366. Epilogue.

366.

Epilogue.

The idea, neither artistically unique nor dramatically divergent, was to write somewhere North of 500 words per day, every day. Unlike my daily blog postings of a few years back; The Ten Thousand Things, ramblings, itself a digital variation of the Julia Cameron inspired 'Morning Pages' discipline, this one was going to be, I boldly envisioned, one continuous story. Each day of the year representing one page. On January 1, 2020 I typed the opening sentence, "Something was different." Yesterday, despite frustrating interruptions like a pandemic, my loss of employment, subsequent work with the USPS in response, a major move and the painful first-person witnessing of my astonishing loss of muscle mass, I wrote the final sentence of the saga using the phrase that had become thematic on both the screen and in my life: 'Continue Your Practice.' The words between them, like a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, created the narrative, sometimes bland and sometimes beautiful. I did try to avoid adverbs as much as possible and stay in the first person using the active voice. Other than that, it was a free for all.

The ground rules were straightforward: Just write. No editing, no rewriting, no revisions and nothing other than spell check, which I even managed to foil on several embarrassing occasions. In what is now called Flash Fiction, the effort was tremendously rewarding, as I am sure the Stream of Consciousness pioneers, Kerouac, Joyce, Dostoevesky and Virginia Woolf must have likewise experienced. My goal wasn't to attain the celebrity or artistic magnificence they earned, but more to strive for simply ONE GOOD SENTENCE with every page. Just one. One would think that humble premise to be a walk in the park. Try it. See for yourself. Send me the link.

The key I stumbled upon to doing this as a discipline rather than a chore, subtle difference I know, is in allowing the mysterious creative powers of the universe to play a part. There were days that frankly I didn't feel much like writing, "You should be looking for a job deadbeat," I would self admonish, but other days I would be absolutely amazed at what took place when I sat down, logged in and grammered up (oops there I go again making up words). Seriously, I would often consider when a deliciously devious idea popped up - where did THAT come from? That voice? From where doest thou sing?

I will confess, being the Stephen King fan I am, his tome 'On Writing' was of considerable utility in the process. His advice of tossing plot outlines and instead 'creating situations' for his characters to experience, was both empowering and inspiring. I would literally put my characters; Bogart, Julie, Davis, TOM, Drysdale, The Queen, Mustang and all the bad dudes in a room, toss in a prop and report what developed. From day one I had no idea of what was to come. How that effort yielded a somewhat cohesive 'tale' remains a mystery to me of great magnitude and considerable joy.

By way of apology, the reason it took me a year and a half to write a years worth of copy, owed its length to the aforementioned global virus. Literally I woke one day last March with zero cash flow. Lost were my jobs as an indoor cycling instructor, my business, as owner of a indoor cycling studio, my passion, creating indoor cycling videos and my side gigs, house and dog sitting. All gone, dried up like the raisins in your hand-painted porcelain cereal bowl. I did manage to land a job with the USPS and that turned into a 70 hour work weeks ordeal (not to mention a severe bout of carpal tunnel). I reveal this in self defense. It was simply impossible (for me) to work a 16 hour day and then write. Something had to give and as I needed the cabbage, this was that. Right before I quit Postal, or perhaps because of it, I concocted the idea that the passage of  'down time' could be juxtaposed into the story as Bogart's six-month induced coma. And just like that we were back at it. And thank you for asking, I am now working two jobs, one delivering the Seattle and NY Times from Midnight to Six and working in our Island's boutique movie theater, build in 1936 and seating 226 cinema lovers, a few nights a week as well. Like having two lovers, I need to pick one and give the selected one my singular best. But I will admit that the challenge of getting by sometimes on two hours sleep creates a situation that even Mr. King might appreciate.

Therefore, as Porky Pig used to squeal, "That's All Folks." It has been my special pleasure to participate in this grand adventure and I thank you sincerely (I should know you by name) for your participation on the read end. Hope you had some fun too.

I am taking a few weeks off to tend to other matters. I have some ideas for Book Two. I might even break the rules and go back and clean up my grammatical errors, punctuation gaffes and maybe even rewrite those pesky dangling participles out of existence - you know -edit. Or maybe not. Getting started on a new adventure - spoiler alert - I am toying with the idea of Bogart retiring and working his screenplay - fills my imagination with the winds of possibility.

That effort, should it come to fruition, will be moved to another location. And you, dear reader, will be the first to know where. Until then, please continue your practice as I continue mine.

Peace and Love.

KML, out.

The Familiar Voice

365.

Gentle hands on my shoulders awaken me from a deep and troubled sleep. How long I had been dozing at her bedside, unknown. I shake the fog of transition and return to the present tense. My body hurts. There is a new type of pain, not simply the soreness accrued from physical exertion, but a stinging sensation more like what pain an inflamed nerve might create if left untended, spanning the length of my right leg. I stand to relieve the pressure and stretch, looking down at Mustang as I rise. I reach for her hand and repeat the 'I know you can hear me' protocol.

"Put yourself at ease my dear friend. Rest and heal in the loving light of positive energy. Recall that we rehearsed the restorative power of high-intensity, high quality energy flow. I have got to go get cleaned up," I nod towards the nurse in anticipation of her request, "but I'll be back shortly, and that's a promise."

Downstairs I am disappointed to find a parking ticket on the Escalade, shaking my head and tucking it into glove box for later reconciliation. I quickly play back the tapes in my head as I navigate my way back towards the hotel. On the internal big-screen are a hundred full-color images, the requisite crime scene black and white photos, a handful of key sound bytes, all edited seamlessly between several highlight quality video clips. No wonder my brain hurts as much as my bag of bones!

The highlight reel concluded I segue into coming attractions. What have we learned? What loose ends are left to tie up? What priorities dictate immediate action? Are there current threats pending or open protocols needing attention? What is status in Madison, Austin and DC? What is the threat level?

And perhaps most importantly, what might my continued role in all of this be? I am haunted by the image of Mustang laying motionless on the Capitol lawn. She was following my orders, and although it was a field decision under duress, one that I tried to hedge by drawing fire away from her by going first, the guilt and responsibility I feel is as heavy as any I have previously encountered.

Lost in an ethical tug of war, the morality of which transcends all political correctness, I consider my place. I consider myself. I consider my proper spiritual path, my values and my commitment to the service of others.

The freeway is eerily bereft of volume. Once a metaphor for my process, I am on cruise control - freeing up precious bandwidth to allow symbolic input from the cosmos.

As a peaceful rain begins to fall I hear the familiar voice of my muse:

'Continue your practice.' 

I'll Be Here

364.

My image in the sliding glass door is unsettling. I look like a guy who has been through a war and survived, shot at and missed….as the saying goes. In retrospect I should have at least gone to the hotel, showered and changed clothes, but in my haste to visit Mustang in ICU, my focus was elsewhere. The supposition that in emergency hospitals the staff are accustomed to such personal oversight, is almost calming, but not completely. I briskly walk towards the information desk, identify myself and ask for directions. Still running on leftover adrenaline fumes, I decide to take the stairs up the six floors to the ER, noting with each step the response from my hips, quads, hamstrings and knees. I remain in a perplexed state of bewilderment as they all seems to be taking the difficult chore of post-traumatic adaptation with fierce determination. My hubris at the circumstance is terminated as I enter the emergency ward where a chaotic choreography of frantic animation is underway. My hope is that none of it is part of Mustang's care.

I am asked by a nurse receptionist to kindly take a seat and advised that she will relay the information of my presence to the post-op team responsible for my injured partner. I want to pull rank and overrule her request under the guise of national security or some other immediate necessity, but choose to politely thank her and find what looks like the most comfortable chair in the adjacent waiting room.

As I walk in a young couple looks at me through weary, bloodshot eyes. Without asking I know that there is a child being tended to in the same proximity as my partner. I sit in the corner trying to find some comfort in the industrial design of a chair whose maker evidently held little regard for human ergonomics. There is no sound in the small room except the hum of the compressor feeding a few tropical fish with life supporting air, a metaphor I find ironic.

I rub my eyes. Without the sensation of sight I consider which of the two patients, my partner, riddled with gun shot wounds and fighting for her life, or what I imagine to be a young child, perhaps just learning to walk, undergoing some exotic and dangerous operation to salvage her opportunity to go on living - to continue HER practice. Who has the priority? I cringe with the answer to my own question; that the decision is often settled by the party having the best insurance coverage. I open my eyes sensing the presence of someone standing in from of me. It is a nurse wearing what looks to me like full combat gear.

"We are out of surgery, if you would like to see the patient, we need to clean you up a little," she says once we make eye contact, "but be advised that she is heavily sedated and unable to talk."

I stand ready to roll, passing the young couple as we exit the room. I glance at them and offer as much empathy and hope as I am able with only a knowing smile. I want to say something in the likes of 'hang in there' or 'it'll be OK" but nothing comes besides the powerful, spiritual understanding of the basic human premise that life is suffering and this, sadly, is that.

The nurse takes me to a giant stainless steel sink where we do a field cleanse of my hands, arms, face and neck. She then outfits me with a blue gown, mask, cap and gloves. Knowing the drill I offer no resistance but with the addition of each additional personal protective garment my sense of dread increases. Properly adorned, we walk into a large circular room with medical activity in every other triangular shaped room. We pass one where I notice what appears to be a child receiving attention from a team of surgeons. For the second time today I say a silent prayer.

The nurse pulls back the curtains to a room and offers me entrance. I am immediately aware of the wall of electronic equipment all in full digital display of vital signs. In front of them, almost unrecognizable behind layers of white gauze lies my partner.

I swallow and take the five steps to her bedside. My eyes immediately mist in response to the drama of the scene before me.

I reach for her hand. I look at her closed eyes desperately wishing them to open; bright, clear and compassionate as I have known them. I remember back to our introduction when I first opened my eyes after a six month induced coma. She was there. She stayed there. She was singularly responsible for my recovery. She volunteered to join our group. She displayed enormous amounts of courage and wisdom at every stop. She tutored, monitored and participated in my physical rehab. We became close friends and a formidable law-enforcement team. She had, and has, my absolute respect.

And I put her in harms way. I asked her to risk everything for the sake of the mission. I should have had her stay back and provide cover as I stormed the van. A thousand similar thoughts rush through my consciousness as I caress her hand and watch for any sign of movement around her eyes. Just the sound of the beeps from the EKG machine and activity from the other stations. My world is reduced to one thing. One emotion. One energy.

"I'll be here," I finally say.

Been a Long Day

363.

I ask for the update in my best 'give it to me straight' monotone. The ER nurse gets the message and begins with a solemn, "There were complications."

"Is she alive?"

"Yes, sorry, but still in surgery, the gunshot wounds caused more damage than we initially estimated, and, please, can you tell me the approximate time between the incident and the arrival of the paramedics?"

"I would say about twenty to thirty minutes, no more than that. Why?"

"Well, the ER surgeon is still amazed that she, how do I put this?…."

"Lasted as long as she did without bleeding out?" I answer.

"Yes."

"Because she is the toughest cookie in the jar and knew that our work wasn't over. She hung on because we needed to finish the job, simple as that."

The silence leads me to believe that the nurse relies more on scientific fact and medical cause and effect rather than faith in the unlimited human spirit and commitment to an alternative power source. Either way, the conversation ends as my back-up phone begins to ring, buzz, hiss and shout. "Please do your best, I am on my way and be there in fifteen minutes, thank you sincerely for all your effort. Try talking to her."

Julie tells me that the news has traveled faster than the speed of sound. The Directors of both Homeland Security and the DOJ  called to voice their concerns about my flagrant disregard for their exacting release protocols.

"I asked them for patience and understanding, citing that under the circumstances the insurrectionists are in better, safer and more secure hands than being jammed into a dark cell beneath the still smoldering Capitol building." She reports.

"Insurrectionists? Is that what they are calling them? They are Domestic Terrorists in every sense of the word. That they are all uneducated white males doesn't change the reality of their crimes. I realize the slimy politics of wanting them to be black Islamists, brown Cartel thugs or Asian ninja assassins but that is simply not the reality."

"I know. But…"

"But what Julie? But what?"

"You know as well as I that there is a public relations balance we need to dance with…

I pause to breathe. She is right - not so much in the fact that our PR concerns or our need to put tact and diplomacy on the same scale with the violence and grit of fighting terrorism, but that if we are to continue our noble efforts to do so, we cannot bite the hand that feeds. It is a slice of humble pie that right now I haven't the stomach for.

"I also have the goods on an inside conspiracy, including the Capitol Police, FBI and local agencies. I am going to sit on it until this blows over. Mostly to see how they respond. You think I am in hot water with the DHS and DOJ? Tepid compared to this pot of boiling bovine urine."

"We'll talk about that soon. How is Mustang?"

"Pulling into the parking lot now, I'll report back as soon as I have an update."

"Hey," She says in that soft voice I remember so well.

"Yes?"

"You OK?"

"I'm good. Been a long day. Thanks."

The Golden Goose Gets Cooked

362.

I don't even need to ask. Had Sergeant Carothers been wired to a polygraph machine the needle would be pegged at max. For about two seconds I feel sorry for the old guy but my absolute disdain for dirty cops returns my equilibrium by the third. The ringleader and his accomplices have three choices: They can silence me, they can confess, or they can plea bargain. They know as well as I that any form of bargaining is also the admission of guilt.

I reach to pick up my phone and place it in my shirt pocket, a deviation from its usual storage site in my front pants pocket. AK immediately launches into a boilerplate third-party dissertation on the need for professional assistance in the never ending fight for second amendment rights and 'selective management of specific subversive demographics'. As much as I want to stop him right there with his immoral, illegal and racist oration, I feed him all the rope he unintentionally requests.

It feels like a trial in discovery phase as the three all add to the damming testimony, at one point I am disappointed in their performance; so weak and shallow, more bias and bigotry than legitimate alibis. It strikes my that they know that their golden goose is about to be cooked, with the guilt of spilled blood and treasonous conspiracy about to be offered as desert.

Perhaps for the best, Sergeant Carothers' land line rings interrupting the self incrimination. He has a short conversation with what I can only guess is his boss, and begrudgingly hangs up the phone.

"You can have the prisoners," he says in an exasperated tone. And then adding an obviously ad-libbed caveat of, "as long as you leave your phone with us."

The silence in the room is louder than an unsilenced 45 caliber hogleg. I stall for some quick thinking time, examining the eyes of every man in the room as I do so. We are after all, brothers in arms. We have all taken the same oath to protect and to serve.

A mime might have done it better, but my one request in response contains sufficient volume for all to plainly hear. "Please give me a evidence bag and I will surrender the phone, identifying it as my property, and hence property of the DOJ."

The resulting scramble for a suitable sized envelope is comical. When successful I take the phone from my pants pocket and drop it with thumb and index finger into the bag like a radioactive fish.

"Can we prepare the perps for transport?" I ask.

There are no guarantees, no handshakes and no 'understandings' issued or implied as the men begin the task, paperwork included.

In less than thirty minutes we are ready to transport, not an off-topic word spoken between or among us.

I head back upstairs to find the Escalade and tail the bus. Along the way I take the phone from my breast pocket and stop the recording.

And then call the hospital to get an update on Mustang.

Dirty Dots

361.

We agonize past tense introductions and situational updates. After a brief cat and mouse exchange I ask, perhaps a little too bluntly, what the present meeting is designed to accomplish. Sergeant Carothers informs me that they are overbooked and need to "assign, book, transport or release' at least ten of the insurrectionists. The goal of the meeting is to determine who wins the 'get out of jail free' cards and who gets all-expenses paid trips to the big house.

Why this is a controversy I cannot understand - a situation I find grossly appalling. That such discussion are necessary, in my opinion, is criminal in itself, as every one of the temporarily incarcerated far-right insurrectionists are guilty of several felonies, a handful of gross misdemeanors and high crimes against the state. Of this there should be no debate.

"Frankly, we don't have the facility or the manpower to accommodate this volume, so as of right now, we are sending paperwork upstairs requesting the release of these prisoners." He pushes a handwritten list of the lucky ten in my direction, across his cluttered desk, past the pad of neon green sticky flags I note, and just to the left of an old school yellowed Scotch tape dispenser.

Without speaking I take the roster and give it a ceremonial once-over. The eyes of the four are upon me as I read. Satisfied that sufficient drama has been introduced to an already tense scene, I gently place the list back on his desk and announce, "I have a solution to your dilemma in the form of an option."

Seemingly relieved by the temporary change of subject, or that their responsibility as leaders has been assumed by an outsider, they all raise inquiring chins to my counter-offer.

"Authorize and assign them all into my custody, give me an hour to arrange for bus transportation and a suitable destination and all your logistic problems are solved."

Fully expecting an unanimous and grateful response I am somewhat surprised by the silence that masquerades as an answer. But I wait for the first verbal objection to see what level of cover is attempted, the debate equivalent of asking your foe what weapons he intends to bring to the street fight.

"Will you charge them?" Carothers asks shamelessly.

"To the fullest extent of the law, as they say."

Agent Kirkpatrick asks for permission to speak, "If I may present something of a alternative offer, we feel, most of us, that there is enough gray area here to save tons of paperwork and evade the court process, meaning tax payer dollars, by releasing those who are going to plead down to misdemeanor trespassing anyway," he begins, the first sentence of what sounds like a long-winded defense of the indefensible.

I listen as if I am considering the idea - keeping eye contact with him for its entirely. When he finishes I provide a flat and emotionless. "No."

It is at this point that it becomes apparent that the rules of the game have changed to accommodate my request for, what? Justice? Truth? Pay back? Honesty? Protocol? Law and Order? Respect for the badge? Right and fucking wrong?

Answering my own question with the proper answer of 'all of the above', I take my cell phone from my pocket and call Julie making sure that everyone in the room clearly hears my order for a police bus and temporary local facilities to transport, hold and begin interrogation for ten of the domestic terrorists arrested after the attempted coup on the California State Capitol. I emphasize the domestic terrorists label.

The room instantly returns to its former muted state. Sergeant Carothers' face is red as a birthday balloon and he looks like a cardiac incident about to happen. Terminating the call with Julie, I open my photo folder to the pic I snapped during my forensic inspection of the totaled ProMaster. I place the phone on his desk showing the neon green sticky flag and its cryptic note alongside the source pad of the same description, mothership to pod explorer.

It takes the Sarge less than two heartbeats to connect the dirty dots.

Green Neon

360.

I flip a few more pages with the knife blade. Page 38 is begging attention as it seems to be  bookmarked with a neon green sticky flag. In pencil is written, 'call me as soon as you're established at this number'. I take a picture of the note and number and wrap up my forensic inventory. I ask the Fire Captain where the remains of the vehicle will be transported and thank him for his emergency response; they have had a busy day.

Processing the collective data from the insurrection while heading back towards the Capitol building I remember that I have been walking with the use of both legs, and using my once paralyzed right arm as any normal person might. That my attention was so completely focused on the task at hand leaving little bandwidth to experience the 'miracle' is both phenomenal and bewildering to me. In a 'doubting Thomas' moment of monumental curiosity, I run a few tests to ensure I am not waking from a deep dream. Without considering a scientific protocol I spring into a sequence of stretches, martial arts moves and yoga poses, all demanding range of motion, flexibility, strength and balance. A passing government employee eyes me suspiciously as I complete the test but so overjoyed with the results, I merely smile in return of their glare.

The cleanup is in full operation at the Capitol. If there is one thing that stands above all other characteristics defining our American experiment in Democracy, it is that we are resilient. We WILL get up, dust off, clean the mess and get back to work. I chuckle with the thought that if this isn't an amendment, it should be.

Security, however, remains on high alert. I call AK to get a more detailed report and to exchange notes. His cell phone goes to voice mail. Inside the building local Paramedics have established a triage area and are busy tending a line of customers, some still bleeding, others suffering from conditions ranging from shock to dehydration. There is a foul odor hinting of fear permeating the interior atmosphere. It is my experience that with prolonged exposure one adapts to this olfactory insult much too quickly. I look for Agent Kirkpatrick in the usual places coming up empty with each search. I ask an officer assigned to temporary security duty if there are any CSI agents on this floor and she tells me that as far as she knows, they are all downstairs.

It is information I find of interest and decide to pay a visit to the holding cell, manned by Sergeant Carothers. The elevator is disabled so I take the emergency stairs as far as I can until I meet face to face with another officer who informs me that his orders are to allow passage to no one, regardless of rank. I show him my ID and he apologizes by saying that he will make a call. Once his conversation is complete he tells me an escort will be here monetarily to act as guide. Now I am VERY interested.

Several long minutes pass until a knock on the steel door indicates that my escort has arrived. The heavy door opens and a Capitol Security officer greets me and asks that I please follow.

Again the smell; Fear, blood, urine, hatred, smoke.

The officer leads me past the cell that formerly held Shoemaker and Sheener and is now filled to capacity with what I can only speculate are the surviving members of the River Kats. There is an identical cell beside it housing another triage operation, all told there might be close to twenty captives - all needing varying levels of attention.

In the tiny office of Sergeant Carothers, there is an executive meeting taking place among four officers, including Agent Kirkpatrick. As I enter the room, all dialogue ceases and heads look downward.

The first thing I see is a pad of neon green sticky flags on the desk belonging to Sergeant Carothers.

One Punch Knife Fight

359.

The scene is like watching the sunrise. When the darkest hour just before the dawn's first light begins to blanket us with a hopeful warming luminance. I sense that the tide of victory has turned in our favor. The erie sounds of armed conflict begin to fade as I assist Agent Kirkpatrick field dress Sheeners leg and place him in the Escalade, his freedom once again terminated by foolish decisions and inability to see reality. In his few moments of clarity as we waited for transport, he whined about my 'using her to get to me.' Refraining from reminding him of another maxim, the one about all being fair in love and war, I let him rant without comment, seeing no need to pour additional salt into his wounds - emotional or physical. I ask AK if he can handle it from here and with his approval, I head back to the ProMaster for a bit of forensic investigation, calling Julie along the way for updates.

Mustang has been sky lifted by the SWAT team and is en route to the local emergency facility. I feel a responsibility to follow, but reconsider knowing she is in good hands and I might simply be in the way.

"We had a video feed from several of the body cams of the responding security forces and local police, as well as feeds from the Capitol surveillance - until it was apparently terminated by the insurrectionists - we did assist with inter-agency communications until we got the all clear signal about fifteen minutes ago. Are you OK?" Julie says.

"Yeah, I'm fine, but Mustang has been medivaced to local hospital, condition unknown, but she did have a weak pulse when I last checked. She was wearing a vest that, probably - hopefully - saved her life."

"The Capitol is secured, if you want to go to the hospital, you can."

"Roger, I have a few things left to do here and then I will head over, thanks, can you get me the direct line to ER?"

"I will, and hey, the reports I got indicate that you were running around like a football star without your cane, what's up superhero?"

With her unexpected comment I suddenly realize that I am walking unassisted and using my right arm as if it had never been compromised by gun shot wound trauma and almost seven months of atrophy. I consider all this as I near the 'remains' of the ProMaster. "All the therapy, the experimental steroid test, and a sudden jolt of adrenaline must have done the trick," I lie, "that and a lot of help and support from my partner."

"You need to get over there," she says, "I just sent you the number. We can handle it from here. Go."

The phone number pops up as a text as I arrive at the scorched carcass of the van. The SFD is there securing the area for oil and gas spills, the fire doused by fire retardant foam. I ask the unit Captain if I can enter and take some pictures, identifying myself as I inquire. But before I do I call the number Julie provided to get a status report on Mustang.

"She is in surgery, critical, GSW to shoulder, neck and left side of her head. She was wearing a vest which prevented additional, most likely fatal, damage. She'll be in ICU for at least another five hours, I'll call if there is any update. There is nothing you can so here."

I thank her for the information and return the cell to my pocket. I look around the interior of the ruined vehicle. It is outfitted much like an Army communications Hummer. I take a series of photos of each of the stations, driver, escort, com center and Timothy Sheener's station decked out with state of the art gaming equipment and the burnt remnants of what appears to be a Cliff Notes abridged study guide.

I look closer flipping a few pages with Mustang's Halo that I pocketed after the one-punch knife fight.  

A Man In Full.  

I can't help but feel sorry for the kid. Abused, mistreated, orphaned, gaslighted, used, played and eventually abandoned. He fell hard for her and will now spend the remainder of his days incarcerated and isolated, left to reconcile his inability to separate reality from perception.

"A Boy in Transition," Might be a more appropriate title, I consider thinking what a shame it is that our society turns such cold shoulders to those in need of the most help. "This could have all been avoided."

Don't You Watch TV?

 358.

"This is like walking into Hell," I comment to my captor. He has loosened the pressure of his weapon against the back of my head as we slowly walk towards the parking garage. There are explosions and the fierce sounds of several fire-fights in progress and I also hear the nearing of what sounds like two SWAT choppers. I wonder if Sheener knows that he is a dead man walking, a breathing crime scene investigation about to happen.

We have almost 200 yards to cover on the Capitol lawn before we reach the intended destination, but no 'official' route. I try to veer right away from the main street that will surely be congested with police any time now. It also takes us closer to where Mustang fell. I can see that she is still motionless so I play the face-card with her image on the emotional bond the two created in their initial visit; "You have my word, that should you surrender into my custody RIGHT NOW, I will do everything in my power to see that it is taken into consideration."

"Shut up and walk," Sheener hisses.

"Because, also, if you do it NOW, you'll get to read that book and I can guarantee that it WILL change your life."

His lack of a quick response sends the message that the offer is under consideration. The low altitude choppers are creating a din that actually cuts through the cacophony of gunfire, explosions and alarms. We are at critical mass, that point where all previous plans - no matter their brilliance and potential - need immediate revision. I go for broke.

"Look, she is wounded, right there, at least let me make an assessment and if there is hope call for a medic. You owe her that respect, Tim."

Again he is silent.

"Sheener," I scream, "This is it, they will cut us down like stalks of ripe corn if we don't do something. All I am asking is to check her condition."

"OK, but make it quick," He says, steering my direction with the gun barrel.

We cover the fifteen feet fast, my legs still full of long dormant energy. I kneel beside her and check for pulse. As I do another explosion rocks the very ground beneath us. I am surprised to see that she is wearing a vest. It is standard FBI issue and I know what is inside the velcro sealed pocket at her left breast. I fiegn a closer listen to her heart, and use my freshly functional right hand to open the pocket and pull its contents out as another explosion shakes us again.

In one move I pop the Microtech Halo open and spin from my kneel to the legs of Sheener, who has cowered from the blast, driving the razor sharp tactical blade into his right calf. He goes down with a scream capable of coagulating blood, drops his weapon and reaches for his wound, evidently thinking that direct pressure is the first response.

I grab his handgun and wrestle him onto his belly, putting my knee over the back of his neck. Assailant secured, I reach for my phone to identify ourselves, provide location  and call for immediate medical assistance.

I see one of the SWAT choppers about to set down to our immediate right. I direct them to Mustang with a "she needs immediate attention, I got this guy, minor knife wound, he'll live."

I move closer to Sheener to add additional private commentary, "Rule Number Nine motherfucker, don't you watch TV?"

My Magial Run of Luck

357.

Either whomever is shooting at me is the world's worst shot or I am its luckiest inhabitant.

With mini explosions encircling my path, I cut the distance between us in half as I glance to my left and see Mustang making similar progress amid similar conditions. Having left my radio on I scream for her to get to the rear of the ProMaster and course correct to make that blind spot my destination also. I am alternating a zig-zag pattern with a stutter step every few feet to, hopefully, confuse the shooter. When I get to less than twenty five feet I see my worst nightmare: Mustang is down.

Being totally exposed my only hope is to run for the cover of the van itself. In a burst of explosive power I raise the shotgun and get off two rounds in the general direction of the passenger side window. Close enough to identify Turkin as the shooter, I watch with amazement as he attempts to maneuver himself into a better position which necessitates climbing half way out of the van and twisting his torso almost forty-five degrees. I take full advantage of his clumsy athleticism and put on another power burst until I am a dozen feet away. He finally gets himself into a stable position and raises his weapon to unleash more holy hell in my direction. It is his final movement as a pair of nine millimeter hollow points from my Glock leave him doubled over and motionless, his weapon laying harmlessly on the grassy area next to the curb.

I move to the rear of the ProMaster and check on Mustang. I holler but receive no answer in response. Inside, as Shoemaker shouts radio SOS instructions to the remaining vigilantes I hear him order Sheener to drive the truck as close to the entrance as possible and detonate the explosive device. I look to my right and see that there is no response from the order, the controller or the truck. The Queen has done it again!

Automatic fire erupts from inside the van and I drop to the pavement to hopefully get a handle on what is happening in front. The four-wheel drive ProMaster has plenty of clearance and I can see our Escalade approaching head-on at a hight rate of speed. Simultaneously I hear another vehicle approach from the rear. The young agent is at the wheel of the government issue sedan. We are one move from checkmate.

I crawl under the van and shout upwards, "Homeland Security - you have ten seconds to drop your weapons and come out with your hands in the air." The firefight rages on in front as I count it down and fire two shots through the floorboard into the rear cargo hold of the van. I roll to the left, the drivers side, and back my way to the window, taking out the mirror as I go. I signal to AK to launch a flash bang. As it explodes in the exact place I was prone ten seconds earlier I move to the drivers window and blindly fire four shots inside.

In the silence that follows I hear Shoemaker yell to detonate the radio controlled explosive, and Sheener yell back in frustration that his control unit has been somehow disabled. The drivers side sliding door opens and Shoemaker jumps out with what looks like a vintage 1947 Russian Kalashnikov. He is separated from the Soviet automatic shoulder rifle by one shot from my nine and slumps to the asphalt. I wonder what his last meal consisted of, probably not a steak.

Three down and one to go. I take one step towards the open door when I feel the cold steel of a sidearm barrel against the base of my skull. Sheener, using the cover of the smoke, exited from the passenger side of the van and made his way around, covering the last few feet as I efficiently disposed of his partner.

"Drop both guns, and let's slowly make our way back to the parking garage, you are now a hostage and a single questionable move turns you into a law enforcement martyr. You copy copper?"

I do as instructed and lead his prodding back the way we came, asking permission to signal the drivers, Agent Kirkland in the Escalade and the rookie agent still at the rear of the van to let this play out. I understand that the precariousness of the circumstance could very well render that signal untenable.

I place my hands over my head and walk, my magical run of luck apparently over.

I Go in Three

 356.

Inside the ProMaster, the four River Kats; Shoemaker, Sheener, Turkin and Hampton each sit at their stations; Hampton at the wheel and Turnkin sitting shotgun. A more accurate, contemporary description might call Turkin sitting in the 'fully automatic assault rifle' position, and not its titular predecessor but the location remains the same; front and to the right of the driver. Hampton has a similar weapon resting on his lap as he mans the port-side watch. The engine idles but the four home-grown militants are not planning an escape of the vehicular variety. In the back sit Boots Shoemaker, operating the details radio communication and Sheener at a super play station wearing headphones watching a monitor and gingerly moving a joystick per the verbal commands of Shoemaker. Behind mirrored aviator shades the sentries up from scan the chaotic area with cold efficiency. There is agitation in the back however as Boots tries to both dispatch and receive real time intel from the four, five-man teams of vigilantes currently approaching the four primary entrances of the Capitol. Sheener is controlling the monster truck with nervous apprehension - and a hint of attitude.

"Let's just drive the fucker right in the front door and light the fuse," he says to Boots as another delay forces another slowdown.

"Shut up and do your job," comes the response from the senior member of the crew.

"What's the hold up?"

"Delta Team was delayed by a Capitol Security Patrol at the South entrance. The plan is to enter together and we have another five minutes before the we automatically move to Plan B. Just hang tight and I'll tell you when to roll."

I am on the ProMaster's right flank, about 100 feet away, covered by a public restroom facility shaded by a perimeter of eucalyptus and persimmons trees. Mustang is closer on the opposite flank. I call AK and give him the location of the ProMaster and the timing of our  assault asking - commanding - him to use our Escalade to pin the ProMaster from the South and if possible toss a flash bang smoke grenade under the vehicle when close enough to do so. I also command - direct - him to have the young agent preform a similar maneuver from the North in his car. I finish with the most crucial part of the plan, "We are out of time AK, we're moving in on foot from the flank in three minutes, please move quickly, out."

My cell rings with The Queens's caller ID, "The Capitol has a anti-radio jam rig, tell them to use 950 Megahertz at full power aimed at the van, that will disable their remote control system." I pass the message along to AK via text in full caps.

By radio I give the adjusted intel to Mustang just as I hear the snare-drum staccato of automatic weapon fire coming from the South. Blinded and deaf to the action I trust that Capitol Security can hold the line long enough till the local police SWAT team arrives. I also pray that AK and the young agent get here sooner than later. It is the first time in many years that I have actually asked for divine assistance.

The sound of a grenade and the resulting smoke shatter the conversation with my maker and I get Mustang back on the radio, "We gotta move, let's go in fast, your target is the drivers side window, mine the passenger side. We have help on the way, we go in five seconds, good luck Mustang, we are the good guys here."

To draw potential fire away from her side, I go on three. Perhaps it is the adrenaline, and for a split second I consider that it could be an answer to my SOS prayer, but my leg and right arm suddenly feel like they did when I was tossing footballs to Davis in college. The sensation fills me with hope and an strange saintly bravado. I drop my cane and with my miraculously empowered right I pull the Glock and with my left I raise the sawed-off shotgun and point it towards the target. I draw a deep breath and move.

In less than ten steps the passenger side window of the ProMaster drops and I see the muzzle flash of 800 rounds per minute.

Let's Do This

355. 'Boots' Shoemaker and Sheener both carry artifact bags containing their clothes and personal possessions they were wearing and carrying at the time of their arrest. It appears that Boots has taken the lead as he points to a six or seven story parking structure and hurries towards it, Sheener in tow. Mustang watches them closely, taking chase once they disappear into the structure. I watch her jog across the lawn and disappear into the concrete edifice as my phone rings. "I'm 85% confident that we are good to go on the GPS triangulation," says The Queen without formality, "I sent you an app that I hacked from Google Maps that will show you where the four numbers are, but you gotta stay in decent wifi range, open the app and away ya go." "Perfect, good work, thank you, and, pun intended, wish you two were here." I download the attachment and open the application. As advertised, I see a black and white city street grid with four color coded icons, one each for Boots, Sheener, Turkin and Hampton. I am not surprised to see that Turkin and Hampton are on the other side of the Capitol, stationary. People are still running from the rotunda, but no cars are leaving the parking area, part of the security protocol for emergency evacuations I assume. My cell buzzes with Mustangs ID code, "What do we got in there?" "There is a shelter in place command precluding anyone from driving out," she reports, "I have eyes on both perps, they have changed clothes and made one call each. Shoemaker is wearing Levis and a Oakland Raiders sweatshirt and Sheener is in olive drab cammys and a Pearl Jam T-shirt with a Cathcart ball cap. They are headed out of the East exit. Should I follow?" "Yes, but keep your distance, Turkin and Hampton are here also, they are most likely headed towards them." I hobble to the opposite side of the Capitol building, as directed by Mustang's live intel and The Queens GPS app. In less than five steps I locate Shoemaker and Sheener, not exactly blending with the scrambling suits and ties of the government workers moving in the opposite direction. Ten seconds later I spot Mustang as their shadow about 200 meters behind them. They are taking a 'shortest distance between two points' route towards Turkin and Hamption, who now appear to be in the same vehicle. I verbally curse my handicap as I move to meet them at the surprise party. I verify the location on the GPS app and confirm visually that the vehicle in question is a black Dodge ProMaster 3500. I watch Mustang pull up behind a eucalyptus tree as the two rap twice on the sliding side door of the rig and enter. "If I had a grenade launcher this would be over in ten seconds," I think, perhaps flashing back to similar field ops in SE Asia jungles, crumbling townships in Bosnia and Taliban strongholds in Kabul. "You got eyes on this?" I hear Mustang ask on the radio. "Yeah, hang tight, I'm calling for backup." I am making the transfer of radio to cell phone when I hear an explosion coming from the parking garage. I turn to see a monster truck with white supremacist, nazi and River Kats logos smash through the parking security gate and head directly towards the Capitol in a direct line, scattering those still seeking cover in the garage. It is not moving fast, but seemingly cruising for photo ops on the lush capitol lawn. The ruts it leaves behind on the manicured grass tells me it is carrying a hefty payload. I tell Mustang to prepare to take the ProMaster in one minute, "The truck is a radio controlled car bomb, and the controller is inside the van. Help is on the way but not fast enough, you take the drivers side and I'll take the passenger side. One minute on my mark. Any resistance, shoot to kill. Do you copy?" "Copy Boss, let's do this."

There They Are

 354.

Mustang has the Escalade humming at 80. I call Agent Kirkpatrick with an update and ask if he has heard anything from the DHS regarding an immediate evacuation. "Not a thing," he replies, "what's going on?"

I fill him in on RKA, the dead cats, Beth and Jules Hampton in a succinct thirty second highlight rap. His "Hummm," for a response leaves me thinking he is holding intel from us, and I have a suspicion that I know what it is. I decide to steer the action. "This is what I'd like to do, "You'll get the evac order any minute, what it hits, please release Shoemaker and Sheener using the emergency order, and a bond posted by Jules Hamption, as the reason. Please make sure they get their cell phones back when you process them out. Send me their cell numbers asap. Copy?"

"It's your call, but I will warn you that they cannot be trusted on the street."

"I agree, but we have a plan. One more thing, do you have someone on staff, there right now, who can drive for me, in an official vehicle?" I ask.

"What's wrong with your rig?"

"Not a thing, but we need two vehicles if Boots and Sheener decide to split up. Get me those cell numbers, we're ten minutes out."

"You got it, and the code red evacuation order just came through, they are vetting it upstairs. Shit is about to hit fan blades. Do you have anything specific I can do here, now?"

"Get me the phone numbers and a car and driver for now, thanks AK."

I terminate the call and immediately ping The Queen. She answers, as always, with a snarky but cute, "You never call, you don't write, no e-mails…hello?"

"Have you received the evac intel on Sacto?" I waste no time in asking.

"Just now, what's up?"

"If I get you two cell numbers, and one calls the other can you triangulate and get me a GPS location on both?" I ask crossing my fingers.

"I could if I was at my desk, but out here it could be tough, a bit of a challenge, but I'll give it my best shot - maybe 50/50 - in what is probably hair-on-fire-need-it-yesterday mode no doubt. Give me the numbers."

"I only have one right now, waiting for the others, I'll call as soon as I get them, should be any minute. How is Madison?"

"It's a boring burger, nothing."

"Thanks, stand by."

We arrive at the Capitol building and it is a human volcano, people spewing from every exit like lava flowing down the side of a mountain. We park at the main entrance where a young rookie agent nervously stands next to a white Ford with US Government State Department stenciled on the door. "Where is Agent Kirkpatrick?" I ask.

"He said for me to wait here and he'll be right back."

Surrounded by chaos I get a text. It contains only two lines: Shoemaker 415.237.6628 & Sheener 310. 498. 2455. I forward the numbers to The Queen along with those of Jules Hampton and Howard Turkin.

I ask the rookie agent from which exit released prisoners would most likely depart after posting and he points to a reinforced portal about sixty feet away.

I huddle with Mustang, "When we spot our boys running for cover, you tail Shoemaker, close, do not let him out of your sight - but don't get made either. I'll so the same with Sheener. If my hunch is right we'll all end up at the same place. Stay in radio contact."

She is about to respond to my order but changes her mind and issues another, "There they are, let's roll."

All Eggs in One Basket

353.

We are there in three minutes. As she advised her house was one block away, an easy find by its color and BLM sign in the front yard. Beth was waiting for us in the driveway. Distraught and smoking a long, thin cigarette, she goes right into her dissertation without as much as an introduction or a request for identification.

"I walk past that house almost every evening as part of my weight-loss program," she begins, "it is owned by a group of investors, hedge fund traders I hear, but run by a slimeball they always called 'Jewels'. Mostly been on Airbnb, but since the dampendic hit, it has been empty - except for the almost daily comings and goings of the thugs I think are part of the River Kats militia gang."

"Why didn't you call the police and report suspicious activities?" Mustang asks.

Beth drops her smoke and crushes it beneath a pair of well-worn Nike hightops. With her head still down addressing the fire prevention, she almost whispers, "I got an outstanding warrant."

"You recorded some license plate numbers?" I add, reinforcing the issue that should she cooperate the warrant will remain a secret between us.

She reaches into her sweatpants pocket and lifts a piece of paper that has been torn from a spiral bound notebook. There are three California plate numbers and a quick identification of the vehicles they were pulled from.

"Anything else you can tell us about the people involved?"

"That is about it, I've been too scared to walk up to the house, they all looked like bad news dudes, ya know?"

I nod in understanding, and am about to thank her and get on with our police work when she grabs my arm and asks about Blinky, her missing cat, adding that there has been several of her neighbors who have had their cats go recently missing as well.

"Still missing I'm afraid, but we'll keep eyes open, thank you for your assistance, you have been a great help."

We turn and head back to the Escalade. "Where to?" Mustang asks firing up the rig. "State Capitol, on the double."

We screech away and I grab my cell to call Julie in DC. "Issue a red alert for the greater Sacramento area and I recommend consideration to issue a Capitol building evacuation," I advise, "but first I need you to run three Cal license plate numbers stat."

We are freeway Northbound as Julie mines the data. "Why would they leave the poster on the wall?" Mustang asks passing what appears to be a distracted driver at the wheel of a lime-green Kia Soul.

"My guess is one of three reasons. One: They forgot to take it down when scrambling for closure. Two: It represents a macabre trophy, I think the cats were victims from live hunting drills, or Three:…"

Julie comes back on to inform us that all three vehicles are registered to a Sacramento company doing business as RKA & Associates. "I ran that and looks like a shell fronting in junk bonds and hedge funds." She reports, "POC is somebody we have on radar, one Jules Hampton, I got his number right here."

"I got it. Text me the license info and please issue the alerts, thanks."

"And three?" Mustang asks.

"Three is that they think this is a game, and have gone to great lengths to set up an ambush, leaving us a few clues, bread crumbs along the way as bait."

"But not that they are actually intending to carry out a strike as domestic terror on the capitol?"

"OK, four then. THAT would be the easy one."

"What's the plan?"

"We're going to use the evac as an excuse to spring Shoemaker and Sheener. Unless something turns up with Hampton, that looks like our best bet."

"Putting all the eggs into one basket?"

"Exactly, and we're going to follow that basket like a hungry fuckin' honey-badger," I say, finishing with an apologetic, "Sorry."

"Don't be. This has to work."

Be There in Five

352.

I shield Mustang from the macabre sight, telling her to stay back. Even after a half-century in this line of work, I am appalled by the grotesque visual. My best guess is maybe fifty. The rotting smell is from a pile of decomposing cats piled in the center of the garage. I again tell her to stay out, keep watch, and cover her mouth and nose. I pull my handkerchief and hold it to my face as I gingerly move towards the cats for a closer look. The smell is overwhelming, vile and sickening. Matched with the graphic vision, I feel my stomach violently protest. I turn to exit but hear something familiar as the only sound in the evil space. I look to find its source and see what appears to be a race clock, large, rectangular with its yellow analog numbers flipping with each passing second. It takes me five flips to comprehend that the numbers are counting backwards. It is set in count-down mode with the time remaining at 44:24:21 - and counting. It is an obvious message stating without doubt that the race is officially on, and we have the time reaming to do - or die.

"Let's go," I order, rushing from the garage and back towards the house.

"Were those cats?" She asks.

I answer in the affirmative, "Yes, all dead and all black. River Kats is my guess."

We cover the twenty feet between the garage and the house and I smash the door assembly with the reinforced butt of the shotgun, risking the possibility of a booby trap. We enter together, she with her Sig out and up. We find nothing in the kitchen and dining area and quickly move through the empty house stopping only when something out of the ordinary is found. We quickly find the one notable exception. Tacked to the living room wall is an 8.5 x 11 hand made poster. Along with a picture of the cat in question is the announcement that she is lost and if found to please call the provided number and ask for Beth.

"Let's go, we have a lot to do and little time to do it." I pull my cell and punch the ten digits of what appears to be a local number as we scramble towards the Escalade.

"Yes hello?"

"Is this Beth?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"We just saw your poster, how long has your cat been missing," I hurriedly ask.

"It has been almost three days, do you have Blinky, is she OK?"

"Maam, this is the FBI and we are investigating a crime and need any information you might have on suspicious activity on a house on the……"

"I knew it," she interrupts, "those hoodlums on Sierra Street, they did it didn't they?"

"Could you identify any of them?"

"They always wore hoodies and sunglasses, even at night, but I have been suspicious for a while, so I jotted an few license plate numbers and have them right here."

I interrupt back and ask for her address saying we need to talk to her in person. She complies unhesitatingly and says she live on the next block over, the light blue house with the Black Lives Matter sign on the lawn.

"We'll be there in five minutes, thank you."

Turkin's Garage

351.

In the middle of my thought train she asks; "What now?"

"Let's continue to the address AK gave us and have a quick look-see, since we're almost here." I scramble for my notebook and find the notation. "14786 Sierra St. I'll get a gps fix."

We find the tired, run-down faux ranch-style house a few blocks from the main arterial. There is furniture at the curb, scattered trash and a lawn that has needed mowing since last year. I call Julie for an update and ask her to run the address in our data base as we park across the street and scout the immediate surroundings.

"Owned by a real-estate consortium, POC is a Jules Hampton at 415.332.9439. Taxes up to date, no suspicious notes, but it does look like it has been listed as an Airbnb rental for the last few years, and most likely shuttered at the start of the pandemic," She informs us.

"Thanks, we've been played by Turkin; Phone a burner and no one here for what looks like a long while. We're going in through the back door to have a look, keep Harlan on call in case we need a warrant."

"Copy, be careful."

"Roger on the precautions. Out."

I unlock the gun safe under the back seat and pull the shotgun, checking the chamber and magazine port. As I do I see Mustang check her Sig Sauer. "Let's hope this is routine, nobody home, and we won't need all the hardware."

"Better safe than sorry," she replies, exactly as I expected her to.

We exit the vehicle, I toting the sawed-off alongside my cane to keep any onlooking neighbors from calling the real cops, or worse, community security services.  We walk slowly towards the house, eyes scanning at one-hundred eighty degrees. I remember a saying TOM used in situations similar to this one: 'There is no excuse for inattention.'

We walk to the front door and check for security devices or cameras, finding none. Satisfied, we walk to the side of the house, through a half opened cedar gate, and to the rear of the stucco sided house. Simultaneously we both stop. We are side by side, senses on full alert.

"What's that?" She asks, sniffing into the air in the direction of a detached garage.

I smell it too. "Not sure, but I will guarantee that whatever it is, it has been in decay for a while."

"Should we call it in?"

"Not yet, let's have a look first."

Slowly, we walk towards the garage. There is a side door with a six-panel window above the brass knob assembly. We walk towards it with internal sirens glaring. The window panes are covered by dark gray curtains. I grab my handkerchief, not having a surgical glove handy, and test the door. It is locked.

"Cough loudly in three, two…"

At one I break a pane of glass with the butt of the shotgun and reach inside to open the door.

The smell is overpowering. I find the light switch and flip it on.

No Longer in Service

 350.

Julie relays back in response that chatter is at level eight. "Something is going down - and soon," She adds along with a warning suggesting that, at least for the time being, we abandon the experimental methods and default back to what we do best.

"I have no problem with that, we are en route to meet with Howard Turkin, at his behest, in regards to what I believe is the cause of the chatter. Will advise upon confirmation, please stand by."

I terminate the call and advise Mustang to add a few RPMs to the tachometer reading, "Turkin sounded like a heart attack in progress, he also mentioned, perhaps unwittingly, perhaps not, that we have one hour and that the clock is ticking."

The big block Chevy engine seems to enjoy the stimulus, adding an octave to its powerful internal-combustion hum. We are fortunate that the passing lane is clear and traffic light. I decide against using the portable blue light due to our progress, the dark windows and .gov plates identification enough.

"What are you thinking?" She asks settling into an 80 mph groove.

"Not sure, but my gut tells me that Turkin has suddenly decided that a diplomatic compromise might be in his best long-term interest. Or we could be walking into an ambush, one of the two."

"How did he use the 'clock's running' phrase?"

"Exactly that, but I got the chills considering that it might be proxy for a timer count-down."

"IED?"

"That's my guess, and from what we have already confirmed they have recruited vets that have been trained by the best. Julie also said that chatter is at level 8, meaning there is a 50/50 chance that the timer has already been set, sequence started."

"OK, we have the why and the what, so we need the where?"

"Third option: He might be intentionally leading us away from the target to increase chances of success. We might be doing exactly what he wants is to do - stay as far away from the action as possible," I comment, very much thinking out loud.

"So you are saying he has made us?" She asks.

"Don't know, but hopefully we soon will. Take this off-ramp and head East."

As she expertly pulls the exiting maneuver, I reach for my cell and hit the number Howard called from less than a half-hour ago. And I hear the one voice I did not want to hear.

"Your call cannot be completed as dialed, the number is no longer in service…."

"Shit."

We Got a Live One

349.

Texas sized steak in hand, we continue the commute to the FBI station at the Capitol. I have had to 'negotiate' a rules exception to 'smuggle' one (ice cold) Lone Star beer into the facility, a relative bargain matching the cost of a pitcher of Margaritas against a preemptive terrorist strike. By my standards Agent Kirkpatrick was easy.

"It's remarkable how you can steer people towards a desired result when you understand their motivation," Mustang comments as we lock up and load out. The image I form of the two of us, working towards the same end result, one toting a book and the other a steak, I find comical, a twisted snapshot of the American psyche. I can't resist, "How about we double down on the deal?" I ask, adjusting my cargo for better efficiency.

"Meaning?"

"I'll see your five Franklin's and raise the bet to ten, the caveat being that I say he won't get past the first chapter by the time I have 'Boots' singing like a proverbial canary."

"You're on, the first part is the best, and if he isn't hooked by page twenty, I have grossly mistook the psychology - and Timothy himself."

I ask if she wants to shake on it but looking at the cane in my right hand and the bag of culinary delights in the left she diplomatically declines. We are on the marble steps of the classic domed architecture when my cell buzzes like an angry wasp. Looking for a practical place to free one arm to answer I frustratingly tuck the cane under my left and try my compromised right arm for the task, a maneuver Mustang seems to find amusing.

I finally get my numb fingers to find the answer icon and offer a profession greeting. "This is Howard Turkin and we need to talk," the gruff digital voice commands.

"Sure thing Mr. Turkin, how about," I consider the play, "three this afternoon?"

"How about right fucking now, or I change my mind."

"We're in downtown Sacramento and it'll take at least an hour to get there, so begging your kind permission, will that work for you?"

"You have one hour. Clock's running."

Before I can stall the conversation in the attempt to gather more intel, he is gone. Mustang is staring at me questioning the call. I put the phone back in my pocket and stare at the glistening white marble. I recall how Michaelangelo said that carving stone was simply a matter of releasing the art held captive inside.

"What's up?" She asks.

"Boots is going to have to wait for his meal and Sheener for his read." I walk the last twenty feet to the entrance and hand the feedbag to the officer standing on guard, explaining our predicament and wishing him bon appetite in a single sentence.

"Go get the car and pick me up here, I need to make a call."

Mustang hurries back towards the Escalade as I pull my phone and dial Julie in DC.

"I think we got a live one - in progress."

I Got This

348.

California mornings in spring can be glorious. Until the volume of automobile traffic fills the air with internal combustion exhaust. By then the mixture of heat and carbon dioxide creates the atmospheric pollutant known as smog. On our way back to visit our 'subjects' my eyes are dry, itchy and stinging. "No wonder the locals wear shades and carry Visine like we carry Chapstick," I comment to Mustang, sitting upright with her hands at ten and two.

We used the early morning to brief Julie on our progress, to receive intel updates and learn of the current situations in Madison, Austin and DC. In both the Wisconsin and Texas capitols - without the luxury of having previously incarcerated suspected terrorists to prod - Davis and The Queen have been on a 24/7 stakeout of a person of interest reputed to lead the local Proud Boys cell. Interestingly, it is the same scenario with Drysdale and Saunders in Austin, with the only difference being their targets are affiliated with the Oath Keepers. Sometimes, I consider to myself, you need a program to keep track of all these pissed-off white dudes. In DC, Harlan reports that the Capitol Police and National Guard have each added personnel to their rosters, making their job all the easier. I wish we had that luxury - but we have 'Boots' and Sheener.

"Do you think it could all be as easy as them just wanting to belong to something larger than themselves?" I ask removing my sunglasses to wipe my eyes.

"I think that is a large part of it. Many are from broken homes with little or no discipline. In the case of the men, which sums in at more than 90%, negative or nonexistent male role models are sadly the norm. No wonder so many kids find their tribe in music or sports."

"Totally agree, that and the economic reality of education rebellion. Once you decide, or it is decided for you, to drop out, the prospects of working for minimum wage skyrocket. Making the margin for error right around zero. Crime and delinquency begins to look like the only ways out. There, take the next off-ramp…"

Mustang doesn't question my command and jumps two lanes in one move, smoothly exiting the freeway and joining traffic on a major arterial and connecting to a giant western looking restaurant advertising "The Biggest Steak this Side of Pecos" from its gabled roof.

"Looks like its happy hour for carnivore cowboys," She quips in response to the parking lot full of pickups.

She parks the giant Escalade in the last row of parking, a good hundred yards from the entrance. I am a touch perturbed in her choice but grab my cane and set off to trek across the asphalt mesa, shooting her a questioning glance as I shut the door. "This is gonna be the easiest $500 I've ever made, be right back."

"You are going to have to earn it Honcho. And don't forget the spud. I'll be here collecting my notes on the post-read discussion," she says holding up the copy of A Man in Full, the book she is putting up against my thirty dollar marbled slab of beef.

I walk across the burning parking lot considering both sides of the good-natured wager. Yes, I agree that Mr. Wolfe's 750 page moral treatise is compelling, but my next step is a Pavlovian moment of almost tasting that two inch, bone-in Ribeye.

And I know I got this.

Five Franklins

347.

We both stiffen in contemplation. The air-conditioning, once heard to be humming right along in cavalier and carefree non-attachment, is now silent, leaving the small room suddenly stuffy with the lingering atmosphere of conflict. "Should we discuss it further?" She asks, jarring my attention away from the gaudily painted ceramic pachyderm seemingly guarding one end of a row of leather bound books. "The ticking clock?" I ask, removing all doubt as to the location of my attention.

"Your ascertain that my methods are inferior to yours, remember? We began this dialogue with the implied goal of sharing notes in order to add credible data to the progress of the 'modern' system. And in doing so, of course, save the world from an imminent domestic terror attack on the capitol of California, that same world's sixth largest economy, in the process."

"Quite frankly I am still unconvinced that, on paper or in theory, one is better than the other. With so many variables blowing in the wind, I remain firm in the belief that we do, as we always have done, whatever works best and fastest," I offer meekly.

"All well and good for now, under the gun and against the clock, but you can't argue about the enormous long-term benefits of a grassroots education paradigm with transparent opportunity for everyone, regardless of circumstance."

"I can't, correct. And I won't. In this situation however, I see the fastest route between the dots, flipping either Shoemaker of Sheener to get upstream before another catastrophe explodes in our face, as a present, right here and right now situation, not something done after completing a reading assignment. Sorry."

"OK. I agree. And for the sake of our relationship, I am over it."

"Over what?"

"Over your remarkably crass comparison between the two extremes, that stung a little, but I refuse to take it personally, and I trust that you will let it go as well." She says as a semi plead.

"Outstanding. You got a deal. Let's move on."

"Not so fast Flash, one more thing."

"Yes?"

"I'll bet you five Franklins that my guy flips before yours. I mean, a steak? Really? He is so gaming you."

I laughingly, graciously, accept her offer and look at the painted pachyderm still holding his (or her) side of the books in Sisyphusian stoicism and smile at him (or her) for being the last standing elephant in the room.