chase, what's happening," Susan cried.

"Staci's gone and we still have the case. You've got to hang in there. I'm going back for Bennie, then taking you and Carol to the hospital. Carol's unconscious and has a broken wrist. Once you both get the medical attention you need we'll regroup and move forward.

"Bennie. Oh my God. You think he's still alive?"

"He'd better be. Or there'll be hell to pay for Nicky and his misfits. I promise you that."

Chase sped toward the Eliot Hotel, the crushed front of the Expedition giving off steam from a broken radiator and making ominous noises.

"We still have a mission. We have to break Professor Fischer out of jail and go to Geneva to stop the bomb from going off. But first, Bennie. Then we'll find medical help. Trust me. This isn't over."
Thank you for reading The Adventures of Chase Manhattan Volume I: Breakthrough. I greatly appreciate it.

If you liked the story, please consider taking a moment to post a short review at Amazon or Goodreads. Reviews are the greatest compliment a writer can receive. You can leave a review by  Clicking Here!

And thanks again for reading Salem's Daughters. I hope you enjoyed it.

Please visit my blog at Breakthrough Blogs where science meets the supernatural. To contact me, my email address is stephen.trempy@yahoo.com.

Other Books by Stephen Tremp:

 The Adventures of Chase Manhattan Volume II: Opening

"Then I saw three evil spirits that looked like frogs ... they are demonic spirits that perform signs, and they go out to the kings of the whole world, to gather them for the battle." Revelation 16: 13 – 14

 The Adventures of Chase Manhattan Volume III: Escalation

"I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones." - Albert Einstein

 Salem's Daughters

A four-hundred-year-old evil is unleashed when souls of the daughters of those killed during the Salem Witch Trials find a new generation of people to murder at a popular bed and breakfast owned by a young unsuspecting couple. 
About The Author

I write Speculative Fiction and embrace science and the supernatural to help explain the universe, our place in it, and write one-of-a-kind thrillers. My novels are enhanced by discoveries, breakthroughs, and current events in many fields of science. Understanding Albert Einstein's famous equation E=MC2 explains how the natural and the supernatural co-exist and complement each other.

I have written The Breakthrough Trilogy: The Adventures of Chase Manhattan. My books have been in Barnes and Nobles and Borders Books across the country. I live in Orange County, CA with my family, a maltipoo dog, Meyer's parrot, and hamster.

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