 
## Kiss It Bye-Bye, Foreverly!!!

## ipam

Smashwords Edition Copyright 2018 Pamela Joan Barlow Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Crime drama...

Cyber Crimes employs a batch of smart and sassy computer programmers, protecting all active web sites and vital business portals of the USA.

Currently, cyber cowboy Preston is trailing and tracing a foot loose and fancy free rouge hacker, within the city limits of Birmingham, Alabama.

The runaway hacker has stolen vital information from the CIA website, using her slick computer programming skills.

Preston is the best cyber private dick to track down and bring down the hacker, because the hacker is his girlfriend Pamela.

Present day and place

July 14th Thursday

11:00 a.m.

City of Birmingham in US State of Alabama

US Federal Building 11th floor

Private office setting of Director Geneva Lassater

Sunny and hot temperatures

The office furniture clutters along one side of the wall inside a large office space. Two sets of windows occupy one wall which is partially closed in a set of dark wool drapes. The parted drapes allow a set of heated rays of the last morning sun inside the cool office as the rays crawl across a smooth wooden floor. The office space belongs to Miss Geneva Lassater, who is the director of Cyber Crimes. She is a tall and overweight woman with a head of long blonde hair, a tone of beige tinted skin, a pair of two toned hazel colored eyes, a scarred face, and is fifty something years old. Her private world exists on the eleventh floor of the US Federal Building between two ancient oak trees on the city street of Magnolia Road in metro city Birmingham. A rectangle conference table seats eight chairs comfortably. But today the chairs hold five persons between the archway and the desk. Geneva poses at the head of the table with her faithful servant Stockton Wingard, who drools over the left hand of Geneva.

Pamela Craft, a junior retriever is sitting on Stockton's left elbow. Lois Grove, a senior retriever occupies the butt-end chair that curves around one side of a fake lighted colored wooden table.

Ilenn Yelling sits alone on the opposite side of Stockton, Pamela, and Lois, watching the mascara painted eyelashes of Geneva. She is a three year employee and is paid by the US Federal taxpayers, working for three year old State of Alabama Department Division of Cyber Crimes located in Birmingham. Her job title is called a retriever too.

Geneva says with a stern face to Ilenn. "Peer review is one of the hottest evaluation tools around town, Miss Yelling. The valuable input from your co-workers offers their personal insight for me to assess your assignment needs. Additionally, the input provides me with your regular work habits and professional influences, coming from any outside forces." She doesn't smile. She never smiles because of a permanently scarred face. Instead, Geneva provides an ugly distorted smirk of sable-brown colored lips at her employee.

"Am I going to be fired, Miss Lassater?" Ilenn cuts her brown eyes to Stockton as her heart swiftly sinks down into a tummy of fluttering butterflies. She might be losing a good paying job in a tanked US economy.

"No, dear. Where on planet Earth did you get that off-the-mark impressive?" Geneva shakes her curls, darting her mixed brown and green hazel eyes at Stockton. He slightly cringes from her wicked smirk. Geneva looks back to see each employee, who is a smart and gifted computer programmer that works inside the twin section of the Cyber Crimes unit. The Cyber Crimes unit functions as the "good guy" hackers that secretly hide inside the US cyberspace internet and protect all the US American companies along with the numerous US Federal, State and local government agencies against any vile "bad guy" hackers."

Ilenn stares at Geneva. "I work for the Federal Government. I thought my job was...is. I mean these modern times are very difficult, finding a new job in the tanked US economy."

Geneva smirks. "Miss Yelling, don't fret, dear. You do work for the US Federal Government and your job is safe. This is a formal tool to evaluate your work load. Now, I want to use the gentle words, assess your performance potential. Let's start with the technical assessment qualities, shall we?" She turns and views Lois. "Would you care to provide feedback about Miss Yelling and her job performance here at the Cyber Crimes unit, Lois?"

Lois sits at the end of the table, looking down to see her manicured fingernails. Both her palms are upright inside her lap like a southern lady. She meekly says. "Regular coder." Lois doesn't like the new concept of the employee peer review and doesn't like to tattle-tail on her co-workers but enjoys her professional job, except for today.

Stockton is a short and plump man with a tone of pink tinted skin, a red ponytail, wearing a pair of blue jeans, a short sleeved shirt, and a pair of sandals. He smirks. "And the ancient computer language which is known as COBOL is notorious for its over rich syntax and overlong computer code that makes a programmer's work assignment almost double in total productive time," He nods his ponytail with a smile.

Ilenn says with nervousness to each face. "But I must add to both those accurate statements offered by my co-workers during my peer review. I am a trained and educated Cobol programmer too with a business knowledge code base of Fortran, Java, and SQL..."

"What no assembly language?" Stockton laughs.

Ilenn darts her brown irises and burns a set of invisible fire balls at his face, but he doesn't melt into pinky goo. "No, Mr. Wingard. I feel that my programmer skill serves as a bridge between the COBOL computer programming code and all the other new apps. And I am the bridge, Miss Lassater."

"With all the yearly emergence of new service-oriented IT architectures, the COBOL computer programming code is re-used and not created, Miss Yelling." Stockton grins.

Ilenn exhales. "Mr. Wingard is correct. I'd like to include. The emergence of both the old and new standard language environments provides a common runtime for many different kinds of computer platform languages, including COBOL. But COBOL is still the root routine, since seventy five percent of the world's businesses data is still processed in the COBOL computer programming code. And add, ninety percent of all money financial transactions are still compiled in the ancient computer language which is known as COBOL too," smiling.

Stockton frowns. "Now days, new and newer web-based technos add all kinds of bot sub-routines which up fronts and then overlays that ancient COBOL programming code. The newest web-based technos are both friendly and un-friendly access portals both easy and fast like a single bolt of white lightning rather than the ten fingers drumming some wasted time on a set of old worn metal key pads, Miss Yelling."

Geneva nods. "That's a very good point, Mr. Wingard. Ilenn, you, and I will discuss maybe tomorrow upgrading and updating your server skills, complimenting your COBOL tags. Do you agree with me?"

Ilenn nods. "Yes ma'am."

Geneva turns and smiles to Pamela, the newest retriever. "Miss Craft, you handled a tough assignment resolved by...," frowning. "What exactly did you do?"

Pamela nervously lifts her hands with a smile and a nod. "I halted san hacker with his own restored data files and activated his disaster protocols with a couple of newly created IT silos. These protocols are set up automatically within a single proactive alert displaying vividly across my cyber dashboard. The procedure is kinda like driving your sports car on the roadway. I simply monitored a pulsating message and attacked one of the smaller protocol pods that maintained one of many critical disaster systems, not a security system. It accessed the driver for pics..."

"Ya robbed his family photos?" Lois drops her mouth in shock and chuckles.

Pamela flings her hand and her ponytail with a smile. "I surfed the picture drive and sailed the plane. The bot plane directly into the execution file, executing and stomping them bad boys dead."

Geneva frowns. "How did you stomp them dead, Miss Craft?"

"Secret of my homemade meal starts with a raw scrap of code in a small, tight, lean, and mean assembly language." Pamela grins.

Stockton drops his mouth, shaking his ponytail. "That's impossible. Assembly language is too obtuse and too lengthy for san attack."

"I use the computer command open the app and then insert my bad virus and then return the file back to the bad hacker. All of it is done right before your very eyelash blinks at four beats per second. I generate a new command code on the fly in real time, not batch mode." Pamela grins.

"Headers?" Stockton frowns.

"I used a homemade portable assembler with a source code of full headers, finishing with an exclusively created exe.file that I developed. The execution file runs like a rocket space hyper speed engine on any app without using the pre-packed vendor assembler language or MASM or Linker on a multi-platform. The multi-platform can run under MS-DOS or Win9x or OS/2 or Linux or any other vendor on the IT shelf also." Pamela waves her hand with a smile and a nod.

"Show me?" Stockton slides a pen and a paper to her.

Pamela accepts the paper and pen, drawing a set of geometric symbols of numbers. "Assembly language is a series of mnemonic..."

"We all have advanced understanding of assembly language, dear." Geneva stares the geometric symbols of Pamela.

Pamela says with both respect of her supervisor and her southern manner, "Yes ma'am. The mnemonic instructions are coupled with a string data of numbers and words. I use a common binary object code 10110000. It translates into '10110' meaning 'to move.' And '000' means 'data.' I tell it to move the data from its original electronic position inside the bad hacker's source code and dump it into his or her computer ram for access by my computer ram..."

"Opcode 10110000 is part of a machine's operation, not the programmer's instruction. Very nice, Pamela." Ilenn grins at the creative computer programming concept from her co-worker.

Stockton says. "Ah so. Ya created a group of common and short sequences of inline mnemonic instructions instead of an array of complex sub-routines. But where did you move it again?"

Pamela grins. "I talk in bot commands virtually machine to machine, sending a computer virus or a computer bootleg or a computer worm into cyber hell, if you wish. Then I add a simple looping routine to keep it there permanently. Then I expose the Internet Protocol Address Management which is nicknamed with the lettered acronym, IPAM within the cyber network. And then I attack all computer software apps of the bad hacker. IPAM is defined in the computer science field as the means of planning, tracking, and managing the internet protocol address space utilized within the internet. Every hacker and internet user has an area of invisible space to do their fun or bad surfing on the internet. So it is 'ipam' attacking IPAM which is me taking down the internet address. 'Ipam' is my permanent computer username for my office desktop computer and password applications at my work station here at Cyber Crimes also."

"She's chatty." Stockton chuckles.

Geneva smirks at the paper that holds a new command source code for accessing any website within the internet. "Thank you for that descript maneuver, Miss Craft," she looks up to see each face. "I would like to emphasize that we are the first guardians when a set of nasty hackers and a group of sleek attackers break into our American US websites. And we have created you who are nicknamed as retrievers to bust, block, bend, or bat back san nasty hackers out of the US cyber space spider web."

"I have found that a series of repetitive hacker attempts can pinpoint the primary source code a lot faster rather than one random portal." Pamela grins.

"That one random attack or multi-repeats gets a website defaced quickly with both smuck and puke, leading the hacker to abuse both small and large business professional logos here in the US. And the hard-working American business owners don't need that nasty garage displayed upon their nice expensive cyber space websites in additional to our tanked economy's mess with the US dollar. I want to remind each and every one of you. Hackers do not have established links that connect us to their pretty colored video streaming blogs, showing a first and a last surname while waiting for our love partners the FBI special agents who are nicknamed 'cyber cowboys' and down the hallway to simply arrest them. Second, a single defacement of a single website makes generally a single bold statement of the hacker true intent, stealing valuable data. The data usually consists of credit card names, bank accounts, and associated electronic home city street addresses for their evil purposes. Does everyone understand my meaning?" Geneva says.

"Yes ma'am." Pamela says.

Geneva smirks. "Good. Back to the peer review, we're almost finished. Miss Craft, I believe that I can voice for your co-workers. You are a clever and very bright young girl with a set of highly creative bot skills that have saved more than a few thousand websites, since you're employment last year. You have been with us over one year and some odd months."

"Yes ma'am. This is the completion of my first year at the Cyber Crime unit. And I hope many, many more Miss Lassater." Pamela grins with the hope of a long term employment at Cyber Crimes FBI department.

"Not to worry, dear. But here in Alabama, we require more, much more." Geneva looks down to see her laptop.

Pamela frowns. "More, what more can I do?" she turns and frowns to Ilenn.

Ilenn turns with a confused brow to see Pamela.

Geneva stands and hugs the laptop into her breasts, staring down at the hair roots of Pamela with a smirk. "This concludes our peer review today. Everyone back to work, except for Miss Craft. Can you stay a while to discuss with me your toned and untapped bot skills?"

"What untapped bot skills?" Pamela remains in the chair with a puzzled brow.

Ilenn and Lois stand, turning and leaving the office.

Geneva grins. "Are you ready for your next assignment, Miss Craft?"

Pamela looks up with a worried brow to see Geneva. "Well, I guess so. I didn't know that there were more complex retriever assignments other than stopping the illegal hackers and slick attackers from stealing numeric and encrypted data from our American websites."

"Yes. You're correct. We stop crimes as soon as possible and look for the criminals immediately. We also report all criminal activity to our brother and sister federal organizations or Fed orgs. This is part of our responsibility of any investigated cyber crime." Geneva nods.

Pamela nods. "I can do that also. I haven't directly worked with any other Fed orgs. Will I be doing that this week?"

Geneva smirks. "How about next month, partnering with the other Fed orgs? I require that you study all the preferred Fed procedures and processes. The Feds are particular about their buzz words and intimate techniques, Miss Craft?"

"Yes ma'am." Pamela nods.

Geneva smirks. "Excellent, Miss Craft. See how our little peer review works together to promote a set of good ethnics and good work habits? We all pitch and bat back and forth new theoretical concepts. We are professionals here. We work together to fight against all cybercrime attacks throughout the State of Alabama along with our love partners. Our partners hail from the local, state, and federal agencies, channeling to us all the multi-layered security threats that attack all the data. We make security our number one priority. Isn't that right, Miss Craft?"

"Yes ma'am." Pamela says.

"You are dismissed for now, Miss Craft?" Geneva nods. Pamela stands and scoots out Geneva's office with a worried brow. The office door closes.

12:09 p.m.

Cafeteria lunch meal setting

Pamela, Lois, and Ilenn gracefully prance from the food line, carrying an individual food tray of delicious items. Each tray contains an entrée, a salad plate, a glass of sweet tea, and a dessert dish, sliding over a smooth fake wood surface onto a particular lunch cafeteria table. Each girl sits and supplies the work day's hot gossip during lunchtime. Lois scoots closer to Pamela with a frown. "Stockton's worried about his job."

"Stockton, why?" Pamela eats her salad before attacking the entree.

Ilenn frowns. "That implied question about me still having a job is very valid. Since Stockton did something to piss Geneva off this world and into the next galaxy," she lifts a forkful of salad.

Pamela swallows the food with a stern face. "Stockton, what did he do? I always thought Stockton as an over-confident overachiever. I couldn't image him not fulfilling his work. Don't ya agree, Ilenn?"

Ilenn shrugs a shoulder. "Dunno." She viciously attacks the spaghetti.

Lois grins. "Heard tell! Given one of those complex retriever assignments from Geneva and couldn't finish it," she sips the sweet tea.

"Have either of ya'll worked on one of those retriever assignments? What's it like? I'm a bit nervous about receiving more work without adding more computer training. Is there some kinda training involved?" Pamela gently bites into the tomato sauce covered meatball, slowly chewing, pondering her conversation with Geneva a few minutes ago. Since she will be getting the first complex assignment maybe, the start of next week.

"Yeah. You get some training, but not much. It's more trial and error." Lois nods. "I had trouble finishing my assignment, but Stockton stepped in and completed it for me," she sips the sweet tea.

"Good afternoon, my little southern belles," a deep sexy bass drum timber belongs to Arthur Ennis, the current un-available boy toy of Ilenn Yelling. Arthur eats his meal with Ilenn every day at lunch. Arthur stand up at six feet and four inches tall, weighing in at 257 pounds with a tone of mink tinted skin, a frame of athletic muscles, a million dollar smile, a bald shaved mound, a set of dark brown almond shaped eyes on a heart shaped face, and a pair of big dumbo ears. The big dumbo ears are the only detraction that makes him 99.99 percent perfectly male.

Ilenn pats his hand as he scoots a red plastic chair across the floor inside the cafeteria of the old Federal Building. The Federal Building was built in the year 1916, within the historical part of Birmingham. He sits next to Ilenn. Pamela notes that Ilenn has selected an extra long table holding six chairs, instead of the normal four. Then, she finishes her green lettuce for the healthy fiber of her biological body. Ilenn winks with a smile to Arthur. "Hey, poo bear."

Arthur pulls the chair into the table, sitting. "Say hi, boys."

Pamela cuts up the long spaghetti noodles into smaller bite-sized pieces with a fork and a knife for her small mouth. She doesn't like the tradition assault of wrapping a single slippery pasta noodle around a slick fork then stuffing it like a plantation pig into her small vessel. First, an un-cool ladylike maneuver around any and all southern gentlemen, if one happens to be present, spying on her at the lunch table. Secondly, her mama would perform a series of backward flips inside her grave. Her mama died when Pamela was five years old. However, her mama hovers above Pamela as a motherly heavenly guardian angel, overseeing her daughter and her husband, who still reside on planet Earth.

A tenor timber repeats, "Hi, boys!" A heavy set body of 203 pounds both loose muscle and baby fat of five feet and six inches stands next to Arthur. He possesses a blonde bowl-cut hair style which is framed by a set of short bangs over a round skull of dark green pupils, a flat nose, and a set of rosy round apple cheeks on a tone of powdery white glowing pale skin. He thunderously drops an ass into a plastic chair as it pig squeaks with alert.

Pamela places a big chuck of meatball coupled with little sliced noodles for enjoyment onto her taste buds. She opens a mouth wide, connects, and chews with delight her delicious spaghetti meal.

"Good afternoon, ladies," a deep rich baritone trombone rumbles with a sexy twang as his kneecaps stands beside Lois.

Pamela stops chewing, guiding the eyelashes across the fake wooden table surface. A tanned hand taps five fingers against a left thigh. The thigh is covered inside a pair of blue jeans. Her view seductively moves up a fit waistline which is belted in blue leather, probably alligator. Then her eyelashes glide up the edge of a blue light wool jacket which is nicely fitted over a set of broad squared shoulders. He stands up at six feet and four inches, weighing in about 250 pounds. His muscles are nicely outlined in a tight white shirt with three single black letters of his employer: FBI. Then he pulls out and sits in the plastic chair. Her eyes park on his coffee tan complexion, a sexy square jaw line, a dusted set of black whiskers, a pair of pink soft lips, a sharp nose, a set of highly arched pink cheekbones, and the bluest of blue eyes. His sweeping wavy black hair parts neatly on the left side, falling partly into his handsome face, partly around his forehead. The rest of his hair is cut short around ears and neckline. And his ears are not dumbo sized, either, making this unknown male hundred percent perfection. He grins with a perfect smile directly at Pamela as she slowly chews the big lump of food inside her two closed lips, grinning silly without teeth.

Arthur chews and grins silly to Ilenn. "Larry Johnson and Preston Kingly." Larry and Preston nod to each girl and dig into the spaghetti meal. The building cafeteria likes promoting healthy and calorie nutritious meal choices every day of the week, keeping the worker mental mind and physical body lean and mean. But spaghetti day rules.

Ilenn grins to Arthur. "Pamela and Lois, my co-workers."

Preston scoops with a sexy swing the long uncut pasta three times around the single fork and flips the utensil backwards, cramming the monster creation into his mouth, chewing three times and swallows. Pamela studies his hands and his closed mouth, witnessing the sexiest mouth watering manly maneuver on planet Earth. Then the bluest of blue eyeballs intersects with her cornflower blue irises as his pink lips dangerously curve into a slight arch on Preston. He chews and swallows a second monster fork of spaghetti along with a partial tomato drenching meatball. Pamela quickly drops her eyelashes down to her dish, avoiding the stalker mode. But she desirously wants to observe, study, and devour that handsome male creature. He sits slightly diagonal of her left between Lois and Larry. Silent air waves dominate the table as eaters enjoy their meals, since it is lunchtime for the working class.

Preston polishes off a fourth monster meat-and-noodle ball and clears his throat, rumbling in his sexy baritone. "Where do ya'll girls work?" He smiles at Pamela.

Ilenn smiles to Arthur. "We're programmers on level eleven."

The US Federal Building is located at the intersection of Magnolia Road and Eleventh Avenue, comprising a set of fourteen floors of office, including a penthouse restaurant on top. The restaurant requires a prior three week reservation plus an expensive bank account for the excellent food service and waitresses. The US Federal Government occupies the rest of the building levels, including the Department of Agriculture, the Department of Commerce, and the Department of Housing. An entire floor of FBI offices contains the newest kids on the block on the twelfth floor which is part of the Cyber Crimes Division. The other part lives on the eleventh floor under the direction of Geneva. The new Division of Cyber Crimes is funded by the US Department of Justice. Three years out the door, a division of Cyber Crimes in Birmingham employs a batch of smart and sassy computer programmers as a new type of cyber private dicks. The cyber private dicks kick each cyberspace butthole on a fleeing illegal hacker or an abusive attacker while targeting any and all active web sites and vital business portals of the USA. So, the new program is paying off big time. When a vicious hacker gets both halted and hacked by a cyber kitten, a cyber cowboy from the FBI investigates and arrests both the asses and assets of the hacker.

The cyber cowboys are made up of a trio of young and smartass FBI special agents, who trace, track, and tackle the hard bodies with a set of soft finger prints of electronic cyber computers applications and then slap a real person with a real US Federal felony. The cyber cowboy tosses the vicious nasty hacker with a set of huge duty hefty monetary penalties up the asshole's assets.

Preston scoops more food onto an empty fork. He is the director of the cyber cowboys on the twelfth floor, a nicely polished wooden floor above the cyber kittens. He rules and overrules on a daily basis the support employees Arthur and Larry for three tender years and works directly, but not purposefully with Geneva Lassater. Some angel in heaven really hates his guts for not forgiving Preston from one of his many earthly sins.

Geneva isn't physically pretty or mentally sweet. She is basically a bitch, holding a great big wickedly broom handle. She doesn't stop sweeping the cyberspace floor until Preston personally grabs every illegal cyber creep. Then, Preston tosses his or her ass of the illegal cyber creep inside a real jail cell.

He slightly moans under a puff of sweet breathe, pondering the non-fun business meeting with the witch at two o'clock today.

The cyber kittens live, work, and play inside Geneva's litter box and are not only exclusively secretive but are ordered without question to silence their meowing tongues and their wiggling tails. Preston only receives an extreme little tea tiny bit of informational shared data as needed from Director Geneva which isn't much larger than his pinky fingernail, making his daily job really tough and rough. He knows one fact about fugly ugly Director Geneva that she lives somewhere inside the city limits of metro Birmingham. Her personal cell phone contains a proper geographic area telephone code, but the other datum is off limits and offline which includes her, her department, and her employees.

Three months ago, Arthur had informally greeted one of Geneva's pets named Ilenn while line-dancing at the local honky tonk bar, spotting her lovely shaking-in-all-the-right-places physical form, since she and he worked in the same building.

Then they had started to secretively date and formed a hot and heavy physical and mental relationship, clearly ignoring all past and future male or female competition.

Arthur could quote by number and bite size the single rule of the Cyber Crime motto in his professional job. No personal exchange of information, especially surname, address, city, state, zip code, telephone numbers, family members, family pets, hobbies, churches, organizations, passwords, kisses, hugs, drools, or any other physical and verbal miscellaneous datum, connecting you to any person, place, or thing at the Division of Cyber Crimes.

Cyber cowboy Arthur and cyber kitten Ilenn had broken the first sacrilegious rule as Arthur disgustingly provided too much graphic detail of his personal relationship with Ilenn the following Monday into Preston's eardrum.

Preston had not been happy about breaking the newest hard core newsflash to Geneva, since Geneva had launched like a spiraling space shuttle into the outer limits of space, wanting to terminate the young couple on site but love intervened.

Well, Preston had.

Preston had offered him person as the sacrificial lamb to Geneva, promising his undivided attention in their two-party private meeting, where datum information only passed between their set of parted lips inside an enclosed non-recorded secret four-walled room, ensuring the divisional "silence thing."

Then, Arthur had promised Preston to pay for his trespasses in blood, if that day ever came.

Present day and place

12:20 p.m.

Cafeteria lunch meal setting

And that day has come.

First, Arthur invites himself to the lunch table with Ilenn to be near his girl during the daylight hours, since nighttime are full. Second, he becomes intriguingly curious about Ilenn's female co-kittens both from a professional point of view and later a personal one as Ilenn purrs between his biceps at sleep night.

Three years ago, Arthur and Preston had attended Birmingham University or Burn U. They had played both multi-sports and multiple girls, finally graduating with a degree in computer science.

With nothing better to do, Arthur had enjoyed quizzing and chatting with the numerous employer recruiters about some new and unproven work job, coming from the banking industry to the security sector in the popular IT field while wetting his appetite for the workforce. The opportunities for a steady job plus a steady paycheck had raced from the west coast to east coast within the USA and beyond, crossing the fish pond into the foreign countries of Europe and Asia. However, Arthur had wanted to stay inside his birth state of Alabama, USA.

When Arthur had greeted the FBI recruiter with a wet dream of crapping on cyberspace's growingly and annoyingly bad guys and gals, he liked the idea a lot and talked Preston into a single interview too. There had been three available FBI positions within the newly created and funded Division of Cyber Crimes here in metro city of Birmingham. Then, Arthur and Preston had joined and the rest was history as those dead historians liked to quote.

Present day and place

12:34 p.m.

Cafeteria lunch meal setting

Preston, Arthur, and Larry work around the clock like the one that hangs on the beige wall like a bumble bee.

The bumble bee buzzed above Arthur that day when it ventured through the open window in the office, trying to land on his baldness. Then Larry slapped the bumble bee into the wall with his notebook, leaving a bloody imprint, still present.

The FBI agents search every second, minute, and hour to track, trace, and trail a cyber creep. When the cyber creep is captured and placed inside a concrete jail cells, the FBI agents continue to track and trail the next cyber creep instead of romancing, dancing, and dating the opposite sex like a set of normal boys for both fun and folic.

Preston holds the worse job within the department as the director, supervising a set of twin howling and hunting country hillbillies. He is also responsible for his own field work performance as well as juggling the massive mounds of dead tree limbs called the FBI paperwork. Yeah, computers are supposed to make life easier, maybe in the year 2080, after he retires from old age with a head of long gray hair and ten grandchildren. Preston loves shitting on all the enemies of America kinda like a modern day cowboy that lives in the new western hemisphere of planet Earth, but he really hates sitting around a room of loud mouth friendlies that talk and bust English words instead of bruising a couple of physical body parts with his two folded fist for some bloody action. And all that desk and computer work creates a very long day, except today. Spaghetti day comes to the office building along with Ilenn's pretty co-workers Pamela and Lois. Preston wickedly enjoys the good food and the great view, mentally recharging his brain cells of Arthur's brief highlighted power point of each cyber kitten's potential.

The girl on his left is Lois. She sits at five feet and three inches of petite height and average weight. A short crop of bright platinum blonde hair frames an elf-like round face. Her skin glows fairly pretty with a set of huge expressive doe-shaped eye sockets of dark emerald green gems which is framed by a pair of spidery black eyelashes, a cute button nose, and set of bright red lush lips. Lois is single and available, slightly tapping with a seductive rhyme of a right summer sandal against his cowboy boot.

Preston feels female beauty comes in all different shapes, sizes, and smarts and swallows another delicious monster ball, winking at Lois for some flirting fun. Lois thumps a summer sandal with a giggle for another round of toe play onto his boot while pretending to eat on her full plate of food with the fork. Then she nosily drinks an empty glass of sweet tea as the ice cubes jingle in a musical song. Preston smiles sweetly at her playfulness again.

Lois recently has been dumped by an old boyfriend and is passionately looking for the next. She has worked for Cyber Crimes from the beginning of conception as a three year senior retriever. She owns a house in the Mountain Stream subdivision, riding her bicycle six miles per day in the evening after work while secretly bending some of the cyber crime rules without Geneva's knowing.

Pamela possesses a mop of wavy black hair down a slender back and beyond which is pulled into a tight ponytail. A pair of slanted eyelashes covers a pair of bright cornflower blue irises which is underneath a set of short bangs that hides her forehead. Her skin complexion is olive toned with a set of suntanned kisses of light brown freckles that runs across her naturally sharp nose, and a pair of undusted cheekbones with a set of pink warm lips. She sits prettily ladylike inside the ugly plastic red chair. He admires her sleeveless white cotton blouse with a set of toned biceps and two fleshy breast tissues that cheerfully overflow into a set of C-cups underneath the tight fabric. Preston guesses that Pamela weighs around 120 pounds on her tall five feet and ten inches girly frame.

He isn't picking about female dates, as long as, they're reasonably pretty. He has dated his share of doggies with their vocal nice personalities or their hidden evil intentions. Evil girls give him the creepettes. He doesn't want a female stalker, looking for a husband or a hoodie. Preston simply prefers the quiet shy girl, especially that cute move when Pamela dives her pretty blue eyes into the spaghetti plate from her spying. He mops his plate with the soft buttered roll with a chuckle, recalling that Pamela has worked one year for Geneva. The rest of Arthur's secret research datum comes up zero point zero about Pamela. For his neurons, the missing datum translates into two reasonable explanations. One, she follows all the written and spoken cyber rules. Two, she likes food, polishing off the spaghetti noodles, three meatballs, and two rolls.

Pamela feels a soft vibration on her left hip and not figuratively from a male's touch. Her individual assigned mobile tracker is warning that her computer is experiencing an invasion in her virtual sector of USA cyberspace. She exhales with a puff of frustration, seeing him seductively mope up a plate clean with the buttery roll and stands. Eye balls dart up in her direction. "Sorry, folks. Gotta go." Pamela lifts and waves her mobile tracker with a sour frown, reattaching the tracker slip back onto her hip and lifts a tray of dirty dishes, back stepping from the table and slams the ugly plastic chair into the table edge with her hip like a southern belle. Then she slowly turns and swings to the trash receptacle. She had hoped beyond hope that she could have enjoyed a couple of shared bites of the delicious pie with a suave and dreamy Preston. But. today isn't that day. Maybe, Preston will follow Arthur to lunch tomorrow.

Preston turns and views her intended foot path to the trash bin and the exit archway, patting his mobile telephone on his belt and says with a frown. "Damn. Be back in a sec." He stands upright from the chair and lifts a dead mobile telephone into the eardrum, turning and dashes head to intercept Pamela, before she exits forever. Two girls, two choices! Preston chooses her. She likes to eat and follows the rules. And he likes her pair of long sexy legs. Pamela taps the heels into the hallway as the baritone rumbles behind her skull with a shout. "Hey, Pamela! Right, honey?"

Hallway setting

A sexy voice and a burning heat approaches from the left as Pamela gracefully swings about to see him. Preston holds his mobile telephone, kissing part of his throat, instead of the earlobe. Pamela grins as Mr. Handsome Hulk recalls her proper name. "Right, Pamela. You're Preston."

"Pamela," he clears a throat like a high school fart. "Maybe, we can have supper, sometimes. Ya know like how about tonight, if you're not too busy with anything?" Mr. Handsome Hulk wants to eat dinner with her tonight. She smiles and shrugs her shoulder for drama, shaking her ponytail sideways. "No plans. Just reading some stuff from work."

Preston holds his mobile telephone between his jaw and his neck with a smile and a nod. "I enjoy Joe's Bar and Grill on Lakeshore. Have ya every been there? They have an American menu of beef, fish, salads, burgers. Would that place be okay, Pamela?"

Pamela looks forever with a smile into his bluest of blue eyeballs. "Sounds heavenly, Preston. Joe's Bar and Grill on Lakeshore around seven or so. Does that time frame work around your work schedule?"

Preston does not answer his mobile telephone but nods with a smile. "Seven is good for me too, Pamela."

She loves his deep baritone timber as he says her name. Pamela softly claps with a smile. "Excellent. I'll meet you in the lobby." Her tracker blasts an ear-piercing shriek for its immediate attention. Pamela grabs the pager, lifting and holding it near her face with a smile to him. "I'm being paged."

"Shore, Pamela. Shore. Get going until this evening." Preston nods.

Pamela elegantly twirls with a grin as her skirt swirls outwardly from her long legs. She slowly strolls back into her office, glancing behind her collar bone with a smile to see Preston and disappears into the dark elevator out of his eyesight. The door closes. Preston pivots around to the cafeteria with a bright smile, entering and marching to the table and his lunch and ponders his date with Pamela this evening. He stops and pulls out the chair out with a left hand.

Arthur looks up with a grin and a wink to see Preston. "Still on that call, boss?" He laughs with the others.

Preston stands and tilts his jaw with a puzzled brow to Arthur. "Call?"

"Phone near your neck, boss." Arthur points the object and eats the pie with a chuckle. He thought that Preston would like that one, chasing her down the hallway for a date. Preston cuts his eyeballs to the side and sees a silent mobile telephone in his fist, pocking the object with a sour frown, sitting and devours his pie.

"Who called ya, boss?" Larry chuckles and chews.

"Geneva." Preston chews, thinking of Pamela.

6:38 p.m.

City of Gardenville

Home of Preston

Hot temperatures and partly cloudy

The door sounds with a couple of knocks. Preston curses inside his guest bathroom, turning and stomps through the living room to an unlocked side door of his house, wiping off the exceed aftershave from both hands onto his clean blue jeans. He almost escaped from that kid-neighbor who was selling a pew of candles, a ton of magazines, or a roll of colored toilet paper this month for his school fundraising event. The door opens. He says with a confused brow. "Pamela?"

"Hi Preston. I brought..." Pamela lifts and raises three white paper bags over her face. "Thai food," she moves and stomps inside with a nervous giggle over the polished wooden floor, scooting around Preston into a black and white cozy clean kitchen, placing the bags on the counter and swings around with a smile to him. "Thai restaurant, off of Five Points South. I got sesame chicken. I like that best along with all the necessary side dishes of sticky rice, white rice, garlic shrimp, spicy chicken, noodles, and stir fired beef with the curry and eggrolls." The door closes.

Preston turns and follows her into the kitchen, standing and blocking the archway, staring with a puzzled brow. "Pamela?"

Pamela waves her arms with a stern face and a serious tone. "Explanation, yes? You deserve any explanation, Preston. I have a very good one. I do not break the rules." She rolls her eyeballs and whips her hands into a folded prayer. "I like my job. I need my job. I've been there only one year. So I want to be there many, many more years. I probably, well most likely, know lots of stuff about you personally than you will or can ever know about me. You work with secretive Geneva. Well she doesn't particular like me. Or maybe, she doesn't like anyone human, that is." Preston chuckles. She says. "But I'm new and still learning under her direction. I like you, really like you, Preston. I'm pleased as fruit punch that you asked me to supper, tonight. I...I want to go to supper with you, tonight. But at the same time, Geneva makes it very clear that our...me...my position, there at work is top secret. Firstly, I know all about Ilenn and Arthur. Ilenn blabs all the time but only with Lois and I. Secondly, Ilenn is very good at her job and has been there for two or so years or something like that. I really don't know my co-workers via Geneva's command orders. But I like my job and my co-workers. So I respect the rules. Are you mad at me, Preston? I hope not. And you smell great." Pamela smiles and sniffs the sweet man odors of vanilla, citrus, and spicy aftershave, igniting her kitten engines.

Preston blinks his eyelids in shock. "Pamela? You're most direct with your explanation and absolutely correct with your interpretation of Geneva. I...I'm not mad. I'm stunned and surprised but not upset. I'm thrilled you're here and brought food." Preston turns and looks at the bags of food on the kitchen counter and returns a smile to her. "How? Where are my southern manners? Let's eat and talk. Okay?" He moves and shifts to one the kitchen cabinet, reaching up and pulling out two eating plates and two drinking glasses.

She grabs the dinner plates with a smile. "Okay, Preston. Thanks for understanding me. Over to the table, is that okay?" Pamela moves out the kitchen, resting the two eating plates on the dining room table and spins back to the kitchen for the bags of food.

"I understand Geneva." Preston turns and totes two wine goblets with a chuckle, opening the refrigerator, pulling a cold bottle of white wine and moves out the kitchen to the dining room. He places each goblet beside a plate.

She moves out the kitchen and gently bumps into the back spine of Preston with a giggle, holding the bags of food, the napkins, and the utensils, resting them on the table. Pamela opens the boxes and dumps generous portions of the different types of food entrees over the big dinner plates, sitting with a grin.

Preston pops the cork and places the wine bottle on the table, grabbing and pouring wine into her goblet first and hands to her with a bright smile. "How did you find me?" His personal datum is not privately or publicly displayed for anyone's snooping.

She says. "Thank you. Your social network platform with your touchy feely people, photos, and pages of friendly relationships. Do you really date all those girls? Your social network shows and shares lots of hidden personal content along the pics of a skull, a neck, and beyond like your stacked eight-packed abs. Now, I see why you have 15,987 friendlies, Preston."

Preston sits and sips the wine, swallowing with a smile to her. "Fringe benefit from the FBI for my cover story of a smooth athletic jock for scouting out the cyber bullies or cute goodies on the internet."

She looks down and stirs her food together. "I see you wear your employer on your shirt around the office. Is that a requirement?"

He looks down and stirs his food together also. "For fun. How do ya know my personal home address? That's not on my personal social network." He looks up to her, chewing.

She grins. "Yeah right. Or a telephone electronic book either because of your job, correct? So inside your personal social network, I just connected some loose internet bot variables through a couple of logic root paths of one particular variable. Then I traced the user's model with one of twelve view ports. Then I dissected the creation..."

He chews and swallows. "You hacked me? You hacked my social network. That's illegal Pamela totally off the chart."

"Not really. I investigate any suspicious FBI activities all the time without permission from the hacker but totally with authority from Uncle Sam and Miss Lassater." She eats and chews.

"I thought you didn't break the rules."

She swallows. "I didn't. I wanted your home address, so I could surprise you with supper. And my devious plan worked perfectly." Pamela smiles and stabs the food with her fork.

He laughs. "Yes. It did at that. Is this your secretive job, spying on foes, friends, or both?"

"Javelin is the UI framework on all the popular social web pages."

Preston understands her suave bot techno language, saying with a nod. "Ah. It was known for busting through data and algorithms, including multiple synchronized POV's which was used by the US military in the early Federal Government. It was nicknamed the 'Star Wars Project' of the 1980s era."

She drops her mouth without any exposed food particles. "You're a programmer, degreed?"

He winks. "That's top secret. Why don't ya find out more, tomorrow?" Preston stabs the chicken with a fork, scooping up the rice and bites, chewing and chuckling.

"I shall after I've dumped some cyber criminals into your virtual shunt."

He swallows and smiles. "Tell me about yourself?"

She shakes her ponytail, since her mouth is full of food and swallows. "Can't do that, Tex."

He grins. "I'm slow but intelligent. I can honestly comment that I know nothing about you, Pamela. Can you feed me one tiny little datum?"

"No."

"I know your name Pamela Craft. Do you have a middle name?"

"No."

"That's not a national secret your unknown middle name. Is it weird something like Tiger or Cricket? Ya got those slanted eye things. Like you're maybe, there's a bit of an Asian heritage."

Pamela grins. "No. It's not weird. It's normal like me. I'm a normal American."

"We can discuss your heritage at the supper table. Are you Asian American? Your eyelids give it away." He eats and chews.

"No, Preston." She eats.

"You're Asian American on your mama's side?"

"No, Preston."

"Not your mama than your daddy's side?"

"No data exchange, cowboy."

"Ya know I learned some awesomely painful FBI ways of making ya talk?" He winks and eats.

"No," she eats.

He swallows his food. "Ya like threats? See, I'm learning a few little things about ya as you don't speak to me about yourself but answer kinda indirectly my inquiries about your person while sitting here at my table, not answering my direct questions."

She smiles. "No."

He points her untouched wine goblet. "You don't like wine, meaning you don't get intoxicated. And I can't ask ya any more nosy questions. Do you want a soda instead?"

"Please."

He stands, reaching and placing the unused wine goblet next to his dinner plate with a smile, turning and strolling to the kitchen. "See I am learning, mama." She smiles at his silly statement. He returns and places a tall glass of dark liquid next to her right elbow.

She says. "Thank you."

He sits and places the napkin inside his lap, stabbing his food with fork. "So let's start from the top. Do you live within the Birmingham city limits?" He lifts the fork and eats.

"No data exchange."

He chews and swallows. "Do you like dogs? Got a dawg. He's probably sleeping or chasing possums under the fence. He likes to do that a lot."

"No data exchange, Preston."

"Come on. You like cats, kittens, little furry things then?"

She smiles. "You live at 235 Maple Street. You bank at Third National Alabama on Walker's Chapeel Street with a bank account number of 6528..."

Preston drops his mouth and his fork and stands, turning and scooting to the office desk on the other side of the room. He stops and shifts through the loose stack of small pieces of papers, finding the object and flips open his personal bank account check book, whispering. "6528..." he gingerly tosses the leather check book case back onto the desk, spinning and strutting back to the chair with a stern face. "You got..."

"Credit card number 4859..." Pamela grins. "Shall I continue?"

He frowns. "How much do you know about me? No. Not the right question. How did you get all that personal data about me in a relatively short period of time?"

She chews and swallows. "The internet leads to a set of big computer foot print clues and then to a set of valid datum. The datum is stored and tagged throughout a few electronically deep pockets of a few computer databases, holding past, present, and future historical data files in both the US Government and industry private sector bins. I just kidnapped them, read them, and then tossed them back into their cyber space fishing hole. I'd strongly suggest a good identity thief company, monitoring your personal saving account. One hundred thousand dollars is quite a little nice nest egg there, cowboy. Are ya mad, Preston?"

Preston grins. "I'm impressed with your computer skills and I'm definitely forewarned. Are your bank accounts safe?"

"I don't own much. But I have ensured the bestest security method that my money can buy. But I don't wanna dwell on these lousy bank numbers. I was just only making a point."

"Point received and filed." He sips the wine and swallows with a wink. "So what's next?"

"I can't talk about my job or my person which kinda makes me, a really dull person."

"Do you go to movies or concerts on weekends, Pamela?"

"Do you get flexible time off to see an entire movie or attend a four hour concert? Or do you work when required Preston?"

Preston clears his throat. "Second point received and filed."

Pamela invades his personal air space with a smiling face and a set of cornflower blue eyes twinkling with delight. "I clearly see the wonderment Ilenn holds for Arthur. They're the same but not the same."

Preston leans into her face with a grin, almost touching her nose tip with his nose tip. "I think we're the same too, Pamela. Love our jobs. Do our jobs. Live in the now, because the then is gone. And the next is coming, too fast and furious."

"I agree, Preston." Pamela sits back with grin and stabs the food, finishing her meal.

He chuckles and stands, lifting and toting his dirty dishes of single drinking glass and the single plate into the kitchen.

She exhales, grabbing the second empty wine glass and her plate and stands, turning and strolling into the kitchen sink, ending their evening meal.

Preston turns and sneaks up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, touching both her hands inside the dry sink. He lays the used wine glass back down onto the steel lining of the sink with a whisper. "I have a maid service. They enjoy working." He scrubs his whiskers against her cheekbone, feeling the softness of her skin. She giggles as Preston kisses her bare collar bone from the off-the-shoulder summer time dress.

She giggles with delight. "That's good. I enjoy reading."

"I enjoy dancing." He scrubs his whiskers against her other cheekbone as she giggles. He plants a soft kiss on her other shoulder.

She giggles with pleasure. "Is that Marilyn singing?" Pamela recognizes the jazzy song music that blares from the living room.

Preston says. "Yeah. The song is entitled Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend, a combo of sweetness and sassy in her voice," he kisses her cheekbone.

"She has a nice voice, low and alto."

"I prefer girls with a flute fluttering tilt."

Pamela slowly spins into his arms, smiling and giggling. He back pedals away from her, pulling pulls both her hands to him.

They walk backward out the kitchen, moving to the living room as the piano encore of the jazzy song blares.

He stops as she continues to walk and park in his chest as he grunts with delight.

Preston back steps on a left boot, raising her hand in the air above their skulls. Pamela elegantly twirls around the floor to the beat of music. He releases her left hand, signaling the next dance step.

She stands with both her arms in the air, wiggling her hips side to side with a giggle. He smirks with his wicked thoughts and sweeps both his hands upright above her skull, touching her fingers and shuffles both his hands down as he outlines her dancing body.

She giggles as he grunts.

He poses both his hands at her hips and quickly shifts them to her waist, gracefully sweeping her into a hug.

They beautifully whirl in three completed circles as one form, dancing across the wooden floor until the music sweetly ends, separating their bodies from the hugging dance.

Preston grins and Pamela smiles.

They kiss and emerge with a smile.

She smiles. "Thank you, Preston."

7:01 p.m.

Master bedroom setting of Preston

Preston bushes his fingers gently through her wild hair and then down over her pretty eyeballs. He sweeps his hand, closing her eyelashes, and then tenderly licks her parted lips, lying on top of her. He opens his eyelids. "Ya...ya seem..."

"...young. I'm kinda inexperienced with all this." She smiles with innocent.

He frowns with worry. "Lordy, how old are you girl?"

"Twenty."

He drops his mouth. "Twenty? I almost feed a baby alcohol."

She can't shake her ponytail, since Preston covers her body. She whispers. "I don't drink pretty alcoholic beverages or smoke nasty cigarettes. I don't like the taste of beer, or wine or the smell of smoke."

He chuckles, "A real babe in my woods."

"How old are you Preston?"

"Twenty five."

She ticks her tongue for fun, "An old man."

He smiles with a devilish grin, "An old man with a young chick. I like that image. I like disastrous."

She giggles. "You do not. You like demure. You're a lady's man. I can tell like one of them studs from my old high school days."

Preston chuckles at his true personality and flashes backward to that high school chick named Missy. Or maybe, Molly? Or maybe, Holly? Or maybe, he can't remember that name.

However, Preston remembers that she wanted to join the Quarterback Club at his high school.

Seven years ago

High school parking lot setting

Arthur and Preston had been the star quarterbacks on the high school football team and had created the Quarterback Club for any female desiring to obtain entrance. The only requirement was that female must be virgin.

And this chick had been highly qualified.

Arthur had called dickhead skulls. Preston had shouted asshole tails.

The quarter had fallen onto the parking lot pavement, assigning the impromptu and quick-ass match mating selection process. The quarter had landed on its tail, giving Preston the grand prize.

Preston had drove to his parents' lake house which was located on the beautiful and isolated Lake Martin, planning to practice some one-on-one offensive maneuvers.

Lake house of Preston's parents

Bedroom setting of Preston

She had posed naked and sexy on top of his baby blue sheets.

Preston had roughly kissed her pretty face, completely covering her nakedness with his nakedness for his touchdown score.

She sorta and kinda had tried to resist with a set of useless, punching her folded fists and kicking her naked toe bones.

Preston had held both her wrists down onto the mattress and wickedly forced his single desire upon the precious virgin with an evil smirk.

She had screamed for aching pain and bit with her teeth along with light scratches with her nails over Preston's body with sobs of not celebrating Preston's victory touchdown.

Well that chick had not returned back to school on Monday.

Preston had not really given a fuck about the chick. But he had given a damn about being really close to eighteen years old, the legal age of something illegal.

This was his last pleasure fuck before starting college as a freshman. College whores could scream the same illegal issue too.

But Preston had a backup plan.

His dad had wisely guided his son to come to him if he got into a little trouble with hot rod, racing the truck or alcohol drinking for fun. But if the trouble is a girl, then Preston went directly to his mom.

His mom was a surgery nurse with connects to numerous medical physicians around Birmingham, since her sweet precious child was not getting suckered into a marriage, a baby, or a bitch.

One chick had whispered the word, pregnancy to Preston's eardrum on a lazy late afternoon during American History class at high school. Right before the word baby rolled off her forked tongue, Preston had her two naked feet strapped and locked inside a set of twin stirrups at the local obstetrics physician office.

So the chick had lied good.

Present day and place

7:13 p.m.

Bedroom setting of Preston and Pamela

"I..."

He smiles into her pretty blue eyes, knowing one day, that their child will have them, as well. He whispers. "You're precious to me, Pamela," he gently kisses her forehead, her nose, her cheekbone, and then moves down to her lips. He shifts his lips down to her swan neckline, then beyond.

She pants, whispering. "I'm a virgin."

"I'm a teacher."

"I'm nervous, Preston."

He smiles into her face. "I'm going to hold your wrists," he tenderly kisses each one of her wrists as she gasps with mixed emotional love and lust sensations. He whispers. "You're in good care just believe me, Pamela."

Pamela whispers, closing her eyelashes. "I do, Preston."

He gently kisses her lips, neck, breasts, belly button, then beyond.
Two weeks later

July 28th Thursday

7:01 a.m.

Home of Preston

Private bedroom setting of Preston

Warm temperatures with partly cloudy

Preston deeply feels within his mind, his heart, and his soul different about Pamela. He preciously loves her rosy scent, her sweet smile, and her long sexy legs. He quickly decides that Pamela is the one girl of his past, present, and future single dream and love desire.

He rolls onto his left side, silently studying her sleeping profile as Marilyn's alto voice sings from the alarm clock on the nightstand.

"Alarm, Preston." Pamela opens her eyelashes with a smile and a giggle to him.

"Few more minutes," he rips the bed covers from her, viewing her nakedness.

"I must get dressed for work, Preston." She wiggles side to side.

He places his hand on her waist, admiring her eyes then her breasts, and then the rest of her. "Few more minutes," he rolls on top of her nakedness with a grin and not moving.

She giggles. "Preston?"

"Yeah."

"I need to get up and get dressed."

"You should work for me. Then we can be together twenty four hours and seven days per week."

"Conflict of interest, master."

"I was almost your boss."

"My boss?"

"I was offered to head the cyber kittens division with the FBI cyber cowboys but suggested it separated. I can't stand that bitch."

"Geneva."

"Just told ya, that bitch."

"You're not a nice guy."

"...not to them bitches, snitches, or snakes."

"I presume that I do not fall into one of your specific riddling categories."

"You're babes, beauties and mine," he kisses her.

They emerge and smile.

She says. "You're so sweet."

"Only to you, princess," he kisses her again.

They surface and grin goofy at each other.

"I must agree then dress."

He says. "I give my permission." She tries to pull away as he raises his eyebrow with a grin. "Only if, ya promise to return to me tonight."

"I promise, Prince Preston."

"Good forth, Princess Pamela." Preston smiles. She slides and spins around, standing and wiggling her nakedness into the bathroom. He watches her pretty ass priss with a sexy walk with a smile and a chuckle, standing from the bed to bathroom also.

9:01 a.m.

US Federal Building

11th floor Cyber Crimes division setting

Hot temperatures with bright sunshine

Geneva stands behind Pamela, pointing a fake brownish-red fingernail at the laptop on the conference table. Stockton sits on the right of Pamela. The director says. "See that single marker of a single IP address in the foreign country of England, then it magically flips back to the city of New York in the United States. Then it electronically floats right over to the foreign country of Canada, and finally it swiftly drifts back to another new city within the good old USA. All emails, GPS locations, money tap wires, and mobile telephone calls can be tracked and traced back to that original input IP address, revealing all the green foot prints of all the combined physical sources, leading straight to a single hacker or maybe a group of hackers."

"So a single hacker has interplayed with all and available internet apps, scooting his or her electronic signal to all and any mobile phones then accessing all and any easily exposed US bank accounts to commit his or her cyber crime." Pamela nods. For the past two weeks, wasting two hours of her regular working day, Pamela has studied, traced, tracked, searched, checked, showed, changed, and hid a pretend make-believe solo fake Internet Protocol (IP) address within multiple cyber locations, ISPs, hostnames, proxy directions, email tracks, speed tests, and a blacklist too. The fake IP address has soared, sailed, and flown through nine foreign countries, six USA major cities, and three minor towns within the State of Alabama, using actually geographical latitude and longitude outer space coordinators Thus, Pamela can successfully do this 'illegal hacking' job in her sleep. Pamela reads out loud with a puzzled brow the red blinking unfamiliar error message on the computer laptop. "Enable IPv4 address conflict detection..."

Stockton says. "The IP address conflict message happens and display upon the screen when two physical computers are battling like a pair of medieval knights for the same cyberspace spot."

Pamela says. "But in the real world of networking or wireless, the internet requires an IP address to possess a single unique identifier. So it can function properly for transferring any type data. So that would mean only one traffic flow would end up in that unique IP address. What happens to other particles of lingering bot data?"

Stockton says. "A major disruption of transferred monies or data or information causes massive conflicting conditions within that single IP address. Therefore, the computer shoots the other set of datum out into cyber space forever."

"Does the source or hacker ever recover the data?" Pamela frowns.

"An ARP or Address Resolution Probe sends a new signal back to the conflicting host which clearly identifies the stoppage point of that assigned IP address." Stockton nods.

Geneva says. "And if the conflicting host doesn't complaint with commands then..."

"....the host tattles to the IP master, so the IP problem is solved only in a short-term order." Pamela frowns at the screen.

"Ah! But there's also a catch-22." Stockton smiles at the nose profile of Pamela.

Pamela frowns at the screen. "What catch-22?"

Stockton grins. "An ARP probe packet contains a special set of strings, controlling the IP address manually within the server."

"Don't tell her that Stockton. I'm training retrievers, not hackers." Geneva chuckles at the computer screen.

"Tell me what? I don't understand." Pamela frowns at the screen.

"To assist in the elimination of a conflicting battle of two hosts with one IP address, a good hard-nosed computer programmer can override that IP address within his network by manually typing that IP address. Then you simply reboot the server or the PC or a laptop or even a cell phone." Stockton ticks his tongue for fun.

Geneva says. "Any IP address conflict is almost always a configuration mistake done by a database administrator too proud to show fear or too worried about losing his job. He changed it manually while by-passing any set of employee passwords and security protocols."

"Technically, it's a software bug. So a database administrator has an excuse to fix it within minutes or seconds, right?" Pamela grins.

"A network administrator or another user brilliant in computer programming will utilize two servers on the same network or will lease some time with two hosts that lack a battery-based time recoding clock. The clock doesn't keep any record tracked tick-tock time when powered down at the host's site or suspended in the mainframe's sleeping time mode. I read that the mostest rarest server scenario is an excluded range with a static IP within a controlled sub-net." Stockton says.

"Excluded range within a controlled subnet? That's kinda like stalling a computer mainframe to hack into a system while it is sleeping and stealing all the electronic cookies." Pamela drops her mouth.

Geneva grins. "Exactly, Pamela. She's smart."

Stockton shakes his ponytail. "She's chatty."

"Then the hacker might could in theory create a new IP address causing megatons of cyber chaos, conflict, and control of the entire transferred datum from one single host. Holy cow. That's stealing. That's so wrong." Pamela frowns.

"...and illegal, if ya happen to get caught, my dear," Stockton pulls out his mobile telephone, viewing the text message and stands, turning and leaving the office.

"Don't fret, dear. The networking and wireless system error event log possesses an electronic backtrack flag that details all and every occurrence of a newly created IP address along with any and all associated IP address conflicts from the original devices and portals." Geneva taps a set of fake fingernails on top of the table surface with a frown.

"Not if, multiple IP addresses are involved. That's a scary thought too." Pamela stares at the laptop screen.

Geneva points the laptop screen. "That hacker used ten different IP addresses, communicating ten different offensives of stolen data, stolen monies, and stolen personally IDs. Let me emphasize here. This was one and the same person that performed his illegal hacking over and over again, stealing valuable tangible and intangible materials until he was caught by us, of course," smiling.

"I didn't learn these kinds of brutal tactics in my computer class." Pamela frowns at the laptop screen, instead of her boss.

"Because, Miss Craft this is the real barbaric classroom and not play with Dolly World."

"Yes ma'am." Pamela says with respect as a professional employee. Geneva likes to intimidate her fearful opponents into withdrawing from the fighting battle. Pamela exhales, withdrawing her fighting spirit.

Geneva looks down and reads the paper folder, back stepping and moving to her office desk. "Exit out, Miss Craft. You'll be using this computer here. This is the latest model from Uncle Sam with a higher RAM processing speed and less wasted computing time. Time is another important factor that a hacker hogs when defacing a website. Remember that, Miss Craft? This is our grandest weapon of defense. Sign in here. I will retrieve Stockton for your next un-tapped bot skill," she moves around her desk, leaving her office.

Pamela stands from the table and spins to Geneva's work desk, moving and stopping and stares down at the new sleek black computer plasma screen with a matching tiny computer tower. A square box shows the exposed user ID plus the hidden password below. She reaches and presses the ENTER button on the keyboard. A gray screen reboots to a gloomy picture of a dark damp cave as the electronic wall paper on Geneva's computer. Pamela sits and stares at the intriguing dark and creepy screen saver. Geneva returns into her office with Stockton from his potty break, marching and stands behind the ponytail of Pamela. Pamela reaches and taps on the keyboard any letter, revealing the familiar icons on any standard business computer dashboard of the new desktop computer, seeing the Human Resources app, the Worksheet app, the Printer app, the Internet app, and the other colorfully geometric yellow and red buttons. Geneva leans over the collar bone of Pamela. Pamela smells the forest pine cones of Geneva's perfume. The director tips two of her fake brownish red fingernails against the plastic keys, sounding like mice feet. Bright green letters appears upon the screen: CIA. Pamela gasps and comprehends the immediate danger of the new IP address assignment. Geneva wants to hack into an active traceable legal US Federal Government website with Pamela's new programming Opcodes. Geneva places a notepad at Pamela's elbow. Her eyelashes cuts to the paper notepad with a series of black numbers, representing an active IP address and as Pamela holds her breathe, exhaling with a meek voice. "Ms. Lassater, I don't understand why you need me for this difficult assignment. I'm obviously a novice at IP generation..."

Geneva smiles at CIA website. "Your binary language skills of course will be very valuable in a few more minutes."

Pamela stares at the computer screen. "Is this another test of IP address protocols?"

Geneva smiles at the CIA website. "Sorta. Go ahead and use your new skills." Pamela looks at the notepad, typing the numbers inside a white box. The white box is used to access US public data provided by one of the many US Federal Government agencies. The CIA letters disappear and then are replaced with a single white line of words. The words represent the Java computer language sequence Opcodes which controls the guts and meat of CIA website. Geneva leans down into screen, studying the Java sentence structure with a smirk. "Where do you install the exe.file?"

Pamela types on the keyboard with her explanation. "First, I convert to OS."

The screen shows.

Equate, Constants, Data, Execution begins here, Namebit, Execution terminates here, End.

Pamela says. "Then I open Namebit. See the visual OS file status holds zero equals no changes. Or one equals changed. I type the number one for the function of change."

The screen shows.

Namebit = 0

The screen changes to show.

Namebit =1

The screen blinks and shows.

Wb_Main, Wb_Proc, Wb_Paint, Wb_Create, Wb_Command, Wb_Destroy

Pamela says. " 'Wb' represents the main website. Wb_Proc contains the specific menu message commands."

"We know that. Do your thing, Pamela?" Geneva orders.

"Alright. I scroll over to Wb_Command." Pamela types on the keyboard.

"Ya need to state the size and create the file before you can execute that, cutie?" Stockton bad breathes the garlic favor from his breakfast burrito into Pamela's cheekbone.

Pamela types on the keyboard. "Wb_Create will actually notify the website when a person is hacking into the bot system. I bypass it, painting any additional byte screen, utilizing a used and abused parameter storage port as my program runs its task."

"Clever girl." Stockton chuckles.

"Definitely, smart maneuver around security." Geneva watches the screen with a smirk.

Pamela does not type but says. "Inside Wb_Command..."

"Go on and insert your program." Geneva orders.

Pamela says. "I'm reading the command statements for the right position. If I pick a wrong spot, then the bot program skips over my sub-routine, claiming it as a false statement."

"How long did it take you to figure where to install your first app?" Geneva asks.

"Trial and error, mostly." Pamela types with a grin her homemade computer program on the keyboard.

"How many times did you fail, Pamela? That's the correct question." Stockton chuckles.

"Here, right here." Pamela points to the screen. "Between the save files and the close process files. I type this." She types on the keyboard.

The screen shows.

Wb-Command.

Filesave

ENDIF (eax = ME_NEXT)

And...Filestatus, not NAMEBIT,0

Jmp...Wb_Destroy

Fileclose

"Then I create another 'if, then, else' statement within the Wb_Destroy, using my assembly language file." Pamela types on the keyboard.

The screen shows.

Wb_Destroy.

ELSEIF (eax= ME_DESTROY)

Jmp...Return

Stockton grins. "So simple. Once you execute and destroy the website, it can't return to the beginning of the original program for default restoration."

"Precisely, Mr. Wingard," Pamela smiles.

"How many times did you fail, Pamela? That's the correct question?" Geneva smirks.

"None. I work on the fly within real time. When my code aborts, I re-write inside the 'if, then, else' statement with a sequence of binary code until it works successfully." Pamela smiles and stared at the computer which is applying the Opcode into the guts of the website.

"You have destroyed the hacker's ISO." Geneva drops her mouth.

"Yeah. Isn't that the point of our retriever job to reach out and retrieve the bad computer worm and then stomp it with my cowgirl boots until dead?" Pamela smiles and stares at the computer as her homemade computer program downloads and processes.

Geneva pats the collar bone of Pamela. "Yes, Pamela. That's our goal. You're doing a fine job of meeting your professional bot goals."

She whispers. "Whatever." Pamela stares with a stern face and a serious tone at the screen. "Ms. Lassater, my homemade programming code brings down a website very time. This is a stupid lesson. I don't get it. I didn't learn anything in this assignment."

"Wrong, darling," Stockton grins at the screen.

Geneva smiles at the screen. "There's a database behind that IP address. I need access to that info."

"What for?" Pamela exhales with a puff of worry, pondering the bot lesson. The screen beeps. She says. "The internal computer firewall has dropped. There're binary numbers running across the screen."

The screen shows.

Line 1 00010101 10001111 10010101 11101011 10100100 11001101

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and eight bits for each number. Old stuff." Stockton counts out loud and laughs.

"It is an ancient set of binary Opcodes used in the 1960s, before my birth." Pamela drops her mouth.

"Only stored that way on purpose, keeping young babes away," Geneva grins.

Pamela frowns at the screen. "I didn't catch that meaning, Ms. Lassater."

"Geneva means no trouble for a gifted assembler language programmer." Stockton frowns at the screen.

"No." Pamela gasps, studying the rows upon rows of assembler language numbers. The numbers fill the screen. Her palms sweat and her tummy flip flops with invisible butterflies as she accesses an active database of the US Federal Government.

"Go to work. You can translate?" Stockton scans the numeric digits.

Pamela says. "Yes. I can translate into hexi-numeric English but that'll take time. Am I timed on this exercise, Ms. Lassater? Because it's very close to my lunch time."

Geneva looks down and stares at a sliver of paper in her palm. "Scroll down to line 31267. COBOL, Java, and assembler programming languages are written in a set of semi-words and math numbers within each line. The number 31,267 is the line number within the computer programming code of the CIA's assembler language program."

Pamela types on the keyboard. "Go to 31267."

The screen changes.

Line 31267 1110100 1100001 1100111 1010000 1010011 1010010 1011001 1011001

Pamela frowns. "Short."

"Convert to English words, Pamela." Geneva looks up and stares at the screen with a smirk.

Pamela types on the keyboard. "Converting the binary sequence into alphabetic words and math number."

The screen changes.

Line 31267 TAG 03299110456 Sl

"Is that it?" Stockton frowns at the screen.

The computer screen blinks in dark midnight and then bright yellow. Then the single row of both alphabetic and numbers vanish from the screen.

Geneva sneers. "No. There's much, much more. Re-type your command, Pamela."

Pamela types on the keyboard. "Okay. Converting the binary sequence into alphabetic words and math numbers again."

The screen changes.

TAG 03299110456 Slanton Ashley

Then the screen blinks in dark black and then bright yellow.

Stockton frowns at the screen. "What's happening, Pamela? Why's the screen bouncing between black and yellow colors like it's on fire or something?"

Pamela gasps with fear, flipping her hands up from the keyboard. "I'm caught. I'm being traced and tracked. The colors are a warning to me from the CIA network administrator," she scoots from desk but is not able to stand as she is blocked by both Geneva and Stockton.

"You said that couldn't happen." Stockton sneers at the new colors of bright pink then dull baby blue and then neon orange. "The CIA network administrator enjoys intimidating the illegal hacker while probing for the illegal entrance point into an active CIA website..."

Pamela says. "I said that I do destroy the attacker's website after my exe.file is finished. Here now, the CIA website is both down and exposed. So they're looking for the illegal hacker. That's me," she fears both a cold jail and a cool worry of imprisonment for committing a hacking job on the active and legitimate Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) website.

"Finish the convert before your targeted, Pamela." Geneva sneers.

Pamela says. "I can try. But if I am found again, then they'll start a full re-boot, breaking my signal and then..."

"...we will start over again as well. I possess another valid IP address from the information technology department of the CIA. This is only our first attempt." Geneva grins.

Pamela types the commands, displaying more English words. The binary translator quickly works the next set of electronic characters.

The screen shows.

TAG 03299110456 Slanton Ashley

IT 101991162238 Slanton Thurston

B

The screen blinks and then shows.

TAG 03299110456 Slanton Ashley

IT 101991162238 Slanton Thurston

BO

"Bo? I don't know any person named Bo. Do you, Geneva?" Stockton frowns at the screen.

The screen blinks and then shows.

TAG 03299110456 Slanton Ashley

IT 101991162238 Slanton Thurston

BOA

"Boa?" Stockton exhales. "As in a boa constrictor that windpipe suffocating snake, do you know any other snakes, Geneva?"

"A couple without the fangs," snarls Geneva. The screen blinks black then yellow and back to black. "Damn. Get it back, Pamela now."

Pamela types on the keyboard and flips her hands with a puff. "We've severed, permanently."

"Who's Boa, Geneva?" Stockton stares at the black screen.

"Very good, Pamela." Geneva exhales with a puff of annoyance, turning with a smirk to see the hair roots of Stockton. "We wait precisely thirteen minutes over ten but less than fifteen minutes, giving the CIA network administrator time to figure out that the resourceful hacker has left the cyber building," laughing. "Then we execute our second attempt. I'm too close to solving this puzzle now. Order us some drinks, Stockton. I suddenly find that my throat parched."

Stockton stands with a frown, turning and leaving her office.

Pamela scoots the chair and stands, swinging with a grin to see Geneva. "Potty break, please." She doesn't wait for the verbal permission and swings, moving to the archway.

Geneva moves and sits inside Pamela's chair, tapping her fake fingernails on the smooth table surface, turning with a smirk to watch the birds fly among the baby blue sky. "Be back in ten for our final conquest, Pamela."

"Yes ma'am." Pamela taps out the doorway into the common working space. Her two female co-workers are absent from their work stations, playfully flirting with the cute FBI cowboys outside the FBI bathrooms on the twelfth floor.

9:45 a.m.

The Division of Cyber Crimes is located on the eleventh floor of US Federal Building in uptown Birmingham. The open work office is a rectangular room with a pretty white cathedral ceil, looking down on the dark red cherry wooden floor. Sets of white wooden styled cross inlets frame the interior six sets of glass window panes, since the old building was once a school during the 1960s. The east sunlight provides hotness in the morning and coolness in the afternoon, blasting down on the individual office desk surfaces of Lois, Ilenn, and Stockton. The single door stands guard between a single row of tall and short red cherry wooden filing cabinets.

Across the entrance door inside the quiet hallway, a single elevator provides transportation to the parking garage on the ground level.

The private office of Geneva overlooks the city streets of Eleventh Avenue, Twenty Second Street and Tenth Avenue which is an entire block of prancing people, parked cars, and partial eye spying for the foes of her cyber kittens.

A single office desk of cherry red wood holds up one of the side walls along with the silver tinted desktop computer that sits beside a black colored ink jet printer. Both electronics clash ugly with a sweet décor of Pamela's solo workstation. There is a second empty desk, standing lonely behind Pamela, waiting for a future employed retriever.

"I'm not doing it," Pamela mumbles for her eardrums only. "I don't break the rules," she moves and marches down two column of office desks, reaching and stealing the exposed pocketbook from the edge of Ilenn's work desk with a right hand without slowing her pace, heading to the door.

Ilenn purposefully exhibits her personal pocketbook at that particular spot when she gets ringed on the office business telephone by Arthur to meet for a quickie kiss and a tender hug at food machine room across from the bathrooms on the twelfth floor. Since Geneva forbids any and all personal contact during the US Federal Government working hours of 8:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. with an hour for lunch. So Ilenn quietly sits ready for any type of fast-paced action then swiftly jots for a pretend hunger pain. Cyber cowboy Arthur of course pays for all and any snacks, coffee, and beverages for his cyber kitten Ilenn.

Pamela paces forward to the office door and steals the personal mobile telephone of Lois with her right hand also. The mobile telephone is planted beside Lois between the tall stacks of paper folders both safekeeping and spying from Geneva's eyeballs. For some strange reason, Geneva does not allow any personal telephone calls during the US Federal Government working hours of 8:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. either. So Lois uses her personal mobile telephone for a musical devise listening to roll and rock songs while surfing the internet on her computer for work research assignments. She poses her mobile telephone on the desk for both a quick action of talk and subtle numb of fun for breaking Geneva's strict rules.

A basic digital mobile telephone is designed with a circuit board, an antenna, a screen, a keyboard, a microphone, a speaker, and a battery. The circuit board carries the brains of the unit. The voice speaker is the size of US coinage dime. The microphone is no larger than a wrist watch battery. The keyboard control commands within the phone uses a series of radio frequency (RF) rays, accessing hundreds of FM channels by an interior antenna. Each phone has a unique RF array compatibility that goes outside the USA air space between the ranges of 900MHz to 1800MHz.

A single digital call or text data overlays each FM channel with a unique sequence code which can be traced eventually by an expert in the computer science field. A single data bite is sent in a series of small pieces which are scattered over a large number of RF frequencies for each command anytime at a finger touch of a telephone rang. The telecommunication security package provides a lock inside the mobile telephone with a SIM card, so the mobile telephone of the paying customer only works with their paying mobile phone service. But Pamela knows a specific special telecommunication code, compliments of the US Federal Government.

Pamela inserts and twists the tiny screwdriver, making tiny musical pings, echoing into her eardrums only. She accesses the GSM (Global System for Mobile communication application) on the personal mobile telephone that belongs to Lois. The GSM operates like a personal computer on your work desk a command system to access an encryption security function or a data networking internet function or a fax machine function or a multi-conferencing talk function. She skillfully twists the tiny jeweler screwdriver that was stolen from Geneva's right side office desk drawer during the lighted show of colored neon hues from the CIA website. The pretty light show had entertained and occupied both Stockton and Geneva without unsuccessfully searching and locating Pamela's hack job into the active CIA website.

A screwdriver implement is the number one chosen hacker and retriever dream toy for physically breaking into any type of computer tower big or tiny to mangle or mix the hot wiring that controls any computer on planet Earth. Boom! Pamela had learned these valuable hacker skills at Birmingham University while taking one of many college electives in the field of electric engineering, complimenting her computer science degree, mostly for fun and mainly out of boredom. She pops open the steel-plated rear panel on the borrowed mobile telephone and taps out a steady rhythm of music with the stolen tool. The jewelry tool is a precisely slotted tiny screwdriver of 2.0 mm by .40 mm by 60 mm. It is 2¼ inches of long fine smooth silver steel. The music sings in Morse Code configuration of dots and dashes that has been learned from Pamela's current hacker assignment under Geneva's encouragement.

Pamela creates a fake make-believe IP address and transmits it to the city of Eola in the US State of Texas. The IP address pings from Texas into the foreign country of Russia and drifts to Australia, to Pakistan, and finally faking out her cyber space co-workers. Finally the IP address delivers a single text message into the computer mainframe server back home in the USA in the major city of Chicago in the US State of Illinois like she has practiced two hours, every day for two weeks. Since Pamela needs money for a safe shelter for sleeping and some junk food for eating while developing a vicious plot to expose Geneva and Geneva's evil plan to the world or at least to Stockton who is Geneva's second-in-command.

Pamela cuts her eyeballs to the solo work station on the opposite wall, moving to the office door, wishing beyond wish that she could steal her purse with her money and car keys. The money and keys are happily hiding inside her office desk. However, she has fifteen minutes tops to clear the US Federal Building and walk out the office door, and stomps down the exit steps onto the sidewalk of Eleventh Avenue before Geneva gets curious about her absence.

Pamela places an order on the borrowed mobile telephone for two thousand dollars from her approved and assigned business travel expense bank account, compliments of the US Federal Government too. The electronic order will definitely be traced within a couple of hours by Ilenn, since Stockton is too stupid to figure out the random pattern. The embezzled money is scheduled for pickup within ten minutes at Jack's Gas and Food Station which is located at the street intersection of Fifteenth Street and Eleventh Avenue from the interior money transfer depot station within the retail business. Then she places a second money order of one thousand dollars from her government expense bank account again. The money is scheduled for pickup at the second money transfer depot office of Ted's Gas and Food Station at the intersection city streets of Fourteenth Street and Twelfth Avenue, a two block hike.

9:48 a.m.

11th Avenue and 19th Street

Traffic light setting

Pamela dashes across the empty hallway, turning and moving towards the exit door. The door opens. She dashes down the stairs in record time in a pair of three inched heeled sandals, reaching and slamming the door open without it setting off the fire alarm. Since folks like to smoke and kill the trees and grass of Mother Nature with the US Federal Government's blessings. She stops and stands with nervousness at the working traffic light of Eleventh Avenue and Nineteenth Street, looking over her collar bone with panic. No Geneva. No Stockton. No armed building guards. She swings around, waiting on the traffic light, thumbing through the stolen pocketbook for any more useful items besides the bank ATM card for a quick getaway from Geneva.

The traffic light turns green for the pedestrian crossing. She crosses the red traffic light, stopping at the cross walk at Eighteenth Street, and Seventeenth Street, moving and strolling to the Third National Alabama Bank, one of the many bonded and licensed financial institutions within the US Federal Government.

Pamela stops at the ATM machine, fidgeting with nervousness and slams the bank card of Ilenn into the vetted machine slot of an outside convenient ATM machine, surveying the busy city streets with nervousness. Pamela does not know the personal ATM pin of Ilenn, but she does know a highly guarded and top secret bank pin command code for bypassing the Ilenn's personal pin number. Then she will gain illegal access into Ilenn's personal monetary funds. She feels really bad for stealing from Ilenn, the bank, and the ATM bank machine and types in the secret bank code first, waiting on the new screen as she surveys the busy city streets with fear. Pamela swings around and smiles at the machine as it blinks for a fingernail command. She types the math number of six hundred. The ATM machine processes the command for a few seconds and spits out six hundred dollars into her palm.

Next, the ATM bank card appears half-way out of the vetted slot and then is rapidly sucked back inside out of her eyesight. The internal audit control of the Third National Alabama Bank has taken too long to figure out that Pamela's illegal bank pin command code is fake. But the Third National Alabama Bank possesses the bank card of Ilenn, so no one can attack her personal bank account for a second time.

Pamela spins and strolls away from the ATM machine with a casual gait like the rest of the hard working employees among the beautiful hot sunlight of July, moving over the rough sidewalk with nervous sweat. Occasionally, she looks over the collar bone for a stalker or a police officer. She exhales with a puff of fear of desperate assistance with her escape but needs to think first about her overall plan of exposing Geneva.

Pamela anxiously arrives at Jack's Gas and Food Store and boldly enters through the sliding glass doors, feeling the cool air conditioning on her sweaty face and paces to the money transfer depot station and the working clerk with a bright smile. She stands in front of the clerk, slowly saying the proper string of math numbers for her money order. The money order was sent from the borrowed mobile telephone of Ilenn too.

The money order clerk looks down at the computer with a nod and verifies the correct math numbers on the money transfer depot computer screen.

Pamela quickly pulls out the Alabama driver's license of Ilenn for a quick flash of an ID, but the clerk ignores the proper legal gesture. This side of the street corner is part of the Birmingham University campus, where lots of college students buy illegal beer cans and cigarettes, coming from the borrowed money of the shrinking bank account of their parents. The best part of her plot, the young female store clerk will ever identify Pamela, because she is one of the many college students inside the noisy crowded food and gas convenience store to shop. Pamela holds the Alabama driver's license in the air, so the store clerk can see a proposed and not presented ID.

The store clerk prints out a paper receipt and counts all the money with a smile to Pamela, correction Ilenn, since the lazy American worker did not perform a proper legal identification of the receiving party, saving the fanny of Pamela. She hopes the clerk at the other gas station on Fourteenth Street and Twelfth Avenue is incompetent too.

Pamela accepts the money from the store clerk with a nod and a smile, back stepping and turns, moving through the interior of the store. She purchases a set pack of soda cans and a big bag of potato chips at checkout counter, requesting a big brown paper bag for chips. She pays for the food items and swings around, leaving the store like the other wandering college students. She looks down and double-checks the leather pocketbook for a last peek-a-boo search, slowly lifting a brown card. She silently reads the words: Birmingham Public Library as she moves over the sidewalk, scanning each building. She finds the local Birmingham public library on Fifteen Street and Eleventh Avenue.

Pamela shakes a ponytail with a whisper. "No way. Yes way. I need information. I need data immediately." She decides to keep the library card. She can access any free-standing computer, throughout Jefferson County with Ilenn's valid library card without being physically or electronically tracked for a few days, at least. She dumps the empty pocketbook with Ilenn's driver's license into the trash receptacle at Jack's Gas and Food Station, keeping all the credit cards and cash money from the wallet, temporarily. Pamela can't use the credit cards for any purpose, because Geneva will swiftly locate her too fast, using any type of electronic pipeline from the Cyber Crimes IT department. She moves down the sidewalk like a working employee scouts for a lunch meal with the real working employees or the group of laughing college students.

Geneva, correction, her nice and friendly boyfriend Preston has been alerted and will trace the stolen money from the two money transfer depots and discover the Alabama driver's license inside Ilenn's trashed pocketbook. He will assume that Pamela is hiding out with some college girl friends. She feels terrible that Preston is going to be involved, since the director of the FBI Cyber Crimes has a personal interest in her whereabouts immediately. They have been secretly dating and having fun for two weeks.

Pamela continues to move with a nervous gait into Ted's Gas and Food Store towards the money transfer depot station and the working store clerk and then repeats the same process, collecting one thousand dollars cash. Then, she swings around with a smile and exits the store. She holds a total of $3,655 in cash money coming from her various resourceful maneuvers, moving ahead into bright sunlight and stops, leaning against the brick wall of the store and ponders her next slick move.

10:03 a.m.

11th floor US Federal Building

Private office setting of Geneva

In the department office, Geneva stands and hollers inside her private office archway with a sneer. "Stockton, go and get her! It is time to nip the blooming thorn buds," she back steps with a laugh and spins around, moving back to the office desk.

Stockton slowly moves from closed door, after visiting the hallway and the bathrooms, strolling down the center aisle of the shared working space, darting a pair of eyelids side to side for a missing Pamela. Lois slams the paper folders on the other side of her office desk, reaching out, touching the empty space, exhaling with fury. "Where is it?"

Ilenn scratches the fingernails down at the bottom of her purse for it and then dumps the entire contents inside her purse onto the flat desk surface while slowly scattering each item, marking it still absence and exhales with worry. "Where is it?"

Geneva re-appears and stands inside the office doorway, crossing both arms, tapping a shoe on the top of floor with a sneer. "Stockton, now, I am waiting."

Stockton stops and stands in the middle of the room, turning to scan each employee with a confused brow. He had previously checked each bathrooms the vendor machine cubby, the storage room, and down an empty hallway. However, Pamela was still missing.

Geneva snarls at Stockton. "Ten minutes doesn't mean twenty."

Stockton moves ahead and stops in front of the archway, bad breathing into the face of Geneva. "Pamela is missing. I can't locate her anywhere in the office or the hallway."

"What?" Geneva uncrosses the arms and dashes forward, stopping at Pamela's desk, jerking open and shut each drawer and cabinet. She locates the purse and the car keys that belong to Pamela with a stern face. "She is here," she grabs the car keys and spins around with a sneer while shaking the item in the face Stockton with fury.

"She is hiding from me or you then." Stockton chuckles with amusement.

"Why would Pamela be hiding from me?" Geneva frowns with puzzlement.

Stockton looks down and touches her computer that is powered down. "Pamela, to me, appeared to be very concerned about her...er...assignment."

Geneva swings around the shelf and shoves the purse and the car keys back into the cabinet, scanning the desk, searching for any little single note or sliver of paper with Pamela's brief absence. "She's young and new in her duties."

"These particular duties you assigned to her aren't regular, Geneva." Stockton stares at her nose profile.

"I cannot find it." Ilenn screams, lifting and slapping both palms on top of the desk surface.

Both Stockton and Geneva swing and stare to the nosily commotion.

Lois points to the spot with a puff of frustration. "Ilenn, have you seen my cell phone? It was right here covered by these paper files." She looks over her collar bone to see both Geneva and Stockton, who both note a shocked alarm coupled with a troubled body form from a second employee.

Geneva moves and rushes to Lois, stopping and saying with a puzzled brow. "What has happened Lois?"

Lois turns and points to the empty spot on top of her desk surface. "It was here. I mean. Well, I...I can't find my cell phone. It was here earlier." She turns and views with a worried brow to Geneva.

"How earlier?" Stockton stares at Lois.

"Well I went to the vending machine for candy bar at..." She turns and views the rear skull of Ilenn. "How long have we been gone about fifteen to twenty minutes tops?"

Ilenn stares at the scattered contents of her handbag on her desk surface and searches for it too.

"What's your problem, Ilenn?" Geneva turns with a confused brow to see the nose profile of Ilenn while noting a similar body language of trouble from her other employee.

"My pocketbook with all my money and credit cards is missing. It was right here on the edge of my desk like always." Ilenn shoves all her items back into her purse with a worried brow.

Stockton leans and pops Geneva on the arm, turning and mouthing in silence: OMG.

Geneva turns and shakes her curls to Stockton, so her other employees do not hear. "No. You're wrong. And you're loony for thinking those mental thoughts."

"Then where is Pamela?" Stockton smirks.

Geneva turns and scans the office space which is not holding Pamela, looking back to see her employee with a confused brow. "Lois, did you see Pamela at the vendor machine also?"

"No." Lois shakes her curls, lifting and searching her handbag for the missing mobile telephone.

"Ilenn, have your seen Pamela lately?" Geneva asks.

"Not Pamela, but it was right here." Ilenn points her desk surface, lifting and slapping her palms to her forehead with worry. Her missing pocketbook contains all her personal items which include cash, credit cards, driver's license, and photos.

Geneva turns and views him with a stern face and a serious order. "Stockton, search your desk. See if there's a personal item missing as well?"

"Whose loony toony, now?" Stockton turns with a smirk to his desk, stopping and scanning the same objects, and shakes his ponytail. "Nothing's amiss here." He spins around, moving into the nose profile of Geneva with a whisper. "She has collected both a cell phone and a wallet for money to travel...to travel where, Geneva."

Geneva looks down with a confused brow and a whisper to see the floor. "Why would she leave without her car, her purse? A fleeing vehicle carries her quicker to any final destination."

"She doesn't want to be tracked or..."

"...traced." Geneva looks up with a worried brow, grabbing and pulling Stockton by the arm into her private office. "Did you write down these words and numbers from CIA website?"

"Of course," he moves beside Geneva, producing and waving a tiny sliver of white paper with a smile.

Geneva leads to her office and shakes her curls. "We still didn't know which CIA operative is code named Boa? Do you have an inkling?"

"Absolutely none. Pamela was our best tool. I believe she has become frighten after hacking into a CIA database. I'd be too if I wasn't smarter than them assholes. Or she knows BOA." Stockton says with a nod and a grin.

Geneva exhales. "Impossible. She's too young, barely twenty years old. That's way before her employment here. As a matter of fact, she was in college a year ago."

"I meant to present that she's very good at cyber hacking. She might have uncovered some important information during her brief bot exercise. She learns very quickly and retains data very thoroughly." Stockton nods.

"Never. She's a babe in the woods."

"Then where is she?" Stockton smirks near the archway of Geneva's office.

"No." Lois yells at her office desk.

Geneva and Stockton turn and see that Lois is sobbing and pointing at her computer screen.

Geneva, Stockton, and Ilenn move and surround Lois at her office desk. Lois jabs a finger with a sob of tears at her computer screen. "I...trace...cell. See, see that."

"What have you discovered, Lois?" Ilenn moves and shifts to the front of the computer screen, scanning the information and drops her mouth. "You have accessed the GPS on your cell phone. Good thinking, Lois. Let's locate your missing phone." She shifts and types on the keyboard with a confused brow. "This...the number is 205-555-2452." She retypes on the keyboard, shaking her curls. "I don't get it."

"Where's the cell?" Geneva leans over the desk to see the computer screen.

"GPS locates the cell in..." She frowns. "This is not correct," she retypes on the keyboard with a puzzled brow. "The GPS has located Lois' mobile telephone in the State of New Jersey, USA."

"What city in New Jersey?" Geneva inquires.

Ilenn retypes and says with a puzzled brow. "The GPS has located the cell in... IP address conflict error. Computers, ya can't live with them and hate them more than..."

"Re-boot the computer, Ilenn!" Geneva commands.

"Yes ma'am." Ilenn presses the button to switch the computer off.

"Let's check the GPS on Ilenn's computer while Lois' CPU reboots." Geneva orders to Ilenn.

"Sure Geneva." Ilenn moves and shuffles to her desk, sitting and typing on the keyboard the same programming instructions with the mobile telephone number of Lois. She drops her mouth, saying with a puzzled brow. "I'll be a monkey's aunt. The GPS tells us that Lois' mobile telephone is located in the foreign country of Pakistan." She lifts and picks up the telephone receiver of the landline with a confused brow. "We got some big time problem with the FBI computer mainframe server. I'm calling this one in for trouble shooting, Miss Lasseter."

Geneva smiles. "Excellent work, Ilenn! Let the IT boys figure out the computer error. I...we're going into a private meeting for the next hour or so. Could you please watch the door, Lois and Ilenn? O. When Pamela returns, please send her to me."

"Yes ma'am." Lois listens to the ring on the telephone.

Geneva turns and leads to her office with Stockton on her heels. He enters. She turns and closes the door. They stand behind the door.

Geneva says with a stern face and a serious tone to Stockton. "A cell phone location in New Jersey then in Pakistan, does that GPS pattern sound familiar? Get that mobile telephone number traced from the original source now, Stockton? We gotta find that girl. She's hiding somewhere nearby without a car or another transport."

"Your IP address lesson from last week. Told ya Pamela's smart. She has gotten money, stolen from Ilenn and more if I believe her unique resourcefulness." Stockton moves and sits at Geneva's computer with a nod and a chuckle.

"Little smartass, what's her plot here?" Geneva moves and stands behind the ponytail of Stockton.

He types on the keyboard with a smirk. "I am tracing Lois' cell phone with a single IP address that Pamela has stolen from another host. Pamela is using this to mask her real physical location within the city limits of Birmingham. If I can extract a triangular position, as she uses the cell phone for communication, then we can capture the physical hideaway spot. Is that good enough, Geneva? I believe that she knows the CIA operative Boa."

Geneva hisses. "Impossible, Stockton. But the little bitch knows something worth her time to steal or maybe kill for it."

"Kill? Ya gone loco, Geneva. That girl's got killer looks not killer bang, bang intentions," Stockton smiles.

Geneva balls both her fists in fury. "I need to find Boa now. I am so close within my grasp. I can't believe my rotten luck."

"Ask Preston for help? This is his arena of FBI, Fairy Buttholes of Investigators. But I admit that them there cyber cowboys are good, really damn good." Stockton leans and writes down the geographical physical locations of the mobile telephone pings throughout the world from the computer IP addresses from Lois' telephone.

"Preston will not help me."

"I beg to differ."

"Preston hates me. This is my problem with Pamela. He'd be thrilled to find out and more thrilled, if I fail."

"He'll fail instead," Stockton chuckles and writes down the pinging locations.

"Why on planet Earth would Preston fail?"

"He has a secret."

"I beg to differ."

He chuckles. "Preston's not the goody-goody kid your imagination ponders, Geneva."

She frowns. "I...me...I'm not looking for any sexual relationship with Preston. He's..."

"...got himself a relationship with some other pretty little kitty-kitten?" Stockton types on the keyboard with a nod and a chuckle.

"Who cares?" Geneva exhales, turning and pacing back and forth, looking down to the polished floor.

He stops typing, turning and staring at her humped pose with a chuckle. "You're really dense, Geneva."

"Doesn't matter to me."

"It should matter a great deal."

Geneva stops and views to Stockton with a confused brow. "I give. What are you not trying to tell me, Stockton?"

"Preston likes to play with Pamela." Stockton smiles.

"I'm floored but definitely suspicious. Are you certain of this extraordinary relationship Stockton?"

Stockton holds three finger pads like a good nature-scout. "Actually, I swear as an eyewitness."

Geneva parts her lips. "What? You saw them outside our work office and they were together like...like some kind of dating couple?"

"I met her car parked on Preston's street during my spying mission. Ya remember? Ya told me to watch the bunny-babies after hours like a good government spy." Stockton spins with a grin to see the computer screen.

Geneva smirks. "You, scant. You like Preston."

He chuckles. "Don't insult my ego, Geneva. I'm straight pin straight, but I do wonder about you, love."

"Don't bruise your nose sticking it up my ass. I strive to keep my private life, private."

"You're straight. I'm straight. And Preston-boy is definitely a healthy heterosexual male." Stockton giggles.

Geneva waves both her arms. "Forget the sex part. I can use this. Yes. I can use Preston to find and track Pamela for me. Give that phone tracking work to Ilenn. I have another project for you Stockton to be completed, as soon as possible."

"What's your new plan, Geneva?" Stockton rips the paper from the notebook tablet to show Ilenn his computer progress.

"To get both Pamela and Preston," She laughs, reaching and dialing the familiar FBI telephone number on her office telephone, hearing the familiar baritone timber. "Preston, be here," gasping. "What?" She shakes her curls while listening and says. "I'm right here and not leaving any time soon. Yes. I will be waiting for your arrival in fifteen minutes."

10:35 a.m.

Burn U computer center

10th Avenue and 14th Street

Pamela enters the building, moving to one of six computer rooms on the second floor of Birmingham University or Burn U which is used for all studiously computer nerds for their academic classes. However the free standing desk top computers on top of the long tables can access the internet without a Burn U username or password. She enters the computer room and turning, smiling and waving to the active recording video camera. The camera is used to observe a college student while committing an evil cyberspace crime. She moves ahead and pulls out a chair, sitting at one of the numerous computers, typing on the keyboard her professional work cyber crimes username and her secret password to access her professional work emails, files, databases, and most importantly, a secret personal credit card account of her fellow co-workers. The video camera records her face and her collar bone as she clicks and smiles at the college computer screen.

While learning at the workstation of Geneva with the illegal IP address concept, Pamela had used the sign-on and the password of Geneva, freeing up her own professional work ID for use and abuse.

In the real world of computers, you cannot be in two cyber spots at the same time either.

By now, the CIA has finished the electronic butthole probe on Geneva's computer first, regarding a mysterious hack job that has been pinpointed on Geneva's professional work station. This clever ruse gives Pamela more tick-tock time to figure out how to get out of her mega-major space and time trouble.

Geneva, of course, will blame Pamela for the entire hacking and attacking of an active CIA website when she had tried unsuccessfully to illegally collect a set of information about a lone CIA operative agent nicknamed Boa. Pamela brilliantly plans to turn the cyber tables against Geneva and focus this cyber crime investigation at Geneva first, because Pamela is going to be vacationing in Paris, France or London, England,

She hasn't decided yet.

Pamela has accessed and memorized the credit card account number being very good at math, electronically exiting out of her cyber kitten workstation which is physically located inside the US Federal Government Building. She is being tracked by a remote station in the FBI information technology department now. Then her professional computer username will be relayed immediately through a remote station into a mainframe computer for valid indemnification to quickly alert the IT director of a rouge retriever.

Pamela remembered all these illegal hacker procedures from her first day at work.

Next, the FBI information technology department will contact Geneva to tattle on Pamela's physical location on this particular college computer terminal at the computer center on the Birmingham University campus. Thus, the entire electronic tracking will take about thirty minutes of CPU time.

She creates an electronic filing cabinet with the named icon "POV" on the desktop menu and prays that Preston gets curious, banging the keyboard to access the airplane flight information on the internet, and views the wall clock on the computer 10:38 A.M.

Time flies with fun and games.

She punches the stolen credit card number into a slotted box to reserve both an air flight and a double queen-sized hotel room for seven wonderful days to leave Birmingham, Alabama at 1:05 P.M. Pamela exchanges planes in Atlanta, Georgia with a finally destination in the foreign city of Paris, France on a first class air fare price of 8,537.22 dollars, US.

Next, the stolen credit card accepts the data and shows a blue colored approval status.

Pamela presses the keyboard buttons of Ctrl C which copies the face page of the electronic airline ticket and clicks Ctrl V which inserts the electronic print face of the airline information into her tiny filing cabinet of POV on the desktop of the college computer.

Pamela books and repeats a second airplane flight and a hotel room for seven days from Birmingham, Alabama to New York City and then lands in London, England in first class style for 7,893.51 dollars, US.

The credit card accepts and approves for a second time.

Pamela presses Ctrl C which copies the second airline information and presses Ctrl V which inserts the second electronic air plane flight information into her electronic file cabinet of the icon POV too. To add to the fun, she books a subcompact rental car and four different personal tours of famous landmarks in both France and England for a price tag of 6,963.84 dollars, US.

The credit card accepts and approves all the purchased transactions also.

Pamela copycats the electronic face pages of the car and the tours into her icon POV on the desktop as the electronic proof of her acquired illegal financial gifts.

Finally, she orders a set of four lovely evening formal ankle-length gowns with a set of matching glittery purses of course and four different pairs of evening shoes for a grand price tag of 2,129.54 dollars, US.

The credit card accepts and approves all the clothing purchases too.

She copycats the electronic receipts for the gowns, shoes, and purses into her newly created POV icon on the desktop. Pamela smiles and views the computer time clock 10:48 A.M.

She types her boss' name 'Geneva Lassater' on the search engine inside the white horizontal box.

When the information displays on the computer screen, Pamela presses Ctrl C which copies the internet face page and Ctrl V that inserts and pastes the electronic pages into her icon POV on the desktop again. She repeats that procedure four more times with the name 'Geneva' which shows on more internet electronic pages into her icon POV on the desktop. Then, she types her name 'Pamela Craft' on the keyboard and copies and pastes all the electronic pages into her icon POV on the desktop also. Finally, Pamela types the name 'ipam' and copies and pastes the associated electronic pages from the interest search engine into her icon POV on the desktop. The pen name ipam is used when Pamela enjoys the fun hobby of publishing her science fiction adventure e-books on the internet for free.

Pamela smiles and views the computer time clock 10:58 A.M.

Time to go!

10:59 a.m.

Private office setting of Geneva

The entrance office door opens. Preston enters into Cyber Crimes department with a sneer. He and she passionately hate each other from the very beginning formation of the Cyber Crimes unit within Birmingham, three years ago. And he and she patiently watch and impatiently wait to dethrone the other one in a finally fugly ugly fucking-ass dog fight. Today is that day for Preston.

He smirks with for the upcoming victory dance on top of her dead body both figuratively and fugitively. The latest and greatest CIA news blast back tracks a reported hack job from Geneva's personal work ID computer station on the eleventh floor of her division. Preston has got her as the boot heels of Arthur and Larry follow too closely behind his strutting ass.

The entrance office door closes.

Geneva stands with both crossed arms in the middle of the office space with a smile. "We move into my office, Preston. We do have so much to discuss," she pirouettes to lead the FBI trio into her office. Preston struts through the archway as she about faces. He lifts and holds with a smile a single piece of paper. She recognizes the US federal warrant to search without her permission any office drawer or desk computer or filing cabinet, saying with a nod and a grin. "Truce, Preston! I got a rouge retriever, who used my computer illegally hacking into an active CIA website and who has escaped by both feet and claw. That means you help me," she leans to his face with a giggle.

Preston back steps from her stinky breathe with a confused brow. "Show me your rouge! Then, maybe, I might help you. Otherwise, I'll haul your flabby ass directly to jail, Director Geneva."

Geneva swings around with a clap and a giggle, pointing a fake fingernail to Stockton, who stands behind a long empty table with a single computer projector, saying. "Lights, camera, and action, Stockton!" Stockton shifts several rolling desk chairs in front of the long table with a grin and a chuckle. The table holds a computer projector. The projector faces the white solid painted wall without pictures. He stands beside the row of chairs, motioning for the cyber cowboys to sit and see. Geneva reaches out and pats an empty chair next to her with a grin and a giggle. Preston moves and sits next to her with a huff. She turns and faces the white wall with a smirk. "Display please, Stockton! Everyone pay close attention the first time. We don't want to repeat our Oscar winning performance again."

Stockton moves and pulls the dark curtains over the sunny windows. The room darkens. A digital picture brightens with clear clarity over the white wall. Geneva smiles as Preston gasps. She says with a nod and a grin. "Stockton, why don't you tell Preston about our fascinating little story that occurred this morning inside my private office?" Preston cuts his eyelids to her nose profile with a sneer.

Stockton clears his throat for drama and says with a grin and a nod. "May I formally present Pamela Craft, our rough Retriever? In case, ya'll have never met." Preston leans and snarls into her nose profile. Stockton says. "At the present time, we don't know her whereabouts. However, this morning at approximately 9:40 A.M., Pamela accessed here at the Cyber Crimes department into the director's computer and hacked into an active CIA website for some type of unknown secret datum. The best, we could figure, she was researching for an agent code named Boa. Does that name mean anything to you, guys at the FBI?" Preston continues to snarl into her nose profile.

Larry shakes a skull, looking at the digit picture of Pamela which is from her government badge.

Arthur stares with a worried brow to Preston, who has not stopped snorting, sneering, and snarling viciously at Geneva.

Stockton chuckles with glee. "Guess not! So, for the next stage..."

Preston stands upright from the chair and spins around to see Geneva, towering over her hair roots with a sneer. "I wanna talk to your staff, Geneva."

She slowly smiles her lips and slowly stands on her designer heels with a nod. "This way. My staff is eager to help you, as well, Preston," she side steps around Preston, leading with a grin of victory.

Preston reaches and grabs her forearm with a staring sneer as Arthur, Larry, and Stockton scoot around the love birds for the impromptu meeting or fight. Her fugly ugly features gnaw at his inner guts as her frizzy curly dishwater blonde hair flies like a pack of nasty gnats in the air waves. Her burning violet pupils heat his black whiskers with a forest of burning fire. She has a pretty face. But her flat nose looks funny like she has been boxed literally for love with a sex partner. Preston softly chuckles, studying her skin tone. Her outer skin tans easily into medium brown, but her swan neck is the color of white snow. Her left cheekbone, ear, and jaw line are colored light brown like she has some kind of weird-ass skin inflection covering her ugly face. Her right cheekbone, ear and jaw line are nicely colored in dark brown skin tone like a normal human being. Preston sneers and sweet breathes into her face. "I intend to hear Pamela's full story, Geneva."

Geneva smiles. "It will match word for word my sentence structure. You'll see, Preston." She jerks away from his painful gripe. "Right now, you and I have a rouge which means you and I need to work together to stop her before that roaming retriever causes more trouble than fears."

Preston smiles. "I don't have fears, Geneva. But I guess you might fear something."

Geneva gasps and snarls. "Don't get your pool floatie inflated. I didn't fear you, Preston."

"Then, you should." Preston spins around and stomps through the archway into the office space as Geneva follows behind his strutting ass.

Inside the working space, Stockton continues to roll several stray office chairs around Ilenn's office desk. She currently is tracking the single IP address sent from Lois' stolen mobile telephone to Pamela's last known physical location in the US State of Alabama and not the US State of New Jersey. Stockton chuckles with delight, reminding Geneva time and time again that Pamela is too smarty for her own good.

But Geneva is obsessed with that CIA code word: boa which drives the loony woman crazy with the hidden mystery as she forgets her real programmer job at the Cyber Crimes.

Arthur stops and sits down an empty chair, slipping the mobile telephone out from the jacket, viewing Preston. "Do we need a court order, Preston? I can contact the magistrate of the thirty seventh court..."

He stops with a stern face. "Naw." Preston sits down and leans back into the chair, studying the nose profile of Geneva. "I'm the law here. If I determine Pamela's a rough retriever, then we track her. Find her first. She can't be too far."

Lois sits next to Larry, turning with a worried frown to see the nose profile of Preston. "She stole my cell."

Stockton nods. "And Ilenn's pocketbook with all her money and credit cards is missing from her office desk as well. We're assuming the same thief lifted both items."

"Understood!" Preston sits in the middle of a semi-circle, viewing the nose profile of Geneva.

Geneva leans sideways into Preston with a lady sneer. "Call off your bedmates, Preston! I am not the thief here."

Preston shifts a chin to Larry with a whisper and a stern face. "Code 'warrior' to the CIA." Larry stands upright from the chair and spins around to face the entrance door, pulling out the mobile telephone for the FBI order communicating in privacy. Code 'warrior' means that Preston will find the problem and eliminate it and report his actions back to the CIA.

Geneva says with a smile and a nod to each face or nose profile. "To update everyone! Pamela is presumed labeled a rouge retriever, as well as, the current thief of her stolen co-workers' items, including Lois' personal mobile telephone and Ilenn's wallet pocketbook unless it is proven otherwise. At this moment, Ilenn is tracing the cell's IP address from a phone number listed as 205-555-2452 to locate Pamela's true whereabouts. So we can nicely ask her true intentions."

Ilenn points to her computer screen. "Hey. Look at this. I'm getting some kind of error pop up from the system tray. System error states..."

Arthur leans into her computer screen. "Enable IPv4 address conflict detection. That's a single IP address working two different bot systems."

Stockton nods. "An IP address conflict occurs when two devices, such as, two laptops or two printers or two routers or two firewalls or in this case, two cell phones are trying to access the same IP address on the same broadcast domain."

Preston staples the fingers in front of his chest. "Hmm! She has created her own pathway with the same IP address, bombarding the cell phone system, disguising the physical Birmingham street location."

"She's smart." Arthur turns and grins to the nose profile of Preston.

Larry returned from his FBI command and sits back down in the chair with a smile. "She is very resourceful? Did you teach her that maneuver, Geneva?"

"Definitely not!" Stockton sneers. "These are without a doubt a set of illegal hacker's touchy green finger pads."

"Agreed. What do we do now, Preston?" Geneva nods.

Preston stares at the computer screen. "Arthur, do your thing with the ARP? See if ya can clear the conflict and find the right channel? Then maybe we can find some right answers," he cuts his eyelids to Geneva. She smiles back to him.

"Shore, boss!" Arthur stands upright from the chair and moves ahead towards Ilenn, stopping, leaning down with a smile into her face. "Hey, sweetheart! Lemme sit there. I need full keyboard access." Ilenn stands and pats his collar bone as he smiles at his girl. Arthur shuffles the plasma screen and keyboard to the edge of desk, allowing all eyeballs to see his computer skills. Then he sits and types.

"ARP?" Lois frowns with confusion at the computer screen.

Larry says. "Address Resolution Protocol is a command that cleans out a rouge IP address and then clearly identifies a single path to the host in this case, the hostess source."

"My cell phone. That's the source, my cell," nods Lois.

"We understand, Lois," Geneva smiles to Preston as he stares at the computer screen.

Arthur types and stares at the computer screen. "She has transmitted a scouting signal on the original cell phone of 205-555-2452. Is that your cell, Lois?"

"Yes." Lois nods.

Arthur types and stares at the screen. "Then the IP address goes to a second mobile telephone number of 92-42-6315847. That's a Pakistan telephone code. Then it flips into an incoming call of 205-555-8041 which is back here in Bama. And then to an outgoing telephone call of 305-555-8953, that's in South Florida."

Preston shakes a skull. "Forget tracking the cell phones. Pamela obviously has pinged off the original mobile telephone number to more than a few different routers but still used the one original IP address. So, track the IP address and see what you get, Arthur?"

"Shore, boss." Arthur types and stares at the screen with a confused brow. "This is weird, Preston."

"What's weird? What have you found?" Geneva leans and invades Arthur's space, narrowing her eyelashes at the computer screen. She uses her quick intellect to chase down Pamela before Preston.

Arthur shakes his bald skull. "There appears to be a set of payments of monies under this IP address."

Ilenn frowns. "Gawd! She robbed me, twice."

Arthur says. "At 9:48 am, the payment of monies went to Ilenn..."

"Not me." Ilenn frowns with annoyance. "She used my Alabama driver's license from my stolen wallet to get that money. I'm not involved with Pamela or her crimes."

Arthur says. "An electronic money exchange receipt number of 8070047919083800574 which comes from bank account number 35215359..." He points to the screen with a grin. "Hey. I recognize those beginning digits..."

"That's one of many US Federal Government bank accounts. How much did she steal?" Preston nods.

"There's 1,000 and 2,000 add to 3,000 dollars total from the US Federal Government." Arthur chuckles.

Geneva gasps. "That's my division's Cyber Crimes travel expense bank account that is owned by the US Federal Government. She stole from me."

"Where were the monies delivered, Arthur?" Preston says.

"And do not say in Pakistan. We all ain't dumb hillbillies." Geneva sneers at the nose profile of Preston as he smiles with amusement.

Arthur says. "The IP address is 66.90.74.225. That's a FDC server.net in Chicago, Illinois and not here."

"Pamela is located in Illinois." Lois frowns with confusion.

Arthur shakes a bald skull. "Naw. She bounced the IP link around the USA. So we can't track her. Your cyber kitten's really good, Preston." Arthur is the only person on planet Earth that knows Preston and Pamela are secretively dating. But that slick remark might just raise some hairy eyebrows. Preston views Geneva as she smiles back at him with her learneth datum.

Stockton narrows the eyelids at the computer screen, reading out loud. "The next IP address is at 82.114.158.11 in the foreign country of Russia. Then it pings at the IP address 118.107.140.138 in the foreign country of Australia. The next electronic signal goes to an IP address at 203.81.224.201 in the foreign country Pakistan," he lifts his hands with a confused brow. "I give up. The signal's all over planet Earth, bouncing worse than Bama hail," chuckling.

Preston is trying to figure out how to find and stop Pamela from getting into any more illegal trouble, since he plans to personally interrogate her without anyone present. Her actions do not make any sense, since he has gotten to know her very well over the last two weeks. He orders. "Arthur, forget the IP address and concentrate on the GPS probe of the original IP address from Lois' cell. That might give us a fresh lead."

Geneva snarls. "We don't need any more tattle-tale leads, Preston. We need the location one single location of one rouge warrior named Pamela."

Arthur says. "Using the GPS satellite, I got Gramin Rhino 120 service number 415148192 in the foreign country of Pakistan, then it quickly shifts..."

"Not right?" Geneva yells in total frustration. "Does your cowboy really know what he's doing, Preston? Because she ain't left the city limits of Birmingham, Alabama even I can deduct that fact."

Arthur turns and smiles to Preston. "Man. Your kitten's damn good, Preston. She's brilliant," he turns and views the screen. "The next GPS rolls into..."

The mobile telephone rings. Geneva pulls out and answers her mobile telephone with a yell. "What?" She listens and repeats. "The Birmingham University computer center on Tenth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. Thank you," she removes the device and swishes the mobile telephone off with a puzzled brow.

"Burn U?" Stockton turns with a confused brow to see the nose profile of Geneva.

Geneva stands upright from the chair with a sneer. "The Cyber Crimes IT department has located Pamela's active professional work ID inside the Burn U computer center. She's there, stealing more of my money..."

"The government's money, Geneva." Arthur stands and trips over Ilenn, purposefully running into her body. They wrap two arms around their entangling bodies for fun in front of Geneva, breaking her stupid house rules. They grin and giggle together.

"Head up and out." Preston stands upright from the chair and spins around with a smile to face the closed door, dashing through the department in search for Pamela.

11:20 a.m.

11th Avenue and 19th Street

Birmingham University breakfast bar setting

Pamela strolls in total comfort on a pair of abused dull grayish-white pair of athletic sneakers from the Swap Shop on Eleventh Avenue, departing the Southside Public Library to the diner. She dashes and ducks into the Burn U campus-owned breakfast bar that serves big bowls of cheap food and offers free Wi-Fi. She wears an abused black and green backpack on her back muscles coupled with a pair of gently used baggie dark blue jeans, a white oversized cotton shirt with the words Burn U over her breasts. And finally she displays a lovely sleeveless vividly colorful green, red, and blue diamond-geometric shaped silk vest over the old T-shirt and her breasts.

The state-run college has many amenities for a herd of poor jobless college students, such as, the Burn U Swap Shop. A student can swap for free of charge or for a tiny monetary fee any object, but a nasty sex act for another item. The shop is located inside four dull grayish-white walls of a tiny store which is no bigger than a studio apartment.

Pamela has exchanged her own prettily pink sleeveless blouse and a matching short pink skirt for a new disguise to deceive the traffic vehicle onlookers as a studiously college student. Another second amenity for a herd of poor jobless college students is the local Southside Public Library. Pamela has chosen to perform her second illegal deed, stealing a Southside public library computer laptop with Ilenn's library card.

The front door of the breakfast bar opens. Pamela enters through archway and marches to the food counter, stopping and ordering food, and pays with the stolen cash from Ilenn's pocketbook. The door closes. She grabs the food tray, turning and selecting a nice window table that overlooks the busy intersection of both traffic and people flow at Eleventh Avenue and Nineteenth Street, and sits, dropping the tray and back pack in front of her face. She bites into the delicious oversized white sugary cinnamon roll, sipping on the cup of steamy dark brown hot chocolate with four white marshmallows, since the air condition works overtime cooling customers inside the nice eatery. She drags and rests the stolen laptop on top of the table surface, accessing and searching the internet for the word, boa. Her awesome homemade computer program has uncovered a hidden message inside the CIA website, while her smart memory cells have photographed all those English words and math numbers. Since Pamela is smart or just more smartass determined.

TAG 03299110456 Slanton Ashley

IT 101991162238 Slanton Thurston

BOA

Hopefully, she has provided enough cyberspace bread crumbs without being tracked by Geneva for Preston to follow her sketchy leads. Since he's smarter than Geneva too. Geneva is hiding something evil and her direct assault upon a legitimate US Federal Government website proves it beyond any dark shadowed doubt. Since this attack has gotten Pamela into deep brown puppy poopy. But Pamela has brains too. She has left Preston a unique birthday present for his in-depth personal snooping in the other direction. While, Pamela tracks a single clue to solving the mystery problem.

The word boa is coupled with the proper names of Ashley and Thurston Slanton, who might be kin folks or a married couple. And she can't access their names with the stolen laptop either, since the public library electronic router uses the same US Federal Government channel too. Her stolen laptop will start beeping its distress to its master in about thirty five minutes when the library's radio frequency air wave connects to a remote router (her laptop) and realizes that the time limit has expired.

When the librarian has trouble locating a wandering Ilenn inside the Southside Public Library building, she will contact the library computer people. Then the library computer people will contact the Birmingham police for the stolen property. Then the police will come here to the Burn U breakfast bar via the electronic GPS technology.

Pamela has thirty total minutes to lounge until running from Geneva again while sipping on the hot beverage and gawking at the traffic intersection. She stares at the stolen laptop that slowly processes the word boa. The usual internet references appear quickly on the computer screen. She reads the first item with a whisper. "Boa constrictor is a large solitary snake from the country of Central and South America that lives inside the rainforests, the savannas, and other cool spots on planet Earth." Pamela wonders if the code name is a foreign national person who works for the CIA. Since this snake lives inside the USA too. She read the second item with a whisper. "A Korean actress nicknamed Boa." She shakes her ponytail. A foreign Korean working for the American CIA is too remote here in Alabama. Metro city Birmingham is not an exciting hot spot on planet Earth.

Pamela doesn't officially know if that CIA reference is exclusively inside the city limits of Birmingham, but Geneva does live and work here too. Pamela remembers that Geneva has never worked any place else in the past three years. Since, Pamela likes listening to hot gossip also. Lois has a set of big plump lips which needs to be stapled, sometimes.

Pamela reads the next electronic entry on the laptop with a whisper. "Boa, a set of cheap quality soft feathers. A boa is an extra pretty flamboyant accessory over an evening gown or sparkling clothing item." Pamela ponders if the word boa could be slanted towards a female agent rather than male, a good mental question. Or could the agent be Geneva in an ugly disguise? Or is Geneva a deep CIA cover-up, a better question? Pamela reads the next electronic entry on the laptop with a whisper. "BOA, Baja Outdoor Activities. The company offers sea kayaking, snorkeling, forest camping, and whale watching for a group of mountain outfitters that offers any type of outdoors expeditions." The reference presents from a male perspective related to the term boa, not a female. Females don't usually engage in multiple sport activities like guys. She types the words CIA BOA on the laptop, seeing the electronic results and whispers. "Boa Nova by CIA, a musical group from the foreign country of Spain. No. That's too far out there," giggling. And then, she types on the laptop for more searches to the references of boa.

11:23 a.m.

US Federal Building

Parking garage setting

Inside the parking garage, Preston stands in front of the car and holds three fingers beside the eyeball with a sneer. "Three cars!" He reaches out and shoves Geneva away from his FBI car with a painted green logo.

Geneva exhales and lifts both arms into the air with a sour frown. "Why three separate cars, Preston? I wanna ride with you. We're heading to the same spot, the computer center at the Burn U campus."

Preston holds the car door open, stomping a boot toe onto the floor mat, and touches the steering wheel with a sneer in her face. "Because, I'm boss Geneva." He turns and views his employee. "Larry, take a separate car around the block, flash your badge and find out where Pamela received the three thousand dollars which was probably at the nearest money transfer depot station."

"Those are located at any local food and gas station close to the college campus." Arthur says and stands at the passenger side of Preston's car.

Preston orders to Larry. "Go to the first convenience gas station! See, if she picked up any loot there? If not, then you keep searching. We'll be at the computer center eyeball scouting and chicken scratching the area for her clues and her person." Larry nods and pivots to the second FBI car with Preston's orders.

"I have announced very loudly that studious Pamela is not there." Geneva parks both her folded fists on her hips with a sneer.

"We know that. But she left clues for her next getaway." Preston moves and glides down into the driver's. The driver car door closes. Three engines roar and move down to the traffic light at Eleventh Avenue, searching and seeking Pamela. Preston stomps the brakes at the red traffic light. Then, the light turns green. Preston races the engine down the avenue through every traffic light, speeding to the Burn U campus, since Pamela is on foot, tapping a staccato path in her high heels.

He should know.

Pamela enjoys meeting and greeting Preston every night at 6:30 pm with his delicious supper and her lovely presence at his house for the past wonderful and fantastic two weeks after work. Then she stays overnight with him, bringing her clothes for the morning's work or the weekend's play. And Preston doesn't mind at all. He knows that Pamela wears a soft pink sleeveless top and a matching pink skirt over her long tanned legs as she taps on top of her three inched pink sandaled feet. Her signature dress code and tantalizing style creates another sex appeal to Preston along with her personal inviting smells of white roses and lavender to his manly nostrils.

And Pamela absolutely does not discuss any tiny tidbits of her professional data from her daily working job. Her content and charming girly attitude hasn't changed from his intro and invite of their first date. He delights in Pamela's happy, carefree, and funny personality.

Therefore, something terrible has happened today with Geneva. Preston has personal experienced Geneva's nasty wickedness first hand. So Geneva has done something illegal or unethical which has accidentally involved Pamela. Then, Preston will find out that secret and kick Geneva's ass completely out the solar system into the next galaxy.

Inside the rolling car, Preston hits the traffic light at Nineteenth Street while driving ferociously through the city block as his acute peripheral vision sights a slumped thin colorful figure inside the Burn U breakfast bar's window which is similar to Pamela's form. He jerks a jaw line left.

"Whoa, man! Eyes on the road, Preston." Arthur flings a hand onto the wheel, before the FBI car veers into the wrong side of the traffic lane, creating an automobile accident. "You're speeding, buddy. Slow down! She's not there at computer center. Remember, bro? We'll find Pamela first, Preston. I promise before Geneva can spin her evil skull, twice."

"You read Geneva as I do." Preston cuts the eyelids back to road and races down the street to the Burn U computer center, turning onto the avenue.

"I read about that slippery serpent inside The Holy Bible for the first time, when I was ten years old. That's Geneva's introduction into the entire universe. Ain't that right, man?" Arthur chuckles.

Preston laughs. "Right, bro?" He exhales with seriousness. "Do you have any theories about this entire stupid situation?"

"Naw! My obvious but subtle hints point directly to Geneva. She slipped up and either told Pamela something naughty or showed Pamela something terrible, scaring your girl into hiding."

"Concur." Preston drives with a stern face and a nod.

"What about that CIA reference to Boa? What did our bedmates say?" Arthur watches for the correct street sign for Preston.

"Nothing as usual. So we got to figure and find it before both Pamela and Geneva uncover something embarrassing for all of us." Preston frowns with worry.

11:31 a.m.

Birmingham University computer building

Lobby setting

Preston stops and parks inside the handicap spot, illegally. A set of two car door open. He scoots out the car with Arthur. A pair of two car door shuts. He stomps up the steps with Arthur beside him. Geneva and Stockton follow behind Preston and Arthur. The computer operator meets Preston at the front entrance doors, without smiling, swinging around, moving towards the elevator.

The elevator door opens. They all enter the carriage and advance to the second floor. The door closes.

Second floor computer room setting

The elevator door opens. They all exit the carriage onto the second floor. The computer operator leads and enters to same computer room, pointing to the exact computer terminal that was used by Pamela. Pamela had beautifully posed for the computer video as the computer operator watched and assisted the other college students with their educational assignments, ignoring Pamela. Preston points and whispers with a nod to the computer operator, telling him to guard the outside door as a deputized FBI sentry. The computer operator smiles in silence, turning and leaving the room, standing in front of the closed door with his arms crossed. Arthur moves and pokes around the room, starting and hunting with the waste basket for any clue of Pamela.

Stockton rushes and occupies the exact chair and computer of Pamela, typing on the keyboard and accessing the last menu from Pamela's internet search and overlooks her four previous websites, focusing on a particular interesting one. He smiles and points to the computer screen. "Looky here. Pamela purchased one of those sequined evening gowns and pearly shoes for a startlingly price tag of two thousand dollars. Wow. Guess she's going dancing tonight. This internet website face page shows her spending," gasping. "Holy cow. Pamela spent over seven thousand dollars on some bus tours in the foreign country of England. Here's the electronic proof. She's escaping overseas from Bama. See this, Preston?"

Geneva moves and glides her ass, sitting in an empty chair next to Stockton, looking at the screen and gasps. "Wait. Hold that screen." She reaches and pulls out her wallet, selecting and rattling her personal credit card. She looks up and studies the mathematical numbers on the screen and her personal credit card, gasping with a sneer. "These numbers on the computer screen. They match my personal credit card. Damn. She used my credit card, my personal credit to pay for those bus tours in England. How much is that stuff, Stockton?"

Stockton types on the keyboard with a smirk. "Well let's see. There is the seven thousand dollars for them historical bus tours plus two thousand dollars for some gorgeous formal gowns. That's nine thousand dollars, Geneva," sniggering.

Preston snorts, standing above the hair roots of Geneva, leaning down into the computer screen. "She's resourceful. Huh, Geneva?"

Geneva stares at the computer screen with a sour frown and a lady sneer. "That bitch is dead once I find her person."

"More baddy news, Geneva. Pamela has purchased a slick ride from Bama straight into London, England that leaves today at 1:45 pm. O. She's booked a first class seat. Bravo, girl." Stockton chuckles with amusement as Preston grins with delight.

Geneva snarls. "How much?"

Stockton giggles. "Ugh. Ya really don't wanna know that number, Geneva."

Geneva sneers. "How much?"

Stockton smiles. "It is seven thousand and nine hundred dollars." Geneva curses as Preston laughs.

Arthur talks on his mobile telephone in the far wall corner, turning and waving to Preston.

Preston turns and struts from Geneva and Stockton, chuckling to Arthur. "Where's Larry? We need to stake out the airport. Pamela has booked a flight to England."

Arthur frowns. "Larry's found two money transfer depot stations that were used for the twin pickup points of collected cash along with Ilenn's missing pocketbook. Her checks, credit cards, and cash are gone too. Lois' cell phone is inside a trashcan next to entrance door at the Jack's Food and Gas Store. Larry is on his way to us. Do I veer him to the Birmingham Airport instead, Preston?"

Stockton yells with an arm in the air. "Betta hold that command, General. Looky here. Pamela has booked two different flights around two o'clock today from Birmingham to either London, England or Paris, France. Wonder which one she's taking? I'd go to Paris. It's wintertime there very nice from the suffocating heat of..."

Preston swings around and jogs back to Stockton, stopping and leaning down with a confused brow into the screen. "Two separate flights? I be damned."

Geneva sneers. "She be damned. She's going to rot in prison for her remaining breathing oxygen days..."

"Geneva, she used your numbers to pay for both these international air flights also, love. Are those really your personal credit card numbers from your personal bank account? Because baby, ya gonna owe someone a lot of money, chica," Stockton chuckles with Preston.

Geneva sneers. "How much?"

Stockton grins. "Let's see 8,500 dollars plus 9,000 dollars plus 7,000 dollars..." Geneva curses.

Preston stands and side steps from Stockton and Geneva with a wave and a yell to his employee. Arthur turns and jogs into the nose bridge of Preston. Preston says. "Arthur, call in reinforcements, meet Larry downstairs, take his car, stake out the international side of the Birmingham Airport, and all the entrances of the parking lot. Call in more agents and more cells too." He turns and views Geneva, who curses more with her unladylike behavior at the computer screen, looking with a grin to see Arthur. "Did ya find anything else important around here?"

"Naw." Arthur shakes his baldness.

Preston nods. "Alright. I'm going to steer Geneva back to her office, focusing on a non-eventful assignment. So she doesn't interfere with our work too much. I'll drive out and ride post at the security x-ray, watching for Pamela."

Arthur frowns. "That's a middle check point, Preston. I think we should wait and snatch her when she walks through the rotating glass doors into the airport."

Preston shakes a skull. "Naw. She'll bolt out and down the busy street, hiding somewhere convenience then we'll never find her. Let her get through security safely. Then she'll be trapped between our FBI post sight and the airport security that carry guns too."

Arthur frowns. "They might shoot."

Preston jabs a finger with an angry brow at Arthur. "That's your job, Arthur. You're boss until I arrive. No guns. No shooting only spying. If she boards the plane, we can stop it there also without anyone getting harmed or hurt, especially Pamela."

Arthur nods. "Shore, boss! Anything else?"

Preston looks up to see the ceiling, the floor, and finally Arthur. "Naw. Stay alert and safe for everyone."

"Right, boss." Arthur pivots and leaves the computer room.

Geneva slowly stands and swings to the nose profile of Preston with a sneer. "I'm coming with you to the airport, this time."

Preston backs steps with a smile and lifts his palms. "Geneva, you can do whatever you want. But I strongly advise not doing that. Our people got it covered. And if a few non-official personnel types show up like you, then Pamela runs or gets freed. Then my people might think there's something else going on here beside one rouge retriever..."

"You're a shit ass Preston." Geneva sneers.

Preston smiles. "Many times over."

"Be warned, Preston. There's nothing else going on here. But one rouge retriever with valuable information that she's sharing or selling to foreigners. Hence, her solo brilliant escape plan for living in a foreign country overseas from the USA," Geneva sneers.

"Big words from a little girl," Preston rises his finger to hush her next vile comment, especially about him. "Geneva, go back to your office, monitor the situation from there. And please contact me if you acquire any new datum that locates Pamela. You don't need me to repeat my number."

Geneva smirks. "I'll most certainly be acquiring some new data about Pamela as I follow her tight ass to jail," she swings around him and leaves the computer room with Stockton.

"So be it." Preston turns and sees Geneva's wiggling fat ass out the door and exhales with a huff of worry. He turns and sits at Pamela's terminal not for any particular reason. Maybe, he hopes to collect some type of metaphysical vibe from her last physical position, predicting her next move. He quickly prays and successfully hopes to find her first. Heaven forgive Pamela, if Geneva and her cross paths. Preston has some great awesome authority and massive power. But Pamela is an employee of the wrong division on the wrong side. And she has mysteriously fled from something evil. Preston is most certain of this.

Preston leans into the chair, tapping his fingers on the table surface, listening to the soft rhythm, and looks at the far wall, the ceiling, the wall again, the floor, his cowboy boot, and finally the computer screen. His active mind focuses on the familiar colorful tiny icons that represent the various different computer applications on any standard desktop computer. He sees the Internet app, the Graphics app, and the Game app. And then his eyelids land on a new icon. The new icon is a yellow thumbnail that displays the letters POV. He rakes his brain cells for this new strange computer application, clicking the mouse on the new icon labeled POV. The folder pops opens, expanding the screen with a set of weird-o English garbage of short and long sentences for the proper noun "ipam." Preston is a computer science nerd too with a computer science degree from Burn U also. He knows that the acronym IPAM represents some computer geek language the Internet Protocol Address Management. The newly created icon folder comes from a college student, who is working on a computer science research paper in one of the academic computer classes here at Burn U.

He scrolls down the screen and stumbles upon the name "Pamela Craft." Preston studies the rows of jumbled English sentences that are composed of long lines around Pamela's name for some strange reason. He smiles with the understanding that the newly created yellow thumbnail is from Pamela, not a random Burn U college student. He glides the curser further down the screen, landing on a new page and scrolls through the file, seeing rows of datum that doesn't make any sense.

His mobile telephone rings. Preston turns and views his telephone beside the computer, checking if that bitch is calling. If so, he has got some more colorful choice bigger vocabulary words for her stinging ears and gasps. It is Arthur's mobile telephone number. He has found Pamela at the airport.

Preston grabs the phone, swishing and yelling before the metal hits his eardrum. "Yeah."

He pauses and listens to the voice of Arthur on the other end of the mobile telephone.

"No Pamela, yet?"

Pause.

"Alright. Hold your position, Arthur. I'm leaving the computer center now."

Pause.

"Geneva's always a problem, buddy. But she's gone home to roost or roast, depending on what find after we question Pamela."

Pause.

"Hoping to roast her ass, as well, bro. Preston out." He swishes the mobile telephone off and sits it next to the computer, retrieving a portable thumb drive from his jacket. He inserts and copies her POV icon electronic files off the computer desktop onto the portable device with a smile and a nod. "POV, point of view. Good girl, Pamela. Keep dropping them bread crumbs, honey. I hungry too."

11:46 a.m.

Burn U breakfast bar setting

Time's up.

The librarian inside the Southside Public Library is looking for the laptop. The laptop sits inside Pamela's hands, well, sits on top of the food table. Her internet search for the bogus words BOA or CIA BOA doesn't supply anything important to her brain cells. So she has more investigational time to perform for an answer. Therefore, she falls back to a default clue of the two proper names Ashley Slanton and Thurston Slanton. She can't use this laptop to access any more the internet blogs and can't stay here inside the cool breakfast bar for any more food with an exposure window near her work office.

She saw Preston inside his FBI car. He was driving dangerous through the intersection traffic light to the Burn U computer center. Since he had tracked down her cyber crime work ID, username, and password.

Another resource gone.

She exhales with a puff of frustration and stands with her black and green backpack in her hand, dragging it across the floor with a set of pretend college books for a pretend college student, slowly moving in her used sneakers to the bathroom of a cool stinky pink and white room. Empty! She stops and stares into the reflection mirror, whipping out a dark green baseball cap from her backpack, and places the cap over her skull which partially covers her black hair, both her eyebrows down to her nose bridge. She tucks her long ponytail down into her vest jacket, hoping to fool Geneva or Preston, if they happen to accidentally cross her walking path as she escapes from the Burn U breakfast bar.

She debates about chopping off her long hair but lacks the proper instruments, such as, a pair of scissors and a comb, plus she really doesn't have time to find, acquire, and perform that noble deed without being noticed by other store employees.

Next, Pamela leans and washes her hands from the gooey breakfast roll, dries them on the paper towels, turning and leaving the bathroom, moving to the door without cleaning up her dirty paper dishes and picking up the stolen laptop. Birmingham is the tenth dangerous city in the USA for crimes, robbery, thievery, and other serious violent criminal incidents. In less than thirty seconds, that poor laptop will be gone and then the fool will be harassed by both the Birmingham police and Director Geneva that will be chasing after the new stupid owner. When Geneva does finally acquire the hardware, she will not find anything. Since, Pamela is too smart to leave much of a hot dusty trail, but Pamela wants Geneva to wonder about her next move, wasting Geneva's time and resources, while Pamela searches for the code word boa.

So her real computer detective work begins. Pamela is going to find Ashley Slanton which is the first name on the secret CIA list. For that, Pamela needs another desktop computer and access to the Birmingham Public Library historical archives.

She moves with a slow but nervous energy to a parked taxi cab as the lazy driver hangs a slumped body near the engine hood. Pamela is located at one of the most popular action scenes in Birmingham which is nicknamed Southside. Residents, visitors, students, and families enjoy the unique quaint culture of southern, western, and eastern Asia restaurants, the fun horse and carriage rides, and the bright starry sight on top of a fifty foot high tower. The fifty foot tower possesses numerous cozy two-people wooden loveseats to stare at the stars of the sky or the stars in your lover's eyes at one of Birmingham's most frequented tourist attraction spot. Therefore, the taxi hovers on one of five street corners for any prospective paying customer with a wad of cash or a valid credit card.

Pamela stops and slides into the rear seat, sitting and directing the cabbie to another Birmingham Public Library in the city of Hoovertown which is about six miles southwest from downtown Birmingham. The Hoovertown Library has the best historical archives for back jumping into the past to look for Ashley Slanton. And the location is far away from her work office and Director Geneva too.

12:03 p.m.

Birmingham Airport (15 miles west of BURN U)

Hot temperatures with bright sunshine

Preston speeds with the emergency blue lights over the busy one-way airport road to the departure section of the airport and slams the brakes, stopping and parking inside an empty handicap parking spot, illegally. He whips out a body, a FBI badge, and an office laptop from his car and turns with a stern face, displaying his FBI badge to the approaching angry looking airport security guard. The guard stops and sneers at Preston. Preston thumbs over his collar bone to his FBI car and the parking lot with his FBI instructions to the guard. The guard nods in silence obedience and swings to look for Pamela too.

Preston spins around and moves ahead towards the a set of revolving glass doors, passing the registration desks, the coffee shops, and the gifts shops, and slows his pace near the security gate of the x-ray machines, stopping. He struts to an empty chair inside a small lounge space, sliding his ass into one of the smaller cozy sofas for privacy, pulling out his earphones that are attached to his mobile telephone for bombarding his ear wax. He concentrates best when his personal environment is shutout from the noisy distraction of people talking and walking around a busy airport terminal, looking for both food and flights. His favorite country music song relaxes and focuses him on the problem at hand his absent girlfriend. Preston doesn't give a hoot about tripping over Pamela's pink sandals. She is not here. She is not coming here. She is someplace else but here. Her POV file that Preston ripped from Burn U desktop computer contains more clues to her next move or maybe her hidden secret location whereabouts for him to figure out.

Preston pulls out his laptop over his kneecaps, plugging his thumb drive into a laptop port, carefully accessing and reading the first face page of POV file. Pamela has copied each internet face page with a keyboard Ctrl C command and has pasted it with a keyboard Ctrl V command. Some of the data is a bit blurry but readable and can't be recopied or reformatted without totally destroying the electronic page based on her rushed handy work. He whispers. "Not good!"

Preston rereads the first page of a long electronic file that details the real computer IPAM protocols which doesn't make any sense. So he concludes that this particular page is left over garbage from her rush job of importing the data files with more hidden clues of a secret location within Birmingham. He decides to start at the bottom of the file, scrolling the cursors down to the last page of datum, seeing her departure from Birmingham, Alabama where she transfers planes at Atlanta, Georgia. And then the plane lands Paris, France. "Jeezus!" He shouts, stands, and catches the falling laptop from his kneecaps as his earphones and his mobile telephone fall to the carpet instead. "She's going to fly to Paris. That's the fucking message." He reaches down and grabs the phone and earplugs when his thumb pad accidentally presses the arrow up on the laptop. His eyeballs see on the computer screen a second scheduled and paid vacation dream trip to London, England.

Preston reseats on the edge of sofa, staring at computer screen, holding his palm over a racing heart organ, calming both his mind and his bio-rhythm. He whispers. "That's not the hidden message. Both trips are here. She's not fleeing. Pamela, you just gave me a freaking heart attack," he exhales with relieve. He presses the arrow down to the bottom of the POV folder, verifying both overseas travels from Birmingham, Alabama, not Birmingham, England. He chuckles. "A ruse for me or Geneva? Not for me. She's not coming here. That's the first message. What else ya got, Pamela?" Preston moves up the screen and sees the paid bus tours to four different historical famous land mark sights in both the cities of Paris and London. "Definitely, a ruse for Geneva and clever too, expensing both the trips on Geneva's personal credit card." Preston has never heard such ugly language from a lady. But Geneva ain't no lady.

Preston scrolls the arrow up, verifying the money purchases of four evening gowns and the matching accessories with a smile. "Okay. I got it. Next date, we go dancing. But I got a feeling that's not your real secret here for me. There must be some kind of encrypted cyber space message here for me. But I just can't figure out. What are ya trying to tell me?" He exhales with frustration.

He scrolls the arrow up to the next page, showing the proper name 'Geneva Lassater.' The curser blinks off and on for the next command as he snorts at the name. "Our favorite person?" The electronic page has been copied and pasted from the internet too that shows numerous categories of the topic Geneva Lassater.

Correction, it is only the name 'Geneva.'

He read the computer screen with a whisper. "The Geneva Convention was referred as the fourth Geneva Convention in the year 1949. The Geneva Convention forced a defeated European country of Germany to pay back financial monies to the Allies, including the USA after losing World War Two. This doesn't help me. What does this mean, Pamela?" He exhales with a huff of frustration, replacing the earplugs, playing the country song on his mobile telephone. He closes his eyelids, controlling his breathing in a steady rhyme for concentrating his mind. He opens his eyelids and scrolls down to the next page, showing the proper noun 'Lassater' and the associated internet references. The electronic pages show three full length pages which has been copied a keyboard command Ctrl C and then pasted with a keyboard command Ctrl V. Preston whispers with confusion. "I don't understand, Pamela."

He scrolls up to the next page with the proper name 'Pamela Craft.' Preston notes that there are multiple people named Pamela Craft who live in different geographical parts of the USA. He sifts through the copied and pasted internet paragraphs to discover Pamela Craft of Birmingham, Alabama. He can't access the cached internet site thou, since this electronic page in her copied POV file is only a pasted copy of a flat computer screen printout. He smiles. "Pamela Craft, member of the Methodist Church chorus in September. Okay. You go to church. I know you like to sing especially in the mornings. Pamela Craft wrote a science article for Burn U Literature Society in February. You're a writer. That's cool. I didn't know that personal tidbit about ya, honey." Preston reads three more interesting tidbits about Pamela Craft of Birmingham, Alabama on the next two copied electronic face pages. Without the internet site access portal, he can't investigate or figure out the hidden message.

He exhales with a huff of frustration, scrolling the arrow up to the next subject, seeing the proper noun 'ipam' which is attached to one cached. It is the author of the e-novel entitled Intragalaxy. Preston frowns. "Pamela Craft is an author but uses a pen name entitled 'ipam.' Is that you, honey?" He taps the arrow up to the new page as the same pen name ipam, displays next to the proper name Pamela Craft for three more different book titles of e-novels which are all found on the internet. He smiles. "Got it. Ya wrote that article in college, so ya have a secret desire to author some action adventure science fiction e-stories. I like reading science fiction novels too. Something else we have in common, sweetheart." He has discovered another intriguing fact about Pamela which is not helpful in clearing her proper name and her proper person of this illegal mess but interesting.

Preston scrolls the arrow up to the first electronic page inside her copied POV icon. The page begins with the proper noun IPAM or Internet Protocol Address Management. He exhales with a huff of frustration, shaking his skull without understanding what he is seeing or missing from the POV electronic pages from Pamela. He looks up with a stern face to see the far wall. Pamela has presented these particular pasted internet pages for some direct purpose for Preston to seek and to discover something. Preston views the screen and scrolls the arrow down to the bottom of the pages again as he thinks logically like a computer. "She is not going to Paris or London. But she paid...correction Geneva paid for it. That cute act is so precious and clever like Pamela using Geneva's money," chuckling.

Preston presses the arrow up to the London trip that has cost eight thousand dollars with a chuckle and a nod. "Good girl, Pamela! I knew my instincts were right about you," he reaches and pats his jacket pocket with the three-carat diamond engagement ring with a grin, pulling out the velvet box from the jacket pocket without opening the tiny lid. He had picked up the ring this morning from the Birmingham Jewelry Store on University Drive. Preston has decided to marry Pamela, since he loves, cares, and cherishes her deeply. He smiles with happiness.

The past two weeks his relationship has moved from tenderly to awesomely with her, since Preston doesn't desire to look at another female only Pamela. And he is going to marry her, after he kicks Geneva's ass for this shitty mess for involving his sweet girl. He sneers with fury, slowly replacing the ring box back into his jacket pocket and looks up to scan an active airport terminal with people, children, and luggage that are running for the departing air flights but ignoring him.

He exhales with worry, looking down to see his computer screen and scrolls the arrow up to see the bus tours, the evening gowns, and the shoes with a grin. "Got it. You humiliated Geneva by using her personal credit card number while exhibiting your awesome illegal hacker skills. So what? The balances total around..." He flips the pages back and forth to calculate the monies. "Over 23,000 dollars on one credit card..." Preston scrolls the arrow down to the bottom of the file to verify the same credit card number for each credit card purchase item and confirms that the entire financial amount of 23,748.51 dollars has been paid by one single bank financial credit card.

One single credit card holds over 20,000.00 dollars in a series of multiple financial transactions without maxing out from an internet verification payment method system. If a card hits the money credit limit, then the electronic bank would reject the next financial transaction.

Preston frowns with confusion, reaching and pulling out his wallet with two financial bank credit cards and cash and slips and rattles the credit card into his face with a puzzled brow. He frowns, whipping out his mobile telephone and dials the issuing bank on the back of his credit card, hearing the ring and the connection. "Hi. Good morning. I am Preston Kingly. I would like to inquire about my financial credit limit my green credit card."

He pauses and listens to the voice on the other end of the mobile telephone.

He frowns. "Okay. That's great. Thanks, ma'am. My green credit card holds a 5,000 dollars and no cents maximum credit limit. So can please I raise the limit to 20,000 dollars for...for buying a European sports car?" He grins at his fib.

Pause.

"No. Well, I am pondering why, ma'am. I have outstanding credit with your bank and very little debt. Is there a reason why?"

Pause.

"O. So, the big credit limits are for very, very good customers only. Okay. Thanks, ma'am. Have a good day!" He swishes off the mobile telephone and replaces the card inside his wallet, looking at the far wall, pondering the bank robbery maneuver of Pamela.

Geneva possesses a personal credit card for 20,000 maximum dollar limit or more which seems impossible for an average US Federal Government employee. Unless, Geneva possesses 20,000 or more monetary funds inside her personal bank account to cover all these extravagant money purchases. The purchases made by Pamela were illegal. So Geneva doesn't really own over 20,000 dollars in stolen funds.

The financial theory intrigues his brain cells.

Geneva is a director equal to his status. As a matter of fact, Preston almost got her and his job combined but flatly refused. Firstly, she does not get paid millions of US dollars for her US Federal Government job. Actually, their pay grades and money rates are equal. Secondly, Geneva might be independently wealthy to afford the payment on her credit card debt until good old Uncle Sam repays her for the financial thievery. But Preston doubts it. Geneva has some serious facial collision with a set of broken glass or someone else's folded fist and badly needs a series of cosmetic plastic surgery. If she was wealthy, then she could have paid for the clinical plastic surgery from her personal bank account. Thirdly, Geneva was visually upset about the money funds used on her credit card. Therefore, she does not have the extra cash to cover the illegal purchases made by Pamela.

Preston has an outstanding credit limit, owning a house, a car, and a healthy saving bank account with a very low amount of outstanding money debt. However, he still can't get his banking limit raised to 20,000 dollars on one single credit card. He snaps his fingers with the brilliant idea and presses the arrow up to the electronic page that shows the proper name 'Geneva Lassater. He scans 'Geneva Lassater' and all her related activities like 'Pamela Craft' inside the internet pasted pages. He remembers that 'Pamela Craft' sings in the choir and writes teen love e-novels. He reads the computer screen with a whisper. "She's not there. That's what Pamela is telling me. Geneva Lassater is not there as a real person on planet Earth." The internet is an electronic tattle-tail of tiny tidbits of datum on almost any person in the Milky Way Galaxy, especially if a real person joins an organization or shits in the toilet bowl in the guest bedroom being exhibited on the latest and greatest media blogs. Folks are literally attached to their social networks, their cell phones, and their electronic blogs.

Pamela Craft exists as one name, who is his girl. But there are other one-names too, who are not his girl throughout the copied and pasted electronic pages which appears inside her POV icon. So Pamela had pinged the entire world internet sites for the paired proper name 'Geneva Lassater,' who is not listed on internet. Pamela had goggled and copied three electronic pages of the paired noun 'Geneva Lassater' with no such datum reference to that particular name or person. One of the electronic pages show that 'ipam' is not a computer protocol while hinting that Pamela uses another secret name for her secret book novel work.

So, if Geneva is covering something up with a chosen fake name too, then the internet would pick it up also. That's the hidden message from Pamela to Preston to research further the name 'Geneva Lassater.'

Preston closes her POV icon and types on his keyboard into an active internet for researching that bitch, and halts. His laptop isn't encrypted. He can't perform that cyberspace spying function here at the airport. He needs to use his office desktop with all the right security malware, safe guards, and secret passwords for a secured access point of the US Federal Government site.

The mobile telephone rings. Preston reaches and sees that the telephone number from that bitch, swishing and lifting the phone to his lips, whispering inside the airport lounge. "Yeah."

He pauses and listens to the voice on the other end of the mobile telephone.

"When?"

Pause.

"I'm not a ding dong, Geneva. But, I do like them snacks. They're sweet and tasty unlike your bitter sour pussy ass..."

Pause.

"I'm glad that you got my point too. I concur Pamela used Ilenn's library card to steal the laptop. Call me, when you find that hardware."

Pause.

Preston laughs. "Your brain on slo mo, Geneva. Cops'll never find that hardware. Therefore, you don't call me. Period," he swishes the phone off. "Bitch!"

12:21 p.m.

Hoovertown Public Library (30 miles south of airport)

Lobby setting

Pamela stands and types on top of the in-house library computer which is located on the long hallway for easy access. The backpack hugs her sneakers. The Hoovertown Library houses all type of datum for books, novels, and archives of the world. She researches any and all possible information on Ashley Slanton, impatiently waiting as the little tiny hourglass to spins round and round and round. And then the computer screen shows.

Ashley Slanton >> Obituaries >> Jefferson Newspaper in Birmingham, Alabama. March 23

She leans and writes down the newspaper details on a real paper pad from the recycle bind of used and abused wood paper products. The recycled pad is provided free of charge by the Hoovertown Public Library staff for saving the forest trees along with ink pen on a table surface. Pamela turns and types on the computer again. And then the computer screen shows.

Thurston Slanton >> Obituaries >> Jefferson Newspaper in Birmingham, Alabama. March 21

The relative of the female is named Thurston Slanton. He died two days before her. Both deaths occurred three years ago in Birmingham. She leans and scribbles down the data onto the paper again. Since her new investigational lead is literally dead. Those people live in heaven now. And heaven doesn't have an internet access portal to dead people. On planet Earth, an internet data mine would have provided the answer to her question and solved her delicate dangerous dilemma with Director Geneva.

Pamela fidgets in a pair of baggie blue jeans at computer terminal, exposing her "wanted person" image near an open hallway. She does not have a clue to their deaths listed in the local newspaper Jefferson News in the month of March, three years ago. She looks down and stares at the CIA code from her homemade computer program in Geneva's office.

TAG 307891116540 Slanton Ashley

IT 106891618322 Slanton Thurston

BOA

TAG is the CIA code name for Ashley. IT is for Thurston. Boa is unknown.

She doesn't realize the mathematical number sequence either. The math numbers are not local telephone numbers based on the first three digits in USA or a foreign telephone landline or a portable mobile telephone. She doesn't possess a mobile telephone either. Pamela had left her personal mobile telephone in her purse at her work station. Then she had to ditch Lois' stolen mobile telephone at Jack's Gas and Food Station inside the trash can. She can't purchase one either even with the stolen money from Ilenn's bank account. Pamela can't steal a mobile telephone, well, she could but that's really more dangerous.

She scoops and dumps the paper and pen into her backpack, flinging it over her collar bone and dashes away from the computer terminal down the busy hallway into the library newspaper and archives section. The computer machine is designed to read an obituary in private and print a copy of the tragic event.

A library is supposed to be usually quiet. However, the Hoovertown Public Library is one of the largest and busiest places within Jefferson County. Pamela selected this particular three-story building over the rest of the local libraries, because the middle section of the open flooring houses a children and teenager's reading room, handles the checkout procedures for book, and allows photocopies of book materials. The activities makes for an extremely loud floor space which is very good for someone that needs to hide from the local police authorities.

Newspaper Section setting

Pamela jogs and jerks around the group of little snot-nosed kids, the group of yelling parents, the lines of frustrated college students, and ever slow individual elderly folks, worming her sneakers around the rear of the big building. She moves quietly into the newspaper room. There are silver chrome plated tiers mounted with numerous colorful magazines and newspapers. A museum glass display case of Alabama fossils and rocks brightens a dull room on the opposite side wall. The forward wall contains numerous solo cloth chairs and three wiggling rows of double cloth loveseats for both reading and enjoying a skyline view of tall and green trees, covering Red Mountain. The current occupants ignore Pamela as she tiptoes across the carpet into the library archives room.

Archives Section setting

The square room is colored in dark browns and dark grays with a set of dull over head lights for a solemn atmosphere. She picks out a lonely computer terminal in the far corner of the square semi-dark room, resting her backpack on the carpet, sitting in the tall stool, working the black keyboard of the computer with her swift finger pads. She keys the name Ashley Slanton into the computer. And then the computer screen displays.

The private graveside service for Ashley Slanton, of Birmingham, was held on March 23. Ashley was 23 years old buried at Oak Memorial Gardens in Birmingham, passing away on March 17. She was born in Hometown and graduated from Jefferson High School...

Pamela whispers. "The private graveside service for Ashley." Ashley might have some additional family members that Pamela can trace and interview or beat up, depending on her sucky mood at the upcoming family reunion. Pamela is a trained FBI programmer instead of a special agent without a hand gun and a handy attitude unlike poor dead Ashley, who worked for the CIA. The CIA is known as a group of deceptive people, regarding both secret data and secretive people. She exhales with a puff of confusion, shaking her ponytail, seeing no new clue. Then she keys the name Thurston Slanton on the computer. And then the computer screen displays.

The graveside service for Thurston Slanton, of Birmingham, was held on March 21. Thurston was 24 years old buried at Oak Memorial Gardens in Birmingham, passing away on March 15 Brookdale Hospital. Visitation hours are Bailey Funeral Home...

Pamela whispers. "The graveside service for Thurston. Wait a minute. Something is strange here." She keys the name Ashley Slanton again. And then the computer screen displays.

The private graveside service for Ashley Slanton, of Birmingham, was held on March 23. Ashley was 23 years old buried at Oak Memorial Gardens in Birmingham, passing away on March 17. She was born in Hometown and graduated from Jefferson High School...

Pamela gasps. "Thurston was provided a graveside service. Ashley was provided a private graveside service. That's a new clue. Ashley is really alive. Maybe, she's brain dead or permanently body-part maimed but alive. Of course, her brother is truly dead," she reads the rest of the obituary. The screen shows.

The private graveside service for Ashley Slanton, of Birmingham, was held on March 23. Ashley was 23 years old buried at Oak Memorial Gardens in Birmingham, passing away on March 17. She was born in Hometown and graduated from Jefferson High School and Birmingham University. She was preceded in death by her husband Thurston Slanton.

Pamela gasps. "Thurston was her husband, not her brother." She reads the rest of the article, not recognizing any more proper nouns or popular places, including the surviving kin or pallbearers. "So sad. She was only twenty three years old young and gone along with her loving husband," exhaling. Then she keys the name Thurston Slanton again. And then the computer screen displays.

The graveside service for Thurston Slanton, of Birmingham, was held on March 21. Thurston was 24 years old buried at Oak Memorial Gardens in Birmingham, passing away on March 15 at Brookdale Hospital. Visitation hours for the Bailey Funeral Home are 6:00 to 8:00 P.M. Thurston attended Birmingham University, where he met his wife Ashley. He graduated Birmingham Law School and loved playing football. His interests ranged from snorkeling, forest camping, spelunking, and photography.

Pamela whispers with a sad faces. "He would be twenty seven years today. So sad." She doesn't recognize any surviving kinfolks or the names of the pallbearers, flipping back to the obituary Ashley and whispers. "The length of Ashley's personal obit is very short. Another dead giveaway clue, Ashley is alive and not dead. The CIA had to fake it for that reason alone. Thurston's obituary is both wordy and long, covering his personal hobbies and boyish interests, revealing more clues for me. A live Ashley and a dead Thurston. There's nothing here to pinpoint Ashley's current hidey hole. Both articles do mention specifically their parents are both dead along with a fake death of Ashley. So that rules out a possible search either a telephone call or a physical street address. The CIA is good. But I be best," giggling. She places two coins down into the vetted slot, printing a hard copy of both funeral obituaries for studying in more detail. The special computer machine grinds and gurgles, spitting a single piece of white paper. Then it repeats the process for Ashley's obituary.

Pamela stands and stretches, arching and lengthening her crunched spinal cord and squats, lifting her backpack over a collar bone, turning and shuffling out the newspaper archives room into a busy hallway.

Vending machines and public bathroom setting

She moves ahead into the vending machine room, stopping and standing in front of a row of glass covered vendor machines, showing rows of colorful hanging items of food. She dumps a single dollar bills into the machine, selecting a cold diet soda and a salty bag of barbeque potato chips. She swings around and moves, stopping and sitting inside one of the tiny eating booths, munching on food items and studies both death obituaries. She places the papers side by side, immediately noting the common features buried at the same cemetery for the funeral graves and married to each other but no more clues. Then Pamela sees one different obvious feature. Thurston was treated for his fatal injuries at Brookdale Hospital which is located on Lakeshore Avenue in Hoovertown.

The obituary of Ashley does not mention the name of a hospital for her clinical battle wounds. So Ashley must have been treated and discharged from the same medical center Brookdale Hospital. Since both employees had worked for the CIA on the same mission and died in the same spot.

A series of medical treatments on a real person implies a set of medical records too. A hospital patient medical record requires the patient to list all their privacy information such like a telephone number, a physical address, and other personal contact data that can be accessed and used by the wrong party. Pamela grins with her illegal thoughts. Joint Commission Privacy Regulation 12.9 cites, protects, and governs all hospital patient records from a snooping view by another outside party under the direct order by the US Federal Government.

Pamela plans a secret visit to Brookdale Hospital after she figures how to get inside and not tattled by the real working hospital nurses and not arrested by the real hospital security police and not found out by Geneva. She chews the snack.

The second differential feature between the two obituaries shows. Thurston is shown with a long list of personal interests. Pamela thinks the CIA went little overboard in the public death article. But maybe Ashley is a boring person or they are cautiously covering up a live hidden patient from a secret CIA mission. Pamela whispers. "Spelunking, cave dancing. Who in their right sane mind would jump around any enclosed dark slick object for fun? That hobby is usual but not unique inside them high hills of Alabama." She giggles with an imitation of one of Preston's favored irregular southern vocabulary redneck words, because she enjoys hanging too many days and nights with the suave and dreamy southern gentleman. She catches herself smiling with delight. Then, she eats the last potato chip, reviewing Thurston's other personal hobbies.

The city of Birmingham sits on the tippy end of the Appalachian Mountains, creating lots of fun outside activities for mountain athletics, students, and family members. She doesn't do mountain climbing or cave descending but other fun sporting activities. She had hoped to share her personal interests with Preston which now looked like a negative thousand points. She slaps her mental mind back to the death article. Some obituaries usually mention what people died from but not here. Pamela believes that Ashley and Thurston were part of a CIA mission, requiring a little more private eyeball investigation.

Pamela slides from the chair, wiping off the potato chip grease on her used vest, grabbing her backpack, turning and leaving the vending machine room, and moves back down the hallway, between the kids, teens, and adults. She strolls to the newspaper and archives room again.

Archives Room setting

She enters the newspaper room again with the same magazines and number of readers. The readers are too busy reading. She moved back into the archives room, stopping and sliding on top of the stool and places the two obituaries newspaper articles beside her, dropping the pad and pen on top of the articles. She turns and types on the keyboard the words CIA, boa, tag, it, Ashley Slanton, and Thurston Slanton. She doesn't wait long. The computer logically displays the typed proper nouns in a proper order. Pamela sees on the computer screen. There are no CIA articles of foreign or USA spies in Birmingham, Alabama. No boa newspaper articles of either slippery snakes or fluffy feathers in Birmingham, Alabama either.

There are listed six different newspaper articles, referencing a popular child's game called Tag, You're It. Pamela leans and writes the word "child's game" on the paper pad, turning and reading the electronic article, clicking on the mouse on the word: Tag, You're It. And then the computer screen displays.

Tag, You're It. The outdoor game is played by kids, anywhere, from a sandy park to a grassy backyard, providing a set of good leg exercise and lots of fun mental excitement. This game is called an elimination game. Those tagged, by a person, are dropped out of the playing arena. There are many variations, including Octopus Tag, Duck Tag, Goose Tag, Band-Aid Tag, Team Tag, Tunnel Tag, and Zombie Tag.

Pamela clicks the mouse on the word Team Tag. And then the computer screen displays.

Team Tag consists of a cops and robbers tag concept, that splits into two individual teams of cops (the "it" team, who are in pursuit) and the robbers (the team, who is being chased). The cops arrest the robbers, by tagging them with a hand or another harmless object. Then, the game ends, when all are robbers are tagged out of the game.

"That explains both the CIA code names 'tag' and 'it.'" Pamela exhales with a puff of victory.

The simple tag concept was used by the CIA, making Ashley and Thurston tagged as the good guys. Her mental thoughts spin round and round, thinking Geneva might be tagged as a bad gal, who might possibly be coupled with the secret unknown CIA code named Boa from the CIA website. Pamela clicks the mouse on the word Tunnel Tag. And then computer screen displays.

This is a variation of Tunnel Tag, which plays inside a set of enclosed walls, where those caught must stand against the wall, until all the parties are tagged to end the game. The preference play of Tunnel Tag works well, within caverns or caves. This version was created by Thurston Slanton via the newspaper article.

"Bingo." She yells with excitement and scans the room. Empty. She turns and views to the computer screen, reading the newspaper article, whispering. "Thurston enjoyed spelunking under the dirt land better than snorkeling under the water, and used both sporting skills in his professional job."

Thurston loved his FBI job too much, pointing to the twin tragic deaths during a sporting activity of caving tagging and not water tagging. Birmingham is land locked with numerous fresh water lakes and rivers flowing through the pine trees and clay muddy landscapes. You don't really snorkel beautifully with poisonous water moccasins in Lake Smith. Also, this is best clue her active mind can deduct without capturing and interviewing her supervisor Director Geneva.

Since, that is Plan B.

Pamela hadn't mentally thought of Geneva in the last three hours but guessed that Geneva knew both deceased Ashley and Thurston but not a live Boa. She exhales with a puff of frustration and stands, scooping up her valuable materials, dumping into her backpack and tosses it over her collar bone. She turns and leaves the newspaper and archives room, moving into the reference books section of Hoovertown Public Library.

Reference Books Section setting

Pamela stops and stands in front of the Dewey Decimal System 500-599: Natural Science Section. She moves and collects the books on the topic of spelunking. Her find yields four thickly bounded manuals, representing high school textbooks. She slides the books down into the backpack and tosses it her collar bone. She moves ahead and marches over four aisles to the Dewey Decimal System 900-999: History, Geography, and Biography Section, gathering nine thinly bounded books on the State of Alabama History, Topography, and Geography, tossing a heavier backpack over a collar bone, turning and moving to find a sitting chair for studying the contents.

Children's Reading Section setting

Pamela locates a secretive cubby desk in the rear wall inside the Children's Reading Section, where the loud and obnoxious kids provide a good cover for studying the cave materials inside the library. She hasn't forgotten about stealing the library's laptop, this morning. It can't be traced to her directly but maybe her finger prints, if Geneva ever finds it. However, all the Birmingham librarians and FBI agents were searching for a pretty face elsewhere, because Pamela had booked and paid for an air flight to both France and England staged for her fun and Geneva's annoyance.

She isn't worried about the librarian in Southside Library or the food clerk at the Burn U breakfast bar, identifying her scruffy college student disguise. Since both individuals barely give her a sweet southern smile along with a wordless thank you, making southern hospitality definitely dead in Birmingham. And there is not type of any video recording cameras inside the library or the diner either. So, Pamela is cleared.

She painfully drags the backpack on the carpet with both arms muscles and ten finger pads, hauling the heavy load of library books up and onto one of the child's desks and scoots down into the tight wooden seat, sitting. Pamela is running out of time.

The wall clock in the hallway displays. 3:04 P.M.

She pulls out and stacks the books in two columns, grabbing the skinny book of the first stack. The first library book is entitled "Alabama Cave and Caving." It details the contents of caving concepts, definitions, terms, techniques, and maps. She flips to the last page of the book, examining a set of small geographical maps, showing all the existing underground caves, around Alabama. This is the book. She nods and needs this book. It has fifty eight pages in total page length. She has plenty of coin quarters for the copying machine but not enough time. Someone might get really curious as the copying machine spits a heavy volume of white paper, because Pamela can simply checkout the book from the Reference Book Section, using her Birmingham library card. So Pamela quickly decides to steal the book, since the data information is priceless for her cave research with her limited resources to restore both honor and innocence.

She pushes and crams the other library books back down into the backpack and stands, lifting with a grunt over her collar bone the heavy backpack, slowly moving a body and a backpack back to the Natural Science book section.

Reference Books Section setting

She stops and replaces the correct spelunking books back into the proper inside the book stack along with the replacing all the Alabama textbooks within the History, Geography, and Biography section in the proper order too. Pamela does not want to leave a messy visual trail in case the librarian gets mad and calls the authorities to investigate the incident. Preston is too smart and might figure out her new adventure cave dancing. She plans to rip off the fabric cover of the book entitled "Alabama Cave and Caving." The material fabric contains a single electronic sensor, detecting a single air wave signal through a single metal machine like the airport equipment for flying customers. She swings around and tosses the lighter backpack over her shoulder, since her backpack holds one skinny library book, turning and moving down the hallway, slowly walking around the loud kids, busy teens, and slower adults.

Vending machines and public bathroom setting

Pamela moves back into the vending machine room, stopping and standing in front of the machines and drops numerous quarters into the slot, accessing her supper for tonight. She carefully slips the numerous cold cans and dry items into the sides of her backpack, bulking it like a floated tummy of a well-fed baby. She slowly shuffles ahead into the Girl's Bathroom and then stands inside an empty stall, closing the door without drawing attention to her person. She rests the backpack on the door hanger hook, dropping and rummaging her hand around the darkness for the hidden library book and finds her catch.

She pulls the book out, lifting and examining the book sleeve colored in dull green with tall pine trees inside a woodland forest setting of Somewhere, Alabama. She jerks the clear tape from the book, examining the peeled back fabric cover, seeing a single electronic sensor shaped like a wafer-thin chip, the size of a US postage stamp. The chip is built into the cloth binding of the book sleeve.

The public library uses a radio frequency tag to track a book and thwart a book thief. The librarian can affix a book with a security tag, containing a microchip and an antenna, transmitting the data to an electromagnetic sensor guard machine at the library exit so only a checked out book leaves the building freely. If you do not pass your free library card through the library check-out electronic machine, deactivating the tiny electronic sensor tag, then the machine will pick up a roaming radio frequency, coming from a toting book. Then the alarm will sound, alerting the librarian to a possible book thievery.

Using her fingernails, Pamela rips the delicate cover from the clean hard manual and tries her best to keep the outer book sleeve in a semi-tactful good-looking condition without mutating the outer fabric for her evil plot. She places the unharmed library on the bottom of the backpack with great care and not smashing her supper of various bags of potato chips, tucking the mutilated book sleeve underneath her armpit and the backpack over her collar bone. Pamela slowly opens the bathroom stall door, darting her eyeballs for visiting peeing patrons. Empty. She moves and dashes out the bathroom door, strolling in a slow gait like a reader, going down a busy hallway

Teen Reading Section setting

She moves ahead and wanders slowly into the teen reading section of book stacks, stopping and standing in front of the books and searches. She lifts three thinly written teen fantasy books which might be suitable for wearing the ripped off "Alabama Cave and Caving" book sleeve and selects one. She shuffles sideways down another busy aisle, browsing the other teen fantasy book stacks, slowly worming her way back into the Reference Books Section.

Reference Books Section setting

Pamela stops and stands in front of the Nature Book Section, covering one of the cute colorful teen fantasy novels with the ripped off "Alabama Cave and Caving" book sleeve. The teen novel nicely fits the book dimensions like a prom dress elbow glove. She replaces the redecorated teen fantasy novel back into the proper position between two topography books. Pamela back steps, narrowing her eyelashes, smiling at her handiwork. And she pivots with a grin and a giggle to the exit point of the library.

Lobby setting

At the Hoovertown Public Library for security purposes, there is only one single entrance and exit point that is also covered with four different electromagnetic machines posed as mechanic security guards for an honest library patron. A set of four sliding glass doors faces the busy roadway for cars and a small dirt ditch for flooding rainwater. Pamela must walk into the library lobby through one of the x-ray machines and out the glass doors into freedom.

New Book Section setting

She halts and side sides, sliding into the nicely yellow wall of the New Book Section of Hoovertown Public Library. The two walls contain an array of newly advertised novels for all types of aged readers. Her heart races. Her hands sweat. Her mind clicks.

There is an array of Birmingham police officers, who are nicely dressed in a pressed and ironed blue uniform with a hostler hand pistol. They are stationed inside the library lobby against the wall out of the way, scouting with the heavy crowds of studious readers, hunting for her person.

She moves to the extreme wall corner out of eyeball range and stops. She grabs the closest book, whipping the vanilla colored pages into her face and flips absently one page after another, pondering her dilemma. No one knows her new clever disguise of old baggie blue jeans and colorful vest from the Burn U Swap Shop. Instead, the police are searching for her with a sweet pink top and a matching short skirt.

Pamela had planted her bread crumbs in the opposite direction to the airport, going away from Burn U campus for that very purpose. Preston and the FBI are at the airport. Correction, Preston was at the airport.

The wall clock time shows 3:17 P.M.

The travel air flight to France left at two pm without Pamela. Preston probably realized this was a mental game being probably mad too, since he had to describe and present pictures of her work image to all the local FBI and Birmingham police law enforcement officers. So, the police are seeking a pretty girl in a pink sleeveless top, a matching pink skirt, a pair of matching pink high heels, and a set of cheap pretty beaded pink bracelets on her left arm but not hobo Pamela. Therefore, she can strut out the library without blinking any eyelids or sounding the alert of a stolen library book that is hidden inside her backpack.

She slowly replaces the book on the shelf and more slowly turns with a stern face to the open lobby, moving in a steady gait. She sweats water on her face, both her armpits, and inside her palms, slowly guiding to the glass door between the police officers and her freedom. She walks with a group of laughing, whispering, and talking little children, mature adults, and young college students and hits the electromagnetic machine, where the electronic sensor reads the book's security tag. Pamela closes the eyelashes for an audio reaction. Then, she smoothly glides over the polished wooden floor, passing the security machine, strolling beside the two giggling kids with their mother.

Pamela moves out into a yellow sunlight without halting but breathing and coughs from holding her sour breath.

3:25 p.m.

Shopping plaza setting

Hot temperatures with bright sunshine

She strolls over the parking lot, crossing a busy street through the dirt ditch and tromps up the ditch into a mall parking lot, scanning for a public telephone to call a taxi. Pamela sees various retail shops: Dollar Shop, Mac's Book Store, Paula's Clothes, Ralph's Shoes, and other merchant stores.

She strolls down the covered sidewalk, searching for a public telephone. Then, she changes her mind, shooting sideways into the next clothing store, requiring another "go to" person disguise. The new disguise is needed to penetrate Brookdale Hospital, searching the clinical medical records for Ashley Slanton.

She is still clueless of the Boa-person. However Pamela is convinced that Ashley is both alive and hiding. Thurston had been truly killed in action for his CIA work. So Ashley was being cared for which would be detailed inside her private medical record in the Brookside Hospital computer.

Pamela stops at the rack and absentmindedly grabs a pretty purple ankle-length dress from the circular rack, plotting a new move. She silently thanks both God and goodness. The retail clerk is rude to all buying customers and more interested in gabby on her mobile telephone rather than doing her paid job of helping the customers. She can go disguised as a nurse but not a family member, looking to fit into the hospital environment. Pamela has more than enough self-confidence to hack into the Brookdale Hospital's computer mainframe, accessing Ashley's medical records. She has one or two tricks up her sleeve, solving that computer access problem. But her concern is being spotted by a real hospital nurse in her fake nurse disguise.

She stops and stands in the middle of the store. Pamela scans the walls, displaying business and play clothing, noting a lousy selection of items of representation of the medical clinical population. Pamela needs a nurse shop, turning and moving to the door. The rude retail clerk ignores Pamela, talking on her mobile telephone with a grin and a giggle. Pamela leaves the shop, turning and moving for more window shopping.

She turns and enters the Dollar Shop, seeking any ideas for her next disguise as a nurse, moving to a circular rack of the clothes with different types of fabrics and colors and sees a rack of nurse scrubs in vividly and playfully different colors. The nurse scrubs display some cute geometric designs paired with matching elastic waist pants. Since, the introduction of billions of dollars in US Federal Government loans for medical school and medical training, the clothing medical attire has become a very common selling item in the common general merchandising retail stores and not just the specialized nursing store.

Pamela moves and stops at the nurse rack, reaching and grabbing a size medium set of top and pants, holding the yellow cotton short-sleeved top to her collar bone, measuring for the right fit which looks okay. She spins to the cash register with two new nursing items and stops.

She is going to be easily spotted in the new nurse outfit with a long black ponytail or a tight black bun. The hair color of brunette is very difficult to color even with a red or auburn highlight over her healthy locks. Pamela can't wear the nasty looking baseball cap into Brookdale Hospital for sanitary reasons but might quickly find a surgery scrub cap to cover up her black skull which will waste too much precious tick-tock time from her secret mission.

She turns and moves down each aisle, pondering a new innovative idea and swings back to the front of the store, reaching and grabbing a plastic shopping hand basket. She dumps the yellow nurse's scrub top and pants plus a pack of bright blue eye shadow, a bottle of beige colored foundation, a pack of rosy cheek blush powder, and a bottle of yellow fingernail polish. All the cosmetic items will greatly contrast with her glowing olive tanned skin tone. However the new makeup products will dampen her glowing looks to kinda weird and mysterious. But her hair is a major problem.

She stomps down more aisles, hitting the toy section and stops, turning to see the colorful kiddie fake hair combs and a set of long color hair braids. She smiles with a brilliant idea. Pamela can't cover her long black hair but can disguise it into fugly ugly. She grabs with excitement an array of hair braids in different lengths, colors, and styles of the fake hair pieces, dumping each item into her shopping basket.

She strolls down aisle after aisle as her mind empties of more new ideas, circling around to the rack of clothes and scans the colored fabrics. Her height is a second major problem as five feet and ten inches tall. She can't grow short definitely not any taller either. Pamela can grow fatter around her stomach and her thighs, a girl's nightmare. She has got the height to pull off more pretend weight. She replaces back onto the rack the medium sized nurse's scrubs, reaching and grabbing the extra, extra large scrub top in bright baby blue with the cute art work of baby white kittens and baby light brown puppies along with a pair of matching solid baby blue pants. She gathers three sweat suits in dark blue one medium, one large, and an extra large size for wearing underneath the oversized extra, extra large hospital nursing scrubs, making her look queen-sized.

Pamela turns with a grin and a giggle and moves with her filled basket to the cash register, slipping a pair of scissors and some other minor items into the basket, and stops, paying cash, gathering her bags, leaving the store. She turns and trots to the public telephone, lifting the receiver, dropping the coins for a taxi cab.

6:39 p.m.

11th floor US Federal Building

Cyber Crimes department setting

Inside the office setting, Preston enters with a worried brow last through the office arch of the Cyber Crimes department last which is rules under the supervision of Director Geneva, strutting towards a new configuration of office furniture. Four rectangular tables butt end to end, creating a pretty sorry working conference room inside the open space. Preston stops and jerks the chair on the left side of the conference table, sitting his ass down upon the soft padding, surveying the working staff. Geneva sits on the left butt end. Stockton is on the top left corner. Lois is on the top right end. The right butt end shows Ilenn, visually flirting with Arthur on the right side of table. Larry occupies the middle seat, playing on his personal mobile telephone beside Preston. Preston leans back into the chair as the springs mice squeak from pain, saying with a stern face. "What we got?"

Geneva leans and sneers into the nose profile of Preston. "Not Pamela? I don't see you hauling her pretty little..."

Preston has purposefully picked this particular corner of the conference table to curb and to correct Geneva's nasty mouth and shittier attitude. He leans sideways into her sour breath and ugly nose. "Peace out, Geneva. The troops are working the current situation. I don't want to hear shit from your foul hole. I'm tired. I'm pissed. And I might take this all of this out on your ass later. Since you have pointed out so elegantly that this is your rouge retriever." Geneva sat back into her chair with a sour frown as Arthur and Larry grin at the visual cat fight between the FBI directors. Preston says with a stern face to the working staff. "What we got?"

The entrance door opens. "Food?" Larry looks over a collar bone with a smile as the group of noisy visitors enters the archway.

"I ordered supper, since we're all working late." Preston leans forward and taps on his new legal note pad with a fresh pencil eraser.

"Thanks, Preston!" Larry stands and spins around, moving and assisting the delivery guys with many bags and boxes on the second conference table on the opposite side of the room.

Arthur says. "Nothing! I have pieced together all the datum, data, and info from an assortment of various interviews, places, and video."

"We got a recording?" Preston frowns. Larry swings and skips from the food table, stopping and closing the curtains and flips off the overhead lights. Arthur scoots his chair around with Ilenn next to him with a smile and points forward to a white wall, pressing a button on his laptop that activates the projector inside the little machine. And then the wall displays.

Pamela smiles and enters the room, turning her body sideways, and waves her hand super friendly at the corner wall video camera of the Burn U computer center.

Thirty minutes later, Pamela stands from the computer chair and stares into the camera lens with a smile and a wave of goodbye.

She turns and leaves the computer room, wearing her pink outfit and her matching colored summer sandals.

Geneva leans and sneers into the nose profile of Preston. "Pretty maidens in a row..."

Larry flips on the lights and opens the curtains, turning and moving to the food table for a plate of food. Arthur scoots his chair and Ilenn's chair around as the chair tabs scratch the wooden floor, saying with a nod to Preston. "Pamela booked an air flight to both the foreign cities of Paris and London and simply leaves the computer center building. Her work ID was transmitted to the FBI IT lab shop for immediate back tracing. What's up with that, Preston?"

Larry eats the food and moves to his assigned chair at the work table and sits, chewing. "She picked up money from two different food and gas stations around Southside, housing a money transfer depot station of three thousand dollars. Neither store clerk recognized her face from the ID photo or anyone else's mug inside these convenience stores. Those stores are packed with college kids hourly. Since they remain open twenty four hours and seven days per week. I can walk in naked. No one will notice me."

"Let's not ever do that, Larry." Preston chuckles and hears the laughs from the other co-workers.

"Just making a valid point, Preston," Larry bites into the sandwich.

Preston turns and winks at Geneva, since the joke is on her and her pocketbook, looking to see each face. "After our ruse at the airport when Pamela missed both the overseas air flights, we decided to abandon the post and start the interview at the Southside Public Library on any new leads of the missing..."

"...stolen," says Geneva.

"....of the stolen laptop at the library," Arthur says. "We circulated her photo, coming up with negatory results also. No one saw her ever. But she got a couple of dates, if found," he smiles, since Arthur is the only other native on planet Earth that knows Pamela and Preston are dating.

Preston beats the pencil eraser on top of his paper notepad without viewing Arthur but softly sneers. "That's not funny, Arthur."

"Right, Preston." Arthur turns with a chuckle and a wink to see Ilenn.

Larry swallows the lump of wet dough and chuckles to Arthur. "And along with a few smartasses giving us their private cell digits. Ya got them slips, Arthur?"

Arthur smiles and raises a pile of numerous tiny slips of colored papers as Preston leans over and reaches across Larry's nostrils, saying with a stern face and a serious tone. "I'll take those from ya, Arthur."

"Shore, boss," Arthur grins and dumps the wads of paper into the extended hand of Preston. Preston jerks into the chair, pocketing the items into his jacket. Arthur says. "We scouted and back searched from sixteenth to twenty first city streets of Southside and then whipped around, focusing between twelfth and tenth avenues. Coming up with nada again."

Geneva growls. "She's at the college, hiding dumb..."

"Geneva." Preston snarls with a gently reminder of his original threat of beating her ass black and blue.

Geneva smirks, "Dumbo with big elephant ears."

Arthur shakes his baldness. "I disagree, Geneva. Burn U is too big to cover unless we call in a couple of favors from the governor for the assistance of a garrison of Bama National Guardsmen..."

Larry chews and swallows. "And the Bama National Guardsmen and women folks all are busy in Afghanistan, doing their jobs."

"You poking fun at me," Geneva turns and snarls to Larry.

"Geneva, what's your birth date?" Preston leans over his notepad and holds the pencil tip on the paper.

"Beg pardon." Geneva swings and frowns to Preston.

"What's your day and month of your birth?" Preston turns and grins at her.

Geneva shakes her curls. "That...that's irrelevant information here, Preston."

"I need it for my FBI report. What's your birthday, Geneva?" Preston looks down and views the paper, holding the pencil ready for writing.

Larry chews and swallows. "Sorry, Preston. I can do them reports after our meeting later tonight. I'll been too busy."

Preston turns and smiles to Geneva. "That's okay, Larry. I need this particular data for my FBI report."

Larry says. "I'll handle them reports for ya, Preston."

Preston smiles. "I'm boss and got my own director's reports like Geneva does." He turns and looks down with a grin to see his notepad, posing the pencil for writing again. "What's your birthday, Geneva?"

Geneva scans the workers and stops at her employee with a stern face and a serious tone. "Ilenn, did you find any more useful clues on your IP address trace?"

"No ma'am." Ilenn smiles and plays footie with Arthur under the table. They purposefully sit away from Geneva. Arthur smiles at his girl, consuming a bite of the sandwich.

Preston turns with a grin and views the nose profile of Geneva. "Gimme your birthday later, Geneva, before you leave tonight."

Geneva turns with a confused brow to see Preston. He winks and views Ilenn. Geneva turns with a puzzled brow to see Ilenn. "You...you did as I recalled found something...something very important. Please repeat that very important something to everyone with what you found, Ilenn?"

Ilenn exhales. "Well I have verified that the monies were electrically transferred to the two different money transfer depots at the two local food and gas stations around the Burn U campus, commonly used by college students. The convenience stores are open twenty four hours and seven days per week. Pamela ordered and transmitted the money requests from Lois' cell. But Larry just told us all this as well."

"Why did Pamela use your personal credit card, Geneva?" Arthur stares with a confused brow at Geneva.

Stockton smiles. "Obviously, Pamela is very talented as a hacker in addition to her newly acquired retriever skills, making her our newest cyber criminal babe. I have pointed out many times to Geneva that girl is too smarty for her own good. The temptation of money is the root of all evil sayeth The Good Book."

Larry frowns. "Pamela is greedy for the cash. So she steals Geneva's credit card, but she didn't receive a dime of that money. It was more like an ID theft ploy to me."

Preston says. "Why's your single credit card got over a 20,000 dollars credit limit, Geneva?" Eyeballs turn and stare at Geneva.

Stockton smiles and answers for Geneva. "Obviously, someone in the room pays all her mortgage payments on time." Eyeballs turn and stare at Stockton with laughter.

Preston says. "That's way above my average credit limit, I'm mighty impressed. How do ya do that trick, Geneva?" Eyeballs turn and stare at Geneva.

Stockton grins. "You need to find a swift-footed CPA, Preston."

"Good advice, Stockton." Preston taps the pencil eraser on his empty notepad.

"Call me anytime, Preston." Stockton chuckles.

Geneva exhales. "What about our rouge retriever?"

Preston stops tapping the eraser on the paper and grins. "Next step, our bedmates that's the FBI bedmates I mean. The FBI IT shop of tech geeks from both the CIA division and the FBI office are going to rip apart Pamela's computer which is over there against the opposite wall, looking for any type of spy software or spy data tracking any more clues to her secret whereabouts."

"When?" Stockton frowns.

Preston swings with a grin and swirls his chair at the open archway. "Five, four, three, two, one..."

The entrance office door opens. A male enters with a smile and a nod with a gang of his employees behind his ass into the Cyber Crimes department. "Hey, Preston! Is this the place?" The numerous smiling males and females hold sets of heavy equipment in their hands.

"Good timing, boys and girls!" Preston stands with a nod, turning and leaning down to the nose profile of Geneva with a whisper. "By the way, your computer's getting fucked too, Geneva." He scratches his unshaved facial whickers with a stern face. "Since, Pamela made that mistake of carelessly using your desktop. And don't forget to give me your birthday before you leave tonight, I need it for my official FBI report," he winks and pivots to the IT staff, extending a handshake, pointing to Pamela's computer.

10:46 p.m.

City of Gardenville (ten miles from US Federal Building)

Home of Preston

Living room setting

Clear night with moonlight and bright stars

Preston illegally races his sports car home, seeing the dark interior lights of his house. He had hoped that Pamela had arrived before him. She has a house key, for an obvious reason, with a spare house key hidden inside the roof top of the dog house. The dog house is the best place in the whole damn world for protection of his personal property, his house, and his girl Pamela. He stops and slides out of car, carefully entering the darken hallway and shouts. "Pamela?" He waits and whines like a wussie. "Pamela honey, are you here? It's okay. Come out, sweetheart! It's me, Preston. I'm here." He moves and shuffles into the kitchen, burning the overhead lights, and scans the room. Empty. For peace of mind, Preston scouts each room of his three bedrooms and four bathrooms house. Empty, again. Pamela is not here. Preston thinks correction...hopes that she would have come safely back to him for both her protection and her explanation.

He stops, gently tossing the briefcase full of working papers onto the sofa, cautiously removing his fire arm to the side table, and turns, moving to refrigerator, pulling a cold beer. He tosses the cap unto the kitchen counter, turning and moving to the rear of the house towards the patio door and slurps down on the cold beer.

The back door opens. A dog trots from its dog house, waggling his tail, wiggling his tongue in happy love and obedience support. The dog stands at twenty two inches high, weighing in at fifty five pounds of Siberian husky thick coat. The coat is pure white without any visual markings on its skull head. Blackish gray-color lines the inside of two doggie ears and a beige flesh-colored nose. A white tail curves over its back spine. The medium-sized canine has oval-shaped piercing blue eyeballs and a set of erect ear points triangular-shaped covering his skull. A husky dog is a strong compact working sled dog with a friendly, strong-willed, outgoing, sometimes, mischievous personality. He is a strong-mined, independent, and very assertive animal but a loving, gently, playful happy-go-lucky dog and fond of his family members and big open fields like Preston's farm home on the outskirts of Birmingham. Preston squats with a smile, patting the right triangular ear then the left triangular ear and swirls the fur around the neck. "Good boy, Dewy. Good boy." Preston stands as Dewy sits. Preston motions with his hand for Dewy to trot into the residential house as both the boys spin and strut to the sofa. Preston stops and sits an ass in the middle of the sofa. Dewy jumps and hugs the leg of Preston.

Preston reaches and pulls out his laptop from the briefcase onto his kneecaps, booting the power, slurping down the cold beer. He activates the recording from Arthur, replaying Pamela inside the Burn U computer center. And then the computer screen displays.

Pamela smiles and enters the room, turning her body sideways, and waves her hand super friendly at the corner wall video camera of the Burn U computer center.

Thirty minutes later, Pamela stands from the computer chair and stares into the camera lens with a smile and a wave of goodbye.

She turns and leaves the computer room, wearing her pink outfit and her matching colored summer sandals.

He grins with a goofy smile, enjoying the show and frowns with worrying and deep concern for her safety, patting on Dewy, whispering. "She hides. No. She searches. Yeah. Searching for them same answers, as us."

"Woof."

Preston and Dewy's matching blue eyes meet each other. "I...we got all them right answers, Dewy. Ya remember. Don't ya, boy?" He rubs the soft fur.

"Woof."

Preston nods to Dewy. "I'm going to marry Pamela. She's smart and courageous. Do ya approve, Dewy?"

"Woof."

Preston pats the dog. "Good. Knew ya would, buddy. She loves ya too. But remember, she's mine. I'll find you a girl too. Okay?"

"Woof."

"Didn't realize how lonely I was, since Pamela came into my life? Now, I think about us getting married, kids. My parents'll be thrilled for the both of us. How's about a couple of young'uns, chasing ya in the back yard, Dewy?"

"Woof."

Preston smiles. "Yeah. I like that idea too," he sips the beer. "I...I mean we can protect her, if only she'd come back here before something bad happens," he pats Dewy and punches a button on his laptop. And then the computer screen displays.

Geneva

Preston spent all afternoon, searching and poking at the valuable find within some ancient historical US Federal and State of Alabama governmental databases. Then Preston hacked the digital picture with a different hair color, a different hair style, and a pretty healthy female face. He sneers, patting Dewy. "We got ya too. Don't we, bitch? Right, Dewy?"

"Woof."

He sips the beer. "You were right under my hairy nostrils. Don't know. Pamela pieced the puzzle together for me. Then I followed her clues and came up with your name, bitch. Man, my lady's smart too smarty. Stockton elegantly remarked about ya, honey. But now I know. I know all them answers. Except, ya didn't work alone, because you're too much of dumbass, bitch. Someone helped ya, Geneva. I want to know who had Thurston killed," exhaling. He closes down the laptop lid and sets it aside, reaching and jerking out the tiny slips of papers from his jacket, examining the proper names. Preston pulls out his mobile telephone, dialing the first number, lifting to his eardrum and impatiently waits for a vocal reply, hearing the male voice, and sneers. "This jackhole?"

He pauses and listens to the asshole on the other end of the mobile telephone.

"Yeah. The shitty asshole of a stinky jackass, who gave your fucking telephone number for my girl to contact you for a gawd damn date..."

Pause.

"The doll's taken. If ya fuckingly think about contacting my girl ever, I'll blast my bullet straight down your ass with your tonsils as a bull's eye. Ya get my barrel, dumb shit?"

Pause.

"Have a nice evening." Preston punches end button to the call and thumbs the next telephone number on a second slip of paper. He repeats his vicious deadly threat until all the slivers of paper are exhausted.

The mobile telephone rings. Preston answers the phone immediately, hoping one of his newly acquired enemies wants a second round of verbal abuse, because the idiot's getting a mouth full and maybe a nightly visit as well. He yells. "Yeah."

Pause.

Preston exhales. "You sound drunk, Geneva! Are you drinking beer or wine? A little hint, beer's better for the gut, less disgusting toxins to pitch back into the shitty toilet. Got good experience with that one..."

Pause.

"I'm going to barf up that nice meal from Antoine's, Geneva. What do you want, bitch? "

Pause.

Preston leans over his kneecaps, saying in calm fury. "Listen to me very closely, Geneva! You and I will never ever hook up mentally, financially, psychologically, sexually..."

Pause.

"I don't have fears or secrets, bitch."

Pause.

"Since Pamela is missing currently, I don't think you can ask her that direct personal sexual harassing question. Can you, bitch?"

Pause.

"Hear this one clearly, Geneva! I will find Pamela, then you won't have fears. Ya'll be fighting nightmares, mama, inside the Burnside Prison with the rest of them fucking lesbians..." The telephone connection ends. He jerks the phone from an eardrum, looking at it inside his palm. "Fucking bitch!" Preston turns and smiles to Dewy.

"Woof."

10:59 p.m.

Motel room setting of Pamela

Downtown Birmingham 1st Avenue and 3rd Street

Hot temperatures with moonlight and bright stars

Inside the bed mattress of the rented motel room, "Preston!" Pamela shouts out loud and jerks upright from a hard stinky bed mattress, dreaming of Preston. In her dream, he rescued her from the evil boogie woman. She snorts with a giggle. Psychologists say that a night dream represents the current pathetic problems of your real life. So Geneva is her boogie woman and that ain't no nightmare either. She turns and views a dirty white door with the chair that is nicely tucked underneath the door knob from her make-shift homey semi-protection security system.

Pamela turns and stares into the mirror on the opposite side of the cheap low bed frame, seeing a rainbow of vivid colors that reflects the circus clown art work on her olive skin. She had been experimenting with the cartoon makeup, trying to appear somewhat semi-normal for a secret invasion into the front doors of Brookdale Hospital. Pamela plans to walk into the hospital disguised like a nurse on one of the nursing floors, accessing any exposed and unoccupied computer terminal hooked into the hospital's mainframe computer system.

She reaches and grabs the stolen library book, opening to the geographic maps within the city limits of Birmingham, studying one particular map and closes her tired eyelashes. She was tired of studying and reading about caves, caving, and spelunking. She accidentally fell sound asleep after her tummy filled with three bags of chips, two packs of six peanut crackers, and three hot diet sodas, choking the dry salty entrees down a tight esophagus. She wished beyond wish that she had access to a computer, making her cyber journey both easier and faster as a computer programmer. Her work involves computers and her mind thinks in computers also. She has done a pretty good job with the limited resources and the limited time.

Pamela turns and glances at the alarm clock. 11:03 P.M.

She tumbles off the bed mattress, tearing the clean sheets from her body, shouting. "Hospital, dummy. Ya can be at the hospital now, snooping and searching the computer medical records of Ashley Slanton and not lying around a tiny motel room, snoozing. A hospital runs twenty four hours and seven days per week..."

She stands in front of the mirror in her new disguise, consisting of the three blue cotton sweat suits underneath the extra, extra large baby blue nursing scrubs and turns to her left, studying her stance in the mirror, walking and trotting around the motel room in the bulky and heavy clothes. She feels fatter and heavy but doesn't want people to stare at her new awkward self or her sweaty face. Pamela had adjusted the air conditioning to ice cold before dying of heat suffocation in the little stuffy motel room. She does waddle kinda weird from her side view walk in the mirror, tugging down the layers of cotton clothes which are tucked neatly around a neck, two wrists, a waist, and two thighs that are wrinkled from the light catnap.

Pamela turns and moves ahead towards the clothing bureau, stopping and reapplying more makeup on her two blue eyelids, her two rosy apple cheekbones, and bright red lipstick on her pouted lips. Her nails are painted a bright yellow and cut very short like a nurse who works around the beds of sick patients. She reaches and carefully replaces the fake yellow short bangs over her naturally black ones. The three long and short purple, red, orange strands of fake hair are intertwined into a long black braid, disguising her black curly waist length hair. It looks kinda more funky but hopefully effective to slide by the real hospital personnel. She slowly back pedals from the reflection mirror and stares at her clown image down from hair roots to her white sneakers that doesn't clash with the baby blue nursing pants. Pamela doesn't even recognize her person unless she stands in some very bright sunlight.

She turns and stops at the bed, grabbing the stolen library book, stuffing it into a new smaller backpack. Her backpack contains all her cash, a pair of new white underwear panties which are newly washed by warm soapy water, and some personal items. She flips it over her collar bone with a nod and a smile at her new disguise for the upcoming-future-almost-happening interview with Ashley Slanton inside one of the many hospital room, after she views the medical records at Brookdale Hospital as a fake nurse.

Pamela turns and moves to the door, removing the chair to the wall, slowly opening the door, carefully looking over the balcony for any dangerous looking strangers late at night in downtown Birmingham. Clear! She moves and leaves her rental motel room, closing and locking the door with the key, and swings around, cautiously moving down the outside stairs from the second floor motel room, watching out for any dangerous folks again. She moves and crosses the semi-empty parking lot and an empty street, advancing to a public pay telephone which is located at convenience food store. She lifts the telephone receiver, dropping in the coins and dials a taxi cab in heated and humid night air.

11:33 p.m.

Brookdale Hospital

Lobby setting

The taxi cab stops in front of the entrance of the hospital at the sidewalk. The lobby reception arena is almost empty without noisy visitors and active medical staff members. She pays the cabbie and slides and stand outside the taxi cab. The taxi moves and leaves the hospital.

Pamela moves and marches around the curvy sidewalk into the Brookdale Hospital emergency room doors with the illuminated lights, where most of employees, patients, patient families, and guests gather for any nightly unpredictable clinical events during the last night hours. She enters on two shaky legs with tons of nervous energy through a set of revolving glass doors, loping with a casual gait into the empty Brookdale Hospital lobby. The lobby displays bright overhead lights and one single information desk staff member with a sleepy old man who yawns. She sees a colorful decorated hospital gift shop, redirecting her steps to the store and enters.

Gift shop setting

She moves and collects three candy bars, a pack of bubble gum, and four shirt collar lapel pins with the Brookdale Hospital nurse symbols on them and turns and moseys to the cash register counter for money payment. She purposefully twirls a black vinyl badge in her left hand, popping her bubble gum for some undivided attention, testing her ingenious nurse disguise with an unsuspecting night gift shop cashier.

The cashier stands and moves from a little table in the rear wall, advancing and stopping at her cash register with a smile to Pamela. "Evening."

"Hi." Pamela grins, placing the items on the register counter.

The cashier reaches each item and punches the prices into the cash register, looking up with a grin to see Pamela. "Anything else?"

"No." Pamela does not shake the fake hair pieces.

The cashier sees the wiggling ID and says. "These items don't have an employee discount. Okay?"

"That's okay." Pamela smiles.

The cashier looks with a grin and a nod at Pamela. "How ya paying tonight with your employee badge?"

"Cash." Pamela smiles and presents a five dollar bill, reaching and sweeps the items into her backpack.

The cashier fiddles and gives back the proper money change with a smile and a nod to Pamela. "Nite. Have a good shift." Then she about faces and moves to the side table, unloading more taped boxes.

"Thanks." Pamela back steps from the cash register, watching the cashier busy with her nightly work and swings, leaving the store with a grin. She passes a minor test from a sleepy cashier and hopes that the night nurses are just as tired.

Cafeteria setting

She moves and paces to the cafeteria for a single cup of hot black coffee but doesn't drink the toxin stuff, preferring sweet soda and pays with cash, pretending to forget her real badge, turns and leave the cafeteria. She carefully replaces the "fake" badge around her neck. The hospital gives a discount to the employees for purchased items, requiring a proper hospital badge.

The "fake" badge is composed of a toy police black vinyl slip, a black rope cord, and a taped photo of a little girl who wears a fake yellow hair braid over her real brown hair sorta like Pamela. The bottom is colored in big black bold letters Dolly Wallace, displaying across the glossy cut-off underneath the fake hair box. If Pamela is caught, then the fake badge isn't going to help. But the little prop might let her slide by unnoticed by the real medical staffers.

She moves to elevator doors and presses the button, hearing the whirls of the mechanics. The elevator door opens. She enters an empty cradle, pressing the floor number seven for luck...naw...seven is one of the four medical nursing floors. The door closes. The lower number floors are the specialty areas for the emergency room, the critical care unit, and the pediatric children wing, where lots of patients, nurses, physicians, and family members hang to treat the sick folks now. The elevator floats up and stops on nursing floor seven. The elevator door opens.

Pamela exits and turns, walking over a red dotted line that indicates a nursing ward of sick patients, holding the hot coffee cup, seeing an empty corridor. She slowly moves down the hallway, reading the wall signage, designating three different nursing wings, picking the farthest one with a low count of sick patients and a lower count of working nurses. She turns and moves down a hallway, pacing and searching for any nurses with both her eyeballs and her eardrums. If she is caught inside the real nursing floor, Pamela will be held by the real police of the hospital and then eventually imprisoned inside a real jail for pretending to be a medical nurse.

She passes rows of closed doors that represents a set of unused patient rooms without the batch of germs from real live sick people and slows her pace near the nurse station which is a circular station with six computer terminals, all powered on. Pamela moves into the nurse station, stopping and sitting the coffee cup out of elbow range, sliding around the nurse chair and re-boots the computer terminal. The machine sweetly beeps, powering down the software application as she scans the hallway. She turns and sees a screen of black on the computer as the re-boot application switches to brightness, blinding her tired red eyeballs. The computer screen shows a familiar rectangular white sign-in box. Pamela types on the keyboard and into the sign-in box.

ABCDE

The letters represent a username ID. Pamela types on the keyboard and into the sign-in box.

12345

The numbers represent the user password. She strikes ENTER on the keyboard. The Brookdale Hospital computer silently thinks and sweetly beeps a musical tune for accessing all the mainframe hospital applications, including the electronic medical records. Pamela grins.

All hospitals use a common software vendor for simple security system mostly because of money economics of an expensive medical industry. The vendor uses a common and traceable username ID and user password for any computer-challenged clinical staff member who has majored in nursing and not computer science. A hospital employs about 5,000 persons. That is a lot of computer headaches every four minutes for a bunch of tired and rundown hospital IT computer programmers who work twenty four hours, seven days per week, and 365 days per year.

The "ABCDE" username ID and "12345" user password bypasses the busy IT department. So any new hospital employee can access any medical record for the patient in the hospital computer system until properly trained by the older and experienced nurse. Pamela had employed her new trick on this computer terminal and re-booted the computer with her secret IT magic.

On the nursing computer, a new menu screen pops up with a blinking prompt for accessing the Brookdale Hospital patient medical record application. She types on the keyboard the name Thurston Slanton. The medical record shows his address, his telephone number, and his physician. She pokes with the cursor through the bottom menu for his death record inside his medical record, reading the death record.

Thurston died of injuries sustained from numerous broken bones and a head concession. The health insurance covered hundred percent payment of the medical bill with a zero dollar balance. The final diagnose, Thurston died of heart attack. The CIA isn't very creative.

Pamela can't print out a hard copy of his medical records due to a new US Federal Government regulation privacy act. So she pulls out her ink pen and her notepad, showing the CIA code names from her backpack and still is not able to figure out the math number chain on the CIA string.

IT 106891618322 Slanton Thurston

She slowly scans each numeric slot on the computer screen and stops, seeing his birth date January 16, 1986. The CIA string contains some of those same single numeric digits too. She scribbles numbers around on the paper notepad, coming up with 1986. The year of his birth looks backwards. So, the CIA string is month, date, and year typed backward in the numeric format.

10689161 is 01-1986-16 or January 16, 1986.

However the math string of "8322" is still unknown. And Thurston Slanton has truly died. But Pamela is here to find the real live Ashley. She presses the EXIT prompt, backing out the patient medical historical archive application properly, before an IT scan reveals an improper access point, discovering Pamela's illegal snoop. Pamela reaches the beginning of the menu of the patient medical record page and types the name Ashley Slanton on the keyboard. She sees multiple names that display the name Ashley Slanton on the computer screen. "One, two, three, four," she counts with a smile. "You're good CIA. But I'm bestest," giggling.

TAG 307891116540 Slanton Ashley

She unscrambles the birth date of Ashley.

30789111 is 03-1987-11 or March 11, 1987.

This is Ashley Slanton's birthday. Pamela back taps the prompt to the beginning menu prompt, where a nurse can retrieve a hospital patient by a name, a social security name, or a birth date. She types Ashley's birthday March 11, 1987. The new screen displays rows of new patient names.

Out of 300,000,000 million people living in the USA, a few girls could be born on the date and year of March 11, 1987 like Ashley Slanton.

She scans and sees "four" Ashley Slanton with "four" March 11, 1987 birth dates. People can possess the same and date of birth. But the CIA has carried this entertainingly joke too far. Obviously, the CIA and Brookdale Hospital worked in tandem to doctor the "real" medical record with the "real" Ashley Slanton from snooping eye spies like Pamela who is performing an illegal electronic computer data search. She clicks on mouse on the "first" Ashley Slanton with a birth date of March 11, 1987.

The screen blinks slowly and recreates a medical record for Ashley. Pamela clicks the curser at the bottom of the menu for her death certificate with the death date of March 17, matching her funeral information in the Jefferson Newspaper. The computer shows the death certificate.

She nods, receiving the correct Ashley Slanton and flips back to the demographic screen, writing down the physical street address from the computer onto the notepad with the ink pen and halts.

There are three other names for Ashley Slanton.

She turns and types on the keyboard to access the "second" Ashley Slanton who appears with a death certificate on March 17 too along with a different street address, a different telephone number, and six different names of physicians. Pamela whispers. "Not good!"

She types on the keyboard to access the "third" and "fourth" Ashley Slanton with their respective death certificates that shows the death date of March 17 also along with two different street addresses, two different telephone numbers, and lots of different names of physicians. Pamela whispers. " Not very good!" The dummy computer terminal cannot print the electronic pages of the four names of Ashley Slanton. So the real hospital nurse can't illegally download medical and clinical patient data onto a secret thumb drive or print an easy hard copy from machine printer only read all the information on the screen, too. Pamela cannot print by hand all the mountains of data on the four names of Ashley Slanton either, whispering. "This sucks."

She back tracks the computer cursor to the "first" name on the death certificate for more information, showing the cause of death as a heart attack too. The three other deaths of Ashley include a car accident, a suicide, and breast cancer. Since the CIA likes to write Hollywood science fiction novels also. She clicks the computer cursor back to the "first" name, observing twenty six pages of medical record along with same twenty six pages under each Ashley Slanton too. Pamela presses the cursor, rolling down the end of the medical record file to page twenty six, looking for any useful data. She sees the "birth certificate" for the "fourth" Ashley Slanton. "Birth certificate, why on planet Earth?" Pamela frowns and snaps her fingers. "Of course, she's alive and being treated by a medical physician. The physician would need all her documents, including her real birth certificate. Brilliant. So this is her, the right one."

Pamela back tracks the computer cursor to the "first" name, surfing to the end of the file and locates a second birth certificate for the "second" Ashley Slanton also with her own birth certificate, showing March 11, 1987. "Back to step one," she moans. "Which one is she, really?" She looks down to the floor and the computer screen. Pamela can't stand on her sneakers here all night, searching for the wrong file of information as her eardrums hear a far distance faint noise. She guesses the midnight cleaning staff, doing their real working hospital job as the sick patients sleep.

She stares at the birth certificate which looks really weird. The baby yellow bunnies are wearing pieces of bright purple clothes, playing with red balloons. "This is a Keepsake Birth Certificate," Pamela whispers. The document is used to frame and display inside the baby's room instead of using the State of Alabama original format of dull light gray boxes of crowded information, such like, the home address, city, state, zip code, hospital name, hospital address, some contact data, and other useless stuff. The computer screen shows.

State of Alabama Certificate of Birth

Ashley Louise Barnell

Born on March 11, 1987 in Jefferson County at 2:12 P.M. to loving parents

"Blab! Blab! Her parents..." Pamela moans, flipping the cursor back to the "first" Ashley, accessing that particular birth certificate. It shows the same silly yellow bunnies, wearing the same stupid purple clothes. "Jefferson County at 11:20 P.M. Hold on!" She types and flips the cursor to the "fourth" Ashley who was birthed at 2:12 P.M. However the "first" one is birthed at 11:20 P.M. She looks up with a puzzled brow and a whisper to see the far wall. "The birth times are different. I found my clue. But which birth time is correct?" Pamela pulls out and digs through paper copy of Ashley's obituary, discovering no birth time. "Of course not, dummy." She looks and rereads the CIA string of math numbers and alpha characters.

TAG 307891116540 Slanton Ashley

The CIA string of "307891116" converts into March 11, 1987 which means that the "6540" is a backward number too. The birth time translates into 04:56. "Found it." She shouts with excitement and scans the hallway, looking up to see the computer screen with a grin and a whisper. "The second Ashley is birthed on 8:37 A.M. Fake and flaunting it, baby. The third Ashley Slanton matches 4:56 A.M. on the CIA converted time string of 04:56. Gotta love military time, darling." Military time is the concise method of expressing time used by the military, emergency services of law enforcement, firefighters, and nurses. The USA military operates on a twenty four hour clock, beginning at midnight (which is 0000 hours). So 1:00 A.M. is 0100 hours; 2:00 A.M. is 0200 hours, where 1:00 P.M. is 1300 hours for following the twenty four hours of time in a single twenty hour planet Earth day and night.

A set of soft female voices echo with a set of faint footfalls, moving across the tile flooring as a set of rolling cart wheels squeak like a nest of tortured mice. "Cleaning staff," Pamela whispers, checking the time 12:30 A.M. "Shift change." She types on the keyboard and back tracks to a demographical page, rushing her hand scribbles of the first words of Ashley's address and halts. "Fake, all the medical information and personal address is all fake but not her treating medical physician for Ashley's medical injuries. Ashley is alive based on three other fake medical records. So she must be getting treated medically for something clinical bad in her body or her mind. Since Thurston was truly killed maybe a shoot-out with a set of real guns and bullets." Pamela looks and reviews the details of Ashley's clinical medical procedures, consisting of numerous laboratory blood tests to radiology x-rays of broken bones. The physician medical computer notes list nine different physician names. She leans over the paper and writes down all nine physicians.

A female voices echoes with a set of heavy footfalls that are moving closer to Pamela as the rolling cart wheels sheik like a nest of tormented red-tailed hawks. "Hospital staff," Pamela scans the page of the medical records, detailing Ashley's psychological treatments. The medical physicians attending are Dale Kirby MD, Elisa Wissa MD, and Toma Brown MD. Pamela rapidly scripts the proper names of the clinical psychologists onto the paper notepad being too nervous to remember the English word inside her excited neurons and slaps the power button off as the computer terminal shuts down with soft beeps of musical tones. She drops and falls down on her kneecaps and her palms, grabbing and dragging her backpack to the wall as four loud-mouth female hospital cleaning personnel employees with four cleaning carts invade the opposite wall of the nursing floor.

Pamela crawls over the tile in forward motion far away from the nursing station to the elevator inside the hallway, kissing the wall with her elbow and her shoulder bone, and turns right into a smaller dark corridor, balling her body into a set of cupped arms and legs, cuddling her chest. She exhales with a puff of worry, slowly calming her heart and her nervous flip-flop tummy of butterflies, leaning her skull against the wall and bends to side into an open hallway, searching for the hospital staffers. Her eardrums listen for the faint voice pattern echoes as voice echoes go deeply further down the corridor over the nursing floor and away from her.

She stands, darting her eyelashes side to side, seeing a fire exit door that leads down to the lobby, and turns, dashing through the door, stomping down to freedom.
July 30th Friday

9:47 a.m.

City of Hometown (9 miles from downtown Birmingham)

Dale Kirby MD

Private office setting

Hot temperatures with bright sunshine

She finally locates the correct medical psychiatrist in an office building on Oxmoor Road in the city of Hometown, after spending 16.75 dollars of her limited money assets. She had spent the money, dialing a wrong set of telephone numbers answered by a rude grouchy secretaries as she pretended to be Ashley Slanton, inquiring about her next clinical session with her personal physician.

Pamela scoots out the taxi cab, paying another 55.00 dollars of her more limited money assets with a money tip to the cabbie, standing and entering a six-story brick building with a set of rotating doors in her Halloween costume. She moves through the empty lobby towards the elevator carriage. The elevator door opens. She slides into an empty carriage too, pressing the button for the third floor. The elevator door closes. The carriage stops. The elevator door opens.

Pamela moves to a single door in another empty hallway. The receptionist office door opens. She carefully surveys the office of Dale Kirby MD, admiring a nicely plush cool air conditioned beige and gold reception room. A set of twin gold and tan benches lean against the wall between a pair of freshly trimmed green fern trees and an empty receptionist chair. She enters, moving around receptionist cubby. The receptionist office door closes. She sits and types on the computer terminal, verifying Ashley's appointment at ten sharp, since Pamela doesn't want to waste any more of her precious time or the precious money. And she sees Ashley's name and her appointment time at ten am.

She stands from the chair, strolling to the private work office of Kirby. The office door is slightly cracked but not locked. She grabs and taps on the wooden door with two knocks. The office door opens. Pamela slowly enters a quiet room, viewing a messy desk, a homey bookcase, a crowded wall of lots of golden framed medical certifications, turning to see an infamously comfortable long sofa that could fit a six feet male with ease. She keeps the office door open for a quick fugitive get away from her personal nose-snooping. Pamela meekly says. "Dr. Kirby, I'm a new patient. There's no one at the front receptionist desk. Are you here, Dr. Kirby?" She moves deeper into the office, noting the red-colored lip stick stained on the white ceramic coffee cup in the middle of a work desk. "Not here. And a coffee lover too," she shuffles back into the reception lobby, verifying any clinical patients in the reception space.

Pamela moves back into the cramped office room again without a set of glass windows to the work desk, standing over a small lamp, poking her fingers around private work papers of Kirby.

Then, her eyeballs dart up to see a fascinating sets of two different individual closed doors which are located on the opposite side of the room in the wall corners. The closed doors are diagonal of the desk chair between a wide built-in book cases. The bookcases holds a thousand or more dull brown and dark black material bound medical textbooks. Pamela moves between the office desk and the sofa to the door on her right, stopping and opening the door. A set of concrete stairs. The stairs lead down to the ground floor. "Escape hatch, noted." She shuts the door and side steps to the opposite side of the room, reaching for the other knob on the second door. The exit door closes.

"Hi, Dr. Dale. Tammy's not at her desk," an alto voice of a female says behind the back spine of Pamela. Pamela swings around to see a petite girl with a head of blonde colored hair. The girl strolls to the long sofa and lies on top of the fabric, crossing her arms over the chest cavity. Both her naked feet lift and lounge comfortably on the opposite edge of arm rest. She closes her eyelashes, breathing deeply. Pamela hustles a fanny to the office desk chair, slipping on the laboratory coat of Kirby over her Halloween costume, and sits in a soft leather chair, twisting the light of the lamp between her and Ashley on the edge of work desk to block her odd appearance. Ashley doesn't seem to notice that Pamela is not Dale Kirby, MD.

Pamela clears her throat with a grin. "Good morning. Sit down...lie down. Good. Let's begin..."

Ashley says in monotone alto to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes. "Thurston exploded yesterday. I have not received any news from the hospital. Is he okay, doctor?"

Silence.

Pamela turns with a worried brow to see the side door to the escape stairs and Ashley. However she needs numerous answers to her numerous questions and assistance to get out of her mega trouble with the FBI and Geneva that Ashley can possibly supply. She exhales with a determined brow. "Thurston's fine and dandy. Where were you and Thurston located yesterday, Ashley?" Ashley says in monotone alto to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes. "Thurston exploded yesterday. I have not received any news from hospital. Is he okay, doctor?"

Pamela frowns. "What location did Thurston get hurt at, Ashley?"

Ashley does not change the pitch of her voice, her body language, or attempts to move from the long sofa. Pamela can understand her mental state of mind. Ashley does not acknowledge what has happened to her husband Thurston and lives in some kinda time warp, blocking out her awful midnight from that fatal CIA mission. She says in monotone alto to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes. "Thurston exploded yesterday. I have not received any news from hospital. Is he okay, doctor?"

Pamela asks. "Who is Tag?"

"I am." She says in monotone alto to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes.

Pamela nods. "Who is It?"

Ashley lifts her torso from the chair, folding at her waist to the wall, kicking her bare feet from the arm rest, and turns, standing and bouncing on her toe bones, and says with a distorted face and a loud tone. "Find it. Find it. Find it. Find it..."

Pamela gasps, standing with her raised palms. "We will find it. Okay, Ashley? We will find it. It's okay. Please calm down. Please lie back down, Ashley!" Ashley stops jumping, back stepping and resting on top of the sofa again, dropping her skull onto the small pillow and stretches out her legs. She replaces her naked feet on top of the arm rest, crossing her legs over her chest, closing her eyelashes. Pamela sits and says. "Alright, Ashley! Sh! Relax and breathe deeply." Ashley looks to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes in silent. Pamela exhales, shaking her real and fake colored curls, looking down to see the medical papers on the work desk. The top document lists a series of numbered psychological questions for Ashley as Pamela reads fast and furious all the papers. She discovers that Thurston's body explosion occurred in Chalk Cave. Pamela can use the stolen library book to research that particular cavern site location, somewhere, in the city limits of Birmingham. She skims the rest of questions with the provided answers, finding more useless data, and drops her mouth, looking up to see Ashley on the top of the sofa, whispering. "It is not here. The question is not here."

Ashley says in monotone alto to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes. "Thurston exploded yesterday. I have not received any news from hospital. Is he okay, doctor?"

Pamela rattles the papers, scanning the list of psychological questions and the associated provided answers for a second time, looking up with a smirk to see Ashley. "Who is Boa?"

"Preston." She says in monotone alto to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes.

Pamela shakes her skull, holding back her tears with a whisper. "No. Not Preston." Preston works for the FBI like her. They both possess mega loads of secret information, known and gathered for their individual working US Federal Government jobs. For the past two weeks with Preston, Pamela knows everything about him, including his favorite jazz song, his favorite alcoholic drink, and his favorite tickle. Pamela says with a firm tone and a worried face. "Ashley, who really is Boa?"

"Preston." She says in monotone alto to the ceiling with closed eyelashes.

And then Pamela hears the faint sound. A set of male faint voices echo in the reception room coupled with a set of heavy footfalls, moving to the private office of Dale Kirby, MD. "Preston's here!" Pamela gasps, scanning the room, seeing the side door, and leaps from the chair as it hits the bookcase. The exit door opens.

Exit staircase setting

She dashes through the fire exit door in the rear of the room, fleeing down the concrete stairs of the fire escape steps, and lands on the ground floor, seeing the fire escape door. The door is slightly cracked open. She moves and holds the door wide open, hearing a set of heavy footfalls behind her ass.

"Hey. Don't close that door," a tenor voice of a male shouts, sitting somewhere behind the other side fire exit door.

Pamela holds the fire exit door, surveying quickly. The outdoor space is a designated smoking area. She reaches and touches a cigarette box and a cigarette lighter inside the pocket of the laboratory coat. Dr. Dale Kirby smokes. She carefully shuts the metal fire exit door against the big rock between the door frame and the metal door. The rock prevents a closure. So, the addicted smokers can reenter the building freely without trucking their lazy asses around the front entrance glass doors.

Pamela moves through the patio and grabs the cigarette box, sliding and stopping into a tiny hidey hole between the closed glass window and the concrete wall of the medical office building. She shifts the starched collar of the laboratory coat against her neck, partially hiding a facial profile, slipping a cigarette from the box and replaces the box into the pocket, holding the lighter. She lights the cigarette on a second try with a pair of shaky hands of nervous energy. Then, she holds it parallel to the concrete patio, appearing like a regular smoker and praying that she does not start coughing. Pamela doesn't smoke cigarettes or drink alcohol, because her parents don't engage in those human addictive habits. But everyone has some type of bad habit even her. She closes the eyelashes, standing in the silly clown disguise of yellow, red, orange, and purple fake hair pieces coupled with the oversized set of baby blue nursing scrubs. She sweats tons of water beneath the multiple layers of cotton sweat suits, hearing a combination of voices, boots, and shouts.

Preston stomps down the rear fire exit stairs as his boot heels echo off the cold concrete walls. Pamela can't see faces but hears a series of individual voices. The exit door opens.

"Hey, man! Don't slam that damn door," the male sees and hollers at Preston.

Preston moves forward onto the patio brick, scanning the patio, grass, pine trees, low bushes, and smokers. He swings around and scans the empty fire exit stairway again.

Arthur rushes down the stairs and stumbles into the back spine of Preston with a huff. "She here?" He stomps around Preston into the manicured grass, sniffing the cigarette smoke, scanning the grass, pine trees, low bushes, and smokers too.

Preston continues to scan the manicured lawn for a single moving person, "Naw. Just smokers here."

Arthur turns and points to a grove of tall trees, "She fled that way, maybe."

"No figure was moving north or south or any other direction. No other shady spot to hide with an open wide terrain like this. She must've exited on a separate office floor during our chase."

Arthur says. "You go and ask the smokers while I start checking the upper floors?"

"Pamela doesn't smoke or drink. She ain't here. Damn it." Preston looks up to the pretty blue sky and down to see the dirty patio bricks and finally over to see Arthur, ordering. "Go around the side of the medical building to the front parking lot and rotating glass doors. Check for any subtle clues of Pamela, hiding between the manicured bushes. I'll go back and talk with Ashley Slanton, inquiring if she saw or heard anything weird." Arthur nods, swinging to the bushes, moving away from Preston. Preston about faces, stomping up the steps, letting the metal door bang against the limestone rock.

Pamela leans into a cold concrete wall, hearing his angry words, his positive actions, and his negative reactions. Preston can't find her fugitive self. She is getting her butthole deeper in a big tall pile of dark black puppy poopy. However, Pamela has new lead, Chalk Cave. She is going spelunking. She ditches the cigarette, smacking it dead with a sneaker heel and turns and walks to the front of the building with a daring attitude and a prissy strut in front of Arthur. He continues to kick the plants and squats over the flower beds, looking for her clues. She crosses the nicely green manicured lawn to the vanilla colored city street sidewalk. Pamela is located less than ten blocks from the Hometown Public Library for researching the proper caving procedures into Chalk Cave.

Interior office setting of Dale Kirby, MD

Larry meets Preston with a worried brow at the fire exit door, pointing the second door. "Preston, there are two dead bodies in the back room with two bullet holes. Each bullet is embedded inside their heart organs."

Preston moves forward from the fire exit door to the office door, slapping the collar bone of Larry with a stern face and a nod. "Larry, get on the horn. Call EMS and get us more help here. We search the entire building for Pamela."

"Roger." Larry turns and moves to the archway.

"Ashley." Stockton kneels in front of Ashley, patting her hand with a worried brow.

"How's she doing?" Preston stops and stands between the work desk and the sofa, leaning over into her hair roots.

Stockton looks up with a worried brow to see the Preston, gasping. "Geneva?" He stands, back stepping from Preston, slamming his back spine into the wall of framed medical certificates. Some of the picture frames rattle and fall, hitting the carpet in silence. Larry spun around with a worried brow, standing in the archway, jerking both his palms in the air.

"Preston." Geneva stands in the fire exit archway in the rear of the office.

Preston turns around with raised palms too to see her. Geneva swings the long barrel Colt 45 at him. He grins. "Good to see you, Geneva," he side steps to the archway, moving away from Ashley and in front of Stockton for protection.

"Geneva, where did she come from?" Larry frowns with his raised palms. Geneva moves and paces from the fire exit archway, wearing a laboratory coat over her designer suit like a medical physician too. She aims her twin Colts hand guns at Preston.

"Back room," Preston grins, slowly side stepping to the archway for get help, exposing Stockton in the wall. Geneva was hiding inside the second room, listening and spying for the answer too.

Larry stares at the two guns and Geneva. "I found only them two bodies..."

"...in the back room. Why did you kill these two nice innocent people, Geneva?" Preston frowns with his raised palms, slowly side stepping to the archway and Larry, moving away from both Ashley and Stockton.

"Preston!" Geneva moves with a grin to the desk, still aiming her twin guns at him.

Preston smiles. "You didn't expect to find me here, right? I tracked Pamela here. I'm FBI. I'm good at my job."

"Bullshit, Preston!" Geneva sneers, still aiming her twin guns at him.

"Okay. You tracked Pamela here." Preston grins with his palms up.

She stops behind the desk chair. "You're a shit ass, Preston."

"Many times over," Preston chuckles.

Stockton holds both his palms in the air from crazy Geneva with a confused brow. "Why are you here, Geneva?"

"Why are you here, Stockton and with Preston?" Geneva sways one of her twin guns at him.

Stockton exhales. "You and me are working with the FBI. Remember, Geneva? You didn't show this morning, at the office. So I accompanied..."

"Ashley?" Geneva softly says with a grin behind the work desk, looking at the girl.

"Yes." Ashley says in monotone alto to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes.

"Who is Boa, Ashley?" Geneva softly words, looking at the naked feet of Ashley.

"I am bitch." Preston slowly side steps with a sneer and a set of raised arms to the archway.

Geneva sways and jerks both her hand guns at Preston with a confused brow. "Preston!"

Preston chuckles, "Got ya'll, honey! You've been looking for me, while I've been tracking your ass for three long years," he side steps closer to the open archway and Larry.

Larry still holds a set of raised palms with a worried brow. "Might I remind you here! She's got twin loaded weapons, Preston!"

Preston chuckles. "And she can't hit the side of a still choo-choo train parked on the rail tracks at the Birmingham Depot either."

"Ashley, who is Boa?" Geneva says with a firm tone and a sour frown at the face of Ashley. Geneva has been working with the CIA operator named Boa for three years in the same agency, at the same building, in the same city, in the same state. Not possible. She would've discovered and found the truth immediately.

"Preston," Ashley says in monotone alto to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes.

"Preston?" Geneva sneers at him.

Preston says. "Ashley can't lie with all them shitty drug pills floating inside her head," his shoulder touches the wood of the archway, standing beside Larry.

"Who is Tag, Ashley?" Geneva sneers and looks at the naked feet of Ashley.

"I am." Ashley says in monotone alto to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes.

"Who is Boa?" Geneva asks, looking at Ashley's feet.

"Preston," Ashley says in monotone alto to the ceiling with her closed eyelashes.

"Who is It?" Geneva sneers and looks at Preston.

Ashley lifts a torso up the sofa and folds at waist, facing towards the wall, kicking the bare feet from the arm rest, and turns, standing and bouncing on her toe bones, and says with a distorted face and a loud tone. "Find it. Find it. Find it. Find it..." Geneva fires a bullet from her left hand with the pistol, hitting Ashley in her beating heart organ and swings to the right, pointing and shooting a second bullet from same pistol at Stockton. The second bullet slices the throat muscles of Stockton. Ashley falls against the sofa, slumping to the fabric. Dead. Stockton falls against the wall, slumping and knocking off more picture frames. Dead. Geneva sways more to the right, aiming both her hand pistols on Preston, blasting a third bullet from her right hand. The third bullet hits Larry in the chest cavity. Geneva shoots a fourth bullet from her right hand with same gun, killing Larry's left eye socket. The fifth bullet from her right hand fires and lodges into the door frame next to the bluest of blue left eye ball of Preston. Larry falls backward, slumping sideways from the archway onto Preston. Preston grabs Larry with both hands. They both tumble backward into the reception room on a pile of bodies. Geneva turns with a grin and a giggle, running and escaping down the fire exit stairs for a second time from Preston again.

Inside the outer room, Arthur enters and wobbles into the reception room, stumbling down on his kneecaps, holding the rear of his skull. "Geneva! Hit! Preston!"

Preston shuffles a dead Larry from his legs, standing and moving to Arthur, and cuddles him in his lap, saying in a nervous tone. "Arthur, you're bleeding from your skull."

"Geneva...surprise...bushes...building...rock. Eye...light...dark."

"Get you cared for, buddy." Preston pulls out his mobile telephone, thumbing the icon and speaker phone. The phone rings.

"Pamela?" Arthur closes the eyelids, resting inside the lap of Preston.

"No." Preston rests the ringing phone on the floor, sliding off his sports coat to cover Arthur as he tries to prevent clinical shock to his best friend.

The telephone sings. "911..."

10:50 a.m.

Hometown Public Library

Computer room setting

She paces side to side near the book stack, watching the girl with her one eyeball. Finally, the nice student slowly stands from her spot at the library free-standing computer. The computer screen goes black. Pamela turns and occupies the warm padded stool next. She types on the keyboard: codecs.getdecoder, yieldRECORDS at the top of black screen. The internal generator function of the EDCDIC decoder inside the computer will expose a mirror image number of the previous library card of the poor hard-working college student. Pamela can illegally use it to access the internet on the library computer under someone else's name but hers. She can't use Ilenn's card anymore and doesn't have the physical possession to her personal library card which is inside her purse at her work office. And she doesn't work at the US Federal Government building as a cyber kitten anymore as she is a fugitive on the fun...correction on the run.

She lifts the pencil and writes the visual numbers on the computer screen down on the borrowed notepad from the recycled bin of paper. Then she reboots the computer terminal, watching and waiting with nervousness, scanning the library patrons and the students for any upcoming entanglements. The library identification box to access the internet appears. She types inside internet box the word: Chalk Cave. The screen shows.

Wycombe Caves in Utah made of chalk; Bungonia caves made of chalk.

She types the words: Chalk Cave, Birmingham, Alabama. The screen shows:

Wycombe Caves in Utah made of chalk; Bungonia caves made of chalk.

She whispers. "Okay. Chalk Cave is a local nickname of somewhere underground cavern here in the city limits of Birmingham. Let's start with the Alabama Jurassic park model. Since no dinos had lived here ever. There's no oil under them there big hills," giggling. Pamela scrolls down the screen, searching the related items from Alabama Indians to Alabama Topography, clicking the mouse on the "Alabama Indians" tab. She whispers to the computer screen. "The Paleo-Indians reached the known territory of Alabama landforms at the end of Ice Age. Naw. The Ice Age is long gone, ya'll. I need the warm geological Alabama. There are five major physiographies, the study of the physical features of the Earth's surface. Well Bama rock and mountains will do just fine for my snooping. The five major physiography areas are Highland Rim, East Gulf Coastal Plain, Cumberland Plateau, Alabama Valley, and Piedmont Upland." She eliminates what she knows as the geographical areas of south and north Alabama and clicks the mouse on the "Alabama Valley Physiography" tab.

She whispers to the computer screen. "The Alabama Valley is rich in iron ore, coal, and limestone. Yes. Mountains are part of the Appalachian Foothills and contain lots of limestone valleys, and high sandstone mountain ridges. Yes." She clicks the mouse on the "Appalachian Foothills" tab.

"Rocks of the Appalachian range are very old rounded ridges with mountain peaks formed roughly 300 million years ago during a large geological up-thrust of land mass. The up-chuck...naw...up-thrust eroded the mountain into their present form and shaped by the forces of Mother Nature. Who cares? I'm digressing." She clicks the mouse on the 'Alabama Valley' tab. She whispers to the computer screen. "The five regions of the Alabama Valley include cotton, coal, soil, corn, soybeans, limestone, marble, and iron. Good." She clicks the mouse on the 'limestone' tab.

"A plateau is defined as an elevated level of expanse land or tableland. A plain is an area of land of low relief, meaning flat. A loam is soil containing sand, silt, and fertile clay. This soil is ideal for all types of agricultural use. Not helpful. I'm digressing again."

Pamela turns and glances at wall clock with twenty minutes left on the borrowed time of thirty minutes, the time limit on the computer on any library card. She clicks the mouse on the 'limestone' tab again accidentally being rushed and nervous. "Lots of categories. Let's see caves are formed by water from water. So how about rivers?" Pamela clicks the mouse on the 'rivers' tab.

"About one-sixth of the surface area in Alabama is comprised of bodies of water. How not freaking fascinating? Many rivers, lakes, creeks, and streams travel throughout the Alabama landscape, giving the state one of the longest inland waterway systems in America. O. So that accounts for all those underground empty caverns. All of Alabama's largest bodies of water are man-made lakes created by dams. A man-made lake would be re-routed through an underground stream or a natural cave. The man-made lakes serve as hydroelectric generating stations, along the main rivers, including the Tombigbee, Alabama, Tennessee, Black Warrior, Coosa, and Chattahoochee. I don't have time to research each freaking floating flooding river with thousands of smaller freaking fresh water lakes. Work smarter, not harder, Pamela." She exhales with annoyance. She clicks the mouse on the "man-made lakes in Alabama" tab. Then she sees the river names scroll down the screen. She clicks the mouse on the "Lake Guntersville" tab. "The man-made Lake Guntersville is the largest lake in north Bama. No. I need lakes in central Alabama." She clicks the mouse on next the 'river' tab.

"Lake Martin on the Tallapoosa River is near Montgomery. No. Not that one either."

She clicks mouse on the "Lewis Smith Lake" tab. "Lewis Smith Lake is a man-made lake located twenty miles northwest of Birmingham. Yes. Found it. It was created by the construction of a 300 foot dam by the Alabama Electricity Company on top of the Black Warrior River. The lake has 500 miles of shoreline, surrounding the water surface, covering 21,200 acres of land. I bet probably leaks like a kid's diaper directly into the heart of metro city Birmingham, forming an underground cavern probably also off-limits to me. The lake lies adjacent to the Bankhead National Forest, home to Alabama's largest trees, north of Shades and Double Oak Mountains, and many un-named underground caves. Some famous ones are Russell Cave, DeSoto Caverns, and Rickwood Cavens. It's not here. No wonder it didn't display during my internet search."

She clicks the mouse on an outer space satellite imagery of the State of Alabama, pinpointing the city of Birmingham. The electronic city shows a set of tiny circles of pink colors for the suburbs, a set of wide rectangular blocks of medium green forests, and a long crooked dark midnight black for rivers. There is a river north of the Shades and Double Oak Mountain Ranges with many light-blue semi-circles of fresh water lakes, feeding the black snaky Black Warrior River. The satellite imagery encompasses a population of 242,820 people. She develops a new plan to enter Chalk Cave, clicking the mouse on the 'caving' tab, studying all the data about caving, and sees a contact name. Pamela looks down with a smile, writing the data on the paper.

12:07 p.m.

Vendor machines and public bathrooms

Public telephone booth setting

She moves from the library computer, pacing into the vendor machine room, halting at the public telephone, and drops the backpack at her feet. She lifts the receiver, dropping two coins into the slot, dialing the telephone number.

The telephone rings. It connects with a male voice, the president of the local Alabama Caving Organization located in Birmingham.

"Hi. I'm...er...Pat. I'm new to underground caving. I just read the awesome info on your website and have some really silly questions."

She pauses and listens to the male voice on the other end of the mobile telephone.

"I'm like a beginner and would like to explore, just one easy cave for starters. Maybe one that's easy to get in and out with a set of minimal caving equipment. Can you assist me?"

Pause.

"Yeah. I got your name from the Birmingham Grotto. Yeah. The internet website quoted that ya know where all the good caves are." Pamela studies her written notes on the notepaper.

Pause.

"Yeah. I read that also. DeSoto Cavens, Rickwood Cavens, and Russell Cave are in the northern part of Bama. So your next meeting is Monday at seven pm inside the Birmingham Public Library of Southside. Yeah. Writing it all down, sir. Can you tell me? What's it like inside a cave being a land lover, mostly?"

Pause.

"Yeah. I'm a funny girl."

Pause.

"Why is Russell Cave near the city of Warrior, north of Birmingham closed? Is that really usual? I mean this is nature. Right? Why would nature be closed off to us, earthlings?"

Pause.

"Yeah. I'm a humorous chick."

Pause.

"O. Got it. So the local park rangers escort you for several hundred yards along the boardwalk to a locked and sealed gate. Once the gates are opened, you can walk through a dry creek bed and follow the creek bed to a couple puddles of water. Don't drink the water. Got it. Noted for future reference, sir."

Pause.

"So, you can walk around the water but not allowed to crawl around on the archeo sites. What's an archeo?"

Pause.

"Archeo is an archeologist site. Yeah. That makes sense. Okay. So when do ya'll glide under the stalactites?"

Pause.

"Not allowed to do that without a special permission slip from the State of Alabama Government Mineral Mining Office in Montgomery. Gotta make dang certain that I'm not a terrorist, belonging to an underground organization to blow Mother Nature to heavenly kingdom come, huh?"

Pause.

"O. So, cavers in both the States of Alabama and Tennessee are required to be escorted by two park rangers and file the proper paperwork with the park range folks. That takes the fun out of exploring, huh?"

Pause.

"Yeah. The terrorists have all the fun."

Pause.

"Really? That's really cool, sir. Your wife discovered an underground cave near your property line about thousand feet from our house. Did you enter the cave?"

Pause.

"That sounds like fun, sir. Are there any undiscovered caves closer to the city of metro Birmingham to explore for fun? I know the location of the tiny farm town of Warrior. That's a hefty drive from the city of Hometown, where I live."

Pause.

"Keystone Bridge Cave, Gate City Cave, Chalk Cave then there's Quarry Cave in Trussville. But ain't quarries curved by Mankind, not Mother Nature?"

Pause.

"I'm both witty and smart. Tell me about Keystone Bridge Cave, sir?"

Pause.

"A strenuous mile and one-fourth of a mile hike up Ruffen Mountains then off a lame hiker's nature trail into a small cave of wet water passed your waist going deeper down into 547 feet. I don't like that one. Is there a dry cave ya enjoy exploring? What about Gate City Cave?"

Pause.

"Gate City Cave requires a permission slip too. How's about the one named Chalk Cave?"

Pause.

"Chalk Cave? What can ya quote to me about Chalk Cave and include every piece of little detail please, sir?"

Pause.

"Closed? O. No park ranger guards or terrorist bombers left, huh?" Pamela chuckles at her lame joke.

Pause.

"Accident, when?"

Pause.

"Three years ago, the cave never re-opened. Who closed it?"

Pause.

"Feds, huh? Any more background info on Chalk Cave?"

Pause.

"O. That's sound great. Your local spelunking gang is going to explore Snail Cave tomorrow, early Saturday morning. Snail Cave is nearby to Chalk. And you might see some terrorist bombers, too. Ha. Ha. That's fun, Roger."

Pause.

"Okay. I understand. Bring my gear, my lunch, a good pair of sturdy shoes, a safety helmet, and a couple of water bottles tomorrow and meet at the Patterson Farm, right off of Highway 31. Okay? Yeah, sir. I do have a basic knowledge of rigging and safe practices," she cringes with the big fat lie.

Pause.

"You're a nice person, Roger. See ya'll at five thirty in the morning, right after sun up."
July 31st Saturday morning

5:33 a.m.

Patterson Farm setting

Highway 31 location

Warm temperatures with slight breeze and partly cloudy

Pamela appears like the young female in the glossy colored picture from the Alabama Grotto Magazine as she scoots from the taxi cab again, seeing the cows, the house, and the crops of the Patterson Farm which is located on Highway 31. A grotto is any type of natural cave associated with pre-historical use by a cave man and woman. She flings the folded paper magazine against her left arm, exhibiting tons of nervous energy.

Her helmet with the blinding tiny flashlight sits on top of her wet hair roots. She sweats water under her armpits inside the new long-sleeved green turtleneck too. She wears an abused pair of old baggy blue jeans from the Burn U Swap Shop which is paired with a new pair of brown suede hiking boots, and a new pair of black working gloves on both hands. And an annoying set of thick plastic cloth covers both kneecaps. She holds a light all-purpose black weather jacket over her forearm. Her other forearm is wrapped in a rolled up thirty feet of real rough cowboy tan-colored rope for rigging a cave.

Pamela frowns after blowing a thousand more dollars of her limited money assets for the new caving gear to visit a mysterious US Federal Government closed Chalk Cave, in southwest Birmingham. The cave sight is far away from her work office and her residential house too. She stands alone in the wet morning dew grass up to her kneecaps, after riding a taxi cab to an unmarked spot of Patterson Farm, pondering her money, her time, and her person. She has spent a majority of the stolen money on numerous taxi cab rides, moving quietly around the city of Birmingham, purchasing new non-Pamela disguises, and eating junk food for meals. Plus, a new set of equipment for spelunking has left her piggy bank with two hundred dollars and some loose pennies that are jiggling at the bottom of her new big fat hiking backpack.

And there is not enough money to pay for a second week of renting a cheap stinky motel room. If she does not find the correct answer at Chalk Cave, then she will steal more money from another innocent person. Right? Wrong!

Pamela has to make an executive decision after investigating the new cave site without or with an answer. If she finds the correct answer of BOA, then she will run to Preston for help. He might be mad at her now, but he'll assist her. If she doesn't find the answer of BOA, then she'll turn herself into the FBI for the fugitive arrest, going to Preston first, before Geneva. He will be highly upset and mad, but she doesn't have a choice.

At Patterson Farm, Pamela fakes a smile at the new fellow caver in the grass as they shake hands, smile lips, and talk spelunking. After a non-fanfare ceremony of her newly introduction of fake Pat and a real grotto shirt, she hauls a plastic basket, containing food plus spring water in her left hand. The ropes occupy her right hand. Her helmet slides side to side. The heavy backpack of caving gear on her neck down to her tailbone bounces in an opposite rhythm on her back muscles of her body. A sleeping bag bounces side to side between her right arm and her kneecap. She and her gear hikes to the last terrain kart four-wheeler ride. Her riding buddy points to the steering wheel as her digital camera kisses her face, since caver-buddy Julia likes to sightsee.

Pamela moves ahead and stops in the rear of the terrain kart, dumping her gear inside the tiny trunk bed, and exhales with a puff of worry, closing the tiny trunk, moving to the driver's seat. The kart has a steering column, a gas pedal, a brake pedal, and an automatic gear stick on the floor for park drive or reverse. Pamela slaps both gloves over the worn leather of steering wheel, not feeling her finger pads.

Roger says via the mobile telephone of Julia. "Start your engines..."

Pamela smiles and shakes her helmet in amusement of the sleek hi-tech combination with Mother Nature's beauty, slowly gunning the gas pedal without rear ending her fellow caver in the back bumper of his kart. Julia snaps a set of colorful digital pics and records Mother Nature sleeping. She halts the kart as the other little karts stop in a semi-crooked line.

The honk blow of the first kart comes from Roger. He says via the mobile telephone of Julia. "Stop the engine and park it here for breakfast time..."

Pamela slides out of the seat, spinning around and moving to the trunk, and stops, opening the lid, slinging out her three pieces of heavy cave gear out from the truck bed and over her body parts again. She moves and slumps forward from the heavy weight, moving straight down onto a patch of damp grassy ground which lacks warm sunshine from the shady tree. She grunts with a stop, slowly dumping her heavy cave gear down onto the wet ground, fanning the sleeping bag over the grassy, and sits cross-legged on top of her girly pink and green flowery sleeping bag. She opens and woofs downs four cans of cold baked beans and three water bottles being both nervous and eager. Her stomach doesn't care about the upcoming cave dangers. Pamela smiles between the food chewing, enjoying the lousy jokes, the scary tales, and the off-key singing of the Alabama natives as she studies the topography map of Snail Cave inside her lap from Roger. Snail Cave nicely intersects with Chalk Cave on a southwest shoot-off.

6:49 a.m.

Hiking trail setting

Warm temperatures with bright sunshine and breezy

Roger shouts and waves to the cavers for attention, standing in the middle of six piles of metal and plastic objects, pointing with a grin and a nod to each stack of caver gear. "Back-up batteries, over here. Extra biners, over there. Decension devises, right here." He looks down and checks his dive wrist watch, waving his arm with the orders. "Moving out in ten minutes. Finish up your beeswax."

Pamela squats and pulls out the new gear item from the new rigging backpack, examining the function and purpose of each object.

A body squats and a voice says over the collar bone of Pamela/Pat. "Called a Mitchell Climbing System, includes the caving gear, the vertical gear, a rotary hammer drill, lots of batteries with back-up batteries, the short version cave pack or a survival pack." Roger punches Pamela on the bicep with a chuckle and a grin. "If'an ya'll get really serious about spelunking, bumblebee."

"Thanks, sir. Cave pack, got it." Pamela squats, reloading the heavy gear back into the cave pack cloth for her first real adventure of spelunking. She stands and lifts the heavy object, using her bent kneecaps, her taunt arm biceps, and her strong back muscles up and over her back spine, grunting with pain. After the woodland eating spot becomes both cleaned and presentable to Roger and Mother Nature, the cavers gear up, blazing their hiking boots north, stomping over ankle-high green grass, tons of dead brown leaves, and a series of broken tree limbs every ten inches that stick the legs like a set of sewing needles. Pamela feels a set of prickly bush thorns, scratching and marking her blue jean fabric with tiny bites as the hungry cavers pick, spit, and munch on the fresh vines of fruit blueberries, red raspberries, and blackberries from the low plant bushes. They hike around the three-leaved poison ivy and into a nest of stinging brown ankle-high nettles.

Pamela is purposefully dragging and drawing last. She believes in the ancient axiom: last in the cave is the first one out of Chalk Cave. She slowly traverses with a sour frown in a crooked line behind the happy cavers down a never ending narrow pathway with a line of skyscraper-like tree limbs that slap "howdy" on both her collar bones. Her hiker boots drop down a reddish-sandy dirt road between a set of gleaming silver-white boulders attached to the mountain side. The deadly dropdown makes Pamela feel slightly faint especially looking up to see the higher mountain ledges. And she had forgotten the oxygen mask for her sudden panic attack, bruising her brain cells.

7:30 a.m.

Limestone wall setting

The cavers halt the first obstacle. Pamela stands and views the wall of stone in grayish-white limestone. The stone stands too high at thirty freaking feet over her hair roots. She holds the helmet in her left hand, dropping her chin into her chest, breathing fast for some extra oxygen molecules.

Roger double-checks the rigging gear around a fit waist, stretches and attacks the rock monster, leaping onto the face of the cliff. He climbs up like a nimble spider over the grayish-white limestone wall, using his gloves and his hiking boot toes, reaching the top.

Pamela gasps then back steps from the "wall of fear" but is stopped by a wall of muscle and sweet breathe, sizzling the nape of her neck, coming from a tall male caver. The tall caver is assisting Roger in babysit duty of Pamela's first spelunking adventure. Roger stands too close to the flat mountain ledge and tosses down a thick white rope. The rope dangles even with the nose bridge of Pamela, snaking down at her boot toes. The male caver stands behind her, attaching the rope around her waist, and jerks it tight. He gently places her helmet over her hair roots, slapping her collar bone with a hardy thud for the silent signal of go. She assaults with her boots the slick rock and her gloves on the rough rope, bouncing sideways instead of vertical. She crashes her face, her two kneecap pads, and her two elbow pads back and forth into the smooth hard gray limestone. Helmets are outstanding idea for cavers. Finally, a right glove slaps against the flat stone. Roger tugs the rope to assist, pulling her from the vertical slab over and onto the flat ledge. She crawls on her knee covers, her boot toes, and her gloves far away from the empty air to a set of nice looking rocks that has formed an old-fashioned living room inside her daddy's loving home.

She pants and rests an exhausted body over the rock sofa, breathing heavy, holding her air to stop a fluttering heart attack in her healthy heart organ. She catches a breathe or two, seeing and hearing the rest of the cavers hoot, holler, and hoe down around the flat dangerous ledge without solid walls or a set of hand rails. Pamela slowly twists into a pretzel position, crossing her legs, jerking the cave pack down from her aching back muscles. She pulls the heavy thing around, searching for water with a pair of shaky hands, finding it, and lifts and drowns her sweaty face with Tampa's best spring water. And she feels the coolness of delight.

She shuffles and sits like a southern belle on top of rock sofa, watching nothing. Her eyeballs are blinded by the rising sunlight. She lifts and shades her glove over a face, seeing the cavers dance on top of the flat dangerous ledge again. She slices her eyelashes side to side, soaking in a flat plateau of gray limestone. The flat limestone kisses a blue skyline as the batch of puffy white clouds dances before her eyeballs of a new morning. Tampa's spring water drops wet down her hair roots and her face with coolness and glee. Roger turns and points with a grin and a nod to the north direction in silence.

Pamela slowly stands, stretching her aching muscles, and squats, loading the cave pack onto her back muscles. She stands and swings to the far away mountain, seeing a set of vertical sharp bluffs that block the walking path to Snail Cave. She stumbles and tumbles down a slippery stony staircase without a hand railing also. The west slope glides a falling caver twenty feet straight down into a thatch of prickly thick rounded green plants. The east slope smashes a falling caver into pretty limestone boulders, tall green thick plants, taller pine trees, and lots of short thorny bushes, probably with a few cottonmouth snakes that looking for a good time with the injured caver. Pamela hisses to warn off the "wiggling something" beneath a moving bush, stomping her boot toes up to level flat dirt, silently praying for forgiveness and happiness while calming a racing heart. She huffs and puffs, snaking her boot toes around a group of thick roots of a bowl-shaped red brambleberry bush.

Pamela growls as pretty sticky vine thorns try to lick the red paint off her helmet flashlight, and jaunts to the left. She wishes for a pair of sunglasses, hiking unhappily over a worn logging trail and down into the deep gully of silver rushing creek water with the associated water green aqua plants that usually carry blood sucking leeches. She tromps across the creek water, feeling the overflow of cold water inside both her hiking boots which are nicely soaked up by the thick wooly cotton socks. Pamela forgot to buy and brought a second pair of dry socks, of course. Her wet socked feet, her wet boots, and her wet blue jeans legs slowly descend down a dangerously steep hill with lots of tall trees on the right and a batch of pretty flowers and green foliage on the left. She silently reads the Snail Cave map again and prays for the right direction. She angles to the left, following the patch of stomped leaves from the other hiking boots as tiny specks of sunlight reveals a dark mysterious cave entrance about 300 feet ahead. The caver stops. And Pamela stops too.

8:18 a.m.

Snail Cave entrance

Hot temperatures with bright sunshine

Pamela halts, sliding off the heavy cave pack from her body, breathing hardy for more air.

"Death ledge." Roger points to the nasty forty five degree angle of a lift of sloping gray rocks mixed with an assortment of larger, medium, and smaller-shaped gray boulders that descend below the mountain's peak by thirty feet.

"Pardon me," Pamela frowns, back stepping far away from the dead slope on her left, shuffling into a nice pretty forest of ancient oak trees on the level dirt.

"Called a death ledge." Roger struts in her direction, eyeballing the medical condition of each caver, before the spelunking mission.

A set of gloved fingers touches Pamela on the collar bone as female voices. "Don't scare Bambi, Roger."

Roger chuckles with an about face, moving back to the cave and away from Pamela, stopping and huddles with the other cavers without Pamela, thumbing over his collar bone to the dark mouth of the cave. "The cave entrance door is about fifteen foot wide and about six feet high. This is one of many 'eye' entrances into Snail Cave. Why we cave to find the unfound? Paul, he says to cave low and dirty for about ten minutes in muddy water up to your elbows. We be crawling like cockroaches, then there be some surprisingly ugly slippery spots when a glove hits a slick stone instead of a combo of dirt and water. Then there be a deep drop of about twenty five foot into a dark dank dirty pit. To play it safe, do no vertical caving. Look for the horizontal safe foot paths hiking towards the water, they bend around some of the bluffs, on the same contour, making for other 'eyes' entrances. The eyes will lead further and deeper into the guts of Snail Cave. Get it. A snail like crawling around in water. Okay. Never be mind. Then there be some ledges that have collapsed. Since we were here a last couple of months ago so that makes it a risky traverse for all. Everyone, be ready."

The cavers chant. "Ready."

"Last word, the better climbers help the weak ones. Any comments, complains?" Roger nods. "Drop and crawl. Be careful." He turns and dashes to the front of the cavers as each person drops on both a pair of gloves and boots.

Pamela exhales. "Ah shit!" She side steps and leans against the tree, watching the cavers crawl like snails, disappearing one-by-one into a dark open mouth of the cave. After the last caver clears an ass into the cave mouth, Pamela exhales and starts her bug crawl too, dropping her weight, and rapidly falls on top of her gloves and her boots. Immediately wishing, she had more thick cloth padding on her kneecaps and more strong hard muscle in her biceps for hauling thirty pounds of dead weight on the top of her back spine.

Interior cavern setting

Cool temperatures, damp air and dark

She drags both arms and legs very slowly through a thick muddy cave, bouncing the heavy backpack side to side. She sweeps a light spray of reddish-sand dust into her face upon entering the cool cave and painfully twists her kneecap pads to the right and to the left, going around a set of cheekbone-high rock columns Good for knocking out your two front teeth, mama.

Pamela struggles in the ten minutes of dirty water, clean rock, and mouth spit, stopping right behind a hill top. Beyond the hill top, a deep pit of twenty five feet colors in midnight black darkness, within her acute vision. The hill top is a flat floor of broken limestone boulders in various shortness and tallness, with sharp and dull jagged rock points. She whispers for her eardrums and maybe God's. "Ah, double shit." She slowly stands, bending at her knees for a proper balance without tumbling back down a twenty five foot snake hole. Then she back steps in the opposite direction from the deep pit, splashing in the muddy water. She looks around to study the rock walls, seeing nothing but empty air between her and that wall. She exhales and ponders why folks do this dangerously fun thing.

"Bats," Roger yells too late in the distance. Pamela drops down on her knee pads into the water and covers her helmet. She doesn't feel any sharp claws, attacking her body, and lifts her distorted face, seeing brownish-black small things. A clump of tiny mammal hangs upside-down from the cave ceiling about three feet wide in three layers thick of sleeping bats. Roger pointes with a grin and a chuckle to the wall of bats. "Don't frighten the little fellows."

She whispers to her eardrums and maybe God's. "Ah, triple shit." Pamela stands like the proud American that she is born to be, observing the right wall and the left wall. The flat cave floor passage is about twenty feet wide, going about ten feet straight forward ahead into an unknown path. The foot path slightly curves around a sharp bluff with looming deep drop off pits on the east, west, and northeast corners. Pamela drops the oval-shaped cave pack from her body over the grayish-silver rock, hoping that she doesn't start a cave-in or a land-slide or any other Mother Nature disaster. The heavy cave pack rests flat like a pancake, making Pamela hungry for some more cold baked beans.

The cavers debate, swinging an empty gloved hand plus a steel hook in the other gloved hand over the fine rigging points of the rock bridge as the rock bridge silently burps continuous vertically white steams of heat, coming from the dark hellish pit, announcing its morning awakening. They argue who gets to enter the snake pit first for inspection.

She slowly plops down top of the rock floor, admiring the indoor waterfall. The waterfall floods a small pond of silver-tinted rocks and jagged rock ledges on the opposite of the wall below the sleeping bats. An array of invisible batches of hot and humid steam bathes her naked cheekbones, sweats her hands inside the thick gloves, and wets more cold naked toes inside the damp hiking boots. She reaches and pulls out the Snail Cave map with the cave gear from the side pocket of her jeans, looking down and studying an outline of high curved ceilings, deep curved walls, and a level floor passage boardwalk. The boardwalk heads due south for her daring escape route into Chalk Cave. She traces the path with her mind and her rigging hook, hearing the voices of the cavers bounce off the rock walls then echo again inside her eardrums.

Helena rigs the spelunk web to her cave pack. The cave pack is tied with a water knot and extra overhand knots. "Risky climb-down? Do ya think, Roger?"

"Naw. We do fine. I brought my grigri and a dynamic rope for belays." Roger holds the rope and attached equipment for her to see.

"Good thinking, Roger." Helena rigs the rest of her rope to his rope pad.

Pamela looks up to see Helena and Roger who stand with a pair of bent kneecaps like a pair of perched birdies on a scary edge of the flat ledge. Then they slowly descend by boot toes first down into the pit as the two helmets disappear from her eyesight. She smiles, looking down to the map again, making swift plans for her escape point from the floor boardwalk.

Helena echoes from the pit. "Small stream, six inches deep."

The rest of the cavers separate into groups, scratching and clawing their individual rig webbing and ropes for the newest assault of the hell pit site.

A tall shadow darkens the dull cave light over the map of Pamela and says. "Pat." He pauses. "Pat," the male caver shouts for a second time and slaps her collar bone.

Pamela jerks up with a fake smile to see the caver. "Yeah. Pat. What?" Pamela had forgotten her cover ID.

The caver smiles and points the huddle of cavers, "Do you wanna go with us or Roger's group?"

Pamela looks at him and thumbs over a collar bone to the floor passage. "I can go straight too. Right? I mean south. There's something over there in the southern direction. Right?"

The caver nods the helmet and pointes the flat passage, "South. There's an awesome keyhole. Go experience it, Pat. Holler, if ya get lost or scared."

Pamela smiles. "Yeah. Holler for help! Yeah. I will." She watches the caver about face, trotting back to his huddle, turning with a grin to stare in the south direction and exhales with a puff of worry. She slowly stands, reaching and lifting the cave pack three inches from the rock floor, dragging its cloth tails over the hard rock, because she can. She follows the narrow canyon foot passage, going downstream of another "eye" cave entrance, taking her further south, and stops, looking down to consul the map for Snail Cave and Chalk Cave. Then Pamela determines that Chalk Cave is southwest instead of due south. She exhales, turning with a sour frown to see another foot path over the solid rock and carefully back steps out of the current foot passage and swings, moving down a new foot passage, seeing walls of solid rock as the clearing becomes much wider. She halts with a gasp and a smile. Tiny droplets of water drips from the bottom a large rock-shaped donut with a round empty hole cut in the middle. She smiles. "The keyhole."

She rears back both arms, holding the cave pack, and tosses it forward through the keyhole. The cave pack tumbles ugly through the ancient stone donut hole. She moves and tippy toes to the stone, peeking over the rounded edge, seeing a natural sliding slope which is made from pieces of broken tiny tree twigs on top of a pile of dried pine needles and a stack of brown leaves. She wonders how Mother Nature got into an underground cave. She shakes her helmet without wasting time with Mother Nature. She lifts a right leg and a left leg, straddling the stone, and struggles into a sitting pose on top of the curvy swing seat inside hole shape like a donut, making her hunger again. She places both her legs in a straight pin pose, holding onto the edge of the rock with her gloves, and pushes off. She scoots forward, pulling a boot upright into the air.

Pamela slides on her fanny down through keyhole opening, scooting onto the semi-cushioned fluff of brown pine needles and tree leaves in the semi-darkness for ten feet, and glides over the flat surface of clay dirt, bending her kneecaps into her chest. She rolls to the side, brutally impacting her left kneecap, her shoulder pad, and her hip bone and grunts with pain. She rolls sideways, flowing with the inertia speed of flight, until she stops in a soft ground of dirt without her cave helmet, smiling with happiness.

She twists and stands, wiping the dead brown leaves, red dirt, and dried pine needles off her dirty jacket and her blue jeans, and moves forward over a new floor passage, scanning the tall wall which rises to the ceiling. The ceiling shows numerous broken jagged rock boulders. And then Pamela stumbles forward as her left boot toe hits air over a dangerous gap in the floor bridge.

Pamela back pedals from the hole, hopping on her right boot heel with her left boot heel in the air, and balances upright, waving both her arms backwards, moving away from the hole in the floor bridge. She halts ten feet from the hole, slapping both her hands over her heart attack, and closes her eyelashes, holding her breath. Since the lack of oxygen always makes the heart stop beating from excitement. She swallows the nasty bile back down her tight esophagus, blinking her eyelashes open, feeling both chicken-shit alive and kitty-cat scared in her nerves and her neurons. Then she sees a decision. There are two distinct different walking pathways. One goes to the right over a nice easy smooth pretty brown-reddish rock wall, reflecting colorful specks of gold, green, and silver from invisible heat steam of the underground hell pits. Or she goes to the left which is a single lonely foot path stomps and drops a falling body down into a downward descend of darkness. "Clearly, lefty's the road not traveled," Pamela chuckles.

She turns and follows the safe path to the right, walking over the smooth flat floor passage, bending into a right turn, and halts, looking suspiciously over her shoulder, dropping the heavy cave pack. Pamela announces to her eardrums, the sleeping bat ear holes, and God's. "I'm going in a southeastern direction, not a southwestern one. Ugh..." She twists around, dragging the twenty five pounds of weight and retraces her invisible steps back to the intersection of the rock bridge with a deadly air gap of nothingness. She kneecaps on top of the cave pack, pulling out the map, visually studying the outline of the ceiling, the flooring, and the keyhole, and gasps, tapping on the map with a nod. "This is it. Okay. Just jump across the opening of death. Easy, Pamela. Ugh?"

She stands, turning and marching down the safe foot path, following the smooth pretty foot path, bending around the corner, and stop, dropping her heavy cave pack against the rough reddish wall. The sleeping cave pack should signal to her new caver-friends that she's wandering around the safe rock pathway for both fun and adventure or stupidly lost. Any excuse will do.

She turns and jogs back to the intersection point, huffing with both dread excitement and death fear and tippy toes to the open gap, dropping her helmet over the dark hole. "One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi," she hears a soft thud of the hard plastic helmet when it hits the bottom of the deep pit. The opening of death is a forty feet straight down from the floor gap. So, she better not miss her landing strip on the other side. She taps the boot toes closer to the edge, studying the math length of the gap one foot or twelve little bitty inches of air, not rock and grunts. "Ugh!" Pamela lifts up a kneecap, jerking a right hiking boot from her socked foot and pitches it over the gap. It lands with a loud thud on hard rock. Then she removes a left boot, pitching it to the other side of the rock bridge too. She shimmies out of the heavy weather jacket, balling up the fabric the 'bestest' she can, bending her kneecaps, and granny tosses the semi-round ball of jacket fabric to the hard rock. The jacket launches like a round basketball and explodes into a square blue kite, dropping swiftly onto the rock. Pamela exhales and inhales, feeling dead fear and girly-ass might. She slaps her hands over her body, feeling her shirt, bra, and baggie blue jeans over a pair of hidden white panties, examining no other heavy loose objects, thinking only twelve inches over a gap of a forty foot hell pit, and whispers for her eardrums and maybe God's. "Ah, quadruple shit."

She skips two wet cotton socks backward from the bridge gap, deciding on which dance option to perform. Pamela can slowly run to the edge and jump like a toady frog to the other side. Or she can swiftly gallop to the edge and leap like a ballerina in the air, landing on the other side. Pamela holds both arms parallel to the cave floor and steps a right sock, a left sock and plants a right sock on the rock floor. She bends her knee and pushes off with her calf strength as her left leg ascends into the air, paralleling the rock floor. She gracefully glides over the twelve inches of empty air...(yeah, baby, grand jete)...with both arms in a sloppy fifth ballet position. She soars and flies like an American eagle to the other side of the floor bridge. Pamela lands hard on a left foot and swiftly curves into ball, hitting down hard on her left shoulder, tumbling over and onto her back spine, rolling forward away from the air gap. She stops on her a second time without knocking out her front teeth with a smile and an exhale of joy, resting and quietly listening for sounds. No earthquake. No lightning. No rain. No heart attack. She twists and sits on her fanny, removing her gloves, reaching and dragging each boot over a wet sock, redressing her feet and her hands with the gloves.

Pamela stands, looking up to see heaven (ceiling) with a smile and a prayer. "Thanks and amen to Almighty God, Brother Jesus, my heavenly Angels plus the Holy Spirit. Yeehaw," she raises her arms with a nod and a grin. She walks over the new floor passage for fifteen feet. The rock smooth floor ends. There is no more flat rock only a set of crooked rocks which are built like a downward staircase that is descending down into hell. She sees four rock steps going...naw...falling down face first into a red dirt plateau, a ten-foot drop for sure without a rope. Good thing, Pamela had decided to abandon her thousand dollar cave rigging gear as it rests lazily on a smooth pretty red pathway in the other direction. She grunts with annoyance. "Ugh!

She drops down on a blue jeaned covered fanny, sitting and swinging both her legs from the edge of the top ledge, doing her new "toddler butt-crawl." She butt-crawls down to the next second rock step. Both are created and complicated by Mother Nature. A four feet drop, the tips of her boot toes barely touch the smooth solid limestone rock as Pamela uses her two biceps and holds her breathe to lower down on top of the ledge between the dim peeks of sunlight that are bouncing off the gray-silver limestone ledge. The gray-silver limestone mineral nicely grinds into the element chalk for manufacturing and industrial business purposes, hence Chalk Cave.

Pamela lands and stands on a second rock step, feeling moisture hit her face, smelling the odor of pot moss with a confused brow. Pot moss usually grows on the outer bark of cedar trees. She looks around her environment, observing no live or dead trees inside an underground cave, and drops and sits, performing another toddler butt-crawl with her two boot toes and her sore biceps, going down to the third rock step.

9:32 a.m.

Chalk Cave

Entrance setting

Cool temperatures, humid air with red dirt

She lands and stands on her boot heels, viewing a perfect semi-circle cave of red clay walls. The clay walls cover south, west, and east directionally surface. She looks over a collar bone, examining the solid limestone wall of gray in the northern direction, and faces the forward wall. Pamela drops and sits, performing another toddler butt-crawls two more times, landing her boot heels and toes in a red muddy spot without any water. The thick heavy moisture licks her exposed skin of her face and her arms like there is a thunder storm inside an underground cave. However, she feels a bright hot sun burning her face. No creek water is soaking over her boot toes. There are no any thorn briars cutting her jeans. And there is not any type of fragranced foliage of plants inflaming her nostrils.

Pamela shakes bodily sweat from her wet face and bad vibes from her worried mind, feeling shadowy doubt about Chalk Cave. But her only option is to scurry back up the crookedly staircase, onto the floor bridge, crawl out the cave, and catch a ride into the city. She can break into another cheap motel room for a quick catnap sleep, and plot a new plan. However, good looking and good smelling unhappy boyfriend Preston is looking better and better with each tick-tock of the clock.

She slowly marches forward to the radium of the semi-circle cave, viewing the pretty bright red dirt clay which is everywhere on the ceiling, on the floor, and on the walls but not on the limestone rock. Pamela stumbles over a pile of human trash, consisting of paper cups, plastic cups, a few junk clear food wrappers, and three coffee lids. Early this morning, the cavers had cleaned and tied up the food work before the cave trip. And they were planning a future graffiti removal workshop for keeping all the Alabama cave sites beautiful. So, they need to come here.

She stands in the middle of the semi-circle, drowning in red muddy clay, and parks both her gloves on her hips, breathing in moist air without the sparkling wetness of visual rain or waterfall. Then her neurons activate. "A sinkhole..." A sinkhole is a deep hole in the dirt ground when the hard rock below the soft land usually composed of limestone carbonate rock is dissolved by continuous ground rain water. As the hard rock dissolves, a cave forms when the land suddenly collapses inside itself. The city of Birmingham is built under many deep caverns and numerous shallow caves, where sinkholes are created and formed by the Black Warrior River. The river drains and travels its watery path from northeast to southwest through the middle soil of the metro city of Birmingham. She sees on the side wall a bending curved wall of bright red clay and a set of man-made metal and gasoline powered equipment that shows steel ropes, stacked steel ladders, and columns of metal pulleys. That is not cave gear. The sinkhole measures about 150 feet wide by 120 deep high in the middle of metro city Birmingham, featuring scattered shallow red mud puddles of standing ground stale water. There is not any drainage or pretty waterfalls or an exit passages.

"Dig, girlfriend." Geneva shouts from the hidden cave wall behind the back spine of Pamela.

Pamela swings and sees the gun in the left hand of Geneva and stands her ground without raising her arms with a smirk. "Are you looking for something, too, Geneva?"

Geneva wears a pair of expensive black jeans which are neatly tucked down into a pair of fashion knee-high rubber rain boots. The rubber rain boots are decorated in cute black and white vertical alternating lines on top of the rubber. The footie is covered in a series of bright hot pink and yellow circles like a teenage girl. She is dressed in a belted linen blouse with a v-neckline which is colored in white, black, and pink vertical lines that are dyed into the delicate fabric. Geneva moves deeper into the cave, aiming a long barrel of the Colt 45 at her former employee with an evil grin and a sweet tone. "Preston's dead along with Stockton, Arthur, and Larry. You're fault, of course. If only you had surrendered, when you had the chance?"

Pamela doesn't believe Geneva and her new lies. Preston can take care of his person, her person, and Geneva's person all at the same time. She smirks. "I didn't do anything wrong or illegal like you, Geneva."

Geneva moves and circles Pamela, saying with a smile. "Hacked the CIA website, ran away from the FBI, hiding out, wearing those hideous disguises from the Junior League. I really like the clown suit best, darling."

Pamela slowly turns and eye balls the hand gun, dropping her mouth. "You tracked me."

Geneva smiles. "Since, your high heels skidded down Eleventh Avenue, dear."

Pamela shakes a ponytail. "You fib, Geneva! Preston isn't dumb like you."

She lifts and aims the barrel at the eye socket of Pamela. "Clean your ears, darling! Preston's dead along with Ashley..."

She gasps. "You killed poor Ashley." Pamela looks down with a worried brow to see the wet mud, pondering that Geneva is both danger and crazy.

"It was all in cold blood. It was really easy too. Pull the trigger and then bang. All dead. All gone." She exhales with a puff of annoyance. "That was my plan from the beginning to kill off Ashley then Thurston and then Boa came along..."

She looks up with a confused brow to Geneva. "Who's Boa? What's this all about, Geneva?" Pamela stomps a boot for attention.

Geneva stares and smiles at Pamela. "He's dead now finally. But I do need extra help. I can't do what I need alone, this round. You're a smarty. Stockton called ya right."

"No." Pamela yells, crossing both arms over the wet shirt.

Geneva shuffles to the extreme southwest position inside the sinkhole, pointing down at the shovel and stands over the last spot of Thurston's live body, training her gun barrel on Pamela with a nod and a grin. "Defiance and smarty! Pick up the shovel start, digging right here. Now, move it, dear."

Pamela moves to the shovel, bending and lifting it with both her gloved hands and leans, viciously striking the red dirt with a forcefully thud, pretending the spot is Geneva's ugly face. She collects the first scoop of dirt and tosses to the side. "What am I digging for?"

"You'll see."

Pamela strikes the second scoop of dirt and tosses to her right. "Come on, Geneva. Tell me and spill my fun!"

Geneva giggles. "Okay. A box."

"Box of monkeys, not right." Pamela giggles and exhales forced air, digging another spoonful of dirt with the shovel. "That's a barrel of monkeys. Maybe a box of crackers or a box of Sweet Jack? As a child, it was a sweet tasty treat with a sweet little prize," she grunts and digs the dirt.

"You talk too much, Pamela. How about silence while digging?" Geneva aims the hand at Pamela.

"Only if you shoot me with that that gun, madam." Pamela stops the dig and views Geneva with a stern face. "What is this madness all about, Director Geneva?"

"Box of Sweet Jack is very apropos. It's the prize inside that I'm seeking," Geneva chuckles, jabbing the barrel to her face. "Back to work, fairy princess. Since Prince Charmbo ain't here to save your pretty ass."

Pamela ignores the crazy woman, hoping to coax the correct answer of Boa out of Geneva for her self-defense murderess trial, if she survives. She digs and says. "O. So you do know the prize. Is it gold nuggets or paper bonds or silver coins? What else is small but worth millions of dollars? How about..."

"Manual labor sucks, dear!" Geneva chuckles, watching the shovel dig into the dirt.

"It must be small but valuable. Found it!"

Geneva gasps, looking down with a stunned face to the red mud. "Found it! Where?"

Pamela stops the dig and looks up with a grin to see Geneva, touching her temple. "Found it inside my brains."

Geneva grits the teeth. "Dig faster, Pamela!"

Pamela exhales, looking down and digs more scoops of dirt. "Did you know when you get mad or upset, you use a person's first name instead of their last name?"

Geneva smiles. "I didn't know their pet names. Tell me what's your lover's pet name you cry out during...?"

Pamela stops the dig and looks up with a sour frown to see Geneva. "Preston."

"Yo!" A deep sexy baritone shouts out loud coming from the same southeastern corner which had used by Geneva. Preston appears with a smile and a nod, strutting with Dewy towards Pamela and Geneva. Pamela turns with a smile to see Preston, dropping the shovel, stomping a boot toe to him.

Geneva turns and swings her hand gun at Preston. Preston stops with Dewy, holding up both palms in the air to show to Geneva that he is cooperating and not to harm Pamela.

Geneva says with a confused brow to Preston. "I killed you."

Preston smiles. "The office wall got injured. Does that make you feel meaner, Geneva?"

"The hero." Geneva smiles.

"The bitch." Preston drops down to the dirt with a grin and pats Dewy, pointing towards Pamela. "Hey! Look over there, Dewy. Pamela is here playing in the dirt like you buddy. Protect, Pamela!" Dewy about faces from Preston and gallops, jumping, licking and pawing her legs with happiness.

Pamela drops down to her kneecaps in the mud with a smile, patting the dog. "Hi, Dewy! I am so glad to see both my men here."

Geneva swings and sways her gun at Pamela with a wicked grin. "Awe, young love! So, Pamela, are you dating boy-wonder here?" Dewy about faces to Geneva, growling and protecting Pamela from the evil person.

"Shut up, bitch! Release Pamela! I'll do anything you want." Preston stands without the raised palms but does not move.

Geneva turns and smiles to Preston. "No! Pamela wants to stay and see the prize."

He frowns. "You don't know where the diamonds are either, bitch."

Geneva drops open a mouth and whispers. "You do?"

Preston smirks. "I do, bitch."

Geneva closes the mouth and opens her mind. "I think you know about half of the information that I require. So, we should share Preston."

Preston nods. "Fine! I'll obey ya, bitch only if you release Pamela freely from here."

"She stays. However, you can take her place," Geneva swings and sways her gun to Pamela with the order. "Move out of the way, Pamela." Pamela and Dewy pace sideways out of gun range as Preston jogs to Pamela. He hugs and kisses her lips, whispering which makes her smile. Geneva shouts with fury. "Now, Preston! I get other romance love movies on my television at home."

Preston turns and shuffles to the shovel, leaning and lifting with easy the heavy tool and slices the dirt with force. He lifts the plug of red above his kneecap and viciously tosses to the right side, saying. "You're a triple agent. Thurston, a double agent. But you double-crossed him and me." Geneva smiles as Preston digs in the red mud, saying. "Thurston toted that box in his right hand, since he's lefty with a gun. When ya blow his ass to the planet of Pluto, his body parts scattered in many different geographical directions here inside Chalk Cave. Either, ya need some correction eye glasses or you didn't really know Thurston that well."

"You didn't know Thurston that well." Geneva smirks.

"I suspect ya'll communicated, passing a few love notes to each other."

"He serviced me very well."

"What did you use C-4?" Preston digs another plug of red dirt.

"Gave him a new armor vest with some punch," Geneva giggles.

"Your face got some of that punch as well." Preston chuckles.

Geneva gingerly touches her left scarred cheekbone. "I got caught in the backlash of explosion, running..."

Preston drops the shovel with a sneer. "Tough shit, bitch." He squats down in the clay. "Dewy, come here, boy." Preston pulls out a torn piece of brown fabric from his jacket as Dewy sniffs the dirty cloth.

"What's that?" Geneva holds the gun at Preston with a puzzled brow.

"What's left of Thurston's jacket sleeve," says Preston. Dewy turns and sniffs the clay dirt beside Preston, swinging to the side, galloping off to the southwestern direction away from Preston and Geneva. Preston points to the dog who circles a spot in the dirt. "His hand's that way." Dewy digs down into the dry clay with its front paws, unearthing an object behind the red dirt as Preston drops and kneels, patting its skull. "Good boy, Dewy. Protect, Pamela!" Dewy halts and turns, running to Pamela. She rubs and pats its furry skull. Then Dewy swings around, growling at Geneva, who moves closer to his master. Preston squats on his kneecaps, clearing the red dirt from a hidden object as Geneva watches. He stands and points down to the box. "There's your precious prize." Geneva squats on her kneecaps, admiring the butt end of the box that is four inches in length by three inches wide, reaching for the prize. Preston turns and smiles to Pamela and Dewy, pointing the southeastern direction exit out of the sinkhole with his order. "Return, Dewy. Follow him..."

Geneva stands and swings the gun at Pamela with a sour frown and a shout. "No."

Preston turns and back steps from Geneva, whipping both his arms in the air with a sneer. "You got both the prize and me, Geneva." Geneva smiles and swings the gun at Preston. Preston back steps from Geneva with his order. "Return, Dewy! Pamela, follow Dewy. He'll lead you out of here. Go, Pamela!"

"Preston?" Pamela stares the rear skull of Preston with sobs of tears and fears of death.

He holds his palms with a wicked grin. "Everything's fine, Pamela. Go with Dewy. You'll be safe I promise." Pamela and Dewy back pedal out of eyesight from Geneva and her hand gun.

Geneva switches her gun into her right hand, slowly kneecaps down into the dirt, keeping the gun target at Preston. She ratchets the box from hole with her left hand, lifting the box and flings clumps of red dirt back down into the little opening. Geneva stands and back pedals, clutching the box into her left breast, and holds the gun in her right hand about fifteen feet from Preston, who stands with both his hands in the air. She drops the box down onto the top soil of the clay, leaning and lifting the heavy shovel with her left hand and lifts and slams the tip down into the old rotten wooden box. The shovel smashes the wood into tiny pellets and red dust. She drops down on her kneecaps to the dirt, reaching the box and lifts the broken bottom piece of the box with her left hand, gasping.

He laughs. "Empty, bitch?"

She sneers at him. "What?"

"Kinda like your Colt 45, a family heirloom, Geneva?" Preston chuckles.

She growls. "Where are the diamonds, Boa?"

He smiles with his hands still in the air. "Gimme your tattle tale source first! Then, I'll tell the gawd damn location of real diamonds, Geneva."

She gasps and then smiles. "Tattle tale source, why now? Why important here? Ya know, we can find the diamonds together and share the prize? No one will suspect..."

"Too dumb, bitch to act alone. I want the mastermind of your crimes, ordering you to kill Thurston then murdering Ashley, Larry, and Stockton."

"Where are the diamonds?"

"You're alive well sorta. Money'll help your bad looks. Right, Geneva?" He scratches his whiskers with a grin.

She smiles. "You might be the mastermind, Preston, who is playing me. How are your involved, dear?"

He lowers both arms, shaking a skull. "I'm just an innocent country bumpkin from the farm with my first assignment from the FBI..."

"Like me!" Geneva winks.

"You ain't innocent, bitch."

She smiles. "I'll tattle tale, only if you promise me the location of the diamonds." Preston nods. She says. "There were four double crossing agents on that stakeout, including me, Thurston, and Ashley..."

"Paul." Preston nods.

Geneva drops open a mouth. "You don't know that, Preston."

"I can guess good."

"You're a shit ass, Preston."

"Many times over," smiles Preston. "Ya see, bitch! We figured out that Thurston was one of them bad guys. Did me a favor, killing him. Thank ya, kindly. Poor Ashley got caught in your deadly surprise explosion then you disappeared off my radar for three long fucking years. Next, ya showed up at Cyber Crimes as director. Then I be damn."

"How did you discover me?" Geneva drops open a mouth.

"Naw, bitch! I just hate your guts, since our introduction three years ago, but nothing personal there, girlfriend," he winks.

Geneva shakes her curls. "I...I am totally confused, Preston."

"Picture this bitch! Dewy's my best friend. Pamela's my girl. So, I love and protect both of them to the death."

"And this involves the diamonds how so." She frowns.

"I saw Thurston and Ashley with a stray puppy that day here in Chalk Cave for the physical exchange of the American technology datum with a bag of diamonds from South America. Fake American techno data, did ya know that, bitch? Thurston fired his pistol at you, missing. Then you disappeared while I chased after and caught that puppy and then heard an explosion echo inside the cave." Geneva lowers the gun. Preston smiles. "I returned, seeing Ashley covered in red clay. Thurston had been blown into body parts scattered everywhere all over Chalk Cave while Ashley chanted over and over the two words 'find it.'"

Geneva drops the barrel of the gun down to the right kneecap with a nod. "Ashley shouted that exclamation inside the physician's office. When I asked her who was It. It was Thurston. So Ashley was racking the dirt, picking up the body parts of her dead husband."

Preston shakes a skull. "Ashley was sick, mentally sick in the head unlike you, crazy sick in the head. Ashley was covered in dirt on fours, scratching the earth for that damn box that she and Thurston had stupidly labeled with Thurston CIA code name 'It' probably for shit and giggles."

"Ashley knew about the diamonds from South America too."

He smiles. "You mentioned it first, Geneva. There were four double-crossing agents, triple-crossing each other. Ya got your just rewards after all."

Geneva gasps. "The diamonds?"

Preston scratches his itchy jaw line with a smirk. "Yeah. My puppy named Dewy found that damn box along with Thurston's right hand. Ya see I just told ya? He was a lefty, holding a hand gun. When the blast imploded his body, his right forearm, his right hand, and the right box landed right over there, where Dewy dug out the box three years earlier," smiling.

Geneva gasps and whips up and aims the gun at Preston. "You stole the diamonds from me."

"You and me like the wild, wild west, bitch." He holds both palms in the air.

Geneva aims and targets the gun barrel at his heart with a sour frown and a yell. "I want them now."

Preston doesn't move or lower his arms. "Be fair, Geneva! Your gun in a hostler. Or your pant waist band. Then, we shoot on three. Okay?"

"I shoot you now." She fires the gun as a single bullet launches from the long barrel. It lands directly into the soft red clay with a soft thud.

"Ah, shit happens! My draw?" Preston reaches and glides his hand to the pistol behind his back spine, whipping out the gun into her eyeball view. He targets and fires a single bullet between her bushy cavewoman eyebrows. Geneva wildly tumbles backwards from the brutal impact, flinging both her arms and her hands in a wild-ass chicken dance and silently drops down on her ass then her back spine and then her skull. She expires with her last breathe of air from a dead body.

Arthur appears and stands next to the rock boulder with a cloth bandage that is wrapped around a skull, decorating the forehead and a left eye socket, slowly strutting from southeastern corner. The same southern eastern corner used by both Geneva and Preston, leading back through a maze of tunnels and then up to the city street in the middle of Birmingham. Dewy trots on its dirty red paws beside Arthur, happily wiggling a tail without Pamela. She sits inside a FBI car above ground on the street across from the sinkhole danger signs, crying her eyeballs dry. Arthur shouts out loud. "Preston! Are you okay, buddy?"

Preston about faces with a smirk to Arthur, holding both arms in the air with a smoking gun in his right shooting hand. "Too late, Arthur! I proclaim self-defense, man," chuckling.

They meet, turn and move through the muddy dirt, stopping and standing over Geneva, seeing an ugly face and an uglier bleeding heart. Preston drops and kneels, reaching and removing the broken box from her hand gripe. He stands, pivots, and moves back to the dug dirt hole, dropping and reburying the box with the red dirt and silently prays over Thurston's hand skeleton.

Arthur feels Dewy jump onto the leg but doesn't shake an aching skull. "Damn! I'm not filling out the FBI paperwork, Preston."
August 1st Monday

8:16 a.m.

11th floor US Federal Building

Cyber Crimes division

Hot temperatures with partly clouds

Preston sits beside Pamela in the Cyber Crimes office at the make-shift conference table with Arthur, Lois, and Ilenn after attending the funerals for Ashley, Stockton, and Larry. He exhales with a huff of angry. "Geneva was a double agent. Thurston was a triple agent, working exclusively for himself. Both two true traitors to the USA."

"How did you survive, Preston?" Arthur frowns. He was not present inside Chalk Cave for the deadly finale, helping Pamela escape out a rat maze of destroyed caverns which had been created by a Birmingham sinkhole, swinging back later with Dewy at his side slowly to assist Preston, too late.

Preston smiles, "Geneva was a lefty, holding and firing a gun weakly and meekly, being only a sorry-assed trained computer programmer rather than a real US bad ass spy like me and you, Arthur." Arthur fist bumps with Preston. Preston says. "A Colt 45 hand gun holds six rounds. She shot twice, killing Dr. Kirby and her innocent receptionist..."

"Four," Arthur looks down with a sour frown and draws four vertical lines with his ink pen on a piece of paper.

Preston says. "Then she used a fully loaded second Colt 45 in her left hand, murdering poor Ashley and loyal Stockton with a set of lucky single shots. Larry got hit with the last two bullets inside Dr. Kirby's office."

"Four plus four is eight, Preston." Arthur frowns, marking more vertical lines on the piece of paper.

"You forgot Geneva wounded the wall," Preston grins.

"That bullet fired and then missed at you, bro." Arthur looks up with a laugh.

"Three years ago, Geneva returned single fire at Thurston inside Chalk Cave, missing again." Preston grins.

Arthur looks down with a frown, counting the vertical lines. "The grand total adds to ten bullets, man. Did she fire twice at Thurston that day?"

Preston smirks. "Geneva shot a rat in the cave, when Dewy and I chased after her ass for a successful escape."

Arthur shakes a bald skull. "You should not keep evidence from me, bro. I get both befuddled and be mad."

"When Geneva fired her last bullet with a lousy aim at me, her gun was empty. The two long barrel Colts were family heirlooms with specially ordered bullets. Her real name is Jennifer Lasseter, not Lassater. It is spelled L.a.s.s.e.t.e.r from the tiny town of Geneva, Alabama. Her family owns an antique store, not a shooting gallery for redneck cowboys." Arthur fist bumps with a chuckle to Preston.

"How did you find out, Preston?" Lois sips and swallows the sweet tea.

Preston leans over and kisses the cheekbone of Pamela, who smiles at his tender moment. He sat back and looks with a grin to see each face. "Some finger tip research after Pamela hinted that Geneva wasn't really 'Geneva.'"

Arthur says. "The CIA and the FBI IT hackers had uncovered a series of secret phone taps on her encounters, coming from a series of overseas money transfers, going into her personal bank account, along with some very cleverly hidden access points on the CIA website through a few non-operational channels, and along with some other information exchange techno datum disks with a set of two non-CIA agents. Geneva wasn't a bad spy, just a bad sport."

Preston nods. "Geneva was much more than she seems...had seemed, alarming both the CIA and the FBI. Then, she disappeared, out of thin air, yesterday, along with her personal car, some designer clothes, and lots of cash, coming from a personal bank account, right after the IT nerds picked apart her personal computer, here, at Cyber Crimes."

Arthur says. "The mastermind was Paul, our boss and Geneva's guy-pal, who helped to cover both her social identity and her professional job, here, at Cyber Crimes. They both were searching for Boa."

"Me." Preston growls. "Paul's gone, by the way. I'm in charge."

"Conflict of interest, bro." Arthur laughs.

"Our department will combine the Cyber Crimes of both cowboys and kittens," says Preston among the nods and smiles of his co-workers.

"Meow," Arthur smiles into Ilenn as she giggles.

Preston chuckles, along with Pamela and Lois. He nods then frowns with sadness. "We're replacing our friends, too. And, we're getting new management and we're getting married." He stands with Pamela, nodding and smiling.

Arthur stands upright from the chair and hugs his childhood friend, pulling back with a smile. "Congrats, buddy!"

Lois and Ilenn both leap from the chairs, hugging on Pamela. Ilenn smiles, "Pamela, I'm so happy for both you and Preston."

Pamela smiles with happiness, exposing her left hand with a three-carat diamond ring in the air for all eyeballs. "Thanks, Ilenn."

"What about the diamonds, Preston?" Lois sits and frowns then sips the sweet tea.

Preston scratches his whiskers and winks at Pamela, sitting beside her, nodding and grinning. "The diamonds, yeah! I got all the diamonds waiting a solid 366 days for someone to claim the illegal evidence, which they didn't then shared my treasure with Arthur, pals for life," he fists bumps with Arthur with a smile and a chuckle.

The adventures of Preston and his friends continue inside the next e-book: Kiss It Bye-Bye, Baby!!!
