Law School

 285.

There are times, I will admit, that I wish I had followed my Mother's advice and gone to law school. This is one of those times. In making the honest attempt to adhere to Mustang's rigorous physical therapy program, I am back in the saddle, spinning indoors and listening to a podcast on US Foreign Policy during the Nixon administration. Needless to say there is more honesty in my production of cycling wattage than in the propaganda fed to the mainstream media - and in turn to the American population - during that vile era. I know this as a result of NOT studying constitutional law but playing football and learning leadership skills in a military school of great renown. Had I of become a lawyer, or politician as Mom also urged, by this time in our suspect history such actions as bigotry, hypocrisy, racism, hate speech, misinformation, gaslighting and anything remotely related to white supremacist ideology would be punishable offenses, felonies if committed with criminal intent. My tears of regret spill from my forehead like a waterfall's mist as I formulate the assignment due on Hartaugh's desk by noon tomorrow.

Does Alexander Goldson have ties to organized crime? Does his rap sheet, somewhat thin from my initial scan, show any history of cooperation with groups known to prefer metaphorical snow over coal, ivory vice ebony? Can I embellish his biography to include the possibility and further promote this pathetic agenda so Hartaugh might be more inclined to partner up with him? The trick, of course, is to take any bit of possible connection, no matter the degree, and run with it like a tailback to daylight. Running from the darkness into the brilliant sunlight. Blind them by the light. I like this not-so-subtle from of manipulation, especially with the intended result being the transport of Hartaugh to the nearest penal institution.

Davis informs us that Goldson is chomping at the bit to get started. Seems he suffers from a condition known as impatience syndrome, one's inability to wait until the chances of success are at their favorability apex. In our world such often violent rash behavior, common with street thugs and bullies, is known as being a Sonny Corleone.

I decide to add some celebrity testimony to the fictional affidavit, and why not?

Sensing the finish line approaching I put on as powerful a kick as I am able. Considering that I am working with a leg and a half instead of the standard issue pair of functioning pistons, the effort feels genuine and legit. My heart rate insists that we have reached the red zone of intensity and that we should throttle back as a safe response to the quick visit to the holy hot land of maximal output. Interestingly, I comply, satisfied with the results, however brief, "I'll be back," I vow with my very best Terminator impression.

After a quick shower and a banana-strawberry protein smoothie I head to my desk to author the document, fully engaged and focused on its dual-purpose. Julie is still working, gathering local and international intelligence, trying to make sense of the binary chatter and sorting it into manageable file formats, alert levels and code translations. She is a master at linking innuendo to reality, gossip to actionable intel. I open the intelligence report template and sit looking at its nothingness, recognizing the need for caution.

Julie approaches asking about my workout. "Getting better all the time," I respond.

"Outstanding," she compliments while handing me a single sheet of copy-paper, "I hate to be the one to burst your bubble of endorphin flow, but you need to have a look at this."

I read, cringe and crumble.

"Should have gone to law school."

Totally Bogus Bio

 284.

"I just got a call from Alex Goldson regarding a meeting he is requesting to discuss campaign funding and a new project he is launching. One he would like my support with," says Senator Hartaugh without the courtesy of a greeting, formal or otherwise.

"Yes Senator, how can we help?" I ask, playing the role of humble servant.

"As you know his predecessor and I enjoyed a long and successful relationship, all under the watchful eye of your former boss, with his complete and faithful support mind you, making this transfer of power nothing more than a gentleman's agreement to continue," the Senator, in prime campaign form, drawls. I am immediately appalled by his casual mention of TOM as being sympathetic to their relationship, as it was common knowledge that his watchful eye was looking more for high crimes than mere misdemeanors. I bite my tongue and urge him to please continue. "I would like you to run a thorough security and background check on him to ensure his, ahem, personal and business integrity."

"Can do sir, when is your meeting scheduled?" I ask.

"Tuesday at 1400 in my campaign headquarters. So if you could have a dossier on my desk by noon tomorrow I would very much appreciate it," the Senator asks in his condescending way of making a command sound like a small favor.

"Oh, and one other search parameter, please," he adds, "see if he has any connections to or associations with any of the subversive groups known to wave the flag of the far-right, and more specific with ties to any groups in support of, ahem, sectarian segregationist organizations," he says, having long ago lost his moral compass.

"Yes sir, shouldn't be a problem," I reply with the vocal equivalent of a poker-face.

"Thank you and stop by some time for a Southern drink and a Cuban cigar," he says, preparing for a cordial close.

"Yes, sir, that would be great, thank you."

As much as I have always taken pride in my ability to remain objective when dealing with people of differing opinion, I terminate the call wishing I could terminate him as easily, hissing; "Fucking piece of Southern shit," and immediately feeling better as I begin the process of creating a totally bogus bio of Mr. Goldson.

At Sharkey's Nose

 283.

Collectively we decide to sweeten the pot. If the greed factor isn't enough surely the golden opportunity to inflict more pain and suffering on people of color is. One would think that after a century of progress, social growth and escalating tolerance, that race relations in the US would be on the antebellum upswing. It isn't. One could make the case that it has, in fact, taking a nasty turn south. As in deep South. Where the alligators grow so mean.

Just the hint that the meeting might contain some relationship to one of the many fledgling off-shoots of the Klan, enough to tickle the funny bone of any closeted and sheeted white supremacist, would surely manufacture sufficient consent to turn a John Hancock into a James Crow. The racist, hypocrite, bigot bastard Senator from South Carolina is in our cross-hairs as the target of the Mongoose TOM operation.

Davis, back to his disguise as entrepreneur deluxe Sharkey, has a meeting with his mark Alex Goldson, newly installed CEO of a Vegas casino enterprise with a long and reciprocal history with the Senator. Millions of laundered dollars have flown from the desert cash oasis to the Senators lush villa in Charleston, South Carolina. The two criminal enterprises are, as the saying goes, tied at the hip. Sharkey pitches the idea using a three point plan: Money, Power, Politics. The objective is to get the two parasites together on the same stage, to discuss - and agree to - the funding of a Wall Street sting, one promising a payout of millions to each party. Thusly compromised with video evidence of their plan, they are busted and escorted to court for a quick, but prolific and humiliating sentence of, hopefully twenty years or so.

"What do we need him for?" Asks Goldson, "why not go it alone and keep the take in-house?"

Sharkey, on the spot, has his response ready in a New York minute but, like any actor worth his weight in fool's gold, takes his sweet Texas in time getting there.

"Simple, we feel having his political clout on our side, and literally beholden to us, sets the stage for legal and political cover. It's like taking the president of the bank you are about to rob, out to lunch."

Goldson sits patiently listening to the sales pitch. He is no dummy and immediately recognizes the huge potential of having a US Senator on the payroll.

Sharkey piles it on sensing a deal about to close, "Consider the financial trickle down of legislation bringing a one-percent tax break to your net-net. I have seen your books and by my estimation that alone would be worth close to another mil annually. All legal."

Lastly, as close, Sharkey whispers, "Not to mention the furthering of the white agenda movement the Senator is so fond of. What are your primary demographics? You two could have some serious clout in a partnership sympathetic to that cause. Care to see Nevada a deeper shade of red?"

Goldson is silent. Davis, as Sharkey, hopes he hasn't taken a step too far.  

At last he speaks, "All this sounds like it's too good to be true," he admits, "But we've seen your work, so let's take the chance. I like the odds. And one more thing," he adds cavalierly, "should anything backfire from this moment forward I am holding you responsible, if you know what I mean."

He delivers the last line with his right thumb cocking an imaginary pistol, the business end of which is pointed menacingly at Sharkey's nose.

Verdi and TOM

 282.

"Offer him the keys to the Kingdom, set him up as the future ruler of, well, almost everything," I share with Davis and Julie as we outline the next phase of the operation. By 'the next phase' it is brutally apparent to everyone that this is the final scene in a dramatic prime-time operatic tragedy. I remind them that in this closing sequence all the components of a year of undercover work, the vigilance and violence we participated in, the loss of innocent lives and the eradication of a crime family, a terrorist cell and the restoration of (however fleeting) law and order, we remain one small battle away from a colossal victory. Victory as vindication? Perhaps, but our fierce commitment to the oath we took, especially the part specific to "defending the Constitution from all enemies, foreign AND DOMESTIC", and coupled with our deep respect for the work and sacrifice of our fallen leader, this moment on the time-line of our assignment stands as pivotal.

"Frame your pitch as the last big score with the purse large enough to provide all the power, money and ego satisfying autonomy to buy islands in Paradise and rule over them furthermore like a King. Just one score, executed by third-party professionals, with minimal risk and the payout of a lifetime," Julie adds convincingly.

"OK, I get it. We want Goldson to invite Hartaugh to a secret clandestine huddle-up to lay out the plan and get his OK," Davis affirms.

"We have a pair of examples of our clout and capabilities," I continue, "The first and probably most important one is that Goldson's boss had already signed on for the ride prior to his untimely death, and the second our, your, recent demonstration of our computer hacking acumen. A solid one-two punch."

"True," chips-in Saunders, "and I am sure they are watching with great interest the recent action on Wall Street and the RobinHood/GameStop play. Maybe we can leverage that and take responsibility for hacking the program that allowed it to happen."

"Excellent, sure, the only down side being that Security Exchange is going to be on red-alert as a response, but the optic is running on every outlet like a pandemic, ah sorry, bad comparison, but you know what I mean."

"I really don't see much resistance from either party, they are both greedy sons-of-bitches and consider themselves above the law when it comes to accumulation of cash, legally earned or otherwise," Davis adds.

"Let's strike while the iron is hot, claim responsibility for the Wall St chaos and get the wheels in motion. We'll set up a meeting location that should inspire a successful response, St Croix maybe, somewhere safe and controllable. You make the sale to Goldson and ask him to do likewise with Hartaugh. We'll have the location to you by 1500 today," I add as a closing call to action.

"We all on-board?

A chorus of all-ins ring out like a Verdi crescendo, something TOM would appreciate on many levels.

Wannabe King

 281.

Since we lost the person ultimately responsible for bringing our two targets to the table, this via his death by natural causes - if one considers obesity, opulence and diabetes to be natural - we need a new sales pitch. The Queen, having replaced Mr Big as the 'bait', and thusly eliminating the risky and improbable jail break from the Florence, CO SuperMax facility by, and this was my favorite, a midnight drone skyjack, we now require a completely fresh strategy to place Goldson, the Vegas mobster and Senator Hartaugh in the same room, at the same time for the same reason. The most challenging of the three 'sames' being, of course, the reason. What motivation could bring them together and give us the red-hand evidence necessary for a bust and subsequent conviction? In its essence, that is our plan with the hard part now connecting the logistical dots and asking the question, 'how are we going to do that?

Both Davis and Saunders feel that their new relationship with Goldson's gaming empire is sufficiently solid enough to allow him to preform the ceremonious invitation, his predecessor being the longest standing major campaign contributor to the Senators tenure in office. Julie however wants something more controllable and internal. I don't blame her a bit for this posture, trusting a con with another one is asking for disappointment, or worse. I am half-way through an indoor cycling session, the joke being that I always ride in circles due to the atrophy in my right leg, trying desperately to straighten out my route. The data from the sophisticated system provides me with more than I find necessary, why do I care about speed, power, watts and distance when the goal is rehabilitation? I can see it having value for an athlete looking to compete, but in my case all I want, all I am told to focus upon, is a fluid rotation at light resistance for twenty minutes. I ask Mina to find me a cheap bike horn or bell so I can summon her when I need more water. The cardio session does provide an ancillary benefit that I have always appreciated, the creative. For reasons that I suspect have to do with increased blood flow and augmented respiratory functioning, more oxygen to brain, I have always been able to get glimpses of possible solutions while in the tractor beam of the long, steady distance, be it walk, run, cycle, swim or hike. The fact that I am slowly going nowhere still provides this fertile opportunity. I spin, sweat, strengthen and consider:

Davis, as Sharkey, suggests that Goldson uses his companies' political clout as a million dollar quid pro quo to offer Hartaugh a seat at the table of their latest enterprise, a computer hack into the heart and soul of Wall Street and their cash cow big board. The risk is slight, cover guaranteed, with the payoff enough tax-free, wind-fall dollars to buy several islands in the Caribbean, the South Pacific AND the British Indian Ocean Territory.

I struggle up a two percent grade simulated by the cycling ergometer wishing I had my old legs and lungs. Be patient and spin, comes the call from my inner coach, a benevolent but overly excitable tyrant. I am dealing with the present moment reality of simply turning the crank-arms when an image pops into my consciousness like a firecracker. It is a line from a Springsteen song, one I have always appreciated for its brutal honesty:

"Poor man want to be rich and rich man want to be king."

Get Goldson to offer the kingdom, real or otherwise, to Hartaugh.

"and the rich man ain't satisfied until he rules everything."

Ten More Reps

 280.

The outlandish success of the undercover sting sent positive ripples through the hierarchies of several organizations. It was the metaphorical equivalent of dropping a stone in the center of a calm lake and measuring the ripple decay by distance traveled. This, I consider, is what they mean when they say that good news travels fast - and bad news faster. Sometimes speed of light faster. The good news being that Davis and Saunders, in a high-stakes con game as one part of the intricate scam known internally as Mongoose TOM, had been impossibly successful in bringing one of the two necessary actors to the stage. The bad news being that the second party, as everyone knew, would be the hard part. Not so much because the target being a scoundrel, a corrupt white supremacist, a bigot and hypocrite, but because he is a siting United States Senator. A United States Senator who over the course of a twenty-two year run, has built a impenetrable fortress around himself, his staff, his allies and the constituency he brazenly purports to serve.

I sit patently preforming the most painful set of exercises and mobility movements prescribed by Mustang and consider our current situation. We are SOOOO close. That fortress the scumbag Senator has erected with tax payer dollars, is…about… to…come…crashing...

…my cell rings with the familiar digital arpeggio of Purple Haze. "Just wanted to let you know that I have made significant progress with the Big Board hack. I might be hours away from completion instead of days…or weeks," says The Queen in her casual transfer of crucial information style.  

"Are you saying that we can move on Phase Two and bring the snake to the table?"

"I am. Later this afternoon I plan of running a simulation as proof of concept. What I have right now should be enough but with the latest tweak, a small stroke of genius if I might critique, will actually make it quicker and doubly secure," she answers, "exempli gratia, no-one will ever know."

"Outstanding, great news, consider Phase Two on the launching pad. Please let me know the success of your sim asap," I ask, finishing the tenth, and final rep of a therapeutic drill Mustang calls the squeeze; a once ridiculously easy five-fingered clamp-down on a tennis ball and ending it with an accompanying motivational verbal grunt.

"What ARE you doing?" she asks.

"Improving my right hand neuro-muscular flexibility and strength. Thanks for asking."

"I am sorry you have to do that. Sucks. How's it going?"

"Getting better by the day, who knows, maybe soon I'll be able to drive a dump truck into a brick wall."

Her inability to return my serve clearly demonstrates her confusion so I add, "I think I am going to need two good hands to bring down the walls of a certain fortress."

"Mongoose TOM?"

"Mongoose TOM."

"Do ten more reps boss. Talk later."

Shave That Thing

 279.

Goldson asks Sharkey if he could call with the results as soon as he gets them, then promptly adjourns the ad hoc meeting. Sharkey and Bess quick-change back into Davis and Saunders en route to their suite and immediately call HQ with the good news. Julie accepts the in-bound call and summons The Queen, Harlan and myself for the group conference call, but not before congratulating the pair on their superb undercover work.

"Yes, thanks, it was a bit more drama than we were expecting but everything turned out for the best, looks like Goldman is in. You should have seen the look on his face when he inspected the damage to the fat perps nose after Saunders planted one on him."

"We saw," suddenly pipes in The Queen, "And, although there is a differencing of opinion I think your mustache is cool."

"One: How did you see? And two: Who is the dissenter - or dissenters?" Davis asks, felling rejuvenated to have the win under belt and be chatting with teammates again.

"When I, we, hacked the gaming code I took advantage of an open socket to tap into their house security feeds and we watched pretty much the whole show. You two rocked the casbah! We watched Saunders' sucker-punch in a super slow motion replay and she actually lifted him off the ground, freaking awesome, Cap said it was the greatest haymaker he's ever seen outside of pro boxing."

"OK, glad we had some entertainment value, but back to business, Goldson wants their gaming platform restored to its original version asap. I told him it might take an hour."

"Already done. I hope they will be happy with their crappy code. If you feel that we can leverage our far superior expertise to advance the agenda, I think we would be happy to assist," The Queen volunteers, looking at Julie for a nod of affirmation, which she instantly gets.

"You have eyes on Goldson too?"

"Just ears. From the bug your Italian CI planted. He should protect devices of that sort, even Goldson's geeks, and it pains me to use that word on those hacks, could tap into its frequency for a low-res listen."

"Is there anything that I can tell you that you don't already know?" Davis asks incredulously.

"Yes, one thing. Harlan wants to know what made you think the Rams could have possibly won?"

Amid the generous laughter, Julie adds a gratuitous final zinger, "Oh, and Davis?"

"Yes?"

"Shave that thing."

Go Make Your Call

 278.

"You will have to accept my apologies," Goldson begins, "we are doing a comprehensive internal investigation as we speak."

"No need to apologize," Sharkey replies, "Considering the outcome, it could have been a lot worse. Those guys are regulars?"

"No, we have already discovered that they are part of a small LA syndicate, taking a junket vacation to try their hands at a game way out of their league. We don't shake down or intimidate our partners, much less outright rob them at gunpoint," Goldson continues.

"And I will assume that by 'partners' you mean not only those you choose to do business with but those that gamble as well?"

"Where would we be if our customers didn't feel safe? But let's leave all that to our security and marketing departments, respectively, and get to our business at hand, shall we?"

"Security will lead, I assume?"

"At this point, and we have a ways to go, the computer hack you somehow managed to install seems to have worked flawlessly. We have our team of IT experts going over the code changes and down-stream ramifications, but we can save ourselves a lot of time and trouble if I can get your programmer to de-install the program, clean the code and return the operation of the system to its former status." Goldson levels.

"I should then assume that you are satisfied with our demonstration and wish to proceed with Phase Two?" Sharkey asks, already knowing the answer, "Because if you are, I am pretty sure we can have the system booted back to its pre-test state in about an hour. I can make the call from a secure line and get started as soon as we have your word that we are a go."

"I have one question before we do that, If I may."

"Absolutely."

"Why us? You could have picked any number of equally successful gaming enterprises, but you came knocking at our front door? Why?" Goldson asks in a somewhat menacing tone.

"It's complicated, but your former boss, as you are aware, had contacts in a number of areas, many having absolutely nothing to do with gaming, hospitality, entertainment, or any form of soft commerce. We needed him from both a financial perspective and as a celebrity sure to legitimize our sales and marketing efforts. We also knew his Achilles heel, so we authored the strategy with that trait foremost in mind," Sharkey confesses, as a nervous Bess watches him dangerously tip-toe on the thin sheet of ice.

After a pause, Goldson asks, "And that one trait, would you care to share?"

"I can best illustrate it by using a true-life example that I had with a former NFL player, a great guy, MBA from Washington, All-Pro but at the end of a long and relatively injury-free career. He was giving me a ride to the airport in his cherry-red convertible Mercedes 450SEL during the negotiation of what was to be his final contract with his sole professional football duty to be the long snapper on field-goal attempts. Fairly easy duty. So I asked him why he doesn't simply retire and call it a career, do some golfing and build a cabin on the lake," Sharkey, onstage and in the spotlight, almost sings.

"You know what he said to me?"

Goldson AND Bess answer in unison. "What?"

He said [pause]: "Because a million dollars is hard to walk away from." [pause]

"Go make your call."

Double Reverse

 277.

"Its the oldest trick in the book," Sharkey notes, "They call it RPO these days, run-pass option, but since the Lombardi days it was common strategy to run first and pass only when the run option fails."

Bess is listening with one ear as she keeps a vigilant scan on the crowd, now peaked at house capacity, and then some. The game is a score away from being over midway through the final quarter, Rams getting roasted. Under normal circumstances Sharkey might feel a bit depressed, especially in light of losing a substantial amount of money on his prediction. Contrary, he is elated that The Queen has created this no-lose scenario. All he has to do now is run his ticket to the cashiers cage and collect. His math tells him that the payout should be well over two million.

Bess appears to need a shot of WD-40 on her neck as she twists to surveil the crowd with concern and frequency. The gift bottle of expensive champagne rests table-side in a bucket of fresh ice, almost empty from her regular trips to the ladies room to empty her glass.

Sharkey notices that the crowd is now reduced to fans of the winning team, the losing folks evidently gone for greener pastures and either more depressant intake or sleep. Either way a hangover from the embarrassing loss and the booze overfill is almost certain when the sun rises in the morning.

Sharkey scans the cashiers cage and sees a surprising number of gamblers already queued up despite the fact that there is over three minutes remaining in the game. The cashier sits patiently with a disinterested visage, two security guards flaking on either side looking equally grim.

The clock tics down its final seconds with those in line singing along, always faster and faster as they go. Sharkey pours them each a glass and holds his in the high gesture of the winning toast. They sip once and he is off to collect the booty, Bess watching with a focus bordering on parental.

Sharkey is joined almost immediately by a portly man in a cheap suit. He is carrying a newspaper and his folded overcoat draped over his left forearm and what appears to be a wager ticker in his right hand. He stands immediately behind Sharkey, perhaps, she thinks, a little too close. They are fourth in line.

As they arrive at the cashier's cage two men she had been watching for almost four hours move past her in a hurried gait towards the cashier. Her internal alarm sounds loudly and clearly. She stands and follows them at a close but safe distance, reaching into her purse for the brass.

Sharkey is next in line but before he can move into the lead spot another man moving from the opposite direction, and appearing intoxicated, bumps into Sharkey. The portly man behind reaches for - and grabs - the million dollar ticket from Sharkey's unsuspecting hand. He makes an immediate hard left and walks towards the two men Bess is tailing. She recognizes it in a nano-second and screams: "Double reverse," in Sharkey's general direction.

The portly man, in a well rehearsed and almost invisible move, hands off the ticket to one of the two men walking in the other direction, back towards the cashier's cage. Bess, her right hand adorned with a five finger ring of brass, takes the portly perp down with one perfectly placed punch. Sharkey, hearing Bess' warning call sees the two men approaching and steps in to meet them as they try to hurry past.

"That's far enough, gentlemen, game over. Cough up the ticket."

One on the men reaches inside his jacket pocket. He is met half-way by six of Goldson's security guards, two of which have weapons drawn and pointed at the pair of perps.

In the heat of the skirmish neither Bess nor Sharkey noticed Goldson himself entering from behind the cashier's cage. He stands between Sharkey and the two perps, both with their hands over their heads. A security guard pats them down finding the ticket easily and handing it to Goldson with a solemn nod of security success.

Goldson smiles. It is the grin of a fox as the chickens realize their fate. He turns to Sharkey and simply says, "My office in ten minutes, please." He then turns back and shakes his head in disbelief at the ineptitude of the foiled plan and its executors, reminding them that their play was, "The oldest trick in the book."

They are escorted away by the security posse but not before stopping to scrape the portly perp from the carpet on their way.

Sharkey asks Bess if she is OK as they turn to make their way towards Goldson's office.

"Double reverse, how'd you know?"

"Oldest trick in the books."

"Riiiight," he says with complete respect and total admiration.

The Game Begins

 276.

A hundred giant screens show the sports action from an equal number of venues. One can literally bet on cricket, assuming one understands its scoring system, from India, rugby from New Zealand or thoroughbred racing from upstate New York, all at the same time. It is a kaleidoscope of action, drama, elation and heartbreak. Inside the sports bar of any name casino, there is no need for anything more - the intrepid player can indulge in good food, flowing liquid refreshment and all the athletic entertainment imaginable, all in the comfort of a padded booth, table or barstool. For the people watcher it is a bonanza.

Davis, as Sharkey and Saunders as Bess, show up thirty minutes before game-time with jitters comparable to the players on each team who will face each other for the glory of competing in the NFLs crown jewel, the Super Bowl, in two weeks. Under normal circumstances Davis would sip a beer to reduce the edge tension, but Sharkey knows better and orders a ginger-ale on the rocks. Saunders does likewise opting for an iced-tea. They order from the game-day menu selecting the hundred dollar surf n turf special. A pair of salads take the tab well over a buck and a half. They settle into their reserved booth with unobstructed visibility to the main screen where a female color commentator is chatting with the injured star running back for the ten point underdog Rams.

Sharkey sets up shop assembling his side of the semi-circle marble tabletop with two newspapers, a clipboard, the daily sheet and the main prop, the golden ticket. The Queen has provided precise instructions on how to place his bets, but to add an additional layer of intrigue, or to make it appear legit, he plans of betting as if it was his money on the line. Management, Goldson, has waived the maximum amount for his partner VIPs so the sky, as is often said, is the limit. Bess plays the part of bored accomplice, a perfect guise for her to scan the field of play with relentless observation, a proxy for security and surveillance. As perfect as she is for this undercover assignment, and as evidence continues to suggest that the trauma and suffering from a gun shot wound was from a source other than their current hosts, she is cautions and unconvinced for one reason: These guys enjoy taking candy from babies and money from their parents; what would they NOT do to protect their fertile golden goose?

After a great show of inner debate, Sharkey has his betting card ready to go and eyes the line at the window. He can, as a house VIP, simply call a runner to take and place his bet, but chooses to experience the thrill of putting his fate in the hands of a team of gladiators, the thought of which creates a rush of adrenaline similar to when he was the participant and not the spectator. He excuses himself and queues up at the window, kickoff minus ten.

Bess is sitting alone in the booth when two suited gentlemen approach, introducing themselves as security sent by Mr. Goldson, and asking about her, and their, accommodations, "Mr. Goldson has asked if a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon might be of interest, a special gift for our VIPs."

"How considerate," she says, "thank you, that would be great."

"Is there anything else we can do to add to your experience?"

"Sharkey thinks the Rams are not only going to cover but win outright, could you influence that outcome perhaps?"

"Ahem, well, no, but it is our understanding that YOU can, and hence our augmented security," he says with more bravado than necessary.

"Wouldn't THAT be nice?" she asks with comic rhetoric.

"Enjoy your stay and good luck."

"We will, thank you again."

Sharkey is back from placing his wager holding the ticket for her to see.

"Don't over react, but Houston, we have a problem," she says.

Sharkey is watching the screen and sipping his ginger-ale as he asks what type of problem she refers to without actually turning to look at her.

"Two of Goldson's goons we here asking about our level of enjoyment, and one of them slipped, maybe, that he knew, maybe, about the sting."

"Yes, I saw them at the table. I remember the one guy from security, what exactly did he say to make you nervous?"

"He said that although he could not change the games outcome, it was his understanding that we could. I thought the three of us were the only ones in on it?"

Sharkey glares at the big screen with both sides now lining up for the opening kick.

"Hummm. I wouldn't worry about it."

"I am worried about it."

"Maybe you should go back to the room. I can take it from here."

"No, but let's stay on guard."

A roar goes up in the crowded carpeted arena as the game begins.

In The Trenches

 275.

"To the Psychologist, studying normal and abnormal states of cognitive processes and behaviors, the opportunity, the very one that made Vegas what it is today, sees the gray area between emotion and intellect as profitable, preying on human tendencies to wager with heart and not head." This 'gray area' is what is affectionately referred to as 'the juice' in gaming circles, and helps explain why the house always wins. However, in the hacking heart of a master programmer, the key word in that idiom is 'always', because it simply isn't true. Sure, over time the house, the syndicate, the hosting corporation, the street bookie, will emerge with a positive ledger, but to make it sexy and profitable, to keep the poor laying down their last dollars at the chance of a jackpot, every so often the house needs to lose. And so, as expert marketeers, every so often they do. It is simply good business.

The Queen has refined the 'every so often' randomness to a statistical flash point, a mathematical formula that encompass the myriad possibilities of any given situation. Like the dice where probabilities to roll a seven, all six combinations, total a 16.67% probability, her sophisticated algorithm uses a similar protocol with, in this seasonal case, football. The genesis of which began a decade and a half earlier when her hippie drummer Dad, whose favorite things in the world were Jimi Hendrix and gambling on football games, beer finishing a close third, once quoted to her - as they watched a tiny tube TV in a smokey saloon in Seattle's Pioneer Square - that "There are only three outcomes when one passes the football - and two of them are bad." For reasons unknown to her at the time but hinted at by her psychiatrist in later years, this was the planting of the seed that would eventually, after study, testing, trial, error and copious amounts of organic fertilizer and sunlight, be harvested as a million-dollar gaming hack.

"I get the hypothesis," Davis is saying to The Queen as they review the last minute program tweaks she has installed to speed the process, something like increasing bandwidth for higher resolution, "It's the synthesis and validation part that reminds me of incompletions and interceptions."

"You need to have some faith," she tries, "less than six seconds after the game has officially ended, the program will have re-worked every wager entered into the Luxor's system, adjusted the odds and calculated the payout, all in your favor as established by your initial wager, and in this case, a most substantial one."

"So I am the only person in the room who will see the scam, what about everyone else, won't there be a riot if winners suddenly become losers, kings paupers and high-rollers beggars? Davis wonders aloud, his skepticism showing.

"You should be the only person who places a very specific series of bets on the same card, ones that allow the program to find THAT ONE and make the necessary changes to effect the purse. In other words, the way you bet; the things you bet on: Team, score, over-and-under, total amount and time of placement all assist as search functions to find your ticket, augment it and then change it to maximize the payout. Only you, I and Goldson will be in on it. Relax, we got this, first and goal Dude."

"First and goal, right. And I suppose we'll call a pass."

"In a manner of speaking, we will, yes. Please know that even if incomplete or intercepted for a pick six, we will still get paid. The point is in the process, demonstrating our ability to control the, ahem, line of scrimmage."

"The game is won or lost in the trenches?"

"This game is won on the computer keyboard, my good sir."

Bet the Farm

 274.

"Let's just say that it helps to have strong relationships with mechanical contractors," says, Enzo Pirolli, a new alias, "to stay one step ahead of the Vegas shoeshine. You should be receiving a low frequency signal of all the goings-on in Goldson's gilded palace of sin."

"Outstanding work Enzo, thank you," Davis says, "You're debt to your country, at least the current one, is paid in full."

"Grazie, I will caution you however that there is some talk on the street about them, Goldson, looking for dirt, with nice rewards, on you two, so I would be careful about your communications, keep the lips tight, ya know?"

"Yes, there is one question that we need to answer, not so much for the sake of the operation, but more for our piece of mind," Davis adds.

"Are you talking about the hit order?"

"I am."

"I will tell you this; that since March I have been following their blood money, and I have not heard one mention of it as coming from Goldson or his slime-ball predecessor - may he rot in hell - so I think you need to keep looking."

"I'm confident that they would never have offered to meet with us, again, had they been in on the hit, unless they are so brazen and narcissistic that even a wounded bear presents no immediate danger." Davis floats.

"What's the angle? Why would they hop back in the sack with a pair of undercover feds who survived an assassination attempt, failed by their own ineptitude? Just doesn't add up."

"I've been trying to find an answer to that very question for almost a year, dead-ends and blanks at every turn. We were all hoping that our latest play would uncover a layer of the truth and shed some light on the mystery."

"Pretty fucking risky way to find out, you are a walking good-luck charm amico mio, I would be very careful with them, they're world-class backstabbers, and would toss you under the Nugget shuttle faster than you can lose a paycheck in this town. I would, however, think that you will get your answer a lot quicker with the headphones on," suggests Enzo.

"Right, I'm on it," Davis informs, "And by the way, who do you like in the game tomorrow?"

"Rams and the points. Bet the farm."

Fly on the Wall

 273.

Davis replays the minutes of their meeting to Julie, The Queen and myself as Goldson huddles with his top executives. It is a dramatic study in the hierarchy of organizational structures, the former an open and positive exchange of ideas, and the latter a dark, ham-fisted dictatorship. Any legitimate comparison would naturally include the metaphorical use of a night and day polarity. Davis, buoyed by the successful first stage of operations, is clearly feeling significantly more optimistic than prior to his close up. Still he has serious reservations about the next phase; the big game scam.

"We should have planted a bug on one of them," Saunders says in retrospect, "I'd give all our winnings to be a fly on the wall in their boardroom."

"That would have been a coup, with their drastic seating chart, them on one side and us on the other," Davis objects, "But I wholeheartedly agree on having ears on them, maybe we could get the security consultant to lend a hand, he might have an idea or two."

Saunders, fighting a losing battle to remain in-character, points a loaded finger his way, nods and winks, "As they say 'round here: Bingo."

The hired-gun security consultant, the one with inside ties to just about every casino operation between Tehachapi and Tonopah, and who famously assisted in their earlier operational logistics of Firecracker, answers his phone as the first note of Willin' begins its transition.

"Lemme guess, you need something in regard to Goldson and his goons."

"What the actual….how the hell did you get that idea?" Davis asks with the perfect mix of surprise and irritation.

"It pays to stay one step ahead of the competition brother, how the heck are ya, and how is that dashing partner of yours, I heard she took one for the home team."

"All good amigo, we're back in the game and I need…"

"A bug on Goldson?"

"That one step ahead thing pays well, does it?" Davis jovially asks.

"The beautiful thing about Las Vegas, besides the legendary 'what goes on here - stays here' - thing is that you are forever only as good as your last gig. We call 'em winning streaks, and I've been on one for almost ten years."

"Whaddya get these days for a fly on the wall?

"Whose wall?"

"Goldson's"

"Urgent? Time frame? Location?"

"By noon today, office."

"Are you still with…"

"Yes."

"Yeah, well, so I owe ya, this one's the house."

"The streak continues, thank you sir."

"Talk soon."

Deal

272.

Every gambler worth her weight knows when to quit. It is an essential skill, a sixth sense, aware of that enough is enough and it's time to pack the crazy bones and head home. Before disaster strikes. Before all the winnings evaporate into the ionosphere like water turning to steam. I sit in my makeshift gymnasium after a particularly gnarly therapy session with Mustang, who, although realizing the anguish it creates, understands its necessity. Accelerated convalescence, she says, suck it up. Perhaps in some form of telepathic projection I envision myself in Davis' cleats - and I can't shake the feeling, how they say in Italian, 'non sfidare la fortuna - don't press your luck - is a perfect and literal translation of the current situation.

I am also a touch irritated at myself for my outlandish - although well intentioned - breech of protocol by using Davis' code name in a tactical communication. That's where it starts, I school myself, the details, the small stuff, somebody along the chain gets sloppy and before you can say 'whose there?' the knock knock is at your door. These guys, the bad guys, the guys that want to exterminate us like ticks, are good. We have to simply be better, every way and all the time.

Davis and Saunders as Sharkey and Bess show up ten minutes early for the scheduled 1000 meeting with Alexander Goldson, the new CEO of the most powerful gaming syndicate in Vegas. Meaning, of course, that the Vegas borders extend from California to Connecticut, Minnesota to New Mexico. And all point spreads between. Sharkey is an international con-man disguised as a flamboyant high roller whose salesmanship and bravado will attempt to reinstate an arrangement made, and agreed to, by his predecessor. The stakes are astronomical and the risk slight - for the consortium whose only requirement is to fund the staging of the operation, somewhere in the neighborhood of five large, Sharkey brazenly estimates. "Plus the pot has just increased significantly with our skillful internal change of personnel, Mr. Big out and the brains behind the computer program guaranteed to wrap the green bow of the present, in," he tells Goldson and six of his legal consultants and a pair of security specialists. Saunders sits close to his right, looking every bit the modern and sophisticated femme fatale, sporting a lapel diamond the dazzling glimmer of which she blinds each of the gentlemen seated around the polished Brazilian teak oval slab of greed.

"Continue," Goldson instructs.

His continuation of, "as a demonstration of our reach - and its potential - on Sunday we will bankrupt your most profitable operation," creates the exact response he was seeking, so he pushes it into the dramatic unknown, risking the entire operation with one preposterous prediction, "Sunday's game will transfer five million dollars from your cashier's cage to our pocket in the Luxor Sports Book."

"You make that boast without knowing the outcome?" Goldson hisses.

"I do. Remember this is proof of concept, so we - as you- need to keep it hush-hush. We fully intend on reimbursing you and providing the algorithm upon completion of the successful test. It was written by the same person who designed the Big Board application as well - our diamond in the rough."

Under normal circumstances, any experienced executive would ask for a time-out to convene with counsel, but this is Goldson's first day at the job of CEO, and he wants the glory commensurate with his shiny new star.

"You recognize the risk here, do you not?" he asks.

"Fully. We are in the business of rolling the dice, are we not?" Sharkey, bordering on excessive flippancy, responds with a like-for-like tit-for-tat answer.

Goldson glares at Sharkey with a pair of hazel daggers, two razor-sharp shivs, one looking for vengeance and the other for domination. Bess observes the mano a mano confrontation with emotionless interest, Sharkey cool as a cucumber, his smile more inviting than threatening. Goldson scratches his chin and glances at his lead counsel so fast that a slow motion camera would barely catch it. One more massage of chin, stare intact, with a deep contemplative breath he speaks:

"Deal."

Sharkey's Quest

 271.

Davis takes the news with a truckload of salt. "Before we even get to that scene we, I, Sharkey and Bess, need to make the sale to Goldson," he laments, "and that challenge takes place in exactly three hours. We're in wardrobe as we speak."

"Goldson was a decision maker in his former position as VP and now that he is calling the shots, the same underlying motivation should be something we can bank on," I encourage, "If I were you Mr Sharkey, I would play the greed and power card at every opportunity. He will eventually succumb to his own weakness, after all Don Sharkey you are making him an offer he can't - or shouldn't - refuse."

"You're right I'm just having some performance anxiety, strange, as that is something I thought I had licked in high school."

"We all get it," I admit, "it's nature's way of assisting with the importance of the situation, that flow of adrenaline, clearness of thought, sensory enhancement, use it mate, stand and deliver. We got your back."

"You haven't changed a bit, I remember you giving that same speech at halftime of the Peach Bowl, however many lifetimes ago that was," Davis jokes.

"And you remember the results?"

"It was like flipping a switch on. If I recall we went for twenty-one unanswered points, the final six of which where the result of one of your patented fades as time expired," Davis says like a color commentator.

"Same situation - just a different sport, my friend, and we're in the huddle calling your number for that last shot at it."

"Yeah, roger on that Cap, ya know, I've been thinkin' a lot about the phycology behind competition, and the bad rap it has absorbed recently, an off-base indictment as I am sure you agree. It's important to experience these deeply personal emotions to reach some higher moral ground on the other side of the game, match, tournament, confrontation. I, for one, absolutely treasure the moments we spent side-by-side defending our turf. It builds confidence and it speeds self-awareness."

"The non-lethal proving ground of the gridiron, diamond or court. Nothing quite like it. I do believe that the important part that goes mostly unspoken, and hence misunderstood, is the role that transcendence plays. Ultimately we all face the reality that it isn't so much about winning as it is about the will to win, putting in the time and effort to face that moment frozen in time when we face ourselves in the mirror of our personal quest. That nanosecond of quantum growth when we get the sacred opportunity to find out who we truly are - in real time, with the cameras rolling and facing overwhelming odds against us."

"OK, OK, I'm ready, thanks mate. I remember TOM saying once that the next move is always up to us."

"Always - and anytime, Sharkey, break a leg."

The Number of the Bug

270.

In the setting of the trap one must caution against any premature misfire. Imagine being caught in your own trap, the horror, indignity, humiliation, pain - or worse. Is the courage necessary to act a part in a live drama more than or less than that of the hunter loading-up for bear?

Davis considers his predicament. All his deepest fears are realized as he mentally rehearses his play. He wishes he had the time to memorize his lines, but neither time nor script exists anywhere other than his imagination - and the virus insert The Queen is laboring over. His role will be improv, a nightmare for most comedians, but the comedy panacea for a select few. Or as he winks to his former drill instructor, 'we're looking for a few good hens.'

Saunders, sensing his confidence might be ebbing, tries her best to comfort and console, after all, her part is equally important and perhaps doubly difficult. She has backup. She will watch in the shadows, a dark booth in a dark sports bar inside a den of thieves, to ensure that should anything go wrong - as the odds insist they will - that the damage will be superficial.

As the fool and his money are soon separated, so is the novice gamer and his cash. Davis will have to uncork a masterful performance to set the stage and then carry it off. Without a trial run, without complete confidence that the scam will even work and, worst, without defense of any caliber greater than five fingers on each hand and a black belt in Akido, he considers the many possibilities and his response for each.

Saunders insists that he is perfect for the swashbuckling part, all he has to do, she coaches, is be natural, "simply imagine you are in the fourth quarter of a tie game and the coach calls your number."

Three time zones away The Queen sits at a workstation in the team office examining code with an urgent efficiency. She looks for ways to increase the odds of success in the sting, currently, she estimates, to be just slightly better than even.

"There are variables involved outside of the binary," she tells me, "I can easily code any response to any circumstance, even change the odds at the last second, but the human element will also play a role. And I can't put too large a finger on that scale before they, the guys making millions, smell a ghost in the machine and shut it down."

"Remember that it doesn't have to be bullet-proof and go undetected forever, just long enough for Davis to claim victory and offer the ill gotten gains back to their proper owners in a proof of concept gesture of good-faith," I offer in the hope of diminishing the tension, currently as thick as a red brick.

"Understood," she says adding, "wait, let's assume they have a security embed hiding somewhere in the code, that triggers a cascade of subsequent actions, until a decision is reached….." she enters a lightning fast line of code that, as we have learned, when you change even a small part of the whole, you have successfully changed the whole, and whispers, "Eureka!"

She tilts back in her chair like a kid doing a wheelie, balancing on the two rear legs as the program runs through page after page of her testing simulation.

"This represents the exact time it will take for Davis' alternative win to pass security and be safe, in other words the bug I just fed is madly running around looking for a happy meal and finding all the fast-food joints closed, continues to circle, and search and circle and…."

"And on and on until somebody hits reset?" I ask, completely befuddled.

"In layman's terms, yes, until somebody, most likely their head of IT Security, turns it off, waits one minute and then restarts, or consider it a million dollar moment."

"I thought that was myth."

"That's what we want you to think, otherwise how could we charge a thousand dollars an hour to troubleshoot?"

She sits watching the program hunt for a digital meal it will never find, glancing occasionally at her watch for the crucial elapsed time.

"Will twenty minutes be enough?"

"If it's not, we're in the wrong business. Nice job."

I call Davis' number with the news.

Damn the Torpedoes

 269.

Davis updates the radical strategy departure to Saunders, myself and Julie. His skepticism - or is it performance anxiety - precedes him as a 'broad stokes' plan had previously been given by The Queen herself. Her hacking acumen is unmatched, legendary in the tight circle where she is known as the best of the best. The issue from our strategy standpoint is that by providing Davis and Saunders with the real-time proof of concept sting, she, and in turn they, will be inadvertently rendering the importance of Mr. Big's involvement to zero. Why go to the trouble of an improbable jailbreak from a maximum security facility, one with an unblemished record in that very category, when she herself could do the job? No, the game plan needs an audible, the ability to spot enemy weakness and change the initial call to gain however small an advantage. This, as Julie was fond of saying, is that.

"Let's not forget that what happens next is always up to us," she says as her turn at the round table negotiation comes up, "are we sacrificing the bigger picture victory for a short term win?"

The bottle standing by me I present my concerns, chief among them the fragile 'gentleman's agreement' between the principles, The Vegas Mob, Mr. Big and Senator Hartaugh. "The initial offer was held precariously together by us delivering Big as a good faith tit-for tat, the thieves idea of an honorable quid pro quo. Will the polar extremes of Vegas and Hartaugh keep the agreement without Big? Alter all the three headed monster to which we initially offered the deal, has lost one of its heads."

I have always appreciated the silence following a spicy and/or thought provoking comment; eyebrows raised, hands folded, postures adjusted, but this one brought the room to a scary silence that even Steven King might appreciate.  

Harlan finally breaks the ice with a Q-tip, "We don't know."

Julie: "Best guess, odds, probabilities?"

The Queen steps up, "We don't need Big, he was a tool, a pawn, a way to demonstrate the reach of our power and extent of our commitment. He was conduit between the two heads of the slimy serpent you," she nods in my direction, "so aptly use as a metaphorical proxy for reality. With Big out the split just got substantially larger for the pair of greedy bastards whose heads are about to roll. Big can rot in Florence, he's done."

"So you think we should go with the new play, despite its obvious risks?" Julie asks.

"I think Davis will soon have an Oscar on his mantle, yes I think we should go."

A vote is taken, a rarity in this quasi-dictatorship.

Julie, holding the clout of tie-breaker, is pleased the option is moot.

We are unanimous, from Farragut to Petty.

We go. Damn the Torpedoes.

Like a True Gambler

268.

"It would be way easier and much quicker for you to change games" The Queen answers the question posed by Davis about the slot machine jamming app, "and the odds will be considerably more in your favor."

"Change to what?"

"Sports Book"

"You have a way to fix sports betting?" He asks incredulously.

"I do, or I did, I'll have to scramble and see if I can download the app from my cloud server and get it back up to operating speed, but if you can give me an hour or two I should be able to give you what you need," she responds.

"Sure, we have a 1000 meeting with the new CEO tomorrow, so if you have high confidence that you can guarantee us a winner, and I mean a win with a substantial payout, I can set it up in our meeting as another demonstration of our value to the organization."

"OK, I'm on it, I'll keep you appraised of progress."

"Terrific, thank you," Davis says.

"Oh and I suppose for the sake of authenticity and keeping your cover as tight as possible, do you have a favorite sport?" she asks.

"Well, sure, football, but the next NFL playoff game isn't till Sunday, not sure we want to wait that long."

"I am told that the serious gambler isn't as much addicted to the thrill of the win, but to the adrenaline charge at the possibility of the loss, the users delayed gratification at the postponement of death, figuratively and literally."

"Yes, I've heard that hypothesis as well, never really bought into it though, for my small-time gaming, it was always the 'baby needs a new pair of shoes' angle," he says adding his personal experience to the mix, "but tell my your idea."

"Match fixing is the oldest sports hack there is. You place a bet and get a receipt. A computer records the transaction. The game is played and your team loses, therefore you do too - but not if I can change the transaction after the outcome by hacking into the sports book's system and changing it from the losing team to the winning one in less than the time it takes you to walk from your cushy lounge table to the window to collect."

"Naturally there will be safety and security matters to deal with," she continues, "but I think I have a small program tweak that will handle any circumstances. You might get a visit from the cashiers boss, but that is what you want anyway right?"

"As long as we can prove the principle, you know, cash in hand, we should be able to demonstrate the system and use it to sell the bigger opportunity. These guys like the sound of money changing hands," Davis says.

"You do know that casinos spend millions of dollars a year paying computer hackers to try to break into their systems?" she goes on, "every attempt then used for the evolving security sophistication of said gaming operation. Their biggest phobia is the dying, or mere injury, of the golden goose."

"Well, OK then. What have we got to lose?"

"Spoken like a true gambler, sir."

Sharkey and Bess

 267.

Davis and Saunders catch a commercial red-eye back to Vegas. The contrast between the DC winter and the neon sunshine of the desert is shocking, but nowhere near the shock of the news from their local informant that the new CEO, merely a day into his reign as fledgling mob boss wants to talk.

"Could be a slice of Heaven or the whole pie of Hell," Davis comments upon learning of Alex Goldson's summons. Undaunted, they commit to the cosplay and go through a dress rehearsal in preparation, returning to the colorful and dashing power couple offering the financial score of the century in exchange for merely funding the operation's logistics. A return on investment Davis has detailed to be close to a thousand to one.

"If Goldson has a quarter of the greed as his predecessor, as I suspect he does, the meeting should be a mere formality," he adds. Saunders, always the objective pragmatist, suggests that should they err, it be on the side of caution, remembering the night their initial play that had almost cost them their cover, and possibly their lives. "These guys don't fuck around," she says in a rare moment of blatant real-world vulgarity. "Neither do Sharkey and Bess," he returns, citing fearlessness as the main characteristic of the duet's alias.

The lunch meeting is scheduled for the following day at 1000. In preparation Davis considers using the famed modus operandi of card sharks, riverboat gamblers and high-rollers; the double-down. Recalling their earlier calling-card heist propagated by The Queens sublime slot machine hacking app, they agree to send another memo to Goldson.

Dressed to the nines, a idiom Davis says alludes to the Nine Worthies of the Middle Ages: Hector, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Joshua, David, Judah Maccabee, King Arthur, Charlemagne and Godfrey of Bouillon, they call for a limo and head to the Luxor.

They pull into the lavish main entrance reserved for VIP members and prepare for another undercover scene of high adventure and maximum risk. As much as Saunders appreciates the hormonal stimulus, she admits to having second thoughts about the escapade, thinking there might be easier - and safer - ways of skinning this slimy alley cat and setting up the big sting.

"Wait," she bursts as they are about to exit the plush interior of the limousine, "it's been eight months since we hit them the first time, I'll bet a fortune that they've re-written their algorithms and exterminated the bugs. We should call The Queen and double check."

Davis closes the limo door and instructs the driver to take them back to their hotel.

Tipping the chauffeur a cold Franklin, he ends their set-up charade with a cavalier, "Thanks for the ride," temporarily avoiding a disastrous return to play by buying, as the gamers say, insurance, or as Saunders suggests, "a policy of protection.

Oh the Irony

 266.

The taste of irony is bittersweet, a confection whose external visual appeal, enough to induce watering of the mouth, hides a toxic interior. Irony is like biting into a delicious looking chocolate only to find a tooth-breaking ball-bearing inside. Irony is an assassin, Shiva the Destroyer. It patiently lies on the topmost drawer of the screenwriter's toolkit, always looking for an unusual twist of plot, ever winding its way towards the inevitable surprise ending.  

No sooner had we made the executive decision to re-launch Mongoose TOM, nee Operation Firecracker, one of the principle targets, a cunning, viscous, greedy Vegas gangster and contributor to myriad conservative republican campaigns, most of them to ensure sympathetic tax legislation but an equal number to keep the adjective 'systemic' at the heart of all social reforms, dies of cancer. Considering the horrific historical place the Jews hold, it has always struck me as a gross hypocrisy for any subsequent downstream racism. What physiological disorder demands men to concoct rules and laws specifically designed to ensure the continued hardship and covert genocidal legislation of a specific demographic? My college professor was fond of saying that the history of the United States can be categorized into one neat and factual heading bearing the quotable title of  'Man's Inhumanity to Man.'

Davis and Saunders had been shadowing the deceased gambling kingpin and his mob for almost a year. Having infiltrated their inner sanctum of operations in order to lay the groundwork for the clandestine sting operation with the grand design to take down a conspiracy of high-profile personalities, including the Senator from South Carolina, Jefferson Hartaugh, they now consider the response necessary to keep the plan from implosion.

"We have a paid informer with access to inside information in Vegas, I will check with him immediately, but I can almost guarantee that the VP of Operations, a slime-ball cad by the name of Goldson, will assume leadership of the cabal, that is unless the wife and her lawyer decide they want to muddy the waters and take control. This could get ugly in a hurry," Davis informs us.

Saunders adds, "Surprisingly enough the widow is a generous philanthropist and sits on several influential boards, one with especially interesting ties to both MBI and Hartaugh. It's cover is a Texas based consulting entity called SAC, but actually specializing in foreign campaign money laundering, a Vegas casino syndicate being the perfect machinery for it, and they also dabble in arms sales, mostly notably to third-world insurgencies. And by dabble I mean six-figures worth."

Julie presents the next obvious question to the group, "Do we feel a high level of confidence that this latest turn of events will not deter our chances with the initial design of the plan and its chance of success?"

A moment of silence fills the room as we each consider the implications and opportunities available.

Our legal counsel, Harlan, breaks the silence, "There is a sweet irony in the old adage suggesting that "our problems are not our problem, our problem is our response to our problems."  

Slightly bemused I add, "I see no reason why we can't move forward with the plan, this Goldson character, can we reel him in, get him on board?"

"He is already on the line, hook set. I believe we can," Saunders quickly replies.

Davis nods in affirmation and ends the debate with a sigh, "Oh the irony."

Ultimate Fait Accompli

 265.

The importance of our mission, now reset as Mongoose TOM notwithstanding, I recognize the urgency and necessity of getting back my full range of motion - or as much of it as possible. Arguably 'most important' being the subject's superlative.  

My brief exchange with Mustang on the subject of the speed of my rehabilitation was empowering and motivational. Empowering on the one hand by witnessing its potential and motivational in the sense of a renewed commitment toward a further push on the other. Immediately following the moment where I was informed of the subconscious use of my right arm, I sat in deep meditative recall, isolating detailed events in the hope of finding the secret, or triggers, that had permitted such a profound response from the damaged and dormant electrical hard-wiring of my central nervous system. My only take was that the nerves, ruined by the trauma of gun shot wounds, and now fully engaged in the long and frustrating challenge of rebuilding, had been electrically charged by an over-production and over-abundance of adrenaline, as that powerful hormone acted as both fuel and stimulant for the almost thirty-six dramatic hours of our most recent counter terror campaign. Carefully considering this sobering and paradoxical analysis I fully realize the danger in its hypothetical troupe. It is, I cautioned myself, why they put warning labels on amber medication vials. Still I considered myself to be disciplined enough to heed the warning of those labels and 'use only as directed.'

Mustang for her part, is enjoying the ride, having jumped aboard our turbo-charged, four-wheel-drive, bullet-proof truth and justice bus as I was fully incapacitated in the post-op ward. Her mastery of the elements of neurology and her history with law enforcement a perfect combination for work as my personal assistant. On two occasions she had performed like a journeyman agent, making the right judgment calls and the correct use of tactical weapons under the excruciating stress of close-range hand-to-hand combat. In a phrase, she had proven herself to be a valuable member of our team in a short-order trial by fire. Further, I found the fact that her father, a flatfoot on the beat alongside TOM in the Brooklyn boroughs of decades past, to be most comforting.

We are in a meeting with the group in the tight conference room that abuts my sleeping quarters. It is almost like a reunion. The Queen is holding court describing the wholly ineffective interrogation techniques of her captors with Drysdale and Saunders. Harlan is presenting his latest correspondence with the legal teams of both the DoJ and Hartaugh's staff. And Julie, Mustang and I try our best to suppress the jubilation we all feel as a result of our efforts on behalf of the good guys, knowing that as in baseball there is no crying, in this business there is no gloating.

Our informal group debrief concluded, Julie gavels the meeting into its more pragmatic segment. Topic number one: The re-launch of Firecracker, aka Mongoose TOM, into its new and improved state of play.

Its success, I feel in this moment of hubris, quite possibly the ultimate fait accompli.

Mongoose a Go

 264.

Temporarily satisfied that the American judicial system's ponderous stone wheels are grinding forward, cautiously aware that its driver is blinded by the troy-weight of the double standard of hypocrisy and prejudice, we huddle en masse to diagram our next move.

It is becoming more and more apparent that, at this level, any effort on our part could be substantially aided by a concentrated and targeted social media campaign. The days of putting all our propaganda eggs in the single basket of one or two print media reports, a talk show host or even an influential TV news anchor, have been replaced by the reach and expediency of people talking to people on high-tech, real-time digital platforms. Having absolute anonymity of opinion is also a plus, where data, fact and truth are often credited to such non-validated sources as 'insiders, whistle-blowers and sympathizers.' In other words, we can help ourselves manufacture consent through a successful media campaign of our own doing. After all, wasn't it City Hall itself that insisted it could not be fought?

"The more people, sympathetic to our cause, that are presented plausable motivational information about the nefarious intentions of our common enemy, the better our chances of success," Julie is saying as we convene for the afternoon strategy session.

We have come out of the latest skirmish relatively unscathed, an irony countered by the twenty-six innocent victims of a domestic terrorist bombing, the masterminds of which currently sit in solitary confinement of a high-security military operated detention facility.

It is my contention that while the terrorist cell responsible for the heinous bombing represent the body of the toxic reptile, they are not its head. I restate my feelings to the group that we must stay committed to the original plan of its decapitation if we are to live up to our impossible mission statement. "Otherwise we will be like the overworked volunteer fireman eternally busy with fighting a thousand little fires."

Drysdale, Mustang, Davis, Saunders, The Queen, Julie, Harlan and myself represent such an agency. Tasked with the safety and security of a divided Nation of haves and have-nots, know-it-alls and know-nothings, the melting pot of a society plagued by the improper and insidious use of political power and mass-market media manipulation, we enforce the rule of law.  

The eight of us are unanimous in our belief that the time to strike is always now. Waiting for the sun to shine or the birds to sing is inviting additional disaster. That melting pot is filled fifty-fifty with people who disagree with the very definition of what a patriot does in defense of his or her country. Does one help more by active participation or passive observation? Given our choice of leading, following or getting out of the way, every one of us has not only made the commitment to lead, but sworn an oath to it as well.

We agree to move quickly while the media distraction allows additional cover. Operation Firecracker, the brainchild of our fallen leader, is officially reinstated in his honor. It is also re-named.

Mongoose TOM is a go.

Make It So

263.

I wake with a renewed vitality. A fifteen hour nap will do that. Even the palsy that has compromised my right arm and leg seems to be more manageable today. In preforming my daily physical therapy I recall Mustang's words to me just prior to the debrief. "You do realize that over the course of the last two days, under enormous stress and operating on emergency power, you twice used you right arm?"

No, I replied, I do not specifically recall, but in retrospect I must have. Interesting, we both agreed.

"What do you make if it?" I asked.

"Sparing you the lengthy medical analysis, the hypothesis is that you are experiencing an accelerated neural growth phase as we all hoped you would. It appears that it is taking place sooner than we expected and should be welcomed and appreciated as a synthesis of mind, matter and sheer will."

I am unsure of my proper response to this, if indeed there is one. "Alright, what then is our current prognosis and plan of attack, Doctor?"

"I think you know," she cryptically teases.

The expected pause in our dialogue gave my tired brain a second or two to blend some combination of humility, gratitude and hope into an appropriate comeback.

"Have faith in the system, follow the advice of the professionals and specialists, do the therapy, and…"

"And…"

I am stumped. The blank I draw is whiter than fresh snow on a frozen lake.

Defeated in the game of patient/doctor Q&A, I make a face indicating without words that I don't know.

"Often you use use as a mantra an illustration of the power of movement, the magical focus of staying present in the moment of greatest doubt or highest consciousness; three universal words that encapsulate our answers to the greatest questions of the cosmos," she says smiling and without any underling agenda other than sharing her positive agency. She smiles.

I smile.

"Continue your practice," She affirms.

Keeping my grin at the sharing of this profound truth I quote to her a synopsis of  'The Meaning of Peanuts," a wonderfully enriching article I had just read about the longest running story of all-time as told through the eyes of one Mr. Charlie Brown.

"Life can be hard,
perseverance is required,
joy is fleeting but attainable and
imagination is essential."

Mustang says, "Let us make it so."

I Try To Sleep

 262.

I try to sleep.

Fatigued to the marrow, mission temporarily paused as a result of our united efforts to abort the second blast and incarcerate the domestic terrorists behind it, we re-group at the office and face the inevitable reality of our closing protocols. They require a recapitulation of the events of the last 36 hours. Mine lasted almost ninety minutes and then it was a hot shower and my bed.

My body hurt, my soul ached and my heart labored. I decided to watch the local media's reporting of the days events in a last ditch attempt to find rapid-eye-movement, no matter its depth. At low volume I watched the horrific carnage, shocked at the violent and selfish society we have never escaped. I listen as authorities soft-peddle their way around the active direct pronouns of I, you and us, pointedly choosing their passive third-person relatives of he, she and them, a spectacle reeking of political in-correctness, weasel-worded by writers more interested in walking back the carnage by pointing fingers anywhere but at the hand that feeds them. Responsibility is a first-person active voice action word. It screams, "I will, you will and we will, the si se puede of the Spanish and a tutta forza of the Italian: Yes, we will and at full speed. I am appalled by what I am watching on the news, having spent the last thirty plus hours - as postscript to the last thirty years - fighting for the defense of our great experiment in democracy and freedom.

From the Nation's Capitol I watch in horror as our last lines of defense are breeched by the manipulated constituents of a broken political system. Violent, misinformed and acting on the direct orders of their criminal demagogue spokesperson, a mob of angry, racist, illiterate, second-amendment loving, white supremacists toting Confederate regalia, cherry picking Bible verses and chanting hateful slogans presented to them, stand in mocking triumph in The Peoples House. Whatever hopes I once held for the salvation of our country is as far from my grasp at this moment as is a few precious hours of sleep.

Senator Jefferson Hartaugh comes on the screen to deliver another speech condemning the army that was partially created by his policies and systemic hatred. He says this activity and desecration of government property, especially in one that houses the memories of so many patriotic heroes of battles past, is sacred ground, making no mention that had the mob been black or brown, Muslim or gay, far left peaceful protesters or activists bent of preserving the eco-systems of global sustainability that they would have been cut down like fragile trees in a protected forest. His drawl drips like molasses, coating the racism in the decloration that white makes right.

He has inadvertently rallied my waining spirit. This is not right. It is an inside job. Had to be. The system, the chain of command, is more broken than bent. His words, and the violent actions they inspire, rejuvenate the importance of our mission and my part in it. If I was fully committed to our mission statement of defending the truth, justice and our fragile democracy from all enemies, foreign and domestic yesterday, today the Senators broadcasted hypocrisy at this critical point in our history, re-ignites my passionate patriotic fire.  I hear myself rally, "You are going down like the setting sun Senator."

And I try to sleep.

Game Over

 261.

Unblinkingly I watch as the door slowly opens. On the periphery to my left I see Drysdale, his head and shoulders strobing on and off red, slightly behind the beat of the overhead neon sign, and to my right, the vague, obscure shadow of Mustang peeking around the furthermost corner of the Motel's stucco structure. From the room a light-skinned male, large frame, black hair, white shirt, rumpled sport coat and barefoot, exits the room and enters our kill zone. Drysdale has his weapon out and up. He stands less than fifty feet away. Mustang has the three. In our haste to respond to the dynamics of the situation we were unable to 'com-up', to establish radio communication among ourselves, the sensory handicap equivalent of going in blind. I am watching this unfold as Mutt calls to inform me that they have located what appears to be the abandoned van, carrying, his best guess, a lethal payload of fortified industrial fertilizer and ammonium nitrate, the same mix used in the first bombing. Additionally they have been able to evacuate the area in a radius protecting approximately 80% of the civilians in the projected blast zone, a percentage that, he tells me, increases with every passing second.

"Outstanding work mate, it appears that we are about to engage with the hostiles, so please stand by, we're operating on intel that we have almost the same, 80%, probability that we have jammed, or otherwise disabled, both primary and secondary trigger mechanisms. I would prefer that we conduct a live test some other time and take the two, along with the smoking gun, alive. Looks like we'll know in a very few minutes."

The barefoot perp, as I interpret his movements, is completely oblivious to the nearness of his meet-up with his maker. He is leaning on the stair rail, wrists and ankles crossed, taking pensive puffs on a cigarette, more artist than arsonist. As if shaken from a dream he does a left-to-right scan of the vehicles in the parking area. I freeze in the back seat, head low, watching him once-over the lot full of rental cars and out-of-state SUVs. Satisfied, he repeats the technique to his left along the walkway and finally all the way right, towards the Motel office. I slowly turn my head to see what he sees, knowing Drysdale's exposure and breathe in relief when I see that he has ducked behind a large domed trash receptacle, the neon light flashing his tell-tale shadow along the walk with each cycle. It appears to me that the perp is trying to unfold the shadow mystery when he is called back into the room by someone I trust to be Cyrus.

In an altogether graceless and clumsy maneuver, I half roll to the front seat and start the engine. As they exit their room I immediately recognize Cyrus from our first meeting outside of Reno. He and his accomplice are hurrying towards a Mercedes sedan, each with a hastily prepared small suitcase in one hand and muffled heaters in the other. It pains me to notice that they are both right-handed.

"Fucking bitch," I hear Cyrus wail, "sold us out. Jammed the line and I can't reach Bartowsky."

With my left arm crossed to put the rig in drive and my left foot on the accelerator I cover the fifteen feet of separation in a flash, crushing the front bumper of the Mercedes and pinning the getaway car in place. From behind its open front door Cyrus begins to unload the capacity of his handgun into my bulletproof windshield, unaware that he is being closed in on from both sides. His accomplice decides to run for it and gets three steps past the staircase where he is blind-sided and tripped by Drysdale, his pistol sliding down the walkway with the unmistakable decay of steel on stone. Cyrus is changing clips and watching his reduction of force, when, still hiding beneath the dash, I hear Mustang voice from his back side that his game is over:

"Homeland Security, drop the gun, NOW."

From my radio I confirm the take-down to Julie, Mutt, Davis and The Queen.

Patience, Patience

 260.

The address, where Cyrus - still talking to The Queen - is a Motel located on Orlando's airport row, maybe a mile from the airport's main entrance. We pull into the parking lot and scan the three stories of identical looking rooms, every one of them with an orange door and adjacent two-panel rectangular slider windows with creme-colored curtains, most of them drawn. I assign Drysdale the second floor and Mustang the third, keeping the more accessible parking level for myself. Judging from the number of cars in the lot the "premium" motel looks about half full, or half empty as pessimists might see it.

"Anything that moves is of interest," I remind them as I continue with Mutt who has already alerted security at the airport to vacate the immediate vicinity of the Delta arrival terminal.

"We have an agent speed-checking surveillance footage of the area and might have something pretty quick," he says with an optimistic tone, "the first vehicle was a rented cargo van so we're prioritizing that, also running rental contracts from the area's truck rental sites. Hurt Locker unit is five minutes away."

"We've attempted to jam his activation device, but I am told that its new technology, so we need to proceed as if the van, or truck is hot," I advise, "no test data to confirm a percentage of probability. Plus…" I see a window curtain open slightly near the concrete and steel staircase at the center of the ground floor layout. I point to it alerting Drysdale and continuing on with Mutt, "plus there is the possibility of a second,  a backup, phone, which…"

Drysdale has seen enough and points where Mustang is to WALK to the far right, what would under normal circumstances be 'the back door' but in this case is the 'weak side' and then wait for his signal. He nonchalantly moves left towards the Motel's blinding neon office and its giant humming ice machine.

I call Davis. "How is Bartowsky?

"They just wheeled him into ICU, we're in the lobby. What do you…"

"Have you looked at his phone yet?"

"There's not much left of it, he was carrying in his front coat pocket and it took the slug before his lung did, probably saved his life." He reports.

"Good, hang on to it and bring it, along with his piece, a Snubby 38 right? and everything else in his possession, to our current location." I provide him with the address of the Motel but not before answering his question about how I knew the caliber and model of Bartowsky's weapon.

I call Julie. "Are we good to go?"

"As soon as The Queen terminates the call we can disable all further usage, with a seventy-five percent chance of success." She tells me.

"Seven plus times out of ten. Nothing you can do to increase the odds?" I ask.

"We've tried matching the service provider with his phone, but drew a blank."

"Alright, we are about to engage with Cyrus and what appears to be one additional hostile at the Motel. I am going to give Mutt and his team another five minutes to clear the airport. Unless we need to…"

The orange door of the room at the base of the stairs opens. On my com I instruct The Queen to terminate the call.

I look at Drysdale, strobing in flaming red neon, and then to Mustang at the corner of the building.

"Patience, patience."

Multiple Protocols

259.

If there is one thing I have learned from thirty years of chasing bad guys who play by their own rules, it is that to be successful in their game one must posses the skill of managing multiple protocols - and that their golden rule is that there are no rules.

Davis calls.

"We have Bartowski." He says, out of breath as if the chase has just ended.

"Is there a connection to Cyrus?" I ask without time for a congratulatory cheer.

"He says no but I think yes," comes the response, "He his sitting in the back seat, cuffed and bleeding, we are en-route to a local Urgent Care clinic for treatment, he took a nine in the chest."  He increases his volume for the final sentence; "He might bleed-out before we get there."

"Pull over and stop the car," I say in a calm monotone, "and put the phone on speaker. Where is Saunders?"

"Sitting beside him working triage."

Davis finds the first opening in the sparse traffic bringing the SUV to a stop on the right shoulder of the highway. He tilts the wheel full up, turns forty-five degrees to face the prisoner and ceremoniously puts his phone into speaker mode. In our vehicle Drysdale announces that we are a block away from the address provided by the GPS coordinates obtained by Julie. Mustang informs me that we are very close to jamming the cellular signal from Cyrus' cell. The Queen is pleading her case with Cyrus in the attempt to sell her net worth - and immediate value - as being far superior to that of Mr. Big.

It is my move on the topmost layer of this deadly game of quantum chess.

"Hello Anton, I am hoping you remember me and that you are being treated with all due respect by your hosts," I begin, knowing that there is time for one motivational thread only and it has to be clean and successful. "I understand that you need urgent care for a GSW. So let's understand one another from the get-go: You aren't going anywhere until you tell us about Cyrus and his plan. You can bleed-out and die a martyr for whatever noble cause you choose, or talk to us and get immediate medical assistance, you know, stop the pain and live to see another day. Your call. But you only have one minute to decide. Clock starts now."

Davis makes a show of starting his chronometer as Saunders ceases her emergency triage efforts watching thick blood drain from Bartowsky's cheap sport coat like a squeezed container of catsup.

"He may not make it to sixty," Saunders adds in a messy commentary.

"Where is the second bomb Anton? Tell me and you get help."

Anton Bartowsky takes as deep a breath as he is able under the circumstances. On his labored exhale he blurts, "Orlando airport, Delta arrival terminal." And passes out.

Get Us There Quick

 258.

"Doesn't matter as much as where YOU are," she answers.

"Why might that be?" Cyrus asks.

"Because if you happen to be anywhere near Orlando, there is something you need to know."

"Why would you even suggest that?" he says tipping his annoyance and interest.

"Because…"

"Any how the fuck did you manage to escape that FBI raid in Bozeman, the one obviously set up with the aid of inside information?" He interrupts. "And for that matter, how did you suddenly re-appear in anything other than a body-bag or orange jump suit, tonight of all nights?"

"It's a long story, and I…"

"I don't have the time - or the patience - for a long story. You are a fucking rat and I should have had Blitz finish the job…"

"Hey asshole, what do you think I am calling for? To wish you a Happy Fucking New Year? I am offering you the quid pro quo of the century, so if you play your cards right you might get what that sick Nazi pal of yours couldn't get outta me no matter how hard he tried; and trust me - he tried." She plays.

I am monitoring their conversation as we head in an Easterly direction counting down the seconds remaining until Julie cues us with the GPS. The atmosphere inside the SUV is like halftime in the locker room of the biggest game of the year. Mustang, sitting shotgun has her hand in a fist pulsing the "come on, come on" language known to all serious competitors. Julie needs only a few more seconds for the trace. Drysdale is driving. I am talking with Mutt about chatter being intercepted by the FBI. There has been substantial activity naming Epcot and The Orlando International Airport as hot-spots. We are on Interstate 4 waiting for more specific directions.

"Like what?" Cyrus finally asks, stepping to the center of the trap.

"Like the Helmet codes, like the precise plans to spring Big and like the final piece of the Big Board algorithm."

"For what?" He asks, interested.

"All I want is for you to call off the dogs, I'm tired of all this cloak and dagger shit, you know how I got your number? From that loser goony friend of Covington's, the one you hired to snuff Sarccino, another bad call, by the way. So muzzle the dogs and I'll give you the goods, plus, of course…and this is the big part…"

Julie informs me we have coordinates. Mustang enters the address into Google Maps as Drysdale stomps on the Escalade's accelerator moving to the fast lane in one fluid orchestration of speed and urgency. "Twelve minutes out, maybe ten," He tells us.

"This is the big part…YOU NEED TO STAND DOWN ON THE SECOND BOMB," The Queen moves deftly to check.

I am hoping she has the presence to allow the gambit to play out. She has made the offer, boldly presented the deal and now needs to simply remain silent and allow Cyrus to chew the fat from his own greed.

I use the time to update Mutt and have him move his team into place, including the elite FBI bomb squad. He tells me that forensics has indicated the likelihood that the detonation device used in the first bombing appears to have been triggered by cellphone, perhaps even the one currently tied up in the conversation between Cyrus and The Queen.

"Can we jam the line?" I ask him.

"Not without cutting service to the entire area, and that would take a warrant." He tells us.

Julie updates that she thinks there is a way to disable the phone Cyrus is using, but that it will take another few minutes of connectivity with the device The Queen is using in the office.

"OK, let's give it a go," I direct, keeping Mutt from the tactic. I look at my watch. It is midnight plus twenty seconds. "Please hurry."

Cyrus, finished with his inner debate, comes back to The Queen with another question, "How is it that you know about the second bomb?"

"Big told me."

I reach over the seat and place my hand on Drysdale's shoulder, "Get us there quick."

Your Blood in the Air

 257.

CHAPTER NINE

Of the 525,600 minutes in a year, I find it incredible that so much depends on the final 30. If you want to consider an explosively dramatic climax to the arc of the annual narrative, this might be it. Harlan raced to extract The Queen from the clinic, delivering her to our waiting command center and, along with Julie and Mina had her dialed in, set up, and entering numbers with exactly one-half hour remaining on the imposed deadline. Although both Mutt and I agreed on the chances of the threat's consummation to be 'about fifty-fifty', in our line of work that meant we take every precaution and assume the worst - until proven wrong. Even with the rapidly accumulating evidence supporting our current hypothesis, the possibility remains intact that the basket in which we have placed all our eggs, could belong to someone else.

Harlan and Julie review the procedure with The Queen. With our new tracking technologies all we need is thirty seconds of connectivity to establish a location. Once that has been extrapolated, our local team, Drysdale, Davis, Saunders, Mustang and myself will spring into action. Should this be an off-site, long distance operation, Mutt has at his command the entire grid of FBI field operations standing by. All we need is that critical thirty seconds of clear cellular contact.

We decide to skip the call to her paid informant inside the SuperMax facility and go straight to the number we obtained from the kidnappers, having matched it with the number used in the initial extortion call. We are anticipating it will be Cyrus. If my hunch is correct he is somewhere in the immediate area. As one of my favorite country songs, the tale of a bounty hunter on the trail of a cattle rustling cold-blooded killer poetically put it, 'I can smell your blood in the air.'

She taps the ten digit number and waits…and waits, the line eventually going to a default voice-mail inbox. In her earbud I quickly tell her to leave an 'impassioned' message.

"Cy, its Violet. I don't have a lot of time, please, PLEASE call me back at this number as soon as you get the message. We have a code six. Ciao."

The moment I hear the termination click I demand explanation, "What the fuck is a code six?"

"Its a mayday code we used to use to signal extreme urgency, as in cops at the door and flush the stash," she says.

"Julie?"

"Truth, no spikes," Julie replies letting our polygraph use, included in the wire-tapping software, slip from the bag.

The Queen immediately enters a verbal defense on her behalf over our non-disclosure of the poly function suddenly realizing what the chest strap was really for, when the phone rings with three successive beeps and a bop. "Alright here we go, break a leg and keep him for thirty," I say breaking the huddle.

"Cy?"

"Where the fuck are you?"

Mustang, Drysdale and I scramble towards the SUV.