Happy New Year

256.

The clock ticks and calendar pages flip. Time, our consciousness insists, is about to move into another new year, another beginning, one more chance, perhaps, to get it right. I have a gut feeling that we are about to experience a graphic demonstration of the quantum of life.

In our cramped work station in the FBI mobile command center I make the call.

"Hi, Happy New Year. On a scale on one to ten, one being 'no way' and ten being 'let's party' how are you feeling - more specifically - about getting back in the game?" I ask of Her Majesty.

"Eleven. I have been ready for days, get me the fuck outta here and let's rock," she says with conviction aplenty. "I've been watching the media coverage of Orlando, and here is my initial take on their current spin: It has Cyrus' signature all over it. Did I fail to mention to you that he was super fanboy of Timothy McVeigh AND Ted Kaczynski?"

"No, you never did. You do know who Kaczynski is currently sharing a crib with in the Rockies Resort?"

"Big, yeah. I know. Ironic and there is a connection, something going on. I can try to reach my former plant, the security guard and see if he is still willing to finish what we started before all the poop hit the props. Get us some info at the least," she suggests.

"You haven't lost your way with words," I return, "that would answer a few questions but I am seriously concerned about the midnight deadline. We can't allow another detonation, not on this watch. We have a cell number taken from one of the Sarccino kidnapper's phone that we believe to belong to Cyrus. I need you to validate."

I sense her hesitancy and allow additional time for her deep consideration of the emergency response measures. It is a wild scheme, an extreme long-shot and it carries considerable risk. If I am wrong more innocent people will suffer and die. Time passes slowly as she shapes her opinion of the idea, finally, she breaks the silence. In a voice as soft and pensive as I have ever head from her, she asks, "Whats the play?"

"You escaped, have been in quarantine, heard of the next bomb-threat and deadline from the media and want to warn him that we are closing in fast, tell him we have Sarccino, Jeremy Covington and Bartowski, who are all singing like canaries, PLUS we know about MBI, Mr Big and the Unabomber, and that SuperMax is slammed shut. Scare him. Buy us some time. Come up with some plausible reason why you would be helping him after all the pain he's inflicted on you. Maybe you want the last laugh and to send him a boatload of New Year's fireworks as a final farewell. Challenge his vulnerability, his ego, his manhood. Tell him he isn't smart enough, without you? to pull this off. If you can keep him on his device for thirty seconds with a good story we can get a GPS fix on him."

"Might work. I do have some dirt on him."

"Outstanding, I am sending Harlan over to pick you up right now and take you to our HQ where we have the telecommunications setup to make the tracing happen. He'll be there in fifteen minutes. Work up your story, it has to be believable."

"OK," she says.

"We have one shot at this. I need you to put your game face on and step up," I say seeing my watch read 2316, forty-four minutes from the mid-night deadline.

"Roger on the face, and Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year to you too, let's make this happen."

Work What Works

255.

On the ground, in the car, at the site. Security is tight but we quickly pass the checkpoints and ID clearances arriving at the mobile command center ahead of schedule. Preferring not to advertise my temporary handicap, we leave the chair in the SUV. Mutt immediately extends a fist for me to bump with my left hand, opposite of my assisted right. I am surprised to see Davis and Saunders already sharing a small workspace towards the rear of the sublimely outfitted RV.

"Anything more from the perps?" I ask of the room.

"Negative," comes the answer from Davis before a sarcastic, "good to see you too, sir."

"Right, sorry, who is working what, please," I say attempting to mollify and manage simultaneously.

Davis again takes the lead updating us with the latest from Vegas. Saunders offers her update as liaison to Julie and Harlan, and Mutt does likewise with the on-site and on-going forensic investigation. My interest is drawn to the white board on the war room wall providing similar data as our significantly more advanced and sophisticated Eagle Room Big Board, but it is the methodology with which we are all familiar and have all used at one time or another in our work. In our work, we work what works. I ask Mutt his opinion on our level of confidence with the midnight deadline demand. As I listen to his response, somewhere between "some" and "uncertain," the fact remains that to ensure the 'odds against' are as low as possible, we need to take the offensive and beat them to the next punch, or as TOM was fond of saying on special operations and always with great effect, we need to "find these fuckers."

I ask for everyone's attention and outline the chains of command and points-of-contact for the varying operational departments, finishing with the directive - disguised as a request - that we keep all lines of communication clear and open and above all, share incoming data and intelligence. This has to be a team effort. And this team needs to win. I refrain from using the crude metaphor that we are already down 26-0. They get the message.

"Agents Davis and Saunders, I want you two to find Mr. Bartowsky," I announce the assignments, "Drysdale please tie up the loose ends holding together Sarccino, his handlers at the brick DC Colonial, Jeremy Covington and Senator Hartaugh." As I say this the space stills to a muted hum, the only sound coming from the giant diesel generator ever faithful on its sole mechanical mission.

Davis and Saunders are already half-way to the door so I ask Mustang to get us set up in the space they have vacated. Mutt and his team are called away to review a new development, leaving us alone with two data analysts and an exhausted EMT providing a debrief.

"What's our assignment?" she asks.

"I'll tell you as soon as I have a little chat with The Queen."

A McVeigh Cocktail

 254.

I re-introduce myself to my former shipmate, a nod to a time and place that Julie inadvertently suggested began over four decades ago. Regardless of chronological accuracy it feels like another lifetime.

"Congratulations your rise through the ranks my friend," being my rather lame intro.

"Thanks and same to you Cap, sorry to learn about your incident, I was thinking we might be hearing from you on this one, glad you're back," he returns.

Richard Pierson, as the bio-data on the Big Screen updates us, celebrated his sixty-fourth birthday just last week. He remains fit, trim and energetic although the dreaded silver strands of hair have begun their inevitable march towards global domination, a reality he covers with his signature prop, a navy and gold FBI ballcap, its bill shaped in a perfect arc; the utilitarian style of our day. The former all-league defensive back maintains his athleticism and quick moves, along with the gumption required to stare down bigger and faster opponents. His nickname in college was Mutt in homage to strength of heart more than purity of breed. It was accepted strategy that one did not look to his side of the field on third and long. Legend also claims that he was never once flagged for pass interference, as the officials too respected his play and allowed a buffer zone known as his reputation preceding him to the point of impact.

"What have we got so far? We're scheduled for touch down in twenty minutes and will go straight to you." I continue.

"Just got another message, he, they, seem a little more agitated this time, wanting immediate confirmation that we plan on meeting their demands." Mutt relays.

"OK, what do we know about the IED?" I ask.

"Old-school, we've found traces of trinitrotoluene militarized with ammonium nitrate, a double McVeigh cocktail."

"Remote detonation?"

"It appears so, we've got positive IDs on all twenty-six but haven't found any other DNA fragments so far, still searching, but the blast could have generated sufficient heat to prematurely cremate anything close enough to prove it a suicide bombing. Our best guess at this point is that a delivery vehicle, a large van, carried the load in, driver parked and split in a hurry."

"Good work sir," I compliment.

"Mutt to you sir, looking forward to seeing you. How do you want to handle the response to their last demand?"

"We'll stall until I can get a few more answers and get to the scene. If they send another message in the meantime call me."

"That a roger, see ya soon."

I terminate the call, smiling at the memories it has prompted and hoping it a precursor to more.

Say in Unison

 253.

I am dialing Julie when Mustang alerts me to her holding on another line. Julie is also included in the access protocols for media/data inclusion to the Big Board. I am watching the changes to the screen like a sports gambler might watch live updates in Vegas, a hundred possibilities all rendering towards one result: one winner. Or in our case one loser.

A new photo ID has popped up on the screen, someone I immediately recognize but cannot recall name or affiliation. Starring at his image to nudge memory I take the call from Julie, apologizing for her wait time.

"Are you looking at his picture?" She asks in a moment of unfiltered clairvoyant light.

"I see him but can't name…put a name…on him."

"Richard Pierson, your old pal from The Academy, now the lead inspector for Southern Division FBI Forensics," She tells me, "Officer in Charge of the bomb investigation, on the ground, active."

"OK, good news, can you connect us?"

"I can, and will, but there is also a bit of new data he is going to share with you that I feel you should know about before your, what thirty-year reunion?"

"Shoot."

"While I was on hold - you were on with Sarccino - he told me that they have received a scrambled message from the person now claiming responsibility for the bombing."

"Outstanding, but please don't tell me we got copy-cats springing to action."

"Worse, looks like we got a hostage situation, with the perps threatening another blast if….if we don't release…Mr. Big from SuperMax Florence by midnight tonight." She informs us as I watch the Big Board reflect the news like a long-shot's photo-finish.

"That connects," I watch in simulcast as the algorithm pixels the motion graphic, "C to MBI and MBI to Hartaugh and C and MBI to…"

We say it in unison: "The Queen."

Squeeze Somebody Else

252

The digital white board is alive. A utilitarian hybrid of files, photos, statistics and tangents, all updated in real time as new intel comes available, is the focal point of our in-flight investigation; media central. As I take a breather and review my cursive field notes, the screen is currently dominated by two individuals, Anton Bartowsky and Cyrus Williams, aka C., aka The Sea. Interestingly three others continue to trend upwards as new data is entered, one Vincent Sarccino, one Jeremy Covington, and one Violet Hayes, aka, Maria Satriano, aka The Queen.

I am starring at the screen trying to beat the cold and complex computer algorithm in the binary game of Catch the Crook. Each attempt going dark as the shortest distance between two, three or four dots is diverted into unknowns, oblivion, and impossible detours. We have been here before, I mentally review, with our go-to response almost always being the razor consistent with William of Occam's; the obvious, or as they like to paraphrase in detective work, 'Get off your ass and go knock on doors.'

Since we cannot knock from our current altitude, we call.

In rapid succession I discover that Davis and Saunders will be in Orlando by seventeen hundred, their new-hire contract informer placed in charge of surveillance in their absence, that Harlan is currently in communication with the law firm handling the case of the pair of kidnappers, and that Vincent Sarccino has something urgent to share. I tap a short-cut button on my phone and three new mug shots instantly appear on the screen, three detailed rap sheets indexed below them - along with red lines and blue dashes indicating possible connections and/or links. I am somewhat bemused to see that the italics below the file photo of Jeremy Covington contains a status report saying he has been granted immunity from felony prosecution by our office. Eyebrows raised, I call Sarccino.

"Yes, Vincent, I was told you have info to pass along."

"Thank you for you efforts with my wife and kid," he begins.

"I gave you my word, you're welcome, and I won't ask you how you got that information - yet - so please continue."

"Orlando is a distraction. The real target is that girl in the clinic, wazername? Satriano? Hayes? The one I was trying to nab."

"How do you know this?"

"The same person who offered the fat contract on you offered the same for her. And when I say fat I mean obese, not just portly. Caveat being a live delivery."

"Who?"

"I don't know how far higher it goes, but my contact is, was, the same guy that pulled the coup and ousted Satriano. It is all about revenge for rejection, guy gets stilted and will stop at nothing for vindication. Orlando should prove that much."

"I'm having a tough time digesting that someone, even a soulless domestic terrorist would kill twenty-six completely innocent people for nothing more than to send a fuck you card to his ex."

"That is where is gets interesting, because there is more. A lot more. That fuck you card was signed by somebody else, C was just the delivery boy. Set up to take the fall."

"By?" I almost scream.

"You'll need to squeeze somebody else for that 'cause I don't know. Honest."

Talons Fully Extended

 251.

Mid-conversation we are interrupted by Julie. She has pertinent information to share that directly relates to our current line of investigation. I end the chat with The Queen, promising to pick up where we left of as soon as possible, and answering the call from HQ as the Gulfstream effortlessly obtains lift.  Mustang and Drysdale share the small space we have created for such emergency situations calling it the Eagle Room, a dedicated air-borne sky-office designed for efficient communications at twenty-five thousand feet. I put Julie on speaker.

"We finally have a bit of data from the attempted kidnapper's cell phone," she begins. Before she is able to utter another word Drysdale asks about the last call made from the cheap burner. "Well, that's the urgent part, all we could get was the metrics, no dialogue - yet - they are still working that end," she continues, "but there are complications."

"Complications?" I jump in, "what kind of complications?"

"The last call was to a legal firm in DC, known for its specialty specific to cases such as this." She answers.

"You mean like defending terrorists?" I ask, clearing the air of false pretense and rhetorical political correctness.

"Yes."

"Is Harlan…"

"…He is running it down as we speak, we'll report his findings as soon as they're available."

Wheels are mentally spinning at a dizzying pace as we sit absorbing the ramifications of this latest piece of the puzzle, processing the potentials, as TOM used to phrase it.

Julie interrupts our seance with a warning: "There's more."

Drysdale immediately asks: "What about the second-to-last call?"

"Yes, that one is interesting. A number routed to the final destination in…"

"Orlando?" Drysdale plays.

"Bingo. But to another burner so we have nothing for an address or location other than the area code."

"Anything from the phone records off the cell that Mustang grabbed?" I ask.

"That was a fresh one, only four calls logged, two to a Reno, NV number and also a pair to the same Orlando, FL number, inbounds from each, no text available."

"Give me both numbers please. And great work."

Call ended, I address the team, "we have a little over two hours to get an address corresponding to this number, I am trusting there is a connection to either Bartowsky or Cyrus Williams. Let's find one. Start with airlines, then hotels, rental cars and then credit card usage, think alias. Get something."

I re-dial The Queen, Eagle Room talons fully extended.

Two Gluttons

 250.

"I feel somewhat responsible," I offer in a hurried and weak attempt at absolution.

"You're not, nothing whatsoever to do with you or our 'agreement'," she fires back sans a second thought.

"OK, I believe you, still, I am sorry for the way things have turned. We could have - should  have - made a few moves that would have put you in a less perilous position. Food for thought."

"You are the one that told me to go with all ya got and never second-guess," she says, "There is no one responsible for what happened - the way it happened - but me. I made the choices that I felt necessary for the success of the…"

"…mission, yes I understand, but the difference is that my job entails the overall responsibility of bringing all our people back in one piece, so a degree of analysis is part of the package, that is why we so painstakingly debrief, looking for details so things like this are never repeated."

"Still there will always be risk, and we all accept the potentiality of failure. Not your fault. Forget it. I have." She tells me, again demonstrating a maturity well beyond her years.

"Alright, let's leave it at that for now, we should have had this discussion the minute you arrived in the clinic, but shit started falling outta the sky and hasn't let up yet."

"What were Cyrus' primary motivating factors - if my hunch is right - for the hit on Orlando?" I continue.

"Ambition and revenge," she says, "pure and simple. He wanted to call the shots, I was in the way, and he wanted to taste the sweetness of revenge by flexing some muscle where he saw me as being weak, like my moving to the computer science and technology fronts. He used to say that there is nothing like the smell of gunpowder and fear. I told him that was old-school crap and he didn't much care for my suggestion."

"Two gluttons at the same table, always hungry."

"Who's that?"

"Ambition and revenge."

...Do You Think?

 249.

"Cyrus."

"Yes, your, what I assume, is your ex."

"We haven't spoken in eight months and the first thing you ask about is my former boyfriend? What a dick."

"Yeah, well, diplomacy was never my strong suit, so yes I apologize, but it appears as if your previous operation has decided to get back in the terror game, somebody called C claiming credit for a diminished scale IED bombing in Orlando this morning." I explain without the standard operating formalities.

"C?"

"That is what domestic chatter, news media and our flip, are saying. We're en route as we speak, but, ya know, on second consideration, maybe we should start from the top, like, how did they use to say in the Saturday cartoons? When we last left you?"

"Or your favorite cop show, 'Previously on 24'."

I have to acknowledge her wit and talent in the recreation of the big TV voice using the Hollywood device reminding loyal viewers of what has already taken place leading to the daily drama of the current episode. "Good one, right."

"OK, I'll toss them out there, risking the obvious imminent disaster that could result from our need for immediate intel. In this order: Are you OK? Are you still in? Are you ready to get back to work? And lastly, are you on speaking terms with Cyrus?"

Without hesitation, she fires back her stream of consciousness response: "I have been better, thank you, but I am OK, yes, fully committed, perhaps now more than ever, yes I'm ready to go back in the game coach, and I don't know, with Cyrus, I mean, we haven't spoken since the coup, when that son-of-a-bitch betrayed us, orchestrated the mutiny and stuck my ass in lockup."

"He wasn't directly involved with the operation in Bozeman?" I ask, pleased with the solid information.

"No, he assigned, from the little I could gather, some gangster from a Nazi farm in Idaho to run that shit-show, a guy they called Blitz, he was the one your sharp-shooter drilled through the ear during the breakout. I am sure he is rotting in Hell as we speak, hopefully now with his other ear burning."

I risk the million dollar question: "Was your cover blown?"

"I don't think so, all they seemed concerned with was the drone, the helmet and the Big Board codes. I don't think they are smart enough to connect the dots - professionally - between you and I." She says with relative objectivity.

"Were you subjugated to enhanced interrogation?" I have to ask, trying to phrase it delicately with undertones of political correctness.

"Fuck do you think?"

Tell Me About Cyrus

 248.

I can see that Drysdale, normally staid of character, is upset. His outburst at the news, although a sentiment shared by all, caught even himself off-guard.

"No need for apology," I offer as olive branch, "everyone in the room feels exactly the same way. The 'women and children' line we once respected as sacrosanct has been erased, vaporized. It is our jobs, our mission statement, to protect and defend, and if their immoral and violent tactics insist there are no rules - then with gloves off it is."

We observe a moment of silence to absorb the implications of the terrorist attack. Julie brings us back to the task at hand and reminds that the critical post-attack period of time for forensics is now ticking in double-time.

"I want you three aboard the Gulfstream and wheels up in thirty minutes," she moves confidently into command mode, "Grab Mustang on your way, and we'll get temporary backup from the bureau for VJ."

Perhaps to demonstrate his complete recovery Davenport stabs his last slice of waffle and chases it with gulp of coffee. And we are out the door, but not before I ask politely, a ploy Julie immediately recognizes as a tactical decision, more order than request: "We could sure use Davis and Saunders about now."

Drysdale has my back as we hustle towards the SUV, pushing past what a tachometer might call red-line. By the time we get moving out of the underground parking, Harlan calls to update the departure time, now D minus twenty-five. In response I call Mustang to include her in the code-red scramble, "Meet us on the street in five, tell VJ to stay put and that another agent will be there within the hour."

I have the nagging sensation that I am forgetting something, the image of a penumbral eclipse coming to my subconscious mind's eye. Despite our strict adherence to emergency protocol training and preparedness there…is…something…

…The Sea.  Of course, how could I be so...

I call the clinic where The Queen remains under observation and navigate past the staff and lead Physician, finally hearing a faint, for her, "Hello?"

"Tell me about Cyrus."

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.

This Too Shall Pass

 246.

We talk well past midnight. VJ surprises me with a depth of understanding rare for a sixteen year old kid. We have exchanged ideas on music; Marc Knopfler's masterful use of the D-minor, C, B-flat, A rundown in Sultans of Swing, religion; That Buddhism is more a philosophy than a non-secular ecclesiastical belief doctrine, and English grammar, featuring a rather inspiring opinion exchange on ablaut reduplication theory. I intentionally avoid the topic of law, justice and our current national political bias as long as possible, but the inevitable eventually wins out and I am forced to pry open the box named for a Greek gal by the name of Pandora and look inside.

"I am still confused about why Dad is being held, I assume against his will. What did he do to deserve such a fate? Guitar George, Siddhartha, Zeus, and I, inquiring minds all, want to know," VJ says in a topsy-turvy philosophical paraphrasing of musical art history and mythology.  

As much as I would have preferred to keep the reality from him until certain factual aspects of the case are resolved, I feel he has passed the test of character and deserves to know the truth. Or, I compromise with my inner analytical observer, some of the truth. Not the whole enchilada of truth, but a small sampling of tasty morsels. I owe him that. DESPITE THE FACT THAT THE ANSWER TO HIS QUESTION IS THAT HIS DAD PUT THREE NINE MILLIMETER SLUGS IN MY BACK FROM POINT BLANK RANGE!

"What is your understanding of your Fathers line of work?" I redirect, shaking myself from the shout.

"He is a Private Investigator." VJ promptly answers.

"Does he ever share information with you regarding his clientele?"

"No, he says that is confidential. I asked him once and learned that lesson the hard way."

"OK," I sympathize seeing the ice ahead as rice-paper thin. I slow the pacing of conversation to avoid a mental freeze, "Your Dad took on some customers that deal in, how should I say it? Nefarious ways and means to achieve their desired results."

He lowers his head to eliminate any outside distraction and considers the implications of my tap-dance. After the pause, he looks back to me with cloudy eyes about to unload a river of rain, and asks, "Mafia guys?"

"Maybe. But the important part is that he got himself involved in some pretty nasty stuff and they, the clients, asked him to do a few things that put both his feet in very hot legal water. Now, they want him out of the way to keep him from spilling the beans back on them."

Again VJ is silent as he reflects on the breaking news.

"So that was the intent of the kidnappers, to leverage us with Dad to keep him quiet?" He asks having already accepted the unfortunate answer to his own question as a pawn might suddenly becoming self-aware of the pending trade of minor pieces.

"Yes."

"So, if you've arrested the kidnappers and Dad refuses to talk, keeps omerta, is this over?" He asks, again cognizant of the inevitable negative response and wanting nothing more than a return to the normality of football practice and his homeroom peers.

"Not yet," I say, "We have a lot of work left to do, but we're on it 24/7 as you have seen, so let's leave it at that for today and get some rest. You'll have to trust us to do our jobs."

"And this too shall pass?"

"And this too shall pass."

A Chuckling Right

 245.

Disaster once again narrowly averted, we arrive at the safe house. Its location, secure and temporary lodging for VJ and his Mother, pending her release from the clinic, is a low-key apartment near our downtown office used for witness protection. With video surveillance of the street and underground parking, one agent can effectively provide the necessary protection for those promising information or related to those who have. These are those.

We have established a positive relationship with VJ, the reciprocality respectful as well as informative. Drysdale will take the first watch and meets us at the apartment.

"Vincent Sarccino Junior this is Agent Drysdale. He will be your host and chief of security for the night. You Mother will join us once she is released from the clinic, hopefully tomorrow. Agent Drysdale this is Vincent Junior," I begin. "VJ" says Vincent, "please call me VJ."

"Alright, VJ it is sir," returns Drysdale, extending his hand, "Do you have any questions, like what kind of pizza should we order for dinner?"

"I have two questions, but pepperoni is fine, thank you, one is: Why am I here? And two is what did the perps - you call them that, right? - what did they hope to gain by kidnapping us? Which leads to question number three, since it looks like we have the time: Where is my Dad? And, I guess, question four: Are you guys FBI?"

Although VJ has asked the question of Drysdale I take the opportunity to answer. I dismiss Mustang sending her back to the office for a quick session with Julie and also with the instruction to head home for a good rest afterwords, as she will take the day shift tomorrow. "At zero-niner."

Mustang heads for the door as I return my focus to VJ and his four quires. "Let's take it from the top. First, can we get one with onions and mushrooms? Second, you are here because there are bad guys who want to use you as leverage, to keep certain facts secret, and we feel it best to keep you, and your Mom, temporarily out of their reach. Third, your Dad is under similar protection at another facility, and four, no, we are not FBI, although we work directly with them in joint ventures sharing intelligence and operational logistics, the same partnership we employ with local agencies like the DC police, CIA and special military units." I can see from the exchange that the four questions will quickly escalate into eight, and allow VJ, the time to process them.

Turning to Drysdale I pose the option, "Maybe I should take the first shift, why don't you head back and join Mustang in the wrap debrief and spell her tomorrow afternoon?"

"You got it," he says turning towards VJ, "Nice meeting you VJ, see you tomorrow and enjoy the pizza."

"Likewise Agent Drysdale, we'll save you a slice."

Drysdale tosses a knowing up-and-down at each of us and leaves the scene with a chuckling, "Right." 

Get On In The World

 244.

"Where are we goin'?" asks VJ as we, at last, begin the journey back to DC. The cleanup at the crime scene took longer than expected; Ms Sarccino transported to a local clinic for observation and treatment, the pair of kidnappers booked into custody, Covington with the provisos promised during the negotiation, the Explorer impounded and the house locked.

I am in three-way communication with Julie and Harlan, providing and receiving updates as Mustang pilots the SUV back in the direction we came. "We have the kid and request a safe landing spot for a few days while dust settles," I add to the mix, "we are inbound, eta twenty minutes."

Still undecided on the detail of backstory appropriate at this point on the timeline I turn my attention back to VJ. rolling the dice with intuition on betting the hard eight. "What grade are you in?" I ask twisting my torso, shoulders and head as far as possible to address him in the rear seat.

"I am a sophomore at Western Arlington High," he says with a refreshing amount of pride and accomplishment.

"Play sports?"

"Football and track."

"Favorite subject?"

"English, creative writing and Physics." At this Mustang adjusts the rear view mirror to get a better look at him, interest suddenly piqued.

"Would you say that you are a better athlete or a better student?" I inquire sensing that he is enjoying the attention and exchange.

"Ooooh, good one, well, my football coach says I should stick with scholastics and my teachers say that I should stay with sports, so I would say that," he pauses in obvious contemplation, "I would have to say… that a combination of the two might satisfy the requirements for a balanced growth transition to the next phase."

"You might enjoy philosophy," adds Mustang, slowing in anticipation of the chronic jam of traffic near our exit.

"I do," he answers without hesitation, "as a matter of fact, I was reading when those two lowlifes broke into our house and started to harass Mom." At the recollection of the recent traumatic events he softens his tone and continues, "I came across this passage in a grammar book I was using as reference for a story I am working on - actually sitting and working it out in my mind - when they broke in." He again pauses to get the quote properly arranged for delivery. "Nobody should be cut off from the inner well of confidence required to get on in this world."

Impressed and in total agreement, I compliment his acumen with, "We are going to get on AND get along just fine my young friend."

Part of the Story

 243.

The young Sarccino boy and his traumatized Mother wisely take cover behind the seat and wait for the inevitable carnage. A single shot from Mustang's R700 or one from the sniper hovering above would end the contest in regulation. I am hoping that Covington chooses the better part of valor and opens the Explorer's door. He sits utterly alone in his dark world of fear and toxic masculinity, his partner still outside the vehicle in the classic kneeling pose of surrender, and I standing thirty feet away with an extended pinkie slowly morphing my hand into a fist.  

"Alright, alright," he screams in synchronistic staccato opening the door and begrudgingly tossing the sawed-off side-by-side about five feet away.

"Kiss the concrete Mr Covington with your hands behind your head," I order in the command voice, and then to "Mustang, cover the kneeling guy and make sure we get the phone before the…"

Arlington police show up with lights, sirens and a mobile gun show.

Mustang hustles over to the kneeling perp, frisks and ties, kicking his automatic sidearm away with a graceful leg sweep. I am moving towards Covington as I see her reach into the prone man's back pocket and pick his cell phone.

Patting him down but struggling to manipulate the snap tie with one hand as an Arlington officer arrives to assist, I instruct him to finish the securing process and then stand by for further instructions.

Ms Sarccino is in shock but fortunately for her the police had the presence to bring an ambulance as a part of their readiness protocol. Two paramedics assume medical responsibilities for the woman as I cut the plastic tie binding the hands of the teen-aged boy.

"You OK." I ask.

"Yeah, but Mom is a little spooked."

"She will be fine, what's your name?"

"VJ" he says without hesitation, and then backtracking to, "Vinny Sarccino Junior."

I introduce myself and assure him that both his parents will be very pleased with the outcome of this potentially catastrophic and unfortunate incident.

"Who are these guys, and what the fuck do they want?" he asks sounding very much like his father.

"It's a long story, one I will start to tell you on the way to our place," I say with as reassuring a tone as I can fake, "you feel good enough to take a ride?"

"I guess. What happened to your arm?"

"Part of the story, let's go."

All Five Digits

 242.

I quickly insert the communications earbud into my left ear and ask Mustang to do likewise. "Run the plates and get me something stat," I tell her, "and while I am breaking every hostage negotiation rule in the books, get the R700 from under the back seat set up and trained on the Explorer's left front headlight. I'll tell you when."

As we scramble the unmistakable roto-hum of an overhead police helicopter fills the unnerving quiet. I use the com to instruct the pilot and crew of my plan. "We're out of time, let's make this happen."  

Carefully I grab one of the aluminum crutches and open the SUV door. I hold my ID overhead with my right hand and then display the Glock which I gently place on the sidewalk. "We can work this out," I bellow, "nobody has to get hurt."

The man at the wheel of the Explorer shouts out the window, "I thought you creeps don't negotiate with terrorists?"

"Under normal circumstances you are correct, but we have no intel suggesting that you fit that description, so how about we do a little horse trading?" I try, fingers crossed.

"Like what?"

With this response I know we have a chance, a slim one, but an illuminated path towards compromise none-the-less. I glare upward at the chopper and see the sniper in position. "We have you surrounded and both ends of the street are barricaded. There are two ways out of this and its your call which of them it will be. One is we open up and call for clean up, and two is you put your weapons down and release the two innocent people to our custody."

"What part do you not understand that we will cap Mom and the kid if you don't back off and let us pass?" The driver hollers in response, introducing a third option.

Mustang relays her search intel, "vehicle is registered to a Jeremy Covington, currently on parole for several B&E's and a handful of arrests for involvement with anti-government right wing supremacists. Divorced, two kids, twins, 7 years old, last known address in Norfolk, VA."

"Oh yes, I understand completely, that is exactly why we bargain, for mutual benefit, so here is our best and final offer: Let them go and I will personally see to it that you are NOT charged as terrorists, that your parole isn't violated and…"

The masked accomplice sitting shotgun has heard and seen enough. He bolts open the passenger side door, tosses his weapon away and kneels with hands behind his head screaming for "don't shoot" mercy.

During the dramatic scene my gaze has been fixed upon the driver, whom I am trusting to be Mr. Covington.  

"…and what?" he shouts, "you were about to add a third condition to the trade."

"Well, actually, now I am going to add TWO more. Time is up Jeremy. You're alone. Toss the sawed-off out the window and do exactly what your assistant just did, or THREE we will do to your forehead what my backup will now do to your ride," the Explorer's left headlight explodes into a thousand shards of shattered glass, "and FOUR, you can live to see the twins again." I pause to allow him to process the terms and conditions of his salvation. "FIVE seconds to make the trade Jeremy." I hold my right hand up for him to see all five digits and then tuck in the thumb, the index, the middle and the ring.

Sweet Texas Time

 241.

We turn the corner. I tell Mustang to slow it down so we can scout the scene we are about to enter. I have a tingling sensation in my neck, unlike any I have felt in months. I take it as a sign. Whether a good sign or a bad omen we'll soon discover.

Google street view has already provided us with a general idea of how the Sarccino house sits among its neighboring urban rambler clones, the sole differentiation being a semi-circular drive that allows easy access to the oversized front door. We crawl closer and I see a tan 1995 Ford Explorer parked at the door with its engine at idle, the cold winter chill adding to its exhaust creating a plume of giveaway.

"Pull to the curb and stop," I instruct.

As Mustang executes the maneuver behind a boxy green Scion, I spot two middle aged and slightly overweight men with stocking caps revealing only eyes and mouths. Similar plumes emitting respiratory exhaust, they are forcibly steering a woman and a teenager at gunpoint towards the Explorer. I assume them to be Vincent Sarccino's wife and son. I also deduce that we have fortuitously arrived at the scene of a kidnapping in progress, what the police call a 207A, the alpha code signifying attempt.

I call for local support - asking for road blocks at the northern and southern intersections - ending the 911 call with the urgency of the situation and my identification. Briefly I state my intention to pursue if necessary. I terminate the call as dispatch instructs me to avoid direct confrontation, do not engage and that emergency response will be on site in less than ten minutes.

The younger Sarccino makes an aggressive arm sweep, perhaps provoked by excessive prodding from behind by the perp holding what appears to be a sawed-off side-by-side twelve gauge. The woman has already been stuffed into the back seat of the wagon and sits frozen in terror watching both the progress and attempt of the kidnapping, her hands behind her most likely bound with a plastic zip tie.

"Slowly pull up to the exit of the driveway, blocking the Explorer, and stop there, do it now," I say pulling the Glock from my chair and keeping it below the window, out of sight.

"We have to buy nine minutes, let's play a little chicken with 'em and hope like hell they don't panic."

It takes thirty seconds of the nine minutes for the perp to spot us and then tie and force the boy into the backseat alongside his mother. The two masked men sit in front, the driver's hands on the wheel at ten and two. His partner is making a phone call, no doubt asking for instructions. I call Julie with the update as we play out the tense waiting game with the running clock.

"We now have three rescue targets," I tell Mustang, "the woman, the boy and that cell phone." The Explorer remains at idle in the driveway but I can see that the boy is vigorously pleading his, their, case with the pair of armed felons. The driver sits at attention starring us down with bad intentions.

Julie calls with updated status on the police barricades, saying they'll have the streets blocked in five and will defer jurisdiction to my command.

"Don't know if we can keep them for five, they look ready to rumble, any way you can monitor cellular activity from the site, one of them is making a call, and I will wager my retirement pension that the guy on the other end has a name starting with C."

Julie says she'll try but adds that odds are against with such short notice. I grunt and tell her to stand by.

"Four minutes," Mustang updates.

"Your move gentlemen, and take your sweet Texas time."

Politics?

 240.

"They abhor it," I answer Mustang's question as we navigate the twenty miles from our office to the Sarccino house in Arlington, VA.

"Then how does it work?" She asks with sincere interest and innocence.

"A number of ways, first and by far the foremost, is our relationship with the AG. He and his staff are intimately familiar with our work and the relaxed guidelines extended to us after 9-11 in regard to terrorist activities. In a word, they trust our judgement and would rather us apprehend hostiles than have another national security disaster strike as we wait on the standard judicial process to play out," I copsplain to her noticing that my cell is buzzing like a pissed-off bumblebee. Before I answer it I add, "and then there is politics."

I see that the caller is Harlan and answer. "How we doing Boss?"

"Still parked at the Colonial waiting for their return," he says," but I just got a call from one of the AGs staffers, an ally, and it sounds like we have ruffled some feathers."

"Whose feathers and how were they ruffled?"

"Seems that one of the officers that we commandeered to assist in Sarccino's takedown was a little more detailed than necessary in the filing of his report. It went up the chain pretty fast and when it got to the chief he called the DA, to gripe…"

"… yeah, yeah, let me guess, and then the DA called the AG and the AG called Julie and Julie called you and…" I annoyingly speculate.

"And I am calling you, right. They are cool with the takedown but a little heated over you taking all their negotiation leverage by offering, he actually said, 'giving', them the sweetheart of all clemency deals without their knowledge, oversight or authorization."

"How did they even know about the deal?" I ask perplexed and smelling rodents in the room.  

"At this point we suspect if was one of the agents at the bureau who assisted with the interrogation. Probably unsuspecting, something we'll tighten up. Point is…"

"Point is," I interrupt, "is that we are handicapped enough as is without their cumbersome paperwork process slowing us down even further, and until I am instructed otherwise we will continue to operate under the enhanced autonomous protocol negotiated by TOM. Sorry to shout at the messenger, but them's the facts, should you need reminding."

"I understand, I'm on your side here, just passing along the info."

"Copy, keep me current. And thanks."

Mustang exits the George Washington Parkway and heads towards Ashton Heights. I sit starring straight ahead processing the data. Recognizing my focus she allows a few minutes of silence before her next question.

"Politics?"

A Singing Canary

 239.

Sarccino is singing like a canary. Understanding his best chance to be the fortification of the deal, and most importantly to protect himself from retaliation, he must sell-out those residing up-stream at this dangerous point of no return. Still he is plays fast and loose with the interrogation process. We are exchanging possibilities over the true identity of the person responsible for the hits, at this point someone known only as C. We know that he or she is now in the driver's seat of the terrorist group formerly steered by Mr. Big and then The Queen. I have already ordered Harlan and Drysdale to arrest the inhabitants of the brick Colonial, but upon their arrival the perps were absent. They are waiting for their return to engage. We have also moved The Queen to a safe house near us, should there be a "plan B' or a second shooter, in the works or lurking in the shadows. I am prompting Sarccino's memory of anything that might help in the id process when two unscheduled door knocks disturb our seance.

"Enter." I respond.

An agent other than the usual one covers the six feet of space in the room and leans to speak in my ear. I address Sarccino after the one-way communication, "Agent Morris is going to escort you to a more comfortable accommodation, I have to go, we'll pick up where we left off as soon as I return."

"Something hot on the streets?" Sarccino says hoping to continue his indoctrination into the club, knowing that time off for good behavior is a desirable perk.

"You might put it that way."

Sarccino cocks his head at a radical angle in the universal body language of asking "whaaa?"

"Your beautiful white Taurus was just fire bombed. Looks like the word is already on the street and somebody, C maybe? wants to keep you from hitting the high notes in the arpeggio."

"You gotta get my family outta here," he shouts trying to stand but reminded by the wrist chains of that particular improbability.

"Exactly where I'm going boss."

C

 238.

"All I know is that they call him C, maybe it's See or even Sea, I dunno," Sarccino continues, now into the third hour of detailed interrogation. "I would get the order from the local affiliate, the couple in the brick house, and they would provide me with the specifics."

"Can we assume that by 'affiliate' you refer to what we call a cell, or a forward operating terrorist base?" I prod.

"Yes, small and mostly for political intelligence gathering in and around DC."

"And you are the muscle, on call for the dirty work?"

"Yeah, well, it pays good. And please," he abruptly shifts gears into a more humane and contrite cog, "Always business, nothing personal." He says this knowing he is talking to one of his past business contracts, one still carrying the obvious residual carnage of his sharpshooting incompetence.

Noting the progress we have made during his deposition - the intel he has provided already enough to fill an eight gig flash drive with damming testimony - I too, make a conversational shift.

"Let me share with you the main difference between us if I might." Sarccino nods approval cognizant that his appointments for the rest of the week have been cancelled and he has nowhere to go, "The three slugs that you put in my back, cowardly from the get go, I consider to be a part of my job. I don't need to bore you with the definition of right vs wrong, good vs evil or even the disparity between cops vs robbers, I harbor no negative feelings of revenge, do you know why? Sarccino shrugs his shoulders in answer. "Because we all know the morality involved, the ethics and laws of a higher spirituality known simply as karma. Yours is taking place as we speak. As is mine, for that matter." Sarcino seems genuinely  interested in this concept although faking indifference. "Just as the soldier is not totally responsible for battlefield casualties his weapon inflicts, his commanding officer is higher on the karma food-chain, the politician drumming up the cry for war to satisfy his personal motives for power and profit, or a confused understanding of social equality, is the one who suffers the bulk of the negative universal laws of cause and effect. Meaning that the soldier is innocent of the felony because he was following orders from the brass, and karma is about intent. The politician ignores this and is hence the true felon." I take a break to sip from my water bottle. "So while in the eyes of the law you are guilty of attempted murder, the actual criminal in this case is the person who paid you for that intention. The bastard that bought your soul."

Sarccino looks ready for a moment of enlightenment as he listens.

"You did this," I point to my wheelchair, "to pay for your son's college education, praying to God that he chooses to become a doctor or engineer instead of a thug hit-man like dear old Dad. You get bonus points for that at least, but the real difference between us is that my job is to protect the people who pledge the same commitment to the future but instead do it making minimum wage as shopkeepers, sanitation workers and employees at WalMart and Amazon. And that fills my heart, soul and what is left of my body with the universal power of good karma. You may win a battle or two but you will never win the war." I pause, wondering if he will accept this truth or brush it off as snowflake voodoo.

"So in this light, let's talk some more about this person you call C."

You Have My Word

 237.

We leave Sarccino to his devils and demons until he calls for clarification. I reenter the small room and repeat the procedures, water bottle on table, file folder in front of me. To emphasize the growing amount of paperwork we have been adding to his sheet, the file is stuffed with legal condiments, a slight we used to call 'one with everything.' Sarccino's demeanor has changed dramatically, now portraying the language of a man defeated. No longer asking for respect he now pleads for mercy.

"Clemency and witness protection, or no deal." He opens as I pull my chair towards the table.

"We will need confessions to four very serious crimes and your involvement with a known terrorist cell." I respond, "Plus the obligatory names and last knowns of their ranking officers."  

"Clemency, protection, and something else," he adds now seemingly comfortable with the prospect of ratting out the hand that feeds, a prospect he initially thought to be highly unlikely.

"What's that?"

He loudly moves the wrist chains to their maximum range and taps on the 'motivational' file folder with his right index finger. He seems to be invoking a code of sorts, man to man, holding my gaze in his. I briefly consider that he sees this deal as part of a catharsis for the pain he is personally responsible for. Or, with a flash of thought equally as quick, he might be thinking that here is a guy who has spent the last eight months in a coma as a result of three slugs I put in his back, making him someone with superior motive control and revenge cravings so objective that he can be trusted as both man and cop, variations on the theme of honor among thieves perhaps. I am considering all this as we stare each other down.

He again taps on the folder and says "Nothing happens to the kid. I want your word on it."

For maximum effect I extend the silence between us to its most uncomfortable duration. It has never been my style to use the families of perps as leverage in coercing information, but in this rare instance I urged its use. There was a monumental debate in the com room as we watched Sarccino open the folder and immediately get its message. Of the four in the room a vote ended in a 2-2 tie, Julie, as expected and interestingly Harlan, making the dissents. We left it with the understanding that should an explanation of intent be necessary, the tactic would be off, but should there be a confession without a verbal exchange, we could excuse the breach in moral protocol THIS ONCE.

Sarccino tapping his fingers on the file is enough to satisfy our terms and close the deal, still I can't resist a fleeting glance into the mirror as we successfully skirt the ethical 'means to an end' issue du jour.

"You have my word."

Ping

 236.

As planned, once I am seated the rookie FBI agent knocks twice, enters after my OK, and places a file folder along with a bottle of water on the desk in front of me. The precise choreography calls for my relocation of the water away from Sarccino and the opening of the file. Although I have already scanned his rap sheet I make a play of re-reading it slowly, almost painfully so. The time also allows for a check of the biometric receiving device I have inside my ear. At last, feigning satisfaction, I close the file with full ceremony making sure the FBI stamp calling its contents CONFIDENTIAL is plainly visible.

"Vincent Mirano Sarccino," I say in the middle voice, "Nato a vicino de Venizia millenovecentosettantotto, si o no, signore?" I almost sing.

"I want a lawyer."

"Ah, inglese, bene, allora, do you have any idea of what you are being charged with, sir?"  

"Haven't the foggiest, and whatever the charges, they're bogus, so let's cut the crap, and yes, I was born in 1978, the year you were supposed to retire old man." He snarls back.

"Are you familiar with section twelve, paragraph six of the Patriot Act?" I ask with civility barely enough for the situation.

"Fuck you."

"And vaffanculo right back attcha. Section twelve, paragraph six specifically states that any perpetrator suspected of involvement with terrorist activities may be held as long as necessary, without legal counsel, until said activities have been satisfactorily demonstrated to be false," I loosely paraphrase. "So it really isn't a matter of what you want - but rather of what I'll grant. Capisci?

I take Sarccino's grunt to be a signal that he both disagrees and understands.

"Good, so lets move the ball downfield. Who ordered the hit?

"Don't know what you're talking about."

My earpiece pings with the biometric signal that his heart-rate has spiked at the exchange.

"Why were you surveilling my hospital room for eight months, armed with the same S&W we removed from your possession earlier today?"

"I don't have to talk to you." Another ping.

"How did you know about the patient in the clinic, and what was the purpose of your visit this morning?"

"Paying my respect."

"Most people bring flowers and not large caliber revolvers when visiting friends in hospitals. What is your connection to the patient?"

"She is a friend of a friend." Immediate ping.

"She?"

Sarccino knows he as been had and shoots a glance at the bottle of water to my right, his left.  

"Would you like some water Vince?" I ask switching to the informal. "Cop the plea. All I want to know is who ordered the hit. We got you as trigger-man dead to rights, and could lock you down for years in court proceedings ending with hard time. You're a young man Vincent, un bel giovanotto, help us and we'll help you."

He licks his lips, dehydrated and tasting the freedom being offered as quid pro quo.

On cue, there comes two knocks on the steel door. The young agent enters and places a second manila file atop the first. It also carries the FBI warning in red ink. The agent leans to whisper in my ear. I place the water bottle in my coat pocket, take the first folder, and stand, leaving the room to Mr. Sarccino and the second file.

"Ciao a presto amico mio, see you soon."

As expected, once the door is shut, Sarccino grabs the file and opens it.

Ping.

Ace Up My Sleeve

 235.

Outnumbered and caught with red-handed with criminal intent, Sarccino chooses to comply with the arrest procedures without resistance. Harlan is considering this as they transport him to the holding facility they share with the local bureau. Having affirmed his understanding of his Miranda rights he remains silent in the back seat of Harlan's SUV cuffed to the door. Once booked he is parked in interrogation room B. He sits casually in the bleak white room taking inventory of the desk to which he is affixed by the pair of wrist chains and an anchor, one opposing metal chair, the obligatory one-way mirror and the video camera in the corner where the wall meets the ceiling. To the casual observer it might appear as if he has been here before.

I have been briefed on the arrest and hurry to assemble the necessary components for my assignment, Julie for intel and Mustang for ambulation. We arrive at the FBI facility in less than twenty minutes, where I will be the initial interrogation officer, this after a brief discussion with Julie, who felt that I might carry excessive conflicting baggage into the exchange, and not the tabula rasa required for standard operating procedures.

"All clean slate's aside, nobody knows the details of this more than I, and nobody has more lead-off interrogation experience, so, with all due respect, I'm the guy."

Knowing that to argue would be opening several large cans of worms, she professionally agrees without any outward signs of concern.

We check into the facility after being briefed by Julie on the drive. I have a handful of questions for Mr. Sarccino and as well as an ace up my sleeve should it be a necessary card to play.

We go to the com room and watch him through the glass.

"Are we sure this is the guy?" I ask Mustang.

"100%" she instantly responds, "was he packing?"

"Smith & Wesson 442, 2" barrel, 38 cal."

"Tan leather shoulder holster?"

"Yep."

"Alright, I'll take it from here. You stay with Drysdale and should I need you, I'll call."

I take the little-used cane from the chair and with her steadying hand, stand. Still weak and unbalanced I take the first few steps towards the door, and then down the hallway and finally to the interrogation room opened by a young agent. He holds the door for me as I walk in and navigate to the table. I sit opposite Sarccino without taking my eyes off him.

I notice that instead of looking at my limp he seems to be trying to get a better look at the scars on the back my neck.

Boiling Bucket of Fate

 234.

Instinctively Harlan calls Julie.

"Do we have security at the clinic?" he hurriedly asks.

"Negative, it's a private facility and no one outside of us knows anything about the patients - or the staff for than matter. Why?

"Because Mr. 38 just parked his car next to the building and is walking towards the front door as we speak. Calling this coincidental could be catastrophic."

"Alright, can you assist?"

"I can but you better make a call and alert the staff, put them on high alert. Better safe than sorry," he suggests while grabbing the keys to his car and heading out the door.

It takes Julie less than five seconds to dial her contact at the clinic. She is advised that they have security protocols for such situations that will go into effect immediately. Harlan is the first to witness the efficiency of the clinic's emergency response as he attempts to open the front door that is now locked and impenetrable. From the sidewalk he can see Mr. 38 inside scanning the information board in the lobby and then taking the stairs upward.

Harlan again calls Julie to provide the update and current situation.

"Let's keep this line open. We are going to trust the clinic's security system. They have locked down both the third floor as well as The Queen's private room. The building's chief of security is stationed in the clinic lobby. I don't think our perp is willing to engage in a fire-fight, so let's use this as bait. Police are responding to the alarm, so please advise them on the sensitive nature of the event, Drysdale is also on his way. If we can witness him attempting to enter the clinic's main lobby, and nab him on the way out, we might be able to get some answers to a few important questions. The clinic security is aware of the play and will fully cooperate."

"Roger that," he says as a DC squad car pulls up to the front door.

Harlan meets them, shows his ID and briefs the two officers on the situation. While not thrilled about having a gunman locked inside, they defer to the jurisdiction and offer assistance as backup.

Drysdale skids to a halt seconds later, checks in and asks the officers if the building has side or back doors. Learning of the affirmative he assigns one officer to each.

Julie, on the open line relays that on the third floor Mr. 38 walked directly into the trap, going right to the clinic front door and attempting entry. Security cameras show him visibly upset, in a moment of thought, and then quickly turning to descend the stairs. He should be on the ground floor any second.

Her communication late, Mr. 38 sees Harlan and Drysdale and turns in a panic to follow the EXIT signs out the emergency side door.

Seeing the officer outside he retraces his steps and tries the back door with the same result.

Harlan tells Julie on cell to open the locked front doors. They open with the familiar click.  

Mr. 38 sees Harlan and Drysdale enter the lobby. He is trapped like a rat in the boiling bucket of fate.

Weapons drawn, Drysdale barks for him to put his hands behind his head and kneel. 

Oblivious Tranquility

 233.

Davis and Saunders return to the routine of their undercover charade in Vegas, making a nightly splash of pedantic decadence and bravado in the casino owned and operated by the target of their play. Cunningly, they submit an upchain coded update on a regular basis, advising Adelson and his executive mercenaries of movement towards the fulfillment of the mission, now known as 'Bingo' to those in the know and those with the need to. Saunders reports to Julie that their part of OF, Operation Firecracker, has been successfully re-established and is now sailing along nicely with fair winds and following seas.

The big news of the day comes from the clinic where The Queen has undergone a complete physical and psychological examination. Suffering from severe dehydration and trauma induced insomnia, she, according to the clinical professionals, needs nothing more than a few good meals, daily electrolyte supplements and about three days of rest. The news is significantly better than anyone could have expected, considering the chances of her succumbing to any of the post trauma stress disorders often related to long-term incarceration. The question as to whether or not she was abused, tortured or submitted to enhanced interrogation remains a mystery, although no physical signs indicate such treatment. Julie and I are in full agreement that it is a mystery needing immediate clarification. We have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow at 0900 in the clinic as she rests and recovers.

Harlan remains unconvinced that Vincent Sarccino, aka Mr. 38, is legit. His illegal stop and search netted a disappointing zero amount of actionable intel. Forty-two, divorced, born in Jersey, no felonies, no warrants, self-employed, honorable discharge from Army, current concealed weapon permit, resides outside of Arlington, VA. Harlan sees his self-employment status as the open. Could mean anything from being an Uber driver to bag dropping for the mob. He decides to make the aggressive play and pay him another visit in order to clarify the exact nature of his employment. He stakes out the Colonial where Sarccino was initially accosted and waits for him to show up as his MO suggests he sooner or later will. He then decides to wait and watch, choosing to chance another automotive tail. When Sarccino finally shows and then leaves the house less than thirty minutes later, the tail is on.

And soon ends as Sarccino parks his Taurus in the lot next to the clinic where The Queen rests in oblivious tranquility.

Verbum Sup

 232.

"Let's get it done," I submit.

Julie agrees asking for Mina to please prepare a fresh pot of coffee for the guaranteed to be tedious debriefing chore. Drysdale and Mustang have long been gone, each retiring to their local apartments in seek of rest and recovery, their briefs done.  

I wheel the chair up to the conference table as she prepares the compact video camera and external mic pointing both in my direction. The paradoxical metaphor is duly noted.

"Ready? Let's start with the onset of the raid. You know the drill, so let's take it from the top."

I introduce myself to the camera and we are off, tally lamp flashing red.

Ninety-two minutes later Julie purses her lips in contemplation, nods her head and announces that we have a wrap. As is almost always the case with a successful recounting, several interesting details have surfaced. My interviewer, a veteran of thousands of similar sessions, has been jotting notes onto a standard legal pad as the interrogation progressed. Notes she now presents as key points as we arc the transition from past to present.

1) Did The Queen divulge ANY information to her captors during her imprisonment?
2) Is the terrorist cell fully exterminated or are there others waiting elsewhere for instructions? On this note she has chosen the rather colorful metaphor of killing the beast with cold, complete and objective efficiency.
3) How much of an asset can Merle be in future operations?
4) Have we been compromised by the phony ATF perp and his bogus alibi?
5) Is there an 'up-river' mole somewhere between the local FBI and Hartaugh?
6) What operation were the terrorists carrying out as front for their criminal operation?
7) Mustang's performance, considering her lack of experience, was phenomenal, have we gleaned maximum intel from her on the perp we call Mr. 38?
8) Drysdale continues to prove his value with the success of every assignment. Is it appropriate to advance his responsibilities within the group?
9) Are we satisfied with the current degree of probability that Adelson remains connected to MBI?
10) Assuming he is, does that automatically imply that Hartaugh is in that same boat?

We finish our session just as I hit the wall. I am exhausted, sore and my arm has begun to throb with what feels like a rock 'n roll downbeat, the proverbial big bass drum in 4/4 time, a robust 120 heart beats per minute by my count.  

Julie senses this and agrees to call it a day, putting an appropriate end to our elongated labor of learning.

"Verbum sap."

Gnats

 231.

"The problem with both Hartaugh and Adelson is that they are such good liars you never really know anything other than what they want you to," I add to the conversation.  Julie is driving cautiously through the busy streets surrounding the architectural centerpiece of American democracy, past Nationals Park and the Anacostia River. The irony of our discourse on the blatant and corrupt deceit of a US Senator hits our consciousness like a gnat on the windshield.

"You think he, or they, will have the guts?" she tries.

"The bug or Hartaugh and Adelson?" I badda-bing, producing only an eye roll from my chauffeur.

"We need to be careful with them," she adds in a more serious tone, "Davis told me yesterday that he asked Adelson point blank if he ordered the hit. And, in case you didn't notice, Hartaugh just about shit a major league brick when you accused him of attempted murder."

"A thickly veiled accusation," I respond, "we agreed to turn up the heat and having them a little concerned that we might know more than they assume will force their hand. They will be talking, exchanging notes and directing their next moves. Furthermore, we just gave Hartaugh another talking point for his leadership role in the success of the raid AND Adelson is smelling the payoff. Of the two, I believe Adelson. The issue is, will they be patient and allow the game to play out, or let their massive egos call the shots?

"Dangerous," she says, "Nothing deadlier than a dirty politician with a wounded ego."

"Or the scoundrel partner guarding his."

"We need to be careful."

"What we need is to have the guts to do it again." I pitch.  

"Like the baseball team?"  

Pause.

"The Nats?"

We share a rim-shot guffaw and park.

The Sound of Squirm

 230.

In a startling demonstration of the cognitive bias defining the Dunning-Kruger effect, the Senator provides us with a recap of the raid. Although having access to the same intelligence as we do, he lacks the single most important element of an accurate synopsis: I was there and he was not. In his authoritarian zeal to appear omnipotent he takes the aggressive approach in his questioning, immediately putting Julie in the position of arguing for the defense. My initial thought is that - should they be arguing the law - perhaps we would be better served by Harlan sitting in the number one chair, instead of my compromised carcass in a wheelchair.

"You know as well as we do that in the performance of our duties, especially in this case, where we are certain the hostiles are not going to be playing by the rules, that it is sometimes necessary to bend the letter of the law or the rules of engagement in our favor. All in order to gain an advantage and accomplish our objectives, which we should mention again, were one-hundred percent achieved in the raid," Julie hammers the point home.

"Yes, I understand," drawls Hartaugh, "The warm and fuzzy National Security blanket, covering all the legal gray areas with red, white and blue flannel."

Not being certain of his ulterior motivation - he seems to be playing both sides against the middle - I push the success of the raid as just one battle, but a major victory in the unending war with an enemy who outnumber us by triple digits.

"With all due respect Senator, we are making solid headway on several counter-terrorism fronts, with limited staff and," I pause for effect, "what now appears to be a breakdown in the chain of command."

"Yes, well, that has been taken care of. No cause for alarm."

"Taken care of? How so?" Julie asks.

"Seems the perp trying to scam his way out of the bust, had somehow managed to obtain a bogus ID card from ATF. He carried it in his back pocket, either anticipating a raid or as entry to facilities rewiring one. It was proved to be a forgery about an hour ago by the regional FBI office in Denver," he informs us, irony dripping from his Dixie dialect.

"Exactly my point sir, that type of communication is critical to our mission, so why are we just hearing about it now, third hand?"

Hartaugh silently sits suppressing his reaction and considers his next tactical move. He can admit he was wrong, float a smoke-screen cover up or pledge better compliance in the future.

Surprisingly, he chooses the former, with the caveat - a common practice of southern republicans - that there is someone lower on the food-chain to blame the error upon.

"A simple mistake on the part of the reporting agency," he says in an unblinking charade.

My internal polygraph is screaming the truth of his untruth but I sense that we can leverage the situation to our advantage, so I try: "Is this the same agency that reported the ambush as being ordered by Adelson?"

The only sound we hear is one I take to be the sound of squirm. The professional liar is on the hot seat.

In a weak attempt to regain composure from my audacious accusation, he finally, for once, chooses the succinct, direct approach of masking his impostor syndrome with a single word:

"No."

Pachyderm in the Parlor

 229.

"Under who's authority?" I ask, "This is completely our operation making any infiltration, especially that of an asset, subject to prior approval and internal review."

Harlan adds that he has no information on any intelligence activity directly related to the covert operation, or, for that matter, anywhere else, as the terms and conditions are specifically understood to include our complete and sole authority in the mission, its tactics and staffing. He finishes his opening declaration of fact with an ominous, "Something is fishy."

"Let's not jump to conclusions quit yet," Julie asks of the road weary crew, "I am on my way for a meeting with the Senator at 1000, so let me hear him out before we offer him a cigarette and blindfold."

At this, Mustang voices an observation from the raid, mentioning that one of the four card-playing terrorists in her charge seemed to be trying to communicate to her by pointing to his rear pants pocket, as if he had a hall pass to offer the dean of discipline, she recalls thinking. She now apologizes for not breaking his code and, perhaps worse, failing to raise the issue upon completion of the raid.

"Things happen fast, and a lot of times we miss important details due to the occupation of our awareness to the matters at hand, you had the responsibility of holding four hostile terrorists at bay as a fire-fight raged around you, this, your first live action with us. You did good." I say.

At this Harlan addresses the pachyderm in the parlor by suggesting that this might be a perfect segue into the debrief sessions. Julie is quick to agree, asking of him to start with Mustang and then Drysdale. She catches my look, one she knows translates to, 'what about me?' and announces convincingly, "You're coming with me. I think your initial testimony could prove valuable in our long-game strategy. Besides Hartaugh needs to be reminded of who runs point in this outfit."

"So I'll debrief afterwards?"

"Guaranteed."

No Fucking Way

 
CHAPTER EIGHT

228.

The final tally, as reported by the local media, was five captured and five killed. The captured will be tried as domestic terrorists after extensive interrogation by the FBI and our counterparts at Homeland Security. There is no mention of anyone other than the ten accounted for in the raid, making our operation to capture The Queen without media attention appear to be a total success. Merle was thanked for his integral part of the operation and left to report on the subsequent local fallout. By dinner time we are back in DC, prepping for individual debriefs with Harlan and Julie. Outside of shrapnel lightly ripping through the back Drysdale's left hand, we emerged from the fire-fight unscathed and undeterred. My initial report to Julie was centered around the heroic performances of the team, Merle, Mustang and Drysdale, who all acted with calm and professional courageousness under the extreme conditions.

The Queen has been taken to our private clinic for medial and physiological observation and testing. In my initial scan, she slept the entire flight back so we did not talk, she appeared gaunt, weak and slightly disoriented, all conditions perfectly understandable for a prisoner surviving solitary confinement for eight months and suddenly released back into our exclusively trenchant sector of society.

Julie, Harlan, Drysdale, his hand bandaged with white gauze, and I are exchanging field notes when a call from Hartaugh comes into the office router. Julie looks at us asking for forgiveness in her acceptance of the inbound call and walks out of the conference room and into the foyer, cell in hand. The three of us continue our casual analysis of the day's events, Mina contributing a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of chocolate-almond croissants to the conversation. Julie returns to the room and absent-mindedly pours herself a cup of the steaming blend while reaching for a French confection.

The room falls silent waiting for her to claim sweet refreshment and fill us with the details of her phonecon with the decidedly sour Senator.

Noticing this she takes the initiative, "His sources are reporting that one of the terrorists was working undercover."

If the room was silent prior to the release of this news it is now complete. I hear a snowflake of powered sugar drop from toasted dough to silver platter, a fall from grace that perfectly mirrors and sums my current feeling of dread.  

The lingering dread of silence is rudely shattered by Drysdale's cry, "No fucking way."

Ten of Ten

 227.

Merle gets the call from Foreman Joey Krebs saying he is leaving the ranch for their scheduled coffee date downtown. It was his idea in order to remove his innocent fried from the potentially lethal arena. He relays the info to Drysdale and the game is on. On cue Kreb's shiny new Chevy pickup passes the makeshift security shack as the Penske truck approaches from the opposite direction. Drysdale has given the driver the option of full compliance or a 9mil in the right knee. They pass through the gate with nothing more than a hand wave from the sentry, Drysdale laying low, out of sight. A trio of bangs on the cab bulkhead alerts us to 'get ready' mode for the mayhem about to ensue. Mustang unslings the deadly automatic Kalishnokov AK-12 and securely places it in my lap. I hear the safety release of her favorite Sig-Sauer P228 from just behind my right ear.

"Stay behind me, until instructed otherwise" I order as a last moment reminder.

Drysdale directs the driver to park in front of the barn, standard procedure, and then to slowly walk to the rear of the truck, slide out the loading ramp and then open the cargo door. From there, he continues, we are going to walk into the main house, you first. He finishes his commands with a terse, "Anything goes South, you are the first to follow, clear?" Adding, "How many people inside?"

The driver answers about ten.

The cargo door rolls up like a stage curtain revealing us with weapons drawn, business ends directed at his forehead. I signal 'hush' with a single finger over my lips as Drysdale flashes the five finger sign, twice. Ten to three, fair odds, I calculate. I initiate the strike with a "Let's go" and we hit the ramp with a rattle and shake.

The driver is vanguard, Mustang and I behind and Drysdale at the tail. We move deliberately towards the aging Spanish style house as I consider my closing comments from last night's final review of the plan and its contingencies, "with any luck at all we might be able to take the cell and capture the target without firing a single shot."

We make it unobstructed to the veranda which runs the full sixty feet front of the house. Drysdale taps me on the shoulder and goes right, we wait until he has reached the corner and I push the AK into the drivers back telling him to open the door and enter. We watch him take a deep breath and then comply. Four men sit at a card table in the kitchen. Mustang moves quickly behind the driver as I level the AK at the card players and shout "FBI, everybody on the floor, hands behind heads. NOW."

One of them makes a halfhearted move to grab his rifle from behind his chair and is met by Drysdale breaking the kitchen window and putting a red dot on his forehead. They all sense defeat and lay on the oak floor, hands behind heads. Five down, five to go.

I motor to them and conduct a three word interrogation, "Where's the girl?" No one speaks. "Tell us where she is and you will all live through this, stay silent and you all die." I nudge the AK into the back of the head of one of the prone card playing terrorists and repeat the question, "Where's the girl? Five seconds till the lights go out."

"Out back in the garage," unexpectedly suddenly shouts the driver, still being covered by Mustang.

Before we can move a muscle Drysdale is running in the direction of the garage, I yell to Mustang to keep them all covered and shoot if any of them twitches as much as a tendon. I make my way out the kitchen door and towards Drysdale's trajectory of approach. About fifty open and exposed meters separate the house and the garage. Drysdale, sensing danger, pulls up behind a huge fir tree. He sees me and points to another tree to my left. Once established he gives me the 'I'm going in and cover me' hand sign and is off.

He is immediately met with cross-fire coming from inside the garage window and from the right, where the barn tosses an early shadow across the yard. He covers the space in astonishing time, live rounds snapping up demolition dust devils right and left behind him. I have time to send streams of cover fire in both directions assisting his sprint. He gets to the garage door, turns to face me pulling a smoke grenade from his vest pocket, signaling 5-4-3. Flash bang and then scattered bursts accompany me as I put the wheelchair's assist motor into high gear and race towards the rear of the building, AK loudly leading the way. We get to the same place at the same time behind the garage. In the fenced area one terrorist soldier has a gun to the head of The Queen, who he secures from behind in a crude version of a choke hold. He is coughing and trying to wipe his eyes as we point our weapons at him.

"Let the girl go and you won't be hurt." I yell.

"Shoot the fucker," The Queen yells back.

"Drop your weapons or I cap the bitch," counters the terrorist.

I glance at Drysdale as he begins to slowly lower his weapon. I do likewise and place the AK on the ground beside my chair. We both have our hands in the air when The Queen makes a quick and furious spin move creating a small space between herself and her captor. A single shot rings out breaking the silence of the standoff.

Merle ejects the spent shell casing from his deer rifle and nods an 'all clear' signal towards us.

Ten of ten.

Keeping Score

 226.

Julie is keeping score. Of the five active protocols, three have seen positive movement. With no one worried about Mr. Big going anywhere we are the closing act on a marque day in our endless defense of life, liberty and the pursuit of those that threaten them. As we prepare to initiate the strike, final preparations and back-up plans set, I can't help but remember a meme from years ago suggesting that 'Whatever doesn't kill me is going to be very sorry it ever tried.' Almost instantly I recoil at this and shake myself from the trap of revenge and back to the mindset of this being a duty and a service to humanity, just the rescue of a hostage held by heavily armed domestic terrorists. Nothing personal.

At 0835 a eighteen foot rented Penske truck leaves the Zimmerman compound, past the tiny one-man security check point and heads South on the two-lane country road. Merle and Drysdale meet it as it departs tailing safely a hundred yards behind. They follow it for ten miles until it makes a turn into a small industrial park and to an all-steel warehouse. The roof and siding of the building are covered with red, black and orange rust, almost complete in its cover of the black impact font advertising Zimmerman Hay and Soy. The truck pulls into the warehouse, twenty minutes later reappearing from behind its huge sliding doors. It heads back towards the compound on the same route it came. At a four-way stop sign between the warehouse and county road the truck comes to an obligatory halt. From the left a Montana State Patrol SUV, blue lights on fire, blocks the intersection. At the rear Merle pins the truck in place as Drysdale jumps out and runs to the yellow Penske. Weapon drawn he climbs aboard and takes command, ordering the driver to keep his hands in the air and not to move a muscle. Drysdale removes his belted sidearm, cell phone and wallet, then signals to the State Trooper that his work is done, much appreciated and please stand by the radio for possible additional assistance. Drysdale returns his attention to the driver instructing him to continue back towards the compound, adding the street Miranda, "Stay cool, do as I say and nobody will get hurt."

Halfway back to the compound Drysdale instructs the driver to pull over into a wide spot in the road. Once stopped his tells the driver to slowly exit the cab and open the rear cargo door. Drysdale slides over and follows him with gun in hand. As they walk back Merle brings the rental car up to meet them. Mustang and I exit the vehicle and make our way to the aluminum loading ramp of the truck that Drysdale has slid into position. Assist motor on and up we go. Inside of two minutes and we are inside the empty truck and headed to the old Zimmerman place and our unannounced rendezvous with The Queen.

On the way I text Julie with an update. "If yr kpng score, we a go."