Twenty-Six Confirmed

 247.

Harlan reports there has been zero activity at the stakeout going on 47 hours. We discuss the situation and decide to round-table our next move with Julie in the morning brief, about to begin. The occupants of the brick Colonial have been implicated by Sarccino as co-conspirators making them logical recipients for search warrants, but, as our experience has proven, more often than not a solid tail and wire taps will provide deeper, and more actionable intel. In this dyspeptic age, the smoking gun is found in the hand and not the home, TOM was fond of saying. So goes my case with Julie. Harlan reminds us of the current tendencies of the court to allow searches first and taps as stopgaps. Julie is also concerned that our tail of Anton Bartowsky has gone cold, his last known whereabouts Orlando, FL.

The four of us, Julie, Harlan, Drysdale and myself, Mustang has the VJ watch at the safe house, present our cases and engage in discussion over a light brunch expertly prepared by Mina. I savor the pecan waffle with raspberry syrup alternating bites with sips of the delicious Italian roast and sparking Perigrino. The meal temporarily numbs the painful throb emulating from my right shoulder and ending in a palsy of my right hand. It has been troubling me since we fist met with Senator Hartaugh to plead our team's reinstatement. Julie is presenting an update on him as her cell phone rings with a familiar tune.

"Speak of the Devil," she deadpans needing no data to identify the caller, "Excuse me, I gotta take this," she pleads moving to the adjacent room along with her cup of coffee.

Harlan, Drysdale and I continue our exchange. I ask if we have anything new from Davis and Saunders in Vegas and then raise the issue that has been concerning me for days, "How is The Queen doing?"

The pause in the conversational flow is unsettling, as if no one wants to be the bearer of ill tidings. I examine the lines on their foreheads hoping for some clue to the severity of the sequestered information, but find none. In a thinly veiled attempt at nonchalance, a play I have noticed several lawyers do,  Harlan removes his glasses and places them delicately on the table, taking care to properly fold the pair of tortoise shell temple-stems across each other. He is about to speak when Julie returns to the room looking ten years older than when she left us just ten minutes ago.

"There's been another hit," she says, emotion from her visage rather than her voice.

The room is silent waiting for the drop of the left shoe.

"Disney World in Orlando, IED, twenty-six confirmed, a third of them kids, chatter says somebody called The Sea already claiming credit."

Drysdale beats me to the punch: "Son of a Bitch."

Three phones ring in cellular harmony sounding an eerie apocryphal echo of dread.