

# Chill Factor

Stephen Collicoat

# -

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Stephen Collicoat

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

# Table of Contents

Helpless

Scoop

The Killing of Sheena Burnam

A Favor for Friends

Short Ride to Hell

Invasion

Loose Thread

Revenge

Besieged

Cade

Flame

The Crossing

Bait

Shade

Ambition

Your Life is Mine

The Stalking Horse

# Helpless

I woke and the nightmare began.

I tried to move. I couldn't. My mouth was dry. My throat was on fire. I tried to gulp, but couldn't. My brain was sending increasingly frantic messages to my body. Nothing happened. Worse was to come. I realized where I was. It was a slow realization, then mounting terror. I feared I'd go mad. But perhaps insanity would bring relief.

It was black. A black so intense that my eyes couldn't penetrate it. But there was air. That was strange. Just the faintest trickle. It stirred several strands of my hair. It came from behind my head. Not much. Just enough to keep me alive.

Alive and suffering. Although I couldn't see it, I felt the oppression of the lid above my face. I was lying on a bed of silk. I could feel it touching my hands. Felt it through my stockings. The smooth material touched my left cheek. It irritated me. I wanted to brush it away. Because I couldn't move, my body didn't sweat. That way, the temperature in the tightly confined space was bearable. I smelt horrible. I felt disgusted with myself but had no control of my muscles. Quietly inhaling this stew of filth, at least I knew I wasn't dead.

I was in a coffin and couldn't scream for help.

I listened, straining to hear the slightest sound. A clock ticked. Feet softly trod a carpeted corridor. There were muffled snatches of conversation. Words spoken gently with exaggerated respect. A tone you hear only in the presence of death. I lay in a coffin in a funeral home, waiting to be buried or burned.

I cast my memory back, trying to understand why I was here. The last thing I remembered was dining at my sister, Frankie's home.

'There's only the three of us tonight,' Frankie said. 'I figured you'd feel more comfortable with just the close family.' I nodded gratefully. It's true that I don't care for company. I am by nature shy. Some would say a recluse. My inescapable public duties, which had dramatically increased of recent weeks were a trial. There was however no escaping the fact that I was now the very public face of the Beaufort Estate.

Luke - Dr. Luke Maddern, brother-in-law and noted anesthetist at St. Mark's Community Hospital poured me a glass of Beaujolais from a bottle on the sideboard. I felt gratified he remembered that label was my favorite.

'You're not drinking red,' I asked him. 'I thought you always did.'

'Not tonight,' he smiled. 'I'll just take some Riesling with Frankie.'

'That's enough,' I protested. 'I never have more than half a glass.'

'Have what you will,' Luke smiled. Luke and Frankie raised their glasses. 'Your very good health,' Luke toasted me.

'And yours,' I responded. I took a small sip.

'I suppose you were surprised to get my invitation,' Frankie began.

'Surprised and pleased,' I admitted. 'We've been drifting apart.'

Frankie treated me to one of her dazzling smiles. The thousand watt illumination that made most people, and particularly men crumble at the knees. I'll bet she used that smile to snare Luke.

I shook my head impatiently. There, I thought I'm doing it again. Always seeing my sister in a negative light. I admit I was jealous. Frankie was the most popular girl in college. Plenty of friends. Dated the best looking guys, while I was the eternal spinster. Yet, but there was more than jealousy. I've never liked Frankie. She'd always been a spoiled, spiteful little brat who hid her true character behind an easy charm.

Then there was Luke.

It was strange. He was an attractive man: tall, good looking, clever and clearly successful at his job. Judging from their house and the Porsche he drove, Luke drew a good salary, but...Yes, what was that 'but'? Something there. Was it the fleeting expression that I glimpsed when he thought no one was looking? Was there a hint of cruelty in those all-too perfectly chiseled features? Something visceral. Something that made me cringe.

The uneasy relationship that Frankie and I had since childhood had fractured in recent times. She made no secret of her dismay when I inherited the bulk of the estate on mother's death. I thought Frankie had been generously provided for, but as she clearly didn't think so, I added a further $3 million. I thought this was more than fair.

'What on earth do you need all that money for?' Frankie screeched, ignoring my offer.

'Well, that's rather my business,' I snapped back. 'I'll probably set up a charitable trust. It's what Dad always wanted.'

'Yes, waste the family money on professional loafers! It's typical of Mum and Dad,' Frankie continued bitterly, 'They always preferred you. I'm just tail end Charlie.'

'Oh Frankie,' I said, feeling genuinely shocked. 'How can you say that? You know they adored you. They always gave you everything you wanted.'

But as I said it, I wondered if more was ever enough for my greedy little sister.

'It's all right darling,' Luke put in soothingly, patting Frankie's shoulder. 'We'll make do.'

I was outraged. Luke made it sound as though they were paupers, instead of multimillionaires. Yes, the Beaufort Estate had made me absurdly rich, but Frankie and Luke would never want for anything.

Now it seemed that surprisingly Frankie was trying to heal the breach.

'I'm so glad, we have this time to catch up,' she began sweetly. 'It's so easy to say things in the heat of the moment that you later bitterly regret.'

'I guess there were faults on both sides,' I conceded.

'Quite right,' Luke agreed heartily. He topped up my already full drink.

'Let's drink to better times,' he suggested.

'Better times,' I echoed.

I took a deep draught. Suddenly, it felt as though my body had turned to rubber. My fingers no longer had the strength to grip the stem of the wineglass. The glass fell onto the linen tablecloth: it's contents splashing across the snowy white surface like gouts of blood.

My last memory was of the expressions on the faces of Frankie and Luke.

Rather than looking concerned, they were smiling in triumph.

* * *

I heard the door open.

'What a lovely room!' Frankie exclaimed.

'This is the finest of our Remembrance Suites,' a man's voice responded. 'May I say Dr. and Mrs. Maddern,' he continued in an oily tone, 'what an honor it is that you chose Prendergast Funerals at this sad time? Miss Beaufort was greatly respected and loved by us all.

'Of course,' he added proudly, 'this funeral is keeping with the tradition of my company providing service to your family. Your esteemed father and most recently your late mother...'

'My sister would have been so pleased with the arrangements,' Frankie broke in. 'The floral tributes for instance are superb.'

'So many people wished to be remembered, including the Vice President and State Governor,' Prendergast said.

'Everyone's so kind,' Frankie sniffed.

'Bear up,' Luke said manfully. 'What a fine casket!'

There was no mistaking the pride in the funeral director's voice. 'The very best in our selection. 'The Imperial' is fashioned after the style of Napoleon 1. I do trust all the arrangements have so far proven satisfactory.'

'Yes, Mr. Prendergast,' Frankie said in a tiny voice, 'It's such a comfort for me to know my beloved sister is in your very capable care.'

'Perhaps Dr. Maddern, if you'd care join me in my office?' Prendegast suggested. 'There are several formalities to complete.'

'Oh yes,' Luke said, 'The Death Certificate. I have it here.' I heard the rustle of paper.

'And the attending physician was Miss Beaufort's regular doctor?'

'No,' Frankie responded, 'My sister rarely sought medical advice. Perhaps if she had..'

'Dr. Grant is a respected colleague,' Luke added, with a note of asperity.

'Of course,' Prendergast replied hastily. 'Forgive me. Whenever a loved one passes in their forties, the courts are somewhat particular as to cause of death. A heart attack, I believe. How tragically unexpected.'

'Yes,' Luke murmured, as though placated. 'But the heart is a strange organ. A simple pump, yet who can predict with certainty the cause of individual heart failure? You'd be shocked at the number of young, healthy, even athletic men and women who suffer fatal strokes each year.'

'I'm sure,' Prendergast murmured in agreement.' Well, this paperwork seems in order, but let's leave any further discussion to my office. I'll leave you to say your good-bye's to Miss Beaufort. Please press this button if I can be of any assistance. Again, my heartfelt condolences.'

The door closed.

Frankie's tone hardened. 'Who's Dr. Grant?' she demanded.

'Tom Grant,' Luke replied. 'A doctor at the hospital. I had to use him. I can't sign a Death Certificate when I'm a secondary beneficiary. The whole of the estate will now revert to you.'

'Is Grant reliable?'

'Totally. I paid a lot for his signature.'

'I hope so,' Frankie sounded unconvinced. 'The last thing we want is an autopsy.'

'You're such a pain!' Luke snapped. 'It was your idea to drug rather than kill Sandra. I could have easily made look like a heart attack. But no, you wanted to keep her alive until she's cremated. Why I don't know.'

'But Grant.' Frankie persisted.

'Grant will do what I want. He's desperate for money to pay off a huge gambling debt. It's true that traces of the drug will stay in the DNA of Sandra's skin and hair for up to five days, but that won't worry us. Tomorrow, her body will be burnt. Any accusation by Grant after that time couldn't be proved and the claim I'd murder my sister-in-law would sound preposterous. But if it makes you happier, I'll have him killed.'

'Yes, do that.'

'Fine. An accident in three months time.'

I listened in sick horror to Frankie and Luke. I never liked them, but had never imagined them to be evil.

'It's alright darling,' Frankie said soothingly. 'I'm sorry. I'm just on edge.'

'Understandable. It's a deeply stressful time, but we're almost home free.'

'And you're sure, she's still alive? She can hear what we're saying?'

'Absolutely. I've dosed her up on Flunitrazepam.'

'The date rape drug?'

'Yes, normally the drug would wear off after a maximum of 12 hours, but in Sandra's case, I've made sure she'll remain helpless right through to cremation. Just as well she has a strong heart.'

'And she can breathe?'

'There's a small hole that I drilled just under the coffin lid. It also helps her hear us.'

Frankie giggled. I heard her speaking very close to me. 'Hullo Sandi, ' she whispered. 'Are you listening to all this? What a shame I can't see your expression!'

'Darling,' she suggested briskly to Luke. 'Go and see what that old fool Prendergast wants. I want to spend a few minutes with my sister.'

'Later.' Luke went out and closed the door.

'Well, isn't this fun?' Frankie asked with spiteful glee. 'Just the two of us. Some girlish confidences. Well, confidences from me at least. My chance to tell you exactly what I always thought of you.

'No need to hide my feelings. I've always loathed you. I hated you when I first saw you and wanted you dead. Remember those painful games I played on you? I always resented the attention you received. Everyone thought you were so much smarter. Well, you're not so clever now.'

Her tone dripped contempt. 'Little Miss Sandi. Always in control. But now you can't control anything. Even your bowels. Just as well your stench is covered by the scent of flowers. Dear me, what a mess you must have made of yourself!

'And look at all these flowers! Well, you can't, but I'll be your eyes. Who would have thought you're so popular? But of course you're not. Most of these tributes are for your family, not you.

'So why have I done this? Well, money of course. Why should you receive all that wealth to waste on charity while I'm paid off with some piddling little sum? I don't want a fraction of the Beaufort Estate. I want it all.

'You might have picked up that I haven't said "we". That's because my beloved husband isn't going to enjoy his new found wealth for long. His usefulness pretty much ended when he spiked your drink with a sedative, then injected you with that horrible muscle relaxant. Maybe a year after he kills Grant, he'll die. I'll enjoy planning how to murder him!

'You know why I insisted Luke keep you alive? I want you to hear everything that I have to say and be unable to reply. To strain every muscle to scream for help, but be unable to raise the faintest cry. To want to beat on the inside lid of the coffin for attention, but be unable to raise a finger. I want you to suffer the torments of hell before you die!'

She paused. 'Isn't this fun? The most I've ever said to you. I give you credit for one thing. You're the only person who's seen through me. The only one who sensed I'm really a very nasty person.

'Luke doesn't, but he's a fool. He thinks I'm his slave. Luke plays a part. Handsome, successful and respected: the fact is he's a sick bastard. I'll do the world a favor when I kill him.

'He's used that filthy drug on a number of women. Spiked their drinks in bars. He's impotent unless he screws some poor bitch who's half-dead. Most of the women are brought back to rape in our bed. He likes doing it in front of me. Gets me to do things to them. He thinks that I love it. Actually, he revolts me. His touch makes my skin crawl.

'I usually finish cleaning up his mess. Pay them off or murder those who won't keep quiet.

'Only a crazy risk taker like Luke would imagine that can continue. I've won his trust. Now I'll take my reward.

'Think of me in a year's time. A very rich widow. What sadness Frances had to bear! Death of her parents, her sister and then her adored husband. I can hear the violins sobbing in the background.

'Anyway, enough talk. I want you to get on with your suffering. Goodbye, my dear sister. Don't worry. I'll give you a splendid funeral. Worthy of a Beaufort.'

Time passed. Long periods between visits. Time in which I lay motionless in the dark, seeing nothing. Hearing the quiet tick of the clock, imagining its hands circling the dial bringing me minute by minute closer to death.

I tried desperately to move. Not all the time. Long rests then feeble, useless attempts to stir. I was constantly auditing my body, but finding no response.

People came to pay their respects. A few voices I didn't recognize. I heard people praise aspects of my character I didn't possess. Some people who I thought would be indifferent, appeared genuinely moved. One man bent low to my coffin to tell me how much he hated me. I didn't know who he was or why he thought I was his enemy.

The hardest visit was from my friend, Mary. She could hardly speak for crying. She told me I was the best friend she had ever had and she would miss me until the day of her death. That she'd do anything to have me alive. I'm still here Mary, my mind screamed. Rescue me!

'I'm sure she's still with us,' I heard Peggy, her sister comfort Margaret. 'I believe she can hear every word we say.'

Then they went away.

I prayed. I repented my sins. I tried to bargain with God. Then I felt ashamed at my miserable, self-serving pleas. I tried to accept my fate. Find some inner core of peace. I failed. I was angry not so much that I would die, but that the Beaufort Estate would fall into Frankie's hands. That everything my parents and I had planned to help others would be perverted.

At least, I told myself, I'll die quickly. The thought of hearing clods of earth crashing down on the coffin lid and knowing I would slowly suffocate or starve to death was horrific.

But was cremation as quick as I hoped? Certainly, the furnace would be set high, but it would take a little time for the coffin to catch fire. In the meantime my skin would be peeling off, my organs melting, my hair igniting. It might take less than a minute or two, but how much hideous agony would I suffer?

At length, I felt myself lifted and carried to the chapel. I waited in my coffin, hearing mourners quietly fill the pews. Heard the muffled sobs. The stifled coughs. Organ music began softly. One of my favorite pieces by Bach.

Father Michael Dwyer took the service. Given the fact, I hadn't been in his church for years, his comments were generous. He concluded by inviting Mrs Frances Maddern to say a few words about her sister.

What a brilliant actress!

'My sister, Sarah Jane Beaufort was a wonderful human being,' Frankie began. 'Sensitive, clever and compassionate. A woman who inspired others. A woman who I respected and loved.'

The honeyed words concluded with Frankie telling me to 'Sleep gently, my darling. I long for the day when we meet in some better place.'

You and me both, I thought grimly. What an interesting meeting that'll be!

The funeral ended and my coffin slid back behind the chapel curtains. I was lifted onto a trolley and a lift took me down to the basement where the furnace waited.

The heat in the room shocked me. For the first time, I began to sweat.

Then something unexpected happened.

I felt a tear form in the corner of my right eye and begin to dribble down my cheek. I worked my tongue. It was like straining to lift a heavy sack of grain, but a tiny drizzle of warm saliva formed. The relief of moisture after so many hours of dryness was inexpressible.

'Who have we got today?' I heard an older man's voice.

'Sandra Jane Beaufort,' a younger man's voice read.

'Ah yes. I knew her father. A good man.'

'Well,' the younger voice said philosophically. Doubtless, she's with him now.'

'Alright,' the older man said in a business-like tone. 'As this is your first cremation, I'll take you through each of the steps. It's simple, but important that we do it properly.'

I understood his words, but my mind was in turmoil. The massive injection I had received was wearing off, probably aided by the abrupt change in temperature, but would it be in time to cry for help?

'See the temperature setting? Always aim for that. Not a degree more or less. It ensures everything but the bigger bones like the skull and femur will burn. Later when the furnace is cold we rake out all the bones and pound them into dust.

'Before sending the casket in we remove all the brass fittings. These are reused over and over. Careful, don't scratch them! They need to look brand new. It's one of the many ways our masters make a profit.

'Now, we're good to go. Give me a hand easing the coffin onto the conveyor belt. There we go.

'Final steps. I open the furnace door, pressing this button. Stand clear. The heat's intense. Now, we'll switch on the belt. That will slowly slide the coffin into the furnace. Then I'll shut the door, set the timer and the furnace will do the rest.'

I heard the belt whirl into action as the coffin jolted forward on metal rollers.

'No! No!' I screamed, but managed only a tiny cry.

I tried to lift my right hand. I felt I was pushing against a vast weight. With terrible effort, I curled my right hand into a fist and forcing it up, began to knock. The feeble sound was drowned by the whir of the machine and the clatter of the casket moving down the rollers.

The heat on my feet felt as though they had been gripped by white hot pincers. I tried kicking, but fell back in exhaustion and agony. My legs remained immobile.

The ring, I thought. Use the left hand. My ring hand.

I've worn that ring since Mother's death. 'What a hideous setting,' Frankie said. 'I loath Topaz. I thought you'd get rid of that rubbish.'

'It reminds me of Mother,' I defended my choice.

'Yes, it's her alright,' Frankie sneered. 'Second rate and tawdry.'

It was true the ring was rather ghastly, but I had become attached to it and always wore it.

With all my might, I clenched my left hand into a fist driving it up with all my might into the lid above. The large Topaz stone tapped the wood. I kept punching upward, willing myself not to let my arm slip back in exhaustion.

'What's that noise?' the young man demanded. The coffin was moving slowly into the mouth of the furnace. My feet were scorching.

'Oh, that's something I didn't mention,' the older man answered nonchalantly .'You'll often hear strange noises from the caskets . I used to fear it was people trying to escape. Nonsense of course. Bodies swell, wood shrinks. Timber cracks and shrieks as it warps. It's creepy at first, but you learn to ignore it.'

I kept knocking. Hear me! Hear me!

'No, there's something there,' the young man decided. 'It's too regular to be what you say. A light knocking.'

'Just the wood heating up.'

The belt suddenly stopped.

'Now listen,' the older man said patronizingly. 'Nothing at all'

I resumed knocking.

'There it is again!' the young man exclaimed triumphantly. 'I don't care what you think! Someone's in there trying to get out!'

The older man swore in surprise. 'I've never heard anything like that down here,' he admitted. 'What are you doing?'

'What do you think? I'm getting a screwdriver. We have to check.'

'I don't know,' the older man flustered. 'It's most irregular for us to open a casket.'

'If you think that I'm going to wait until we get Prendergast down here, you're mad! If I'm wrong, we'll screw back the lid and send her on her way. No one will be the wiser.'

'Let's lift the casket off the belt,' the older man decided. 'Phew, that heat! OK, I'm shutting the furnace door.'

I was lifted onto the ground. The searing heat on my feet faded.

Then I heard the most glorious sound in the world.

The sound of the screws that held down the lid being turned.

# Scoop

When you read this, I'll be dead.

I'll have been murdered. Others will join me in death. Most will be innocent people. Stall holders, tourists, children, taxi drivers, street cleaners - nothing of these deserved to die.

Among the shattered bodies however they'll find pieces of a man who should have been killed long ago. They'll match his DNA to members of his family. There'll be widespread relief among the police in Pakistan. State Department officials will break open the champagne in Washington. Hillary will probably toast the death of my murderer. The assassin of innocents.

It's his story that I've told in detail for the last month. My words that captured the attention of the world's press. Millions of readers throughout the world have followed my travails. Many have agonized over my plight. Prayers have been said in numerous churches. Moderate Muslim leaders have pleaded for my release. Last week, I was mentioned by the Pope in one of his weekly addresses to the faithful in St. Peter's Square. I welcome the world's concern, but it'll make no difference. The decision to kill me has been made.

The man who will murder me portrays himself as a selfless martyr. Perhaps he believes this. His capacity for self-delusion is immense. In fact, he's a monster. A man I'm convinced who has never felt the faintest flicker of human sympathy or remorse. A man whose world began and will end with himself.

It was he who forced me into writing for the world the longest and most chilling suicide note in history.

Both he and I will be remembered long after our deaths. That was the point. Over the last month, he's often told me that I should feel grateful. After all, he points out my accounts of life as a captor and unwilling participant is my finest work. He's right.

Yesterday, he told me that today he would grant me one last, great favor. He and I will become immortal.

He believes that he will be remembered as a hero for his people. A freedom fighter. A beacon on the hill.

I'll also be a beacon. A journalist who pulled off the scoop of the century. My name will be up there in the eternal pantheon. Add my name in gold to the list of honor: a name to rank beside that of legendary newsmen such as Hearst, Luce, Bernstein, Woodward, Murrow and Pulitzer.

And the truth? Neither of us were more than media whores.

You may never read these words. I've been scribbling this confession down using the stub of a pencil on smuggled scraps of waste paper. Each day, the cellar has been searched. So far, they haven't found them. Perhaps they never will, but this record might remain undiscovered. Builders will one day tear down this decrepit building (if it doesn't first fall into the street) and my papers will be buried forever under the rubble.

At least, I've tried.

Let it be known, that there was no Stockholm Syndrome. I never learned to love my tormentor. I hated him before I met him. My last words to him will be a curse. He was never more than a story.

* * *

The man whose name translates as 'The Unflinching Eye' was born in Cairo in 1975. His family is one of the richest in Egypt, most of their wealth coming from extensive media and property interests.

His was the classic trajectory of today's terrorist. A wealthy playboy until his early twenties, he majored with honors in oriental history and literature, before accepting a post as a professor at one of America's leading universities. It's now thought that he was radicalized while still at Cambridge. Groomed by a radical, London-based Islamic cleric who was later deported. By his early thirties, he had traveled to Pakistan where he spent a month in a _jihadist_ training camp in the wild hinterland region close to the Afghan border. Narrowly escaping a drone attack that wiped out the camp, he returned to the States. Within a year, he re-entered Pakistan where he dropped out of sight.

It was then that the trouble began.

* * *

I knew the danger. I accepted the risk.

Pakistan's history is short and bloody. Its politics are violent and unpredictable: a seemingly endless feud between two rich and powerful adversaries - the Bhutto and Sharif families. I reject the common assertion that Pakistan is a failed state. One day I believe this will be a great Islamic nation. Today it's like a new island emerging hissing from the sea.

I entered Karachi wondering if I would leave in a coffin. Madness, but danger is a drug and I'm hooked. Even today, with all that I know, I still would have come. The lure was irresistible. The reward immense. The gold standard for any foreign correspondent.

The chance to interview one of the world's most feared, hated and elusive men.

* * *

I travel light on assignment. What I need I generally buy. My first stop is usually the local market. I often leave hotels with less than I carry in, binning my clothes or giving them to a room maid. Snagging my old but dependable laptop from the plane's overhead locker, I cleared customs without incident and entered the arrivals hall. I searched among the sea of signs without success. A nondescript man aged in his early forties sidled up.

'Mr. David Thornton?' he asked softly.

'Yes.'

He led me to a quiet corner.

'Your passport and press credentials.' I handed them over. He checked them, nodded and put them in his pocket. I didn't like that, but decided it wasn't wise to argue. He gestured for me to follow. We left the main building and crossed into a car park. He unlocked a grubby white Tata and motioned for me to enter. He ignored any questions and we drove in silence to the city.

Karachi is a port city. It offers natural beauty with several attractive beaches and sweeping vistas of the Arabian Sea. It also provides some fine examples of Victorian architecture: remnants of the British Raj. A nice place if you ignore the armed guards and tanks guarding the airport, offices and western style hotels, such as the Marriott. Eight years ago, the government estimated there was over 18 million unlicensed small arms in Pakistan. There'd be many more today.

As we turned into Korangi Road, I could glimpse two of the Towers of Silence rising from the compound. Vultures and buzzards circled the sky. They would soon feast on bodies laid out by the Parsees. I've seen that eight times before, but for the first time I shuddered. Someone had walked over my grave.

If this was a story, I would have been blindfolded. There was however no need for me not to see where I was going. The area I was taken was a rabbit warren of interconnecting houses. I later learned that all of our neighbors were loyal supporters. No one, least of all the police could enter this maze without warning. Besides, we moved location every two or three nights.

I was told to book into the Pearl Continental, the best hotel in the city where I'd be contacted. Clearly, there'd been a change of plan. That suited me. The sooner I could interview my subject and fly back to Delhi the better.

Every Westerner visiting Pakistan is of interest to Security. Within two hours of my leaving the airport and failing to arrive at the Continental's check in counter, a search began. The disappearance of a well-known American journalist raised red flags around the city, including the US Embassy. Footage from the airport that showed me meeting my driver was analyzed, but the man wasn't recognized. There were no CCTV cameras in the car park. Concern grew. My editor was contacted in New York. The story headed the local television news that night and began to snowball.

When the driver's body was found the next morning on wasteland, concern became fear. He had died from a single slash to the throat: a cut so deep that it nearly severed his head.

In the course of a long career, I've interviewed a number of world leaders. Some I thought were heroes. Others I dismissed as fools or rogues. I've spoken at length with a number of bad men, but met only two I considered evil. The first was a Somali war lord who kidnapped boys to turn them into brutal child soldiers. The other was the 'Unflinching Eye'.

The most remarkable feature of my captor was his eyes. There were long-lashed, dark, and almost feminine. Normally they glowed like black coals warmed by a hidden fire. When he grew angry, they blazed forth like a furnace.

Each day, he would have me brought to his room. I was instructed to bring my notebook. When I had composed each article on my laptop, he would carefully read it. He knew that the world would yawn over a long diatribe, so he rarely edited what I wrote. Then my story would be emailed to my editor who would publish it to the world.

I tried hard to peel back the layers to discover the man behind the terrorist, but can't claim success. He was evasive about his early life and I thought insincere about his motivations. Only once or twice, I glimpsed the former playboy or the history professor in the fanatic I interviewed.

On the fourth day of my capture, I was brought from the cellar where I slept.

He had read the article I had written the night before and was furious.

'This is rubbish!' he exclaimed. 'Do you think I have gone to all the trouble of bringing you here to tell my story to the world and accept this drivel? What is all this whining about your life as a prisoner? You've been treated well. If you'd prefer to suffer like my brothers in the rendition prisons, I'll gladly arrange it.'

'Western readers want to know how I'm coping. They put themselves in my place. They're bored with descriptions of America as the Great Satan.'

'They want excitement?' He smiled cruelly, then snapped his fingers. 'Yes, I have just the thing for your jaded readers.'

He had me led to another building. There in another cellar was a young man. His hair was long and matted. His clothes had become filthy rags. His skin was criss-crossed with angry welts raised by a belt buckle. The man looked at me without hope. He said nothing. Even later, he made little noise. He was the bravest man I've ever seen.

'This man was once a Catholic priest. He said he wanted to help the poor. We reject his help. Today, he'll be your story. We'll torture him. We'll photograph our torture. You'll describe in detail what we are doing. You'll tell the world of your disgust and horror. This will interest your readers. At the end, we'll give you a gun. You'll press the barrel to the head of this priest and blow his brains out.'

'I won't! I've never killed a man! You can't make me do that!'

'By the time we have finished, he'll beg you to pull the trigger. You'll kill him as you would kill a dog that is in agony.'

I can't bring myself to repeat the horrors of that day. It was as he said. If he thought that by killing the priest I would feel complicit, he was wrong. I feel guilt but not for this merciful act. Rather, I deeply regret having helped this monster's voice be heard.

Today, I am filing my last story.

I've been told I'll carry a tape recorder to capture my first-hand impressions of being a suicide bomber. Shortly before I walk into the crowded market I shall hand the recorder back to one of the men. Someone will watch as the terrorist and the journalist walk side by side as though we are friends. Someone will ring a number on the leader's mobile phone. The explosives that we have strapped to our waists will explode. Even if I bawled out a warning, the innocent shoppers wouldn't have time to flee. There'll be terrible carnage.

I'm frantically scribbling these words, hearing footsteps approach. They are coming for me. I have only time to hide these words, hoping that one day they will be read.

Pray for me.

# The Killing of Sheena Burnam

Terror. Gut churning terror.

Tuesday. It could have been any working day.

The place? Your town. My city. Any suburb you care to name. Middle America. A Norman Rockwell painting. A quiet canvas. But a picture that was 40 seconds away from being slashed to ribbons.

A queue in a bank. People depositing or withdrawing money. Mainly withdrawing. Times are tough. No sign for most that the economy's turned the corner. Most can't even glimpse that damned corner.

Sheena Burnam. Second in line for teller service in the third queue. Nice enough, but she wouldn't turn your head. Early twenties. Still slim, but starting to pack on the kilos. Stringy hair. Blouse. Shabby floral skirt. Pumps. Sheena, her Ma was saying in her head, You should do more with yourself. Oh I'm trying Momma. I'm really trying.

Then the screams. Two women. A man's gasp of horror. Then a voice. Rough. Deep. Menacing.

'Down! Everyone hit the floor!'

The explosion. Deafening. Short circuits thought. You're down there, curled up like an embryo before you know it. Whimpering with fear.

Sheena knew what it was. She had gone hunting with Pops in the woods plenty of times when she young. Those short, happy times before he was laid off at the car plant and the town died. Before the decent man who Sheena loved lost hope. She could never forget the terrible day when everything changed. The day when, drunk and crying with self pity, he lurched off to the barn where he sucked the barrel of his Remington 12 gauge and squeezed the trigger. Try as she might, she could never forgive him for that. He'd deserted her when she needed him most Left her to the mercy of a creep like her stepfather.

' Don't kill me,' the fat businessman who had been behind Sheena pleaded, his light voice breaking in terror. There was a heavy thud. A shotgun stock smashed down on the man's cheek. The man shrieked in pain. The scream died away. He began to blubber. Pitiful little sobs like a fretful child. Like the plump, spoiled little baby he always had been and would be till the day he died. And maybe today was that day. 'Now shut the f...' Another voice cut in. The first voice Sheena had heard. The leader bawled, 'Fill these sacks with all the money from the drawers. Not the coins, you retard! Paper. Just paper. And big bills too.'

'Faster.' A second voice urged. 'Come on. We haven't got all day. Hey look at this bro'. Man's just pissed himself!'

'Yeah and he'll be leaking blood too if he doesn't shake it up and get that stuff into the bag.'

Sheena eased her head to the side. The right hand side of her face was pressed hard against the grubby, green carpet. Her right eye caught a glimpse of a tall man in runners, faded jeans and a zip up bomber jacket. He slowly waved his sawn-off shotgun across the group.

'Hey bitch! Yes, you. Blondie in the crummy dress. Keep your eyes down or so help me, I'll do you right now!' Sheena jerked her head away. 'Better. Is that it?'

Where are the cops, Sheena wondered. The station's only three blocks away. Probably swapping dirty jokes, downloading porn and scratching their fat, collective butts.

The leader broke into her thoughts. 'That's it. We're out of here. Best service I've had from a bank,' he sneered. 'But where's all them friendly smiles the ads promise?' His tone became brisk. 'Now listen up everyone. We're going, but anyone who gets up from the floor in the next ten minutes will be spattered on the wall. So no heroes. O.K.?'

Sheena felt her arm gripped. 'Come on, Wonder Woman. You're leaving with us.' She was dragged to her feet.

'Gees Boss,' the shorter masked man whined. 'Why do you want the bitch? That wasn't in the plan.'

'Shut up,' the leader barked. 'The plan's what I say it is. You're the muscle. Leave the brainwork to me. She's a hostage. Think of her as insurance.' He looked at Sheena. 'You got a family, bitch?' he sneered. 'Hubby? Kids? I'll bet your old man plays away. Sluts like you don't know how to make real men happy. Maybe I'll teach you. We'll have plenty of time together to get really well acquainted. I'm what you might call a master of the art of love. Never had a dissatisfied customer. You'll be panting for more. Know what I mean? Better start praying bitch, because you're in the company of two very bad dudes.'

'Oh come on boss,' the other man complained, his voice edging toward anger. 'Are you going stand here gassing all day? Take her if you want but let's vanish.'

A car was waiting at the curb. The back door was open. A man wearing a ski mask was sitting in the driver's seat. The few onlookers on the pavement shrank back. No sign of the law. Sheena glimpsed the Mercedes star on the car's steering wheel as she was pushed into the back seat. Cream leather. The two men from the bank piled into the back seat on either side of her. The leader drew out a knife. Its thin, sharp blade snapped into place. Steel shimmering in the light. 'Say goodbye to your life, Blondie,' he laughed cruelly. With a single swift slash he cut the shoulder strap of her bag. Then he took the bag. As the powerful car lunged forward, he opened his side window and flung the bag out. The bag exploded as it hit the ground. Sheena's pathetic possessions: lipstick, powder, purse, bankbook, packet of tampons and mobile phone flew out. Her phone burst apart on the pavement.

* * *

'Smart move to ditch the bag,' David Hanson conceded. 'Her mobile could be traced by a tracking device. And she might sneak out a call.'

'Maybe even a snap off picture of her captors,' Stewart Polk agreed. The two detectives worked most cases together. They worked well.

'Nup,' Hanson shook his head. 'Her's was the El Cheapo model. Bottom of the heap. No camera or extras. Poor woman. Had less than ten bucks in her purse. No credit card. Just a bank book. I thought my balance was lousy, but I'm J.D Rockefeller compared to Sheena Burnam.'

'Any family?'

'Dunno. Doubt it. No photos. Picture of an old guy in her wallet. Might have been her father. Picture was all creased. Faded. Probably taken 20 or more years ago.'

'So no sightings of the car?'

'It'll be stolen. They'll go somewhere near. Ditch the wheels and take others. A van: something like that.'

'Think they'll let her go?'

'They didn't need her as a hostage.' Hanson sighed. 'If she's lucky they'll rape her then let her go.'

'Rape? That's lucky?'

'Better than dying, but maybe not much. There's a glimmer of hope.'

'Tell me. It'll be the first good news I've heard today.'

'Just after they threw her handbag out the car, a witness saw one pushing a bag over her head. They're not going to drive around wearing ski masks. If she doesn't see their faces there's a chance they'll let her live.'

'Yeah and they could just as easily kill her for fun. The bag isn't great news. It could make things worse. It's easier for these bastards to do whatever they like. Depersonalizes her. If they can't see her face, she becomes every woman they've ever hated.'

'Creeps! I'd love to get my hands on this scum life!' Polk fought to stay objective. It made him a good police officer, but he was still a man.

'Yeah, save some for me,' Hanson agreed. 'Let's pray we get a break soon. I've got a nasty feeling that Sheena Burnam's life at this moment isn't worth a plugged nickel.'

* * *

Two kids made the call. Nine year olds skivving off from school.

'I dare you! I double dare you!'

For as long as the boys remembered, the Cyclone wire gates to the old Airflow Radiator plant had been locked. The chain and even the lock had rusted. Beyond the fence and across a wide stretch of broken concrete and clumps of straggling glass you make out the outline of the old plant. The windows to the large, low slung brick building were shattered, and birds flew in and out from one section of the roof where the corrugated iron had curled back like a long brown tongue. It was a spooky place. Fifteen years ago the factory closed. The question of who owned the meager assets of the defunct business had dragged through the courts for years. Zoning challenges had wasted more time. The owners faced with crushing legal bills walked away from the mess. The land which way out of town wasn't worth much. 'Damned if I know why they ever built here in the first place,' was how one oldster summed it up. The factory quickly became derelict. Teenagers once went there to shoot up or have sex, but ever since the headless, naked body of old hobo had been found there three years ago, everyone gave it a wide berth. 'Bad mojo' was how Marc's older brother put it. It was the sort of place you took people to torture: not to have fun. Today, the chain on the main gates hung down, snapped open by a bolt cutter. The gates hung open. They looked more like a warning than an invitation.

The boys crept in, each unwilling to be the first to hightail it out.

'Gees,' Jaidan Cooper muttered, 'this is one scary place. Imagine it at night.'

'Yeah,' Marc Peterson whispered. He stopped and listened hard. 'I can't hear anything. If I do, I'm out of here like a yellow streak.'

They found the car, a late model Mercedes parked behind the corner of a shed. It wasn't going anywhere. Nor was the driver wearing a third eye or the two back seat passengers one of whom had left splashes of blood and brain across the roof, sides and upholstery of the car.

The two boys stood there swearing softly in wonder until Jaidan hauled out his mobile.

'I'm calling this in,' he announced self importantly.

'Awesome,' Marc said, taking out his mobile in turn and flipping it open.

'Who are you calling?' Jaidan demanded. 'The cops have already said they're on their way. We'll probably end up on the evening news.'

'Yeah, the school and my Dad will really love that! No big deal though. It'll be worth a belting. I'm not calling anyone. Just taking some clips. Yeah, video will be best. This is way cool. Got to be worth something.'

* * *

'So what do you think these two punks did?' Polk asked.

'Give them a break,' Hanson shrugged. 'They're only dumb kids. Whatever they did, we would have done the same or were you an Eagle Scout?'

Polk snorted. Hanson continued, ' Gee, wow what a tough puzzle. I'd say the first thing they did after calling it in was to post footage on one of their older brother's sites on YouTube, Facebook or whatever. As we speak, their parents are probably teeing up exclusive rights to the video with Fox News.'

Polk looked impressed. 'How do you know this stuff?'

'Well, duh. I have two boys around the same age. It's what kids do today. As I said, I would have done the same, given half a chance.'

'OK Sherlock, so what have we got?'

'Driver took his in the forehead, probably from 12 feet away. Forensics will give us the exact distance and bullet caliber but it's a nice, clean shot through the windscreen. Shooter then walked up to the side of the car on the driver's side. Smashed the windscreen probably with the butt of the gun giving a clear sight through the hole. Shooter then took out each passenger. Man directly behind the driver gets his through the right eye. Single shot. Second man must have moved his head. Part of his jaw was shot away. Shooter then goes down to the window on that side and sends one through vic's skull. Two of the men had guns but hadn't raised them. Weren't expecting this. Probably knew the shooter. Shooter takes their share and ties up the loose ends leaving us with a big fat zero. Ergo, messo aplenty.'

'And talking of messo aplenty,' Polk looked up and frowned. 'Our favourite Feds. The Dynamic Duo themselves. Dolson and Chalmers. Good morning gentlemen.'

Dolson was a tall, graceful black man. Chalmers, the nearest thing to a baboon you could squeeze into a suit. Chalmers looked like the mean Sheriff from some hick town. The sort of guy who locked up the hero in a B-grade movie for spitting gum onto the pristine boulevards of Dogpatch, USA. A guy hungry for a bribe, the fat envelope slipping into the top desk drawer or cracking his fists just itching to beat up Mr.FancyPants, our rock jawed hero of the silver screen to a pulp in the holding cell. An ignorant, foul mouthed racist you'd think, but Dolson said it was all front. That his partner was a top law man and would take a bullet for him any day of the week.

'So this woman,' Chalmers launched in bypassing the pleasantries, consulting his notebook. 'Sheena Burnam. No sign of her?'

'Shooter must have taken her.'

'It could be her,' Chalmers reflected.

'The shooter? Yeah, stranger things have happened. Doesn't seem likely though. We've run a check. Not even a parking fine. Friends tell us, no correct that the woman doesn't seem to have any friends, the only woman who bothers to talk to her at work doubts there's a boyfriend. No record of marriage. A woman who keeps herself to herself.'

'Worse kind,' Chalmers snorted. 'Private people. Never know what they're hiding. Always give us trouble.'

'Well, let's see,' Dolson shrugged. 'Question is if it's not, why didn't the shooter pop her with the others? Why take her away? She's no further use as a hostage.'

'Could be to rape her, assuming our shooter was a man, but then he could've done that here,' Polk offered. 'Locals tell me no one comes near this place.'

'Maybe he wants women like his eggs. Twice over easy. Took her away to enjoy at his leisure.'

'Treads? Shooter must have left on wheels.'

'Looks like a SUV. Several possibilities. They're thinking Toyota at this stage, but there's a hell of a lot of those on the road. Three in our street alone.'

'I've got a bad feeling about this one,' Dolson murmured. He peeled the wrapper off his nicotine-flavored gum. 'Gees, I hate this stuff. Makes me want to puke.'

'Yeah, well I'll keep puffing this side of Hell,' Chalmers put in, shaking out a Marlboro from a soft pack.

'Which shouldn't be long!' Hanson laughed. 'Gees man, do you ever work out? You've really porked up since I saw you last.'

* * *

A fortnight passed. The case was worked from every angle. Every lead petered out. The three vics were bottom feeders. Two had done time for armed robbery. The driver for hot wiring cars. They came from different cities. It didn't seem likely they knew each other. No one could say how they'd been recruited.

Dolson and Chalmers worked most cases like a single mind. But on this, they couldn't agree. Chalmers was convinced Sheena had planned the heist and shot the three. Dolson worried she was dead or perhaps worse being held and raped until her captor killed her.

Then the break came.

'Yeah, OK, got that. Thanks. We'll be with you in ten.' Dolson slammed down the phone. He turned to Chalmers who worked the opposite desk. Big smile on his face.

'You know Frankie Monarch?'

'The Used Car King? Yeah, who doesn't know the schmuck? You can't watch a game on the box without seeing his stupid face yabbering on about his clunkers.'

'Seems he has a sister. Sheena Burnam.'

'But the names.'

'Yeah, Frankie changed his family name years ago. Thought it would help sell cars. 'Let me give you a King sized deal!' and 'Right royal service'. All those dopey puns'

'So, he didn't think to tell us about his sister?'

'He's not saying why, but seems they hadn't been in touch for years. Frankie's not your model citizen. Guy's a sleaze. Remember that tax case a few years back? He only slid out of that.'

'OK. So the schmuck has a sister. So?'

'He rang in to Polk who gave me the heads up. Seems there's been a ransom note. And not just a note. A photo of Sheena. She's looking crap, but she's holding a copy of today's newspaper. Lady is alive.'

'How much?'

'Half a mil.'

Chalmers gave a low whistle. 'Not bad for sad sack like Sheena. But Monarch won't pay out for a sister he hasn't seen in years.'

'No, he's a miserable creep, but that's where we come in. Either Frankie or the Bureau will stump up the cash. Money's our only chance to get Sheena back and catch the perp.'

'They're the same you'll see,' Chalmers promised. 'This way she gets both the bank haul and ransom. Sneaky dame.'

Chalmers leaned. Hard. When Chambers leaned, people caved. Simple as that. Frankie, facing a threat that his books would be tossed, crumpled faster than most. Ten minutes after opening the door to Dolson and Chambers, he was on the line to his bank raising an urgent personal loan.

The ransom note was printed on standard paper from a computer. It was sent to forensics for analysis. The letter with its local postmark was sent at the same time. No one expected to lift prints. The photo printed from a computer was equally unhelpful. Sheena looked horrible. Pale as a shroud, gaunt, dark circles under her eyes. Her expression was one of fear mixed with helpless appeal. Her wrists were manacled.

'That's not put on,' Dolson judged.

'Gees, give us a break!' Chalmers complained to the saintly memory of J.Edgar. 'All we've done so far is spin our wheels.'

The note was simple. It demanded no bugs. No marked notes. No sequences. Mixture of denominations. Money to be placed in a knapsack, the top to be locked. Bag to be left tied up under the third pier off the old jetty on Alderson Lake. Exactly three hours after the collector got clear, Sheena would be released. The worst thing about getting a note in a kidnapping is there's no wriggle room. Do exactly what I say or the hostage dies.

'It's weird,' Chalmers fretted, 'Far too easy for us. They seem to assume Frankie has told the cops but it doesn't worry them,'.

'I grew up near there,' a team member put in. 'Place is in an old national park. Good drop in that there's usually no one there. Was once a popular picnic spot but it's really crummy now with all the litter. We can deploy through the woods. Plenty of cover and only one access road.'

'That sounds good for us.'

'It's too good,' Chalmers worried. 'How do they think they're going to get away?'

Forty men went to work. Command included Dolson, Chalmers and eight other bureau men headed by legendary Bureau thieftaker, Marcus Lieder. The rest included police, state troopers and park rangers.

'How deep's the lake. Do we need a diver?' Lieder asked.

'Most places are shallow, less than six feet. Lake's also quite small. We can easily ring it with men. They're not coming in by water.'

'I want trail bikes as well as cars concealed by the lake. I don't want our collector taking off down some fire trail.'

'Covered, ' Dolson nodded. 'Also I've ordered night vision goggles. The note stated they want the money in position just after dawn, but it could be dark by the time the collector comes. We don't want to be blind out there.'

'Alright,' Lieder finished up after an exhaustive meeting. 'We agree we'll have the park sealed up tighter than a gnat's ass. Trail the collector discreetly. Assuming it's at night, no headlights on when we follow him or her out of the park. Use night vision. There'll be a half moon tomorrow night so we should have enough ambient light for the glasses to work. Outside the park we drop into a classic box pattern. Cars ahead, as well as behind. Others joining in from side streets to replace others. Wherever the collector takes us, we wait three hours. They could let Sheena go anywhere and we mightn't know for hours, but we've got to give her the chance that they'll keep their end of the deal. After three hours, we go in hard.'

Ten seconds. Not long, but time enough to lose a fortune.

A balding fat man aged in his sixties picked up the money as dark fell. His beaten up Bronco was shadowed out of the park. There was a small rise in the access road. Baldy was hidden from sight for 10 seconds. Following instructions, he scooped up the rucksack lying beside him on the front passenger seat and flung it into the bushes. The figure waiting close by didn't move for two hours. Then using night vision goggles, the figure slipped through the trees, retrieved the rucksack and working through the forest came out of the park far from the main entrance.

The collector was Mr. Nobody. Mr. Crap for Brains. Seems he read a note on a community notice board offering easy money for a simple task. It was. He rang a one off number. The person who answered used a voice distorter. After agreement, Baldy was posted $500 as a deposit. $500 more would be posted when he followed instructions. He was dreaming how he would blow the money when the SWAT team hit his dump. Of course, he knew the job wasn't legit. The threat of having his ears sliced off if he tried to skip with the bag made that clear. But what's a guy to do? It was easy cash and he was one of life's sad army of losers. As they hustled him into the squad car, his only regret was he hadn't spent all of the first five.

The next day, Frankie Monarch received a FedEx parcel. It contained a short note. It also contained the blouse Sheena was wearing that day in the bank. The blouse was grubby and slashed with a knife. It was smeared with blood that was later matched to Sheena's DNA.

The note read:

'Thanks for the cash. Sheena Burnam is dead.'

* * *

Same morning at the Bureau. No loud voices. No angry recriminations. Silence, shame and anger. A chill as deep as permafrost centered on one man.

Plenty of experts in hindsight. If it had been me I'd have gone to the scene and had them stage the whole thing beforehand. I'd have picked up that blind spot instantly. Maybe. Who could tell? A dark night. Followers using night vision. A rucksack thrown from a speeding car. A blur. Blink that you could easily miss. We should have followed the money, not the man. Right, but who said that at the time? Who was sweating over Frankie Monarch's cache? Irrelevant. It happened on Leiter's watch. There's one sin the FBI can't forgive: that sends J. Edgar spinning in his grave. You never, repeat never make the Bureau look bad.

Leiter quit after a month. He didn't suck his gun. Lived on to his early eighties, but went to his grave a bitter man.

Dolson and Chalmers were swiftly assigned to another case. That was a good result. Together they cracked the Little Miss Zippo arson case.

One of the last times they talked about the Burnam case was late one night at Marty's Bar in Washington.

'You always keep seeing Sheena as the perp,' Dolson demanded but in a friendly way. What's your evidence?'

'Not a scrap. I feel it here,' Chalmers thumped his swelling gut.

'Gas. Must be like the Hindenburg in there!'

'No, a feeling in my water. She did it. She's out there somewhere laughing at us.'

'What would convince you you're wrong? Seeing her stiff on a slab?'

'You know if they found her corpse tomorrow,' Chalmers reflected, 'I'd go downtown to the morgue. I'd look straight into her staring baby blues. Then I'd ask her, "How did you pull this off? You sure look dead, but I know you're alive."'

'You're hopeless,' Dolson laughed. 'Let's sink another brew.'

He returned with the beer. 'A word to the wise,' he said seriously. 'Can the talk about your gut instinct. It's a culture thing. You don't work for people who hire the brightest and best from the country's top colleges, then spend a zillion dollars on technology that makes your jaw hit the ground to welcome dumb talk like that. Be careful. Otherwise people will think you're a wacko.'

Chalmers nodded. Others he suspected, shared his view, but he wasn't looking for support.

One thing puzzled Chalmers. The wording of the note. Too formal. It wasn't 'We've offed your sister' or 'The bitch is dead'. It sounded like a message. A sneer. Something he couldn't pin down.

* * *

She ran each day at dawn.

Sprinting from her pool villa to the beach, she picked up the pace when she reached the hard packed sand where the waves broke. Faster until her legs worked like flashing pistons. The long beach was usually deserted. Only twice in the last three weeks she saw an old man and a child, probably his grandson sliding a heavy wooden rowboat out into the water. They were there today and she returned the man's friendly wave without breaking stride.

There are few birds on tropic islands and she heard only the far distant shriek of a seagull. Other sounds were the dull thud of waves breaking out on the reef, the soft hiss of the retreating sea, the beat of her runners and her deep, steady breath.

She ran for an hour, then stopped. She had almost doubled the distance she reached when she first began running after her arrival in Mustique. A short pause to catch her breath, a few stretches then she turned back running faster to shave the 60 minutes back to 50. A final, furious dash and she was letting herself back into the villa.

She stripped off her clothes, folding them neatly away. She was the most organized person she knew. It was a key to her success. An affirmation of sense in an unfair and often chaotic world.

Then she walked naked out to the garden shower. She turned on the shower bringing up the heat until the water stung her flesh and soothed her aching muscles. She soaped off her sweat and rinsed. She walked back into the lounge drying her body and short-cropped hair. Standing in front of the full-length mirror she noted with approval, her tanned, glowing skin and the way the kilos had melted off with a strict diet of mainly fish, fruit and hard exercise. She looked ten years younger. Unrecognizable from the woman she had been. For the first time, when people looked at her she saw admiration, lust or envy in their expressions. None of these reactions mattered. She wanted nothing and nobody. The few times that men or women staying at the hotel had tried to start up a conversation, she had pleasantly but firmly rebuffed them. She accepted people only on her own terms. It was a trait that defined her life and one of the few she kept as a new woman. To the world she was Jennifer Silk. Stylish and reserved.

That woman began her journey several years before.

But first, Sheena Burnam had to die.

That was sad, but it was a mercy killing. The woman had a dark past, a miserable present and a bleak future. Her death would excite horror and anger. It was murder. It was also a birth. The moment that Sheena no longer existed, Jennny Silk came into the world. And Jenny was everything that Sheena could never be.

Jenny was tough, brave and smart. She was ruthless. A woman who shot three men to became rich. A woman without a conscience. A killer who would never be caught.

Sheena Burnam died in stages. It was Jenny who planned the bank robbery and insisted that she be taken hostage. The men had been carefully briefed to make it look as though her abduction was a last minute choice. They played the part right through the journey. When they reached the factory Jenny told her three trusting accomplices to stay in the car for a moment while she brought them a nice surprise. She went to the van where she had placed a chilled bottle of Bollinger and four glasses. She also took out the Saturday Night Special that she had stowed under the driver's seat and pushed it into the waistband in the back of her jeans. Even now it made her laugh to recall the three men's expressions turning from laughter to puzzlement and dawning horror as she placed the champagne and glasses on the ground, pulled out her gun and began to fire.

As the Global Financial Crisis bit deeper, breadwinners lost their jobs, mortgagees defaulted on loans and banks foreclosed. 2.3 million families lost their homes across the country. Each day that number rose. House after house was abandoned. Sometimes entire streets. Tearful families closed their front doors and walked away from their dreams. Windows were boarded up, grass grew rampant in front and back yards. 'For Sale' or 'Auction' signs faded and buckled, some falling unnoticed into the thick grass.

It took Sheena less than 40 seconds to break into one of these homes. Had anyone found her there, she would have shot them, but she was never disturbed.

Her last act as Sheena Burnam was to stage her hostage photo.

She placed a mirror in the home's dimly lit cellar. There she sat for hours until she finally caught in the mirror's reflection the exact expression of abject terror. Using the self-timer on her camera, she then took a series of photos until she was satisfied with both angle and cropping. Having set the stage, she began to work on her appearance.

She went upstairs to the bathroom where the light was strong. There, she ran dust and light machine oil through her hair, messing the strands with her fingers to make her look distraught. She mixed a white paste from powdered chalk and eased it onto her face, before rubbing a film of mascara under her eyes. She made sure her fingernails were grubby and broken. She took off her blouse, rubbed in some dirt and put it on again. She looked at herself critically. A pale, gaunt woman looked back. A woman who looked as though she had been held for several days in a filthy cellar. A desperately tired and abused woman who feared for her life.

Satisfied, Sheena returned to the cellar, set the self timer on her camera, placed manacles on her wrists and held up the newspaper that she had stolen that morning from a neighbor's stoop. After a bracket of shots, she selected the best picture and printed it off on her battery-operated laptop together with the hostage note.

She went back to the bathroom again and it was here that Sheena Burnam disappeared and Jenny Silk came to life.

The strange thing was that at the very moment when having showered she began cutting her hair into a very close, totally different style, the slyly insidious voice of her hated stepfather stopped. Momma's critical whine had died the moment Sheena pulled the trigger on the three low lifes in the factory yard. It was as though her mother's ghost had been shocked into silence. For the first time she felt free of the past.

As she cut her hair, Jenny made sure every strand was caught on a plastic sheet for later disposal. She couldn't imagine anyone later tracing her to this home, but she would wipe away any sign of her presence anyway. Every fingerprint would be wiped clean and DNA evidence such as threads of hair would be taken away. Having cut her hair, she died it brown. She then applied a vegetable dye to her skin giving her skin a light olive tint. Then she carefully applied eye shadow, blusher and lipstick all in subtle shades she had never worn before. She attached pearl colored fingernails. She then pulled on a black jumper, slacks and slid into pumps. She fixed a discreet but expensive gold necklace, before strapping on a Dunhill watch. A quality handbag and her transformation was complete.

Two tasks remained. She made a small cut on her arm to smear blood onto Sheena's blouse. Then she dressed the wound. Finally she carefully tidied the house. At the end no one could have guessed there had been an intruder, much less Sheena Burnam there.

Jenny waited until the streets were darkened to slip away unseen. She walked for some time, before reaching a better suburb. On the way she dumped in several drops, the plastic sheeting with hair clippings, Sheena's skirt and pumps and the empty hair coloring bottle. She was left with her handbag and a small suitcase containing the money from the bank, pistol, laptop, printer, blouse, photos and ransom note.

She booked into a modest hotel overnight, paying cash. The next day arranged for a fake passport, confident that she looked nothing like Sheena Burnam. The following day she collected the passport and paid the forger. She then bought an air ticket and arranged accommodation in Mustique. It was that fragment of paradise that Princess Margaret always chose. An exclusive destination for rich and discerning travelers. A place that Sheena dreamt of but would never see.

That evening Jenny pulled off the scam in the park, escaping with Frankie's money to add to the bank haul. She wasn't wealthy yet, but had bought herself an unforgettable holiday and a wonderful start toward a new life. The next day, she ditched the gun, opened an international bank account, treated herself to a good lunch and took a cab to the airport where she booked in as a Business Class passenger.

As the plane soared high above the emerald green sky she toasted her success.

Jenny Silk was a realist. Until she died, she would never cease looking over her shoulder. The FBI would never close her case. She had audaciously pitted her intelligence against some of the brightest brains in the United States. At least some of these people wouldn't have bought the story of the death of Sheena Burnam, hostage and later kidnap victim. Yes, her meticulous planning had helped but there had been a large dose of dumb luck. Luck that one day might run out.

If she stayed away from crime, she'd increase her chances of never being caught, but the money wouldn't last forever. Besides, she had never felt so exhilarated as when she was planning a crime. It would be tempting to try something else.

There was a discreet knock.

'Breakfast, madam.'

Jenny shrugged on her dressing gown.

'Come in.'

A maid entered carrying a heavy tray. The delightful aroma of coffee and freshly baked croissants filled the room.

'What's the weather forecast for today?' she asked languidly as the maid set out breakfast.

'Perfect, madam as always,' the maid smiled.

* * *

Chalmers snapped his fingers. What a fool I've been, he thought.

The wording in the note was suddenly clear. Don't look for me as Sheena Burnam. Seek someone else.

At the exact moment he solved the riddle, Chalmers believed with total certainty that one day he'd track down his quarry.

How he did, and what happened then? Well that's another story!

# A Favour for Friends

'Do you mind?'

The young woman was angry. Her shoulders tensed and, standing behind her in the queue, Chris saw she was blushing. The colour spread swiftly across her cheeks to where her blonde hair was drawn back into a ponytail.

What a stupid question, Chris thought with amused detachment. Whatever else the customs officer was thinking, it certainly wasn't concern for the feelings of a rich, spoilt traveller.

On the counter, partly screened by the woman, Stewart saw an open Hermés bag. The officer, a man in his thirties with an expressionless face, scooped out the woman's flimsy underwear, heaping it neatly on the counter. Removing a make-up case, he carefully examined the steel sides. Then extracting a tin of powder from the bag, he turned it upside down, checking the base.

Feeling sorry for the woman, Chris looked away. As he waited, he read the stern notice set above the inspection desk. In English, Malay, Chinese and several other languages, it warned travellers that it was a serious offence to smuggle drugs, the penalties for which included long prison sentences or death by hanging.

The customs officer finished his inspection and the young woman, incensed that her privacy had been violated, hurriedly stuffed her lingerie back into the carry-on bag.

The officer was right to be suspicious, Chris thought. Anyone could be a drug smuggler. Nuns, businessmen, grandmothers, paraplegics or children. Drugs had been tied in condoms and swallowed, found in the heels of shoes, toothpaste tubes, medicine bottles, religious statues and false-bottomed suitcases - the list of ingenious hiding places seemed endless. Only a tiny percentage of drug smugglers were ever caught. Chris loathed the grubby trade. Considering the misery they caused, he wished every drug smuggler would rot in jail or dangle at the end of a rope.

'You can go,' the customs officer curtly told the woman. He beckoned Chris to the counter.

'Passport,' he ordered.

Chris handed over his passport, together with his departure flight-boarding pass.

'How long were you in Malaysia?'

'A fortnight.'

'Where did you stay?'

'A week in Kuala Lumpur, then the rest of the time in Penang.'

'Purpose of your visit?'

'A holiday.'

The officer opened the front cover of the passport and began leafing through the pages. His eyes hardened.

'You are Mr.Pearson? Mr.Christopher Pearson?'

'Yes.'

The officer looked beyond Chris and nodded. A middle-aged Malay in a business suit stepped up behind Chris.

'Mr.Pearson,' he said quietly, 'Please pick up your bag and come with me.'

'Why?' Chris asked. 'Is there a problem?'

'Come with me,' the man insisted. 'Let's not cause a scene in front of these travellers.'

Feeling distinctly uneasy, Chris followed the man who had took his passport and boarding pass from the counter. He was acutely aware of the curious stares of other passengers.

The man stopped at an unmarked key. He produced a key and unlocked the door, motioning Chris to step inside. The room was small, windowless and bare except for a table, three chairs and a camera mounted near the ceiling. A framed photograph of former Malaysian Prime Minister, Dr.Mahathir smiled uncertainly from the wall above the desk.

'Please sit down, Mr.Pearson.'

'Look, is this going to take long? That was the last boarding call for passengers.'

Already, Chris was dreading the complications of missing his flight. He would need to stay an extra night, assuming he could find an airline seat the next day. He'd also need to ring Melbourne and tell the airport bus service from Tullamarine to Castlemaine that he would coming in a day late. He'd also need to ring the boarding kennels to arrange for Austin, his pet terrier to be kept there an extra night.

Chris forced himself to concentrate on what the man was saying. The interview must be to clear up some minor bureaucratic glitch. He might still make the flight.

The man introduced himself as an officer in the Malaysian Police Force. Before he finished speaking, there was a light knock on the door and a Westerner slipped inside. The man was offered a chair, but shook his head, preferring to stand facing Chris, staring hard at him. He wasn't introduced and didn't say a word.

'Now, Mr.Pearson,' the police sergeant said, 'I see from your passport that you're an Australian citizen, aged 58 and retired. This is a new passport and shows no other stamp than when you arrived. Have you travelled outside Australia before?'

'No, this was my first overseas trip.'

'I see. Now shall we see what you have in your bag?' He unzipped the bag and immediately found the wrapped parcel.

'What is this?'

'It's a present.'

'What's the present?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't know,' the sergeant said with a hint of mockery. 'I wonder why. Who is the present for? Or perhaps you don't know that either.'

Chris stung by the sarcasm forced himself to reply carefully, 'It's a present for a couple I know in Australia. They're friends. I was given the present to take back to them.'

The sergeant raised his eyebrows. 'But you don't know what that present is?'

'Well, no,' Chris conceded lamely, 'I didn't feel it was my business to ask.'

'Oh, I think it was your business,' the policeman corrected Chris. 'I think you may shortly agree that it is very much your business.'

Chilled by the response, Chris hurried into an explanation. 'Look, it's very simple. Friends of mine, David and Simone Kirby of Castlemaine, a regional city in Victoria asked me to look up the daughter of their former servant in KL. I can give you the Kirby's phone number. They'll confirm what I'm saying. The woman I met is Mrs. Indira Bamphura. Until recently, I understand she was the Night Manager for the 'Regent'. I don't have her contact details, but they will. I met her a week ago, before flying to Penang. She gave me this present to take back.'

'Where did you meet?'

'The lobby of "The Marriot", which was were I was staying.' The sergeant made a note. He looked up sceptically.

'You must have had a phone number to arrange the meeting.'

Chris shook his head. 'No, the Kirbys arranged the details with Indira before I left.

'So, did you give her the present from the Kirbys?'

'Yes.'

'But you don't know what was in that present either?'

'Well, yes because they told me. It's expensive perfume that's manufactured in Australia and is difficult to obtain overseas. I can't remember the brand name.'

'But you never actually saw this perfume being wrapped. You took your friends' word about what was in the parcel. Would you say you are an intelligent man, Mr.Pearson?'

'Yes,' Chris bridled.

The policeman shrugged. 'Then, you see I have a problem, Mr. Pearson. If I thought you were a stupid man, I could understand you much more easily than I do.

'When you met this,' he consulted his notes, 'Mrs.Indira Bhumpura. What did you discuss?'

'Nothing really. After all, I didn't know her. She seemed pleasant enough, but reserved. We spoke for perhaps 15 minutes. She asked me what I had seen in Malaysia, then suggested several tourist attractions and restaurants I might see if I returned. Finally, we exchanged gifts. It was a short meeting.'

'You seem a very obliging individual, Mr.Pearson. Do you always unquestioningly do whatever you're asked?'

'Of course not,' Chris snapped, 'But I don't mind being a messenger for my friends.'

'Ah yes. A messenger. The willing horse. A mule.'

He changed direction. 'Let's talk for a moment about these friends of yours. How well do you know Mr. and Mrs. Kirby?'

Asked in Australia, Chris would have unhesitatingly replied that they were his best friends. Here, he reflected he didn't feel as sure they were friends, after all. Like most men Chris had few friends, none of who were close. Besides, a best friend is a person one understands. What, after all, did he really know about the Kirbys?

In the late nineties, Chris lost his job as Claims Manager for an insurance firm. The company, though efficiently operated in Australia, was part of a British owned insurance and financial services conglomerate that went into receivership after suffering crippling losses in its reinsurance operation. Chris was retrenched with a modest payout. After three years applying for scores of jobs, most of which were far below his capability, he realised that at 56, his career was over.

A single man, he decided to save money by beginning a new life outside Melbourne. He moved to the small, regional city of Castlemaine and purchased a goldminer's cottage. The sale of his house in Melbourne bought more than expected. Willing to undertake most of the renovations needed in the primitive cottage himself, he found he was able to create a comfortable home, as well as live off his invested capital. A man of frugal tastes, he soon saved enough for an overseas holiday.

Never having travelled before, he asked the advice of friends. Most predictably suggested he go to Europe - the majority favouring Britain. Chris however rejected this suggestion as the Australian dollar struggled to reach 50 cents on the exchange rates.

Shortly after moving to Castlemaine, Chris joined the Art Gallery Society. It was at the gallery during a fund raising dinner that he met the Kirbys.

He learnt that David Kirby, a former engineer had lived in numerous Asian countries, consulting on major infrastructure projects, before retiring to Sydney and later moving down to country Victoria. Christopher liked the couple, finding them amusing and informed. Simone Kirby, a talented landscape artist, encouraged Chris to join a painting group she had formed. Although Chris suspected that he lacked talent, she praised his tentative watercolors and under her patient tutelage, his work improved. When the group held an exhibition, Simone insisted he contribute several works. To his surprise and delight, two of his works sold.

'To your new painting career,' David said, raising his glass in a toast.

The three touched glasses, laughing. They sat on the terrace of the Kirby's home, set on a steep hill at the edge of town. It was a mild evening in early spring. Beneath them, the lights of Castlemaine twinkled in the dark valley.

'Do you miss work?' Chris asked.

David shook his head. 'Not now. I did for perhaps two years after I retired.'

Simone went to make coffee while the two men talked.

Chris had spent all of his life in Melbourne. His longest trip had been to Perth over a decade before. He felt slightly envious of the many exciting and exotic countries in David and Simone had lived and worked. After discussing the merits and drawbacks of various Asian countries, David went on to enthusiastically describe Malaysia where the couple had spent five years before retiring to Australia. He spoke of the fascinating culture, Muslim beliefs, the patriotic Sons of the Soil movement, the old sea port of Malacca, with its ties to the Catholic missionary, St.Francis Xavier, the beaches of Penang, and the stunning modern architecture of the 'Petronius Towers', for a time the tallest office and shopping complex in the world.

'You know Chris, that's the place you should visit. Europe is fine in its way, but it's a very long and tiring journey. Malaysia is less than half the airtime. It offers great value and is an exciting place. You'd have a ball.'

'What mischief are you two planning?' Simone inquired, as she placed a tray laden with coffee bodum, cups, milk, sugar and a bowl of chocolates on the table between the two men.

'Malaysia,' David replied, lunging out to seize a wrapped chocolate. He unwrapped the large chocolate and popped into his mouth. 'I was saying that's where Chris should go for his first overseas holiday.'

'What a wonderful idea,' Simone enthused. 'You'll absolutely love it. Some of their food is out of this world for sheer flavour. David and I'll make out a list of some of the best places to eat. We know a lot of places off the tourist track. It makes me feel so nostalgic. I wish we were going there with you. We can't, can we David?' she pleaded. 'It would be great fun.'

'I wish we could,' David said, making another lunge at the chocolate dish that Simone deftly swept out of reach. 'Some of the shares in my investment portfolio have proved dogs. You know the old problem of asset rich, but cash poor. No, I'm afraid any travelling is out of the question for the Kirbys for the next year or so. Still Chris, helping plan your trip will bring back many happy memories.'

When they finished their coffee, they went back into the house. David fetched a map while Simone showed Chris an album of photos from their time in Kuala Lumpur. 'Expats with good jobs lived like kings in those days,' Simone sighed. 'Company flats, housekeeper and a chauffeur. We could dine out every night, except I started to worry about David's waistline. He's terribly greedy, as you know.'

'My only vice,' David laughingly agreed, overhearing his wife as he returned. He spread out a large map of the Malay Peninsula. For the next hour, the couple gave Chris many useful suggestions of what to do or see.

Toward the end of the evening when Chris was feeling grateful for his friend's keen interest, Simone asked if he would do them a favour. 'When we were in KL,' she explained, 'we had a lady who did all our housekeeping.'

'Amazing people,' David supplied. 'Very clean. Hardworking. Cost us practically nothing.'

'I wanted to pay her more,' Simone put in. 'But David pointed out that would spoil them for the next expat.'

Seeing David frown, she hurried on, 'Anyway, we became quite attached to her. She had a daughter, Indira who was very bright. Won scholarships to give herself quite a good education. She had just completed a hospitality industry course and was working a desk at 'The Regent". While we were there, they promoted her to the position of Night Manager, which was a real feather in her cap.'

'Smart girl,' Chris commented, sipping a cognac.

'We've sort of kept in touch since we left, but we'd hate Indira to think we're neglecting her. Would you mind terribly taking her a small gift?'

'It wouldn't take too much time,' David assured him. 'I doubt she'd invite you to her home. Malays are very private people. She'd probably feel more comfortable meeting you in a hotel lobby. Don't worry about offering her lunch and she doesn't drink. 15 minutes tops and you'd be on your way'

'She might give you something. A gift in exchange,' Simone added. 'It would be something fairly small that you could put in with your carry on luggage. You don't mind do you? Please tell us if you do. We could always post it. We just thought it would seem nicer - more personal - if you gave it to her.

'It's fine,' Chris assured her. 'No trouble at all.'

'So,' the policeman said, jolting Chris out of his musings, 'Let's open this present and see what we have.'

Taking a penknife from his desk drawer, he cut the ribbon and deftly slit open the taped edges and flaps of the package, revealing a plastic covered white block. He cut off a corner and a fine thread of powder poured onto the desk. Wetting his tongue, the policeman tasted the powder and nodded to the man standing beside him. For the first time, the man lost his impassive expression. Placing his fists on the table, the Westerner leaned forward, smiling triumphantly at Chris. 'Gotcha!' he exclaimed in an American accent.

The next morning, two guards fetched Chris from the prison cell he shared with 30 other prisoners. They handcuffed him, then attached a long chain down to where his feet were manacled. They then led him shuffling down a corridor. Already the steel rings of the manacles were beginning to rub the soft flesh around his ankles raw.

He was taken to a small room, where a man in his mid-thirties waited. The man was almost hairless with shaved skull and sparse, sand-coloured eyebrows and eyelids. His eyes, behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses were shrewd. He wore a well-cut blue pin striped suit, snowy white shirt and black shoes that gleamed in the fluorescent light. His tie, showing small elephants cavorting across a scarlet background lent an incongruous levity to the bleak room.

'Mr.Pearson,' he began with a well-educated Australian accent. He offered his hand that Chris shook with difficulty. 'Please sit down. My name's Kim Hatton. I'm attached to the Australian Embassy as First Deputy Secretary. I'm here to assist you.'

'Can you get me out of here? Post bail or something?'

Hatton shook his head.

'I'm afraid it's not that simple. That's not what your Embassy is about. You've been arrested on a serious criminal charge. Drug smuggling in Malaysia can result in a very long sentence or capital punishment, as I'm sure you're aware. If you're convicted, we'll probably make representations to save you from the gallows. We may apply for, but probably won't succeed in having you sent to Australia to serve the rest of your sentence in one of our jails.'

'Then what's the point of your visit?' Chris asked miserably.

'As an Australian citizen, you are entitled to certain rights, even as a prisoner in another country.'

'Can you have me transferred to another cell? Where I am is a nightmare.'

Again, Hatton shook his head. 'No, the Malaysian authorities don't believe foreign-born criminals deserve any better treatment than their own people. Frankly, I agree with them.

'What I can do for you is fairly basic. The Embassy can contact your family and close friends in Australia to tell them where you are. We can keep them informed about your health, date of trial and so on. We can also help arrange legal representation if you wish. The choice of employing an Australian or Malaysian barrister is up to you. Some people choose to have a Malaysian appear who's briefed by Australian counsel. That's a fairly costly option, but we're talking about your life and liberty. I can't advise your best course, but you certainly need legal representation. I know an excellent Malaysian solicitor who can discuss these options with you.'

'Please contact the lawyer for me,' Chris sighed.

'Don't expect miracles,' Hatton warned. 'The best you can hope for is a very long sentence.'

'But I'm innocent,' Chris protested. 'Let me tell you what happened.'

'Are you sure you want to? I'm not your lawyer and I may be called on in court to report anything you tell me here.'

'I need to talk. Explain. This is all a terrible mistake. Just listen.'

Chris told Hatton about the Kirbys and the present that Indira had given him to take back, which he now knew contained heroin.

When Chris had finished, Hatton shrugged.

'Interesting, even tragic, but I'm not sure that it changes anything for you.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, you don't seriously expect the Kirbys to corroborate your story? I doubt that the police will be able to trace this Indira woman either. 'The Regent" certainly won't have employed her at any time.

'But surely no one seriously thinks that I'd be stupid enough to try to smuggle drugs through customs wrapped as a present?'

'Well, sometimes the bold approach works. Anyway, no one thinks drug smugglers are very bright. Given the savage punishment if you're caught, why would any sane, intelligent person take the risk?

'What you haven't considered is that this was probably a set-up. You say customs were waiting for you. They had probably received an anonymous telephone tip-off that you were carrying drugs.'

Seeing Chris's shocked expression, Hatton said quietly, 'You really don't get it, do you? These people have dropped you in it and walked away.'

'But why? What have I ever done to them?'

'Nothing. This isn't personal. You're just a pawn in a big game. You see, in every country there are two basic groups of drug criminals. There are the people who actually smuggle the goods. These are people who are generally addicts, individuals desperate for cash or very greedy, stupid people. These are the carriers - the mules. Then you have the drug lords. These are individuals who are difficult to identify and harder to prosecute. They're usually sophisticated businessmen.

'On the other side of the fence, are the police. By making certain drugs illegal, the price is kept high. At the same time, if no drug smugglers were arrested there'd be a national scandal and massive resources would be committed, which might affect the business of the drug lords. It's in everyone's interests that a certain number of drug smugglers are arrested each year. The drug lords therefore sacrifice a certain number of mules. If the individual isn't actually a mule, so much the better. Catching a foreigner is a high profile arrest for the police and helps warn off other Australians from going down that path.'

Seeing Chris slump forward in despair, Hatton added kindly, 'Look, perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this. For what it's worth, I believe everything you've told me. It's quite possible that the judge will believe you, but that won't help you very much. The fact is you were found in possession of a sizeable quantity of heroin. The story that you tell is just that - a story with no corroboration. It's your word against that of your former friends, the Kirbys, who are doubtless seen as respectable individuals. The fact that you didn't know you were breaking the law, doesn't negate the fact the law was broken. As the old maxim goes, ''Ignorance is no excuse under the law."

'You'll be given a fair trial. The judge may give you a lighter sentence for a first offence. Alternatively, he may decide to make an example of you to deter others.

'Your lawyer will probably let you down gently. He'll assure you that you have a chance in court. When this fails, he'll suggest you lodge an appeal. This appeal will probably fail as you're unlikely to produce fresh evidence or prove the judge failed in law. Perhaps the lawyer's approach is more humane, but I think - and everything I've told you is strictly off the record and deniable - that you should accept you'll remain in jail for a very long time. Indeed, given your age, you may well die in prison.

'There's no happy ending to this story.'

# Short Ride to Hell

Bullies.

It was my first day at Primary School. I stood peaceably watching the busy scene as children played in the quadrangle.

A tall boy, perhaps three years older than I approached. For one happy moment, I wondered if he wanted to make friends.

I smiled and said, 'Hello'.

He walked up to me and examined me coldly. Then he punched me once, very hard in the face.

Reeling back in pain, I gasped, 'Why did you do that?'

He shrugged and walked away. 'Because I felt like it, ' he offered.

The pain quickly faded but the hurt remained. Until that moment, I hadn't realized that some people enjoy inflicting pain. It was a useful but ugly lesson.

Second example. In Fifth Grade, there was a boy in my class who one day bought himself a Phantom Ring. The Phantom was a comic book hero who wore a ring with a skull motif. When he punched villains, he always knocked them out, leaving the mark of the skull on their jaw.

The boy went around for several days punching smaller, weaker boys in the face. Disappointed to find the skull mark faded quickly no matter how hard he hit, he finally gave up, resuming his normal sullen hostility.

You can't win with bullies.

Surrender and you despise yourself as a coward. Fight back and you risk becoming something far worse than your tormentor. A man who you once would have feared.

* * *

I took the last train from the city to Seaspray, 23 stations down the line. The metropolitan network ended there, after which you caught a bus.

It was Friday. For three weeks, I made that journey. I would travel down, then patiently wait for the return train an hour later. My station was 11 stops back up the line.

Most people would feel uncomfortable sitting on a windswept, ill-lit, deserted railway platform late at night. If you wanted help, forget the police. Seaspray was manned twice a week during office hours. The nearest call box had been vandalized months before. Its phone smashed. The cord cut.

Once this would have worried me. Now, I welcomed danger.

I waited patiently for my time to come. After the attack, they laid low. By now, they'd be confident they'd never be caught and be eager to try again.

Of course, they might target other lines but I doubted they would. I suspected they all lived in suburbs that I passed on my journey. Besides half the fun was showing that they could go back and do the same thing in the same place.

Security was a joke. No one ever glimpsed the train police. Most train stations were unmanned at night. Few had CCTV cameras. Some cameras didn't work. Others were vandalized and never repaired. Usually there were too few cameras to cover the platform. The best you'd generally get by rerunning the footage were shouts of rage and screams off camera.

After two rapes and a lot of media pressure, the rail authorities installed emergency buttons in every train carriage. How you were meant to reach that button in the midst of an attack wasn't clear.

Everyone had a scapegoat. No one had an answer.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm neither a do-gooder nor a vigilante. If it hadn't been Peter McCabe, I'd have wondered how a pack of savage animals - I can't think of them as human beings - could attack one helpless young man. I would have felt disgust and anger, but done nothing.

Peter's life has ended. He isn't dead. It would have been kinder if he'd died that night. Instead, he lies in a permanent medically induced coma. One day, the hospital authorities will gently suggest to Peter's parents that they remove his life support. I hope for his sake, they agree.

And who's Peter to me? There's no formal connection. I'm neither a relative nor a godfather. I'm not even a family friend. He just happens to be the only son of a family that lives several streets away. If they thought of me at all - and I can't imagine they do - they'd describe me as a fussy, old bachelor who keeps to himself.

I know little about Peter's life before the attack. Sometimes, I'd see him on the street or in the supermarket. He was always pleasant and courteous. I learnt he was in the third year of his medical degree. When he graduated, he hoped to work for a while in Timor. He was a young, intelligent and decent human being.

Peter was seen by witnesses boarding a late train from the city. If anyone saw him being attacked that night, they haven't come forward. Bloodstains showed it happened on the train. He was thrown off at a station where he was found the next day.

His wallet, watch and mobile phone were missing, but no one thought theft was the motive. No one is beaten to a pulp for a few dollars and a junky digital watch.

I read the newspaper report several times, growing angrier each time. I decided to act. I realized that it was good I was never close to Peter. The police would immediately suspect his family and friends. Who'd think of me?

Few people had boarded the train. Now as it passed 20 stations, I was one of only two passengers left in the carriage; the other being an elderly Chinese man. He smiled briefly at me when he boarded and was now reading an Asian language newspaper. He'd be an ideal target, but it seemed our journey would be peaceful.

The train pulled into another station. Just as it was leaving, the door was thrust open and four youths entered. One was about 16, two 18, while their leader was perhaps 23. They were smoking, swigging beer from stubbies, laughing and pushing each other.

I waited. They looked like trouble, but would they cross the line?

'Well, what have we got here?' the leader lurched over to the Asian man. 'Look dudes, a monkey that reads!'

He tore the newspaper from the man's trembling hands. Tearing off a strip, he wadded it and put it in his mouth. Chewing it for a moment, he spat it at his victim.

'No,' he decided, 'Doesn't taste Chinese. Guess you're the only Dim Sim here tonight.'

The old man rose to protest but was violently pushed back into his seat. The lout slapped his face. 'Sit down, you bastard!' he ordered. It was the signal. The other three crowded in to attack.

I stood and walked slowly down the swaying carriage to them.

'Let him go,' I ordered. I wondered if my voice would be steady. It was.

As I spoke, my right hand went into my trouser pocket, fingers slipping into the rings.

'Well, look at this! Another old man. Can't wait to have his turn! You're going to stop me are you?' He straightened up and came toward me. 'Fancy yourself as Charles Bronson do you? ' he sneered.

'Who's that?' one of the youths asked.

'Gees, you're ignorant!' He turned to scream at me, 'You bloody, interfering mongrel! I'm going to kick you into the middle of next week!'

I brought out my fist gripping the brass knuckles and smashed it into his leering mouth. He fell to his knees with a scream of pain, spitting out blood and teeth.

His friends recovering from the shock leapt forward. One flicked open a knife. I swiftly pocketed the brass knuckles and opened my coat. The gun slid from its soft leather holster into my hand. I released the safety.

What a beautiful piece! A Colt Python with a 2.5" barrel. Easy to conceal. Great stopping power. Ideal for close work. One of the world's finest production revolvers. Meet the Equalizer.

One of the boys began swearing in fear. I shot the knife wielder between the eyes and with a snap shot, took out the leader whimpering on the carriage floor.

'No, ' the third boy pleaded. The train lurched. I shot off part of his left ear. Then, steadying myself and using a two handed grip I took him down with a clear shot, blowing away the back of his skull.

One left. The youngest. He began crying and begging for mercy.

'Let me go, ' he pleaded. 'I can get off at the next station. The cops need never know I was here. I'll never say anything.'

'On your knees!' I told him. He sank down among the bottles, beer and blood.

'Do you remember Peter McCabe?'

'The kid in the paper? That wasn't me. I wasn't there at the time.'

'These others were.' I pressed the gun to his temple. He wet his trousers.

'Yeah, yeah,' he desperately agreed. 'It was them. It was stupid. I see that now.'

'Was there anyone else? ' I demanded. 'Think carefully about what you're going to say. If I think you're lying, I'll take you out. I've nothing to lose.'

'It was Andy Lockett,' he screamed.

'Ring him. Take out your mobile and ring the creep.'

'Yes,' he fumbled in his pocket bringing out the phone. 'I've told you what you want,' he begged. 'Please let me go.'

'Make the call.'

He pressed a speed dial number. It was instantly answered. 'Yeah?' a voice drawled. I took the phone.

'Andy Lockett?' I asked.

'Who wants to know? What are you doing using this phone?'

'Your mate can't talk to you. He's otherwise engaged. Do you remember Peter McCabe? The guy you kicked into a coma? Well, this is payback time. Now listen.'

I pulled the trigger and a hole burst open in the youth's forehead.

'That was your friend.' I told Lockett. 'Bad luck for him that he was here tonight. That's what's going to happen to you. Think of me as a garbage collector. Have a nice night.'

I closed the phone and stomped it into pieces on the carpet.

Then I turned to the Chinese man who seemed in shock. One bullet left. As I raised the gun, his eyes focused in sudden understanding and fear.

'Not me!' he gulped. 'Why me?'

'I'm sorry,' I said quietly, 'You're the only witness.'

'Please. Don't do this! I'm married. A wife who loves me. I have children and grandchildren.'

Then I made a mistake.

I lowered my gun.

# Invasion

The day Taylor descended into Hell began quietly enough.

She answered the front door chime. Two men waited on the stoop.

At first seeing their pressed suits with knife-sharp creases, gleaming white shirts and brilliantly polished black shoes, she thought they were Mormons or Seventh Day Adventists.

One look at their hard, cruel faces however told her that whatever they wanted, it wasn't the salvation of her soul.

There were few visitors. The farm lay far out of town and backed on to a state forest. The nearest building was a ruin. Once a week, Taylor picked up mail from a post office box in the village. The electricity man read the meter every three months. On rare occasions a lost hiker or some extraordinarily determined missionary found his or her way down the rutted back road to the farm. They were all the visitors you might expect.

Taylor was wary with strangers. It wasn't always so. When she first married Earl, she worried the silence and isolation would drive her mad. She was a sociable city girl. She loved films, plays, dining out, meeting her friends for coffee and all the bustle of the city. She enjoyed chatting with other tenants on the stairs. Their occasional noisy parties didn't worry her. The noise was comforting. Although her parents were dead, Philadelphia always made her feel part of a large, caring family.

She gave up that feeling when she married Earl. Now she couldn't believe that she was once that city girl.

It wasn't just the wariness of having strangers at her door. Strangers who looked so out of place in the country. Who had made an effort to find her.

There was that prickling of fear.

The two men were of equal height. A little over six feet. The first man was thin and almost hairless. He seemed to swim in his suit. He had no eyebrows and very pale lashes. His cobalt blue eyes seem to bulge from his head. His skin was a leprous white. When he smiled, he revealed an even set of small, very sharp teeth like a saw. The other man had the look of a shyster. Fat and oily. He reminded Taylor of a tent preacher she once saw fondling a little boy when the congregation had their eyes closed praying.

'What do you want?' she demanded.

'Good morning,' the fat man wheezed. 'We're collecting.'

Taylor felt relieved. A few coins or a low note and maybe she'd be rid of them.

'I'll get my purse,' she offered.

'Bring your check book as well,' the fat man suggested.

'Pardon?'

'We're no charity, lady. Some chump change won't lose us.'

'How dare you?' Taylor exclaimed. 'I don't care who you are or what you want. If you're not off my doorstop as soon as I close the door, I'm ringing the police.'

'Who'll take at least 45 minutes to get out here,' the man smirked, 'In the meantime, who's going to protect you? Your crippled father in law?'

Taylor was swinging the door shut when the thin man spoke for the first time.

'Mrs Page,' he began. 'Give us a moment of your time. It's best you do.'

'How do you know my name ?'

'Your late husband often spoke about you. He saw my employer Mr. Chernov as his friend.'

'Earl never mentioned a Mr. Chernov.'

'That's understandable. He probably also told you that he just liked a little bet with the boys. The fact was he was a serious and unsuccessful gambler. Let's just say that Mr. Chernov is a well-known and respected businessman. He's also rich because he's cautious. Before he lent your husband money, he made sure he knew a great deal about Earl Page. My employer is a reasonable man. He made it very clear to your husband that if the money loaned was not repaid with interest there would be consequences. Your husband had lost a great deal at poker. He thought that Mr. Chernov's money would give him a stake to win it back. Unfortunately, he lost that money as well.'

'Well, you can tell your Mr. Chernov that my husband's dead.'

'He knows that.'

'Then your employer should also know that any loans that my husband incurred as a result of gambling were wiped away with his death. I'm sorry that Mr. Chernov has lost his money, but Earl's debt has nothing to do with me.'

The thin man smiled pityingly at Taylor as though she was a young, rather thick child. 'That's not the way it works. Your husband owed Mr. Chernov over a quarter of a million dollars. We can show you the loan agreement with your husband's signature.'

'But that's ridiculous! I haven't got anything like that sort of money. Not that I'd pay it anyway.'

'What a shame,' the fat man smiled. 'Well, no one can say we didn't give you fair warning.'

'What do you mean, warning?' Taylor fought to keep the fear from her voice.

The thin man shrugged. 'We enjoyed talking to you. You have two days. Make some inquiries about Mr. Chernov. See if there's some way you can raise the money. It would much better if we didn't return.'

Taylor was shaking when she closed the door. She let out a sigh of relief hearing the car leave.

'Who was that?' Lee Page called from the lounge where he was watching the Dodgers battling through a tense play off.

'I'll tell you about it at lunch,' Taylor promised. 'I need to put the soup on.'

She felt she couldn't face Lee for a while. She needed time to collect her thoughts. As she peeled and diced the potatoes and carrots she had gathered that morning from her vegetable patch, Taylor breathed deeply and slowly, trying to calm down. She struggled to control her anger with Earl.

She thought back to when they met.

Taylor had dropped out in the second year of an Arts course, ending an affair with a married lecturer. Promising herself that one day she'd return to study, she got a job as a receptionist in an advertising agency. Several affairs later, she began steering clear of entanglements. That ended when her friend, Beth-Anne phoned.

'You have to meet Earl Page,' she began. 'He's Julie's cousin and he's scrumptious!'

'Count me out. Men are too much trouble.'

'Earl's different. He's a dreamboat for one thing. Looks like a rugged version of George Clooney.'

'Yeah, right.'

'Seriously. If I wasn't involved with Brett, I'd be putting it out for Earl.'

'Handsome and available? What's his problem? Is he married or gay?'

'Neither. Julie tells me he broke up with his girl last month. He lives in another State and they couldn't make it work. Since then, he's been moping around.'

'I'll give him a miss. He sounds a pain,' Taylor decided.

'You'll regret it, girlfriend. Anyway, got to rush. Let's catch up soon. Kisses.'

Taylor had only finished talking to Beth-Anne when Julie was on the phone.

'You have to meet my cousin, Earl,' Julie bubbled. 'I haven't seen him for years and wow!'

'I know,' Taylor laughed.' Beth-Anne was just on the phone. He looks like George Clooney.'

'Clooney! What a hoot! Nothing like him. Anyway, I'm sure you two would get on like a house on fire. Let's do a double date next Saturday.'

'I'm not sure,' Taylor hesitated.

'I'll book a table at Arturo's,' Julie suggested cunningly, knowing how much her friend loved the restaurant.

'O.K.,' Taylor agreed reluctantly, 'At least I know the food will be good so the evening won't be a total washout.'

'You're so negative,' Julie scolded. 'Believe me, you'll like Earl. He's warm, generous and a good listener. Smart too. Not book learning, but clever.'

Surprisingly, for once reality exceeded the hype. To their mutual surprise, Taylor and Earl clicked.

Within weeks, Earl was suggesting she move back with him to his home State.

'I don't know, darling. I'd lose my job and I'd miss my friends.'

'But I'm mad about you,' he protested. 'I have to go home, but I don't want to lose you. Long distance romances never work.'

'So I live with you until you're tired of me,' Taylor suggested bitterly.

Earl looked hurt. 'What sort of man do think I am? I'm asking you to marry me.

'Before you say anything,' he hurried on, 'there's something you should know.'

'Go on,' she said, thinking wearily, here we go. I knew he was too good to believe.

'I don't want to fly under false colors.'

'Sail,' she corrected. 'The saying's to do with pirates, not pilots. But go on.'

'The fact is I'm just a working stiff. I don't have a regular trade. I'm a handy sort of guy. Much of my work is casual. Marry me and while we won't starve, we'll never be rich. The farm where I live is pretty run down. It's also isolated.'

-

'Money doesn't worry me much. It never has. If we're both healthy and work hard, I'm sure we'll do well.'

'That's true,' Earl smiled. 'I guess I've always needed someone like you to give me motivation and a direction in life.'

'So that's the problem?'

'There's more. I don't own the farm. My dad does. I just live there.'

'That worries me. Why are you still staying at home?'

'I guess partly because it's cheaper, but the main reason is that I like to keep an eye on him. He's in a wheelchair. His legs were crushed in a tractor accident shortly after Mum died. He's been like that for about nine years.'

Taylor frowned. Her idea of looking after Earl hadn't included caring for his crippled father. She began to suspect she'd become a slave to Earl and an unpaid nurse to his father.

'What's he like?' she asked suspiciously.

'He can be an ornery bastard,' Earl admitted, 'but he's very independent. Hates people fussing over him. The biggest problem is that he'd be there with us all the time. It's his place after all.'

Taylor thought about it. 'I don't know. I'd love to marry you, but it sounds horribly claustrophobic.'

'Please try it out before you give up on the idea. Can you take a week off work? Come out and stay with us. See if you like the place. See how you get on with Dad.'

Taylor agreed and a month later, Earl picked her up at the station and drove her out to the farm.

* * *

'What did you think when you first saw me?' Lee asked, topping up Taylor's wine glass.

It was a month after Taylor and Earl married. Earl had left early that evening to play cards with his friends. It had become a habit.

Taylor and Lee didn't mind. They enjoyed each other's company, finding they shared much in common. Though neither would admit it, both secretly preferred that Earl wasn't there. Sitting by the open fire each night as the pine logs crackled with fierce heat they avidly discussed subjects as diverse as history, literature, cooking, politics, philosophy and religion. Earl would listen for a while, make some dismissive comments then yawning with boredom would go to bed. After his accident made it impossible to work the farm, Lee had increasingly turned to books. Like many people with a lively curiosity but little formal education, he had some deep, interesting and original ideas. Taylor and Lee had become close like a father and daughter, but it was also an adult relationship based on candor, friendship and trust.

'I thought when I first saw you that you were a suspicious old coot.'

'Hey!' Lee protested, 'What's with the old bit? I'm only 67. A bit gray around the gills, but good for years yet.'

'Old, but well preserved,' Taylor suggested impishly.

'Alcohol will do that. Pickles the flesh. I guess I was suspicious with good reason. You looked like a city girl who'd never take to our ways. You were casting your eyes around like a mare that was ready to bolt!

'So what do you think now?' he asked, fishing for compliments.

'You're still an old coot,' Taylor teased, 'that's a given.'

* * *

There are no warning signs in life. Nothing like those notices on exit ramps on freeways that scream in bold, red type, 'Turn back! Wrong Way! Danger Ahead!

Even if there had been a sign that read, 'Give Eddy's a miss tonight', it's doubtful Earl would have taken much notice. After all, he'd been going to Eddy's poker game for years. Where was the harm? It wasn't a high stakes game. Just some guys who once palled around in high school keeping in touch.

Eddy ran the only garage in town. Poker was played in crummy rooms above the garage. Eddy's wife, a sensible woman, cleared out years ago. Eddy wasn't suffering. One of nature's slobs, he was a natural bachelor. Going to Eddy's was about sinking a few brews, winning or losing some chump change and swapping old yarns or telling some corny jokes. Earl loved being married, but he figured every regular guy needs to occasionally hang out with other guys.

So nothing was different that fateful night. Or rather, there was something, but it was so insignificant, it didn't seem to matter.

Ferdie wasn't there. It seemed he was laid up with a cold. At Ferdie's suggestion, Eddy had invited Jerry Hatfield to make up the game.

No one there knew Hatfield. He was just Ferdie's friend. Seemed pleasant enough, but there was an edge.

'That's it! I'm out.' At the end of the evening, Eddy threw down his cards in disgust. 'Nothing but bum hands all night. You did well, Earl.'

'Yeah,' Earl laughed, pocketing $40 in winnings. 'I've got that deposit on a Porsche.'

On the way out, he saw Hatfield unlocking his BMW.

'Good game?' he called.

Hatfield shrugged. 'Nice guys, but no action.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, look at you. You won all night and what have you got in your kick? 40 bucks. Come on!'

'It's never much. Just a friendly game.'

'Sure. Sort of boring. I guess I like stronger meat. A bit of spice. Anyway, I'll off. Might see you around.'

Hatfield got in his car, then cracked open the window. 'Just thought. Would you like to follow me? There's another poker game I'll look in at. Some good players.'

'I should be getting home.'

'Yeah. I understand,' Hatfield nodded dismissively. 'Married man. Pussy whipped! Nice meeting you.'

There was something about Hatfield that made Earl feel he was always on the back foot. 'Anyway, I haven't the stake for serious play.' Even to himself, it sounded lame.

'Did I suggest you play? The guys wouldn't let you in their game if you begged. Just thought you might like to scope a few hands. You're no slouch. You'd probably pick up some useful tips.'

'I was just lucky tonight.'

'If that's what you'd like to call it,' Hatfield yawned. 'Looked like raw talent, but there you go.'

'I guess I could tag along. Is it far?'

'About an hour there and back. Is that a problem? Do you need to ring the little woman? Get permission?'

'No, of course not,' Earl bridled, part of him wondering why he felt he needed to impress Hatfield. 'I'll follow you.'

45 minutes into the journey, Earl's phone rang. He saw it was Taylor calling.

Hey! Cut me some slack, he thought savagely.

Little woman's checking up on you? Hatfield sneered in his mind. Worried you'll come home stinking of skirt or booze?

Taylor's not like that. But was this a side of her he hadn't seen. The possessive wife. No one checked up on Eddy. He'd lay a bet no one ever checked on Hatfield either.

Of course, he conceded, that's because no woman cared if either of them lived or died. Still the thought of Hatfield's sneering face was hard to shake.

'Yeah?' he answered carelessly.

'Are you all right, darling?' she asked.

'I'm fine.'

'I was getting worried. It's late.'

'Yeah, I know. I'm just going on to another game. I'll watch a few hands, then head home.'

'Sorry Earl. I'm not checking up on you.'

That's exactly what you're doing, he thought, not responding.

There was an awkward pause. 'Oh well,' Taylor said with unconvincing casualness, 'Have fun. I'll see you when I see you. Love you.'

'Yeah, me too,' he replied without warmth, shutting the phone.

Surely she won't ring again, he thought, but in case she phoned in the middle of a game, he switched the phone from ring to pulse before slipping it into his pocket. He felt mean but shrugged it off.

This place sure isn't like Eddy's, he thought wryly when they reached a walled estate. Tall, iron gates swung back silently.

Earl and Hatfield parked beside three gleaming automobiles in front of a large house in the antebellum style. A stocky man opened the front door and bounded exuberantly down the stairs to greet them. He reminded Earl of the late Telly Salvaris, star of the 'Kojak' television series.

Like Telly, he was bald, had a deep and pleasant voice, coupled with a bearish charm. Instead of the famous tagline 'Who loves ya baby?' however, he turned to Earl, asking 'Who's this?'

'Earl Page,' Hatfield replied. 'He wanted to see a few hands.'

The man nodded agreeably. 'That's fine.' He extended a beefy hand to Earl. 'Welcome to my house, Earl. I'm Victor Chernov.'

Earl noticed the rolled gold Rolex on Chernov's wrist. The man smelt of expensive after shave.

'Come in,' Chernov continued. 'I'll get you a drink.' He put a friendly arm over Earl's shoulder. 'What do you drink? Vodka? I've 14 varieties.'

'Mr. Chernov's Russian,' Hatfield supplied.

'Ukranian and proud of it. Drinks. No, wait. Let me guess. You look like a whisky man. Single malt.'

Earl had never tasted single malt. It was way beyond his price range, but he wouldn't admit that.

'Yeah. Good,' he agreed.

Chernov led them through to the library where four men were playing cards.

The men looked up briefly when Chernov introduced Earl, before giving their total attention to the cards. A glance at the table told Earl this was a game for high stakes.

Each hand began at a thousand. The men played with a quiet, grim determination: winners showing no greater emotion than losers. Rich, powerful men, one of whom Earl recognized as the State Governor. Earl felt underpowered. A poor guy briefly allowed to watch his betters. The working stiff out on the street watching others enter the club.

When the game finished, one dropped out, stuffing the thick roll of money he won into his pocket. The Governor looked up. 'Join us Earl. Give me a chance to make something back.'

Earl shook his head reluctantly. 'It's too rich for me,' he admittedly shamefacedly.

'Rubbish,' Chernov boomed. 'I'll stake you. If you win, give me 20 per cent. Otherwise, I'll take the loss.'

* * *

Bastard! Earl swore to himself. That miserable bastard! To think I once thought he was a friend! He could have carried me another week.

He swung the ax up then sent it crashing down, imaging that it was Chernov's skull rather than wood he was cleaving.

When it grew dark, Taylor came looking for her husband. His body was cold and stiff. He had been dead for hours. The doctor told her that it was a heart attack, brought on by unusual stress. 'Earl was quite young and looked healthy,' the doctor said, 'But I told him two years ago that he had an irregular heart rhythm. I also said that if he took care of himself and avoided tension, he could live to an old age. Didn't he tell you this?'

'Not a word. And his father didn't know.'

'That was wrong.'

'I'm finding Earl was a man of secrets,' Taylor said bitterly.

* * *

Lee and Taylor finished their dinner in silence.

'Lost your appetite?' Lee inquired.

'I'm fine.'

Lee shook his head decisively. 'No. Are you willing to talk?'

'Sure.'

'Then tell me about today. The guys at the door. They upset you.

'Wait!' he cautioned before she started,' Describe them as fully and accurately as you can. What they wore. What they said. What you replied. How they carried themselves. Everything, no matter how unimportant it seemed at the time. Now, fire away.'

When she finished, Lee nodded thoughtfully.

'Wait here,' he told her. 'I need to make a phone call.'

When he wheeled his chair back into the lounge, Lee's face was pale.

'Bad news,' he sighed. 'Maybe the worst.

'I've been on to Danny Boyd. You met him early on. He was in Vietnam with me.'

Lee never spoke of those days. Once she asked Earl about his father's service record.

'He never talks about those days.' Earl replied. 'He was attached to one of the elite fighting groups. I think it was the Seals. He saw a lot he'd rather forget. Told me he had to do some nasty stuff - including wet work. Don't ask him. From the little he said, it's not something you want to know.'

'Danny's not up to much these days,' Lee said. 'Bit like me. But he knows this town. Its surface and its depths.

'So, I've been hearing about the dark world. I can hardly believe some of the stuff going on here. I've been totally out of touch here.

'I won't lie to you Taylor, my son was very stupid. He became mixed up with some very evil men.'

Lee hesitated as though unsure how much to tell his daughter in law.

'I've always been straight with you,' she appealed. 'Don't hold back. I'm a tough girl.'

'You'll need to be!' Lee commented gravely. 'The only way that you and I will come through this is if we accept right now that the men you saw today won't stop at anything. We're in for a hell of a firefight.'

'They'd kill us? 'Taylor asked incredulously. 'Over some stupid gambling debt.

'Not before they raped and tortured you,' Lee continued remorselessly. 'They'd cut pieces off me before I died.'

'This is crazy!' Taylor exploded. 'People don't do sick stuff like that over money.'

'Earl's so called friend Victor Chernov does.

'The way he'll see it is that if we can't pay him what's due, he'll make an example of us. Anyone who's in debt to Chernov will pay up promptly when they're told what happened to us. Danny says that the creeps will probably film it all. That way, Chernov can also sell the snuff movie to his sick friends.'

'He can't do this! We'll go to the police.'

'The sheriff's a weak man. He's in debt to Chernov. And didn't Earl say that he saw the State Governor out at Chernov's place? Forget the cops.'

'We're on our own?'

'Yep. A crippled old man and a young woman who's never fired a gun.'

'That's not true. I did some target shooting years ago. But I don't know if I could shoot a man.'

'It's not shooting. You don't take people down. You send them out. Pull that trigger only if you're prepared to blow them into Hell.'

'This is so ugly,' Taylor protested. 'It's so not me.'

'Yeah, well toughen up girl,' Lee said unsympathetically. 'Because the only lesson these guys will take is a warning shot between the eyes!'

Know your enemy, Lee termed it. Chernov, Taylor learnt had begun in a small way pimping girls from Eastern European countries. With the collapse of the Soviet Empire, he realized there were large numbers of attractive girls desperate for work. He recruited them from towns and villages offering them jobs as factory workers, waitresses or hotel staff in the United States arranging tickets, work permits or visas.

When they arrived, many having spent all their savings on the trip, Chernov drugged, raped and imprisoned the girls, forcing them into prostitution or pornography. He quickly became rich.

'But why does he bother loaning money to nobody's like Earl?' Taylor wondered.

'Danny says it's a sadistic hobby. He knows losers like my late son can never repay him, so he punishes them.

'He has a small, private plane that he pilots himself. He flies to his upstate home every Tuesday and returns each Friday. Sometimes, he takes an unwilling passenger: some poor devil - a business rival or debtor - with him. He binds them in chains, then when he's over the sea, he pushes the man or woman out of the plane. The weight of the chains ensures no one is found.'

Taylor shuddered. She vividly imagined the scene. The victim's eyes opening wide with fear as the door was wrenched open. The sudden blast of cold air. The sea spinning below. A desperate struggle and the pitiful begging as the victim was dragged to the door. Then the violent push sending them to their death.

The thought made her angry and determined.

'We'll stop these people,' she promised Lee

* * *

The two men slipped into the page home at 3 am: the time when our bodies are at their lowest ebb. When a man who has been alert for many hours can fall asleep.

They found Lee dozing in the lounge room. He was in his wheelchair, a blanket pulled up to his shoulders.

'Wake up, old man,' the thin man who had threatened Taylor whispered.

Lee opened his eyes. He looked dazed.

'Who are you?' he croaked.

The man slid out and opened a cut-throat razor. 'Where's the bitch?' he demanded.

'Taylor? Sleeping in her bedroom. Where else would she be?'

The old fool is half senile, the thin man thought. 'Bring her down here,' he told his fat companion. 'Have you got your camera primed?'

'Ready to go.'

The man leant over Lee flourishing the razor. Lee shrank back in terror. 'You're going to be a movie star. I'll think I'll start by slicing off your ears, then your nose.'

'Won't happen,' Lee snapped. There was a loud bang as Lee squeezed the trigger of the gun concealed under the blanket. The parbellum bullet ripped open the thin man's throat. Lee threw back the blanket, aiming at the fat man. The man however ducked and the bullet ploughed a deep furrow into the door jamb inches above his head.

He burst out into the hall and saw Taylor creeping down the stairs, holding a pistol in the two handed steadying grip that Lee had taught her. Seeing her, the fat man snarled in rage, his hand falling to the butt of his gun.

Taylor stared at his gun slid out of the man's holster. Fire, she told herself, but her body was frozen. Then as he raised his gun, she recovered her senses and squeezed her trigger. A hole opened in his brow.

The fat man flung his pistol away and crumpled like a leaking balloon. As he fell, Taylor kept firing.

'That's enough!' Lee's voice was like a whip crack. 'Put down your weapon!'

He wheeled into the hall and inspected the body. 'Nice work,' he said approvingly. Tight circle of shots even as he was falling. You're a natural.'

Taylor felt surprised at herself. She expected to feel remorse. Instead she felt light and at peace.

'What do we do now?' she asked.

'Drag them to the garage. I'm sorry I can't help, but I'll clean up here. My man left a mess. Parbellum's do that, but I couldn't risk not putting him down on the first shot.'

Lee checked his watch. 'We'll get some sleep. Then we'll bury these two on the farm later today. They'll never be found.'

'So it's over?'

'Not at all. We'll set the alarm for a few hours. You and I have to pick up something from Danny Boyd then you and I going on to meet Victor Chernov.'

'Must we?' Taylor asked fearfully.

'Absolutely. If we don't, he'll send others. The only way to end this is to cut the head off the snake.'

* * *

Dawn bathed the small, private airfield as the light plane made its approach. Taylor and Lee parked their SUV by the chain fence. It was an ideal location, offering a clear view down the strip.

Lee took two long cylinders from the back seat. 'Top of the range equipment,' he explained, handing one to Taylor. 'Danny says they're so powerful they'll never be offered to the public.'

Taylor unscrewed the cylinder cap and slid out the instrument. This may be a brilliant plan, she thought. Not only could they attack Chernov from a safe distance, but the murder would look like an accident.

'Coming in,' Lee warned as the plane drew closer. 'Aim. Now, on my say. Steady. Steady. Go!'

They both hit the switches and two infra-red beams shot out from the pointers, penetrated the plane's windscreen and entered Chernov's eyes. Dazzled, he jerked the joystick down and his plane stalled before diving into the tarmac. A brief pause and the plane burst into a balloon of flames and oily smoke. Taylor glimpsed the thick-set man desperately clawing with the door hatch before he was engulfed by fire.

As they drove away, they heard the siren of an ambulance and the clanging bell of a fire truck speeding to the crash.

'You must wish you'd never become mixed up with the Page family, ' Lee remarked as they drove home.

Well,' Taylor considered. 'Knowing your son bought me a heap of trouble. Still,' she brightened,' if we hadn't married, I'd never have met his father.' She placed a warm hand on his arm. To his surprise and confusion, the seemingly casual touch stirred Lee.

'Guess that would have been a pity,' he said, assuming a casual tone.

Taylor's gaze left the road for a moment. She studied his face before turning her attention back to driving.

'A real shame,' she agreed.

# Loose Thread

They saw him far ahead.

He was lounging by a long, flat stretch of highway, smoking as he leant against a tree. Seeing the car slow, he flicked his glowing cigarette butt away and sauntered forward. He wore a plain black T-shirt; its sleeves cut off to reveal muscular arms, black jeans and dusty black sneakers with grubby white laces. There was nothing about him - from his greased back hair, his lazy sneer, the twin tattooed blue snakes twisting around his arms to the large, leather-sheathed knife dangling from his studded belt - that Dallas liked.

'Pull over,' Aaron Cripp ordered.

Dallas bristled. 'No,' she shook her head. 'Why should I?'

'Because I said so. Pull over.'

This had gone far enough. She was only doing him a favour. Now, he acted as though in charge. 'Get out of my car,' she flared. 'Your lift's over.'

'I said pull over. He's my brother and we're picking him up.'

'No way!' she began, then saw the gun appear in his hand.

'Do it now!' he snarled, pressing the barrel against her forehead. 'Hey, watch what you're doing! You almost wiped us out on that tree! Slow down. That's better. Ease off the gas. Brake gently. That's it. Nice and easy.' His tone had become patronizing as though he were her first driving instructor. 'That's the way.'

The back door was flung open.

'Hey, good one bro,' the youth said, climbing in the car. He leered appreciatively at Dallas, 'Blonde too.'

'Yeah. Your favourite.'

'Sure is,' he breathed. 'We'll have fun with this one.' He licked one finger and drew it slowly across the nape of Dallas' neck. Her skin crawled.

Aaron gestured her to put the car in gear and they moved off. The youth in the back seat sat back. 'Nice wheels,' he observed, running his hand over the leather upholstery and timber inlay. 'Pity we can't keep it. I like style in both cars and ladies.'

'Can't we keep it?' Aaron pleaded, 'Just for a while?'

The youth, who was about four years older than his brother, considered then shook his head. 'Too risky. We could switch plates, but Hondas are too distinctive. Better to sell it to the chop shop in Leichardt. Get a bit. Sweet motor. Low k's. Only one owner: a woman, sadly she's no longer in mint condition.'

The two laughed cruelly. Then Dallas heard her handbag, which she had thrown in the back seat being snapped open, its contents, spilled across the seat. 'What have we got here?' the youth asked.

'Get out of my stuff!' she ordered, rage overcoming her fear.

Suddenly, a hand gripped her at the base of her neck and squeezed hard, fingers digging into her flesh. She gave an involuntary gasp of pain.

'Respect, bitch! R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Like the song. Heard the word before?'

'Yes,' she grunted as his fingers dug deeper.

'Then show some. Aaron and I don't appreciate talkback, do we?'

'Naw,' Aaron confirmed, 'Keep it zipped.'

'Dallas,' Aaron's brother was reading her driver's license. 'Dallas Thornton. Funny name for a girl. Your parents Kennedy freaks?' When she didn't answer, he continued conversationally, 'Anyway, my name's Hayden. Hayden Cripp. Hay if you like. I'm the Hay you make while the sun shines.' He snorted at his pun. You're a real scream, Dallas thought with contempt. 'You might as well know my name,' he added chillingly, 'It wont do you any good.'

She shuddered and Aaron Cripp, seated in the front passenger seat noticed the sudden gleam of her necklace. 'Nice piece,' he stretched across and touched it. 'Terri will like this.' With a sharp jerk, he broke it off her neck

Suddenly, it was all clear. Dallas recalled Terri was the name the waitress at the roadhouse had sewn on to her breast pocket. She remembered the girl had complimented her on the necklace. She had told Terri it was an heirloom piece, once worn by her grandmother.

'I don't know, bro,' Hayden was saying. 'You've got to stop giving Terri trophies. You know where she hides her brains. If she keeps wearing the stuff, it's only time before someone - a relative or friend - comes snooping around, sees it and puts two and two together.'

'Terri's part of the team,' Aaron sulked. 'We need her to set up the marks.'

Hayden released his grip on Dallas' neck and cuffed his brother. Aaron cursed, then whined, 'What's that for?'

'Listen to me. Who's the brains behind this?'

'You are.'

'And who's always covered for you and always will?'

'You have.'

'Then don't act like a jerk when I tell you Terri needs to lift her game. She's not indispensable. I could always send her the way of the others. Maybe it would be best if she did. Once less mouth to blab.'

'Gees, don't do that!' Aaron protested. 'She's my girl.'

'Yeah, well you know what to do to keep her that way. Follow what I say and we'll all stay sweet.'

This can't be happening, Dallas thought. With Hayden's hand no longer gripping her neck, her mind was no longer distracted by pain. But freed from physical pain, terror threatened to overwhelm her.

Two days before, she decided on a whim to take a short break. She always travelled light and living alone, the decision to leave was easy. Although she felt stale, Dallas generally loved her home; a split-level flat at Picnic Point. From the large window of her study, she could look up from her computer screen where she designed web pages and gaze across the sparkling water, often seeing yachts sailing past in graceful silence. While the arbor seemed lost in rural seclusion, it was actually close to the city - less than 30 minutes by speedboat across Sydney Harbor to bustling Circular Quay.

Since breaking up with Klaus Jaeger three months before, Dallas had concentrated on pushing her already fit body to the limits. The simple, clean challenges of sport were far easier to satisfy than Kurt's convoluted, self-absorbed demands. She could easily track his movements in Iraq, Syria, Somalia or some other international hot spot, but she wasn't interested enough these days to buy the news magazines featuring his photo journalism.

She realised soon after Kurt moved in that he had a nasty side. Priding himself on being an intellectual, he sneered at her physical interests - running, strength training, pistol shooting and unarmed combat - as well as her passion for early American gospel music. One of the records Dallas most prized was the now rare 1958 Newport concert recording of 'Didn't It Rain?' by Mahalia Jackson. One night, in a drunken rage, Kurt torn the disc from her record player and smashed it into fragments. He was instantly remorseful. Seeing Dallas shaking as she turned her back to him, he begged her not to cry, but it was rage that she struggled to contain. Her hands, hardened to split a brick, itched to slice into his fleshy neck.

'It's only a record,' he complained, stepping back as he saw her fierce expression. But it was more than that. It was a world that he didn't understand and hated because she did.

'I'm not arguing with you,' she said levelly. 'I'm going for a run. I'll be gone two hours. Pack your stuff and clear out. I don't want you here when I get back. And don't bother phoning: I won't pick up.'

'You're kidding, right? All this over breaking a dumb record?'

'Two hours,' she repeated, tying up her laces and making for the door.

'You bitch!' he bawled at her departing back. 'You've always been a stone-cold bitch!' He was still screaming abuse as she shut the door and sprinted down the driveway. Leaving him alone in her house was probably a bad idea, she reflected. Kurt was just the sort of vindictive creep who would enjoy trashing the place. If he did, she could charge him with property damage, but there'd be Buckley's Chance of winning costs back from someone who lived so often overseas. Am I really as hard as people think, Dallas wondered as she settled into jogging at a steady pace that clicked through the kilometers of the sealed road that rose or dipped along the quiet foreshore.

It's true, she conceded, I never cried at Dad's funeral, but he didn't give me much to grieve over. The less I think about my vain, shallow mother, who died six months ago, the better. Dallas felt sure there were softer sides to her nature. When her beloved pet - an old cat was finally put down, for instance, she had wept for weeks. During that time, she was always careful to ensure Kurt didn't see her grief. At 28, I've time to mature as a personality, she told herself. For now, I'll focus on staying strong.

Two hours later, she returned, dreading what she might find. To her relief, Kurt had left the house clean and she swiftly put him out of her mind. In the weeks that followed, she poured energy into building up her small, but profitable home-based business. She had just finished putting together an interactive annual report for a major steel company, which had both delighted her clients and won a design award. Clients were clamouring for her ideas, but Dallas knew that she'd soon burn out if she didn't take a break.

Leaving Picnic Point, she had driven slowly up the North Coast of New South Wales. It was a luxury not to be tied to strict times and places. The night before, she had drifted into Coffs Harbor and the following day, spent hours sunbathing and swimming in a secluded cove near Byron Bay. She didn't bother to check the time, when she headed back to the highway. Perhaps she'd find a motel for the night or drive through till it was dark, maybe cross the Queensland border and head up to Brisbane.

She was driving through a heavily wooded section of countryside; towns you could miss if you blinked, with letterboxes cut from 44 gallon drums, farm gates or winding drives the only sign of habitation - lizard country - when she saw the roadhouse. At first, she was inclined to drive past, then she felt hungry and remembered her last meal - if you could call it that - was a piece of dry toast with coffee for breakfast. So it was hunger that made her park in the deserted roadside carpark. Now it seemed it was hunger that would cost her life.

The diner, which had no patrons, was shabby but clean so Dallas ordered a plate of medium grilled steak, eggs and chips. If the food's too horrible, I'll leave it, she promised herself. The waitress - Terri - took her order, then came back to set the table and chatted before going to the kitchen to cook the food. The girl seemed pleasant enough, asking if Dallas was travelling to meet someone. She nodded understandingly when Dallas said the trip was taken on the spur of the moment. Certainly, there was no disguising her interest when she saw Dallas's necklace.

A young man - Dallas guessed he was about 19 \- came out of the kitchen. He looked troubled and spoke softly to Terri, before smiling vaguely at Dallas then walking out the front door.

Dallas finished her meal and drank the last sip of coffee when Terri brought the bill.

'That was good,' she said warmly.

'Oh, thanks. Look, I hope you don't think me a sticky beak but where are you going from here?'

'Just up the Coast. No firm plans.'

'It's just I wondered if you could do me a favour. I know it's a cheek asking, seeing as you hardly know me, but you saw that guy I was talking to?'

Dallas nodded.

'He's my boyfriend. Aaron Cripp. Real nice guy. Not like some around here. Very family oriented, you know. He works down at Bryon most of the time and he's trying to get home. His Mum's been crook. He hitchhiked all the way up here, but he's stuck for a lift for the rest of the way. His place isn't far by car - about 50 k's, but it's a hell of a way on foot. I sort of wondered if you could give him a lift.' She hurried on, seeing Dallas frown. 'I know you wouldn't probably pick up a hitchhiker - nice lady like you - and I wouldn't normally ask. Aaron didn't want me to ask, but I said you looked kind, so I'd try. I mean he's a really nice guy and he's stuck here and it wouldn't be out of your way. His place is straight up the highway and you could drop him off at the front gate. What do you say?'

So Dallas had agreed. Now, too late, she realised what a clever scam Terri and the Cripp brothers had devised. Terri helped set up the marks and was rewarded with trophies from the victims that Hayden and Aaron raped, tortured and murdered.

Aaron watched Dallas narrowly. Something about her made him uneasy. Normally by now they'd be gibbering with fear. Pleading for mercy that was never shown. Not this one. She hadn't spoken since Hayden tipped out her handbag and he sensed it wasn't because of fear. Her face gave nothing away. Pale, lips tight shut. Someone knowing she was being driven to her death shouldn't look that cool.

'Something's wrong,' he blurted. 'She's not the same.'

Hayden stopped whispering and looked at Aaron with surprised irritation.

'Aw, crap!' he laughed scornfully. 'Course she's the same. Bloody terrified! She's just too proud to show it. Don't worry. It'll make her all the more fun. You'll see.'

As he spoke, Dallas turned and for the first time since her ordeal began, looked hard at Aaron before turning her gaze back to the road. Dallas was attractive with high cheekbones, olive skin, short-cropped jet-black hair and good figure but something in her eyes - an intensity in her gaze made Aaron uncomfortable. He suddenly felt as though he was looking down a corridor into some bleak and lonely place from which he'd never escape. She feels like Death, he thought with a slight shudder and as though reading his thought he caught the trace of a knowing smile flickering for a moment on her lips.

'I don't like this,' Aaron muttered, stuffing his gun back into his belt and fumbling for a cigarette. 'It doesn't feel right.'

Hayden cursed and lunged forward, again squeezing his fingers deep into the back of Dallas' neck. This time, Aaron noted with disquiet, she didn't react to the pain.

'This is meat, ' Hayden told his brother dismissively. 'Nothing more, nothing less. Don't make her out to be something she isn't. Big mistake with women. Believe me, she'll beg to die by the time I've finished with her. Just like the others. Tell you what. As a special treat, you can go first this time.'

Dallas felt an adrenaline rush of white-hot rage. Two low lifes think they can take me out? Bring it on! She wondered briefly what had turned the brothers into disgusting perverts, then decided she didn't care. She was locked in a deadly contest with only one winner.

'Turn off at that letterbox,' Hayden ordered, removing his hand from her neck and settling back into his seat. She spun the wheel and they bounced along a grassy track. Several bends in the track and they reached a farm gate.

'Well come on,' Hayden impatiently ordered Aaron, 'The gate won't open itself. Hurry. I want to get on this one.'

Aaron obediently left the car and going to the gate, began to swing it open. Dallas left the car idling, the automatic in drive with her foot on the brake. As Aaron came level with the middle of the bonnet, she flicked her foot off the brake, gunning the engine, praying it didn't stall.

The powerful six-cylinder engine roared in protest but thrust the car forward at speed from its standing stop. It hit the youth with a heavy smack. With a cry; he fell backwards, disappearing out of sight. She trod the gas pedal to the floor and the car rolled over him. Then she stabbed the brake, ripped the transmission lever into reverse and the car lurched backwards, once more rolling over Aaron. There was a sickening crunch of bone and another scream. She braked again, unclipped her safety harness and spun around in her seat. Hayden Cripp had been thrown violently across the back seat and was cursing as he fumbled to unclip his razor-sharp Bowie knife. As he gripped the handle, Dallas brought her right hand scything down, chopping savagely into the killer's neck and crushing his larynx. He died from suffocation within 90 seconds.

Time to take out the garbage, Dallas thought exultantly. She got out of the car, opened the back door and gripping Hayden by his belt, dragged him out, tossing his body down beside the track. Then she walked over to Aaron Cripp and picked up his gun. Blood was seeping from the corners of his mouth and his left ear. The car had crushed his chest. As she bent over, his eyes flickered open and he begged softly, 'Help me.'

'You know, Aaron,' she said conversationally. 'It's funny but I just don't inclined to help. As I recall, the last favour I did brought me here.'

'Please,' he groaned. 'I'm dying.'

'Yes, you are,' Dallas said coldly. 'And the pity of it is you won't suffer nearly as long or as much as all the others you put to death.'

'I'm sorry,' he breathed, his eyes closing and breath slowing.

'Don't be,' Dallas smiled sardonically. 'I enjoyed killing you.'

Slipping the safety catch off the gun, Dallas took out the ignition keys and left her car, warily following the track beyond the gate. Her first instinct was to jump into the Honda and reverse back down the track to the highway, where she would put as many k's between herself and the Cripps as possible. Then she realised that they may still have a victim in their house, perhaps in terrible pain. She couldn't leave someone there. Although every instinct warned her to flee, Dallas continued creeping down the track. The Cripp farm, she reflected, was the ideal spot for torture and death. Set far from the road and surrounded by thick bush, they could do whatever they wished.

She rounded several bends and then in a clearing saw the house - a ramshackle building of rusty iron, peeling weatherboards, sagging guttering and a water tank oozing a long line of rust. There were three rocking chairs and an old horsehair sofa on the weathered veranda. Beside the house was a mud-spattered tractor with scoop. All around, the yellow clay earth had been disturbed. For a moment, the tractor puzzled her, then the full horror struck her. This was where the Cripps buried the bodies of their victims, so many that they needed a machine to dig the graves.

Dallas eased onto the veranda; the gun steadied in a two-handed grip at the 25 to 7 position. She stood to one side of the door, paused then sent a swift kick into the lock, smashing the door open.

All was quiet. Afraid she might be stepping into a shotgun blast, she steeled herself to enter. She swiftly checked each room and finding the house deserted, began a careful examination. The rooms were filled with a strange mixture of items \- backpacks, wallets or purses, watches and mobile phones, as well as small piles of rings, necklaces and credit cards. There was underwear, both male and female; some streaked with blood, as well as rolls of money. The trophies were grim enough but it was the Polaroid photos taped to the walls that made Dallas catch her breath. They showed men and women, wrists bound with gaffer tape, baling twine or wire suffering appalling torture and sexual violation: their faces twisted in agony. Any faint remorse Dallas might have felt for killing the two brothers evaporated. And it wasn't just the two youths: Terri was in many photos, laughing fiendishly or carrying out some filthy act.

There was also a third man: older, thin, grey hair drawn back into a ponytail, yet with an unmistakable likeness to Hayden. Dallas stared at the man. This must be their father. There was no sign of their mother: perhaps she had deserted her husband when she realised what she had married. A search among the bills on the kitchen table put a name to the older man's face - Michael Cripp. Where was Mike Cripp, she wondered. Lurking outside with a shotgun or rifle? She crouched down beside the front door, scanning the bush, but saw no movement. All was quiet as though the house waited for the last act of this sordid drama.

After a long pause, she left the house, swiftly scrambling down the veranda steps. As she passed the tractor, she was tempted to find its ignition keys and use it to tear down this house of horrors. Yeah, brilliant move, she thought derisively. I'd be sitting up there as neat a target as you could imagine when Mike Cripp heard his house being ripped down and ran back to investigate.

She stood in the trees, watching her car. Finally, risking an ambush, she made a crouching dash past the two bodies and opened the driver's door. Funny, I thought I locked it, she wondered, sliding behind the wheel. Careless: just too many things on my mind. It was then Dallas realised, she had made a terrible mistake. Even as she slid the key into the ignition, she sensed someone crouched down behind her seat.

She glanced sideways at the pistol where she had tossed it on the passenger's seat. Close, but it might have been a thousand miles away. Exerting iron will, she forced herself not to tense her muscles. He has a knife or sickle, she thought. If it was a gun, he'd have it at my head. He's going to wait until I move off. I still have a chance.

Something on the floor caught her eye. It was a packet of cigarettes that must have slid from Aaron's pocket before he left the car to open the gate. Perfect!

Dallas reached down with slow casualness to pick up the soft pack. She shook out a cigarette and placed it between her lips, pushing the car's cigarette lighter down. She started the engine and holding the car in neutral, appeared to waiting to light the cigarette before putting the car in gear. The lighter took only seconds to pop up, but it felt like hours. Does he think I can't smell his sweat: that I can't sense his rage and his wanting me to start the car so he can put a blade to my throat when my hands are on the wheel? If he'd wanted me to die quickly, he would have stabbed me by now, but he wants to play.

The lighter popped up. Let the game begin, she thought with savage joy.

She pulled out the lighter, moving the glowing end to her cigarette. Then, Dallas threw herself to the side and with a fluid movement spun around drawing her legs back until she was crouching on the seat, turning to see Michael Cripp's face looking up. With her right hand, she drove the glowing cigarette lighter down, missing his left eye, only because he flinched at the last moment. The flesh burnt and as she drew the lighter back she saw a vivid red circle form millimeters from his iris. Cripp shrieked in pained surprise and she saw a skinning knife fall from his grip. Then she was out of the car, dragging the killer from the back seat with a long, sharp tug to the pigtail. She kicked his legs away and when he fell, grabbed the pistol from the car. Dallas stood well back from the killer, but he was fully occupied clutching his face where a boil was forming and screaming obscenities.

'Get up! ' she ordered. 'You know, you're unbelievably lucky. I'm going to let you go. Now start walking before I change my mind.'

Cripp slowly got to his feet. His left eye was closed and streaming tears, but there was no mistaking the virulent hate in his good eye. 'There you are,' Dallas remarked mordantly. 'Nothing a little antiseptic cream can't fix. You'll soon be good as new.'

As he backed away, Michael Cripp spat, 'You filthy whore! You killed my sons. If it takes forever, I'll get to you, then I'll slice you apart strip by bloody strip. You've seen what I've done to the others. I'll do the same to you, but worse: far worse. I know how to make people die slowly.'

'Of course, you do,' Dallas called at his departing back. 'You've had plenty of practice.' His threats didn't concern her. They only confirmed her decision. She waited until he was almost at the corner of the track, then called out softly, 'Mr. Cripp.'

He turned in puzzlement, then his expression froze in fear.

'You know how I said you were free to go?' she asked conversationally, the gun levelled at him.

His face turned ashen. 'Yeah,' he faltered.

'Well, I lied,' Dallas said, squeezing the trigger.

40 minutes later, two women emerged from the roadhouse. 'Wait!' Dallas told Terri, the pistol pressed hard into her back. 'OK,' she continued, 'No cars passing. Now walk quickly to that clump of trees where you see my car.'

Terri stumbled, but pushed by Dallas, recovered and was hurried forward.

'Don't do this!' she pleaded.

'You mean not treat you like all the people who begged for mercy? Come on, I've got other, nicer things to do. I don't know why you're complaining: you'll soon be with your boyfriend and his creepy family. That's what you always wanted.

'Anyway,' Dallas added as they reached the trees that screened the car from the road, 'you signed your death warrant when you first got mixed up with those two. Did you know Hayden was talking of killing you minutes before I took him out?'

'You're a liar!' Terri flared. 'Aaron would never let anything happen to me.'

'You silly cow! Aaron would do exactly what his brother said. Anyway, you can discuss that with him soon enough. Kneel down.'

'Let me go,' Terri wailed, sinking to her knees. Dallas noted sadly that the girl was wetting herself in fear. 'Let me go. I won't say anything.'

'Of course you will,' Dallas contradicted her gently. 'The first thing you'll do when the police arrest you is offer to tell them all you know about me for a reduced sentence.'

'I don't know anything about you.'

'You can describe me, my car and probably remember the Honda's license plate number. You see, even if I could overlook the fact you're an evil person, my problem is that you're a loose thread. Without you, no one can place me near the murders, especially as it will probably be weeks before the bodies are found. All I need to do now is have my car panel beaten and I'll have that done back in Sydney. I'll claim I hit a kangaroo at dusk. It happens all the time.'

'But...' Terri began as Dallas squeezed the trigger.

# Revenge

Stanley Lieu was not universally loved. No man is, but he was greatly liked by an astonishingly large number of people.

Stanley was short, stocky and good-humoured. He liked nothing better than hearing or telling a good story, but there was no malice in the jokes he told. If you laughed at his joke, it was not the hate-filled sniggering at other's misfortune that often passes for wit, but rueful laughter at the shared absurdity of our species. You always felt happy, rather than diminished in his company.

Apart from his popularity Stanley was an ordinary man who expected life to continue bumbling along in a quiet and predictable way. Last July, however he saw something very strange.

Imagine the most absurd and unlikely thing you can: perhaps watching a bird fly backwards or your cat breaking off from its evening meal to address you in Latin. That was the sense of disbelief Stanley felt one fateful evening when he was walking down Orchard Street in Singapore and saw Trevor Morrison on the opposite pavement.

At first, Stanley couldn't believe his eyes, yet as he stared through the heavy traffic and swirling crowd, he felt sure it was Morrison, even to the distinctive slope of his friend's shoulders and slightly stumbling walk. Only a glimpse, yet the man as though sensing he was observed, hurried away to be lost in the crowd.

The problem wasn't that Trevor might be seen in the streets of Singapore. It had always been Morrison's favourite Asian city. It was that Trevor was dead.

Three years before Stanley had flown to England to attend Morrison's funeral. Stanley was a modest man. Arriving at the crowded church, he settled into an unobtrusive seat at the back. Hardly had he done so, when he felt a respectful touch on his shoulder. Looking up he saw an usher. 'Please come with me, Mr. Lieu,' the man said and Stanley was led past row after row of mourners curious to know the identity of the small Chinese man receiving such preference. At the front row to his intense embarrassment, Stanley was placed next to the grieving widow. Sandra gripping his arm affectionately, whispered, 'I'm so glad you could make it. It would have meant so much to Trevor. He thought the world of you.'

Trevor was not Stanley's best friend. Four men and two women - all Asians - shared that distinction, but he was his favourite Westerner and that friendship, an ideal relationship that you could pick up without strain after long absences, had endured for 20 years.

Stanley returned to the Swissotel Merchant Court and stood by his bedroom window staring down without seeing the colourful bustle of Clarke Quay. It can't have been Trevor he told himself repeatedly. Yet as often as he did, another voice assured him it was. He wondered if he should ring Sandra, but what could he say? She'd think him either mad or cruel. Stanley had never doubted for a second that Trevor adored his wife and children, so why would he want his family to think he was dead?

Stanley knew what it was like to love. When his wife died thirty years before, many people had urged him to remarry. A number of his female friends had made it clear they'd welcome his attentions, but he remained resolutely single, not even dating. The thought that Trevor would desert Sandra in such a callous way was beyond belief.

After many hours of thought, Stanley decided to do nothing. If Trevor was alive, but chose to remain dead it was his business. Stanley couldn't forget the matter, but he resolved that it wouldn't dominate his thinking. He forced his mind to focus on his business. Stanley owned five small, exclusive clothing boutiques scattered through South East Asia. Without children, he drew on his wider family to run the day to day operations. This gave him the interest of running a business with few of its problems. Although he was wealthy, Stanley enjoyed a modest lifestyle.

On balance, it was better that Trevor remained dead. His resurrection raised too many painful questions. Stanley wanted to forget Trevor, but Trevor wasn't willing to be forgotten.

At 11pm, the phone rang in Stanley's room. He picked it up, but there was only silence. At exactly the same time on the four days that Stanley remained in Singapore, the phone rang and after several minutes of silence each time, the line was broken.

A Westerner might have rung the front desk and asked them to block any further calls, but Stanley had vast reserves of patience. Asians respect the man with a cool heart. Often business rivals put themselves at a disadvantage because they were impetuous. A swift and early victory frequently led to disaster. Unsurprisingly, Stanley was a formidable chess opponent as well as a successful businessman.

On the last night of his stay, Stanley spoke for the first time into the phone. 'Trevor,' he said quietly, 'I'm leaving tomorrow, taking the E & O train up to Bangkok. I'm turning off my mobile so I'll be unavailable for two days. After that, you can contact me at 'The Sukothai' where I'll be for three nights, before flying home.'

On his arrival in Bangkok, Stanley checked in and having made several business calls, spent most of his afternoon lazing by the shaded pool. He then enjoyed a leisurely dinner at 'The Celadon', the hotel's fine dining restaurant before returning to his room. At 11 pm there was a soft knock on the door. He opened it and Trevor slipped inside. His friend looked old and exhausted as though three decades not three years had passed.

The two men stared at each other.

'You're looking well, Stanley.'

'You're looking dreadful!'

Trevor shrugged. 'Being dead isn't as easy. How did you recognize me? I thought I'd changed.'

'Only superficially. Contact lenses instead of glasses, removing the beard and dyeing your hair helped, but you haven't changed your walk. It's distinctive.'

Trevor nodded and slumped into a chair. 'I'm sorry,' he began.

'Don't apologize to me, ' Stanley interrupted angrily, ' It's Sandra, Andrew and Joyce who you've hurt.'

'No,' Trevor shook his head decisively. 'I did the right thing by them. They'll be left alone, but I worry about you. I didn't want to see you, but it drives me mad never to tell anyone what happened. You've always understood me. The moment I saw you in Singapore, I knew we'd have to meet.'

'I don't understand any of this,' Stanley burst out. 'It's so cruel. If you could have seen Sandra's anguish at your funeral! She misses you terribly.'

'I know,' Trevor agreed bitterly. 'They make sure I'm kept well informed on how Sandra's feeling. They even videotaped the funeral and sent me a copy. I'm constantly updated on what's going on at home. How the kids are going at uni. Everything. It's part of the price. Both a warning to me and a sadistic way to ensure I'll never forget what I lost.'

'Who's doing this?'

'You've heard of David Livardi?'

'Of course.'

Sir David Livardi moved in a different, far more exclusive circle than Stanley Lieu, but even the most casual reader of the business press knew of the billionaire Maltese businessman with significant interests in both the Middle East and several emerging Central European nations.

'You may not have known that my company audits the accounts of (here Trevor named one of the leading conglomerates in the United Kingdom). The company received a takeover bid by one of Livardi's shell companies. It appeared a generous offer and the Chairman, Lord Mermon was looking forward to taking a well-earned and unexpectedly lucrative retirement. Before recommending acceptance to shareholders, the Board however insisted on due diligence.

'I was given the task of heading the audit team. It was a feather in my cap. Looking into Livardi's affairs was far more demanding than anything I'd ever done. I set to work and soon realized that I needed a team of seven experts sifting through reams of documents if I was to meet the deadline of a report to present to the Board a week before the AGM. There was so much information provided that I now suspect Livardi was trying to swamp me with data. As Chesterton once wrote, What better place to hide a leaf than in a forest?

'If you're a good forensic accountant however you gain a sense when something's not kosher. Drilling down into the figures, I gradually uncovered evidence of fraud and the laundering of dirty money from arms deals financed by the Russian Mafia. A lot couldn't be proven but the evidence was clear enough for me to recommend to Lord Mermon that his Board reject the takeover bid. Mermon was annoyed, but he had to present my findings and the offer was rejected. The British business press that had been covering the takeover bid was puzzled at the refusal and several stories appeared that quietly questioned aspects of Livardi's empire. Nothing major of course because no one dared leak my report to the press and Livardi had in the past won substantial damages in various libel suits.

'Of course, I expected Livardi to be annoyed at this unexpected turn of events, but the takeover offer was really a side play in his vast business empire. I no more thought I had injured him than a flea might hope to bring down an elephant. Business I assumed was simply business. Livardi however saw the rejection as an insult. He obtained a copy of the report, probably by bribing a Board member, perhaps even from Lord Mermon and there was my name as author. He swore then that he'd teach me a lesson I'd remember for the rest of my life.

'Look, can I have a drink? I'm as dry as dust with all this talking and I need something to steady my nerves. Yes, a Scotch will be fine. No ice.'

Trevor gulped down most of the drink and continued. To paraphrase, Trevor's descent into the world of terror began one sunny morning walking to his office near the Barbicon. A black Bentley pulled into the curb in front of him. Two stocky men got out. One punched Trevor in the stomach and as he doubled over in surprised pain, they pushed him into the back seat of the car. The abduction was absurdly cliched and the men seemed indifferent to a policeman who was standing looking the other way about 15 feet away. Nor did they appear concerned about a CCTV camera mounted on a tall building that recorded everything happening in the street.

The car purred through London's streets and before long reached the M5 where it picked up speed. Trevor having recovered his breath tried to speak, but one glance from the man of his right was enough to change his mind and the journey passed in silence. After an hour's journey through the countryside, they took an exit ramp and wound through a series of quaint villages before reaching a tall, stone wall enclosing a large estate. Tall, steel gates swung back and the Bentley continued down a line of mature Elms before stopping at the entrance of a large, hideous Victorian mansion.

Trevor was marched into a library and flung into a leather chair. Minutes passed with Trevor slumped in the chair being impassively watched by one of his captors. Finally, the library door opened and Livardi walked in. He was casually dressed rubbing dirt from his hands onto a rag as though he had been gardening. Trevor felt suddenly terribly alone and realized with horror that he would probably die before long. No one knew where he was. No one was going to rescue him. He doubted his body would ever be found. The best he could hope for was to die quickly with some vestige of dignity.

Livardi was a stocky man with dark, curly hair. He had olive skin and brilliantly white, even teeth. He was a striking, rather than handsome man who radiated power and energy. His hands were his most remarkable feature. They were strong and twice as large as they should be. Years ago Trevor heard that Livardi had strangled a man with one hand. At the time, he thought it an absurd story, but now looking at the billionaire's hands his blood ran cold.

'Sit up straight,' Livardi barked as though Trevor was an errant schoolboy. Trevor tried to steady his voice to protest at his abduction, but he had scarcely opened his mouth when Livardi cut him off.

'I won't waste time with you,' he said in beautifully modulated English. 'You caused my takeover bid to fail.'

'I was only doing my job,' Trevor protested weakly.

'You're a fool! Did you seriously think you could harm me and escape punishment? I've crushed many men before you who have done much less harm. The only question is how best to hurt you. I gave this some thought. At first, I planned to torture and kill you, but then I asked myself what do you treasure above all else. What could I take from you that would inflict the utmost pain?'

Livardi opened a drawer in his desk and took out a large, buff-colored envelope. He took out a photo and slid it across the desk.

At first, Trevor thought the smiling woman in the photograph was Sandra. A moment later he realized it wasn't: just someone who closely resembled his wife.

'That was the before photo,' Livardi said grimly. 'And now the after.'

The second picture that David Livardi pushed across the desk was horrific beyond description. It was only vaguely recognizable as the same woman. She was dead, her face having been slashed to ribbons.

Trevor dropped the photo with horror. 'What is this? Who is this woman and who did this to her?'

'She was a Bradford housewife. Unfortunately for her she happened to look like your wife. I did most of the work on her and believe me, she was grateful to die.'

'This is monstrous!' Trevor exclaimed. 'You're mad! You tortured and killed a woman because she resembled Sandra. Why?'

'To show you what I'm capable of doing to your wife. My men tell me that they've found two teenagers from different families who look like your son and daughter. They suggested I do the same to them, but I'm a reasonable man. I think you're smart enough to learn the lesson.'

Livardi leaned back in his chair, selected a cigar from his humidor, snipped off the end and waved it in front of a flame until the tobacco ignited. 'You're remarkably lucky,' he smiled complacently. 'Follow my instructions and you and your family will remain unharmed. All I ask is that you die.'

'You're going to kill me?' Trevor whispered.

'Not unless I have to. As far as your family knows, you'll have died from a sudden and unexpected heart attack. You'll leave England forever and never contact your family or friends again. Any person you contact will die painfully.'

Trevor walked over to the bar in Stanley's room and poured himself another large Scotch. He emptied it and swiftly poured another. 'What did you do?' Stanley prompted.

Trevor shrugged. 'What could I do?' Did I have an option? I followed Livardi's plan to the letter.

'The next morning I swallowed a pill he had given me. An hour later at work, I collapsed at my desk with excruciating chest pains. My breath became shallow and sweat drenched my body. Medics were called. I was rushed to hospital where within ten minutes, I was pronounced dead. Forms were signed and Sandra was permitted only a brief glimpse of my body for identification. I was then taken to a private hospital where I recovered, was given a new passport and two days later left the U.K. forever.

'Livardi knew that all I ever wanted was the life I once had. He pays me enough to live comfortably so that he can continue to torment me with news from home. I hate the man but he controls my life.'

'Perhaps he'll die one day and you'll be free.' Stanley offered. He knew it was a faint hope.

'He'll outlast me, I'm sure. The man's as fit as a bull. Even if he doesn't he's told me that he's left instructions to ensure his wishes are followed.'

Trevor stood up unsteadily. 'As I said before, I'm sorry,' he slurred, 'I shouldn't have come here today. It gets so lonely. I had to tell you what happened. You were always my best friend. If I leave now, you might be safe. Goodbye.'

Before Stanley could respond, Trevor had slipped out of the room.

He never saw him again.

Stanley continued his life, sickened by what he had learned, but powerless to help Trevor or Sandra.

It was shortly after his conversation with a ghost that Stanley sensed that he was being watched. A small voice warned him that his own torture and death was just a matter of time.

# Beseiged

An hour after dawn, the first shell hit the city. Slamming into an apartment building at an oblique angle, it sheered away the facade. An old drunk in the street staggered through a choking cloud of masonry dust and stared up. The once private life of each apartment dweller was peeled away. Wallpaper, light fittings, paintings and furniture: small, intimate and precious worlds once shared by a few suddenly became public.

There was widespread death and destruction, but explosions maim or kill in unpredictable ways. A woman lay as though in peaceful sleep beside her screaming baby. A man sprawled unmoving beside his weeping wife in bed. A young man looked uncomprehendingly at where his left hand had been. A shrieking child tried to pluck glass from her face.

A minute later another artillery shell punched a great wound into an apartment block several streets away. The building shook like an exhausted bull receiving a killer thrust from a matador. It slowly toppled into the street. The dull crash muffled the cries of terror within.

It was a clear, bright spring day. The mountains in their great sweep around the city were misted in soft blue. High up on the slopes could be seen the snow white puffs of gunfire.

It was a beautiful day on which to die.

* * *

Dubcek Zoltan dreamed.

He was lying in the shallows on a beach in Samoa. He had never traveled there and never would.

The sun was warm. Gentle waves lapped his body. His skin was taut and his muscles hard. He was 23 again.

Thirty feet away, Birgitta swam through the emerald water toward him. As her feet touched the seabed, she stood up. She looked gorgeous. She wore a small, black bikini. Her bronze skin was beaded with tiny drops of salt water. Her blonde hair was piled high and glistened like a field of ripe corn.

As she drew close, she called his name. Suddenly, she stopped. Her expression turned from tenderness to puzzlement, then revulsion. He looked down. His skin was turning thin, pale and wrinkled. He was growing old while she could never age.

He woke crying, but whether it was for Birgitta or for his youth, he couldn't tell.

Nadia was gently shaking him by the shoulder. 'Wake up, papa,' she whispered urgently.' The war has come to the city.'

* * *

'Why Dubcek?' he demanded. No 10-year old wants to be saddled with a weird name. Just growing up is hard enough.

His mother shrugged. 'It was your father's choice. Why, he never said.'

* * *

'A stupid name,' the tall boy poked him in the chest. The boy's friends laughed in derision. They caught Dubcek as he staggered back, pushing him toward his tormentor.

'A stupid name for a stupid little boy, ' the bully poked him again. 'What are you?' he taunted, thrusting his face forward. 'Tell me what you are!'

Dubcek drew back his right fist and drove it as hard as he could into the boy's face. As the boy reeled back in pain, he threw himself into the fight.

Of course, it didn't work. As soon as the boy recovered from his surprise, he knocked Dubcek to the ground with a single blow and began kicking him. But from that moment, Dubcek was respected as a fighter, no matter what the odds.

It was his history teacher, Jan Milhosevec who told him who Dubcek was. He learned Alexander Dubcek had been the secretary of the Czech communist party who in 1968 rallied his country briefly against their Soviet masters. Dubcek wondered if his father was sending him a message from the grave. Was this the sort of man his father hoped he'd become? A leader willing to risk all for the freedom of his people.

He'd never know. His father who worked as a bricklayer had died when scaffolding he was using collapsed. The only things left were some vague memories and a photograph taken on his parent's wedding day: his father's young, handsome face then full of hope.

It was an impoverished childhood but it toughened Dubcek for his adult years of struggle. Blessed by a retentive mind and an insatiable curiosity, he won a scholarship to study medicine and topped his class each year to graduation. He married a year after accepting a post as a GP in a mountain village. Within two years he was drawn into politics, organizing peasants to demand livable wages from a powerful and avaricious landlord.

Despite death threats, he succeeded in winning justice. Soon his fame spread. Recruited by the charismatic leader of a democratic, nationalist party he worked his way up, taking control of the party after the man's assassination by government agents. Dubcek spent much of his adult life in jail, the authorities often releasing him only to arrest him the following week, when it became clear his voice would never be stilled this side of the grave. Dubcek with his trademark white scarf became a national, then an internationally recognized figure. For a brief, heady season he became Prime Minister. All that changed with the rise of ultra-nationalist right wing groups. This followed the breakup of Tito's Yugoslavia, a short lived empire once described as 'not a country, just a political convenience'.

Dubcek was that rarest of men - a soldier/poet.

In times of peace, he worked as a surgeon at a city hospital. Each night, he'd paint delicate watercolors: untroubled scenes of rural life. He read widely and wrote poetry, several volumes of which he published to critical acclaim.

During times of war, he addressed crowds, mobilized action or took up arms. As the wounded, many of them no older than boys were carried back from the front, he wondered how many enemies he had injured or killed. He felt torn by the realization that he was both a healer and killer.

Nadia loved her father and felt the pain he suffered She knew he was ashamed that, distracted by his work, he had failed to see in time how ill his wife had become. He would never forgive himself for her early, painful death.

Her father was not like most men. As the Prime Minister's daughter, Nadia often acted as hostess to world leaders. Most were small men, puffed up by ambition. Her father was like the Roman general who left his farm to save his nation, then his task completed, returned gratefully to his private life.

Dubcek shook himself awake. 'I must go to the hospital,' he muttered, 'They'll need me.'

'It's too dangerous,' Nadia protested. 'They'll target the building.'

She was right. War no longer respected the old or ill, women or children. Every boundary of decency had been crossed. But, he wondered, was he as a doctor who had sworn never to injure others, yet carried a gun better than the rest?

They'd shell the hospital to demoralize the city. They'd also hope to kill him there Long after his time as a politician, he was both revered and hated.

'I must do what I can.'

'Then, I'm coming with you,' she decided.

When they reached the hospital, Nadia displayed qualities that surprised her father. Hardly had she entered when she invited staff to meet in the canteen. How she succeeded, he couldn't imagine. After all, she was only 18 and not an employee, but key staff, including nurses, doctors, and administrators gathered.

Dubcek watched bemused as his daughter took control. 'Tell me your plans,' she began.

'What plans?' the hospital administrator asked.

Nadia was scathing. 'You have no plans? You're all going to work here until the building's shelled. Can't you see it's a death trap?'

'What can we do?' a doctor shrugged hopelessly. Two of the nurses began to cry. One of them whispered fiercely, 'I don't want to die!'

'Dubcek,' the administrator blustered, 'I know your daughter's trying to help, but I've got a busy hospital to run. Already, the number of casualties is overwhelming. If we've finished here, can we all get back to work?'

'Hear her out,' Dubcek advised.

'There's only one sensible course,' Nadia began. 'We must evacuate the hospital. Tomorrow morning, there mustn't be a single patient left. We can only pray that they don't shell the hospital today.'

'How on earth, can we do that?' the administrator demanded. 'Are you going conjure up another place to take our patients.'

'Not one place,' Nadia responded. 'Many.'

* * *

Some people think the world is divided in two: men and monsters. A comforting theory, but wrong. It's frighteningly easy to turn most sane, decent human beings into brutal savages.

One proven way is to start early. You kidnap a boy of impressionable age. 10 is good. Take him to a remote farm. Subject him to relentless abuse. Within seven days, he'll either collapse and be killed or turned into your creature.

Preferably take two boys. Ideally, brothers. Have one kill the other. That'll set the surviving boy on your course. Praise him for becoming a man.

The technique is equally effective from Greece to Somalia.

This is why, when my friends ask if the 'Black Goblin of the Balkans' was mad or evil, I can only shrug. He was once a man like you or I. But it's also true to say that Captain Dorevich quickly found he had a remarkable talent for inflicting pain.

Imagine the worst atrocities you can, then multiply it by a factor of six. That was the Black Goblin. Such was his hideous fame, that the creak of his boots coming down the corridor drove some prisoners to insanity.

Dorevich was no taller than a 12-year old but broad shouldered. His shock of hair was jet black as were his small, glittering eyes. He always dressed in an immaculately clean quasi-military uniform of black material. He loved the legends that swirled about his name. When he survived several assassination attacks, he thought himself indestructible.

'Why are there no street lights?' Dorevich puzzled. He swept his powerful field glasses across the dim city.

'A power failure?' one of his lieutenants suggested.

'No, there's faint light behind the blinds on some flats. I see torches bobbing in the street. I don't like this. Something's going on that I can't see!'

As darkness fell, each of the torch lights died. Dorevich bit his lip with frustration. 'Tomorrow,' he promised. 'No more games! I want the hospital leveled. Within three days, we'll enter the city. I'll skewer Dubcek's head on a iron spike.'

'Save his daughter for me,' his lieutenant pleaded.

'For us as well,' three other soldiers laughed. One made a vigorously obscene gesture, causing the men to laugh.

'Everyone will have a turn,' Dorevich told them absently. He threw down his glasses. 'Useless! Damn this light!'

* * *

Nadia was persuasive. Within 15 minutes, the hospital administrators agreed with her plan. An hour later, the police began going from flat to flat. Anyone with a spare room was told to accept a hospital patient who would arrive that night.

Most owners readily agreed. An exception was a sour old man who demanded, 'Why should I? In a day or two's time, the enemy will be in the city. They'll kill anyone who is harboring patients. Not me! I'm keeping my head down.'

'No, you won't,' the young policeman snapped. 'Everyone's doing their part. You will too. Agree to take two patients tonight or I'll arrest you now. We can fit in more people if you're in jail.'

Apart from infectious patients who moved to a disused hall, the rest of the hospital patients were sent into private homes. Some hobbled to their new beds, others were carried on stretchers or were pushed in their beds along the cobbled streets.

The operation was carefully planned and executed. It was not a moment too soon. The next morning, Dorevich's troops shelled the hospital now an empty building to rubble

The new arrangements enormously increased the workload on the already stretched doctors and nurses. Operations were carried out on kitchen tables. Tensions grew until they were nearly unbearable. Many privately questioned the sense in trying to keep hospital patients alive when huge numbers of citizens would die with the invasion of the city.

Dubcek knew what he had to do. It filled him with horror. He returned home that night oppressed by terrible thoughts.

As soon as it became clear that the city had fallen, he would go to his study. There, he would unlock a drawer in his desk. He'd remove the revolver that was there and load it. Then it depended on whether it was day or night. If it was night, he would wait until Nadia was sleeping and steal into her room. If was during the day, he'd wait until she was watching television and quietly come up behind her. In both cases, he would then draw back the safety catch, aim the gun at the base of her skull and squeeze the trigger. He'd shoot her from behind, knowing that if he saw her face, his resolve would weaken. She mustn't suspect what was on his mind. Then he would raise the still warm gun to his mouth, the bitter taste of gun-metal mixing with his saliva. He'd press the barrel up to the roof of his mouth and pull the trigger.

Killing Nadia would be unimaginably hard. But there was no way that he'd leave her live to face the Black Goblin. Nor would he grant Dorevich the satisfaction of capturing him alive.

Dubcek dragged his weary body up the stairs to his flat. The day had begun early, he had worked incessantly and it was now late evening. How old and tired he looks, Nadia thought as he entered. He winced as she helped him remove his coat.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes, aching a bit. I'm getting too old for this. Surgery's a young man's game, but there's no one else. Never mind. Some sleep and I'll feel better in the morning.'

He paused and sniffed. 'What a delicious aroma!' he exclaimed.

'I've made a Hunter's Stew: your favorite. Now wash up and we'll eat.'

The table was lit by candles. An expensive bottle of burgundy stood open on the sideboard.

'What's the occasion?' he smiled.

'A little celebration,' Nadia responded.

What's to celebrate, he thought recalling his grim thoughts of a few minutes before. Dubcek wondered if this was to the last happy meal they'd share.

She filled her glass then his.

'A toast to Victory,' she suggested.

'Victory?'

'I have a plan. It may not work, but I believe it will.'

'Tell me.'

'Not now. You're dead on your feet. Have your meal and grab some sleep. I'll wake you in four hours and we'll discuss it. I need you to have a clear head.'

It felt as though he had only been sleeping for minutes, when she gently woke him. He dressed and went into the lounge where he found to his surprise his old friend Luigi Brigande seated, sipping coffee.

'Luigi! What on earth are you doing here at this time?'

Brigande lumbered to his feet and embraced Dubcek.

'Good to see you again,' he boomed. 'I don't know the reason I'm here. Nadia invited me.'

'She shouldn't have got you out of bed,' Dubcek demurred.

'Why? Afraid I'll lose some beauty sleep?' Brigande chuckled. 'I heard the way she saved the hospital patients. You have one smart daughter there.'

Nadia walked in the room. 'Again, thank you for coming Mr.Brigande,' she began.

'Luigi. Always Luigi,' the wealthy quarry owner corrected her.

'Luigi then. I asked you to come here to hear my plan. You can tell if it will work. If it can, then I'll ask you for help.'

She unfolded a large topographical map of the area.

'Earlier this evening as I was preparing dinner, I suddenly thought of the Flavian Tunnel.'

Brigande nodded. He knew that in the mountains, water collected in a river that disappeared underground high on the slopes. Nearly two thousand years ago, a Roman Governor caused Flavius determined to secure a permanent source of water for the city, instructed his engineers to trace the course of the underground river. They found to their delight that the river ran close to the city and that a deep well would allow it to be tapped. Flavius improved access by opening a tunnel beside the river. In the 19th century, the need for the tunnel diminished when a large dam was built. Today, few people remembered the old watercourse.

Using a marker pen, Nadia made a cross high on the mountain range. 'That's where I believe the enemy have sited their guns.'

'Makes sense,' Brigande agreed. 'It's the only large stable shelf that side of the mountain and offers a clear position to fire.'

'Now follow the course of the Flavian Tunnel back from the city to the mountains. It commences a kilometre above and slightly to the east of the emplacement.'

The two men checked and nodded.

'Is there any reason why a small band of people couldn't climb through the tunnel to emerge undetected in the mountains?'

'None,' Brigande considered. 'It's possible there's been a rock fall inside the tunnel, but I doubt it. Those Romans knew how to build arches and supports. It's lasted so well for so long, I'd bet it's still clear.'

'But what's the point?' Dubcek objected. 'Even if this band climbed out the tunnel behind the enemy, they'd be stuck up in the mountains. There's no escape. Dorevitch controls the access roads.'

'They wouldn't be trying to escape,' Nadia said. 'They'd attack the enemy from the rear.'

'With what?' Dubcek shrugged. 'Pistols and rifles? Six untrained men fighting soldiers armed with automatic weapons. They'd be annihilated!'

'I'd need three , not six men,' Nadia said. ' The men wouldn't carry guns. There's no point. If they were spotted, the game would be up.'

'This is madness!' her father groaned in exasperation. 'Three unarmed and untrained men. It's a suicide mission.'

'But the men aren't untrained. They'd be specialists employed by Luigi.'

'But Luigi's a quarryman, not a soldier!'

Nadia explained her plan. There was a moment's silence when she finished. 'Brilliant,' Brigande laughed. 'Risky, but I think it could work.'

'What other choice have we got?' Nadia asked.

* * *

Luigi Brigande was a shrewd leader. While he trusted his men, he wouldn't tell them Nadia's plan. Greed and fear, particularly in wartime were like wedges driven into marble. Even slight pressure might open up a man's character.

He chose two men. The third would be himself. Without revealing the plan, he told the men they might be killed.

'Will you be with us?' one asked.

'Yes.'

'That's good enough for me.'

The other man however balked when he found Nadia would join the party.

'Why take a woman?' he demanded of Brigande.

'Because it's my plan,' Nadia said. 'If you die, I die.'

'I won't be led by a woman,' he sulked.

'Mr.Brigande will lead us,' Nadia began to assure him when the quarry owner broke in angrily.

'You'll bloody well do what you're told,' he told the man. 'The time for backing out has gone. If I have to strangle you here, I will!'

'No need, boss,' the man hurriedly backpedalled. 'I'm in.'

'Apologize to the lady,' Brigande growled.

'I'm sorry,' the man muttered with ill grace.

'Accepted. Now can we start?'

She knew that while it was important that Luigi established control and respect, time was slipping away.

The well lay in a small wood. It's mouth was covered with heavy boards. Removing the boards, the party climbed down using the iron hoops driven into the wall. It took them down to where the river ran sweet and clear beside the path. They switched on their powerful torches. No one needed reminding to keep close and not slip. They were painfully aware of what they carried in their backpacks.

It was nearing evening when the four climbed out of the tunnel in the mountains. Each felt exhausted after a full day of steep climbing, but there was no time to rest. Brigande estimated there was less than an hour before darkness fell. No one could use torches and there would be no moon.

Brigande whispered instructions to his two men who crept away silently into the gloom.

From where Luigi and Nadia stood they could look down into the soldier's camp. The men's voices could be clearly heard and they saw the cooking fires.

'There he is,' Brigande nudged her. A small man dressed in black, walked between his men, laughing and slapping some on the back.

'Cocky little bastard,' Brigande murmured. 'It'll be a pleasure to take him out.'

He opened his backpack and carefully removed the explosives and detonators. With a practiced eye, Luigi selected a large rock under which he packed the explosives. At the same time, the two others were selecting similar fault lines. When he finished, he nodded to Nadia and they climbed quietly up to meet the two others.

'Ready?'

The two men nodded grimly.

'Then,' Brigande turned to Nadia, 'Let's pray we've done our work well.'

At his signal, the three men pressed electronic signals. There was a loud simultaneous explosion. For a moment, it looked as though nothing would happen. Then there was a sharp crack and the ground shook.

'It's coming,' one of the men cried exultantly.

'Come on,' Luigi coaxed. 'Come through.'

The mountain groaned as a large crack suddenly opened. Rocks began to bounce down as the earth shifted, crushing soldiers as they tried to flee. One huge boulder wrenched away the gun emplacement, sending it spinning over the edge.

And then the black Goblin could be seen running as fast as his short legs could carry him. He sprang forward as the crack widened hoping to throw himself to safety, but his failed and with a terrible scream was swept into space with all his men. One moment there had been a soldier's camp. The next was bare mountainside.

'We've done it!' Brigande whooped, grabbing Nadia and lifting her high as he spun her around.

'Oh you beautiful woman!' he laughed, passionately kissing her. 'You wonderful, wonderful girl!'

* * *

The death of the Black Goblin was a turning point in the war. Before the enemy regrouped, a UN backed taskforce finally stepped in. After a week's intensive bombing, the aggressors surrendered and an uneasy truce declared.

Three weeks later, Luigi Brigande and his two helpers were guests at a celebratory dinner held at Dubcek's flat.

'Great food!' Luigi finally threw down his fork. He turned to Dubcek. 'Your daughter's not only a brilliant strategist, but a first-rate cook. What a catch she'll make for some lucky man. I only wish I was 30 years younger!'

'Why Luigi,' Nadia teased. 'I never picked you for a quitter!'

When the laughter subsided, Brigande asked Nadia seriously, 'What are your plans?'

'I don't know,' she confessed. 'Everything seems rather flat. I guess I'll go back to publishing.'

'No,' her father shook his head decisively . 'You'd be wasted there. My time has past. Our country needs the guidance of young, vigorous politicians. Men and women of vision and patience . We must rebuild. You should stand for office.'

'Let's see,' Nadia answered. While her answer sounded non-committal, Luigi Brigande a keen observer of human nature, detected in her eyes a faint gleam of interest.

# Cade

A man gets tired. You can only run so far.

I'm glad they sent Axelrod. It's a compliment. He doesn't come cheaply. Old school. Top of the line.

We've worked together on some hits. The big Swede doesn't drink. Won't drop drugs. Leaves women until after a job. Takes a flexible approach to killing: knife, bullet, hatchet, hammer, wire or bare hands? He's your man.

A careful planner. Fast and ruthless.

Once we on a joint op. There was a family. I capped the husband. He was our target. Trouble was his family was unexpectedly present in the apartment. Witnesses. What to do with the man's wife and 11-month old baby?

I hesitated. Axelrod didn't flinch. The funny thing is he's a family man. A regular churchgoer. I like Axelrod. He'll make it quick and clean. Dignified.

I don't recognize his helper, but I know the type. Full of swagger. Piss and wind. Eager to make stripes. Gain a rep. Read a vicious, brain-dead moron. I think I'll do the world a favor. Scrape this stinking, little heap of dog doo off the pavement. Do what his mother should have done. Strangle the cocky bastard at birth. I don't resent Axelrod taking me out. He deserves the credit. What I can't abide is the thought of some young punk going around for years, boasting how he offed me. It's unseemly. To me. To other professionals.

I'm Cade. Jack Cade. South African by birth. American citizen by choice. Exile in the Bahamas by necessity.

Except that's all ending. My days on the beach are rapidly drawing to a close. I'd give it three days. Tops.

It's comforting to know that when I go, I'll be like Billy the Kid: exiting with both guns blazing. If I hadn't given the mob a heads up as to location, I'd have had an unacceptable end. A whimpering crouch in the corner. The big C: the death sentence my doctor gave me last week.

They call me many things. The silliest term - the one that Bill Hammond of 'The Globe' coined - and made me sputter coffee all over my newspaper was 'the connoisseur of death'! Bill, just lay off the wacky backy!

No, I'm not the Dark Avenger. I'm just a guy who's paid to kill and gives good value for money. Hire me and the job's as good as done.

Except once, just once, I refused a hit. And that was enough.

Hey! I'm not beefing here. I knew when I shook my head, there'd be a price. Trouble was I thought I knew the price. I didn't. I was working under the old rules. I never dreamt the guys would cross the line. Maybe that makes me stupid. I shouldn't have been surprised. Standards are slipping everywhere. Why should crime be any different?

But the fact is the guys crossed the line and that hurt.

Maybe you find this amusing. You think we have no rules. That we're just a bunch of homicidal maniacs. But the rule is simple and used to be unbreakable.

If I offend you and I'm part of the scene, you settle the score strictly between us. Hurt me as much as you like. That's my fault for letting you catch me. Just don't take it out on those near to me. The innocents.

But these guys. Did they really think that I'd throw up my hands in resignation or surrender after what they did?

Honour among thieves? Don't make me laugh. But there's a word. It's the theme of all the 'Godfather' films. Coppola nailed it. Respect.

That's what it's all about. It's what it's always been about.

I'm not Italian, but I understand how the goodfellas think. They're deeply into respect. Disrespect me and while I have breath in my body, I'll make you suffer.

And I always treated the Verduccis with respect. But when they didn't get what they wanted, they treated me like a butt wipe. I'm talking two way streets here.

And the Italians aren't the only race on earth with a proud family tradition. My grandfather for instance was in the same line as myself. He offed poor old Jimmy Hoffa for the Teamsters. When I was a kid, he told me in strictest confidence where he buried Jimmy.

People say he's under the freeway. That the guy who never sat down is rolled over each day by hundreds of cars.

Good story, but it isn't true. Jimmy's bones are resting in a brilliant hiding place. He'll never be found.

* * *

'I'm asking you.'

'I hear you, but the answer's still no.'

'Are we speaking English here? Is there a translation error? I'm ordering you.'

Charlie Verducci is no looker. In a good mood, he looks like a small, grinning frog. Now he looked as thrilled as a toad that's been bitten by a cottonmouth.

'Sorry Charlie, but that's my answer.'

'Are we talking money here?'

'No. The money's fine.'

'Well, what's the problem? Have you got religion?'

I laughed.

'Do you know the mark?' he persisted.

I glanced down at the photo on Frankie's desk. A middle aged man smiled unknowingly into the camera. He looked vaguely familiar. A politician? Judge? Cop? Or none of the above.'

'Never seen him before.'

'But you're telling me "no"?' he asked incredulously. Frankie was clearly struggling with the concept of refusal. I guess he hadn't heard the word for a long time. Maybe never.

'There's always the Swede,' I offered.

'I'm going to bring a guy from Europe because one of mine won't take the job?' he asked scornfully.

'Well, then.' I made to move.

'Sit down,' he ordered. 'I'm not getting any of this. You're my man.'

'I've never been your man. I'm not made.'

'Made. Schmade. Forget all the Goodfellas bullshit. You're my man. I pay you a retainer. Last time I looked, it seemed a good sum.'

'I'm a freelancer.'

'Like hell you are!' Frankie snarled. 'You're as much a part of me as my eyes, my arms or my hands.'

Don't forget your willy,' I suggested in an ill-judged attempt to lighten the mood.

A dangerous silence followed. 'Are you trying to be a clown?' Verducci finally inquired in a very soft voice.

'No Frankie. I apologize. I misspoke.'

'Yeah, because if I thought you were becoming a smart ass, I'd feel very angry. A righteous anger. Wise guys don't last long. They have an unhealthy habit of dying with a smile on their lips.'

'I'm sorry,' I repeated. I really was.

'What I was trying to explain,' he continued with exaggerated patience as though reasoning with a dim 12-year old, 'is that you're like part of my body. If I tell my hand to make a fist, I don't expect it to tell me that it can't be bothered or it would rather pick my toes.'

'I'm not your body. I'm a separate being,' I protested weakly. 'I make my own decisions.'

'You're a killer. You're my man. And unless you can come up with a reasonable explanation for your conduct in the next three minutes, I'll tell my boys to finish you here.'

'Call them,' I challenged. 'I won't leave the building, but I'll take out you and half your goons.'

Frankie stared at me, nonplussed.

'Are you going to grace me with a reason?' he asked at length.

'I'm tired, Frankie. That's all. I just want out.'

'But I want you in,' he insisted. 'This job is yours. There's no one better suited. Even the Swede.'

'Let me retire,' I pleaded. 'I'm sick of it all. Let me walk away.'

Frankie stood up. He walked across the room and glared unseeing at the floodlit building site below.

'We've always done right by you,' he whined.

'I've no complaints.'

'Don't let me start thinking you're offering to someone else,' he warned. 'You're Jersey Boys through and through.'

'I'm not offering.'

'Because that would make me very, very angry.'

'I don't want you to be angry, Frankie,' I said placatingly. 'I just want to walk away. Our conversation was starting to bore me. It sounded like an endless loop.

'No one walks away, 'Frankie responded coldly. He didn't look at me. 'Now get out.'

* * *

She was standing on her usual patch. Wearing a thin blouse, tight leather skirt and tall boots. Everything about her signalled 'Cheap Whore'. She was stationed beside the grimy stairway to the 'Excelsior Hotel': a rent-by-the-hour knock shop on East.

Cheyenne was at work. Negotiating with a fat guy in a food-stained, crumpled suit. He was shaking his head. Whatever she was charging was too much for this tightwad.

They haggled listlessly for a while. Then he shook his head and began walking away. She called out a revised sum: her final offer. A moment's hesitation and he turned back.

I locked the car and crossed the street. As soon as she saw me, Cheyenne frowned. The man had his back to me.

'Beat it,' I told him.

The guy turned to face me. 'I was here first,' he said angrily. 'Find another or wait your turn.'

'Three seconds,' I told him. 'Then Ill wipe you off the pavement.'

The man opened his mouth to protest. Then he registered the look in my eyes. His own eyes broke contact and he backed away. As he retreated, he gained some courage and began taunting me from a safe distance. I ignored his comments.

'Why do you keep pushing your way into my life?' Cheyenne demanded.

''Get in the car, ' I said unlocking the passenger door.

'Piss off!' she snarled.

'I want to talk to you. Please.'

'Say what you want out here.'

'I'm going away.'

'Good.'

'It might be forever.'

'Even better.'

'I wanted to say goodbye.'

'So, you've said it. Boo hoo! Now go!'

My son looked down the street, hoping the fat man was still hanging around. He'd gone. Cheyenne sighed.

'I'll pay you what you lost,' I offered.

'Big deal! You should.'

I unrolled several bills. I knew it was far more than tightwad's fee, but she tucked into her bra as though it was her due.

'So, see you around,' she dismissed me.

'Probably not. I wish there was something I could say.'

'We ran out of words a long time back.'

I tried again. 'Look, I accept you want to live as a woman.'

'Well, that's a turnaround in your thinking.'

'I know,' I admitted miserably. 'I hated the idea at first. But when I saw what you went through to change sex, I had to respect your commitment. I don't understand it, but it's your body.'

'Is there a point to all this?' Cheyenne demanded.

'Look, couldn't we discuss this in the car? It'll be much easier to say than out on the street.'

'What's the matter, old man?' she sneered. 'Worried a passerby will take you for another john?'

'Becoming a woman is one thing,' I persisted 'but whoring to pay for your drug habit is a knife in my heart.'

'It's my body,' Cheyenne said stubbornly. 'How I use it is up to me.'

'I'll bet half these creeps don't use a rubber,' I said in angry despair.

'They pay much more without it,' she admitted. 'I'm going to die soon anyway. If it's not drugs, it'll be AIDS. I may as well get as much out of life as I can.'

It was useless arguing. It always had been. I smashed my fist down onto the roof of the car, not registering the pain. 'It doesn't have to go down like this,' I cried. 'Are you killing yourself to punish me? That's plain dumb. I know I've done some bad things. I'm not proud of them. I'm walking away today. I've called it quits.'

'Yeah, so you can live off all the shitty money you made from killing people!'

'What happened between your mother and myself wasn't all my fault,' I defended myself. 'She was dosing herself long before we met. Sure, it got worse when she found out what I did for a living. Until then, she really thought I was someone to respect. That we had a future. But the truth is, she was always a train wreck.'

'There you go,' Cheyenne said with exasperation. 'Badmouthing her again. Just go away. You make me sick!'

So I left. They were the last words we spoke.

Two hours later, Peter Harvey called. He works the blotter at the Precinct.

'Cade, bad news. Thought you should here it from me. It's your son. Daughter. Whatever.'

'Cheyenne,' I corrected him. Dread building.

'Sure. Anyway, your kid overdosed. Fatal.'

'Overdose?'

'That's what we're saying to square it away. Looks more like a hot shot.'

'Percentage?' I was finding it hard to speak.

'93 per cent pure.'

'Hotshot,' I decided without hesitation. You can say a lot about dealers. One thing they know however is how much they cut their stuff. The amount of junk they add is, after all, profit.

'Yeah,' Harvey agreed, 'but no one can prove that. Rings is her usual dealer. He'll say she got it from someone else.'

'Thanks for the heads up.' I replaced the phone.

* * *

30 minutes later, I had a knife pricking the skin on Ring's throat.

'Talk,' I told him.

The dealer was a coward. 'Jimmy Dugan,' he whimpered 'Gave me the bag. Told me to give it as a present to Cheyenne. Word is he's doing a favour for the Verduccis. Apparently, you pissed them off.'

I eased off on the knife. 'You'll let me go,' he gasped.

'No.' I said and cut his throat.

* * *

Driving back to my apartment, I pulled aside to let the fire trucks roar past. My place was ash by the time I arrived. I kept driving.

At my lockup, I selected a passport, one that Frankie didn't know of and my secret stash of money. I could make the airport in an hour. Be on the next international flight and drop out of sight.

That made sense. You can't beat the Mob. It's a hydra-headed monster. Slice one head off and each drop of blood is a seed for more.

Running was my best option. It wasn't what I chose.

* * *

Dugan felt content.

This was the best part of a pleasant day. A time to consider his good fortune. To think about material success. His 18-room mansion. His garage of rare automobiles. The art collection that included irreplaceable works by Warhol, Mondrian and Pollock. To take a leisurely stroll around part of the prime 200 acre estate as evening fell.

Dugan was a fixer: a man who swam unerringly through the treacherous waters of big business, politics and organized crime.

When Frankie Verducci asked him to give a packet of almost pure shit to Rings as a present for Cheyenne, then firebomb Cade's pad, he didn't give the requests a second thought. Cade was a hard man, but he'd fallen out with his employers. Why wasn't Dugan's concern. The Verduccis had brought him millions. He was pleased to do them a favor. It was nothing more than a footnote on the agenda of a busy day. Cade was a smart guy. He'd have hightailed it out of the States hours ago.

Tasks accomplished. Life moves on.

Smoking a large cigar, Dugan ambled out of his house. Passing through his yard, he noted with approval the thick coat of wax his chauffeur was applying to the already gleaming late model Rolls Royce. He nodded pleasantly to the man's greeting. People, including staff, liked Dugan.

He swung open the gate and entered the home paddock. The field had been freshly ploughed. Rich brown earth turned into clods in long, straight rows dried under the setting sun.

Dugan passed the large shed where he garaged his five John Deere tractors. So much machinery was excessive. The estate was too small to be a viable farm, but he enjoyed playing the role of a country squire.

Dugan carefully picked his way through the paddock, trying to minimize the amount of dirt coating his hand-tooled, Italian soft leather boots. He decided to amble over to where his artificial lake ringed by willow trees could be glimpsed. He had the lake restocked last season and was looking forward to catching some trout. Perhaps tomorrow, he'd bring down a rod. He deserved a break.

When he was young, making money was the only thing that excited him. Today, a wealthy man, he found the daily demands of business a strain. Maybe it's time to retire, he thought. At 53, I'm still young and active enough to relish another life. Who was it that warned, there are no second acts in American life?

Inside the shed, the sound of a large tractor engine unexpectedly kicked into life. As Dugan spun around, there was a loud crash and scream of rending metal. Then to his astonishment, Dugan saw the steel double doors of his shed being wrenched off their hinges by his largest tractor, scoop down, its headlights blazing.

He stood frozen for a moment, then turned and ran. Stumbling across the ploughed field: a plump, short man in slippery boots.

The tractor caught up in less than a minute. It sideswiped him, carelessly flinging him aside like a broken doll. Then it braked and reversed. Dugan tried to stand as it bore down on him. He shrieked and disappeared beneath the wheels.

It rolled back, braked and lowering the scoop, lifted a large load of dirt. It moved forward and dropped the load over the bloody mess that had been Dugan. It backed up and reversed, dropping two further loads.

Pity they'll dig him up, I thought, climbing out of the tractor cab and moving toward the fence. At least he'd be some use to others as a fertilizer.

Franco Verducci deserved to die. More than Rings or Dugan, but how could I get near him?

I stood outside his headquarters. The place was like a fort. If I entered the lobby, I'd be cut down long before I reached the lifts. The building stood next to a site that the Verduccis also owned. A derelict hotel was being torn down, before the dozers moved in and building could begin. Looking up, I saw the solution.

When I was a teenager, I spent a summer working on a construction site in Pittsburgh. I learnt a lot. How the guys on the ground communicate by gesture or whistle to the man in the cab. How to operate big machinery, including dozers, cranes or wreckers. I'm a quick learner and have a natural affinity for machines. Come in as a virgin and within minutes, I can operate anything from a boat to a tank.

I put the foreman out of action and borrowed his Dayglo jacket and hard hat. Then I gestured for the cab driver to come down. You could give instructions by a walkie talkie, but the old way of using your eyes is still the best.

The driver was heavy set, bald, tattooed and belligerent. 'What do you want?' he demanded. 'Where's Tom?'

His attitude grated, but it wasn't enough to earn a bullet. A savage blow and he was down for as long as I'd need. I dragged him over to where Tom was lying behind a pile of rubble. In case, they woke up and began to squawk, I taped their mouths, hands and feet with the old trusty gaffer tape. I was lucky there were so few men on site.

Then going to the crane, I began to climb.

* * *

For the first time in memory, Frankie Verducci felt the tightening noose of fear.

'Am I surrounded by effing incompetents?' he snarled. 'Instead of your dumb mugs, I should be eyeing the severed head of Jack Cade.'

The 11 men around the board table - each a leader in Verducci's sprawling empire - shifted uneasily.

'We're doing our best, boss,' one offered defensively.

'Then try a bloody sight much harder!'

Frankie tried a fresh approach. 'It's clear to me that you guys need some incentive. Here's my 24-hour offer. After that, it'll be off the table.

'Bring me Cade, dead or alive and I give the winner a million bucks.'

The men smiled greedily. All were wealthy, but each wanted more.

'That's great, Mr. Verducci,' one enthused. 'Just wait here till its over.'

'Yeah,' another nodded. 'This is one place you're safe.'

As he spoke, the man saw Frankie's expression twist into surprise, then terror.

The plate glass that ran from floor to ceiling exploded, sending a storm of glass into the room. Several men were blinded, but before anyone could react a giant wrecking ball drove up the table, crushing the men. It stopped at the top of the table where Frankie Verducci had been sitting, crushing him into the wall.

I walked past the construction workers who running to the scene. The men were swearing in amazement, pointing at the wrecking ball that now hung limply, dripping blood.

* * *

Each morning, I dived.

Before breakfast, I'd walk through my garden, vivid with tropical flowers and heady with scent. I had a private beach. Pass the tall coconut palms and you'd find yourself where bone -white sand met a gentle sea. A short swim and the seabed fell away abruptly. I'd follow the bed down to where the brilliantly colored fish darted among the coral. I took my spear gun, but only as protection. There was plenty of death already in this small, seemingly peaceful world. I wasn't going to add to it. I thought of many things. The pain of Cheyenne's death was a constant, but I accepted she was destined to die young. Life is strange. I had escaped the mob, but there was a smarter and more implacable enemy that I couldn't shake. My health.

Of course, I'd have fought to live longer, but generally I accepted fate. I enjoyed my new life, but never thought it would be permanent. I regretted only one thing. I had recently met a woman: a visitor to the islands. I would have liked to find if our wildly passionate one-night stand might have developed into something longer lasting. We had a date that night, but I wouldn't make it. The lady's name was Jenny Silk. She'd have been shocked to learn I was a retired killer, but there was no way I would have ever told her that.

Now Axelrod and the work experience punk would close me down.

When I broke the surface, I saw them walking down the beach. Both were wearing garish shirts hanging over their jeans, concealing the guns tucked into the waistband.

In Axelrod's case, it would be a Walther PPK: 'Bond's weapon of choice,' he used to joke. It was a scene that Ian Fleming would have cherished.

How close could I get? Near enough I hoped to put a spear into the punk's throat. A forlorn hope, but worth a try. My last kill.

Holding my spear gun down close to my body, I swam toward the men.

Showtime!

# Flame

Bill Hammond is a great journalist.

He'll hook you with his first sentence. He never lets you off the line. His column is syndicated internationally and is read by millions. Years ago, the paper offered him a plush office in the corner of the fifth floor, next to the Editor. Least they could do, but Bill declined. He preferred an old desk out in the reporter's pool. 'The boys and girls inspire me,' he told once me. 'I get the lowdown on stuff that I'd never hear if I was sitting behind a door.' That's the sort of guy Bill is. Rich. Famous. But also a no frills journo of the old school.

The Zippo case was basically a local story, but Bill being who he is gave her a world stage. And once he started, he wouldn't let go. One of the themes he returned to day after day was that someone must know who this woman was. We knew she was young, white, well educated and lived somewhere in the city. We knew she signed off under the name, 'Fiamma' Big deal! All of this was what she let us know. After that, zip - or should I say Zippo?

The funny part of the story is that Bill who berated the rest of us for not picking up the clues leading to Little Miss Zippo was blind. If he had turned and looked 20 feet across the room to his left, he'd see her.

Bill wasn't the same man after the truth came out. He quit soon after to write his memoirs. 'Time to retire,' he told everyone. 'I need to smell the coffee.' Yeah, right! He'd prefer the aroma of coffee to printer's ink? I don't think so! He confessed to me one quiet evening, 'I knew then that I'd lost it. My instinct totally let me down. I saw myself almost like her Dad. Fought her corner. Often talked to her about the case. And not once. Not even for a second did I suspect. She made me feel not only a fool, but left me wondering if my whole career hasn't been a fraud.'

'She fooled me too,' I pointed out. 'I'm not proud of that.'

'Yes, she was a work of art. A lesson learned. Trouble is, I ran out of time to put the lesson into action. It was better to go. But gee, I miss the column like mad.'

Janet Breslin was a brilliant young writer. A reporter with an uncanny nose for news. At the Editor's insistence and with Bill's full support, Janet concentrated on the Zippo story. She was on the scene almost as soon as the police, ambulance and fire brigade. She described every scene in vivid detail. She wrote powerful accounts of interviews with the victims. Everyone wondered how she always had the skinny. We assumed, wrongly that she had an inside source. Some deep throat, maybe in the Bureau. For a while as chief investigator, I was suspected. It's true that Janet and I lunched from time to time, but whatever she knew, it wasn't from me.

Nor is it true that we were having an affair.

I'm a married man with two adorable kids. I don't play around. If I did, Janet might well have been my type, but it didn't happen. Thank the Lord I didn't get involved! That would have tickled her warped sense of humor. I have no idea what she thought of me. I doubt men were all that important.

My name's Dolson. Charles Dolson. Never Charlie. I'm a FBI agent. I'm also black. Is that a problem? It isn't for me. Nor for my partner, Chalmers, who everyone thinks, incorrectly is a racist.

To tell the truth, Chalmers is good for me.

Sometimes, I take myself too seriously. When I do, he drags me back to earth. The other day, for instance we were in Charlie Faine's Bar, sucking longnecks.

'You know,' he said with such sincerity that I knew I was being set up for a sucker punch, 'You're not only a good partner, but a great teacher. I've learnt so much from you.'

'You have a lot to learn,' I countered feebly.

'Watching you is an education,' he sailed on.

'Give me a for instance,' I dropped my guard.

'Well, I used to think that all black men could sing like Sammy Davis and dance the pants off Fred Astaire. But you sing like a strangled cow and dance like a cow with the staggers.'

And it's true. My grandfather had a rich bass like Paul Robeson, my father was a passable tenor but I can't carry the simplest tune. My family's even banned from singing in the shower!

That doesn't stop me from loving all sorts of music from B.B.King to Grand Opera. So it was good news when I learnt that the old Giuseppe Verdi Theatre on Lower East.that had lain derelict for decades was to be refurbished at a cost of around $30 million.

Now everyone in this city agrees that Wilson Aimes, the real estate developer is a sleazoid, but give the devil his due. By stumping up the cash to save and restore the theater, he gave us an irreplaceable gift. It was thrilling to think that after so many years of lying silent, the theater would once more ring to the glorious strains of music by Verdi, Puccini or Berlioz.

The command performance to mark the opening was Verdi's 'Tosca' with three big names from 'La Scala' in the lead roles.

Everyone who was anybody was to be there. My invitation must have been lost in the mail.

Actually, I've met the Mayor who was one of the V.I.P. guests on three occasions. Each time, I've liked him less. I hate that phoney 'yo brother' act. The guy's a machine politician, no matter what skin he bears.

Strange to relate, but it was opera that made me decide to join the FBI.

Opera and crime. Think they're two different worlds? You'd be wrong.

Let me tell you a story. My father heard it from his father. Both thought it was interesting. Nothing more. But it riled me.

Early last century, Enrico Caruso, the world's greatest tenor was singing at The Met in New York. He was approached by members of the Black Hand Gang who demanded money. Caruso paid but it happened again. He worked with the police to set up a sting in which two Italo American businessmen were arrested. After that, he was left alone.

Years later, Mario Lanza was in Southern Italy, when he was asked to sing at Mr. Lucky's birthday party.

He refused. He thought he was too big to push around.

Shortly after, he died in mysterious circumstances in a private hospital.

When I heard that story as a kid, it filled me with rage. I hated men who thought they could make the world cringe at their command. I decided that when I grew up, I'd dedicate my life to making America a safer and fairer place.

Chalmers tells me that's idealistic crap. He claims he's in the job for the money. Nothing more. But that's a lie. Nothing pays so well that you'll put yourself in the line of fire.

So everyone who was anyone was going to the command performance. Then Little Miss Zippo told us she'd be there. And that news just spoiled the party.

* * *

Dave Breslin unfolded the floor map of the school and studied it

'A kid, you say?'

'11 year old boy,' his deputy, Steve Marwyck nodded. 'Loner. Often bullied, but last week it got worse. One of the kids promised to bash him up every day after school. Boy went into meltdown. Came back today when class was in. Blocked all the exits. Lit a fire. Used an accelerant. Got the recipe off the Internet.'

'Source of the blaze?'

'Gym. Next door to the classroom.'

Hank Schwartz thrust open the door to the command van.

'Situational report?'

'An inferno. Witch's brew of chemicals. Doubt we can get in even using the suits. No way we'd get them out.'

'How many?'

'Headmaster says, a teacher and 25 kids.'

'Gees,' Schwartz breathed. 'They're goners.'

'No', Breslin decided 'I'm going in.'

'I'll cover your back,' Marwyck promised.

Three children died that day. One panicked and fled into the fire. Two others died in hospital from complications. If Breslin hadn't fought his way in and led them out, all would have perished.

'This is an age of small men,' the Mayor said at the tribute dinner,' Small men and mean motives. Men like Dave Breslin remind us that we're Americans. A race that walks tall. Dave lives in our community. He's one of us. But he's also a hero. An example of what can be. What we should all strive to become.'

It was after this, that Bill Hammond then a young columnist dubbed the Fire Chief, 'Captain Indestructible'.

'Bloody stupid title,' Breslin grumbled, 'Makes me sound like Spider Man. Only need a cape and mask.'

But Breslin hated the title for another, deeper reason. When you dice with death, you don't tempt fate. But that's the thing with nicknames. Get one and you never shake it off.

Just as well that Breslin died of prostate cancer years before he found his daughter was an arsonist. The knowledge would have broken his heart. He loved his daughter. Was proud of her success.

* * *

'I knew the moment I saw you,' Dimitri said quietly.

'What's that?' Janet murmured.

They woke early that morning. Climbing aboard his scarlet Ducatti, they roared through the darkened empty streets of the town. As the red sun climbed wearily into the sky, they rode up into the mountains. As they ascended the winding highway, she glimpsed the sea sparkling below. Already the heat was settling in. The land was tinder dry.

They parked in a lay-by and walked to where the cliff fell away abruptly. The only sound was the dull roar of the ocean, the ticking of the bike's hot engine and the far away shriek of seagulls. Hundreds of feet below waves dashed themselves against smooth black rocks.

She had met Dimitri, a Russian philosophy major in an Athens Internet café a week before. They made love that night. She was 18 and he was 23. He suggested they visit some of the outer islands.

Janet's life was in a holding pattern. She had taken six months off from her journalism course and bought an air ticket to Europe. She had drifted through five countries before arriving in Greece. She enjoyed Dimitri's company and though she was indifferent to love making, accepted it as the price of his company. Before long, she would move on.

'That quality in you,' he continued. 'I have it too.'

She hid a yawn. She doubted they really shared much in common.

'A talent for evil.'

'Oh, boy!' Janet giggled.

'No,' he persisted. 'It's there. The question is do you fight it or let it guide your life.'

'Sounds ominous,' she smiled. The conversation was becoming absurd.

'You think I'm joking. Last night you said you wanted to become a reporter. How seriously do you want that?'

'Very.'

'Do you want to become famous? A journalist who others envy?'

'More than anything.'

'Then what you need is a good story. Something outstanding that you can send to a newspaper. An article that instantly sets you apart from hundreds of also rans. A story so good that when he or she sees it, the Editor will be panting to print it. But you'll say you don't want to be paid.'

'Why not?'

'You'll tell the newspaper that all you ask is the chance to write for them under your own by-line. That you're willing to work for four months without pay. If you fail, you'll walk away and they won't have lost a cent. If they still like your work, you want to be paid above award wages.'

Janet looked at him with surprise. 'You've really thought this out.'

'But you need a great news story.'

'Exactly,' she shrugged. 'And where will I get that? Especially out here.'

'You make the news. Create a disaster. And there you are on the spot reporting it.'

'What disaster?'

Dimitri lit a cigarette. 'Have you noticed how dry it is? They'll be a fierce wind sweeping in today.'

Janet laughed with sudden realization. 'That story will get me into the paper. But what happens after that? How do I maintain the momentum?'

'You keep making the news. What you Americans call being pro-active.'

'You really are an wicked bastard,' she exclaimed delightedly and kissed him.

What a stupid man, she thought minutes later. She climbed onto his bike and turning the ignition key, kicked the motor into life. Dimitri knew she was bad, but he couldn't help showing off. It would have been mad to let him live.

The cigarette still glowed when it had fallen by the cliff edge. The waves tugged at the body lying spread-eagled on the rocks below.

...

Tragic, the policeman thought taking the details down from the tear stained, distraught young woman. Tourists! Do they forget their brains when they pack their bags?

'There were clear signs in English, warning you not to go close to the edge,' he pointed out sternly.

'I know,' Janet wept. 'I don't know why he did.'

'Probably showing off,' the policeman sniffed unsympathetically. 'You must stay here until we conclude the autopsy.'

'I've no plans.'

* * *

Eva Harbig , the Globe's Editor dropped a sheaf of papers onto Bill Hammond's desk.

'What's this?' Hammond looked up suspiciously.

'An article on fires in Greece.'

'Athens?'

'No, one of the smaller islands.'

'Doesn't sound promising. Written by?'

'Tell you later. I'd value your opinion.'

20 minutes later, Hammond came into Eva's office and slumped into a chair. He was holding the article.

'What do you think?'

'Brilliant. The writer is clearly young. Has a few tricks to learn, but overall it's impressive. Tightly written and informative. Doesn't pull any punches.'

'She clearly hates firebugs.'

'Ah,' Hammond nodded, ' "She". I thought so. Great potential. What's she charge?'

'Nothing. Just wants us to take her on trial.'

'Snap her up,' Hammond advised.

'It's Janet Breslin. Cap's daughter.'

'Damn! Girl could get a job here just by asking. This town thinks the world of Cap.'

'I like the way she didn't try to come in on her Dad's coattails,' Eva admitted. 'She's willing to work freely for four months.'

'Sounds good.'

'Good? Are you crazy? Can you imagine what the Board would say if they learned I had agreed to that? Exploit Cap's daughter? They'd crucify me.'

'Well, how will you handle it?'

'I'll put her on a freelance basis. The more she publishes, the better she'll do.'

'That's how I started. Sounds fair. Kid's got talent.'

'There's a great backstory as well. She tells me she was on the island with a boy. Seems he was stupid enough to fall off a cliff. She was devastated as you can imagine, but when the fires started the day after the accident, she went out to get the story.'

'Tough cookie. Thinks like a journo.'

'And what a story she brought back! Devastating fires. Hundreds of acres burnt out. Whole villages destroyed. Scores of people lost. If the islanders ever catch that firebug, they'll gut him.'

'Great piece for my column. Thanks for the heads up.'

'Anyway Bill, when she starts here, would you show her around. Take her under your wing. Give her some contacts. Pass on some tips.'

'Pleased to. Just hope she's not a one shot wonder.'

* * *

'You're not a fan of Janet?' Heather Stewart needled.

'Fan!' Jacquie Morrison snorted. 'I can't stand the little cow! Think she's Brenda Starr.'

The two reporters stared gloomily into their drinks. It was after hours and they were hanging out at 'Alfie's'.

'She's certainly got Bill Hammond twisted around her little finger. Think he's got the hots for her?'

'Probably,' Jacquie smiled bitterly. 'No fool like an old fool.'

'Do you think?' Heather ventured.

'No way, she's too smart for that. She'll tease, but she won't follow through. Doesn't need to.'

'Talk about lucky! What a career she's had!'

'Wouldn't it drive you mad? Hardly starts working here when little Miss Zippo begins. Stories that are right up Janet's alley.'

'Everyone makes such a thing about the way Janet didn't come in on Cap's coattails,' Heather commented sourly. 'But don't tell me that she'd be getting all those great leads and exclusives if she was like us.'

'And now the sick cow who's lighting all the fires is giving Janet clues to her identity. Stuff that the police don't know.'

'They make a great couple, don't they? The publicity-hungry firebug and the ambitious reporter. A marriage made in heaven - or hell.'

* * *

'Even as I speak,' the Mayor rumbled in his weekly televised address, 'the noose is tightening. Time is running out for this crazy arsonist. Miss Zippo wants to cower our city, but she's the one who should feel afraid. Tonight, perhaps tomorrow, but very soon, there'll come the knock on the door that she fears. She'll know then that her reign of terror is over. That Americans are a proud race. That we won't be driven to our knees by threats or a series of callous, wicked acts. That we'll fight back both as individuals and as a nation. And we shall prevail.'

The mayor's speech ran on in this bombastic vein for 15 minutes. The response came in two devastating lines. An untraceable email sent to Janet Breslin's computer at 'The Globe'.

'I'll firebomb the Teatro Verdi tomorrow,' the message promised. 'Be there so you don't miss a second of the performance.'

'We can't be sure the email is from her,' Eva fretted. 'It might be a hoax.'

'Or a copycat firebug,' Duke Matson , the newspaper's publisher supplied.

'What a basket of snakes!' Eva breathed. 'The question I have as editor is whether I let Janet run with her story. The Mayor's pleaded with me to put a lid on it. He doesn't want to panic the people.'

'It's easy for him, ' Matson said. 'He's not running a paper. Is he going to the opera tomorrow?'

'Mayor's office won't confirm,' the news editor put in.

'I'll take that as a "no". ' Eva commented shrewdly. 'So the bomb squad's been in the theater for hours. Found anything?'

'Not a scrap.'

'Which means one of three things,' Eva mused. 'There never was a fire bomb. Or the bomb is yet to be planted. Or worst case scenario, it's there but so cleverly hidden, that no one can find it.'

'There'll be a lot of ticket holders unwilling to take the risk,' the news editor pointed out soberly. 'The organizers should cancel.'

'Yeah great,' Matson responded. 'Except the theater will need to pay out all the headline performers for breach of contract. Those La Scala stars will take them to the cleaners. And it shows that whatever the Mayor says, it's really Miss Zippo who calls the shots in this city.'

'That's true, but we have a much more pressing problem,' Eva said impatiently. 'How long till press time.'

The machinery foreman spoke for the first time. 'Thirty minutes. Or we need to tear down the front page.'

'And Janet's written her story?'

The news editor nodded. 'It's on your terminal for a tick off. Story's a ripper.'

'I'd expect nothing less. Janet's is a great newshound,' Eva agreed. 'O.K, someone's got to make some decisions here and it's my neck on the line. We run.'

'The mayor will hate us,' Matson pointed out. 'And he's a powerful and vindictive enemy.'

'Tough! What would our readers think if something happened and they found out we didn't warn them? Our credibility would be flushed straight down the can.'

'What a job,' Matson exclaimed. 'Got to admire you Eva. You have two seriously big cojones. As for me, the only thing I'm growing is ulcers on my ulcers.'

The bomb was never found. The opera proceeded but played to a largely empty house. The disastrous evening pushed the theater toward financial ruin and Miss Zippo won the day by a simple threat.

* * *

'I'm sorry it's come to this,' Cap whispered.

He was dying. They both knew it. Yet his mind remained vigorous.

Cap raised himself painfully on his right elbow and looked deep into his daughter's troubled eyes.

'Tell me about Miss Zippo,' he invited her.

'What can I say?' Janet countered warily.

'You seem to know her better than anyone else.'

'Yes, she seems to like me even though I hate her. She tells me things that she hides from the rest of the world.'

'She talks to you?' Cap asked incredulously.

'Sometimes. In tightly controlled situations. I'd turn her in if I could, but she's too clever for that.'

'So, what's she look like?'

'I can't describe her. She usually speaks from the shadows.'

'But you must have gained a strong impression of her mental state,' Cap persisted, impatience creeping into his voice. 'What sort of whacko is she?'

'I don't think she's mad.'

'Of course, she's crazy! She's a callous, thrill seeking killer.'

'She's certainly that. But she's not a lunatic.'

'Then what is she?'

'I sense an unhappy woman. She's intelligent, resourceful, adores an audience and is highly ambitious. She admires a strong person in her background and wants to feel equal to him.'

'I don't hold with all that psychological crap as you well know!' Cap snapped. 'I'm just grateful that my daughter is well balanced. Someone I can feel proud of.'

'Yes,' Janet said sadly. 'Another thing. Miss Zippo tells me she wants to be stopped.'

'What a nut case!' Cap said dismissively. 'She has a death wish?'

'Not exactly. She knows she's let her dark side take control. It's growing more reckless each day. The crazier the stunt, the more media attention she receives. The good part of her wants to kill the fiend, but it's become too weak to fight. Others will have to kill that invader.'

'You sound as if you admire her,' Cap said contemptuously. He was fading fast, but there was still spit and vinegar in the man.

'Do I?' Janet shrugged. 'It doesn't matter what I think. Her time is drawing to an end. When it comes, her identity will shock many.'

'She's told you this?' His voice had dropped to a whisper.

'Yes.'

'Well, hurry sunset!' he spat venomously. 'The sooner someone takes out this monster, the better.

'Kiss me goodnight, darling,' he added. 'I'm suddenly feeling very tired.'

'Goodnight, Daddy. I'll always love you,' Janet said, her voice choking.

Cap didn't hear her. His mind was slipping away. Nor did he feel her kiss or the tears that fell on his face.

* * *

Cap's funeral was one of the largest the city had held.

The fire chief's courage, dedication and what many mistakenly took as disarming modesty touched the hearts of many. Huge numbers crowded the pavements to watch the slow, dignified procession as Cap was carried through the streets to the cemetery.

Flanked by an honor guard of firemen and policemen, Cap's memory was dignified by the presence of the Vice President, State Governor, Mayor and other public officials.

As the casket was carried past the Town Hall, Janet Breslin was seen on national television, weeping. She opened her handbag as though searching for a handkerchief. As she did, she pressed the on button on her mobile.

With a roar, Cap's casket erupted in a ball of flame.

Chaos followed. The casket crashed to the ground as the pall bearers screaming in pain, frantically tied to beat out their burning clothes. People panicked, trampling each other as they fled the scene.

'What a disgusting and terrible travesty,' Bill Hammond railed in his column the next day. 'Just when we thought Little Miss Zippo couldn't do anything more appalling, she's shocked us with a fresh outrage.

'In the sight of Cap's brave daughter, this loathsome creature struck cruelly at the very memory of one of our city's finest heroes.

'We can only feel profoundly grateful that those closest to the blaze suffered severe, but not fatal burns.

'Once again, this paper demands to know when the authorities will make good on their pledge to bring this vicious public enemy to justice.'

* * *

'A million dollars,' Janet murmured. 'That's generous.'

Wilson Aimes beamed complacently. Leaning back in his soft leather, swivel chair the real estate developer laced his fingers over his bulging stomach.

'A million dollars, no questions asked, for the first person to provide information leading to an arrest. I also invited you here today to announce the establishment of a special trust that I'm setting up to assist the victims of this woman's crimes. That's another four million.'

'A wonderful gesture, Mr. Aimes.'

'Wilson, please. I hope you'll look on me as a friend.' He leered at Janet. 'When I saw you yesterday at your father's funeral, I thought to myself, why Wilson, there's a brave little lady. That's someone it would be an honor to help.'

Janet smiled.

'Perhaps I can assist you financially,' he suggested softly. 'I know you're getting quite a reputation on the 'Globe', but you can never have too many powerful friends.'

'I'll bear that in mind,' Janet replied.

'A million bucks should shake some fruit off the tree. I'd love to give that evil cow a special little present.' He slid a Rutger automatic from his desk drawer and leveled it at Janet.

'Please don't do that,' Janet said evenly.

'Don't worry. I'm very careful with my guns.' He slid the pistol onto his desk. 'But I'd sure love to have that coward in my sights.'

'You think Miss Zippo is a coward?' she asked innocently.

Aimes laughed, his pink jowls shaking with amusement. 'Zippo. What a dumb title! Ask Bill Hammond from me to can that title for a while. A coward? Well, what do you call a person who sneaks around setting fires? I'd give anything to look her in the eyes and tell her what I think of her three seconds before I blew her away.'

'Perhaps after I print this, you'll get your wish.'

Aimes fondled the gun. 'Yeah, tell her in your article that I'd love a serious date.'

As he opened the front door of his mansion, he put an arm around Janet. 'Now, don't forget Janet,' he breathed into her face. 'Old Wilson's here for you any time, day or night. Just turn up. You're always welcome.'

'That's very comforting. I'll bear it in mind.' Janet slipped easily out of his clumsy embrace.

Early next morning, the bell on the outer gate rang. To Aimes surprise and delight, Janet's face appeared on the television screen. 'I'm sorry to disturb you, Wilson,' she apologized. 'Something interesting has developed.'

Not half as interesting as what I'd like to do to you, Aimes thought, his body tingling.

'Not at all,' he boomed expansively. 'As I said, anytime. I'll beam you in.'

He took her back to his library. Seated once more behind his desk, he asked, 'Now what can I do for you today.'

'It's rather what I can do for you,' Janet smiled unzipping her laptop bag. 'Today is your lucky day.'

The tingling Aimes felt became a fierce need.

To his surprise, instead of taking out a computer or tape recorder, Janet removed a bottle resting in a holster that she clipped to her belt. With deft movements, she pulled out a hose with a trigger and nozzle from her bag. She snapped the hose onto the bottle and squeezed the trigger. There was a soft hiss from the nozzle.

'What are you doing?' Aimes demanded uncertainly.

'You wanted to look Miss Zippo in the eyes. Well, here I am. Funny, I was meant to be a coward, but you're the one who's looking scared. '

'You!'

He lunged for his desk drawer. Before his thick fingers could fumble open the drawer, Janet pulled back the trigger all the way and a tongue of flame leapt across the desk, burning paper to ash and enveloping his hand. Aimes shrieked.

'Dear me, we've burnt ourselves,' Janet taunted him. 'But don't worry about rubbing in a salve. Your pain won't last long.' She twisted the nozzle and raised the flame thrower. The window drapes that had been closed at night caught fire. She traced a line of fire across the drapes and the burning material slowly fell down, covering Aimes. He shrieked, struggling to disentangle himself. Janet played the fire over the heap. Satisfied the material was well alight, she turned off the nozzle, disassembled the flame thrower and returned it to her case.

'Always be careful what you wish for,' she advised Aimes whose screams were dying away. 'You're the first person to learn who Miss Zippo is. I'm glad to grant your wish.'

* * *

'Damn,' I said, surveying the burn-out library.

'Yep. Burnt him to a crisp,' Chalmers nodded.

'Clearly our little arsonist,' I mused. 'Payback for his boasts in the 'Globe'. But no signs of a break in. How did she get in?'

'He must have let her in. Someone he trusted. I'm running a list of his friends and associates.'

'So no staff was here.'

'No, Aimes liked his privacy. Had a housekeeper come in every third day. Guy had plenty of dirty little secrets.'

'So the last person on the CCTV was Janet Breslin when she came for the interview?'

'Right. After that, the tape was wiped.'

'What is with this perp? She seems to drift in and out like a wisp of smoke. This is as maddening as the Sheena Burnam case.'

'Don't go there,' Chalmers advised. 'I wonder if we haven't been looking in the wrong place. Maybe the key to this is our journalist friend.'

'Janet? She'd be the first to tell us who this woman is. You only have to read her reports to see how much she hates her.'

'Sure, I know. The fact is though that Janet is far closer to this than we are. She has sources that she won't divulge.'

'Like any journalist worth her salt.'

'Yep. But my point is that this arsonist loves publicity. She's using Janet and Bill Hammond as her patsies.'

'True.'

'I believe that she's tracking Janet's every move. Now if we were to do the same, we might shake the firebug loose.'

'We can't tap Janet's phone or bug her house,' I protested. 'We'd need a court order. We'd never get that. She's on our side.'

'We couldn't do it legally,' Chalmers agreed.

'Tap a journo? And Cap's daughter?' I asked incredulously. 'If that got out, we'd both kiss our careers goodbye. Probably do jail time as well.'

'I know, but all we have are stone-cold leads. She's our only hope. Are you up for it?'

* * *

'Sorry ma'm,' the security officer apologized, 'but you must leave your purse.'

'Screening isn't enough?'

'No longer. Since 9/11 the Bureau's ratcheted up internal security, including entrance to field offices.'

'That's fine,' Janet replied easily. She slid her shoulder bag, containing her purse and mobile phone from her shoulder.

'Your receipt. It'll be locked away until you require it.'

Janet nodded. 'Now may I see Agent Dolson?'

The officer checked his computer.

'Certainly. He's expecting you.'

I took Janet to my office and after coffee, briefed her on the FBI's response to the arson threat.

She cut to the chase. 'Would it be true to say that the Bureau has no more idea of the identity of this woman than it did when it first took up the case?'

I winced. 'It might seem like that to an outsider,' I said stiffly, 'But we're following some important initiatives.'

'Which you're not at liberty to discuss at this time?' she supplied.

'Took the words right out of my mouth.'

Janet stood up abruptly. 'Sorry Agent Dolson, it was useful to put a face to your name, but other than that this interview is a waste of time.'

'Patience, Miss Breslin,' I counseled. 'I'm sure next time, we talk it will be more conclusive.'

'You can bet on it,' she said with unexpected heat.

As we spoke, Herb Alston was installing a tiny tracking and receiving bug into Janet's mobile.

Herb is our resident geek. 20 years old, an MIT graduate, he works in a world I can't even begin to imagine. Though not in the genius class of Johnny Angel, who I was to hear of in the Jenny Silk investigation, he's an impressive operator.

* * *

Was something wrong?

I stood in my hallway listening. It wasn't what I heard. It's what I wasn't hearing. No sounds from the television, no squabbling from my children, no sounds from the kitchen as Faith prepared dinner.

'Honey, I'm home,' I called, keeping my voice easy and relaxed while I slid my service revolver from its holster.

'Hello darling,' I heard Faith's bright reply. 'Come through. We're in the lounge.'

Relieved, I slid my gun back into my holster. Big mistake!

The taser hit my body with a searing jolt. I've been shot. It's bad but the pain of a bullet is a bee sting compared to the indescribable agony of a taser. I blacked out before my body hit the floor.

The first thing I saw when I woke was Janet Breslin pouring gas from a jerrycan over the heads of my family. Each of us was held by plastic ties to our kitchen chairs. We were gagged with gaffer tape.

Janet, seeing me struggle, smiled.

'Well, that was easy. Before you came I recorded that little assurance. Faith is a lousy actress. Took almost ten attempts and a little persuasion before she got the right tone.'

'Agent Dolson,' she sneered 'you're looking hot and bothered. Let me cool you down.'

She poured the rest of the gas on my head soaking my hair, face and clothes in the stinking liquid.

'You're wondering why I'm doing this,' she said, dropping the empty can at my feet and backing toward the door.

'It's nothing personal,' she said nonchalantly, taking out a cigarette lighter. 'You're just a great story. Today, I'll write the way in which Little Miss Zippo brazenly broke into the home of a leading FBI agent. Actually, your wife invited me in. I told her we had arranged to go over some further questions and she agreed to let me wait until you came. Faith was just making some iced tea when I took her down.

'Anyway,' she broke off.

There was a loud bang.

A large section of Janet's skull tore way in a mist of blood, brain and bone. It was a horrific sight I had prayed my family would never see.

Chalmers stepped over Janet's body, holstering his gun. He went into the kitchen, returning with a boning knife. He deftly sliced through each of the ties. Faith and the kids made to pull off their masks. He stopped them.

'Let me. If you do it, you'll be too slow. That hurts more.'

He ripped the tape away. Faith and my daughter fought back tears. My little son gave a howl of pain and burst into tears.

I shut my eyes and tore away the tape. Some of my lip came with it.

When I opened my eyes, Faith was in my face.

'I'll never forgive you!' she screamed. 'You brought evil into our home!'

I tried to reply, but what could I say? Faith was right. Before I could frame a stumbling apology, she had hustled our children from the room. A minute later, I heard the shower turned on upstairs as she began soaping the gas from the children's hair and bodies.

'You're in deep doo-doo, my man,' Chalmers smirked. 'Times like this, I'm glad I'm not married!'

'Don't be so bloody smug!' I snapped. 'But,' I softened, 'Thanks for saving us. What took you so long?'

Chalmer's face fell. 'Yeah, I owe you an apology. Cut it too fine.

'Fact is,' he continued, ' I was sitting in my car watching Janet's place when she came out. I thought she was going to work. I figured, in for a penny in for a pound, so I broke into her home for a look around.'

'Breaking and entering,' I groaned. 'You really are out to lunch!'

'Anyway, I went through the place before firing up her home laptop. I found some strange stuff there behind the pictures of her father. It got me thinking. When I came back to my car, I checked where she was and was gutted to realize she was in your home, so I hot tailed over here.'

'You could have brought the cavalry.'

'Dumb idea! What could we say to excuse bugging a reporter? No, before we called the locals, I figured we needed to agree on a cover story.'

'Anyway, thank God, you made it!'

'It could have gone badly,' Chalmers mused. 'I was worried that the muzzle flash from my gun would ignite the gas. At the same time, I needed to take her down fast.'

'Faith is right,' I said remorsefully. 'This is not the job for a married man'

'Don't sweat it,' Chalmers advised. 'Nothing like this will ever happen again. You only meet a whacko like Little Miss Zippo once in your lifetime.'

'I wouldn't bet on it!' I responded gloomily. 'Anyway, get yourself a beer from the fridge and kick back. We'll call the police soon. In the meantime, I'm going to take a shower. After that, I've got some serious fence building with my family. I could be some time!'

# The Crossing

They say that if you're born with a taste for adventure, it never leaves you.

They're wrong. Up to the age of 23, I courted danger. I loved living on the edge. Today, it's the last thing I want.

My name's Nick Moreton. I live in a village that's nothing more than a scattering of houses, a general store cum petrol station and a long disused Methodist chapel. My home's located in Cornwall. That's all I'll tell you, other than hint it's close to Padstowe.

I run a community newspaper from which I draw a modest income. It helps that I live in the rambling old house I inherited from my parents. It's a struggle to maintain the place. I could never have afforded to buy it.

I have two children, neither of whom are mine. There's Jillian who's 13 and Josh who's 12. Both are from Pat's previous marriage to Mark Leeton. I'm Pat's second marriage. She's my first, and I hope, only marriage. Mark's a nice guy: a successful stockbroker in London. We see Mark and his new wife, Angelica every six months. During his last visit at Christmas, he generously offered to pay for the kids to attend public schools, but I told him we'd make do. Besides I've never liked public schools, having gone to several myself.

My family, I think, see me as a pleasant and unambitious man. But I wasn't always dull.

Certainly, my children unfavorably compare their quiet life in Cornwall with Chelsea where they were brought up. 'Buried in the sticks' is one description I overheard.

Jillian wants to become a ballet dancer. I think she's dreaming, though I'd never tell her. To my admittedly untutored eyes, she lacks the ineffable grace of a good dancer: all the gliding effortlessness demanded by that most difficult art At best, I suspect, she'll become an also ran: third cygnet on the right in the Swan Lake chorus. Besides, she's already too tall. In time, I hope she'll find something that suits her.

Josh is more fortunate. He already knows what he wants to be. I wish I could have said the same at his age. I don't know if Josh is a genius, but already the security software program he's written has excited interest among some heavy hitters in the hi tech world.

The other day, he suggested I become a presence (his word, not mine) on Facebook.

'What for?' I asked. 'I haven't many friends.'

'You would if you joined.'

'You mean pick up a lot of people I don't know? Strangers who want to be pals? Sounds phony to me.'

'Well, why won't you at least upload your photo to my website? People asked to see you.'

I said with a straight face. 'I don't want to advertise myself. There may still be an international warrant for my arrest. I'm wanted for multiple murder.'

Josh goggled, then howled with laughter. 'Yeah right! Nick Moreton: international man of mystery!'

It must be said Josh is an unusually persistent, read bloody snoopy 12-year old. A few days later, he was back to nagging me.

'Dad, how come you never talk about yourself? Your childhood. Stuff like that.''

'That's because it was so boring,' Jillian suggested.

'That's right,' I agreed. 'Shockingly boring.'

And generally it was. I was a hopeless student. The only gift I had was taking clear, well composed photos and stringing words together. My grades were so bad that both my parents and teachers were relieved when I began work. Rather surprisingly, I drifted into a reasonable job as a cub reporter on a London daily. In those far away days, an ability to write vivid, concise prose was considered more valuable than a fancy journalism degree. I learnt my trade and moved from one paper to another. In my early twenties, I decided to travel to Europe and file a story from a country that had been largely closed off for decades. I had a vague plan that this might establish my reputation: not a big ask, considering that my public profile was almost invisible.

* * *

Georg Jepsen disliked me. How strongly, I was soon to learn. It didn't bother me. My money was his friend.

I neither knew nor cared how Jepsen, a middle aged Dane ended up in a god-forsaken village on the border of the most backward nations in eastern Europe.

He had one thing I needed: the only hire car for a hundred miles. Not only that, but for a grossly inflated price, he agreed to take me across the border into the lawless, but historically interesting and visually beautiful country.

'Will I need a visa?' I asked innocently.

'No, just bring an open wallet. If we're lucky, they'll take a heavy bribe.'

'And if we're unlucky? Very unlucky?'

'Then we'll be killed soon after we cross the border for both the car and what we carry.'

Mentally I dismissed this. My first big mistake.

Jepsen condescendingly described the country we would enter. I learnt that for many years it had been a vassal state of the Soviet Union. The collapse of communism thrust the nation into independence. Democracy however brought starvation. The government had lurched from one crisis to another. The first popularly elected President had looted the Treasury before fleeing to Switzerland. Three months before my visit, the country had fallen under the spell of a nationalistic demagogue. Personal security had become a joke. Policemen and soldiers hadn't been paid for nearly a year. There were plenty of guns, but little food. Some soldiers deserted, while others moonlighted as armed robbers.

I began to feel uneasy. Seeing this, Jepsen smiled maliciously. 'Don't be scared. I've a secret weapon.' He took me to his car. Opening the glove box he took a heavy revolver. The gun looked about thirty years old, but the smell of fresh oil suggested it was kept in good condition.

'It's wise to be prepared. Can you shoot?'

I could, but something warned me to shake my head.

'Very well,' Jepsen said wrapping the gun in a soft rag before pushing back into the glove box. 'We'll leave at 7 am tomorrow morning. Have a hearty breakfast. It'll be your last for a while.'

It took less than an hour to reach the border post.

'Wait,' he advised. 'I'll fix the price. Stay out of sight. That way the guards can truthfully say they never saw you.'

He went into the small hut and ten minutes later, emerged. Two guards came out smiling. They all shook hands. Everyone avoided looking at the car.

After an hour, we were halted by a makeshift barrier of empty oil barrels and wooden spars. Three men carrying AK47's strolled over to the car. They wore shabby military uniforms from which they had torn their insignias of rank.

'Give me your wallet,' Jepsen muttered. He got out of the car holding the wallet open and walked smiling toward the men. The men glowered back.

I sat in the car, engine still running. I slid behind the wheel. This, I thought, is not going well.

I watched Jepsen talking. The men listened. Two seemed undecided while one shook his head. The two began arguing with the third. He abruptly raised his gun, but another gently pushed down the barrel. Whatever the two had said, seemed to work as Jepsen now openly sweating now got back into the car. My wallet was empty and I was glad I had hidden another roll of US dollars in my backpack. The barrier was drawn back and without a word we eased the car past the men.

We climbed into the mountains. The narrow road was sometimes made even tighter by the need to skirt rock falls. It swung back and forth. On one side was the steep cliffs. On the other, dizzying drops into the valley. I saw with alarm the burnt out wrecks of several cars and trucks far below.

The alpine scenery was wild and beautiful: gray hills of bare granite interspersed with clumps of pine. The hillside was generally unscalable, but occasionally a faint track descended to the road.

Jepsen glanced into his rear vision mirror and frowned. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

'What is it?' I demanded.

There was no disguising his fear. 'The soldiers we passed before are behind us in a jeep. They're signaling us to stop.'

He lifted his foot from the accelerator.

'What are you doing?' I asked with alarm.

'I'm going to give you up,' he replied. 'that way, perhaps they'll let me go.'

I was stunned. 'You'd let them kill me?'

'Of course,' he answered indifferently. 'You're nothing to me.'

I pulled open the glove box and unwrapped the pistol. Sliding back the safety catch, I jammed the barrel hard into Jepsen's ear. 'Like hell you'll give me up,' I snarled. 'Now listen you bastard, floor the accelerator or I'll blast your brains out the window.'

If I had we'd both die, but Jepsen didn't argue. He hit the pedal and the car surged forward. It was however old and the road steep and treacherous. We began to fall back.

I glanced behind. The jeep was hidden for a time, but I knew they were gaining on us.

Then I saw what I needed.

'Stop the car,' I ordered.

'Why?' Jepsen was confused.

'Don't argue!' I screwed the barrel cruelly into his ear. 'Hit the brakes!'

As soon as the car stopped, I grabbed my backpack and jumped out. I threw Jepsen's gun over the cliff. It would be no use against automatic weapons.

'Now get out of here!' I told him. He thrust the car into gear and roared away.

I sprinted over to the small track I had seen and began to climb, praying I'd reach cover before the jeep swung into view. I made it with seconds to spare.

Then as the jeep pursued Jepsen's car, I stood up and began to swiftly climb into the hills. It was a steep climb, but I was young, fit and desperate.

Before long, I reached a point where I could look down onto the road. I searched for the two vehicles. They were parked in a small layby. Both were empty. Jepsen's driver's door hung open. The three soldiers were grouped around Jepsen who was curled up on the ground. He looked up. I didn't need to hear a sound. He was clearly pleading for his life. One man kicked him in the face and as he fell back the others fired their guns. Sickened, I turned away and continued to climb. I knew that as soon as they had finished, the men would search for me.

I wondered if I should have kept Jepsen's revolver, but knew my best defense was to both run and hide.

Cursing my stupidity at having entered the country, I decided to work my way back to the border crossing as quickly as I could. Unfortunately, we had traveled quite a distance by car and it would take at least two days of hard hiking to reach safety. Already it was growing dark.

I made a stocktake of my supplies. What I found heartened me. In addition to my camera, tape recorders and notebooks. I had brought a small compass and a detailed map. I also had water and energy bars. I wouldn't get lost, nor would I go hungry or thirsty. I determined to keep out of sight as much as I could, not knowing the loyalty of the mountain villagers.

By nightfall, I found myself in a small forest and stretched out on a bed of pine needles. In less than a minute, I was asleep. Hours later, I was woken by a sharp prod in my ribs. I opened my eyes to see with alarm an old man standing over me with a double-barreled shotgun. He had opened and examined my backpack. The secret roll of money was on the ground beside my scattered goods.

He lifted up my wallet and by the light of a torch read my name from my international drivers' license. 'Mr. Nick Moreton,' he said in passable English, 'a freelance journalist.'

'Yes.'

'This was a stupid place to come for a story,' he said severely.

'I can't argue with that. Could you lower the gun? It frightens the hell out of me.'

'You have much more to worry about than my gun,' he told me, breaking the shotgun.

'How do you speak English?' I asked, getting to my feet.

'I fought with the British as a partisan. Why are you alone in the mountains?'

I told him. He nodded grimly. 'And what are your plans?'

'To leave your country as quickly as I can!'

He nodded. 'Yes. You'll only bring trouble on everyone you meet.'

'Then let me go.'

'Pick up your stuff', he ordered, 'and come with me.'

'How did you know I was here?' I asked as we walked through the forest.

'There are no secrets in the mountains,' he replied shortly.

After several minutes, we reached a small cottage standing in an orchard. He opened the front door to reveal a large room that served as a kitchen, eating area and bedroom. A ladder led to an attic. A fire was burning in the hearth and a delicious aroma of bacon, cabbage and bean soup drifted from a large blackened pot suspended by chairs over the fire.

The old man introduced himself and Margarita, his tiny, silver-haired wife. Two small boys giggled in the shadows. 'My grandsons,' he explained. 'Come forward,' he commanded with mock severity 'and present yourselves.'

The woman and children didn't speak English, so I showed my appreciation for the delicious food that was generously ladled into my bowl by rolling my eyes and rubbing my stomach: gestures that greatly amused Margarita and the children.

The man offered me home brewed beer, but I asked for water. A plan was beginning to shape itself in my mind: a plan that would demand a clear head.

After the meal, the woman took the boys upstairs to tuck them in while I spoke with the man.

'You know these soldiers?' I began bluntly.

'Yes.'

'And they did you harm?'

'They ruined my life.' A glance at his agonized expression told me why the couple's son and daughter-in-law weren't there.

'If these men were to die,' I asked carefully, 'Would there be reprisals?'

He thought about the question, then shook his head. 'No. Especially if their bodies were hidden.

'But why speak of dreams?' he asked bitterly. 'My shotgun is no match against automatic weapons.'

'You're right. I have in mind something that can be easily found on a farm and no one thinks of as a weapon.

'Before I tell you what I'm thinking, do you know of a traitor in the village? A man or woman who would betray my whereabouts to these killers for money.'

'There is such a man.'

I explained my plan. When I finished, my host looked at me with surprise. Then he laughed. 'You have a wicked imagination!' he told me approvingly.

'So what do you think?'

He stared into the fire. 'It might work,' he conceded ''But it would put Margarita and my grandchildren at terrible risk.'

'They're at risk every moment those three killers breathe,' I pointed out.

He said nothing, continuing to stare into the fire. I heard the crackling of the burning wood, the ticking of an ancient clock and the soft voice of the woman telling her grandchildren a fairy tale before they slept. It was a rare moment of peace, but I knew beyond the cottage evil forces might at any time invade this sanctuary.

'I'm old,' the man began. 'I've begun to doubt myself. You're here to show me what I should have done long ago. Stand up to those who threaten my family.'

He stretched across and shook my hand. 'By tomorrow, we may be dead, but it will be as men, not cowards.'

That night the informer was told where I sheltered. Villagers watched him take his truck to where the soldiers were camped.

Scarcely 30 minutes later, the killers roared up in their jeep. Two got out and I watched them kick open the door. The old woman screamed. The third soldier sat in the jeep smoking.

I broke cover, running through the orchard toward the forest.

The soldier dropped his cigarette and bawled to his companions' 'Leave them! He's out here.'

As the two soldiers burst out of the cottage, the man jumped out of the jeep and began to fire. I had passed the orchard in a weaving run and had reached the thin cover of the first trees when a stream of bullets hit the forest, cutting branches and sending splinters flying around my face.

Being under fire is frightening. Being targeted by an AK47 however is the most terrifying experience in life, but it lasted only seconds before I disappeared into the gloomy forest.

Behind me I heard the jeep roar into life. I ran swiftly through the forest. Before putting my plan into action, I had run the course several times. I knew had to reach a certain tree by the road before the jeep. I did.

I had twisted thin wire around the trunk of the tree. Now in the minute before the jeep caught up, I took the loose end of the wire and twisted it tightly around the trunk of a tree on the opposite side of the road. My plan depended on two things. Firstly that the jeep's windscreen was down, which it was and secondly that I had set the wire at the right height.

I tightened the wire that could scarcely be seen in the dusk then scrambled for cover. The jeep hurtled around the corner and drove straight into the wire. The heads of the three soldiers were sliced off as cleanly as a guillotine blade. The heads each spurting a crimson parabola of blood were flung back, bouncing along the road. The jeep charged on smashing head on into the trees at the next turn. A large cloud of steam rose from the crumpled bonnet

From the forest, figures emerged: villagers laughing and weeping with relief. Several kicked the heads contemptuously. When the old man arrived with his wife and grandchildren arrived, applause broke out. Margarita try to shield the children's gaze from the horrifying sight of the heads and decapitated bodies, but the children appeared unconcerned.

That night, two of the men from the village quietly took me to see the remains of the informer. It was a sight that even now I can't bring myself to describe.

The next day, the border guards stamped my passport with indifference.

Sometimes, the road to freedom is long. In my case, the distance was less than 20 feet.

# Bait

Petersen was alive.

If I had thought of him - and I hadn't in the nine years since I left Kingston - I'd have assumed he had checked out long ago from drugs or booze. Yet not only was he alive, but Bilson assured me that my old buddy was thriving.

Bilson was waiting on the Customs desk at the Norman Manley International. Apart from a light powdering of gray in his hair, he looked the same.

'Ah, you're back,' he said in his lilting Jamaican accent. It sounded as though I had returned from a weekend jaunt.

'It's good to be here,' I said, punching his arm. His muscles still felt hard. I wished mine were the same.

'Still traveling light?' he eyed my rucksack with faint amusement.

'No need for more.'

'Nothing to declare?' He raised a warning finger. 'And don't give me that tired old quip from Oscar Wilde.'

'Nothing. It's great to see you though. Why haven't they pensioned off an old guy like you?'

'What am I going with myself if I don't work?' he asked, straightening his back as though he could shake off the years. 'Besides, I need the income. I've a new wife and daughter.'

'Oh Bilson,' I laughed. 'You're hopeless. Is this the fourth or fifth hitching?'

'Whatever, it's the real thing.'

'As I recall, they always were!'

'This is different,' he assured me earnestly. 'A really good woman, mon. A warm heart. Flesh as sweet as a mango! We'd have invited you to the wedding. A wild affair. You'd have loved it, but nobody had your address. Why did you run away like that? I could have squared it with the Man.'

'Doubtful. I didn't want to drag you into my mess. Has it blown over?'

'Sure has. Good time to return.'

'Hey!' a voice whined behind me. 'Can we move it on fella? I've got folks waiting.'

'Yes, I'm sorry sir.' Bilson stamped my passport and waved me through.

'Take it easy honey,' the man's wife cautioned. 'We're on Island Time now. Think of your blood pressure.'

'You're right,' the man agreed. He unscrewed a small bottle of pills and hurriedly swallowed two. 'Sorry about that,' he apologized to Bilson.

After the couple were cleared, Bilson turned to me. 'Can't talk now. Let's catch up at Petersen's'

'What, the old shack?'

'No, that burnt down six years ago. Suspicious, but the insurers finally paid. He used the payout to buy May's place. Place was really run down, but he prettied it up. You wouldn't recognize the old bugger. He dropped five stone and kicked the booze. Clean as a whistle too. He's making money hand over fist. Deserves it. His fresh crabs are to die for.'

'I'll make it at ten.'

'That suits,' Bilson said. He smiled at a student fidgeting by the counter. 'Now sir, I'm sorry to have kept you.'

Bilson was right. I hardly recognized Petersen. While he looked better, I wasn't sure I could say the same for May's. It was a dump in the old days, but it had a seedy charm that I missed. Kingston's always had an edge of danger. Like me, the city 's conflicted. Great wealth and miserable poverty. High rises, ghettoes and luxury villas. Natural beauty and appalling squalor. I wondered if I'd been wise to return. So far, everything I saw made me yearn for the past.

As though sensing my despondent mood, Petersen led me to a table in the back where a young woman sat sipping tonic water. 'Here's someone you should meet,' he told me. 'Jenny Silk,' he began. 'I'd like you to meet..'

'I know this man,' she interrupted quietly.

I was curious how she knew me. If we'd met I'd have remembered.

'May I join you?'

'Of course,' she smiled. 'I came here to see you.'

One of the patrons called out to Petersen and he left.

'How did you know I was coming back to Kingston?'

'I knew when you applied for a visa and booked your air ticket in the States. I figured it wouldn't be long until you ended up at Petersen's.'

I sat back. This woman had serious connections.

'Are you from the police?'

The question amused her. 'Hardly!'

I judged Jenny to be aged in her mid twenties. She had a slim, graceful body. Her chestnut brown hair was cut short emphasizing her regular features. She had dark, expressive eyes that could gleam with humor or later I was to learn grow bleakly cold.

It was flattering that a beautiful and enigmatic woman wanted to meet me, but I also felt irritated my actions were so predictable.

'Why did you want to meet?' I asked bluntly.

'I wanted to put a face to your name. I loved your book about the New York crime syndicate. You're a great crime writer. I put 'Jersey Pride' up there with classics like, 'Helter Skelter', 'In Cold Blood' or 'Honor Thy Father.'

'Thanks,' I shrugged. 'But that was years ago.'

'Yes,' she mused. 'Why is that? A brilliant writer, but one who hasn't published in over a decade.'

I winced, recalling the wasted years.

'I guess I never found another story that excited me.'

She nodded. 'That's what I thought. Perhaps that's about to change.'

I was going to question her oddly confident tone, when she gently placed a finger on my lips. 'Later. Let's strike a bargain. I know you're suspicious. I understand that. I'm also wary by nature, and doubly so in my current work.

'Here's our pact,' she suggested. 'I'll promise to answer all your questions, if I can do so at my own pace. This evening, I just want to enjoy myself.'

'I'd like that as well.'

'Good,' she said briskly. 'Then let's begin by sampling some of your friend's food.'

As though by signal, Petersen appeared at our table. He placed on the table two heaped dishes of steaming crabs. The aroma made my mouth water.

'Enough of the lolly water, Jenny,' he told her firmly. Petersen motioned to a waiter who placed two foaming tankards of beer before us.

'I didn't order,' I protested weakly.

'If you drink at Petersen's, you must eat,' he told me firmly. 'If you eat, you have to try the crabs.

'Now tell me what you think of my simmer sauce.'

Jenny and I both took spoonfuls.

'Wow!' she exclaimed admiringly, 'That's got a kick like a crazed mule!'

There was a faint hint of a Southern accent in her voice.

'Damn good!' I agreed.

Petersen beamed with pleasure. Then he was called away and we began to eat.

We concentrated on our food, only resuming conversation after the plates were cleared away. I found Jenny's company fresh, amusing and original. Although she told me she' d never attended college, she clearly read widely and deeply. Her memory was astonishing.

We argued good naturedly about many things including books, music, films, art and politics. Many men feel threatened by intelligent, independent women. I love the challenge.

During the evening, we were interrupted by a large number of people dropping by our table. People who I'd never considered friends now insisted on shaking my hand. One bent over to whisper enviously, 'You lucky devil! How do you do it? You're only back five minutes and have already snared the best skirt on the Islands.'

'You're popular,' Jenny commented.

'I'm puzzled,' I admitted. 'It feels sort of weird.' When Mason was alive, I was as welcome as a leper's bell. But Mason was dead and his son who everyone expected would start to throw his weight around was strangely quiet. People were clearly no longer afraid to speak to me.

Time flew. When I finally checked my watch, I was surprised to find it was nearly midnight. I wondered when Petersen's closed. More diners were still arriving, eagerly claiming seats as others left.

It was clear Bilson wouldn't make it. Probably at home feasting on the mangos, I thought smiling as I raised a silent toast to my friend's marriage.

'Shall we walk on the beach?' Jenny suggested. 'It's very noisy here.'

We strolled together down the beach. The sand gleamed in the ghostly light and the ragged palms towered above us, silhouetted against the starry sky.

'What a magical evening,' she said, taking my hand. Feeling the rock hard ridge of flesh on the side of her hand, I realized she practiced karate.

Carrying our shoes, we walked barefoot through the warm water where a gentle sea broke on the sand. I felt absurdly happy.

'Come back to my place for coffee,' she suggested.

We left the beach and Jenny took me to where she had parked her gleaming black and gold BMW motorbike. Unlocking the pannier, she took out two helmets, offering one to me. We took a winding cliff road and 40 minutes later, turned into a concealed driveway. This led down to an ultra modern, split-level home with a sundeck and infinity pool jutting out high above the sea.

Jenny cut the engine and steered her bike into a garage. An interior stairway led us into a huge space divided into a kitchen, lounge and entertainment area. It was an exciting design: bold and luxurious yet surprisingly comfortable. Vast glass panels stretched to a lofty second storey, offering a view far out to sea.

'Is this your home?' I asked.

'No, I rent by the month.'

'It must cost a fortune.'

'It does,' she acknowledged. 'Most luxury items leave me cold, but I love staying in beautiful homes. I don't want to own them, just savor the experience. I try to enjoy every moment. After all, I could be dead tomorrow.'

'That doesn't seem likely,' I smiled. 'You're young, fit and healthy.'

'There are many ways to die,' she said mysteriously. Opening the glass doors to the balcony, Jenny suggested, 'Take in the view. I'll bring out some champagne.'

'Do you swim much?' I asked when she joined me.

'Every day. I love the freedom and privacy of swimming naked.'

An erotic image floated into my mind.

Handing me a flute she toasted our 'long and mutually satisfying relationship.' I thought she was speaking of love, but it was business she had in mind.

'The Widow?' I ventured, sipping the wine.

She nodded absently. Gently taking my flute, she set the two glasses down on the poolside table. Then she kissed me enticingly on the lips.

Jenny's bedroom was on the second floor. Lying naked on the large bed, I felt as though I was floating on a cloud high above the earth.

She had a superb body: pert breasts, a flat stomach and long, shapely legs, Hard exercise had burned away any fat, but left her with a trim and feminine, rather than muscled body.

We enjoyed fierce and shameless sex. Finally, after a long period of almost unbearable ecstasy, I groaned, 'Enough! Let me catch my breath!'

'You're finished with me,' she whispered mischievously, 'but I've hardly started with you.' Then I felt her small, sharp tongue tracing its way down my stomach.

At length, I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. Hours later, I woke to see her seated in a chair watching me. She had slipped on a soft, cool linen top and slacks. Walking across to a wardrobe, she took out a male dressing gown and threw it to me. 'This should fit,' she told me. 'Put it on. I'll see you downstairs.'

When I came down to the lounge, coffee was brewing and she waved me to a seat.

'It's time to tell you why you're here,' she began. 'I haven't been straight with you, but that's about to change.

'I ran a background check on you. I was seeking a skilled crime writer who could tell my story to the world. You seem ideal.'

I felt disappointed. I wanted to think that we had made love because she found me attractive, not just as means to bait a hook.

Seeing my expression, she said frankly. 'I'm not like that. I'm a young woman with normal, healthy and occasionally urgent sexual needs. Bringing you here wasn't just a bait. I enjoyed making love with you. I hope we can do it often in future. That's not to say I won't have other partners, but you can certainly become part of my life. At the same time, sex is one thing and business another. Sometimes my job demands that I make love with a man or woman before I kill them. So let's never confuse the two.

'What I'm seeking is a person who'll record my life. A detached observer. I want my experiences written as short stories. You'll alter some names or disguise certain facts, but other than that tell the truth. Use total freedom. I've done and doubtless I'll continue to do some ugly things. Describe them. If you hate me sometimes, write it down.'

'Will you publish what I write?'

'Probably not. This is only a stage in my journey. If I survive, I want to look back in later years and read what I was really like. Of course if I die you'll be free to use the material any way you wish.

'So I've been searching for an author. Someone with talent, but who'd stalled. I like Jamaica. It offers me peace, beauty and privacy. It's a great place to write a book. Kingston is your town and I knew that you'd love to return. You had a small problem, but it was one I could solve.

'Let me briefly describe some key points in your life. If I'm wrong at any point, correct me.'

'Go on.'

'You were born in Des Moines where you grew up. Comfortable middle class background. Only child. Father ran his own law firm. Respected, but no mover or shaker. Mother was obsessed with writing. Thin talent. Wrote poetry, essays and short stories. Won a modest reputation in literary circles. Both parents are now dead. Natural causes.'

'A fair summary.'

'You took a college degree in journalism and topped the class each year to graduation.

After college, you worked for a local newspaper. You published your first work: a book of poetry.'

'It was horrible. Pretentious drivel. I was aping Eliot.'

'Yes. Best buried. You then moved to major cities including Dallas, Atlanta and Chicago before biting into the Big Apple. It was in New York as chief crime reporter that your career really took off. You began to write books - two on serial killers, one on FBI profiling, then came your biggie: a classic examination of a crime family, which you titled 'Jersey Pride'.

'A year later, you suffered a mid life crisis. You moved to Jamaica bought a small, ailing newspaper and brought it to life, increasing the circulation over seven times. You married a beautiful Jamaican girl from one of the oldest and best families on the island and had a son. Life was looking good.'

'Then I made a terrible mistake,' I supplied.

'Yes, you followed up a tip that Colin Mason, one of the Island's leading businessmen was corrupt. You knew Kingston's always had problems with corruption, drugs and gang violence. What was different with Mason?'

'I'd like to claim some fine motive. Fact was I thought I could write another "Jersey Pride" '

'That was dumb. Surely you didn't think Mason was going to sit by and let you destroy his life.'

'The Jersey gang didn't worry. One or two threats, but nothing happened.'

Jenny shifted impatiently. 'Of course, they didn't! Those mainland hoods love to see themselves in print or film. It was different with Mason.'

'Totally.'

'And he warned you.'

'Yes. I kidded myself I was on a crusade, but it really for my book.'

'So he killed your wife and children. Made it look like a hit and run accident, but no one - least of all the police were fooled. I've looked through the police files. There was no way you'd have got justice.'

'Grieving, you left Jamaica and returned to the States. The fire in your belly had died. You tried to write again, but your work was lame. Then a fortnight ago, things changed.'

I nodded. 'I read Colin Mason had been killed. I thought his son would take control, but my beef was always with the old man. I figured it was safe to return.'

'To do what?'

'I don't know. Look around. See if I can pick up something. Trouble I was only really good when I was writing about crime.'

'Jamaica's not a good place to do that,' she said dryly.

Jenny opened a large, buff colored envelope resting on the table next to her. She took out a photo and handed it to me. It showed Colin Mason. He was lying in a pool of blood. A large hole had been drilled through his forehead.

'Did you get this from police files?' I asked in surprise.

'No, I took it myself after I shot him.'

'I read it was a robbery that went bad.'

'That's what I wanted it to appear.'

'You're a killer!' I exclaimed.

'Wow!' she said sarcastically. 'The penny's finally dropped. I'm a freelance assassin. Mason's death was my gift to you. I gave you justice that you'd never receive any other way. Of course, I did it for a purpose. I wanted you to come here and hear my proposition. I want you to feel grateful and a little obligated.'

'I've never killed a man,' I protested. 'You're making me an accessory.'

'You didn't kill Mason because you didn't know how. That was one gift. Now here's another two.'

She handed me a data stick.

'Firstly, here's all you need to know on Mason's crime empire. It's not for a book. His son's been warned to leave you alone otherwise, we'll publish everything on the Internet. Second gift is that he's paid you a large sum. It's sitting in a secret bank account, ready any time you wish. You're now a very wealthy man. Mason's son accepts that you'll keep quiet this time as you're living off his money.'

'I'd never touch that scumbag's cash!'

'That's up to you, but it's better in your account than his. Give it to charity if you like, but you'll still do time if you're caught.'

'And the men who drove the car that killed my family?'

'Mason had them killed years ago. As you know, he hated loose ends.'

'I don't know what to say. Whether to hate you or feel grateful.'

'Look at it this way. You made your reputation profiting from crime.'

'I'm a writer, not a hood.' I protested.

'So? Hoods make money doing bad things. You make money describing what they do. Criminals accept danger. They know if they're caught they'll be punished. If you fail, the worst that happens is a bad crit. They do time. You go to a book launch. I've got much more respect for them than you.'

'You make me sound a prig.'

'You are, but I hope you'll change.'

Jenny freshened my cup. 'Let me tell you something about myself. Give you a sample of the material.'

She told me a simple, yet appalling tale.

Three weeks before, she'd agreed to kill a Chilean diplomat stationed in New York. She had been hired through a third party, so she didn't know her employer. Nor did she ask why the man had to die.

She studied his dossier and swiftly concluded that he was a violent, arrogant lecher. She met him in a bar that he frequented and pretending to be lonely, vulnerable and slightly tipsy, invited him back to her hotel. When they reached her room, the Chilean tore off her clothes, threw her roughly on the bed and entered her. She had to bite her lip not to cry out in pain. As he thrust away, she slid her right hand under the pillow and drew out an ice pick. She drove it deep into his neck. As the man screamed and threshed about trying to dislodge the deeply embedded pick, she whispered fiercely, 'Now you know how I feel!'

I sat stunned. 'What happens if I walk out right now?'

'After what I've told you? Not knowing if you'd go straight to the police or FBI? Seriously, what do you think I'd do?'

'Then I've no choice,' I said helplessly.

'We all have choices. I hope, for your sake it's wise.'

'I'm trapped!'

'Well boo hoo!' Jenny sneered. 'Poor little guy! I've given you revenge. Made you rich. Offered you an outstanding source of inspiration. But you're a prisoner. Sorry, but that doesn't cut it. I know plenty of guys doing time that would kill for that kind of jail.'

She continued with exasperation, 'I kind of like you, but sometimes you sound like a whiney kid. Were you always such a baby?

'Come on, ' she rallied me. 'We've talked enough. Let's go back to bed.'

'I'd rather make love to a spider!' I snapped.

As soon as the words escaped, I wished them back. This woman could kill me as easily as brushing away a fly.

Her eyes grew cold. Then to my relief she laughed.

'Oh sure! Your mouth says one thing but,' she pointed down triumphantly, 'your body gives a very different message!

It was true. I was openly aching with desire.

Far worse, I feared I was falling in love with Jenny Silk.

# Shade

It was a house of sorrow.

Once it had been a place of joy.

Once she had slept in this room with her little brother. Now, she slept alone.

Her mother hugged her fiercely after Timmy died in hospital. She told her between tears that Timmy was now with Lord Jesus. That one day, she'd see him again.

But I see him now,' Melissa insisted.

'We all see him in our minds,' her mother said soothingly.

'No. Not there,' Melissa said eagerly. 'In my bedroom at night. When everyone is sleeping. He doesn't say anything. He's just there standing in a corner, looking sad.'

Her mother grew cross. 'You must say such wicked, silly things!' she scolded.

'But mommy, I do.'

'That's enough! Go to your room! I won't talk while you're like this. Come down when you're feeling sensible.'

So she didn't mention Timmy again. Worse, he was fading away. Three nights ago, she heard but didn't see him. He was breathing on the pillow next to her. She held her breath, listening to the quiet, gentle sound.

He didn't come on the next two nights. Now she doubted he'd return. Perhaps they wanted him in Paradise. She just hoped that playing with all the other children there, he'd never forget her love.

Melissa stood in the dark by her window. She lifted a corner of the blind and stared into the street below. There, she thought, it moved again. A shadow, darker than the rest.

She wondered who was moving through the streets so late at night. A person who avoided the light, slipping from one shadow to another.

Melissa suddenly felt both afraid and excited as though she was watching something forbidden.

She wondered if she should tell her parents. But what was there to say? Mommy hadn't believed she saw Timmy. Perhaps he had wanted that to be their secret. Perhaps he was punishing her - fading away - because she had broken the secret. The shadow had moved past the night before. She'd watch for it tomorrow, but it would remain a secret between herself and whoever or whatever was out there.

* * *

I am a shadow. A shade. I slip through the city at night. It's an American city. It might be yours.

I wear black. My blonde hair is now dyed dark. I move in silence, gliding from one shadowed doorway or alleyway to another. Mine is a world of deserted streets.

I'm a woman. Flesh and blood.

I'm also a construct. The woman that I once was - Sheila Burnam - died 18 months ago. She was the first to die.

Her death set me free to create a new woman. Someone not tied to the past. Because I don't exist, I'm free. My dark side has emerged.

My name's Jenny Silk. I know the man who writes this; putting words in my mouth is scared of me. That's wise. I've told him some of the bad things that I've done. He'll find there's worse.

Yet, there's another side to my character - a good side he'd say - that sometimes struggles out into the light. This is a glimpse of me that may surprise you.

* * *

Scarlett Durban was on a losing streak. It had begun three years ago, when she had dropped out of High School. She drifted into a long series of dead end jobs. She'd been sacked from each. Every time she sat down at a new desk, she felt boredom settling on her shoulders like a cloak. Her latest job was headed to the crapper.

'I'm sick of this!' her supervisor had exploded that morning. Scarlett felt surprised that such a dull woman could show any passion. But boy, was she pissed! 'You've made a complete stuff up of the client's booking!' the woman raged, her withered old face inches away. 'The Wilsons have just rung from Singapore. They're frantic. They came in exhausted from their long flight and the hotel hasn't got your booking. I'm sick of covering for you. Why you were hired I'll never know. You don't seem to take in that there's a hundred girls out there eager to take your place. This is your final warning. Keep your Nikes on. I've a strong feeling you'll need them when you hit the street running!'

Very funny, Scarlett thought. Sarcastic old cow!

Next job, she promised herself, she'd find a place closer to home.

It took an hour to cross the city by bus and it was growing dark by the time she reached her stop. From there it was a brisk 15 minute walk to her flat. Most of the route was well lit but there was one section that she always hurried past.

Scarlett sensed danger as she approached the darkened alley. She broke into a run but had hardly started when she was seized from behind. Her purse was ripped from her shoulder and a large hand clamped on her mouth.

She bit the hand hard and heard a gruff curse. She broke free but a second later was caught in a headlock grip that jerked her off her feet. She was dragged into the alley toward a blind end then thrust back against a wall, knocking over a trash can that spilt its filth across the ground. The first man - heavy set and bald except for a wispy soul patch - looked at his hand in wonder. 'The bitch drew blood!' he exclaimed.

'Blood for blood,' his friend giggled. He pressed the point of a thin blade against Scarlett's neck. Then he yanked up Scarlett's dress and drove a knee between her legs. With his free hand, he began to grope her.

'Get away from her!' a woman's voice rang down the alley.

As she shouted the command, the woman threw something and a silver blur sped down the alley. The first man was thrown back, his hands clawing at his throat where a star shaped blade was embedded.

The second man dropped his knife and tried to draw a gun, but his hand had scarcely gripped the revolver butt when there was another blurred of steel and he fell to the ground choking and tearing at a second blade.

In a moment, a young woman dressed in black was tugging the blades out of the men's throats. Each made a soft bubbling sound as they died. She wiped their blood off on their clothes before returning the stars to two leather pouches, one on each side of her waist.

She left Scarlett and a moment later returned. handing the distraught girl her purse. 'Take it and get out!' she ordered. 'Next time, don't pass this place at night.'

Scarlett felt stunned. She barely managed to stammer her thanks before fleeing.

* * *

'So what have we got?'

Tom Legrande, the coroner looked up smiling at the two men. He was a patient, able and good -natured young man. A total professional. His only fault was that he lacked a sense of humor.

'Detectives,' he nodded. 'You're a bit early. I'll have a full report on your desk in two hours.'

'Sure,' Alan Torvel agreed. 'But can we have some preliminaries?'

Tom sighed. The two were like cooks who kept dragging a cake from the oven to see if it was baked. Science demanded time, observation and a consideration of all possibilities, not a rush to judgment. Still, you'd never change their ways.

'Sure. Firstly, thanks for bringing me something interesting,' he gestured at the two bodies lying on the operating tables. 'I never thought I'd say this, but I get bored with all the usual ways of death. You can only see so many stabbings, shootings, clubbings or strangulation before it all becomes a bit ho hum. But this is different. Rare.'

'How?' Pete Sanchez, the other detective asked.

'Look at the series of deep, but regular incisions on the neck of both bodies.'

'Yeah,' Torvel agreed. 'Sort of weird. What would do that?'

'I puzzled over that for some time, then it came to me. A Shuriken.'

The two detectives looked blank. 'A what?' Sanchez asked.

'A Japanese throwing star. It literally means a sword hidden in the hand.'

'Never heard of it,' Torvel put in.

'You wouldn't. It's a traditional weapon. Fascinating history that I won't go into. The star has six or eight points. Sometimes tipped with poison. It's easily concealed. Always carried in a pouch. Today, it's made from stainless steel. There's a similar weapon called a Ninjitsu star made from carbon steel, but I'd say we're looking at a Shuriken.'

'Not something you can buy at any shopping mall,' Torvel mused. 'Should narrow the search.'

'Not really. Your killer is probably using a modern version. I found there's even a website that tells you how to make your own.'

Sanchez shook his head. Since migrating from Mexico ten years before, he'd often wondered at the many oddities of American culture, but it was bizarre to imagine the scene. 'Can Dad come out to throw ball?' 'Later, honey. He's busy right now grinding eight edges on his throwing star!'

'OK,' Torvel persisted. 'The weapon might be untraceable. How about the killer? You'd need some skill to throw it.'

'Definitely. It would take years to master the throw. And this wasn't in the daylight. You're talking of a darkened alley and two moving targets. Your killer has superb eye and hand coordination. To hit a man before he even draws a gun suggests incredibly fast reflexes.'

'Anything else about Superman?'

'Well, from the angle and direction of the wounds, I'd say your killer was about 5'6'' in height. Interestingly firstly the right hand, then the left was used, suggesting the killer wore two pouches. The left hand throw was just as accurate as the right.'

'Gees, that's just what we need! A little Japanese ninja guy on a vigilante mission.'

'There's no reason he's Japanese,' Sanchez mused.

'And no reason it's a male,' Legrande put in. 'The wounds are deep. Your killer's strong, but the force needed is well within the muscle capability of a very fit young woman.'

'I'm glad you said young,' Torvel smirked. 'At least we can take all those homicidal grannies off our list!'

Legrande looked sour. 'Everyone wants to be a comic,' he commented sourly.

Sanchez sighed. 'Got a bad feeling about this one. No leads and the press will go to town on the ninja angle. I knew I shouldn't have got out of bed this morning.'

* * *

I expected many changes when I became Jenny Silk. One thing that was unexpected was the way I sleep.

As Sheena, I always slept eight hours each night. My sleep however was poor: either shallow or filled with troubling dreams. As Jenny, I sleep on average two hours less but enjoy deep, dreamless sleep. When I wake, my mind and body are filled with quiet power.

I can't say why I left Jamaica to return to the States. Perhaps it was a sense of wanting to fully engage with life. Whatever the reason, I've taken to spending hours exploring the city at night.

A week after rescuing that girl in the alley, I noticed something curious.

It was 2 am as I was passing the cemetery when I saw a light flickering among the gravestones. Feeling curious, I scaled the high iron fence and slipped through the dark using the gravestones as cover.

The light was from a Tilley lamp that was resting on the ground at the head of a grave. Two men in boiler suits were lifting a coffin out of a freshly disturbed grave. A third man in casual clothes directed them. A hearse was parked on a nearby access road, its tailgate open. Inside the car, I glimpsed a second coffin.

I recognized the men. A month before an elderly neighbor who I'd befriended had died. I attended the funeral with many others. The lady had been rich and well connected and the city's leading funeral director hired. It was that man and two of his staff I recognized.

What was his name? Something pretentious. Ah, that was it. Darius. Darius Mountford. What's your dirty little secret, Mr. Mountford that has you skulking around a graveyard when you think no one's watching?

With effort, the men wrestled the casket out of the clinging mud and laid it beside a large sheet of plastic. Then they unscrewed the casket, opened the lid and reaching inside lifted out a man's corpse. Then to my surprise they bent over the casket again and drew out a second body, this time that of a young girl. The two corpses were laid beside each other on the plastic sheet.

They then slid the second coffin from the hearse onto the tailgate and taking the man, placed him inside and lowered the lid. Mountford bent over the first coffin and filled it with padding and material as a bed for the girl. He then tidied the girl's appearance before nodding to the men who lifted her back into the casket. The lid was drawn down and screwed tight. The two staff then placed the coffin back into the grave, which they filled. They spent some time raking the soil and sprinkling it with dried grass and leaves so that it appeared undisturbed.

Finally, they folded up the plastic and put it together with the two spades and extinguished lamp into the hearse. Closing the tail gate, the three men got into the car which they quietly eased out of the cemetery.

When I returned home, I fired up my computer. It took less than a minute to confirm the news report I sought. From there it was easy to solve the riddle of the two corpse coffin.

The young girl was Melody Gowe. At first, her death had been accepted as the result of ill health. Shortly after her death however, the police had received a phone tip off. The anonymous caller - a woman - claimed Melody had been killed to cover up her father's incest. She also accused the doctor who had issued the death certificate as being part of the same paedophile ring. There were, of course, vehement denials by Gowe and the doctor but the coroner decided to settle the matter by having Melody's body exhumed and independently examined. The exhumation was to be that day.

One of the problems any killer faces - as I know often only too well - is what to do with the body. What better way if you were regularly killing people than come to an arrangement with a funeral director? It would be ideal to also arrange for the body to go into a crematorium furnace, but that required more people willing to be paid off. If you removed the padding and material lining from a coffin, they'd be plenty of room for a second corpse to be laid over the first.

* * *

The water was soft and warm. He powered through the first eight laps then eased into a slower, yet still vigorous stroke.

Darius Mountford was proud of his body. He was fitter at 40 than he had been at college. He spent hours each day toning his muscles: working out in his gym or swimming in the indoor pool. Women found him attractive and he enjoyed many affairs. What really excited him however was corrupting children.

Nine laps followed before he drew in a deep lungful of air and dived down to the light dappled floor of the pool.

He felt at peace. For several tense hours, it had looked as though his neat two body scam might be exposed but prompt action had resolved the problem. Scarlett's body was now downtown, being reexamined. Based on this, her father and the doctor would go to jail. Mountford knew what they'd been doing. He was part of the same ring. He also knew however that the two fearing for their lives in jail wouldn't dare implicate others. The two men had been reckless. They'd pay dearly. Tough! Their fate wasn't his concern.

When he broke the surface of the water, he was startled to see a young woman standing above him by the edge of the pool.

'Hello Mr. Mountford,' she greeted him politely.

'Do I know you?'

'We've met. I was at Mrs Silverton's funeral.'

'Yes, I remember. Your name's, let me think, Silk. Ms. Jennifer Silk. What are you doing in my home?'

'I want to talk to you briefly before you die.'

'Die?' He felt more astonished than afraid. 'Why would I die?'

'It's usually what happens when I kill someone,' Jenny replied sardonically.

'Kill me?' he shrieked. 'Are you mad? Why would you even think something like that? I only met you once. I don't know a thing about you.'

'But I know a great deal about you. What's more, I hate everything I've learned. A very clever young man called Johnny Angel hacked into your computer for me from a remote location. I've read your secret files. Seen all the photos that you hide from the world.

'You know Darius,' she continued conversationally, 'you really are a disgusting form of life.

'I'm not talking about your arrangement with the Mob to dispose of any bodies they send. It's a nasty business, but who am I to judge? No, what signed your death warrant is being part of the same paederist ring that killed Melody Gowe.

'When I discovered that, I wondered if I should send the evidence to the police. Then I found a senior policeman, a prosecuting attorney and a judge are part of the same ring. You'd either walk or be given a light slap on the wrist as punishment.

'What's this to do with you?' Mountford blustered. 'What do you want? Blackmail? There's no need for crazy talk about killing. I've got plenty of money. We can work something out.'

'You see,' Jenny continued, ignoring him. 'I know a little of what Melody suffered. A year after my father shot himself, my mother remarried. Two months later, my stepfather came to my room when mother was doing night shift. He abused me. I was only 12.

'I told my mother that night what had happened. She slapped my face and screamed I was a little whore to say such things. The abuse got worse. He invited some of his sick friends over while mom was working shift. He hired me out for beer money.

'When I was 14, my stepfather died. He was stabbed in a bar brawl. I felt sorry when I heard that. I wanted to kill him myself.'

Jenny drew on a pair of thick rubber gloves. 'So you see Darius, although I can't bring back my stepfather I can make the world a little safer for the innocents.'

She walked over to where a long extension cord had been plugged into an electrical socket. The end of the cord had been stripped to bare wire. She flicked on the switch.

'No!' Mountford shrieked, lunging toward the pool ladder. As his hands seized the steel frame, Jenny threw the live wire into the pool.

The man shrieked uncontrollably as he threshed violently around in the water. Jenny settled herself comfortably into a pool chair to watch.

The air grew thick with the stench of scorching flesh

# Ambition

He was nondescript. Once seen, rarely remembered. It helped his work. Some people knew him as the Breton. Interpol called him 'The Closer'.

* * *

For the last six months, Simone Aguile had lived in Paris under her maiden name. She'd rented a spacious and elegant apartment on the Right Bank, overlooking the Bois De Boulonge.

A highlight of each day was sitting on her terrace sipping black coffee and eating warm, flaky croissants as she listened to the birds squabbling in the green screen of the trees below. Before breakfast, she always ran for an hour: a circuitous route that took her through the park and into the awakening city.

Aged in her late thirties, Simone was an attractive woman, clothed or naked. Certainly Maurice, who was 15 years younger thought so. They met at the Sorbonne during an evening class in French literature. They had argued fiercely over coffee about the merits of the poet, Paul Verlaine. Maurice who fancied himself as an emerging writer was dismissive of Verlaine. That evening, to their mutual surprise they resolved their differences in Maurice's narrow bed. There at least he was talented.

When she came to Paris, men were the last thought on her mind. For over a decade, Simone had suffered an abusive marriage. 18 months later, she still wondered where she had found the courage to break free from Evan Liotta.

After winning a large divorce settlement, she began her new life in France. She knew Paris well, having grown up in that maddening yet captivating city.as the daughter of an American diplomat.

One of the greatest attractions of Paris was that it was so far from Denver. Once she'd adored her home city but the memory of her marriage soured that love. It was in the corridors of the Denver courthouse where Evan left his lawyers after the judge's decision was known and smilingly asked Simone if he might say a last goodbye. She'd innocently agreed. It was then that he whispered she'd never live long enough to enjoy his money. With another man, that might have been an empty threat. Evan however was a vindictive bully. The further Simone lived from Denver, the happier she'd be.

She ran with an easy grace. When she was in college, there'd been talk of Simone taking trials for the Olympics. Like many other promising things in her life, nothing had eventuated but she still enjoyed hard exercise. Work the muscles and calm your mind, her trainer once told her. It worked. It was working the day she died.

Le Marc stood by the path. Dressed in a jogging suit, he was stretching as she passed. A moment later, he followed running behind her, but keeping his distance.

Three young men jogged past the opposite way, animatedly conversing in German. Two of the men nodded in a friendly way to Simone, while the third spun around to admire her figure.

When the men were out of sight, Le Marc increased his pace. As he drew

behind her, he softly called, 'Simone!'

She abruptly stopped and turned.

'A present from Evan,' Le Marc said, slapping something on her arm as he sped past.

Looking down in confusion, Simone saw what appeared to be a nicotine patch. She hurriedly peeled it off, but it was already too late.

A bolt of pain convulsed her body. She crashed to the ground trying to gasp for help, but unable to utter a sound.

Le Marc turned and ran back to where she lay. He kneeled over, checking her pulse. A young woman hurried up, 'I saw her collapse. What happened?

'I don't know,' the Breton replied shortly. 'I'm a doctor. This lady must be rushed to hospital. I'll call an ambulance.'

He unzipped Simone's body pouch and took out her mobile. Flipping the phone open, he rang an emergency number. 'Tell them to hurry please,' he begged. 'The lady is suffering a seizure.'

'They're on their way, doctor,' the operator promised.

'You can go now,' Le Marc told the young woman.' I'll take it from here.'

'Will she be all right?' the woman asked.

'I'm sure. Thank you for offering to help.'

As soon as the woman left, Le Marc scooped out Simone's keys. Within minutes he was opening the door to her apartment. When he left, it looked as though the flat had been ransacked for valuables. He took with him however the real prize: Simone's laptop holding details of her bank accounts. Within an hour, Evan thousands of miles away in Denver transferred her money to secret bank accounts that he could access at leisure.

The patch that killed was Simone had been saturated with an unusually fast acting form of botulism toxin. The female witness came forward and described the mysterious missing doctor, but apart from an identikit picture that could have been any of dozens of men and the voice recording of the emergency call, the Surete had no leads. Interpol suspected the Closer, but had no photos on file.

The next day, Le Marc was issued into the office of Lord Peter Conrad.

His employer was standing at the window watching the scene in Regent's Park.

He turned smiling and waved the Breton to a chair, before sitting behind his desk.

'An excellent job. Our client's delighted. This'll lead to other work. The American market's huge.'

Le Marc took the cheque that Lord Peter handed him. He smiled with pleasure at the amount. 'I've included a little bonus,' Conrad said.

Conrad leant back in his chair and studied the killer. 'So, what are your plans? A few days off in London? As you see, it's glorious weather. There's plenty to keep you interested . The theater season's started and I read there's a retrospective of Bacon's paintings showing at the Tate. I know you love his screaming Popes.'

'I'll try to make that,' Le Marc agreed. He didn't care for small talk. 'Where's my next kill?'

'Ah, it's always work with you,' Lord Peter sighed. 'Not that I'm complaining.

'Next job's in Brussels. Target is an American: Tony Minargo.'

'The Mob accountant? I read he cut a deal and went into deep cover'

'He did, but Johnny Angel stripped him bare.'

Le Marc had long ago decided that Johnny Angel was the most dangerous man on the planet. No computer was immune from Angel. No secret safe.

What the Breton didn't and would never know was that Angel was the code name for a 17-year old Indian student, living in Leeds. Angel's relationship with Conrad was a dream. The youth helped make Lord Peter's organization a leader in its field. Lord Peter in turn rewarded Johnny and his extended family, most of whom lived in Mumbai with great wealth. On balance, the British aristocrat knew he had the better deal. Angel could just as easily have become wealthy by undetectable computer theft, but the two had formed a friendly bond.

* * *

For a small, plump man Tony Minargo moved with surprising speed. Scarcely had the light appeared above the confessional, than he darted across the church to be the first heard. He hadn't been to confession for weeks and was eager to unburden his guilt. Tony was a crook, but he had always been devout.

The confessional was a 19th century design that allowed the confessor to be glimpsed as a shadow behind an ornate steel grille.

'Forgive me, father for I have sinned,' Tony began.

He expected to hear the standard response 'How long has it been since you have been to confession?' Instead, Minargo was puzzled to hear the priest agree, 'Yes Tony you've sinned. You betrayed the trust of others and I'm here to punish you.'

The extraordinary words were followed by a sharp sting. Putting his hand to his cheek, Minargo felt a tiny dart embedded in his flesh.

Seconds later, the handful of churchgoers sitting in the pews were startled to see a man burst from the confessional and falling to the marble floor, began to thresh around. In the confusion, no one noticed the priest who emerged from the other door to the confessional. Skirting the group who rushed across to help the man who was now suffering violent convulsions, the priest walked briskly up the aisle toward the entrance.

It was there he met Father Marcel Touvre. The priest was looking flustered. That morning it seemed as though the Fates conspired to make Father Maurice late for confession. It had begun when his tiny Citroen had been rammed from behind by a van. This had led to a long delay in exchanging addresses and insurance details. Then as he bustled across the square toward the church, the priest had been waylaid by a garrulous and persistent elderly stranger.

As he entered the church, another priest was leaving.

'Hurry Father,' the stranger suggested mockingly. 'There's a man dying in your church. You may still have time to administer the Last Rites.'

* * *

Jenny Silk was a disturbing young woman, Peter Conrad decided. She was sexually challenging, though not in an obvious way. She was also an ice-cold killer.

Lord Peter was used to dangerous company, but Jenny Silk stood in a league of her own. Even as a lurid erotic fantasy slipped unbidden into his mind, reason warned him to never cross that line. Jenny might welcome his attention, but only as a way to tighten her grip on power.

He therefore kept his contact with Jenny at a minimum, meeting only when he sent her on another assignment.

Watching her from across from his desk, Lord Peter vividly recalled their first meeting.

It had been in Peter's bedroom in his heavily guarded country estate. He was sleeping alone. It's always been common for married British aristocrats to sleep alone. Besides he couldn't recall the last time Anne had shown any interest in sex. It would have been decades ago. His was now the whitest of marriages.

Lord Peter was a passionate man, but it was subterfuge not sex he craved. He loved risk. The risk that one day people would seem him for what he was. If that day came, he would take his life. He wouldn't spend three minutes, much less five decades in jail.

He woke from a deep sleep to see a woman standing at the end of his bed. She was dressed in black and he strained to see her standing in the shadows.

Lord Peter had an agile mind. Within seconds of awakening, he was alert.

'Who are you? How did you get in? What do you want?' he demanded. There was no trace of fear in his voice.

'So many questions! My name's Jenny Silk and I've come for a job.'

'A job?' he asked in astonishment. 'You broke into my house in the middle of the night seeking employment? See my manpower manager tomorrow.'

Jenny shook her head. 'No point. She wouldn't know of your secret company. Besides, my skills aren't the sort you list on a CV. I want to be put on retainer at Purchase.'

Sir John slipped his left hand down to the small button set in the headboard of his bed. He pressed it, expecting that within 15 seconds the room would be filled with armed guards.

He was shocked that she knew of Purchase. The woman had to be held, questioned and if necessary tortured to reveal how she had discovered his secret.

Lord Peter was a brilliant and ruthless businessman. Beginning in his late thirties, he specialized in asset stripping. Many British companies at the time were burdened with incompetent managers, lazy staff and outdated equipment. By studying their woeful balance sheets, Peter could almost instantly spot residual value hidden from others.

One of his biggest plays was that of the brewing, transport and retail empire owned by Sir John Purchase. When Sir John died in a light plane crash in Scotland, the company went on the blocks. Lord Peter put in what many saw as an insultingly low figure and to the surprise of the City won control. Sir John was once considered one of Britain's most daring and successful entrepeneurs. It was his contribution to industry that won him a knighthood. As time passed however, he lost his grip. When he died he left a series of ill matched, unprofitable companies.

Lord Peter sacked staff, dropped product lines and revamped marketing strategies. He invested in high quality plant and sold the companies he couldn't save. This was swiftly done and greatly added to his reputation and personal fortune.

There was however one company among Sir John's empire that puzzled him. It was a private concern, answerable only to Sir John. It held no board meetings and records were sketchy. Apart from retaining a handful of highly paid specialists, the company simply titled 'Purchase' was so secretive that Lord Peter had no idea what it did. The company was lucrative, and probably paid less tax than it should.

To solve the problem, Lord Peter enlisted the help of Miles Dunbar, an old and trusted friend from his Trinity College days. Dunbar, now one of the world's leading forensic accountants made an astonishing and potentially embarrassing discovery. Purchase was a modern version of Murder Inc. The company provided assassins for clients throughout the world.

Peter often wondered what led Sir John to a life of crime. He suspected that like him, Sir John found respectability tedious.

'There are five operatives,' Miles told him. 'The best is a man called "The Breton". None of the assassins know each other. They kill all sorts of men and women - politicians, business rivals, erring husbands, criminals who have never been arrested or who walk out of jail with reduced sentences, gang leaders - you name it. Purchase provides a discreet and highly sought service.'

'And one which sets me a challenge. I should go to the police with what I know.

'But you won't?' his friend asked cunningly. Miles and Peter thought alike.

'No.'

'Good. Then I want to suggest two things. First, make me a director. I don't want to miss any of the excitement.'

'Done.'

'Secondly, hire a young man I know. He has an astonishing talent with computers.'

'Why?'

'Because, his skill will transform our service. Sometimes, it's better to financially ruin a target than that person. The more we learn about targets by accessing their secret files, the better. We also need knowledge as leverage on any client who tries to blackmail us.'

'Sounds good. Set up a meeting. What's his name?'

'His net name is Johnny Angel'.

Now talking to Jenny Silk, Peter wondered if Angel had overridden the sophisticated computer security on his estate. He pressed the headboard button again, impatiently wondering what had happened to his men.

'I wouldn't bother,' Jenny said. 'Your guards are dead.'

'You killed three armed men?' Lord Peter asked in astonishment.

'They were armed, but mentally unprepared,' she shrugged.

'They were ex-SAS. Some of the best.'

'Arrogant and incompetent. I can find you better men.'

'Why should I hire you? I don't know anything about you.'

'The less you know, the safer for both of us. And don't bother hunting around on computers. I don't leave electronic footprints.'

Lord Peter was used to making swift but good decisions. 'All right,' he agreed. 'Here's what we'll do. I don't know what you're like in the field. I'll take you on a month's probation. Give you some light stuff. See how you pan out.'

Jenny shook her head. 'Not interested. I want the big tasks and I want them now. The work that you would have given the Breton.'

'How do you know about him?' Was no secret safe from this woman?

'That's my business. You should hire me to replace him.'

'What have you done?' Lord Peter asked in horror.

'I poisoned him last night. Strange that such a careful man believed my cover story. He thought we were having an affair. Death was quick. He hardly suffered.'

'Why would you that? There was plenty of work for both of you.'

'I don't need a rival,' Jenny replied coolly. ' You'll find I'm very ambitious.

# Your Life is Mine

'Wake up,' Jenny Silk ordered.

'Leave me,' he muttered. 'I need to sleep.'

She poked him sharply between the ribs. He jumped cursing.

'You big sook,' she teased. 'That didn't hurt.'

'I want to sleep,' Chalmers grumbled. 'I need to be alert tomorrow morning.'

'Why? What's happening then?'

'That's when I'm going to kill you!'

She started, then laughed softly. 'Yeah, right. Cool your jets, Captain Kirk! It won't happen then. It'll never happen. You're far too slow. Besides, what would you do without me?

'Boy!' she continued in mock wonder, 'I've heard of Post-coital Remorse, but you're really mean!'

They lay naked in his bed. He reminded himself this wasn't a dream.

Chalmers had been obsessed with Sheena Burnam for two years. Realizing no one in the FBI believed Sheena had staged her own murder, he quit the Bureau. He spent his savings tracking her firstly to Mustique, then Jamaica, back to the States and on to Paris, ending in London. It was soon clear that Sheena, who now called herself Jenny Silk, was deliberately leaving clues.

At first, it was a simple quest for justice, but as he increasingly dreamed of sex with her, he began questioning his motives.

Then she came to him.

It was nearing midnight. He woke from dreaming of her passionate embrace to find Jenny seated on his bed.

'So this is how it ends,' he said resignedly. He always knew the danger of tracking a remorseless killer. 'You win.'

'Tonight, both of us win,' she replied, unbuttoning her blouse. Her white, lacy bra gleamed softly against her tanned skin. There was a small metallic sound. He tensed, before realizing its cause. She had unhooked her bra before drawing it off.

'You looked worried,' she noted.

'I thought it was the safety catch of a gun,' he admitted.

'No safety devices tonight,' she smiled. Jenny stood up and unbuttoned her slacks.

'No hidden weapons?'

'Nothing that Nature doesn't give every girl,' she promised, sliding down her panties. Then she was on the bed, boldly straddling him

'Don't fight this,' she told him. 'You know you've always wanted it. Ah,' she murmured in deep pleasure as he entered her, 'You feel really good!'

* * *

'What are you thinking?' she murmured drawing a sharp fingernail down his stomach.

'How beautiful you look,' he admitted honestly.

'I've plenty of faults.'

'A woman never looks more lovely than when she's been making love.'

'You chauvinist pig!'

'The other thing I was wondering was how I got so lucky.'

'I guess I find you attractive.'

'I can't imagine how! I'm balding, overweight and growing old.'

'True, but you're sort of cute. Pretty boys never turned me on. Besides, you're my pet project. I want to bring out your dark side.'

'I don't have a dark side.'

'Believe me, you have. We'll find it together.'

'Maybe, it's happening,' Chalmers reflected. 'I keep expecting to feel shame, but I feel fantastic. At the same time, I know a lot about you and much of it's evil.'

'Evil is Myra Hindley, not Jenny Silk. Know me better before you judge.'

She made some tea and brought it to him. 'You see,' she continued, ' the problem we have is you've only seen me as your enemy.'

'Understandable,' he answered defensively 'when you've tried to kill me!'

'If I had, you'd be dead. I've saved your life on three recent occasions.'

Chalmers was skeptical. 'Who apart from you would want to murder me?'

'The organization that I work for. They don't like snoops. You can't blame them.'

'Give me one example of how you saved my life,' he challenged.

'The football game in Chicago.'

'Are you saying the sniper wasn't you?'

'No, it was me.'

'The man who was behind me in the next row was shot in the head. You were aiming at me and killed an innocent.'

'No, I was aiming at him. He wasn't innocent. The police later found a switchblade in his pocket. I recognized him. He was a Bulgarian assassin. The first chance he had he'd stick a blade in your ribs.'

'It feels strange thanking you,' Chalmers said. 'Is the contract on my life still active?'

'Not if we become lovers.'

'I'd like that anyway, but I'm not used to hiding behind a woman.'

'Then get used to it,' she said shortly. 'I'm better at this than you. Male pride will only get you killed.'

She eased out of bed and began to dress.

'I've a strong feeling you and I will be together for years in many situations. At present, I'm guarding your back. There'll be other times when you'll lift me out of danger.'

She buttoned her blouse and tucked it into her slacks.

'I must go.'

'Will you be back soon?'

'No, there's a job in Monaco. A British industrialist.'

'A killing,' Chalmers said bluntly.

'It's what I do.'

'Why does he have to die?'

'I didn't ask. It's his time. Each of us has an appointment with death.'

She paused at the door. In her expression, he saw a fleeting regret.

Then with a brief wave, she opened the door and was gone.

# The Stalking Horse

Discretion can mean many things. One thing the word doesn't describe is parking a rare and expensive car outside a modest suburban home.

Jenny Silk loved the car Lord Peter had loaned her. It was a current model Maserati finished in midnight blue with a cream, kid-leather interior. A modern classic that would turn heads anywhere in the world.

Besides this wasn't just another home. It was where the parents of a murder victim lived. Park there and questions would be asked. Some enterprising neighbor might well take a photo with a phone camera and sell it to a London tabloid. Jenny could almost read the headline: 'Mystery Caller on Tragic Couple'.

Parking the Maserati in the underground garage of a shopping center, Jenny walked 10 blocks to the Johnson home. She had dressed demurely and avoided eye contact with strangers. Even so, she sensed the resentful appraisals of other women.

The house and garden looked forlorn. Paint was peeling from the windows and guttering. A dead apricot tree stood in the tiny front yard: its thin dead branches raised as though appealing for help. Before she met them, Jenny suspected the Johnsons were bitter and suspicious.

* * *

'Amazing,' Chalmers shook his head.

'The case?'

'No. All this,' he indicated with a wave the tall pile of documents as well as photographs of the victim. 'How did you get hold of copies of these documents from police files in two countries?'

'There's nothing stored on any computer that Johnny Angel can't access.'

'But you told me Peter Conrad doesn't know you're doing this. Doesn't Angel work for him?'

'Peter thinks he does. Actually, Johnny does me many secret favors.'

'But how do you pay him?' Chalmers asked naively. 'With his power, he must be the richest teenager in the world.'

'Money isn't the only way to reward a friend,' Jenny replied, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

'Oh,' Chalmers sounded deflated.

'Don't sulk,' she told him. 'You know that I often use sex to further my ends. What I do or don't do with Johnny isn't your business. I love you. You're my silly great bear. If you love me, that's all you ever need to know.'

Chalmers shrugged in resignation. They had argued about this before and would never agree.

'It's a sad business,' he commented, examining the documents. 'But you'd be crazy to become involved. This is a high profile crime and you have to stay out of the public gaze.

'One slip and you'll have both reporters and the police asking who's Jenny Silk.'

'True.'

'So dumb idea. Also stupid is the pain you'll cause the Johnsons if you raise their hopes, but can't find the killers.'

'That's also true,' she admitted.

'Then give me one good reason why you want to take this on.'

'It's an emotional thing. I know you think I'm a cold bitch and often I am, but when I saw a television documentary on the case recently, and witnessed the grief of the girl's parents, it tore at my heart.'

What a strange woman, he reflected. How little I know her. Confronting, ruthless, sexy, dangerous yet enraged when she encountered sexual predators. He sensed there was something dark in Jenny's background that prompted her rage. One day he hoped she'd tell him what it was.

Chalmers sipped his Blue Mountain coffee and reviewed the case.

Three years before Sheila Johnson, a British backpacker traveled to a Croatian island where she was murdered.

Shortly after posting postcards to her parents and boyfriend assuring them she was having a great holiday, she disappeared. Sheila was 18: a quiet, agreeable and mildly pretty girl. She was religiously minded and a virgin. She was fun-loving but cautious and was thrilled to be traveling overseas for the first time. Normally girls from Sheila's working class background wouldn't attend university, but her outstanding grades won her a scholarship for a Communications Degree. It was at uni that she met David Winsome who was studying to become a doctor. They made a happy couple. Their future seemed bright.

When time passed without contact, Sheila's mother became concerned. She rang the backpacker's hostel where Sheila had been staying only to learn her daughter hadn't been seen for a fortnight.

'Such a lovely girl! We had so many wonderful and you know really meaningful conversations together,' Paul Garnett said. Garnett a friendly and helpful gay man was a British ex-pat who owned and managed the hostel. 'I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. We have a floating population. Young people come in saying they'll stay for months. Then there's a chance of a lift to Cairo or Dehli or wherever and off they go without a care in the world. A few months later, they'll remember they haven't paid their rent and will send me a cheque with an apology. Most of them are such darlings. I'm like a father or uncle to the kids here.'

'She wouldn't leave without a word,' Anna, Sheila's mother objected. 'She was always thoughtful. Besides, Sheila told us she was so happy on the island, she was thinking of taking an extra week from her studies.'

'I'm sure she didn't mean to worry you,' Garnett said soothingly. 'There's probably a postcard winging its way to you from some exotic clime even as we speak.'

'Something doesn't feel right,' Anna worried. 'Did she leave her passport and money in her room when she went missing?'

'No, she kept those in my office safe for security. She asked a staff member for them the night before she left. It's why I didn't report her disappearance to the police. Mind you, I did feel a little bit hurt that she didn't say goodbye. Now I know your concern I'll report her missing. The Chief Inspector is a personal friend. You'll find him very helpful.'

'Did she have any friends at the hostel?' Les Johnson, Sheila's father asked. 'Someone she might have confided in? A boy or girl who might know her travel plans?'

'There were two people, but both have moved on without leaving a forwarding address. I'll email their names to you. Perhaps their Embassies can track them down.'

'Mr. Garnett,' Anna began.

'Paul, please. I'm feeling my age enough these days without sounding like my father's name!'

'Paul, you probably think we're silly fusspots.'

'Not at all. I only wish other parents cared what happens to children like you. The things I could tell you! Not that Sheila was like that. As I say, a clean living, wonderful girl.'

'Les and I have decided to come over to start looking for Sheila.'

'That's an excellent idea! Squeaky hinge: that sort of thing. I'll be happy to put you up at no charge, introduce you to the police, take you to places that Sheila liked to go. Things like that. I really liked your daughter. I feel really guilty I didn't try to contact you. It would be a pleasure to help you now.'

'What a nice man,' Anna said replacing the phone.

'Yes, he couldn't have been more helpful,' Les agreed.

Anna began to cry. He took her in his arms stroking her hair. 'It'll be all right darling,' he promised.

'I'm so scared,' Anna wept.

* * *

Garnett was as good as his word. He was waiting at the ferry terminal and helped carry their luggage to his car. Within an hour they were seated in the office of Bruno Markovec, the Chief Inspector.

Markovec was a heavy-set man with a blunt but professional manner. He carefully noted down each of their answers.

'Was she carrying much money?' he asked.

'Very little. She never asked for much,' Anna replied. 'In fact she lived on so little I worried she had enough to eat so I sent her some cash through Western Union.'

'No valuables? Expensive watch, camera, mobile phone? Anything that might attract a thief?'

'We don't have money to fling away on expensive stuff like that,' Les said.

'Sheila wasn't interested in possessions anyway,' Anna said, softening her husband's typically awkward response.

After more questions, the policeman brought the interview to an end.

'Very well. I'll begin inquiries. Interview people who saw her on the night of her disappearance. Track down the two friends that Paul mentioned. Ensure her passport hasn't been presented at a customs point and so on. In the meantime, look around the island. Catch your breath. The moment we learn something we'll be in touch.

'May I make a suggestion?' he said at the door. 'This investigation is best handled by professionals. We know when people lie. These are my people. I grew up with them. I know their backgrounds, their motives and their records. While I appreciate you want to be where you daughter was last seen, there is a real danger that you could muddy the waters. Look around. Paul will take good care of you, but then please go back to England and let us do our jobs.'

Anna and Les spent a fortnight on the island following every lead that they could imagine or Paul suggest. Each day, they badgered Markovec for news of progress. There was no news. It was as though Sheila had walked off the edge of the world. In desperation, her parents finally took the policeman's advice and returned to Britain where anxious days turned into weeks and then months.

While Paul Garnett never failed to be pleasant each time they called, there was no mistaking the growing irritation in the policeman's voice.

'I don't know what more I can say, Mr. Johnson? The case is active. We're pursuing certain leads. We're working closely with Scotland Yard and Interpol. Your daughter is missing, but there is no evidence of foul play. Thousands of girls go missing every day throughout the world. Most remain missing because they don't want to be found As soon as I know something, I'll be in touch. In the meantime, forgive me, but I must prioritize my heavy workload. Perhaps if I can give you the name of my assistant to contact in future rather than myself.'

'What did he say?' Anna asked anxiously when her husband put down the phone.

'He pretty much told me to bugger off!' Les said bitterly.

Six months later, Sheila was found.

Horst Wenzel, a German scuba diver was exploring a little known area close to a deep-sea trench. Sheila's body was naked, handcuffed to a section of heavy iron chain to weigh her down. She was resting on the lip of the trench. Several foot further to the left and the body would have fallen out of sight.

The remains were clearly identifiable and still showed signs of brutal rape and torture. Reading the reports and looking at the police photos, Chalmers was filled with cold disgust. Like many decent men, he felt ashamed of his sex.

The case attracted intense media interest in the United Kingdom. Two leading detectives were sent from Scotland Yard to assist, but despite intensive investigation the case remained unsolved.

'Tell me what you think,' Jenny invited Chalmers.

He looked up. 'I can't fault the way the Croatian or British police handled this. What you can you do that hasn't been done?'

'Look at these.' Jenny handed him a manila envelope. He slid out a series of photos and caught his breath.

He swore softly as he examined each picture. 'Horrible!' he said. 'It's a floating graveyard.' The pictures showed six young women in various stages of decomposition, each manacled to lengths of heavy chain on the sea bed.

'Same area?'

'At the base of the trench. It's very deep there. I hired special equipment to get photographs at that depth.'

'Why did you think there were bodies there?'

'I didn't but the trench seemed a perfect hiding place. It niggled at me why Sheila's body hadn't been dropped in there. The only reason that made sense was that whoever sank her body miscalculated the position by several feet. If that was true, it was likely other bodies were hidden there.'

'Have you told the police?'

'No, I want to find and punish these killers myself.'

'How will you flush them out?'

'What we need is bait.'

'Yourself?'

'No. Each girl was young. I'm guessing vulnerable backpackers. I'd say the killings have been happening over a period of two years. As Garnett told the Johnson's the backpacker population is always shifting. A number of girls wouldn't have been reported missing. I certainly don't fit the victim age or character profile.'

'You believe the killers will strike again?'

'Why not? They must have been scared when Sheila's body was found, but fortunately the police didn't connect the dots. Given the right bait, there's a good chance they'll kill again. They'll make sure the next body goes into the trench. I have to stop them.'

'All right,' Chalmers agreed. 'But I don't want you doing this alone. Let me guard your back.'

'Are you sure? I always work alone. Besides I won't be handing the killers over to the police if I find them.'

'I'll deal with that if or when it happens.'

If you get in my way, put me in danger or try to stop me taking revenge I may kill you,' Jenny warned.

'I know.'

'Very well. I'm curious to see how well we work.

'The first step is for me to see if the Johnson's will accept help.'

* * *

Entering the unkempt garden, Jenny climbed the three steps to the verandah and pressed the front door bell. After a minute of silence, she realized the bell had been disconnected and she rapped on the door. A man's shape filled the glass panel and the door was opened. A wan, middle aged man glared suspiciously through the small opening.

'Mr. Lesley Johnson?'

'Who are you?'

'Mr. Johnson,' Jenny began. 'My name's Pamela Hardgrave.'

'What do you want,' he cut in.

'A word with your wife and yourself.'

'Are you from the police? Let's see your badge.'

'I'm not from the police.'

'A private investigator?'

'No.'

'It's about Sheila isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'Then you're either from the media or you're some kind of snoopy do-gooder. Either way, we haven't got anything to say.'

The door was already closing. Jenny swiftly jammed her foot into the opening. She wouldn't be ignored.

'Who is it, Les?' a woman's voice called from within the house.'

'Some pest of a woman about Sheila,' Johnson called back. He looked fiercely at Jenny, 'Will you take your foot out of my door and go away?'

'In time. Please listen to what I have to say.'

Anna Johnson appeared behind her husband.

'Who are you?' she demanded. 'What do you want?'

'She won't let me close the door,' Johnson said.

'Can't you see, we don't want to talk to anyone,' Anna appealed.

'I know. I understand. But isn't it worth two minutes of your time to hear me out?'

'Let her in, Les.' Anna ordered her husband.

'Are you sure?'

'Two minutes, what's your name?'

'Pamela Hardgrave.'

'120 seconds to state your case.' Anna led Jenny into the small sitting room and indicated a chair. The two women sat while Les Johnson stood in angry vexation.

'Oh, for heaven's sake Les,' Anna said finally. 'You're looking untidy. Do something useful. Go and make us a cup of tea. I can handle Ms. Hardgrave.'

'Men. Bloody useless species,' Anna shook her head when he departed. 'Do you have children?' she unexpectedly asked Jenny.

'I had one,' Jenny admitted. 'When I was 16, I fell pregnant. I wanted to keep the baby. It was a darling little boy.'

'What did the father think?'

'I don't know who the father was. I was very mixed up at the time.'

'What happened to your son?'

'He died. A cot death.'

'Do you miss him?'

'Every day of my life,' Jenny replied honestly.

'You seem a nice lady, Ms. Hardgrave. I'd hate to think that knowing a little of our pain, you'd be here for a bad reason.'

'I'm not, but you should know my name isn't Pamela Hardgrave.'

'What is it?'

'It's best you don't know.'

'What are you, apart from a liar.'

'I'm a trained killer.'

Anna Johnson stared speechless at the young woman quietly sitting opposite.

'You think I'm mad,' Jenny continued.

'No,' Anna said slowly. 'I'm a good judge of character. That's why I let you in my home. I think you're what you say you are and it scares the hell out of me!'

'Don't be. I'm here because I think I can help.'

'We certainly need help. You seem an intelligent young woman. I imagine if you're a killer, it's for a good reason.'

'The best,' Jenny agreed. 'I do it for money.'

'Well, you've come to the wrong people here!'

'I don't want your money. Let's just say I have a personal reason to hate sexual predators. Sheila's killers deserve to be punished. I think I can find them.'

'If you do,' Anna's normally kind face hardened. 'Don't hesitate for a moment. Show them the same mercy they gave my daughter. Do what I'd love to do: murder the bastards!'

* * *

'First stage completed,' Jenny told Chalmers that night.

'Next?'

'We need a stalking horse. A girl who looks like a young, naïve backpacker, but is both brave and resourceful. I'm putting her at terrible risk. I don't know where I'll find someone like that.'

'I do. I've been giving this a lot of thought.' Chalmers said. 'Her name's Fran Bayer. She's my niece. She'll be perfect'

'A relative? No way!'

'I've arranged for her to contact you. Take a look. See if you don't agree.'

* * *

'Go away!' Jenny cried irritably. 'I don't know what you want. I can't understand what you're saying.'

Was the woman mad? Jenny wondered. Three blocks from her flat the woman who was either Indian or Pakistani had attached herself to Jenny. Now she couldn't shaken off. The woman who was in her eighties kept plucking at Jenny's sleeve, gabbling something urgently in soft Hindi, Urdu or Bengali.

Jenny had repeatedly signaled she wanted to be left alone but the maddening woman would only fall back for a moment with a look of puzzled hurt, then minutes later would return whispering to Jenny or touching her arm gently for attention.

Jenny Silk always sought control. Control over others, of events, of her emotions.

She hated feeling powerless. She loathed the fact that increasingly passersby were turning around to stare at the woman and herself. The angrier Jenny grew the more people stared.

She tried offering the woman money, but that didn't work. She walked faster but the old woman kept up.

Jenny felt relieved to reach her front door, but the woman was still there a step behind as Jenny fumbled for her key. Maddened, Jenny turned around and screamed in the woman's face 'Oh piss off!' She fought back an almost irresistible impulse to slap the woman's face. She fished out her mobile and waved it inches from the woman's uncomprehending eyes. 'See this. If you don't stop pestering me this very minute, I'm going to call the police. Oh damn. That's it.' She flipped open the phone and began to press buttons.

The woman placed a restraining hand on her arm. 'Hang up, Ms. Silk,' she counseled in perfect English. 'The police are last people you want to contact.

'Shall we go inside?' the old woman asked, pushing an astonished Jenny into her hallway.

Inside, the woman pulled off a white wig to reveal her naturally glossy black hair. 'That's better,' she smiled.' These wigs have to fit tightly so they get very hot.

'Where's your bathroom Jenny? I can call you Jenny can't I? I need to wash off this vegetable stain.' She gestured at her wrinkled face.

'You're Fran Bayer,' Jenny exclaimed. 'Nat Chalmer's niece.'

'The same. Perhaps I'll take a shower. I hate wearing saris. Too much material. Do you mind me using one of your bathrobes?'

'Just take over!' Jenny offered sarcastically.

The girl was unruffled. 'Could you be an angel and pour us both some champagne while I'm showering? A couple of flutes to toast our meeting.'

'You've some nerve!' Jenny said to an empty room.

When Fran came back toweling her hair, she found Jenny reading a thin file.

Jenny handed her a flute. 'What were you saying to me before? Was it nonsense?'

'Certainly not! It was a series of poems by Tagore in Hindi. Wonderful stuff. I could lend you a translation.'

'You speak Hindi?'

'Actually I speak ten languages. It's a sort of hobby. I was once told you can't really get into the role of a foreigner without thinking and speaking in their language.

'Is that my file?' she continued. 'Anything interesting?'

'What's interesting is what it doesn't say. There's no mention of your language skills for a start. You have no Facebook profile. You never post on Twitter. Your address is a post office box. You don't come up in Google searches. You're someone who flies under the radar.'

'Dear me,' Fran said mockingly, 'I must have really frustrated your little computer maven Johnny Angel.'

'You're meant to be an actress and have gained some great reviews, but you refuse interviews. I wonder what you really are.'

'Perhaps I'm tragically shy,' Fran suggested.

'Perhaps you'd like two tight slaps,' Jenny responded. 'You're a bloody irritating person.'

'I seem like that at first. I grow better.'

'And then there's all those trips to unexpected places,' Jenny persisted. 'North Korea, Israel, Libya, Cuba and Haiti.'

'How mysterious I sound!'

As she sipped her champagne, Fran's bathrobe slipped open to reveal a pale, full breast with the hint of a dark nipple. Jenny suddenly felt uncomfortable.

Fran looked up and caught the gaze. 'Shall I tell you what I think?'

'Go on,' Jenny said, steadying her voice.

Fran shook her bathrobe off her shoulders, revealing her breasts.

'I think you feel as I do. You want us to go upstairs and make both violent and tender love. The only thing that's stopping you at this moment is that you're worried Uncle Nat will return and catch us in bed.'

'Please cover yourself,' Jenny begged. No one had stirred her like this girl. From the moment they had met, Jenny felt herself thrown off balance.

'Is that better? Are you feeling more yourself?' Fran asked, nonchalantly drawing the bathrobe back on. 'Can I have a little more bubbly? I'm parched.'

'You know what I think?' Jenny said thickly, fighting for self-control. The thought of Fran's soft, warm body under the bathrobe was almost unbearably erotic. 'I think you're like me. I also think you freelance for the British intelligence service. That your language and acting skills help you as a spy.'

'Let me change. Can I borrow a blouse and jeans? You're about my size. It'll look better when Uncle Nat comes home.'

'Pity about us not making love,' Fran said at the door. 'I would have enjoyed doing it with you. Still, there's plenty of time when the job's done.'

Jenny took a uncharacteristically large gulp of champagne to steady her nerves.

When Chalmers came in, he found the two going over the plan.

'So what do you think, Jenny? Isn't she perfect for the role?'

Jenny turned to Fran. 'You realize how dangerous this is? You'll be our Stalking Horse.'

'I wouldn't be interested if it was safe. Now let's talk money. Uncle Nat told me you'll make me rich if I pull this off.'

'Yes, providing you always keep this secret.'

'I'll be silent as a tomb,' Fran promised.

She giggled, 'Maybe that's not a smart thing to say to a killer like you. Don't want to put ideas in your head! When do we start?'

* * *

'This is absurd,' Chalmers fumed. 'Fran's totally out of control.'

'She warned us this was the way she worked,' Jenny pointed out. She was just as worried as Chalmers but tried to be fair.

'From her viewpoint, she's right,' Jenny continued. 'As we agreed, the killers needed a place where they could torture their victims. As there's over six bodies, it's likely that the killers live locally. They'll be watching Fran for a while before they act. If they think we're shadowing her, they'll creep back under a large rock.'

'But it's mad to leave Fran without protection,' Chalmers groaned. 'I should never have suggested her. I mean, we have no idea where she is at this moment. She could be tortured or dead while we're sitting around twiddling our thumbs.'

'Fran's used to looking after herself.'

'She's only 18, for heaven's sake!'

But Chalmers knew he was blowing smoke. 'The only way these creeps will target a vulnerable young woman is if she appears helpless,' Fran had told them firmly. 'So no shadowing, no reports via blind drops, no weapons and no electronic bugs.'

'These are ruthless killers. How will you protect yourself?'

'I have some skill in unarmed combat.'

'I'm sure you have,' Jenny acknowledged. 'But I always recall an interview I heard with one of the world's leading judo experts. The reporter asked what the man would do if he were to encounter three thugs carrying knives and guns in a dark alley. His reply was, "I'd run like hell!" '

Fran laughed in delight. 'Good idea! My best protection is that I'm alert to danger. It's when I believe I'm safe, that I'm most at risk.

'Sorry guys,' she stood up. 'There's nothing more to say. We do this my way or I walk.'

It was now three weeks since Fran had come to the island. Her passport identified her as Maruka van Zeedan, a student from Amsterdam. She looked every inch the part of a naïve, fun loving but slightly shy backpacker: someone with a similar appearance and temperament to Sheila Johnson.

If Jenny Silk and Nat. Chalmers were concerned with Fran's safety, they would have been alarmed at the risks she took. A day after booking into the hostel, she hired a Vespa motor scooter and breezed around the island, often sunbaking on deserted beaches.

Frequently she felt she was being watched, but no one approached.

To everyone, Fran seemed like a young woman without a care in the world. She consulted her guidebook, made careful notes. Kept a diary, sent postcards and visited ancient ruins and villages taking many photos of picturesque old men and women as well as giggling children. She sketched the coastline and dabbled in watercolors. Back at the hostel, she befriended another Dutch girl who never suspected Maruka wasn't who she said she was. She also chatted with Paul Garnett, who was a well-educated, sensitive and friendly man.

'I worry about you,' he told her one night. 'You should tell people where you're going on your jaunts around the island.'

'Why bother?' Fran asked carelessly. 'Everyone's so nice here. I never feel unsafe.'

'I hate to tell you this but perhaps you didn't read about it in your newspapers. We had a nasty case here almost eight months ago. A young woman, Sheila Johnson disappeared. I told her parents that she'd probably gone on somewhere else, but a diver found her body.'

'Had she drowned?'

'No, much worse. She'd been raped and tortured before being choked to death.'

'That's horrible! Did the police catch those responsible?'

'Not yet. So please be careful. The killers might still be somewhere close.'

'I know how to look after myself. But thanks for the heads up. I'll be extra vigilant in future. Poor girl. What a horrible thing to happen! Her parents must be devastated.'

'They are and they're such nice people. My heart bleeds for them.'

On her last evening on the island, Fran went to the local tavern. Her Dutch friend had moved on the day before. She was sipping her drink when Garnett came in.

'Maruka, they told me you were here. You can't sit by yourself on your last night. Let me buy you a farewell drink.'

'Thanks Paul, I'd like that,' she got up. 'Could you order for me? White wine. Something dry. I'll just slip into the loo. Won't be long.'

When she returned, she eased herself around a large indoor plant into her seat. The wine together with Garnett's beer were on her table.

'Well, cheers,' he said raising his glass. 'I wish you lots of excitement ahead.'

'Cheers,' Fran echoed.

There was a noise from another table. An attractive woman in her twenties was arguing with a balding, middle aged man. The exchange was heated, though Fran and Paul couldn't catch what was said. The man who appeared to be American clenched his fists as though barely restraining himself from striking the woman. Then the woman said something that took the steam out of the conflict. The man relaxed and settled back in his chair. Within minutes, they were gently laughing and talking. The rest of the tavern lost interest and returned to their conversations.

Paul was surprised to see Fran's glass was nearly empty.

'Goodness, you put that away quickly,' he smiled. 'Shall I order another?'

'No,' she said, putting a hand to her forehead. 'Thanks Paul. I don't know what it is. I've just come over sort of dizzy.'

'Probably the heat. Maybe the excitement of going next day. Let me help you. We'll get some fresh air. I'll take you home.'

'Thanks,' Fran said, standing up slowly. 'Ouch, that's awful! I feel really woozy. I hope I'm not going to be sick.'

'Lean on me. That's the way. Little steps. Excuse me, can we get through? Lady's not feeling well.'

'Must be something I ate,' Fran muttered. 'Maybe that squid at lunchtime.'

'You'll be right soon,' Garnett promised as they crossed the carpark. Here's the car. I'll just roll down your window. Let you get some fresh air. There, is that better?'

'Better,' Fran agreed wearily. 'Can you take me to the hostel?'

'Of course,' Paul said, strapping her in and starting the ignition. 'Well be back in a jiffy.'

'The hostel,' she murmured, closing her eyes.

30 minutes later, they arrived at a warehouse. It was set in an isolated part of town, toward the mountains.

'Are we there?' Fran opened her eyes. She stared in confusion out the car window. 'Paul, where are we? This isn't the hostel.'

'No,' he sniggered. 'This is my playground.'

He got out the car and opened her door. Unclipping Fran's safety belt, he dragged her out and pushed her toward the warehouse door. He grabbed her before she slumped onto the ground and dragged her inside, turning on the lights with a free hand.

'Paul, don't! What are you doing? Help me,' she pleaded.

'Shut up you stupid little bitch,' he hissed. He stripped her clothes away. Pushing her naked body onto the dissecting table, he snapped manacles on her wrists and ankles. Then he stood back, admiring his handiwork.

'There, all laid out nicely,' he told her. 'Now all you need are some playmates.'

Flipping open his mobile, he took several photos of Fran's spreadeagled body. 'Nice,' he said 'if you like that sort of thing.' He typed a brief invitation, 'The meat's ready. Come and feast!' and sent the file to a phone number that he keyed in.

Ten minutes passed. The warehouse was silent except for the dripping of a tap, distant howl of wild dogs and Fran's soft groans of pain.

'Wait for it Maruka,' he promised grimly 'We'll soon give you something that will make you scream.'

A car's engine could be heard, its lights passing the warehouse window. The car braked and doors slammed. Then the warehouse door opened and two men strolled in.

'Ready when you are,' Garnett waved to the helpless girl.

The two men moved into the light. One was Bruno Markovec and the other a young constable.

The Chief Inspector ran his hand over Fran's thigh. She squirmed but couldn't escape his probing fingers.

'This is a good one,' he said thickly. 'I've been waiting too long.'

The door was flung open and two people burst in. Garnett recognized the couple from the bar.

Before Markovec and the constable could draw their guns, they were stunned with tasers and fell writhing to the ground. Jenny retrieved the men's guns and covered Garnett who shrank back bewildered.

'Get me out of these,' Fran ordered. There was no trace of the drugged victim now in her voice. Averting his gaze from his niece's naked body, Chalmers unclipped the manacles. Fran sat up rubbing her wrists and ankles. 'That's better,' she murmured. 'That bastard made the restraints too tight. Besides, I was getting a cramp.'

She slid off the table and walked across to Garnett who shrank back as she approached. Then with a blur of movement, she lashed out with her foot, kicking him with great force between the legs. Garnett shrieked in pain and fell to the ground clutching his genitals.

'That's not even a fraction of what you deserve,' she told him coolly. 'What a great set up,' she continued conversationally though Garnett didn't understand, being in great pain. 'Who would have suspected dear old Paul. Such a friend to us all and a gay man besides. But you secretly hate women don't you? You did this for two creeps who are bisexuals. And how perfect to have the killers working for the police!

'When you offered to buy a drink, I guessed you'd spike it so I gave you plenty of opportunity by going to the loo. When you were distracted by Jenny and Uncle Nat's argument, I tipped out most of the drink. The rest was playacting. Uncle Nat followed your car and waited until the others arrived. Neat.'

Jenny took out her mobile. 'Let me bring the Johnsons up to date,' she told Fran and Chalmers. She dialed the number and Sheila's mother answered.

Jenny briefly explained what had happened. 'Let me show you who they are,' she said, taking photos of the three men.

'Oh thank you, thank you,' Anna wept in gratitude. 'To think Les and I once trusted these filthy animals!'

'When we last spoke,' Jenny asked carefully. 'You asked me to kill whoever murdered Sheila. Do you still feel the same?'

Les Johnson broke in. 'If you hand the three over to the police, what's the chance of a conviction?'

'I don't know,' Jenny replied candidly. 'Garnett would probably go down but Markovec and his little friend would probably claim they were here as policemen to rescue Maruka.'

'I haven't changed my mind,' Anna said decisively. 'Kill them all.'

'Yes,' Les agreed. 'It's a pity that they'll die without suffering.'

Jenny hung up. 'Shouldn't you get dressed?' she asked Fran who was still naked.

'Sure,' Fran agreed casually. As her uncle looked away, she stared challengingly at Jenny, slowly replacing her clothes. Fran smiled. Her sharp red tongue appeared and slightly wet her lips.

Damn! Jenny thought in wonder, this little hoyden is seducing me.

When she had dressed, Fran walked over to Jenny and took Markovec's pistol from her hand. Then she walked over to Garnett and placing the barrel against his forehead blew out his brains.

Jenny and Chalmers stared with astonishment.

'Best way to ensure I stay silent,' she told them. 'I've just become an accomplice.

'Two more bullets,' she continued 'then we'll take these scumbags out to sea and drop them into the trench.'

She walked back across the room and handed the warm gun to Chalmers.

'Each of us should do this to show we're committed,' she smiled into his troubled face. 'It's your turn, uncle.'
