

This book is a work of fiction. All names and places are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2015 by Daniel Lawlis

All rights reserved.

Birth of a Monster (volume five of the series The Republic of Selegania).

Stock photo © mythja

(Adjustments to photo made by Daniel Lawlis)

Birth of a Monster

Chapter 1

Tats was on a routine run at the moment, pulling about a hundred pounds of Smokeless Green in the back of a wagon labeled "Flower Delivery Services" towards Crabs' house. Crabs was now unequivocally number three in the gang, being right underneath Tats.

Tats saw Crabs' mansion draw closer and closer as his team of horses dragged the wagon merrily down the street of this plush neighborhood. As he approached the gate, he didn't see any of the usual underlings Crabs had out there. To a certain extent, that was a relief. He felt their menacing scowls were far more likely to alert any passersby to the possibility of this house being used for questionable activities than to do something productive, such as scare off would-be troublemakers.

Nonetheless, he felt it a bit odd that they were gone.

Little pricks are probably shirking, he told himself, expecting at any moment to see them sauntering around the house smoking on a cigar only to then put some spark in their step once they saw Tats and come running towards the gate like a pack of guard dogs.

He saw nothing, and the gate wasn't locked, which he discovered with just a slight push.

There's no way I'm turning around now.

It was about an hour trip to his closest mansion from here, and he wasn't about to head back there with the same merchandise he had brought and not a single falon to show for it.

"Screw it!" he said out loud.

He pulled the gate all the way open, got back into the driver seat, gave the horses a good "Heaah!" and then began to roll inside the premises.

The grounds were uncannily quiet, but he angrily disregarded the oddity and marched towards the door, ready to give Crabs an earful.

"BAM! BAM! BAM!!" Tats pounded on the door with a clenched fist.

Clank.

Tats heard the gate shut behind him.

He turned.

"POLICE!!!!"

Two burly men slammed into him so hard from opposite sides that his insides just about came out his mouth, and while his mind was still trying to come to grips with what was happening, he felt the painful pinch of steel against his wrists.

"Got a special flower delivery, ya young punk?!" one of the cops said, laughing, and then delivered a vicious uppercut to his stomach. Tats winced but neither puked nor had the wind knocked out of him. Faithful execution of Mr. Brass's boxing exercises had made his abs little distinguishable from an oak plank.

Then, more cops swarmed out of various hiding spots along the perimeter, as well as from the inside of the house.

The door opened, and one by one, Tats saw the scowl-faced troupe bound and gagged, a look of fury and regret painted over the visible portions of their face. Last out was Crabs, also bound and gagged, and with shame written all over him.

"You two know each other?" asked one of the cops, laughing raucously before delivering another punch to Tats, this one right to the face. Tats moved his face with the blow, deflecting a lot of the punch's power, and commuting what would have been a closed eye for a week to just a banal black eye.

"Frisk him!" yelled the cop.

Moments later, the cop extracted what he believed to be a dagger, but was really a compressed sword a la Pitkins.

The cops then dragged Tats, hands firmly cuffed behind his back, to the wagon.

"What kind of flowers you deliverin', hmmm?!" said one of the cops.

Tats noticed the other cops look a bit startled when one of their number pulled out a large dagger and hacked open the contents of one of the bags.

He withdrew his blade and smelled—but did not snort—the contents. An evil grin swept across his face.

"Boys, this is the bust we've all been waiting for!"

"Take these rats to the station. They're all under arrest for multiple violations of SISA!!"

Chapter 2

Righty had resolved to spend the day at his wife and newborn's side, but sensing the fidgetiness in her robust husband, Janie insisted he go outside and stretch his legs.

Whilst doing so, he decided to take advantage of the opportunity and stop by Comfort Hospital, where he astonished the secretaries at the front desk by making an anonymous donation of $1,000,000 falons. One secretary nearly insisted that such a magnanimous donation be rewarded, at least, by a personal thank-you from the hospital's owner, or perhaps even by a plaque of some kind, but Righty insisted on anonymity as he exited the hospital with benevolent firmness.

From there, he went and purchased a fine coach and an excellent team of horses to accompany it and then returned to the doctor's home.

When he arrived, he was surprised to find Janie sitting on the bed, rather than lying on it.

"I feel better; I think we can go home now," Janie said smiling.

Righty was tempted to take her up on that offer immediately, but he insisted they wait until the doctor arrived that evening and gave his opinion as to whether the journey would be safe.

The doctor inspected Janie and then looked at the new coach Mr. Simmers had bought, and then told them that while it would probably be best for her to stay another night she would probably be able to make the trip home safely.

Bright and early the next morning, Righty tucked Janie and Heather into the coach and then left a brief note with the maid thanking the doctor for his kind services.

Righty then mounted the coach and was about to take off when he saw the following note:

There was an unusually large donation at the hospital yesterday, and descriptions of the donor bore an uncanny resemblance to my most-welcome guest.

Many thanks for your generosity.

Your friend,

Dr. Ridemern

Righty smiled, cracked the whip, and set off towards Ringsetter.

Chapter 3

Righty felt like a tortoise lumbering along in that coach, in spite of the fact it was moving at a respectable clip by any reasonable standard. When they arrived home, he was relieved Janie and the baby were fast asleep, as this meant he wouldn't have to invent any lies to get out of the house for a moment.

He carried Janie and the baby into the house one by one, placing his wife on their still very humble bed inside their still very humble home, and setting Heather into a comfortable crib.

He then set off towards the garden in the woods, and as soon as he was safely out of earshot of the house—for his winged friends had no small amount of discretion—his feathery pals began to congratulate him wholeheartedly on the new addition to the family.

Righty accepted a healthy amount of cheers and accolades, but the astute creatures soon realized Mr. Simmers had left the pleasurable comfort of his abode for more than just a late-night chat with them, so they respectfully grew silent and prepared to listen.

"First, we exterminate this garden. I don't want so much as a loose grain of Smokeless Green to be visible here by tomorrow morning." Without further comment, Righty took out a machete and began hacking away at the plants with all the ferocity of a man seeking to clear a path through the jungle while a wild beast pursued him from behind.

Harold, not needing to be told what to do—he had developed a knack for anticipating Righty's instructions—picked up the felled stalks and set off into the night sky, carrying them miles away into the forest and then dropping them. The konulans, though weak individually, gave a thorough demonstration of the power of cooperation, grabbing onto the cut stalks in tandem, sometimes with as many as four or five grabbing onto the same one, before leaving terra firma behind and setting off in Harold's general direction to discard the once-cherished plants into the sullen bowels of the forest like the shredded correspondence from a lover who has moved on to greener pastures.

Righty then set to work with a shovel and began digging the roots up on by one and setting them into small piles, and Harold joined in, inserting his talons into the ground, gripping the roots, and then yanking them out.

With the help of his small army, Righty reduced what would have been a three-day project for a lone man into a grueling three hours.

When it was finished, he sat down, sweat streaming, rather than dripping, from his brow, and welcomed the small konulans as they fought for a seat on his lap or nearby. He petted their rascally little heads and told them how indispensable they were. He gave a nod and a smile to Harold, a less-emotional creature, who showed by his returned gaze that he also felt thoroughly appreciated.

But Harold, like Righty, was all business.

"You said 'first.' What else did you have on your mind?" Harold inquired.

"I need five of the bravest birds for a special mission."

So excited were the little devils that they began chirping and licking at Righty's face hysterically, forgetting, it would seem, that they were fully conversant in Righty's language.

"We need to keep an eye on our friend Tats."

The konulans didn't exactly seem dejected, but their reaction revealed a different job had been on their minds—perhaps that of watching the newborn—but nonetheless Righty quickly had his volunteers.

"Great. Now, there's a small gap in the bedroom window shade in case you want to go look at the baby for a while."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he and Harold sat alone. Harold looked at him quizzically, obviating the need for a question.

"Truth be told, it should have started a long time ago. But now it's imperative. Tats is a man who knows a lot, and he is my key to Sivingdel. He needs to be both protected and . . . ."

Righty paused uneasily.

"Supervised?" Harold proffered.

"Yes. I believe that's precisely the word," Righty said, with a serious look on his face. "The stakes are higher now, Harold. Anyone or anything that threatens my organization ultimately threatens me, and anything that threatens me threatens Heather," Righty added, with a chill in his words.

Chapter 4

As Tats and his fellow malefactors sat in the back of the police wagon, their still tightly bound gags removing all conversation but that of exchanges of trepidatious and quizzical stares, he felt his life was truly over. He had been nabbed from time to time as a youngster for petty offenses and had a few close brushes as an adult. But this was different. This was the big time. This was twenty to forty years in the slammer minimum, and who knew whether the large stashes he had tucked away at his various mansions would result in separate charges and convictions and perhaps make him eligible for the death penalty?

He was no lawyer, but he suspected the death penalty was only on the table for a SISA offense committed after a conviction. As he pondered the prospect of decades behind bars in Kasani knows what kind of squalid conditions, he found himself thinking perhaps the scaffold would be a merciful fate after all.

He reflected briefly on how the trap had been laid—and whether Crabs or others were complicit—but this took a back seat to his meditation on his dreary future.

"Get these punks outta here!"

So deep in his thoughts he had been, that he hadn't even noticed the whiff of fresh air purifying the dreary wagon until he heard this authoritarian bark from a policeman standing outside of it with the door cracked slightly open.

The cops inside the wagon began hauling their catch out towards the fresh air that they would only briefly enjoy before being marched into the police station.

As Tats watched Crabs and his underlings step out of the wagon with doom written on their faces, he felt he was perhaps experiencing what a captive of war might who, taken from his homeland, exits the vehicle of his sequestration into a foreign environment at the mercy of his captors.

"Hurry it up, ya young hoodlum!!" barked the cop behind him, giving him a stiff poke with a club to accentuate the point, thus ending Tats' reverie.

Once inside the police station, there appeared to be little difficulty recognizing the underlings. A stern-faced officer rattled off each of their aliases and real names with a promptitude that demonstrated the frequency of their visits.

Crabs proved to be a more elusive fish, and while the officer was sure he had seen him before, he had to ask for his name. Once he had it, his secretary went looking through a pile of boxes and brought forward a file.

"Here you are sir," she said.

"This had better be yours!" the officer told Crabs, with menace in his eyes.

He opened it up and looked at the sketch.

"Yep, that's you. You've had a bit of a vacation, haven't you, Mr. Crabs? But you weren't on the straight and narrow, just covering your tracks a little better than you used to. But not better enough. Not by a long shot! Get him outta here!"

Crabs was led off out of the room.

Tats alone stood before the cops.

"And you? I don't think I recognize you!" the processing officer barked.

"They call me Tats, sir," he said.

"Do they now?" the officer said with a sneer. "How original!" he added, his eyes venturing towards the mostly concealed tattoo on the side of his neck.

"And what did your mother name you—that is, if you have a mother?!" he asked, with a bit of a snicker.

"David Havensford, sir," he responded calmly, though seething with rage inwardly.

"Well, well, well," the officer responded with a look of triumph on his face. "You're related to Rebecca Havensford, now, aren't you?"

Tats nodded.

"Is she the beast that bore you?"

"She's my sister, sir."

"Well, she's been on quite a vacation ever since she strangled the life out of a former police chief's son!" he exclaimed.

Tats didn't feel now would be the best time to point out that the son of that police chief had tried to screw for free at a whore house or that his police chief dad had later been sent to prison upon conviction for multiple corruption charges.

"Take him away!" the officer ordered.

Tats was led down a dimly lit hallway and placed into a single cell with solid walls going all the way up to the ceiling that offered no view of the hallway or any surrounding cells.

The door slammed shut, and he heard a lock click with a loud thud that suggested it could imprison the hounds of hell. A small sliver of light made its way in from a small aperture at the back of the cell that he assumed must be coming from outside.

Silent, bitter tears of impotent rage marched down Tats' face that night as he lay in nearly pitch black darkness.

Chapter 5

"Get up!"

Tats awoke from a melancholy sleep.

The processing officer stood before him.

"On your feet, you!" he said, grabbing Tats by the wrist and then prodding him out of the cell with his club. Once out, another officer put a pair of shackles on Tats' wrist.

"This way," one of the officers barked.

Tats was led back down the same hallway he had traversed the prior day, reentered the same processing area, and from there was taken upstairs. They went up several flights of stairs, passing many uniformed officers in the process but no prisoners.

On what seemed like the sixth floor—Tats was still a bit too much in a state of shock to be certain—the stairs ended, and so did their climb. They then began marching down a hallway whose office doors bore important titles such as "Captain Willis" and "Lieutenant Redsen."

But down the hallway they continued without so much as a pause at any of these offices. Then, Tats noticed a placard at the very end of the hallway becoming just barely legible: "Chief Lloyd Benson."

Tats gulped, as he braced himself for what was surely to be a torrent of threats as to what would become of him if he did not admit to everything once and for all.

The door opened, giving way to an opulent office.

A studious-looking man glanced up from a pile of papers and said casually, "Un-cuff him and leave us."

"Chief?"

"Do it."

Tats felt more confused than the accompanying officers as they dutifully unfastened his cuffs and left the room.

A brief silence reigned, as the chief looked Tats up and down the way a fighter might to an unfamiliar opponent.

"Sit down, Tats."

Tats did as told.

Another awkward silence.

"Do you know why you're here?"

Tats felt the desired answer was, Because I got caught with a hundred pounds of Smokeless Green, but he opted to just shake his head.

"Oh, come now, Tats. You didn't become the number two man in the number one crime outfit in this city by being dimwitted."

Tats began to wonder what the right answer might be to this seemingly trick question.

"I'll help you. It's not because you're selling Smokeless Green . . . at least, that's not the whole reason."

Tats knew he was at a complete loss as to what the chief was getting at, so he decided to grant him a bit of transparency.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

"No, you don't, do you?" the chief said as he stood and sauntered lazily towards the window like a man without a care in the world. He looked out for a long moment, before turning back to Tats.

"That's the problem . . . you don't know. You don't know how things work around here."

Feeling like he had little to lose, given the amount of time he was already looking at, Tats took a verbal plunge into an abyss, mentally ready for a sharp rebuke.

"Is it about money, sir?"

The chief looked at him long and hard.

"You know something, Tats. This situation may not be quite as hopeless as I feared when I asked my men to bring you up here."

Tats felt a huge weight slip off his back.

"But you're wrong if you think a bit of money from you is going to make this whole thing go away."

The chief moved closer and sat on top of his desk, looking down on Tats, resembling a viper ready to strike.

"I don't normally waste my time discussing business matters with anyone in subordinate status. Sovereigns ought to talk to sovereigns, should they not?" the chief inquired with a steely gaze.

Tats felt his world collapse around him. He wasn't going to roll on Mr. Brass. Not a chance.

"I can't tell you who he is, sir. I'll do the time. We're done talking."

"HAA!!!!" the chief exclaimed with genuine amusement.

"How old are you, son?"

"Twenty-two, sir," Tats replied, not liking the reference to a paternal relationship one bit.

"I'll forgive you some of your stupidity on account of your youth," the chief said with what seemed like genuine pleasure.

Then he drew near, placing himself almost eyeball to eyeball with Tats.

"Do you really think I need YOU to tell me who your boss is?" the chief asked, with a look of sincere offense on his face.

"This is my town," he said, in a low growl. "Your boss is Mr. Brass."

Tats gulped.

"But, on the other hand," the chief began, his tone immediately turning cordial, "you're not entirely stupid for thinking I have less information about him than I would like. Your boss is one elusive fellow. Something tells me I might know as much about him as you do, maybe more," he said, but with his eyes scanning every square inch of Tats' face for the answers criminals so often give even when they refuse to do so with their tongues.

"I think Mr. Brass is either a professional boxer or used to be," he added, still scanning Tats' face. "He's turned to crime a bit late in life, and thus, he doesn't know all the house rules."

Once again, he moved near Tats' face. "Most of all, he doesn't know this is my house. And he doesn't know that in my house you have to pay to play."

He then backed away and seated himself calmly at his desk chair and looked directly at Tats.

"I don't have to keep you here, you know. It's only a matter of time before the federal boys get a whiff of this, and believe me, the National Drug Police isn't going to let a bust of this magnitude get handled at the city level without a fight. They would love a fish like you in their net."

"Suppose you were to give me the chance to ask my boss if he is willing to meet with you . . . would that be satisfactory?"

The chief leaned forward in his desk.

"Something tells me I'd never see you again . . . unless I went looking for you, which I have neither the time nor inclination to do when I already have you right here. Here's how this works. You tell me where Mr. Brass lives, and I'll arrange a meet and greet. And if he proves to be a reasonable man, then all this might just turn out to be one giant misunderstanding. After all, with everyone trying to get the largest bust, my agents might have mistaken some loose flower petals in your wagon for a very pernicious, very illegal substance.

"Or, you keep your mouth shut, and you'll be looking at spending the rest of your miserable life in prison."

"I could go ask him for a meeting . . . if I was sure you weren't following me. If he refused, I would return, and you would have your quarry once again."

The chief felt surprised when he found himself convinced Tats was likely telling the truth, but his response was cold and final.

"Officers! Take this scum back to his cell. Forward his case to the prosecutor's office first thing . . . tomorrow." He grinned at Tats when he added this last detail.

Chapter 6

Righty was headed out of his large barn where he now had, quite literally, multiple tons of Smokeless Green packed and assembled into tight packages of various sizes and for various destinations, all with their weight and addressee engraved in code. The ranchers who assisted with this knew the codes for each weight, and while they also engraved the various codes Righty instructed them for each addressee, they did not have the faintest idea as to what personage, or even what city or country, was signified by the cryptic abbreviations.

Righty planned on doing some light warming up with his sword before he and his men began their daily martial exercises, and his mood was carefree and upbeat, the state of mind humans usually experience right before stormy weather reveals the perilous nature of happiness.

Before he got more than a dozen feet a konulan whizzed right by his ear making an emphatic "Chirp!" before heading straight into the barn. A feeling of doom emerged from his soul and passed straight down his spine. He would have turned and sprinted into the barn, but he didn't want to alert any nearby ranchers. He compromised with one of those rapid walks that blur the line with jogging, and mere moments later he was inside the barn with the door closed.

Once inside, he did not hesitate to do a quick sprint here and there to scan for any inadvertent—or intentional—eavesdroppers, but curiosity quickly demanded that this exercise cease, and Righty, with sweat pouring from his forehead and his pulse marching like a fervent army about to close with the enemy, inquired the urgent news.

His heart sank, and he nearly felt sick, as he discovered Tats', Crabs', and several others' arrest.

"Meet me at the cabin in ten minutes," he told the konulan.

Righty mounted a horse tied outside the barn and rode up to his men and told them, in what he hoped was a calm voice, that some tedious paperwork was going to rob him of today's exercises and that he was not to be disturbed at his cabin except in the case of an emergency. They, however, were to proceed with all zeal in their exercises.

He then galloped off towards his cabin with an alacrity that showed he either found today's paperwork to be of a particularly stimulating nature or that there was indeed some calamity of which perhaps even they should be alarmed.

Righty dismounted in front of his cabin like a courier carrying news of an approaching enemy army, dashed inside, slammed the door, and was relieved to find the konulan waiting dutifully as instructed.

"Tell me every last detail! Every last one!" Righty shouted, not with malice, but with panic. "Starting with why only you came!" he added.

"We agreed that one can relay news as well as four, but one cannot surveil as well as four," the konulan said calmly.

"Shrewd little things you are," Righty said, giving the konulan's head a gentle pat.

The konulan then informed him that he had surveilled only up until the time Tats was being led away to the police station, but he treated every detail of what he had seen with the most minute attention.

"Fly, little friend," Righty said. "I need updates! I will remain here. Tell the next messenger to fly straight in through the chimney!"

The konulan, perhaps wishing to test the feasibility of this route, or perhaps not noticing the open window right behind him (which Righty himself had either forgotten about or decided he might need to shut later to keep the conversations private), took off like an arrow and disappeared inside the chimney.

Righty felt his whole body tremble, for it seemed as if all the woes of the world had descended upon his shoulders.

Chapter 7

It was not until late that night that the next konulan arrived. And by that time Righty felt as though he had aged at least a year.

The konulan explained that there had been too little to report. Tats had been processed without saying much, and then they had lost track of him, due to the fact they could only conduct surveillance from outside the windows.

Harold had ordered them to spread out around the building and listen through all windows for any mention of the name "Tats" or even the term "Smokeless Green" so that they could position themselves if he came near.

"You're going to need backup," Righty said tersely. "Go get two dozen konulans and tell them to help out."

"Yes, sir," the konulan responded and took off.

Righty passed a sleepless night, and although he knew Janie was going to be worried, this simply had to take priority. He knew that he was on the verge of losing everything he had worked so hard for in Sivingdel, and it would only be a matter of time before Rucifus inquired about her brother.

Sure, he could lie to her for a while, but that wasn't the way he preferred to do business. She'd find out sooner or later anyway, and when she did, he would not only lose that connection but likely acquire a bitter enemy in the process. Surely, she would blame him for failing to rescue her brother.

That meant having a big ranch full of a product he couldn't sell . . . that is, unless he wanted to start from scratch by waltzing into some other crumby part of Sivingdel and convincing some unknown hoodlums via a few rounds of fisticuffs that he was someone to take seriously, and hoping he didn't get stabbed or clubbed to death in the process.

But there was a sentimental issue as well. If the roles were reversed, he would hope his boss would do everything in his power to extricate him. Tats had been loyal, given him an unimaginably lucrative international contact, and had saved his life in at least two nasty fights. Tats was like family.

Somehow, some way, he was going to have to fix this.

Chapter 8

"Word for word?" Righty asked.

"Yes, sir," the konulan said, having relayed to Righty the contents of Tats' conversation with the police chief.

"And you're sure he refused to give my name, but the chief already knows my alias?"

"Yes, sir," the konulan replied, unwavering.

Righty's feelings of obligation and duty redoubled.

"Bring Harold here," Righty ordered.

"That won't take long," the konulan said, with a smile in his voice if not on his beak. "He's hiding in the woods nearby. He was hoping you would want to talk to him but was unsure if you would be angry he hadn't continued supervising the konulans."

"Tell him not to worry. I need his advice."

Righty went ahead and opened the door and braced for what he rightly suspected would be a rather dramatic arrival.

Minutes later, a puff of wind nearly knocked Righty over as Harold entered rapidly through the doorway only to flare his wings out immediately afterwards, although he did leave a few gouges in the wood with his claws to assist his stop.

"One day, sooner or later, I think we both knew it would come to this, but it never made for a pleasant conversation now, did it?" Righty said, trying to laugh, but nothing escaped but a light sigh.

Harold said nothing, his keen, warlike eyes showing that he was simply ready to hear and obey.

"Should I show myself, Harold? And meet the police chief?"

Harold simply nodded. He knew Righty well enough by now to know Righty wasn't going to hang Tats out to dry.

"Could I go to the police chief's house? I would feel I had the upper hand that way."

"Due to my size, I could only surveil the konulans from about five hundred feet up without drawing attention to myself. I asked each of them, and none of them got so much as a glance at the chief. We don't know what he looks like, so there was no way we could follow him home."

A konulan spoke up: "The chief sounded like he meant business when he said he was going to refer the case to the prosecutor's office tomorrow. He also sounded serious when he mentioned the federal police might be showing up at any time to try to take the case from the city police."

Righty looked at the konulan. "Are you absolutely sure?"

The konulan nodded.

Righty felt a wave of self-hatred crash upon him as he realized his stupidity for not having previously given the konulans the task of surveilling the city's police and familiarizing themselves with the names, faces, and home addresses of all the top ranks. And as for the federal police, the self-hatred was even more intense. He didn't even know what agency was being referred to, much less where they were headquartered, what their numbers were, etc.

Now, he had to risk exposing himself in a police station today. If not, by tomorrow, the entire matter could be even more complicated, with formal charges having been filed against Tats and the others and with the federal police potentially involved. While his heart had been in the right place keeping dozens of konulans watching his home, Ringsetter, and his ranch separately, his mind had not been.

"Friends," Righty began, looking at Harold first and then at the numerous konulans in the cabin, "I might be enjoying one of my last moments as a free man. I want to ask of you—not order you—that, if this is a trap of some kind, you do whatever it takes to free me and keep my family safe. In my absence, you answer to Harold. He will tell you what you need to do."

A somber mood filled the room. Righty then directed his discourse directly towards Harold, whose eyes appeared somewhat moist. "We've been through a lot, friend. I want you to know that if I am arrested today, a war begins."

Harold's eyes went from moist to boiling to bone dry in seconds, like a frying pan sizzling and evaporating the moisture that dared tread its surface.

"I have sought, and will continue to seek, a peaceful existence with my fellow man while I pursue what I know in my heart to be a great destiny, but to those who seek to harm my friends, my business, my family, my person, or my liberty, they will learn the consequences of my wrath and feel their frailty against a roaring lion."

Harold's eyes now gleamed with a pleasure that under any prior circumstances would have unnerved Righty. But Righty knew that, even by his mental decision to proceed forward with this plan, he was no longer the same person. A threshold had been passed. The game was now all or nothing. He thought of the rock climbing coach in his dreams.

You've got to reach the top.

You sure as hell won't make it down.

You already long since entered the death zone.

With a knowing gaze between him and Harold, Righty's final statement merely accentuated what was already known: "No rules, Harold."

Chapter 9

Benjamin and Willis were two of only a dozen or so National Drug Police Agents in Sivingdel. Senator Hutherton, viewing the capital city as his backyard and therefore more worthy of vigorous police efforts, had instructed figurehead Chief Rulgers, of the NDP, to concentrate policing there. Had it not been for the massacre in Sivingdel, even these agents might not have been here.

They were currently in high spirits, having just received a tip that—in spite of the nonchalant attitude of the Sivingdel Police, whom they hated and distrusted vehemently—one of the biggest drug seizures to date had just happened, leaving the former record so far behind it wasn't visible with man's most powerful telescope.

They knew the chief was a corrupt old dog and had been on the payroll of Heavy Sam. They also knew that a new kingpin, far more subtle than the freakish giant, had slowly but surely established near-total dominance of the city's black market and quite possibly without having had the courtesy to make so much as a small donation to the city police department in the process.

If there was one thing the Sivingdel Police were known for cracking down on, it was stingy donors.

If they didn't get involved quick, they expected the seizure would turn out to have been one of those misunderstandings that large sums of cash had clarified.

Thus, it was with no leisure that they kneed their horses' sides, as they headed towards the police station. The wind caressed their crewcut scalps.

Chapter 10

When Harold set Righty down in the most wooded area of the city park—an area Righty had hoped not to revisit after the first visit had revealed to him that it was an area the city police found pleasant to patrol—he knew that he might be making his final good-bye to his faithful friend.

He gave Harold a pat on the back and an appreciative look but knew words would only enervate his soul. Harold quickly ascended to a large tree, and Righty, with exactly two million falons in his various secret coat and pant compartments, set off on foot towards the nearest trail, which would then take him to the park's circular opening, from where it would then would only be a five- to ten-minute walk before he spotted a coach available for hire.

He tipped his hat politely at a couple of patrol officers he found sauntering around the park and concluded he must look more confident than he felt, which was like a broken man being led to the scaffold in prison garb.

The walking itself, he thought, should have calmed his nerves slightly, but every step was one closer to the police station rather than away from it and thus only served to put him more on edge.

He almost blurted out, when the coachman asked for his destination, To jail! But instead, he made an attempt at discretion, stating coldly, "Oh, I can't remember the address, but it's merely a stone's throw from the police station, so just take me there."

The coachman, who was quite argumentative in his private life, almost said, You sure you're not going to the jail? Most customers at least know the name of their destination, if not the address. But he was rather tolerant in his professional capacity and set off towards the jail, a place he himself had once visited after a nasty dispute with his wife.

It was a dreary ride, and while neither knew it, they shared a nearly equal displeasure with the destination. Nor did either know that some of the coachman's particularly long shifts were given a little help from some plants grown at his passenger's ranch.

"There she blows," said the coachman, stopping the carriage.

As he looked at Righty's face while he nervously fumbled for pocket change, the coachman realized his passenger had reached his destination after all.

"Heck, friend. I've been there. Today is on the house."

Righty's mood felt slightly elevated by the goodwill he had found in such an unlikely place, but he responded, "On the contrary, today you'll be generously rewarded," handing the coachman several times the normal fare.

"May luck be with you today, friend!" the coachman said happily, and then lay the whip to his horses before his customer had second thoughts.

Chapter 11

Righty knew he should have pushed himself forward, like a man dragging a stubborn work bench across a rough floor, because with any loss of momentum, he was likely to turn tail and run in the opposite direction.

But he could not deny himself a moment of reflection. While his heart continued to gallop, it seemed as if his surroundings were slowing down, almost to the point where an accomplished artist would have time to capture the individual expressions of the passersby.

A rising wave of analysis loomed in the background, growing ominously by the second, full of questions and objections. He stepped forward to the door, knowing that if the wave landed upon him, he would run back to the forest, call Harold, fly back to Ringsetter, leave the country, and live in hiding for the rest of his life, perhaps shunning even the mirror, which would remind him of his cowardly betrayal.

He grabbed the door and opened it.

And walked inside.

He tried to act calm as he approached the front desk.

"I'm here to see David Havensford, ma'am," Righty said to a stern-faced, uniformed woman sitting behind the desk.

"Are you his attorney?" she asked suspiciously.

Righty had never been to jail before. A couple of times, during his drinking days, the tavern owner had thrown him out by the ears, but no one—at least in those days—knew how to spend the better part of a week's pay on a Friday night than Righty Rick, and so the tavern owner had never escalated things to the point where the local sheriff got involved. Thus, Righty knew as much about jail protocol as a fish knows about tap dancing.

"No, ma'am. I'm just a friend."

Righty noticed a nearby male officer was sizing him up suspiciously.

"May I see the chief of police?" Righty said, wishing he would have started with that approach but realizing it was too late now.

The male officer was now looking at him with as much interest as a cat hovering over a mouse.

"Do you have an appointment?" the woman asked.

"No, ma'am, I'd like to make one."

"What's this in regards to?"

"I would feel more comfortable talking to him about that directly."

"Oh, you would, would you?" the male officer asked, having left the role of spectator behind. The menace in his voice was clear.

"So, you're not a lawyer, but you are the friend of a person we just arrested in the largest drug seizure to date?"

"I'm sorry if I wasted your time," Righty said, turning to leave. His heart was really galloping now. He thought he was going to keel over.

"Frisk him!" the male officer ordered curtly.

Righty was too petrified of making a scene to protest as two burly officers approached him and then led him towards a wall, where they instructed him to place both hands while they began searching him.

While his secret compartments made their job a bit harder, they quickly noticed the large lumps inside his coat, as well as the dagger inside his sleeve.

"You're under arrest on suspicion of being a co-conspirator of David Havensford, aka Tats. Cuff him and book him!"

They tore off his large coat rudely and smiled greedily when they saw the cash there.

"Take him to the back!" an officer ordered.

When they realized his pants and shirt were filled with money too, they told him to disrobe, permitting him only the dignity of keeping his undergarments on, but those too were subjected to a meticulous inspection.

Righty seethed with shame and impotent anger, and his heart sank as one of the officers fondled his dagger.

"She's a beauty!" he said, letting out a whistle the same as if he were viewing a naked woman.

"What's your name, you punk?!" one of the officers said.

"Sam Higler," Righty said calmly.

"What kind of a made-up name is that?!"

The burly officer threw his hardest punch to Righty's gut.

When Righty merely grimaced slightly, but didn't so much as bend over an inch, a chill went down the officer's spine.

He knew the chief wanted to do business with the head of the gang, but he had marked this guy as nothing more than a low-level courier attempting to negotiate on the boss's behalf. He had heard the rumor that the head of the gang was a boxer, and when he saw his right uppercut to the gut—that had doubled over some of the toughest criminals in town—embarrass itself thoroughly like a kitten pawing at its hulking mother, a terrifying apprehension swept over him.

But he had the chief to worry about too. He had given strict orders to rough anyone up who was sent by the mysterious Mr. Brass. A middle-of-the-road approach suddenly seemed like a good idea.

"Well," he said, trying to sound tough but polite, "you can take a punch, sir. If this is your first arrest we're going to have to sketch you. If you try escaping the sketch by telling me you've been arrested and sketched here before, you're going to have to wait a reeeal long time while we look for Sam Higler's dossier.

"And the chief don't see nobody without an appointment unless he's been sketched. It's your choice, Mr. Higler."

"I've never been arrested," Righty said.

"All right, now we're cooperating, you see," the officer said.

Righty was taken to a seat in a room where one person sat directly in front of him. Off to the side, mostly hidden by shadows, was another person. This person was a journalist, and for a fee, the officers let him sketch prisoners. He had showed up as soon as he got wind of the drug seizure and had been sketching anyone who was processed and suspected to be involved in drugs.

The chief knew nothing of this, but the processing officers felt it wasn't necessary to burden him with every last detail of the police department's activities. And the journalist's contributions, while small by the chief's standards—at least, based upon what they had heard—meant a steak dinner per sketch for them, which was no measly amount.

Righty felt somewhat relieved by the drastic change in the officers' mood and tone after he had effortlessly withstood the uppercut, but nonetheless he burned with fury that he was being sketched and thus put into the police department's records.

"We'll see what the chief says, but usually we don't release first-time arrestees until we see an original birth certificate confirming their identity," Mr. Uppercut said, with a glint of condescending amusement in his eyes.

Righty was impressed by the swiftness of the sketch. A mere ten minutes later he was being led down the same dreary hallway Tats was led down before being deposited—unbeknownst to either of them—in the cell abutting that of his loyal criminal associate.

As soon as the door was locked shut, Mr. Uppercut, whose real name was Officer Carl Maher, was practically sprinting down the hallway.

Destination—Chief Lloyd Benson's office.

Chapter 12

As Benjamin and Willis entered the police station, they were promptly noticed by the secretaries and officers of the station, who eyed them balefully, with a combination of jealousy, resentment, and distrust. They were outsiders, but could make things really uncomfortable if they wanted to. The chief's mandated policy had been to treat them with counterfeit kindness while simultaneously undermining them at every turn through excuses, lies, and red herrings.

With smug satisfaction, Willis leaned his crewcut head over the desk and eyeballed the same male officer who not too long ago had enjoyed belittling Righty. With his muscle-bound forearms serving as a perch for his contemptuously smiling face, he looked at the officer and said, "Hear you guys caught some big fish yesterday." And then his eyeballs scanned him, looking for the truth in his face, since it would be unlikely to emanate from his tongue.

A small, but unmistakable, gulp was all Willis needed.

"Drugs are our specialty," Willis reminded the officer, whose neck he could probably crush with his bare hands in seconds.

"Now, you don't want to have this place swarming with federal agents trying to find out why you're hiding drug peddlers from the NDP, now do you?"

The officer's face turned red with anger and shame.

"Show 'em," he barked to the female secretary, attempting to resurrect his manhood.

"Now thatta boy," Willis said, smiling, and the officer's head nearly exploded, though he remained silent.

As the plump female secretary led Benjamin and Willis down the hallway, she said, "We caught a big one yesterday, and some dumb fella come in here today trying to save him with money," she said with a self-righteous indignation that suggested she had been left out of the loop when it came to bribery and corruption at Sivingdel City Jail.

"Which one do you want to see first?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Oh, I like fresh meat best," he said, a gleam in his eye.

The secretary looked as interested as a librarian near retirement directing yet another customer to a requested book.

"What charges is the fresh meat being held here for?" Willis asked.

"Well, he had a dagger and lots of cash and is friends with the fella next cell over," she answered, stern-faced, and then inserted the key into Righty's cell, turned it, and then walked a respectful distance away so that she could give them some privacy but also be ready to call for help if need be and to be ready to lock up once their conference was over.

Chapter 13

"Hi there, buddy," Willis said to Righty, as he walked in, Benjamin right behind him.

"Hey, get us some more light in here; it's too dark!" he barked at the secretary.

Indignantly submissive, she promptly grabbed a burning candle from the wall and brought it to the men.

"Now, that's better," Willis said. "It's hard for men to have a reasonable conversation when they can't see each other, now isn't it?" Willis inquired of Righty.

"Yes, sir," he said. The usual gleam that would have been in his eye was long gone. This had gone too poorly—far worse than he thought the worst-case scenario could be. He was sitting in his underwear in a dark cell at the mercy of the criminal justice system, his two million-falon bribe rudely stolen, and his beloved sword perhaps never to be seen again. In a word, he was broken.

"Look, I want to help you, Mr. . . . ?"

"Higler," Righty replied, almost having said "Simmers," but he had a shred of resistance left in him.

"Higler," Willis replied, trying out the sound of the name the way a man might try on a pair of shoes before buying them.

"Sounds like a good name," Willis said, his eyes devouring his quarry.

"Just what exactly are you in here for?" Willis then asked. "That grumpy secretary didn't want to tell me much."

"I haven't been formally charged with anything."

"Now, don't go getting cute, son," Benjamin said. "If you wanna play lawyer, I'll take you from here to federal prison in the capital on the count of one, two, three. Because I know what you're in here for, and it happens to fall within my jurisdiction. Willis here just needs to know if you'll tell him."

Willis shot a reproachful glance at Benjamin that looked rehearsed, but Righty was barely paying attention. "Benjamin is a bit rough around the edges, but he does have a point. I'm trying to do you a favor here. But you've got to shoot straight with me, tell me what you're in here for, and never mind the lawyer games. I happen to hate lawyers and anything that reminds me of them."

There was an awkward silence.

"Look, friend," Willis said, his voice lowering. He then shot a glance over his shoulder outside, which Benjamin—who was closer to the door—seconded, the two of them looking like bank robbers checking to see if the coast was clear.

"Look," he said, his face now inches from Righty, in a whisper. "They said you had cash."

"Did," Righty responded laconically.

"Well . . . ," Willis's eyes danced around as if he was trying to say something with them that he dared not with his mouth.

"Look, if you're asking for cash, you're late to the party," Righty said irritated. "They already confiscated it."

"Well, supposing you could get it back, do you think we could then talk like reasonable men?"

Righty surprised himself as he made his next step, reaching inside his underwear to reveal a small stash that had escaped the processing officer's frisk. Though small in size, it was large in its currency unit. Righty handed the agent twenty individual thousand-falon bills.

"It's all I have," Righty said.

"That's enough to talk, all right," Willis said, pleased.

"Now, I just have to cuff you so that I can get you out of here."

Righty stood and turned away from the men, hands behind his back.

"Now that's nice and reasonable," Willis said, snapping the cuffs on. "And now, in addition to being under arrest by the NDP for multiple violations of SISA and operating a criminal enterprise, you are under arrest for attempting to bribe a federal law enforcement agent," Willis said, laughing, while Benjamin snickered behind him.

Though Righty's spirits dropped, they were already near bottom, thus preventing any dramatic sigh or other display of indignation. It was yet one more nail in the coffin. He almost felt a perverse sense of peace, as he realized there was probably nothing else that could happen that would ruin this day, or his life, any more than it already way.

Righty marched in front of the smirking agents down the hallway, each of whom gripped his unresisting wrists firmly.

Chapter 14

As they left the corridor of jail cells behind and entered the main lobby, Righty noticed the officers did not seem to slow a lick as they marched him straight towards the exit. He would be headed to the capital in a wagon towards a federal prison, never to see the light of day again.

He began to wonder whether he should shout out to Harold for help the second he tasted fresh air and hope that Harold could swan dive and extricate him before he was inside a locked wagon.

The door was just feet away.

"Not so fast, gentlemen!" an authoritative voice cried out.

Instantly, a dozen or more officers blocked the door.

A spectacled man with a studious look, probably in his fifties, marched rapidly towards Righty and the agents holding him. Righty also noticed that the processing officers were standing next to the chief. And the two of them, particularly the one who had punched him, looked sheepishly at Righty and then the ground. Their demoralized faces suggesting they had just received the tongue-lashing of the century.

"Mr. Higler is our prisoner and will not leave this station without a court order. You know—protocol," the man said, almost apologetically.

"He's a kingpin and tried to bribe us. He goes with us!" Benjamin snapped back.

"Now, good sirs, let us reason with one another," the chief said. "There are plenty of fish for all, so to speak. Let's not start acting like two opposing armies," he then added with a congenial tone.

"It's federal jurisdiction!!" Willis snapped back, sounding a bit like a child outraged at an unforeseen obstacle.

"Sirs. Sirs!" the chief replied, as if beseeching them. "Just two days ago the city council passed a measure with identical language to that of SISA. So, you see, it's really a matter of overlapping jurisdiction. And we all know Haldensen v. Selegania," the chief said with the tone of a professor instructing a first-year law student. "When a city criminalizes the same conduct as federal law, jurisdiction lies . . . with . . . the . . . arresting . . . entity," he finished, unable to hide his contemptuous glee.

"Only if the city law has penalties as severe as, or more severe than, the corollary . . . federal . . . statute," Willis shot back.

"Sirs," the chief replied in a condescendingly soft voice, "the city council's only regret was that SISA's sentencing is not more severe, as they would have gladly issued harsher sentencing parameters if they could have said they were just copying the federal statute." He paused. "The criminal penalties are the same."

Silence reigned.

A tattoo-covered arrestee, who perfumed the room with whiskey with every breath, looked at the dueling titans with a mixture of awe and bewilderment. He had no idea what they were talking about, but seeing policemen of any stripe fight with one another brought him a pleasure second only to drinking.

"He's also under arrest for attempted bribery," Willis said in a softer, but more chilling, tone.

The chief sucked in air as he prepared to deliver another devastating riposte, suggesting he felt sympathy for his outmatched opponent. "That's a Class D felony. We've got him here, with priority jurisdiction for having first arrested him, on a Class B felony."

He gave Willis a look which seemed to say, Please don't make me keep embarrassing you, but when Willis refused to cede, the chief said softly, "You can't transfer an arrestee from city to federal custody on a separate federal charge until the city has fully investigated and prosecuted, or formally declined to prosecute, the arrestee for all crimes upon which the original arrest was based, unless the separate federal charge is more serious than the offense for which the city first arrested him. Alas, attempted bribery is not."

The chief paused. "Haldensen v. Selegania," he repeated, with a tone of reverence and finality.

"We don't leave here until WE process him!! That means a sketch, questioning, and a full copy of ALL processing notes surrounding his SISA crimes!!" Willis shouted, a vein bulging in his neck.

Shrugging his shoulders amiably, the chief said, "But of course." He then gave an aggressive slap on the back to the two original processing officers, snapped his fingers, and said, "Get to it!"

To Righty's relief, Benjamin and Willis didn't seem to vent any of their frustrations on him. In fact, now that their fish had inadvertently eluded their trap, at least for the moment, they felt a bit embarrassed remaining in the presence of a man who—intentionally or not—had witnessed their thorough humiliation.

Willis barked for a copy to be made of the sketch, and an artist quickly began moving his pencil, creating a quality copy within about ten minutes. Meanwhile, Benjamin and Willis had little difficulty copying the processing notes, as they said little besides the fact a dagger and large sums of cash had been confiscated pending investigation of SISA violations.

Once Benjamin and Willis had what they wanted, they stormed out of the station.

Senator Hutherton was going to hear about this.

Chapter 15

As Righty was led to the chief of police's office by two now very deferential processing officers—including the one who had roughed him up earlier—confusion had taken over what had just moments earlier been a bleak terrain of doom. He felt he should feel some sense of relief over the chief's show of force against the two federal agents who had tricked him into committing yet another crime, but he couldn't be entirely sure he had not simply leapt from the fire into the frying pan.

He knew nothing of the chief, and while he suspected hypocrisy was on full display with the chief's zealous statements in favor of fighting drug distribution, he had no reason to feel certain the chief would not seek to have him prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Perhaps he might do so for corrupt reasons—e.g., because of a previous bribe made by an up-and-coming drug rival—but that would be of little relief to Righty. But if Righty failed to fully appreciate the implications of the now deferential attitude of his erstwhile tormenting captors, his pessimism may perhaps have been justified in light of the way his day had gone thus far.

Before he had time to further analyze the issue, there he was—once again fully clothed—in front of the chief of police.

"Un-cuff him!" barked the chief.

"Yes, sir," the processing officers replied. "Careful there, Mr. Higler. That's it, easy now," Mr. Uppercut said, as he treated Righty's wrists like fragile chinaware.

"Get out of my sight!" the chief said to the two officers, almost belching fire.

While for Righty this was but a temporary respite—similar to a man at sea who has been dunked mercilessly by one wave, has come up for air, and is given a few seconds of relief while waiting for the next tower of water to crash upon him, daring him to return to the surface for more breath—in a day full of misery, for the chief this was almost a magical moment.

Months and months he had spent analyzing his quarry, hoping for some overt gesture on Mr. Brass's part ever since the death of Heavy Sam to initiate a business relationship. But when none came, the chief had been left with no choice but to treat Mr. Brass as a target. Throughout the entire time, however, he had been filled with a kind of awe as to the mysterious nature of a man who had managed to become a kingpin in the chief's city without so much as ever being arrested.

The chief studied him carefully.

"Today has been a disaster of unspeakable proportions," the chief said.

Righty agreed but wasn't sure whether it was prudent to say so. What a police chief viewed as a disaster might be deemed propitious by a criminal.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way. But I barely saved it before it became irrecoverable."

Righty remained silent, glancing at the chief occasionally, but mostly looking down. His confidence was obliterated.

"You are a subject of great mystery to me, Mr. Brass," the chief began. "No arrests before today. And yet you've been the kingpin of my city for quite some time now. And still I don't even know your name."

The chief continued studying him like a lawyer analyzing the fine print an important contract.

"But . . . I have the strangest feeling . . . that I recognize you," he said with incipient satisfaction.

The chief stared at him unabashedly as though he were a slave on an auction block, bereft of the right to become indignant by such conspicuous evaluation.

The chief's mind began to recall images, all over a decade old. His mind began to subtract age from the face before him, give it a cocky flush, and remove the nascent forehead lines.

He was in a room . . . no, much larger. A stadium. He was near a ring. He turned to his left:

"AND NOW . . . RIIIIIGHTY RIIIIICK!" the chief shouted out, imitating a boxing announcer.

Righty felt the inner core of his soul freeze, as he realized he may as well be hung upside down before this man, with a bright line indicating the jugular vein.

"YES!! It is you!!" the chief said, and then stood up from his chair and began slipping and ducking, throwing out jabs and crosses, before delivering a heavy right hand to the body of an imaginary opponent. He then backed away wincing, holding an imaginary wound to his ribs.

"YES, YES YES!!" the chief said, thrilled.

"You were one of my favorites. You could have been a legend. You were . . . an almost champion." The chief's tone terminated in a doleful note.

"Broken wrist. Trained hard anyway. Fought hard anyway. And almost won anyway. Almost. Almost," he repeated, his eyes filled with pleasure.

"Are you seeing a repeat performance of that, Righty Rick? Or should I call you Richard? You know, the Sivingdel Boxing Association keeps detailed records of all professional boxers going back at least a century. And if I'm not mistaken, they're indexed both by real name and ring name. So, I'm about thirty minutes on horseback from the SBA, and I think it would take me an hour at the most to find your last name. Are you going to make me work like that, or are we going to work together?"

It seemed to Righty that the last time a cop suggested they work together he had been rewarded with handcuffs and an extra criminal charge. He kept his mouth shut.

"Okay, I can understand if you're a bit distrustful. Those NDP boys are real idealists. I'm a realist. Do you know why you're even here, Righty? And I'm not being cute; it seems you really don't."

"I know what I'm accused of," Righty said laconically.

The chief rolled his eyes.

"You pay to play . . . get it?"

Righty was silent. He "got" it, but he wasn't sure whether the "it" was just another trap.

"Okay, okay, let's start over," the chief said. "This is my town. You're doing business in my town. That business happens to be illegal. I've got to make some arrests, or important people start to wonder. And when important people start to wonder too long, I lose my job. So, you pay to play. Those who don't end up paying in a different way. The way you're paying right now."

Righty was silent.

"You've been flying free for a long time now, Righty. I could have gotten to your men a long time ago, but I wanted to get someone near the top once I realized you were going to be hard to reel in directly. So, I took my time. And when I saw how hard-core these NDP fellas are, I realized that if I arrested you before Sivingdel passed a statute analogous to SISA, the NDP was just going to sweep right down and take you from me. They almost did."

Righty's trust was beginning to build slowly towards the chief, and he realized staying silent wasn't going to get him anywhere. Just before he could, the chief began again.

"As for the rough treatment, that wasn't supposed to happen. I think you noticed the changed attitudes of the processing officers. It all happened too fast for me. I threatened Tats this morning that I was going to send his case to the prosecutor's office tomorrow if he didn't talk. I was expecting him to break, tell me where I could find you, and then we could arrange the whole thing nice and pleasant, without all the frisking and needless humiliation."

Righty found himself surprised that it seemed the chief was telling him the truth.

"But I had no idea you were just going to waltz in here and ask to speak to me. If I had known that, I would have alerted the processing officers to send you straight to me. You see the bad things that happen when there's no communication."

Righty felt it was now or never for him to talk. After the number of charges he was already looking at, he felt like he was certainly doomed without trying to make some kind of deal.

"How much and how often?" Righty asked.

Clap of hands.

"Now that's more like it!" the chief said. "That's what you should have come to me and said the day after you killed Heavy Sam!"

Righty felt like saying, Sorry for not taking it for granted that the Sivingdel chief of police enters into a partnership with every reigning kingpin, but realized that, in addition to angering the chief, it might make him appear naïve.

"You're right," said Righty.

"A million a month!" the chief said, with a challenging look in his eye, daring Righty to defy him.

Righty pinched his right thumb so hard he almost drew blood in order to quell a laugh that nearly escaped his throat when he heard the chief so proudly announce a sum that was now a fraction of a day's pay.

Never having been one prone to acting, he was in new territory. He grimaced, cleared his throat, and said, "Every month?!"

"There's a jail cell down there waiting for you," the chief said.

"It's a deal," Righty said, his confidence now partly resurrected from the dead, and he extended his hand.

A sly look in his eye, the chief said, "I'm going to consider the amount we confiscated today as a donation for your unpaid prior months as kingpin. And I'm being awful generous by not charging you for every month since Sam bit the dust."

Righty nodded appreciatively, knowing that until he was out of this jail, he was going to have to play his cards very carefully.

"Today's the twenty-second. On the thirty-first, you'll go to this address," the chief said while he wrote rapidly onto a small piece of paper, which he then handed to Righty. It was a brothel.

"You'll meet with a man named George, whom I'll casually introduce to you on the way out."

"I've got a demand," Righty said firmly.

The chief looked a bit startled at the confident tone emanating from the man who, frankly, seemed like a bit of a weakling to him, nothing like the terrifying Heavy Sam he had worked with before.

The chief raised his eyebrows slightly, not wishing to dignify the request with a verbal response.

"I get my dagger back."

"But of course," the chief said. "Just remember, if you miss a payment, I'll tell Willis the misunderstanding was all mine and that we currently don't have the resources to deal with your kind. And that will be the end of you, pal. I know where Tats' mansions are. I know where Crabs' house is. I've infiltrated you. I own you."

"Yes, sir," Righty said.

"We're going to get along great; I just know it," the chief said.

He got up and went to the door and whispered something to the guards. About three minutes later, he was back with Righty's dagger in hand.

He whistled admiringly. "She's a beauty. I'm wishing I could renege on that part of the bargain," he said, his eyes quizzing Righty.

Righty tamed the beast within . . . but only barely.

"But, I'm a man of my word," he said extending the compressed sword to Righty. As his fingers touched it, a salve—nearly magical—descended upon his soul like the restorative kiss to a dead princess in a children's tale. But unlike the love transferred by the mythical kiss, this restorative power lay in something far more sinister—the knowledge that it was up to him whether he wished at that very moment to protract the game of broken prisoner or slice this vermin into more pieces than a diced onion.

"And one more," Righty said. He almost delivered it in a menacing tone but got control of himself at the last second. With a weak shrug and a soft voice he said, "It's gonna be hard for me to get that kind of cash to you each month if my associates downstairs are locked up."

The chief's eyes scanned Righty's thoroughly, perhaps looking for signs of a challenge to his authority before responding, and then said, with some reluctance, "I wouldn't want to bite the hand that feeds me, would I?" He paused. "Wait here a moment."

"Carl! Watch him!" the chief barked at Mr. Uppercut while the chief disappeared from sight.

"Anything I can do for you while you're waiting, Mr. Higler?"

Righty shook his head.

About ten minutes later, the chief returned.

"Now, you can't go waltzing out the front door. For all I know, Benjamin and Willis are out there waiting. You and your compatriots are going to leave in the wagon Tats brought to Crabs' house. And to show you I truly am a businessman, I've had your merchandise replaced as well. I don't want to make it hard on you to meet that payment you've got coming up in just over a week!" The chief smiled. "I'll show you the way."

They headed downstairs, went through a series of hallways, and then finally ended up in a warehouse-like area.

There, in front of the wagon, were Tats, Crabs, and all the underlings, a competing blend of trepidation and hope on their faces.

"One last bit of information, Mr. Brass," the chief said to Righty, deciding it was not necessarily prudent to reveal his old boxing name in front of his men, "I suggest you act very discreetly while leaving here. If you get busted by the NDP outside these walls, there's nothing I can do for you. Is there George?" he added with a wink at Righty, who then looked at George, the man he was to pay a million falons to in just over a week.

"We'll be discreet, chief," Righty said. The chief and George then left Righty alone with his men.

"Crabs, you drive. Everyone else in the back. Drop me off at the city park."

Crabs asked no questions. He just hopped onto the front of the coach like a rabbit.

Righty was immeasurably glad his rough-handed humiliation had not occurred before the eyes of his subordinates.

As he and the others piled into the wagon, the mood continued its contradiction of hope mixed with apprehension.

As soon as the wagon pulled out and had made it a safe distance from the police station, Righty addressed those in the wagon.

"I'm not in the best frame of mind right now to have a detailed discussion about this. All I want to say is I don't personally blame anyone here. There was a bit of a misunderstanding with the chief, and I believe everything has been straightened out. Tats, we'll meet tonight at your north-by-northeast mansion at 11 p.m. to talk some more. Be alone in your backyard."

"Yes, sir," Tats said.

No one else dared utter a word until Righty was dropped off at the park, at which point they began to nervously discuss their fates before Tats quickly hushed them.

Chapter 16

There was a part of Righty that felt he was on the verge of one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He knew that if he were to sit down and think in a cold, calculating manner about what he was going to do he would likely think of some seemingly shrewder, more cautious, delayed approach. One that would seem wiser. But that wouldn't be.

Like a man reeling from a slap who knows he has to hit back and hit back hard, lest he forever be branded an easy target for ridicule and derision, Righty knew this was a time for action. He thought briefly about going over to the Sivingdel Boxing Association, finding their annals, and burning them, but what would the point be?

If Chief Benson already knew his ring name, he could get his real name pretty easily from most of the people at the boxing association even if Righty burned every last one of their records. It had been less than two decades since his boxing days were abruptly and infamously ended.

The real issue was Benson. He had to be brought to heel, but not just yet. He was on the priority list, but there were two men above it. Furthermore, Righty was proud to have his name in the boxing annals, and he wasn't going to destroy those when destroying—or bringing to heel—a man would be far more pleasurable and useful.

Dangerous storm clouds were inside Righty's head, a system of nasty funnels beginning to swirl and spelling danger for all those in the way.

He had reached the forest and was thudding along a pathway, his mind set on finding solitude, climbing a tree, and reaching Harold.

"Hey you," a voice said.

Righty turned.

It was the cop he had passed earlier that day. The funnels were spinning viciously now.

"Mind if I see some identification?"

"What for, officer?" Righty inquired.

"Well, first of all, I don't really like your attitude. I could smell it about twenty feet away, and it's the second time I've seen you traipsing around these woods in a single afternoon. I just want to know who you are."

"I like exercise," Righty said. "And I don't carry identification. It might get stolen."

"You like exercise walking around in those kinds of clothes with those kinds of boots, and you're in this big of a hurry? Turn around, you punk. I'm bringing you in."

"Sure thing, officer," Righty said. He turned around, unsheathed his sword, and spun around slicing the officer in two. Not pausing a moment, he stooped down, picked up both body parts, and sprinted off into the woods.

"Get me out of here, Harold," he said in as loud a voice as he dared.

Sure enough, twenty seconds later, he felt a whoosh of air, and then Harold landed and quickly flattened his body out.

Righty jumped on top, and Harold didn't need to be told to take off like the hounds of hell were closing in on their heels.

"Head for the mountains!" Righty said.

As soon as they began to reach a heavily forested area, Righty dropped both halves of the officer down to the trees below.

Moments later, he said, "Find a tall tree, Harold. We need to talk."

Righty was relieved to see there were numerous konulans nearby.

Chapter 17

Righty felt like a man below deck in rough seas who witnesses so many leaks spring all at once that he stands petrified, unsure which to plug first and wondering if perhaps the exercise is futile anyway.

The federal agents.

Yes, those two had really had fun with him, and unlike with the chief, not even a deal had ever been reached to ameliorate the humiliation he had gone through. Those two were most likely headed back to the capital right now to let their bosses know of the large bust and the embarrassing jurisdiction battle they had lost in front of the entire police station.

"Harold, how many paths are there leading from Sivingdel to the capital?"

"Quite a few at first, but once you get about fifteen miles north of the capital, most of them converge into one."

Righty gave a quick, but detailed, description of the two agents, and then jumped on Harold and told the konulans, "Go north of the city. Explore all paths. Let me know if you find them!"

Harold took off quickly towards Sivingdel, which was currently north of their location.

They passed the city quickly, and then Harold lowered his elevation slightly to scan for any sign of the men.

An hour of searching yielded nothing. Righty told Harold not to veer too far from where the smaller roads converged into the large road heading northeast to the capital.

Then, one by one, the konulans began to approach Harold and Righty and assure them that they had searched all the smaller roads carefully, and no men fitting Righty's description had been seen.

"They're probably further on down the road!" Righty said. "Go back and keep searching the smaller roads. Harold and I'll head up the main road!"

No sooner had he spoke than Harold took off like a champion horse out of the starting gate. .

As they cut through the air, Righty noticed that the farther they got from the city the more spread out the traffic was. They were now truly out in the country.

The konulans certainly had an advantage by being able to fly nearby the travelers without serious chance of alarm, while Harold had to remain several hundred feet above ground. Recognizing someone he already knew at this height would not be a problem—the smell and sound of a familiar person's voice being of considerable aid—but approaching unknown travelers from behind with nothing but a verbal description was proving quite a challenge. For that very reason, Righty had Harold go back and forth every time they passed someone before continuing onward.

As for Righty, he was stuck with his naked eyes, though he made a mental note to get the best telescope money could buy as soon as the next couple of days were over. Provided he survived them.

After a fruitless half hour, Righty said with a weary sigh, "Let's head back to the city. Maybe they're still there."

Harold started to turn back as ordered, but then suddenly said, "Wait!"

"What is it?"

"Maybe nothing, but that dust cloud about ten miles down the road is quite a bit larger than most of the others we've passed today. Someone's in a bit of a hurry."

"Let's find out!" Righty said.

Harold accelerated so quickly Righty almost fell to his death. He gripped the leather straps around Harold's back and held on for dear life, his stomach compressing as tightly as his sword.

Harold passed the cloud minutes later and then swung back.

"A blond guy and dark-haired guy, both with crewcuts, one with a goatee, the other clean shaven," Harold said.

It sounded like a sure thing, although he knew he would potentially kill two innocent men if he was wrong. If he ventured close enough that his puny human eyes could see them, however, he would tip off the agents to an incoming attack, and if they weren't the agents he would have to decide what to do with two living witnesses to a man flying around on the back of a bird.

"Take out blondie," Righty said. "Do it however you want, just so long as it's fast."

Righty had a bit of an idea of what to expect, so while he was giving the command he bent down and placed his upper back underneath the front strap, which was tightly wound enough to hold him there snug. He nonetheless grabbed it with his hands for additional support.

Harold retracted both wings and plunged straight down, spinning while he did so. This was Righty's first introduction to the maneuver Harold called Cyclone. Righty nearly lost consciousness by the time they reached the men, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

Blondie barely had time to glance when ten talons sank into his neck at around three hundred miles per hour, sending an eruption of blood onto Goatee and their surroundings.

Blondie's head stubbornly remained attached to his neck for around two hundred feet or so while Harold shot up into the air, but eventually the pull of gravity won the tug of war, and Blondie's head came off while his torso went somersaulting through the air. Harold threw the man's head down at Goatee, who had leapt off his horse and was looking up at the sky apprehensively, sword drawn.

Harold relayed this information to Righty.

"Bring me down soft and easy around thirty feet behind him, and stay out of sight," Righty said.

Willis was looking around frantically, but mostly upwards.

Suddenly, he noticed a figure approaching.

He held his sword tightly. He had no idea what had happened to Benjamin, except that his head was on the ground and his body was missing in action.

At first, he had no idea who the lone man walking towards him was, but by the time he was ten feet away there could be no mistake.

It was the prisoner—Sam Higler.

"Good afternoon, agent . . . ? I don't think we were ever formally introduced," Righty said calmly.

Willis felt unnerved by the conversational tone in his voice. Even his eyes seemed peaceful.

Willis squeezed his sword as if it were the sole handhold keeping him from falling down a fatally deep precipice.

Righty was now six feet away.

"Sorry if you don't recognize me. I was a bit underdressed earlier today," he said.

"What do you want?!" Willis said, his mind debating whether to strike now or wait for any suspicious movements.

"To talk," Righty said. "That chief back there's a crooked old dog, and I reckon you would do just about anything to see him suffer for embarrassing you like that," Righty said, raising his eyebrows.

That's for sure, Willis thought, but that doesn't mean I trust you to help me with that problem.

"Look, why don't we try starting from square one. I'll tell you a little about who I am, and maybe we can reach a deal, like you mentioned earlier. I didn't mean to insult you by giving you such small bills, but the chief stole everything I had and—"

"WHAT HAPPENED TO BENJAMIN?!!!!" Willis shouted, his eyes the size of small tomatoes.

"Oh . . . hmphh," Righty chuckled slightly, "I take it you're city-born. It's okay; it's okay. No need to feel alarmed. That was the work of a pholung. He's a big fella, and he spooked my horse. Charlie just about threw me to my death back there before he went dashing off, but he'll be back soon enough, I'm sure. And don't you worry either, sir. The good thing about pholungs is that they hunt alone, and I ain't ever heard of a pholung greedy enough to kill more than one person in a day, so, not to belittle your partner's demise, but for you and me, the coast is clear."

"How did you escape?!!"

"Escape?! HAH!" Righty said, laughing. "I told you that chief's a crooked old dog. He took two million falons from me and told me to bring him a million more by the end of the month. Then, he let me and my crew go. The slate's clean," Righty said, wiping his hands against one another in a clapping fashion to emphasize the point.

"No, it's NOT clean. Not by a long shot!!" Willis said, aggressively. "We've got your file, and now I've got your admission, and we're going to take over the SISA case, not to mention the bribery case!!"

"You've got me over a barrel," Righty said, shrugging his shoulders. "But, suppose I was to reach into my sleeve here and pull out half a million falons?"

Willis's nostrils flared. He wasn't sure whether to bait Mr. Higler again or take him up on the offer.

"Is it information you want? Let me summarize. My name is Richard Franklin Simmers. I was born in Ringsetter, a one-horse town near the border with Sodorf. I was a professional boxer and almost became national champion before a wrist injury cost me the match against the now legendary Oscar Peters. I went from being Righty Rick to Righty the Shark for biting the ref.

"Then I was banned from boxing for life and worked over a decade in a lumberyard before I decided to start planting and selling Smokeless Green. I ended up becoming kingpin of the city more by accident than by intent. But . . . that's kind of a long story. And I'm not sure if . . . here is the right place. What do you say, officer. Can we negotiate? Money, information . . . you name it."

Willis was befuddled. He was pretty sure he knew the boxing story he had just heard, not that he had any way of knowing whether this was in fact the boxer in question.

Still mightily suspicious, he said, "I'd have to cuff you before we could talk any further."

"Now, officer, I'm trying to negotiate with you. Perhaps you don't want to know the name of every individual in my organization. All I want is out. I was never meant for a life of crime. I'll testify, tell you what you want to know. But then I walk, and I keep all my earnings."

Willis's guard began to drop mentally.

"You'll walk in front of me," Willis said, keeping his eyes on Righty while gradually moving sideways towards his horse, which had heroically refrained from fleeing.

"A-a-a," Righty said. "Fool me once, shame on you. But it would be on me this time. I know what happened last time I turned my back to you; I got cuffed and humiliated. We've got to shake on it first."

Warily, Willis approached Mr. Simmers, shifting his sword to his left hand, and holding it ready to lop Mr. Simmers' head off if he tried anything clever.

The moment Righty's hand wrapped around his, he felt as if it had been stepped on by an elephant. Several tendons popped, the bones nearly crunched, and he saw a malevolent smile appear in Righty's eyes.

Righty pulled him forward hard with his right hand, turning him sideways, while he let his compressed sword fall from his sleeve and into his left hand. Right hand still grasping Willis's, he lopped off his hand just above the wrist bone with a crisp, upward arc.

He then quickly grabbed the compressed sword with his other hand, extended it in a flash, twirled it in a downward motion, and lopped off Willis's left hand.

"AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!" Willis shouted out so loud Righty was tempted to whack his head off right then and there, but he wasn't going to let Willis off that easily.

Righty quickly compressed and then sheathed his sword inside his left sleeve and faced Willis.

"Sorry about changing my mind. It's just that that sword you had in your hand was illegal. According to Article 14, 'No man, except a soldier on a military base or acting in his military capacity, shall be permitted to carry a sword.' Now, let's see . . . you work for the NDP, which is a federal agency; it's completely separate from the Seleganian Army. You answer to the chief of the NDP. The chief answers to the attorney general. And the attorney general answers to the president.

"Now, I'm no attorney, but it seems pretty hard to see how you could be deemed a soldier, much less a soldier on a military base or in his military capacity."

Righty grinned widely.

"That means you're just a crook like me!"

He ducked down and gave him an uppercut to the stomach that literally picked him up three inches off the ground and abruptly ended his screaming. A soft "huuuuuuu" replaced it.

"Trickery . . . it hurts, doesn't it?" Righty said. "He then delivered three body shots to his left, then right, ribs, each of which shattered bones like they were dry twigs.

"No need to answer that question, is there?" Righty said. He then slipped on a pair of brass knuckles, and in about ten seconds delivered more damage to Willis than the average man could have with a sledgehammer.

By the time it was done, Willis was very dead, Righty was covered in blood, and he felt much better. He knew this was little different than checking off a couple chores on a very long list, but most tasks seem less daunting once they've been started.

His head felt clearer than it had at any point since he had first heard about Tats' arrest, and he calmly but thoroughly frisked Willis for anything of a useful nature. Then, he frisked his saddlebags. When it was over, Righty had a federal police badge, Sam Higler's criminal case notes, and keys to NDP headquarters.

Righty had Harold track down the other agent's corpse, and he frisked it just as thoroughly, confiscating another badge and set of keys in the process. Lastly, Harold tracked down Benjamin's fleeing horse and set Righty on top. Righty coaxed the horse to a stop, then searched the saddlebags. Nothing of note was there besides a third-rate sword, which Righty quickly discarded.

"We've got company," Harold said calmly.

Righty turned but saw nothing.

"There a ways off yet," Harold said.

"Civilians?"

"Yep."

"Let's scram. Fly low till we're a safe distance away. There's plenty more blood to shed without throwing innocent blood into the mix."

Harold took off.

Chapter 18

It was 9 p.m. and nearly pitch black. A sliver of the moon survived, grudgingly granting a dull glow that served to distinguish the milieu slightly from the belly of a deep cave.

"See anything down there?" Righty asked.

"A couple of dogs," Harold replied.

Righty pulled out two raw steaks from a bag and dropped them at slightly different trajectories, ensuring that they landed on nearly opposite sides of the luxurious estate a couple hundred feet below.

Righty heard a loud "Woof!" repeated several times, but silence supplanted barking as the dogs chowed down on their steaks. Righty had visited a quality botanist that day in Sivingdel and asked for something that would cure his stubborn insomnia. And if the powder he had massaged into the steaks was even half as good as she claimed, those dogs were going to be having the best nap of their lives before they even finished their meal.

"They're dozing," Harold said a couple minutes later, saving Righty a lot of unpleasant guesswork.

Righty summoned the rock coach to his mind briefly for a bit of justification.

The only way is up, the coach told him flatly.

In this case, "up" meant down.

"Take me down nice and slow, Harold." Righty then suddenly felt a flash of doubt. "Wait a second! Do more one check of the perimeter. Let me know if you see anyone looking out of the windows."

Harold calmly did as he was told, the whole job taking a mere twenty seconds.

"The coast is clear," he assured.

"Let's do it," Righty said.

This was it. No more scoping out the house.

Harold glided down softly, lazily tilting to one side and then the next, looking a bit like a leaf drifting leisurely towards the ground.

As soon as Righty's feet touched the ground, he felt a surge of adrenaline bigger than he had ever felt since the Oscar Peters' fight, but much worse.

Suddenly, the image of being at home with a lovely baby girl in his arms and a wife by his side asking him if he wanted anything to eat seemed like heaven.

But, tough job that it was, he knew that if he ever wanted to enjoy another tranquil night of sleep with his wife and child, without worrying about police crashing into his home to harass and berate him the way they had done today, he was going to have to man up and follow through.

He looked at Harold, and Harold looked back.

He was tempted to tell Harold to go in his place, this just being a bit beyond Righty's mettle. But he wasn't about to risk Harold getting trapped inside a house when Righty's anatomy was far better suited to the job.

He approached Harold and whispered, "If I don't see you again, I just want you to know you're the best friend I've ever had. Ever!"

Harold nodded.

Righty turned away and inched towards the door. Not really expecting his luck to be so great, he half-heartedly grabbed the door handle and tried giving it a slight twist.

Nothing.

He knew as much about picking locks as a horse does about playing the cello.

His heart threatened to explode in his chest, it thundered so violently.

There was only one option left—a caveman-style onslaught.

He tried to think of a peaceful place for just a few seconds, in case he never experienced another moment of peace in his life.

He counted to three.

WHAP!

He gave the door a hard kick, clearing the deadbolt, and almost knocking the inside chain lock off, but it hung there stubbornly, like a piece of gristle. He unsheathed his sword and cut upwards, slicing it in two and charged inside.

There was darkness everywhere, making outside look like market at midday.

He heard a low growl.

"Grrrrrrr!"

"Sic 'em, Francis!" he heard a voice shout. It came from upstairs.

Righty quickly turned that way and heard paws clacking against what was clearly a wooden staircase.

When the sound was nearly on top of him he reluctantly swung his sword in a horizontal arc in front of him. It cleaved something, drew a whimper, and then produced silence.

Righty had hoped he would get the benefit of some internal light, but now that it was clear he would have no such luck, he pulled a match out of his pocket, struck it against his boot, and lit a small candle that he now held in his left palm.

He compressed the sword to dagger size, since any fighting was likely going to be in close quarters, and he had to keep a hold of this candle at all costs.

He knew that as the intruder he had a lot going against him. He didn't know the layout of the house. It was only a matter of time before a bloodcurdling scream or other loud noise alerted the neighbors or before those dozing canines outside awoke from what proved to be more of a siesta than the deep sleep promised by the botanist and started barking like there was no tomorrow. Thus, he had no choice but to proceed forward.

He began ascending the steps slowly, and as he did so he heard scurrying footsteps in retreat. He was tempted to sprint at that same moment but feared a trap.

He continued up the stairs slowly and methodically, not unaware that to any observer of the drama he must surely look like a campfire-story monster.

It's a dirty job, but it's gotta be done, he reminded himself, while simultaneously assuring his subconscious that at some peaceful moment in the future he would carefully reflect on all the moral intricacies of his deeds thus far, the deed he was about to do, and the other deeds he still had left to do on his dirty job list.

He had reached the top of his stairs. Muffled whispers informed him his prey was just down the hallway inside a bedroom to his right. Warily, he glanced both directions down the hallway before proceeding carefully towards the sound.

He was now about two feet from the closed door. His heart was racing so bad he wasn't sure how much longer he could take this before he keeled over from a heart attack.

He was tempted to kick in the door and just start swinging his sword around wildly, but he wasn't wearing any armor, and he knew that if it was him on the other side of that door he would be waiting with some nasty surprise, such as a readied knife to poke into the burglar's side or perhaps a heavy object to send crashing down on top of his head. He needed to do something at least a bit more clever.

He noticed that while the hallway floor was made of solid wood there was the unmistakable fuzz of carpet visible underneath the door, which looked like it had a gap under it just large enough to fit a candle.

Slowly but calmly, realizing he was at risk of leaving himself in pitch black darkness against a possibly armed adversary, he bent down and sent the candle rolling underneath the door.

"HELL!" he heard a voice groan, followed by rapidly moving footsteps in pursuit.

It was now or never.

Righty extended his sword, kicked in the door, and barged in, making sure to pivot quickly to each side to look for any nasty traps.

Chief Benson was stomping on the candle like crazy while a frightened man hid all but his face underneath the bedsheets.

"It's not personal," Righty said, as he lopped the man's head off with one quick stroke before grabbing the chief by the back of his shirt.

Righty realized almost too late that while the chief's feet were busy tap-dancing on top of the candle his hands held a cane that had a foot-long blade protruding from it.

The moment the chief whirled around with his cane, Righty quickly let go of the back of his shirt and blocked the sweeping arc by pointing his sword perpendicularly towards the ground.

The cane was cut in half, but Righty would have preferred it not happen that way, since the bladed end went flying off and made a nice cut on his back.

Keeping hold of his sword, Righty sent his elbow crashing into the chief's jaw, knocking him unconscious instantly.

He kicked the headless corpse off the bed, set the chief's limp body on it, and then straddled him, waiting for him to come to.

He compressed the sword to dagger size and put it in his sleeve.

About twenty seconds later, he gave the unconscious chief a couple good slaps to the face to speed up the resuscitation process.

It seemed to work, though a fastidious philosopher may have argued this was merely a case of the post hoc ergo propter hoc logical fallacy.

Either way, Righty was now looking down at a very awake, very captive audience of one.

"YOU?!!" said the chief in disbelief. "I thought it was the feds, or maybe some of Sam's old gang. They're not too happy, you know. They figured they were heirs to Sam's throne and thus to Sam's empire. You've made a lot of enemies."

Righty listened intently, but it seemed the chief was done talking.

"You said there were informants in my gang. Who are they?!"

"Now that kind of information can be had easily for a million falons a month, but instead you waltz in here, kill my hired company, and knock the daylights out of me!"

Righty looked at him steadily, waiting for him to divulge more information.

"Heck, I don't know their names. I had my men on it. If you were to get off of me and show yourself to be reasonable, I think I might be able to find some notes I keep with that information," the chief said, a sly look on his face.

Feeling almost remorseful, Righty said, "You know, chief, in another time, in another place, I feel we would have had a very good working relationship. But there's one reason it can't work."

The chief's eyes searched his.

Righty bent down and whispered into his ear, "I can't do business with a cop who knows my real name."

"Richard Franklin Simmers. I found it in thirty minutes at the boxing association," the chief replied calmly, not even trying to fool Righty with the lie that he had been able to tame his curiosity.

"You were one hell of a fighter, Righty. Better than Oscar Peters, in my opinion. Your body shots were—"

Righty pulled out his dagger and sliced the chief's head off, tears streaming down his face. He knew that if he had listened to even one more second he would have listened to another minute. And if he had listened to another minute, he would have cut a deal and let the chief live. And if he had let the chief live, the chief would have disseminated his name to a dozen crooked colleagues and possibly forwarded it to journalists as a little insurance policy—if he hadn't done so already.

And then one day Righty would see his name on the front page of The Sivingdel Times proclaiming him to be the city's kingpin, to which the chief would slyly state, Don't look at me—surely, you didn't think you could go unrecognized forever! And then Righty's chances of surviving long enough in this sordid underworld to reach "the top" referred to by his subconscious rock climbing coach would go from one in a hundred to one in ten million.

The chief should have just kept that card nice and close to his chest.

Righty checked his watch. It was only 9:20 p.m., but he felt like he had been in the house five hours, and his welcome was already worn thin.

He began frantically searching the room. He found the chief's coat and searched the pockets frantically. He extracted some papers and stuffed them into one of his own pockets without even taking the time to read the material. He grabbed the chief's briefcase, opened it and saw it was filled with papers, and decided it would be most efficient to take the whole thing.

He then approached the chief's desk and opened it. It too was stuffed with papers.

Hurry it up, pal! a not-so friendly inner voice told him.

He noticed the middle of the desk was hollow to allow for plenty of sitting room. An idea came to mind. He pulled out his sword and with two quick strokes hacked the hollowed portion away, leaving just the two sides with the drawers.

Feeling like the entire police department was going to be storming the house at any moment, he nearly fainted with terror as he gripped a lantern—which he had taken from the room—with his teeth while he carried a stack of desk drawers in each hand.

When he got to the base of the stairs, he tripped, and in spite of his noblest efforts went crashing face first towards the floor. He decided to let the drawers fall, while he reached for the lantern with both hands, which he just barely caught before it crashed to the floor. He landed on his left side, and while it stung like hell, his adrenaline and terror forced him to his feet immediately.

He quickly opened up the desk drawers and began retrieving the papers that had hopped out of the desk and started stuffing them back into the drawers quicker than the most-seasoned secretary.

He then sprinted back upstairs, grabbed the briefcase, put the chief's head inside a bag that he had brought for the occasion, and went back downstairs.

He was about to open the door and beseech Harold to get him the righteous hell out of there when suddenly a terrifying drama unfolded in his imagination.

Detectives were poring over every square inch of the home.

Find anything yet?

Nothing major . . . oh, wait, here's a note tucked inside this drawer. It says, and I quote, "If you find my head and my body have parted ways, look into an ex-boxer named Richard Franklin Simmers, aka Righty Rick, aka Mr. Brass, aka Public Menace No. 1, native of Ringsetter, current kingpin of Sivingdel."

Well, it may be a sick joke. You know the chief was always messing around with us detectives, but check it out anyway. There might be something there.

Sure thing, boss.

Righty didn't need to watch any more of this drama.

He saw a bookshelf in the corner. He went and pushed it over on its side. Then, he picked up a random book: Brutality During the Prohibition Wars was its title.

Reluctantly, feeling like a guy who has stopped to play pinochle with his pals during a high-stakes bank heist, he went and added the book to one of the dresser drawers.

He then picked up another book, but refused himself the privilege of looking at its title for fear he might still be there at dawn making choice selections from the chief's library, and tore open the pages and made a pile. He then repeated this process with several other books, whose titles will never be known.

He then went to the door, hauled the desk drawers outside, and said in a loud whisper, "Be ready in thirty seconds!"

He then went back inside the house and hurled the lantern at the pile of books.

It bounced off ineffectually.

Furious, he picked it up and sliced it in two in midair while it descended upon the books.

WHOOSH!! an angry puff of fire rebuked him.

He sprinted outside, holding only the briefcase in one hand and a very grisly bag in the other.

SARAH AND LLOYD'S HOME

A PLACE OF LOVE

Righty noticed the placard on the wall, now that it was well-illumined, as he sprinted outside. He couldn't help but spare a thought as to whether Sarah was now resting peacefully in a cemetery somewhere or obliviously at a late-night game of bridge while Lloyd had made his home a place of a very different kind of love.

Harold was sitting on top of the awkward load, his massive talons grasping the content, and while Righty's mind may have been wandering his body was undeterred from its destination.

He leapt on top of Harold, who didn't grouse about the awkward load one bit.

A minute later they were hundreds of feet in the air, and the roaring inferno below looked only like a piece of burning coal.

In spite of it seeming that a lifetime had passed, it was only 9:40 p.m.

"Let's go to the cabin," Righty said. "I'll feel a lot calmer once I have these contents in a safe place. If I'm a minute or two late, Tats can wait. He owes me!"

Chapter 19

As Righty flew down into Tats' backyard at around 11:00 p.m. he was in a mood to give orders and have them promptly, and unquestioningly, followed. He was relieved to see Tats waiting there all alone as requested.

"Evening," Righty said, dismounting from Harold, who then promptly disappeared into the shadows of Tats' spacious back yard.

"Evening, Mr. Brass," Tats said, apprehension, but not despair, clearly evident in his voice.

"We're in a real shit blizzard," Righty said, attempting a smile.

"Please, have a seat," Tats invited.

They both sat down next to a large table outside.

They shared a long, somewhat uncomfortable stare, each sizing the other up.

"I know you didn't sell me out, Tats," Righty said, crisply and emphatically.

Tats looked visibly relieved.

"And, I know the chief tried really hard to get you to."

Tats gulped, wondering how Righty became aware of this information.

"I'm gonna need you to do a lot of things for me, Tats. And they're not all going to be easy." Righty studied Tats' carefully, looking for any sign of dissent.

"Mr. Brass, a man couldn't be more in another's debt than I am in yours. If it weren't for you, I'd still be stuck in a damp cell expecting to spend the rest of my life there. You say it; I do it."

An unexpected excitement pulsed through Righty's veins. A man's loyalty can't be measured until adversity arrives. And while Tats had stuck by him in some nasty fights, Righty's brief time in jail had made him aware of the truly soul-crushing impact time spent in a dark cell could have on a man. Thus, he had feared he would be hearing responses of a far more equivocal nature.

Nonetheless, Righty's eyes continued to probe every square inch of Tats' visage, searching for any hint of insincerity.

"While I have no regrets for going to jail and getting you out today," Righty began, "I want you to realize the immeasurable consequences that sole act had. My face was seen by dozens of witnesses while I was being arrested. My sketch is now inside the Sivingdel Police Station. I could be looking at charges for multiple SISA violations, attempted bribery of city law enforcement agents, attempted bribery of federal agents, and running a criminal enterprise.

"Yesterday, I was a man without an arrest record, Tats," Righty said, and then paused, wanting the enormity of his sacrifice to sink in.

"And I knew these were potential consequences of showing up at that jail unannounced with my pockets full of cash and no better explanation than that I wanted to speak to the chief."

Tats hung his head. He knew there was nothing he could say that would truly show he appreciated the gravity of what Mr. Brass had done today.

"There are going to be hard things I'll ask of you, Tats," Righty said, still probing the waters before jumping right in.

"Just name them!" Tats said zealously.

Another long stare. Righty was convinced.

"Before I do, I want you to know your boss isn't afraid to get his hands dirty himself."

The next thing Tats knew, the head of the man who had not long ago seemed to hold all the power in the world over his fate was now sitting on top of his table like a kind of macabre decoration.

Tats gulped and felt the hairs rise up all over his neck and back.

"Just name them," Tats repeated, now feeling oddly rejuvenated by the grisly sight.

"You're going to need help. Anyone who refuses—kill them."

Chapter 20

It was 12:55 p.m. the next day. Righty and Harold were hovering at around two thousand feet. It was pretty chilly up here, but Righty didn't want to risk Harold being seen at any costs. The blue clear skies were a double-edged sword, since they made Righty's upcoming task much more feasible, yet also increased the risk of people below noticing the unusually large eagle hovering over their city.

He hadn't gone home last night either. He could have, but there was something that just had to be done today, and he couldn't risk the pangs of conscience that a comfortable night with his wife and baby might elicit.

He suspected a nasty storm was brewing at home, of an equally fierce temperament as his current troubles, albeit of a different nature. He would have to tend to that later.

"Am I going too far, Harold?" Righty asked, picking a dubious source if he was looking for words of caution.

"There's no going back now," Harold replied.

12:58 p.m.

Tats, dressed as an upscale, but not ostentatious, gentleman, approached the vicinity of the Sivingdel Police Station with fifteen similarly well-dressed underlings. These had been the survivors of a rather nasty culling. Tats and Crabs had rounded up large numbers of the gang last night at one of his mansions and asked for volunteers.

Per Righty's instructions, no ill will was conveyed to those who declined participation in today's activities until everyone in the group had been asked. Then, Tats and Crabs had mercilessly hacked to death everyone who had refused the invitation.

Tats had been privately a bit glad by some of the underlings' decision to decline participation, as he suspected that if they had not been traitors yet it was only a matter of time before they hurt the gang, whether by treachery or stupidity. He didn't hesitate a moment to run each and every one of them through with his sword, and he was glad he didn't see Crabs flinch at the task either, although he was going to be keeping a close eye on Crabs today to see if he merited continued inclusion in the gang.

Tats also knew that, with the sudden escalation of everything, he was going to have to start training his subordinates rigorously in the arts of the knife, sword, and fist. In addition to this making them more useful subjects, it would also give him an enhanced opportunity to test their mettle.

Mr. Brass had been very specific about the task in question being completed at exactly 1 p.m., and after everything he had done for Tats yesterday, he wasn't going to allow anything to get in the way of full compliance.

In other words, he was going to do most of the work himself.

He checked his pocket. Sure enough, the chain was still there.

He hoped he would be able to find the doors closed, but the exactness of Mr. Brass's instructions on timing left little of that to Tats' control. He glanced at his watch. It was 12:59 p.m.

He nudged Crabs and quickly began leading the gang from the side of the police headquarters, where they had been pretending to pass themselves off as gentlemen on lunch break, straight towards the doors.

"Get in there, ya young punk!" shouted an angry officer at a belligerent drunk in handcuffs, who—in imitation of the canine species when confronted with the prospect of a bath—was squatting down low towards the ground, attempting to forestall his entrance to a police station he had undoubtedly visited numerous times.

"Give this officer a hand, gentlemen!" Tats instructed his disguised hooligans.

They yanked the foul-smelling man up in the air, pushed open the doors, and tossed him inside like a dirty bag of laundry.

"And they say you can't count on your fellow man for anything!" the officer said, good-naturedly.

"They're mostly right," Tats responded, with some regret but no time to dwell on it.

The officer's face turned from joy to confusion to anger as Tats and his gang shoved him inside the station and quickly leaned against the doors, making it impossible for the officer to open them back up, despite his most ardent efforts.

Tats quickly pulled the chain out, wrapped it tightly around the doors, slapped the padlock on the end of it—he had practiced this procedure endlessly last night—and said, "Let's scram!"

"Stop those men!" shouted an officer. He had a couple fellow officers trotting up from behind, wanting to see what all the excitement was about.

Tats took off sprinting.

On the other side of the building, a wagon was rolling to a stop right in front of the doors where Righty and his fellow crooks had been let out the back yesterday. It was the same wagon Tats had been driving when the nightmare began. Its contents now were quite different, however. Large stones added to the natural weight of the wagon, making it an implacable doorstop.

A dozen men hopped out of the back, where they had been lying in wait with daggers ready in case the wagon had been subjected to a search or stop. They took off running like there was a snapping pit bull on their heels, and the two drivers did the same.

1:00 p.m.

Harold was now about five hundred feet above the police station. Righty would have loved to go lower, but this was as low as he dared go.

Feeling one last bit of self-doubt, Righty said, "When the history books are written, let them record that, while I may have struck hardest, I didn't strike first."

Then, attempting a bit of gallows humor to lighten the unfortunate scene, he said, reading from an imaginary envelope, "Delivery for Sivingdel Police Headquarters . . . oh, wait, special instructions: 'Leave on rooftop.'"

Rancher Tim Sanders had been a busy beaver last night, and the fruits of his labor were dispersed between two large sacks, one abutting each side of Harold. Righty had told him he had to clear some really tough stumps and stubborn brush on a different ranch.

Righty reached into the bag on his left and extracted a lantern-like object with an exceptionally large oil compartment. He then struck a match on a piece of flint he had ready and then lit the lantern.

The only way is up, the rock climbing coach assured him.

"And I sure as heck can't climb down," Righty added.

He let the lantern fall, and its humble shattering sound belied the large puddle of fire that immediately spread around it.

Below, inside the station, a swarm of officers were kicking and pushing against the door. Their combined force reached a point at which—while the chain itself was in no danger of breaking—it was becoming a possibility that the handles might rip off. But before reaching that point, the ever-increasing number of pushing officers became counterproductive, causing them to smash and trample one another.

Righty lit another few lanterns and let them fall.

Meanwhile, Tats' pursuers were closing in on him, and one of his gang had already been nabbed.

"FIIIIRE!!!" someone shouted out from below.

Righty figured that if the fire was now visible to the people on the ground he could dispense with lighting the individual lanterns. He took out his compressed sword and severed the entire bagful.

By this time, the top brass were beginning to wonder what all the commotion was about down in the lobby, and so they left behind their windowed rooms, from which they might have jumped had they known there were around twenty seconds left within which it would have served any purpose to do so.

Even from this height, Righty felt a rush of heat as a fireball leapt up into the sky after the bag of lanterns made contact with the roof. Knowing this was going to turn onlookers' eyes upward, he realized it was time to wrap this up.

He cut off the other sack, which was full of sticks of dynamite.

Righty didn't need to say anything to Harold. No sooner had the sack left Harold's side than Harold began pumping his wings and heading straight towards the sun, hoping to thereby reduce the likelihood of anyone seeing him below while he simultaneously increased his and his passenger's chances of survival.

BOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!

It was a majestic, thunderous sound, reverberating quickly and rapidly, deafening anyone within a hundred feet.

Tats' pursuers stopped to look, but, while Tats certainly felt curiosity, his desire for freedom was far stronger. He kept sprinting, and only when he was convinced that he had successfully blended in with the panicked multitude and left his pursuer far behind did he dare turn and look at the black smoke cloud enveloping the entire sky.

Mr. Brass had not said much about what the purpose was behind chaining the doors shut, but he was emphatic that after Tats did so he spend a well-deserved three-week vacation in Sodorf City, to begin immediately. That now sounded like rather good advice.

Chapter 21

As Righty emerged from the woods behind Ringsetter—as close to the town as he dared tread—he knew he was really pushing his luck by not heading straight to the Simmers' home, where Janie's mood no doubt currently shared a great deal with her married surname. But when a man's got a list of chores, he has no choice but to keep marching through them.

He walked into his store, which he had neglected for weeks if not months—he had too much on his mind to stop and calculate—and was glad to see faithful Robert there attending to customers and managing everything splendidly.

Righty waited respectfully for him to finish and then flipped the "Please Come In!" sign to "Please Come Back Soon!"

With a motion of his head, he beckoned Robert towards the back room.

"Everything running smoothly?"

"Yes, sir," Robert said, confidently, and then handed Righty a list of certificates of deposit that he had made at Righty's bank account over the last several weeks.

"Impressive!" Righty said sincerely. "And costs?"

"We're definitely in the black," Robert said, handing him a series of weekly reports.

Righty looked over them and whistled approvingly.

"You've got a golden thumb, young man."

"Thank you, sir."

"Are you interested in more responsibility and more pay?"

"Absolutely," Robert replied, not pausing a second.

Righty put a stack of money on the table.

"Here's $500,000. Ten thousand will be yours as a bonus just for all the extra hassle. I've been meaning to set up a similar store in Sivingdel, but things just keep coming up. I don't want this store to bear my name, because crime is getting rather nasty these days, and so I don't necessarily want to be easily linked to this store or any future ones we might open.

"I'm satisfied with one eponymous store," Righty said chuckling, referring to Rich's Groceries & Hardware. "I'm thinking this one should just be called Groceries & Hardware. You can use the same connection for inventory—Mr. Hoffmeyer—but don't tell him I'm the owner. If he asks who the owner is, just say, 'He prefers to remain anonymous.'"

Righty was beginning to have a deep distrust of Mr. Hoffmeyer, now that he thought back on his brazen offers to perform money laundering services.

"In fact," Righty said, "Find a different inventory supplier for the new store."

"Yes, sir," Robert asked.

"Okay, here's how pay and responsibilities are going to work. I am making you head manager of both stores. You can hire and fire. You can set pay and people's hours. You know how to run a store profitably, and that's what matters. Your pay is hereby increased to $80,000 annually to be paid monthly. Get receipts for all hotel costs while you're staying in Sivingdel, and find some place nice.

"If you make this new store run like the old one, you can expect more stores and more pay. Any questions?"

"Mr. Simmers . . . THANK YOU!" Robert said.

"You're worth every falon. Just don't let me down," Righty said.

"You'll have another profitable store soon. I promise."

"Well, I suppose I better reopen for business," Righty said. "Thanks again."

He extended his hand, and Robert shook it.

Why can't I find more people like Robert in my other organization? Righty asked himself, as he walked briskly out of the store, cringing at the thought of what kind of tempest he might find at home.

Robert was having a bit of trouble standing on two feet. His head felt light, and the room seemed to be spinning. He shook it off and went back to work.

Chapter 22

Somehow, from the moment Righty stepped foot inside his home, he knew things weren't going to be half as bad as he expected. In fact, although he begrudged excessive optimism, maybe they would just be so-so. He had faced enough gale-force tongue lashings in his day to get a sense of what was to come from the moment he stepped inside the house.

He heard cooing from the living room, which meant Janie was here. And if things were really bad, she would have gone off to her parents' house, the way she used to from time to time during his drinking days.

"Babe?" Righty said, probing Janie's mood.

He was rewarded with silence, which meant on a scale of one to ten of moods she was probably at a three or four.

Righty entered.

"Babe, I'm so sorry," Righty began.

"Back to drinking?" Janie said, trying to sound calm, but a tear rolled down her cheek.

"No . . . nooo," Righty said, moving towards her and kneeling. In his drinking days, he would have said "no" while moving in the opposite direction.

Janie didn't deign to look at him, but if he wasn't mistaken her nostrils flared momentarily, perhaps signifying she was taking a whiff. That would mean at least she cared. On the other hand, perhaps that was just a sign of fury.

"I've been meaning to surprise you, honey, but everything ended up taking much longer than expected."

"Hmmphhh," she said, still not looking at him.

"Janie," he said calmly, resting a hand on each knee lightly and looking at her yearningly.

She now gave him a stormy stare, but this was still actually a sign of hope.

"I'm buying us a new place, Janie."

The storm was replaced by a skeptical look, which was yet one more step up the ladder towards reconciliation, but it also meant that whatever came out of his mouth in the next few seconds better be convincing, or he was going to fall all the way down the steps.

"It was supposed to just be a trip out to the ranch to sign some papers, but then the guy started playing games to size me up. Let me start from the beginning. I heard from a customer at the store a couple months ago that a rancher, just an hour or two ride from here, was wanting to sell and that the price he was asking has been going down month after month because he hasn't found any takers.

"It sounded too good to be true, so I went out there to have a look at the place about a month ago, and I knew right then and there that this would be the perfect place for us. It's got a beautiful house with a white picket fence. But stupid old me—I had 'I want this house!' written all over my stupid face.

"The seller's a sly old dog, and he told me I should come out again so that we could sign. Well, I went out there ready to sign and buy, and he tells me that in the meantime he's gotten several other offers. Now, I know this guy's lying right through his tobacco-chewing teeth, so I told him, 'Well, I'm happy for you, but I can't talk about this anymore unless we go back to our original price.'

"Now, he sized me up like I ain't never seen a man size up another, and I tried my best at a poker face, and I think I just might have pulled it off because he said, 'Well, those other fellas have only talked so far, so maybe you should come back soon and see.'

"I decided to be a bit of a sneak, and I hid in the woods near his house. I watched two days and nights, and not one soul came by. So, I worked up my courage, and today I approached him and told him what I did, and I said, 'I'm sorry for being a sneak, but I've got a store to tend to and a new daughter, so if you're looking to sell, I'm looking to buy at our original price. But you decide in forty-eight hours, or forget it.'

"He told me, 'Come by in two days. If those other fellas haven't shown their faces, I think we can talk about the original price.'

"Baby, I think it's going to happen. Heck! I know it is! I didn't tell you—because I wanted this all to be a surprise—but things are going really well at the hardware store, and I'm on the verge of opening up another one in Sivingdel. We always talked about getting out of this miserable shack! I'm talking about a real house!"

Janie had silent tears rolling down her face, but she looked happy.

"You know I don't need a new house to be proud of you," she said in an earnest tone, while feeling proud of him for the first time in quite a while.

"You deserve it, babe, and that's all there is to it," Righty said softly.

He was worn out from the lies and the new chores these lies were going to entail to make them reality, but he felt relief as well. A family ranch had many benefits—one of them being that you didn't have to get the news every day.

"May I?" Righty asked, glancing at Heather.

"You're the daddy," Janie said, a hint of a smile.

Righty picked up Heather, and she looked at him with an innocent smile. As soon as his hands came in contact with her, he felt a purifying sensation as if she could do to his guilty soul what water had done recently to his bloody hands. It seemed as if all the purity of the universe was concentrated into this one tiny being and that by holding her long enough and gently enough somehow all the evil inside of him would ooze out of his pores and evaporate into thin air.

"Hi there," Righty said joyfully, as he put his pinky finger on her nose and gave it the lightest little push, prompting Heather to make a sound that seemed to be giggling.

He saw Janie smile out of the corner of his eye.

He sat down on a chair, held Heather in his arms, and only with great restraint refrained from sobbing, the consequence of his grim inner resolve melting before this seemingly powerless infant. He would have liked to stay there all afternoon, that evening, and every day for the rest of eternity.

But like a weary man hearing the torturous sound of an alarm clock, the rock climbing coach looked at him and said, Sure, rest a few. You're gonna need it because you've got some of your most difficult climbing ahead this afternoon and this evening. Otherwise, all the climbing you did last night and earlier today is going to come back and bite you reeeeal hard. The only way is up. Either that, or you'll never see your daughter again except maybe while you glance down from the scaffold.

Righty lost the battle with his tears. They streamed down his face, and he began to sob.

Alarmed, he handed Heather back to Janie, almost terrified of her effect on him.

"I'm sorry, babe," he said, still sobbing. "I'm going to make all of this up to you. But as for right now, I have to go back to the store. I've got mountains of paperwork. But I think by tomorrow things will be back to normal."

Never before had he wished so much that he had called it quits a few days ago. Tats' problems would have been his own then. Righty would be a rich man with a wife and daughter he loved dearly. He could have burned the Smokeless Green at his ranch or handed it over to the ranchers to do with as they pleased. Perhaps he could have sold the ranch to them.

While he would later realize those exit points were nearly as impossibly fraught with danger as his current situation, he did at least have the perspicuity to realize he had begun one nasty spider web yesterday, and it would be his following steps that would determine whether his pursuers—existing or latent—ended up suspended helplessly in this web or he himself.

Chapter 23

"Whether by land or by sea!" bellowed Mayor Roverdile, pausing for dramatic emphasis while surveying the large crowd assembled before him at around 2:15 p.m. in the city square.

"Whether by land or by sea," he repeated, this time in a near-reverential whisper. "We will spare no expense, leave no corner unsearched, and not quit until the vile, cowardly perpetrators of this misdeed are brought forward to justice!!"

The crowd clapped enthusiastically.

"JUSTICE!" a man yelled. "THE GALLOWS!" opined another. Soon a tumultuous chorus of punishments for the perpetrators was being recommended loudly by the insatiable mob.

"We have captured one malefactor and killed another who tried to escape. Your heroic police are to thank for this tremendous progress we have made thus far!"

"HANG HIM!!" cried a man.

"All in good time," promised the mayor. "But we must first learn who his accomplices are and, most importantly, who the ringleaders are!"

"FIND THE RINGLEADERS!" shouted another man.

"Now, if you will excuse me," said the mayor, who then promptly left the stage.

The police station was a smoldering ruin. The entire city might have been set ablaze if not for the fact the police station had been constructed hundreds of yards from any neighboring buildings. An infamous jailbreak at the prior police station, accomplished by tunneling from nearby buildings around a century ago, had been to thank for that.

The mayor was telling the truth that they had caught a suspect. He was a skinny runt underling too slow to escape from the swift pursuit of an officer who saw him fleeing from the front doors after the chain was tied and too puny to put up any effective resistance once apprehended. He was now being kept in a makeshift jail whose location was kept top-secret.

So far, he had refused to talk, but the mayor planned on putting the screws to him tomorrow. Today, he planned to focus on crafting his public relations response and seeing if any other suspects turned up. What was left of the police force—approximately one half—was told to focus on nothing other than rounding up suspects related to the terror attack.

Although no one besides those involved in the attack had been directly informed by Tats of the operation, and those who had refused to participate had been massacred, Tats had ordered the word to be passed down the chain of command that all criminal operations were to cease entirely for three weeks, during which time every member of the gang was to stay indoors. It was also made clear that anyone who violated this order would be dealt with most harshly.

Chapter 24

"Today was historic, and I only hope tomorrow's publication will satisfy its moral, civic, and intellectual obligations," Mr. Harry Felden said, helping himself to a large serving of mashed potatoes, while seated at the head of a small army, also known as his family. His wife, six sons, and eight daughters sat dutifully around the table, listening with spellbound attention to the man who commanded their small universe and did so with no less sway at The Sivingdel Times, the largest, oldest, and most respected newspaper in the city. No less could be expected of the man who was not only the executive editor, but owner, of the august newspaper.

"It will be—I just know it," his wife said, patting him on the shoulder, while looking amorously into his eyes.

"Who did it, father?" asked Samuel, a serious-minded youth of seventeen years of age. He was the oldest son and planned on following his father's footsteps.

"The drug peddlers, most likely. Only they could be so brazen. Our city's more historic criminal class—robbers, forgers, extortionists, et al—would never dare carry out such a . . . military-style attack. But my sources—and they are legion—say the drug peddlers are acquiring unprecedented wealth. Adding to the nasty equation is the fact that, ironically, this new criminal class is subjected to far severer penalties than the average robber or forger, etc. Thus, when faced with the unrelenting hand of justice, you have the perfect storm of a group of desperate men with heretofore unthinkable resources with which to wage their bloody resistance.

"Ahhh," he said, letting out a sigh, "it does bring to mind the bloody wars of prohibition fought so long ago. One may question the wisdom of SISA altogether, I suppose, or question the severity of the sentences, but, my wife and children, the law is the law," finishing like a professor at the end of a profound lecture.

"Will the good guys win, daddy?"

It was little Jenny, just four years old, but already showing signs of interest in matters far beyond her years.

"That depends, pumpkin."

"On what, daddy?"

"Whether good men stand firm and resist corruption." Mr. Felden scanned the face of every family member at the table to make sure the enormity of this simple, but decisive, axiom was fully appreciated.

"More wine, Mr. Felden?" a maid asked.

"No, thank you," Mr. Felden replied benevolently, but not sparing her a glance.

"I believe in you, dear," Mrs. Felden said, her hand grasping her husband's and interlocking her fingers with his. Mr. Felden smiled and patted her hand lovingly.

"We all do, father," Samuel said, with an almost militant look in his eyes.

"Come now," said Mr. Felden, attempting to inject a bit of levity into the somber atmosphere Samuel left whenever he opened his mouth, "it is the police and the politicians who face those struggles. Let us give thanks that journalism is a safer line of work in such times."

Samuel didn't look convinced, but neither did he dare contradict his father.

"Well, I can't thank all of you enough for postponing your own dinner on my account," Mr. Felden said, glancing at his watch, which showed the time was slightly after 9 p.m. "I must rest now. Tomorrow may prove to be even more eventful, but let us hope it is not so."

The family then joined hands and prayed.

Mr. Felden was glad he hadn't accepted the last offer of wine. Even with the one glass he had drunk, he feared he had pushed his drowsiness to the point climbing the stairsteps would seem like ascending a mountain.

He was practically panting by the time he reached upstairs, but the climb had at least perked up his energy levels slightly. As he approached his bedroom, he saw a note lying on the bed. He knew he was going to have to gently chide his beloved wife, Rachel, later. She was simply too good to him.

As he drew nearer, he saw the envelope was much larger than any dear Rachel ever used, and his energy levels began to rise quickly, commensurately with his curiosity.

He turned it over. It was closed with an aesthetically pleasing seal.

"Hmm . . . must have fallen out of my briefcase," he said to himself. He almost set it aside to peruse the next day, but his curiosity was too strong now.

He broke the seal, opened the envelope, and found a handwritten letter, as well as another sealed envelope.

Esteemed Mr. Harry Felden:

When you told your assistant editor Abigail Dolther that she should "wage war with words against the reprehensible criminals," did you take a moment to think about whether your family would like to be in a war—a very real war, where throats are cut, homes are burned, and heads lie rotting on the ground? Did you consider the possibility Abigail receives a weekly stipend to keep an eye on you?

When you said "Good morning" to your coachman, Alexander Risden, did it even cross your mind he could be a spy on the payroll of the drug peddlers?

When you had lunch today at The Grillmaster, did you wonder whether that second steak you ate could have been poisoned by one of my agents if I gave a certain wink and nod?

When you went to the bathroom four times during the workday, did you wonder whether you would meet death in the form of a man's iron-like grip around your throat, leaving your body in a most humiliating pose for the scrutiny of the investigating detectives?

When you let your eyes wander more than once towards your intern Kelly Barden, did you ever stop to think that she could lure you to a motel under the pretense of romance only to cut your throat while you lay facedown for a massage?

Lastly, when you implied during this evening's meal that journalists could sit safely on the sidelines during a time of social upheaval, was that merely for the benefit of your servile wolf pack, or are you indeed delusional beyond any hope of redemption?

My agents are numerous. Their eyes are everywhere. You are a mouse inside a small glass cage living under the illusion of security because you have never seen the owner of the cage, who can slip a rattlesnake inside of it at any time he pleases.

You will not be the first victim if you defy me. I will start with your wife and proceed downwards in reverse chronological order. Whether it be tonight, or after burying a dozen of your loved ones for vain pretensions of "principle," you will see reason.

I will inform you in advance of the day each death is to occur so that you will see you and the police—most of whom work for me—cannot or will not stop it.

In the attached envelope is the revised headline and article that you will publish tomorrow on the front page. If you fail to do so, your wife and the next four children in line will be dead before 9 p.m. tomorrow. Any article not fully in conformance with the content and spirit of this article will be either revised as needed or removed entirely.

In exchange for your small service, I have gone ahead and left two million falons on the north side of the large oak tree in your backyard, because I know you would like more than another twenty-four hours with your entire family. You are a clever man; I'm sure you can explain to your family your change of heart without them even suspecting our private agreement.

I am well aware that if you do not take immediate action the current newspaper will have already left The Sivingdel Times for its various distribution centers, so if I do not see you outside taking the money within one hour I will notify my assassins that they are to perform their loathsome deeds tomorrow.

Yours Sincerely,

A Thousand Eyes and Ears

Mr. Felden had begun trembling partway through the letter as the inerrant account of the day's activities had been placed before his face and had almost wet himself by the time the letter was through.

Fingers trembling, he opened the smaller envelope and began reading the revised headline and article.

I suppose this could work, he told himself.

He went outside, telling his attentive family that he just needed a bit of fresh air and alone time to reflect on the gravity of the times they were living in. He hoped he would not find the money. That might mean this person was not as powerful as he claimed, although a shiver that passed through his bones as soon as that thought had been formulated reminded him that the specificity of the information in that letter already precluded the possibility of the author not being the head of a large and powerful gang.

As he approached the oak tree from the south he could already see a bag by the time he was within ten feet. He reached it, but as he picked up the bag about halfway he immediately began to vomit the entirety of that evening's meal.

Underneath the bag, lying on the ground, looking up at him in a ghastly plea, was the severed head of a close acquaintance of his—Chief Lloyd Benson.

A note was nailed to his forehead:

He means business!

Mr. Felden puked some more, but tried to keep it quiet, lest his faithful family come outside to investigate the sudden illness.

He looked inside the bag. There was a large pile of money, divided into clusters tightly wound in the center by leather. All of the currency units said "1,000 FALONS."

Maybe the content of that story is true anyway, he told himself. I've always been privately suspicious of the mayor.

He started walking back to the house and then quickly hid the bag of money underneath his large coat.

It's a daring thing you're doing, but all must be held accountable . . . even a crooked mayor.

Chapter 25

"You look a little young to be in here, kid. What's your name?"

"Richie."

The broad-backed, flat-nosed, ham-fisted hulk bent down and surveyed the young kid, looking like an adult male lion inspecting a new cub.

"How old are you?"

"Ten, sir."

"Well, let me tell you something, Richie. You don't step foot in there until you're at least fourteen and I think you can leave on your own two feet," the hulk said, pointing to the ring, where two giants were examining each other's skulls for structural soundness with thundering blows from their thin leather gloves.

That was just dandy with Richie. He hadn't wanted to come in here at all, but his dad had dropped him off, pushed him inside, and shut the door behind him, all thanks to a black eye Richie had brought home from school that day, compliments of a class bully. If he had been told he would be denied entrance into that frightening ring until he was twenty-four, he would have gladly accepted the restriction.

"But that don't mean things is gonna be easy," said the hulk, grabbing Richie's hands and lifting them up towards his chin and then plastering his elbows to his sides with a tight squeeze.

"Now, no matter what happens, your hands is glued to your chin, and your elbows is glued to your ribs—got it?"

A terrified Richie nodded.

The hulk then started throwing some light slaps and jabs at Richie, pulling them just short of contact. Richie, who was used to getting a belting if he failed to follow instructions from his dad, kept his hands and elbows plastered where instructed, although his heart was beating a mile a minute.

"Not too bad, kid. You listen, and, believe me, that's worth somethin' in here.

"I'm Coach Ryler, and I own this little set of four walls."

"Yes, sir," Richie said.

"Now, relax your body, but keep those hands and elbows plastered."

Richie did as instructed while Ryler grabbed his shoulders.

"Now, keep your back straight, but allow me to move it sideways."

Ryler then tilted Richie's body slowly to the left and then to the right, noting with satisfaction that Richie's posture stayed perfectly straight throughout.

"Not bad, kid. Now, I'm gonna go just a little faster."

He began quickly and erratically jerking Richie's body to the left, then to the right, then twice to the left, then once to the right, and so on in a random fashion.

Richie's back stayed straight but flexible at the waist.

"Well, I'll be," said the gruff Ryler, having learned how to spot potential in the most basic of exercises.

"Now, listen, son. You just do that when you see something coming at your face you wouldn't like to kiss."

Ryler began throwing some controlled jabs and crosses, which Richie quickly moved clear of.

"There might be a future in this for you, kid, but it takes more than talent. It takes coming in here when you don't feel like it. It takes coming in here when your friends are out chasing tail—you'll understand that one when you're older. It takes coming in here when you're scared because there's somebody better than you who just loves pounding your face in, because you know you've got a tiger inside and one day you'll be pounding his face in."

Richie just nodded. He had long since learned from his dad the benefits of nodding your head and keeping your mouth closed.

"Okay, now you do that for two hours. And then you come in here tomorrow and do that for two hours. And if I see you in here every day for the rest of the week at least two hours doing what I just told you, then I just might teach you something new."

Ryler gave him a slap on the back, and Richie set to it. And set to it the next day. And—

"Message delivered," a konulan said, interrupting Righty from his pleasant daydream. Righty was on Harold's back many hundreds of feet above ground.

"Good work, friend," Righty said.

Now he just had to wait to see if Mr. Harry Felden came outside to take the money . . . or rather, Harold would have to see it. Righty saw little besides darkness and amorphous shapes below.

His mind slipped back . . . .

That Friday, Coach Ryler had approached him grinning.

"I didn't think I'd see you on Tuesday much less the rest of the week. Usually, a little praise is all it takes to convince a man or a boy he's got something licked, and he'll never practice again. But you're made of different stuff, aren't you?"

Richie nodded more out of fear of contradicting the hulk than genuine belief. He didn't think it would be helpful to mention that his dad would have belted him if he had failed to come in.

"Well, I'm a man of my word," Ryler said, good-naturedly.

He put Richie into the same defensive stance and said, "Now, relax your knees, keep your back straight, and allow your body to move up and down in a slight circle."

Richie nodded, and Ryler held his shoulders, moved him just ever so slightly to the right and then down, back to center, and then straight back up. He repeated the process about ten times and then switched sides.

"Now, you do that whenever you see somethin' comin' at your face you don't wanna kiss."

He then began throwing some hooks towards Richie's head. First, slow, and then working up to intermediate speed.

"You're coming along real swell," Ryler said.

"Now, you do that two hours a day, Monday through Friday, for two weeks, and I'll show you some real fun stuff after that."

Richie happily complied, and after two weeks Coach Ryler showed him how to spring upwards from that crouch with a left or right hook onto Ryler's outstretched hands.

When Richie made Ryler's leathery old hands sting a tad while he held them out in lieu of the regular boxing mitts, he knew this student had something special. And though little Richie did not know it, he had discovered something special. It was his signature move, and he used it not only defensively but also offensively, using it to fake out his opponent about his next move because he could spring up from that crouch with a nasty straight punch or hook just as easily.

Ryler had put Richie into the ring at age twelve, rather than fourteen, because he knew by then there was no way he could take Richie's skill to the next level based on drills alone. That was when Richie had met one of his first big challenges in life: Mike Brewster, better known at the boxing club as Mike the Bruiser.

The name was no exaggeration. At three years Richie's senior, he was far stronger and technically superior to boot.

"This is when your training becomes psychological," Coach Ryler said to Richie when he caught a few tears escaping from his eyes after a royal beating.

"You're strengthening your very soul," he added.

Richie nodded. The coach had brought him this far; he trusted him.

"Technique's important, kid, but it's time you started putting on a little muscle. Come this way."

Richie followed him over to a rusty, old bar—clothed mostly in leather, but worn through in places. Richie looked up at it, realizing it was out of his reach.

"Don't worry, kid," said Ryler, dragging a chair over to it.

"Hop up."

Richie did so and grabbed onto it.

"Drop down and pull yourself up as many times as you can."

Richie's trembling toothpick arms managed to pull him up a couple times, and although he made a Herculean exertion, the third rep was outside the realm of possibility.

"No problem, kid," said Ryler, grabbing Richie's feet and giving him some light assistance, which became greater and greater as he brought Richie to his tenth rep.

"This is your new girlfriend," Ryler said gruffly. "Spend time with her every day for at least an hour. Rest, then pull. Rest, then pull. Then, one day, Mike Brewster's going to cringe when he sees you stepping into club, not to mention the ring," Ryler added laughing.

Richie took an immediate liking to the old bar and began stopping by an hour before school as well.

Four years later, Richie was sixteen years old and two hundred pounds, without a speck of fat visible to the naked eye. He did two hundred pull-ups in the morning and three hundred chin-ups in the evening after everyone else left the academy, and he could do eighty reps of either exercise in a single stretch.

He was also no longer "Richie." Mike the Bruiser—who was now nineteen and had a respectable record of ten wins and two losses professionally—had first recommended the nickname "Righty" after Richie had caught Mike's iron-like abs with a vicious right uppercut, making them feel like they were made out of plywood, and causing Mike the Bruiser to double over in pain and drop one knee in a sign of defeat.

And Coach Ryler's words had proven prophetic, as Mike the Bruiser looked at Righty Rick in dismay every time he saw him enter the club. Mike had switched clubs after that, claiming he had outgrown the small-town club, and at age seventeen Righty met him in the ring, making his professional debut. Righty had knocked out the frightened Mike with vicious body blows in the first round, after which he moved to another state, assuring himself that—while he still had a bright future ahead of him in boxing—he didn't ever want to meet Righty Rick in the ring ever again.

As Righty approached larger and more important fights—while still in high school; those were the good ol' days; Janie just about swooned every time he glanced in her direction; or so he thought—Ryler sat him down after an evening's practice and told him: "There are many different kinds of fighters, but amongst good fighters there are two general categories.

"First, you have your safe fighter. A safe fighter's goal is not to lose. A safe fighter goes for the decision. He looks for openings and takes careful shots so that he can rack up points. Sure, he'll go for the knockout occasionally, but only if it's in the final round, and his opponent serves it to him on a platter. Now, within this category, you have lots of different sub-styles: the jab artist, the footwork specialist, etc.

"But there's a second category, and it's called the killer. The killer doesn't care about points. For a killer, the object is to send his opponent into a long sleep on the canvas as soon as possible. There are many reasons this category is so rare, but the most important one is that most fighters simply don't have the killer instinct necessary to hurt another man that badly in so short a time. The other main reason is fear. When you go for the kill immediately, it's an all-or-nothing game. Either you succeed, or you wear yourself out with missed punches and leave yourself at the mercy of your opponent in the first round.

"Then, there's the strength issue. A lot of fighters just don't have the power to knock a fresh opponent out, whether their punches land or not. Lastly, there's the technique issue. I've seen a few behemoths win for a stretch because of their massive power, but their power made them too lazy to learn the proper technique. Thus, they ultimately end up punching the air against true professionals and getting knocked out once they were winded.

"But you—you're a killer. You've got it all, Righty. It doesn't bother you one bit to hurt another man so badly in one or two minutes in front of an audience that you send him to the ground. And you're not afraid of going for the kill and losing. I've seen you miss seven punches in a row and double the guy over with the eighth as calmly as if that was the punch you had been intending to do the job all along. And you've got the power. I'm seventy-one years old, Righty. I've been doing this a long time, and believe me when I say no one . . . no one punches like you.

"And finally, you've got the technique. Watching you makes me think of descriptions I've read of a tiger killing its prey. It's like seeing art. Your footwork, your head movement, your speed, your deception, your endurance, your timing, your accuracy, your power . . . you've got it all. You will transcend boxing one day, Righty, and become a national legend—a symbol of national pride. I just hope you can always properly channel your aggression into boxing. There's something really violent lurking inside of you. You must always try to control—"

"He's taking the money," Harold said, excitedly.

Righty slammed his internal diary shut and snapped back to the present.

"He's leaving the house . . . quickly on horseback."

"In a carriage?"

"No. I don't even think he took the time to saddle!" Harold replied.

"Follow him, but stay high up," Righty instructed.

While they monitored the movements of Mr. Felden, Righty's mind stubbornly insisted on at least wrapping up a few key points from the daydream that had been interrupted.

Your boxing coach died of a heart attack a year later. Your dad died the next year in a lumberyard accident. Your mom died of tuberculosis, but we both know that came from heartache. You lost your shot at national glory and became a legend only in a local bar in the one-horse town called Ringsetter.

"The story ain't over yet," Righty said out loud, prompting Harold to cock his head to the side. He asked nothing. He knew the scent Righty released whenever he dreamed of his fall.

It hovered around him almost constantly.

Chapter 26

"Who in the hell's behind this?" thundered the mayor. This was no public speech. This wasn't even a meeting with his staffers. This was his true inner circle.

They were inside a luxurious coach, having spent a pleasant evening of dice, fine whiskey, and women, although the gravity of today's events had put a bit of a damper on their usually festive atmosphere. Amongst them were a senator, two city councilmen, and a private detective. Outside the coach, a fearsome bodyguard rode on each side, and two armed coachmen guided the horses.

But there was a very palpable absence—the elephant not in the room, if you will—and that was the chief of police, to whom they so often looked for guidance when trouble with the underworld started.

The senator, who represented the state of Rodalia, which included the city of Sivingdel, had many links to the mayor, but one of the most relevant at the moment pertained to SISA. The mayor had made a gentleman's bargain with the senator long ago that if he voted for SISA he would give him a $10,000 flat fee plus a 5% ongoing cut of any kickbacks he got from the chief as the result of taxing the city's drug peddlers. The chief's obligation had been to give the mayor 50% of all his kickbacks from whatever revenue he extorted from the drug gangs, and the mayor told him he would see about greasing the palms of whoever else in the city government needed it.

It had worked splendidly during Heavy Sam's reign, and even for a brief period thereafter, but once the mysterious Mr. Brass had taken over, a nasty little drought had ensued. Perhaps someone had failed to enlighten the newcomer as to the ways of Sivingdel. So, the mayor had told the chief to spend no longer than three weeks investigating the gang from top to bottom and then to hit them hard and then squeeze out whatever he could from the humiliated, and enlightened, Mr. Brass.

But this Mr. Brass fellow apparently was a bit of a rabid dog prone to chomp down on the hand that merely sought to guide him into a long-lasting and mutually beneficial arrangement. Although it hadn't hit the news yet, all present company were well aware that the chief's home had been burned to the ground and that two charred skeletons, both without their heads, had been found amidst the rubble of the home.

Two severed forearms with unmistakable police patches on them had been found in the city park, and then the nutcase had blown up the damn police station. It was clear they weren't dealing with any ordinary criminal. This guy was going to have to be put down hard and fast, but the resolution to do so was far simpler than the how.

He must have had some pretty die-hard followers to risk stuffing the police station with dynamite on such short notice, and how in the hell they lit the fuse without getting shot halfway up to the moon themselves was a mystery the private detective had been assigned unravelling.

The most serious topic of conversation that evening had been whether to seek or resist full-blown military involvement in the city. The governor could declare a state-wide emergency and request a small contingent of national troops. Or the president himself might order this. Or the president might strongly suggest it and gauge the governor's reaction.

While none of the present company had anything against troops turning homes inside out and putting every last member of Mr. Brass's gang to the sword, the situation wouldn't be so cut and dry. They also might turn city desk drawers inside and out and do a little too much poking around in city finances—all under the auspices of following the money trail to "the bad guys" of course.

But that trail might lead an overly thorough investigator to discover large, inexplicable deposits in the chief's bank account over the last year or two, and that might cause them to think it would be a good idea to take a little peek inside the mayor's accounts. In a word, it could get ugly.

They were all in agreement that this was a Sivingdel housekeeping matter, and they didn't need any outsiders—in which category they unhesitatingly placed the governor—meddling. Like a socially prominent set of parents with a psychopathic son that kills their daughter, they would take care of the matter in a way that saved the family name, even if that meant murdering the wretched son and making both deaths look like a tragic accident.

Although the city's police force had been reduced roughly by half, the private detective currently in their midst unofficially oversaw a crack team of around fifteen experienced officers—none of whom had been at the police station during the attack—who at 9 a.m. tomorrow were going to be given the green light to carry out warrantless searches, heavy-handed interrogations, and even executions, until they sniffed out Mr. Brass, whom they would then torture to death in the mayor's basement.

Afterwards, they would award each of the fifteen officers with the city's coveted Valor medal and claim that the mastermind behind the cowardly police station bombing had been killed in self-defense in police custody and that the decorated officers had barely escaped with their lives.

Then, the really grisly work would begin. They would arrest at least thirty people in any way associated with Mr. Brass's gang, force confessions out of them through torture, hang them all in their cells, and claim the cowards had decided to sullenly take their fate into their own hands rather than face the unswerving hand of public justice.

"FOUR outside the carriage?" Righty asked Harold, hoping he had misunderstood his calculation of the coachmen and the men flanking the coach.

"Yep," Harold said with a tone that showed he recognized the enormity of the task. It wasn't killing them that was going to be hard. That would represent about as much difficulty to Harold as a cobra killing four mice inside a cage.

The tricky part was getting the job done without Main Street turning into a miniature amphitheater where a bird not to be found in the thickest zoology textbook slashed and dragged four screaming victims before the sight of a hundred terrified sets of eyes peering cautiously from windows, nauseated by the sight yet unable to avert their gaze from the macabre scene.

And that was without even taking into account the five occupants Harold had seen march into the coach.

"Nine men, and just one of them is my target. May Kasani forgive me if I kill the innocent!" Righty said with a sigh.

Righty had a bag with several nasty surprises inside that he had brought along to hopefully enable him to adapt to whatever situation he found.

"If it comes down to eyewitnesses saying they saw a bird that looked like a miniature dragon, we'll probably have good, old-fashioned skepticism on our side. But the fewer people with sixteen-inch claw marks the better," Righty said, pulling a stone the size of his head out of a bag strapped to Harold's side.

Harold reached his flexible talon back and grabbed it easily, and then Righty handed a similar stone to Harold's other talon.

About fifteen minutes later, Harold said, "They're about to pull into a house, it looks like," with a bit of alarm in his voice.

Righty had been hoping maybe the two men flanking the coach would leave, and maybe even some of the inhabitants inside the carriage—besides the mayor—but he now realized he would not be so fortunate. For all he knew, they were all about to go piling inside the house, where there might be even further protection, and Righty had had enough of home invasions.

"Fire at will," Righty said reluctantly, realizing there was no time to formulate a battle plan.

"It won't be pretty," Harold said, his tone that of a disclaimer.

"No, it won't be, but it's now or ne—"

Harold took Righty's breath away with a sudden plunge. Righty was strapped in tight, but he grabbed the straps for good measure with a vice-like grip.

Harold was going his usual three hundred miles per hour by the time he approached the ground. He was coming in from behind with his wings tucked. About fifty feet from the ground, he flared his wings out and approached the right-side bodyguard at a sharp diagonal angle.

He held his left talon out, and as soon as the rock made contact with the back of the man's head it exploded violently in a cloud that would have surely been red if it had not been robbed of its color by the black night.

Harold was already moving at an upward angle by the time the rock made contact, and before the other bodyguard could even turn his head in that direction—which didn't take very long—Harold had hopelessly disappeared from sight into the bosom of the night sky.

"Whoa there," the bodyguard said calmly but forcefully to the coachmen.

One of the coachman—the one on the right—peered over his shoulder just in time to see the headless corpse slump forward onto the horse and then fall over the side.

"INSIDE THE GATE!!" the coachman shouted at the top of his lungs.

The coach lurched forward while the surviving bodyguard headed around to the other side to see what had happened.

He felt the gust of wind just in time to look up and see a rock coming straight towards his face, but not to avert the fatal blow. His head exploded just as violently, bathing the side of the coach.

Righty was submitting to Harold's will, at this point, as maintaining consciousness was his chief concern, and he hung to it by a bare thread.

Harold, conversely, was in his element, calmly but quickly plotting his next move like a bird eyeing worms on the ground.

A few windows opened in some apartments on the side of the street, but there were no street lamps sufficiently near to shed light on the horrible scene below.

The coachmen were now thrashing the horses mercilessly, urging them to get inside the gate as soon as possible.

Only when the horses nearly crashed against it did the coachmen remember they had to dismount and open it. Forgetting their duty, they leapt from the carriage and began to sprint in opposite directions, leaving the gentlemen inside to see to their own salvation.

Amongst this group, the private detective was the next best thing to a warrior, and this was confirmed by the unanimous movement of glances towards him, which seemed to say, Well, do something!!

He pulled out a dagger that some might have called a short sword and stepped outside.

Harold, alarmed at the rapidity of the coachmen, decided they would have to be dealt with before they got too far. He had brained one by the time the private detective stepped out of the coach, but by that time he had a conundrum on his hands—or, in this case, talons.

He opted to take out the detective, since he was on the way after all. He decided it would be best not to take any chances with that wicked dagger, and so once he got within ten feet he launched the stone at him.

It struck him in the chest and launched him about twenty feet backwards, smashing his heart and lungs instantly.

Harold didn't stop to watch but kept flying straight towards the coachman, who was making disturbingly quick progress, suggesting he had missed his calling in track and field. Harold felt no joy as he ended the poor soul's life, but some people were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Harold knew the rest of the job had to be handled quickly, as he now spotted at least a dozen lanterns in windows.

It would only be a matter of time before someone stepped foot out onto the street.

"Righty?"

No answer.

"RIGHTY?!" Harold growled.

Righty's eyes flapped open. The thread attaching him to consciousness had snapped about thirty seconds ago.

"Yes?!"

"You deal with those in the carriage!" Harold commanded. "They're the only ones left!"

"Fair enough," Righty said.

Harold landed, and Righty got off. Harold disappeared quickly into the night.

Righty walked towards the carriage, compressed sword in hand. The coach's horses were right in front of the gate, but the coach doors appeared to be firmly shut.

Righty approached them and gave them a good yank. They wouldn't budge.

Righty extended his sword and made a vicious forward thrust. It went inside the coach about four feet and elicited a bloodcurdling scream.

"OUT! OUT! OUT!!" he heard someone scream.

The door on the other side opened, and Righty went sprinting around to that side.

The senator was the first out, and Righty hacked him in two as calmly as a man chopping sugar cane.

This caused the remaining passengers to seek egress via the opposite door, and Righty heard it open.

He went running around to that side, feeling a bit like an angry dad chasing a pack of brats around the house with his belt, and he thrust his sword clean through a councilman's heart, from behind, as soon as he stepped out.

This inevitably caused the stampede to shift towards the other door, and by the time Righty got around he saw one of the men had already made it to the gate.

The other—a councilman—was not so fortunate, and Righty ran him through the heart from behind before he could get further than a couple feet from the coach.

But the other man was now pulling open the gate and making his way towards safety. Righty sprinted forward, recognizing him as the mayor by Harold's description earlier that day.

Righty reached the gate to see the mayor's smiling face mocking him from the safety of the barred gate. And Righty even heard the click of what was surely a lock being closed.

Righty almost got him with a sword thrust, but the mayor seemed imbued with the reflexes of a cat, quickly springing away from the thrust with a wild look of mocking joy in his eyes.

Righty looked to his left and saw that the fence was made of solid stone and stood around seven feet tall. He compressed his sword, slid it into his forearm sheath, and leapt up in the air, arms outstretched, fingers reaching for the top.

He made it but barely. His boots weren't exactly ideal for vertical leaps. Nonetheless, as soon as his fingertips latched onto the surface, he did a pull-up so effortlessly that he catapulted himself onto the top surface.

He quickly jumped down and began sprinting towards the mayor, who had almost made it to the front door.

Righty reached him just when the mayor was beginning to turn the door handle. A hard right cross to the back of the neck put him into a sleep from which he would never wake.

"It's nothing personal, Mr. Mayor, just tying up a few loose ends," Righty muttered.

He pulled out a mangy looking dagger he had purchased from Tats last night, cut the mayor's throat, and then stuck it deep into his back with the following note attached:

Its alwas smart tu pa yur dets!!

He began running towards the backyard, hoping Harold was watching and would anticipate his movements, and also hoping he wouldn't run into an eyewitness or a growling dog.

For what seemed like the first time in a while, luck was on his side, and he found Harold prostrate as he turned the corner of the house.

He jumped on his back, and they were hundreds of feet in the air before Righty could blink more than a few times. But as he turned back it looked like a small cluster of moving lanterns were in the general vicinity of the blood-stained coach.

"We just need word on that one last job, and we can call it a night!" Righty said to Harold.

Chapter 27

Twigs hadn't exactly been Tats' first choice for participation in the nearly suicidal mission of chaining the main police station's doors shut in broad daylight in anticipation of a violent gang leader doing some unknown, but predictably violent, act. But precisely because of the nature of that mission, volunteers had been a bit scarce.

Twigs had been hoping to earn a better nickname—his skinny appendages being the inspiration for his current appellation—and he had also seen the murderous threat in Tats' eyes that many had failed to see that night and who had paid with their blood for their lack of perspicuity.

But he knew he was in a fix now. He would hang for sure. His skinny little frame should have enabled him to wiggle out of the police officer's grip like a piece of spaghetti escaping the fork seeking to ensnare it, but, alas, the officer's grip had been firm and unyielding, and he believed, rightly, that he had been the only soul so unfortunate as to be captured. He had seen most of his compatriots escaping into the anonymity of the crowd, which was bedazzled by the fireworks display put on the by the incineration of the Sivingdel Police Station.

He supposed he would have to cooperate. There was no way he could save his scrawny little neck otherwise. He would rather take his chances disappearing into some other city than facing a bunch of stern-faced judges who could make him alone bear the government's wrath for the horrible crime.

But he knew things. He knew where several of Tats' mansions were. He knew what Mr. Brass looked like, having seen him back in the old days at the junkyard. And he suspected that just maybe, if he could convince the police that a dozen or two necks are more fun to stretch than just one, he just might be a free man in a short time.

But he knew he would have to disappear and fast. He didn't want Mr. Brass's terrifying eyes to be the last thing he saw on some dark night.

As he contemplated his gloomy scenario, he heard the soft fluttering of wings.

Some tiny bird had deigned to share company with him in this dingy cell.

The bird looked at him from the base of his bed, on which it had alighted, and cocked its head in a friendly manner.

"Come here, little birdie. I won't hurt you."

He then tickled the bird lightly with his bare toes.

He wasn't sure if it was the shifting of the moon, or whether a cloud had unveiled an erstwhile hidden portion of the moon's glow, but he suddenly saw what looked like a small needle extending from the bird's beak.

Before he could contemplate the matter further, he felt a sharp sting in the big toe on his right foot.

"OWWWWWW!!!" he screamed, making the cell reverberate thunderously.

He bent forward to grasp the injured area and saw it was puffy and red, and its swelling was expanding rapidly.

He screamed and screamed, but no footsteps at the makeshift jail came stomping along to his rescue.

The guards had been warned by the mayor not to approach the cell under any circumstances until he arrived, since the prisoner might lure the guards into a trap. The mayor was going to arrive "with a special team," he had promised.

Twigs began to feel light-headed as the poison coursed through his veins. Finally, sleep offered him a respite, and he accepted it willingly.

About twenty minutes later, the same bird alighted on his chest and cocked its head towards his heart and then towards his nose. Satisfied, it left the room quickly through the small, barred window.

When Righty got the news, he told Harold somberly, "It's been a bloody night. I need to bathe both my body and my soul."

Harold took him to a lake high in the mountains, where Righty cleaned the blood off of his body. He felt far more soiled on the inside, however, than ever before.

"Can I ask you one more favor, Harold?" Righty said, realizing that, if Harold had his limits of loyalty, he was exploring the outer limits.

"I'll deliver the package to Sodorf," Harold said calmly. "It's on the way towards bringing you home," he added with a smile.

Harold had hidden the package in the woods last night while Righty slept in the cabin.

He made a quick detour, picked it up, and dropped Righty off at his home.

As Righty approached his home at around 11 p.m., he was glad for what seemed like the first time in ages to be approaching a doorway without murder in his heart.

But he knew that whether he got any serious furlough from murder and mayhem would depend on tomorrow's headlines, the government's response, and what kinds of things he found when he began perusing the late Chief Benson's personal files with the scrutiny of a microbiologist.

"It's me, babe," he said, entering the home.

The baby began to cry.

"Shhhhhhh," he said softly as he picked Heather up, and to his surprise, once again her presence in his arms gave his soul the purifying bath that water and soap never could.

Though she pretended to sleep, Janie looked at her husband out of narrow slits, her heart warmed by the genuine love she could feel emanating from Richie whenever he was around their baby.

When he slid into bed beside her a half-hour later, she grabbed his right hand and laced her fingers with his. That hand had done some very violent things, but now it gently caressed her fingers.

Chapter 28

Righty's formal academic career had ended with high school, but from time to time he had heard of the crushing stress those in the medical, legal, and accounting fields experienced when they awaited the results of their licensing examination.

The answer came in the form of a letter, and from what he had heard, the first line of the letter would either send the reader into an incomparable state of bliss or into an equally intense state of despair. Those in the former category would contemplate the bright future and moneymaking prospects ahead of them. Those in the latter would meditate upon approaching their friends and family with the shameful news—that years of study and many a pretty falon had been expended in vain on the poor soul's insufficiently sharp mind.

Righty supposed that, if he were free to discuss his violent past couple of nights with a licensed professional, perhaps he would concede that Righty indeed knew exactly what it felt like to know that the direction of one's future—namely, up or down—depended upon the contents of a sentence or two that he would be reading shortly.

As Righty set off towards Sivingdel on Harold's back, ready to start buying one newspaper after another, his stomach churned. Either he was going to have to take Janie and the baby and hightail it out of Ringsetter like thieves in the night, or he would see the prospect of peaceful times ahead, which would involve a very cozy alliance with the new mayor and chief of police.

Harold set Righty down in the city park, and as he tipped his hat confidently at a passing officer, the policeman warned him, "Careful, sir; there's a maniac on the loose in these woods."

"Well, I can get awful cranky if someone interrupts my afternoon walk, so he had better steer clear of me," Righty said, affecting a laugh.

The officer smiled and continued on his way.

Righty took a coach to the city square, where most of the newspapers were available, and picked up the first one he saw, which was written by The Sivingdel Gazette:

TERROR ARRIVES!

"The increasingly infamous Mr. Brass is the police's top suspect in the cold-blooded arson and murder that rocked our city's foundation to the core yesterday. Rumor has it that the elusive underworld figure was arrested not too long ago and destroyed the police station in a callous act of revenge."

Righty put the newspaper back and went to another.

It had similar content. And so did several others.

He gulped as he approached the newspaper stand for The Sivingdel Times. He didn't want to kill anyone tonight . . . or ever again for that matter. But a promise was a promise.

An excellent sketch of the fire at its zenith was engraved at the top of the paper.

SHAME ON YOU, MR. MAYOR!!

Righty, a bit flabbergasted, quickly paid for the paper and searched for a place he could sit down and read calmly.

"Mayor Roverdile, long known for his nefarious underworld ties, has not only crossed the line this time but left it a mile behind. Unimpeachable sources inside our city's police department have informed The Sivingdel Times that the late Chief Lloyd Benson was engaged in a no-holds-barred investigation of the crooked mayor for embezzlement, bribery, malfeasance, and other serious felonies related to his ties with organized crime.

"Sources say 'an indictment was a foregone conclusion,' but the mayor had other plans and ordered his underworld contacts to smuggle a large amount of dynamite and flammable materials into the police station so that the investigation would 'go up in smoke.'

"Thoroughness cannot be denied the mayor, however. In a crime matching the mayor's modus operandi in the Sivingdel Police Station burning 'to the t,' it has been discovered that Chief Benson's home was burned to the ground the night before the police station attack. Sources close to the investigation say 'this was the clear work of hired professionals.'

"Two of the chief's three dogs were found groggy but very much alive, with two gnawed pieces of steak located near the fence. The dogs whimpered when shown the steak, leaving no doubt it caused them to fall asleep at their posts.

"Both the chief's and an as-of-yet unidentified person's decapitated remains were found in the rubble, showing that whoever did this intended to make sure the job was done without surviving eyewitnesses.

"In a cynical game of smoke and mirrors, the mayor has been blaming the police station burning on organized crime, but what is clear now is that, regardless of who lit the fuse, it was the mayor who gave the order.

"Police say they plan to investigate city hall from top to bottom, rather than go after the mayor's 'underlings in the underworld,' since they surely would not have carried out so brazen a crime unless acting on direct orders from the highest levels.

"In one final act of brutality, two National Drug Police agents were savagely murdered while en route to the nation's capital. According to a law enforcement source closely involved with the investigation, 'The two agents were likely fleeing for their lives, as we now have an eyewitness who saw them being threatened and chased out of the city.'

"The only question left is whether the police will arrest Mayor Roverdile before he carries out even more heinous acts of bloodshed in a maniacal attempt to cover his tracks.

"May Kasani help us all."

Righty had to pinch himself to avoid bursting out laughing. With any luck, the tone in the other newspapers would change soon. After all, which story was more titillating? And everyone knew that, when it came to the news, The Sivingdel Times set the beat that the other papers marched to.

Righty went back to the park, found Harold in the forest, and took off towards Ringsetter. He told the konulans to search far and wide for a ranch anywhere within one to three hours from Ringsetter by horse . . . and with a white picket fence. Righty had a promise to fulfill.

But the rest of the day was going to be for him, Janie, and Heather.

Well, almost. He had another article to write for The Sivingdel Times. While he hoped Harry Felden was wise enough to realize the mayor's demise needed to be reported in a manner consistent with today's article, Righty felt the situation was a bit too delicate to allow Harry back at the helm just yet.

Tomorrow's top story was going to require just the right wording.

Chapter 29

"How in the hell did we miss this?!" a red-faced man bellowed at a trembling audience of six. He was Michael Felthammer, owner and executive editor of The Sivingdel Gazette, second only in size and prestige to The Sivingdel Times. They were his top assistant editors, and while their interns and secretaries may have trembled at their frown, they currently quivered before the tongue-lashing from their boss.

"This is the story of the century if not of the millennium!!" Felthammer roared, his eyes darting around at the hapless faces before him, searching for the slightest inkling that his toadies failed to appreciate the enormity of their screw-up.

Mournful faces, bowed heads, sighs, and lip-chewing informed him that they understood.

"Okay, okay," he said, calming from the level of raging bull to cranky, in a one-man version of good cop/bad cop.

"Let's think solutions. Andrea, Phil, Steve, Roger, Sam, Charles—lift your sources up and shake them until something falls out. If we don't have something in tomorrow's paper that we can provide the public unique from whatever juicy steak The Sivingdel Times serves tomorrow, we may as well pack all our bags and go home. Heck! I'll go ask Harry Felden right now if he'd be interested in buying our paper out!"

Steve, who had been there the longest and often dared ask openly what the others scarcely dared ask within the safe confines of their own mind, suddenly said, "Sir, with all due respect, is there any chance Felden got fed a line of bull and ran with it? Maybe he thought it was too great a headline to pass up?"

"Gee, thanks, Genius Steve! That thought never even entered my mind, but let me summarize the facts here for you. We're not talking about The Sivingdel Inquirer—we're talking The Sivingdel Times, for Kasani's sake! As much as I dislike that smug Harry, he wouldn't run with a story like this unless it was ROCK solid! You print a story like this and it turns out to be bogus, and you're not just looking at being made a laughingstock . . . you're looking at defamation damages that could break the national bank! You're looking at CRIMINAL charges!" His angry eyes scanned the room.

"Don't go yelling 'Liar! Liar!' just because The Sivingdel Times has reporters that know how to get their hands dirty. As you have probably heard, the mayor was found dead last night—killed gangland style along with some other victims whose names my police contacts are keeping hush-hush, and the mayor had a note attached to his back about debts. You know what you've gotta do. Now get out of here, and GET to work!!"

The six assistant editors slinked out of the office like a group of naughty children that have just had their ears boxed. More than one of them had a thought that could be roughly summarized as follows: If the boss wants dirt written about the mayor, we'll give it to him . . . even if the source is our own imagination!

Chapter 30

The next day Righty felt almost as anxious as the prior. He could imagine several headlines:

SHAME ON YOU, SIVINGDEL TIMES!

A NEW LOW IN JOURNALISM?!

HARRY FELDEN MOONLIGHTS FOR

THE SIVINGDEL INQUIRER, CONFUSES ARTICLES . . .

OOPS!!!

If he saw anything like that, it would probably mean a group of stern-faced detectives would be marching over to The Sivingdel Times at this very moment, or perhaps were already there, maybe holding Harry Felden upside down from a window asking him when he began writing stories at the behest of kingpins. From there, a whole five minutes would elapse before he would show them the mysterious note threatening his family.

Everyone would calm down, and Harry Felden would write a retraction article along with a verbatim copy of the savage threats he and his family had been subjected to. The riotous call for Mr. Brass's head would quickly resume in all the newspapers, and he would need to take Janie and the baby and hightail it out of the country like one of those desperate outlaws he had been reading about recently in the late Chief Benson's copy of Brutality During the Prohibition Wars.

He took a deep breath and approached the stand for The Sivingdel Gazette. Practically flinching, he picked up a copy:

WE THOUGHT WE KNEW YOU, MR. MAYOR!

Righty quickly paid for a copy, then purchased a copy from the adjacent The Sivingdel Times stand, and headed off for a place he could sit and relax. He found a nearby bench and turned back to the article from the Gazette:

"To call it 'a double life' would perhaps not do the situation justice. While we mourn the violent way in which Mayor Roverdile deceased last night, there can be little doubt that such a fate awaits all who lie in bed with organized crime. Rumors of Roverdile's ties to the underworld had long persisted, but only recently have law enforcement sources begun to talk.

"Per one anonymous detective, 'I thought for a long time I could just look the other way. I felt the mayor was untouchable and would put me away forever if I talked. But once I saw what he did to my brothers at the police station, I knew it was time to speak out.'"

Righty smiled inwardly but kept a stony exterior. He flipped over to The Sivingdel Times:

SLAIN—THE MAYOR

VICTIM—THE GALLOWS!

"While death at the hands of our city's gangsters may have been poetic justice for the now infamous Mayor Roverdile, we at The Sivingdel Times believe that a public trial and execution would have had a more powerful deterrent effect on future politicians who believe themselves above the law.

"Detectives close to the case say the gambling debt may have merely been the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back, with the primary motive being a fear amongst the underworld hierarchy that the mayor was going to make them take the fall while he posed as the restorer of law and order. Some sources say the gangsters had even come to fear extrajudicial acts of violence from the mayor because these gangsters epitomized 'knowing too much.'"

Righty felt the deepest sense of relief he had experienced in a long time. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but he could see the clearing. It was so very beautiful.

But he had some papers to look over in his cabin, and he flinched inwardly at the thought of what he might find there.

Chapter 31

While Righty Rick enjoyed a sublime respite from the bloody forty-eight hours that were now behind him, journalist Stephen Randalls was at the apogee of distress. He and Righty had shared something special together, though Righty was utterly oblivious to the fact, and to Mr. Randalls it was just a hunch.

Approximately forty-eight hours ago, Mr. Randalls had been inside the processing area of the Sivingdel Police Station, tucked away in the shadows while an interesting prisoner had sat under a bright light like an artifact on display.

Mr. Randalls had sketched enough mugshots for The Republic's Gazette for the task to become rather mundane, but he knew from the moment arrestee Sam Higler walked in to be sketched that this was no ordinary arrest and no ordinary criminal.

The man looked like he was carved out of solid granite—chest, arm, and shoulder muscles bulging out ferociously, yet aesthetically, like the well-designed exterior of a deadly trebuchet, capable of hurling missiles mercilessly at its enemies.

And the man was seething. Though the casual observed might have thought him calm or even broken, Mr. Randalls was no ordinary observer. He had always had a keen eye for a man's state of mind, and inside Sam Higler fateful clouds were slowly churning, bearing all the hallmarks of a nasty hurricane in formation.

Mr. Randalls had inquired after Sam Higler's departure from the processing area what his offense was and why he was in his underwear rather his normal clothes. The processing officer feigned ignorance until handed a small bribe, at which point he recalled that Sam Higler appeared to be a first-time guest at the jail and that he had showed up asking to speak to Tats and then to the chief. A search of his clothing quickly discovered so much money in so many hidden pockets that they decided to remove his clothing as evidence of attempted bribery.

Mr. Randalls couldn't help but wonder at that very moment if this could be the elusive Mr. Brass—the man who had maintained secret and sacrosanct his real name, whatever it was, and who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere to acquire city kingpin status as if it were as simple as picking up a glass of water and drinking it.

Having been busy in Sivingdel for the last several weeks, lurking around the jail processing area for a SISA-related arrest to happen so that he could sketch the hapless miscreants, he had accumulated a couple dozen sketches of suspects, and had been planning on heading back to the capital city the next morning, but a strange hunch had told him to stick around.

He had left the jail for lunch and had been heading back there when he saw a scuffle near the doors to the police station entrance. It looked like a group of men had chained the doors shut, but he was too far away to be sure. Although he could see the men in question were very well dressed, he couldn't make out their faces.

His attention was quickly diverted by shouts of "FIRE!" And it seemed out of nowhere flames quickly began devouring the top of the building. He had whipped out his sketch pad and begun drawing as quickly as he could, but the deafening sound of explosions and the chaos that quickly unraveled in the streets prompted him to turn tail and run for dear life.

Not knowing what other acts of violence might be in store for the city that day, he dashed back to his hotel, packed his items so quickly he practically broke his ankle in the process when he tripped over a piece of luggage, and skedaddled, feeling as if at any moment one of the surrounding buildings he was passing on his galloping horse might erupt into flames and consume him like dry kindling.

He breathed a sigh of relief once he had Sivingdel far behind him, but it seemed that no sooner had he achieved something truly approaching tranquility when he found the bashed-in remains of a corpse, both of whose hands had been severed. While he couldn't be sure, he believed he had seen that man visit the police station a time or two with a partner looking really official and putting all the local cops on edge.

He almost got out his sketch pad, but a combination of disgust and a strong desire for self-preservation told him he needed to keep moving. He had ridden through the night and arrived in Selgen at around 4 a.m.

He went straight to his humble office, where he had a small room in the back, and went to sleep immediately.

That night his dreams—if nightmares can thus be called—made sleep a torment rather than a relief. He saw the body count in Sivingdel growing higher and higher. And he awoke after a mere five hours of sleep, energized by terror.

He then spent the rest of the day going around in circles in his mind as to what he would do with his most recent sketches. At Senator Hutherton's behest, which involved a fee, he had been putting them front and center on the first page of The Republic's Gazette each time he came back from Sivingdel so that he could bring as much attention to the drug peddlers as possible.

But something told him he didn't want to put Sam Higler's face on the front page of his paper. Evening came and found him still contemplating the issue, so he went outside for a walk, hoping to arrive at a resolution no later than by the time he returned to his office.

As he was nearing his office, he saw a courier bringing that day's paper from Sivingdel. Every morning, numerous couriers left Sivingdel on swift ponies carrying copies of the city's two most prestigious papers—The Sivingdel Times and The Sivingdel Gazette—to the capital city.

Randalls flagged down the courier and promptly purchased a copy of each.

He was dumbstruck when he saw the headline from The Sivingdel Times implicating the mayor in the attack as a means to terminate an investigation into his own criminal activities.

His eyes began voraciously devouring every article in each paper relating to the police station attack, glad to have an excuse to delay his own pending decision.

Once he had read every pertinent article, he set them aside and gazed long and hard into the sketch of Sam Higler.

"Who are you, Mr. Higler?" he asked out loud in his empty office.

A chill then traveled down his spine as he realized he likely had the only existing sketch of Mr. Higler. The sketch at the police station surely had been burned in the fire, and unless the police had moved exceptionally quick and sent a copy to the prosecutor's office—which Randalls greatly doubted—then this was it.

Did he see you?

He almost jumped backwards as the thought hit him. Had there been a slight glance from side to side, like that of a wild animal in captivity gazing back at those surveying him from the safety of a barred fence? Had he been seen?!

He couldn't say for sure. He felt it was unlikely, but if there was any chance—any chance—that Mr. Higler had seen him, wasn't Randalls living on borrowed time with a quickly approaching expiration date?

Then a thought occurred to him. There was a middle ground. If he plastered this face onto the front page of The Republic's Gazette tomorrow, he may as well prepare his own funeral arrangements.

But if he did nothing with the sketch, his murder would likely never be solved.

The Capital Museum purchased a copy of each of the top fifty newspapers daily and archived them. With Senator Hutherton's financial backing, he had managed to print more papers, advertise more, and increase his sales, and he had just recently made it into the top fifty.

He began writing out a potential title—not a headline, not by a long shot, but a title to a small article that would go almost in the very back of the newspaper.

"Recent Mugshots from Sivingdel Police Station"

"The following sketches were made within the last several weeks at Sivingdel Police Station. A brief description of the suspected crimes is under each."

Yes, he liked that.

"Attempted bribery, SISA violations, running a criminal enterprise."

That could go under Sam Higler's sketch.

He then began writing something else on a separate piece of paper: "If I die or disappear, the perpetrator is Sam Higler, the man likely responsible for the burning of the Sivingdel Police Station."

He folded it up and put it inside his desk under some files.

He picked up Sam Higler's sketch again, mesmerized in spite of his fear, like a man ogling a rattlesnake rather than running for safety.

He was not sure of the reason for his fascination, but if it had been explained it would have made perfect sense.

His skillfully guided pencil had captured the birth of a monster.

Chapter 32

When Righty was in tenth grade, a special guest had visited his school. It was a professor from the country's top law school, located in the capital city. The visit had been part of a program where twice a week a professional in high standing in his trade or profession had visited the school to talk about various aspects of his job to help the young students to know what career paths might be best for them.

Righty remembered the professor explaining the onerous task of grading law school exams, although he admitted it was done only twice a year and perhaps served as a pleasant interruption to an overly cushy job. The professor described in great detail the mountains of white papers that started without a speck of red on them only to look like the scene of a bloodbath by the time the professor's dreaded red pen had finished a couple weeks of frenzied slashing.

Righty supposed he was as close to sharing this professorial experience as he ever would be as he tucked himself away in his cabin with several small canisters of red ink available, prepared to make marks with far more sinister implications than the point deductions of the professor. Righty pulled up a chair, pulled out the first stack of papers, put them on his desk, and readied himself to peruse in infinitesimally small detail all the paperwork the late Chief Lloyd Benson had unwittingly bequeathed to him.

He had feared the chief's notes would be written cryptically, perhaps using number designations or other code to refer to the various people he had dealings with in Righty's organization, with further encryption used to refer to the nature of his dealings with these individuals.

So, his surprise could not have been greater when, the first page read as follows:

"Operation Brass:

"Crabs – arrange for shipment from Tats at specified time and place; arrest all, including Crabs for appearances; later Crabs will testify."

Righty's blood began boiling immediately. He continued reading, resisting an urge to go mount Harold and track Crabs down with an aim to kill him before the hour expired. After all, he was unlikely to find Crabs alone, and he wanted to make each upcoming trip to Sivingdel was as productive as possible.

A few hours later, much of the picture came together. Crabs had been busted a few months ago and threatened with multiple SISA charges, which, the police had assured him, the prosecutor would file and obtain convictions on, most likely resulting in a series of consecutive sentences that would put Crabs away for the rest of his miserable life.

He had flipped and begun revealing every last detail of the organization the chief had wanted to know. Fortunately for Righty, Crabs had little to tell besides the fact he went by "Mr. Brass," had only appeared in the criminal underworld a short time ago, and had rapidly ascended to power due to a combination of his doctorate in fisticuffs and his nearly inexhaustible supply of top-notch Smokeless Green.

"Source?" the chief had written at the margin in this section.

Righty spent all of that morning going over the papers, forsaking his customary three hours of morning sword practice. But he felt it was justified, given that he was in a race to find and kill the traitors in his organization before they caused further harm.

He read all afternoon and deep into the evening. What he ascertained was that it had started with several of the lowest retailers getting arrested and threatened in a manner similar to Crabs' situation, after which they had flipped, which ultimately led to Crabs' arrest.

It was very unnerving to Righty how skillfully the police had managed to pull these arrests off and sway his men's loyalty without word getting out. More disturbing still was the fact these men feared prison more than Mr. Brass. If things went his way, that situation would soon reverse itself.

Righty read until nearly 10 p.m., at which point he returned home.

The next day, he started at 5 a.m., determined for decisive action later on that evening.

By the time he was nearing completion of the documents, it seemed there were over two dozen people in the organization who had been compromised.

But before he could begin to formulate a plan of action for dealing with these traitors he saw the most titillating bit of information yet: George Hoffmeyer.

Mr. Hoffmeyer had faded in and out of his mind but had never completely vanished even though it had been years since he last saw him. His thinly concealed offer to Righty to provide money laundering services shortly after Righty reported the barrels of seed missing from Roger's Grocery Store had unnerved him, and he felt Mr. Hoffmeyer was almost certainly aware that either Righty or Roger had stolen the seeds due to their having become illegal and, hence, valuable.

And it would only take a minimal amount of snooping to determine which of the two was the more likely culprit: Roger, who had continued in the store he had owned for years and who could almost always be seen toiling away in there, or Righty, a man who had acquired his own store shortly after the seeds were lost and was able to keep the store afloat without almost ever bothering to show up and work there.

But Righty had always figured it would be best to simply leave Mr. Hoffmeyer alone unless he ever discovered he was snooping on Righty.

Righty began reading voraciously to discover what business Mr. Hoffmeyer had in the late chief's notes.

"Complains market share steadily decreasing ever since his distributor, Heavy Sam, was pulverized by the brutal Mr. Brass."

Righty's blood turned cold. Mr. Hoffmeyer had been Heavy Sam's connection?!

For a moment, he couldn't have been more surprised if he read the name of one of his former drinking buddies, but then it quickly began to make sense. Mr. Hoffmeyer would have legitimate international business connections, since he had been a major inventory supplier for years and had many of his products imported.

He was obviously getting Smokeless Green legitimately before SISA—it had been compliments of his seeds that Righty was now a multimillionaire. When SISA was passed, he had obviously made the decision to keep selling Smokeless Green, and his source had agreed to continue supplying it to him—that could be the only explanation for how he could get it at quantities sufficient to supply the entire city before Righty had taken over the market.

But where does Smokeless Green come from?

Righty had given the question little thought before, but it now enticed his curiosity greatly. Mr. Hoffmeyer would probably know, since his source was almost certainly foreign.

Righty felt great inward distress as he decided what he was going to do about Mr. Hoffmeyer. He had instinctually liked the man from the first moment he met him. He seemed a bit sneaky, but perhaps only in the sense he didn't mind breaking the law, not in the backstabbing sense.

Could we possibly work together?

His recent decision to have Robert go to Sivingdel and establish a new store was clear evidence he realized he had to expand his legitimate areas of business or forever be burying money in the ground and living like a pauper with his family for fear of being asked where his money was coming from.

Perhaps Mr. Hoffmeyer could greatly accelerate the process and create numerous businesses for him in a matter of weeks.

But Mr. Hoffmeyer is in the game. And he knows who you are. He knows what town you live in. He could easily find out where your house is . . . where your family is . . . .

Righty noticed his fists were clenched.

Heavy Sam tried to kill you, and Mr. Hoffmeyer was Sam's source. Doesn't that mean Mr. Hoffmeyer gave the order?

Not necessarily; maybe Sam was just acting on his own.

But their interests were aligned—killing you would have meant Sam kept his market and Mr. Hoffmeyer kept the sales going.

The more he thought about it, it just didn't seem there was any way he and Mr. Hoffmeyer could play in the same sandbox.

Then, a more terrifying thought came to him.

If he knows Mr. Brass and Richard Simmers are one and the same, all he has to do is leak your name to the police or press, and there won't be a hole in the world dark enough and deep enough for you to crawl into.

A lot of policemen would probably like to avenge their fallen comrades.

And in the process, Mr. Hoffmeyer would get his city back.

Chapter 33

When Tats had left his house the afternoon he was to go chain the doors to the police station shut in broad daylight—for what end, he did not know, but he had a hunch it wasn't to kick off a lock-in party—he had left one of his swiftest horses tied up at home stocked with everything he would need for the three-week vacation mandated by Mr. Brass.

This included a few sets of clothes, provisions for him and the horse, and, most importantly, money.

As he set off for Sodorf City, it was with a much different mentality than the one he had last time. On that occasion, he had been charged with tracking down his sister, whom he hadn't seen in years, in a city he had never seen, and all to broker a business arrangement that he knew would make or break him in the eyes of Mr. Brass.

He had been apprehensive, unconfident, and just eager to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible.

While he certainly had his share of nervousness this time, it was of a wholly different nature. He didn't really think of this so much as a trip to go see Sodorf City. This was a trip to go see Rose.

While perhaps the pulse of any man in his early twenties will accelerate rapidly at the prospect of an amorous encounter, several factors coalesced in his mind like large clouds over a prairie turning into a tornado of unbridled passion.

One day ago, he had been sitting in a nearly pitch-black cell facing the strong possibility of forty hard years in a similar dungeon with nothing to fill his days but the memories of his short life as a free man.

Now, he had a million falons in his saddlebags as spending money while he set off to unashamedly rent the object of his desires. A different man might have struggled beneath the weight of devising the best strategy for conquering his love. A bouquet of fresh flowers, an exquisite necklace, the right phrase—like arrows in a quiver he would fire them wildly at the heart he sought to make his, hoping that one would fly true.

But Tats had the luck of being an enamored with one available to purchase, and thus he galloped southwestward with the confidence of a consumer rather than the apprehensions of a suitor.

Alas, his mind was not all clear. Perhaps, Rose would decide he was too complicated a patron for her, regardless of his ability to pay. After all, it was surely not a nightly occurrence for a client to propose marriage and later talk her into showing him the residence of her frightening employer, in the process of which she ended up nearly being kidnapped and was then a forced guest at her boss's home.

Rose may have considered that to be a sign her luck was running out in the flesh profession or that it was at least time to seek a change of venue.

Every such thought served as a more powerful stimulant to Tats' senses than Smokeless Green had during his last trip, and while perhaps the effect was slightly reduced for his horse, Valiant, the noble animal seemed to sense his master's eagerness to arrive at their destination and accommodated him by adding some celerity to his gait.

Tats slept maybe five hours that night, mostly for the benefit of Valiant, and in the morning they were off with the rising sun.

That evening, Tats entered the city, heart palpitating more quickly now, but he couldn't help but notice that, if it seemed the city had an energy to it last time, that was nothing to what he sensed now. New businesses were springing up everywhere, and he didn't think he saw a single vacant building.

He was glad he remembered the location of Rose's place of employment because if he hadn't had his eyes peeled once he reached the general vicinity he could have easily rode right by the establishment and been none the wiser.

It had been given a fresh coat of paint and had two large statues added outside of the nude female form. Also, a sign had been added:

COLD DRINKS, WARM TOUCH

The optimistic part of him was half-expecting to see Rose open the door to greet him. The pessimistic part expected to see a frown and hear some half-hearted lie such as, Rose? Don't recall anyone by that name workin' here, by a shifty bartender refusing to look him in the eye.

He had about $100,000 in hidden compartments in his coat, and the rest was in a secret compartment inside his horse's saddle, which was secured to the animal by steel cables hidden within the leather that would thwart all but the most prepared thief.

He walked inside, and to his surprise the bartender seemed to recognize him immediately. It was no doubt due to overhearing through the grapevine that his cigar-smoking client was the brother of his fearsome boss.

"Cigar for you, sir?"

No, I want something taller and sweeter, he almost said, but instead approached the bar coyly.

In the softest voice he could muster while still being heard over the noise of the crowd he said, "Is Rose here?"

"Ha! You like that girl, now don't ya?! Ha!" he said with a good-natured tone that removed any offense from the remarks.

"Yes, sir," Tats said, seeing no reason to be either sly or hostile towards the old-timer. "But I've got money; it's all professional."

"Well, maybe I can interest you in Sarah or Heather over there," he said with a crafty glance towards two gorgeous women seated about a dozen feet away. They caught the glance, and Tats knew if he wasn't careful he'd have an easier time getting rid of sticky molasses than them.

He pulled a hundred-falon bill out of his left sleeve quicker than a veteran card cheat and pushed it forward.

"They look mighty fine, sir, but I am a man of a singular aim tonight," Tats said firmly.

"Well," said the old-timer raising his eyebrows, "she's here, but she's with somebody."

A quick stab of jealousy in Tats' heart was quickly repulsed by his intellect reminding him of her profession and of the lack of any relationship between them, and the two entities settled for a reluctant, and temporary, truce.

"Maybe he'd decide he's got better things to do tonight if given the proper incentive," Tats said, pushing a thousand-falon bill towards the bartender, who did not even see him pluck it from his sleeve.

"Weeeellll, it ain't exactly protocol," the rascal said with feigned reluctance.

"Are you forgetting who I'm related to?" Tats said with a menace in his voice and three more thousand-falon bills in his hand.

He looked hard into the bartender's eyes and saw a gulp.

"Easy there, Mr. Havensford—I think what you've got in your hand could persuade him."

Tats pushed the money over.

"Just one moment, sir."

The bartender headed upstairs like a courier with an important package to deliver, and another bartender seemingly materialized out of nowhere.

"What will it be, mister?" he asked jovially.

"One of your finest cigars," Tats said matter-of-factly, pushing forward a hundred-falon bill. "Keep the change."

The bartender's eyes grew several sizes before he said, "You betcha!" and hustled off towards a glass cabinet with a gold-plated lock.

He extracted a fine specimen and brought it over to Tats and had struck a match by the time Tats put it into his mouth.

Tats took a long draw, glad to have something to distract himself with while he awaited the results of the previous bartender's bargaining powers.

Before he had begun to even fully savor the cigar, he saw the man practically hopping down the stairs as he came briskly towards Tats.

"Room 15, sir," he said with a gleam in his eye.

Tats set the cigar on an ashtray and began walking upstairs.

On the way, he passed a rascally looking fellow in a hurry whose faced seemed to say, I better get out of here before they ask for that money back!

Tats was on no lazy stroll himself. He ascended the stairs as quickly as he could without becoming a spectacle, but he only counted two blinks before his legs gulped down the stairs and brought him to the second floor.

He began quickly walking down the hallway, minding the numbers as he went.

When he saw Room 15, he knocked.

"Who is it?" came the slightly nervous voice.

It was Rose.

Putting manners to the side, Tats opened up.

Rose was frantically putting makeup and perfume on.

"You know you don't need that to look beautiful!" Tats said.

Rose turned, her saucer-like eyes revealing she didn't expect him to be mysterious client who had just paid the equivalent of a week's wages just to push her client out of the way.

Tats' body was tingling with so much electricity he feared he just might zap her to death the second his fingertips touched her body.

Her saucer-like eyes quickly resumed the feisty look he had fallen for so quickly the first time he had seen her, and she said in a business-like fashion, "That money you paid all went to the client, at least the part Baldy didn't pilfer."

"That's okay," Tats said calmly. "How much will this get me?" he inquired in a business-like manner of his own, handing her $30,000.

Her eyes grew to dinner plates for a split second before she got her feistiness back, but this time it was of a much more playful nature.

"Whatever you want," she said, looking at him with a challenge in her eye like a deadly female tiger daring its male suitor to test the waters and see if he is reading her signals properly or is on the verge of a stinging slash across the face.

The two launched themselves at each other with a passion Tats quickly assured himself could not have come from the money alone, although it wouldn't have made a particularly large difference at the time.

Their clothes were off in the time it takes most people to kick off a shoe, and after that what ensued could be compared to a two-hour rodeo with little exaggeration.

When it was all done, Tats said, "How much do you normally make per week?"

Rose blushed, contemplating not whether to lie but by how much. He had already paid her about six times what she earned in a week.

"Why?"

"I might be in town for a few weeks."

"It's not wise to talk about what you can't afford," she said, trying to sound coy, but terrified he might lose interest.

"How about $100,000—half upfront, half at the end?"

Rose's heart was beating really fast now. She had never met a client with a scintilla of his cash who was inclined to spend more than an hour or two's worth on her.

"Don't make fun of me," she said, perhaps with only ten percent guile.

She heard some shuffling of papers but dared not turn and look.

"Does this look like a joke?" Tats asked.

She was looking at fifty crisp one-thousand falon bills.

She knew she better say yes before this fool regained his senses.

Casually, as if she had felt fifty such bills in her hand more times than she cared to remember, she said, "You have to provide the place, and I don't room cheap."

"You pick it," Tats said, matter-of factly.

"I'll have to hand a third of it over to the bartender," she said, with a tone that said, I don't suppose you care about that.

"I'll take care of the bartender. What I gave you is yours and yours alone."

Out of excuses, her fear now was only that she was going to fall for this man.

Chapter 34

That same evening, Tats and Rose shed the confines of the bar—he preferred that term over "whorehouse that serves alcohol"—and set off for the finest hotel in Sodorf City. It was a new building and still had significant additions underway.

Tats asked for the finest room and almost paid for all three weeks upfront, but his gut instinct insisted that, even for a man with money to burn, it might be best to start with a week and see if after that he and Rose still felt their special connection—or, more aptly put, whether he did—or if harsh words, misinterpreted tone, or just plain boredom would bring a crushing reality down upon them that she was nothing but a whore and he was nothing but a john.

"One week, ma'am," Tats said, glad Rose was at least seemingly out of hearing distance admiring a fine painting on the wall.

Tats handed over $10,000 falons and was given a key in exchange.

A smiling bellhop appeared, asking to carry their luggage, and Tats reluctantly handed him his saddle, which still contained about $900,000. Tats watched him warily as he led him and Rose to their room, ready to pounce on him and pulverize him with his fists if he tried to act like a horse and run off with the saddle.

"Economy's doing mighty well thanks to that gold mine!" the bellhop said good-naturedly.

Tats smiled politely but said nothing.

Rose felt she was living a kind of fairy tale. She felt she had the upper hand. Regardless of what happened with this man, she had already earned—well, already received—payments nearly equal to a third of her annual salary, and she knew enough about male physiology to know satisfying one client over a period of three weeks was a walk in the park compared to her usual five clients a night.

But far more importantly, no client had ever offered to take her to some place nice like this, so for a moment she decided there was nothing wrong with imagining she was a respectable lady there with her wealthy husband with whom she was madly in love.

Why not indulge your imagination a little if this is the closest taste you'll ever get of "the good life"?

She had certainly outdone her mother, who had worn her fingers to the bone working as a housemaid for decades, always telling Rose when she was younger, "It's respectable," as if suspecting what line of work her then cute little girl might be drawn into when she was a woman armed with beauty but little education, and hoping to somehow prevent nature from taking its course.

But what had made far more of an impression on Rose as a child were the tiny meals, the tiny room they stayed in in the back of the employers' home, the fawning deference her mother always used when speaking with the husband and wife who owned the home (and even with their bratty children, even though she had changed their diapers), and her mother being thrown out onto the street when her knees, fingers, and elbows could no longer withstand the constant scrubbing and dusting.

By that time, Rose's body was mature, and she soon became the breadwinner, putting her mother into the apartment that Rose paid for with her own money and, later, into the small house that Rose bought with her own money.

Her mother never asked any questions, much less remonstrated her. Perhaps, as she saw her daughter work thirty hours a week and provide a life far better than she had been able to working nearly a hundred hours a week, she decided that perhaps "respectable" is measured in currency units rather than whether you can get paid without taking off your clothes.

But, privately, she worried constantly for her daughter and hoped she would use her earnings to get out of the dirty business before she ended up pregnant with some creep's child, infected with a venereal disease, or raped and killed by a maniac client.

Rose, whether because she was her mother's daughter or because she had her eyes open wide enough to know these were real dangers, also shared these concerns . . . privately. The two had a mildly amiable relationship. They spoke each day and rarely argued. But Rose felt some sense of shame for her profession, and her mother felt a sense of guilt for having failed to show Rose there was a better way.

But tonight, none of that mattered, and for the next three weeks none of that mattered, because Rose had already decided that regardless of what happened during these three weeks she was not going to set foot back into Warm Touch, as it was usually called for short, since it seemed the clients were far more interested in that than the Cold Drinks.

Maybe this was a singular opportunity from heaven—an opportunity to slow down for a moment and reflect on whether she did not already have enough money to seek a different line of work. Perhaps she could start up a small business. Perhaps she could pay for a private tutor or even go to college. Perhaps—

They were at the door to their room and entering. It was time to get back to her role, and she felt a surge of happiness as she realized there were far worse men she could be spending this time with.

To her surprise, David—which she preferred over "Tats"—simply grabbed her hand, went to the bed, and lay down next to her. Before they knew it, both were sound asleep.

Chapter 35

Though Rose might never have guessed it, when they awoke the next day Tats felt a strong dose of the insecurity she felt, albeit of a different sort.

Would she deign to look in my direction if I didn't drop cash as casually as a used newspaper? he wondered, but quickly strove to banish the insecurity from his mind.

A few days ago, you were in a dark prison cell. Today, you have a beautiful woman next to you. Tomorrow, maybe you'll be dead. Don't complicate your present good fortune.

But then he wondered whether perhaps Rose's feelings were not the real reason for his current angst.

How is Mr. Brass?

He usually didn't worry about Mr. Brass's well-being, as doing so would have made him feel as foolish as a private worrying about his general—notwithstanding the fact Tats' rank was more analogous to colonel—but no sooner had he asked himself about Mr. Brass than he realized he was concerned.

Mr. Brass was the reason he was lying next to a beautiful woman rather than being enveloped in bitter darkness in an unforgiving dungeon, with the prospect of being held like a caged animal for the remainder of his youth, if not the rest of his life. And surely, the police, if not the military, response was going to be swift and ferocious after what he and Mr. Brass had done to the police station.

But Mr. Brass, had told, rather than asked, him to spend a three-week vacation in Sodorf City, and thus, if Mr. Brass needed his help in Sivingdel, wasn't that Mr. Brass's own fault?

"Babe?" Tats said to Rose.

"Yes?" she said, having also been long awake and lying there in a state of nervous apprehension, now realizing that, while being with an exclusive client for three weeks might involve fewer sexual acts, it was in some ways more emotionally taxing.

"Mind if I go outside and stretch my legs for about an hour? I've got a lot on my mind. After that, maybe we can just relax for the afternoon but do something special in the evening."

"You're the customer," she said in a friendly tone, rather relieved to have an hour to herself and hoping he might take even longer before returning. She was itching to shower, and if she wasn't mistaken the bathroom came equipped with running water, a luxury she certainly didn't have at home.

Tats got dressed and headed outside.

Chapter 36

Tats had mentioned to Mr. Brass during casual conversation the little adventure he had when he went looking for his sister and had told him that if he ever needed a place for a good smoke or a little female companionship he would be unlikely to leave disappointed if he visited the place Tats had.

Tats decided that if Mr. Brass had changed his mind about his three-week vacation, or if he simply decided he himself should partake, Tats' best luck in finding him would probably be at Warm Touch, so he took off in that direction walking on foot.

Righty had sent konulans out looking for Tats last night the moment he concluded Mr. Hoffmeyer had to be dealt with and fast. Knowing both Tats' scent and appearance, the extra tidbit that he was a little likelier than not to be visiting a business establishment in the northeastern part of the city almost made it too easy.

They saw Tats leaving hand in hand with a gorgeous young lady and followed him to the hotel. They reported back to Righty, who decided he should let Tats enjoy this night, especially since it might be his last.

Early this morning, however, Righty had set off for Sodorf City and begun circling the skies above the hotel while Harold's razor-sharp eyes were kept peeled waiting for Tats to emerge, and the konulans provided additional support.

Righty was beginning to think he would spend the whole day in vain circling the skies while Tats stayed in his little love nest, and he wasn't about to go barging in—or was he?

He really needed him, and the longer the morning dragged on, he was beginning to consider buying a room just so that he could pace up and down the halls hoping to bump into him. Or perhaps he would put a konulan in his pocket and see if it could follow Tats' scent.

Fortunately, these drastic measures were obviated when Harold told him, "He just stepped outside."

Righty almost told Harold to set him down right then and there but quickly regained his sanity.

"Is there any spot nearby where you can set me down with minimal exposure?"

Harold's eyes devoured the surrounding terrain looking for any area sufficiently inconspicuous for a large bird to suddenly dive straight into without drawing a crowd of gawkers. It was an overcast day, and it appeared that either rain from last night or the prospect of rain today had dissuaded the construction workers from showing up to continue the additions being made to the hotel.

Harold sent a konulan down there to investigate, ordering him gruffly with quick chirps that were nonsensical to Righty's ears but that quickly resulted in prompt action on the part of the konulan.

A few minutes later, the konulan returned, assuring them the area was empty.

"Hang on," he told Righty, who immediately gripped the leather straps on Harold's back for dear life.

Harold headed behind the hotel and with no warning immediately plunged straight down behind the construction area, flaring his wings out and lifting his back up towards the sky to decelerate around thirty feet from the ground, after which he immediately entered the gloomy confines of the construction area.

Righty slipped off his back, fighting nausea, and told him to wait there.

He then took off on foot, wishing he could run, but forcing himself to walk no faster than what one can without arousing the suspicion he is a thief fleeing justice.

He saw no sign of Tats but wasn't too surprised, given that he was approaching from behind and Tats had a sizable head start on him. Righty scanned every passerby quickly, certain that Tats would be doubling back to the hotel at some point.

When he saw Tats from behind about ten minutes later, he realized Tats must be on a rather lazy stroll. He almost tapped him on the shoulder but decided against it when he realized that might prompt a counterattack from the most likely paranoid Tats.

Nor was calling out his name a surefire way to approach him without risking undue alarm. Perhaps he might mistake him for a policeman and sprint like mad.

"Excuse me, sir," he said once he was around a foot behind and three feet to Tats' right, hoping the space would be wide enough to prevent any disasters if Tats unsheathed his sword, but close enough for Tats to know he was the object of the address without needing to hear his name.

Tats turned quickly to the side in a startled fashion, his left hand hovering near his waist area, the probable refuge of some weapon, which made Righty glad he had exercised prudence in his approach.

Tats' eyes quickly bulged before retaining their normal size so quickly all but the most observant would have missed it.

"Yes, sir?" he said calmly, realizing he had no innocuous alias with which to address Mr. Brass.

Righty drew as close as he could without drawing undue attention so that he might convey a direct-enough message to let Tats know he needed him right away.

"Can you leave your lady friend for a task?" Righty inquired.

"Of course," Tats said, unblinking.

"Come this way," Righty said, setting off towards the hotel.

As soon as they found themselves at least ten to twelve feet from the nearest passerby, Tats said to Righty in a hushed voice, "How long?"

"If all goes well, you'll be back this evening. Otherwise . . . you won't."

Tats gulped.

They reached the hotel.

"I don't want to attract any attention. Go tell her what you need to. I'll walk five minutes from here and then come back at the same pace."

"Got it," Tats said, setting off towards Rose.

Chapter 37

When Tats entered the room, Rose was just stepping out of the shower, and as soon as she heard it was Tats, she dropped the towel and walked towards him boldly.

When Tats beheld her, he felt like a fat kid suddenly tempted by a giant piece of chocolate cake. His desire to jump on her could not have been stronger, but he knew if that ship set sail, a very angry Mr. Brass would be waiting for several hours downstairs and perhaps wouldn't think it necessary to bribe Tats' way out of jail the next time.

"Babe!" Tats said, looking at her.

She approached him confidently. He knew this was going to be a fight, paying customer or not.

"Babe, I have to go do something."

He didn't know if it was his tone that saved him, but he supposed it must have been, because whereas the same line might have earned the average man a slap across the face, Rose's response was one of concern rather than the bitter resentment he feared.

"What?" she asked simply, but approaching him while she did so and hugging him lightly around his lower back, pushing her still nude body against him.

"I don't know, but I have to. I hope to be back tonight. Please stay."

Her eyes scanned his for the faintest trace of guile or hypocrisy, but her search simply added to her apprehension rather than serving to fuel a sullen bitterness.

She grabbed him and kissed him lengthily, this being—strangely—their first kiss.

Tats' urge to stay redoubled.

"I'll wait," she said. "Go do whatever it is you must."

She wanted to leave it at that but couldn't control her tongue: "You come back." It sounded like a command.

Tats almost hugged her but knew the clock was ticking. He simply nodded, his eyes turning moist, and then left the room.

Chapter 38

When he met back up with Mr. Brass, he just motioned for Tats to follow him. To Tats' surprise, they set off behind the hotel.

"We can't talk much here, but I'll explain it to you soon enough . . . oh, and I hope you're not afraid of heights."

Tats in fact was afraid of heights, and although he vainly attempted to squash his instincts, they correctly informed him he was going to get a first-hand experience with the creature that was an integral part of Mr. Brass's power and mystique.

"I suggest holding on and just closing your eyes until you're so far up you know there's no point thinking about jumping off," Righty said as they walked into the vacant construction site.

The konulans had already been instructed not to make their presence known unless instructed otherwise. Some cards Righty just had to keep to himself.

Tats gulped as he saw Harold looking directly at him with his intelligent eyes.

"We're off," he said to Harold, who immediately prostrated himself.

Righty got on first and gripped a leather strap.

Tats overcame every instinct in his body to flee, but as he got on top of Harold and grabbed the straps he became detached from his body and was witnessing a foolish person perform the deed while his mind hovered over him.

"We're gonna have to leave kind of fast," Righty said. "I don't want to be in tomorrow's news."

Righty then leaned forward and pinned his body underneath a tight strap, after which he grabbed onto a second one for good measure. Tats, still feeling outside his body, mimicked these actions, and no sooner did Harold feel their chests against his back than he took out of the site like the proverbial bat out of hell.

Tats started to puke, but it seemed the downward pressure on his esophagus as Harold quickly accelerated prevented what would have otherwise been the evacuation of everything in his stomach down to the last drop of acid.

Righty laughed, remembering he had felt that way before.

As soon as it was clear Harold was now soaring calmly, Righty sat up and urged Tats to do the same.

"There she is—Sodorf City," Righty said, admiringly.

Now that Tats was slightly calmer, he couldn't help but feel regal, as the awareness that he was doing what no king could settled upon him. Then, a sense of foreboding threatened his momentary triumph.

"Something tells me that, for you to bring me up here on Harold, something really bad has happened."

"No, not yet," said Righty. "It's something bad I aim to keep from happening that earned you a ride on Harold. We'll talk more calmly once we're on solid ground."

They were already well outside the city, and Harold was calmly descending into a forest.

They dismounted, and Righty said, "All right, here's the situation."

Chapter 39

Tats wasn't exactly thrilled to be tasked with killing Mr. Hoffmeyer. All Mr. Brass would tell him was that he had been the supplier to Heavy Sam and was currently the supplier to what was left of his gang. But in Tats' mind there must surely be more to the story because Mr. Brass had never been the type who sought to eliminate competition by killing them, even though in self-defense it had often worked out that way.

His preferred method was to outperform them in the market and beat them that way. So, he knew there was more to the story than what he was being told. Nonetheless, if it weren't for Mr. Brass, he would be stuck in a gloomy cell meditating upon the likelihood he would never get out if it had not been for Mr. Brass showing up at the jail and bribing the chief, putting his own freedom in great jeopardy in the process.

Thus, it was with the zeal of an employee sent to clean a latrine that Tats approached Mr. Hoffmeyer's warehouse. In his left sleeve was concealed a compressed sword, a present Mr. Brass had given him previously. Tats had practiced a few times with opening the sword, and while he didn't feel very confident with it yet, he didn't dare ask Mr. Brass for more time to prepare for the mission.

He had on a fake beard and was dressed in an expensive suit of impeccable design. He carried a briefcase with a million falons inside.

Inhaling deeply, he extended his hand towards the door, and turned it, half-expecting it to pop open immediately, whereupon six goons would spill out slicing and bashing him into tiny pieces while saying, Think you're reeeal smooth, eh?!

But there was only calm, dull silence as he opened the door. He saw a woman seated behind the main desk.

Tats began to feel heat around his collar as if someone had taken a scalding horse shoe and suddenly slipped it around his neck. His heart had been moving at a quick walk outside but was now beginning to trot.

In addition to never having seen Mr. Hoffmeyer (or even a portrait) or having the slightest idea of what kind of security to expect, Tats realized one of the biggest factors working against him was the fact his heart was not in this killing. Perhaps it was Rose's fault. In her soft embrace, his hardness had melted away like butter on a hot skillet.

And just thinking for a half-second how much more he would prefer to be in her warm arms than carrying out this murder affected his resolve perhaps the same way the thought of sweet sleep might torment the mind of a laborer trying to force his body to complete an eighteen-hour shift of digging ditches.

But it was surely more than the temptation of Rose's otherworldly companionship that enervated his soul. He felt a bit sorry for Mr. Hoffmeyer. Perhaps Tats' recent experience with Rose had been a doorway to a sweeter side of life he had not truly known before, and with this acquaintance had come the dangerous feeling of empathy, something he must repulse now like bile trying to make its way up one's throat when one is in a public setting and would prefer not to barf like a sick dog in front of all humanity.

He wondered for a brief instant why he had almost effortlessly taken a knife to the throat of his once close friend, Spider, but was quickly reminded that Spider had been secretly working for Heavy Sam while pretending to be loyal to Brass's crew and would have slit Tats' throat if he hadn't done it first.

But with Mr. Hoffmeyer, it was different. Mr. Hoffmeyer had never been part of Brass's gang; thus, he was no defector. He was just competition, and since his market share had been reduced to practically single digits, what was the point in killing him? Why not allow him to remain as a possible distraction for the police rather than Mr. Brass turning into the sole kingpin target for law enforcement?

You're just gonna have to trust Mr. Brass. He wouldn't tell you to do this unless it was absolutely necessary.

"May I help you, sir?"

The secretary's sweet voice lifted him out of his internal ramblings but possibly added further peril to his resolve. Was it her perfume? Her lips? Her hair? Her voice? He couldn't be quite sure, but it seemed like no sooner had she drawn his attention than he felt his fortitude plummet even lower.

Forcing himself through the motions like a puppet master manipulating his inanimate servant, Tats said, with feigned confidence, "Yes, ma'am. My name is Mr. Howard Rogden. I am a new investor in this city and have secured leasing to six separate business establishments within the city and am in urgent need of securing an inventory supplier. I've spoken to two potential suppliers thus far, but neither of them seems able to supply the quantity of inventory I am going to be needing.

"I would have to enter into a contractual relationship with both of them to get the necessary quantity, but I have been told Mr. Hoffmeyer is the largest inventory supplier in all of Sivingdel, if not the whole country, and that if there is any one man that can provide all my inventory supply needs it would be he. Unfortunately, I have employees already on payroll, and my stores' signs promise they will be open for business starting next Monday, which, in business terms, means I either need to enter into an arrangement with Mr. Hoffmeyer today or will need to do so with the two competitors.

"I have brought a modest supply of capital with me as proof of the seriousness of my intentions," Tats said, opening a large briefcase with a million falons inside.

"I'm sure Mr. Hoffmeyer would be very glad to help you if he were here," the secretary began before pausing to think, "but Mr. Hoffmeyer has been gone for a few days now. He went home after the word got out about the police station being burned to the ground, and I haven't seen him since. That's not like him." She paused again as if trying to decide whether it would be prudent to give more information.

"Usually, Mr. Hoffmeyer never misses a day without telling me in advance, precisely so that potential business contacts such as yourself are not sent away completely empty-handed but at least know when they can come back and contact him."

Tats scanned her visage closely for signs of deception, but all he saw was genuine dismay.

"I'm worried maybe something happened to him, but I don't know what to do. A lot of people have been stopping by to see him, and none of the junior managers at the warehouse know anything either."

This was not going according to plan. He and Mr. Brass had discussed a few possible obstacles, one of them being where the secretary claimed Mr. Hoffmeyer was too busy or was simply not seeing anyone today, another being where the secretary insisted a lower-ranking manager could help him.

But this was unexpected, and furthermore, Tats believed the secretary. And even if he didn't, the only option left at this point would have been to pull out his sword, put it to her throat, and tell her, Now, we're going to take a little trip to Mr. Hoffmeyer's office and see if we can't find that rascal hiding underneath the desk! Any more cute stories you wanna sell me?!

Perhaps Mr. Brass would want to take things that far, but it was certainly outside of the scenarios they had discussed.

"Thank you, ma'am. I will be consulting with my business partner and may be so bold as to check in later today or tomorrow to see if any unexpected updates concerning Mr. Hoffmeyer have been received. The benefits of having a single inventory supplier may be so great that we will have to postpone the opening day if necessary. Good day to you."

Tats exited the warehouse and would have felt immense relief if not for the fact the job was undone, perhaps similar to a laborer who feels momentary joy upon seeing the heavy drops of rain that spell a day off from work until he realizes they also spell a day without pay and will leave him with a muddy, slippery environment to work in tomorrow.

He walked several blocks to where Mr. Brass was waiting for him.

Mr. Brass's eyes seemed to go first to Tats' hands, and a glint of dissatisfaction suggested the absence of even a speck of blood was displeasing.

"Well?" Mr. Brass said, frowning.

Chapter 40

When Mr. Hoffmeyer heard the police station had been burned to the ground in broad daylight, it was somewhere around fifty-six times the hint he needed that the time had come to get the hell out of Sivingdel.

He didn't like to think of himself as a career criminal. Sure, he had since long ago fudged the books from time to time for himself and even helped a few clients with that, but he had never wanted to get into the business of drug peddling.

But some mysterious men who claimed to be from Sogolia had other plans. They had been his supplier when Smokeless Green was as legal as a box of cigars, and when they showed up after SISA was passed and told him that he had been chosen as the supplier—i.e., kingpin—of Sivingdel, he had politely declined the perilous offer.

He still wasn't sure exactly how, but mere seconds later his arm was behind his back, a forearm was crushing his throat, and a polite but firm voice had told him, "I'm sorry. But you have been chosen . . . do you understand?"

The voice's tone suggested the man was willing to provide further pain if necessary to instill a full level of comprehension in Mr. Hoffmeyer that he was being chosen, not solicited.

Once Mr. Hoffmeyer, a lifelong practical individual, acquiesced, the men explained that the process was going to be very simple. They would find and pick the person whom Mr. Hoffmeyer would deal with directly, and it would be that person's responsibility to distribute the Smokeless Green throughout the city. Mr. Hoffmeyer was going to be assured full protection, and the distributor in question would understand that only he, and he alone, would know of Mr. Hoffmeyer's identity and that he would come to Mr. Hoffmeyer's warehouse to pick up the shipments in person, after which he would take them wherever he wished.

The men would communicate quite clearly to the distributor that, were he ever to cause any problems to Mr. Hoffmeyer, ever communicate his name to anyone, or even to even bring an associate along with him to Mr. Hoffmeyer's office, the consequences would indeed be severe. Mr. Hoffmeyer was to wait until a man introduced himself verbatim with the greeting, "I'm here to inquire about Sogolian tobacco."

Lastly, Mr. Hoffmeyer was given a list of prices corresponding to specified quantities and was told they would be coming by as needed to replenish his supply.

After that, there was a stretch of silence, but just when Mr. Hoffmeyer began to hope perhaps the men had decided to pick someone else, he received a visit from a grotesque, imposing man named Sam who introduced himself with the specified greeting word for word.

Mr. Hoffmeyer took him to his warehouse, and Sam had purchased ten pounds. The next week, he purchased a hundred. The next month, he purchased a thousand. From there, fluctuations had been minor.

The next thing Mr. Hoffmeyer knew he was bringing a wagonload of cash home once a month. At first he managed to bury it underneath the floorboards. Then, he filled a room to the point he could have only added a needle with difficulty. He then walled off the room, grateful he knew a thing or two about swinging a hammer.

After that, he filled up and walled off another room but decided that would be the last. He began digging holes in his yard—glad he lived in a rural area and had a large ranch—but it was backbreaking work, and although he put the cash into large boxes, he worried about the money rotting before he ever even touched it.

Nonetheless, as long as he kept making money he really had little other choice. He was able to launder a large quantity, due to the size of his business, but it was an incredibly small percentage of the amount he was earning.

It was beginning to become more of a chore than a luxury, since he had never been accustomed to keeping large quantities of cash on hand. He preferred investments, but he knew the amount of money he was taking in was far too much for him to put it into bank accounts or the stock market without attracting the wrong kind of attention.

When he heard that Heavy Sam had been beaten to a pulp and had his head cut off by a shadowy figure named Mr. Brass, he had nearly tap-danced with joy. Perhaps, that would be the end of it all—the gentlemen from Sogolia would maybe decide to start dealing directly with Mr. Brass.

But that didn't happen. Mr. Hoffmeyer had found himself in his office with three brutes brandishing daggers and telling him, "We know you was Sam's source!" and insisting that he begin working with them. The cat was already out of the bag by the time the Sogolian gentlemen showed up.

They seemed far less confident than before—almost as if they were in uncharted waters themselves—and they told him he would need to deal with those three suppliers.

It seemed the Sogolian gentlemen must have paid them a visit and instilled some manners into their beastly skulls because the next time they approached Mr. Hoffmeyer he heard more "sir"s in five minutes than he could previously recall hearing in a single hour.

But he soon realized Mr. Brass was making things nasty for them. It seemed every week their purchases got smaller. Mr. Hoffmeyer couldn't have been happier. He was hoping they would just go away. Maybe in about ten years he could launder the drug money he had already stuffed his house and yard with.

But with the ever-shrinking purchases, he found himself starting to think quite a bit about Mr. Brass. Who was this guy? The three distributors told him he was an enigma because no one in the city's underworld knew his real name and "that just don't happen," they had explained.

Two of them had been there when Sam got pulverized by Mr. Brass, and having done a little boxing themselves and a lot of street fighting, they each swore there was "no way someone could fight like that unless he was a real pro."

That had titillated Mr. Hoffmeyer's interest considerably. He had never quite been able to shake the memory of that clerk of Roger's who had shown up claiming a dozen barrels of Smokeless Green seed had been spoiled—right after SISA was passed.

He knew that of course was a lie, so he figured either the clerk stole or sold the seeds, or Roger did it. While he wasn't one to quickly dismiss possibilities—even remote ones—he had known Roger for quite a while, and he seemed the last person in the world to do something outside the rules.

As for this clerk, on the other hand, he didn't know anything about him. He looked up his old notes and saw his name was Richard Simmers, and he had one of his employees go down to Ringsetter to do a little snooping around. He had casually asked about him in a bar after a few drinks, and one fellow quickly told him, "Oh, Righty? He ain't been around here much lately, but he used to drink us all under the table. Why? Do you know him?"

His employee had responded, "Oh, it's nothing too important. He was late paying for some inventory at his new store is all. I went by the store and couldn't find him. I'll guess I'll have to go back to Sivingdel empty-handed."

"Well, just tread real light when you talk to him," a gregarious fellow suddenly said, causing some apparent irritation to the other man. "Righty was almost the national boxing champ, and I seen him whip three men at the same time!"

The other man had looked at his friend with real disgust and said, "How's about I whip you?!"

The employee had quickly apologized if he had pried too much, paid for each man's drink (which quickly satiated their anger), and did the best disappearing act he could.

When he brought the news back to Mr. Hoffmeyer, he figured it was all bluster, but deciding it would not cost him more than an hour or two of digging at the most, he went to the Sivingdel Boxing Association and asked.

He was immediately asked, "Do you know Righty Rick? He was set to be a legend. If he hadn't been banned from the sport, many think he would have gone down in history as one of the best boxers who ever lived!"

Although Mr. Hoffmeyer knew now that Righty and Mr. Brass were one and the same, he spent a couple hours poking around the building's archives asking a few questions about others and claiming he was thinking about becoming an investor at a boxing gym but wanted to first acquaint himself with the sport so that he could make an educated decision.

Afterwards, he had practically sprinted out, not knowing what the extent of Mr. Brass's network could be and, in a way, hating the fact he had gotten the answer. Mr. Simmers had not shown his face around Mr. Hoffmeyer's warehouse for a long time, and Mr. Hoffmeyer began to dread a nightmarish vision of him closing the office door behind him, brass knuckles clinking together, and saying, You know too damn much, Hoffie!

He had hired a couple beefy security guards and installed them in the office next to his. They did nothing but sit around and wait for the day they were to be called in to action. Mr. Hoffmeyer's secretary fortunately knew what Mr. Simmers looked like, and she had been told that if he ever visited she was to give a quick series of three knocks on the office door before Mr. Hoffmeyer's, after which she would say with a blush, Sorry—you'd think I'd know where the owner's office is located by now!

That would be the cue to the guards to exit as soon as they heard Mr. Simmers enter Mr. Hoffmeyer's office, outside of which they would wait with their ears pressed against the door, ready to barge in and stab him in the back if he tried anything cute.

But when the police chief had showed up at his office one day and told him, "I'm onto you, Mr. Hoffmeyer," and explained he was very disappointed with the dwindling bribe money he was getting from triumvirate that had replaced Sam , Mr. Hoffmeyer began to think about early retirement . . . preferably in a foreign country.

This sentiment had amplified considerably when he told him, "I'll have Mr. Brass in my clutches soon enough. Perhaps if he pays a fair monthly contribution, you'll be off the hook. If Brass doesn't pay he'll be put away real soon. That will put you back on top, and I'll expect to be paid accordingly. I just wanted to drop in and say 'hello.'"

He had barely slept a wink that night.

When he heard the news two days later that the police station had been burned to the ground and blown up for good measure, he realized it was time for retirement.

He had gone home, loaded as much money as he could onto his largest wagon while still leaving room for a few personal items, and hit the road.

Sodorf City sounded like a nice place. The economy was apparently booming due to a gold mine discovery, so it was likely new people were flooding into the city every day, making it as good a place as he was ever going to find to go unnoticed as a newcomer with plenty of cash.

Acting on an impulse, before he set off for Sodorf, he went back into the house, took out the nicest piece of stationery he had and began to write a letter:

Dear Mr. Simmers,

I know who you are. This letter is not a threat, but a plea.

I was dragged into this sordid business against my will, and I reckon that, if you have not already done so, you will soon discover that I was at one time the supplier to Sam and thus to the whole city.

Unwittingly, you did me a favor by killing him and then stealing the market from his inheritors. Nonetheless, if I were you, I might not be able to avoid the conclusion that I would sleep a little better at night if the other were dead. Perhaps I'm the only one who knows both of your identities.

I'm fleeing Sivingdel and leaving that rotten apple to you. I don't doubt you'll be looking for me soon, if you're not already, but this letter is to inform you that's not necessary.

I never wanted in, and now, more than anything, I want out.

If I wanted your identity known, I would have leaked it to the papers months ago. Ask yourself if that is not true.

I ask to be left alone.

You will find plenty of cash buried outside my house and inside a walled-off room. It's on the far southeast side of the house. If it is not too bold of me, I offer this money to you as a proof of my sincerity and humbly ask that you see to it that my employees are taken care of.

I could not tell them I was leaving the country.

We only met twice, but you seemed like the type who can read a man. I hope so because if you do you'll realize there's no need to lose a second's sleep on my account.

May you be prosperous and kept safe.

Sincerely,

You Know Who I Am

He looked over the letter once and figured it would have to do for a letter to a violent kingpin that he was writing as he prepared to go permanently underground. He closed the letter with a seal, slapped the reins against the horses' hindquarters, and set off towards Ringsetter, glad it would be on the way to Sodorf City.

He stopped outside of Rich's Groceries & Hardware, walked in and asked to speak to the manager, and then gave the letter to a young man named Robert, who assured him the letter would go straight to Mr. Simmers' desk and that he would personally inform Mr. Simmers of the letter the next time he saw him.

Chapter 41

"Did you believe her?" Mr. Brass asked.

"Frankly, sir, I did. It didn't sound rehearsed, and she sounded sincerely concerned. I don't think she has a clue where Mr. Hoffmeyer is. But you let me know what you need done, and I'll do it to the best of my ability."

Righty scanned Tats' face carefully.

"I might check back in on Mr. Hoffmeyer myself. As for now, I've got far bigger fish to fry. The reaction of the local, state, and federal government is going to determine whether we're over the hump as far as the violence is concerned or just listening to the report of the opening salvo in a bloodbath the likes of which this country has never seen . . . at least not for centuries.

"I will not die in prison or on the scaffold, Tats," Righty said, piercing through his soul with his gaze.

"Tell me what you need done."

"I'll be in touch sooner rather than later," Righty said with a slight smile. "As for now, it's best you lay low and enjoy some good times in that fancy hotel, which I assume you're not staying in without company, but I don't mean to pry."

"You've deduced correctly, sir."

"Well, a man just doesn't know when one of those sweet moments will be his last, so let's get you back there."

"Are you sure?" Tats asked, suddenly feeling far more invigorated to help Mr. Brass out with whatever he needed.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

They flagged down a coach, went to the park, got on Harold, and were in a wooded area on the outskirts of Sodorf City in less than an hour.

"I'm in Room 541, if you need to look me up," Tats said, as he dismounted from Harold. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

Righty looked at him long and hard. "I got some interesting paperwork at the chief's house the night I paid him an uninvited visit. It contained a list of informants. That's how you got set up. And that's why we're in this mess now. There's going to be a purge."

"You can drop me back off at Sivingdel right now. I'll get the most trusted associates I have, and we'll kill them off one by one."

"Not yet. They've done most of the damage they're capable of doing. Now's when they're most likely to be suspecting retaliation. And now is when we've got to keep an absolutely low profile. For all I know, troops could be in the streets before the week is out. The last thing I want to do is expose myself or my right-hand man to what's left of the law just to hunt down some mangy sewer rats.

"They'll get theirs soon enough. For now though, I want you to know Crabs' name is on there, and so is the name of every person you got arrested with. They were just arrested and kept in jail as part of appearances. They were working with Chief Benson. There's a major problem in this organization when people are more afraid of the police than me. That's going to change soon enough."

"You tell me when, where, and what, and it will be done," Tats said, furious at himself for failing to detect Crabs' treachery and that of the others. Though Mr. Brass hadn't said it, the responsibility for this fiasco was in a way Tats' due to his having failed to detect the treachery. He was going to make up for it as soon as Mr. Brass gave him the chance.

"We'll talk soon," Righty said, giving him a firm handshake.

Righty flew straight to the woods behind his house in Ringsetter and met up with the konulans. He felt it was a good harbinger that several of the konulans reported having found a ranch with a white picket fence within two hours by horse from Ringsetter, and furthermore, they had even overheard some dissatisfaction from the owner about the decline in the quality of the soil, which meant he might be open for a sale.

Righty jotted down the name of the rancher and some specifics about its location.

He felt relief that he was making good progress towards getting that transaction done, as it might behoove him to move him and his family from Ringsetter within days, if possible.

For now, however, it was time to put the konulans to use like they never had been before.

"Friends," he began, with konulans hovering around him—some on his lap, some before his feet, some on surrounding tree branches—looking like soldiers awaiting the orders of their general, "the safety of my wife and baby is in your care. Wicked, ambitious men have betrayed me and forced me to take lamentable actions to protect my wife and child. But like a spider rebuilding its web that has been damaged, but not destroyed, by a powerful storm, my enemies are now coalescing all around me, plotting, conniving, seeking to lay a snare that I will walk into and leave my wife a widow and my daughter an orphan.

"Will you stand with me against my enemies?"

"We will . . . we will!" they cried, adding many exuberant chirps and whistles along with their exclamations.

Righty withdrew his sword and drew a large circle, within which he began laying out an exhaustive list of persons and locales that were to be the subject of ceaseless surveillance.

The konulans then took off.

Righty was left alone with Harold and approached him.

"My ability to plan and act is going to depend heavily on the faithful reporting of the konulans, Harold. If they fail, I am doomed."

Harold's heart beat rapidly with excitement. He had found Righty to be one non-stop adventure compared to his dreary years of hunting for a commoner elevated to knighthood status in Sodorf, but the last several days were simply beyond anything he had ever imagined. He owed all this happiness, this purpose, to one man, and there was nothing on earth that would prevent him from keeping this man safe.

"Rest, Mr. Simmers. You will need all your energy to plan and act appropriately as soon as the konulans begin to bring back information on what the government is planning."

Righty put his hand on Harold's neck and patted it gently. "I will lay down my life for you, if necessary, friend."

Harold's blush could not be seen due to his feathers, but some trace of it could be seen in his slightly moist eyes.

He took off after the konulans before Righty could notice—or so he thought. Harold was going to be involved in a lot of micromanagement over the ensuing days. And while he had no qualms about Mr. Simmers playing the role of the friend, he would not hesitate to flay any konulan in whom he detected the slightest trace of treachery or apathy in their mission.

Righty headed to the house, surprised when he looked down at his watch to see it was merely 3 p.m. While he briefly considered the possibility of seeking some work-related task until evening, he quickly decided he should follow the advice he gave to Tats and enjoy what could be one of his last days as a free man.

He headed towards the house, anxious to tell Janie the good news about the ranch. He would spend a heavenly afternoon and evening of sweet, innocent relaxation with his family.

Tomorrow, if he had no major updates from the konulans, he would take a trip to the ranch and pay whatever it took to make it his within days. He needed to get Janie and the baby out of here fast.

Chapter 42

When the last of Governor Sehensberg's sniveling advisors had left his mansion, located a solid hour outside of the city of Sivingdel, yet still within the boundaries of the state of Rodalia, he privately bade them good riddance.

It had been several days since the police station was burned and exploded to smithereens in broad daylight, eliminating about half the total police force. More specifically, it had taken out somewhere around ninety percent of the police force's hierarchy and administrative personnel and around a third of the street cops; the police chief was decapitated in his own home, which was then burned down for good measure; two federal drug agents had been horrifically mauled; the mayor, a senator, a private detective, and two councilmen had been murdered; and a police officer had been hacked in two in the woods of the city's park.

It had taken at least a couple days just for the full body count to come in, and even the most ardent critics couldn't fault him for not having a full-blown response plan just yet. He had declared a state of emergency and taken several steps that would have been wholly unconstitutional in peaceful times.

He had converted an abandoned warehouse into a makeshift jail until the city approved funds for construction of a new facility and had ordered the remaining police to sweep the streets, arresting anyone who even looked suspicious and take them into custody either until the emergency ended or they determined the detainees were innocent, whereas those who could be charged with a crime—any crime, no matter how low a misdemeanor—were to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Additionally, he had requested the city council to immediately approve funds to recruit new police officers to replace all the fallen, plus a few hundred more for good measure. And he had made sure to appear once a day in the city square to loudly proclaim these fervent measures being taken to assure that the guilty would be punished.

He had kept his speeches brief, however, as it seemed the vast majority of the population had become convinced—thanks to The Sivingdel Times—that the real culprit was dead: the city's now infamous mayor.

Thus, he had whisked himself off stage, surrounded by a platoon of bodyguards, each time the questions started:

"Did you know the mayor was this evil?!"

"Did you know the mayor was in bed with organized crime?!"

And on and on.

He knew that the information would be trickling into the capital city around a day or two behind, so they were probably just now beginning to get a grasp on the basic facts of the situation.

They would likely be willing to sit back for a few more days to see what the governor would do about the situation, but if he didn't do something dramatic very soon, then pressure would begin to build in the capital. And that would mean federal interference. President Beldenshire might swarm the state and city with a bunch of over-zealous troops and declare nationwide martial law while the hunt for the guilty ensued.

Although Governor Sehensberg was relatively clean—he had been born into wealth and had never taken bribes, more out of a sense of aristocratic pride than a proper sense of right and wrong—but that didn't mean he wanted the feds poking around his state's capital and uncovering all the dirt in the world on the late mayor and the city council. He had heard stories about the mayor's corruption and had chosen to ignore them rather than investigate.

Thus, his mind had reached a singular objective but not the means to reach it: Do something sufficiently dramatic to keep the federal authorities out of this and make this whole thing blow over.

He had watched his grousing advisors wring their hands at the prospect of a "federal invasion of Rodalia" but had heard little in the way of a solution to keep this embarrassment from happening.

It was now 8:45 p.m. and time to retire to his study. He ascended the stairs and entered his cozy office. He had a proper governor's mansion in the capital city, but he greatly preferred his private mansion out here in the country. A refreshing breeze whispered through the open window soothing his spirits like a gentle kiss.

Feeling he had earned the right to an hour or two of uninterrupted, pleasant distraction from his now odious job, he picked up a book on Seleganian history and approached his desk, ready to perhaps alleviate his own distress by learning of a far more unfortunate historical figure or perhaps even to be inspired by the shrewd actions of some ancient politician.

To his great surprise, there was an envelope on top of his desk composed of what was clearly fine stationery and closed with an elegant seal.

He could have sworn he had read all of the day's mail by noon that day, so he wondered how this letter could have made its way to his desk unread.

He opened it quickly and began to read:

Esteemed Governor Sehensberg:

Our interests are aligned beautifully like the strings of a masterfully crafted guitar. Let us strum a beautiful melody and leave behind the odious violence that has filled our days and evenings with despair.

You are a man with sparse time, so I will be direct.

You seek a solution to the recent, unfortunate violence that will prevent that pompous President Beldenshire—who beat your father twice in a race for president and thrice in a race for senator—from sending federal troops into your state in order to pose as the nation's savior and pound one more nail into the coffin of the Sehensberg name.

You also seek a solution to prevent any such future violence.

I can deliver you all these things on a grand scale.

Firstly, attached is a list of villainous cutthroats, along with their addresses. They are complicit in the recent crimes and many others. Arrest them and hang them promptly and publicly pursuant to the harsh exigencies of martial law. Remember—time is of the essence if you are to obviate President Beldenshire's "heroic" intervention.

He will no doubt use the deaths of the federal agents as an excuse to impose federal jurisdiction and fill your state with federal troops, yet their deaths also constitute the state offense of murder, so you will not want to lose the race to assert jurisdiction in a conclusive fashion.

What lies might roll out of the mouths of these rogues if given the slightest incentive by federal agents? Mayor Roverdile was corrupt, as was Chief Benson. Do you think if these lifelong rascals were given even the slightest hint from their federal interrogators that they wanted to hear your name that they would hesitate one moment to claim they had personal dealings with you? Even if you were not indicted, it would be a blemish on your family name you would never wash away.

The ringleader of these knaves is a soulless scoundrel named Crabs. He will serve as the focal point for the righteous wrath of the state. No heed shall be paid to any name that this rascal or any of his fellow rogues issue from their lying mouths. Attached is the written confession you will have read when he and his fellow cutthroats are properly hanged before the entire city.

Secondly, I will assure that the press writes of your actions in glowing terms of praise, painting you properly as a hero who restored justice and preserved the inviolate sanctity of Rodalian sovereignty. This could be the foundation for a future presidential campaign, perhaps one more successful than that of your late father, may he rest peacefully.

Finally, upon the realization of these things, I will use my influence within the city to ensure that crime rates are reduced by half. I will ensure full credit is given to you in the press, which will describe the situation as "the dawn of a golden age in Sivingdel." Remember those exact words.

In exchange for these magnanimous acts, I ask very little in return. You will simply understand and accept the reality that there is a de facto ruler of Sivingdel, one whose aims are the same as yours—peace and prosperity—yet who does not seek the limelight.

You must understand that SISA is unconstitutional and that the contraband known as Smokeless Green cannot be stopped, just as alcohol could not be stopped by our forefathers centuries ago. But even in this area, you will have your victories, as I will give you the names and addresses from time to time of those whom you may arrest.

Should you fail to act quickly upon all of these humble recommendations, or should you be so imprudent as to seek to discover the source of this letter, I will have no need to use violence against you. The hammer of the national government is already poised above this state, and particularly above this city, waiting to smash its sovereignty into smithereens with full-scale military occupation.

Were this to occur, do you really think you would escape unscathed? The press would only have to begin to publicly question whether it is possible for the mayor to have been so embroiled in bloody corruption without considerable complicity on the part of the governor. Such speculation alone would serve to quickly condemn you in the court of public opinion and soil your family's name forever, if not result in your incarceration or worse by orders of President Beldenshire.

Would he hesitate to hang you to remove a future political opponent?

I can be your best ally or your worst nightmare. There is no middle road.

You have an impressive study. But you would not want to find me one day standing inside of it.

Sincerely,

De Facto Ruler of Sivingdel

The governor barely noticed the threat at the end. Like a bloodhound, he could sniff out a bargain when one was a mile away. He had nothing to lose by ordering the immediate arrest of the rascals indicated in detail on the attached page, and if the promised praise from the press did not immediately ensue, then he would know that the "de facto ruler of Sivingdel" was nothing but a knave himself.

But if this man delivered as he promised on these successive points, then, the governor would gladly accept this alliance.

He sprinted downstairs, startling several of the armed guards on the bottom floor of the house.

"We're going to Sivingdel!"

Chapter 43

Crabs' stomach was growling viciously. He and about ten of his pals had been holed up inside this house ever since the day they had helped Tats block all exits from the police station while that maniac Mr. Brass had somehow managed to set fire to the place and blow it up for good measure.

It had been superfluous when Tats had passed the word for them to lay low until told otherwise. They had locked themselves inside the house like money in a vault, locking every door in the house, putting heavy furniture in front of each door, and ultimately pounding pieces of wood across most of the windows.

Nearly every time a carriage drove by, they about jumped out of their skin, thinking that it must have been whatever was left of the police force headed their way and about to get more than their pound of flesh for what they had done to their colleagues back at the police station.

But anxiety was giving way to boredom, and boredom to insatiable hunger, the likes of which few of them had ever experienced, although Crabs had known the experience of skipping a few meals each month when he grew up in the junkyard.

But only a couple of the people here with him were from the junkyard, so they wouldn't know anything about hard times like that. And even though he had lived them, it didn't mean he was eager to repeat the experience. They had cleared the pantry by day two and had spent the subsequent three days grousing about whose wise idea it had been to stuff themselves when they could be stuck in here for quite some time.

Several fistfights had already broken out, and the sweltering temperatures weren't helping anybody's mood. Without opening the windows at night—which they still dared not do—the house just soaked in all the rays of the sun in the entire city, and by the time each evening came around, most of them were wringing sweat out of their pants, having long since discarded their shirts.

They had seen an occasional police patrol go by whenever they dared peer through the cracks between the boards covering the windows, but only small units of around three or four. That wasn't too much of a surprise once they thought about it, given that the number of policemen in the city had probably gone down a number or two after the central police headquarters had been blown to splinters.

But Crabs wasn't just afraid of the sight of half a dozen angry-faced coppers heading up the steps, billy clubs in hand, ready to smash skulls into fragments far tinier than what was left of the police station.

The sight of Mr. Brass or Tats might have spelled equal trouble.

He was pretty sure Mr. Brass didn't know of his treachery at the time that he busted him and his fellow ne'er-do-wells out of jail. And in fact, the odds were stacked even better on his side once the police department went up in smoke because that place just might have had his name written down with the word "informant" or "witness" a little too close-by for comfort.

And since Mr. Brass had surely gotten chummy with the chief and paid him a lot of money to get the lot of them released, how much time could go by before the chief happened to mention to him that it was thanks to Crabs and his excellent cooperation that the arrests had happened in the first place, thus leading to the chief's and Mr. Brass's excellent business relationship?

But with any luck, that old chief had gotten blown into as many pieces as the rafters and would never have the chance to tell that tale over a stiff whiskey with a good laugh.

He would be more careful from now on. He would make sure not to ever let himself get into that situation in the first place. But what was he supposed to do when the sergeant had told him, "You're lookin' at twenty to forty hard years, son. But if you help us a little, we'll help you a little"?

After all, he had suspected Mr. Brass would make it all right in the end anyway by paying a bribe. Why hadn't he done that beforehand anyway? This was really what Mr. Brass got by trying to be clever and not pay his tax. Heck, even an ignorant third-grade graduate from the junkyard like him knew that the top dog in the game had to pay the chief to keep his dogs at bay.

That was something he learned around the same time he learned water ran downhill, leaves fall from trees, and birds can fly. Sometimes he couldn't help but wonder how a dumb ass like Mr. Brass ever got to be so rich in the first place. Sure, he could box, but he had the smarts of a barnyard swine.

But there was no reason to be too hard on Mr. Brass, he supposed. After all, this house was his because of the work Mr. Brass gave him—though it wasn't a mansion, like the several mansions Tats had. But it was a decent house, far better than that miserable shack he had grown up in in the junkyard and that he had once figured he would spend his whole life in: that one-room pigsty smaller than any of the closets in this house but that once upon a time had him, his two brothers, his three sisters, and his mom practically stacked on top of each other like firewood.

But at least that shack had windows, and you'd feel a cool breeze from time to time. Not like this place. No, here you just—

"I'm going out!" Crabs roared.

Sharp Tooth, who had gotten his nickname from a nasty bite he had given to a long-time tormentor, practically severing the man's nose from his face, looked at Crabs warily.

"We were told to stay put," Sharp Tooth said.

"We were told to lay low!" Crabs snapped back.

"They's the same, ain't they?" Sharp Tooth queried.

Crabs looked around the room menacingly. "I ain't gonna starve in my own house, you hear? And, what the heck—even in prison they feed you! I'm goin'!"

Crabs grabbed the large couch in front of the main door and began to pull. In his weakened state, he couldn't get it to budge, but a fury soon overtook him, giving his body a strength it shouldn't have possessed.

He yanked the couch out of the way and looked cockily at his timid comrades.

"I'll go with," Sharp Tooth said.

"Stay the hell here!" Crabs said. "I'll take Chris."

Chris had been with him when he had gotten busted, and they had both made the decision to cooperate. It didn't take them long to figure out they had been sold out by their underlings, most of whom were now holed up with them in this fireplace.

But he was also pretty sure that these underlings didn't know that he and Chris had in turn set up Tats, which had then caused Mr. Brass to get involved, which had then caused things to really go haywire.

Now seemed as good a time as any to have a little powwow with his fellow traitor and talk about whether it might be a good idea to leave Sivingdel for good and never come back. He had almost accumulated a million falons, though his nightly binges on alcohol, Smokeless Green, and whores kept making the pursuit of that number as futile as a dog chasing its tail. Nonetheless, he could learn to tone it down a bit and stretch that money out as long as he needed to.

He and his family in the junkyard had often survived on two hundred falons a month.

The feeling of fresh air against his face as he opened the door and stepped outside provided more pleasure than any of his other vices could have if a night's worth had been concentrated into five seconds.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Ahhhhh," he said slowly exhaling.

He noticed Chris was being awfully aloof, not commenting at all on the pleasure of fresh air after nearly a week inside that sweaty furnace.

He opened his eyes, ready to tear into him, when he saw the yard was full of police. One was standing right in front of him.

"Crabs, is it?" the officer said, grinning, eyeing the telltale tattoos on his neck.

Crabs felt a sharp knock against his head. The pain was intense, but he was out cold before he could so much as whimper.

Chapter 44

If a person had mistaken Eddie's lithe frame for just another one of the sinewy branches reaching out horizontally into the air of the thick forest, he could not have been justly excoriated. His dark brown clothes mirrored the color of the tree, and if his body occasionally adjusted itself slightly, the branches themselves could not boast plenary resilience against the occasional gust of wind.

But if the observer had noticed that from this one branch alone fell drops of some liquid matter, he may have directed his attention singularly enough to see the sweat falling from Eddie's brow.

This was no grown man, but was a far cry from the sniveling kid who had ran home from school with bullies on his heels. This was a wiry young teenager, little comprising his frame besides muscle and bone.

He didn't see Tristan most days. The aloof old man stopped in about once per month to monitor Eddie's progress and deliver food. Harsh though the old man was predisposed to be, even his caviling nature found little to quibble about when it came both to Eddie's improvement and dedication.

He preferred to evaluate Eddie unobserved, since he felt that is when any student is most likely to surrender to the powerful instincts of indolence and complacency. But watching the young student, even surreptitiously, was like seeing a reflection of himself from centuries before. There was clearly no physical or mental desire that could properly be described as competing with the young student's zeal to progress in the arts of magic.

Eddie had begun with incantations designed to enable him to root himself to objects. He would stand on a thick tree branch for hours at a time in calm weather. Then, in windy weather. Then, on a thin branch.

When Eddie stood twenty-four hours without food or drink on a branch no wider than his fist several hundred feet above ground in spite of several nasty wind gusts, Tristan decided it was time to take him to the next level.

Starting on a branch a few feet from the ground, he instructed Eddie to lean forward while simultaneously invoking the chant "Iksun," the incantation for balance.

Like a weightlifter who has accustomed himself to a particular weight, but struggles when just ten to twenty pounds are added, Eddie could lean forward no more than ten to fifteen degrees without toppling over altogether.

His brain, clutching the invisible but very present forces around him, struggled with the added weight the same way the pectoral and tricep muscles quiver beneath a theretofore unattempted load.

Day after day, his body felt lighter at increasingly sharp angles until he finally achieved a full horizontal pose, only his feet touching the branch. Tristan, never one who believed in overindulging himself, much less anyone else, could not help but heartily congratulate this student, who had reached the goal much quicker in his training than Tristan had, not that he parted with that secret.

Eddie's next move would have surely betrayed to even the laziest observer that this was no tree branch, as he calmly adjusted his body into a hanging position, only the bottoms of his feet touching the branch.

The sweat really began to pour now, as his heart rate soared, since these exercises exerted his body as much as his mind. He had reached his most stubborn roadblock so far on what had otherwise been a seamless charge forward through every exercise his master had given him.

When he had first achieved the ability six months ago to hang vertically, he thought the next step would be easy. Instead, it threatened to prove itself his triumphant nemesis. This exercise was that of walking upside down.

The difficulty in conquering this exercise lay in the cruel chasm separating the strength required to hang from one foot versus two, and the lack of any means of a more gradual transition between these two opposing cliff walls.

But to walk upside down would first require that he be able to hang from one foot. He had a strange confidence that today would be the day. A furious determination swept over him. He had been practicing from a low branch to soften the impact of his countless falls, but today he decided that perhaps the knowledge of the low price of failure was the very reason for its perpetuation.

A hundred feet down was a long way to fall, and while there was a branch or two he might be able to grasp on the way down, the odds in favor of a fall being fatal were rather high. Sweat pouring down his face, he slowly removed one foot from the branch.

It felt as if a hundred pounds had just been attached to his head. His body wanted to fall, but he flexed his mind repeating "IKSUN! IKSUN! IKSUN!!" furiously.

His body held. He counted to five, and put his other foot back a split second before he would have otherwise gone crashing hopelessly to the ground.

"Impressive," a voice uttered.

Eddie quickly lifted his hands upwards towards the branch and propelled himself on top of it more nimbly than a monkey.

Tristan was there.

"A few more weeks, and I think you'll be walking underneath any surface you please."

Tristan had gotten back from delivering one of Eddie's letters. They were several thousand miles to the east of the events of Selegania, but Tristan had enchanted a pholung and flew westward enough to turn over Eddie's letters to an international courier.

Though Tristan had not returned to Selegania since having left it, he had been close enough to sense that something radical and transformative was happening there.

That is good. All truly great wizards are thrust immediately into dangerous adversity upon completion of their formal training. If they cannot survive that, then they never possessed the inner qualities necessary to excel in the craft.

"Thank you, master," Eddie said, glad for a brief respite. He could tell something was on Tristan's mind, but his powers of mindreading were far too weak to penetrate the opaque medulla of Tristan's soul.

Chapter 45

"Hear ye! Hear ye! The honorable Governor Sehensberg has chosen to honor us with a few words on this momentous occasion!"

The roaring crowd clapped mightily and cheered with equal vigor. In the city square, stood a large gallows that had been constructed in a mere twenty-four hours by around-the-clock workers earning several times their normal hourly pay, but the heightened pay rate seemed like a small sacrifice to the most-grateful city government for their inestimably valuable work of construction.

Twenty-seven doomed men stood atop the gallows, all gagged so as to prevent any unseasonable outburst during the governor's speech. The gallows had been erected in a triangular formation pointed towards the crowd, with the more serious offenders placed towards the front so as to make more public their ignominious demise.

The sound of the crowd dulled from a frenzy to a low roar, then to a whisper, and then to silence as their duly elected governor stood before them ready to deliver his address.

With considerable gravitas, the governor began, "Citizens . . . neighbors . . . friends . . . ."

A pen would have made a clatter if it had hit the ground.

"Today is a sad day. But, today is also a happy day.

"Like the thrust of sunlight through a dark cloud following a devastating hurricane, today's justice represents the next chapter following what has been undeniably a blot on our community, our city, and our country.

"Today, the message shall be sent to every knave that acts of terror and devastation will not make us cower. They will not make us quiver.

"They will merely strengthen that unique spirit and resolve that makes us proud to call ourselves Rodalians!"

"Wuu-HU! HANG 'EM!" said a particularly loud voice amongst the otherwise polite applause.

The governor dignifiedly waited for the restoration of silence.

"I want to make it clear that I deserve little, if any, of the credit. The interim police chief, within just twenty-four hours of my appointing him, hit the streets with his men and rounded up the perpetrators of what has surely been the worst series of violent crimes in our city's history!"

Loud cheering and applause erupted, while the governor briefly presented a stern-faced man with a thick moustache that looked like it could deflect an arrow.

"Needless to say," the governor resumed, with a sly smile, "I plan on recommending him to permanent elevation to city police chief."

"YAHHHH!!" screamed one man amongst a chorus of other jubilant outbursts.

"Chief Halden is no career paper pusher. He's a veteran officer of some of the most challenging sections of this city, and he's the right man for the job!"

More jubilation.

"But though today we deliver justice to the fallen, let us not forget that not all of the victims were innocent, and it is with great sobriety that we should contemplate the reality that a culture of corruption emboldens criminals to carry out heinous crimes on such a grand scale.

"But we shall not dwell on the past. We shall not further castigate those who have already paid the ultimate price for their life of crime and corruption. We shall, instead, look forward to a new chapter in Sivingdel's legacy.

"A chapter where, like a forest's rebirth after being cleansed by fire, the surviving citizens of our city become more prosperous and more engaged in their community than at any previous time in Sivingdel's history. Let a new generation of citizens aspire to become policemen, to become councilmen, to become senators, to become mayors.

"The deaths of those public servants embroiled in corruption has already served to demonstrate the futility of the wicked path. And the righteous executions of the outlaws before us today will serve as a reminder to all future outlaws that your end, too, will be ignominious.

"Standing right here," the governor said, pointing to Crabs, whose eyes were nearly bulging out of his head in anger and desperation before the display of wanton hypocrisy and who was trying desperately to emit some sound in spite of the gag that had been placed ferociously down his mouth, "is a miscreant named Crabs. This . . . bandit is the mastermind of the dastardly wicked acts that have rained down upon our republic like a plague. But, today, he stands before you, ready to submit to the justice of the state and having prepared a written confession of his crimes. Let us thank him for this final, and perhaps, isolated act of charity that he has committed before going to meet his maker."

A sober murmur of agreement could be heard from the crowd. Almost too low of a murmur, because for an instant, Crabs' redoubled efforts to scream in spite of the gag produced a sound too loud for the governor's comfort.

However, the crowd went wild, cheering and hollering, when the governor waved them farewell and retired to a seat on the edge of the gallows where he could watch the action up close.

A severe, humorless man then approached the audience and said mechanically:

"Confession of Crabs, real name unknown.

"'I have lived a short and nasty life. I was baptized into crime at so young an age I cannot remember a time where I understood or appreciated the difference between right and wrong. My malicious cunning brought me success in the underworld, catapulting me to kingpin status and putting me on par with the mayor and several city councilmen in terms of power.

"'My arrogance became so overwhelming that when the mayor asked me to destroy evidence related to a corruption investigation Chief Benson was conducting on him, I sent my thugs in broad daylight to burn the police headquarters to cinders just in case there was any paperwork there on me I wouldn't take too kindly to having presented in court someday.

"'I then panicked, afraid the mayor and several of his fellow criminal associates—which included a senator, two city councilmen, and a private detective—would rat me out. So, I had them killed too. Additionally, I ordered several of my fellow scoundrels, all of whom stand with me on the scaffold today, to kill two brave federal agents for refusing to accept my bribe offer. They did the deed without a moment's hesitation or reflection.

"'I know my life is about over now, so I hope you all will forgive me, and I hope Kasani does too.'"

The stern orator stood directly in front of Crabs, which served to block most of his rebellious and indignant squirming and violent facial contortions, all of which indicated he was as repentant as a wolf licking its bloody lips with pleasure.

"Execute sentence!" the orator then said.

CREAK, CREAK, CREAK, CREAK, CREAK!

The sound of one trapdoor after another opening in rapid succession filled the air, followed quickly by the sound of snapping necks as the men's bodies reached the ends of their ropes.

The crowd cheered wildly, with a notable exception.

Mr. Simmers, near the front of the audience, watched somberly as the instrument of the state executed the traitors in his ranks with full public and legal backing, though his large, fake moustache changed his appearance so drastically not even Crabs recognized him.

Chapter 46

Many times one has been said to "hit rock bottom," whether it be because of the loss of a job, the termination of a relationship, the death of a spouse, or some other calamity. While in many cases, no doubt the powerful metaphor has been properly employed for the pathetic situation, in others hyperbole has stretched it and seen it used for almost any scenario involving a mild degree of unpleasantness.

In the present case of Senator Hutherton, few would question the appropriateness of saying that the once proud statesman had indeed hit such a shocking low, several weeks prior to the present scene, that few metaphors could be applied to it with exaggeration.

Though he had once used Smokeless Green for the occasional "edge," it had quickly become a source of recreation and later an essential nutrient for basic functionality. From there, his use only became more dire.

When, Robert, his oldest servant, a man in his mid-sixties, witnessed Lord Hutherton—as he was usually called in the house—go on a six-day binge of green powder sniffing without eating so much as a morsel and not sleeping a wink, he decided it was time for a tough intervention before his master gave himself a stroke or a heart attack and left him and the rest of the servants unemployed.

Hutherton had kicked, screamed, spit, and cussed as Robert picked the man up like a bratty young child and carried him towards what had been known in Hutherton's younger days as "The Calm Room." Having been Hutherton's tutor from the time Hutherton was a small child, he had been authorized by the elder Hutherton to chastise his young brat however he saw fit short of blows.

When Hutherton would tear up his homework, scream at the top of his lungs, or writhe on the ground like an angry snake, he would take the tiny terror and lock him in the closet for a good hour or two beyond the cessation of shouting and banging on the walls.

For the really bad tantrums, the ones that lasted a day or more, he would pass food and water through a slot under the door like a zookeeper with a dangerous tiger.

In the end though, the result was always the same—a reasonably contrite Hutherton, who would not need a repeat dose for at least a month.

Needless to say, this childish punishment had long since ceased, but Robert, like any man faced with great adversity, fell back on old habits to resolve the trying situation. He grabbed the gaunt senator—whose bloodshot eyes with black splotches underneath looked at him furiously and indignantly while he threatened immediate termination and even death for the servant—and, ignoring the invective, hauled him off like a bratty child to The Calm Room and threw him in there like a dangerous serpent he feared being bitten by upon release.

He then shut the door and soon after pushed a chamber pot, a jar of water, and a tray of simple food underneath the door.

What ensued over the next twenty-four hours were threats so severe, and banging on the door and walls so violent, that the elderly senator feared death would befall everyone in the household if this thing were released. But, acting on a hunch, he decided maybe it wouldn't be safe to separate the senator from his green friend too abruptly.

He knew more or less the size of the small mountains of powder his master sucked up his nose like an elephant with water, and he decided maybe he should provide something along the lines of half that amount.

When he did so, he did hear a momentary exclamation of gratitude, but later in the evening a furious tantrum recommenced.

He remained resolute in refusing to acquiesce to his master's demands for more powder but did keep a constant vigil by the door, his ear ready for any sound that seemed more like a cry of genuine medical distress rather than a greedy demand for licentious pleasure.

Throughout the night, he was awakened many times by unnerving groans and shouts, but none quite seemed to convince Robert to give the senator more green powder.

He did some thinking through the night, however, and decided that going forward this would need to be a meticulous process. He obtained some measuring cups from the kitchen and inserted therein a quantity of green powder he was certain was just slightly less than what he had given the senator the day before. He then wrote down the exact quantity, with the plan of reducing it methodically.

As he shoved it underneath the door, he said to his master, "Use it wisely. It's all you're getting until tomorrow morning!"

He heard some quick sniffing ensue, followed by a meek "Thank you," and was then rewarded by a stenchy chamber pot being shoved towards him.

Robert said with a smile, "You're welcome, Senator Hutherton. We need you back in your five senses, or the lot of us are going to be without jobs!"

The senator rewarded him with a moderate chuckle but nothing more.

Threats resumed sporadically over the ensuing weeks while Robert kept the senator locked in The Calm Room, but it seemed enough sobriety had been obtained that the senator realized his faithful servant was doing him an immense favor.

Occasionally, the senator attempted guile, engaging Robert in pleasant conversation and then suggesting the two of them go horse-riding together.

Robert told the senator flatly, "When you go one full week without one sniff of that green poison, I'm going to let you out of here and not a day before. And then, when you've got all five of your senses back, I'll let you out, and I'll be at your mercy."

This brought on a brief tantrum, but the tantrums were becoming smaller in intensity and shorter in duration.

Robert did acquiesce to providing the daily news to his master, and once the news about the police station burning came out, the senator had told Robert, "No more green powder! I've got to get out of here as quickly as possible!"

Robert had gladly acquiesced at first, but when, later in the day, he had heard horrible vomiting that sounded like a man in his last few minutes on earth, he had pushed a dose of Smokeless Green underneath the door, putting the senator back on the methodical taper.

"Some things just take time, Mr. Senator," Robert said. He heard sniffing, and then the vomiting passed.

A major transformation was underway in Senator Hutherton's mind. He had become aware of the dangerous hold Smokeless Green had acquired on him as he tiptoed slowly towards full sobriety, his daily dose now a mere line the thickness of his pinky.

He realized that, paradoxically, while he had begun taking Smokeless Green to acquire greater control of those around him through the enhanced alertness and energy he had with which to manipulate them, he had gradually become a shadow of his former self, weaker and less guileful, even with a large amount of green powder in him, than he had once been completely sober.

But even as his daily dose became the thickness of a sewing needle, this did not cause a change of heart with regards to SISA.

Gentlemen were simply a different breed. They had servants like Robert who would put them back in line when they lost self-control. The common man did not. And if even a man of Hutherton's breeding could reach a nadir like the one he had reached several weeks ago, he shuddered to think of what would happen to a commoner addicted to this powerful substance.

His belief in SISA was reinvigorated, and he longed to escape his temporary cell so that he could introduce legislation pumping up the National Drug Police's ranks now while the political climate would be right, after which he would flood that godless city of Sivingdel with federal agents who would get to the bottom of the recent crimes.

He was not going to rest easy while a mere governor concluded the case closed re the deaths of his two NDP agents. Not by a long shot.

Today, he had gone a week without any green powder, and he said to Robert calmly but authoritatively, "Robert, as your lord and master, I command you to open this door. I am free of my temporary addiction and hereby resume plenary command of my household."

The door opened slowly, reflecting the apprehension of the man opening it.

Senator Hutherton looked at Robert soberly. "You have successfully discharged your duty," he said coldly.

Then, in an act Robert wouldn't have believed if he had heard it from a dozen witnesses, Hutherton hugged him tightly, and whispered, "Thank you, Robert."

He then resumed his icy demeanor and said, "You may now catch up on your other duties, which you have most likely been forced to neglect on my account."

He then headed towards his room, put on a fresh set of clothes, and headed to the senate.

In The Calm Room, a new bill had been drafted.

Chapter 47

When Governor Sehensberg picked up the day's copy of The Sivingdel Times, which had been delivered to his countryside mansion by courier, he knew that within one or two seconds of gazing at the front page, he would know whether he had committed a calamitous mistake by following the instructions of the anonymous correspondent who had somehow delivered a letter to his private study in spite of guards surrounding the house, or acted wisely by seizing a valuable opportunity.

If he had made a mistake, at a minimum his legacy would be tarnished. At the worst, he could be looking at being impeached, indicted, and convicted for carrying out executions far beyond the constitutional scope of his authority, even during an emergency.

His heart beating rapidly, he took a deep sigh, and looked down:

GOVERNOR TAKES BOLD STEPS,

CRUSHES CRIMINALS RESPONSIBLE

FOR RECENT CRIME SPREE!

"Like a sick man on the operating table, our republic needed bold actions to recover from its nearly mortal wounds. The governor proved himself to be like those rare historical figures who, when faced with crisis, took the steps necessary to stave off utter chaos and anarchy. By invoking his constitutional power to declare martial law, he used this valuable instrument to enable our brave police officers to catch and punish those guilty of some of the most heinous acts of criminal terrorism our city has ever seen.

"But the governor, showing a singular insight into the situation, realized that merely catching the ringleader of the terrorists and putting him and his accomplices on trial would not be enough to save our republic from the brink of disaster. Facing scoundrels so brazen as to burn a police station in broad daylight, murder the police chief in his own home, and attack a carriage full of statesmen on a public street, Governor Sehensberg wisely chose not to give the terrorists an opportunity to obtain liberty by means of some other dastardly criminal attack carried out by those fragments of their gang still at large.

"By public execution after obtaining a full confession from their ringleader, a vile rogue named Crabs, the governor brought a pulverizing hammer down onto their organization in front of the entire city, and sending a clear message: This is what will happen to those who threaten to plunge our city into fear and anarchy.

"But what will make Governor Sehensberg go down as perhaps one of the noblest statesman our city or state has ever seen was his bold act of ending martial law as soon as the guilty were justly punished, thus showing his confidence that order has been restored to our city and showing his respect for the rule of law.

"Other governors may have waited a month or two before terminating martial law, for fear of the criminals striking again. But that is what makes us cognizant we have no ordinary governor. Only those who truly revere the importance of executive restraint within a constitutional, republican government could so quickly relinquish the awesome power of martial law after having wielded it for so short a time.

"With the restoration of order, and with criminality battered into pieces, could it be that we find ourselves near the dawn of a golden age in Sivingdel?"

Governor Sehensberg cried tears of joy and relief as he finished the article and then looked at several other newspapers' front pages for that day. At worst, they spoke with mild approbations of the governor's actions, and most were near The Sivingdel Times in terms of their flattery.

So great was his relief that not even for a brief moment did he consider the ramifications of having made a bargain with the true mastermind of the recent attacks.

Chapter 48

When Zelven and his three comrades entered the outskirts of Sivingdel, they were met by fellow Varco agents, who warned them the city was under martial law and that the police were aggressively roaming the streets.

This was not exactly welcome news to Zelven. Things had been in a bit of a downward spiral as of late. Their wholesale distributor, Mr. Hoffmeyer, had been losing market share hand over fist, and Zelven dreaded to see how low it had plunged this time.

At one point, a convoy of twenty wagons laden with Smokeless Green had been necessary in each trip to supply the city's insatiable demand, but after Mr. Hoffmeyer had expressed doubt about distributing the load of the two wagons they brought last time, Zelven decided to bring just one on the next trip, and he was worried whether even that would be too much for their impotent distributor.

He had asked the higher-ups for permission a long time ago to go after this Mr. Brass character but had been inexplicably denied. He had renewed his request several times but without achieving a different result except being warned never to ask again. His superior had then told him in a hushed voice that it was a matter of if, rather than when, they went after him, but the timing would come from the top.

He hoped that meant he couldn't be held liable for the nearly complete loss of Metinvurian involvement in supplying Sivingdel's Smokeless Green—at least he had heard a consensus amongst his fellow Varco agents that Mr. Brass was not being supplied by any of the Varco. If today's delivery went as badly as he suspected it might, he was not going to look forward to going back to the outpost they had in Dachwald—which served as the midway warehouse between here and Metinvur—with the exact same cargo he had come with.

He was beginning to hate this entire operation with a passion, and he had never even been told what the point of it was, though he and his fellow agents had spent considerable time discussing it. It was clearly done with the intention of enriching the Metinvurs and possibly to wreak havoc in the affected areas, but whether it was being done as a precursor to invasion, as some personal act of vengeance against one or more rulers, simply as a long-term revenue booster, some combination, or something else entirely was unclear, since any one of these motives would have seemed logical to him.

As they entered the city, he saw what appeared to be checkpoints on some parallel streets, which was something entirely new to this city, though they were very common in his home country. Then, he realized he was heading straight towards a checkpoint, with no possibility of evading it without causing considerable hullabaloo. He gulped, not having the slightest idea what to expect in terms of the severity of the inspection.

"Hello, sir," said a cop whose friendly tone was belied by his tough-looking face.

"Good day to you as well," Zelven said with intentional coolness.

"What are we transporting today?"

"Lumber, nails, doors, carpets—sundry hardware and household items from Dachwald."

"Do you have a bill of lading showing the goods?"

Zelven handed it to him immediately.

The cop looked it over and then looked at Zelven, appearing to be more interested in what he could learn from Zelven's face than from the document. What he saw must have satisfied him because he said, with a softening of his stern expression, "Good day to you, sir."

Then, he put a police stamp on the document, and added, "Just show this right away if you get stopped again, and you'll breeze right through."

"Thank you, sir," Zelven said.

The officer nodded and then motioned for him to move along.

When Zelven arrived to Mr. Hoffmeyer's warehouse, he felt uninspired as he got out of the wagon and approached the main office. This mundane courier work wasn't exactly utilizing his training.

He walked in and calmly asked the secretary—who recognized him from his many deliveries—if he could go ahead and drop his goods off at the usual place.

"You can check and see if anyone is there, but people are beginning to simply stop showing up to work. Mr. Hoffmeyer hasn't been seen here for about a week, and he left no word with anybody as to where he went or when he'll be back or . . . if he'll be back."

Zelven heard the genuine concern in her voice and knew instinctively he was going to be hauling this load right back to Dachwald. And with the way things were going, he would probably meet up with the same cop, even if he was extra careful to take a different path out of the city, who would probably get one of those annoying hunches cops tend to get that it would be a good idea to check the back of Zelven's wagon and see if there was anything there suspicious.

And then . . . things could get ugly.

But if he left the load here without being paid, that wasn't exactly a pretty scenario either, as his bosses were not likely to be happy and might even suspect he made a side transaction as a passive-aggressive means of showing his discontent with the overall operation.

One thing at a time, Zelven.

"Yes, I'll check," he said calmly.

A frown in the direction of his colleagues was the only necessary communication as to the way in which things were heading, and he promptly slapped the reins against the horses and then directed them towards their usual warehouse delivery spot.

They went past several short, but large buildings, before arriving at the one on the end.

Zelven felt mild optimism as he saw several men in there busily unloading cargo from other wagons. He didn't recognize them, but the arrangement to date had been that every month Mr. Hoffmeyer provided them with a series of certified invoices on a per-wagon basis.

Mr. Hoffmeyer had always assured them that no worker in this building would be of the inquisitive type and would pay the amount on the invoice and unload the content without question or inspection of the cargo. So far, Mr. Hoffmeyer had always upheld his end of the bargain.

Zelven pulled the wagon in, but by the time he got out of the wagon he noticed several men coming towards him that did not look like workers in the slightest.

"Good afternoon," said the man in front, pulling out a badge.

His name was Detective Hoffstedt, and he was no stranger to Mr. Hoffmeyer's very profitable side business. Chief Benson had informed him he was to pay no heed to any reports of Mr. Hoffmeyer being involved in sales of contraband, which, given Hoffstedt's knowledge of Chief Benson's ways, was plain speak for, He's a major contraband supplier who pays his quota on time and is consequently untouchable.

But Chief Benson had lost his head recently, and the police headquarters had been burned to the ground, and that slightly changed matters. There was a major vacuum of leadership in the police department due to almost all the brass having been lost in the fire and subsequent explosion, and that meant cops who stood out had a golden opportunity to get noticed and get promoted.

He had personally led a crack group of tough patrolmen to Mr. Hoffmeyer's house to turn it inside out. He suspected he had been behind the attacks, though without getting his fingers dirty lighting the match. It all made sense to Hoffstedt. Mr. Hoffmeyer had been losing market share to the point of becoming irrelevant. What better way to get rid of his competition than by burning down the police station, getting a martial law response, and paying for the police to go after Mr. Brass and hunt him down?

After all, Mr. Hoffmeyer's name had been kept under tight wraps for the most part by Chief Benson, whereas every trooper in the city was well aware of Mr. Brass. He would have been the most likely suspect for the police headquarters attack. But Hoffstedt knew better. Mr. Brass had no reason to do that; he was winning the game, and he surely had enough money to pay whatever tribute that crooked old Chief Benson demanded.

No, Mr. Hoffmeyer was the guy. That was for sure. And as for the late chief's demise, that had Mr. Hoffmeyer's paw prints all over it. Who else besides the chief would have suspected an obscure has-been like Mr. Hoffmeyer as the mastermind behind the police station burning?

Well, maybe no one—except for old Detective Hoffstedt, he answered himself with a smile.

So, when his house turned out to be empty, Hoffstedt decided he would go for the next best thing—or perhaps the best thing: Mr. Hoffmeyer's source.

He had long ago done a little private staking out of the warehouse in plain clothes in spite of the late chief's instructions, and he knew which warehouse the action was taking place in because he had flashed his badge and greased a few palms late one evening.

He had been staking out this building now for about a week, warning all of the workers therein every day that if they failed to show up for work at any point before this investigation was completed they would be locked up under suspicion of involvement in the police station burning, and given the martial law situation, they would probably not be seeing daylight anytime soon thereafter.

It was the look those men gave to the wagon that had just entered that let Hoffstedt know his fish had finally arrived.

"Good afternoon," Zelven said.

"All right, we'll cut to the chase," Hoffstedt said. "All four of you punks—hands against the wagon and spread 'em!"

Zelven and his associates quickly complied.

"Would you give me a hand here?" Hoffstedt said irritatedly to his police subordinates, "Or am I gonna have to frisk these rascals all by myself?"

"Sorry, detective, sir," one of them said, and all three of them rushed forward to help.

Hoffstedt began to pat down Zelven's arms—that was where a lot of punks these days liked to hide their daggers.

The clothing was rough and unpleasant to the touch, almost like touching a rose bush with nascent thorns too tiny to see, but regrettably large enough to feel.

"Kasani! What's the matter? Can't a punk like you buy a decent shirt?! I've patted down bums with more comfortable clothes!"

As he turned, he noticed his underlings wincing as well, but not daring to voice their complaints, lest they look like softies.

"Okay, they're clean. All right, back it up, you porcupines—back it up!" he said angrily . . . and foolishly, since it was they who now had their backs to the wagon, while only he and his men had space to retrocede.

He and his men seemed to sense this, and they backed away from the men, establishing a safer distance between them.

"All right, what are you carrying in there? Or should I even waste my time seeing if you'll tell the truth?!" Hoffstedt exclaimed.

Zelven calmly handed him the bill of lading stamped by the police officer.

"Oh, so Fred's on the take too, huh? Well, that does beat all," Hoffstedt said.

"Watch these punks!" Hoffstedt barked while he headed to the back of the wagon.

He was beginning to feel just a little light-headed, but it didn't bother him too much. After all, he had one heck of a temper—or so his wife said—and maybe he was letting his emotions run a little too hot on this case.

He lifted up the back flap of the wagon angrily and looked around. Boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling so tight you couldn't fit a piece of paper in between, but in the front row, middle column, there was a glaring exception, with just a couple of boxes stacked there, leaving the top one at around the height of his chest.

"What am I gonna find in here? Nails and other hardware, or whatever the hell was written on that phony bill of lading?!" he said with a menacing cackle.

He pulled out a dagger, though he noticed his hands felt a little numb due to the excitement that comes when you're about to finally see the fruits of your hard labor, and inserted it into the top of the box and pushed down hard lifting it slightly.

He repeated this on either side. Eyes greedy, he stuck his fingers underneath both sides.

He gave one last glance to Zelven.

"Last chance to confess," he said.

Zelven shrugged his shoulders calmly as if confused.

Hoffstedt lifted up on the lid.

He saw a brief blur but wasn't sure what it was until the viper recoiled.

"Whiiiuuu," he whistled. "You're a pretty little thing, aren't you? And you almost bit me, you little son of a bitch!"

He was getting really mad now and was tempted to run his knife through one of these punks' stomachs and see if that could elicit a little respect and cooperation.

"You tryin' to get me killed?!" he shouted at Zelven.

"Sorry, sir. There is a connoisseur of rare snakes in Sivingdel, and we were told by our bosses that that particular package was not to be indicated on the bill of lading. Something about customs issues . . . ."

"Real funny, and it just happened to be placed in the one box an inspector could actually—"

He stopped himself.

You need to cool down a little there, Stedtie. That temper of yours is gonna be the death of you.

He felt downright rotten. He lifted his hand to his neck but felt no pain, which was a relief, but then he realized he really didn't feel much of anything.

His legs were beginning to complain that his body was a little too heavy, and as he turned to bark something at his colleagues, he saw one of them keel over and land right on his head without so much as sticking an arm out.

That seemed to be the cue for his fellow officers to do the same, and they probably couldn't have done a better job if they had rehearsed it five times.

He turned towards Zelven.

"Are you gonna get that snakebite looked at?" Zelven asked calmly, handing the detective a mirror.

When he saw the side of his neck had a bulge about the size of a large apple, he shrieked in terror.

"Velia rarely misses," Zelven said calmly.

Hoffstedt's fury had been replaced by fear of a far greater intensity.

He tried to say, Help me! but he had already lost control of his tongue and vocal chords. He toppled over face first onto the ground, splitting his head open. Foam flowed out of his mouth, and his heart ground to a halt.

"That was an unfortunate thing to see," Zelven said calmly to the workers, who stood gazing in frozen horror.

Zelven pulled a knife out of each sleeve, and his throws were immediately echoed by those of his companions. A mere three seconds later, each worker had a knife sticking out of his heart or throat.

Two minutes later they were all placed within a secret compartment underneath the wagon.

Twelve minutes later, mops and special cleaning fluid had washed away all the blood.

Before they exited the premises, Zelven went to go check on Velia. His mood was greatly improved by the fact something had broken the monotony of the last several months.

He gave a special knock to the box and then opened it carefully. Even he had to be a little careful with Velia.

She tried to strike at him, but he easily moved to the side and grabbed her neck.

"Easy there, girl," he said softly, pulling out a small vial of milk, which Velia began lapping up.

"Now that's more like it," he said.

They passed no checkpoints on the way out, and within an hour they were in the countryside.

Chapter 49

"And for these reasons, I hereby present to you The Two for Two Act," Senator Hutherton said boldly, standing before his fellow senators.

"The message must be unequivocal. You murder two of our agents, we don't just replace them. We send a flood of two hundred more into the ranks of these cowardly drug peddlers!"

That was the end of a ten-minute speech, before which the surviving widows of Benjamin and Willis had appeared before the senate, to plead, tears in their eyes, for Benjamin and Willis's sacrifice not to have been in vain.

After that, a moving speech by several NDP agents had been made, describing how understaffed they were for the challenge lying before them.

Once these emotional stimuli had exited the senate and the debating began, it was soon revealed that the only opposition was due to the unavoidable tax increase.

When it was Senator Hutherton's turn to speak, he boldly exclaimed, "This bill shall pass! Tonight at 7 p.m., the widows will be giving a speech on the steps of the senate before a large crowd of journalists and concerned citizens, and they shall publicly read the name of every senator who voted in favor of acquiescing to the drug peddlers! The tax increase will be minimal. The cost of voting against this bill will be your senate seat!"

Hutherton, though still technically a junior senator, had been enjoying a rise in his standing amongst his colleagues. Not many people his age could boast having successfully sponsored two major pieces of legislation, and nearly everyone in the room knew that this would be his third.

An hour of spiritless debate ensued, and then the vote was made. Only Senator Megders voted against the bill, saying, "To fund an agency whose sole mandate is the enforcement of a manifestly unconstitutional law is shameful. To increase its ranks nearly fourfold, due to the loss of two agents, is outrageous."

He was booed and hissed at so loudly, he wondered whether he would make it out of the senate in one piece.

The Two for Two Act was signed into law that evening in front of a crowd of around ten thousand, whose eyes had largely been peeled to the sensational stories about bloodshed and corruption in Sivingdel that cast a dark shadow over the national name.

A more muscular response was the answer.

The End of Birth of a Monster

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