

# Heroes

###

## THE COLLECTION

##

### First Episodes of all the Series

### Plus 15 Short Stories

###

Copyright 2017 Leigh Barker

Published by Leigh Barker at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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

ISBN: 9781521082690

# Heroes

##

Clan

Calum Maclean is a sword-for-hire and a thorn in the side of anyone who sets himself up as Authority.

He returns to the Highlands from the war in Flanders where he fought for the English, for a price, to find Bonnie Prince Charlie has arrived and war with the English is inevitable.

Everyone thinks Calum will obey the Pretender. Everyone is wrong. Calum Maclean tips his hat to no man.

(Episode 1 of Season 2 and Season 3 are also Free, but not included here as they continue from the climax of Season 1)

Soldiers

Regret is a soldier with fierce independence that gets him into trouble, and a sharp mind that gets him out of it.

His skill with the Lee-Enfield rifle comes from long nights poaching in Ashdown Forest with his brother. That skill will save his life and the lives of his squad many times during the coming days and weeks of gut-wrenching tension.

The Hellfire Legacy

Marine Sergeant Ethan Gill is a hero — the real thing. A battle-hardened veteran of wars across the globe, with a sense of humour that would cut glass.

He'd retired to the 'good life' but now he's working with the FBI – there will be trouble!

When terrorists start killing US generals, SecNav recalls him to duty.

To the toughest and most perilous mission of his life.

The Orpheus Directive

Marine Master Sergeant Ethan Gill is back.

He'd retired but SecNav has called his squad back to active duty, to go where Special Forces can't, or won't. To make the impossible look easy.

First Responder

New York Fire Marshal Elmore James is one of our heroes who run into a burning building when everyone else is running out.

A bomber has blown up a bank in Manhattan. Lots of people want to blow up banks, but few ever do....

Requiem for Eden

With Lucid's invasion driven back to the Dark Continent and his attempt to take over The Other Place thwarted, Eden should be the tranquil haven it was meant to be. If only...

### Anarchy:

Checking In

It's another mind-numbing day for the check-in staff at Global Airlines Lite, until the anarchist Rob discovers the suspect package...

Toeing the Line

Another day in the life of the maintenance crew at Bullers. Nick is the only maintenance fitter who knows how to keep the line running. A position that some people would exploit for a comfortable life... and Nick is no exception.

Hotel California

A normal day in the life of a 5-star hotel.

This is just one day in Rob's life, from wake up to the end of his shift as a concierge in a luxury Hotel – or at least one that would like to be luxurious.

You'll never see hotels in quite the same way again...

### Coffee Break Reads

A series of 15-minute reads for your break that will transport you to another life and another world.

A Whisper on the Wind

Lost Love, Adventure, True Stories, Just for fun - stories to set your heart racing... and aching.

When the Music Stops

Love, Adventure, Old memories, True Stories - stories to set you free.

 Highway Shoes

Romance, heroism, redemption, lost love - stories of roads less traveled.

About the Author

## 

#  Clan

####

# Season 1

##

### (Episode 1)

##

## Calum's Sword

General William Richmond rode with his six best royal dragoons assigned as his bodyguard and thought what a beautiful morning it was, riding among the trees and shrubs in late bloom. Which is a bit like saying there isn't an enemy within a hundred miles.

As they rode out into the small clearing in the woods as though they hadn't a care in the world, the dragoons were ripped from their horses by a volley of musket fire from the cover of the trees barely twenty feet away. The ambushers couldn't miss. And they didn't.

By the time General Richmond regained control of his horse rearing from the deafening musket fire and the screams of dying men, a dozen highlanders were already running across the clearing, dropping their used muskets and drawing their broadswords.

He patted his horse's neck gently and stepped down out of the saddle as the attackers formed a half-circle in front of him. For a moment he touched the hilt of his cavalry sabre, but let it be. Sir William's rank of general was no rich man's gift to some sycophant; he was a shrewd warrior, but he didn't need his military skill to know that if he was supposed to be dead, he'd be dead. There was more to this.

His ambushers were clearly agitated, as if their complete success had come as a surprise, and they edged closer but withdrew again while they waited for something to happen.

One of the dragoons began to sit, stared at the blood spreading across his buff-coloured waistcoat, and groaned as he fought for breath. The nearest highlander stepped closer and swung his claymore in a wide arc that dropped the dragoon's head in his lap. General Richmond took an involuntary step back.

James Campbell stepped forward out of the pack. A big, powerful man with masses of wild, orange hair hanging onto his shoulders and sticking out of the top of his tunic. He pointed his broadsword at the general and grinned, relishing the Englishman's first sign of fear. "Well, lads, which piece of him shall we hack off first?"

Sir William's assessment that if they'd wanted him dead, he'd be dead, took a dent. It was beginning to look as if his survival had been down to pure luck, and he thought about drawing his sabre and just wading into them, but hurrying things along did seem a little... impetuous. The devil with it. His hand closed on his sword hilt.

Two highlanders strolled out of the trees and into the clearing as if completely unaware of what was going on there. The two couldn't have been less alike. Calum Maclean was slightly built, in his mid-twenties, and some would say good looking—the 'some' being just about any woman who saw him. He had wild, blond hair, striking blue eyes and an easy smile, and a light and easy way of moving that would have warned anyone who knew anything about fighters to beware.

John Mackintosh was a blacksmith, and it showed. Everyone called him Big John, for all the right reasons. A big block of a man with arms as thick as the branches on the trees around the quiet clearing, and a belly that told of a love of food and ale. John had a quick wit and a left hook that could fell a bull at full charge.

"You should have just told your woman that you were going to the inn," Calum said, without seeming to notice the armed men staring at them in amazement. "You're the man of the house, right?"

John nodded, though not very convincingly.

"Then next time, tell her to mind her tongue and care for the bairns." Calum stopped and turned to face his friend. "You have to stand up to woman, or..." He raised his hands as if in surrender, then looked around as if seeing the dozen highlanders for the first time. His brow creased in a deep frown, and he turned back to John. "They're trying to look like Clan Chattan, are they not?"

"Aye," said John, "wearing boxwood in their bonnets, they are that."

"Aye, their bonnets are Mackintosh," said Calum, "but their kilt is Campbell." He pointed at the nearest man.

The man grunted and started to walk towards the newcomers, but the man-mountain James Campbell held out his broadsword and stopped him. "Leave them be," he said with a sneer. "Deal with the general here first; then we'll chop up these two. First the one with the big mouth and the wee sword."

He pointed at Calum, who glanced down at the hilt of the French small sword in his scabbard, which, unlike the double-handed claymore held by the ambushers, was barely three feet long, had a razor-sharp blade, and a beautifully engraved mahogany hilt with a silver guard. Any one of the broadswords would have snapped it like a twig. Given the chance.

Calum and John continued to stroll casually across the clearing, but John picked up his friend's tiny gesture, yawned, and wandered off to the right, as if to skirt the group and be on his way. Most of the ambushers ignored him and turned their attention to James Campbell, waiting for his order to hack the Englishman to pieces.

"The way I see it, John," said Calum casually, "there are only a few of them, and they're Campbells, so it hardly seems fair and sporting." He drew his sword slowly. "I was hoping for a little exercise this morning to warm the ol' bones."

"There'll be no workout today, Calum," said John, also drawing his sword, a beautiful claymore crafted by his own hand and balanced perfectly for his height and strength. "Not with just yon bunch of Campbells."

Calum yawned loudly and waved the Campbells on. "You boys carry on with what you're doing." He pointed at the general. "But be careful. That's an English officer and more than a match for cowardly ambushing crotch lice like you."

Three of them seemed to take offence at the remark, turned, and charged straight at him, their swords raised in both hands above their heads. It wasn't going to take long to silence this loud-mouth Maclean.

Calum watched them coming almost indifferently, his sword drawn but its tip resting on his boot. One of them was a little quicker than the others and arrived first. His sword was already arcing around to the right and down as Calum stepped to the side and put the tip of his fine sword into the attacker's heart with barely a flick of his wrist. The weight of the man's broadsword turned him and dropped him on his back with his eyes open and staring sightlessly at the pale sky.

The other two were too committed or too stupid to read what had just happened and charged in. Calum let the nearest attacker's sword almost touch him as it flashed down to cleave him to his chin, before twisting just a little to the side. The broad blade flashed past his face with barely an inch to spare, the momentum carrying the blade into the soft ground. He was too close for Calum to use the sword effectively, but the nine-inch dirk that seemed to have appeared in his left hand did the trick just fine as it sank hilt-deep under his ribcage.

The last attacker stopped in his tracks and stared at the still-twitching body of his friend. It had happened so fast it didn't seem possible. For him, a sword fight involved the clanging impact of heavy broadswords, grunting and sweating until one man weakened or made a mistake that ended the encounter with a massive wound or loss of a limb. But this little man had killed them both with barely any effort. He stepped back. Then took two more.

"Now you see what you've done, laddie," said John with a slow shake of his head. "You've frightened the wee man."

Calum gave an exaggerated shrug. "Aye, but that's an easy thing to do to a Campbell."

The rest of the ambushers rushed them, screaming and raising their broadswords. Clearly upset about something.

James Campbell grabbed two of them and pulled them back. "Watch the English... gentleman. Until we dispose of these two." He pointed at Calum. "Then we can do what we are paid for and get home to our women."

He strode over two where John was facing down three Campbells. "He's mine," he grunted and pointed at Calum. "Go and help them with the little one." He turned back to John. "Well, Mackintosh," he said and sheathed his broadsword, "you look like a man who thinks he can use his fists." He smiled. "I have never met a Mackintosh I could no' break in two without breathing heavily."

John sheathed his sword. "You have now, Campbell."

One of the problems with men who ambush people is their quality. One problem among many. The two men left to guard the general heard a noise and turned from watching the action to find him holding his sabre with the painful end pointing their way. A half step forward and a thrust and there was now only one left, and he died as he raised his sword above his head in a suicidal stroke against a man with the single-handed sabre designed to use either the razor edge or the point. And it was the point that Sir William chose, just because it was... well, pointing in the man's stomach. But just for good measure, he pulled it out with a sideways cut, opening up the man like a side of beef.

The Campbell looked down, but died before his mind registered the horror of his intestines spilling out over his kilt.

Sir William stepped over the dead man and strode to where Calum was facing seven Campbells, but still smiling. To hell with chivalry. He rammed his sabre into the kidney of the nearest man, raised his foot, and pushed his body off the blade.

For a whole second, the rest of them were stunned by the sudden appearance of the Englishman. In that second, Calum put his sword through one man's sternum, flicked it out, and opened the throat of the man next to him, while the general brought his sabre up and over in a lightning-fast short arc that took off a man's arm below the elbow and had him screaming and spraying blood.

One of the last three remaining attackers fancied himself as a swordsman, and had proved it several times against drunks and farmers. He held his broadsword out in front of his waist, the tip moving in small circles to distract Calum.

The general took a step towards the other attackers, but they suddenly turned and fled. Proving them to be the brightest of the bunch.

"I'm going to stick you like a pig, Maclean," the swordsman said, still waving his blade around. "Then I'm going to cook your heart and—"

Calum's wrist snapped out, and the tip of his sword flickered in the morning sunlight. Without a backward glance, he turned and strolled over to where John and James Campbell were facing off.

Sir William frowned and almost called out a warning, but then saw the blood flowing from beneath the swordsman's kilt like a spilled jug of red wine. If that was not enough, the look of absolute horror on the man's face did the trick. The general chuckled.

"I've never seen that move before," he said as he watched the man's broadsword sink to the ground. "Takes balls, though." He laughed loudly.

He left the man to bleed out and walked over to where Calum was waiting for James Campbell to break John in half. "The Campbell's a big man," he said quietly.

"Aye, he is that," said Calum, crouching and wiping his sword on a dead man's kilt.

"Are you going to help him?"

Calum stood up and sheathed his sword. "Who?"

Sir William pointed at John.

"Oh," said Calum, "I thought you meant Campbell." He saw the general frown. "He's the one who needs help."

Sir William looked at the two men standing three feet apart and glanced quickly at Calum. James Campbell was at least three inches taller than John and had a longer reach by at least that much. He decided to stay out of it until John was down, then kill the ambusher.

James Campbell threw a looping right hand that had felled many a good man in the past, and there was no reason to expect anything different now. Except his fist crashed into John's open hand and stopped.

John smiled at him. And crushed the fist as if it was a dried twig. The man screamed like a girl and fell to his knees. John grinned at his friend and then raised his boot and pushed the fallen man away.

"Always the same with the big uns," he said, turning and still smiling. "They think strength is all—"

Calum casually pointed, and John turned in time to catch a left to the cheek. It staggered him, but he stayed on his feet. Just.

"You talk too much, John. You know that?" Calum said.

James lowered his head and charged forward, intending to—to do something stupid. It didn't happen. John simply stepped out of the way and let him charge right on by. He raised his hands questioningly, but Calum just shrugged.

James Campbell circled slowly, starting to learn that this Mackintosh wasn't going to break in half as easily as he'd expected. His right hand was recovering a little from the crushing, and he threw it as a feint so that he could deliver monster left hook to the jaw.

John should have blocked the feint, leaned back, ducked, or at least done something defensive. Instead, he kicked the man in the kneecap. Not sporting, but massively effective. Campbell staggered forward as his leg gave up trying to support him, and fell onto his hands and knees, then rolled onto his back and hugged his leg.

Sir Williams sighed heavily and shook his head, then turned to Calum and put out his white-gloved hand. "I owe you my life, sir." He nodded once. "I am in your debt."

Calum looked at the glove, glanced at John and winked, then shook the general's hand. "I'll not stand by and watch a man murdered in cold blood."

"Even an Englishman?"

Calum shrugged. "I have no argument with the English."

Sir William nodded. "Will you tell me the name of the man who saved my life?"

"Aye," said Calum, throwing another look at John, who was shaking his head urgently. "I am Calum Maclean of the Clan Chattan." He paused for a moment. "And I tell you who I am because these men—" He pointed at the bodies littering the clearing "—pretend to be Chattan but are Campbells."

The general's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I believe the Clan Chattan fights for the Pretender."

Calum watched him for a long moment. "Aye, the clan fights for the... Pretender." He met the general's steady look. "I fight for no man."

"Unless he has gold coin," said John with a grin.

"Aye, that's true enough," said Calum. "And we call Charles Stuart the Bonnie Prince."

Sir Williams smiled. "Yes, I'm sure you do."

James Campbell groaned, and John remembered he was there and bent and lifted him to his feet with one hand. "What do you want to do with this one?" he asked Calum. "Shall I stick him?"

Calum stepped up close and looked the man in the eyes. "Maybe." He let him think about it for a moment. "Unless he tells us who sent him to take this Englishman."

Campbell glared at him, but it wasn't convincing. "I am nay afraid of a Maclean." He shifted his glare to John, but couldn't hold it. "Nor a Mackintosh."

And that was a lie.

"Do you want this man, General?" Calum asked.

Sir William shook his head and strode away.

"Then kill him, John." Calum walked away with the general.

Campbell struggled, but he was caught like a rabbit in John's powerful grip. John drew his dirk and examined the point to ensure it was good and sharp.

"Wait! Wait!" Campbell shouted.

Calum and Sir William exchanged a look, smiled and turned, and waited.

"If I tell you, will you let me go?"

As if Calum would say no, even if it was so. Not much of a bargaining opener. He thought about it for a moment. "You're nothing to me. You can go."

He nodded at John, who released his grip and let the man stagger and catch his balance. Fear and a boot to the knee can severely interfere with a man's equilibrium.

"Do you know who this man is?" Campbell said, pointing at the general. "This is Sir William Richmond."

Which meant pretty much nothing to Calum, and it showed.

"He is one of the richest men in England," Campbell continued. "And we—"

A musket fired from the cover of the trees, the lead ball narrowly missing the general, who brushed his arm and tutted. "They do seem determined to ruin my best tunic."

"I think that this Campbell would be sorry for that, General," said Calum. "If he wasn't dead."

The general looked back from scouring the shadows to the body crumpled on the ground. "Someone will be sorry for being such a poor shot."

"I think you will find the shooter hit what he was aiming at," said Calum.

Sir William looked at the trees and nodded slowly. "I believe you are correct. He would have told us why someone is keen to see me dead."

"If they'd wanted you dead, General," said Calum, "you'd be dead." He pointed at the bodies of the guards. "It's not likely they missed you by accident."

Sir William nodded. "Yes, I thought that too. Then it was for a ransom."

Calum shrugged. "Perhaps." He doubted that. There was more to this than greed. "We'll never know now."

Sir William started to turn, then stopped. "I am free to go, am I not?"

Calum pointed his sword at the bodies. "I think the Campbells will be back and with more of their clan, don't you?"

Sir William walked quickly to his horse and swung up into the saddle.

"Just one small point, General," said Calum.

Sir William stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

"The Campbells are on your side, are they not?" He followed John out of the clearing, chuckling.

It was late afternoon and August, but the candles were lit, and there was a roaring fire in the hearth at the end of the long hall. Colonel York was heartily sick of this damp, cold country and spent many miserable hours thinking of home in London.

Dragoon Colonel Richard York was barely in his twenties, had smooth-faced schoolboy features, hard hazel eyes, and the permanent sneering look of superiority bred into him at the finest schools money could buy. He could trace his family right to the throne of King George, not that it did him any good. A mere colonel is all that he'd been given by his grandfather. A colonel. His cousin was already a major-general. And he was at court, or in France, or anywhere other than this god-forsaken place. But that would change. That would surely change. And soon.

He put down the glass of poor wine and waved his orderly to answer the knock on the door. Good news. Just what he needed to raise his spirits. He waited for the orderly to pull open one of the big, rough, wooden doors and knew at once that good news was not coming.

Two bedraggled Campbells slunk into the dark room and walked slowly to the table where Colonel York sat, now reading a document in which he had no interest whatsoever.

The two Campbells waited in front of the table, their heads down and their eyes darting left and right, as if they expected someone to suddenly jump out of the shadows.

York put down the document and smiled. "Ah, gentlemen." The smile switched off. "It's Duncan and..."

"Donald, my lord," said one of the men.

"Ah, yes. Duncan and Donald."

"No, my lord," said the man. "I am Donald. This is Robert."

"Right," said York, looking them over slowly. "I take it from your demeanour that our little... venture was less than wholly successful?"

A bead of sweat ran down Donald's forehead and into the corner of his eye. He let it be. "No, my lord," he said quietly. "We were ambushed." He licked his lips nervously. "By a giant, my lord."

York nodded slowly, picked up the glass of wine, and looked into it. "That is very unfortunate." He put the wine down untouched. "I paid you a great deal of money for this rather simple task, did I not?"

The two men nodded but continued to look at the floor.

"But you were..." York frowned as he recalled the term Donald had used. "What was it? Ah, yes. Ambushed." He nodded. "By a giant, I believe."

"Aye, my lord," said Donald very quietly. "And there was another big man."

Colonel York watched the man through slit eyes and nodded slowly, clearly understanding and sympathising with the poor unfortunates. He stood up, walked round the table, and stood in front of the dejected men. He put his hand on Robert's shoulder and squeezed gently.

All was well.

"And these... giants defeated you and the other... nine, no, ten men? That is correct?"

"Yes, my lord," said Robert without looking up. "With the help of the duke."

"Ah," said York, releasing his grip. "Then that I can understand."

The two men looked up and almost began to relax.

Colonel York slid the dirk from Robert's belt and pushed it into his ribs without taking his eyes off his face. It was effortless. And meant as much as swatting a fly.

Robert sank to his knees without a sound and stared up at the man who had killed him.

"So, Duncan," said York without even a glance at the dying man at his feet, "the duke remains at large?"

"I am Donald, my lord." Which was stupid, and he quickly realized it. "Yes, yes, my lord, the duke rode away."

York put the bloody dirk on the table and stepped over Robert's body, now sprawled in front of his table. He sat and picked up his wine. "This giant..."

Donald looked up sharply. "Yes, my lord?"

"Did you know him?"

Now right there was a problem. Was the Englishman asking this because he suspected they were somehow in league with the Jacobite scum. Or was it a genuine enquiry. The question bounced around in his mind, along with the image of Robert's dying look. "No, my lord," he said before he could think it through. "But he had a sword!"

There was a glimmer of hope. A tiny way out.

The colonel put down his glass. "I see. The giant had a sword."

"No, my lord." Donald's mind was still tumbling in desperate search for something to say that would save his life. It didn't look promising.

Colonel York raised his eyebrows and waited.

"Well, yes, my lord." He was going to die. "The giant did have a sword. A very big sword!" That was worth a try. "But the little... giant had a sword like..." He pointed at Colonel York's sabre lying on a smaller table. "Like that one, my lord, but not curved."

York looked at the sabre and frowned. "You mean it was not a broadsword?"

"Yes, my lord. Not a claymore or like a sabre." Hope was blooming slowly. "It had a fine blade. It had a silver crossguard. It had—"

York raised his hand to silence the man. "It had a silver crossguard. And a silver pommel?"

"Yes, my lord. It did. Silver. And dark wood. And perhaps no taller than a man's waist." His brain clicked into focus. "A finer one of those we saw when we fought with you in Flanders."

York nodded. "Will you do something for me, Duncan?"

"Anything, my lord," said Donald enthusiastically.

"I want you to find the man who owns this sword. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, my lord, I can do that."

"Thank you, Donald," said York, finally using the man's name. "And when you find him—"

"I'll kill him!" Donald was going to live, and his head buzzed with relief.

York flicked the bloody dirk and spun it absently. "No, Duncan, I do not want you to kill him. I want you to find out all there is to know about him."

Donald was clearly confused.

"I want you to find out where he lives. Who are his friends. Where his family lives. What is his favourite flower. And if he bathes." He smiled a smile that would curdle milk. "Then I want you to report this to me. And only me. Do you understand?"

Donald nodded and started to back away, ready for his exit.

"And Duncan," said York, tossing the dirk onto Robert's body. "Bring me more men. And better than this gutter-trash you used last time."

"Aye, my lord, I'll do that."

"Thank you, Duncan."

"Donald," said Donald under his breath. But at least he had breath under which to say it.

Calum and Big John stopped at the end of the long drive leading to Moy Hall, the country house that was the home of Angus Mackintosh, the head of Clan Mackintosh, to whom Clan Maclean had sworn allegiance.

"D'ya think she'll remember you?" John asked with a grin. "It's been three years since you've been off gallivanting around Europe, selling your sword."

Calum stopped and looked from his friend to the imposing stone building on the shores of Loch Moy. There was no doubt Lady Anne would remember him; the real question was, would she still care. It had, as John so helpfully pointed out, been three years.

What the hell, she was just a woman. He strode on. A little slower.

They crossed the wide gravel path and headed for the steps leading up to the imposing double doors. At the last moment, John stopped.

"What?" said Calum, stopping.

"Should we perhaps go around back, just... well... just."

Calum started up the steps. "We are not servants nor hawkers. We go in through the front."

"That's just what I was thinking," said John, following.

As they reached the top of the steps, the wide wooden doors swung open, and an old man, who should have been dead years before, blocked their entrance.

"Who shall I say is calling," he said slowly.

Calum smiled and stepped forward. "'Tis me, Frasier, Calum Mclean."

The old man looked him up and down slowly, with an expression that said he didn't care much for what he saw. "I'll see if Lady Anne will see you." He closed the door.

John chuckled and took a moment to study the fine workmanship on the edge of the door.

Calum looked at the closed door, turned on his heel, and walked back down the steps, but stopped at the bottom when the doors creaked open again and Lady Anne stepped out.

"Going somewhere, are you, Calum?" she asked with a suppressed smile.

"Aye," said Calum, half-turning. "I'm away to somewhere I'm welcome."

"That'll be a long walk, then."

John laughed loudly and put his hands on his hips, while Calum trudged slowly back up the steps and stood before the stunning tomboy with wild blonde hair.

Lady Anne took his hand in both of hers and squeezed. "Calum, it's wonderful to see you again."

"And it's good to see you, my lady."

Anne released his hands and stepped back. "My lady?"

"Aye," said Calum without taking his eyes off hers. "Isn't that what you're called these days? Now that you're married to the clan chief."

Anne turned on her heel and strode into the house.

John stepped down two steps. "I think she's gone for a musket."

Calum shrugged and followed her into the house, ignoring the steely look from the ancient butler.

Lady Anne was in the wood-panelled living room, warming herself by a roaring fire. Just the thing for a September evening in Inverness. She crossed to the sideboard and picked up an elegant glass decanter without looking at Calum. "Would your friend care for a dram?"

Calum was about to speak, but John got in first. "Aye, m'lady, I would that." He strode quickly across the room and took the glass of whisky before anything endangered the offer. Which was highly likely.

Anne put down the decanter and glared at Calum. "You can get your own."

Calum smiled, crossed the room, and poured himself a large drink. He took a swallow and topped it up, nodded and lifted the glass, then put it down. "Is that any way to speak to your humble servant, come straight here at your bidding."

John almost choked on his drink but managed to keep it in his mouth, or he would never be able to return to his village.

Anne watched Calum through narrowed eyes. "You are neither humble, nor my servant." She continued to watch him. "Unfortunately, or you would be seeking other employment."

Calum chuckled, picked up his whisky, and relaxed. "I hear you raised the clan for the Bonnie Prince."

She nodded, and her eyes betrayed a smile.

"I wish I'd been there," said Calum, leaning back against the sideboard. "A wee lass riding the glens, bullying, bribing and sweet-talking the men to take up arms."

"Aye," said Anne, and the smile revealed itself fully. "But it was mostly bullying, I have to say."

He thought about it for a moment, smiling too. "But you won't lead the clan into battle against the English."

"No," she said and sighed. "But don't you think I don't want to!"

He nodded once. "I have no doubt about that. So why not?"

Her blue eyes flashed remembered anger. "Women don't lead the clan on the field of battle. You know that." She took a long breath. "And for good measure, my family, friends, and even the servants said it was not the thing to do."

Calum nodded. "Aye, they would, or I think you would have ridden into battle anyway." He shook his head at the thought. "They were right, of course."

"You too!" The remembered anger returned for real.

"Battle is no place for a woman." He raised his hands to ward off the tirade that was surely coming his way. "You are just a wee lass—" He looked away quickly before he turned to stone. "And you're married to the Mackintosh, who, I might remind you, stands with the English."

"No, you don't need to remind me!"

Calum stood up and gave her a moment. "And what would you have done if you'd led the clan and there was Angus standing on the line?"

She squinted and set her jaw. "My duty."

He continued to watch her for several seconds. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. "Aye, Anne, I believe you would." He stepped closer. "But you did the right thing. It is better that you stay and look after your people."

She returned his long look. "Perhaps, but it would have been a glorious thing to do."

He laughed gently at the thought. "It would that." He turned to John, who was lost in his own world and staring into an empty glass. "John, go see to the horses."

John looked up, completely confused. "But we don't have horses—"

Calum glared at him, and he turned, stepped up to the sideboard, and filled his glass before going out to check on the horses they didn't have.

Calum waited for the door to close, put his hands gently around her waist, and a moment later kissed her. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, hard. Then pulled away.

"Calum, we can't. We mustn't."

He stepped back and nodded. "Aye, you're right. Angus." He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. "And he's a fine man."

"Yes," she said, a little breathlessly. Anger and passion rose in her until it threatened to send her swooning like a little girl. She pulled herself together quickly before she made a fool of herself. She looked into his pale blue eyes, then looked away. "And you made it clear that settling down was not in your future." She took a long slow breath and relaxed a little. "So what did you want me to do? Wait around for you until I was an old maid?"

Calum looked up from her tartan breeches to her wild hair. An old maid she would never be. He changed the subject quickly. "And what of Angus?"

She looked at him, her face a mix of suspicion and question.

"He's with the English against the prince," he continued, with a shrug to underscore the statement.

She stepped forward and raised her hand to slap his face. He made no move to stop her, but she lowered it slowly. "It is not how it appears to be."

He raised his eyebrows. "I believe you, but how it appears is very bad."

She glared at him, then softened and nodded. "Aye, but Angus accepted Lord Loudoun's commission into the Black Watch long before the prince returned." She looked up at the portrait of her husband over the fireplace. A strong young man with a firm chin and soft eyes. "He's no royalist." She turned back at Calum. "And he's no Jacobite either."

"M'be not. But he is the Mackintosh clan chief. And his place his here." He pointed at her. "With you. And with his clan."

"True," said Anne, her face reddening, "he is the clan chief. And what he does now, he does for the clan."

Calum sniffed pointedly. "And how does fighting with the English against the rightful king of Scotland help the clan?"

A voice in his head told him to back off. He didn't listen. But he never did.

"He is not with the English!" She stepped forward, and Calum stepped back, coming to rest against the sideboard. "Yes, he is with the Black Watch, but he was with them before this all started." She leaned towards him until their faces were almost close enough for their lips to touch. "What would you have him do? Desert?" She leaned back, the moment passed. "Where is the honour in that?"

She stepped to his side and poured herself a whisky. A large one. "Angus believes that the rebellion is a hopeless cause and one for which we will all pay a terrible price." She took a long drink of the amber spirit she held in trembling fingers. "He stays with his regiment because he believes that the Mackintosh clan will suffer cruelly when the rebellion is crushed, and he will be in a position to prevent it."

"And he is so sure the rebellion will fail?" Calum was thinking about the kiss and three years come and gone.

Anne poured another whisky and handed it to him, then crossed to the fire and sat down in one of the stuffed chairs. Calum sipped his drink and followed her, leaning his hand on the shelf below the dark portrait of Angus Mackintosh. He glanced up at the picture, smiled a quick smile, and looked back at Lady Anne. He was pleased for her. Angus was a good man.

"But now the prince has an army that will reclaim Scotland for its king and its people." He tilted his head in a gesture that could have been admiration or question.

"Aye, Calum," she said, looking up at him, the firelight flickering in her blue eyes. "He has an army, but the English King George has a nation of soldiers long used to war." She watched him for a moment. "But what about you, Calum? Do you believe Charles Stuart will be king of Scotland?"

He didn't answer.

"I see," she said, closing her eyes for a moment. "But you do see Angus is in an impossible position."

He nodded.

She stood up and took his hand. "If he deserts his regiment, Clan Mackintosh will suffer. If he does not, then he may face his own clan on the field of battle."

"There is no doubt that he will face his clan if he stays," said Calum softly. He smiled a knowing smile that she remembered so well. "So this is why you sent for me?"

"Yes, Calum. I want you to bring Angus back home." Her lips were dry from excitement and apprehension. So much rested on this man's next words.

He nodded once. "We will need horses." He glanced at the door. "Real ones."

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, switching from his lips to his cheek at the last moment.

He waited for her to step back and walked slowly to the door and stopped. "You love him dearly, don't you?"

"More than he knows."

He was pleased that she had found such love. But the ache in his chest reminded him of what might have been.

Calum and John sat on a fallen log at the side of the road and watched the redcoats struggling with the horses trying to pull the cannon through the churned-up mud. It looked like more rain was due, which was going to make the roads all but impassable. Calum smiled.

Colonel Richard York rode ahead of his dragoons as they tried to push through the confusion on the roads. His mood had not improved since his briefing from the Campbells on their failed mission, but he knew it wouldn't improve until he got out of this damp wasteland with its skirt-wearing barbarians. Please God that the campaign would not see winter. He looked around at the damp hillside. And saw Calum. He swung his horse and rode through the artillerymen wresting with the wagons and the cannon, his powerful horse shouldering them aside.

"You there."

Calum looked up slowly.

"What is the meaning of this? What are you doing there?"

Calum watched another rider weaving his way carefully through the men and horses clogging the road. Angus Mackintosh came alongside Colonel York and looked down at the men on the log. He closed his eyes in dismay.

"You!" shouted York. "I asked what you are doing here!"

It was true, he had asked.

Calum looked back at him slowly. "Scouting."

York began to splutter and turned to Angus. "Captain, I want this man flogged!" He glared at Calum. "And then I want him hanged. Do you hear me?"

Angus looked down at Calum, who grinned back up at him. "Aye, sir. Flogged and hanged."

York pulled at his horse's reins angrily and pointed at John. "And hang his surly friend too!"

Calum stood up quickly, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

York was about to demand that he be killed immediately, when he saw Calum's French sword partly drawn from its slim scabbard. He stopped and looked the man over slowly. It was possible. York was a bully and a schemer, but he knew a fighting man when he saw one, and he was looking at one right there. A very good one, or he missed his guess.

"It's my birthday," he said, his eyes squinting slyly. "So I will let you live."

Calum shrugged but relaxed a fraction. He would have drawn his sword had they come for John. And he would have taken them on, the whole English army, right there. His clansmen would have stood over his grave and said how brave he was. And how dead.

"They are scouts." It wasn't a question. "Then get them to their scouting duties at once, Captain."

Angus nodded without taking his eyes off Calum. "Yes, sir. At once."

York wrenched his horse's head around again and stopped. "And Captain..."

"Sir?"

"Have them flogged first." He rode away through the men on the road.

Angus squinted at Calum. "With pleasure, sir." He dismounted.

Calum smiled at him and put out his hand.

"What the devil are you doing here, Calum?"

"You look pretty in your nice new kilt," said Calum, pointing at the Black Watch tartan.

Angus sighed heavily. "You forget, I am to have you flogged."

"Aye, pity about the hanging, though." Calum looked up at the sky. "Nice day for a hanging. Not too much wind."

Angus closed his eyes for a moment, then put his foot on the log and leaned forward as Calum sat back down. "Why are you here?"

Calum shrugged. "Anne asked me to come and bring you home."

"What!" said Angus, his foot slipping off the log. "Have you lost your mind? You canna just ride up to the English army and say, can we have our chief back?"

Calum smiled again. "Lady Anne sent us, Angus."

Angus started to protest, but then just nodded. He looked back at the road teaming with redcoats. "Well, you canna stay here. There's a battle coming."

"Aye," said Calum, standing up. "And there'll be a good number of Mackintosh on the wrong end of yon cannon."

Angus glanced back over his shoulder. "Aye," he said quietly, "which is why I have to make sure they take a short cut across that field." He pointed to a waterlogged field a little way along the road, turned, and swung up onto his black horse. "We'll talk more on this later. Now get yourselves out of the way. Can you do that?"

Calum pointed at the two horses hitched to the end of the fallen tree. "We have horses."

Angus sighed. "Where the devil did you steal those?"

John stood up stiffly and brushed off his kilt. "Dinnae steal them." He stepped up to one of the mounts and patted its rump. "They're yours." He led his horse away.

Angus looked quickly back at Calum. "Not the thoroughbreds?"

Calum gave him a big smile, unhitched the chestnut thoroughbred, and followed his friend up the long hill and away from all that noise.

Calum and John were once again sitting, but this time on boulders at the top of the long hill overlooking the battlefield where the highlander army stretched across the moor in two long columns about two hundred yards apart. In front of the highlanders, a little over half a mile ahead, the royalists were also in two columns, but these were straight and a colourful mix of bright red from the redcoated English and a clash of different tartans worn by the clans who had chosen to stand with the English against their countrymen, for money and land, or for some misplaced sense of loyalty to a king who despised them.

John nudged Calum's arm and pointed down the hill to where the English cannon were complexly bogged down in the muddy field.

Calum sniffed. "Angus never was much of a guide."

John laughed. "I'd say he guided them pretty much where he wanted them to be."

"Aye, they do seem a wee bit muddy."

Both men laughed and turned back to watch the moor and the prelude to the battle that was building like a violent storm.

The royal dragoons suddenly charged forward, galloping their big cavalry horses across the moor, the mud and water spraying up around them, until the commander wheeled left and they swung back towards their army, this time riding a little more slowly. It was an unsubtle manoeuvre, but it had worked before. The lines of highlanders rippled a little in expectation and excitement, but their officers, running along in front of them, stopped any hot-headed pursuit of the retreating English.

John walked to the hilltop overlooking the highlanders and watched them advance slowly, while Calum strolled over and watched the royalists waiting patiently to slaughter their countrymen.

As the highlanders started to advance slowly, their lines seemed to waver as the slower men walked faster to catch up, then slowed down again. After a hundred yards, the lines were as straight as they were going to get, and the royalists braced for the charge, but without any apparent command, the leading highland divisions suddenly broke right and ran straight towards the hill from which Calum and John were watching the fun.

A shout went up from the royalists, and a troop of dragoons broke out at full gallop, determined to deny the highlanders the advantage of the high ground.

Calum took one look at the dragoons galloping for the hill and turned quickly to get John. They almost collided as John ran up behind him.

"We need to get out of here," said Calum. "The cavalry is coming up this way."

John pointed back over his shoulder. "And the clans are coming up that way."

They ran back across the top of the hill, away from the race, because whoever won would assume the two men were enemy lookouts and hack them down. They reached the cover of a broken dry stone wall as the two armies cheered their runners with a roar like a distant sea.

The dragoons thundered up the side of the hill, their horses at a dead run with the riders leaning forward over their mounts' necks. While on the other side of the hill the Macdonalds outpaced the other clans, pounding up the steep hill with barely a change of speed, their kilts flying and their hands full of broadsword and musket.

The dragoons should have won; a horse will outpace a man every time, except somebody should have told the Macdonalds, because they crested the hill at the same moment as the mounted cavalry.

Both armies let out a cheer as they saw their men get to the high ground first.

The Macdonalds dived, jumped, or just flopped behind a scrub-grass ridge and fired a withering volley at the dragoons as they fought to control their horses. Gasping for breath they might have been, but the Macdonalds were still in better shape than the cavalry, who were out in the open on winded horses that were screaming and shying away from the musket fire and billowing black-powder smoke.

Men and horses fell together under the uneven volley of lead balls, adding to the confusion and shock. One by one at first, then in a jostling mass, the dragoons broke and raced back down the hill just as the rest of the clans reached the top and opened fire and without a pause pursued them back down the hill.

It was the signal for the highland army to charge.

The royalists responded and advanced steadily, led by two regiments of dragoons advancing at full gallop towards the clans, who they fully expected to break and run, but the clans continued to sweep forward. The cavalry thundered on, the water and mud spraying out once again. Fifty yards. Twenty.

The highlanders kept coming, calm and steady, until their commanders raised their swords to signal them to stop, raise their muskets, and fire a massive volley. The effect was devastating. The men and horses leading the charge stumbled and crashed to the muddy ground under the withering fire.

General Cobham had trained his dragoons well, and they rode over the dead and wounded, regained the charge, and slammed into the first ranks of highlanders at full gallop, sending bodies flying and pounding bloody flesh under metal-shod hooves.

Once again, the highlanders stood when they were expected to run. The men, scattered and bloodied by the charge, stabbed at the horses' bellies with their dirks, slashed the riders' legs, and dragged them from their mounts to hack them to death in the mud.

The cavalry was going to die, or it was going to run. They ran, galloping back towards their lines as fast as they had come, with the highlanders in screaming pursuit right on their heels.

The highland officers tried to stop the mad charge but were knocked down by the mass of men whose blood was well and truly up. They instinctively formed up on the run, with the biggest men first, shoulder to shoulder in a wedge of screaming men and flying tartan.

The redcoats tried to brace themselves, but the wedge hit them at full run, throwing them aside and streaming into the ranks. The clansmen were among them, broadswords swinging and hacking flesh, dirks ripping left and right, and muskets spewing death all around.

Nobody would stay and face such a charge if they had a choice. The redcoats broke and ran, followed a moment later by the whole royalist army, as the rest of the highlanders arrived in a whirl of slashing swords.

Calum jumped down from the stone wall and dusted off his kilt. "That was a bonnie wee fight."

"Aye," said John, jumping down, "it's enough to give a man a thirst."

"Aye," echoed Calum, "it's all that running and screaming."

"It is that."

"Let's go get Angus, and we'll be away from all this fuss and bother," said Calum, setting off for the stand of trees where they'd secured their borrowed horses.

"And how do you intend to find him in all this?" asked John, pointing out at the battlefield with its dead men and mutilated horses and the wounded trying to drag themselves away, while the jubilant highlanders streamed back off the moor.

Calum nodded towards the retreating redcoats. "They're away to Tranent." He smiled back at his friend. "And there's bound to be an inn there."

"Aye," said John grinning, "there is that. A bonny inn, if I recall." He slapped Calum on the shoulder and reached for his horse's reins to set off after the retreating army.

Calum caught his arm and pulled him up. "Maybe we should rest a while. Just until all those men who'd kill us have gone off for a dram and a bite of supper."

John looked back and pulled a face. Disappointed at the delay in the visit to the inn, but not stupid. He nodded. "A rest would be a welcome thing after all that excitement."

They sat back against the thick tree, pulled their plaids around them, and closed their eyes. It had been a big day.

Colonel York elbowed his way through the mass of redcoats and highlanders as they grabbed whatever they could before heading off for Edinburgh as fast as they could. A soldier in a dirty and bloody redcoat slammed into him, growled, and looked up. York hit him in the teeth with the hilt of the dagger he'd been carrying unsheathed. It was just luck that it hadn't been the blade. The soldier grunted and fell into the gutter, where he would wake later, robbed and naked. But alive, though very ungrateful.

York continued up the narrow street, pushing aside smaller men who wouldn't walk around him, and stepping into doorways to let bigger ones pass. He looked up at the buildings every few yards until he was sure he was where he wanted to be, and then stepped into an alley and the darker shadows against the wall, from where he could see the first-floor windows of the building across the street and the shadowy figures silhouetted against the dirty glass by a flickering candle.

It wasn't a candle that lit the dirty room but an oil lamp with glass now almost completely blackened by smoke. Donald Campbell, the last survivor of the foiled attempt to grab Sir William Richmond, paced nervously back and forth in front of the dirty window and listened to the English captain sitting on the edge of a rough wooden table.

"If you have no proof of this," said the captain, "then we have only your word. And that against an English earl and a colonel in His Majesty's dragoons does not carry much weight."

"I have a paper, sir," said Campbell.

"A paper?" Captain Lamb stood up and put out his hand. "What kind of paper? Let me see." He took the crumpled piece of paper from Campbell, leaned over the lamp, and read it. "A pass?"

"Yes, sir. A pass for me and others to be out of camp on the day of the ambush."

Captain Lamb shook his head. "It is not enough." He handed back the note. "You will have to find something better than this."

"Sir?" said Campbell. "Do you want me to tell the colonel we will try for the duke again, so you can wait to catch him red-handed?"

Captain Lamb shook his head. "No, he will not believe that. One incident with marauding robbers is thin... another will reek like a week-old fish." He paced slowly for a while as he thought it through. "But he is not done yet, not by a long march. Watch him, and when he makes his next move, come to me."

"Aye, sir," said Campbell, looking worried. "But if he suspects anything, it will be very bad for me."

"Then," said Lamb with a hard look, "make sure he does not suspect anything."

Campbell strode to the door, muttering. "M'be so, but I'll not be the only one to fall."

Lamb turned his back and looked out of the window at the mob streaming past, sighed heavily, and returned to the table to extinguish the light.

As Campbell stepped out onto the teeming narrow street, Colonel York emerged from the alley, strode after him, and put his hand on the startled man's shoulder.

"Sir! What? How?" Campbell wasn't handling the surprise too well.

York smiled reassuringly. "Ah, Donald. What the blazes are you doing here?"

Donald tried to step away, but York's grip tightened on his shoulder.

"Here, sir?" said Donald and licked his dry lips.

"Yes, Donald," said York with a smile. "Here."

"You... err..." Donald looked around quickly in case help was at hand. "You asked me to... err... report to you when the err... job was... err... done."

"Ah!" said York, also looking around and seeing Lamb exit the building and head up the street. He recognised him immediately for what he was, an agent for the crown. He smiled. "You did very well to find me here, amid all this..." He waved a hand to illustrate 'this'.

"Aye, my lord," Campbell said, trying to smile and failing. "It's skill, my lord. What you pay me for."

"Well, it's very impressive. This skill." York was still smiling, but it wasn't pleasant. "And is it?"

Campbell blinked slowly and tried to clear his head. "Is it what, my lord?"

York released the man's shoulder. "The job, Donald. Is the job done?"

"Aye, sir. Done, and more."

"More, Donald?" York raised his hand. "Never mind. We shall speak of this later. There may well be a bonus for you." The smile again. "A surprise, as it were."

Unconsciously, Donald stared directly up at the now-darkened window. "Thank you, my lord."

York followed his look and nodded. "So away with you. We will complete our business in Edinburgh." He waved his hands to move him on when he showed no sign of leaving. "Away now, before we're seen."

Donald stared at him for several moments, confusion on his face as he tried to see through the impassive smile. When a redcoat patrol approached, he turned and walked quickly up the street.

York's smile vanished as he turned to the patrol. "That man!" he called, pointing at Donald. "He has robbed and killed an officer!"

The soldiers unslung their muskets and spread out across the street, now suddenly emptying of soldiers and women helpers.

Donald looked back, cried out and started to run. He got three paces before the musket balls shattered his back.

York walked away in the direction Lamb had taken, drew his dagger, and held it close to his leg, for quick and unseen use.

Calum and John were probably close enough to hear the volley that filled the next street with black smoke, but the noise from the mob grabbing everything that wasn't nailed down drowned it out.

John grabbed a passing redcoat and hung on to him when he squirmed.

"What?" said the redcoat, still pulling but getting nowhere.

"We're separated from our mates," said Calum, leaning closer to the captured man and shouting into his ear.

"So what do you want me to do about it?"

"It's the Black Watch," Calum continued. "Have you seen them?"

The man glared at him, then realised he wasn't going anywhere until he answered, as escape from the iron grip wasn't going to happen any time soon. "I saw some bog-dwellers... highlanders down that way." He pointed over his shoulder. "Drinking themselves stupid at the inn."

John released the man, and he lurched away, shouting something unheard but easily guessed.

"Did the wee man say there was an inn?" said John.

"He did that." Calum set off.

John watched him go for three paces, gave a start as he realised he was standing when there was an inn nearby, and half-ran after him. The inn wouldn't close this night, but a battle, especially a losing one, gives men a powerful thirst, and there was only so much ale.

Ten minutes later they reached the inn, with John now leading, as the drunk and angry soldiers seemed somehow less inclined to shoulder a blacksmith built like a brick outhouse. He pushed open the dirty wooden door and smiled back at Calum, who ducked under his friend's arm and went in first, followed instantly by the thirsty smith.

The street had been noisy and full of battered and bloody troops, but this inn was even worse. The walls were practically groaning under the crush of bodies.

Calum stopped and waved his friend past to make a path to the bar. Something John didn't need to be told twice. A minute later, the harassed innkeeper was leaning over the bar awash with ale and waiting to fill the needs of the good man, who had him in a grip of death by the scruff of his neck.

Another minute and they had mugs of ale in their hands. John downed his in one long swallow and butted the innkeeper on the shoulder with the empty mug. The subtle technique worked, and he had another mug to savour more slowly. This time taking two whole swallows.

Calum looked around the crowded barroom slowly, saw what he needed, and weaved his way through the drunken men and whores to a table with five highlanders and a growing pile of beer mugs. He put his fists on the table and leaned forward to shout above the din.

"Where is your regiment?"

The highlanders looked him up and down slowly. John Mackenzie, a surly and scruffy sergeant of the Black Watch scowled at him and put down his beer. "Who wants to know?" He leaned forward against the table and looked Calum over again. "A MacLean?" He squinted his bleary eyes. "Your clan sides with the Pretender."

"Aye," said Calum, "some of my clan stand with him." He took his fists off the table and stood upright. "But this MacLean is a scout for the Royal Highland Regiment."

The men at the table visibly relaxed, settled back, and picked up their mugs. Mackenzie didn't.

"I've no heard of a MacLean scouting for the Black Watch." He squinted again, for effect. It failed, just making him look stupid.

Calum shrugged. "It's a big army." He met the man's watery stare. "And do they tell a lowly sergeant everything that goes on?"

Mackenzie sat up a little straighter, with anger flashing in his eyes, which after a moment's effort was replaced by a caricature of cunning, his head tilted and finger pointing unsteadily. "And who is the commanding officer of this... scouting?"

Ah!

Calum smiled a nice, friendly smile. "I scout for Angus Mackintosh."

Mackenzie snorted a laugh. "Then you are a scout without a commander."

He started to pick up his beer, but Calum put his hand on it and stopped him. "What do you mean by that?"

Mackenzie pushed Calum's hand away and stood up drunkenly, knocking over his chair with a crash that instantly brought the barroom to silence. His men started to get up, reaching for their dirks, but sat back down quickly when the tip of John's broadsword tapped gently on the table.

"Now, boys," John said, sliding the tip of his sword across the cluttered tabletop, "don't you think your man can handle this wee laddie?" He lifted his sword, but nobody moved. "Or m'be I should fetch one of the serving wenches for him to fight."

Mackenzie growled and stepped away from the table, shaking his arms to loosen them up for the pounding he was going to give this loudmouth little man.

John looked at his friend's scowl and raised his eyebrows at the silent rebuke.

Calum turned back to Mackenzie and looked him up from his toes to his face, then smiled. As expected, the move incensed Mackenzie, and he put his head down and charged, and Calum sidestepped it like a matador and shook his head. "You tell me where Captain Mackintosh is and you can get back to your drinking... without bleeding all over the floor."

Mackenzie charged again. Clearly not too bright.

Calum sidestepped again, put his hand on the back of Mackenzie's head, and swung it down and under, flipping him through a complete somersault to land sprawling across a table full of drinks, sending the table and the men around it into a beer-soaked heap.

The other drinkers moved back, clutching their beer, and Mackenzie extricated himself and stood up growling. He came forward again, this time much more slowly, his big fists balled and ready.

Calum smiled at him and waited for the one-two he could see the man setting up for. When it came, he ignored the left feint and leaned back out of the arc of the right cross, waited for the punch to turn Mackenzie, then snapped a chopping left hook to his exposed jaw. The cracking blow shook him, but he stayed on his feet, and he backed off.

"Like I said," said Calum, his hands loose at his sides and showing no signs of getting ready to fight, "you can tell me where Angus is, or..." He shrugged.

Mackenzie went for 'or', jumped forward, and threw a huge looping right up and over in a move that had been devastating many times. Calum stepped forward and let the hook pass over his left shoulder, while he slammed a left to the man's ribs and a vicious uppercut to his solar plexus with the full strength of his legs pushing up behind it. It lifted Mackenzie off his feet and draped him over Calum's shoulder for a moment, before he dumped him bodily onto the floor to mop up the spilled beer with his hair.

This was not how it was supposed to work. Mackenzie climbed up onto his hands and knees and shook his head. He would tear the arms and legs off the little man who'd tripped him up, and he climbed slowly to his feet, blood running from the cut on his face where Calum's hook had done its work. Then he would rip off his head and feed it to the big man with the sword.

Calum watched him stand and steady himself. The man was going to grab him like a bear and crush him. He stood up straight to give him something to grab, waited, and when Mackenzie lumbered up to him, ready for the crush, he ducked under his outstretched left arm and snapped a straight right to his exposed ribs.

Mackenzie coughed and staggered forward, caught his balance and turned, ready for another go.

"Calum," said John, his voice loud in the silence of the barroom.

Calum glanced at him.

"I'm thirsty. Will ya stop playing around, and let's get down to some serious drinking."

Mackenzie looked from John to Calum, growled like an injured bear, and came forward, throwing lefts and rights like a whirlwind. Any one of them would have dropped Calum. Had it landed.

He timed them, first the right, two feet short, then the left, closer. And here it came, the right that was expected to take his head off. Wait. Wait. Now. Calum raised his left heel to tilt him to the right by no more than a few inches, but it was enough. The massive straight right roared past his left ear, as he took a half-step out, turned a little and ripped a right corkscrew hook out and round. It made a cracking sound as it broke Mackenzie's jaw and dropped him like he'd been boned, the speed and momentum spinning Calum and setting him up for the follow-up backfist that would have splattered Mackenzie's nose. Had it been needed.

"Can we go now?" John asked with a smile. He moved the tip of his sword across the table again without looking, just to remind everyone that it was there.

Calum waved him silent, crossed to the table, and lifted one of the men by the front of his shirt. "Now," he said, without even breathing heavily, "I'm going to ask you once." He smiled as if he'd made a new friend of the man squirming in his grasp. "You tell me where Angus is, and I won't rip your head off and pour this beer down your throat."

The man followed his pointing finger to the mug of beer and back to Calum's calm face. He was going to tell him, but who wouldn't?

The man nodded. Swallowed. Nodded.

"Well?" said Calum, tightening his grip.

"The rebels took him prisoner," the man said with a strangled voice.

Calum dropped him back into his chair, and the shaken man straightened his shirt and tried to look tough, while easing the chair away from the table and the little man who would surely have ripped his head off. He glanced at the others, but no help was coming from them. His mouth was sawdust dry, and he glanced at the beer, but the thought of having it poured down his headless throat put him off.

"They'll have hung him by now," he said in the best tough voice he could manage, and backed the chair away a little more.

"Who took him?"

The man frowned. "I told you. The rebels."

"Yes," said Calum, "but which ones?" He saw the frown again. "Which clan?"

"The Camerons," said one of the other highlanders. "Camerons have the Mackintosh?" There was a sneer in his voice. "Not promising for the man." He raised his beer. "Here's to a dead—"

John knocked him out with an effortless left to the side of his head, and looked at the others one by one, but they were done. He sheathed his broadsword and stepped up to Calum. "How are we going to leave?" he said quietly.

Calum glanced at him, then at the crowd of royalists watching him with murder in their eyes. Good question. He took a casual step back in the direction of the door that suddenly seemed a long way off. The royalists began to murmur like a pack of animals suddenly awoken from their winter sleep. John rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and looked around slowly with hard eyes that promised death to anyone who moved.

Calum also looked around. There were too many of them, that was obvious. If one of them started to move, they all would. They would kill some of them, perhaps a lot of them, but the end would be the same.

"What is going on here?" said a voice that was clearly used to being obeyed.

Everyone looked towards the door and Colonel York standing with his hands on his hips. Calum had never been pleased to see an Englishman. Until now.

"You," said York, pointing at Calum. "You're the scout, are you not?"

Calum nodded and took the opportunity to cross to the door. "I am."

York glanced at Calum's sword and looked up quickly. "What are you doing here? I told you to get about your scouting."

The question threw Calum for a moment for its stupidity. "There's nothing to scout... sir. You... we lost."

York fixed him with hard eyes for a moment, then looked at Mackenzie being helped to his feet by his men. "It seems you found a way to console yourself at... our loss."

Calum looked back. "I asked a question. He didn't answer."

"And the question?"

Calum was silent for a moment, then decided it couldn't hurt. "I am looking for Captain Angus Mackintosh. One of your officers."

York watched him steadily for several seconds. "The rebels have him," he said at last. "He was careless."

As if that made it acceptable.

Calum stepped past the man, tired of his arrogance, and John followed, but being twice Calum's size, his exit needed a bit more room.

York looked back sharply as they started to leave. "Where do you think you are going?"

"To get Angus," said Calum without turning.

"He is hanged by now," York said with his customary sneer.

"Then," said Calum, closing the door, "we will fetch his body."

The cold rain slanted out of the night and hit Calum in the face as they trudged over yet another muddy hill. They were on foot now, Angus' thoroughbreds lost to the mob. He stopped and squinted into the downpour, then pointed down the hill at the ruined farmhouse in the misty glen. John nodded gratefully as he saw the campfires burning all around the broken buildings. Fires meant shelter and maybe food. Food would be good.

Calum went a little ahead and approached the biggest fire in the shelter of the ruined house. He was not in the least surprised when three men jumped up out of the shadows and pointed muskets at him. He raised his hand and waved cheerily. Good friend here. "I am Calum McLean of the Clan Chattan," he called and stepped closer to the fire so that the guards could see him and his tartan.

Two of them lowered their muskets, but the last man kept his pointing at the newcomer. "How do we know you're not a royalist deserter?" he growled.

Calum shrugged. "Well," he said, taking another step closer to the fire, "first, I would have come in silently from that direction..." He pointed at the shadows around the house. "Then I would have slit your throats while you sheltered from the rain." He smiled.

The guard looked back at the house where Calum had pointed, and when he looked back, Calum's sword was an inch from his throat.

"And," said Calum, still smiling, "if I was an enemy, I would open up your throat now. Would I not?"

The guard swallowed and moved his eyes down, keeping his head very still.

"But we're allies," said Calum, sheathing his sword in a single move that would have told anybody who knew such things that this was a man who could use the blade.

The man licked his lips and nodded slowly. He wanted to say something, but his mouth was too dry, and he was just glad he was alive.

"Can I share your fire and get out of the rain?" Calum asked.

The man grunted something he took to be permission.

"I was separated from the regiment when we chased the English." He hunkered down next to the fire and warmed his hands. "When they ran away faster than they'd arrived."

The men chuckled and joined him next to the fire. A moment later, John strolled out of the shadows, sheathed his broadsword, and crouched down by the fire without a word.

"And this is John Mackintosh," Calum said, smiling.

The men looked at each other quickly, knowing they would have been dead twice if they'd made the slightest mistake.

Ian Cameron, a weather-beaten man in his mid-thirties, smiled broadly and nodded his appreciation. "Aye, they did run. And they kindly left us this meal." He pointed at the meat roasting over the roaring fire. "You can eat, but the Mackintosh can find his own."

Calum put his hand on John's shoulder to stop him responding. "He's with me," he said simply.

Ian watched him for several seconds, thinking it through, then looked at John and nodded. "A hungry man, especially a Mackintosh, will just be a burden. He can eat too."

They sat on one of the scattered blocks from the fallen hut and took the hunks of meat from Ian, who saw John looking at the fresh sword cut across his cheek and shrugged.

"It's nothing," he said, touching the three-inch cut with his fingertips. "And the English gentleman who gave it to me will nae bother any more Scots."

John nodded and bit into the leg of mutton, then waved it to emphasize his words. "It was a bonnie fight!"

Ian chuckled and bit into a hunk of meat. "And where were you?"

John pointed with the mutton leg. "On top of the hill."

The rest of the guards sat down on the blocks and tore off some mutton.

"It was a grand race," said one of the guards as he juggled the hot meat.

"Those dragoons got the shock of their lives, thinking we would run when they charged," said Ian.

Calum joined in the laughter, but his eyes scanned the camp carefully. "Aye, it was a sight," he said and yawned and stretched. "It's been a long day. Can we share your camp?"

Ian waved a hand. "Help yourself to this fine accommodation."

Calum tossed the remains of his meal onto the fire, got up stiffly, and stretched his back. John followed him to the shelter of a fallen stone wall, but kept his hunk of mutton.

They sat down and watched the camp and the dozens of men sleeping in whatever shelter they could find from the driving rain. Across the churned and muddy farmyard, a door opened and a man stepped out into the night, turned and wedged a bar against the door to lock it shut, then sat back against it.

Calum and John exchanged a look, pulled their plaids around them, and went to sleep.

They slept for two hours despite the cold and rain, then Calum opened his eyes without moving and looked around slowly. The rebels were all asleep after the tension and fear of the battle. He stood up slowly, still watching for any movement, and tapped John with his foot. John's eyes snapped open, and he stood up without a hint of stiffness.

Calum signalled him to circle to the right while he walked softly across the yard towards the barred hut. As he approached, the guard stirred from his sleep.

"It's just me," Calum whispered. "Go back to sleep."

The guard sighed and settled back against the door, but jumped to his feet as Calum took another step. John stepped out of the darkness and rapped him on the head with the hilt of his broadsword. The guard went back to sleep.

John rolled the unconscious guard out of the way, and Calum moved the bar quietly, pulled open the door, and stepped inside.

Angus was sitting, hugging a wooden beam with his hands and feet tied on the other side. Rain was dribbling in through the roof and onto his head.

"That looks uncomfortable," said Calum quietly.

"Well, at least I'm out of the rain," said Angus, moving his head from under the worst of the dribbling water.

John stepped inside, closed the door to a crack, glanced at his chief, and turned to watch the camp through the slit.

Calum crouched and drew his dirk to slice the ropes. Angus stood stiffly, rubbing his numb hands.

"It will be dawn soon," said Angus in a whisper. "Do you have a plan?"

Calum smiled. "Had one." He shrugged.

"This is it?" said Angus, shaking his head. "This is your whole plan?"

"Worked, didn't it?" said Calum with a smile.

Angus closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "I suggest we extend your plan to cover our escape."

John crouched, opened the door, took the sword from the unconscious guard, and handed it to Angus with a nodded greeting. That was as much as the man would get. John was not pleased that his chief had chosen to stand with the enemy, even if the rebel cause was misguided and stupid. He pointed east and raised one finger.

"Aye," said Angus. "I agree. One hour at most and these hills will be alive with angry rebels looking for us." He crossed to the door and looked outside. "And where are my thoroughbreds?"

Calum pretended not to hear and stepped out into the darkness. "Are you coming?"

"Where?" said Angus, following.

"Part two of the plan," said Calum.

"Oh, and what might that be?"

"Run," said Calum and John together.

### _______________

#  SOLDIERS

### EPISODE 1

##

## Regret's Mission

### War Graves

Of course it was a fluke that I saw the headstones, but I believe it was also destiny, for seeing those markers in that rainswept cemetery changed my life forever. On any other day, I would have been complaining that the rain blowing in waves across the St. Symphorien cemetery was typical weather for my holiday, but standing before the rows of headstones that stretched away into the trees shrouded in mist, the rain seemed somehow appropriate.

Like so many had done before me, I walked slowly down the tree-lined path and past the obelisk, to stop at the top of a small bank overlooking the white headstones standing in lines across the neat lawn, and thought of all those young men sacrificed for politics and ego. I felt an overwhelming sadness wash over me, so left the small tour group and walked slowly down the slope and across the wet grass between the headstones to read the names of the young men who laid down their lives to save the world for us.

Men from the Royal Fusiliers, the Middlesex, Royal Irish and from regiments all across Britain lay in the quiet cemetery. Men from regiments fiercely proud of their tradition and history, but the ages on these stones told the true price of that tradition.

I tried to imagine what it must have been like, but how can anyone imagine anything like the so-called Great War, where death was dealt on an industrial scale? This soldier was twenty, another eighteen and these others, the saddest of all, were now just numbers, unknown boys whose families were left never knowing what had become of them. Had they died in pain, crying out for their loved ones? Or were they blown to oblivion before they realized they were dead? The torment must have stolen the lives of those who had been left behind.

A single shaft of sunlight broke through the leaden skies and illuminated two headstones standing a little apart between the grass and the leaves blown down from the hill. My imagination may since have painted the heavenly rays, but something drew me to that deserted corner on that cold day, and a sunray is one explanation that will keep me out of the long-armed canvas jacket.

As I looked down at the inscriptions above the simple crosses etched into the white stone, I couldn't have foreseen the journey of pride and pain on which I was about to embark.

I share a surname with those on the headstones, but Brown is a common enough name that I also share with murderers, musicians and milkmen. It was perfectly normal to wonder who my namesakes were and how they'd come to this place, but the simple inscription touched me much deeper than mere curiosity. From the first moment I laid eyes on them, I was caught and needed to know their story, and that need was to become more demanding than any drug. I had to know them, to find out about their lives and perhaps to understand why they had thrown them away on something so futile.

I put a hand on each headstone and knelt down on the wet grass between the stones and felt the tears flow in warm drops on my cold face. It was foolish and perhaps even a little self-indulgent, but no amount of tea or teasing could have dried them.

I touched the engraved names and looked around to see if anyone was watching, but the cemetery was silent. Their names were given in military precision and simplicity: "Sergeant J. Brown, Royal Fusiliers, 26 August 1914, Age 24" and "Sergeant A. Brown, Royal Field Artillery, 26 August 1914, Age 21".

I stood up slowly and looked back along the row of stones. Why were these two set apart from the others? Perhaps as a mark of respect, or was it something more sinister? I had to know.

I walked slowly back up to the obelisk, looked back across the lawn, and made a silent promise. I wonder if I would have begun this search had I known I wouldn't rest again for five long years.

Now, once again I stand before the headstones, but this time with understanding and humility, and a hope that these boys may at last rest a little easier.

I have walked in the shoes of these ordinary men who stood alongside other ordinary men in that little Flanders village of Mons. Men who would not grow old as we who are left grow old.

## Mons

Everywhere he looked, John Brown could see smiling faces and cheering crowds. Everyone called him Regret, ever since he was a boy. Since his father got drunk celebrating the birth of his first son and told everyone he was his biggest regret, because now he was tied to the farm until the boy was old enough to fend for himself.

Lots of fathers think that, but few say it out loud. So John became Regret.

Regret looked around and smiled. If this was France, well, you could just give him a whole lot more of it. He waved at a rosy-faced young woman, who returned the greeting by running out into the street and kissing him on the cheek. His comrades cheered enthusiastically, and she smiled at them, then gave him a kiss full on the lips. Bright red cheeks are never very flattering, and he strode on to catch up with his mates.

People had lined the streets of every town and village they had marched through since leaving the crowded ship at Le Havre two days before, and Regret had been having a great time, gratefully receiving the wine, fresh-baked bread and butter, and cheeses—though some of the latter were a bit ripe for his taste.

It was a pity this would soon be over. Looking around at the troops stretching back as far as he could see down the long, straight roads, it was clear that the Germans were about to get a very short, sharp lesson in manners from the finest army in the world. He caught yet another loaf tossed to him by an elderly woman in a doorway, and waved his thanks, then pushed it into his pack just in case rations got a little thin later, though with every country town full of generous French women, that wasn't likely.

It was 22 August 1914, and the whole British Expeditionary Force was on the road to a little town called Mons, where they were going to begin the attack that would push the invading German Army right back out of France. The country roads and the small villages and towns of this grimy mining country rang with the sound of marching feet as eighty thousand men hurried to get to the battle before it was over, and every one of them was as sure as Regret that the Germans were in for a sound thrashing.

By the time the Fusiliers reached the outskirts of Mons, Regret felt a little sick from the runny cheese and illicit wine he'd been given at every turn, and hoped the good people of this town might be a little less generous. His hopes were dashed as the townsfolk thrust more food at him and cheered and waved French flags at the marching Tommies.

It was almost a relief to reach the small hamlet of Nimy and to be ordered to dig in along the canal. The trenches were hardly worthy of the name, being no more than a couple of feet deep, but that was all right, since they were just temporary, because tomorrow they would be abandoned as soon as the order to attack was given.

It was a sweltering day and hot work, but it took only a couple of hours; then it was time to clean their rifles, check their ammunition, and then sit and wait, but hours of boredom punctuated by moments of intense action was a soldier's lot, and Regret loved it.

Encouraged by his father, he'd joined the army as a boy soldier at sixteen and trained for this day for the past eight years. Starting as a bugler and runner, he'd received his rifle on his eighteenth birthday and was surprised and thrilled to discover how easily the expertise he'd gained with a poacher's shotgun transferred to the Lee-Enfield SMLE that was to be his constant companion. He hit everything he aimed at, and Sergeant Major Needle called him a wonder—or at least that's a loose translation.

He sat in the shallow trench and looked out across the wide canal at the fields and woods beyond. Out there were the Germans, he couldn't see them or hear them, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Colonel McMahon said they were there, so that put it beyond argument.

The rain began just as the sun went down and rolling thunder announced the start of a storm that would last all night. Regret pulled his greatcoat around him, rested against the shallow trench, and thought back to the many such nights he and his brother had spent in Ashdown Forest, saving game from being eaten by lions and giving it a more meaningful end. Compared with those bitterly cold nights, this was comfortable. It was raining, there was no disputing that, but it was warm, or at least there was no icy winter wind to chill the bones.

He closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep, comforted by the familiar groans and complaints from the soldiers around him.

Field Marshall Sir John French wished he hadn't eaten lunch so fast because now he was paying the price of indigestion brought on by anger and frustration. His first meeting with the French commander had been a disaster, and now he was being told the French would not hold the line.

"I sincerely believe, sir, that General Lanrezac will not stand," said Captain Spears, hoping his shaking hands weren't obvious. A few months ago, he wouldn't have considered giving his commander-in-chief strategic advice, but in those few months the rules and the world had changed forever. "The French will withdraw, sir, and expose our flank to the whole German Army."

Sir John fixed him with steely eyes while he thought through what the junior officer was saying, then waved him towards the large table where the other staff officers were enjoying an evening meal and talking excitedly about the coming battle.

Spears pushed the food around his plate, but his appetite was beyond saving. He was nervous, and not just because of what Sir John might do about his impertinence, but because he was afraid of the consequences of his information being dismissed.

The British Expeditionary Force was swarming up the lanes and roads of Belgium in a desperate race to plug the eighteen-mile gap in the French line before the Germans could pour through it and roll up the whole French Fifth Army, but if the French withdrew, the BEF would be left to face the German force alone. That would put eighty thousand British troops in the path of half a million Germans. In a profession where there are few certainties, he knew that if the French ran, the BEF would be slaughtered. And that was a military certainty.

He listened intently as the army commanders discussed their plans to attack the Germans on the following day, and the gnawing in his stomach gradually got worse. It was a mistake; every fibre of his being was screaming at him that to attack tomorrow was a monumental mistake. He opened his mouth to ask the question that burned in his mind, but good sense and better training shut him up before he took a step too far.

General Allenby saw the young man's discomfort, got up from the table, and nodded towards the door. Spears stood and followed quickly, very relieved to be getting out of there.

The door closed, and he stared at it and wondered if he should have said more, but thought enough was enough and turned and strode out along the pillared corridor, making a conscious effort to keep his exit as quiet as possible.

Allenby closed the door and smiled to himself before returning to the leather armchair and the other staff officers. It was clear to him that Sir John was convinced by the young captain's conviction, and that left him with a problem. The army was moving up as fast as it could, and a sudden change of direction was not going to be easy.

They were still planning how to reverse the thousands of men and equipment crowding the roads when a courier arrived from General Lanrezac. Sir John read it, shook his head, and read it again. "Lanrezac wants me to keep the enemy off his back for twenty-four hours."

"And how does he expect us to do that?" Major General Haig was struggling to hold his notorious temper in check, and failing. "Perhaps he would have us surround them."

Despite the desperate situation, Sir John smiled. "I think we will refrain from surrounding them until they have surrendered."

General Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien's II Corps was already at Mons and digging in along the Condé-Mons canal so was going to take the brunt of the German attack. He knew as well as any of them that if the Germans overran the French Fifth, its loss would mean the end of the war, almost before it had begun, but the enemy outnumbered them by more than five to one, so standing in their way would be utter madness, so the French would retreat. And he could understand why, but it did nothing for his fury at the idea. "I hope, sir, that you do not intend to acquiesce to this suicidal request?"

Sir John got up from the table, crossed the room, and looked out through the long windows at the immaculate lawns and gardens while his officers waited anything but patiently. At last he turned from the view, and they knew he was going to order them to dig in. "I intend to give the French time to withdraw."

No one spoke, there was no need; they had all thought it through and had come to the same conclusion. If the BEF did not stand in the way, the French Army would be surrounded and annihilated, but knowing the consequences did not make the decision sit any easier.

After a few moments Smith-Dorrien got to his feet. "If you will excuse me, sir, I will issue the order to my officers in person."

Sir John nodded, and the other staff officers took the cue that the dinner was over.

Smith-Dorrien made no attempt to quieten his steps as he walked briskly down the marble corridor and out into the sweltering day. His driver had opened the car doors in an attempt to get a little breeze inside, and he closed them quickly as the general approached and climbed in without a word. He knew from the urgency that there was only one place he would be going.

Smith-Dorrien leaned back against the hot leather and tried to think, but the enormity of what he was about to ask of his men got in the way of coherent thought. But he knew that even thinking it was hopeless would show in his manner, and that was not acceptable. Slowly he pulled himself together.

Chalky White woke Regret by kicking him in the leg, and he opened his eyes to see that it was barely light. "What did you do that for? I was having this lovely dream about—"

"Don't start that again," Chalky said. "You're always dreaming about girls."

"No, well, not this time, I was dreaming about fresh-caught rabbit cooking over a pinecone fire."

Chalky licked his lips, then shrugged it off. "Come on. Needle says we're to stand to."

"Do you mean Sergeant Major Needle, our protector and father to us all?" Regret shook his head and struggled stiffly to his feet.

"That'll be the same sergeant I was referring to." Chalky looked around quickly in case Needle was standing behind him, as he had a habit of doing when somebody said something that he shouldn't hear. "God bless his soul," he said, looking up to heaven. "And may he take it really soon."

"Amen to that," said Regret with real conviction. "Stand to?"

Chalky nodded. "Stand to." He pointed out across the canal at the rolling mist beyond. "Germans are coming, that nice Sergeant Major Needle says so."

"Oh, then hang on while I polish me bayonet."

Chalky straightened his flat khaki cap and tried to see beyond the mist. "You could walk by a whole regiment of Germans in this," he said with a grin.

Regret stamped the chill out of his feet, leaned his rifle on the lip of the shallow trench and... stood to.

Chalky might have been joking, but the truth was much worse than anyone could have suspected. The mist wasn't hiding a regiment; it was hiding the whole German First Army. While Regret and Chalky joked and squinted out into the morning mist, they had no way of knowing that their enemy outnumbered Smith-Dorrien's thin line by almost six to one. Not that knowing it would have made any difference, they would stand, just as men like them had stood at the battle of Waterloo in these fields a hundred years before almost to the day.

The canal was as still as glass, and they could clearly hear the clink and clatter of breakfast being prepared in the cottages scattered along the far bank, but breakfast would come and go for the men in the trench, as would food of any kind for the next three days.

Regret saw his first Germans, but only for a moment before they vanished in the mist. Slowly the mist melted in the new breeze and revealed a cavalry patrol riding slowly down the main Nimy road right in front of them. Off to his right he heard Sergeant Major Needle issue the familiar order in a steady voice that carried across the trenches, as it had carried across the parade ground. "At five hundred yards, five rounds rapid fire."

A sudden excitement swept through the men in the trenches. "Steady," Needle said, and despite his awe of the man, Regret felt reassured by the familiar voice.

"Fire!" Needle spoke again in that same even voice.

Eight years of constant training kicked in, and Regret squeezed the trigger, snapped the bolt back and fired again and again, then lowered his rifle and reloaded, but in the moments it took to reload, the cavalry was already thundering back the way it had come.

He glanced at Chalky and saw the big grin on his friend's face. This was the first time they'd fired their rifles in anger, and both were happy they had passed the test.

"Steady now, lads," Needle called out calmly, and the men settled against the trench and waited for the enemy. They didn't have to wait long.

At nine o'clock, the first shells landed in the canal, sending plumes of water up and over the waiting Fusiliers. The bombardment continued for an hour, but with little effect because shallow as the trenches were, they provided just enough cover from the shrapnel screaming above them, and only a very few boys fell back on the wet earth.

Then the infantry came, thousands of them in columns six abreast. It was an insane tactic against seasoned regulars who could kill everything in their sights at fifteen rounds a minute.

Sergeant Major Needle called out the range. "At twelve hundred yards, ten rounds rapid fire."

They waited for a few moments while the advancing troops marched across the open ground on the far side of the canal; then Needle barked a single order. "Fire!"

The mass of grey seemed to ripple as the first and second ranks fell under the withering fire. The Vickers machine guns joined the deadly accurate rifle fire. Aiming was barely necessary, and one bullet killed the intended target and the man behind. It was a slaughter, but they came on, climbing and stumbling over their dead as the hail of bullets tore into them. They were mown down like hay, and every straw was a person, someone's son.

Needle called for independent rapid fire, and his sharp voice cut through the din. Regret glanced along the trench at Chalky and grinned. He knew he should be afraid, but he wasn't, he was excited, and—god forgive him—he was having a great time. This is what he'd trained for, what they'd all trained for, hour after hour after hour, rapid fire at a moving target, and Needle would have their guts for garters if they missed. Now all that training was paying off, and the men of the Royal Fusiliers and the Middlesex fired out from the relative safety of the shallow trenches while the enemy's big guns rained shells on them and into the canal that seemed to be the target for every German gun in the country.

The enemy poured machine-gun and artillery fire onto the British trenches, but the relentless rapid fire continued, and at last the front ranks faltered, then broke, and the attackers ran, taking the rest of the following ranks with them.

Regret reloaded from his pouch without even thinking about it. His hands were steady, but he could feel his body shaking, and glanced at the soldiers lying in the trench next to him to check if they could see his legs trembling, but they were all reloading, most of them grinning like idiots with relief that they weren't dead.

Then the Germans came back, swarming across the fields in such a mass that Regret couldn't see the earth for them. He licked his dry lips and waited for the order to fire.

Shrapnel whistled around them and machine-gun fire raked the trenches from dozens of hidden Maxims. Regret looked around quickly and saw men falling and sliding back into the trench, dozens... hundreds. He was no longer having a great time; he was truly scared. Then the order to fire came, and the fear just vanished as he slipped into the routine that was now as natural as breathing. Aim, fire, slide the bolt without lowering the rifle, fire again. He barely saw his man fall before he sighted the next. He was a crack shot, but didn't need to be, he couldn't miss, none of the Tommies along the canal could miss. But a small voice was telling him there was just too many of them. And the voice was right.

The Germans had got a machine gun up on the road bridge across the canal that the Fusiliers had been ordered to hold and were firing straight down the main street through Nimy. Regret and Chalky saw it at the same moment, shifted their rifles, and dropped the crew of four in two shots each, but almost before they stopped twitching, they'd been replaced. And when Chalky looked at his friend, Regret could see his own fear mirrored in his friend's face.

The infantry was now swarming up to the opposite bank, firing from their hips as they came. It was a hopelessly inaccurate method, but their sheer number meant their bullets found flesh. Men were falling all around Regret as he emptied another magazine into the men trying to push pontoon bridges over the water. It was just a matter of time; he knew it and so did they.

Needle stood up. Regret could not believe it; it was absolute insanity.

"Withdraw!" Needle ordered, and walked along the trench urging the men out and back, seemingly oblivious to the bullets stirring up the soft earth at his feet and zipping past him like angry wasps. "Come on now, lads, let's be having you."

The men were not eager to leave the illusory safety of the trench and cross the completely open ground between them and the houses and mining building to the rear.

"On your feet, lads, we haven't got all day." Needle pointed his swagger stick across the canal as if to illustrate the obvious.

Regret slapped Chalky on the shoulder, and they jumped up and ran. The air was alive with shrapnel, and bullets splattered the ground like rain in mud. There was no way they were going to make it without getting shot to rags.

They half fell, half jumped into the safety of a building that lay in ruins from the shellfire. Regret checked himself over and found no sign of the blood he expected; he did find two neat holes through the edge of his jacket. It had been that close. He glanced up at Chalky and got a thumbs-up. It was a miracle. Now all they needed was a few hundred more miracles to get the rest of the men out of the trenches and across the strip of open land that seemed to be alive with bullets streaming from the machine gun up on the road bridge.

Regret stood up with his back against the broken wall, swung up his rifle, and killed the enemy machine-gunner with a single shot. Chalky got the idea and steadied his rifle on the brickwork. While Regret killed everything that moved on the bridge, Chalky did the same to the men trying to get a gun back into action between the burnt boats across the canal.

Every time a gunner ran forward to man the gun, he died. It didn't take long for the rest to get the message, and fewer and fewer made the suicidal attempt until, at last, the two guns that had been putting down a hurricane of fire on the trenches fell silent, but it would only be for a minute.

Sergeant Major Needle saw what was happening and barked at the men to move. They moved, one or two at first, then all of them, but it was no mad dash for safety; this was a disciplined withdrawal.

Regret was aware of the men backing off across the open ground and firing as they went, and he was aware of the effect on the Germans, who had thought this was their chance to charge forward. The moment any man stood to rush the canal, a calmly aimed shot dropped him. The far canal bank was littered with the dead and dying men who'd thought it was over, and the rest stayed down, with their officers swearing at them and ordering them forward to die.

By the time the enemy could be pushed forward, it was too late. The Fusiliers were out of the trenches and into the shelter of Nimy village.

Sergeant Major Needle clapped a hand on Regret's and Chalky's shoulders. "Well done, lads." He smiled. They smiled. That was a mistake.

"You did a grand job there." He pointed at the machine-gunners working to get their guns back into action. "Now you keep doing that while the lads here stroll on back to Mons for a nice cup of tea."

Regret opened his mouth to say what jumped into his mind, but training and a well-honed sense of self-preservation shut it again, and Needle nodded. "You see that gun up there?" He pointed up at the railway bridge, and they could see three Fusiliers manning the last of the battalion's two Vickers machine guns. "You give those boys some cover, there's good lads." It didn't sound like an order, but there was no mistaking that it was just that.

Sergeant Major Needle stepped out of the shelter of the houses and onto the open ground where he could see the whole trench and be sure all the troops were out. He rapped his leg with his swagger stick and looked up sharply as the machine gun on the road bridge traced a line of bullets past his feet, then sighed and followed the departing troops without a backward glance.

Chalky leaned forward and squinted through the smoke at the boys with the machine gun. "Who the hell is that up there?"

"Volunteers, I'd say." Regret shrugged. "Anybody else would have the sense to run."

"Brave buggers, though."

Regret couldn't fault that. "Yeah, they are that. But holding off that lot will give our boys time to get away."

Chalky nodded and watched the German troops surge forward, only to be swept from the bridge by the machine gun.

Regret aimed his rifle at the mass of grey charging in suicidal waves onto the bridge, then lowered it. "It's like spitting on a forest fire."

Then they saw a British officer on the bridge bend down and lift a fallen man, oblivious to the bullets zinging around him. Lieutenant Steele leaned forward and spoke to the man firing the machine gun, then stepped between the railway tracks and set off with the dead weight of the soldier on his shoulders.

The sight of Steele staggering back across the bridge gave the Germans heart, and they charged again. The Maxim opened up, but there were hundreds of them sweeping forward, now more afraid of the officers and NCOs among them than the machine gun.

Regret's head was pounding and his ears ringing from the whump of shellfire, and he shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Suddenly he saw a tufted duck rise from the canal amid the inferno of shell and gunfire and sweep up and away, and he was back in Ashdown Forest with the sound of the game birds replacing the chaos around him.

The Germans were swarming up onto the bridge as Lieutenant Steele staggered back with his burden. Regret killed the first German officer with a shot to the chest, then the second. He sighted on the third, but Chalky had already dropped him. They worked their way down the ranks, officers first, then the NCOs, and when the ten rounds in the magazine were exhausted, the most senior officer on the bridge was a corporal, and he was already lying beside the track with his hands over his head.

Half a dozen Fusiliers opened up from behind a wall off to the right, and Steele stepped off the open ground even as the machine-gunners found the range.

Regret tapped Chalky, and they set off to join the others. By the time they covered the twenty yards or so to their new position, the man Lieutenant Steele brought from the hell on the bridge was already being carried away to one of the Red Cross stations back in the village.

Regret ducked as machine-gun bullets whipped around the small band of men. "Should we be going, sir?" he shouted above the howl of shells and explosions.

Lieutenant Steele looked back over the wall at the man still manning the Maxim on the bridge. Shells were bursting all around, and bullets were ripping into the sandbags that were the man's only protection.

"Covering fire!"

It was always hopeless. The men behind the wall were all that remained of a platoon that should have numbered almost fifty, but now was barely a squad. Even as they raised their rifles in a doomed attempt to save the man on the bridge, a shell exploded next to him, knocking him backwards.

"Godley," Steele said almost under his breath.

The Germans let out a roar and raced forward, but Godley was back on his knees, and the Maxim sprayed the last of its bullets into the charging men. Godley fell again, and again he got to his knees. This time he calmly lifted the Maxim and threw it into the canal below before falling on his knees and crawling back across the bridge. The Germans ran past him, completely ignoring him. Regret couldn't believe it.

Sergeant Naylor, in charge of the remains of the platoon, put his hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "Let's join the others, sir."

Lieutenant Steele nodded, then stopped. "You go ahead, Sergeant. I have to check on Dease."

"But, sir." The sergeant put his hand on Steele's arm, then withdrew it quickly. "The Germans, sir."

Steele shrugged. "Yes. Now you get along, Sergeant, and take these lads back to the main body, there's a good fellow." He smiled fleetingly and walked off towards the Red Cross station to check on the wounded man he'd carried back.

Regret pointed at the canal and the enemy pouring across both bridges, and Sergeant Naylor nodded emphatically.

Unlike the main body of troops who'd made what the army liked to call a _strategic_ _withdrawal_ , Regret, Chalky and the others just ran for it, expecting the enemy to erupt from the canal side and shoot them to pieces, but not a shot was fired at them as they ran up through the centre of the village and out onto the Mons Road. Gradually it occurred to them that the Germans had stopped, but it made no sense; there were thousands of them, and the road was completely open.

They slowed to a walk, looking back over their shoulders every few seconds, but they were not being followed.

The Germans had stopped, or more accurately, they had been stopped. The desperately few battalions of the British Expeditionary Force had hurt them so badly they were stopping to recover, treat their wounded and collect their dead, and there were many dead to collect.

But Regret and the other Fusiliers had no way of knowing that the battle of Mons was over; all they knew was that this squad of six men was alone on the road with the whole German Army right on their heels, and it was this that kept them moving, even though with the battle over and the adrenalin gone, they were tired to the point of collapse. Exhausted as they were, Regret knew that to stop now would mean capture or worse. The enemy would not be stopped for long. So they marched on through the evening and into the dark, asleep on their feet.

Sometime in the night it rained; then it poured, and Regret silently thanked god for soaking him to the skin, then went back to sleep as he trudged down the muddy road. Several times he woke and stared out into the night, straining his ears for any sound of the enemy, but there was nothing moving behind them or anywhere else. It was as if they were completely alone in the jet-black night. But a few miles behind them, the Germans were resting in readiness to mop up this contemptibly little army, and ahead, the exhausted Tommies crammed the roads that led to the villages beyond Mons, where they would make another stand.

Regret opened his eyes when dawn broke bright and sunny as if to deny the torrential rain that had soaked him. He looked around and saw that they'd lost two of the squad while they'd sleepwalked their way along the country road. He hoped they'd simply walked more slowly, but he knew that they were probably asleep at the side of the road, unconscious to the fate that awaited them.

He shook Chalky's shoulder, and the big man opened his red-rimmed eyes and took several seconds to focus. "Are we still alive?"

Regret nodded. "Just about."

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere between Mons and..." Regret shrugged and looked along the deserted road. "Someplace else."

"Oh, that's good, then. For a minute I thought we was lost."

"Le Cateau," Sergeant Naylor said as he walked past, stretching his arms in the warming sunshine.

Chalky glanced at Regret and shrugged. "How does he know that?" he whispered.

"Because I asked a nice officer what road this was, that's how," Sergeant Naylor said without turning.

Regret and Chalky exchanged glances again, but this time kept their surprise to themselves.

"And officers know everything," the sergeant said without any hint of irony. "They are our fathers and our mothers."

"If you say so, Sarge."

"That I do, son," said Sergeant Naylor with authority.

"What's the plan, then, Sarge?" Chalky asked with the look of a man who expected disappointment.

"What?" Sergeant Naylor said as if suddenly awakening from a deep sleep.

"The plan, Sarge," Regret prompted.

"What plan?"

"The one our mothers and fathers told you about, Sarge." Regret tried not to let his voice betray the doubt he felt. "This... _this readjustment of the line_ plan."

Sergeant Naylor looked at the men on the road, four exhausted soldiers standing between cornfields in the deserted countryside. In the distance in every direction they could hear artillery and the crack of rifle fire, but here on the quiet road, they could be out for a picnic. He could have laughed at the situation, but after the horror of the last hours, he doubted he would ever laugh again.

He was right.

He was already too old for the army and should have retired, but he was a highly experienced veteran of the war against the Afrikaans, and the army could ill afford to loose such men, so they overlooked his age. There'd been many such men in the BEF at the start of this campaign, but there would be none by the end of it.

Sergeant Freddie Naylor had less than an hour to live.

"We march," he said, turned, and started to march smartly down the long, straight road.

By the time the others had processed the information, the sergeant's parade-ground drill had returned to the same slow, painful walk they had maintained all through the long night.

Regret opened his pack in search of the food he'd stashed there before the battle, but all that was left was part of a very stale loaf. He tried to remember what had happened to the loaves, but his brain seemed to be almost entirely focused on the effort of putting one foot in front of the other, and when he forced himself to think, he stopped walking. He vaguely remembered handing the food out to the men beside him in the trench, but it was as though it had been someone else. He sighed in frustration at the exhaustion that seemed to reduce the years of disciplined training to nothing. He caught up with the rest of the squad, split the meagre rations, and handed them to the others, who took the bread and ate it without acknowledgment.

It may have taken an hour or a year to reach the top of a long hill that felt as though it was a mountain and forced them to stop for the hundredth time. Regret knew he was looking at something that didn't fit, but it took long moments before he realised it was a black staff car with its nose in the hedge. He gradually roused himself to something near consciousness and opened the car door. There was no driver, and after a few seconds he checked the back to find that was empty too. Why would someone leave a car in the middle of nowhere? He stepped back and looked it over. There was a wheel leaning against the front mudguard, and the tyre was flat. Strange.

He looked up sharply as two men suddenly appeared from behind the hedge as if by magic. A lieutenant dressed as a cavalry officer, complete with knee-high leather boots, accompanied by an overweight sergeant. Why where they hiding in the hedge?

"British, excellent!" the officer said a little too loudly. "Thought you were the Hun. Good show!"

What was a good show? Regret shook his head and screwed up his gritty eyes. "Sir?"

"You," said the cheery officer, "we thought you were the Hun."

Regret looked at the rest of the squad. They were wearing khaki short-skirted jackets, flat caps and khaki puttees over black boots, not exactly standard dress for the grey-uniformed Germans. He decided the man was an idiot, but tired or not, he had enough sense to keep his deduction to himself.

"No, sir, we're Fusiliers," he said, still feeling he was stating the obvious.

"We got ourselves a bit of a flat," the officer said, pointing at the flat.

The squad were just staring at him, trying to think, but struggling.

He clearly decided more information was necessary. "I'm Lieutenant Shaw, and this timid fellow is Sergeant Martin."

They looked from one to the other in silence, and Lieutenant Shaw shifted awkwardly. "Give us a hand with the car, there's good fellows." He pointed at the car in case they hadn't seen it. "We seem to have misplaced the jack." He shrugged. "Bit of a hurry, you see."

They didn't see.

"Got to get a despatch over to HQ." No response. "Le Cateau, you know?"

No.

Lieutenant Shaw gave a sudden start. "Bloody hell!" He pointed urgently down the long hill.

Regret turned slowly and looked down the road. A troop of German cavalry was riding casually down the road, a patrol of twelve or more, looking for all the world like they were out for a Sunday stroll, with the commander smoking a huge cigar adding to the appearance of a casual outing.

Regret was suddenly awake, and the rush of full consciousness made his head swim for a moment before he blinked his eyes clear.

Lieutenant Shaw recognised their blue tunics, red trousers and ash lances as belonging to the Austrian Uhlans. Damn, he'd been on field manoeuvres with men from their regiment. These troops were part of the elite guard regiment, and he knew their lances were not for show. He unclipped his holster, took out his revolver, and fired.

One of the troopers jerked and rolled off the back of his horse and onto the road. Shaw couldn't believe it, at a range of over eight hundred yards!

Regret snapped the bolt back to chamber another round, shifted his aim a fraction, and fired again. A lancer slammed back off his horse and crashed under the hooves of those around him. The troopers were stunned, but it wouldn't last. Regret shifted his aim and dropped another one.

The whole action had taken just three seconds, but the Uhlans were already recovering and urging their mounts up the long hill, lowering their lances as they began the charge.

Chalky aimed and fired without even thinking; then the others snapped out of their exhausted state and fired at the cavalry, who were now at full gallop.

Regret shot the officer in the chest and saw him slide sideways from the saddle, and part of his mind realised he had learned a valuable lesson on the railway bridge—even the most disciplined troops come unravelled when they see their officers fall.

The deadly rapid fire from the Lee-Enfields stopped the charge before it had covered a dozen yards, and Regret lowered his rifle. The road was littered with dead and wounded men, and the horses reared and shied away from the falling men and smell of blood. Only one rider remained mounted, and he stared in horror at the road and at the British soldiers standing in a line across the top of the hill with rifles pointing down at him. He wrenched his horse's reins and galloped away.

Sergeant Naylor shot him without a thought.

They looked down the road at the dead men bleeding into the mud and the horses milling around their fallen masters.

Sergeant Naylor sighed and started walking down the hill.

"Where are you going, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Shaw asked with obvious concern that the man was going to shoot the wounded or rob them or do something ungentlemanly.

"A couple of those horses have broken legs, sir," Naylor said. "It's not their fault they're with the Hun."

"Oh yes, of course. Decent thing and all that."

Sergeant Naylor continued down the hill without looking back, but Regret could hear him mumbling under his breath.

"I could shoot the idiot," Chalky said quietly. "Nobody would know."

"No," Regret said, "they don't really like enlisted men shooting our officers. Other way round is all right, though." He shrugged. "Come on. Let's get the car fixed."

They turned and began to walk back to the car, where Sergeant Martin was still holding on to the headlamp as if he was afraid it would fall off.

"Anyway, if anybody's going to shoot this idiot, it'll be me," Regret said under his breath.

Sergeant Naylor was still mumbling to himself about having to walk while jumped-up little boys like the lieutenant got to ride around in staff cars. He walked up to the nearest horse, whose foreleg was flopping excruciatingly. "Easy now, boy, nobody's going to hurt you." He raised his hand slowly and patted the terrified animal's neck. "You remind me of my own Billy Bar back home. Easy now, boy."

He unslung his rifle very slowly, put the muzzle right against the animal's head to muffle the sound, and fired. The horse dropped without a murmur, and he stepped around it. The second damaged animal was lying on its side, desperately trying to get up onto its broken leg. Naylor didn't need to soothe this one because it was clearly not going anywhere, but he did anyway as he slid back the rifle bolt as gently as he could.

"I know you're scared, boy. Hell, who wouldn't be." He aimed the rifle from his hip. "It's all over now; go to sleep." He pulled the trigger.

At the instant the horse died, Naylor's body exploded in pain, and he staggered forward. He tried to turn, but something was preventing him. Confused, he looked down to see the long point of a lance sticking out of his belly. He tried to turn again, but the lance suddenly jerked and twisted, ending any more resistance.

It was Sergeant Martin who saw what was happening, as he was the only one not involved in lifting the car and changing the wheel. What he was seeing didn't register for several seconds. At last he understood and screamed.

The soldiers looked up from the car and followed Martin's terrified stare to the road below. Sergeant Naylor was still on his knees, but only because the long lance sticking through his body was keeping him from falling backwards.

Regret groaned, "Oh, God!" as he picked up his rifle and stepped onto the road.

The lancer had jumped onto one of the horses and was already reaching the bend in the road that would shield him from the squad. Regret raised his rifle.

"Save your ammunition, Regret. He's out of range even for you," Chalky said with a shake of his head.

Regret took a deep breath, steadied his rifle, let his breath out slowly, and fired. The lancer seemed to jump up in the stirrups, then fell forward, grasping the horse's mane for a moment before sliding from the saddle and into the hedge.

Nobody spoke for a long time, their eyes fixed on the body of Sergeant Naylor crucified by the ten-foot lance imbedded in his back.

"God!" Lieutenant Shaw said as he came forward and clapped Regret on the shoulder. "That was the finest shot I've ever seen. That must have been a thousand yards at least!"

Regret glanced at him for a moment and shook his head.

Chalky spoke without taking his eyes off the lancer hung up on the hedge. "That was eight hundred and fifty yards. Sir."

"Eight hundred and fifty? How do you know that?" The lieutenant was squinting down the road, trying to judge the distance.

"Because, sir," Chalky said, "that's what His Majesty's army pays me to know, sir."

Lieutenant Shaw nodded. "That's over half a mile! You shot that lancer at full gallop from half a mile away! I've never seen anything like it." He turned to Chalky. "Have you?"

"Have I what... sir?"

"Seen anything like that shot. Well, have you? The effective range of the Lee Enfield is what? Six hundred yards? An amazing shot!"

He was getting on everyone's nerves, and Chalky wished he'd ignored Regret and shot him.

Regret clipped a new magazine into the rifle and began reloading the used one from an ammunition pouch. "I'm not proud of what I just did."

"Not proud? Not proud?" Lieutenant Shaw took off his cap and wiped his sweating brow. "It was a stunning show. He would have got clean away and brought reinforcements."

Regret stepped up close to the lieutenant, and Chalky moved closer in case he had to stop his friend from doing something that would get him a cigarette at dawn.

"It might have been... stunning, sir, but if I'd done it properly in the first place, the sergeant would still be alive."

Chalky put his hand on Regret's shoulder, as much to restrain him as to comfort him. "It wasn't you what missed that trooper; it could've been me, or any of us."

It didn't help.

"Let's get the car fixed and get out of here before more of those pretty cavalry turn up." Chalky steered his friend back to the car, where they turned, crouched and lifted it off the flat wheel. It seemed easier to Regret, lighter somehow, but he knew it was the anger burning in him that was giving him added strength. He hadn't missed that trooper, he knew that, but he hadn't shot him when he was on the ground either. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

They dropped the car onto its replacement wheel and automatically rubbed at their dirty hands, but no amount of rubbing was going to shift the mud and the blood.

"Where are you going, sir?" Regret asked.

"Bertry, near Le Cateau, General Smith-Dorrien's HQ." The lieutenant tapped the replaced wheel with the toe of his immaculately polished riding boot. "Excellent job, lads, obliged." He climbed into the back seat and started to say his farewells.

Chalky got in beside him, and Regret climbed in the front seat and turned to face the stunned officer. "Lots of room in here, sir."

The lieutenant closed his mouth with a click.

"Don't mind giving these lads a ride, do you, sir?" Regret said and, without waiting for a reply, leaned over the seat, and opened the back door. "Hop on, lads. The lieutenant has offered to take us the rest of the way in his nice car."

By a process of elimination, Corporal Gail was now in charge and looked to heaven for guidance that wasn't coming, then got in the back of the car, squashing the lieutenant between him and Chalky, while the others pushed their rifles through the windows and climbed onto the car's running boards, where they hung precariously with their arms hooked around the door pillars.

Bertry was less than ten miles away, but it took them almost two hours to get there. The roads were clogged with exhausted soldiers and refugees weighed down with their most precious possessions loaded onto carts and wheelbarrows.

Regret stared out of the car window in disbelief. Two days ago, this road was full of promise, with cheering crowds and Tommies eager to get to grips with the enemy. Now it was a chaos of shuffling and stumbling troops in torn and bloody clothes that were only just recognisable as uniforms. He couldn't believe it had gone so wrong so quickly. Eventually he closed his eyes and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

The car door opening woke him, and he looked out to see they were parked on a gravel drive in front of a big villa.

General Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien, commander of the II Corps that had stopped the Germans at Mons, was coming down the steps of the villa that was temporarily the British Expeditionary Forces' HQ in Flanders. He stopped and watched the overladen staff car pull up in front of the building and the scruffy soldiers climb off it.

Lieutenant Shaw snapped to attention and threw a salute that could have damaged him. Regret and the others stood to attention and resisted the glaring need to brush off their dirty and torn uniforms.

Smith-Dorrien walked over to them and looked them over as if inspecting an honour guard. "I see you decided to borrow one of my cars, gentlemen."

Corporal Gail was senior NCO so got to speak for the others, much to their relief. "Err... yes, I mean, no... we err..."

"We hitched a ride sir," Regret said, unable to watch the man suffer any longer.

"Yes," said Smith-Dorrien, "I can see that. At ease, Lieutenant, you look like you're about to strain something."

Shaw lowered his hand but remained rigidly at attention. "Thank you, sir. I have a despatch for General Allenby, sir."

Smith-Dorrien pointed at the villa, and Shaw blinked at him. "In there," Smith-Dorrien said softly, but Shaw's brain was stalled. "General Allenby is in there, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir." Shaw nodded but didn't move.

"The dispatch?" Smith-Dorrien raised his eyebrows, but the poor lieutenant was fixed. "Take the dispatch into the villa, Lieutenant!"

Shaw bolted towards the chateau, and a moment later Sergeant Martin ran after him, clutching a briefcase.

Smith-Dorrien smiled and shook his head. "I should have said boo!" He seemed to recall the ragged men, and his smile vanished. "Well, gentlemen, you look like you could do with a meal." He looked them over. "And a bath."

They gave in to the urge and brushed themselves off.

"The meal I can arrange." He waved at a group of staff officers waiting for him on the steps, and a full colonel trotted down the steps.

"Get someone to arrange a meal for these lads, will you?"

Regret's stomach tightened, and not only because of hunger. Officers were never nice to him. Not unless they wanted something.

"And, Colonel, I think we have our volunteers."

The colonel turned and nodded.

Regret sighed, he knew it.

Regret's brother, Alan, had spent two very frustrating days while his battery hauled their guns up to where the enemy was, only to find they couldn't see them over the slag heaps and the towns, or, after more dragging of guns, to discover they had already left. Two days of galloping around and digging in for nothing while the infantry and other batteries where having all the fun.

But now they were stationary and waiting for the Germans, who were coming for sure. Alan walked up to the road that ran above the turnip field in which 78 Battery Royal Field Artillery had dug in, and looked out across the valley to the town of Le Cateau off to the right. The railway line running north from the town was where they had been ordered to lay down fire when the enemy arrived.

He was excited at the prospect of putting into practice the skills he had learned during five years of training. It was barely dawn, and the valley was shrouded in mist, but he could hear them coming, like a low moan in the distance. His lips were dry, and he had to wipe the sweat from his palms on his jacket as he walked quickly back down to his gun on the right of the battery.

This was a bad situation. They'd always chosen a site well back from the infantry in training, usually on the reverse side of a slope or in a depression, but General Headlam, in charge of 5th Division's artillery, wanted the guns up front to give the infantry close support.

Alan knew it was a throwback to the bad old days when the guns where out in the open and easy meat for enemy cannon and rifle fire. Everybody knew this was the wrong tactic, but the general was adamant. So Captain Bartholomew had been despatched to see to it that the guns were moved.

They had only just enough time to move the guns from the safety of a low hill out into the open on the forward-facing slope. Alan knew it was going to be bad.

As the sun rose, the mist lifted, and he could see the Germans massing on the opposite side of the valley beyond the railway embankment. There were thousands of them forming up to advance.

The order came down, and the gunnery commander, Lieutenant Goodman, gave the order to fire at forty-four hundred yards, well inside the 18-pounder's six-thousand-yard range.

Alan looked up over the gunshield at the opposite slope and saw the close-packed infantry being torn apart by the battery fire of high-explosive shells, but before he could even register an emotion about his part in the slaughter, he was automatically reloading the gun.

He half wondered why the enemy artillery hadn't opened up and instantly regretted it. German high-explosive shells rained down onto the trenches in front of the guns in a torrent of fire.

The stupidity of positioning the guns out in the open soon became apparent. Not only were they clearly visible to the enemy gunners, but the infantry was lying right in front of them and suffering deafening noise and concussion and being pounded by artillery fire intended for the guns.

He could see what was happening and what was certain to happen if they stayed out in the open, and looked around to see if the officers were also aware of it.

Lieutenant Goodman caught his eye for a moment and shook his head as if he could read his thoughts, then pointed at the gun, and Alan got the message. He sighed and resigned himself to the fact that this was where he was going to die. He wasn't sorry, and that surprised him, but he was doing what he'd been trained to do. And it was the right thing to try to stop the bullies.

He looked up as an aeroplane flew overhead, just out of range of any eager rifleman. He'd seen only one plane before this and that was on the ground and looked flimsy and a little silly. This one was magnificent, sweeping above the smoke and slaughter like a bird. Suddenly the plane began to drop silver streamers over their heads. He couldn't understand why they would do that; it was hardly going to cause the guns any problems. Then he saw the German battery that had been set up under cover of the mist on the farm overlooking their left flank. He knew this was worse than bad. From their flank position, the German gunners could see the whole trench and the guns behind it. He turned, waved at the lieutenant, and pointed up at the farm, but it was already too late as the first ranging shot fell among the guns, killing Lieutenant Goodman instantly.

The significance of that first ranging shot landing right among them did not escape Alan; it was the aeroplane and its silver streamers marking their position. But there was nothing he could do. His orders were to load the gun, and load it he would.

The first salvo from the farm enfiladed the 11 Battery on Alan's left. He took a second to look across and saw bodies and bits of bodies scattered around the broken guns.

The German infantry were still coming despite the massive casualties the guns had inflicted. Now the Suffolks and King's Own Light Infantry repeated what the Fusiliers had done at the Nimy canal. Rapid and deadly accurate fire cut the advancing troops to pieces, laying them down in lines across the grassy slope.

A hurricane of artillery fire swept the trenches and the guns from the front and from the left. Alan's head pounded, and his nose bled, but he continued to load. Gun after gun was knocked out, their crews turned to bloody horror by high explosive and shrapnel. It wouldn't be long, he knew that.

He barely had time to think that thought before his gun was hit, and he was dead.

He knew he was dead because he could hear the bells of heaven ringing. He opened his eyes and, for a moment, wished he was dead. The rest of the gun crew, five men he'd lived with for six years, were gone. Not dead and broken on the ground, just gone.

He climbed to his feet and was instantly knocked down by another explosion that rolled the next gun along the ground like a toy. He stood up again and tried to clear his head, to think. He thought he must still be dazed as he looked across and saw the batteries on the flanks were facing the wrong way, back towards Le Cateau. Then he realised why and also why they were being blown to pieces. The Germans now had artillery forward of the trenches, up on the farm to the left, and new batteries on the high ground to the right. Impossible as it seemed, things had got worse, but at least, he thought, that's as bad as they could get.

Shells whistled over his head from an impossible direction, and he looked towards Le Cateau to see the smoke from the batteries on the heights overlooking the whole area. Now they were surrounded and being blown to bits by a blizzard of shells.

Gunners were taking shelter under the muzzles of their guns as the shells rained in from their backs. Alan ran to the nearest gun, where Sergeant Hooper was vainly trying to get it into action, and shouted at him that he would load, but the sergeant wouldn't have heard a bugle above the roar of guns and the explosions all around and among the batteries. Alan hit him on the shoulder, and he turned, nodded once, and let him load. Within seconds the gun was firing again and got off three shots before Sergeant Hooper flopped to the ground like a rag doll.

Alan looked around, expecting to see German infantry, but all he saw were bodies, wounded men, and guns with their muzzles pointing uselessly at the sky.

Movement up on the farm to the left caught his eye, and he saw a mass of Germans forming up for a flanking assault, but there was nobody to tell. Everyone in his battery was dead, wounded or taking shelter behind their gunshields.

Then he saw that the lieutenant in 80 Battery had also seen the advance and was bringing the last four guns to bear. A moment later they were firing, and at less than seventeen hundred yards, they couldn't miss. The shrapnel raining down on the advancing infantry brought the advance to a halt, and they took cover wherever they could find it.

He ran forward and screamed at the two gunners sheltering in front of an intact gun. They couldn't hear him, but could see him pointing furiously out beyond the trenches. They turned and saw a tidal wave of grey sweeping up the slope. That did the trick, and they ran, stumbling back behind the gun. Between the three of them, they got the gun back into action, firing point-blank over the heads of the men in the trenches and ripping great swathes through the advancing troops.

A moment later, the batteries on the right and left brought their fire to bear and mowed down the advancing infantry.

But they kept on coming, running forward, crouching and firing. Years of training kept the crews steady as their positions were bombarded by artillery from all sides and now from rifle fire from the advancing infantry. But flesh was always going to fail against shrapnel and high explosive, and under the murderous point-blank fire from the British, who they'd thought had been blown to hell, the Germans ran.

Then they came again, and again the supposedly silenced guns tore them to shreds and sent them running. And all the time the German artillery on the high ground poured fire onto the exposed guns.

Alan tried to see what was happening, but his eyes were burning from the expended shells, the fires and the explosions all around him. His head pounded so that he thought it would burst. He wasn't going to last much longer, he knew it, but refused to let it have him. And now he was hallucinating. He could hear Regret shouting in his ear as he had done at the football matches back home. He leaned forward and held onto the gunshield for support. The shelling stopped, one of those coincidences that happen in sustained fire when most of the guns are being reloaded at the same time, and he heard his brother's voice clearly and looked up to see him grinning at him like an idiot.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he shouted.

Regret shrugged. "Thought I'd come and see how my little brother was doing." He looked around at the broken guns, the bodies and the blood. "Not too good by the look of it."

"I dunno, I think I'm doing better than most."

Regret had to concede that.

Without warning, the other two men at the gun slammed back into the gunshield and slid down. Regret looked around and saw other men falling.

"The guns aren't firing," Alan said with a puzzled shake of his head.

Then Regret realised what was happening. "It's a machine gun!" He looked back across the trenches, but it couldn't be the guns raking the trenches, the gunshield was in the way, which meant... "There!" He pointed at the Le Cateau church tower just visible above the hilltop. "They've got a machine gun in the tower!"

Alan swore. "With all the shellfire, we never heard them." He ran to the gun. "Help me get the gun around."

They lifted the carriage and pulled the gun slowly around until the muzzle was pointing at the church tower a few hundred yards away. At that range, it was hardly necessary to aim.

Alan calmly loaded the 18-pounder while Regret looked back over his shoulder at the masses of infantry swarming towards the trenches and the machine-gun fire kicking up a curtain of earth around the trenches. And here they were, standing out in the open in plain sight. Great.

He flinched as the gun roared, but opened his eyes in time to see a blast of stone dust as the church tower disappeared in a huge explosion. He grabbed his brother and pulled him back behind the gunshield just as a storm of machine-gun fire hit it.

"Come on. Let's get out of here!" Regret shouted above the roar of incoming shells that signalled the end of the momentary respite.

Alan shook his head and pointed at the other batteries, where men were calmly loading and firing as if they were on gun drill while all around them high-explosive shells burst and shrapnel and rifle fire poured in on them.

Regret nodded. What the hell. He ran around the gunshield and lifted the carriage, then glared at Alan, who was standing and watching him like an idiot. A moment later they had the gun facing the oncoming infantry, and Regret was loading it almost as fast as Alan could fire.

They were getting low on ammunition, and Regret tapped his brother's arm and pointed at the almost empty limber. Alan looked around at the other guns, but their limbers where blown to matchwood. Then as if by order, three ammunition wagons raced across the cornfield on their right.

Regret watched them coming, saw the first shells explode in the field, then more and more, but the wagons were moving too fast. They were going to make it.

One of them suddenly slowed, the horses bucking and shying. They were caught up on something, but Regret couldn't imagine what could have trapped them in a cornfield. Alan shouted something that was lost in the din, then put his hand against his face as if holding a telephone, and Regret knew it was the brigade telephone wire that had stopped them.

It was as if all the German artillery fired at the stranded wagon at once. Earth erupted around them like miniature volcanoes, shrapnel shells burst in the air in white clouds, and burning corn stalks added their smoke to the image of hell.

Regret and Alan started to move, to run, to help, to do something. Somehow. A shell exploded right on top of the wagon, and they stopped. When the smoke cleared a moment later, they could see the horses and men scattered like abandoned rags across the field.

The men from 122 Battery were closer and were already running to the wagon and unloading the ammunition by hand, ignoring the shells and bullets turning the field to moonscape. One after the other they fell or were blown to pieces. Then more men from the battery ran forward, dragging the wounded back to the guns, and dying for their bravery.

A roar went up from the front, and Regret and Alan looked across the trenches to see a new sea of grey sweeping down from the farm. Regret felt a kick of fear in his stomach at the sight. "God almighty!" He grabbed Alan's arm.

Alan shook his head and walked back to the gun. After a moment, Regret followed and loaded it without looking up. What the hell, Tottenham Hotspur looked like they were going to drop out of Division One, so what was there to look forward to anyway? And it was a nice day.

Regret slid the last shell into the gun and stood up. Almost everyone was dead or wounded, and only two guns continued to fire. He saw the telltale trail of bullets spitting mushroom tufts all around the guns and looked up to see the machine gun mounted in plain sight on the road above their position. His rifle was still leaning against the limber, and he picked it up almost without thinking, brushed the dust off it, shouldered it and shot the gunner in the chest. A moment later another one took his place. He shot him. Then another and another. He lowered his rifle. He couldn't kill them all; there were just too many of them, soldiers just like him, and making widows for no reason did not sit well with his soul.

A lieutenant ran up and screamed at them to destroy the gun. Now that would be a neat trick, Regret thought. Alan leaned close and shouted into his ear.

"One round down the barrel, one up the breach, then fire it with a lanyard."

Regret shrugged, then pointed at the empty ammunition limber, and Alan nodded sadly, picked up a spent shell casing and smashed the sights, then began removing the breech.

They ran. Regret had never been happier to run in his life. Back through the remains of the batteries, stepping over bodies and broken men while trying to avoid the bullets that whined and buzzed like angry hornets all around them. Miraculously, they reached the top of the slope without being shot full of holes and stopped to get breath into their screaming lungs.

"Holy Mary!" Alan gasped and bent forward over the breech he was still carrying and tried to breathe.

"And if we were Catholic, I'd agree with you," Regret said and grabbed his brother's arm. "Let's get out of here." Then a movement caught his eye, and he stopped and stared in awe as the brigade teams raced across the cornfield from the wagon lines. Shells burst among them and over them, bullets tore into the horses and the men, clouds formed over them as shrapnel rounds exploded. It was the most heroic sight they had ever seen.

Bodies, horses and wagons were blown apart and flew through the air in a mist of blood and fire, but they came on. The lead teams reached the guns, but the bullets tore into them from every direction. The horses screamed, bucked and reared, trampling the dead and wounded under their hooves.

Team after team fell as the men tried to cut the dead animals from the traces to let the others move. Nobody was going to live through this inferno of fire.

A massive salvo obliterated the batteries from view, and Regret closed his eyes, but the image stayed. Alan hit him on the back, and he looked to see a team racing back across the field with the only gun to be saved. He cheered. Alan cheered. They jumped up and down and cheered some more, as though it were a victory. And that's what it was, a victory of spirit and courage by men who valued duty more than life.

Alan was running but stopped, ran back, and dragged his brother away from the hilltop. All around them men were retreating. It was no rout; they ran, but they knew where they were going and where they would make another stand.

Off to his right, Alan saw a lieutenant throw a breech into a farmhouse cesspit, changed direction, and followed his lead, hurling his breech as far as he could into the pit. "Best of luck getting that out," he said to himself as it disappeared beneath the crusty surface.

They ran for a few hundred yards, but then had to stop and catch their breath that burned in their throats. In the distance they could hear the crackle of rifle fire and exploding shells.

"Where's that coming from? I thought we'd been ordered to withdraw?"

Regret took another few deep breaths and wiped his smarting eyes. "It's one thing to order a withdrawal, it's a bloody sight harder to get the order to everybody."

Alan looked back across the fields. "You mean they're staying."

"Looks like it."

"But it's bloody crazy. They'll get slaughtered."

"They will, but they'll give the other lads time to get away."

"God rest their souls." Alan wiped his face on his sleeve and looked back across the fields once more at the sound of a trumpet sounding ceasefire. He glanced at Regret, who shook his head. There would be no ceasefire, even if the German bugler sounded the call.

They turned and started to walk towards the straight Roman road that would take them south with the rest of the retreating army, but after a few minutes Regret stopped.

Alan stopped and looked at his brother with a familiar knowing look. "All right, let's have it."

Regret gave him a _have what?_ look.

"You didn't stroll into that mess just to say hello," Alan said with a shake of his head.

"I could've done; you are my little brother."

"Yes, and I know you well enough to see when you're up to something, and you're up to something now."

Regret smiled despite the tension he felt in his stomach. "We're going on a trip."

Alan frowned. "A trip?" He smelled a rat. "I'm already on a trip, and this trip is more than enough for me."

"No, not like this," Regret said and put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "No more of this noise and smoke and people trying to kill you."

It did nothing to ease Alan's suspicions. "All right, I'll play. Where are we going on this... trip?"

Regret clapped him on the shoulder. "A nice little town, with cafés and soft beds."

"Cafes?" Alan squinted at him. "And where, pray, is this nice little town?"

Regret looked around for a moment to get his bearings, then pointed. "Charleroi. Have you heard of it?"

Alan stepped away and glared at him. "Yes, of course I've bloody heard of it! The bloody Germans were flattening it last week!"

"Ah, yes. But they've stopped now."

"Oh, that's just dandy, then. Let's go." Alan sighed deeply and shook his head. "Charleroi."

Regret brushed the dirt off his filthy uniform.

Alan calmed down a little and eyed his brother with that familiar suspicion. "So what's at Charleroi?" He raised his hands. "Besides cafés and soft beds."

Regret started to walk away slowly. "Siege guns."

Alan's jaw fell open, then snapped shut. "Siege guns. Are you out of your bloody mind?" He strode after his brother. "Do you have any idea what those things can do?"

Regret shrugged. "Blow things up, I think."

"Blow things up!" Alan grabbed Regret's sleeve and stopped him strolling away. "Blow things up! They can fire a two-thousand-pound shell ten miles!"

"Yes, but they're slow."

"Yes, five minutes between rounds. Can you run ten miles in five minutes?"

"Probably, if a thousand-pound shell was going to fall on my head." Regret was smiling again, the same infectious smile that had always defeated his brother's attempts to keep him from doing something stupid.

Alan stepped back further, as if that would get him away from the infectious area. "Why?"

Regret frowned.

"Why do you want to go and see giant guns behind enemy lines?" He shook his head. "I'll say that bit again, in case you didn't get it. _Behind enemy lines_."

"General Smith-Dorrien is afraid the Hun might bring them up."

Alan shook his head. "Siege guns are no good against infantry. They need a big target."

Regret nodded. "Like a villa or a chateau?"

"At least."

"A chateau where the whole British top brass is huddled around a table planning things?"

Alan stopped and looked at him for a long time while the image formed in his mind; then he nodded slowly. "That would be worth their while bringing them forward."

"It would," said Regret, "and that's why we're going to take a look."

Alan sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable. "But look, right? Just look?"

"That's why I came to fetch you. We need somebody who knows what he's looking at."

Alan brightened. "We? There are more of us? Thank god."

"Oh yes, of course." Regret smiled his smile. "There's a whole squad. I travelled down with them from Mons." He slapped Alan on the shoulder, and they set off once more.

Alan nodded and started to relax. "A squad, that's good."

"Yes, and we've got horses," Regret said, then more quietly, "and a lieutenant."

Alan glanced at him. "For a squad?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Shaw. You'll like him." Regret strode ahead. "He has nice boots."

The twelve brave and selfless men, who'd been ordered to volunteer, were a sight that would have brought tears to Sergeant Major Needle's eyes had he not been ten miles away organising another desperate rear-guard action.

The horses were fine examples of cavalry mounts, commandeered from their furious owners by Lieutenant Shaw's written orders from Smith-Dorrien, but their riders were a mix of cavalry, infantry, and artillery troops. The four cavalry troopers looked good enough, though scruffy and exhausted, but the others sat their horses like sacks of potatoes.

Although an infantry soldier, Regret had been riding since he was a boy and was happy to be astride a fine horse rather than tramping along the endless roads. He looked at the mix of troops and shook his head. If the Germans saw them, they'd be too busy laughing to shoot straight.

Lieutenant Shaw was home. He sat his magnificent white charger and trotted ahead down the deserted country road, his boots and kit shining as if he was on parade. There was trouble if Regret had ever seen it. He glanced at Alan, who was riding next to him and looking uncomfortable as he held the saddle pommel and bounced. He'd never liked horses; they had brains of their own and tended to exercise their free will whenever he got on one. He saw Regret's look and followed it to the lieutenant strutting his stuff. If that little lad made it through the week, it would be a miracle.

Suddenly the lieutenant stopped, stood up in his stirrups, then turned and galloped back to the men.

"Enemy infantry," he gasped excitedly and pointed down the road, in case they hadn't got the idea. "I could see twenty or thirty."

Sergeant Gail, who through attrition was now the ranking NCO, pointed at the woods at the side of the rode and tried to get his horse to go in that general direction.

"What are you doing, Sergeant?" the lieutenant snapped.

Gail turned in the saddle and grabbed the pommel as the movement almost unhorsed him. "Taking cover, sir," he said. "We should keep out of sight until they pass by."

Lieutenant Shaw's eyes opened wide. "Hide? Are you saying we should hide?"

Gail nodded; the others nodded in support.

"I won't hear of it." The lieutenant pulled his horse round in a tight turn. "Have the men follow me, Sergeant." He set off at a trot, drew his sabre, and began to gallop. "Charge!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Regret couldn't believe it. He wanted them to charge the infantry. With these men who could barely stay on their horses.

Gail licked his lips and banged his heels into the horse's flanks. At that moment German infantry flowed over the hill, took one look, and spread out across the road.

"Dismount!" Regret shouted and jumped down.

After a few moments of indecision, the others started to obey and mostly fell onto the road. The lieutenant, now a hundred yards along the road, was still charging the grey line, alone.

"Five rounds rapid fire!" Regret shouted and snapped the bolt back on his Enfield.

Years of training kicked in again, and the others stepped away from their horses, raised their rifles and fired, reloaded and fired again. The deadly accurate volley decimated the ragged line of grey that was about to end the young lieutenant's short and glorious career.

Regret shifted his aim a fraction and shot the German officer who was trying to rally his stunned men, then killed the fat German who was fumbling with his rifle. He tracked along the line, but there was no one left to shoot.

Lieutenant Shaw continued his charge, waving his sabre and apparently oblivious to the fact that the Germans were all sprawled out across the muddy road. Then he slowed, and his sabre gradually sank to his side as he turned and trotted back.

Suddenly a German jumped to his feet and ran, but four .303 rounds hit him before he could take more than a couple of steps.

"Now you've done it," said Alan with a smile. "You got the little lad all cross."

"Better cross than dead," said Regret, reloading.

"Amen to that," added Sergeant Gail. "Still, he'll probably have us all shot for disobeying an order."

"I didn't hear any order," said Regret. "I just heard him shouting charge as he galloped off up the road."

"That'll work, I'm sure," Alan said, with a sad shake of his head.

"I'll have you shot for disobeying a direct order!" Lieutenant Shaw screamed as he reined in his mount.

Regret and Alan stared at Sergeant Gail, giving him their complete support and making it obvious whose idea it had been.

Gail saw the look, and his mouth opened and closed as he tried to think of something to say. Regret took pity.

"That charge was magnificent, sir," he said with a big nod. "You kept them busy long enough for us to dismount and see to them. Brilliant strategy, sir." Nobody could smell it, but they would need to be careful where they stepped.

The young lieutenant was puzzled for a moment, then looked back down the road and suddenly got the picture. "Who shot that soldier as he retreated?" he snapped, trying to change the subject.

"Sergeant Gail guessed you would want to keep this secret mission, err... a secret," said Regret helpfully.

Gail glared at him.

He coughed. "Well, yes, quite. Err... good show, Sergeant."

"Thank you, sir," said Gail, squinting at Regret. "It seemed like the thing to do." He waited a moment, but nobody moved. "We should get out of here, sir."

The lieutenant frowned and followed Gail's pointing finger to the pile of German bodies down the road. "Ah, yes. Secret mission and all that. Carry on, Sergeant."

"Very good, sir." Gail turned to the squad. "Get mounted, and let's get out of here," he said and swung up into the saddle with the ease of someone who'd done it before. "And remind me to thank you, Brown."

Regret waved and smiled. "Pleasure, Sarge."

"You think so?"

Regret watched the young lieutenant ride away none the worse for his glorious, if suicidal charge. His eyes shifted to the twenty Germans the squad had shot down in the road. That boy officer was going to get them all killed.

He turned and saw Chalky trying not to catch his eye and smirking. "You know we're in a war, don't you?" he said with mock reproach.

"What, that little thing yesterday?" Chalky's smile broke through. "I hardly noticed." He climbed cautiously up into the saddle of his chestnut mare, watching for the first sign that she was going to do what horses always did. He'd been thrown before and didn't think much of it.

Regret watched him mount as if he was climbing onto a dragon. He scooped up the reins of his fine sorrel stallion, put his foot in the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. It was a poor quality military saddle that squashed him in all the wrong places, but it was a hell of a lot better than walking. And he'd never need his equipment to work again, because the odds of him surviving long enough to have children were practically zero. He'd never grow old, his father had told him that when he was just a troublesome kid. He started his horse moving, leaned over and slapped Chalky's mare on the rump and sent her cantering down the road, with Chalky shouting and swearing and clinging to the saddle pommel.

"If he falls off and breaks his neck," Alan said as he rode up beside his brother, "who're you gonna torment?"

Regret gave him a long meaningful look.

"I don't think so," Alan said and spurred his horse ahead. "I did my shift when we were kids."

Regret replayed the memory of good times a few years and an eternity ago. He sighed heavily and rode after the squad, and Chalky was still trying to control his gentle horse.

He stood up in the stirrups and looked over the fields stretching away on all sides to the roads running parallel to the one they were using. The roads were deserted. He sat back into the saddle, puzzled. Where was everybody? The civilians and the British Expeditionary Force? And the Germans? Though he wasn't sorry he couldn't see them.

Lieutenant Shaw had halted the men at a crossroads and was studying an oversized map when Regret caught up. The boy officer seemed to know what he was doing, but that was something they taught them at the officer training college. Even if things are hopeless, look in control and don't frighten the men. A bit patronising to the other ranks, but it did make sense. Time would tell.

He looked around at the thirteen other tired soldiers sitting their borrowed horses with differing levels of comfort and confidence. Fourteen men and a lieutenant was all General Allenby had detailed for this mission. It was all he could spare. Regret thought about the slaughter at Mons. This squad could easily have been all he had left. He pushed the thought aside. It wasn't helpful, and it was as scary as hell.

The men watched the lieutenant turn the map this way and that and frown, but none of them minded; it was a rest. And it kept them away from the shooting.

The lieutenant pointed west. "That way." He started to fold his map.

Regret glanced at Alan, caught his look, and shook his head slightly. Then he stared at Sergeant Gail until he looked his way. Regret pointed down the road, the other way. Gail frowned, looked both ways and shrugged, clearly not intending to do anything about the mistake. Regret watched the lieutenant for a few moments as he put his big map carefully in its leather case. He could just follow him, except it was a racing certainty that heading west would put them slap-bang in the middle of the German army, and that was probably best avoided.

"Sir," he said at last, deciding it was all the same to be shot by his own men as by the Germans. Shot is shot.

The lieutenant looked up and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Regret moved his horse a little closer. "I took a look from that hill back there..." He pointed back up the road at the non-existent hill. "And I could see what looks like a whole German division moving down the road that way." He pointed in the direction the lieutenant was proposing. "But that way is clear." He waited for the boy officer to look east at the deserted road. "With this new information, sir, perhaps you'd like us to go that way and avoid the enemy?"

The lieutenant looked left and right as he made up his mind. That way, an enemy division against his fourteen men. The other way a clear road. "Very good, Sergeant." He pulled his horse around to face the right direction. "That way," he said again.

Sergeant Gail gave Regret a long look through narrowed eyes, turned and led the men down the road, leaving Regret at the crossroads chuckling quietly. Not shot, then. Yet.

He was about to follow when he heard the sound of an engine approaching very quickly, and looked around urgently. The last thing they needed was to run into a convoy of enemy infantry heading for the battle. There was no sign of any trucks or any other vehicles, and he could see the roads across open fields for miles in every direction. He looked up. A biplane with black cross markings on the wings was approaching at about two hundred feet. He felt his heart jump as he realised the German pilot could see him and the men as clear as day, and was sure to report their position.

The plane flew over noisily. But he was thinking as he had before the war, and he needed to adjust his perspective. To the west the whole French and British armies were retreating along crowded roads, so there was plenty for this pilot to see and report without having to worry about a dozen Tommies wandering around the countryside. He relaxed and watched the biplane dip its wing and turn east towards the main German army. The pilot would be home safe and sound before the lads had ridden a mile. He felt a pang of envy. That was the way to see the war, from the clouds, not from a muddy hole in a field with shells raining down.

The plane turned and lost height to disappear behind a sprawling wood a couple of miles away. So this was the pilot's operating base, and it showed just how close the enemy was.

He rode after the squad with one last look at the place where the plane had disappeared. From up there in the clouds that pilot could see all three armies, but from his horse he couldn't see a soul out there in the sunshine. So where were they? He could be out for a Sunday ride instead of in a warzone with a million men trying to kill each other. The British and French armies were retreating to the south-west, toward Le Cateau, and the German 2nd Army was racing to catch them and finish off what they'd started at Mons. And behind them—he turned and looked back down the deserted road as if to confirm it. There was nothing. It was eerie and unnerving.

He'd expected to see patrols and supply columns following the advancing Germans. He turned back to face the road. The supply convoys would be coming from the north-east, through Mons, and this road was further east and south. There were no armies here. He felt safe and knew how stupid that feeling was, but maybe this wasn't going to be the suicide mission it had looked like. He sniffed. Yes, and that would be a first, a mission being easier than it looked.

He caught up with the men and rode alongside his brother without speaking, his mind still considering the mission and the likely cost. Still, it was quiet now, and he should enjoy it while it lasted. Just for a change things were going well.

Sergeant Gail grunted and rolled backwards off his horse and landed sprawled in the ditch alongside the road.

Gail didn't move.

"Sniper!" Regret shouted, pulled his rifle from its saddle boot and jumped from his horse.

He looked around quickly. Wide open countryside and a hidden sniper. If he didn't find a miracle fast, a lot of good men were going to die on that road. And he had three seconds before the next shot.

### _______________

#

# THE HELLFIRE LEGACY

#

#

#

## HELLFIRE: VOLUME 2

##

### (EPISODE 1)

## The Call

Ethan felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle and knew at once what it meant. He'd felt that warning many times before, first an uneasy sensation, then the increase in awareness to one side and suddenly heightened hearing. The marines call it the warrior sense, but whatever they call it, he never ignored it. He was walking past a furniture store that sold garish sofas to people with no taste, and he stopped to check the street in the window reflection. It was quiet, but at two a.m. it was going to be, in Chicago, in December with temperatures at minus 6, but feeling more like minus 60 in the moaning icy wind.

The warrior sense got worse, and then he saw the black BMW 5 with the smoked windows across the street. It was moving, but no more than walking speed, which was unlikely for a pimp-mobile like that. He walked on, turned as if to cross the street, and confirmed that the BMW was tracking him. He stepped back from the curb and walked on, checking the street for somewhere defensible. About twenty feet ahead was an alley, and he increased his pace a little. Ten feet from the entrance he heard the BMW screech as the driver put his foot down hard. He ran. The BMW wagged its ass, and the driver tried to keep it steady at maximum acceleration. Three more paces. He was going to make it.

Then he saw the kids. Two of them, boys. On skateboards. Right in front of the alley. What the hell were they doing out at this time of night? A stupid question at that precise moment.

He turned, dropped to one knee, and pulled his Sig. The BMW was right on him. An Uzi appeared in the rear window. Ethan put three rounds through the windscreen, right where the driver should be. Problem was, this was an import and the driver was in the right-hand seat. Maybe that was the whole point.

The Uzi opened up, and Ethan threw himself forward in a tight roll, came up onto his knees, and emptied the Sig into the side windows. The Uzi's barrel tilted up and sprayed the furniture store with 9 mm rounds, then fell out of the shattered window and bounced onto the street. The BMW wobbled and took off.

Ethan looked back at the kids and blew out his breath in relief when he saw them standing open-mouthed and clutching their boards as if their lives depended on it.

"Go home, kids," he said and got to his feet.

The kids didn't move. Couldn't move. They just stared at him and then at the submachine gun in the street. Ethan brushed the dirt off his battered suit. "Get!" he shouted.

His cell vibrated in his pocket, and he reached for it, wondering who the hell would be calling him at this time of night. Maybe the drive-by shooters wanted their gun back.

"Master Sergeant Ethan Gill?" It was a female voice, a voice with authority that was used to being answered.

"Who's asking?" said Ethan. He shooed the kids with his other hand, and they took off.

"Please hold for the secretary of the navy," said the voice.

He held. Not to do so would've been rude.

"Ethan?" said SecNav.

"Mister Secretary." Ethan realised he was almost standing to attention and relaxed. He looked up the street at the two black-and-whites screaming around the corner with their lights flashing, stepped back into the alley, and walked away.

"Can you talk?" said SecNav.

"Can now."

"Very well. Can you come to Washington? There's something I'd like you to do for me."

It wasn't a request.

General Prentice Davy didn't wear his uniform when travelling, there were just too many people who wanted to do the military harm, terrorists, fanatics, gun-nuts, and your everyday madmen. He did, however, wear a suit, an immaculate and very expensive suit, and he smoothed it down as he stood on the steps of the Pentagon and waited for his car to negotiate the security gate and pull up in front. He waited a moment for his driver to get out and open the door, but he seemed to be slow today, so he got in.

The Lincoln sedan moved off slowly while General Davy fastened his seatbelt and settled back into the soft leather.

"Is there a problem, Sam?"

The sedan stopped a little short of the exit onto the street, and the driver half twisted in the seat and looked back. "Sam's sick today."

General Davy opened his briefcase. "What's wrong with him?" He almost cared.

"Lead poisoning."

The general looked up and began to form the question, but froze when he saw the silenced gun pointing back from between the seats.

"Nothin' personal," said the driver.

Davy started to move, but it was pure instinct because there was just nowhere to go. The gun coughed twice, and he slumped sideways against the window. Asleep to anyone bothering to look. The driver eased the car slowly into traffic and headed for the airport—the general's original destination, but now just somewhere to dump his body.

A few hours later Ethan strode up the same steps that had been General Davy's last place on earth, and a few seconds after that he stepped through the metal detector in the reception hall, and it screamed. Of course. He sighed tiredly and walked up to the uniformed guard getting ready to pat him down with a wand. He waited patiently for him to find the Sig in his belt holster. The wand beeped rapidly. And, there you go.

The guard flipped open Ethan's jacket with the wand and looked at him like he was an idiot child. This is the Pentagon, and military types tend to forget that their hardware is in their pockets, under their armpits, or stuck in their belts. You'd think with all that training and expensive education—

Ethan took out his pistol and handed it to the guard with his thumb and forefinger, just in case. The guard took it, gave him a long, dirty look just because he could, and put the weapon on the security desk.

"Don't I get a receipt?" Ethan asked, just to press the little prick's button.

The guard looked from him to the gun, now being removed from sight by an overweight guy in a smart uniform. "Why? Don't you recognize your own weapon?"

"Yes, but now your boss has it." The fat guy wasn't his boss, he could see that, but—

"He is not my boss," the guard said, clearly irritated by this scruffy man.

"My mistake," said Ethan, smiling and heading off across the lobby to the elevators.

He stepped out of the elevator and was face to face with the woman who had told him to hold the phone in the middle of the night. Last night. So yet another day starts without sleep. He thought that was over when he retired from the marines, but here he was, jumping when ordered. And bad-tempered. He'd tried to sleep on the short flight down, but there were babies, and they were in the seat behind his. Of course they were.

"Please come this way, Mister Gill," the PA said and walked away towards the highly polished wooden doors. Closed.

Ethan thought about getting back into the elevator and finding a bar. He wasn't in the marines any more so didn't have to put up with being treated like hired help. He'd been shot at, caught a plane in the middle of the night, skipped his morning coffee, and here was this woman telling him to do this, do that—

She was watching him quietly and holding open one of the big doors. And there was SecNav, his eyebrows raised in a patient expression. Clearly forced.

Gill strode forward. Quickly.

"Mister Secretary," he said, extending his hand. "It's been a while."

"It has, Ethan." He looked him over. "Given up your uniform and started dressing like a bum, I see."

Now that was rude. Ethan looked down at his wrinkled blue raincoat and the off-the-peg suit that he'd been wearing when he'd rolled on the sidewalk. But that was to avoid some very annoying bullets.

"Disguise," he said.

"Trust me," SecNav said, "it's working." He waved him towards one of the ten chairs pushed under the oval, beech conference table and put down the folder he was holding. It didn't have Top Secret written on it, but in the Pentagon just about everything was top secret.

Ethan pulled out the chair and sat. He wondered why they were in a conference room instead of SecNav's office. But he didn't wonder much. He could wait.

SecNav pulled out the chair opposite Ethan, and they sat at the huge, empty table like two people who thought Christmas lunch was in April.

"Okay," said SecNav, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, "you'll be wondering why I asked you here."

Ethan shrugged. "Not really, I thought you were just missing me."

SecNav laughed, but cut it short. "What I am about to tell you doesn't leave this room."

Ethan said nothing.

"Three days ago, marine Brigadier General Tyrone D. Harper was shot dead as he left a diner in Atlanta." SecNav waited for a response.

"Met him a couple of times down in Fort Benning. Good officer," said Ethan, and that was enough to say it all.

"He was in civvies, so we thought it was just a mugging gone wrong." He reached over and took one of the bottles of water from the middle of the table and raised it at Ethan, who shook his head. He poured himself a glass and took a tiny sip. "It wasn't a mugging."

That was supposed to get a rise out of Ethan. It failed. He'd already come to that conclusion. Why else would he be here talking about it?

"Terrorist?"

SecNav put down his glass. "If it was, it was the sloppiest terrorist attack ever. Couple of street kids put two .38 rounds into his chest, stole his wallet, and ran in front of an APD patrol car. Still waving the pistol around." He shook his head. "The cops shot them to doll-rags. Which was a pity."

"Yes, it would have been nice to ask them why they shot the general."

SecNav looked at him steadily. He decided he was serious. "Yes, that would have been useful."

"But..." said Ethan.

SecNav raised his eyebrows.

"There's a but," said Ethan. "Otherwise you would have just put NCIS onto it. But I'm here. So there's a but."

SecNav smiled. "Yes, there's a but." He opened the folder, took out a white page, and slid it across the table.

Ethan turned it to face him and scanned the text. He looked up. "You believe this?"

"I don't know what I believe, but if it's true, and God knows it's scary enough to be. Well..." He shrugged.

Ethan read the page again. "Al Qaeda is going to kill ten generals to prove the Americans cannot even protect their own." He shook his head at the melodrama. Typical of the men he'd hunted. All mouth. He looked up. "Assuming it is true and an Al Qaeda terrorist is going on a killing spree of US generals, then you need to contact Homeland Security and bring in the FBI." It was pretty obvious.

"General Harper was one of ours, so it's my problem. And what if I'm wrong, and this note is just a hoax?" He shook his head slowly. "The other agencies will make sure everybody is looking at us. Like picking on the fat kid in the schoolyard, you know?"

Ethan knew. Make sure everybody is taunting the fat kid, and they'll leave you alone.

"So what can I do for you, sir?"

"I want you to poke around. See what you can find. Tell nobody about this, but determine if this threat is genuine." He pointed at the paper on the table.

"Why me?" Ethan brushed at his wrinkled jacket, conscious now of how shabby it was. "You've got a whole corps of people to call on."

"Nobody I can think of is better equipped for this than you." He waved Ethan silent. He wasn't going to speak. "Twelve years as a military policeman—exemplary record—then seven years Special Operations." He shrugged. "An extension of the police role, really. Examining evidence, following clues, finding people. Only difference being—"

"I shot them instead of arresting them." Ethan looked past SecNav at the framed photographs of warships. "Cuts down the paperwork."

"Quite. What I want is—"

The conference room door opened, and the PA walked quickly over and leaned close to SecNav and whispered. Ethan could hear her clearly; there was nothing wrong with his hearing, what was shot was his—

"Thank you, Collette." SecNav waited for her to leave and then took a long breath. "Army General Davy has been shot."

Ethan had met the man. A bit of a prig, but as brave as a two-star general could get. "Looks like the threat is playing out." He pushed the paper back across the table. "Time to call the FBI."

SecNav nodded slowly as he thought about it. "Okay," he said quietly. "But I still want you to investigate this. On the QT."

Ethan tilted his head questioningly. "You're the boss, but I think the FBI will have something to say about me stamping all over their case."

"Don't stamp." SecNav put the paper back into the folder. "We need to move quickly on this. Federal agencies don't move quickly. It's not in their nature."

"Copy that."

SecNav stood and looked Ethan over. He didn't like what he saw, that was clear. "Buy some new clothes. And get a shave."

Ethan smiled. "Sounds like an order."

"That's because it is. Welcome back to the marines, Master Sergeant Gill."

Ethan swore under his breath. Two years out, and recalled. Great. Okay, he was overreacting, he knew that. This was a temporary call-up, just until the terrorist or terrorists got caught. Or all the generals got killed.

Back in the marines, but secretly he had to admit he liked the idea. And he'd get paid, which would be a novelty these days. He stood up and pushed the chair back under the table.

"I'll need everything you have on the assassinations."

"That won't be difficult," said SecNav, and dropped the file back onto the table. "One more thing." He started for the door, with a clear indication to follow.

Ethan picked up the file and followed him out of the conference room, down several corridors, a flight of stairs, and through more big doors. Then he was in SecNav's office. It wasn't what he'd expected, because it was smaller, much smaller. A round, inlaid coffee table occupied the middle of the office, and a stitched leather sofa and chairs the remainder. With just enough space for a polished teak desk and chair by the window. He looked around and thought if this was the best the head of the navy could look forward to, then a Master Sergeant was just going to get a hole in the ground. Which in Ethan's case was likely to be literally true. He shrugged it off. A man can only sit on one seat at a time, so this office was fine.

What was also fine was the woman sitting in one of the leather arm chairs. Mid-thirties, short auburn hair that said military, and a toned body beneath an immaculate grey business suit.

She waited for him to finish checking her out. It's what men always did. She returned the compliment and moved up from his scuffed tan desert boots to his blue suit pants, with the mud from the sidewalk still on the knees. An interesting colour combination. The jacket she just glanced at. A person can only take so much. She stopped at his face and raised an eyebrow. Not bad. A bit chipped from too much warfare, but good lines, and dark brown eyes that had wrinkles from laughter or from too much desert sun. His dark hair had a generous proportion of grey, but that was okay. Even if its length wasn't. He would probably be presentable when he got cleaned up.

"Kelsey Lyle, meet Ethan Gill." SecNav was smiling. He'd seen the way Kelsey had disapproved of his choice, until she met his eyes. If nothing else, he was a shrewd judge of character, and no mean matchmaker. Or so his wife would say, if she was still speaking to him. Water under the bridge.

Ethan stepped up to the armchair and extended a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Kelsey." And he was.

She looked at his hand for several seconds, to make sure it was cleaner than the rest of him. Satisfied by the spotless and well-manicured nails, she shook his hand.

"Kelsey is my NCIS special agent on this case," SecNav explained before Ethan asked. "She is also the liaison with the FBI." He smiled. "Yes, they have been informed and are on their way. Very efficient of them." The smile dropped. "And Kelsey will be your channel to me."

"I work alone."

"Not on this one you don't," said SecNav, and his tone showed he meant it. "This is too close to home and could just blow up in my face."

Ethan nodded. "Understood." He sat on the leather sofa and leaned back. "So, Kelsey, what do we know?"

She threw a quick glance at SecNav and got a nod in response. Ethan saw it and smiled.

"What we have," said Kelsey, sitting up and leaning forward a little, "are two dead generals. One marine brigadier and one army three-star." She pointed at the folder Ethan was holding. "And I see you've got the anonymous note."

Ethan opened the file and slid out the paper. "Not much. Al Qaeda says it's going to kill our generals." He put the note on top of the file. "Or that's what somebody would have us believe."

Kelsey frowned. "You think it's a hoax?"

"God, no. But I never believe anything anybody tells me until I see proof."

"Works for me."

He liked this woman with those deep green eyes. He liked anyone with good common sense.

"So far," Kelsey continued, "we have next to nothing. General Harper was gunned down outside a diner—"

"SecNav brought me up to speed on that one," Ethan interrupted. "What've we got on General Davy's killing?"

"Precious little," said Kelsey. "Uniforms found his body in his car at the airport. Right out in plain sight. Shot twice in the chest at close range. Probably from the driver's seat."

"And his driver?"

Kelsey was silent for a beat. "Missing. But we have to assume the worst."

"Safe assumption," said Ethan, a little callously, but combat will do that to a man. "So Al Qaeda—"

"Or someone pretending to be Al Qaeda," Kelsey interjected.

Ethan nodded slowly. "One marine, one army. I'm not a betting man, but I'd say they'll go after navy next. Probably an admiral. Just to keep things balanced."

"There are more than two hundred admirals serving in the navy right now," SecNav informed them.

"Then they have a lot to choose from," Kelsey added.

"We need to narrow down the field," said Ethan, standing and pacing the office. Two steps each way. He gave up and sat again. "They'll want a four-star to get the biggest buzz."

"How many?" Kelsey asked.

"Active? Nine," SecNav said. "But a terrorist is going to find it tough to get to them, really tough now that security is ramped up to maximum."

Ethan made a pyramid with his fingertips and put them on his lips. "We can't watch them all the time," he said after a moment. "Do the dead generals have anything in common?"

Kelsey shook her head. "Nothing that I can find, but Davy's assassination has only just been reported, so I haven't had time to check his history and contacts." She saw Ethan's look. "I'll get on that."

"Thanks," said Ethan. "Three days between hits, so far." He made the pyramid again. "But with a sample of two, that's not very telling."

"There's you," said SecNav.

Ethan frowned, then got it. "Yes, I did know them both. But I have an alibi." He stood up ready to leave. "I need to see Davy's car."

"The FBI will have it," said SecNav, caught Ethan's look and nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

"FBI have a lead," said Kelsey.

"And you were going to tell me this, when?" Ethan was irritated, but a night without sleep will do that.

She shrugged. "I was waiting to see if I can trust you."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said with a smile. "First impressions aren't great, you know?"

He knew.

"There's a two-man terrorist team that fits the profile for this." She waited for him to react. He didn't. "Naser Alzesh and Mahmoud Faraj arrived in this country five weeks ago from Pakistan and then dropped off the grid. Alzesh is a person of interest in the assassination of a high-ranking Pakistani politician. Faraj ambushed an Afghan-led patrol in Helmand and killed a dozen Afghanis and four marines."

"And they walked in through JFK?" Ethan's tone showed he was not impressed.

"The FBI let them in," said SecNav, a little embarrassed but without reason. "They believed they could manage them and they would lead them to bigger fish."

"They were wrong," said Ethan.

"Evidently," said SecNav, a little testily.

"Okay, it's done," said Ethan. "Have we any idea where they are or what they're up to?"

SecNav shifted uncomfortably. "Homeland Security believe they're here to avenge Bin Laden's death."

"Oh, great." Ethan let it go. "I'll reach out to my contacts in Afghanistan and see if there's anything buzzing about these two or a whisper about a revenge attack." He crossed to the door, stopped and turned. "If you hear anything," he said to Kelsey, "you let me know. It doesn't matter how unimportant it might seem. Okay?"

"I've done this sort of work before." Her cheeks reddened just a little.

"Sorry," said Ethan. "I'm used to dealing with numb-nut... with marines."

"I'll keep you in the loop," she said, satisfied. "When there's a loop to keep you in."

"Okay, do that," said Ethan and left.

He collected his Sig from the security desk and smiled at the scowling security guard. It costs nothing to be nice.

Back on the steps, he stopped and looked up at the dark December sky that pretty much reflected how he felt. So, the first order of business was to get some food, get a hotel, and get some damned sleep before he smacked somebody for just looking at him.

Like so many great ideas, it came to him while he was sleeping. Give up this stupid mission and retire to Florida. He sat up in bed and leaned against the padded headboard. If only.

He was back in the marines. He'd accepted SecNav's offer, and even if it wasn't on paper, it was his word. So, no Florida.

He thought about calling room service for some coffee, but decided he'd head out and find a diner for lunch, or dinner, or whatever the hell meal time it was right then. And he'd get a haircut and some new clothes. Question was, would his cash stretch? He remembered the credit card that was tucked into the back of his wallet, unused. Maybe it was still valid, but it had been a while. Credit cards leave a paper trail, and seven years in Special Ops teaches a man to minimize his footprint.

He showered, shaved, and dressed in his shabby suit before leaving the hotel. It was late afternoon, and the city was busy with people heading out, or heading in. Whatever. First stop, coffee. A man can die from lack of coffee.

When he returned to his hotel two hours later, he was a different man. He'd bought a new dark grey suit that actually fitted him and a pale blue polo shirt and white vest. He'd been tempted by desert sand Nike Air Force sneakers—because he liked the irony—but went with sensible polished black lace-ups. With his hair clippered back to high and tight, he finally felt he was back in the world.

When he'd left the marines, he'd decided to see the country he'd been fighting for so took his '98 Chevy Tahoe and headed out of Camp Lejeune for the last time. West through Tennessee and the Mississippi Delta, the cradle of the Civil War. It was an amazing feeling to have nowhere to go, nobody expecting anything, and nobody to save. That was two years ago. And the novelty had worn off.

Twenty-three months ago. Trouble had found him quicker than a grizzly finds a beehive. He ran afoul of the New Orleans Police Department within a day of arriving. Some kid-cop resented him stepping in to stop him beating an old black guy with his baton. And to prove no good deed goes unpunished, it got him a night in the cells, and some bruises. The old black guy had said thanks, though. So that was okay. He didn't blame the NOPD, because some cops are just like that. Some people are just like that. And cops are people. Strange how many times something like that had happened in the last couple of years, though. Maybe he was just unlucky. Except he knew it was because he wouldn't just walk by and let something bad go down. What is it they say about all it takes for evil to triumph? He didn't see himself as a Good Man, but he wouldn't just stand by and do nothing; it wasn't in his nature. So he got into trouble. And that was in his nature.

He ate at a little Italian restaurant down the block from the hotel, because who eats in a hotel when they don't have to? The small, round tables were shoulder to shoulder, but at six o'clock, there were only two other people in the place. He ordered tomato and basil bruschetta, followed by spaghetti carbonara, cooked with just pancetta, garlic, olive oil, and Parmigiano cheese. He was a bit suspicious of the frugality of the meal, which lacked the usual mushrooms, chicken, onion, zucchini, and Canadian bacon that was a true American pasta dish. It was truly delicious, and he ate it hungrily. The waiter brought him an espresso coffee to finish, and that, by contrast, was truly gross. He remembered why he hated the thick, black stuff as soon as he sipped it and it strangled his taste buds.

He was about to order a real coffee in a mug when his cell phone intruded. He fished it out and raised a hand to cancel the signal to the waiter.

"We can see the car," Kelsey said. "But it has to be tonight. Now. Can you do that?"

He caught the waiter's eye and mimicked writing on his palm. With the bill on its way, he put the phone back to his ear. "Can you pick me up at my hotel in say—" He looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes?"

"Yes," she said, but sounded a little reticent. "Are you still wearing that suit?"

He smiled. "No, I bought a nice new one."

"Thank god for that or we'd be arrested at the FBI's door."

"We'll be fine. They'll love the electric blue jacket and burgundy pants." As he ended the call, he just caught the sound of Kelsey's gasp. And smiled.

She was ten minutes late. The cross-town traffic had been murder. He saw her black SUV pull up in front of the hotel, but stayed inside for a minute, just to worry her about being late, and his suit. He stepped out of the automatic doors and saw her look of relief by the dim interior light.

"You think that was funny, don't you?" she scolded as he climbed into the passenger seat. She looked at his smart suit. "Couldn't stretch to a tie, I see."

He straightened the polo shirt collar. "Don't want to overdo it."

She risked looking down at his feet and sighed in relief at the sight of the brogues.

He smiled at the thought of the Nike sneakers. Still, it was a pity because they were cool. And everybody knows khaki and blue go together stylishly. He looked ahead at the unchanging road. "Shouldn't we be moving? If we're going someplace."

She jumped a little and snapped out of whatever was in her head. "We're going. I was just waiting for you to put your seat belt on."

That was a lie, but he let it go and snapped the seat belt buckle with a flourish. "So, where is the car?"

"Well, it isn't here," she said with a flick of her head. "FBI lab on Pennsylvania Avenue."

"Hey, that's where the White House is. Cool, I've never seen it." He sounded like a kid on a school trip. "Is it far? I could do with a nap."

"Go ahead," she said, pushing into traffic. "It'll take us fifteen, twenty minutes."

"Thanks." He leaned on the side window.

She glanced at him and shook her head. "I was kidding, you know that?"

She was talking to herself; he'd gone to sleep instantly, even though he'd slept most of the day. It was a soldier thing to sleep when you can. She stared ahead into the traffic and smiled. He was okay, which surprised her, as she'd met a few ex-military men and mostly they were posturing bullies with an inflated idea of their own ability, both in life and in combat. She wondered if that was being a bit harsh, as the samples she'd met had come from Special Ops, and arrogance was pretty much a prerequisite for that role. She glanced at Ethan sleeping quietly. Maybe he'd revert when he settled in. She hoped not.

He woke up the moment she pulled into the visitors' parking and switched off the ignition. He stretched and flexed his shoulders as if he'd been sleeping for hours. "This it?"

She glanced at him. "No, I thought we'd stop off for a Big Mac en route. Keep the FBI waiting."

"You go ahead," he said with a suppressed smile. "I've eaten."

She sighed heavily, got out of the car, and slammed the door in a display of annoyance she didn't feel. She led the way out of the parking garage, down 9th Street and into the J. Edgar Hoover Building through the unimpressive revolving doors. They passed through the ubiquitous metal detector and handed over their weapons, as usual. Then they waited for the special agent in charge. And waited.

He let them sit for twenty minutes, to show how important he was. And how they weren't. The prick.

Ethan read a magazine and drank coffee from a plastic cup. After sitting in a hole in the Afghan desert, this was nothing. And it gave him time to think things through, now that he was no longer sleep-deprived.

Something didn't gel, but he couldn't get it to the surface, so decided to let it rise at its own speed. Something he'd done many times before. Push all the puzzles into his subconscious and let it work them out while he got on with his day job.

The special agent in charge arrived. Ethan could tell it was him because he spent time talking bullshit to the security guards. His opinion of the man hadn't changed. He finished his nonsense and strode over. His white shirt was immaculate. His tie was perfect. His shoes were shiny enough to be military. Yes, this would be the special agent in charge.

Kelsey stood. Ethan stayed seated and finished his coffee while the man glared at him. He folded the magazine and put it back on the table between the seats, stood up, and brushed down his suit. When he was ready, he looked at the agent and smiled.

"You must be the agent in charge?" he said, extending his hand.

The agent looked at the hand, then at Ethan, and back at the hand before taking it and shaking it once. "I am Special Agent Timothy Dryer. And yes, I am the agent in charge."

Well, good for you, Spanky, thought Ethan, but kept it to himself.

"This is Master Sergeant Ethan Gill," said Kelsey quickly, just in case. "And I am—"

"Yes," said Dryer sharply. "I know who you are. Follow me." He turned and strode off along the corridor.

Ethan looked at Kelsey, smiled and raised his eyebrows. He waved her ahead with a low swing of his hand. She sighed heavily and followed Dryer, who was holding open a security door and waiting, impatiently.

Ethan followed them into the elevator and then down another corridor and through several fire doors. He was just beginning to think the agent in charge was walking them round the building just to piss them off when he stopped and pushed open a door into a room with enough electronics to keep a geek happy for a lifetime.

"Lisa will show you what you need," said Dryer, ushering them into the room. "I'm late for a meeting." He left without a backward glance.

Lisa watched the door swing shut and shook her head sadly. "Dryer can be a..." She caught herself. "Now, you're here to see the analysis results from the general's assassination."

Ethan frowned. "No," he said. "We're here to see the car."

"Oh," said Lisa, and looked around as if she expected to see the car in the lab.

Kelsey picked it up without a pause. "That's okay, Lisa. You lead the way, and we'll follow."

They could see she was uncomfortable exceeding her orders but that she was thinking of doing it anyway.

Ethan opened the door and smiled nicely. "Ground floor, is it?" As if a car would be anywhere else—the roof maybe.

"Yes," said Lisa.

The grey Lincoln MKZ sedan was in the basement garage, as it should be. Lisa was over her indecision and led the way across the empty parking bays to the side of the vehicle. "The shooter fired between the seats."

"He would," said Ethan, leaning into the vehicle's nearside rear door. "Less risk of the weapon being seen from outside." He ignored the blood on the leatherwork and leaned forward to examine the two holes in the seat back. "Did you recover the bullets?"

Lisa shook her head, realised he couldn't see her, and spoke to Kelsey. "No. They passed straight through the victim and exited through the trunk, missing the real driver's body."

"The general's driver was in the trunk?" Kelsey said and walked round to the rear.

"Yes. Shot once in the heart. Looks like the same weapon."

Ethan pushed himself out of the car and joined Kelsey. He opened the trunk. "Did you find that slug?"

"No. It appears to be a through and through."

"Has Agent in Charge Dryer ordered a search?" he asked.

She looked a little uncomfortable again. Maybe because she didn't want to talk out of school. Though he suspected it was embarrassment. He was right.

"Special Agent Dryer said there's no way we're ever going to find the bullets, as the shooting could have occurred anywhere between the Pentagon and Dulles Airport."

Ethan and Kelsey exchanged looks but said nothing.

Ethan put his finger over the hole made by one of the bullets leaving the vehicle's trunk. "Nine mil."

Kelsey looked surprised. "A nine mil? It passed through the victim's body, the seat back, and the metal trunk. I don't think a nine mil would do that."

Ethan smiled and headed for the garage exit but stopped when the others stayed where they were. "Lisa is going to show us the results of her analysis. Right?"

Lisa gave a little start and walked towards the door. "Yes, of course. That was what Dryer—Special Agent Dryer asked me to do."

"Then let's do that," said Ethan, holding open the door for them to pass.

The analysis was thin. Powder burns on the sides of the sedan's front seats showed that the handgun had been fired from there. Two holes in the general and the seat specified the number of shots. And... and that was about it. No fingerprints, no DNA, no wallet accidentally dropped by the shooter. Nothing.

Lisa walked them back to the foyer, and they thanked her and crossed to the desk to hand in their ID badges.

"Have you got a metal detector among all that electronics?" Ethan called after her as she began to return to her bat-cave.

She stopped and looked back, frowning. "I think so, yes. Why?"

Ethan smiled. "Do yourself a favor and check the batteries," he said and headed for the revolving door, with Kelsey racing to catch up.

They walked back to the garage parking without speaking, as Kelsey thought through what they had seen. She waited until she pulled the car back onto the street before she asked the question.

Ethan glanced at her, and tried not to look at her body, but it was tough. He changed the subject in his head. "Can we go back to the Pentagon?"

She looked back, and tried not to look at his body, but it was tough. She didn't ask the question, because he would tell her when he was good and ready.

Back at the Pentagon, they went down to the security office and asked to see the surveillance tapes for the day. The security officer was polite and helpful, so was probably new, retiring soon, or sick. He did look past Ethan at Kelsey and mouthed the word, "Tapes?"

"Master Sergeant Gill hasn't caught up with the digital age, Tony," said Kelsey.

Ethan ignored the slight and pointed at the wall of monitors. "Can you rewind to the time General Davy left for the last time?"

"Yes," said Tony, sitting back at one of his keyboards. "Nine fifteen." Two seconds later, and no whirring tape reels, he froze the image. "There it is."

Ethan leaned towards the monitor and the image of the Lincoln waiting at the roadside. "Can you zoom in on the driver's window?"

"Can open it for you, if you like," said Tony, and the sedan's side window filled the monitor. "Tinted glass."

"Yes, I noticed back at the garage," said Ethan. "Just hoped he'd left it open. But that would have been too sloppy, even for this guy."

Kelsey caught the implication. "You think he was sloppy?"

Ethan pointed at the monitor and made winding movements with his hand. "Fast forward, but slowly," he asked.

Tony glanced at him, but decided a technical explanation of the CCTV system would be like teaching a monkey to type. He stepped the image forward frame by frame.

After a few seconds, Ethan saw what he needed. "Hold it there."

Tony looked back over his shoulder. "See something?"

Kelsey leaned forward towards the monitor and squinted, but could see only the sedan, stationary a little short of the road. "What is it?"

Ethan avoided the line from the Airplane movie and spoke to Tony. "Wind back a little and let it run at normal speed."

Tony did as he was asked, and the Lincoln ran backwards, stopped, and moved forward. Then it stopped. Ethan took a long breath, and Kelsey and Tony looked over their shoulders from the monitor. What?

The Lincoln moved off again at normal speed.

"Okay, wind it back to when it was stopped," said Ethan.

The sedan ran backwards and stopped.

"Make it bigger," said Ethan, leaning his hands on the back of Tony's chair. "There. Enlarge that." He pointed at the car's trunk.

A moment later they were staring at a single hole in the polished bodywork.

"Go forward," said Ethan. "Very slowly."

The image changed to another frame, and another. Then the third, and this one showed a hole where there hadn't been one before.

"Okay," said Ethan, straightening up. "We know where the general was shot." He looked at Kelsey. "And we know where the bullets are. Can you ask the agent in charge to get some crime scene investigators down there?" He winked. "They'll need a metal detector."

Kelsey grinned. "It will be my pleasure."

At nine thirty the next morning, after a restful night's sleep, Ethan and Kelsey were back at the FBI lab, and Special Agent Dryer was as nice as pie, wishing them good morning and offering them coffee and doughnuts. What a nice guy.

Ethan refused the doughnuts but took the coffee. Kelsey refused both, taking a bottle of mineral water instead. Coffee makes for bad breath. They followed Dryer past Lisa's lab and into a cramped but expensively furnished office. Dryer's office. Dryer sat in the ergo mesh seat, leaving Ethan and Kelsey to fight over the visitor's chair, leather and elegant, but too big for the small office. Ethan sat on the corner of Dryer's desk and watched him force a smile through gritted teeth.

Kelsey got down to it before the situation got any worse. "Did your people find the bullets?"

Of course they did.

"Yes, our agents found two rounds very quickly," Dryer said, a little smugly.

"Having their location pointed out must have helped a little," Ethan added, just to rattle his chain. He let it go at that. For now. Dryer was about to speak, but Ethan cut in. "Nine mil with a tempered steel core." He saw Dryer's look of surprise. "7N21 armour-piercing round. Probably from a Russian MP-443 Grach."

"Impressive," said Kelsey. "But how do you know?"

"He doesn't," said Dryer sourly. "He's just guessing."

Ethan shrugged. "The Grach Rook is the standard issue for the Russian military and law enforcement agencies, so you can pick one up for a bottle of vodka and a dollar."

"Still doesn't make it our murder weapon," said Dryer.

"Maybe not," said Ethan, finally getting off Dryer's desk. "But it makes it a contender and gets my vote."

"There are other handguns that use the 7N21 round," said Dryer.

"Yes," said Ethan, "the Russian GSh-18." He waited for Dryer to make some smart comment.

"You can't get one of those in the US," Dryer said with a slow shake of his head. "There's a BATF trade ban on their import."

"Oh, that's okay, then," said Ethan. "We can discount them, because they're illegal." He leaned on the back of Kelsey's chair and smiled nicely. "The point is," he said when Dryer had squirmed enough. "We have two dead generals. General Harper was shot by a couple of kids with a junk thirty-eight, and General Davy was executed by an expensive automatic firing armour-piercing ammo." He waited for some input.

"It could just be a coincidence," said Dryer. "It doesn't make sense that these two killings are linked."

"Hell of a coincidence," said Kelsey. "Two generals shot to death in the space of a week." She shook her head. "No, I agree with Ethan. Somebody is hiring gang-bangers to muddy up our investigation."

Dryer tapped his fingers on his desktop as he thought it through. "Then, if you're correct, and I'm not saying I agree with your conclusions, but if you are, then it has to be Naser Alzesh and Mahmoud Faraj hiring these shooters to do their dirty work."

"Not likely," said Ethan. He caught Dryer's puzzled look. "These boys do their own killing. They like it. Getting some idiots to do the fun part isn't their M.O."

"Then you're saying it is a coincidence?" said Dryer.

"What I'm saying is right now I don't know what the hell is going on," said Ethan.

"Then," said Dryer, "we finally agree on something."

Before Ethan could work out if that was a crack or not, Dryer stood and looked past him through the glass door. "Ah, I believe you've already met one of our senior analysts."

Ethan turned as the door opened. "Teddy!" he said, stepped forward and put out his hand.

The man smiled broadly and shook the offered hand. "Ethan, I thought you were dead."

Ethan chuckled. "I've come close a few times, but nobody has won the cuddly bunny."

"Yes, I heard about the drive-by in Chicago. It was that close?"

"Didn't need to shave that day," said Ethan. "And it wasn't a drive-by." He let it go at that and looked down at Kelsey. "You won't believe that this crinkly old guy served with me in Iraq. Teddy was the best intelligence analyst in the corps. Or so he said."

"That much is true," said Dryer. "It's why he now works for the FBI."

"Keeps him out of trouble," said Ethan. "And that was something I never managed to do. Him nor his boy." His smile faded.

"Your son is a marine too?" Kelsey asked, surprised.

"Yeah, he was the best," said Teddy. "Served with Master Sergeant Gill here in Special Ops."

"Wow!" said Kelsey. "Two generations ruined by one man."

Nobody smiled, which was a surprise. She got it. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said Teddy. "He died protecting the country he loved. I couldn't be more proud of him."

"He was a great marine," said Ethan. "And a better human being than I'll ever be. He saved us all that day." He put his hand on Teddy's shoulder. "I think about him every single day."

"Hey, lighten up," said Teddy. "He's up there laughing at us being all sorry and stupid."

"I stopped in at Arlington to pay my respects," said Ethan. "Everything was shipshape, just like Eli liked it."

"Hey, I think you've mixed him up with somebody else," Teddy said with a real grin. "Eli was a train wreck kept in shape by the marines. Nobody could accuse him of being tidy when he didn't have to be."

Ethan laughed. "Copy that."

"If we're done here," said Dryer, "I have a pile of paperwork to fill in on this case. Unless you'd like to stay and help?"

It was a textbook example of an orderly retreat, and the three of them exited the small office in perfect formation.

Christian Carter strode into the foyer of Senator Wakeman's congressional office and up the marble steps with a real spring in his step. This was it. This was the meeting that was going to put his company in the big league. Wakeman was on the military procurement subcommittee and a key supporter of the Christian Diem Corporation's bid to supply IED Early Detection Systems to the military.

Melissa Bates saw him heading down the wide corridor with a broad smile on his tanned face, and her heart sank. She wanted him to get good news today, to keep the smile that lit up his face, but it wasn't going to be. He was gorgeous. Six-five, dark and slim, with overlong hair swept back in waves off his face. He had eyes that were so dark, it was impossible to distinguish the pupils, but they flashed with laughter and mischief, even when his face was serious. He had long legs and a spring in his walk that told of super-fitness. A happy, sporting man, with looks that a movie star would die for. Or so she saw him. Others might have seen something a little more sinister, more unnerving.

He stepped up to her desk, put his manicured hands flat on its surface, and leaned forward. "Good morning, Melissa. And how are you this fine day?"

She couldn't believe he knew her name, and had to check herself to make sure her mouth wasn't open like a stupid kid's. "I'm fine, thank you." Okay, her voice was steady, thank God.

Melissa wasn't comfortable with men, or women, or kids for that matter, which was odd as she was the senator's administrative assistant and her key role was interacting with people. And keeping the unsavory ones at arm's length. But that was her professional role, and she could hide behind her title. Personal relationships, well... what are they? She'd had relationships, of course, but that was when she was young, before her father died and her mother fell apart.

It had been a few days after her twentieth birthday when her father complained of feeling ill during dinner, fell off his chair and died. Just like that. People say that's the best way to go, no suffering. But going that way puts all the suffering on the people left behind. He was sixty-three when he died, and her life ended.

It didn't just stop. At first, she really believed they would get through it, but her mother just came apart over the next weeks. She stopped talking, she stopped eating, and would explode at the smallest thing, smashing crockery, kicking the fridge, and lashing out at Melissa. Until one day, maybe four weeks after her father died and two days after they put him in the ground on that Tuesday morning in the torrential rain, she came home from her job at the diner and found her mother sitting in the big armchair as still as death. The doctor said she'd shut down from the pain of loss and would recover in time. But she hadn't, and the shutdown had mutated into Alzheimer's or senility, which one she couldn't say, because the doctor had stopped coming around when she couldn't pay his bills.

Melissa stayed with the job at the diner that she'd taken temporarily while her mother had grieved for her husband. But now it was permanent, and any thought of moving to the city and starting her life was parked. And remained parked for sixteen years.

She washed clothes and bathed her angry mother while her friends settled down, got married, had kids, a house, and a life. They called her Poor Melissa, but were glad it wasn't them. It somehow made it easier that she'd been so popular at school, a sort of balancing of the books. But it was a shame, and they all said so.

Her mother would have what they ironically called 'lucid moments', when she would recognize her daughter enough to call her a tramp and a slut, and threaten to haunt her from hell if she even thought about putting her in a home. The people across the street would keep a lookout during the day and put her back in the house when she wandered outside. But at night she was Melissa's duty and burden. She'd loved her mother, but she no longer recognised this monster that slowly bled away her life.

On Christmas Eve, with It's a Wonderful Life playing on the TV, the old woman opened her eyes, smiled at her daughter, and died. Melissa wept for her mother, but also for the relief of it.

She buried her in the graveyard of the Catholic church she'd never attended. The priest had asked the Lord to unite them again as one family while Melissa begged the Lord to do no such thing. Then he'd walked away, and she was alone at the graveside, crying tears for her mother she had lost so many years ago, years that had not been kind to her. Thirty-six now, and tired. She'd taken everything life had thrown at her, but some of it had stuck. She was too thin, from the stress, but also because she hadn't had the energy to eat. Her superbly boned features that had turned so many boys' heads in high school now looked haggard and worn. And her once tanned and lovely skin was now pale and lined around eyes that had lost their light and become dead and dark-rimmed.

The bank took the house for the mortgage, and she threw everything else into the trash. Then bought a ticket on the first bus out of town, closed her eyes, and didn't open them again until the town was a memory.

The bus terminated in Washington, and she walked out of the bus station into a new life. It had been easy, though anything would have been easy compared with where she'd come from. She worked at another diner for a year and half while she got her degree in business studies. Long days at the counter and long nights with the books, but she'd loved every free moment of it. Without the weight of her mother dragging on her, she blossomed a little. Put on some weight in the right places, and got a little sun on her skin. But sun and a few good meals cannot undo the attrition of sixteen years. She would look at herself in the full-length mirror and cry a little while her mind overlaid the girl she had been on the prematurely middle-aged woman that looked back at her.

She'd got the first office job she'd applied for and never knew she'd been chosen above the other applicants because of the way she looked; since all she would have in her life was work, she was a good bet. And they'd been right, but she'd liked working at the congressional offices, and over the next five years, rose up the ranks until now she was chief of staff. So that was a fair exchange, a good job, big income, power. In exchange for a life. And love. Sometimes, in the small hours, the loneliness crashed over her like a black wave and her breath would catch in her throat, suffocating her. Filling the future with nothing but blackness, sadness, and a death that would leave not even a small hole in the lives of the people who smiled at her at work and pretended they knew her. But she could dream.

She stood up from the comfortable chair where she had been waiting for Christian Carter and led him to the senator's office, closing the door quietly after he'd entered. She was sorry it was going to be such bad news. She liked him, and that was unusual. She could have just returned to her desk and got on with the day, but instead sat back in one of the chairs arranged around the glass coffee table, and waited.

Christian Carter stepped up to the senator's desk and put out his hand. "Senator, it is good of you to see me."

Senator Wakeman was a big man. Well over six foot and his body filled out the white shirt under the red braces equally in all directions, straining the fine silk to its tolerance point. His hair was too perfect to be real and had a gloss that had gone out of fashion about the time Elvis died. But he had a good face that radiated sincerity and friendly charm—an absolute prerequisite for any politician.

He half rose from his big, leather seat and smiled the vote-winning smile. "Christian, so good to see you again." He sat back down and the smile vanished. "Bad news, I'm afraid," he said, getting to the spike as quickly as possible, as experience had taught him to do. "There's going to be a delay in the decision." He waved at the chair in front of his desk.

Christian sat down heavily and fought to mask his disappointment and anger. "That is bad news, Senator. Is there anything I can do?"

Wakeman shook his head, and his jowls wobbled gently. "I'm afraid not, Christian." He leaned forward, his man-breasts resting on the desktop. "You'll have heard about this business with General Davy?"

"Yes, assassinated by terrorists. Tragic affair."

"Quite. General Davy was providing expert military input into the decision, I'm afraid."

Christian saw light. "Oh, I see. So we're delayed until a suitable replacement can be found?"

Wakeman licked his bright red lips with a wet, pink tongue. "Well, yes and no."

Christian remained silent. But there wasn't much to say in response to that.

The senator did what most people do when there's a silence, he filled it. "However, General Davy was opposed to your company's solution."

Christian remained silent. The hole was dug, and the senator jumped in.

"He was one of three members who prefer the solution from General Dynamics."

So, thought Christian, four against. "Have I met the three members who oppose my company's bid?"

"I'm afraid it would be inappropriate of me to disclose their names."

Oh well, it was worth a try.

"Of course," said Christian. "I understand, and I wouldn't want to put you on the spot." Which was a lie. "But our bid has the majority vote?"

Wakeman was silent for a moment. A moment too long. "Once again, I can't discuss the bidding process until it's complete."

Christian considered offering to support his campaign for re-election, but couldn't think of a way of putting it that didn't sound like the attempted bribe it was. He stood up and put out his hand. "Thank you, Senator. I value your support." Which presupposed he was actually getting it.

The senator stood and shook the offered hand. "It's my pleasure, Christian. And if there's anything I can do, please just ask." The smile again.

"Thank you. I'll be sure to do just that."

Christian closed the door behind him and stood in the hallway while he replayed what had just happened. Today was to be the day, and now...

He saw Melissa starting to stand and smiled. The game wasn't over yet. Okay, she was on the wrong side of forty and dressed like an old maid, but in the right light, she could be pretty, and maybe was... once. But for eleven billion dollars, he'd smile at a rutting pig.

She crossed the hall and returned the smile. "Short meeting."

"Yes," said Christian with a shrug. "Delay in the process. Oh well, it's to be expected with so many people to be satisfied."

"It's a lot of money," said Melissa, and then realised what a lame thing that was to say. "Everybody is careful about being seen as spenders at a time like this."

He nodded. "Understandable." He smiled at her and pretended to start for the stairs, stopped and stepped back. "I've been coming to Washington for months now and have never seen the city. Perhaps I could buy you dinner and you could show me around."

She took an involuntary step back and was about to make an excuse and flee, but stopped. It would be nice to have someone to talk to, besides her cat. Yes, it would. "I'd love to show you around," she said and hoped she wasn't blushing on the outside like she was on the inside.

"Then it's a date," he said with a big smile. "Seven?"

"Yes, seven." She watched him stride back down the marble steps and almost ran after him to the top. "Where will we meet?" It was almost desperate.

He turned and winked. "Beautiful woman like you won't be hard to find. I'll send my driver for you." He turned and skipped down the stairs.

Melissa watched him go and then looked around in case someone had seen her making a damned fool of herself. The foyer was deserted, except for the security people, and they're paid not to notice.

Colonel Mitch Morgan walked slowly to his car from the terminal at Camp Pendleton Munn Field Airport. He was tired but glad to be back home on American soil after a year and a half in Okinawa. Not that Okinawa wasn't great; it was just having to leave Sarah and the girls for extended tours was wearing him down. Time to shoot for a desk job nearer home.

The grey SUV was right where he'd parked it, even though his brother, Tim, had been using it while he'd been away. Better than just letting it stand there and rot. He glanced at the scrape along the driver's door and shook his head. Maybe not. He smiled. Timmy was a bit of a speed freak, so having to use the SUV must have been tough on him. He opened the rear door and stepped back a little to let the stale hot air roll out. He threw in his suitcase and slammed the door. The air was just a little fresher as he climbed into the driver's seat, but only just. It smelled of wet dog and fish. Great. But he was still smiling.

He turned right onto Las Pulgas Road and put on the air-con and the radio—a country station. He wasn't a fan of country music, but nothing says home like it. A few minutes later he was on the canyon road heading for San Diego Freeway. He changed the radio channel to news. Somehow, listening to people crying about their lost love, or their dog, or some cattle drive wears thin real quick.

In less than two hours he'd be in Los Angeles. In time to take the girls to the beach for ice cream. Suzy loved ice cream. Sienna not so much, but she'd pretend for the sake of her little sister. She was ten, going on twenty. No, that was then, so now she was twelve. Two years of her life missed, and two years of Suzy's life was a third. This was no way for a man to live.

The traffic was light on Las Pulgas Canyon Road, and he settled back into the seat for a steady drive. He saw the Dodge Ram pickup in his rearview but thought nothing of it, except that he remembered somewhere that they were supposed to be the fastest pickups around. Which had struck him as odd. If you wanted to go fast, why buy a pickup?

The news reporter was telling him that financial turmoil in Europe was the cause of all America's ills. Which made him smile. The pickup closed the gap and overtook him like he was going backwards. Just showing off. Then it cut in suddenly and sideswiped the SUV, and Mitch had to fight the wheel to keep it on the road. The pickup driver must be blind not to see how close he was. He brought the car off the rough shoulder and eased off the gas while he settled down from the shock.

He was feeling almost relaxed again as he came around the long left curve. He glanced in his rearview as a movement caught his eye and saw the pickup coming out of a dirt side road. A fist closed in his stomach, and he realised it had been no accident. He floored the gas pedal, but knew the lumbering SUV would never outrun the Ram. He wished he'd taken the sidearm he'd been offered, but he was in logistics, not Special Forces. And local law enforcement take a dim view of people, even marines, carrying weapons in LA. Chances are it wouldn't have done him any good against a fast-moving truck from inside an SUV. Though he would've liked the chance.

The Ram came up alongside, and he looked across to see the passenger smiling at him and pointing at the rocky hill sloping down from the road. A second later the Ram hit the side of the SUV above the front wheel, and it started a slow left turn as Mitch fought the wheel. He was going to make it; he could feel the front end coming round. Then the Ram hit him again.

The SUV left the road and sailed ten feet over the rocks before crashing nose down into the boulders. It flipped almost in slow motion and slammed down on its roof, its momentum peeling it away like a can opener. But Mitch was already dead, with his head crushed by the compacted roof.

The Ram slowed a little and drove away slowly. No point being stupid. There was still a lot of Americans to kill.

____________

# THE ORPHEUS DIRECTIVE

#

## HELLFIRE: VOLUME 3

### (EPISODE 1)

## Lone Wolf

Ethan Gill brushed as much dust off his old woolen overcoat as he could reach without drawing attention to it, and looked up slowly to see the PA watching him with a practiced blank expression. He recognised her from the last time he'd been invited to the Pentagon by SecNav. She didn't show any recognition, but she remembered him, he knew it.

SecNav opened his office door, crooked a finger, and Ethan crossed the small reception area and followed him in, after giving the PA a friendly wink. She scowled at him, but Hollywood wouldn't be calling her any time soon. He'd seen the glint in her eye. And truth be told, she was cute, for somebody who looked like she could freeze steam if she chose to.

"That job your squad did down in Texas," SecNav said, pointing at one of the chairs by his huge desk.

"The scumbags who killed the kids?"

SecNav frowned. Did people really say _scumbags_? Something to ask later. He sat in his leather chair and leaned back. He looked tired, but he was a government employee, so that came with the territory.

"Yes, the... _scumbags_. Good job."

Ethan shrugged but said nothing. Five rapists dead didn't even begin to even the score. The two women they'd raped and killed had been on their first liberty from their first ship. So, not even close to even.

"You think you can manage another mission?" SecNav leaned his elbows on his desk.

Ethan waited for a moment, but that was all. "Could maybe do with a vacation and a massage first, but I'm probably good for another mission. One more. Maybe."

SecNav nodded. "That's what I thought. None of us getting any younger."

Ethan let that go. Bouncing SecNav's head off his desk a few times would probably be frowned on. By the burly men who'd come to drag his ass off to Leavenworth.

"Nice trip to the sunshine," SecNav said, struggling to hide his smile. "Good for the joints, I hear."

"Iraq?" Ethan said.

"Closer to home." SecNav left it for a beat. "Bolivia."

Great.

"Beautiful country," Ethan said.

"Was. Now it's infested with all manner of vermin."

"I hear that." Ethan brushed a patch of dust off his sleeve.

SecNav watched him steadily. "You remember you're back on active duty, right?"

"I do, sir," Ethan said, continuing his hopeless effort to rejuvenate his moth-eaten coat. "Hence the _sir_ bit. Sir."

SecNav laughed a short snorting laugh he cut off quickly so as not to encourage the man. "Your uniform at the cleaners?"

"Thought I'd go incognito."

"Disguised as a tramp, you mean?"

"This is my best coat, sir."

"Only coat, I'd guess."

Ethan smiled. "Uniform seems to have shrunk. I'm having it let out a bit."

"Know the feeling."

"None of us are getting any younger," Ethan said, and raised an eyebrow.

"Quite." SecNav sat up in his chair, a signal that it was back to business. "I want you to scoot down to Bolivia and pick something up for me."

Ethan resisted the temptation to suggest what the something might be. He waited.

"Rafael Milaris." SecNav raised a hand. "Or should I say _Colonel_ Rafael Milaris."

"Another colonel," Ethan said, and shook his head once. "They do like their military titles."

"They do. This one's a piece of...work. Even for a murdering drug lord. He's got an army, and not a small one. He controls the drugs east of La Paz."

"Nice place. Been there. What do you want us to bring you?" Ethan took a breath and just said it. "I'm no assassin, if that's what you're thinking. Sir."

"Never crossed my mind." He gave Ethan a quick smile. "We have people for that kind of thing. No, not an assassination. I want you to pick up a list."

"Sounds easy enough. What about the DEA?"

SecNav waited.

"Won't they be pissed with me stomping all over their jurisdiction?"

"Don't tell them."

"Copy that. But we've...you've got your own special forces, all full of vim and vigor."

"And that's just the problem." He saw Ethan waiting. "Send a SEAL team down there and they might as well be wearing Ol' Glory over their shoulders."

"They look like what they are." Ethan let it hang there for a moment. "And we don't."

SecNav pointed at Ethan's old blue overcoat that even a street bum would throw in the trash.

Ethan saw more dust on his sleeve, but let it be. "Right." He looked up. "This list?"

"Well, database would be a better description."

"For you maybe. Don't do technology."

"Others might believe that, Top, but we know better. Right?"

Ethan shrugged.

"The database is on his computer."

"Guessed that much. You want us to snag his computer?"

"No. I want you to get the data and get out without him knowing; otherwise the information will be useless. He'll just change everything."

"And everything being his shipping pipelines?"

"That and his distribution network, who's on his payroll in high places, where his money is." SecNav shrugged. "That kinda thing."

"DEA stuff."

"DEA stuff," SecNav said. "I'll play nice and share."

Ethan chuckled.

"What? You don't believe me?"

"I believe you'll share what you choose." Ethan raised his hands in surrender. "Don't ask me, I don't do politics."

"Me neither," SecNav said, without a hint of irony.

"Any chance NCIS might get involved?"

SecNav frowned as he thought it through, then nodded slowly. "Agent Kelsey Lyle, by any chance?"

"She'd do if nobody else was available."

"I'm afraid not, Ethan. This is strictly a need to know. I've arranged for another marine to join your team."

"Anybody I know?" Ethan said, hiding his annoyance at not being consulted.

"A techy. You'll need one."

"Copy that," Ethan said, and emphasized it with a shrug of resignation.

"Rachel has everything you need." SecNav picked up his pen. The meeting was over.

Rachel held up an attaché case without looking up. "Sign this." She paired the case with an A5 form. "And this." It was joined by another form.

Ethan took the case and signed the forms, then looked at the case's contents. "Anything of value in here?"

"Master Sergeant, everything I give you is of value."

He met her narrowed stare. He'd been right, she was cute. He didn't have time.

She let him get almost to the elevator door. "Everything is to be handled with special care. Returned scratch free. Shining like new."

He saluted and stepped into the elevator.

As he rode down to the ground floor, he looked in the case again. Maps, plans, orders, and authorization to requisition anything he wanted from anybody in the navy. But nothing that would scratch, nothing shiny. He looked up as the chime told him the elevator had reached its destination. Then he smiled. Rachel was quoting from a Bond movie, from the guy who provided all the gimmicks. What was his name? Q the quartermaster. The smile stayed. He liked the fierce woman's sense of fun.

"Bolivia?" Jerry Winter said, and put down his coffee. "Have you ever been to Bolivia, Top?"

"Yeah, lots of times," Ethan said, lying a little for the sake of credibility.

"Define _lots_ ," Winter said.

Ethan made a show of counting them off on his fingers, caught Chuck's look and smiled. "Okay, twice." He saw the look again. "And one of those was a transfer."

"The cartels down there don't welcome US marines with open arms," Winter said.

"Who does?" Chuck Petty said.

"True."

"Locals who need our help," Loco Mendez said, and continued trying to see into his beer bottle without risking tipping it up. "Least until they turn on us and shoot us in the ass." He grinned. "Hey, you know Bolivia is—"

"Where Butch and Sundance got killed," Winter and Chuck said together in a mock-tired tone.

"Okay, listen up," Chuck said. "Top's got orders, so we've got orders. Anybody who doesn't want to come say so now."

They looked at each other; then they all looked at Loco, who gave up on his bottle and tipped it up to see if there was any left. "Shit!" He brushed the beer off his shirt.

"Outstanding," Ethan said, and sighed.

"So we're all volunteering to go on a little trip?" Chuck said, still watching Loco.

"Yeah, Gunny, count me in," Loco said, and gave him a big grin. "Wouldn't let me stay behind anyway, would you, Gunny?"

"Sure," Smokey said, punching Loco on the shoulder. "After he shot you for desertion."

"Don't get shot for deserting now. What ya think? This is WWI?"

"Loco's right," Chuck said. "I couldn't shoot him, being a sergeant and everything. You'd have to do it."

Smokey stood up. "Well, if that's an order, I guess I've got to obey it." He pulled his Sig from his belt holster and made a show of looking for the safety.

"There's no safety," Winter said. "You can just shoot him whenever you like."

"Cool," Smokey said.

"I'm coming with, for chrissakes," Loco said, waving at Smokey to put the thing away.

"When you kids have all finished," Ethan said, "we'll do military stuff."

"Got any more beer, Top?" Loco said, holding up his now empty bottle.

"Yeah." He let Loco jump to his feet like an excited puppy. "We'll all have a beer. When we're done."

Loco pouted for a second, then joined Ethan at the side of his bed that was doubling as a chart table. "What we waiting for, then?"

"The rest of the squad," Ethan said, and tipped out more maps from the attaché case.

Nobody spoke; they just looked at each other.

"We're all here, Top," Loco said. It had to be Loco.

"We're two men down," Ethan said.

"Yeah, sure," Winter said. "Bailey committed suicide by cop—"

"And Ben got blown to hell by the missile," Chuck said.

"So we're light," Ethan said, without looking up from the map he was studying.

"Top, we're too tight a squad to try to shoehorn a replacement in," Loco said.

"There's always replacements in war," Winter said.

"We're not at war," Loco said.

"Says who?" Chuck said.

"But he's got a point," Smokey said, backing up his amigo. "We're at the door, ready to jump. No time to train some rookie up."

Before Ethan could answer, there was a quiet knock at the door and he nodded at Loco to go answer it.

Loco opened the door a few inches and looked out. And froze. He recovered and looked back over his shoulder. "It's a girl."

"You gonna let her in?" Smokey said, checking himself in the mirror over the dresser.

"Not that sort of girl," Loco said, still not moving.

"Loco," Ethan said quietly.

Loco pulled the door wide open and waved the visitor in.

"You Petty Officer Andrea Shea?"

She stepped into the room and stood to attention. "I am."

Ethan waved her hand down. "Save that stuff for the brass. Welcome aboard. You can lose the overcoat, you'll be staying a while."

"Thank you, Top." She looked around quickly.

She took off her navy blue overcoat, turned and hung it on the hook on the back of the door. The marines did what they were supposed to and looked her over while her back was turned.

She was petite, five-two, five-three tops, had military-approved short hair in a close pixie cut, and wore a dress-blue jacket, buttoned and hugging a slim and not over-curvy figure. Her regulation blue skirt ended just below her knees. And she had on sensible shoes.

She was okay, not a head-turner. Looked like somebody's sister, a little plain, but competent. In a firefight they'd all prefer that to stunning and useless.

The thing they all noticed right off was she didn't make eye contact with anyone. That was unusual. The women marines they'd met would have checked them out as openly as they were checking her.

"Andrea is a techy," Ethan said, with a quick glance at her.

"Information technology specialist," she said quietly.

"That's what I said." Ethan gave her a smile to ease her in. "These are the elite troops." He pointed at the men in jeans and T-shirts, lounging around his hotel room. "The angry-looking guy with the baby blues is Chuck Petty, he's our gunny. That's Jerry Winter with the hair to match his name. That one looking like a NFL fullback is Smokey Vernon, he's the spotter for our sniper, Loco Mendez. Say hello, Loco."

"Hello, Loco."

Ethan shook his head. "You'll get used to it."

"No, you won't," Winter said.

"Gather round," Ethan said, before it went where it usually did from here.

The techy was on board. Nobody gave it another thought as she joined them at the side of Ethan's bed and looked at the papers and maps spread out on the crisp cover.

He glanced at the girl. "You been briefed on the mission, Andrea?"

"I have, Top." She looked down. "Friends call me Andie."

"Then that's what we'll call you," Loco said, and raised his hand in preparation for a back slap. Quickly aborted.

"Good," Ethan said, exchanging a quick look with Chuck. "Let's get to it."

Chuck pulled a map over and examined it closely.

"Colonel Rafael Milaris has a place three hundred miles south-east of La Paz," Ethan said.

"That's nothing but rainforest and mountains," Chuck said, tapping the map.

"What were you expecting, five-star hotels and spas?"

"How do you want to play this, Top?" Winter said.

"Usual," Ethan said. "Loco will be overwatch and Smokey will spot for him. You and Gunny will run interference, and I'll go with Andie and get the data. Walk in the park."

"Which park would that be?" Loco said. "Central Park on Saturday night?"

"I'd rather take this gig," Ethan said, and pulled the only chair in the room closer to the bed. "Do your thing, Gunny. Let's all come back from this one."

"Copy that," Gunny said, and waved the others closer.

"I'm telling you now, Director," SecNav said, and nodded at the couch near the window.

"I hope you have a damned good reason for sending a team to stamp all over CIA jurisdiction," the director said, taking his seat.

"I do." SecNav lifted a bottle of single malt off the dresser and glanced at his watch. "Sun's over the yardarm somewhere. Join me, Richard?"

"It's early," the director said, then raised his hand and measured an inch with his fingers. "Easy on the branch water."

"I have intelligence that Milaris has committed all his operation to the demon electronic media."

"Maybe he hit his head. Or got paranoid." The director took the offered scotch.

"Could be. Could be he's just been sampling his own product." SecNav clinked his lead-crystal glass against the director's. "The reason Milaris put all his eggs in one basket, we'll get to. Right now we have a fleeting opportunity to grab everything we need to bring him down. And all of his cohorts in South America and nearer home."

"Still, this sounds more like a joint DEA-CIA operation than one for the navy."

SecNav sat on the sofa across the coffee table from Richard Callaghan, the director of the CIA. "Ordinarily I'd say yes and hand the whole thing over to you, but I have a team in play uniquely qualified to bring this mission home." He raised his hand. "I mean no disrespect. I have no doubt, no doubt whatsoever that your boys and the DEA could make this happen." He gave the director a moment to nod. "But we're operating against a closing window. By the time the DEA and your agency have sorted out the pecking order, the politics, and who will get the credit or the blame, that window will be firmly closed."

Callaghan sipped his scotch and watched his old friend over the rim of the glass. He was right, damn him. "So you have a team on the ground ready to make this happen?"

SecNav nodded. "Near enough." He looked at his watch. "Twenty-four hours."

"That's tight. Why the rush?"

"The reason Milaris has put all his family jewels in one sack is, as you said, a bit paranoid, but the reality is even more bizarre." SecNav took another sip of his drink. "He started getting junk email."

Callaghan blinked hard twice. "What? We all get junk email. I get a shit load of it every day."

"Yes, but you're not a drug lord with a whole tier of lieutenants to keep you at arm's length from your customers. Only a handful of people in the world should know how to contact him. Now everybody knows."

"Junk email?"

SecNav nodded.

"But that's just spam. It means nothing."

"You know that, and I know that, but Milaris is clinically borderline paranoid. He sees assassins behind every curtain."

"That's not paranoia, that's a fact of life in his business."

"He overreacted, which is good news for us. Some geek told him the only way he'd be completely secure is to have no outside network connectivity and to put his data in a place where it can be watched constantly. Which he read as put it all on one mobile system and keep it with him at all times."

"But that's just nuts."

"It is. And the opportunity of a lifetime for us."

"So what's closing the window?" The director held up his empty glass.

SecNav took the glass and returned to the dresser to top it up. "The geek, whoever he was, wasn't totally stupid. He told him to build a data center with leading-edge user access security, intruder detection, electronic eavesdropping detection, the works. And that's just what he's doing."

"How long?" Callaghan took the scotch and put it on the coffee table.

SecNav sat back down and put his drink on the coffee table. "It's ready now. Going through some techy testing stuff. My informant estimates a week at best. Two days worst case."

"Who's your informant?"

SecNav picked up his drink and sipped it without taking his eyes off his peer. "You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine."

"You go first," Callaghan said, and smiled. "The intelligence you get..."

"It's yours. And the DEA's, if you choose to share."

"Then what's in it for you?"

SecNav stood up. "The warm feeling I get from doing the best job I can for my country."

Callaghan drained his glass and stood up. "Sure. Warm feeling is what we do this for, right?"

SecNav led the way to the door and held it open for him. "That and the big bucks."

Callaghan was chuckling as he left.

It took eleven hours to fly to La Paz with a stopover at Bogota, a really fun place to spend time. After that La Paz was going to be Shangri La.

Andie had watched Ethan sleep all the way, with a sense of awe that anybody could sleep, wake, eat, and sleep again without any drugs. It suited her, she didn't do small talk, but it was impressive.

When the plane touched down at El Alto International Airport, Ethan opened his eyes and sat up straight. "We there?" He leaned over her a little and squinted out into the darkness. "That was easy."

"You might think so," she said, easing away from him.

"You ever flown to Afghanistan in the cargo hold of a C-130?"

She shook her head.

"Trust me, this was an easy flight."

"Ask the others, they'll be in sometime before dawn." He laughed quietly.

"You're enjoying that, aren't you?"

There was a chime from the PA and he unfastened his seat belt. "Perks of command. We get the flight that arrives in time to catch a good night's sleep."

She stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "But you've just slept for eleven hours straight."

"That was travel sleep, not real sleep."

She had no idea what that meant.

The taxi driver took Route 3 to La Paz rather than the more scenic route he was planning before he saw Ethan. So it wasn't yet midnight when they reached the Casa Grande Hotel. Ethan checked them in, a suite for him and a room for his niece. The girl behind the reception desk didn't raise an eyebrow. She didn't need to, her little smile said it all. An old man and his toy girl away on a secret tryst.

Andie glared at him, but it worked for him, and it worked for the mission, so no complaints.

"I'm bushed," he said, and trundled his expensive case towards the elevators. "I'll see you for breakfast. Nine fifteen."

The check-in girl shook her head and returned to her computer.

The morning came too fast and the others were down for breakfast on the shaded terrace when Ethan sauntered into the dining room, like a man with time on his hands. They were at separate tables, two at each, as they'd travelled. Guys on business or vacation. Not a suspicious-looking marine squad.

They didn't acknowledge each other or Ethan, just sat and drank coffee in silence. Andie sat opposite Ethan and ignored the knowing looks from the businessmen sharing the lovely terrace.

After a full American breakfast and coffee, Ethan felt he could survive until lunch and strolled off the terrace as casually as he'd arrived, followed over the next ten minutes by the rest of the squad. Men on a business trip. To the casual observer it would have worked, but Ethan would've spotted them as military in a second.

He picked up a newspaper off the concierge's desk, leaned against a marble pillar and looked over it at the reception area. From where he stood, he could see the wide stairs leading up to the mezzanine floor and above that all the floors right up to the roof, lit by the biggest curved window he'd ever seen, stretching across most of the front of the hotel and running up to the top floor.

None of the guests coming and going paid them any attention and no alarms rang in his head. So far they were in the clear. Experience told him that the best days were the ones that usually ended in the toilet.

They made their way to the bar on the roof, where the staff didn't appear to think it the least bit strange that they should be in the bar at ten in the morning. Tourists were weird, businessmen away from home were even weirder; it was just part of the job.

There were a half dozen businessmen lounging on the sofas, discussing some important matter, with short drinks in their hands. Hair of the dog, or an early start on the day.

Ethan led the way to a table with a view of the city they didn't notice and ordered coffee in case Loco did what he usually did.

"Well, we're here," Loco said.

They gave him a quick look and went on with their lives.

"We're gonna need off-road transport if we're heading into the jungle," Smokey said.

"It's a rainforest," Winter said, then saw the look. "It's not a jungle. You can walk through a rainforest, you ever tried walking through a jungle?"

"Once," Smokey said. "It was raining."

"We'll need weapons too," Winter said, ignoring him.

"That's taken care of," Ethan said, then shut up while the waiter put the tray of cups and coffee pots on the table and drifted away.

"Never doubted it," Winter said, and looked at Chuck.

"See the guy in the corner, reading _USA Today_?" Chuck said, then quickly put his hand on Loco's arm before he could turn around in his chair. "Don't be a bigger idiot than we think you are."

"Yeah," Winter said, "oriental guy. Saw him when I arrived."

"Can't be missing that shirt," Chuck said.

"He's coming over," Winter said, and focused on pouring his coffee.

The man crossed the bar and stood next to their table as if taking in the stunning view. His bright yellow and orange Hawaiian shirt could've made their eyes bleed.

Ethan pointed at the newspaper folded under his arm and the man took a second to realize he wanted to borrow it. He handed him the paper and pointed at the coffee and sat at the table with them. A fellow traveler befriending his countrymen. What could be more natural?

"Avenue Julio Patino," the man said, and raised his coffee cup in thanks. "There's a green Land Rover parked. Your goodies are under the floor in the trunk."

"You a spook?" Loco said, and ignored the irritated looks from the others. "CIA or something?"

"Why don't you rent a billboard?" the man said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Are you coming with us?" Loco said, well into the interrogation now.

The man squinted at him.

"No, he's not coming with us," Ethan said, his voice straining to sound friendly.

"Pity," Loco said, and poured more coffee, since that was all that was on offer. "We meet any bad people, he could kung fu their ass."

"That's Chinese," the man said through clenched teeth. "I'm Japanese American." He put his cup down slowly. "And no, I don't know karate either. Not every Japanese American is Mr. fucking Miyagi any more than every fucking Mexican drinks tequila and wears a fucking sombrero."

Loco chuckled and raised his cup in salute. "Bet you fold a mean paper duck though?"

The man who wasn't Mr. fucking Miyagi thanked them for the coffee and left, but not before giving Loco one last look.

"He doesn't like you much," Smokey said.

"Lots of people don't like me."

"Ain't that the truth," Winter said, before leaning across the table and tapping the newspaper. "Anything interesting in the news today?"

Ethan looked at the view, then at the men by the bar. "A present." He tilted the newspaper and tipped a car key into his hand.

"Julio Patino is the next intersection south. Be there in twenty." He stood up and stretched his shoulders. "Time for the meeting. Boss'll already be there."

He headed for the elevators with Andie right behind him, looking like a shy kid in a big city.

A few minutes later Andie leaned on the side of the old Land Rover while Ethan unlocked the back door, looked around and lifted the floor panel just enough to see beneath it. He let it drop back into place and opened the four doors to let some air in. It was cold out, no more than fourteen degrees, but sunny enough to heat up the old RV through the glass.

He got into the front passenger seat and waited for the rest of the squad to drift over and get in.

"Everything in place?" Winter said.

"It is." Ethan handed the key to Smokey, who was doing the driving as usual. "CIA came through for us."

"It'll cost SecNav."

"Not my problem."

"Is there a toy for me in there?" Loco asked, wriggling for more room on the back seat between Winter's bony body and Chuck's bulk.

"M40A3 good for you?" Ethan said.

"That's my baby." Loco wriggled some more, gave up and extricated himself and sat next to Andie, facing Winter and Chuck, who relaxed into the free space. Travelling backwards was a pain, but better than the alternative.

"How long?" Ethan said.

"Ten hours, maybe eleven," Chuck said. "Could be longer in this heap."

Ethan didn't answer and Andie sighed quietly and looked back over her shoulder. "He's gone to sleep, hasn't he?"

Nobody answered that either. She turned and found them lying back with their eyes closed.

Loco spoke without opening his eyes. "You should catch some sleep."

"We've only been up four hours, how can you sleep?"

Loco opened one eye. "Middle of the night tonight you're gonna wish you'd found a way."

She reached under her legs and pulled out her backpack, took out her laptop and went to work on something nobody cared about.

"We there yet?" Loco said when the Land Rover bumped to a halt.

"What are you, six years old?" Winter said, also sitting up and squinting up at the interior light struggling to get through its yellowed plastic cover.

"I wish. The only soldier I had to worry about back then was GI Joe."

Smokey rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and it took him a second to remember he'd swapped seats with Chuck; otherwise he'd be driving. And asleep. He glanced at Loco and grinned. "You have the elite troopers?"

"Yeah, and all the vehicles."

"Cool."

Chuck turned in the driver's seat and gave them a hard look that shut them up faster than any shouted order.

"You want us to gear up, Gunny?" Smokey said quickly.

"If you don't mind. As long as it's not too much trouble. Wouldn't want to put you out, you understand."

Loco and Smokey almost fell out of the truck in their eagerness not to be put out.

Winter leaned over and opened his door. "Kids will be kids," he said to Andie, sighed and got out.

Andie sat where she was and Ethan looked back from the passenger seat. "You know how to shoot?"

"I'm a marine."

That wasn't an answer.

"That'll be no, then?"

"Not really." She looked down at her laptop. "Never could get the hang of it. Computers are my thing."

Ethan gave her a smile. "That's why you're here." He nodded towards the back of the vehicle, where Gunny was handing the weapons to their appropriate user. "Let the heroes do the shooting."

"Thanks, Master Sergeant."

"Top will do just fine. The rest takes too long if you have to say it in a hurry."

"Do we walk from here?"

"Not unless you're up for a five-mile hike through the jungle."

"Rainforest." She smiled and looked down again. "Sergeant Winter, remember?"

"I do. Winter can be a bit...precise."

"There's a place for that. Precision in matters military is a good thing."

"You read the manual, didn't you?"

"Cover to cover."

He got out and went to collect his weapon. Chuck handed him a brand new M16 and five clips.

"No grease in the barrel," Chuck said. "Short of firing it, it seems to be in working order."

Ethan rapped the magazines against his leg and pushed one into the M16 and the others into the pockets of his camouflage green hunting jacket. He looked around. "Loco got his baby?"

"M40A3," Chuck said, "and an SMG for Smokey."

"Then we're loaded for bear," Ethan said.

"Pity it's not bears we're hunting. These critters shoot back."

"Let's get mounted." Ethan looked at the moon flickering through the forest canopy. "I want to get back to the hotel for breakfast. They do good bacon."

"You seen the movie _City Slickers_?"

Ethan frowned. "Yeah, caught it in Camp Bastion. So?"

"Curly had bacon with every meal." He saw Ethan's frown deepen. "Billy Crystal buried him in the desert." He chuckled. "And the horses."

"Yeah, but that's just movies."

"You go ahead and believe that, Top. You're the boss."

"I am?" He looked at the squad checking their weapons. "Sometimes I wonder."

"I hear that." Chuck watched them for a moment. "When you're finished dicking around with your guns, we'll get on with the mission entrusted to us by the men and women of the great United States."

Ethan got into the truck and leaned back in the worn seat. "Sometimes I feel really old."

"You say something, Top?" Andie looked up from her screen.

The men got into the back seats, with Loco sitting next to Andie, his forty-four-inch rifle slanting up over her laptop and across in front of her face. She pushed it away slowly with her fingertip.

"Sorry, miss," Loco said.

"She's not a miss," Ethan said, without turning. "She's a grunt, just like the rest of you."

Loco looked her over before he could stop himself. She was wearing khaki hiking shorts, a dark long-sleeved top with horizontal stripes and sturdy boots. He didn't get to see the boots, as he stopped where her top stretched across her breasts. He caught himself and looked up quickly.

"A grunt. Copy that, Top." He went back to checking his M40.

Smokey got back in the driver's seat now the going was about to get tough, glanced over his shoulder to make sure everyone was on board, and set the Rover moving slowly up the trail that was narrow enough for the passenger mirror to disappear after a hundred yards. He ignored it and hoped nobody had noticed.

He used the truck's spotlights for another mile then reached under his seat, pulled on his night-vision goggles and killed the lights.

The noises from the men in the back told Ethan they were digging out their NVGs and getting ready for whatever they needed to be ready for. He put his goggles on but left them up. He'd seen whole squads disabled by spotlights coming on while they wore image intensifiers. Looking away wasn't an option because they'd be scouring the trees for any surprises. At least one of them needed to be able to function.

Smokey worked the vehicle along the narrow trail, slower now with the lights out and the target approaching. Ethan twisted in his seat and looked back. Chuck had his goggles on the top of his head and was checking his GPS.

"Two miles."

Ethan nodded and tapped Smokey's arm. "This is a good place for a picnic."

Smokey had the submachine gun, so got point as they moved almost silently along the narrow trail. Chuck went next, ten feet behind the point, then Winter. Loco brought up the rear; he had his M40 over his shoulder and an M16 in his hands and ready. Andie was in the middle where Ethan could keep an eye on her. SecNav wouldn't have chosen her for this mission unless she was something special, and he had no wish to explain to the secretary of the navy how he'd lost her.

It took two hours to cover the distance to their objective. Chuck was point now and raised his fist to halt the squad. They sank to one knee and scoured the trees for any movement. Ethan crept forward and knelt next to Chuck, who put his hand to his ear and pointed ahead.

Ethan nodded and signaled Smokey and Loco to split off to the east to take up their overwatch position. Winter closed up and moved silently off the trail to the west. Ethan gave them time to get ahead, put Andie between him and Chuck, and signaled him to move out.

Two hundred yards ahead, the trail opened up onto a clearing that led down to a fast-flowing river. Chuck raised his clenched fist and they froze. Ethan edged up beside him and saw the dark shapes at the edge of the trees across the clearing. They weren't moving, which didn't mean they wouldn't be any second.

The clouds slid off the half-moon and the clearing stood out in pale blue light. The perfect killing ground. And that was just why the drug lord's soldiers had set up there. Welcoming fireworks for unwelcome guests.

Ethan looked back to make sure the girl was out of sight and saw her on one knee at the side of the trail. Chuck watched the men across the clearing for a few more seconds, then stood up and walked out into the open. Nobody shot him full of holes, which was a plus, so Ethan followed and waved Andie to stay where she was.

There were five soldiers wearing woodland pattern combat uniforms and good boots. They might have worn berets, but it was hard to tell now their heads were missing chunks.

Ethan knelt, rolled the nearest soldier into the moonlight and leaned closer to examine the hole in the part of his head that was still attached.

Chuck knelt and whispered in his ear, "Loco?"

Ethan shook his head and pointed at the two holes. "Double-tap. With Loco's M40, one is enough."

"Then who?"

Ethan shrugged. "A rival cartel." He looked back and waved Andie up. "Let's not get caught in the middle of a war."

"Copy that."

Andie stared at the bodies with her mouth open and Ethan stepped in front of her.

"Got your toys?"

She blinked at him then gave a start and pointed at her backpack. "Yes." She looked at the bodies again. "Are they dead?"

"I hope so." He took her arm. "Come on. Time to do your thing."

Chuck led the way down to the river and knelt beside a stack of trimmed wooden beams. Ethan and Andie joined him while he watched the clouds move over the moon. They crossed the footbridge over the river before the moon lit them up again, then followed the gravel path up to a dirt road that led to a white hacienda behind eight-foot walls.

Chuck pointed east away from the river and crept up to the road, then waved them forward, his M16 fixed on the house until they were over the road and Ethan was covering him.

The trees had been bulldozed for a hundred yards around the house, providing perfect cover for men on foot, so not a great military tactic.

They stayed low and followed Chuck around to the back of the house. He pointed at an arched wooden gate and smiled, his teeth extra white in the moonlight.

Ethan shook his head slowly and tapped his rifle to indicate there'd be enemies lurking inside. Chuck's smile stayed in place and he waved him on. The gate would be locked anyway. It wasn't, which was either careless or a trap. They hoped for the former and prepared for the latter.

Chuck opened the gate just enough, slid through and stepped to the side against the wall. He knelt and scoured the gardens for ambush, but the only bushes were of the flowering variety, banks of them stretching in a shoulder-high fragrant display all the way to the long steps leading up to the courtyard. Pretty plants and good cover. He put his hand through the gap in the gate and waved Ethan in.

They knelt by the wall for five minutes, watching the house and the grounds. A couple of soldiers ambled across the courtyard and along the low wall separating it from the drop to the garden. Ethan could see they were carrying what looked like IMI Galil rifles. Good choice.

Chuck put his hand to his eye, then raised two fingers and shook his head.

Ethan agreed, there would be more than two sentries. He looked up at the building. There'd be some on the flat roof for sure and at least another three or four pairs patrolling around the house.

He waited for Chuck to make a start. He was the navigator on this gig, he'd studied the plans of the house and surrounding area and knew how to get them in, and then it would be up to Ethan and the girl.

Keeping near the wall, Chuck led the way around the edge of the shrubbery until they were opposite the side of the house. He pointed at a flight of concrete steps leading down to a basement level and a board door.

The door was locked, but the key was on a nail next to the hinge. He opened the thin door a few inches and waited for a shout, but there was only the low hum of machinery. They closed the door behind them and switched on their flashlights. The machinery was a big oil-fired boiler and what looked like a water pump. Sewage had to go somewhere and down into the river was as good as any.

"Okay, we're in," Chuck said. "Now you're on. I'll take a rest here and dissuade anyone from stalking your six."

"We'll be back before you have time to take a nap," Ethan said, and led the way up the narrow wooden stairs to another door.

He listened at it, then opened it enough to see into the house. It opened onto a wide corridor with several scuffed plank doors leading off. Either the staff quarters or stores. Stores would be better, less likely anybody would be coming back off duty.

Andie stayed close behind him as he walked down the corridor that seemed to run the length of the house. He moved quickly so anybody coming into the corridor wouldn't have time to react before he could deal with them, and because he wanted to be out of the rat trap as quickly as possible.

He stopped a the end of the corridor, crouched and looked around the corner, then pulled back and stood. "The colonel's office is on the first floor at the front. That means we have to take the stairs." He saw her look of alarm. "Don't worry, all the bad guys are stationed outside to stop us coming in." He gave her a second to calm down. "We're just going to walk across the hallway and up the stairs. As if we own the place. Got it?"

She nodded, but her eyes were wide open and she licked her lips.

"Piece of cake. Come on." He put his M16 across his chest for quick deployment and walked out into the hallway that stretched right up to the roof rafters.

There was no shouting or screaming as they strode across the entrance hall and trotted up the stairs. All the first-floor rooms opened onto a wide balcony overlooking the hallway. He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked left and right quickly, then crossed to the third door on the left, turned the handle very slowly and eased the door open. The room was dark, showing the office day was over. He wondered where everybody was, but put the thought aside. Where they were wasn't there, and that was all that counted.

He waved Andie in, stepped in behind her, closed the door and leaned his back against it. She jumped when he put on the lights.

"Nothing's going to shout intruder louder than flashlight beams on the windows." He pointed at the desk. "There's your computer."

He put his ear against the door and waited patiently.

"It's encrypted," Andie said to nobody.

He looked over to see her sitting at the big desk, doing her thing with the keyboard as easy as she would be at home, and smiled. She had no idea just how lucky they'd been not to be dead already.

The keyboard rattled quietly behind him for ten minutes and he tried not to will her to hurry. Then he heard a floorboard creak, and another. They were about to have visitors. He moved away from the door. Andie was locked in battle with the computer and didn't look up. He pressed himself against the wall and drew his knife from its scabbard.

The handle turned slowly and the door swung in. A little fat man stepped into the room. He was wearing a light beige safari suit complete with long shorts and khaki loafers straight out of a sixties caper movie.

"Find anything interesting?" he said, in perfect English.

Andie's head snapped up and she started to stand.

"Sit down," the man said, then raised his right hand. "You armed? If you are, you should know this is a ten-mil Glock G40, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off. So you've got to ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?"

Ethan closed his eyes in disbelief, then tapped the man on the shoulder with his knife blade. "And this is a KA-BAR knife, Dirty Harry."

The drug lord was fast. He spun around without any telltale get set and his huge Glock was sweeping in to blow Ethan's spine out from the front, but his finger never received the signal to pull the trigger.

Ethan stepped aside as he dropped, pushed the door closed with his heel, and stepped up to the fat man on the floor. He crouched and pulled his knife out from where he'd rammed it up under the colonel's chin and into his brain.

"You ready?" he said.

Andie tore her eyes off the bloody corpse and looked at the computer screen. "Yes. Ten seconds."

She was visibly trembling as she pulled the memory stick out of the computer and stowed it in a pocket in her backpack. "Right."

"Same as we came in," Ethan said, then put his hands on her shoulders. "You cool?"

She frowned. "Cool? Nobody says cool anymore."

"I do. Are you?"

She nodded. "Cool."

"Then let's go. And stay close."

They made it back to the boiler room without kicking off any alarm, but Chuck wasn't there. Ethan pushed Andie back into the shadows beneath the stairs and looked around slowly, his rifle leading the way. Then he relaxed.

"Are you repairing the pump, Gunny?"

Chuck stood up, grinning. "One of these days, I'm gonna outsmart you."

"Day comes they'll be throwing the earth in on top of me."

"Tuesday, then." Chuck came out from behind the big sewage pump and glanced at the girl. "Everything go down?"

"Mostly."

Chuck tilted his head.

"This bunch need a new _jefe_."

"Couldn't just go in and get the data. Had to kill somebody." Chuck waved Andie out from under the stairs. "Always the same with Top here. Gotta kill somebody. I think it's his childhood. Not enough hugs."

"We going anytime soon?" Ethan said.

"You're the boss. Do boss things."

"Then we're going."

"About time, I was getting all lonely hanging around down here."

"I'd have thought you'd be used to being on your own. Personality like yours."

"Now you've hurt my feelings."

"Gotta have them to hurt them." Ethan was at the outside door and looking through a narrow opening at the gardens. He pulled the door open and stepped out, his M16 pointing wherever he looked. Then he signaled them out without taking his eyes off the house.

They made the first two steps before being lit up like Yankee Stadium on Saturday night. As one, Ethan and Chuck turned, grabbed Andie under the arms and dragged her backwards down the concrete steps. A second later the shrubbery turned into an explosion of twigs and leaves as bullets filled the air like angry hornets.

"Fifty cal," Chuck shouted above the noise of the garden turning to kindling.

"Ya think?" Ethan said, instinctively ducking lower and reaching for the door handle. He let it go as if it were hot. "What's the chances the bad men are coming down the stairs in there?"

"Better than even," Chuck said.

"There," Andie shouted, and pointed up at the house.

Ethan and Chuck turned and opened fire and the men running up to the low wall tumbled like pins on a bowler's best day.

"We can't stay here," Chuck said, and snapped another clip into his M16.

"I'm open to suggestions," Ethan said, firing twice and reaching into his pocket for another clip.

The hacienda might have seemed deserted when they were strolling about inside, but it wasn't now. Men with guns appeared on all six balconies and all along the verandah. They weren't a problem yet; it was the ones running to the side of the courtyard that presented the real threat. From there they had a clear line of fire at the side of the house and the boiler room. Ethan and Chuck killed them with mechanical precision, but there were dozens of them. Way too many.

Ethan heard the supersonic boom of a high-velocity round and knew Loco was in the game. The men behind the wall were dropping faster than he could count, which meant Winter and Smokey had taken a hand. But the .50 cal on the roof was set up behind concrete blocks and covered every inch of the garden.

"We can't stay here," Chuck said.

"You said that."

"Means nothing's changed."

"But the rest of the squad is here," Andie said, and put her head down against the steps as bullets slapped into the wall next to her.

"They are," Ethan said, and dropped a man stupid enough to jump onto the wall for a better angle. "We'll be fine."

Chuck gave him a quick look and got back to work.

In a momentary silence they heard engines approaching. Trucks. Reinforcements were inbound.

"We can't stay here," Ethan said, hooked Andie's arm and ran up the steps with her stumbling behind him. As he hit the top step, he felt the air vibrate as the .50-cal rounds filled the space he was about to run into. He froze.

"Shit. Where the hell is Loco?" He edged back down the steps and pushed Andie down again. Then he heard the boom of a sniper round in flight.

The .50 cal stopped for a few seconds, then kicked off again with a new gunner, and the shrubbery shook like it was in its own personal storm. There was another boom and the .50 cal ceased firing.

"Let's go," Ethan shouted.

"Just the guns on the wall, but there's a lot of them," Chuck said.

"Yeah, just like Butch and Sundance."

"God, I hope not," Chuck said, taking Andie's other arm and matching Ethan's run. "That slow-motion stuff'll be a bugger on my bad knee."

They heard the crack of rounds zipping past them and cut left into the chopped-up shrubs, but now they were moving and not laying down suppressing fire, the men on the wall were up on their feet and firing wildly. A dozen, two dozen, and more coming every second.

Ethan knew they weren't going to finish their little jog through the shrubbery.

They instinctively ducked at the first thumping explosion that was followed in rapid succession by two more.

"Grenades," Chuck said, and slapped Andie on her shoulder.

"We have grenades?" Ethan said, pulling her along as fast as he could.

"Come to think of it..." Chuck said just as he wrenched the gate open and practically threw the girl out of the garden.

They stumbled and slid down through the bulldozed forest towards the road. And saw the two truckloads of troops bounce to a halt between them and the river.

"Shit," Ethan said.

"You said that," Chuck said. "But yeah, shit."

Ethan heard the ragged boom of a rocket being fired. "Down."

They half ducked, half fell behind a tree stump and covered their ears. An instant later the first truck rose into the air above an incandescent fireball and flipped onto its side.

Andie looked up and Ethan pulled her down again. "That's an RPG. And there's another one coming. I hope."

The men in the second truck were getting out as fast as they could. But not fast enough. The RPG hit just behind the cab and tore the truck open like a fish can.

When the concussion had ripped past, Ethan jumped to his feet. "We go now."

"Are they all dead?" Andie said, stumbling behind him.

"No, but after that, they'll be looking for a place to hide."

With men pouring out of the hacienda, there was no time for an elegant withdrawal. They ran down onto the road, killing every fool who looked like he was up for it, and were on the gravel path to the river without any holes in their hides, that they could see.

Chuck provided cover as Ethan led the girl over the narrow bridge, then watched the path while Chuck sprinted across and joined him behind the pile of beams to reload, and give Andie a chance to catch her breath.

"I owe Loco a beer," Chuck said. "Taking out that .50 cal saved our hides."

"Wasn't Loco," Ethan said. "He would've had to change his position to get the angle on the roof. Didn't have time. And it was an AW L96, or I'm losing my musical ear."

"Then if not Loco, who where they?"

"A guardian angel," Ethan said, pulled down his NVGs and started moving again with Andie staying right on his heel like a nervous puppy.

Winter joined them silently as they turned onto the main trail south, and a few minutes later Smokey and Loco stepped onto the trail in front of them. Less silently.

"That was fun," Loco said, grinning. "Lots of bangs and whizzes. Where'd you get the firepower?"

"God sent it," Chuck said, and urged him on.

"God doesn't like me, why'd he send grenades?"

"Maybe he's got other plans for you," Ethan said, and shouldered his way past the little Latino.

"That don't sound so good," Loco said, pulling his goggles back into place and joining them as tail-end Charlie.

"They're gonna keep coming," Chuck said over his shoulder from his position at point.

"I'm hoping they'll have better things to do when they find their boss has retired."

"You're hoping?"

"Thing I learned in my time as a civilian."

"Yeah, I picked up a couple of bad habits. Like sleeping in a proper bed." Chuck turned and concentrated on them not being ambushed.

There was silence as they made their way slowly down the narrow trail south towards the Land Rover. Not even Loco spoke, which meant he either hadn't got anything to say or was listening intently for pursuers.

"Top," he said urgently.

"I hear it."

Andie tilted her head and strained to hear. "What is that?"

"Dirt bikes or some such off-roaders," Ethan said. "Chuck, you make sure the girl...Andie gets the data back to the vehicle. We'll stay here and say hi."

"Copy that." Chuck waited for Andie to break free of her comfort blanket and come forward. "You want me to wait for you, Top?"

"No, Gunny, you just hop in and drive on back to the hotel and have a nice rest."

"Nah, I think I'll wait. For a while anyway."

"That one of your new bad habits? Generosity?"

Chuck led Andie down the trail. "Not really. I'll need another driver."

"Loco, you and Smokey set up here. Winter and me'll be fifty yards south. Box. Wait for them to get to the middle."

Loco disappeared off to the east of the trail and Smokey to the west. The off-roaders were close when Ethan and Winter did the same down the trail. As soon as they dropped down behind the trees, the bikes arrived.

They burst into sight, their screaming engines crashing into the silence. Five of them, each with xenon headlights and two spots that lit up the trail brighter than daylight as they bounced and bucked past the first position.

Three seconds later they were dead.

The squad did what they'd trained to do. Opposite-siding so they didn't shoot each other. Loco took out the rider on the opposite side of the trail to his right and Smokey the opposite left. Winter and Ethan did the same to the leading pair. That left just one rider and he stood on the brake and overcorrected the skid. The back wheel grabbed the earth, twitched and flipped him up and over in a somersaulting highside. He hit the tangle of bodies and bikes and his machine crunched into him, its drive wheel still spinning. Ethan flinched and lowered his weapon. It wouldn't be needed.

They stayed put and listened to the silence broken only by the bikes creaking as the heat bled away.

Ethan stepped onto the trail, keeping his M16 pointing at the bodies. "Can any of you ride these things?"

"Top, everybody can ride a dirtbike," Loco said, coming up the trail, eager to demonstrate.

They checked the bikes over. One had a 5.56-caliber hole in the engine nobody would admit to, but the other four were working. They stowed their NVGs and used the Nightsun lights, fired the bikes up and took off after Chuck. It was way better than walking. Until Ethan realised Chuck wouldn't know it was them screaming up behind him and might just set an ambush of his own. He stopped his bike.

"Problem, Top?" Winter said, stopping his bike next to him.

"I figure we're about fifty yards from where Gunny is set up to blow our heads off."

"That's about what I was thinking."

"You're younger than me, jog on up the trail and tell him we're friendlies."

Winter got off his bike and stopped. "I'm a sergeant, right?"

"Last time I looked."

"So I can give orders to lower ranks?"

"You can. What orders you got in mind?"

Winter waved Loco up and waited for him to lean his bike against a tree and walk slowly up as if he knew something shitty was coming his way.

"Loco," Winter said, putting his hand on the man's shoulder like a long-lost friend, "we need somebody fit and agile to mosey on up the trail and tell Gunny we're coming to pick him up on these stolen bikes."

"Right, Sarge." Loco looked around, but didn't see anybody who fitted that particular bill. Then the coin dropped into the little metal box and he gave a start. "Me?"

"Well, thank you, Loco." Winter turned to Ethan. "You see that? Loco volunteering. Don't see that often."

"But, Sarge..."

"Get going, then, volunteer. Before the bad men catch up."

Loco looked at Ethan for help, but there was none coming. He set of at a slow trot along the ink dark trail.

"Gunny, don't shoot me in the ass. It's me, Loco," he called while trying to keep his voice down.

"You're a bad sergeant, you know that?" Ethan said, with a mock shake of his head. "A leader of men would've taken on that hazardous mission himself."

"He would, Top. He would." Winter looked first at Ethan, then at the bike he was sitting on, but left it at that.

They waited until they heard Gunny telling Loco to shut the fuck up before he woke the whole neighborhood, then fired up the bikes and rode down the trail, passing Loco running back the other way a lot faster than he'd gone.

"Got a bike for me?" Chuck said, but knew they hadn't, both because he could count and because he couldn't see how they'd bring a spare along.

"You get to hug one of us," Ethan said, and pointed at Winter. "Or you can ride with Loco when he gets back."

Chuck walked quickly to Winter's bike and swung up behind him without invitation.

Andie looked from one man to the next, their faces drawn and hard in the harsh lights.

"Hey, kid," Ethan said. "You ride with me."

"I'm a lance corporal, not a kid."

"Right. Lance Corporal, get your ass on the bike."

She adjusted her backpack unnecessarily, put her foot on the peg, swung up onto the saddle and put her arms around Ethan's waist without thinking. She let go quickly.

"You'd better hang on, ki—Lance Corporal, or you're gonna end up on your ass in the dust."

Winter rode past with Chuck hanging onto him and led the way down the trail at a pace that wouldn't get them killed but got them out of there.

It took ten minutes to get back to the Land Rover, and both Chuck and Andie were glad to get off. Neither of them got a kick out of hugging men.

Another ten minutes and everybody except Smokey and Andie was fast asleep. Andie was awake because she was unpacking the data she'd downloaded from the colonel's system onto her laptop, and Smokey was driving.

Five hours later she was still working on her laptop when Chuck and Smokey changed places. She looked up as Smokey got into the back seat, then realised it was dawn and she hadn't noticed. Something had grabbed her attention and held it, but she wasn't going to wake Ethan to tell him this news. Not until she was a hundred-percent sure.

Chuck parked the Land Rover right where they'd picked it up, checked that all the weapons were back in their place under the floor, locked the doors and followed the rest of the squad back towards the hotel.

The non-kung-fu-fighting CIA agent walked towards them on the way to recover his vehicle, but gave no sign of recognition.

"Back in the jungle," Ethan said as he passed.

The CIA agent glanced at him.

"Thanks."

He nodded once. "You're welcome."

Chuck tossed him the ignition key.

"How'd you get there and back so fast?" Loco said.

"Ninja," the agent said, and walked on.

"Oh, yeah. Right," Loco said, but was frowning as he tried to work it out.

They walked on without looking back.

"No way he could've got back before us," Chuck said.

Ethan shook his head. "Wasn't him."

"Then who?"

"A spook."

"Must have been a bunch of them," Winter said, glancing back. "Mayhem they caused."

"Don't think so," Ethan said. "I think it was a lone wolf."

"I'd like to shake his hand," Chuck said. "But only in broad daylight."

Ethan leaned back in the seat and let the waiter put the coffee pots and cups on the table. It was a beautiful sunny day, but he wasn't smiling.

"Are you sure?"

Andie looked up sharply, then relaxed. Of course he had to ask that.

"Yes, Top. Certain."

Winter sat in the empty chair between Loco and Chuck and leaned forward. "Certain of what?"

"Go ahead, tell them," Ethan said.

Andie took a long breath. And told them about the end of the world.

_______________

#

# FIRST RESPONDER

## SEASON 1

## (Episode 1)

## Day One

The bank guard watched the pickup pull up next to the drive-through ATMs and then returned to the game. The Giants were down three points with minutes to the final whistle. He had good money on these morons. His mother could play better.

He glanced again at the monitor while they set up another stupid play. The pickup was still there and he leaned closer, as if that would help him see what the problem was.

When the pickup exploded, he crashed back into his chair as if the concussion had reached him from the other side of the building.

He was still swearing and trying to get his breath as he spoke to the emergency operator. "Yes, a fire. What?" He held the phone away from his ear for a second. "Right. City One Bank, Delancey and Pitt."

The operator was still speaking, but to an empty room. The guard was running for the fire doors. And coming up the hallway behind him fast was a searing wall of flames. He hit the door release and it opened first time. He crashed out and fell down the steps. The blast took out the doors and kept going, showering him with broken glass and hot twisted metal. But he was alive when he shouldn't have been, and for that he would thank God every day he was in the ICU.

Elmore James was also watching the game, but he'd not been stupid enough to put money on the Giants. It wasn't their season. He picked the cell up off the arm of his battered old leather armchair and listened.

"You ever say hello when you answer your phone?"

"Why? It's answered, I must be here. Why waste my breath?"

"You are one strange man, you know that?"

"What's burning, Chief?"

"A bank." Chief Ortega sniffed. "Who burns a damned bank?"

"What about Bonnie and Clyde?"

"I'll put out an APB. Meantime get your ass over to Manhattan."

"I've just finished a fourteen-hour stint and had a beer," Elmore said.

"You only ever have one."

"One's too many to be behind the wheel."

"You hear that?" Ortega said.

Elmore looked up and the doorbell buzzed.

"Your new partner."

"Don't need a partner, new or otherwise."

"No man is a fortress."

"An island."

"What is?"

"No man is an island."

"Yeah, glad you agree," Ortega said, and it was obvious something was funny. "So you have one. A partner. And try to keep this one longer than the drive over there."

The line went dead and Elmore stood up slowly and crossed to the door of his apartment. There was a girl standing in the hallway, but before he opened his mouth, he remembered he was supposed to call female marshals women. He decided not to bother calling her anything and looked her over.

She was a girl, even if he wasn't supposed to call her that. Maybe late twenties, wearing a navy blue fitted jacket and grey pants and a black backpack slung over her shoulder. She had close-cropped dark brown hair, deep green eyes and a round, friendly face that said Irish to anybody who cared to look. And there wouldn't be a shortage of men in that category.

"You got a name?" he said.

She returned the inspection and looked him up from his scuffed boots to his military-style cropped hair.

"Riley O'Riordan. You got one?"

He didn't answer. She knew it or she wouldn't have been there. And saying stuff that was already known just wasted air. People talk too much.

His casual tweed jacket and chinos were new, but he was old. He seemed to have leather for skin. She hadn't been told that, or in fact anything about him. Except to get over to his place and be his partner for as long as she could stand it. Okay, he was old, fifty if he was a day, but his tall, thin body had that whipcord strength men in the trenches often had, and he had kind eyes, which surprised her. Soft baby blue eyes in a man made from granite.

"We're first responders, right?" she said, and the hint of Irish in her voice confirmed his guess.

"Yeah."

"Shouldn't we be responding?"

He shrugged and a smile touched the corners of his mouth. "It'll still be there."

"We should get there while it's still burning."

The smile widened just a touch. "You one of those eager beavers wanting to run into burning buildings?"

"Not particularly."

"Good, because I've run into my share and I've got to tell you, it's overrated."

"Most people were firefighters before stepping up to fire marshal."

He picked up a battered ex-military backpack, stepped out and closed the door. "In the air force and back in the world, I've been stinking of smoke since you had pigtails and were playing with dolls."

"It was GI Joe." She squinted those green eyes at him. "Do you always speak to female colleagues like that?"

"Mostly." He started for the elevator.

"You should maybe give it some thought." She stepped in next to him as he pressed the ground-floor button.

"You thought about it?"

"Not really."

She didn't speak or even glance his way while she turned the bright red Ford Explorer right onto Atlantic Avenue and headed for Manhattan Bridge.

Elmore tightened his seatbelt and glanced at her. "So what's your story?"

"You don't know?"

"Why would I?"

She cut out of traffic, passed a taxi and cut back in again. "Nobody told you I was coming?"

"Nope. You're my happy surprise for today."

"Right." She repeated the death-defying overtake without a twitch. "Irish."

"You surprise me." Elmore glanced back from looking at the angry faces in the cars they were cutting off. "Come over to get away from the potato blight, did you?"

She stiffened just slightly, then relaxed. "Won't work, you know."

"What's that?"

"Trying to get me mad enough to quit and leave."

"Never crossed my mind."

"But you're almost right. My ancestors came to America to get away from the potato famine in eighteen eighty. Four years after my great-great-whatever-grandfather fought the great Dublin whiskey fire."

"Sounds like my kind of fire," Elmore said, then shook his head. "There's no such thing as a good fire."

"I hear that. From then to today, my family have been firefighters, here and in my hometown."

"Boston?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"My accent? But that's Irish."

"Maybe some Irish in there, but mostly Boston."

"That's not a bad thing."

"Never said it was." He turned back from the traffic and ignored the blaring horns. "You can drive. In an I don't care if I live kinda way. Where you learn that? And it wasn't Boston."

"No. Dirt track most Saturdays. Three brothers. Older."

He chuckled. "That why you got a boy's name? Easier to keep straight."

She gave him a quick look that spoke volumes.

"No dolls, then," he said, quickly changing the subject.

"No dolls."

"You met Phoebe?"

"No, who is she?"

"Phoebe Macmillan runs the motor pool. Hates to pay for repairs. She's a Scottish Presbyterian."

"I'll stop by and say hi," Riley said, and screwed up her brow.

"You ding her car and you won't have to stop by, you'll hear her from here."

She slowed down a fraction. "What the hell, she doesn't scare me."

He arched his eyebrows. "She scares the bejebus out of me."

He sat back now the cacophony of blaring horns had subsided to screeches as she cut in and out of the evening traffic on Canal Street.

"You're not a firefighter, though. You don't have the look in your eyes," he said, turning in his seat.

"What look's that?"

"Like the thousand-yard stare's cousin."

"No, I guess not. I haven't seen what you have. I was an engineer." She glanced at him to see if he was shocked. He wasn't. "I built things, and I was damn good at it, but I wanted to give something back. Follow my ancestors. That sound dumb to you?"

He shrugged. "Why would it? I've been doing the same thing for more years than I care to recall."

"You're a Texan."

"That a question?"

"No. Where's your hat? Your Stetson. Every Texan wears a Stetson."

"It's in the cupboard with my silver-tipped cowboy boots and Colt Peacemaker."

For the briefest moment she thought he was serious. Stupid.

"So now you're a fire marshal," he said. "I bet your family's proud."

"They are. It wasn't easy."

"No. If it was, everybody would be doing it."

"What? Running into burning buildings?"

"I try not to do that."

"You served as a firefighter?" Elmore said, but already knew she wouldn't be here if she hadn't.

"Four years." She lifted her hand off the wheel. "Just to get the experience at the sharp end I'd need in this job. This is what I wanted to do. College every night. And then, when I was finally accepted, a stint down in Quantico learning how to catch bad people."

"So they taught you that in Quantico?"

A frown crossed her brow in the orange street light. "Taught me what?"

"You said I wanted to rile you enough to walk. Psychology one-o-one."

"No, not Quantico."

"What then?"

"Three brothers, remember?"

"We're here." He pointed ahead at the mass of emergency vehicles and trucks all with bright flashing lights.

"Where?"

For a second he thought she was serious. Stupid.

He got out of the car and pulled his go-bag off the rear seat, then strode across the street to the command vehicle. The chief was a giant of a man and built like a heavyweight boxer. He glanced over as Elmore stepped up next to him.

"What we got, Chief?"

The chief turned slowly. "It's a fire."

Riley arrived in time to hear the crucial information and stifled a chuckle.

"That right?" Elmore leaned his hands on the SUV's hood and whistled. "That's what one of them looks like, then?"

"You come to help or just to be your usual pain in the ass?"

"The latter, Chief." Elmore grinned. "It's what I do." He nodded towards Riley. "This is Riley O'Riordan. She's new." He ignored Riley's sharp look. "And this fine black gentleman is none other than the legendary Chief Theodore L. Chancer. TLC to his friends." He sniffed.

"Nice to meet you, Chief," Riley said, without taking her eyes off the blazing bank.

"She's eager to run in there while it's still burning, Chief," Elmore said.

Chancer shrugged and pointed across the street. "Be my guest."

"No, I'm not," she said quickly. "It's just one of his stupid ideas."

"Yeah, he's got a barrel of those," Chancer said. "You want to take a nap for half an hour, go ahead. Real work'll be done then and you can do whatever the hell it is you do."

"How'd it start?" Elmore said.

Chancer pointed at the alley. "Somebody drove a truck load of explosives down there and detonated it." He looked at Elmore. "I suspect foul play."

"Thanks, Chief," Elmore said. "I think I'll have a bit of a stroll about if you don't mind. Stretch my legs and get some fresh air."

Smoke rolled down the narrow street in thick black plumes and the air stank of gutted real estate.

Chancer waved him by. "Don't get in the way of real firefighters."

"Try not to, Chief," Elmore said, and strolled off across the street with Riley on his heels. He stopped at the curb and looked back across the street at the crowd watching the fun.

"He doesn't like you much," Riley said, nodding towards the departing fire chief.

"No, not since I beat him into the Twin Towers."

"You were there?"

"Me and a lot of good men."

"And you and the chief had a race to get into that hell?"

"Yup."

"And you won, so he's pissed?"

"No, not because I got in first. He's pissed because I got out first." He smiled at her. "Then had to go back and rescue his ass from the basement when they came down."

She realised her mouth was open and closed it quickly. That would be Texan exaggeration. Yeah, that would be it.

He walked a little way down the sidewalk towards the blazing building and looked back up the street again.

"See him?" Riley asked without looking.

"No, but he's here."

"You're sure this is arson?" Riley said.

He looked down at her. "Somebody parked a pickup full of explosives next to the ATMs and blew it up. On balance, yeah, I think it's arson."

She looked away. "Didn't know that, boss."

Elmore chuckled. "You've been watching too much TV. I'm not your boss. I'm not anybody's boss."

"Okay. I'll call you Elmore."

"If you want to sound like my mother, go ahead. Everybody else calls me El."

"Very prophetic."

"Some would say."

"What about the little guy in the Lakers jacket?" she said. "He looks shifty. Staring at us."

"He's staring at you. And yeah, he looks shifty." He waved at the young guy in the black jacket with the gold lettering and waited for him to work his way through the tangle of hoses and equipment.

"Detective Will Franklin, meet Riley O'Riordan."

The detective nodded once and checked her out with a single glance. "She new?"

"Yeah, my new partner."

"Will she make it through the night?"

"I'm standing right here," Riley said.

"Saw you," Will said, and winked at her. "This one's cute."

"And so would you be," she said, "if you were taller."

Elmore slapped him on the shoulder and grinned. "Anything?"

Will took his eyes off Riley and shook his head. "Nothing. If you disregard a Toyota pickup embedded in the side of the burning building. My guess is it was packed with fertilizer and fuel." He shrugged. "But what do I know?"

"Not much," Elmore said, "but you do a good job of guessing. Tell you what, you do police things and we'll find out what made it go bang."

"Cool with me." Will touched his brow with his finger in salute, smiled at Riley and strolled off into the crowd.

Riley watched him go. Cute? The man had a damned nerve. Not bad though. He had dark blond hair that had escaped the barber for months, Deep blue eyes and a quick boyish smile. And he was maybe two inches over six feet, so her snippy little comeback was just that, snippy. Slim too, even in that stupid jack—

Elmore had walked off to talk to a captain, leaving her standing there staring after the detective, who'd seen her watching him like a stupid schoolgirl. She felt her face flush, turned and followed Elmore as quickly as she could without being obvious.

"Take lots of photographs," Elmore said, without turning. "Six months from now you're not going to remember this."

"I was thinking I'd just wander about and see if I stumble onto anything interesting."

"No, don't do that. Best to follow protocol."

"And you?"

He put his hands in the pockets of his thick tweed jacket and shrugged his shoulders. "I thought I'd just wander about and see if I stumble onto anything interesting." He stopped at the end of the drive-through leading to the ATMs and looked up at the hole where the building had been, now smoking and steaming as the fire died under the pounding of high-pressure hoses.

"What time do banks close?"

Riley frowned. "You don't know?"

"Wouldn't have asked if I did." He stepped into the drive and over the rubble.

"Usually five thirty. Why?"

"What time did the fire start?"

"I'll check." She turned and looked around for the chief.

"Two hours ago. Five forty-five," Elmore said.

"If you knew, why did you ask?"

"Rhetorical."

"You get briefed on this?"

"Only as much as usual." He raised an eyebrow.

"So not at all, then?"

"That's about the size of it."

"What's your point?" she said, crossing the sidewalk and standing next to him in the drive.

He pointed at the building. "The teller lines are there, off the street. Foyer goes right up almost to the roof."

"Right. It's impressive and looks big and permanent. Makes the customers feel small and shuts them up."

"So the offices would've been there, above the ATMs."

"I'd say so. Across the back." She stepped past him and looked at the hole the Toyota had made, then back at him.

He shrugged again. "Why park the truck down here?"

"Out of the way, less likely to be seen."

"He blew the goddamned bank up; subtly wasn't on his agenda." He stepped back into the street. "Why not park right in front of the building and make a show of it?"

"Too many casualties?"

He shook his head. "This guy doesn't care about casualties. Only luck saved the guard."

"Then why blow up the ATMs? They steal his card or something?"

Elmore walked back down the alley to the crater and looked at the gutted building. "The offices."

"You think the bomber was targeting the employees?" She walked around the wide crater for a better look into the building shell. "But there wasn't anybody there."

"What time you think the employees go home? Usually."

"Six, six thirty." She squinted at him in the red glow from the dying fire. "You know something, don't you?"

"I know that the manager just got a big promotion, so took the staff out for an early dinner to celebrate."

"If he hadn't, they'd all be dead." She let out her breath in a hiss. "How do you know about the manager?"

"Captain told me." He glanced at her. "While you were checking out Will's ass."

"You saw that, eh?"

"I'm a trained investigator. I notice stuff."

"So we've got a bomber who specifically targeted the staff of this bank." She looked around again. "Why? It's nothing special."

"Maybe they foreclosed on him or froze his account or whatever the hell it is banks do to piss people off."

"Pretty much everything they do pisses people off."

"Any other day it would've been a massacre," Elmore said, saw TLC wave him on and nodded once. "We can go in now." He looked her over. "You're going to mess up your pretty clothes."

"Pretty clothes? A blazer and slacks are not pretty clothes, they're work clothes."

"Color me corrected." He patted her backpack. "What've you got in there?"

She eyed him suspiciously. "What do you think? Lipstick and frilly frocks?"

"Those would be okay, but thick gloves are probably more useful right now."

"And a camera." She unslung her bag, reached in and pulled out a wide-angle camera. "One for the album." She snapped his picture. And blinded him with the flash.

"Thanks for that." He pointed at the bag again. "You got a fire marshal jacket?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Put it on."

"I'm dressed just fine, thanks."

"Put it on. Cops see you rummaging about in the bank and they might just shoot you as a looter."

"We could wait for the fire scene unit," she said quickly. "They don't like us stomping over the crime scene before they've collected their evidence."

"Somebody intended to kill a lot of innocent people here today. The FSU are going to collect evidence, but we all know it was a truck bomb. Sooner we get samples of the explosives over to the lab, sooner we'll know if we can track it back to the retail outlet that sold it. Then we'll catch the bad guy and get a medal."

"Right. A medal." She pulled her marshal jacket out of her bag and went in through the hole that had once been the staff entrance.

"She's cute."

Elmore didn't bother turning, he knew Will's voice from the nights it had droned at him as they propped up the late night bars. "I'll tell her you said so."

"I know what you're thinking," Will said, and stepped up beside him at the edge of the blast crater.

"You should do, you're a detective, remember?"

"You're thinking why blow up a perfectly good truck when a can of kerosene and a flare through one of the windows would've got the job done just fine."

Elmore glanced at him. "Something like that."

"Maybe the guy was a moron."

"Not enough of a moron to hang around in the truck. Would've saved me a heap of trouble."

"Looks to me like the act of a man a bit miffed at the bank."

"Disgruntled employee." Elmore nodded. "That's what I was thinking."

"I know."

"Well, do you know where the manager is?"

Will pointed at a bar across the street. "Him and his staff are in there."

"You let the witnesses stroll off to a bar? And left them together to compare stories?"

Will smiled. "No, they were already in the bar. It's where the cheapskate manager took them for their night out. I had the barman put towels over the pumps."

"That's very professional of you." Elmore shook his head. "I'd better go and talk to them before they've thoroughly rehearsed their stories."

"What makes you think they have a story?"

"Everybody has something to hide."

"You're getting cynical in your old age."

"I'm an investigator, cynicism comes with the badge." He looked back at Will still standing by the crater. "You coming?"

"Not a police case."

"Then why are you here?"

Will pointed at the bank. "There's a vault in there with god knows how much money in it."

"And you're here to make sure nobody accidently opens it."

"Nope."

Elmore stopped and waited.

"The uniforms are here for that. I'm here on personal business."

It took Elmore a second to catch up. "This personal business. It wouldn't have an Irish accent, would it?"

Will shrugged and strolled off towards the hole in the wall where Riley had gone. "Might have."

"But you didn't know she was here."

"Do now."

The bank staff were the only people in the bar now the booze was off the menu. They'd naturally split up into gender groups and Elmore sat at the table in the middle of the female grouping. They stopped talking and watched him raise his marshal's badge and let them take a peek. Then he took out a notebook and a pencil. As one they looked at it then back up at him like he was an alien.

Elmore touched the pencil to his tongue and suppressed a smile. "Which one of you is the manager?"

They looked past him, but he just waited, his eyebrows raised in question.

"I am the manager." The speaker walked around the table and stood over his staff protectively, or threateningly. It was hard to tell. The man was tall and slightly bent, had practically no skin on his bones, and spoke through his hooked nose.

Elmore didn't make any judgement or comparison. Except in his head. Calling someone a vulture could be offensive in some cultures.

"Thought you were," he said, and stood up.

He was a good three inches shorter than the bent guy.

"Let's take a seat over there." He pointed at a table next to the bar.

The bartender was a man who liked his own product and had trouble leaning on the bar in what he supposed was a casual way.

Elmore sat and waited for the manager to wind his body into the polished wooden chair, then looked hard at the bartender until he got the hint and went off to polish glasses with a dirty towel.

The manager watched Elmore open his spiral notebook and touch the pencil stub to his tongue again.

"Are you really going to take notes with a...pencil?"

Elmore lifted the pencil to eye level and examined it. "Could use a tape recorder."

"A tape recorder?" The manager squeezed his eyes shut for a second. "You do know they've invented digital recorders?"

Elmore shrugged. "Read about them. Electronics go wrong. Information gets erased. Or changed." He wrote the date and time in his notebook. "That bit of information will be there for ever."

The manager sighed a long tired sigh. "Can we get this over with? I want to get home to my wife."

"You took your staff out for dinner. Your wife is expecting you home early?"

The manager licked his lips. "No. Of course not. It's just been a terrible shock for me."

"Not as much as it was for the guard."

"Poor man. Is he going to be okay?"

"If he isn't, then this arson just became a murder investigation."

The manager gave a little start and took a quick breath. "My god, is he dead?"

"He wasn't last time I asked."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"Just saying how it would be if it wasn't how it is," Elmore said, and returned to writing in his book.

The manager watched the pencil and tried to read the scribble upside down. He wouldn't have been able to read it right way up.

"Who'd want to burn your bank?" Elmore said, and looked the man in the eyes.

"How would I know?" He sounded a bit irritable. "Isn't that what you're supposed to find out?"

"Oh," Elmore said, "I forgot to ask your name." He gave him a quick smile. "For the notebook."

"Trenton P. Russell."

"What's the P for?"

"Why? What possible importance can that have?"

"Well, if I write P in my book, guess what's the first thing my boss is going to say when he sees it."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Percival. My name is Trenton Percival Russell."

Elmore wrote it in his book.

Russell drummed his long thin fingers on the round table.

"Disgruntled employee?" Elmore said, looking up at last.

"Who is?"

"You tell me."

"Tell you? You think this is the work of a disgruntled employee?"

"I don't know what I think. Yet. I bet you have disgruntled employees. You strike me as a man who is capable of disgruntling employees."

"What are you implying?" He started to stand.

Elmore waved him back down. "I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot." He smiled. "Let's do over." He touched his pencil to his tongue. "Now, Trenton." He raised his eyebrows. "I can call you Trenton, can't I?"

"What? Yes. Of course. Call me whatever you like."

Elmore smiled again. They were bonding.

"Thank you, Trenton. Now let's get back to the fire. Have you had cause to discipline anyone recently? Fire somebody?" He raised a hand. "Excuse the pun there."

"No, nobody. I run a very happy bank."

Elmore let that go. "Nobody caught with his or her hand in the till?"

Russell sat back as if he'd been slapped. "What are you saying? You think one of my people started the fire to cover up a theft?"

Elmore gave him a moment. "Or to cover up a bit of creative bookkeeping."

"How dare you."

"Been known."

"Not in my bank, it hasn't. Don't you think you'd be better doing your proper job? Instead of sitting here insinuating that one of my people is an embezzler and an arsonist."

"So who did you let go?"

"What? I told you, I haven't let anyone go."

"Yes, you did. And I wrote it down." He looked the man in the eyes, all hint of a smile gone now. "So I'll be able to remind you of it later."

Russell's tongue tip worked its way around his lips, top to bottom.

"I could cross it out," Elmore said. "Now. Can't be done later."

Russell looked back over his shoulder, either to see if he was overheard or for help. "Well, there was one instance."

"Easy to overlook one instance." Elmore crossed out a line on his notebook.

"It's delicate."

"I'm the epitome of discretion."

"We had to ask Derek to find another position." He looked around. "Nobody knows this, of course."

"Of course."

"He is the CEO's son." He looked around again. "Gambling problem, I'm afraid."

"What, his pops?"

"No, not the CEO. His son. Derek Hamilton." The long sigh came out again. "Isn't there someone else who could conduct these interviews? You seem—"

"Not really," Elmore said. "They're all out there. Doing a proper job." He wrote in his notebook. "Derek Hamilton? What about his pop?"

"It was his idea."

"Boy's going to be a bit pissed, then."

"Not enough to blow up the bank."

"You'd be surprised what people do. Anybody else?" He pointed his pencil at the rest of the staff in their little tribal groups. "Think now, because I'm going to ask each of them the same question."

"No, no one. Just Derek."

"You got an assistant manager?"

"Yes, of course."

"Send him over."

"He's a she."

Elmore shrugged. It was going to be a long night.

A middle-aged woman in a thick suit strode across the barroom and stood over him. She looked angry, although he guessed that was her regular look. She also looked like she was chewing a wasp. Asking her for a date probably wasn't on the cards.

"Sit down, please, miss," Elmore said.

"It's Mrs."

He knew that.

"Mrs. Ingrid Chappell, if you must know."

Elmore wrote it in his notebook. "Only for my notes." He looked up and tried not to flinch as her eyes beat him up. "In case it's needed in the trial."

She gasped. He'd always wondered if people actually gasped, and now he knew. Inflated people do when the air is knocked out of them.

"A trial?" She put her hand on the back of the chair she was supposed to be sitting in. "Why should there be a trial?"

"Somebody blew up the bank," Elmore said. "Sit down and I'll tell you all about it."

She looked at the chair as if it were an instrument of torture.

Elmore's cell buzzed in his pocket and he realized he was mightily relieved. Facing down a nut with a twelve-gauge was easier than this.

He put the cell to his ear without speaking, listened for a moment, then dropped it back in his pocket.

"You're going?" Mrs. Ingrid Chappell said, sounding like his fifth-grade teacher asking where his gym kit was.

"It's my mom, I'm late for dinner." Elmore pushed the chair back and left before the fierce woman could think of a cutting comment.

"What about the rest of us?" the manager said as Elmore increased his pace towards the door.

"You were having a party. Party on." He skipped the dude part, but it was in his head.

Riley got up from the man-group table and caught up with him as he left the bar.

"FSU have finished their sweep," she said, matching his stride towards the SUV.

"I know, I got a call from the lab."

"Already?"

"It's midnight. I can call Lindsey and tell her to stall until morning if you like."

"Who's Lindsey?" She raised a hand. "No, don't bother. Some dumb blonde with the hots for you, no doubt."

Elmore didn't answer.

"I'll drive," he said.

"No, you won't," Riley said quickly. "I've heard about your driving."

Elmore was already in the passenger seat, where he'd intended sitting all along.

Riley slid in behind the wheel and fastened her seatbelt. A sensible move the way she drove. "We going to talk to the CEO's boy?"

"You got that too?"

"Of course, everybody knows about it."

"I figured. Waste of time, but yeah, tomorrow."

"Why is it a waste of time? He's a prime suspect."

"You're the CEO's son and you'll get everything when he goes to the great vault in the sky. Are you gonna blow it up? Even if you are a bit pissed?" He shook his head. "Money trumps malice every time."

"He'll have to be eliminated."

"I'm betting his pop would pay you to do that."

"That's not what I mean." She started the motor and looked to her left so he wouldn't see her smile.

Riley had been right, Lindsey was a blonde, but that was as right as she got. She looked like Goldie Hawn in her prime, with too much blonde hair and over-white teeth showing through a smile that would've broken through to Mrs. Chappell. On a good day. She checked Riley out and gave her a wink.

Elmore spoke while Riley was still processing.

"What you got, Lyn?"

"Whatever you need." She spoke without taking her eyes off Riley.

"Hey, you called me, remember?"

"Right." She got back to business and patted the top of a huge piece of electronics in pride of place on her lab bench against the wall. "I love this baby."

"What?" Riley said, "The photocopier?"

Lindsey gave her a long and slightly dirty look. "This," she said slowly, patting it as if it were a puppy, "is a gas chromatography mass spectrometer." She said it as if she expected them to know what language she was speaking.

"If you say so," Riley said.

"I do." She pointed at the attached computer monitor. "And you see that?"

"Yup," Elmore said. "It's like a TV but smaller and no football."

She gave him the look. "That, my dear Marshal Elmore—" She turned to Riley. "You know why his momma called him Elmore?"

"Elmore James, like the guitarist," Elmore said, with a smile.

"What band's he in?" Riley said. "Can't say I've heard of him."

"He was the king of slide guitar." He might as well have said he was the cook on the Hoboken ferry. "So, what's your mass spec telling you?" he said, giving up on the blues history.

"That, my underfed firefighter, is telling me your theory as to the cause of the bank fire is incorrect."

"Don't have a theory. They're like assumptions and I don't have them either."

"Whatever." She pointed at the graphical display. "That one is PETN." She glanced at Riley. "Like nitroglycerin. And that's RDX."

"Just about the most powerful military-grade explosive," Elmore said, his interest grabbed now.

"That's styrene-butadiene." She shrugged. "Anyway, what you have here is the residue from Semtex."

Elmore was silent for a moment, then leaned closer to the monitor. "Not an ANFO, then?"

Lindsey shook her head. "You didn't really think some idiot who blows up his ride home could mix up ammonia nitrate and fuel oil in the right proportion to do that damage?"

"Nope."

"Didn't think so." She tapped the keyboard and another display appeared. "This is the ammonia nitrate residue. Poor grade and the ratio of fertilizer to fuel is all wrong."

"Enough to act as an initiator for the Semtex?" Riley said.

Lindsey gave her a long smile. And looked her over. "No. Oh, the ANFO would've broken a few windows and scared the tweety-birds, but no way would it have triggered the Semtex."

"It blew a crater in the asphalt, so it had some power."

She changed the display on the monitor. "See that spike there?"

He leaned closer. Could see it. It was a spike.

"Looks like the idiots had a drum of meth in the truck. That made up the shortfall in the ammonia and fuel mix." She shook her head. "This guy must've been sampling his product. But the real blast was pretty much all down to the Semtex."

Elmore looked at the night sky through the high window. "No way a bank employee is going to get his hands on plastic explosive."

"Who, then?" Riley said.

"That's the question." He turned back to Lindsey. "Did the techs id the Toyota?"

"Found the license plates, both of them. Owner's going to be upset when then dump the remains of his truck on his driveway."

"Stolen?" Riley said.

"Pretty stupid bomber if he uses his own truck," Lindsey said, with another smile.

"They get an address?" Elmore said.

"I'm your secretary now, then?"

"Only if you sit on my knee and bring me coffee."

"Physically impossible."

"Okay, I'll ask Bobby Vee."

"He'll be home with the kids by now," Lindsey said. She scribbled on a Post-it and handed it to him. "Owner's in the Bronx. Bit late for a social call though, isn't it?"

"I'll knock softly."

Elmore smelt it the moment Emiliano Perez opened the apartment door. Smoke, old and acrid. He showed no sign of having smelt it, no point tipping his hand.

"You had a yard fire?" Riley asked.

"What she asking?" Perez said, jerking his thumb at her and glaring at Elmore.

"You seen your truck today?" Elmore said, ignoring the question.

Perez frowned and looked around. "It's the middle of the night, man. Why'd I see my truck? You stupid or something?"

"Mostly something. When was the last time you saw it?"

"What you talking about, man?"

Elmore stepped up close to the man and towered over him. "It's midnight, so I'm going to let your attitude slide. For now. I'm asking you politely when you saw your truck last."

He eased back a little to give the man space to think.

"And I'm overlooking the fact that you stink of fuel and burnt building."

Perez backed off a step. "I was cooking dinner. It got away." He looked around quickly. Nowhere to run. "I seen my truck this afternoon when I took it into the shop. The engine's shot."

"Is now," Elmore said.

"You ain't showed me no ID nor nothing. How I know you're not trying to get into my place and rip me off?"

Riley stifled a laugh. "Got stuff worth taking, have you, Emiliano?"

"Yeah, I got stuff."

"Show me," Elmore said.

"You got a warrant? I know my rights."

"Can get one. Judge's gonna be pissed for getting him out of bed though. Be bad for you when you're in his dock."

"I ain't done nothin', so why'd I be in court?"

"Let's see." Elmore touched his chin and thought about it. "Interfering with a federal investigation'll get you a few years' rest in the pokey."

"I'm the victim here," Perez said. "It's my truck what got stole, right?"

"Who said it'd been stolen?" Elmore said, and saw his eyes widen.

"You did." He could see that didn't float. "Then why you here bothering a law-abidin' citizen in the middle of the night?"

"Your truck's been stolen," Elmore said.

Perez looked from Elmore to Riley and back again. Confused. "That's what I just said and you said it wasn't."

"That's because you're psychic."

"No, I ain't. There ain't nothin' wrong with my mind like no psycho stuff."

"What's the name of the shop?"

"What shop? What's he talkin' about?" He looked at Riley, who shrugged.

"The shop where your truck went because its engine is shot," Elmore said.

Perez blinked hard; then his eyes narrowed. "I got the address in back. Wait here. I'll get it." He backed up through the door.

Elmore put his hand on Riley's arm and steered her away from the door.

"Hey, stop pushing."

He put his finger to his lips, drew his Glock 22 and stood back against the wall next to the door. And waited.

Perez knocked into a table in the hall as he sneaked back to the door, swore quietly and stopped. The feds had gone. He was confused and held his .38 out in front almost at arm's length to get it nearer the target if one showed up. He stuck his head out of the doorway.

And Elmore put the muzzle of his gun against his temple. Perez froze and tried to look at him by moving only his eyes.

"I wasn't plannin' on shootin' you nor nobody," he said.

"Just taking your Saturday night special for a bit of a walk?" Elmore said, and took the pistol with his left hand.

"You could be anybody. Come in the night to rob me an' kill me."

"True, but we'd have done that already, wouldn't we? Not stop to discuss the condition of your truck."

"Could be you wanted to, y'know, put me off my guard."

"Right," Elmore said. "Put you off your guard." He lowered his Glock and Perez sighed.

"Can we come in now for a chat?" Elmore said.

Perez nodded enough to shake his neck loose. "Yeah, sure, why not?" He stepped back into the apartment. "No hard feelin' about the little, y'know, misunderstandin', right?"

"Nope," Elmore said, following him and waving Riley to stay put. "It's a, y'know, misunderstanding."

He glanced into the little kitchen as he passed. It was a mess, with every surface piled high with junk and dirty plates. It hadn't been used for cooking since JFK was president.

The sitting room echoed the kitchen but had a variation on the crap scattered about. Less plates and more junk-food cartons. Perez stood by the tan leather sofa polished black by grime, and stepped from foot to foot like a junkie waiting for a fix.

"Want your gun back?" Elmore said, holding out the silver revolver.

Perez stopped shuffling and stared at him. "What? You wanna give me my gun back?"

Elmore shrugged. "Why not? It's your gun, right? And you've done nothing wrong."

"Yeah, right." He took the offered gun very slowly without shifting his eyes off Elmore.

"Now we're friends 'n all," Elmore said, "why don't you tell me how it happened. Best to get it out now before it gets all festered and poisoned."

"What out?"

Elmore put his hand on the little man's shoulder and felt him jump like he'd touched a live outlet.

"There's nobody here, just us. And we both know you gave your truck to somebody who used it to blow up a bank." He squeezed his hand on Perez's shoulder. "Then you went along for a look-see, right?"

Perez licked his lips. And looked down at his pistol.

"Hell of a fire though, wasn't it?" Elmore said.

"Yeah, man, it was—" He stopped with his mouth open.

"Hey, don't sweat it. Course you're gonna watch the fire, stands to reason. Thing like that's better than TV, right?"

Perez nodded before his brain caught up.

"Nothin' to do with you, so why not?" Elmore said.

"Yeah, right. Why not." Perez smiled and relaxed. Off the hook.

"So who you give the truck to?"

Perez blinked slowly.

"What they did with it isn't on you, so you can relax."

He relaxed. That was close.

"Friend, was it?" Elmore said, looking around at the crap everywhere.

"Tony. Tony Sandoval, he's my brother-in-law. Was, prior to her running off with that crossing guard backend last year." He saw Elmore watching him and the look in his soft blue eyes. A promise of pain. "Said he'd got a job. Real money. Needed some wheels."

"You help him load up the barrels of fertilizer and kerosene in it?"

Elmore wondered if it was his wife or his sister who'd run off with the crossing guard, but not enough to bother asking. Crossing guard? Who runs off with a crossing guard? Perez was talking and he tuned back in.

"Yeah. That stuff is heavy, you know that?"

"I do. Stinks too, right? And the gas cans leaked."

"Yeah. How'd you know that?"

"Smell it." Elmore smiled at his new friend. "This Tony. Where does he hang out?"

"This time of night," Perez said, looking around as if expecting to see Tony there. "He'll be at Mason's over on Atlantic. Got a girl there's hot for him."

"Let's go say hi," Elmore said.

Perez backed up until his calves pushed against the sofa. "You didn't say nothin' about me goin' with. He'll kill me he thinks I ratted him out."

"Hey, nothing to worry about. You'll be in the car."

Elmore took out his handcuffs and Perez sat down on the sofa, in the junk.

"That has to be some kinda record," Ortega said. "You wrap the case in what? Six hours last night?" He put the file he'd been reading onto a pile of other files on his desk. "You got a big S on your chest?"

"You trying to tell me something, Chief?" Elmore said. "Because if you are, I'd appreciate you just saying it."

"What did you think when forensics told you about the Semtex?"

"I thought that the Semtex was the real bomb, and the truck was just to piss us off."

"And now?"

Elmore sat on the corner of Ortega's desk and ignored the pointed look. "You mean after Perez and the meth addict confessed to it?"

Ortega shrugged but said nothing.

"I think we got the guys who blew up a perfectly good Toyota pickup."

"And the bank?"

"You asking me to speculate, Chief?"

"Break a life-long rule and go ahead and speculate."

Elmore watched his boss for several seconds. "Okay, but don't take notes." He got off the desk and crossed to the window to look out onto the street stationary with rush-hour traffic. Then he turned back to face the room. "I'd say whoever blew up that bank had probably never set foot in it, let alone was an employee, disgruntled or otherwise."

"Keep going."

"I'd speculate that this was a practice, a dry run for something bigger. Much bigger."

"How'd you get there?" Ortega leaned back in his big chair and folded his hands on a stomach that liked junk food.

"The facts mostly." Elmore returned to sit on the desk. "The Semtex was military grade, hard to get and expensive. It was just placed against a wall, no shaped charge and not even at a key structural point. The only reason it did so much damage was the amount he used. He must have used a two-wheeler truck to get it into the bank. Ten pounds would've brought down the building."

Ortega nodded slowly and his jowls moved in counter-time. "So you figure he's a novice?"

"Don't you? But he's smart."

"He doesn't sound it."

"Kept me chasing around all night after a couple of patsies."

Ortega laughed deep and short. "He did. What was that about?"

Elmore leaned across the desk and flipped open the lid of a cardboard box that had once contained a stack of doughnuts. "You eat all those?"

"Helps me think."

"Camila know about your thinking?"

"No, and if she finds out from you, you'll be investigating firework parties on Staten Island."

Elmore closed the lid. "Pickup truck wasn't a diversion. The bomber really thought it would cover up the evidence of the real bomb."

"Bit naïve."

"Like I said, it was a practice. He won't make that mistake next time."

"Then you'd better catch his ass before there's a next time."

"You know that's not going to happen. He's got no priors, no MO, no record. A mystery man as far as our records go."

"You sure of that? Maybe he's playing a double bluff."

"I considered that. If he could do it, he wouldn't have wasted his time on some small-time bank. He'd have done what he's planning right out of the gate."

"And what you think he's planning?"

Elmore stood up. "Now if I knew that, Chief, I'd be sitting in your chair."

"They got bail this morning," Riley said as Elmore returned to his desk.

"They were just saps. Detonated their truck and probably broke a few windows before the bomber blew up the whole building." He picked up the first of a pile of buff files off his desk. "Still, we should probably go talk to them some more. They might remember something now they've had time to calm down."

"You know a good medium?"

He looked up.

"Sandoval had a ninety-five Cadillac Fleetwood, brown. Can you believe that? Who in God's name would drive such a thing?"

"And...?"

"He got in. It blew up." She shrugged and returned to the papers she'd been reading.

"You don't seem very affected by his demise?"

She looked up, a slightly puzzled expression on her face. "He blew things up. He got blown up. There's a kind of karma in that, don't you think?"

"For somebody so cute, you've got a heart of flint."

She looked up quickly. "You think I'm cute?" She frowned. "I'm not sure that's within agency guidelines. You finding a colleague cute."

"Don't beat it with a stick. That moment has passed."

"Still, we had a moment." She winked at him.

"You get Will's number?" he said, shaking it before it settled into his memory and kept him awake nights.

She patted her jacket pocket. "He didn't play hard to get."

He watched her for a moment while he tried to decide if she was messing with him. He decided she was.

"You ask him out, bring him over to The Old Alamo."

"Don't tell me, it's a Texan bar."

"That's why you're an investigator, nothing gets past you." He leaned over his desk and took his badge and gun out of the top drawer.

"You going somewhere nice?"

"I figured I'd let you drive me to see a Cadillac Fleetwood. Haven't seen one since I was a kid."

"They were driving LaSalles when you were a kid." She pulled her badge and gun out of the drawer and followed him to the door.

"Now that was a Cadillac," he said, and held the door open for her.

She sighed heavily, shook her head and waved him on. "Jesus, you think I'm your granny?"

Even in the morning traffic, it took just twenty minutes to get across Brooklyn to the police impound, where Sandoval's car was smoldering and the crew was sitting on the fire truck's steps, eating breakfast burritos.

A tall thin lieutenant unwound himself and came over to the car, looking like a biped giraffe. He dropped his arm on the car roof, leaned down and put his head in through the window.

Riley's mental picture of the giraffe got real.

"Fire's out," he said, "but that's why you're just getting here." He looked past Elmore, who was unconsciously pressing back into the seat, and nodded at Riley. "Hi, ma'am."

She looked at Elmore. "Another Texan? What is it with you Texans? Don't you like Texas?"

"Love Texas, ma'am," the fireman said, "New York fires are more fun."

"This is Art Crowther," Elmore said. "He's just leaving."

Art extracted his head from the car and stood up so that his belt buckle was almost level with the SUV's roof.

"Don't waste brain space," Elmore said, reaching for the handle. "He's from Dallas." He seemed to think that was all that needed saying.

"Least we don't eat our firstborn," Art said, stepping back to give the door space. "He ever invite you down to El Paso, ma'am, you run a mile. Hear?"

"Drop the ma'am, Art, I'm not your schoolteacher."

Art gave her a smile that would've melted Hitler. "No, ma'am, you sure ain't."

"Thought we'd take a look at the crime scene," Elmore said. "You finished tramping all over it."

"Found a written confession," Art said, still looking at Riley as she got out of the car. "Littering the place up, so we tossed it in the blaze."

"Good to see you have the cleanliness of the city at heart," Riley said.

"And the occupant?" Elmore said, butting in.

"The crispy critter? Wagon took him away someplace. All you can eat barbecue or some such."

"Jesus, I haven't had breakfast," Riley said, pulling a face.

"Sure, ma'am, smell of roasted meat in the morning always gives me an appetite."

She stopped and looked around intently.

"Looking for something?" Elmore said, stepping up beside her and looking around too.

"I'm looking for the attendants in white coats."

"Save your eye-juice," Elmore said, strolling off. "They ran away screaming day one."

"Show you around, ma'am?" Art said, and put out his elbow for her to take. She would've needed a stepladder.

She lifted her jacket to show her Glock in its belt holster.

He stepped away. "See you can find your own way just fine, ma'am. I got things that need doing." He strode away, eating up two yards with every step. It was awesome, and more than a little disconcerting.

"He a friend of yours?" she asked, catching up with Elmore as he approached the burned-out wreck.

Elmore looked across at the fire truck. "Never seen him before in my life." He looked back. "At least that's what I'll say when they come to question me about him."

"Are all Texans alien replacements?"

"Only the good ones." He picked up a piece of pipe. "Ma'am."

"Get shot a lot, do you?"

"No more than most." Elmore lifted the Cadillac's trunk with the pipe. "Hey, Art, better get the meat wagon back."

Riley walked around from the side of the wreck and looked past him into the trunk. "That'll be Emiliano Perez." She leaned a little closer. "He doesn't seem happy to see us."

She turned to see Elmore looking at her with a worried expression. "What? It's not like he's a family member or anything." She walked away before Art could get close enough to start calling her _ma'am_ again.

Elmore watched her go. That was what happened to a girl brought up with three older brothers. Tragic really.

Art looked over Elmore's shoulder. "Never thought to look in the trunk."

"No, you wouldn't," Elmore said. "You just squirt water on them. We come along to do all the thinking."

"So what're you thinking, Brains?"

"He's dead."

Art staggered back clutching his hands to his chest. "I believe I'm gonna swoon from your brilliance." He stood up, and up, and up. All six foot eight of him. "All your kin down in El Paso got the genius gene?"

"Just the dumber ones."

"Yeah, I see that." Art stepped back up to the Caddy. "He didn't climb in there to get away from the fire."

"See there, I could tell being a bozo was just an act."

"He's all curled up so didn't struggle."

Elmore nodded. "Keep going, you're doing just fine. For a two-day rookie."

"Now I'm hurt." Art turned to leave, stopped and pointed. "That bullet hole in his chest is a clue though, right?" He walked away.

Elmore pushed the hot metal up higher with his steel pipe and leaned in a little. Sure enough, it was a bullet hole, but almost lost in the charred flesh. He glanced quickly at Art as he loped back to the truck. Man pretended to be slow. Needed acting lessons.

He let the trunk drop and caught up with Riley at the SUV. "Perez was shot. Probably to shut him up."

"Way I saw it, that was just about the only thing that would."

"So now our bomber is a double murderer." He shrugged. "Was always going to happen, just happened a mite sooner than I thought."

She turned and leaned back against the car. "You _knew_ he was going to kill somebody?" She sounded doubtful.

"They always do. Problem with this MO is it brings in other people, unreliable people, stupid people. Who else would play along with insanity? Stupid people talk, so they're usually silenced as soon as they're done."

"Okay, Sherlock, what's our bomber going to do next?"

Elmore walked around to the passenger side, got in and waited for her to start the engine. Then turned up the aircon. "Blow something else up."

She sat back in her seat, let go of the wheel and looked at him for a while. "That's it? That's your mighty El Paso deduction?"

"Hey, don't bring El Paso into this, it ain't done nothin' at all."

"You majored in English language at college, right?"

"I was a jock."

"Course you were. Stupid me." She put the SUV in drive and pulled it around and out of the yard.

"Swing along Metro Ave." He held up his wrist to show his watch.

"Nice watch," Riley said, then looked back at the road. "It's six thirty. Thanks for that."

"It's happy hour. I've got a date with Jose Cuervo."

"I hope you'll both be very happy together."

"It's tequila."

"And you think I don't know that? What, I've just come from a convent?"

"Don't know, just met you yesterday. You could be faking it."

"Thanks." She wrenched the wheel over and skidded onto Metropolitan Avenue, ignoring the blaring horns.

"Up on the left there."

She screeched the SUV to a halt outside the bar, leaned over and looked up at the faded sign. "The Old Alamo." She sniffed. "Well, it's right about one thing. It's old."

"Age has its benefits."

"Says old people." She looked at the bar again. "You're going to sit around with your old cowboy friends in that dump instead of working on the case?"

"What case?"

" _The_ _case_ , the bomber blowing up banks. Remember?"

He opened his door. "We're not going to catch him tonight or tomorrow." He closed the door and leaned in through the window. "We'll catch him when he's done enough to make a mistake."

"And that's what you're counting on? Him making a mistake. What about good old-fashioned police work?"

"That's why you're here."

"And you?"

"This is where I come to think."

"Yeah, course it is."

"See you in the morning. Bright and early." He walked away. Around the rear of the car, in case she went for a dirt-track racing start. With him on the hood.

He pushed open the bar door, heard the old sound of Texas red-dirt country music and relaxed.

An hour later he was sitting at the bar, still with his first tequila, watching the barkeep move in slow motion, as barkeeps do. It was too early for the after-work crowd, so the place was mostly empty, except for a couple of old boys playing checkers in the corner. He heard the door creak and looked up into the big mirror above the bar, then back over his shoulder as the newcomer approached.

"David, you're a bit off your patch," he said, and nodded at the barman's questioning look.

"Can't a man come and have a drink with his old friend?"

"You are and always will be most welcome, old friend." Elmore waved him to the stool next to his, pushed his untouched drink to one side and waited for the barman to put another tequila in front of him. He raised his glass. "Here's to old friends and fine tequila."

David clinked his glass and knocked the drink back in one. "I needed that."

"I can see." Elmore put down his tequila. "So okay. What's this about?" He raised his hand off the bar. "Yeah, you're always welcome to visit, but it's not just a visit."

David laughed and raised his empty glass at the barman. "I should never bullshit a cop."

"Fire marshal."

"And there's a difference?"

Elmore shrugged. "Different uniform."

The barman glanced at Elmore and saw the slight shake of his head. He put one of the tequilas on the bar and faded away without any apparent movement.

"How's the finance business?" Elmore said, and sipped his drink.

David laughed once, but it was hollow. "There you go. Like I said, a cop."

"Don't take a cop to see something's wrong."

David swallowed his drink, started to raise his glass and caught Elmore's look and put it down. "Finance business is doing just fine."

"Business might be, you're not. Come on, you're here to tell me, so tell me."

"Straight to the point, eh, El?"

"Don't do small talk."

"Okay." He took the moment and signalled the barman. "They _retired_ me." His head sank forward a little. "I look like I'm ready to retire to you?"

Elmore looked at the eighteen-hundred-dollar suit wearing the burned-out middle-aged man and lied. "You look pretty much like you always do."

"Your job means you know when somebody's speaking with a forked tongue. Well, my job needs the same skill." He picked up his fresh drink. "But thanks for the effort, it's appreciated." He swallowed the third tequila.

"There are other jobs. Wall Street's full of—"

"My name was crossed off everybody's Christmas list before I cleared my desk."

"You're rich. Go out and enjoy yourself. See the world and relax."

David took a long quavering breath and placed his glass along the bar as a gesture of his intent. It was a lie; they both knew it but went along.

"I've been chasing the dollar dragon since I blasted out of Yale. I've had my eye on the market every day since. You ever met my wife? Of course not. I don't have one. No time. My friends?" He put his hand on Elmore's shoulder. "You're it, you know that?" He shook his head. "Is that sad?"

"Thanks."

"Sorry, that didn't come out right. But you know what I mean?"

"You met my wife?"

David laughed suddenly and unexpectedly. "Peas in a pod, right? You and me. Career instead of life."

"I like to think what I do is more than a career."

"Yes, so did I. Right up to the moment they threw me out with the trash."

Elmore gave him a few seconds to wallow in self-pity, then waved the barman over for refills. He took his fresh drink and pushed his other one away, almost untouched.

"Ask it," he said, with a half-smile.

David closed his eyes. "You know, that's what I've always liked about you. You don't take the scenic route, do you?"

"Getting there gives you more time to get it done."

"Okay." He took a long breath as if he was about to propose. "I'm out of the finance business, that's a given, but I've got contacts in business all across the city, the country. I'm going to do what you said."

"See the world?"

"No, relax."

"That's good to hear." Even if it wasn't true.

"I've always wanted to write. So now I've got time. Lots of it. I'm going to write."

Elmore was silent, just watching.

"You want to know what I'm going to write?"

"Story about New York firefighters?"

David's mouth stayed open in shock. Or from the booze. "How?" He put up his hands. "Right, of course you'd know. Detective."

"Investigator."

"You worked it out though."

"What's to work out? You've come across town to find me. Why would you do that when you know where I live? Unless you want to ask me something, and that something is hard for you. So you want neutral ground. It's how you've been doing business and too late to change."

"And what you just did is what I want." He saw the frown. "I want you to teach me how to do that."

"Can't be done."

"You saying you're smarter than me?"

"That's way off the mark; you're the smartest man I know. I'm saying what I do isn't just a learned skill, it's..." He shrugged. "It's who I am. A gift, I guess."

"Okay, I get that. But I'm going to write about what you do. I'm asking you to just let me."

"A movie?"

"TV. I know people in the business, and how hard can it be?"

"You want me to coach you?"

"I want to tag along, ride shotgun so to speak. See what you do, how you do it. How you investigate a fire and catch the bad guys."

"Can't do that." Elmore put his hand on his friend's arm. "It's not that I don't want to, it's just there's a stack of rules a mile high. There's no way I could take you to a fire scene, put you in harm's way, and probably get you killed. There must be another way."

David breathed heavily while he drank his drink, more slowly this time. Then nodded. "You're right, I'm being stupid."

"I'd help if I could, you know that."

"I do." He frowned. "What about I meet you here? Occasionally. And you tell me what you're working on. No names. Just how you do it. Then I'll write the scene and let you give it the thumbs up or down."

Elmore let the _no_ fade and looked at his friend's reflection in the mirror. The man was right on the edge, clinging on by his fingernails. The idea was stupid, but it was all he had.

"Okay, I can do that." He smiled. "Might even help me to have somebody to bounce ideas off."

David's smile almost split his face. "This calls for a celebration." He raised his hand.

Elmore reached over and lowered it. "I think you've celebrated enough. And don't you need a clear head in the morning for writing?"

"Yes, of course. Start first thing." He slid off the stool and caught the bar to steady himself.

"Hold up. I'll take you home." Elmore started to stand.

"You sit there," David said, and patted his friend's shoulder. "I'm a big boy now and can get myself home. I've only had a couple."

"Are you driving?"

"Was. I'll call a cab."

Elmore settled back onto the stool. "You do that."

"I'll drop back in a couple of days, when the consultancy room is open." He dropped a hundred note on the bar and nodded at the barman, then smiled at Elmore, who was about to point out how much tequila costs. "Last rich-trader act."

Elmore watched him leave. Another high-flyer shot down by time. Unstoppable as a fire on a tanker. Saddest thing in life. He glanced at his tequila, but he'd lost the taste for it. The barman nodded as he left. Elmore had known Sam for twenty years, but still only warranted a single nod. Old friends, then. And he wasn't even sure his name was Sam.

Across the bridge on the Upper East Side, a black guy the size of a dumper truck squeezed his gut in behind the wheel of a twenty-year-old white panel van and crashed it into gear.

He wiped sweat from his face on his blue overalls straining drum-skin tight over his arms and looked back over his shoulder at the four fifty-gallon fuel drums. But all he saw was the cell phone and block of Semtex wedged between them.

For the first time since he'd taken the cash for this, he began to wonder if it was worth the risk.

Too late now.

He nosed the van into the downtown traffic and prayed no fool ran into him.

_____________

###

#

#

# REQUIEM FOR EDEN

#

## EDEN: SEASON 3

##

### (EPISODE 1)

###

## No Good Deed

##

### Sometimes Life Can Get Weary

Gabriel stood in the palace garden and watched the tree of life, as if he expected it to do something other than be happy for its existence, even if that existence was... well, a bit boring.

He'd spent many hours in this garden since the Sodom and Gomorrah incident. Generally folks say happy hours, but what the weeding had done to his back was nobody's business—suffice it to say it had given him some serious jip. But now Michael had forgiven his little, err, S&G indiscretion, shall we say. Overzealous smiting could happen to anyone.

The reason for his interest in the life tree would have been a mystery to anyone passing by. After all, it wasn't anything special, and there were far more interesting and flowery woody perennials dotted around the garden, but to another archangel it would have been obvious. The hint is in its name. Point being, it wasn't—living, that is. Well, okay, it was a bit, but straggly and decidedly pathetic, and it was supposed to be the most important plant in the extensive garden. Gabriel was not a happy bunny.

He crossed the neatly trimmed lawn and poked the tree with his broadsword—as if threatening it with a good stabbing would perk it up. When no sudden revival ensued, he turned on his heel and strode along the gravel path towards the arched doorway, his black robe billowing and looking suitably dramatic.

The life tree watched the archangel go with relief and sore ribs. What kind of gardener pokes you with a sharp metal thing? And when you're feeling like... well, a bit lifeless, actually. Not an easy task, you know, being a life tree. Big responsibility, especially since he was the only one, which in itself was a bit sad. Nobody to talk to, nobody with anything worthwhile to say, that is. The life tree sighed through its dried leaves. _Well, there's that tall, bushy thing over there, but she's totally up herself, and boring, oh, boring. Who cares about squirrels?_

The life tree's branches sagged a little more. And Eden took another tiny step towards oblivion.

### Good Intentions Pave the Road to Hell

The old stork was tired, and frankly she was a bit fed up, what with all this flying about for no good reason. And the name the others had given her and her clan really got up her nose: _The idiots who carry those screaming, smelly bundles_. Of course, the others said it in Storkish, so this has to be a rough translation, though it's near enough.

Truth be told, today the two bundles she was carrying were extra smelly and noisy, and the constant screaming and gurgling was so irritating. The sooner she dropped them off, the better. Then home for a nice fish and frog supper. Yeah right, fat chance, with Him At Home doing the hunting. He'd be off with his layabout friends sunning themselves on the lakeshore. Typical.

The storm was getting worse, if that was possible. The wind howled around her, and the rain was turning to hailstones the size of... ah, hailstones. Which also showed that all the noise and being thrown about was affecting her ability to... that thing that you do in your head... _think_? Yes, think.

A vicious gust of wind caught her and flipped her onto her back. Not pleasant. She righted herself and squinted into the freezing rain streaming out of the black sky. The bundles dangling from her long beak were still protected by the weather screen, but maintaining the safety bubble in these conditions was exhausting, and she was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate. Lightning bolts passed by on their way to the ground, causing her feathers to rise, releasing their trapped warmth and chilling her even more. She checked her internal satnav. At least three thousand breaths. She would not survive that long, and worse still, the bundles would have ceased well before then, which, although a blessing for the quiet, wouldn't go down well in her annual review. She made her decision, dipped her wing and turned, letting the howling wind carry her back the way she'd come.

Almost at once, the hail turned back to rain, as if the storm god approved of her action. The wind lifted her and she spread her wings fully, surfing the storm to safety.

The bundle in the blue blanket was addressed to a nest where the ground becomes white and the air is very cold. Well, it had already done that, and still the journey would have continued. And the one in pink was addressed to a nest even farther north than that, where there is year-round snow and ice. A lovely place to live. It was not to be, not this day. But no one would notice a slight delay. Unexpected bundle deliveries were exactly that; unexpected. It would be sunny another day and she would drop the bundles into their new homes. And then there would be the usual, _Oh, I had no idea I was pregnant_ , and a lot of rushing around. True, she had no idea what the tall beings said, or who they rushed off to fetch, but she'd hung around a few times, back in the early days, and seen all the fuss. Struck her then, as it struck her now, as a lot of nonsense about nothing. Noisy, smelly beings, welcoming more noisy, smelly beings. If she had her way, she—

An arrow zipped past her ear with barely a feather-width to spare. She swore a long storkish curse, snapped her big wings and climbed high and right. She didn't know what an arrow was, but she did know that sharp, fast-moving things had adverse effects on her flying efficiency if they coincided with her. Flying straight and level and daydreaming weren't great tactics for avoiding sharp flying things, so she slipped right and dropped fast, weaving among the treetops, a trick that worked well enough against eagles, hawks, and other annoying creatures.

Today had started out crappy and it just got worse and worse as it wore on. But now she was left with a dilemma. The two noisy beings were getting even noisier now she'd had to take rapid evasive action. And the screaming was going right through her.

She checked her delivery manifest. There, this afternoon's drop-off was for two bundles, both blue, but who would notice? It could work. Why not? One noisy, smelly creature looks very much like another. And one thing was certain—well, two in fact. She wasn't going back into that storm any time soon. And the other thing? Err... oh yes. She wasn't going to take the bundles back to the depot and get all those disapproving looks and whispered comments. So...

She levelled off, checked her position by the magnetic north and adjusted her flight path towards the big, sprawling mess off to the left, with its clusters of nests and tall, smoking hollow trees.

From her vantage point high over the triple cities of Trinity, she could see its layout like a Google map. There at the end of the wide glade, by the tall, shiny nests, was the delivery address where this afternoon's surprise delivery was due. A single drop-off of two bundles. She looked down at the pink- and blue-wrapped beings swinging from her beak. Well, there were two here. And the screaming was giving her a migraine. But since she'd already made her decision, the justification was academic.

She slowed and descended, switched into stealth mode, and glided towards the nests. She cross-checked her internal schedule against the nest configurations and saw the one she needed. A tall nest attached to other tall nests, all having three levels of entry holes at the side, instead of an open top, like normal nests. These beings were truly weird.

She selected the top entry hole, as per the schedule, flared her wings and settled silently onto the wide landing log in front of the opening. The inside was dark, which served them right for building such faulty nests. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she saw a pile of flattened grass in the corner, covering a tall being. She'd seen this before. This was the female, though it was hard to tell for sure, as they all looked alike.

Still in stealth mode, she hopped down into the dark nest and moved silently across the strangely covered floor. A little more hurriedly than the training specified, she lifted the flat grass covering the being, flipped open the pink and blue bundles, and rolled the babies into the darkness. Three steps and she was out of that dark and smelly place, just as she heard the start of the inevitable commotion. Oh, for a little peace and quiet, and a nice herring.

After a quiet and smell-free return trip, she'd rested in her nest back at despatch and caught her breath, but was still tired, and there was still those two bundles for this afternoon's shift. Snag was, their place in their nest was already occupied by cuckoos. But after a nice fish lunch and a nap, she felt able to make the second flight of the day. Officially, a single drop of two bundles in the big nest cluster. She didn't mention to the dispatcher that there was going to be a change of delivery address. No point confusing the poor old bird. She took the two blue bundles and headed north, drifting on warm thermals and enjoying the day that was extra bright and clear after the awful storm.

There were no more sharp flying sticks as she circled high above the forest to the east of the big nest cluster and watched the bundles bounce in her beak. What to do with them? She couldn't just hide them under a bush, they were noisy and smelly, but leaving them for wolf lunch wasn't really an option. Was it? No, probably not. No, definitely not. Anyway, somebody might find out and she'd be in big trouble. Might even lose her pension, and who can live on donated fish these days? There had to be something. Then she saw the column of smoke drifting up through the trees and knew exactly what it meant. A nest.

She swooped down over the river and followed it around a bend to a clearing in the trees and a small wooden nest. She settled on a high branch and watched the nest for any hidden sharp-stick shooters, but saw only one being covered in a mass of black feathers, with a tall cone on her head. Another female. Probably.

Females liked the bundles best. Decision made. She waited for the being to go into the nest, then drifted down to the entrance and looked inside. It was darker than any nest she'd visited and smelled of vaguely familiar herbs and flowers. There was no way she was going in there, not even in stealth mode.

She looked at the bundles, probably getting ready for more screaming. She laid them down next to the door and started to move away, but stopped. One female being in there. Two bundles. She sighed a stork sigh, picked up one of the bundles and rolled the other into the nest and rose into the blue sky with a single, silent beat of her wings. One... err... delivered. But one left. Wolf lunch?

She drifted over the dark woods and pondered what to do. This whole thing was turning out to be more complicated than she'd expected. The wolf lunch was out of the question, because that would involve landing in the woods, and woods, dark or otherwise, were to be avoided at all costs. _Directive One_ of _the Stork Survival Manual_.

More smoke rolled heavenwards off to her right. It was bright yellow, but that didn't strike her as odd. These beings she delivered the bundles to were always doing strange things, and yellow smoke was no stranger than some of the things they did. But just to be sure, she avoided the smoke as she settled in a tree and watched the small nest from across a clearing littered with strange contraptions. She'd seen contraptions before and had no love of them. Mostly they captured, killed, or ate you. None of which she particularly fancied this fine afternoon.

A being was beating one of the contraptions with a stick, and she supposed it had misbehaved and deserved it. This being had pale blue feathers with moons and stars on them, but she declined to even try to guess what for. It was probably a male. As it was beating something smaller than itself with a stick.

Not an ideal drop-offer for the bundle, but better than wolf lunch, well, at least a lot less risky. For her.

The contraption beater grunted, threw away his stick and stamped into the nest. This was her moment. She switched to stealth mode as a precaution. A being who beats a contraption would have no compunction about beating her. And there was no shortage of sticks in the forest.

She rolled the last bundle into the nest, turned and took off as fast as she could. Away from sticks. And yellow smoke. She glided south in the warm afternoon sunshine, proud of another job well done.

In the executive, detached residence overlooking the Senate gardens, there was much, _Oh, I had no idea I was pregnant_ , and a lot of rushing around, as predicted. But mostly, there was just joy, tinged with the worry of choosing the right school and the right career for the little dears.

In the tiny house by the river and the ramshackle shack in the woods, there was utter bewilderment.

Ramiel was Deputy Supreme Commander to the Archangel Gabriel and had seen it all, done it, got the T-shirt, but the surprise arrival of twins had left him dumbfounded. A rare event. Neither he nor his wife, Angiola, realised she was pregnant. And twins! It was the best day of his life.

The happy parents named their baby girl Anella, meaning Lion of God, and the boy? Let's not go there. It's not important, really. Let's just move on, shall we? Oh, okay. They named him Woe, after an unfortunate mix-up at the christening when the priest almost dropped the baby just as he was in the middle of saying, "I name this child—"

"Whoa, don't drop the baby, you drunken idiot!" Ramiel shouted, and thus the child who was to have been named Englebert became Whoa!

The naming ceremony is a sacred, final, no-money-back act. And so it was in this case. The only compromise allowed was to shorten the boy's name to Woe—which turned out to be quite apt.

Angiola was not chuffed with her dear husband, and words would be had later, after the drinking, back-slapping, more drinking, well done-ing, more drinking... Many words. Loud. And long. Not the best day of Ramiel's life, then.

The babies grew into toddlers and then children, which is one of those annoying things babies do. Anella was the Brainy One, while Woe had a tendency to be a bit clumsy and the possessor of more bad luck than he had a rightful claim to.

On his seventh birthday, Woe was enrolled in the Knight Training School, as was required of the son of a Guardian. Anella was enrolled too, at the insistence of her mother, on the basis that what is good for the boy is good for the girl.

Ramiel protested, explained, cited the risks and the hardships, but capitulated when Angiola drew the _We'll have none of that male-chauvinist nonsense here_ card. Anyway, what could it hurt? She was smart, and quick, and... a girl.

It was going to be a disaster.

School began in September. It was a disaster.

Day one, lesson one: How to hold a sword. Woe poked his sword in Malak's eye. Luckily it was wooden—the sword, not the poor boy's eye, although had the jab been a little harder, who knows?

Malak hit Anella with his sword, because he couldn't catch Woe, who'd legged it for the toilets. Anella hit her assailant on the shins with her sword, causing his friends to rally to his side, so she hit them too. Woe saw them ganging up on his sister and ran back to defend her, and before the aged instructor could blink, there was a full-scale sword battle going on in the yard.

Anella and Woe's first day had an early finish. Day one, lesson one, in fact.

And so the pattern was set for the next five years. Woe would do something stupid, unlucky, or both, and Anella would charge in to save him, then have to be saved by Woe in turn.

Ramiel often watched his offspring from the parapet, and every time walked slowly away, his head hanging in despair. They weren't warriors. They would never be Guardians, those elite of Michael's army who protected Trinity and the Other Places from the omnipresent evils of the universe. They wouldn't be knights, Michael's vanguard and first to engage the foe. They would be lucky if they were allowed to follow and pick up the... leavings from the saddled carriers of Michael's army. It was all very depressing.

Despite the fact that neither child looked like either of their parents, or each other, for that matter, there was never the slightest doubt that they were the children of the Deputy Supreme Commander and his beautiful wife, the daughter of the Speaker of the Senate. But they weren't; the stork's bad day had seen to that.

And the other recipients of the stork's bad day? Mavis Diken lived in a small and ramshackle shack next to the dark woods. She was a witch, and she was a spinster, which caused tongues to tackle faster than a message-clacker when she emerged with a baby boy.

Mavis was not happy. She had cast a spell for help, not a baby. Oh, the boy was cute enough, for a boy, but if the gods were going to send her a baby, then it should have been a girl. How was she supposed to teach him to be a witch? He was a boy; boys couldn't do witchery, everybody knew that. And worse, he was a fighter. From the very first day at school he'd been in trouble, and had lasted almost a week before being expelled. He had to do something; she couldn't have him hanging around the house all day, under her feet. She'd enrolled him in Knight School. With the help of a little decision-bending spell. Done. Dusted. On with life.

The other bundle delivered that day had turned up on the doorstep of Zeffsena, the wizard, which was even more of a surprise, as he didn't have a wife, and as far as he could remember, one of those was required before you got a baby. He'd cast a spell for some help, but he'd expected an apprentice or a dog. Not a baby. But he had a good heart, so he took in the child and raised it, which took pretty much all of his magic skills. Babies are not easy things to raise.

And the boy was a fighter. From the first day at Wizard School, he'd been in trouble, and had lasted almost a week before being expelled. He had to do something, the boy was constantly in the way, and there was no wizarding being done. He enrolled the boy in Knight School, with the help of a little magic spell. Best for the boy. What child wants to be around a grumpy old wizard? Done. Dusted. On with life.

Anella and Woe were hiding behind the big, iron gates barring the way to Knight School when the first boy arrived. Alone and carrying his belongings in a sack slung over his shoulder. They watched him stop and look up at the huge crest above the gates. The poor kid looked terrified.

Anella stepped forward and put on her best smile. "Hello," she said; that seemed to be the most appropriate thing to say.

The boy licked his lips and looked from her to her skinny brother. "Is this the knight school?"

Anella looked up at the gates and the crest proclaiming _Knights of Eden: live in honour; die in glory_ , and frowned. Not a great first impression, but the boy was clearly nervous, so she forgave him, a bit. "Yes," she said, still with a smile. "We are squires."

The boy frowned. "But you're a girl."

Woe strolled over and made a show of checking out his sister. "You are, you know," he said with a shrug. "Has anybody told you that?"

She glared at her brother. "Yes," she said through clenched teeth, "he did." She pointed at the boy and was going to say something else, but the words blinked out.

Suddenly there were two of them. Duplicates.

"There's two of them," said Woe helpfully.

The two boys looked at each other, and their jaws dropped open. They were dressed differently, one dressed in a brown, slightly moth-eaten robe, and the other in a black robe with a long hood and a moon on the left shoulder. They were both blond, which, being identical, shouldn't have been a surprise.

"Who are you?" they said together.

"I asked first," they said together.

"Tell you what," said Anella quickly, "why don't you go first?" She pointed at the boy who'd noticed she was a girl.

"I am FlickertyShadow," said the boy, without a hint of embarrassment.

Anella blinked slowly, but said nothing, demonstrating a level of restraint far more mature than her seven years.

"You're a what?" Woe said, with a shake of his head. Demonstrating the true level of restraint for a seven-year-old.

"And you?" Anella asked the other boy, before things turned ugly.

The boy tore his eyes off his doppelganger. "I am Zeffsena, Son of Zeffsena."

"That could get a bit confusing," said Anella.

"Why?" asked the boy.

"Are you twins?" Woe asked, cutting across an answer that wasn't coming.

"Never seen him before," said the twins together.

"I think you have," said Anella with a smile. "Every time you look in a mirror." That was supposed to be funny. It wasn't.

Woe saw an old familiar pattern emerging. Anella would expand on her witty comment and continue to embellish it in an attempt to make it work, only to make it even more offensive, until the recipient took umbrage and the fighting started. He sighed and waited to be pummelled, because looking at the two boys, there was no doubt in his mind that these two would be skilled pummellers.

"Ah, new boys," said a senior squire, stepping out through the big gates and saving the day—and the pummelling.

"That's FlickertyShadow," said Anella, pointing him out. "And that's Zeffsena, Son of—"

"Get to class! If you know what's good for you," said the senior squire, with a serious frown.

The squire ushered the boys through the gate and pushed it closed with his foot. So now all the parties to the stork's little sleight of hand were together under one roof. As was always going to be the case, if Fate had anything to do about it. And he hadn't got much on that week, so it was a racing certainty.

Life for the twins—both the real ones and Anella and Woe—slipped into a sort of relentless routine, as schooling tends to: get up, bash each other with wooden swords, learn about tactics and weapons, reading 'n writing, eat, go to bed, get up.

The boys became known as the Twins and their natural fighting ability and instinctive grasp of strategy raised them to the top of the class, then of the school. Leaving Woe and Anella safely in their usual place as last and last-but-one. Alternating positions depending on the subject.

Being born on the same day meant Anella and Woe were the same age—less of a surprise than it might have been—but Anella was a girl. In her thirteenth year, things were still the same, until the night her brain fired its first surge of hormones and her life changed forever, in ways no one could have imagined.

The change woke up the magic hiding deep in her mind.

It was a sunny summer morning, and she was feeling really fed up. Tired of having to be nice to people who just ignored her. Sick of having to listen to those really old people telling her what to do, when she obviously knew more about pretty well everything than they did. And being blamed for everything. Like it was her fault. So just for a little peace and time to herself, she ducked out of fencing practice—using real, pointy swords. And how stupid was that?—and left the city by the small pedestrian gate leading down to the woods.

She picked up a thin stick and whipped the heads off the wild flowers as she strolled down the narrow trail, and tried to avoid the dog poop. She was still fed up. Was this it? Was this all there was for her? Playing at soldiers with stupid boys and stupid weapons? She lashed out with her stick and toppled a bunch of tall flowers.

"Hey, stop that!" said an angry voice.

She spun around, expecting to see some uniformed old person telling her what to do—again. There was no one there. She looked again, searching the shadows under the trees for the speaker. It could be one of those weird people who jump out suddenly and say _boo!_

It wasn't. It was the flowers.

She knew it, but refused to accept it. Flowers can't speak. Get a grip, girl.

"I was quite fond of those two," said the voice in her head. "And now you've chopped their heads off. Thanks a bunch. So now who am I going to talk to? Well, who? Nobody, that's who. And all because you think it's funny to hit folks with your stick. You know, it's people like you who give humans a bad name. Have you seen where humans have stamped through the flowers over there? It makes my blood boil. How hard is it for you stupid—"

She chopped off the tall flower's head with her stick. Good lord, was there no peace anywhere?

_That was strange, I mean really strange._ She frowned and looked around again slowly. Maybe a weirdo was hiding in the undergrowth after all.

"That wasn't very nice," said another voice in her head, this time in a much deeper tone.

She stepped back in readiness for a speedy exit.

"Still," said the voice, "she was a terrible nag. All day long, moaning about this, moaning about that."

"I did you a service, then," she said slowly.

"I suppose so," said the voice. "Bit harsh, though."

"Just a flower," she said, by way of excuse.

"And I suppose you'll say I'm just a tree?"

That threw her. "Are you?" she asked.

"Am I what?"

"Just a tree."

"Don't know. I've never really thought about it." The voice was silent for a moment. "I'd have to be self-aware to contemplate the nature of my existence."

Anella frowned. "You sound quite self-aware to me. But what do I know?"

"A lot less than you think."

How rude.

"How rude," said Anella, and started to retrace her steps away from the talking shrubbery.

"Rude or not, it's the truth," said the tree. "Look at this, for example."

She stopped and looked, but could see nothing particularly exceptional. Just trees.

"No," said the tree. "I mean, look at the fact that you're having a conversation with a tree. That's something you didn't know."

"I never really thought about it, so I can't say if I knew it or not."

"Fair point," said the tree. "I'll give you that one."

"Big of you," said Anella, then realised the truth of the statement and laughed.

The tree laughed, which is something you don't hear every day.

"I have to go now," she said, turning to walk back up the trail. "I have homework." Which, though true, wasn't the reason for the quick exit. Trees don't talk, so that meant she was going quietly nuts. She vowed not to mention it to anyone. _Can you imagine_? _Hey, everyone!_ _I've been talking to the trees. Well, only one, so far. Seemed like a nice fellow._ Yeah, then the banging of the padded cell door.

She returned to school to find no one had missed her, which made her feel loved and truly wanted. Except Woe, and he didn't count.

He was just coming out of the building, fresh from a lesson on siege tactics that meant nothing to him. Who wants to catapult dead and sick horses into a city? A nutter, that's who. Knock on the door. Tell them to give up, or else. That's how to handle a siege. But that would be too easy for the military, who'd done all the training and would damn well want to put it into practice, if only to see if it worked.

"Where have you been?" he asked, taking her by the arm and leading her to their place in the corner of the entrance gatehouse.

"Out. About," she answered, descriptively.

"You were about to miss bow-shooting," he said, with a slow shake of his head to signify how sad that would be.

"Archery," she corrected almost automatically.

"Who is?"

"Not who, what."

"What?" Woe's head was starting to spin. A familiar feeling when talking martial things with his sis.

"What?" Anella frowned deeply. "What are you talking about?"

He had no idea so went back to the start, as if nothing had happened. "You were about to miss bow... archery."

Ah, he'd got it.

"And I care why, exactly?"

Woe was puzzled. "Because you love it." He frowned. "What's the matter with you lately? All moody and don't-care-about-anythingish."

"Nothing."

"Okay, don't care about nothing," Woe said.

"No. I mean, there's nothing wrong with me."

"All right then. Let's go and shoot arrows at idiots."

She nodded, beginning to see the therapeutic benefits of shooting her schoolmates.

They had practiced archery a hundred times, a thousand, but this was different. Anella felt it the instant she picked up the longbow. It was no longer a piece of wood with a string of hemp stretched across it. She felt its texture, its strength. And an echo of its former life. So she dropped it like it was hot.

The archery instructor, Longfella Chip, an impossibly tall old guy whose legs were way too long for his body, loped over to her and looked down at the bow in the dust. Here was a man who lived up to his name. His eyes moved slowly up until they met hers. Chips of flint would have been softer. "That," he said quietly, "is how you will be slaughtered on the battlefield."

Oh, a nice way to talk to a child. She was going to have nightmares for sure.

"Not likely," said Anella. She fixed him with her pale, blue eyes, which meant she had to crane her neck, but it was worth it. He looked away.

"And why is that?" he asked gruffly. "For the edification of the rest of the class, you understand."

"Because," she said firmly, "none of the enemy soldiers will get close enough to do any slaughtering." And she meant it, which surprised even her.

Chip smiled and looked down at her again. He actually didn't look too bad, now he was smiling. "I'm sure we would all benefit from a demonstration of that singular skill." The smile twitched, but stayed in place.

He ordered the other squires to form a line twenty yards away across the dirt yard and strode over to the racks against the side wall and returned with an armful of arrows. It took him three strides. The arrows were not the pointed things she was used to training with, but had thick, stuffed leather pads secured to the ends.

He pointed at the squires. "They will rush you," he said with the same smile, "as an enemy would rush you." He raised his voice. "Five at a time." He looked back at her. "We must be fair, mustn't we?"

She shrugged. "Send them all if you like," she said sullenly, seeing her future shrinking.

"No, I think five... ten will suffice." He walked off to the side and raised his hand. "Are you ready?"

She stepped over to stand beside the rail that pretended to be fortifications, a ship's side or a fort, depending on the training. Without any sign of nerves or hurry, she leaned ten of the padded arrows against the rail and then nocked one of them onto the bowstring. And nodded.

Chip watched her for a moment as she corrected her stance to shift her weight equally over her feet, which were shoulder-width apart and equal distance on either side of an imaginary line leading to the squires. He was impressed, but time would tell. He raised his hand, glanced at her, and dropped it.

Ten squires sprinted onto the twenty yards of dirt and headed for her, intending to flatten her in the dust and knock some of the arrogance out of her.

Anella extended her right arm and drew the string back using her index, second and third fingers. The boys were coming, but it was as if they were in slow motion. She felt the living wood blend with her left hand, and the hemp bowstring between her fingers of her right, and heard its memory of living in its parent stem. And she saw the wind. Not the tatty flags flapping, but the currents of air playing across the yard as flickering silver ribbons. She saw the path the arrow would take as a streak of turbulence in the ribbons, and adjusted her aim a fraction to the left.

She released the arrow and reached for another without looking at its flight. She knew it would be true.

It was. The thick leather pad hit the squire in the middle of his forehead and dropped him like a heavy sack. She raised her bow, fired and picked another arrow. Like a graceful machine. Fire; sweep up another arrow; fire.

The boys were dropping with every thudding shot. The unconscious bodies tripped and tangled the feet of the others as body after body dropped to the dirt. Before the attackers had covered half the twenty yards to their quarry, the yard was littered with both moaning and silent squires, while the four who remained suddenly lost their enthusiasm and looked for somewhere to hide. They didn't find it before they went to sudden and painful sleep.

Anella dropped the last squire as he legged it for the safety of the school house, then she picked up an arrow with a hammered tin point, nocked it onto the string, turned and fired in a single, fluid move.

Longfella Chip's mouth was open and he was staring at the squires groaning and coming to, but it clicked shut as the arrow whistled past him. He followed its flight over his shoulder and into the centre of the black circle in the middle of the target he'd leaned against the far wall for later use. The far, far wall.

Anella carefully rested the bow against the rail, now that she knew it was alive, and walked casually towards the school. But her heart was pounding.

"Where do you think you are going, young lady?" Chip's voice rang out across the yard and bounced back from the walls.

She stopped and turned around slowly. Now what?

"That is the wrong way," said Chip quietly. He pointed across the yard to the barracks. "The mess hall is that way."

She frowned.

"And no one deserves the ice cream and cookies special award more than you do." He smiled a real smile. "That was outstanding. But now I will expect you to be that good and better all the time."

She shrugged. "No problem." She could no longer see the air currents, but knew she would when she needed to. Things had changed.

Everyone treated Anella with a new respect and more than a little fear after her demonstration of blur-speed archery. She was excused all weapons practice, except archery. No point dulling the sword by using it as an axe, Chip would say when asked, and asked he would be.

It was another sunny day, almost exactly a year later, when Woe burst into her dorm, turned on his heel and ran back out, to return a moment later—and knock on the door politely. She let him wait, and finished dressing, then called him in as a mistress might call in the gardener.

Woe pushed open the door and stepped into the tiny women's dormitory, which contained exactly one bed. He was looking at his shoes, just in case he looked at something that would get him a thick ear.

"What's got you rushing around like your ass is on fire?" Anella asked, suppressing a smile at his embarrassment. All he'd seen was her knickers. Hadn't he ever seen knickers before? Clearly not.

"The date!"

No response.

"You know, the date?"

Nope, not getting it.

"The date... of... the... Games! They've announced it!" he said slowly, in case she was thinking girl-things, whatever they were. "Second week of next month!"

She sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly very tired. "So soon?"

"Yes," he said and sat on the bed next to his sister—who wasn't his sister, but nobody knew that... except the stork, and she wasn't telling.

"What are you going to do?" she asked quietly.

"What do you mean?" He frowned deeply. "Do? I have to enter the Games. There isn't an option to say _I'll give it a miss, thanks_ and just graduate."

They were both silent for several minutes as they contemplated the horror to come. They'd seen the Games in previous years, when squires earned their positions as Guardians or Knights... or the shame of failure and positions as officers in the infantry. It was a brutal affair, as it would always be with so much at stake.

Woe was small for his fourteen years, and as we know, he was near hopeless at anything martial. He was, as young people might say, going to get creamed. A depressing prospect, made even more depressing by the thought of becoming infantry arrow-fodder. The Deputy Supreme Commander, also known as Father, but never Dad, would be bitterly disappointed. If it was possible to be more disappointed than he was presently.

"Maybe I'll get lucky," Woe said, without much conviction.

"It's possible," Anella lied. "Stranger things have happened."

No, they haven't.

"I could practice," he said without any real enthusiasm.

She turned her head and looked at him for a moment, seeing the younger brother he'd always been to her, despite being twins. "Probably a bit late for that." She threw a thought out there. "You could get ill."

He shook his head. He was afraid, but he wasn't a coward.

She knew he'd say no to that, and she was proud of his courage. She would put that on his gravestone.

He stood up and walked slowly to the door. "Do you think it will hurt?" He didn't turn around.

"Probably," said Anella as he closed the door behind him.

The next weeks went by much faster than they would have if Woe had been waiting for a holiday, as they do. In no time at all he found himself marching with a hundred and fifty other hopeful squires down the wide street to the arena. He hoped he was marching straight, because his legs were shaking so much. Another hour or so, and it would be all over. His abilities as a warrior would have been exposed to a crowd howling with laughter, and his shame would be complete. Perhaps there would be an accident and he would be killed. It was possible. The weapons were much more realistic than the ones used for training. Yes, that would be good.

The squires marched into the arena, their clean white robes flowing in the summer breeze. There were already two other schools there, in their school robes of blue, and saffron. Standing in their perfectly straight ranks. It was going to be a massacre. Woe could feel his heart thumping in his stomach, where it had sunk in an effort to avoid the inevitable.

He looked slowly around the arena, at the masses of spectators filling the two-storey stadium, all eager to see a good show. With the loopball season over and the chariot racing season yet to start, this was all there was, so they were going to make the most of it. With beer and snacks, trumpets, whistles, and drums, they were looking forward to an afternoon of fun and, perhaps, a few injuries—oh, nothing too serious, just a few broken bones and black eyes to add to the spectacle. Okay, maybe just one, or two, fatalities. Nobody important, though.

The voice of self-preservation spoke loudly in his head, telling him to leg it for the hills. But of course he didn't, that would be even more shaming for his father than watching him getting his butt kicked. He told himself to be brave, to suck it up, to face it like a man. Self-preservation told him he was going to die, and to run for it now while he had a chance.

At least they got to sit in the shade of the high walls while the elimination rounds ground on and the medical people carried away the injured and unconscious. The huge mallets made from compressed straw were daunting, but it was the smooth-blunted short swords that were the scariest, as they all knew some of the more unscrupulous competitors had sharpened them on the edge of the rough stone walls. Not enough to cut a person's arm off, but sharp enough to end a bout before it had properly begun. The referees knew it too, but it was all part of the fun, and at fourteen years old, it was time these boys became men. And men bleed. Well, other men do.

Woe sat next to Anella and watched the cracking of skulls and the squirting of blood for two hours before it was his turn to compete, if that's what it could be called. He stood up slowly when the official with the scroll pointed at him.

Anella stood up with him and patted him on the shoulder. She wanted to say something encouraging, something to fire him up, but they'd both seen the baby-eating monster lumber out onto the sand and stand with his over-muscled legs wide apart and the huge mallet swinging back and forth. He was grinning, but then he'd seen the size of his opponent.

She watched her brother trudge tiredly out into the arena, and sighed heavily. She couldn't watch, so walked back into the darkness under the first seating tier. The boards above her were streaming dust as the crowd banged their feet in appreciation of the coming spectacle of her little brother getting his head flattened.

She leaned against one of the thick wooden supports and looked into the gloom. It wouldn't take long. She wished she hadn't thought that, but lying to herself wasn't going to help Woe. She swore she would nurse him back to health. If he lived. She snatched at that thought, but it was already out there flapping about.

The baby-eater waited until the referee raised his hand, then lurched at Woe. The referee was about to blow his whistle for a false start, but the crowd was on its feet, sensing a truly memorable, if short, head-crunching.

Woe looked up from his sandals in time to see the blue-robed boy swinging the huge mallet in a wide arc designed to put him to sleep for a week. Self-preservation screamed, _Do something!_ then ran away.

Woe wanted to roll backwards, like he'd been taught, but the sword weighed a ton and anchored him to the spot. The mallet made a whistling noise, even above the roaring and stamping of the crowd. To onlookers, it appeared that he had executed a forward roll, but in fact, his legs had failed and he'd fallen forward, then rolled.

The end result was unexpected and magnificent.

The boy was five feet away and closing at a run, the mallet swinging in wide circles above his head. Woe's eyes were closed as he hit the ground, tucked his head to minimise the damage, and let his momentum take him forward. It was a clumsy roll and his feet swung up and over... and slammed into his attacker's groin with sickening force.

The swinging mallet continued to swing, but with no hands holding it, it arced out to thud onto the sand while its owner's face crumpled and his knees buckled.

The crowd roared with surprise and laughter, stamped their feet, beat the drums, and blew their trumpets and whistles. This was great!

Anella stepped back from the cascade of sand and dust and shook it out of her hair. Then she heard the cracking sound and looked to her left. The support beams were moving as the crowd stamped. Two moved, then three, then all of those supporting this section.

The boy sank to his knees and pitched forward. Woe rolled out of his way and let his face meet the sand. Under the Rules of Combat, he should have stuck him with his sword, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Onlookers thought it was out of misplaced chivalry, but the truth was the sword was too heavy, and trapped under the boy's trembling body anyway. So he smiled and waved to the crowd, who responded by shouting, stamping and generally making a fuss. Spectators surged forward to get a better look at the diminutive champion.

Anella ran from under the seating tier and shouted at the crowd high above her. A hopeless gesture. She ran to Longfella Chip and pointed up at the crowd, but there was no way he could hear her above the din, and he simply nodded, smiled and pointed at Woe.

She turned back to the seating and saw cross-supports falling onto the sand. It was all going to come down. There were hundreds of people on the cavea. They would be crushed to death by the massive beams, the two-foot stones from the balustrades, and by each other. She started to shake.

Woe was still experiencing the euphoria of victory, and of not being creamed. Under the Rules of Combat, an opponent was not defeated until he was symbolically belted with a mallet or stuck with a blunt sword. The boy got to his feet. Woe turned slowly, following the crowd's pointing. So, creaming was back on the to-do list. Bugger.

The boy shuffled towards Woe with a look that promised much pain.

Anella ran back to the cavea and looked up at the seating tier that was now swaying wildly. Beams and chunks of stone were beginning to rain down onto the sand. And the crowd above started to feel the movement. Some of them bolted. And that did it. They all started to scramble for the exit.

The whole structure came away from the walls with a shower of debris. Anella stepped back against the wall. Then there was silence. She could see the panicking crowds climbing over each other to get out, and the competitors in the arena starting to sense something was very wrong, but there was no sound.

The world slowed down, as it had done a year before, and she turned to face the sands. "Woe," she said quietly. "Woe."

Woe heard her voice as if next to his ear, and turned, ignoring the shuffling boy coming to beat him to a pulp. He saw the seating tier moving. Saw the crowds fighting to get out, and the people spilling over the balustrade and falling twenty feet to the dirt. They were all going to die. Right here, on a sunny day. And beneath them all was Anella.

He raised his hands. "No!"

Everybody and everything froze in place. Nothing moved, even the sand was suspended midway from the beams.

Anella looked around, overwhelmed and stunned by the instant switch from cacophony and horror to total stillness. Nobody else was moving. She walked backwards for two steps, turned and ran to Woe.

"What did you do?"

He shrugged. "I just thought, nobody dies today, and everything..." He pointed at nothing in particular. "I guess nobody dies today."

Anella looked back at the crowds frozen across the seats. "Perhaps not. But what happens next?"

He frowned.

"Well," said Anella, "you can't just leave them there. And when you... unfreeze them, they're right back where they started."

Which was a very good point.

Anella looked back towards the seating tier, frozen in mid-collapse, and frowned. It could work. "This is just normal soil, right?" She tapped the sand with the toe of her sandal.

Now Woe frowned. "Yes, I suppose so. Though a bit flatter and drier." He shook his head to clear it. "Why? What does it matter?"

"It matters," said Anella, closing her eyes, "because of this."

Nothing appeared to be happening at first; then there was subtle movement under the seating. Slowly the soil began to rise into bumps, which cracked to reveal white shoots writhing slowly as they struggled to climb into the air.

"What is that?" Woe gasped, taking an involuntary step back.

"That," said Anella, "are the plants that have been buried by all this sand, waking up."

"How?" Woe was seriously confused, and a little scared.

Anella shrugged and raised her hands palm up. The shoots followed her direction and reached up towards the wooden seating tier, while those shoots close enough got purchase on the support beams and shot up among the seats. In a few minutes the whole area was covered with white and green creepers that got thicker by the second.

"Ah, I get it!" said Woe. "That's great. How do you do that? And when did you know you could? And why didn't you tell me?"

"Woe," she said through gritted teeth as she willed the creepers to hurry up.

"What?"

"Shut up. Can't you see I'm working here?"

Woe stepped back a little and watched the seating become engulfed in vines. Along with the spectators, but, hey, it was better than being under tons of wood and masonry. But were they going to be surprised when they woke up.

And there it was.

How exactly were they going to wake up? He almost believed he'd put them into that... whatever it was, but getting them out? No idea.

Anella lowered her arms and nodded in satisfaction. The whole structure was now encased in thick, green creepers. She turned to her brother and nodded. He watched her. She nodded again. He smiled a nervous smile. She sighed heavily.

"Undo your spell, or whatever it is," she said.

He shrugged. "How do I do that?"

Her jaw fell. "You don't know?" she said eventually.

He shrugged again. That'll be no.

They stared in stunned silence at the entwined crowd. They were in so much trouble. If anyone ever moved again, that is.

There was a quiet cough from behind them and they spun around. Two men stood silhouetted against the sun. But even dazzled by the light, the twins knew who these men were. The leader of the Senate, the Magnus Caseus the Third, and... Michael, their Supreme Commander.

Anella recovered first. "We didn't mean it, Your Majesty," she gasped.

Good recovery.

The Magnus Caseus was a little old guy with yellowish skin and thin, slit eyes. His hair had been jet-black once, but was now streaked with grey. "Do I look like a king to you?" he said with a quiet chuckle.

"Yes. No, Your Maj—" Anella stammered. Then curtsied.

Woe stared at her in utter amazement. She was always the sensible one, the one who could keep her head no matter what was happening around her. And here she was, behaving like a loon.

"Sir, sirs," he said quickly, before she said something really stupid. "The arena was falling down. I don't know what happened, but it stopped. Then those plants grew all over it. Perhaps it's the rain we've been having."

Oh, okay, not stupid, then.

Michael and the old man walked around them and examined the spectators' seating tier. Michael nodded slowly and glanced sideways at the old man, and then turned back to Woe. "Can you unfreeze it?" he said softly, so as not to frighten the boy any more than he clearly was.

Woe licked his lips nervously. "No, sir." He scratched his head. "I don't know how I froze it in the first place, even if it was me—"

"It was you," said the old man.

"Sorry," Woe said, kicking the sand with his toe.

"Don't be," Michael said, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "If you hadn't... frozen it." He smiled. "There would be a lot of very unhappy citizens asking for their money back."

The twins looked at each other and decided that was a joke. They couldn't laugh—not that it wasn't a hilariously funny Supreme Commander joke, but their laughter muscles were on hold while their scared-to-death muscles did their thing.

"I'll send for Zeffsena," said Michael, raising his hand to some unseen person.

"But everyone is stuck," Anella said self-consciously.

The old man chuckled. "Your brother is powerful, there's no denying that." He raised his eyebrows and looked around. "But not powerful enough to stop the world." He pointed at the frozen crowd. "Just these people."

Which was a huge relief.

"Come with us," said Michael. "They might not be too understanding when they wake up," he said, pointing a long finger at the people entwined by creepers halfway through their fall to the hard ground.

"Sorry," said Woe again, quietly.

Michael shook his head, but said nothing, and just led the way across the arena, weaving past the squires and masters frozen in shock at the catastrophe unfolding before them. They followed the Supreme Commander to the arched exit. And stopped.

Woe and Anella looked up at the balcony above the arch, and there was their father watching them with his usual impassive expression. He shook his head slowly. They looked from him, to each other, and then at the frozen spectators.

Michael took a step back into the arena and looked up, then back at the twins. "Well," he said softly. "He wouldn't be much of a Guardian if a child's spell could defeat him."

Which was true, but less of the _child_ stuff, right. It was left unsaid; some things are better that way.

Anella gave her father a quick wave and hurried after the departing group. Outside, everything was normal. People were doing whatever it was normal people did. Horses plodded past and deposited huge piles of dung everywhere, and wagons crashed and creaked. Woe looked back over his shoulder at the tranquil scene. Still not believing he'd done that.

Nobody spoke as they crossed the busy square and entered the Guardian's Headquarters, a huge, white marble structure intended to impress the pants off any visiting dignitaries. It worked its magic on the twins, and by the time a servant pulled open the wide, studded, wooden doors, their knees were trembling.

Michael pointed at a row of ornate chairs, and they sat, guessing that's what he intended. The chairs were lumpy, rigid, uncomfortable, and also designed with visiting dignitaries in mind. Michael and the old man stood by a massive wooden desk that was covered in leather and scattered with maps.

"Do you think we've found what we need?" the old man said, and glanced at the twins. "They're very young."

Michael looked at them and shrugged. His super-white robe shimmered as only the finest silk does. "They are old enough to graduate and go through Transition."

The old man watched them steadily through dark, almond-shaped eyes. "True, but that will have to be postponed."

Bugger, thought Woe, he'd known he was in trouble, and he'd dragged his sister into it with him. They were postponing their graduation. Being held back would be a terrible disgrace for their father.

The old man caught the look, or read the signs, and strode over and sat on one of the chairs. A moment later he flinched and stood up, with a questioning look at Michael. "You should put these in the dungeons with the rest of the torture equipment."

Anella gasped and Woe's mouth fell open.

The old man reached down and put his hands on their shoulders.

It was as if a warm breeze had blown over them and it was their birthday and New Year party all rolled up. They felt deliriously happy. And totally safe.

"No one is going to harm you," said the old man with a smile that tickled their skin like the air before an electric storm. "We came to the games today in the hope of seeing a hero." He glanced back at Michael. "A forlorn hope, I might add. Instead, we found you."

"And that's a good thing?" said Anella.

"Yes," said the old man, still smiling. "That's a very good thing."

"So no being held back from graduation. No... postponing?"

The old man chuckled. "What will have to be postponed—if we decide your talents are what we need—will be your tour in Transition."

Except they had no idea what he was talking about, and their mouths forming an O indicated that loudly enough.

The old man sat back down on the torture chair and folded his hand in his lap like an old teacher about to impart a long story. "Transition," he began and stopped for a moment, as if considering what to say, or whether he should actually say it. "You know about the Academy?"

They nodded. Of course they did. They could hardly miss the three-storey, hundred-room building at the edge of the market square.

"Yes," said Anella, first again. "The Academy is where kids go who have finished regular school and want to move up in the world."

The old man nodded a little. "Well, yes. Partly." He glanced at Michael and received a shrug in response. Okay then. "Except it isn't an ordinary place of learning. Once a transitioner enters the Academy, the medics give him a... medicine and he sleeps for three years."

The twins looked at each other in horror.

"No, no. It isn't scary," said the old man. "While you are asleep, your consciousness is sent to another reality called the Other Place. There you get to live another life. A life where you can make all the mistakes you need to in order to achieve true wisdom. When your time is done, or all your lessons have been learned, you return to Eden." He smiled. "At that point, you have passed through Transition and can enter the government, military or Senate administration at the highest level."

The twins were still staring at each other, their eyes speaking their thoughts. But it was all right, old people did get like that. Something called _doe-mention_.

"You won't have to do that," Michael added, seeing the way the thing was going. "At least not before we complete your special training."

Special training. That was always a bad thing.

"The Other Place the Leader spoke of," Michael continued, ignoring the doubting looks, "is a reality constantly under threat from forces that would do us harm."

Anella frowned as a question formed, but she cut it off.

"Go on," said the old man softly.

"It's just..." She took a breath. "If this... Other Place, is just a dream, then how can anybody threaten it?"

Good question.

"If it was simply a dream, then you are right," the old man said. "But it is not a dream, it is another reality created by the Architects of all things, at the very beginning of time." He could see that wasn't working. "It is a real place. A place of learning for our young people. People like you. There are many Other Places that provide environments where specific lessons can be learned."

Okay, yes, they could see that. Like different classes in school.

"The last place, the one from which transitioners graduate, is called Earth by those who complete their training there." He nodded as he saw them getting it. "This is the one the evil forces would occupy. If they ever take this Earth reality, then they would be able to influence all transitioners who have completed their tour. It would be the end of us."

"And this place is under threat now?" Woe asked, still not completely convinced.

"It is always under threat," said Michael firmly. "Which is why we prepare. Why we hold the Games. To find special young people to be trained to defend it, and us."

The twins shifted uneasily on the hard seats.

"And we passed?" Anella asked doubtfully.

"You certainly show promise," the old man said. He waved a hand and chuckled. "A bit undisciplined, but I'd say effective. Wouldn't you?" He raised an eyebrow and looked at Michael.

"Possibly," Michael said, returning to his desk. "We still have an arena full of people frozen in time... and wrapped in weeds." He fixed Anella with a long look.

"Zeffsena will sort that out," said the old man. "Nobody will remember anything. Except having a great time at the Games."

"And us?" asked Woe, getting that old bad feeling again.

"We shall see," Michael said, taking a little bell from his desk and tinkling it gently.

A hidden door in the panelling opened, and a fat, greasy-skinned little man waddled into the room, his eyes downcast. Far too humble to be in the presence of such august beings.

"Obadiah will show you out," said Michael, shifting his attention to the maps on his desk.

The twins stood slowly, confused.

"What will happen to us?" Woe said, self-preservation having come back from its outing.

"Oh," said Michael, without looking up. "Nothing. At least not yet. We'll be in touch."

The old man smiled the warm smile again, and everything was just fine.

As the door closed behind the twins, the Magnus Caseus turned slowly to his Supreme Commander, took a long breath, and asked the question he already knew the answer to. "Are the Norsemen coming?"

Michael looked up from the maps and at his leader, and nodded slowly. "Yes," he said in a hushed tone. "The Norsemen are coming."

When the Senate Leader's daughter, Amara, announced that she was _with child_ —which everyone guessed to mean she was pregnant—the bells rang out across Eden, raising the often heard comment, _What the blazes is all the noise about?_ To which the general response was, _That up-herself bony-ass has got pregnant, but how, is anybody's guess._ Some folks are not nice. But true, everyone knew Amara meant _bitter_ , and they had to call it as it was.

Still, for the immediate family, it was good news.

And by way of a bony-ass dividend, the Knight School got the day off, so not a bad result.

The past few months had been a lot easier for Anella and Woe, after the Games. No one could exactly remember what had happened, except Woe had won against all the odds and brought the trophy back to the knights' school. Apparently, there had been some kind of incident, but it was all a bit vague and soon forgotten.

With the school closed for the day, the twins had nothing to do on that hot afternoon so took a stroll up through the city to see the festivities in Harmony Plaza, the uneven cobbled square with a grab-and-run flea market selling junk of every sort. The square separated the overdressed marble and quartz building, officially named the Senate Palace, from the riff-raff. Someone should have told the senators that giving an awful dog's dinner of a building a grand name doesn't make it grand. Problem was, the senators could, and probably would, throw the teller of truths in the rat-infested cells. Rats provided (free) by Rats R Us. The marketing man who came up with that slogan is dead now.

Anella climbed the half-dozen stone steps leading to the Guardians' HQ and looked out over the heads of the crowds milling around in the plaza, mostly there for the illusory bargains from the flea market, but some there for the public appearance of Bony Ass. It wasn't an impressive turnout, just a few dozen mildly curious looking up at the various balconies in case anything interesting was happening. Oh, except for the pickpockets, they weren't looking up, though things were, for them.

Woe joined his sister at the top step just in time to be moved on by the local law.

"You can't stand there," said the watchman, slapping a short, round club into the palm of his hand. "Move along. There's nothing to see here."

Woe and his sister did as the watchman instructed, as he was fully empowered to give them a bit of a thud with his truncheon, and would be pleased to do so at the slightest provocation. The law, even in heaven, has a way of making a person's ears ring.

The crowd, okay, that was a bit of a stretch... the small bunch of mildly interested onlookers shuffled forward, and the watchman strode off to control them. Anella walked back up the steps, and after a quick check that the club-wielding madman was gone, Woe followed her.

The surging mass of marginally indifferent bystanders had stirred when the big doors to the palace had opened, but it was just a footman taking the dog out for a pee. The mutt gave them a long, dirty look while the footman closed the doors.

"Why are we here?" Woe asked sullenly, feeling hungry and fed up.

"That, dear brother, is a question asked since the dawn of time."

He turned to look at Anella in case the sun had got to her. She was smiling smugly. "It feels like we've been here since the dawn of time," he said with a sniff.

The big doors opened again, but no one took any notice this time. Probably the cat. It was Amara, come out to milk the adoration.

Well, good luck with that, girl.

Amara was wearing a dazzling white flowing robe and her hair was braided and piled high on her head. She looked good. From a distance. Closer up, her thin, angry lips gave away her true disposition. She waved a royal wave, her hand weaving little circles in the air in response to the tumultuous welcome from the crowd. That being one old chap clapping slowly, and two youngsters whistling and shouting encouragement to disrobe and behave rather rudely.

The old guy stopped clapping, so Amara gave up on the waving and stepped forward to the edge of the big steps. She was going to make a speech. The people at the back of the crowd were the lucky ones, they could leg it immediately, while the ones who'd wandered too close had to wait their turn or elbow their way out.

Except the four burly men standing on the left side of the steps.

Anella saw them and all the training she thought was having no effect kicked in. "Woe, this is bad!"

Woe switched from amusing himself at the sight of people struggling to get away, to the people Anella was pointing at. And the sudden jolt as adrenalin hit his system told him she was dead right.

The four men ran up the steps and across in front of the building and grabbed Amara. She struggled like a true girlie. That being screaming and demanding to be released at once. The watchman strode up the steps, drew his short sword and ran towards them, demanding they cease and desist or face the full might of Eden's Watchmen.

They killed him.

______________

###

# ANARCHY

###

### EPISODE 1

###

## CHECKING IN

###

###

## Suspect Package

The Global Airlines Lite check-in desks were located strategically in the furthest corner of the airport — the cheapest bit. Three of the four desks were occupied by GAL's very best Customer Experience Assurance staff. Well, okay, GAL's only Customer... check-in jockeys.

Rob Thorn. Not his real name, that being Warwick Cornelius Thorne. He'd changed it, but who wouldn't? Rob was in his early thirties, skinny, except for early signs of a beer-gut, and had short, honey-blond hair. Not ginger. It was not ginger. No way was it ginger. It was honey blond, so we'll just let it drop there, no point going on about it. And it was a bit lank, but Friday's wash would sort that out.

Sitting at the next desk to his right was Maurice. He was also in his thirties, but he was everything Rob was not. His orange GAL uniform was immaculate, his dark hair was immaculate, his shoes were immaculate, and he sat immaculately on the uncomfortable swivel stool, his legs crossed just enough to crack his knees on the desk whenever he swung around. He wore just a hint of eyeshadow, not too much, just enough to accentuate his dark eyes. Oh, and that was something else Rob was not.

On Rob's left sat Shirley. She was still in her forties and had been for over a decade. Her lips were too thin and applying copious amounts of bright red lipstick did nothing but make her scary. And she didn't need lipstick to achieve that. She wore the same orange GAL uniform as the others, but hers had little lapel badges to let anyone who couldn't guess know that she was The Boss.

The three GAL Customer Experience Assurance executives looked out across the empty concourse and listened to the clock ticking slowly behind them. If there'd been a wind blowing, a tumbleweed would have rolled by.

"It's Major Tom's birthday," Rob said without taking his chin off his hands. "We should get him something."

"I, for one, have got better things to do with my money than spend it on any of you lot," Shirley said without taking her eyes off the customer approach route.

"That's not nice, Shirley," Maurice said. "Grant you, he can be a bit... err... pompous, but his heart is in the right place, I'm sure. You know what I always say—"

"Yes, Maurice," Shirley said after the customary scowl, "we all know what you always say."

Maurice gave her a long, hurt look and turned pointedly away, cracking his knee on the open drawer. "I was just saying, that's all," he muttered, rubbing his knee.

"There you go, Shirley, hurting his feelings again," Rob said. "You know how sensitive he is." He slid off his stool and put his foot on the baggage conveyor belt separating the desks. "Do you need a hug, Maurice?"

Maurice jumped visibly. "No, thank you, I'm particular who I hug."

"I'm particular whom I hug," Rob said with a shrug.

"I doubt that," Shirley said.

"And I don't believe that either," Maurice said. "I think you'd hug a sheep if it stood still long enough. And having seen some of the women you've had, I think you already did."

A narrow door leading to the secret place behind the check-in desks swung open, and Major Tom stepped out into the bright, artificial light. He looked both ways as if expecting to see snipers, marched over, and leaned on the unoccupied desk. He looked around the empty concourse for something interesting. Anyone could see he was ex-military, and if they didn't, he'd soon tell them. And just in case, on the lapel of his blue, ill-fitting uniform he wore the insignia of the Parachute Regiment. A mini, cut-down version. Understated, he would say; against company rules, Management would reply.

"There's nothing wrong with sheep," Rob continued, after a quick nod to Major Tom.

"Oh no!" Maurice groaned. "Wash my mouth out."

"Well," Rob continued, "they never talk about relationships or ask you to settle down or meet their mothers."

"Don't start," Maurice pleaded.

"Two sheep fall off a cliff. Were they pushed or were they jumpers?" Rob said.

Maurice climbed over the baggage belt and started to back off across the concourse. "You know, I worry about you," he said, waving immaculately manicured hands at Rob, as if to shoo him away.

It didn't work. Rob climbed over the baggage belt and followed him as he backed off. "Sheep protesting about karate. They object to the chops," he said, demonstrating karate chops. Badly.

Maurice turned and ran away, his legs flicking out almost sideways from his knees. It was like watching Bambi in full flight.

Rob watched him for a moment, sighed, and returned to his desk to await 'the rush'.

"You need therapy," Shirley said, shaking her head slowly. "You know that, don't you?"

"I'm having therapy. How do you think I manage to work here?"

Maurice returned to his desk slowly, without taking his eyes off Rob. Major Tom shook his head in despair and strolled off across the concourse, his back ramrod straight, and his arms swinging in counter-time to his stride. A wonderful thing to behold.

"Where's he going, all marching and stuff?" Maurice asked, as much to get the subject off sheep as any real interest in Major Tom's objective.

"He's the security man, right?"

Maurice shrugged.

"So he's off to find something to secure," Rob said.

Maurice watched him go. "We should get him a present."

"I said that," Rob said.

"Yes, I know. I'm trying to divert your attention from bloody sheep," Maurice said with a long sigh.

Rob smiled. "A goat and a sheep going through a gate. The goat says... after ewe."

"Oh, for God's sake," Shirley snapped, "will you pack it in?"

"Err..." Maurice said in an elegant segue, "are you going to that sleazy nightclub again tonight?"

"I like it there," Rob said. "They serve apple crumble."

Maurice managed to close his mouth, with a visible effort.

"Don't ask," Shirley said, looking like she was chewing a wasp.

Maurice didn't ask. It didn't save them.

"Mara joo-warna gives you the munchies," Rob informed them helpfully. "They sprinkle it on apple crumble. Two birds, one stoned."

"I thought you had to smoke marijuana?" Maurice said.

"Not me, it's bad for your health, smoking." He frowned. "Didn't you know that, Maurice?"

Shirley stared at him for several seconds, her thickly caked eyelashes blinking slowly. She pressed a button on the desk, just to visit the real dimension for a moment, and the baggage belt juddered and screeched into half-life.

"That's the motor sprocket drive missing the little drive teeth," Rob informed them, pointing helpfully at the motor that no one could see. "You should report it... if only for the sake of my nerves."

"You have no idea what you're talking about, do you?" Shirley said.

"It's one of those men things..." Maurice said. "You know, where they think they know everything about everything."

"We do know everything," Rob said.

"Oh, yes," Shirley said, "everything about drinking and football."

"And your point?" Rob said, raising his eyebrows.

"Anyway," Shirley continued, ignoring him. "I have reported the faulty belt... missing motor thing... three times, but nobody cares. Not here... not like when I was at Virgin Atlantic. They had standards there. This would have been repaired at once." She pointed at the motor, which was no more visible than before.

"Yes," Rob said, raising a finger for emphasis, "but that's Virgin, and this is GAL." He didn't even bother to make his usual crack about virgins. What was the point? That line had been done to death.

"Not that there's many virgins working for them."

Oh well, one more outing wouldn't hurt.

The others stared at him. And sometimes, staring says a thousand words. Mostly abusive, with a dash of blasphemy.

He raised his hands to fend off the tidal wave of silence and changed the subject. "And comparing Virgin with GAL is like comparing... oh, I don't know... a 747 with a Tiger Moth."

"Did you know that Tiger Moths served this country well before and during the Second World War as training aircraft for the RAF?" Major Tom said, returning from his scouting mission in time to catch the drift. "I, for one, think we would not have won the war without them."

"And did you, Major Tom, know there's no proper name for the back of the knees?" Rob asked, his head tilted questioningly.

"Ah... many people believe that, but, in fact, you will find that the technical term for the back of the knees is popliteal fossa, or knee pit. Though some clinicians refer to it simply as the posterior region of the knee."

Rob squirmed on his chair. "And I'm getting a pain in my posterior region right now."

"Perineal numbness can be caused by cycling. Do you have a bicycle?" Major Tom asked in a tone of genuine concern.

Maurice snorted as he fought to suppress a laugh and then found something vitally important to look at behind his desk.

Rob gave him a shitty look. "I used to ride, but when I found out that Janet rides a road-racer, it put me right off."

Shirley's face creased in a deep frown. Not a spectator sport. "But why would that put you off, for heaven's sake?"

"Because," Rob said slowly, "she wears white spandex shorts." He described a shape with his hands. A description best left undescribed.

Maurice looked up sharply, his face losing its usual pink glow. "Ahhh! God! Oh God! Why did you tell me that? That image is going to haunt me to my grave. Oh God!"

Maurice was saved from any further revelations on their colleague Janet's sportswear by the arrival of a young boy, maybe twelve years old — but who knows; he was a kid, and a kid can be any age. They're just a pain, everyone knows that.

This one was standing in front of the desks, crunching cheese puffs from an enormous bag. Noisily.

"Bugger off," Major Tom said, doing security things, as was his duty.

"You can't talk to a member of the public like that," Shirley snapped. "Why if I'd heard any of my people talking like that when I was group manager at BA, I'd have fired them on the spot. On the spot."

"Thought you worked as a Virgin?" Rob asked, clearly unaware of the Freudian slip.

Shirley studied his face for several seconds, just waiting for the slightest tell. She got none, but she was dealing with a maestro of the poker face here.

"That," she said in an exasperated tone, "was after BA, as you very well know."

"You sure it was BA?" Rob asked.

"Yes, of course I'm sure. I was there, wasn't I?"

He shrugged. "Just thought it might be BS."

She scowled at him, and she really did do an excellent scowl. "Now that's the kettle calling the pot black if ever I heard it." She slid off her stool, careful to avoid her skirt riding up and showing things this person should not see. "I'm going for a break. If any VIP passengers arrive, send for me. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to handle them yourself. God, the thought of it." She smoothed down her skirt and maintained her dignity as she climbed slowly over the mini bridge to the back of the baggage belt. She looked back just before she disappeared through the staff door from which Major Tom had appeared to start his security sweep of the coffee shops, but no one was watching, so they hadn't heard the escaping wind as she'd stepped off the belt. No more Mexican food, she swore to herself.

The kid was still munching his puffs — a task he would be doing for a long time. Why would any loving mother buy a kid a sack of regurgitated yellow vomit and yuk? He walked up slowly to Maurice's desk, took a soggy mess from between his lips, and pointed it at Maurice. "What's the matter with him?" he asked no one in particular.

"What do you mean?" Rob asked, suddenly intrigued.

The kid put the mess back into his mouth, munched it, and looked Maurice over slowly. "He's all..." He squinted as he searched for the word. "He's all shiny."

He'd found it.

Rob chuckled. "Yeah, he is a bit."

Maurice scowled at him, but Shirley's scowl was still hanging in the air, so his ran away and hid.

The kid was still squinting.

"Bugger off," Major Tom said.

"Nah, hang on a minute," Rob said. "I like this kid."

"Are you a perv?" the kid asked, backing off a little.

"Not at work," Rob said. "Come over later, and we'll see."

The kid shrugged as if he'd been propositioned by perverts many times. And who knows? He looked back at Maurice. "Are you a poof?"

Maurice's jaw was moving, but he wasn't making any sound.

"Brighter than he looks," Major Tom said.

Maurice cut him with one of his looks.

"Where are your parents?" Rob asked, looking around the deserted concourse.

"In the bar," the kid said without taking his eyes off shiny Maurice.

Maurice glanced pointedly at his watch. He frowned. "It's nine in the morning."

The kid shrugged. "They're on holiday. That's what my dad says."

"Drink much, does he?" Major Tom asked, not really caring one way or the other.

"Nah—"

"If you say he spills most of it," Rob said, "I'll give you a thud."

The kid gave him a long, slow look, as if measuring his body against his words. He looked away.

Well, there you go; out of the mouths of babes.

"Bugger off," Major Tom said, more in hope than expectation that repetition would deliver any better result.

The kid blinked at him a couple of times before plunging his hand into the huge bag of puffs. He stuffed a handful of orange yumminess into his mouth. "Dad says," he said through a small cloud of froth, "they have to do their bit to keep the pubs in business."

"So he drinks at nine in the morning," Maurice said, "to keep the pubs in business?" Oh God, did he really care? He closed his eyes and tried to will it all to go away. There had to be more to life than this.

Of course, there isn't, but we all knew that before his silent, desperate cry.

"It helps him forget about the plane landing," the kid said.

Rob nodded. "Makes sense. Have a few drinks to steady the nerves before a flight. Lots of people do."

"When is your flight landing?" Major Tom asked.

"Week on Thursday."

They looked at each other and frowned.

"No, kid," Rob said. "He means the one you're flying on today."

The kid frowned now. "What's that got to do with anything? They drink to forget about the plane landing at home." He shrugged. "They don't like going back to work."

"Bugger off," said Major Tom and Maurice in perfect harmony.

To everyone's surprise, the kid wandered off. Major Tom looked pleased with himself. The voice of authority prevails in the face of modern youth. Or... the kid was just bored.

That'll be door number two, then.

The kid stopped and swung back to the desk. He pointed at Major Tom, and they all waited for the accusation.

"What's your job, then?"

Major Tom was taken aback a little, as it was obvious to him what his job was. Wasn't he wearing a security guard uniform?

Well, yes.

"He's the pilot," Rob said quickly.

"Where's his plane, then?" the kid asked, his hand resting in the bag of cheese mush.

"Where you going for your holiday?" Rob asked.

"Can come," the kid said.

"That's Cancun," Rob said, showing off his D in geography. "When are you going?"

"Three o'clock."

"He's the pilot of the three o'clock flight to Cancun."

"What's he doing here, then?"

"Waiting for the plane to get fixed," Rob said, leaning his elbows on the desk.

"What's the matter with it?"

"Well," Rob said with a quick look around to see if they were overheard, "it's a really old plane, and a piece fell off on the way over."

The kid's mouth opened, revealing part-chewed sludge.

"Don't worry," Rob said reassuringly. "It was only a small piece."

The kid looked relieved.

"Nobody hurt."

Well, that's good to know.

"Just a few kids got sucked out through the hole, that's all," Rob added with a cheery smile to ease the kid's fears.

The bag of cheesy goodness fell to the floor, scattering bright orange puffs across the concourse.

"Hey," Rob said, seeing the child's distress, "no need to worry. You'll be okay... as long as he doesn't fly too high. See, he's afraid of heights and faints if he goes too high. That's why his planes keep crashing."

The kid ran away.

Maurice watched him go and shook his head slowly. "You've probably scarred that child for life, you know that?"

Rob shrugged. "That's life. Why should he get a free ride?"

Maurice stared at him sadly for a moment, then slid off his stool. "I'm going to get some coffee. Can you cope with the pressure?" He stopped as he stepped over the baggage belt and looked back. "What will you do if he brings his father back?"

Rob turned from watching the passengers in the distance passing this deserted space. "I'll tell him I'm Major Tom's co-pilot. And fresh out of the nuthouse."

"Many a true word spoken in jest," Maurice said as he stepped through the staff door.

Major Tom eased the ache in his back, checked the area for security-type things, and followed Maurice back into the staff room. Another good morning's work completed to his satisfaction, and time for a well-earned rest.

The GAL staff room was a dump. A converted lost-luggage storeroom that hadn't been converted, unless you count the addition of a scarred wooden table, a couple of lumpy stuffed chairs, an equally lumpy nearly-leather couch and a kitchenette — that broke all the health and safety rules at a glance.

Still, it was home. And there, in a phrase, is our merry band's lot.

At the back of the room, a door dared anyone to open it and proclaimed the dare with an over-sized 'do not open' notice, recycled from an aircraft engine cowling. Below the threat was a handwritten notice taped to the door, informing anyone who needed it that this was the office of Richard Marks, GAL Customer Services Manager.

"Is our master in?" Maurice asked as he checked the kettle for water and pressed the little lever-switch to start the thing complaining.

Shirley looked up from her magazine and shifted a little on the sofa so that she could see the closed door and the sign with the electric shock lightning bolt. She sighed heavily, as she always did whenever she was forced to confront the fact that she worked here. "He's in," she said, exchanged a long, knowing look with Janet, who was sitting at the battered table, and returned to her magazine.

Major Tom stopped at the noticeboard half-screwed, half-nailed to the thin wall and checked the security duty roster. There was only one name on it, his, but he was the only security officer, so no surprise there. It was, however, part of his daily routine: check the duty roster. Tick in box. "Any coffee in there?" he asked Maurice.

Maurice poured hot water into his mug and put the kettle back in its spot by the dented stainless-steel sink. "Yes," he said as he walked tiredly over to the table. "No hot water, though."

Mutual support. Pulling together. Watching each other's back. That is what makes a team hum like a perfectly tuned machine. The team in question wasn't this bunch, but it was worth saying.

The heavily noticed door opened, and He came out into the break area. Major Tom stood to attention.

Richard Marks strode youthfully up to the table. Richard Marks did everything youthfully. It was part of the Management Training Programme. And anyway, he liked it. Stomach in, chest out, big smile. Walk with purpose. That was also why he wore a polo shirt and khaki cargo pants with junk in the knee pockets. It's what hip kids wore, right? Hip kids... that'll be street talk, right? Or was, once.

"How's everything going out there, Janet?" he asked.

"Good morning, Mister Marks," Major Tom said, still at attention.

Richard smiled at him. Someone should have told him tooth whitening bleach isn't left on overnight. "Good morning... err... troops." Good catch. "You can call me Dickie," he said, to err... thing. "And you know what I say to the girls?"

Yes, everybody knew exactly what he said.

"You can't say Marks without saying mmm..."

Oh God, take me now.

But they smiled at the clever joke. Except Janet.

"And you can't say Dickie without saying dick."

Now was that nice?

"You're not married are you... Dickie?" Maurice asked from his seat next to Janet.

"No," Dickie said slowly, expecting a catch.

"Then you might want to drop that line." Maurice raised his hand. "Just saying, that's all. But what would I know?"

"While we're just saying," Janet said. "You might want to call yourself Richard instead of Dick." She knew exactly what he called himself.

"Oh," he said, rolling out the smile again, "I like it. I think it makes me sound like an actor."

The silence hung in the room for several seconds.

"Have you put it together?" Shirley asked, without looking up from her _House Interiors_ magazine.

He frowned again, then stopped. Frowns cause lines.

Maurice was hoping the heartburn was an impending heart attack about to snatch him away to a soft seat on a cloud and a nice musical instrument. "Dick Marks?" he said with his eyes closed.

"It sounds," Janet said, fixing him with a steady stare, "like the sand trail of a turtle."

And it did.

Dickie flushed and pointed at his door. "Have you seen the sign on my door?"

They all looked, though to be accurate, they had all seen the sign before.

"What?" Maurice said. "Fire exit?"

"No. No," Dickie said. He stamped his foot. "The one below that."

Maurice climbed to his feet and crossed the small room and leaned closer to the door. "Ah!" He squinted. "Holding yourself while those around you fall... is a disgusting habit." He shrugged. True.

Dickie gritted his teeth, his very white teeth. "No, not the graffiti!" He stepped closer and pointed at the handwritten sign. "Manager! It says manager. Right?"

"Yes," Janet said, "but that's a throwback to another era."

Dickie frowned again and risked the lines.

Janet gave him a smile she'd borrowed from a diamondback. "Before our Christmas party."

Dickie looked like he was about to run for it, but controlled the impulse. "I thought I'd explained that?" There was a note of desperation in his voice.

"You may have done," Janet said, "but I have the photographs."

"We must talk about that again... err... at a more... err... appropriate moment." Dickie looked around for something to change the subject and found it. He pointed at the staff door. "Who's holding the fort out there?" As if he didn't know.

Shirley glanced up from her magazine. "Rob."

And she said it as if it didn't really matter. Amazing.

Dickie gave a visible start. "Do you think that's wise?" He clearly didn't.

Janet put down the pen she'd been using to highlight lines in the document she'd been reading. "I'm sure we can trust him to screw things up royally at the earliest possible moment."

"That's a little harsh," Maurice said.

"Possibly," Janet said, "but true."

Maurice nodded and returned to his coffee.

Rob was indeed screwing things up. He leaned on his hand and idly tapped the keys of the booking terminal. It bleeped loudly and went blank. He jumped up, looked around quickly, and stepped over to the next desk and checked that this terminal was working. Okay, that's one problem resolved. Or at least moved to someone else, which is the same thing.

He looked up as movement in the deserted concourse caught his eye and saw an elderly man and his wife approaching the check-in. It was clearly his wife because he tutted at her, sighed at her, and generally harried her towards the desks. Good to see the age of chivalry wasn't dead. Mortally wounded, yes, but still with enough breath to tell the old lady to sort out her brain cells.

The old man rummaged in his inside jacket pocket for a moment, pulled out a ticket folder, and slammed it on the desktop.

Rob looked at it and then back at the scowling old man, who glared at him and pointed a slightly shaking hand at the tickets.

"Ah," Rob said with a toothpaste advert smile, "you want to check in?"

"Of course I want to check in!" the old man said. "I'm not here to order a gin and tonic, am I?"

Old people can be funny. This was not an example of a funny old person.

Rob picked up the ticket folder and took out the tickets. He examined the front of the first one. Then the back. Then the front of the second one. Then—

"I haven't got all day!" the old man said charmingly.

"They're tickets," Rob said, nodding sagely.

And sure enough, they were.

The old man spluttered, but before he could select the best abuse from the deluge that crossed his mind, Rob spoke. "Business class," he said, slid off his stool, and pointed to the desk to his left. "If you'd be good enough to come to the VIP desk, mister..." He checked the tickets again. "Ah, Colonel Butler."

"Why?" the colonel said.

Rob climbed over the baggage belt and sat at the desk. "Because it's the VIP desk, Colonel. And you are a VIP, are you not?" As well as other things.

The colonel didn't move. "It looks exactly like this desk," he said and glared at his wife, who was moving towards Rob's new position.

"True," Rob said, "but this one has been designated the VIP desk."

"That's stupid," the colonel said.

And it was, clearly.

"You're a colonel," Rob said, "so you will understand that rules are there to be obeyed."

And that, too, was stupid, but also true.

The colonel sighed heavily, collected the ticket folder Rob had left, and started to move to the designated VIP desk as instructed. He passed Rob coming the other way, stopped at the VIP desk, and looked back as Rob sat on the stool.

"Are you being deliberately insolent?"

Yes.

"No," Rob said. "You're right. It is stupid. Let's use this desk."

"But I'm at this one now."

Rob gave him the toothpaste smile and waited.

The colonel glared at him. He glared at his wife. He glared at the tickets. He took a deep breath and let it out with muttered curses. But he came back.

"Now," Rob said, tapping the terminal keyboard. "Let's get you booked in, shall we?"

"About bloody time."

This terminal was dead, as someone had apparently broken it.

Rob tut-tutted, tapped the keyboard, checked the back of the monitor, and shook his head. "The terminal is broken," he informed his VIP passengers.

The colonel glared at him. His wife smiled nicely, probably thinking about a nice cup of tea.

Rob slid off the stool and stepped over the baggage belt. "Shall we move to this desk?"

The colonel's mouth was open, and his jaw was moving up and down.

"Shall we, dear," his wife said with a soothing smile.

The colonel squinted at Rob suspiciously, but walked back to the other desk.

"Now," Rob said, tapping the terminal keyboard, this time with satisfactory results, "where are we flying to today?"

"I'm going to Prague," the colonel said. "I have no idea where you're going. And frankly, I couldn't care less."

"Don't get many colonels using Global Airlines Lite," Rob said, ignoring the rudeness.

"Not bloody surprised."

Rob smiled a micro-smile. "We have our own major, Colonel. Major Tom. He looks after security."

"And I care about this, why?"

"He was a hero in Iraq," Rob said.

"Fascinating."

"Won all sorts of medals for doing brave things," Rob said, selecting a seat near the toilet for the miserable old—

"Really?" the colonel said, showing interest for the first time. "Which regiment?"

"Paras, I think."

"I was seconded to the paras," the colonel said, standing up a little straighter. "A major? I would probably know him."

"Hang on a second," Rob said, "and I'll go get him."

"If you must."

Rob crossed to the staff door, leaned in, and said something before returning to the desk. He glanced at the screen and moved the colonel and his dear little wife away from the toilet.

Major Tom stepped over the baggage belt and stood behind Rob. "What's so important I have to leave my coffee?"

"Major Tom," Rob said, "meet Colonel Butler."

Major Tom looked quickly at he colonel, took a step back, banged his legs against the conveyor, and sat down on the belt.

The colonel looked at Major Tom for several seconds before speaking. "No," he said at last, "I don't know you. Go away."

Rob frowned, but his eyes were alive. "Bit odd, though," he said, "you not knowing each other."

"Not really," Major Tom said, getting up quickly, ready for a rapid retreat, "there were thousands of us over there."

"This..." The colonel pointed a finger at Rob. "This person said you were with the paras. Which regiment?"

"Err..." Major Tom said. "Three para." Then he felt more was needed. "At Najaf."

Sometimes less is more.

The colonel frowned. "Three para was in Basra. I may be old, but I still have my faculties."

"Oh, I meant two para," Major Tom said quickly.

"Easy mistake to make," Rob said mischievously, "there's only a one in it."

"This annoying individual," the colonel said, flicking a finger in Rob's direction, "said that you were awarded medals. Is that so?"

Somewhere in the distance, Major Tom could hear the carpenters erecting the scaffold. His mouth was dry, and he could hear a blowfly buzzing in his ear. "Err..."

"Well, were you or were you not awarded medals?" The colonel seemed miffed. Odd, that. "It's not a difficult question, is it?"

"Err..." Major Tom decided to man up and tell it like it is. "No. I mean yes. Well, no."

That worked well.

The colonel eyed Major Tom suspiciously and opened his mouth to say something, but Rob beat him to it.

"Got an 'I saved marines from certain, gruesome death' medal, haven't you, Major Tom." He didn't give the poor man time to respond. "And there's the one for parachuting behind enemy lines and blowing up a dam."

The colonel spluttered and shook his head to clear it. "Behind enemy lines?" More spluttering. "There were no enemy lines in the Iraq war."

"I saw enemy lines," Rob said.

The colonel stared at him through slit eyes and dared him to continue.

"They were on the roads heading for home as fast as they could," Rob continued. "And," he said quickly, before the old duffer could butt in, "our Major Tom here was right behind them, kicking them in the ass to hurry them along."

The colonel's eyes opened, and he looked back at Major Tom. "Three Para, you say?"

"Yes," Major Tom said quickly. "Among others. I was bounced about quite a bit over there."

The colonel nodded. "We all were, Major."

'Major', that was a good start.

"I'd like to see your medals," the colonel said.

Major Tom's face dropped.

"But I have a plane to catch. Perhaps another time?"

"Yes. Yes. Any time. Whenever you're in the... err... vicinity."

"I've got you a nice window seat, Colonel," Rob said, squashing a smile.

Major Tom retreated through the staff door at an undignified pace.

"That fellow," the colonel began.

"Oh, don't worry about him," Rob said, smiling. "He's getting old, and all that nuclear fall-out from Iraq has scrambled his marbles."

The colonel took the boarding passes and tickets from Rob and hurried his wife away, glancing back repeatedly, as though afraid the madman would follow.

Rob looked back at the staff door and smiled.

Shirley looked up from her magazine again as Major Tom came back into the staffroom a bit too quickly. "Is everything okay out there, Major Tom?"

"No. Yes. I mean Rob is dealing with the colonel."

Shirley stood up quickly. "What colonel? Why wasn't I informed there is a colonel? Is he a VIP?"

"Yes," Major Tom said.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake! What is the matter with you?" Shirley stood up sharply, threw the magazine onto the couch, and marched out to do her VIP duty.

Rob's head appeared around the door as she approached. "Give me a hand, Maurice. I need to go."

"Use your own bloody hand," Maurice said, shocked. "What do you take me for?"

"No," Rob said with a sigh. "I mean take over out there, I need to pee."

"Oh," Maurice said.

"Are you dealing with a VIP?" Shirley asked.

"No."

"Major Tom said you were dealing with a colonel."

"Oh, him," Rob said. "He's gone."

"I told you to call me before handling VIPs—"

"I never touched him," Rob said, raising his hands in mock horror.

"I'm going to escalate this to Mister Marks."

"Why, is he on the top floor?" Rob asked and ducked back out of sight.

Maurice stepped past Shirley and followed him out.

"Did you see that, Janet?" Shirley asked.

"That's the trouble with working for a tin-pot company," Shirley said tiredly, "all your colleagues are morons."

"When I was at Virgin," Shirley said with a sniff, "we had quality people from top to bottom."

"Get rid of all the rubbish, did they?" Janet asked pointedly.

"I'll have you know, leaving was entirely my idea!"

Janet shrugged. "PMS can be a terrible affliction."

"Well, I never!"

"Perhaps not, dear," Janet said, returning to her paperwork, "but I can tell you, it's not all it's cracked up to be."

Shirley struggled to find a suitable retort, but was saved by George, the maintenance man, banging the door full open and squeezing his huge bulk in through the gap.

"Somebody report that the baggage belt is missing?" he asked, a little breathless from the effort of moving his twenty-stone lump about.

Shirley brightened. "Ah, yes. That was me."

"Well," George said, "I am pleased to inform you that the baggage belt was found next to the check-in desks after a short search."

Shirley's mouth opened and closed.

"And someone reported evidence of an oil leak from the motor?"

She nodded slowly. "That was Rob."

"Right. Tell him the evidence has now been removed." He backed out and made a token attempt to reach for the door handle before giving up and waddling off.

Shirley shook her head slowly and stared at the open door. "He couldn't be serious," she said, almost to herself.

"I believe he is quite serious," Major Tom said. "That was George." As if that explained everything.

"But that's insane!" Shirley said.

"And your point?" Janet added without looking up.

Before they could explore the madness of George any further, Rob and Maurice stepped up to the open door, and Rob beckoned to Major Tom.

"Better get out here, Major," he said, half-turning and pointing... out there. "We've got a problem."

Major Tom made a visible effort to return to reality from wherever it was he'd retreated. "What's the problem?" he said, setting off towards the door. A little more slowly than his best pace. "It's yoofs, isn't it? Always the same at this time of the morning. I think it's all that modern coffee... it hypes them up. A spell in the army is what they need, spot of discipline."

"No," Rob said, leaving a silence for dramatic effect. "It's a suspect package."

They all froze.

The fire-exit/executive office door banged open, and Dickie almost fell out. "Suspect package!" He caught his balance and took a moment to regain his composure. No point letting the staff see him as anything but perfect. "Where? What? How big? Has the bomb squad been called? Are the police attending? Are we safe in here?"

Yes, perfect.

Rob shook his head in answer to one of the questions. "I'll skip the first questions and cut to the chase, shall I? I've never been one to beat around the bush or to use a sentence where a word will do. You know me, I call a spade a shovel. It's not in my nature to ramble on or blather, so to speak, so I'll just get straight to the point. Right from the shoulder, tell it as it is—"

"For Christ's sake... begging your pardon, ladies," Major Tom said. "Just tell me what is the nature of the suspect package?"

"Suspect," Rob said helpfully.

"I mean," Major Tom said in an exasperated tone, "where is this suspect package?"

Rob pointed vaguely towards the concourse. "Out there. Lurking."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Janet said and stood up. "This is hopeless. Come with me, Tom."

She strode out, and Major Tom followed, throwing a pleading look at Rob, who just shrugged. Security-type work required a security-type person. Logical.

"Should we help?" Maurice asked, with little enthusiasm.

"No," Rob said, "but we should definitely go and watch."

They stepped up behind Janet and Major Tom at the desks and looked out across the deserted concourse.

"Is it still there?" Dickie asked from behind the half-closed staff door.

"Can't see," Rob said. "Major Tom has bravely interposed his body between us and the potential blast."

Major Tom visibly jumped, looked at Rob quickly, and took a long step back, allowing the rest to edge forward to the desks.

They could see the suspect package. A large, brown cardboard box sat in the roped-off lanes leading to the desks. It was highly suspect.

"There is the suspect package," Rob said, pointing at the box. "Over there. That cardboard box."

Janet turned to him slowly and studied him for a moment. "Really?" she said, raising her eyebrows. "I was looking for a big black ball with a fizzing fuse and the word 'bomb' written on it in white paint."

"No," Rob said, shaking his head. "That's it there. That cardboard box."

Dickie closed the door a little more.

"Are you going to remove it to a place of safety, Major Tom?" Rob asked enthusiastically.

"Err... well..." Major Tom said decisively. "I wouldn't like to overreach the limits of my... err... responsibility. We should... err... wait for the proper authorities."

"But you said in the war you were always fiddling with things that go bang."

"True, in my time in Iraq, I often had cause to handle ordinance, and sometimes it was necessary to diffuse it. But that was war, and if it wasn't me, then some poor marine would probably have been blown to bits. You might say it was my duty."

"Then do your duty, and get over there, and diffuse that cardboard box," Janet said, pointing at the lanes.

"It might be somebody's washing," Maurice said.

"Does your mom know you're out?" Janet asked.

"He's got a point, though," Rob said. "We can't just sling it. It might have a cat inside or a snake or something."

"Then I'm afraid it's down to you, Tom," Dickie said from behind the door, now even more closed.

"We should evacuate and wait for the disposal boys," Major Tom said.

"You're kidding," Maurice said, "the garbage men won't take that!"

"Take your medication, Maurice," Janet said.

"He's right, though, we can't leave it, what if some kid comes by while we're hiding?" Rob said. "One was here earlier, and much as it wouldn't bother me to see him blown up, it might be bad for the airline."

"Can't have bad publicity for the airline," Dickie said. "Go and take a look, Tom."

"With respect, Mister Marks," Major Tom said, his voice strained, "we should wait here for the security boys."

"You are security," Janet said sternly.

"He means," Rob said, "those eager beavers who slide down ropes, shouting, 'Go! Go! Move it!' and military things like that."

"I called them," Maurice said. "They have an alert on and won't be here till after lunch."

"They're probably practicing what to do should someone find a suspect package," Janet said.

"Yeah," Rob said, "and their package is probably in the bar."

"I could go and look for them," Maurice said.

"One stays. We all stay," Rob said. "That right, Major Tom?"

"I believe the expression is, you go, we all go," Major Tom said, sensing an opportunity.

"Do something," Dickie said. "I need to go to the bathroom."

"I could go over and just take a quick look," Major Tom said.

"What if there's a hidden terrorist with a trigger device? I've seen it on the TV," Maurice suggested.

"For heaven's sake, shut up!" Janet said.

"Just saying, that's all," Maurice said, sulking.

"Well, don't," Janet snapped. "Tom, go and take a look. Now."

"Pretend it's Baghdad and twelve-year-olds are throwing rocks at you," Rob said.

Major Tom started to move.

"Hang on," Rob said and ignored Janet's squinted stare. "You can't just go over to the bomb without some sort of body armour."

Thank you, Lord.

Major Tom nodded sagely. "The boy's right. It's procedure. No body armour, no fiddling with bombs." He turned towards the staff room and sighed. Free. Free at last.

"Hang on, then," Rob said, crashing the moment. "I can sort something out for you. Come on, Maurice."

"Not me," Maurice said, shaking his head.

Rob crouched and crept behind the baggage belt, keeping low to minimise the impact should the package detonate.

"It's exciting, isn't it?" Janet said.

"Oh, yeah, great," Major Tom said sullenly, his escape now in tatters.

"Knowing that at any moment we could be blown to pieces," Janet said.

Dickie closed the door.

"We never had bomb threats at Virgin," Shirley said with a sniff.

"No," Maurice said under his breath, "in those days the terrorists would just set fire to the paper wings."

"Did you say something, Maurice?" Shirley asked, coming back from her memories of happier, bomb-free days.

Before Maurice could lie, a cleaning trolley trundled around the corner and onto the concourse. The two women pushing the trolley very slowly could have been sisters. Sixty-something — a lot of 'something' — wearing button-up blue overalls and silly baseball caps with oversized GAL logos.

Everyone behind the desks began waving them away. They smiled, waved back, and kept on coming, and stopped in front of the desks.

"Are you expecting a rush?" Mrs T asked.

Jessie handed her a brush.

"No, Jessie, a rush—"

"I'm going as fast as I can," Jessie said. "It's not easy you know. Not with my... problem."

Nobody knew. And nobody really wanted to.

"There's a suspect package, Mrs T," Janet said. "You should move away from the danger zone."

"It's too late now," Major Tom said, raising his hands as if to block the way. "The vibration could set it off."

"This is an airport, have you noticed?" Shirley said. "With planes landing and taking off."

"That's not localised vibration, is it?" Major Tom said pompously.

"The bomb can tell the difference, then, can it?" Janet said.

"Well, it depends if it's got a trembler."

"My Herbert used to say he'd got a trembler," Mrs T said.

Nobody spoke, they just watched her watching the box.

"Okay," Janet said, "I'm going to ask. Even though I know I'm going to regret it."

They waited.

"Why did your Herbert say he'd got a trembler, then, Mrs. T?"

"Oh, it's okay now. He takes pills for his distemper."

"What?" Janet said, totally confused.

"I had a dog once," Shirley said and received a sharp look from Janet.

"I didn't know that," Maurice said. "How nice. What was its name?"

"Just Bloke," Shirley said, glancing at her watch and thinking it would soon be time for a break.

"That's a strange name for a dog," Maurice said.

"Not for this one," Shirley said, looking up absently from her watch. "He was lazy, messy, insensitive, and violent when woken."

Janet sighed heavily. Life shouldn't be like this. Her mother had told her, "Janet, go to the city, make something of yourself." She probably hadn't meant make a loser. "Why did the doctor give Herbert distemper pills, Mrs T?"

She really couldn't care less, but it passed the time.

"Dunno, it was the doctor's idea," Mrs T said. "I could never understand him."

"Oh, I know what you mean," Maurice said. "All that medical talk makes my head spin."

"Oh, I don't know if he did medical talk. He was foreign, I could never get what he said. Except he told Herbert he had to calm down and take pills for distemper."

They all watched her for a while, waiting for her to smile or say something. They waited in vain.

At that silent moment, Rob returned, clutching a big canvas holdall.

Janet frowned and watched him suspiciously as he dropped the bag onto the check-in desk. "What have you got there?"

"A bag."

She waited patiently. Not an easy thing for her.

"Sports bag."

She continued to wait, though her foot began to tap.

"Been in lost baggage for ages," Rob said, starting to feel the heat. He smiled at Mrs T and Jessie. "Morning, ladies. Come to watch the fireworks?"

"No, thank you, dear," Jessie said, returning the smile. "I can never see what the clues have got to do with the answers."

He looked at her for a few moments while he tried to unscramble it, but gave up. Life is just too short. "And how's Herbert and the kids, Mrs T?"

"Oh, they're lovely, thank you, Rob. But he says he's not having any more. He's having a hysterectomy next month."

"It's a snip, Mrs T," Rob informed her.

"Doesn't matter, dear, we don't have to pay." She smiled. "The government are doing it for him."

"The government are cutting off Herbert's nuts?" Maurice asked in shock.

"Why is that a surprise to you?" Rob said with a sad shake of his head.

"It's the health bit," Mrs T said.

Jessie shook her head and woke up. "And good health to you, but it's a bit early in the day for me, thanks."

"You tell Herbert those snippy things can be painful," Rob said.

"Oh, not to worry," Mrs T said, "they're giving him a... err... anus... thetic."

"Ah, right," Rob said, "that should take his mind off it."

"Okay," Janet said sharply, "stop it right there."

Rob put his hand on his heart and gave her a 'what, lil ol' me' look.

"Shall we get on with it," she said tiredly. "I'm expecting a rush."

"I bet Jessie has something for a rash, don't you, Jessie?" Rob said.

Jessie woke up again with a start. "Told you I'm going as fast as I can. What is the matter with everybody this morning, all this hurry?"

"Not got your hearing aid fixed, then, eh Jessie?" Rob said with a smile.

"No, I haven't, dear. But why would I want to flush it? It won't work any more."

Maurice sighed. "Oh, we wouldn't want that, would we? God knows what confusion would follow."

Rob unzipped the sports bag and began rummaging inside and putting things onto the desk. The others gathered round. He placed a sports box next to one half of a pair of hockey shin guards.

"My Willie had one of those," Jessie said, pointing at the jockstrap.

Rob smiled. "I think you'll find that's a truss, Jessie."

"Never any bother, he'd trust anybody. Anyway, he liked it, said it filled out his trousers. Quite suited him."

"Put those on, Major Tom," Rob instructed, pointing at the pile of cast-off sports equipment.

Major Tom started at him and then at the equipment. He closed his eyes slowly in surrender, reached over, and picked up the ice-hockey helmet with the broken visor. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Rob reached over and flicked the visor. "This'll save your brains from the blast."

"Very reassuring," Maurice said. 'At least it'll keep them all in the same place when it blows his head off," he said under his breath.

Major Tom's head snapped around, proving he wasn't as deaf as Maurice assumed. "Wait a minute here—"

"Ignore him," Rob said, handing him a padded vest. "He's just jealous that you're going to be the hero."

Major Tom took a deep breath and nodded slowly.

"Posthumous hero," Maurice said.

Major Tom took a little step back, but he was too slow. Rob took his arm and slapped a lacrosse stick into his hand. Major Tom held up the long stick and looked at the triangular net.

"That's for scooping," Rob said with enthusiasm.

"Scooping?"

"Yeah, you know?"

Major Tom didn't know. In fact, no one knew, but that didn't stop Rob, who took the stick back and demonstrated scooping imaginary explosives out of an imaginary bomb. A quite safe imaginary bomb. He handed the stick back to Major Tom.

"Right, get into your bomb armour, Major Tom," he said, handing him the shin guard. "And let's see you do hero things."

Major Tom was caught. He slid on the fat, protective gloves and held them up. "What am I supposed to do wearing these things?"

"Oh," Mrs T said, "is there a game? Ooh, Herbert used to love sport. He used to spend all day asleep in front of the telly when it was on."

"My sister used to do that," Jessie said absently.

Janet raised her hand. "Nobody try to stop me. I'm going to ask." She leaned on the desk to be closer to Jessie. "What, Jessie?"

"No, dear, I can't squat any more. Not since me operation."

Janet had the bit between her teeth and wasn't going to be put off. "No, Jessie. I meant what did your sister used to do?"

Jessie bristled a little. "They never proved anything. It was that Mrs Hardcastle who started that rumour. Anyway, she was too old."

"No, dear," Janet said almost desperate now. "I meant—"

"For heaven's sake," Shirley said. "Who cares what the old bat says?"

"Oh no, dear. They wouldn't let him bat... well, not after the incident, anyway. You know, they never got the marks off." She shook her head sadly.

"There you go," Rob said, patting Major Tom on the shoulder. "Ready for action."

The others gave up on the fascinating life of Mrs T and Jessie and turned to look Major Tom over. He'd lost the fat gloves and was wearing the jockstrap on the outside of his trousers and had the broken helmet perched on the top of his head. The padded jacket was way too small and was held in place, straining across his chest, with a lace from the one sports shoe.

"Well, what do you think?" Rob said, turning to his audience. "An action man if ever you saw one, right?"

Maurice opened his mouth, but closed it in response to Rob's dirty look.

"He looks like a total loon," Janet said helpfully.

"No, ignore her, Major Tom," Rob said, steering the hapless security guard around the desk. "Go get 'em, tiger!"

The tiger edged slowly onto the concourse, the jockstrap bunching up his trousers into wrinkled pantaloons, while the tiny helmet slid slowly over his face to hang on his chest by the frayed straps.

Okay, hero at work here.

"Whoa!" Rob said suddenly.

Major Tom stopped. Thank you, God.

"When... if it explodes," Rob said, "the blast will go up and out, right?" He held up his hands in surrender. "Not that I'm an expert. Not like you."

Major Tom stood up a little straighter, and the jockstrap crushed his nuts. "Correct," he said through a flinch and bent a little again. "Exploding ordinance will generally follow that explosive trajectory."

"Then," Rob said, raising a finger for emphasis, "you should stay low. You know? Under the blast."

Major Tom's life was over. Ended before it had barely begun. Okay, before his old age at least. He leaned on the desk and lowered himself to his knees.

"Don't you think you should get down as low as possible?" Rob said with a worried frown.

Major Tom sighed heavily and began crawling slowly across the concourse, with his backside sticking up heroically.

"Isn't that the bravest thing you ever saw?" Maurice asked, wiping away a tear.

"Looks like somewhere to park my bike," Rob said.

"Have a little respect for the man risking his life," Janet said sharply.

"And ours," Rob added, "if we stay here."

They moved as smoothly as a well-oiled machine and hid behind the desk.

Mrs T and Jessie stayed out on the concourse, standing behind their cleaning trolley and watching Major Tom crawl under the tapes zigzagging across the concourse.

"He'll leave scuff marks," Jessie said reproachfully. "And who'll have to scrub them off? Us, that's who."

"The blast will clean off the scuff marks, Jessie," Rob said in a muffled voice from under the desk.

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea," Major Tom said. "The disposal boys will have sandbags and things."

"Don't worry, Major Tom," Rob said, "we're quite safe behind these desks. You go ahead and do your stuff."

Major Tom pulled the helmet away from his chin and let it go. The elastic straps did what elastic straps are supposed to do. "Ow! Ouch!" he said, as the hard helmet smacked into his face. He pushed it to one side under his ear and crawled on.

At that moment, Stephanie arrived for her shift. In her early twenties, probably blonde, and wearing a GAL orange uniform that was three sizes too small and pulled in and pushed out in all the right places.

"What's the old idiot doing now?" she asked, leaning across the desk to talk to the brave souls hiding behind the desk.

"Perhaps you should come back here with us, Stephanie," Shirley said.

"Yes," Rob said, "sit by me, I'll protect you."

"Yeah, right," Stephanie said. "In your dreams."

"He's checking out that suspect package," Janet said. "Come behind the desk in case it explodes."

"What? That old cardboard box?"

"Yes," Janet said. "He thinks it might be a bomb."

"Don't be bloody daft," Stephanie said with a sniff. "Who'd want to blow up this dump?"

"She's got a point," Maurice said but continued to stay low. "Who'd want to blow up GAL?"

"Well, me, for one," Rob said.

"Yes," Janet said, "but you're certifiable."

"Stephanie," Shirley said, "I really do think you should come back here with us."

"Why?" Stephanie said. "Is there a party?"

"More like a wake if you don't take cover," Rob said.

"Don't like wakes," Stephanie said. "All that blubbering and having to say nice things about weird uncles."

Rob frowned. "What uncles, Steph?" He waved her over. "Come and sit down with me, and tell me all about it."

"That," Stephanie said, "is what the weird uncles used to say."

"My uncle Harry was wired," Jessie said and frowned and shook her head. "No, it was Uncle Harry who was wired." She nodded confirmation. "Yes. Broke his pelican on a motorbike."

"I didn't know your uncle Harry rode a motorbike, dear," Mrs T said.

"He doesn't."

"But you just said he broke something riding a motorbike."

"He wasn't riding it," Jessie said.

Silence.

Rob and Maurice exchanged a long look.

"What was he doing with it, then?" Mrs T asked.

"It fell on him when he was lifting it over the garden wall," Jessie said. She shook her head. "Never was very bright, Uncle Harry."

"Why was he lifting it over a garden wall, dear?" Mrs T asked.

"It was the reverend mother's," Jessie said.

"The garden wall?" Mrs T said.

"No," Jessie said, "the motorbike."

Major Tom lifted the edge of the cardboard flap and tried to peek inside. "Oops!"

"Now that's one of two words you don't want to hear," Rob said.

"What words?" Maurice said.

"A doctor saying interesting," Rob said, "or a pilot saying oops."

They all edged up slowly until they could see above the desktop. Which, thinking about it, was probably not the best move with the threat of an imminent explosion. Rob tore his eyes off Stephanie's breasts and forced them to check out the concourse—with the occasional glance back, just to make sure she was okay. Of course.

Major Tom was backing off from the box, his backside still arched into the air.

The bomb exploded.

A white mushroom cloud blew up and out across the concourse. Major Tom flattened himself against the polished floor in an effort to avoid the coming blast. The others ducked down behind the desk. Stephanie put her hands to her mouth.

And Jessie and Mrs T shook their heads slowly.

"I suppose they'll expect us to clean that up," Mrs T said.

"Bound to," Jessie said with a long, tired sigh.

The others raised their heads slowly above the desk and saw the inflatable girlfriend sticking up from the box. It was swaying gently from its sudden inflation, and its fortunately shaped hand held a stick with a banner:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAJOR TOM!

It had two medals strategically taped to its enormous chest and wore oversized khaki shorts.

Major Tom unclenched his hands from his head, climbed slowly to his knees, and stared at the doll and the cloud of polystyrene and confetti drifting down across the concourse.

One by one they all turned and glared at Rob, who stood up, shrugged once, and sauntered off to the staff room for a well-deserved coffee.

"That's good," Mrs T said.

Major Tom's face was already scarlet, but managed to get just a couple more degrees of red. "What?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "What could possibly be good about this... this..."

"Raving madness?" Janet suggested.

"Raving madness," Major Tom said, taking the offer. "What could be good, Mrs T, about me getting a bloody heart attack?"

Mrs T smiled sweetly. "Well, dear, if it had been a real bomb, there would have been a much bigger mess to clear up."

Mrs T and Jessie trundled the cleaning cart in the direction of the birthday surprise, and Major Tom marched past with as much dignity as he could muster. Whilst wearing a jockstrap on the outside of his trousers. And being covered from head to toe in confetti, talc and sequins from the bomb blast.

He saluted. "Good day, ladies." The jockstrap crushed his nuts, and he screwed up his face in agony.

"Happy birthday, Major Tom," they said with a smile.

_____________

# ANARCHY

###

### EPISODE 2

###

## TOEING THE LINE

##

## Short Shift

The battered green lockers lining the far wall of the maintenance workshop fitted right in with the rest of the décor: neo-dump. The two walls on either side of the lockers were lined with heavy wooden workbenches littered with junk from a hundred repairs, both recent and historic.

The lockers had three backless bench seats lined up in front, chipped and shining from a hundred years of polish by oily boilersuits. And next to these stood a single wooden chair, freshly painted in green, and shining clean and bright with not a chip or scuff in sight. This anomaly sat stately in front of the only locker flaunting a bright silver padlock and a nameplate positioned exactly in the middle of the only dent-free door.

The oily seats were occupied by three of the five maintenance fitters whose pride and joy the workshop was supposed to be. Nick and Smiffy sat with their overalls pulled up to their knees, watching Gonk struggling to pull his over his beer-gut. He was bald and fat, which is bad enough—allegedly—but being next to Smiffy just accentuated his manly curves. Smiffy was so stick-thin his clothes hung off his shoulders like a coat hanger, making him look a whole lot older than his forty-two years. Maybe late sixties. He could have worked as an extra in a concentration camp movie or a living dead true story, except that his thigh muscles bunched up hard against his overalls. So there was the evidence, clear for anyone who could read the signs. A cyclist. But not your everyday pedal-to-work type cyclist. Smiffy was a hill climber. A member of that rare breed who spend their weekends touring the country looking for mountains. And then racing up them. There is no treatment for this. No medication or mind straightening. It's a sport. Done for fun. God, there is such a thing as too much. Somebody should have told him.

Turns out, Nick had done just that, on many occasions. "Insanity, mate" was the phrase most often used, but alas, it fell on deaf ears. The riding up mountains with his bony ass in the air continued unabated. It was fun.

Gonk was too fat to ride a bike, and suicidally too unfit. And at thirty-six, way too old to be Nick's gopher and fetcher, but life deals the hands, and those without friends in high places have to play the cards they're dealt. Or so Gonk would say. Frequently. And of course, Gonk wasn't his name, it was what Nick called him because, basically, he looked like one. His mother would have called him Eustace, if she'd still been around, God rest her soul, which was presently sunning itself in a retirement home in Spain. He used to be a teacher — geography, allegedly. But that was before the ill-fated school trip to the mountains. It hadn't been his fault, just a combination of bad luck, bad weather and... okay, one or two little drinks, but let's not go there, it didn't contribute in any way to what followed. Despite what the tribunal said. But they'd been out to get him. People are like that. They resent success, good looks and charisma.

In a practiced move, Gonk breathed in and zipped up his overalls, smiling at Nick for approval.

"You losing weight there, Gonk?" Nick said, pointing at the overalls straining across his barrel gut.

Gonk looked down. "Yeah, change of diet."

"You went for it, then?" Nick said. "Having a lettuce leaf with your burger and fries?"

Gonk nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, it's the greens, you see. They cancel out the burger." He grinned. "Read it in _Reader's Digest_."

Nick stood up and zipped up his overalls with no problem, but being regular weight and fit is part of the bonus of being twenty-seven. Time would level that advantage.

The conversation about the merits of dietary balance was suspended when the workshop door opened with a screeching plea for lubrication, and Luigi stepped in, looked around, and sighed sadly. He grunted a response at the round of "mornings" from the boys and walked tiredly over to his immaculate locker. Another day with these morons was more than he could bear. For the briefest moment, an image of his beloved Lake Como formed in his mind, but he pushed it away. No point thinking of home. This... place was his home now and had been for the past thirty of his fifty-five years.

He opened the pristine locker, took out a carefully folded duster, and wiped the green chair.

He'd married a beautiful English rose, who became an angry thorn bush. But that road had no turns and no exit ramp. He was where he was. And that was trapped in a life where happiness was a vapour trail in the sky, pointing away to Italia.

He shook the duster, refolded it, and placed it on the top shelf of the locker, on the left of the shelf, an inch from the front. He checked the cleanliness of the chair.

"What's the matter, Luigi?" Nick asked with a heavy frown of concern. "You afraid you'll get pregnant?"

Luigi scowled at the world's most irritating man, took out an immaculately pressed and folded pair of overalls from the locker, and sat down slowly.

The workshop door screeched open again, and a woman of a certain age stepped in. She was smiling absently and seemed to have not a care in the world. Her grey hair looked as though it had been in a battle with a wind tunnel and lost, and her white apron had samples of today's menu on display.

"Open the big door, boys," she said and clicked into this universe for a moment. "Jessie's outside with your tea, and it's raining cats and dogs."

"Mornin', Mrs. T," Nick said and stamped on his boots, crossed the workshop in four strides, and pulled open the sliding metal door to reveal a Mrs. T clone. "Mornin', Jessie," he said, stepping aside to let her wheel in the tea trolley.

"Morning, boys," Jessie said. "What will it be, Nick?"

Nick smiled. "Tea with two sugars. Same as it's been for the last year since you started, Jessie."

Mrs. T stepped up to the trolley, took the big double-handed teapot, and smiled an absent smile. "Was easier at Global Air."

Nick shrugged. "If you say so, Mrs. T. But a job's just a job. Same... sugar, different day."

"Didn't have to take the tea out in the rain, though, did we?" Jessie said a little wistfully.

"No," Mrs. T said with a shrug. "But we had to put up with Dickie Marks."

The old ladies nodded together. "We showed him, though, didn't we?"

Nick smiled gently. "How's that, Mrs. T?" He'd heard this story once or twice.

"They wanted to get rid of one of us," Mrs. T said. "One goes, we said; we both go, we said."

Gonk and Smiffy stepped up for their tea.

"What's this, Mrs. T?" Gonk said, with a little smile. "You regaling us with tales of happier days at Global Air?" He winked at Nick and took his mug of tea.

Nick smiled at Mrs. T. He couldn't help liking her, but what was there not to like? "Yeah, Mrs. T and Jessie used to keep the wheels turning at the airline." He raised his mug of tea in salute. "Keeping the check-in working at peak efficiency is the most important job there is in an airline. Keeping the passengers moving through." He appeared to consider it for a moment. "Except maybe for the pilot. Him keeping them in the sky, as it were." He smiled again, warming to the story. "Those baggage belts can be lethal, right, Mrs. T?"

She remembered the time her apron strap had caught up in the belt and almost dragged her to an untimely end. "Those bag rollies could do you a serious mischief."

"Still," Nick said with a shrug, "happy days, right?"

Jessie woke up. "I used to like that one. I liked that Fence boy. He was all right."

"Fonz," Smiffy corrected.

"No, dear," Jessie said, "I left it in me bag in the staff room, so it can't be mine."

Nick had been down this road before, and it led to no sane place. He changed tack. "Better here, though, right, Mrs. T?" He wasn't speaking Russian, but he might as well have been from her look of bemusement. "Manufacturing is the lifeblood of the economy."

Which was like telling a toddler that Keynesian economics had been largely discredited.

"We make sex toys," Smiffy said, bemused.

"We _manufacture_ sex toys," Nick corrected. "And without us, the poor consumer would have to buy imports. And who would want that?"

"So why did you leave the cushy life in Global Air and come to this dump?" Gonk asked, genuinely interested—but he'd only heard the story a few times, so still expected a twist.

"Turns out," Mrs. T said, "they wanted to get the catering from house sources."

"Outsource," Nick said as a reflex.

"No, thank you, dear," Jessie said. "I like my bacon in the oh naturail."

"No, Jessie," Gonk said, pleading with his subconscious not to paint the picture. "He means it was outsourcing they did to you."

Jessie chuckled. "Nobody tried that with me for long time, dear. Cheeky thing."

Mrs. T gave her a scolding look. "Let the boys drink their tea, Jessie. And don't start all that brazenness again." She shook her head. "You remember old Mr. Philips from accounting?"

The boys shook their heads.

"No," Mrs. T said with a long nod. "You wouldn't."

Okay, that cleared that up.

"You can't take her anywhere, you know?" Mrs. T said.

They knew.

"You want a bun with that?" she asked, pointing at Nick's tea.

"No, thanks," he said, raising his mug. "I'm going for breakfast in a bit." He sipped the tea and clicked his teeth at the tannic taste of stewed brew. "Any news on your husband, Mrs. T?"

"What's the matter with your husband?" Gonk asked.

"Dunno, dear."

"But..."

"Mrs. T has lost her husband," Nick said.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Gonk said. "What was it?"

"Dunno," Mrs T said, "can't find him."

Gonk's face screwed up in a frown, and he looked at Nick for support.

"Lost," Nick said. "As in, misplaced. Gone."

"Oh," Gonk said. "The police looking, are they?"

"I don't think so," she said, offering Nick a tea top up and receiving a head shake in answer.

"Why aren't the police looking?" Gonk asked, totally bemused.

"Dunno, dear, I pay me taxes."

"That's not right," Gonk said, clearly annoyed at the lazy police. "How long has he been missing?"

She thought about it for a moment. "Err... 1987. I think." She smiled, turned, and followed Jessie and the tea trolley back out into the rain.

Gonk shook his head slowly and slid the workshop door closed. One of these days he was going to visit reality, but that day seemed a long way off. He sighed heavily and joined the boys leaning against the workbenches and watching Luigi, who'd finished putting on his immaculately pressed overalls and had stowed his new work gloves one in each of his trouser pockets. They watched as he took a white duster from the locker, bent down, and polished a pair of shiny black boots until they were... shinier.

Smiffy picked up a hacksaw, looked at it as if it was an alien artefact and put it back down. It was one of those tool-things, clearly. "Has to be time for breakfast by now," he said, easing his tired shoulders and heading for the door, but Gonk nodded towards Luigi, and breakfast could wait.

"Breakfast, Luigi?" Nick asked, pointing at the door.

"I told you to stop bloody calling me that," Luigi said. "My name is Mister Sabatini. And I've told you every day, I don't want breakfast. I eat before I come to work, where I then work."

Nick smiled. "Luigi's on a pasta diet. Pastanother plate of spaghetti."

That wasn't funny. Well, okay, Gonk laughed, but he'd laugh at a traffic accident.

Luigi looked daggers at Nick, but didn't say what came to mind. He'd get his one of these days or there was no god, which of course he knew already. "I'm not slinking off to the canteen as soon as I arrive at work. And there's no way anybody's going to see me with you lot of... whatever... wasters... deadbeats... things!"

So, that told them in no uncertain terms.

He took a step forward to sweep out of there with his dignity and integrity held high. But his left boot didn't move, and he lurched over, grabbing the locker for support. It too lurched, as if to join the fun. He hopped backwards, grabbed the locker with his other hand, and steadied it before it dumped all his carefully arranged belongings onto the oily floor.

"This is your bloody daftness, isn't it?" He glared at Nick. "You pratt!" He bent down and untied the unmoving boot. "I've a bloody good mind to report you to management for damaging company property."

The boys headed for the door and breakfast.

"Nails?" Gonk asked, throwing a quick look back in case Luigi was arming himself.

"Nah, epoxy. Nails are so... common," Nick said and licked his lips. "I think a full fry-up for breakfast this morning, don't you? God knows we've earned it." He stepped over the door frame and into the rain. "Another morning of graft and sweat. And are we appreciated?"

The door clanged shut before the boys could confirm that they were, indeed, not appreciated.

Nick stepped into the canteen and stamped the rain off his boots. Smiffy and Gonk bumped him forward as they came in.

"Stop posing, for Christ's sake," Smiffy said, "I need food."

Nick took a moment to check out the stick insect with inflated legs and nodded. "That you do, Smiffy me ol' son. Go put on the nosebag." He pointed at the food counter.

He looked around to see if there was anybody he knew, or anybody worth baiting, but it was quiet in the canteen, with just a few tables occupied by men and women in blue overalls, and three tables in use by men in suits. With the wide corridor of space between the two sets of tables speaking volumes about the century in which Buller's Manufacturing operated.

Nick and Gonk stepped up behind Smiffy, who was already receiving a pile of bacon, sausage, eggs and other greasy stuff from the young girl behind the counter. Zoe Tanner.

Gonk stared at her cleavage. But only a monk wouldn't. Zoe was twenty-two and in the best shape of her life. That being... well... huge, with a tiny waist and curves that the straining white overall did nothing to hide.

She pushed out her breasts and looked down to see what Gonk was looking at.

Nick and Smiffy exchanged a sad look, and Nick put a hand on Gonk's shoulder to steady him as Zoe flicked off a fleck of food and rubbed the greasy mark. Everything moved. Including the earth for Gonk, and Nick had to tighten his grip as the man's legs buckled.

Zoe frowned and stared at Gonk. "What's up wiv him?"

Nick looked him over slowly. "I think he's dead," he said with a shake of his head. "He's gone all stiff."

Zoe was going to say something, but she'd used up pretty much her whole vocabulary, so she handed Gonk a warm plate and began shovelling breakfast onto it.

Nick reached up and clicked Gonk's jaw closed, waking him up in the process. Job done.

"Missus still checking on you," Nick asked.

"Everywhere I bloody go," Smiffy said through clenched teeth. "She even rings me in the pub! How embarrassing is that?"

"Made one mistake there, boy," Nick said. "Well, two. You screwed around, and you got caught."

Zoe froze with a fried egg balanced on a spatula midway to Nick's plate and stared in horror at Smiffy. "You had sex!" Her eyes were wide and had the look of horror normally reserved for toilet paper in the swimming pool. "With another person!" The egg slid off the spatula and splattered onto the counter symbolically. "Oh, gross! Gross!"

She scooped up another egg, dropped it onto Nick's plate next to the bacon, the sausages, the beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, and fried bread. No lettuce.

"Are you still liking it, Zoe?" Nick asked, awaiting the arrival of the second egg. It was a big day, being a Wednesday, so he needed extra energy.

Gonk looked up sharply.

"It's a bit greasy, but I like serving the lads," Zoe said, without a hint that she knew what she was saying.

Gonk knew and returned to staring at her cleavage. Waste not; want not.

"I'm starting on the internal post next week," she said with a smile. "So I'll be out and about, and I can keep an eye on you lot." She looked around quickly and leaned forward across the counter.

Gonk leaned forward. Nick hooked a finger in his collar and pulled him back.

"It's got to be better than working with these old cows," she said in a whisper and looked around again. "They're always complaining about my clothes."

She pushed out her chest again to show off her... clothes.

"What's the matter with my clothes? that's what I want to know."

"No complaints here," Nick said, leaving the serving counter and joining Smiffy at a nearby table.

He put down his breakfast, turned, and went back to fetch Gonk.

Smiffy looked up as Gonk eased himself into the spare seat and adjusted it so he could see the girl of his... dreams.

"If you don't ask her out soon, there's going to be an accident."

"Have you seen her eyes?" Gonk said dreamily.

"Couldn't be missing them," Nick said, sitting at the table and pulling his energy food closer. "If she turned quick, they'd have your eye out."

Gonk stared at him blankly and tried to process what he'd said, but his thread was broken by the arrival of Buckshot, the second fitter's mate who belonged to Smiffy, body and soul.

Buckshot put his plate down on the table. It had a single, uncut fried egg sandwich. The other three stopped what they were doing instantly and began to back off from the table as he sat.

They watched the sandwich as a mouse would watch a cobra.

"You washed your hands, Buckshot?" Smiffy said suspiciously.

"What for?" Buckshot said, lifting the sandwich and opening his mouth wide for... the bite.

Smiffy flinched at the lack of washing and the anticipation of what was bound to come next. Buckshot bit into the egg sandwich, and a stream of bright yellow egg squirted onto his blue shirt. They sat transfixed as he opened his overalls, pulled up his shirt, and sucked off the yolk.

"You score again last night, Buckshot?" Nick asked, easing himself back to the table and his breakfast, now the danger was past.

"Yeah, course," Buckshot said, sucking the egg out of the sandwich.

"Another nurse, was it?" Smiffy asked, also returning to the table.

Gonk was transfixed still, a sausage-laden fork stalled halfway to his mouth as he watched Buckshot feed.

"Nurses," Buckshot corrected, opening the sandwich to gain access to the eggy goodness. He sucked up the last of the yolk and licked the bread. He looked up and took a moment to clean the yolk off his chin with his tongue. "They was a bit young, but great buns."

Nick leaned over and pushed Gonk's elbow to help the sausage on its way. "Do you even know what buns are, Buckshot?" he asked with a sigh.

"Yeah, course I do," Buckshot protested and wiped the egg splatter off his plate with a slice of grubby bread.

"Heads up," Smiffy said, nodding to his right. "Here comes Bertie Badger."

Badger—AKA Mr. Pringle, Foreman and Man-of-Great-Importance—strode up to the table, a clipboard under the arm of his spotless white overalls. "I thought I'd find you lot here," he said, pointing at the table in case there was any doubt where here was.

"Always said you should have been a defective," Nick said, munching a rasher of crispy bacon.

"It's a detective, moron."

"Good morning, Detective M—"

Smiffy rapped him on the shin with the steel toe of his Totector boot.

Badger squinted threateningly. "The day started forty minutes ago," he said, pointing at his watch. "Get to work."

Reluctantly, they got up, except Nick, who continued to work his way through his two-man breakfast.

"And that includes you!" Badger pointed at Nick.

Some people do like to point, even though it's a bit rude.

"Anything broke?" Nick said through a mouthful of mushrooms.

"No, there isn't anything bloody broke," Badger said, his face turning a bit pink. "But that's not the bloody point, is it?"

"Wouldn't want me to fall from a high place because I'm all weak and faint from the lack of food, would you?"

Badger was clearly imagining the prospect, but let the happy thought go and resorted to the universal hands-on-hips threatening stance.

Nick continued to eat his breakfast with maximum concentration that left no room for engaging with Badger.

Badger glared at the others. "I told you to go to work!"

They left, with Gonk throwing a last long look at Zoe, who returned the look with a passing glance. From which he took hope—which is just so sad, it could bring a tear. Or not.

Badger leaned on the table in his best intimidatory pose. Practiced. "I've a good mind to report you to Mr. Bradbury."

"Then," Nick said, mopping up his egg with a clean piece of bread, "I will have to put a book down my trousers."

With his breakfast finished, he slid back the chair, stood up, and stretched. "Well, Bertie," he said with a quick smile, "you might have time to hang around chatting, but I've got work to do." He wiped his hands on his overalls and headed for the door, while Badger tried to think of a quick riposte.

That's the trouble with quick ripostes; if you have to think about them, they're not quick and not a riposte.

"You were in here first!" he shouted at Nick's back.

By nine forty-five, the boys were hard at work in the brightly lit workshop. Smiffy and Gonk reading the newspaper, and Buckshot studying a man's mag, for tips—apparently.

Nick leaned on the bench and waited for the kettle to boil for a nice pot of tea, it being more than an hour since last he'd had a break, and watched Luigi sawing a piece of metal with long slow cuts that jammed on every other stroke.

There is wonder in watching a master at work.

Eventually the saw blade snagged and snapped, as it was always going to. Luigi spun the vice handle and lifted the piece of metal up to the light and then held it out in front of his eye as if checking an arrow for straightness. It seemed to meet his exacting level of perfection, as he grunted, dropped it into his toolbox, took a small dustpan and brush off its allocated hook, and swept the bench clean, dumping the metal filings into a stainless-steel bin. Satisfied all was as it should be, he took the toolbox and the freshly sawn metal thing out of the workshop to apply it to whatever potential death trap it was destined for.

Nick watched him go, poured the boiling water into the chipped teapot, snicked the lid into place, and strolled over to his locker. He opened it and took out a square of newspaper and a tube of paper glue.

Everyone else stopped what they weren't doing and watched him cross to Luigi's pristine workbench, open the carefully folded copy of the _Times_ newspaper and flick through to the puzzles page. He smoothed out the square of newspaper and laid it carefully onto the open page, picked up Luigi's nail scissors and clipped one edge, just because he could. Finally he turned the square over, applied the paper glue and carefully pasted it onto the page, then refolded the newspaper and put it back in its place, before strolling over to complete the tea ceremony.

Smiffy looked from him to Luigi's bench and back again. He wanted to ask, hell, they all wanted to ask, but no answer would be forthcoming; that he knew.

Any questions, fruitless as they would be, would have to wait because Buckshot glanced out of the window and stood up quickly. "Badger approaching from starboard."

Gonk and Smiffy put down their newspapers, stood up, and went to the benches to pretend to work, as real work would have been unnecessary exertion. Nick sat down on Luigi's green chair with his mug of tea, picked up Smiffy's newspaper, and turned to the sports section.

The personnel door banged open dramatically, and Badger stepped in, his white overalls now topped off with an equally white hard hat. He squinted at the boys working away at their benches, sawing, filing, screwing things into other things, and generally not doing much.

"You must think I'm stupid," he said.

Nick lowered the newspaper and opened his mouth to say it, but decided to drink his tea instead. Some lines are just too easy.

"Right," Badger said, clapping his hands together for effect. "Def Con 1, ladies and gentlemen."

"What's the matter, you lost your glasses up Bradbury's arse?" Nick asked.

"My therapist says I'm not to rise to your baiting," Badger said haughtily.

"Therapist?" Nick said. "You mean the barman at the bloody Gay Ferret."

"I don't have time to bandy words with you. The line is down, so it's all hands to the pumps."

"Please may I be excused?" Nick asked. "I'm working on an important job."

Badger eyed him suspiciously. "What job? Choosing your horses?"

"No, I'm making a wrought-iron gate for me mom," Nick said, pointing at the intricately woven and decorated gate leaning against the wall next to his bench.

Badger crossed to the gate and examined it carefully, turning it this way and that and nodding as he examined the little roses seamlessly welded onto the cross members. "Very nice," he said, leaned it back against the bench, and turned slowly. "You think you could make one of these for me?"

"Yeah, course," Nick said. "Fifty should cover it."

Badger looked back at the gate and nodded. "Okay." He nodded again, deal done. "But come on, Nick, help me out. The track is down, and Bradbury is doing his nut."

Nick folded his paper with a sigh, finished off his tea, and stood up stiffly. It had been a long day.

Badger was first out of the workshop and set off in a hurry. Mr. Bradbury was waiting. The others followed at a leisurely pace, Nick and Smiffy strolling ahead, and Gonk and Buckshot following with the toolbags.

Nick stopped at the packing plant entrance and tapped the thick plastic strips covering the wide doorway and watched them swing back and forth over each other. After a moment he looked to his left at the two engineers getting kitted out to inspect one of the furnaces used to fire ceramic aromatic oil vases. They were quietly and efficiently helping each other into the heat-resistant protective wear. He waited patiently until they'd put on their hoods and breathing equipment. The tall one he knew to be the miserable bugger Ted Ash, and the little one the asthmatic John err... Thing, and both to be lunchtime drinkers. So they were true professionals, until about one thirty, then a roaring liability.

"Now there's a shite job," Smiffy said.

"Wouldn't bother me," Buckshot said, puffing out his chest. "Tight spaces don't bother me. I could handle crawling through a furnace, no trouble."

"What the hell are you on about, Buckshot?" Gonk said with a long sigh.

"I've been taking lessons at college," Buckshot explained in response to the blank looks.

"What?" Nick said. "Radio tuning for beginners?"

"No," Buckshot said, his hurt feeling showing. "Escapology, if you must know."

They suppressed a laugh, for about two seconds.

"I heard they'd cancelled that course," Nick said, grinning still.

Buckshot was clearly trying to find a brain cell to understand what Nick meant. He failed and fell back on the age-old response of leaving his mouth open.

"The lecturer escaped," Nick explained.

They groaned in perfect unison.

Miserable Ted waved as if he actually gave a damn about them, turned, and pushed through the plastic curtain en route to the furnace. Thing stopped to make a few last minute adjustments to his air-tight suit.

Nick stepped up behind him and turned off his oxygen feed.

Thing's facemask sucked onto his face like a kid in a plastic bag, and he clutched at it desperately. The boys stood quietly and watched.

Somebody should do something.

Two labourers, known, among other names, as Wombat and Archduke, walked up to the doorway, stopped for a moment, and watched Thing sink to his knees, still clutching at his facemask.

"Somebody should do something," Wombat said.

"Is he dying?" Archduke asked.

"Nah," Wombat said. "He's still moving. Look."

Thing waved at them. They waved back.

"If he dies," Wombat said, "can I have his job?"

"Why?" Nick asked. "What are you going to do with it?" He leaned over the stricken man and turned his oxygen valve back on. "Close call there, Johnny-boy. You should be more careful."

Smiffy helped the poor, gasping engineer to his feet and brushed off his shoulders. A gallant act that would surely be rewarded in heaven.

"You asshole!" Thing screamed at him.

Smiffy stepped back, clutching his heart. No good deed remained unpunished. But before anyone could explain to the gasping man how the fickle finger of Fate would have touched him had it not been for Nick's timely intervention, Badger fought his way through the plastic strips after only a few moments of arm waving and swearing. Finally he cleared the plastic trap and was about to say what he was about to say, but saw Nick's white hard hat and stopped mid wave. He was going to say only foreman and managers were entitled to wear white hats, but what was the point?

"Mr. Bradbury is waiting," he announced, his gaze still fixed on the offensive hard hat as he fought his way back through the curtain.

Wombat took a long look around to make sure nobody was listening. The coast was clear. Except for Smiffy, Gonk, Buckshot, and the departing Thing.

So all clear, then.

"Hey, Nick," he said in a stage whisper. "The missus needs a microwave. Any chance?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I need it for the weekend 'cus I'm doing the bloody cookin' while she goes off to see her bloody mother."

"Yeah, okay. Thirty quid."

"What's it like?"

"Nip up to the canteen and take a look," Nick said.

"Right. It's like theirs, then, is it?"

"Not the brains of the family, eh, Wombat?" Smiffy asked.

Wombat looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded vigorously. "Oh, yeah. Right. Okay then. That'll do great."

Sure enough, the production line had stopped. The boys formed up around the offending section and looked at the overhead cable. It had snapped, and the big plastic drums carrying the goods from one packing station to the next were sitting on the packing benches across the factory.

"Line's broken," Nick said, pointing at the broken line.

"Where?" Smiffy asked.

"There," Nick said, upgrading the pointing to a wave. "Where that gap in the line is."

Nick smiled at a group of eight women in garish flowery overalls. They were leaning against one of the plastic drums marked 'Marital aids – Party Pack' and having an animated conversation.

"Morning, Nick," said one of the women.

"Morning, Doris. How's the dog? Still drooping? And the old man?"

"Yeah. Should have the poor old sod put down, but I don't have the heart for it."

"And the dog?" Nick asked without missing a beat.

"Barney's fine ta, Nick," she answered with a big grin.

Smiffy nudged Nick, and they looked down the track at the old man approaching at what he supposed was a speedy pace. He was dressed in beige chinos and a blue blazer with a Royal Navy pocket patch, and looked just like a movie caricature of a batty navy captain. That being pretty much what he was, with emphasis on the batty.

"Poor Captain Nemo looks like he's wound up tight as a drum," Nick whispered.

"How can you tell?" Smiffy asked. "Looks as loopy as ever to me."

"No captain's cap."

"Ah, right."

Captain Nemo spotted them, eventually, and marched up the line. "Ah, lads. Bit of a hold up was there? Never mind. Here now. Good show. Soon have the line back up and squared away, then... right?"

"Aye, Cap'n," Nick said.

"Good show."

Nick took a long look at his watch. "Getting on for tea break, though."

"Tea break!" Badger said. "You've got five minutes to get this lot rolling, or—"

"'Elf and safety, Bertie. 'Elf and safety."

"What the hell has health and safety got to do with getting the line moving?"

"Well," Nick said, "you have to take regular toilet and tea breaks for 'elf and... err... safety."

Elegantly put.

"No problem, I hope, Nick?" Mr. Bradbury said. "Have to get the old line going again, you know. Productivity and all that." He looked around as if seeing the place for the first time. "I was thinking of sending the girls for their lunch break."

Nick looked at his watch again. "It's only ten o'clock, Cap'n."

"Oh, I'm sure they won't mind going early." He took a long look at the group of flowery overalled women still in earnest discussion. "Lovely girls. All of them. Salt of the earth. What?"

"Probably, but I wouldn't let them hear you call them that," Nick said, quietly. He saw his puzzled look. "Don't want to embarrass them, do we, Cap'n?"

"No. Good heavens, no."

"Tell you what, Cap'n. Leave it with us a sec, and we'll see what we can do." Nick looked over at the women. "Before you put the girls on hospital meal times."

"Yes, leave it with us, Mr. Bradbury. We'll have it fixed in a jiff," Badger said.

The boys gave him a long hard look, and the 'we' hung in the air like a unfortunate smell.

"Very well, Nick," Mr. Bradbury said. "I know that if we all pull together, it will be shipshape in no time."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n. Shipshape," Nick said, saluting.

"Carry on," Mr. Bradbury said as he turned smartly and headed for his office to pull together. "Report to me as soon as it's running, Bertie."

"Yes, Mr. Bradbury. I will report the moment my team has it working."

Gonk made a slurping sound as Mr. Bradbury walked away. "There you go, Badger. You should be able to hear better now."

Badger looked puzzled. "What do you mean? I can hear perfectly well."

"Come on," Nick said. "You must be able to hear clearer now your head's out of his arse."

"Very humorous. Now, if we can get on with the job at hand."

"Put the signs out, lads," Nick said.

Gonk and Buckshot crossed to the track, pulled two collapsible signs from under the benches, and put one on each side of the track. The signs read 'Caution – men at work'.

Nick and Smiffy walked up to take a closer look at the snapped cable hanging down like a... snapped cable.

"Well?" Badger asked.

"It's broken," Nick said, nodding.

Badger stared at him for a moment, shaking his head. "Well, full marks for observation. What are you going to do about it?"

Before Nick could tell him they were going for tea, two of the women stepped up to the signs and stood with hands on hips.

"Seen the sign?" said Marj, the older and, let's be honest here, the fat one.

"Yeah," said Betty, the thin one, just to balance things out some would say. "Men at work," she read out loud.

"Yeah, that'll be the day."

They chuckled a coven chuckle at the boys' pained expressions and waved another of the women over.

"Come and see this, Mary," Marj called.

Mary joined them and examined the sign, then looked at the boys doing nothing. "So what are the men at work doing?"

"Men things," Betty said.

"That'll be bugger-all, then," Marj said.

Nick smiled his best smile at the women. "Come to watch men toiling and sweating?"

"Yeah," Marj said. "When do they arrive?"

"When you've quite finished gossiping," Badger said and ignored the 'ooh, scary!' looks from the women. "If it's not too much bloody trouble—"

"Language, Mr. Pringle!" Marj snapped. "Ladies present."

"Sorry, ladies," Badger said and turned to Nick. "Now, if it's not too much... trouble, can you tell me what you're going to do about getting the line up and running before I get old and grey."

Nobody took the bait. They didn't need to; the silence said it all far more eloquently.

"We could fix it," Smiffy suggested with a doubting look at Nick.

"Oh, really!" Badger said, all surprised. "What a great idea! Can you tell me how you are going to do that, perchance?"

Smiffy shrugged. "Dunno. Don't do fixing tracks."

"What?" Badger shouted. "You're a bloody maintenance fitter! What do you mean you don't fix tracks?"

"It's heavy liftin', you see," Smiffy said, arching his back.

"Of course it's bloody heavy lifting! What are you talking about? Since when did you stop lifting things?"

"Since I hurt me back," Smiffy said, rubbing his back.

"When? I haven't seen any accident report on that. When did you suffer that... injury?"

"In a minute," Smiffy said, "as soon as I start pullin' stuff about."

Badger groaned. "I think I'm going to hang myself."

"Can I watch?" Buckshot said, attempting humour.

"Oh, isn't he lovely," Marj said, taking a step forward. "Couldn't you just bite him?"

Buckshot's face paled, and he backed up until the metal track prevented any escape.

"Buckshot's going to night school," Gonk said.

"Education is a great thing, Brian. What are you studying?" Badger said. "Engineering? Mechanics?"

"Escapology," Buckshot said.

"Wouldn't need to escape from me, lover boy," Marj said, opening her trunk-arms and waving him towards her bosom. Everything was moving at once, but some things are better left undescribed.

Buckshot edged away from the track and fell over his toolbox.

"What did he say he was studying?" Badger said, ignoring the fact the boy was sprawled on his ass.

"Escapology," Nick said. "You know? The secret world of escaping from... things."

Badger looked down at Buckshot and shook his head slowly.

"Are you any good?" Smiffy asked, without any real interest in whether he was or not, but it put off lifting things.

"I'm a natural," Buckshot said, getting to his feet without taking his eyes off Marj. "It's like I can slip my hands out of any chains or handcuffs."

"Yeah, and we all know why they're so slimy, don't we?" Nick said.

Gonk leaned forward and examined Buckshot's hands. At a distance. "Are they hairy?"

Buckshot put his hands in his pockets and sulked.

"I didn't realize they did courses in that," Badger said, then jumped as his brain caught up. "What the hell? Get the bloody track fixed. Now! Or you'll all be escaping... to the job centre."

Mrs. T. and Jessie arrived with the tea trolley, probably with fresh tea, but there was no certainty. The women got up and joined Marj and Betty at the trolley.

"Don't suppose there's any point trying to talk to Jessie?" Marj asked.

"Oh, it's okay," Mrs. T said. "She's had her hearing aid fixed."

"Oh, good," Marj said, turning to Jessie. "You've had your hearing fixed, then, Jessie?"

"What?" Jessie said, pouring tea from a huge stainless-steel teapot. "Oh, yes. Me sister came over and permed it for me."

The women exchange knowing looks.

Marj changed the subject. "And is your Terry better now, Mrs. T?" she asked, taking the cup of tea from Jessie.

"Yes, thanks. He's got a new freezer. He brought the baby round to see me at the weekend."

"That's good, then," Marj said, sipping the tea and pulling a face—worse than the one God had given her.

"Oh, he's got a growth on his face," Mrs. T said, handing out more tea. "He's got to go to hospital for an autopsy next Thursday."

"Does he know?" Nick asked, stepping up and taking one of the offered mugs.

"Oh yes, dear," Mrs. T said. "He's looking forward to it. He likes the attention, you see."

Nick gave up on that thread before it led to insanity and a tight-fitting jacket with long sleeves, and looked up at the broken cable. Badger came and stood beside him, and together they considered the problem in silence.

Finally, Badger could bear it no longer. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking."

Badger closed his eyes to seek divine guidance. "What the hell is there to think about? Just pull the bloody cable back over the sprocket things and tie it back together!"

No divine guidance, then.

Nick turned his head slowly and gave the man a slow, pitying look.

"Christ!" Badger said. "A bloody kid could do it."

Nick wandered off.

"Where the hell are you going!"

"To get a kid," Nick said, without looking back.

Betty chuckled loudly, like a tart in a gin palace. "I've got a couple of the buggers you can have. For nothing," she called.

Badger half-walked, half-ran after Nick, stepped quickly in front of him, and stopped. Nick stopped too, though it was a reflex action. Soon regretted.

"It was a figure of speech," Badger said. "Do you know what a figure of speech is?"

Nick's brow creased as he thought about it. "An eight?"

"God, give me strength," Badger pleaded.

"That would work," Nick said. "Then you could pull the bloody line back over the... sprocket things."

"Yeah," Smiffy said. "Because if a kid could fix it, you should bollix it up good and proper."

"If you want something bollixing up," Betty said, "then you really do need my twins. I'll ask their probation officer if they can come over."

Badger was fed up. He was way past fed up. He was... incandescent. That's a word he'd read and liked to use if the occasion permitted. And this occasion begged for it. Incandescent.

"All right, okay," he spluttered—I'll bloody show you prima donnas. I was doing this sort of work while you were having your arses wiped by your mommies."

Smiffy dried an imaginary tear. "Y'know, I never had a mommy."

Buckshot raised a finger as a thought hit him. "I once went out with a waitress who looked like a mummy."

"What?" Smiffy said, "all covered in bandages and stuff?"

"Yeah," Buckshot said. "She got her arms scalded in the chip shop."

"Nicking the fish out of the fryer?" Smiffy asked, almost interested.

"Nah," Buckshot said, "she just worked there."

"I like fish 'n chips," Gonk chimed in. "Y'know, the big fat 'uns."

"Like his waitress, then?" Nick said, stepping up onto a bench support and reaching into one of the drums to pull out a folded plastic square, which he shook out to reveal an inflatable girlfriend.

"Amazing that blokes want to buy those things when there are plenty of real women about," Marj said with an eye-watering shrug.

Smiffy took a long look round, as if searching for something.

Marj gave him a look that could have cut glass.

He quickly changed the subject and mimicked the doll's staring eyes and open mouth. "Remind you of anybody, Buckshot?"

Buckshot looked confused. No change there, then.

"One of your girlfriends?"

"Yeah, that'll be your mother!"

Now that wasn't nice.

"Put that away," Marj said sharply. "Here comes Jas." She lowered her voice. "And you know how Asians are about such things."

No, nobody knew how Asians were about such things, and they awaited enlightenment. It didn't arrive before Jas, a stunning nineteen-year-old student, in that dump for work experience. Poor kid.

"Morning, everyone," she said with a smile that would have thawed Alaska.

"What's good about it?" Badger mumbled and looked miserable.

"What's happening?" she asked.

"Nothing," Badger said, still miserable. "Not a bloody thing, that's what."

"Now I've told you once about your bad language, Mr. Pringle," Marj said sternly. "Don't let me have to tell you again."

Badger took a step back as he felt the slap of his mother's hand on his head. He wanted to say something. Maybe that he was the boss, but all he could manage was to look at his shoes. "Sorry," he mumbled, and he secretly wished for Figaro his stuffed rabbit, but it was long gone into the trash. Pity, sometimes a man needs a stuffed rabbit.

He was saved from the pain of lost loved ones by the arrival of an electrician and his apprentice. Tone and his boy, Sparklet, both wore red hard hats to denote their chosen profession. Tone had his hands stuffed into his pockets, while Sparklet strained under the weight of a large toolbox in one hand, a holdall with cable hanging out of it in the other, and a test meter slung around his neck on a strap. Such is the lot of the apprentice in any industry.

Hot on their heels came Luigi, finally arriving at the action from his previous task of fitting a new metal leg to Badger's desk. A vital task well done. He was carrying a ladder, which he swung round as he arrived and almost beheaded Marj and Betty. He got 'the look'—in stereo.

"I've brought the ladder, Mr. Pringle," he said, slightly breathlessly, and leaned the ladder against the overhead line stanchion.

"Ah," Nick said, snapping his fingers. "Is that what that is? You know, I've seen them lying around...well, leaning around, but could never work out what they did."

"They forgot to bring it, Mr. Pringle," Luigi said, ignoring Nick, as usual. "So I thought I'd better get it over here as quick as possible."

"Have you fixed my desk?" Bertie asked, squinting suspiciously.

"Yes, Mr. Pringle."

Gonk put his finger down his throat. The boys nodded agreement.

"Time for tea, Luigi?" Nick said with a smile.

"No, I don't have time for damned tea," Luigi said. "How many times have I got to tell you. I don't drink tea when there's work to do."

Smiffy swooned and had to grab the bench for support. "Oh my! We are in the presence of a martyr."

"That'll be a toe-martyr," Nick said, shaking his head and stepping up to the tea trolley next to the women. "I'll have another tea, please, Mrs. T." He smiled. "That rhymes."

And it did, almost.

"Have they sorted out your wages, Mrs. T?" Nick asked, taking the mug of tea.

"I think it's a disgrace," Jessie said. "It's been nearly a month, and they still haven't paid her for that week she was sick."

"Wasn't she in Brighton?" Nick said.

"Well, yes, but she was still sick." Marj sighed heavily. "They don't care, you know. They should spend a week on the line with us workers."

The group of women nodded emphatically and sat on the boxes to have their tea and cakes.

"That Val in wages says I'm going to have my money paid into my bank by somebody called Direct Debbie," Mrs. T said.

"That'll be easier for you, then," Marj said.

"I suppose so," Mrs. T said, puzzled. "How will they do it, though?"

"Easy," Nick said, "they just move the money from their bank to yours. You don't even see it."

"How will I get me money, then?" Mrs. T said.

"Easy," Marj said. "You just put your card in the cash machine, and the money comes out."

Mrs. T looked even more worried. "That'll make a terrible mess of the lounge. And I've just had it papered."

"No, Mrs. T," Marj said, "the machine's at the bank."

"Oh, that'll be better," Mrs. T said, but she was clearly still confused. "How will I know which bank they put me money in?"

"It goes into your bank account, dear," Marj said.

"Oh," Mrs. T said.

They waited for the inevitable.

"I don't have bank account."

The group brain was still trying to unravel the thread as Mrs. T and Jessie trundled the tea trolley away at a snail's pace.

Marj was the first to recover and nudged Betty. "The little one's cute." She pointed at Sparklet. "Bet you'd like to take him home, eh?"

Sparklet moved closer to Tone, as if that would save him.

Betty shook her head. "Nah, the twins would kill him."

Marj nodded knowingly. "Yeah, see what you mean." She smiled at Sparklet, who was now standing behind Tone and looking round his shoulder. "How are the little angels?"

Betty shrugged. "I'm finally getting shut of them. I'm sick to death of their drinking and fighting, I can tell you. Rolling home in the early hours drunk as skunks and sleeping it off until lunchtime."

"Where they going, then?" Marj asked.

"College, would you believe it? They'll take anybody." Betty sucked a long, noisy breath through her nose. "Still, they can do what they like there. Drink themselves to death for all I care, and shag whoever they like... pardon my French."

Nick stepped away from the track and around the ladder. "I've got it wrong, I think, Betty," he said with a frown. "Your twins, what are they?"

"Besides being a bloody pain in the arse?" Betty said. "Girls, of course."

Nick nodded. "Thought so."

Tone leaned over the track and tapped the line, sending it swinging back and forth. "So what's the matter with the line, Nick?" he said, pretending to be interested. Badly. "Electrical problem, is it?"

"Could be," Nick said, returning to stand beside him. "But I've got a theory."

"And about bloody time," Badger said and looked away quickly from Marj's hard look.

Buckshot and Gonk made a big show of moving closer. The better to hear the sage's words of wisdom. Sparklet joined them. Quickly. Predators always go for the stragglers. He'd seen it on _Nature Watch_.

"Okay," Badger said. "I know I'm going to regret this. But what's your great theory, Mr. Know-it-all?"

Nick examined the broken steel cable carefully and nodded. "Mice."

"Mice!" Badger said. "Mice? What the bloody hell are you talking about!"

"Saw a show about that once," Smiffy said, still watching the line swinging back and forth.

"What?" Gonk asked. "About mice?"

"Nah, a God thing."

"Like a sort of racing nuns sports day thing?" Gonk said.

"Nah," Smiffy said, looking distant. "Some bird with big tits and a plastic skirt."

"What was it about?" Nick said, intrigued as only total boredom can do for a man.

"Dunno."

Badger's shoulders drooped, and the life drained out of his face. It was a madhouse. Truly, a madhouse. His father told him he would come to this. And he'd been right. He'd also told him he was a total no-hoper who'd be dead before he was thirty, but best not to rehash that.

Gonk looked at Jas and tried not to look at her breasts. He knew from the internet that Asian women don't like you staring at their breasts. Apparently, it's a cultural thing. "So Jas," he said, pulling his stare from her body, her small, perfectly formed... he caught himself before embarrassment straddled him like a pole dancer. "How're you liking your work experience, then?" he said quickly.

"It's all right," she said with a shrug. "There are lots of people to talk to." She was clearly considering it. "But some of them are a bit...weird." She was looking straight at Gonk.

So, that was unanimous, then.

"Jas's is getting married," Marj declared with a big smile. Marriage is always reason to smile. For a few months anyway.

Gonk looked crestfallen. Which manifested itself as a slow blink and a sulk. "Oh," he said, looking at her breasts again. And why not? She was unavailable now anyway. "Didn't know, Jas." That was like an apology, but for what was anybody's guess. "Is it one of those arranged things?"

"Yes, it's traditional," Jas explained, shifting uncomfortably and trying to hide her body from the creepy person.

"Doesn't seem right to me," he said, "sort of primitive, y'know? Forcing you to marry somebody against your will. You should run away."

Sound advice.

"How is Satnam?" Nick asked.

"He's fine, thank you, Nick."

"How long have you known him now?" he asked, looking straight at Gonk.

"Oh, about ten years," Jas said. "Since I was a girl. We were best friends."

"And is he still herding buffalo?" Nick asked, still looking at Gonk, who was trying to edge out of sight behind the three-foot-high bins.

"In a way," Jas said, smiling. "He's just bought his third restaurant, with another on the way."

Gonk's jaw hung open as he considered the primitive life the poor girl was going to have to endure.

Marj waved the other women up from the various boxes they'd chosen to watch the men at work. "This looks like it's going to take a while. We're going to the canteen. Come and get us when it's fixed."

"If it is ever bloody—" Badger froze under another withering look from Marj. He waited while the women filed past. He nodded and smiled and willed them on their way.

"So, Nick," he said when the threat was past. "This bloody stupid theory of yours is that mice climbed up onto the track and, what? Bit through the moving steel cable?"

Luigi stepped up beside Badger, so close they could have been glued together. "Yes, Mr. Pringle, bloody stupid, isn't it?"

Nick raised his eyebrows. "Could be mice. They bit a hole in my shed and chewed the tyres off my mower. A cable like this—" He pointed at the inch-thick steel cable. "Give them no trouble."

"What?" Tone said. "The ride-on?"

Nick nodded. Badger frowned. Luigi mirrored Badger.

"Shit," Tone said, "I always wanted one of those."

"Yeah?" Nick said. "I can get you one if you want."

"Can ya?"

"Yeah," Nick said. "Friend of mine works for the local council as a gardener."

"Cool," Tone said. "Make it so."

"Fix the line!" Badger screamed. "Fix the line! Fix the bloody line!"

Nick and the boys blinked at him for several seconds, then Nick went to work, leaning over and grabbing the still-swinging cable.

Sparklet leaned around him and examined the damage. "That's broke, that is," he said with authority.

Nick and Tone exchange knowing looks.

"He's good," Nick said, patting the boy on the shoulder. You have to encourage the young. "See that, Smiffy?"

"Yeah," Smiffy said. "We've been here, what? Ten minutes?"

Everyone nodded confirmation of the elapsed time. Except Badger, who had withdrawn into a world where sane people were the norm.

"And," Smiffy continued, "young Sparklet here gets to the root of the problem in no time flat." He, too, patted the boy's shoulder. Encouraging the young really is a good thing. "I bet you're very proud, Tone."

"I am that," Tone said, patting the boy's other shoulder, now that Nick and Smiffy had completed that required encouragement. "And he's my nephew." He shrugged. "Somebody's got to be the apprentice."

And he was entirely correct. Everyone deserves an even chance, a fair crack of the whip, a leg up. And if that someone happens to be a family member? Well, that's probably just a coincidence.

Nick looked the boy over slowly. "Yeah, I see the family resemblance. He looks like your Vera."

"Think so?" Tone said, also looking the boy over, as if he hadn't seen him grow from an acorn to a sapling. "I think he's a bit thin."

Badger started to mumble, then froth a little at the mouth. Grunting, he picked up a metal bar and began beating the track with it.

The boys stepped back and watched him with mild interest.

"Fix it!" Badger screamed, froth flying from his lips. "Fix it, you shits! Bradbury will have my balls! And it'll be your fault." He stared at them with wild eyes. "I'll tell him it was you." He pointed the bent metal bar at Nick. "And he'll kill you."

Nick shook his head. "Not likely. Buckshot here is a black belt." He turned to Buckshot. "That's right, Buckshot?"

Buckshot pushed out his chest. "That's right. Black belt. Got awarded it from an online course."

"I've got a brown belt," Tone said.

"That right?" Smiffy said. "What in?"

Tone frowned. "In me suit trousers."

Badger dropped the metal bar, sat down against the track, and began to sob quietly.

The boys gathered round supportively.

"What's the matter with him?" Tone asked.

"Hormonal, I think," Nick said.

Tone looked up at the hanging cable. "Can you fix that?"

Nick looked up. "Yeah," he said with a nod. "We'll have to take the bins off, reroute the cable, and clamp it back on."

Tone nodded. "Sounds like a big job."

"Yeah," Nick said. "But soonest started." He turned to Gonk. "Go get a forklift.

"Looks like a bit of a heavy job," Tone said, still looking up at the line. "You want to borrow Sparklet?"

Nick looked the boy over again and was about to turn down the offer.

"He's stronger than he looks," Tone said. "Ain't you, Sparklet?"

Sparklet puffed out his chest. There was barely any change.

Nick watched the boy's face go through darkening shades of red as he held his breath. "Okay, ta. He'll be great," he said, before the boy swooned from lack of oxygen.

Badger was also red, but getting it back under control. "Thank God." He sighed. "How long will it take?"

"Couple of hours or so," Nick said. "What do you think, Smiffy?"

"Yeah, couple of hours. Three tops."

"Three hours!" Badger was teetering on the edge again. "Come on, boys, let's pull our fingers out."

"I'd help," Smiffy said, "but I've got a bad back."

"You said it wasn't injured," Badger said, shaking his head to clear the misfire.

"It wasn't, but all this standing around has done it in."

Before Badger could think of a suitable response, Gonk returned, standing on the back of a forklift and directing the driver, like Clint Eastwood on a tank.

Badger looked at the forklift and then the bins hanging from the cable and perked up. "Hang on, lads, I've got a great idea!"

The boys waited. When people say that, it usually signals a serious cock-up approaching.

Badger stepped up to the track and pointed at the forklift. "Why don't we just tie a rope to the cable," he said excitedly, warming to his plan. "Then attach it to the forklift and pull it up." He pointed up at the overhead line, in case they didn't follow him. "Then all we do is fix the cable to the track. Job's done."

There's never a 'genius at work' sign when you need one.

"Yes, Mr. Pringle," Luigi said, smiling broadly. "That is a great idea."

Nick gave him a long, pitying look. "These drums are all fastened together," he said, pointing at the row of plastic product drums hanging down from the broken cable. "And you want to pull all this dead weight up three metres with the forklift and a towrope?"

"Yes," Badger said, still excited at his plan. "Why not? Much better than your idea of uncoupling all the bins. The track will be back up running before Mr. Bradbury comes back."

Luigi grinned a slightly manic grin. "Yes, Mr. Pringle, we'll get right to it. A brilliant plan."

It was a stupid plan.

"Won't work," Smiffy said.

"Hold up, Smiffy," Nick said, putting his hand on Smiffy's arm. "Bertie says it will work."

"True," Tone said, nodding. "Badger's the foreman, right? So he knows his stuff. You don't get promoted to foreman unless you know your stuff. Right?"

"Exactly," Luigi said, looking at Badger for support. "And it's about time you lot recognized his authority."

"Thank you, Luigi," Badger said, standing a little straighter to emphasise his authority. "It will work just fine. Trust me."

"Off you go, then," Nick said and strolled nonchalantly away from the track.

The boys watched him go for a moment, wondering why he'd given up. He picked up a tubular chair, stepped into a loading bay, and sat down behind a low wall. They got the picture and scooped up the tubular chairs from the women's rest area as they headed for Nick's fallout shelter.

Badger and Luigi didn't notice the boys drift off to join Nick, being too busy setting up for the big engineering feat.

Tone was the last to sit and stared questioningly at Sparklet, who suddenly jumped, got up quickly, and went to fetch the tools, passing Buckshot heading for the door marked 'Gents'. Smiffy watched him go and grimaced.

"What's the problem?" Tone asked and nodded at Buckshot.

"Now I'll have to walk all around the yard to go for a piss," Smiffy said with a long sigh.

Tone shook his head. "I don't get it."

"You know why they call him Buckshot, don't you?" Smiffy asked.

"I always thought it was because of all the women he has." He shrugged. "Y'know, shooting here and there."

"You believe that," Nick said, "you'll believe politicians want to make your life better."

"His conquests feature battery-operated aids and jars of warm liver," Gonk explained.

Tone frowned. "So why call him Buckshot?"

Gonk made a fist and jerked it back and forth, then pointed at the toilet door.

The penny clinked home. "Oh God! You mean..." He snapped a look at the toilet door.

Nick nodded and grinned. "Yup."

"Remind me not to use that bog," Tone said.

"Too late," Gonk said. "He's christened every trap in the place."

"Oh, bloody hell!" Tone said. "That's disgusting."

The sound of the forklift backing up shifted the focus and they stood up to peer over the green-painted brick wall designed to prevent delivery trucks mowing down the workforce, and doubling up as a first line of defence against Badger's insanity.

Luigi and Badger had tied a towrope to the back of the forklift truck and fed it up and over the cable pulley and down to the first drum full of marital aids funware. There they tied it in a big knot to the end of the broken steel cable.

Badger waved at the forklift driver, but he just sat in his little seat and stared at him in disbelief. Badger waved both hands. Okay, orders from the boss. The forklift crept forward, and the towrope tightened.

The boys crouched down a little, instinctively.

The bins started to move, one after the other as the rope began to ease them off the packing benches.

Luigi took a long step away.

Badger waved the forklift driver on to greater efforts.

The forklift moved, and the rope stretched and shuddered, now taut enough to be vibrating at a top C-sharp.

The boys ducked even lower. It was like watching a road crash unfolding.

Luigi took two steps away.

"Come on!" Badger shouted, excited to the point of crazed now that the plan was working.

The forklift moved an inch more.

Luigi ran away.

The boys ducked out of sight.

The forklift driver dived off the forklift.

Badger started screaming for more lift.

The rope snapped with a sound like a gunshot, whipped around, and cracked Badger on the back of his hardhat with enough force to flip him through a complete somersault.

Beautiful.

Nick led the boys back from the safety of the wall now the danger was past and glanced down at Badger sitting with little blue birds circling his head.

"That didn't work, then," Nick said helpfully.

"True," Smiffy said, looking down at his fallen comrade. "Was always a bit of a long shot."

"Somebody call first aid!" Luigi shouted, returning from whence he'd scurried.

"Why?" Nick said.

Luigi pointed at Badger. "For Mr. Pringle, of course."

"Where'd he get hit?" Nick asked.

"Ah, right," Smiffy said, nodding.

"What?" Luigi said.

"On the head," Smiffy said with a knowing shrug.

Buckshot returned from his mission to the men's room. Tone and Sparklet give him a long look and stepped well away from him.

He looked down at the fallen Badger. "Did I miss something?"

"Not much," Nick said, looking at Buckshot suspiciously. "Did you wash your hands?"

Three forty and another day in the trenches was about to come to a successful close. Production was back up to thirty percent, Cap'n Nemo was in the boardroom with a well-deserved gin and tonic, and Badger was in the foreman's office nursing a splitting headache. Yes, a successful day.

Nick put down his mug of tea and watched Luigi working on the _Times_ crossword with little murmurs of, "Ah," as he filled in another answer.

He didn't look up as Nick strolled across the workshop and looked over his shoulder. "How's it going, Luigi?"

"It's going well," Luigi said without looking up. "As it usually does. This takes brains. So you wouldn't understand."

"So, no harder than any other day, then?" Nick said and leaned over the paper. "Done quite a few, I see."

"Yes. It's practice and brains. Something some of us are missing."

Nick strolled off. "How rude."

The personnel door screeched open, and Mrs. T stepped over the raised door frame. "Any more tea, boys, before we knock off?"

"No, thanks, Mrs. T," Nick said with a smile. "You get off and rest your feet."

"Okay, we'll be off, then. Jessie needs to get home early today."

"Oh, why's that, then?"

Jessie stepped into the workshop and smiled her warm, vacant smile. "The builders are coming in."

Nick raised his eyebrows. "That right? What you having done?"

"I need the floors flattened," Jessie said. "I'm having a conservative."

Nobody said anything; there was nothing to be said. They watched the tea ladies leave for a night best left unimagined.

Nick pointed down at the piece of chain Buckshot was rolling up into a loop. "What's that for?"

Gonk lifted the end of the long, thin chain and draped it over Buckshot's shoulders. "Good for his escaping."

Smiffy put down his newspaper and strolled over. "You really doing that escapology stuff, then, Buckshot?"

"Yeah, told you I was."

"Any good?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, I'm the best in the class," Buckshot said, as if that was a measure of expertise.

"How many in the class, then?" Nick asked.

Buckshot looked a little shifty. "Varies."

"How many signed up for it?"

"Dunno, I was late."

"Had to go to the bog, did you?" Smiffy said and screwed up his face in mock disgust.

"I was with a woman, if you must know."

"That'll be shopping with your mom, then," Nick said.

"No!" Buckshot said, annoyed. "It was one of my nurses. I was shagging her brains out. Agen."

"Met her sister on the track earlier," Nick said innocently.

Buckshot's brow creased. "How could you? You don't even know her."

Nick reached into his overalls and pulled out the inflatable girlfriend from the line, turned it round, and blew into a valve on its neck. Just enough to inflate it to a firmness of a wrinkled prune.

"Ah," Buckshot said, his face betraying him with traitorous pink. "Very funny."

"These nurses," Smiffy said. "They related by any chance?"

Buckshot saw a way out of the spotlight and took it. "Yeah, they are. Twins. Blondes. Gymnasts."

Okay, enough already.

"And contortionists."

Outclassed, the boys gave up baiting him.

"Show us some of this escaping, then," Nick said.

"Okay," Buckshot said, shaking out the chain. "But I'll need an assistant."

Gonk bowed. "No sequins, though." He took the chain and wound it tightly around Buckshot's arms and legs.

Nick strolled over to Luigi's locker, unhooked the padlock, and handed it to Gonk.

"Hey, that's mine!" Luigi said.

"No worries, you'll get it back in a minute. Right, Buckshot?"

"I'll need complete silence," Buckshot said theatrically.

Gonk snapped the padlock through the chains, stood up, and joined Nick at the lockers where he was taking off his overalls and boots.

"Okay, Buckshot," Nick said, tossing his overalls onto the locker floor. "Do your stuff."

Buckshot rolled about on the floor, grunting and rattling the chains.

"You going to the Crown for a beer, Smiffy?" Nick said.

"Does the pope shit in the woods?" Smiffy said, stripping off his overalls in record time.

Gonk grinned. "Me too. But only the one. Or two, unless somebody insists on another."

Luigi folded his newspaper dramatically and walked to the door, his relief at getting away marred by the thought of where he was getting away to.

"You coming, Luigi," Smiffy asked redundantly.

"I have better things to do with my life than go to the pub at this time of day."

"Oooh!" Smiffy said. "Beg your pardon, Father Benedict." He glanced at Nick, also heading for the door. "You coming, Nick?"

"Yeah. I'll meet you there." He winked at Smiffy. "Gotta pick up a microwave for Wombat." He sighed. "Life was so much easier when we had a night shift."

"Oh, happy days," Smiffy said, looking up to heaven.

"If I remember," Luigi said, pausing at the door. "You lot were pissed all day and sleeping it off all night."

"Exactly," Nick said. "Hence the happy days. Or nights." He stopped, returned to Buckshot, and tapped him with the toe of his shoe. "How's it going, Buckshot?"

Buckshot grunted and rolled around some more.

"Do you think we're distracting him?" Smiffy asked with a concerned frown.

"Yeah," Nick said, returning to the door. "I think so. He did say he needed complete silence."

He stepped out of the door, leaned over, and switched off the lights.

_____________

# ANARCHY

###

### EPISODE 3

###

## HOTEL CALIFORNIA

##

## Warm Reception

The Pentwynd Hotel in London's Mayfair was the place to be seen, if you couldn't afford to be seen in Claridge's. The plush, swirly-patterned carpet had seen better days, but the worn bits were now hidden beneath big round rugs, which clashed horribly, but few of the guests had the taste to notice. So, yet another top-class five-star hotel being all frock and no knickers.

Rob Thorn, the concierge, picked a thread off his yellow tartan waistcoat and twirled it idly around his index finger. He would be thirty-five on Thursday, a milestone. Finally officially old. It was just so depressing. Thank god for his ginger hair; everybody knows ginger doesn't go grey. Does it? He still felt old. Thirty-five. He'd hoped he'd be dead by that age; saving children from a burning building perhaps, or killed in action in a far-off land, fighting for world peace and the right to drink beer. But such dreams are for children, not for older men. Men in their mid-thirties. Pretty soon his knees would start to creak. And you know what happens next...?

What happened next would have to wait, as Stew and Cora walked up to the desk, smiling. They were always smiling. He wondered if it was wind. Stew wore an orange-and-blue checked sports jacket that made Rob's gaudy tartan waistcoat look dull. And Cora? Darling, didn't you notice the full-length mirror in your room? He switched on his smile.

"Morning, folks. How are you today?" Check out the friendly concierge. "It's Stew and Cora, isn't it?"

Cora beamed at him, and he prayed he wouldn't be turned to stone. She weighed about two-fifty pounds and had applied her makeup with a trowel, probably to hide the wrinkles and... things. "We're good. Thank you for asking."

It's my job, otherwise I would have run away screaming. "Always a pleasure to see you both." No seat in heaven waiting for Rob, then.

"We're looking for someplace to go today," Stew said, also smiling.

Stew was a little slimmer than his lovely wife, but the jacket blurred his edges, so it was hard to tell. Sweaty, but he would be, carrying that amount of fat around for no good reason. And he was probably balding, because he'd slapped some sort of dead animal on his head. It had slipped, but Rob didn't look. Always the consummate professional. Anyway, he loved ferrets, and it was tragic to see how one had ended its days.

"Well," Rob said, "you're in London, the playground of the young and crazy." He raised an eyebrow. "So you two will fit right in anywhere you go."

Cora put her hand over her mouth and giggled. A sight to be avoided by the recently fed.

Just at that moment, Maurice, the immaculately dressed porter, stepped up behind the group of tourists that was Stew and Cora, and put his fingers down his throat to mimic throwing up.

Lovely.

Rob glared at him and snapped back to attentive concierge without missing a beat. "So, have you got anything in mind to see?"

"We'd kinda like to see an old ruin," Stew said.

Rob bit his lip, and Maurice walked away quickly, swishing his hips a little.

"Right," Rob said. "Then you should go to the Tower. It's not a ruin, but it's old. Or you could go to Buckingham Palace, if you really want to see some old ruins."

"We've seen the palace," Cora said. "So it's the Tower for us." She frowned. "So what can you see from this tower?"

"No, honeybunch," Stew said, "it's not a viewing tower. It's where the Brits used to lock up people who didn't agree with them."

True.

"Yes," Rob agreed. "Now we use the CIA and extraordinary rendition. Much tidier." He smiled nicely.

"Maybe we should go on that extra ordinary rending trip, then," Cora said.

"Trust me, you'll prefer the Tower," Rob said and signalled Maurice, who nodded and disappeared outside.

"The doorman has gone to get you a black cab..." He saw the frown. "A taxi. It'll be here in a jiff. You have a nice day now, hear?" He'd heard that in the movies, so it must be genuine American-speak.

Cora smiled a collagen smile and they waddled off for a nice day now. Stew stopped, touched Cora's arm, and returned to the desk.

"We really lurve that statue over there." He pointed at the life-sized marble statue of some nude woman shoved into the curve of the stairs. "You know where we can get one like that?"

Rob nodded slowly. "Yes, it's a cool work of art is that." He waited a second for Stew to look back. "I know the artist. I can get him to ship one to your place in the States if you like."

"You can?" Stew said, nodding and shaking his jowls. "That would be just peachy."

Peachy.

He turned to leave and stopped. "How much you think something like that would cost?"

Rob looked over at the statue and thought about it carefully.

Yeah, right, of course he did.

"Couple of grand?"

"Hey, that all?" Stew said. "You fix that up for me, boy, and there's another grand in it for you."

"You colour that done, Mister Gerbardt."

Maurice touched his temple in a salute, held open the door, and pocketed the ten-pound note with practiced ease. He stepped back so that the automatic doors could close... automatically, and strolled back across the lobby.

Rob was leaning on his elbows, looking at the statue, and smiled when the Eagles track came around on the lobby mood music. "Yeah," he said, "you are truly welcome to the Hotel California. It is a lovely place." He looked around the lobby, all mock-marble pillars and oversized, tacky mirrors.

"That's the Monkees, right?" Maurice said, joining him at the foot of the stairs.

Rob glanced at him to see if he was joking. He wasn't. "It's the Eagles."

"Right," Maurice said, frowning. "Boy band, right?"

"Yes," Rob said with a long sigh. "Like Westlife."

"Thought so."

It being the middle of the night, the lobby was deserted, except for a guest sleeping in the winged armchair. Pissed. You could tell that from his comatose state, drooling, and his fly being wide open to the world. Happy days, not soon forgotten.

Maurice groaned under the weight of the marble statue of the nude woman and glared at Rob, who was standing by, waving him on to greater efforts. "If you'd shift your arse and give us a hand," Maurice grunted, "we'd have this thing away before security comes and arrests us to death."

Rob shrugged. "No need, Doreen's doing a sterling job." He winked at the elderly woman wrestling with the sack truck handles. "Aren't you, Doreen?"

She smiled through gritted teeth and caught the handles before they pulled away. Yes, a sterling job.

"How's life treating you these days, Doreen?"

She steadied the truck. "Not so bad, since my husband passed away."

Smalltalk matter almost exhausted.

"You still writing to your friend in Cape Town?"

She shook her head. "I don't write to her so much these days."

"Oh," Rob said, regretting starting out on this path. "Why's that? You have a falling out?"

"She died."

He could hear the cogs whirring in his head, but nothing would mesh.

"Are you sure you're going to get six hundred quid for this?" Maurice said, saving him.

Rob nodded emphatically.

"And you're going to split it with us, right?"

Once again, the emphatic nod. "Would I swindleworzle you?" He shook his head. "I think not. Two hundred notes each are coming your way." He looked around. "As soon as you get the lead out and wheel that out of here."

Spurred on by the promise of all that cash, Maurice and Doreen rolled the sack truck and its precariously perched nude across the lobby and out into the kitchens, heading for the van in the loading dock.

As the kitchen doors swung shut, Rob nodded his satisfaction at a job well done and strolled back to reception, where Wendy was leaning on her elbows and watching the performance with a unmistakable look of disapproval. She was an attractive twenty-three-year-old, with messily long and curly auburn hair, and hazel eyes that sparkled with life. Not that Rob noticed. Wendy was staff, so invisible sexually. 'Don't crap on your own doorstep' was his motto. Among many others, including: first out of the car; last at the bar.

Wendy wore a dark blue suit that hid its expensive price tag by being wrinkled and mismatched with a mostly brown, and wrinkled, blouse. She was what used to be called a hippie, but is now called... err... well, a hippy. Progress is a beautiful thing.

"What exactly are you doing?" she asked as Rob leaned on the guest side of the reception desk and grinned.

"Graciously gratifying every whim of our valued customers," he said, bringing his fingers together as if in prayer. Like that was ever going to happen. He looked her over slowly. "What happened to you? Rough night?"

As changing the subject goes, it was a good way to get a smack in the mouth.

"Every night is rough knowing I have to turn up here and see your face."

"Yeah, I can see that."

She frowned.

"Must be hard for a young woman to see perfection every day and know it is out of her reach."

Smack in the mouth imminent.

"If a sculptor modelled you, he'd have to punch the clay first. Just to get the right level of... perfection."

Rob clutched his heart. "Unrequited desire fires arrows with the cruellest barbs."

Oh, please.

Wendy closed her eyes for a moment and went to her special, calm place. Opened them again, calm now. And threw a right cross that would have made her dad very proud. It missed Rob's jaw, but then it was supposed to. Just.

Rob took a big step back and held up his hands in surrender.

Wendy nodded towards the kitchens. "So who's the old dear with the forklift?"

Rob glanced at the door. "Oh, that's Maurice's mom."

She tilted her head to one side, waiting for the punchline. No punchline.

"Okay," she said at last. "You've got me. Why is Maurice's mom pushing a forklift truck?"

"Sack truck."

"Whatever. Why is the old dear pushing it?"

"You know Maurice has got a bad back, right?"

She looked again at the kitchen door and shook her head. "Are you telling me Maurice has brought his geriatric mother in to help move luggage?"

"She's stronger than she looks."

"If she was as weak as she looks, she'd be chilling in a morgue drawer."

The office door on the right of the reception desk opened, and Henry Crichton-Jones marched out as if he was about to inspect the Queen's guard, followed very closely by Grace, known as Grace 'n Favour by her loving staff. That being Rob, when she wasn't listening.

Henry was ex-military, or at least, that's what he said. Could have been a parking meter attendant. He was old enough to be ex-something, being late sixties or seventies or just plain old, and he wore a black blazer with an air force pocket badge and a navy lapel pin. Oops.

Grace was taller than Henry, but then again she was taller than most people—who don't play basketball. Was that unkind? Maybe, but so was she. If God had wanted a volunteer to have razor blades on her tongue, she would have been first in line. She wore a cream suit that was a size too small to show off the hours of gym work, sweating to recapture departed youth—youth that was even now hiding under the bed and quivering in terror that she might find it again. Her dark hair was almost crew cut, ideal for pressing weights, biking, running, and all that stuff fit people do when they could use the valuable time in front of the TV watching football and drinking beer. Bizarre. Her breasts struggled against the over-tight jacket, compensating for the compression by squeezing out of any opening. Very attractive.

"Listen up!" Henry commanded.

Ex-officers do that; command.

"Henry, nobody says listen up any more," Wendy said with a sad shake of her head. "Except in stupid macho vest movies."

Henry was confused, but no change there. Slowly his eyes focused and he returned to us all. "Pay attention, everybody."

Nice recovery.

Rob looked around the deserted lobby for the everybody in question. "Are you expecting the crew to stand to general quarters, Cap'n?" He had no idea what general quarters was, but had heard about it on a TV war documentary, so it must have been military or something.

"If only," Henry said wistfully. "No, we are expecting—"

"Congratulations, Henry," Rob said, stepping forward and slapping him on the shoulder. "I'd give you a cigar, but I don't smoke."

"Ah!" Wendy said.

Rob cut her with a look. "Don't go there. Anyway, they're not cigars."

"No," Wendy said, "more like constipated cigarettes."

"Please," Rob said with a look of horror. "Don't trash-talk my only vice."

Wendy sighed heavily.

"If I can have your attention, please," Henry said decisively, or so he imagined. "We are expecting VIPs."

"Who?" Rob said. "Your wife and her new friend?"

Henry jumped, and his head turned so fast, it almost unscrewed. "Where? When? Did you really see her? Oh, God!"

"Calm down, Henry," Rob said, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I was just asking."

Henry let out his breath in a long sigh of relief, but took one more look around just in case. "Please don't say things like that. Not even in jest."

"She still after your valuables?" Wendy asked innocently.

"Yes, gold-digger," Henry said. "She hired a private eye."

"You watch too much television," Wendy said.

"Was it this PI who caught you... in flagrante with that pole-dancer?" Rob asked.

Henry spluttered and shook his head. "No, he didn't catch me!"

"Found a good hiding place, did you?" Wendy asked.

"Yes. No. I never. It wasn't me."

Well, there you go. Must be innocent, then.

"For heaven's sake!" Grace said, her lips thinning. "Can we get on with it? I have a ton of letters to write."

"Begging letters to Dates Are Us won't get you fixed up," Rob said. "You should try a club."

Grace watched him through narrowed eyes. Suspicion born of experience.

Rob mimed clubbing and dragging a victim back to the cave.

"If you ever find the other brain cell, you'd qualify as an amoeba," Grace said, her eyes no more than slits of flint through ink-black eye-shadow.

"Ah," Rob said triumphantly. "An amoeba only has one brain cell..."

Wendy coughed.

Bugger.

"Captain Crichton-Jones was telling us about the VIPs," Wendy said, stifling a yawn.

"Thank you, Wendy," Henry said. "Now, when the VIPs arrive, I want you to behave normally."

Wendy closed her eyes, but let it go. Some things are self-evident, and not just the truths of the Declaration of Independence. Rob was always behaving normally, since normal for him was insanity for the rest of us.

"So," Rob said, "no screaming and fainting, then?"

"No," Henry said. "They want to be treated as regular guests."

"Oh, this I have to see!" Wendy said. She put the back of her hand to her forehead. "Oh, I wanted to remain inconspicuous, but the paparazzi swine photographed me coming out of the most popular nightclub in town at three in the morning, pissed. Oh, woe is little ol' me!"

"For your information," Henry said, frowning and not getting the point, "it's the risk of kidnap they are not risking by avoiding it."

Nicely put.

"Who is it, then?" Rob asked, feigning interest.

"We are not at liberty to divulge that information," Grace said. "It is strictly a need-to-know."

Oh, let's not say, "And—"

"And _you_ don't need to know!"

"You could always kill me after," Rob said. Then instantly regretted it.

"You won't need to kill me," Wendy said. "I'm dead already." She shook her head in despair. "I must have shat on an angel in a previous life to be sentenced to this purgatory."

"That's a laxative, isn't it?" Rob said.

"I don't need a laxative. Just looking at you loosens me right up."

"That's gross," Rob said. And it was.

Before Henry could order them to form up and stand to attention, Maurice and his mom returned from trucking the booty to the delivery van.

"What's afoot?" Maurice asked, then raised a hand before Rob could answer. "What is happening?" he said slowly for the terminally thick.

"We are discussing the VIPs," Henry said.

"VIPs?" Maurice said.

"We are having some for dinner," Rob said.

Wendy looked away.

"Who's the old lady?" Grace asked, pointing at the old lady, in case there was any doubt.

"What old lady?" Maurice asked, looking around.

"That old lady," Grace said, pointing again. "That one, standing there. That old lady. Who is she?"

"You only had to ask," Maurice said, a little miffed.

Grace closed her eyes and sighed. "I'm going mad. The doctor told me not to travel to other dimensions."

"Hey!" Wendy said. "I saw a mouse."

Henry jumped a little. "Where?"

"There."

"Where?"

"There on the stair."

"Where on the stair?"

"Right—"

Grace spoilt a perfectly choreographed moment by slamming her bony fist onto the desk. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

They shut up, that seeming to be the thing to do right at that moment.

She glared at Wendy. "If you say another word, you'll be at the job centre in the morning. You... you..."

Rob pointed at Wendy. "You said only I could call you you-you!"

"This is insane!" Grace said, starting to rock back and forth.

"So, Wend," Rob said, "what footware was this mouse sporting?"

"And you!" Grace was spraying spittle now. Not a spectator sport; not without a so'wester. "You're on such thin ice it's... it's... it's—"

"Thin?" Rob suggested with a raised eyebrow.

Grace turned on her heel. "I should go back to my old job. To bedpans and vomit, dead people and blood. I was happy there. People were sane." She stamped off towards the office. "Except the loonies." She slammed the door behind her.

Henry stared blankly at the closed door for a moment and then looked at Doreen. "Who's the old lady?"

"You're repeating yourself, Captain," Rob said. "You should go and have a sit down, a cup of tea, and look at your models."

Wendy frowned and was about to comment on the evils of sexual exploitation of the fairer sex by the fashion industry, but let it go. Models wear animal fur, so to hell with them. A bit of a generalisation, but the sentiment was honest.

Henry nodded slowly, looked at Doreen again as if about to ask a question that had been asked enough to be a mantra, but gave up and headed for his office. And his models. Model aircraft are very relaxing.

"Before you go, Henry," Wendy said. "How many of these shy VIPs are we expecting?"

"Oh." Henry frowned again and counted. "Two. And their delightful children."

"Is one of them a famous footballer?" Rob asked.

"No," Henry said, "they're too young." He continued his journey to his office.

Rob and Wendy exchanged a long look.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking," Rob asked.

"What? That he's certifiable?"

"No. Well, yes, but... VIPs, kids, kidnap?"

Wendy nodded. "Posh and Becks."

"Exactly," Rob said and turned to face the hotel entrance and cocked his head. It wasn't a woodpecker he could hear, it was opportunity knocking.

Having slept the full four hours hotel staff get to sleep, Grace was feeling much better, barely homicidal. A great improvement. She got up from her cluttered desk in the cluttered little office behind reception, stepped over a cardboard box full of things cardboard boxes in cluttered offices tend to be full of, and stopped in front of the duty manager's office, a cubicle barely big enough to bend down and pick up the cat destined for swinging. She took a breath and pushed open the door, careful to avoid the black patch by the handle that had been polished by dirty hands, turning it into a holiday destination for bacteria from all walks of life.

Henry was sitting behind a small metal desk that he would have had to climb over to get to his seat. He was holding plastic warplanes and swooping them across the cleared desktop and making 'rat-a-tat-tat' and 'kaboow' noises. It was truly sad. And Grace confirmed it by giving him a long pitying look.

"You really miss the air force, don't you, Henry?"

Henry held up a plastic helicopter. "I was the captain of one of these. It's a Sea King. Did I ever tell you that?"

"Not today, Henry. And that's a Chinook."

Oh, dear.

Henry examined the plastic... Chinook closely and nodded confirmation. "I captained one of those too." Now that was a lie, and it hung in the air like an amber balloon. "Well, I wanted to."

Good catch, Henry. No one will have noticed.

He looked off into the distance—at the wall four feet away, in fact, but who's measuring?

"It was a great life. I had four great men under me."

"Don't tell Maurice," Grace said.

Henry looked at her for a few seconds and then nodded. "Ah, yes, very good. Good show."

Which she translated as 'I have no idea what you are talking about.'

"So why are you here, Henry?"

Henry looked around.

"If it was such a good life."

"Ah, yes. I suppose they thought I was too old." He put the helicopter down gently.

Grace nodded. She knew that feeling only too well.

"And you, Grace, why are you here?" He waved a hand at the dirty cream walls. "Here in the hotel and leisure industry."

"I was a nurse," she said after a moment's silence. "A sister, in fact."

"Oh, I see. Hence your comment about bedpans and dead people." He frowned. "But it does seem an odd place for a nurse to end up, if you don't mind my saying."

She didn't.

"It's a long story."

"I always have time to listen to a member of..."

Ah.

"Your crew?"

He smiled a very rare smile. "I suppose that's how I see you all." The smile returned to its sad hiding place. "As members of my crew."

"Losers and misfits," Grace said with a sigh, then regretted it when she saw the pain on his face. "The individual isn't important, right, Henry? It's the way the men and women knit together as a unit that makes a great crew."

Rubbish doesn't look like rubbish if it's in a pink box.

He brightened up. "That's correct, Grace. A brick is just a brick, until it joins with others and becomes a wall."

Or a sewer, but Grace let it go. No point raining on his already soggy parade.

Luckily he changed the subject. "What happened to your nursing career?"

"As I said, it is a long story." She sighed. "An incident. It could have happened to anyone. It just chose me to crap on." She could see he was going to ask another probing, incisive, nosey question and raised her hand. "Enough about me. The VIPs are on their way."

"Then," Henry said, parking his plastic squadron in a neat row, "it is all hands on deck."

Grace considered telling him that the expression in his case would be 'scramble the fighters', but the sad old duffer deserved a break. For no other reason than he was a sad old duffer. There is only one thing sadder than once flying high and then crashing to earth as a nobody, and that's being a nobody who looked up hopefully and just got pigeon crap in the eye.

Time for all hands on deck.

Henry and Grace walked into the lobby at the same time as three men who blocked the main entrance with their overstuffed muscles in dark suits. The VIPs had arrived.

Rob watched the bodyguards from the safety of the concierge desk and smiled as one of them stepped forward and checked out the mezzanine floor above the lobby for snipers. Too many movies and an overactive sense of self-importance is a lethal combination. Well, at least a hilarious combination.

The burly baggage lifters parted to allow a female version to march through into the lobby and up to the reception desk without even glancing at the half-dozen guests watching from behind pillars or squeezed into gift shop doorways.

The female suit stood for a moment in front of reception and ignored Wendy's wear-it-once-and-throw-it-away smile. "You," she said to Henry.

Henry jumped a little and looked around in case there was another 'you' he could hide behind. No such luck. He licked his lips. It didn't help. He pointed at his chest in one last forlorn hope.

"Yes, you," the suit said. "Have you cleared the third floor as you were ordered?"

Ordered? How rude.

"We have guests on the third floor," Wendy said, annoyed by this hatchet-faced... tough woman who probably knew all sorts of martial arts and stuff. Best let it go.

"Move them," the suit said. "Evict them. I don't care. Just get them gone."

"Nope," Wendy said, anger overcoming thoughts of kung fu death. "They are nice people."

Unlike you.

"Are you aware for whom I am the personal assistant for?" she said in a kind of English.

Wendy shrugged. "Wasn't she some sort of C-list celebrity? When she was young."

An exploding personal assistant can be an ugly thing. Grace stepped up to the plate just before the suit detonated.

"I'll deal with it, Wendy," she said. "As you've clearly gone completely mad," she added under her breath. "Now, let's see—"

"Don't see!" the PA snapped. "Do!"

If this had been a restaurant, the waiter would have spat in her soup. Pity, no soup.

Grace smiled a thin smile and wished her terminal incontinence. She leaned past Wendy, tapped the computer keyboard, and nodded. "Yes, we can accommodate you. Just a case of moving a few... little people." She turned to Wendy. "See to it." The threat was unspoken but strained at the seams just the same.

"Your VIP is in the Balmoral Suite," Grace continued, the smile still painted on. "Now, if your beefy boys..." She pointed at the bodyguard case-carriers.

One of them winked at her. The big one. He had scars. Tough people have scars.

She smiled back. What the hell? Usually her men changed sexual preference or pretended to faint.

"Some time today," the kung fu PA said.

"Oh," Grace said, snapping her head around, "I'll get the porter to take the cases up." She pointed at Maurice and his old mother, over by the concierge desk.

Maurice looked over his shoulder, then back at the piles of bags littering the lobby, and paled.

The big bodyguard who'd winked at Grace shook his head slowly and glanced at his two smaller bookmarks. These two were just six feet and two hundred and thirty pounds of concrete. So mere mini people.

The beefy help scooped up the bags and followed the PA to the lifts.

The highly trained hotel staff watched the advance guard enter the lifts and close the doors. Grace turned slowly to Wendy and scowled. "Is that any way to treat our paying guests?"

"What about the paying guests you want evicted from the third floor?" Wendy said, clearly fighting her temper.

"Get Maurice and... his mother..." Grace shook her head. "Get them to move the people from the third floor to other rooms. Now." She turned on her heel and stamped back into her office.

Wendy looked at Henry in the vain hope of support, but he wasn't with it. Probably off fighting the forces of evil somewhere in his head. Or not. He turned slowly and ambled off towards the restaurant. Coffee was calling.

Wendy watched him go for a moment before picking up the telephone. "Hi, Cid. Yes, fine. You've had your hair done? Yes, suits you. Look, we've had complaints from the Balmoral Suite. Apparently it's far too cold. Whack the heating up to max, will you? Great, thanks. Oh, Cid. Lock it off too. They don't want the kids playing with the heating." She put down the phone and ignored Rob's steady stare.

It was a look of pure admiration.

Rob strolled past, grinning. Coffee also calling. That and payment for a marble statue of some nude woman.

The day was drawing to a successful close, with no suicides, murders, robbery, or serious food poisoning to report, so Henry was sitting at his metal desk, tired and really needing a nice gin and tonic. The sun was over some yardarm or some other structure, but he'd got another hour to go before he could flee the building. The door banged open against the front of his desk, and Eugene, the restaurant's huge black chef, occupied the remainder of the tiny office, excluding all light and most of the air. He grunted and dropped a twenty-pound bag of black beans on Henry's desk.

"I don't like beans," Henry said, backing off as far as the two-foot space would allow.

"Neither do I," Eugene said, shaking the hapless bean bag in his bear-claw hands as if it was a ne'er-do-well caught with his daughter. "And neither do the customers. But I can tell you, that's what they're going to get. Beans"

"Oh," Henry said. "That's unfortunate. Have they upset you?"

Eugene stared at him and tried to get his head around the idea that diners could upset him. He failed. "It's another bloody disaster," he said instead.

"Then don't serve them beans, Chef. Serve them beef. They like beef."

"Wilco, squadron-bloody-leader," Eugene said. "Except there isn't any beef."

"Oh."

"And there isn't any lamb."

"Oh."

"And there isn't any chicken."

Nobody could accuse Henry of being slow, and he could see where this was probably going, so he took a wild shot.

"So there isn't any meat?"

Outstanding.

"Correct, mien commandant. There ain't no bloody meat."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't swear," Henry said, trying to look past the man-mountain dressed in white chef's things. "The guests might hear you."

"Well, I think they're going to join me swearing when I serve them bean cutlet in bean gravy with beans."

"It would have been better to have ordered beef, Chef."

"I ordered bloody beef! And bloody lamb! And bloody chicken!" If a black man could turn red with rage, Chef was that man. "Somebody switched the order. Agen!" He controlled himself. Being a chef, being huge, and raging is a well-known excuse for a heart attack. Which is bad, apparently. "It's somebody's idea of a joke to keep switching my meat for bloody vegan sawdust."

"Ah," Henry said, the penny dropping, "that'll be Wendy." He nodded confirmation to himself. "She feels very strongly about animal welfare."

Chef grunted something unpleasant, started to turn, gave up, and backed out of the doorway before turning and stamping out to reception, with promises of chopped-up Wendy for dinner.

"Chef! Chef!" Henry started to scramble through the three-inch gap between the desk and the wall. "Wait just a moment; there's a good fellow."

Eugene rocked Grace's world as he thundered past, and she thought evil thoughts. Yes, she was indeed in the universe of the incurably insane. She returned to reconciling the invoices against the deliveries. Bean-counting of... beans. There really was a lot of beans. Must be a Brazilian tour.

"Chef!" Henry shouted as he passed. "Don't do anything rash."

Wendy heard the commotion from the office, put two and two together and ducked down behind the concierge desk just as Chef burst into reception. Rob leaned on his desk and picked up a tourist mag that suddenly required his undivided attention.

"You!" Eugene shouted.

Rob looked up slowly and gave him a lil' ol' me look.

"Yes, you, waster."

Rob was hurt, deeply. Well, a bit anyway. "Bit harsh, Chef. You been at the red meat again?"

"No, I bloody well haven't been at the red meat. And do you know why I haven't?"

"On a diet, Chef?" Rob gave him the thumbs-up. "And it's working great."

Eugene narrowed his eyes and scoured the lobby. "Where's that weird hippy kid?"

Rob shrugged. "Off to San Francisco, I'd guess. With a flower in her hair."

Whatever that meant.

"Well, when you see her, tell her that if she messes with my meat again—"

"That's not likely, Chef," Rob said, shaking his head.

"Tell her," Eugene said, fixing him with a cold stare, "that if she messes with my... orders, I'll serve her up medium-rare with an apple shoved—"

"Thank you, Chef!" Henry said, arriving too late to save anyone, except from embarrassing imagery. "I think we get the picture."

"Well, see that the hippy gets it!" Eugene stamped off towards his kitchen. With his beans in hand.

Wendy peeked over the top of the desk. "Has he gone?"

"He's left a snarl like a loony Cheshire cat hanging in the air, but he's gone," Rob said, rolling up the interesting tourist magazine and tossing it into the trash.

Wendy stood up. "That's the trouble with these arty chefs, they're all highly strung."

Henry crossed to the concierge desk, but kept his eyes on the door through which the chef had stamped. Just in case. "Did you change Chef's order, Wendy?"

Wendy pursed her lips and considered lying. "I might have changed it, a bit."

"Change it back, will you?" Henry said. "I don't want to have to find another chef. God knows we've used up most of the chefs in London."

"I can get you some meat from the market," Rob said enthusiastically. "It'll be a bit expensive on account of it being a bit late for shopping, but it's good quality."

"Yes. That would be excellent. Do that. But hurry," Henry said, nodding.

Rob smiled. "I'll get a receipt."

"Thank you," Henry said and headed for his office. To get his coat. To go to the club. Gin and tonic time.

Wendy gave Rob a long look and shook her head.

"What?" Rob said. "I'm only offering to help. You should be grateful."

"I'd be grateful if you split the profits."

"Wendy! How could you even think that I would attempt to profit from this... this... difficulty."

"No, Rob, of course I know you wouldn't. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Yes, my child," Rob said, making the sign of the cross over her.

She watched him for a second, blinking slowly, and returned to the reception desk, after checking that the chef really had gone. Because a twenty-stone guy, dressed head to toe in white, could be hiding just about anywhere in the wide-open lobby.

Rob headed for the door. "Y'know, this is a lovely place." He tripped the automatic door. "We are finally livin' it up at Hotel California."

The doors slid shut behind him as he headed off on his mission of mercy... or at least a mission of meat.

Early next morning, way before the guests stirred, but hours after the hotel staff were up and back to the daily grind, Henry stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up from the lobby to the mezzanine bar and scratched his head. Okay, his head ached, but too many gin and tonics will do that. The head scratching in this case signified a mental journey of discovery. Visiting old haunts and experiences. Remembering times gone by. When there used to be a marble statue of some nude woman standing proud on the bend of the stairs.

"Nice staircase," Rob said, arriving late for a another gruelling day of... well, theft mostly.

Henry pointed at the stairs. "Actually, I was trying to work out what is missing." He glanced at Rob, who had stopped to admire the now easy-access stairway.

Rob stepped up and examined the stone steps carefully. Then he snapped his fingers. "The plant." He pointed at the bend in the stairs formerly occupied by the statue. "There was a tall plant there. Now it's gone. Greenfly, I'd say."

Henry's frown creased even deeper, threatening to cut off the blood to the space where his brain used to be. "I don't remember a plant, but yes, something was there."

"Trust me, Colonel, it was a plant. A big yucca thing. Horrible. Gone now. Good riddance. Gardner probably chucked it out. No great loss. Greenfly give you a nasty bite. Time for meeting the happy guests elbowing their way to the breakfast buffet, right?"

Henry's frown vanished, and he looked around the lobby at the half-dozen guests heading to the restaurant for a full breakfast of... meat. If sausage and bacon and stuff qualifies as meat. He didn't know, but he did care. Happy guests are... The frown returned. Happy. Yes, that's it. Happy guests are happy. And happy is good.

"Then you organized supplies for Chef last night?"

Rob nodded and smiled. "Yes, Cap'n. The slimming chef of the month has a fridge full of dead things."

"Very good," Henry said and threw a last look at the statue-free zone on the stairs. "You know, I must have a word with Wendy about her campaign to turn the guests into vegans."

"Leave it with me, Commodore, I'll talk to her. You know how she can get."

He had no idea how she could get, and didn't really want to find out. Women could be... well, not men. And his head hurt. One of the gins must have been off.

"I'll leave it with you, then." He set off for his office and a bit of a nap. "Good fellow."

Rob watched him go. He liked being a good fellow. As long as he was one of those, then nobody would poke their nose into his various sideline businesses. Thank god for eBay. Those sheets and towels were flying off the shelves. Pillows and sheets? He touched his chin. A man has to diversify to survive in the corporate world of linen.

He strolled over and leaned on the reception desk until Wendy felt uncomfortable enough to look up from the computer screen she'd been focusing on instead of interacting with this pain in her ass.

She sighed tiredly. "What?"

"What's what?" Rob said with a shrug.

"I said what first."

"Ah, but what what did you say as what? What?"

"What are you talking about?" she said and closed her eyes in the hope that he might vanish in a puff of smoke.

"We're starting to sound like a herd of ducks."

She opened her eyes to find no smoke and Rob still there. "It's a flock."

"How rude!"

"What do you want? I'm too busy to prat about with you!"

"I'm to talk to you about the meat. Our major's orders."

She glanced at the closed office door. "He's not a major. Nor a commodore. Nor a colonel. I'd be surprised if he was even a sergeant."

Rob smiled. She'd been listening. Which is like paying attention. Which meant she secretly had the hots for him, but hiding it. He wasn't surprised. How could she help it?

"The meat?"

"The boss says you're to stop fiddling with Chef's meat or he's going to fire your cute ass."

"Not exactly a verbatim delivery, is it?" she said and moved the keyboard, ready to get back to ignoring him.

"Works for me."

"Get lost." She pressed a few keys, but the beeping gave away the random strokes.

"You know, you're lovely when you're angry." He turned on the famous smile.

"You're not lovely. Now, or at any other time."

"So, a night of passion is probably not on the cards, then?"

"I'd rather have a night of passion with Maurice." The beeping had stopped and progress with the free-room analysis was being made. At this rate, it would be finished in less than five years.

Rob pushed himself off the desk. "I'll go and tell Maurice the good news, then, shall I?"

Wendy peeked over the top of the monitor and watched him go, then looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching. All clear. Just making sure he hadn't nicked her pen, that was all.

From the corner of his eye, Rob saw Grace come out of the office and tried to think of a way of changing direction and legging it, but that fleeting moment passed as she strode across the lobby and intercepted him in front of the concierge desk that was usually his sanctuary.

She was smiling. Smiling is bad.

"Morning, Grace." He returned the smile, but it was tough. "Can I do something for you? A nice horror show, a tour of the torture chambers. Car crash re-enactment? You'd love it."

"Oh, there are lots of things you will do for me," she said, still smiling. It was awful.

"You know me, Grace. Anything for a friend and colleague."

She leaned a bony, knot-muscled arm on his desk and looked around to make sure no bloody nuisance guests were about to interrupt. "We are not friends." She leaned closer to him, and he could smell stale coffee. Lovely. "I have seen zoo animals I would rather be friends with."

"I'm sure you have." He kept a straight face, which probably saved his life.

"And we are not colleagues," she continued, breathing coffee-flavoured breath into his face. "I am your manager, a fact you seem incapable of grasping. But that is because you are simply too stupid!"

Rob stood to attention. "Managee awaiting inspecting from manager's inspection."

"The days when you treated me like... like..."

Rob bit his tongue. He thought of socks. He thought of his dear mother. He... "A mentally impaired orangutan?"

Bugger.

Death visits Hotel Pentwynd. Handsome concierge cut down in his prime. The headline flashed across his mind, followed by the sound of a blood-curdling scream, suddenly cut short.

"Something I am totally ashamed of," he said quickly. And desperately. "And something I shall never do again." He smiled, but it was the smile of a man facing a bunch of blood-thirsty Mexican bandits hell-bent on stealing the gold off the back of a burro. No teeth—the bandits, not the donkey. It was the thing of nightmares—if you happen to be twelve years old.

Grace smiled at him. Something evil was stalking the hotel lobby.

He took a involuntary step back from the desk. She followed.

"Your days of playing King Dick are over, dear boy." The smile again. "You see. I know about the statue."

If life had a soundtrack, it would be thumping out the _Psycho_ shower scene.

He looked up at the empty bend in the stairs, betrayed by his own subconscious.

"Exactly," she said quietly, but sounding like the dude in the black cape closing the damsel's door.

"You see, dear boy, things are going to be different around here." She nodded emphatically. "Yes, very, very different."

She walked away without a backward glance.

Rob's arms hung limply at his sides, and he suddenly found he needed the desk for support.

The thought of what the giant with lumpy muscles might do to him had haunted his imagination all day, and on every screening, it had been worse. Finally crashing to earth on the scene we all knew would roll. Thighs like marble nutcrackers filled his mind, and as his imagination moved up the blue-veined body, his psyche finally gave up and hid under the stairs.

But now all that was behind him, or at least suppressed, and he concentrated on the task at hand. And that was making money, a whole barrow-load of money, from photos of the VIPs doing VIP things.

He edged across the balcony outside the Winsor Suite—next to the Balmoral Suite, of course. It was dark, except for the faint orange of reflected neon. Five floors up is very high, particularly if you get dizzy climbing a stepladder. When some idiot slammed the glass door behind him, he almost lost his balance and plummeted to certain death over the three-foot-high balustrade designed to prevent just such an event.

"For chrissakes, Maurice!" he hissed over his shoulder. "You scared the crap out of me!"

Maurice pulled a face, turned, and opened the glass door and let his mother out onto the balcony. "Why?" he whispered. "You knew I was up here skulking about with you on one of your bloody hair-brained capers."

True.

Rob ignored the insurrection in the ranks and leaned over the stone balcony to reconnoitre the planned route to next door and riches. There was a two-foot gap between the balconies and he peered down through it at the street below. He looked at the camera he was holding and then at the drop again, and turned and smiled, but Maurice was already backing off and shaking his head.

"Don't even think about it," Maurice said, starting to hide behind his little old mom.

"Come on, Maurice," Rob said, smiling. "You're lighter than me, and I'm stronger than you. So it stands to reason."

"I doubt any of that," Maurice said and looked quickly at his mom in case she was disappointed by his lack of bravery.

Heaven forbid.

Doreen was leaning over the balcony and staring down at the pavement. "There are men down there with cameras. And step ladders." She looked at her brave boy. "Why do they need step ladders?"

"They do a lot of hanging around," Rob said, handing Maurice the camera. "So they do a bit of window cleaning to pass the time and earn some beer money."

Maurice stepped up to the balustrade and looked over at the small gap, and tutted at Rob. "It's just a baby step."

"Then baby-step over it, Maurice, me ol' Spiderman." Rob spurred him on with a push between the shoulders.

"Okay, okay!" Maurice said and climbed gingerly over the concrete balustrade and onto the wide ledge. "Hold my belt."

Rob gave him a double-take.

"To stop me falling, you prick!"

"Oh," Rob said and put one finger through Maurice's belt. "Okay, you're safe now. Don't look down."

Maurice looked down, of course. Rob nudged him out of his frozen state.

"Don't be a wuss. Just step over the little gap, and take the pictures."

Maurice tried to hand the camera back. "Then you do it."

Now, that was not likely. He closed his eyes and stepped over the tiny gap.

Rob raised his free hand, the one not ensuring Maurice's safety with a finger through his belt. "It's my responsibility to keep you safe. Off you go. Nothing to fear. I have you." He slipped his finger out of the belt. No point risking a dislocation should he fall. "Lean over and take the shots."

Maurice turned his head to tell him what he thought, slipped, and had to cartwheel his arms to prevent plummeting to a messy death in front of the world's press. How embarrassing would that be?

"Shall I climb over?" he asked, now recovered.

"Don't be stupid!" Rob hissed loudly. "Bloody hell! They'll see you, and it'll all be over." And the big payday will be a bust.

"How do I know they're in there?" Maurice was wasting time. So, not really being the hero, then.

"I saw housekeeping deliver the bottles of champers," Rob said, waving Maurice on. "They're in there. Go do your stuff."

"What if the curtains are closed?"

"Oh, for God's sake! Why don't you knock it off with the negative waves? Think open."

Maurice missed the movie reference, as usual, and gave in, leaning over the balcony and extending the camera to arm's length. He overbalanced. Well, duh! His feet swung up, and Rob grabbed them before the camera could get damaged. Oh, and to save Maurice, of course.

"There," Rob said, holding his extended legs "I saved you. Aren't you glad I'm here?"

Maurice said something that was lost as he stretched out his arm again and took as many shots as he could in the time he could hold his breath. Job done, he wriggled and tried to back out, but couldn't get any purchase and had to be saved once again by our hero, Rob, who pushed the kicking legs down onto the ledge.

Maurice pulled himself back upright, stepped over the gap, and let out a long sigh. Glad to be alive.

Rob took the camera, stepped back, and held the camera to his chest. "There you go. Safe and sound." He was talking to the camera. Maurice could look after himself.

Maurice slipped, cartwheeling his arms, as this technique had already proven its worth. But not this time. He was going to fall.

Rob glanced back, saw Maurice about to go, and tapped Doreen on the shoulder. "Doreen, save your offspring." He strolled into the hotel room.

Maurice's life flashed in front of his eyes, and he realized how boring it had been. Okay, time to sit on a cloud and play some harp music. He closed his eyes and accepted the inevitable. It wasn't so bad. People would miss him and maybe shed a tear or two. Who exactly? Well, the barman at the Woodman for one. And his mom, she'd miss him, a bit. So not so bad.

Suddenly a hand gripped his arm. He was saved. Thank God, and thank you, Rob. He opened his eyes. His old mom was smiling absently at him and holding his forearm.

He looked around to see if he'd been seen by the world's press, being saved by an old lady. But his hero status was intact. He squinted at Rob's back as it headed out of the hotel room.

"I can see it now," Rob said, stroking the camera as if it was a kitten. "Full-page spread. All over the Sunday papers. Editors clambering for the negatives. I'll be rich. Rich. Rich!"

Yeah, right. Rich.

Henry looked up from his daily chore of ensuring the magazines on the lobby tables were up to date and not stained, and smiled at Cid as she strode across from the lift. He didn't seem to notice that she was a jaw-dropping tall blonde with blue eyes and a stunning body that filled out her tight-fitting blue overalls as only the truly gifted can.

"Have you fixed the heating problem in Balmoral?" He raised his hands and smiled. "Silly me. Of course you have. You always do. You're a credit to the maintenance man guild."

There you go, he really didn't notice her. Old age comes to us all.

She flashed him a bright, white smile that would have caused the Pope to give up religion and become a Miami beach bum.

"Yes, Mister Crichton-Jones. Just a problem with the thermostat. All done. I'm off to delouse the third floor. And do a spot of rat-catching. Then there's the gorilla in 401." She strolled off.

Henry frowned, shook his head, scratched his chin. And gave up.

"She means," Wendy said from behind her computer, "your wonderful VIPs have been dishing the quality of your hotel."

"Oh," Henry said. "That's all right, then. I thought it was serious." He wandered off absently.

Rob crossed from his desk, leaned his back against reception, and looked around the empty lobby. "Do you think anybody is actually staying here?"

"Of course we have guests staying here," Wendy said. "Who do you think those are stampeding into the restaurant every night? Wildebeest?"

He nodded without thinking about the question. "I suppose they're all out on the town, and here I am stuck in this dump for another sixteen hours. It's not fair."

Nor is lying in a ditch in Afghanistan with ants nibbling your pink bits, but such details just get in the way of a good bout of self-pity.

"Oh, poor dear," Wendy said. "Shall I give you a hug?"

He was about to accept the kind offer when the lift doors slid opened and Mr. Freeman stepped out slowly. He was old enough to not only be knocking on Heaven's door, but to have Saint Peter give him a hand to open it. The lift doors slid shut with a second to spare. He raised his stick shakily and cracked it against the lift, then set off across the vast expanse of the lobby.

Rob pushed himself off reception and crossed to meet him. He intercepted him after the old man had taken three full steps.

"Lift out to get you again, Mr. Freeman?"

"Damned contraption!" He waved his stick, but had to use if for it's designated purpose as he staggered under the effort. "I should take the stairs."

"You're on the sixth floor, Mr. Freeman," Rob said, steadying the ancient gentleman.

"Don't be damned silly! I can see this is the lobby." He waved the stick in a short arc. "And there's that pretty little thing at reception. He headed off towards reception. Step. Stop. Step. Stop. It was going to take a while.

"It's Wendy," Rob said, keeping a hand near the old man's elbow.

"Don't care if it is. I'm not planning to go out."

Rob let him go on his way. No point standing in the way of a man on a mission.

"Hello, my dear," the old man said as he finally achieved his objective and leaned shakily on the reception desk.

"Good evening, Mr. Freeman," Wendy said with a warm smile. "Can I do anything for you?"

"Do I have any messages?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Were you expecting any?"

"Thought I'd get an answer from Liz. I've asked her over for dinner."

"Who's that, then?" Rob said, catching up. "Your girlfriend?"

Idiot.

"Don't be so damned silly!" He glared at Rob. He did glaring well. Not as well as Grace, but she had a black belt in evil looks. "Liz... Elizabeth," he said, as if that helped. "Her Majesty?"

Rob jumped. "The queen? You've invited the queen over for dinner?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?" He leaned a little closer to Wendy. "Not too bright, is he?"

Wendy shook her head. "It's in the genes. Thick as a brick."

"Thanks, Wend."

"Have you really invited Her Majesty for din-dins?" Wendy asked, clearly impressed.

"Yes, of course. Lovely stout woman. Idiot husband and boy, though." He shrugged. "Had to invite the old bugger." He touched the side of his nose conspiratorially. "He'll be unconscious under the table by nine thirty. Can't hold his drink, you see. It's his age."

"Good plan, Mr. Freeman," Wendy said with a smile.

"And what about you, my dear? Have you considered my proposal?"

Wendy blinked hard several times and licked her lips in a clear tell. "I... err... would love to... err... marry you, Mr. Freeman..."

Think, girl, think! "But I... err... only have a month to live."

Don't give up your day job there, Wendy.

"How romantic," Rob said, barely able to suppress his laughter. "You both have the same life expectancy. You'll pop off together."

Wendy gave him an icy look.

"That's a shame," Mr. Freeman said. "What about a quickie, then? You've nothing to lose. And..." He looked Rob up and down. "There's nothing better on offer."

"Gotta say no, Mr. Freeman," Wendy said with a shrug. "Don't know CPR, and I'm fairly sure we'll need it."

"I don't know it either. Don't follow football. Bloody stupid game." He turned slowly and stop-stepped back towards the lift. "Cricket now. There's a man's game. The sound of balls on willow."

Rob let him get four feet away, so well out of hearing range. "Nicely handled there, Wend. You're right, though, what you need is more the young stallion."

She looked around slowly, then back at him and pointed. "You? A stallion? More like a knackered pit-pony with a dope habit."

"Oh, unkind." He looked down and patted his beer-gut. "Nothing a couple of hours in the gym wouldn't sort out." He flexed his stomach muscles, but the fat hid the effect. "Soon have them down to a six pack."

"Only after you've drunk the other six cans." She looked around slowly for something to distract her, but the lobby was clear, it being dinner time. "Anyway, I have a monthly donation to that."

He frowned. "What, to beer?"

"No, to charity."

"Oh, thanks a lot." He pouted in a manly way. "I've never had to beg for it in my life."

She nodded understanding. "Unconscious, then, were they?"

Before he could think of a quick response, the lift doors slid open, and Cid strode back into the lobby. He turned and stood up straight, pulled in his stomach and checked his fly. Wendy looked up to heaven to see if God was having a laugh.

"She's like an Olympic beach volleyballer," Rob said without looking back. "Do me a favour, Wend. Next time you order the overalls, get latex."

Wendy sniffed and looked him over pointedly. "You're way too fat for latex."

"Not for me, for the gymnast there."

"Oh, please." Wendy added a few tuts for effect. "She wouldn't give you the time of day."

"Don't need it; I've got a watch." He took a step towards the volley...baller. "Evenin', Cid."

She gave him a big smile. Some people would say it was a sympathy smile, but some people are unkind.

Cid stopped at the stairs and looked up to where the statue used to be, before it went away for... cleaning. "Statue's gone," she said.

"Yup," Rob said, taking it as a cue to check out her body at closer range. In the most gentlemanly and respectful way, of course. "They took it."

She turned slowly and caught him looking where friends and brothers don't look. She smiled. Sympathy for sure. "Good riddance. It was offensive."

Well, that was a surprise.

"Yes, it was," Rob lied. "Glad to see it on its way." Which was true.

"So," Cid said with a shrug that moved everything as it should. "What's happening?"

She'd never spoken more than a couple of words to him before and it rattled him, but his razor-sharp wits saved him once again. "I was just wondering what God groans when he throws up after a night out on a bender."

Excellent. Witty. Razor-sharp. An eavesdropper would have been blown away.

"God doesn't do all-nighters," she said and flashed that knee-wobbling smile. "And she doesn't throw up."

She loves me, Rob thought. And of course she did. Self-delusion is a wonderful thing.

Cid stepped past him as he searched the file drawers in his head for something interesting that wasn't football, sex, cars, films, beer, or...well, since there is nothing else, he came up empty.

"Hi, Wendy," Cid said, who had now moved on. "See you got the happy shift again."

"Yeah," Wendy said and pointed at Rob, now facing the stairs and thinking happy thoughts of cash. "And the clown."

Rob recovered and walked quickly up to reception, eager to fan the flames of the embryonic sexual attraction Cid was clearly nurturing. "Need a hand with your equipment?"

Cid looked him up and down slowly. No words required. She turned back to Wendy. "So, who are those idiots in the Balmoral pretending to be Posh and Becks?"

That hit Rob like a bucket of cold water, and he jumped visibly. "Who? What? They're not pretending."

The world exclusive made a little croaking noise and succumbed to reality.

"Course they are." Cid frowned. "You didn't actually think those two were Posh and Becks?" She looked around. "In this dump? Are you completely nuts?"

"Yes," Wendy said.

"But it must be them!" Rob sounded desperate. "They signed the register!"

"Well, no, they didn't," Wendy said. "Celebs, you see. Too good for that sort of thing."

"Posh and Becks are in Paris," Cid said with a shrug.

"But it looks like them," Rob said, even more desperate now.

"That's the whole idea," Cid said and turned to Wendy for the need of someone sensible. "It's a diversion."

"Ah!"

Rob stared at Wendy pleadingly.

Wendy nodded once at Cid to confirm the simple facts were understood. "Celebs like Posh and Becks do that."

"What? Do what?" Rob said, starting to well up. "Get everybody's hopes up?"

"No," Cid said, turning to leave and giving Rob a full body profile. "The real Posh and Becks are in Paris for the shops, so they send a couple of lookalikes here with a big fanfare and lots of security." She winked at Wendy. "Morons spend all their time barking at the wrong tree trying to get compromising pictures of them. Idiots."

She strode away, the tight overalls completely wasted on Rob, who only saw a chunk of money morphing into toilet paper.

"Bad luck," Wendy said as Cid disappeared into the kitchen.

"Bad luck with what?" Rob said. "Oh, with Cid." He smiled, but the pain was too much to bear, and the smile withered on the vine. "Trust me, my day will come. She's desperate for me to make a move. I'm playing it cool."

Wendy stared at him open-mouthed for a moment, then collapsed onto the desk howling with laughter.

Rob did not need to stand there to be insulted. He stamped across the lobby and stood by his desk. Gutted. It's not fair. The rich get richer, while the poor of the world get ground under foot. When rich people need more riches, they just invent a perfume or design a shirt and all their cronies buy it, so all the street trudgers buy it; so the rich get richer. It's so unjust. One break, one tiny little break, that's all he was asking. Would God give him a... err... break. No, course not. Why? Because he wasn't already rich. The rich are the only ones who get rich. It's not...

He picked up the digital camera, intending to throw it, preferably somewhere soft so it didn't break. He stopped and stared at the image on the display. He examined it closely and then moved to the next picture, and the next, and a smile spread slowly across his face.

The phone on the desk rang, and he picked it up without taking his eyes off the camera display. "What? Oh yes, of course, Grace. Right away, Grace. Thank you, Grace, for the opportunity. Is that one sugar or two?"

Wendy felt genuinely sorry for him as he slunk across the lobby and into the kitchen, his life as an indentured servant now begun. Somebody should do something. Pity there wasn't somebody around.

Grace looked up as Rob entered her office and put the cup of coffee on the battered desk. She was smiling, as only a superior being with cheese-wire securely snicked around the lackey's privates can smile. Rob stood to attention and saluted.

"And I think this nonsense is the first thing we will get rid of," she said with a shake of her head. "So. No more saluting. No more calling Mr. Crichton-Jones captain. Or any other stupid name." She fixed him with flint-hard eyes. "And you will address me as Miss Beatty."

The cheese-wire was tightening.

She leaned her elbows on the desk and formed a pyramid with her fingers. She really needed a white cat to make it really work. "Do I make myself clear, Mr. Thorn?"

"Yes, Grace," Rob said, standing at ease. "Clear as a picture."

"The expression is clear as a bell—"

"And talking of pictures," Rob said, producing the digital camera from behind his back and leaning over the desk so she could see the little screen.

She sighed. It was all getting a little tiresome. She glanced at the screen and snapped back into her chair as if she'd touched a mains outlet.

Now Rob smiled. "Careful, Grace. You wouldn't want to bruise that bony little bottom, would you?" He turned the camera screen towards her. "That one there." He brought the camera closer. "What exactly have you got that bloody great bodyguard tied up with?" He studied the picture intently. "I do believe you are using our fine hotel's very best silk curtain ties." He clicked the camera. "Yes, you can see them clearly in this shot." He turned the camera slowly. "And what are you doing there, Grace? Is that legal?"

He stood up and clicked through the images. "Yes, definitely silk rope. Oh, you really should get that mole looked at, Grace. Mind, you probably haven't seen it."

Grace was struggling for breath and grabbed at the camera. "Give me that!"

Rob pulled it back to his chest, as a parent would a baby in mortal danger. "No way, José. It's like that cold war thing..." He thought for a moment. "MAD, err... mutually assured daftness."

"What the hell are you talking about? Give me that thing at once!"

"It's like the US and the Russians," Rob explained calmly. "They both had something that would stuff the other. So neither could use it, or they'd get stuffed right back." He raised his eyebrows. "You follow?"

Grace stood up. And got it. "Then it's a trade?"

"Give the lady a ceegar. Except this is more a Mexican stand-off."

She pointed at the camera. "How do I know you won't show those to your sticky friends the moment my back is turned?"

"And how do I know you won't snitch to the cap'n as soon as _my_ back is turned?"

She glared at him in silence. Nothing really to say.

"Exactly. It's MAD." He smiled and turned to go. "And I was only just saying God never gives me a break." He glanced back and smiled. "But she certainly came through for me this time."

He strolled off across the lobby and stopped as Maurice appeared from the front door. The Eagles track came around again, and he looked up as it told him he could check out any time he liked. "Did that," he said quietly. But you can never leave! He smiled broadly and patted the 'I quit' letter in his pocket. He and Maurice skipped up the statue-free stairs to the bar.

Free at last.

_____________

# COFFEE BREAK READS

###

## VOLUME #1

###

### A Whisper on the Wind

_Stories:_

Tuesday

The Mark of Cain

Coming Forth

Solstice

The Milan

About the Author

Free Library

# 

##  Tuesday

Eleanor stood at the sink and looked out at the wind swirling the dry frost and withered leaves in urgent eddies at the foot of the steps leading to the small overgrown garden.

She frowned for a moment as she tried to place the day. It was Tuesday again. Strange how often it was Tuesday these days, but she supposed it was because she loved Sunday, so it stayed away.

She lifted the plastic milk bottle and sighed. Enough for a cup of tea or a bowl of Weetabix. She would like tea, but looked down at Rosie's expectant face staring up at her. Rosie loved her Weetabix, both because it was her breakfast and because it meant she was still wanted. She was fourteen and that was old for a cocker spaniel. She was failing and knew instinctively that soon she would be left behind by her pack to fend for herself. It was the way.

"I'll put the fire on for an hour when we get back," Eleanor said, and patted Rosie's head.

How long had they been together? She reached for the box of cereal and put it on the countertop. Eight years. She stopped and shook her head. Eight years since she'd found the poor bedraggled thing all skin and bone and shivering at her door. She'd been abandoned when her puppy-bearing days were over, thrown out like a holed sock. It had taken a long time for Rosie to trust her, but now they were friends. Everyone needs a friend.

She took out the last two Weetabix, put one in her bowl and one in an identical bowl for Rosie, and shared the last inch of milk between them.

"We'll have the fire and the heating on all the time when Steven comes home."

She put one of the bowls on the floor and pointed at it so Rosie would know it was for her, then sat on the stool at the counter and mixed her cereal with the milk. She ate slowly, chewing each mouthful thirty-two times, as her mother had insisted, and looked out of the window at the dark clouds rolling over each other.

It was her fault. Steven would've been back by now if she'd been able to raise enough money for his business plans. But because she hadn't, it was taking a lot longer for him to make his way in the city. He hadn't met Rosie, she'd arrived a long time after he'd set off to make his fortune. So he would be rich and free to ask for her hand.

She washed the bowls and placed them in the plastic drainer, carefully this time because she didn't want to lose another to one of her silly old-woman moments.

Her purse was where she'd left it, since there was no one to move anything, and she clicked it open, looked in and moved the coins with her finger. "Enough for milk, Rosie. For a cup of tea." But not enough for lunch or dinner.

She pulled herself together. "Fusspot. They'll sort themselves out. I'm too fat anyway."

But she knew from the way her worn dress hung from her shoulders that being fat was something she no longer had to fret about. She straightened the dress and made sure the yellow flowers lined up as the designer intended.

"We'll go and see Mother; then we'll go to the shops." She stroked the dog's head as it sat at her feet. "You like visiting Mother, don't you, girl?"

Four feet pattered behind her on the floorboards in the hall as she stood in front of the mirrored wardrobe and chose the coat she would wear. It was an easy choice, as there were only two hanging from the rail: one for summer and one for winter. She folded the dark blue woollen coat and draped it over the upright chair next to the wardrobe and looked for her gloves. Though no one ever moved anything, things often moved themselves. She could find only one glove. She searched the four drawers, each one sticking and jamming no matter how carefully she pushed it closed.

She stood up slowly and held out her one white lace glove. She always wore her lace gloves when she visited her mother. It was expected. She would have to put one hand in her pocket. Her mother would say it was slovenly, that coats should be fastened, gloves should be worn, and arms should be at her sides. Perhaps she wouldn't notice.

Rosie was sitting by the door, ready to go. She wouldn't acknowledge any other dog if they saw one, even though she was lonely too. They would share their loneliness, and perhaps it would be less.

"Such silliness, pull yourself together." She shook herself and put on her coat, fastened it and looked at herself in the mirror.

She saw an old woman and it surprised her. She never really thought of herself as old, not until she saw that thin frail person looking back at her every morning. She looked away quickly.

They stopped at the gate that wouldn't close, and she looked both ways along the narrow street, expecting and hoping to see Steven striding towards her in that confident way of his, all black hair, flashing eyes and big smile, but the street was deserted. Today.

Rosie was much slower this morning, her head hanging and her breath laboured and harsh. It would be the cold air.

Eleanor took the shortcut across the park, between the raised stone flowerbeds now strewn with bottles and empty beer cans. She stood for a minute and looked at the tired park that had once been alive with children's laughter, but was now shabby and broken with rubbish swirling against any fence that would have it.

They waited a long time for the road to be clear enough for them to cross without hurry and the risk of falling, then stopped at the arched iron gate that barred the way into the churchyard. She pushed it with her gloved hand and felt the bite of the cold metal through the thin lace. It opened with a long creaking cry, and she closed her eyes for a moment in thanks. She was afraid that one day it wouldn't give. She hadn't thought what she would do if it failed; she couldn't think beyond that moment.

The churchyard was lovingly cared for, though she had never seen its carer and wondered if it was simply the work of the Lord, but it seemed a little too...trivial for Him.

She looked at each of the headstones as she passed. She knew them all, but it gave Rosie time to keep up. It seemed much colder today, and walking was hard. She was chilled to the bone by the time she stopped at a headstone that had a vase of yellow daffodils in front of it. They were plastic, but that was acceptable in winter. At least they were bright when most of the other headstones had only frozen stalks.

"Hello, Mother," she said softly, and moved her gloveless hand nervously in her pocket.

She brushed dried leaves from the base of the headstone and touched the engraved name. Marjorie Rigby. She used to know how long it had been, but she'd forgotten, and her brain was too cold to calculate it from the date on the stone. It didn't matter, she was with God, and in Heaven time has no meaning.

"No, Steven hasn't come back yet." She forced a fleeting smile. "Yes, I know that's what you think, but he told me he'd come back for me, and he will."

She arranged the plastic flowers against the icy wind. "You would say that, wouldn't you, Mother? You always said I would never meet a man. None would look at me twice. But you were wrong." She shook her head. "But let's not go over that again." She put her hand on the top of the stone. "It's my birthday tomorrow. But you know that."

A sudden spiteful wind shook her coat and she flinched. "He will come back." Her lips tightened. "You shouldn't say that, Mother, and it won't alter what will be. You don't want to know, but it's because of you that he has been away so long."

She stepped back to give herself some distance from her mother and read the inscription on the headstone. It said she was loved. A voice whispered in her mind and she shushed it. It also said she was greatly missed by her daughter. And by her son.

But that wasn't true. She'd abandoned her son years before she was married, before Eleanor. Who had paid the price for her guilt every day. And then Steven had suffered because of it. She relived the shock on his face when they were told Marjorie had left the house to a son Eleanor had never seen and who didn't know she existed.

She shouldn't be angry with her. She'd done what she thought was best, as she always had. But Steven had left for the city the next day, angry and disappointed that he wouldn't have the money he needed, but certain he would be successful anyway. And then he'd come back for her.

The wind moaned around the headstones, and a single snowflake flicked past. She said a prayer for her mother, and for Steven, turned and walked slowly along the gravel path with Rosie at her heel.

Father Mackenzie moved out of the shadows of the church doorway and watched her walking slowly along the gravel path, her head bent against the icy wind. A sense of guilt and shame washed over him. He was a priest and it was his duty to reach out to lost people, to save them. But some no one can save. He stepped back into his church and busied himself with the Lord's work. But the nagging sorrow remained, holding his day in its gnarled fingers.

With the door closed against the winter, she turned on the fire as promised, and Rosie curled up in front of it. As Eleanor leaned back into the high-backed chair, she realised she'd forgotten the milk. She sighed a long tired sigh. No tea today.

Rosie was very quiet, not even the sound of her gentle snoring to show she was warm and happy.

The door rattled, and for a moment Eleanor opened her eyes, expecting to see Steven home at last. But it was just the postman, and she lay back against the chair and closed her eyes again.

For the last time.

##  The Mark of Cain

Evan looked up and saw the Salt House off their starboard bow, then returned to hauling the last of the oysters into the boat. That he could see the coast so clearly meant they were returning early, but it would be a short visit.

The wind hummed in the rigging as he and the skipper poured the last buckets of oysters into the wagon and set it rolling up the beach for market.

"Two hours, Evan," the skipper said, as he trudged through the shingle. "Don't be late."

"Have I ever been late for anything, Sam?"

The skipper chuckled. "First time for everything."

"Six o'clock," Evan said, waving. "Unless I fall asleep in front of the fire."

He walked quickly up the hill through the village and dropped his boots at the door of a small cottage. "It's just me, Mom," he called.

She was usually in the kitchen, but it was deserted. He called her again, anxiously.

"I'm in here, Evan," she said. "And I've got a lovely surprise."

"I like surprises," he said and pushed open the sitting room door. And stopped.

Tom was standing with his back to the log fire as if he'd never left.

"I'm the surprise," he said. "Back for a visit."

Evan forced a smile for his mother's sake. "Five years without a word and now you just turn up. Do you want something?"

"Do I have to want something to visit my mother and brother and see how they fare?"

"Your sudden concern is touching, but after years without a word, it makes me wonder."

"That was always your trouble, you think too much." Tom's smile had been replaced by a familiar scowl. He saw his mother's worried look and put the smile back. "Let's not bicker. How are you? What are you doing?"

Evan went along with it. "I'm well and working for Sam Evans."

"Sam? Dredging oysters?"

Evan saw the sour expression skip across his face.

"It's what honest people do on the Gower."

"But you always wanted to be a proper sailor. Watching the ships and saying that was your future. You gave that up to work on an oyster boat?"

Evan looked at his mother sitting in the big old chair, her eyes shining with happiness he hadn't seen in years. "I decided to stay." He was going to add _one of us had to_ , but didn't. Tom heard it anyway.

"It was a good thing."

Evan felt a kick of anger. "Why is staying here while you gallivant around Swansea a good thing?"

"I'm not in Swansea any more. I've been promoted to London." He puffed out his chest.

"One city's like another."

"Spoken by somebody who's never seen London." Tom stepped closer. "But no matter. It was a good thing it was me went away and not you."

"Why's that?"

"If you'd run off to join the navy, then you'd be dead."

"How do you get to that?"

"You haven't heard?" Tom raised a hand. "No, of course not. Not down here. There was a big naval battle."

Evan felt his heart quicken. "Where? Who won?"

"We won. But Lord Nelson was killed."

"Lord Nelson is dead?"

"Three months ago. Along with a few hundred fools who manned his ships."

"If he won, then those _fools_ saved us from speaking French."

Tom shrugged. "Somebody had to do it."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning neither of us are in the navy, so Mother has her two sons still alive."

"One who's been missing for five years."

"I've been busy."

"Doing what?"

Tom looked away quickly, then turned to his mother. "Is it time to eat?"

She got up slowly and walked unsteadily to the kitchen door. "We have fish. Will that be right for you?"

"You know I hate fish," Tom said, then forced a smile again. "But that's London fish. I remember the fish here is good."

"What do you really want?" Evan said after the door closed. "And don't say you're visiting. I know you too well."

"You were just a kid when I left."

"Well, that kid grew up. I had to. With Dad gone—"

"And that's why I got out of here. The sea kills everybody sooner or later."

"With Dad gone," Evan continued, "one of us had to find a way to put food on the table."

"Oyster dredging?" Tom shook his head. "That's no way to live."

"It's my way. Now."

"It'll kill you just like all the others."

Evan was silent for a moment. "Then you'll have to come home to look after Mom, won't you?"

"In London there's good food, music. And women." He shook his head. "And you think I'd give that up to come back to this place?"

"Then I'd better not die. Like the _fools_." Evan turned and headed for the door.

"Where are you going? What about your fish?"

Evan ignored him, went out and closed the door quietly.

Sam was already on the beach and raised the lantern so Evan could see him.

"Didn't fall asleep, then?" Sam said as Evan waded out and climbed aboard.

"Tom's back."

"That'll be why you're all bristling and angry. Nothing changed, then?"

"No, he's just the same as he was before. Selfish. Arrogant. Full of his own importance. He's in London now, he says. Big promotion. You ask me—"

"Are we going with the lads or staying here to rant?"

Evan looked out to sea at the three boats with their sails already billowing in the stiff wind. "Might as well go with them."

Tom pulled his coat tight and crouched behind the rocks. "You see them?" he shouted against the roaring wind.

"Aye, coming in just as you said." The speaker pointed west. "Should I fetch the others?"

"No, let's see where they come ashore." Tom stood again and stepped closer to the cliff edge, where he could see the four boats approaching the point. They looked like they were heading for the beach, so his job was going to be easy. Then he saw a half dozen boats rowing out to meet them.

The cold wind streamed his eyes and he wiped his sleeve across his face as he watched the boats come around into Overton Mere, where burly men were waiting to offload the brandy kegs and carry them up the rocks beyond the point, one under each arm as if they weighed nothing.

He bent and patted the man on his shoulder. "Fetch them."

He made his way down from the cliffs and headed for the inn. Even on horseback, it was going to take Roberts the rest of the night to reach the city and return with the revenue men. So it would be morning when they'd visit Culver Hole and see what surprises it might have. And he knew it would be more than pigeons.

He still had his first glass of ale in front of him when Evan and the other late night sailors arrived, noisy and excited by their adventure. He got up from his corner table and joined them at the bar. Uninvited.

One by one they made their excuses and either left the inn or joined friends. Away from the man who knew everything about everything.

The pigeon brought word of the revenue men riding towards the coast shortly after dawn. Nobody made a fuss. They'd seen this many times.

The villagers watched the four customs men ride down past the church to the shore, where they dismounted and made their way carefully over the rocky mere past the Salt House and around the point. It was clear they knew where they were going.

Tom was sitting on the low wall outside his mother's cottage as the revenue men returned and rode slowly up the hill. They stopped and the man he'd sent to Swansea spoke without looking at him.

"There's nothing there."

Tom pointed up the hill as if giving directions. "How can there be nothing? We saw the kegs being taken to the hole."

"Nothing but pigeon shit," the man said, and rode up the hill after the thwarted customs men.

Tom fought the temptation to go and check for himself and hung around the village until his brother returned at dusk.

They sat together in silence at the big scrubbed wood table and ate the sea bass their mother had prepared.

"Something bothering you?" Evan said.

"Nothing much. I've been reliving old times today."

"That was nice for you. I've been working."

"Then you'll need an ale. I'm buying."

Evan finished his dinner slowly, collected the plates and took them to the kitchen to wash them.

Tom sat at the table, brooding. This would look bad for him. They would think him incompetent or, worse, in league with the smugglers. Either way, his promotion was gone.

The brothers didn't speak as they walked down the steep hill to the inn and took their beer to a table by the window.

"You remember those stories we heard as children about the smugglers?" Tom said at last.

Evan shrugged.

"I walked up to the Salt House today and was thinking."

Evan was silent.

"They say John Lucas had a tunnel dug under the point between the Salt House and Culver Hole. You remember that?"

"Of course, everybody has heard those daft stories."

"So you don't believe them?" Tom said, lifting his glass and putting it down again untouched.

"Lots of people have searched for a tunnel, both at the house and in the hole. Never found anything except rock."

Tom nodded slowly without taking his eyes off him. "No tunnel?"

"No tunnel." Evan watched him steadily for several seconds. "Why the sudden interest in tunnels and smugglers?"

Tom sat up and forced a smile. "The revenue men got me thinking, I suppose. Forget it."

Evan waved a hand. "Forgotten." He put down his glass and pushed it closer to Tom. "You're buying, remember?"

Tom drained his beer, crossed to the bar and returned a few minutes later with a refill for Evan.

"You haven't got one."

Tom remained standing. "I thought I'd go back home for a minute just to make sure Mom's not struggling."

"Struggling? With what?"

Tom turned to go. "Clearing up and things. She's not a young woman."

"You just noticed?" Evan said, and watched his brother leave. Something was wrong.

He took a sip of his beer and waited for a few minutes, then got up and followed.

He saw the flickering lamplight on the church window and stepped through the gate and into the shadow of the high stone wall surrounding the churchyard.

There was no sign of Tom at first, but then he saw him standing on a fallen gravestone and looking through the high window. He stepped down and moved silently back towards the gate.

"Are you thinking of offering a prayer for your sins?" Evan said, and stepped out onto the path.

Tom jumped guiltily. "I was just seeing who was in the church. You never know these days."

"And who was?"

Tom was silent for several seconds. "You know who."

"I do. Sam, Edmund and a few strong boys." He gave Tom a moment to respond, but got nothing. "Strong arms to move the kegs into the altar and out of sight." He stepped closer to his brother. "But it's too late for that now, isn't it?"

"I don't understand what y—"

"There's nobody here but us, so you can stop pretending. This new job you have in the city. It's with the revenue, isn't it?"

Tom took a little step back and looked around quickly.

"And now what?" Ewan said. "Are you going to inform on them? On your friends?"

"They're not my friends, never were."

"That was your fault." Evan put his hand on his brother's arm. "If you do this, if you inform on them, they will be thrown in prison for years."

Tom shrugged. "It's the law."

"What do you think will happen to their families?"

"They should've thought of that."

"You're an arrogant fool, Tom." Evan let go of his arm. "You always were. And to feed your arrogance you're going to put a dozen men in prison and let their children starve."

Tom pushed past him. "I have no choice. I am an officer of the court. It is my duty."

Evan had to stop him. He snatched up a small stone cross and hit him once. He'd intended to knock him out. To stop him long enough for the men to dispose of the evidence. But long years on the heavy boats had given him strength that belied his slight stature.

Tom was dead; he knew it the moment he hit him. He dropped the cross and knelt beside his brother. "You would have sent all these families to hell," he said quietly.

He had to do something.

He would take his brother's body out past the point and let the sea wash it onto the rocks; it would be an accident. But the weight of the grief would kill his mother.

He looked around desperately, saw a freshly dug grave near the wall and dragged his brother to it and lowered him in. He covered his body with just enough soil to ensure it wouldn't be discovered when the grave's true occupant was laid to rest.

The moon lit the grave and the realization of what he'd done settled on him like the weight of the ocean. He was transfixed by the blackness of the grave edged in ghostly blue moonlight.

Tom should be guided to heaven. The Lord's Prayer would ease his way, but he couldn't think and his ears roared with pain and guilt.

From nowhere old words filled his mind.

_And now_ _you are cursed from the ground, which has opened its mouth to receive your brother's blood from your hand_.

He turned to get away, saw the cross on the path and snatched it up and pushed it into the earth in front of an old headstone. And ran.

Many years would pass before the cross was discovered. Worn and lost in time it was placed beside the church entrance as a casual curiosity. Where it would keep its terrible secret for eternity.

The mark of Cain.

## Coming Forth

### Teens and Toilets

It was cold, but it always was in the tin box they called a _retail unit_. Except in the summer, then it was sweltering. It being autumn, it was neither, so that was that theory shot down.

Phil Prosser was sitting at a plastic table, reading the paper. Which was tough with the old storeman mumbling and sniffing in his wire cage in the corner. "Wilf," he said, without looking up. No response. "Hey, aging store person."

"What?" Wilf said, putting his finger on the list he was checking against the TVs and electronics stacked on the metal shelves.

"You're making noise. I'm reading."

"Don't tell everybody, they'll think you're bragging." Wilf went back to his list and carried on mumbling.

Steve let his chair drop back onto four legs, leaned on the table and chuckled.

Phil glanced over the top of his paper. "Go and do things."

"What things?"

"You're the apprentice. Do apprentice things."

Steve leaned his chair back onto two legs again.

Doc and the Swede were sitting at a table near the stained counter that was fondly known as the kitchen. They were eating a sausage sandwich. One each, as that seemed appropriate.

The door from the sales counter opened and they looked up casually. Val smiled at them and ushered her teenage daughter into the workshop, with Maureen the bookkeeper right behind them. In case she missed anything.

"Mornin'," Phil said, putting down his newspaper. "That's not your Brittany, is it, Val?"

"It is," Val said. "Grown a bit, hasn't she?"

"Certainly has. Mornin', Brittany."

She threw him a quick smile in case he was somebody, and ignored Steve, who was looking her over appreciatively.

Phil leaned across the table. "You know, Steve, these days they lock you up for even _thinking_ about sex with a minor."

Steve gave him a puzzled look. "That right? I didn't know that." He frowned with the effort of thinking. "That's a bit hard on the Welsh, isn't it?"

Phil closed his eyes for a moment, then returned to his paper in the hope of finding sanity.

"She's off school today, so I had to bring her in," Val said.

"No, you didn't," Brittany said. "I could've stayed at home."

"Yes, dear. Like last time."

"I explained about that."

Michael Finley came out of his office, holding a clipboard, and stood next to the service counter, below the big sign that said _Forth TV Engineering – the home of bright sparks_. That was Mr. Forth's idea. He thought it was clever. Nobody argued.

"Okay, troops, gather round."

Nobody moved.

"Err... can I have your attention, lads?"

Doc wiped his hands on his blue overalls. "You think Mickey Finn wants something?"

Phil put down his paper. "Could be, unless he's just lonely." He got up slowly and strolled over to lean on the counter.

The rest of the lads followed in their own time and the boss unclipped the papers from his board and handed them out.

"Where you going today, then, Swede?" Phil said.

"Argyle Street, with you. Becoming a home from home, this one."

"Dog eat the cable again?"

Brittany walked slowly around the group. "You don't look Swedish. Swedish people have blond hair. Are you Swedish?"

The Swede shook his head. "Nah."

"Then why they call you the Swede?"

"They didn't." He pointed at Phil. "Not until that dozy bugger started it."

"He dyes his hair," Phil said, turning to Brittany.

Brittany leaned to her left for a better look. "Do you? Why do you do that, then? Blond hair is much better than _that_." She pointed at the Swede's muddy brown hair.

"I don't dye my hair. Don't listen to that daft sod. He'll be telling you I'm a gay alien next."

Brittany leaned on the counter. "Why would aliens be gay?"

The Swede shrugged. "How would I know? Maybe alien women are really ugly."

Brittany continued to lean on the counter, but slid away a little and looked hard at Phil. "He's not Swedish."

"He's a mole," Phil said.

"He's too big."

"No," Doc said, "he means he's an undercover agent for the invasion."

"Who by?"

"The Swedes," Phil said.

"Why would they invade us? Sweden is much nicer."

"Have you ever been there?" Phil said.

"No," Brittany said, squinting at him. "Have you?"

"Been to Ikea. Does that count?"

"So why is Sweden invading Britain, then?" Brittany said, frowning now.

"Fed up with all that blondness. They hunger for a bit of rough," Phil said.

"Coming to the right place, then," Maureen said, her face screwed up like she'd sucked a lemon.

"How do you know they're going to invade?" Brittany said.

"Okay, if they weren't going to invade, why'd they send a spy?" He pointed at the Swede. "It's obvious."

Brittany looked at the Swede again. "He's not Swedish."

"That's what I keep saying," the Swede said, and shook his head.

"They're not going to send spies who are all blond and wearing lederhosen, are they?" Phil said.

"That's the Germans," Doc said, looking up from his job list.

"Bloody hell, are they coming as well?" Steve said, and put down the two toolboxes he was holding, ready for the off.

"Nah," Phil said. "They tried it once and didn't like the weather."

"Gentlemen. And ladies and..." Mickey looked Brittany over as if he'd only just noticed her. "Who is this child?"

"I'm not a child," Brittany said, standing up from the counter. "I'm fourteen."

"That's my Brittany," Val said.

"Come on then, lads," Mickey said, forgetting about her, "time's, err... get your skates on."

"Wilco, Mickey," Phil said. "Steve, get the skates out."

Steve frowned. "Haven't got skates. Got a skateboard."

"Fall off it and hit your head a lot, do you?"

Jessie and Mrs. T both looked up from frying stuff as Phil and Steve banged in through the door of the greasy spoon café. An old tramp sitting by the window with his free cup of tea eyed them for a second, then looked down at the huge dog sitting by his leg.

"What will it be this mornin', Phil?" Mrs. T said.

Phil checked out the menu board.

"Shouldn't we be over at Lansdowne Road?" Steve said. "She's waiting in for us. Her telly on the blink."

"Okay, say we do... y'know, go straight there. And then I haven't had my breakfast... and then I get all dizzy from lack of food... and then I fall off the ladder."

Steve frowned. "But you never go up the ladder. You say that's my job. Come to think of it, you never—"

"I was speaking meteorologically, wasn't I?" He checked the menu board again. "I'll have a cup of tea and a bacon toast, please, Mrs. T."

"You want bacon with that?"

"Okay, yeah. You talked me into it."

"What about your young friend?"

Steve sighed once and looked up at the board. "You got any bacon?"

"Hang on, dear." She turned to Jessie, who was frying bacon. "We got any bacon, Jessie?"

"What's that? No, I'm not baking," Jessie said. "Cakes are this afternoon. It's just bacon this morning."

"I'll have a sausage sandwich and a mug of tea," Steve said.

The door rattled open again to let in a lady of a certain age, who was as wide as she was tall.

"You mind if I push in front?" she said. "I've got to catch the bus."

"No, Maud, you go ahead," Phil said, waving her towards the counter and leaning back to make room.

"I'll have the full breakfast, Mrs. T. Oh, can I have another egg instead of the fried bread? It gives me terrible wind."

"My George used to get wind something terrible. He doesn't now though."

"Oh, how'd they cure it, then, Mrs. T?"

"What? Oh, he died."

Maud took the rolled-up paper out of Steve's overalls pocket. "Don't mind do you, dear? It's me horoscope, you see. Don't do nothing without me horoscope." She unrolled the newspaper and spread it on the table Phil was now sitting at.

"How's your horror scope, then, Maud?"

"What?" Maud looked up from the paper, then caught up. "Oh, it says I'm going to get laid—" She patted her huge chest.

Steve's jaw was hanging open and his eyes had a wild look of terror.

"Oh, 'scuse me." She burped loudly. "That's better. Me horoscope says I'm going to get laid off."

"Oh, that's bad news," Phil said.

"Not really, I haven't got a job." She rolled up the newspaper and handed it back to Steve before stepping back to the counter and giving Mrs. T some money. She closed the door behind her on her way out.

"She forgot her breakfast," Steve said.

"No, she didn't," Mrs. T said. "She's got to catch a bus. Didn't you hear her?"

The door had barely closed when Doc came in.

"Where's the Swede?" Phil said.

"Oh, he's over at Argyle Street, doin' that job. No point us both turning up and blocking all the parkin', is there?" He looked around. "Hey, Joe Snow the Rain Dodger's in." He crossed to Joe's table. "Hiya, Joe. How's the beggin' today?"

"Bugger off."

"Hey, I like dogs. Your dog don't bite, does he?"

Joe looked up slowly from his tea. "No, he bloody doesn't."

Doc bent down to pet the dog and jumped back quickly as it tried to bite his hand off. "Bloody hell! I thought you said your dog doesn't bite."

Joe looked down at the dog then back at Doc. "That's Bill's dog."

Doc backed off and sat at Phil's table, then looked around slowly. "Our Martin's goin' into the window cleanin' business."

"That'll be nice. You'll miss him at home."

"No, I bloody won't. Lazy little sod." He looked around again. Nobody had moved. "He needs some ladders though. D'ya know where I might get some, cheap?"

Phil shook his head. "Don't really, not off the top of my head. I know where there's a bucket though."

"Oh, right," Doc said, "he'll need one of them... but you sure about the ladders? The little shit will be spendin' our pensions."

"Right, I can see you're in a fix, and... seeing as how there's a full set of ladders on my van... I think I can help you out."

"Cool," Doc said, brightening. "But won't they notice?"

"Notice what?"

"That your ladders have gone."

"Jesus, has somebody nicked the ladders?" Phil rapped the table in front of his apprentice. "C'mon, Steve, some toerag has swiped the ladders. Mickey Finn'll do his nut."

Mickey Finn leaned his elbows on the service counter and put his head in his hands. "Mr. Forth'll go ballistic. That's the third lot of ladders we've lost this year. What are people doing with them?"

"Climbing them?" Phil said, and shrugged.

"Well, there's no more. We're waiting for a delivery." Mickey put his head back in his hands. "God knows what I'm going to tell Mr. Forth."

"You could tell him we're taking steps..."

Phil headed for the door.

"Where you going?" Mickey said.

"Haven't got no ladders. Can't work, then. Going to the pub." He glanced back. "Still get paid though, right?"

"I—"

"Ta, Mickey. C'mon, apprentice, pub lessons to be learnt."

##  Solstice

Ben heard the sound of horses and turned to look back up the hill. A coach pulled by a team of two fine black stallions was approaching fast and taking up most of the road. For a moment he thought about standing his ground and forcing the driver to stop, but only for a moment. One look at the grizzled old man driving the team told him he'd probably just roll right over him. He turned to step off the road, but the coach clipped him and threw him into the muddy ditch and thundered on past.

He started to get up and glared after the coach. If he sprinted, he could catch it at the bend and...what? Jump on it? One whisper from death in a day was enough. He saw the girl leaning out of the coach and forgot all about his anger.

The coach careered round the sharp bend in front of the church, and he saw her clearly framed in the window and let his breath out in a low whistle. She was the most breathtaking girl he'd ever seen, and he'd been to the city so knew what was out there. He could've walked from one end of Swansea to the other for a year and not seen anyone like her. She was staring back at him in alarm, her mouth forming a perfect O and her pale blonde hair flowing like wind-blown mist.

Then she was gone.

Pete climbed down from the low wall where he'd jumped as soon as he'd heard the coach.

"You'll get to know that sound," he said, looking at the bend in the road.

"What sound?" Ben said, without really caring.

"The coach. Gareth drives it like that all the time. You get out of the way or you get..." He shrugged and pointed at Ben sitting in the mud.

"Who was that?" Ben asked, getting up and trying to brush the mud off his breeches.

"I told you, it's Gareth. He's a bit mad."

"No, not him. The girl."

Pete blinked twice then shook his head. "Put her from your mind. There goes nothing but trouble."

Ben turned and glared at him.

"That," Pete said, pointing down the hill. "That is Katherine Lucas." He stopped, as if that ought to be enough, but clearly it wasn't. "That's the daughter of John Lucas." Still nothing. "The pirate."

Ben frowned at him, then looked again at the empty road. "Her father's a pirate?"

"Was."

"Not now? That's good." Ben started walking down the hill towards the shore.

"Where you going?" Pete pointed up the road. "We were going to the tavern!"

Ben waved as he strode quickly away.

Finding the home of John Lucas wasn't difficult; the first person he asked pointed out Salte House on the rocks below Port Eynon Point. He stopped at the dunes and looked across the beach. The house was a stone-built fortress right on the rugged foreshore, with stout walls all around it and stretching up to the cliffs. It would've taken a small army to breach those walls, and be impenetrable for the king's preventatives in search of smuggled contraband.

Ben saw the black coach approaching the house, much more slowly now it was on the narrow, uneven drive. And he could see the girl silhouetted in the coach window.

He started to run. He hadn't intended to, it just happened all on its own. Over the dunes and across the narrow strip of stony beach, then over the sharp rocks up to the house. He jumped up onto the crushed stone drive and leant over to catch his breath.

"You're the madman who tried to crash my coach."

He looked up sharply and saw her. She was even more lovely now he could see all of her. "Yes. No. It wasn't me!"

She frowned and her pale blue eyes wrinkled. "It was you. I saw you." She looked him up and down with the hint of a smile. "You're rather a mess."

Ben looked down at his oversized breeches and frayed and badly stitched open jacket and tried to brush off some of the mud. "It was you."

Her frown deepened. "It was me doing what?"

He looked up and saw her eyes and smiling face, small and elfin.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked, and stepped away from him.

"No, I have not." He smiled and his hazel eyes flashed a hint of mischief. "Though I think I might be dreaming."

She sighed heavily and turned to leave the imbecile to his dreaming.

"You're Kate," he said. With a hint of desperation.

She turned back. "No, I'm Katherine." She tilted her head a little and looked at him steadily, seeing him for the first time. Her age, or perhaps a little older, nineteen perhaps, it was hard to tell under all that mud and sun browning. Not bad looking, for a peasant. Strong, square chin and long ink-black hair. A good face, with lots of laughter lines even at his young age. And his eyes...they...

She looked away, suddenly aware of how warm it had become, for December.

"Do you walk?" he asked.

She watched him for several seconds, then took two long steps to demonstrate her walking prowess.

"I mean," he said, with a slow shake of his head and a wide infectious smile, "do you walk on the beach?"

She continued to watch him for a moment, suspicion playing around her eyes. "I walk sometimes."

"Then I'll walk sometimes too." He stepped a tiny bit closer. "Would sometimes be tomorrow morning?"

She shrugged and he forced himself not to look at her body.

"Then I will walk on the beach at ten o'clock tomorrow." He turned, stopped and looked back. "If you are walking too, then we'll be walking on the beach together."

She watched him go. And stayed on the road in the stiff easterly winter wind until she felt cool enough to go into the house.

He sat on the dunes and waited, checking his father's old watch every few minutes. If she wasn't there in another ten minutes...he sighed. He'd wait, he knew it. He'd waited almost—he checked his watch again—forty minutes. Was any girl worth it? No, not any girl. But Kate was. He smiled.

"This doesn't look like walking."

He turned slowly and looked up at her standing on the dunes behind him, her black cape billowing and her pale hair streaming in the wind. "It's resting. The walking was exhausting."

"You've been sitting there for an hour," she said, with a slow shake of her head.

"You were watching me?"

She felt her cheeks redden and walked away, then stopped and looked back. "You said you would walk? Are you incapacitated by drink, again?"

"I wasn't drunk!" He jumped to his feet and strode after her. She was an infuriating person.

"You will have nothing more to do with this peasant," John Lucas said, and returned to his ledger, as if that was an end to it.

"I will see whomever I want to see!"

He looked up slowly, his face lined by his hard life on the seas. "This discussion is ended. Go to your room."

"Have you been spying on me?" She stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing with anger.

"It appears that someone needs to keep an eye on you." He shook his head. "You've been seeing this peasant secretly, and you were seen kissing this...unemployed rogue." He looked out of the window at the grey stone walls surrounding his fortress. "How do you imagine that looks?"

"It looks like what it is!" She was almost shouting, her body shaking with anger. "Love!" And there it was. Her mouth fell open and she took a little step back.

He looked back and raised his eyebrows. "Love, you say?" He clicked his teeth. "You are a child, what can you possibly know about love?"

"More than you, Father." She turned and strode to the thick wooden door.

"You will go to your Aunt Jane's." He picked up his quill and moved his ledger closer.

She froze, then turned slowly. "You can't do that."

"London will do you good," he said, and made a careful entry. "Rid you of this nonsense." He looked up. "I have a ship leaving on Monday. You will be on it." He looked away. The subject was closed.

She slammed the door behind her and stood in the dark hallway, tears filling her eyes. She could defy him. But of course she couldn't. Four days. Four days and she would be exiled to London. And Ben would be three hundred miles away. He would forget about her.

"Kate's being sent to London," Ben said, staring into his beer.

Pete nodded. "You said."

Ben looked up slowly and shook his head in disbelief. "Why would her father do that?"

"Because," Pete said, "he's John Lucas, and he owns this village, and every village between here and..." He shrugged.

"What makes him think he's so powerful?" Ben took a long drink.

"Because he's got a dozen hard men working for him. Because he runs the smuggling on the whole peninsula. Because he was a cut-throat pirate. Because he and Robert Skurlege and George Eynon own everything you can see in two days' hard ride." He shrugged.

"I'll steal her away."

"Ah!" Pete said, and put his mug down heavily. "You try that and you'll be floating with the fishes." He shook his head. "It's over, Ben." He shrugged again.

Ben drank more beer and looked around at the empty tavern. Then he had an idea. It just popped into his head and he looked up sharply. "I'll go to London."

Pete took a long breath and sighed. "And how are you going to pay for the trip? I don't know about a big town like Carmarthen, but here your wages for crewing that wreck of a fishing boat wouldn't get you to Swansea."

Ben licked his lips and looked around again, as if the answer might be right there. And it was. "You!"

Pete waved his hands. "I don't have that much money."

"No. I mean you did have. You were rich in the summer. How did you do that? I'll do it, and then I'll go to London."

Pete raised his hands. "No, Ben, that's not going to work."

"Why? What did you do that I can't do if I want to do it to do..." He shook his head, but the beer was doing its job.

Pete closed his eyes and tried to think of a way out, but there wasn't one. He could lie. He could tell his friend that his old uncle left him money. He could plead with him not to pursue it. But the boy was lost. Kate was everything to him. And anyway, he'd not lie to his friend. He took a long breath and told him.

Ben sat with his mouth open, staring at him with wide eyes, then he blinked slowly and blew out his breath. "Wrecking?"

Pete waved him silent. "For God's sake! Keep your voice down." He looked around the tavern. It was still empty, but at eleven in the morning on a workday, it would be.

Ben looked around too, then leaned over the scrubbed wood table. "Where? When?"

Pete took a long drink of beer to give him strength. "Here, on Rhossili." He looked around again. "Spanish."

Ben licked his lips. "That was you? The ship with tons of silver coin?" He shook his head in amazement.

"Yes, well, no. Well, not just me. It was..." He caught himself. "Local men who do this kind of thing."

Ben nodded. "But seamen died."

"Yes, they did. It's the government's fault."

Ben looked puzzled. "How can it be the government's fault?"

"They passed a law that says if there's even one soul left on a ship, then it isn't salvage." He shrugged. "So there's never anybody left."

Ben thought about it, then shook his head. "No, I couldn't do that. Not kill people for money."

"Don't have to now," Pete said quietly. "Mr Lu—the local leader has men on the ships who make sure everybody gets into the longboats before the ship founders."

Ben's eyes lit up. "Can we do it? You and me?" He looked around. "Do you know men on ships?" He began to hope.

Pete brushed dust off his new coat. "I could do."

"Then that's what we'll do."

"Wait a minute!"

"No, no minutes to waste." Ben stood up, then sat down quickly and pulled a face. He pushed his beer away and stood up slowly. "Come on!"

James Teale walked with them off Swansea dock as if he hadn't a care in the world, and stopped outside a tavern that was overflowing with drunken sailors spending their wages and women helping them.

"I needs the money, you see, or I'd not countenance the deed."

Ben had no idea what the man was saying, but got the feeling he was saying yes. "Then you'll do it?" he asked.

"Aye, but not for the pittance I gets from Lucas. I wants a third of whatever you gets ashore."

Ben leaned closer to Pete. "Will we get enough to pay for my trip?"

"What's she carrying?" Pete asked.

"Rum, silk, and tea," Teale said.

Pete nodded at Ben. "Even a third will get you to London and keep you fed for a year."

"Nobody dies!" Ben said.

Teale shook his head. "I'm first mate on the _King Charles_. Nobody drowns with me running things."

"Then we'll do it," Ben said, and tried to hide his shaking voice. His future now had a glimmer of hope in the dark despair.

Teale spat on his hand and put it out. "Shake on it."

There was no going back now.

Sunday was the longest day Ben had ever known. He checked his old watch constantly, but it didn't seem to be moving. He wanted to go to the tavern to pass the time, and to silence the voice in his head telling him to run away from the daft plan. Kate was going to London, forever. This was his chance, his only chance to follow her. The thought of being without her forever made his head spin. So he waited.

He sat at his tiny window in the tiny room he rented from the mad old woman, and waited. At ten o'clock Pete arrived. He waved him down to the dark yard and they walked slowly to the beach without speaking. There was nothing to say; they both knew what they were about to do. They bowed their heads against the icy wind that howled around them, and made their way along the rocks between the Lucas fortress and the rising tide.

It took them over an hour to collect enough driftwood to build the fire that was to be the beacon. Then they found a fissure in the razor-sharp rocks and huddled down to wait for midnight. And the _King Charles_.

Eventually Pete patted Ben on the shoulder and they climbed back up into the growing storm. Pete pulled a tight roll of hay from beneath his tunic, pushed it under the driftwood pile and handed a brown bottle to Ben. He pulled the cork and sniffed it.

"Brandy?"

"Not for drinking," Pete shouted as he crouched and pulled out his flint and steel. "Pour it on the hay and I'll light it, but be quick or it'll be gone in this wind."

A moment later blue flames jumped up around the wood, turned orange and red, and became a beacon. They stepped away from it and stared into the storm.

As the _King Charles_ passed Oxwich Point and turned south, James Teale stepped out onto the pitching deck and studied the coast ahead. He saw the beacon, nodded and strode up to the helmsman and ordered him to stay close to the light to avoid the sandbanks. Then he waited.

The ship corkscrewed and ploughed into the wild sea and the helmsman fought to keep her bow pointing at the beacon. Teale held onto the rail above the main deck and waited. Five more minutes and he would give the order to abandon ship. Almost there. Wait. He turned and took a breath. The ship struck the rocks and he pitched backwards over the rail onto the deck below.

Driven by a huge wave, the ship rose high above the rocks like a stricken beast rearing from an awful death; then the sea drove it down to smash itself to pieces with a near-human scream of agony.

Ben saw the ship founder on the Point. Saw the sails still full as the masts crashed down onto her, smashing her decks and spilling her cargo into the raging sea.

He couldn't breathe. The wind tore his breath away and the horror of what he was doing gripped his heart like Satan's fist. Nobody would drown. That's what the first mate had said. They'd be in the longboats.

Pete hit him on the shoulder and they ran and staggered to the pounding surf. Casks of brandy were already rolling ashore, some smashing to splinters on the rocks, but others rolling intact within reach.

They pulled them away from the waves before they could be reclaimed by the storm. And with every one saved, Ben's hopes for a new life in London rose. He found he was grinning as he pulled a chest onto the shore. Perhaps this would keep him long enough to marry his love and build a new life. Or this cask. Or this roll of lace.

Just ten feet from the cliffs he saw two more casks floating together, as if waiting for him. This was the last of it. When this was done, they would be rich.

He slid off the shore and waded into the furious sea, fighting to keep his balance on the slippery rocks. Something popped up in front of the barrels and he reached forward and pulled it towards him. It was a roll of black fabric. He would salvage that first, throw it to the shore and then grab the casks.

The fabric spread in the surf, black and billowing. His heart slammed in his chest and he prayed it was just the lightning cracking above his head that made it look like a cape. He pulled the bundle closer and rolled it over. Kate's blonde hair flowed into the white surf and her sightless eyes stared up at him, pleading to know why.

He cried out and jumped back, then scrambled forward to reach her again. A wave crashed into his chest and staggered him. He caught his balance and turned. But she was gone. He called her name and raised his hands to Heaven, but his cries were whipped away by the howling wind.

He desperately searched the waves. Then lowered his arms and walked forward into the boiling surf.

...

Legend has it that every year at the exact moment of the winter solstice, a tortured soul returns to Port Eynon Point to cry out to his love across the unforgiving sea. But though he is doomed to call her name for a thousand years, she will never answer.

##  The Milan

### (A True Story)

###

At 5:31 p.m. on a cold January day in 1888, the 1,049-ton schooner-rigged steamship the _Milan_ , bound for Bristol from Alexandria with a cargo of 500 tons of cottonseed, ran aground on the rocks of Slade's Foot, Overton, in thick fog.

The official inquiry found that the captain, Frederick Lowery, was to blame for mistaking the northern point of Lundy Island for Hartland Point. They decided that his error of navigation did not justify finding him in default. They might have acted differently had they been privy to the report sealed tight by the Foreign Office to prevent an international incident.

The following narrative draws on that report, released almost a hundred and thirty years later, and long after the fall of the Ottoman Empire and the passing of the Earl of Cromer, Evelyn Baring. The two main players in the calamity.

### 5:15 p.m., January 13, 1888

###

Youssef Elmasry looked up from securing the hatch cover protecting the delicate cargo of cottonseed and tapped the arm of the man tying off the ropes. He started to speak, but the man raised his hand quickly and squinted angrily at him.

"English." The man looked around urgently. "Again I must tell you? These people cannot know who we are."

Youssef stood up straight and puffed out his chest. "I am proud I am Egyptian. We gave these infidels all that they h—"

"Shut up!" The man pulled him back down.

Youssef returned the hard look. "Are you so ashamed of our homeland, Omar?"

"No, of course I am not." Omar looked around again. "But what would you have me do? Roll out my prayer mat and pray to the Prophet? _Sallallahu Alayhi Wa Sallam_." He closed his eyes for a moment then gripped Youssef's sleeve. "We are almost there. This is the waterway that leads to their southern port of Bristol. Soon we will be done and we shall return home."

Youssef grinned. "We will be heroes and Mustafa will welcome us into his home with arms open wide."

"Silence," Omar said, and sighed heavily. "You talk of this here, on the ship of the infidel?"

"I have no fear of these men." Youssef sniffed. "When I raise my jambiya dripping with the blood of their man Baring, their Consul. Our land is ours until Allah says otherwise."

Omar slapped his face and leaned very close to him. "You are a fool. Your loose tongue will see us both hanging from a rope." He spoke very slowly and his spittle spattered onto Youssef's face. "You speak of this again and I will put you over the side." He leaned away a little so the man could see the fog-shrouded cliffs silhouetted against the fading sky. "And you do not swim, do you?"

Youssef pulled away and stood. "I will remain silent. Until the act is done and our homeland is free from British oppression." He brushed at his woollen shirt. "Then I shall proclaim our great deed from the highest minaret."

Omar stood up next to him. "Do that. But until then remain silent." He started to turn away then looked back. "I will not remind you." He strode away across the deck and Youssef followed, angry but silent.

William Powell, dressed in oversized work clothes, stepped out of the locker a few feet from the hatch and watched the men walk away. What he'd heard replayed in his mind as he tried to make sense of it. He had shared his time on board with these men since they left Alexandria and had spoken not a word to them in that time. He didn't like them and now he knew why. He didn't fully understand what he'd heard, but they'd spoken of murder and a British Consul. He headed for the bridge to tell the captain.

Omar saw the boy leave the locker, look at them and run. He started after him, but gave up. He could not catch him. The boy would inform the captain and they would be undone. The days of hanging at sea were past, but he was under no illusion that this would be their fate when they reached Bristol. He had to do something to save himself. And his mission.

Captain Lowery was in his cabin and it took William a long minute to run down from the bridge and knock on his door.

Frederick Lowery had known the boy for most of his young life and had no doubt that what he was being told was complete, accurate and true. Without speaking, he opened the small safe and took out a pistol, checked that it was loaded and opened the door.

"Wait here, William." He closed the door behind him and started up the stairs to the bridge.

"Are you sure this will work?" Youssef said, his voice betraying his unease.

Omar's white knuckles showed as he gripped the ship's wheel. "Yes, it will work." He nodded towards the cliffs rising eerily through thick fog.

Youssef raised his dagger and pointed it at the two men backed up against the bulkhead. He glanced quickly out the window and licked his lips. "We will remain on the ship?"

"No." Omar pulled the wheel sharply to port. "We will be waiting on the shore for any who survive."

Youssef relaxed for a moment then tensed. "These men will take the wheel when we leave. Should I...?" He waved the point of his jambiya.

"No. No. It must look like an accident," Omar said, and looked quickly over his shoulder. "Give me the knife. You go quickly and lower the dinghy and wait for me."

The bridge door thudded heavily as the captain shouldered it, then again. The lock held, but it would not for long.

Omar squinted ahead, and for a fleeting moment the fog parted and he could see the cliffs. Much closer than he'd thought. He ran out onto the bridge wing and swung over the rail. He looked back to see the helmsman dash to the wheel and the first mate pull the telegraph into reverse.

The door burst in and the captain staggered onto the bridge and took a stunned look at the approaching cliffs, grabbed the wheel and pulled it round to starboard with desperate urgency. The ship resisted for a moment; then her bow moved and she was running at a sharp angle to the rock face.

Both her engines were at full speed astern when she hit. That the captain had managed to put her up onto the slanting outcrop of Slade's Foot saved her and the twenty-one souls on board. But even though she hadn't run into the cliffs, her crew was in mortal danger from the sea pounding her sides and dragging her across jagged rocks threatening to tear out her keel.

The captain signalled all stop on the engine room telegraph then ordered the men up on deck. He ran to the bridge wing and shouted to the men to launch the two lifeboats and to ready the jollyboat at the stern.

The wreckers had taken the dinghy and disappeared into the fog, but the remaining boats would be sufficient to save the crew. And at that moment, the safety of his men was the only thing on his mind. The ship could be replaced, but a life lost is gone forever.

They waited half an hour in the hope that the sea would settle and the fog lift. A gut-wrenching eternity while the sea threw everything it could at the captured ship.

At last the lifeboats swung out and the men made ready to get away. A shout from astern brought the captain to the bridge wing again and he saw a lifeboat coming alongside in the boiling surf. He closed his eyes and gave a silent thanks.

The lifeboat could not take all his crew in one trip, so he and his officers would have to risk launching the boats into the wild water. The lifeboat was manned by a crew who knew these waters intimately, but were still fighting the huge waves breaking against the ship's side. He didn't know this coast, nor did any of the men who would soon put their lives in God's hands and lower themselves into the unknown sea. He would loose some, perhaps all of them. The thought chilled his soul. He must wait for the weather to abate or for the lifeboat to return. The fog was getting worse, blocking out the land just yards away. If they waited, the waves crashing against the stranded ship could break its back and spill them onto the rocks. He looked at the men watching him and awaiting his orders.

Stay and risk being torn to pieces or launch a boat and gamble that they could remain in control. Both options terrified him, but he was the captain, and it was his decision.

"We wait for the lifeboat to return," he said to the men on the bridge.

The men exchanged long looks, but none wanted to brave the waves. They would wait, but watch for any sign that the ship was foundering, knowing that any sign would already be too late.

Their resolution was starting to weaken as time dragged on and the ship groaned and cracked on its rocky perch. The captain ordered them to the boats so they should at least stand ready if a launch was necessary.

Almost as soon as the men came out on deck, a rocket hissed over the rigging, bringing a line to the ship. The crew fastened the line to the mainmast and pulled the heavier ropes aboard. Then one by one they were hauled to the shore in the attached breeches buoy.

Captain Lowery was the last to make the short trip over the rocks and stepped down onto the grassy path with an almost intoxicating sense of relief. He crossed to the men at the buoy and held out his hand. "You saved us from a terrible choice, gentlemen." He shook offered hands. "You and the courageous lifeboat crew have done a fine day's work."

"The lifeboat is from Port Eynon. We're the rocket crew from Rhossili." The speaker grinned. "We'd show them how to use the buoy, but it'd be a waste of time. Not too bright, boys from this side of the hill."

The captain slapped the man on the shoulder then joined his crew at the edge of the cliff overlooking his ship. "We'll be back on board tomorrow and see if we can refloat her."

The first mate nodded without turning. "Only if we lighten her, and then it will be far from a certainty."

The captain touched the first mate's arm and they moved away from the others. "Take young William to the nearest town and get a message to the authorities. The wreckers have other ambitions, I fear. The boy knows their plans." He looked around. "Did you see him?"

"I did. He was one of the first into the lifeboat. I saw to it." The first mate started to move away. "I'll find him."

"Swansea is the nearest town of note," the huge man said. "The boy will be in Port Eynon over the point. You'll find horses there." He sniffed. "Not as good as you'd get in Rhossili, but they'll serve you well enough for a short journey."

Captain Lowery walked around his ship at low tide that night and found her holed on both sides. She wouldn't be refloated in the morning. The salvage operation was going to take time.

It took seventeen days to offload almost three hundred tons of cargo and make temporary repairs to the holes, and on the morning of 30 January, explosives were used to blow out jutting rocks that would tear her open, and tugs towed her off Slade's Foot to limp to Mumbles flat for more repairs before finally being towed on to Bristol. She was broken but not lost.

No trace of the wreckers or their stolen dinghy was ever found, and Evelyn Baring returned to Egypt to oversee its rise in prosperity and eventual independence.

Despite saving his crew, Captain Lowery's career was over. Years later he revisited the rocky shore and saw the thirty-yard furrow ploughed into the rock by the _Milan_ 's keel. An echo that remains to this day.

As he stood on the cliff in the sunshine and looked out across the calm blue sea, he knew why he felt no bitterness or sense of injustice.

They all should have died that day, but God had been looking their way.

__________

# COFFEE BREAK READS

###

## VOLUME #2

###

### When the Music Stops

###

#####  Stories:

#####

 On a Downtown Train

 Gasoline Alley

 Talking Old Soldiers

 Leaving on a Jet Plane

A Day in the Life of a Fool

About the Author

#

###

## On a Downtown Train

###

###

Aliyah concentrated on the folded subway map on her lap and matched the name of the station to the sign on the platform. She had to be quick because the station stopped only briefly outside the subway train's windows before it slid away and brought back the darkness. She'd put a tick against all the stations they'd seen on their journey from the Bronx to Manhattan. Line 2. She moved the map a little and squinted at it and found a name. Yes, that was what it was called.

She glanced up at her mother sitting next to her and got a smile and the hint of a frown.

"Are you squinting again, girl?"

She had no idea if she'd been squinting. It wasn't possible to think about not squinting and still get the station names ticked off. She couldn't do both, and she had to tick off the names, or...

"Don't get pencil on your dress." Her mother reached over and adjusted the map, opening it up one fold to cover her lap.

Aliyah could've done that. She was four, and girls of four are clever, everybody knows that. Her mother had told her just that, many times, so it must be true.

"How many stations to go?"

Aliyah squinted at the map, caught herself and opened her eyes properly. If she squinted, then she'd have to wear glasses. She shuddered.

The last station had been...She tracked her finger over the map. Nine and Six Street. She moved her lips as her finger traced the line and stopped for a moment at each station. "Six. Six to go." She beamed at her mother and got a smile and a nod. See, clever.

She looked up as another station flickered past the window and stopped. She ticked it off. Easy, just numbers. She had time to watch the people getting on and off the train. Not the rich people they were going to see in...she squinted, forgetting about the risk of glasses. Yes, in Madhatter. The people on the train were funny, frowning and not looking at each other. Her mother said the people in Madhatter had so much money they bought food from poor people so they wouldn't have to make it themselves. She wondered if they had to wash or if they got someone to wash for them. That would be lovely. Washing was rubbish.

She was about to ask her mother how much money was a lot, when a giant sat opposite and scowled at her. She kept her eyes on the map. Giants are scary people, and you don't have to be clever to know that.

She ticked off the stations without looking at the giant, even though she really wanted to. A station slid alongside. She knew this word, _Park_ , and traced her finger on the map. There. Her mother took her arm before she could tick it off. She would have to tick it off before the station disappeared or bad things would happen.

She looked at the giant, she couldn't help it; she was thinking how she would finish her list. She hadn't meant to look. He stared at her and scowled more. Yes, he was a giant for sure. His fat body seemed to flop over onto the seat next to him. That must be uncomfortable.

Her mother steered her off the train and took her hand firmly as the rush of people flowed past them. Then it was just the two of them watching the people going away. She moved a little closer to her mother's leg.

"Shall I take that?" her mother said, and took the map and pencil from her.

But she hadn't finished ticking. She watched open-mouthed as the map disappeared into her big brown shopping bag. If she said _hoppy bunnies_ five times, then the bad things wouldn't happen. It worked at night when the monsters were under the bed, so it would work now.

Her mother tugged her arm gently and they were moving. She'd lost count. Five was a lot.

She forgot about the list when they came out of the station and onto the street with the rich people. They were there, everywhere. Men in suits like they were going to church, women in men's suits, fat men wearing white shirts that looked like they would split and let the fat splash out onto the street. And her mother had been right. Everybody seemed to be eating food from boxes and bags or sucking something from big cups with lids on. These were the rich people.

Her mother pulled her closer and they walked along the street, weaving around people who didn't seem to see them.

She stayed close to her mother and tried to see why the people had stopped moving. They were just standing and staring up at the sky. Perhaps they could see balloons. She liked balloons.

She moved around her mother's legs and looked up. There was smoke, lots of smoke and big flames coming from the top of two tall buildings that seemed to go right up to the clouds. It was the smoke the rich people were looking at and crying and moaning and shouting.

She tugged her mother's hand and she bent down closer, but still watched the smoke.

"Why is the building smoking?"

"I don't know." Her mother gripped her hand a little harder. Too hard. "That's the World Trade Center. It's on fire."

Fire was bad. That was why the rich people were crying. She watched the smoke and the funny flames, but she needed the bathroom, so it was hard to think about what was happening.

One of the buildings seemed to swell up as if a giant pushed at the walls, then it got shorter like the houses her daddy had built with cards. The people were screaming, and then they ran.

Aliyah concentrated on the folded subway map on her lap and ticked off the stations as they passed. She recognized them, but couldn't know if the memory was from the journey so many years ago or from the ones she'd taken every year since her sixteenth birthday, the year they'd let her go out unaccompanied.

Of course, she knew now that it had been the worst day in America's hard history. Three thousand people had died while doing a normal day's work on a perfectly normal day.

She glanced across the aisle, but there was no giant filling two seats, and she turned to look at the tunnel walls flashing past the window.

Once the core of the towers had been severed, they collapsed under their own weight, dropping down floor by floor until all hundred and ten stories punched onto the ground and kept going, down into the shopping mall and underground station.

The tidal wave of dust blew out in all directions, a filthy grey cloud billowing, rolling and choking everyone it engulfed. Then the concrete and rubble had come.

The people who'd been watching and crying took a moment to process what was happening before they ran. A mass of people came out of the raging storm, a wave of panicking bodies filling the street and the sidewalk and oblivious to anything and anyone in their way.

Aliyah and her mother were in their way. Her mother gripped her hand so tight she thought she would smash it. They tried to run away from the roaring sound filling the air and shaking it like when her daddy had played music through big speakers, but it was so hard with terrified people slamming into them every few steps.

The choking storm of dust and thousand-pound blocks blew down the street, funneled by the tall buildings, tumbling over itself and obliterating everything in its path.

Her mother pulled her towards an open shop door, towards hope of safety, but the door slammed as the shopkeeper tried to shut out the avalanche with a pane of glass.

The cars that had been moving slowly as their drivers watched the world's most famous buildings spewing fire and smoke were abandoned, their owners joining the desperate race for safety.

Aliyah flinched at a terrible crunching sound and looked back down the street to see cars flattened by piles of debris taller than a man. A man's arm had flopped out of a car's side window, and the hand that was resting on the rubble twitched as if beckoning her.

The cloud was racing towards them faster than they could run. She looked back and saw it swallow people, taking them in mid-step. She knew what death was, she'd seen her father die on the steps of their apartment block, right in front of her, but she didn't understand it, she just knew that when somebody went there, they never came back. Lots of people were never coming back.

Her mother wrenched her arm and she staggered after her. She screamed and shouted for her to stop, but her tiny voice was lost in the roar that filled the world.

Blocks as big as cars crashed all around them, and dust, rubble and people blew past her. Her mother pulled her along faster than her feet could work, so she had to hang on with both hands and try to make her feet catch up.

The boiling grey cloud caught them. The sunlight blinked out and hell took its place.

People were everywhere, pushing each other, jumping over the fallen, stepping on them, their eyes wide but almost lost in the shroud of grey that covered them all.

Her mother was no longer holding her hand. She had gone.

She couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't think. There was nothing now, just noise and pain from a thousand shards cutting and beating her. She staggered, caught her balance, and looked up to see a grey monster as big as a bull charging right at her.

The monster was beyond fear now, lost in a place from which he would never return. His whole mind, his whole being was now just instinct, just to survive. Nothing else mattered. In life he'd been a kind and gentle man with grandchildren no older than Aliyah, but that world was gone. He ran her down without even knowing she was there.

She screamed and scrambled onto her knees, her hand searching for her mother's. There was no grip crushing her fingers. She was alone, her mother swallowed by the howling storm of pain.

There was nobody now, no adult to show her the way, to take her hand and lead her back to her mother, as there had been many times in the park when excitement had led her away from safety. Just the screams of the dying and the shuddering impact of the towers crashing to earth and spewing a billion tons of pulverized masonry into the streets.

She stood and tried to work out which way they had been going so she could run after her mother, but there was nothing, just a grey swirling fog and its rain of death.

She would wait for it to pass; that was a clever idea. It would pass; rain and snow passed. Then she would see where to go and find her mother. She would wait.

A piece of a steel girder drove itself into the sidewalk close enough for her to reach out and touch it.

She would wait in a doorway, as she did with her mother when they were caught in the rain. But there was no doorway, no buildings, nothing at all. Tears cut black ribbons on her cheeks, and she began to tremble, then to shake so much her legs buckled.

A hand took her and scooped her up. She opened her eyes to see another monster. A ghost in a policeman's cap the color of...everything. She wriggled and tried to get free, but the monster was too big, too strong. She was caught.

The memories were still tumbling through her mind, and it took several long seconds before Aliyah remembered she was on the train. She looked down at the map folded on her lap.

The grey monster had been a cop covered in dust like everyone and everything. He'd held onto her even though she'd kicked and screamed. He had saved her life, and she would never forgive him.

He'd put her down gently when they reached the sunshine, knelt down and wiped her face with his fingers, and tried to smile, but his eyes were wild and scary, like he'd seen the devil and was still alive to talk about it.

"What's your name?" His voice was gruff and hoarse from the dust.

She knew her name, of course she did, but she wasn't allowed to tell it to strangers.

He brushed her shoulders with his hand and dust drifted away. "Where's your momma?"

Her twenty-one-year-old brain that was remembering knew that was a stupid question, but the four-year-old who heard it didn't have an answer. She hoped her mother wasn't with God like her father.

She couldn't tell him anything, her voice wasn't working, and all she felt was fear, terrible fear worse than when the monsters made noises in the wardrobe. Her mother was gone, maybe to heaven, and everybody was screaming and crying and bleeding.

They'd come to Madhatter to see the rich people, but these people were very frightening. She wanted to go home.

"Do you know where you live?" The grey policeman turned her gently away from the broken people.

She didn't know. She'd been learning it, but only for a little while. All she remembered was a nine.

"A tall building," she said very quietly.

"Good," the smiling police officer said. "Can you tell me where the tall building is?"

She looked at her shoes. They'd been black and shiny, but now they looked like old sneakers. Her mom would be cross. She looked around urgently and felt the policeman squeeze her shoulder.

"Come on, let's get you somewhere quiet." He stood and took her hand.

She pulled away. If she went with this man, how would her mother find her?

"I'm going to tell all the police officers in the area to look out for your momma," the policeman said. "When they find her, they'll bring her right to you."

She let him lead her away and stared at everyone she saw, but her mother wasn't there. Perhaps she would be waiting at the place the man was taking her. Yes, she would be there.

She hadn't been there, or anywhere. She'd been lost without trace, as so many good people had been on that day.

For fourteen years, while the sad little girl became a young woman, she stared out of the windows of the foster homes that had kept her until they couldn't manage her anger and depression any more. The list of homes had filled her dog-eared notebook in which she kept detailed notes on everywhere she lived, went to school, or just visited. She would never forget an address again.

At eighteen they'd put her out on the street, wiped their hands and closed the door, glad to be rid of her. _This girl is trouble_. It was double underlined in her record. Now she was somebody else's problem. God help them.

She looked at her reflection in the train window, her haunted eyes staring back at her. So this was her life now. A string of waitressing jobs where she'd work in silence and alone until somebody said or did something that would bring an explosive and violent response. Then onto another job, each one moving further into the long night and away from the day. Where people kept to themselves and left her alone.

September eleven again, and here she was on the downtown train, the same downtown train she and her mother had taken at nine a.m., a lifetime ago. Before her momma had gone to heaven to be with the man who'd died on the stoop, the victim of a shooting, accidental or deliberate. The records she'd seen didn't say, and nobody was ever caught or even questioned. Her mother would know the truth. Now.

She glanced at the station as it slid into view. Park Place. She remembered this was where they'd got off. Perhaps she just remembered it from last year or the year before or...This time the next stop was where she would get off. To relive the last day of her life. And of her mother's life.

The train moved off into darkness and stopped again in the harsh light of a brand new station. She walked quickly along the carriage as the doors slid open, and felt the knot tighten in her stomach, as it did every time she took this trip. It was hard, and in some strange way it was becoming harder every year. She should stop, let it lie and find her life, but if she didn't make this trip at this time each year, then something bad would happen. What that would be, she didn't know, it just would.

The old woman sitting pressed against the back of the plastic seat didn't look up as she passed; she continued to stare at something on her lap. Old women did that sort of thing. Nothing.

Aliyah was almost at the door and beginning her walk of pain when she stopped dead still. Her breath had frozen and her heart began to slam in her chest. She told her body to turn, but it refused to move.

"This is my stop," the old woman said, and pointed at the open door. "It will close."

Aliyah's eyes moved to the woman's hands, to the folded map she held against her chest, and then moved up to her eyes.

She was not old as she'd thought, just a woman whose life had been sucked from her.

Their eyes found each other, and the woman gave a little start and took a tiny step backwards.

"Momma?" Aliyah said almost without sound.

The woman stared at her in fear, shook her head very slowly, moved around her and stepped off the train. And stopped.

The doors closed and the train shuddered, and Aliyah saw the woman turn and look at her through the dirty glass, her mouth forming a single word.

Aliyah.

## Gasoline Alley

###

###

"Well, folks, it looks like we're looking at the next NASCAR Xfinity Series champion right here. Johnny Joe Rodriguez! This victory puts him through to the Round of 8. So with only four races to go, I've got my money on this young man going all the way."

The crowd roared and applauded their approval of the announcer's prediction, albeit a bit biased, this being the track that started Johnny's meteoric career. He was their boy.

Next race was at Kansas Speedway, where Andy Hammond's prediction would be put to the test. At the end of every round, four drivers would be cut, so those left would be the very best there was. It wasn't going to be a Sunday drive in the park.

After the race he left the track in the red Ford pickup he liked to let the fans think he drove all the time, and waved and smiled. Hell, what was there not to smile about?

Well, the guy in a red Camry for one. Shit, he'd been all over him on the last lap. Johnny didn't want to put it into words, but it had been close, real close. Had the guy tapped his tail on a bend, he wouldn't have been the golden boy for Andy's big prediction. Saw him afterwards, white suit and helmet with a smoked visor. Darth Vader. Some folks watch too many movies.

He headed north and joined the Ronald Reagan Turnpike towards Miami to meet up with Laredo and watch the sun set over South Beach. Tell him about the dude in the Camry and then forget about it. With the help of a few mojitos.

Traffic wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, it being NASCAR day, and he made it in a little under an hour thirty. Early.

He pulled up behind the hotel, handed the keys to a young kid with a stammer and a smile that was going to split his face, took the keys to his black Shelby GT350, and headed right back out again. Mojitos were calling. It'd been a shit day. That was the other thing. He'd come second, and Christ, he'd had to work at it. Maybe the old magic was fading.

He pulled up outside the Pointe Blank bar and tossed the keys to another kid indistinguishable from the last one. The bar was busy and it took him a minute to see Laredo in a booth way in the back. Quiet was what he needed.

Forget about it, it was just one race. Somebody having a lucky day. Forget about it.

Laredo unfolded his six-foot-six frame out of the bench and waved him over. The man was older than God and had more cracks in his sun-blasted face than Fairfield Lake in the big drought.

Johnny gave the old guy a big grin and stepped up to the table, glad to see he'd got the mojitos in tall chilled glasses. The man walked the walk.

There was a girl. Hell, he was supposed to call them women; shit, he knew that. She was sitting to Laredo's right, tucked back in the booth, sipping a tall drink through a straw and watching him with eyes that sparkled in the flicker of the table tealights. He felt a little kick but kept cool.

"Hey," he said, and glanced at Laredo. "You gonna introduce us?"

"Wasn't plannin' on it." He shrugged and his bony shoulder lined his white shirt. It had a bolo tie with a lone star lawman's badge as a clip. Jesus, why didn't he just spray _Texan_ on his shirt?

Johnny shook his head and pointed at the tie. "Somebody dare you to wear that?"

Laredo straightened it and sniffed. "You want I should go out naked?"

The girl with the eyes coughed.

Laredo nodded towards her. "This here's my niece."

The girl laughed and almost choked on her drink. She brushed her pale blue blouse with a napkin and watched Johnny's eyes moving with it. "You like what you see?"

Johnny shrugged. "Why not? Seen better, but you'll do." He slid into the side of the booth and took one of the half-dozen drinks laid out in a semicircle on the table.

"You get hit a lot?" the girl said, and sipped her drink again.

Johnny shrugged. "Time to time."

"Johnny's a NASCAR driver," Laredo said. "Sometimes things get a mite excited when there's a tussle."

"Yeah, I can see how they could." She continued to watch him over the rim of her glass.

"You like what you see?" he said.

"Why not? Seen better, but you'll do."

"Think that's what our friends in Louisiana would call touché."

"Shit, Laredo, you don't got no friends."

"You from Texas too?" she said, and almost sounded interested.

"No, ma'am, I'm from El Paso."

They watched each other over their drinks and waited. She didn't say it.

"Saw you race today," she said instead.

He shook his head.

"You don't believe me?"

"Ma'am, I came right on here soon as I parked the car at the raceway."

"Saw you do that, and waving from the cherry red Ford." She closed one eye. "You really drive an old Ford pickup?"

"Sometimes."

She chuckled and he felt the kick again.

"I see you as a muscle-car man." She thought for a moment. "What is it? Camaro?" She shook her head. "No, you got one of those for your work car. I know. Shelby Mustang."

Johnny glanced towards the door. "You saw me arrive."

"Girl was here the whole time," Laredo said, and sniffed. "Sees right through you. How's that feel?"

"Like when my ma caught me watching porn."

If it was supposed to shock her, it fell way short.

"They have porn back when you were a kid?" she said.

He laughed, leaned over the table and put out his hand. "Hi, I'm Johnny Rodriguez. Friends call me Rod."

"That right?" she said, sipping her drink, glanced at his hand and put her dancing eyes back on him. They were blue, but they had to be with all that blond hair. "Don't you like Johnny?" There was a note of mischief in her voice.

"Everybody's called Johnny."

"Only people named Johnny."

"You got a name?" he said.

She nodded once.

"That there's Sydney Townsend," Laredo said. "Whittaker-Townsend to give her her full handle."

Johnny watched her for a moment. "One name not enough for you?"

"Says Johnny Joe Rodriguez."

Laredo lowered his drink, ready to speak, but Johnny raised his hand. "Yeah, I know. Touché."

"You ain't just whistling Dixie," Laredo said.

Johnny glanced at him then back at Sydney. "He's not that Texan. Shit, nobody's _that_ Texan."

She nodded. "Friends call me Sid." She squinted at him for a moment then nodded. "You can call me Sid."

"Well, thank you kindly, ma'am."

Now she laughed. "Nobody is _that_ Texan. Rod. I'll call you Rod." It wasn't a question.

Laredo unwound himself again and stood. "I'm gonna curl up on my bunk and get some sleep. I'll leave you two young folks to the rest of the evening."

Johnny glanced at his gold Rolex so Sid could see it. She could. She'd seen gold Rolexes before.

"It's still light out," Johnny said, nodding towards the windows and the darkness outside. "You got other plans us kids shouldn't know about?"

Laredo glanced back at Sid, watching him with smiling eyes, and nudged Johnny with his knee. It could've been a hint for him to get out of the booth and make way. Or not.

They watched him go and waved. Johnny slid back into the booth.

"About as subtle as a smack in the face with a horseshoe."

"He's a sweet old guy," Sid said. "I like him."

"Don't tell him that; he'll be strutting sitting down."

"He thinks he's clearing the way for us to get it on."

Johnny smiled. "And are we?"

"Maybe. Don't know if I like you yet."

Johnny picked up one of the untouched mojitos. "Let me know when you've made your mind up."

"Are you going to win?"

What sort of question was that?

"The next playoff or the season championship?"

She shrugged and her small breasts pushed against her embroidered blouse. "Pick one."

"I got fifteen points from leading the regular standings, and I'm in the Eights. I'm just focusing on winning that."

"Yeah, right." She gave him a moment to think about it. "That red Camry was all over your ass the last ten laps."

"Third ain't second though," he said, but bristled a little at the memory.

"Not first neither. Twenty-seven's in the Eights and only a point behind."

"I can count."

She let him have that. Poking a sore bear. "So how you going to handle it next time out?"

He put down the mojito untouched. "Just going to go as fast as I can. What he does is up to him. It won't matter none."

"You think?"

"Girl, I _know_."

"You going to drink that?" She pointed at the last mojito.

"No, don't think so. You want it?"

"No, just don't want you passing out before we hit the sheets."

He smiled. "You decided you like me?"

"Leaning that way. Not there yet."

Johnny stepped out of the booth and glanced back at the table. "Looks like Laredo stuck us with the check."

Sid was leaning on Johnny's pickup when he strode over to the parking lot at the end of the third Round of 8 race. He'd been second in Kansas ahead of twenty-seven and second in Texas, his home state, and that hurt. There was a trend, sure enough.

The trend had carried right on here in Arizona. The guy in the Darth Vader outfit had won. Called himself Swat. Dumb name. But what really got his juices flowing was the guy had won easily, almost cruised home while the rest of the pack were fighting it out in his exhaust fumes. Shit.

He was through to the Championship 4 but only on points. All the promise pissed away being stupid.

He stopped when he saw Sid and tried a smile, but it wouldn't stick. "Thought you'd drifted on to greener fields after Miami."

She gave him a second to realize he was being a jerk. Didn't happen.

"You always such a jerk?"

He got the message. "Hey, let me reel that one back in. How you been? I thought about you some."

"Thought about you too. Some." She nodded towards the track. "Saw you screwing around instead of racing."

A deep frown creased his tanned face. "Meaning?"

"Bell clipped you on lap one-eighty, got by and pissed you off, so you decided to put him into the wall instead of letting it go and winning the race. Twenty-seven went for the flag while you two were dicking around."

He clenched his jaw as if shutting up whatever was coming out; then his face softened. "You're not just cute, are you?"

"I do my best."

"Better make sure I _go for the flag_ next time out."

"Probably a good thing, it being the championship race where you're the winner or nowhere."

"No pressure, then?"

"Only what you make yourself. You're good enough to do it."

"Well, I've got a fan," he said, and grinned, his dark eyes crinkling in the bright sunshine.

"I think you've got more than one." She nodded towards the knots of spectators gawping at him.

"You want to get something to eat? Phoenix has got some good chow."

"Yeah, why not." She looked the Ford over as if it had sat in cow shit. "I'll drive."

"Don't you like the pickup?"

"No, it's redneck. I was looking for a banjo on the dash."

"I get that. You're not just whistling Dixie."

"Oh, please don't start."

It was November, but in Miami that didn't really matter, and the NASCAR Xfinity Championship 4 was back at the Homestead Speedway. The last race of the playoffs. One race over two hundred grueling laps. Only one champion. Johnny was going to raise the trophy or die trying. Laredo told him it was just a race and there'd be another next year, but champions don't retreat and don't surrender. And Laredo didn't believe the shit he was peddling anyhow.

There were other racers, but only four playoff contenders. And the guy in the smoked visor, Swat—Jesus, for real? The guy was one of them, driving the red Camry, number twenty-seven. They were the best of the best, racers who'd made it there the hard way, and Johnny had the highest respect for them. As long as they stayed in his rearview.

Twenty-seven was in his rearview, about a foot behind his bumper, but it was no procession. Right out of the gate on Stage 1, thirty-one touched the nearside rear of Sadler's Chevy and put him into the wall, ending his challenge in a spectacular spray of sparks and crumpled steel.

Johnny took his eyes off the smoke and splintered car in his mirror in time to see an also-ran in a four-wheel slide across the track right in front of him. He twitched the wheel to the right and touched the brake. Subtle, but at two hundred miles an hour, anything dramatic would've put him right where Sadler was. The tire smoke engulfed his car and then he was through and in the clear.

He glanced back and saw twenty-seven emerge right where he'd been all along. Part of him was pleased it hadn't ended in tragedy. The guy got on his nerves pushing him the way he did, but nobody deserved to go out in a wreck. Okay, maybe just a little slide off and out of there, but in a crash, anything could happen, and that anything usually meant pain in a big way. So okay, let him come. Show me what you've got.

Twenty-seven jigged right up the slope, and Johnny moved over, not to block him, but just because that was the race line. And it blocked him. He glanced again in his mirror. Twenty-seven was gone. Shit, he knew exactly what had just happened. A stupid rookie mistake. Twenty-seven had floored it and gone left down the slope and was now right alongside and ahead by maybe a foot, but had the line into the next bend.

Stupid. Five laps to go, he could do without fucking up. What was it Sid had said? Yeah, dicking around while Swat went for the flag. Well, that wasn't going to happen.

He left his foot off the brake on the bend and kept his nerve as his car followed basic physics and desperately tried to spin out to his right. He came out of the bend with no inches between him and twenty-seven's rear end, twitched left and watched the Camry slipping back past his left side. Go, boy, go! His foot was against the metal and he let his Camaro do what his team had set it up to do, to fly.

Two laps to go. He could almost hear the crowd yelling and screaming his name. Many a great driver had come adrift on less than two laps. Keep your head in the game.

Twenty-seven was coming. He'd left a gap and was now in a run-up. Johnny let the Camaro drift a little to the right up the hill then put the nose at an angle towards the last but one bend and just thought, _Fuck it_.

The Camaro was breaking out of the line and was about to go its own way, but the tires hung on and the bend unfolded to his left. Then he was out of it and could see the finish line. He didn't look in the mirror. It was too late to do anything other than floor it and go.

Ryan Anderson, number forty-two, wasn't in the playoffs; like the rest of the racers, he was there for the points and the end-of-season rankings. He was good, better than good, or he wouldn't have been there.

He was a lap behind Johnny and right ahead of him. He should move over and was just about to do that when his offside front tire blew out and sent him slewing across the track, off the wall and back down the slope. Filling the track with nowhere to go.

Jonny stood on the brakes, but the brakes hadn't been invented that would make a difference. He hit.

The Camaro's left front slammed into forty-two's front end as it executed its second three-sixty, and they locked together in a sliding pirouette of screaming tires, flying crushed metal and smoke.

Johnny saw the whole thing going down with crystal clarity. His mind was calm and clear and he waited for the moment that would come, the moment that always came. A fraction of a second when he could do something, a chance that would disappear instantly. And there, there it was.

Forty-two's shattered wheel dug in, and the car broke the embrace by an inch, but that was all he needed. He dinked the wheel right a fraction and was free. And knew right away that he was in big trouble. The steering wheel shook like it was attached to a jackhammer, and the car snapped left and right as if it wanted to throw him off its back.

The line was right there, a hundred yards. Might as well have been a hundred miles. He could feel the rear breaking out at the start of the long spin-out that would be goodnight Gracie.

The world spun past, once, twice and was on to its third. He let the brake be and put his foot on the gas. It straightened up, not all the way but enough to stop the spin.

Twenty yards from the line, the engine cut out, giving up its impossible fight against mangled steel and a cracked block.

He closed his eyes and let the Camaro roll to a halt. No point watching the red Camry sail past and take the flag.

He was still moving. He snapped open his eyes. No way. The engine was deader than a barbecue steak. But the line was there, the flag up and ready to fall. It made no sense. He should've been watching cars' tailpipes. And down. The checkered flag snapped down and around, and the crowd's stamping almost collapsed the stands.

He let the Camaro roll down the slope and off the track and looked back. To see the Camry, number twenty-seven, wedged in behind, its nose right where it had been when it pushed him over the winning line.

He shouldered the wedged door and climbed out as Swat in his smoked visor stepped out onto the asphalt. He didn't know whether to hug him or crack his head.

Swat unclipped his helmet and pulled it off. And her blond hair fell across her shoulders and drifted up in the warm breeze.

He dropped his helmet and stared at her, shaking his head.

"Hey, Rod," Sid said, and winked. "Great day for a drive, eh?"

He started to ask _what the hell_ ...changed it to _why would you_ ...and settled for, "You're Swat? You're Swat?"

She gave him that big lovely smile she kept just for him. "Yeah, that's my name, right?" No response. "Sydney Whittaker-Townsend." She shrugged. "Swat. Get it?"

He looked back at what used to be his car, then up at the crowd cheering and waving and shouting his name. And gave her back the grin. "Yeah, I get it."

## Talking Old Soldiers

"Got any smokes?"

Spike stared at the old man sitting in the high-backed wheelchair and at the oxygen tube clipped into his nose, and shook his head slowly. "Nah, but you can have a drag of my Cuban. Probably kill you."

The old man shrugged. "Get in line." He pointed a skeletal finger at the small cabinet next to his perfectly made bed. "Got a pack in there."

Spike sighed. "Then why you ask us if we've got some?"

"Saving them."

"What for?"

"Never know when I'll get some more. The nurses here are like prison guards."

"Oh, and you think you might need some when? Next week?" He did the sigh again. "Was I you, I wouldn't be making plans longer than tomorrow."

"Oh, cheers. You can be very insensitive, Sarge, you know that?"

Spike pointed at the cabinet and waited for the tall thin man staring at the wall to get his drift and open it up to get the smokes.

"You're making me an accessory," the tall man said, but made no attempt to open the cabinet.

"I thought you didn't speak?" the old man said.

"I don't."

"Billy, leave the poor man alone," Spike said.

Billy nodded towards the glass door leading out onto a brick patio. "Just saying. Half-pint never used to say anything, and now he's gone all chatty." He rocked forward and back. "Wheel me out there, will you? I'm fed up of being trapped in here."

Spike took the chair handles and wheeled it towards the door.

"Hey, whoa!"

Spike stopped and looked down at Billy half turned in his chair.

"You're supposed to open the bloody door first," Billy said. "Not push me through the glass."

"Tell you what," Spike said, pushing Billy closer to the door. "You lean your scrawny limey ass forward and turn the handle, or is that too hard for you?"

"Think I can manage that. It's two things at the same time I have trouble with."

"Yeah, right, thinking and farting."

"Nah, I can do that alright."

The door swung open and Spike bumped the wheelchair over the low sill and ignored Billy's grunt of disapproval.

"You coming, Half-pint?" he said over his shoulder. "Or you going to stand there all day and stare at that picture?"

Half-pint leaned over the bed to get closer to the photo on a narrow shelf above the headboard. "It's us, back when Billy was...well, young."

"Give it a miss, mate," Billy called back. "You'll just get all blubbery and embarrassing."

Half-pint followed them outside and looked around the grim courtyard swept by a cold January wind. "When was that taken, then?"

Billy frowned and thought, doing two things at the same time, so proving himself a liar.

"Imjin River. You must remember that, for Christ's sake."

"Yes." Half-pint looked at the grey clouds scudding over the rooftops across the deserted courtyard.

"You know that's where—"

"Jesus, he's going to tell it again," Spike said, and looked to heaven.

"Alright, I might have mentioned it once or twice," Half-pint said.

"Every goddammed day for the last sixty-five years," Spike said.

"How would you know?" Billy said, sulking. "You've been tucked up in fuckin' Texas most of it, soaking up the sun and leaving us to get on with the crap. Same bloody thing as you Yanks back then. Arriving when it was all over."

Spike strolled out into the courtyard and looked around as if seeing it for the first time. And not caring a hoot what the old Brit was saying. Much.

"Too fuckin' little, too fuckin' late."

"You still bleating on about that?"

"Too bloody right I am." Billy leaned forward in his chair. "Six hundred—"

"Glorious fucking Glosters. Yeah, I know." Spike turned and strolled back up to the building as if its damp walls might give him some shelter from the icy wind.

"Exactly," Billy said. "Us three and six hundred Fusiliers stood in the way of ten thousand Chinese intent on kicking you Yanks right out of Seoul."

Spike nodded slowly. "Yeah, it was something, wasn't it?"

"Too bloody right. Three days we took everything they could throw at us. While we waited for the Yanks to stroll over and relieve us."

"Yeah. We turned up." Spike shrugged.

"Right, but not enough of you to play a hand of gin rummy," Billy said, and chuckled. "Hell of a fight though, wasn't it?" He nodded, as if confirming a memory. "Glosters and the Fusiliers held the line for four days."

"Lot of good boys died tripping up the commies," Spike said. "Stopped them getting their hands on Seoul. They'd done that, it would've been game over."

"Perhaps that would have been a good thing," Half-pint said quietly, and looked up when his comments were met with silence. They were staring at him. "Think about it. Had we not stopped them that day in April, they would've taken South Korea, and we wouldn't have had sixty years of a divided country. A country ruled by a mad family hell-bent on destroying the world."

"He doesn't say much," Billy said.

"Right. But when he does, he says plenty," Spike said. "Thirty-five thousand guys would still be walking around."

"More than that," Billy said, raising an eyebrow, "if you took a real count instead of a political one."

"Then we wouldn't have met you," Half-pint said, without a flicker of emotion on his thin, pale face.

Spike frowned at him. "And that would've been a bad thing, right?"

Half-pint continued to watch him, his pale blue eyes completely expressionless.

"You Brits are strange," Spike said, with a slow shake of his head. "You know that?"

"Mostly," Half-pint said. "Suppose we would've missed you and Seoul if we hadn't hung around on Gloster Hill." He shrugged, as if that said it all.

"Seoul, though," Billy said. "I ever tell you about Sunja?"

"No," Spike said, "not today anyhow."

"Loveliest thing I'd ever seen, or since."

"You know she was a hooker," Spike said, and leaned a hand on Billy's chair arm as if he needed a little support.

A lot of years had come and gone.

"You keep saying that, but I can tell you she wasn't no hooker," Billy said.

Spike decided he didn't need to say anything; he'd said it before, many times. "What you think? She was a nurse or something?" Decision overruled.

"I was with her day and night for a week. You think I wouldn't have noticed if she'd been a whore?"

"Can't see how you'd have noticed. I seem to recall you were pretty much out of it when you came down off the hill," Spike said.

Billy nodded and glanced at Half-pint. "Wasn't as many coming down as went up."

Half-pint looked up at the sky. "Some good men."

"Same in every war," Spike said. "It's the best that go first. The others just keep their heads down."

"She wasn't no whore," Billy said a little sulkily.

Spike smiled a broken smile. "Nah, I guess not. Never took money from you."

"You know it."

"Then she wasn't a whore. Because that's what they do."

"I said I'd go back."

Spike gave him the tired smile again. "Every soldier says that to the woman he meets when he should be dead."

"Should've gone back though. Said I would."

"You got a good wife though," Spike said.

"Yeah, the best. Jackie." Billy let his breath out in a wheeze that blew thin steam into the cold air like a slow-boiling kettle. "Gone now ten years. Miss her every day."

"Kids are great though. Girls are best."

"Yes, these two are the best. Come to see me every day no matter what."

Spike glanced through the open door into the dark bedroom completely devoid of any home comforts. "Yeah, kids are God's message in the sand. His way of saying we were here."

"True," Billy said, "otherwise we're just a pebble in a pond. A splash and a ripple and then gone." He shifted sideways as far as the side of his chair would let him and looked up. "You ever wanted kids?" He saw the pain in Spike's eyes and should've stopped, but the words were already spoken. "Stupid question. God's message in the sand, right?"

Spike closed his eyes, and his fingers clenched on the chair arm. "No man should pass through this life without leaving it a little bit better."

"I talk too much without listening to my brain," Billy said.

Spike touched his friend's shoulder. "Man, we don't need to watch what we say, right? Right. If it was on the cards for me to have kids, then I'd have them."

"She didn't wait for you, so I'd say she's more to blame than you." Half-pint shook his head. "God-awful bloody mess. We should have kept the hell out of it."

"We shouldn't have been there; we were all too young. Thought we were movie heroes," Billy said. "Half-pint had a close call, isn't that right, Half-pint?"

Half-pint looked up slowly from staring at his shoes.

"Best you found out when you did," Spike said. "Said you were the one, but skedaddled when that bird colonel rolled up in his staff car. She was always going to break your heart." He nodded. "Better get it over early."

Half-pint nodded very slowly. "Yeah, but I still miss her."

"Yeah?" Billy said. "After all this time? I suppose they can do that. Women. Get under your skin kinda thing?"

"You ever see her since?" Spike said.

"Once. Outside a bar in Seoul."

"And?" Spike said.

Half-pint shrugged. "Walked right by like she didn't recognize me."

Spike closed his eyes and nodded. "Few days in that hellhole changes a man. A week and he's unrecognizable."

"You ever think of going back?" Billy said.

Half-pint shook his head. "She'd be an old woman. Nah, I couldn't handle that."

"She have any kids?" Spike said.

"That's a scary thought," Billy said.

"How so?" Spike said.

"I was just thinking if she had kids, in a kinda weird way it would be the kids Half-pint here would have had. If he'd stuck around," Billy said.

Spike opened his mouth to say how stupid it was, then realized it wasn't. "We should bust out of this place and go find some fun," he said, stepping away and turning to face them. "We're getting all maudlin."

"Good objective but falls a bit flat on the execution," Billy said.

Spike watched him.

"Nurse Shirley will be doing her rounds any minute. And anyway how we going to get into town? You drive?"

Spike shook his head. "Nah. Jeep's okay, but anything else..." He shrugged and looked over at Half-pint, but knew the answer. He seemed to recall he'd had a motorbike back then. Man was a nutcase on that thing. Nobody would've believed it.

"We could get a bus," Billy said, warming to the idea of going down the pub.

"Got any money?" Spike said, then waved his hand. "Course you don't. You've never had any money the whole time I've known you."

"Never needed any," Billy said, smiling. "Got a Yank friend, and everybody knows Yanks are rich."

"Not since I teamed up with you three—" He swore under his breath and took a couple of paces into the yard.

"It's alright, Spikey, we miss him too," Billy said.

Spike turned back to face them. "Jesus, how long's it been now?"

"A lifetime," Billy said, and took a second to find his breath without it shaking. "He was the best of us, you know that?"

"You said it," Spike said.

"We're here because he isn't," Half-pint said.

"Any one of us would've done it," Spike said.

"But we didn't, Alistair did," Billy said. "And I live with it every day. It should've been me. It was my stupid fault."

"It wasn't nobody's fault," Spike said. "War kills people."

"Not like that," Billy said, shaking his head at the memory.

"Just like that," Spike said. "We're sitting in a bar minding our own business, and that commie grenade landed right in our laps. Scotty just picked it up and took it outside. Saved us all. And a lot of other folks too."

"I suppose if you've got to go..." Billy said.

"Beats the hell out of doing it this way," Spike said, tapping Billy's wheelchair.

"I had a good run thanks to Scotty," Billy said. "A wife a man could be proud of and two girls who broke many a bloke's heart."

Spike glanced at the empty room, now in complete darkness as the evening closed in. He almost asked but let it go. "They could say pretty much anything to each other after all these years, but sometimes that doesn't make it right. "Could use a drink."

"Escape's not going to happen," Billy said. "I've got a bottle in the wardrobe."

Spike moved around in front of the chair. "You was gonna tell us that when?"

"Slipped my mind till just now."

"Yeah, course it did." He stepped up to the open door and stopped. "Some things never change, do they?"

Billy smiled a wide smile, his dentures fluorescent in the pale light. "Don't want to give you no surprises, not at your time of life."

Spike raised his fists. "Not too old to give you a few lumps."

"If you won this one, you'd still be three-two down," Billy said, raising his thin, bony fists.

"You rewriting history again?"

"You two should knock it off before you dislocate something," Half-pint said.

Spike turned to face him, his fists still up but a smile on his pale face. "You want to go a couple rounds?" He pointed at the yard. "There'll be a stone there saying _here lies Jimmy Beer, quick mouth, slow left_."

Half-pint waved a hand once. "Couple of kids."

Billy nodded. "Been old, don't like it." He looked over at Spike. "You gonna get the bottle?"

Spike glanced over his shoulder into the dark room. "Nah, thirst has passed now."

"Never thought I'd see the day when Sergeant Spike Billingham would turn down a free drink."

"You want one, you go fetch it," Spike said, stepping out of the doorway and waving him on.

Billy thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. "Got to keep a clear head for the morning."

"How come?" Spike said. "You expecting to have to write up a mission report or something?"

"Nothing like. Jackie's coming to pick me up. You know she can smell booze a day away."

Spike and Half-pint exchanged a quick glance.

"Woman's half bloodhound, you ask me," Spike said.

"Tell me about it." Billy patted his hands on the chair arms. "Wheel me back in, will you? All this reminiscing's worn me out."

"Okay," Spike said. "But let's take a second and watch the last of the day." He stepped up beside the chair.

Half-pint walked up and stood on the other side. Three friends with a lifetime of love and blood.

Nurse Shirley felt the chill the moment she pushed open Billy's door, shivered and stepped in quickly. She saw him in his wheelchair out on the patio and tutted.

"Billy, I swear to God you'll catch your death sitting out there."

She stepped up behind him and saw his head forward and resting on his chest. She put her hand on his shoulder and stood with him for the minutes it took her to say goodbye, and to tell herself he was at peace now.

All these years caring for people at the end of their journey, and this was the first time tears had found their way to her cheeks.

She wheeled him carefully back inside, the small wheels resisting the sill for a moment. She stopped and looked back at the dark courtyard.

How had he got out there? He couldn't wheel himself. Visitors? No, Billy hadn't had a visitor since his girls had married and moved away, all those years ago.

She wheeled the old man to his bed and took the framed picture from the shelf. A faded yellow photo in a gilded frame worn to brass by the years. Young men in uniform, dirty, wild-eyed and grinning at the camera. His friends. He'd told her about them many times, and she felt she knew them. She put her finger on the frame. Half-pint, the quiet one. Scotty, who saved them all once. And the American. What was his name? Spike, because of his hair. And Billy. She touched his image. The only one to come home. Perhaps they were together now and he wasn't lonely anymore.

She put the photo back on its shelf and touched Billy's face with the back of her hand. The man who could make everyone laugh.

While inside he was crying.

## Leaving on a Jet Plane

Joseph Nelson stood in front of the giant picture window that was his office on the fifth floor of Ronald Reagan Center and looked at the evening traffic heading home after another day chasing the dream.

Jesus, is this it? Is this all there is? Get up, go to work, go home, go to bed. And for what?

Money, man. Money.

He had enough money. Can anybody have enough money? Sure, of course. He had plenty. He was one of the leading surgeons in the best hospital. Hell, he was the best surgeon in the city, the state, maybe even the country.

Not short on ego, then. He unconsciously wiped a nose smudge off the window with his thumb. Ego is what makes a man achieve more than his published potential. He could've done what the others had done and settled. Exclusive clinic in Beverley Hills, cute nurses, short hours at work and long hours on the golf course. Maybe he should have, but he'd had something to prove, a whole lot of something. Now he was respected, revered even, but nobody knew he had been born in Boyle Heights. Good people mostly, but so far on the wrong side of the tracks it's over the horizon. He'd got out and kept going.

But, Jesus, is this it?

He turned away from the traffic streaming out of the city before the daily gridlock. The door to his consulting room opened, and a white coat came in stretched around a barrel of a man who should be carrying his own defib kit for when he had his heart attack, and Joseph didn't need his string of qualifications to know that any minute now Seymour was going to chew the carpet. He should say something, but the man was a senior thoracic surgeon, for God's sake. He should know better.

"Hey, Seymour," Joseph said, moving past his desk, which was as clean and empty as the day it had been wheeled in there.

Seymour took a second to catch his breath. "Some of the boys are heading over to the club for a quick one." He licked his pink swollen lips and took another long breath. "There's a special on the Mex ribs."

Of course there was.

"I'm going to give it a miss tonight. I'd be a killjoy anyhow."

"You doing it again?"

Joseph tried a smile. "Guess so. It just bounces around in there."

Seymour laughed. "Nothing to get in its way. But seriously, Joe, you've got to get over this nonsense." He glanced at the couch and thought about sitting, but then he'd have to get up. "You thought about talking to somebody?"

"A shrink?" He shrugged. "I'm not nuts."

"That's a matter of opinion."

"You know what I did today?"

Seymour sat down, slowly at first, then with a flop after the point of no return. "Pretty much what I did, I'd say."

"I saw six patients. Not one of them sick, but willing to pay...what is it now? Ten thousand?" He shook his head. "Whatever. I told them they were fine, but they wanted to be ill. You believe that?"

"It's what they're paying for. No point paying if you're well."

"I told them they have tinea pedis, risky but manageable with the right treatment."

"Athlete's foot?"

"Billing will be happy. The idiots couldn't wait to register for every test in the book."

"Days like that make it all worthwhile," Seymour said, but without a smile.

"That's the point right there."

Seymour tried to get up without a hoist, failed and sat back into the leather couch. "Right, I get it. You want to treat real sick people. Listen to me now." He leaned forward and spoke very slowly. "There is no money in poverty." He shrugged and his fat followed up with an aftershock ripple. "It's kinda there in the name." He shuffled along the couch and pushed himself up from the curved arm. "You should let it go and come over to the club. A few drinks and you'll be your old self."

"That's the guy I want to get away from."

Seymour put his hand on the door and looked back over his shoulder. "Want to go do some real doctoring?" He gave Joseph a moment to half shrug. "Then why don't you stop wallowing in indulgent introspection and go to Africa. There's a continent of needy people right there."

He closed the door behind him.

Joseph stared at the empty space the big man had left and felt his hair bristle. No, it was absurd. Maybe he should've gone for that drink after all.

The Merc had started heading for Trousdale and home just like it always did, but tonight Joseph turned right on Wiltshire and got on the I-405 heading south, and then the I-10 towards Santa Monica.

He turned off the radio and stared at the road as he tried to get his head around what the hell he was doing. Rooster would be shacked up with some wannabe surf chick, or bumming free drinks at a beach bar someplace. It was stupid.

Rooster was right where he always was, leaning against one of the beams supporting the fishing pier, a Bud in his hand and his old eyes watching the young girls.

He looked up slowly as Joseph blocked his view, and scowled for a moment before he recognized him. He reached behind him and held up a bottle of Bud. "Come to see how real people live?"

Joseph took the beer and lowered himself down next to the whipcord-thin man with shoulder-length grey hair that might once have been blond. He could've been fifty and done it the hard way, or way older and God was being kind.

Joseph took a sip of the warm beer and watched two women in bikinis that wouldn't have made a decent-sized handkerchief. Now this was better than old sick people who weren't ill.

He didn't speak for several minutes, and it never occurred to Rooster to start up a conversation. They were on the beach, it was sunset, and there were girls and beer. Why talk?

"You ever think maybe you made the wrong choice?" Joseph said.

Rooster glanced at him, his pale blue eyes crinkled by sun and salt. He raised his bottle. "You prefer Busch?"

Joseph chuckled. "You old coot, you know exactly what I'm saying."

"You know you're the same age as me, right? Stands to reason, us being at med school together."

"Yes, but I haven't spent the last...thirty years roasting my ass on the beach."

"Your loss, brother."

And that was truer than Joseph would've liked to admit.

"You're thinking you took the wrong road."

Joseph sipped a little beer. "It was the right road. At the time."

Rooster nodded and watched a girl from heaven drift past. "Roads run out of places to go." It wasn't a question. "Roads do that. Best to keep off them."

"Thinking of doing just that."

Rooster pointed his bottle at the beach. "Plenty of room down here."

"Man, I'm way too old to take up surfing."

Rooster looked at him and said nothing. Sometimes nothing says it all.

"I want to put something back." Joseph glanced at his friend and got no response, just a profile with wispy hair and leather skin. "You know?"

"Sure. You spent your best years pulling against hands that would drag you down. Them thinking why should you get ahead? Who you screwing?"

Joseph looked up at the last of the day falling out of the sky.

"And now you've made it," Rooster said, "and you've got time to look around and see where you are. And where you are you don't like."

"When did you get all Yoda?"

"Sitting back and watching the world gives a man time to see how it works, how it really works. Perspective."

"Thing is..."

"Yeah, I know," Rooster said. "You climbed the mountain and now you can see there ain't nothing there. Just a long way down."

"I got more money than a horse has hairs."

Rooster laughed and raised his bottle. "Dr. Hook. Who said the seventies didn't have class?"

"I've got a place that would house a family of ten. A car that turns heads even in LA." He put out his arm and straightened his suit sleeve. "This suit cost twenty thousand dollars."

Rooster glanced at it. "These trunks?" He lifted the leg of his Hawaiian flowered trunks. "Found them on the beach. Does the same job as your fancy hand-stitched suit."

"That's it right there." He shook his head. "What's the point of it?"

"Got everything; got nothing," Rooster said. "Point is, brother, you don't own anything, it owns you."

Joseph turned a little, his twenty-thousand-dollar suit polishing the pier. "Car's mine. House is mine."

"Yeah. Can you just walk away?"

"And leave everything I've worked for, everything I own?"

Rooster raised his eyebrows and waited.

"No." Joseph sighed deeply. "And that's why they own me."

"Welcome to enlightenment."

"I want to give something back."

Rooster shrugged. "Don't offer it to me, brother. I've got everything I need right here."

"Not what I meant."

"I know that. Life's been good to you, or at least you think it has, chasing your desires and winning the race. You look back and all you see is you, you, you. All around there's people suffering and dying and not even having time to know it."

"I used to be a good doctor..."

"You were maybe the best I'd ever seen, back in the day."

"Back in the day." Joseph put the beer bottle to his lips and lowered it. "What the fuck am I going to do? I feel like I'm marking time just waiting for the hammer to fall. I can tell you what I did last week, last month, last year. Because it's the same damned thing I did today. Nothing. Nothing of any value."

"And what has value? For you?"

"I've got all this knowledge, these skills..." He trailed off, unable to tie off the thread.

"You want to help people, these suffering and dying folks?"

Joseph looked into his friend's eyes and saw the playful light in there. "I don't know. My head's a mess. It's like a war going on in there."

"Chattering monkeys." Rooster waved his beer. "Never mind. The noise is coming from your desire for more _things_. Things are narcotic; the more you get, the more you have to get. There's never enough. In there..." He pointed at Joseph's temple. "There's a voice, a quiet one drowned out by all the noise, telling you what you really need to know. All you have to do is listen." He smiled a bright white smile in the darkness beneath the pier. "But you've heard it already, haven't you?"

"Have I?"

"Sure you have." Rooster pointed at the beer. "You going to drink that?"

Joseph raised the bottle as if just seeing it. "Err...no."

"Give it back, then."

Miranda stared at him wide-eyed, the large wineglass stalled halfway to her lips. She blinked slowly and regained her composure.

"That'll be all for now, Sofia." She waved a perfectly manicured hand at the young woman standing by the door as if at attention.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" she said as soon as the maid closed the door. "You intend to do what? Go off to some God-forsaken country and practice quack medicine so you can what? Find yourself? Buy a fucking Porsche like normal guys suffering a midlife crisis."

"I get that it's a bit of a bolt from the blue," Joseph said, and moved the fried chicken to the side of his plate.

"A bolt from the blue?" Miranda put down her glass and leaned her hands on the polished oak table. "A bolt from the blue is saying you're going to buy a pony. This...this..." She took a long breath. "This is certifiable."

"You think I'm nuts because I want to do something more with my life than collect money?"

"Listen to yourself, for Christ's sake." She waved her hand to encompass the big room with its wall of windows. "Collecting money, as you so euphemistically put it, is what bought this. What gives us the life we have, what got our son into the best college in the country. And what? You want to piss it all away on a self-indulgent whim?"

"You remember when we were first married?"

She blinked at him, her mouth part open, about to speak. She squeezed her eyes shut and open and took a breath. "Yes, of course. What's that got to do with this?"

"Back then, first thing in the morning and last thing at night, we'd think of each other. What could we do to make the other's life a little easier."

She nodded, but kept frowning. "Sure, I remember."

"And now?"

"We're not kids anymore. We have responsibilities."

"We do. But not to each other?"

"I don't see what you're getting at here."

Joseph smiled a fleeting smile, leaned across the table and took her hands. "I'm saying back then we looked out for each other because nobody else was looking out for us. Sure, we were fresh out into the world. Me a resident and you a nurse, and a damned good one. Sometimes it was tough, but we faced it together, and it bound us close."

She squeezed his fingers.

"Now. Now we're so busy being busy we don't even look anymore. When was the last time I told you I love you?"

She gave a quick shrug.

"I don't recall either, but for the record, I do love you."

She smiled a small slightly sad smile. "Yeah, and I love you."

She could've said _I guess._ It hung in the air.

"I want to find that feeling again. Striving for something important. Together." His head dropped a little. "Not just doing this."

"Okay," Miranda said, still squeezing his hand, "let's say you go off someplace and do what?"

"Doctors Without Borders." He hadn't even given it any thought, but there it was.

She let go of his hands and sat up. "Doctors Without Borders? They get sent to the hellholes of the world."

"That's where the people need us the most."

"Can't you go and help the needy in...oh, I don't know. Say, the Projects? They must need doctors there."

"They've got doctors in the Projects, good ones who want to be there where they count. And that's why I'm going somewhere there isn't any medical help. Where I can make a difference."

"How long?"

"Before I go, or over there?"

"Both."

"Don't know. Maybe a month, maybe less. Then two years in-country."

She took a sharp breath, then looked up. "What about Richard? He graduates this year. He expects you to find him a position."

"He's a talented boy; he'll find his own way. It'll be good for him."

"And you can leave me? Two years is a long time. You said you loved me."

"I do. And that's why I have to do this. I'm losing myself, and you're losing the man you fell in love with."

She stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going for a walk to get this straight in my head." She stopped at the door. "You should maybe sleep in the guest room tonight. Give you time to think."

"I've thought."

"Yes, I can see that." She closed the door.

It took five weeks to the day for Joseph to receive the call. He'd been putting off telling Cameron, but now there was no choice. He was going. But telling his boss and mentor that he was walking away wasn't going to be easy.

He stood at the white-painted door in the white-painted suite and composed himself, feeling the PA's eyes on him. Then he pushed it open and went in.

Cameron got up and came around his desk to shake his hand. "It's a long time since you came all the way up here. Couldn't we just talk over a drink like old times?"

Joseph told him. No flannel, no excuses. Just the facts, as if delivering a medical report.

Cameron went back behind his desk and sat down without speaking.

"I know it puts you in a tough position, Cam, but it's something I have to do."

"I'd like to say I understand, but I don't." Cameron leaned back into his big chair as if suddenly very tired. "You're one of the best neurosurgeons I've ever met, but talent alone didn't get you here. I did."

"I know that, Cam, and I love you for it."

"So you stick a knife in my back?"

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like? Go ahead and tell me." Cameron raised his hands. "No, don't. Tell you what. Get the hell out of my office." He picked up a pen and opened a file. "And don't think your job will be here when you've finished wading around in guts and shit." He looked up. "You'll be replaced before you get off the parking lot."

"I'll give you a call when I get back, old friend," Joseph said as he opened the door.

"Don't bother."

Joseph ignored the PA's eyes as he crossed the office and headed for the exit.

"That went well," he said to himself as he fastened his seatbelt. "That's both Cam and Mimi pissed at me. And Dicky counting on his step up the ladder. Doing good there, Joe boy."

Miranda was driving out of the garage in her new white Merc when he got home, and he practically had to throw himself in front of it to get her to stop.

"I've got the call," he said, leaning over the open top as much to stop her driving off as for comfort. "I'm leaving from LAX at six tomorrow morning."

"Don't wake me up." She started the car moving and he had to jump clear.

"Cambodia, in case you're interested."

"I'm not."

"I'm gonna miss you, kid."

She gave a little start and stared at him for a moment, the phrase taking her back to crazy days in the ER.

She drove away.

He hadn't woken her to say goodbye, just taken his one bag with bare essentials and got in the waiting taxi. In the early morning traffic it was a long drive to the airport, and he wondered every minute if he was being stupid. And came to the conclusion that he was, but for the right reasons. Maybe she'd be there when he got back. But the parting had been hard, and two years was a long time.

He was flying first class. What the hell? Last time. He was fast-tracked through to the departure gate, something that used to give him a kind of guilty pleasure. Not being in the crowd. But now it just felt wrong. Part of him wanted it to take longer, give him a chance to come to his senses.

The flight attendant gave him her corporate smile and led him to his seat up front. His mouth was dry and his eyes watered. It was a change in his life, but the price was way higher than he'd ever imagined. He thought he might break down.

"I packed your boxers and extra socks." Miranda waved at the seat on the opposite side of the cubicle. "You going to sit or just stand there with your mouth open?"

## A Day in the Life of a Fool

###

On Thursday January 23rd 1822 Reverend William Buckland, Professor of Geology at Oxford University, and Theresa Talbot of Penrice Castle made an astounding discovery in the Paviland Caves between Port Eynon and Rhossili in South Wales.

He wrote that he had found the skeleton of a woman still wearing the shells and carved ivory she had worn as a prostitute to the Roman soldiers occupying the region. It was also possible that she was a witch because her bones were deep red, surely the sign of magical intervention, and the reason he called skeleton the Red Lady.

This is the story of the last day in the life of the Red Lady of Paviland.

### The Last Day

###

Chief Tecumseh returned to his village with a fur rolled up under his arm and an expression of triumph on his face. Today was a good day. The Great Spirit would smile on him and his people when he saw the tribute laid out beneath the talking stone.

The women and young men of the village crowded round him and touched the coarse black fur, knowing to do so would bring them luck.

Tecumseh strode through them to the largest animal skin hut that was home to him and his wives. His first wife stood with her hands on her hips and looked down at the pelt he spread out before her. A black wolf, the most prized of all furs, and this one was magnificent. Her man had done well. Food would have been better, but perhaps that would come when the Great Spirit saw this gift.

Standing on a rocky outcrop at the edge of the small village, Ashkii watched the girls dancing around the clearing, giggling and pointing and seemingly unable to keep still. Except Chimalu, she stood tall and beautiful a little apart from the children. Her hair was long and blacker than a raven's wing and her body round and strong, ready to bear many fine sons.

She looked across at him slowly, then looked away as if he was of no interest. His heart jumped and he turned quickly and walked back among the rocks and out of sight of the jubilant camp. He had no need for celebration, every time he saw the chief's daughter his heart sang. Yet her eyes were not for him.

He climbed the long slope to the cliff overlooking the plain that stretched away to the distant sea. He had to do something for her to see him for the fierce and noble warrior he knew he was. But what? What could he do? The chief had brought back a mighty gift for the gods, but all he had done was hunt deer and any child could do that. He had to do something or he would fail to win her and his life would have no meaning.

From the shadow of fallen rocks no more than a hundred feet away, a jet-black she-wolf watched, her gold eyes narrowed and her throat rumbling with hate for the two-legs that had killed her mate. She moved forward very slowly, her belly almost touching the grass and the growl deepened. She stayed close to the outcrop until she was almost directly below him. At the moment her instinct told her to pounce, the two-leg turned and walked away over the ridge. She could chase him down, but beyond the ridge were other two-legs, many more. She would wait. Her time would come. Without her mate there was only this hunt.

Ashkii knew what he must do. The days were becoming short and soon the white wind would come. The tribe needed food to keep their bellies warm until the sun returned from the mountains. The food most prized by his people was fish. Meat was easy, the plain below moved with herds of bison, mammoth and deer, but fish was food for the children, and the children were the future. He would journey to the great water and return with enough fish to keep the women and children laughing.

Then he could ask the chief for his daughter and the fiercest of the warriors would smile on him.

He returned to his hut and collected his spear and a hide bag and slipped quietly out of the village.

Chimalu stepped out of the trees and looked into his eyes and his wits left him. Without a word, she hung a neckless of shells and ivory around his neck, smiled and put her hand on his face for the briefest moment. She started to turn away, but stopped and watched him for several seconds, as if making a decision.

"You are going to the far water?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I ask you not to go. Stay here with me and we will speak to my father."

His heart pounded in his chest and for a moment he almost agreed, but then shook his head. "First I must prove myself worthy of you, this world's greatest gift."

"And if you do not return?"

He gave her a smile. "I will return. I would walk to the edge of the world and back for you."

She pointed at the plain far below. "There are many dangers there, seen and unseen. To go there alone is a journey of a fool."

"It will take me a day "And for your hand one day is as nothing." He smiled again. "So for just one day I shall be a fool."

She glared at him for a moment, but her eyes shone.

He watched her move back to the safety of the village and his breath returned. He would hurry. The journey to the great water would take a day if he didn't stop to eat or rest. He would be a day at the sea and the Great Spirit would send his best fish to his spear so he would return a hero. In three days. It seemed a lifetime as he looked back to the trail where his love had gone.

He stopped at the top of the long slope that led down to the plain stretching towards the sun for as far as he could see. He must be wary now. This was the place of the sabre-tooth, the most feared of all the hunters that prowled the land.

He set off along the great ridge with his heart pounding and his head full of visions of the future that awaited his triumphant return.

The she-wolf let him go ahead, the two-legs were slow and would never outrun her, even injured as she was now. A younger male had challenged her for leadership of the pack but what his only desire was the females and that was no match for her blazing fury.

Now they followed her, four males and three females, all completely loyal to her. Until she showed the slightest weakness. All she knew was that she was alive and her mate was not because of these two-legs. She would hunt them all down, every one of them.

Ashkii knew something was wrong. The birds were silent and animals whose curiosity would have brought them close were nowhere to be seen. This meant that something was near and that something had struck terror into them. He stopped and turned around very slowly, his sharp eyes searching the rocks and the trees bowed by the wind, but he saw nothing. Yet he knew it was there watching him, but there was no going back. In the hour he'd been walking he had covered almost four miles. He could run, but that would just bring the creature.

He felt the weight of his spear and breathed a little easier. He was deadly with the weapon, perhaps the best in the tribe. Whatever was out there would die on its point. Nothing could move fast enough to reach him before he sent the shaft into its body. He took the spear-thrower from the cord around his waist and hooked it onto the base of the spear. Let it come.

The she-wolf came up onto the ridge a hundred yards above him, but even at that distance he could see way she moved, sleek and deadly. He raised the spear to let her know that only death awaited her.

Then the rest of the pack moved up on either side of her.

Ashkii had courage almost beyond measure, but the sight of the huge wolves lining the ridge behind their leader almost buckled his legs. There was nowhere to run, no help, and no hope.

He moved sideways along the slope, his eyes never leaving the pack, because to look away would bring them racing down on him. He could barely breathe and water trickled down his face even though his mouth was dry as stone.

To his left was a painting on the rockface, a bear. He knew it and he knew the girl who had painted it, the daughter of the shaman. It was a sign to the gods that here lay the bravest of men, braver than the mighty bear. The burial cave. It was too far away, but there was another nearer.

He glanced left and saw it, long and black against the cliff, twenty paces at most. If he could reach it he would have a chance. Only one or two wolves would be able to come to the entrance and he could drive them away. He could do it, if his legs would obey him.

He ran.

The she-wolf raised her head and howled at the sky, then hurled herself down the slope. At her maximum speed she could run at forty-five miles an hour, injured she could manage only half that. But it would be enough.

Two young males passed her and she pushed herself on, ignoring the pain in her leg. She would be the one to take down the two-leg.

Ashkii could hear them coming and desperately wanted to look back, but knew to do so would be certain death, he had seen it. So he ran. The ridge sloped down towards the cave and gave him a chance. If it had been up the slope even a little, he would've failed. He still might.

The cave came closer, but so slowly. The sound of the pursuit was right on his heels. Five paces to go, three, two—

The first young wolf leapt at him without even breaking step, hit him in the back and landed lightly to circle left ready to attack again. Ashkii staggered into the cave and bounced off the wall but caught his balance, turned and brought his spear around as the second wolf pounced.

The spear rammed into its chest and kept going, driven on by the animal's weight, but Ashkii was acting on instinct, training and experience and he let the spear slide through his hands as he stepped to his right and turned. The wolf's body slid from the shaft and rolled across the rock to crash into the wall.

He didn't even glance at it, there were six others and they were already at the entrance. The wolf that had reached him first was standing on top of the rocky outcrop that all but blocked the opening. Standing with saliva dripping from yellow fangs and hatred in its eyes. It tensed to pounce.

Ashkii jumped forward and thrust the spear up and forward, but the animal was gone. He stood in the sunlight that slanted into the cave and sucked air into his bursting lungs. He'd made it, but what now?

The wolves howled at the cave and every few seconds one would jump up onto the outcrop and snarl, looking for a chance to kill, but jump back when Ashkii screamed and jabbed his spear at its eyes.

The black she-wolf could smell this two-leg that had killed her mate and her fury boiled up through her until it erupted in her mind in a roaring crimson blaze. She leapt up onto the rocks and threw herself forward.

The two-leg was slow, slower than any animal she had ever hunted, so it was easy to evade the thing thrust at her and jump at its throat.

Ashkii let the spear fall, grabbed his knife from his belt and rammed it up into the wolf's chest as its powerful jaws snapped shut on his raised arm and sent him sprawling backwards. The she-wolf was still snarling as he stabbed it again and again until finally it's body slumped onto his chest.

He wanted to lie there, to rest, to bring life back into his screaming body, but the other wolves were already fighting each other to be first at their prey. He stood up shakily and picked up his spear and barely noticed the blood from his shredded arm running down the shaft.

Two wolves jumped up onto the outcrop, but the smell of their leader's blood crashed onto their senses and held them. They snarled and shuddered, but would not go forward. A moment later they turned and jumped out of sight.

The hunt was over. For now.

Ashkii fell against a boulder and leaned on his spear as an old man would a stick. He desperately needed to sleep, just for a moment but they would be waiting beyond the rocks for him to fall. He would remain alert and be ready for their return.

The blood trickled from his fingers and formed a thick puddle in the sand and he watched it without thought. There was no sound now from outside, no howling or growling. The wolves were gone, done with a pursuit of the two-leg. The small creature that would not fill their bellies and had killed two of their pack. There was easier prey on the plain.

Ashkii slid down the boulder and sat for a moment thinking of Chimalu with her black hair billowing in the summer breeze. He would abandon this foolish quest and make her his mate. But first he would sleep.

He lay on his side and brought up his knees for warmth, and his last thoughts were that she would wait for him, perhaps even for a whole season.

Reverend Buckland thought he'd found the Red Lady, a Roman witch who had been lying in Goat's Hole cave for 2,000 years, but what he had discovered was much, much more. He had discovered the oldest Homo sapiens skeleton ever discovered in the whole of Europe. He just didn't know it.

Chimalu had waited two seasons for Ashkii to return, before accepting that he never would and moving on with her life, but always stopping to look out towards the great water.

Ashkii lay undisturbed in his shallow grave while the ocean crept the seventy miles across the plain until it pounded against his resting place. Fine soil covered his body and buried the ivory and seashell jewellery his love had given him on his last day on Earth. Thirty-four thousand years ago.

_____________

#

# COFFEE BREAK READS

## VOLUME #3

##

## HIGHWAY SHOES

###

#####  Stories:

Route 50

 Ventura Highway

Country Roads

Lincoln Highway

Daylight Pass

##

## Route 50

###

Vegas purred like a huge contented beast, a sigh of expectation and awe from some of the forty million people who walk in wonder and hope in the city of joy and broken hearts.

Johnny Seymour liked to be known as Johnny Diamond, and that was okay because nobody knew him, so it never got tested. Nobody walks in LA, but in Vegas everybody walks sooner or later. That or sit in the traffic and watch the taillights of the guy in front watching the taillights of the guy in front of him. Johnny Diamond was walking. He'd have sooner been in a taxi, but that cost money, and that was something he didn't have, not anymore. Sure, he'd had plenty when he arrived just yesterday, but a day, a night, in Vegas can take a man from the bottom to the top. Or back the other way. And Johnny was walking.

He still had his car, and man, he loved that car. A '95 Eldorado convertible, red as a hooker's shoes, white leather seats and whitewall tires and slightly less miles on its clock than _Apollo 13_. Man, those were wheels to die for. He wished now he hadn't left it in the parking lot across town, but how was he to know the casino was going to rip him off?

He stopped walking and looked back along the long straight road at the casino glinting in the morning sun, and swore quietly. He'd been holding aces over kings. His winnings at three o'clock in the morning stood at a hundred grand and change. And he'd bet the bundle to scoop the pot. And hell, why not? It was a hand to cheer about.

Except the dealer put down a queen, followed by three others. And took his chips. All of them. Jesus, he was glad he hadn't tossed in his car keys as well. He'd thought about it.

There'd been near three-quarters of a mil on the table, and his full house should've taken it. He could've gone back home a rich man. Married his high school sweetheart, Shirley something. Kids maybe, and a house with a white fence. Nothing to do but play golf and watch the world roll by. If only.

Every time it looked like this time he was up, something came along and pulled the rug out from under him. Every fuckin' time. He'd never cheated in any game in his whole life, but there was always some sharp looking to stiff him, and this time it was the house. He should've called the man. Should've bounced his head off the table a few times. Called the cops. Got the fuckin' place raided and closed down. The dealer had an earpiece so the suits up in the roof could tell him to shut this guy down. Take his money. Kick him to the sidewalk. If the big guys hadn't stepped up behind the card sharp, he'd have cracked his teeth. Seven-fifty thou. He shook his head.

"Hey! Watch where you're going."

He looked up to see a tourist in gardenia shorts stretched across his fat gut trying to swerve out of his way.

"Sidewalk not big enough for you?" The fat guy shoved something in a bun into his mouth and waddled away.

"Your ass is taking up most of it," Johnny said, and forgot about it.

"Fuck you."

"That's the only fuck you'd ever get. Lard-ass."

Fat guy comes back or shoots off his mouth, he was going to—let it go, man, he wasn't the dealer.

The Caddy was right where he'd left it, in the partial shade of a big old palm tree, shiny and red and welcoming. An old friend. And god knew he had few enough of those.

He touched the Caddy's door and pulled his hand away quickly while it still had skin. Leather was going to cook his skinny ass. He leaned in and opened the door from the inside, reached behind the seat and pulled out a couple of beaded seat covers, the sort old folks use, but if he was going to drive anywhere soon, this was how he'd have to do it.

He slid in behind the wheel and moved his thigh onto the beads, his chinos leg already wet in two seconds. He adjusted the rear-view, even though nobody except him had driven it. The radio was still tuned to blues he'd been listening to driving in yesterday. Jesus, had it only been yesterday? He turned it off. Depressing songs about guys losing everything.

He put his fingers on the ignition and stopped. Yeah, right. Where you going, man? Annoyed at himself, he fired up the engine and checked the fuel gauge. Well, at least something was on his side. Near full, good for around four hundred miles. To someplace else. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed north towards 95. It joined up to Route 50, and from there it went right across the country to the east coast. Away from here. Though going there made no sense, he'd have no money there just like he'd got no money right here. It was a direction. So he headed for Route 50, the highway of lost souls. He listened to the Caddy's big-assed V8 burble, and calmed down.

So, man, this is what you've come to. No money, no place to go, and nobody to give a damn. He fished out his Ray-Bans from under the dash. Sounds like one of those old blues guys wailing away. But it's where he was. What had he got? Nothing, and that getting less. They said he looked like a young Steve McQueen, so he guessed that was something, though he'd rather he looked like George Clooney.

He moved over and around an open Porsche driven by some old guy and his woman, both old enough to have gone to school with God.

Yeah, maybe he could find a rich old woman and she could stake him for a big game, get his roll back, his mojo. Back in the game. But he couldn't do that, man, he just couldn't do that. Not with an old wrinkly. No amount of money. You sure? No other game in town, you have to play tiddlywinks. Yeah, but really, man? Take money off an old woman. Didn't seem right. Because it wasn't right.

Somewhere south of Hawthorne on US-95 his stomach began to remind him it hadn't had anything except tequila since sometime never. He looked around at the nothing stretching out to the horizon, where more nothing awaited the curious traveller. East coast? Jesus. He could've gone to LA, should've gone to LA. There's enough fuckin' losers there they wouldn't notice one more.

He'd been holding a full house. It should've taken the pot and would've if...what was the point of rehashing it? How'd the dealer do it? He hadn't spotted it, and he always did. He was that good? Must have been, or, Johnny, you're losing it. Maybe he should—

There was a silver BMW 7 angled into the desert off the highway maybe a mile ahead. Some guy taking a leak. Or in trouble. Nice wheels, he had money and some. And what? You help him and ask him for a handout? Holy God, there wasn't nothing between him and a hole in the ground if he came to that. Fuck him, he should've filled up at the last gas station.

It was a woman, blonde, standing at the side of the road and looking his way. Not today, lady. Places to go.

He slowed down. Maybe for a better look. Telling himself that while all the time knowing he was going to stop.

She stepped up to the side of the Caddy and smiled. "Thank you for stopping."

She wasn't bad to look at, bit old, forty maybe, but everything that needed to be there was there and in place. Blonde hair, long and rich, and half-closed tired eyes giving her a sultry look that reminded him of somebody he couldn't place. She wore a champagne dress, simple crew neck and wrap-around skirt, elegant and completely useless for walking in the desert, but it showed off her body, and that was okay with him.

He looked around as if expecting to see something. "You got car trouble?"

She stood up and stepped away from the car a little, then glanced over her shoulder at the BMW. "No, I thought I'd just stop here in the middle of this—" She raised her arm and pointed at the scrub desert. "Maybe have a picnic or something."

He smiled. "Sounds good to me." He put the Chevy in gear. "You look out for the snakes though."

She looked down quickly, opened the car door and got in.

"Hey, you want a lift to the next rest stop?"

She pulled the beaded cover under her. "Does this thing have a roof? It's a hundred degrees out here."

"This _thing_ is a '95 Cadillac Eldorado."

"You say so. Has it got a roof?"

"Had one when it was new, but stopped working about '96."

"Great. Rescued by a knight on a lame horse."

He chuckled and checked in his rear-view before bumping back onto the highway. "Never been a knight before."

"Don't get used to it." She tugged the seatbelt from under the beaded cover and snapped it into place. She watched him glance at her. "Like what you see?"

"What's your name?"

She took a second. Didn't mean anything. "Shelly."

"Johnny. Johnny Diamond."

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, but didn't say it.

He tapped the wheel with his fingers. "Just thought who you remind me of."

She waited.

"Lauren Bacall."

"She's dead."

"Before she died."

"What? In her eighties?"

He laughed and closed his eyes for a moment. "Bit before then."

"You should quit while you're ahead." She shook her head as she turned back to the road.

"I'm ahead, then?"

"Not really." She brushed her hair from her face and let the wind stream it over her shoulders. "Why did you stop?" She pointed her thumb back down the road.

He shrugged. "Seemed like the thing to do."

"You know how many people passed right on by before you stopped?"

"Folks aren't very trusting." He shrugged a little. "It's twenty-four-hour news, tells you everybody's out to kill you or something."

"You stopped. That makes you trusting."

He flashed her a smile that made him look about ten years old. "Trust isn't something I cultivate in my business."

"And that is?"

"Poker."

She looked around at the car and its tired interior. "You any good?" She sounded doubtful.

He rapped his palms on the white steering wheel as if playing a drum roll. "Got me a Cadillac, haven't I."

She made a kind of _mmm_ noise, but said nothing.

"This is a classic."

"You say so."

He was silent for a moment, the smile gone; then he held out his hand with his thumb and finger measuring an inch. "I was this far from a mil just last night."

She mirrored his measurement. "I was this far from a cattle truck back there. Didn't hit me, so it could've missed by a mile, same difference."

It took him a moment to get it. "Not the same."

"What were you holding?" She saw his look. "When you were this far from a mil." She measured an inch with her fingers.

"Full house. Aces and kings."

She nodded. "Good hand. Worth sticking. Not the best."

"Not as good as four queens."

She nodded again, knowingly. "That'll do it."

"The dealer cheated."

She looked over at him and watched his face, tanned and bright, with good cheekbones and ice-blue eyes. Not bad. "How do you know he cheated you?"

"Because I'm good. Learned to play poker when my pa put me in my first high chair. Been playing ever since. I've seen every cheat in the book."

"Not this one?"

"I guess I got cocky, was sure the pot would be in my pocket any minute. Didn't see him do it."

"Did you call him on it?"

"Still walking, so no."

She was quiet again, the road humming under the whitewalls and the sun ruining her skin.

"I don't think the house cheated."

He stared at her for long enough he needed to put the Caddy back on the blacktop. When the dust had blown away, he glanced at her again. "Why not? How would you know?"

"I know that if they do that, pretty soon word gets around and they're out of business." She gave him a gentle smile. "Maybe you just lost. It happens."

"Not to—" Now he chuckled again. "Okay, maybe sometimes. But that was a good hand."

"It was."

"You play poker?" He sounded as surprised as he felt.

"Why? Don't you think women can play poker?"

A gunfighter standing in the middle of Main Street asking him if he's calling her a liar. He wasn't going to draw.

"Sure, women play poker. Some of them good, better than good. Maybe you're one of them."

"Thanks." She moved his chrome side-mirror and watched her hair getting frizzed. "Good enough to see your tell when you looked me over back there."

He frowned at her. "I don't have a tell. Jesus, you think I wouldn't have noticed?"

"You say so."

He watched the road and the haze hiding the horizon. "Prove it."

She turned slowly and let the mirror be. "What, right here?"

"Why not? You say I've got a tell and you can play, so prove it."

"It's a hundred degrees." She tilted her head. "You eaten today?"

The question threw him for a moment. "No. No money, remember?"

"Next rest stop, we eat. I'll pay. And show you your tell."

"I don't take money from women."

"Then you'll never get on in your chosen profession."

"I mean I don't take charity."

"And I don't ride for free."

He thought about it and nodded.

She pointed at the dash. "That the fuel gauge?"

He glanced down. "The one with the gas pump on it. Yeah, that's the fuel gauge."

"It always point at zero?"

"Only when we're out of gas."

"Thought so. I'll buy the gas as well."

He opened his mouth to turn down the offer, but closed it. Not stupid.

The waitress took their order for steak and eggs and poured them coffee as Shelly took the wrapping off a new deck of cards.

Johnny watched her shuffle them one-handed while she smiled at him. Impressive. "What's your game?"

She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We don't need one to prove you have a tell."

He looked around as if someone might overhear. "Okay."

She cut the cards and turned hers over for him to see. "You now, don't show, just look."

She repeated the cut three times and then rebuilt the pack, still watching him while he waited, his eyes fixed on her.

"You won the first and second draw. Lost the third. Won the fourth."

He blinked slowly as he tried to catch up. "Jesus, how did you—?"

"Like I said, you have a tell."

"What?"

She smiled quickly, calmed her face and raised an eyebrow, just a tiny twitch.

"You gonna tell me or what?"

"Just did." She did it again.

And he put his head in his hands. "Then I'm finished."

"Not really."

He looked up but kept his hands under his chin.

"All you have to do is...sprinkle it around a bit."

He didn't get it.

The waitress brought the food and they ate it without speaking, Johnny still frowning and trying to recall how he might have tipped his hand.

Shelly pushed her empty plate aside. "Okay, I'll have the tell this time. You deal."

Four cuts later, he nodded. "You got the second and third, me the others."

She shook her head. "I lost all but the first."

"But your eyebrow..." He laughed and his face lit up. "I get it. Sprinkling."

"Exactly." She tapped the cards. "So you say you're good. Prove it."

The waitress came and refilled their coffee mugs, took the empty plates, and glanced at the cards, but said nothing.

Shelly took a sip of coffee and laid her cards down. Sixes and tens. "Two pair."

Johnny put his down. Jack-high straight. He shrugged and smiled. "You play good."

"Yes, but you're better." She sipped more coffee. "My husband and I ran a casino."

He picked up his coffee and waited. So what?

"He's dead."

"Sorry."

"I'm not, he was a cheat in every way he could. Casino's mine now. Thing is, his brother runs the place. A real piece of work. A _one for you, two for me_ kind, you know?"

"Yeah, met a few. He's a crook, throw him out."

She gave him a moment, but he didn't get there. "I'm a woman."

"I've noticed. Have to be blind not to."

"My husband made sure Larry, his brother, had a share of the casino. There's one other partner, old, used to be in the mob. He thinks running a casino's a man's job."

"It happens. Some men are like that."

She nodded towards the window. "See that junction up ahead?"

He nodded.

"That's Route 50. Left to Reno and home, and right to..." She shrugged and stood up and put fifty dollars on the table. For the steak and for the place to play poker. She stopped and looked down at him, thinking.

"You want to take the biggest gamble of your life?"

He looked at her steadily for long seconds. She was older than him, but every time he looked at her, it mattered less and less. "If you're thinking of riding east with me, then let's do it. It's no gamble."

"You like yourself, don't you?"

"What's not to like?" He brushed the front of his expensive and wrinkled shirt.

True, but no point spoiling the fun and telling him.

"How much of a stake would you need to win...oh, I don't know." She frowned and thought about a number. "Three million."

That was easy. "Hundred thousand."

She sat down. "Let's say somebody...I don't know who, but somebody who knew how to play took on Larry one on one. He wouldn't back down. He thinks he's the best."

"He isn't," Johnny said, and knew it.

"No, I've seen the best."

He almost looked around, then smiled and raised his eyebrow. His tell. "Okay, you've got my attention."

"You take on that sonofabitch and push it all the way. Three million will break the bank."

"Your bank."

She shrugged. "You don't think I'm ever going to see any of it, do you?"

His smile broadened. "The casino broke, you'd be able to buy those two _partners_ out for cents on the dollar."

"I would." She turned the coffee mug around on the table. "Will you do it? Or maybe you've got someplace to be."

"I had no place when I started out this morning; now I've got someplace. A casino in Reno."

"You do this and win, you keep the hundred grand. Deal?"

He put out his hand and she shook it.

"Deal." They stood up and headed for the door.

"And the other offer, will that still be on the table when you're the boss lady?"

"What other offer?"

He gave her his grin and held open the door.

## Ventura Highway

###

Christina Jackson mimed the words her mother was saying as she crashed into the furniture with the vacuum cleaner.

"As long as you live in this house, young lady, you'll live by my rules." Her mother turned and saw her daughter paying rapt attention. She turned off the vacuum. "It's for your own good."

And here comes the bad news.

"That Louis boy is no good."

"There's nothing wrong with him, Mom. He's just a bit wild, that's all."

"A bit wild? A bit wild?" She took a step closer to the sofa her daughter was sitting upright on. "He was arrested last week."

"The police let him go."

"They don't arrest somebody unless they've done something."

"Since when?" Christina tried to keep her tone relaxed. There was no point antagonizing her and making a bad situation even worse. At least her father wasn't home. With his fists.

"Watch your mouth, or you'll be in your room."

"Mom, I'm seventeen. Don't you think I'm a bit old to be grounded."

"This is my house, my rules. You're not to see that Louis boy again. Do you hear me?"

Christina nodded. Of course she could hear her, she'd have to be deaf not to. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I hear you."

"Then that's it settled." Her mother pulled the vacuum cleaner closer and switched it on. "Let's just get this clear." She switched it off again. "You didn't say you're going to give him his marching orders."

Christina shrugged and stood. "Louis is a good friend. I don't intend ghosting him just because you don't like him." She walked to the stairs. "I've got college work to do."

"Let's see what you say when your father gets home from work. He'll beat some sense into you, or I'm a liar if he doesn't."

"Gets home from the bar, more like," Christina said, and trotted upstairs. That told her. Then why was she shaking as if she had a fever? Two hours, no more, her father would be back, reeking of beer and staggering. And he'd thump up the stairs, bang open her door and lay into her. First with the flat of his hands, and then his fists when he started enjoying it. Never so drunk he'd leave a mark people could see, that wouldn't do, the good people of Camarillo wouldn't approve.

Steven Jackson, the storekeeper made good, with a chain of stores now, president of the golf club, and all-round fine fellow. Such a successful and charming man could never beat a woman, and certainly not his only daughter. No, never. The child was attention seeking.

She'd never spoken of it, no point, but now it was getting worse. And there was a new element to it that the good people wouldn't believe either.

She sat on the edge of her bed and watched the clock moving faster than it ever should. Then as if she were right there, her mother's words came to her. "As long as you live in this house..." And there was her salvation.

She jumped off the bed, grabbed her backpack from the closet, and rammed clean underwear, jeans and shirts into it, and then as a last minute thought, her trainers. She looked around her room one more time and opened the door a crack to look down the stairs. Her mother was in the kitchen, fixing something for the drunk.

She tiptoed downstairs and for a moment almost dragged open the front door and ran, but that would've drawn way too much attention, so she hooked on her backpack, opened the door easily and strolled down the road towards the railway station. Steve Jackson's little girl off on a hiking trip all on her own. Bless.

She missed the Surfliner by a few seconds and would now have to wait almost an hour for the next one. She sat on a bench near the ticket office, clutched her backpack and watched the cars coming into the parking lot. No sign of her father's silver Ford, and she wouldn't miss it because he'd be driving drunk, and angry.

Now the clock moved at half normal speed, as if to compensate for the one in her room. Her old room.

This wasn't going to work. Her father would be home before the next train came, she could count on that, and he'd guess right off where she'd be. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach, and her hair bristled as fear ran up and down her spine like an electric ripple. She got up and felt the world swim for a moment and had to steady herself quickly. Falling now would just make a fuss that people would remember when questions were asked.

She had no idea what she was going to do, she just knew she had to do it now. She looked up and saw the highway that had been her skyline for most of her life. Ventura. Suddenly her backpack weighed nothing and she set off at a fast walk. Now she knew where she was going.

Minutes later she was at the freeway entrance, at the end of the sidewalk. She turned to face the cars waiting for the lights to change, took a deep trembling breath, and stuck out her thumb. She'd never hitched before and had no idea if she was doing it right; if she wasn't, her father was going to find her real quick. Please, God, make somebody stop.

A battered blue pickup pulled up on the other side of the safety bollards, and an old guy in pale blue overalls leaned over and pushed open the passenger door with a grinding squeak. Her whole life she'd been warned about what she was about to do. She got in and slammed the door.

The driver didn't look like a lunatic, rapist, kidnapper, mugger or any of the other bogeymen she'd been told roam the streets looking for stupid girls. He was probably old, she couldn't tell. Grey hair, skinny with a thin face and a sharp, hooked nose, but soft eyes and a smile. Yes, he was old, she could see that, and tired.

"Thank you," she said, and pushed her backpack between her feet.

"You are welcome," the old man said, in an accent that tortured the words. He saw her frown. "My English isn't good. I am Artur. I am Armenian."

"Pleased to meet you, Artur," she said, and never meant it more. "I am Christina."

"You run away?"

The bluntness of the question threw her for a moment, and she nodded before she could control the reflex.

"From mother or from father? Or maybe both, yes?"

"Mostly father," she said, and looked away for a moment, ashamed and didn't know why. "And mother, some."

"Los Angeles is dangerous city. You are very young." It was a statement more than a question.

"I'll be careful," she said, without knowing how she'd do that.

"You can come to my home."

She jumped and backed up against the door.

"No, no. Oh dear, my English. I have wife, Milena, very happy woman. And two children, grown now but home."

She relaxed. "You have a happy life." She was jealous.

"It has been hard, but we are here in America, not in Yerevan. There it is very hard." He smiled at her. "We have little, but you stay okay. Milena very happy."

She returned the smile and for a moment considered his offer, but shook her head. "I have plans."

"Plans is good. These I had once too." He shrugged. "We drive Ventura for one hour. Tell me about your plans."

She didn't have any until she started to tell him about them.

Hollywood. This was LA, the capital of the world's movie industry. No decision required. She would go into the movies. Why not? She was tall, five seven, and everybody knows the camera loves tall people, and she was pretty, even if she said so, and not pretty in that boring way, all blonde hair and blue eyes. She had short dark hair and dark eyes and looked like Audrey Hepburn in _Roman Holiday_ , and that was going to open doors, she knew it. It was the easiest decision she'd ever made. She was going to be a movie star.

This time next year she'd see her face on billboards and everybody would know her name.

He laughed from time to time, and sighed, and tutted. And eventually nodded. "This is good plan." He turned in his torn seat and looked her over openly and nodded again. "Yes, like Audrey Hepburn. She was lovely lady, and you are lovely young woman. Good plan."

They drove for another thirty minutes while he told her everything he knew about the movie industry, which turned out to be a lot more than she would've guessed. Artur was a craftsman, a model maker with talent, and he'd seen it all during the twenty years he'd worked in the business. For minimum wage. He was Armenian.

He passed the turning to Little Armenia and carried on down Hollywood Freeway, got off at Chevron and headed south towards Macarthur Park. He stopped outside a three-storey cream-painted house. Smart and clean.

"My friend Min-jun home. She is a good woman. I have known her for many years. She has rooms, cheap and clean." He nodded as if to encourage her.

She had her purse and credit card, not a big limit but enough, and she would need somewhere to stay until she made it and could buy her own place in Malibu. She smiled and returned his nod.

He got out of the pickup and she creaked the door open. And looked around. Christina Jackson had arrived in Hollywood, or near enough.

She walked around the pickup and followed Artur up the steps to the door to her new home.

"Where is she?" Steve Jackson was standing at the bottom of the stairs and could see Christina's door was open, and it should be closed with her hiding from him in there. And the inevitable lesson he would give her.

"She's gone," his wife said, coming out of the kitchen and wiping her hands on a towel.

He stepped away from the stairs. "Gone where? If you let her go over to that boy's place, you know what you'll get."

"No, she's gone. Packed her bag and run away."

He snorted. "That's the funniest thing I've heard this week. That timid little mouse has run off to the big city." He laughed and grabbed the wall to catch his balance.

"Should I call the police?"

"Don't be dumber than you look." He pushed past her, opened the icebox and took out a beer. "Let her hang out with the drunks and druggies for the night. She'll be back on the doorstep first thing."

"I'm worried about her," his wife said.

He took a pace forward and backhanded her across the face, sending her staggering to sit heavily on the stairs. He leaned over her, his face just inches from hers. She knew better than to flinch or react to the stink of his breath.

"You should've thought about that before you let the little tramp leave."

"I didn't. She sneaked out. You know what she's like."

"Yeah, and when she comes crawling back all sorry and wanting the safety of her room, I'll make sure she never leaves again."

"But what if she doesn't come back?"

Steve stood up and took a pull on his beer. "You know, you are the stupidest woman I ever met. What in hell did I see in you?" He staggered into the living room and turned on the TV. "She won't last the night out there, trust me." He fell into his chair and put his feet up on the coffee table to watch the game.

Christina thanked the kind Korean woman, Min-jun, she thought was Chinese and took the bulgogi pasty in a napkin to eat on her journey.

Her journey was a ten-minute walk and she was on Santa Monica Boulevard. Now all she had to do was find a movie to star in. That should be easy, she was in Hollywood.

There were a dozen studios within a half-hour walk, and security at every one of them sent her on her way, some more politely than others. The last one was only the last because the young gate guard gave her some advice she thought made sense. And she took it and went to find a talent agency and let them line up the work. Okay then.

Two hours walking hot streets she'd seen maybe a dozen agency receptionists and got the same message, that being the one the studio guards had given her.

This was harder than she'd imagined, and she decided to try one more then give it up and do something else, scriptwriting maybe. How hard could that be?

She was cutting through from Santa Monica Boulevard to Melrose when she saw the unspectacular entrance to Over the Rainbow Agency. The agency was in a two-storey, tree-shaded building with tinted windows and a simple message on the glass, _The Home of the Truly Talented._ That would do just fine. She went in.

There was no receptionist to shoo her away, just a neat seating area with a computer monitor and a TV showing old movies. She assumed she was supposed to sit, so sat.

Five minutes passed, and that was long enough for anybody to wait. She stood and listened at each of the four doors leading off the reception area. Nothing.

"You looking for somebody?"

She jumped and pulled her head away from the door. "Errr...I was...you know? Err..."

The tall man with the crewcut hair and orange tan had a cigar in his mouth, which luckily wasn't lit, or she would've just walked right out of there.

"If you're thinking of the movie industry as a career, you're going to have to learn to string a sentence together." He turned and walked back towards a door set back into an alcove, stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"

She thought about it. The man wore a shiny silk suit with pins through the shirt sleeves that stuck out below the cuffs. But it was hot out and she was tired, and this orange man was the first one to speak to her all day. You have to jump in if you want to swim. She followed him into the office.

She didn't use the word _sumptuous_ , but if she did, that's how she would've described the office. Two white leather sofas facing each other, soft as skin. A desk that filled the space in front of the tinted windows, ten feet if it was an inch. And three of the four walls lined with gold- and silver-framed certificates. There was a statue on his desk, an Oscar, she recognised that. She didn't recognise the silver disc in a crescent on a block, but the gold plaque said it was a Tony Award, whatever that was.

The tall orange man sat in his sculptured chair and rocked back a little while he looked her over as if she were modelling the latest fashion. She didn't care, it happened all the time.

"So," he said at last and leaned forward onto his desk, "you want to be in the movies."

"Yes. How did you know that?" She wondered if she should sit down on one of the sofas, she was tired, but decided to stand until he said it was okay.

"Honey, you're in a talent agency." He dropped his unlit cigar into a silver ashtray. "Or I should say _the_ talent agency." He nodded at the Oscar. "I've got a couple more of those at home." He shrugged. "Copies, sure, my actors have the real things." He smiled. Not too bad. "Have you got any experience?"

She thought about lying, but it would come out later when the magazines looked into her life. She shook her head. "Not yet."

"Okay." He moved his finger in a circle. "Turn around."

She turned.

"Slowly."

She turned slowly.

"How old are you?"

The temptation to lie again. "Seventeen."

He tilted his head and watched her for a moment. "Pity, there's a part on my desk that you look good for. You have to be eighteen."

"Next week." A lie.

He watched her for several seconds, as if deciding if she was good enough.

"This part..." He frowned. "Spielberg. You've heard of Spielberg?"

Probably, the name sounded familiar. "Of course."

"He's putting together his next movie, a sequel to _Memories of a Geisha_. You see that one?"

"No," she answered before she had time to lie.

"Doesn't matter." He was silent again, giving it serious consideration.

"Do you think there's a part in it for me?"

He took a long breath and let it out slowly. "Might be. You might be too young." The frown returned. "The Geisha is about Japanese hookers."

She assumed every country had hookers; there were plenty in LA. "Would I play one of them?"

"The part on my desk is for one of the main ones, but..."

She stepped closer. "Is there a problem?"

"The part calls for some nudity."

She flinched and licked her lips. Her hands were shaking and she put them in her jacket pockets.

"Look, you're young, maybe too young. Let's forget it," he said with a little shrug. "Unless it doesn't bother you." He nodded as if answering a silent question. "It's not porn, not with Spielberg. Just a long shot in a steam room and maybe a dark bedroom scene. Nothing tacky." He stood and came around the desk.

He was old. She guessed fifties, sixties maybe; it was hard to tell. Once they got over thirty, they all looked the same.

"Thing is," he said, "a part in a Spielberg movie would put you on the map big time. The offers would pour in. You could write your own ticket. But..." He leaned back against the desk. "You'd have to take your clothes off." He shook his head. "I don't think you'd be able to do that."

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I'd put you in for it and you'd freeze the second you had to undress. Then I'd look like a third-rate operator. Let's forget it."

"I wouldn't do that. Actors take their clothes off; it's acting not life."

"I'm not convinced." The nod at the silent question again. "There's one way you could convince me."

"How would I do that, Mr. Bronstein?"

"That's a good start, knowing my name."

It was on the door.

"Okay, look, I'm going to stick my neck out. I like the look of you. But I have to be sure." He pushed himself off the edge of the desk. "You think you could take your clothes off? Right here, now." He waved a hand. "You can do that, you've got an audition with the greatest director in the business."

Her heart was beating hard in her chest, and her mouth was dry. "Here? In front of you?"

He shrugged. "It's just acting, right? And you're going to have to do it when you're starring in _Memories of a Geisha 2_." He smiled a white smile. "No touching or anything. Well, not much."

She took a long breath. "Okay."

He smiled.

"But I don't want to take my clothes off with anybody watching. It's so...undignified, you know?" She looked around. "If you were to go and get coffee or something and come back in, say, five, ten minutes, I'd be ready. Is that okay?"

His smile slipped a little, but he recovered it. "Sure, I know what you mean. All that standing on one leg and hopping. Okay. You take off your gear and I'll go get a coffee."

He stopped at the door. "All of it. That's the deal."

She nodded and watched him close the door, then took her cell phone out of her pocket and turned off the record.

His phone was on his desk and it took her seconds to find his wife's number. She had her finger over the _send_ button when she made a decision she would remember for the rest of her life.

Three minutes later, she'd synced his phone with hers. Which meant he had her contacts: friends, pizza delivery and Louis. And she had all of his. Everybody who was anybody in Hollywood.

Five minutes to the second he came back, a little breathless, and saw her leaning against his desk, still wearing her black Anne Klein's dress and white jacket.

"So you couldn't do it?" He shrugged. "Too bad, you would've been good in the part."

"There'll be other parts." She smiled. "I know you'll be keen to put me up for the best you can find."

He shook his head. "I don't think so. This was a one-shot de—"

His mouth fell open and he stared at her phone playing back his words crisp and clear.

"Oh, I cloned your phone. I hope you don't mind. It's just that if I'm going to send this to...Janice, isn't it? Well, if I'm going to send it to her, I might as well send it to all your friends. And the _LA Times_."

"Why you little b—"

"Tut-tut. Is that any way to be speaking to your new best client?"

## Country Roads

###

Ryan Roe's beat-up Dodge Challenger had started life as the SRT Hellcat, a monstrous seven-hundred-horsepower muscle car capable of near on two hundred miles an hour, a beautiful beast. Until Beamer had got to work on it; now it looked like a piece of crap. The metallic bronze paintwork was now dull silver with more dinks and bumps than a fairground dodgem, except every vulnerable underside part was shielded from rocks and bottoming out on jumps.

Nobody would give it a second glance, and that was just fine with Ryan, because second glances was the last thing he needed when he was running moonshine down from Papa Joe's still hidden in plain sight up in the mountains. That was Fridays; weekends Papa Joe was a preacher, all hellfire and brimstone raining down on anyone who strayed from the path of righteousness. He was the man.

Today being Wednesday, Ryan was running twelve keys of weed over to Hyden up in Leslie County. Kentucky's tourist Mecca, if you believed the folks over at Hyden. A bank, a church and a pizza shop, oh, and the frontier nursing university. And there was the auto parts store, where Ryan's front wheel bearings were waiting. Two birdies and one stone. Deliver the weed to Combes and his crazy brothers then swing by and pick up the parts for Beamer. An hour each way if he used the parkway and stuck to the speed limit. Right. Except he was going to do it in the same time on the dirt roads through the hills. Just to keep his hand in, and to avoid being pulled over by the cops. Okay, that too.

First things first, he checked the rearview and saw the road bending off around the trees, and he saw Burbon's Service Shop, with its wrecks littering the yard. A great advertisement for the quality of Jimmy Burbon, and an accurate one. But there was no sign of Anna-Beth. He glanced at the dash clock. She was late, but if she was only ten minutes late, then she'd be early, because she was usually a half hour late. He got the logic of that once he'd straightened it out.

He turned in his seat to look back towards James Street, where her house was hidden by the trees. He'd just have to sit and wait, because there was no way he was driving up to her place, not when her daddy might be around. Thing about her daddy was—the rap on the driver's window had him almost jump through the roof.

He opened the window and tried to smile. "Sheriff Garratt." The smile was hurting his face, so he gave up on it. "You out for a nice walk?" He looked up at the dark sky. "Nice day for it."

"You forget what I told you?" the tall policeman said, leaning his elbow on the Hellcat's roof.

"No, sir," Ryan said, and shook his head for emphasis. The frown gave him away.

"I said," the sheriff said, and lowered his head to the level of the window, taking a sniff just in case, "I catch you even looking across the street at my daughter, I'm going to shoot your balls off." He stood up and pointed at his gun in its holster. "I've got a badge that says it's okay to do that."

"Yes, sir; no, sir." Ryan wanted to back off, but there was no place to go. "I was just..." Jesus, what? "I was heading over to Burbon's to get some oil."

Sheriff Garratt looked over the car roof at the dump across the street, then leaned down again. "You and this piece of shit car would be right at home there." He leaned in a little closer. "I'm not going to tell you again. Anna-Beth is going to college and getting the hell out of this place, and away from people like you. My girl is going to make something of herself. You hear me?"

"Hi, Daddy," a slim blonde girl said, slipping into Ryan's passenger seat. "You and Ryan having a little chat?"

"Your daddy was just telling me you're going to college to be famous," Ryan said, and hid a grin.

"Daddy wants me to be a big-city lawyer." She laughed lightly. "Can you see me in a suit in front of a judge."

"Not unless you're wearing handcuffs," Ryan said, and wished he hadn't. His mother always said his mouth would get him into trouble. He flinched and looked back very slowly.

Sheriff Garratt was watching him through squinted eyes, and his jawbone was clearly visible along his cheek. Ryan guessed he wasn't happy.

Ryan started the motor and the V8 rattled and clunked like an old tractor, just as Beamer had intended.

The sheriff took a half step back and looked the car over as if it were something that'd crawled out of the sewer and died. "You're taking my little girl out in this pile of crap?" He shook his head. "Over my dead body. Get out of there, girl."

Anna-Beth chuckled, light and happy. "Don't be such a grouch, Daddy. Ryan's a good driver. I'll be fine." She tapped Ryan's thigh. "Come on, it's okay." She leaned a little forward and smiled at her father. "See you later. Oh, don't forget Mom asked you to pick up a parcel from the post office."

Sheriff Garratt glared at Ryan and tapped his gun. Message received. Ryan flinched and pretended he was intimidated. No reason to poke the bear. He kept his foot light on the gas and drove away slowly, no wheelspin, no smoke, nothing dramatic.

The sheriff stepped into the road and watched them go, his thumbs tucked into his gun belt. A throwback to simpler times, back when he could've just shot the tearaway and everybody would have nodded. But he could wait. That wild kid was up to no good; how else could he live without appearing to do a day's work? Well, okay, he'd be there waiting when he slipped up. Anna-Beth was going to college.

Anna-Beth looked back and saw her father getting smaller in the distance. "He means well," she said, sitting back and checking her seatbelt.

"He means well for you," Ryan said, "maybe a bit less for me." He blew out is breath in a flat whistle. "If he'd checked the trunk, we'd be having a whole different conversation."

Anna-Beth sighed and shook her head. "You're nuts. Anybody ever tell you that? Coming right up to Daddy's front door with drugs just lying in the trunk."

He smiled. "Couldn't put it on the back seat, could I?"

She tutted and stared at the woods zipping past on both sides. They were moving, really moving, but she wasn't nervous, didn't even think about it. Ryan could be an idiot sometimes and take stupid chances, but God had given him a talent the best stock-car racers would sell their mothers for. Ryan was a Driver.

She retuned the radio away from the hillbilly music he'd been playing to annoy her. He didn't listen to banjo stuff, she knew that. Probably. Unless he did when she wasn't there. Could be. Guy did some funny things, some of them near suicidal.

Ariana was singing 'My Everything'. She liked that, and glanced at Ryan sitting relaxed behind the wheel as if taking granny for a quiet drive out.

He returned the glance and the smile and then looked back at the road. Seemed like a good idea. "I need to put the scanner on. This is bandit country." He pressed the button behind the steering wheel and nothing happened except Ariana kept right on singing. It was a quiet day at the sheriff's office.

Without seeming to slow from the sixty miles an hour they were doing, Ryan slid the Hellcat into the right-hand bend, then floored it and took off down the dirt road with hardly any speed loss. Showing off. Maybe he was, but he was out to beat the freeway time, and that demanded some skills. And some showing off.

Combes was sitting on a bench seat in front of his crappy general store in the middle of nowhere USA. No sign of his brothers, probably off somewhere shooting something that couldn't shoot back.

Ryan twitched the wheel and slid the Hellcat across the gravel lot right up to the steps up to the wooden porch. And gave Combes a dust bath. Probably the first bath he'd had since JFK was shot.

What beat Ryan's brain with a stick was that folks bought stuff in that store, stuff to eat. He gave the dust a second to blow away, then got out and touched his eyebrow in a soft salute to his customer. Treat your customers right and they'll stay right with you. That was his motto, well, it was now, for a while.

He opened the trunk and lifted the big cardboard box out and put it on the first step. "Your dinner service straight from Amazon," he said, with a grin.

Combes didn't get it. Smoking too much of his product. A man in a straw hat, seventy years old, or fifty hard ones, it was impossible to tell. He was fatter than a hog born on an acorn farm. And the hog similarity didn't end there; the fat man had the piggy eyes and bloated lips to go with it.

Treat your customers right. "Looking good, Mr. Combes. You been working out?"

Combes reached down behind the bench and lifted a wide glass jar of clear moonshine with a piece of fruit floating in it. And sucked it for a few seconds without taking his narrowed eyes off the delivery boy.

"Why'd I want a dinner service? If I even know'd what one was."

Ryan wished he'd kept his mouth shut. "Nothing, Mr. Combes." He patted the box. "This here's your weed. Do you want to check it over?"

Combes frowned at him again. "Why'd I want to do that? You shorting me on it?"

"No, sir, I would never do that to you."

"Meanin' you'd do it to somebody else."

"No, sir, meaning I get paid to deliver a box full of weed, I deliver a box full of weed. Not my place to dip into it."

"Good way to get your head blowed off." He took another pull on the moonshine without taking his eyes off Ryan. "What your momma say about you wearing your hair like that? All sissy and..." He shrugged, losing his thread and his interest.

Anna-Beth leaned out of the car window and checked out her boy. Nothing wrong with his hair. Close undercut with nice blond curls on top. Okay, he wanted to lose the curls, but she liked them. Natural. Some girls she knew would kill for curls like those.

"Morning, Purvis. Where's Ava?"

Combes leaned over to see past Ryan. "That you, Anna-Beth?"

"It is. Was hoping to see Ava while I'm here."

"She's over at South Side. The mall." He shook his head as if he didn't get why a teenage girl would want to drive two hours to a mall.

"Tell her I said hi," Anna-Beth said, and slid back into the car.

"You want anything from the shop?"

Ryan shook his head. "No, thank you, Mr. Combes. I'm good."

"Then why you still here?"

Ryan nodded once, got back into the car, and got out of there before he caught the crazy bug. Over to Hyden and pick up—

"Sheriff, you receiving?" the police scanner said.

Ryan reached over and turned off the radio, and gave Anna-Beth a little smile by way of a sorry.

"Receiving, Sarah. What's up?"

Sarah was dispatch at the sheriff's office, and doubled up as his wife. But at work it was all business. Though that didn't account for the strain that was clear in her voice.

"Armed men held up a bank in Lexington. Killed a guard and shot the teller."

Anna-Beth stared at him and he raised a finger for her to listen and not speak.

"Took off down I-75. State troopers were waiting, but the bad guys got off at Corbin."

"And they're heading this way," Sheriff Garratt said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

"They are. Report says they're heading for Richmond over in Virginia."

"Why'd the hell they want to go there?" the sheriff said.

His wife was silent for a moment. "Why don't you ask them? They're coming right through town in an hour or so."

"Okay," the sheriff said, still calm, "get Otis and John out of Apple Joes and tell them to sober up quick."

"Already called them."

Silence for a moment. Long enough for the sheriff and Ryan to know what was coming next.

"Otis says his back's gone again. Doc told him to lay up for a while. John—" a beat while she took a breath "—he's been married a couple of months. Baby on the way." Another silence. "Wants to know if you really need him. Do you?"

"No, I'll do just fine. Tell him to make sure folks stay off the streets. That's important work."

"Tom?"

"Yeah, hon?"

"You're a good man."

"Don't tell anybody."

"Be careful. These men already killed people."

"Don't worry, hon. I'm not people."

Anna-Beth tried to smile at the joke, but she was numb with fear.

Ryan floored it and the muscle car wagged its tail in its eagerness to do his bidding.

"Where are we going?" Anna-Beth said.

"I'm going to help the sheriff. You're going to get out before I get there."

She set her jaw. "You'll have to throw me out."

He glanced at her. She meant it. She was staying. "Okay, you can come, but if it looks bad, you have to get out when I say? Agreed?"

She was silent while she thought it through. It was her father standing in the middle of the road back in Leaning Peak. But Ryan was right, if she stayed in the car, he'd worry about her when he should be trying to save her daddy. "Okay. But only if it looks really bad."

"Good. Don't worry." He glanced at her. "The bad guys will probably cut through Tazewell and get on the 81. It makes more s—"

"They passed through Middleboro," the despatcher said. Sarah, Tom's wife, Anna-Beth's mom. Jesus, this was bad.

"Good," Ryan said quietly, lying to make her feel better.

"They're heading east, towards Kingsport," Sarah said.

"Thanks, hon," the sheriff said, as calm as if she'd just told him the school bus had broken down.

"They're coming right at you, Tom."

"Don't worry, I'll keep my head down."

Ryan glanced at Anna-Beth, who was staring at him, her eyes wide. They both knew the sheriff would stand in the way.

"How far do they have to go?" Anna-Beth said, her voice shaking. "You know? Until they get to Daddy?"

"Corbin to LP? Twenty-three miles." He didn't have to think about it; he knew the road, every turn on it.

She licked her lips, ready to ask the question.

"That's Garrard back there. Thirty miles to go."

She could do the math; they both could.

"We're not going to make it, are we?" she said, sounding very young and very frightened.

Ryan put his foot to the metal and they were pressed back into their seats. "We'll make it."

The sheriff drove through his town and pulled off the road at the northern end. It took just a few minutes. He'd give the fugitives a while to get closer; then he'd put his Tahoe across the road. Wouldn't be enough to block it, but it might slow them down some, enough for him to get a shot off.

Before they killed him.

A black and white pulled up behind him, and he got out to meet John as he climbed out. Guy had a baby on the way, but he was still there when he didn't need to be. Said a lot for him.

"You clear the streets?" the sheriff asked, letting his thanks stay unsaid.

"Everybody's locked down. Looking out though, you can count on that."

John was not much older than Anna-Beth, twenty maybe. Tom thought he knew, should know, but couldn't remember. Too much going on. The kid looked scared enough to mess his uniform. Jesus, this was no place for a boy, even one with stones.

"They still coming?" John said, stepping up onto the bank and looking down the long empty road. "No sign of them." He looked back at the sheriff. "Maybe they cut west, head back to the 75. Makes sense. Bypass the roadblocks south of Corbin then head for Knoxville. Lose themselves in there easy. Sure, yeah. That's what I'd do. Right? Coming on through here don't make no sense. Road's too narrow. Too easy to get boxed in. Yeah, they'll be heading back to the 75 while we standing out here with our dicks in our hands. Makes sense. Right?"

"They're coming," the sheriff said, and saw the boy's shoulders sag as if a huge weight had just landed on them.

"How long?"

The sheriff shrugged. "Ten minutes, I figure. Maybe a shade less. Depends how good a driver they got. Like you said, these roads are not built for racing."

"Christ." John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Maybe I'll call Carol, you know? Just say hey."

He wanted to run away; Jesus, who wouldn't? But he was standing.

Tom gave an exaggerated start and opened the Tahoe's tailgate. "Shit."

"Problem?"

"Yeah, problem." Sheriff Garratt slammed the tailgate. "Don't have the big gun."

"Shit." John looked around as if expecting to see it lying on the road.

The sheriff looked back towards the town. "I need that big gun. Only thing got a chance of stopping them. You think you can get back to the office and get it before they get here?"

The deputy held his gaze for a moment and nodded. "Yeah, I could do that. Sure." He wiped his mouth again.

"Better get going, then."

"Right." John strode back to the car, stopped with the door open and looked back, as if he was going to say something. Then got in, hung a U and smoked the tires.

Sheriff Garratt opened the tailgate, took out the Remington 870 and racked it before pushing it through the open window and walking around to get in. To put the vehicle in the way of the bad guys.

There was no way Ryan could know what was around the bends, Anna-Beth knew that, but the way he just picked a line and kept his foot down, she believed he must have some sort of sixth sense or something.

She watched the speedometer with the needle kicking between sixty and eighty, never less, while the road snatched left and right so fast she didn't see the bends coming before they were gone. And he just sat there, relaxed liked he was on a Sunday drive to church.

She could see the next bend. Nobody would be able to miss it. The road just seemed to end and trees take over. She choked off a scream. That was the last thing he needed right now. If ever she needed a prayer, now was the time, but she couldn't think of one. Except to ask Jesus not to let them die.

Ryan kept his foot off the brake, dropped down a gear, and moved the steering wheel with his fingers way before they reached the bend. The Hellcat's back end broke out and the car started a full sideways slide towards the trees.

Anna-Beth whimpered and closed her eyes.

Ryan floored it just as the road was about to run out. The V8 threw its power into the rear axle, and the extra-wide tires dug in. The slide snapped into forward drive and the Hellcat took off. The trees would have to wait for another fool.

He glanced at the dash clock as if nothing had happened, and for him nothing had. Just another bend in the road. Five miles. Maybe a touch less. There was no real way of knowing how close the bad guys were. It was going to be close. If God was having a good day, maybe it would be close on the right side of not finding the sheriff shot to pieces.

The road north of town ran straight for a couple of miles. Just one of those things, no planning. And it was a good thing and a bad thing right then. Bad thing: no bends to slow them down. Good thing: Sheriff Garratt could see them coming. A black Chrysler 300 coming right on down the middle of the road.

The sheriff took a long breath and moved up behind the Tahoe's hood and rested the shotgun on the shining paintwork. They weren't slowing down. No reason to. Just one cop car in their way, and his SUV wasn't big enough to block the road. So they were going to just drive on by.

Okay then.

He could see the big car clearly now. Smoked windows, big tires. Imposing. Half a mile maybe. It drifted over to the left. So it could get past the Tahoe, most likely. A man climbed half out of the passenger window. What the hell?

Then he reached back in and pulled out a rifle, an M16 by the look of it, and the sheriff knew what an M16 looked like. So he wasn't even going to get one shot off. Pity, he would've liked to fire the Remington in anger just once.

The Chrysler was towing a cloud of dust that rolled and billowed all around it, making it look for all the world like it was coming out of Hell.

Five hundred yards and the guy was getting himself settled to empty his mag into whoever was dumb enough to stand in the road.

Sheriff Garratt lifted the shotgun and let it rest gently against his shoulder. He glanced up. Hey, just one shot, okay?

Two hundred yards. Maybe seven, eight seconds. Who wants to live forever anyhow?

The Chrysler's rear end filled Ryan's world. It was going to be close. Maybe too close. Come on. Come on.

Anna-Beth flinched and squeezed her eyes shut. He was going to ram the great big car. They would all be killed. But it'd be worth it.

Ryan moved his fingers and the Hellcat slipped right. A little farther. Now.

He dropped a gear and put his foot down so hard there was a chance he'd punch right through the metal.

The Hellcat's front end crept up alongside the Chrysler until it was just behind the rear wheel.

Then Ryan whipped it left, and the sound of metal on metal filled the car.

Anna-Beth screamed. This was it. They were going to die.

But they weren't dead. She opened her eyes.

The Chrysler was spinning down the road, the guy with the rifle slamming against the window sides. He dropped the rifle.

Just then the car's front end dug in and it flipped and cartwheeled off the road and into a field. A moment later the fuel tank blew. Not as good as it did in the movies. But it would do.

"You did it." Anna-Beth's breath was barely working. "You did it."

Ryan smiled. "It's called a PIT manoeuvre."

She didn't care what it was called. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"Hey, hey, I'm driving here."

##  Lincoln Highway

###

Ronan McCarthy stepped down from the Peterbilt big rig truck, waved at the driver, and stepped back to watch the semi roll back towards the I-80. This was going to be Mike's last run. He'd told him, as much for something to say as any real need to share the information. He was hanging up his keys and putting his feet up.

He stood at the side of the road and watched the silver beast roll up to the on-ramp, and then it was gone, lost in the traffic heading west. California.

He turned slowly and checked out the town. Right in front of him was a KFC and a taco place sharing a frontage, a bar with a sign telling him it was happy hour, and a rib place closed for refurb.

He was going to be here for as long as it took to find a day's work and buy some food and a clean shirt. By the look of the place, he'd just doubled the population.

This was farming country, Nebraska. He looked back over his shoulder and replayed the last miles. Iowa, he remembered the sign welcoming him. Didn't feel very welcome the way the old boys sitting in front of Arizona Dave's Bar and Grill were eyeing him as if he'd just been dragged from a police cell.

He gave them a slow salute, just to be friendly. They watched him without reaction, friendly or otherwise.

"What's the name of this...town?" he asked, though he couldn't care less.

One of the three moved his hand very slowly and pointed at a faded sign. New Bedford. Right. He wondered what had happened to Old Bedford, but decided not to ask, not wanting to tax their brains any further.

"Anywhere around here hiring?"

They watched him, and the old guy on the left took a sip of beer from a thick glass.

"Hey," Ronan said, slinging his backpack onto his shoulder, "you sit and enjoy the day. I'll take a look around." He walked west for no reason other than there were trees that way and the sun was somewhere between hell and an oven.

"Hotel needs a porter," the old guy with the thick beer glass said, and pointed east. "On account the last one run off."

Ronan stopped and looked back down the road at a shabby sign a hundred yards away. Melrose Hotel & Spa. Right. He waved once at the old guy and changed direction.

The place needed work. Okay, it needed demolishing and rebuilding. He stood at the edge of the battered driveway leading up to what he guessed was the hotel entrance, because there had once been a sign hanging on the rusted post. One day. He could do one day, and then he was out of there.

He'd expected the guy at reception to be wearing a string vest and sucking on a Marlboro, but the man had on a clean white shirt and black pants. He smiled at him as he stepped in out of the heat. Probably thought he was a guest. Looked like the place could use some customers.

Ronan unslung his backpack and dropped it at his feet in front of the oak reception counter. He returned the smile. No reason not to.

"Hi." Good start. "Old guy at the bar down the road told me you're hiring."

The man in the shirt looked him over and, to Ronan's surprise, kept the smile. "I need a porter."

Okay, he could do that.

"And a concierge."

That too.

"And a barman."

Still with him.

"And a gardener."

At that point their paths diverged. Ronan didn't do gardens, never had, never would. Thing about gardening was digging and planting and shoving your hands into the dirt.

"I was right with you up to the gardening," Ronan said, shrugged and scooped up his backpack.

"You saw the garden as you came in," the hotel man said.

Ronan frowned and tried to recall. And did. "You mean that cement parking lot and scrub trees?"

The man nodded. "You think you can sweep that a couple times a week, then you're hired."

Ronan didn't make snap decisions, not since that stupid one a few years back cost him dear. He looked around. Reception wasn't too bad, a touch tired, but nothing a lick of paint and a few panes of glass wouldn't fix. Concierge? Okay, he could read a map and a What's On booklet, so that was covered, and barkeep was just pouring beer and booze.

"Okay, if we can agree on the pay, I'm a four-hat employee."

"Eight dollars an hour." The man shrugged. "And you keep whatever tips you get."

That was already eight dollars more than Ronan had. He put out his hand. "When can I start?"

"You got anywhere to stay?"

"Just got off the highway."

The hotel man pointed at a door across the room-sized reception. "Gator used that room. It's yours if you want it."

"Gator?"

"Yeah, should've seen it coming. Guy was a cue short of a pool game. Went home to Florida." He shook his head. "Emptied the cash register. Stupid."

Ronan frowned. "How come stupid?"

"Stole thirty dollars."

"Few dollars short of a felony."

"Yeah. Thing was, I owed him eighty for his pay." He shook his head.

"Guy's name was Gator," Ronan said, and smiled.

The hotel man walked around the counter and put out his hand. "Neil Armstrong." He seemed to be waiting for some sort of response.

Ronan shook the man's hand. "Ronan McCarthy."

Neil smiled. "You know, you're the first guy not to ask."

"My name's McCarthy." Ronan shook his head. "Man, I've heard all the smart-ass comments." He glanced back at the room. "I'll stow my gear and get started."

Neil followed him to his new room, and when Ronan opened the door, he knew why. The guy wanted to see the look on his face. The room should've been a wreck; hell, it had been used by Gator. It wasn't, it was immaculate, and it stopped Ronan in his tracks still holding the door.

Neil chuckled.

Ronan stepped into the small room and looked around. The bed had crisp white pillows without even a crease and sheets hooked up with hospital corners tight enough to bounce a coin on. The windows had yellow curtains with flowers, and the mirror on the white wardrobe didn't have a single fingerprint. He whistled quietly and glanced at Neil. "Man, you don't need me; hire whoever did this."

Neil chuckled. "I think you'll find I work for her."

"Oh, right, she's the owner."

"No, I'm the owner."

Ronan turned and waited.

"I own this place, but Alex runs it."

"Alex? Your wife?" Ronan waved a hand. "None of my business."

"You'll meet her soon enough. Alex is my daughter."

No further explanation required.

"So," Ronan said, dropping his backpack on the bed, then grabbing it back up and putting it by the door. "Which hat do I wear?" He saw the frown. "Too early for barman, too late for concierge with everybody already up and out, no luggage to port." He shrugged. "I guess that leaves gardener."

"Any good at fixing busted windows?" Neil said, and walked back into the small reception. He had a limp and was self-conscious about it, holding his thigh with his hand to help it along.

Ronan followed him and looked around. There was a cracked pane in the panel next to the double front doors. "No problem." He looked around some more. "You got any white paint?"

"Gallons of the stuff in the storeroom." He pointed at the door behind the reception desk.

Ronan's expectations had been set by his immaculate room, so the state of the man-room brought a smile. It took him a while to rummage through all the junk in there and find the paint, roller and tray. There'd be a stepladder someplace, but he'd get to that later.

Alex was in reception when he backed out of the storeroom. He had to tell himself to close his mouth. She would've stopped traffic in Times Square. Tall, maybe six feet, slim and shapely, and had masses of red hair dropping over her left shoulder. He made an effort to pull himself together before he lost himself in her sparkling green eyes and said something dumb.

"You're Alex." Not too dumb.

"You guessed," she said, and raised an eyebrow.

She was wearing wine-colored pedal-pusher pants and a loose white shirt unbuttoned maybe one more button than would be considered decent in some places. This wasn't one of them.

She watched him looking her over and then returned the favour. She saw a man in his early thirties, maybe a year or so older than her, six four, dark brown hair and oval dark eyes that had a crinkle at the edge. He'd be okay on a dark day, she decided.

"Are you stealing that paint?"

He looked down at the two cans he was holding in his right hand. "Wasn't planning to."

"Just that you seem pretty keen to keep them closed."

He smiled and the laugh lines around his eyes did their thing. "Okay, boss lady, I get the message." He swung the cans as he crossed to the entrance and started work.

He took down the pictures of seascapes, as alien as Mars to the folks around here, and one of _Apollo 11_. Neil's little joke, he guessed.

She watched him from behind the reception desk while he turned the reception area from depressing battleship grey to fresh white. Walls and ceiling. And a little bit of the carpet.

The place got busy around five, busier than he'd expected, though why he thought that he couldn't guess, maybe he was thinking of the Bates Motel. Businessmen came in ones and twos, going someplace from somewhere or coming back. There could've been a cloning factory across the street because they all looked the same: wrinkled suits, wrinkled guys, tired with miles under their shoes.

Alex was professional, kind to those who needed it, and pointed out the bar to all of them with a common degree of gratitude in response.

He realised she was watching him, and he liked that. She was looking from him to the bar and waiting for something. The barman. And that would be him.

He put the lid back on the paint and stowed it at the quiet end of the reception desk where feet wouldn't find it. Then he went to his room and washed as much of the paint off his hands and face as he could without resorting to a scouring pad. Bar duties were calling. He smoothed his shirt and jeans and rubbed his trainers on the back of his legs. It didn't help. The hell with it, they wouldn't be looking at him, just the contents of the bar.

There was a soft rap on the door, followed a beat later by a knuckle thump. He knew who it was even before he opened it and took the bundle of clothes thrust into his chest.

"They should fit." She looked him over. "You're about the same build as Daddy."

He couldn't help feeling that wasn't a compliment. She closed the door and left him to it before he could think of anything to say. He spread the clothes out on the bed and stepped back. White shirt, black pants, shiny black shoes. Okay, barman clothes. He stripped off his paint-spattered clothes and put on his clean and pressed bartending garb. He wondered if the girl had an outfit for every occasion. A green one with boots for the gardener, he supposed. He smiled. It would be starched and immaculate if she did.

Neil stepped out from behind the small bar to make room for him. He was limping noticeably now, and Ronan knew why he'd got the job.

"Beer needs changing," Neil said. "I'll go see to it."

There were a dozen customers in the bar, all men, some still in suits, some in casual gear their wives had bought them, and a couple of truckers in blue overalls. Nobody was talking to anybody else, instead fiddling with their phones or tapping away on their laptops. Hotel bar.

Ronan could've told a few jokes, maybe lighten things up a bit. Right. He had a mental picture of their response, and of the mass exodus.

Midnight before the last businessman slid off his stool and walked unsteadily out to his room. Six hours he'd be on the road, and still drunk. Ronan watched him go and tried not to judge, and failed. Guys like that kill people; if he hates his life so much, then change it. He put the guy's glass in the washer. Or end it. Man, that's a bit harsh. Yeah, it's late and it'd been a big day. Dawn this morning he was at the on-ramp to the Lincoln Highway, the I-80, looking for a ride to wherever the truck was going.

He put down the towel and looked around. He had a job, a place to sleep with a bed, and decent people. First impressions. Then why did he feel so... He tossed the towel onto the washer. If you can't think it, man, you can't feel it. He went to bed.

And slept badly until five thirty when voices from reception on the other side of his door brought him back to the world. He listened for a while to make sure the voices weren't angry and decided they were just the business guys starting their day. And the truckers heading back onto the highway, going someplace else. An open road with a thousand intersections going to somewhere he'd never been.

He got up, stretched, and pulled back the plastic shower curtain covering the cubicle in the corner of the room. He let the shower run for a minute then tested the water. Okay, warm. He stepped into it and soaked for a while, enjoying the change from a cold wash in a restroom on the road.

When he came out, there was a fluffy white towel on his bed and another set of clothes. He looked at the door and back at the shower and frowned. Ninja? He spread out the clothes. White overalls, courtesy of Alex. He was handyman again today.

She watched him pulling the overalls up as he crossed reception to fetch his paint. The overalls crotch was way too low and made him look like a baby in a nappy. She looked away to hide the smile and recover.

"There's breakfast in the kitchen," she said, and pointed at the archway next to the bar.

It'd been years since he'd had a breakfast he hadn't had to stand in line for. A man could get used to this. Pancakes and crispy bacon, toast washed down with black coffee. He glanced at his watch. Six o'clock. Right about now he'd be getting his first ride, or standing on the ramp with his thumb out. Sitting in a warm kitchen with a breakfast. He shook his head slowly. How normal people lived. In the distance he heard a big rig's airhorn and tilted his head to listen. Saying hi; swearing would've been longer and three more blasts.

He washed up his plate and cup and put them in the cupboard next to the huge silver cooker, a throwback to when the place served meals. That would be when Neil's wife was here. Nobody mentioned her, so he guessed she'd passed. If she'd run off, then one of them would've said something, probably dissing her without realising it. Dying, folks tend not to risk raising the ghost. He wouldn't ask.

He thanked Alex for breakfast as he picked up his paint and roller and started on the two remaining reception walls. He had to admit the place was looking a lot smarter. Hotel had three floors with corridors north to south and east to west. Take maybe three days for each corridor. He did the math with a frown. Eighteen days. He stopped rolling. He couldn't remember being in one place, any place, for eighteen days. He'd once stayed put for fourteen, but that was down in West Virginia in the loving care of the local jail. Vagrancy they called it. They'd let him out, and he got out, never to return. Eighteen days. He started rolling paint again.

"Tuesdays are always quiet," Alex said, looking up from her computer screen.

"That so?" He couldn't think of anything to add.

"It is. I've got some friends coming over tonight. We meet in the bar."

He nodded and carried on painting.

"You'll be there?"

"I'm the barman."

"Okay. But we...me and my friends will be the only customers, most likely."

"I'm not proud. I'll serve them beer. If they have ID." He looked over his shoulder and smiled.

She walked around the desk and leaned back against it. "You can sit with us and talk. That would be nice."

He turned and put the roller in the tray. "Talk about what?"

"Whatever you like."

"I like quiet."

She laughed, light and infectious. "Then you'll be out of luck tonight."

"I'll serve the drinks."

She shrugged. "Okay, but I bet you'll be chatting away with the rest of us before the night's out."

"I'd take that bet." He went back to painting.

Eighteen days in the same place and now drinks with friends. And chatting. The small hotel seemed smaller.

"You like girls, right?"

He looked back at her again and nodded once. "Yeah, some of them."

"Then why haven't you..." She blew out her cheeks while she searched for the right word.

"Hit on you?"

That was close enough.

"Yes, why haven't you hit on me?"

"I've only been here a day."

"How long does it take? Don't you like me?"

"What's not to like?"

"Let's go for a swim." She pointed at the ceiling. "There's a pool on the roof."

He followed her finger and blinked hard. "On the roof?"

"Best place for it. You can see the highway, but they can't see you. It's sexy." She winked at him.

"I don't have a swimsuit, unless you've got one in your chest of clothes."

She strode across the reception and took his arm as she headed for the stairs. "Why'd we need those? Tuesday's a quiet day, remember?"

They didn't make it to the pool. As soon as she dropped her little white dress, Ronan forgot how to swim and steered her to a sunbed with a yellow striped mattress. It wasn't designed for the use they put it to and they fell off, but that just brought her easy laughter.

The sun was high and warm, but they lay under a huge towel she'd magicked up from somewhere.

"You've done that before," Alex said, and dug her elbow into his ribs playfully.

"Yeah, but it's been a while."

"I guessed that." She rolled onto her side and kissed his cheek. "You're okay, you know that?"

"Yeah, I know." He didn't know it and never had.

"I've been thinking."

He shifted onto his side so they were face-to-face.

"Daddy's got a bad leg."

Ronan nodded.

"It's getting worse," she said, and shook her head, "since Mom died, but he won't take it easy. I think he's worried about me. Wants to get the hotel in shape in case."

"He's a good man. I like him."

"And he likes you, I can tell. And that's my idea. You're good at this..." She patted his hand away. "Not that. Well, that too, but hotel work. You're a natural."

"And?"

"And if you came in as manager and ran the place, Daddy could step down and take it easy, give himself a chance to heal."

He pushed himself up onto his elbow. "Me run this place?"

She nodded.

"But I thought that was your job."

"It's too much for one person. But with you at my side, who knows what we could achieve. Partners."

"You want me to stay right here?" He looked around.

And saw Lincoln Highway and the big rigs heading west and east, to someplace he'd never been.

"Can I think about it?"

She nodded emphatically. "Of course. It's a big decision to spring on you. Maybe we'll talk later when you meet your new friends. They're going to love you." She swung her legs off the sunbed and stood up, tall, tanned and naked in the sunshine. A beautiful young woman a man could settle down with and be happy for a lifetime. "You say yes and that'll be your suite, right here on the roof." She pointed across the roof at four sliding glass doors.

And a home from where he could see the highway and the truckers on their way from New York to LA and back. Three thousand eight hundred miles of road. And sky. And somewhere to go.

She padded softly to where they'd abandoned their clothes, put her white dress back on, and blew him a kiss and a giggle. Then headed for the stairs. A hotel to run. Quiet on Tuesdays.

Her friends were dying to meet the man who'd roped the most desirable girl in town, in the state. He'd be something special, they could tell from the change in her. They hurried her up to go fetch him.

She tapped on his door gently. Then opened it. What was there to hide after this morning?

The room was immaculate. And on the bed were three piles of perfectly washed and ironed clothes. White overalls, white shirt and pants, and green pants with matching boots.

She closed the door quietly.

## Daylight Pass

###

The metallic silver Mustang could go a hell of a lot faster than the fifty it was doing, but Jimmy Levine was in no hurry; he was just cruising along the desert road with the roof down and listening to country music. Living the dream.

He leaned over and tuned the radio, trying to find something else, anything else. If he had to listen to this crap for much longer, he was going to dig out his Sig and suck the barrel. Who gives a shit about some guy's mangy dog anyhow? Nothing else, because that rap crap was even worse. He smacked his palms on the wheel. Yo, calm breathing, remember? How could he forget? That smug counsellor woman bleating on and on about it. Breathe in, breathe out. Count five. Like he was fucking pregnant or something. Probing how he felt every minute of the day. If he'd told her how he felt, she wouldn't have been so smug. _Hey, Doc, I really want to blow your fuckin' head off._ That would've answered her question. Well, he was out of it now, just walked out, rented these cool wheels and drove away. No place to go, nobody to see. Living the dream.

Death Valley. He looked around and shrugged. Nothing much. Deserts in Afghanistan were—yeah, okay. He eased his grip on the wheel and tried to relax. Nothing, nobody. Yeah, that was cool. People just want to ask questions. _How're you feeling? What was it like? You ever kill any ragheads?_ Used to tell them combat medics don't kill people, they save people, but they didn't want to hear that, so he gave up on it and told them they used to smoke shepherd kids from the Humvee just to pass the time. Dumbass asking would usually drop their jaw, make a noise, and run away. Okay.

Nobody was just what he needed right about then. And country music? A man could get to like that stuff. Live long enough. He should've plugged in his phone before he started out, blast some rock 'n roll to get the pulse moving. No chance now, that would mean stopping and he wasn't stopp—there was a girl standing on the sand shoulder at the side of the road.

He looked around as if there might be a tourist bus parked up somewhere. There wasn't a bus or any kind of transport, or people, or anything alive he could see. Just the girl.

Maybe it was the meds making him see things. They said they could do that. Hallucinations. Could be. But it wasn't. He knew damn well what an hallucination looked like, he'd had enough. She wasn't one.

He slowed down, then felt his foot starting to work the gas pedal and pulled it off. Man, you can't just leave her out here in the middle of...shit, whatever this blistering hot scrubland was. National park. Right, a national park.

He pulled off the road and rolled to a stop at the bottom of the little hill the girl was standing on. And now it got weird. As if it wasn't weird enough, some young girl in the middle of Death Valley with no sign of any wheels. She was wearing a native American dress and tight necklace. He gave her a double take. Christ on a skateboard, she was dressed as an Indian. They're not called that anymore. Like he gave a shit.

"What are you doing there, girl?" He pushed himself up in the seat and leaned his arms on the top of the windshield. "You're going to fry your brains."

She was speaking to him, but he couldn't hear anything she was saying. Shy, maybe.

He shook his head. "You're going to have to speak...look, come on down here and get in the car."

She didn't move, just kept on talking without sound.

Maybe she was nuts. He could just drive on. What? And leave her to die out here? Because that was just what was in store for her. He hadn't seen a car since...all day.

"Come on, girl, I'm sweating my ass off here."

She didn't move, just kept pointing back at the desert and talking.

Right, he got it. Somebody else was out there, maybe injured. The driver probably. What did she want him to do? If he went with her and treated the guy, he was going to end up in jail. Corpsmen don't treat civilians, no matter how bad they were. Nuts as that was.

So the choice: drive on and let the kid die from the heat, or treat her guy, girl...whatever and end up in prison. Like there was a real decision to make.

In the field, he'd have a full med kit, but now he just had whatever first aid box came with the rental. He got out and opened the trunk. No first aid box. That would've been too much to hope for.

"Okay, Pocahontas, let's go and find your friend."

He trudged up the hill and ignored the sand pushing into his shoes; he'd walked in sand before, a few times. Near the top he looked up at the girl and froze. Not possible. He squeezed his eyes shut to clear them and then looked again.

She was transparent. Not entirely, just enough he could see the line of the hills behind her. He jumped. Hey, hey, it's the meds, you dumb dick. He felt better now he'd worked it out. She was still transparent. He ignored it. Good thing to do with hallucinations. Ignore them. They go away.

The girl moved off down the hill and into the sprawling desert. She didn't leave any tracks in the sand, but he ignored that too. Just followed her.

He looked around. Nothing but a few tortured bushes and hills of sand. "What the hell were you doing out here?"

She didn't answer, just kept moving. And still no tracks, but she was small and slim so maybe not heavy enough to make tracks. He was being cooked alive and wished he'd brought a baseball cap, which he didn't own. It was a hundred degrees easy. He concentrated on where he was putting his feet now they were in the hills. Falling down in the desert with nobody but a mute girl to help was way down his list of things to do today.

He glanced up from the sand and saw her moving easily ahead of him down the slope and onto the baked desert floor. She looked good. Young, slim, shoulder-length black hair and a way of moving that once his eyes rested on her, he found it difficult to look away. Another time, another place, right now not dying from sunstroke was his number one concern.

The desert here was pale grey and reflected the heat like the inside of a furnace. He could barely keep his eyes open, and the searing air stripped his lungs. Not much longer and he'd be gone, and he didn't need to be a medic to work that one out.

He could hear music, and not some guy singing about his sick dog. This was Mozart, yeah, Piano Concerto 21, and the pianist was better than good. He raised his head almost too heavy to lift, and there was the guy in the monkey suit playing a grand on top of the sand dune not twenty feet away. Man, he loved this piece. He'd stop and listen a while, why not?

"Because if you stop, you will die."

A voice was in his head, but not his. It was a girl's voice. He looked up again. The mute girl must have spoken to him. But she was still moving across the sand, glancing back with a worried expression on her pretty face. Another thing, why wasn't she burned up? Sunblock, dummy. He took a long, hot breath and forced his legs to work. A last look at the concert pianist on the sand dune and he was moving again.

Maybe this beautiful girl was one of those creatures from Greek stories. He frowned and felt his skin cracking. What was he thinking about? Right, sirens, that's what they were called. Luring sailors to their death. Just like this girl was doing to him. Except he wasn't a real sailor, well, he was in the navy, a corpsman with the marines, and they're part of the navy, so yeah, luring him to his... Was he still a sailor now that he was sick? He should get back to the car, somebody would steal it, and he'd be on foot. He was tired, more tired than he'd ever been in his life, and he'd been close to the edge more times than he'd admit in combat. Afghanistan.

The memories poured into his head, sounds of men screaming for him, the blood, young men dying. For what? Duty, man. You don't want to fight, don't join the marines. Oorah. Fighting, yeah, that was what they signed up for, not to have their legs blown off by IEDs buried in the sand. Or have their heads scrambled by the horror of it. Too many people talking in his head, making him crazy. He waved his hand, but they didn't shut up. He'd sit for a minute, maybe take a nap and clear his head. Yeah, everything would be fine if he could just close his eyes for a while.

A horse whinnying. Man, he didn't even like horses. Tried one once when he was on vacation up in Colorado. It tried to bite him and threw him on his ass the second he climbed into the saddle. So there was no sense him hearing horses. Unless—

He opened his eyes and saw the horse. A pinto standing right there in the middle of this oven. He didn't know much about horses, nothing really, but this one didn't look right. What was it? Think, man. It was standing on three legs and holding the other off the ground. That was strange. There was nobody about to say _good boy_ and give him a treat, so what was the point of it? It was injured. Holding its paw up...its _paw_? Whatever, he was holding it up. A horse? Is that what the girl had dragged him into this hellhole for? A horse.

He was here; he'd take a look. The thing tries to bite him, he'd walk right out of there, get the car and find a bar. Ice-cold beer. Sit in the shade a while, sip a beer. Maybe grab that sleep.

He forced his eyes open. Medics save people. Right, but this wasn't people, it was a horse. But a living creature just the same. Somebody start up the organ and we'll...something. His eyes had closed again, he could tell because there was only dull redness. He opened them and flinched at the light. The horse. Right. There was something wrong with it. Its...hoof. Hoof, yeah, right. Strange that he'd forgotten that.

Move, man. He'd said something to the pinto, but couldn't remember what. He was right up close and had its leg in his hand. Focus, medic. He lifted the horse's hoof backwards and could see the cluster of thorns stuck deep in its heel. Cactus. He reached for them and stopped. Good way to transfer the vicious cluster from the horse to his hand.

He touched his belt, but he didn't have a Ka-Bar knife, not anymore. But he had a car key. Great, take the horse for a drive. His head cleared a little and he took the key from his pocket, said _good boy_ to the horse, and levered the cactus out of its skin. The horse shook its head and almost brained him. He staggered back and let the ungrateful animal stamp off snorting and blowing.

He caught his balance on the edge of the arroyo and looked down. Man, you wouldn't want to fa—there was a girl down there, the one he'd been following. Must have fallen while he was tending to the horse, yeah. The girl. He should call to her. What was the point? She was unconscious. And bleeding.

He woke up.

He slid on his backside down into the gulch and rolled onto his knees next to her. She had cuts and grazes all over her face and hands, but it was the deep gash in her scalp that was going to kill her. Unless she got help. He looked around and saw the desert as if for the first time. There wasn't any help and there wasn't going to be any. So he'd have to hike her out. She wasn't wearing the Indian dress now—pants and a shirt. The shirt was torn and gave in easily as he ripped a long wide strip off the front, covered the wound with it, and tied the ends above her ear. It wasn't going to stop the bleeding, but it would slow it down and maybe give it something to work with to start clotting.

Hiking her out on his shoulders was going to get them both dead. And there was no way he could get back to his car, go get help, and get back before she was gone. He needed—the horse.

That was an insane idea. He couldn't ride the thing. Didn't even know how to drive one. He looked down at the girl. If he didn't learn fast, he'd be burying her out here in Hell's kitchen.

The pinto watched him climb over the lip of the gulch and take a second to get his breath. It didn't move, it didn't run, and it didn't try to nip him. It was probably waiting for him to get closer so it didn't have to exert itself in the heat.

"Good horse," Jimmy said, and reached out very slowly. "Remember I saved your ass just now."

The pinto stayed right where it was, just watching him.

Jimmy touched its nose. It lowered its head. A good sign, probably. He took the dangling reins and looked at them. Right, the reins were for steering. He saw the lariat tied onto the saddle and jumped a little. It could work.

He patted the horse's neck. "Good boy." Whether it understood or not he had no idea, but it was as good as anything.

He undid the lariat and looked back at the edge of the arroyo. She was torn up already and this was going to rip her up some more. Even if he could get down there, hook her up, get back up, tie the rope to the horse somehow and pull her out. That was a lot of ifs.

He looked the pinto in the eye. "Listen to me, horse. Your friend is down that hole and we're going to get her out. Right?"

The pinto looked back at him. Still no kicking, biting or running away.

Jimmy held up the reins and frowned at them. Pull? Both or one? Both, one means turn. He pulled very gently. And the pinto followed him. He almost cheered.

"Good horse." He looked back over his shoulder. "Can't keep calling you horse. I'm going to call you Steve. Knew a Steve back in the day." He nodded. "He was a friend before..."

He stopped at the edge of the arroyo and took a quick look at the girl. She hadn't moved.

He thought about tying the reins so Steve didn't wander off, but decided it would just annoy him. He slid down into the stream bed and took a second to check the bandage. It was soaked in crimson blood, not flowing as much as before, but bad enough.

There was no time and no way to be gentle. He looped the rope around under her arms and tied it off, looked back up the bank, and stopped. Pulling her up there over those rocks was going to bash her skull in even more than it was already. He needed a stretcher. Right, out in the desert there's always a stretcher lying around. Then he saw a way.

He took off his shirt, pulled the rope free, and ran it down one sleeve, across the shirt and up the other sleeve. A stretcher for her head. Not great, but it should keep her skull off the rocks. Maybe. He looped the rope and hooked it under her arms and slid the shirt down until it was under her head. He took both ends of the rope and climbed back out, then dragged her up after him, her head between the ropes in his hammock.

It worked. He'd never really expected it to. The last few feet over the edge and she was out of there. He caught his breath and watched the pinto. It wasn't a big horse. He couldn't ride worth a damn. But the girl couldn't just hang over the saddle like a corpse, because she'd be one before they got ten yards. Which meant he had to get on with her.

He looked up at the blazing sky. "Hey, God, you've killed everybody I ever cared about, I'm asking you to give me this one. Just one. Just today. Can you do that for me? Can you?"

All he had to do now was get on the horse, get the girl on the horse with him, and ride out of there. He closed his eyes. He had no idea how he was going to do that.

The pinto moved away. Jimmy's heart sank and he raised his hand as if the thing would understand. They were dead. Both of them.

The horse stopped and turned a little, right next to a fall of boulders at the foot of a long slope. Jimmy frowned. What the hell? Then he got it. Steve was helping him out.

He took a minute to put his shirt back on, and then carried her to Steve, climbed up onto the boulders and looked at the saddle. Jesus, he wished he'd made more of an effort back there in Colorado instead of swearing and heading to the bar. Okay then. Live or die.

The girl weighed nothing, and he whispered his thanks to her, leaned across and put her leg over the saddle and lowered her gently onto the horse's neck. He took a long breath, swore quietly and slid his leg over just behind the saddle and half jumped, half slid onto the horse.

Holy God, they were mounted. No time for celebration. He lifted her and laid her against his body between his arms. Now just get Steve moving. Somehow.

The pinto walked away from the rocks. Which was just as well, because the reins were hanging down and out of reach.

Jimmy looked around. He had no idea where they were or how to get back to the road. The horse kept walking and he took a leap of faith and just let it.

It took almost an hour for the pinto to carry its double load out of the hills and down onto the flat, and Jimmy had to force himself to stay awake and aware. Any lapse and the girl was going to fall. And die.

No music this time, no voices in his head, just a mirage taunting him. A road running from horizon to horizon like a grey river. God having a little fun with him.

The pinto stopped and Jimmy jolted awake. He'd been drifting and the girl had slipped almost to the point of falling. He pulled her back to his chest and swore at himself for being such an asshole. This wasn't about him, it was—the road was real. Steve was standing on it.

And way off towards the horizon a cloud of dust announced the coming of a vehicle. Not a mirage. Jimmy closed his eyes and said a little thanks, in case anyone was listening.

He had no recollection of the drive out of the desert. He opened his eyes and let them focus on the white walls and concealed ceiling lights. The room was bright and smelled antiseptic. A hospital. He moved his head and the pain pounded his brain.

"That's sunstroke telling you next time wear a hat." A female voice.

He moved his eyes and saw the nurse smiling at him. Always a good sign.

He was going to ask where he was and that was dumb. "The girl?"

"She's going to make it." The nurse pointed the pen she'd been using to fill in his chart. "And that's thanks to you, young man."

"Did what anybody would've done."

She shrugged. "I doubt that." She glanced at the sliding door to the ward. "She's across the hall if you feel like a little trip."

He nodded and his brain shouted at him.

"Stay there. I'll get a chair," the nurse said, and strode off briskly.

He sat up very slowly and groaned. Right, next time he'd wear a hat. He had his legs over the side of the bed when the nurse returned and pushed the chair up next to him. He assumed she'd help him into it. Which proved once again what assumptions are. She stepped back and watched him, ready, he guessed, to fix him when he fell.

She pushed him out of his room and diagonally across the hall and into an identical room. With a girl sitting up against pillows but asleep. And as pale as the sheets she was lying on. He glanced at the nurse and got a nod as she left.

The girl opened her eyes and blinked slowly, then focused on him and smiled. It lit up her face and her eyes came alive.

"So you're my knight who saved me."

He shrugged and regretted it when the thumping in his head started up again. "We made it because of Steve."

She frowned.

"Steve." He raised his eyebrows. "You know, the horse."

She laughed and put her hand on her forehead. "The horse is a filly."

He knew that.

"A girl horse," she said, and laughed again.

His mouth formed a big O and he changed the subject. "Would never have found you if your friend hadn't come to the highway."

She frowned. "My friend? I was riding alone. Stupid, I know."

"But..." He thought back, but it all seemed like a distant dream. "You know any Ind—Native Americans?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Yes, me."

"Oh."

"I'm Shoshone. Well, a quarter. Seems like a strange thing to ask."

"The girl who led me to you was a...Native American."

The girl's frown deepened and she tilted her head as she thought about it. "Describe her."

He watched her for a moment and then shrugged. "It was you." He looked again. "Except your hair was darker, almost blue in the sunlight. Wore a buckskin dress. Had a bead necklace. Red."

The girl was staring at him with her mouth open.

"What?"

"Kymana. I've seen pictures of that dress and necklace."

Jimmy waited and then asked. "Who?"

"The girl you're describing is...was my great-grandmother. She was our family's last full-blood Shoshone." She was silent for a moment, just staring at him with wide-open eyes. "She was the daughter of a shaman. She had the gift."

"You're saying I was led to you by what? A ghost? A real ghost."

"A spirit. Not a ghost."

"I don't believe in ghosts."

"No, nor me, so it's just as well Kymana wasn't listening to us, isn't it?"

She smiled her smile and he felt his pain lift. This was a girl in a million, this ghost girl. He'd stay and they'd talk about Shoshone and the spirit world. And horses and how to drive one.

___________

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##  About the Author

Leigh Barker is the author of 13 Bitesize Read Seasons and 12 novels.

The series are published in Bitesize Read Episodes, where each episode is a one-hour read, with a beginning, a middle and a cliff-hanger ending.

Each complete Season is available in a Novel at a big discount.

Leigh makes his home at:

www.LeighWBarker.com

(This is where you'll find exclusive free stuff and special offers)

You can connect with him on Facebook at:

<https://www.facebook.com/LeighBarkerAuthor>

Or you can email him at:

Leigh@LeighWBarker.com if the mood takes you. He will always answer emails from readers...

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All Leigh Barker's books

**Don't forget** you can get all the Series Sets at a massive discount on the individual Episode price.

Clan Series (Volumes #1, #2 and #3)

All of Calum Maclean's great adventures

Calum's Sword

Rip-roaring Adventures during the Jacobite Rebellion

Calum's Exile

Calum's adventures in The New World

Calum's Country

Calum's Return to Scotland

Soldiers Series: Regret's Mission (Volume #1)

Explosive Great War Adventures

The Hellfire Series (Volumes #1, #2 and #3)

All the roller-coaster Hellfire Thrillers

A Whisper of Armageddon (Hellfire #1)

Off-the-wall characters, furious action and great technology

The Hellfire Legacy (Hellfire #2)

Action-packed Ethan Gill Thriller

The Orpheus Directive (Hellfire #3)

The Marine Squad is back in action

Eden Series (Volumes #1, #2 and #3)

All the Eden adventures

Eden's Last Hero

Mad times with our reluctant hero

Winterwood

A small town fights for its life and its soul

Requiem for Eden

Four young knights take on Lucid and the Norsemen to save Eden

First Responder Season 1 (First Episodes of Volume #1)

_Thriller following Elmore_ James, _FDNY Fire Marshal_

Anarchy (All Episodes are free)

_Occasional, mostly 'true' short_ _stories of anarchy in the workplace..._

Checking In (#1)

Another mind-numbing day at Global Airlines made easier by total insanity

Toeing the Line (#2)

A day in the life of a factory where lunacy is a prerequisite

Hotel California (#3)

You can check in but check out even faster when you see who's running the place

Coffee Break Reads (All Episodes are free)

15-minute reads for your break – stories to transport you

A Whisper on the Wind

True stories, love, loss, adventure.

When the Music Stops

Memories, disasters, loss, love, happiness.

Highway Shoes

Romance, heroism, redemption, highway siren song.

For release dates and exclusive free material visit:

www.LeighWBarker.com

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