 
### DEATH IN THE DUNES

### Book 5 in the George 'MAC' McClain Series

### WILL DECKER

Copyright 2012 by WILL DECKER

Smashwords Edition

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

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

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

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

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

Will

Table of Contents:

Somewhere on the Oregon Coast

Your Opinion Please

More Exciting Stories by Will Decker

More by Will Decker:

DRIVEN

UNREQUITED LOVE

FIRE BABY

HYBRID KILLERS

The 'HEÄLF' Collection:

MORTALITY REVISITED

CLONE WARS

DAY OF NIGHT

REGENERATIONS

HORSPAW

The 'Mac" Collection:

THE WITNESS

TOXIC RAIN

BETRAYAL

RECORD KEEPER

DEATH IN THE DUNES

WIT-SEC FAIL

SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed.

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

WILL

### Somewhere along the Oregon Coast

"Mac, when was the last time you did anything that you really enjoyed besides drinking or having sex?" she asks, her voice leading.

"Come on now, Eddy," I weakly protest, immediately sensing where the conversation is headed. We'd been together for almost a year now and except for a lot of hot and sweaty sessions in the bedroom, broken up only by nights out at the local cocktail lounge with me getting drunk and making an ass of myself, I had to begrudgingly admit, we hadn't really done anything in the way of formal entertainment for a long while, if ever. And even though I'm not complaining, mind you, I'm not so insensitive that I don't realize a woman has needs that far exceed those of your normal male.

While intently studying the open brochure laid out on the coffee table before her, she gingerly sips from her beer and carefully places the sweating longneck on a cork coaster before continuing, "I think it sounds like fun."

"I'm sorry, Eddy," I weakly argue, my resistance fading quickly. "But the fascination of riding crazily over mounds of sand at breakneck speeds on little four-wheeled machines when you're not being shot at or chased just doesn't make much sense to me."

In all our time together, I'd never succeeded in denying her anything, and this time wasn't going to be any exception. For reasons that made no sense to me, she was determined to try out this thing they called quading.

Sensing my wavering resistance, along with her intimate knowledge of my inability to resist her, she happily smiles and points to a large ad in the brochure. Her voice softening, she says, "It says here, we can stay in a luxury hotel and they'll arrange everything. We can go out on a tour in one of their large bus-type vehicles with a bunch of other people, or we can do our own thing on individual four-wheeled machines, quads for short. They pick us up at the hotel and deliver us right to the staging area with the quads all fueled, serviced, and ready to go." And then in a more conciliatory tone of voice adds, "You won't have to lift a finger, just enjoy yourself."

Hearing the growing fervor in her voice, I realize that I might as well concede while her spirits are high. Just maybe, I can salvage something out of it for me too. Because even though I'm not too excited about the prospect of getting my shorts full of sand, anything is better than arguing with a woman, especially this woman. And besides, an argument will only prolong the inevitable while forfeiting any chance of eventually seducing her into joining me in the bedroom later. Worst case scenario still has me picking the restaurant tonight. So either way, by simply agreeing to go along with her, I get something out of it. In my limited way of thinking, it's all good.

I know that sounds selfish, but a man has to do what a man has to do, and that means looking out for oneself.

"You know, maybe that isn't such a bad idea after all," I slowly concur, suddenly wondering what could be so bad about a ride on the dunes; aside from the fact that we would be sharing it with a couple of dozen other screaming tourists, their cameras flying dangerously about their heads on short little nylon cords, threatening to impact both themselves and everyone else within range. Oh yeah, great fun.

"Does it say what amenities the hotel offers?" I ask, thinking silently to myself that a bubbling hot tub sporting a lot of foamy suds and a bottle of West Indies rum the night before might just make her forget all about the ride before it even has a chance to get off the ground. Especially if the day starts off like a typical day on the coast; overcast, drizzly, a damp breeze, and temps in the low forties. Hell, if I'm lucky, they might even be in the low thirties.

"I'll find out when I call to make the reservations," she says victoriously while smiling impishly over the brochure at me as if she's reading my mind.

She knows the only reason I'm not putting up more of a fuss is because I've decided to salvage what I can from the situation. If I know her as well as I think I do, her next move will be trying to keep me from scoring on that point too. Or, if I know her at all, she's already planning how she's going to make me work for that as well.

Rising from the overstuffed recliner setting across the coffee table from her, I scoop up our depleted beer bottles and stroll into the kitchen, asking over my shoulder if she's up to one more or if she'd prefer coffee instead. It was early evening, dinner not far off, and I didn't want to risk being harassed for driving under the influence, even though we'd only nursed three or four beers all day.

Most days spent lounging around drinking beer landed us at Mario's Pizzeria. Although I'm not big on pizza, Mario's made a pretty fair crust, thick and chewy, and moreover, his shop was only a few hundred feet from our front door; nice and convenient.

Tonight, however, we were going to go a little farther afield, since I was doing the picking.

"Coffee's good," she replies, leaning back on the sofa and glancing absently out the bay window overlooking the front drive and the residential street beyond. "You must be planning on driving?"

"Absolutely," I reply, dropping the empties in the recycling bin and reaching for the tin of coffee next to the pot. "If you're going to pick our entertainment, I think it's only right that I should be allowed the choice of where we get our sustenance," I quip, dumping grounds and water into the pot.

For reasons that I won't profess to understand and will always elude me, we each fell into different domestic roles since moving in together. For instance, I never do laundry; though I originally tried, I only succeeded in dying my white T's, her white bras, panties, and other light colored garments, a pretty shade of pink. Nope, that role immediately thereafter became Eddy's. And although she despises doing laundry, she considers it less aggravating than replacing most of our clothes on a weekly basis.

We don't stay at home and cook very often either. But when we do, it's usually me in the kitchen while Eddy sets the table and follows up with the dishes afterwards, just like it's my role to make the coffee. Anytime, day or night that we decide to have coffee, the task falls to me. It's not that she can't or won't make coffee, it's just an unspoken rule that the task is all mine.

While the coffee pot does its thing, I saunter back into the front room, taking up a stance between her and the bay window, my gaze taking in the cool, late-fall scene outside.

Something doesn't seem right and I turn a questioning look toward Eddy, instantly noticing the seriousness of her expression. "You see it too?" I casually inquire, turning back to the street outside just in time to see a black sedan pull away from the curb and do an illegal 'U'-turn in the middle of the street before accelerating away. I continue watching until it shoots around a corner, hanging a left onto 8th Street, which leads directly to the Pacific Coast Highway, or one-oh-one as the locals more frequently refer to it.

With the sedan lost from sight, I turn back toward Eddy in time to see her face relaxing. Softly, she growls at me, her voice betraying an unmistakable tone of reprimand, "I was watching them watch us until you made it obvious that we'd spotted them."

Ignoring the tone of her voice, I indignantly remark, "You could have given me a heads up."

When she doesn't immediately respond, I drop the defensive animosity and ask instead, "Any idea who might be interested in us?"

"Could be someone checking us out before they propose a job offer, or it might be someone we crossed paths with somewhere in our past and they're holding a grudge," she casually remarks, glancing toward the kitchen as the coffee pot dings twice to alert us that it's ready.

Heading into the kitchen, I ask, "You didn't happen to catch the plate on it, did you?"

"Sorry, I forgot to put my bionic eye in this morning," she ironically quips. And then quickly adds, "Maybe if I wasn't being molested every waking minute, I might have remembered."

"Not just when you're awake," I tease, smiling at her as I carry in two cups of steaming brew.

Smirking, she wittingly quips back, "What makes you think I'm asleep? Women have been known to be pretty good at faking things, you know."

Placing the cups on the coffee table, I lean further in than necessary and plant a kiss on her full, inviting lips, my tongue lingering moistly, challenging her to return the gesture.

Reaching up, she brusquely pushes me away, turning her head to the side to further deter any continued advance. "Mac, really, is that all you ever have on your mind?"

"No, sometimes I actually think about something else, just can't remember what it was," I tease with a smirk of my own.

"You're terrible."

### *1*

Falling back into the recliner, I continue smiling roguishly at her while she places a call to the hotel listed on the brochure. Finding my funny faces and smirks distracting, she finally presses the phone against her chest and hisses at me, "Knock it off, I'm trying to make reservations! I thought you wanted to know what amenities came with the room."

Momentarily subdued by her sudden outburst, I settle back into my seat and silently ponder the black sedan instead. I would be lying if I didn't admit that the manner in which it took off when the occupants realized we were looking back at them has me more than a little bit concerned.

The most logical explanation, and one that is also the least alarming, is the possibility that someone is considering hiring us. But before doing so, they are having us checked out by a private investigating firm. Or, if it's a large corporation that needs our services, the sedan might be their own security people doing background on us. If that's the case, and I'm hoping it is, it's not the first time it's happened.

A worst case scenario is the possibility that someone we dealt with in the past is out seeking revenge against us. And although this thought might be unsettling to most people, Eddy and I are no strangers to violence; we are more than capable of taking care of ourselves.

Yet, I silently remind myself to check my magnum before we head out tonight. I've carried the same weapon with me since I was in special operations in the military. It's a stainless steel, double action revolver sporting a shortened barrel modified with tighter rifling for increased long range accuracy. It holds six .357 magnum rounds and is equipped with Pac Myer grips for better handling in extreme conditions. It's never let me down.

After a few moments of friendly banter on the phone, Eddy subconsciously smiles, thanks the individual on the other end of the line and hangs up the receiver. Lifting her coffee to her lips and taking a sip before settling back on the couch, she smiles at me and says, "You'll be happy to know, the room comes with pool and hot tub privileges and there's a wet bar, of which the first twenty dollars on the tab is complimentary in the package."

She says it with blunt finality in her voice, clearly expressing her disappointment regarding my attitude toward the venture.

"I'm sorry, Eddy," I humbly remark. Then, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I feel, add, "Actually, it might be kind of fun. Maybe, just maybe, I'll finally figure out what the excitement is all about."

Smiling, a hint of relief showing in her eyes, she replies, "I'm glad you're willing to give it a try, even if you are just humoring me." When I smile encouragingly, she asks, "Where are we going for dinner tonight?"

"Aren't you going to tell me more about the hotel and rides first?"

"I'll tell you over dinner," she quips, setting her cup on the table and rising to her feet. "How should I dress, casual or classy?"

Jumping to my feet and cutting her off on the way to the bedroom, I grab her around the waist and spin her around to face me. "Babe, you're always classy," I mouth in the moment before planting my lips over hers.

To my surprise, I'm not met with resistance. Instead, her lips are warm, moist, and very inviting as her hands gently encircle my waist, pulling me tighter against her.

"Do we have time, or are you getting hungry?" she breathes, her voice husky with the growing fervor of passion.

Smiling enthusiastically, I reach down and lift her off the floor by her buttocks, savoring the firmness of her flesh between my fingers. "I'm hungrier than you know," I reply with quickening breath. "Food will just have to wait."

With our lips mashed together, I carry her into the bedroom and throw her roughly to the bed, my hands going instantly to my belt as I hastily scramble to break free of my clothes.

Even before my jeans hit the floor, I've yanked my T-shirt over my head and tossed it recklessly to the side. By this time, Eddy has slipped out of her blouse; her full, ripe breasts and swollen nipples taunting me, further fueling the anticipation.

Lying back on the bed again, she has managed to unzip her jeans and is arching her pelvis up in a hurried effort to slip them off. Grabbing them by the ankles, I jerk them down below her knees, her feet kicking them the rest of the way off as I climb over her, my tongue gliding wetly up the smooth length of her thigh.

While my hands coarsely caress her hips and waist, she moans softly, her fingers entangling in my hair, pulling my face up to hers.

I catch just the briefest of nibbles on her right breast in passing before her hands slide into the small concave at the nape of my neck and then forcefully guide my lips to hers. When we come together, I feel the warm moistness of her mouth, the sound of her breath hissing in and out in short gasps loud in my right ear as her right hand slips deliciously down my side, setting the small hairs of my flesh on edge.

With a precision that can only come from experience, her hand slides down the rippling muscles of my belly, pausing briefly to enfold the fullness of my manhood before gently squeezing it in an act of complete possession and control.

Tilting her head back, her eyes gazing deeply into mine with an unspoken challenge, she no longer moves with any urgency. Her actions now slow and methodical, she deftly guides my swollen manhood into her, the warmth of her sending a tingling shiver of excitement down my spine, jumping from nerve to nerve until the full force of it collects in the small of my back.

Sensing the reaction of my body to her touch, she smiles coyly with contentment and satisfaction, her eyes continuing to gaze into mine.

If there was any doubt as to who possesses all the power in this relationship, it has just been dispelled by my overt display of vulnerability; she is my one weakness, my single vulnerability.

With calculated tenderness, I push deeply into her moistness, feeling her body involuntarily tighten around my engorged staff while savoring the slow exhalation of her breath as it becomes her turn to shiver in response.

Taking a deep breath, her eyes momentarily flicker, and then her hands suddenly clench tightly on the muscles of my buttocks, roughly pulling me deeper into her.

She arches her back, a small gasp escaping her lips just before I cover them with my hungry mouth, my tongue slipping through our lips in search of her tongue.

In response, she bites down hungrily on the tip of my tongue, causing me to flinch from the sharp sting of pain and instantly pull away. Letting go of my tongue, she leans back and laughs in my face while squeezing her thighs tightly against my hips to prevent me from pulling out.

Realizing that she is in a playful mood, I quickly respond, rolling over onto my side, pulling her along with me. When I am on my back, my hands firmly gripping her buttocks in place, I drive my manhood upward, using the bed springs for lift-off. Within moments, she is riding up and down as if aboard a wild bronco, her breathing harsh and labored, her breasts bouncing wildly just above my face.

With each downward jouncing of them, I hungrily stretch upward, my teeth bared, trying to grasp them in my mouth, the rock hard nipples just barely beyond reach. Yet, I sense, more than actually feel their firm roughness against my tongue and cheek, a stream of saliva flinging wildly from my open mouth, landing on the brown tinged points of her nipples, the slickness of the moisture on them increasing the difficulty of my efforts tenfold.

A wickedly delicious smile lights up her face as she realizes my futile attempts at grasping her in my mouth, and immediately the driving force behind her gyrations increases in strength. With each upward rise of her writhing body, my manhood threatens to slip free. And then, just as suddenly, it's thrust to its full length within her and another loud rush of breath escapes our lungs as one.

Although the air within the apartment unit is dry and warm compared to the cool dampness outside, a cool bead of perspiration quickly coats our laboring bodies with a slick sheen, our hearts hammering within the confines of our heaving chests, threatening to burst free in a rage of fevered lust for human flesh.

We are on fire, our passion consuming us with no respect for boundaries. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that this is the hottest sex we've had in ages, and I begin to wonder if it has anything to do with the dark sedan and the two occupants within watching us from the street.

Is it possible that she has been missing our former lifestyle as much as I have; that she's been bored with our sedentary, and also solitary, past few months? Has she missed the thrill of the game as much as I?

She instantly picks up on my momentary distraction, and the energy behind her thrusts quickly tapers off, leaving no doubt that an orgasmic climax is out of the picture, for both of us.

As she lowers herself down on me, the smile having faded from her beautiful face, I playfully slip a breast into my mouth and nibble gently at the soft little nipple. Though it's a vain effort to reignite the passion of just moments before, to my surprise, she neither pulls away, nor does she extricate herself from my still swollen penis.

Slowly, she lowers her head to my chest and firmly pulls her breast free of my mouth. Her voice still husky with emotion, she softly whispers, "That was good."

Gently caressing her back with the tips of my fingers, I whisper softly into her hair, "I love you, Eddy."

"I know," she whispers.

"I'm sorry," I breathe into her short golden locks. "I didn't mean to leave you hanging."

Lifting her head just enough to meet my gaze, she smiles and says, "Sex isn't all about having orgasms."

"No," I smile back at her. "But they just seem to make it more worthwhile."

With a start, she pushes up and lifts herself free of my grasp, huffing lightly with disgust at my comment. "You men are all alike. You all have this attitude that if it doesn't feel good and give immediate rewards, what's the point in it."

Letting her slip free, I smile playfully, enjoying her feigned angry outburst, which only prompts her to react harsher. With a hard fist against my bare chest, she pushes off the bed and rises gracefully to her feet, an angry glare burning hotly from her eyes. I suddenly wonder if she is still feigning the anger or if indeed it has turned real.

Before I can ask her, she turns and trots into the bathroom, the cheeks of her ass bouncing spritely with each step. I am again reminded how beautiful she is and that my manhood is still standing at the ready.

I prop myself up on the bed looking after the closed bathroom door, suddenly intent on chasing her into the bathroom. But then just as quickly, I think better of it. Something set her off and until I discover what it was or let it diffuse itself through no effort of mine, it is better to give her some space. After dinner tonight and a few glasses of wine, we can pick up where we left off.

### *2*

While she's in the bathroom, I use the kitchen sink to freshen up and put on some decent clothes for the evening. When I finish, she is still in the bathroom, so I take the opportunity to pick up the place, collecting the empty beer bottles and washing the coffee cups before setting them in the dish strainer to dry. Out of habit, I also set up the coffee pot so it'll be ready in case we need a cup later on when we get back.

When I finish these little chores and she still hasn't come out of the bathroom, I cautiously approach the bathroom door, torn between knocking on it and just leaving her to her own devices.

Against my better judgment, I tentatively tap on the door. From within, I hear a muted mumbling, "What?"

"I was just curious as to how much longer you're going to be," I reply, trying to instill empathy and a touch of humility in my voice.

To my surprise, the door slowly opens and she timidly peeks out, her face glowing with a warm flush, her body barely concealed in a large bath towel. She appears weak and innocent, in need of protection, and a part of me suddenly finds her irresistible. In that moment, I want nothing more than to take her in my arms and make mad, passionate love to her, to consume her with my fiery lust.

Pushing the door the rest of the way open, I step toward her, my arms reaching out to her. The towel slips to the floor and her warm body slips lithely up against me, her hands reaching up behind my neck and pulling my face to her own.

Her lips are hot and moist, tinged with the salt of tears; her tongue slips past my lips, further fueling the fire that is still smoldering within my loins.

Pulling back for a second, I softly whisper, "Baby, we're going to be late."

"Shut up and make love to me," she huskily replies, the image of the sweet innocent girl in need of protection immediately dispelled and replaced by an image of a siren in command.

She places her hands upon my chest and forces me backwards toward the bed. When I move without resisting, she quickly unbuttons the shirt that I just moments earlier put on. My own hands slide down her smooth skin, and then fumble wildly at the button holding my pants shut.

Even before I can get the zipper undone, her hands are intertwined with mine as she tries hurrying me.

When the backs of my knees are up against the mattress, I let myself go and land flat on my back on the recently made bed. With all the passion and patience of a wild animal, she yanks my pants down around my ankles and climbs up on top of me, a knee planted firmly on either side of my hips while she looks down on me. In her eyes is a picture of triumph, as one that has just conquered an insurmountable task. Or one that just killed a trophy ram.

My manhood is standing erect, reaching hungrily toward her still damp bush. Yet, she remains just out of reach, toying with me like a cat with a mouse.

When I place my hands on her buttocks, she casually pushes them away, prolonging the game that she is playing with me; savoring it like a perfectly cooked piece of steak.

When I look into her deep blue eyes, I see a spark of the old flame that's been missing of late, and I realize with no small amount of excitement that we're going to be eating late tonight.

### *3*

By the time we leave the apartment it's already a little after 10 P.M., and although we were both excited by the appearance of the sedan earlier in the day and what it might signify, to my relief there isn't any sign of it on the street now. Of course, that doesn't mean they're not watching us; they might just have gotten better at it.

To this point, I haven't let on to Eddy where we're going. For no reason in particular, I want to surprise her, and although we don't have reservations, I'm hoping that because we're so late, we might even end up with the place all to ourselves.

"Where are we going?" she asks again for at least the third time, as I steer her toward the convertible Midget parked along the curb. "We're not walking?"

"Not tonight," I reply, getting the door for her.

As she lowers herself down on the seat, I take a long thoughtful gaze at her exposed thighs, her skirt having hiked up from the effort.

"You're a dog," she smiles coyly, enjoying the hungry leer.

Pushing the door shut, I silently grin to myself before scurrying around the backside of the car and climbing into the driver's seat. The car is not very comfortable for a man of my stature, my shoulders stretching across the console to Eddy's side, while my legs are snug beneath the steering wheel. Moreover, the little car lacks in power and maneuverability. But its size is one of the main reasons that I was originally drawn to it. That, and the fact that because of its age it's unsophisticated enough for an old dog like me to still know how to work on it in an emergency.

In an effort to ward off any future barrage of questions, I turn the radio on to a local country station. Eddy realizes immediately why I did it and reaches for the knob to turn it back off.

"Uh, uh," I caution her. "Remember the rules of the car. The driver gets choice of radio and station."

She pauses only momentarily, her hand suspended just inches from the knob before firing back, "You're not fooling me, Mac." After turning the knob to lower the volume until it's no longer audible, she continues, a smile curling her lips up at the corner of her mouth, "You think if the radio is blaring, I won't be able to question you. Well, you're wrong, Buddy.

"Don't worry, babe," I smile back, enjoying the game we're playing. "You know I won't take you anywhere that you wouldn't like." And then, adding as an afterthought, "Especially after the way you treated me today."

Smiling smugly as she looks out the windshield into the darkness of the night, she softly agrees, "Yes, I did treat you pretty good today. Didn't I?" Not waiting for nor expecting an answer, her voice takes on a sharp edge and she continues, "I wouldn't be getting too used to it, though."

Not wanting to show her that her words caused me just a small amount of concern, I teasingly reply, "Babe, when I turn on the charm, you know you can't resist."

When she turns to face me, the smug look on her face only increases my concern. I've heard men talking about how their wives suddenly grow disinterested in sex and what it eventually does to their relationships. What were once loving, caring marriages quickly disintegrate into nothing more than two people living under the same roof with little in common. The man takes up hunting or fishing while the wife either takes up shopping with her girlfriends or sitting in front of the television all day watching soaps and eating chips. Neither of which is very appealing to me and I quickly resolve never to take her for granted. Maybe so long as I treat her as if she is the only woman in the world, she'll continue reacting in kind; with love, friendship, and lots of hot passionate intimacy.

"You're really not going to tell me where we're going, are you?"

"You'll see soon enough," I smile across at her in the darkness.

We drive on in silence for a short while before Eddy turns the radio back up. Blake Shelton is singing his latest hit and I happily hum along.

Within a few minutes, we are nearing the restaurant. When I turn off Main onto 8th street, Eddy instantly figures out where we're headed.

"Oh, I love this place," she exclaims, as I pull up to the deserted curb directly in front of the entrance. Noticing that the parking lot across the street is also vacant except for what must be the employ's cars, I breathe an audible sigh of relief; I was hoping to top off this night with a nice romantic meal and maybe some more excitement later. Eddy isn't into crowds; if the place were packed it would have been a real mood dampener.

"I know," I remark, leaning over to give her a soft peck on the cheek.

In her usual unassuming manner, Eddy places her hand on the door knob to get out. "Let me get that for you," I quickly offer, climbing out my side and hurrying around the rear of the car to open the door for her.

Taking my extended hand, she allows me to pull her to her feet before pressing up close to my chest and whispering coyly in my ear, "You've already earned your reward for later tonight Big Guy; don't feel that you have to go overboard."

As she steps toward the restaurant door, I casually remark with a slight lift in my step, "Baby, I assure you that my actions aren't in the least bit motivated by what you may or may not bestow upon me later. I am living in the moment, and I happen to be escorting one of the most beautiful women on the Oregon coast into a fine dining establishment with no pretext of anything other than showing her a good time and treating her to some fine food."

Stopping and waiting for me to get the door for her, she whispers sarcastically as I draw near, "You really are full of it tonight." And then, her voice softer, she adds over her shoulder as she steps through the open door, "But don't stop on my account."

### *4*

To my great delight, except for us and the staff, the place is deserted and we have the choice of any table. After selecting one situated in the shadows of a poorly lit corner of the expansive hall-like room, the only light coming from a small candle in a jar, we order drinks and study the menu, even though we both know what we are going to order.

When the waitress returns with our drinks, me a tumbler of West Indies rum, while Eddy has a glass of Chablis, I take the initiative of ordering for both of us. To my relief, instead of hovering over us in search of boosting a larger tip, the staff spends most of its time huddled at a far table smoking cigarettes and sharing gossip of the patrons they serviced earlier.

Considering that we're the only patrons, the food seems to take an eternity to arrive. After studying the clock numerous times, however, I realize that it isn't taking any longer than normal; it's just me being antsy to get going so I can collect my promised rewards.

Without noticing that Eddy is taking her time and savoring every bite of the food, I hurriedly finish mine and then look up to see her staring at me over her plate which appears barely touched and still steaming hot.

Instead of being angry with me, though, she smiles coyly and then turns her attention back to her food, which she seems to be eating even slower than she had just moment's prior.

"Are you going to be able to finish all of that, or would you like to share some with me?" I impatiently inquire, hoping she'll push a large portion of it to my plate so we can get finished and back to the apartment.

"Oh no, Babe, this is all mine," she teases, smiling through her teeth as she slowly, almost sensuously, chews on a small particle of tenderloin fillet.

After what seems an eternity, I am paying the bill and we are heading back out the door and to the car.

"That was delicious, Honey," she says, giving me a soft peck on the lips as I open the car door for her.

My anxiety growing by the second, I almost brusquely reply, "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

Swinging the door shut, I hurriedly climb into the driver's side and turn the ignition. Eddy, meanwhile, is thoroughly enjoying watching me and is taking great pleasure in my anxiety. Before I can shift into first, she lays her left hand over my right as it grips the shifter and reaches across the console, placing her right behind my head and pulling my face toward her.

Before I can resist, she slips her tongue into my mouth and kisses me long and hard, immediately igniting the passion that has been simmering just below the boiling point within my loins for the last hour or so.

"Let's get back to the apartment, Babe," I blurt hoarsely between breaths.

Her left hand slips from my right and reaches between my legs, sliding languorously up the inside of my thigh, stopping only when it bumps up gently against my swollen manhood.

"Oh Babe," she huskily breathes, her hand massaging me through the light cotton fabric of my Dockers.

When she begins squirming on the seat in an effort to climb closer to me, I finally pull back and hold her at arm's length. "Babe, midgets weren't designed for front seat antics," I gasp, a bit breathlessly. "Let's get going and we can pick up where we leave off just as soon as we get back to the apartment."

Dropping back into her seat, her face clearly showing disappointment, I suddenly find myself uncertain as to whether she is teasing or serious when she says, "You're a real mood kill. Maybe we can just go for a drive along the coast instead. I'm not really tired yet."

Slowly, my body goes limp and I slouch back into the seat, unable to take my eyes off her. When she glances furtively out of the corner of her eye to see what affect her words and actions have had on me, I instantly realize that she is toying with me. Angrily, I grip the shifter in my fleshy right fist and forcefully grind it into first. "Hang on," I command, stepping on the accelerator while letting the clutch out.

The little midget jerks, catches, and then takes off as the engine rev's come up to speed. I make a U-turn on the street and speed up toward Hwy 101, barely glancing down the dark, deserted strip of asphalt as I pull up onto it while turning right and speed back in the direction of the apartment.

Within minutes, we are turning off onto the street that leads up to the drive in front of our apartment unit; we both see it at the same time.

Without even considering my next actions, I reach under the seat and retrieve my magnum; a .357 Ruger snub with Pac Myer grips. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Eddy reaching into the glove box to retrieve her .32 Special; a .32 caliber, seven shot revolver. To my amazement, we are both operating on instinctive reflex, working together as one despite the lengthy period of time since being in the field.

As I come tearing up on the dark sedan, I suddenly yank the wheel hard to the right while simultaneously pulling up on the parking brake and causing the rear of the little car to come sliding around toward the front, stopping close enough to the driver's door of the sedan to prevent it opening while planting the little midget's headlights directly in the eyes of the bewildered occupants.

Before they can grasp what is going on and take defensive action, Eddy and I are out of the midget, our weapons leveled at the two men inside. While I step to the left and front of their vehicle, Eddy steps around the back and comes up on the passenger's rear just as the passenger throws open his door to get out.

"Freeze!" she commands with authority, stepping close enough to plant the cold steel barrel of her revolver in the side of the man's neck, right up against his juggler vein. "Very slowly, using just your thumb and index finger, hand me that niner you're so proud of."

Still crouching half in and half out of the vehicle, the barrel of Eddy's gun taking the starch out of his drawers, he silently lets his nine millimeter automatic slip down so that it is dangling loosely from his trigger finger while holding it out away from himself.

Reaching for it, she softly remarks, the tone of her voice firm and unwavering, "Don't try anything stupid."

Meanwhile, I have the driver under the barrel of my magnum, his hands gripping the wheel in front of him with enough force to turn the knuckles white. Whether this is from fear or anger, I'm not sure. But I strongly suspect it's the latter; he doesn't appear to be a man that is easily derailed, and I'm generally a fair judge of character.

Stepping in between the Midget and up close to the driver's door, I cautiously reach inside his jacket and slip his weapon from the shoulder holster concealed beneath his left arm. "Like the lady said, don't try anything stupid, we just want to know what you're up to."

Unlike the passenger, the driver is more vocal, and responds in a deep raspy voice, "I'm going to want that back."

"You'll get it back when I'm ready to give it back," I coolly respond, not showing the least bit of anger at them for delaying my 'reward'.

### *5*

Next to the curb on the passenger's side of the sedan is a low stone wall and Eddy has perched herself on it with a clear view through the passenger's open door, keeping the little revolver trained on both men. The passenger, meanwhile, has pulled his feet back in and is sitting quietly brooding the situation. He is not happy at the predicament that he finds himself and that makes him the more dangerous of the two, especially since he also seems to be the least experienced which equates to the most unpredictable.

The driver, however, is much less distressed over the situation they're finding themselves in and is much more calm and cooperative. He's a seasoned veteran of his occupation and thus realizes that he might learn as much as he is willing to give, if not more.

Before I can begin questioning the driver, he calmly states, "We are not who you might think."

"Right now, I'm not thinking you're anybody," I reply equally calm. "But I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

"Allow me," he says, taking his right hand from the wheel and slowly reaching inside his jacket.

What he withdraws isn't quite what I'm expecting, but I recognize it immediately, as it closely resembles the same ID I carry with me at all times. Flipping open the identification holder, he states what it says in holographic blue ink across the top. "We're federal agents, much the same as you were once. And so I know it isn't necessary for me to explain the futility of asking for our employer's name or our purpose for keeping you under surveillance."

Taking the proffered ID, I give it a cursory glance and then hand it back to him. When he reaches to take it back from me, I'm half tempted to grab his arm and physically drag him from the vehicle. Once on the ground, I might be able to beat something out of him.

But as quickly as the urge strikes me, it just as quickly passes. If for no other reason than mutual respect of one federal investigator for another, I restrain myself. And besides, he doesn't appear the type to cave under threat of bodily harm.

Instead, I simply ask in the guise of a statement, "Well, at least I believe that you're not here to kill us."

"We're not mercenaries, Mr. McClain," he states a bit indignantly, throwing me a knowing look.

This man has done his homework with regards to my past which means he has access to restricted government files, and for that reason alone, understands my capabilities as well as my tendencies. He's being very careful in his own gruff way not to push my buttons.

His partner, on the other hand, is less disciplined and beginning to grow evermore impatient with the situation, as is evidenced by his fidgeting in the seat.

Experienced as she is, Eddy has also picked up on the younger man's rapidly disintegrating patience. Rising from the stone wall, she takes a step forward just as the young man makes a frantic grab for something beneath his seat.

Even before the senior partner can grasp the foolishness of what the young one is attempting and try to stop him, there's the loud crack of wood striking bone, and the young man slumps forward unconscious, his head striking the vinyl dash with a dull thud before hanging limply off to the side.

Before anyone can say anything, a darker spot looms in the center of the back of his head as blood flows from the freshly inflicted wound, running freely down the side of his face and onto the floor mat at his feet.

Without a word, Eddy grabs his shoulder and straightens him back upright in the seat, a low moan escaping his lips. I experience a moment of relief at the fact that she didn't kill him, because I know she is fully capable of such an act.

Leaning into the vehicle, she reaches down between his feet and feels around the floor, her hand almost immediately coming across a police issue riot baton; the kind that extrudes with a flick of the wrist.

"Idiot," she mutters under her breath as she flips it nonchalantly onto the back seat of the sedan and closes the passenger's door before the semi-conscious individual can fall out.

"Go take care of the kid," I solemnly advise the driver. "And don't let us catch you sniffing around our digs again. Next time, you're both going to feel some pain."

"What about our guns?" he blurts, his hands still firmly gripping the wheel.

"What about them?" I ask, not liking the idea of the passenger being armed anytime soon.

"You don't have the right to keep them."

"You can pick them up at the local cop shop sometime later tomorrow afternoon," I irritably state, not really wanting to be bothered, but also not coming up with anything better. Besides, let them explain to the police how they happened to lose their weapons and what they're doing in town.

"You're a real asshole, McClain."

"Please, just call me Mac, all my friends do."

### *6*

While I park the midget in the drive in front of our unit, Eddy marches the short distance on the sidewalk. By the time I extricate myself from the cramped confines of the little car, she is standing next to it waiting for me. Without waiting to reach the privacy of our apartment, she immediately lays into me. "We still don't know what they're doing shadowing us," she angrily hisses, purposely keeping her voice low so as not to wake any of our neighbors as we make our way toward the front door.

"You know as well as I do they weren't going to spill their guts to us, no matter how we threatened them," I reply, keeping my voice calm, yet undermined with determination.

"I'll bet you that idiot I hit over the head would have been singing like a bird within minutes if I'd tried," she protests, her voice still carrying an edge, which might just be adrenaline after the fact.

Since there is nothing to be gained by arguing with her, I take a different tact. "You're probably right," I agree, fishing my unit key out of my front pocket. "I'll bet the older guy don't partner up with him again. And if the idiot is assigned as a trainee under the older guy, I'll bet he just got transferred or fired. Moreover, I wouldn't be surprised if the young kid didn't even know what they're watching us for."

Pushing the door open, I take a moment to sniff the escaping air that hits me from the warmer interior. Aside from our own personal body odors and stale beer mixed with a slight fragrance of brewed coffee, nothing smells out of the ordinary, and I lead the way inside, waiting until Eddy moves past me before closing the door behind us and turning on a light.

"Want a beer?" she asks, heading straight for the fridge.

Dropping into the recliner, I decline the offer, suggesting coffee instead, even though my own nerves are spastically firing off from the excitement and a beer might prove to be the better medicine for calming me.

Placing the beer back on the shelf in the fridge, she turns to the pot instead, asking, "Is it set up?"

"You know it is," I proudly reply.

After flipping the switch on to override the timer, she sets two cups on the counter and slowly returns to the front room, her expression betraying the fact that her thoughts are a million miles away.

To my surprise, she moves on past the couch and drops onto my lap, leaning back against my chest so that the side of her head is pressed gently against the side of my face. Instinctively, I draw in a full breath of her, the tight blonde curls sensually tickling my nostrils while snagging in the darkening shadow of my facial hair, something that normally irritates her.

But tonight is different, and she only wriggles in tighter against me. Turning my head, I softly kiss the silkiness of her hair. She responds by turning her face to mine and kissing me languorously on the lips. They are soft and moist, scintillatingly so, and I feel myself growing hard within my Dockers.

Feeling my manhood swelling beneath her, she wiggles into a more comfortable position, effectively lessening the force of the bulge against her buttocks while simultaneously sending me a subliminal signal that sex isn't in our immediate future.

Since being with Eddy, I've learned a lot about women and their extreme emotional makeup, and so it is that I quickly recognize the change that is taking place within her. For the moment, she isn't thinking about controlling me, or the fact that I'm sexually aroused. Instead, she is feeling only a need for sanctuary, and the stability that I can give her by holding her tightly in my arms, protecting her from the big bad world. Right now, she needs a different kind of intimacy; the kind that doesn't involve sex or heavy breathing or a racing heart.

My past never included anything other than the two-headed beast and the physical satisfaction of sexual release that came with it. Until I met Eddy, I never even knew there was such a thing as intimacy without the physical grappling and sweating that accompanies the act of sex.

But being with Eddy has changed all of that, and now I can appreciate so much more in a relationship than just the hot sweaty moments leading up to a climax. In fact, I can even appreciate just sitting here in silence with her wrapped tightly in my arms, the firm outline of her buttocks pressing hard against my thighs while she snuggles securely on my lap.

At least, I can for a little while. But alas, like most men, I have a short attention span, and the silence between us soon grows deafening. Moreover, the bulge in my pants isn't abating from the lack of attention being given it.

Without even realizing that I'm doing it, my lips press softly against her earlobe, my tongue slipping slowly, almost stealthily through her blonde curls until it feels the smoothness of her skin delicately pressed against its tip.

Her right hand slowly drops down the back of my neck, her gentle touch igniting sparks down the length of my spine while causing my heart to skip a beat.

Very conscious of my actions, I wriggle beneath her, positioning my stout member in such a way that she can no longer ignore its pulsing pressure throbbing against her with each beat of my heart, threatening to force its way through the light fabric separating us.

My tongue finds its way into her ear canal and she wriggles ever so slightly on top of me, a soft moan trembling over her lips.

Her brief moment of neediness recedes and the powerful, demanding lioness slowly returns. I can feel the change coming over her like a force unto itself. It is a burgeoning energy that quickly dispels the small, soft creature that had occupied the woman on my lap just moments prior.

With no conscious thought on her part, her hands work their way between us and find the buttons securing my shirt, the last bastion keeping us apart as I pull her blouse over her head, revealing the fullness of her breasts.

Our breathing is ragged, our motions forceful and hurried with no thought for the welfare of the thin material. Within seconds, her bare breasts are cupped in my powerful grasp, her nipples transformed into rock hard extensions protruding from her firm flesh. She is a thing of beauty that any man would kill to have, and I feel so damn lucky to be that man. In this moment of time, there isn't any place I would rather be.

Taking her right nipple in my mouth, I tenderly bite down, a long gasp emanates from deep within her being and her body trembles with excitement and anticipation.

Leaning forward, her nipple still grasped firmly between my front teeth, I lift her in my arms and start toward the bedroom. I have barely made it halfway across the front room, when her nipple breaks free from between my teeth. Before I can hunt it down with my mouth, she lifts my head to hers and bites down playfully on my lower lip before placing her mouth over mine, her tongue violently exploring within mine.

As we move past the coffee pot, I bump the switch to the off position, confident that if I don't it will be well beyond a palatable beverage by the time we get to drinking it. The black liquid that has already filled the pot can be nuked later at our convenience.

No sooner do I lower her supine body to the bed, than I am scrambling frantically to get my belt undone followed by a jig to free my feet from my pants which are tangled around my ankles on the floor, when I suddenly notice that Eddy isn't following suit. Instead, she is lying unmoving where I placed her, her legs slightly curled up toward her belly resembling the fetal position. In that instant, I realize that her mood has swung once again.

### *7*

Standing naked by the side of the bed, I look down at her in the gloom, the only light filtering in from the front room. She is gazing back up at me, fully aware that my manhood is hovering just inches above her, ready to lead the charge.

Her voice barely audible, she apologetically whispers, "I'm sorry, Mac, but we need to talk."

"I'll get us some coffee," I grumble sullenly while turning away from her and retracing my steps to the kitchen. For the moment, I care little for what the subject will be. Instead, I am only disappointed for my own selfish reasons.

When I return with two steaming cups of black coffee, I find Eddy snuggled under the covers with her head propped up on the pillow, her clothes already put away. Tomorrow, Wednesday, we'll be packing and prepping for the weekend at the dunes, even though we won't be leaving until Thursday morning.

"I'm sorry," she says apologetically, accepting the proffered coffee from my extended hand.

"Don't worry about it," I nonchalantly shrug, hiding my true feelings from her on the off chance I might still sway her before the night is over. I'm not sure how much teasing my poor body can stand after the earlier fiasco and now this one.

Planting myself on the edge of the bed, I purposely remain sitting on top of the covers so I can keep my back toward her. In a voice that sounds gruffer than I intend, I ask, "What's so important it couldn't wait till morning?"

Seeing that I'm not going to use my pillow, she grabs it with her left hand while carefully balancing the cup of coffee in her right and places it atop her own, effectively boosting her into a sitting position; her actions remove all doubts that this is going to be a long night, and not for the right reasons.

Although her voice is soft and demure, she is not weak. In fact, she is quite the opposite. "So," I start, taking another sip from my cup. "What's on your mind?"

"What are two federal agents doing sniffing around here? I knew they couldn't tell us what their assignment is even if they wanted to. If word got out, they could face criminal charges or be severely reprimanded. For all intents and purposes, their careers would be over."

"I have a strong suspicion the unconscious one's career is over anyway. But it won't hurt to keep our vigilance up for a little while. There's never any telling what a hotheaded idiot like that is capable of now that a woman has injured his pride," I suggest, taking another sip from my cup.

Even though the pot was only off for a few minutes, it has picked up a bitter taste and I'm debating tossing it when Eddy says, "I think we should postpone our little venture to the dunes this weekend. At least put it off until we can sort this out and figure out what's going down."

Although my first reaction is to agree, for more reasons than just the obvious, I know how much this little adventure means to her, if for no other reason than she fears becoming a stagnant old fuddy. She doesn't want to be one of those fiftyish, overweight housewives pushing a cart around Wally World for entertainment. And God forbid, I don't want to see that either.

"Not on your life!" I firmly pronounce. "Not after you got me all excited about going, you're not going to pull the plug on it now. Besides, those dickheads have this territory figured out; any home field advantage we might have had is gone. By going to the dunes, we'll all be on a level playing field again."

"You're not fooling me, Mac," she smiles over her cup, meeting my gaze. "I know you want out of going so bad you can taste it."

"No, seriously," I argue, convinced that the only way I'm going to have my way with her tonight is if she feels she owes me a debt of gratitude.

Clearly reading my thoughts, she chuckles, "You're such a dog. Do you really believe you have to go on this trip just to get into my pants?"

"In case you've forgotten, you're not wearing any pants," I smile back at her over the rim of my cup, as I absently sip at the bitter brew.

"Here," she says, handing her cup to me. "Dump it out for me, would you?"

Taking her cup from her, I silently acknowledge that it wasn't necessary for her to read my mind to know the coffee tasted bitter, though it sure felt like it.

"Sure."

When I reach the kitchen, I dump the cups and set them in the bottom of the sink before grabbing the carafe off the burner and pouring its contents in after the cups. Only then do I wonder if maybe the coffee had been tampered with.

But as quickly as the thought manifests itself in my brain, I just as quickly dismiss it; no one has been in our place since we left or I would have noticed it the minute we walked through the door. Out of habit, whenever we go out, I always set something that will get displaced the next time the door is opened. I didn't get to the ripe old age of fifty-five in this business by being careless.

"Nope," I mumble reassuringly to myself, "it's just bitter from shutting the pot off before it had a chance to finish brewing, kind of like me."

"Did you say something, Mac?" Eddy calls softly from the bedroom.

"No, just thinking aloud," I call back, heading to the liquor closet.

Although I don't drink as much rum as I used to, I still keep it on hand for times like these when I have a bad taste to rinse out of my mouth. And since Eddy had some of the coffee too, she might appreciate it also.

Returning to the bedroom with the bottle of rum in one hand and two tumblers in the other, I'm taken aback when I see her lying naked on her side, the blankets thrown back to expose her entire form while my pillow has been placed back on my side of the bed. There is no mistaking her posture and the invitation that she is extending. "Damn," I mutter under my breath, thinking silently to myself that this guilt stuff really works.

"You won't need that tonight," she softly whispers, coyly licking her lips at the sight of the bottle in my left hand. While softly patting the empty place on the bed where I normally lie with her right hand, she continues, "So set it down and get over here before I change my mind again."

"I thought you wanted to talk about the feds," I sarcastically whisper while carefully dropping the bottle and the tumblers on the carpet at the side of the bed.

"Would you prefer that?"

Without a word in response, I slide into the bed as she pulls her hand back, the palm face up and open. Even before I can settle, she is on top of me like a leopard on its prey. Her lips crushingly painful against mine as her hands hurriedly seek out my manhood, guiding it expertly into her love nest.

Whether it's from being born with superior genetics or maintaining an inflexible workout schedule, her body appears to be much closer to thirty than fifty. Moreover, I will personally kill the next man that accuses her of dying her hair; she comes by her lack of gray naturally, even though I have been accused on more than one occasion of possibly triggering an onset. But that's my business and no one else's.

Like a hellcat possessed, she rides me long and hard, our bodies soon glistening with sweat. It takes all of my willpower to prolong the experience long enough for her to reach an orgasm. But when she finally does, it drains the last of her stamina, and in a heap of spent flesh, she collapses on top of me, my stiffness remaining buried deep within her moist softness.

For a long time, I lay still, my arms holding her balanced atop me, while feeling quite content and satisfied even though I have not climaxed. When her breathing finally stabilizes, I gently begin massaging the small of her back, an erogenous zone that generally makes her weak in the knees.

To my delight, she softly moans in response. Within minutes, I can feel her heartbeat picking up speed and her breathing grows louder with each intake and exhalation.

Slowly, she raises her head from my chest and looks down at me, a tired smile turning up the corners of her lovely lips.

"Can't you just give a lady a break?" she whispers between raspy breaths, her voice husky with emotion.

Though she appears to be asking for relief from my passion, her body quickly tells me otherwise, as her thighs quiver ever so slightly against mine.

With a wavering voice, she pleadingly breathes in my ear, "Please, Mac, I can't take much more."

Holding her body firmly against mine, as one we roll onto her back, my body following hers. Slowly, I thrust the full length of my shaft into her, taking great pleasure in the slight gasp that escapes her lips followed by a long exhalation of breath.

Leaning down, I nibble gently on her nipples, growing even more excited when I feel them harden within my mouth.

Before I realize what she is doing, she has reached down between my legs and taken my penis between her right thumb and forefinger. With practiced expertise, she slowly raises and lowers her hips beneath me, all the while working pressure up and down the entire length of my shaft with her two fingers. Within seconds, I am exploding uncontrollably within her, my self-restraint of earlier nothing more than a fleeting memory.

When I finally catch my breath and can at last speak, I have rolled off of her and am lying flat on my back beside her, our sweat covered bodies barely touching. "What did you do that for?"

"I'm not a young girl anymore, Mac," she resignedly reminds me, her voice betraying real fatigue. "We either discuss the federal agent's possible motives, or I'm going to sleep."

Too exhausted even to reach over the side of the bed for the bottle of rum, I sigh loudly before conceding, "Goodnight, Babe."

Within minutes, her soft snoring assails my ears, and then I too follow suit. Like Eddy, I am no longer a young kid.

### *8*

We awake to the sun shining fiercely outside, evidenced by slight gaps along the front room window blinds. The bright light is only occasionally interrupted by a swiftly moving cloud caught up in the onshore breezes that are so prevalent along the coast. Although we hadn't had much to drink the night before, my head feels sluggish and my joints are stiff.

Rolling over to face Eddy, I see her bright blue eyes studying me. "You're awake," I mumble softly, leaning in and kissing her gently on the cheek before rolling off the side of the bed and landing on my feet.

Stretching to my full height, my manhood hanging relaxed and reserved in front of me, I glance down at her before turning toward the kitchen, only to feel slight disappointment when I notice that she isn't studying my naked display of man-flesh. In fact, she has closed her eyes in an attempt to capture a few more minutes of sleep before starting the day.

As I reach the bedroom door, I call gruffly over my shoulder without so much as a glance back, "I'll put the pot on."

Strolling naked through the apartment, I quickly set up the pot and turn it on before making my way into the bathroom. After a quick rinse-off in the shower, I gather up some fresh jeans and a tee before slipping on a pair of hi-tops. Before we head out, I'll switch the hi-tops for my trail boots.

As I pass the bedroom door, I sneak a quick peek in Eddy's direction. To my surprise, she has actually fallen back asleep and is curled up tightly in the blankets with only her blonde, curly locks visible where the top of her head is protruding beyond the covers.

Quietly, my moment of angry disappointment having subsided, I tiptoe to the edge of the bed and retrieve the rum and tumblers, and then hastily retreat to the kitchen. Though I'm tempted to indulge in a quick sip, I fight the urge and instead return the bottle and glasses to the liquor cabinet.

After a quick glance through the edge of the front window blinds to see if our federal agents got the message last night or not, I satisfy myself that they did, and then head for the coffee pot.

As I'm standing before the counter pouring my first cup for the day, Eddy slips up behind me and wraps her arms lovingly around my waist. She is wearing an ankle length, light cotton housecoat with a red and blue pattern. After giving me a strong squeeze, she lets go and steps up to my side. Handing her the first cup poured, I start on a second cup as she heads into the front room and takes up her traditional place on the couch. Although we haven't been living together that long, we each instinctively accepted certain roles and territories within our small domicile.

Following her lead, I head for the overstuffed recliner, commenting as I pass the couch, "They must have believed we meant business last night, because I didn't see anyone out there this morning."

"So, why do you think we're being observed?" she asks, sipping gingerly at the rim of the steaming mug.

"I have a hunch that whatever the reason, we'll know it soon enough," I reply. And then in the next breath, ask, "Is there any chance we can move our retreat date up? Maybe leave today instead of waiting till tomorrow?"

"I'm sure they're not so busy they can't accommodate us a day early if we're willing to pay the single day rate," she replies.

"Why don't you give them a call and see if it'll be a problem."

She hesitates for a moment, obviously mulling something over before she speaks. "You know, Mac, we don't have to do this." Before I can protest, she continues, "No matter what you say or how you act, you're not fooling me. I know you really don't want to go."

"Eddy," I slowly and deliberately reply. "I've come to terms with it and I've actually decided that it might be more fun than I originally gave it credit." When she only looks back at me with an all-knowing smile, I quickly qualify my remark. "That doesn't mean I'm going to run out and buy a quad and take up quading anytime soon."

"I'm only asking for a weekend, Mac," she says, her smile friendly and warm.

"And so I don't want to hear any more about it. Now make that call."

### *9*

The hotel was more than happy to take our money at the full rate for an extra day, so we started packing our gear, planning to stop along the way to eat instead of taking time to fix breakfast.

With the trunk of the little sports car packed to the max, we set off on Hwy 101, heading north for the sleepy little burg of Florence. If traffic cooperates, it shouldn't take us much more than a few hours to get there. With check-in at two, we can take an hour for lunch and still be there early enough to take in a little shopping and sightseeing before dark.

Our first stop along the way is the casino for breakfast. As we walk in through the oversized doors, security gives us the once over. Although we frequent the place on occasion, they aren't studying us because they recognize us; they're studying us because we look a little rough around the edges, if you know what I mean. We're players, not gamblers, and our demeanor even as we just walk through the lobby draws their interest. They couldn't tell you what it is about us, but we're different from their normal clientele of patrons that are looking to blow a few bucks on the off chance they can beat the odds.

In other words, we don't look like suckers.

Ignoring the guards, we head straight for the lounge and grab a table near the wall that provides a good view of the main lobby. At this time of the day the lounge is almost deserted. Except for a couple of men in crumpled suits looking like they might have been up all night sitting at the bar, we are all alone. If the federal agents are following us, they're either sitting outside in their sedan waiting, or they'll enter the same way we did.

When the hostess comes around, we simply tell her what we'd like and let her pass it on to the waitress responsible for serving us. Eggs, up and running, hash browns, wheat toast, and coffee, black. Nothing complicated; no menus required.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that the waitress appears a little peeved that we didn't wait for her to come and take our order, as the hostess passes our requests on to her. She is probably afraid that we're not going to leave a tip. Or if we do, it will be less than what she might have gotten if she had hurried over, even though that isn't how they operate here.

After writing it down on her pad and handing it off for the short order cook, she grabs a tray, balances a carafe of coffee, two mugs, and a couple of glasses of water on it and heads our way. Before she can speak, I quickly apologize for giving our order to the hostess and not waiting for her to arrive at our table.

She is young, early twenties, maybe even late teens. Tall, long dark hair tied up behind her head in a spinster's bun. Pretty eyes, milky complexion and a full set of straight white teeth when she smiles at my opening comment. I learned a long time ago that it doesn't pay to upset anyone that is looking after your needs, which includes nurses, doctors, and especially, waitresses.

"Oh, that's quite alright," she diplomatically replies, her bright smile aimed solely at me, completely ignoring Eddy. After setting a glass of ice water before each of us, she fills our cups with coffee from the carafe, lingering over mine while meeting my gaze full on and saying, "I have your order, but if there is anything else you might need, sir, please don't hesitate to ask."

It doesn't escape Eddy's or my notice the way she emphasized the word 'sir'. "I won't, thank you," I smile back, enjoying the look on Eddy's face out of the corner of my eye.

As the young lady strolls away, I don't miss the exaggerated movement of her hips and the sway of her buttocks through the tight-fitting polyester skirt. "I imagine that garners her quite a few tips with the older men that frequent this place," I absently comment.

Her voice terse, Eddy sharply replies, "It better not be working on you, Old Man."

Turning to meet her steely gaze, I flash my best bad-boy smile and remark, "She doesn't hold a candle to you babe."

Unable to resist my boyish charm, her steely gaze cracks, and a smile turns up the corners of her lips as she remarks, "I don't believe your crap for a minute. But don't stop, I still find it charming."

Smiling back at her, I raise my coffee cup in a salute, to which she responds by raising her own.

It isn't long before our food arrives and Eddy has a chance to give the young waitress a cold stare; a look that many find a tad unsettling. Yet the waitress, in her learned style from having to deal with many unpleasant customers, takes the look in stride and promptly continues ignoring her, keeping all her attention focused exclusively on me.

I would be lying if I didn't admit that I'm finding her undivided attention toward me quite flattering. After all, what man wouldn't? But I'm not so naïve to think she's even the least bit interested in me beyond my wallet and the size of the tip I'm going to leave for her.

Of course, by now one would think she would have figured out that the size of a tip might also be influenced by the other patron that she is patently ignoring.

Almost hastily, she plops Eddy's plate of food down before her, and then lingering provocatively over the table, places mine with such exaggerated care, one might think she were handling dynamite.

With her face only inches from mine, she asks in a voice husky with feigned emotion, "Would you care for anything else, Sir?"

Before I can answer, I find it necessary to clear my throat. Eddy, however, isn't suffering from the same malady as myself and quickly responds, her voice tinged with ice, "He doesn't need anything else, thank you very much."

The waitress responds as if she just felt a wet rawhide slapped across her backside. After glancing furtively in Eddy's direction as if just seeing her for the first time, she hurries back to the kitchen, quickly ducking out of sight.

"There goes our service," I tease, enjoying the jealousy exuding from my mate across the table.

"It's not as if I was getting any service anyway," she heatedly retorts.

With a smug grin on my face, I dig into the food on my plate, looking across the table at Eddy between each mouthful, watching the flush on her face growing redder by the minute.

When she suddenly sets her fork down and takes a deep breath, I quickly cut her off. "Come on, Babe," I start, smiling innocently. "She's a young girl trying to capitalize on her assets. It's not as if I responded inappropriately."

Realizing that she doesn't have any reason to be mad at me doesn't necessarily make her any less mad at me. But when the set of her jaw slowly relaxes, I can tell she is relenting to reason, and I reach across the table and touch the back of her hand, giving it a soft caress.

"You're right," she slowly concedes.

When we finish our meal, the hostess comes by and takes our payment, asking if there is anything else we might need. It isn't lost on anyone that maybe the waitress had overstepped her boundaries and is feeling just a little bit embarrassed.

With a thank you and a nominal tip, despite Eddy's mild protests, we head out to the parking lot and a sky that is still undetermined whether it's going to rain or shine even though the air has risen a few degrees.

We are almost to the car, when Eddy softly informs me that there is a dark blue sedan parked near the entrance with two occupants. Trying to act casual, I smile at Eddy and laugh as if she said something funny, while surreptitiously glancing in the direction of the sedan. It might just be coincidence, but I haven't survived this long by not being suspicious of coincidences.

"Keep an eye on it when we get back on the road," I casually remark as I pull open the passenger's door for her.

As I skirt around to the driver's side of the car, I furtively study the other vehicles in the lot, noting that most of them must be employs at this time of the day.

While we sit at the exit of the lot waiting for the light to change, I notice the sedan begin to move slowly onto the lane behind us. Not having to legally wait for a green light, I step on the gas and let the clutch out, pulling out into traffic and cutting off several vehicles. Despite the horn honking and disgruntled single-finger waves, no one hits us.

### *10*

The casino is located between two small towns, and I no sooner get the underpowered little car up to the speed limit, then I am backing down for a reduced speed zone. All the while, I haven't lost track of the dark blue sedan. Though it waited patiently for the light to change back at the casino exit, we never put enough distance between us and them to be lost from view.

Within a matter of minutes, it is within two car lengths of overtaking us, though I strongly suspect that isn't its intention.

"About ten miles north we'll come to a little town just a mile or so off the highway," I start, keeping an eye on the vehicle tailing us in the rearview mirror. It seems quite content to remain two cars behind, as if that makes them invisible. "We could turn off there and lose them."

"Why bother?"

"Good point," I casually concur. "We don't learn anything if we give them the slip."

Forty-five minutes later, and less than fifteen miles from our destination, I spot a large sign on the side of the highway bringing attention to the fact that we are in the Oregon Dunes Recreation Area and only a mile or so from the staging area where the tours that Eddy booked for us will begin.

"We have lots of time," I casually comment, nodding toward the sign as it goes by. "Want to go and check it out? Maybe get a feel for what you got us into," I add with a chuckle.

To my surprise, she actually appears interested in my suggestion, and quickly agrees. For reasons that I can't fathom, she genuinely appears interested in this quading thing.

As we approach the left turn lane, I engage my turn signal and ease over while glancing in the rear view mirror. The dark blue sedan, now the only vehicle behind us, doesn't follow suit. Instead, it continues on past, neither male occupant in the front seat even so much as glancing in our direction. Under my breath, I comment to Eddy, "Following us now would be too obvious even for them."

"I didn't recognize them. Did you?"

Although I recognized them as government suits, federal agents just doing what they're told with no concept of the whole picture, I don't want to worry Eddy over this fact. "Nope, never seen them before," I casually reply, feeling a sense of falseness in my words.

We quickly put them out of mind as we study the scenery unfolding around us. Within a matter of minutes, we come upon a sign informing us that we've reached the first of several OHV staging areas.

Turning into it, I comment to Eddy, "This is probably where they'll load us up or put us on the machines."

Directly ahead of us the golden sand of the dunes spreads out in a panoramic display of nature. It would be a breathtaking view if I weren't so jaded. But having been around the world, I've learned that natural beauty isn't always synonymous with innocence; appearances can be quite deceiving.

"Oh, it's beautiful Mac," Eddy exclaims. "I can hardly wait to get out there." Her voice tinged with excitement like that of a young child's, she asks, "Can we just park here for a while and watch them play?"

"Sure," I reply, trying hard not to sound too bored. The last thing I want to do is rain on her excitement.

### *11*

Pulling into a striped out parking spot, I kill the engine and reach behind the seat for a couple of soft drinks. They aren't cold, but they're wet, and right now, that's good enough; we'll have drinks and a hot tub to enjoy later; as well as a few other creature comforts if all goes well.

Eddy takes the proffered drink without comment, her attention focused on the different quads and their riders. Out of the corner of my eye I notice that someone in a uniform is heading our way. In the rearview mirror, I notice a couple of young men sitting astride their quads outside the restroom. There is also a dark colored beat-up sedan with peeling and blistered window tinting pulling into the parking space next to the handicap spot in front of the restrooms. Though I subconsciously watch it while I wait for the uniformed man to draw closer before acknowledging him, it doesn't slip my notice that no one gets out. And although this might appear suspicious to me because of my background, it's probably more normal than I give it credit for and force myself to temporarily ignore it. We're on vacation this weekend, and despite the government agents first staking us out and then following us, I'm not going to let anything interfere with Eddy's plans; especially not anything so trivial. It's probably nothing more than a couple of stoners toking on their weed before using the restroom.

Turning my attention back to the approaching man in uniform, I again wonder why he singled us out. With all the activity going on, what makes us stand out? It's a question that I seriously need an answer to. For one thing, we haven't been here long enough to have done anything wrong.

Naively, I decide he's probably just coming to see if we have any questions about the area and to offer us free information.

As he draws closer, I study his badge, noticing immediately that he's a Forest Service volunteer and not law enforcement. Out of respect for him, I turn my head in his direction and smile up at him. I have much respect for all volunteers; it's a job that takes a special type of person and it's something I never seem to have enough time to actually do myself.

Still smiling openly at him, I'm immediately taken aback by his outward demeanor; it's anything but ' _host-like_ '. Generally speaking, when you smile at someone, their first reaction is to smile back. Yet, clearly this man isn't having a good day and I immediately wonder if he ever had any good days at all; he isn't returning my friendly smile.

"Good day to you, sir," I politely remark when he comes within range of my voice. "Lots to watch here," I amicably add, glancing forward to indicate the abundance of quads roaring up and down the dune directly ahead of us.

"Where's your pass?" he bellows belligerently, pointing towards my dash to indicate that's where it belongs and he isn't seeing it, which must be an automatic violation of something sacred in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I quickly reply, trying hard to keep my voice calm; he is just a volunteer after all. "I didn't realize we needed a pass just to come and watch the quads play on the sand. I thought it meant that passes were required if you brought an ATV or something."

"Didn't ya read the signs?" he belligerently continues, ignoring my explanation as though he were deaf.

Tired of him looking down on me in the low riding Midget, I push the door open and step out, purposely stretching to my full six-foot-two-inches of height, and proceed to give him my most intimidating stare.

For all the good it does, I might as well be glaring at a wall. The man is as impervious to my rising anger as he is to my earlier good nature. The man is clearly a jerk; unsympathetic to people and self-absorbed.

More intuitive to people than most, Eddy quickly picks up on the ominous change in my demeanor, and hastily steps out of the passenger side of the car. With quick steps, she is suddenly standing beside me. Although I have no intentions of doing this man any bodily harm, I do intend to intimidate him into acting more ' _host like_ '.

Eddy, however, isn't having any part of it. Smiling her sweetest smile at the man, she apologetically says, "We're sorry, Sir. Can we buy a pass from you?"

His attitude unchanging in the least, he says, "You should have bought a pass at the fee station. You drove past it on the way in here."

"Yeah, well, we didn't," I sharply remark, my blood rising at the way he just slighted Eddy's attempt at being nice. My fists are slowly clenching and unclenching at my sides when I add, "So, bright guy, what do you suggest we do now?"

Despite his lack of intuitive skills, the barely concealed menace in my voice isn't lost on him this time, and he takes a stumbling step back. Eddy quickly takes the opportunity to step in between him and me, giving him her most unarming smile.

Again, he is oblivious of Eddy's attempt to diffuse the situation before it can escalate, and instead spouts angrily and a bit nervously, his eyes looking past Eddy and me as if he can't look us in the eye, "I think you should leave before I call the sheriff."

Before I can tell him that he needs to apologize to the lady for his rude behavior, Eddy pipes up, "That's probably for the best. Come on Mac, we'll see plenty of quads and sand in the next few days."

"Get back in the car, Eddy," I calmly state, my voice edged with steel.

In my peripheral vision, I notice the two young men on their quads watching with intense interest at the proceedings between the host and me, and yet, no one seems to have exited from the sedan.

"Mac," Eddy pleads, trying to steal my attention away from the man in the uniform by grabbing at my arm and pulling me back toward the car and away from him. "Let it go. We didn't come here to cause any trouble."

"Next time you come, you need to stop at the fee station on the road and buy a pass," the man says in the same belligerent tone of voice, not realizing how close he is to having his ass kicked, uniform or not.

Few people can get a rise out of me. But when I feel that Eddy is being slighted, and the slighter is ignorant of his actions, someone needs to be taught a lesson in manners.

Taking a step toward him, I'm suddenly aware of Eddy's grip on my arm growing tighter. "Mac!" she softly, yet firmly scolds, "Let it go."

Stopping within mere inches of him, my face almost touching his, my baby blue's burning into his pale gray orbs, I suddenly realize that I am looking into the depths of his fear; it is only the false bravado of the uniform that is holding him upright. Studying his eyes, I can see all the distinguishing traits of a scared rabbit; the rapid heart rate, the quiver of nerves, the shallow breaths, and a strong desire leaning toward the impulse to flight.

Speaking sternly, pronouncing each word with exaggerated clarity so there can be no mistaking my intentions, I tell him, "You need to apologize to the lady for your rude behavior. After you do that, we're going to leave, and not a minute sooner. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

In my peripheral, I notice a young girl come out the women's side of the restroom and climb on behind one of the young men. They exchange a few words, and then all three of them are studying me, unaware that they're also being observed.

"Mac, it's not necessary," Eddy pleads, still pulling on my arm. "Let's go."

"In a minute, Eddy; just as soon as this yahoo apologizes for his inconsiderate behavior," I mouth with deliberate annunciation, not taking my eyes off the guy.

With a bright crimson rising from beneath his collar and spreading up the sides of his cheeks, the man suddenly turns in the direction of his trailer and starts off at a brisk, nervous pace, all the while yelling over his shoulder, "I don't need your shit! I'm going to call the sheriff. The cop's will be here in a minute."

Standing by the side of the car with Eddy's hand still gripping my arm, I can't help but smile when his voice cracks with emotion, no doubt the bulk of which is fear.

"You didn't need to treat him like that, Mac," she gently scolds.

Still watching him as he nears his trailer, I suddenly want nothing more to do with the little man. What little entertainment value I got from the encounter doesn't outweigh the gloomy mood that quickly descends on me.

Looking up at the restroom, I see the young men fire up their quads and take off across the parking lot, rejoining a large group of their peers near the base of the large dune.

When I turn my attention to the beat-up sedan, it suddenly roars to life and slowly backs out up, stopping just before reaching a point where I might get a glimpse of the driver through the passenger's window, and then speeds off through the entrance, not even slowing down for the speed bumps.

"You need the restroom before we go?" I sullenly inquire of Eddy, not missing the way she's silently watching me.

As I back toward the car, I cast one last look at the uniformed man's retreating figure.

"No, I'll be fine," she says, heading around to the far side of the little car. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

### *12*

Within minutes, we've crossed the river and are in the city proper and pulling up in front of the motel where we've made our reservations for the weekend. Not a single word has passed between us since leaving the staging area. Although my blood pressure has receded somewhat, it is still bothering me the way the host spoke and treated Eddy. For myself, I can deal with insensitive assholes, but a woman shouldn't have to be subjected to such behavior; especially my woman.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Eddy looking at me, her face stern and determined; her cheeks flushed a pretty pink from the brisk ocean air.

Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I knowingly remark, "Yes, Dear, I will not take this attitude into the motel with me."

Her face lights up with a forced smile, as she replies with a soft sincerity in her voice that is barely masking the veiled threat, "I know you won't; you don't have the balls."

Although I was expecting a threat, that last part catches me by surprise, and I suddenly realize that her mood has turned playful. I can only assume that the excitement of finally being here and about to enter an escape from our normal routines is having this effect on her. But whatever the reason, I am suddenly lifted too, and with a flourish, I turn toward her, taking her face in my hands, and savoring the warm beauty of her skin and features before closing my eyes and kissing her full lips.

When I pull back, our lips moist from my sudden burst of passion toward her, she asks, "What brought that on?"

Feigning ignorance of her question, I push open the door and step out, turning back to grab our gear from behind the seat while nonchalantly answering her question with a question, "Brought what on?"

"You know what I mean?"

"You mean the kiss?" I stupidly ask, moving toward the front doors of the motel under the weight of all our gear.

"Yes. You know I mean the kiss," she persists, her own hands full of stuff while following close behind like a herding dog working a stray steer toward an open gate.

At the door, I step aside to let her reach for the handle, as my hands are full and she can still manage the door despite her own load.

But instead of pulling the door open and stepping aside to let me escape, she hesitates, intent for some reason on hearing me explain my sudden desire to kiss her instead of simply accepting my urge for what it is and letting it go at that.

"Honey," I plead. "If you don't open the door and quick, I'm going to drop our luggage right here on the stoop."

"No you won't," she confidently remarks, her eyes studying my face.

"Come on Babe, before someone comes out," I continue pleading.

The late afternoon sky is turning dark with incoming clouds, the air growing chillier by the minute. Although we live on the coast and couldn't imagine life anywhere else, I still haven't grown used to the cold, clammy air.

Finally, she concedes and reaches for the door handle, pressing the knob and giving the door a hard shove inward while shaking her head in disgust at me. She knows as well as I that I am only trying to get her back in the mood for intimacy, and that the kiss was just a prelude to what I was hoping is going to be a long passionate evening ending with the two of us having unbridled sex between freshly laundered sheets that neither of us have to concern ourselves with cleaning.

The moment we approach the front desk, however, her mood changes, and she is again happily smiling, looking forward to the adventure of the upcoming weekend.

"Good day," pipes up the young man dressed in light slacks and Hawaiian styled shirt as he opens a large, heavy bound register and sets a pen on the open page for our use. "If I can just get you to sign in here, I'll show you to your rooms." As if noticing our abundance of luggage for the first time, he quickly adds, "I'll be glad to help with your bags."

After a cursory glance around the lobby, in which I make a mental note of the exits and other points of interest, I meet the young man's gaze and ask, "Rooms? I was of the impression we only booked one room."

"I'm sorry, Sir," he quickly replies, smiling apologetically. "Most of our guests generally take more than one room, and it's a habit that I've fallen into. If I can have your name," he continues, turning to the wall of keys behind him.

"McClain," Eddy replies, bringing her eyes around to the man for only the second time since entering. The look on her face clearly shows her excitement and she is like a small child soaking up every detail of the decor, not wanting to miss a single thing.

Removing a room key from the wall, he turns back and sets it on the counter while I sign our name into the register. "Your room is on the third floor at the far end of the hall. If you give me a moment, I'll be glad to show you the way and help you with your bags."

"That won't be necessary," I quickly cut him off. "We'll manage just fine."

Next to the key he sets a small brochure. "Everything is explained in this. We serve breakfast for the Adventure Guests at 6 sharp. But if you decide not to go on the day's ride, you can join the regular guests anytime from 8 to 11. Just use your room key like a credit card. It works the ice machine, you can use it for phone calls, it's good in the bar, and even at most of the establishments around town," he proudly smiles. "They call us and we simply add the charges to your credit card."

"Thank you," Eddy replies, taking the brochure and key from the counter.

"If you need anything," he quickly adds as we turn to find our way to the room. "Don't hesitate to ask. Just dial '0' from any room phone and it will ring up here."

"Thanks," I grumble, hefting the load of bags off the floor and balancing them between my hands and arms as I set off after Eddy. "Not so fast there, young lady," I quip, hurrying to overtake her. "Damn," I think to myself, "I sure hope that mini-bar is stocked with West Indies rum. This is going to be a long weekend if it isn't."

### *13*

Passing up the open elevator door, Eddy heads straight down the hall for the staircase at the end. Though her load is much lighter than mine, I notice the lean in her posture as she makes her way up the wide flight of stairs with me following close behind.

On the second floor landing we pass the public ice machine. True to the clerk's words, it has a lock on the front that is activated in the same way that the room doors are; through use of the credit card style key.

To my delight, we find our room next to the third floor landing, and Eddy doesn't waste any time using the key and throwing the door open. Stepping through the doorway, she is clearly not disappointed by what lies beyond.

It is an expansively large room with a single door off to the right that is now standing open, the glass doors of a shower stall clearly visible beyond. The bed, a massive four-poster affair with a light veil canopy is the central focal point in the room, and Eddy swiftly glides across the openness toward it like a moth to light, the two smaller overnight bags and purse she was carrying falling to the floor forgotten.

"Oh, it's beautiful, Mac," she cries out, diving full length onto the huge expanse of mattress. Rolling onto her back, her arms thrown out to either side, she smiles happily, looking up into the canopy above her.

Lowering my load of bags and luggage to the floor, I straighten my back and casually work out the kinks as I push the door closed and turn around to study the room. My first point of interest is the minibar and what wonderful concoctions it might contain.

Sighting it along the wall next to the bathroom door where there is also a desk with a writing tablet and pen set next to an old style rotary phone, I immediately make my way toward it.

"Oh Mac," Eddy sighs from the bed, oblivious of my current agenda as she rolls over onto her stomach to look over at me. "Don't you just love it? It's so luxurious."

"It's wonderful, dear," I absently reply, my only thought being the minibar now within my grasp and completely missing the mischievous curling of her upper lip as she watches intently from her perch on the bed.

Pulling open the door, my eyes instantly take in the five bottles of West Indies rum all lined up in a pretty row; I realize immediately that this is Eddy's doing. It's more than coincidence that this minibar is stocked with a fifth of my favorite rum for each day of our stay.

"You shouldn't have," I softly breathe, taking one of the bottles in hand and closing the door while turning to face her.

Still smiling mischievously, she says, "You deserve so much more. But I figured that would be a good start."

Assuming that she meant I was being rewarded for tolerating her antics as of late, I brush the comment off, simply replying instead, "I'm going to get some ice while you unpack."

"Is that all you have to say," she pouts, her feelings slightly bruised by my selfish reaction to her surprise. Clearly, she was expecting more in the way of a thank you for her efforts.

Feeling like the selfish heel that I am, I set the bottle on the desk next to the minibar and march straight to the side of the bed. Her face is turned up toward mine, the hurt and disappointment evident by the small tears in the corners of her eyes.

"Baby," I soothingly whisper, reaching down to caress the smooth skin of her cheek with the backside of my right hand. "I'm really sorry if I seemed ungrateful, because I'm truly not." I pause for a moment, studying her face to see if my words are having an effect or not.

Seeing the lack of effect my words are having, I quickly change tact and smile down at her, asking instead, "When did you pull that off? I was sitting right there the entire time you were on the phone making the reservations. I think it would have registered if I had heard you mention rum."

Swinging herself around until her feet are hanging over the edge of the bed, a tepid smile slowly forces its way through the pout. Subconsciously, she wipes at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand and I immediately feel my body relax as I take a slow steady breath before sitting down next to her. With genuine tenderness, I extend my hand to her and am relieved when she accepts it into hers.

"While you were in the bathroom freshening up," she hesitantly starts, her voice breaking with emotion. "You thought I was sleeping in," she continues, smiling at me.

"You are a remarkable woman, Eddy."

With a flip of her head, she shrugs off the disappointment she was feeling in me just a moment earlier and sounding like her old self, says, "Go, get us some ice. I could use a drink."

Kissing her softly on the forehead, I rise to my feet and smile down at her upturned face. "Be right back."

"You better be," she replies, exaggeratedly licking her upper lip and crossing her legs as she leans back against braced arms, her eyes not leaving me until the door closes shut between us.

### *14*

Alone in the hall, I turn toward the stairs and hurriedly start down, my long stride flying over two steps at a time. Only when I reach the ice machine do I dare stop and ask myself exactly what the Hell just happened back there. That was so uncharacteristic of the Eddy that I know and love. She's had her moments of weakness; I'll grant you that much. Especially during the time I was in the hospital barely clinging to life. With death knocking on my door, I can only imagine the helplessness she must have felt.

But I've never seen her as fragile and close to tears over something as trivial as a surprise gift as I had just now. Her actions are not those of the Eddy that I thought I'd come to know and love so intimately.

Still, I would be lying if I said that this new, more vulnerable Eddy was any less desirable or endearing to me. In fact, when we're not on the job, I could actually grow accustomed to this new person; if she just stabilizes. The sudden mood swings are more than just a little bit unnerving.

Using the card key that also doubles as the room key, I fill an ice bucket with chips of the frozen water from the automatic dispenser and head back up the stairs at a much more normal pace. Pausing outside our door, I take a deep breath before swiping the card and turning the knob, a brief instant of anxiety running along my nerve endings as the door slowly swings inward.

To my surprise and ashamed delight, I notice immediately that the bed has been abandoned and the bathroom door is shut.

Closing the door behind me, I make my way across the room to the desk and retrieve two large tumblers from the rack above the minibar. After dumping in a goodly amount of the ice into each, I place the remainder of the bucket in the small freezer compartment built into the minibar just for that purpose. Next, I proceed to pour out a generous portion of rum into the tumblers. Before setting the bottle down, however, I take a furtive glance around the room to verify that I'm not being watched, and then hastily raise it to my lips and take a quick hurried swallow.

And then, before setting the bottle back down, I again look sheepishly around the room as if expecting someone to be watching me with a disapproving frown on their otherwise beautiful face.

The fiery liquid flows hotly down my throat and the stabilizing effect is almost immediate. Picking up one of the tumblers, my mood much more calm and relaxed, I turn around and face into the room, studying the décor with renewed interest. It takes me only minute to realize that the room isn't all that plush. It's only because Eddy hasn't been out much lately that it seems so extravagant to her.

Sipping from the tumbler, each swallow bringing me closer to my center of wellbeing, I slowly work my way toward the massive bed. When I reach it, I turn and sit down, coming to face the bathroom door just as Eddy steps through it, her short blonde curls still dripping moisture, a heavy cotton towel tied snuggly around her vivacious curves.

"Mac!" she starts, a disapproving tone in her voice. "I thought we were going for a stroll around town before it gets too dark, not get drunk."

"I'm sorry," I defensively reply, surprised at the slurring of my words. "I'm fine," I go on to protest without conviction, this time emphasizing each word for clarity. And then add in a compromising tone, "I poured one for you too."

"I don't want a drink," she coolly replies, stepping hurriedly past the bed toward the clothes she's laid out on the bureau. "Look," she continues, selecting a heavy wool sweater from the items. "If you want to stay here and get drunk, go ahead. I'm going into town with or without you."

Letting the towel drop to the carpeted floor, she quickly pulls the sweater over her head, my eyes savoring the brief glimpse of her bare breasts before they're hidden from view. And then, as she bends over and pulls on a tight fitting pair of jeans, I ashamedly look down at the floor.

But as quickly as I feel the shame, it turns to anger. I haven't done anything to be ashamed of, and I suddenly resolve to not let her lay that guilt on me. Every man is entitled to an occasional drink. And it's not as if I haven't seen her naked before.

Scooping up her purse, she turns and marches briskly toward the door before suddenly coming to a halt. Slowly, as if still thinking through her next words with care, she turns back in my direction, saying, "I laid out a windbreaker for you. If you're coming, you need to get a move on."

Like a criminal that's been given a reprieve, I jump to my feet, the effect of the rum rushing through my veins, causing me only the slightest hesitation. Placing the almost empty tumbler on the desk, I practically run across the room to the bureau. Snatching up the windbreaker, I hurry after her, not bothering to take the time to put it on until we exit the stairwell and are heading toward the lobby.

Moving as if she is on a mission, it takes my entire lengthy stride just to keep pace with her. As we fly by the front desk, the clerk barely raises his head to acknowledge our passing.

With me close on her heels, Eddy unceremoniously thrusts the double doors open, not giving me even the slightest chance to step in front and open them for her. With unbridled impatience, she heads out into the cool damp air, making a course northward along the main highway toward the small shops and restaurants.

As the cold wet air strikes me in the face, I involuntarily gasp, swallowing a mouthful of the sobering stuff, its effect on me almost instantaneous. It's also chilling through the thin windbreaker and I suddenly wish that I'd taken a moment to put on something a little heavier beneath it.

When she continues unhesitatingly past a second hand store advertising antics and antiquities without so much as a sideways glance through the storefront glass, my curiosity gets the better of me and I raise enough courage to ask, "Where are we going, Eddy?"

My words snap her out of whatever trance or fugue she'd been in and she draws to a sudden stop, her actions catching me by surprise. Barely avoiding running into her, I am still catching my balance when she spins around and grabs my windbreaker by the collar, pulling my face roughly down to her own.

Expecting a kiss, I instantly pucker my lips. But to my dismay, instead of the expected kiss, she turns her head to the side and whispers breathlessly into my ear, "Don't look now, but we're being followed."

Relaxed, but far from feeling any effects of the rum after our brisk walk, I quickly follow her lead and smile down at her. Taking her face in my hands, I kiss her passionately on the lips, not giving her an opportunity to pull away without appearing suspicious. After a long moment, I slowly pull back, continuing to gaze deeply into her eyes. Softly, yet with no mistaking the authority in my voice, I conspiratorially remark, "Then lead on, Missy."

Hesitating for a long moment, her eyes studying mine, she suddenly pecks me on the cheek and then sets off again, intent on some destination that I'm yet to discover.

Trusting her unquestioningly, I follow her lead and step quickly to keep pace; this time walking abreast and not following behind. Only when she pauses as if interested in an item in a shop window, do I take the opportunity to surreptitiously study our surroundings. If Eddy believes we're being followed, then I believe we're being followed. Yet, though I notice other people strolling along our path in both directions, none of them appear even slightly interested in the two of us.

When she suddenly pulls up short in front of a woman's boutique, I sidle up close and whisper in her ear, "Can you describe the hunter?"

"Have you sobered up?" she angrily demands, again catching me off guard.

My initial reaction is to argue with her and deny that I was ever drunk. But I quickly realize the futility of it and instead simply reply, "Yes, the sea air has worked wonders on me." I feel like adding, "Has it helped your disposition any?", but quickly stop myself.

"You see the real estate office across the street back there?" she hisses under her breath. When I nod slightly, she quickly continues, "Notice the scruffy looking man in dirty jeans and heavy jacket? He's got a bedroll tied to a small backpack. He's looking at listings in the window now, only because we stopped."

"Yeah, I see him," I mouth, feigning interest in something in the store's window display. "How long has he been keeping pace with us?"

"He was coming up the sidewalk at the hotel as we came out. I figured I'd move fast and if he kept up with us, it would confirm my suspicions," she says with a small amount of pride. And then she adds, "For a moment there, when he crossed the street, I thought I might have been mistaken about him. But now I know I wasn't."

Moving away from the boutique's front window and starting off at a much more leisurely pace, I wasn't surprised to notice that the scruffy man across the street resumed his journey also; and he too, moved at a much more leisurely pace being careful not to overtake us.

With our suspicions confirmed, Eddy casually asks, "How do you want to handle this? Should we question him and let him know that his surveillance has been blown? Or let him be and just keep an eye on him?"

"I'm not sure he's government, Eddy," I reply, taking a furtive glance at the man.

"We're not sure the two men from last night were either," she quickly retorts. "Or the two in the sedan from this morning," she also adds, as if I'd forgotten about them.

"This one might be better at his job, though I doubt it," I softly protest. "But the two we met last night, and then the sedan this morning were definitely government." As if it were necessary to add validity to my statement, I add, "I've been around enough government agents to know one when I see one."

"Okay," she begins. "If you're right, and the earlier guys were government, then what is that guy and why would there be more than one agency or enterprise sniffing around?"

Not one to believe in coincidence, I take another look across the street at the man and quickly come to the conclusion that he isn't government. But as strongly as I believe he isn't, I just as strongly believe the earlier men were.

Not liking the unknown, I decide on the spot to take action. Grabbing Eddy by the hand, I turn and head up the street at a quick pace, almost dragging her along. "Come on," I mouth a bit breathlessly. "It's time to find out what's going on."

### *15*

When we come to a pub with no open windows facing out onto the street and the only entrance a drab looking wood door set back off from the sidewalk, I turn and head toward it, still dragging Eddy along by the hand. "In here," I command, pulling the door open and guiding her in ahead of me.

The interior is dark and gloomy, the air redolent with cigar smoke and stale piss. Moving forward, the layout exhibiting a familiarity common among seedy hangouts, I lead Eddy to the rear in search of that dark corner booth that they all have in common; the booth that draws hookers and their Johns looking for a place to conduct business with some semblance of privacy. Of course, this semblance of privacy is nothing more than the table top as the hooker lowers her head to the John's lap.

Fortunately, the booth is empty at this time of the day, and I instruct Eddy to have a seat while I go up to the bar and order us a couple of beers. When the bartender, a heavily muscled man nearing my own age with knowing eyes places the beers on the counter before me, I slip him an extra twenty accompanied with a wink of understanding. If there is one thing I know about, it's greasing palms to get what you want. And right now, I want privacy, though not for the same reasons this poor sap of a bartender is thinking.

Returning to the booth, I set the beers in front of Eddy and tell her to stay put while I head back toward the front where the restroom and payphones are located. On the way in I couldn't help but notice how the phones were placed off to the side in a shallow nook running along the hallway and how much darker it was. Someone standing in the shadows could easily blend in with a phone to their ear, and that is exactly what I intend on doing.

No sooner have I picked up a phone and put it to my ear, my back conveniently toward the end of the hall with the street entrance, then I hear the door open and feel a damp cool breeze swirl around my ankles. In the reflection of the stainless steel coin return, I can just make out the silhouette of the shaggy haired man coming through the door.

Still holding the phone cradled to the side of my head, I glance back in the direction of Eddy. Though I can't make out many details in the gloomy corner, I can see her shadowy figure and the two beers setting in front of her on the table where I'd left them.

While shifting my weight slightly to the balls of my feet in anticipation of having to move fast, I hunch down lower against the wall as if trying to keep any eavesdroppers at bay. Although it is foolish of me to do so, I am counting on the fact that he won't recognize me in the dark any more than I could have recognized anyone at the pay phones when Eddy and I first entered.

Wanting to turn, but not willing to risk drawing his attention by the movement, I try following the man's position with nothing more than my survival senses. Only when I believe he has moved past me do I begin to turn.

Unfortunately, I'm already too late!

The silence in the bar is shattered by a woman's high pitched scream as Eddy cries out in an attempt to warn me.

But I am already reacting, coming upward from my hunched stance and spinning swiftly around to face my attacker, the coiled muscles in my legs propelling me forward with great force. Despite the dim lighting, I see an upraised hand slicing down at me and instinctively throw up my right in a defensive motion, the hard plastic receiver of the phone still clutched in it. With a loud pop, the cord connecting it to the phone box tears loose from the box.

In a stroke of luck, the man's knife glances off the hard plastic of the mouth piece and slashes downward through the nylon fabric of my windbreaker, slicing the right sleeve from the cuff to the elbow before breaking free of the fabric.

Impulsively, I grab the dangling end of the cord with my left hand and stretching it taut against the front of his throat. Using the momentum of my lunge, I drive the man backwards, trying to keep him off balance.

But he is quicker than most, obviously an experienced street fighter, and he quickly recovers his footing while back peddling across the room, knocking tables and chairs helter-skelter as we go. When we reach the bar, I try to force him over the top backwards with the cord still pressed into the soft flesh of his larynx.

Yet again, his cat-like quickness foils my intentions and instead, gives him an opening. With a stealth and agility that can only come from experience, he brings the knife down with deadly intent at the exposed side of my neck, going for my jugular and a quick kill; unlike a federal agent, he is not in the business of taking prisoners.

To my surprise and good fortune, I am saved from a bloody death by the heroic actions of the bartender, as he grabs the man's knife hand and forces it down to the surface of the bar with brute strength.

The unexpected involvement of the bartender throws the man off for a brief second and I quickly use it to my advantage. Dropping the cord while still holding onto the mouthpiece of the phone, I slam my fists into either side of the man's head at the same moment. With a loud sickening thud, he slumps to the floor in front of the bar unconscious.

Satisfied that the threat has passed, I take a deep breath and turn to face the man standing behind the bar, a double-barreled shotgun leveled at my chest.

"Ease up there, Hoss," I casually remark, noting the steadiness of his hands and realizing in that moment that I am standing before a man that is accustomed to violence and not afraid to act on it.

For a long moment, we continue studying each other, weighing everything we see through the eyes of two old warriors. And even though not another word passes between us, we reach a mutual understanding based on respect. Only when the silence is broken by a woman's voice, do either of us so much as wink. "Lower the scatter gun or die where you stand."

Moving in unison, we both turn toward the source of the voice. Standing at the far end of the bar, her nine millimeter held out steadily in front of her is Eddy.

"I'm really not in the mood to repeat myself," she coolly remarks, her voice demanding respect while the weapon remains un-wavering on its target.

Still holding the shotgun leveled at my chest, the bartender turns back toward me and with a wink, says softly, "You got yourself a handful with that one."

"You don't know the half of it," I casually reply with a grin.

Ignoring Eddy, the bartender places the shotgun back beneath the bar and says, "Drinks on me."

"You have anything stronger than beer?"

"Coming right up," he replies, heading down the bar and passing Eddy with a polite nod of the head as she's coming toward me, her gun no longer in sight.

I take the time to tie up the unconscious man's hands with the phone cord and set up a couple of stools, one for Eddy, and one for myself. The man is left lying on the floor in the sawdust and dried vomit.

Before she can say anything in private to me, the bartender comes striding back toward us, a bottle of Brandy in his right hand. "This is all I have, but I think it'll do," he says, placing the bottle on the bar with three glasses. "They don't allow me to sell anything more potent than beer and wine, but that doesn't mean I can't treat my friends.

"Did I miss something here?" Eddy asks, perplexed by the bartender's overtly friendly behavior.

Ignoring her, I comment to our new friend, "I'll be glad to pay for any damages we might have caused." I figured that was the least I could do after he practically saved my life.

"Nah, don't worry about it," he shrugs, pushing the filled glasses toward Eddy and I. "You can't buy this kind of excitement," he chuckles, holding up his glass to Eddy and me. "Cheers."

"Cheers," I reply, watching Eddy silently throw back a large swallow, her gaze on the bartender.

"Names Mac and this is Eddy," I casually remark, setting the now empty glass back on the bar.

"Norman, but do us both a favor and just call me Norm," he replies with another wink.

"Strange name for a bartender," I comment, just keeping the conversation light and easy while trying to figure out our next move regarding the man on the floor.

He's not going to remain unconscious forever and when he comes around, I have a lot of questions for him. After all, government agents don't just try to kill you out of the clear blue, despite what others might think or say. And following this train of thought can mean only two things. One, he's not a government agent and two, there is more than one entity following us. Moreover, each of these entities is operating according to their own agenda; and at least one of those agendas includes seeing me dead; not a conclusion I take too kindly to.

### *16*

"This wasn't my first choice of occupations," he chuckles, finding my comment amusing. "Actually, I inherited this place from a dear friend." I'm about to ask him what happened to his friend, when he slowly drawls on, "He had an unfortunate accident a few years back." He pauses for a moment, his eyes drifting back to another time for a quick moment, and then as if clearing his head, he gives a slight shrug, throws back a quick shot of brandy, and then continues. "Place doesn't make any money, but I promised him I'd keep it going for him. It was always his dream to have a place like this. I'll never understand why," he finishes with another dry chuckle.

Changing up the subject, I say, "Want to thank you again for cutting in back there. If you hadn't, I might have me another ear hole right about now."

"I had your back, Mac," Eddy cuts in, her voice unintentionally curt.

With a knowing wink, the bartender silently refills our glasses. "Don't mention it, even if you didn't need it," he smiles, giving Eddy a sideways glance.

Putting the glass to my lips, I hastily throw it back and then say, "I want to thank you for the liquor and your hospitality, but the lady and I need to get this gent somewhere we can ask him a few questions. Are you sure we don't owe you anything for the mess?"

"Hold on a sec," he casually replies, striding to the front door and throwing the deadbolt. "I don't want anyone coming in and tripping over the mess anyway. I'd probably end up getting sued or something," he says with a smile, as he heads straight for the unconscious man on the floor. With a single beefy hand, he reaches down and without so much as a grunt, lifts him by the backpack, the straps stretching to the point of breaking.

With the same easy gate that carried him to the front door and back, he carries the man to the nearest booth and drops him like a sack of coal on the seat. Only then does the scruffy individual begin to stir and come out of his stupor.

Rising from the stool, I follow Eddy over to the booth and position the man in an upright position with his head on the table. Almost immediately, he begins struggling against the wire cord binding his wrists.

Slowly, his face betraying the pain from my double fisted blow to his head, he looks up from the table, his eyes cold and unfeeling as they burn into mine.

Figuring I'd start the questioning before he regains full control of his senses, I casually ask him, "Mind telling us who sent you and what your orders are?"

When his immediate response is to raise his face up and spit at me, I realize the professional courtesy thing isn't going to work. Even though he might be a professional, his standards aren't up to mine.

Exaggeratedly, I wipe non-existent spittle from my face while giving Eddy a quick glance. Taking the hint, she pulls out her nine-millimeter and slowly sets the barrel against the side of his head. When the man doesn't as much as flinch, she clicks off the safety; still no reaction.

Having accomplished what she wanted, she casually returns the weapon to its concealed place in the small of her back. If the man had reacted at all, there was a good chance we could intimidate some information out of him. But the reaction we got saved us a whole lotta time and trouble.

Turning to Norm, I casually remark, "This is going to get messy. If you like, we can take this elsewhere, no hard feelings."

Smiling broadly, he replies, "I wouldn't miss this for anything. Just let me get my mop bucket and some rags to keep the mess contained."

As Norm makes for the back room, I notice a slight twitching along the side of the unknown assailant's face. Believing that he was about to get the beating of his life and that the good people of this society weren't going to step in on his behalf, he suddenly wasn't so certain about his defiant position.

Before the man can react, I reach across the table and grab him by the hair, slamming his face down hard onto the wood table top, splitting his nose open and setting off a freshet of crimson.

With my hand still gripping a fistful of hair, I raise his stunned and bloodied face up toward my own and calmly remark, "Have a change of heart yet, or want to see just how much fun this can be?"

"Fuck you," he rasps through a spewing of blood that's run into his mouth.

"Your choice," I reply, my voice sounding calm, yet my insides are quaking.

"Wait!" Eddy suddenly interrupts, my fist already coiling for the coming strike. "Check his pockets."

With a not too gentle motion, I force his head down to the table top and pin it there while I step in close. Being cautious of needles and sharp objects, I pilfer through his pockets; his jacket, his pant, and shirt.

Though I didn't expect otherwise, I am disappointed when my search turns up nothing more than a wad of loose bills totaling close to five hundred bucks. While I'm doing this, Eddy is busy dumping out the contents of his backpack. Only when I hear the dull thud of a heavy automatic handgun strike the dirty floor of the bar, do I glance at the array of items.

"No ID," Eddy says, unable to keep her disappointment out of her voice.

When the unknown man smiles a grizzly, bloodstained smile at her disappointment, I roughly grab him by the hair again, intent on giving his face another greeting with the table top. "Hold up there, friend," Norm suddenly beckons from the doorway leading into the store room. His interruption causes me to pause, and I look in his direction. "I think I know another way to find out what you want to know about him."

"This isn't your fight, Norm," I protest, not knowing or caring what his idea might be. It's bad enough just knowing that if he gets involved there might be dire consequences for him. Especially since all we really know about this guy is that he's willing to kill. And that can only mean that the people he works for suffer from the same lack of morality. "It's best if you not get involved."

"I think it's already a little too late for that, don't you?" he chuckles, stepping toward us with the scattergun nestled in the crook of his left arm and the bottle of brandy held loosely in his right hand.

Resignedly, I sigh, "Yeah, you're probably right."

Before I can say anymore, the bloody man hisses through clenched teeth, his eyes on Norm, "You're already a dead man."

The words are no sooner out of his mouth, than Eddy cocks him a sharp blow to the side of the head with the barrel of her weapon. It isn't nearly hard enough to knock him unconscious, but the unexpectedness of it shuts him up momentarily.

Slowly, he turns to face Eddy, a bloody grin turning up the corners of his mouth. "Bitch, you think this sorry drunk gringo can protect you. Ha! You're going to die with my cock up your....."

His head suddenly strikes the table with a deafening thud, his words cut off in mid-sentence. But the blow only stuns him for a second, and then slowly, he lifts his head, his eyes slightly out of focus but still looking at Eddy; his anger still under control. In that briefest of moments, I know that even though he lacks the discipline of a professional such as myself, he is a very deadly foe and not to be taken lightly. "When my boys show up and this chicken shit gringo goes running, I'll treat you like a real man should treat his woman," he slurs through bloodied teeth and mouth, his voice soft and conciliatory as if intended only for Eddy's ears.

"If you don't start talking, you're going to be cold in the grave before your boys ever show up here," I angrily hiss at him.

"You won't kill me," he spits at me with his own blood. "You don't have it in you to kill an unarmed man." He should have stopped there, but his confidence and courage was growing as he believed what he was saying. "I know all about you. Unless you are being attacked, you're a pussy. You're afraid to do what a real man does."

"Real men don't kill people from ambush," Norm cuts in. "But I think you might be underestimating this man," he slowly continues. "I don't think he'll hesitate for one minute if he feels it's the right thing to do."

When Norm sees that I'm about to say something, he quietly cuts me off with a slight shake of his head, and then slowly continues in the same monotone voice, "But as you are about to realize, even if you're correct about him, you haven't considered what I'm capable of."

And with that, before either Eddy or I can make a move to stop him, he lifts the scattergun so the barrel comes up above the top of the table and squeezes the trigger.

The blast of the 12 gauge shotgun exploding within the confines of the bar is deafening. As the scruffy man is hammered backwards against the red vinyl cushions of the booth, a large read stain soaks through the pellet-tattered jacket and shirt, his flesh beneath riddled with BB's from the powerful blast of the shotgun.

As the smoke from the discharge slowly rises toward the ceiling, Norm turns and heads back toward the other side of the bar, saying over his shoulder, "We only have a little while before I'll have to call the cops and report the attempted robbery, so hurry up and find out what you need to know."

"Mac, he just shot the guy," Eddy says incredulously beneath her breath.

All I can say in reply is, "I know."

From across the room, Norm yells, "He'll live. I special load my own shot shells just for keeping customers in check. It might have torn up his shirt a little, but the pellets will barely penetrate the skin; looks much worse than it is."

Leaning toward the moaning man, I pull his jacket to the side and sure enough, I can see the bright copper BB's embedded in his skin, the wound appearing much worse than it actually is.

"He's right, Eddy. It's barely a flesh wound; lots of blood, no real damage."

Eddy doesn't have to tell me she's thankful to hear it; I know I was. The last thing we need right now is a dead body and a lot of unanswered questions.

When the man moans again, I slap him lightly on the right cheek to bring him around. When his eyes flutter open, I think he's as surprised to still be breathing as Eddy and I were. "I think it's time you start talking," I flatly remark as his eyes come around to focus on my face.

"I've got nothing to say to you," he grumbles weakly, still trying to keep up the appearance of a tough guy.

"Hey Norm," I call out. "He's still not ready to tell us what he knows."

When Norm picks up the shotgun from the bar and slowly starts in our direction, the man quickly has a change of heart. "All right, all right," he relents. "I'll tell you what I know, just don't shoot me again."

"Let's start with who hired you to kill us," I demand, waving Norm off for his benefit.

"I don't know," he begrudgingly spits out through his bloodied mouth and face.

"Norm," Eddy calls out.

"Wait, wait," he almost cries. "Just let me catch my breath," he says, his eyes going to the forgotten bottle of brandy still sitting on the table.

Following his gaze, Eddy quickly realizes what the man wants, and looks questioningly at me before moving. When I give her an affirming nod, she takes the bottle, unscrews the cap and holds it to his bloodied mouth for a brief moment. It doesn't take long for the man to pull back, the fiery liquid dribbling down his chin and into the raw flesh of his chest and shoulder.

He takes a deep breath, and then says, "I don't know who ordered the hit, but it wasn't just for you; it included the woman and some other people too."

"You may not have a name, but I know you have a good inkling of what organization is behind it. So tell me this, are we talking feds or south of the border?"

If you know that much, why are you wasting your breath on me?"

"Feds or below the border?" I repeat, the patience in my voice growing thin.

"He smiles his evil smile that is only made worse by the current condition of his face, and says, "Do I look like the type of guy the government would have any truck with?" Before I can remark, he adds, "Word on the street is that someone's looking for revenge and they're willing to pay for it. That's where I come in and that's really all I know."

It isn't necessary for me to ask him how he's going to be paid once the deed is done. Everyone knows the routine of posting an account number and waiting for the automatic deposit. It's an unspoken code that no one in their right mind would ever default on. Not only would such an act be bad for business, it could also be bad for one's health.

"For chuckles and grins, what's your name? Can you at least give us that much?" I ask, picking up the bottle and then changing my mind when I see the blood on the lip.

"James Maroney," he replies, not offering anything more.

"Untie James Maroney's hands Eddy and let him have the rest of the bottle," I distractedly say, rising and heading in the direction of the bar.

"What are you going to do?" Eddy asks.

Pausing in midstride, I turn back to face her and say, "I think it's time to make a few calls."

Understanding shows in her face, and I turn and head back toward the bar. "You have a land line I can use?"

"Sure. In the office," he says, nodding in the direction of the backroom. "Help yourself."

"Thanks."

Before entering his office, I pause just long enough to throw a glance in Eddy's direction, satisfying myself that she's not letting her guard down. Of course, with Eddy, I didn't need to worry much, especially since the guy already referred to her as a bitch and promised to show her what a real man can do to her. If anything, I should be more concerned for his safety than hers.

In the office, I make three quick calls; one to Larry, my closest friend and partner, one to Greg and Gina, my attorney friends in Napa Valley, and lastly, one to Manny Banks, owner of the Sand Dollars Casino and friend with connections to the underworld. If anyone knows about a contract on me, he will.

Because of the ease that the feds will have tracing any calls on my cellphone, I figure I have a better chance at keeping the calls anonymous by using a stranger's landline. Until we learn what's going on, I don't want to take any chances.

My calls only take a few minutes, and then I give Norm the nod to call the cops. While he's on the phone to 911, Eddy and I drag James, over toward the bar and drop him on the floor amidst the broken stools and turned over tables. He grimaces from the unwelcome movement and spits out a fresh mouthful of blood and spittle, even though most of his fresh wounds have already stopped bleeding.

"You know it's going to be your word against his," I advise.

"My reputation is well known around the cop shop. This isn't the first time they're hauling someone off that's wearing my copper in his hide. They won't give this two-bit piece of shit half a shilling's worth of their time before they throw him in the caboose and forget about him. Hell, if he has outstanding's on him, we'll never see him again."

"I wouldn't count on it," James grumbles angrily from the floor. "You're not the only one with friends. You better keep an eye on your backside, cause you're never going to know when some stranger walks up and puts two corks in that dense head of yours. You're going to live to regret the day you came to this gringo's aid."

"Shut up, Ass-wipe," I swear at him, threatening him with a raised boot aimed at the side of his head.

Eddy, having retrieved the now almost empty bottle of brandy when she went back to make certain we hadn't left any evidence behind, sets it on the bar next to the scatter gun and gives Norm a conciliator wink. "Thanks, Norm, we're indebted to you."

"It was my pleasure, young lady. Just promise me this."

"Anything, all you have to do is ask," Eddy quickly replies before he can finish.

"That if either of you get back this way, look me up. I can use the excitement," he chuckles.

"Count on it, friend," I say, leading Eddy toward the door.

In the distance is the sound of approaching sirens. "Come on Eddy. Let's get us something to eat and then head back to the hotel, it's been a long day."

Taking my hand in hers, she smiles up at me and replies, "I'll second that."

As the first emergency vehicle pulls up in front of the bar, I pull open the door to the _Fish Shack_ , a cozy little establishment just down the street from Norm's place, and let Eddy pass. The smell of deep fried fish and potatoes is almost overwhelming. It's a moist, warm scent that is comforting to the soul on a cool damp night, and our mood lightens appreciably at the thought of food in our bellies.

After placing and receiving an order for two fish and chips with two beers to go, we hurry back out to the street and turn toward our hotel. Out on the street are two police cruisers and an ambulance. While the medics are loading the injured hit man into the rear, the cops are taking Norm's statement. When I see the metallic gleam of handcuffs reflecting the lights of the scene into the night air, I feel a moment's relief knowing that the cops aren't taking any chances.

Back at the hotel, we head straight to our room, barely acknowledging that the attendant at the front counter is different than the young man that checked us in earlier. Of course, this isn't surprising, since it's only logical that the young man from earlier was probably part of the day shift and this middle-aged man is probably part of the hotel's night shift.

After entering the room, I double check that the door is locked and then grab the wooden chair from the desk and prop it beneath the door knob for extra security.

Settling down on the bed with our food and drinks, Eddy finally asks, "What did you find out?"

"I didn't get ahold of Larry, so I just left him a brief message. I thought it might be prudent to let him know where we are and that rumor has it there's a contract out on us, or at least me."

"You know he'll come running the minute he gets your message," she says, flipping the top on a bottle of beer and handing it to me.

"I'm counting on it," I smile at her, taking the proffered beer. I take a swallow before setting it on the floor to free up my hands for dealing with the bag of fish and chips. While sorting out the condiments and food with Eddy, I continue, "I tried to get ahold of Greg, but Gina answered the phone. I didn't want to scare her or get her overly concerned, so I just told her that we might need an attorney's advice in the near future and that when Greg returned from his business trip, he should give Larry a call. I'm hoping by then we'll know more and Larry will be up to speed too."

Before continuing, I dip a large piece of fish into a small container of tartar sauce and bite off a large chunk. My first thought is how good the food on the Oregon coast is and I'm reminded of just one more reason for keeping my home base here.

"Who else did you call?" she asks, putting a large fry dipped in ketchup into her mouth.

Though I'm curious how she knew that I'd called more than just Greg and Larry, I shrug it off and simply answer her question. "My last call was to Manny. I figured if anyone can get information about a contract out there, it would be Manny."

"What did he know?" she asked between mouthfuls. "Man, this is good," she adds, taking another large bite into a piece of Halibut.

"He hadn't heard anything, he said, or he would have gotten in touch. But that tells us something," I continue when she appears disappointed by the information. "It means exactly what we thought at the first; it's not mob and it's not government, so it can only be cartel."

"Then why are government men tailing us?"

"That would be the sixty-four-thousand dollar question," I quip, wiping my hands and mouth with the napkins provided. "Unfortunately, we can't have Norm shoot one of them for us to find out."

### *17*

Morning comes soon after our eyes close with a harsh knocking on the room door. With my .357 magnum in my left hand, I yell with a raspy voice, "Who is it?" Not liking the idea of being wakened before the sky even has a chance to lighten, I determine that if I don't like what I hear in response to my question, I'm going to start shooting through the door and ask questions later.

"Room service, sir. You requested a wake-up courtesy call," he adds, a slight hesitancy in his young sounding voice.

"Thanks. Now go away," I yell back, determined to catch a few more winks before leaving the warmth of the blankets.

"Come on, Mac," Eddy says sleepily, throwing the covers off and climbing unsteadily out of the bed. "The transit will be by to pick us up before you know it."

"Shit," I grumble beneath my breath, suddenly remembering that our day was all preplanned.

When Eddy's shapely bare ass disappears behind the closed door to the bathroom, I begrudgingly climb out of bed and pull on a pair of denim jeans, and then plop back on the bed and pull on a pair of wool socks. If there's a silver lining to this weekend, it's simply that I don't need to worry about making the bed for a change.

Even before I pull a sweatshirt over my head, I slip on my shoulder holster with the magnum securely in place between two sets of extra rounds totaling twelve plus the six in the chamber, all tucked neatly into their individual elastic loops.

In my stocking feet, I set up the courtesy coffee pot and brew two quick cups of black coffee. They are just finishing brewing when Eddy steps out of the bathroom looking refreshed and ready for the day.

"Is that what you're wearing?" she asks, her tone disapproving.

"I'll put my windbreaker on, if it makes you feel any better," I chide, making it clear that I have no intentions of changing clothes just to ride quads on the sand.

"You really do need to invest in some new clothes, Mac. Those might have worked for you twenty years ago, but in case you haven't noticed, everyone else is wearing slacks and sport shirts; jeans, sweats, and plaid went out quite a while ago."

Handing her a cup of coffee, I make a point of ignoring her remark and instead reply, "Here, drink this. I'm going to use the John real quick and then we'll get going. I'd kind of like to get something in my stomach before we head out into the dunes, if that's alright with you."

Ignoring my remark, she puts the cup to her lips and sips at the steaming brew, turning toward the bed as if she's already written me off.

When I come out of the bathroom, I find Eddy already dressed for the outdoors and waiting to go. She's sporting a dark blue nylon sand suit, a pair of dark goggles resting atop her head, the elastic strap pressing her tight golden curls flat against the back of her head, and a pair of stiff plastic and leather riding boots. When she turns toward the bed to indicate my outfit, I notice the hotel logo emblazoned across the back.

"They dropped our suits off while you were in the bathroom," she says, the excitement building in her voice. "I hope you don't mind, but the only outfit he had that I thought might fit you is this black one."

"No, that's alright, I'm good with black," I say, taking the proffered outer wear from her.

Within a matter of minutes and with a little assistance from Eddy, I have the suit stretched over my clothes, albeit a little snug. Fortunately, the boots are a good fit, though I wouldn't suggest hiking in them.

"Come on," Eddy says excitedly, putting her hand in mine and pulling me toward the door. "If we hurry, we can still grab a bite to eat before the transit arrives. It'll also give us a chance to meet the others."

"The others?" I ask suspiciously.

"Yeah," she replies, barely slowing enough the pull the door open and drag me swiftly down the hall to the stairwell. "You didn't think we were the only ones signed up for this weekend, did you?"

"No," I sheepishly reply, embarrassed that I hadn't really given it any thought.

Taking the stairs two at a time, we enter the conference room and find at least twenty more people, all wearing the same silly nylon space suits; some at tables eating, others still in the buffet line where a temporary array of steam tables and folding tables has been set up just for the occasion. Almost as if on cue, heads turn in our direction. Some smile welcoming while others quickly look away, clearly not interested in making new friends; at least not with the likes of us.

Eddy smiles back at the more friendly ones as we get in line for the buffet of toast, fried eggs, hash browns, bacon, ham, and a large selection of beverages.

The tables are long narrow affairs, much more suitable for business conferences than buffet meals, and leave only the option of sitting next to someone else. With everything else going on, the last thing I'm interested in is making new friends. But alas, with Eddy leading the way, the choice is not mine, and she deftly steers us with our plates of food toward the friendliest, most outgoing couple in the room.

"Hi," Eddy says in her most pleasant voice. "Mind if we join you all?"

Smiling a toothy smile back at Eddy and giving me a more than cursory glance, the slender brunette quickly replies, "Oh not at all. Please, join us, make yourselves comfortable." Giving the man next to her a curt look, she says, "Move over, Dillon. Make some room for these nice people."

To my surprise, he begrudgingly slides over a couple of feet, mumbling something unintelligible beneath his breath. Like me, he is not interested in making new friends. Unlike me, he is less concerned with upholding appearances to the contrary; for his mate's sake if none other.

Finding his attitude disrespectful of the woman, I take an immediate dislike toward him. "Thanks," I reply, giving him a cold stare. What may or may not be going on between them is none of my business, but it still rubs me wrong when a man treats a woman with such little respect.

While Eddy and the woman make small talk about what to expect from the coming day, the man and I totally ignore each other. Only when Eddy drags me into their conversation, do I speak at all, and then with just the shortest, yet politest response I can get away with.

Fortunately, we have barely finished our food and are sipping gingerly at the weak coffee when the front desk clerk enters the room and announces that the transit bus has arrived and we can begin boarding.

Relieved to get away from the couple, I am only further dismayed when Eddy plants herself next to the woman on the bus, leaving the man and myself to find our own seats. When he slips into the first available seat, the one next to it already occupied, I'm relieved that I don't have to blatantly ignore him and can pick an empty seat farther toward the rear of the bus where I can keep an eye on Eddy without it being obvious.

The ride takes less than five minutes once everyone is on the bus and settled into their seats, and before I know it, we are standing in a loose group of about twenty-five on the open parking lot, a sand buggy capable of hauling twenty people parked to the left while close to twenty quads are lined up off to our right.

Eddy takes me by the arm and I can feel the anticipation and excitement coursing through her body. Ashamedly, I can't remember a time where she'd been so happy and excited.

"Which one do you want, Mac?" she eagerly asks, looking anxiously over the line of quads. Before I can answer, she says, "I want the bright yellow one."

"I believe that's a Banshee," the lady from breakfast says a bit breathlessly. Almost drooling, she absently mutters, "That's a lot of power to have between your thighs, are you up to it?"

Eddy is momentarily taken aback by the shocking comment and glances curiously at the woman as if seeing her for the first time. Giving my arm a light squeeze, she looks up at me, a glint of humor in her eye. Winking conspiratorially back at her, it doesn't escape my notice that the man with her is completely oblivious of the woman's excitement or unrequited desires.

"Are you sure you don't want to just ride the buggy today?" I ask, hoping to make it a short day out on the sand and a longer night back at the hotel.

"That's for the fuddy-duddies," the brunette says with a laugh. "You really need to ride a quad if you want to enjoy the full experience."

Feeling almost sorry for her because of the way the man with her is literally ignoring her, I decide to play along, "So, Miss...."

"Pandora, just call me Pandora," she says happily, clearly excited to be taken serious by someone for a change. "He's my boyfriend," she adds, nodding her head toward the man. "His name's Dillon."

At the sound of his name being mentioned, Dillon turns around and nods in acknowledgement. "Nice to meet you Pandora," I reply, noticing for the first time just how large her eyes are and what a pretty face she has. I can't help but think that she deserves much better than this asswipe with her. "I believe you and Eddy have already introduced yourselves," I add, feeling Eddy's jealous squeeze of my arm.

Pandora smiles at me and says, "Yeah. I already feel like we're sisters and we just met."

"So, Pandora, if you were an inexperienced rider, as you seem to have qualified me as such, but didn't want to be disappointed by your choice before the end of the day, which quad would you pick?"

Pandora takes a step back and exaggeratedly studies me from boots to head before weighing her thoughts and then says, "You look like a quick study, someone that will take to riding naturally and with a lot of stamina; I'd suggest the four-stroke Raptor. Not as much torque as the Banshee, but a good machine for the long haul."

Before I can ask her which one is the Raptor, she points out a black machine near the middle of the line, "The black one there."

"What about Eddy, here? What would you recommend for her?" I ask, liking the recommendation she made for me.

Her appraisal of Eddy is much more thorough and I immediately begin to wonder which way this pretty girl swings, when she says, "Banshee. Oh yeah, no doubt about it. This girl needs a mount that won't let her down. Lots of torque with high-end speed. Will give you one hell of a ride for the short term, but the two strokes won't go the distance of the Raptor without a lot of TLC. Kind of like a woman; with the right care, it'll take you anywhere you want to go and keep asking for more."

"You seem quite familiar with the machines," I comment, liking the sexual references, especially coming from such a sweet looking mouth.

"I'm not a virgin, if that's what you're asking. I have ridden before," she admits unashamedly. And then, before I can ask her what she's doing here, she quickly explains, "I gave up my toys when I started fulltime living in an RV; nowhere to store them or haul them. But I still ride every chance I get."

"So, you live fulltime in an RV?" Eddy asks, her interest piqued by the thought. "That sounds exciting, being able to move around on a whim."

"It sucks," Dillon suddenly pipes up, having been paying attention to the conversation all along.

"It's not his thing," Pandora quickly apologizes for him. "He wants to buy a house and settle down, but I'm not ready," she adds, giving me a look that quickly makes me wonder if she's referring to her nomadic lifestyle or her boyfriend.

It's been a long time since a woman made me feel like anything more than a piece of lean meat; and frankly, I have to admit, I'm feeling a little bit turned on by her approach.

And yet, when Eddy gives my arm a hard squeeze, purposely digging her fingers into the flesh, all such thoughts instantly evaporate. All it takes is one quick glance in Eddy's direction and any amorous thoughts I might have been harboring toward another woman are immediately gone.

While we all stand in a single file row, the ATV personnel giving us a five minute speech on riding etiquette and which lever is the throttle and which is the brake. Then we are turned loose to select the quad of our choice, or the buggy. To my surprise, almost the entire group saunters toward the buggy and the perception of safety it portrays.

When I hesitate, Pandora quickly takes me by the hand and leads me to the black Raptor, completely ignoring the daggers in Eddy's eyes. And then, as if she and I are the only two people in the world, she instructs me on how to mount the machine, body positioning when cornering, and what each of the controls is for.

"Now, you won't forget, will you?" she asks, moving toward the bright yellow Banshee, her hips swaying suggestively.

Suddenly concerned for Eddy, I dismount and stroll over to her side, happy to note that she isn't too proud to take Pandora's advice and is sitting astride a silver Banshee. "Do you know what all the controls are for?" I ask.

"I'm sure I'll figure them out," she curtly replies. "Maybe you should check on Pandora, I think her panties might be twisted."

I start to say, "Come on, Eddy." But I don't get the opportunity to finish before she hits the starter and races the motor, a sharp whine drowning out my words.

After giving her a feeble rub on the back that is completely ignored, I return to my designated machine and fire it up, the sound of my motor lost in the roar of all the others that have also opted for the independent ride versus the buggy.

With all the quads now running with more than a few over-zealous riders revving up their engines in anticipation of getting out on the sand, the noise becomes deafening, even with the helmet strapped tightly over my ears. While the ATV guide/instructor slowly walks along the front of the line, speaking a few encouraging words to some of the more nervous and satisfying himself that we all have at least an inkling of what we're doing, I look down the line at Pandora on my right and three machines over. She sees me looking in her direction and throws me a seductive wink.

Pretending I didn't notice, I hastily turn in the other direction and catch Eddy quickly turning away, the expression on her face one of pure jealousy. For the briefest of moments, I am flattered. But then reality sets in and I remember that there isn't any upside to being with a jealous woman.

To my surprise, the ATV guide climbs into the buggy and takes up a seat directly behind the driver. For some reason, I had assumed he would be riding a quad with the rest of us on quads.

Before I can give it much thought, the buggy sets off toward the sand access and the quads fall in single file behind. Eddy is two machines ahead of me while Pandora is three machines behind me. With the first touch of the throttle and the sudden surge of power vibrating through the seat, I immediately understand why Pandora is addicted to the sport and I can't help but wonder if it'll have the same effect on Eddy. But of one thing I am certain; it won't have such an effect on me. Although it might turn out to be a fun time today, I'm already looking forward to getting back to the hotel and a nice hot soak with a glass of West Indies rum in one hand and Eddy in my other.

### *18*

No sooner than we reach the sand, Pandora accelerates away from the crowd, her machine throttling wildly toward the tallest dune. Watching her from behind, I can't help but notice how sensual she looks in her skin tight sand suit with her thighs straddling the narrow saddle, her back arched seductively.

Without thinking, I'm about to head after her like a dog in heat, when I feel a solid thump against my rear tire, the impact knocking my machine sideways in the sand. Angrily, I spin about on the seat, intent on giving someone a piece of my mind only to see Eddy sitting stoically astride her machine glaring at me.

My anger evaporates immediately and I smile weakly back at her, knowing full well she has reason to be upset.

She throws me a sarcastic smile and then throttles her Banshee, swinging the rear end around and setting off after Pandora, a rooster tail of sand spraying over me in her wake.

Spitting sand out of my mouth, I gun the Raptor and give pursuit. Though the machine beneath me is powerful and willing to run, Pandora and Eddy quickly disappear over the rise of sand. By the time I reach the top, even though I am well ahead of the pack, some of whom didn't have enough speed and are stuck less than halfway up, Pandora and Eddy are nowhere in sight.

Although there is a myriad of trails leading into stands of scrub pine and myrtle wood, I see the freshest tracks and set off in hot pursuit. Between the thrumming of the four stroke engine beneath me and the thought of two women racing wildly ahead through the untamed desert, my pulse quickly rises to the thrill of the hunt.

With the adrenalin rushing through my veins, I throw caution to the wind; for the first time in a long time, I am again the lean, powerful hunter chasing down his prey.

With the wind whipping my nylon suit wildly against my body, my head bobbing and weaving to avoid the low hanging branches and limbs, it suddenly dawns on me that I'm not sure who I am actually chasing.

As quickly as the question enters my thoughts, than I scold myself for even entertaining it. Pandora may not be married, but she's spoken for, even if the man is a complete ass. While Eddy, on the other hand, is mine. Whether I catch her or not, I know that come the end of the day, she's the one that I'll be spending the night with; and that's just fine with me. Pandora is just an ego massage with a nice shaped ass, a pretty smile, and nothing more.

So why did Eddy pick her to sit next to and tentatively befriend? One thing's for certain, it wasn't because of Dillon.

When I suddenly emerge from the thicket of brush, I see a single bike more than a half mile ahead climbing a tall dune, the machine kicking up a rooster tail of sand as it crests at a high rate of speed. "Damn," I murmur under my breath. I had half expected to overtake them in the brush; I hadn't expected them to develop such a lead.

The machine I saw disappear over the crest of the dune belonged to Eddy, so it only makes sense that the more experienced rider Pandora is even farther ahead.

Instead of continuing my pursuit, I turn the key and let the engine die. The peace and quiet is only partially interrupted by the distant sound of quads racing up and down sand dunes. None appear to be approaching my location, and I decide to take a break. Maybe when the girls realize that I'm not right behind them, they'll turn around and come back to find me.

It bothers me only a little that I hadn't paid more attention to which direction Dillon or the buggy went, not that it really matters.

After fifteen minutes and still no sign of Eddy or Pandora, I decide to fire up the quad and head over toward the beach. If I know Eddy, she'll eventually end up on the beach too, probably searching for floats.

With no obvious trail to follow, I set out in a generally westward direction, knowing that as long as I don't vary too far north or south, I will eventually come out on the beach.

After ten minutes of finding my way around thick stands of pine and scrub brush, I come out on what appears to be an old trail. Sitting on the quad, the engine idling evenly, I'm suddenly startled by the appearance of a bright yellow machine, the driver smiling mischievously in my direction. If I didn't know any better, I would swear she had come looking for me.

Without giving it any thought, I jump on the throttle and set off after her. She smiles knowingly, and heads up the trail that I'd just come upon. The trail doesn't appear to have been used for a long time, even though this is the end of the riding season, which seems kind of odd. But not being all that familiar with the dunes and especially not with quading on them, I don't put any relevance to it and continue chasing along the trail in hot pursuit.

Only when I come around a sharp bend in the trail and it suddenly ends do I realize why it isn't used much. In fact, the only people that have used it all summer were probably others just like me, lost.

Less than forty-feet ahead, her machine already turned around and facing me, sits Pandora, a wicked grin of sheer delight on her face; she doesn't even resemble the young girl that Eddy befriended at the early morning buffet.

We sit for a long moment facing each other, when I suddenly get the feeling she knew where she was going all along and that I'd just been led down the garden path.

So now what do I do? If I drive forward and join her, will it end with us having sex? And if it does, is it over between Eddy and me? Can I take that gamble?

The answer is painstakingly obvious, yet I must ride forward to get turned around.

Lightly, I press the throttle and head toward her. Only when I am less than ten-feet away does she make a move. To my surprise, she guns the Banshee. As if shot out of a cannon, her machine kicking up a rooster tail of sand, she flies past me, her handle bars missing mine by less than an inch.

Spinning around on the seat, I watch with mixed feelings of dismay and relief as she flies around the first bend and vanishes from sight. It doesn't occur to me that I might have been led down this trail.

Unable to find reverse on the Raptor, either through my own ignorance or not, I am forced to dismount and manually lift the rear of the bike and drag it around. When I step alongside the bike, my foot strikes something protruding through the surface of the sand. If it weren't for Pandora's fresh tracks, I might have noticed the other fresh sign sooner. But because she spun her machine around in a tight cookie, the paddle tires spraying sand everywhere, any prior sign that my experienced eyes might have been drawn to was destroyed.

Still, my thoughts muddled with the pretty face and the wild attitude of a woman that has taken an interest in me, I don't give it any thought. But when I lift the front of the quad and drag it sideways to get the nose aimed toward my back trail, the front tires hang up on the same object, and the machine is jerked out of my grasp.

"Damn, what the hell is that?" I mutter, kicking at the object with my right foot.

When it doesn't move, I give it another swift kick just for general purposes, and then look down to see what it is. Expecting to see a root or rock sticking up through the sand, it is with some disbelief when I realize that it's the toe of a black leather boot, the kind issued to army personnel.

Assuming that it has probably been buried in the sand for months or maybe even years, I bend over and grab it with my right hand while placing my left on the machine's front crash bar for leverage. To my surprise, it comes loose and lifts with little resistance.

"What the Hell?" I suddenly blurt, unbelieving of what I'm looking at. Attached to the boot is a green denim covered leg, the bike resting atop what must be the rest of the body.

Grabbing the crash bar of the bike, I hurriedly drag it forward, rolling it clear of the body. Using the exposed foot for guidance, I hastily scrape around in the sand until I locate the other foot. Holding a foot in each hand, I drag the body forward, dislodging it from its shallow grave and then roll it over to displace the sand that's covering it. After first rolling it onto its front, I then continue rolling it until its lying on its back again, the face staring up at the sky with sand-glazed eyes. Stepping back, I can't help but think how he looks awful damn familiar; and it is a he, no doubt about that.

"I'll be damned," I mutter incredulously, suddenly realizing who I'm looking at. "It's that rude host from the staging area."

### *19*

Dead bodies are nothing new to me and the discovery of this one doesn't disturb me so much as it leaves me just a tad confused and curious. Who would want to kill a volunteer? His attitude might not have been the most congenial, but surely not so bad as to warrant someone wanting to see him dead.

Leaning over the body to determine the cause of his demise, I mumble under my breath, "So, who'd you piss off; besides me that is?"

Although he is still wearing his uniform, the volunteer badge is missing and in its place a gaping hole now caked with sand. Someone put a large caliber slug in his heart, killing him instantly. This later conclusion drawn on the fact that there is very little blood, as the body doesn't pump out blood when the heart isn't beating.

Upon closer inspection of the wound, I see bits of gold colored metal embedded in the surrounding fabric and realize that the bullet passed cleanly through the badge on its way to his heart. And since I'm not one to believe in coincidence, it only stands to reason that whoever killed this individual used the badge to sight in on their target.

"You know, I don't think you pissed anyone off, at least not enough to kill you. I think you just happened to be a convenient target. But for what reasons, I can't begin to imagine," I say softly, continuing my inspection of the body.

Although it's a slim possibility, I wonder if he was out here collecting mushrooms and stumbled across someone's marijuana grow or portable meth lab. But even if that were the case, it didn't explain the shot through the badge. And for that matter, where's the badge? Was it damaged enough to fall off when the killer or killers moved the body?

Judging from the shallow grave, it also appeared that whoever brought him to this particular spot didn't intend for him to be discovered immediately, but rather eventually. At some point in the not too distant future, coyotes or bears would have sniffed out the corpse and dragged it into the open where someone would eventually stumble upon it. But not immediately; that's the key to this. Who would want to keep a man's death secret for just a short period of time?

"Someone that doesn't plan on being around when your body turns up," I speak out loud, my voice drifting away with the salty breeze. "Well, someone's plans aren't going to go as planned."

After unzipping the nylon sand suit, I reach down in the waistband and retrieve my cellphone. To my dismay, there isn't any service.

Since there isn't room on the quad for the body, I'm trying to decide how best to mark my location so that I can guide the coroner out here, when I hear an approaching quad. It's moving slowly in my direction and then comes to a complete stop just out of sight beyond the first bend in the trail I just came up.

"Hey!" I yell, hoping to get some help.

My call is answered by the sharp report of a large caliber rifle, the slug slamming into the fuel tank of the Raptor.

"Hey! Hold your fire!" I yell at the top of my lungs just as another shot rings out, this one striking metal parts on the engine of the quad and igniting the fuel escaping through the bullet hole in the tank from the first shot.

Even before I can react, the tank explodes in a hot ball of fire, raining down burning fuel everywhere. When the surrounding brush ignites around me, the light nylon suit melting to my sweatshirt, I drop to the ground and frantically roll away from the quad and the overwhelming heat of a burgeoning fire, convinced that the shots were aimed at me, even if they didn't strike me.

It doesn't escape me that with the accuracy of the shot in striking the fuel tank and then igniting the escaping fuel with their second shot, they could just as easily have hit me.

Working my way along the ground on my belly in an effort to put distance between myself and the shooter, I look back before sliding over a slight rise and see the corpse and quad engulfed in flames, the nearer brush also burning with wild intensity. I have no doubts that the smoke will bring an emergency response quickly, even if it's only a Forest Service fire crew.

And that can only mean that the shooter will be expecting the same, and is probably already gone from the area.

Feeling confident in my conclusion with regards to the shooter, I rise up from the sand, noticing that most of the upper half of the nylon suit is melted and crisp while the legs have been shredded from my crawling through brambles and brush.

Stripping out of it and kicking it to the side, I decide that it might be better if I set out on foot rather than waiting for the cavalry to arrive. The beach is still the best bet for finding people and reporting my find and ensuing incident, so I head off toward the west just as a small fog bank rolls in, dropping visibility to less than twenty-five feet. Since I'm no longer on the quad, it isn't necessary to follow any trails, and I set off through the brush, intent on the sound of the surf as it grows louder in the dense air.

Several hundred feet from where I dropped what was left of the nylon suit, I crest a small rise and look back over my shoulder. To my surprise, the fog has completely concealed any sign of smoke, and unless someone noticed it before the fog bank reached it, no one may even be aware of the fire.

Not feeling as if it's really any concern of mine or not whether anyone responds to the fire, I turn and continue toward the sound of the surf. Somewhere off in the distance, I hear a two-stroke engine whining at high speed and wonder if it's Eddy or Pandora that's come looking for me.

The thought of Pandora finding me first puts a little lift in my step, but I quickly throw out the thought. Even if it is Pandora that finds me, I know I will behave; I have way too much to lose to throw it all away over a sweet little floozy.

When I've gone almost a half-mile, I come to a steep rise in the sand, the top of which is lost in the rolling fog. The sound of the surf however, is deafening, effectively drowning out all other sound.

"This must be the seawall," I say aloud, surprised that I barely hear my own voice.

Taking a deep breath, I set off for the top, the sand loose beneath my feet and quickly tiring me out. For each step forward, I seem to slide two back. Yet, eventually, I reach the top.

Buffeted by the wind blowing the sea mist in off the ocean, I look around, dismayed that the visibility up here didn't improve much.

Going by my instincts and judgment of distances traversed, I determine that I'm less than five-miles from the first beach parking lot and the prospect of finding people.

Flipping out my cellphone, I'm not surprised to find that I still don't have service. With heavy feet, I set off toward the north. If memory serves me right, this section of beach is open to riding, so maybe I'll get lucky and someone with a quad will come along before too long and I can catch a ride back. If not, this is going to be a long day.

Walking along the beach, I begin wondering who would shoot a volunteer. And then, after shooting the volunteer, what was the point in taking shots at me if they didn't intend on killing me? If it had to do with the contract out on me, they can't collect without proof of death. And unless I'm completely mistaken, I'm not dead.

Where's a government agent when you need one?

An hour later and approximately two-miles closer to my destination, I hear the sound of a helicopter flying somewhere off to the east. It appears to be heading toward the burnt quad and corpse, so I quickly assume that authorities must have been notified. It shouldn't be much longer now before someone comes along the beach looking for me. At least, this is where I would start looking if I knew someone was on foot and making their way to safety.

A few minutes later, a shot rings out from atop the fore dune, the slug churning up sand less than three feet in front of me. In that briefest of moments, I see a log lying half buried in the sand about three-hundred feet directly ahead, a wide open expanse of sand leading up to the fore dune, and just the open sea off to my left. Only then does it dawn on me that while I was strolling along, my thoughts off in the clouds and not on the business at hand that the fog had burned off and I hadn't even considered that the shooter might still be in the area.

When the second shot rings out, I'm spurred into action and make a mad dash for the driftwood, covering the distance just as another shot booms out, the slug whistling with a sonic bang barely inches above my head. Dropping down behind the grey wood, I scurry to the near end and raise my head to get a glimpse at the top of the dune.

As if expecting me to do this, the shooter fires again, this time the slug chipping off a piece of wood next to my face before whining off into the air, spending itself out over the ocean.

Crawling in the wet sand like a crab, I work my way to the far end of the log, getting as close to the water as the cover of the wood will permit. Without even realizing I'm doing it, I reach inside my sweatshirt and pull out the magnum. It will prove useless at this distance, but it will keep the shooter from getting any closer if they're aware that I'm armed.

Leaning out from the log, I aim the magnum high above the crest of the dune and wait, hoping to catch a glimpse of movement before taking my shot.

After a long moment where I feel more exposed than I'm comfortable with, I still don't see anything, and decide to hold off on the shot.

Five minutes go by and nothing else happens. The only sound is the roar of the surf. One of two things is happening; the shooter is trying to flank me, or they left the area.

As if in answer to my last thought, I suddenly hear a quad fire up and race off in the other direction. Because of the sound of the surf in my ears, it quickly fades away, and I bravely rise to my feet, my eyes still studying the crest of the fore dune.

When nothing happens, I set off up the dune in the direction from which the shots came. I still have the magnum in my right hand, and as I draw within range for the magnum, my confidence grows exponentially.

To my surprise, I come out on the top of the dune where the shooter had lain in wait for me, as is obvious by the fresh tracks in the moist sand. Looking around, I quickly determine that the shooter selected this spot for two reasons. First and foremost, there is an open trail for quads leading from the sand to the beach here giving the shooter easy access without having to leave the quad behind.

Yet, I'm sure if the shooter had looked, they would have found a dozen or more places just like this one between here and where I came out on the beach. No, there was more to it than just ease of access. The shooter picked this place because it was the first one they found that offered me cover from their fire. They don't want to kill me; they're herding me like a damn sheep dog.

Slipping the magnum back into its concealed holster, I'm about to head back down the dune when something catches my eye. A few feet down the back side of the dune something is protruding out from beneath a dense juniper. At first, not realizing what I'm looking at, I assume that it's only because of my sharp eyes and attention to detail that I'd even noticed it.

Sliding down the sand, I quickly realize what I'm looking at; a gun barrel. When the shooter took off on the quad, they threw the weapon into the dense juniper growth assuming that it wouldn't be found. Or were they hoping that it would be found?

Of one thing I am certain, this means that the shooter is done playing cat and mouse with me and is headed back to the staging area, hence they threw the weapon because it would stand out if they were seen carrying it; a rifle is very difficult to conceal. Pulling the rifle out from the brush by the barrel, I'm not surprised to note that the magazine is empty.

While I'm studying the rifle, I hear a helicopter fly by on the ocean side of the dune, and I absently disregard it as nothing more than the coast guard doing maneuvers.

With the rifle in hand, I climb back over the dune and am about to head back to the beach, when the bright orange coast guard chopper suddenly drops out of the fog less than three-hundred feet in front of me. As I lift my hand to wave to them, mistakenly thinking they had come to pick me up, the side mounted cannon lets a burst fly, the sand kicking up in my face as the twenty-millimeter slugs hammer the ground directly in front of me.

"What the hell?" I call out, instinctively dropping to the ground and rolling back over the dune and out of the pilot's line of sight.

Scrambling and rolling, I quickly reach the dense junipers below and crawl in among them. When the sound of the chopper grows louder, I know they are in pursuit and I scurry along the ground, keeping beneath the cover of the low-growing junipers and sage, working my way first to the left, and then to the right in an attempt to elude the coast guard pilot.

When the sound of the chopper doesn't grow louder or more distant, I realize that the pilot has a fix on me with his FLIR camera, and because they saw the rifle in my hand earlier, are holding back for reinforcements.

In this cool weather, the FLIR will be almost impossible to elude. Its heat sensors won't have any problems picking up on my body heat against the cooler background. In order to become invisible, I need to conceal my body temperature by getting below ground, beneath water, or raising the background temperature to the same or higher than my body temperature.

Going underground isn't an option, and the only water in the vicinity is the open ocean, which also isn't an option. That leaves raising the surrounding temperature.

Fortunately, though I don't smoke, I carry matches, and remembering how quickly the brush caught fire back at the quad, it shouldn't take much effort to get a wildfire going here.

When I've gone over three-hundred feet from where I entered the juniper stand and the chopper has moved in conjunction with my every move, my fear that they're tracking me with the FLIR is confirmed. It's time to take evasive action.

### *20*

Reaching into my jeans, I fish out a green book of moisture resistant matches and hastily scrape a small pile of kindling together.

Before striking the match to the kindling however, I flip open my cellphone and check for signal. Although it's weak and fluttering in and out, I press Eddy's speed number and wait, the phone pressed tight against my ear to drown out the noise of the chopper and the surf.

It rings only a couple of stuttering times and then loses its lock on the cell tower. Hurriedly, I press her number again, and this time nothing happens. But my efforts have taught me one thing, the nearest tower is due north, the same direction I must head if I intend on finding out just what the hell is going on. When a U.S. Coast Guard chopper opens fire on a civilian, there is some deep shit going down, and I seem to be in the center of it.

There can be no doubt that the volunteer's body was found next to my rented quad, and the fire probably distorted the facts till someone jumped to the conclusion that I must have killed the guy. And if they talked to the young men at the staging area that witnessed me facing him down over the lack of a parking pass yesterday, that would add a lot of credence to their conclusion. All they needed was to see me with the potential weapon, and I just conveniently provided them with that.

So, what happened to Pandora? She could tell them how she led me down that trail and didn't see a body. With her testimony, it won't take long at all to straighten this out. But first, I have to get somewhere I can negotiate my surrender, because if the Forest Service LEOs are as trigger happy as the pilot in that chopper, I'm liable to get shot before I can tell my side of the story and prove my innocence.

Striking the match, I hold it near the finer duff and wait for smoke to turn to flame. With the experience of doing, it takes only a minute before I have a tall fire burning. Grabbing a handful of larger twigs and brush from the drier areas beneath the junipers, I ignite everything within reach until I am almost completely surrounded by flames.

Confident that the FLIR in the chopper is now virtually useless to the pilot, I quickly work my way deeper into the brush, constantly setting fire to my back trail as I go. When I've put close to two-hundred feet between myself and where I started the original fire, I circle toward the south. If I burn a large enough area to the south of where I was last seen, it's very possible that the pilot will assume that I'm heading south and call in reinforcements in that direction.

Meanwhile, I'll work my way through the burning brush toward the north. So long as I'm in the fire, the FLIR will be useless as a tracking tool. All I have to do is not catch myself on fire.

Despite the dense fog, the underbrush is dry and takes off with much more intensity than I had anticipated. The brisk wind blowing in off the ocean fuels the intensity of the fire while pushing it east and giving me more room to maneuver.

With a fire stretching more than a quarter mile from north to south and growing quickly, I set off into the heart of it, working my way between the hotter spots. Although the wind keeps the smoke from settling and suffocating me, it also increases the heat of the fire tenfold, and at some points, I have to get down on the ground and press my face into the cooler, damper sand below the surface just to breathe.

When I reach the place where I started the original fire, I drop down to the ground and crawl toward the fore dune, my watering eyes relishing the clear cool breeze blowing down the sand. My soot blackened skin and clothes blend well with the burnt out terrain surrounding me, and I move quickly up the side of the dune, my lungs happily exchanging the smoke-filled air for the salt ladened sea air.

Just before cresting the top, I pause and listen, ready to retreat at the slightest sound of machinery or people. Not hearing anything, I raise my head up and look down the beach toward the south, since that is the last direction where I'd seen the chopper. Not seeing anything but open beach winding uninterrupted into the fog, I turn toward the north.

Approximately two-miles north, I can just make out flashing lights. But in the fog and at this distance, I can't tell if it's emergency vehicles or law enforcement. To my amazement, there isn't any sign of quads on the beach in either direction.

Though I'm not sure why, I half expected to see Eddy or Pandora waiting along the beach to carry me off on their quads. Instead, the beaches have been cleared of civilians, probably because of the armed madman in the area, namely, me.

Relieved to note that the chopper isn't anywhere near, I slide back down the dune and head east into the brush. My intention is to travel eastward for at least a mile and then turn toward the north. Such a course should bring me out somewhere between the upper staging area and the first parking lot on the beach, a safe distance of at least a mile and a half from either of them.

I haven't gone far when I come across a narrow dirt road running north and south. It's wide enough for full sized vehicles and has seen lots of use, but most recently a single quad track is clearly evident.

"Dillon," I hiss under my breath.

For reasons that I can't explain, only that I've never been let down by trusting my instincts before, I feel strongly that the fresh tracks were made by Dillon's machine. This road must run just east of the trail Pandora led me down and probably parallel to the course that I'd taken by following her and Eddy from the staging area. While I was intent on overtaking her and Eddy, Dillon could easily have kept pace with me by following this road. And with his bigger machine equipped with saddle bags and trunks, it would have been easy to conceal the rifle. All he had to do was have access to the machines before anyone else and make sure he got the machine of his choice.

But to what end?

Surely, he wasn't motivated by jealousy. There was no way he could have known that Eddy and Pandora were going to get chummy at breakfast, or that Pandora was going to flirt with me, eventually leading me to a private rendezvous in the dunes.

If I believe my gut, which is telling me that somehow Dillon is behind the events leading to me running from the law, then I also have to believe that his actions were premeditated and that Pandora is also involved. After all, she's the one that led me to the volunteer's corpse. That couldn't have been coincidence, which is something I still don't believe in.

Crossing the road, I push through a dense stand of myrtle oaks and am working my way in deeper when I hear a vehicle passing on the road behind me. Turning, I crouch down to make myself less visible and see a white SUV with a green stripe on the side moving quickly along the road, the driver and his passenger bouncing around in the cab as the suspension is tested harshly on the rough road; Forest Service. It's moving too fast to see whether it was fire or law enforcement, since both departments use similar vehicles only distinguishable by the words fire or law enforcement stenciled near the front and rear.

No sooner has the vehicle shot by, then a bright yellow quad appears and just as quickly is lost from sight.

Without even realizing what I'm doing, I find myself heading back toward the road, the magnum somehow appearing in my right hand.

"This is crazy, Mac," I silently scold myself, yet not slowing to think the situation through. What will I do if the quad comes back and Pandora is the operator? Shoot her? Don't be silly. You might disable the machine and catch her, but then what? And if she's not involved in Dillon's activities, they can add assault and kidnapping to the charge of murder.

Before I reach the road, I have second thoughts about my actions and force myself to stop before I have to do something that might make matters worse, if such is possible. Lowering myself to the ground so as not to be seen, I catch my breath and clear my head. I need a plan of action. Before I go off half-cocked, I have to come up with a plan. If Dillon and Pandora are working together, Eddy might be in danger too. In fact, Pandora might have done something to her before circling back to where I was.

I no sooner have the thought, than I frantically fish out my cellphone and check for service. Unfortunately, I'm still on the cusp of service and the signal waxes and wanes. The battery shows fully charged, so I attempt another call to Eddy. When it rings, I catch myself whispering, "Come on Eddy, answer," trying vainly to encourage something positive out of my effort.

For the second time, it rings twice and then loses connectivity with the tower. This time however, the lack of service causes me a moment of fear, and it suddenly seems imperative that I get a move on before I run out of time. My own safety suddenly seems much less consequential than my concern for Eddy. I need to get farther north toward town and where I should find cell reception. Eddy's life might depend on it.

Fighting my first impulse to follow the sand road, I determine instead that with the traffic moving as swiftly on it as I'd already witnessed, my better judgment dictates that I stay in the brush and out of sight. Once I get ahold of Eddy, we can decide together how best to deal with the dilemma I'm facing.

Keeping close to the ground and only crossing open terrain when I have no other choice, I quickly put another mile behind me. Despite the early start to this day, the sun is already arcing off toward the southwest as the clock is nearing three. For the time being the fog has lifted, though the sky is still dark and overcast, making for a short day. If the rain holds off, it won't get dark for at least another hour and a half. By then, this ordeal should be behind us and Eddy and I will be soaking in the hotel hot tub, a couple of tall glasses of rum poured and waiting to be drunk.

Coming to a wide open meadow, I crouch down low in the brush and listen for a minute before getting out the cellphone and checking for signal. Pressing Eddy's number, I'm encouraged when it immediately begins ringing, the signal much steadier than my prior attempts.

"Mac!" Eddy's voice suddenly cries out. And then, before I can answer, she asks, "Where the hell are you?"

"We'll get to that in a minute," I whisper into the mouthpiece, relief flooding through me. "Are you alone?"

"As alone as they'll leave me, all things considered." She pauses a second, and then her voice serious, says, "Mac, they have a shoot to kill order if you don't surrender on sight!"

"Yeah, I already figured that one out," I chuckle, still elated to even be talking to her. "Eddy, do you know where Dillon or Pandora is?"

"They left several hours ago," she replies, knowing that I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important. "They're involved in this, aren't they?"

"I can't prove it, but I think so," I reply, my tone growing serious. "Eddy, I need your help."

"Anything, Mac, just tell me what you need," she quickly replies, no hesitation in her voice. "But Mac, I'm not sure what I can do for you; they're keeping a close eye on me. I can't stay on the phone much longer or they're going to get suspicious of what happened to me." She pauses for a brief second, and then states, "Mac, it was reported that you were seen waving a rifle at a coast guard helicopter. They thought you were going to shoot at them."

"I was trying to flag them down, Eddy. And before you feel you have to ask, I didn't kill the volunteer, either. And for what it's worth, I didn't set the quad or the body on fire, though I'm sure they think I did that in an attempt to destroy evidence. Look Eddy, don't try calling me, I'll call you. But when Larry calls, tell him to bring the bird and get here fast."

"Mac," she says, her voice sounding weak. And then, as if shaking it off, her voice again full of bravado, she finishes, "I love you Mac, stay safe."

"You too, Eddy."

Flipping the phone shut, I wonder if I shouldn't have told her to be careful if she sees Dillon or Pandora again. But then just as quickly I put the thought out of my head. Simply telling her that the two might be involved was good enough.

### *21*

Feeling much better after talking with Eddy and knowing that she's alright, I set out with an optimistic outlook that things will work out soon enough. Heading north toward the road that connects Hwy 101 with the jetty, I begin to notice a slight irritation in the area of my heels. The stiff riding boots that came with the flimsy nylon sand suit were clearly not designed for hiking. Yet, I don't have any other options as it's too wet and cold to discard them and go barefoot.

It doesn't bother me that Eddy never asked where I was, because she knew that it was an irrelevant question. Until I'm ready for her help or need her to arrange a pickup for me, only eavesdroppers would benefit from such knowledge. Moreover, with the advent of GPS installed in most cellphones today making tracking them a simple operation for law enforcement agencies, I can't afford to leave the cellphone turned on, and that means no incoming calls anyway.

With plenty of daylight left in the day, there isn't any sense of urgency to reach the stretch of road running between the two parking areas. If I get there while it's still daylight, I will just have to hold up until after dark anyway. Hence, it becomes an easy decision to circumvent the open meadow that I've just come upon and skirt along the edge of it where there is plenty of cover.

I haven't gone far when off in the distance I hear the unmistakable whump-whump-whump of an approaching helicopter flying low and slow.

With no time to lose, I dive headfirst beneath a heavy overhang of juniper; my hands immediately begin scraping madly at the damp, sandy surface. Scrambling frantically while the sound of the chopper quickly grows in intensity, I literally claw my way into the ground, my knees and feet kicking to assist my hands in scraping out a shallow grave.

Though I'm not satisfied with the depth of my efforts, the sound of the approaching chopper dictates that I'm out of time and can only hope for the best. Climbing into the shallow grave, I use my hands to scrape sand and debris over my exposed legs, hurriedly working my way up my body until the only thing left uncovered is my face.

Pulling the hood from my sweatshirt around to cover my mouth and nose, I continue scraping sand and debris up over my head. When I can do no more with my hands, I shove them into the surrounding soil and concentrate on slowing my breathing so as not to send up large amounts of hot air through the thin covering of cloth and sand. It's up to science and the sensitivity of the FLIR camera in the chopper that will dictate whether I'm discovered or not.

Lying in the hollowed out depression, the thin covering of damp sand and brush the only thing between me and the sensitive FLIR camera, I begin to wonder if they'll shoot first or call in backup. If my frantic efforts to evade the heat sensitive infra-red camera aren't enough to shield my body heat, I'll know soon enough.

Through the thin layer of damp sand and decaying debris, I can still hear the sound of the approaching chopper, and my heart stops when it sounds as if it's hovering directly above me. Through the ground, I can feel the beating of the blades as they sustain the machine in the air above me.

My body tenses as my instincts fluctuate between flight and fight, even though I don't have the option of fight; if the men aboard the chopper start shooting, I cannot return fire.

Something is crawling across my forehead, but I remain perfectly still. Another insect bites the back of my hand, and I suddenly worry that I have planted myself in a nest of sand fleas. Still, there are worse things than being bitten by sand fleas, which aside from an itchy red swelling at the bite area, are completely harmless. The sting of lead will be much more painful and lasting than what any little insect can inflict, and so I remain completely still despite the sound of the hovering bird in the air above me.

Just when I've convinced myself that the FLIR has locked onto my body as a legitimate heat source, the sound of the blades slicing through the late afternoon sky slowly dissipate. With it moving along its preordained flight plan, my body relaxes and I take a deep breath through the damp cotton material of the sweatshirt's hood.

With the threat of the chopper past, I climb out of the shallow grave, relieved that it didn't become my final resting place, and shake the sand off my clothes. Although it was less than three minutes since I first heard the beating of the machine's approach, it felt like hours and my body has grown stiff and cold from lying against the cool damp ground.

Stretching the kinks out of my back and legs, I pause for a moment to decide whether or not to stay put for a little while longer. If the chopper is working a search grid and I wasn't picked up on its electrical gear, this area might be safe for me to stay in for the time being.

Whereas if I continue working my way around the open meadow, I might enter into another quadrant that hasn't been searched yet and next time I might not be as lucky.

Rising to my full height, I look back in the direction of the fire and notice that the smoke has almost dissipated. In fact, if I didn't know precisely where to look, I wouldn't even be aware that there had been a fire at all.

"I need to get out of this area," I mouth out loud.

Just recently, I had started talking to myself whenever faced with a dilemma. It's not a good habit to be developing for many obvious reasons. The least of which is that I might say something out loud that might be better left unsaid, especially if Eddy overhears it.

But not the least of which is that someone might be looking for me and by talking, I could be blowing my cover, which could prove deadly in my line of work.

Making up my mind to keep moving didn't require much effort. I've never been one to sit still and wait for things to happen. If I reach the road before dark, well, I'll just cross that bridge when I reach it.

The farther north I push, it seems as if the brush is growing thicker and I'm coming across more quad trails. When I stop to rest by the side of a large tree with a small clearing around the base made by animals using it for shelter, I slowly grow aware of an increasing sound of quads. They're still quite distant and faint, but I can tell the sounds are originating directly ahead of me.

Taking a deep sigh, I push off from the tree and continue northward, the sound of many quads rapidly growing louder with each step I take. The drone of many is growing more specific as I draw closer, and I can hear individual machines racing along the trails running on all sides of me like buzzing bees around a disturbed hive.

My first thought is that I am approaching an improvised staging area that was established for the sole purpose of coordinating a massive manhunt. This thought gains credibility when two machines suddenly appear through the brush ahead of me, and then just as quickly disappear down another trail.

If there is a silver lining to all the quad activity, it lies in the fact that the chopper with its FLIR camera will never distinguish a lone man from all the other activity. However, all the activity means an increased risk of being discovered, whether by accident or intentionally; either of which will prove detrimental to me.

Moving more slowly than previously, I cautiously continue forward, my eventual goal being the paved road connecting the east staging area to the beach parking lots. If I can reach it without being detected, I will attempt to get on the north side of it, since I am almost certain that the manhunt for me won't take searchers that far north. If they conduct the search like I expect most law enforcement agencies would, they'll be using the natural borders surrounding the area where I was last seen. On the west they'll have the ocean. On the east, they'll have Hwy 101, and to the north, the paved connecting road.

Yet, if I'm not mistaking, they are probably concentrating their search to the south, since that was the last direction they had me going.

Not far ahead of me, I see what appears to be a thinning in the brush, and I get down on my belly and crawl the last few feet. With extreme caution, I push aside the last branch blocking my view and see a large paved parking area overrun with quads, motorhomes, pickups, and trailers. There are lots of people moving about loading and unloading their respective toys, yet at first glance I notice a complete lack of law enforcement; these are civilians.

There are lots of young kids in their teens, as well as older adults, both men and women. Everyone seems preoccupied with their machines or tending to other family members. Some are barbecuing on portable barbecues, while others are drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Everyone seems relaxed and having a good time.

On a whim, I almost rise to my feet and head toward the restrooms on the far side of the parking lot. But then, thinking better of it, I retreat back a few feet from the edge of the thicket, and give thanks for the good fortune. With so many civilians running about, I shouldn't have any problems blending in and hooking up with Eddy.

Feeling flush with confidence, I pull the cellphone out and check the device for signal strength. To my dismay, there isn't any; zero, zip, zilch.

"How can that be?" I mutter under my breath. Turning the device off and then back on doesn't help any; it simply shows that it's searching for service. Before slipping it back into my pocket, I make certain that I've turned it off and settle back to wait. Judging by the sky, it won't be much more than thirty minutes or so before dark. Maybe I can catch a little shuteye while I wait.

Rolling onto my back and facing up at the gray sky, I settle in for a brief wait when something suddenly flashes in the peripheral of my vision.

With a start, my head jerks around in the direction of the flash, and my heart skips a beat as I recognize the blue and white lights mounted on the roof of a law enforcement vehicle.

From my vantage point on the ground, I can only catch glimpses of the lights; I can't see which branch or department of law enforcement they belong to. They could be county sheriff, Forest Service LEO, or even a state trooper. Because a Coast Guard chopper fired its weapons on a civilian, any number of agencies might have been called in.

But all of that is irrelevant. What is relevant is whether the arrival of law enforcement means their evacuating the area of civilians or just passing through. If it turns out to be the former, it will become much more difficult for Eddy to get in to retrieve me.

Following the lights or their reflections on the nearby brush, I breathe a sigh of relief when the vehicle moves off to the west and south of me, following the main sand road south into the dunes.

Rolling onto my back, I stare up into the sky for a short while only to have sleep elude me. Trying to relax irregardless, I slowly mull over the events of the last two days and wonder just how they're all connected. Not one to believe in coincidences, I begin to wonder what the government agents have to do with all of this. And then the asswipe in Norm's place that tried to ventilate my neck. He was waiting outside the hotel. So, how did he know where we were unless someone tipped him off or he followed us from down south?

And then there's Dillon and Pandora. Are they working with the government or the cartel? Though I'm leaning more toward the likely prospect that they're somehow involved with the cartel and the bounty on my head, I can't rule out the possibility that they might just be free lancing. Of course, if that were the case, why didn't they kill me when they had the chance?

Because I have no doubts that it was Dillon that had me in his sights, why didn't he shoot me instead of blowing up my quad and framing me for the murder of a volunteer? It doesn't make any sense. Unless of course, they're being paid to frame me and don't know anything about the bounty on my head. That makes sense only if I believe Dillon and Pandora aren't murderers but simply pawns in someone else's game. And if I follow that train of thought, then I also have to believe there are even more people involved besides those I already know about.

"Damn!" I cuss under my breath. The more I think about it, the more confusing it all becomes.

Of one thing I am certain, though, and that is the simple fact that I'm going to get to the bottom of this; may God watch over the poor sap that gets in my way!

### *22*

It seems like an eternity of waiting, but eventually the gray sky turns darker still, and before I know it shadows are tugging at the edges of the thicker stands of brush. Pretty soon now, I'll be able to make my move for the other side of the road and hopefully find a spot with cell reception so Eddy can come and collect me. And though it might be optimistic of me, we might just be spending the night in a hot tub with a bottle of rum yet.

As the minutes drag by, I grow more impatient and less cautious of my surroundings, eventually rising up off the ground and surveying the area with the eye of a hunter. Although the air is growing increasingly cooler with each passing minute, I'm oblivious of the chill, my attention focused solely on the people still crowding the parking lot. The lack of law enforcement vehicles has me more than a little concerned. Only a fool would believe they were all ignorant civilians.

Unless, and kick me for the fool I am, the government agents that were following Eddy and I put a hush on everything that has taken place out here today. They're the only ones with enough clout to pull something of that magnitude off. When a U.S. Coast Guard helicopter is firing its weapons in an area where there are civilians playing, it makes the news. There should be news crews and camera men running everywhere. And yet, all I see are people who came to play with their toys.

With the sky turning dark, I make my way out to the nearest trail leading onto the paved parking area and hurriedly stride out onto it, putting as much distance between myself and the sand as quickly as possible.

Watching every individual I pass out of the corner of my eye as if they might be a cartel assassin, I hurry on past the resident host site and into the restrooms.

Passing the man at the urinal with his back to me, I enter the only stall and latch the door behind me. Facing forward so that it appears from the door to any casual observer that I'm sitting, I pull out my magnum and check the cylinder, making sure that it's clear of sand and rotates freely. Satisfied, I return it to the holster and ream off a length of toilet paper to rub the soot and sand from my face and the backs of my hands.

Flushing the toilet, I open the door and discover that I'm in the restroom by myself. Passing the sink, I head out the door and quickly move away from the wall-mounted light, making my way into the darker shadows before anyone has a chance to really take notice of me.

With the road less than two-hundred feet off to my right, I debate cutting through a narrow, brushy area between the host's trailer and the restroom, when someone suddenly calls out to me.

"How's it going?" the man says, a short, gnomish appearing fellow standing in the darker shadows next to the trailer.

"Just fine," I reply, not breaking stride.

When the strong scent of tobacco strikes my nostrils, I understand immediately. The man doesn't or isn't allowed to smoke in his trailer and comes outside to pollute the air instead.

Writing the man off as harmless, I continue on past his trailer and follow the pavement out to the main road; the idea of cutting through the shortcut no longer an option.

And then another thought hits me, and I turn on my heel. Within a few strides, I'm back facing the short man in the shadows. Thanks to his cigarette, he is easy to place in the dark. "Excuse me," I politely say.

'Yeah, what do you need," he replies, his voice gruff from years of inhaling toxic fumes.

"I noticed there isn't any cell service here. Can you tell me where I'll find it?"

"Yeah, I have that problem too," he grumbles. "You need to go east toward town. You don't have to go very far, just a little ways up the road and you'll have a good signal." Before I can thank him and get away, he continues, "What a lot of people do is ride down to the beach. For some reason, you can pick up the signal down that way too, but right here it sucks."

"I appreciate that," I reply, and then have another thought. Though I can't help feel that I'm pushing it, I say, "I noticed there's been a lot of law enforcement around. Any idea what's going on?"

"First I heard there was an accident with a quad. Someone's bike caught fire and he died, burnt up real good and set off a forest fire," he says, pausing to cough without covering his mouth. And then continuing, "But then we heard that the fire was just an unattended campfire, which is illegal, and that no one died. Last I heard, though, is that someone is lost and they're still looking for them. I don't think anyone really knows what the hell is going on, but they're still riding and that's all they really care about."

"I appreciate that," I say without conviction, and turn back toward the road.

When I've taken less than ten steps, a dark pickup, possible dark green, comes in through the entrance, the sheriff emblem on the side glowing from the reflection of the light on the restroom.

Lowering my head and looking down at the ground, I shift my course slightly to the left toward the main parking area where there is a large gathering of people; a man walking alone will warrant immediate scrutiny, especially if he doesn't appear to belong.

Glancing furtively to my right, I see the vehicle turning against the directional arrow stenciled on the pavement and coming my way. My heartbeat begins to race and I prepare myself for a sprint back out onto the sand, when it slowly turns in the direction of the restroom, the gnomish host having snubbed out his cigarette and emerged from the shadows to greet the deputy behind the wheel.

Though I can't make out their words, I can tell they know each other, and I realize that if it hadn't been for the host making his presence known when he did, I might be rabbiting through the brush right now, an army of law enforcement hot on my heels.

Veering harder to the left and away from the large group of people in the center of the staging area, I continue on, slowly working my way toward the outer, most eastward edge of the parking lot. With my way to the road impeded by the deputy, I have no other choice than to go across country. However, if I'm not mistaken, it should only be a short distance through the woods until I come out on the road.

In the dark, no one pays any notice of my passing. And if any do see me, they're probably thinking that I'm just another ATV enthusiast heading into the surrounding woods to relieve himself because he's too lazy to hike back to the restrooms.

Stepping up over the curb that holds back the flowing sand from the pavement, I scurry up the gradual slope, trying to get into the deeper shadows before the sheriff gets bored with the host and continues his cruising of the area.

When I reach the tree line, I pause to catch my breath, the effort of trudging through loose sand all day beginning to take its toll on me. Even though I pride myself on my muscular physique and maintain a steady effort on a daily basis to stay in shape, I would be lying if I didn't admit that as of late, I've been a little less than diligent in my efforts. In fact, most days I spend sitting on the couch drinking beer and watching television, a regiment that has softened my otherwise hard abs and replaced them with a nice soft paunch.

Looking away from the light on the distant restroom, I wait for a moment longer until my eyes adjust to the darker depths of night. Crouching low to avoid walking into low hanging branches, I set off toward the road, and then suddenly freeze.

Something moved just ahead and to my right.

Slowly, straining my senses to decipher what had caught my attention, I patiently wait; my breathing soft and shallow so as not to make a sound.

After a long moment of silence, I take a cautious step forward, and then freeze again when I catch a fleeting reflection in the shadows. With my back to the restroom, the light only occasionally visible through the trees, I realize immediately what it was; something or someone is hiding less than twenty feet ahead and slightly off to my right. The glint was the reflection of the restroom light off a night scope, the eerie green glint unmistakable to a trained eye such as mine.

While I can't see the person in the dark, I have to assume that they can see me as clear as day with their night vision goggles, and I must act accordingly.

Moving forward, I listen intently for any sound or scent that will give me their exact location while believing they are either going to shoot me like a dog with no warning, or follow me. I'm hoping their intentions are to follow and keep an eye on me, at least until their backup arrives.

When I've gone about fifteen feet and don't hear or see anything, I begin questioning my instincts, wondering if I really did see something or if my imagination is getting the better of me. To know for sure, I have to draw them into action, either by approaching their position, which could prove fatal, or making a sudden move that forces them to give up their position of concealment.

Deciding on the latter as the safer option, I suddenly dart in behind a small stand of cedars and then freeze, my breath held silently in my chest. Within seconds, I hear the sounds of breaking twigs and rustling leaves as the individual scurries to catch up, not realizing that I haven't gone anywhere. Unless you've worn night vision goggles before, you don't realize the numbing effect they have on your other senses, especially your hearing.

When he is less than five feet from me, I softly step out from behind the cedars and reach out, my hands grasping for something to hold on to. I feel hard fabric and nylon and know instantly that I am facing a member of a special weapons and tactical team.

Without even realizing that I'm doing it, I have assessed my opponent and have a clear mental image of him, all from the simple grasp I have on the front of his spider belt, or more commonly referred to as webbing.

Before the man can react, I pull him against me, taking away his ability to use the night vision capability as an advantage. As long as he is in my grasp, we are on a level playing field.

Snaking my hands behind his neck, I pull my knees up to his chest and lean back, my weight pulling him off balance. His first reaction is to slip his arms between my forearms to prevent me from strangling him. When he feels himself pulled forward and off balance by the sheer bulk of my weight, however, his hands reflexively go to either side in an effort to break his fall.

He is not expecting me to kick up with my legs at the same time my back contacts the ground, effectively propelling him high above and over me, my hands still clasped beneath his helmet at the base of his neck.

Landing flat on his back with a thump that knocks the wind from his chest with a loud whoosh, I instantly spin over onto my chest and encircle his neck with my forearms, cutting off the supply of blood and oxygen to his brain. Before he can regain his wind, the fight goes out of him and his body slowly loses all will to resist the temptation of unconsciousness.

When his feet stop kicking and his grip on my forearm subsides, I know that he is unconscious, but far from dead, or even seriously injured.

Rolling over onto my knees, I reach under his chin and undo his helmet, removing the night vision goggles with it. Tossing the helmet into the brush, I hurriedly slip the strap of the goggles over my head and adjust them for my face. With the goggles in place, I study the man lying prone on the ground before me. The first thing that draws my attention is his badge; FBI.

Figuring there must be more like him around, since they always work in teams, I scan the immediate area with the aid of the goggles. Nothing jumps out, so it's probably a safe assumption that they're spread thin along here. They're just covering all the bases.

All he's carrying for a weapon is a side arm, a nine-millimeter Glock 17; a weapon that Eddy could appreciate. I remove it from the leather holster on his hip and slip it into my waistband with the intention of dropping it somewhere safe, but where he'll eventually get it back. I also remove his Taser and tuck it into my back pocket. The rest of his pouches hold the basic items of first aid and spare ammunition.

As I rise to my feet, he stirs slightly, a soft groan escaping his lips and I look down at him. He has a youngish face bordered with light colored hair; he can't be much more than twenty-five years of age. Probably fresh out of the academy, and that's why he was assigned this out of the way area where he couldn't get into trouble.

His eyes flutter and then open. He looks up in the dark, but I'm certain he can't see me beyond anything more than a darker shadow against the backdrop of the night sky.

"Get up," I softly command, keeping my voice low.

Though I doubt that he knows anything that might help me, I feel obligated to at least ask him a few questions.

He struggles at first, his equilibrium off from the way I'd knocked him out. But then manages to get his feet beneath himself and stand up.

"Don't do anything stupid," I tell him. And then add, "You don't want to die a hero today."

In the dark, I'm certain he can't see that I don't even have a weapon pointed at him. "What have they told you?" I ask.

He's a smart kid and I don't need to explain myself to him. "Only that you're to be taken alive."

"Well, that's good to hear," I admit, liking the kid. If he plays his cards right, he should have a bright career with the agency. "How many men do you have in your team, and what's their spacing?"

His back immediately stiffens with resolve and he says a bit argumentatively, "You know I can't tell you that."

"Yeah, I understand," I reply with a conciliatory tone of voice. "But I'm sure you don't want to see any of them get hurt any more than I do. If you can at least tell me how far apart they're spaced and whether I'm going to run into any of them, I can promise you that I won't hurt anyone."

When he hesitates, clearly torn between his loyalty to duty and concern for his fellow team mates, I press him a little harder, "Come on kid, it's not as if you're out here hunting a serial killer. I don't want to see anyone hurt any more than you do."

Hesitantly, still not sure he's doing the right thing, but trusting in a complete stranger, he says, "We're set up from the east staging area to the beach at five-hundred feet."

"Your orders aren't to shoot on sight, so would you mind telling me what they are?"

"Report your location and maintain surveillance," he replies, his tongue growing looser now that he's convinced himself he's doing the right thing.

"So, you're not even supposed to apprehend me," I mutter. "Is that because you're too new, or are those orders for everyone in the FBI?"

"Everyone, as far as I know," he admits.

Although I hate what I have to do next, I don't have any choice. "Take care, kid," I say softly, and then swing a hard right to the side of his head.

He goes down in a heap, knocked unconscious by the blow. When he hits the ground, I take care that he is lying in a comfortable position and then quickly check him over, verifying that his breathing is strong and steady. He'll remember what happened when he regains consciousness and probably cuss me for a while, but he'll be alive and so will his team members.

### *23*

Moving quickly in the direction of the road, it takes less than fifteen minutes before I come to a clearing with the road running east and west through it. Hunkered down in the shadows beside a larger scrub oak, I retrieve the cellphone and turn it on. While I wait for it to power up, I watch the few vehicles go by, most of them towing trailers full of toys as they head home after a day of playing in the sand. Yet, it doesn't escape my attention that about every tenth vehicle belongs to law enforcement, and I wonder how many of the other vehicles going by not pulling trailers are carrying law enforcement personnel as well.

When I see that I have a signal, I press Eddy's speed number. She answers on the first ring. "Mac!" she sighs breathlessly into the mouthpiece on the other end of the airwaves.

"Babe, where are you?" I ask, suddenly excited about the prospect of being retrieved and getting the hell out of here.

"Norm's place," she says, catching me off guard. Before I can ask her what she's doing there, she goes on to explain, "They have the hotel staked out just in case you're stupid enough to return there and I'm not sure who all is watching it besides the local PD. And Mac, don't worry, I was careful not to be followed."

If Eddy says she wasn't followed, I trusted that she wasn't followed. Eddy isn't wet behind the ears; she knows what the hell she's doing.

"Eddy, your new friend Pandora and her boyfriend Dillon set me up. They led me to that volunteer's body and then set everything on fire to frame me for killing him." I pause for a moment before adding, "And I was stupid enough to play right into their hands. I even picked up the rifle that the asshole used to kill the guy with." When she doesn't answer, I softly plead, "Eddy, I need you to pick me up."

As if she didn't hear me, she says, "Larry's going to be here within the hour. He's flying in on his bird."

"That's great, Eddy. You can pick me up and we can all meet up somewhere south of town, maybe at the Coos Bay airport," I tell her, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"You need to stay low for a while Mac," she says, her voice almost sounding argumentative. "I'm going north to the airport to pick him up. When he gets here, we'll contact you."

"Eddy, listen to me," I hiss, my voice terse with frustration. "You need to pick me and we can go to the airport together."

"Mac," she says, keeping her voice calm and gentle as if speaking to a young child "You don't understand. You're not listening to me. They've set up road blocks everywhere. I might be able to reach you, but there's no way I'm going to be able to get you out of there. They searched every last inch of the transport bus when they brought us back to the hotel and they were doing the same with every rig and trailer before and after me. Unless you plan on swimming the river, you're not getting out of there tonight, maybe not even tomorrow," she adds with resigned finality.

"I'm sorry, Eddy," I apologize. "I should have known better than to question you. I guess I'm just getting a little cold, tired, and hungry. It's been a long day, Babe." I listen to the silence in the airwaves for a second, and then ask, "After you pick up Larry, can you bring me some supplies, maybe an inflatable raft?" I chuckle softly, trying to break the tension that's building.

"I'll bring you me, Baby," she murmurs softly, her voice sweeter than I'd heard it in a long time.

"Then I'll be waiting for you," I softly reply, crouching lower against the rough bark of the scrub oak as a dark SUV suddenly slows down on the road out in front of me. "I gotta go Babe. I'll call you back in two," I quickly finish, flipping the off button on the cellphone and pulling the night vision goggles down over my eyes as I squirm around to the back side of the tree to put it between the road and me.

Cautiously, I poke my head around the side of the tree to look at the SUV through the goggles. With their aid, the greenish glow of the dash lights is bright enough to light up the entire front area of the interior in the SUV and I can make out a driver and a passenger, both of which appear to be wearing body armor, judging by the hard outlines of their upper torsos.

When they continue on, their eyes straining vainly to see into the darkness, I curse myself for the idiot that I am. Eddy shouldn't have needed to tell me that she couldn't pick me up; I should have known they'd have road blocks everywhere, even if they're playing down the entire incident for the public's benefit.

Before shutting down the cellphone, I noted the time, approximately six-forty-five. In two hours I need to call Eddy back and see what she and Larry have come up with for a plan. A smile comes to my face when I consider that she had sense enough to go to Norm's instead of the hotel. No one will associate us with Norm, so long as she wasn't followed.

Yet, I can't help but wonder what is going on with her as of late. Her mood swings are becoming irrational and unpredictable; it's almost as if she can't help herself.

But that is another matter. While I trust in Larry and Eddy to come up with an idea of how to proceed, in the meantime, I also need to come up with some ideas of my own regarding how to handle the situation.

Having learned from the young agent where his team has been deployed, I feel confident that I won't accidentally run into any of them. However, once he comes around, he's going to report the incident and it won't be but a matter of minutes before this area is swarming with agents, probably even dogs and or a FLIR equipped chopper. I need to get out of here and fast, but I also need to cover my back trail.

Getting to my feet, I move quickly toward the road, glancing in both directions as I rush forward. When I hit the road, I continue on across to the far side, dropping down into a slight dip just as a vehicle goes by on the road up above me.

Turning, I look back up toward the road, feeling relief when I see only tail lights moving swiftly away toward the east.

After moving just far enough into the dense brush to be safe from any electronic surveillance equipment that might be aimed down this way from the road, I pause to consider my next plan of action. If I'm going to successfully evade the finest detection equipment available, I need at least a rudimentary plan of action. To simply keep running headlong into the brush will only bring the pursuit down on me as if they were hunting an escaped convict from a Mississippi prison. I'm better than that. My survival instincts and training have kept me alive because I can put myself in the tracker's mind and think like they do.

The first thing they're going to figure out is what direction I was travelling when the young agent spotted me, and then ask the obvious question, where was I headed?

Since the road is the obvious answer, they'll double their efforts to make certain I don't get out of here on the road, and they'll be watching for someone to try to reach me on the road.

So with the road out of the mix, I need another destination, and going south back into the riding area isn't it. With all those trails and easy access for law enforcement, it will take all of my efforts just to evade them, and that does nothing for helping my cause. I want to find out why someone went to all the effort of setting me up for a cold blooded murder.

And when I finish with them, I'm going to find out which drug lord took out the contract on me and settle that score once and for all. When I finish with him, no one will take out a hit on me without giving it some serious thought first.

So, with the south dunes out of the mix, and the road an even poorer choice for obvious reasons, that leaves only one choice; I need to continue north.

Before rising to me feet, however, I try to envision the lay of the land to the north of me from a combination of memory and conjecture. With the ocean on the west side, the river on the east and running into the ocean to the north of me, I'm actually entering the equivalent of a box canyon.

If they figure out that I've continued north, I'll be boxed in by water on three sides, and I'm not the greatest swimmer. Yet, at its widest, it's got to be at least five-miles, and for length, another five. That's almost twenty-five square miles of brush, swamp, and God knows what else. "More than enough," I mutter, satisfied that I'm taking the right course.

Placing one foot before the other, I set off into the north, the chilly night air easily penetrating the damp cotton sweatshirt, though I'm hardly cognizant of it.

Somewhere off in the distance, I can hear the soft whump-whump sound of a small helicopter heading north. When I glance longingly toward the sky, I see its tail marker blinking in the distance just before disappearing behind a small hill far across the river.

### *24*

"How's he doing?"

"He's doing just fine, Norm," Eddy replies, her thoughts miles away to the south. "I'll need to gather together a few supplies for him, since we can't pick him up until the search winds down, and that might not be for a few days."

When she says 'we', she is referring to Larry and not Norm, but whether he realizes the inference or not is irrelevant, as he fully intends on helping her and Mac in any manner he can. At least, in any manner he can that won't put him behind bars. He has to draw the line there if there's any chance of being caught. Otherwise, he will do whatever he can to help.

"Don't worry about supplies. I can put most everything together that he'll need right from my own storage room. And what I don't have on hand, I can get for you," he says, trying to ease her concerns.

"Thanks, Norm, but you don't have to do that," she protests without conviction.

"He's a good man, Eddy, and I want to help. Let it go at that and accept my hospitality," he says with finality. "There's an old Scout parked out back, use it tonight, and don't lose any sleep if something happens to it. It should start without any problems and there's at least half a tank of fuel in it, if the neighbor kids haven't syphoned it out."

Reaching across the bar, she places her hands softly over his and looks into his eyes, saying, "Thanks Norm, you're a good man yourself."

Suddenly choked up by the outward show of affection toward him from a beautiful woman, he hesitantly pulls his hands back and asks, "Would you like a refill on that coffee before you go?"

"No, thanks, my kidneys are already floating," she graciously declines. And then, still feeling the nervous tension emanating from him adds, "The Midget is in the hospital west side parking lot. The keys are under the passenger's seat and the title is behind the bulkhead in the trunk. If we don't make it back, it's yours. If you need it before then, feel free to claim it; Mac needs something with a little more leg room anyway."

"Don't worry about it. It'll be there if you need it. While you're collecting the pilot friend of his, I'll get those supplies together."

"I'll be back as soon as I can," she reaffirms, rising from the stool and heading toward the rear door.

Once outside in the cool night air, she mulls over what Mac told her about Pandora and Dillon. Their actions don't make any sense. If they were after the bounty, why didn't they kill him and simply lay claim to the stake?

The Scout, a faded green body with beige top and rust everywhere is sitting right where Norm said it would be. Climbing onto the tattered bench seat, she fastens the lap belt and turns the key. Without hesitation, the old six cylinder springs to life, raring to go. When she pulls out onto the main highway running north and south through town, her thoughts go back to Pandora and the way she befriended her, using Dillon's attitude toward her to garner sympathy. "If I ever see that bitch again, I'm going to scratch her eyes out," she mutters, and then catches herself, realizing that she's doing what she belittles Mac for doing all the time; talking to herself.

Keeping her thoughts silent, she again asks herself what Dillon and Pandora's ultimate motives are. If it was simply to frame Mac, they've already succeeded and are probably long gone. But if there is more to their plan, then they are still around, and there's a slight possibility that they aren't aware that her and Mac have been in touch and might openly approach her as if nothing is wrong, hoping to string her further along in their greater scheme of things.

But if there's any chance of them approaching her under the guise they are innocent bystanders to everything that has happened, then she needs to go about her business as if she too is nothing more than an innocent spectator caught off guard by Mac's sudden act of violence.

"I'll have to see what Larry thinks," she says out loud before catching herself, and then is suddenly overcome with emotion as tears well up in her eyes.

For reasons that she isn't fully aware of, her emotions have been spiking as of late, and although she knows it's having an effect on her relationship with Mac, she can't seem to control herself. One minute, she's happy and content with the world, almost euphoric. And then, all in the next minute, everything is going wrong and her life has been a waste and not going anywhere meaningful.

Although she suspects it might be the early signs of menopause, she's always been a strong woman with a full control of her life and herself; she's determined that she can control these wild mood swings as well; hormones be damned!

The airport lies off to the west side of the highway, across from the jetty alongside the river. As she pulls into the main terminal, she sees a sign that says short-term parking and loading and unloading straight ahead. Although she hadn't discussed where to pick up Larry, she quickly assumes that he would be somewhere in the vicinity of the private fueling area, which is generally located within walking distance of a diner or coffee shop.

Continuing on toward the loading and unloading area, she keeps her eyes out for his little bird, her eyes scanning the runways and between the few buildings scattered here and there used by airport maintenance and mechanics. The number of choppers with television logos painted on their sides doesn't escape her attention. There are also several coast guard choppers sitting near the terminal by a commercial fueling station.

Just beyond the main terminal, which houses nothing more than the con tower and a ticket counter, as well as a couple of offices along the back wall for the airport operations staff, she sees a sign indicating hot coffee and sandwiches. Accelerating the old scout, she glances into the front glass windows of the terminal as she cruises by, noticing that it's abuzz with activity, and assumes that the activity has to do with the murder out on the dunes.

When she takes it all in, the enormity of the trouble Mac's in slowly pushes down on her like a tremendous weight, momentarily overwhelming her, and she worries that she doesn't know what to do to help him.

Parking close to the front entrance of the coffee shop, she climbs out and slowly approaches the front door. When she draws closer, she sees faces in the windows staring out at her and she suddenly feels vulnerable and conspicuous under their gazes.

When the door opens and Larry's tall lean figure steps through it, a canvass bag slung jauntily over his right shoulder, she almost breaks down in tears as relief floods through her. Her arms thrown wide, she falls into his strong embrace, grateful for his strength and friendship.

Seeing the tears in her eyes and sensing her enormous relief at the sight of him, Larry intuitively understands the role he needs to play to keep her strong.

"Oh Larry," she weeps softly, her face buried in the soft brown leather of his vintage flight jacket.

Throwing his arms around her and holding her tightly against him, he soothingly replies, "Don't worry, Eddy, we'll figure this mess out. After all, this isn't the first time Mac's gotten in over his head," he lightly adds, trying to lift her spirits.

Pulling back from him, she wipes conspicuously at the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes with the backs of her hands and then ashamedly apologizes for her weakness. "I'm sorry, Larry," she starts.

Before she can continue, Larry pulls her back into his comforting embrace and says, "You don't need to worry about Mac, Eddy. He's got a lot of friends that won't let any harm come to him."

Thankful for his embrace and understanding, she begrudgingly pulls away from him and says, "I know you're right, but I can't help worrying. I feel so helpless. I'm afraid that if I do anything it might be the wrong thing and make matters even worse than they already are."

Concerned that she is going to have a complete breakdown and start crying again, he takes her by the arm and says, "Come on, Eddy. Let's get out of here before too many people see us together. The fewer people that know you've called in help, the better."

When they reach the Scout, Larry says, "I'll drive, you just tell me where to go."

Once they're in the Scout and returning to the main road through town, Eddy confesses to him, "I don't know what I'd do without you Larry.

"Come on, Eddy. We've been friends too long for me to believe that. I know you too well; you're a strong woman. Mac wouldn't have fallen as hard for you if you weren't."

"It's nice of you to say that, Larry. But lately I just haven't felt like the woman I was even just a year ago. Everything seems monumental and threatening. Even something as simple as a couple of feds staking out our apartment almost pushed me over the edge," she confesses to him with a sigh.

Looking across the seat at her, Larry decides to take the opportunity to change the subject. Though he's not uncomfortable having such a personal conversation with her, he has other things on his mind that are more pressing and they need to stay focused.

"I hadn't heard about the agents at your apartment," he starts, his voice serious.

"Not just the apartment, but on the way here we were also followed, and not just the feds, but also bounty hunters looking to cash in on the price on Mac's head," she replies, her voice regaining its former strength.

"You'll need to bring me up to speed on that, but first, I got a call from Greg and Gina, they're both coming up for a few days just in case we need their services. I'm hoping there's room at the hotel."

"We got Mac's and my room if nothing else," she replies, sounding more like her old self with each passing minute. "But first, I want you to meet someone. We just met him last night and he's already proven to be a good friend. Mac makes light of it, but the guy saved his life. And now he wants to help just because he feels it's the right thing to do."

"Sounds like an upstanding guy. I look forward to meeting him," Larry replies optimistically.

"We're here," Eddy suddenly says. "Pull down that side alley; it leads around to the rear of the place."

Without a word, Larry swings the Scout down the rutted alley and turns in behind the bar, pulling up near the rear door. Turning the key and killing the engine, he turns to me and asks, "Are you sure we can trust this guy?"

"I'm staking Mac's and my life on it, Larry."

"That's good enough for me."

As we slide out our separate sides, the rear door to the bar opens and Norm steps through with a cardboard box in his arms. "Here," he says, handing it off to Larry. "It's a few things to make a man in the wilderness a little more comfortable." When Larry takes the box and turns back toward the Scout, Norm adds, "By the way, the name's Norm. Eddy already told me your name's Larry, so I feel like I already know you. It's good to meet."

After setting the box on the back seat, Larry turns and extends a hand to him. "Likewise. I've heard nothing but good about you."

"Come on, let's get inside where it's warmer," he says, releasing Larry's hand after sizing him up and liking what he sees.

While Eddy leads the way with Norm close behind her, Larry leans back into the Scout and retrieves his bag from where he threw it on the seat between them earlier.

Inside and heading toward the bar, Eddy comments, "You closed early tonight," noticing the closed sign in the front window.

"Yeah," he sighs, taking up his normal place behind the bar. "I thought we might prefer a little privacy."

When Norm places three glasses on the bar and a fresh bottle of brandy, Larry starts off by thanking our host. "We really appreciate everything you've done and are doing for us, Norm."

"It's no trouble, really. I was settling in for another long boring evening when this fine lady and her man came in." He chuckles softly and says, "When I first saw them, I knew right away there was trouble brewing. That Mac just has a look about him." Filling the glasses, he pushes two of them across the bar before throwing a wink at Eddy and saying, "I'll bet he's a handful."

She smiles back at him saying, "You don't know the half of it."

Norm raises his glass and says, "I like to propose a toast to new friends. Lord knows they're few and far between in this world."

Together, the glasses clink down on the bar and Norm refills them without asking. Picking hers up, Eddy says, "I'd like to propose a toast to Mac, even though I know he wouldn't appreciate that it's not being made with his favorite drink."

Larry laughs and as one, the three of them raise their glasses and see off the last of the fiery liquid before setting them back on the bar. This time, Norm doesn't fill them. Instead, he says, "There'll be time enough for more of this later. Right now, we got us some business to discuss."

After Norm gives them a quick rundown on the supplies that he was able to scrounge together, Larry makes a mental list of items that they'll still need to retain before making contact with Mac.

"What about an air drop?" Norm asks, when Eddy mentions the road blocks.

"All air traffic in and out of Florence is being scrutinized," Larry informs him. "Although I could fly in across the river, drop the supplies, and then get going real quick like, I can almost assure you that someone will be watching from somewhere and the moment I so much as slow down, they'll come swooping in."

"Eddy," Norm starts, turning to look at her. "You said they were inspecting everything that came out of the area. But are they checking everything going in?"

"I don't know if they were actually searching the ingoing vehicles, or just checking the occupants before letting them through. I just know for certain that everything coming out is being searched very thoroughly," she explains.

"They'll find you're trying to go in very suspicious. In fact, they'll probably find it so suspicious that if they even allow you past the road block, you can bet they'll keep you under close observation," Larry starts, his voice betraying his excitement. "So what we'll do is let you go through first and lead them away from Mac like a red herring. Then I'll go through a little ways behind you with the supplies."

"That sounds like a workable plan," Norm agrees. And then hesitantly adds, "Except they might wonder what you're doing up here when they see your ID and put two and two together." He leans back from the bar, his gaze passing questioningly between Larry and Eddy before suggesting, "I think you need me to carry the supplies in."

After a long minute, Larry begrudgingly agrees with Norm's logic. "You're right. The minute they see where I'm from, they'll do a thorough search of the vehicle."

No one says anything for along minute, and then Larry speaks up, lifting the canvas bag up from the floor where he'd placed it when they'd entered and sets it gently on the bar before saying, "I have a few things in here that I thought we might need."

Reaching inside the bag, he withdraws a handful of disposable cellphones, pushing two toward Norm and one toward Eddy. "They have the numbers of the others pre-programmed into them and they can't be traced back to anyone. Moreover, if they're searching for GPS emitting devices, these won't register; the sim cards are pre-GPS," he adds with a conciliatory smile. Reaching back inside the bag, he pulls out a box of .357 Magnum rounds. "I hope he doesn't need these, but I thought I'd throw them in just in case." Winking at Eddy, he adds, "He probably never thought he would need extra ammunition on a weekend vacation."

"You knew that he wouldn't go anywhere without his magnum, though," she smiles back, happy to have Mac's most trusted and loyal friend by her side.

"While you two are taking care of business, I'm going to head over to the hotel and do a little scouting around. Do you have a description of those two that set Mac up?" he asks, looking at Eddy.

"Here," Eddy says, pushing the room key toward him. "You might find this handy."

"You hang onto it," he says, pushing it back toward her. "I'll get a room of my own."

After supplying Larry with a thorough description of Dillon and Pandora, they all set off on their assigned missions. While Norm takes Eddy in the Scout to drop her off by her Midget, Larry sets out on foot in the direction of the hotel, trying not to stand out on the deserted street. Because of his tall, muscular build, he could easily be mistaken for Mac by some do-gooder wanting to do the right thing.

When he draws close to the hotel, he immediately recognizes the undercover agents staking it out. What doesn't fit in is the guy working the front counter. Most hotels staff their front desks with people that display a natural tendency toward good hygiene. After all, the person on the front desk sets the impression that people have of your business, and in the hotel industry, cleanliness is king.

The man standing behind the front desk not only appears to have just shaven for the first time in a long time judging by the reddish raw skin below his chin, he also has a dry skin condition that was recently aggravated by the use of a harsh soap or cleanser. It's blatantly obvious that the man was just recently cleaned up to play the part of desk clerk.

When Larry approaches the front desk, his canvas bag still draped over his right shoulder as if he's a tourist that just arrived in town, the man studies him with the eye of a hunter, not the friendly welcoming demeanor of a simple hotel clerk.

"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice slightly gruff from a longtime habit of tobacco use.

"Need a room for the weekend. Thought I might try out the sand and was told this is the place to stay," Larry replies, trying to play the tourist.

Turning the log book around to face Larry, the clerk says, "Sign here. You can have room 23."

While Larry signs in, the clerk retrieves a room key from the numbered hooks behind him and slides it across the counter. "Have a good stay."

Taking the key, Larry asks, "Don't you need payment or something?"

"We'll take care of it when you check out."

Not wanting to draw the man's attention any more than he already has by asking the obvious, Larry simply replies like a tourist that thinks he might be pulling one over on someone and says with a mischievous smile, "Fair enough."

If he had any doubts about the clerk's legitimacy before, not requiring a credit card for deposit on the room removed all doubt.

He has just reached his room when the disposable cell goes off. "Hey Larry, this is Eddy. Just wanted to let you know that Mac contacted me and I passed his location on to Norm. He told me to let you know that he's doing fine and glad to have you here."

"Thanks Eddy. I just got a room for the weekend and I can say with all confidence that the clerk isn't a regular hotel employ. But I don't think he's associated with law enforcement either. I'll let you know any details as they unfold. Meanwhile, I'm going to hang out in the lobby with a paper and keep my eyes open for Bonny and Clyde."

There's a moment of silence, and then Larry adds, "Take care Eddy and don't worry, we'll get to the bottom of this before you know it."

"Thanks, Larry."

Larry spends only a few minutes in his room before his regular cellphone goes off. Glancing at the readout before answering it, he isn't surprised when he recognizes the number. "Hey Gina."

"Hey Larry, have you made contact yet?"

"Yeah, I have. Mac is out in the bush and doing better as we speak." He pauses for a moment, debating how much information he should give her over the phone. After all, with today's technology, you never know who's listening in. "I need to tell you something Gina, but I don't want it to go any further."

"You can trust me Larry," she says, her voice serious.

"Right now I'm more concerned about Eddy than I am Mac. Mac can take care of himself, but Eddy seems, I don't know how to put it delicately, but she seems to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown, Gina," he finally blurts, still not convinced that he's doing the right thing, but certain that he doesn't want to keep it to himself. Besides, if anyone can relate to what Eddy's going through, it would be another woman.

"Don't worry about it Larry," Gina replies, her voice sounding relieved; she'd clearly expected something much worse. "I'll have a talk with her when we get there."

"How's Greg doing?"

"He's still talking about retiring. At least, he talks about it until Mac calls, and then he's like a new man again with all kinds of energy and spunk." She hesitates for a moment and then adds, "Truth be known, I think he looks forward to Mac getting into trouble."

"I think Mac getting into trouble just brings out the best in all of us," Larry chuckles into the mouthpiece. And then, his voice serious, says, "Look, I'll get you guys a room at the hotel where Eddy's staying. But I think you should know beforehand, there's something fishy about the desk clerk. He's not law enforcement and he's not a regular hotel employ. When I figure it out, I'll let you know. In the meantime, don't trust him to send faxes or patch calls through."

"Good to know," she simply replies. "Where will you be?"

"For a while, I'm going to be hanging out in the lobby. There's a couple that I want to talk to, if they're still in town. I can't tell you any more than that right now."

"Okay, Larry. We're going to fly into Coos Bay and rent a car there. We'll see you soon."

After securing extra clips of ammunition in concealed places on his body, Larry heads down to the lobby. After securing a room for Greg and Gina without having to leave a deposit, he purchases a local paper from the dispenser and selects a seat where he can see both the incoming traffic as well as the elevators with the added benefit of being directly across from the clerk. He doesn't even have to turn his head to watch the man's every move.

### *25*

Shivering from the damp, chilly night air, I turn on the cellphone and wait until it finds service before pressing Eddy's speed number. She answers on the first ring, obviously waiting impatiently for his call.

"Eddy?"

"Yes, Mac, it's me." And then, before he can say anything, she adds, "Larry's in town."

"Good."

"We have to make this quick, Mac. Norm's bringing you supplies, but he needs to know where you are."

"Have him bring them to the third parking lot. Tell him not to pull in, but just stop on the road directly in front of it and I'll come to him," I quickly explain.

"I'll do that right now. Also, Mac, Larry sent along a disposable cellphone that can't be tracked so we can talk more then." There is a moment of silence, and then she says, "I love you Mac."

"I love you too, Eddy. Tell Norm how much I appreciate all he's done and continues doing, will you?"

"I will."

With the signal broken, I quickly turn off the cellphone and start moving again; I can't risk staying in any one place too long, especially after using the cell. My clothing is soaked through to my skin from having to wade through chest deep water and crawl under dew laden branches and leaves, and as much as I want to stop and rest, every time I stop moving, I am racked with chills; I need a dry change of clothing and some decent hiking boots; these riding boots are straining my ankles and rubbing my heels raw.

The destination that I gave to Eddy to pass on to Norm is almost a mile distant across an expanse of wetland and myrtle wood scrubs interspersed with stands of scrub pine and swamp cedars. It won't be easy going, but I should have a view of the area before entering into it. If anything seems hokey, I can fall back into the background.

If he isn't detained too long on the way in, he'll be there within twenty minutes, which doesn't leave me much time to get there. But if there's traffic in the area, he might not be able to stop on his first pass and will have to cruise by and then return, which means I might have a little more time.

With leaden feet, I slosh into the knee deep water separating me from a patch of what appears to be higher ground. It's about one-hundred-fifty feet distant and as I move toward it, the water slowly climbs higher on my legs, first reaching my thighs, and then my waist. This won't be the first time that I've had to cross chest-deep water since working my way toward the north, and I'm not surprise when it reaches my chest again, just disappointed, I was hoping that I might catch a break.

Cold and shivering, I'm slowly pushing my way through the frigid water when my right foot suddenly steps off into nothingness and I fall forward, my head momentarily dipping below the surface. When the heavy riding boots hit bottom, I push off and bounce back to the surface, my feet immediately finding purchase again as the ground begins rising back up.

Spitting metallic tasting water, I curse beneath my breath and push harder to get out of it, my body starting to grow sluggish from the cold. In the back of my mind, I realize that if I have to tread through another expanse of water like this one, I'm not sure that I'll make it.

The ground rises gradually and then tapers off just inches above the water line. With each step I take, I can feel it sucking at the bottom of my boots, trying to pull me back. It doesn't escape my mind that the only cover out here is the water. The next time I have to evade a FLIR camera, I will literally have to dive beneath the surface, and that's not a warming thought.

With a semblance of ground beneath my feet, I hurry forward, always looking off to my left for a stretch of high ground that will take me all the way to the road. To my good fortune, I am almost even with the third parking lot when I see what looks like a promising stretch of ground leading to the road. It is flush with mounds of grass and thickets of myrtle oak and laurel.

Elated to have cover and easy going, I set off across it in relative high spirits while keeping an eye on the traffic moving along the road for anything suspicious. The headlights are spaced out sufficiently that Norm shouldn't have a problem making the drop; I just hope Eddy thought about including a bottle of rum to warm my spirits.

With thoughts of warm clothes, food, and maybe even some rum, I almost run the last few hundred feet before dropping into the brush lining the road. Breathing hard, I wait a few minutes, wondering how much time must have passed since speaking with Eddy. Surely, I'm not too late.

No sooner do I think it, than I discard the idea. Even if Norm has been by already, he won't just leave; he'll circle back and keep trying until we hook up.

"He has to," I mumble aloud, my voice catching in my throat as the cold is beginning to numb my arms and legs.

In my mind, I try working out the formulae for hypothermia based on ambient temperature. But every time I decide what the current air temperature is, my body has a fit of shivers and I question my ability to feel the cold accurately. Yet, I know that a body immersed in wet clothing or water will lose heat faster than a body simply exposed to cold dry air; it's related to the wind chill factor. It has something to do with osmosis, I think.

Feeling slightly confused and disoriented, I suddenly realize that I can hear a motor running and turn onto my side so that I can look up at the road. Parked less than thirty feet from me is what appears to be an old Scout.

Regaining my senses, I slip the magnum into my hand and crouching low, work my way on wobbly legs up to the road and around the back side of the rig, coming up behind the driver. Headlights are coming toward us from the north, but they are still a long ways off and I put them out of my mind for the moment.

In the rearview mirror, I can make out Norm's face staring forward through the windshield. Like me, he sees the headlights in the distance and knows he doesn't have much time.

Then his eyes flick to mine in the mirror and he sees me sliding along the side of the Scout. "It's okay, Mac," he says loud enough for me to hear.

Pushing open the door, he steps out to access the rear seat and retrieve the supplies for me, but suddenly stops in his tracks when he realizes the condition I'm in.

"My god, man, you don't look so good," he says, putting his shoulder under my left arm to steady me before I slide to the ground. "Come on, let's get you inside."

### *26*

While balancing the larger man on his shoulder, Norm manages to pull the rear door open and literally roll Mac onto the back seat.

"There you go, big guy," he says fondly, throwing the door shut and climbing hurriedly back in behind the steering wheel.

Without looking back, he steps on the gas and pushes the old Scout up to the speed limit before anyone happens to take notice of the non-moving vehicle and wonders what's going on. Just before the approaching vehicle comes abreast of them, he leans down and reaches for the heater control to hide his face in the glare of the oncoming headlights. Turning up the heat to maximum, he exhales a long sigh of relief when he glances in the rearview mirror and notices that the sheriff's vehicle that just went by doesn't appear to be slowing down.

Looking ahead at the empty strip of pavement, he grows concerned that his actions have consequences as he deviated from the original plan of simply dropping off the supplies. He's been on enough covert operations in his time to know that it is sometimes necessary to improvise in the field. But he also has enough experience to realize that any improvisation can lead just as easily to disaster, especially when all the players aren't on the same page.

He is suddenly startled out of his thoughts by a head leaning forward over the front seat. "Where are we going?" Mac asks, relishing the flow of warm air from the front register.

"I thought we might take a little ride and get you warmed up. I hope that's alright with ya," he adds, his way of subtly acknowledging Mac as the superior officer on the mission.

"No, that's good," Mac agrees, thankful for the opportunity to restore some heat to his chilled body and have a warm place to change out of his wet clothes and into something drier.

"You'll find everything you need on the seat back there," he says, studying Mac's haggard expression in the rearview mirror. "There's a set of thermal underwear, outer garb, and a complete wetsuit to keep you dry in the future. The pants seal to the boots, just in case you get into deep water. I just hope they fit, you're a tall man."

"They'll be a thousand percent improvement over these riding boots. Thanks Norm, I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

"Maybe someday I'll be the one in need," Norm chuckles, thinking to himself that he might have finally found the right people to share his problem with. But first, he will do anything he can for them to prove his loyalty, furthering they're sense of obligation; only when this is over will he broach them with his proposition. "Go ahead and get dried off. Oh, I almost forgot, your lady threw this in at the last moment. Not sure what she put in it, but she thought you'd appreciate it," he says, handing Mac a large thermos over the seat back.

Unscrewing the cap, a large grin breaks out on his face. When Norm glances in the rearview mirror and sees him smiling, he asks, "Was she right?"

"Oh Hell yeah, Norm, she was right," he says, putting the thermos to his lips and drinking greedily of the contents. "Maybe someday you'll be lucky enough to find a woman of your own just like her."

"I'll let her know you said that," Norm smiles back.

Although the content of the thermos is no longer hot, the lukewarm coffee laced with rum was the jolt to Mac's psych that he so desperately needed. It also made his body feel better, though there isn't any hard evidence proving why such would be the case.

After drying off, Mac climbs into the provided clothing and rain gear, relishing the warmth flowing through the little Scout. With care, he goes through the supplies, finding pouches and pockets scattered over the new clothes to hold most everything, including his old cellphone, though there is no logical reason for doing so. All the while, he's munching greedily on nutrition bars and drinking from the thermos.

When they reach the end of the road and have to either turn around or head out onto the beach leading off to the south, Norm stops and lets Mac get out and stretch his legs before climbing into the passenger's side up front. Norm is pleased to note that his face looks much more refreshed and his attitude more gamey, almost as if he was looking forward to getting back out in the brush.

With the doors shut and the engine idling softly to keep the heat flowing, Norm asks him where he'd like to be dropped off.

"Take me back to the second staging area, Norm," he replies, his thoughts whirling crazily in his head. "I'm going to work my way back to the south, back into the area where I found the volunteer's body." And then as if Norm had voiced the question out loud, he continues, "They won't be expecting me to return to the scene of the crime and thus, won't dedicate many resources to searching the area."

"That's a cocky attitude, Mac," Norm remarks, concerned.

"It seems cockier than it actually is, Norm. But I appreciate your concern." Mac pauses for a moment while Norm puts the Scout in gear and turns it back the way they came from. "I don't know what it is, but something keeps nagging at me, telling me that I need to be in the area where I can do the most good for my cause, because right now, they seem to have me pinned between a rock and a hard place. Plus, there's always the chance that something was overlooked."

"You do it your way, Mac. Just know you can count on me if you need anything."

"I appreciate that, Norm."

### *27*

As we drive by the beach lots along the way, I duck down in the seat as if searching for something. There is little chance that anyone would notice me riding shotgun in the Scout, but there's no point in taking chances, either.

When the Scout makes the last bend in the road where it angles away from the south and turns east toward the staging areas and eventually Hwy 101, we notice quite a flurry of activity on the road ahead, in the same general area that I crossed the road earlier. Lights are flashing on emergency vehicles both along the side of the road and in the staging area proper.

"The young agent I met while cutting through the woods must have regained consciousness and alerted the troops," I casually remark.

"Yeah, I didn't see any of this when I came through earlier." He pauses a second, and then adds with a chuckle, "So, is that where you came across those nifty goggles?"

Not really expecting an answer, he begins to slow down as if reading my mind. After making sure the night vision goggles are securely in place on my forehead and won't fall off when I hit the ground running, I turn and look out the rear window, verifying that there isn't anything coming up behind us.

Satisfied that I won't be seen, I turn to Norm and with a grin admit, "Yeah, that's where I came across them." Our eyes meet for a brief moment during which an unspoken exchange of mutual respect passes between us. Then I give him a nod and say, "Slow down real quick here and I'll bail out."

Without a word, Norm depresses the brake pedal hard and the old Scout swerves as the brake grabs unevenly, pulling the front hard to the right.

Without waiting for it to come to a complete stop, I push open the door and call out to him as I jump out, "Get them brakes looked at before someone gets killed."

Hitting the ground hard, I hear Norm behind me saying, "Will do." And then I am in the tall beach grass, running swiftly toward the tree line and cover.

When I am less than fifty feet from the darker shadows of the woods, I drop to the ground and pull the night vision goggles down over my eyes. With care, I study the woods for any sign of life. When I see nothing through the goggles, I push them back up on my forehead and proceed into the stand of trees.

Although the goggles would make it possible for me to see anyone that might be staked out in the woods, I leave them pushed up on my forehead where the side straps interfere less with my hearing. Being old school, I feel handicapped when any of my senses are impaired, even if it is only slightly.

Moving slowly, I make my way stealthily through the scrub pines and oaks until I am well beyond the second staging area. As I continue moving south in the direction of where the volunteer's body was earlier, I keep an ear to the wind for any sign of approaching motor noise, either helicopter or ATV. There are many trails zigzagging through this area due to its proximity to the staging areas and by using them, I make good time. Well before midnight, I am back at the place where it all began earlier in the day.

If there is a moon, I am unable to see it due to the thick pea soup flowing in off the ocean. And even though I am dry and comfortable within the protection of the rain suit, my face is wet from the salt-laden mist. It is very reminiscent of kissing Eddy's face right after she's been crying, which fortunately, isn't very often.

Slipping the goggles down over my eyes, I look around at the scorched area. Because of the residual heat emanating from the ground and the smoldering stumpage, the area appears eerily surreal through the goggles. It is creepy and foreboding and a chilly hand pinches the nerves along the length of my spine, sending a cold shiver through my body; it's as if I have mistakenly traveled into an apocalyptic holocaust.

In a rush, I push the goggles back up on my forehead and take a deep breath to calm my jittery nerves. Not being a man that is very easily shaken, it bothers me that the eerie sight through the goggles had such an effect on me.

Lowering myself to the sand, I carefully sift through the top few inches with my fingers, concentrating on the very spot that I remembered the corpse being.

With time slowly passing, I can't help but wonder if I'm not wasting my time; time that would be better spent catching some shuteye and getting rested for tomorrow. Especially since I don't have any idea what I'm even looking for.

Just when I'm questioning my actions, my fingers brush up against something metallic, and I hastily excavate it from its shallow grave.

A short bladed knife.

After brushing the damp sand off of it, I carefully run my thumb along the edge, testing its sharpness. Even in the dark, I can tell the blade is dull from cutting through sand encrusted objects. And since the blade is not of the highest quality, and yet it's not rusted, it can only have been out here for a very short period time. Because of the salty sea air, everything out here rusts quickly, even stainless steel.

This is exactly what one would expect a recreational mushroom picker to be carrying.

Sitting back on my haunches, the knife held loosely in my right hand, I quickly draw the conclusion that the volunteer was out here picking mushrooms when he was shot.

With this newfound information, two questions come to mind; was the volunteer killed because he ventured somewhere and saw something that he wasn't supposed to, or was he killed just to implicate me in his murder?

If I follow that he was killed for reasons unrelated to me, it might just have come to be that someone discovered the body earlier and decided to use the situation to frame me. That means that his murder wasn't planned, but once committed, someone decided to use it to their advantage, which turned out to be my disadvantage.

If there is an upside to this information, it means that Pandora and Dillon may not have been involved in the actual murder, but only decided to use it to their advantage. Or at the least, to the advantage of whomever they are working for.

Getting out the prepaid phone, I press the preset number for Eddy. Even before the first ring finishes, she answers.

"Mac! What the hell are you thinking?" she practically screams into the mouthpiece.

"Yeah, I know," I drawl in my most submissive tone of voice. "Norm must have told you."

"In case you've forgotten, there's a massive manhunt on for you," she says, her voice slowly growing calmer. "What are you thinking, going back to the scene of the crime?"

"It made sense at the time," I softly plea. "Look Eddy, I have an idea about what's going on. I found a knife where the corpse was lying; the kind an amateur mushroomer might carry. And judging by the condition of the blade, it hasn't been out here very long. I'm almost certain it belonged to the volunteer and he was out here mushrooming when he met his demise."

She doesn't need to ask the relevance of the find, nor does she question my hypothesis after I finish sharing my thoughts with her. What she does say however is a cold reminder of why it's not always wise to work your own case. "You realize that if you're caught with that knife and it did belong to the volunteer, they'll assume you took it off him when you killed him, Mac."

Even before she finishes explaining the obvious, I am placing the knife back in the sand where I found it. It isn't necessary for me to have it now that I've learned all it can tell me and I know what the man was doing out here.

"It's back where I found it Eddy," I tell her. "Share what I learned with the others; maybe Larry has an idea about who would use the knowledge of a murder to set me up. He's been involved in almost all of my cases since I became a civilian. If anyone can come up with a list of suspects, it would be him."

"Greg and Gina are here. They said to give you their bests. Greg is going to talk with the feds in charge here tomorrow and see if he can force them to divulge the reason for having agents tailing you and Eddy," she says with a tinge of excitement in her voice.

"If anyone can pressure the government to do something, it would be Greg," I say with pride for my friend.

I'm about to tell Eddy that I love her, when I hear footsteps approaching on the trail. "I'll call you tomorrow," I quickly whisper, and then cut the call off.

Hastily, I slip the phone into a secure pocket of the wet suit that is designed to keep things dry even if I find myself in water over my head, and then pull the goggles down over my eyes while working my way down the trail toward the approaching sounds. Almost immediately, I see two ghoulish figures approaching through a sea green haze, their darker green silhouettes barely visible against the light green background.

Moving stealthily to the side of the trail, I slip into the brush and wait, keeping the goggles on until I can tell whether either of them is wearing the same. As they draw closer, I can smell stale cigarettes mixed with the unmistakable scent of marijuana. They are also whispering, carrying on an animated argument with each other.

While pushing the goggles back up on my forehead, I silently slide a little deeper into the brush and wait for them to go by. As they pass by within a few feet of where I'm hiding, it is clearly obvious to me that they don't belong to any search party.

So, where are they going and what are they doing out here at this time of the night?

They pass the spot where the volunteer's body had lain without breaking stride and continue on, fading into the surrounding brush as they follow an almost indistinguishable game-trail leading off to the southwest.

With my curiosity piqued, I silently fall in behind them, keeping a fair distance between us by using the goggles to keep them in sight when necessary. They move along at a steady pace, obviously familiar with the area and where they are going.

An hour later and more than a mile farther south, they leave the ease of yet another ATV trail to head down what at first glance looks like another game-trail. But when I reach the place where they deviated from the quad trail, I notice immediately that this new trail wasn't made by any wild game. Animals make trails by using them, usually because they lead to water or some other such natural attraction; they don't use mechanical tools, either hand or power.

The brush along this new trail still shows evidence of having been trimmed by a sharp blade, either a machete or a hand pruner. Taking one of the pruned branches in my hand and studying it closer, I determine that it has all the earmarks of having been hacked by a blade, not crushed by an anvil type pruner.

Yet, no matter what was used to build the trail, the bottom line is that it was manmade and that in itself makes it suspicious.

Pulling the goggles back down over my eyes, I look ahead through the tangle of brush and notice that the two men I'm following have stopped. Another heat source has joined them. And then, the two suddenly break off from the third and continue on.

A checkpoint!

This just keeps getting better all the time.

Pushing the goggles back up on my forehead, I test the brush on either side of me with an open palm to see if I can navigate it without making too much noise. Because of all the dew and sea mist, the foliage is damp enough to bend without snapping.

Moving slow so as not to make any sound, I work my way around to the north side of the checkpoint. When a match suddenly flares less than fifteen feet ahead of me, I feel a moment of pride in my recon skills. With each drag he takes on his cigarette, I draw a little closer, confident that he hasn't detected anything strange in his surroundings.

Standing less than five feet behind him, I suddenly lunge forward, striking him on the side of the head with a closed fist. He slumps forward to the ground, but then to my surprise, rolls over, a nine millimeter handgun in his right hand searching for a target.

Because he is stunned, his eyes aren't focusing and I have a split second to react before he fires off a round. With catlike reflexes, my right foot strikes out, connecting solidly with his right wrist. There is the loud crack of breaking bones and the weapon flies harmlessly into the surrounding brush.

Before he can call out, I drop elbow first onto his solar plexus, my two hundred plus pounds driving the wind from his lungs and cutting off any cries of warning or help.

Yet, he is a fighter, and lashes out at my face with his left hand, clawing frantically at my eyes in an effort to gouge them out. His right is virtually useless from the smashed bones in the wrist, but it is still a good place to inflict pain, and I grab the exposed hand and wrench it around, bringing it up against the side of his head.

The pain must be excruciating, as he momentarily forgets about my eyes, reaching instead for my right hand in an effort to break my hold on his shattered wrist and right hand.

In that instant, I pull back my left hand and strike him a brutal blow to the other side of his head. The sound of my fist striking his head sounds loud in the otherwise silent night and he immediately goes limp.

With the fight over as quickly as it begun, I lean over his unconscious body, listening intently into the dark surroundings for any sign that our struggle was overheard by the others.

When no one comes or calls out, I hurriedly bind his hands behind his back with his own boot laces and then secure his hands to his feet so that he can't so much as crawl. In addition, before he can regain consciousness, I search him for other weapons and anything else he might have on him of interest.

All I find, however, is another pack of cigarettes and several books of damp-proof matches, similar to my own. Not surprisingly, he isn't carrying any ID and very little cash money.

When he stirs, I get down close and whisper softly in his ear, "If you cry out, I'll slit your throat." And then, just to make sure there isn't any misunderstanding, because I would hate to kill someone for such a lousy reason, I repeat the words in Spanish.

"English," he angrily rasps.

"Good, we understand each other, then," I casually reply.

"You're a dead man," he hisses, his breath stinking up the area.

"Yeah, yeah, no one lives forever," I calmly reply, letting him get his wind back before I have to knock it out of him again. "I think you know the routine, so why don't you just tell me everything and we can avoid all the pain you're about to experience?"

"Fuck you, man," he cusses, knowing that unless he finds a way to kill me or at the least, overpower me and warn the others, his comrades are going to kill him for failing his duty, even if I don't.

"I think you understand that the likelihood of you making it through this night is pretty slim," I start, speaking slowly to give him time to think about my words before continuing. "I don't know it for fact, but I wouldn't be surprised if those friends of yours might even have a little fun with you before you die. Only you know that for sure." I pause again, expecting him to cuss me some more, but he doesn't, and I begin to suspect that my words are getting through to him. "I, on the other hand, have a proposition for you, one that you would do well to listen to."

"What can you offer me? You don't think I know who you are, McClain. You're the dead man walking," he almost laughs. "I may not live to see daylight again, but neither will you."

"People have been saying that for a long time, my friend, and look, I'm still here," I chuckle, showing him I'm not intimidated. He doesn't need to know that I'm more than a little concerned that our voices will be overheard by his friends and that they'll come to investigate.

When he hesitantly asks what I could possibly have to offer him in exchange for information, I know we are already close to striking a deal.

"If you know about the bounty on my head, then you know enough about me to believe that I'm not above killing an uncooperative bad guy. And right now, you very much appear to me to be an uncooperative bad guy," I casually reply. "I guess what I'm saying is that I'm willing to let you live provided you give me something of value in trade."

He thinks long and hard before answering, as if weighing the honesty of my words. Finally, he relents and asks, "What do you want to know?"

"Now we're making progress," I light-heartedly remark. "Let's start with who killed the volunteer," I softly demand.

When he doesn't immediately answer, I begin to suspect it was him. But if it was, instead of laying claim to it, he blames one of his comrades. "Jose."

"Does this Jose have a last name?"

"Everyone has a last name, that doesn't mean I know it," he grumbles, still not sure he's made a good bargain.

"Jose is a very common name down south. Maybe you can give me a little more about this guy, like where I can find him," I reply, also beginning to wonder whether I'd made a good deal or not.

"How the hell do I know where he is? It's not like he's my brother or anything."

"You know, I'm beginning to think you're jerking my chain," I softly reply, my anger beginning to rise. "I don't think there is a Jose at all; I think you killed the volunteer. What do you make of that?"

"You can think whatever the hell you want, that don't make it right," he hisses, his voice gradually growing louder as if attempting to alert the others.

Reaching into the boot sheathe that came with my supplies, I slip out the ten-inch, double-edged blade and nonchalantly test the edge against the side of my thumb. When I am certain I have his attention, I lean forward and prick the side of his throat before laying the cold steel against his bare flesh. For the first time since our encounter, I see fear in his eyes, and I know that I am finally making progress.

"Okay, Buttwipe, this is how it's going to go down. You start giving me something I can use, or I start the bloodletting, one cut at a time."

A bead of perspiration breaks out on his forehead, convincing me that I finally have his full attention. But just to make sure, I give him a jab with the point of the blade in a non-lethal part of his throat.

He flinches from the pain as blood flows from the fresh wound.

"Okay, okay," he stutters, his voice shrill with fear. "Jose Perez killed the guy."

"Why'd he kill him?"

"Jose thought he was a narc cause of that stupid uniform, so he shot him," he hisses. And then adds, "The asshole should have turned around and left when he saw what was going on. But no, the stupid fuck thought he was some kind of hero or something and he was going to turn us all in to the law."

"He was just a volunteer," I sigh. "By the time he walked back to the staging area and called the cops, you guys could have packed it all in and been miles from here. You didn't have to kill him."

It wasn't necessary for him to tell me about their operation. The moment I saw the two guys hiking in the middle of the night, I suspected illegal mushrooming or cooking meth, and when they passed the armed sentry, I knew without a doubt that it was the later, a meth lab.

"How far is the lab from here?"

"Three hundred feet beyond the pond," he says, nodding his head in the direction the other two had gone.

"How many of you are there?"

"Just the three of us," he says, until I lean forward again with the knife and he cringes, trying vainly to pull away from the bright steel blade. "All right, all right," he says resignedly. "There's four of us altogether; me, Jose, Sammy, and Cook. And before you go all Rambo on me, you should know that one of those assholes will be coming back to relieve me any time now, and I'm only telling you that so you don't have to kill me," he adds, the spirit gone from him like a broken man.

Wielding the blade with a practiced expertise, I flip it in my hand and lean forward; amused by the way he cringes again as I draw closer. With a deft flick of the blade, the shoe string binding his feet and hands falls free, and he tentatively flexes his good hand as if he doesn't believe that he's actually being turned loose.

"I'd get that wrist looked at," I advise him as he still tentatively gets to his feet. "And if you're half as smart as I'm giving you credit for, you'll vacate this part of the country and never return."

"Count on it," he gruffly replies, taking a step toward the trail. "It's not as if they paid very well for the risks anyway. Not like down in California where it's warm instead of this stinking cold all the time. Fuck, it never warms up here."

"One last question before you go. Just to ease my mind."

"What's that?"

"Is this a freelance operation or part of a network supplying the cartel?"

His hesitation in answering tells me what I need to know before he can mouth the words. "Can I assume that the same asshole running this operation is the same one that wants me dead?"

"It is, and for one-hundred grand, it's going to happen. In fact, when I get back to town, I'm going to take some of those odds. I'll be riding south to good old Callyforny in style," he replies, more confident by the minute that I'm really letting him go.

"Then you won't mind sharing his name with me, since I've been polite enough not to ask yours," I say.

When he hesitates, I sternly remark, "It's not negotiable."

"We had a deal," he whines, still confident that he's going to walk out of the dunes under his own power.

"The deal was that you were going to tell me what I wanted to know, and I want to know, who's your boss?"

"If I tell you that, I'm a dead man for sure," he pleads, suddenly not so sure of his future.

"You don't tell me, same difference." I pause a moment for effect before adding, "As I see it, you die here and now or you take your chances and start over in another part of the country. If I were you," I continue, as if he'd ask my advice. "I'd spill what I know and take my chances at getting out of the country alive. At least you'll have a head start and a fighting chance."

"They're out of Juarez. He's a lesser security chief by the name of Jorge Ali." He hesitates for a moment and then asks, "Can I go now?"

"Sure, get out of here. If I ever see your face again, you're dead," I reminded him, not fully convinced that I was doing the right thing and should probably just kill him for the principle of it.

Though I am sorely tempted to simply throw the knife into him before he can go too far, I am a man of my word and thus, he gets his opportunity to start over. If he is stupid enough to run back to his boss, Jorge Ali, he will certainly be made an example of and suffer a long, tortured death for failing to guard the cook site. In addition, Jorge will kill him simply for giving up his name.

And I will shoot him down like a dog if I ever see his ugly face again.

When I am certain that he isn't circling back and has kept going, I set off in the direction of the cook site.

### *28*

"What do you mean you dropped him off on the south side of the road near the lower staging area?" Eddy demands, clearly upset with Norm. "That area is crawling with feds. Even if he isn't thinking straight, Norm, I would think you'd have better sense," she continues, verbally berating him for dropping Mac off in the middle of the search area when he fully understood that Mac intended on returning to the spot where the body turned up.

"He seemed to know what he was doing," Norm meekly replies, his head hanging low.

"It's not his fault, Eddy. We all know what Mac can be like," Greg says, interceding on Norm's behalf. "Hell, maybe he's learned something that will help with his case, because based on what we currently have for facts, it's not looking good. But even if he hasn't, I'm sure if he'd been captured, we would have heard something by now. The feds know I'm here and handling Mac's situation from a legal standpoint. They won't hesitate to contact me if anything relevant happens."

They are all sitting around the poker table next to the dance floor at Norm's bar, including Gina; Greg and Gina having decided to stop at the bar and check in on Eddy before continuing on to the hotel.

"When are you going to question them with regard to surveillance on Mac?" Eddy asks, ignoring Norm for the moment.

It doesn't escape Eddy's notice that Gina seems to be studying her closely. But she writes it off to nothing more than an interest in her wellbeing because of the current situation involving Mac.

"I have a meeting tomorrow with a Special Agent Nixon," he replies, just as the sound of someone hammering on the front door reverberates through the place.

As all heads turn as one toward the entrance, Norm sternly yells, "Can't you see we're closed? Now get the Hell out of here!" And then under his breath adds, "I guess some people just can't read."

When the hammering on the door resumes with even more force, Norm heads toward the bar and the shotgun hidden behind it. "Sons of bitches," he mutters, stepping out from behind the bar and heading toward the front door with the shotgun in hand.

Meanwhile, Eddy has already started toward the door, her nine-millimeter in her right hand. Side by side, they walk down the narrow corridor leading to the front door.

"I'll handle this," Norm says, eyeing her with pride.

While Eddy steps to the side to cover him, Norm yells through the solid wood door, "Who is it? Can't you tell we're closed?"

Although not a word has been spoken with regard to who is banging on the door of the place, all of them strongly suspect it's the law, and they've come looking for Mac. How they could have tied Norm and his bar to Mac doesn't enter their minds; just the fact that they did.

"Eddy! Are you in there?"

"That's Manny," Eddy cries out with relief, pushing past Norm to unlock the deadbolt.

As the door opens, Eddy races out and throws her arms around Manny Bank's neck, giving him a passionate embrace. "Oh Manny, I'm so glad to see you," she says on the verge of tears.

Norm reaches out and grabs her by the arm and pulls her back into the bar and off the sidewalk. Still clutching Manny, he gets dragged into the bar with her. Stepping past both of them, Norm hurriedly glances up and down the street, and then steps back inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

Literally dragging Manny down the hall and into the bar proper, Eddy excitedly says, "Everyone, this is Manny Banks. He's a good friend of ours."

After introductions are made all around, they take seats around the poker table with a fresh pot of coffee and get down to business.

"Manny has connections in lots of different areas," Eddy explains. And then asks Manny if he's heard anything with regards to the contract taken out on Mac.

"I have quite a bit of news about that, actually," he begins, his expression growing serious.

"Is it as bad as we're imagining?" Greg asks.

"I'm afraid it might be worse than even that," Manny replies.

"How's that," Greg asks, his voice all business.

"My sources informed me that the contract isn't just on Mac, though his head is worth the most monetarily, but that it's on four individuals," he states.

"Four?" Greg repeats.

Before Manny can say anymore, Eddy says, "I think I know who the four are. But what I don't understand is why."

"Does the name Jorge Ali ring any bells?" Manny asks, keeping his gaze on Eddy.

"No, should it?"

"It seems that his son was killed a while back in northern California when he led a group of men into the mountains chasing after a woman in the witness protection program. Does that ring a bell?"

"The record keeper," Eddy sighs as understanding blooms. And then, angrily says, "But they came after us. We were boxed in and they were going to kill all of us. We didn't have any choice but to shoot our way out. Even the justice department saw our actions as self-defense."

"That may be true, Eddy. But that's not the story they got. The way it was told to his father was that you guys ambushed them," Manny states, his voice impartial.

"I've known Mac a long time, Manny," Greg starts. "If ever there was a man that couldn't shoot someone in the back, it would be Mac."

"No one is saying he shot anyone in the back," Manny argues.

"Isn't an ambush basically the same thing?" Gina demands.

To everyone's surprise, Norm speaks for the first time since Manny's arrival, "If you'd ever been in combat or under fire, you'd know that an ambush and shooting someone in the back aren't even in the same book. An ambush is nothing more than a strategic move; shooting someone in the back is an entirely different thing altogether." He pauses a moment and then adds, "Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, spoken and unspoken. We just do the best we can to survive."

If anyone had doubts about Norm's past, they were just erased.

After a long moment of silence, Manny asks about the events involving Mac up to this point. When Eddy finishes with telling him that he is making his way back to where the body was first discovered, Manny doesn't act surprised in the least. Instead, he simply asks where Larry is at.

"He's doing surveillance at the hotel," Eddy explains, adding Larry's suspicions with regard to the desk clerk.

Rising, Manny says, "I don't know about the rest of you, but it's been a long day and I'm growing tired. Since you all have rooms, I think it would be prudent of me to make an acquaintance with this desk clerk at the hotel."

Gina quickly offers, "There are other hotels in town, Manny. In case you would care for something a little more accommodating." She is making an assumption about Manny based solely on his dapper appearance, and not really knowing him.

Manny chuckles, flattered by her assessment of him based solely on his fancy attire. "My dear," he smiles, throwing her a wink. "Now what would be the fun in that?"

"My appointment with the feds tomorrow is at 9 in the morning. What say we meet back here at 10?" Greg suggests as they all rise from the table.

"Let me get everyone's numbers in my phone before we go," Manny suggests, aware that Eddy, Norm, Larry, and Mac all have disposables and he'd just met Greg and Gina.

"Good idea," Greg agrees, adding the disposable numbers to his phone also.

Leaving Norm behind at the bar, the others head back to the hotel, Eddy riding with Manny in his sedan, while Greg and Gina take their own car. Back at the hotel, Manny breaks off from the others. While they head up to their respective rooms, Manny steers straight for the front desk; all of them ignoring Larry sitting on a bench pretending to be absorbed in a newspaper.

Manny isn't necessarily a large man, but he does conceal a muscular build beneath his dress slacks and suit coat. Stepping up to the desk, he clears his throat and says, "I'd like a room for the week, if you have anything."

"Sure. Just sign here," the man behind the desk says, turning the register around for Manny to sign before he turns to the back wall and removes a room key from one of the many hooks, most of which still have keys hanging from them.

"Would you like to swipe my credit card?" Manny asks, more than just a little familiar with the procedure, as he owns a casino/motel of his own.

"That won't be necessary. You can square up when you're ready to check out," the man says, interested in nothing more than the name Manny signed in under.

"Why thank you, my man," Manny replies with a knowing wink as he accepts the proffered key.

Heading toward the elevators, Manny gives Larry a barely perceptible nod and then has a change of heart and uses the stairwell instead.

After locating his assigned room he decides to check in on Eddy before calling it a night, and turns back down the hall to her door.

He knocks once and the door opens. "I won't take a moment of your time, Eddy. But I thought I should check in on you before calling it a night."

At just that moment, Gina steps out of the bathroom and sees Manny in the doorway. "That's sweet of you Manny," Eddy says. "Come on in, you can join us for a nightcap."

"If you're sure it's not any trouble," Manny says, suddenly wishing he had just gone to his room and called it a night. As much as he loves Eddy like a sister, he has little interest in engaging in a conversation of girl talk.

"Oh no, no trouble at all," Gina pipes up. "We have a lot of rum on hand, if you'd like a glass," she adds with a giggle, setting another glass on the desk and pouring it full of rum before Manny can refuse.

"Please, Manny, come on in," Eddy says, taking his hand and pulling him into the room proper. "We're just a couple of girls catching up."

Exactly what he was dreading.

Dragging a chair across the room and setting it next to the bed, Gina retrieves the third glass of rum and carries it over to Manny. When he takes it from her, she reaches for his other hand and between Eddy and her, guide him to the chair before retrieving their own drinks and settling on the massive bed with their feet dangling over the side.

"So, how much am I worth Manny?" Eddy starts, her voice confirming Manny's suspicions that she's been drinking.

"That's not really important, Eddy," Manny replies, growing more uncomfortable by the minute.

Standing up, he begins to tell them that he's really tired and needs to get to bed, when Eddy suddenly says, "I'm sorry Manny. Forget I said that."

Her contriteness appears genuine to him, and he lowers himself back down on the chair. "It's okay, Eddy. I understand that you're under a lot of pressure."

"What did you think of that desk clerk?" Gina asks before taking a sip from her glass.

"He's a hired hand. His job is simply to get the name of everyone that comes and goes," Manny replies.

"What about the regular help?" Eddy asks. "What happened to them?"

"Well, if you're thinking that they probably killed them to install their own people, I wouldn't give it anymore thought. With the cartel's resources, all the regular staff scheduled to work this weekend are probably getting bonuses and some paid time off," he says with conviction.

"Do you think they'll connect Greg and Gina to Mac?" Eddy asks, suddenly realizing that her friends could be in danger too.

"I'm sure they already have, Eddy. But don't worry about it; they know you're here and they haven't made a move yet," Manny replies, trying to ease her concern.

"They could just be waiting to draw all the targets together before they make their move, too," Gina remarks, and then immediately regrets that she spoke her thoughts out loud.

Before Eddy can speak, Manny says, "Even if that is true, Gina, they must realize that the area is overrun with feds and media crews with their reporters. Nothing is going to happen until they're confident they can get away with it. They are as concerned with survival as you and I."

Eddy, who is much more familiar with the cartel's tactics, understands immediately that Manny is speaking only for Gina's benefit; he doesn't want to upset her any more than she already is.

Eddy on the other hand has been around the block a few times and knows what to expect from a ruthless gang of thugs, especially when money is the incentive. She knows that what Gina is thinking is probably the reality of their situation.

Though Eddy wants to ask Manny for his advice, she can't do it in front of Gina without confirming Gina's suspicions and fears. So she is surprised when Gina asks Manny what is foremost on her own mind.

"How can we possibly deal with these people when there's no way to make them understand the truth?" Gina asks, her mind working like that of the attorney that she is. "There's no negotiating with them. And even if they don't strike this week, they might next week, or even next year," she says, her voice cracking with emotion. "How can we protect ourselves?"

"That's what you have friends for, Gina," Manny replies, his voice somber. "We'll see what Greg learns from the feds tomorrow and go from there," he says, rising to his feet. "In the meantime, I can assure you that nothing bad is going to happen. Get some sleep, both of you."

Leaving Gina on the bed with her drink, Eddy follows Manny to the door. Stepping out into the hall with him, she says softly, "She's a strong woman, Manny. Tomorrow, after she's slept off the rum, she'll be embarrassed that she acted so weakly in front of us."

"I understand, Eddy. But keep an eye out just the same. What she said made a lot of sense and might be closer to the truth than we care to admit, even to ourselves."

### *29*

Heading south along the well concealed trail, I haven't gone far when I hear someone approaching from the other direction. Lowering the goggles down over my eyes, I verify that it's a single individual. I can also tell by the blurry image that the individual is carrying a rifle. It isn't necessary to see it close up to know that it's more than likely a fully automatic assault rifle. Even in the dark, dodging bullets from a fully automatic weapon with nothing more than brush for cover could prove to be a tad tricky, and not something I intend on having to do anytime soon if I can help it.

Crouching low, I push the goggles back up on my forehead and back pedal into the denser brush on the west side of the trail. When he draws closer, I pick up the unmistakable scent of stale tobacco intermingled with weed. "Are you the asswipe that killed that poor volunteer?" I silently wonder.

Slipping the knife from the ankle sheathe into my left hand, I have every intention of asking him just that question when he suddenly freezes in his tracks, his entire body frozen and unmoving.

Feeling confident that I'm not the reason for his sudden change in behavior, I lower the goggles over my eyes and scan the surrounding area while listening intently for any sound that doesn't belong.

When I turn back in the direction of the approaching man with the long barreled weapon, I discover that the weapon is now raised to his shoulder and pointed right at me.

Without thinking, I reflexively lunge forward across the trail and roll head over heels into the brush. The chopped off ends of the brittle limbs and branches are the equivalent of many pointed spears, stabbing at me and impeding my movements.

Yet, my sudden reactions and great reflexes have once again saved my life, as the automatic weapon pours a stream of hot lead into the spot where I had been just a fraction of a second earlier.

Reaching for the magnum, my right hand snags in the brush just as another burst erupts from the automatic rifle, the bullets tearing through the brush on all sides of me.

Miraculously, none of the bullets strike me.

Tearing my hand free from the snag while leaving a little flesh behind in the process, I reach through the zippered opening in the front of the rain suit and find the butt of the magnum. Closing my hand over it, I rise to my feet and in a crouch, retreat down the trail away from the man with the rifle, the magnum now comfortably gripped in my right hand.

When another burst fails to come close to my position, I slow down enough to return the knife to its sheath so I have a free hand for pushing the brush aside before it can slap my face.

Switching the weapon over to my left hand, I notice that the grips are slick with blood, and I take a quick second to inspect my right hand. To my dismay, I discover a deep puncture wound in the back of it. The stick found a soft spot between two bones and almost went clear through, not quite coming out in the palm. The pain is still negligible at this point because the nerves are in shock. But I know it won't be long before it starts to hurt. Yet, if I don't get out of here and quick, my hand will be the least of my problems.

Looking back over my shoulder with the aid of the goggles, I don't see anything emanating a heat source and figure I must have lost him for the time being.

Based on experience and supported by the abundant smell of marijuana emanating from the guy, he's probably already turned tail and retreated to the cook site to alert the others.

How did he know I was there? Did I miss something when I sent the lookout packing?

Of course, I did. They had to have a warning system and before the other guy left, he engaged it, whatever it was. Or it was as simple as an unreturned sound in the night.

"Son of a bitch!" I hiss angrily under my breath, frustrated with myself for being so careless. I've been around long enough to know there would be a series of signals that are exchanged between them whenever the lookouts change shifts. And the guy I let go even told me that he was about to be relieved; all I had to do was ask him what the signal was and he probably would have told me. But since I didn't ask, he probably laughed all the way back to town, especially when he heard the automatic open fire, a sound that carries quite a distance. And he couldn't have missed the fact that there wasn't any return fire.

In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he thinks I'm dead, right about now. Well, I'll just have to show them I'm not.

When I reach the start of the camouflaged trail, I turn back again and study my back trail with the aid of the night vision goggles. Satisfied that I'm not being pursued, I determine to cut my own trail to their meth lab.

Finding the path of least resistance, I work my way out to the beach where I can make better time. Jogging along the water line where the sand is firmer, I continue on well past the point where the cook site should be if I believe the lookout. When I've gone more than a half-mile farther, I turn toward the east and climb up over the fore dune, heading back into the sand dunes.

Fortunately, my hand didn't bleed for long, but it feels stiff and hurts fiercely whenever I try to clench it. It was a stroke of luck that the stick didn't sever any of the muscles or tendons that control the fingers.

The brush around here wasn't touched by the fire, and although still green, is making for slow going. It takes me much longer to work my way back to the meth site than I had intended. Yet, I must move with caution, even though I am approaching from the south side, something they could not be expecting.

The first sign that I am getting close is when I smell the meth cooking, an acidic smell of chemicals that burns the nostrils and puts the taste of copper in the back of your mouth. This overpowering smell is also tainted with the smell of human waste and marijuana.

When I hear cussing in hushed tones, I study the area with the night vision goggles, trying to distinguish the separate individuals.

After a long moment, in which I can only make out two individuals, I draw the conclusion that the one with the automatic rifle is either standing guard along the concealed trail, or continued on in pursuit of me, which I don't find likely.

Although the man with the weapon is more than likely the man that I need to question, I must silence these two first. And after my last encounter with one of them, they are alert and wary.

Slipping the goggles back up on my forehead, I silently slip through the brush, working my way directly toward the larger of the two images that I'd seen through the goggles.

He is standing in front of a makeshift workbench beneath a large tarp that has been strung over the entire area. It measures close to thirty feet square and even in the dark of night, I can see the light and dark blotches of camouflaging.

Though I am concentrating on the larger individual because he might prove to be the more dangerous based solely on his size, I cannot afford to lose track of the smaller one either.

When I reach the outer boundary of their manmade clearing, I am just able to make out the two men in the dim yellow light of a smoldering lantern set off to the side on the same workbench.

Crouched down in the brush, I study the layout for a moment before devising a plan of attack. The larger man is clear across the opening with his back to me; an easy mission to take him out with minimal force. Yet, the smaller individual is off to my right, sitting on an overturned bucket smoking on a cigarette or a joint, I'm not sure which, with a riot shotgun lying across his lap; the same weapon most law enforcement carry in their vehicles and for obvious reasons, not the least of which is dependability. Even if the dirtball sitting there with it across his lap hasn't cleaned it in months, it will work as flawlessly as if it were new from the factory, and at this range, he won't miss.

Unless he's stoned out of his gourd!

Although it appears that the small guy is staring intently at the larger man, I have no doubt that his mind is a thousand miles away.

This thought is further substantiated when the big man drops something in the sand at his feet and bends over, cussing loudly and cursing his luck, and all the while the smaller man continues staring absently ahead.

While the big man is bent over and scraping angrily at the ground, I silently step out of the brush and approach him from behind, all the while never taking my eyes off the smaller man.

The bench is strewn with kettles, bowels, a couple of propane cookers, and a mess of spoons and hoses scattered about. Beneath the bench are bags of supplies, a couple of rusty propane bottles connected to the burners, and miscellaneous items.

To my left are several thick sleeping bags laid out on the ground. Next to them are their personal duffel bags with a few toiletry items lying on top of the open sleeping bags.

As I approach the bench, the big man rises, unable to locate what he dropped. Moving swiftly, I step up behind him and clamp my arms around his neck. Before he can react, I spin him off balance and put his larger body between me and smaller man, who now realizes that something bad is happening.

His mind blurred by the effects of the drugs, he jumps to his feet and then sways precariously as the bucket rolls over backward and the shotgun falls to the ground.

"Leave it!" I command.

The big man squirms in my grasp, and I clench my arms tighter, cutting off the flow of blood to his brain while taking a step back to keep him off balance.

When the smaller man begins to lean forward again, I bluff, "If you go for it, you're a dead man." And then to get the bigger man to comply, I softly whisper in his ear, "If you don't stand still, I'm just going to kill you. Now hold still."

To my surprise, he does as he is told and quits resisting.

"That's better," I whisper in his ear, relieved.

"Step away from the shotgun," I order the smaller one.

To my surprise, he suddenly drops down to the ground, grabbing the shotgun and swinging it up to his hip before squeezing off a shot, and then immediately working the pump and chambering another round, which he fires the instant the breech closes.

I feel the impact of the first slug with a mix of surprise and disbelief. When the second slug tears into flesh, driving me back another step from the impact, I react instinctively, and lower my head into the large man's shoulder blades while reaching for the magnum.

Even as the big guy's body slumps to the ground at my feet, I squeeze off three quick rounds, the first striking the little man in the chest and driving him backwards, the muzzle of the shotgun rising toward the sky as a third and final shot rings out from it.

My second and third shots strike the little man in the throat and head consecutively as his body is carried backwards from the momentum of the heavy lead slugs.

In the silence that follows, I look down at the big man's limp form lying face down in the sand, disappointed that he's dead and won't be able to answer my questions, while subconsciously replacing the spent shells from the magnum and putting the empties in a zippered pocket of the rain suit.

I have no doubts that the man with the automatic rifle heard the gunfire and is already heading this way. Somehow, I have to get the drop on him and take him alive. He is most likely the man that shot the volunteer, unlike these two, one of which was a cook and the other armed with a shotgun.

Moving quickly, I scan the items lying both on and below the workbench before coming up with a plan. It's probably not the smartest plan I've ever come up with, but the alternatives all involve trying to overpower a man with superior firepower at his disposal.

Hefting one of the LP bottles and verifying that it still contains a couple of gallons of propane, I next light the burner, setting the flame to low. After placing the burner on the ground, I place one of the empty kettles on it and then set the other LP bottle on the kettle. If my knowledge of physics isn't too far off, it won't take but a few minutes for the contents of the bottle balanced on the kettle to begin boiling. With a test pressure of only three hundred pounds per square inch, it's going to explode, which will release the volatile propane within only to be ignited by the open flame of the burner beneath it.

And if that doesn't work, I can always put a bullet in it.

With the tank heating up, I scurry back into the brush and lower the goggles down over my eyes to watch for the man with the rifle. The blue flame of the burner appears bright green through the goggles and is distorting my vision, but not so much that I can't see the individual trying to sneak up on his encampment.

He has left the trail and is coming in from behind the workbench, hoping to catch me by surprise.

But the surprise is on him when the bottle suddenly reaches its bursting point and explodes like a bomb, the metal tank flying outwards in a thousand pieces of hot steel, a large blue ball of flame mushrooming skyward.

A blast of hot air passes over me in conjunction with a massive shockwave, and then a second explosion rocks the ground beneath me, as the second bottle ruptures and explodes. Fire is raining down from the sky, the entire area suddenly in flames.

While the tarp stretched over the area burns and melts, molten plastic dripping down the tie ropes, I dash forward, clearing what's left of the makeshift camp in just three strides.

Crashing forward into the dense brush, my right foot hangs up momentarily as it drops into a hole. Pulling it free, my nose is assaulted by the stench of raw feces and I realize that I've landed in their hand-dug commode. Yet, I keep rushing forward, intent on reaching the man with the rifle before he can regain his senses and figure out what's going on. The bottle exploded sooner than I had hoped, but those were the cards that I was dealt.

Suddenly, from off to my right, the automatic rifle opens fire sending a long uninterrupted burst into the area of the burning campsite. He recovered from the surprise a lot quicker than would have been convenient, but he has no idea where I am and is just shooting blindly.

When his clip runs empty and the firing pin strikes only air, I rise to my feet and charge in the direction from which the gunfire originated. To my surprise, the man is less than ten feet from me, but separated by an almost impenetrable wall of thorny brush.

Unfortunately, he sees me at almost the same time I see him. Dropping the automatic weapon, he pulls a semi-auto handgun and draws a bead on me.

So much for the idea of asking him if he was the one that shot the volunteer and then bringing him in so that he can confess to law enforcement and bring this to an end. Moreover, without the weapon that committed the crime in his possession, he's worthless to me.

The magnum bucks once in my left hand and the man is driven backwards by the high velocity slug smashing through his forehead.

"Damn!" I cuss out loud, disappointed that I'd gotten so close to vindication and then lost it in the beat of a heart.

With the flames dying down behind me, I slip the magnum back into its holster and head back in the direction of the trail. With the stench of feces clinging to my boot, I determine to find some water to wade through and wash it off.

With daylight less than two hours away, I also need to find a place to hole up. When the law dogs see what happened out here, they'll renew the search with vigor, and I can't afford to be anywhere near.

More bodies also mean more media.

### *30*

When Manny gets back to his room, he discovers Larry waiting in the hall for him. "I'm glad you're here, Manny," Larry says when he draws close.

"Yeah, I'm not sure what I'm good for, especially since the feds don't have much use for me and right now, Mac needs all the friends he can muster, including the feds," he says with a smile. "Come on in, we can raid the mini-bar and see what comes with one of these rooms."

Larry, aware that Manny is accustomed to better accommodations than a hotel that subsidizes itself by arranging sand rides, merely chuckles, bemused, following him into the room.

When the door closes, Larry says, "The clerk is working for the cartel, but other than that, I haven't seen any evidence of them being in town. They're keeping a very low profile."

"That's not usually their speed. But then, maybe this Ali character is trying something different. By announcing a contract, he wants justice for his son. But at the same time it would appear that he doesn't want to get his own hands dirty. Why?" Manny muses, lifting a bottle of brandy from the mini-bar.

"Yeah, it's not as if that's ever stopped his kind before," Larry agrees.

"He wants revenge, but he doesn't want to draw attention to himself," Manny muses.

"Or is it that he doesn't want to draw attention to this area?" Larry asks. "What if he has business interests in this area that he doesn't want made public?"

"What kind of business?" Manny asks, pouring them each a tumbler of brandy.

At just that moment, Larry's cell vibrates, and he quickly flips it open when he sees Mac's number calling.

"Hey Mac, is everything okay?" he asks, his voice anxious.

"I know you heard that I didn't stay in the north, so I'll just cut to the chase and bring you up to speed," Mac says, his voice sounding short from fatigue and lack of sleep.

When he finishes telling Larry everything about the cook site and the guard that he turned loose after learning about the shooter, and then how it all ended, Larry tells him not to worry, "Greg will be talking to the feds in the morning and he'll let him know beforehand what he just learned. In the meantime, just lie low."

When Mac hangs up, Larry turns to Manny and tells him what Mac just told him. "That explains a lot," Manny says, taking a sip from his tumbler. "Jorge doesn't want the cartel's operations up here disrupted in any way or manner. It's probably driving him crazy that Mac and Eddy decided to come up here for a vacation get away, of all places," Manny chuckles.

Laughing, Larry adds, "Yeah, leave it to Mac to disrupt things. Of course, this one he didn't even plan."

Manny suddenly turns serious, and when Larry gives him a questioning look, says, "If they believe Greg tomorrow, and I have every reason to believe they will, they are probably going to offer the four of you witness protection."

Manny doesn't have to tell him what the implications of witness protection will entail. For one thing, it means never returning to their old haunts. It will also mean having to give up what few friends they have, such as Manny. And though their friends are few, they are very loyal friends, not ones to be taken for granted.

"We've never needed anyone looking out for us before, Manny, why should we now?" Larry asks a bit indignantly.

"Because you're not a young buck anymore Larry. And there are other things in life besides always having to look over your shoulder for that low life looking to collect a reward," he sternly replies.

"I guess that tells me where you stand on the subject," he says, respecting Manny's opinion even if he doesn't agree with it.

"It's been a long day, Larry. Let's get some rest and see what tomorrow brings. I only threw that out there in case you hadn't considered it before." He pauses for a long moment, downing the last of the brandy and setting his tumbler on the desk before affectionately adding, "Besides, you're probably right; who would offer you bunch of hooligans witness protection?"

### *31*

Bright and early the next morning, Greg steps into a conference room at the State Hwy Patrol's local office. He is carrying a brief case and dressed in a suit and tie. Already seated across the table and facing the door are two men with dour expressions, their attire suggesting that they're with the FBI or Justice Department. Taking one of the six chairs facing the men across the table, Greg is soon flanked on either side by state troopers and county sheriff deputies, all of whom are wearing uniforms.

Greg assumes that everyone must be present, when a tall slender man of advancing age with very hawkish features suddenly comes hurrying in, apologizing to everyone and no one as he moves around the table and takes up a seat across from Greg and between the feds.

When he finally settles into his chair, a thick sheaf of papers planted on the table before him that he removed from a briefcase that he set on the end of the table, several of the uniformed men adjust in their seats as if preparing for a long and drawn out meeting.

Just as the man clears his throat, a uniformed deputy suddenly enters the room with a tray of mugs and an air pot of hot coffee. "Close the door on your way out," the hawkish man orders the deputy. And then adds with a tone of dismissal that clearly states he expects his requests to be carried out without question, "Thank you."

While everyone busies themselves pouring coffee and embellishing it to their individual tastes with cream and sugar, the latest arrival ignores the others as he turns his attention to the inch thick stack of papers from his brief case. When he looks up, he feigns patience with everyone, but Greg's experience as a top notch attorney easily sees through his façade and recognizes the true impatience in his eyes.

When he can't restrain himself any longer, he says, "My name is Charles Milton. For those of you that don't know me, I am an Assistant U.S. Assistant Attorney General. Special Agent Nixon of the FBI will not be in attendance this morning; he has been reassigned to another case." Because he has no genuine interest in any of the other occupants in the room, he doesn't ask for introductions, nor does he expect any. "Before we go any further, I would like to pass this around for everyone present to sign. It merely states that everything discussed in this room today may be used in a court of law and that no one will discuss these proceedings outside of this room. That includes mentioning it to your spouses. It's a binding confidentiality agreement. If anyone has a problem with this, please excuse yourself now."

Although Greg just assumes that no one would dare leave the room, the Assistant Attorney General sits quietly watching each and every one sign the form before continuing. When it finally makes its way around the table and is pushed back in front of him, he studies it for a moment longer as if verifying the signatures to his own satisfaction.

"All right, this is what we know so far," he finally says with an air of authority, his glance moving from one to the next.

It doesn't escape Greg's notice that he seems more concerned with the uniformed men and him. He clearly views the other feds seated at the table as his peers.

While the Assistant Attorney General goes over all the details that the feds have to date, Greg patiently waits for his turn to speak. Most of what he learns from the Assistant Attorney General is information that they already had or had surmised. But when he brings up the surveillance of Mac and his friends after they learned about the contract on them, Greg can't refrain himself from interrupting and asking the man why none of the subjects involved had been informed of this information earlier.

"I understand your concern for your friends, Mr....," he hesitates while he looks over the signature sheet to find Greg's name. "Mr. Lott."

"Please, just call me Greg," he quickly responds, cutting him off.

Although he sincerely wants to like the man, he's having a hard time warming up to him and is quickly growing impatient with his superior-than-thou attitude.

Not accustomed to being interrupted, the Assistant Attorney General pauses while he studies Greg over the stack of papers, the signature sheet still suspended slightly out in front of him in his right hand.

Having stared down tougher men than this pompous federal attorney, Greg is not intimidated in the least and meets the man's gaze, forcing him to look away first.

When the Assistant Attorney General looks down at his paperwork and clears his throat, several of the other men in the room suddenly regard Greg with newfound respect; they now realize that he's not just another pencil pushing desk jockey from a large legal firm. However, despite the respect he might have earned, Greg can't help but wonder if he didn't just hurt Mac's case.

"Mr. Lott," the Assistant Attorney General slowly starts. "I am sorry that your friends weren't informed of the danger they might be in. That wasn't my call."

"Was it your call that surveillance not interfere when a hit man tried to kill Mr. McClain and the woman with him, Miss Eddy Lotto, just down the street from here?" Greg angrily retorts. "And are you aware that McClain was almost killed out in the sand when he discovered the body of the volunteer that was killed?"

His voice firm and commanding, the Assistant Attorney General states, "I apologize for the close call with the hit man the other night; that one got away from us. But I assure you, as you'll come to understand in a moment if you'll bear with me; your friend was never in any danger out on the sand, Mr. Lott."

Understanding suddenly blossoms in Greg's mind and he suddenly blurts out, "Dillon and Pandora were working for you!"

Smiling mischievously, the Assistant Attorney General slyly replies, "They're investigators that work for my office."

"They're damned lucky Mac didn't kill them," Greg hisses angrily.

"They're very good at their job."

Turning to the state trooper in charge of the investigation, as well as the manhunt for Mac, Greg asks, "Did you know that Mac hadn't killed the volunteer?"

His angry gaze on the Assistant Attorney General, he replies in a tightly controlled voice, "Not until just this moment."

Turning back toward the Assistant Attorney General, Greg says, "Were you aware that a U.S. Coast Guard helicopter opened fire on an innocent man?"

"Innocent?" the Assistant Attorney General sneers.

As if it's necessary to make him understand, Greg steely replies, "He didn't kill the volunteer and you knew it, and yet, you allowed an armed helicopter the very real possibility of killing him."

The man shifts nervously in his chair, showing a crack in his haughty veneer for the first time. "I understand that your _innocent_ man killed three people last night," he finally responds, emphasizing the word innocent.

Greg hadn't mentioned anything about the events Larry relayed to him of the preceding evening regarding Mac's discovery of the meth cook site, and the Assistant Attorney General's knowledge of it catches him off guard.

Seeing Greg's surprised reaction to his statement, the Assistant Attorney General takes back the momentum and runs with it. "Yes, Mr. Lott, I already know what your client friend has been up to, so you'll understand my lack of empathy for his innocence." Pausing to relish the moment, he slowly continues, "Now I'm going to tell you what we want from your client.

All this time, the uniformed law dogs as well as the federal agents in suits sitting across the table haven't said much. And judging by their reactions to the Assistant Attorney General's latest words, they aren't going to.

And though Greg wants to ask what the feds are going to do after all the danger they've already placed Mac in, he bites his tongue and obediently listens along with the others.

"Your client appears to have pissed off one Jorge Ali, a mid-level cartel security chief."

When he pauses to look down at his stack of papers, Greg asks, "Why does the federal government care about a mid-level security chief in the cartel?"

"We don't," says one of the suits sitting next to the Assistant Attorney General, drawing a disapproving glance from the ranking Attorney General.

"As you've just heard," the Assistant Attorney General says. "We don't really have much interest in Jorge Ali. Except that with the death of his son, there is a rumor he is looking to retire and leave the cartel."

"No one leaves the cartel, at least, no one leaves alive," Greg interjects, taking his turn at receiving a disapproving glance from the man.

"Those are our thoughts also, Mr. Lott," the Assistant Attorney General states, trying to get his stride back. "Now, if you will all stop interrupting, I'll explain why we are here this morning and what the intended outcome of this meeting is."

Greg almost says he's sorry, and then catches himself. Instead, he simply replies, "Go ahead, I'm dying to hear."

Glancing irritably at Greg as if his comment wasn't necessary, the Assistant Attorney General noisily clears his throat and then says, "Although Jorge Ali is only a mid-level security chief, he possesses key information with regard to a human trafficking network operating from Canada to Latin America and all the way to the Straits of Magellan. While the Canadian Mounties are cooperating fully in the investigation, we are getting virtually no support from south of the border."

Although it seems like an irrelevant statement, one of the feds sitting next to the Assistant Attorney General clarifies, "They are literally picking up young teenage runaways off the streets of Canada and the U. S. and taking them into Mexico and farther south where they become chattel to the wealthy and influential."

He suddenly stops when he sees the Assistant Attorney General glaring at him. Slowly, the Assistant Attorney General turns away from him and continues, "Jorge Ali, although a small player in the big scheme of things, is responsible for the uninterrupted transportation of this cargo along the I-5 corridor through Oregon and into northern California. Until recently, there isn't any evidence that he has been involved in the actual abduction of them. But shortly after the death of his son, that all changed."

The Assistant Attorney General clears his throat before continuing and when he does, Greg takes the opportunity to ask a question. "Was his son involved in the trafficking?"

"Near as we can tell, he was nothing more than armed muscle, doing what he was ordered to do by his father," he civilly replies with no hint of annoyance at the interruption this time.

"So why would the death of his son change what he was doing previously?"

"I'm getting to that," he replies, again displaying just the slightest hint of impatience. "Our agents in the field think that is how he reacted to the grief of losing his only son. But believe it or not, Jorge Ali harbors an almost fanatical belief in religion. Our latest thinking is that after the anger of losing his son ran its course, he began to feel remorse for the young boys and girls that he sent down south and is now repenting."

"Then why not approach him and make a deal?" Greg suddenly asks.

This time, the Assistant Attorney General pauses long and hard, glaring angrily at Greg. His words cold and measured, he replies, "If it was that easy, don't you think we would have already done it?"

When Greg begins to open his mouth, the Assistant Attorney General quickly cuts him off, "Mr. Lott, please try to control your outbursts." Glancing around the room at the rest of the men, he says, "If there are any further questions, I'll entertain them when I've finished. Until then, I'm going to ask each of you to keep you thoughts and questions to yourselves."

Glancing around the room again as if making sure everyone understands, he continues, "Since time is short and we've wasted enough already, I'm going to get to the point." With that said, he jumps right into the thick of it. "It is the federal government's position that we intend on using Mr. McClain to draw out Jorge Ali so that federal agents can arrest and subsequently interrogate him. We intend on doing this by allowing Mr. McClain to escape and resurface near the last area Ali was known to be operating. We believe that Ali won't be able to resist taking Mr. McClain out by his own hands, religious beliefs or not."

"Surely you're jesting," Greg spouts, trying not to laugh. "A single bounty hunter trying to cash in on the reward eluded your agents and almost succeeded in killing Mac. And yet, you think your agents can protect him from the man with enough clout to instigate a contract that carries the cartel's blessing? Seriously?"

"Mr. Lott, please, hear me out," his demeanor exhibiting genuine patience this time.

Suspicious by this sudden change of posturing, Greg relents, "Go ahead."

"I'm not as naïve or uncaring as I appear, Mr. Lott. I would not just send an innocent man to the wolves. I fully understand the danger involved. But I also know enough about your client to know that he isn't just any normal man, either. His reputation and record with the agency is well documented. In fact, I have such confidence in his abilities that I'm willing to risk this entire mission on him."

The Assistant Attorney General turns his gaze on Greg and pauses for effect before continuing. When he does, his voice is soft and sincere. "In fact, Mr. Lott, I believe that Mr. McClain is probably the only man in this country that can draw out Jorge Ali and bring him in without killing him."

"You're asking for an awful lot from a man that isn't even on your payroll," Greg states matter-of-factly.

"I'm willing to give an awful lot in return, Mr. Lott."

In the back of his mind, Greg is thinking that this is where it really gets interesting; they want something so bad, they're willing to negotiate for it.

"I can't speak for my clients, but if you're willing to put an offer on the table, I'll be obliged to present it to them. What are you offering?"

"Clients, Mr. Lott? I believe the term was singular, not plural," the Assistant Attorney General says, raising his eyebrows.

"Mac doesn't work solo, he works with a team; whatever you're offering must include the same for each of the others," Greg states with finality, knowing he has Mac's blessing on this point even though an offer hasn't been laid out yet.

"Very well," he replies after exchanging a quick glance with the suit sitting on his right, a move that causes Greg's suspicions to resurface. "As I started to say, if Mr. McClain succeeds and we have Ali in our custody, we will grant blanket immunity for any criminal acts performed by him," he pauses and glances again at the suit to his right before continuing. "Or anyone else that might be involved in a criminal act on behalf of Mr. McClain in this mission."

When it doesn't appear that he's going to continue, Greg clears his throat and asks, "Aren't you forgetting a few things? Immunity from prosecution for doing what you ask of him is a rather moot point. On behalf of my clients, I must insist on blanket immunity for all of them going back twenty years." When the Assistant Attorney General begins to protest, Greg quickly cuts him off, "That's not negotiable. So let's move on. What else are you offering?"

"Mr. Lott, in case you've forgotten, the man we are trying to apprehend is a vile being; I would think your friend would consider doing this mission as a public service for the young men and women that are suffering in other countries. Or the parents that don't know what happened to their children. It would seem to me that would be motivation enough."

"You've done your homework, I can see that," Greg acknowledges, knowing Mac has risked his life for lesser causes. "But my client is not a young man any longer and if he won't look out for his retirement, than as his legal representative, I feel I must do so for him. As I've said, Mr. Milton, what is the government offering?"

Before replying, he shuffles through the papers on his desk and then glances at the suit to his right. Though he appears uncomfortable with his decision, he says, "Mr. Lott, the federal government, or your country, is willing to grant your clients the blanket immunity." He pauses for a long moment before continuing, and then says, "The federal government is also willing to offer your clients witness protection at the completion of this mission whether it is successful or otherwise."

"Successful or otherwise?" Greg blurts, cutting him off. "If this mission isn't successful there won't be any need for blanket immunity or witness protection because there won't be any clients to protect!"

"The only successful conclusion that will be acceptable, Mr. Lott, is having Ali in our custody. Anything less will be deemed a failure for the record, but we will still honor the deal," he says, expecting resistance from Greg. "Do we at least have that understanding?"

"Let me see if I understand you, Mr. Milton. If my clients end up killing Jorge Ali, they won't be charged with murder, regardless if it's self-defense or not? In addition, Mac won't be held accountable for the deaths at the meth site last night?"

This time he doesn't look away. Instead, he meets Greg's angry glare and calmly states, "Yes, Mr. Lott. I'm glad we understand each other."

"And if my client isn't interested in your offer, what happens then?"

"Then he is a wanted man for the murder of those men last night, for starters," the Assistant Attorney General calmly replies. When Greg takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, the Assistant Attorney General says, "Oh, before I forget, there is one other thing. And I think you'll be interested in this as you appear to be interested in your client's long term outlook. We are willing to add a small stipend to the deal for each of your clients." Before Greg can say anything, he continues, "It might not seem like much, and it surely won't support a lavish lifestyle, but if they budget wisely, they shouldn't need to work again for the duration of their lives."

"Give me ten minutes to contact my clients, and I'll have an answer for you," Greg says, rising from his chair.

Rising, the Assistant Attorney General extends his hand to Greg, saying, "This is a good deal for your clients, all things considered." He pauses for a moment before adding, "Remind him that it wasn't his government that put the contract out on him and his friends."

"Yeah, right," Greg replies unenthusiastically, releasing the man's hand and turning toward the door.

The uniformed law officers also rise and follow Greg out of the room. Figuring the only safe place to contact Mac on the cellphone is outside, he continues on through the lobby and out into the parking lot. Only when he reaches the bottom of the steps and turns in the direction of a small stand of trees in a grassy area across the way does he realize that one of the suits that had been sitting next to the Assistant Attorney General has followed him.

Stopping in his tracks, suspicious of the man's motives, Greg asks, "What do you want? You know we're not to discuss what was said in that room."

"I think you might like to hear what I have to say, and then you decide if you feel obligated to run and tell him that we spoke," the man says with a slight grin.

"Go ahead, I'm listening."

"The name's Hernandez, though that's not really important. What is important is that you understand that if your boy can get the information from Ali that the Assistant Attorney General wants no one's going to question how he got it or even if the bastard were to die in the process."

"Tell me something Mr. Hernandez that I haven't figured out on my own," Greg flatly replies, taking a step toward the trees.

"Ali already knows about the deal the Assistant Attorney General is offering up to your guy."

Before Greg can ask how, Hernandez turns and heads back up the concrete steps leading into the police station. For reasons Greg doesn't fully understand, the man just gave him a heads up; a guilty conscience, maybe?

As Greg walks across the parking lot and into the stand of trees, he thinks about the warning and who would benefit from having told Ali that Mac is coming after him. Only a select few people know that Jorge Ali is involved in the human trafficking trade and that the U.S Assistant Attorney General is hoping to get him to testify on the fed's behalf.

And then again, it's possible that the Assistant Attorney General has already contacted Ali and offered him immunity and protection if he turned state's evidence on the cartel only to be told that he would be willing to give up the cartel if they would be willing to give him the man that orchestrated the death of his son, maybe even throw in his friends that were involved for good measure.

Is that what Hernandez was trying to tell him without coming out and openly betraying his country and office?

The more he considers it, the more he comes to believe he's right. The Assistant Attorney General gets the information he desires either way; it's a win-win situation for him.

Flipping out his untraceable cellphone, he presses the speed number for Mac. It takes only a moment for Mac to answer, his voice sounding fatigued and on edge.

"How are you holding up, my friend?" Greg asks, watching furtively for any sign of eavesdropping equipment or telescopes in the parked vehicles outside the police station.

"I'll survive, but this isn't exactly the weekend retreat I had in mind," he laughs. "How did the meeting with the feds go?" he asks, cutting right to the chase.

"Are you sitting down?" Greg asks, admiring the directness of his friend on the other end of the call.

"Should I be?"

Greg takes his time giving Mac all the details, thoroughly explaining everything that was mentioned with regard to the blanket immunity and witness protection. Only after covering all the straight forward stuff does he tell him about the words of warning from the government suit named Hernandez. When he finishes, he waits for Mac's reaction.

"It sounds to me as if the Assistant Attorney General is looking to make a trade, Greg. Is that what you get out of it?"

Mac's voice is cool and level, almost devoid of emotion and Greg finds it a little unsettling. This is what Mac is like when he goes into action, his feelings pushed down inside where they can't interfere with what needs to be done, or more importantly, where they can't be injured.

"That is exactly what I got out of it too," Greg admits.

"Then I suggest you get all the details down on paper, Greg. And make sure that bastard signs it."

"You aren't really considering it, are you?" Greg asks a bit incredulously. "It'll be suicide."

"This Assistant Attorney General, what is he like?"

"He's a pompous asshole that doesn't give a damn about anyone but himself, Mac. And for what it's worth, he doesn't like you just based on what he's heard about you."

"But can you trust him?"

"With all the witnesses in the room, I wouldn't have a problem enforcing any agreement he signs," Greg states, confident in his abilities as an attorney.

"Okay, Greg, just so I'm clear on this, the feds knew there was a contract out on me and my friends and yet they left us hanging out to dry. They followed up that act by setting me up for the murder of the volunteer and now they want me to bring them Jorge Ali, a mid-level security chief with the cartel; a man who controls a small army of ruthless killers that do his bidding without question and he's already been tipped off that I'm coming." Mac laughs a dry laugh and then says, "Sounds like fun; Greg; where do I sign up?"

### *32*

With the meat of the conversation digested and Mac's answer given, they cut the rest of their conversation short. Although Greg had promised the Assistant Attorney General he'd have an answer for him within ten minutes of adjourning their meeting, he didn't feel any obligation toward urgency in reporting back. In his mind, his friend was offering to go above and beyond the call of duty with a very slim chance of surviving the ordeal. And though he knows Mac intimately, he still hadn't expected the answer that he was bringing back to the table with him.

When the others that were in attendance see him walking through the front corridor and enter the conference room where the only one still present is the Assistant Attorney General, they quickly wrap up whatever they're doing and fall in behind him.

Instead of returning to his seat, Greg remains standing, looking down on the man from across the table. Because of the shuffling of chairs and bodies as the others resume their seats, Greg waits until he has everyone's undisturbed attention and the door has been closed.

But before he can speak, the Assistant Attorney General pushes a sheet of paper across the table and says, "This is an outline of everything the U.S. Government is obligating to. If you're in agreement with it, please sign it and pass it around to be witnessed and endorsed by each."

Without a word, Greg picks up the single sheet of legal sized paper and reads it from top to bottom. As stated, everything that had been discussed prior is included; right down to the exact amount of the tax free stipend Mac and each of his friends will receive for the remainder of their natural lives.

"How did you know he would agree to be your bait?" Greg asks.

"His jacket is very complete and detailed, Mr. Lott. It wasn't necessary to read the entire file to know that a man like him feels some innate sense of obligation to look after the less fortunate in this world. Even if the federal government wasn't offering him anything in return, he'd take this assignment," the man states matter-of-factly.

"You profess to know my client," Greg starts, his voice calm and steady. "Then you also know that if you screw with him or any of his friends, he'll come after you next. And that's not a threat, Mr. Assistant Attorney General, that's just the way he is."

His words cause the Assistant Attorney General to literally squirm in his seat; he already knows the consequences of playing with fire.

When the sheet has been passed around and each of the men present has signed it as a witness, Greg hesitantly puts his own signature to it on behalf of his clients. Pushing the sheet back across the table, the Assistant Attorney General hands it to Hernandez, asking him to make copies and folders for each of the men in the room.

In his absence, the Assistant Attorney General reminds everyone that they are under oath not to discuss this matter with anyone outside of this room. If there is a breach of this trust, they're career will be over in law enforcement.

The suit returns with copies and sealable folders for each of the men. After the Assistant Attorney General inspects the copies, he hands them out one at a time accompanied with a cardboard folder stamped SECRET across the front and says the same words to each recipient, "Put this in a safe place that can't be compromised."

He saves the last copy for Greg. Handing it across the table, he says, "Just let us know through Agent Hernandez here what your clients need and we'll take care of it."

"Mac would like a copy of the latest intelligence report you have on Ali, especially with regard to his last known location and number of men in his command," Greg states, watching the Assistant Attorney General for any reaction.

The Assistant Attorney General turns to Hernandez and says, "Give him whatever he requests." Turning back to face across the table, he addresses everyone by saying, "Good day gentlemen," and then turns toward the side door leading out of the room, his briefcase held firmly in his right hand with the suits close on his heels.

While the uniformed officers rise and begin to move toward the door leading out into the lobby, Hernandez hesitates for just a brief moment before following his boss through the side door. Turning back to catch Greg's eye; he gives just the slightest of nods and then hurries after the Assistant Attorney General.

Though Greg doesn't fully understand why, he believes Hernandez is an ally and might prove useful later on down the road.

Because of the high stakes, Greg assumes his vehicle is bugged both for audio and location, and decides not to contact Mac until he can find someplace more secure. Although Mac isn't officially wanted for the murder of the volunteer any longer, only the upper command is currently aware of that fact. And now that he's agreed to do this mission for the government, he has to play along and continue his cat and mouse game with local law enforcement, giving the illusion that he's still a wanted man.

Of course, Greg doesn't doubt for a minute that if Mac had declined the Assistant Attorney General's offer, the truth would have been lost in paperwork and Mac and his friends would be out in the cold, hunted by both law enforcement and the cartel.

While driving the short distance back to the hotel, Greg decides to bring the others into the fold before contacting Mac, since Eddy will probably want to talk to him also.

As Greg heads through the lobby, he notices that the same man is still standing at the front desk, though he looks refreshed as if he'd been given a break to shower and change.

Nodding as he goes past, the man simply nods in response, and he continues on past the elevators and takes the steps up.

Stopping at Eddy's room, he knocks softly and waits for her to answer. He finds Gina and Larry sharing a pot of coffee with her, which saves him a trip to their rooms.

"Anyone seen Manny yet?" he asks as he enters the room.

Larry flips out his cellphone saying, "I'll have him here in a minute."

True to his word, Manny arrives within a minute, freshly showered, shaved, and wearing a neatly pressed suit. Eddy offers him a cup of coffee and one of the few chairs in the room.

Accepting both, he sits quietly waiting for Greg to share with everyone.

Greg, catching Larry's attention, uses hand signals to question him with regard to electronic bugs in the room. "It's okay, Greg. I checked it out earlier," he says with confidence.

Trusting in Larry's abilities, Greg relaxes and begins to fill them in on what went down since he left for the meeting earlier. Not wanting to overlook anything, he included all the details about the contract out on them, how Dillon and Pandora set Mac up, and that they work out of the Assistant Attorney General's office. He told them about the agreement that Mac has already agreed to, not leaving out any of the smallest details.

What he saved for the end was their contact, Hernandez, and finally, that Jorge Ali is expecting Mac to come hunting him.

"It's a damned trap!" Larry angrily blurts out.

"Mac is the bait to bring Ali out of hiding," Greg clarifies. "Ali is willing to testify against the cartel and bring this human trafficking network to its knees, but only if the feds give him Mac in exchange."

"Mac would do it even without this agreement!" Eddy angrily declares, waving the folder in the air that Greg passed to her for them all to see.

"You're absolutely correct, Eddy," Greg agrees. "That's why I spoke with the Assistant Attorney General and not Mac; someone has to look out for his interests, as well as the interests of the rest of you."

Manny understands that Greg is referring to the others in the room and not him, so remains silent, simply taking it all in. He is there to help his friends, and until he determines what they need, he will just remain available and on the sidelines.

"I need to talk to Mac," Eddy says. "In private," she adds when no one moves.

"Here's Hernandez's number. Pass it on to him, if you would."

Eddy takes the scrap of paper from Greg with a nod of her head and heads toward the bathroom. Closing the door behind her, she goes immediately to the shower and turns it on to create background noise, just in case agents have attached hearing devices to the other side of the walls. With such tall stakes, they can't afford to take chances or get sloppy.

"Oh Mac," she breathes into the phone at the sound of his voice. "I miss you."

"Same here, Baby. Has Greg returned from the meeting yet?"

"Yes, he's here now, and Mac, I have to admit, I don't like this one bit."

"Don't worry, Eddy, it'll be okay," he says soothingly. "I've been thinking about it since talking to Greg, and I've got a rough idea in my head of how to handle it. But first, I'll need to coordinate a few things with Larry and Manny."

"Manny?" Eddy questions, a bit perplexed. "What do you need from Manny?"

"I need his connections to let Ali know where I'm hiding out," he says, and then catches himself before continuing.

"But I thought the feds would take care of that, since they already have a line of communication with Ali," Eddy replies, growing more perplexed.

"Eddy, Greg told me how Hernandez made himself known to him and frankly, I don't trust him; he's too obliging. Moreover, I don't think it's coincidental that the Assistant Attorney General selected him to be our contact with his office," Mac explains. And then adds, "With Manny, we know what we're getting. We'll use the fed for all our logistics, but we keep our plans to ourselves."

"Okay, Mac," she agrees, silently experiencing a moment of insecurity at the thought of not having a trusting relationship with the feds.

"Eddy, I'm going to contact Hernandez and set it up with him to outfit Larry with a list of supplies and arrange for him to bring the supplies in with his chopper. I'm going to make it appear to Hernandez that we're using him as our go to guy. Whether he's legit or not, we have to make him believe that he knows every move we're making. I'll give him a location where to drop the supplies and ask him to pass it on to Larry. He'll just naturally assume that I'll be at that location waiting for my friend to arrive with the supplies. If he's really an ally and just looking for a way to help, Larry won't see anything suspicious and he can call me in. If Hernandez is a rat and he's tipped off Ali, I won't be a sitting duck."

"I still don't like that their using you for bait, Mac," Eddy weakly protests.

"It'll be okay, Eddy. Just think, when this is all over we can find us that beach cottage in the Philippine Islands and just kick back and enjoy life in the sun," he says, trying to calm her fears.

"I had quite a talk with Gina last night, Mac," she suddenly says, catching him off guard by her sudden change of subject. "I think I owe you an apology for all the hell I've been putting you through lately."

Not sure of the right thing to say, Mac remains silent, waiting to see which direction she's going with the conversation.

"When this is over, I'm going to see a doctor. Gina says they have medications and hormone therapies that can make me feel normal again or whatever." She laughs softly. And then adds, "I don't know how you've managed to tolerate me these past few months."

"I love you Baby. Need I say anymore?"

"I love you too, Baby."

"I'll be in touch, let the others know what my plans are and for Larry to be waiting on Hernandez's call."

"Okay, Babe."

"Oh, one other thing before I let you go."

"Yeah Babe."

"Is that clerk still working the front desk?"

"If you mean the one that's taking names and reporting to Ali, Yeah, he's still down there."

"Good. He might just come in handy. Thanks Baby."

When she steps out of the bathroom, all eyes are on her, waiting expectantly for the latest news from Mac.

"He's relieved to know that he's in the clear regarding his involvement in the death of the volunteer," she starts, taking a few unsteady steps toward the bed.

Gina, noticing immediately that she's acting strangely and alarmed by her pale complexion, jumps to her feet and takes her by the arm as Larry, also aware of her sudden weakness, steps in and puts a strong arm around her waist, steadying her as they both assist her to the bed. "Maybe you should lie down for a little bit, honey," Gina says, concerned but believing she knows what's going on.

"I'll be fine in a minute," Eddy protests, more embarrassed by her moment of weakness than anything else.

True to her word, the moment passes and color returns to her face, along with her spirited demeanor. Still holding Gina's hand like a girlfriend, Eddy says to Larry, "He's going to call Hernandez and arrange for supplies to be delivered at the airport for you to drop in to him. He's going to have Hernandez give you the exact coordinates of where to bring them. He figures that will show whether Hernandez can be trusted or not. He'll be counting on you Larry to feel the situation out and either call him in, or warn him off. Until then, he wants all of us to stay together and watch our backs."

Larry is the first to speak up. "He can't seriously be putting that much faith in Hernandez? What if I miss something and I draw him into a trap? If Hernandez is trying to set him up with Ali, he'll use me to do it."

"He trusts you, Larry," Eddy says, smiling encouragingly, though she's harboring doubts about the whole situation.

"What if Hernandez is legit? What's his plan then?" Manny asks, trying to sound optimistic.

"That's where the desk clerk comes in," Larry states. "He's taking names and reporting them to someone, and my money is its Ali."

"That's a bet I'd lay odds on," Manny chuckles, rising to his feet. "I'm going to break into one of them bottles of West Indies rum, would anyone care to join me?"

"Before we get too relaxed waiting on the next move, someone needs to contact Lisa. We need to bring her in before Ali learns of her," Larry says.

"I'll take care of it," Greg says. "I'll have my friends in the justice department out of the San Francisco office pick her up and keep her safe until we can tell her more."

"She's not going to be happy," Larry chuckles.

Eddy and Gina both give him a questioning look, and then Eddy's eyebrow turns up and her expression suddenly reflects her disgust with him.

"You left her without so much as a goodbye, didn't you?" Eddy reprimands him.

While Larry lowers his head in shame and abashedly studies the floor, Greg chuckles, saying, "I'll break it to her easy that you're still alive."

"As I recall hearing, she's quite a marksman, too," Manny chides him, humored by his embarrassment. Tearing the seal off a bottle of rum that Eddy brought in special for Mac, Manny repeats his offer again. "So, would anyone else care for a glass?

"Yeah, I could use one," Larry mumbles softly, seriously concerned about seeing Lisa again and wondering if she's going to take up the government offer of witness protection. And if she does, is he going to be paired with her, or will they be set up in entirely different locations and not have any contact.

When he considers the possibility that he may never see or hear from her again, he feels a pang of something unfamiliar, and immediately wonders what it would be like if he were stuck with her for the rest of his life. To his surprise and amusement, he finds the idea more bearable than the alternative.

"When you contact your friends Greg, would you have them pass a message on to Lisa for me?" he asks, acutely aware that Eddy and Gina are still watching him with a keen interest and some amusement.

"You'll get that opportunity for yourself, Larry," Greg says with a smile, enjoying Larry's discomfort. "No matter how this unfolds, you'll all be brought together for orientation into the program before you go your separate ways. At that time, you can decide if you want to remain together or forever go your separate ways."

Because Greg has acted on behalf of other clients that have entered the witness protection program in the past, he possesses intimate knowledge of all the procedures and protocols. So when he continues, the other's know that his information is accurate and that he knows what he's talking about "If it's any comfort, it's the U.S. Marshal's Office that implements the witness protection program. The Assistant Attorney General doesn't have any influence over it. Once you're handed over to the Marshal's service, you'll be safe; whether Ali is taken into custody or not.

Manny hands Greg and Larry each a tumbler of Mac's favorite beverage and then strolls back to the desk where he sits on the edge sipping his drink.

### *33*

Hanging up the phone after talking with Eddy, I feel the sun warming my face as it breaks through the sporadic cloud cover overhead. It's just coincidence that the weather seems to be in sync with my mood, because things are definitely looking up.

Dialing in the number that Eddy gave me for Hernandez, I am a bit surprised when the man answers on the first ring.

"Hernandez."

"Mr. Hernandez, this is McClain. I understand you're going to fill my grocery order today," I reply, my voice even.

"Mr. McClain, I'm so happy to hear from you," he replies, his voice sounding genuine to Mac's ears.

If I have any hopes of discerning Hernandez's motives from this phone call, I can tell already it's going to prove to be more difficult than I had first thought.

"I'm glad I'm getting the opportunity to personally thank you for the heads up," I remark, still grasping at a thread of hope that he'll betray something in the tone of his voice.

"It's the least I can do. Your country owes you quite a debt of gratitude, Mr. McClain," he says, making an obvious justification for his actions while throwing in a little flattery.

Having heard the debt of gratitude from others, I'm rather jaded to it. But when he adds flattery to the compliment, my instincts perk up. He's either an ingratiating type person, which Greg hadn't mentioned to Eddy, or his ulterior motives require him to build my trust.

Suspecting it's the later, I play along and act the part that he's hoping to cultivate. "Why thank you, Mr. Hernandez, that's very gracious of you to think so. But please, just call me Mac, all my friends do."

"Okay Mac," he agrees, his voice sunny and warm. "What can I get for you today and where can I deliver it?"

After giving him a long list of items, not the least of which includes certain military grade explosives and weaponry, I instruct him to contact Larry. "He's expecting your call Mr. Hernandez. He'll need you to have the items delivered to the airfield west of town where his chopper is waiting. Once he has the supplies, he'll take care of getting them to me."

It doesn't escape me that the tone of his voice is different when he speaks next, "If you tell me where you are, I can have the supplies brought right to you."

"No offense intended, Mr. Hernandez, but until I have everything that I'm going to need, I would rather not give out my location. I'm sure you can understand that," I reply in my most innocent sounding voice.

"Oh, none taken," he quickly replies, catching himself before he slips up and shows his true character.

Somehow, without my even being aware of the subtle change in tone, our conversation has become a game of cat and mouse, and I no longer harbor any doubts that Hernandez is as aware of this fact as I am. But whether he's aware of it or not, he is obligated to play it through. Besides, there isn't any real reason for me to give him my location at this time, all he has to do is plant locater bugs in the supplies and wait for Larry to bring them to me.

"As soon as I can pull all of this together, I'll contact your friend Larry and we'll get it out to you." He hesitates for a moment, and then says, "Some of these items will take at least a day to get here. We'll have to pull them from the armory down at Camp Pendleton," he suddenly says, deciding to buy himself some time.

"Just do the best you can; I'll be waiting," I reply, expecting nothing less.

Closing the cellphone, I roll over onto my back and face up into the sun, soaking up the warmth. It feels good; relaxing to the point where I feel myself dozing off. In the distance, I can hear the quads racing about madly, and yet not going anywhere.

My hiding spot is just a short distance off the main north-south sand road. If I need to move fast, I can hop onto the sand road and make a run for it. It might leave me more exposed than traveling through the rough, but I'll make much better time.

With nothing pressing for the time being, I fish out a snack bar and slowly chew on it, wishing I had some West Indies rum. Already, the sun is arcing back toward the horizon, the day quickly burning away. Soon, night will be here and the cool, chilly air will drift in off the ocean. Although the rain suit is doing a great job keeping me dry and comfortable, I'm tired of the cold damp air and would really like to be sitting on a warm, sunny beach in a tropical climate somewhere pouring West Indies rum down my throat. Witness protection can make that happen.

But what about Larry and Eddy? Are they ready for retirement; a life of living below the radar? Thinking about the reasons for the contract being taken out on us, I suddenly remember Lisa and the major role she played in it.

Since none of us knew Ali's son, none of us can really be sure who the actual person was that fired the fatal bullet; or for that matter, if it was even one of us. And although the possibility is slim, it still exists; what if one of Ali's own men shot his son?

Because of the way men move up the ranks in the cartel, it can't be fully ruled out that one of Ali's soldiers viewed Ali's son as an impediment to his own climb up the ladder. However unlikely the prospect, it's still a possibility.

My attention is suddenly drawn toward the sand road as a loud rail goes screaming by at a high rate of speed, its turbo charged high compression motor revving near the red zone. Close on its heels I can hear the sounds of two dirt bikes, their small two-stroke engines whining shrilly in the late afternoon air as they try desperately to keep up to the larger, more powerful machine.

Only when another machine makes its presence known in the area do I grow concerned and roll over onto my stomach, my eyes studying the surrounding brush for movement.

Although most quads sound the same to most people, this one sounds almost familiar to me. Its two-stroke motor revs wildly for a minute, and then merely coasts, as if the rider is searching the sides of the trail for something.

In a heartbeat, I am on my feet and working my way with a furious intensity toward the sound of the quad. As it moves and then slows, I adjust my heading to a tangent that will allow me to intercept it.

Believing that the sound of the machine will muffle any sounds I make in my quest to cut it off, I abandon all attempts at silence and charge headlong through the brush and thickets, barely noticing the scrapes and scratches of the entwining brambles as I accelerate my pursuit of the machine.

Within minutes, my chest pounding from the effort, the breath rushing loudly in and out of my lungs, I have a solid bead on the moving machine based solely on the sound of its motor. Without breaking stride, I crash through the last thicket of brush separating me from the quad and its rider, coming out a few feet above the trail just as the machine and its rider are passing by.

The rider, dressed in a blue nylon sand suit and riding a bright yellow Banshee is looking right at me as I launch myself forward through the air. Our eyes lock for the briefest of moments, and then she guns the motor in an attempt to get out of the path of my airborne body.

But her reactions combined with the mechanical limitations of the machine aren't quick enough and as the engine races to life, the paddle tires grabbing for traction, my right arm comes down on the front of her helmet, my left wrapping around the upper part of her torso and shoulders as my momentum carries me on past.

The front wheels of the bike rise up into the air like a stallion pawing at the sky, her lithe body locked in my powerful grasp is torn from the machine as she's dragged over the rear of the seat. With bone crushing force, she strikes the hard-packed surface of the trail, her head bouncing wickedly from the impact followed immediately by my two-hundred-plus pounds crashing down on top of her, driving the wind from her lungs and momentarily stunning her.

Rider-less, the quad sputters to an idle and runs into the brush on the side of the trail, its momentum carrying it far enough off the trail that it isn't readily visible to passersby.

Rolling over onto my side while gasping for breath, I suddenly worry that I might have killed her from the brutal force of my landing on her.

Acting instinctively, I quickly check her from head to foot for signs of broken bones or other injuries. To my relief, her breathing quickly steadies and her pulse proves to be strong. With no sign of broken bones, I slip the helmet from her head and throw it in the direction of the runaway quad, the idling engine barely audible at this distance.

Getting to my feet, I make sure that nothing is broken, and then scoop the slender woman up in my arms and hurriedly carry her off the trail and into the deeper thickets where we won't be seen by anyone coming along the trail unexpectedly.

Not wanting to take any chances, I carry her for over a mile until I find a shallow ravine far from any quad trails. Laying her down, I gather some twigs together and get a small fire going. The sun is long gone behind a thick bank of cold, wet fog rolling in off the ocean and probably won't be back anytime today. When my patient comes around there's a good chance she'll be in shock and will need the warmth of the fire.

Going through the pack, I find a small tin for heating water, a couple packets of instant coffee and a couple packets of sugar. Though I prefer my coffee black, I put the sugar in the tin with some water and a packet of coffee and set it over the fire to heat.

While the water is heating, I get out the survival blanket and carefully slip her fully clothed body into it. Then I take the course wool blanket for wrapping up in at night and place it gingerly beneath her head. When I'm doing this, I notice a large knot on the back of her head, near the base of her spine; evidence that her helmet was a poor fit and literally slammed back against her when she struck the ground instead of absorbing the impact like it should have.

Talking aloud to myself, I mumble, "Maybe in the future, you'll wear a helmet that fits you properly."

"Maybe in the future you'll just flag me down instead of tackling me," she moans, wincing from the pain in her head.

"What the hell are you even doing out here?" I demand, not showing her any mercy, though it hurts to see her suffering. "I heard that you and Dillon were off this case, having done your part," I angrily state, retrieving the tin of coffee from the fire and debating whether I really wanted to give it to her or not.

"Yeah, I'm really sorry about that," she says, her beautiful eyes still not focused, but her voice sincere even through the pain.

"Here," I say, begrudgingly holding the hot tin of coffee to her lips. "Drink it, you'll feel better."

After a few gingerly sips, she tries to pull away. I take the tin and sip from it; despite the sugar, it doesn't taste half bad.

"Here's the deal," I start, sounding angrier at her than I really feel. "You can get some rest, or you can answer my questions, it's up to you."

When her eyes close and her breathing is soft and regular, I check her pulse to satisfy myself that it's strong and steady. It appears that I have my answer.

Feeling confident that she isn't going anywhere on her own for a while, I make sure the fire is secure and after downing the last of the coffee, set out on my back trail. The sky is dark and the air feels wet from rolling mists. It takes little more than a half-hour to return to the place where I tackled her off the quad.

In the dark it takes me a little while to find the quad, but eventually I stumble across it tangled up in a thicket of thorny brambles. Climbing on, I check that the key is still turned on, and then kick the starter.

After twenty or more kicks and not even so much as a splutter from the twin tail pipes, I check the fuel switch and discover that she'd been running it on reserve. With no hope of moving it under its own power, I check the tool kit under the seat for anything useful.

Finding just the usual plug wrench and spare plugs, I climb off and start back in the direction of the ravine where I'd left Pandora sleeping off her concussion.

With no real sense of urgency, the sight of her face outlined in the helmet as I sailed through the air toward her comes to mind, and I chuckle softly under my breath. The look of surprise and humility on that pretty face is something I'll remember for a long time.

So, Mac, what the hell is she doing out here anyway? Before knocking her off her quad, she was clearly looking for something. Yet, the only thing out here that a federal agent might be looking for is me. Is it possible she's out here because she's after the reward? The price on my head is pretty tall, after all. It could tempt lesser folk into doing things they never would have suspected they were even capable of.

"Or is she out here to warn me about Hernandez?" I mutter out loud, a smile creeping onto my face. There's no denying the fact that I like that idea; a pretty young woman facing danger and possible reprimand just to warn me. That thought makes the ego feel warm and fuzzy all over.

Whatever her reason for being out here; I already know that I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt. If she says she's here to help me, then we'll just have to see what kind of help she has in mind.

Having abandoned the bike and any prospect of using it for my own purposes, I make good time returning to the ravine and the still sleeping Pandora.

After stoking up the fire, I fix the second cup of coffee and slowly sip on it, savoring the warmth against the cold, damp air. Every now and then, Pandora stirs in her sleep and mumbles words that I can't make out. She is obviously tormented by her own set of demons, not unlike me, and I feel a blossoming kinship toward her.

With the fire smoldering, the tin of coffee long gone, I am dozing on the edge of consciousness when Pandora suddenly groans and stirs under the camouflage survival blanket.

Instantly awake, I listen for a brief moment to the sounds of the night before moving over to her. When I get close to her, I become aware of her large sensuous eyes gazing back into mine.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"Cold," she says, her eyes following me.

"I'll heat some coffee for you and build up the fire," I offer, turning toward my pack.

Before I can move, however, her hand suddenly snakes out from beneath the blanket and grabs my arm. "Please, I don't need any coffee," she says softly, her voice innocently pleading. "Just hold me."

Without thinking, I slide down into the survival blanket with her and wrap her tightly in my arms. She reacts instinctively, snuggling in close to draw warmth from my body.

Her body feels small and vulnerable in my strong arms; her hair the scent of coconut butter fills my nostrils. Within minutes, I doze off to the sound of her heart beating softly in the darkness, the warmth of her breath feeling sensuous against my bare throat.

Several hours later, she stirs in my arms and I'm instantly awake, my senses attuned to the sounds of the surrounding darkness, listening for anything out of place.

All is quiet except for the sound of the surf crashing on the beach just a short distance away. The sky is momentarily clear and I can see stars shining down on us.

Moving with care so as not to disturb the young woman lying next to me, I carefully extricate my limbs from hers and slide out of the survival bag. Looking down at her pretty face in the light of the stars, I can't help but think of Eddy and wonder if she is missing me tonight.

The small fire has burned itself out, so I gather more twigs and woody material together and get it going again. Once I have a small fire going, I set off in search of larger wood. Since the beach is only a short distance to the west, I set off in that direction, scouring the terrain for driftwood and other woody debris that might have been carried inland by past storms.

"Within a short distance of the ravine, I come across the hull of an old fishing boat, the wood rotten and easily broken apart with my bare hands.

After loading up my arms with short lengths of the rotten hull wood, I head back to the ravine. As I crest the bank making up one side of the ravine, I see Pandora sitting up, the survival blanket pulled up tight around her shoulders.

When she hears me climbing down the side of the ravine, her head perks up and she looks wistfully up at me. Our eyes meet and I recognize the relief she is feeling at my return.

"I brought some wood to build up the fire," I comment, setting the wood next to the small fire, and then feeding a couple of pieces to the flames.

"Thank you," she says softly, her eyes intensely watching my every move.

"How are you feeling?" I ask of her as I step around behind her and gently push her hair aside so that I can study the bruise on the back of her neck.

"I have a headache."

"Like I haven't heard that one before," I chuckle. "Are you any warmer?"

"Yes, I'm fine now, thank you."

"You don't have to keep thanking me, it's been my pleasure," I casually remark, moving around and sitting next to her with the fire at our feet.

Before I can begin questioning her, she says, "I haven't forgotten the deal. You said that you'd let me rest if I answered your questions when I was feeling better."

"So, are you feeling better?" I laugh, not concerned that she's holding out on me.

Her face lights up with a smile and she says, "Yes, I feel much better, thanks to you. Of course, if it hadn't been for your warm welcome, I never would have felt so bad in the first place."

"Really, Pandora, when was the last time a good looking guy like me threw himself at you like that?"

Laughing, she blatantly lies, "Men don't throw themselves at me, Mac."

My voice deadly serious, I say, "I hope you're more truthful telling me what you're doing out here."

She grows quiet, and then softly speaks, "Men don't throw themselves at me. In fact, it's usually the other way around. Men seem to feel I'm some kind of conquest, and as soon as I let them in and show my vulnerable side, they leave."

"They're loss," I say with all honesty.

"Then what about you?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "No one has ever seen me as vulnerable as you did last night, and I wake up and you're gone. You could have done anything with me and I wouldn't have resisted." She pauses, her voice fading to the point where I have to strain my ears to make out the words, "I would welcome your advances with all my heart."

"That bump on your head is more serious than I thought," I joke, not sure what to say.

"Isn't my being here proof enough that I was concerned for you? That I care for you?"

"If you know me at all, then you know that I can't take advantage of someone just because they're in a bad situation." And then for reasons that I can't explain, I stupidly add, "Last night I almost abandoned my honor to be with you."

"I'm sorry, Mac. It's my impetuous nature getting me into trouble again. I'm so embarrassed," she says, tears welling up in her eyes.

"You have nothing to be embarrassed for," I soothingly say. "You didn't do anything improper."

"It's enough that I wanted to," she argues.

"Just put it out of your pretty head and don't give it another thought," I order her. "I'm going to heat up some coffee. The caffeine will do your head good."

"No sugar this time, please," she smiles.

"Black it is."

### *34*

While the water heats for the coffee, I dig through my pack and come up with a couple more nutrient bars. Handing her one, I casually remark, "How do you like the Glock 17?"

"It does just fine," she replies, understanding that I wanted her to know that I did more than just carry her here. "Find anything else on my person that you'd care to question me about?"

"I was just curious. Eddy is pretty fond of hers and I was thinking I might look into one for myself someday," I casually remark.

"I heard you carried a double-action .357 magnum with a modified barrel."

"You've really done your homework," I answer, thinking that she knows more about me than she's letting on, and not because she's attracted to me on a romantic level.

"I make it a point to get to know the men I'm interested in," she slyly deflects my comment.

"Business interests or personal?"

"That's just mean, Mac," she pouts.

"Remember, we had a deal," I remind her, handing her a hot tin of coffee. "Black, as ordered, now tell me what you're doing out here, and don't hold back."

"They pulled my unit off the case, even my supervisor, Special Agent Nixon," she replies. "I wanted to know what is so damn important out here that a decorated agent is yanked unceremoniously out of the loop."

"You actually expected to find me out here and that's what I don't understand," I honestly confess.

"Like you said, I make it my business to know everything about the men I'm interested in. Just what I garnered from your file, and I might add, it's a thick one, told me that you would feel more comfortable out here in the dunes where you can exercise your survival skills, some kind of macho thing, I imagine. But in town you'd be out of your comfort zone, especially in a town of this size; it's so small I couldn't lose a penny in it if I tried."

"Okay, so you figured out that I would remain in the dunes and not make for town and all the creature comforts that I might find there, such as a hot tub and a soft, warm bed. That doesn't explain why you're looking for me so close to where all the action started," I comment, and then add, "Most law officers would assume that I'd just naturally want to put as much distance between here and myself as possible, but not you?"

She smiles disarmingly in my direction and I can't help but wonder how many hapless men have fallen for her charms.

"All I had to do was add in the fact that you feel superior to most law enforcement officers. You can't accept the fact that there are others out there that are also very good at their jobs, such as the crime scene investigators. You couldn't resist returning to the scene of the crime to see what they might have missed. Am I very far off?" she ends with a smile that turns up the corners of her lips, her straight white teeth adding to the natural attraction that is tugging hard against the fiber of my loyalty to another woman.

"What's your specialty with the agency?" I ask, deflecting her question as it struck too close to the comfort zone of my wellbeing.

"It doesn't take a degree in behavioral analysis to read you, Mac."

"Ouch, that hurt."

"I'm just a field agent trying to make a name for myself and move up the ranks," she says resignedly.

I study her face for a long moment before saying, "You and I are a lot more alike than you realize. You feel like the people in charge don't have a clue about what's really going on in the field and you could do better. Am I right?"

Her large brown eyes look deep into mine before she answers and for a moment I feel my resistance waning. But then I catch myself and straighten up.

As if she'd read my thoughts, she smiles, humored by my internal struggle. "Maybe that's why I find you so easy to read, because we do think so much along the same lines."

"That's a two way street, girl," I chuckle, liking her even if I can't trust her.

Sipping at the hot tins of coffee, our conversation takes a break as we listen to the surf crashing just over the sea wall, each of us lost in our own thoughts yet enjoying the closeness of the other.

When she finishes her tin, she tosses it so that it lands next to my pack and asks, "Where do we go from here?"

"We? We don't go anywhere from here," I firmly state. "You go back the way you came and tell them your quad broke down. By the time you reach the staging area or find someone to give you a ride, I'll be long gone."

At the words of me being long gone, I think I see genuine disappointment in her face, and not because she's being kicked off the case for a second time in as many days.

"I can help you," she argues.

"That may be true, but I can't explain you," I protest, though I secretly want to give in and take her with me.

"Explain me to whom, your woman, or your associates?" she asks, again reading my inner thoughts as if she was reading a book.

Instead of replying and sounding false, even to myself, I look away at the eastern sky and comment, "The sun will be up in less than two hours. You might try to get a little rest before then."

"Cold," she says softly, grinning impishly.

"That one isn't going to work a second time," I smile, fighting the urge to take her up on her thinly disguised offer of intimacy. "Where's Dillon, hiding in the bushes waiting for you to set me up so the two of you can claim the bounty on my head?"

Her face clearly shows the hurt from my words, and I immediately regret having said them. "He's returned to Portland."

"Where you should be," I angrily remark, mad at myself for being an ass. After a long moment of silence, I say, "You can't go with my, Pandora."

"Are you forgetting that I'm a federal agent and you're a wanted man?" Pushing out of the survival blanket, she gets to her feet and says, "I could just arrest you and take you into custody, after all."

'Correction, you could try to arrest me and take me into custody. But I don't think you will," I casually reply, almost hoping she goes for her weapon, giving me an excuse to tackle her. The thought of wrapping my arms around that slender body and holding it close to me is almost more than I can stand.

As if reading my thoughts, she says, "You'd really like that, wouldn't you?" And then, before I can respond, she adds, "Maybe I would too."

Studying her closely in the tight fitting sand suit, I slowly grow aware of a discomfort in my groin. Our eyes meet and we study each other in silence for a long moment.

Breaking the silence before doing something that I'll regret, I firmly reiterate, "If you're feeling up to it, you can start back any time."

My dismissal of her threat to arrest me doesn't draw any further ire from her, as we both knew all along that it was a hollow threat. Stepping out of the survival blanket, she casually asks, "You tackled me before you even knew it was me."

"I thought you were Dillon. And for what it's worth, I broke off when I saw it wasn't."

Gingerly she feels the sore knot on the back of her neck and says, "I can only imagine what you would have done had I been Dillon."

"I'll tell you this, you'd have another reason to arrest me," I smile.

Smiling back, she takes a few steps in the direction of the beach, and then stops. Turning back to face me, she says with sincerity, "Mac," I know you believe I have an ulterior motive, but the truth of the matter is, I came back to make sure you were all right."

Stepping toward her, I grab her in my arms and pull her close, my lips searching hungrily for hers. Responding in kind, she throws her arms around my neck and presses her lips against mine with crushing force, her tongue forcing its way over my teeth, our combined passion suddenly making the wet suit too hot to be inside.

When her arms come around to my chest and she tugs at the zipper running down the front of the wet suit, I take her wrists in my hands and stretch her arms out to either side, our mouths remaining fixed together. Even without her arms pulling her body against mine, I feel the hunger of her pressing against my manhood, using the basest of forms in her effort to appeal to my manhood.

Finally, reluctantly, I pull free of her and while holding her at arm's length, say, "Pandora, this is no good, for more reasons than I can even begin to say. It'll be light soon and you need to go."

Without a word, she slowly takes a few tentative steps backwards and then turns her back toward me as she heads in the direction of the beach and the call of the surf.

"Damn it all to hell," I mutter bitterly beneath my breath.

When I can no longer see her lithe form in the misty darkness, I pick up my few items and sling the pack over my back and head off in the opposite direction. With everything that I have to think about, the last thing I need clouding my judgment is thoughts of another woman.

And yet, I can't get the vision of her large brown eyes out of my head. What I need is a dose of reality.

While I trudge through the brush and across the damp sand, I fish the cellphone from its sealed pocket and press the speed number for Larry.

"Hey Buddy," he answers, his voice calm and steady.

"Hey Larry," I reply, not sure if I should tell him about Pandora or keep it to myself. "Has Hernandez hooked up with you yet?"

"Yeah, he called just to give me the timeline on the supplies. You really put one hell of a list together Mac. I'm questioning some of the things you ask for and I know you don't even intend on collecting them, much less using them," he chuckles. "Are you sure you didn't make Hernandez suspicious?"

"He knows we don't trust him, Larry."

"I know, but do we want to push the matter at this juncture in the game?"

"What was your take on him? I don't trust him, but do you think he will actually betray us for his own gain?"

"That depends on what he stands to gain, Mac. I don't believe for one second that he's in cahoots with the cartel, if that's what you mean. It's not in his nature to have a sniper put a bullet in your back so he can collect the bounty. But by the same token, I don't believe for a minute that he won't flip you to the cartel if it means getting Ali to turn states evidence and give him a step up the promotion ladder."

"Yeah, my sentiments exactly." I think for a moment, and then ask, "So, do you think we should cut out the middleman and just drop a tip to the desk clerk, or play along with the feds?"

"Let's keep the feds on a short leash at this point," Larry says, being his usual conservative self. "When I drop their supplies in the ocean, any tracking devices they've concealed with them is going to die and that's going to tip them off in a hurry that we're not playing straight up with them."

"When their tracking devices fall off the radar, they're going to go ballistic, Larry."

"Just so long as they come running when we need them, I don't care how pissed off they are," he replies with a chuckle.

"Pandora was out here last night," I suddenly blurt.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he fires back. "What do you mean Pandora was out there last night?"

"The federal agent that befriended Eddy so her supposed boyfriend could set me up for the volunteer's murder," I quickly explain. "She came looking for me and I kind of knocked her out. I didn't have any choice but to take care of her until she could walk out on her own," I continue in my defense, my own words sounding lame even to me.

"How the hell did she find you?"

"She's quite a resourceful agent, Larry," I explain, not wanting to tell him that I actually found her and not the other way around.

"Mac, if she can find you, then they can find you," he says, concerned for my safety.

It isn't necessary for him to explain that the ' _they'_ he's referring to are the cartel, because we both know that the Assistant Attorney General in his uncaring wisdom has already clued Ali into my general location, even if no one has yet reported the destroyed cook site and the dead men that once worked for him. Of course, this last information will only work to piss the guy off even more than he already is, if such is possible.

To ease his mind, I finally confess, "You have to keep this from Eddy, Larry, but I kind of found her."

"Oh Mac, what were you thinking?" he says, his voice betraying his disappointment in me.

In my defense, I add, "I didn't know it was her at first; I thought it was the guy that did the shooting."

"Did it really matter which one it was?" he angrily hisses into the phone. "Where is she now?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Just humor me Mac," he says resignedly.

"I would imagine she caught a ride on the beach and is probably back in town by now."

"If she wants in, maybe we can use her," he softly voices, his mind churning through ideas. "Do you trust her?"

The question takes me back, and I have to give it a moment of thought before I can answer. "Yes, Larry, I believe I do."

"Good, because our lives might just depend on it." He pauses for a moment before saying, "Look, Mac, I've got a few errands to run if I'm going to line up everything we need. I'll get back to you just as soon as Hernandez lets me know his supplies are waiting."

"Thanks, man," I reply as the phone goes silent.

### *35*

"Damn it Mac," Larry curses under his breath as he puts the cellphone back in his pant pocket.

Hurrying down the hall to Manny's suite, he taps on the door and waits in silence, wishing he felt more confident in what he was planning.

Manny opens the door still in a bathrobe, his hair wet and shiny from recently showering. "Hey, come in Larry. I got a pot on, Care for a cup?"

"Got anything stronger?"

"Long night?" Manny chuckles, errantly assuming that Larry must have spent the night with a woman. He would never believe that Larry spent the night alone, unable to sleep because of his angst regarding Lisa.

"I wish," he replies, accepting the cup of Irish coffee. "No, this actually has to do with our mutual friend."

"What can I do to help?"

"I need you to pick up a woman," Larry replies, taking long deep swallows of the doctored liquid.

Moving closer, his interest piqued, Manny asks, "Is it someone you know, or will just any woman do?"

"Seriously Manny," Larry responds, not humored in the least by Manny's joviality. "I'm talking about a federal agent named Pandora. And don't ask for her last name because I don't have a clue. What I do know is that she spent the night out in the dunes with Mac and will be just now getting back to town, or still hiking along the beach."

"Does Eddy know about this?" he asks, suddenly serious.

"No, and we're going to keep it that way for now."

"I'll get dressed."

It takes Manny less time to dress than one would have thought based on his impeccably well-dressed manner.

When he steps out of the bathroom, his first words are, "Just exactly how do you plan to keep this from Eddy? You do intend for me to bring her back here right?

When Larry doesn't answer right away, Manny presses on. "It's going to get really interesting watching you explain to the others that she's going to play a part in your plan?" Manny pauses for moment, studying Larry's tortured expression. "By the way, just between old friends here, how do you plan to incorporate her into your plans?"

"I'll figure something out," he humorlessly replies. "Just get her back here and be quick."

Although Larry's not sure how he's going to take advantage of having a federal agent working with them, he does believe that having a law officer present might come in handy. What he is certain of is that she has some kind of hold over Mac and if she isn't on the up and up, she could prove to be very dangerous; it's much better to keep her in sight than not.

Besides, he can't wait to see the expression on Mac's face when he learns of Pandora's involvement.

Larry spends the next hour making calls and pulling everything they might need together. Fortunately, most of what he needs can be had in just a few hours.

He is just finishing his last call, when Manny returns with Pandora, still wearing the tight blue sand suit. Larry's first impression is surprise, as he expected Mac to be drawn more toward a woman with curves. This woman or girl actually, is very athletic appearing, though slight of build, barely any breasts to speak of; boyish is the term that comes to mind.

Rising from the chair at the desk where he'd been sitting, he extends a hand as Manny makes introductions. "This is Agent Phoenix, Larry, or more commonly referred to as Pandora. Pandora, this is Larry, Mac's friend."

Larry is immediately taken aback by the seductive nature or her large brown eyes and enticing smile. Her grip on his hand is warm and firm, and he is immediately drawn toward her. "Pleasure," is all he can say as his mind conjures up a picture of her with Mac and he experiences an acute pang of jealousy and envy.

"All mine," she smiles, her voice soft and sweet to Larry's ears.

An awkward moment of silence ensues as Larry forgets he's holding her hand. Manny, though humored by Larry's reaction to her, breaks the spell with his voice. "I'll get you some fresh clothes from Gina," he starts, smiling naughtily. "Meanwhile, you might want to use the shower, and then we'll all meet at the Pub and Grub down the street." Manny starts to turn toward the door, and then stops and asks of her, "Would you care for anything for that bruise on the back of your neck?"

Taking her hand back from Larry's grasp with a self-conscious smile, she quickly replies, "No, thank you. Some clean clothes will be more than sufficient."

"I'll be back in a moment," Manny says as if warning them as he continues toward the door.

"The showers in there," Larry says, pointing toward the bathroom. "Would you care for a drink, I mean coffee," he quickly corrects himself, embarrassed at his slip.

"Yes, that would be wonderful," she answers, trying hard not to make him anymore uncomfortable than he already is.

She is not used to men behaving this way around her and she finds it intriguing, even a bit refreshing. And although she is physically attracted to Mac, this Larry guy isn't so bad either.

"Could you knock on the door when the clothes arrive," she says, heading toward the bathroom.

"Sure," he says, his eyes following her right up until the door closes, shutting her off from view.

Manny returns a few moments later with Eddy and Gina leading the way. Eddy, although not aware of the fact that Pandora spent the night with Mac, is aware of the fact that Pandora is still involved with them somehow and she intends on having some serious words with the girl. She especially wants to know how someone can befriend you one minute and then turn on you in the next the way Pandora did.

"Where is she?" Eddy asks, looking angrily about the room for Pandora.

Gina is holding an armload of folded clothing, probably one of the outfits she intended wearing if their stay here became extended.

"She's taking a shower," Larry says, wanting to defend the slender girl to Eddy, but not sure how.

To his and everyone else's surprise, Eddy grabs the armload of clothing from Gina and marches toward the bathroom.

"She asked that we knock when the clothes arrived," Larry says weakly, his voice barely a whisper.

Not slowing at the closed door, Eddy throws it open and charges forward, a billowing cloud of steam escaping in the wake of the door slamming shut.

"Drinks anyone?" Manny asks, heading toward the minibar, an amused grin on his face.

"All around," Gina says, still in shock over Eddy's behavior. "And make them strong."

While Larry and Gina keep an eye on the bathroom door, listening for sounds of a fight and standing ready to charge in and break it up if one should ensue; Manny pours full tumblers of Mac's West Indies rum.

"What do you think's going on in there?" Larry asks, breaking the silence.

"I don't have a clue," Gina answers, accepting the first tumbler of rum from Manny. "But it's awful damn quiet."

"Yeah, I expected screaming and yelling, at the least," Larry agrees. "You don't think Eddy killed the girl, do you?"

"Naw, she's got more self-control than that," Gina says without any real conviction, taking a gingerly sip at the fiery liquid while wishing for a bottle of Merlot from their winery.

"Maybe," Larry tentatively agrees. "But just in case, you think one of us should go in?"

"Leave them be," Manny says, returning to the chair at the desk while Larry and Gina remain standing next to each other in the middle of the room.

"So, Larry, I have to ask, where did Pandora come from and why is she taking a shower in Manny's bathroom? But before you answer that, let me add this, why is she in need of my clothes?"

"It's a bit of a story."

"I'm almost afraid to ask this, but how is Mac involved?"

Turning to face Gina, Larry says, "Considering how quickly Eddy drew that conclusion, I can't believe you're just now asking."

"I'm a lawyer, not a couple's therapist," she retorts, taking another sip from her tumbler.

Larry smiles at her and turns to the far side of the room to take a call vibrating on his cellphone. When he comes back to stand next to Gina, he says, "Our supplies are at the airfield."

"Yours or Hernandez's," Manny asks, turning around in his chair.

"Hernandez's."

"They'll be expecting you to rush right out and get them loaded," Manny says.

"He knows we'll wait for the cover of darkness. By then, I should have the real goods," Larry corrects him.

"Let's hope so," Manny replies before turning back toward the bathroom door as it swings inward.

"What are we hoping for?" Eddy asks, coming out of the bathroom with Pandora close behind her.

All eyes are on her and she's acutely aware of that fact as she says a bit self-consciously, "I've asked Pandora to work with us on this mission, if it's okay."

Her eyes go to Larry, as he is in charge at this point. "That sounds good," he quickly says, caught off guard. He had expected to face an argument with Eddy when he suggested the same, he never expected her to suggest it to him. "In fact, I can use her tonight at the airport. I'm going to need an extra set of hands and you're going to be tied up with Norm."

To his surprise, she actually smiles with enthusiasm at the mention of her working with Norm.

"Does this mean you and Mac have a plan?" she asks.

"Kind of," he remarks, glancing at Pandora. "Greg should be here anytime. I'll lay out all the details then so I don't have to repeat it a second time."

"I just talked to Greg and he's going to meet us at the Pub and Grub. But we can't all walk out of here together, it'll draw way too much attention," Manny says.

"Is it wise that Pandora be seen with us?" Larry asks. "I'm thinking maybe she should wait here and I can bring her up to speed later when we head to the airfield."

Pandora shoots him a questioning look, but then verbally agrees with him. "You're probably right. What's it going to look like when the reports go back to the Assistant Attorney General and he finds out I'm even still here?"

"You don't mind, then?" Larry asks.

"No, I'll be fine. If you can bring me something to go though, that would be good," she says with a smile.

"Why don't we send Gina and Eddy along first, and then you and I can follow in about five minutes," Manny suggests.

"The clothes are a good fit," Gina says, checking out Pandora's boyish figure.

"They're great, thank you," Pandora graciously replies, though the top is definitely loose, and when she turns to face Manny, the bulge of the Glock tucked in the rear of the waistband is the only reason the slacks aren't falling down around her knees.

"Is there anything special we can bring you?" Gina asks, pushing Eddy toward the door as her impatience grows thinner by the second and she's dying to know every detail of what went on in the bathroom.

"Anything fried and salted to extreme will be just fine, thank you."

As the room door closes behind them, Larry subconsciously breathes a sigh of relief. Although he had a lot of scenarios play out in his mind's eye regarding Eddy's exit from the bathroom, he never expected the one that just took place.

"She's quite the woman," Pandora says, breaking the silence in the room that follows Eddy and Gina's exit. "Do you have one of those for me?"

Handing her the extra tumbler of rum, Manny says, "If you're going to be working with Mac, you'll need to get used to this. He doesn't drink anything else."

Taking a sip, she replies, "Not bad; could be a bit addictive though."

"You don't know the half of it," Larry mutters, unable to take his eyes off her.

Not caring to be their chaperone, Manny rises from his chair and after setting his empty tumbler on the desk top, grabs Larry by the arm and steers him toward the door. "If you'll excuse us, Pandora, I'm sure Larry needs to stop by his room and pick up a few things."

Smiling knowingly, she sweetly replies, "You two go on. I'll be fine here."

By the time Larry and Manny reach the restaurant, Norm has also arrived, and they find the group at a large conference table near the rear of the lounge. Although Larry is sure they are being watched, he feels confident that he can relay the basics of the plan, or what he's come up with so far, without anyone getting more than the gist of it.

As they sit down, a waitress comes and fills the empty coffee mugs setting on the table in front of them. "Thank you," Manny says on behalf of both of them.

Before she can return with their food, Larry says, "Jump in if anyone has anything to add. Right now, this is where it stands."

Without hesitation, and keeping his voice low, Larry explains that he and Pandora are going to go the airfield and haul out the government supplies and dump them in the ocean. "But on the off chance that they've also bugged the chopper, we're going to follow up with a lengthy joy ride, possibly even landing somewhere far to the south.

"Meanwhile, Norm and Eddy will meet up with Mac along Hwy 101, the exact spot yet to be determined by Mac. In the meantime, while you wait on his call, you will be sitting tight at the dunes overlook. Cell coverage there is spotty, so check your phone and make sure it's good to go. If not, move toward the north until you find service. There should be a gated sand access just a half-mile north where you can wait if you have to.

"Manny, you're going to give the performance of your life. Since it's no secret that you've always fancied yourself acting in the vaudeville, your job is to convince the clerk that you're willing to sell out Mac in exchange for getting his gambling debts squared up."

"Wouldn't it be easier just to let him overhear us talking?" Manny asks, and then all conversation stops as the waitress comes toward them with a large tray of plates.

Everyone comments positively about the food and gives thanks to the waitress while they patiently wait for her to set down all the plates and take her leave.

"Oh," she suddenly says, turning back toward the table. "I almost forgot, who ordered the takeout?"

"I'll take it," Larry pipes up, reaching for the Styrofoam box of food.

"Anything else?"

"No, we're fine, thank you," Manny dismisses her.

As she returns to the kitchen, Manny quickly picks up where he'd left off. "It would be more believable if the guy thinks he just lucked into the information than if we try too hard to plant it."

"Good point," Larry concedes. "But until we know where Mac wants them to go, we don't have anything. And after Mac decides, I may not be here, especially if he has that information for Eddy tonight. I'll be somewhere far down the shore."

Although Larry doesn't care to admit it even to himself, the hard facts are that he is just a decoy on this mission. By the time Mac calls him and Pandora in, the feds may have already dealt with the situation. If there is any consolation to this, it lies in the prospect of spending time with Pandora, which in and of itself, could prove quite exciting.

Eddy speaks up for the first time, "Gina and I can take care of leaking the information to the desk clerk when Norm and I return to the hotel tonight." She pauses for a moment while everyone digs into their respective servings of hashbrowns, bacon, and fried eggs before looking across the table at Larry and saying, "I know I don't have to say this, Larry, but this whole thing can go sideways in a heartbeat if they don't buy into your decoy ploy and take the bait."

When Larry swallows and starts to reassure her, she quickly cuts him off. "I'm not going to profess to know or understand everything that's been going on with that girl, but I know she's dangerous. Don't let her distract you too."

That single two-letter word at the end of her sentence spoke volumes, and nobody sitting at the table missed it. While some stopped to chew their food before choking on it, others simply stared at their plates, Larry included. If she was expecting someone to confirm her suspicions regarding Mac and Pandora, she was disappointed.

After a long moment of awkward silence, Larry finally looks up from his plate to see Eddy still watching him, waiting for him to tell her something she doesn't know.

Because Larry has known Eddy for a while now, his feelings toward her are like that of a sister, and he knows that saying nothing is as bad as lying to her. She's earned his trust and vice versa. And besides, what happened the night before sounded innocent enough.

"All right already," he finally spouts, throwing his hands up in the air in an exaggerated display of surrender. "They spent last night together, but it was very innocent, Eddy. Nothing happened, except that he gave her a concussion and then sent her hiking in the morning. Alone, I might add."

Smiling smugly, she simply replies, "I know. Pandora already told me."

"Damn it, Eddy! That's just mean," Larry says, slamming his hands down on the table as relief floods through him, washing away any real anger he might have felt at being played.

Manny appears the most amused by it all, but everyone at the table breathes a sigh of relief and goes back to eating.

When the waitress comes to clear the table and drop off another air pot of coffee, Manny hands her his credit card. As soon as she retreats to the register at the counter to debit it, he turns to Larry and asks, "What happens after Ali is informed of Mac's location? Is there some kind of trap laid?"

"That's the beauty of it, Manny; there is no plan," Larry says, chuckling softly. "Mac's whole idea is to draw Ali out of hiding, keep him busy for a while, and then sit back and watch as the feds swoop in and clean up the mess. Nothing complicated, so nothing can go wrong."

Greg asks a tad incredulously, "What you're saying is that he's assuming Ali will show up in person, that he can keep him busy while they try to kill him, and then count on the feds to rush in and save the day, when it sounds as if the Assistant Attorney General has already promised him Mac's head on a stick?"

Larry notices Eddy twinge at Greg's analysis of the situation and hesitates a moment before giving the flippant answer that first came to mind. "When you put it that way, it does sound kind of dangerous. But as we all know, Mac can take care of himself, and he's got Eddy and Norm watching his back until I can get there. It's not really as bad as it sounds." He pauses a moment to study Eddy before continuing, "But even more importantly, we have the advantage of picking the battle field, as well as the element of surprise."

"I don't know how you guys do it," Greg exclaims. "I used to think a courtroom was high drama, but a courtroom is mild compared to what you face in the field."

"We only manage to do what we do because of friends like you and Gina, and partners like Eddy," Larry says with sincerity. And then, changing the subject, thanks Manny for lunch as he rises from his seat and excuses himself by saying, "I'm sure Pandora is probably starving by now. I'll take this to her and see you guys back at the hotel."

"I could scratch that little vixen's eyes out," Eddy hisses the minute Larry is out of hearing range.

"I knew you were just putting on an act for his sake," Gina laughs.

"I definitely want to be around when Lisa gets here. Can you imagine the fireworks with the three of them in the same room?" Manny chuckles.

"It's too bad you're not going to be around when I see Mac later," Eddy laughs, envisioning the meeting that will take place later.

"Tsk, tsk, Eddy," Manny sighs. "You are a bad girl."

"I'll be sure and get a picture of the expression on his face when Eddy breaks the news to him that she knows about him and Pandora and their night in the dunes," Norm laughs.

As if he said the wrong thing, Eddy suddenly turns serious, and Norm wishes he could take his remarks back.

Sensing the sudden change in her, Manny turns the subject back to Larry and Lisa, asking Greg if his friends in the DOJ have picked her up yet.

"They found her this morning out back of her place butchering a hog," he replies, thankful to Manny for steering the subject away from Mac and Pandora. "She put up quite a fight, says she can take of herself and don't need any federal marshals looking after her. But when they explained the whole situation to her, she conceded to at least coming up and discussing it with the rest of you. She should be here by tomorrow morning."

"Butchering a hog?" Gina asks, wondering if she heard right.

"Just wait till you meet her," Eddy says with a smile. "You won't think of her butchering a hog as anything less usual than you do of people going to Sunday services. It's just who she is." Rising, Eddy asks Gina, "Are you ready to go?"

When Eddy and Gina have left the restaurant, Manny meets Greg's gaze across the table from him and says, "I'm seriously concerned for her."

"Gina's been talking to her," Greg says in confidence. "And I won't go into all the details, but she says Eddy knows she has a problem and will deal with it on a professional level just as soon as this is wrapped up."

"That's good to hear. She's lucky to have a friend like Gina looking after her," Manny replies.

"We're all lucky to have a friend like you, Manny," Greg says. "Just the fact that you noticed and are concerned enough to mention it shows how much you care."

"Come on, let's get out of here," Manny replies, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

They stop by the bar on the way out to collect Manny's credit card and leave a tip. Once out in the mid-day weather, a mix of low clouds and unusually damp air, Manny notices almost immediately that they're being followed. If Greg does also, he isn't saying anything to Manny about it. Yet, Manny isn't surprised; Greg is just a lawyer after all.

### *36*

Back at the hotel, Larry knocks on the door to Manny's room. When Pandora answers, he smiles and hands her the Styrofoam carton of food. "Fried and salted to excess," he says, stepping into the room.

"Oh, thank you, I'm starving. I already finished off most of the chips and pretzels in the minibar," she exclaims excitedly, taking the proffered carton.

"There should be silverware and napkins in the minibar," he says a bit sullenly, surprised and hurt that her attention is focused exclusively on the food and not him. "Would you like something to drink with it?"

"Coffee, black," she says, grabbing a fork and heading for the bed as she flips open the lid.

While Larry silently sets up the pot and turns it on, Pandora hungrily wolfs down the greasy hashbrowns and eggs, leaving the bacon untouched.

Bringing her a cup of coffee and taking the proffered Styrofoam container from her outstretched hand, he feels every bit the butler, and he doesn't like it.

"You didn't eat the bacon," he casually remarks, taking the container to the trash bin before picking up his own cup of coffee from the desk.

"It was soggy," she simply states, sitting on the edge of the bed.

As he drops into the chair in front of the desk, she asks him, "Was anything decided at your guy's little powwow?"

"You're riding shotgun with me tonight," he surlily replies.

She gets up off the bed and saunters around the room, looking aimlessly at the furnishings and other decorative items, but not really seeing them. Almost absently, she says, "I heard you're quite the pilot, almost as good as Mac."

If she's trying to make brownie points with him, she's failing miserably is the first thought that crosses his mind. But in his heart, he knows the truth; he's been around women enough to know when they have no interest in you. She is probably thinking of Mac, even now as she flits around the room.

"I manage," he replies, shaking off the surliness and resigning himself to the fact that she's not interested in him. "Mac is a tough act to follow, though."

Larry feels a wave of relief wash over him when there's a soft knock on the door and it's slowly pushed open by Gina and Eddy with Greg and Manny close behind them.

"Is it safe to enter?" Gina teases, smiling playfully.

"Yeah, come on in. I'll put some more coffee on, and then we'll need to get going," Larry replies, ignoring the tease.

Because of Larry, the tension in the room has everyone feeling a bit uneasy, and they drink their respective coffees in silence.

When his cup is still only half gone, Larry gets to his feet and announces that they're going to head over to the airfield. "I need to make sure everything is loaded and secured properly for flight and get the pre-flight inspection done. We'll probably need to top up the fuel also," he says, slipping on his worn flight jacket with his aviator glasses clipped in the front pocket.

Dressed like this, his narrow hips and broad shoulders make a dashing figure, almost as though he belongs on the cover of a magazine with the wind blowing a long scarf out from around his neck. While Pandora doesn't even seem to see him, Eddy and Gina drink up the view.

As soon as the door closes behind Larry and Pandora, Greg remarks, "Down girls. He's got enough women problems without you two."

"Looked to me like he's got one less than he thought he had," Gina giggles.

"Oh, to be a kid again," Eddy sighs, causing Gina to giggle even harder.

"I know what you're referring to Eddy, even if I never was a head turner like you."

"Ah come on, Gina. I've seen pictures of you in your day," Eddy retorts.

"She was quite a catch for an ugly mud-sucker like me," Greg says, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

Just then, Norm arrives. "Come on in, Norm," Manny says, seeing that the man appears a bit apprehensive about entering.

Looking from Manny to Greg, he finally settles on Eddy and says, "I got everything Mac asked for out in the Scout."

"It should be safe out there for now with all the feds watching the place," she replies. "Care for some coffee?"

"Please."

"I've got some calls to make and paperwork to get ready for tomorrow," Greg says, stepping past Norm and heading toward the door. "I'll be down at our room."

"I'd go down to my own room," Manny starts, and then finishes with a chuckle, "But I think I'm already there."

"Come on Norm, let's go check out the supplies," Eddy says, taking the hint without feeling any offense because none was intended.

"You guys mind if I tag along?" Gina asks.

"Sure, come on," Eddy replies, leading the way.

### *37*

The ride to the airfield is a quiet one; even the topic of weather isn't brought up. As they near the diner, Larry pulls into a parking spot by the door.

"What are we stopping for?" Pandora asks, looking perplexed.

"I thought I'd grab us some sandwiches and a thermos of coffee for the flight," he remarks, climbing out of the rental car and closing the door behind him.

It doesn't escape her notice that he didn't bother asking if she had a preference with regard to sandwiches, or if she even wanted to come in with him.

When he disappears through the front door, she quickly pulls out her cellphone and leans forward in the seat so that she can't be seen from the front windows of the place on the off chance he should glance out.

Hernandez answers on the first ring. "Where are you?"

"Airfield. Look, I don't have much time, so listen up," she hurriedly whispers, glancing furtively above the dash at the windows in the front of the restaurant. Seeing Larry's broad shoulders as he stands facing the counter and placing his order, she continues, "We're going to pick up the supplies and fly out as soon as it gets dark." She hesitates a moment, and then adds, "I don't know much more than that because they haven't really taken me into their confidence yet."

"I already know all that," he hisses, his voice short with her. "Tell me something I don't know!"

"They left me at the hotel while they met up at the Pub and Grub to discuss all the details," she angrily fires back. "Maybe your guys on the street know more. They should have been able to eavesdrop in the restaurant. It is a public place after all."

"Listen, you bitch, don't try to tell me how to do my job. If you know what's good for you, you'll find out where he's going to be so I can tell Ali before Ali tells me," he angrily argues. "If you still want your cut of the contract, make it happen, and soon."

"Don't threaten me, Asshole," she hisses into cellphone, and then glances quickly over the dash at the restaurant window.

When she doesn't see Larry standing at the counter, she flips the phone shut and drops it on the floorboards, just as he opens the door on the driver's side and tosses a take-out bag onto the front seat.

"Drop something?" he casually asks, setting the thermos on the seat between them.

"Yeah, shit fell out of my pockets when I was looking for a mint," she lies, gathering up her cellphone and returning it to her jacket pocket as she straightens up in the seat.

When he hesitates to put the key in the ignition, she suddenly worries that he knows about the call she just made. Thoughts of him seeing her on the cellphone or maybe even overhearing her talking to Hernandez cause her heart to race.

"Look, Pandora," he says, and she subconsciously slides her hand closer to the Glock, her eyes furtively glancing around the immediate area to see how many people there are and if any of them might prove a threat. "I'm sorry about my attitude earlier. When we first met, I thought there was a spark of interest coming from you."

Her heart skips a beat with relief, and her hand reaches out toward the dash as if to steady herself. Before he can continue, she says, "Don't worry about it."

"No, I owe you an apology."

"Apology accepted."

"Before we head out to the airfield, is there anything you might need? It could be a long night," he says, his voice humble. "I got us pastrami on rye and sour dough roast beef. If you need more mints or whatever, I'll wait."

"Anything to drink besides coffee?" she asks, suddenly feeling a need for something strong.

"Just water," he replies, looking over at her for the first time since leaving the hotel.

"Then water it shall be."

When they pull up to the little 2-seater chopper, there are two men in combat fatigues armed with M-16's standing next to a canvass covered mound next to the bird.

Shutting off the ignition, Larry says, "Wait here."

Stepping out of the sedan, Larry approaches the man with the most stripes on his sleeve, a staff sergeant. "Good day, Sarge."

"Sir. If you care to inspect the shipment, we'll be glad to help you secure it aboard," the sergeant replies, pulling back the canvass tarp to reveal several duffle bags sitting atop two wood crates approximately two feet square by four feet long.

"That's okay, Sarge, we can take it from here," Larry replies, studying the items while waiting for the soldiers to leave.

When they don't move, Larry says, "There is something you can do for me."

"Yes sir," the sergeant snaps.

"Let me get my gear out of the car and then take it to the short term parking lot," he says, though he didn't particularly want any witnesses around while he transferred what was in the car to the little bird.

Without waiting for a response, Larry signals Pandora to get out of the car and follow him around to the trunk. Lifting out a duffle bag, he hands it to her and says, "Just set it on the floorboards in the passenger side of the chopper."

As she heads toward the little bird under the heavy weight of the duffle bag, Larry grabs another of the same size and weight as well as a brown leather briefcase.

Closing the trunk, he pauses on the driver's side of the sedan and leans in to retrieve the bag of food and thermos. Pandora, having loaded the first bag, steps up to him and reaches for the brief case. "I got this," Larry says, pulling it away from her. "Here, take this," he says, unslinging the large duffle bag from his shoulder and extending it out to her.

After snapping the briefcase into a rack especially built for it behind the pilot's seat, Larry hands the sergeant the keys and dismisses him before he has a chance to resist.

Because there isn't enough room on the floorboards on the passenger's side in the small bird, Pandora has set the second duffle bag next to the mound of government supplies and is standing looking at the different items.

As the soldiers drive away in the rental sedan, Pandora asks, "Where are we going to put all of this?"

"That duffel can go behind your seat, just watch out for the wiring. The food and coffee can go between the seats where it'll be close at hand," he replies as if giving out orders to subordinates.

Not wanting to cause any problems or raise his ire, she simply rephrases her question, "I meant all of this stuff," indicating the government supplies.

"We'll strap that to the skids."

"So, do you know where we're taking it yet?" she asks in her most innocent voice.

"Oh, yeah," he says with a roguish grin. "I know where we're taking it."

Though she wants desperately to press him into telling her where, she knows his suspicious nature will kick in and warn him. She needs to be patient; he'll divulge where they're going in his own good time. And if she has to wait until they drop the supplies, she can deal with that scenario too, her hand going instinctively to the Glock 17 in her waistband.

While Larry opens a small metal door in the fuselage of the little bird and extracts a variety of nylon straps equipped with quick release bindings, Pandora carefully opens the heavy canvass bags lying atop the wooden crates. Inside the first one, she discovers several Claymores, two small bricks of C-4, 2 pair of night vision goggles, a .32 caliber fully auto weapon similar to an early version of the 9mm Uzi, but with some obvious upgrades, and half a dozen full clips for the same.

Picking up one of the pair of night vision goggles, she notices a small round object glued to the inside of the lens housing. It's smaller than a dime and appears to be nothing more than a casting mark from the injection molding process. Dropping the pair back into the bag, she lifts out the other and looks it over. This pair doesn't have the fake casting mark, and she immediately realizes that she found one of the tracking bugs.

"What did you find?" Larry asks, having laid out the straps next to the skids.

"I thought I might hang on to this pair of goggles," she quickly replies, dropping the second pair and fishing out the ones with the bug. "They might come in handy later."

Aware that anything might be carrying a tracking bug, he quickly replies, "Leave em. I got something better in the cockpit. Besides, Mac might need them," he quickly adds, no longer feeling any desire to take her into his trust.

"Mac already has a pair," she replies, remembering the pair he was wearing on his head the night before. "And besides, these are the latest model available; I've always wanted to try a pair of these bad-boys out."

What are the odds of a tracking device being planted on a pair of night vision goggles? Larry thinks to himself, wanting to explain why she can't keep them, and yet, not willing to extend that degree of trust to her.

Against his better judgment, he gives in to her, stating firmly, "Just the goggles and nothing else. If Mac comes up short on what he asked for, he'll never forgive me."

"Thanks," she smiles at him, slipping the goggles over her head and adjusting the straps to hold them in place like she'd seen Mac do with his.

Together, they set the wood crates in place next to the skids and then tie the bags on top of them with shorter straps. Next, Larry slings the straps around the entire parcel and secures them to the skids with the longer straps, being careful to position the quick releases directly below the doors of the cockpit. Satisfied that nothing will come loose before he's ready for it to, he takes the final two straps and ties one end to the quick release handle before stringing the free end into the cockpit and tying off loosely to each other and then laying the knot on the floor between the seat frames.

"What are you doing that for?" Pandora asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

"If we can't set down, we can still pull the quick releases from inside and drop the supplies on the exact spot Mac wants them," he quickly explains.

With the sky growing darker, Larry explains that he's going to do a preflight and then take her over to the fueling station.

"Do you mind if I watch?"

"Not at all," Larry says, surprised that she's showing an interest. "Have you ever thought about flying?"

"Yeah, I have," she says, watching him as he moves from the engine compartment to the hydraulic access, inspecting each item with a skilled eye.

The entire inspection lasts less than fifteen minutes, but is very thorough. Satisfied that everything is ready to go, he assist Pandora into the passenger's seat and then carefully explains how the harness works as he straps her in.

Carefully, he closes her door on the strap passing through to the quick release latch, assuring himself that there's sufficient slack to prevent any flexing of the hull from prematurely releasing the load.

Stepping around to the pilot's seat, he double checks the area one last time to assure himself that they hadn't missed anything, and then climbs in and secures his harness.

After starting the engine and while waiting for it to come up to operating temperature and the hydraulics to build pressure, he tries fitting the radio gear on her head, but is frustrated by the night vision goggles.

"You have a choice," he says, when he sees no way to make both of them work together. "You can keep the goggles on and we yell at each other, or you remove the goggles and we talk normally through the headsets."

Not really caring whether she is wearing the goggles or not, she quickly removes them and lets Larry adjust the radio set on her head, being careful to place the goggles within reach on the floor beneath her seat. Although she suspects that the tracking bug in them is the work of her partner in crime, Hernandez, she can't be sure. It might have been put there by the Assistant Attorney General's henchmen; it's a risk she's willing to take.

With the radio headset in place, she adjusts the microphone to her mouth and asks Larry if he can hear her.

"Loud and clear. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," she replies excitedly, thrilling to the vibration of the turbo boosted engine revving through the machine.

Larry glances over at her with a knowing smile on his face. Although he's written her off as nothing more than an associate, and not necessarily one that he trusts, he's taken enough women up in his bird to recognize the adrenaline rush that Pandora is currently experiencing.

Once they're airborne and sailing along like an airplane, she'll relax and simply enjoy the flight. But until then, she'll ride the ride as if she is on the verge of climaxing.

Larry takes the heavily laden bird straight up for almost fifty feet before working the pedals and stick to side slip in the direction of the fuel pumps. As he draws nearer, he backs off the throttle and eases her down, pulling up just as the small bird glides over the center of the helipad. With a gracefulness that comes from natural skill combined with thousands of hours of experience, Larry sets her down dead center on the cross, the landing so soft that Pandora wouldn't have known they were sitting on the tarmac if she'd been blindfolded.

"What do you think?" he asks, smiling over at her.

"I think I need to take up flying."

Because he's a man and can't help himself, Larry says, "Maybe sometime in the future I could give you a few lessons."

"I'd like that," she says, giving him her most beguiling smile.

"Sit tight. I'll only be a minute."

Although it takes him longer than a minute, it doesn't take so long that Pandora gets bored waiting on him. When he climbs back into the cockpit, the sky is dark and a heavy mist is covering the windscreen, turning the small area enclosed within the cockpit into a surreal world decorated with multi-colored lights and greenish, backlit gauges. It is like entering a foreign world; a world that Larry finds both familiar and comforting.

Before restarting the engine, Larry takes the thermos and stands it between his thighs as he removes the cap. "Care for a cup?" he asks of Pandora, glancing in her direction.

"No, thanks, I'm good."

Pouring some into the cap that serves as a cup also, Larry carefully sets it on the dash and refits the stopper to the thermos. With the thermos back in place and the cup of coffee held securely in his hand, he looks over at Pandora and asks, "So, where exactly do you fit into all of this?"

"I thought it was pretty obvious," she casually remarks.

"Not really," Larry drawls, studying her face. For reasons that he can't put his finger on, and still not sure that his suspicions have more to do with her lack of interest in him then they do anything else, he doesn't trust her.

"Well," she slowly starts, her hesitation making Larry think she is getting ready to launch a prepared speech. "You know that I'm with the FBI on special assignment to the Assistant Attorney General's office. When I was pulled off this case under a suspicious cloud of innuendo and mystery, I worried that Mac might be in over his head."

"Why all the concern for Mac?" Larry interrupts. "It's my understanding that you'd just met him for the first time that morning of the ride."

"There was something about him, I can't put my finger on it, but I guess I was drawn to him."

"Okay, go on,"

"I feel as if I'm being interrogated, Larry," she says impassionedly. "If there's something specific you want to ask me, just get it out in the open and screw this beating around the bush."

"Seriously, Pandora, you mean to tell me that if you were in my position, you wouldn't find your actions just the least bit suspicious?" he states, not taking his eyes off her. "You have to remember, I'm taking you to a rendezvous with a close friend of mine. If you're not who you claim to be; well, you get the message," he lies, watching her closely.

"I took an oath to protect and serve," she breathes through clenched teeth, hoping her indignation will convince Larry that she's legit. "I would be doing the same for anyone. It just happens that I'm attracted to Mac. I can't help it that you don't do the same for me," she adds, meeting his gaze. "Most women would kill for the attention you've shown me; you're a good looking man. But I can't reciprocate what I don't feel."

Her apparent honesty is like a cold slap to his face, and he suddenly feels an incredible urge to apologize for being such a boor. "You're right," he says slowly, beginning to understand why Mac was so tempted by her. "If I came down hard on you it is only because of my concern for Mac and the others."

"It's alright," she says softly. "I would be doing the same. After all, learning to trust a stranger even during the best of times can be difficult, much less during trying times like these."

Her words were exactly what he expected, and replies with the words that she would expect. "Thanks for understanding."

Pouring down the last swallow of coffee, he returns the cap to the thermos and begins flipping switches. Within a minute, the rotors are spinning and he's bringing up the RPM's for liftoff. Because of the extra weight of the passenger and supplies, lift off is sluggish, and he adjusts for it in his touch on the controls.

As they leave the lights of the tower behind and head into the southern sky, Larry glances over at his passenger, still trying to figure out if she's working for the Assistant Attorney General, Hernandez, or herself.

"Did Mac give you GPS coordinates or a landmark?" she asks, trying to sound innocently curious. In the back of her mind, she's thinking that she should have just slept with him. For reasons she can't comprehend, men just seem to trust women that let them sleep with them; a fact she learned from experience.

"It wasn't necessary," he absently replies, lost in his own thoughts. With Pandora already yesterday's news, Lisa's image and their looming reunion is suddenly weighing heavily on his mind. Although he found her a refreshing change from the normal run of women that seem to be attracted to him, he's not sure he's ready to spend the rest of his life with her. And then, there's also the possibility that she won't want to spend the rest of her life with him, either.

All he knows for certain is that she is coming to the orientation for witness protection and that what happens after that isn't going to be decided by anything he determines before then.

Perplexed by his answer, she repeats his words in the form of a question, "It wasn't necessary?"

With a start, he comes out of his fugue. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I just ask you if Mac gave you GPS coordinates or a landmark and your answer was that it wasn't necessary," she patiently explains. "I don't understand. He must have given you one or the other."

Not wanting to divulge any more than necessary until he absolutely has to, he simply replies, "Mac and I agreed on a spot that we're both familiar with. He didn't need to supply GPS coordinates or a landmark."

"I'm sorry," she says, shaking her pretty head as if to clear cobwebs. "I wasn't aware that you were familiar with the Oregon dunes; at least, not this far north. Aren't you from down south more, somewhere near Powers or Coquille?"

"Yeah," he smiles at her. "Somewhere more remote, but in that general area."

"Then how do you suddenly become familiar with this part of the dunes?"

"Now, who is giving who the third degree?" he smiles over at her, the single wiper on the windscreen moving sporadically from side to side.

Smiling back at him and trying to look as innocent as possible, she bats her eyes and curses inwardly that she didn't sleep with him when he was so blatantly trying. Why did she think she needed to keep up the appearance of possessing some kind of loyalty to Mac?

"You're right," she says softly into the microphone. "I'm just along for the ride at this point."

"You'll see soon enough," he says, varying their course slightly toward the southwest to carry them out over the ocean.

### *38*

Back at the hotel parking lot, Norm, Eddy, and Gina are standing by the open back hatch on the Scout looking over the items Norm procured for them with a little help from Larry's connections.

"What do you think," Norm asks of Eddy, folding back a corner of an old wool army blanket to reveal an AR-15 replete with grenade launcher.

"I'm going to assume it's fully auto. How many clips and how many grenades?" Eddy asks, her fingers gliding gently over the magazine like a mother touching an infant.

"Six full clips, a can of loose rounds in case of worst case scenario, and 6 grenades," he proudly replies, his face beaming.

"Why only six?"

His face drops and Eddy suddenly wishes she hadn't asked; it's not as if it's going to change the amount by doing so.

"I'm sorry," he quickly apologizes. "I just assumed that would be more than enough."

"It'll be plenty, Norm. Thanks," Eddy says. "What else do we have here?"

He replaces the corner of the blanket over the assault weapon and lifts another corner to show her a display of knives, two Glock 9mm's, and several boxes of ammo, one of which is .357 magnum armor piercers; highly illegal except for special ops in foreign countries.

Seeing the box, Eddy simply states, "Good job, Norm. I think Mac will be impressed."

She knows her words have the desired effect when his face lights up with pride.

Gina, nervously eyeing the weapons, says, "It looks like you're going to start a war."

"Not start one, Gina, finish one," Eddy replies, pulling the blanket back into place.

"I also have webbing and rations on the back seat," Norm comments, closing up the back of the Scout. "And one more surprise that I'm sure Mac will appreciate."

Going to the side door, he opens it and lifts a blanket that appears just nonchalantly lying in a heap on the floorboards to reveal two Claymore mines.

"Well done, Norm," Eddy whistles through her teeth, impressed with his effort.

Glancing around the parking lot, she not only wonders where they're being watched from, but also by whom. She knows that the feds have eyes on them, and more than likely, so does Ali. But it can't be helped. Just so long as they can lose them before they hook up with Mac.

Although there is basically just the one highway running north and south through town, if they head east toward the valley about twenty miles, there is a county road branching off to the south that eventually becomes little more than a network of old logging roads still being used by the locals that have moved into the area after the decline of the logging industry.

And even though the parties following them will figure out quick enough that they're working their way south and eventually back to the coast, it will be anyone's guess as to where they reconnect with the coastal highway. And unless the feds bring in more resources, which is highly unlikely all things considered, they can't cover them all.

Eddy isn't worried about being tailed by Ali's men, since Ali is counting on Hernandez or the Assistant Attorney General supplying them with Mac's location. Furthermore, she isn't worried about someone steeling anything from the back of the Scout, as that would only defeat their main purpose of finding Mac.

"Let's go have a cup of Joe," Eddy says, leading the way back to their room.

"I think I need something a little stronger," Gina remarks.

Her comment gets Eddy thinking, and she asks Norm, "Did you include any West Indies in the rations?"

With an impish grin and knowing wink, he says, "Whatever would I do that for?"

Although Eddy likes Norm, she still doesn't fully trust him. Only because she and Mac intruded on his life, and not the other way around, does she believe he's not associated with either the cartel or the feds. And yet, she can't shake the feeling that he has an ulterior motive for befriending them when he could have just as easily let them walk out of his bar and get on with his life.

When they reach the second floor and turn down the hall, Eddy quickly says, "We'll use our room, since Greg and Manny have business to attend to in theirs."

No sooner does Eddy have the door open, then Gina hurries past her in the direction of the minibar. Although Greg and Gina own a winery in Napa Valley, Eddy never knew her to drink so much hard liquor before.

Trying to keep the mood light, Eddy casually comments, "Would you care for a little coffee with that?"

Norm gives Eddy a questioning look, and then watches Gina set out tumblers and pour a healthy amount of West Indies into each.

"How about you, Norm?" Eddy asks, giving a sigh of resignation with regard to Gina.

"Yeah, coffee would be good," he answers, still watching Gina as she takes a large swallow from one of the tumblers and then catches her breath as the fiery liquid shoots flames down her throat.

Concerned, Eddy asks her, "Gina, is everything alright?" It's not as if she isn't aware of what her and Mac used to do for a living. In fact, Greg and Gina have even hired Mac in the past for matters that couldn't be handled by legitimate law enforcement.

So why is she suddenly turning to alcohol? What demon is she running from?

Almost on the verge of tears, Gina takes her tumbler of rum and heads for the bed. Her voice trembling with emotion, she answers Eddy's question, "No. No, everything is not alright."

Glancing at Norm and nodding slightly in the direction of the minibar, he understands immediately and nods back before busying himself making coffee.

Meanwhile, Eddy takes up a seat on the bed next to Gina. Putting a comforting arm around her shoulder, she gently asks, "Talk to me Gina. What is it? What's eating at you?"

Looking Eddy in the eye, the glass of rum held tightly in both hands on her lap, she slowly responds, her voice cracking, "I'm losing the best friends I've ever known."

Misunderstanding her statement, Eddy assumes she's just worried about something happening to them tonight when they go to hook up with Mac.

"We're going to be just fine, Gina. Nothing bad is going to happen to us," she says reassuringly.

"You don't understand, Eddy. Once you enter witness protection, we'll never see each other again," she says, tears running down her cheeks.

Although Eddy knew that witness protection was part of the overall deal, all the ramifications of it hadn't really sunk in until just now. Gina was absolutely correct. Once the four of them enter witness protection there will be no going back; not to their former lives, and more importantly, not to their former friends.

The thought of Greg and Gina being former friends is very unsettling to her, and tears suddenly well up in her eyes too.

"Save the coffee for later, Norm," she says with a hitch of emotion in her voice. "Just bring us the bottle."

Without a word, he brings Eddy one of the filled tumblers. Handing it to her, his voice serious, he says, "Is this wise?"

"As Mac is so fond of saying, something to settle my nerves," she softly replies, taking the proffered glass.

"I'm sorry, Eddy. This is the last thing you need right now when you've got so much to think about," Gina apologizes as Norm hands her a towel from the minibar.

"Oh hush you," Eddy gently scolds. "You have every reason to be upset. I honestly don't know how we're going to get by without you guys in our lives."

Though Eddy is saying the words to comfort her, they are coming from her heart. She's not so sure she really wants an offer that means leaving their friends behind.

Yet, what is the alternative? Even with Ali behind bars or in protective custody, Mac and their friends will never be safe. Unless Ali dies and thus the contract with him, witness protection is their only option. And the sooner they all come to accept that fact, the sooner they can adjust to the consequences of it.

The two of them nurse their rum in silence while Norm fills a couple of thermoses with coffee and pours a cup for himself.

While he slowly drinks his coffee, wrapped up in his own thoughts, Greg and Manny are finishing up their business and coming down the hall together in search of the others.

When they tap on the door and find it unlocked, Manny leads the way in, his right hand conveniently out of sight where it is tightly squeezing the butt of a nickel-plated .32 caliber revolver.

Seeing Eddy and Gina sitting on the edge of the bed while Norm is in the chair by the desk with two thermoses sitting atop it, he instantly relaxes and his hand comes back into view.

"It's getting late guys," he says, seeing the bloodshot eyes of the women and understanding immediately what's been transpiring. "We don't want to keep Mac waiting."

Getting to her feet, Eddy smiles weakly at him and says, "Yeah, we were just getting ready."

Greg, taking up the spot on the bed that Eddy just vacated, puts a comforting arm around his wife and says, "We'll talk about it later." And then in a whisper that only she can hear, he adds, "We need to be strong for our friends now."

"I'll be just a minute," Eddy says, grabbing a bundle of clothing from a larger pile on the floor and disappearing into the bathroom.

When she emerges, she is donned in a water proof body suit of specially treated ripstop material. Even though it was off the shelf and not tailored for her, she fills it out with her sensuous curves, and the men in the room can't help but study her.

"Hey, come on, it's not as if you guys haven't seen a beautiful woman before," Gina teasingly scolds them, sounding more like her old self.

There is a slight bulge to the side of either of her ample breasts where she has stashed a couple of Glock automatics in body webbing. There are also a couple of stainless survival knives tucked into ankle sheathes on either leg concealed beneath the body suit. She is definitely outfitted for survival in the elements, not just a simple supply drop.

Norm is the first to raise the question. "When did our plans change?"

Her voice all business, she replies, "Yours didn't, Norm; just mine."

Manny is the second to protest as understanding dawns on him. "Eddy, you can't do this. Mac knows what he's doing."

The words have barely crossed over his lips before he regrets saying them; it came across as sounding like Eddy didn't know what she was doing. "I'm sorry, Eddy, I know you and Mac have been on many dangerous missions before. But this isn't in the plans."

"Plans are meant to be changed, Manny," she states, not allowing herself to be dragged into an argument. "If Mac doesn't want me tagging along, he can tell me in person."

Realizing that there isn't any point in arguing with her once she's made up her mind about something, he backs off and offers his support instead. "Do you have your cellphone handy?"

"Right here," she acknowledges, tapping a breast pocket.

"Extra ammo for the Glocks?"

"Ditto," she replies, indicating the bulges along her waist.

"You two take care of each other," he says, satisfied that she's going in with both eyes open.

Gina gets up off the bed and gives her a big hug. "You two come back safe."

"We will," she says, trying not to sound too emotional. "Come on Norm."

Throwing on a heavy parka, Norm grabs the thermoses from the desk and follows close on her heels as they head out of the hotel. At the Scout, he pauses momentarily to glance in through the side window and verify that the blanket covering the supplies is undisturbed.

Satisfied, he opens the door and climbs in, setting the thermoses on the bench seat before leaning across it to open the passenger's door for Eddy. Before climbing in, Eddy takes a moment to see if she can pinpoint the observation.

"Did you see them?" Norm asks, turning the key and starting the old rig.

"I'm fairly sure of one, but not the other," Eddy replies.

"Well, I have no doubt we'll see who's tailing us soon enough," he replies with a grin as he puts it in gear and heads across the parking lot at an angle, purposely cutting through empty spots to view into parked cars as they cruise by.

Sure enough, as he turns east and heads out of town several sets of headlights fall in behind them on what was a virtually deserted highway only moments earlier.

"Looks like we got us three vehicles back there," Norm says, studying the rearview mirror.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd swear Hernandez put his entire team on our tail," Eddy says.

"Are you sure they're Hernandez's men?"

"Who else could they be?" she asks, perplexed by the question.

"Eddy," he slowly begins. "I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but sitting on the sidelines watching has given me a clearer picture of what's going on than someone as close to it as yourself."

"What are you saying, Norm?"

"What I'm saying is the Assistant Attorney General and this Hernandez may not be on the same page."

"How could they not be?" Eddy presses him, wanting to hear his logic for such a statement.

"You're working on the assumption that Hernandez and the Assistant Attorney General are after the same results, basically, getting Ali to cooperate and blow open the human trafficking trade on the west coast."

"But Hernandez works for the Assistant Attorney General's office, taking his orders directly from the Assistant Attorney General," Eddy states, still confused.

"Sure he does," Norma agrees. "So tell me then, why does he contact Greg on the down low if he's loyal to the Assistant Attorney General?"

"He's just looking out for us," Eddy states, suddenly not so sure.

"Why does he suddenly switch allegiance to a group of people that he doesn't even know?"

"It's the right thing to do?" she weakly replies.

"There is always that. But I'm not buying it. I think he's decided that the bounty on Mac's head is worth more than his 9 to 5 job and he's thrown his coin in with Ali."

"Where does that leave us?" she asks, suddenly concerned that they're really on their own. "Who do we trust?"

"I don't think the Assistant Attorney General is out to double cross you guys for the bounty on your heads, if that's any relief," he replies, seeing the concern in her face. "That doesn't mean we can trust him. I think he's made it very clear that his priority is getting Ali to turn states evidence and be damned to anyone that gets in his way. But there's a big difference between not caring what happens to the pawns versus betraying the pawns for one's own gain."

When she fishes out her cellphone, Norm's right hand flashes out and he gently holds it over the cellphone, preventing her from pressing the speed number for Mac.

"Hold on there, Eddy," he says softly. "If an old warhorse such as me can see the obvious so clearly, I have no doubt your beau Mac has already come to the same conclusions. Just sit tight on that phone and wait for his call as planned."

"I know," she says, patting the back of his hand before he pulls it back. "Mac has said it many times, plans are meant to be changed, but each change comes with an inherent risk that must be weighed."

"He's a good man."

"Damn straight he is," she firmly agrees.

Just over the river about fifteen miles from town, they turn right onto a narrow winding road in desperate need of maintenance. Off to Eddy's right, flashing through the breaks in brush and foliage lining the road, she catches fleeting glimpses of the silvery reflection of lights glancing off the surface of the river as they follow its meandering path back toward the west, in the direction they just came, but on the opposite side of the river.

Several miles up the road, the river is lost completely to sight as the road takes a course farther south and west. Turning on the Scout's off road lights shows little more than a narrow strip of chewed up asphalt lined by thick trees and overhanging limbs.

Because of the many curves and rises in the road, they have no idea how far behind the men tailing them are.

Several miles farther on the road literally turns to wet gravel, the blackberry thickets growing almost clear across it in places. When Norm takes a sharp corner at more than thirty miles an hour, the tires slip on the wet gravel, slinging mud off into the darkness.

A short time later, they are confronted with a junction in the road. Although it was posted at one time, the signs are badly shot up from being used as target practice and leaning over at severe angles. Norm stops and studies the three roads leading off at three different angles.

"It only makes sense that we need to stay to the right," Eddy says, wondering at his indecision.

"That makes sense if we want to limit the number of places where we can tie back into Hwy 101 down to one or two, which means the guys tailing us just have to call ahead and tell them where we'll be coming out," he explains.

Feeling a bit stupid for not having taken the time to study the county map, Eddy asks, "If we go straight, won't that bring us out along the Smith River near Reedsport?" It seems like just yesterday that her and Mac used that road to outrun federal agents and it brings a smile to her face to think that it's such a small world in more ways than one.

Norm glances over at her with a smile, impressed at her familiarity with the area. "You've been through here before?"

"Not from this direction, but I am familiar with the road that runs along the Smith," she states. And then quickly orders, "Take the one to the right. It'll lead into a small remote residential area on the back side of a popular lake. I can't think of the name of the lake or the self-proclaimed nickname of the grouping of houses and fishing cabins, but I will bet dollars to donuts we'll find more than one way from there back to the highway."

"Your call," he replies, stepping on the accelerator and cranking the wheel to the right.

The road is even worse than the one they left behind, but the high ground clearance and stiff springs keep them rolling right along. With the clock nearing seven, they pass the first evidence of civilization in the form of rotting old shacks overgrown with brambles and blackberries.

When they pass an overgrown driveway, a small building set back from the road with a yellowish light emanating through a dirty window, Eddy realizes they must be nearing the cluster of residences.

Suddenly, off to their right, she catches silvery glimpses of light glancing off a pristine surface. In the breaks of foliage, she sees lights across a wide expanse of still water.

Soon, the road carries them along its edge, a multitude of houses, some dark and some lit up, line the left side of the road while the body of water lies off to their right.

They eventually come to a branch leading off to the right and going over a small concrete dam-like structure.

"Turn right," Eddy suddenly commands.

"It might be a dead end or just a loop into that grouping of lights up there," Norm argues, pointing toward a denser grouping of lights off to their right.

"I don't think so," she says, as Norm follows her direction.

Luck is with her, and the new road they're on leads through a dense grouping of residences and a fishing resort, the boats already put up for the winter, but the bar still open for business.

As they drive by, she notices a single car in the lot, probably the bartender's; no patrons.

"Pull in!" she suddenly cries out, startling Norm who instantly slams on the brakes and throws it into reverse.

"What are we stopping here for? Have you forgotten that we have a caravan on our ass that is probably closing in as we speak?"

"Pull up beside the car," she orders, ignoring his protests. As he comes to a stop next to the single car in the parking lot, Eddy jumps out, yelling over her shoulder, "Stay put. I'll be right back."

Inside, she finds the lone barkeep sitting behind a vinyl laminated counter reading a newspaper. He looks up at her as she walks in and smiles out of habit, displaying a set of dentures too big for his face.

Rustling the crease out of the paper and folding it over, he asks, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'd like to borrow your car," she says, reaching into the front of her suit and grasping the handle of her 9mm.

"Something wrong with the one you now have?" he asks, his smile fading.

"No, not a thing, I just need another," she says, stepping closer until they are less than five feet apart.

"Ah hell," he sighs, sliding off the stool he was sitting on and reaching into the front of his slacks to withdraw a key ring full of keys. "It's insured, I'm not," he laughs, working the ignition key loose from the rest and tossing it up on the bar. "Not that I expect I'm going to see it again, but on the off chance I do, could you be neighborly enough to top it off with gas?"

"You got my word on it," she says, picking up the key and turning toward the door before stopping and turning back toward the elderly man. "Just in case, how much is your deductible?"

"Five-hundred."

"Take care, and thank you."

In the parking lot, she opens the trunk and instructs Norm to give her a hand with the supplies. Moving quickly, on the off chance the bar keep calls 911 or the men following them finally catch up, they transfer the supplies to the trunk of the sedan.

Slamming the trunk, Eddy says, "Find the long way back to the Hwy, and then a longer way back to town. I'll catch up with you back at the hotel."

Smiling at her, Norm says, "I sure hope that man of yours appreciates you the way I do."

Smiling back, she says, "He wouldn't dare not to."

Climbing into the sedan, she inserts the key and breathes a sigh of relief when it fires right up and then purrs like a kitten. While she lets Norm head out first, she takes a moment to inspect the interior for anything that might mean something to the old barkeep.

Finding it clean and devoid of any personal items, she puts it in gear and heads out of the parking lot at a high rate of speed, the tires kicking up gravel as the heavy sedan slides precariously close to the edge of the road and the watery depths just beyond.

Up ahead, beyond the reach of her headlights, she can just make out the tail lights of the Scout as it swerves from side to side negotiating the rough gravel surface.

Just as she's about to overtake the Scout, Norm hangs a left onto another surface road and she shoots on by, the road now dark both ahead and behind her.

Although she hadn't brought up her concern to Norm, she had come to believe by the distance their pursuit kept behind them that they had bugged the Scout. There wasn't any other logical explanation. Without a tracking device to guide them, they would have had to keep the Scout in sight or risk losing it among the many off-shoot roads.

When the gravel suddenly turns to asphalt, she knows she is close to the highway, and starts paying closer attention to the side streets leading off from it.

Her scrutiny of the signage pays off when she notices a hand painted sign advertising the fishing resort where she commandeered the sedan. It reads eight-miles ahead when she looks at it in the rearview mirror. But on the reverse side that she read as she approached it, the sign said 2-miles to Hwy 101.

Stepping on the gas, she flies along the narrow winding road, and within two minutes, comes to the intersection with the highway. Glancing left and right to get her bearings, she notices a newer SUV parked on the shoulder a short distance to the south. The man sitting in the passenger's seat is huffing on a cigarette, the glow of the stub bright enough to light up his face with each long drag followed immediately by a plume of smoke out the open window.

Since they're not looking for a sedan, they pay her no never mind and she pulls out on the highway heading south, going right past them. If they had recognized her, they would have pulled out and followed, since there's no way they could have planted a tracking device on this vehicle too.

Still, because she is anxious about passing so near to them, she can't take her eyes away from the rearview mirror until they are lost from sight as she rounds a corner.

Reaching into her pocket, she retrieves her cellphone and checks the signal strength. Seeing only one bar, she begins looking for the northerly sand access, confident that by the time she reaches the day use area she won't have any cell reception.

As she approaches the pull off for the secondary meeting place with Mac, she sees that the Forest Service gate is locked back in the open position, and she suddenly wishes she had Norm's Scout; she has no illusions about the sedan navigating the sand road more than a few feet before digging in and getting stuck.

And yet, she doesn't like the idea of sitting exposed on the side of the road where every vehicle going by can see her.

With the engine idling in case she has to get moving quickly, she is suddenly startled by a knocking on the passenger's side window. As her head turns toward the sound, her hand reaching through the open breast flap of the suit, instinctively grasping the butt of the 9mm, she is immediately overcome with relief when she recognizes Mac's smiling face looking back in at her.

### *39*

It takes her a fraction of a second that feels like hours while she fumbles with the buttons built into the armrest on the driver's door until she finally triggers the unlock mechanism and I can pull the door open and climb in. Leaning across the seat, I give her a quick peck on the cheek and then order her to get moving.

"Oh Mac," she cries, overwhelmed to see me. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too. But right now, I need you to drive. Just up ahead on the right you'll see the turn off for the day use area. Pull in there. There are two sections to the parking area, drive on through the lower one," I instruct her, and then lean over while she pulls back out onto the road and plant another kiss on her exposed cheek.

"Won't they be watching the day use area?"

"If I'm not mistaken, a volunteer is supposed to lock the gate at six, but it's after eight now and it was still open when I left it," I hurriedly explain.

"Maybe they left it open to trap us," Eddy nervously replies.

"You're being paranoid, Eddy. My gut says whoever's in charge just isn't aware that their volunteers aren't very punctual. In fact, they're probably of the assumption that it's already been locked down for the night," I tell her with an air of confidence that overflows to her, calming her nerves.

"You're probably right," she says, feeling better about it.

"Where did you get this car and where is Norm? I thought the two of you were coming together. When I saw this car pull over, I almost took off. It wasn't until I started away that I decided to come back and investigate. You have no idea how surprised I was to see you sitting behind the wheel," I say, still smiling at her.

"Well, to make a long story short, I got suspicious when our tail felt confident enough that they didn't need to keep us in sight. So thinking on my feet, which you know I've very good at," she says, smiling smugly across the seat at me. "I decided to commandeer a new vehicle and let Norm lead them on a wild goose chase. I borrowed this from a kind old gentleman back at some fishing resort we came across. It'll be reported stolen by morning, but we don't need it that long," she adds. "I got supplies in the trunk, but there's something else, Mac."

"No Eddy, you're not coming with me," I firmly state, having read her thoughts. "It's too dangerous."

She follows my directions into the day use area and continues on past the restrooms and through the upper parking area and down into the lower one. She just gets the lights shut off when another vehicle comes down the road from off the highway. Sliding down on the seat so as not to be seen, we keep an eye on its progress. When it stops at the restrooms, I watch a large man get out of a small pickup and hold something in his right hand that looks like it might be a bunch of keys.

My suspicions are confirmed when the man stops in front of the men's restroom door without entering and inserts a key into the lock. After testing it to make sure the lock is engaged, he steps over to the women's door and does the same.

Before returning to his truck, he stops at a row of garbage cans and sifts through them, pulling out the returnable cans and bottles for the few cents he can get for them at the market in town. Then he gets in his truck and continues on through the upper lot before coming down into the one we're parked in. As he approaches from behind, he slows down, his bright beams lighting up the area both beside and ahead of us. Reaching into my wetsuit, I rest a hand on the butt of the magnum. Though I would never shoot an innocent man, I might have to resort to detaining him long enough for Eddy to get out of here.

Just when it appears that he's going to stop and inspect our vehicle to see if there's anyone around, he slowly picks up speed and cruises on by, not stopping again until he reaches the main gate.

Once at the gate, he gets out, swings it shut, and after securing the lock, glances back in our direction and then gets back in and heads north down the highway.

"There, that settles that," Eddy says with finality. "I can't head back to town now even if I wanted to."

"Eddy, I don't like this. Maybe we can call Norm and have him pick you up," I suggests, watching the disappointment on her face at my words.

Flipping out her cellphone, she smiles smugly at the readout, _searching for signal_ , and holds it brazenly up in front of my face.

"Nope, you're stuck with me; might as well get used to it."

Pushing the door open, I conceal a smug smile of my own as I grumble sourly, "We'll give Manny a call when we find cell service and have him leak the location to the clerk, since you're not going to be available."

Beaming with delight, Eddy climbs out of the sedan and runs spritely around to the back of the car where I'm waiting for her to open the trunk. Jumping into my embrace and throwing her arms around my neck, she kisses me passionately on the lips, her strong thighs wrapped tightly around my hips, pulling her body against mine.

While our lips press passionately together, our tongues searching wildly for the depth of our passion, my hands slide slowly down her back until I am grasping her firm buttocks, squeezing them in my strong hands, further fueling our moment of passion.

But there isn't time for this now, even though I feel my manhood growing harder by the second as blood flows unabated to it.

Begrudgingly, I turn and set her on the trunk of the sedan. Though I know we have to stop, I linger, envisioning myself taking her right there on the cold steel of the sedan, our love so hot it burns the paint in rainbow colors.

"Eddy," I softly plead, not wanting to stop. "Come on, Eddy, we don't have time for this."

"Oh Mac," she cries softly into my ear, her voice husky with unspent desire.

Her legs slowly slide down my hips and I step back as she slides to her feet. Turning to open the trunk, she hesitates with the key in the lock and then leans forward, arching her back and playfully pushing her ass out until it is up against my groin. Provocatively, she asks, "Are you sure we don't have time?"

With a rough forward gesture of my groin that knocks her a bit roughly against the rear of the car, I sternly remind her that this isn't any time to be distracted. "Come on Eddy, there'll be plenty of time for that later," I scold her, though it pains me to do so.

Sullenly, she opens the trunk and then silently stands to the side as I remove the items, noticing immediately that there is at least two of everything. Turning to face her, I admonishing remark, "You never had any intentions of leaving me out here alone, did you?"

"Someone has to have your back, Mac. If I couldn't swing it, then I would have made sure either Norm or Larry could," she firmly states. "But you aren't doing this alone."

Smiling at her, I pick up one of the webs and throw it to her. "Here, put this on."

With the webbing on our bodies, everything else falls into place, and within a matter of minutes, we're looking the part of jungle paramilitary fighters. While Eddy adjusts the AR on her webbing so she can pivot it upward and bring it into action on a moment's notice, I swap out the ammo in my magnum with the armor piercing rounds. Since Eddy has no experience with grenades, I take all six of them, five clipped on the webbing and one in the ready for launching.

Although I plan on the two of us being back in town by late morning, I dump all of the rations into my pack, as well as a bottle of West Indies that Norm or Eddy snuck into the supplies. Since I don't want to risk it having been Norm and then Eddy take it away from me, I deliberately refrain from mentioning it to her.

In the bottom of the trunk is a first aid kit, and even though I don't plan on needing it, I give it priority in my pack to everything but the Claymores. Those, I nestle in securely near the top, being careful that they are fully cushioned against accidental impact, even if they're not designed to be detonated in that manner.

"Are you ready?" I ask, watching her familiarize herself with the action on the AR.

"Ready as you," she smiles back.

Closing the trunk, I set off in the direction of the restrooms, having noticed a trail leading down to the dunes and eventually out to the beach from there. While Eddy and the others were doing their part back in town today, I was busy scouting the area and learning its quirks.

In particular, I was looking for and found an ideal place to set up an ambush. If Ali believes that I'm hiding in the ravine, he'll lead his men in after me, hoping to box me in. Once they're inside, I will use the two Claymores to trigger fear and confusion among them, keeping them from retreating back the way they came while pinning them down from the far end. The Claymores won't be enough to do any real damage, just make them think twice about retreating. And even though they could scale the sandy sides of the ravine, a man armed with a rifle and night vision scope should be able to keep them pinned down indefinitely or at least until first light.

By then, I hope to see the arrival of reinforcements, preferably in the form of federal agents.

The trail makes for easy going and well before midnight, we have come to the ravine located just several miles north of a Forest Service campground. In the summer, this area would be overrun with quads and sand rails, despite there being a riding curfew. But this time of the year, all is quiet.

Working our way into a thick stand of trees interwoven with a network of quad trails, I suddenly notice Eddy beginning to slow down.

Stopping, I ask of her, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just not in the shape I was twenty years ago," she jokes.

My own legs are feeling the effects of trudging through the sand also, and I laugh softly, being able to relate to her comment.

"Let's take five," I suggest, fishing out my cellphone and noting that it's registering two bars. "It isn't much farther, but before I call Manny, I want to set the Claymores and give you a chance to familiarize yourself with the terrain. Once the call goes out to Manny, there's no calling back the train, and I want to be sitting on my ass patiently waiting, not in a panic trying to get finished setting up," I tell her.

Turning her back to me, she asks, "Can you grab the thermos?"

Unhooking it from the webbing, I hand it to her as she turns back around to face me. "Want a swig before we move on?"

"Sure."

She removes the cap/cover and pours a half cup into it before handing it to me. I decline the proffered coffee. "Go ahead, you go first."

She barely takes a sip, and then hands it back to me. This time, I take the proffered cup and put it to my lips, the smell of rum immediately assails my nostrils.

"Son of a gun," I smile, taking a long swallow of the doctored brew. "Ah," I exhale loudly. "I needed that."

"Who's got your back, Babe?" she says, waving off the cup when I offer it back to her.

Finishing it off, I hand her the empty cup, savoring the warmth of the rum laced coffee as it flows down my throat and into my belly.

"You're one of a kind," I say, leaning forward and kissing her affectionately on the cheek.

After replacing the thermos on her webbing, we set off in the direction of the ravine. Within a half an hour, we come up on the back end of it, the open end facing toward the east; the direction that Ali and his men will be coming from if I guess correctly.

Stopping and getting down on a knee, I fish out the night vision goggles and scan the area ahead of us. Satisfied that we're still alone, I hand her the goggles and tell her to take a look.

With the aid of the goggles, she quickly understands why I selected this particular place for a showdown with Ali. The lay of the land includes a heavily wooded area off to the south, dunes, brush and eventually ocean due west, more dunes, dense brush and a smattering of trees to the north, and trees with little more than humus and grassy patches off to the east, the direction from which anyone given the coordinates will be coming from.

"The ravine itself is almost a half mile long and about one thousand feet wide at its widest, averaging closer to five hundred feet and tapering to a point on the west end with barely a fifty foot wide opening on the east end," I explain, while she continues studying the area through the goggles. "The sides are steep and all sand, the bottom strewn with dead brush for cover, but offering no real protection from flying lead. A single man on the western ridge with a night vision scope and a high powered rifle can keep an army pinned down for a night, so long as the army doesn't retreat back the way it entered, which is what the Claymores are for.

"Once Ali and his men enter the ravine, he'll set the Claymores off, creating fear and panic among Ali's men. If they behave like most men lacking in loyalty, they'll run toward the west, away from the heavy explosions, and right into the sniper waiting for them.

"In all the confusion, I will slip into the ravine and using what little brush there is with the aid of the night vision goggles, hunt down Ali," I continue as she lowers the goggles and looks over at me. "He will either return peacefully with me and we turn him over to the Assistant Attorney General, or he resists and I eliminate him, along with the contract hanging over our heads," I sum up.

"What's that look for?" I ask when she continues looking at me in silence.

When she finally answers, I understand her concern, "You can't move around down there with an army of killers that have come for the sole purpose of killing you," she flatly states. "That's just plain stupid suicide."

"Eddy, believe me, I understand your concern," I weakly protest, knowing there is no alternative. "But this is what I do."

"You mean, it's what you used to do," she argues, her voice rising in pitch with her escalating emotions. "We're not in our thirties anymore Mac. Hell, we're not even in our forties anymore!"

"Eddy, I understand your concern," I softly plead with her, still hoping to get her compliance, even if I can't make her agree with me. "But our backs are up against the wall, Babe." I pause for a moment to organize my thoughts before continuing. "We both knew that this day was going to come. It's the life we've led and now it's time to pay the piper. I need you to do your part here. I'm going to be counting on you to keep them ducking for cover, ah hell, kill a few if that makes you feel any better. But just remember, this is it. When we finish here, we're done. No more missions, no more dangerous assignments. No more anything but you and me, Babe" I breathlessly finish, my voice impassioned with emotion.

To my surprise she reaches out and throws her arms around my neck, pulling me in close and kissing me hard on the lips. Lowering the night vision goggles to the ground, I put my arms around her and rise to my feet, lifting her with me.

"Wait, Eddy," I rasp, my breath hissing loudly in and out with each breath. "We need to set the Claymores and make the call to Manny."

Though I tell her this, my hands are feverishly working at the webbing and zippers on the front of her suit, working frantically to gain access to her breasts and beyond.

Meanwhile, ignoring my pleas, Eddy's hands have undone the webbing on my torso and are working the zippers down the front of my suit, my manhood suddenly in the grasp of her hand.

"Oh Eddy," I sigh resignedly, giving in to the powerful urges that she's ignited within me.

As the top of her suit slides down below her waist, my hands slip down her back, forcing their way beyond her waistband and clenching viciously into the firm flesh of her ass. A quivering moan of delight escapes her lips as she lets go of my manhood and pushes her suit down to her ankles, her jeans crumpling down on top of the suit, exposing her bare flesh from head to ankle.

Dropping to her knees, she pulls my suit down and then my jeans, bunching them up around my ankles the same as hers.

With her face at the same level as my engorged manhood, she expertly grabs it with her open mouth and runs her tongue along its length before tentatively taking it in while teasing the tip with her tongue.

Reaching down, I grasp her full breasts in my hands and message them slowly in rhythm with my breathing. Her mouth slides over my manhood with increasing speed, drawing me closer to a climax with each stroke.

Releasing her breasts, I grab the back of her head and speed up her strokes until I'm on the verge of exploding. At the last minute, I push her head back and step carefully around behind her, the suit and jeans bunched up around my ankles causing my movements to appear comical.

Once behind her, I drop to my knees and gently caress her womanhood, bringing her close to a climax with just my fingers. While a soft moan escapes her lips, I slowly slip my fully engorged shaft into her, savoring her soft whimpering sounds, the gentle exhalation of her breath, and the slight quivering of her flesh as if an electrical current is running through the end of each nerve ending.

"Oh Mac," she purrs, arching her back and moving in rhythm with my quickening thrusts.

Too soon, her back arches stiffly and all movement stops as she screams loudly into the night, stirring the sleeping creatures into motion. Her climax beneath me is sudden and furious, my manhood squeezed to its own orgasm.

And then, as quickly as it began, it's over, and we are self-consciously pulling up our pants and camouflage suits. We assist each other with the loaded down webbing before inspecting the rifles for sand in the working mechanisms.

"Come with me," I instruct her, leading the way down the sandy bank into the dark ravine.

I lead her from the west end of the ravine to the east end and make certain that she is familiar with the placement of the Claymores before working our way back to the western tip.

By the time we are back where we started on the upper western edge of the ravine, we are both winded from the physical exertion. Removing the thermos from Eddy's webbing, we each take a long swallow straight from the open thermos, and then sit in silence, the clock already ticking past two.

"Here, go ahead and finish it," I say, handing her the almost empty thermos. "I'm going to give Manny a call and let him know it's time."

Throwing back the last of the doctored coffee, she sets the thermos in the sand beside her and asks, "Are you going to call Larry too, or leave that for Manny?"

"I'll call him next," I say, pressing the speed number for Manny.

The call lasts less than a minute. When I shut the phone, I relay to Eddy that Manny is at the hotel and will take care of everything. If all goes according to plan, Ali and his men will be pouring in here within an hour, two at the most.

"We need to get into position, Eddy. Manny said the last intelligence report Greg saw showed Ali in northern California and heading north up I-5. And that was several hours old at that time."

Kissing her softly on the cheek, I tell her for the thousandth time to be careful and to keep her head down. "And whatever you do, don't shoot me," I tease, heading down the slope and leaving her behind in the dark.

I take up a position east of the ravine along a natural game trail that I am gambling on Ali using for an approach. Once they go past me, I will fall in behind and tail them until they are well with the ravine. At that time, I will set off the Claymores to instill fear and commotion. When Eddy hears the Claymores, she'll open fire from the ridge on the west end, hopefully keeping them confused and scrambling for cover while I work my way amongst them until I find Ali. If I need to, I will help Eddy keep them stirred up with an occasional grenade for good measure.

Once I have Ali, I will buzz Eddy's phone and she will retreat straight to the beach, where I'll have Larry waiting with his chopper to pick her up and carry her off to safety. I'll take Ali due east to the highway where the feds should be waiting to take him into custody and meet up with everyone back in town where the U.S. Marshals will whisk us off into witness protection.

Of course, that is the perfect scenario. And that is if I decide to let Ali live so he can testify. I might just kill him and put an end to the contract and we go on living our lives.

Sitting in the brush on the side of the game trail, the night vision goggles pulled down over my eyes, I press the speed number for Larry.

When he doesn't answer by the third ring, I grow concerned. Although Manny told me that he took Pandora with him, I didn't share that information with Eddy just for this reason. Now it appears the trust I'd put in her was ill placed, and Larry's suffering the consequences for my lapse of judgment. Already, my plan is falling apart.

### *40*

When Norm gets back to the hotel, he parks near the entrance and heads straight for Manny's room. Pausing just long enough at the door to knock, he quickly enters when he hears Manny inside talking to someone.

"Okay, I got it under control. Stay safe," he says, finishing up a phone call before looking up at Norm.

"That was Mac," he says, rising from the chair in front of the desk and tearing off a piece of hotel stationary that he scribbled some coordinates on. "This is where he's at, and Eddy's with him," he adds, concerned. "I thought she was supposed to be with you."

"It's a long story. But I thought she was coming back here too; I didn't know she was going to stay with him," Norm defends himself.

"Ah hell," Manny cusses, clearly upset. "She of all people should know what the hell she's getting herself into."

"If it makes you feel any better, I think that's one woman that can take care of herself," Norm says encouragingly.

"I'm not worried about her, Norm; I'm worried about Mac," Manny says, meeting his gaze. "I'll spare you the details because we've got someplace else to be, but the last mission she helped him on, he almost died trying to protect her. I know him; he'll take a bullet for her again if he has to."

"Then we can't let that happen," Norm says with confidence.

"Come on, let's get Greg and Gina," Manny says, heading toward the door.

It's quickly determined that Greg and Gina will tip off the desk clerk by pretending they got a call from their clients and are headed out to meet up with them. But first, they need to know where they can buy or borrow a GPS unit, since that's all they have are GPS coordinates.

Leaving Manny and Norm in their room, Greg and Gina head down to the lobby, arguing all the way down the stairs in voices loud enough for the faux desk clerk to hear.

As they enter the lobby, Gina suggests they ask the nice man behind the desk to see if maybe he can help them. Keeping up the appearance of not wanting help, Greg argues, "What the hell is he going to be able to do at this time of the night?"

"Is there a problem?" the clerk asks, as Gina leads Greg toward the front desk.

"Yes, there is," she says, feigning exasperation with her husband as she places the piece of paper with the coordinates jotted down on it from Manny on the front desk, directly below the faux clerk's nose. "A friend of ours called and told us to meet him at these coordinates. He says he's in trouble and wants to speak with his attorneys before deciding what to do," she explains. "I suggested he just turn himself in to the authorities, but he claims he's been framed by them, if you can believe that."

"Is this the man that everyone is searching for in the dunes?" he asks, sounding astonished and humbled to be speaking with the attorneys that are representing such a notorious man. "This is so exciting," he continues.

"It's also confidential, so don't be telling anyone, okay?" Greg interjects in a serious tone.

"Oh, you can trust me," he swears, exaggeratedly crossing his heart for their benefit. After a moment where he pretends to be thinking, he asks, "Do you have a GPS unit in your car?"

"Yes," Gina says a bit hesitantly, before adding, "But it's not the kind you can remove, and he made it sound like this place is quite a distance off the highway, so we'll need something portable."

"I think I might have just the thing," he says after scrunching up his face as if in deep thought. "Can I borrow this for a minute?" he asks, picking up the slip of paper.

"Sure, just don't lose it. I don't know how we'll ever find him without it," Greg states authoritatively.

"Just bear with me a moment, I'll be right back," he says, heading into the night manager's office.

The light comes on and he makes a big production for Greg and Gina of digging through the desk drawers. After a moment, he returns looking very apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I thought we had a portable GPS unit in the desk. I looked everywhere, but it isn't there. Again, I am so sorry."

"That's alright," Gina says, smiling consolingly. "We'll just have to make a call to the sheriff's department and see if they will loan us one."

"I already told you we can't do that," Greg argues, his voice strained with exasperation as they head toward the front doors. "If we tell them that we need it to find a suspect in a murder, they'll probably arrest us for interfering in a murder investigation. Or even worse yet, obstruction of justice."

When the front doors to the hotel swing shut behind them, Gina whispers to her husband, "Do you think he bought it?"

"Hook, line, and sinker," he smiles proudly at her. "You were great. Come on; let's go find an open coffee shop or restaurant."

As they head out of the parking lot, Gina glances back at the front of the hotel and sees the clerk talking animatedly into a cell phone.

"Oh yeah, he bought it," she says to her husband, hooking her arm in his as they head down the sidewalk in the direction of the nearest all night coffee shop.

### *41*

"Why are we heading out to sea?" Pandora asks apprehensively.

Still unable to bring himself to trust her despite Mac's reassurance, Larry studies everything about her, including the inflections in her voice. Flying just a few feet above the caps on the swells, all lights of the shore directly at their back, he is not surprised to hear concern in her voice. After all, she thought they were heading into the southern dunes, not out to sea.

"We have to kill some time, and if the authorities are tracking us on radar, they'll lose interest soon enough. They know Mac isn't out in the ocean," he replies, his voice calm.

What he doesn't tell her is that he knows the supplies have been set up with at least one tracking device and that he is flying low to avoid any legit radar; the only people that know where they are can't do anything about it without explaining how they know where we are. And that will raise more questions than it will provide answers.

She smiles her most beguiling smile at him and says, "Why don't we go back to shore and find someplace secluded where we can kill all the time we need to kill?"

If she wasn't so overtly pushing her intentions, Larry might almost believe that she really is interested in getting him alone. But because he has seen her turn her charms off and on with the same ease that he turns a faucet tap on and off, he knows there isn't any sincerity in her offer.

Banking hard to the left and assuming a more southerly course, he answers her, "You know, that sounds like an offer most men would find hard to refuse."

"I wasn't aware that I'd made an offer, just a suggestion," she coyly replies, smiling at him, her large brown eyes a tempting pool he could easily get lost in.

Playing along, he makes an exaggerated motion of checking the time before saying, "We do have quite a bit of time to kill."

Confident that her charms are manipulating him, she smiles her most seductive smile, and then reaches for the thermos. "Let me pour you a cup," she offers, now playing the role of subordinate as she casts him into the role of dominate.

Larry laughs inwardly at her blatant attempt to manipulate him as he plays along, enhancing her feelings of control.

Taking the proffered cup of coffee, Larry plays the overly grateful man. "Oh, thank you so much. You must have been reading my thoughts.

"I'm just looking out for my man," she seductively replies. When she asks him again where Mac is, Larry realizes the confidence she possesses in her manipulative skills over men. "So, now that we're out here all alone," she starts, putting emphasis on the word alone. "Can you tell me where Mac is holding up?"

"All I have are some GPS coordinates, which unless you have a GPS unit handy, don't really tell you much of anything," he replies, knowing that his answer, though sounding completely innocent, is frustrating to her. "Just hang tight a little while longer and I'll take you right to him. Unless you still want to find a secluded place to set down for a little while."

Though she desperately wants the coordinates, she doesn't feel she can just ask for them without raising Larry's suspicions since she doesn't have a GPS unit to look them up on. Moreover, she can't tell him that she wants them so she can call Hernandez and pass them on.

Larry, meanwhile, knows that if she has an ulterior motive, regardless of what the motive, is aware of her dilemma and is taking great pleasure in her barely concealed frustration.

Beginning to believe that she isn't going to gain anything from Larry even if she gets him to return to the dunes and set this bird down, she decides to take a different tact; the same approach that she used to get her on this helicopter in the first place, her desire to be with Mac.

"I just thought it would be easier for you if you didn't have to concern yourself with flying while trying to eat and drink," she starts, her voice dripping with faux sincerity and concern for his comfort. "It's getting late and I'll bet you haven't had a bite to eat since this morning." She pauses for a long moment before softly adding, "And, I think I'm more concerned for Mac than I ever thought I could be for a man."

"I'm sure Mac is just fine. Don't worry your pretty little head over that lug. But yeah, you're right about not having much to eat today," he agrees, suddenly realizing that he is getting hungry.

Working the pedals and the joy stick with a practiced ease, he banks the little bird hard to the left, heading due east toward the southern end of the Oregon dunes.

While Pandora believes her change of tact is working and he's simply responding to her manipulations, she doesn't realize that he had planned to turn back at this point all along. Only when he pulls back on the rudder and increases rotor speed, does she begin to wonder otherwise.

"What are you doing?"

With the helicopter hovering just feet above the swells, he instructs her, "Open your door like this."

As she looks on, he slowly opens his door and holds it out a little over a foot before nonchalantly flipping the cup from the thermos through the opening. With the door held ajar with his left hand, the wind rushes wildly through the cockpit, whipping around inside the small space as it's driven down in a torrent of noise and chaos.

When she hesitates, he calmly says into the microphone, "Just like this," working the door open and shut to demonstrate.

Tentatively, she turns the latch and pushes the door out, the rushing downdraft from the whirring blades suddenly tugging at it. Larry waits just long enough to make certain that she has a strong hold on it and it isn't going to unexpectedly swing shut before pulling on the straps tied between them, releasing the catches securing the supplies to the skids.

The sound of them hitting the water is lost in the roar of the rushing wind. Moving his feet and the joystick with a coordinated effort of skill and instinct, he uses his free hand to release the dangling straps and watches as the ends slide out either door and disappear from sight.

"You can close the door now," he says into the microphone, securing the latch on his own door.

Stunned by the suddenness of what just happened, she slowly pulls the door shut and turns the latch.

With the added weight of the supplies now gone, his little bird tips its nose down and takes off with renewed vigor in the direction of the beach just a little over ten miles distant. Larry savors the first few minutes of flight without the sluggish feeling of being weighed down before glancing over at Pandora.

"I thought you said we were taking those to Mac?"

Smiling smugly, Larry corrects her, "No, what I said was, I am going to drop them off for Mac. Since Mac wanted them dumped in the ocean, I have just dropped them off for him."

Her next move catches him completely off guard. Reaching under her seat, she retrieves the night vision goggles with the tracking device concealed within them and while holding them securely in her left hand, pulls out her Glock with her right and points it at his head.

"Enough games. Take me to Mac, now."

"Really, Pandora, the gun isn't necessary," Larry calmly says into the microphone. "I have every intention of taking you to him. But please, put the gun away."

"If you don't take me to him now, I won't hesitate to use it," she sternly orders.

"I already said I would take you to him. Now, please, put the gun away. You shoot me while I'm flying this thing and we both die. How does that help the Assistant Attorney General?"

"You're even denser than you look," she laughs at him, holding the gun steady. "I'm not working for that self-righteous, headline hunting SOB."

"Of course you're not," Larry says, suddenly realizing her true motivation. "So let me ask, are you free lancing, or working with Hernandez?"

"You know about Hernandez?" she asks, the surprise in her voice betraying her connection to him.

"Yeah, he kind of tipped his hand when he came on so strong about trying to do the right thing," Larry confirms. "Just like you did when you tried to seduce me into finding someplace secluded; one minute you're a bitch in heat, and then all in the next, you're a celibate nun trying to do good for god and country." He pauses a moment before chucking and then softly saying, "Only Eddy gets away with that kind of behavior. You're much too young to be going through the change."

Looking perplexed by his comment, she asks, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's nothing."

There is a long moment of silence, and then she says, "I'll take those coordinates now, if you please."

For the first time since coming to town to help out Mac, he finds himself at a loss. If he gives her what she wants, she'll contact her accomplice and Mac gets caught unawares. If he doesn't give her what she wants, the minute they get over land she's going to kill him. And even if she doesn't kill him, he can't lead her to Mac.

Or can he?

"I don't have any coordinates," he lies. "All I have is a general location. He's going to signal me when he hears my chopper coming. That's the best I can do for you," he lies, believing she'll have him fly her to the area.

"Then I suggest you quit delaying and aim this damn thing in the right direction," she commands, reaching in her pocket and fishing out her cellphone with her left hand while she leaves the night vision goggles on her lap.

Larry doesn't understand the significance of the goggles or why they seem so important to her except that she must be planning on using them to find Mac in the dark.

What he is more concerned with at the moment is that she's calling Hernandez and bringing him up to speed. When she informs him about the dumped supplies, he'll know right away that Mac has set a trap, and he can't let that happen.

Pushing the throttle all the way forward, he pulls back on the stick with all his force while working the foot pedals. With a momentary force of several gravities pressing down on them, the nose of the little bird shoots straight up and over, the tail rotor just missing the white capped swells before the chopper lands upside down in the water, the momentum of the turning blades suddenly transferred to the cockpit and swinging it around with whiplash velocity.

Mac hears a muted scream in the headset followed immediately by a bright muzzle flash that lights up the interior of the cockpit, momentarily blinding him from its nearness. Something tugs savagely at his headset, ripping it off with such force he can feel it tear his ear.

The harness jerks tightly against his shoulders as the full weight of his body is dumped into them.

And then he is suddenly surrounded by total darkness, the only sounds are a ringing in his right ear and what sounds like a faucet running. Almost subconsciously, he reaches up and touches his right ear, or where it used to be. His hand comes away wet with his blood. Somehow he knows that it's his blood and not water, because of his familiarity with the slick substance.

In some far off place in his mind he finds it funny that he should have such intimate knowledge of blood.

When the helicopter landed, the whiplash effect caused his head to come into contact with the hard metal frame of the door, momentarily knocking him unconscious. But his survival instincts quickly kick in, and he realizes that he is suspended upside down in the cockpit, which is quickly filling with water through the seals around the engine drive compartment.

Because the rear rotor has the least buoyancy, it quickly sinks while the cockpit bobs like a fishing bobber; the water level more than halfway forward of the doors. When Larry opens his eyes, he is looking straight up into the night sky, his weight now resting against the back of the seat.

Looking over at Pandora, he sees her lying unconscious in the seat much as him, her head lying off to the side facing toward him, a rivulet of blood trickling down the side of her cheek coming from her nose and mouth.

Beyond her, he sees the water level pressing against the Plexiglas of the door, and notices that it's creeping up at an alarming rate.

Even as he takes this all in, he grows more aware of the rising water level in the cockpit. Within seconds the trapped air being displaced by inrushing water isn't going to be enough to maintain buoyancy and they're going to sink.

Furthermore, when he opens a door to get out, water is going to rush in with an intense ferocity, possibly preventing them from exiting the craft until it stabilizes, which means it'll be plummeting toward the ocean floor with them still trying to get out.

"Pandora!" he yells, unclasping the harness and reaching toward her. "Pandora!"

Her eyelids flutter and then open, but her pupils are dilated and she's having trouble keeping them from sliding up into her head.

"Pandora, wake up!"

This time, she looks at him, but he can tell she is only semi-conscious, unable to focus on him, and then her eyes droop shut again.

Rolling toward her, he reaches out and gently touches her forehead, crying out to her again, "Pandora, stay with me."

When her eyes open, he desperately pleads with her to stay awake as he crawls over the backrest of his seat and wedges his feet against the bulkhead for leverage. Supported precariously between the seats, he hurriedly undoes the clasps of her harness, and then takes her head in his hands and forces her to look at him.

"Pandora, listen to me. If you want to live, you have to do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Yes," she says weakly.

"Good. When I push the door open, I'm going to need you to crawl out. The water is going to be cold and you're going to have to hold your breath. It's going to push you back, but I need you to fight against it."

"Okay," she says, her voice small in the surrounding terror.

Acutely aware that he is working against time and that at any moment, the chopper might begin its descent to the ocean floor, he still hesitates.

"Okay, Pandora. I'll be right behind you, pushing."

As he reaches for the door latch, a large gushing of water suddenly erupts in the area where his feet are, and he knows that the large rubber diaphragm shielding the cockpit from engine fumes and noise has just broken free.

Time has run out.

Turning the latch with his left hand, he grabs Pandora by the back of the collar with his right and pushes her forward as his left forces the door open against the onslaught of water.

Even before he can push her out against the inrushing torrent, the helicopter begins its dying descent to the ocean's floor, carrying him down with it.

If there is any saving grace in the sinking of the chopper, it's only that the door is pinned all the way open against its hinges by the downward movement of the little bird through the water.

In the dark and cold, Larry barely sucks in a breath and holds it before he is engulfed in the frigid water. With Pandora almost through the opening, her right foot suddenly becomes entangled in the floating seat harness. Turning back to free her foot, Larry sees the panic on her face, the cold water cruelly bringing her around.

Not waiting to see if she can untangle herself, he slips out his ankle knife and slices through the web harness before giving her a hard shove out with his hand against her ass.

Only a second behind her, his chest heaving involuntarily from the cold and lack of air, he finally manages to clear the doorway and push off for the surface.

In the absolute darkness, his arms flailing wildly for the surface, he suddenly crashes into Pandora's limp body. Not sure how far below the surface he is, he hooks his right arm under her arms, and kicks his feet madly while pulling with his left arm for the surface, determined that they are both going to make it. Despite having shown her true colors, and possibly even taken a shot at him right before the crash, he can't abandon her; it's not in his makeup.

For what seems an eternity, he keeps fighting, his lungs are on fire from lack of air and his head is pounding from the cold and exertion. Whether Pandora is dead or alive, he has no idea. Yet, he can't let go, even if it means reaching the surface that much quicker without her dead weight holding him back.

Squeezing his eyes shut against the bright white spots brought on from lack of oxygen, Larry begins to doubt his chances, and even considers giving up the fight.

But only for a moment, and then he suddenly breaks through to the night air, the wonderful feeling of that first breath filling his chest like nothing he's ever experienced.

Spitting water and gasping for air, he quickly looks around to get his bearings. With a heavy cloud cover and too low to the surface to see any lights along the shoreline, he cannot be sure which way is land.

While treading water, he forces Pandora's head back to keep her mouth and nose clear of the surface, and squeezes her around the chest with almost enough force to break her ribs, but not quite. The compression forces water from her airway, and then he turns her to face him and puts his lips over hers, blowing long and steady into her.

When she doesn't respond, he pulls her close so that her head falls over his right shoulder, and squeezes again, forcing more bubbly water out of her mouth and nose.

Then, still treading water for the both of them, he plants his lips over hers and blows hard, his own breathing strained from everything that has happened.

What he's doing may not be correct for a drowning victim. In fact, he may be doing more harm than good. But in this moment of time, he is desperate and operating solely on instinct, which is telling him that he needs to get the water out of her lungs and air into them.

When his efforts yield nothing, he tries a different tact, and places his lips over hers for a third time. Only this time, instead of blowing air into her chest, he sucks, pulling sudsy water and phlegm up her throat and into his mouth.

He spits it out and places his lips over hers for a fourth time when her eyes suddenly fly open and she begins coughing and gagging on her own vomit.

Though his legs are growing weak from the strain of keeping them both afloat, he continues holding her upright above the surface while her fits slowly turn to simple gasping.

Her eyes are wide open with fright and confusion, and then slowly, her arms begin to move about in the water, slowly finding their way around his neck where they hold on for dear life.

"Hey, how are you doing?"

"Where are we?" she asks, her voice hoarse as she frantically looks around.

"I'm guessing about eight miles from shore, whichever direction that is," he laughs.

When she stops squirming, her feet kicking steadily as she helps him tread water, she notices the side of his head for the first time and suddenly says, "You're bleeding."

"Yeah, I think someone took a shot at me," he jokes.

"Oh my god," she blurts.

"Yeah, if you're wondering if it was you, it was," he says jovially. "You had to know I would die before giving up a friend. There's no way I was going to lead you to Mac so that you and Hernandez could set him up for Ali."

"Knowing all this, and you still saved my life?"

"Yeah, I'm kind of soft in the head that way," he laughs.

"No one knows we're out here. The only tracking device that you didn't dump into the ocean went down with the helicopter," she suddenly admits.

"Was that the one in the night vision goggles?" he asks, still holding her close beside him.

"When did you figure out that's why I kept the goggles?" she asks, surprised.

"Just now," he laughs.

"You ass," she hisses hoarsely, weakly trying to push him away from her.

Her weakened arms are no match for his superior strength, and she quickly abandons the effort. Yet, it's enough to show Larry her fighting spirit, a trait that no matter her other, less than honorable ones, he can appreciate and admire.

The water is cold and it won't take long for them to succumb to hypothermia. Yet, he isn't worried. When he pulled the joystick back to the breaking point, he figured his life was over, and he was good with that. He was going out the way he'd lived, looking out for his friends.

Now, he's been given another chance, and even if it doesn't pan out, he isn't afraid to die; no regrets.

"Now what?" she asks, and then coughs up more sudsy water.

"Just hang loose and wait for them to find us," he says with a tone of confidence.

They tread water for around ten minutes in silence, when Pandora suddenly breaks the silence. "Larry," she says, her arms around his neck having gone numb shortly after putting them there.

"Yeah," he says, finding himself only half awake and shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. Though he can't explain it, he finds her presence somehow comforting, and realizes that he's going to have a hard time letting her go when the time comes. "What's up?"

Her voice is barely more than a whisper, and when he looks at her, he sees a pale white face with blue lips and sunken eyes; the cold is taking its toll even faster than he expected.

"I'm sorry, Larry."

"I don't blame you for trying to shoot me," he replies with sincerity, wanting to relieve any guilt she might be harboring in these last few minutes of her life.

"No, not for that."

"I don't blame you for trying to double cross me and my friends either. Money is a temptation most people can't resist. Believe me, I've seen loyalties bought and sold more times than I care to remember."

"No, Larry, for treating you so shabbily," she says, cutting him off. "You deserved better, especially from someone like me."

His voice laughing, he says, "You're regretting not taking me to bed when you had the chance, aren't you?"

"Men," she laughs, her voice the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. And then, after a moment of silence, her voice serious, she asks, "Are we going to die, Larry?"

"Not if they have anything to say about it," he says, watching a light far off in the distance and coming right at them at a high rate of speed.

With what seems like a great effort, he turns them in the water until they are both facing the approaching Coast Guard helicopter.

They're coming straight at us," she says, overcome with relief and hope.

"Of course they are," he simply replies, saying a silent prayer.

"But, how do they know where we are?"

"I never doubted for a minute that they would risk leaving us out of their sight with the kind of ordinance I was carrying," he confidently replies. "So, do you want to take that apology back now?"

Though her arms feel like sodden driftwood, she manages to pull his face closer to hers and kiss him long and hard. When she can't hold on any longer, he pulls her tightly against him and says softly, "You'll never know what you missed."

### *42*

Sitting in the dark, the greenish glow in the night vision goggles highlighting warmer patches on the sand, the western side of larger trees that are holding the suns heat longer than the surrounding brush, my mind drifts to Eddy, and the love-making session we just shared. It confuses me the way one minute she can be as frigid as ice, and then, all in the next, she is literally ripping my clothes off. Her mood swings are all over the place and completely unpredictable.

After she spent some alone-time with Gina, she seemed much more balanced. But will it last? At least, for the time being, I know I can trust her to do what's necessary.

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the sounds of many engines. They are distant, but growing in volume very quickly, and they are coming from the east, the same direction we are expecting Ali and his men to approach from. However, I had assumed they would be approaching on foot. It never dawned on me that they might come any other way.

"Oh crap," I mumble under my breath.

If there's an advantage to them being motorized, it will be in their lack of maneuverability and I won't need to worry about making noise, as it will be drowned out by the sound of their machines.

If Eddy can hear them coming, she too will understand that we won't be able to simply keep them running and confused by using the shock and awe strategy of my plan.

As the machines draw nearer, their headlights can be seen intermittently as they crest the higher hills and then drop from sight. Judging by the number of lights, I immediately guesstimate their numbers at more than twenty, possibly even as many as twenty-four.

They are coming at a dangerously high rate of speed considering the terrain, and I suddenly wonder at the possibility that a healthy bonus must have been promised to the man that personally delivers my head.

Though I am momentarily disheartened by the fact that they are using quads or rails instead of coming on foot, it doesn't change the fact any that I must still find Ali and separate him from the herd with as little notice as possible. Setting the Claymores off after their first pass is no longer a good idea. Instead, I will save them for my departure with Ali.

I just hope Eddy doesn't hold off and wait too long for a signal before improvising as she sees fit.

When the quads come charging over the last ridge before entering the ravine, the noise is deafening, and I suddenly realize the night vision goggles are more of a hindrance than a help. Tearing them off my head and casting them aside, I suddenly step off to the side as a quad comes barreling through the brush that I am standing behind.

As he draws abreast of me, I lunge out of the thicket and tackle him, my momentum carrying him off the bike. We land in a heap on the ground, my weight coming down hard on his chest.

But he is quick, almost catlike, and before I can subdue him, he is out from under me and on his feet, a long-bladed knife in his right hand.

"Hey, Pedro," I say a bit breathlessly. "I don't have anything against you. Just tell me if Ali is with you and you can go your own way."

Whether he understood a word of what I said or not, I'll never know. What I did learn, however, is that he's not a regular quader out here with his friends just for the sport of it.

Hungry for the reward on my head, he grins lasciviously and lunges forward, trying to claim the prize before one of his comrades happens on us and he has to share.

At this point, I could simply pull out the magnum and put a bullet in his head. Or, I could swing up the AR and cut him in two with a single long burst. Yet, neither of those is challenging enough. Even the thought of pulling out my ankle knife and making it appear a fair fight seems somehow too easy.

Instead, I simply step aside and trip him as his momentum carries him on by. And although it would be great fun to toy with him and make him feel the young fool that he is, I have more important things to attend to. Following him to the ground, I clamp my arms around his head in a full Nelson and simply wait for the lack of blood to his brain to render him unconscious.

To make certain that he doesn't decide to reenter this fight, I check him for weapons, finding a twenty-five caliber in his front pant pocket and nothing else, not even spare ammo for it. Tossing it into the brush, I whip out some zip ties and secure his wrists behind his back and then tie his ankles together with his shoe laces.

While this is going on, the sound of quads is deafening, as they race by on all sides of me. Getting to my feet, I run after the abandoned quad and jump on. It's a four-wheel drive model; not much on speed, but lots of power.

With the headlights on high, I take off in search of Ali, still not sure whether he is even here or not.

When I see a Razor running through the brush off to my right, I immediately hit the throttle and try to fall in behind it. My suspicions appear legit when I see it is carrying two men. It only makes sense that Ali would use a machine that made it possible for him to keep his personal body guard with him for protection.

Squeezing the throttle lever to overtake them, I am suddenly cut off by a young Latino on a Raptor. The surprise on his face when he recognizes me is almost comical. Unlike the other one, though, this one isn't messing around, and immediately brings a Tech-9 up from a strap around his neck, the stubby barrel spewing fire even before he can sight it in my general direction.

Leaning hard over the right side of the machine, I pull the throttle and turn the handlebars simultaneously. My inexperience with quads, and this one in particular, is suddenly apparent, as I quickly learn the heavy machine can go forward faster than it can turn, and despite leaning into the inside of the turn, the machine flips up in the opposite direction.

Before I can correct it and straighten out, it is too late, and the machine is heading into a roll. Letting the machine go, I kick clear of it as a burst of rounds from the Tech-9 rip through it, igniting the fuel tank and exploding into a large ball of fire. It turns over three times before coming to a stop with flames shooting almost twenty feet into the air.

Jumping to my feet, the young Latino on the Raptor accelerating as he turns his machine in my direction, I realize the light of the fire has made ducking for cover virtually impossible. With his machine headed straight for me and accelerating at a high rate of speed, I pull up the magnum at the same moment he pulls up the Tech-9. Each weapon fires a single simultaneous round, my armor piercing slug traveling cleanly through his forehead and out the back of his head without even slowing down, while his 9mm slug kicks up a single spout of sand halfway between us.

The Raptor rolls to a stop almost directly at my feet, its dead operator still astride and leaning over the handlebars as if he fell asleep. Pushing him off, I throw a leg over the seat and take off in the direction of the Razor, even more convinced that only Ali would ride such a cumbersome machine.

As I fly past the flaming quad, I see several others in the peripheral that have been drawn to the fire like moths to a yard light.

None recognize me, and I keep going.

From somewhere, I hear the sound of more gunfire and wonder what they might be shooting at. By now, all of them should be well within the confines of the ravine, unfortunately, the sand walls of the ravine aren't much of a hindrance to the quads, and if Eddy isn't careful, her position could be easily overrun; much too easily for my liking.

Accelerating along the bottom of the ravine, I still take note of the obstacles and places of concealment that I'd made a mental note of earlier, even though they are almost useless to me now.

Just as I begin to wonder if the Razor might have circled back, I catch a glimpse of the wider tail lights through the brush directly ahead of me. Pressing the throttle and feeling the powerful surge of the six hundred and fifty cubic centimeters, I suddenly feel confident that I'm going to overtake him, when a quad suddenly shoots by in front of me at an angle.

Slamming on the brakes and steering sharply to the left, I suddenly find myself abreast of another quad, the operator grinning smugly as he fires a handgun held across his chest. Although I should be concerned that he is firing at me, I am surprised by his hairless head covered in tats and the shiny rings all in a row running up his left ear.

His first shot goes wide, probably a result of his experience coming from shooting out of an automobile window cruising along smooth asphalt, and not from the seat of an all-terrain vehicle bouncing along rough ground at high speed.

His second shot tears a hole in the sleeve of my camouflage suit and I know I have to do something before he gets off another round. With my left hand still gripping the brake, I squeeze it hard and turn right at him, my crash bar catching the deep lugs of his rear wheel and riding upward as if on an escalator. At that same moment, I release the brake and squeeze the throttle, the combined effect of his machine carrying me upward and the sudden surge of power to my rear wheels propelling my machine forward, up, onto, and then over his machine, crashing into the rider and carrying him with it. We land hard, all six-hundred pounds of my machine coming down on top of him.

Though it felt like riding a wild bronco, I manage to hang on and ride it through until all four wheels are back safely on the ground. Turning to look back, I see a dark crumpled heap of torn clothing and limbs lying at impossible angles; seeing no movement, I quickly move on.

The ravine is full of dancing headlights, the roar of engines racing wildly, and a multitude of fresh tracks. Yet, there is only one set that I'm interested in, and they are wider than any of the others.

Heading back to where I'd last seen the taillights of the Razor, it takes only a minute to sort through the many tracks left by all the different machines, and I hurriedly set off in pursuit.

When I see another quad coming down the side of the ravine to my right, its headlights bouncing through the ruts and brush, I slow down and allow it to pass in front of me, the headlights of my machine blinding the driver and making it impossible for him to recognize me; he continues on without slowing and then veers to the right, basically running in front of me as if he is afraid I might find the prey before him.

Squeezing the throttle, I accelerate after him, keeping him in my sights. When he suddenly veers off to the left and then back to the right to go around a dead tree lying across the bottom of the ravine, I follow suit. If memory serves me correctly, the dead tree is approximately at the halfway point from the east to the west end of the ravine.

While I am processing this information and calculating how long it will take the Razor to reach the west end of the ravine, I suddenly see a muted muzzle flash on the top of the ridge at the far end of the ravine.

One of the quads must have reached the far end and was climbing up the ridge toward her.

Relieved that she adapted to the situation and didn't simply wait for the formerly pre-arranged signal to take action, I suddenly grow concerned when I hear the rapid fire of a Tech-9 as if in response to her shot.

Yet, it must be close for me to hear it over the sound of my machine, and I frantically glance around in search of a muzzle flash, realizing that her shooting and the sound of the Tech-9 are coincidental, one having nothing to do with the other.

Now three-quarters of the way through the ravine, the lone quad still in my sights ahead of me, I suddenly notice three quads parked off to my left, their headlight lighting the trail directly ahead of me. As the quad I'm following passes through the lights he is lit up and exposed. Recognizing him, the three men on the quads wave their weapons in the air above their heads in the manner of a crude salute, their war cries audible even above the sound of racing engines.

With only a second to decide on a plan of action, as they will recognize me the moment I enter the light of their headlights and open fire, I suddenly veer toward them, squeezing the throttle open and steering with my left hand as I bring up the AR in my right. The terrain is rough and the speeding machine between my legs bounces wildly making it virtually impossible to aim with any accuracy.

Yet, the men sitting astride their parked quads aren't faced with any obstacles and can take their time aiming and shoot at their leisure. Moreover, there are three of them and only the one of me.

Or so I thought, until the one on the far right, is suddenly lifted off his quad and thrown against the man to his right, a splattering of blood and human tissue covering both men still astride their machines.

Caught off guard by this sudden turn of events, they panic and frantically break for cover. Now less than thirty feet from them and approaching at a high rate of speed, I squeeze the trigger of the AR and fan the barrel from right to left, the extreme volume of hi-velocity lead pouring from the barrel tears into plastic, metal, and human flesh with equal voracity.

As one of the quads bursts into flames from a ruptured fuel tanking leaking high octane fuel over a hot engine, I turn the handlebars to the right and then let go of them as I pull the empty clip from the weapon and immediately replace it with a full one while the quad beneath me rolls to a gradual stop.

Then, with both hands back on the handle grips, I again squeeze the throttle and charge after the Razor, confident that it must have come to the end of the ravine by now and is either charging up the sand bank toward Eddy or has turned and is heading back toward me. Either way, it's only a matter of seconds before I come face to face with Ali and I still haven't decided what I'm going to do when that happens.

Off to my right, I see a red taillight racing madly up the side of the ravine and it suddenly dawns on me that they might be trying to flank the shooter on the western ridge on the mistaken assumption that it's the man they came here to capture or kill.

Letting go of the grips and allowing the machine to roll to a stop, I pull up the AR and try sighting on the taillight. But even as I squeeze off a round and then another, the quad keeps accelerating, my shots clearly missing their target.

With no other options, I plant the butt of the AR against the seat of the quad and guesstimate a trajectory for the grenade, hoping to plant it on the top of the ridge just before the quad gets there. If I miss my mark, he will quickly be out of my line of sight with no hope for a second shot.

The recoil is mostly absorbed by the cushions of the seat and the suspension of the quad. A long, anxious moment passes while I refit a fresh grenade, knowing full well that I won't have any option but to lob it too and hope for the best.

If nothing else, the blasts will alert Eddy that they are trying to flank her; it's all I can do for her at this point.

When the grenade explodes, lighting up the northern slope of the ravine and lifting the quad into the air with its rider and throwing both of them back down into the ravine like a dog shaking water off its back, I slowly lower the AR and scan for the Razor.

Looking back toward the east, I see a flurry of headlights charging toward me, some higher up the sides of the ravine while others in a single file coming right up the center. I can stand my ground and put up a good fight, possibly taking out most of them before they get to me. Or I turn and find Ali.

It isn't much of a choice, really, when I remind myself that we're here to get Ali, one way or the other.

Sand erupts to my right and a bullet pings off the plastic front fender. They aren't taking any chances; the only machine they won't shoot at now is probably the Razor; everything else is fair game.

Shutting the headlights off, I accelerate forward in search of Ali, the brush seeming to literally jump out of the darkness and claw at my bare knuckles while thrashing my exposed shins with savage ferocity.

Though I can barely make out the upper ridge of the ravine against the dark night sky, I know I am nearing the western end and still there is no sign of the Razor.

The area where the Razor must be hiding is quickly shrinking, and although I must be rapidly closing in on Ali, his men are just as quickly closing in on me. If I don't find him and quick, I won't have any choice but to collect Eddy and make a run for it on the open sand, a prospect with a questionable outlook.

As I'm frantically scouring the brush and surrounding area for any sign of the Razor and Ali, several slugs suddenly rip through the rear tires. It immediately bogs down from the drag and then suddenly lurches forward before stalling out and leaving me dead in the water.

Even before the machine comes to a complete stop, I am swinging free of the foot rests and hitting the ground running. Because the nearest bank of the ravine is due north, that's the direction I take, my legs pumping with adrenaline as I push myself to reach the ridge ahead of the advancing quads.

Suddenly, a Tech-9 sub-machine gun opens up on me from a range of less than one-hundred feet off to my left. Lead whistles by my head, tearing through the brush around me with all the noise and confusion of an industrial strength weed eater.

Though I catch just a glimpse of the muzzle flash, the lead is coming hard and fast and I only have time to duck and dive for cover, bringing the AR up on my second roll and laying down a spastic return spray of fire.

Although the weapon is equipped with a muzzle flash reducer, my position is given away, and when the last round leaves the barrel, I'm on the run, still trying frantically to gain the ridge before the men on the quads overtake me.

Dropping the spent clip on the run, I slip in another just as a sporadic outpouring of shots erupts from the quads in the lead. Most of the shots fly wild, already a good forty feet separating me from my last firing position.

When I reach the base of the slope, I pivot around and plant the butt of the AR in the sand and lob a grenade in the direction of the advancing quads. Yet, even before I get to see what effect the grenade has, the sub-machine gun off to my left opens on me with a concentrated spray of bullets, forcing me to duck and run for cover again.

I charge forward about ten steps before the grenade goes off, and I immediately use what distraction it might have created to my advantage and turn my momentum up the slope, my feet digging in and kicking up sand with each powerful thrust forward.

Slowed by the steepness of the slope, the loose sand, and a complete lack of cover, I feel like a sitting duck as I scramble madly for the top. When the sub-machine gun on my left opens up again, the bullets so close they kick sand in my face and mouth, I realize that the shooter is using a night vision device, whether mounted on his weapon or goggles, it doesn't really matter; all that really matters is that I can't hide from him and on this bare slope of sand I am an easy target.

Dropping to the sand and sliding backwards a couple of feet, I roll onto my back and wait for the muzzle flash. When it comes, I simply point the AR and squeeze.

Only a short burst of three or four rounds erupts from the sub-machine gun before the AR answers, and it falls silent. Yet, it only takes one round to kill, and I feel the first slug catch me in the upper right thigh, the second just a few inches lower in the same leg; the other slugs having fallen short in the sand.

Thanks to shock, I feel little pain after the first realization that I've been hit, until I try to get to my feet and the leg is slow to respond. Not sure whether I hit the shooter or simply startled him, I know I can't lie here for long.

Once upright, my right leg quivering from the shock, I reach down and do a cursory inspection, only because I need to know how much faith I can put in it. Both bullets appear to be in the heavily muscled flesh. Neither exited, and neither wound is bleeding heavily at this point. That latter fact could change unexpectedly however. Movement could cause one or both bullets to shift.

When I try to put one foot in front of the other, my leg feels sodden and heavy, as if it's fallen asleep. Using the AR for a crutch, I push off and struggle slowly for the top of the ridge, expecting the shooter with the sub-machine gun to open up on me again at any time.

Upon reaching the top of the ridge without drawing new fire, I glance back just in time to see several quads racing toward the east. Further beyond them, I see many lights bouncing over rough terrain as they're coming this way through the sparse trees.

My first thought is that it must be the feds, but that doesn't explain why there are quads heading toward them as if to meet up with them. Could it be Ali's reinforcements? Or maybe even Ali himself coming to make sure his men succeeded?

Whatever it means, it's too late to worry about it. Right now, I have but one mission, and that is to find the Razor and possibly Ali. After that, I will decide what needs to be done.

Hobbling, using the rifle for a crutch, I head toward the west. If I'm not mistaken, I should be within several hundred feet of the western tip of the ravine and Eddy. Somewhere between here and there should be the Razor.

When I've gone almost one-hundred feet along the top of the ridge, I pause long enough to catch my breath, the pain in my right leg causing excruciating pain with each unsteady step.

Looking back over my shoulder, I see that several of the vehicles have reached the eastern end of the ravine and are being led in by the men on the quads, while several more quads are much nearer my position and simply waiting in the middle of the ravine like hungry vultures, or wolves. It's as if they realize their prey is wounded and it's only a matter of time before they close in for the kill.

Before they make their move, I must get to Eddy. Between the two of us, we can make this a very costly endeavor for them in terms of human life.

Dragging my right leg and leaning heavily on the AR for support, I push forward, growing more desperate with each step. Only when I am within fifty feet of Eddy's position, do I slow down, growing more apprehensive and concerned that I haven't come across the Razor yet.

Another ten feet, and I have to stop myself from calling out to her, letting her know that I'm here. Yet, with the aid of the night vision scope on her rifle, she should see me by now. For reasons that I don't yet understand, she is sitting quiet, not giving up her position.

I take another step forward when I am suddenly blinded by the headlights of the Razor. Reflexively, I put up my left hand to shade the harsh light from my eyes. A dark, Latino looking man is sitting on the front seat holding something in his right hand that's resting on his lap, while his left arm is draped around the shoulders of a passenger. Even through the glare of the high beams on the Razor, I can tell that the passenger is none other than Eddy.

On the ground in front of the machine lies the body of another man, the face mutilated beyond recognition while a dark wet pool of glistening blood congeals on the ground where the back of his head should be.

My kill or Eddy's?

"Mr. McClain!" he calls out. "If you want this beautiful woman to live to see the morning, you will do as I say."

Feeling light headed, I glance down and notice that the upper wound in my thigh has started bleeding, already a puddle of crimson blood has pooled around my right foot.

"Mr. Ali, I presume," I answer him, my voice sounding weak to my ears.

"You presume correctly," he replies. "If you're wondering what I have on my lap, let me tell you. It's a Tech-9 sub-machine gun with a twenty round clip. This one has been customized to my specifications and sports a hair trigger. If you try anything stupid," he starts, and then pauses before finishing. "Well, I think you get the drift."

There isn't any point in asking him what he wants, since that's a moot point; he wants me, and he wants me dead; end of story.

"For reasons that are incorrect, you want me dead," I start, hoping to buy a little time, though I don't have a clue what to do with it yet.

"You killed my only son, Mr. McClain. For that, you must pay with your own life. You understand that; do you not, Mr. McClain? You've been around enough to know that a life is repaid with a life and I'm here to collect."

"I understand that you believe that," I reply. "But what you believe isn't the truth. I didn't kill your son; your own men did that," I explain. "Now, that doesn't mean that I wouldn't have, just that I didn't."

"It doesn't surprise me that you would use that old rumor in an attempt to get out of this, but I have already looked into it and found it to be false," he says, shooting down the last of my hopes.

The sound of the quads at the bottom of the ravine suddenly spring to life and I realize in that moment that I am out of time. If I don't do something now, I will never have another chance.

Moreover, I harbor no doubts that he has any intentions of letting Eddy out of this alive.

Leaning forward on the AR, I half stumble and clumsily try to catch myself. Moving too slow from loss of blood, I pitch forward onto the sand, my right hand pinned beneath my chest.

Groaning from the pain, I push out with my left hand, feebly trying to get up while the roar of racing quads is quickly closing in from below.

Unable to raise myself from the ground, I collapse again, exhaling sharply from the bolt of pain.

Eddy suddenly calls out my name, fearing that I am dying right in front of her. The sounds of her struggling with Ali come to my ears as if from a long distance away, and then I hear her cursing him as he tries holding her back.

Though their footfalls are soft on the damp sand, I hear each one with acute clarity, the sounds of the approaching quads a dull throbbing in the background as she struggles valiantly with him, dragging him nearer an inch at a time.

"Please, he's dying," she cries out, her voice filled with emotion, and only feet from me now.

"Shut up!" he yells, slapping her viciously on the side of the head with the flat side of the sub-machine gun.

She drops in a heap, her hand gripping his arm so tight she practically pulls him down with her. As he tries to catch himself, I roll over and put two in his temple with the magnum.

His life is gone even before the sound of the magnum echoes off into the dunes, and he collapses lifelessly next to Eddy's semiconscious body.

By now, the sounds of the quads is deafening as they're tearing up the slope behind me. Pushing myself upright into a sitting position, I pick up the AR and planting the butt, squeeze off the grenade, the trajectory carrying it almost straight up into the night sky.

The grenade has no sooner launched then I turn the weapon on the crest of the ridge. The first set of headlight come flying upward, lighting up the night sky just as I fire a short burst into the belly of it, and then turn the weapon to the right, catching a second broadside, the impact of the lead slugs throwing him off the machine.

And then I am rolling to my left to avoid being crushed by the landing of the first machine, the brute weight of it coming down right next to me.

The rider, only wounded, leans over the side, the short barrel of his sub-machine gun drawing a line on my torso. Though I move as quickly as I can, it is blatantly obvious that I'm not going to bring the AR around fast enough to shoot him first, and I wait for the flash of the muzzle to signify my death.

Yet, before the flash comes, the rider is rocked forward by the blast of the grenade exploding just below the crest of the ridge, his aim going wide, and then he suddenly rocks backwards off his machine and rolls down over the slope.

When the abandoned machine rolls on by, Eddy is standing over Ali's body, the sub-machine gun still smoking from the rounds she sent into the man that was about to kill me.

The blast of the grenade momentarily turns back the advancing quads, and Eddy rushes to my side, her practiced eye immediately honing in on the leg wounds.

"Oh Mac," she cries. "You're bleeding."

"Are you okay?" I ask, more concerned for her.

"I'm fine, thanks to you," she says. When I give her a questioning look, she simply says, "I'll explain later. Right now, we need to get you in that sand machine," indicating the Razor. "Can you move?"

"With a little help, but you'll have to drive," I add, letting her assist me to my feet.

With her under my left arm and the AR in my right hand, we stumble clumsily but hurriedly to the Razor, where she helps me into the passenger's seat and then straps the seat belt to prevent me falling out.

While she runs around to get in behind the wheel, I hook in another grenade and lob it over the crest where they might be huddling, trying to decide their next move and hoping to buy us more of a head start.

"Which way?" she yells, the engine revving with the transmission in gear and ready to go.

Up until that moment, I had simply assumed we would head out into the dunes, hoping to outrun them and make it north to one of the staging areas ahead of them. But now that we're sitting here raring to go, I see the futility of such a plan. With the wider track of the Razor, we are limited to staying on open terrain, which means the Raptors and Banshees will be running circles around this clumsy piece of equipment.

Leaning over, I kiss her passionately on the lips, and then as I pull away, whisper softly, "Straight ahead, Babe. Let's give them hell."

Trusting in me completely, she never even hesitates as she lets the clutch pedal fly free and the rear tires churn up the damp sand as we lunge forward, the front wheels catching air as the slope drops out from under them.

With a birds-eye view from the crest of the ridge, I instantly don't like what I see ahead of us. In the bushes to our left and right are upturned quads and bodies lying in the sand. When Eddy suddenly swerves to the left, putting the machine up on two wheels to avoid an abandoned machine at the bottom of the slope, its plastic fenders shredded from the effects of the grenades, I am thankful for the seat belt.

And yet, I know that the worst is yet to come. From the top of the ridge, I saw at least five full-sized vehicles and more than ten quads still moving about. The full-sized vehicles are probably four-wheel drive pickups and SUVs, the total number of armed men impossible to guess at.

I wouldn't have figured that Ali had so many resources at his disposal, and then remembered that he also had Hernandez in his hip pocket.

"If they cut us off, we can't crash through them with this little thing," Eddy yells over the roar of the engine.

Checking the grenade launcher and counting the remaining rounds, I come up with two; one must have fallen off the webbing when I was charging up the slope. It will have to be enough.

"Don't worry. If they try to block us in, we still have this," I yell back, setting the butt of the AR against the lip of the seat between my legs.

Sure enough, the words have no sooner left my mouth than we see the headlights of the larger vehicles converging on the floor of the ravine.

When a shot erupts off to my right, I pull out the magnum and put a round where I'd last seen the muzzle flash. My shot is followed immediately by an unusual spark and then a muffled flash.

I have no idea what just happened, but I instantly put two more rounds in the same area where I witnessed the subdued flash. When nothing more comes of it, I turn back toward the front just in time to see another quad racing down from the slope on the left. With only one round left in the magnum, I slip it back in the shoulder holster and pivot the AR across Eddy's lap before squeezing off a short burst.

My bullets go high, but startling the rider, he tries to change course on the downward slope at a high rate of speed and his outside front tire bites through the damp sand causing him to roll over.

Kicking clear of the rolling bike, the rider regains his feet just as I squeeze of a more controlled burst, the bullets taking his legs out from under him, and he falls to the ground and rolls the rest of the way to the bottom of the slope, unmoving.

Putting the butt of the AR back on the lip of the seat between my legs, I eject the mostly used clip and replace it with a full one, dropping the partial one on the floor boards just in case I need it later.

Looking ahead, I see the full-sized vehicles have taken up their positions, separated by a distance of nearly ten feet, more than enough for the Razor to slip through.

However, the idea of cutting that close to vehicles carrying men with fully automatic weapons is pure suicide.

I'm weighing the situation even as we're charging toward it when Eddy suddenly steps on the brakes, bringing the machine to a skidding halt before turning to ask, "Now what, Mac?"

Like me, she too realizes that trying to slip between two vehicles full of men and automatic weapons will be nothing short of foolhardy.

Not too far ahead of us and slightly to the left lies a dead tree. If we hit it with this, it will surely stop us in its tracks. So that only leaves going around them on the right.

"Aim for the center vehicle, Eddy," I begin to explain. "Make them believe we are going to crash our way through. But the minute I launch the grenades, veer to the right and go right up the southern bank. Only don't go all the way up, just halfway. Then crank the wheel hard to the left and drop back down into the ravine. I'm going to take out the end rig at the bottom of the slope with the first grenade and maybe the second with the last grenade if we're lucky."

"Luck has nothing to do with it Mac. You just do it," she emphatically replies before softly adding, "I believe in you, Babe."

### *43*

Pushing the accelerator pedal clear to the floor and letting the clutch fly, the front end lifts slightly with the surge of power and then we are charging forward. When we are less than two-hundred feet from the center vehicle and heading right at it, Eddy suddenly flips on the high beams, lighting up the vehicles in front of us. With something to aim at, gunfire immediately erupts, a spray of bullets piercing the air in front and around us, the whining sound of lead breaking the sound barrier as it passes within inches of our heads; a most unnerving sound if you've never experienced it.

Over every hood and from behind every open door, muzzle flashes appear like Fourth of July sparklers. The amount of lead flying in our direction could be weighed in pounds.

And yet, we continue charging forward, miraculously unharmed by all the flying lead. There is no point in returning fire with the AR as the enemy is too spread out for my return fire to be effective. Instead, I launch the first grenade and then immediately reinsert the next and last from my webbing.

With no time to wait and see how accurate my first lob is, I let the last one go, praying that the first wasn't wasted and at least comes close enough to the last vehicle in line to cause enough panic for us to slip past them.

Almost in the same moment that I launch the last grenade, a burst of lead rakes the front of the Razor, taking out the headlights and front tires.

As the front of the machine drops down on the rims, Eddy fights with the wheel to bring it around to the right, setting us up broadside to the line of trucks and SUVs. Only because it is in four-wheel drive is she able to steer it at all in the churned up sand at the bottom of the ravine.

With no more grenades, I swing the AR around to my left and draw a bead on the line of headlights, intending on taking out as many as possible and giving us the cover of dark. But then I quickly reconsider, as the barrel will be almost in front of Eddy's face, the snap of the sound barrier breaking right by her ears.

Slipping the seatbelt clasp free, I attempt to get to my feet and am almost thrown off when the left front wheel slams against an exposed root-ball, causing the wheel to jerk in Eddy's hands and pitches the machine hard to the left.

Grabbing the roll bar above my head with my right hand and using it to keep from being ejected, my right leg is slammed against the dash and I see white streaks from the jolt of pain.

As Eddy rights the machine and corrects her course back toward the southern bank of the ravine, the first grenade explodes next to the last SUV in line. The hot blast buffets my eardrums and then the vehicle is engulfed in flames.

Almost immediately, the last grenade explodes and the little Razor is rocked from the concussion, the grenade having fallen short of its intended target. Yet, though it doesn't take out the second to last vehicle in line, it disrupts their volley of fire as they duck for cover.

Shifting my grip to the other hand so I can use the right to maneuver the AR, I swing it up on the pivot secured to my webbing and instinctively sight along the barrel, drawing a bead on the steady muzzle flash emanating from the center vehicle.

Even as I squeeze the trigger, I know my bullets aren't hitting anything more than the vehicle's metal bodies and shattering glass windows; I am causing panic and fear, but not a loss of life. Still, it is enough to momentarily deter their fire.

With the flat tires, the UTV becomes sluggish and difficult for Eddy to maneuver. Yet, she keeps the throttle pressed to the floorboards, aiming for the steep bank directly ahead of us.

Ejecting the empty clip from the AR, I pull one off the webbing and insert it into the magazine and slide home a live round just as a man steps out from behind the burning metal carcass of the end vehicle. His weapon is held level with his waist and immediately spits fire and lead as we draw abreast. We are so close that I can see the evidence of fresh burns on his left cheek and a myriad of tattoos covering his neck and exposed chest by the light of the fire.

The sickening thud-thud-thud of lead hitting something soft and pliable can be heard over the sound of the racing engine, and then my own weapon erupts in reply, a stream of lead tearing through the man's chest and arms and knocking him a few steps backwards before he falls to the ground and stops moving, and then we are past the last vehicle and Eddy is wrenching the wheel hard to the left as we lose momentum on the ascent of the slope.

Just when the UTV reaches the peak of its ascent and slowly makes the cutback into the ravine, the two farthest vehicles accelerate forward to give themselves room to get turned around and give pursuit while the one in the middle of the ravine kicks up sand from all four wheels as he throws it in reverse and slides around backwards, bringing the headlights to bear on us even before we reach the bottom of the ravine.

With no chance of outrunning the vehicle in our crippled Razor, I reach into my suit and pull out the magnum, its one armor piercing round our only hope of slowing the nearest pursuit.

When we impact with the bottom of the ravine, the rubber tires separate from the rims and we dig into the damp sand, almost coming to a complete stop. With thanks only to the powerful little engine is the UTV able to push through the rut and level out on the flat bottom of the ravine. But when Eddy turns the wheel to the right nothing happens; the machine simply plows forward on a collision course with the oncoming truck.

Someone in the bed of the truck stands up and opens fire over the cab, his bullets flying high and wide. Still on my feet, my right leg bleeding profusely from the exertion and threatening to buckle under my weight, I tap Eddy on the shoulder and indicate for her to stop.

As the hurting machine goes silent, I steady my hands on the forward bar of the roll-cage and sight on the center of the grill of the charging truck. Though I'm normally steady under pressure, this time I can literally feel my heart pounding in my chest and my breath feels labored; I'm unable to hold it in and relax.

And then, the calm settles over me, and I take my shot, the last round in the magnum. The weapon bucks in my grasp with a familiarity that not many men ever realize. And even before the armor piercing round leaves the barrel, I know it will strike true.

The bullet plows through the cheap plastic grill and the soft copper radiator without deflecting or mushrooming, its integral substance a much superior material. It goes through the plastic fan blade, the tin timing chain cover beyond and then literally plows through the cast aluminum of the block, tearing into the cast steel connecting rod of the first piston and bending it sideways before hitting the second and snapping it in two.

With such a catastrophic event happening in mere milliseconds, the engine detonates; the high speed moving parts literally unable to stop that suddenly.

As the hood flies upward and comes to rest against the hinge stops, the vehicle's tires lock up and grind to a halt. Eddy steps on the throttle and turns the wheel hard right. This time, the UTV turns, the bare rims working like a discus in a farmer's field, and we plow a trail toward the east end of the ravine.

With only darkness ahead, I turn around and face to the rear, the magnum already back in its holster. To our good fortune, the men in the other two vehicles have stopped to pick up the men from the disabled truck, giving us a moment's head start.

With all of them bunched together, I suddenly wish I had another grenade. Unfortunately, the grenades have all been used. It dawns on me that I could reload the magnum, but I quickly discard the notion as I see no point in it; I can do just as much or more damage with the AR and it's a much more intimidating weapon.

Turning to look ahead while fretting over our slow progress, I glance down and see Eddy leaning forward in the seat.

"Eddy! Eddy!" I call out. She stirs slightly, and then slowly turns to look up at me.

Her face is ashen and I can tell immediately that she is in a lot of pain. And then I remember the sound of the bullets earlier and realize that she's been hit. If it wasn't for my own pain and light headedness, the meaning of the sounds would have registered sooner.

"How bad is it?" I ask, dropping into the seat to get a better look at her, my stomach twisting into knots with worry and concern.

She smiles weakly at me, and then her head bobs unsteadily as she turns back to face forward, her foot holding the throttle all the way down.

"Damn it, Eddy! Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" I curse with frustration, neither expecting an answer nor able to do anything for her.

We hit a stretch where the damp sand is more compacted and the UTV instantly surges forward as it picks up speed, the front rims now riding over the top instead of plowing furrows.

"Hold on Eddy," I yell at her. "We're almost there."

When I try to get back on my feet, my right leg refuses to straighten out and support my weight. Ignoring the pain, I roll onto my side on the seat and rest the AR on the rear engine shroud. Though the headlights are still off in the distance, the brush momentarily blocking them out and then shining brightly again, I squeeze off a clip in anger. It would be a fluke if I hit anything of import.

Rolling back around until I'm facing forward again in the seat, I eject the spent clip and toss it over the side. Pulling another off the webbing, I slam it into the receiver and charge a fresh round into the chamber.

I'm about to turn back around and waste another clip in frustration, when Eddy puts a hand on my leg and says, "Save it. Let them get closer first."

Though she is absolutely correct, my anger won't be slaked by sitting still, and I rise back up in the seat and look back over my shoulder. Two vehicles are now moving at a fast pace, quickly closing the distance between us even as I watch. Within a minute they will be firing on us, and then it will only be a matter of seconds before they overtake us.

Farther back, I see a single headlight crashing through the brush and realize that it's the other pickup, the one that the second grenade barely missed; for all my trouble, I only managed to disable two vehicles.

Sitting back in the seat, I study our tortuous progress toward the eastern entrance of the ravine by looking for a familiar landmark. When I recognize a particular dip in the ridge, I realize that we are much closer to the entrance than I had originally thought. At this pace, however, we will be lucky to reach it at the same time as our pursuit.

And then what?

If we were on a quad or had our own individual quads, we might find a trail too narrow or otherwise restrictive for a full-sized vehicle. But on this machine, we don't have any more options than the men pursuing us in their trucks and SUVs. And with their much more powerful engines and higher speeds, they will quickly overtake us.

"Eddy," I say, leaning close so she can hear me. "I'm going to slow them down while you head straight for the highway."

She looks over at me, her face twisted with pain and anxiety; her head slowly moving side to side while her lips mouth the word, "No."

"It's our only chance, Eddy," I argue. "You just keep going until you get to the highway. Then call Manny. I'll catch up to you later," I lie, knowing I won't get very far with this bum leg.

Turning in the seat, I'm surprised by the nearness of the first vehicle. Pulling myself up to the roll bar, I swing the AR up and sight along the barrel at the bouncing headlights. But instead of squeezing off a long burst and hoping for the best, I take my time and fire one accurate round after the next, the headlights nothing more than ducks at a shooting gallery.

My first shot takes out the headlight on the right, my second sparks on the hood, my third creating a fountain of hot steam as the radiator is ripped open.

Though there is no big explosion or fire like in the movies, the vehicle slowly rolls to a stop, the men inside bailing out and taking up positions to either side as they open fire on us.

When I drop back into the seat, their fire quickly tapers off as they don't have anything to use for a target in the dark.

Although the UTV is crippled and struggling with no front rubber, it is moving much too fast for me to simply bail out of with my bum leg. So, as we exit the ravine, I gently squeeze Eddy's leg to get her attention, and then indicate for her to slow down.

The minute she does, I step off the slowly rolling machine, using the AR as a crutch while yelling at her, "Get out of here. Now!"

It hurts me to be so brusque with her, but it's for her own good. The other two vehicles will be here in a moment and I have a couple of Claymores to get to before that happens.

Giving me a brave smile, she steps on the throttle and continues toward the east. Using the AR for a crutch, I struggle along a game trail leading to the hidden triggers for the Claymore mines. If I don't get to the triggers in time, Ali's men will overtake Eddy and not even realize they've missed me until then. By that time, it will be too late for her.

Hopping along the trail, my foot suddenly snags a manzanita root and I fall forward, the rifle breaking free of my grasp.

Cursing, I scoop it up and use it to get back to my feet. I can tell I'm close because of the stone totems I set up to mark them. And yet, even though they are near, the trucks are nearer, and I suddenly worry that I've already missed my chance when I suddenly see the wire coming out of the sand.

Like a frantic groundhog, I scrape off the top layer of sand and pull out the small plastic box that houses the toggle switch. Across the way, there is an identical box and switch; both of which are wired together in such a manner that either will trigger both mines, since I wasn't sure which one I would be able to get to. It was the only safety factor I built in.

Unable to get back on my feet, I have no way of knowing where precisely the vehicles are, or even if they've already gone beyond the effective range of the Claymores when I flip the switch and rollover face down in the sand.

There is a tremendous concussion and the night is momentarily lit up. A second later, I feel a warm puff of displaced air, and raise my head.

Moving slowly, I drag the AR close and then push off from the ground as if doing a pushup. I get halfway up, and then fall back down, my body refusing to obey a simple command.

Rolling over onto my back, I breathe heavily for a long minute, the night silenced except for the sound of a single engine; the last pickup with a single headlight.

But did I get the other one, or was I too late, and is it even now overtaking Eddy?

I have to know. Rolling back onto my stomach, I do another modified pushup, this time getting all the way to my feet with the aid of the AR as a crutch.

The first thing I see is a small fire where the brush caught from the explosion. What I don't see is either pickup, and I immediately grow concerned for Eddy. All I can think is that my timing was off; I was too late.

Using the AR for a crutch, I start off toward the east, knowing full well that I won't catch up to Eddy in time to help, but still unable to give up; I can't quit.

When I am almost to the blast site, I notice something solid against the hazy background of night. At first, I think it must be my eyes playing tricks on me. But as I draw closer, I realize it's the pickup that was about to overtake us.

For the briefest of moments, I feel relief, and then I remember the sound of the other vehicle driving by while I lay on the ground unable to get up.

Since the truck is along my route, I pass close enough to it to see a passenger hanging half out of the side window, his body a bloody mess.

Inside the cab is the driver leaning over the steering wheel, the windshield shattered, the front and side of the vehicle a shrapnel ridden hulk of junk.

Whether the driver is dead or alive is irrelevant to me as I am no position to offer assistance or succor.

As I'm hobbling along, I'm aware that my leg wounds have almost stopped bleeding and I laugh hoarsely at the thought that it's probably because I've run out of blood. If I wasn't so lightheaded, I would realize that I only find the thought funny because I'm not thinking clearly.

Gradually, I grow aware of flashing lights off in the distance and that the sky is growing lighter just above the horizon. For some reason, the sky growing lighter seems much more significant than the fact that I am seeing red and blue lights approaching.

And then I remember that Eddy needs my help. Though I can't remember why, it is important that I get to her quickly. Then I realize the importance of the lighter sky. Eddy and I are going quading in the morning and I have to get back in time or she will never forgive me.

The AR slips from my grasp, and I fall forward to the damp sand, no longer able to even lift my arms to break my fall.

For a long minute, I lie still, unsure what to do next. After a while, I roll over and stare up at the sky, a dull gray color devoid of clouds. This is just so like the coast. Maybe I'll just close my eyes and catch a few more winks before I have to get up. Eddy will come and get me when it's time.

### *44*

"Where is he?" Larry asks the first trooper he comes upon after disembarking the Coast Guard helicopter and turning Pandora over to Special Agent Nixon with the promise of a full report forthcoming.

"We're not sure yet," he replies, studying the bandaged man standing before him. After being plucked from the cold ocean waters, the Coast Guard medic quickly treated the torn ear and bandaged the wound with a white gauze turban encircling his head. "You must be that guy that crashed out on the ocean."

"Yeah, that's me," Larry sourly grumbles. "Is there any chance of catching a lift out there?"

The radio crackles with voices, and then the trooper turns to him and says, "They're bringing someone out now."

Turning toward the approaching lights, Larry isn't sure what to expect. Behind him, the highway is lined with emergency and law enforcement vehicles not capable of going out on the sand. An almost equal number of four-wheel drive vehicles were dispatched out onto the dunes, their destination the ravine that Mac gave the coordinates to.

As the vehicle approaches, Larry starts toward it, pushing his way through firefighters and others that were held back until or unless needed. The vehicle is a bright yellow four-wheel drive van with large lettering on the side stating that it's a Dune Rescue and Retrieval Vehicle.

When it stops in the center of the clearing that the feds and state troopers set up as a command post, Larry forces his way ahead of the throng of men and demands to be granted access to the single occupant that it's carrying.

Special Agent Nixon, having passed Pandora off to a subordinate for transport and arraignment, grabs Larry by the arm and together they make their way to the rear doors of the van just as the EMT inside pushes them open.

Lying on a cot inside with an oxygen tube in his nose and a green oxygen bottle strapped to the cot at his side is none other than Hernandez.

"Where are they?" Larry shouts at him, jumping up into the van before either the EMT or Nixon can stop him. "What did you do to them you traitorous bastard?" he yells, grabbing Hernandez by the shirt collar and literally dragging the frightened man from the cot and out the back of the van where they both land on the ground in a struggling heap.

"Break 'em up!" Nixon orders to the nearer men, as he grabs Larry by the shoulders and pulls him off Hernandez. "Sergeant, cuff that man," he says as two troopers lift Hernandez to his feet. "Take him into town and book him; we'll deal with him later. And Sergeant, I don't want him contacting anyone before I get there. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," the Sergeant replies, brusquely pushing Hernandez ahead of him as they pass through the throng of onlookers and continue in the direction of the highway where most of the vehicles are parked.

Visibly shaking, Nixon advises Larry, "You need to calm down."

"So help me, if he killed them, I'm going to kill him," Larry professes.

"Don't say that, man," Nixon whispers, glancing around to see who all might have overheard the threat. "We have enough to deal with already," he admonishes Larry. Looking nervous and upset, he adds, "This is probably going to make national news."

When the EMT that was riding in the back of the van with Hernandez steps out of the back and turns to close the doors, Larry turns on him and asks, "Where did they find him?"

"I'm not sure, really," he apologetically admits. "By the time we were on scene, they had him in a truck and were transporting him out. He didn't appear injured aside from being shaken up, but he wanted to be checked over so they gave him to us."

"Wanted to be checked over, my ass," Larry says, knowing that Hernandez was hoping to simply use his authority to commandeer a vehicle and simply disappear before anyone connected him to Ali.

"I need you to get me out there," Larry demands, looking about for a vehicle that isn't being used.

"You know I can't do that," he argues. "You need to be patient. It's light now and the teams that are out there know what they're doing. We'll hear something the minute they find anything."

As he considers his chances of making it to the nearest unmanned vehicle, one of the troopers comes running up to them from the communications van.

"Special Agent Nixon, we just got word that they're bringing in two people, a man and a woman. Both are wounded, but we won't know the seriousness of their wounds until our EMTs reach them."

"Thank you Officer," Nixon replies before turning to Larry and saying, "Patience, Larry. It'll only be a few more minutes now until we know more."

To Larry, the minutes feel more like hours. But when the first transport vehicle finally comes into view, Larry rushes forward with Nixon close on his heels. Even before the vehicle reaches the impromptu staging area, Larry flags it down and runs around to the rear doors.

Nixon, seeing the uncertainty on the driver's face, flashes his badge to put him at ease and then continues on around to the back just as Larry pulls the doors open.

The first thing Larry sees is two cots, one along each wall. On the cots, their bodies covered with white sheets and full breathing masks over their faces, is a man and a woman. The two EMTs working in the back look up, startled by the sudden intrusion.

Larry immediately recognizes his two friends just by the color and length of their hair, and a small whimpering sound escapes his lips. His legs suddenly feel weak and if not for his grip on the door and Nixon standing behind him, helping support him, he would have collapsed.

"Larry?" a female voice weakly says his name. And her arm moves up to her face, pushing the mask to the side so she can speak easier. "Larry, is that you?"

"Eddy, thank god," Larry calls to her. "How's Mac?"

Before she can answer, the EMT closest to her puts the mask back over her face and says to Larry, "She needs her rest. We had to sedate the male patient because he refused to lie still while we attended to wounds in his leg. He was much more concerned about the woman than he was himself," the EMT added.

"Thank god," Larry says under his breath, giving in to Nixon's tugging at him to step back from the door. "You hang in there Eddy," he calls to her as the door is shut and the vehicle continues forward through the area and back to the highway.

"Where are they taking them?" Larry asks, staring after it.

"Local hospital in town," Nixon replies. And then says, his hand still on Larry's arm, "Come on, I'll take you."

With the little red and blue lights still flashing on his sedan, Special Agent Nixon assists Larry across the rough terrain and then opens the passenger's door and helps him in.

"Thanks," Larry says as Nixon gets in the driver's side and turns the key.

"Don't mention it," Nixon replies with a genuine smile of appreciation. "When this story comes out, I'll probably be in line for a promotion, thanks to you guys."

When they're out on the highway and cruising toward town, Larry extends his right hand across the seat to Nixon, who self-consciously takes it in his and they shake hands for the first time since meeting.

At the hospital they meet up with Manny, Greg, Gina, and Norm in the waiting room. All of them are wearing dour expressions and Larry immediately expects the worse.

"Any word yet?" Larry asks.

"It appears that Eddy was hit three times, two in the left side of her chest and one in the left buttock. When she came in, they said her left lung was collapsed and all three bullets were still in her," Greg says before the others can speak up.

Before Larry can ask about his best friend, Manny says, "Mac took two in the right thigh. The wounds wouldn't have been serious if he could have received immediate attention, but he didn't. He's lost a lot of blood, but they're confident that with transfusions, he'll pull through." Manny pauses for a moment, and then studying the bloody bandage on his head asks, "What about you?"

"I'll be fine," he defers, not wanting to grab any attention away from Mac or Eddy.

"Let's get a doctor to look at that since we're already here," Nixon says, waving over a doctor.

"Really, I'm fine," Larry stubbornly protests when the doctor asks him to follow him to an exam room.

"You need to go with him," Nixon orders. "If we hear anything, we'll come and get you right away."

Reluctantly, Larry follows the doctor.

When he returns to the waiting room, a doctor has just arrived with news. The front of his smock is still covered with blood from performing surgery, but he has a huge smile on his face. "I'm Dr. Havelock. I just finished doing surgery on Miss Eddy Lotto and I'm happy to inform you that it went quite well. We managed to remove both bullets from her chest and re-inflated the lung. There were no complications and we don't foresee any. She is stable and doing fine."

"But we heard she was hit three times, not two, doctor. What about the third bullet?" Gina asks.

"As the bullet in her buttock is embedded in fatty tissue and poses no immediate threat, we have decided at this time not to remove it until she has time to recuperate from the chest surgery," he quickly explains.

"How is Mac doing?" Manny asks.

"We have given him more than six pints of blood and stopped the bleeding. He will be weak for some time, but we don't foresee any long-term maladies," Dr. Havelock informs us.

"When can we see them?" Gina asks.

"You can see your friend Mac just as soon as the sedative wears off. I understand they had to give him a sedative in the field to control him. He should be conscious within the hour. As for Miss Lotto, we will keep her sedated until morning. If you want to look in on her for a minute after she is moved into the IC unit, the nurse will be glad to arrange that for you," he says, clearly proud of his achievements.

"Thank you doctor," Larry says, turning and dropping heavily into one of the nearest chairs.

"You're more than welcome. If there are any other questions, just have the nurse page me," he says, and then turns and leaves.

As the others select seats, Nixon informs them that he has a lot of paperwork to get started on, but will be back in the morning with the Assistant Attorney General and the U.S. Marshal's representative.

"Why the Marshal's?" Greg inquires, perplexed.

"Yeah," chimes in Norm. "I thought they said Ali was dead."

"I don't know any more than you guys at this point," Nixon confesses. "But I'm sure they'll explain everything in the morning. We'll just have to wait until then. Good night."

Within the hour, all of the friends are led into Mac's room where they are greeted by a drowsy Mac. Seeing his friends, he immediately asks if they know the latest regarding Eddy.

"They keep telling me that she's been through surgery and everything's going good, but they won't let me see her," I complain.

"They're going to take us to her in a few minutes. As soon as they do, we'll come back and give you all the details," Gina promises, holding my hand to both calm and comfort me.

Larry gives me all the details on his fateful flight with Pandora and how Special Agent Nixon has turned out to be a real standup guy. Also that Hernandez is in custody and the U.S. Marshals have arranged to meet with us in the morning. When I ask him why the Marshals Service would still be interested in us, he couldn't tell me anymore than that I needed to wait and see along with the rest of them.

"After you guys check in on Eddy, can one of you bring me a bottle of West Indies?" I ask.

Everyone smiles patronizingly, but no one promises to bring me a bottle. And I can't really blame them. They are all familiar with my past in dealing with the bottle and it's not a pretty one. Rightfully, no one is going to give me a hand going down that road again.

If anyone returned after their visit to Eddy's room, I was unaware of it, as I slept solidly through the night, getting the much needed rest that my body craved. By the time Manny and Norm came by in the mid-morning hours to escort me to the meeting with the Marshals, I was up and moving about with the help of crutches.

Eddy had awakened, and I'd gone to visit her. We kissed and she promised to show me her scars, especially the one on her butt. I teasingly asked her if I could kiss it and make it all better, but she told me that her butt was off limits until the doctors told her otherwise.

At the meeting it was brought up that the original contract on me and my friends had been increased. It seems some drug lord is determined to make an example of the way we dealt with his boys. Between Eddy and me, we killed more than twenty of Ali's men including Ali and his personal body guard. We put a crimp in the local meth trade for at least a week, and of the men that were arrested out on the dunes, it appears that more than one was willing to make a deal with the Assistant Attorney General. They provided him with addresses and names in exchange for the same deal we got, witness protection.

Even as this meeting with our new protectors is taking place, state and federal authorities are smashing the human trafficking business all up and down the I-5 corridor.

During the meeting, Lisa was delivered by justice department agents who appeared more than happy to be washing their hands of her. To everyone's surprise, her and Larry quickly picked up where they left off. It was almost creepy the interest she showed in the wound that took off most of his ear. Because it was a woman that accomplished the feat, she was determined that he wasn't going to live it down anytime soon.

It was agreed that Lisa and Larry would be set up in a new location as soon as they tied up loose ends, while I was going to be allowed to stay and recuperate in the hospital where I can keep a close eye on her. Just as soon as she can be moved, we'll be on our way too.

Manny said his goodbyes and left shortly thereafter. Greg and Gina said they were going to hang around until all the documentation was finalized, and then would be returning to their vineyard in Napa Valley.

Back in my room, I am just getting back into my bed, the excitement of the meeting having drained me, when I hear a tapping at the door.

Turning, I see Norm standing there. He appears hesitant about coming in or not, so I say to him, "Come on in, Norm."

Like a mouse with nowhere to hide, he slowly steps into the room, worrying his hands together like a nervous tick.

"I won't take any of your time," he apologizes.

"It's okay, Norm," I say, lying back into the bed and pulling the blankets back up over me. "What can I do for you?"

"I don't know where to start," he stammers.

"Try the beginning," I say, trying to calm him.

"Remember when you and Eddy came charging into my bar that first night we met?"

"Sure, how could I ever forget? You saved my life, the way I remember it."

"You told me that night that if I ever needed anything, all I had to do was ask; does that offer still stand, because I'll understand if it don't? So much has happened since that night. It feels awkward bringing this up after everything. Maybe I can explain to you and you can think about it for a while, maybe discuss it with the others...."

"Norm, shut up!" I say, cutting him off. "Of course my offer still stands. Anything I can do, you just name it," I sincerely reaffirm.

"My son, or rather, my ex-wife, they're missing," he stammers. "Somewhere in Nevada, Las Vegas area, I think. We didn't get along so well, but my son; she always let me have time with him. It's not like her to just up and disappear with him. I'm afraid something bad has happened to them. She worked for one of them big casinos, maybe Manny can tell us where to start?"

"Okay, okay, slow down," I tell him with a big grin. "Just because we're going into witness protection doesn't mean we can't take on an occasional side job. If the Marshals don't want us working on the west coast, maybe Vegas will fit into their plans for us."

### THE END

Your opinion please.

If you've come to the end of this story and you still want more of Mac and his friends, please feel free to argue your case. My original plan was to write Mac and his friends off in Witness Protection, essentially sending them into oblivion. But as you've noticed in the way I ended this story, and I'm sure it happens more frequently than we hear about in real life, people in witness protection don't always stay in witness protection. Many miss their former lives, while some are found by the people that sent them into hiding in the first place.

So it's up to you, my faithful reader; do you want to read more of Mac and his band of loyal friends? Or do we let them fade into oblivion? I'd be glad to hear your opinion. Unfortunately, as much as I value your opinion, at this time the only way to contact me is through my author presence on the Smashwords site. But have no fear, I have a feeling Mac isn't ready to retire just yet. Just a feeling. So keep an eye out and keep checking back. In the meantime, discover some of my other awesome stories. Thank you for your time,

Sincerely,

Will Decker

More Exciting Stories by Will Decker:

DRIVEN

UNREQUITED LOVE

FIRE BABY

HYBRID KILLERS

The 'HEÄLF' Collection:

MORTALITY REVISITED

CLONE WARS

DAY OF NIGHT

REGENERATIONS

HORSPAW

The 'Mac" Collection:

THE WITNESS

TOXIC RAIN

BETRAYAL

RECORD KEEPER

DEATH IN THE DUNES

WIT-SEC FAIL

SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed.

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

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

Will

