 
# WIT-SEC FAIL

Book 6 in the George 'MAC' McClain Series

WILL DECKER

Copyright 2015 by WILL DECKER

Smashwords Edition

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

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

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

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

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

Will

More by Will Decker:

DRIVEN

UNREQUITED LOVE

FIRE BABY

HYBRID KILLERS

The 'HEÄLF' Collection:

MORTALITY REVISITED

CLONE WARS

DAY OF NIGHT

REGENERATIONS

HORSPAW

The 'Mac" Collection:

THE WITNESS

TOXIC RAIN

BETRAYAL

RECORD KEEPER

DEATH IN THE DUNES

WIT-SEC FAIL

SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed.

If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to leave a review

Authors starve or eat based on reviews. Thanking you from the pit of my stomach,

Will

Table of Contents:

Prologue

Somewhere in Oregon

Discover More by Will Decker

Prologue (of a sort)

In the first 5 episodes of Mac, as a writer I've kept him on a short moral leash. He was always pulling savagely against the restraints, but for the most part, he stayed in bounds. Yet, even then, there were some who would argue this point and claim that Mac was nothing more than a dog looking for a bitch in heat. I won't apologize to those of you who feel that way. Deal with it.

In this episode, Mac is off the proverbial leash. To protect his heart and his psyche, Mac has to let go and that includes letting go of Eddy and all the feelings he has for her. If he approaches her rescue in any other way, he will not survive the fallout of something bad happening to her.

Now I know many of you will find his behavior deplorable and for good reason. Suck it up Buttercup! Mac is a man with a very tender heart buried beneath years of witnessing atrocities inflicted on the innocent and not so innocent. The things he has seen would curl the toes of most normal people. For this reason, he does what he has always done to survive, he follows his instincts, even when they lead him into uncharted waters. No woman has ever affected Mac the way Eddy has. It goes without saying they are soulmates. So in order to protect himself psychologically from what might happen to him if something happens to Eddy, he pulls a shade down over his heart and moves forward as if he doesn't care, even allowing himself to dive into the dark depths of another woman's wiles.

And so I say, read on my faithful reader and be prepared for the unexpected, because where Mac is concerned, the unexpected is the norm.

Somewhere in Oregon

Against the advice of our attorneys and despite the US Marshal's ranting and raving over our failure to follow directives of the Witness Protection Program, we can't just up and leave without paying our debts first. Thus, Eddy and I find ourselves on a lonesome stretch of highway heading toward Vegas. Of course, Greg and Gina, our attorneys, are also very good friends and were only objecting because of the close call that Eddy and I had just survived during an unexpected confrontation with a drug cartel that felt I'd wronged them in the past. Though I know it not to be true, someone credited me with killing the son of one of their lords higher up in the cartel hierarchy. Hence, a bounty was put on my head and a few rambunctious underlings decided to prove their mettle at my expense. And though we all survived, Eddy and I spent some time recuperating in an Oregon hospital.

Today, bright and early before the sun crested the horizon, we have been released. Now, unlike the US Marshal in charge of our safety, Greg and Gina know we are not the type to simply sit back and relax when there is a debt to be paid, Wit-Sec or not. We don't hide from our enemies, they hide from us. Greg and Gina understand that if anyone should be concerned, it's the people that we go after and not the other way around.

The man we're going to Vegas for isn't what one would call a _friend_ , per se. But he did us a solid when we were in need of help and for that reason alone, we are returning the favor. His name is Norm and he owns a tavern in a small town on the Oregon coast. When he came to me in the hospital where Eddy and I were recouping from our injuries, he told me that although he didn't get along that well with his ex-wife, she always made sure to keep him involved in their son's upbringing. He went on to explain how his ex-wife believes very strongly that a boy should know his father, and for that reason if none other, he became overtly concerned when she didn't contact him for his regularly scheduled parental visit. Instead, all he got was a frantic phone call from Vegas stating that she was in trouble and worried about Mickey, their son. Then the line went dead and he hasn't been able to reach her or his 6 year old son since.

Driving south on the highway with Eddy, the woman that has come to mean more to me than life itself sitting in the passenger's seat and staring out the side window at the endless expanse of tawny desert and sage brush, I turn the radio down so we can talk. When we were released from the hospital, we rented a car from the nearest rental agency in Roseburg, Oregon, and hit the road for Vegas without so much as an idea of what we were going to do once we got there.

Larry, my trusted friend and co-conspirator on many cases, slipped me a burner phone when he and Lisa, a woman that he met on one of our cases and fell head over heels for, left the hospital for the last time before going into Witness Protection. Having worked for the government in many capacities for so many years, we weren't about to let a little thing like witness protection get in the way of staying in touch. It went without saying that if either of us ever needed help, the other would come on the run, no questions asked.

"Hey, Eddy," I say, studying her short blonde curls until she turns away from the window to meet my gaze. "You look like you're a thousand miles away. Care to share your thoughts with me?"

She smiles a contented smile at me before acknowledging my suspicions. "Just day dreaming."

I smile back, thinking ahead to what the night will bring. It's going to be our first night alone since leaving the hospital, and although I'm still weak and recuperating from multiple gunshot wounds, as is Eddy, a slow dance between the sheets is just what the doctor ordered.

"Do you have any idea where to begin when we get to Vegas?" she finally asks over the sound of the air conditioner blowing cooled air through the vents.

"Norm gave me the name and address of an ex-sister-in-law by the name of Tricia Fells that lives in Vegas. He said that his ex-wife never had much to do with her sister because of her sister's lifestyle, but I figure it's a starting point. We can stop in and find out if she's heard from her sister and nephew or not. Then go from there."

"Are we going to drive all day? I know we've only been on the road a few hours since leaving the hospital, but I'm already exhausted and I've been doing nothing but sitting here."

"Yeah, getting shot kind of takes the steam out of you, if you know what I mean," I smile over at her. "Next town we come to we'll stop and get us something to eat and then find a room for the night."

"Sounds good," she says, and then turns back to continue staring out the side window while my own thoughts turn to all the things we're going to need.

Fortunately, money isn't going to be one of our needs thanks to a wealthy benefactor we helped out not so long ago. We each received close to half a million in cash for our services, most of which will never see the inside of a bank for obvious reasons. And we'll determine what weapons will be needed when we get deeper into the case.

Case.

We're in witness protection and supposedly assuming new identities while trying to stay on the down low and I'm already referring to this favor as a _case_. Moreover, of all the places to lay low, Vegas isn't one of them. With contracts out on both Eddy and me, we should be looking for a small town somewhere in the mid-west like Minnesota or someplace equally far off the radar. Instead, we are heading smack dab into the hornet's nest of family connections with eyes everywhere.

Startling me out of my own day dreams, Eddy asks, "What's her name?"

"Who?"

"Norm's ex. I heard him refer to his son, Mickey, several times. But I never heard him mention his ex's name."

"Sally, his ex-wife. Sally Jenkins. She went back to using her maiden name when they divorced. Mickey uses Norm's last name of Unger. Sally's sister has a Vegas address and works in a club somewhere near the strip. Not sure if she's divorced or if her husband just up and left. But according to Norm, she lives alone and entertains a steady stream of different men. He didn't go so far as to say whether she charged or gave it away."

"Mac!" Eddy hisses, giving me a humbling glare while coming to the defense of a woman that she doesn't even know. "Maybe she just hasn't found Mr. Right yet."

With a smirk, I look away and smugly reply, "Well, it sounds as if she sure as hell is giving it her all."

Eddy spins on me, smacking my right arm with her closed fist before I can defend myself. Before she can pull away, though, I have hold of her arm with my right hand, and while the car swerves across the empty highway, I break out laughing uncontrollably.

Bringing the sedan back into line on our side of the road, I laughingly cry out, "Hey, that hurt."

"You can be such an ass sometimes. Just because some guy that probably doesn't even like her says that she sleeps with a lot of men, you assume she's a hooker or worse."

"You're right. That was uncalled for," I abashedly reply.

When I release my grip on her arm, she turns to stare back out the side window. It's only just past noon and the temperature outside the window is pushing 100 degrees Fahrenheit with nary a cloud in sight. We left the Roseburg, Oregon VA center around 0700 traveling south on I-5 before taking state route 58 east to 31 south. For the most part, we were traveling through hills and woods until we hit the eastern side of the Cascade mountain range. Now it's just flat desert and sage brush with the occasional big rig heading in the opposite direction.

After several minutes of silence, I ask if she would mind checking the map and seeing what's ahead. Without a word, she opens the glove box and pulls out a state map. After unfolding it between her knees and the dash, she says softly, "Paisley."

"Oregon?"

"Duh."

"Okay, let me rephrase that. How much further?"

"Looks like it's just up the road a bit. Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes."

As she refolds the map and throws it back into the glove box, I study her for a minute before saying, "I'm sorry, Eddy. That was rude of me to speak that way when I don't know the person and only have biased bullshit to base my appraisal on. It wasn't called for on my part."

"It's all right," she says, giving me a weak smile. "I didn't mean to hit you so hard. I guess, I'm just tired and hungry and that makes me irritable."

"We'll remedy that real soon, dear."

True to her words, a small grouping of buildings suddenly sprouts on the highway ahead of us. The first thing to catch my attention is a long rustic storefront on the right hand side of the highway with signs adorning the front. Among the establishments that jump out with more prominent signs, I notice right off a mercantile store and next to it a Pioneer Saloon and Restaurant. Judging by the number of old and new pickup trucks parked outside the saloon and restaurant, I figure it must be the best place in town to grab some grub and maybe even something to wash it down with.

Squeezing the sedan in between a newer Ford and a classic Chevrolet pickup, I look up to see a hand painted sign stating that breakfast is served all day. Subconsciously, I think this is my kind of place.

"Not much here," Eddy absently comments as she gathers up her purse and pushes the passenger's door open.

Stepping out and turning around to take in the entire town, I can't help but notice that most of the buildings are looking run down and in need of some kind of repair. Whether it be paint or just a general cleaning, they give the illusion of lost hopes and dreams. Despite the bright sunshine and warmth, it's depressing.

Glancing in Eddy's direction as I step toward the entrance, our gazes lock for a moment and I read the same thoughts in her eyes. Pulling the door open and letting her step ahead of me, I whisper softly in her ear as she goes by, "We'll see how we feel after we've eaten."

It isn't necessary for me to explain that I'm referring to whether or not we'll be spending any more time in this town than it takes to eat and be on our way.

The lighting is dim and the artificially cool air is redolent with cigar smoke and fried food. While Eddy takes an inconspicuous step to the right, I take an equal one to the left so that we aren't silhouetted in the doorway by the light from outside. Old habits that don't need thought as we wait for our eyes to adjust before making our way further into the interior.

There is a short, darker hallway leading to what must be the saloon on the right. To the left it's marginally brighter as it opens into a small area with tables along the right wall and a short counter along the left. Hanging on the end of the counter is another hand painted sign indicating for patrons to please take a seat. The restaurant side, though slightly brighter, is deserted. With a hand in the small of her back, I guide Eddy to the table farthest from the door but where we can both turn our backs to a wall while keeping an eye on the front door. Although it never registered in my thoughts when we pulled up, I notice now that there aren't any windows. All the lighting is artificial, a couple of long fluorescent fixtures hanging at least ten feet above our heads with dusty tin tiles a couple of feet above them.

We have barely seated ourselves when a middle-aged woman with a slender build and grey hair comes scurrying out of the hallway leading into the bar.

"Hello, folks," she says happily, pausing only long enough at the short lunch counter near the front to grab a couple of menus and napkins with silverware. "The bar just opened and Bobby is late as usual. That's our bartender. I'm covering for her until she gets here. It's usually not much of a problem during the week. We don't usually see that many customers after the local lunch crowd and most of them eat at the bar. Except for a trucker passing through, now and again, we don't get many people up front here." Pulling out a pad and pen, she hurriedly continues, "Are you all ready to order?" When we don't answer fast enough for her, she hastily continues, "I'll tell you what, I'll just run back over and check on the guys real quick and then I'll be right back while you make up your mind. The lunch special is on the board over there and we serve breakfasts all day." She pauses to catch her breath, and then says, "Okay. So take your time and I'll be right back."

Just before she reaches the hallway, she spins around and asks with a smile, "Coffee?"

"Please," I call out to her backside as she disappears down the hall.

Fortunately, we don't have a long wait before she returns with an air pot and 2 heavy ceramic mugs. "Cream and sugar is on the counter there, if you don't mind helping yourselves," she says hurriedly with an apologetic smile and a nod in the general direction of the lunch counter before turning and disappearing back down the hall.

"Poor woman seems to be the only one working," I comment wryly.

"There must be quite a crowd in the bar, judging by all the vehicles outside," Eddy adds with a note of empathy for the poor woman while filling the mugs with coffee.

Taking my cup, I sip cautiously at the steaming liquid and am immediately surprised by the rich, robust flavor. "If the food's half as good as the coffee, we're in for a real treat," I say over the rim of my mug before taking a swallow. Setting my mug on the table, I rise while looking around in search of a sign indicating the restrooms.

As if reading my mind, Eddy says, "They're probably on the bar side."

"Yeah," I agree, not seeing anything in my cursory search of the restaurant proper. "I'll be right back. You want me to bring you anything from the bar?"

"No, I'm good. I just want something to eat, hopefully today," she grins before placing her mug to her lips.

The heels of my boots thump loudly down the short hallway leading into a darker, smoke-filled room with a bar to the left, a small dance floor with several tables placed around it, and farther toward the rear, low hanging parlor lights highlighting a couple of pool tables. When I see two doors on the far wall past the bar with a jukebox positioned between them like a sentry, I continue moving in that direction.

My passing causes several of the patrons seated at the bar to turn and look, almost as if they are expecting more of their drinking buddies to show. I nod politely and keep moving. Just before I reach the door to the right of the jukebox with a placard signifying it's the men's room, I glance furtively around the bar, noting that the non-smoking laws obviously don't apply to a place this far out in the middle of nowhere.

My glance takes in seven men lined up along the bar and the grey haired lady wiping the bartop with a white terrycloth towel. She glances at me with a smile as I stroll past. All the men perched on stools at the bar are wearing some manner of work apparel ranging from jeans and plaid shirts to coveralls and plaid shirts. Most of the men are nursing tap beers in sweating mason jars while a couple have longnecks on coasters. Clearly hard working men that know the value of a dollar. Behind the bar is the usual display of finer whiskeys and such as well as the usual neon advertising signs typical of any liquor dispensing establishment.

To my surprise, the restroom is relatively clean with the faint fragrance of pine hanging in the air. After taking care of business, I'm standing in front of the sink with wet hands when I see myself staring back at me from the mirror. My stay in the hospital took a few pounds off my six-foot-four frame and my face appears gaunter than I was aware. Moreover, I'm already showing a dark shadow lining my squared off jaw despite having just shaved before heading out this morning. Then I realize that the hair on my face only appears darker because my skin is so pale from being locked up indoors while recouping from my injuries.

"Damn, you look like shit," I mumble to myself before turning away and pulling several brown paper towels out of the dispenser mounted on the wall to the right of the sink and drying my hands.

When I head back through the bar toward the restaurant, no one turns to pay me any mind. The grey haired lady is still behind the bar and gives me a tentative smile when I make eye contact with her. Yet, she doesn't make a move in the direction of the restaurant side of the business. Oh well, at least we have coffee, I think to myself.

As my boots clump loudly up the short, plank-floor hallway, I look expectantly around the corner in the direction of our table for Eddy's smile. But instead of seeing Eddy smiling back at me, I see an empty table with 2 mugs of coffee and an air pot.

Instinctively, I push open the front door and glance outside. Seeing nothing moving, I let it swing shut and continue on to our table while thinking that she must have decided to use the restroom also. When I see her purse abandoned on the chair next to the one she'd been sitting on, my heart climbs up my throat and I suddenly can't breathe. Frozen in place for mere seconds that drag like hours, I'm aware of a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead when I abruptly hear the front door opening and spin around, expecting to see Eddy.

But instead of Eddy, a nice looking woman in her mid to late forties, wearing tight denim jeans and a cowboy style shirt with a black cowboy hat perched atop a head of shoulder length, auburn hair strides in looking harried. Pulling off a pair of dark shades, she pauses when she sees me staring at her, the look on my face one of desperation and panic.

"Sir, are you okay?" she asks, stopping in her tracks while dropping the shades into a purse hanging off her right shoulder.

Scooping up Eddy's purse, I hurry toward her, startling her into backing up against the wall while raising her hands in a defensive posture, a look of fear sprouting in her clear eyes. "Did you see anyone when you came in?" I demand, grabbing her firmly by the upper arm and dragging her back out through the door to the street.

Frantically, I look in both directions. The highway is empty, not a single moving car in sight for as far as the eye can see.

"Sir, you're scaring me."

The sound of her voice right next to me reminds me that I'm still gripping her forearm. Without her sunglasses on, I notice her eyes are hazel with flecks of gold. And though she could have pulled away from me and screamed for help, drawing the attention of the patrons sitting just inside the bar, she doesn't. Instead, she meets my gaze and returns it. The fear of just moments prior has been replaced with concern.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, my mind racing. "Can you do something for me?"

"Sure, but let me check in first. I'm already running late for work," she replies with a tenuous smile.

When she doesn't move for a moment, I realize that I'm still gripping her arm. Embarrassedly, I apologize again, releasing her arm and following her back inside and down the short hallway to the bar.

"It's about time," calls out the grey haired waitress from behind the bar, giving Bobby an impatient look as she throws down the bar towel that she'd been wiping glasses with and storms out from behind the bar, intent on returning to the restaurant.

As she passes me, I stop her with a hand on her arm and ask if she noticed the lady with me going through the bar to the restroom.

"No, can't say as I have," she replies curtly, her demeanor impatient. "As you can see, I've been kind of busy here."

With that said, she brushes off my hand and continues down the short hallway to the restaurant. Turning toward the bar, I notice all the men have pivoted on their stools and are looking in my direction, clearly ready to come to the grey haired waitress's aid if she needs it.

Taking advantage of the situation, I raise my voice and say, "While I have your attention, did anyone notice a woman with curly blonde hair come through here?"

"Nope," says a large man in tan Carhart coveralls.

When no one else responds, I ask again, "Are you sure?"

"Trust me, Mr., I think we'd remember a woman if she came through here. Wouldn't we boys?" he says loudly, smiling good naturedly toward the stranger, namely me.

Looking with pleading eyes toward the barmaid, I ask as calmly as I can, "Would you mind checking the ladies room?"

"She didn't come through here," the man says again, only more forcefully and the smile now gone as if I've accused him of lying.

When I look back at him, my eyes giving away my growing anger and impatience, he turns on the stool and faces forward. The others to either side of him immediately follow suit. Looking toward Bobby, my eyes silently pleading with her, she smiles wanly and says, "Give me a minute."

Wordlessly, I nod my thanks and take a step toward the middle of the dance floor, setting myself in a position to see straight into the ladies room when she opens the door.

"Anyone need anything?" she asks her patrons at the bar. When all she gets for a response is 'no thanks' and 'I'm good', she picks up the dropped bar towel and goes around the far end of the bar, dropping the towel in a basket just for dirty towels.

Glancing at me, she strides to the ladies restroom door to the left of the jukebox and pushes her way through. Before it can swing shut behind her, I close the distance and plant a foot near the hinge side to stop it swinging.

"Anything?" I ask as she pushes against the only two stall doors to check inside them.

"No, I'm sorry," she quickly replies when she sees the deflated look on my face. "They were right, there isn't anyone in here."

"Thanks anyway," I say heading back through the bar.

When I get to the restaurant, I pause long enough to study the vacant table before heading out the front door. Out in the parking lot, I slowly walk past the rented four-door sedan, looking through the windows on the off chance Eddy needed to lie down and simply forgot her purse. But the car is empty and just the way we'd left it.

Walking past it, I continue until I'm standing out in the middle of the highway, looking first to the north and then southward. The highway is deserted in both directions for as far as the eye can see.

My legs begin shaking and then fail me entirely. This can't be happening. Falling to my knees, I softly cry, my tears striking the hot asphalt and then drying just as fast.

"Where the hell are you, Eddy?"

*1*

"Larry, it's Mac," I rasp softly into the phone, my voice barely more than a whisper as it threatens to desert me completely. I'm sitting at a table in the restaurant, a glass of rum sitting untouched before me. It's been more than three hours since I'd last seen Eddy.

"Where are you?" A moment of drawn out silence, and then, "You know this phone was only meant to be used if you run into trouble?"

"Damn it, Larry. They got Eddy," I cry, my voice cracking with emotion.

Larry hears the strain in my voice and knows right away it's not a joke.

His voice calm and controlled, he says, "I'm sorry, Mac. Where are you? We're on our way."

"I'm in Paisley, Oregon. But she isn't here. The locals checked all the abandoned buildings around town for me." I pause to take a deep breath and gather my wits before continuing. Just the sound of his voice is comforting. "We were heading to Vegas to find out what's going on with Norm's ex and his kid. You remember him? He owns the tavern in Florence."

"Yeah, I remember. I didn't know he had a kid or anything, but you can tell me about that when we get there."

Continuing as if I hadn't heard him, I say, "We stopped here for a bite to eat and possibly spend the night. I left her for just a minute while I went to the restroom. When I came back, she was gone."

"Have you contacted the Marshal's Service yet?"

"No. And I told the locals here not to call in the state troopers or county sheriff's either. But I'm sure that's going to change real quick. They're suspecting something fishy is going on and I can't give them any explanations without blowing our cover entirely."

"What's your gut feeling Mac?"

"I don't know, Larry. I just don't know. I still can't believe she's not here. It seems like we were just driving down the highway together and now she's gone. I can't get my head around it," I cry, a feeling of helplessness threatening to overwhelm me.

"Take a deep breath, Mac," he says, his voice calm, all things considered. Eddy is like a kid sister to him and he would gladly sacrifice himself for her if he had a choice. "Relax. Think it through for a minute."

Surprisingly, I find myself taking his advice and I breathe slowly, inhaling deeply, willing myself to relax. "Okay, Mac. Let's try this again," he says, his voice soft and soothing. If you had to venture a guess, where would they take her?"

"Vegas."

"That makes sense, Mac," he says, the tone of his voice egging me on. "What then?"

"They're after me, not her. If they harm her, it's only to hurt me," I breathe.

"That's right, Mac. And I know you blame yourself, but you can't let it get to you. You need to keep a clear head. Think. Based on what we know, what do we need to do next?"

"I need to get to Vegas," I mumble, my thoughts trying to get ahead of me. "I've already wasted too much time here. Maybe if I drive fast enough, I can still overtake them," I rattle on. "They might stop for the night and I can catch up."

"No Mac, slowdown!" Larry's voice blares over the phone. "Think about it for a minute. If they knew where you and Eddy were, then someone in Witness Protection had to have tipped them off. Someone told them where you were and when you were leaving the hospital. It had to be an orchestrated operation. This was planned out ahead of time. Did you see anyone following you or leaving about the same time you and Eddy did? Anything suspicious at all?"

"Nothing," I reply, my thoughts reliving the morning events leading up to our departure.

There's a moment of silence before he continues, "They may have been following in a plane or a helicopter." He pauses to catch his breath. "Shit, they could already be in Vegas."

"I can't lose her, Larry."

"You won't lose her, Mac. We'll get her back."

"What do we do now?" I ask, still unable to form a coherent thought.

"We either wait for them to contact you, or we head to Vegas and try to get a step ahead of them," he says without hesitation, his thoughts forming into a plan of action much quicker than mine. "I can pick you up in the helicopter or meet you in Vegas."

"You can't get to the birds, remember? US Marshal's Service confiscated them."

"Fuck them!" he hisses into the phone. "They were also supposed to keep you and Eddy safe."

"We can't blame them because Eddy and I decided to slip out of their box, Larry."

"We can blame them for somebody in their organization selling you out, Mac. It's irrelevant that you're not on their plan. No one should have known when and where you went when you left their offices this morning."

"I'm heading to Vegas, Larry, before the locals here get me tied up with the local authorities. I'll text you the information I have on Norm's ex-sister-in-law and let you know when I'm getting close," I tell him, relaxing for the first time since finding Eddy missing. It's now almost 4 PM and it dawns on me that I haven't eaten anything since last evening at the hospital. A bowl of oatmeal, toast, orange slices, and jello to wash it all down. Not exactly a rib-sticking, hearty meal. "I'm going to get some food to go and then I'm out of here."

"Lisa and I'll hook up with you in Vegas. Stay alert and watch your six." There's a long pause before he adds, "We'll get her back safe and sound, Mac. That's what we do. Remember?"

Setting the cellphone on the table, I notice for the first time that Bobby is standing behind the lunch counter watching me. "Where's the other lady?" I ask, studying her.

"We trade off right before the end of her shift," she says as if that explains everything. When I give her a quizzical look, she goes on to explain, "Betty watches the bar from 4 to 5. Her husband comes in right before 5 to pick her up and has a beer with the boys before they head home. My shift starts at 11, right before the lunch crowd. I work the bar until 4 and then come out here until 10. On weekends, or when it's busy, I'll keep the kitchen open until around 2 in the morning. If it's slow, I get out of here at 10."

"If you say so," I reply, almost wishing I hadn't asked. "Can I get something to go?"

Sauntering over with an exaggerated swing in her hips, she pulls an order pad out of her apron and replies, "That depends, where ya going?"

Her reply catches me off guard, and I look back at her dumbfounded.

"Excuse me?"

Talking real slow and emphasizing each word as if speaking to someone that doesn't understand English, she says, "You-asked-me-if-you-can-get-something-to-go-and-I-said-that-depends-on-where-ya-going. Did I stutter?"

"Look Miss."

"It's Bobby."

"Okay, Bobby. I'm Mac and it's been a long day. As I'm sure you're well aware, my partner disappeared from right here inside this restaurant," I start, speaking slow and emphasizing each word in the same manner that she did to me while my anger begins simmering right below the surface. "I'm really not in the mood for your smartass remarks. So unless you know something about her disappearance, I suggest you simply take my order so I can get the hell out of here."

"Sorry," she says chastised. "I only meant to lighten the mood. I've been watching you all day and I couldn't help but notice how torn up you are. I really didn't mean anything by it. Sorry."

Still watching her, I suddenly feel bad for snapping at her. She was only trying to make me feel better. There's no way she can understand what I'm going through.

"Yeah, I'm sorry too. Maybe we can start over."

"Okay, I can do that," she says with a smile, taking a deep breath and exhaling. "Now, what can I get you?"

"How about a couple of burgers, large fries, onion rings, and a thermos of coffee." When she finishes writing and starts to turn away, I whisper softly with a wink, "What are the odds of you hiding a bottle of your best West Indies rum in that order to go?"

"I can't do that," she blurts without pause.

"I've got a hundred dollar bill here that says I don't need the change if you can make it happen." When she licks her lower lip and hesitates, I softly add, "It'll be our little secret. No one has to know. Just you and me."

With a smirk, she grabs the bill from my extended hand and spins around, heading down the hallway toward the bar. Despite my angst over Eddy's disappearance, I can't help but notice the way her snug fitting jeans hug her nicely shaped ass as she walks away.

The thought combined with my physical reaction to watching her backside swish down the short hallway brings on a fresh bout of guilt, a feeling that I'd already been harboring due to Eddy's disappearance. I can't help but feel that I never should have left her alone and Larry is probably thinking the same thing, though he would never say it to my face.

Yet, a man has to relieve himself at some point.

Lowering my head onto my arms crossed on the tabletop, I continue chastising myself for letting my guard down. It isn't necessary for Larry to blame me for Eddy's disappearance, I'm doing that well enough on my own.

Lost in my thoughts and overcome with fatigue, I close my eyes for just a moment when I'm suddenly aware of a hand on my shoulder. Moving with the reflexes of a much younger man, I spin upward off the table, my right hand reaching up and closing around the wrist attached to the hand on my shoulder.

A startled gasp escapes her lips at the same moment that I realize it's only Bobby as she jumps backward, knocking over the chair behind her with a startled look of surprise on her face.

"I'm sorry," we both say in unison while I continue holding her by the wrist to prevent her falling over the upturned chair.

When her expression turns to a smile and she lets out a small laugh, I release my grip on her wrist and step past her, righting the chair while saying, "Here, have a seat."

When she doesn't hesitate to accept my offer and sits down in it, I turn back to my own chair and drop heavily onto it next to her.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she says apologetically, her demeanor suggesting she wants to say more but isn't sure of herself.

"It's okay. I hope I didn't hurt you," I reply, nodding toward her right wrist that she's subconsciously holding with her left hand.

Self-consciously, she quickly releases her wrist and holds it up for my inspection, "No, no, it's fine." And then hurriedly adds with a nod of her head in the direction of a large brown sack setting across the table from me. "I brought you your food to go."

"Thank you," I say with a smile, pushing back from the table and standing. "Judging from the size of the bag, can I assume you were able to fill my order?"

She hesitantly looks around even though we are the only two in the room before saying, "I don't want you to think I was eavesdropping, but I heard you mention that you were going to Vegas."

"Yeah, I guess that's so."

"Well," she starts, "that's a long drive, so I threw in a little extra for the trip."

She is clearly nervous about something and having a hard time broaching it.

"That's okay," I acknowledge, thinking she's trying to tell me that the hundred I gave her isn't enough. Reaching into my pocket, I say, "If you need more money..."

"Oh no," she quickly blurts, self-consciously reaching out and placing her hand on my arm to arrest it before pulling back and looking around nervously. "You have been more than generous."

Pulling my hand from my pocket and lowering myself back onto the chair facing her, I meet her gaze and slowly ask, "Then, would you mind spitting out what's on your mind? It's like you've said, I've a long drive ahead of me and I really do need to get going."

Still nervous with maybe even a hint of fear in her gold flecked eyes, I patiently wait for her to explain what's going on. And though I don't want to read more into it than there really is, I begin wondering if she knows something or saw something regarding Eddy's disappearance and my heart rate speeds up a few beats.

Sounding harsher than I intend, I bluntly ask, "Do you know something about Eddy's disappearance that you're not sharing?"

Without realizing that I've done so, I'm standing over her, my fists clenched at my sides. "If you know anything, you better come clean," I order her, moving in closer.

"Oh no," she cries out, understanding flashing across her face at the realization I've misread her hesitancy for something other than it is. "No, no, I would tell you if I saw or knew anything. Really," she adds, her voice sincere.

There is hurt in her eyes, but no longer fear.

Relaxing and taking a step back, I reach across the table for the brown sack when she suddenly blurts, "Take me with you."

Her words stop me in my tracks and I turn to appraise her anew. After a long moment of silence, I lower my hands to the table top and slowly drop back onto the chair, my eyes holding her gaze as new suspicions press to the forefront of my thoughts.

"How long have you worked here?" I ask, believing that she can't be involved in Eddy's disappearance if she's been working here for any length of time.

"A week. Why?" she replies, perplexed by the question. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"How long have you lived in this town?"

"I don't actually live ' _in this town_ '. I'm staying with some friends that live in the area." She hesitates for a moment as understanding blooms, and then studies me suspiciously before continuing. "You can't actually suspect that I have something to do with your friend's disappearance?"

"Then what is it? What did you want to say to me?"

"I was just asking you to take me with you," she blurts suddenly, rising to her feet and inhaling deeply as if trying to calm herself.

Rising to my feet again, I reach across the table for the brown sack, ignoring her last comment. It came from so far out in left field that it doesn't even merit a reply. Pulling the sack into my embrace, I step around her without meeting her gaze and head toward the door.

Before I can push it open, I notice out of the peripheral of my vision that she has pulled the apron off and flung it at the counter before falling in closely on my heels. When I get outside, I abruptly stop and turn to face her, the door swinging shut with a bang that causes her to jump closer toward me.

Though I am facing her and there are just mere inches separating us, I can tell the street is empty in both directions. The pickups that were outside the saloon earlier have headed home for the day. After the earlier flurry of activity where they drove around town checking out all the deserted and abandoned buildings in search of Eddy, most never returned. Those that did were treated to free beer on my tab, which I settled up before ordering the food to go.

"You can't be serious," I growl, trying my damnedest to intimidate her.

"I won't be in the way and I can spell you behind the wheel," she pleads in her defense, not in the least bit intimidated by my angry growl. "Besides, I packed enough extra food to feed four people."

Studying her for a long minute, I finally say what's on my mind. "Listen, Bobby, I don't mean to sound harsh. But as I'm sure you're well aware of the fact that you're a very good looking woman. And as such, I imagine you don't have a problem getting most men of any age to do your bidding. But aren't you a little old to be flitting around the countryside footloose and fancy free only to go off to Vegas with a man you don't even know?"

Instead of taking offense, she smiles coyly and says, "Are you saying that I should be afraid of you? Because if you are, it's not going to happen. I happen to be a very good judge of character, something I learned in this advanced age of mine," she replies mockingly. "And I think you're a good man, despite your own advanced years." She reaches out and with a smirk on her lips, slips the brown sack out of my grasp and turns toward the rental car saying, "So, are these your wheels?"

*2*

Sitting in the passenger's seat that Eddy occupied just hours earlier is Bobby, the brown sack on her lap with her hand inside sorting through the individually wrapped food in search of a burger and condiments. In the back seat is her luggage, a red carryon and a small suitcase that's seen better days. She travels light. And no one bothered to come to the door to see her off when we stopped at her friend's place to get her things. A bit odd, but I didn't feel it was my place to question it.

After handing me a burger, the aroma causing my stomach to grumble with anticipation, she continues digging through the bottom of the bag for a condiment before looking up in exasperation and asking, "Do you really need ketchup on your burger?"

"Don't worry about it," I reply, peeling open the wax-paper wrapper with my left hand while holding the burger and the steering wheel in my right, my mouth now watering.

Holding the wheel with my left hand, I put the burger to my mouth and take a huge bite, savoring the juicy meat and crisp onion flavor.

"Damn, this is good," I mumble, chewing on a mouthful and biting off another large chunk.

"Here," she says, offering me an opened bottle of water. "Wash it down before you choke."

When I look for a place to set the remaining piece of burger so I can take the proffered water, she reaches over and takes it with her other hand. "Thanks," I smile, still chewing.

After washing down the mouthful of burger, I trade the water back for the remaining burger and continue doing this routine until the burger is gone. "Wow, I haven't had anything that good in ages."

"Here, I'll hold on to these and you can just help yourself," she says, balancing a paper sack of fries within my reach. "You know, it's probably the freshness of the beef that makes them taste so good. But we actually get that a lot from people passing through."

"Or it might just be that I haven't had anything except hospital food for the last 2 weeks. After that crap, everything tastes good."

"That explains a lot," she says, studying me with renewed interest.

"What does that mean?"

"Your pale complexion, sunken eyes like someone that has just suffered through something. Your whole demeanor reeks of captivity or hospital stay."

"Captivity?" I chuckle, taking a few more fries and stuffing them in my mouth while contemplating her comment. "Yeah, I can see that. But if you had believed that for one minute, you wouldn't have insisted on riding along with me to Vegas."

"Oh, I don't know," she says with a small grin as she drops the rest of the fries back into the brown sack and pulls out a bottle of West Indies rum. "Maybe I just like bad boys."

Shaking my head and grinning back at her, I say, "I don't know about bad boys, but I do know you're turning out to be a bad influence."

Before she opens the bottle, she asks, "Do you wanna pull over so I can drive? Or do you plan on risking a DUI?"

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have given it much thought. But under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have been this fatigued.

Looking longingly at the bottle and realizing how little it would take to put me to sleep, I hesitate. "You don't trust me. Do you?" she asks with that smirk on her face again.

"Are you always like this?" I ask, exasperated.

"Like what?" she asks, concentrating on opening the bottle. With the cap off, she puts the opening directly beneath her nose and inhales. "Doesn't smell half bad."

"What? You've never had rum before?"

"I'm a beer and whiskey kind of gal, if you know what I mean."

Studying her for a minute as she puts the mouth of the bottle to her lips and takes a tentative sip, I comment, "Yeah, I can see that." Until just this minute, I hadn't noticed the proud outline of her breasts against the smooth cotton of the cowboy styled blouse. They're not the largest and wouldn't have caught the attention of most men, but they're proud.

The cowboy hat is on the backseat with her other things, the shades covering her eyes giving her an exotic look. A couple of inches shorter than me, but with curves in just the right places. For a woman in her mid-forties, she is holding up very well. Even with her hair matted against her head from wearing the hat, she's kinda sexy when you take in the whole package.

The horizon to the west is turning many shades of purples and pinks with oranges thrown in for good measure. The sun will be down in a couple of hours. Just up ahead, I can make out a wide spot in the road where big rigs will probably be pulling over for the night. As we near it, I let off the gas and coast over to the side of the road, a plume of dust rising in the dry air behind us.

As soon as the car comes to a complete stop, she hands me the bottle and I push the door open and step out to stretch my legs.

"Does this mean I'm driving?"

"Yeah," I reply, looking down the highway in the direction from which we'd just come while putting the bottle to my lips and taking a long swallow. The heat on my face pales compared to the smooth warmth of the rum as it rolls down my throat and into my belly. Almost immediately, I feel more relaxed than I have since leaving the hospital. Actually, more relaxed than I've felt in weeks.

She strolls around the sedan and looks off down the highway, following my eyes. "Whatcha looking at?"

Startling me out of my reverie, I sputter, "Nothing. Just thinking."

"Well, it doesn't look as if we're being followed."

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing," I reply, taking another swallow of rum before retrieving the burner phone and checking for service. It goes through my mind that whoever has Eddy probably has this number, too. There's no reason for her not to give her captors the number. After all, how else will they be able to contact me to set up negotiations?

And then again, if they knew all along that we would be traveling to Vegas to pay back a debt, they could have planted Bobby. In fact, with their resources, they could have planted 'Bobby's' along all the routes from Eugene to Vegas to cover their bases.

"Now what?" she suddenly asks, noticing me staring at her again. "You still don't trust me, do you?" she asks with a tinge of annoyance.

"I said you can drive."

"It's the way you're looking at me." She pauses for a moment before adding, "I almost wish we would see someone following us. Maybe then, you'd believe I'm just what I appear to be."

"And what would that be?"

"Fuck you!" she screams as she turns and climbs into the driver's seat, her composure breaking as she leans her head against the wheel and breaks down in sobs.

The chivalrous side of me wants to go to her, to comfort her and make the tears stop. But the realistic side of me simply puts the bottle to my lips and takes another long swallow before saying in a voice loud enough for her to hear without having to move toward her, "When the water show is over, we'll get going."

"Fuck you," she cries weakly without lifting her head. "You're all the same."

That was pretty harsh of me and I'm suddenly regretting my callous act. Especially since there is nothing concrete to suggest she was waiting for Eddy and me to show up in Paisley of all places. Losing Eddy so suddenly is causing me to exhibit paranoid characteristics, which is not me.

Moving over to the passenger's side and sliding into the seat, I look across at her. She looks straight ahead, her eyes puffy and her cheeks glistening with tears, her hands trembling slightly on the wheel with each indrawn breath. "Look Bobby, I'm sorry for being so hard on you. I've just been under a lot of stress today."

Shaking her head side to side, she rasps hoarsely, "It's not just you."

"Here," I say, handing her an opened bottle of water. "Wet your whistle."

Turning a small smile of appreciation toward me, she accepts the water and takes a small sip before saying, "I'm sorry." Laughing weakly, she sits up and pushes a few strands of damp hair behind an ear. "You're probably wondering what kind of a psycho broad I must be."

"I'm not thinking any such thing," I softly deny, reaching over and wiping a fresh tear from her cheek with the back of my thumb. "I am wondering what you meant by we're all the same, though."

Her smile lights up her face as she explains again that she's sorry. "I really didn't mean that. You're actually very different from most men. I can see that."

When I move my hand away from her face, she tenderly grabs it and moves it up to her lips, kissing the back of my fingers softly before letting go, her eyes on me sparkling with electric desire. Despite the air conditioner running softly in the background, I feel the temperature rising within the confines of the sedan and grow aware of the collar of my shirt sticking to the back of my neck. The air is suddenly charged with sexual tension as our eyes meet.

We hold each other's gaze for a moment longer, and then I break the silence, reaching over and placing a hand on her right thigh, gauging her reaction to the touch before pulling it away and saying, "We need to get a move on." Dropping the bottle of rum into the sack on the floorboards between my feet, I reach in and retrieve another burger wrapped in wax paper. "You want one for the road?" I ask, sitting up and extending it toward her.

Her expression turns cool as she faces ahead, turning her head just enough to check the side mirror before putting it in drive and stepping down harder than necessary on the accelerator. The rear tires kick up a bunch of dust and gravel as she pulls back onto the asphalt.

I'm still holding the burger out to her even though it's become crystal clear that she isn't interested in any damned burger. "Okay," I say, turning my attention to the burger and the wrapper.

Yet, before I get it unwrapped, I realize I don't really have an appetite for it and drop it back into the paper sack. "I'm going to catch some shuteye. If you see anything suspicious or need a break, just wake me."

Though she wants to give me the cold shoulder, she realizes the futility of it if I'm sound asleep and instead asks, "What would you classify as suspicious?"

With my eyes closed and my body pressed back into the seat, I can't help but smile before answering her. "If someone overtakes us and doesn't pass, that would be suspicious. If a car coming toward us suddenly turns around and falls in behind, that would be suspicious. If you see an airplane or helicopter keeping pace with us, that would be suspicious. Anything that raises the short hairs on the back of your neck, that makes it suspicious and you wake me. Got that?"

"Do I have short hairs on the back of my neck?" she asks, overly concerned.

Opening an eye to look over at her, I see her running a hand across the back of her neck and I can't help but laugh.

"Are you serious? Can you see them?" she asks, trying to see the back of her neck in the rearview mirror. "Do they look bad?"

After a moment of me chuckling at her reaction, she gives me a stern look and says, "You're pulling my leg, aren't you? There isn't any hair growing out of the back of my neck."

Feigning a closer inspection, I lean toward her before falling back into the seat, saying, "Oh no."

"What?" she asks, practically in a panic. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," I reply, staring straight ahead while feigning seriousness.

On the verge of panic, she looks across at me, "It's something! I can tell by the way you're acting. What is it?"

Still feigning seriousness, I turn to look at her and in a solemn tone of voice say, "You don't have any hair growing out of the back of your neck." When she visibly relaxes, I add, "It's coming up past your collar from your back."

She continues looking at me perplexed for a moment before my façade finally breaks and I burst out laughing. Her expression transforms from confusion to anger right before my eyes.

"You ass!" she hisses, turning back to stare down the highway with daggers jumping out of her eyes.

*3*

The lack of conversation and the hum of the tires combined with my overwhelming fatigue quickly lulls me into a deep sleep. In my unconscious state, I have no idea how much time has passed when the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires breaks the monotonous rhythm of the highway and I slowly open my eyes. Night has settled on the land and we are surrounded in all directions by absolute darkness. Turning my head to look out the side window, I see only my reflection in the glass staring back at me illuminated by the green glow of the dash lights.

The car rocks slightly and then comes to a complete stop. Turning toward Bobby, I see the outline of her face in the dash lights in the moment before she kills them along with the engine. My mouth is dry and my tongue is plastered to the roof of it. I swallow drily, trying to create enough saliva to clear the sleep from my voice and ask, "What's going on? Is everything all right?"

Though I ask her these questions, there is no concern in my voice as I can tell we are alone. With the lights off, I can see a sky full of stars through the windshield and I wonder if Eddy is someplace where she can see them too.

Reaching into the back, I grab a bottle of water and offer it over to Bobby, tapping it lightly against her arm to get her attention.

"No thanks," she says, her voice barely audible.

Twisting off the top and taking a swallow, I start to ask her what time it is when she says softly, "I can't go on like this."

Though I suspect she is about to tell me something that she's been mulling over for quite a few miles, I acknowledge her with a simple, "Okay." When she doesn't say anything more for a minute, I look back in her direction and say, "You've obviously been thinking on something for a while now. Want to share?"

As if she didn't hear me, she says, "I think it would be best if we part ways when we reach Vegas."

"Okay," I slowly reply, dragging the word out. I'm not sure what she was thinking when I allowed her to ride along, but obviously she read more into it than I had as it has always been my intention to only let her stay with me until we reached Vegas. There was never going to be anything more, least of all, any kind of a relationship.

Rather than explain the obvious to her, I decide to let her think that it's her call. I don't feel like I'm being completely honest with her, yet it seems like the simplest way to avoid any conflict.

"I've been thinking about it and I think if we just go our separate ways in Vegas we'll both be better off," she says with finality.

"If you thinks that's best, I'm okay with it," I respond with an even tone, trying to figure out why or where she got the impression there was more going on between us than there is. After a moment of awkward silence, I suggest we take advantage of the dark. "I'm going to relieve myself," I start, pushing the door open and feeling the cool night air on my face. "You might want to consider doing the same."

Stepping out, I stroll back along the edge of the road for a minute, breathing deeply of the desert air, feeling refreshed by the scent of sage intermingled with something not quite so pleasant, but more natural. After relieving the pressure in my bladder, I suddenly wonder if she might take off without me and give myself a quick shake to dry it when I hear her door open.

While I slip it back in my pants, I notice the sound of her western boots crunching on the gravel as she heads right toward me.

"You might find more privacy in the other direction," I say to alert her to my position and warn her off.

"Oh, so you can flip on the headlights and embarrass me?" she flippantly remarks. "As you pointed out earlier, this isn't my first time around the block."

"As I recall, I made that remark in the light of how well you looked, all things considered."

"Do you really think I look good, all things considered?" she asks, slowly circling around me in the dark.

"I think you look real good and I think enough men hit on you to make you well aware of that fact," I reply softly, turning around in a circle to keep her in front of me.

"Dance with me," she whispers softly, placing a hand lightly on my arm and pulling herself in close.

Acutely aware of her breasts pressing against my chest, I take her by the arms and gently push her back, saying, "Bobby, we really don't have time for this."

"You said that with me along spelling you on the driving, you would make much better time than if you had to stop and rest along the way. So I'm thinking we got us a little time to stretch our legs and breathe in some of this fresh night air tinted with cow."

She wraps her arms around my waist and pulls herself back against me. "That's what that other smell is," I comment, not pushing her away this time. "I was wondering about that."

"Yep, it's all the free range cattle poop that you're smelling." She pauses for a second before repeating her earlier request that now sounds more like a demand. "Dance with me, Mac."

As if to accent her comment, the sound of a bellowing steer drifts in on the night. "Come on Bobby," I say, trying to steer her back toward the car.

But she twists and spins slowly, dragging me around with her in a crude, stumbling form of dance. "Relax and just go with it," she whispers, her head tucked under my chin, the smell of lavender shampoo and cigar smoke filling my nostrils.

Instead of fighting it, I roll with her moves, letting her lead to a music that I'm not hearing. After a minute, I ask her, "Why is it so important that we dance?"

"You have to dance with me before I'll fuck you," she simply replies as if that explains everything.

Taken aback by her remark, I again grab her by the arms and try to hold her at arm's length. But she continues moving, twirling at the end of my arms in the dark.

"I'm not going to fuck you," I finally blurt, though there's no conviction in my words.

At the sound of my voice, she shimmies up against me, her breasts rubbing against my chest, her breath rasping in my ear before she whispers softly, taking my hand and sliding it through her unbuttoned shirt so that it rests over a bare breast, "What if I said please, with sugar on top?"

This time, I don't pull away, though my mind is screaming silent warnings at me that I'm making a serious and dangerous mistake. Instead, I roll the nipple between my thumb and forefinger, eliciting a small intake of breath from her while relishing the way it grows into a rock hard pebble the size of a forty-five bullet.

Her breath becomes ragged and her tongue slides along the side of my neck as her lips move closer to mine. There is a painful swelling in my jeans that I haven't experienced since before being shot. My own heart is beginning to beat against my chest as I slip my free hand down to the front of her jeans, pulling the button free and pushing the zipper down. While still rolling her hardened nipple between my right thumb and forefinger, my left hand pushes her jeans down over her hips before slowly, softly slipping in between her thighs.

Our mouths come together and she slips her tongue over my lips, her breathing hoarse and ragged in my ear when she suddenly jerks, and then moans longingly as my fingers find her sensitive nub.

"Oh god," she moans, her hands moving frantically to undo the front of my jeans.

When her fingers fail to undo my pants fast enough, I release her nipple and reach down to deftly undo the constraints of my jeans, leaving them for her to push down over my lean hips as my hand slides up the silky flesh of her tummy, working its way back to her breast.

While my right hand cups her full breast, my left is gently rubbing her sex nub, working her into a frenzy of sexual abandon and desire. With her hands on my hips, she pushes my jeans down around my knees, slowly following them down with a network of kisses down my chest until her mouth finds my solid manhood.

Without pause, she takes me into her mouth with a desire I haven't experienced from a woman in a long while. A long moan escapes her lips as her hands massage my balls. Still feeling slightly uncomfortable and a little more than guilty at the entire situation, I softly rest my hands on the back of her moving head, entwining my fingers in her hair and arching my back as I fight to control the mounting climax.

Just as I feel I can't hold back any longer and I'm about to explode, she releases my manhood from her mouth and rises up, her hands continuing to keep my interest until she raises her left leg up along my right thigh and guides me into her wanton womanhood.

She is slick with desire and I slide right in, the size and length of my shaft causing her to gasp. Instinctively, my right hand moves down and grasps the firm flesh of her left leg just beneath the thigh to keep her from slipping away while my left hand reaches around and grabs the right cheek of her smooth ass and squeezes hard, pulling myself deeper into her.

"Oh, baby," she moans, her ass moving in rhythm to my thrusts.

Sliding my left hand down below her ass and grabbing her beneath the other thigh, I lift her up off the ground and she immediately wraps her legs around my waist, driving the full length of my shaft into her.

Throwing her head back and waving her right arm from side to side while holding tightly to the back of my neck with her left hand as if riding a wild bronco, she arches her back to take all of me while trusting me to hold her tight and not let her fall. A loud scream erupts from her throat, shattering the stillness of the night, her passion unrestrained as she jerks spasmodically with each wave of her climax on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere with only the dark for cover.

The spasmodic clenching of her body on mine becomes too much for me, and before the final wave of her climax passes over her, I explode in a violent eruption of pent up passion, leaving me weak in the knees.

With the fingers of her hands intertwined at the back of my neck and her legs still wrapped around my waist, she hangs limply off the front of me, my jeans in a puddle around my boots. Without realizing that I'm even doing it, my hands are massaging the smooth flesh of her ass while my mouth hunts out her full breasts, suckling on first one and then the other before moving back to take the first one in my mouth again.

Slowly at first, but then picking up speed, her breathing grows in volume against the silent backdrop of night. As her hands move up the back of my head, her fingers entwining in my hair as she rubs my head, my manhood grows hard without ever leaving the warm moistness of her body.

Moving her body in a slow rhythm against mine, she whispers hoarsely, "Are you sure you're up to this?"

"I think I've already answered that question," I smile, though I doubt she can see my face in the darkness. "Maybe I should be asking you if you're up to this."

"I haven't met a man that can best me yet," she whispers in a voice gravelly with emotion.

Giving a quick, hard thrust that elicits a sharp intake of her breath, I growl in reply, "Though I'm inclined to believe you, I hope you realize I'm just getting started."

Squeezing my manhood with her inner core, she replies equally smoothly, "So am I, big guy, so am I."

"Then I suggest we take this someplace more comfortable."

With her heels digging into the back of my thighs, she lowers her hands down to my waist and rolls her hips as she leans back, a wild laugh rolling off her lips. The action drives the full length of my swollen shaft into her.

Reaching my hands around her hips, I lift her up and hold her out away from me, separating our bodies. She's not the lightest woman, standing just a few inches shorter than myself with an ample figure and combined with my loss of strength from being shot and hospitalized for the last two weeks, the result is an unintentionally hard landing. Her weight at the ends of my arms pulls me off balance and when I try to step forward to catch myself, my feet tangle up in the jeans puddled around them. Though I can feel myself going slowly forward and beyond the point of balance, there isn't anything I can do but roll to the side so as not to land on top of her.

I take the impact with the hard asphalt on my right shoulder as Bobby stumbles to my left. Though her feet hit the ground first, she becomes entangled in her own jeans and falls forward, a loud cry of pain coming from her as she strikes the gravel, missing the asphalt.

The pain rockets through my shoulder and for a moment, I don't move, taking a quick assessment of the damage. Only when Bobby's cries float to me from the dark, do I rise to a sitting position and pull my jeans up from around my ankles and get to my feet.

"Bobby," I say softly, moving toward her darker form on the gravel. "Are you okay?"

"Hell no! What the fuck were you thinking?"

Reaching her, I quickly apologize, "Sorry about that." When I reach a hand out to place her in the dark, my hand lands on her exposed left cheek as she's lying on her right side.

"Damn!" she cries out, jerking away from my touch. "You throw me to the ground and then you try taking advantage of me while I'm incapacitated! You really are a piece of work, aren't you? Shit, that fucking hurt."

Finding the waist of her jeans still around her ankles, I slowly work them back up her legs, saying, "Here, let me give you a hand. Are you hurt or just pissed off?"

"You gotta ask?" she cries. "I just crash landed from a six foot fall onto a hard gravel surface. I'm probably going to be picking gravel out of my knees and palms for the next month, and you gotta ask if I'm really hurt or just pissed off? Fuck you!"

"I already said, I'm sorry," I whisper humbly. "Here, let me give you a hand," I add, taking her by the hand and pulling her to her feet.

She is no sooner upright, than she releases my hand and I hear the zipper on her jeans as she strides stiff-legged to the car.

"What the hell were you thinking, Mac?" I softly chastise myself. "Oh, that's right, you weren't!"

*4*

The light comes on in the car when she opens the passenger's side door and I realize for the first time just how far from the car we'd come. The cool night air is raising goose bumps on my sweat-slickened skin, despite the heat still stirring in the pit of my groin.

As I walk back toward the car, I notice that she's opened the back door also and is frantically digging through her things on the back seat. When I get close enough, I ask her what she's looking for.

"My cell phone," she says, panicked. "I know it was in my overnight bag. I distinctly remember packing it and now it's gone."

"Well, I'm sure no one has gone through your things since you put them in the car. Was it always in your bag at the house or did you take it to work with you?"

Stopping and looking down at the floorboards, she acts as if she just had an epiphany and then cusses viciously under her breath, "That asshole stole my phone. Damn him!"

"What asshole would that be?" I calmly inquire, moving past her to retrieve the bottle of rum from the brown sack in the front foot-well.

"The one that I was staying with for the last week."

Still suspicious of her, I casually ask, "So Bobby, how does a fine looking woman like you end up in a place like Paisley, anyway?"

"It's a long story and I'm sure you don't need the boredom," she says, climbing out of the car and closing the rear door.

I take a long swallow of rum and hand her the bottle. She takes a small sip, swirls it around in her mouth, and then swallows. "Thanks."

"I'll drive," I say, walking around the front of the car and climbing into the driver's seat while she silently climbs in the passenger's side.

When we're back out on the road, I glance over at her, the bottle of rum hugged tightly to her chest. "So Bobby," I begin. "You were going to tell me how you came to be in Paisley. I'm all ears."

Without a preamble she says, "I was working a waitress job near Portland in a restaurant attached to a trucker's lounge. Feeling lonely one night, I let a smooth talking driver seduce me into meeting him in the showers."

"I can't imagine you ever feeling lonely," I interrupt with a smirk, glancing over at her.

"You want to hear the story or not?" she angrily fires back.

Chastised, I mumble, "Sorry."

"He was good," she resumes, and then pauses for a moment as if savoring the memory to get under my skin.

"Okay, he was good. You going to tell me the rest of the story or is that it?"

Even in the green glow of the dash lights, I can see the smug look on her face as she continues. "When we were done in the showers, we went out to his truck. It was a nice sleeper unit with a large bed. Needless to say, we spent the rest of the night in his truck while he waited for a load. The next day, he got a call for a haul to Lake Havasu." She pauses to take another sip from the bottle of rum. "He asked me if I'd like to see the country and before I knew it, we were having lunch in Paisley when this asshole comes in and starts cussing out the waitress. Turns out, he's the owner's kid and she dumped him the night before. She storms out and they need a waitress. By then, I'd seen all the moves and heard all the bullshit I could stomach from the trucker guy. He went on without me and I started waiting at the Pioneer. That was a week ago. Since I needed a place to flop, the owner offered me a spare room in the house they kept up for their worthless son. Of course, he had lots of free time, so one thing led to another and before long, we were arguing like a couple of old married folks."

"You seem to be relationship challenged, don't you?"

"And you seem to be a real smart ass, cowboy."

"I'm never late to work," I grin, enjoying teasing her.

"That would be Molly, the old hag. Shooting off her mouth and sticking her nose where it don't belong. I could never do anything right around that woman," she says, her anger channeled toward someone other than me. "Personally, I think she was just jealous of me. I mean, shit, can you imagine spending your whole life in a podunky out-of-the-way place like Paisley, Oregon, even so far as to marry your high school sweetheart. The only time she'd ever left Paisley her entire life was to go on a honeymoon to Vegas."

"I think you're the jealous one, Bobby."

Taking another swig from the bottle, she turns toward me and says, "Fuck you."

"Yeah," I sigh heavily. "We've already been down that road."

"Well don't be looking for no repeat, because that ain't gonna happen," she slurs, the rum already having an effect on her.

"You should really consider eating something," I say softly.

"And you should really just mind your own damned business," she mumbles softly, her head lolling to the side.

Within a matter of minutes, her snores become louder than the hum of the tires against the asphalt. With no one to talk to, I fish out my cell phone and check for service. Nothing. The display does tell me that it's nearing midnight. Larry and Lisa are probably already in Vegas. If I don't run into anymore distractions, I should be meeting up with them by eight in the morning at the latest.

Thinking of Larry and Lisa, my thoughts naturally turn to Eddy and where she might be. A pang of guilt burns in my chest, but I quickly put it out of my mind. It's not as if Eddy and I are married. We're business partners and we share a few things, like a bed.

"Ah hell, who am I kidding?" I mumble out loud. I did a stupid thing. I can only imagine what's going to happen when I show up in Vegas with this woman. But then, she already said we're only going as far as Vegas before she dumps me anyway. So maybe it won't be necessary for anyone else to know we've been together.

That's all well and good if she is who and what she claims to be. But if we get to Vegas and she decides she's not ready to leave me, then I can only assume she's involved in Eddy's kidnapping. And if I make that assumption, I won't have any choice in whether I bring Larry into our little circle or not.

Hell, maybe he can figure out a way to use her to our advantage, because if I don't get a call from the kidnappers by then, we won't have any other leads.

"Damn it Mac, what the hell did you get yourself into here?" I mumble out loud.

Bobby rolls her head toward me and blinks her eyes, "Did you say something?"

"How you feeling?"

"My mouth feels as though I've eaten a feather pillow and doesn't taste much better. How about you?"

"Never better."

"How long did I sleep?" she asks, straightening herself up in the seat and rubbing her eyes.

"Couple hours or so."

"I gotta pee."

"Next wide spot in the road. Try to be patient," I reply, trying not to think about the last time we stopped along the side of the road for a piss break and failing miserably. She's a beautiful woman with a hot body and I'm a man that hasn't been with a woman in more than 2 weeks. I'm only human, after all.

"Make it quick or we're going to have an accident right here on the front seat," she replies, squirming like a little kid with a weak bladder.

At just that moment, the headlights shine on a field access and I quickly tap the brake pedal and pull into it. Before the car has even come to a full stop, she's out the door and scrambling around to the front of the car and climbing through a barbed wire gate. Once she's through the gate, she turns to face the car and runs a finger along the underside of her jaw from one side to the other, indicating for me to kill the lights.

Plunging her into darkness, I climb out of the driver's side and notice right off that the air is even chillier than it was earlier. It's only 2 AM and my eyes are beginning to feel heavy. I'm reminded again how getting shot really takes a lot out of a guy.

Looking up, I notice a sliver of moon above the lower western horizon. It's giving off just enough light to create shadows on the landscape.

"How are you doing out there," I call out. "You need paper or anything?"

My call is greeted with silence. In the distance, I see what looks like a darker shadow against the back drop and I assume it's her silhouette from the moonlight. But when it doesn't move and she doesn't answer me, I quickly grow concerned.

"Bobby, this isn't funny. Answer me, do you need anything?"

Reaching back into the car, I flip on the headlights. The darker shadow turns out to be nothing more than a large sage bush. There's no sign of Bobby and I feel my heart beat pick up a tick.

"Bobby!" I call out, climbing through the strands of barbed wire and hurrying forward, the headlights creating a tall shadow of darkness in front of me.

I've gone more than fifty feet, when I hear a small whimper, like someone crying.

"Bobby, is that you?" I ask, my voice tense.

Zeroing in on the sound, I come to the edge of a shallow ravine. "Bobby, are you down there? Answer me now," I gently command.

"Leave me alone," she cries, her voice cracking with emotion.

Pinpointing her location from the sound of her voice, I cautiously slide down the edge of the ravine, dropping below the light from the headlights. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but then I see her sitting on the ground, her knees pulled up against her chest.

"You know I can't just leave you here. Right?"

"Why? You've had your way with me. Isn't it time for you to go find your girlfriend?"

I think for a moment before answering her. "Yes, it is time for me to find my girlfriend. But that doesn't mean I don't care about you." Before she can argue with me, I continue, "Yeah, I know what you're thinking. I'm an asshole, a dog, and probably a few other choice nouns. I can't argue with you. I'm all of those things and worse."

I sense her eyes turning toward me and I carefully work my way over the uneven ground until I'm kneeling next to her.

Before I can say anything, she says, "What's wrong with me? This has been the story of my life. Every time I meet someone, I give myself completely only to be used and then dumped."

"It sounded to me like you were the one that dumped that truck driver and not the other way around," I say, placing a comforting hand on her back and gently massaging the tense muscles under the thin fabric of her shirt.

She leans toward me before saying, "Remember I told you about the sleeper on his rig? Well, I found his stash under the mattress. Inside was a nice 3 by 5 glossy of a woman with 3 kids. When I questioned him about it, he admitted to me that he was married and that was his family. I had no plans of leaving Paisley with him."

"Yet, you hooked up with me when you knew I blew into town with another woman?"

"By the time we met, she was already gone," she replies. And then after a moment of silence adds, "Besides, it's not as if the two of you are hitched or anything, because I don't get involved with married men. That's where I draw the line."

"I'm glad to hear you're a woman with morals," I sarcastically tease and immediately feel her tense beneath my fingers. "Sorry, that wasn't called for."

"Mac," she says softly.

"Yeah, Bobby."

"If there wasn't an Eddy in the picture, could you love a woman like me?"

"Of course, I could," I reply lightly, not sure where this train of thought is going.

When she doesn't say anything for a long moment, I start thinking along my own train of thought, and I suddenly don't like where it's taking me.

"Do you know something I don't?" I ask, my voice terse.

My hand is on the back of her neck and I feel her tense up. "Bobby, if you know something, you need to tell me now before it's too late."

"We just met," she blurts nervously. "How would I know anything?"

Not wanting to tip my hand any more than I already have, I continue massaging the back of her neck, working the tension out of her shoulders. There is nothing to be gained by letting her know that I suspect her. Whereas, if she doesn't suspect anything, I might be able to use her to our advantage.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Bobby. It's just with everything going on, I'm a little worked up and not thinking straight," I apologize.

She visibly relaxes, the tension draining from her body.

"That's understandable," she says softly, tilting her head back as she begins enjoying my fingers working into the muscles along her shoulders and in the back of her neck. "You're really good with your hands," she whispers, her voice growing husky with emotion.

"Are you just figuring that out?"

"You just can't help being a smartass, can you?" she quips in reply followed by a low moan emanating from deep within her chest as her head lolls forward.

Continuing to work my hands lower down the sides of her torso and then into the small of her back, I whisper softly, "It's one of my redeeming qualities."

"Oh, yeah," she whispers huskily before asking, "What other redeeming qualities do you have?"

"I thought you might have figured that out on your own," I tease, my fingers sliding up the side of her chest and slipping alongside her breasts.

"I have a lousy memory. Maybe you can show me again what it is that makes you so damn redeemable."

Slipping a leg down either side of her and planting my ass in the sand behind hers, I cup a breast in each hand, taking pleasure in her small intake of breath. Her breasts are bare beneath the thin cotton shirt and I release them only long enough to unbutton her shirt and then slip my hands back over them, rolling her hardening nipples between my thumbs and forefingers.

Her breath is growing louder, more hurried as I slip my fingers down the smooth skin of her belly and work the snap on the front of her jeans before pushing the zipper down and sliding my fingers into the moist warmth of her crotch.

"Oh, you dog," she moans huskily as her head rolls back and turns to kiss the side of my neck.

While I continue massaging the moist folds of her womanhood, she slowly pushes her legs out and leans back into me, making herself more accessible to my skillfully working fingers. Her back arches against me as she quickly climbs toward a climax.

I briefly consider stopping and taking her back to the car when she suddenly pushes her jeans down and kicks out of them before rolling over onto her knees and climbing on top of me while pushing me back onto the sand. With a heated frenzy, she attacks the button and zipper on the front of my jeans, her fingers not missing a beat as she pulls my pants down, my erection springing upward, further fueling her passion.

Leaning over it, she licks it seductively and then kisses the dew drop off the tip before shimmying further up my prostrate body and lowering her breasts down to my eager mouth and straddling my manhood with her wanton womanhood.

Hovering for a brief moment, I see the wicked smile of desire on her face in the weak light of the moon in the moment before she lowers herself over my hardened shaft. A low moan escapes her lips and her eyes close as she takes me into her. We slide together like two pieces of a puzzle, my manhood filling her completely.

Her breasts playfully tease my lips, and I suckle on first one, and then the other, nibbling tenderly on the rock hard pebbles adorning them while my hands firmly grasp the silky flesh of her ass to assist her up and down motion.

As the heat of our passion threatens to consume us, our movement grows more frantic, keeping pace with her rasping breaths, when her body suddenly trembles, a long shriek escaping her lungs and filling the surrounding night with sound. This is followed immediately by several hurried breaths, and then she plants her hands on my stomach and arches her back as another orgasm rocks through her.

Another wailing scream fills the night as her body convulses atop mine. Squeezing the flesh of her ass violently between my hands, I force her down on me while simultaneously driving my shaft upward, arching my back to deliver the entire length of me into her. My actions create another long howl of ecstasy and my body responds in kind. She trembles violently before slumping down heavily on top of me, our damp skin sticking together with her full breasts planted against my bare chest.

Our breathing hasn't even stabilized when I take her shoulders in my hands and force her upright so I can see her face. "We need to get moving."

"Yes," she simply mumbles before pulling her cotton shirt together and setting to work on the buttons with fumbling fingers.

Yet, she doesn't rise off me and our bodies remain intimately locked together. When she finishes with her buttons, she tenderly pulls my shirt together and begins on the buttons with trembling fingers before suddenly stopping and dropping her hands to my chest.

"I'm sorry, Mac."

"What do you have to be sorry for?" I tenderly ask while studying her face, wondering if she's about to tell me who she really is and what she's really doing here.

"Everything."

There is a long moment of silence while I patiently wait for her to say something more. When the silence grows awkward, I move beneath her so that my limp prowess slips free of her warm body.  
"Does this mean we're done?" she asks, a smirk on her face as she gets to her feet and pulls her jeans up.

Rising slowly to my own feet, I do likewise with my jeans and then brush the sand off my clothes. When she sees me struggling to reach my back, she steps around me and brusquely sweeps her hand across my back.

"Thanks."

"I should be thanking you," she smiles, heading back up the shallow bank of the ravine toward the car.

Following her, I savor the view for a moment before replying, "I meant for brushing off my back."

Reaching the top of the ravine, she turns back, her figure silhouetted in the headlights. With a hand on her hip, she extends the other to me. Afraid of what her touch might start, I ignore her extended hand and continue on past her.

"Okay," she grunts, falling into step behind me.

As we reach the car, I casually ask, "Do the headlights seem a little dim to you?"

"Oh crap. We happen to be in the middle of nowhere," she hisses, swinging open the front door on her side and reaching into the brown sack to retrieve the half empty bottle of rum.

Reaching into the driver's side, I turn the knob to shut the headlights off, wondering if my carelessness is going to create a bigger problem than the one I already have.

*5*

Without asking if I would care for a swallow, she takes a long drink and then steps around the back of the car and hands it to me. "Are we screwed?" she casually asks with no hint of worry or concern in her voice. In fact, if there was anything in her voice at all, it was more of a longing.

"Nah," I reply, taking the bottle and throwing back a long swallow. Handing it back to her, I continue, "We'll give the battery a minute to recoup before I try starting it, but it should start just fine."

"Too bad," she says sullenly, heading around to the passenger's side with the bottle swinging loosely in her grasp. "I know it's important for you to get to Vegas and all, but you have to admit, this has been fun."

"Yeah and now it's time to get back to business," I reply harsher than I'd intended.

"Yes, boss," she replies, dropping into the front seat.

Climbing into the driver's seat, I close the door, fasten my seatbelt, and then silently wait. After a long moment, Bobby reaches over and places a hand on my inner right thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before saying, "If we need to wait on it, I can clear off the back seat."

"It'll start," I blurt, turning the key while saying a silent prayer that I'm right.

To my immense relief and Bobby's chagrin, it swings over and starts right up. Turning toward her, I give her a smug smile before pulling the lever into reverse and backing out onto the deserted highway.

"I'm going to get some sleep before the sun comes up," she says, slumping down into the seat and closing her eyes. "Wake me if you need anything." And then with a smirk turning up the corners of her mouth, she adds, "And I do mean anything."

We were on the outskirts of Tonopah as the sun rose above the horizon off to the east. Pulling into a truck stop for fuel, I glance over at Bobby and notice that her eyes are open. "I see you're awake. Did you have a nice nap?"

"Yeah, I did. So, where are we?"

"Tonopah. I thought I'd take advantage and fuel up before we make the last leg into Vegas," I reply, wondering if I should suggest leaving her here to find her own way. But as quickly as the thought forms in my mind, I disregard it. If she isn't ready to leave of her own accord, my mentioning it will only start a feud and make the rest of the trip to Vegas unbearable. She'll feel hurt and I'll feel miserable. Nothing to be gained by that scenario.

"Are you hungry?"

She clacks her lips together and thinks for a moment, her mind still groggy with sleep. "Breakfast might not be a bad idea. Besides, I need a restroom to brush my teeth and freshen up, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah. Tell you what, I'll drop you at the lounge so you can take care of yourself while I fuel up the car and then meet you in the restaurant."

"You're not going to leave without me, are you?"

"I said I'd take you to Vegas. So no, I'm not leaving without you unless that's what you want," I reply while aiming the sedan toward the driver's entrance to the lounge where the showers and restrooms are located.

When the car comes to a stop, she smiles over at me and says, "Let me get my ditty bag out of the back."

Before she closes the rear door, I repeat loud enough for her to hear over the sound of a passing big rig, "I'll meet you in the restaurant."

She pauses just long enough to nod and smile in acknowledgement before turning and strolling through the door and out of sight. Putting the car in drive, I pull around to the auto side of the fueling islands and fill the sedan up, using my government issued credit card. If our wit-sec file has been compromised, then I've just made it clear to the people that took Eddy where I'm headed.

Slipping the card back into my wallet, I fish out my cell phone and notice that there's a message from Larry. It's the only message.

Pulling away from the pumps, I head around to the restaurant and pull into an empty space directly outside the front windows so that I can see inside. There are a few drivers sitting on benches with their backs to the window and a couple of occupied booths, the occupants not overly interested in what's happening out in the parking lot.

Before heading into the restaurant, I open Larry's message and read it. Him and Lisa are in Vegas and have just rented a car at the airport where they left the little chopper. I text him a message back advising him that I'm in Tonopah having breakfast and should be there within 4 to 5 hours. I follow the text with the names and address of Norm's ex-sister-in-law.

The text has barely gone out when I receive a reply stating that he and Lisa are going to find a motel in the vicinity of the address I just sent him and wait for me. He'll text me their location just as soon as they get settled.

Dropping the phone into my pocket, I get out of the car and make my way toward the front door, noticing that the air is feeling warmed by the sun already and it's not even 7 AM. "Shaping up to be a real scorcher," I mumble to myself as I pull the door open and walk into artificially cooled air redolent with fried bacon, pancakes, and most importantly, coffee.

To the left is a short hallway indicating the restrooms. To my right is the lunch counter with an aisle running down its length. On the right side of the aisle are the red vinyl booths running along the windows facing the parking lot that I could see from outside. A hard left at the end of the aisle leads around to the kitchen. Straight takes you into a dimly lit hallway lined with payphones, a throwback to the days before the advent of the cell phone. At the end of the hallway is the trucker's lounge, a large room with TV's, video poker games, private phones, and other contrivances that truckers need when on the road and away from home. Leading off to the left of the trucker's lounge is another hallway that takes you to the showers and restrooms. Straight ahead is the exit that will take you out to the big rig parking lot.

While standing in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights, I notice Bobby in a booth about halfway down the aisle and facing the door, her right hand waving to get my attention. Moving toward her, I notice that her hair is wet and plastered to her head like she took the liberty of a quick shower. It also doesn't escape my notice that she isn't wearing any makeup, and though she is a very good looking woman, she doesn't have the warm glow that Eddy radiates first thing in the morning before she's put her makeup on.

Sliding into the seat across from her, I ask if she's ordered us coffee yet.

"I just sat down before you walked in. The minute I got a whiff of the food, I just brushed my teeth, jumped in and out of the shower, and hurried right in here." Glancing in the direction of the waitress moving along behind the counter, pausing and filling cups as she goes, Bobby hisses just loud enough for me to hear, "If she don't get that skinny ass to shaken over here, I'm going over that counter and help myself." She pauses to meet my surprised gaze before adding with a grin, "And it ain't going to be pretty."

Holding her gaze in silence for a moment while envisioning her deliciously shaped ass going over the counter, I remark, "Oh, I don't know. From this angle, that might be a worthwhile sight to see."

She's quick to grasp the meaning of my remark and while trying to hide a smile, feigns anger and reaches out to pinch my arm, in the process knocking the salt shaker over. Before I can grab it, it rolls off the end of the table and lands on the tile floor in the middle of the aisle with a loud thump, the impact causing the lid to pop off and dump salt everywhere.

Several heads at the counter turn to see what happened as the young waitress comes around the corner at just that moment with a pot of coffee and a couple of ceramic mugs. I reach down and pick up the container and lid before she reaches our table. After placing a mug in front of each of us and pouring the coffee, I thank her and offer her the empty salt container and lid.

"Thanks," she replies with a forced smile before turning and setting the pieces on the counter behind her and then turning back as she pulls out a pad and pencil. "Can I take your order, or do you need a couple extra minutes?"

"Go ahead," I say, nodding toward Bobby.

She orders cakes, bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, and instructs the young girl to keep the coffee coming.

"I'll have the same. And can you just leave us the pot?"

"Sure, not a problem. Anything else?"

"No, we're good, thanks."

After the waitress leaves, Bobby is the first to speak. "I saw her giving you the look."

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you mean, cause if you're referring to our waitress, I think she might be a tad young. Don't you?"

"She ain't so young that she can't appreciate a fine looking male when she sees one."

"If this is your idea of flirting with me, fine. But don't associate me with kids. I'm old enough to be her father," I harshly reply.

"Sorry," she whispers, chastened. Then quickly changing the subject, she says evenly, "I saw you putting your phone away. Anything new happening?"

"Yeah, I got a message from my buddy. He's in Vegas and waiting for me. Not much beyond that."

"So the people that took your friend, they haven't tried to contact you yet?"

"No," I bluntly reply, putting the mug of coffee to my lips and looking at her over the brim. I still haven't decided how far I can trust her, and for that reason alone, I'm not sharing anything beyond the obvious with her.

Until our food arrives, we sit in silence, sipping at our respective coffees while watching the comings and goings out in the parking lot. After the waitress places our plates in front of us along with a pitcher of syrup and a small plate with tabs of butter off to the side, she turns and heads down the aisle. Without thinking, I almost look up to sneak a peek at her ass before catching myself and instead concentrating on the plate of food in front of me.

Though I thought I'd caught myself in time, Bobby smirks, her gaze locked on me.

"What?" I ask, my voice impatient.

"You can't help yourself. I saw how you wanted to check her ass out when she walked away."

"I did no such thing," I argue, the blood rising up the sides of my throat in a heated blush.

"You should see the look on your face," she teases, fighting to keep from laughing. "I never said you checked her out, I only said you wanted to and you go all guilty on me."

"Enough already. Eat," I growl at her, turning my attention to the food on my plate and stabbing at the bacon with my fork before trying to stuff the entire strip into my mouth.

She chuckles a moment at my expense and then places her napkin in her lap and sets to work on the food as if she hasn't eaten in a week.

"Damn, I'm hungry," she says, scraping her fork over an empty plate. "Do we have time for dessert?"

"You know, I could just leave you here and go on without you," I casually suggest, scraping up the last of my egg yolk with the heel of my toast.

"Nah, you ain't getting rid of me that easy," she says, pushing back in her seat. "I'll get something for the road," she adds, waving over the waitress.

She orders a couple of their largest coffees to go and when the waitress places the check on the table, dramatically picks it up and places it under my nose while watching my eyes, waiting to see if I follow the waitresses progress down the aisle or not.

"I thought you were still hungry?" I ask, forcing myself not to look after the waitresses retreating figure.

"If I eat anymore, I'll look like I'm pregnant. And when you're competition looks like she does, I don't need to add that image to my portfolio."

She nods her head in the direction of the waitress fixing our coffees, trying to make me look just so she can jab at me. Instead, I slide out of the seat and pick up the check before turning and making my way toward the register at the end of the counter near the entrance.

The waitress, seeing me heading toward the register, brings our coffees and sets them beside the till. "How was everything this morning?" she asks lightly, smiling.

"Just fine," I reply, handing her the government credit card with the check. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

She blushes slightly and glances in the direction of Bobby, whom is slowly making her way up the aisle toward us. "I suppose," she says apprehensively.

"How old are you?"

Without hesitation, she replies, "Nineteen." And then pauses, before nervously asking, "Why?"

"It's nothing, really," I reply, giving her a fatherly smile before signing the receipt and adding a nice tip. "Thank you."

Bobby takes the cups of coffee while I put the credit card back in my pocket and then hold the door for her. "You just had to ask," she whispers as she moves past me.

Outside by the car, I open her door so she can set the cups in the console before flinging her ditty bag over the headrest to where it lands on the back seat. Leaving her to climb in, I step around to the driver's side while fishing the key out of my pant pocket and then drop heavily into the seat.

Pulling the door closed, I turn to her and say, "I was just making a point. She isn't even half my age."

"She's old enough for your needs," she flatly retorts.

"You have no right to be jealous," I angrily reply, the woman beginning to get under my skin and we haven't even left the parking lot.

"Not jealous, just making a point."

"Okay. Point made and point taken. Now drop it," I reply with heated finality.

*6*

Out on highway 95 and travelling south again, I begin wondering how I'm going to introduce Bobby to Larry. Because he thinks of himself as Eddy's big brother and feels very protective of her, he's not going to understand the relationship between Bobby and me. He might understand why I'm keeping her close after I explain my suspicions about her possibly being involved in Eddy's disappearance. But whether my suspicions prove correct or not, he'll never understand why I had sex with her, even if she was the one that initiated it. He'll be quick to point out that I could have kept her close without having sex with her, even if it is really good sex. And it was really good sex.

Still, I can't shake the feeling that we're going to be able to use her to our advantage. Unless it turns out that she had nothing to do with Eddy's disappearance. Because if that turns out to be the case, then I'll just look like the stupid, gullible fool that I am.

My thoughts drift off with the hum of the tires rolling down the smooth asphalt highway. Traffic is growing more congested the closer we draw to Vegas and I find myself changing lanes and passing vehicles without any recollection of having overtaken them. Yet, I can't help wondering where Eddy might be and why I haven't received a call from her kidnappers. It only makes sense that if they want to make me suffer, they need to let me know they have her. The silence doesn't make any sense.

Moreover, what if we came all this way to Vegas and she isn't here?

The doubts are creeping into my subconscious and I need to shake them out. If there was ever a time when I needed my confidence, this is it. It's imperative that I move forward as if Eddy's life depends on it, because more than likely, it does.

"What are you thinking?" Bobby asks, pulling me out of my reverie just in time to keep from rear ending a semi rig cruising along at a comfortable seventy MPH in the right lane.

We're about 2 hours from Tonopah and the same from Vegas. The dregs of coffee in the cups in the console are cold and bitter. The bottled water now warm and unappealing. The bottle of rum, or at least what's left of it, is still in the brown paper sack by Bobby's feet along with the leftover burgers and soggy fries.

When she catches me looking longingly at the bag, I quickly turn my attention back to the highway and self-consciously reply, "Just wondering."

"About what?" she asks, sensing there's more to be said. "And before you answer, don't ask about the rum, because it's off limits until we get where we're going."

Glancing over at her for a brief second before answering, I can't help wonder if she's just as easily reading my other thoughts too. How much does she suspect?

"Just wondering where Eddy might be and how I'm going to introduce you to my friend that we're meeting up with. He's very fond of Eddy and probably isn't going to understand our relationship, much less have much to do with you," I pause for a long moment before adding, "Or me either, if he suspects I've done anything more than provided you with a ride to Vegas."

"So you've decided I can hang with you after we get to Vegas?" she smiles, obviously liking the idea more than me.

"Unless you have somewhere else to be, yeah, I'd appreciate it if you'd hang around," I answer her, trying to sound more enthused than I'm feeling. After a long moment of silence, I turn to her with pleading eyes and say, "I really would appreciate it though if you would keep anything more than my giving you a ride to Vegas and your offer to help find Eddy to just between us."

"What more was there?" she says huskily, leaning across the seat and grabbing the base of my right ear between her teeth, followed by a long wet kiss down the side of my neck while her right hand plants itself over my groin and gently applies pressure to the fabric covering my manhood.

Before she can pull her feet up on the bench seat and slide closer, my manhood is creating an uncomfortable pressure against the tightly stretched denim. Her tongue slides back up the side of my throat as her left hand reaches around the back of my head, her fingers drawing circles on my scalp, twining my hair into dark little curls.

Her braless breasts pressing up against my shoulder, my body acutely aware of the rock hard nipples through the thin fabric of our shirts. When I turn toward her, the stubble of my beard rasping against her soft cheek, she takes her right hand and gently turns my face back toward the front.

"Just drive. I got this handled," she whispers, her right hand working at the snap on the front of my jeans.

When she can't get it unbuttoned, I use my right hand to assist her and then follow through by lowering the zipper. Since I'm not wearing briefs, my shaft springs out, standing erect. At the sight of it, I hear her inhale softly with anticipation and desire.

Using her right hand, she assures that there isn't any skin or hairs caught in the zipper and then her fingers move tenderly up and down the silky smooth length of it. When she reaches the top, her index finger draws a slow circle around the crown before wiping off the shiny pearl perched there. Slipping her moistened finger into her mouth, she moans softly, and then returns it to my shaft and gently strokes me.

"Bobby."

Her head is following her hand down to my engorged manhood and she pauses just long enough to rasp, "Not now, Mac. I'm in the middle of something."

"Bobby," I repeat, my voice hoarse with emotion. "This isn't necessary. You don't have to do this."

I barely get the words out before her lips slide down on me and my breath catches in my throat. Her tongue works feverishly over the crown of my manhood, quickly driving me into a frenzy, my heart beating feverishly against my ribs.

Just when I feel myself about to explode, she raises her head, her right hand firmly gripping the base of my throbbing member and preventing the climax that I was sure was coming. Only when I hit the no-doze strip on the shoulder do I realize that I'd drifted.

Giggling, Bobby raises her head enough to look out the front windshield, "Keep your eyes on the road, Mac."

"What are you doing?" I ask, the pressure in my groin slowly subsiding.

"I'm saving you up," she says with a mischievous smile.

When all threat of a climax has passed and my member grows flaccid, she slides back to her side of the car and slowly undoes the button to her jeans before pushing the zipper down and arching her back so she can slide her jeans down to her thighs. Spreading her legs as far apart as the fabric of her pants will allow, she looks me in the eye as she slowly runs her right index finger along her lips, moistening it with her tongue, her eyes never leaving mine until I hit the no-doze strip again.

She smirks and says softly, teasingly, "Eyes on the road, Mac."

While her left hand slowly, methodically caresses her left breast, cupping it and the fabric so that the nipple is outlined, her right hand slides slowly, languorously over the glistening folds of her hot patch. When she sees me glancing over at her, she smiles lazily and uses her fingers to open the folds, exposing her moist, pink desire to me.

"Eyes on the road, Mac," she says again, her voice husky with emotion.

"Look, Bobby, there's a roadside rest right up ahead," I grunt, bare able to form coherent words.

Laughing, she pulls her pants up and looks over at me. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

With her jeans refastened and her shirt straightened out, she reaches into the brown sack and retrieves what's left of the bottle of rum. Holding it up, she says, "Isn't much left, but it'll take the edge off."

Removing the cap, she hands it over to me. Not trusting my voice, I simply take the bottle and put it against my lips, taking a long drink before handing the remainder back to her. "Go ahead and finish it," I rasp through the heat in my throat and the thwarted passion in my groin.

Still smiling mischievously, she empties the bottle, drops it over the headrest so that it comes to rest in the rear foot well, and then softly asks, "How much farther to that rest stop?"

*7*

Working my cell phone out of my pocket, I glance at the screen. Larry has texted me a name with an address for a motel, along with a room number and a short message advising me to report directly to his room and not to bother checking in at the desk. There is a second message from him just to reiterate that Greg and Gina have been notified and are ready to help out anyway they can.

Working my thumb clumsily over the keys, I text him back that I had car troubles and was running a little later than I'd planned, but that I was on my way and only about 30 minutes out.

"Damn," I hiss softly, checking the time and feeling guilty over the loss of it that we just spent at the rest stop. Not to mention the growing guilt over adding lying to my most trusted friend to my list of recent indiscretions.

"What's wrong?" Bobby asks, a contented look in her hazel eyes.

"Nothing," I grumble softly, unable to meet her gaze. "We should be there in 30 minutes or less."

As if reading my thoughts of indecision, she turns toward the front, her eyes staring down the highway, but not seeing anything as she's buried in her own thoughts. When she finally speaks, the words come out soft and tentative. I can't help feeling that she's about to make an offer or suggestion that she isn't comfortable with.

"I'll understand if you'd rather drop me off before we get there. Just pull over and let me out on the sidewalk somewhere, I'm sure I can find my way once I figure out where I'm going."

Although I have no doubts that she would fare just fine if I were to take her up on her offer of simply dropping her off, I can tell that isn't what she wants. What I can't tell is her motive behind it. Is it because she wants to be with me, or is it because her job is to keep tabs on me?

The million dollar question, and I can't ask it.

"Don't be silly, Bobby," I reply, my voice loud in the confines of the car, even with the AC running in the background. "Just remember to play it cool around Larry and everything will work out fine."

She leans across the seat, her seatbelt buckled and pushed into the crevice beneath her. Her hot breath sending chills down my spine and setting the small hairs at the base of my neck on edge. The more I'm around her, the more I believe she's involved in Eddy's disappearance.

A thought pushes to the forefront of my mind as her tongue slips over my lips, her mouth pressing hard against mine, _keep your friends close and your enemies closer_.

Removing my right hand from the wheel so I can use it to push her back into her seat, she takes it firmly in her grasp and presses it against the fullness of her breast. Running her tongue along her lower lip, she whispers softly, "I can play it as cool as you want."

Moving my hand up to her mouth, she suckles tenderly on first one, and then another of my fingers before releasing them and smiling seductively at me. Before I can turn my eyes back to the road, she winks alluringly. Her actions are a promise of what to expect.

How did I ever let things get so far out of hand?

Eddy and I should be safely tucked away somewhere in witness protection. She shouldn't be missing! And instead of getting closer to finding Eddy, I've hooked up with another woman. In less than 24 hours, which is less time than Eddy's even been gone, I've managed to have sex with her 3 times!

It doesn't take a psychiatrist to understand that my relationship with Bobby is a defense mechanism on my part. If I put enough distractions between what I feel for Eddy and the very real possibility that I won't see her again, it'll be easier for me to cope with the loss. If I distance myself from those that matter, the loss won't be so cruel. Furthermore, I can't shake the gut level feeling that Bobby is somehow tied into Eddy's disappearance. Whether she had a hand in the original kidnapping, or is just a plant to keep tabs on my movements, I'm not sure yet. But if she's involved, I will figure out her role in Eddy's disappearance eventually.

Taking the Tropicana off ramp, I turn east and go approximately a mile before coming to the Wild West. Pulling through the parking lot, I find an open space in an inconspicuous area near the club house and swimming pool. "We'll go in through the back as if we belong," I tell bobby, reaching into the back seat and grabbing my overnight bag.

She climbs out and opens the back door, grabbing her carryon and ditty bag. With her carryon slung over her shoulder and her ditty bag on a strap that makes it look more like a purse than a ditty bag, she comes around to where I'm standing and pauses in front of me, an expectant expression hiding a nervous smile. I almost say, "show time," but catch myself, and instead ask, "You have everything?"

When she doesn't move, I meet her gaze and ask if everything is alright. She reminds me of a prisoner that is about to confess. Not because they've been tortured or coerced into it, but because they know it's the right thing to do and they feel a need to clear their conscience.

Then she suddenly shakes her head and replies, "No. I mean, yes, I'm fine." She pauses a moment before the need to explain overcomes her, and she adds, "Just nervous about meeting your friend, is all."

"Friends," I correct her, turning toward the back of the hotel and starting to walk away.

Momentarily stunned, she suddenly hurries to overtake me and steps in my path to stop me, demanding, "What do you mean, friends, as in plural?"

"Yeah, I kind of neglected to mention Larry's significant other. Her name's Lisa and I'm sure you'll get along just fine," I casually reply before stepping around her.

She quickly hurries around to plant herself in front of me again, this time demanding, "Kind of neglected to mention? What else have you kind of neglected to mention to me?"

"Listen, Bobby, just as soon as Larry and I catch up, I'll tell you everything you need to know," I reply, my tone indicating that this is the end of our discussion until later, and then I will tell her only what I want her to know.

She's about to protest until she sees the look in my eyes, and then she quickly turns and falls into step beside me. We make the last steps of our journey in silence. Only when we are standing outside the door to the room, do I turn to remind her of our deal, when the door suddenly opens and Larry reaches out with a big smile on his face, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the room.

Before he can say anything however, he sees Bobby close on my heels, following me into the room like a little puppy dog, and his expression quickly changes.

"I'll explain," I say quickly, stepping past him to make room for Bobby so he can close the door behind us. Seeing Lisa standing a little further into the room, I move toward her and wrap her up in a warm embrace, telling her how good it is to see her again before turning back to face Larry, who is still staring dumbstruck at Bobby.

To Lisa, I say, "You got anything to drink?"

"Yeah," she replies a bit unsteadily, also unable to pull her eyes away from the stranger in the room.

When she doesn't move, I turn back to her and say softly, "Today?"

As if coming out of a stupor and suddenly realizing where she is, she nods and turns toward the tiny kitchenette between the lounge and bedroom. On the counter are several bottles of liquor and an assortment of glasses. Lisa moves toward them and lines up three glasses before glancing back and then adding a fourth to the row with a shake of her head as if trying to clear cobwebs.

Larry is the first to break the tension. "I think introductions might be in order," he says, his voice firm.

"Larry, Lisa, this is Bobby. She's from Paisley. When she heard of my situation, she wanted to help."

Coming from the kitchenette with four drinks balanced in her hands, Lisa smiles politely at Bobby and says, "Welcome. I hope you like rum."

Stepping past Larry and reaching forward to take one of the glasses, she smiles back, saying, "Thanks. It's nice to meet you. Mac has told me all about his friend Larry, but he never mentioned you. I look forward to getting to know you," she says while glancing in my direction, her voice cool.

"Yeah, the feelings mutual," Lisa replies equally coolly, looking toward Larry and meeting his gaze where I see something pass discreetly between them.

On her way past me, Lisa hands off another one of the glasses and then sidles up beside Larry with the remaining two before turning to look back at Bobby and me, her expression of confusion and uncertainty matching Larry's like a couple of bookends.

Though I wasn't sure what to expect, this is even more awkward than my worst expectation. But then I have to ask myself, just what the hell was I expecting?

Again, Larry is the first to break the silence, asking Bobby what she does for a living.

"Mostly, I wait tables and tend bar," she replies, taking a big swallow from her glass. Looking at first Lisa and then Larry, she continues, "So, what is it you guys do?"

Lisa instantly defers to Larry, who takes a small sip from his glass before answering, "A little of this and a little of that. Pretty much whatever it takes to pay the bills."

"Sounds interesting," she replies, finishing off her glass of rum.

"Would you ladies mind if I took Larry away for a minute. We have some catching up to do and I really could use a little air," I say, moving self-consciously toward the door and hoping like hell that Larry follows me.

"Yeah. That sounds like a good idea," he replies, exchanging a knowing look with Lisa before saying, "You two make yourselves comfortable. We shouldn't be long."

The door has barely closed when he spins on me, grabbing my shirt by the lapels and pushing me ungraciously up against the wall, his face only inches from mine as he hisses, "What the hell are you thinking? We're supposed to be in witness protection. Have you even checked in?"

Pushing back, I calmly reply, "I brought her with because I think she might be a plant to keep an eye on us. And as far as witness protection goes, someone inside their organization sold us out. The last thing I'm going to do is let them know where we're at or what we're up to."

Slowly, he releases his pressure against me until his hands fall to his sides and he takes a step back. Turning toward the parking lot, he takes a deep breath and says, "Come on, let's walk."

Falling into step beside him, I keep my mouth shut as we reach a mostly empty place near the far end of the parking lot and slow our stride, not wanting to get too far from the room and yet, not ready to turn back either.

Keeping our voices low, we start talking, exchanging information and ideas. He advises me that he contacted our contact in the Marshal's Service and advised them that we'd gone off the radar for personal reasons. He also informed them that there is likely a mole in their organization and until it's safe, we're going to keep our distance and that they shouldn't waste resources trying to find us but instead, find their mole. Then he and Lisa broke into the compound where they were keeping our helicopters and literally flew one out.

Their actions were so unprecedented and unexpected that by the time security figured out what was going on, they were miles away and flying below the radar curtain.

When he finishes bringing me up to speed and all the details of Eddy's disappearance have been repeated for the second time, the subject of Bobby comes up. Though I tell him about my gut feelings and suspicions, I can tell he isn't convinced. But I also don't think he suspects it's anything but innocent, either.

"So, where do you want to go from here?" he asks, delegating the lead to me.

"We still have to proceed on the assumption that Norm was on the level and he really is concerned about his son. Until we learn otherwise, that's the only lead we have aside from Bobby," I start, reiterating my suspicions of Bobby over Norm, though either or neither could have anything to do with Eddy's disappearance. "We'll use two vehicles, one for surveillance and one for tactical maneuvers. I'm thinking we leave Lisa and Bobby for surveillance and backup if we need it, while you and I play detectives and knock on doors to see what the neighbors know about the comings and goings at his ex-sister-in-law's place."

"Sounds good," he agrees, pausing for a minute while we let a couple carrying baggage stroll from their car to the hotel. "How are you set for armament?"

"Hands and feet," I reply, giving him a smile. "They must have taken everything while I was in the hospital. How about you?"

"Yeah, same here. They said it was part of the witness protection thing. No guns or knives allowed. You should have seen the fit Lisa had when they collected her rifle collection. Sometimes, when I watch her closely, I think she misses her guns more than she would have missed me."

"Then before we do anything else, we attend a gun show and buy some anonymous firepower. Everything else can wait," I reply, cringing at the thought that we aren't just running out looking for Eddy.

"Yeah, sounds good. We can't use the government credit cards to buy weapons with though, and I used up the last of my cash reserving the room for the week," he says, looking inquiringly at me.

"Don't worry about it," I reply. "I've got quite a bit of cash on me and we can get more if we need to. But since we know that they know we're in Vegas, we'll still use the cards in places where they can't track us back to the hotel."

"You never cease to amaze or surprise, Mac," he says with pride as we start back toward the hotel. And then, as if reading my mind, he adds, "Don't worry about Lisa, she knows enough not to say anything to Bobby. And I'll debrief her completely later tonight when we're alone."

*8*

Stepping through the door into the hotel suite, we are hit by the coolness of the air striking our faces and sending chills over our bodies. Bobby and Lisa are sitting in opposite chairs facing each other in the lounge, a bottle of rum on the coffee table between them. Their demeanor making it obvious that they didn't become fast friends in our absence.

Moving toward them, Larry drops the newspaper we'd picked up on the way back to the room on the coffee table and says, "Can someone find us a gun show or flea mart going on this afternoon? I need to hit the head."

Without a word, as if Bobby and I don't deserve an explanation for her actions, Lisa rises and follows Larry into the rear bedroom, which has its own en suite.

"Would you mind?" I say to Bobby, nodding toward the paper laying folded on the table. "I really need a shave and shower myself if we're going out in public this afternoon."

"No, go ahead," she says, giving me a weak smile as I turn to grab my bag and head into the master bathroom.

Once inside the bathroom, I debate briefly over locking the door or not, but then just as quickly discard the idea. I have to trust that Bobby has enough sense not to come into the bathroom while I'm showering with Lisa and Larry so close by. And if they're all sitting around when I come out, everyone will hear the click of the lock releasing and wonder why I felt the need to lock it when I'm among friends.

The shower doesn't even have a chance to steam up the bathroom before I fly out of it and dry off enough to jump into a fresh change of clothes and head back out to rejoin the others. The glasses are setting next to the bottles on the counter, only two of them empty. Those two would be mine and Bobby's. I debate briefly about pouring myself another, but put the thought aside and take up a perch on the arm of the chair that Bobby's occupying.

"What did we come up? Anything promising?" I ask of no one in particular.

"Gun show at the armory, goes until seven tonight. We'll hit it first, score us something to protect ourselves with and then grab something to eat on the way back," Larry says, rising to his feet and offering Lisa a hand.

"What kind of wheels you got?" I ask, thinking of the four of us crammed into the little sedan and not liking the image.

"Escalade," Lisa answers with a mischievous grin toward Larry.

"Wow, aren't we uptown?" I tease.

"Compliments of the US Government. They just don't know it yet," Larry remarks, matching Lisa's mischievous grin.

"You need anything before we take off?" I ask Bobby.

"If you're wondering whether I need to use the John or not, the answer is no. I'm a big girl, I can hold it if I have to," she says haughtily, not appreciating the attitude that she's getting from Larry and Lisa.

On the way down the hall leading out to the parking lot, I hold her back for a second so I can have a word with her in private. "Bobby, I understand this is uncomfortable for you. But it's uncomfortable as hell for me too. If you want us to drop you off somewhere, I'll give you enough money for a motel, meals and bus fare back to Paisley."

"I'm not going anywhere, Mac. I said that I'd help out and I'm going to do just that."

"Just understand this, they're not going to accept you no matter what you do. They're Eddy's friends and they feel I'm betraying Eddy by having you here. But I want you here, irregardless of how they feel, so let's try to make it as comfortable for everyone as we can."

"I get it, Mac. If they don't push my buttons, I won't push their buttons. I can't promise any more than that," she says with finality.

"Fair enough," I reply, relieved. "So let's go build us an arsenal."

"So what's so important about having guns?" she asks as we catch up to Larry and Lisa.

"That's how we roll," I smile, throwing her a wink and holding open the back door of the SUV for her to climb in.

When Lisa climbs in the other side, I'm a little taken aback. "You can ride shotgun, Lisa. I'm good with the back seat."

"Don't worry about it Mac. I'm good back here," she says lightly, almost cheerfully.

It goes through my head that Larry brought her up to speed and asked her to keep a close eye on Bobby because of my suspicions. I glance across the console at Larry, but he's preoccupied with putting the key in the ignition and adjusting his mirrors before putting it in reverse and backing out of the parking spot. Larry and I go back far enough for me to recognize when he's purposely ignoring me. Whether it's to prevent me slipping up and giving Bobby a clue to my suspicions or if he's just pissed at me, I'm not sure. But I do know that even though he pretended to understand my explanation for bringing Bobby along, he didn't buy into it for even one minute. He's certain that I only brought her along for the obvious reason because he knows me too well, and even though we're best of friends, he's having a hard time with it.

I can be a very disappointing individual. And although I'm trying my damnedest to convince myself that I can handle the loss of someone as close to me as Eddy, if we can't find her and get her back alive, I'm not sure what I'll do. But of one thing I'm absolutely certain, whoever took her is going to pay. And if she is harmed in any way, they're going to rue the day they first heard my name mentioned, because I am going to rain all forms of hell down on them. Every last one of the bastards.

"Do you know where you're going?" I ask of Larry.

"Yep. I just put the address in this little thingy here and poof, it tells me where to go."

At just that moment, a female voice says, "Turn right in 100 feet."

"Wow, just what we need, a woman telling us where to go," I joke.

The back of the seat bounces from Bobby kicking it at the same time that Lisa threatens in a low voice, "Careful, Mac. Remember, we're going out to buy guns and ammo."

Larry's laughing so hard, he almost misses the turn.

The rest of the ride to the armory passes without incident and only occasional small talk. Overall, the atmosphere in the SUV is borderline tense. Yet, not nearly as tense as it had been in the hotel suite. By the time we arrive at the armory it's late afternoon and most of the day crowd has thinned out, leaving lots of empty parking nearer to the entrance.

We all pile out of the SUV and stretch our legs before Larry comes around and suggests that we split into pairs. It's not uncommon for men to pair up at gun shows while their women go off in search of things more interesting to their gender.

Lisa visibly bristles at his comment, asking, "And what if I find something I want, do I have to hunt you guys down to negotiate the deal?"

"She's right, Larry. We might stand out sticking together, but at least we can outfit ourselves according to individual needs easier."

"We'll also be easier to remember, if someone comes around later asking questions," he reiterates, his resolve waning.

Lisa speaks up first, determined that she's going to be the one to select her weapon and not leave it to Larry or me. Using Vegas slang, she says, "Whether we stay together or double down, I'd be willing to lay odds that any parties interested in us will know what we have for weapons before we even get out of there with them."

"She's right, you know," Bobby concurs, liking the idea of being paired off with the Amazon woman even less than I am liking the idea of them being away from us.

Larry's gaze snaps toward Bobby as if seeing her for the first time and wondering where she came from before relenting and saying, "Okay, we stick together. If anyone sees something they'd be comfortable with, casually let Mac or me know and we'll negotiate the deal since Mac is the money man." Then turning his gaze to Lisa, adds, "Remember, we're looking for weapons we can use for protection that can be easily concealed. We're not looking to start a war. Two boxes of ammo each so we have enough to take them out in the desert and make sure they work properly and we're comfortable with them."

Leading the way through the front doors, I pause to pay for our tickets while the others move forward, taking in all the rows of tables displaying everything from bows to knives to guns to survival gear of every nature. As I rejoin them, I hand each a ticket stub, and then pause while deciding where to begin.

Without waiting, Larry saunters down a row of tables, his attention honing in on a table near the far end of the row with a nice display of modern handguns. Stacked beneath the table are wooden ammo crates, possibly what he uses for transporting the weapons in between shows.

Lisa is close on his heels, her eyes having followed his gaze and already seen the assortment. Judging by the look on her face, I'm surprised that she isn't drooling. Though she glances at the tables they're moving past, she has no interest in them as her attention is focused solely on the table with the huge display of handguns.

Knowing that Larry will be spending a little time looking over the many pieces while making small talk with the vendor, who is in his fifties wearing camouflage jungle fatigues and sporting a full grey beard, I lead Bobby down the adjacent row of tables.

Bobby tugs lightly on my shirt to get my attention. Pausing at one of the tables, she sidles up to me and whispers only loud enough for me to hear, "What happened to staying together?"

Not looking at her, I casually reply, "Improvise." And then, moving to the table that had caught my attention in the first place, I pick up a stainless revolver with Pacmyer grips.

It's a Ruger Security Six, .357 Magnum with the shortest barrel available in the mass production model. It's identical to the one that the Marshal's Service confiscated from me and still my weapon of choice. Lying near it is a nylon shoulder holster with detachable straps so that it can also be used with a belt clip. Picking up the magnum, I inspect it closely, surprised to discover that it's in excellent condition and hasn't seem much use. Still holding onto it, I pick up the shoulder ensemble and slide the weapon into it, liking the ease and fit. It's as if the two were made for each other.

Looking around the room, I see Larry inspecting weapons and carrying on with a vendor at the table him and Lisa zeroed in on. Bobby has moved down the row of tables and is talking softly with a man standing next to her at a table displaying a large assortment of hand crafted silver and turquoise jewelry. She picks up a piece, admiring it closely, while the man tells her the history of what she's looking at. It all appears innocent enough, but with my naturally paranoid demeanor, I can't help but wonder if he's her contact or handler.

Turning toward the man behind the table, I ask, "How much for the gun and holster? And do you have any ammo for it?"

"Three fifty, no ammo," he calmly replies, no indication of getting excited over making a sale. My gut tells me he will be a hard negotiator, but he has exactly what I want. I'm wondering what approach I should use with him, when he explains his no ammo policy. "I make a point of not having ammunition on hand for what I sell. There are plenty of vendors in here that only sell ammunition, I recommend you check with one of them."

"Can you set this behind your table and hold onto it for me. I need to check with a couple of friends of mine first," I say, handing him the gun inserted in the holster.

He calmly removes the weapon from the holster and sets both pieces back on the table. "If you want it, you buy it. I'm not holding anything for anyone so they can spend their money elsewhere and then not come back to buy. Sorry, that's just my policy. My prices are fair."

"Since you can't throw in any ammo to sweeten the deal, I'll give you three even," I say, glancing over at Bobby and noticing that the man has moved between us, partially blocking her from my view while they're still talking.

With no hesitation, the vendor behind the table says, "Split the difference and you're getting a hell of a deal."

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a roll of bills and count off the exact money. Handing it to him, I pick up the magnum and slip it back into the holster. "You have a bag?"

He grabs a brown paper sack and sets in on the table in front of me. I drop in my purchases and roll the top down before tucking it under my arm. "Thanks," I comment, turning toward Bobby, who's now standing alone at the table of Native American jewelry.

"See anything you like?" I ask, stepping up beside her, my gaze studying her face.

"I've always been a fan of hand crafted jewelry, especially Native American turquoise," she says, smiling wistfully.

"I've never seen you wearing any jewelry," I comment, studying her reaction closely.

"Just because I'm a fan of it, doesn't mean I can afford it," she laughs softly. "Have you forgotten, I'm just a footloose waitress?"

If she's hiding something, she's damned good at it. So I decide to push her. "Did I see you talking with someone a minute ago?" I ask, glancing around as if looking for him, which I am, and I'm not seeing him anywhere.

"Just someone with a mutual interest," she says lightly, a barely discernable twitch in her lower lip that I would have missed were I not studying her so intently.

"So," turning back to the table, "Which piece really caught your eye?"

She hones in on a large silver and turquoise broach. Picking it up, she holds it to her chest with a mischievous smile and says with a seductive tone, "I really like this one."

"Then you should have it," I reply, looking toward the woman sitting behind the table reading a magazine looking bored while watching every move we make with a covert eye. I have a feeling there isn't much theft from her table.

"Excuse me," I say. "How much for the broach?" I ask when she looks up from the magazine she's pretending to read.

Stiffly, she gets to her feet and slips on a pair of reading glasses before reaching her hand out. Placing the broach in her hand, I stifle a laugh at the fact that she needs glasses to read. She looks closely at the broach, and then turns to a tattered old wire-bound tablet full of scribbles and drawings. She flips a couple of pages, looks at the broach again, then lifts her gaze to first Bobby and then me as she removes her glasses and says with a smile, "Sixty, since you're such a nice looking couple."

Before I can respond, she gives me a knowing wink and I have to wonder how much of the conversation between the stranger and Bobby she overheard.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my roll of cash and count off three twenties and hand them across the table to her. In the back of my mind, I can't help thinking how much fun I would have had negotiating over the broach with Eddy at my side. Eddy would have been disappointed if she knew I'd paid full bore for something for her at a vendor's table where negotiating on a purchase is half the fun of receiving it.

"Would you like a bag?" she asks, holding out the broach.

I give Bobby a questioning glance, to which she quickly replies in the negative. "Then you must be planning on wearing it," I say, taking the broach from the lady and carefully pinning it to her light cotton shirt just above the left breast, being careful to graze her bare breast beneath the cotton with the back of my fingers while closing the clasp.

Before I can pull my fingers out of the front of her shirt, she throws her arms around my neck and pulls me up against her, our lips closing together. It's a passionate kiss that causes my toes to tingle as I'm acutely aware of the smoothness of her breast just below my fingers.

Lowering her hands, she steps back to look down at her new broach, openly admiring it upon her chest before looking up to meet my gaze. "No one's ever bought me such a nice gift," she whispers, caressing it with her left hand, a child's innocence lighting up her face.

"You're welcome," I smile back at her before throwing a furtive glance in Larry's direction and only seeing Lisa glaring back as Larry has his back to us while he's engaged in negotiations with the vendor.

"Come on," I say, taking Bobby by the hand and hurrying her along to the end of the tables before turning up the aisle that will take us to Larry and Lisa.

As we approach, I see several handguns, all 9mm automatics along with tactical nylon belt-clip holsters and a half dozen matching boxes of 9mm ammunition. When Larry looks up, I tell him to have the guy include a couple of boxes of .357's. When he gives me a questioning look, I simply shift the brown bag beneath my arm.

Meanwhile, Bobby is showing off her new broach to Lisa, whose interest appears completely put on for Bobby's sake. Only if Bobby were showing off a new piece of survival or hunting gear would Lisa's interest be genuine. I can't help thinking that the two women are as different as chalk and cheese and the odds of them ever bonding is nil. Not that I should care.

But if Lisa saw us together at the jewelry table, then she had to have seen Bobby talking with the stranger that made a hasty departure right after their conversation also. Maybe she overheard something of interest.

"Throw in a couple boxes of .357's and take one of the nines back and I'll give you twelve hundred even," Larry says to the man in fatigues before glancing in my direction for confirmation that I have the cash on hand.

"Are we talking cash? Because I don't want to eat the bank fees for plastic," the man growls, studying Larry.

"Pay the man," Larry says to me, gathering up the weapons, ammo, and holsters while I step up beside him and pull out my roll of cash.

After counting off twelve hundred bucks and handing it over to the man, he asks with a smirk on his face, "You wanna receipt?"

"Only if there's going to be a problem leaving here without one," I reply, watching Larry distribute the respective weapons and holsters to the girls along with the ammunition. Looking like a scene out of an action movie, the three of them strap on their weapons so the only thing they're carrying in their hands are the boxes of bullets.

He smiles back, saying, "No problems."

When we've moved away from the table, I ask Larry if there's anything else we need that we can pick up here.

"Nah, I think we've spent enough time here already." He gives Lisa just the briefest of looks and she immediately stops at a table with a huge display of camping gear laid out.

"Look at this, Bobby," she says in her most socially enticing voice as if they're old friends.

Larry picks up the pace just enough that it isn't noticeable, but quickly puts a little distance between us and the women before stopping at a table of miscellaneous items and asks, "I don't know where he came from, but did you see Bobby make contact with her handler?"

"A little hard to miss," I hiss back.

"I didn't notice anyone tailing us here, so she must be carrying some kind of bug or tracking device on her. Keep your eyes open for it, but if you find it don't damage it. It might just come in handy at some point."

At just that moment, the girls start toward us, Lisa unable to keep her occupied any longer. Yet, it was enough time for Larry and me to exchange thoughts. And even more importantly, erase any doubts that Bobby is our connection to the people that took Eddy.

Now I just have to covertly convince Bobby that Eddy isn't that important to me so they don't torture her to get to me, something I've already been working on.

But unlike before, I now have my friend's blessing to play the game with Bobby to the max.

*9*

Back out in the SUV, the first thing we do is break open the boxes of ammo and load our respective weapons. While the others stack bullets in their clips, I slip off my shirt and slip the straps for the shoulder holster over my bare shoulders. After inserting the magnum in the holster and making some fine adjustments to the straps, I put my shirt back on, which draws an exaggerated sigh of disappointment from Bobby in the back seat, which in turn, causes a roll of the eyes and a grin from Larry.

When everyone is finished and sporting their new weapons, Larry looks at his watch and noting that it's already past six, suggests we get some food in our bellies.

"I know this is Vegas and all, but do you think it's wise strolling into a restaurant sporting this much firepower?" I ask, glancing at his waist.

"You're right, this is Vegas. We can get anything we want from a drive-through or mobile food vendor," he agrees. "Any suggestions?"

Bobby is the first to speak up, "I seem to remember there being somewhere an entire block of food trucks that cater to cuisines from around the world. We head there and we can each get whatever delights we desire."

"You have any idea where this strip is?" Larry asks, as I reach to the dash and put the parameters for a search into the smart GPS.

When the voice comes back with options, I silence it, preferring to look at the map and read the options and instructions. "Looks like we're not that far away," I say before looking over my shoulder at Bobby and asking with a smile, "How do you know so much about Vegas?"

"I read a lot," she smiles, accenting it with a wink.

"Go up about seven blocks and hang a left. We should come to an area of wide streets and wider sidewalks with a lot of novelty shops a short ways down it," I say to Larry. "It's an area with a lot of touristy foot traffic, which probably explains the food truck appeal."

"Works for me," he simply replies, turning his attention to his driving.

"After we get some food in our stomachs," I start, speaking between Larry and the girls in back, "We'll take a trip past the address Norm gave me and get a feel for the lay of the land. Then we'll check the neighborhoods surrounding it before we head back to the hotel and work out a plan of action. More than likely, it's going to be legit and is nothing more than Norm's ex-sister-in-law's place. If we're lucky, we'll find Norm's ex-wife and son."

"Mac, I've heard enough about you from your friends to know you're already making a plan," Lisa says, hinting for me to give some idea of what we might do depending on the variables.

"Yeah, Mac, everyone knows you're always planning something," Larry grins over at me.

"Okay, enough already," I start, relenting to their inquisition. "Basically, depending on what we see when we scope out the terrain, I'm thinking we'll go in on the QT and recon the interior. We need to verify exactly what we're dealing with, whether it's Norm's ex-sister-in-law or if Eddy is there. If it turns out the place is empty, then we need to look for any evidence that she's been held there, because knowing Eddy as well as we do, if she's been there, she'll find a way to leave a clue to tip us off," I say, unable to hide the pride I'm feeling toward her out of my voice.

Although I have other plans for whatever we do or don't find, I'm keeping them to myself at this point. "That's as far as I've gotten. Until we see what is or isn't inside the house, I hate to venture anything more."

Bobby is looking out the side window, deep in her own thoughts. Glancing at her, I realize that ever since the episode involving the stranger at the armory, I'm analyzing everything she does or doesn't do with an extra sliver of scrutiny. Watching her, I can't help wondering if she's trying to figure out a way to get a message to her handler outlining the skeletal plan I just laid out. Or to warn them that we're coming.

Turning back to face out the front windshield, I begin thinking that there must be some way to use her in finding Eddy. I briefly consider calling her out and then letting her run so we can tail her. But that's a stupid idea, the kind of thing that only works on TV shows and I quickly discard the thought. If she knows we're on to her, she'll hightail it, but not back to her handler. At worse, she'd just lead us on a wild goose chase. At best, we catch her collecting her payment from someone that doesn't even know what's going on before dropping off the radar.

No, we need to find a way that has her leading us to Eddy without her even realizing what she's doing.

Before I can think further on the subject, Larry says, "Would you look at that? I've never seen so many food carts and trucks in one place before."

Straight ahead, the road widens to allow ample parallel parking with sidewalks at least ten feet wide, a steady flow of people moving along them as they flit in and out of the novelty shops or up to the food vendors for food and drink before continuing their shopping. Off to the left is a huge open area full of cars with a few people sitting at fold out card tables selling baseball cards or telling fortunes.

"Let's see if we can find somewhere to hole up in that lot," I say, pointing toward the parking area.

Seeing an open spot facing out on the street and not wanting to risk someone else reaching it before he can, Larry cuts across oncoming traffic as he performs an illegal U-turn, slams on the brakes, and then backs hurriedly up and over the curb, bouncing into the spot amid a racket of blaring horns and raised fingers from passing vehicles.

As the SUV settles down on its suspension, Larry glances into the back seat and asks if everyone's alright and apologizes for the rough ride. "We'll leave the weapons here and go two at a time," he adds, looking across the street at all the colorful signs adorning the food carts and vans of all shapes and sizes.

"You and Lisa can go first," I offer, glancing at Bobby. "Just remember, don't make a scene, we don't want to draw any unwanted attention to ourselves."

"Always the worry wart," he replies with a smile, unclipping his holster and handing it across to me before pointing toward the key in the ignition.

It doesn't escape my notice that Lisa leans down and slides her gun and holster under my seat instead of handing it off to Bobby.

They climb out on opposite sides of the SUV and meet up in front. Holding each other's hand, they dodge cars and trucks that brake and honk at them with the occasional cussword yelled out an open window as they run across to the far side of the street.

"You can sit up front if you want," I say to Bobby.

"And you could come back here where there's more privacy," she says with a mischievous smile. "You know they're going to be at least fifteen minutes, plenty of time for you know what."

Grinning roguishly over the seat at her, I say, "You know, I'm usually the one getting harassed over my insatiable sex drive. I'm not sure what to make of a woman that has more drive than me. You could be damaging to my reputation."

Lifting her shirt just enough to give me a sneak peak of her breasts, I find it impossible to tear my eyes away from the erect nipples adorning them like a couple of forty-five caliber bullets.

Seeing the heated desire growing in my eyes, she slowly lowers her shirt while simultaneously saying in a sexually husky voice, "I'm not cold, if you're wondering. But I might cool off if you don't get your ass back here now."

Turning to look out the front windshield and not seeing any sign of Larry or Lisa, I momentarily study the dark tint of the side and rear windows while debating the sense of it, when Bobby lets out a frustrated sigh and settles deeper into the seat saying, "It's your reputation."

With a sigh of my own, I push open the door and step out, pushing the door shut while simultaneously pulling open the rear door and climbing in beside her on the bench seat. Bobby grins as if she were the proverbial cat that just caught her a mouse, and begins undoing the snap on the front of her jeans before slowly pulling the zipper down, making it take much longer than necessary while she enjoys having my undivided attention.

Arching her back and lifting her butt high enough off the seat to push her jeans down to her knees, she then pushes her shirt up to expose two of the nicest breasts I've ever laid eyes on. Spreading her legs, she whispers huskily, "What are you waiting for, big boy. We're on a schedule here if you don't want to get caught by your friends."

It doesn't slip past me the way she refers to Larry and Lisa as 'my' friends. But with a swelling pain in the crotch of my jeans clamoring for release, I move past it and lean forward, my tongue going right to the nub of nerves that I know will bring her to a climax in seconds.

As the musky taste of her permeates all of my senses, I hear her moan softly at the same time a slight tremor runs through her body. If my mouth and tongue weren't so preoccupied, I would have smiled at the reaction of her body to my endeavors.

Moving a hand to either side of her inner thighs, I slowly and methodically slide my fingers into her, replacing my tongue with their ministrations over her heightened bundle of nerves. With my fingers working their magic on her delicate folds, I kiss and suckle my way up her tummy until I suddenly clamp down with my teeth on her right nipple, a small shriek of delight mixed with delicious pain escaping from deep within her core.

"Oh babe," she hisses breathily, her body rising off the seat and then falling back with each growing wave of orgasmic bliss.

She suddenly convulses spasmodically and then drops breathlessly into the seat, her body going limp under my touch.

"You still want me?" I whisper, her hands caressing my erection.

"You have no idea how much I want you," she replies a bit breathlessly.

Though her ankles are tied together from her jeans being wrapped around them, she spreads her knees wide enough for me to move into position over her and as she guides me, I lower myself into her hot, wet folds. Her hands grab the cheeks of my ass and pull me deeper, not letting me toy with her the way I have in the past.

"Time is running short," she says huskily, her hands forcing me into a rhythm with her body that drives me right to the edge in a matter of seconds. "Let it go, baby. Just let it go," she whispers, squeezing my ass with her fingertips, the nails possibly breaking the skin and paying me back for the wonderful pain that I'd inflicted on her just seconds prior.

The second I explode within her, she pushes me off, saying, "Hurry up and get back in the front."

I pull my jeans up as I glance over the back of the front seats and quickly study the street out front for any sign of Larry or Lisa. Seeing no sign of them, I push open the door, step out, and refasten my jeans and straighten out my shirt before climbing back into the front passenger's seat.

Looking back at Bobby and feeling like a perverted voyeur for watching her dress, I turn my attention back to the street and notice Larry and Lisa approaching from the right, having used the crosswalk down the street for their return instead of playing with the traffic again. In each of their hands are bags showing grease stains from the contents inside leaking through.

Glancing back at Bobby and seeing her dressed and just straightening out her shirt, I let her know that 'my' friends are on their way back. She doesn't bite on the reference to them being 'my' friends, though her referring to them as such earlier is still sticking in my craw.

When they reach the SUV, I jump out and offer the front seat to Lisa, who quickly replies that she'll take the back seat. "If you just get the door for me," she smiles lightly as Larry heads around to the driver's door.

Opening the door for her as asked, I say, "I just thought the two of you might like to sit up front while Bobby and I go over."

Larry has his door open and is placing his bags on the console in a manner so they remain upright, when he says, "Yeah, we brought more than enough for everyone." Climbing in, he continues, speaking louder than necessary for Bobby's benefit, "Unless you really have your heart set on something special, I think we might have covered all the bases here and then some."

"I'm really not that picky," Bobby replies without thinking.

While Lisa giggles, Larry looks over at me and snidely remarks, "Yeah, we kind of picked up on that."

"Hey, it's not like that," I lightly protest, while Bobby turns a bright shade of pink, visible even in the shade of the tinted windows.

Clearing her throat, she argues, "That's not what I meant."

"They're just pulling your leg, Bobby," I interject before she feels ganged up on and turns defensive.

Changing the subject, Larry opens a bag and passes out a hot coffee to each of us, "Thought this might come in handy if it turns out to be a late night."

Between him and Lisa, he wasn't jesting when he said they'd brought a little of something for every palette. We ended up simply opening the bags and passing them around, digging out samples from each. There was fried Indian breads, hamburgers, sweets, and even Chinese crackers.

It turns into a nice little buffet that quickly has everyone's appetite satisfied. Thinking of the potentially long night ahead, we stuff all the leftovers into one large bag and place it on the floor in back for later. Larry and Lisa put their holsters back on and then we relax with our coffees while letting our food settle.

"That was good, guys," I say, complementing and thanking both Larry and Lisa.

"Thank Lisa," Larry says, nodding toward her. "It was her idea to save time."

It also gave him time to find out if Lisa learned anything at the armory. And that thought has me wondering if what they learned isn't the reason for not wanting to leave her alone out on the street with just me to keep an eye on her. Maybe Larry and Lisa discovered that the real plot is to kidnap me by using Bobby to get me alone.

Well, if that's the case, I have just one thought on the matter, bring it on!

Yet, if that is the case, why not kidnap me before we hooked up with Larry and Lisa?

No, that theory has more holes in it than a sieve.

Without realizing that I'm even doing it, I slip out my cell phone and check it for messages. When it says no new messages, I begin to wonder what the point was in kidnapping Eddy if it wasn't to have some kind of control over me. And yet, the only way to exercise that control is through this cell phone, of which Eddy has the number programmed into her cellphone and they could easily have gotten it from. Or they could have just used Eddy's cellphone, since it is the only item that disappeared along with her. It wasn't in her purse when I went through it at the restaurant.

Of course, there's the distinct possibility that she resisted and tried fighting off her kidnappers when she was being taken and they had to resort to using deadly force to subdue her. That would explain their reluctance to contact me, since I would demand proof of life at the onset of any negotiating.

Yet, I can't allow myself to follow that train of thought. Eddy isn't dead! I refuse to go there.

So that means their only way to know where I am and what I'm up to is through Bobby, which explains the stranger at the gun show.

An idea suddenly strikes me. We need to leave Bobby alone long enough for her to contact her handler with a semblance of security. We need them to set up something so they have to come out of the dark and into the light of day where we can deal with them, even if I'm the bait. I owe Eddy that much at least.

But that'll have to wait until we sort out Norm's information and learn whether he is on the up and up, or if he set us up.

Larry glances up at me as he programs the address into the GPS. "Are you still with us, Mac?"

"Yeah, just thinking is all. Let's get this show on the road."

*10*

Larry starts the SUV and drives out across the sidewalk, cutting off the flow of traffic to the screech of tires and blaring of horns. Somehow, we reach the far lanes unscathed and blend into the flow of traffic.

"The address is about fifteen minutes away depending on traffic," Larry advises everyone. "Tonight, we're just going to cruise the neighborhoods and see what the lay of the land is. We'll determine after that whether we return in the light of day, or come back later with both vehicles."

The sun is just starting to dip below the horizon when we turn down the street with the address we're looking for. We started from three blocks out and have been slowly working in towards the center. So far, our surveillance has shown us that it's a large, working class neighborhood of middle to low income single level residences. Some of the houses have attached garages, but most are simply sporting attached lean-tos.

As we approach the address in question, Larry slows down and all eyes are studying the neighbors as well as the actual house. There aren't any streetlights on yet, though a few of the houses in the neighborhood have lights on inside. The address in question has all the curtains drawn tight on the front and side windows, so if there is a light on inside, it might not be visible to us. Yet, I can't shake the feeling that the place is empty and the only people watching us are hiding behind curtains in houses other than this one.

"Yeah, we're being watched alright," Larry says as if reading my mind.

"But not from that place," I say, expressing my gut feeling for the benefit of the others.

"There's something going on here, but the house feels empty."

The house in question is a faded sky blue with dirty white trim and an attached garage off the left side. The front has a simple arrangement of three steps and a porch barely large enough to accommodate two people outside the door. The roof is asphalt shingles, the siding clapboard. Very typical of the neighborhood except for the few stucco sided haciendas with red tiled roofs scattered here and there. The stucco sided homes were probably the original dwellings in the neighborhood until zoning changes allowed them to subdivide their lots and in came the stick and staple structures. The beginning of the end to a way of life and a neighborhood.

Lisa asks, "Why don't we just go in and check it out now if there isn't anyone inside?"

"The neighbors will call the cops before we reach the front door," Larry answers her as we reach the junction of the next block and continue straight through it.

"We'll go back to the hotel and pick up the other vehicle and come back later tonight under cover of full dark. It's possible the house is a trap and they're only expecting me. They might not realize that I have backup." I pause for a moment before adding, "There's also the possibility that Norm's ex-wife and son will be there with her sister when we come back. They might just be out somewhere. However unlikely it seems, until we confirm what's inside that house, we can't rule anything out."

Bobby asks, her voice tinged with anxiety, "Will we be going inside when we come back?"

"You won't be," I quickly assuage her concern. "You and Lisa will be our lookouts and remain with the vehicles. But we'll go over all that when we get back to the hotel."

"Don't worry, Bobby," Lisa says consolingly. "These guys won't let anything happen to us. I trust them with my life."

The rest of the ride back to the hotel passes with just small talk about the casinos and slots and what an individual's odds are of winning. Then the topic turns to our new weapons and Bobby asks a few questions about the one she's sporting on her hip. Though her questions are innocent enough, I can't help wonder if she isn't asking them just to give us the impression that she's more innocent and naïve than we know her to be.

"Are you sure you've fired a gun before?" Lisa finally asks with a frown.

Bobby rolls her eyes at her and replies, "Yeah, but it didn't have so many different pieces. You just pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger and bang, it fired."

"Single action," I remark.

"Maybe you should trade with her, Mac," Larry suggests. "At least she won't have any problems using your magnum."

Before I can argue with him, Lisa saves the day, "Too much kick for an inexperienced user. That magnum is liable to bust her wrist the first shot she takes."

Speaking softly so as not to appear hesitant at the idea of swapping my magnum for Bobby's 9mm automatic, I agree with Lisa, "Yeah, for an inexperienced shooter, the magnum can be more than a handful."

Larry doesn't say anything, but he gives me a sidelong look before saying, "We're almost there."

After parking the SUV, Lisa grabs up the bag of leftovers while Bobby grabs the bag with all the empty ammunition boxes and food wrappers. When we're all out of the vehicle, Bobby says, "I'll catch up with you all. I'm just going to run these around to the dumpster."

"I'll go with you," I quickly offer, ignoring a subtle glance from Larry.

"No, no," she argues. "You go on ahead," And then giving me a mischievous grin, softly adds, "Fix me a stiff one, drink that is. I'll be right along. I saw a dumpster back by the road when we pulled in."

"If you're sure," I reply, grinning like a fool at her comment.

Without another word, she turns and takes off in the direction from which we just came while I turn and catch up to Larry and Lisa. Larry is the first to speak, asking if that was wise to leave her alone.

"Inside," I say, hurrying them along. Once we're inside and the door is closed, I tell them what I was thinking earlier about leaving Bobby alone long enough for her to contact her handler so as not to raise any suspicions or make her feel as if we don't trust her. "It's important for her to feel as though she's one of us if we expect her to let her guard down. Moreover, it's possible that Eddy lost her phone with the preprogrammed number to my cell in it. And if that's the case, they don't have any way of contacting me."

"She could also be coordinating with them to set a trap for us," Lisa pipes up, clearly not agreeing with my decision to let Bobby out of our sights.

"That's the chance we have to take," I calmly state. "Because, frankly, I'll be disappointed if they don't try something soon. This silence and waiting is worse than walking upright into a trap."

"He's right, Lisa," Larry chimes in. "If we don't get lucky at the house tonight, we don't have anything else to go on."

Before we can say anything else, Bobby comes through the door, breathing hard as if she were just running. All heads turn to look at her.

"Everything all right?" I ask, stepping toward her.

"Oh yeah, just fine. Thought I'd stretch my legs and get the old heart pumping. I used to jog every morning and I kind of miss the freedom of it." Moving past us, she says, "If it's okay and we have the time, I'm going to hit the shower and get the road grime off me."

While I had showered and cleaned up before we headed out earlier, it never dawned on me that we hit the road without giving Bobby a chance to clean up since it didn't seem appropriate to share the shower with her.

"I'll have that drink ready for you when you get out," I offer, feeling ashamed of myself for being so self-centered.

When we hear the shower running, I turn to the others and ask, "Do you think it's wise to go back tonight? Or should we take the night off and head out to the desert tomorrow and get some target shooting in?"

"I think we should do it tonight," Lisa says, looking at Larry. "The longer we delay, the more time we give them to set up a trap or something."

"I agree," he says, moving toward the bottles of liquor on the counter. "When Bobby gets out of the shower, we'll go over the weapon with her. I have a cleaning kit in my bag with oil and patches and we can use a bath towel to wipe them down."

Without another word, he pours us each a tumbler of liquor, mine from the bottle of rum, his and Lisa's from a bottle of Scotch. He leaves an empty tumbler for Bobby to pick her own poison. Then he goes to the linen shelf in the en suite bathroom and pulls a clean sheet, a couple of face cloths, and a large terry bath towel. Returning to the lounge area, he clears everything from the coffee table before spreading the sheet out on it.

While Lisa and I look on in silence, sipping our respective glasses of booze, he returns to their bedroom and comes back with a small tin of gun oil, a couple of short ram rods, and a box of gun cleaning patches.

Placing everything in the center of the table, he pulls out his 9mm and places it on the coffee table directly in front of him before picking up his glass of Scotch and taking a short swallow before pushing back in his seat and closing his eyes for a moment as he savors the smooth burn flowing down his throat and warming his gut. It didn't escape my notice that he didn't remove the clip from the weapon.

"When she's ready," he says, his eyes barely slits. "We'll go over the entire weapon with her, from disassembly to cleaning to reassembly and most importantly, how to use it. At this time, it's irrelevant whether she can hit the broad side of a barn or not, just as long as she can make noise with it."

"And not hit any of us," Lisa adds with a hint of derision.

"I would never do that," comes Bobby's voice from just beyond the kitchenette.

While Lisa turns fifty shades of red, Larry and I fight back the urge to laugh at her expense.

Stuttering and embarrassed, Lisa tries to tell Bobby that she didn't mean for it the way it sounded, but Larry quickly cuts her off, saving her from further embarrassing herself. "I set a glass up for you on the counter, but I didn't want to be presumptuous regarding what you might like."

Moving toward the counter, she says sarcastically, "I don't know why you would feel any less presumptuous than your girlfriend when it comes to me." Then, as if thinking better of her actions, apologizes, "It's okay, really. Who am I kidding? You're right, Lisa, I probably can't hit the broad side of a barn and you're as likely to get hit from a bullet out of my gun as anything I'm shooting at. But seriously, I won't shoot if there's any chance of me hitting one of you guys," she casually adds, pouring herself a tumbler full from a bottle of Tequila.

Meeting Bobby's gaze, Lisa again starts to apologize, "Whether it's true or not is irrelevant, Bobby. What I said was uncalled for and I wish I could take it back. I'm sorry."

The forced smile Bobby gives her doesn't fool anyone. Nor do her words. "Don't worry about it, Lisa. Really, it's not a big deal." And then as she settles into the empty seat next to me, pulls her weapon from the holster and holds it out, saying, "So, are you all going to teach me how to use this thing?"

"That's the plan," Larry says, setting his drink down and reaching for her weapon, being careful to extract it from her fingers so that there isn't any accidental misfire.

We all place our weapons on the sheet-covered coffee table and wait for Larry to take the lead. After removing the clip from Bobby's weapon and checking the chamber to be sure it's clear, he sets it down in front of her. "This is how we're going to do this," he starts, looking at her to be sure he has her undivided attention. "I'm going to go through the process of disassembling my weapon one step at a time. You watch me closely, and when I finish a step, you repeat it on your weapon."

"Easy-peasy," she answers him with a childish grin that causes me to look at her glass to see how much she's consumed.

*11*

The weapon cleaning session goes without incident and is followed up with Larry and Lisa heading off to the bedroom to catch a few hours of sleep before we head out. It was briefly discussed again whether we should hold off a day before going back. But with no other leads, I stress the importance of time and how each minute we delay might be Eddy's last.

No sooner does their bedroom door close, then Bobby climbs out of her seat and saunters off to the master bath, swinging her hips in a sensuous manner that under any other circumstances would have me out of my seat and in hot pursuit within a matter of seconds. And yet, tonight, with everything on my mind and my growing suspicions of her, I remain seated.

When she reaches the bathroom door, she leans up against the door jamb like a cat working a scratching post and looks back over her shoulder, throwing me a mischievous wink. Her intentions couldn't have been plainer even if she'd called out, "Come and get it."

Still, I am just a man, after all. And it's important that if she's sharing information with Eddy's kidnappers, they get the impression that I'm not all that broken up over her disappearance.

Propelling myself out of the seat, I slip out of my shirt and throw it on the bed as I hurry past it, catching the bathroom door and silently pushing it shut behind me. Though it couldn't have taken me more than fifteen seconds from the time I left my seat until I reached the bathroom and carefully closed the door, Bobby was already naked and turning on the hot water in the shower.

Slipping out of my jeans and leaving them with my socks and boots in a small pile at the bottom of the door to help muffle any noise, I grab a bar of soap from the vanity and climb into the shower behind her, my manhood already protruding out in front of me.

"I feel as though I just crawled out of a dumpster," she says, standing under the full stream of water with her back to me.

"I'll give you a good scrubbing," I say softly, moving in close behind her so that my erection is pressing into the crack between her creamy smooth cheeks. "Just remember to keep your voice down and no screaming tonight," I tease, lathering the back of her neck and working the lather into her tense neck muscles and shoulders before my hands slowly find their way around to her front.

Pausing momentarily, I cup her full breasts in my soapy hands, my fingers automatically rolling her nipples as I feel her body trembling slightly against mine. She inhales deeply and then I run my hands with the bar of soap down her taut belly, my fingers slipping into the V where her thighs come together. Slowly, tenderly, I massage the bundle of nerves positioned there, relishing the way she quivers under my touch, her body leaning backwards into me.

Her hands follow my arms down, touching my hands and then reaching between her legs to find the head of my rock-hard shaft. Arching her back to make herself more accessible to me, she guides my iron pole into her soft and willing folds. Working her body in such a way that she's sliding up and down on my pole, I reach up and take her breasts in my hands to help support her body as she grows weak in the knees.

Sliding my hands down to her waist, I pull her back away from under the flow of hot water and then force her head down back under the flow. She reaches out and steadies herself by placing her hands on the tap while I drive myself into her, the tempo of my thrusts increasing rapidly as she pushes back against me, taking the full length of my manhood, the wet skin of her ass slapping loudly against my thighs as the rhythm of our sex climbs to an orgasm that leaves us both spent and gasping for air.

Picking up the bar of soap that I didn't remember dropping, I begin at her feet and work my way up her legs, rubbing the soap into a luxurious lather on her lower body before turning her around and letting the shower rinse her off. Her fingers are entwined in my hair, and I suddenly realize that she has a bottle of shampoo and is working it through my hair and down my back. Well lathered, I rise while she goes down on her knees. After squirting a large amount of shampoo on the top of her head, I return the favor and massage her scalp while raising a large pile of suds.

Though I wasn't expecting it, she takes my drooping shaft in her mouth and tenderly suckles on it, the sensation of her mouth over the silky skin of my shaft quickly sending shivers through my body and bringing it back to life.

While rubbing shampoo through her hair and messaging her ear lobes, I breathlessly rasp, "That's not fair."

Though I didn't expect her to hear me, she does, and she begins sucking harder, quickly pulling another climax out of me. I explode in her mouth and throat, causing her to suck in water with air and she momentarily gags before rising to her feet. Holding her steady to prevent her falling, I give her a minute to catch her breath before turning her back under the stream of water to rinse the shampoo out of her hair and down the length of her glistening body.

Kissing first her mouth, then her neck, and on down to her breasts, I quickly work my way down to her wet love nest, softly licking her folds while savoring the musky sweetness of her womanhood. As I lower myself to my knees, she stops me with a gentle pressure to either side of my head and whispers hoarsely, her breath catching in her throat, "No more, Mac. If they don't suspect anything yet, they will when I spend an hour in the shower. You need to get back out there and let me catch my breath."

Rising up in front of her, I kiss her softly on the lips and reach around to cup the cheeks of her ass so I know what I've got to look forward to. Pushing myself against her, I teasingly ask, "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"It's not what I want, it's what we have to do," she breathlessly replies, not sure she's even convincing herself.

Realizing that she's right, I sigh disappointedly and slip out of the shower. After quickly drying off, I slip on my pants and pick up my socks and boots, dropping them on the floor beside the bed as I head into the kitchenette and pour a couple of tumblers, rum in one, tequila in the other. Moving into the lounge, I drop heavily into the larger of the chairs and put my feet up on the coffee table that's still covered with a bed sheet.

Bobby's automatic and my magnum with their respective holsters are still lying on the table where we left them, along with the basic cleaning supplies. Larry and Lisa's weapons and holsters are gone, probably in the bedroom within easy reach. It isn't like me to have gone into the bathroom without taking a weapon with, and I'm silently chastising myself when Bobby comes out of the bathroom wearing only a large bath towel. Around her head is another bath towel twisted up like a turban.

"You are a beautiful woman," I say, admiring her bare legs and the bulge of her breasts against the terry cloth towel. "I poured you a refill on the counter."

"Thanks," she says, detouring through the kitchenette to pick up her drink on the way to the lounge.

Not wanting to put me out, she drops down on the couch and stretches her legs out so that her feet are resting only inches from mine on the table.

"I thought I might just rest on the couch, if you want the bed," I offer, thinking that we're going to be getting up in a couple of hours anyway.

"That'll be fine," she says, her thoughts somewhere else. And then, out of the blue, she asks, "Do you miss her? Eddy, that is."

"Of course, I do," I say without hesitation, hiding the anger that came up with the response as if the question didn't need to be asked.

"You never talk about her."

"What's to say?" I throw back at her, controlling the anger that is rising up my throat like bile and threatening to spill out. Whether she's involved in Eddy's disappearance or not, she must know that I have feelings for the missing woman or we wouldn't be here searching for her.

It suddenly dawns on me that she's never once asked me what Eddy and I were doing on the back road to Vegas, which only adds weight to my suspicions of her.

"Did you, or do you, love her?"

Although my gut reaction is to ask her what business it is of hers, I calmly reply, "We shared something as partners that went beyond our business dealings."

"Anything like what you and I are sharing?"

When I consider what she and I are sharing, I begin to think that maybe she does have a right to know what Eddy and I shared, especially if her inquisition is based in innocence. "You're sure in an inquisitive mood tonight," I deflect, not feeling particularly comfortable talking to her about Eddy and mine's relationship, especially since my goal is to give her the impression that Eddy doesn't mean that much to me.

"We've never really talked about what you and Eddy were working on when she disappeared or why someone would kidnap her. I get that you think it might be some people from your past that are out for revenge. But is there more to it?"

"That's the assumption we're working on," I simply state, since it's close to the truth, doesn't really tell her anything, and is plausible on every front.

"Do you think whoever took her got the person they were after, or do you think they're going to use her to get to you?"

"We assumed they were going to use her to get to me, but she has a cell phone with her that has my number programmed into it, and so far, no one has contacted me, which doesn't fit with that theory," I tell her, studying her face for any tells.

"She had a cell phone with her?" Bobby asks, clearly taken aback by that disclosure.

"Yeah," I concur, continuing to study her. "We had assumed that someone would have contacted me by now, offering to trade her life for mine or something along those lines. But so far, nothing."

Watching her reactions to my words, I'm beginning to think that she's not connected to the mob after all, and it was just coincidence that we ran into her in Paisley. Yet, if she is connected to the people we suspect of kidnapping Eddy, they didn't know she had a cell phone. That's about to change, though, the next time Bobby is in contact with them.

Damn it, I hope I didn't unwittingly undermine something Eddy might have been working on them in an attempt to escape or contact me. She might have been able to keep the phone secret from them while she was unable to use it herself, and now I may have just taken that option away from her.

"Maybe they just wanted Eddy all along," she says, either trying to assuage my concerns or steer me down another track.

"If that's the case, then we're just wasting time on a wild goose chase," I say softly, my thoughts turning inward with doubts.

"If you weren't here, where would you be?" she asks, appearing genuinely interested in my answer. "You got all the people in Paisley searching through the abandoned buildings around town. What more could you have done there? And since you have a case here in Vegas to work on, it only makes sense that you would come here, and I'm sure Eddy would think the same thing. If she gets away from whomever took her, she'll head straight to Vegas. Right?"

"You're pretty smart for a waitress," I say with a smile, actually feeling better about things.

Rising off the couch, she removes the towel from her head and hangs it over the back of a kitchenette chair. As she walks toward the bed, she lets the bath towel wrapped around her fall to the floor while saying, "If we're going to be heading back out in a couple of hours, we should probably get some rest."

Unable to take my eyes off her naked body, I watch intently as she pulls back the coverlet and slides languorously between the cotton sheets, throwing me an inviting wink just before turning out the light.

With the room in darkness, I rise out of the chair and move around to the couch. The only thing I'm wearing are my jeans and I decide to play it safe and leave them on. Stretching out with my arms above my head, I have barely closed my eyes when sleep captures my thoughts.

*12*

I haven't lived to the age I am in this line of work by letting my guard down, even when catching some shuteye. So it doesn't surprise me that the slight change in temperature from the door being opened and then silently closed brings me back to the surface. After listening for a moment to make sure there isn't anyone moving about in the room, I slowly rise and slip on my socks and boots before pulling the shoulder holster into place and securing it.

When I get closer to the bed, I notice right away that it's empty, and immediately suspect that Bobby couldn't wait to tell her handler what she learned from me earlier.

As I draw up to the door, I slowly put my eye to the peephole and scan the dimly lit area directly outside. Not seeing anyone, I pull the door open and slip out before silently closing it behind me. Moving stealthily, I slip into the shadows and carefully work my way toward the parking lot where the rental and the SUV are parked.

Looking over the hood of a dark sedan parked directly outside the rear entrance, I catch movement further out in the parking lot and suddenly realize that the trunk lid is up on my rental car.

"Why would Bobby sneak out of the room in the middle of the night to dig around in Eddy's and mine stuff in the trunk of the rental?" I silently ponder, moving stealthily closer to see if there's anyone with her.

When I'm finally in a position where I have a clear view of her under the sodium lights, I notice right off that she's alone. Furthermore, she doesn't appear to be on a phone, so it's probably a safe assumption that she hasn't contacted anyone.

Looking around the parking lot, nothing seems to be moving, cars or people. And knowing that she hasn't been out here very long, if she had contacted someone she would either still be on the phone or I should see some sign of someone leaving.

Just then, she eases the trunk lid down and secures it without slamming it. Moving before she can overtake me, I scurry between the vehicles, running in a crouch at times as I make my way back to the rear entrance of the hotel. Once I'm safely within reach of the door, I pause to look back and verify that she's returning also.

Seeing her coming across the parking lot, I slip back into the room and pull off my boots and socks and drop them on the floor in the general vicinity of where they were earlier and plunk down on the couch just as the door silently opens and then quickly closes just as silently. In the shadows, I see her slip under the sheets fully clothed.

For a long moment, I debate getting up and going to her when she suddenly whispers, "I know you're not sleeping, Mac."

"Busted."

"That was you watching me outside, wasn't it?"

"Busted again," I reply with a smile, realizing there isn't any point in denying the obvious.

"You don't trust me, do you?" she asks, unable to hide the hurt in her voice.

"You want to tell me what you were doing out there?" I ask, preferring not to answer her question just yet, as the jury is still out on that one.

"You want to come over here and join me so I don't have to raise my voice?" she asks with no hint of an ulterior motive.

Getting off the couch, I detour through the kitchenette and grab the bottles of tequila and rum. Carrying one in each hand so there's no chance of them clinking together, I drop down on the edge of the bed and extend the tequila out to her.

"I'm fine," she says, passing on the offer.

Setting the tequila on the nightstand, I open the bottle of rum and before putting it to my lips, say, "I hope you don't mind if I take the edge off."

Ignoring my comment, she says softly, her voice barely audible, "I have a confession to make."

Stopping short of taking a swallow, I lower the bottle and slowly screw the lid back on. Holding it loosely between my knees for courage, I take a breath and ask, "What do you want to tell me?"

Though I have a few thoughts of what might be forthcoming from her, what she says isn't among them. "I went through your things." She pauses for a minute, and when I start to say something, she continues as if she didn't hear me. "Not just your things, but Eddy's too. When we first stopped that evening on the side of the road, I dug through everything in the car that was within reach." She pauses again, and this time I remain silent, letting her tell me at her own speed. "I tried to tell myself that I didn't know you from Adam and that I needed to know what kind of a person you were. But the truth of it is, I was going to rip you off. If I had found anything of value, I was going to skip out the next time we stopped."

This time, when she pauses, I teasingly remark, "Didn't find much, huh?"

She laughs softly in the dark before continuing. "Now that I've gotten to know you, I couldn't steal from you even if I found a cache of cash, so to speak."

"So, you want to explain why you were in the trunk of my car tonight?"

"When you mentioned that Eddy had a cell phone, my first thought was that I never came across one in the car, and believe me, I searched that car thoroughly. If there had been a cell phone in it, I would have found it. Then I got to thinking that her luggage is probably in the trunk, and if she's like me, sometimes we place things like cell phones in a bag and then that bag ends up someplace out of reach, such as the trunk. I thought if I could find the cell phone in the trunk, it would at least solve one of your mysteries."

Surprisingly, I believed her. "No luck, huh?"

"No. If I had found it, I would have woke you up the minute I came back, probably from crying out with happiness. But no, I didn't find anything."

Leaning over her, I softly whisper, "Thank you."

She leans forward and our lips come together in the dark. She kisses me softly before pushing me away and saying, "Maybe I will have a sip of that."

My first thought is that she's changed her mind about the tequila, until I feel her hand on my crotch, squeezing softly. Gently pushing the bottle against her hands, I ask, "Is this what you're looking for?"

Taking the bottle, she whispers dispiritedly, "I guess it'll have to do." And then adds, "For now, anyway."

"What'll have to do for now?" Larry's deep voice comes out of the darkness, the bedroom door standing open with his tall, lean frame filling the void.

"Nothing," I stutter, jumping off the bed like a kid that just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Moving past us, he flicks on the light in the kitchenette and looks back. "I'm glad to see you guys are raring to go," he says, noticing that Bobby's already dressed and I have my pants on if nothing else. "I'll make us a pot of coffee to clear the cobweb and then we hit it."

Moving past him to retrieve my clothes from where I'd dropped them, I murmur that coffee sounds good. When Bobby sets the bottle of rum on the nightstand beside the bottle of tequila, he raises an eyebrow and then glances questioningly in my direction.

Slipping on my socks and boots, I give him an imperceptible nod, silently suggesting he drop it. Neither Bobby nor I are in the least bit impaired and he doesn't need to concern himself in that regard.

"Good morning," Lisa says to no one in particular as she comes out of the bedroom, taking in everything. "That coffee smells good."

"Should be ready in a minute or two," Larry smiles at her.

Both Larry and Lisa have their new guns strapped on and look like their chomping at the bit to get started. "Did you tell them about your idea yet?" Lisa asks him as she sets out the coffee mugs.

"What's that?" I ask, looking toward Larry as I button up my shirt, leaving enough undone to reach through and grab the magnum from the shoulder holster.

Suddenly, the coffee pot beeps and a red light comes on as the last drops of water fall into the carafe. "Coffee's on," he says, not answering me.

After filling the four cups that Lisa set out, he brings two to the table while Lisa brings the other two and places them across the table from hers and Larry's before sitting down next to him on the couch, leaving the two chairs for Bobby and me.

When we're all seated, Larry comments to Bobby that she isn't wearing her holster. "Oh, yeah, it's in the top drawer of the nightstand. I'll put it on before we go."

"So, what's this idea you have?" I ask, a bit impatiently.

"Well, originally we thought Lisa and Bobby would ride together while you and I slipped in to do recon."

"Yeah, so what's changed?" I pressure him when he seems hesitant to continue.

"After giving it some thought, I think we'd be better off if we split up, you and Bobby in one vehicle, Lisa and I in the other. We approach from opposite directions and park about two blocks from the house. We leave them with the vehicles while we approach on foot the last two blocks. If it's clear, you approach the front and work to the right. Meanwhile, I'll approach from the rear and work my way around to my right. When we've searched our respective zones, we'll reconnoiter in the back yard and go from there."

"What if the house is empty? Do we breach and search?" I ask, wanting to make sure Bobby and Lisa are aware of what we'll be doing if we take longer than anticipated.

"Yes."

"What are you going to do if there's people in the house?" Bobby asks, concern in her voice.

Larry and I both start to speak at the same time, so I acquiesce and allow him to go first, "We determine if they're friendlies or not before we proceed."

Picking up where Larry leaves off, I say, "If they're friendlies, we find out whether Norm's son and ex-wife are there or if his ex-sister-in-law knows of their whereabouts."

"And if they're not friendlies?" Bobby presses, a slight tremor in her voice.

"Then it gets interesting," Larry says with an eagerness in his voice that wasn't there before.

*13*

We determine which vehicle is going to approach from which direction and then head out to the vehicles at 0300 straight up. The ride shouldn't take more than twenty minutes with the reduced traffic at this early hour. But being Vegas, the streets are never deserted. Everyone is carrying disposable cups of coffee for the ride. Bobby was going to bring a thermos each for her and Lisa, but the thought was nixed when they considered the bathroom situation.

With Bobby and Lisa at the wheels, we set off. Out of habit, I subconsciously check the position of the magnum where it rests comfortably under my left arm. Bobby is wearing her weapon over her right hip, though it doesn't look natural on her. Also, while the rest of us put extra bullets in our pockets, Bobby opts not to carry any more than the full clip in the weapon.

The ride is uneventful and within a few minutes we break off from the SUV and take a route that will bring us in from the north. When we are within two blocks of the address, Bobby makes a three point turn and then immediately pulls over to the curb. The ride has been filled with tense silence. Unlike me, Bobby is not accustomed to going out in the middle of the night to do recon type work. Or at least, I don't believe she is.

Since Larry and Lisa have a longer distance to cover before they're in position, we have five minutes to kill before I head out on foot. We're parked facing away from the address, but on the same side of the street. I go over her role for a final time, explaining that the minute she sees me in her rearview mirror coming down the sidewalk, she is to start the car and then wait for me to approach her. If she sees me coming on the run, back up to collect me, and then drive like hell.

I pause for a long moment before adding, "If you hear gunfire, get the hell out of here and call 911. Just give them the address and hang up. Then make your way back to the hotel and wait for us to contact you."

"Mac," she begins.

I cut her off before she can say anything else. "Oh, if that happens, you might want to wipe your gun down and lock it in the trunk. If you're asked about it, plead ignorance. You think you can manage that?"

"Mac, please be careful," she says softly, her lower lip trembling slightly.

Leaning across the seat, I take her face in my hands and kiss her softly on the lips. "Don't worry about me, just remember what I told you."

With nothing else to say and time running by, I slip out of the sedan and silently push the door shut behind me. Without looking back, I stroll casually down the sidewalk, pausing when I come to the first intersection and studying the surrounding homes for signs of life. In Vegas, people are coming and going all hours of the day and night and it wouldn't be surprising to pass someone on their way to or from work.

For the most part, the houses appear dark, their occupants sleeping soundly. Here and there, I notice a dim light hidden by curtains, which I write off to night lights. Only one shows signs of someone being awake, and that could just be a TV that got left on as the shadows flicker in varying colors and brightness's.

The house in question is almost in the center of the next block, and as I approach, I see a shadow move off the sidewalk several houses down and disappear into the deeper shadows.

Larry, right on schedule.

Turning up the sidewalk of the house which is set back about twenty feet from the curb like the rest of them lining the streets, my first impression is that it's deserted. Although all the curtains are drawn and it's impossible to see beyond them, I'm not getting any sense of movement inside.

Seeing a doorbell to the right of the plain white door, I decide to give it a try before working my way around the side. While knocking might arouse the nearer neighbors and possibly trigger a call to the cops, no one should hear the ringing of a doorbell unless they are inside the structure. And unless they are sound sleepers, they will answer the door. Which will make our job a whole lot easier.

Climbing the three wooden steps leading to the short overhang and door, I reach forward and press the lit button. At first, I think the bell must not be working, so I press it again with my head nearer to the door, listening intently. Very faintly, I hear a chime donging softly from beyond the door and step back, waiting patiently for someone that might be climbing out of a deep sleep to make their way to the door.

After a full minute has gone by and there is still no sign of life from within, I pull my sleeve down and grip the door knob, trying to turn it. It's locked, which is no surprise, and I step off the little landing and go to the first window on the right. Finding it secured, I move on to the next. That one, like the first is also locked from inside, so I keep moving, not wanting to spend too much time in any one spot. Checking each one for a possible point of entry, I soon find myself pushing through tall bushes along the side of the house. All the windows appear to be securely latched or are of the variety that doesn't open.

Just before I reach the rear corner of the building, I notice an access door leading into the crawl space. My first thought is basement casement window, but a closer inspection quickly reveals that it is indeed just an access to the crawl space and I continue on, making my way around the corner into the back yard.

There is a veranda attached to the rear of the house with an open slat roof to provide shade. On the veranda, which in and of itself is nothing more than a concrete slab is an umbrella table and four chairs. Beyond the veranda is a backyard enclosed with a solid wood fence in need of repairs. Here and there is an abandoned child's toy. Most of the yard is covered in dirt interspersed with occasional clumps of weeds.

Access to the house from the veranda is through double sliding glass doors. There are no curtains back here and I can see straight into a dated kitchen that might have come out of the seventies. Linoleum counters, metal table and chairs with vinyl upholstery, and matching linoleum floors showing extreme wear, especially near the glass doors.

As I step up onto the veranda and move silently toward the sliding doors, Larry comes around from the other side of the house and we meet up to confer outside the doors. Both of us study what we can see inside before crouching down and putting our heads close together so we can talk quietly.

"I tried the doorbell," I whisper.

"Yeah, I heard," he replies. "I don't think there's anyone here and I didn't find any easy access on my side."

"Same here," I concur. "I think our best chance of getting inside without raising any alarms is right here." I hesitate a moment before asking, "Did you check the garage door?"

"I didn't see any point to it, since we can't safely open it without risking a neighbor hearing or seeing it open."

"Just for the hell of it, let's check it out before we have to break glass," I suggest, unable to hide my frustration.

Getting back to my feet, I turn and try sliding the glass door, verifying that it's locked. If we have to, we can jimmy the lock easily enough. But I would prefer not if we don't have to. I'd rather we don't leave any evidence of having been here.

Larry is moving around the side of the house and I quickly set off after him, overtaking him just before he reaches the front and the last of the bushes for cover, the garage door only steps away. Tapping his shoulder, I signal him to hold back while I step around him. Glancing around furtively to make sure there isn't anyone walking on the sidewalk from either direction, I grab hold of the handle and gently lift upward.

To my surprise and delight, it's not locked, and I hold it up approximately one foot while Larry slides on his back and then pauses to relieve me so I can slide under. Together, we carefully lower it back to the ground and stand up, trying to focus in the absolute darkness.

With my hands held out in front of me, I cautiously step forward and walk into the back of a car. Larry slips a small led light out of his pocket and turns it on, illuminating a burgundy colored, four door Chevrolet sedan. On the far side is a narrow wood bench with paint cans and other neglected items of no importance. To our right are a couple of wooden steps leading to a closed wood door.

A quick glance through the side window of the sedan as we move toward the door shows it to be empty, the covering of dust on the dash as thick as the covering on the exterior. "This car hasn't been out of this garage for a long time," I whisper, following Larry to the door.

He reaches up and places a hand on the door knob, trying to turn it. "Locked," he breathes, stepping aside and focusing the light on the lock while I fish out the metal card that I carry just for this purpose. While he holds the light steady, I set to worrying the bolt back with little jiggles from side to side.

It only takes about ten seconds before the door slowly swings inward and as it does, Larry moves in close behind it with me right on his heels. Even before he clears the door jamb, he shuts off the light so there's no chance of anyone seeing it from outside through one of the front windows since we aren't familiar with the floor plan.

The door opened into the kitchen with a small pantry off to the right. There's just enough light coming in through the windows to create familiar shaped shadows. The fridge is across the room from the door and he goes straight to it, cracking the door just enough to see inside without the light casting a glow that might be seen from outside.

"Just what I thought," he whispers, reclosing the door. "No one has been here for at least a week."

"That time frame works with Norm's concern for his missing son," I mouth out loud.

"But how do you explain all of them disappearing? There isn't any reason for his ex-sister-in-law to go into hiding with her sister and nephew," he says, not really expecting me to know the answer.

"Let's see what the rest of the house tells us before we draw any conclusions," I suggest, moving out of the kitchen and through the living room before going down the hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom.

When we reach the first door on the right, Larry asks, "Where's your light, man?"

Sheepishly, I reply, "Key fob in the car."

"Smart, real smart," he says, moving past me into the room.

He only turns on the light when he's looking in the closet or the dresser drawers, never shining it around in the room to where it might be seen as a shadow through the curtains from outside.

"This room was used only for storage by someone that has a hard time parting with things that have outlived their usefulness," he says, retreating toward the door.

In the next room, across the hall and facing out into the backyard, we find a few items of clothing left hanging in the closet along with some discarded personal items in the dresser. "This must have been where his ex-sister-in-law slept," he says, looking at the items left in the room.

The bathroom also has a few personal items that were clearly left behind after someone moved out. In the last room on the right, we find evidence of having been occupied by a small child. There are crayon marks on the wall below the window, a broken GI Joe toy on the floor in the closet, and some rumpled sheets on the bed, but no pillows. They would have taken the pillows for the child to sleep on in the back seat of a car if they were going on a road trip.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Larry asks.

"If you're thinking the three of them went on a road trip when his ex-wife and son showed up, yeah, that's what I'm thinking."

"What about the car in the garage?"

"His ex-sister-in-law either took the bus to work, walked to work, or, and this is the one I'm leaning toward, she didn't work. When her sister called and said she was going to court over custody of her son, the sister here told her to come and together they would figure something out," I theorize out loud.

"So, now what?" Larry asks, his voice tinged with frustration.

"Search through any papers, magazines, or anything else that might give us a clue as to which direction they would have taken. I think we can rule out Mexico," I add as an afterthought. "There's no way they would have gotten a passport for the child this quickly.

We slowly work our way back through the house, pulling apart drawers, cabinets, even the pantry. Anything with writing or print on it is scrutinized. When we end up in the garage, I glance down and see a broken pen lying in the dust beneath the car. Feeling defeated after the failure of the rest of the search to turn up anything, I reach down without much hope and pick it up, glancing at it for a minute and almost dropping it back to the floor before studying it again with renewed interest.

"Larry, check this out," I say, handing it to him.

Using the led light, he shines it on the crushed plastic of an ink pen before recognition sets in, and then his face lights up. "Bingo. Let's take it back to the hotel where we can study it under better lighting," he says, slipping it into his pocket.

Instead of sliding out through the garage door the way we came in, we go through the house and leave via the front door, locking it behind us. We hurry down the sidewalk until reaching the street, and then, without a word, we head off in our respective directions, Larry toward the south and me to the north.

Coming up on the rear of the rented sedan, I see Bobby's head shift as she sees me coming in the rear view mirror. Opening the passenger's door, I slide in and lean over to give her a kiss. "Does that mean you were successful?" she asks with a smile, starting the car and driving slowly out of the neighborhood.

"We'll know more when we get back to the hotel," I say, smiling victoriously while simultaneously thinking that even if this newest lead pans out, it might not bring us any closer to finding Eddy, just Norm's son and ex-wife.

When I adjust myself in the seat, my feet push against a brown paper bag lying on the floor. Reaching down, I pick it up and immediately recognize the feel of it. "Where did you get this?" I ask her, my suspicions rising as recognition sets in.

"I figured you might be awhile, so I took the liberty of gathering some of your things out of the trunk. You know, fresh change of clothes and all. Anyway, I stumbled across that and thought you might enjoy a small indulgence. The rest of your stuff is on the back seat."

Glancing over the headrest, I see my bags on the back seat. "Thanks," I say weakly, not sure exactly what I'm feeling about her gathering up my things and moving them to the back seat for easier access.

Slipping the top of the bottle out of the bag, I unscrew the cap and take a long swallow, then replace the cap and slip it back into the bag before reaching over the seat and placing it among my other things laying there. Because Bobby is driving, I don't offer her any.

Picking up on my sudden mood change over her activities in my absence, she opts for silence rather than trying to explain herself. The ride back to the hotel is spent in awkward silence.

*14*

As she parks the car, Larry and Lisa pull up beside us. The expression on Larry's face shows that he's still excited about our find. My only hope is that it yields something of value, even if it has nothing to do with Eddy's disappearance.

Climbing out of the sedan, I open the back door and gather up a few of my things, leaving the bottle of rum in the foot well as we have more than enough in the room already. Bobby comes around the side of the car and offers me a hand. "I got it," I reply a little too harshly.

Her expression is crestfallen and I realize that I might be going a little hard on her. After all, she was only doing what she thought I might appreciate. I should be up like Larry. We have a new lead and we pretty much eliminated Norm and his ex-wife from any involvement in Eddy's disappearance. It may not be the greatest, but we're still moving forward.

"Look, Bobby," I say softly, before Larry or Lisa can join us. "I'm sorry if I've been a little short with you. I guess I'm just not used to someone going through my stuff like that and even though we might have a new lead in finding Norm's son, we're not getting any closer to finding Eddy. Can you understand where I'm coming from? Forgive me?"

Glancing quickly in the direction of Larry and Lisa and seeing them preoccupied with sorting their stuff in the back of the SUV, she gives me a warm, lingering kiss on the lips. "Does that answer your question?"

"Just like a woman, answer a question with a question," I tease, slinging my bag over my shoulder and placing a hand gently on her arm and guiding her around the car toward the SUV.

"Here," Larry says, flipping a small led light toward me.

Catching it in the air, I ask, "What's this?"

"Spare. Hang onto it. I also got a small magnifying glass from the tick kit. It might come in handy. The ink pen is pretty splintered. Someone with a hard sole and a lot of weight must have come down on it," he says, closing the rear of the SUV.

We head to our suite with the first rays of predawn light filtering through a slight haze. The colors are beautiful, promising a bright day. We go in through the rear entrance of the hotel. No sooner has the door to our suite closed behind us than Bobby says, "I don't know about the rest of you, but I sure could use a drink."

"I'll have coffee," says Larry, his tone all business.

"Right on it, boss," she says with raised eyebrows as she heads to the kitchenette.

Lisa follows on her heels, saying softly, "I'll have that drink with you."

Having just broken the seal on a new bottle of rum in the car, I follow Larry, opting instead for the coffee until we can figure out where we're headed next.

Clearing a place on the coffee table, Larry reaches over and pulls the lamp off the corner table and sets it between us. Pulling the smashed pen out of his pocket along with the small magnifying glass, he sets the pen down with the remaining print on it facing up. While I lean over, trying to decipher the print with my naked eye, he uses the magnifying glass.

"Lisa, can you grab the pencil and pad out of the nightstand? They should be in the drawer with the bible."

While the coffee pot is brewing in the background, Bobby comes around the counter and sits down next to me on the arm of the chair, a tumbler of Scotch in her hand. Lisa comes from the other side of the kitchenette carrying a small notepad and pencil, as well as a tumbler of the same amber liquid.

"Here you go," she says, handing the pencil and pad to Larry before sitting down next to him, her gaze on the smashed pen.

Handing the magnifying glass to me, he says, "Hold this steady, just about so high," indicating how far from the pen he wants me to hold it while he looks through it and moves the pen around beneath it with his fingers, squeezing the splintered plastic so that it somewhat regains its original shape and brings the print back together. "Lisa," he says.

"Yes."

"Write this down. Letter P, O, R. The rest is too obliterated, but it's black or navy blue print on a white background with something gold off to the side here that might or might not be a poker chip. I think the gold is part of an icon or logo."

"Every business in Vegas could use a poker chip in their logo," I say. "Lisa, was there a phone book in that drawer with the bible?"

"No," she flatly replies, pushing to her feet. "But there was one by the TV."

"You got you a real smartass there, Larry," I tease, watching Lisa grab the phone book and flip it open to the yellow pages.

"I heard that, asswipe," she quips back, her eyes on the 'P' section of the yellow pages. "Here, this must be it," she suddenly blurts excitedly. " _PORGYS_. Wine, Women, and Winnings, with a gold poker chip in the logo. There's also a naked woman, but that probably didn't fit on the pen."

Larry takes the magnifying glass from me and studies the pen anew, feigning an interest in seeing the naked woman on it when Lisa throws the phone book at him.

"Hey, did you get the address?" he cries out, ducking the airborne directory.

"Yeah," she replies, flaunting a torn page in her hand. "But if you think I'm going to let you anywhere near a strip joint, you got another think coming."

"It may not be anything," I solemnly remark to no one in particular. "At best, it's where Norm's ex-sister-in-law worked and someone there might know something about their whereabouts. But I have a feeling it's not going to get us any closer to finding Eddy."

"It's a lead, Mac. And if nothing else, we might be able to bring some peace to Norm's life," he says, studying me closely as if he might see a naked woman on me. Of course, there's always the possibility they heard us in the shower together and he's having his doubts about my sincerity where Eddy is concerned.

Well, there's nothing I can do about that for now, because for some reason that I can't explain, I can't shake the feeling that Bobby is somehow involved in Eddy's disappearance. And until I am proven wrong, I need to keep her close and I need to keep her believing that Eddy isn't as important to me as was previously thought.

"So, how do you want to handle this lead?" I ask, meeting his gaze.

"I've got an idea, but it's getting late and what I have in mind will have to wait until evening anyway, so we might as well catch some shuteye," he says, turning his gaze toward Lisa. "It's been a long day and I'm sure we're all tired."

On the way past the kitchenette, he pauses to grab a couple of tumblers and the bottle of Scotch. Turning, he winks and says, "We'll see you this afternoon." With Lisa close on his heels, they head into the master bedroom, pushing the door closed behind them.

Alone in the lounge with Bobby, she suddenly turns on me and asks, "Why didn't you ask him what his plan was before they went to bed?"

Climbing out of the chair and stretching, I head into the kitchenette before answering her. "Would you like something while I'm up?" I ask, setting out a tumbler and filling it with rum.

"Answering a question with a question only works when you're a hot woman and the man is trying to get into your pants," she fires back, trying to be angry at my remark but failing to pull it off. Her voice softer, she presses on, "Answer my question, Mac. Why didn't you ask Larry for details of his plan?"

Since she didn't request anything from the kitchenette, I take my tumbler and slowly walk back into the lounge, sipping from it as I go. When I reach my chair, I lower myself into it and say, "That's not how Larry and I work. By later this afternoon, after we've rested and taken some down time, I'll have come up with an idea too. If he was to share what he's thinking before I have an opportunity to mull the situation over for myself, he'll taint anything I come up with. Later, after we've rested and sit down to eat, we'll each share with the other what we've come up with. And if things go the way they usually do, the final plan will be a blend of only the best ideas from each other's plan."

"So, you have an idea already, too?"

"I do," I calmly reply with a smug look.

Rising off the couch and sauntering over with an exaggerated swaying of her hips, she plants herself on my lap and pry's the tumbler from my grasp. Before placing it on the coffee table, she takes a long sip, rolling the heat around in her mouth before swallowing and leaning back into me.

"Are you going to share with me?" she purrs seductively.

"That depends on what you want to share," I whisper huskily, the bulge in my crotch pressing against the flesh of her ass in a most demanding manner.

She wriggles slightly to better position herself over my unconcealed regard for her sexuality before saying, "You know what I'm talking about. Don't even think that bulge you're trying to push up my ass is going to change the subject."

Reaching around her waist and pulling her legs apart with my hands so that she leans back into me, I nibble on her earlobe before whispering softly, "What were we talking about?"

And then, before she can protest, I slip my tongue into her ear, causing her to squirm in my lap, the bulge in my pants about to tear through the seams with desire. Slipping my tongue from her ear, I kiss and suckle tenderly on the side of her throat, eliciting a soft moan of pleasure from her lips as she throws her head back.

While still holding her firmly by the inner thighs, she slowly rolls her hips back and forth on me, the motion driving my desire through the ceiling. Releasing my hold on her thighs, I slip my hands up to her shirt and slowly set to work on the buttons, when she firmly takes hold of my wrists, arresting their movement.

"Oh no, you don't," she breathlessly whispers, a leg hanging down either side of mine. "You don't get any treats without giving something in return," she adds, turning her head to the side to look into my eyes.

Cupping her breasts through the fabric of the shirt, I breathlessly whisper in her ear, "I promise, as soon as I have something concrete, I'll share it with you. In the meantime, do you think we could carry this conversation forward on the bed?"

Pulling my hands from her breasts, she places them on the armrests and pushes to her feet, leaning forward to retrieve my tumbler from the coffee table while giving me a teasing look at her perfectly shaped ass.

After a long moment, she turns and hands me the tumbler of rum, which is now only half full, and says, "I'll be in the bed, snuggling tenderly in the raw between soft cotton sheets by myself. But if you change your mind about letting me in on your plan, feel free to come over and share with me. You might be surprised at what you get in return."

She licks her lower lip before turning and saying over her shoulder, "Just be sure to bring me something _concrete_."

Chuckling softly in the dim light, my first impulse is to jump to my feet and run to her bed. But I fight the urge long enough to formulate some thoughts about how to proceed with the new lead we've been dealt. My first thought is that Larry was thinking the same thing I am, hence we can't proceed until late afternoon at the earliest because that's when the first shift of dancing girls come on at _Porgys._ The first thing we'll need to do is confirm whether Norm's ex-sister-in-law is or was a dancer there. If she is, we can question her directly, find out what's going on with Norm's son. Maybe if we explain to her that we don't intend on forcing her sister to do anything and that we just need to verify that the boy's okay, she'll talk willingly.

If she isn't working there any longer, maybe we can find a close friend or confidante that is willing to let us know where she went. This latter scenario will require more work, possibly even a hefty bribe placed in the right hands if necessary. And since the girls will stand a better chance of getting into the dressing rooms where the women will be more apt to talk, we may have to include them in any plan we come up with.

The worst case scenario is that she never worked there at all and the pen in the garage was just a worn out writing utensil that was on its way to the garbage bin after being passed along from one person to another. And if that turns out to be the case, we're screwed.

Of course, we can always burn up some shoe leather and go talk to the neighbors where Norm's ex-sister-in-law lived. Not usually a very productive use of our time, but when all else fails, it beats sitting on our asses waiting for something to happen.

Still, after looking through the house at the address Norm provided, my hopes of finding Eddy anytime soon are quickly diminishing. There wasn't anything to indicate that the house was simply anything more than what it appeared to be, the home of Norm's ex-sister-in-law. There weren't any thugs holding Eddy hostage. No stack of used take-out containers piled in the corner or evidence of someone being held against their will. Moreover, we haven't received any ransom calls, nothing to indicate Eddy was taken to punish me.

With regard to Bobby, the only suspicions we have are her showing up at Paisley the week before Eddy and I did, the stranger talking to her at the armory, and my gut that says she is somehow involved. None of which make an iron clad case against her. Nothing _concrete_.

*15*

Concrete. Something hard and inflexible, which no longer describes the member in my jeans. No matter how I wrack my brain, I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something. Even if I keep up this charade with Bobby, letting her believe that Eddy doesn't mean that much to me, I can't help feeling that she's only hanging around to keep an eye on me too. A game of cat and mouse. But who's the cat and who's the mouse?

That the sex is spectacular between us is beside the point. Neither of us is letting the other out of their sight for an ulterior motive. We're keeping our eyes on each other, but to whom does she report? I've had a lot of women in my life before Eddy, but none have ever been as sexually driven or willing as Bobby. She has a way of making a man feel needed and desired and she isn't afraid of letting her desires be known.

Maybe Larry's first reaction to question her was the correct approach after all. But for some reason, I didn't want to tip our hand and let whomever she's working for, know that we're onto her. And if I'm being completely truthful with myself, I'd have to admit that I really like the sex with her too, something that will come to an end if we change tactics.

Just the thought of her naked body slithering around beneath the sheets arouses me and my hand subconsciously goes to the bulge retaking shape in the crotch of my jeans. Picking up the tumbler of rum, I throw it back and get to my feet, studying the empty couch for a minute before peeling off my shirt and the shoulder holster. I kick out of my boots next and pull off my socks, leaving them in a heap on the floor next to the chair. Standing in only my jeans, I look longingly across the room at the shadowy outline of Bobby's curvy body lying just beneath the top sheet, my resistance to her wavering.

The swelling member in my jeans growing painful against its fabric restrictions. "Hell, I need something to cover myself if I'm going to sleep on the couch," I mumble, moving slowly across the room until I'm standing at the side of the bed, looking down on her with longing.

There might be sheets and blankets in the hall linen closet, but there's more on the bed than she needs, I silently think, reaching down and grabbing a corner of the sheet covering her. Pulling slowly at first, the sheet slides down at an angle, revealing two of the finest looking breasts when she suddenly rolls over and yanks it back.

"Go get your own covers," she mumbles angrily, turning her backside toward me.

Unable to resist her any longer, I softly whisper, "How about we share it?"

Coming fully awake at the sound of my voice, she rolls over to face me and sits up, pulling the sheet up around her and crossing her legs beneath it. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not sure anymore," I softly confess. "I was going to steal the sheet off you, but that's not really why I'm here."

"I told you, bring me something concrete and we'd share. Remember?" She smiles coyly and then notices the uncomfortable bulge in the front of my pants. "Well, at least you brought me something concrete," she murmurs seductively, pulling the sheet away and revealing her nakedness to me.

"I can share some of my idea with you, but I haven't ironed out all the details yet. That's something Larry and I always work on together after we've had time to come up with something on our own."

"Let's get you out of those jeans before you damage yourself," she says, reaching out for my hand and pulling me toward her. "You can tell me about the plan later."

When she's pulled me up against the bed, she struggles to her knees and while balancing precariously on the soft mattress, slowly unbuckles my belt before working open the button behind it. With only the zipper standing between my manhood and her tender lips, a small sigh of anticipation slips over her lips, instantly raising the temperature of my blood.

Grasping the zipper pull, she slowly works it down until my manhood springs free, a slight gasp escaping her at the suddenness of it. Yet, instead of backing away, she licks it tenderly until her saliva covers its entire length while pushing my jeans down over my narrow hips. As my jeans fall in a puddle around my bare feet, I carefully step out of them, my hands gently massaging the tension out of her muscles to either side of her throat and down into her shoulders.

Using her hands, she guides my shaft into her mouth and suckles on it like a newborn kid. Her mouth warm and moist, bringing my blood to a full boil within seconds. "This is going to be a quick night if you don't slow down," I gasp, my throat tight with emotion.

In response, she grasps the cheeks of my ass and pulls me into her, swallowing the entirety of my manhood. My hands move up to her head, my fingers twining into her auburn hair. I arch backwards, giving her everything I have before she slowly pulls away and lays down on her back so that her legs hang over the bed to either side of mine. Then, spreading her legs wide, she raises them and plants her heels in the small of my back. Pulling me forward with pressure in the small of my back, she uses her hands and she guides me expertly into her warm and wet love-nest.

A deep moan escapes her puffy lips as she arches her back to accept the fullness of me. Reaching out, I grasp a breast in each hand and squeeze them, relishing the hardness of her nipples and the knowledge that I'm the cause of their vibrant condition. In answer, she works her legs to create an energetic rhythm, pulling me in and then pushing me away. Her breathing grows rapid, her rhythm more frantic with each stroke until her back arches up and she holds it for a long breath before falling back to the bed, a sheen of sweat glistening off her naked skin in the dim light.

I reach down and surround her with my arms, lifting her off the bed and driving my throbbing shaft deeply into her before pulling her breasts up against my bare chest. Her lips, puffy with emotion, quickly find mine and we kiss long and hard, our bodies sticking together in the heat of our passion and sweat. My mind acutely aware of her rock-hard nipples pressed into my chest as my hands slide down her sweaty back and grasp the smooth cheeks of her ass. Slowly at first and then increasing in speed and intensity, I slide her back and forth over my hard member until the passion takes complete control of my senses and my mind goes blank as I ride the wave, exploding with tremendous force and then collapsing slowly to the bed, her sweat soaked and naked body pinned beneath mine.

As I turn to roll off of her, she rolls with me, refusing to accept the conclusion. "Baby, I'm sorry, but I don't have any more to give," I whisper between breaths, acutely aware of her body trying to hold onto my limp shaft.

Stretched out on the bed with her still straddling me, she begins kissing the side of my throat and slowly, sensuously working her lips down my throat and pausing only when she reaches my breast. With extreme tenderness, she nibbles on the buds before sliding down my body, her mouth working its way over my stomach before coming to my flaccid manhood.

Her fingers feel like little lightning rods of energy trying to infuse new life into it. Slipping it into her mouth, she suckles tenderly while her fingers caress my scrotum sacks. To my surprise, I slowly feel desire growing within me as the vestiges of fatigue slip into the back of my mind and my body begins responding to her ministrations.

When my erection is full and ready for service, she slides up until her face is even with mine, the fingers of her right hand slowly tracing the silky skin up and down the length of my shaft to keep it aroused. "Do you want me?" she whispers, her voice gravelly with emotion. "Do you want to take me again?"

"You know I do, baby," I whisper back, my own breath raw with desire, though I don't know how much more I can take.

While she continues stroking me, she slides further up the bed, making her breasts available to my hungry mouth. I suckle first one and then the other, acutely aware of her ragged breaths with each squeeze of a nipple between my teeth. With all the action they've seen lately, I begin to wonder if they might be growing tender to the touch and that my actions are causing her more pain than pleasure.

But as soon as the thought enters my mind, she pulls away to insert my shaft into her wet and wanton folds, and all thought but one goes out the window. Riding me like the bucking bull down at the local pool-hall, she brings her knees up and straddles my manhood, giving herself the ride of a lifetime. Her hips rocking forward and back with steadily increasing speed.

When her mouth opens and a small cry of pleasure escapes her lips, I suddenly worry that Larry will hear us in the bedroom, and I reach up and pull her down to cover her lips with mine. Slipping my tongue past her lips, she instantly responds with equal fervor, our tongues dancing the tango of passion and uncontrolled desire. While I cup the cheeks of her ass, preventing her lips from escaping mine so that she can't cry out or scream, she quickly climbs toward another orgasm.

Feeling her body convulse and clamp around me, I let myself go and we climax simultaneously. Her entire body trembles violently and a loud breath of air blows over her lips before she collapses on top of me, my dwindling manhood momentarily pinning her to me.

Softly, still savoring the smooth firmness of her flesh, I caress her ass before slowly working my way up her back. Our bodies are covered in sweat and we're sticking together from the moist cohesion.

I'm about to ask her if she wants to shower before me, when she makes a small grunting noise followed by soft snoring sounds, her head lying against the base of my throat. Moving slow and careful like, I pull the sheet over her and close my eyes.

When I wake, it's approximately noon, though I have only my instincts to tell me that as the drapes on the windows don't let any light through. When I try to move, I realize that there's a weight lying on me and our bodies are glued together with dried perspiration.

I run my hand through her hair and she stirs slightly, but remains asleep, causing me to wonder if there's any chance of getting out of this bed without waking her. Rolling my head to the side, I can see that the bedroom door is closed and I wonder briefly if either of them came out during the night and found us like this. If that turns out to be the case, I'm sure Larry will bring it to my attention later, hopefully when we're alone. It's hard on the ego to be chastised in front of other people.

Very carefully, I roll Bobby's limp form to the side, our bodies begrudgingly pulling apart. If she were to wake, I know we'd be unable to prevent another round of sex, as I feel my shaft growing hard just from the touch of her private parts against my bare skin.

Once I'm fully separated from her, I study her fine body for a long moment, the temptation to wake her so we can go at it again is almost overwhelming. She is lying on her stomach, the nice rise of her ass beneath the sheets is begging me to touch it.

But alas, I resist and pick up my jeans and head into the bathroom. Turning the shower on cold, I climb in with my razor and force myself to remain under the chilly water until I've finished shaving. Climbing out, I take a moment to brush my teeth and then slip on the jeans and head out into the suite.

As I walk around the bed, I notice that Bobby has rolled over to her side, a full breast exposed to the air. Being careful not to wake her, I grab a corner of the sheet and pull it further over her, taking a sneak peak before fully hiding her nakedness.

Feeling like a dog for my lack of human decency and respect, I head into the lounge and retrieve my empty tumbler before returning to the kitchenette and refilling it from the bottle on the counter.

With a full tumbler setting on the counter, I set up the coffee pot and turn it on. It might be a few hours yet before the others wake, but I might need some before then, having made a mental pledge to not refill the tumbler again until after we've checked out the strip joint.

Dropping into the overstuffed chair, I kick back and close my eyes, not to sleep, but to think.

*16*

A couple hours later, Larry joins me, carrying a cup of the black sludge that's left in the pot. "How'd ya sleep?" he asks in his deep drawl, sporting a mischievous grin. "We didn't disturb you guys by chance?"

"If you want to know something, why don't you just come out and ask?" I angrily fire back, keeping my voice intentionally low.

With a knowing smirk, he says, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you didn't get any last night." And then he laughs softly, saying, "But we know better, don't we?"

When I just glare back at him, she says even softer, "Is this still in keeping with your plan to keep her close so that she doesn't know the truth about you and Eddy? Or are you falling for this woman? And if it's the latter, you better be doing some serious thinking about what's going to happen when we find Eddy." And then, before I can say anything, he adds with conviction, "Because we're going to find Eddy. It's only a matter of time."

"I sure hope you're right, Larry."

"Have I ever been wrong before?"

"No. Not when it's mattered," I admit, feeling hopeful. "I would give anything to be faced with the dilemma of explaining Bobby to Eddy if it meant she was here."

"You'll get your chance."

"You'd really like to see that, wouldn't you?" I ask, a small smile on my face as I envision the scene unfolding with him sitting in the background enjoying every minute of it.

"I would give my last dollar to sit in on that, watching you explain to Eddy why you had to suffer through screwing your balls off to keep Bobby from suspecting how you really feel about her," his entire body shaking in silence as he restrains himself from making noise.

"You think this is hilarious, don't you?" I hiss softly.

His expression turning serious, he says, "No, actually I wish we weren't in this situation at all. I don't know who took Eddy, and I'm not sure I understand why since they haven't tried contacting you. But no, Mac, I don't think this is hilarious at all, and I'm sorry if I gave that impression."

"How about we put on another pot of mud before the women get up?" I ask, changing the subject.

"I'm on it," he says, taking his cup to the kitchenette and dumping it down the drain along with the remainder in the pot. Once it's set up and running, he returns to the lounge and drops down on the couch saying, "How about we go over this evening's plan?"

"You want to wait until everyone's up?" I ask, thinking about the part the girls may be playing in any plan we come up with.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asks with a mischievous grin.

"We'll catch them up later," I say, growing impatient. "I thought we'd go in to Porgys and see if we can get a minute with the manager so we can at least verify whether Norm's ex-sister-in-law works there or not or even if the name rings a bell with them. I thought I'd possibly go in alone in case they're tight lipped about their employs so we don't compromise both of our faces."

"Her name's Tricia. Tricia Fells," Larry says, sounding a little exasperated at my use of _Norm's ex-sister-in-law_. "You go in and try to find out what you can from management. I'll go in as a customer and see if I can get a lap dance with a talkative stripper," he says, still sporting his mischievous grin. And then a smile lighting up his face adds, "Oh, I'll need some of that cash of yours to grease the lips, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, not a problem. But maybe I should go in as the customer and let you deal with management, because I'm also thinking we might want to send the girls in to apply for work. That would give them an excuse to go behind the scene where they can get one-on-one with the working girls in a less demanding atmosphere."

"Okay, I think we can let the girls in on it, but why do you think you should be the customer and not me?" he asks, feigning disappointed.

"Because I think the last thing you need is some half naked woman dry humping your lap when Lisa and Bobby stroll in," I say with a grin. "Lisa will take one look in your direction and the gig will be up. There'll be a catfight on the floor and we'll be dragging her out before the cops arrive or the bouncer steps in. Either way, our cover will be blown and we'll have learned nothing." I grin at him before asking, "Is it worth a lap dance to you?"

"Who's getting a lap dance?" Lisa asks suspiciously as she heads into the kitchenette to get a cup of java, her eyes still puffy with sleep.

When she comes around the counter into the lounge and plants herself on the couch next to Larry, I hold back a grin and say, "I was just telling Larry it would be easier to get close to one of the girls that works at Porgys by getting a lap dance. A conversation would be out of the question if we were sitting next to the stage where you can only get close enough to slip money into their G-strings."

She looks me in the eye and flatly states, "You didn't answer my question."

Glancing at Larry as if to say, "I told you so," I calmly state instead, "We thought Larry would try approaching the manager and see what he can learn first. If that doesn't work, I'll see what I can learn through bribery of the employs."

"And a lap dance is the only way you can think of getting into a conversation with one of the working girls," she finishes for me.

"Well, that's not necessarily true," I reply, seeing Bobby slipping into the bathroom with an armful of clothes. "Actually, I was thinking that maybe you or Bobby would be interested in applying for a job. That would give you access to the dressing rooms and lots of one-on-one with the working girls."

Lisa shifts uncomfortably on the couch and glances toward the bed to see if Bobby is listening. When she sees the empty bed, she says softly, her voice barely audible, "I can see where Bobby might get away with something like that. She's good looking, has a knockout figure, and seems to know her way around, if you know what I mean. But what chance would I have of them taking me seriously? I have a fat ass and a hillbilly attitude. I'm not exactly pole dancing material, in case you haven't noticed."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Lisa," I reply sincerely. "You're a fine looking woman and I for one would be excited to slip bills into your G-string."

"Kiss my ass, Mac," she spits back, feigning disbelief, yet glowing from the compliment.

"Irregardless," Larry says, playing the moderator even though Lisa knew I wasn't bullshitting her. "Hopefully we'll find out what we need to know without having to resort to you guys going in. But if it comes to that, you'll go with Bobby. I for one know how charming you can be when you want to be," he says, smiling at her.

"Yeah, and you're just a flirt."

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes sipping our coffee when Bobby comes out of the bathroom, her auburn hair wrapped in a towel with a few strands hanging down the side of her face. She says _good morning_ to everyone and stops at the coffee pot to fill a mug before coming into the lounge and dropping into the other single chair.

"I don't suppose anyone picked up donuts?" she asks with a wishful smile. "I'm starving."

"I think we're all hungry," I say, thinking about a solution to our hunger. "Why don't we order take-out and have it delivered?"

Lisa reaches for the phone lying next to the TV and says, "Look at this, it's preprogramed with numbers for the businesses that deliver in this area. We have a choice of pizza, subs, or Chinese."

"Just the thought of Chinese turns my stomach and I'm not really feeling pizza," I say, glancing around to see if anyone is going to disagree with me before continuing. "How about we order a couple of subs each, get a variety and if we have any leftovers, we can eat in the car while we sit out in Porgys parking lot," I suggest.

"Sounds good," Larry says dismissively.

Handing Lisa the government credit card that I'd been given for use while we got settled into witness protection, I say, "Here, use this. By the time they figure out where we are, we'll probably be in need of their assistance anyway."

"How do you figure?" Bobby asks, her lower lip twitching just enough that I'd noticed, though I was sure no one else had.

"Well, if this goes well and we find out whether Tricia works or has worked at Porgys, or even better, where she took her sister and nephew, we'll need their help to find Eddy, because this is the last lead we have and twenty four hours have already evaporated since she went missing," I explain.

"What if we don't learn anything at Porgys, then what?" Bobby asks, her voice calmer.

"Then we let the marshal's believe that Tricia and her sister are connected to Eddy's disappearance. With their resources, they can track their cell phones, credit cards, put out a bolo, whatever it takes to find them. And once they do, we just ask them if the boy is with them and if he is in good health and report back to Norm. Case closed," I say.

Larry picks up where I leave off, "Then we come clean with the marshals and give them everything we know about Eddy's disappearance and assist anyway we can without getting under foot."

Lisa hangs up the phone and says, "Food should be arriving in thirty minutes or less, according the kid that took my order. I got the impression they deliver to patrons of the hotel frequently."

"No problems with the card?"

"No," she says with a quick shake of her head before asking, "Now that everyone is here, can we go over this evening's plan before the food gets here?"

"That's a good idea," Larry agrees. "You want to start, Mac?"

"First off, Larry is going to go in and see if he can get a minute of time with the manager. If he works like most small time operators, a little loose cash in his face and he'll tell you everything he knows. I'm hoping Larry can at least find out if Tricia works or did work for him. If she did work for him, maybe he knows where she is or where she might have taken her sister and nephew to avoid a custody battle," I say, pausing to catch my breath.

"And if the manager refuses to even acknowledge Larry, what then?" Bobby asks, completely absorbed in the conversation.

Meeting her gaze, I continue. "Then I go in and try to strike up a conversation with one of the working girls, see if anyone remembers Tricia and if they do, who she hung with. Almost all these girls have a confidante that they share secrets with," I say, speaking from experience.

Before I can say any more, Larry butts in, "What he isn't telling you is that he may have to get a lap dance from one or more of the girls in order to get close enough to them to carry on a conversation."

Turning on him, I spit back, "You know I'd never get close enough to do much more than put bills in a G-string if I sit near the stage."

"Why can't Lisa and I just go in under the pretense of looking for work?" Bobby asks, not having been privy to the earlier conversation where we'd already discussed that option.

"They already mentioned that," Lisa says. "For some reason, they're only willing to consider it as a last ditch effort." And then, before anyone can say anything, she quickly adds, "But I'm not complaining, mind you. Because despite your flattering comments, Mac, I still don't see anyone taking me serious."

This time it's Bobby that jumps in, disagreeing with her. "You underestimate the libido of the opposite sex, Lisa. You have very nice features, a beautiful face, and eyes that could draw a man into their depths with ease. Plus, I know you can move seductively if you set your mind to it."

"She's right, Lisa," Larry says, giving her his most charming smile. "I get lost in your eyes every time I look at you."

"Ah, go on now," Lisa replies, a light blush of pink creeping up the sides of her throat.

"We'll be going in together," Bobby says. "I'll take the lead and you just follow along as if we're dancing. I've been in enough strip joints to know my way around. It'll be a piece of cake and I know we can learn more than either of these two bumpkins, even without flashing a wad of cash in anyone's face."

The words have no sooner left her lips, then she turns and gives me a heated stare, silently warning me to keep my mouth shut if I know what's good for me.

Turning toward Lisa, I ask if she ordered any beverages to go with the subs. "No, I didn't even think of it," she quickly apologizes.

"That's okay," Bobby jumps in. "I'll run down to the machine by the lobby and fetch us sodas, unless someone wants something else."

"Coke, Pepsi, or anything that comes out is fine with me," Larry says. "In fact, I think I might just put on another pot of coffee."

"I'll go with you," I volunteer, starting to rise.

"No, no, I can handle this," she replies a little too quickly, her hand on my shoulder pushing me back into the chair. "I'll only be a couple of minutes," she adds, trying to sound calmer than she appears.

"If you're sure," I reply, glancing at Larry before meeting her gaze.

"I'll be right back," she says, and then hurries out the door before I can say any more.

*17*

No sooner has the door closed behind her, then Larry asks, "Are you following her or am I?"

"Give her a minute, and then I'll go," I reply. "At least if she runs into me, I can tell her I felt bad letting her go alone."

"Then I'll put another pot of coffee on. It might be a late night, especially with the cavalry on the way," he remarks, hinting toward the expected arrival of the US marshals.

"I'm going to put some blush and eye liner on, just in case," Lisa says with a derisive smirk as she heads toward their room and the en suite beyond. "What do you think, Larry," she asks, holding a handful of her hair up as she passes the kitchenette. "Pigtails or a ponytail?"

Larry just shakes his head and simply smiles in response.

Climbing out of the chair, I subconsciously check the magnum, adjusting it slightly beneath the shirt and stroll toward the door. As I pass the kitchenette where Larry is busy setting up the coffee pot, I say, "Back in a few," and head out the door, closing it softly behind me as I look up and down the corridor.

It's the time of day between check out and people checking in, hence there isn't much activity and the parking lot is quiet. As I set off slowly in the direction of the lobby and the soda dispensing machines, movement in the parking lot catches my attention and I hurriedly duck behind one of the beams supporting the upper catwalk.

While I look on, I see Bobby slowly close the back door of the rental car and move around to the trunk, which is standing almost open, but not quite. She glances around furtively, acting very secretive before raising it just enough to do something inside of it before lowering it back down and closing it securely, even going so far as to try lifting it to be sure it's locked.

Looking around again, she hurries off in the direction of the lobby as I stay behind the vertical beam and out of her range of sight. When she disappears around the far corner of the building in the direction of the vending machines, I slowly turn back toward our room while wondering what she's up to.

Did she get something out of the trunk, or did she put something in it?

Then again, it might be very innocent. Since we discussed using the Escalade tonight, she might have remembered something that she left in the car and decided now was as good a time as any to collect it. She might have thought she moved it to the back seat when she moved my clothes and things, and then when she couldn't find it, realized that it might still be in the trunk.

Yet, none of her stuff should ever have been put in the trunk to begin with.

My initial reaction is to go look in the trunk and see what she put there or maybe figure out what she removed from it, even though I didn't see her carrying anything. But since she has the only set of keys, my search will have to wait until later.

When I get back to the hotel room, Larry is sitting by himself in the lounge and turns at the sound of me opening the door. Lisa isn't anywhere to be seen, so I assume she's still in their room putting her face on. When I reach the kitchenette, the smell of fresh coffee tantalizes my senses and I make a detour toward the coffee pot.

"Would you like a cup?" I ask Larry and only get a grunt for an answer that I presume to mean yes.

Pouring two mugs, I carry them into the lounge and take the chair that my ass was beginning to recognize from repeated use. Setting the cups down on the coffee table, Larry says, "Well."

"She got something out of the car and then went to the vending machines by the lobby. No cell phone call, no one waiting in the bushes to make contact," I reply, not sharing my suspicions about what she was really doing at the car.

"You know, Mac, we might be reading her all wrong," Larry says, his voice low as he looks over his shoulder to make sure Lisa isn't sneaking up on him. "She might not have an agenda at all, beyond her strange attraction to you."

"I don't find it strange that women are attracted to me," I reply, feigning hurt feelings while actually feeling guilty that I didn't share my latest suspicions with him.

"Thanks for the coffee," he replies, taking a swallow.

Bobby enters and we both look in her direction. When she sees the mugs of coffee in our hands, she sets the cans of soda down on the counter and says with a humph, "If I had known you wanted coffee, I wouldn't have lugged all these cans of soda across all of God's creation."

"Coffee's fresh, if you want a cup," I offer with a smirk.

"Screw you, Mac," she says, opening the little fridge beneath the counter and placing the cans in it, leaving a Coke on the counter for herself.

Just then, Lisa comes around the bed from the bathroom, a nervous smile on her face. "What do you think?" she asks, tilting her head toward the overhead light.

"Oh dear woman," Bobby says exasperatedly. "Come with me, I'll show you how it's done," and grabs Lisa by the arm and leads her back to the bedroom, pausing only briefly at the bed to stoop down and sweep her bag off the floor.

I look at Larry and he looks at me, both of us confused as to what just happened.

We sit sipping our coffee, sharing a comfortable silence between two old friends when Bobby comes marching out of the bathroom pulling a reluctant Lisa along by the hand. Though they'd been in the bathroom less than fifteen minutes, the change to Lisa's appearance is dramatic.

"Hot damn," I mutter in amazement while Larry blows a muted whistle of appreciation through his teeth.

The look on Larry's face says it all. If Bobby and I weren't there, he'd be dragging Lisa back into their bedroom. Rising slowly to his feet, his jaw still on the floor, he breathlessly mouths, "Lisa, you are the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on."

The overt look of appreciation in his eyes and the comment causes the color to rise in Lisa's face and throat, adding to the effect. Bobby is definitely an expert when it comes to painting a woman's face. Lisa's entire appearance has changed from just fair looking to drop dead gorgeous.

"You are an artist, Bobby," I say, still knocked over by the change in Lisa. Catching Larry's eye, I add, "Maybe we should reconsider our plans and send the girls in first."

"You might be on to something," he smiles, quickly turning back to Lisa as if he's afraid she'll disappear or turn back if he takes his eyes off her for too long.

Bobby's expertise with an eyeliner pencil, rouge, and a few barrettes is amazing. Lisa's fifteen transformation is unbelievable, and while Larry and I are still taking it all in, Bobby says, "If you'll all just excuse me for a few minutes, I have some work to do on myself before we go." Her eye catches mine momentarily, and then she turns and retreats to the bathroom.

Bobby is in the bathroom less than five minutes, when the doorbell sounds and the sandwiches are delivered. I give the kid a fiver for a tip and send him on his way, taking the sandwiches to the counter and setting them out so everyone can take whatever they desire from the selection.

I no sooner have the buffet laid out when Bobby returns, her appearance stunning. Stepping away from the kitchenette, I cut her off by the bed and hold her at arm's length, taking it all in. "You are a very hot woman," is all that comes out of my mouth, and I wonder at my loss for words.

"Why thank you, Mac," she says softly, appreciating the compliment, but not blushing at the attention as Lisa had. This is a woman that knows how to put on the glitz and look good without going over the top. Moreover, she knows how to graciously accept a compliment.

The jeans accent her shapely figure, the tailored shirt outlining her full breasts, giving them a firm, youthful appearance. Her auburn hair simply combed, accenting the natural curl, with just enough touch of rouge to her cheeks and shadow surrounding her eyes to enunciate them without drawing your eye away from the rest of her attributes.

"Lunch has arrived," I mouth, still holding her at arm's length. "Damn, if you don't look good enough to eat."

"And I'm also starving," she smiles, a silent secret passing between our eyes as she openly accepts the unabashed adoration.

We help ourselves to coffee, beverages, and sandwiches before taking up positions around the coffee table. While Larry and Lisa return to the couch, I drop back into the chair I've come to know as mine while Bobby drops into the one next to me.

While we eat in silence, Larry keeps glancing sideways at Lisa, unable to believe the change in her but liking it very much. When we're finished and the leftovers have been put in the fridge for later, he says, "Except for Mac and myself, no one carry's weapons into Porgys. Mac and I have concealed carry permits, but you two don't and we don't want to get the local cops involved in our business."

"Aren't your permits under your real names?" Lisa asks.

Larry gives me a mischievous grin before replying, "Mac and I still have our original identification. What we provided the marshal's service were duplicates that we carried when working jobs. But don't be sharing that information with them if and when we run into them later. They don't need to know everything."

"My lips are sealed," Bobby says with a smirk, not liking the idea of carrying a weapon to begin with.

"Good," Larry acknowledges, glancing at Lisa's pouty lips and realizing that she's more like him when it comes to carrying a weapon. There's a level of comfort that can only be attained with the weight of a gun hanging from your hip, hung from a shoulder holster, or wedged in your waistband in the small of your back.

"It's a little past five," I say, getting everyone's attention. "If we want to catch them before the evening rush starts, we need to get going. Once they get busy, they're not going to waste time with us no matter how much cash we flash."

"Lisa will drive," Larry says, pulling his shirt over the automatic tucked in a nylon waist holster to conceal it.

We head out of the hotel and climb into the SUV, Larry and me taking the rear seat with the girls up front. The ride to Porgys is uneventful and we make it in relative silence with only the occasional comment about the sites going by outside the windows.

When we reach Porgys, I'm relieved to see that it looks like so many other strip clubs I've frequented. The main difference being that it not only offers women and booze, it also offers a bit of gambling on the side. The bookie, a legal occupation in the state of Nevada, probably has his own office or maybe even a table near a back wall where bets are taken and odds calculated.

Lisa pulls the SUV into a parking spot where we can see the door, but not so close that the surveillance cameras have a clear view of us. We sit for a moment while watching the comings and goings. For early evening, there is a lot of foot traffic coming and going, mostly single men in small groups and the occasional man with a woman on his arm.

"Where are all the single women that work there?" Lisa asks.

"They have their own entrance, usually in back where the patrons can't see them coming and going," I offer. "That way, if there's an unusually persistent guy after one of the working girls, they can slip out without being seen."

"Why don't Bobby and I just slip in the back door and act as if we work there?" Lisa naively asks.

"Because unless the manager introduces us to the doorman, he'll never let us in," Bobby replies, speaking from experience.

Larry and I both turn to look at her. "I have friends," she says with a shrug.

"Okay, Larry, you're up," I comment, looking at my friend with my hand extended, a small roll of hundreds and twenties in it. "You have ten minutes, and then I'll come in like a new customer looking for a little personal attention."

"Just so long as it isn't too personal," Bobby says flatly. "The private rooms are off limits," she says. "I'm not sure I even like the idea of you getting a lap dance," she adds with a wink in my direction, remembering the last time she was sitting on my lap.

"If Larry does his job, I may not even have to go inside," I placate her, not sure how much I care for the jealousy she's exhibiting.

Leaning forward, Larry gives Lisa a quick peck on the cheek and says he'll be back shortly. We all sit in silence as we watch him head toward the entrance, a large solid door recessed a couple feet back into the side of a concrete block building with a stucco façade and no windows. Lisa pulls a pair of binoculars from the glove box and focuses on the entrance as Larry goes through.

"There's a large man sitting on a high stool just to the left of the entrance," she says, putting the binoculars down as the door swings shut.

"That would be the man that stops anyone from entering that's on their blackball list and collecting the cover charge."

Before I can continue, Bobby says to Lisa, "All these places have a cover charge and a minimum bar order so you can't just sit in there and goggle the women without it costing you something."

"Oh," is all Lisa says, studying Bobby anew.

"You've never been in a strip joint before, have you?" I ask, trying not to sound condescending.

"No, I can't say that I've ever had a reason to before. And frankly, I hope I don't have to tonight," she says a tad nervously.

"Don't worry, Lisa. If it comes to you and me, you just follow my lead and you'll be fine," Bobby says conspiratorially. "But I'm confident in our boys here. They'll get the information we need without it coming down to you and me."

"I hope you're right," Lisa says softly, wanting to believe in her confidence.

"Larry's good, Lisa. Between him and me, you have nothing to worry about," I say with more confidence than I'm feeling.

Glancing at the clock on the dash, I note the time at six-twenty. "At six-thirty, I'll go in," I say, turning my attention to a couple of guys in suits getting out of a yellow cab and heading toward the door, their swagger indicating they are already well into their day of drinking and debauchery.

We sit in silence for the next few minutes, our eyes moving back and forth between the front door of Porgys and the clock in the dash as we look hopefully for Larry's return. When the clock ticks up to six-thirty, I subconsciously check for the familiar bulge of the magnum and reach for the doorknob.

"Give us another thirty-minutes, if we haven't returned by then, come in and join the party," I say with a wink toward Bobby's anxious smile.

Sliding out of the SUV, I adjust my pants and head toward the front door just as two men exit and head off toward the right, not even glancing in my direction. The sun is low on the western horizon off to my right. The heat is radiating up from the gravel parking lot and I wonder how much hotter it would feel if it were asphalt. A strange thought, all things considered.

Pulling open the front door, I reach into my pocket with my free hand and wrap my fingers around a wad of cash. To my left is a large man sitting on a tall barstool, just as Lisa said she saw through the binoculars.

"What's the cover?" I ask, pausing in front of him while my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, the smell of cigars, sex, and cheap cologne almost overwhelming.

He studies me for a second before saying, "Twenty."

"Kinda steep, ain't it?" I casually remark, giving him a bill from my wad while making sure he gets a good eyeful of the hundreds.

Without responding to my comment, he takes the bill and reaches for my hand with his right hand, an ink stamp in his left. "If it's all the same to you," I comment, moving into the interior while orienting myself to the bar and dance floor.

"Whatever," he says to my back.

To the far right is a long wooden bar with at least two bartenders working behind it. Straight ahead, at the far left end of the bar is a solid door with a sign on it that I can read clear across the room stating _PRIVATE_. Just to my left is an array of tables and beyond, a raised dancefloor with a couple of poles going from the floor to the ceiling, one of them currently with a nubile young woman draping herself around it.

Lining the wall from my left all the way to the dancefloor are vinyl booths with high backs for privacy. A few of them are occupied with men, a couple of waitresses wearing next to nothing coaxing them into refills of their drinks.

There's no sign of Larry and I make the assumption that he must have wrangled his way past the door with the private sign on it. If we're lucky, he's finding out everything we need to know and can get the hell out of here.

That thought is quickly banished, as a loud noise suddenly comes from the room marked private. The sound makes me think of a human skull being bashed against a solid wood door and I'm not the only one to take notice of the noise.

Turning toward the door, I see the large man jump off his stool out of the corner of my eye at the same time the bartender nearer the door reaches down and comes up with a sawed off shotgun. In the fraction of a second that I see the weapon, I realize that it's only good for a single shot. But with a shotgun, a single shot can do a lot of damage, especially in close quarters, such as we have here.

I hold back and let the big man from the stool move in front of me, staying in his blind spot while keeping him between me and the bartender with the shotgun. Not wanting to be blindsided myself, I glance around the room, making sure none of the men in the booths is getting ready to make a move. I also take in the back entrance to the raised dancefloor, verifying that no one is approaching from that direction.

As the first bartender reaches the door, he uses the butt of the shotgun to hammer on it, yelling, "Boss, you alright in there?"

We're close enough in a group now that I can use the big man from the doorway as a shield between myself and both bartenders. Slipping the magnum out of the shoulder holster and putting it to the back of the doorman's thick neck, I cock the hammer and say evenly, "Tell your man there to put the blunderbuss on the floor and back away from the door."

For the first time, the bartender with the shotgun notices me and begins to turn the barrel in my direction. Pushing the barrel of the magnum past the big guy's neck so it's resting on his shoulder and pointed right at the man with the shotgun, I repeat myself in a calm, even tone, "Tell him now. Put the weapon on the floor and back away from the door. I only came here for information. No one has to die today."

"He can hear you," the big man calmly replies.

For the first time, I notice how quiet it's grown. The obnoxious music having gone silent as the other barman must have turned it off. Keeping the big man between myself and the shotgun, I glance around the room. No one has risen from the booths, though all eyes are now on what's happening between me and the bartender. I also notice that the nubile young girl is no longer on the dancefloor, which can only mean that she went to get the guard from the employ's entrance.

Although the doorman is big, I can't use him to cover my back while keeping him between me and the barrel of the shotgun. I have to get control of this situation and fast.

Glancing to my right, I see the other bartender on the phone, possibly calling the cops, which may not be a bad thing.

"I'm getting a little impatient here," I hiss in his ear. "I don't want to see you die today, but I know that scattergun only has one shot and you're about to take it full on. Is that what you want?"

"Damn it, Tom, do as he says," the big guys says, his voice full of authority, but no fear.

Slowly, hesitantly, the bartender lowers the weapon to the floor and steps back, probably thinking that his boss is incapacitated since he didn't respond to the knocking on the door.

"Larry, if you're in there, you can come out," I call out loudly enough that he should be able to hear my voice through the door.

The door begins to open slightly, and then a man I don't recognize steps out with Larry peering over his shoulder. The man is blanched and shaking with fear, a large bruise over his right eye. He looks first at his doorman and then the barrel of the magnum before almost passing out.

"Give him a hand," I say to the big guy, releasing my grip on his left arm and lowering the magnum.

He steps forward and assists his boss to the nearest barstool, the bartender moving farther back along the backside of the bar like he's decided he wants nothing more to do with whatever is going on. Larry nods in my direction, a small caliber revolver in his left hand. Turning back into the room, Larry tips out the cylinder and dumps the bullets out on the floor before turning back and closing the door behind him. Walking up to the bar, he sets the revolver on the wood surface near the manager and then steps over and picks up the shotgun. Breaking the barrel open, he flips out the single 12 gauge shell and looks at for a second, smiling as he lays the shotgun on the bar next to the revolver.

"Number 8 birdshot," he says, shaking his head. "Could take out everyone in the place with a single shot."

Just then, a skinny little runt of a man wearing a T-shirt that matches the big guy's from the front door steps across the raised dance floor, an automatic in his hand. "That's enough, everyone drop your guns and raise your hands," he says in a high pitched, nasally voice. Something in his demeanor erases any doubts that he is more than capable of doing his job, which is protecting his boss and his boss's assets at any cost.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man that must be their boss slowly raise his head off the bar and grin like the Cheshire cat.

But his grin is short-lived as a female voice with no hint of fear or wavering echoes from near the furthest booth along the wall. "Lower that big gun you little pipsqueak or prepare to meet your maker."

Lisa. And damned if she ain't looking good!

*18*

Lisa, her 9mm leveled at the little man on the dancefloor, the hammer cocked and ready to fire, is standing there with Bobby at her side. Lisa looks calm and controlled while Bobby only slightly nervous and already leaving Lisa's side as she moves between the tables, coming in my direction.

"Tell him to drop the damned gun or that woman is going to blow his fucking brains all over your dancefloor," I tell the man that I'm assuming is the manager.

As quickly as the smile lit up his face, it dissipates and he resignedly yells at the man to drop his weapon. The man only hesitates for a second before placing his weapon on the floor and taking a step back.

Lisa moves toward him, a determined look in her eyes as she commands, "Move over there with your friends."

When the man does as she asks, she quickly picks up his weapon and pulls out the clip and ejects the shell from the chamber before placing it back on the floor and slipping the clip into her rear pocket.

Knowing that the bartender called someone and we might be running out of time, I ask Larry, "Where are we at?"

"Our man here was about to tell me what I wanted to know when he slipped and fell, knocking his head against the door," he says, nodding toward the manager.

When Lisa moves toward us, Larry indicates for her to keep an eye on the patrons in the booths and watch the front door. "Go with her," I say to Bobby, wanting both of them as near to the exit as possible. And then another thought hits me. "Bobby, bring the Escalade around to the employ's entrance and keep it running."

"So," I start, turning back to face the group that should be all the bona fide employs of the establishment. "Who can tell me about Tricia Fells?" When no one says anything, I say, "Let's not all speak at once."

Pulling the wad of cash out of my pocket, I look to the bartender that made the phone call but otherwise didn't get involved in our foray and after placing the money on the bar, say, "This money goes to the first one to tell us what we want to know. Where can we find Tricia Fells?"

There didn't seem any point in asking whether she worked there or not, because if she hadn't, someone would have asked who she was, and no one did.

The silence seems to drag on forever, though it is mere seconds. The bartender further from the group shifts on his feet, clearly wanting to say something, but not wanting to put himself on the outs with his boss. The wad of cash isn't enough to start a new life with and speaking out will definitely end his career here. In fact, there is probably only enough cash on the counter to have a night out on the town, and then back to reality.

"We know she worked here up until a week or so ago," I say, studying the manager while keeping an eye on the further bartender, a slightly built, clean shaven man in his mid-thirties with intelligent eyes. "All we want to know is where we can find her. Then we're out of here and you're back to business as usual. It doesn't have to be difficult."

"She left with her sister and her sister's kid," a female voice says, coming from where the two waitresses are standing together by one of the occupied booths. "Said she wasn't sure if she was coming back or not. Not that she really liked it here. She always acted as if she were too good for this place, but she needed the money."

Picking the cash up from the bar, I leave Larry covering the group of men and stroll across the room to the waitresses. The one that spoke up is the younger of the two, a nice looking girl with enhanced breasts that are too firm. Her counterpart, a mid-forties woman with sagging breasts and extra meat on her bones is glaring at the younger one for speaking.

The younger girl smiles as I draw close. I flip a hundred off the wad and hand it to her, saying, "I know this isn't much and you're probably going to get a load of grief from those guys at the bar for talking, but the rest of this is yours if you can tell me where they went."

"Why do you want to know?" she asks, debating whether to snitch on someone that was obviously a friend to her.

"I just have to verify that her nephew is okay," I sincerely reply. "His father is concerned because they've disappeared and he misses his boy."

"Fair enough," she says, reaching out for the rest of the cash.

"Speak first, then the cash," I say, holding it back.

"Shelter over on Hollywood and Blaine. Not sure if they'll still be there or not, but that's where they were going from here until she could find her sister somewhere safe for her and the boy."

"Did she say why she was suddenly concerned about their safety?" I ask, suddenly curious why there wasn't a problem with Norm seeing his son before. As far as we knew, he wasn't pushing for custody. In fact, he seemed more than content with their current arrangement. He never believed for a minute that a bar was anywhere to raise a child. Even if it was his bar.

"She said something about her sister's husband being involved in some kind of altercation with the cartel on the west coast and they were going to make him pay by killing his son. How she found out they were after her, I have no idea. But that's what she said and that's why she left," she said with finality, holding out her hand.

Putting the money in her hand, she smiles and adds, "You wouldn't need me to show you where the shelter is, would you?"

The blonde hair hanging below her shoulders, the beige tone tights accenting her slender legs and perky ass are almost enough to make me consider taking her up on the offer, wondering where it would really lead. But I have enough problems already and I don't need to throw another into the mix.

"Appreciate the offer, but I think we'll find it just fine," I say, pulling my empty hand away from her.

"If you're around town for a while, look me up," she says with a smile. "I probably won't be working here, though."

Smiling back at her while ignoring the glare from the older woman, I say, "I might just do that."

Turning toward Lisa, I indicate for her to make her way to the employ's entrance, which I'm assuming will be found by going through the door behind the raised dancefloor. While she crosses the floor, I silently slip the magnum into my shoulder holster. Once she's through the door and out of sight, I signal Larry that we're retreating, and he keeps the group covered while I head through the same door as Lisa, holding it open until he reaches it.

Pulling the door shut, I glance around quickly to find something to wedge against it as a means of slowing any pursuit when Larry says, "Don't worry about it. The other dancers back here will just remove it the minute we're out of here anyway."

Walking swiftly down a poorly lit hallway with doors leading into dressing rooms down either side, I reach the back door where Lisa is standing holding it open, the SUV parked just outside. As I near the door, I can hear approaching sirens and I pick up the pace. Seeing us coming, Lisa waits just long enough for me to grab the door before stepping through and opening both doors on the passenger's side of the Escalade and climbing into the front seat.

Larry, his weapon pointed down, reaches the door and I slip out, climb into the SUV and slide across the seat to make room for him. He's right behind me and the door isn't fully shut when Lisa steps on the gas and we rocket out of there.

"We need to get to Hollywood and Blaine," I say to Bobby, while Lisa plugs it into the GPS. "There should be a women's shelter there. If we're lucky, we'll find Norm's ex and his son there."

At the end of the building, she makes a hard left, goes a block before turning right and heading up an alley between a mixture of industrial buildings and storage type warehouses before coming to a main thoroughfare. She pauses, studying the intermittent traffic for a minute to make sure there aren't any police cars visible, and then hangs a left and heads directly toward Hollywood and Blaine, the address provided for the women's shelter.

We haven't gone more than three blocks when Bobby says, "Lights coming up fast behind us."

"Take the next right," I tell her, twisting in the seat to look behind us. The lights are on an SUV type vehicle and they're in the upper part of the windshield, not on the roof like a normal patrol car.

As we turn right, I estimate the vehicle's distance to be approximately where we entered the road, and then it's momentarily lost to sight as buildings pop up along the street we're now on.

"Pull in beside that garage and take your foot off the brake," I order Bobby

Before the vehicle has even come to a complete stop, I jump out the side door and sprint back to the curb, looking up the street just in time to see the SUV with its lights flashing shooting by on the main road.

Hurrying back to the Escalade, I hurriedly climb in, saying, "Black SUV with federal plates."

"Marshal's Service," Larry calmly remarks. "Let's go. Back out on the road we were on. They're probably going to the same address we have."

"Do we still want to go there if they're going to be there?" Bobby asks, pulling the SUV back out on the road and blending into the flow of traffic.

"We need their help now no matter what we find when we get there," Larry says. "We've done as much as we can on our own."

"Do you guys always give up so easily?" she asks, her voice belying her disappointment.

"We're not giving up, Bobby," I argue, though I'm not quite convinced myself that we aren't. "But time is running out and every minute we don't produce results puts us that much further from finding Eddy. The feds have access to resources that we don't."

"So what happens when we get to the women's shelter and the feds are already there and waiting for us. What then?" Bobby asks, momentarily looking into the rearview mirror to make eye contact with me before looking back at the road.

"We ask them to find out if Norm's ex-wife or son is inside the shelter," Larry says.

"They'll do that?" Lisa asks, twisting around in the seat.

"Not willingly," I admit. "But to keep us from making a scene and possibly sending you two girls in, since they don't allow men on the premises, they'll do at least that much."

*19*

We ride the rest of the way without speaking, the silence only broken occasionally by Lisa reading off the remaining distance from the GPS. It hasn't escaped my notice that neither of the girls turned the audio on the unit back on, preferring to read the instructions as they flash on the screen.

Coming around the last corner and turning up the street with the address on it, we notice the black SUV right off, its lights still flashing. But we're not hiding so I tell Bobby to pull up behind them. When the vehicle comes to a stop, I tell the others to wait while I find the agent in charge and bring him up to speed.

"We'll be right here," Larry says defeatedly.

"Should I keep the engine running?" Bobby asks with a sardonic smile.

Closing the door, I start past the black SUV, casually glancing into the side windows to verify that it isn't occupied before pausing outside the chainlink gate at the end of a broken and crumbling sidewalk leading up to a large front porch enclosed with screens. The house itself is a two-story craftsman style structure with white peeling paint and faded green trim. The entire front yard is surrounded by a four-foot high chainlink fence that would be hard put to keep a toddler out, much less an abusive boyfriend or husband. The backyard is concealed by an array of perfectly positioned shrubs. It's obvious that the place is kept in this condition so as not to draw attention to it or its occupants, though I'm sure everyone that lives in the area is aware of what it is.

Not seeing anyone in the SUV or standing within the confines of the screened-in porch, I lift the gate latch and slowly work my way up the sidewalk. Understanding that places of this nature don't normally allow men on the premises, I feel self-conscious, as though I'm treading on forbidden ground.

When I get to a pair of wooden steps leading up to a screen door, I yell softly, "Hello the house."

No sooner have the words left my mouth, then I hear movement coming from within. Within a second of hearing movement, the door opens and a husky man in a cheap suit steps out. Eyeing me apprehensively, he asks in a deep, baritone voice that exudes authority, "What do you want?"

When I step forward and reach for the screen door, he subconsciously places his right hand on the weapon secured to his waist beneath the suit jacket. "Hold up there, fella," he orders, stepping toward me.

"It's all cool, man," I calmly say. "I just think I might be one of the party that you're looking for," I add with a friendly smile, holding my arms out to the side. "Just show me your badge, which I know you have one, and I'll gladly tell you who I am. Then we can get your superior out here and I'll bring you guys up to speed." Though I shouldn't have, I added the part about getting his superior out here simply to piss him off. There was something about the guy that immediately rubbed me wrong whether it was intentional or not.

Pushing open the screen door and stepping toward me, he growls angrily, "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Badge, please," I warn him, standing my ground. "Just show me your badge and we'll get along just fine," I soothingly reply, though I don't see the two of us ever getting along just fine at all.

Realizing that I'm not intimidated by his brusque demeanor or authoritarian attitude, he pauses with a foot holding the screen door open and reaches into his inside jacket pocket to pull out his credentials and hold them up for me to see.

"There, now wasn't that easy, Agent Rogers. I'm George McClain, my friends are in the Escalade parked behind your SUV. You've been following our credit card purchases since we left witness protection. Well, now you've found us, or rather, we found you, whichever way you want to look at."

"Hold on a second," he says, turning back into the porch and tapping on the wood door leading into the house. When the door opens only a crack, Agent Rogers says, "Can you send Agent Jamison out here? Thanks."

Without waiting, he turns and comes down the steps, taking up a position to my right so he can keep the Escalade and me in his line of vision without it being obvious. Normally, I wouldn't have allowed this, but we want something from these guys and the last thing I want to do is make them anymore uncomfortable than I already have. Let him feel as though he's in charge and our requests will go a lot further.

"You stationed in Vegas or did you come down from Oregon?" I ask, trying to make small talk to befriend and keep him at ease, regretting already the remark I made about getting his superior out here.

Agent Jamison steps out the door and down the steps, all business. "Mr. McClain, follow me," he says, moving past me.

Not wanting to upset him, I fall in behind him and Agent Rogers falls in behind me. When we reach the sidewalk, he turns and with his hands on his hips, a stance I always thought was rather effeminate for a man, says to Agent Rogers, "Close the gate." Then, having moved to the right as if ignorant of my friends in the Escalade or any desire to keep them and me in his line of sight, says, "I heard what you and your friends did at the strip joint, so I know you're armed. One of our agents on the scene said you were looking for a woman and her kid."

"Yes, on all counts," I respond, referring to being armed and looking for a woman and her kid while admiring the way Agent Rogers positions himself to keep everyone in his line of sight. These two agents are as different as chalk and cheese.

Before I can say any more, he says, "We got the call from the officers on the scene, so we weren't actually there. Maybe you can fill us in."

"That's the plan," I reply. "But first, is the woman and her son here? The name's Sally Jenkins. The boy's name is Unger, Mickey Unger."

"They're here, but they don't want to see you," he replies.

"That's fine," I reply, excited by the first bit of good news to date. "I don't need to see them either if you're sure the boy is fine. I'll call his father and pass that news on and I'm done with them."

"They are concerned that you might tell her ex-husband where they're at, so they're getting ready to move again. I told them I couldn't promise anything, because if you found them, then others might also," he says with no hint of empathy, only a frustration with me for being able to find them.

"Any idea why they ran?" I ask, curious if she told him the same thing she told her sister who then told her friend at Porgys.

"Something to do with some trouble her ex-husband got into with the cartels operating up in Oregon."

"You sure it wasn't something to do with the mob?" I ask, suddenly wondering who's telling the truth.

"Mob, cartel, is there a difference?" he asks rhetorically. "In Las Vegas, it's hard to tell them apart. I just know she feels threatened, and unless we're assigned to find or protect her, it's none of our business."

"Well, for what it's worth, it's probably for the best that they move on anyway. Too many people know where they're at, and I'm not referring to just us," I say. "Give me a minute, can you?" I ask, moving toward the open window on the Escalade. "Hey Larry, can you give Norm a call and let him know that his son is fine. Tell him to expect a call later with more information."

"Got it," he says with a smile.

Turning back toward the agents, Jamison says, "Follow us. We'll carry on this conversation at the office. It's across town, so don't get lost."

I can only assume that he isn't concerned with us disappearing again since we didn't run when we saw their vehicle here.

*20*

Bobby expertly maneuvers the Escalade through Vegas traffic, keeping the agents in their black SUV in sight until we reach the federal building where they share space with several other federal agencies, one of which is the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

She continues to follow them into the employ's parking lot, being signaled through by the officers at the booth. When the black SUV pulls into a reserved parking space, Bobby asks, "Now what?" But before we can decide where to park, Rogers jumps out of the passenger's side and waves her into the space next to them. "Thanks," she says through her open window with a smile as she rolls past him.

In response, he says, "Leave your weapons in the vehicle and follow us."

We leave our weapons on the floor beneath the front seats and climb out of the Escalade, falling in behind the two agents as they head toward a non-descript door in the side of the building with a security keypad next to it.

Jamison lifts the cover over the pad with his left hand and blocks our view with his body while pressing the sequence of numbers necessary to allow our entry. When we all hear a loud click, he pulls the door open and steps aside to allow Rogers to take the lead while he brings up the rear, keeping all of us between them.

Using the stairs, we go up two flights before entering a well-lit hallway lined with open doors and lots of windows. The only way you'll get privacy in your office on this floor is to pull the blinds, and that will draw more attention from the other workers than simply leaving them open.

We turn into one of the few rooms with a door that's marked _Conference_. Jamison makes a point of pulling the door closed behind us before saying, "I'd offer you all coffee or something, but hopefully this won't take very long."

The room doesn't have any windows facing out on the night, just the windows lining the hallway. But the room across the hall does and I can see the sun beginning to drop below the horizon as night takes over. The colors paint a melancholy picture and my thoughts turn to Eddy and where she might be. For late evening, I'm surprised at the number of agents still at work as the occasional one flits by the window with an armload of files or copies.

There's a long table in the middle of the room lined with straight-backed wooden chairs from another era. We randomly pull out chairs and seat ourselves, but it doesn't escape anyone's notice that Jamison puts himself at the head of the table between the rest of us and the door.

Jamison speaks first, saying sternly, "Let me remind everyone that it's a crime to leave our protection without apprising us beforehand. It's also a crime to use government funds for unauthorized purchases, especially with the intent to evade federal agents assigned to your safe-keeping. With that said, who wants to go first?"

"There's no need for everyone to speak," I begin, meeting Jamison's gaze and holding it. "I can tell you everything that you want to know."

Jamison makes a show of adjusting his posture in the uncomfortable chair to face directly in my direction and says, "Okay, Mr. McClain, do tell."

Ignoring his condescending demeanor, I quickly explain how Eddy and I left the Marshal's protection to pursue information on a friend's missing child, which as they already know, we found at the women's shelter. "They ran away from their home in Oregon because they were threatened by associates of the same people that you guys are protecting us from. And all because her ex-husband helped us in our time of need." I pause for a moment while debating sharing the next thought that comes to mind. "Maybe if we could have trusted the government, our friend wouldn't have needed to help us in the first place and he never would have gotten dragged into this mess. But now that he's up to his eyeballs in it, maybe you could find it in your heart to look after them too."

"That's above my paygrade," Jamison flatly replies. "You're getting off track."

"Yes, I guess the safety and wellbeing of American citizens isn't really your concern now, is it?"

My remark elicits a clearing of the throat from Rogers and a burning glare from Jamison. But since they hold their tongue, I continue, "Eddy and I were on our way to Vegas, planning on checking out the address of our friend's ex-sister-in-law, Tricia Fells. We figured if his ex-wife ran anywhere, it would be to her sister's place. We stopped in a little town called Paisley in eastern Oregon. I went to the restroom in a restaurant called the Pioneer Place, or something like that. It was the only place for miles where you could find something to eat. I only left her for a minute and when I came back to the table she was gone."

Jamison is writing notes as fast as he can, and he pauses to ask, "Are you sure of the name of the place?"

"No, I'm not sure. But if you go to Paisley, you won't find anywhere else to eat, or get a drink, for that matter," I angrily hiss at him.

"Yes, that's the correct name," Bobby pipes up, drawing Agent Jamison's attention briefly as if seeing her for the first time.

Then his attention quickly returns to me and he sarcastically asks, "How much did you have to drink?"

"What?" I ask, my voice rising. "I didn't have anything to drink, not that it would have anything to do with Eddy disappearing."

He glances at Larry as if to confirm that I may have eaten in a place that served alcohol without partaking. Larry only glares back at him, so he moves on. Lowering his eyes down to his notepad, he says, "Please continue, Mr. McClain."

"It's Mac."

"Okay, please continue, Mac. What did you do when you discovered her missing, and what time of the day was that?"

"It was around noon, day before yesterday. The first thing I did was call Larry and apprise him of the situation. We both agreed that we would do better looking for her without you guys bungling things up."

"And how has that worked out for you?" he snidely remarks.

I stand up so fast the wooden chair flips onto its back, my fists clenched at my sides. Larry is quick to respond, and gets up equally quickly, holding out an arm to keep me in check. "It's okay, Mac," he says, knowing that I'm only a heartbeat away from killing the son-of-a-bitch with my bare hands.

Jamison meanwhile, hasn't moved an inch, his eyes belying the pleasure he's taking from my anger and frustration while Rogers' right hand moved to rest on the butt of his service weapon.

The tension hangs in the air like an explosive gas, the smallest spark could set it off, when Bobby, sensing the volatility of the situation, says, "That's when I offered to ride with Mac to Vegas. I knew he was tired and needed sleep, especially after he explained how he'd just been released from the hospital and all. He seemed really anxious to get to Las Vegas and I needed a change of scenery, so I drove most of the way."

At the sound of her calm voice in the room, the tension dissipates like air out of an inner tube. "Is that when you," he says, indicating Larry, "stole the helicopter from the impound yard?"

"You can't steal what's rightfully yours," Larry flatly replies. "But yes, that's when I retrieved my personal property from the impound yard and flew it to Las Vegas to assist my friend here in finding our other friend whom is still missing, in case you've forgotten."

"For what it's worth," Rogers says, drawing all eyes toward him. "We have agents working the Paisley, Oregon area on south to Vegas."

"Thank you," I reply, ignoring Jamison as I turn and right the chair before slowly settling back down on it.

"Just so you know, they haven't turned anything up yet," he adds with a disheartened smile.

Jamison, being the royal prick that he is, says, "You can't hold the US Marshal's Service responsible for her disappearance after giving the agents responsible for your safety the slip."

"No one's blaming anyone here," Rogers quickly adds. "Are we, Mac?"

It's not as if I haven't already put the blame where it belongs, and for that, I won't ever be able to forgive myself. It was my idea to slip away from our protection and go to Vegas. If not for me, Eddy would be safe. That blame lies solely with me. It isn't necessary for Jamison to concern himself with the agencies responsibility in that respect.

"She has a cellphone, or had a cellphone that the marshal's didn't know about," I say, trying to move forward despite the burden of guilt resting heavily on my shoulders. "Maybe you can track the number, see if it's been used recently or not. When we first started looking for her, we assumed that whomever had taken her would call me."

"Why would you assume that?" Jamison asks, though I suspect he knows the answer to his own question.

"Because we assumed that whomever took her had done so to get to me," I reply evenly, my eyes burning into his, though he holds my gaze and doesn't look away. "Her phone has my number programmed into it and vice-versa."

Jamison nods at Rogers who moves toward the door, holding his hand out for my cell phone as he goes by. "I'll bring it right back," he says as I place it in his hand.

When he's out the door and it closes behind him, I notice that the sun has gone down and the lights of the town have lit up the desert all the way to the horizon. Under different circumstances, I might have thought how beautiful it looked.

"The Marshal's Service doesn't provide or condone arming people in our custody, so would you mind telling me where you got your firearms?" Jamison asks, his voice less confrontational without Rogers in the room backing him up.

"Gun show at the armory," Larry says, knowing there's no way to track down the seller even if they wanted to.

"You didn't put them on the government card like you did so many other things, so where did you get that kind of cash? We give you a few dollars to get by until you find work, but nothing like what you've been throwing around," he says the last with his eyes focused only on me. "Yes, I know all about the money you gave the cocktail waitress at Porgys too."

"It's no secret that Eddy and I came into a large amount of money just before we entered witness protection. I kept some in cash stashed away for a rainy day," I calmly reply, our eyes locked on each other.

"Yeah, that would have been your fee for protecting the daughter of another one of our clients," Jamison says with a hint of sarcasm. Whether he's bragging that he knows about others in the program, or he's jealous of the amount of money Eddy and I were paid for our services, I'm not sure. But something is bothering him. He's holding too much anger toward me just to be upset over the fact that we gave the marshal's the slip. Even if that's no small deed, it wasn't against him personally, and this has all the earmarks of being personal.

*21*

Jamison finally looks away and asks the others if any of them have anything further to add. No one says anything, but they don't look away either. I think Jamison has underestimated the tenacity of this group. If there's a weak link, it's Bobby, and right now, she appears to be the least intimidated. I couldn't be prouder of her.

Just then, Rogers returns and hands me the cell phone, saying, "It'll take them a few minutes, but they're pinging off the towers to triangulate a general area. Since it doesn't have GPS capabilities, we won't be able to pin it down to less than the distance between the towers. They might narrow it a little more, maybe to less than three-square miles by signal strength, but that's iffy at best."

Larry speaks first, "Will you guys at least share what you find with us? Let us help with the search?"

"You know that isn't policy," Jamison quickly replies, a smug look on his face.

"Well, you can take us back into witness protection, but what are you going to do with her?" Lisa asks, indicating Bobby.

"We have no reason to consider her as anything more than a civilian that got involved of her own free will. She'll be free to go when we finish here," he replies.

I glance at Bobby to see her staring back at me, her face drawn tight with concern.

"Now that you know about Norm's involvement in the case that brought us into witness protection, can you at least offer him and his family protection? It's not as if they haven't received threats," Larry says, appearing relaxed on the outside, but wound up tighter than a watch spring on the inside.

Rogers is the first to speak, "We'll look into it. If indeed there have been threats made against him and his family, we'll see what we can do to help."

"Thank you," Larry replies sincerely.

Jamison speaks next, "But since you and your friends here left wit-sec of your own free will, your case will have to be reviewed. We'll put you up in one of our local safe houses until such time as a decision can be made."

"We're going to continue looking for Eddy whether you involve us in your investigation or not," I sternly remark.

"That's entirely up to you. But let me warn you, any actions you take will weigh heavily on our decision whether to continue our services with you or not."

"Fuck your damned services," I angrily shout. "We're more than capable of taking care of ourselves."

"And where has that gotten you?" Jamison fires back, a look of victory on his face.

Larry has the cooler head and calmly states, "Agent Jamison, Rogers, you can make this part of the record as I'm sure I speak for everyone at this table. Offer Norm Unger and his son Mickey and his ex-wife Sally Jenkins witness protection. Mac, Lisa, and I will no longer be needing your services, but we formally request being involved in the search for Eddy Lotto. We would further request that all intel your people gather regarding her and the search for her be shared with us forthwith." He pauses, studying Jamison's face with a cool regard before continuing. "I don't think we're asking for much, all things considered."

"You can't be serious?" Jamison splutters, taken aback by the simple fact that we're making any demands at all.

"Oh, I think he is," Rogers sincerely replies to no one in particular, the smallest hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "He's already figured out the media potential in this little scenario," he continues, directing his words toward Jamison.

"You're very quick, Agent Rogers," Larry says with a smile, his insides slowly relaxing as he sees things going our way. Turning back toward Jamison, he continues, "I'm sure you noticed in our dossier under list of friends that we have more than a few in the justice department as well as high power attorneys that will gladly go to the media with our story of how the US Marshal's Service bungled our protection."

"We didn't bungle anything," Jamison argues, clearly rattled. "You left of your own accord."

"Yeah, some of the details might be a little sketchy," I say, enjoying every minute of watching the asshole squirm as he realizes we have the winning hand in this card game. "Your agency has a reputation problem as it is, does it really need any more crap thrown at it?"

"You go to the media with your twisted story and you'll be making an enemy of every federal agent in this country," he rasps, spittle literally flying from his mouth.

"Enough," Rogers snaps, grabbing everyone's attention. "I don't think they're being unreasonable," he says calmly to his partner before turning his attention to Larry. "I'll see what I can do about Mr. Unger and his family, but I think something can be arranged if they're in agreement. In the meantime, we'll share any information that pertains to Eddy Lotto and her disappearance, but it will come through me and only me."

"Fair enough," Larry says, acknowledging Rogers with a grim smile while completely ignoring Jamison.

Just then the door opens and a young agent in khaki colored Dockers with a light blue polo shirt comes in and hands a note to Agent Jamison, but Rogers intercepts it with no argument from his partner. Sensing the tension in the room, the young agent does an about face and quickly retreats back out the door, making a point of closely it quietly behind him.

Rogers studies the note for a moment, and then softly says, "These are the GPS coordinates of the towers pinging Miss Lotto's cell phone."

I jump to my feet and holding my hand out for the note before he can continue, say, "We have a GPS unit in the Escalade. We'll meet you there."

"There's more," he replies, holding the note back.

This time, the young agent taps softly on the door before entering, a large map rolled up in his right hand and a couple of letter sized pages in his left. "Here you go, sir," he says, setting everything down on the table in front of Rogers before turning to go.

Jamison, turning toward Rogers, says under his breath, "This isn't the end of this. Once we get Lotto back, you and I will be going before the Deputy Director. I'll have you know that I'll be filing a letter of insubordination against you."

"You do what you have to do," Rogers replies evenly, his voice cool and calm. "But you might want to take some time off and think about your next actions before you do anything."

Rising, Jamison turns and marches out the door, closing it loudly behind him.

"I don't know how you get along with that guy," Bobby comments, moving closer to the large map on the table.

"He's eligible for retirement and I think he's just looking for a reason to leave. Don't worry about him, we have more important things to do right now." Spreading the rolled up map out on the table and grabbing notepads and pencils to weight the corners down, he then lays the smaller pages off to the side. "If you gather around here," he starts, looking around at the eager faces studying the map. "You'll see this is a map of Nevada, not Las Vegas. These smaller images are current satellite photos taken from space of the triangulated area showing the cell towers in question."

"You government guys have all the fun toys to play with," Larry says, standing up to get a closer look at the satellite imagery.

"I recognize that area," I say, looking first at the Nevada state map and then the smaller image files. "We passed through there on our way to Vegas."

"Yeah, it's not that far from Paisley, Oregon. Pretty near the border, actually. One of the cell towers services the Paisley area, the other two are in Nevada. But because the area is flat and mostly uninhabited, the towers are fairly well spaced out. We're talking a lot more than just a few square miles."

"We can be there in no time with our little bird," Larry says, his voice excited at the prospect of having a solid lead.

"We already have a Blackhawk warming up on the helipad," Rogers says. "You're welcome to join us in the search, but after looking over these images, I'm not holding out any hope of finding anything, except for the phone. I think we're going to find it was thrown along the highway shortly after she was taken. They probably never even considered the possibility that you would have programmed numbers into it in case of an emergency."

"Eddy would have remembered the number to my phone," I say under my breath, resisting the thought that she wasn't able to tell her abductors because they knocked her unconscious or maybe even killed her before she was able to.

"I don't remember the number to Larry's phone," Lisa says, picking up on my train of thought and throwing me a lifeline to hang on to. "If they had taken me and thrown my phone so I couldn't be tracked, I'd have no way of contacting him."

"Thanks, Lisa," I smile weakly. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'll be alright. Even if there's no chance of finding anything more than the phone, we need to go look."

Rising, I say to Larry, "You and Lisa can bring Bobby and me back to the hotel, pick up your things, and then turn the Escalade in and collect the helicopter. Bobby and I will head up that way with the rental." Then another thought comes to mind, "Does that Blackhawk have FLIR?"

"I'm sure it does," Rogers replies, also standing.

"Good," I reply. "I'm assuming they'll be starting their search as soon as they can get there."

"Yes, that's the plan. We have your phone numbers so if we find anything tonight, I'll contact you immediately," he says. "If you want these, you're welcome to them," he adds, indicating the materials on the table.

Before he can reach the door, I stop him and say, "Agent Rogers, we'd like to thank you for everything."

"Don't thank me yet. Let's see if we can get the Unger family protected and Miss Lotto safely back in the fold first. Then I will gladly accept all offers of thanks. If I still have a job, that is," he says with a forced laugh and smile.

When he's out of the room, Larry pulls the door shut and turns back to the table while I gather up the map and images.

"We can be there in a few hours with the helicopter, but without infrared cameras, we'll only be able to oversee the fed's search," Larry says with a sigh.

"Bobby and I can be there shortly after first light if we drive flat out through the night," I add.

Once again, the young agent in Dockers and polo shirt sticks his head in the door and says, "If you're all ready to leave, I can escort you back to your vehicle."

*22*

Back at the hotel, Larry and Lisa quickly gather up their things, stashing their respective weapons and ammunition in their respective bags for security. It's a curt goodbye, see you in the morning type of thing, and then they're off, leaving Bobby and me alone in the hotel room to finish packing.

When everything is ready to go, Bobby asks, "Do you need to let the manager know that the room is being vacated?"

"It's not really necessary, but it would be the courteous thing to do," I reply. "I'll help you to the car with these bags and then we'll stop on our way out."

"Why don't I run these out to the car while you run over to the office and let them know," she says, almost sounding insistent.

Though I have come to trust her, the small hairs on the back of my neck begin to tickle, and I quickly decide to play along with her. Or at least give her the illusion that I'm playing along.

"Are you sure you can handle everything?" I innocently inquire.

"No problem. Go ahead, I'll get this loaded and the car warmed up before you can get back," she says, pushing me toward the door.

Since there isn't any real need to alert management of our departure, I hurry in the direction of the office lobby only until I'm around the corner of the building and out of sight. Then I stop and crowd the corner, watching the rear entrance and parking lot. When she comes out, I notice an extra brown paper sack among her armload of things that she quickly places on the floor in back of the passenger's seat. Then she hurriedly dumps our luggage on the seat, some of it falling to the foot wells and covering the brown sack.

Closing the back door, I expect her to open the driver's door next and jump in, having done nothing overly suspicious to this point. But instead of getting in front, she goes around to the rear and clicks the trunk lock, holding something small in her right hand. She reaches into the darkness of the trunk and moves something around, though I have no idea what it could be. Then she looks around nervously before gently pushing the lid down and making certain that it's secure before hurrying back to the front and climbing into the driver's seat and starting the engine.

I watch her just a moment longer before stepping around the corner of the building and hurrying toward the car, getting a smile from her through the windshield as I pass in front of the vehicle and slide into the passenger's seat.

"That was quick," she says, pulling the gear shift into reverse and backing out of the parking space.

I'm about to tell her that I basically threw the room key at the person behind the counter, when it suddenly dawns on me that I don't even know if it was a man or a woman working behind the counter. But that thought is just as quickly overrun with the realization that the key is still in my front pocket, and I immediately grow self-conscious of the outline it's making in the denim of my jeans.

Damn, did she see the outline of it when I passed through the glare of the headlights in front of the car? A square key fob is pretty recognizable, all things considered.

Self-conscious of my every move, I carefully place my hand over the bulge in my pocket, trying not to draw attention to my actions while concealing it from her sight despite the only light inside the sedan is from passing beneath streetlights and the many neon signs hanging over business entrances.

When she starts to speak, I almost jump for fear she can see the guilt written all over my face like a billboard. "I got some bottles of water out of the trunk if you get thirsty. I threw them in back," she says smiling nervously.

While I was watching her from the corner of the building, I noticed her open and close the trunk, but I hadn't seen her remove anything from it. Yet, that doesn't mean she didn't. And once again, I can't help wonder if I'm reading something more into her actions than might really be there.

"Thanks," I say weakly. "But I think I should have used the little boy's room before we left the hotel. The last thing I need right now is a bottle of water."

"Well, it's going to be a long night, if you want the rum, it's in a brown paper sack back there somewhere too. But I doubt if that's going to help with your current problem."

"Maybe we can just pull over somewhere along the street here," I suggest.

"What, you can't just hang it out the door?" she laughs.

"Seriously, any one of these businesses will do for my purposes," I beg, feigning an urgency I'm not feeling, but wanting to get rid of the key so I can relax.

Smiling, she pulls to the curb in front of an all-night market advertising liquor and cigarettes as well as toilet paper and hamburger. "Thanks. I'll only be a minute," I say, climbing out of the car and hurrying in through the entrance, pausing at the first checker to ask if they have public restrooms and where they're located.

When I reach the men's restroom, I pass an old man wearing a navy flight jacket standing to the side of the door, the stench rolling off him indicating that he hasn't showered in many days or maybe even weeks. He's eighty if a day and he gives me a kindly, toothless smile just as I reach out to push the door open.

For some reason that I can't explain, I feel empathy for the old guy and I pause, considering offering him some money when I realize I gave away all my loose cash. "Are you a vet?" I ask,

"82nd Airborne Rangers, sir," he says, raising his hand to his forehead in a loose salute.

"What are you doing here?"

"Just waiting until there isn't anyone in the loo so I can clean up. It's been a rough day, if you know what I mean," he says, suddenly coughing, which turns into a lung wrenching hack before it subsides.

"Yeah, I do know what you mean," I say conciliatorily.

"Couldn't spare a dime, could you? I really could use something medicinal to whet this old whistle, if you know what I mean," he says with a toothless grin.

"Sorry, but I'm flat busted," I reply, and then have a thought. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the room key and holding it out to the guy, ask if he recognizes the place.

"Hell yeah," he says. "But I haven't been in a fancy place like that since I first came to this sinful city." The words have barely left his mouth when another fit of coughing erupts from deep within his chest.

When it finally passes, I can't help but notice that he wipes a small trace of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, wiping it on the lower calf portion of his army surplus fatigue pants. Watching as he moves his hand away, I notice the entire side of his leg is stained from this repeated action of his and make the connection to the smell reeking off him. He's been living with the stench for so long, he probably doesn't notice it on himself.

"What's your name, old timer?"

He studies me for a long moment before answering. "You're not one of them do-gooders that's going to call the VA and try to have me locked up in one of them places where nobody ever leaves, are you?"

"No," I honestly reply, wondering if I could end up just like him, a worn out old soldier that's been discarded and forgotten.

"Then I'll tell ya. It's Joe, G.I. Joe. That's what everyone calls me, not sure I even remember any other name, not that it matters," he says, sharing his toothless grin with me like we're old friends. And in a way, we are. We have much more in common than anyone would ever realize.

"Well, G.I. Joe, here, take this key and have yourself a few good nights on Uncle Sam. Get yourself cleaned up and order through the front desk anything you like, the good ole US of A is picking up the tab."

I pause for a second, wishing I had cab fare to get him there, when he says as if reading my mind, "Don't worry, sir, I can still get around pretty good on these old pins. I know where that place is and I appreciate your kindness." He takes the proffered key and then his face turns serious with concern, "But what are you going to do if I have your room?"

"Don't worry about me," I reply with a smile. "I'll be just fine. You take care of yourself. And like I said, you call room service and order anything you want. It's on the house."

Not needing to use the restroom and not wanting to wash my hands, I give him a brief salute instead of a handshake and then head back toward the front of the store. As I pass the checker that gave me directions, I nod and say thanks. Out on the street, I take a deep breath of fresh air, or at least as fresh as air can be in a crowded city the size of Las Vegas, and climb into the car.

"You good to go?" Bobby asks with a smile.

Returning her smile, I simply reply, "Never better."

She checks the side mirror and pulls out into traffic. Within a short while, we are back on the interstate heading north, the lights of the city in our rearview mirrors while my thoughts are on Eddy. For reasons that I can't explain, I get the feeling that with Eddy by my side, I would never end up like G.I. Joe. She wouldn't let that happen.

Opening the glove box, a small map light comes on. I begin by trying to lay out the state map to get a bearing on where we're headed. But the large size is too hampering and frustrated, I toss it over the headrest into the back and lay out one of the smaller images on the glove box lid.

Working with different terrains and remembering them as well as getting a feeling for them without actually being there is second nature to me. I've had the pleasure of taking many map and topography courses both in a classroom and in the field, courtesy of Uncle Sam. With the image spread out before me, I could be air-dropped into the middle of it now and know my way around and over every ridge and ravine as if I've been playing there my entire life.

So when I lay the second satellite image over the first, something familiar instantly jumps out at me. "You know, Bobby," I say, totally engrossed in the image. "I recognize this place."

"We did drive through there, cowboy," she says with a forced smile.

"I realize that. But in this image here," I continue, holding the sheet of paper up while reaching across her to turn on the courtesy light.

"Hey, careful," she says, swerving slightly as my left arm reaching across her arms causes the wheel to turn a little to the left, forcing the car over the yellow line.

"Sorry," I sincerely reply as the courtesy light comes on. "But if you look at this here," I continue, pointing out a spot on the map with my right index finger.

Before I can continue, she taps on the brakes and pulls over to the shoulder. "I can't do both," she says, perturbed.

"Okay, fair enough," I apologize. "But just look here for a minute. Do you recognize anything?"

She pulls the image from my grasp and holds it so that the overhead light reaches it and studies the place that I pointed out. After a long minute, she resignedly hands it back, saying, "It all looks the same to me."

"Well, it's not all the same. And you have to understand we're dealing with quite a few square miles of mostly sage brush and sand. So isn't it kind of ironic that the first place we stopped after leaving Paisley just so happens to be in the search area for Eddy? I mean, what are the odds?" I ask, shaking my head, dumbfounded as I continue studying the image.

"That's not odd at all," she replies, catching me off guard.

"You mind explaining?" I ask as she puts the sedan in drive and pulls back out onto the highway.

"Think about it for a second. We're probably not going to find this Eddy friend of yours. But we might find her phone. Even though it will be like finding a needle in a haystack, as the search area is so large," she says, her tone serious. "If they headed south from Paisley, like you first thought, the first thing they would have done is dispose of anything that might send out a beacon for you to follow. Such as, her phone."

"All they'd have to do is remove the battery, if they were concerned that it might be tracked or traced," I say, my mind working feverishly as if on the verge of a break through, yet unable to grasp it.

Her voice is soft, barely audible when she tentatively states, "You realize that if we find something more than a cellphone, it might be a body?"

"Believe me, Bobby, we've all been thinking that thought. This isn't our first rodeo. In our line of work, it's almost expected that we're not going to be kicking back in a rocker on the front porch of a home somewhere when the grim reaper comes a calling," I calmly explain. "But we do what we do because it helps people that can't do for themselves."

"Why didn't you ever tell me that you were in the witness protection program?" she asks, the question seeming to come out of the blue. I thought you were just a group of private eyes that worked together on occasion."

"You really want to know?"

"Of course," she says with conviction. "I've come to care for you, Mac. It's time we started trusting each other, and not just sexually."

"Okay," I slowly start, looking at her profile in the green hue of the dash lights. "But you have to promise that you won't laugh."

"Do I look like I'm going to laugh?" she asks, her voice serious.

"No. No, I guess not," I reply. "When you first offered to accompany me to Vegas, I thought to myself, 'Why would a drop dead gorgeous woman want to go to Vegas with me?' and the only thing that made sense was you were working for the cartel that is out to get us."

"I know that I promised not to laugh, but you can't be serious," she says, astounded by my admission. "Thank you for the compliment, by the way. But really, me working for the cartel? In what capacity did you think I worked for them?"

"Seriously," I reply on the verge of laughing. "I wasn't sure if you were a plant just to follow and report on me, or if you were going after the bounty on my head."

"Yeah, right," she laughs. "I'm a super assassin that fucks my targets to death. How's that working for you?"

"If that's true, take your best shot," I simply reply, my eyes watching her closely.

Without hesitation, she whips the wheel to the right, sending the sedan skidding onto the shoulder in a storm cloud of dust and flying gravel. Before the vehicle has even come to a complete stop, she throws her door open and jumps out.

There is no pretense this time, as we both know why she is doing what she's doing, and that's basically taking her best shot at securing my feelings before getting any more involved in the search for Eddy.

For my own self, I can't use the justification any longer that I'm keeping her on a leash so that she doesn't suspect me of not trusting her. We've had that conversation, and it's been taken off the table. Any relations we have from this point forward are all on me. No more agenda. No more ulterior motives.

*23*

Before she can get around to my side of the car, I'm out the passenger's door and heading toward her. We come together at the front of the car, in the wash of the headlights. Our arms wrap around each other, our lips coming together with force, her tongue hungrily probing as I bite her lower lip. I can feel her hot breath in my face, the sweet scent of rum permeating the air. My fingers entangle in her auburn hair, holding her face in place while I ravage it with my tongue and mouth.

Her arms slide down from the back of my neck and feverishly set to work on the constraints of my jeans. Within seconds, her hands have undone the buckle and button, the zipper going to its end with a sharp downward tug.

"I want you, baby," her breath hisses in my ear as her warm hands pull my swelling member free of my jeans, her fingers immediately stroking the silky skin along its length.

When her knees begin to bend and her body dips downward, I stop her from going any lower, turning her around until her legs are backed up against the front bumper before reaching down to grab the cheeks of her denim covered ass and lifting her up, setting her down heavily on the hot hood.

She squeals as the heat of the engine coming through the hood causes her ass to pucker, and then just as quickly wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me against her, my stiff member pressing up hard against her cotton covered belly.

While I work frantically at undoing the buttons of her shirt, her hands race up my chest, pausing to squeeze the nipples on my breasts. I gasp from the pleasurable mixture of pain and desire. My response stirs a reaction that emanates from deep within her breast. Her body trembles beneath my hands and then her feet slide back to the ground, her jeans following them in a bunch.

An eighteen wheeler goes by at a high rate of speed, the backwash of wind from his tires washing hot air over us as he lays out a long, lonely wail of sound from his air horns. When I push Bobby back against the front of the car, she squeals loudly and involuntarily jumps as the hot metal stings her bare flesh.

Lifting her up against me so that her jeans fall to the ground, I hurriedly carry her around to the darkness at the rear of the car, our bodies glowing red in the hue of the taillights as I place her on the trunk lid and slide my mouth down the front of her belly, my tongue hunting hungrily for her musky sweetness.

She cries out with pleasure as my mouth surrounds her moist folds, drinking in the sweetness of her core. Her legs rise to either side of my head as she writhes beneath my ministrations, my tongue working hungrily over the nerve bundle at the core of her sensuality as my hands caress her breasts, rolling her hard little pebbles between thumb and forefinger.

"Oh God," she screams into the darkness surrounding us, the red glow from the taillights adding a surreal cast to the experience.

The only traffic on the road since pulling over was the eighteen wheeler with the loud air horns. To the south, there is a slight glow on the horizon from the city lights of Vegas. We are alone for as far as the eye can see and yet, I can't shake the feeling that we're not. It isn't a feeling of being watched, which is more of a sixth sense with me, a rising of the short hairs at the base of my neck, a twitching in the corner of the eye as if not quite able to focus on the eye or rifle scope with me in its crosshairs.

This is more akin to a feeling of being anonymous in a crowded room. Kind of like going to a party where you don't know all the players, but they're there nonetheless. They're not watching you, but they're present all the same. That's how I'm feeling right now. Though I am in the middle of hot, passionate sex with a beautiful and willing woman, I feel another presence, even though I realize the absurdity of it, considering our location and how we came to be here.

The thought is quickly dispelled as she arches her back and there is a quickening of her breath. She raises her head and reaches forward, trying to pull me on top of her, and then quickly drops back to the trunk lid with a loud thunking sound as her head lands heavily on the thin metal.

But in her rising state of ecstasy, she is oblivious to pain as she convulses again, her back arching up, her hands trying all the harder to pull me on top of her. "Please," she hisses through clenched teeth. "I need you in me. I want you so bad. Oh god!"

She suddenly sucks in a deep breath and holds it as her body violently convulses, her legs quivering and kicking at the air. She screams into the night sky, her orgasm carrying her over the edge of reality and then just as suddenly dropping her back to earth and into the reality that she is having wild and uncontrollable sex on the trunk of a rental car along a highway in the middle of nowhere.

"That's not fair," she whispers breathlessly, her body lying limply on the trunk lid with her legs hanging over the rear, her heels even with the bumper while I stand silently facing her, my manhood erect and patiently waiting for her to catch her breath.

"Surely, you don't think we're done yet?" I tease, running my hands delicately up her inner thighs and loving the hitch in her breath from my touch. "Come here," I instruct her, guiding her to the edge of the trunk lid and then grabbing her ankles and placing her feet on the bumper so that I can cup the cheeks of her ass in my hands.

Squeezing them tightly, I aim high and rub the base of my shaft over her wet clitoris. She immediately reaches forward and grabs my shaft, guiding it into her wanton folds of desire. Yet, when she pushes toward me, I pull back, never allowing more than a couple of inches to enter her before retreating to the very edge.

My actions have her worked up and frustrated very quickly, her breathing sounding more angered than passionate when she suddenly pushes me away with her heels and slides off the trunk. Before she can guess my intentions, I grab her by the shoulders and turn her around, pushing her forcefully toward the rear of the car so that her hands instinctively reach out to keep her from crashing into it.

When her hands plant on the trunk lid, I firmly kick the inside of her soles, driving her feet apart on the coarse gravel lining the shoulder of the highway and momentarily throwing her off balance. Before she can catch herself, my hands are on her hips, steadying her as my shaft forces its way between the firm flesh of her ass cheeks.

She instantly realizes my intentions and goes from resisting to assisting, leaning forward until her breasts are pressed down against the cool steel trunk lid while holding her legs straight and raising her moist womanhood to my hungry manhood.

As my hands slide around her waist, my shaft finds the moistly lubricated folds of flesh and easily slides into her. I'm immediately rewarded with a soft, long moan of pleasure as I force myself forward, giving her the full length of my desire.

With growing urgency, I drive into her as she returns my intentions with a push, our rhythm symbiotic in nature as I quickly climb toward a climax. Taking a deep, slow breath, she drives harder, her own desire taking over as she pushes and pulls with increasing passion. Placing a hand on either hip, I viciously pull her onto me, driving the full length of my shaft into her and holding it as it throbs violently before exploding with a ferocious release of energy that continues pulsing until she convulses and quivers, her knees suddenly buckling and only my hands on her hips supporting her, preventing her exhausted body from sliding to the ground.

Though I desperately want to remain inside her, my flaccid member slips free of her womanhood and I lift her into my arms, carrying her around to the front of the car where our clothes are lying on the dirt, the headlights appearing dimmer than earlier. Touching the hood and verifying that it's no longer hot to the touch, I carefully place her on it and when I'm certain she isn't going to slide off, reach down and retrieve our clothes.

"Here," I say, shaking the dust off before holding the waist of her pants open so she can slide her legs in. "The least I can do is give you a hand getting dressed."

"You know my body is going to be covered in bruises after that episode," she says, her voice sounding tired and yet, happy as she assists with her jeans.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," I sincerely reply. "I kinda got carried away in the heat of the moment."

When she leans back to do up the front of her jeans, her face disappears in the shadows of being behind the headlights, and I study her body as if she can't see me either. "Do you like?" she asks coyly, catching me off guard.

"Yes, I think I do," I solemnly reply, a melancholy mood threatening my sunny demeanor. With my own jeans up and refastened, I tuck my shirt in and add, "They're going to wonder what happened to us if we don't get a move on."

"Do you mind driving for a little while so I can catch some shuteye?" she asks, sliding off the hood.

"No, not at all," I reply, watching her walk stiffly around to the passenger side of the car while thinking that maybe I should go easy on her, she isn't a young woman any longer, even if she acts like one on occasion.

When I climb into the driver's seat, she's holding the brown paper sack that I saw her drop behind the seat earlier in the evening back at the hotel. Pushing the paper down below the neck, she unscrews the cap and takes a long swallow before asking me, "Would you like a little something to take the edge off?"

Tempted as I am, I refuse the offer and tighten my seatbelt before adjusting the mirrors and moving the seat back to make more leg room. Bobby isn't the smallest of women, but she is definitely shorter than me. "I need to keep a clear head," I calmly decline, starting the engine and feeling a sense of relief that the battery isn't dead from leaving the lights on.

"What are we going to do if all we find is her cell phone," Bobby asks, her question seemingly coming out of the blue.

"We keep looking," I reply, pulling back onto the deserted highway and stepping down on the accelerator. The little V-6 is peppy and has us up to one hundred in no time. "Do you have a problem with that?" I ask, my voice sounding harsh even to me, and I quickly regret my words.

"No," she softly replies, her voice barely audible over the hum of the tires on the asphalt. "I've never had a man care enough about me to go through the trouble you are for this woman." She's silent for a long time before she suddenly asks, "How do you care so much for this woman and yet, you have sex with me at every opportunity that presents itself?"

Unable to answer her question, I reply instead, "I'll take that drink, after all."

*24*

Before handing me the bottle, she puts it to her lips and takes another long swallow. Handing it over to me while studying my profile in the dim green hue of the dash lights, she simply states, "I thought as much."

Putting the bottle to my lips, I take a quick sip simply to wash the aftertaste of our sex out of my mouth while not wanting to impair my ability to think or react. Moreover, while traveling down the interstate at over one hundred miles per hour, I didn't need to add driving under the influence to the list of infractions.

"You don't know me," I angrily reply. "We met barely forty-eight hours ago."

"I remember when we met," she angrily fires back. "You were giving me the eye, practically drooling over me while your friend was missing only mere minutes. Don't tell me I don't know you." She sits, silently staring straight ahead for a long moment while I keep my thoughts to myself, not wanting to continue an argument that I have no chance of winning. "Men," she suddenly spits out. "You're all the same. You only want what you think you can't have. When she's available, you'll want me because I'm not. But now that I'm available to you, you want her because she isn't."

Her anger looks to be spent when I see a tear glistening down her cheek. "You're all the same and you're never going to change. Nothing's ever going to change," she murmurs somberly.

"Look, Bobby," I start, my voice soft. "I don't know what you thought I was going to be or could give you, but obviously, I'm falling short of your expectations."

"Not just you. All men. I seem to have a habit of picking men for all the wrong reasons."

"You might be right," I say, trying to soothe her. "Have you ever heard the saying that you have to kiss a lot of toads before you find your prince?"

"That's not even funny," she replies, a small smile lighting up her face as she wipes at her tear streaked cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt.

"I didn't mean it to be funny, Bobby. But when you think about it, one woman's prince isn't every woman's prince. You just haven't found the right man for you." I pause for a moment to study her face, trying to gauge the effect my words are having on her. "You're a very beautiful woman with a lot to offer a man, and if my circumstances were different, I would be all over you. But considering my current situation, I can't give you what you want or need in the long term."

"So what you're saying is in the short term you'll still have sex with me. At least until we find your friend?"

"That is what I just said, isn't it?" I reply, both stunned and surprised by my own words. Eddy was right about me, I really am a dog.

She smiles smugly as she stares ahead. We ride on for the next few hours in relative silence, only an occasional word being exchanged to inquire if I need water or would like a drink. The road is flat, the sky and surrounding terrain void of light. The only thing to see is what jumps out in front of the headlights, and at over one-hundred miles per hour, images fly by at a high rate of speed. Sage brush blowing along the road is there one second and gone the next as the occasional piece of brush gets swallowed up beneath the car.

Looking over at Bobby, I see her head leaning toward me, her eyes shut and a trail of drool running down her chin. She is sound asleep. Without her looking back at me, I take a long moment to study her sleeping face in the dim light cast from the dash. She is a very striking woman that could easily pass for fifteen-years younger than she actually is. So I have to ask myself, if she isn't working for the cartel or a connected crime family, why did she drop everything, such as it was, to jump in a car with me and head toward Vegas. It's not as if she's an impulsive teenager looking to escape the confinement of a small town in search of adventure. There has to be something more to her story. But whatever it is, I no longer believe she was a plant just waiting for Eddy and me to come along.

When I see a long wide strip of bare ground along the edge of the highway where big rigs can pull over to take breaks, I back off on the gas and ease over to the side of the road, a cloud of dust kicking up in our wake. The strip goes beyond the reach of the headlights, but more than a quarter mile distant I can see the glow of taillights on the trailer of a parked semi-rig.

"What are you doing?" Bobby asks, blinking for a moment to get her bearings, a look of concern bordering on fear on her face.

Recognizing the look of fear for what it is, I teasingly say, "I'm not kicking you out, if that's what you're thinking." When the car comes to a complete stop, I add with a grin, "I don't know about you, but I need to relieve myself."

Leaving the parking lights on so we can find our way back to the car, I slip the keys in my front pocket and step out into the cool night air. Before I can close the door, I hear Bobby's voice, sounding irritated, "Don't leave me here," as she pushes her door open and climbs out.

"I'll be right back there," I say over the hood of the car, pointing behind us even though I doubt she can see me. Assuming that she's going straight toward the bank opposite the highway, I add as a precaution, "Don't go too far."

"Don't worry, you ain't getting rid of me that easy," she quips back, heading straight toward the nearer road bank, her boots crunching on the fine gravel.

After watching in her direction for a couple of long seconds, I turn toward the south and pace off twenty-five long steps before coming to a stop and relieving my bladder in the dirt, wondering if the mud I'm creating is splashing over the toes of my boots.

Before I finish, I hear something approaching from the north and turn my head in that direction just as headlights crest a small dip in the highway. It is still close to a mile distant, but it isn't the approaching vehicle that holds my attention, it's the fact that Bobby has the trunk open and is doing something in the darkness. It is irrelevant that I am more than seventy-five feet from her, as I wouldn't be able to see what she's doing even if the distance was less than ten feet. In fact, if it wasn't for the red glow of the taillights, I wouldn't even know that Bobby was at the rear of the car.

"What the hell are you up to now?" I mumble softly to myself. After shaking myself off, I do up my jeans and make my way back toward the car.

Hearing my approaching footsteps, Bobby closes the trunk and turns to face me, holding something in her hands. "You took the keys with you," she says accusingly. "I had to use the button in the glove box to open it."

"Sorry," I innocently reply. "Force of habit, I guess."

"Or you thought I might steal your rental car and take off without you?" she asks, clearly trying to throw me off.

"Bobby, the thought never entered my mind," I deftly lie. "What did you need in the trunk anyway?" I ask, studying the vinyl satchel and thinking that it looks familiar.

"Your money, I'm assuming," she replies, holding it out to me. "I was just thinking that I removed everything from the trunk the other day, but then I remembered there was another bag. I didn't bother with it before, because I found what I thought you needed as far as clothes go. But when you ran out of money and they took their government credit cards back, I began wondering if you might have more and I thought of this bag." She pauses, her story sounding plausible. If she intended to steal it, she wouldn't be fishing it out here on the side of the road when she doesn't have the keys to the car to make her getaway.

Taking the bag from her, I simply reply, "Yep that would be my stash." I unzip it and remove approximately two grand in hundreds. Folding the bills over, I slip them into the front pocket of my jeans opposite the one with the car keys. Handing her back the bag, I slip out the keys and say, "Now that we have cash on hand again, maybe we should put the rest of this back where you found it."

She steps aside to give me access to the trunk lock, her body unnaturally rigid, the satchel held tightly against her chest. I slip the key into the lock and turn it, the lid popping up a couple of inches before she grabs the keys out and pushes them into my chest as if trying to force me away.

"Get the car started, I can take care of this," she says.

Before I can decide whether to do as she ordered or not, she lifts the lid just high enough to throw the bag in and then slams it shut before putting her fingers under the lip and trying to lift it to be sure it latched.

Thrown off by her actions, I turn back toward her. "Mac, we really don't have time," she says, confusing me even more than I already am.

"Did you think we were going to have sex again just because I stopped to relieve myself?" I ask, dumbfounded, yet suddenly believing I understand the reason for her strange behavior since pulling over.

Walking toward the passenger's door, she asks, "Have we ever stopped yet when we haven't ended up screwing each other?"

By the time I reach the driver's door, she's already sitting in the passenger's seat, the bottle of rum in her hands. "No, you're right. If I were in your shoes, I would have been expecting the same thing. But this time, I really had to go."

"Would you like some?" she asks, holding the bottle out to me.

Taking it, I start to put it to my lips before thinking better of it. Handing it back, I say, "Thanks, but I'd probably better not."

Taking the bottle back, she puts it to her lips and swallows a couple of times before lowering it and gasping for air. "You really should go easy on that," I say. "I might need you to spell me before we get there and I can't have you drunk."

"I'll be fine," she angrily fires back, making me wonder if she isn't upset because we didn't have sex after all.

Starting the car and putting it in gear, I pull toward the highway and then suddenly hit the brakes, throwing her forward against her shoulder restraint. "How long have you known about the cash in the trunk?"

"Like I told you, I found it when I was getting your clothes out. Why? If I just wanted to steal your money, I'd already be long gone."

Stepping on the gas and pulling out onto the highway, I soberly reply, "Yeah, you're probably right. You wouldn't still be here if it was just about the money."

"I know you don't trust me, and I can accept that," she starts, no hint of anger left in her voice, only deep sadness. "But I want you to promise me something."

"If I can."

"Promise me that if we find your friend Eddy, you won't forget me."

"Oh, Bobby, I can definitely promise you that. No matter what happens down the road, I will never forget you."

"Thank you."

*25*

Cruising down the highway at well over one-hundred miles per hour, I glance at the dash clock on the radio and notice that it's already nearing midnight and we're still seven hours from the search site, maybe less if we can keep up this pace.

Looking across at Bobby, I see her eyes closing and then quickly opening as she fights with the sandman. The hum of the tires are like a meditation mantra, only interrupted occasionally by the thumping of a poorly patched crack in the highway's surface. Before long, my thoughts drift from the search ahead to the ' _what ifs'_. What if all we find is Eddy's phone? Or God forbid, what if we find Eddy's body? What happens then? Is it business as usual?

Agent Jamison turned out to be a real pain in the ass, but Agent Rogers seems like a standup guy. He confirmed that Norm's son and ex-wife are fine and that the US Marshal's Service was going to offer them witness protection if he has anything to do about it. Whether Norm or any of his family accepts the kind offer is entirely up to them. But he'll know that we did what we could for him and that our debt has been paid.

Unfortunately, that didn't get us any closer to finding Eddy.

I'm suddenly yanked out of my doldrums when the cell phone in my pocket starts chirping loudly. Without hesitation, I hit the brakes and pull over to the side of the road before I inadvertently drive out of cell range. Service along the highway is hit and miss at best, so it comes as a surprise that we're in a zone with service.

While holding my foot on the brake, I reach into my pocket and withdraw the cell phone, frantically checking the caller ID, hoping beyond hope to see Eddy's name.

"Who is it?" Bobby asks, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

"Larry," I say, flipping it open and acknowledging my friend. "What do you know?"

"They found her phone," he somberly replies. "It was laying in a shallow ravine about three-hundred feet off the highway. The technicians that found it made the comment that it couldn't have gotten that far off the highway by simply being thrown. Even if the thrower were standing on the shoulder and he was an all-star pitcher it would be a stretch. They think someone had to carry it most of the way, if not all the way to the ravine. They're setting up floodlights and bringing in a crime scene unit to go over the area with a fine-toothed comb. If there's anything to be found, they'll find it."

"Where are you now?" I ask, not believing he could have reached the search area yet.

"I'm still about an hour out from the search area. Agent Rogers called me on the radio to let me know what was going on." There's a brief pause before he continues, "He's alright, Mac. We need to keep him in the loop. Where are you?"

"We're still four hours or more out," I advise him. And then consider a new thought, "It does prove that they were heading toward Vegas, if nothing else."

"Yes, it confirms that, anyway."

"Larry, you and Lisa continue on to the search area. Another pair of eyes in the sky come morning won't hurt. Bobby and I are going to head back to Vegas and put some feelers out. My gut is telling me that the search area isn't going to turn up anything new. She has to be in Vegas."

"If you're sure that's what you want to do, I'll keep you posted on anything we find," he says, understanding.

"Thanks Larry. Give my best to Lisa."

Just before I flip the phone shut, I hear Lisa in the background yelling over the sound of the whirring blades, "Tell him to keep his best in his pants."

Closing the phone with a smile, I slip it back into my pocket and look over at Bobby. "We're going back to Vegas. They found Eddy's discarded phone, but I feel in my gut that Eddy isn't there, so there's really no point in us wasting time there too. However, finding her phone along the highway that leads to Las Vegas does confirm the direction they were taking her."

"I'm sorry, Mac," she replies sincerely.

"It's okay, Bobby, it's not like it's your fault she was kidnapped," I tell her, studying her lovely features for a moment before putting the car in drive and performing a U-turn on the highway.

With no reason left to hurry, I hold the speed down to around eighty miles per hour. We haven't gone far when Bobby asks if I want to be spelled. "No, I'm good for now," I reply, my thoughts on what we're going to do when we get back to Vegas.

"You want a sip to get the morning dew out of your mouth?" she asks, seeming to want to start up a conversation.

"Sure, why not?" I reply, pulling over to the shoulder and throwing the lever into park. After taking a quick sip, I hand the bottle back and ask, "You want to tell me what's on your mind?"

"Nothing, really," she says softly. "Except," she pauses, suddenly hesitant to continue.

"Go on, I promise I won't bite," I tease, trying to encourage her to go on.

"I was just thinking that maybe we should go our separate ways when we get back to the city," she suddenly blurts. "I mean, if you need me or my help that would be different."

"You know I don't want to see you go," I weakly argue. "But I can't stop you from doing what you feel you have to do."

Her eyes begin to tear up and I suddenly realize what she's really saying. Being a sucker for a teary eyed woman, I tenderly say, "Bobby, you know we've already had this conversation. I already explained that I can't give you what you need right now. Until I know where Eddy is, there's no moving forward for me. You have to understand that."

"I understand, but that doesn't mean I have to like it," she says, wiping the tears from her eyes and pulling herself emotionally back together.

"Are we good, then?"

"Yeah, we're good," she says weakly.

Pulling back out on the highway, my mind begins to question itself, wondering what had ever prompted me to allow her to tag along in the first place. Though I trust her more now than I did originally, I still have my doubts about her involvement in Eddy's disappearance. I just can't help thinking how too convenient it was for her to be there when I needed someone to help me through the initial agony of Eddy's disappearance. Or her willingness to just uproot herself on a whim and tag along with a complete stranger to places unknown.

Or her interest in the trunk.

Now that I know she was aware of the money that might explain some of it. But why was she going to the trunk at every opportunity she thought she wasn't being watched? There has to be more to it. But what? Did she put something in the trunk that she needs to keep checking on to be sure no one has taken it?

There was a simple way to find out. Use a ruse to pull over and go into the trunk, see what kind of reaction I get out of her. Or I could just ask her what her interest is in the trunk and see what she says.

But if I do that and her reasons turn out to be innocent, I'll have blown any trust in the relationship that we're building right out the door. The ruse is definitely a better idea.

"Bobby, when you were in the trunk last, you didn't happen to see a small black notebook, the kind with a pen and calculator built in, did you?"

She thinks for a second before answering, "Would it have been in your carryon bag with your clothes?" she asks, undoing her seatbelt and leaning over the backrest to reach for it on the back seat.

"It might have been. But I didn't see it when I got clothes out the last time," I innocently reply, knowing there's no such notebook.

"Maybe that's because I was the one that got your clothes out last," she smiles coyly while unzipping the bag and digging her hand through the loose clothing.

For the briefest of moments, a panicked look passes across her features, and then just as quickly disappears as she composes herself. Reaching the bottom of the bag and coming up empty, she zips it shut before quickly turning her attention to the outer pockets.

Coming up empty, she hesitantly turns to face me, the carryon resting on her lap, "Nothing. Maybe it fell out. These pockets on the side aren't the most secure."

Climbing up onto her knees and reaching over the backrest, she starts going through everything on the back seat. Glancing sideways at her, I'm momentarily taken aback by the outline of her ass. For the tenth time in less than a day, I can't help feeling aware of the discomfort growing in the crotch of my jeans at the sight of her.

With my left hand, I slap her across the denim clad cheeks of her ass, eliciting a startled squeal of surprise. "Mac, that's not fair. You're taking advantage of my compromised position."

"Sorry, can't help myself. Any luck back there? I could pull over if it would make it easier for you?"

"I'm afraid that pulling over will only make it easier for you," she says demurely. "But no, it's not back here. Do you really need it right now? Can't it wait until we get back to Vegas?"

"Well, the notebook might wait, but I'm not sure I can," I tease, letting off on the gas.

The minute the vehicle begins to slow, she spins around and drops into the seat, a fleeting look of panic in her eyes. "Seriously, Mac," she says, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

Not one to force myself on anyone not sharing an equal desire, I step down on the gas pedal. My foot presses harder than I'd intended and as the car lunges forward, the result makes me appear more like an insolent child not getting his way than an adult male in control of his emotions.

Easing off the gas until the vehicle is accelerating with less velocity, I glance across and see Bobby eyeing me with disdain. "Hey," I say in my defense. "That wasn't intentional."

"No, but it was still kind of cute," she replies, her demeanor changing before my eyes.

*26*

We continue on down the highway in silence, the sun just beginning to crest the eastern horizon as we reach Vegas. While Bobby slept, a recurring thought kept going around in my mind. The minute I suggested pulling over and searching the trunk for a notebook that doesn't even exist, she was on the verge of panic. Of course, she doesn't realize there isn't a notebook. All she knows is that I was about to dig around in the trunk and that was enough to set her off.

So what the hell is in the trunk that causes her such distress that just the thought of me looking in there sets her off?

The next stop we make, I'm going to find out.

The sun peeking over the horizon slices across me and hits Bobby's closed eyes with enough force to wake her. She stirs lazily, stretching her arms and groaning loudly.

"Hey sleepy head," I tease, looking across at her. "We're going to be stopping for fuel pretty soon. You want to combine it with some breakfast?"

"Yum, breakfast," she sleepily replies, followed by a long yawn. "I'll have a stack of pancakes smothered in syrup and a large patty of butter."

"How do you keep that sexy figure eating food like that?" I ask, smiling at her. Even in her puffy, sleep ladened face, she is beautiful and I find myself tempted to pull over and ravage her all over again.

When she becomes aware of me staring at her, she smiles demurely, "What?"

"Just thinking."

"What are you thinking?"

"How beautiful you look this morning."

"You probably tell all the women that you wake up with in the morning that," she says, playing the moment down, though obviously enjoying the compliment.

"No, not all of them," I say, taking pleasure from her warm banter. "But yes, most of them."

Though she continues smiling, she strikes my right arm a solid blow with her fist. "Asshole."

"Ouch! That hurt," I whimper exaggeratedly.

"You can be such an ass," she says in reply, though her smile remains playfully intact.

"Hey, you wouldn't want me lying to you now, would you?"

Changing the subject, she says, "If we're going to stop for breakfast, I need to change my clothes. These are getting ripe."

Before I can suggest somewhere to stop, she slips out of her shirt and tosses it over the back of the seat, her bare breasts suddenly taunting me. While I stare dumbfounded, she undoes the snap on her jeans and pushes the zipper down. Lifting her ass off the seat, she slips the tight denim down to her ankles and then pulls them off completely. Sitting there in nothing but her booties, I'm suddenly aware of an uncomfortable pressure in the crotch of my own jeans.

"Bobby," I start, my voice cracking.

"Yes," she says, smiling coyly back at me while folding her jeans on her lap.

"You want me to stop the car? Because if I don't, we're probably going to make the six o: clock news."

"You do what you have to do and I'll do what I have to," she says, turning in the seat to plant her knees under her while reaching over the backrest, her ass up in the air and next to my face.

When I check the rearview mirror to see if there's any traffic behind us, all I can see is the folds of her womanhood. With a _screw the traffic behind us_ attitude, I step on the brakes and pull over to the shoulder. Pushing open the door, I jump out and hurriedly look in both directions before tearing my shirt off and throwing it back on the seat. Slipping out of my boots, I undo my pants and push them down over my ankles while hopping around the front of the car. As I reach the passenger's door, I pull it open and throw my jeans across the seat, quickly climbing in and pressing my knees in between Bobby's, forcing her thighs apart.

Within seconds, I'm driving into her, the backrest absorbing the harsh impact of my thrusts. When she moans loudly and arches her back, pulling away from the backrest, my hands slip around to her breasts, rolling her rock-hard pebbles between my thumb and forefinger. Her breath hitches in her throat followed by a long gasp which turns into a subdued scream of passion.

Slowly at first, and then gaining in speed, her body convulses on my shaft, clenching and unclenching in rhythm to her quickening breath. When I can't hold myself back any longer, she suddenly leans forward, her body spent as I quiver and throb inside her for a lingering moment followed by a limp exodus of my manhood.

Sliding my knees off the seat until my feet are in the foot-well, I slowly catch my breath, looking up and down the highway and noting a feeling of relief at our solitude.

"We need to knock this shit off," she says a bit breathlessly, turning around and dropping onto the seat as I climb out of the car, my jeans in hand.

"I can't help how you affect me," I say, slipping into my jeans before heading back around the front of the car, retrieving my boots and slipping them on before retrieving my shirt from the front seat and climbing back into it.

While I stand outside with the sunshine beating off my face, I re-button my shirt, noticing that a couple buttons are missing. With my shirt done up and tucked back into my pants, I drop into the driver's seat and notice for the first time that Bobby is still sitting silently in the passenger's seat with only her booties on her feet and the folded jeans across her lap.

"What's wrong?" I ask, reaching across to touch her, but not sure where I can safely place my hand on a naked woman without it being weird. Pulling my hand back, I ask, "Do you want me to find you some fresh clothes to wear. Because if we don't get you covered up and soon, I'm going to have a stroke."

"On the back seat," she quietly replies.

Stepping out, I open the back door and find some clean clothes that aren't mine. "How are these?" I ask, holding them up.

"Fine," she says numbly, accepting them before stiffly climbing out to stand beside the car and mechanically putting them on. When she's redressed, she holds up the holster with the gun in it and asks, "Is this still necessary?"

"You can put it in the glove box if you're not comfortable wearing it. This is an open carry state, so you're fine as long as it isn't concealed."

Without another word, she hooks it on her belt and turns toward the rear of the car. Not sure what's going on, I slowly walk around to the rear of the car and meet her at the trunk. She's sporting a distant look on her face and her eyes won't maintain contact with mine. Every time I try to meet her gaze, she quickly looks away.

"What is it, Bobby?"

"The trunk," she replies, not elaborating.

Without a word, I go back and pull the keys from the ignition. Stepping back around to the rear of the car, Bobby takes a step back while I insert the key into the trunk lock and turn it. When it pops up, I put my fingers under the lip and lift.

There is the briefest of moments when I see Eddy's body lying in the trunk, and then nothing but darkness.

*27*

I awake with a sharp pain emanating from the base of my neck and immediately recognize it for what it is. The crazy woman knocked me out, probably with the butt of her weapon when I had my back turned to her. The next thing that dawns on me is that I'm in the trunk, probably where I fell when I lost consciousness. And there's something soft pressing into my back.

"Eddy," I try to say, only to realize that there's something over my mouth that feels like tape. And then slowly, as the cobwebs disappear from my mind and I'm left with only the pain in the back of my head, I grow aware of my circumstances.

When I try to move, I realize that I'm bound hand and foot, literally strung up like a pig at a pig roast. My legs have been pulled up behind me so high that I can feel my heels with the palms of my hands. My boots are gone as I can feel the hole in the heel of my right sock where it wore through, probably from prancing around on the dirt around the car one too many times.

Though I can't barely move, I can tell that it's definitely Eddy lying behind me.

"Eddy," I cry out in my mind. When I try to swallow, my mouth feels as if it's full of cotton and my throat feels as though I'd swallowed a bucket of desert sand. The air in the trunk is hot and stifling and there is a rank odor that I can't identify.

My stature is over six-feet-three. And although I'm not a large man, I am thick with muscle. Eddy is only a few inches shorter than myself and not the most petite lady either. Lying together in the trunk of a compact sedan doesn't leave much room for maneuvering. Yet, I have to know if she's alive or not. With her laying up against my back, I won't know until I can get myself rolled over and facing her.

Scrunching and squirming, the bindings cutting into my flesh from the effort, my first attempt succeeds only in bang my thighs up against the trunk lid and my jeans snagging on a bit of welding slag that hadn't been ground off cleanly from the metal reinforcing braces, ripping the denim. Fortunately, it didn't reach my skin.

When I fall back into my original position, it dawns on me that my pockets are empty, my cell phone probably smashed and left on the side of the road. Now that I know it was Bobby that disposed of Eddy's phone by simply throwing it over the ravine where we had sex, I don't believe she'll make the same mistake a second time. I knew the minute I looked at those satellite images that I recognized the area. And now I know why Bobby went so far off the road. It wasn't for privacy to have sex, as she doesn't seem inhibited in the least, evident by our last foray in the front seat on the side of the road in broad daylight. Instead, she was just trying to get the phone she took off Eddy as far away from the road as possible without me seeing what she was up to. It was her mistake of not removing the battery so it couldn't be traced that led the search back to that area and the ultimate result of finding the phone. A mistake that I'm sure she won't repeat.

Sucking in my breath and exhaling slowly to compress my rib cage and make myself smaller, I push by rolling my shoulders and twisting at the waist. The strain causes the ligatures securing my wrists and ankles, which feel like heavy duty zip ties, to cut into my flesh. Ignoring the pain, I focus on the anger and frustration of realizing that the ties are probably from the stash that I keep in the trunk for securing bad guys.

Relax, breathe in, relax and breathe out. I take a minute to calm myself and rethink my situation. To my surprise, I'm more disappointed with myself than I am angry at Bobby. If only I had listened to my instincts. Something felt off about her since the moment we met. But my personal pleasure trumped everything else, and now it's going to cost not only me, but also Eddy.

Pissed off and knowing I have to do something, I try slithering away from Eddy so I can make a small pocket of space to roll into. With disregard for the cutting effects of the zip ties, I twist and contort until my knees and thighs are once again up against the trunk lid, but not blocked by the structural cross-member with the bit of slag hanging down. Twisting my hips, I feel something dig into my lower back. Since the spare and jack are in a compartment beneath the trunk that is covered by a metal trap door, I have no idea what is causing me pain.

With Herculean effort, I pull my legs up even higher behind me until I can feel the object with the side of my hands. Though I can't fathom why such an item would be in the trunk of a rental, it feels like a piece of steel pipe about one-half inch in diameter by twelve-inches or so in length. Being smooth and round, there is no way I can use it to cut through the plastic zip ties, and so I move on with turning my body until I am facing Eddy.

In the darkness of the trunk it is impossible to make out her features, but I can see the outline of her head. Squirming and pushing myself like a centipede, I manage to move forward until I'm close enough to place an ear in front of her face. Her mouth is covered with a piece of duct tape, but my efforts are rewarded with a soft breath of rank air escaping through her nose.

She's alive!

In my excitement to have found her alive, it takes me a moment to realize that her breath has a familiar scent to it.

And then it comes to me, she's been drugged!

GHB. Used by kids in the party scene. A controlled narcotic, just one more connection to the cartel. Bobby using GHB to incapacitate Eddy. That explains the secretive trips into the trunk. She had to keep Eddy incapacitated.

Damn, why didn't I check it out the first time I suspected something hinky?

Though I ask the question, I already know the answer. I wanted to believe in and trust Bobby so that the feel good, let's have sex side of me wasn't compromised. Once again, I prove everyone right. I am nothing more than a self-centered, egotistical dog without morals.

I want terribly to tell Eddy how sorry I am, but with the tape over my mouth, I'm not going to be saying much of anything until Bobby is ready for me to speak.

Like hell!

Since my face is able to reach the rough indoor-outdoor carpeting lining the bottom of the trunk, I start rubbing it briskly, always in the same direction. Holding my eyes shut when minute bits of dirt spring up and get into them, I work feverishly for a good ten minutes or more. The side of my face feels raw and burning from the friction, but I can tell the edge of the tape is slowly peeling away from my cheek. I'm just not sure how much of my skin it's taking with it.

But it's working, even if it's painstakingly slow going.

After another while that seems to last forever, the entire side of my face now on fire from the self-induced rug-burn, I feel the flap growing with increasing speed, and then there's a small gap where I can force my tongue into.

Frustratingly, I work at rubbing against the carpeting followed by rest periods of licking and salivating when I'm finally reward with a large enough opening that I can extend my entire tongue through it.

"Eddy," I rasp, my voice weak and distorted yet by the remaining tape.

Pushing my face up to hers, I can feel the edge of her tape and by working feverishly with my tongue, manage to turn up a corner. But unable to get it past my lips where I can grab onto it with my teeth, I manage only to slobber on her like a big dog. How appropriate is that?

Unable to make any headway with Eddy's tape, I go back to working on mine. When I place my face against the course carpeting however, my face immediately screams in agony as if someone were holding a blowtorch to it. Turning further onto my side, I push the undamaged part of my face and nose down to the carpet as if facing off with it. Using the pressure of my nose, I pin the flap of tape to the floor while working away from it with my tongue. Within minutes, the tape is loose and dangling off the right-hand side of my face.

Squirming up to Eddy, I grab the edge of the tape covering her mouth with my front teeth and carefully peel it back until it comes completely free and I can spit it out.

"Eddy, can you hear me?" I say softly, my forehead pressed against her. "I know she drugged you, but you need to wake up now. Can you do that for me, baby?"

Though I'm unable to see her in the darkness except for a dim outline, I can tell that she is bound in a similar fashion to myself, her hands and ankles trussed up behind her. Even if we were to both roll over so that we could reach each other's bindings, there isn't anything we can do as zip ties cannot be untied. They have to be cut.

Shifting enough to feel the piece of steel bar lying partially beneath my left hip, I start wondering what else was lying in the bottom of the trunk when she threw Eddy into it. Though my movements are limited, I manage to slide around a few inches and quickly discover what feels like a syringe. It doesn't take any imagination to figure out that it's probably what Bobby used to inject Eddy with.

"Bitch," I hiss at the thought of her injecting Eddy with drugs.

The muscles in the back of my thighs and upper arms are beginning to protest and ache from my struggles. Yet, they're nowhere near as painful as the bite of the zip ties, and I begin to imagine the pain Eddy will be in when the drugs begin to wear off. Considering how long she has been subdued with no movement of her limbs, her pain will be excruciating.

Just then she coughs softly and her voice, though barely discernable, whispers hoarsely, "Mac."

*28*

"Eddy, baby, I'm right here," I whisper softly. "Can you hear me?"

"Mac," she rasps. "Where are we?"

"It's a long story, baby."

"Mac, I can't move," she says in a panic, her voice stronger.

"Relax baby, it'll be alright. You've been kidnapped and drugged. We're in the trunk of our rental and heading toward Vegas," I quickly explain.

"I don't feel so well," she says weakly.

"It's probably the drugs. I think she was injecting you with GHB."

"She?"

"It's a long story, Eddy, and I don't know all the answers yet. But I have a feeling that's about to change. We have to try and get loose before we reach Vegas," I quickly explain.

"Mac," she softly asks, her voice serious.

"Yes, baby."

"How long have we been in here?"

"You've been in here more than two days, almost three. I've been in here somewhere between one and four hours but I don't really know for sure. I remember opening the trunk and seeing you lying in it and then darkness. Someone struck me on the back of the head, knocking me unconscious. I have no idea what time it is now."

"Where have you been for the last few days, or however long I've been in here?"

"With Larry and Lisa, trying to find you," I quickly blurt. "Right now they're are up near Paisley in his little bird. As soon as they figure out that I've been kidnapped too, they'll come looking for us. We should be somewhere on the highway between there and Vegas, if I'm not mistaken." I didn't have the heart to tell her that they might not come looking for me because they'll assume Bobby and I went to find someplace private so we wouldn't be disturbed. Instead I say, "But I'll explain everything later. Right now, we need to find a way to get free of these bindings. I found a short piece of pipe, but I don't think it's going to help us any. Maybe there's something else she overlooked that we can use to cut the zip ties. They're just hard plastic, but they're impervious to twisting and pulling. You'll only hurt yourself if you struggle against them."

"I think I'm going to throw up," she suddenly says, the sound of her gagging and swallowing causing the bile to rise in my own throat.

"Take deep, slow breaths. Just relax. If you need to upchuck, then upchuck. It won't be the end of the world," I calmly tell her, hoping against hope that she can swallow it back down before it comes out.

It's already hard breathing the hot, stale air within the close confines of the trunk. If she vomits, it will be nigh impossible.

When her breathing steadies, I ask, "Are you feeling better?"

"I think it passed," she says weakly.

"Good," I sigh in relief. "If you think struggling is going to make you sick, just lie still and relax, let me see what I can find."

"I'm better, really," she says, squirming deeper into the recess behind the back seat.

While she's squirming away from me, I consider the value of turning our backs to each other so that we can use our hands on the other's bindings. But I quickly disregard the idea as a waste of effort. There isn't anything we can do to the zip ties with our bare hands, especially considering the limited mobility of them while they're secured to our ankles.

"Mac?" Eddy whispers.

"Yeah."

"There are some kind of metal braces running from the floor up to the top where the trunk hinges are. If I push against the back of the backseat, I might be able to get my hands on the inside while my feet are on this side and use the edge to cut the ties holding my hands and feet together," she says breathlessly, as if working out at the gym.

"Sounds good," I reply encouragingly while assuming she's stopped to catch her breath.

"If I push against the back of the seat, it's liable to pop loose and fall forward into the car."

"Right now, Eddy, I think that's our best chance of getting free. With everything that's laying on the back seat combined with her preoccupied mind, she might not notice it. We have to risk it baby if we're going to get out of here alive," I reply, hoping that I got the seriousness of our situation across without scaring her too much.

The sound of her efforts distract me for a minute, and then I continue scraping my hands along the carpet in search of anything I can use. After a long few moments with both of us struggling against our bindings to move, Eddy pauses to catch her breath.

"How's it going?" I ask, listening to her heavy breathing.

"It's not budging," she resignedly replies. "I thought it would just be a matter of pushing it in, but it's not moving with the limited reach that I have."

"Changing positions is out of the question," I think out loud.

"When I push against it with my hands and feet, the rest of my body just moves away," she continues, having caught her breath and tackling it anew. "Maybe if you were pressed up against me so that the little movement I can make is all against the seat cushion."

Understanding blooms instantly and I hurriedly squirm my way forward until my stomach is pressing up against her breasts. "Don't get any ideas," she whispers softly, working herself against the back seat cushion.

"I've missed you, Eddy," I remark sincerely while keeping my body pressed against hers while she squirms away from me in her efforts to get as close to the back of the rear seat as possible.

"I'd like to say that I missed you too. But honestly, I don't remember much after we hit that little town on the highway. I'm just glad that it was you I woke up next to."

"Yeah, me too," I reply, swallowing down the guilt that's threatening to squeeze off my airway and choke me.

My guilt is immediately forgotten when the back seat cushion suddenly makes a popping sound as one of the cinches holding it in place pops free, the sudden release allowing Eddy's hands to slip beyond the metal brace.

"It didn't fall in," Eddy breathes a sigh of relief while we wait silently for any change in the movement of the car that might indicate Bobby realizing something's going on.

When there is no change in the rhythm of the car's movement down the highway, we both take a deep breath and sigh with relief.

"Ouch," she suddenly cries, her body giving a single hard jerk against me. "Son of a bitch," she adds before continuing to work her hands up and down against the steel brace.

"What happened?" I ask, concerned.

"My hands are against the springs and one of them caught me. I think I'm bleeding, but I can't be sure. There isn't really a whole lot of feeling left." She pauses for a second while continuing to rub the plastic zip tie connecting the zip ties around her ankles to the ones around her wrists against the rough metal edge of the upright brace. "I can still feel you pressing up against my tits, though Mac," she says, attempting to add levity to our grave situation.

"Guilty as charged," I reply, admiring her inner strength.

When she suddenly stops, I immediately grow concerned. "What is it? What happened?" I ask, unable to hide the panic in my voice.

"I'm through the first tie," she declares ecstatically. "Just catching my breath, and then I'm going to see if I can get through the one around my wrists. But Mac,"

"Yeah, baby," I reply excitedly.

"My feet are free of my hands, but I can't move my legs. I feel as if I'm paralyzed."

"You're not paralyzed, baby. Because your limbs haven't moved in such a long while, the blood flow is stagnant in them. You'll know soon enough what I'm talking about when the pins and needles set in. You'll wish then that you were paralyzed before it's over, believe me," I say lightly, not wanting to scare her, but wanting to let her know what to expect and to be ready for it.

"Is that the voice of experience?" she asks, continuing to rub her hands up and down either side of the brace.

"Yes, it is," I reply, forcing myself not to think about the past with everything that's going on in the present.

Just then, her right hand comes free and strikes the bottom of the trunk with a loud thump.

"I got it," she cries out.

"Now we just need to find something that you can use to cut through the rest of them," I say excitedly, no longer feeling our situation is as dire as I had previously.

"Whoever removed my boots must have found my knife," she says, squirming around and hunting the area near our heads with her free but numb hands. "You can move back now, Mac," she says with no urgency while placing her hands on my face as if to verify that I really am lying next to her.

I squirm and slither until I am pressed as far against the rear of the trunk as my bulk will allow while Eddy continues searching the floor and along the edge with her hands. When she comes across the steel bar, she moves it completely out from under me and places it where she can lay her hands to it in a hurry if she needs to.

"Thanks," I say. "That thing has been working against my hip since I woke up. Much better now."

"Glad to be of help," she says lightly. "Oh shit!"

"What? What is it?" I frantically ask, the sound of her voice scaring me.

"Pins, needles, hell," she cries out, a hitch in her breathing. "Damn it," she says, her legs moving as far as the confines of the trunk will let them. "Oh jeez! I think someone poured gasoline on my legs and set them on fire," she wheezes, her breathing rapid and shallow.

"It's only temporary, baby," I tell her, feeling her pain and not being able to do anything to assuage it.

"Oh God!" she cries out, her feet kicking out until they hit the fender well. I can feel them trembling for a long minute before they slowly relax. "Mac?"

"Yes, baby, I know, it hurts," I say soothingly.

"No, up here. There's a space between the floor of the trunk and the side of the car. It isn't much, but I got my fingers in it and there's something wedged down in it. It feels like a pocket knife," she says excitedly, momentarily forgetting the pain shooting through her legs.

"Can you get it?" I ask, equally excited.

"I don't know. I think it's been stuck in here for a long time. I can get a finger past it, but it isn't moving," she says, twisting her body to get a better angle on it.

"The pipe, Eddy. Can you get the pipe in there and use it like a pry bar?"

"I'll try," she says, her arms shuffling around before I recognize the sound of steel bumping against the tin body panel. "Okay, I got it down in the crack," she says, keeping me posted.

There's a sudden jerk of her body simultaneously with a metal to metal grinding sound, and then a larger, more forceful jerk mixed with a loud grunt. "Got it," she cries out excitedly. I can feel her more than hear her shifting around for a minute as she positions herself to inspect her new find. Then the wind goes out of her sails as she says, "Shit, it's rusted shut. You wouldn't happen to have a can of penetrating oil over there, would you?"

"Reach over me and place it in my hands," I instruct her, confident that my stronger fingers that haven't been deprived of blood like hers, mixed with steely determination will succeed where she failed.

"What, you think you can do better?" she asks accusingly, purposely trying to rile me.

With the old double blade pocket knife in my grasp, I work against the restricting zip ties as I try to pry out the larger of the two blades with my fingernail. Unfortunately, I don't have any more luck with it than Eddy when my thumb nail peels in frustration and pain. "Damn," I mutter, switching to another finger. "It's solid. Must have been in there for years."

When she reaches over my body to take it back, I tell her to hold on. "Let me try the smaller blade with another finger first."

Switching the knife to my other hand, I pry at the shorter of the two blades with yet another fingernail, only being more careful not to use so much force that I peel a second fingernail loose. Just when I'm about to give up, I feel it give a little.

"Hold on, Eddy. I think it moved," I say with renewed hope.

"Maybe I can get it now," she says, reaching over my body and taking the knife from my grasp. "You're right, it's loose, but it won't quite come out. Wait, I think it's far enough out I can slip it over the plastic tie. I'll try it on my feet first."

She reaches over her back to where her feet are still half curled before grunting softly and bitching that she can't move them closer to her reach. "Damn, I can't reach them where they are and they're too stiff to move but a few inches. We'll have to try yours first."

"Hang on a minute while I roll back over," I advise her while squirming out of the tight spot and working my way back over, my body growing stiffer by the minute from lack of movement. When I finally have my back toward her, I immediately feel her hands on mine as she locates the zip tie to cut first.

"This might hurt a little," she says, jerking the blade against the tie securing my ankles to my wrists while I try pulling them apart to keep the plastic taut.

When the rusted little blade opens all the way from her pulling it against the zip tie, she grunts and asks, "Did I cut you?"

"No, you're fine," I reply. "It felt like the blade came out?"

"Yes, it's open now. Hold on, this shouldn't take much longer," she replies with renewed vigor.

Her efforts quickly pay off as my hands break free of my ankles and I'm able to straighten my legs a short distance before my feet are pressing against the far fender well.

"Hold on a second and I'll get the one on your wrists first," she says, attacking the hard plastic ligature with a vengeance. Sensing my concern, she says while continuing to work at it, "Don't worry, I won't cut you. I'm pulling the blade away from you."

The words have barely left her mouth when I feel a jerk and my hands are free. Lifting my shoulder so I can work my right arm out from beneath me, I say, "Hand me the knife and I'll get our feet free."

Within minutes, we are free of the bindings and I've rolled over to hug her to me, relishing the way our bodies mold into each other and fit together so naturally despite the confines of the trunk.

"What do we do now?" she asks, trying to move her legs and still finding them resisting.

"Let's get you taken care of first," I say, shifting myself until I can get my hands on her thighs and calves. When I first start working the deep muscles, she moans from the pain and fidgets as if trying to escape the discomfort. But after a few minutes, the pain turns to pleasure as she seems to be enjoying my touch.

*29*

"Oh Mac, I may not remember anything of the last few days, but I missed your touch," she says, her legs slowly pumping up and down to keep the circulation going. After a moment of comfortable silence, she asks, "Can we open the trunk and climb out?"

"I'm sure there's a safety catch of some sort inside here to release the latch in case someone accidentally locks themselves inside," I chuckle, still feeling a sense of wellbeing at having Eddy back with me and alive. Suddenly, no obstacle seems too great to overcome. "But at close to one-hundred miles per hour, we can't just bail out."

"She has to stop at some point and when she does, why not then?"

"That's probably going to be our only option," I agree. "You still have that pipe handy?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Hang on to it. One just never knows," I suggest, keeping my voice light so as not to cause her any more worry than necessary.

"How much longer do you think before she has to stop for gas?"

"With this little fume sucker, she'll probably be able to go nonstop to where ever she's headed if it's in Las Vegas," I reply, wishing I had rented a vehicle that was a little less stingy on fuel. "Look Eddy, I'm going to roll over so that I can find the release. Plus, when this car stops, we have to bail out as if someone stuck a rocket up our asses."

Maneuvering is much easier now that my hands and feet are free, but it's still tight quarters, and hence a bit of a struggle getting rolled over so that I'm facing the rear. It takes only minutes to figure out the trunk release. Unlike the front hood, the trunk lid being on the rear of the car, the designers didn't deem it necessary to incorporate a safety catch, so once the latch is released there's nothing to prevent it opening all the way.

"I got it figured out," I say, keeping my right thumb on the spring loaded lever.

In the silence, Eddy slips up behind me and snuggles in tightly against me, the feel of her breasts pressing against my back while her knees curl into the backs of mine. Once again I am taken aback by the comfortable way we naturally fit together.

I'm about to comment on this, when we both sense g-forces pushing us toward the front of the trunk. "We're slowing down," I mouth, increasing thumb-pressure against the lever.

Pulling the lever is going to be akin to pulling the trigger on a gun. Once it's done, there's no going back.

"Eddy, when the lid goes up, you come out swinging that pipe. Don't trust your legs to support you. Make a snap decision based on what you see and aim yourself to fall that way. Roll, crawl, do whatever it takes to put distance between yourself and this car. If there's brush, or something to hide behind, make that your target. But get the hell out of the line of fire, because there's a real good chance that the woman driving this car is going to start shooting the minute we make our break for it."

"How do you know so much about the woman driving this car, Mac?"

"I'll explain everything once we're safe," I tell her before continuing. "She's packing a 9mm automatic with a fourteen round clip. She might also have my magnum handy, so don't rule that out."

"What are you going to be doing while I'm rabbiting?"

"I'm going to be buying you time to get away," I solemnly reply, knowing it's the least I can do toward atonement for my recent behavior. "The Marshal's Service is looking for you. They've probably put out a bolo with your face on it to all the city patrol officers in Vegas. Find one and have them get hold of Agent Rogers with the marshal's service. He's a good guy and will look after you. You can trust him."

"Mac," she starts, her voice tinged with worry. "You're talking as though you don't expect to live. Do you know something about this woman that would have you believing that?"

"I can tell you this, Eddy. We all trusted her to some degree and for the betrayal of that trust, she's probably not going to cut me any slack. Larry will be able to tell you more," I add, sensing the vehicle going around a tight corner and then slowing rapidly before accelerating again.

"We must be on the surface streets," I comment, ready to spring the trunk lid. "Unless she catches every light just right, she's going to have to stop at some point. Be ready. And Eddy."

"Yes, Mac, I love you too," she says, cutting me off before I can finish.

Just then, the car makes a hard left to a chorus of squealing tires and honking horns. We slide up against the driver's side panel and then get thrown back by g-forces from her accelerating hard for a short distance before slamming on the brakes and swerving first one way and then the other.

The way Bobby's driving makes me wonder if she doesn't suspect us being loose and waiting for her to stop so we can make a break for it. Not waiting any longer, I press the release latch with my right thumb while holding onto the lid with my left hand. When the car begins accelerating in a straight line, I lift it just high enough to peek out, thinking if a cop were to give chase for running a red light or driving erratically, I'd throw it open and wave at him.

But instead, the street behind us is deserted, the buildings we're shooting past dull and dirty with cement facades, few windows, and occasionally a loading dock for big rigs to back up to for unloading their cargo. I'm not familiar with the area and it doesn't give me a good feeling like I would have if it were a residential neighborhood or storefront district.

Eddy's chin strikes my shoulder when the car hits a pothole and I realize that she's looking over my shoulder. "This isn't good, Eddy," I mouth just before the car makes a hard left and passes through a chainlink gate.

We have barely gone through the gate, when a couple of thugs materialize out of nowhere and swing it shut. After securing it with a padlock, they just as quickly disappear back into the surrounding garbage.

While I consider the risk of bailing out before the car reaches its destination, it suddenly slows and then turns sharply. Even before the car comes to a complete stop, the light grows dim and then the sun disappears completely as a large door rolls across the entrance behind us. We've just entered a large building.

Knowing it's now or never, I push up the lid and throw myself out. But even before I can get my feet under me, strong hands grab me by the arms and lift me, holding me securely between them.

Watching from the trunk, Eddy sees the futility of trying to run and calmly lifts her legs over the lip of the rear and cautiously slides her feet to the cement floor. Before she can discover whether her legs are going to support her or not, strong hands grab her arms and drag her forward on sodden legs trying desperately to get set until she is parallel with me. Directly ahead of us are a couple of men in business suits, one of them of Latino descent, the other looking like an NFL linebacker with his hands held casually in front of his massive body.

The one of Latino descent is smiling as if seeing an old friend, though I know his smile is deceiving. Just then, Bobby steps around us and goes straight to the Latino man. Giving him a long passionate kiss, she steps to the opposite side from the huge man that is more than likely his body guard and gives me a smug smile.

"I told you it wouldn't take much to get him here," she says to the Latino, her eyes never leaving mine.

"My men told me you've been in Vegas for a few days now. What was the delay?" he asks, his cold, dead eyes shifting between Eddy and I like those of a snake. Any second now, I expect his tongue to flick in and out.

"You gave me his file. I took full advantage of what I learned from it. He is here. His woman is here. They are both alive. I wasn't aware that I was on a timetable," she coolly replies, her eyes never leaving me.

The Latino cocks his head to the right and another man steps out of the shadows carrying a metal briefcase. The man pauses only long enough to open the case and show off the stacks of hundred dollar bills before closing it and placing it in the trunk of the rental. After closing the lid, he exits back to where he came from.

Following his progress with my eyes, that have adjusted slightly to the dimmer sodium lights suspended more than thirty-feet up, I notice more men. One is up near an exhaust fan, a short barreled Mac-10 looking weapon on a sling aimed down at us. Movement to my left shows another man sauntering lazily behind a pallet of something or other, furtively watching the goings on while remaining inconspicuous. Turning my attention back to the Latino and Bobby, I think to myself that there are probably many more that we're not seeing.

"You can go now," the Latino says to Bobby.

"You don't really expect me to leave in that car?" she asks incredulously. "Every cop in Vegas is looking for it by now. How far do you think I'll get before I'm spotted?"

"That's your problem," he says, stepping toward me before asking, "What is that smell?"

As she struts past him, her anger high, she hisses, "Your drugs. It's the woman. She stinks." And then, just before she slips behind the driver's seat, adds, "I'm surprised you're not immune to it by now. Don't all your girlfriends get a dose before they'll go home with you?"

Though I expect him to react to her smartass remark, maybe sic one of his killers on her or something, he simply smiles and continues studying me as if he didn't hear her. "Do you know why you're here, Mr. McClain?" he calmly asks as she starts the car and quickly accelerates toward the big door just as the armed men to either side of it slide it open.

"Well, I think I've gotten past the part where the woman collects the bounty for bringing me to you. But I'm not sure if she got a bonus for the young lady with me or if it mattered whether I was dead or alive."

"Not that it really matters, but yes, the bounty she collected was for bringing you to me alive. If I had wanted you dead, I could have had anyone do that. Your woman, I really don't have any use for her now that I have you," he says, his eyes locked with mine. "But none of that really means anything any longer." He pauses to watch the men close the doors behind the departing car before asking, "Do you know who I am, Mr. McClain?"

"I don't believe we've ever met before, but I have a feeling you're going to bring me up to speed. I mean, hell, what would be the fun of torturing and killing me without me even knowing why?" I ask, feeling much calmer than the circumstances dictate.

My limbs might not be ready for a marathon after the stint in the trunk, but I won't go down without taking him with me. I just have to figure out how to do it without getting Eddy killed too.

"Jesus Alveraz. I'm sure the name means nothing to you. But you must remember Jorge Ali, or maybe his son that you ambushed and shot from cover like a coward dog."

"No, can't say as it means anything to me," I shrug, accenting the point. "I've been accused of a lot of things, but cowardice has never been one of them." I suddenly reconsider my position and decide that aggravating and annoying Jesus won't help Eddy's situation any so I take a different tact. "Now that you have me, maybe you can let the woman go. She never did anything to you or your employers. She's just a pawn in all of this."

He looks at Eddy as if seeing her for the first time and I suddenly regret mentioning her. "No, Mr. McClain, I don't think I will let her go. She is showing some signs of wear, but I think there are men that will be glad to pay a handsome price for a woman like her." He nods his head to the side and the two men holding her lead her toward a door off to the right. "Don't worry, Mr. McClain, we won't damage the merchandise. There is no profit in that. What the buyer does with her, well, that might be another matter entirely," he says with a cold smile that doesn't reach his dead eyes.

"Mac," Eddy cries out as the men literally drag her across the concrete floor, her legs still unable to move fast enough to keep her upright.

"Don't worry, Eddy," I say with feigned confidence. "It'll be alright."

The arms holding me squeeze tighter when they feel my body tense with anxiety. It's almost as if they're expecting me to try something. "The boys will have their work cut out for them when they try to clean her up, I'm afraid. But I have seen the miracles they are capable of performing."

"How much did it cost you to get me here?"

"You really want to know how much it took for that woman you trusted to turn on you?" he asks, a bit incredulously.

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"One million American. A very small price to pay to set an example of what happens when you go against the cartel."

"Where did you find her?" I ask, postponing the inevitable.

"One of my attorneys actually found her. She was a doctor that couldn't keep her fingers out of the medicine cabinet. Needless to say, we kept her from a prison sentence and now she is a millionaire." He chuckled hollowly before adding, "See, if you help us, we reward you. If you hurt us, we hurt you, many times over. It doesn't get any simpler than that."

I stiffened my body, gauging the distance to Alveraz while planning my attack. When I feel the hands holding me tighten and dig into my flesh, I incorporate it into my plan. Their firm grip on my arms will work against them if my plan doesn't fail me.

But will my body fail me?

*30*

"Bring him," Jesus orders his men holding me as he turns away.

It's now or never. I have to take out the men holding me and reach Jesus before the men in the shadows know what's happening. There probably won't be another opportunity.

Relaxing my body so that the goons to either side have to support my dead weight or let me drop, I give them just a fraction of a second to adjust their grip before suddenly planting my feet and dropping my shoulders. With all the force I can muster, I kick off against the dirty cement with my stockinged feet while rolling up and over as if walking up the side of a sheer wall. Before the two goons know what's happening, I'm back on my feet and slightly behind them, the solid hold on my arms all but broken as I kick the one to my right in the side of the knee.

His leg buckles with a pop and he cries out with pain as he goes down. Yet, even before he's on the dirty cement, I've grabbed the one on the left with an arm-lock encircling the crown of his head. With a sharp, vicious twisting action, his neck snaps with a deadening crack and I'm lunging toward Alveraz.

As my hands close around the Latino's throat, my intentions only to use him as a hostage, something suddenly strikes me in the back of the head. Though I fight the darkness closing in on me, willing my hands to close on the man's neck in a death grip, my fingers grow weak and my limbs refuse my mental commands.

The concrete floor is suddenly coming at my face. But before the bone crunching pain of my nose being smashed against the unforgiving cement can penetrate my consciousness, the sweet darkness of unconsciousness shuts out the lights. I'm oblivious to the kick that fractures a rib, or the lifting of my head so the man can slam it back against the concrete floor out of anger, splitting open the skin on my forehead and releasing a freshet of blood that quickly pools around my unconscious form.

Somewhere off in the murky distance, I hear angry voices yelling, and someone shouting above the rest, ordering others to take the piece of shit and lock him up. Rough hands grab my feet and drag me across the dirty floor face down. In my semi-conscious state, I feel my upper lip snag and tear on a rough piece of concrete where the builders put in expansion cracks but did a lousy job of it.

When they finally reach their destination, the side of my face that was raw from the carpeting in the trunk is now bleeding, the moist, raw flesh beneath caked with dirt and dust from the floor. My nose was broken when I hit the floor and my head is bleeding profusely. If a mirror was handy, I probably wouldn't recognize myself.

But the thing that's bothering me more than anything else is that I failed. And because I failed, not only will they kill me, but they're going to sell Eddy for a sex slave, probably in a different country where she'll die a slow and horrible death only to be disposed of when her usefulness or beauty no longer exists.

Because I'm not completely unconscious, I slowly grow aware of sounds and smells, though how I'm managing with my nose in its current condition, I have no idea. I can only assume there's some truth to being able to smell through one's mouth, after all. My eyes are gummed shut with my own blood and it takes quite a bit of effort to pry them open. Everything is blurry, but I quickly realize that the rank smell in the room is coming from none other than me.

With sight comes a deep need to vomit, but my chest is burning and my stomach feels swollen and bloated from being punched or kicked. My head feels as if it's been split open and I can only draw breath through my mouth as my nose is swollen shut or caked shut with dried blood.

Trying to turn my head for a better view of my surroundings, I notice a sheet of clear plastic covering the floor. As my head clears and my surroundings come into focus, the first thing I notice aside from the apprehensive drop sheet on the floor is a small video camera mounted from the ceiling directly above the door. Somewhere in this building is a main control room where the entire structure can be monitored, possibly even the area surrounding the building. So if anyone is keeping an eye on things, they must already know that I've regained consciousness.

With consciousness comes the realization that I'm strapped into a solitary wooden chair with those dreaded, hard plastic zip ties. My toes and my fingers are numb from lack of circulation. The room is approximately ten-feet square with no other furniture and the only windows running along the wall facing away from the door. There is a solitary light bulb with a small metal shade hanging from the ceiling, though I don't see a light switch by the door. Speaking of which, the door is solid looking wood, none of that chintzy hollow core crap that you can kick through with ease. Somewhere off in the distance I can hear the sounds of electric machinery or exhaust fans. The window looks out over a large shop or warehouse, steel ceiling beams are visible just above the windows.

When the door opens and Alveraz's body guard enters, I know he hasn't come to invite me to the prom. He glances around the empty room, briefly studies my bindings to be sure I'm still secured and then steps aside, placing himself next to the door while Alveraz enters, a smug smile on his face.

"You keep costing me more and more, Mr. McClain. Now I am down two men that were very loyal to me. Do you have any idea what loyalty costs these days?"

"Maybe you should be asking the woman that brought me here," I reply, my throat parched.

Sensing my discomfort, he nods at his body guard who steps outside the door for barely a second before returning with a black rubber, two-gallon bucket of the kind used in stables for either carrying water or feed. This one contains water, or so I hope. He walks up to me and slowly pours it over my head, washing off dried and crusted blood while forcing me to tilt my head back and catch what I can in my mouth before it runs dry. Unless you've ever tried drinking water while it's running unabated over your mouth and nose, you have no idea how difficult it is to do without inhaling as much as you swallow. As for the source or cleanliness of the water, I'd rather not dwell on it for fear of vomiting.

As he walks back to take up his position next to the door, I cough harshly, blowing a wad of bloody slime out of my broken and congested nose. With no means to wipe it off, I imagine the bloody wad congealing down the front of my chin and chest. Yet, my throat feels much better and the crusts have been washed from my eyes making everything seem brighter and sharper.

When the body guard reaches the door, he simply throws the bucket through the doorway before again taking up his sentry position. "Does that make you feel better, Mr. McClain?"

Clearing my throat before speaking, I reply, "You're a very gracious host, Senor Alveraz."

"Despite your reputation for being quick to draw, Mr. McClain."

"Please," I interrupt him. "Just call me Mac so I know who you're talking to."

"As you wish, Mac," he says, not taking offense at the interruption. "As I was saying, you have quite the reputation for being quick to draw. A veritable killer in many circles, whether for your government, or in protection of those less fortunate, as you have proven right here in my place of business, you don't hesitate to kill when necessary."

While I continue studying him with a steady eye, he continues speaking. "That look in your eye tells me that if you could, you would easily kill me where I stand and feel justified. But while you have no qualms about taking life, you are still very much a man of your word. You won't lie even to protect yourself. And yet, you keep claiming that you weren't the dog that killed Ali's son, even when his most trusted men have sworn to seeing you do it. How do you explain that, Mac?"

"Simple. His most trusted men lied," I flatly respond.

"You know, Mac," he hesitates over using my nickname before continuing, "Even though I tend to believe you, it would be imprudent of me not to make you pay for the blood of my friend's son."

"Even when you know that blood isn't on my hands?"

"To admit otherwise would mean that many trusted men lied, even though I believe none of those trusted men are still alive," he says solemnly. "We simply cannot take the word of one gringo over the words of many of our own blood."

"Fine, I get that. But the woman that I came here with, she has nothing to do with this. Why can't you just let her go somewhere far away? She has no more idea where we are than I do."

"Just the fact that she is with you makes her a part of this." He pauses for a long moment before continuing, almost as if trying to decide what to do next. That he has basically accepted that I had nothing to do with the killing of Ali's son is creating a slight dilemma for him. He knows I must die, but the compassionate side of him isn't convinced that I need to suffer before we get to that end. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll return shortly. I have some business to attend to."

When he turns toward the door, I quickly ask of him, "Did you really let the woman that brought us here leave with all that money?"

"Though it shouldn't matter one way or another to you at this point, we made a deal and she lived up to her end of it. Why would I not let her leave?"

With that said, he continues on out the door, his body guard pulling it shut and locking it behind him leaving me alone in the room. While the door was open, the only thing I could see through it was a wide open space lined with opaque windows starting at more than six-feet off the floor and extending upwards another eight-feet, leaving a wall of at least eight more feet before tying in with the ceiling. We are either on the second or third floor of the warehouse, if this is indeed the same warehouse that we rode into in the trunk of the rental car. From outside I would have thought there were more than two stories to the building, but for all I know we aren't in the same building any longer. Or I've been moved to another part of the building.

With nothing else to do, I struggle against the ties securing me to the chair. I'm figuring if the ties won't break, maybe the chair will. After rocking it side to side and back and forth for a short while, I begin to appreciate the workmanship of the furniture. The chair was built to last and will probably outlive me.

Looking down, I suddenly realize something. The zip ties, although tight enough to restrict the flow of blood to my feet, were put on below the last cross member of the chair. If I can work my feet down, the zip tie will slip off the bottom of the leg. But in order to do that, I have to take the weight off the front legs, which means tipping the chair over backwards or sideways.

With a loud and painful crash that jars me through my damaged rib cage, I land on my left side, my left shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath and wait for the pain to subside before I start pushing and pulling against the bindings securing my ankles.

After what seems like an eternity, my right foot suddenly shoots out straight, the zip tie having slid off the end of the leg and freeing my foot. Feeling a surge of hope, I double my efforts on my left foot while using my freed right foot to assist, watching it painstakingly get closer and closer to the end of the leg, when suddenly, my left foot is free too.

Aware that someone is liable to return at any moment and yet now believing that the camera isn't being monitored, I roll over to my knees and finally gain my feet with the chair still causing extreme discomfort to my wrists as it clings to my back and pinches the bindings with increased tension, cutting off all circulation to my hands.

Glancing around the room to make sure I haven't overlooked anything and seeing again that there's nothing to overlook, I back away from the door. Since it opens inward and swings to the right, I put myself in a position that places me behind the door when it opens. Though I'm not sure what I'm going to do, I know I have to catch the next person that enters the room off guard. It's the only option currently available to me.

While I wait, I sit down on the chair and study the bindings securing my wrists to the arms. My hands are a purplish black and I hope they're not suffering from long-term damage. And then I laugh deep in my throat at the thought that I'm worried about my hands suffering nerve damage or worse when there's a greater chance that I won't even be alive in the next hour.

As if on cue, someone inserts a key into the door lock and I quickly jump to my feet. When the knob turns, I take a deep breath and charge forward, lowering my head and aiming my right shoulder to strike the door just above the knob. The first man is halfway through the opening when I reach the door, slamming it against him with close to two-hundred pounds of angry man driving it.

The impact catches the man by surprise, his left arm holding the black rubber bucket full of water takes the main brunt of the slamming door, driving him up against the far door jamb with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Before he can react, I swing my body in a tight, right-hand turn that brings the wooden chair flying around. One of the front legs catches him in the chest and finishes the job of knocking the wind out of him while the other connects solidly with his chin, splitting it open and sending him stumbling backwards. Stunned and off balance, he crashes heavily into the man behind him.

Not wanting to lose what momentum I've gained through the element of surprise, I step around the door and charge blindly forward, my head down and studying the floor in front of my feet to avoid tripping over the fallen man. The man behind him, not knowing what's going on with the man in front of him, has bent forward and has his hands on the fallen man's shoulders, trying to help him back to his feet. When he sees me coming at him, he steps back, dropping the first man.

Somewhere in my subconscious, the way the man drops like a sack of potatoes suggests that he's unconscious. But shit is happening too fast to give it any real thought as I realize the man standing is reaching for a gun at his waist as his feet instinctively back pedal, putting distance between himself and the oncoming threat.

Though I don't see any chance of me reaching him before he can draw his weapon on me, I'm committed to my plan and there's no turning back.

And then the unexpected happens. What should have been a routine draw and fire turns into a not-so-routine draw and jam. Unbelievably, the weapon is aimed directly at my head, I can see the cavernous bore of the 9mm like an evil eyeball glaring at me and yet, the expected boom and flash of discharge never happens.

He turns the weapon and pulls on the slide, trying to eject the jammed round when my head slams into his midsection, knocking him off his feet. But like an NFL running back, my feet keep churning, driving me forward until I crash down hard on top of him. My right shoulder slams into his sternum, forcing what wind is left in the bottom of his lungs out in a loud rush, the smell of garlic and onions striking me full in the face.

Though he can't breathe, he is still moving, trying to get out from under my frantically scrambling body. Without the use of my arms or hands to raise myself up, I somehow managed to get in position over him and drive my already split and bloodied forehead into his.

To my surprise, he stops moving instantly, his eyes closed as he lies unconscious beneath me.

In a panic of knowing the two men will be missed very soon and possibly more goons being sent to investigate and find out what's taking them, I scrabble to my feet, my eyes going longingly toward the 9mm automatic lying on the floor to my left before glancing down at the poor condition of my hands. The thought goes through my head that even if I could pick it up, I'm in no condition to use it.

But I'm putting the cart before the horse. I need to get free of this chair before I can do anything else.

Trying to remain mentally calm, I look around the immediate area for something to cut the hard plastic zip ties. My breath sounds ragged in my chest and the pain brought on simply by inhaling air is intense. Under any other circumstances, I would stop and take stock. But these are extreme circumstances and I have already made the mental commitment to sacrifice myself for Eddy. Above all else, she has to survive. No other outcome will do.

*31*

Seeing nothing in the immediate area, my eyes work outward, looking for something sharp and stationary. When I've made an almost complete circle and come up empty, I look back at the door to the little room. To the left and right of the open door is nothing but a solid wall running the length of the cavernous room with evenly spaced doors along it. The room is approximately two-hundred feet from end to end and easily one-hundred to the far wall lined with windows. The room I was held in is three doors from one end, approximately fifty-feet. At the end of the wall is a hand rail of round steel pipe painted bright safety yellow, probably a stairwell.

There are large rusty I-beams evenly spaced near the center of the room running from one end to the other and spaced about twenty-feet apart. If I move in that direction, anyone approaching from either end of the room will see me. But with no other options of getting loose, I hurry towards the nearest beam.

When I have gone less than ten-feet, I turn back and kick the 9mm along the floor in front of me. Even if I can't use it, having it near gives me a sense of security. Getting up close to the beam, I adjust my stance so that the zip tie can be pressed against one of the rusty edges of the beam and I work it up and down. The rust flakes off leaving an almost smooth edge beneath it, and I begin to worry that it isn't going to cut through the hard plastic, when a small grind mark keeps snagging the tie every time I pass over it.

Shortening my strokes and increasing the pressure against the beam, I'm finally rewarded when my arm suddenly swings free and the chair swings awkwardly out, pulling my left arm with it. Breathing heavily, the pain in my chest and head threatening to overwhelm me, I turn in the opposite direction and set to work on the last tie.

Though it takes less than two minutes to cut through the second tie, when the chair finally falls free, I fall to the floor beside it, the pain in my right hand beginning to overwhelm all my other pains combined. The fingers are swollen and discolored, but I'm able to move them a little, enough to pick up the gun.

Using my knees and limited ability with my right hand, I work the slide open and look inside. The weapon doesn't appear to have been cleaned in years as I can see dust-bunnies and caked powder residue mixed with stale oil lining all the moving pieces. Letting it go, the top bullet in the clip jumps into the magazine and the slide locks forward. Without some serious servicing, the weapon is going to prove very unreliable.

But it will throw out one round before it jams again. I just have to make sure that single round goes where I need it to.

The gun is all but forgotten when I hear voices in the nearer stairwell. Jumping to my feet, I look at a run of close to one-hundred and fifty-feet to the far stairwell, or back to the wall with all the doors and find one that isn't locked before the men coming up the stairwell see me.

Running hunched over from the pain in my chest that hurts more with each breath while cussing silently the entire way, I reach the door two down from the one with the men lying unconscious outside and try it. To my surprise and good fortune, it opens with ease and I continue on through, pushing it shut behind me just as I hear loud yelling erupt in the main room.

They discovered their unconscious comrades. Hopefully they didn't see which room I entered, though it won't take them long to check them all if they're not locked. Whatever I do, I have to do it fast. I'm quickly running out of time.

After looking down at the knob and seeing no way to lock it, I turn my attention to the rest of the room. This one is furnished with a steel, military style desk that has seen many years of abuse and a couple of matching file cabinets. Everything is covered in a heavy layer of dust. Unlike the room they had me in, this one has a couple of windows in the back wall. They are dirty but allowing enough light in for me to see out.

Moving hurriedly toward them and looking out, I ascertain immediately that I'm on the top floor of the warehouse and it's at least a forty-foot drop down to the ground floor below, where I instantly recognize the door and surrounding area where Eddy and I were first let out of the trunk.

My chest is heaving from the exertion and my right hand, while on fire from the renewed flow of blood is sluggish and stiff. But I don't have time to worry about myself. The only thing that matters is finding a way to Eddy.

A quick study of the windows doesn't reveal any latches or hinges, so the only way I'm going out them is by smashing the glass and that will draw everyone's attention in a hurry. Plus, even after the glass is knocked out that doesn't mean I'll find a way to scale down to the ground floor.

Looking up at the ceiling, my eyes go straight to a two-foot square piece of plywood that's not trimmed or painted solid around the edges. Because the rest of the ceiling is painted plywood with no visible seams, I quickly draw the conclusion that it has to be an access to the office ceilings. Though it won't take me clear to the roof of the warehouse, it will take me up to the ceiling of this section of office spaces, possibly giving me access to the entire length of the large room.

The ceiling is eight feet high. By dragging the desk over, I make it obvious where I went if they search this room while I'm still above the offices. But the chair behind the desk is on rollers.

Rolling it around so that it's directly below the two-foot square, I carefully climb up on it, surprised at how unsteady I am on a chair with rollers. As I raise my hands toward the cut plywood, a sharp pain flares up in my chest and shoots outward to my extremities, driving the air out of my lungs and doubling me over in an effort to catch my breath.

From my sudden movement, the chair rolls a fraction of an inch and I lose my balance, falling headfirst toward the floor just as the door opens. Though I don't see the man behind it, I drive the pain from my mind and shoot out my arms in an attempt to grab the top of the door as it comes toward me.

Whether luck or Karma, my hands grab the top of the door, and then slip off, unable to hang on in their sorry condition. The bulk of my weight bangs against the back of the door and I slide down it, driving it back against the man that opened it. But unlike the last time I slammed a door against someone, this time it happens with much less force, almost as if I'm simply giving it a gentle shove. The man, not realizing what's happening, assumes it's nothing more than a bunch of trash piled up behind the door, as he only pushes a little harder until he sees the desk along the far wall and the empty chair sitting out in the middle of the room. Without even bothering to check what fell against the back of the door, he backs out and closes the door behind him, moving on to check the next office.

With the door shut, my body straightens out on the floor and I roll over onto my back, the pain in every single one of my bruises and scrapes screaming simultaneously for my attention. If it wasn't for the guilt and my concern for Eddy, it would be real easy to simply close my eyes and give in to it. Let the darkness push out the pain and guilt. Shake hands with the grim reaper and welcome him in for the promise of making it all go away.

Not thinking clearly, I slowly raise my right hand to my chest and feel for the heavy bulk that I placed in the shoulder holster, even though it doesn't fit and could easily fall out. Even knowing that it can't be trusted for more than a single shot, I draw an immense amount of relief and strength from knowing it's there.

Opening my eyes, I stare up at the ceiling, wondering if the effort is worth it, even though I can't think of an alternative. If they checked this office, they are working their way along the row of them, checking one after the other. And if there's more than one of them, the backup will always be out in the big room watching their backs. To go out the door will only give away my position.

Feeling a growing urgency for Eddy's sake, I push all thoughts of failure out of my mind and struggle shakily to my feet. After resetting the position of the chair, I carefully climb back up in it, knowing if I fall again, there won't be any door to break to break my fall. It's come down to all or nothing. Though I feel unsteady on a solid floor, I have to stand on a chair that is on wheels, and then I have to push a piece of plywood out of the way before pulling myself up through the opening.

Easy-peasy.

With my feet on the seat of the chair, I nervously release my precarious hold on the armrest and straighten up. The ceiling forces me to remain hunched slightly, giving me renewed hope that this might be possible after all.

Slowly, afraid of the pain that struck me down the last time, I raise my arms. A sharp twinge in my chest causes me to pause and suck in a quick breath. But when the twinge passes as fast as it struck, I continue raising my arms until my hands are against the plywood. With very little pressure, I lift the plywood out of its frame and slide it to the side while straightening myself up and raising my head through the opening. A quick glance shows me exactly what I thought. Aside from a lot of dust, dirt, forgotten items and a mixture of phone and electrical wires, I can see the corrugated metal roof of the warehouse at least eight-feet above my head. Straight ahead, I can see out into the large room, while to my left and right, the ceiling runs clear to the stairwells. As long as I stay on the joists, I won't have any problems reaching them without being seen from below.

I just have to pull myself up through the opening.

As my hands are still resting on the edges of the opening, I lift them the rest of the way up until they are above the ceiling joists and then using what little grip I have, I grab the joist to either side of the opening and pull.

Ignoring the overwhelming pain in my chest, I squeeze my eyes shut so that I'm not aware of the enclosing darkness as consciousness threatens to abandon me. Slowly, painstakingly slowly, my feet kick off the chair and it rolls a few inches away, effectively shutting off any chance of retreat. I either pull myself up and through the opening, or I give up any hope of saving Eddy and drop to the floor where I will lay until they find me or I die.

Unable to draw any air into my lungs, my forehead breaks out in sweat, the salt burning into the gash in my head and running through the raw, exposed flesh of my cheek before dripping down to the floor with a tinge of pink mixed in it. Slowly, ever so slowly, my head rises through the opening until my chest is above it and I can lean forward, resting the weight of my body on the front of my stomach and chest.

Yet, the pressure of my own body weight pressing against my damaged ribs is more than enough to stop the flow of air into my lungs. But if I stop without getting my entire body up through the opening, I may not be able to restart without the momentum I've already gained.

Fighting off vertigo and the onslaught of darkness, I continue pushing and pulling myself upward, reaching down deep inside and tapping into reserves that I didn't know I had while slowly forcing my arms straight, lifting myself high enough above the opening that I can sit on the plywood with my ass resting between the joists. Though the plywood could give way, dumping me down to the floor below, I lay back to stretch my chest out enough to draw in air, the first breath of which is heavy with disturbed dust, causing me to cough, which tears the damaged muscles and bones in my chest. Though I don't believe it happened, I'm aware that I might have driven a broken rib through the lining of my lungs.

But I need to push that thought out of my head and get my ass in gear, Eddy is running out of time.

*32*

With a hand on either side of me, I raise myself back into a sitting position, the posture quickly cutting off my ability to breathe again. Lifting my legs up through the opening, I cautiously straddle the joists while unsteadily working my shaking legs into a standing position, the metal roof of the warehouse two or more feet above my head.

Standing up straight, I suck in a breath of air, noticing the heat in it for the first time and attributing it to the proximity of the metal roof. This is Las Vegas, after all. Sun beating down on a hot tin roof is going to heat up the air beneath it.

The joists are running from the front of the office wall back to the metal roof line, making walking across them similar to crossing railroad tracks, but only half as far apart.

Though I'm tempted to head toward the farther stairwell, as no one has come up that way, I opt for the nearer, knowing I'm running out of time and that that end of the building is closer to where they took Eddy.

Surprisingly, I reach the end of the ceiling in just a few minutes, only having lost my footing once, but luckily not breaking through the plywood and crashing down to the floor below. If it had been sheetrock instead of plywood, I never would have made it this far.

But now that I'm at the end of the ceiling, I look down at the stairwell, open from the ground floor all the way up to the metal roof of the warehouse with no obvious way down to it. The railing for the stairwell, a two-inch thick pipe painted bright safety yellow, is approximately five-feet below my feet and approximately eighteen-inches out from the wall. If I lower myself down to it, I still have to navigate off of it without tumbling down onto the stairs. Not a real concern for a healthy person with full control of their limbs. But I'm far from being healthy and a tumble down concrete steps is more than I can currently withstand.

Stepping cautiously along the joist until I reach the front of the office wall, I carefully look over the edge and see nothing but a solid floor eight-feet below me. It might as well be one-hundred feet. A WWII paratrooper's parachute exerted a force equivalent to jumping off an eight-foot wall upon landing. An easy launch, land, tuck and roll under ordinary circumstances. And I'm sure a few of those paratroopers landed with wounds they received while hanging in the air and still managed to survive. But for me to jump off this ceiling and land on a solid floor eight-feet below will be nothing short of suicide. If my ribs haven't punctured a lung yet, the impact with the floor will surely do it.

Moving carefully for a few feet along the joists, I stop and lower myself down to my hands and knees. While my right hand is now capable of holding onto something, my left is still almost worthless. The pain coming from it being a constant reminder that it doesn't like me after what I allowed to happen to it. It doesn't however, escape my notice that breathing is much easier when I'm on all fours, so I take a quick minute to catch my breath and let my heartbeat slow before lowering my feet over the side and carefully easing my body down.

The pain in my chest is excruciating and the sweat pours from my face and head, the salty mixture running into my eyes and blinding me. My body quivers from the exertion and a clammy perspiration runs down my back as my stockinged feet gently touch down on the iron railing. My body weight settles down to my feet quickly as my hands slip off the joists and slide down the wall until my head and shoulder is pressed against it, preventing me falling backwards into the stairwell. My legs are trembling, threatening to dislodge my precarious perch on the steel rail.

Despite the pain and unsteadiness of my perch, I realize that someone is liable to enter the stairwell at any moment and continue lowering myself, my head and shoulders leaving a pink smear on the wall as I slide down until my hands grip the steel railing. Not hesitating to catch my breath, I continue with a death grip on the railing, afraid to look down into the concrete abyss for fear of being pulled down into it. When my feet are finally on the floor, above a five-foot or so drop to the cement steps below, I shuffle sideways, working my way along the railing until I am back in the big room proper. I barely release the safety rail and grab the handrail leading down when the sound of voices reaches my ears. The men searching the offices are at the far end of the big room and running my way, their guns drawn. They could easily pick me off despite the distance, but must be under orders to take me alive.

Without hesitation, I turn toward the steps and force my battered body down them, each jarring step stealing more of my resolve. When I reach the first landing, I can hear their footsteps coming on fast and realize that I'll never reach the ground floor before they overtake me if I don't step it up.

Because my legs are the only part of my body still working the way they should, I literally focus on the two steps before me and then step off, skipping the nearer step. The jolt through my body takes my breath away, but there's no stopping now. Concentrating on just two steps at a time, I hurry myself down the rest of the steps, skipping every other one as I expect a bullet to strike me in the back at any moment. Despite having orders to take me alive, it's much more important that I not escape or reach their boss. Killing me will probably not draw much ire from Alveraz.

The thumping of my heart and the roar of blood in my ears is deafening, making me oblivious to all other sound as I reach the ground floor and I'm still standing.

Not wasting time to look behind me and check the progress of my pursuers, I set out to the left, a short distance now to the door they took Eddy through. Just as I reach the door, my hand on the knob and twisting it, the men in pursuit reach the bottom of the stairwell and see me at the door. One yells out for me to stop and I pull out the confiscated automatic and point it toward them.

In a panic, they frantically retreat back up the stairs, not making it necessary for me to use the one shot that I can count on.

Before they can build up their courage and resume their pursuit, I pull open the door and stagger through it, pulling it shut behind me and finding a hook and latch to secure it. It's a flimsy locking mechanism, but it will slow them down, especially since they now know the man they're pursuing is armed.

Turning to see what I've walked into, I realize instantly that I'm looking down a long hall with doors scattered along both sides of it. At the far end is another door with security glass and what looks like it might be sunshine coming through the opaque glass.

An exit!

Eddy might not even be here any longer. There may have been a car waiting outside that exit to take her away before I even got locked in the office upstairs. The thought that I'm too late threatens to overwhelm me, and I slump against the wall, the gun hanging loosely from my right hand.

It suddenly dawns on me that the weapon I'm holding is guaranteed to fire one shot for sure. I know that for fact, because I put the bullet in the chamber. Now I'm wondering if the bullet has my name on it. _Is it Karma come to claim her pound of flesh? Did I come upon this weapon so I can use it on myself?_ I ask, holding it up to take a better look at it, as if it might hold the answer.

"I'm sorry, Eddy," I whisper softly, turning my back to the wall as the weight of the gun pulls my hand down to my side, all remaining willpower and strength flowing from my brutalized body.

Just then a door near the end of the hall about forty-feet from me and nearer to the door I believe to be an exit swings opens, the light of an overhead fluorescent fixture spilling into the drab hallway.

A large man steps out into the hallway, turning toward the exit. I recognize him immediately by his NFL build and know that Alveraz can't be far behind.

Because of the dim lighting in the hallway and his eyes having adjusted to the better, brighter lighting in Alveraz's office, he doesn't see me leaning up against the wall when a new thought comes to mind, _If I can't save Eddy, I can still kill the man that killed the two of us_.

Pushing off from the wall, I turn and face down the hallway, the light coming through the opaque security glass silhouetting the big man, even though he isn't the one I'm going to use my certain bullet on. If the gun doesn't jam immediately after the first shot, I'll put the rest of my shots into the big guy for good measure until the gun does jam. Because I know that if I get more than one shot, each one after the first one will be nothing more than lady luck playing a cruel joke on someone, a chance occurrence.

*33*

Raising the gun up into a police stance and holding it with both hands to steady it, I spread my feet apart for stability and work on calming my breathing. I will only get one chance and I can't afford to waste it. No warnings, no small talk, just aim for the head and take the bastard out. What happens after that will depend on what instincts I have left and whether the gun cooperates or not.

My right hand is trembling slightly while my left is still numb, counteracting the unsteadiness of the right. I'm not familiar with the weapon and not sure how much trigger pressure it will take, but I'm assuming it hasn't been modified and in its current state of maintenance, will probably take more than normal.

The trigger finger on my right hand is still severely swollen and tight in the trigger guard, but will do what it needs when the moment presents itself, which should be right about now.

Only the person that steps out isn't Jesus Alveraz, it's Eddy, and she's sees me right off. At the same time, Alveraz's bodyguard turns back to take hold of Eddy and sees me for the first time. Without hesitating, he grabs her by her blonde curls and yanks her into his embrace, a Glock instantly materializing in his beefy right hand while his left holds her tight against his massive chest.

Though her feet are free, her hands are secured behind her back, probably still the same zip ties that Bobby put on her more than four days ago.

She's probably three to four-feet beyond the opening of the door with the bodyguard behind her when Alveraz steps through the doorway, pulling the door shut behind him before he realizes the situation in the hallway. Turning, he doesn't panic and try to get back into the office he just exited. Instead, his face breaks into a smile as if glad to see an old friend.

"Mr. McClain, you are an amazing man. You should be dead, and here you are, standing in my hallway with a gun on me," he says, the smile never wavering.

"It's Mac, remember," I remind him, not caring to get eloquent as I'm not trusting my voice.

I have the gun aimed at his forehead, an easy shot for me at this distance even with an unfamiliar weapon. But if I shoot him, his bodyguard kills Eddy and then me. Unless I get off more than one shot, which would be pressing my luck, a gamble I'm not ready to take with Eddy's life, even if I don't give a rat's ass for my own.

"Ah, yes, Mac. Like I was saying, you are an amazing man. And as you know, I lost a couple of loyal men today." He pauses for a minute, weighing his next words. "And now it appears that I might have lost even more, or you wouldn't be here."

"So let's cut to the chase, shall we? What are you trying to say?" I rasp out, my voice cracking.

"You don't sound so good," he says, feigning concern. "Why don't we go into my office and discuss this further. I have some good rum that will warm your throat while we work out the details."

"There are no details to work out," I say, my voice as strong as I dare make it without risking it failing completely. When he reaches toward the doorknob, I call out, "Don't!"

He releases the doorknob and turns back to face me. "You can't win here, Mac," he says, stressing my nickname like it puts a bad taste in his mouth. "I will pay you well. More money than you have ever seen before in your life. You can even keep this woman as your own, though I don't understand your attraction to her, such as it is. Bobby told me all along how the two of you hit it off. I never would have believed that you even cared for this bitch after hearing her report," he says, his smile back and colder than ever. Tilting his head slightly, he says over his shoulder for Eddy's benefit, "Did you know that he fucked the bitch that sold you two out for a measly million bucks." He pauses, enjoying the emotional pain that he's able to inflict when he hears Eddy fighting the bodyguard's hold. "Yeah, they fucked like a couple of rabbits, as she put it. And yet, you profess to love this one. We have more in common than you know, Mac."

Eddy's eyes are locked on mine and she isn't smiling. In fact, if looks could kill, Jesus Alveraz's problems would be over.

"You're right, Jesus, I'm a dog with no morals." Now it's my turn to pause for effect. "But you know what that means?"

"No, Mac, what does that mean?"

"It means that I have no qualms about dying here today."

The words have no sooner slipped out of my mouth than I regretted saying them. Because even though I don't give a shit for my own life, he now knows the only reason I haven't shot him is because of my concern for Eddy's wellbeing. She may not want anything more to do with me, but I can't allow anything to happen to her.

In the end, he is vindicated in knowing that my weakness is indeed Eddy, despite the behavior between Bobby and me.

If it was possible for his smile to grow any wider, it does as understanding blossoms.

To make matters worse, the two men that were pursuing me finally got their courage up and tried busting down the door behind me. It's not rocket science to know that if they come through that door, it's all over for Eddy and me. Fortunately, the door is solid wood and doesn't give, even if the hasp and hook are undersized for their purpose. Time is running out and quickly.

Aware that his men are getting into position behind me and will be coming through the door at any moment, Alveraz's bravado grows even more exuberant. "It would appear that what we have here is a _Mexican standoff_ , Mr. McClain."

"It's...," I begin, about to correct him, and then figure what the hell does it matter what he calls me. "Ah hell, does this mean you're not interested in hiring me any longer?"

"It would appear that I no longer have need of your services, Mr. McClain."

"Yeah, that's what I figured too."

Just then there's a loud crash against the door behind me, the hasp stopping it for a second time. Though it's standing ajar, there isn't room enough to slip a gun barrel by it and shoot without risk of hitting someone besides me. But I'm quickly running out of time.

I have one shot guaranteed. Jesus Alveraz isn't going to leave this hallway upright. If I'm lucky and the gun doesn't jam, I might be able to put a couple in the mammoth holding Eddy before he can snap her neck or use the gun he's holding to put a bullet in my head, and then he snaps her neck.

But putting a bullet or two in the behemoth will only happen if I'm really lucky and the weapon I'm holding, which is in dire need of maintenance, doesn't jam.

Only if I'm real lucky. Ah hell, this is Vegas!

My shot strikes Jesus Alveraz in his right temple, dropping him like a sack of potatoes from the field wagon. The bullet traveling through his skull, carrying a detritus of skull chips and brain matter before striking the big guy in the upper right shoulder. But the bullet lost most of its momentum by then and barely breaks the skin, stopping an uncomfortable half-inch below the surface while knocking him back half a step from the impact.

At the flare of my weapon, Eddy uses her hands tied behind her back to grab the big dude's genitals before falling forward, expecting me to empty my weapon on the mammoth while we have him off balance. Unfortunately, while her hands did get hold of more than just the cotton of his chinos, her grip is week, hardly inflicting any discomfort on the man before slipping loose.

It was a stroke of luck that my bullet traveled through Jesus's head and struck the big guy in the shoulder, as the impact caused him to release Eddy at the same time causing his gun to swing across in front of his body. His first shot strikes the wall about five-feet ahead of me on the right and ricochets past me, the sound like a mad hornet buzzing past my ear.

By now, Eddy is laying on the floor in front of him, draped partially over Jesus Alveraz's dead body when my gun barks a second time, the bullet striking the behemoth square in the sternum, bringing a look of surprise and shock to his face as he takes another involuntary step backwards.

But he quickly regains his composure and takes a moment to sight his weapon on me. I jerk off the next round, my swollen finger twitching spasmodically, and then another before I can even compensate from the round before it. Yet, to my good fortune, both rounds strike the large man in the upper chest, driving him backwards. When the gun goes off for a fifth time, a time when I'm not even aware of pulling the trigger thanks to my numb and swollen fingers, the bullet catches him in the throat just beneath the chin and his head snaps back, crashing through the opaque security glass in the door. Falling backwards, his crashes downward against the door's release bar and the door swings open violently, his body falling to the asphalt parking lot and holding the door open.

Eddy has rolled off the dead Latino and is pressed into the corner where the wall meets the floor, trying to make herself as small a target as possible. Her head is up and her eyes are glued to mine as the door behind me suddenly slams open, the men from upstairs standing side by side as they bring their weapons to bear on me.

Turning slowly to my left, I feel the impact of something striking me hard in the right shoulder, spinning me around in the direction I was moving while also throwing me off balance. As I fall, I try in vain to bring the dirty Glock around to bear on the new threat, but another slug hits my right bicep and the gun flies from my grasp as I strike the floor.

Suddenly, the hall erupts in a cacophony of fully automatic gunfire. From somewhere off in the distance, I hear what sounds like several concussion grenades exploding in rapid succession. Bullets are snapping through the sound barrier above my head. Through the haze of encroaching darkness, I see the two men at the end of the hall pulverized by flying lead and I accept my fate with a smile on my face.

Bobby didn't sell us out and Eddy is going to be alright.

*34*

I was sure that when the darkness overcame me, I was never going to wake up again and that was alright. I'd made my peace and was quite content with the way things were left. Though truth be told, I wasn't sure if living was going to be worth it if I had to explain Bobby to Eddy. That was a nightmare I really didn't want to experience. In some respects, death might be preferable to life after all.

But alas, that was what _the powers that be_ had in mind for me. They teamed up with _Lady Luck_ and rewrote the script that is my life.

The first thing I'm aware of is a steady beeping sound and I immediately flash back to the Oregon Dunes. We took out a lot of bad guys on that trip. But alas, they tore me up pretty bad, sending me to the hospital with several bullet wounds and a tremendous loss of blood. When I don't hear any other sounds, I slowly force my eyes open, not surprised to discover a film distorting my vision. A head wound can do that.

But I don't remember being shot in the head.

Just then a young man wearing blue-green scrubs and looking huge from the distortion approaches. I only know he is young by the light brown shade of his hair. Yet, if he's wearing a toupee, I might be wrong on that count too.

"Well, well," he says, his voice confirming his youth. "It looks like someone finally woke up."

Without hesitation, he moves in close to the side of the bed that I'm lying in and places his stethoscope over my heart. Satisfied, he picks up my wrist and holds it gently in his left hand while placing his right thumb over the pulsing artery. I notice the hand itself is swathed in gauze and tape like a huge white club.

"Sounds and feels good," he says, reaching for something beyond my limited range of vision before tenderly wiping my eye sockets with a damp cloth. "There you go," he says, stepping back and letting me focus on him. "Can you see better now? We had salve on your eyes to prevent them drying out. It appears you like to sleep with your eyes open, though I can't imagine why."

When I try to reply in the affirmative, my voice fails me entirely, my throat and mouth feeling as though stuffed with cotton balls.

"Hold on," he says, grabbing a pitcher and an empty plastic cup from the counter in front of the medical equipment. Dropping a straw into the cup, he carefully places the end of it in my mouth and says, "Try that, see if you can make it work. If it's too much trouble, I'll find you some ice to suck on."

I don't know how long I've been here or how much care they've had to give me, but I don't like being spoken to as if I'm a toddler. Sucking on the straw, I unintentionally inhale a breath of water and start coughing, water spurting from my mouth and down the front of the white sheet pulled up to my chin. The pain in my chest is sharp, but nothing like I remember it being.

"Whoa, slow down. Take a breath, nice and easy." When it's clear that I'm not going to spit up any more, he says, "You want to try again?"

After a quick nod in the affirmative, he again places the straw in my mouth and I gingerly sip at it, taking a moment after each sip to swallow before sucking any up more.

When he removes the straw from my mouth and sets the cup down, I rasp weakly, "Where am I?"

"Vegas, baby," he says like the youngster that he is.

Now that I can focus, I can see that he's somewhere in his early to mid-twenties. And although I had originally thought he was a doctor, I'm leaning more toward a male nurse now that I've watched him in action.

"How long?"

"They brought you in two weeks ago, an odds on favorite that you wouldn't make it through the night. But for what it's worth, I was betting on you. Made me a few bucks too, so don't go letting me down now," he says with a youthful smile and genuine concern.

"Where's everyone?"

"If you mean the woman that sat in here around the clock until you rounded the corner or the other two, a tall good looking man with a shorter, heavier set woman, they come in and check on you every day. They should be in later if they hold true to habit. But I haven't seen the woman in a few days. I think she just wanted to make sure you were on the mend before she headed back to where she needed to be. But I'm just speculating on that. A bad habit of mine," he said apologetically.

"How am I doing?"

"Well, normally I would prefer my patients tell me how they're doing, but under the circumstances, I think I know what you mean." He pauses for a moment before asking, "Has anyone ever told you that if they connected all your scars you'd read like a road map?"

Although I'm still feeling some pain, I can tell it's numbed somewhat from medications. Yet my head seems clear enough to recognize the question as being rhetorical, and I opt not to waste what few words I can form on answering him.

"Okay, moving on," he says, feeling slightly disconcerted at my silence. "I'll run down them in no particular order then. You had a severe concussion, not your first. Your nose was broken, also not for the first time. Your hands were borderline necrotic from lack of blood while your feet were just bruised and impacted by many slivers of wood. We feared infection in your feet for a while, but they responded to antibiotics after the slivers were removed. Your lip was cut and most of the skin on the right side of your face was debrided, though we're not sure how that happened, but it might impede your speech until the lip heals closed. We have removed the stitches in your lip and a few other places, so that should help. The bandages holding your ribs in place will have to remain a while longer. Ribs are slow healers, but then you're probably aware of that, having seen your X-rays." He puts his left hand across his waist with the thumb hooking the loose elastic waistband of the scrubs and scratches his head as if trying to draw up memories before continuing. "And then there were the bullet wounds, again not your first, obviously. The one in your right shoulder was a pass through. No major damage. We disinfected it with a shot of rum and stitched it up front and back."

"Wait, did you just say a shot of rum?"

"Hey, you are still with me. I thought for a while there you might have drifted off."

"No," I glare at him, not appreciating being treated like a toddler.

"Okay, then. The other bullet caught you in the right bicep. This one did a little more damage and will require extensive rehabilitation if you expect to regain most of your use of that arm. But that won't be for a while yet. Nothing to sweat over." He stops, glancing toward the door for a second before looking back at me. "The rest are just bumps and bruises. If you want me to send the doctor this way, I can. Otherwise, I think you might have some visitors."

"Thanks," I reply tiredly.

"No problemo," he says with a warm smile as he heads out of sight.

Although I'd said less than a dozen words, I feel exhausted, my body protesting my attempts at movement as I struggle to see further in the direction that the nurse left by. When I can't see beyond the curtain no matter how hard I try, I drop back onto the bed and close my eyes. The darkness is welcome and I slide down into it like an old, comfortable boot.

*35*

When next I awaken, I feel antsy, anxious to get out of the bed. The beeping is still a monotonous sound that probably invaded any dreams I might have had, but except for a drip connected to my left arm, the one that wasn't injured, the only other wires connected to me are going to my chest area. That's probably the source of the godforsaken beeping sounds. I wonder what would happen if I yanked the wires out?

Lifting my left hand because my right arm won't move at all, I quickly realize that it's also bandaged up in gauze swathing and tape, though not as large as I remembered them being the first time I woke.

Just then, the male nurse comes dancing in, pushing the color coordinated curtain aside, and checking first my eyes, then my heart, and then my pulse or blood pressure, though how he's doing the latter without a cuff is beyond me, so I ask him.

"Right up behind your head is a machine that beeps every time your heart beats. It also reads out your respiration and blood pressure, among other things. I just double check that it hasn't gone Frankenstein, where the machine continues working as if nothing's changed even after the patient is no longer among the living," he concludes with a smirk.

"I'm alive."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that one out," he smiles back. "By the way, your friends said they'd be back later today when you went and fell asleep before they could talk to you."

"Which ones?"

"The two I told you about earlier if you remember. Tall, good-looking man, dark hair, broad shoulders. The woman with him, good looking, heavy and short, but very nice. The other man, a cheap suit, definitely fed but not sure if CIA, FBI, or what-have-you."

"Thanks, I'll try not to fall asleep this time," I remark, already feeling a thousand percent better. Though I'm wondering where Eddy is, I'm not blaming her for not coming by.

Leaving the curtain open this time when he leaves, I find I can turn my head enough and look out the door into what looks like a small pantry. There are other beds in this room, but with their curtains drawn, I can't tell if they're occupied or not.

Out in the pantry area is a man in uniform, a local beat cop keeping an eye on me. Whether his job is to keep me in the hospital or the bad guys from getting to me, I haven't determined yet. Nor have I determined whether the look he's giving me is pity or spite.

Just then he turns away and speaks to someone just beyond my range of vision to the left of the door. They speak only momentarily before he steps back and Agent Rogers comes into view. Upon seeing my eyes on him, a warm smile lights up his face.

As he draws up to the foot of the bed, he says with genuine cheeriness, "Welcome back. We thought for a while there we were going to lose you."

"Yeah, that seemed to be the consensus of most," I rasp. "Can you hand me that cup of water."

Stepping past me, he grabs the cup with the straw and holds it near enough to my mouth that I can manage the straw without further assistance. Anyone seeing my bandaged hands would have done the same. "Thanks."

"No problem," he says, placing the cup back where he got it. "The nurse told me that he explained all your injuries and that you didn't fall asleep before he finished. But you're probably wondering about everything else."

Though my only real concern is where Eddy is and what she must be going through because of me, I simply reply, "Yeah, everything that's happened since leaving the hospital in Oregon is kinda fuzzy."

"Well," he starts, taking a deep breath and planting himself on the edge of the bed in a sidesaddle fashion so he can look at me while he talks. "Jesus Alveraz put up a million dollar bounty on you, alive. He hired a network of associates that were in debt previously to him to cover all the routes you might take out of the Roseburg facility with the knowledge that you were heading toward Vegas."

Before he can continue, I interrupt him with a question. "Norm's son, that was real, wasn't it?"

"Oh yeah, that was the real deal. He had no idea that he'd set you guys up when he asked you to find his son for him," Rogers quickly asserts. "It was his ex-wife and her sister that tipped off the cartel, though we still don't know if it was intentional or not. Norm sends his thanks, by the way. He, his son, his ex-wife and her sister have been offered our services though I get the feeling the sister-in-law isn't going to accept the offer." He gives me a friendly smile then and says, "Oh, by the way, you're now a bona fide business owner. Norm left the deed to his business in your name. Your attorney friends in Napa Valley handled everything on your behalf."

"Oh great, just what I need, a pub that serves alcohol," I blurt resignedly.

"Well, it's not entirely just yours, Mac. It's also owned by Larry, Lisa, and Eddy. You're equal partners, even Eddy."

He opened the door for me to ask about Eddy, but I wasn't sure I could step through it. Did I even have that right? "I heard that Larry and Lisa have been coming by to see me," I say instead, treading around the open door.

"Yes, we ran into each other yesterday. They should be by later," he casually remarks. If he senses my fear of asking about Eddy, it's not in his voice or mannerisms. Instead, his next remark catches me by surprise. "You know, if it hadn't been for Bobby calling in and giving us a head's up, we wouldn't have reached you and Eddy in time."

There's that damned door again. "Where's Bobby?" I ask, skirting around the issue of Eddy.

"No one really knows. We have a few suspicions, but since she's not really wanted for anything, unless you want to press kidnapping charges, no one is really looking for her. Oh, for what it's worth, Eddy isn't pressing any charges against her either. I do believe she is a wealthy woman, though," he says with a smug smile. "That reminds me, while we were searching for the cell phone, we found some interesting specimens. Along with the phone, which didn't give us anything to go on, we found evidence of two people having had sex out there in the middle of nowhere, along with some other detritus and trash that might have just been blowing along the highway. Nothing that got us any closer to finding you and Eddy, but still interesting."

If he was trying to tell me that he found it strange that I wasn't asking about Eddy, he was going about it in a very circuitous way. Or he didn't really give a damn if I screwed around on the best thing that ever entered my life and just wanted to tie up loose ends for his final report.

"Will Larry or Lisa be returning to witness protection?" I ask, not sure if I should have included Eddy in the enquiry.

"Actually, all three of your friends have opted out of our program," he says, not mentioning Eddy by name.

Just then, Larry and Lisa enter the room, "Yep, seeing how we're always the one's rescuing people from the scum of the earth, we figure there are others that would get more benefit from their services," Larry says with a big grin, his baritone voice soothing my raw nerves.

"How you doing Mac?" Lisa asks, her voice understandably cool toward me.

When I meet her gaze, she looks away and I immediately wonder how many times my name has been used in vain lately. "I'm doing much better, Lisa. Thanks for asking," I reply, my voice still raw and my lip adding a slight lisp from all the use it's getting as of late. "Good to see you too, Larry. I heard you guys were coming by while I slept."

"Is that what they said you were doing for the past two weeks?" Larry laughs.

Seeing the lack of understanding in what isn't covered by bandages, he quickly adds, "In my book, we call that a coma, pure and simple. If it wasn't for the brain activity, which I still don't understand, they would have pulled the plug." He looks at Agent Rogers and says, "No one told him that he's been in a coma for the past two weeks?"

"I assumed his doctor might have, but it sure didn't seem like my place," he protests with a nervous chortle.

"Hey, in case everyone's forgotten, I'm not in a coma any longer. I'm right here. I can here you guys," I say in a loud rasp. "Will someone get me something to drink?"

Lisa is the first to react and seeing the cup of water with a straw sticking in it, grabs it off the counter and moves past Rogers to hold it to my mouth. After a couple of sips, I nod my head to indicate I've had enough. After putting it back where it was, she hurriedly moves to the far side of the room as if she can't stand being near me. Can't say as I blame her, I'm not too keen on myself right now either.

"Anyway," Rogers continues. "I have a ton of paperwork to get back to and since you guys aren't in the program any longer, this is probably goodbye."

"Thanks for everything," I say, almost in unison with Larry and Lisa.

He's through the door and out into the pantry when he turns around and comes back in, pausing hesitantly in the doorway with a big smile. "I think there's someone here to see you, Mac," he says, stepping aside to let a woman in a wheelchair by. "Take care," he calls over her head and turns to go, leaving Eddy sitting in the doorway in a wheelchair.

"Hey Eddy," Lisa says before grabbing Larry's arm and pulling him toward the door. "We'll come by later. I'm starving and I heard the cafeteria here puts on a wonderful buffet."

Larry gives me a hesitant smile before being dragged past Eddy and out the door, pulling it shut after him to give Eddy and me some privacy, though I'm not sure that's the best idea without knowing whether she's armed or not.

Eddy slowly rolls forward and stops about three-feet from the foot of my bed, the wheelchair putting her up just high enough to give her an unobstructed view of my face. From my position in the bed, I can see her from the shoulders up. When I find her gaze locked on me, I try unsuccessfully to look away, my mind flashing to the image of a trapped rat.

THE END

More by Will Decker:

DRIVEN

UNREQUITED LOVE

FIRE BABY

HYBRID KILLERS

The 'HEÄLF' Collection:

MORTALITY REVISITED

CLONE WARS

DAY OF NIGHT

REGENERATIONS

HORSPAW

The 'Mac" Collection:

THE WITNESS

TOXIC RAIN

BETRAYAL

RECORD KEEPER

DEATH IN THE DUNES

WIT-SEC FAIL

SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed.

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Authors starve or eat based on reviews. Thanking you from the pit of my stomach, WILL

