CC Ryder, Mercy Me! - At My Friend's Place

BILL CADY 

Post Office Box 567 

San Luis Rey, California 92068-0567 

Tel: (760) 803-6690 

Fax: (760) 637-2862 

bill@billcady.com 

WORD COUNT: 78,155 

CC Ryder, Mercy Me! 

Leviticus, Limited 33-0505963

CC Ryder, Mercy Me! … by Bill Cady 1 

The CC Ryder series is written in this order. The stories are sequential, meaning you may enjoy 

them better reading them in the order they were created. 

CC Ryder, Jurist 

CC Ryder, Still Looking 

CC Ryder, Guilty of Nothing 

CC Ryder, It's Now Or Never 

CC Ryder, You Scratch My Back 

CC Ryder Never Gives Up 

CC Ryder, Picking Up The Pieces 

CC Ryder, Like Mama, Like Daughters 

CC Ryder, It's My Party, I'll Cry If I Want To 

CC Ryder, The Stalking Siren 

CC Ryder, Spanning The Gap 

CC Ryder, Beyond The Gap 

CC Ryder, Seeing Justice Done 

CC Ryder, Mercy Me! … still being written 

Wrecked. 

CHAPTER ONE 

San Diego, California 

Monday, December 22 nd , 2008 … 7:04 p.m. 



It's not a term used often to describe another human being. As a matter of fact, because 

I'm such a voracious reader, I'll bet I've read eleventeen-hundred and eighty-eight books in my 

life and I don't think I've ever seen anyone described that way. I really don't. 

However, that's the most accurate way to tell someone what the man standing before me 

looked like. Wrecked. Ruined. Stranded. Left all alone in a location so far from anything worth 

knowing it's impossible to return from it. So remote you can't get here from there. You'd have to 

go elsewhere to start a return journey. The place he'd been dispatched to was simply too distant 

to even connect to a path back to the world. 

What made it even odder, more unacceptable, was the victim of the moment. You see, of 

all those books I've read, this man wrote the very best ones. 

Sheesh! Where are my manners? My common sense? To be fair, I'll need to back up to 

explain some of the important facts so you'll understand what I'm saying. 

My name, as you know, is CC Ryder. I'm a judge with the San Diego Superior Court in 

North San Diego County, working from the Vista courthouse. I'm a family woman who lives in a 

beautiful house on the beach located a little bit outside of Encinitas, halfway between San Diego 

and Oceanside, California. Who I am isn't really an important part of all this, but it does serve as 

a connection linking the fine man I'm talking about and the horrible situation he's now involved 

in. Because of me. That part hurts me just to think about it. 

It's fair to say the problems, and they are multiple, began with some very sleazy rapes. I 

don't mean to imply there's ever been a "good rape". Criminy! I was a rape victim myself, six 

years ago when the man I loved and I were on the beach at a lake in northern Michigan. A girl 

walking with us, a sweetheart teen named Chelsea Dunnigan, was raped and murdered. My guy, 



Baker Mann, was beaten within an inch of his life and emasculated. I was so severely raped and 

brutalized inside I'll never bear children naturally. However, the man I've given my life to now, 

Donnie Oldrunner, and I have four beautiful babies and we're very happy together. Still, as the 

focus isn't on me at this point, we'll get to that part later. 

The rapes to which I refer were committed against my court reporter, Tabatha Marshall, 

and a wonderful woman who's also recently become my friend named Adele Nostrum. They had 

both joined one of those danged singles services and were set up maliciously. The people who 

ran a lowlife scam were scouring these sites to get first dates. The dates were, of course, all with 

unsuspecting women, although there was a woman among the sleazebags, too, who dallied with 

men on those sites. Her interests, however, were confined to prurient sex with almost any man 

who caught her fancy. The guys were an altogether different story, even more revolting. 

They'd duped a young girl who worked at various Starbucks stores into being a part of 

their scheme. In brief, they used "date rape drugs" in a woman's drink to incapacitate her, then at 

least two men at a time would have sex with her while she was incoherent and videotape it. The 

rapists would then vanish without a trace, leaving the women unknowing, feeling the guy was 

yet another slug who promised to call her, but didn't. Some time afterward that woman involved, 

pretending to be an attorney for a wealthy pervert, would contact the woman who'd unknowingly 

been violated. The ruse was her "client" had bought supposed porn tapes and learned the woman 

wasn't just some porn star. With an alleged "investment" of $10,000 then at stake this fictional 

pervert wanted to recover, the phony woman lawyer would offer to sell the photos back "at cost" 

and keep everything private. While we don't know exactly how many were victims of this sting, 



one was connected to me as my court reporter. My secretary-office manager, Tez Fischer, came 

upon the other, that girl named Adele Nostrum. 

Because of some unusual circumstances and Tez tipping me to all this, when I found out 

the police were undermanned and wouldn't be able to do anything about it, I saw red. I set up my 

own "counter-sting" to get these lizards. My other co-best buddy, in addition to Tez, is a cop I 

met a year or so back named Angela Dutton. She's a Detective First Grade with the San Diego 

Police Department who insisted on taking part on a personal basis. If the Department couldn't do 

anything officially, she was still game to help me. Her associate, Detective Carlina Torres, took 

part for the same reason. Dedicated, pissed off and seeking justice, we all got started. 

Among the things we hadn't counted on were the people involved on the other side, far 

more than we anticipated. Nor their true motivation, and the power they wielded. Everything was 

soon turned upside down and the whole matter became scary as can be. 

As it developed, the two guys doing the actual physical rapes were twin brothers. Both 

came to the USA from the Ukraine via Brighton Beach, a section of Brooklyn, New York. It's 

now largely overrun with criminals from the former Soviet Union and the surrounding territory. 

They were paid assassins who relocated and set up shop doing the same thing in our country. As 

I understand it, a few years back they killed someone too high on the food chain to allow them to 

remain at large where they'd been living and went underground. They surfaced here in San Diego 

County and were lying low until the heat cooled off. Made wealthy by what they'd done before, 

they had no need to commit any crimes. 

Unfortunately, they were bored. Bored and horny. Possessed of a criminal mentality, it 

made sense to them to solve the problem via lucrative sex crimes. They'd make money and get 



what they craved at the same stroke of a brush. While it may have been a feasible and viable 

theory from their demented perspectives, none of it sat well with anyone else. Their names were 

supposedly Brett and Brock Mandelbrot, but they were phony, of course. 

The one masquerading as Brett, if you can wrap your mind around something so utterly 

abhorrent, stooped to the low point of murdering his own twin brother to escape detection and a 

prison sentence. A total animal in every respect. However, he wasn't done murdering people by 

that point. It was more that he was just getting started. Perhaps that will tell you how creepy it all 

became in such a hurry. 

Jeez, this is getting involved, but you need to know it to make sense of what's happening 

in our world at the present. The twin who murdered his brother is actually named Boris Manlinin 

and he's even creepier than you might be thinking. However, even if the guy is an absolute turd 

in every way, he's subject to some of the same failings we are. As I understand it, he fell in love. 

In itself, that's not unusual. I absolutely love my guy Donnie to pieces, but I could never do any 

of the evil and nasty things this dirtbag has done. He fell in love with a rather wealthy and well 

connected tramp named Melissa Detweiler. She's an otherwise average looking girl in her mid 

20s willing to have sex with anyone. Dang it, I mean anyone, too. Man, woman, good, bad, one 

at a time or in groups. No minimum requirements on her partner. 

I know. It makes me feel a bit urpy, too, but people like that do exist. Oh, but she has one 

other bed partner, this one of longstanding. Are you ready for this? It's her brother. 

Oh, puke! I'll admit I'm an only child, not spoiled, spanked on rare occasions as a kid, and 

I've never been called a prude. Still, with her own brother? Good Lord, how disgusting! 



In any event, she'd have sex with this Manlinin guy, but she wouldn't commit to him in 

any way. That leaves him in competition with her brother. How sick is that, I ask you? 

This Manlinin is a pain in more than one butt and for a number of reasons. We haven't 

figured out all of 'em yet, but we're getting there. By "we", I mean my cop friend Angela Dutton 

and me. And a few other cops she has involved. And "Federal weight", as she calls it. We have 

reason to believe all these things are connected and the link in every case is this Manlinin jerk, 

who gets around, to say the very least. 

Manlinin has a friend, if I use the term very loosely, who is a career criminal. Angela 

says it's all "small stuff", beyond the fact she's rather certain he's killed a few people. I'm sure it 

sounds tacky but, according to Angela, any killings he may have done were all NHI cases. In cop 

talk it means No Humans Involved. Merely other scumwads like himself. Career criminals and a 

lot of what would be seen as "lowlifes". While I don't condone any killing other than to save the 

life of an innocent person, which I've done a few times myself, I'll confess I don't get up from my 

chair and pace with anxiety when a scumbag bites the dust. Not even sorry about it. For so many 

of them it just comes with the territory. 

In any event, this career criminal is named Casey Bingham. At the moment … well, until 

very recently, I guess … he was in a state prison for what would've been many years for armed 

robbery. Unquestionably, it wasn't his first offense, but he'd been caught, tried and sentenced. He 

made contact with a lady we know, a sweet black girl named Shandell who now works for a very 

prominent local criminal attorney. She wrote him in prison needing a big favor. He's known her 

for quite some time and she felt she could ask. He was actually her last hope. 



Her teen cousin, Varshawn Bristol, allowed himself to be caught up in the gang life. He 

was a participant at a crime that ended in some innocent deaths. Without an intervention, he'd've 

died in prison when he was in his 70s, maybe earlier because it's such a grungy lifestyle. Being a 

boy, he'd've also been the target of sexual predators in that prison. When she asked Casey's help, 

he explained the prison rules are very different than life is on the outside. Shandell is black, as is 

her cousin. Casey Bingham is a white male. In the prison system the races aren't even allowed to 

talk beyond a greeting and inconsequential things like "how are you?". If they do, it means they'll 

be beaten, maybe killed. Quite often they're also sexually molested by gangs of other inmates. It 

proves our prisons are not Mr. Rogers' neighborhood, I guess. 

However, Casey Bingham knew a black convict named Major Gaynor. We also knew of 

him. He'd been a rising star in the San Diego County Republican party and was a candidate in the 

2004 county supervisor's race. A man named Jerrod Detweiler, the sleazy brother of that outright 

slut named Melissa, was running as a Democrat. 

Do you feel the strings drawing this together a little bit? 

This harlot Melissa arranged to willfully have sex with Mr. Gaynor and three other black 

men, all at one time. It was her idea, and she even tried to recruit a relatively naïve girl named 

Della Purcell, going by the name Jaden Dormer at the time I met her, to assist. In other words, it 

was her idea to have sex with all these men. 

The next day she cried rape and Mr. Gaynor, along with his friends, was sent to prison for 

what would've actually meant his entire life. He was an innocent man, but she got him sent off to 

prison. It then meant her brother, well behind in the polls until that point, won the election. 

How convenient. 



With the help of Shandell, Angela got a few different people together, made excellent use 

of what she calls "Federal weight" because it was tied in with the Boris Manlinin matter, and got 

Mr. Gaynor released from prison into her custody. Casey Bingham and Varshawn came along in 

the swap due to the power of that "Federal weight". 

That was, by no means, the end of it. Not even close. 

This Manlinin is truly an ogre. In addition to killing his brother, he used a knife to slay a 

girl peripherally involved in the case named Donna and even tried to kill the woman involved in 

the blackmail scheme they had going. In a related matter we haven't yet resolved, that very same 

woman also tried to seduce my new writer friend, Bill Cady, rather enthusiastically. Worse, she 

even became a party to a thankfully unsuccessful attempt to blow up our home and kill a lot of 

good people, although Angela isn't yet certain whom was the specific target that time. 

Be that as it may, she did so in conjunction with what we believe is this Manlinin slob 

and another man, but they made the entire incident bizarre beyond any comprehension. 

Without belaboring the point and including far too many details, my new dear friend and 

favorite author ever, Bill Cady, became a collateral damage victim by the last step in a macabre 

and sinister event. While I hold Bill is a very handsome man and uniquely charming, with a very 

folksy manner, he says otherwise. Still, it seems he's never had any problem getting women into 

his life, but he's never found one he chose to keep. Now, around age sixty, he's divorced and, as 

he puts it, "alone except for my pet bear". He has a small stuffed bear he calls Kadiak de Kodiak 

as a best buddy, and no woman in his life. Swears he'd been done with the idea for a few years, 

but he does still date from time to time. 



In that oddest of fashions known as Fate, Bill encountered Adele Nostrum at our place 

and all the seismographs went berserk. I wouldn't even question it if told the electrical pull those 

two created threw the radar out of whack on any planes using Lindbergh Field in San Diego at 

the time. They were sucked together as if a fusion magnet was attached to each and the ground 

shook all the way up to Malibu, for Pete's sake! Criminy! That man and woman went absolutely 

nuts over each other. Talk about two people who are the victims of static cling? I mean! 

It never got to the sickening part where they were pawing each other, or tongue wrestling 

in front of everyone. They didn't make people think they'd walked in on a frantic spit swap meet 

of some kind, but no one's imagination had to make any Olympic leaps to picture it when they 

were away from the crowd. 

Which was very seldom and even more fleeting. 

Adele was staying with us. I think I mentioned it, along with Tabatha, because this very 

evil Manlinin was trying to kill them both. Bill was here as often as he dared, and there aren't too 

many things that guy doesn't dare. Meaning he left late and showed up early. They were both 

gaga for each other. Not in a sickening way, as I said, but in a fashion I found very touching. It 

was enough to bring a tear to my eye a couple times. Two people so anxious to find a partner, 

who had both given up, then stumbled upon each other. I even asked Bill if what he'd found with 

Adele might inspire a novel in that regard. 

He told me it takes no talent to write a love story and even less imagination, although he 

added he's convinced all love stories are 100% fiction. Perhaps with Adele, I wondered, that may 

change, but I didn't say anything about it to him. In many ways, I'm very glad I didn't. 



Three people appeared offshore late this afternoon as Bill and I sat talking up on the third 

deck of our house. The house is three stories overlooking the Pacific in Encinitas with a deck on 

each level. A speedboat of some kind came tearing at us, but stopped 200-300 yards away from 

the sand. The people in it, whom we surmise were Manlinin, the slutty pretend-attorney woman 

from the scam, and a guy we don't know, set about their tasks. They sent up a remote controlled 

airplane, circled the boat at first, then sent it charging toward us on the deck. 

The bleeping thing had a freaking bomb attached! 

I got lucky on my fourth shot and it exploded. Then, as if they'd swiped a scene out of an 

unbelievable Bruce Willis movie or something, these heathens also dispatched a half dozen men 

in black ninja suits. Those movie monster figures were swarming over our house, for Pete's sake! 

It was absolutely kaka! 

They broke in via the ground floor patio deck. My guy, Donnie Oldrunner, is a Luiseño 

Native American, himself a killing machine of the first degree with only his hands and feet, but 

he was away at the time. He had four fellow Luiseños present, all ex-marines and extremely well 

trained in hand-to-hand combat, guarding us. They herded our babies and the others into what we 

call the "safe room" on the ground floor. One was to go into the locked and fortified safe room 

with them while the other three stood guard outside. 

When Bill and I made it down there, me with my .380 Beretta and Bill with a 9mm I took 

from a dresser in my bedroom, one of the ninjas was already dead. Two of Donnie's guys were 

also killed, with one still alive and being attacked by three ninjas. 

Honestly, I just feel silly saying this, but they were dressed head to toe in black. Just like 

all the weird ninjas in movies. One of the three attacked me, the fool. As if I was going to let his 



eerie, guttural shriek freak me out or something? When two shots into his chest only slowed the 

nimrod down, telling me he had body armor, I put three into his freaking face. 

That got his blasted attention. Count on it. 

In the interim, never a man to sit idly by and chew the fat when there's work to be done, 

Bill grabbed a fireplace poker and made ski-mask-wrapped hamburger of another ninja's skull. 

The sleaze was dead before he knew about it. 

The last weirdo got away out the sliding door, but he threw what we first thought was a 

freaking grenade at us on his way out! Criminy! Did the three of us ever hit the deck in a hurry! 

However, it wasn't a grenade. It was a note. 

Odder yet, it was for Bill. 

Good grief! The man's a guest in our home and has been there primarily, other than as a 

visitor when he showed up before meeting Adele, because she was there. No other reason. 

The note said these people would get in touch with Bill soon. It insisted he has some item 

they want, although there's no telling what it might be. It also menaced they have something Bill 

wants and, if he fails to cooperate, it will be destroyed. So, on a first-things-first basis, we left the 

man at the door to guard it while Bill and I searched the house. Finding no intruders, we came 

back to the ground floor, both of us completely at a loss as to what those evil jerks might mean. 

It's not proven yet beyond any doubt we have the answer to that question, but we both 

think we do. If so, it's a rather glaring fact. 

Adele Nostrum is missing. 

Bill seems to have put it together at the same speed I made my assumption. 

That's why I see what I now see. 



Bill Cady is standing in front of me looking into the room where we expected he'd find 

Adele when we opened the door. 

Bill is wrecked. 

CHAPTER TWO 



For a long time, the largest part of a minute, I stood in place. Stared at Bill. Sensed if I 

moved too quickly he might shatter. Come apart in irreparable pieces and fall to the floor as a 

pile of shards that were once a strong and caring man. It made me think of easing into the water 

when a toe test says it's pretty danged cold. Chilly enough to possibly throw someone into shock 

if that person dived headfirst. 

First taking a step, I called, "Bill?" 

Nothing. He didn't see me. I could tell by looking at him. I took another step. "Bill?" 

Still nothing. His face said he couldn't see what he knew wasn't there, so he took one 

more hard look, still not seeing what he knew wasn't in the room. Then he did it again. 

Now his expression said he knew his eyes were lying to him and he'd decided to give 'em 

one more shot at it. An unspoken message told me he wasn't yet prepared to deal with hearing, or 

maybe it's better said as not hearing, that much truth. I made a decision and stepped in front of 

him. "No, Bill. No." I didn't want to finish it aloud. That'd be diving into the gelid water. 

Still not looking my way, he shook his head slightly. "No. Wrong." He gulped. "You're 

wrong." Shook his head again. Gulped again. 

"Come sit on a chair," I told him in a firmer voice. 



"Can't." Another headshake, his eyes still boring into the room. "Needs me. She does." 

Gulping again. "Needs me. Adele." He took a long breath, making it seem as if he'd forgotten 

and was just now getting around to breathing again. "Gotta be sure she's safe." 

"Come with me," I said more firmly, clenching his left elbow. "You need—" 

"No!" he snapped. "Leave me alone! Adele needs—" 

"Damn it, do what I tell you!" I barked back. 

That hit home. He shook his head once. Twice. Looked at me in surprise. "CC?" 

"Come," I repeated, tugging now as I guided him toward a chair on the wall to my left. "I 

want you to have a seat." 

Somewhat obediently, he allowed me to pull him slightly. Didn't exactly follow. It was 

more as if he was moving on his own while accepting I was diverting him. He gave the distinct 

impression he was trying to find a way around me so he could get into the safe room. 

"Bill, she isn't in there." Someone had to say it. He clearly couldn't see it himself. 

"Huh?" He shook his head again. 

"Bill, Adele's not there." Now I was the one taking the deep breath. I didn't see any point 

in covering the same ground all over again, but he created the impression we were heading into a 

chorus of what we'd just mumbled our way through. "We can't find her until you snap out of it." 

"Until I … me? Until I … where is she?" He leaned to his right, trying to look around me. 

Outside the door was Tommy Tallman, the Luiseño who'd stayed with the two others now 

dead at our feet on the floor. Filling the doorway, leaving no doubt any adversary would only get 

inside the room now over his corpse, was the one other surviving Luiseño, Delbert Coldwater. 

Behind them, a glistening knife in her hand, prepared to make anyone who got past Tommy and 



Delbert wish they hadn't, was our oldest baby, Bren. On Bren's left, but a half step back, stood 

Adrianne, our child genius, with a look on her face announcing she wasn't always 100% gentle, 

especially where it concerned her family. 

An image flashed in my mind from last May when Daniel Barth tried to eliminate our 

entire family, using dynamite to do it when all his other insane attempts to kill us didn't work. I 

saw his last second escape attempt, with Adrianne's fingers clasping the remote detonator. That 

look of zero remorse on her face as she pressed her thumb and turned his body into a red mist to 

dissipate in the midnight breezes. An angel in every inch of her, a wimp or sissy in none of her. 

Tabatha Marshall, my court reporter, her right arm draped around the slender shoulders 

of Candy, our gourmet chef baby. Paul Girard, Bren's new husband, in a half crouch on her right, 

his thin and wiry frame poised to attack. Willing to do whatever it might require, no restrictions 

at all, to protect his bride and her family. 

That, and a glaring empty space. A position in the room that gave the impression it held, 

until minutes ago, the energy that was within Adele Nostrum. A space that seemed to apologize 

for not containing her at the moment. An open area with a reserved sign marking where she'd be 

standing as soon as she returned, yet with an uncertainty she'd be able to do so. 

"We don't know, Bill. Those men … those weirdos in the ninja suits … must've taken her 

when they ran. I think that's what the note means," I added, touching the piece of paper gripped 

in between his left index finger and thumb. 

Bill flinched and moved it away protectively, now watching my hand a second before his 

eyes rose to meet mine again. "Took her?" 

I nodded. "I think so. Bill, we have to call the police." 



"Yes," he said listlessly, now raising his right hand. He examined the 9mm it held, the 

gun I got him from my bedroom on the third floor before he and I came charging down the stairs 

to what we'd hoped was the rescue. "Must find Adele," he declared as he turned and strode off 

toward the patio door that would let him out facing the beach. Two steps later, he stopped. Made 

a u-turn, came back and placed the weapon on the chair, thumbing the safety once to be sure it 

was on. Wheeling again, he only made it one stride back toward the patio before he spun on the 

ball of his left foot and came back. He lifted the firearm, stuck it into the rear waistband of his 

jogging suit and muttered, "Probably need it." Reversing course, he was doorway bound again. 

Rather than argue, I stepped after him quickly, yanked the gun out and said, "No, Bill. It's 

not a good idea." 

He turned once more. Eyed the weapon in my hand. Looked up to me, then back to my 

hand. Sighed. Gave the impression he was going to trust me partway on this. "Why?" 

"We need to tell the police … and quickly … what happened so they can get started on a 

way to get her back here safe. Then we have to get your thoughts in order so you can help her." I 

moved a step closer to the man, lowering my voice. "Bill, Adele is now going to need you to be 

in good shape. On top of your game so we can get her back. Bill, I need to have you tell me now. 

Are you going to do this the hard way, or the smart way?" I gulped, deciding to go for broke at 

this point. "If we don't have full use of your mind, we may not get Adele back at all. So, which is 

it going to be?" 

For a moment he just gaped at me. Then something crossed in his eyes. A force of some 

kind made itself felt as it resumed control inside his head. One more sigh. "Smart way." 



"Good. Then, we'll all be okay. Give me a sec so I can call the police," I told him in a 

very matter-of-fact tone. "Then we can talk about all this." 

One hand up, palm facing them, I kept everyone still inside the safe room while I made 

my 911 call. Then I called Angela and told her what happened. She'd already gotten something 

on it from someone because she told me, "On my way, lights and siren!" She was heading to us 

from somewhere in San Diego when I reached her cell. 

Rather than leave him out here alone, hoping if I occupied some of his attention with a 

duty it'd help, I told Bill, "Come with me. They need us in there." Then I took his left hand and 

made my way into the safe room. When Bill and I got in there, everyone gave proof they hadn't 

forgotten how to talk. The clamor was instantaneous and sustained. Everyone got a hug and a 

kiss from me while Bill pretty much stood guard, unarmed, and waited. Tommy and Delbert 

stayed outside the door to make sure no one unauthorized showed up. 

When I called 911, I stressed we were all in the downstairs area and insisted any officers 

should come to the back patio. A minute or so later a sheriff's deputy called out in a loud voice, 

"Sheriff's Department!" 

Making sure my hands were up and away from my body, I went to greet them. At first it 

had only been one deputy, but another, then another, and yet another all showed up in what felt 

like another minute or less. Shortly thereafter some people wearing suits arrived, with a rather 

disturbed Detective Angela Dutton, San Diego Police Department, on their heels, her badge now 

hanging from the left outer breast pocket of her suit coat. 



She spoke right away with the uniformed sergeant on the scene and the detective now in 

charge, explaining it was a joint investigation and was tied to a case she was currently working. 

Then she took me aside and said, "I have a surprise for you." 

"Oh, Lord. What now?" 

"Remember I told you about all the 'Federal weight' on this case?" 

"Of course," I assured her. "How could I forget after all that's happened?" 

"I don't know," she said, her eyes tightening at the edges. "But that 'weight' is coming and 

will be here in only a few minutes. As if I need that bullshit right now." 

CHAPTER THREE 



We were involved for a while giving statements, with Bill and me separated until we'd 

made our recounting, twice apiece. It was the same as all police investigations. They want to get 

a story … any story will do, but they insist on getting something on tape … then they want to go 

back over it. And over it. And over it again. And again. The true method to that madness is to see 

how close repeat versions are to the original, with special attention paid to any lapses, omissions 

or additions. They don't appreciate "photocopies", by any means, meaning a verbatim repeat of 

the same thing, but they want to hear the same story, in general. Repeatedly. 

In this case we were given a little rhythm, meaning they cut us some slack, because of my 

pal Angela. She stepped up to my side with her badge on display and cop attitude unmistakable, 

telling the detective, "Can we grille these two a bit later? Looks to me like we've got a 'walking 



wounded' on our hands," she emphasized, gesturing toward the stricken looking Bill Cady, "and I 

think Judge Ryder is the crutch he needs at the moment." 

The remark got her a nod in return from the detective, who instructed me, "Yeah. I do see 

what you mean. Go prop the man up before he falls on his rear end." 

I went over to Bill, took his left hand in my right and smiled at him. "I called Donnie and 

he'll be here within the hour, but you and I need a ciggie break." 

He glanced my way, still seeming as if he'd had a half dozen high-powered bullets graze 

his head on both sides, concussing him, patted the pocket of his sport shirt, and shrugged. "I had 

one a couple minutes ago." Distractedly, he pulled one out and lit it. "The cops might get mad if I 

smoke inside the house now." He took a drag and held it in a moment, then released it with a soft 

snort. "Got to be careful." Proving he was still only partly connected to reality, he took one more 

hit on his Winston 100 and shrugged. 

Tugging on his hand, I gave him a smile. "We have permission. I told 'em we were going 

upstairs to the second floor deck. C'mon, we need to talk." 

Bill followed me, muttering, "Man, I hate it when a girl says that." 

The inanity of it made me chuckle, but we went up the stairs, me still holding his hand. I 

grabbed a jacket from the closet near our front door and pulled one of Donnie's larger jackets off 

a hanger. I handed it to him, saying, "Put this on. It's getting chilly outside." 

More meek and mild than I could've imagined, he complied, then allowed me to lead him 

down the hallway. I'd asked Candy, who's the de facto supervisor of both kitchens, ground floor 

and second floor where we do most of our meals, to get us each a beer. She showed up just as he 

and I were about to seat ourselves on the chaise longues, with Bill using the one on my left, and 



placed both cans of Pabst Genuine Draft on the table between our chairs. Stepping forward, she 

put her arms around me, kissed my cheek and said, "I love you, Mama." Then she whirled to see 

Bill, strode to him and went up on her toes. With a kiss on his cheek she assured him, "This'll all 

be cool when my Daddy gets back here. No sweat." Adding a hug for the road, she smiled at us 

in turn and went back inside, pulling the sliding door closed behind her. 

As we took our seats, the innate gentleman in him waiting until my fanny made contact 

before lowering himself, Bill sighed. "I haven't been a damned bit of help to anyone the past hour 

or so." 

"Not true," I argued. "You were a big help when that … I still can't even believe it really 

happened … stupid plane came after us. If I'd been out there alone, I might've waited until it was 

too late to put my shootin' iron to use. No, Bill, it's not fair to say you weren't on top of things all 

the way, start to finish. As I recall, you sort of scrambled that butthole's brains, literally, when 

we made it downstairs." 

"Whereupon I became as helpful as an infected pimple," he whispered defeatedly. 

Because it wasn't the nature of this man I was coming to know as a person and had begun 

to know rather well just from reading as many of his books as I have so far, I decided right away 

not to go there. "Don't give me that. You're a man, not a wimp." I fished out my own ciggie and 

he beat me to the punch with his lighter, showing it was an instinctive action, not something he 

even thought about. I took a drag and said, "You're looking shell-shocked, Bill, Tell me what's 

going through your head at the moment. Remember, we need you on top of your game if we're 

going to figure out what the heck's going on with this mess." 



The expression on his face was now really quite telling. This was a moment he knew in 

his mind had to come. Something he had no choice to address, and he was willing to do it, but 

only after any-all preliminary duties had been attended to in full. Much like taking care of any 

improv "busy work" before actually getting at the real purpose of a mission. I knew the feeling 

only too well, having done it eleventy-nine cajillion times myself in the past. 

"I'm still trying to make myself accept it," he said glumly. "It's as if one part of my mind 

wants to believe she's … shit, I don't know … in the potty, maybe? Ran on out to her car to get a 

book she's reading? Stepped into the kitchen to snag a beer out of the 'fridge?" He added yet one 

more shrug, the last available "busy work" task he could find. "I'm trying to get my head around 

the fact it happened at all, then the way it's hit me." His eyes fell to his knees, encased in a pair of 

no-name jeans. Another futile shrug. 

"I think Adele is the 'item' they were after, Bill. The thing they feel is important to you. I 

don't see how they knew she'd be so important to you, and I sure as heck wish I knew who 'they' 

are … for sure." Now I sighed, wondering at my own question and where we'd start. Probably, 

until Donnie showed up to take charge, we wouldn't do much more than air this out for Bill. I 

wasn't teasing or humoring him to any extent. I knew Donnie would find what Bill had to say to 

be valuable information. 

My remark seemed to help him focus a little. "I'm pretty sure the woman was the one we 

first knew as Abigail Aaron, then as Marcella Thrasher." He nodded, confirming it for himself. "I 

also have no doubt that taller guy who was standing in the boat, the one we saw dickin' around so 

much with the plane, was the one you say they're looking for. That killer bastard." 

"Manlinin," I explained. "Boris Manlinin." 



"Right. The other guy? No clue." 

"How would they know about Adele?" I asked him and the open air surrounding us. "It's 

not like you took out an ad in the U-T," was my comparison. 

"In a way, I did," he said. His face said he was assembling facts. Making them fit in order 

as he fleshed it out in his mind. "They wouldn't even need to have anyone inside the house to slip 

'em any info, come to think of it. Not if they broke into my house, something I wouldn't put past 

a group of alleged professionals." 

That one made me lean forward, curiosity etched on my face. "Why's that?" 

Reddening, he said almost sheepishly, "When I was back at the house in Oceanside to get 

a shower and change, I checked my e-mail. Even made a note on my Outlook calendar about the 

fact I met Adele." A long drag on the ciggie as he shook his head in disdain at what was coming 

to mind now. "As if I'm some kind of high schooler maybe? Is my face breaking out in pimples?" 

was the question to follow. "Here I am, acting like I'm about sixteen years old and now I may 

even be leaving notes around to point out where and why I'm most vulnerable? What kind of 

dipshit am I, anyway? Total high-school-fuck-around from the git-go." 

"Bill, there's no way you could've known. No one could." 

At first he looked as if he was going to argue the point, but it immediately became clear 

he saw the incongruity. "Yeah, you're probably right," he said, frustration evident in every word. 

"It's just … CC, you know I've given up on all that crap by now, don't you?" 

"That's what you said," I responded, "but I'm not sure we can ever really give up on any 

goal so important in life. We can say it, of course, but to honestly dismiss the idea from the realm 

of possibility, I'm not so sure we can ever do that." 



"Moot point," he conceded. "In my mind I was sure it was a done deal. Shitcanning the 

entire idea, I mean. Then, when I saw her …" His eyes moved up and out, sweeping over the 

vista of majesty that is the Pacific Ocean when darkness has settled in for the night. "It hit me 

like a damned train, I swear." 

"Your reaction to her?" I asked in a question that was its own answer beyond any doubt. 

A nod of confirmation. "Honest to God, I was weak in my knees. It felt like I'd known her 

since I was a kid, right there, that first … what? … minute? Second, maybe? Like I had to get to 

her and … shit, I don't know … hold her, maybe? Let her know how I felt? Make sure she knew 

I'd always be here to take care of her? Protect her? Keep her safe?" 

The man gave out an angry snort, taking the last drag on his ciggie and mashing it hard in 

the ashtray. "Nice fucking job you're doing so far, Cady. The assholes got her and you were all 

the help of a ruptured toenail." The last few words emerged with a seething undercurrent. 

"Bill, we couldn't've known. No one could." 

"Tell that to Adele," he said angrily, then scanned the mighty waters ahead of us again, 

his voice not raised, but growing sterner. Colder. "It stops here. It stops now. I will do whatever 

it takes, CC … what-fucking-ever-it-takes … to get that woman back here safely, or I'll damned 

sure die trying." 

"What could it be they want?" I inquired, steering the conversation away from the futility 

of chasing moonbeams and back to what mattered more at the moment. "What can you possibly 

have these people, whomever they might be, would want? Want badly enough to go to all this 

trouble? I've been trying to come up with something, but I can't do it." 



Again Bill shrugged. "It's impossible to even guess accurately. We'll have to wait until I 

… or you, or someone … hears from the shitheads. I mean, okay, I have money now. Selling all 

these books has produced a pretty decent pile of cash, but if these animals are big-time, as you 

suggest, that wouldn't do it. A few million is chickenfeed to someone like that. Hell, if it was just 

money they wanted, I'd say it was fine and dandy with me and fork it over on the spot, in cash." 

He scowled and lit another ciggie as he looked at me. "Every damned dime of it. What the hell is 

money if a guy can't manage to find happiness? It's nothing." 

I just watched him, expecting there was more to come. I stubbed out my ciggie, but kept 

my eyes on his face. Waiting. 

"That part. Shit, it could be kaka, too. I mean, I've met girls before where there was an … 

aura, would you call it? A connection? A link?" Again he shook his head. "Never anything even 

close to this powerful, but there, all the same. Each time it went poof as soon as the situation was 

taken back from the moment. Given a chance to stand on its own. That didn't happen here." His 

eyes locked onto mine. "I'm not going to use any asinine words like 'love', or any of that other 

crap. That's got to be the most misused, misunderstood word in our entire language system. I'm 

talking about something that just fits. Seems right. Feels right. As if, when I met her, I found a 

piece of the 'Bill kit' that's been missing." He shook his head. "When I put my arm around her 

shoulders the day I met her, it didn't feel wrong. You want to know what actually felt wrong to 

me, CC? It was all the times I didn't have my arm around her when I should've. That felt wrong. 

It's like I missed the damned boat when I didn't do it, not when I did." 



"I know," I told him, my eyes blurring with tears I hadn't realized were welling up until 

that moment. "Donnie and I have that. It's … it's … hard to understand," I admitted as it came to 

me. "Even harder to explain. It just is." 

More futility as he shook his head now. "Whatever it might be, if I have it and they want 

it, if that's all it takes to get her back by my side, I'll fork it over." Now, with only the dimmed 

shadows of light from inside the hallway and the glow of the heater sitting down by our feet to 

illuminate the area, those steely blue eyes of Bill's went icy cold. Eerily cold and emotionless, at 

least as far as any capacity for pity. "But, if they've harmed her in any way … I'm talking about 

dislodging a hair on her head that wasn't ready to fall free on its own … there will definitely be a 

few dead motherfuckers among the people who took her." 

I was then able to feel someone walking over the graves of those people, whomever they 

might be. Bill had just taken an oath with the darkness itself. There'd be no survivors if they'd 

done Adele any harm in any way. Absolutely none. 

CHAPTER FOUR 



Somehow coming out and committing to what he had in mind and was intent on doing 

put a rod of steel in Bill. Straightened him up and got him so filled with resolve it soon began to 

slosh and spill as he moved. Discounted initially as he tried to absorb the potentiality of a loss he 

was once so sure he'd never face again, he was girding up for battle to make sure he didn't fall 

prey to whimsy and fate. Every step we took on the way back seemed to enhance his mood. Put 

him more into the frame of mind assuring him he would be a part in solving this problem. 



Or else. 

We gravitated toward Angela, who was asking questions and taking notes, already having 

called her backup, Detective Carlina Torres. Mainly Bill and I were listening, trying to take it all 

in as we waited for Donnie to show up. He'd be our go-to guy on this in all areas where Angela 

and her huge police department weren't the most helpful. Beginning with the Luiseño people, and 

extending to levels many wouldn't believe, Donnie has contacts. A network. People he can call 

on, or prevail if necessary, to get things done without silly hindrances like warrants and other 

tools of the rights we give known criminals. 

Standing where we were, by the first floor patio door, and trying to stay out of the way as 

busy cops did cop things, I distractedly lit a cigarette. I hadn't even put the danged lighter back in 

my ciggie case when a sheriff's deputy stepped in front of me. Close. Too close for comfort, in 

my opinion. 

"You can't smoke here," he said curtly. 

"Pardon me?" 

"Put it out," he told me with a pompous gesture. "Now." 

"Look, deputy, for your infor—" 

"She doesn't have to do that," Bill broke in, shouldering past me so he stood closer to the 

lawman than I was. 

Reactively, the cop took a half step back. "If I say she—" 

"This is her house," Bill said with a quiet authority. "She's a crime victim. She won't be 

disturbing any evidence and there's no damned reason you need to pester the woman and be so 

damned bossy. Leave her alone." He fished out a ciggie and lit it. "Leave me alone, too." 



"Look, mis—" 

"Chill, deputy," was Angela's interjection. "He's right." She stepped closer, stopping at 

Bill's side. "If Judge Ryder wishes to smoke in her own home, leave the woman alone." Then she 

followed it up with a dose of "the Angela eyes". They could probably film that look and take it to 

Pamplona, in northern Spain, then play it when all those danged bulls start running. They'd see 

those eyes of hers, turn around as a group and head for the freaking barn. I'm serious. 

The deputy glanced at her SDPD badge, took another look into her eyes, shrugged and 

turned away. "Whatever," he muttered. 

The three of us spoke a few minutes, keeping our voices low, with Bill and me giving her 

as accurate a description as we could of the three people in the boat. She explained the sheriff's 

bomb squad was in our back yard now gathering as much evidence as possible. She also let us 

know they didn't have a whale of a lot more at the moment than what we'd already told them. It 

was a crime scene, as the deputy said, and they were putting a case together. 

Angela assured me they wouldn't make us leave the house, which I felt was important, 

crime scene or not. This is our home. Where our babies live. Where we all sleep. This place is 

the center of our collective world and I didn't want to face the idea we'd be booted from home at 

night with no place to go. Especially with a team of hobgoblins attempting to kill someone on the 

premises, name yet unknown, both of the killers and the potential victim or victims. She said we 

would be barred from the ground floor beyond going into and out of the garage area, but I saw it 

as an inconvenience only. Not a major hurdle. 

They'd been specific when they arrived about our youngest, smallest baby, Brittany. She 

had to go, they insisted. Too interested. Too excited. Might destroy evidence. Would get in the 



way and was a problem they didn't need. That's when we found out she had her own guardian, of 

a sort. It was quite a surprise. 

"If ya touch our doggie I'm gonna scratch yer eyes out!" barked Candy, our quietest and 

gentlest baby of all. Candy is the kind of young woman who, if she saw a fly land on the kitchen 

counter, would try to reason with it and ask it to leave before someone with a flyswatter saw he 

was there and harmed him. However, when it was Brittany's safety at stake, she was suddenly a 

fearless protectoress. She sprang forward, scooped the dog into her arms, then stood there as she 

stared defiantly at the cop. "I ain't kiddin' ya none, neither!" she snapped. "I mean it!" 

Her sisters, Bren and Adrianne, stepped forward and guided Candy and Brittany away 

before it became any more contested, then stayed off by a wall, remaining out of the way like 

Bill and I were doing. Adrianne dashed upstairs and returned with the leash, so Brittany was 

spared any additional conflict. 

We'd hit a momentary lull in the conversation with Angela. As a matter of fact, she was 

sort of eyeballing the ciggie I held and I was half expecting to hear "Gimme" from her, other 

cops present or not, when a scowl crossed her face. Either Brittany got loose and did a very rare 

boo-boo on the floor, with Angela inadvertently stepping in it, or she'd just seen something too 

gross and disgusting to overlook. 

"Cheese it!" she whispered hotly. "It's the super-cops." The grimace to follow told me she 

was seeing someone or something that evoked a host of bad memories. 

As a unit, Bill and I swiveled to look at what had caused Angela to glower that way. 

A woman had walked in through the garage area, opened now with a few people out there 

sifting for clues and-or evidence they'd never find. I already told them there was never anyone in 



the garage. Explained those ninja freaks came in through the beach side of the house, using the 

patio doors. She was attractive, but not beautiful. Late 50s with platinum blonde hair. She had a 

pretty mouth, one that looked as if it often smiled, but there was an aura about her promising she 

wasn't always pleasant. Made it clear if someone tried to bite her, they'd be in grave danger of 

being bitten in return, but much worse than what they inflicted. 

She was perhaps five six, no more than that, but not too awfully much more than 120 

pounds. Hazel eyes evinced a portrayal of power she'd earned, maybe even usurped, but never 

waited to have it given to her. She was the crux of a job that would get finished if she had any 

say in the matter. She was also a fight about to happen, or an irresolvable problem about to be 

encountered, if anyone stood in her way. 

When her gaze, which was sweeping our small domain, locked with Angela's, I had a hint 

of where Angela learned to bark. And bite. 

"Detective Angela Dutton. Hello, dear. And how are you doing?" she asked, extending 

her hand to shake. Without feeling it, I could sense she had a firm grip. 

"Not as well as I'd like to feel … now," Angela answered grudgingly. She peered down at 

the hand extended her way. Seemed to give it a moment's thought, then dutifully put out her own 

hand to accept the offering. "Hello, Olivia. What's your title now, if I might ask? No longer a 

special agent with the FeeBees, I know, and I heard you shitcanned the SAC job, too. Right?" 

"And it's nice to see you, too," the woman replied with a warmth I never questioned was 

pulled from a training session somewhere years ago. "Still the same warm, cuddly little thing I 

came to know and love, aren't you, Detective?" 



"Oh, you bet your sweet ass," Angela vowed, not even a trace of a smile on her face. "I 

hesitate to ask, but duty requires it. Why are you here, Olivia?" 

"To be involved in this investigation, of course," she responded. 

"Oh, that's just great," Angela told her with an air of disgust. "How many cops are you 

going to get killed this time?" 

CHAPTER FIVE 



The electricity in the air was almost crackling. I swear, honest to Pete, I could feel it in 

my hair. My scalp was tingling. I'd hate to think how big my eyes became at Angela's question, 

but I knew my buddy well enough to have no doubt she was severely pissed at this Olivia babe, 

whomever she might be. 

Some people might even try to call Angela a "pretty little thing", but they'd sense in a big 

hurry they were off base and want the words back. For one thing, she's not phenomenally little at 

five-seven, between 130-135, and the "pretty" part is true from a couple interpretations. She's an 

attractive woman, but tough. As quickly as she might kiss you, she'd also knock you on your butt 

or arrest you. Shoot you, if necessary. She's skeptical, untrusting, doubtful and leery all at once. 

Her icy blue eyes can pierce deeply enough to think if she did it in an operating room she'd be 

able to take out your brain and examine it under a microscope. The term a "cutting glance", if 

used with regard to that woman, might honestly draw blood. 

Those same eyes can stop a bad guy in his tracks. Make him pause in startled fear long 

enough for her to take action to defend herself. Her personality, when Angela believes it to be 



necessary, is "Type A" on steroids. If she's afraid of anyone at all, it would only be God, and I've 

heard she and that Deity normally just pass each other with polite nods in the hallway. Only if a 

man has all day to devote to an arduous task should he go nose-to-nose with Angela Dutton. In 

that case, the guy should also pack a lunch. He'll be there all day and into the evening. 

This woman named Olivia didn't seem to feel a big need to back down from Angela, but I 

also didn't detect any indication she was preparing to charge. Olivia appeared too worldly to be 

seen as foolhardy, and I had the sense she hadn't done anything rash since she was a teen, if it 

ever took place at all. Following a sudden urge, I took a half step back. If weapons were drawn, 

or fists began flying, I didn't want to be in the middle of it, but I wouldn't get far enough away to 

be unable to help my pal. 

Facing each other, no clue as to which was matador, which was the bull, the women had 

their eyes locked in bristling silent communication. Following what felt like five minutes of heat, 

Olivia gave a quiet chuckle. "You never will leave that resting dog alone, will you, dear?" 

"Your hair is very pretty," Angela said unexpectedly. 

Olivia looked at her, taken off base. Her expression swore she wanted to know why the 

compliment was offered. It also attested she'd die before she asked. 

"If you want it yanked out by the fucking roots … Olivia … call me 'dear' again." 

"Oh, my. We can be testy, can't we?" 

"Speak for yourself. From my end of it, anyone who does something that gets a brother 

officer killed doesn't get any fucking slack later on." 

The cutting remark made Olivia's hazel eyes narrow, but the smile was somehow amped 

up at the same instant. "I believe we might be better served discussing such matters in private," 



she suggested with the undertone of issuing an order. To emphasize what she had in mind, she 

turned only her head toward me, then Bill. Looking back at Angela, she added, "Little pitchers 

have big ears." 

"I had a Grandma, too," chided Angela, "but I don't use that many of her expressions. As 

far as the company I'm keeping, they can hear whatever you want to say to me in that regard, or 

other." 

Now Olivia's eyes tightened even more. "Not possible. I also have a need to discuss this 

matter with you in some detail," she explained, now using her eyes to sweep the location that still 

contained the bodies on the floor. "It's too involved for these people." 

"Oh? 'These people', huh?" Taking a step forward, she hissed, "Well, 'these people' are a 

part of my investigation. Anything you tell me you can damned well believe I'll tell Judge Ryder, 

and this man, as well. He has a serious stake in what's going on around here now and I, for one, 

do not intend to keep him ignorant of what's taking place as it pertains to his welfare." 

"This is a matter of high priority," Olivia stressed. "Clearance is required." 

"TFB, then," Angela challenged. "Too fucking bad. I don't have clearance myself. If I 

want to step in the Oval Office to see The Prez, they'd ask, 'Angela Who?' If I'm cleared to hear 

what you've got to say, I'm clearing them. If I'm not, tell your story down the street." 

"Perhaps," Olivia said with an unexpected half sigh as she gave ground. 

"No 'perhaps' to it. It's a done deal. So, back to basics we go, Olivia. How many cops are 

you going to arrange to have killed this time?" 

"That's an untrue statement and you know it is," argued the woman. 



"I think not. You were not only with the damned Feebs … you were, what, ten years on 

the job as an agent, then went to the SAC job? … but you took away my prisoner and put the 

dirty son-of-a-bitch in Wit Pro when I insisted otherwise. Didn't you?" 

"The man was a major player in an ongoing investigation." 

"A 'major player' my fucking ass, Olivia! That lowlife bastard was a drug dealer with a 

list of connections up the ass! We could've sweated the prick, gotten a helluva lot of names out 

of him, and still arranged a plea bargain so the bastard would've done some time in prison. But, 

no! You took the som'bitch away, used him for who the hell knows what, then stuck his mangy 

ass in Wit Pro. So, what happens not too long after that?" Angela suddenly stuck out her hand, 

the palm facing her adversary. "Don't even fucking try to say anything, Olivia! You stuck him in 

Wit Pro and, faster'n you can say 'piece of shit', that piece of shit was right back into the swing of 

it, wasn't he? Then he 'lost it' one day and killed a few people. So, the officers of the Fresno PD 

go to arrest his mangy ass and the prick knows he's not gonna get a second roll out of you people 

by then, not the damned Feebs! Consequently, the a-hole decides to do a 'suicide by cop' routine, 

except he screwed that up, too, by shooting back. In that happy exchange of fire a damned fine 

Fresno cop bites the fucking dust and you people had your way." 

This time Angela stepped to a foot away from the woman who was about an inch shorter 

and glowered into her face from only inches as she leaned in yet closer. "I'm tempted to drop my 

drawers long enough for you to kiss my royal ass, Olivia!" 

The silence was again crisp. Stinging. The acrid air surrounding Angela almost burned as 

it wafted our way. She was as pissed as I'd ever seen her. 



At the end of a moments long staring match that made itself felt as a period of penance, 

Olivia shrugged. "I'll give you that, Angela. You're correct and, to be quite honest, I can't argue 

with a single word you said. I'll even go a step farther," moving a barely perceptible step that put 

her almost breast to breast with Angela, "and say I was wrong in more ways than that. There'd 

been a couple other crimes with our offices involved where we leaned on you more heavily than 

was necessary. We also withheld information from you when we shouldn't've done so at times. I 

was following orders from my chain of command but, at the same time, I knew it was wrong. For 

that, I apologize." She again put out her hand to shake. 

First, Angela looked down at it, then let her eyes rise to the level she was staring again at 

the other woman's face. "Gimme a second," she said in a cold tone. "I'm still trying to decide if I 

should just kick your ass for all the trouble you've caused, or maybe I should let it go. I haven't 

made a decision yet." 

"You'd better hope you decide to let it go," Olivia countered with a steely gaze. "I don't 

think your department will grant you enough medical leave to fully recover after I'm done with 

you if you try." 

"You're that confident, huh?" 

"You don't want to find out," said Olivia. 

A few moments later, Angela took her hand. "Provisional. I reserve the right to kick your 

ass later if I change my mind." 

"And I renew my pledge to see you'll need hospitalization if you try." Olivia took a deep 

breath. "I'll give you some room because you were done wrong in a way on my watch. I will not, 

however, eat your shit. Don't ever forget that … Angela." 



The tension grew, the two of them standing face to face, their hands still enclasped. As 

the air was again ready to crackle, Angela released the air pent up in her lungs. "Set aside, for the 

moment. Let's go outside." As she turned, before she began walking, Angela told me, "Gimme." 

Stunned, I handed her a ciggie and my lighter. She lit it, handed me the lighter, then put 

her eyes on the deputy who bothered me a short time ago. "See what you started?" she snapped 

as she headed for the patio. "Damned county cops." 

Once outside, Olivia trailing her, Bill and me bringing up the rear, Angela leaned against 

the railing. "Talk to me." 

"In front of them?" Again, she raked us both with her eyes. 

"Old enough you've got a hearing problem, huh?" Angela gibed. 

"This is important," came the somewhat exasperated reply. 

"So are they. I told you, Olivia. If I know, they know. Make a decision." 

On the heels of a frustrated sigh of resignation came, "Very well. I now have a position 

with a department of the U.S. government. We deal with terrorism, primarily, and international 

matters. Most particularly anything that may involve foreign affairs or, as the classic cutups all 

like to call it, espionage." 

"The name of your department?" was Angela's next question. 

"You don't need to know." 

"You're shitting me? A Feeb and you don't want to talk about it?" She took a long drag, 

then spoke again. "Got a business card?" 

"No. I said you don't need to know." 

"Oh? Not even a badge?" 



"Please," came the word riding on a sigh dressed in scorn. "Not with the work we do. It 

would be inappropriate." 

"Then how do I know you're even connected any longer? You could be some shitcanned 

bitch who was dumped by the FBI and is out playing cowboy now." 

"The 'Federal weight' you mentioned?" Olivia inquired in what was crystal clear was not 

a fishing expedition. "It was all done under my authority. That's why I'm here now." 

"Bullshit. You could be making it all up. I have no proof you have any authority." 

"Part of the deal I approved involved a man named Major Gaynor and another named 

Casey Bingham." 

"Again, not top secret." 

"And a boy named Varshawn Bristol." 

"Still could've found that out other ways." 

"Your request to have the boy get a walk was turned down by what you thought was the 

real 'Federal weight'. He then spoke with his boss, called you back and said the kid would get a 

walk, as well." Olivia let it linger for a minute. "That's how I instructed him after he brought the 

final results to me. I am that boss." 

The crispness relaxed slightly. Angela looked the woman over again, then released some 

of the tension she felt, relaxing her shoulders a little. "Okay, you're the downtown article." 

"Our chief and most immediate concern is the man known as Boris Manlinin," Olivia 

said finally. "He's a skilled employee of a group known as 'The Side'." She chuckled, which at 

first caught me by surprise. "The name is a bit of sarcasm, if the truth be known. They're called 

'The Side', but they don't have one, really. They're an offshoot variation of the CIA, although not 



connected with our government in any way. However, a number of their personnel were once a 

part of the CIA. Mostly rogues and renegades the CIA cut loose for good cause." 

Ciggie in her left hand, Angela took a drag, held up her right one and beckoned at her by 

wiggling her fingers. "Say more, Olivia." 

"They are for sale to the highest bidder … and they can always find one. They do a great 

deal of terrorism, as I said, and much of their work is connected to international politics. We now 

know they have something sinister afoot, although we aren't yet sure what it might be. The worry 

is increased, however, because Boris Manlinin is now involved. 'The Side' only brings him in on 

a case when a rather elite killer is required, with an added touch." 

"Which would be?" 

"When it's to be gory or especially gruesome. Manlinin loves to kill and he gets a real 

kick out of doing it in as nasty a manner as he possibly can." 

"I'm listening," said Angela, taking another drag and staring at Olivia. 

"Remember I said I didn't want these people involved, will you?" asked Olivia with a 

thumb gesture toward Bill and me. 

in some way." 

"If you say so. Why bring that up again?" 

"Our intel leads us to believe Manlinin's involvement may very well be connected to him 

"Who in the hell is 'him'?" Angela asked in confusion. 

"This man," she responded, again with the thumb gesture. "Bill Cady. The writer." 

CHAPTER SIX 





After Angela and Olivia stood staring at each other like a pair of bulls accidentally left in 

the same pasture, they began kicking around a very generalized battle plan. I was still trying to 

shake the image I'd visualized of these two women, each menacingly pawing the ground with a 

front hoof, snorting as they readied themselves to charge, maybe. Envisioning that almost made 

me chuckle, but the reality of it made me think it wouldn't be a pretty sight. Not at all. I don't 

think Bill was at all anxious, either, to see them tear into each other. 

This wouldn't be one of those silly events where guys stand around, a beer in hand, and 

yell "Cat fight! Cat fight!" as the action unfolds. It'd be more like a "lioness fight", with at least 

one likely to cash in her danged chips when the music stopped. That concept somehow made me 

shiver. Another thought telling me if wouldn't be a pretty sight to see. 

Bill and I were saying nothing, just absorbing the bits and pieces of info and ideas as they 

began to flow between them. Then came an interruption I suppose it's safe to say we'd expected, 

but not this quickly. Bill's cell phone began to ring. Although he wears an earpiece … I think it's 

from Jawbone … we could hear it anyway. 

"Excuse me a sec," he said quietly as he prepared to turn and step away. "Got a call." 

"Our people already have a fix on your phone," Olivia interjected, "so they'll be taping 

this call and any-all others you get or make." 

"How the hell'd you get my damned number?" he asked, clearly annoyed. 

"Puh-leez," she answered sarcastically. 



As he took the phone from his pants pocket, the peeved expression departed his face. "I 

suppose it's for the best. I sacrifice a little freedom, but it's worth it if what you hear will help us 

get Adele back." 

"We want that even more than you do, Mr. Cady," she offered. 

"I doubt the hell out of that part," he told her, raising his right hand toward his ear. "Now 

we'll see just who the hell's calling me this time of night," he added, holding the phone in his left 

hand as he glanced at the front of it. "My contact list doesn't identify anyone and I sure as hell 

don't recognize the number." 

Olivia nodded as Angela moved in closer to Bill. I found myself easing his way, thought 

on it for a second, decided it was semi-silly and did it anyway. I was interested and I wanted to 

know who in the world it might be. He pressed the little bar on the earpiece and announced in a 

normal voice, "Bill Cady." He faced us collectively as he spoke, a half circle of women with our 

eyebrows cocked in anticipation. Removing the earpiece, he held it in his hand, on the palm, 

allowing the voice to be heard a yard away with no difficulty. 

"We have something you want, Mr. Cady." 

"I gathered as much." 

"We know how important Adele Nostrum is to you." 

"You don't know the half of it," he replied, his face stony. "She owes me twenty bucks." 

"We don't think that's the reason you want her back." 

"Got a mouse in your pocket, huh? Who the hell is 'we', white man?" 

"That doesn't concern you." 



"I see. You call me up to sell me something and don't even want to tell me who you are? I 

bet sales are way down this month." 

"We're doing just fine, thank you. What we want—" 

"How did you get Adele without anyone else seeing you do it? And so quickly? I know 

you didn't have much time. At least, those cartoon characters you sent didn't. What did you do to 

make it so damned secretive?" 

"She was in the restroom, which is closest to the sliding doors. It was a break that fell our 

way, saving the time required for a search. Just our good fortune, it seems." 

"How lucky for you," Bill said as he lit a ciggie. Quickly figuring out he was doing it to 

help himself relax, I got one for myself. As I got it going, Angela mouthed, "Gimme" and held 

her hand toward me. I complied as Olivia rolled her eyes, but kept my eyes and attention well 

focused on Bill and what he was saying. 

"Look," he said casually, "while I'm pretty pissed off at what you assholes did, I'm still 

willing to work this out without going to court over it. Tell me where she is and I'll come pick 

her up. Once that's handled, as long as you stay totally away from us afterward, I'm willing to let 

bygones be bygones. So, what's the address?" 

"The man is a comedian, it seems," said the caller pleasantly. He had a strong voice and a 

well modulated tone. "However, that's not what we plan to do and you know better." 

"Had ya goin there for a minute, didn't I?" he inquired, releasing a long drag while his left 

eye closed in a conspiratorial wink. "I figured you'd head me off at the pass. Okay, to whom do I 

make the cheque out and for how much?" 



"I'd say you're a riot, Mr. Cady, but the time for such foolishness has come and gone. By 

the way, there's not a chance any of the cops … or other law enforcement personnel you have on 

hand … will be able to trace this call. That said, I'm about to hang up. However, in order for you 

to gather whatever you'll need to pay what we do want, be prepared when we call tomorrow at 

some unknown time to give us everything you have on Hondo Wilkerson. By 'everything', Mr. 

Cady, I mean every fucking thing you have, no exceptions. All of it." 

Bill's eyes enlarged. "Don't quit your damned day job. That's not even close to funny." 

"I wasn't trying to be humorous." 

"Good, because you did a nice job of not being that way. Now, what do all you assholes 

want, really?" He was staring at something unseen about halfway down, somewhere around our 

knee level. His face was all twisted in confusion. 

"We want what I just told you, all the information you have on Hondo Wilkerson." 

"That's not funny, asshole." 

"It wasn't meant to be. Get it together and be prepared to discuss it tomorrow, probably in 

the afternoon, and be ready to answer all our questions." 

"So, you're not going to tell me what you really want, huh? If so, why the hell'd you even 

call me? This makes no damned sense." 

"You just do as you've been instructed, Mr. Cady, and Adele will be returned to you in 

the condition you last saw her. Play any games with us, try any setup, do anything to piss us off, 

and you not only won't see her alive again, what you do see when you encounter the woman will 

be a grisly mess." 



"Harm her and, no matter who you are, I'll find out. When I do, I'll find out where you are 

and leave you in far worse condition than anything you might even think of doing to her." 

"I've dealt with professionals for many years, Mr. Cady. Idle threats from amateurs such 

as you don't rile me at all." 

"I'm no amateur, Slick, when it comes to that woman. I'm the man who'll make you the 

sorriest motherfucker ever born. You keep that in mind, asshole." 

"Get the information together and expect another call." He disconnected. 

After looking at the phone for a moment, Bill snapped it shut one-handed, shaking his 

head in pure bewilderment. "Unreal. Totally unreal." 

Olivia pressed the earpiece periodically visible under the platinum hair that dangled to 

her collar and said, "Go." She listened a moment, nodding a few times, then concluded, "Got it. 

Stand by." 

She glanced at all of us in turn, her face hardened now, not really shaking her head, but 

moving it to and fro slightly. "Satellite based. It bounced all around from Brazil to Germany to 

Wales to Australia to Iceland to a farm in Illinois, where it mysteriously ended. We've already 

got people checking the farm, but it's sure to be a dead end." 

Bill was still shaking his head, clearly mystified. "I absolutely don't get it." 

"Who is Hondo Wilkerson?" Olivia questioned. 

"That's what's so crazy," he said quietly, still shaking his head. "I can't for the life of me 

figure out what this means." 

"Why?" she pressed. "Who is the man? How do you know him?" 



"I created him in 1999," Bill told us, obviously aghast. "He was a character in a novel I 

wrote called Stranded. Everyone assumed he was a villain, a serious killer, until the end." He 

sighed. "When I finished the story he was heading for a surprise hero's welcome in Samoa." 

Angela asked almost angrily, "They want information on a character in a story you wrote 

nineteen years ago? Well, fuck me." 

CHAPTER SEVEN 



There was a great deal of cleanup to be done and a number of people got right at it. The 

bodies, in most cases, would've stayed where they were, since the days of outlining a corpse in 

chalk are now only on television. However, I raised a semi-righteous fit about it, insisting this is 

where our babies live and I didn't want them to see things like this any longer than necessary. 

It was almost ironically comical when I had my mini-outburst. Quite a few people didn't 

get it in any way. I'm twenty-nine. Our babies are Brenda, age 25, Candy, age 22, Adrianne, age 

10 going on 35, and Brittany, around a year. I adopted the three humans, getting Brittany from 

my first and only husband, Baker Mann, whose widow I became six hours after we were legally 

married in Vegas. Bren and Candy, for reasons I won't go into here, were both hookers when I 

met them and we somehow became a very close and loving family. Adrianne was the product of 

a revolting situation with a pedophile who kidnapped a little girl 20 years earlier and she was a 

byproduct of the horrors he'd done. She and I killed that animal not so long ago and, to be quite 

honest about it, we rescued each other. That, too, is another long and involved story. 



So, as I walked around clucking angrily like a frustrated mother hen, shooing all four of 

'em up the stairs, the girls voiced their own thoughts on the matter. 

Bren said, "Mama, I seen 'em a lot deader'n these guys a lotta times." 

Candy added, "Yeah, we seen folks so bloody an' gory it'd make these dudes be lookin' 

like they was takin' theirselfs a nap, er somethin'." 

From Adrianne, I heard, "Mama, are you sure it's healthy for you to see these people?" 

I assured her, since I put three bullets into the face of one of the bodies, I'd find a way to 

cope with the ugliness. 

An air of comfort settled in when Donnie showed up. He kissed all the girls first, even 

our littlest baby, Brittany, comforted the two Luiseño men still alive and keeping a vigilant eye 

on us, then got in touch with Cool Wind, his one-time mentor and a dear friend to both of us. It 

was left to Cool Wind to break the news to anyone connected to the men who'd died, and it was 

more than evident Donnie took their deaths personally. Marks were made in a mental ledger in 

his mind. If he ever encountered the ones who'd done it, retaliation would be very swift and more 

than brutal. It was a point of honor he'd redeem if at all possible. 

Olivia was quickly moved out of the way when Angela fired up those "I'll hurt you if I 

have to" eyes and began "explaining things" to numerous people. When she "explains", there are 

penalties for those too slow to understand and she issues them on the spot, in most cases. She 

made it clear Judge Ryder was not going to be forced to endure these atrocities and the bodies 

were soon loaded into various conveyances and taken elsewhere. Perhaps 37,000 pictures were 

taken, so they'd preserved everything they might need for a later time. The ME had all the notes 

he'd ever need. 



Because it was a state offense so far and there was no reason to believe Adele had been 

taken across a state line, the FBI was not yet needed. They were informed, as I understand it, but 

it was let slip to me Olivia also made a number of calls. Only at her request would any federal 

agency other than hers, whatever it was called, be brought in on the case. I even heard Olivia tell 

Angela, "We seldom bother with warrants. The work we do isn't very often aimed at getting our 

subjects into a courtroom." 

I took her inference for what it was, made my own assumptions and let it go. There are a 

few matters where my work, sitting in judgement, isn't always the best idea in town. At times it's 

best to let things like this play out on their own. While I have as healthy a respect for the law as 

anyone you'll ever meet, I don't abide with terrorism in any form. I also think our government 

wastes an incredible amount of time and money on places like Guantanamo Bay and others like 

it. Things like water torture have developed an ugly, horrible reputation, but the things all those 

people do are even uglier. In my personal opinion, that's not a time to mollycoddle anyone who 

has information we need to prevent those jackals from doing what they do. 

We left all those people downstairs doing their gruesome tasks and retired to the second 

floor, the part of the house where we do most of our living. It's a rather large area with the front 

door actually on the north side of the house, about halfway back. The house itself is three floors, 

with an indoor garage, the entrance area, the safe room and a lavatory on the ground floor. The 

second has a somewhat mammoth living room taking up maybe half the length of the floor with 

a small foyer and a carpeted stairwell to the upper and lower floors. A hallway leads back to the 

outer deck where we spend a lot of our time being a family and looking out over the Pacific. We 



also have bedrooms for the girls on that floor and the smaller kitchen, which is the one Candy 

uses to make most of our meals. 

Any cooking I do involves plastic in the form of a credit card. If I can't nuke it, I'm at a 

loss as to whether water is supposed to be boiled, fried or baked, and I really don't care much on 

the answer, whatever it might be. To me, food I prepare is either served at a counter or involves a 

waiter or waitress. In most cases I do want fries with that. 

I'd've almost preferred sitting on Donnie's lap when we began talking in our rather large 

living room where two good size couches face each other starting about forty feet from the front 

door. However, the far end, where I sit, is a chair attached to the couch, or a part of it if you want 

to look at it that way, where the leg rest comes up when I pull a lever. I'm at the far end of it, the 

couch on the left if you look at it from the doorway, with the back of the second one facing you. 

There are two Strato-Loungers at both ends of each couch, angled to face between them. Donnie 

uses one of the chairs at the other end of the couch I sit on. There's a pretty danged big coffee 

table in the center of this hub we use for a variety of purposes but the girls, with an emphasis on 

Candy as the leader, keep it very well cleaned and picked up at all times. 

As we sat around talking about all these unfolding events, with me trying subtly to be of 

comfort to Bill, we had two other part-time participants in the conversation. Angela was up and 

down very frequently from the couch facing mine. Every time she sprang to her feet it was to 

make or take a phone call on her cell. Olivia was more open and forthright about it. She never 

once sat while we were on this floor. Instead, she paced and spoke on her phone, stopping from 

time to time to speak with us, then going on her merry way again to converse with people we 

knew not where. 



Finally, she came to the couch facing me and sat at the far end, the one closest to the 

front door, on the same end where Donnie has his chair. She took a deep breath, then halted and 

peered at Angela, who'd just bummed another ciggie from me. "Must you?" she inquired with 

more than a dribble of disdain. 

"Fuckin'-A," Angela assured her. "Did you sit on the couch just to bitch, or have you got 

something to tell us?" She emphasized her inquiry by taking a drag and, moments later, setting 

the contents free in Olivia's general direction. 

Frowning, but retaining any additional editorial remarks to herself, Olivia told us, "Yes, I 

do, as a matter of fact. Our people have been very busy recently and I do believe we now have an 

answer regarding Hondo Wilkerson." 

"This oughta be good," said Bill as he lit his eleventy-sixth ciggie. I don't think Bill 

smokes too much more than I do but, in light of all the reasons he had to worry, he'd become a 

short-term chain smoker. I really couldn't blame him. If it was Donnie who'd been taken instead 

of Adele, despite the fact he'd've likely killed 'em all with his hands and-or feet, I'd be lighting 

one from the end of the other myself. 

When Angela watched Olivia wrinkle her nose at what Bill was doing, she quietly told 

the woman, "He must, too. Get on with it, huh?" 

"Very well," Olivia replied, clearly miffed but too distracted with what she'd learned to 

delve into it deeper. "Our computers ran an incredible number of algorithms based on the info 

they contain and our recent additional input. It's really quite amazing what they came up with." 



"Pins and needles," Angela said annoyedly, rolling her hand to promote Olivia getting at 

it more quickly. "We're all on 'em. Do you suppose you can get started without dragging it out 

any longer, or are you waiting for a timpani drum roll?" 

"Really," Olivia snorted, "you don't seem to have changed much since last I saw you." 

"Sure I have. My hair's a couple inches longer now and I have a new boyfriend. So, with 

that much out of the way, what say you get to it, huh? Curious minds want to know." 

One more dignified snort was followed by, "We believe we know why they've taken such 

an inordinate interest now in your fictional character, Mr. Cady. This Hondo Wilkerson man you 

came up with for your story." 

"That 'Mr. Cady' guy was my dad. He died. I'm just Bill. Please," he suggested, taking a 

drag while staring at her intently, "bring us all up to speed." 

"There was a man named Hondell Wilkins who was, at one time, a rather significant man 

and working, after a fashion, with our government. To wit, with the CIA." 

With everyone gawking at her, Olivia said, "Apparently the description you used for that 

character fits Mr. Wilkins to a tee, build, vocabulary, everything. Even many parts of his life as 

were described in that character's past. They probably feel you couldn't describe him that well 

unless you knew him personally … meaning you may know how to find him now." 

"Aw, jeez!" Bill exclaimed, throwing up his hands in bewildered disgust. 

"Oh, fuck!" barked Angela. "For real?" 

"Indeed. He was, after a fashion, employed by them. Then, also after a fashion, he was 

not. He was an inventor, working on his own and in conjunction with our government." 

There were sighs all around, more than likely meaning much the same in the end. 



"It's a connection based on his separation from our CIA, and any-all other branches of the 

U.S. Government, as well as his current work, that makes this a likely assumption." 

From Angela. "I assume you're going to fill us in on both?" 

A nod. "Mr. Wilkins was drummed out of his work with the CIA based upon what he'd 

gotten involved in with a Soviet scientist named Zelda Gromerski. They met at a number of high 

level scientific sessions, conventions if you will, and it is our belief they were truly in love. By 

that, I mean she wasn't just a spy trying to encroach on the man and pick his brain. We believe 

they truly fell in love. Unfortunately, the work they did cast a very bad light on any relationship 

they had or might've had and it became a very large problem." 

"This oughta be rich," remarked Angela, stubbing out her ciggie in anticipation. "More, 

lady, tell us more." 

"Our government felt she was an unacceptable threat because of her position with the 

former Soviet Union as a scientist and, we believed, a senior government employee. We were 

never able to prove she was more than a scientist, but the odds weren't worth the risk. Making it 

appear as if it was the work of the Soviets … a ploy not accepted by Mr. Wilkins, or a number of 

people who knew what happened … Boris Manlinin was hired to kill the woman." 

"No!" snapped Angela. "Our people fucked up that bad? Are you serious?" 

"I'm afraid so. Mr. Wilkins had been asked to sever all connections to her. He did not." 

"So they had her killed? Son-of-a-bitch! This is a bunch of bullshit!" Angela argued. 

"The CIA, and other factions of our government, wanted to make sure he didn't pass any 

information to her that would be harmful to our interests as a country. When he wouldn't refuse 



to see her any longer, a plan was set in action. Unfortunately, using Manlinin wasn't enough to 

convince everyone, particularly Mr. Wilkins. He was firmly convinced it was the CIA—" 

"Not a bad guess, it seems," Angela beefed, securing another ciggie from me and using 

my lighter to get it going. "So, what happened next, as if I couldn't guess?" 

"Mr. Wilkins sought revenge. He had certain information … knew of agents working for 

or with the CIA … and he exposed them. A few were murdered and all who survived had to be 

pulled in, making them worthless any longer as spies. That's when the CIA was forced to sever, 

at least on the surface, any connection with the man." 

"Shit! You mean he didn't want to stay on the payroll long enough to collect a gold watch 

and a nice three-tiered cake? Ungrateful bastard," was Angela's thought on the matter. 

"As you say," Olivia conceded. "That brings us to his current status and the reason for all 

this concern. The man had, it seemed, disappeared from the face of the earth. It was thought he'd 

taken refuge with the Soviets, but that's not what happened. Instead, he assumed an identity no 

one knew he'd held as an escape plan for years and quietly went underground. Regretfully, as an 

inventor, he went on at his craft. Sadly, he's come up with a very unique property that makes him 

valuable in different ways to many nations for different reasons." 

"Spill it," instructed Angela. "No timpani roll, just spit it out." 

"The man came up with a concept to make combustible fuel from salt water combined 

with three other plentiful and very inexpensive chemicals. It's really an incredible process and 

the value to many nations is the same for varying reasons." 

Too tense to sit any longer, Angela stood, ciggie in hand, and began pacing. "Say it." 



"The invention can, and will, sway the balance of power in the world depending on where 

it lands and who's in control. We want it to be the property of the USA, of course. So many other 

countries do not. They want it, or want another leading power to have it, but not us. The Arabs 

all want the idea destroyed, of course, as it would again render them as impoverished nations of 

mere nomads and beggars. They have heat, sand and oil. The only asset they can sell is oil. If we 

no longer need their oil, well …" 

"Meaning all the Arab countries want the man dead. Am I correct?" asked Angela. 

"Exactly. As do a few others. The USA, of course, wants him alive and with a loyalty to 

us he seems to have let slip when Zelda died." 

"Can you fucking blame him?" grilled Angela. "It's not like he has no reason." 

"Not acceptable at this point. Yet, it gets worse." 

"Is that fucking possible?" Angela almost wailed. "How?" 

"The Arabs, and a number of other countries, want him dead. We don't. It seems, based 

on info we aren't supposed to have … but we do have it … our government also hired The Side 

to find the man and bring him to us." 

"Oh, Good Christ!" 

Olivia was on a roll now and would finish regardless of what might be said. "It turns out 

the Arab nations, and their allies, have also hired The Side to find Mr. Wilkins. Complicating the 

issue, primarily because The Side has the loyalty of a hungry pit bull with a piece of meat under 

his nose, is the fact The Side seems to want him for their own interests. They accepted contracts 

from both factions with the idea, once found, they will auction Mr. Wilkins to the highest bidder 

and walk away with incredible wealth." 



"For what price?" 

"I'm not sure there is a price for total control of the world," Olivia speculated. "If there is, 

it will be rather hefty, we're assured of that much." 

"Let's tell 'em I sent the bastard to Samoa and have 'em look there," Bill suggested glumly 

as he stood and looked around at all of us. "My main concern is getting Adele back here safely." 

"This project is even more important than that woman's wellbeing at the moment," said 

Olivia rather pragmatically. 

Bill glared down at her a lingering moment, then said coldly, "Fuck you, lady. I really 

don't need any shit out of you." 

CHAPTER EIGHT 



Carrying a worn weekly newspaper already three months old, The Julian News published 

on Wednesday, the 17 th of September, 2008, Adele Nostrum rose from the older brown couch 

barely large enough to seat three adults. She headed off for the bathroom. In this imitation chalet, 

which was actually a one-room house split into different areas, she'd already made quite a few 

decisions. Among them was not to ask for these jerks every bleeping freedom under the bleeping 

sun. If these people don't understand how a girl has to pee from time to time, they need to learn a 

few things. 

The living room part was also the section containing the front door. At least, as far as this 

primitive dwelling was designed, that's what it had to be. The front door … actually, the only one 

since the rear door was held shut with a heavy chain … was in the middle of the building which, 



if she had to guess, was slightly over twenty by thirty feet. Maybe twenty-two deep, thirty wide. 

In that range. This truly was a log cabin, which initially gave her some hope, but she quickly saw 

it was very solid. No way she could sneak out. 

Stepping in that front door, directly in the middle, meant standing on the edge of this part, 

which was not quite two-thirds of the space on this "ground floor". One half the remaining third 

contained what one would conventionally call the kitchen, with a front window looking out over 

whatever was in front of the building. It was blocked off with an oilskin drape or curtain of some 

kind, as was the front room, front, side and back. It meant lamps were on at all times. That tiny 

kitchen came to within a yard of the door, cream colored linoleum on that smaller part of an L, a 

shaggy brown carpeting in the living section. 

The couch she'd been on faced the front door from next to the side wall. It was maybe 

three feet from the back wall with the chained door. The carpeting continued past where all the 

linoleum stretched toward the living area and went the rest of the way to the back wall, where it 

ended at that sealed door and a stairway to the loft. She'd been told that's where she'd be sleeping 

later. It bypassed a smaller door to the bathroom, an otherwise quaint room with a tub-shower on 

the right as she entered, a counter starting partway back on the left with a wee sink in it, cabinets 

underneath. An old white toilet perhaps six feet away with a blue shaggy cloth covering atop the 

tank. The rim of the toilet bowl was cracked with a small jagged piece on the left side, if seated, 

broken off. The fold-down seat was also cracked, some kind of vinyl at one time, she imagined, 

but it was serviceable, all the same. 

When sitting on it, there was an empty medicine cabinet above the counter and sink with 

an equally empty wooden ledge below it. The shelf was a medium blue sort of close to the color 



of the tank cover, with the walls and ceiling all a dull, medium pink. Adele thought it would be a 

great place for her to come puke, since that's what the color scheme made her feel like doing. As 

she stepped into the room and closed the door, surprised it didn't squeak, she now felt even more 

depressed. 

I have no freaking idea in the world why these douche bags made me come with 'em, she 

thought mournfully, and now no one will tell me squat. The part that freaked me out the most … 

I mean, I thought that crap was just for bad movies … was those ninja freaks! Holy cow! What in 

the world are they doing? She scowled as she undid the button at the waist of her navy blue pants 

and tugged the zipper down. Lowering her pants and panties after she used three squares of toilet 

paper to wipe the seat, dropping it into the bowl, she turned and sat. It only required a few scant 

seconds to achieve relief. Except those nimrods are the only people who'll talk to me. The way 

the ninja jerks are built, small and wiry, they probably are Asian men. Those other three aren't. 

Even if they were the same kind of crapola, two of 'em are good-sized men and the other one's 

either a guy with a very weird chest or a woman with knockers bigger than mine, and I'm not, by 

any means, flat chested. Except, why only the cartoon freaks talking to me? And why is it all the 

one-word stuff? Like they're going to catch my bleepin' cooties if they say an extra word to me? 

Plus, she thought with a scratch of her head, the largest part of her four right fingers lost 

in a wave of the chocolate brown hair down to her shoulders, they seem to rotate like once every 

freaking hour, for Pete's sake! Her thoughts flitted back to CC. Boy, if she was here now, I'd be 

hearing a whole bunch of that "Criminy!" stuff out of her! Bet your bleepin' boots! I'll bet she'd 

be asking these yahoos a ton of questions, too. 



A scowl this time. Like I didn't? "Shut up" was the most common answer. Except for that 

girl, or guy with the boobies, whichever it is. Never said a bleepin' word! Just cocked a right arm 

as if I was about to take one in the chops! Well, whomever it was apparently believed me when I 

said, "I'll break that sucker off and shove it up your butt if you dare hit me!" 

Pretty hard to be sure with that freaking cartoon mask, but I thought I caught a big frown. 

Well, screw you, buddy or babe, whichever. You hit me, darn it all, I'm gonna hit back. Freak! 

Three more squares were used as she dabbed herself dry, then stood, pulling up her pants 

and undies. About to turn and flush, she heard the sound of a door opening and was convinced it 

could only be the front door. "Where is she?" whispered a woman's voice, throaty and seemingly 

oozing sexuality. 

"In the restroom," intoned the guy she assumed to be Asian. It sounded as if he was now 

in the kitchen section. "I cannot make this unit work properly," he informed her. 

"What's to make it work?" she said a touch louder, evidently convinced her voice was too 

low to hear in the restroom. "It's a fucking microwave." 

"It continues to shut off," he protested, "meaning we can't eat or feed the prisoner if it 

won't run properly. I will show you." There was the sound of a door closing on the machine, a 

short series of beeps, then the whirr of a microwave. 

Still not flushing, wondering if this was her opportunity, Adele edged the bathroom door 

open and peered out. She couldn't see into the kitchen, and she remembered the microwave was 

on the wall at the end, above a vinyl counter. What she could see made her heart flutter! 

Oh, Lordy! she told herself. The front door's not quite closed! Maybe this is it! 



Moving on tiptoes, she started forward, the small piece of wall on her left preventing her 

from seeing into the kitchen, or being seen. When I see those creeps I'll simply take off running 

like Billy-blue-blazes and make it out that bleepin' door! I'll figure out the rest as I go along. As 

she stepped a bit into the open, prepared to begin her sprint, she saw they were both standing 

there in those silly outfits with the microwave door open. The one she assumed was a woman 

was reading something inside the unit. "Can't see where any of this crap helps. It talks about the 

model number and a lot of other shit, but nothing on fixing the damned thing. Let's look in the 

fucking drawers and cabinets for a manual." 

Almost at the front door, Adele yanked it open, stepped out and pulled it again almost to 

where it was closed. Then, still afraid to even breathe yet, she whirled and sprinted away from 

the building. With casual slacks and a darker red shirt with ¾ sleeves, she wasn't exactly dressed 

for temps in the 40s, but that didn't matter. I'm free, dadblast it! I am outa here! 

Approximately a dozen steps later, just as she was hitting her stride, she was "de-strode". 

Moving at what she'd've called close to her top speed in daylight where she could see what she 

was doing, she was covering ground in the inky blackness of night on a mountain. The Julian 

newspaper she'd read told her she was in a small but expensive camping-resort area maybe 50 

miles northeast of San Diego, up in the mountains where they operated a 100% tourist city four 

blocks long, half a block wide off each side of Main Street. Buggy rides, restaurants and stores 

on the first and second floors of those old brick buildings she could believe were constructed by 

the original frontiersmen. Candied applies, pies, cakes, cookies, breads, rolls, doughnuts, all the 

crap a girl needed to shoot up from 129 on a five-five frame to 400 pounds. The "de-striding" 

part occurred when she collided face first with a thick tree. 



Halted immediately, at least in her direction of travel, she reactively threw her arms up 

and out to the side, ending up a second or two later on her butt. She flopped backward, seeing 

stars before her eyes with the impending sense of a killer headache about to pay a visit. A long 

and extended visit. With it would come the unconsciousness she sensed invading her world as 

the waves of black flooded over her. 

No! she told herself. Can't do it! If I give up now, they'll get me again! No! I can't! 

Only allowing herself a few seconds to recoup, insisting all the light green circles half the 

size of a dime would disappear without permanent harm, she rolled over. Clambered to all fours, 

then struggled to her feet, using the tree as a brace. Adele shook her head once, now sensing the 

ache as it began to make itself known. Got to get away! she urged herself. I can get to a doctor 

when I find some people. A cop, for God's sake. Got to get the heck out of this loony place. 

Finally on her feet again, reeling and staggering, she walked this time, unwilling to take 

on a tree solid enough to withstand a speeding truck. Still swerving, swaying, teetering as she 

made her way from that madhouse, Adele encountered a gravel road. The ground was a little bit 

lighter in color than what she'd been walking on, and the sky was a different shade of darkness 

up over treetop level. For about a minute longer, she kept walking, then decided that was crazy. 

I'll run! 

And she did. About 100 feet later she rounded a curve in the road and her escape ended. 

Shocking her so suddenly the scream of terror and surprise froze in her throat, one of the 

ninja cartoon characters sprang from the trees and bushes alongside the road she'd been praying 

was her path to freedom. The man made a screeching sound that sounded like someone was just 

announcing a lunch break in the very bowels of hell, then fell into a crouch. There was so little 



she could see in the all encompassing darkness, and she probably wouldn't've witnessed a whole 

lot of what happened even in broad daylight. 

The man ducked low, his lithe body almost parallel with the ground at a yard or less, then 

commenced a spinning motion. His foot rose from the vague surface at her feet, giving Adele no 

more than a split second to recognize what it was before it collided at great velocity with her jaw. 

Her horrified mind was still filing that concept into her memory banks when she wilted to 

the road unconscious. 

CHAPTER NINE 


Tuesday, December 23 rd , 2008 … 8:17 a.m. 

Our ballistic doorbell went off, a sound we all once found to be a shrill annoyance that 

really no longer bothered anyone living here. It reminded me of a girl I knew in high school, 

back in the godforsaken state of Michigan. Her parents bought a place in the country, away from 

all the hustle and bustle of the city. A freaking railroad track ran by their house not a hundred 

yards away, crossing the country road they lived on. I wondered how on earth any of them ever 

got any sleep, since the trains came roaring by 20-30 times per day, and all night long, as well. 

She said she got used to it in a week, week and a half, and never noticed it anymore. 

I didn't believe her, considering our trash trucks that came on Tuesday morning woke me 

up during summer vacation whenever I tried to sleep in. 

Yet, that's how it was with Brittany, our shrill barking doorbell. In less than two weeks 

we all ceased to be alarmed. I knew only too danged well if she caught a housefly farting in the 

living room she'd be calling in the volunteer fire department. In almost every case, it would be a 



big nothing, so we no longer sprinted to the door. If we heard the doorbell that made a soft bong 

when pushed, it only confirmed she was being the Ballistic Brittany again. No biggie. 

Not quite so with Adrianne, our child of 10 going on 35, proving there's still a piece of 

little kid in the girl, even if we rarely see it. She was still always off like a shot to corral the little 

loudmouth right at the door. That's what she did again today, although she'd be leaving for her 

"gifted child" school in a few minutes when the bus arrived. Couldn't let her play hooky, even if 

her Mama was doing exactly that today. Again. 

The reason I'm able to get away with it is only partly my doing. Granted, my court has 

turned out some great cases and some serious volume. My understanding is most attorneys, the 

defense and prosecution, are pretty happy with my work. We seem to move more cases than any 

other court in the Vista Courthouse, and I'll take some of the credit for it. I brook no head games, 

no grandstanding, no phony emotional drama, and it's important to me people be on time for the 

things we do. Attorneys who show up late are fined. Parties to a matter who show up late without 

an incredible excuse get their cases tossed. People who talk in my courtroom seats are escorted 

out to the hall by a bailiff who explains if it ever happens again, they'll be banned. People I see in 

worn or very revealing clothing are forced either to leave, sometimes permanently, or to get into 

something from the box of items I picked up at Goodwill. It's my courtroom, and I run it my way. 

The other half of the equation is Tez Marshall, my office-manager & secretary, a woman 

who is an absolute jewel. She could've stood out in front of Moses there in the Red Sea directing 

traffic from a route she opened that crossed his. I can attest to this, famed biblical character or 

not, if Moses didn't follow all her signals and do exactly as he was told, she'd've made him very 

sorry for being such a snot. She's created that impression on everyone who has visited my court 



since I took the bench. Consequently, she and I run a very tight ship. We get things done and we 

get some bennies others don't enjoy. Among them, if I take a day off during the week, justice 

will not grind to a halt. Not as long as Tez is on the scene, it won't. 

The caller who set off the dinging doorbell and Ballistic Brittany was none other than my 

co-best buddy, Detective Angela Dutton. Without her, and Tez, I'm not sure I could adequately 

cope with the world as we know it these days. We hugged at the door and, as she was stepping in 

and I was about to close it, we heard, "Yoo-hoo? Got room for one more at your party?" 

That "one more" was Olivia Higgenbotham. 

I think I mentioned she has platinum blonde hair to her collar, pretty hazel eyes, stands 

about fix-six with her weight in the low 120s, and isn't diminished in the boob department to any 

extent. What she was wearing today caught my attention. As my Aunt Siobhan might say, Mercy 

me! The woman had a black short-sleeved satiny blouse, a business jacket draped over her left 

forearm, what looked to be a black Gucci purse dangling from her right shoulder, and a tan and 

very brief skirt a couple inches above her knees. Dang it, she's in her late fifties! 

As a Mama, I'm not sure I'd allow any of our babies to wear anything like that, even if 

one of 'em is married and the oldest two were once hookers. She capped it off with thin leather 

strapped black open-toe sandals with … I am not making any of this crap up! … heels of at least 

two or more inches. My Mama would've said, "She's sure making bait of herself, and not doing a 

bad job of it, either." 

The closest I could figure she had a meeting with some guy today, lunch or whatever, and 

wanted to impress him with all her feminine wiles. Personally, in her work, I'd be more inclined 



to impress them with force of person, which she definitely has, than a "babe suit", but that's not 

my decision. At least, not outside my courtroom or being a Mama, it isn't. I let it ride. 

Angela didn't. "Heading off to a fuckfest after you leave here, are you?" 

"Not hardly," Olivia intoned, "and there's nothing wrong with a woman looking nice." 

"Depends on how you want to look so 'nice'," Angela retorted, "and for whom and why." 

Olivia's hand was rising to come to rest on Angela's shoulder. "Now, Angela, dear—" 

"If that thing touches me, Olivia, you'll pull back a bloody fucking stub. Might I add, in 

light of that 'dear' bullshit, your hair's still in danger of coming up by its platinum fucking roots. 

Remember, I warned you already." 

The hand stopped in midair. "Certainly are a touchy little thing, aren't you?" 

"You can grab hold of me and find out … but, I wouldn't." She turned to face me again. 

"In light of all this shit, gimme." 

I fished my case from the shirt pocket of my gray sateen jogging suit and handed it to her. 

Angela dug one out, lit it and handed me back "the makin's'" with a shrug. "Let's boogey 

inside where it's not so damned nippy, huh?" She looked around us, then shook her head. "This 

time of day, I'll bet it isn't even up to 50 yet." 

Stepping aside, I ushered them both in, where "Aunt Angela" took a few seconds to fuss 

over Brittany, whom Adrianne had set on the floor. To my surprise, Olivia offered the backs of 

her fingers for a smell test. When she seemed to pass, she began patting the dog, saying things 

like "Good doggie," and "Pretty girl". 

"How'd you know she's female?" inquired Angela. 

"Different equipment underneath," was Olivia's reply. 



"Oh, shit," muttered Angela, "I hope she's only sexing dogs today." 

"And what does that mean?" Olivia nearly barked. 

Now Angela snickered. "Your Mom made me promise I wouldn't ever tell you." With 

that, still snickering, she walked past me toward the living room area. "Bill was looking pretty 

tense and tight last night. Will he make it over here this morning?" 

"I gave the man a room and a bed," I answered, "but he hardly slept in it, if he even did at 

all. I came down here at a zillion o'clock in the morning and saw he'd fallen asleep out back on 

one of the chaise longues, so I put a blanket over the poor guy. I hope he didn't—" 

"Freeze my ass off?" Bill asked, walking into the room with said blanket draped over his 

shoulders, hanging to the middle of his calves in back. "Naw. Some hot, sexy babe … just hang 

on, damn it, it was my freakin' dream … put this thing on me. Saved my craggy old ass." He now 

made his way toward the couch, still shrouded in the blanket, a light blue fleece I knew would be 

nice and comfy if he stayed out long last night. Which it seems he did, a couple hours, anyway. 

"When I get up the gumption, is there anywhere a guy can get a cup of coffee in this place?" 

"I'll do it. What do you want in it?" I volunteered. 

"What I want is lots of powdered creamer and maybe four or five tablespoons of sugar, 

but what I should get is yucky tasting black, just to wake me up." 

"Bill, it's really no problem for me to—" 

"No," he said, dismissing the offer with a wave of his hand, which went back under the 

blanket to emerge with his ciggies and lighter. "I'm going to need to be awake today. I have a 

feeling the buffalo are going to dance, so I need to be ready." 



"Is that an old Native American saying from some other band? I've never heard it, but I 

can envision the imagery behind it," asked Donnie, sipping herbal tea he has sent here from "The 

Rez" because he's enjoyed it all his life. The man would sooner shoot heroin than drink coffee. 

"Only in part," Bill responded, getting his ciggie going and taking a deep drag. "It's an 

old Indian saying I just made up as I said it, but you were real close." 

We all began laughing as I headed to get him a cup of black coffee. Candy keeps an urn 

in the second floor kitchen that will make around 20 cups and she had that sucker at work when I 

came downstairs this morning rather early. When I returned and handed him an insulated mug 

with dark coffee in it, he frowned. "Thanks. I haven't drunk it this way for years, but I sure do 

need to wake up. What I meant by the buffalo dancing is I think these yahoos are gonna try to 

strut their shit today and I want to be ready for 'em." 

Bill took a drink of the black coffee. "Aha! And now I remember why I haven't drank it 

this way for many years! Yuck!" 

"Bill, I can put some—" 

"No, this shit will put hair on my chest, and I've only got 144 of 'em there, as it is. I even 

named every hair 'cause I have so damned few of the little fellers." 

"You named your chest hairs?" asked Angela, gullibly. 

"All except for Bruce," Bill said with a straight face. "Feisty little prick he is, he told me 

he already had a damned name. I didn't want to get into it with him, so I let it ride." He took one 

more deep drag and watched her face as she caught the joke. 

"Not many fool me anymore," she chuckled. 

"It's a knack," he said, still without even a grin. "I'm a novelist. A storyteller. An author." 



"I'll say. You're damned good. I've noticed you almost never call yourself a writer. Does 

that mean there's a difference between a writer and an author?" 

Bill nodded, the cup almost to his mouth. "Yup. Authors get paid for it." He took a gulp. 

"Good point. Look," Angela said, swinging her eyes to me at the beginning, "we've got at 

least six other teams of detectives out looking for Adele, even as we speak. We also have a good 

number of our undercover people … the ones associated with drugs, immigration and border 

crime, and even society people … with their ears to the ground. It won't likely be of any help to 

us, but we'll know all we need to know about any-every person getting on an outbound plane or 

train, car rentals, and any other means of transportation. The CHP has been briefed, along with 

the guys on Border Patrol. They … whomever they might be … will not get that woman out of 

the state of California unseen." 

"While I can't … and wouldn't … argue with what you're doing," Bill interjected, "just 

because you have to do all those things as a matter of procedure, I'm equally certain they're all a 

big waste of time. Those people didn't kidnap her for her monetary value." 

### 

Starting with Angela and Olivia, then moving to Donnie and me, even Brittany, we all 

stared at him anticipating follow-up. 

"They want me, and anything I possibly can tell 'em about good ol' Hondo Wilkerson, 

aka Hondell Wilkins, and I intend to remind 'em people in hell want ice water." 

Olivia inserted, "I don't think you should be making those kind of—" 

"Let's just leave that statement at 'I don't think ' and call it a day, since it's apparent you 

don't, really. Think, I mean. This woman truly means something to me. Ask me to explain it and 



all you'll get will be 'shrug number seventeen' 'cause I can't tell you so you'd understand. Try to 

tell me I can't be a part of getting her back, you'll get a fast 'fuck you' to stick in the file. Leave it 

said anything it takes to do to get her back, if I can do it, consider it done. I don't give a red rat's 

ass if it's legal or aboveboard, either. I've waited one helluva lot of years to feel like she makes 

me feel and there's no chance in hell I'm leaving this to all you people to fuck up for me. I don't 

need your sad apologies while I stand at a casket considering the murder of every fucking person 

who had any part in getting her killed." 

"Well, even under an ugly threat of death," Angela offered with more compassion than I 

would've dared expect, "although I will keep you, CC and Donnie briefed, I can't get you in on 

the actual cop work we do. Too dangerous, and it'd take too long to train you." 

"You can work with me, Bill," Donnie suggested. "We'll go up to my office, make a few 

calls, then get moving." 

"As long as I'm doing something," he said, so inadequately containing a mixture of rage, 

fear and desperation. "I can't just sit around on my ass. If I did, and if anything happened to her 

while I was doing it…" His words trailed off, leaving only implications. 

"My people will also keep you involved," Olivia pledged. "As a matter of fact, I want a 

few minutes of your time when we finish talking with these people." Her eyes scanned our small 

group as she finished the sentence. 

"Have you forgotten we had a thing called 'sharing' in mind, Olivia?" Angela challenged 

a bit nastily. "Little shit like keeping each other in the loop? Ringing any bells, is it?" 

"I don't mean it that way," she responded, reddening a little. "I simply need to discuss a 

few items with the man in private." 



Now Angela's face took on a knowing look. She glanced at Brittany, standing on the rug 

spread below the coffee table. "Uh-oh, kid." Then she shrugged. 

Olivia reddened a bit more. 

Donnie and I merely looked quizzically at each other. 

Brittany began twirling the little stub attached to her butt. 

At a loss as to what was next, I did think of something. "Angela, is there anything we can 

do to get a hurry-up CCW for Bill? I mean … criminy! … if he's going to be involved with these 

total dirtbags … there's no way to do this without him now … the man should have a right to be 

armed. If he gets a CCW so he can carry concealed—" 

She held up her right hand, palm to me. "If a citizen has a verifiable reason to believe his 

life and wellbeing are in danger, he can carry a weapon during a short-term crisis. The weapon 

may, or may not, be impounded if found. It's possible, but not likely, he'd be arrested. It's not too 

likely anyone with the DA's office would want to prosecute. If anyone did, it's unlikely any judge 

would let it stand up." Now she looked at Bill. "I'm not giving you permission to do anything but 

take a seat when you need to in the potty room, okay? If it happens, so be it. Oh, and you'd get 

the weapon back when the dust settles. That's the law." 

CHAPTER TEN 



Donnie and I don't give each other orders, as I've mentioned. Our practice is to have the 

one most capable do most of the decision making with the other following that lead. Bill'd gone 



to Donnie's office on our third floor and I went along, leaving Angela and Olivia to either do cop 

work or fight a battle to the death, however it might work out. 

As he promised, Donnie made a few calls to get the ball rolling in different areas, then a 

call came in on Bill's cell phone. As before, Bill put the Jawbone earpiece on the desktop so we 

could all hear it. "Bill Cady," he said tersely, with all of us looking at a phone number that wasn't 

in Bill's phone book. 

address?" 

"We're going to meet. This morning. Do you have something to use so you can write the 

"Don't need anything," Bill countered. 

"Oh? Why would you say that?" 

While jotting, "It's the same guy" on a piece of paper he pulled in front of himself with 

his left hand, Bill replied, "Because I already know where we're going to meet. You're right on 

the other part, too. It'll be this morning." 

"You can't know, since I haven't given you the location yet," said the man calling. 

"Sure I can," Bill assured him, with Donnie and me both looking at him in confusion. 

Donnie had suggested a couple places and jotted them on a piece of paper, but we had no 

idea what this ad lib move on Bill's part might be. 

"I see," he said ominously. "Tell me why you say that." 

"Because we'll meet where I say we'll meet, or there won't be any meeting. Did I say it 

slow enough for you to catch it all, or do you want me to start fresh, from the top?" 

"Don't be a smartass or play games with me," the caller menaced. 



"Two-way street, Slick. You don't get to fuck with me, either. So, assuming you have the 

proverbial pen and paper, I want you to make note of a coffee house on the beach in La Jolla. 

That way you'll know where we're getting together." 

"It simply doesn't work that way," said the man, rather obviously becoming annoyed. "I'll 

tell you where we meet and you—" 

"'Fraid not, Slick. Now, do you want that address, or not?" A steeliness was creeping into 

Bill's voice. This may sound silly, but it almost felt like I was taking part in a dramatic scene in 

one of his novels. 

"I'm going to tell you one more time—" 

"Wrong again, Slick," said Bill disdainfully as he flipped open the phone and pressed the 

END button. A dial tone came from the earpiece, but stopped when Bill thumbed it off. 

"I can't believe you just did that," I said in a somewhat hushed whisper. "I really can't." 

"Neither can I," Bill confessed, "but this bastard needs to get it straight right away, all up 

front, this is a bargaining session, not a time where he can dictate all the conditions." 

As I sat with my mouth gaping, I caught a glimpse of Donnie shaking his head in what 

may've been a degree of awe, then looking toward Bill with a nod. "That took raw courage." 

"Maybe, but it wasn't my ass I was putting on the line," Bill admitted as he used shaky 

hands to light a cigarette. "Now we get to wait and see which of us has the larger Johnson rod to 

plop on the damned table." He released the smoke. "Sure as hell hope it's me." 

We sat an interminable time, perhaps as long as two minutes, and I could see from his 

face Bill was second, third and fourth guessing himself. Finally, when the tension had gotten so 

powerful it filled the room and weighted us down, at the point I began wondering if I might even 



break down and cry, Bill's phone rang again. He pressed the button on the Jawbone and asked, 

"Do you have your shit together yet, Slick?" 

In a stern, yet subdued tone, the man told Bill, "I've decided to let that lapse go, seeing as 

you must feel under pressure. I'll give you one more chance. Write this down now." 

"You'll give me one more chance, huh? Well, Slick, I don't want to treat you like you're 

as stupid as you sound, but you must be that damned dumb or we wouldn't be at this point. It's 

me who gives you the address, capiche?" 

"I'm afraid you don't—" 

Bill hung up. Then, setting the earpiece back, he leaned forward a bit, fingers laced, with 

his forehead resting on his palms. "Please, Father, make that shithead call me back." Even as the 

words emerged from his mouth, I saw his shoulders shake. It was, quite clearly, the largest bet he 

ever placed in his life. 

Donnie nodded. "You did the right thing. He will call again." 

Perhaps thirty incredibly tense seconds later, Bill's cell rang again. He pressed the button 

on the Jawbone again. "I'm not going to keep playing this fucking game with you, Slick. Do you 

have something to write on?" 

As we waited, Donnie stood, a cell in his hand, stepped into the hall and dialed. Moments 

after Bill answered this time, he was back, but kept standing when he returned. 

"Give me the address," the man told him without as much assumed authority. 

Not gloating or otherwise pushing the matter, Bill glanced at the address Donnie gave 

him a while ago and read it off. He didn't add anything sarcastic like asking the man if he had it 

correctly. He simply spoke it, then shut up. 



"Ten-thirty," said the caller. 

"Wouldn't be fair if you didn't get to set any of the conditions," Bill informed him, his 

eyes now an icy blue that made me feel like obeying anything he'd say in hopes he wouldn't get 

pissed off for some reason. "However, if I don't see Adele when we meet, you just wasted your 

time and some gas getting there 'cause I'll walk. We clear on that part, Slick?" 

"That will only happen after we've—" 

"Want me to hang up on you again, asshole? I'm not gonna continue playing these silly 

fucking games. She's not there where I can see her, I walk and you won't learn shit." 

"Any more trouble out of you and we'll just kill the woman." 

"No, you won't," Bill said icily. "Confirm she'll be there or I'm not even getting into my 

damned car." He took a drag, then exhaled loudly enough for the man to hear it. "Three, two—" 

"She'll be there," said the guy as he disconnected. 

Bill's face was frozen in grim determination. "Surprised the shithead didn't ask me where 

I got the stones needed to hang up on him like that, or to stand up on my back legs that way." His 

hands were shaking visibly now. 

"He will," Donnie assured him. "However, you've generated a new respect in the man. He 

will no longer be as cavalier when dealing with you." 

"God, I hope so," Bill said, glancing at me first, then back to Donnie. "What you now see 

before you is a man with no 'Plan B' to work from. Any ideas?" 

Donnie just smiled and nodded sagely. 

"Care to share with the class?" Bill asked in a voice slowly regaining its timbre. 



Again Donnie nodded. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I have a few. Tell me, did you ever see 

any of the Godfather movies?" 

"All of 'em," Bill told him, clearly not understanding why it was important, but ready to 

grasp at any available straw. "I'm old, remember? Those were a big deal, back in the day." 

"Good. We have a table selected for you to use," Donnie advised. "It will work perfectly 

for what I have in mind." He stopped speaking a moment and looked at me. "As you and I don't 

order each other about … yet I have no question you'll insist on being present … a camera and a 

microphone are being put in place as we speak. You will be approximately one block from the 

location. Acceptable?" 

Pleased my guy knew me that well, and because he'd taken steps to provide for what he 

knew I'd insist on, I smiled and nodded my approval. 

Motioning with his hand for us to follow, Donnie explained, "One of the ideas we'll now 

be using came from that source. I will have people near at hand and will, myself, be close by. I 

am more than confident you will be able to pull this off, Bill." He clasped the bigger guy on the 

shoulder to show he was comfortable relying on Bill's ability. 

of war." 

"Because of my ad lib ability, right?" Bill joked. 

"Precisely because of that talent," Donnie said convincingly. "Precisely because of it." 

As he came to his feet, Bill said to no one in particular, "Cry havoc and set slip the dogs 

"That, we shall do," Donnie promised. "You'll do just fine." 

CHAPTER ELEVEN 





Donnie was surprisingly terse and abrupt with Angela and Olivia when we made it back 

to the second level of the house. "We've arranged a meet with the kidnapper," I announced when 

he nodded his approval. He'd told me what to say as we came down the stairs. 

"That's great!" Angela told him, rising to her feet. She'd been using the Strato-Lounger by 

where I sit and Olivia was on the couch to the right of my spot. "Give me the address so I can get 

some people in the area." 

Shaking his head, never once breaking eye contact, Donnie told her, "No. Angela, you 

may accompany us, and Olivia is welcome as long as she stays with you and you both remain out 

of my way, but no more police personnel." 

While Angela merely glared at him in a surprised mix of anger and frustration, Olivia 

used the moment to step forward and brandish some clout. "Your directive is obstructing a police 

investigation and interfering with an officer in the performance of her duties." 

"I am not," he said succinctly. 

"But she just said you've arranged a meet with the kidnapper and I … she … we want to 

be present. Now you say we can't? Why would you say that's not interference?" 

Suddenly I understood why he had me say it instead of him. "I lied, I guess," I offered. 

"What, pray tell, does that mean?" questioned Olivia. 

"Donnie never lies," Angela inputted. "Not for any reason. I'm sure that's why he had CC 

make the announcement." Looking to my guy, she asked, "How'm I doin' so far, slugger?" 

He remained stoic. 



After a crisp few seconds watching the man, Angela faced Olivia again. "I'm dead on the 

money. Either we go along as witnesses, or he's going to suffer 'selective memory loss' and won't 

have the foggiest idea what's going on." She glanced Donnie's way for affirmation. 

He nodded without even a trace of any smile. 

Grinding her teeth a moment, Angela inquired, "Okay, where is it?" 

Again, he shook his head. "We will transport you, if you agree to my conditions." 

His remark left Olivia sputtering and Angela barely shaking her head, a brief glimpse of 

admiration on her face. "Can it, Livy," she cautioned. "Donnie's way is the only way. I can say 

that from knowing the man." 

A beat passed, then Olivia warned, "If you'd prefer your own lovely locks not be removed 

from the root end, that will be the last time I'm addressed as you just referred to me." 

With a chuckle, Angela conceded, "All's fair in love and war. As you wish." 

Bill piped in with, "If you ladies are all finished plopping your figurative big dicks on the 

table for a penis measuring contest, we have a life to save. Let's cease the attitude sessions and 

the useless dicking around, huh?" 

Now Angela looked at a Bill a lingering moment, but let it go with a shrug. "The man's 

got a point," she said, giving ground to reality. 

Not wishing to get involved any further than I was in an obvious pissing contest, I made 

my way to the front closet and got my coat, a three-quarter length black leather I like. It keeps 

me nice and warm with no wind ever getting through the material. We headed outside where, not 

at all to my surprise, Donnie was still in charge. He used some handheld electrical thingamabob 

to go over Bill's gleaming black Dodge Viper, smiled knowingly and stepped a dozen feet away 



from the car. "It's bugged," he explained to anyone interested, but with his eyes trained on Bill. "I 

want you to ride with me in my truck. CC will drive your vehicle until we near the place, staying 

mum the entire trip, whereupon you will take over the driving duties. " 

"I'm driving?" I asked in surprise. "That killer hotrod?" 

"You are able to drive a stick shift, are you not?" Donnie inquired. 

"Well, of course I can, but that's a pretty fast, powerful car." 

"Not all that hard to drive," Bill assured me, "just don't hang your leg in it or you'll be off 

like a rocket. Take it easy, CC, and you'll be fine." 

"I assume that means we'll be riding with you in the truck?" Angela inquired. 

"No, you'll ride with him," he explained, gesturing with his right thumb to one of the men 

he had here for protection. "Bill and I have a few things to discuss, not all of them things I'd want 

you to hear." 

Looking at him again, the smile of admiration once more in place, she muttered, "Well, 

kiss my ass. When you've got it, you've got it, must be." She faced Olivia, then pointed towards 

the other man standing beside a late model Ford crew-cab pickup. "That's our limo so, if you're 

coming along, we'd better mount up." 

"You truly are the queen of mixed metaphors," replied the woman still trying to catch on 

to the way Donnie's system was designed to work. "Might I have a brief moment to speak with 

him now, before we leave?" 

That caught us all off guard. We all took a moment to look at each other in confusion as 

Olivia added, "In private?" 



Once more we all exchanged glances, but Donnie took the lead, as I expected. "Make it 

fast. Bill, come get into my truck as soon as you've finished." 

### 

When Olivia moved a few yards away, his brow furrowed and a dozen unasked questions 

swarming his face, Bill followed. As soon as she stopped he came to a halt alongside, then faced 

the woman, the others in a small group on the right, dispersing to the vehicles they'd be using. 

"What is it that can't wait until we finish this?" he asked, glancing at his watch. 

"Do you like my outfit?" she countered. 

"Do I li— … lady, what the hell's that got to do with the price of eggs or the number of 

licensed hookers in Amsterdam? Why the hell would you ask me a question like that?" 

"I wore this today because I knew I'd get a chance to visit with you," was her reply. "I'd 

hoped for a bit more time, but—" 

"Huh? 'But', my ass! Why would you want more time? For what purpose?" 

"I'm … I'm, um … I'm interested in you." 

"For what? I haven't committed any damned crime. These dingbat bastards now have it in 

mind some character I created years ago is someone they want, so they kidnap the girl I … that 

is, someone important to me … and you want to talk about it? In private like this? Why?" 

"As I just mentioned," Olivia said in explanation, her face reddening measurably, "I'm a 

great deal interested in you. As a man, not as a suspect or a witness, but I didn't—" 

"Oh, man, did you ever blow this one all to hell and gone," Bill snapped as he fumbled to 

get a cigarette lit. He thumbed in the general direction of the others. "No smoking in Donnie's 

ride, so I'll do it here." Towering over her at six-two as opposed to her five-six, he added, "Must 



be something in the ozone 'cause I'm not even wearing any cologne." He coughed once, gently, 

using the moment to peer into the woman's eyes. "I don't understand why the hell you'd make a 

joke at a time like this, but it's not all that funny. So, what do you really want?" 

Looking up at him, Olivia's hazel eyes moistened a little. "My reason was as I just said. 

I'd like to see you … personally … but there just hasn't been an opportune moment so far and I 

didn't want to let the chance get away." 

"Are you shitting me?" he asked, agog. "How could you … shit, why would you … you 

know what? It doesn't matter." He took a drag and expelled it heartily. "This isn't a joke?" 

"Not by any means," she attested, shaking her head. "However, it seems you're not in the 

least bit interested, so I'll simply apologize and we'll be on our—" 

"Look, this is possibly the craziest thing I've ever run across … you even making this, uh, 

suggestion … and I'll admit I'm flattered. I'll add, in pretty much any other case, I'd also be very 

much interested in pursuing the idea … but, it's not the case here. Not here, not now." 

"I see," she said self-defensively. "You've just barely met the woman and you've fallen in 

love with her. A question of timing, it would seem." 

Bill looked down at her, studying her face, then shook his head almost unnoticeably. "No, 

I wouldn't say that. Not that way, anyhow." He took another drag, eyeing her intently. "Who the 

hell knows what that silly-ass word even means anymore? You're right in that I've just 'met her,' 

and the word you used would be one helluva leap. I'm purportedly a wordsmith and I doubt I can 

tell you accurately what it is in the light of reality. I can only say this much. Just seeing her put 

everything else in off a different perspective for me. It all dropped like a freaking stone to some 

other level and she happened to be the only thing remaining that counted. Hell, for all I know, if 



we … I mean when we get her out of this mess … she may very well tell me to go piss up a rope. 

At which time," he said with a sigh, "I'll go get ten or twenty feet of good hemp product and get 

started sopping it from the bottom to the top." 

"That, I can assure you, will not happen," she advised. "Not from what I've heard." 

"I hope you're right," he said almost prayerfully. "In any event, I'm not the guy for you or, 

the way I read it, for anyone else now that I've met Adele." One more long drag, then he began to 

twist the cigarette between his fingers, making the hot ash fall to the driveway. "Some things just 

happen to us and we can't avoid or deflect them in any way. Can't change 'em, either." 

"I apologize for bothering you," she told him, slowly turning away. 

"That's not the right way to say it," Bill explained. "You didn't 'bother me' and, as I just 

told you, I'm flattered. However, with Adele, it's as if I just found the other piece of myself that 

was inadvertently knocked off some long time ago and I need to get it back. If more comes of it, 

I'll be elated. If not, I'll deal with it. For now, however, we have a rescue to take care of, so let's 

get a move on, huh?" 

"What will you tell the others?" she asked. "About our … conversation?" 

"I'm a professional liar," he explained with a momentary grin that departed as fast as he 

flashed it her way. "I'll think of something." Hands now loose at his sides, stuffing the rest of the 

cigarette in the side pocket of his jogging suit top, he turned and headed back toward the group. 

Angela questioned, "What was that all about?" 

Bill grinned again. "Something to do with genealogy," he replied. "Seems our ancestors 

may've dropped to the ground from the same copse of trees." 

"In other words, you're not saying?" 



He looked back at her, smiled once and said, "CC was right. You just don't miss a trick." 

He then headed for Donnie's truck. 

CHAPTER TWELVE 



As he clambered into Donnie's truck Bill said with a halfhearted attempt at a grin, "I hope 

we'll be outside at this coffee place. I'm gonna need another cigarette to deal with the pressure." 

"You can smoke in here if you wish," Donnie conceded as he backed up, turned around 

and headed for the road. Bill's throaty Dodge Viper fired up, rumbling ominously as CC made 

the same K-turn and idled along in his wake. The thundering herd of 600 horsepower under the 

Viper's hood sounded anxious to get things moving. The other pickup fell in line behind CC, a 

small convoy off on a high-tech foray into enemy territory. 

"Wouldn't do that to you," Bill said with a dismissive shrug. "I'm not that addicted." He 

grinned feebly. "Not yet, at least. So, what's the schematic?" 

The ground giving brought a rare brief smile to Donnie's face. "My lady, CC, smokes in 

here, so it's not virgin territory. We compromise in many ways." His hand went to the window 

controls on his door, dropping Bill's window six inches. "Go ahead, light one up. We need you at 

the top of your game for what we'll be doing." 

With a grateful look and asking "You sure?" as he dug it out from the side pocket of his 

jogging suit, Bill did as suggested. He followed with, "You called her 'my lady'. I've only heard 

Shriners use that term. You aren't one of them, are you?" 



Keeping an eye on the traffic as he entered I-5 south, Donnie explained, "No, nothing like 

that. It's a term of respect I prefer when mentioning her. She's the finest, most important person I 

have ever encountered and, of course, a complete lady in every respect. It's but an expression of 

how much I care for her." His eyes again swept the road and his three mirrors, remaining alert to 

potentially fatal surprises based on the incompetence of so many drivers. 

Bill's face brightened. "You know something? I think that's it." He took a drag, looking 

out the front windshield, savoring the idea a moment. "Yes, I think that's the distingue to Adele 

that cuts her out of the herd." Expelling the smoke out his open window, he added, "I see her as a 

deeply valued friend and, at the same time, as a real lady. I don't mean to imply she's priggish or 

anything like that … not a snob or a bluenose … but the woman has such an overwhelming air of 

class. She's down-to-earth in so many ways, but I don't see many occasions she couldn't rise to 

and handle them well. Thanks for the idea. I'm stealing it." 

"You're welcome to it," Donnie said, again smiling briefly. "I have no patent on it." He 

changed lanes, checking his mirrors again. "She's right behind us, perhaps fifty yards, handling 

your car most proficiently." One more sweep of the instrument panel. "I asked you about seeing 

The Godfather movies. In Part II Vito had been shot. He was mortally wounded but they knew 

he would survive. A crooked police commissioner was in on the plot to have him killed and the 

family knew it. Therefore, they had to kill that commissioner." 

"I remember that scene well," Bill said with a nod. "They arranged a dinner at a place the 

commissioner always used, but the Mafia people had an 'in' with the owners. As I recall, they hid 

a gun in the toilet tank. Sonny insisted, 'I don't want my kid brother to come out of that restroom 

with only his dick in his hand', and he was assured that wouldn't happen." 



Donnie opened the glovebox with a gloved hand and removed a shiny Colt .32 caliber 

semiautomatic with a white handle. He checked to be sure the safety was on and handed it to Bill 

butt first, the barrel pointed at the floor. "Put this in your waistband." With his eyes back on the 

road Donnie added, "You will be searched. There's no question. We want them to find this." 

"That doesn't make any sense." 

"Sure it does. They'll believe they've outsmarted you. However, as you'd look over the 

patio if emerging from the coffee shop, there will be an attractive young woman with long black 

hair at the third table on your right. You will go into the store, get a drink, then come back out. 

She will rise and leave when you appear, so you'll take the chair she was using." 

After clearing his throat, Donnie told Bill, "There will be a 9mm in a clip taped under the 

table, perhaps a foot from the edge. The kidnappers may search you when you arrive, or tell you 

to stand and do it there at the table. Feel free to be grumpy and surly, ad libbing as you do, but let 

them take this Colt. Then, when you're seated again, you'll have access to a weapon in seconds. It 

will have the butt end on your right, the top of the weapon on your left. Only use it if you must, 

but I do not want you unarmed." 

"I won't hesitate to use it if necessary." 

"That much is unquestioned. Your position when you speak with whomever meets you 

… I suspect it will be the man in charge, the one on the phone … is you will discuss nothing of 

this character you created until Adele is seated with you at the table. You will accept no other 

conditions. She must be present or you are to threaten to leave." 

"What if he calls my bluff, so to speak?" Bill wondered aloud. "He's already tried once or 

twice to stand on his back legs with me. What do I do if that happens?" 



"Tell him to raise his drink or, if he doesn't have one, push yours across the table and tell 

him to raise that one face high." 

"Okay, why?" Bill leaned closer, obviously curious. 

"We will have a sniper approximately 100 yards away on a rooftop with a silenced .223 

caliber rifle. At that distance, he'll be able to cut the straw in two pieces without a sound." 

Bill nodded appreciatively. "So far, I like it a lot. So, then what?" 

"You'll tell him whatever you wish about the Hondo Wilkerson character … I suggest the 

truth, but feel free to play it by ear … when she is at your side. With your lady in your presence, 

safe and secure, you will depart, reminding the man the same thing that happened to that drink 

can, and will, happen to him if you meet any interference." 

"More and more," Bill said with a contented smile as he took another drag and expelled it 

from the open window, "this is sounding like a plan." 

### 

True to his word, Donnie had a place for us about a block from the location they'd use to 

meet the kidnapper. It was a small rental office, vacant except for a dusty old metal desk and four 

worn business chairs that had seen better days but appeared sturdy, in any event. The windows 

were all dirty and a bit smudged, but they opened immediately when Donnie's associate pushed 

them apart. 

We arranged the chairs in a semicircle with a laptop computer on the desk, the screen in 

our direction. It showed the patio area of the coffee shop with seven tables out front placed in an 

irregular order. Three were occupied, one nearest the sidewalk by a very fat Samoan guy not too 



much older than twenty and a girl in her mid teens, also Samoan, with long, sheeny black hair. 

She was relatively thin and seemed happy, but not very attractive. 

An older woman, easily in her 70s, sat at a table nearest the window to the store on the 

right of the door. The main door to the shop was on the far left side as a customer approached the 

building. To the right of the door if exiting the store, on the edge of the patio, was a table with a 

pretty brunette, her hair almost raven black. She had a big drink of some kind in front of her, an 

ashtray off to her left, and no napkins or other accessories. She was looking out onto the ocean. 

Prepped and ready for the show, pleased to find an old Pepsi can we could both use as an 

ashtray, Angela and I lit up while Olivia scowled. Thinking again at the last minute it would be a 

great time for some popcorn, I tapped my ashes in the can on my right, on the floor between my 

buddy Angela and me, and scanned the screen. 

### 

As we'd planned, Bill was on time. Donnie stopped perhaps half a mile from the location 

and Bill got into the Viper while I scurried to the truck. His buddy soon pulled in behind us and 

Donnie took off right away, dropping us off where they had the second floor office awaiting us. I 

got a very quick kiss, then hopped out. Donnie was already moving when I shut the passenger 

door of his truck. 

We got in position around the screen while, I assumed, Bill parked that danged car I had 

no doubt could go faster than the bleeping speed of sound. Zowie! That is one powerful auto, I 

tell you! I laid a patch about four times before I got used to it. That thing is scary fast. 

Bill walked into camera range, looked all around, hooked his sunglasses in the open vee 

of his jogging suit top and went inside. He was back in about three minutes. As he stepped out 



the door the pretty girl with the raven hair stood, walked to the trash can, dropped her drink in it 

and walked away, never looking back. 

Following one more scan of the area around him, Bill shrugged, meandered to the table 

she'd been using, and took the same chair. He placed the drink in front of him on the table, lit a 

cigarette, crossed his legs cowboy fashion and began to wait. He didn't look at all nervous, tense 

or edgy. 

That part was up to us. Angela, Olivia and me. We did a fine job of it. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 



We watched the camera shot intently, the images very vivid and the sound effects making 

me feel we were all at a table there on the corner of the store, right behind and to the left of the 

place Bill was sitting. In the next few minutes a dozen people walked past in both directions on a 

sidewalk not more than twenty feet from the store. A young mother with a tandem baby carriage, 

a child about a year old in each seat. Two young black guys in long shorts and sleeveless Lakers' 

jerseys. A businessman on a cell phone with an earpiece. An enormously overweight woman in 

her 40s munching something from a candy store down the block. Two elderly women in jogging 

suits who walked more fitly and comfortably than people half their ages. A teen couple, the girl 

taller by two inches, the boy a serious acne victim. 

Even a homeless guy, stopping to search the trash cans while flashing looks in any and all 

directions to be sure a cop didn't see him. They get ticketed for "disturbing the public trash". I've 

thrown out every danged case like that to appear before me. 



Finally, around fifteen minutes after the appointed time, a man I'd estimate was in his late 

50s approached, stepping off the sidewalk and traveling at what I sensed was a forced slow pace, 

not his normal gait. Not quite six feet, it was hard to tell too much more about him. He wore a 

heavy medium brown corduroy three-quarter length coat, dark brown nondescript pants, glasses 

with large frames I sensed were fake clear lenses, a black stocking cap, work boots and a rather 

bushy grayish beard. The entire outfit seemed to scream, I look nothing like this, and the little of 

his expression I could derive said he was by no means feeling convivial. 

He arrived at Bill's table, stopped and stared. 

"You have information I want," he said as a beginning remark. 

"You only think so," Bill responded, "but you aren't going to hear a damned thing on the 

topic until you pay up, in advance. I've already stated my conditions." 

"That remains to be seen," said the visitor, glancing off to both sides behind Bill, then 

pulling out the chair across from him. There were four chairs surrounding the table, leaving an 

empty seat between them on Bill's left and right. 

"You know my name," Bill told him, sitting erect and affixing the man with a stare that 

emphasized his now much more than light blue eyes. They'd become a whitish pale blue, a coat 

of azure coloring over a polar underground. They were a background of non-emotion. A sign no 

mercy existed in that realm. "What do I call you?" 

"Try 'Sir'," was the reply from a face flattened of all emotion. 

"Okay, 'Slick' it shall be, although you aren't at all slick in any way I can see." 

"Stand," the man said, gesturing with the double flip of his left index finger. 

"Why?" No movement, the stare ongoing. 



"So he can search you," came the answer. "Slick" glanced to Bill's right. 

Bill looked up over his right shoulder to see a man he'd never encountered. Late 20s, in a 

t-shirt, with a vee neck black sweater and denim pants. Medium height and weight, brown hair 

and eyes, face void of expression, the man looked at Bill wordlessly and awaited. 

"You steal something from me, you ineptly set up a meeting, mishandle practically every 

fucking step of the process, and you don't trust me?" He turned his face slightly to the right and 

spat on the ground. "You suck donkey dick, you know that?" Scowling, Bill stood and held his 

arms out at an angle. "Search away, asshole." 

Fifteen seconds later, having extracted the Colt and grunting a sound Bill assumed was a 

word in a foreign language, the stranger departed. The visitor said, "I had good reason. You were 

armed. That wasn't part of what we agreed upon." 

"Are you telling me you're not armed?" inquired Bill, his eyes riveted on the man again. 

"I make no comment in that regard." Slick leaned forward, no more than an inch. "I want 

to know everything you know about this purported 'Hondo Wilkerson' in your novel." 

"Selective hearing loss, huh?" Bill argued with redoubtable intensity. "Slick, you ain't 

gonna hear squat-diddly until you pay up. I'm rapidly growing weary of all the bullshit and I am 

again warning you you're walking on some very thin ice. You get that woman to this table, now, 

unharmed, or this will degenerate to be a situation no one's gonna like, and you may very well 

not survive it. In short, asshole, I'm now all done fucking around with you. Pay up or things're 

gonna get ugly." 



McLain, the visitor in disguise, wrinkled his mouth, pursing his lips in a tight circle, the 

bundle making a circular loop two times. Finally he said, "Unacceptable" and shoved back his 

chair by affixing his feet on the concrete and straightening his legs. 

Leaning forward at the same time, left hand lying flat on the table with a cigarette in the 

first two fingers, right hand shoved beneath the table, Bill said coldly, "Don't move, Slick. I am 

not fucking around with you. Not one damned bit." 

"I don't see you having any options," was the reply. 

Using his thumb, Bill cocked the hammer of the 9mm located exactly where he was told 

it would be positioned. "You'll piss from a tube the rest of your life if you survive this round I'll 

put in your crotch. Now, do as I told you and sit the fuck down." 

The next sixty seconds were devoted to a silent stare down. 

McLain raised his left hand slowly, clenched it into a fist, unclenched it for two beats and 

tightened it once more before lowering it to the table to rest in place. The battle of the fixed eyes 

continued unabated another sixty plus seconds until Bill heard the scuffle of shoes off to his right 

on the sidewalk. He glanced that way and saw Adele was approaching, her face set, mouth fixed 

while it struggled to contain what he was sure had to be a smile of some sort. 

As she drew closer, hope flickering brighter and brighter in cocoa brown eyes begging to 

face no disappointment, Bill detected a bruise on her jaw. He rose to his feet, slowly moving the 

9mm to slide it into the front of his jogging pants inside the top with an extended vee because the 

zipper was down so far. "If I don't like what I hear, you'll be a dead man. Her story will decide if 

you leave this place on two feet or in a body bag." 



She reached the table, Bill moving quickly to his right and positioning the woman on his 

left where he loosely draped his left arm around her neck, resting it easily on her shoulders. "The 

world is getting brighter," he said huskily. "What happened to your face, pretty girl? Tell me the 

truth. Someone's life rests on your answer." 

Adele gulped, then took a deep breath before she answered. Her words began in a quiver 

and took on strength as she spoke, her eyes anchored to Bill's still icy blue orbs flickering from 

her to the man across the table and back. "I tried to get away. I ran into a tree in the dark, but I 

got up and ran some more. Then one of the guards … honest, they were like those weirdos in the 

low rent movies … jumped out of the bushes and kicked me in the head." She gulped, sighed one 

more time, then apparently decided she'd said enough for the moment. 

Bill now glared at the man seated across from him. "That was the last mistake you'll ever 

make around me or mine. Don't make me tell you again." He eased forward, thighs brushing the 

side of the round table, then used his left foot to slide the chair back on that side. "You sit here, 

baby, but don't scrunch in with your legs under the table." Lowering himself again to his seat a 

beat behind Adele sitting in hers, he added, "I may need to put a bullet in this bastard's crotch 

and I want a clear target." The 9mm went back under the table, the gesture made obvious. 

Again in position, Adele safely to the side, Bill said with a now controlled rage, "Listen 

up close here, Slick, because I don't enjoy repeating myself. The character known as 'Hondo 

Wilkerson' is one I created all those years ago for the novel Stranded. It originated in my truly 

demented mind and expanded as his role grew in the story. He's not a real person and, the last I 

knew of him, was headed for a hero's welcome in Samoa with a pretty young Samoan girl named 

Jasmin. That's it, dude. End of story. I made the man up out of thin air." 



"I don't believe you." 

"Life's a bitch, then you die. Deal with it." 

"You are going to tell me, one way or another. Make it easy on yourself," McLain said in 

an unmistakable order as he sought to regain control of the moment, the situation at hand. It was 

the first flicker of emotion to cross his face other than the lip movements of moments earlier and 

it told Bill the battle was his to win or lose. He did not attack the opportunity halfheartedly. 

"That man was a work of fiction. A damned good character, yes. I'll grant you that much. 

He was a surprise wrinkle in the story and I brought some characters together unexpectedly in 

ways you'd've never seen coming. That's because I'm one damned good writer, and you're gonna 

have to accept that point. There's no more to the story. That's it, Slick. Fini." 

"I don't believe you." 

Bill sighed, not tiredly this time, but with a rising sense of realization the discussion was 

on a high speed route to getting nowhere in a devilish hurry. "Your ignorance and incapability 

are not my responsibility." His left hand clasped Adele's. "Girl, we're leaving now. Get up." 

"Not until I say you are," McLain directed, glaring in order to dominate the other man. 

Waiting until he was erect, releasing his grip on Adele, Bill said in a soft but stern tone as 

he slid his drink across the table, "Pick up my drink." 

"No. I don't intend to do that, and you are not leaving until I say you can. Sit down." 

"I told you, Slick, I'm all done fucking around with you." He raised the drink with his left 

hand and tapped the middle of the paper cup with the tip of his right index finger. "Can you see 

what it says on the cup, Slick?" 

"Yes, of course, but that has nothing to do with—" 



The cup exploded in McLain's face, showering it with liquid. Bill released his grip as the 

bullet pulverized the container. He then rather patiently explained, "If you want to discuss this 

any further … as a gentleman … call me. If you ever play any more fucking games like this with 

me, mister, I'll kill you." 

He drew Adele closer to him with a gentle pressure, kissed her on the forehead and said, 

"C'mon, pretty girl. We're outa here." Backing up slowly, easing her around so he was between 

her and the gawking man seated at the table with a soaked face, Bill muttered, "Quickly and with 

no fuss, let's get our asses in the wind." 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 



When Bill and Adele exited the scene the man Donnie had showing us the video, a tall 

Luiseño named Domingo, hurriedly bustled us all back out to his truck, beginning a conversation 

on his cell with Donnie as he followed us down the stairs to the street. He didn't bother to lock 

up, so I made the guess Donnie had others involved who would clean up the room and remove 

anything to say we'd even been there. Domingo explained as we jumped into his pickup, a four- 

door crew cab with comfy back seats, there'd been three cameras at the location which gave us an 

ever changing view. To be honest, I'd been so caught up in the moment, in the event unfolding, I 

hadn't paid a whole lot of attention to those details. Thinking back, it was so much like watching 

a real movie in a theater, I didn't catch the changed angles as I saw it all unfold. 

We all reunited about six blocks away, but only for a few seconds. It was immediately 

made clear to anyone and everyone this operation was still 100% Donnie's and under his total 



control. The tone of his voice and cast of his dark brown eyes explained without any doubt there 

was no room for discussion and he wouldn't entertain any questions. Donnie put Bill and Adele 

in the back seat of his truck, waved once and a Luiseño appeared to drive Bill's hotrod, then my 

guy rearranged the ridership. While Bill and Adele were placed in the back seat of Donnie's truck 

for the trip, Angela and Olivia were told to remain in Domingo's. 

The sole deviation was Angela moving to ride up front with Domingo, frustrated and a bit 

annoyed she'd have to wait to ask questions and get information. Olivia, on the other hand, was 

in a silent snit, casting snarky looks at pretty much everyone, with some green-eyed digs shot at 

Adele with near glaring intensity. I saw it, as did everyone else, and I noticed just those looks put 

a brief scowl on Donnie's face. That made my decision. I wouldn't say anything to her about it, 

but I knew beyond any doubt Donnie would. He's never a bossy taskmaster, but he doesn't easily 

put up with dissension or argument. When he's not running an operation, he's 100% compliant 

with whomever is in charge. When he's that man in charge, he not only expects rigid obedience, 

he demands it. 

We emerged in a caravan of sorts with Domingo's truck leading the way, us in the middle 

and the man driving Bill's car in the rear. Another Luiseño, never saying a word, hopped into the 

second seat of Bill's car, telling me they were both armed and along to protect our flank under 

my guy's competent direction. Along the way Adele told us her part of the story. How those apes 

pounced on her as she exited the potty and swooped her away without a word. She'd been kept a 

prisoner in a cabin she believed was in Julian, up in the mountains past Ramona, last civilization 

before being dumped into the desert where Borrego Springs was the next place to be found. 



I noticed fondly there wouldn't've been room to slip a piece of paper in between the two 

as they sat in the back seat, Bill on my side with Adele his second coat of skin, his big arm held 

across her shoulders. Bill kept his other hand on the 9mm in his belt when he wasn't smoking and 

sending the used stuff out the window he had cracked about four inches, same as mine up front. 

He frowned angrily when she explained about that yucca plant who kicked her in the head and 

she was knocked unconscious. It planted the seed in my mind about Bill. While he seemed to be 

a relatively good-natured guy and would prefer being happy with others, I decided it wouldn't be 

a "top of the list" idea to seriously piss the man off. 

He's definitely the kind of guy who'll do something about it and there's no reason to feel 

whatever he did would be pleasant for anyone involved. 

Things changed a bit, of course, when we arrived at the house. Donnie's guys took up 

their stations, making no attempt to conceal what they were doing or the fact they were armed. 

Angela calmed down a bit when we then took up our places there in the large living area on the 

second floor because she was getting answers to questions that'd been driving her cuckoo all the 

way back here. Olivia trotted out a more up-close snarky expression and gave off the impression 

she'd gotten filmed evidence proving Adele had stolen her family's silver collection. 

Donnie rose, stepped over to stand behind Olivia, leaned and whispered something in her 

ear. Her eyes enlarged. Her neck swiveled. She began a glare at him but, when her eyes met his, 

she changed the look on her face. Sat in thought a second or two, then nodded. Whatever Donnie 

said to her convinced the woman she would only be allowed to be present while she maintained 

his permission, and that would change very quickly if her attitude remained as it had been. 



My guy can be a man of long and impactive messages while containing himself to but a 

very few words. Along with facial expressions and the power behind those dark eyes, he can get 

a thought across so it's unmistakably understood by all. He'd just worked his magic on Olivia, 

who now sat and pouted very quietly, eyes mostly on her lap, no longer scanning the room with a 

scathing expression. 

About the time Angela was getting up to speed, our ballistic doorbell went off, followed 

in twenty seconds by the electric one installed with a button outside. Brittany made it clear we 

were being invaded, promised to kill at least her share, and invited any other brave souls present 

to join her in repelling the onslaught before it fully began. With Adrianne already bussed away to 

the "gifted kids" school, our second oldest baby, Candy, took over the duty of collecting her and 

preventing the promised attack. Still, we all knew it was mostly false effrontery. Brittany will 

bite only when someone tries to harm her family, at which point she can be a bit vicious. 

The callers were unexpected, but not unwelcome. The man was a guy named Royal 

Rankin, an SDPD uniformed officer who'd recently become connected with our family in an odd 

but memorable and endearing manner. Not that long ago a maniac kidnapped Adrianne to get at 

me and she was placed in jeopardy to the point we might've lost her. Royal was the cop on-duty 

who found her bus, abandoned and set to go up in flames, then played a major role in helping us 

get her back. He's a very good looking guy, not quite thirty, who's taken on the maturity as an 

SDPD officer to look a few years older than he is, which is helpful in many ways to his newest 

station in life. 

Royal also played an extremely important role in saving the life of the phenomenally 

beautiful woman at his side, a strawberry redhead with the customary freckles and seldom seen 



attractiveness. She has one of those "to die for" bodies, entrancing light blue eyes that draw all 

who see her closer and closer by instinct. In a way it's beneficial she also doesn't look her age. If 

the average person would make a guess he or she would peg Siobhan O'Grady's age around forty 

or so as they admired her stunning physical appearance. 

I'm not among those likely to mistake her age since she's my Mama's half sister, older by 

seven years, making her sixty years of age. I'd made it my near lifelong practice to avoid her at 

all costs because, until only a few months ago, I loathed the woman with a passion. Her history 

since her teens had been to lure men to her bed, all the while feigning her undying love. All the 

men she drew to her had a few things in common. They were well off or wealthy, certain to be 

her elder, and married to someone else. Aunt Siobhan would intentionally cause the man to fall 

in love with her, then connive until she got him to tell his wife he was leaving her for another 

woman. Satisfied then at the havoc she'd created, my Aunt Siobhan would drop the man like a 

hot potato and go in search of her next victim. She's a relatively well established actress, too. 

In a startling turn of events wherein she was nearly murdered more than once by failed 

efforts of a maniac and his evidently equally deranged mother, Mama and I learned the reason 

behind her sordid history. She'd been molested by her Daddy, my Mama's natural paternal dad, 

and did all those evil things in a confused way of getting even. When she realized what she'd 

done all those years, she begged Mama's and my forgiveness. In a very touching and sensitive 

time none of us ever expected, she got it. 

Royal Rankin saved her life when that loopy woman tried to kill her and take the rest of 

us with her, and she saved his by shooting the woman to death as she attempted yet another kill. 

As an unexpected consequence, while serving as her police bodyguard-protector for a short term 



in which she was deemed in danger, Royal fell hopelessly in love with my aunt. Then, unable to 

prevent the reaction, she followed suit … for all the right reasons. 

To their chagrin, she's 33 years older than the man she loves. She appears to be only a 

few years his senior and they're working on it. I suppose they honestly are one of the couples 

who could dismiss questions about themselves by saying "It's complicated" and be right on the 

money. As it is, they're taking things one day at a time and letting "their thing" go wherever it's 

meant to go. They both have all our very best wishes in that regard and I consider each to be a 

part of my growing family. 

Because Royal is a cop and enjoys the reputation of a rising star in the department, no 

objection was made by Angela or Donnie over involving him in the discussion. There was a 

good chance he could add to it, so Royal was seen as a resource. Olivia, of course, wasn't even 

consulted. I drew the impression that sort of pissed her off but, after she received a brief look 

from Donnie, she managed to completely contain her reactions, whatever they might be. 

What happened next was a totally unexpected event, one I'd've never seen coming. 

My Aunt Siobhan sat next to Royal on the other couch, the one across from where I use 

the part at the far end with leg lifts. She held his elbow on her thigh and occasionally looked at 

the rest of us between the times devoted to watching the man she loved. Because she wasn't law 

enforcement in any way, she was only a witness, not a participant. For a time, that is. 

Since Royal joined the conversation late, in order to take advantage of his input and any 

ideas he may have, they recovered some ground we'd already gone over. Obviously, it included 

the reason Adele was kidnapped, although no one went into any depth about the connection Bill 



and Adele were putting together. That was left unsaid, remaining decipherable only to those who 

could see and hear. Meaning anyone on scene not completely retarded. 

Aunt Siobhan still sat mute, listening only, until the explanation of how Bill was made to 

be involved came about. The similar names of Hondo Wilkerson and Hondell Wilkins were then 

made a part of the conversation and immediately captured my Aunt Siobhan's attention. She now 

hung on every word, listening intently, then began blushing rather furiously. Almost with tears in 

her eyes, she whispered something in Royal's ear, gathering his attention completely. 

The soundless interruption was unavoidable by anyone, so we all stopped talking and 

waited as they whispered to each other. Finally, Royal kissed her forehead, nodded and told us in 

a somber tone of voice, "Siobhan has something she feels she should add. I agree with her." 

Given the floor in silent mutual assent, she looked up at him and vowed, "Royal, I am so 

very sorry I need to say this. I don't want to embarrass—" 

"Think nothing of the kind, Princess," he cut in. "Yesterday is gone, so to hell with it. If 

what you know can effect this investigation, you'd be way the hell out of line if you said nothing 

at a time like this. Go ahead, baby, tell 'em." 

Siobhan scanned the room, her main focus on Donnie and Angela, then spoke. 

"This man, Hondell Wilkins, is in his late 60s, am I correct?" 

With everyone pertly watching her face, Angela said, "Yes. We think he's 67 now." 

"Tall, heavy, a scientist and inventor? He later had a … gee, what the heck would you 

call it, anyway, a love affair? … with a Russian woman they felt was a spy of some kind, right?" 

"I'm not sure I like where I think this is going," muttered Angela. 



Aunt Siobhan again blushed badly. "He was one of the men I, um, seduced when I was 

just getting started in all those bad things I did for so many years. I ruined his marriage, just as I 

did for so many others." A tear of obvious shame trickled down her left cheek. 

Royal tightened his grip around her and sat quietly emanating strength on her behalf. 

"I suppose that's good to know," admitted Angela, "but not really germane to anything in 

this case unless you think you have any info to add on the guy … like how we might find him." 

"Mercy me! I might, somehow, be able to do that," said Aunt Siobhan a bit reluctantly. 

"I'm uncomfortable at the idea, but I might be able to help out." 

"How, pray tell?" shot from Angela's mouth. 

"He still sends me a Christmas card every year and a note or something bringing me up to 

speed on his life. Always says he misses me and still, um …" She glanced up embarrassedly now 

at Royal. "He still loves me." She cleared her throat. "He sends me pictures at times, including 

the two women he now has living with him. Youngsters, actually. He calls them his 'bimbinis', a 

pair of girls in their late 20s or very early 30s named Sharla and Cutterby." She sighed. "He says 

he'd be happy to leave them if he thought he'd be able to get me back." Another sigh. "That's not 

much, I guess, but I thought I should at least say something. I'm done interrupting you now." 

Angela spoke for us all when she mumbled, "Holy shit!" 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 



Aunt Siobhan's bombshell turned the conversation in an altogether different direction, 

with everyone wanting to throw in an idea or twelve, each of us certain he or she knew what was 



the wisest thing to do. After allowing us a couple moments to prattle on aimlessly, even Angela 

inputting ideas, Donnie stood and ignited his eyes. 

That's really the only way I can say it. 

I really don't brag on my guy just because I love him, although I suppose that's a great 

reason all on its own. Still, have you ever known anyone who could "yell" with his eyes? 

He came fully erect, an even six feet supporting 180 pounds of muscle with a possible 3.2 

ounces of fat, and turned on those eyes. I swear by all that's holy, even those not looking in his 

direction shut up immediately. It was as if they could all hear him looking at the backs of their 

heads or something. A silence fell upon the large room we were in. Donnie allowed it to linger a 

few seconds, then swept the area with his hand, indicating the places we'd all been seated before. 

His words were normal conversational volume, but not a soul wanted to interrupt the man. 

"We will discuss what to do in a calm and ordered manner," he explained. 

As we all took our seats, Olivia rose to her feet again. "Where is the ladies room?" 

My hand was coming up to point when Candy evidently popped right straight out of the 

freakin' woodwork. She can be a silent little devil, our second oldest baby can. "I'll show 'er fer 

ya, Mama. Ya don't gotta interrupt nothin'. I'm on it." She grinned, spun in place with a cascade 

of platinum hair whirling like a water skier's wake on a tight left turn, and told Olivia, "Follow 

me, ma'am. I'll show ya how t' find it." Long athletic strides had our baby out of the room and 

into the hallway as if she'd slid on an oiled floor. Very impressive, since the most athletic thing 

she ever does is cook us an epicurean meal. 

Olivia followed her without looking back. 



Again I sensed the force of Donnie's eyes. When I looked over at him they were boring a 

hole in Olivia's back, directly between the shoulder blades. I concluded my guy had a very good 

reason and, as soon as he wanted me to know about it, that reason would be disclosed. Until it 

was, we had plans to make as a group. 

This may sound a little silly in the description, but my guy, Donnie Oldrunner, is always 

the man in charge of any of his events. People innately respect it and cooperate. Don't ask me to 

explain how or why, it just happens. Not kidding here, we all began raising our hands to get our 

ideas into the record. Even Detective Angela Dutton, for Pete's sake, and she's as bossy a cop as 

you'll ever run across in your entire bleepin' life. Royal also fell in line, and he's 100% a street 

cop. 

Donnie listened, asking the occasional question with his eyes again. It's amazing all the 

communication he can accomplish without speaking a single word. The expression on his face 

told me we were a vestige away from hearing what he'd decided on as our course of action when 

a flustered Olivia strode back into the room. 

"Dreadfully sorry," she said, already showing us her back as she headed for the door. She 

left a puzzled looking Candy standing in the hallway opening, long manicured fingernails busily 

scratching the waves of platinum hair. Quite clearly, something was puzzling our second oldest 

baby, but there was no time to ask what it might be. 

"Olivia, come back here," Donnie ordered. There was a sharp crispness in every word. 

"I fear I cannot. Really, I must run," she said impatiently as she strode toward the door. 

When I looked back to my left at Donnie, I'm positive my two eyeballs grew easily large 

enough to look like beach balls. His right hand darted to the rear of his collar. Even as much as I 



love him and as well as I know my guy, it took me a split second to realize what was happening. 

In one fluid motion, as my mind coordinated and I remembered what he carried in a case he lets 

rest between his shoulder blades, a gleaming stiletto appeared. As it emerged from his collar it 

was also airborne, the follow-through initiated the instant it saw the light of day. 

The handle was very small and light, meant to do nothing more than give the man who 

hurled it a purchase so he could direct its flight. Eight inches of steel with two inches of handle, 

it was a throwing knife. Not designed for combat or to stab someone, it was balanced and built to 

pierce a target 25 feet away or less. 

When thrown by Donnie Oldrunner, it always lands exactly where he intends it to land 

and does exactly what he wants it to do. 

As it did here. 

The blade whizzed past Olivia's right biceps, almost precisely between her elbow and her 

shoulder. It pierced the wooden door frame, embedding itself a good 2-3 inches, then quivered as 

the thud echoed into the room. "I said to come back here," he repeated solemnly as he strode to 

where she awaited. The woman was trembling slightly, evidently not as indefatigable as she'd 

have the world around her believe. The blade missed her by less than six inches. It must've had 

the same sound as a high-speed helicopter when it roared its way past her body. 

Donnie arrived at her right side and pointed to her left hand. "Give me that." 

"No," she said firmly, sliding what I could then see was a cell phone into the pocket of 

her skirt on that side. "I do not report to you, and I … ouch!" 

Donnie had taken her left wrist prisoner, his sinewy arm darting across her abdomen with 

the blinding speed of an attacking King cobra. "I shall fracture this wrist if you do not give me 



that phone and inform me of whom you called." He scathed her with his cocoa brown eyes. "It 

will never heal properly, that I promise you. Consider that my final warning. Give it to me." 

In a temporary standoff, clearly wanting to writhe in pain as his powerful hand clutched 

her thin wrist, Olivia's eyes dropped to the floor. To everyone's surprise, Donnie held his near 

awesome strength in abeyance yet a moment longer. "Whom did you call?" he demanded. 

He must've squeezed again because her eyes shot up, enlarged, but she somehow found 

the strength to stand her ground a little more, despite what had to be incredible pain. Olivia just 

shook her head. 

Now Donnie looked up to Angela. "Get a marked unit to Siobhan's address forthwith. At 

least one. Station armed officers around the building so no one can effect entry. Officers must 

keep that property secured until one of my people can get to the scene and retrieve the data she 

told a henchman to appropriate. Otherwise, her group will find that man and we shall have lost 

our sole possible lead. We have only minutes or it will be gone forever." 

The look on Angela's face said she'd just found a grizzled dead body and had every good 

reason to believe she was related to the deceased. She drew her own cell phone with all the speed 

Wyatt Earp ever used pulling a .44 in any gunfight and dialed hastily. 

Surprising everyone, me included, Adele rose to her feet and stomped angrily toward the 

door, going around Donnie and coming to a halt facing Olivia. "Did you send someone to their 

house to get that information I nearly died for? Did you? Well, did you? I demand to know!" 

Olivia shrugged. "I had to. There was no other choice." 

Almost too rapidly to follow, Adele summoned a mouthful of saliva. 

The two women looked at each other as they traded silent messages. 



Seconds afterward, Adele spat from less than a foot away and followed the wetness with 

a snarl. "You dirty, rotten bitch!" she wailed as she let fly a roundhouse right. It landed full on 

the point of Olivia's chin, coldcocking the woman, who fell like a poleaxed steer to the floor, out 

completely. 

As she was spread in a pile at his feet, Donnie released Olivia's wrist. She wasn't going 

anywhere for a while. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


Tuesday, December 23 rd , 2008 … 12:02 p.m. 

It's pretty safe to say I was able to whirl in place fast enough to keep anyone from having 

a really good look at my face, which I'm sure had a satisfied smirk when I saw the meek, mild, 

gentle Adele Nostrum coldcock that nasty bitch. Pardon my bleeping French, but I drew a strong 

sense of satisfaction watching her take one that way. I'm not naturally a violent person, and I sure 

as heck can't throw a punch myself without jamming my stupid thumb, but Olivia Higginbotham 

is simply one of those people who sort of needs a fist in the mouth. 

To be completely honest, I was secretly proud of sweet, tender, loving Adele for jacking 

that witch's jaw the way she did. What sort of blew me away was seeing Adele somewhat going 

into a meltdown after it happened. 

I watched that poor woman's face and felt guilty myself as I witnessed all the raw regret 

washing over her. The pained expression on her face made me want to step forward quickly and 

make my own apology for what happened. Honestly, Adele appeared well beyond horrified and 

helpless to undo the damage she seemed to feel she'd caused. 



Thankfully, before I would've been able to do anything, Bill assumed control of the issue 

and took the needed immediate remedial steps. 

### 

Adele gazed down at the unconscious woman at her feet and grew a bit dizzy at what she 

saw. Oh, my God! What have I done? Why did I … that is, how could I … um, I mean, for Pete's 

sakes, how the heck did I do that? Oh my God! 

She felt her body begin to shake a little. A coldness and a tingling in her hands. My face 

even feels funny. Oh, Lord, help me! I never meant to — 

Bill's arms came around her, pulling Adele to his chest. Very softly and gently her face 

was pressed against his left shoulder, his hand on the back of her head now stroking the hair as 

he muttered into her ear, "Easy, Adele. Take it easy. It's okay. Really. It's okay." 

"No," she mumbled, happy to find her lips were slightly smushed up against the material 

of his rayon jogging suit, "it's not. What I … what I did was … it was terrible! I shouldn't've … I 

mean, darn it all, I had no right to … to … to—" 

"The hell you didn't," he broke in, squeezing her against himself even tighter now for a 

moment, his hand pressing just a bit stronger against the back of her head. He interrupted the 

tender caresses of her locks long enough to brush his lips over the cascade of dark chocolate hair 

falling past her left ear. "Actually, you did me one helluva favor." 

Sniffling a bit, only now realizing she had tears in her eyes she hadn't noticed because the 

trembling had grown so vibrant she couldn't concentrate on anything else, Adele inquired, "How 

did I … did I help … help you?" Another sniffle and a handful of tissue came to a stop near her 



nose. Looking to her right in surprise, she saw a misty-eyed CC with her arm extended while she 

silently mouthed, "Good job!" 

Now I really do feel stupid, Adele determined while a feminine giggle erupted even as 

she began weeping. I must look like a blooming idiot! 

"Because," Bill cooed softly in a tone she wasn't sure anyone else even caught, "I don't 

ever hit women and I truly wanted to deck that bitch myself!" He concluded by kissing her ear 

again. 

"But, I … Bill, I had no right?" It was a statement, yet a question, as well. 

"The hell you didn't," he insisted. "You nailed it when you said you damned near died for 

the information that bastard has and she was going to send one of her lowlifes to scarf up the one 

and only shot we have of getting to the guy." He snorted. "Shit, you should've kicked the bitch in 

the face when she hit the damned floor." 

"Maybe, but I was … I was … darn it all, Bill, it was wrong of me! I hit that woman! I've 

got no … no right to … to do anything like that." The weeping increased. 

Still pressing her to his chest, Bill changed tacks. "C'mon, I'm getting you out of here. We 

need a little privacy." 

"I don't think that's a good idea," was Angela's stern suggestion as Bill now steered Adele 

toward the foyer closet where her coat would be hanging. 

"No, she'll be safe," countered Donnie, gesturing toward two of his troops. "Domingo, 

Gregory, go with them, fifty feet in front and behind, weapons at the ready." 

With silent nods the two Luiseño warriors strode toward the front door, Gregory in the 

lead, Domingo also stepping outside, waiting to take up the rearward guard position. 



Gesturing his appreciation with a half nod of his own, Bill got her coat, zipped his own 

jogging suit halfway up but left room to reach the 9mm in his waistband, then ushered her out 

the door. Entrusted to the diligent care of their two safe keepers, his left arm draped across her 

shoulders, they set out for the beach. 

Oh, Good Lord! Now what do I do? she wondered fearfully. What if … what if I have to 

… to say it? What if I have to … to tell him? Worse, if I'm forced to say it, how will he react? I 

have no idea what I'll do if he … oh, please, God? Help me now? Please? 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 



The first twenty or so steps they took, Adele looked at no one. Not Gregory, who was out 

in front, hand on a .40 Glock in his waistband, or Domingo, stealthily pacing behind them, both 

men's eyes moving a mile per minute to take in any motion or movement in the vicinity. Not at 

the tall, platinum-haired writer with the trimmed beard and again icy blue eyes safeguarding her, 

his left arm draped on her shoulders. Not even at the ocean spread wide before them. 

First she watched the ground pass beneath them as they moseyed to the crest of the hill 

and ambled down toward the beach. They were off the snaky sidewalk, perhaps forty feet away 

from the three-story modernistic dwelling, in a physical sense. From an emotional perspective, 

each was in a remote corner of limbo. Two minds were furiously, frantically searching for the 

words to pass a thought to the other. Neither knew it for sure, but both suspected that was the 

case at hand. 



Finally, with a sigh of exasperation, a signal of sensory exhaustion that had forced her to 

make a decision she did not want to arrive at, Adele expelled the air she hadn't even realized she 

was holding in her lungs. Surprised by her inner motivation, then immediately rewarded by how 

good it felt, she leaned more to the right, pressing her right shoulder even more firmly against his 

body. Pieces of her thoughts fell together in domino fashion and she concluded, If this means I 

lose the man, so be it, I guess. I just can't run from it any longer. Can't hide my dumb head in the 

blasted sand and pretend what is really isn't. Nope, I can't do that any longer. 

Her mouth opened, her intent the words she was compiling would spill out, but nothing at 

all was forthcoming. The outer corners of a full, soft mouth unadorned by lipstick or even gloss, 

not requiring either to look enticing in most instances, turned downward. Doggone it, Adele, you 

are mucking it up even worse, girl! You need to say something, you dumb ninny, not just open 

and close your moron mouth like a dying fish! Talk to this man! It's now or never! 

At that very instant his face descended the nine inches between his six-two height and her 

five-five stature to brush easily atop her head. In an explosion of reality, Adele understood it felt 

so good she had no other choice. I've got to put it on the line here! The recognition sent a pair of 

salty tears zigzagging their way down her slightly angular face, pooling a moment in the small 

hollows that often displayed dimples in her smile before they resumed their trek to her jaw. 

Again, he saved the day unexpectedly. His arm tightened, left hand comfortably gripping 

her biceps, and he said in a quiet voice, "Take your time, girl. Might as well. I am, too." Ending 

it with a chuckle bereft of any real humor, he repeated the kiss atop her head. 

That same warm gush of emotion flowed in her, but it carried a seasoning this time. An 

additive that prompted her, Say it, Adele! Say it now, or forever hold your piece! 



"Bill, I'm … sorry. So very, very sorry." I hate myself for acting so violently went unsaid. 

For maybe ten seconds they continued walking in a hollow silence. Then Bill sighed, a 

note of resignation and acceptance. "It's okay. I knew it would happen." To fill the moment he 

pulled his hard-pack of cigarettes out, inserted one in his mouth, replaced the pack, removed a 

lighter and lit it, then stowed that away, as well. He exhaled, a thin gray line rushing away ahead 

as it caught a small puff of breeze, moved more at a right angle and dissipated. "That doesn't, by 

any part, mean I wanted it … or that I like it even a little … but I knew it would happen." 

"That I'd blow it that way? Bill, are you saying you already knew it?" 

"Blow what?" He stopped, turned ninety degrees and looked at her. 

When they quit moving it triggered what she first thought was a bird call behind them, 

one that stopped Gregory in his tracks. Adele delayed a moment to glance at Domingo behind 

them, unmoving. Watchful. Alert. He made a gesture of some sort that prompted her to peer at 

Gregory, still some fifty feet in front. The man nodded and resumed scanning meticulously in a 

stationary position. 

Following another deep breath, Adele said painfully, "Us." 

It seemed to take all the air out of him like a battering ram into a large balloon. "Yeah. As 

I said, I knew it'd happen. Well, what the hey, huh? We seldom get what we don't have coming 

to us." A longer drag was taken in, then released with a good bit of extra pressure as she sensed it 

spew out of his mouth. "At least, not the really good stuff." 

"I know," she admitted with a sniffle as she clambered to govern her teeming emotions. 

"I was hoping you'd be able to understand, but it's probably because I … because I haven't … I 

never said the … the, um, the other part." The tears were almost manageable now, except for one 



lurker who raced onto her left cheek in search of those to have preceded it. "It's probably just as 

… just as well … you know, since I didn't really, um … have it coming." One last defeated sigh 

and she let her lower lip protrude far enough to blow a puff of air upward. Something had to be 

done about the lock of hair that had fallen across her right eye. It seemed out of line to use her 

hand to remove it. When the tress edged back to where it had been, she puffed once more, but a 

bit harder, and it went away as she wanted. 

His hands took a gentle purchase on each of her upper arms and adjusted her stance, not 

at all pushing or twisting, but guided her torso in a turn that left Adele facing him directly. "I was 

with you word for word right up until you blew me out of the water there. Is there even a remote 

chance you'll tell me what the hell's going on, or should I just stand here with my big, dumb face 

all hanging out and wonder? We can work it whichever way fits best for you, but I sure do hope 

you decide to give me something I'll understand." 

Darn it all! This makes it even worse! He's trying to be nice about it! This bites! "Bill, I 

understand. Really, I do. If I just hadn't acted … you know, as I did back there … so violently, I 

know I wouldn't've made you withdraw that way." Another saline drop escaped her eyelid, but 

she resolved to let no more of them find freedom. "If I hadn't done that, I probably wouldn't be 

losing you this way. I probably would've said … you know? … the right thing to say." 

"You wouldn't … Adele? What the hell are you talking about?" 

"Well, your … reaction? Yes, that's a good word for it." Her lips flattened a moment as 

she battled for the needed emotional self-control. "Honestly, Bill, I understand totally." 



"That's good," he said, staring at her now so intently she drew the impression the man 

was able to cause pain with only his eyes, if necessary. "In that case, would you mind sharing it 

with the rest of the class?" 

Her lower lip extended itself again, possibly in a defensive pout, but she wouldn't allow 

herself the crutch. Again, her mouth attempted to flatten itself, but her lips were simply too full 

to compress that much. "That I've … that I've lost you," she said from a throat suddenly aching 

from the bubbling cauldron of emotion she needed a moment to realize was her roiling stomach. 

"How the hell can you say you 'lost me', Adele, when you're putting my big, dumb ass in 

the road?" His hand came up, palm facing her, and his face took on a drained aspect. "I'm not on 

my knees begging you … although I'll admit I would if I thought it'd help … but why would you 

say you've 'lost me' when the only reason I'd even think of going away is at your order?" 

Now she leaned back, sifting his words. Battling to make some sense of what it seemed 

she heard, albeit what she thought he'd said didn't adapt to reality as she understood it to be. "I 

said that because … um, you know what I mean, I'm sure … I acted so ashamedly back there. 

Not at all ladylike … which I already fully understand is your preference … and I'd really give 

anything if I could change what happened, Bill, but I can't." Mental reserves gushed to her aid 

and she conquered an emerging tear, sending it back wherever the stupid things come from. "I 

won't embarrass either of us by whining or pleading or begging, and I know I must somehow 

look and sound pretty pitiful at the moment, but if there was any way I thought I could get you 

back, I swear I'd—" 

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" he cut in, his right hand still palm toward her, rising another inch 

or two in obvious confusion. "Damn it all, I'm not only not sure we're on the same page here, or 



even the same scene or act, I can't swear we're even in the same damned stage play. How … and 

why, I guess … would you have to do anything to get me back? I'm right here. Matter of fact, 

even if I'm out of line, I want to be with you and I know damned good and well not only do I not 

have it coming, I can't make it work and I still want it … if that makes any damned sense." 

Adele slumped a little, very confused and feeling overwhelmingly defeated. "I'm not sure 

what you're telling me, Bill, but it's not like I … um, 'cause I managed to avoid it every time it's 

tried to pop out so far … it's not like I actually … you know? … said it." 

"What … somehow I've just gotta know … is 'it', Adele?" 

"The fact I'm in love with you," she said with the tears resuming. "As if that's any huge 

surprise. There. See? I knew it'd come out and, just as soon as it did, you'd drop me." 

"Why the hell would I ever … are you sure about that? … drop you because you said … 

what the hell are we talking about, Adele? You lost me on the last curve. I don't get it. Not even 

a little bit." 

Her lower lip switched tactics and began to tremble, putting a jitter in her words. 

His eyes suddenly adapted a blur as the bottoms were beginning to flood with tears. 

"We kind of … I mean, golly, you were the one who said it, and all … agreed that day we 

wouldn't use that darned word. So, all along, I've made sure I didn't say it … and I haven't, Bill, 

not even once, as bad as I wanted to … but I was certain you'd leave me when you witnessed me 

being so darned violent like that. Right away I was afraid I'd say it just to keep you from walking 

away from me … like I wouldn't do darned near anything to avoid that … and then, just a minute 

ago, I actually did it. I said it, right out loud." 

"Said what, damn it? I have no idea what you're talking about." 



"That I'm in love with you. We agreed—" 

"So? I'm crazy in love with you, too, but I wouldn't—" 

"You are?" 

"Adele, you know damned well I'm—" 

"Uh-uh!" she nearly cried, shaking her head side to side and setting up a swirling cocoa 

stampede of hair back and forth across her face. "I didn't know … are you, Bill? Really?" 

For a long, stunned moment, all they could do was look at each other. Then he nodded as 

his face approached hers. Swept into a kiss so velvety she didn't even recognize it as such at the 

beginning, Adele stopped quivering and put her arms around his neck. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 



The kiss had only begun, yet it was already rocketing Adele to heights of joy she'd not so 

far dared even imagine, when she felt it hit Bill. The projectile was on a clear and concise path, a 

trajectory leading to the impact point high on his back, up between the shoulder blades, directly 

on his spine. She heard it make contact, an event she immediately found beyond horrifying. 

The part that made her want to scream in terror and anguish was what she felt. 

Liquid gushed onto her fingers as her hands were spread apart and splayed on his broad 

back in the embrace. It went across them on both hands, feeling very hot and even sticky. Only 

one answer came to her, and the mere thought of what it had to be made her feel like vomiting. 

Not simply because someone had obviously been shot. No, it was far more than that, as Adele 

viewed it. 



This man I've so quickly come to love so much will be taken away from me so soon, and 

so cruelly. My God, he's going to die in my arms! Oh, please, God! Please! Save him! 

As that thought was drilled into her psyche, she realized just as well he was probably in a 

great deal of pain. Whomever just shot him may still be here, she concluded, but Domingo and 

Gregory can deal with that part. If I get shot, too, so be it! Maybe that'd be for the best. I don't 

want to continue living as I have been and, if I'm losing this wonderful man, I might as well be at 

his side wherever we're both going now. I just don't care, darn it! 

She leaned into his torso, prepared to support the man she loved in his fall to the sand 

they'd only reached a few steps ago. As she tightened her arms around him to ease his body to 

the ground, she was astounded by what she heard. The fact he could speak at all was a total and 

complete blessing. The words she heard, however, did not fit the scenario she envisioned. 

Preceding Bill's roar by no more than a millisecond she detected a shrill scream. An alien 

sound, yet familiar in some way, as well. It was a piercing, high-pitched noise bespeaking some 

sort of emotional reaction, at least as far as her ears determined. Even sillier, it seemed to come 

from behind Bill and pass them both by. 

What she heard from Bill also didn't fit the images she somehow knew her mind would 

now never manage to blot out or erase. Not the sound of an injured or dying man. Not in any 

way, shape or form. What she heard was anger, an animosity she'd only seen one time in her 

entire life. That moment was around an hour ago, when Bill was holding a weapon under the 

table and prepared to use it on the man who'd orchestrated her kidnapping. It was painted on his 

otherwise handsome face now as he stepped back from her a couple feet, pulling out that evil 

looking gun in his waistband. 



"Dirty, no-good, son-of-a-bitch! Nasty bastard bird!" As he brought the weapon to bear 

on the loudly clamoring bird she'd heard called a "flying beach rat", her ears detected that same 

sound she'd heard not long ago. What she assumed was a bird call came from Domingo, some 

kind of signal to Gregory, who spun in place, the .40 Glock in his hand. Any threatening force in 

the vicinity would've died in a hail of bullets as Domingo's weapon was also in his hand. 

The "awk-awk-awk-awk!" scream of the fast departing gull was a combination of what 

she'd deem an ear-splitting screech and a squawk. It was the cry of Lucifer's pet bird as it made 

its way in escape after a bombing raid. She heard the click of the safety, the slide of the bar as he 

jacked one into the chamber, and even the steam of Bill's exiting rage as logic overtook it and 

drowned out his fury. "Dirty, rotten bastard!" he spat as he thumbed the hammer of the handgun 

back in place and reset the safety. He glanced at the sidearm and shrugged. "If I torched off a 

couple rounds at that mouthy prick it'd cause a damned panic with Donnie and everyone else," he 

said as he inserted the gun again into his pants. "Look at your hands, baby." 

When Adele looked down she was able to identify the hot black and white liquid she'd 

felt engulfing her fingers. "Oh, goody!" she wailed. "It's bird poop!" 

"What? You said 'oh, goody'? You like getting bird shit all over your—" 

"Bill, I thought it was blood! Your blood! I thought you'd been shot, and—" 

His arms were around her again. "No, baby, no. I'm fine. It was just that shiteating bird 

… maybe I should say 'shit tossing' … and I still wish I'd shot the son-of-a-bitch. Damn him!" he 

barked, glancing once more over the water where the gull had been traveling. The bird was gone 

and, as far as she could see when she peered up at his face, so was his wrath. 



Adele saw the relieved looks on the two Luiseño faces as each holstered his sidearm. The 

feelings they were experiencing were magnified a thousand times in her heart, causing her now 

to gulp air as she grew weak and dizzy with relief. Adele guessed it must've shown on her face as 

well when Bill eased her to a kneeling position on the sand. 

"Here, lean your head forward and down," he directed as he placed her elbows flat on the 

soft beach. "Take a few deep breaths. I've got you, girl. You won't fall." His hands came down 

on her sides and forward, palms up, holding both her shoulders in support, straddling her. 

After a couple minutes she felt her strength returning and her breathing slowed. "I'm … 

I'm okay, now, I think." A glance at her hands spread before her in the sand showed streaks of 

the black and white goo encrusted with sand grains. Her mouth reshaped itself into a derisive 

sneer. "Oh, poop! Look at the poop all over me!" Then the exclamation she'd used hit her. It 

made her giggle, which felt even sillier. "I'm sorry. That was a dumb thing to say." 

He sat next to her and encircled her with his arms as she sat back. "Don't you ever do that 

around me. Never feel sorry for what you say … unless you're telling me to leave. In that case, 

it'd be best to get a second opinion. Hopefully mine." Now he grinned happily at her. "After all 

the damned emotional turmoil we just went through, I will not allow a little bird shit to cause us 

a problem. Not a chance." 

They held each other a while, both acclimating themselves to the dual misunderstanding 

that caused so much pain for each, then calmed down a bit. Bill insisted she follow him to the 

edge of the water where she was able to wash her hands in the gently lapping waves as they 

came up and wetted the sand. He turned over the top of his jogging suit after he removed it and 

swished the messy part in the water. She yelped in surprise, worried he'd soak his top and get 



cold, but he laughed and said that material would only look wet. He insisted he'd be dry inside 

the jacket. Then he escorted her back ten yards or so from where the waves were ending, told 

Domingo they'd sit here a while to talk, and waited until their sentries repositioned fifty or so 

feet to each side. 

Seated now, still on his left with her head resting easily on his chest, Bill smoking a new 

cigarette, they began talking. 

"Adele, I'm really sorry I misunderstood you … and so badly … when you said that. See, 

I've been worrying about something else … it concerns you directly … so I guess my head wasn't 

on straight when you said it." 

"You were worried? About wha— … it concerns me? You were wor— … Bill, did I do 

something to offend you, or—?" 

"No. God, no. Not in the least." He took a drag, let it out slowly and added, "Something 

else, um, sort of offends me about me. I don't want it to offend you, as well." 

Her hand rose, buried the fingers in those chocolate tresses and scratched while Adele 

pondered what she'd just heard. "How can you offend yourself? I don't get it." 

"Yeah, I knew this part would come, too." Scowling, he took another drag. 

"Oh, God. Do we have another problem?" 

The question made him smile, which made her feel fantastic. I can't believe how happy I 

am around this guy. Please, God, help us fix whatever it is that's bothering him. 

Bill leaned left and kissed her very tenderly, then drew back again. "I like the way you 

asked if 'we' have a problem." The smile became a frown. "Nice phraseology and, I guess, also 

very accurate. See, there's a medical prob—" 



"Oh my God! Bill, you're not … not dying, or anything like that, are you?" Fingertips on 

her lips, she watched his face for a response. 

"Well, we're all dying, they say. Someday. In that respect, I am, but I have no reason to 

think I'll be kicking any buckets in the near future. No." 

"Thank God. Well, if it's something else, we can handle it. Together. I'm sure we can." 

Now she gulped. "What … what is … it? The problem, I mean?" 

"Do you know about diabetes?" was his question. 

"Sure. I'm a teacher. We had some biology and science classes, and I read all of those 

darned bulletins the school system sends us. Are you diabetic?" 

He nodded. 

"Insulin dependent? Do you take shots a few times per day?" 

Bill shook his head. "Nope. Couple pills every morning and I'm good to go." 

Adele scratched her head again. "Not trying to be funny but, if that's true, what's the big 

problem? It may sound stupid, but I don't get it." 

"Diabetes is a circulatory disease. It slows blood flow." He coughed, face reddening, and 

added, "Which is what it's done to me." 

She was nodding slowly, eyes moving side to side, trying to think and watch his face at 

the same time. "So, what's our problem, then?" 

"When it effects the Johnson rod, it becomes a 'performance problem' for me. Us." 

"The 'Johnson—?" 



His index finger was aimed at his groin area. "Lack of blood flow means the lack of what 

was once instantly possible and no longer happens. That's why I now hate the term 'broke dick', 

since I essentially have one." 

Unable to stop herself, she burst into laughter, but got a handle on it seconds later. "I'm so 

sorry I laughed, but the way you said it, and pointing like that—" 

"Not a problem," he assured her, "but lovemaking would be. See, if I can't—" 

"Oh, poop! That's not the part that matters, honey. What matters is us. Being together as a 

couple. Loving each other. I mean, heck, sex would be a nice fringe benefit, but that's certainly 

not a be all-end all in my opinion. Strength and character, your value as a person, having you as 

my best friend, those are the things that really count. Besides, maybe there's something we can 

do about the, um, 'problem'. If not, no biggie. We'll deal with it. I can cope and I know you can, 

so we'll be just fine." 

For an extended moment they merely looked at each other. Then he put his arms around 

her once more and the kiss from before was alive all over again. This time, she told herself, with 

no darned bird poop, is much, much better! As they embraced their bodies moved to the side and 

they were soon lying stretched out on the sand. His hands were moving on her back, as were hers 

on his. More pointedly, both tongues were now in a mad frenzy, grappling with each other and 

moving about helter-skelter. Their breathing rates were substantially increased and Adele began 

having thoughts she'd feared after the rape would never again come her way. After a while, as all 

their shared passion began taking control, she sensed something else. Not willing to call the man 

she'd decided she loved so much a liar, what she felt left her terribly perplexed. Finally, unable to 



contain all her bounding curiosity, Adele let her left hand fall between their bodies at waist level. 

"What's this, Bill, if you can't, um … you know? … do that anymore?" 

Kissing her again before replying, he said, "A damned welcome blessing." He pulled his 

head back a few inches. "I'd hoped … even if it was such a damned long shot … The Holy Spirit 

might one day … um, if He brought me the right girl, that is … sort of allow that to happen, but I 

didn't really dare count on it." 

Adele giggled. "Should we go someplace right away and 'do something with it'?" 

"No," he said, smiling again before he kissed her, "I have a strong feeling you'll be able 

to cause a repeat performance. It's a little crowded out here on the beach." 

"Darned crowds," she tittered as she kissed him in return. "I hate 'em." 

CHAPTER NINETEEN 


Thursday, December 24 th , 2008 … 1:26 p.m. 

The rabbit, coming from upwind, took its last four hops to wait in sheltered safety by the 

scraggly clump of shrubbery on the side of this hill three blocks west of North Vulcan Avenue in 

Encinitas, California. One more street laid ahead. If he crossed it, then darted across all the sand, 

the next street he encountered would be somewhere in China. Not wondering about his odds and 

unaware he couldn't swim, he also didn't even know there was an ocean a couple hundred yards 

ahead. He seldom ever went across the road for fear of that noisy brown and white thing in the 

yard that always barked insanely and clearly wanted to kill him. 

No, his goal at the moment was making it to the pile of shrubs and brush so he'd still be 

hidden as he surveyed the sloping hillside scene for danger. Once he knew he was safe, he'd start 



eating but, being a defenseless rabbit, he had to check out the scene first. As he came to a halt, 

the bush moved and something came his way in a hurry. Seeing what he'd never know was a 

man's arm in body-camo, he decided, Br'er Rabbit is outa here, dude! 

He was gone like a convict placed on parole. 

The pile of brush was only too glad to see the bunny in flight. It was occupied by a white 

man who hadn't bothered with facial grease, using only the netting on the cap to cover his face. 

The camo had been here two days, hidden in another pile of brush where it was undetectable. He 

got here and put it on around four this morning and waited patiently with his Bushnell 4 x 50 

night monocular, a classy 9-inch telescope with infrared viewing when needed. 

This was merely a scouting mission, not a kill raid. Too fucking many people there, Boris 

Manlinin determined when he made his initial forays. Plus that fucking Indian asshole, someone 

I don't want to meet up with again if I can help it. He almost had my ass with Marcella when he 

and that shiteating writer came to get her. No sense stepping in the same pile of shit twice. Not 

me. My mother didn't raise no foolish children. 

As the sun rose it first became warm, but wasn't yet near what he'd deem uncomfortable 

by this point, somewhere in the mid to high 50s. Not even enough to make me sweat, although I 

might just kill for a damned cigarette by now. Probably could have one since it's gotta be at least 

150 yards to the house, but I'm taking no fucking chances. If I see that damned crazy Chirikawa 

or Apache or whatever the hell he is take off, I might just try to get inside the place. I can handle 

a couple of his shiteating compadres, I imagine, but that asshole who's dickin' the judge is more 

than I want to mess with if I can avoid it. 



That once upon a fucking time Della bitch … was Jaden for a while and now she's back 

to the same old shit name of Della … knows too damned much about me. If they pick my ass up 

… which is very unlikely, but a guy's gotta watch his ass, all the same … she can easily get me 

convicted of murder. Not good. Hence, she dies. 

A smile came to his face. And, because of a chicken-shit rookie, I have wheels handy and 

at my disposal if something develops. If that Injun asshole leaves I can get in the house … that 

part is a no-brainer for a guy like me … and maybe kill the slut with no one seeing me. Then, if I 

am seen, more will die. TFB, man. Too fuckin' bad. However, if I see her leaving … or even if I 

see the Injun outside for some reason … I'm going to make a stab at it. I only wish I was able to 

use some of the agency personnel for all this shit, but I can't. McLain would call this a private 

mission … like I'd argue about it? … and say no. So, I found my own dummy. 

The smile grew. Donald Kirkwood, private eye. Shit, he's a damned kid, practically. He's 

not out of his 20s yet, by my guess. Got his own damned PI license after being a flunky cop up in 

some Podunk town in the freakin' mountains and hung out a shingle here in San Diego. Even 

says in his ad he takes divorce cases. Fucking loser! 

So, for fifty bucks an hour … like money matters to me, anyway? … he's now sitting two 

blocks away watching what he thinks is my house. Texting me on my cell phone once per hour 

to update my ass on what's happening. A real Sherlock Fucking Holmes, that kid, but he'll do in a 

pinch, and that's what I have right now, A damned pinch. 

Can't have my car around here and, if I park it in a neighborhood, someone's going to say 

something, sure as shit. But, this Kirkwood kid, he's moving around. Parking his car in different 

spots, using that park area to look like he's reading a book, he sort of fits in. Adapts better to the 



scenery. Now he frowned. So, my heap's in a shopping center almost two miles up the damned 

road. That's why I have Sam Spade, Jr., on a phony stakeout. When or if I need his ass, he'll be 

here in no time. Smart, Boris, very smart. 

He thought of the story he gave Kirkwood. The cheating wife. Her boyfriend coming to 

see her when he's away. Even showed the kid some pictures … of Marcella, for God's sake! Like 

that slut wouldn't dick anyone who smiled at her? Shit, the kid swallowed my entire line of total 

bullshit and took the thousand bucks in cash. Yeah, he'll be there if I need him. Damned straight 

he will be. 

Uh-oh! What's this? Son-of-a-bitch! This is my lucky fucking day! 

The garage door opened, making no noise to speak of, a full two cars wide. The fact the 

sun was still high overhead let him see everything now as it began to unfold. There's that damned 

Injun bastard and his foxy judge wife, or whatever the hell she is. Plus a whole lot more! 

Oh, man! This is more than I was hoping for! It looks like I'll get the shot at her I need! 

That bitchy judge's got the Injun, then that little girl, the blonde with the big tits and that 

fucking Jaden with her! Perfect! I'll nail the bitch wherever they're going! 

Using the speed dial, he called Kirkwood and said to meet him at the corner where the 

street ended by CC's house, scurried backward on his belly to get behind a tree, peeled off the 

camo and headed to his left. A trail led across the top of the hill he was using, along a line to the 

intersecting street he wanted where it met Neptune Avenue. Then, instead of turning right to the 

road running parallel to the water, he crossed the street and began walking left so he could flag 

the private detective down. 



When the car, a Chevy Impala about five or six years old, approached he waved to get the 

man's attention. Kirkwood pulled over on the wrong side of the street, putting the driver's door at 

the curb. Manlinin walked up to the car dressed in worn levis and a pale blue work shirt made of 

denim. His windbreaker and jogging shoes were black. "Listen," he said as Kirkwood put it in 

park and started to open his door. "First thing I need is to have to tell me what I should do about 

that." He pointed across the street to his right with a scowl on his face. 

"About what?" Kirkwood inquired, turning all the way right, then squirreling around to 

see somewhat behind where he'd parked. 

When the man turned away to look, Manlinin pulled a black silenced .22 revolver from 

his ankle holster, pressed it to the man's temple as he was turning back and sent a bullet into his 

skull from half an inch away. Although the first shot clearly was fatal, the professional in him 

made him pop the man a second time. Jamming the weapon back in the holster, he dragged the 

body to the back seat, put it on the floor and got behind the wheel. Hands with transparent gloves 

took the wheel, put the Chevy in drive, and idled away from the curb. 

CC and her crowd were just pulling out of the driveway when he reached the corner. 

CHAPTER TWENTY 



When I was still a kid in junior high school back in Michigan we had a female mongrel 

dog. I'm not sure what she was, mostly a concoction of things resembling a collie with black and 

gold hair. Daddy said she was probably shepherd and collie. Her name was just Girl and she'd 



come to almost anyone who called her. Daddy kept saying he wanted to have her spayed but he 

always forgot. Until that last time, I mean. 

There was a male dog, a big old Rottweiler, who fell in love with Girl. Daddy said she 

was in heat and that's what was driving them both nuts. Girl even found a way to get over the 

fence in the back yard. Heck, I was the one who found the two of 'em and Daddy told me it was 

too late as far as avoiding puppies. They were "hooked up" … that's what Daddy called it … and 

the Rottweiler was trying to get up and walk away. Daddy said he would've pulled her insides 

out and left Girl for dead. 

He kept both dogs calm until they were relaxed and "unhooked" naturally. The male left 

then and we never saw him again. Mama called the vet, anyway, and Girl got a quick injection of 

some drug that aborted whatever might've gotten started and was spayed a week or two later. I've 

never dared mention that position is something where Donnie and I have both laid gasping as we 

each caught our breath, but that's not something I'd ever say to Mama. 

However, that danged black dog was flitting across my mind ever since Bill and Adele 

got back to the house yesterday from the beach. Adele told us about the seagull who left his mark 

on Bill's jacket and we all chuckled when we realized how scary it must've been, but then turned 

out so funny and the big nothing Bill made of it all. However, they were back to where there was 

no room between them even for a blasted sheet of paper. I swear, Bill left very late, then seems 

to have snagged about nine minutes of sleep, turned around and buzzed back here. I just hope we 

don't have to take Adele in for a shot in the next few days. 

It was a busy morning here at the house, in any event. Angela had to leave earlier today 

than she planned. She got a call from Carlina Torres, a gorgeous young detective she works with. 



It seems the lab people found Casey Bingham's fingerprints on a gun used Sunday to kill County 

Supervisor Jerrod Detweiler and even on the shell casings in the weapon. It was a revolver stolen 

some time ago and it just resurfaced as a murder weapon. 

Even worse, they found the prints of Major Gaynor, the man I just assisted Angela to get 

released from state prison for rape, on his own sunglasses. They were left at the crime scene, the 

apartment of a woman they can't yet connect with the man who was killed while having sex with 

her. There's also no connection between Bingham and Detweiler or the woman killed, Beatrice 

Kost. Detweiler was inside her, according to the report Angela got from Carlina, when someone 

shot them both in the head and left a gun by the danged bed. 

Angela and Carlina have no idea how Mr. Gaynor's glasses got to the scene of a murder 

but they were going to bring him in for questioning. His status is uncertain now but, based on the 

criminal justice system and how slowly it unwinds from anyone, I'd say it's safe to treat him like 

a man on parole. If he does anything seriously wrong, he'll be back in jail on a no-bail warrant in 

a big hurry. 

So, she left earlier, promising to call me later so she can fill me in on what's going on. 

However, that doesn't change the bleeping calendar. Not a danged bit it doesn't. This is 

still Christmas Eve Day and I discovered we are really not quite done shopping. 

There's nothing under the tree for Jaden. I also confided in the girls, Candy and Adrianne, 

we don't have anything for Bill or Adele and I have little doubt they'll both be here. With that 

kook out hunting for Adele, and we think Jaden as well, neither of them dares leave the house. It 

gets even worse with that creepy guy Bill said kidnapped Adele, and they're still working on the 

info Aunt Siobhan gave Angela on Hondell Wilkins when they got it from her house. 



As a result, I convinced Donnie we simply had to go shopping. He wanted to just go get 

her a few things on his own, but we quickly nipped that one in the bud. Donnie's certainly no 

one's personal shopper and the girls wanted to come along, as well. I dubbed it a "family outing" 

and he was outvoted. 

We didn't make plans to leave until I remembered we hadn't gotten gifts for those three 

and Angela was already gone by then. Of course, there was no reason for anyone to take Olivia 

into custody because there's no proof she did anything wrong, or she was even going to do so. In 

addition, albeit in some sort of spy-related capacity, like a female American James Bond person, 

she is a cop of some kind. That's why it struck me as sort of odd when I told Donnie we had to 

go out like this. He ordered two Luiseño's to follow us in their pickup and he actually handcuffed 

the woman to a big, heavy chair. 

All I was able to get out was, "Honey, are you su— … okay, I guess you are," I amended 

when those eyes of his interrupted me. There was no question she'd be here when he returned. He 

left the other two guys to make certain of it, along with Bill and Adele. I could see they'd both be 

a world of help today, sitting around making goo-goo gaga eyes at each other, holding hands and 

looking as pitiful as Donnie and I did at first. We've gotten a sort of handle on our own passions, 

but it took us a while. Bill and Adele are just getting started and are definitely in the stage where 

they get along just great. 

We made it to the mall I had in mind and Donnie put his guys to work before we were 

even out of the danged vehicle. The men were armed, as was Donnie, and of course I carried my 

.380 Beretta with me. A girl never can be too freakin' careful is the way I see it. Plus, with all the 

"bad guys" we've come across, it makes sense. Still, dang it all, this is Christmas and I want it to 



feel like Christmas … even if there isn't any disgusting snow any closer than the mountains some 

40 "crow-fly-miles" east. It's an hour and a half to two hours from us, far and away too bleeping 

close for my comfort. I just hate snow. Lots of bad memories with that stuff. 

We were on our fourth store. The girls were all looking at sweaters. Because Donnie had 

been so hinky, and since I'm never all that keen on shopping in the first place, I was more like 

standing guard than taking part in the hunt. Candy, on the other hand, was 100% in her element. 

You'd've thought she worked at all these stores the way she seemed to know her way around. I 

was amazed and, if I must admit it, a little proud of our second oldest baby. She may not act like 

the "queen of the smarts department" at times, but that girl can cook like a seasoned chef and she 

really knows clothing. 

Maybe I should at least skim through some of the 11,000 fashion magazines she has all 

over the bleeping house at times. It was more than likely my motherly pride that distracted me. I 

was busy watching the girls when Donnie silently, almost magically, appeared at my side. That 

man can move around like a deer in the forest. One minute he's all the way across the room. The 

next, he's close enough to kill you with his bare hands. 

I looked right and was about to say something, but stopped when I saw that look in his 

eyes. Again, he made me think of a dog. A sentry dog, maybe a police dog. He stood there on my 

right staring toward the side of the store. I could feel all the tension emanating from inside him, 

even if none of it showed in a way anyone else could tell it. His words were short. Terse. Crisp. 

Like the sound of small arms fire cracking away at a shooting range. Perhaps a .32 or a 

.25 caliber pistol. Not loud, but potentially deadly, all the same. "Quickly!" he told me with a 



scary energy in the words. "Gather the girls. Make your way to the front corner of this store to 

the other side of the door. Do it now." 

That last phrase is a cop command. A "take charge" series of words spoken with a bite to 

it that insists on no one dragging their feet. "Have your weapon at the ready. I want the two girls 

behind you, in the corner and seated on the floor. If you must use your weapon … if he gets by 

me … shoot to kill. No second chances. None." 

With that, he was gone again. A whimsical ghost. Speaking to me one minute, ducked 

down and gone the next. That's also what he was doing. Duck walking, in a manner of saying it. 

He was out of sight of anyone in the area where he'd been looking. A section nearest the booths 

where girls can try things on in a small enclosure, one of a few rooms behind the curtained door 

opening, was Jaden-Della's targeted point of arrival. 

I saw Jaden, who'd stopped just outside the dressing room with three or four sweaters so 

she could select a skirt from a table of them. There was a tall man easing his way toward her … I 

still think I'd've seen him if I hadn't been so absorbed in the girls … and something about him did 

look familiar to me. Tall, a handsome face, I suppose, with a chic beard and large sunglasses, it 

only took a moment. 

It's that Manlinin guy! I realized. Good God, the bastard's going to kill Jaden! I keep on 

mucking that part up when I should be calling her Della now, but it slips my mind a lot. 

If not for Donnie being here I would've had my weapon out and aimed. Most likely, in 

line with what Angela says is a cop mentality with a guy like that, I'd be shooting at him at the 

same time I yelled "Freeze! Raise your hands!" 



You do not mess around with a professional killer like that, particularly when he's after 

someone you care about. Take him out, then worry about the details later. At a moment such as 

this one, ten witnesses will have twenty different stories. Nope. I'd shoot first and ask questions 

when he was no longer a threat to me or anyone else. 

The tone of my voice and, while it can't compare to Donnie's, the expression on my face, 

had Candy and Adrianne scooting toward the area I directed. Then, contrary to what Donnie just 

told me, I headed for where he was, leaving the Luiseños to watch our babies. I don't know for 

sure how well those two guys can shoot. However, Donnie is my guy and I have no question CC 

Ryder hits what she aims at when she fires her weapon. 

To avoid giving anything away, since it was clear the man must've somehow followed us 

here, I headed toward the back of the store on my left, the opposite side from where Della-Jaden 

was standing. I acted as if I was looking at the other corner of the store now, using my peripheral 

vision, with my hand inside my purse on my Beretta. The safety was off, but no one could see I 

was armed. 

Not yet. 

That was all subject to change in the blink of an eye. 

As Jaden-Della slowly turned to her left, about to head for the curtain, that Russian guy 

made his move. It took me a split second to realize what he had in his hands was a garrote, but I 

was a lot slower than Donnie. 

"Jaden, get on the floor!" he barked as he sprang from behind a round clothing tree that 

was perhaps four to four and a half feet tall. He was again moving like the artful dodger, heading 

in a straight line to intercept the killer and face him down barehanded. 



Manlinin saw Donnie coming and began his own attack on the girl's protector. 

The two men almost collided, each grabbing the other by an arm and trying a flip as it 

looked to me. Each evaded the move, fell back and attacked again. Manlinin came around with a 

deadly kick that, had Donnie still been standing erect, may have killed him. At the least the blow 

would've crippled him, making victory a certainty for the Russky. 

Donnie dropped to his left side as Manlinin's leg was still rising and swept his right leg in 

a vicious arc along the floor. It took the other guy's leg out from under him and, based on the 

sound I heard and the loud groan of pain, broke the ankle. Almost before the echoes of Manlinin 

issuing his cry of pain were washed away, Donnie was on his feet, standing sideways at an angle 

to his opponent. Donnie bent to his left and his right leg shot straight out like a coiled spring. 

His right foot, the heel as far as I was able to tell, landed with a savage thud on the guy's 

face and I'd swear I saw a light go out in his eyes. Not even breathing hard, Donnie stood with 

arms loose at his side, looking down at the man he'd just subdued. 

Running now, my .380 in my hand aimed at the ceiling, I hollered, "Everybody down! 

Now! On the floor!" 

That's when Donnie's left hand came up, the palm facing me. I heard him say, "Don't 

worry, CC. He's dead. You're all safe." 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 



Carefully looking around first, she backed her car into a parking space here in the hotel 

parking lot. She chose a spot near the end of the row between a brown Mercedes and a big black 



Lincoln. The engine idled quietly as she sucked on the Benson & Hedges 100, watching the side 

door she'd been instructed to use leading to the lounge. My next assignment, huh? That's what he 

says he'll have for me. Well, oh goody. I'm sure this'll be a real trip. 

Scowling, temporarily diminishing the sultry beauty of a full crimson colored mouth that 

coordinated so well with her peaches and cream complexion, Marcella Thrasher exited her car. I 

don't give a flying fuck about littering, she mused with a sneer as she dropped the lit filter behind 

her. All I want to do is get what he has to tell me, do the fucking job, and be done with it. From 

what he's told me so far, there are much bigger fish to fry. 

Swaying as she moved, a rhythmic movement better described as undulating, the small 

black leather purse slightly swaying from her right shoulder, she slunk across the parking lot. As 

often happened, she heard the sudden dearth of silence as she walked past two guys in suits with 

ties loosened standing by their cars talking baseball. Both shut up and watched her move. It was 

an old thrill, but still a good one for her. Feeling semi-flirty, she even glanced at the two, let her 

smile widen momentarily, then looked again at the door she was seeking. 

She didn't even have to open the stained glass door opening into a hallway where a sign 

indicated the lounge was located on her right. A man with a leer did it for her and wasn't even 

given a smile as a tip. Slowing her pace while adding an enticing swing to her step, Marcella 

moved into the semi-darkened pub area. Half a dozen strides later, as she drew even with the bar 

on her left, a good looking guy she assumed was Italian or Greek half spun on his stool. He ran 

his eyes up and down her body. Coal black, soft wavy hair and obsidian eyes made him stand out 

slightly from the handful of other single men seated usually a stool or two apart. He raised up a 



hand halfway in greeting and said, "You're the best looking thing I've ever seen in this place, and 

I've been coming here a while." 

Feeling slightly devilish, Marcella stopped and appraised him in return. "What was it you 

noticed first, Superman? The ass or the tits?" She chuckled flirtingly as the last word oozed out 

in her standard sultry tone, the one she used to turn a man on and distract his attention. 

"I haven't even seen the ass yet, baby, but if it's anything like those titties, I'd be damned 

sure to pay for it." 

"You couldn't afford the price," she mocked. 

"Oh?" he inquired lustily, leaning closer to her. "What would that be, sexy?" 

"Your balls, sugar. In my fucking hand. After that, who the hell knows?" 

The man paled, even in the dimmed lighting, turned and continued watching her in the 

mirror behind the bar. She amped up the smile just to let the smarmy bastard get a better idea of 

what he'd missed out on. Slowing her pace yet further, she washed the scenery with hazel eyes 

that took in every scintilla of movement. Created pictures in the recesses of her mind her inner 

senses would scan in greater detail while her surface thoughts skimmed everything else. 

Coming back toward the very last booth on the right, a nook in the far corner with a man 

seated in the middle and looking directly at her, she kept her gaze in place and headed his way. 

When she stopped by the other seat, knowing her back would be facing the front entrance, she 

peered down at him. "I'm here, as ordered." 

The man she knew as Darius McLain nodded, displaying his game show host smile, one 

she knew quit cold after it was two layers of skin deep. Even with her own noted ability to be as 

frosty as ice when needed, Marcella doubted any smile or other facsimile of anything pleasant 



had ever touched this guy inside. Not in his soul. His inner self. He was, in her opinion, a killing 

robot if that's what he felt was called for. 

Professional enough herself not to let it show, she still experienced a chill scurrying up 

and down her spine. She was also smart enough to let him speak next. Predators never mistake a 

sign of weakness and she wasn't going to display one by opening her mouth yet. 

"Sit," he directed, vaguely gesturing to the seat with his left hand. He had a small glass in 

front of him, not much larger than a teacup, with a golden colored liquid. Prior research led her 

to believe it would be ginger ale. "Drink?" he inquired. 

"No, thank you." After giving him a moment to examine a body that often turned men to 

raw putty without her saying a word, as old habits die hard, she slid into the open seat. "What am 

I going to be doing?" she inquired, her hazel eyes locked onto his brown ones. 

"Very good," he said with an absence of any emotion. "Get right down to business. I like 

that about you, Marcella." 

Remaining noncommittal, she merely nodded. 

"There's a man I want you to approach. You need to be your normal seductive self so you 

can get him to take you to a specified location. Once that much is accomplished you'll be only an 

almost certainly unnecessary backup." 

"Pardon me?" She leaned forward, eyes narrowed, somewhat confused. 

McLain ignored her curiosity and discombobulation. "He's a black man who recently was 

released from a state prison. Among his many weaknesses, shall we say, is a tendency he has to 

indulge in tasting white flesh. You, Marcella, will fill that bill nicely. Ergo, as I just said, you'll 

approach him and serve a purpose in what I have planned." 



"Me? With a darky? Surely this is a bad joke?" 

"It is not," he said, his own gaze narrowing to a pinched expression. "Have you ever once 

known me to jest on an assignment?" 

Marcella slowly moved her head side to side, no longer flooding the entire booth with her 

sensuality. "No, but this is … what you're suggesting is … it's deplorable." 

"Oh?" His expression turned skeptical. 

"You want me to hit on a nigger? Pray tell, you expect me to fuck him, do you?" 

"It needn't go that far," he replied, his eyes somehow turned steelier even in the lesser 

light of the bar. "Your task will be to lure him to a location and keep the man distracted for a 

given amount of time." 

"A nigger? You want me to … what? Crawl all over a fucking spade? Not a chance." 

"Oh?" he questioned again, this time tainting his single word with some menace. 

"I have never been with one in my entire life and I don't intend to start now. There's no 

way in hell I'm going to do anything like that." She forced herself to smile now, but it became 

easier as the next words flowed because of the novelty the idea possessed. "Unless, of course, the 

nigger is female. In that case I might very well—" 

"You'll have very little choice in the matter," he said stringently. "I've brought in a hitter 

who will take the man out. I require a distraction, as does the hitter, and you shall be such for our 

intended target." He sat silently watching her face, his own seemingly chiseled of stone. 

Praying for something that would put him off her for a moment, reduce the pressure and 

let her think, Marcella withdrew a cigarette, lit it and took a drag. She'd taken a second one when 



a waitress, almost trotting toward her, said, "You can't smoke in here, ma'am." The newcomer 

was at Marcella's side looking at her with raw disapproval. 

"Fuck you," Marcella responded with a malicious glare. 

The server hesitated, looked to her left at the man across the table, peered again at a lethal 

looking Marcella, shrugged and walked away. 

McLain slid from the booth and said quietly, "We've been here long enough. Meet me in 

the parking lot. Now." He left a ten on the table and walked away. 

Shakily carrying her purse as before, the cigarette between the first two fingers of her left 

hand and her right remaining free at her side, she followed in that direction. If he tries to kill me I 

sure as hell hope I can stop him, was her thought. It erased any taunting siren image she'd put on 

herself when arriving, to the point the guy who hit on her earlier just shook his head and kept his 

eyes on the mirror. 

Once outside she saw McLain was standing in front of her car, hands in the pants pockets 

of a charcoal Armani, waiting, seeming to have his lips formed in a whistle she never did hear, 

only saw and imagined. When she reached him, the sultry walk wholly abandoned, Marcella said 

quietly, "May I ask why this is so important?" 

Evidently sensing her seeking grounds now for face-saving compromise, McLain brought 

back the smile swiped from a college dental school poster. "That you may. The target was a part 

of an effort to have Manlinin arrested. His name is Major Gaynor, known at one time as a mover 

and shaker in county politics. He, along with a white man who will be your subsequent target, 

were in tandem with police personnel in attempting the arrest. I needn't tell you anything of that 



nature would almost certainly imperil our primary operation in San Diego county, or do I?" He 

eyed her for a visual reply before she spoke. 

"No," she said in well disguised relief, shaking her head fast enough to set up a tidal 

wave of auburn hair from shoulder to shoulder and back. 

"Good," he said, notching up the phony smile. "Casey Bingham is the other man." 

"I don't want to even be seen with a nigger," she said in raw disgust. 

"A pity, that, should you maintain that point of view." 

"Why?" she said too quickly, mentally scrambling to somehow get a one-length lead in a 

matter she sensed was incredibly important to her future wellbeing. 

"The hitter I've summoned was in the lounge we just left. You were identified merely by 

your presence. That mechanic has been instructed, should you choose not to comply as directed, 

to substitute you for Mr. Gaynor. We shall then take other measures to remove him." 

"In the bar there?" she asked, gesturing over her left shoulder with a thumb. 

"Precisely." 

Marcella tried skimming the pictures framed in her mind, stored temporarily and ready to 

be archived. She saw the Greek-Italian, five other midlevel executives or managers, perhaps four 

or five women in business attire, an older couple in a booth three units before the one they used, 

and a pair of younger women not even thirty in shorter skirts and tighter tops. None of them rang 

an alarm to label anyone an assassin, in her opinion. Yet, rather than appear ignorant, she said in 

a sneering tone, "Obviously. I noticed that much, but I wasn't going to mention it." She still had 

the cigarette in her hand so, to feign nonchalance, she inhaled and waited for him to speak. 



Her façade shaded over the iciness she felt as her blood ran cold at the thought. I didn't 

see a fucking thing! I have no choice. "Very well. I'll do it. However, as a lark, why not have him 

do it … Manlinin, I mean … if it was all on him." 

"It will be easier using you. More so, I can't locate him now. Not for the last few hours." 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 



Having just finished dinner in the hotel restaurant, the waitress leaving his change and 

him leaving a tip, Major Gaynor rose to leave. He stopped walking when his cell phone rang, put 

it to his ear after not recognizing the number and said, "Hello?" 

"Hi, Big Boy," came the sultry feminine greeting. "I assume I've reached Major Gaynor?" 

A bit stunned, confused over a sexy sounding woman having his name and number, yet 

enticed at what he heard, he said, "Yes. That's me. Who's calling?" 

"Well, I'm not so sure … oh, phooey. Abigail, Big Boy. My name is Abigail. My friends 

do not call me Abby, however. I'm Abigail Aaron but you, of course, may call me Abigail." 

"Pleased to meet you, Abigail. Do we … do we know each other?" 

"Not yet, darling, but that is all subject to change." 

"Sounds inviting, to say the least." He coughed nervously, feeling the excitement rise. I 

haven't had a piece of ass since I went to jail years ago and this babe sounds like I'd leave almost 

any woman just to be with her. Damn! Does she ever sound ready for some action! 

"Funny you should use that word. 'Inviting'. That's exactly what I'm doing, baby." 

"Pardon? You're … inviting me? What? You mean … like, to a party?" 



She chuckled throatily. "Yes, I suppose that's one way to say it. A party of two, if you 

don't mind small, intimate parties." 

"Not at all … with the right people," he chuckled with some embarrassment, wondering if 

this was a joke, a setup, or maybe a con game. Perhaps even some spooky shit from the cops. But 

why, he wondered just as rapidly, if the cops got together on this … even different agencies as 

far as the Dutton babe told me … would they run a game on me? No, that's not it, but I don't see 

why this hot babe's calling me. "Tell me, if I have the right to ask, why are you calling me? How 

did you even get my number, now that I think of it. This is a rather new phone." 

Another sardonic chuckle. "If I tell you I'd have to kill you." She paused and he could 

hear her inhale on a cigarette, but the idea didn't faze him any. Not important. She went on, "A 

friend of mine is sort of connected with the police. Not actually a cop, but connected in a way. 

My friend tells me you may very well be quite a stud." 

He blushed slightly but decided to play his role in the impromptu game. "What's your 

friend's name? Is it a man or woman?" 

Another vixenish laugh, soft, low, tempting, taunting. Throaty and ready. "As I say, my 

darling man, if I told you, I'd have to kill you." More sultry chortling. "Look, sugar, this may be 

a bit too forward for you. If it is, my friend has misled me and we can call it a day right here." 

"Oh, no!" he said in surprising pangs of regret at what he sensed was coming. "I'm sure I 

can handle whatever you have to say. Feel free." Moving again, he stepped out of the restaurant 

and into the lobby, then turned and faced the wall. Reaching to the crotch of his cargo pants, he 

adjusted the position of a rapidly enlarging erection. He was mentally fully involved in talking 

with this woman, whatever she might suggest. 



"Very well, darling, but remember I asked if this was too forward. I don't want to scare 

you off, but I'm a bit afraid myself." 

"After what I've been through recently," he rejoined, "there's very little, if anything, I'm 

afraid of. Go ahead, what is it?" One more turn, an additional adjustment and he headed for the 

elevators. 

"Do you know San Diego at all?" she asked. 

"Some. I lived here a long time but I was … away … for a while. A few years." 

"Yes. I know," she said in an almost normal voice, but even that had a heavy tinge of sex 

in it. "In prison, I was told." 

Major's face tightened up and he lost about half the fledgling erection. "So I take it you 

know about what happened?" 

"About you being innocent … at least, of any crime? Yes, of course I know that part." 

"What's that mean? The 'crime' part?" 

"I'm led to understand you aren't wholly 'innocent' in certain other matters." A long sigh. 

He lost more of the erection, but maintained a basis that still needed an adjustment. "You 

lost me?" His face was now devoid of the smile he'd been sporting as he talked with her. 

"My friend estimates you're quite a stud." She cleared her throat. "By that I mean it's said 

you're probably pretty damned good in bed. Any truth to that idea?" She inhaled a long drag and 

left a vacuous space on the line. An empty void with a hot ball of anticipation and lust bouncing 

from one wall to the other in a frenetic attempt to seek fulfillment. 

At a momentary loss, unaccustomed to any kind of flirting other than homosexuals back 

in prison, he sputtered, "I suppose … with the right woman, yes." 



"Oh? How would I know if I'm she … that 'right woman'?" 

With the hard-on halfway back to its former state, which was close to fully engorged, he 

said lustily, "I think you might be. I like the way you sound. The way you talk." 

"Good," she purred. "Look, I shouldn't just admit this so easily, but something tells me I 

can trust you. I've … I've never been with a … with a black man before." Another drag, leaving a 

pause that demanded he fill it with an imaginary response as he awaited whatever she chose to 

add to her words. "For some reason … I suppose it's based on whom my friend is and what I was 

told about you … I'd like that to change. Tonight." Again she took a drag, expelled it and added, 

"With you, Big Boy. As soon as possible, to be frank, before I chicken out … which may happen 

any old minute now if I don't hear some encouraging words from you." One more sultry sigh. It 

was bulging with promise and an equal amount of hesitation, an enticing mixture to the man. 

"I'm game as hell, to be honest. Tell me, Abigail, what do you, uh, look like?" 

A pert chuckle was followed with, "I'm very early 40s … I probably shouldn't've told you 

that as you'll think I'm in my early 30s, I'm sure … five-two, one-hundred eight pounds with dark 

red hair and I have a 40-inch set of tits that have your name on them, Big Boy. I can … and I will 

if you treat me right … fuck your brains out and leave you gasping for air. Interested?" 

"You're damned right. Listen up. C'mon over here to my hotel. I'm at—" 

"I know where you are, sugar, but I don't intend to be that easy. I realize from this call I 

probably sound like a complete slut … which I can assure you I am not … but what I was told by 

my friend, and what I hear in this call, makes me want to do some crazy things with you." 

"That's why I said—" 



"No, not that way. Look, there's a Starbucks not far from you. It's on the corner of … do 

you have something to write on?" 

He said he did, digging out Angela Dutton's business card and writing on the back as she 

gave him the street corner a mile or so from the hotel. "Got it," he told her. "I'm very sure I can 

be there in fifteen minutes, maybe less." 

"I'm here now, Big Boy. And I'm getting horny as hell. Don't be late." She hung up. 

As the elevator door opened, he turned and walked away from it. No time to waste! 

### 

Driving the white Ford Taurus rented for him by the Honorable Judge CC Ryder, even 

risking a ticket on his newly restored temporary California driver's license, he made great speed 

to the store in question. The car almost slid to a stop in the parking lot. He got out, looked down 

his front for an assessment at the last moment, already too late to make any changes. 

White Nikes, white socks, gray cargo pants, a black polo shirt, a black windbreaker, a 

yellow gold colored digital watch he owned when he went to prison with a new battery, as it was 

dead when they handed it back to him upon his release. He didn't even think to lock the car. As 

he scanned the people waiting outside at the tables he saw a woman raise a cigarette to her mouth 

and knew he'd found the woman of his dreams. 

She stood, smiling at him from perhaps sixty feet away, and many parts of him melted as, 

at the same moment, other parts grew ready for action. Readjusting the now nearly turgid bulge 

in his pants before he stepped past the protective cover of the car, he started in her direction. She 

was as small as she said, which was a turn-on for him. 



The hair was even longer than he imagined, the tits behind a tight dark blue vest over a 

white, filmy silk top larger than he dared hope. A short and reasonably tight skirt showed a great 

pair of statuesque legs, shapely thighs and, he had no doubt, a magnificent ass. It made him all 

the more excited, to the point his breath rate increased without being noticed. As he drew near to 

her, his passion, born in agitation and neglect, fostered further by her words and the sultry voice, 

welled over. He spread his arms, a massive smile on his face, and gushed, "C'mere, baby!" 

"Not so fast," she argued, her left palm pressed against his broad chest, forcibly pushing 

him away. "We need to talk a little first. I told you, I am not a slut." 

Backing off, confused but trying to think as flexibly as possible, he was determined not to 

fuck this opportunity up. Especially not just by being horny. This woman could not only fulfill a 

wild night of passion, perhaps an entire Christmas season, but may very well fit in permanently 

in whatever direction his life would soon take. Be a part of his future. It, and she, were all part of 

a package too big to mess up with lust and exuberance. "Okay, okay, okay. I've gotcha. So, we'll, 

uh, both sit down and—" 

"Go inside and get yourself a drink," she suggested, a manicured left index finger pointed 

at the dual glass doorway. 

"I've never done it before. Used one of these places, I mean. What should I get?" He took 

one step in that direction, then stopped to listen. 

"Get a caramel Macchiatto. The size of you," she oozed lustily, "I'd make it a Venti. It 

means big." She beamed a smile at him. "Do you have a Venti dick, sugar?" 

"I do," he said with a toothsome smile, "and I really think you're gonna like it." 



"We shall see," she told him, licking her crimson lips as her tongue made a slow and lurid 

lap around her mouth. "We shall see." 

Major went into the store, fumbled around verbally ordering the drink, but the tall skinny 

kid behind the counter, a victim of advanced acne who was futilely attempting to grow a wild 

and scraggly beard his black hair wouldn't allow for years, guided him. The drink was made, he 

paid an outrageous price, then headed back outside. 

He pulled out the chair opposite her, having tasted the drink on his way out, and said, "It's 

pretty good. Never had one of these before." 

Abigail was about to speak, then glanced up over his right shoulder, the one nearest the 

store he'd just left, in curiosity. Drawn along her line of sight, he looked right, then up and back. 

He saw an attractive woman, perhaps as old as 50, with black hair to her collar dressed in a dark 

green sweatshirt and comfortable levis, finished off with white socks and jogging shoes. "Can I 

help you with something, ma'am?" He couldn't help looking her over and even appraising her as 

she stood beside him. His immediate classification was a good looking woman but, not to any 

big surprise, not in the same league as the big-titted sexy fox who'd been waiting for him. This 

was a total no-brainer. Ergo, he needed to get rid of this newcomer so he could get inside the fox 

as rapidly as possible. The idea ruled his thoughts. 

She leaned forward, her left palm coming to rest on his right shoulder. "I think so. You 

are Bernie Calton, are you not?" She gave a broad smile, but it seemed empty. More like a photo 

shop picture installed in a fireplace. All image and no warmth. 

"Uh, no," he said, looking down at her hand on his shoulder. The main thought racing in 

his mind was, If this Abigail woman is at all possessive, this may blow the best piece of ass I've 



ever had … and the only one in five fucking years! "I am … my name is Major Gaynor." With no 

desire to know it, instead fixated on Abigail Aaron, he didn't ask her name. 

"Oh, goodness. It certainly does seem I've made a very stupid mistake. I'm very sorry." 

"It's okay. No harm done. Have a nice day," he said dismissively. 

"You really are a muscular man," she said persistently. "Look at those muscles." 

"Thank you," he replied, not adding anything to a conversation he wanted to have die a 

quick natural death. 

"May I see them?" she inquired, stroking his right upper arm. "Just for a moment? They 

are such muscular arms. Really they are … but, of course … you know that." 

He glanced at Abigail, as if seeking absolution and understanding, hoping she'd see he 

was trying to blow this bitch off before Abigail decided he wasn't gonna get laid tonight. 

To Major's surprise, Abigail smiled and said, "Go ahead, sugar, take off your coat. I'd like 

to see all those muscles myself." 

Prefacing it with an embarrassed smile, but willing to do practically anything under the 

sun to get in Abigail's pants, he sighed and rose to his full five-eleven height, all 250 pounds of 

him. He unzipped the jacket at the bottom and removed it, dropping it to the chair. 

"Oooo, they're huge!" said the unnamed admiring woman. "My goodness! Please tell me 

you'll make a muscle for me? Please?" 

Another embarrassed look toward Abigail, who again surprised him by smiling. "Yes," 

she told him, "let me see it." 

Getting more into it, especially if it interested her, he brought up his right arm curled in a 

body builder's pose, exposing a 23-inch biceps. 



"My goodness," gushed the newcomer. "So much muscle! Let me feel it." She reached up 

with both hands, her left trying to clasp the outside of his arm, her right inside on the more tender 

skin. "So incredibly large and powerful!" 

About to issue an embarrassed "thank you", he stopped when he felt a sharp stinging pain 

in that soft skin. Reflexively, he jerked his arm away and looked at her in confusion. 

"Oh, gee! I'm so sorry," she said apologetically. "This darned ring has a burr on the band 

inside." She raised her right hand, the top held out to him showing the ring, the inner band facing 

her. "Please forgive me?" 

Seeing only a small pinpoint of blood, hoping her guilt would make her go away, Major 

toughed it out. "That's okay. Now, if you'll excuse us, my friend and I were—" 

"Oh, certainly. I understand. So sorry," she said, pointing at his arm. 

"Think nothing of it," he said forgivingly, again donning his jacket. He resumed using the 

chair and was grateful when the visitor smiled and walked away. Turning his full attention back 

to Abigail, he felt a tightness in his chest but ignored it. Gotta be tension. The real tightness is all 

in my dick! Damned if this isn't one foxy fucking woman! Man, I gotta have me some of that and 

that's all there is to it! "So, Abigail, tell me what made … ugh!" 

She looked at him quizzically. 

"Hurts!" he said in sudden pain, wondering if this was what it felt like in a heart attack. "I 

got pains … in my … in my … chest!" An attempt to stand failed, dropping him to kneel on his 

right knee. "I can't—" He wanted to add the word "breathe" but there was no oxygen left in his 

lungs, so it came out as only a squeak. He flailed his arms wildly, his lips mouthing the words, 

"Help me! Help me!" as he fell face forward and flopped like a beached tarpon. 



When his arms started to pitch wildly, Marcella came to her feet and watched. A group of 

people rushed forward, a woman kneeling to support his head, a man unzipping the coat and then 

pulling the shirt up to expose his heaving chest. Marcella backed away farther. 

Another man said, "I'm a doctor! Make way!" With various people dialing 9-1-1 on cell 

phones, the medical man began compressing Major's chest and started CPR, telling a woman on 

the other side of his patient what to do as she tried breathing air into his mouth. After almost two 

minutes with no positive signs, again feeling for a pulse, the doctor sat back, saying as he peeked 

at his watch, "Time of death 7:42 p.m. Thursday, December 24 th . May God rest his soul." 

Marcella was in her car, parked across the street, pulling into traffic at that moment. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 



After she departed the scene at the Starbucks, instructed to drive around and be sure she 

was unnoticed, Marcella did as she'd been told. She reflected on her memory bank of images, all 

the faces she'd ever seen in her line of work, trying to sift and sort. To come up with a name and 

a pic that might be the black-haired woman who did the job on Major Gaynor. Thank God!, she 

thought in relief. If it had come down to me fucking that piece of garbage, there's no way I would 

ever be able to do it. Now she sported a large, unpleasant scowl. In which case Darius would've 

had me killed. Lucky me, it seems. 

Having begun her evening with a full tank, she had no distractions and nothing else was 

on her mind beyond getting these terribly unpleasant tasks out of the way. She drove aimlessly 

all around the area of upper San Diego, never stopping except for traffic lights. Looking around 



carefully even when going through an intersection on a green light. I can't afford to have any odd 

event fuck this up for me. For some reason I can tell all these little steps are a major part of what 

he has planned. If I do anything to throw a wrench into the machinery, I might as well put a gun 

to my own head. She shuddered. Darius has always scared the hell out of me and nothing's a bit 

changed now in that regard. 

So, who is that babe? she wondered, changing lanes and getting on 5 north to move a bit 

back toward where she'd been earlier. I don't recall I've ever seen her before. Not bad looking for 

a woman her age, even if she wasn't what I'd call "overdressed" in any way. Still, that wasn't it, 

not by any chance. That's not what struck me about her. No, it was her mercilessness I saw first. 

Thinking back on what she saw, Marcella grimaced. It was as if she was enjoying her job 

so much she'd've done it for free, if necessary. Of course, I've killed people, too. Never really felt 

"bad" about it, but I also didn't slaver with joy at the moment. Plus, I've never done it in such a 

hands-on manner. I've shot, and even stabbed, a few. Or run them down with a car. Used other 

ways, too, but never such close contact. 

Plus, I saw her eyes at the moment she took him out. I've seen more emotion in a potted 

plant than was on her entire face. That woman is as cold-blooded a killer as Darius and, as I was 

just reminding myself, he's the scariest bastard I've ever met. What a fucking pair to draw to. 

After not quite an hour of cruising the streets, her cell phone rang. Pressing the button of 

her earpiece after seeing the number was blocked out, even so her phone couldn't pick it up, she 

knew it was him. "Yes?" 

"It's me." 

"Okay. What's next?" 



"We've been following the other target. That Casey Bingham. Where are you?" 

She scowled at the irrelevancy of the question. "I'm quite sure you have this car so well 

rigged you already know. What say we dispense with triviality and you tell me what you want 

done. It won't be another nigger, I hope?" 

"There's a picture of the man in your car's glovebox." 

"Mistake on your part. I checked the car over when I took it today. There was no pic in 

there. Just an owner's manual." 

"Have you checked it since you left that coffee place?" 

Marcella blushed. Saw she'd been one-upped. "I'll look at it. What's next?" 

"He's at a juice drink store by I-15 off Mira Mesa Boulevard." 

"I believe I know the store. I take it I'm to go there? Now?" 

"Now. Get the man's attention … you won't need any coaching on that part, I'm sure … 

and draw him away, out to the parking lot. From there, it will be the same as the last one. When 

that's finished, we can begin preparing for what I have on the agenda as the main topic." 

"Anything else I need to know before I get there?" 

"Yes. I was about to get into that." 

Shit! Now I get to wait for the other shoe to drop! She sighed, but said nothing. 

"He contacted a prostitute he frequented between incarcerations. Evidently she no longer 

plies her former trade … a black woman named Shandell Greene … and has agreed to meet him, 

in the company of her boyfriend, to share the Christmas spirit of the season." He paused. Then, 

in an ironic twist, asked, "Are you enjoying your yuletide festivities, Marcella?" 



"If I was having any more fun I know I'd be expected to write a cheque to pay for it." She 

lit a cigarette to occupy her hands, having pulled to the curb as she answered the call. Waiting for 

whatever else was coming her way, she kept her eyes busy scanning her mirrors, the street ahead 

and to both sides, and worked to remain calm. She reflected, What an amazing line of work I'm 

in. I get to spend Christmas Eve setting up murder victims. 

"He's with the prostitute and her companion now. Are you ready to memorize the address 

so you can get there quickly?" 

"Go," she confirmed. 

McLain gave it to her, then disconnected without adding anything. 

Marcella shrugged and eased her way back into the traffic flow. 

### 

Casey Bingham, in an unusual way for him, arrived ten minutes early. 

It was wasted. Shandell and her boyfriend, Thurston Wackerly, were already there at a 

table. Each was drinking an apricot smoothie. As if on cue, Shandell inquired if he wanted to get 

a drink. 

"I got no idea what kinda shit a place like this sells," he said somewhat defensively. 

"Thurston," she began, looking to her left at the outside patio table on a very large shared 

customer area between this smoothie store and a very busy Starbucks 75 feet to the south of their 

table, "will you get him what we're having, sweetheart?" 

"You bet," said Thurston Wackerly, a 23-year old computer services consultant who had 

a BS, an MS and a PhD in computer Sciences. A young man able to write code so detailed and so 

intrinsic he was also consulting to a number of government agencies, including a select group of 



intelligence services in limited capacities. Average height at five-eight, a bit skinny at 138, he 

was the perennial mockup of the stereotyped nerd. Large blond frames on his glasses somehow 

managed to emphasize what had been called "Dumbo ears" since he was a boy. His dark brown 

hair contrasted with the glasses, although the slightly lighter brown eyes seemed in conflict with 

the frames themselves. 

His longtime acne problem, continually under treatment to stay controlled, still managed 

to get away from him on occasion, leaving an occasional small scar on his face. The longer than 

usual teeth, quite white and fresh, were accented by metal braces that, oddly enough, didn't seem 

out of place on his face. The young man's mouth was always shaped in a smile, an expression he 

was aware magnified whenever he was in the presence of this woman he so adored. 

In addition to his computer consulting and classes he was still taking, classes he might 

well be teaching in a year or two, he worked part-time at two Starbucks stores. He rented a room 

from an elderly spinster and did the chores around her house, as well. 

When circumstances put him in a position to be a friend to Shandell, who was working as 

a prostitute when they first met, he lunged at the opportunity. She was the only woman he'd ever 

known sexually, the only woman he'd ever love. In his mind, and hers, that would never change. 

It was some time after they met, when they'd already begun seeing each other exclusively, she 

reminded him she was black, referring to her chocolate skin. 

her sensuality. 

It surprised him, as he'd never noticed, but all he said was it added to her beauty and all 

Vastly different circumstances had drawn her off the streets and into a permanent line of 

work, running the office of Clarence Burns, a thriving local criminal attorney. He had served as 



her lawyer on numerous occasions and saved her time in jail because of her trade, a job she only 

did as she couldn't find gainful employment. Her "record" for what she'd done as a trade barred 

her from everything she ever tried to do as a legitimate career until the opportunity to work for 

Clarence Burns arose. She'd come in to pay on her account the morning after his secretary was 

murdered in the parking lot. Assuming those duties with an eye on it being temp work to help a 

man she really liked, it rapidly evolved to a full-time permanent gig. 

It seemed a match made in heaven. That's how she treated her job and her employer. 

Now she worked diligently every day of her life to not only put time between her and her 

sordid past, but to put it all permanently out of her mind. It was moments and events such as this 

one, when Casey Bingham, a former "client" of her "other work", popped out of the woodwork, 

that pulled her regretfully back into that old mindset. It reawakened the unhappiness she knew in 

that sleazy existence. This time, however, was different in a way. 

Casey Bingham was an instrumental tool in arranging for a cousin, Varshawn Bristol, to 

avoid being raped as a first time prison inmate. A somewhat innocent boy, still in his late teens, 

bad choices and the wrong crowd as friends left him facing a virtual life sentence in prison. His 

youth and size would've left him a defenseless victim of the sexual predators lurking in the walls 

and halls of penal institutions all over California. Based in large part on the actions of the man 

they were meeting, Casey Bingham, that dismal future was thwarted well ahead of time. 

The deed instilled a debt of honor into Shandell. Now, reinforced by the presence of the 

man she loved, without regard to his nerdiness, his appearance, or evident lack of any physical 

strength, she was in control. Of her thoughts. Of her destiny in this moment. Of her life. 

Doing this meet was a great deal easier than she'd hoped it would be. 



When Casey arrived she greeted him, impulsively allowing the man to embrace her, then 

being rewarded at seeing Thurston confidently shake hands with Casey while showing not even a 

trace of embarrassment over her former life. He knew what she'd done before and, because of the 

unusual request to meet with her and offer Christmas wishes, even knew Casey was a one-time 

sampler of her feminine favors. Yet he loved her enough to shrug it off and dismiss the idea. 

The first part of their meeting was devoted to her thanking him for the invaluable aid he 

provided for the boy at her request. Then Casey surprised her by giving them both a gift. Hers 

was an empty leather-bound journal to record her life in and Thurston, whom she'd described in 

some detail to the former customer, was given a $200 gift certificate to a large computer supply 

store in San Diego county. Although they'd brought no gifts for him, it was apparent Casey had 

no such expectations. He was honestly trying to adjust the relationship they once shared to that 

of an amicable friendship and nothing more. 

The honesty and simplicity of the moment and the intention almost made her cry, but she 

managed to get past it and stayed the course. The idea of possibly changing things to be only 

what he suggested … just friends … felt as if it was becoming a reality. 

As it began to appear the visit was wending its way to a peaceful and satisfactory end, he 

had a caller. Someone unknown to him, Shandell was quite sure, someone she'd never imagine 

would have even a reason to look twice at Casey, let alone find him at all interesting. They were 

saying the things friends say before parting, vague references to meeting again and even making 

it an annual event, when she approached their table. 

Because Marcella Thrasher was dressed as she was in the form fitting business attire that 

accented her sensuality, Shandell was immediately put off by the woman. Still, remembering the 



way people had treated her when it was not at all doubtable what she did for a living, Shandell 

held her tongue and said nothing. 

"Ooo, aren't you just the most precious thing?" asked Marcella as she arrived at their 

table and glanced down at Casey. "You are one fine looking man, fella." 

Casey first looked over both shoulders, making it clear he presumed she spoke to some 

unknown guy behind him, but found no one. He faced her and asked, "Who? Me?" 

"Yes, you. Of course," she practically gushed. Then, in a manner so brazen and bold it 

made Shandell think this might be a tremendously well dressed working girl, the woman took a 

chair beside Casey's. Talked exclusively with him, ignoring the fact he was with other people. 

Shandell was very conflicted. To the point she went silent. 

Thurston also said nothing, but she noticed a change in him. It created the impression he 

had hackles standing straight up on the back of his neck, guard dog fashion. It was odd. Chilling 

in a way. Very much out of character for the man she'd already come to know better than any 

man she'd ever encountered. 

Finally, at a point the uninvited siren seemed to be getting lurid beyond the believable, 

she invited Casey to take her home and stop in for a Christmas drink. 

He literally sprang from his chair, then admitted he had no car. That he took a taxi to get 

here, although Shandell had seen him emerge from a city bus when he arrived. The vixen who 

was tempting and arousing Casey assured him she did have one, adding he'd soon be very glad 

they met. That was all it took. Casey had nothing on his mind beyond leaving the premises to do 

whatever the woman wanted, any time, any place, any way. 



Thurston, on the other hand, seemed to be on the verge of a fit of apoplexy, his face the 

color of a fresh red apple. He was clenching his teeth and even had his hands balled into fists on 

his lap. Unmistakably, the woman caller had pressed all the wrong buttons on her guy, but she 

was able to hold him in check with her eyes and by placing her fingers on his wrist as a ground. 

She was certain, if she could restrain Thurston for only a couple more minutes, the crisis she now 

feared would soon pass. 

Although she'd argued against breaking up their visit early, exactly what they'd all had in 

mind until the man-eater showed up, Casey was all on the side of their as yet unnamed visitor. 

He was not only no help in achieving her goal, he was the main hindrance. As the couple walked 

away, Thurston's eyes remained fixed on them. Still grinding his teeth, he asserted, "There's just 

something evil about that woman. I do not trust her and it's clear he's your friend, darling. I am at 

my wit's end over this." 

She was still attempting to console her man when he sprang erect, pointing after them. "I 

just saw a woman emerge from the shadows and begin following them! You wait here, darling! I 

shall return posthaste!" Then he was off like a shot. 

Shandell clambered to her feet and set out to follow, regretting now she'd worn a pair of 

stiletto high heels because Thurston liked her so much in them. She discovered right away they 

were not at all conducive to running, or even walking fast. 

As she raced along at her fastest feeble walk, finally deciding to shred her nylons by a 

trip with no shoes, she carried them in her hand. Quite a bit short of catching up with her lover 

and best friend, she watched in horror as Thurston broke into a full gallop. He was yelling, "Get 

away, Casey! That woman's going to harm you!" 



The woman he'd identified as an attacker was only about ten feet short of reaching Casey 

and Marcella when Thurston left the ground in a full-fledged dive. He tackled the woman he saw 

approaching Shandell's friend and slammed her against the side of a brown SUV parked at the 

end of a double-sided row of cars. The woman whirled in place, seemingly trying to slap the man 

assailing her. However, as her arm swung in a wide arc to land her hand on his head, another guy 

who heard everything attempted to intervene. 

The woman's hand collided with the back of that man's arm and he howled once in pain, 

as if the blow of a woman had caused him unusual suffering. At the same time, when Casey 

turned to get into the fray after realizing one participant was Thurston, Shandell noticed the 

woman who'd been so enamored of him was concentrating on making tracks away from the 

scene. The one Thurston tackled had turned her resistance efforts directly on him. To Shandell's 

astonishment, although she never expected any feats of strength from her guy, she was very 

impressed with his efforts at the onset. 

However, when the woman broke into a martial arts stance and left him moaning in pain 

seconds later, she was free of any custodial hold Thurston may have applied and already on her 

way from the scene. What added an air of mystery is the way the bystander died two minutes or 

so later. Choking, gasping, unable to breathe. 

Mercy me! Shandell thought in horror. Mercy me! 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 


Friday, December 25 th , 2008 … 10:16 a.m. 



After we left the scene of Mr. Gaynor's dead body last night, with both of us perplexed 

and Angela feeling more than a little guilty, we headed for the other crime scene, the one being 

headed up by Carlina Torres. She's an absolutely adorable little thing, only a year younger than I 

am at 28, barely over five-two, one-ten if she's completely soaked, and sporting a pair of boobies 

any cabaret dancer would be very proud about. She has an ocean of hair so dark brown it does an 

impersonation of black with no problem. Hangs almost to her teeny, tiny waist, too. 

A girl could almost be envious of her except for the fact she's a total sweety in every inch 

of her. She fits that saying about being even prettier inside than outside, and the outside part of 

her is a true show stopper. Oh, and she's as smart as a whip to boot. A Mexicana, she doesn't do 

very well with bigots and will not laugh at a "beaner" joke. She also earned a nickname during 

her days on patrol. She and her unie partner were in a scuffle with a monstrous linebacker-type 

who was drunk or spaced out on something. The man was a wrecking machine and they couldn't 

take him down. 

Apparently he swatted Carlina to the ground and was about to pulverize her partner, so 

she determined she'd had enough. Using her baton, while stretched out on the concrete, Carlina 

swung it hard enough to break his ankle, and he went down. That's when she sprang to her feet 

and used it to break his other ankle, as well. She reasoned she wanted to be sure he couldn't get 

back on his feet again. 

Henceforth, she was known as "El Meañorita", a combo of "mean" and "señorita". It's 

hard imagining that side of her when meeting Carlina as a person, or even as a cop, since she's so 

sweet and attractive. However, after that day, not one man in the Department was afraid to have 

her along as backup on a call. They all knew she'd do in a pinch and would always account for 



herself and her partner in every way necessary. With about eight years now as an SD cop, she's 

in what I think is her fourth year as a detective and already second grade. That's very unusual. 

Something else that helps keep us "older women" from acting jealous is a relationship she 

has with a very sharp local criminal attorney, Clarence Burns. Not only is the man an outstanding 

legal eagle in every respect, he's a monster at six-six, 270 pounds. Even so, when he's with that 

gorgeous young cop, he's a virtual puppy dog. They make a contrasting but most enjoyable pair. 

We learned the other guy Angela got released from prison along with Mr. Gaynor, a man 

named Casey Bingham, was evidently the target of a murder attempt. Of all people, Shandell 

Greene was there to meet with Bingham. Thankfully, she'd brought along her seemingly nerdy 

guy, Thurston Wackerly. As it developed, Thurston ripped off his "nerd suit" and went right into 

attack mode, a virtual terrier on a rat. He tackled the would-be murderer … perhaps I'll be better 

off saying murderess, since it was a woman according to the witnesses … and fought like some 

sort of madman to save Bingham's life. 

The part that turned Angela's otherwise pretty mouth into a snarl was a description of the 

woman who, according to Shandell, "seduced him right in front of us". What we were told, here 

and at the locale where Mr. Gaynor died, were identical descriptions that virtually painted us a 

picture of Marcella Thrasher. To be honest, I could see it pissed Angela off. I knew she'd rather 

retire now than let go of that lead. She's as good a cop as I've ever met and she'd quite simply had 

enough. No more. As I said, she was pissed. 

The poor man who was killed, it turns out, was an innocent bystander. 

So sad. So terribly sad. The poor man died trying to prevent a crime. The way Angela 

saw it, the killer was the very same person who snuffed Mr. Gaynor, working in tandem with 



Marcella Thrasher. As far as Angela was concerned, the whole thing stank to high heaven and 

she deemed it a "puzzle with a lot of big pieces missing". 

That part also pissed her off, but that's my buddy Angela for you. 

We were out on the two calls a total of some three hours. Then, when we were back at the 

house, I wouldn't hear of her and Giff driving home. Not when we have all these rooms. One of 

the rooms had been occupied all day and evening by a non-appearing pair of guests, which I felt 

was a good idea. My ultra-favorite author ever, Bill Cady, was no longer even trying to hide the 

fact he and Adele Nostrum "had a thing going". She'd spoken to me on the q.t. and I had them 

move up to the third floor, the level where Donnie and I have our bedroom. 

There hadn't been a peep out of anyone yesterday, and Bill caught my attention today to 

tell me they wouldn't be downstairs until later. I smiled at him and said okay, thinking to myself, 

Go get 'em, Tiger! 

Angela and Giff were up bright and early, with her into the "Gimme" routine right away. 

She also looked like she might harm someone until Candy stuck a thermal cup of coffee in her 

mitt with a smile. That took the edge off my pal and she was tolerable afterward. 

The aromas from the kitchen promised our second oldest baby, Candy, was working her 

usual culinary magic feats. All I was sure of was it involved some very savory smelling bacon 

and, knowing her, something epicurean with eggs and, probably, French toast. Whatever it was 

smelled heavenly. 

All the presents had been opened and the crowd was just about ready to migrate toward 

the dining table when Angela's phone rang again. As if in a duet, she and Giff both said, "Shit!" 



Face transformed into a scowl, annoyed enough to put the phone on speaker, she set it on 

the coffee table while gesturing to me with the fingers of her right hand, mouthing "Gimme". To 

the phone laid out before her she added, "Dutton. This better be good, damn it. In case you don't 

recall, this is Christmas Day." 

"And I'm … what?" came the male reply with a hint of annoyance, "just dialing you up, 

maybe, from Disneyland? This is Bergin. I'm stuck with the shit shift today, Dutton. You want, 

maybe, we should change places? How's about I come to wherever the hell you are and you can 

zip in here and fly this fuckin' desk? Take all these pissant calls? Sound like a plan?" 

"Got it. I'll call FTD. Watch for the flowery truck, okay?" She took a long drag, got rid of 

it and asked, "Okay, to what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"Got some babe … probable bimbo, maybe even a 5149½, fer Chrissakes, like I'd know 

fer sure? … been calling fer ya. Looks like … hang on," he mumbled as he shuffled paper in the 

background, "gotta be four, five times so far. Says she gotta talk to ya since you been the one on 

that case with the Gaynor guy." He coughed. "Whatever the hell's bitin' her ass, this babe is sure 

as hell persistent." 

"Who is she, Bergin? You get a name?" 

"Gee, why didn't I think of that? No wonder you're first grade and I'm not yet." Again, he 

coughed. "She won't say and, as far as what she does say, there's no way we can even trace her 

on the phone she's using. That part sort of got to me, so I tried. Damned if she isn't right. I can't 

get even a hint." 



A chair squeaked as he evidently shifted positions. "She got through to a lieutenant who, 

as you might very fucking well guess, foisted it off on me. Like I need this shit when I'm stuck 

here on Christmas day?" 

"Bergin, you're a Jew. If you were home, you'd still pay it no attention." 

"Yeah," he chuckled, "I would, but I wouldn't get triple time at home." He broke into a 

loud peal of laughter for a few seconds. "Anyway, this babe says you gotta call her so, since it 

was dumped in my lap, I called you. Whaddaya want me to tell her?" 

"Give me the number and I'll tell her myself," was Angela's reply as she dug out her pen 

and notebook with a scowl on her face. "Okay, shoot." 

"This'll only take a minute," she said, telling us all but looking at me when she was done. 

She thumbed a number on the phone, set it on the table and still hadn't bothered to activate her 

earpiece. On the second ring she heard, "Hello, Detective Dutton. How are you?" 

"What's more pertinent," she answered evasively, "is who are you and why have you been 

calling me?" She went back to work on the ciggie, her eyes narrowing, all the focus aimed at the 

floor, her mind hovering above her somewhere, playing lookout. 

"I have some information for you, Detective. We need to talk. Soon. Very soon." 

"Name," Angela said with some annoyance. "Who are you?" 

"If it matters, ma'am, I'm Sharla." 

"That a first name or last?" The drag she'd just taken was expelled directly at the phone, a 

subconscious gesture of defiance, as I saw it. 

"First, Detective. Does that matter?" 

Again, Angela ignored the inquiry. "Why are you calling me, ma'am?" 



"So we can get together … the sooner, the better … because I have information on one of 

the cases you're working. It's something I'm sure you'll want to know, Detective." 

"Which case would that be?" 

"I'll tell you when we meet, Detective." 

"That's not going to happen right away," Angela said with an annoyed sigh. 

I figured she was simply maneuvering, since she's not the kind to let a good lead go to 

waste. At the same time, I saw she wasn't anxious to jump into her unit right away, either. 

"You mean you don't want the information I have on one of your active cases?" 

"Lady, you still haven't even told me which case. If, and until, I learn something that gets 

my interest up, the answer is I'm not planning to go play 'cops and robbers' on Christmas Day. If 

you have something relevant to tell me, say it. If not, call me again tomorrow." 

There was an empty space hanging vacant in the air a moment before the woman spoke 

again. "Hondell told me to call you." 

Angela's eyes grew large. "Where do you want to meet?" 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 



We all listened as Angela worked out a meeting with the woman who'd called her, some 

girl I gathered was named Sharla Something-or-other. It made no sense to me from the small part 

I overheard, but Angela's a pro, so I knew she'd handle it as it should be done. Meanwhile, I was 

a bit busy with the latest arrivals in the living room. 



Looking a bit sheepish yet, at the same time, very happy and in love as they held hands 

entering the room, my favorite author … ever … and what we could all see was now "his girl", 

joined us. Bill Cady and Adele Nostrum were still in that giddy, gushy, practically-goofy-to-the- 

point-it's-embarrassing stage we all either remember or hope to enjoy. Those two "had it bad" for 

each other and it brought a huge smile to my face. 

However, since I already consider each a valued friend, even after such a brief time, I did 

manage to keep that knowing look off my face. Criminy! Donnie and I just went through pretty 

much the same thing not so long ago and almost everyone cut us the slack we needed. With these 

two I was simply paying back the blessings we received. While still listening to Angela finalize 

the meeting, I gave 'em a recap of what was going on. 

Bill then surprised me, and everyone else, by saying he had a number of presents for all 

of us in his car, although I don't know where the heck he'd've hidden 'em in something with so 

little storage space, but he was going to go get 'em after he had a cup of coffee. That is, until all 

our plans were changed by Angela's announcement. 

"I've got to go meet that babe now," she said almost unhappily. "Too important to wait." 

In one of those "Jinx, you owe me a Coke!" moments, Giff and I almost shouted a duet. 

"Not without backup!" 

Giff leapt to his feet. "Baby, I know you won't let me ride along with you, since we've 

been through this crap before, but I do not want you going off to meet some bimbo all alone. Not 

ever, and especially not on Christmas Day! Damn it, Angela, we don't know if—" 



"Got it handled," she said in dismissal, kissing him briefly, then walking across the room 

to her purse where she'd left it on a table in our foyer. Reaching into her bag, she then extracted a 

small package wrapped in Christmas paper and plodded back to stand in front of me. 

For some unknown reason I suddenly felt like we were in my high school auditorium and 

I was on stage. The principal of the school was standing in Angela's place about to tell me I had 

to get off the stage because I'd failed to graduate. The feeling creeping over me was akin to a kid 

hoping she'd be able to walk out the doorway and step in front of a fast moving beer truck to end 

it all in a big old hurry. 

With a near growl in her voice and a definite scowl on her face, my co-best girl buddy 

told me, "I hate it when things jerk my plans around, ya know?" 

No, I wanted to say, but you're scaring the pee out of me with whatever you're trying to 

do, so I wish like crazy you'd just finish it and put me out of my bleepin' misery! Maybe use that 

big old Glock on your hip and park one between my stupid eyes! Instead of spewing out all that 

clever oratory, I nodded like a dingbat and said, "Okay?" 

She handed me the package. "Merry Christmas, lady. I'd planned to give you this later, 

after we all scarfed that delicious breakfast Candy's making … a meal you and I are going to be 

forced to skip … but it seems duty calls." The scowl lightened up a bit. "For both of us." 

Please, Angela, was the thought running through my mind, just shoot me now and tell my 

family I loved 'em all right up to the bitter end! Yes, that's what I thought … don't know why, but 

I did … and I felt my lower lip start to tremble a little. "W-w-w-what's this … all … all about?" 

"It's 'all about' what you did in late November, girl. P.O.S.T. Ringing any bells, am I?" 



She had everyone in the room frozen, all watching us, with none but Donnie and me able 

to put any of it together. Cautiously, I looked over at my guy and saw the idea click home for 

him. Take shape in his mind, changing his concerned expression to a relaxed smile. That made 

me feel even dumber, but I reflected back on P.O.S.T. and what it meant in my life. 

The acronym, P.O.S.T., stands for Peace Officer Standards & Training. It's the "bible" as 

far as all California peace officers go. Back in November, she pulled a surprise on me and got the 

Department to sponsor me to apply as a Reserve III officer. Doing so made me a volunteer with 

the same arrest authority as any other sworn cop. Because I'm an attorney and also a judge, they 

waived the two-week course of procedure, although I was requested to at least read the bleepin' 

manual, which I did, cover to cover. Yet, because there's a physical part to the job, they wouldn't 

waive the three-day arrest procedures and firearms portion. 

Of course, I aced the shooting part 'cause I hit what I aim at, but the physical section of it, 

along with the holds, throws, and techniques used left me sore and achy for a week. At the end of 

it all I was sworn in, taking the same oath as some 2,000+ SDPD officers. Albeit a volunteer, I 

was much the same as the rest … at least, in name. I was sworn in as a cop. A reserve cop. 

But, I told myself then and now, that's just some "ego thing" Angela set up for me. Isn't 

it? I mean … criminy! … she sounds as serious as can be right now! 

"The, um, the … P.O.S.T stuff? Is that what you mean?" 

"Bingo!" She scanned the group around us. "By Jove, I think she's got it!" 

Shaking my head in confusion … maybe embarrassment, too … I said, "I don't get it." 

"Open your present. That'll help you along." As she instructed me, she reached into the 

left coat pocket of my navy blue jogging suit and told me, "I'll handle my own 'gimme' while you 



tear that sucker open." She also fished out my lighter and used it, then stuffed it all back where 

she found it while I opened the gift. 

I dropped the paper to the floor and stared dumbfounded at what was in my trembling 

hand. It was a yellow gold SDPD badge with an officer number and the words "reserve officer", 

plus an ID tag saying "CC Ryder". For a moment all I could do was stare at it. Then, like a total 

ditzoid, I began to cry. 

Ciggie in her left hand, right arm draped around my shoulders, Angela told me, "Yeah, I 

love you, too. However, you are … legally and officially … a cop with full arrest powers and the 

right to carry a weapon, on-duty or off. As it happens, I need backup and I need it now. I don't 

want to roust some other poor schnook on Christmas day, so you're elected. So, Officer Ryder, 

we have a call. Let's roll on it, huh?" 

Of course, that got me crying even harder, but I wasn't done yet. Donnie came over and 

held me, kissing my forehead and telling me how proud he was of me. All our babies, as well as 

Bren's new hubby, hugged and kissed me. Even Bill and Adele got in on the deal. By the time I 

was done being kissed and hugged … Brittany got in on it, too, although she had no idea why … 

I was also able to stop blubbering like an idiot. Angela kissed my cheek again and ordered, "Go 

wash your face, woman. We've got work to do." 

Not even worried about potentially puffy eyes now, I did as she beckoned, came back, 

got my coat and we headed for her unit. Very proudly, I was all "badged up" and about to go on 

my first official on-duty call as a cop. I was too happy at that point to do any more crying. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 





"Is it okay if I smoke? You know, since I'm sort of 'on-duty' this time?" I asked as Angela 

pulled out of the driveway. She didn't bother to use the oscillators, but there was so little traffic 

she had no need. Almost everyone was still home, either opening presents or getting ready to go 

to a relative's house for the day. 

"If you do the 'gimme' routine, I can buy it," she said with her right palm extended. 

"I'm on it." I gave her one, held up the lighter for her, then took care of my own. "I've 

never done anything like this before." 

"Gee, I wouldn't've known if you hadn't told me," she chided playfully. "Actually, you 

have done it, you just can't see it." 

"That will need explaining." I took another nervous drag, somehow feeling panicky at the 

idea, since I was honestly, legitimately doing a piece of police work at the moment. 

"Any and every time you've rolled on a call with me … and there've been more than a 

few times that's happened … it's the same as what's happening now. The difference is this time 

you have a badge and can arrest some asshole, if necessary. Not that you couldn't've done it any 

other time, but it would've been a citizen's arrest. There's a big difference when it gets to court 

but, being a judge, you'd know that." 

"Not much different in my court, " I argued. "Evidence is evidence, as I see it." 

"If only they were all like you," she told me wistfully as she wheeled onto the ramp and 

booted the car up the slanted concrete path onto 5 south. "If only." 

Thoughts began running through my head. "Um, what should I, um, do? You know, um, 

when we get to the scene?" 



For a moment she looked serious, as if pondering a deep question. "Well, unless you see 

me pull out my Glock, or someone's about to fire at us, you probably shouldn't kill anyone. It'll 

look bad if you off some asshole on your first legit call." Then she maintained a straight face, as 

if every word had been heartfelt and serious. 

"Har-de-har-har-har," I replied. "Not funny, Angela." 

"Hey, I'm not the one they call the 'Annie Oakley judge', girl. You are." 

"Very funny. Not! You know that's never my kneejerk reaction." 

"At times, it should be … but, you're right. Sorry I yanked on your chain. It can be very 

important as far as the 'if-when thing' when a cop gets out her piece. Too fast and you can end up 

with an officer-involved shooting. Never good if it's not 125% righteous. We don't get cut any 

fucking slack if a citizen goes down, CC. None. From the moment a sergeant hits the scene, we 

can count on flying a desk anywhere from a few days to weeks. With that patrolman who shot 

that dude in la Jolla in '06, he's still not carrying. Fucking thing's still in court, but they don't have 

enough to put him on the beach." 

"Pardon? 'On the beach'?" 

"Yeah. When a cop gets days off, since we really can't do shit in a situation like that, all 

the cop can do is go hang around the beach. It gets boring as hell, I'm told. Anyway, that's what 

we say when someone's written up but still collects a cheque regularly." 

"It's never happened to you, has it? More than a couple days, I mean?" 

"No," she chuckled, "and the only time it has happened, even in part, is the cases where 

you were a part of it." Now she looked at me. "All were righteous, so don't sweat it, okay?" 



I wasn't sweating it, but I was fast becoming aware of how different it felt being in the 

unit with her and knowing I, too, was a cop for the moment. The weight of the responsibility was 

far more than ponderous. "So, what do you want me to do? How should I handle it?" 

"For starters, put the badge in that ID case. The little leather wallet-thing in the box under 

the badge. Then hang it somewhere prominent on your front. Anywhere a citizen will be sure to 

see it. Even in plainclothes, when that badge is hung like that, you're in uniform. It matters." 

It only took a few seconds to comply. I held up the name tag and she said, "Put that part 

in your purse. It says 'C. Ryder' on the badge and that's all you're required to provide. If some big 

a-hole wants to take your badge number and file a complaint, that'll do it." 

"Think it'll ever happen?" was my follow-up question as I put away the tag. 

"Not with you. By that point you've usually shot all the bad guys. One big benefit is a 

dead guy can't file on you." She began chuckling for a moment, then added, "Sorry, I couldn't 

resist. Just too prime an opportunity." 

"Again, yuk-yuk," I shot back. "Very funny … not!" 

First she took a drag, eyes rolling everywhere so she knew who was where and what they 

were doing. She'd told me before a surprised cop is too often a dead cop. "I'll have to admit, this 

is odd. Meeting this bimbette at a damned convenience store over off Balboa Avenue. Still, with 

it being Christmas, those 'battery stores' are about the only damned things open. Take a look." 

I did. Store after store after store was closed, many without even a lit sign this time of 

day. Gas stations, too. Those I could see off the freeway were dead to the world, except a few 

with their convenience store sections open, in which case they also sold gas. 



A few minutes later we pulled into the one she had in mind. The shoulder holster was 

over my jogging suit top but under my three-quarter length black leather coat. Angela left the 

engine running a moment and turned to face me. "Leave your coat open in case, God forbid, 

there's a reason to reach your weapon. Don't have your hand on it … that's intimidating … but 

try at all times to keep your right hand free. If anything comes up, key off me, but be ready at all 

times to use those takedown moves, maybe that thumb-come-along routine they taught you at the 

academy. Pulling your weapon should be a last resort. However, you have to be able to recognize 

a 'last resort' situation in one helluva hurry if it pops up. Get there late, mentally, and it could be 

the 'last thing you ever do', if you get my point?" 

I nodded, taking it all in and now taking my duty even more seriously. 

We entered the convenience store, the area out front where they sold gas occupied only 

by a black SUV a few years old. There was a woman in the passenger seat, average looking, in 

her late 20s, with what I took to be two small young children in the back seat of the vehicle. A 

man dressed in denim pants and a brown coat was pumping gas into the tank. He was around the 

same age, average height and weight with brown hair. Didn't get close enough to see his eyes. 

The clerk was dark brown skinned, maybe five-nine, skinny with black glasses and a big 

nose. He looked to me as if he arrived last night from New Delhi. In all likelihood he had a rough 

flight and seemed to still be a little pissed off about it. He glanced at us, exhibited approximately 

the same cordiality as a mad rattlesnake if you step on him, then resumed reading a newspaper in 

a foreign language with odd characters. The font of the print was somehow unusual, too. 

Two Mexican men were back by the counter with potato chips, nuts and pretzels acting as 

if they were shopping for the family dinner, in that they were inspecting each package carefully. 



A man, probably in his 50s and doubtlessly homeless by his tattered, worn clothing, stood by the 

coffee machine, looking at it with undisguised longing. I began to open the purse I'd slung on my 

left shoulder when Angela, whom I swear never misses a trick, shook her head. "Not now," she 

said in a quiet voice. "Focus. We're on a call. You don't need any distractions and a guy trying to 

be your buddy while thanking you could be the reason you get killed. Save your generosity for 

later and keep your mind on what we're doing." 

Rebuked, but appreciating it all the same, I did as she'd instructed me. The homeless guy 

was also staring at the donuts under the glass next to the main counter. I determined, if he was 

still here when we finished, I'd buy him a half dozen donuts and a mega-size coffee. 

Also near the coffee urn was a young woman. I assumed she was the reason we were here 

at the moment. She was very, very cute, perhaps only two degrees short of beautiful but, based 

on what I'd have to call an impish expression, avoided that classification. It seemed as if she'd 

much rather be known as someone people enjoyed than an object to be looked at. In that case, I 

could feel an empathy. I'd far rather have someone want to know the real me than to gawk and 

feed me a load of BS about my incredible beauty. Oh, puke! 

The girl was five feet even … max. I'd say 100 pounds and doubt I was off by more than 

two, either way. Black hair, like a Mexicana, and dark brown eyes, she wasn't Hispanic. That 

was clear, but not her nationality. The hair fell to the bottom of what no man, and few women, 

would be able to avoid noticing were some very healthy boobies. Well-built, smiling, a dancing 

flicker in her eyes, she appeared calm and in control of herself and the world around her. If I was 

pressed to guess an age, I'd say mid 20s, no older. There was an intelligence about her telling me 

she knew a lot more than most people would estimate at first blush. 



Following my partner's lead … criminy, that sounds strange! … I was a pace and a half 

behind as we approached her near the front window of the store. It was very big, that window, 

starting from a ledge a foot off the floor and extending upward to the ceiling ten feet above. The 

window was a full thirty feet wide, covering the largest part of the store, with the front door on 

the right side as one entered the building. There were a dozen counters with merchandise in the 

store and seven aisles, counting the fact there was an aisle on the outside of each section of racks. 

A break between the racks halfway back was the lone sideways running aisle, plus the two ends, 

along with the open space in front of the cooler, which took up the entire rear wall. 

When we entered that put the counter on our right, where the pissed off Indian or Muslim 

was still reading the paper. All the counters were left of the front door with the coffee section in 

the far corner to the left as we came in, backed up to the glass front wall. The cute-unbeautiful 

girl was blowing on a Styrofoam cup I assumed held coffee based on the vapors arising from it. 

A red stir stick protruded from the cup, which she held in her left hand as she twirled the stick in 

a lazy clockwise circle. 

sure." 

"You're Sharla?" Angela asked pointedly. 

An amused smile. "I was when I left home. However, this is California, so I can't ever be 

"And you work as a comedienne, I take it?" 

"From the look on your face, I shouldn't," she said with a chuckle. "I take it you didn't get 

your oatmeal this morning, Detective?" 

"Take whatever you wish," Angela rebutted. "Why don't we step out to my car so we can 

talk a bit. Too open and crowded in here." 



"Why don't we not do that and we'll just pretend we did it?" Sharla rejoined. "I have no 

intention of getting into that car unless you arrest me, in which case I want a lawyer." 

"Just hold your horses. No need to butt heads right off the bat. Let's talk about the man 

you mentioned, this Hondell." 

"Hondell Wilkins. He's my boyfriend." 

"Really? A May-December sort of relationship?" 

She chuckled. "I doubt I'll ever have his babies, but it's possible. No, Hondell takes care 

of me and Cutterby … her name's Cutterby Peterson, my last name is Golding … and neither of 

us has a criminal record. Nor, as you're well aware, does Hondell, although you can access a set 

of fingerprints for him if your security clearance is high enough." 

"Where is he, this Hondell?" 

"Not really that far away," she said reassuringly, "although you'd never in a million years 

find him unless he wanted to be found. That's why, even with a bunch of governmental agencies 

on his trail, you don't know how to locate him. We've been … well, it's more accurate to say he's 

been … living that way for many years." 

"Because?" 

"Oh, don't be trite, Detective. You know why. He's concocted a formula for making gas 

out of water and a few simple elements … only he knows how he does it … and every country 

on the face of the earth wants him for that reason. However, he will not be taken into custody in 

any way, for any reason. He's also very duly concerned he'll be killed. Half his pursuers would 

put him somewhere in seclusion forever … eerily similar to being imprisoned for helping the 

world-at-large to cure it's addictive obsession with oil … and the other half wants to kill him." 



"And he wants …?" 

"To speak with you, Detective. You have a reputation as a straight shooter." Now she 

faced me. "Hello, Judge Ryder." 

Taken by surprise, I asked, "How did you know who I am?" 

Another soft chortle. "Everyone knows the 'Annie Oakley judge'. You have a rep, too." 

"Which she doesn't at all appreciate," Angela cautioned. 

"Sorry, my bad." Facing Angela, "Hondell wants to talk with you. Soon." 

"Have him come to the station. I'll buy the coffee." 

"That won't happen, ma'am," she said with a degree of respect that seemed annoying to 

Angela from where I was watching. "He trusts you … and, of course, Judge Ryder … so I can 

take you to him. However, you have to ride locked in the van. It's a sealed unit. You won't be 

able to see where we're going." She sipped her coffee. "Oh, and I'll need your weapons, too." 

"Not gonna happen." 

"Very well," she said sweetly. "We may be in touch again, we may not. Meantime, I'll 

pay for my coffee before I leave." She started to walk past us. 

Putting a hand on the girl's upper arm, Angela said reluctantly, "Give me a minute to lock 

my unit and we'll be right with you." 

coffee." 

"I thought you'd say that," was her smiling reply. "I'll meet you outside after I pay for my 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 





The first thing I did, now we were in no danger I could see and despite Angela's wiseacre 

remark about me shooting everyone, was make a beeline to the counter. I dug out two fives and 

handed one to the clerk. "At least a large coffee and a half dozen of whatever donuts that man 

may want, please. Any change left is for him, understood?" 

Flashing a "butt-kiss smile" in place of what seemed an otherwise standard scowl, the 

"Man from New Delhi" broke into a very phony award-winning grin. "Oh, but of course. Never 

would I do anything so vile as to keep change a customer didn't know he had coming." To show 

he was serious, he changed the face-covering smile to a simper. 

Able to hold down the breakfast Angela mentioned we wouldn't have, since I didn't get it, 

I thought of a neat old movie Daddy likes to play on his DVD. It's called "Hannie Caulder", with 

Raquel Welch as the lead and Robert Culp as a bounty hunter of some great fame named Price. 

Luther Thomas Price. Everyone who knows him calls him "Thomas". When he shoots someone 

dead, an event that occurs frequently, he always pays for the funeral. Then, with a hand on the 

butt of a .44, he always promises, "I'll be back to check. The grave better be there." 

I stole his line. 

"I'll be back to check," I said as I pulled the coat away from my body, exposing my new 

badge and the .380 Beretta under my left arm. "He'd better be burping and have some money in 

his pocket, or I plan to see you about it." 

That wiped the Cheshire cat grin off his face. He broke into a series of furious nods as he 

interspersed each bob of his head with a "Certainly, certainly, certainly!" over and over and over 

again. His facetiousness was annoying me a great deal more than Sharla's excessive politeness 



had gotten to Angela, but I let it go. Instead, I copied Culp's follow-up from the movie. I ran my 

eyes up and down the man, head to toe, and remarked, "Be sure of it. I will be back here." 

The nods and assurances went on unabated, so I turned and walked over to the homeless 

man, as I perceived him to be. Using the suggestion of Shirtless Kent, a homeless guy who lives 

now with my Aunt Siobhan and Royal Rankin, I held out the other five to him. "Excuse me, sir, 

you dropped this." In the midst of his astounded expression and all the wordless opening and 

closing of a mouth missing fully half the teeth, I added, "I saw it fall from your pocket." Then I 

glanced over my shoulder. "I also made a mistake and paid for some donuts and a large coffee, 

but we have to leave in a hurry and I don't have the time. I told that man," I added while pointing 

over my left shoulder with my thumb, "to let you have 'em and to give you the change. He better 

do it or I'll be back, so be sure you get the change, okay?" 

The man was still stammering wordlessly when I turned and walked away, but I stopped 

long enough to fix the clerk with a final warning stare before I joined Angela outside by her unit. 

She looked me up and down, then smiled unexpectedly. "That was so cool. You scared the shit 

out of that A-rab." Her expression stayed beaming a moment, then died down as she put a hand 

on her Glock. "This part makes me feel like shit. Not like I'm going to call in and clear it, but the 

idea of handing over my piece just grates on me." 

"I don't like it either," I said in concert, resting my left hand on my Beretta but not taking 

it out yet. "Still, it's important we meet this guy." I had a second thought. "Well, at least you, not 

both of us, I mean." 

"Don't sell yourself short. She's heard of 'The Annie Oakley judge' and it helped get us in 



the door. Don't knock it, huh? Like I said, I need backup on this thing and you're it, lady. Plus, 

you had that super cool line." 

We sighed collectively, then she locked the unit after using her radio mic to call dispatch 

to say she'd be away from the unit a while, was not in pursuit, and would notify them when she 

was again behind the wheel. Looking up at me, she added, "Damned if I'll tell anyone I'm about 

to hand over my shootin' iron. Goes against the grain, you know?" 

I knew, and I felt the same way, but we did it, all the same. The van she mentioned was a 

white one, a Chevy a few years old. It was clean but not sparkling, undented but not too special, 

with no side or back windows. After we put our weapons in a metal box with a dial lock on it, in 

step with Angela's repetitive "tsk-tsk" sounds, we were ushered into the back. There was no way 

to see outside. There was a metal plate with a dial lock door blocking off the cab area and it had 

the same setup in the rear. 

There was a five feet long metal bench with gray cushions on each side, along with a bar 

every couple feet from floor to ceiling ahead of each bench to serve as handholds. Those seats, 

three to a side, even had seat belts, although neither of us buckled in. That may've been a bit silly 

as we were both now unarmed, but it wouldn't've felt right to me. Apparently not to her, either, 

as all she did was sneer at hers. 

When I started to say something after the door closed in back, Angela faced her left palm 

at me while she continued to scan the interior. "Hold that thought, okay? I want to keep an ear on 

how fast we're going, lights we stop at and turns, directions and how far apart. Maybe I can get a 

fix on where she takes us." 



The fact I couldn't remember what I was going to say clued me in it probably wasn't all 

that important. More like nervous chitchat. 

Well, since Angela's the pro and I'm just a Reserve III cop, that was fine with me. I let 

her do her thing and zipped my lip. 

Minutes later Angela used a line made semi-famous by a character they called Snidely 

Whiplash, a villain opposed to Dudley Do-Right in the old Rocky and Bullwinkle Show I used to 

watch as a kid. "Curses, foiled again!" she snapped as the van slowed, then turned left and went 

even slower. Seconds after that we were turning in a sharp circle, making Angela frown and nod 

at the same time. "She's found an open parking lot and is going around in a shitload of circles so 

I can't keep track of the damned turns." The frown became a scowl. "It's working, too, damn it." 

"I thought it would," came Sharla's voice over speakers located somewhere back here we 

couldn't even see. "I'll do this two or three more times before we stop. Enjoy the ride, ladies." 

First looking up, her expression promising a sharp, biting retort, Angela scowled once 

and shook her head. "Fuck it. Saying anything would be a waste of time and energy." 

A soft chuckle over the speakers confirmed what she'd said, then a silence returned and it 

pervaded the space we occupied. After two more episodes of pulling off and circling, I had not a 

clue even which direction we were headed. Angela mouthed, "Totally lost" and glared up toward 

the blocked off area in front. When we'd been driving ten to fifteen minutes Angela shouted, "If 

it matters, all this shit is pissing me off." 

Sharla said in reply, "Sorry, ladies. It's the cost of doing business. We need to be sure we 

keep Hondell alive. These are things that must be done. Hondell Wilkins doesn't dare be found 

by anyone." With a click, it was ended. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 



When we finally pulled in somewhere, I'd been thinking like crazy on the fix we were in, 

hoping I could somehow do something worthwhile. To my untrained ear it sounded as if we'd 

come into an enclosed space, perhaps a large garage or parking lot, maybe even underground. All 

the outside noises changed. Were slightly muffled, leading to my conclusion of where we were. 

At the same time I heard the driver's door open I also heard the sounds of what I was sure 

was a garage door opening. There was no time to alert Angela because I also thought I heard the 

footsteps I assumed would be Sharla heading toward the back door. It was confirmed when I 

heard the dial combination, like they had on old-time safes, being turned. Hoping my hunch was 

on the money, I leaned forward and looked toward the place I knew the door would open. 

I was in luck and it appeared the security conscious young woman hadn't paid attention to 

what she left as a view behind her. I saw a business across the street, a halfway tidy but still a bit 

messy tattoo parlor called Golden Boys, which I assumed referred to homosexuals, as if it made 

any difference. However, I decided I'd also mention that thought to Angela later, since it may 

reflect on the area or location. Then I got an unexpected bonus. 

The way the sun was reflecting off the large window on the front of the parlor, itself a red 

brick façade maybe 25 feet wide, it gave an image of the building we were in with a large double 

door about one fourth of the way closed. The building we were in had a concrete block frontage. 

It also showed me the bottoms of second floor windows, but only for a split second as the door 

was dropping, plus the large garage area and a door for people I took to be metal, in a rust color. 



The people door was normal size with a round knob, but that's all I caught because the 

door went low enough to eliminate the reflection. Well, it was better than nothing and, I hoped, 

would be a worthwhile contribution to the case when we were out of here. To cover appearances, 

I turned my expression to one of anticipation and watched to see the back door open. 

Our vision wasn't too goofed up because there were some low wattage lights at the van's 

ceiling level. They let us see each other, and I probably could've read something from a piece of 

paper, but it wasn't bright enough to read a book. However, as we were now in what I took to be 

a garage or maybe a warehouse, the change wasn't that distinctive. Wherever we had been taken, 

it was also illuminated with artificial light, the kind of white light seen in those tubular bulbs in 

office areas. Easier on the eyes, I suppose. 

When Sharla beckoned us and said to join her, I even reflexively held my hands beside 

each other a moment, like a prisoner in cuffs, for Pete's sake! I quickly dispensed with all that 

nonsense, but it embarrassed me I'd acted that way. I hoped Angela didn't see it, and a glance at 

her face told me she must've missed my dummy move. That part was comforting. Although it 

made zero sense, even to me, it seemed unforgivable to make such a juvenile move now that I 

had a badge. Must be all in the mindset was all I could conclude. 

It was a long step down, and I remembered seeing what I think was a C-30 metal insignia 

on the front fender. Memory told me it meant a one-ton van, signifying the heavy-duty kind built 

for work or as a camper, but not a pleasure vehicle. True to form, it was sort of a long step down, 

making me glad there was a small set of metal steps Sharla pulled out for us before we started 

out the door. She took my left arm with her right to steady me as I made it to the ground. 



Again, I felt like an amateur when I heard Angela say crisply, "No, thanks." It made me 

wish I was still that much in control of my thoughts. Nope, I'm the amateur, Angela's the pro. 

With the door closed, purposely not looking at it so I wouldn't tip Sharla off I'd been 

eyeing across the street, I stepped away from the truck to look around. She didn't seem to mind, 

so there was no real tension created. We were in a two-story warehouse building. The walls were 

of unpainted grayish concrete blocks, perhaps fifteen feet tall below a second floor that rimmed 

the entire building. It extended about twenty feet from the wall with a reddish-brown metal walk 

in front, a two-inch handrail perhaps four feet up from the walkway. A support post connected it 

to the walking part roughly every half dozen feet or so. 

There were more reddish metal people doors along the walkway, but I couldn't be sure 

how many. Perhaps three to five in each section. There was also a set of stairs at each corner. If I 

was outside facing the building, the door the van entered was in the right third of the frontal area, 

some 200 feet, give or take ten. At the rear right corner and the left front corner the stairs were 

about five feet wide. In the other two, they were less than a yard, by my guesstimate. 

When she'd allowed us a quiet minute, not much longer, to take it all in, Sharla said in a 

calm voice, "Ladies?" She gestured with an open hand toward the broad stairway in the rear on 

the right and added, "Up there, if you please?" Her hand rose to aim at the second floor, another 

people door six feet to the left of the corner. 

We went up the stairs, a handrail on each side, with Angela and me neck and neck. We 

held back at the top as Sharla was almost ten feet behind us. I could only assume she did it that 

way so she'd be too far back to be attacked. Hmmm? Maybe I am catching on to this "spy stuff"? 



The doorway had four deadbolt locks, each of which required a separate key. It told me 

the man we were seeking was well beyond prudent and careful. He was evidently obsessive but, 

if that's what a man has to deal with to stay ahead of the game, to outwit all these "James Bond" 

characters, who am I to say he's wrong? 

Especially if it works? If he's been getting away with it for years, there must be a method 

to his madness. 

With Angela behind me, the rear guard while I walked point as they say in the military, 

Sharla a yard or so behind her and still out of assault range, I stepped into a rather plush looking 

apartment living room. I pegged it at 20 x 20 feet with a counter at the back between us and a 15 

x 10 kitchen, very well-equipped from what I could see. The appliances were all that burnished 

metal stuff, which I believe costs extra and only comes on the good bits and pieces. 

A hall at the back of the room, one to be entered from the living room or the kitchen, led 

off to my left. I was to learn later it led to three bedrooms, a den and some restrooms. Sharla then 

directed us to a rather plush looking oxblood leather couch, bade us to sit, then took a matching 

chair sitting with the back toward the counter by the kitchen. "We'll wait here. Hondell will join 

us all momentarily." 

### 

In this case, "momentarily" was about ten minutes. 

He entered the room from the hallway wearing a quilted burgundy robe I assumed cost a 

lot of money. He also had leather slippers, oxblood like the couch, and two large, padded chairs 

exactly matching its covering. Trailing him was a brunette woman I took to be around five-seven 



or so, maybe 130 pounds, nicely built but without nearly the rack Sharla carried. My guess put 

her in her later 20s, but probably not as old as my 29 years. Close, but no cigar yet. 

She wore a happy smile on her face. It made me think of the way I've seen myself look 

after making love with Donnie. To my surprise, it also made me blush. I could feel my face as it 

got warmer, hoping I wasn't turning all red. It was one of the ups and downs I was finding on this 

most unusual Christmas Day, with me all hinky because of my new badge. Goofy, I know. 

"This is Cutterby Peterson," Sharla told us. Her face lit up a little with what I took as a 

combination smile based on insider info, since she quite clearly knew what had been going on in 

a bedroom down the hall, and something else. It took me a moment again, as well as a little bit of 

self-comparison, before I recognized it as love. They were both goo-goo-gaga over this guy. 

If Hondell Wilkins was 67, as I was told, he carried it very well. I would've called him at 

60 or so without that tip. He seemed tall, six-two like Bill Cady, my favorite author, weighing in 

around 220 or thereabouts. What little hair he had remaining was a light, dirty dishwater gray, 

the white hairs mixed with what was probably black many years ago. Only a little bit of a gut, 

not unusual for a man in his 60s or older. When he spoke I noticed he had a deep, mellow voice. 

It promised, whatever else he might do in this life, he'd be hired on the spot at any radio station 

in the country merely by introducing himself verbally. 

"You ladies probably wonder why I had Sharla bring you here," Hondell Wilkins began. 

"You couldn't find the station," Angela shot back quickly, "but you'd prefer to be held in 

custody. Well, you're in luck. I'm here to help you." Not a trace of a smile on her face. Instead, 

she drilled him with her piercing light blue eyes. 



"Actually, that's not entirely off base," he said to our surprise. He sat in the oxblood chair 

facing us from across the room, with Cutterby seating herself on his left thigh, her legs draped 

across his. Except for the size, her robe was the twin of his. She wore light blue bunny slippers. 

Her right arm was placed across his broad shoulders, with her cheek on his chest. She looked at 

us from time to time, but said nothing. Just rolled her eyes dreamily once in a while. 

"Oh?" was Angela's follow-up. 

"In a way, yes. I do somewhat want to be in custody. Partly yours, as well as someone 

you know. That's key to all this." 

"Explain yourself." Now she leaned forward, both feet flat on the floor, her forearms on 

her knees. Her expression was extremely intent. 

way. 

"You're aware of the invention I created?" Not really a question, although it sounded that 

"In general." 

"That's all you need to know for now." He stopped to kiss Cutterby's nose, then went on. 

"I intend to auction my creation. The bid floor will be fifty billion dollars." It made him smile. 

"Of course, I'll get it. Easily. The 'custody' part is also crucial here. By that, I mean I need to be 

alive and not a prisoner of anyone or any nation until after I've been paid, whereupon no one will 

then want me for any reason. That's where you come in, Detective. You, and one other party." 

"Which would be?" 

Now he looked at me. "Her man, Donnie Oldrunner, the Luiseño. He and his band of men 

must be a part of the deal, along with a special unit of police officers all individually selected by 



you. Your job will be to keep me alive and undiscovered … at this location and elsewhere, as I 

will determine … until afterward." 

"My Donnie?" I asked in utter surprise. "How do you even know about him?" 

"He has little fame in any area, by his own choice, but there are ways to learn these things 

about a man. In my former trade, Donnie Oldrunner is already legendary in so many elite circles. 

He and his people will be necessary to safeguard my welfare, along with the personnel you deem 

a worthy fit, Detective Dutton. Your stellar reputation for certainty and success precedes you, all 

draped in a cloak of honesty and competence, making you an ideal choice for what I need." 

It takes quite a bit to shock Angela, but he managed to pull it off that way. 

Her jaw was moving up and down, but no words emerged. 

"In return, I have something with which to barter. A currency, if you will, to pay for these 

services I seek." 

That got her back on track. "Tell me about it." 

"I wish to share some information about a rather sinister group known as 'The Side'." 

Unable to stop herself for some reason, Angela nodded. For a total pro like her, that was 

the same as a blink in a stare-down contest. As fast as she did it, I could see she most desperately 

wanted the gesture back. 

It was not to be. Hondell saw it and smiled. "You indicate you know about 'The Side'. I 

plan to explain you don't know them. You only think you do. In part." 

Her only response was to notch her right eyebrow. Just the one. I wish like crazy I could 

do that, and with such stunning emphasis. 



"Some of the personnel associated with 'The Side" actually believe they're a covert piece 

of the CIA." He shook his head. "They aren't. They've been fooled. In truth, the organization is a 

very real apparition of that foolish sounding TV show, Alias, with Jennifer Garner of years ago." 

He gave a smile, ear to ear, proving he took good care of his teeth. "Those in leadership with the 

group, of course, aren't at all deluded that way. They all know who and what they really are, and 

will do anything to avoid discovery." 

He kissed Cutterby's nose again. "They were also hired to locate me. However, if they do, 

'The Side' will conduct that auction and take it all for themselves." Hondell shook his head sadly. 

"That, I cannot allow. Will not." He looked down as he spoke, then back up at us. "That's why I 

am opting to make this trade of intel. You keep me safe until I sell my invention, I'll tell you who 

they are and the best way to find them." 

CHAPTER THIRTY 


Friday, December 25 th , 2008 … 2:31 p.m. 

Part of the luster was taken away from my first bit of spy craft when we arrived back at 

the house. Angela was very impressed when I explained what I'd seen as far as pinning down the 

location. She said it would cut a lot of time from the investigation and, quite likely, put us a leg 

up on everyone else. 

What she didn't count on, nor did I, was what we'd hear from Donnie. I was so revved up 

about it, I told him just as soon as I kissed him hello. He smiled proudly and said, "I know about 

it, but that was very clever of you." 



My reaction was much the same as if I'd been given what I thought was a big, beautiful 

diamond ring, only to learn it was a fancy zircon. "You knew? How? Since when? Why the heck 

didn't you say something?" 

His direct gaze assured me of the honesty of what he told me. "My people learned of it a 

half hour or less after you took off. I certainly wasn't going to broadcast something so critical, 

but I had a man on the scene almost immediately. Tell me, did you see a homeless derelict across 

the street by that tattoo parlor?" 

The question forced me to think about it. Roll my memory tapes backward, trying to see 

an image. It was blurry and I could only account for what I'd been seeking when I looked out the 

open back door of the van. "I can't say for sure. Possibly. Why?" 

"He's one of my people. He'll stay there until I can get others set up where they won't be 

seen. Still, it was very clever of you to locate the place he's hiding." 

"If I was so clever," I asked, working to hide the small amount of hurt I felt at having all 

the air let out of my balloon, "how did you find out about it even ahead of our stop there?" 

"We've had people looking over property records and leases but, in the end, this one came 

down to pure dumb luck. A girl who lived part-time on 'The Rez' in her teens works in the rental 

agency that handles that property. She made some calls with a couple possible addresses and my 

people checked them out. I've got two men in that building even now, as we speak." 

"And if they're discovered?" asked Angela almost testily, evidently a bit displeased to see 

my parade rained upon that way. 

"They won't be," he said with that same clear, steady gaze. "I trained them myself. They 

are like smoke." 



She and I both had enjoyed plenty of experiences with Donnie that came out exactly that 

way. He could be as difficult to follow as a cloud of vapor and as elusive as the hiss of an unseen 

leak in a pipe. It was beyond plausible if he said they'd not be found, they wouldn't be. 

"Well, we did still get a piece of intel I suspect you don't have," was Angela's taunt. She 

attracted his immediate attention, so we sat to discuss it and fill Donnie in as far as we knew. The 

first order of business for Angela was a "Gimme" but, when she had hers going, she almost had a 

gloat in her voice. "Hondell Wilkins has a son. The boy … I believe I'm using the term rather a 

bit loosely … would be an adult by now." 

"Age? Name? Anything he told you?" Donnie pressed, clearly alert to the concept. 

"He wouldn't tell us much," she said, shaking her head. "None of that part yet. He says 

he's known of the kid for many years, but the boy has no idea he even exists. At least, not as far 

as who he is. The kid, as we were told, only knows what his mother told him. It was a man out of 

her long ago past and neither she or the kid will ever see him again." 

"Very well?" Donnie acknowledged, understandably confused. 

"Not only does he insist we guard and protect him … that 'we', by the by, includes you 

and your men. By specific named request." A smile. "We need to contact the kid for him." 

"I expected we would be included in protecting the man," he said in dead seriousness. 

Angela screwed her face up in confusion, but didn't step into the trap. Donnie either knew 

something or someone closer than we suspected, or he gets called on more often than I know of 

and we need to work on our communication habits. I made a note to myself to bring it up with 

him … in bed. That's the best place for any serious dialogue between us. 



We were still discussing all we'd learned when Candy announced she had lunch ready for 

us, so we took a break to eat a fantastic Christmas dinner. Ham, yams, potatoes, about four super 

veggie dishes, Jell-o, coffees with special herbs and scents, salad dishes, coleslaw, breads, you 

name it, she had it ready. Angela and Giff stayed, of course, and we were even able to manage an 

appearance by Bill and Adele. That rascal Bill really did have a gift for everyone. He purchased 

tickets for a whale migration viewing ride with open dates to be confirmed later for everyone. 

The whales are always a big deal when they swim past our shores in January and February. 

After dinner we'd only been sitting around talking, having coffee and wishing we'd eaten 

less, when our ballistic doorbell went postal on us. Brittany was proving she could've outdone ol' 

Paul Revere very handily before Adrianne snagged her off the floor. As befits him being the man 

of the house, Donnie answered the door with an entourage consisting of all of us behind him. We 

wanted to greet whomever had stopped to call on us. 

Until we saw who Donnie greeted. That's when we all backed up and returned to where 

we'd been seated minutes earlier. 

Donnie said quietly, "Hello, Olivia. What can I do for you?" 

"May I come in, or am I suddenly not good enough to be in your home?" 

He stepped a bit to his left. "Feel free. Are you celebrating Christmas, perhaps?" 

"Not hardly," she barked in mild annoyance as she walked past him. "Angela, you had a 

meet this morning … or, so I'm told. With whom and how did it come off?" 

Before Angela could even respond, whether she'd've answered or not, Donnie cut in to 

head off the question. "I'm afraid the meet she had set up was a no-show. Nothing happened, but 

I have people looking into it. I'll let you know as much as I can of whatever I learn." 



"I think you're lying to me," she accused. 

Opening the door again, his face translucent, he advised, "You be careful on the way to 

your car. Wouldn't want you to fall." 

"I'm leaving? Is that is?" 

"Precisely," he replied, following the door around in a half arc and herding her with only 

the shifting of his body mass. 

"Well, I never… ouch!" she yelped when his hand touched her lower back. 

"Problem?" Donnie inquired, eyes focused on her lower spinal area. 

"Only since that bitch hit me," she barked, the left index finger now aimed right at Adele. 

Her hand went to her lower backbone. "I think I might've pulled a muscle. It hurts a little. If it 

doesn't get a lot better in a couple days, I'll see my doctor." 

"Sorry to hear of your troubles," Donnie added, easing her out the doorway. As soon as 

he turned back to us, Angela was doing that impossible thing with her eyebrow. "You blew her 

off, Donnie. Why was that?" 

Donnie nodded. "I do not trust that woman. Not at all." 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 



Once we cleared the landscape of Olivia Higginbotham, a feeling of relief to me as I also 

don't trust that woman half as far as I could throw her left-handed, we got back to talking about 

the case. Angela and Giff were on scene, as were Bill and Adele, with even my Aunt Siobhan 

and her guy, the patrolman named Royal Rankin, again in attendance. Because she'd missed out 



on so many family years based on the life she once led, Aunt Siobhan worked overtime these 

days to make up for it. I suspected she'd gone to one of the better clothing stores down there in 

Fashion Valley or somewhere like that and said, "I'll take one of everything." Then she wrapped 

it up, added tags with our names on them and had everything sent to her car. 

Correction, make that a bleepin' truck. 

Because Royal is a studly young cop and only recently developed grade-one goo-goo 

eyes for my aunt, he drives a Corvette. That wouldn't've even come close to carrying the load she 

brought us today, especially for our babies, so he drove her Mercedes instead. Yes, she went out 

of her way for me, too, and Royal must've been in charge of things for Donnie. I was presented 

with a trousseau fit for a bride … or a girl going on an exclusively wild weekend with her guy. 

Some of the panties and bras she had my name on were so revealing I hid the danged things as 

fast as they were unwrapped. 

That part got all our babies teasing me almost endlessly, asking to see what I'd gotten, or 

for me to try them on. Since it was more likely I'd attend a tea with that imbecile who was just 

elected president, M. Bareass Obama, I pooh-poohed everything. Finally our oldest baby, Bren, 

stood and said with a laugh, "Mama, me an' Candy was whores fer a few years, 'member? There 

ain't nothin' in them li'l goody boxes o' yers where we ain't seen somethin' maybe a good ten er 

so times worse, ya know? Jeez, Mama, at least let us take 'em down t' Candy's room so's we c'n 

all get a good look, ya know?" 

With my face beaming a bright red, feeling flush and terribly embarrassed, I said, "Okay, 

but make sure Adrianne doesn't see—" 



At which point our ten-year-old genius, going on thirty-five, assured me, "Don't worry, 

Mama. I'll see they don't get out of control. Okay, ladies, let's go." 

My mouth was still wordlessly opening and closing, my hapless right index finger aimed 

at the retreating trio, plus Jaden-Donna, when Adrianne added, "Personally, I think Mama will 

look really hot in the red panties and this bra. This is positively sultry, don't you agree?" 

Candy, our fashion horse, was opining to that effect when they disappeared down the hall 

in a gleeful scamper of happy young ladies. Me? My freakin' face was on fire! 

Aunt Siobhan also did well by Donnie, supplying him with a full length black leather coat 

I had no question was not less than $400, if even that would come close. It was beautiful, and so 

soft I wondered if he'd need a permit to wear it out of the bleeping house! Plus, I even thought I 

might need to call our homeowner's insurance agent and send pictures of the danged thing! We'd 

also gotten them some gifts but, after seeing the haul she brought us, I sort of wanted to pretend 

the things we bought had been lost or stolen. That way I'd be able to write her a huge cheque and 

tell her to consider it a gift certificate. Sheesh! 

Candy soon returned, all the girls babbling about "Mama's haul", then set about putting 

all her new special coffees out for us. I had a butterscotch flavored cup that almost knocked my 

danged socks off! The conversation had sort of drifted away from the Hondell Wilkins matter 

and toward daily matters of living when Bill and Adele came back into the room. They seemed 

as if they knew something the rest of us would never even be able to guess. 

The shared look on their faces made me think of the times I was a little girl when two of 

my neighborhood girlfriends and I formed our "secret clubs". We all had passwords and a basic 

code for communicating and no one else on earth was allowed in our clubhouse. It was a small 



tool room in the garage of one of the girls, but we sure did learn about keeping all our deep, dark 

secrets. That image perfectly described these two love birds at the moment. 

"Uh, Donnie?" Bill began, moving his right hand from where he'd been holding Adele's 

to where it was affectionately draped across her shoulders. "Adele and I are going back to my 

place in Oceanside for a while. We've really enjoyed the time spent with your family, but …" 

Bill sort of let it hang there, suspended in front of everyone. A peek inside the two of 'em, 

but not an indiscrete look that provided many solid details. All the guessing in the world would 

be allowed, of course, but confirmation wouldn't be coming from either. 

"I am not in favor of your suggestion," Donnie responded, his head slowly moving from 

one side to another. "It is a markedly unsafe idea." 

"I don't see any risk," Bill argued, glancing at Adele for reinforcement and getting just 

the most cutesy smile and a shrug I've seen in years! It was like watching the guy talking to his 

girl's dad when he picked her up for the junior prom. She peered once at Donnie, then directed 

her pretty brown eyes back at Bill, whereupon she disappeared into a cloud of "goo-goo" again. 

"I'm afraid I do," Donnie said more insistently. "Bill, those people have a misguided idea 

you know how to find that man, Hondell Wilkins." 

"Aw, man, you know that's crazy, and so do I," Bill protested, bending once to kiss Adele 

on her forehead, sending her up a flight of stairs in the "Goo-goo house". "I don't know squat." 

"I agree, but if they think you might know something, it's all the same. Bill, these people 

are all ruthless killers. They will not hesitate to kill you … or Adele, if that works easier, or if it 

forces you to talk … to get what they want out of you. They're playing for world-class stakes and 



will stop at nothing to get what they want. I think you should reconsider staying here with us so I 

can protect you. Honestly, I really think that will be best." 

When I'd listened to them tussle a few more moments, I rose and went to stand beside 

Donnie, then leaned forward and suggested, "Honey, if all they want to do is go to Bill's place to 

be alone, maybe you can have a couple of your men go along and stand guard. That ought to 

work well enough and will accomplish what everyone wants … won't it?" 

After mulling it over a moment, Donnie agreed to compromise. "It's not an ideal answer, 

but it will probably be safe." He came to his feet. "I'll instruct a couple of my men to accompany 

you both back to Oceanside." 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 



The story, as I heard it, came in bits and pieces from the ER at Tri-City Medical Center in 

Oceanside. It was a half-garbled collection of eyewitness info given to unies, later gleaned from 

them by Angela. I was again wearing my badge, so they paid me little attention. Angela's "He's 

with me" blew any inquiry regarding Donnie, so the bits and pieces began to flow. 

The call I received to get the ball rolling struck me numb. It was the weak, scraggly tone 

of a woman's voice in the midst of terrible trauma. Having been the one speaking with that exact 

inflection in the past, I was well able to recognize it now. I only needed a few seconds. When it 

came to me it was Adele speaking, my knees quivered. I pressed my hand over the earpiece and 

sat back in my seat. Unquestionably, there had to've been a very odd expression on my face. It 

put Donnie in front of me in a split second. 



He leaned in, his eyes filled with concern. I raised my right index finger, leaving it at an 

angle straight up to tell him to wait while I listened. "Adele?" was all I could say. 

"CC, it's me." 

When I pressed the earpiece button and said, "CC Ryder", her tremulous voice called out, 

After I spoke her name, trying to attach the image of a woman destroyed she created in 

my mind to the happy, smiling, crazy-in-love woman who just left us maybe half an hour ago, it 

wouldn't fit. All I found was a "square peg-round hole" syndrome. What I was hearing simply 

did not attach to what I had in memory. "Honey, are you hurt? Have you been injured? Adele, 

did something bad happen?" 

"It was … it was … very … bad," she gasped. "Bill is … CC, he's gone!" 

Oh, God! was my immediate thought and I hated myself for being unable to stop the next 

words out of my mouth. "Bill's dead? Is that what you're —?" 

"No!" she shot back, just the single word dripping in horror. "I don't … think … so. They 

just … they took him, CC! They took Bill! He's my guy and … they … took him!" The spiraling 

terror in her voice was commencing to rise, filling the air ahead of her spoken words with dread 

and agony even before she spoke. "CC, I love that man and … they … they took him!" 

By this point I'd removed the earpiece and held it so Donnie, and now Angela and Giff, 

could get the gist of what I heard. "Honey, where are you? Tell me. Now. Where are you?" 

My question created a moment of confusion. A lapse. An interim where I could "see" her 

looking around, all based on the vibes I was getting. "In Oceanside," she blurted seconds later. 

"On 76 … the highway. Bill said we'd—" 

"What part of Highway 76?" I pressed as Angela jotted something in her notepad. 



"Airport," she muttered, clearly disoriented. "The road sign says Airport. There are a lot 

of planes in a … in a field across … the highway." Those last few words were losing any means 

of connection to reality. I sensed she was going into shock. 

"Look, Adele, we're on our way!" I said with more excitement and concern in my voice 

than I wanted her to detect. "You say they took Bill? Who?" I asked as Donnie slipped an arm of 

my leather coat on me and moved to put my other arm in place. Angela and Giff were already in 

their coats and heading for the door, with Donnie herding me in that direction. 

Bren, Candy and Adrianne were standing with fearful expressions on their faces, but I left 

it to Donnie to explain what was going on. 

"Some … some scary men," she said in a deflated tone. "They just … CC, they all had 

masks … on their … faces. And … guns." I swear, I heard her shudder. "There were … I think it 

was … was … four. I think." A very weary sigh. "Maybe more." The fear again began rising in 

her words. "They … took him … CC. Just … did it, you know? Took … him. Away." A gulp of 

air, struggling to regain control. "Why would … they … just … take him? CC, he's my guy! I 

love him! Why'd they … why'd they … take him? Not fair!" 

A paramedic or EMT came on the line and said they were taking her to Tri-City, then a 

cop got my name and number, so we were very soon on I-5 north, siren squealing, red and blue 

lights going on and off. Angela's speedometer was at 120 and holding steady. She called it in and 

let Dispatch know she was in double high gear. By the time anyone got back to Angela with the 

idea she should slow her rate of progress, we were in Oceanside, where she dropped it to 80 for 

the ramp onto Highway 78, only 3-4 miles west of the exit we'd use. When she barreled out of 

that curve, we were back at 100 in seconds. 



There was no question where she'd park her unit when we slid into the ER parking lot, so 

we were inside almost immediately and getting the story. They wouldn't let us see Adele yet, as 

she was still in a treatment room. The nurse Angela spoke with said, "Give us ten minutes and 

you can speak with the woman," then she was whisked away to her duties. 

What we discovered was a total surprise, although it didn't start out that way. When Bill 

and Adele took off we waved good-bye to a pair of star-crossed lovers who seemed to feel they'd 

now gotten around that impediment. Circumvented the normal route of predestiny and slipped 

into a safe lane of sorts. They were holding hands and, as a matter of fact, Bill stopped his black 

outer space rocket at our front gates long enough to kiss her again. Yup, they were two "goofy- 

in-love" people and it got my eyes moist just watching them. 

The last we saw, a pickup with two Luiseños followed them onto the road out front. 

Then I received that horrible phone call. 

I remember his black Dodge Viper not only looked as if it was capable of traveling outer 

space, it sounded that way, too! I remembered driving it, the way I laid patches of black rubber 

on the street just getting the danged thing moving! When they left I had a visualization of them 

gathering takeoff speed for a couple blocks, then lifting upward and shooting toward the stars on 

a direct angle into space. 

Evidently they continued all the way to Oceanside, where Bill selected the northernmost 

route across town if heading east or west. Highway 76 is on the north side, continuing all the way 

to I-15 and beyond to the east, most of it four-lane divided, with Highway 78 on the south side of 

town. It's the borderline between Oceanside and Carlsbad. Highway 78 runs all the way up into 

the mountains, ending in the tourist town of Julian. 



Being two lanes with a boulevard divider, 76 has a traffic light about every mile. From all 

I was told, Bill usually takes 76 east from I-5 to Foussat Road, then cuts right a block to Mission 

Avenue, hangs a left and moseys over to El Camino Real and he's almost home. Today, thinking 

of what he and Adele must've had in mind, I doubt there was any moseying going on. However, 

all three witnesses swore his car had a green light. That was also the case, as I understand it, for 

the GMC crewcab pickup with two of Donnie's men aboard it. 

Apparently they were 100 feet or more back, trailing Bill's hotrod, when Bill and Adele 

made it through safely. The witnesses said that's when an older Ford pickup with a man dressed 

in shabby clothing floored it. The old truck tore into the intersection against a red light and ran 

into the GMC with Donnie's men in it. The witnesses said the guy who ran away not only didn't 

act drunk, but also didn't appear to be injured. However, the floor of the truck was strewn with a 

ton of beer cans, purportedly indicating a DUI hit and run. 

Donnie blew that off immediately, as did Angela. She told the Oceanside PD what was 

going on, within a general range, keeping the details to herself other than their need to know. It 

was almost certainly a kidnapping, she assured them, but not an event where they'd involve the 

FBI at this point. The noted author, Bill Cady, was the victim, as was Adele via the beating. 

As fast as the crash occurred, even as the clearly not really drunken driver was fleeing the 

scene, two more nondescript cars pulled up to the intersection. Two men wearing ski masks and 

plain, drab clothing leapt from each car, leaving a masked driver behind the wheel, and raced to 

cut off Bill and Adele. 

In the interim, according to the police officers' reports, Bill was startled, then ran back to 

the pickup after yelling for Adele to remain in his car. It worked with her about as well as it'd go 



over with me, meaning he wasted his breath. She raced back toward the pickup, hopeful she'd be 

of help to Donnie's men, but was intercepted before she got to the crossing. One of the masked 

men, as I heard it, began pistol-whipping her with what the officer took to be a semiautomatic, a 

9mm in all probability. The witness depicted it as "this huge-ass fuckin' gun that looked like it 

was a fuckin' cannon, ya know?" 

The reports said that was, on the face of it, the wrong thing for anyone to do to Adele, as 

she now had a very prized and lofty position in Bill's life. One witness attested Bill "threw this 

here vicious fuckin' roundhouse punch, like t' took th' fuckin' head clean fuckin' off that asshole 

who was whuppin' on the babe." Apparently from the follow-up actions described, one of the 

other three attackers approached Bill from behind. It's likely, according to Angela and a couple 

OPD detectives, an injection was put into his neck. In any event, Bill was unconscious a moment 

later. They dragged him to a car and took off, leaving a beaten and bloody Adele to call me. 

Now you know as much about what happened as I do. But, I'll learn more soon. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 



Bill Cady was an author with a stiff neck, accompanied by a groggy feeling. He began to 

sense he wasn't alone, was sitting in a reasonably soft chair, and his hands weren't restricted. It 

was a sensation only. He didn't move them, but that was the perception he drew. For a moment 

he was concerned he may have shown a change in facial expression as he began the long climb 

from wherever he'd been sent. A chamber of evil buried far underground was what it felt like, but 



it had to be imaginary on his part. Still without moving his eyelids, no change of his face, he did 

his best to pay attention. Listen for sounds. Count the people he felt were in the room. 

What's different? he asked himself. Yeah, that's it. Someone coughed. That's what caught 

my attention. Now, how many people are in here? 

As he listened a new problem, very small, began developing. Damn it! My freakin' nose 

has to pick now to start itching, right? Shit! He fought the feeling a while, then was about to give 

in, when the itch stopped. He'd barely begun moving his right hand, preparatory to raising it up 

to his face, when the need went away. Feigning it was a movement in his sleep, Bill dropped the 

hand back atop his lap. It rested on the black rayon pants of his jogging suit, the top a mixture of 

a dark green and black with a wide white band down each arm from the shoulder. The sleeves 

were pulled up above his elbows, as usual when it wasn't cold outside, and it felt as if he still had 

the jogging shoes on his feet. Just to be sure, he briefly wiggled his toes. Confirmation. Fred and 

Millie's oldest boy is wearing shoes. 

Yippee-kie-ay! 

He listened for a while longer but really didn't get anything. Well, screw it, he decided. I 

don't plan to lie here all freakin' day playing games with these jerks, whomever they are. He let 

his eyelids creep open the smallest space, lashes still covering the openings, seeing everything in 

a blur through the hairs. Making every effort to rotate only his eyes, not his head, he scanned the 

room. Can't be 100% on it but, if asked, I'd say there are six assholes in the room with me. Looks 

like a living room of some kind with a beige couch and some matching chairs. At least three, and 

a guy sitting on the floor between the couch and a chair to the right of it, on my left. 



Well, this sure was fun, boys and girls. We'll have to do this the next time we find we're 

all bored out of our fucking minds! Scanning one more time, he shrugged mentally. Might's well 

let the a-holes see I'm awake. Bill opened his eyes and looked around, still not moving his head. 

The six men facing him sat in a well-padded beige chair off to his right, a similar couch facing 

him fifteen feet away, and two more chairs like the first on the left of the couch. Only two men 

on the couch, he observed, which seems a little strange. Don't know why that guy's on the floor 

with his legs stretched out. Not sure I give a rat's ass, either. 

Each of the attendants wore a dark colored shirt with no pattern on it, either navy, black 

or burgundy, and denim pants with noticeable wear plus, of course, black jogging shoes. Who 

the hell wouldn't plan on that? Bill asked himself. Oh, yeah! Me! Since I don't know shit about 

this crap other than what I write in my novels … like I'd ever come up with something this far 

off the bleepin' map? … I have no damned idea what's gonna happen next. 

Just as quickly, he developed an idea. More to the point, it was shoved into his lap. The 

guy on the end of the couch, farthest to Bill's right, raised his left hand. It held a cell phone. He 

pressed something and put it to his left ear. A moment later he announced, "He's awake." 

After a few seconds, the man nodded, folded the phone closed and watched his prey. 

Figuring, Two can play this silly game, Bill traded stares with the man. The one most 

common feature shared by all six was a black ski mask over the head covering the entire face. 

On each man the bared arms showed a brownish skin, but Bill decided, That tells me squat. All I 

know is none of these suckers are black or Asian. Could be Mexican, some other Hispanic kind, 

or just white guys with a tan. Doesn't do much if I'm gonna make myself capable of barfing up a 

few clues when they spring my ass from this mess. 



The thought injected a dour aspect, but he even faster blew it away. Damn it, Donnie 

Oldrunner is as good as they come at this crap and I know he is. Plus, the woman I've come to 

know as Detective Angela Dutton more than likely has every damned cop west of Chicago out 

looking for my mangy ass right about now. Nope. Never sweat the small shit, Bill, my man. Any 

and all crap we get out of these crow-kissin', cow-suckin' dog lickers is all small shit. Just hang 

on tight in case the ride gets a little tense before it's over. 

A constantly reappearing image drifted into his mind again. The deep brown eyes were 

glinting with a special sparkle he now understood only happened when she was looking at him or 

thinking of him. All that dark cocoa hair, loose and silky, hanging a few inches beneath the gold 

necklace she almost always wore. The radiant smile, enhanced because of him, that pulled her 

face back almost enough to cover "little girl dimples" … but not quite. That expression when she 

smiled he knew people would almost want to pay to see again. The one that made it appear only 

she knew what she'd done … and would soon get away with … and she wasn't telling anyone. 

That confirms it, Bill told himself. All those years I dicked around and pretty much told 

God to kiss my ass, then I found my way back not that long ago. Maybe I would've believed 

back then God would play games with me, but now I know better. He wouldn't bring us to each 

other if He had any silly bullshit in mind. This is all gonna come off my way, and soon. 

As he watched the man watching him, concentrating so he wouldn't blink, Bill made up 

his mind. I won't ever worry about low-class shit like that again. Got my girl now and I'm sellin' 

books like crazy. I have enough money to take care of the homeless and more. So, I guess the old 

saying from MAD Magazine still applies. What? Me worry? 



He was still competing very favorably in the stare down when the blonde wood door in 

the far left corner of the room opened. Bill had a brief glimpse to note the carpet in the hallway 

was the same darker green in this room, the paint the same off yellow as these walls. He also saw 

a feminine right hand wearing a white nail polish that triggered a memory. The arm was partly 

covered in what he took to be a business suit, additional confirmation arriving when the bottom 

of her leg appeared clad in the same material. With black shoes, the heel only an inch tall. 

Less than a full second later, the rest of Olivia Higginbotham appeared. Her blonde hair, 

a platinum-whitish shade he somehow knew she spent a lot of money to maintain, hung down to 

her shoulders. The smile on her face was, at first, the same beguiling expression she wore that 

day she hit on me, Bill acknowledged. Now, however, when she takes in all the assholes here in 

the room with me, she just flip-flopped to pure bitch. Well, screw her, huh? I've got my girl and 

who the hell needs this broad's shit? Certainly not me. 

"Don't suppose you're here to rescue me, huh? Olivia? If that even is your name?" Bill 

tweaked. If I piss her off, so what? When I fought in the ring I always made it a point to piss the 

guy off so he'd act on emotion instead of logic. Seems worth a shot here, I guess. 

"Oh, that's my name, alright. One of them, in any event. Not that it will even matter to 

you, however." She glared. "It will be more difficult this way, Bill, but you will talk. You will 

tell me what I want to know about Hondell Wilkins." 

"Is that all you want? Not a problem. I made him up. Are we done here?" 

"Not by a long shot." She scowled at him, saying nothing. 



"Okay, lemme get a free throw here, huh? You came on to me that day, hitting on me and 

showing those nice, tight titties, with the idea we'd do some pillow talk and I'd let slip this 'secret 

of the century', right? Share a little pussy to get the info you needed, am I correct?" 

Her eyes had been on the men facing him, but Olivia snapped her head back in Bill's 

direction at the sexual innuendo. "Not hardly. Don't flatter yourself. All I wanted to do was lure 

you away as easily as possible. Had I done so, you'd've been here in this safe house that very day 

and I'd already have all the information you can come up with on the man." 

"I made the prick up and, as it seems, the fictitious person I created is remarkably like the 

guy you and your people once knew … but can't locate at present. However, because it seems to 

be so important to you … and because you do have a decent set of tits, whether I want 'em or not, 

which I don't … I'm willing to make a deal." 

"And that would be?" she inquired, brow raised significantly. 

"Let me haul ass out of here now. I'll go home and write another piece of fiction but, in 

this version, when I have him meet up with the character played by you, she won't be such a slut. 

Of course, I wouldn't allow even that small amount of sag such as you have in your tits, and—" 

"Fuck you!" snapped Olivia. 

"We've already been over that part and I told you 'no'," Bill taunted, hoping to get her as 

riled as possible. "Do you have to resort to offering pussy every time you want something? See, 

that's what connotes a slut on your part, and—" 

Olivia took one angry step in Bill's direction, then stopped. He found satisfaction in the 

fact he never flinched when she began what he thought was a charge and knew he won when he 

remained stoic in the face of her mini-attack. 



Getting a grip on herself, Olivia again faced the men with the masks. "Which of you was 

to be responsible for gathering the woman who was with this man?" She raked them all with her 

eyes, going right to left. 

The guy at the end of the couch, the one who'd phoned to summon her, said with what 

Bill felt was a barely contained smile behind the mask, "Me. I was supposed to capture her." 

"And you didn't." There was a barely disguised growl in Olivia's tone. "Why was that?" 

"She was too violent, to be honest about it. She was putting up quite a tussle. I don't take 

that kind of shit from any woman … for any reason … business or personal. The bitch didn't 

seem to know her place, so I showed it to her." This time the chuckle emerged briefly. "I fell 

back on my training and pistol whipped the bitch, which was exactly what she had coming. It 

was a discretionary decision on my part and, as I said, I made it in conjunction with my training 

to do this work. Do you have a problem with what I did, Olivia?" 

"That's one way to put it," she said coldly. Her right hand went to the rear of her slacks 

and reappeared with a silver .32 Beretta. In barely a full second the pistol made three very sharp 

cracks. A darker spot, blood coming from his forehead, manifested itself directly in the center. 

"Next time, call in for instructions," she ordered the corpse slowly toppling face first to the floor. 

Without lowering her weapon, she faced the one in the chair on the right. "Get the body 

to one of your vehicles. I want it weighted and dumped at least five miles offshore tonight when 

it's good and dark. Keep in mind, I have yet more bullets." She gestured to her left. "Pick two of 

them to do it, then the rest of you can help me with this bastard." She pointed the gun at Bill. "I 

promise you, this motherfucker will talk before I'm done with him." 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 





Thankfully, things calmed down a bit at the hospital. Donnie regretted the fact he had to 

call for more men from "The Rez", but he did it without even a sigh. He was left a little short of 

personnel this way, but that would only hold true for slightly more than an hour. Angela assured 

us it would be longer than that before the cops departed the scene here in the ER. She then took 

special pains to see an officer would be with Adele at all times, within an arm's reach. Donnie 

nodded, certain he'd have more people here before they'd be needed. 

He'd also taken time to check on the two guys in the truck. One had a broken left arm, the 

other a badly sprained left ankle and a gouge on his left thigh. Both would limp around for a few 

days. Neither would be ready for hand-to-hand combat for a while, but each would fully recover. 

While we all took it as a plus, and Donnie tried to arrange to send 'em both back to "The Rez", 

they each sneered at his remark. A brief, muttered conversation among the three in a language I 

doubted I'd ever fully understand changed things. They'd go back to our house and pull guard 

duty, apparently a less strenuous task, and be available as backups. 

Donnie explained it to me with a shrug. "They are Luiseño warriors. They will accept no 

less than what they stated." 

"And you trust them with that duty?" inquired Angela. 

Donnie gave her the same rebellious stare the men had given him and didn't even bother 

to say anything. Angela gave him her phony cooperative half grin and said, "Right. Okay, now, if 

you'll excuse me, I need to go fuck myself." 



Once we were satisfied Adele was safe, with the docs assuring us she wasn't bunged up 

too badly and would recover soon, we prepared to leave. Because she took numerous blows to 

the skull with a pistol, which caused several lacerations, the medical people were all adamantly 

saying she had to stay the night. Adele let the "girl side" of herself assume control a minute, her 

attitude reinforcing her, and made them swear they wouldn't need to cut off any hair. 

"Maybe a few snippets," the ER doc conceded. 

"They better be darned small, and I approve each one before it's done or I'm going home 

now," she insisted. 

When the doctor looked to me as if I might get on his side, I also shrugged. "Criminy! It 

is her hair! Why would you even question the idea?" Adele and I looked at each other as if the 

doctor was on a bad drug trip and his mind was addled. "Her guy loves her long hair," I added. 

He gave up, so I gave Adele a hug and a kiss, promising I'd come back when she was 

released tomorrow. Holding my guy's hand, we headed for his Luiseño guarded truck. I rode with 

him instead of bringing my car. As he held the passenger door for me, he announced, "Now we 

will go see Mr. Wilkins. If the terms are acceptable, my people and I will guard the man." 

I didn't say anything. Just let my saucer-sized eyes reply, then followed him the same 

way around the front of the vehicle and into the other door. "Just like that? We're going to … 

what? … drop in and ratify a bleeping deal?" I turned halfway on the seat. "Are you forgetting 

those bastards have taken Bill prisoner? What the heck're we going to do about that?" 

"Very much along those lines," he said, giving me a brief smile. "Ratifying a deal. As far 

as Bill's welfare goes, I'm sure I'll be able to find him when we finish here with Hondell Wilkins. 

As to my work protecting the man, I have people already in place. This will only be crossing t's 



and dotting i's, if you will." 

He said it so casually I needed a moment to adjust to the concept finding Bill Cady would 

be such a simple job. It reminded me how resourceful Donnie can be and the incredible extent of 

all his scores of contacts. 

Apparently some of the many cell calls Donnie had while I was fussing over Adele were 

to the men he had stationed at the place Mr. Wilkins was in hiding. He made a call when we got 

to about three blocks out and the door began opening as we rounded the corner, fifty yards from 

the building. I glanced left, saw the tattoo parlor, then right to reconfirm what I thought I'd seen 

earlier. At least my eyesight is still good, and my memory's not bad, either. 

This time it was Cutterby, the taller girl, who met us inside the warehouse area. She was 

smiling amiably and gave me a nice hug as I stepped down from Donnie's truck. "This time it'll 

be Sharla who's acting gaga, not me," she chuckled. 

"You mean," I asked as I looked up to the second floor corner, "he's now, um—?" 

"The man is a total stud," she chortled mischievously. "This time it's her turn, but they 

won't be too long." One more glance up the stairs. "I don't think." More tittering. She faced my 

guy as he rounded the front bumper and held out her hand to shake. "Mr. Oldrunner, so nice to 

meet you in person." 

see us now?" 

"Miss Peterson," he said politely, grasping her hand. "I assume Mr. Wilkins is ready to 

"Yes, and I believe he has a surprise for you." 

As if instinctively, Donnie stood in front of me. "I do not enjoy surprises, especially in 

my work." He looked hastily around, his near ebony eyes taking in everything at high speed in 



the event he'd have to defend us. Donnie Oldrunner would, I knew unquestionably, protect me to 

his dying breath and perhaps beyond. He's always like that with me. I'm his girl. 

She stopped, half turned and faced him. "Oh, it's not that kind of surprise, but I probably 

could have said it better. I suppose a bonus and some extra work, should you choose to do it, and 

I have no question in my mind you'll approve." 

We followed her up the stairs, waited through all the locks, then were seated on the same 

couch as last time. The difference was Hondell Wilkins entered the room with a dreamy-eyed 

Sharla in tow about half a minute afterward. We greeted each other verbally while the men shook 

hands and we all sat as we did the last time, with Sharla and Cutterby in reversed positions. 

Somehow I didn't feel at all in control or in charge at this meeting. More like an aide who 

would later have an opinion and be expected to give it. Beyond that, I was merely a witness. 

To my surprise, the verbal part of the deal … which was the entire agreement, as Donnie 

doesn't usually work by contract … didn't take very long. Some keys were provided us and a few 

items exchanged. I thought we might then be leaving. It seems I thought wrong. There was also 

an addendum to what they'd kicked around and I never saw it coming. 

Cutterby left the room. Maybe I was the only one who noticed a slight shifting in the 

position of Donnie's feet. However, I had no question if Cutterby, or anyone else, appeared in the 

hallway with anything other than amiable intentions, he-she could be a second or two away from 

dead. Donnie Oldrunner was a coiled spring, ready to be unleashed as needed, no matter who or 

what he faced. So, when she came back with two expensive black leather attaché cases, it left me 

wondering. I could see it hit Donnie the same way, but we both said nothing. Waited quietly. 



Hondell Wilkins cleared his throat before speaking. "The documents in that attaché are 

the same as the originals in this one," he said, pointing at the appropriate items in turn, "but the 

ones you have are copies of this with the names redacted. You see," he said solemnly as he let 

his eyes roam the room, taking in everyone in a sweep, "I've arranged to move things ahead a bit 

for my own safety and that of my son." He smiled as if only he had an inkling of what was to 

come. A fitting gesture, I concluded, since at least I was way out in right field with no glove. 

Now Donnie perked up noticeably. This was approaching the meat of the matter. 

"In that case is a trust agreement and, of course, a last will and testament, as needed. It 

was prepared by one of the world's premier law firms in New York City and the document names 

successive administrators to that trust." He locked eyes with me first, then smoothly switched to 

Donnie. "The Honorable CC Ryder, first trustee, and Donnie Oldrunner, second trustee. The trust 

corpus will be one billion dollars, 2% or less of the amount of the sale, should the final bid come 

in at higher than the fifty billion." He smiled. "I only expect one bid received will be that large, 

and in cash, as I specified, but I could be surprised. There's an active marketplace. The auction 

was to have been held next week, but I sent a notice to say it's been accelerated because of all the 

attempts of late to kidnap me and-or take my life. So, I'll be that much richer by noon tomorrow. 

Within seconds of receiving my payment, the first billion dollars will be transferred to that trust, 

currently a financial vehicle held in Bern, Switzerland, and another billion will be placed in the 

custodial trust. A copy is there for you to read. Those names are not removed." 

As he'd handed me the attaché case moments earlier and I'd opened it, Donnie turned to 

me and nodded. I only glanced at the documents, since I wouldn't be ruling on them or offering 

my legal opinion, but I know my eyes did that "boing!" thing immediately. "Donnie," I said in a 



very hushed and reverent tone as I looked up at him, "this says that amount of money is payable 

to you and me, jointly and severally, and we share control of the trust fund, which is this item." I 

held up the one with only a black spot in several areas where the name would be. "It means one 

of us can make a binding decision without the other present and it will still hold true for both of 

us as trustee-administrators." 

My eyes dropped to the doc again. "Donnie, we won't be doing anything worth a billion 

dollars! Criminy! That's one-thousand million, for Pete's sake!" 

Interrupting the tension filled moment, Mr. Wilkins laughed. "If you knew my son, you 

wouldn't be so quick to say that." 

"Why is the name of the child left out?" Donnie wanted to know. 

"In part because I believe one, or both of you, know my son. Oh, and he's no child. He's 

in his 30s now and not, by any means, a specimen to be proud of. His mother never told him my 

name. I'd recently had my vasectomy because I grew weary of condoms and wanted to enjoy the 

freedom of having sex without using one. Evidently, in the brief few days before my system was 

purged of the ability to reproduce, his mother conceived while I was with her. I didn't love the 

woman and, if not for him, doubt I'd've ever seen her again. Yet, I did. I still managed to see him 

from afar. We've never met. Not face to face. Nor have I ever spoken with him. He has no idea 

who I am. However, there've been DNA tests galore. There's no question he's my child." Now 

Mr. Wilkins glanced down at his lap, shaking his head in a gesture of regret. I couldn't be sure if 

he was simply hanging his head in acceptance or blaming a part of his body for failing him. 

When he looked up again he wore a chagrined expression. "It would, therefore, behoove 

me to set about correcting the errors of omission I've caused these many years last." 



"Why, then, do you need us after this single day. Why me?" Donnie asked now with even 

more specificity. 

"I don't intend to ever introduce myself to the man," he confessed. "From what I know of 

him, I very much dislike him as a person because of who and what he is. That does not, however, 

absolve me of my responsibility. I shall see he has access to all the money he'll ever need, but he 

won't know how much. Nor will he have cause think he can simply speak up and get whatever it 

is his foolish heart desires. He'll need to convince one or both of you he needs and-or deserves 

what he asks to receive, depending on what you decide to tell him." 

One more glance at his lap reinforced the concept of him attributing blame to a wayward 

bodily organ. "Although he'll be left, as you said, CC, one-thousand million dollars, if I left it all 

to him openly, he'd be broke in a month. No one will ever dub him a 'financial genius'." 

"Does anyone else know the name of your son? These ladies included?" Donnie asked. 

"Only the attorney who drafted these documents, now deceased, and the one person who 

was able to help me confirm his identity. She was a Russian national and is also now deceased. If 

you'll step over to the corner with me, Donnie," he suggested as Sharla gently dislodged herself 

and he came to his feet, "I'll tell you. When you tell CC … I have no question that will occur … 

remember the peril anyone who knows my son's name will be under. My son will, at that point, 

be nothing less than a prime kidnapping target. If said kidnapping was committed by the wrong 

people, not only would he be at dire risk, anyone knowing his name would be in equal danger. 

With that thought, I will caution you not to take it too lightly when you step over by the hallway 

so I can reveal his identity to you." 



Donnie's eyes swept the room, taking memory pics of everything and everyone in it, then 

moved to the beginning of the hallway. I was watching Donnie's always stoic face when he heard 

the name. His eyelids twitched. For him, that's the same as a normal person gasping and covering 

his mouth in surprise. 

His words following that reaction both surprised me and made me feel very proud. 

"My woman, my lady, is everything to me, Hondell. If I didn't know her as I do, I'd turn 

down your offer, if for no other reason than to protect her wellbeing. However, I won't even need 

to ask if she wishes to be involved. Unquestionably, she does so wish. Therefore, we accept your 

offer and, with the risk it imposes on the person I love most in this world, will consider we are 

not being overpaid." He shook Mr. Wilkins' hand. "I shall now take her home, then return after I 

conduct a brief duty. You will be in the hands of my men until I am back, but they will maintain 

your safety." 

in the man. 

"You're certain I'll be safe?" he asked, now showing the very first hint of fear I'd noticed 

Donnie stopped, faced him by turning halfway, and used the same facial expression he'd wear if 

he saw someone looking west for the sunrise off our back deck. "I have said it, therefore it is so. 

I believe my errand will encompass dealing with your primary threat, but not the only one you 

face. For that reason, I shall hurry back." 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 





She walked slowly from the motel room bed to the credenza where she deposited her new 

black silk purse half an hour ago, glad she'd had enough time to set it down before the siege was 

underway in earnest. If you've got it, damn it, you might as well use it, she told herself as a smile 

crossed her face. The slow movement was calculated to accentuate an ass she believed, based on 

all the compliments it had garnered, was nicer than most women in their 20s had to offer. It made 

her feel good to still be superior at her age 43 and showing no signs of fading. 

Marcella Thrasher managed to conceal the smile when she orchestrated a half turn, also 

straightening her back to extend her breasts. With a forty-inch set of tits like mine, I'd be a fool if 

I didn't let the bastard have a chance to drool a little. She affected a pose while lighting the long 

Benson & Hedges she removed from the purse, allowing the light spilling from the shaded lamp 

by the bed to add a silhouette on the wall. Moaning pleasurably, the cigarette in her right hand, 

she slid her left palm up her side. It cupped the left breast, accenting it as she moaned again, and 

gave life to the libidinous scene she intended to create. 

"Nice," said her erstwhile lover, a companion she reinitiated tonight with a goal of using 

him to get what she wanted. "Do you have to do that now?" asked Darius McLain, a nonsmoker 

and, in many respects, her "boss" insofar as the work she usually did for a living. 

"I didn't do it when I was taking care of all your needs, darling," she cooed, turning now 

to face him. Marcella stood with her feet spread apart, back straight, her breasts resplendent as 

she inhaled on the cigarette and raised them even higher. Only five-two, 108 pounds, she knew 

her small stature was an additional turn-on for many men, particularly the one in the bed she'd 

just stepped away from. The one she'd worked diligently to pleasure for thirty minutes. The one 



she wanted to give her information. The one who would, if she had anything to say about it, even 

if it meant getting back in that bed and draining him of the last flicker of energy in his body. 

"True," he conceded, sitting up a bit straighter in the bed. Still naked, McLain pulled the 

sheet and blanket high enough to cover his navel, then crossed his hands on his lap and looked at 

her again. "And I must say, you gave as good as you got." He chuckled. 

I gave one helluva lot better than I got, you dipshit, but if I get what I want out of you, 

I'm willing to call it even, she thought, never allowing the smile to change from the vixenish air 

she knew it created. "As good as you are between the sheets, Darius, I take that as quite a tall 

compliment." Marcella took another drag, stayed in her pose until it was released, then sashayed 

back to the bed in a fabricated, sultry slink. It was an improvisation she'd created and displayed 

more times in the past than she could, or wished to, remember. 

Swooping her hand to collect the ashtray next to the bed, she sat on the foot of it on her 

right, leaving him alone on the left. When she sat, sliding slightly to her left, she was on her left 

haunch, knee bent, left ankle beneath her right thigh, right foot still dangling over the side of the 

bed. At her height it wouldn't reach the floor, so she began a gentle swaying of her lower leg, 

knowing it would give a pulse to the moment. Maintaining an erect carriage, she knew his eyes 

would stay largely on her breasts. That part was no problem, as she could very easily overcome 

showing any of the lies others would be unable to hide behind their eyes. Marcella had done that 

much all her life. 

"Consider it meant to be that way," he said with a smile as his eyes again appraised her 

body in an up and down stare. 

"Say, I was thinking something, but I'm not sure what to do about it." 



"And you think I can help you … which is why I just got my brains fucked out. There 

had to be a reason you called to set this up. I knew it." 

"You think that's the only reason I'd call you to set this up?" 

"In a word … yes." He smiled innocuously. 

"You evil, evil man," she chuckled. "Well, since you've found me out … only in part, 

though, because I would've stopped it at just the blowjob if I didn't love being with you … it's 

probably best if I tell you what's on my mind." 

"Inquiring minds want to know," he said in a casual attempt at humor. 

"What happened to that author? Bill Cady? He's suddenly not around." 

"That was less than two hours ago. How is it you ask the question?" 

"Darius, I didn't get where I am in life, or in the work we do, without making a few very 

valuable contacts. It's my job to know these things. So, what happened to the man and where is 

he now?" She kept her eyes riveted to his, then took a drag and held it, her breasts jutting out as 

she watched his face. 

"I don't think I should tell you." He began to look away, must've thought better of it and 

renewed the lock he'd just begun to undo. 

"Oh? Why?" She concentrated harder on staring into his eyes. 

"There could be a … problem," he responded. 

Hmmm? she mused. I don't think that was all posed and-or just for the drama. He's got 

something on his mind. "Tell me about this problem." 

"If I did that, I'd be telling you everything." Now he did look away to his right. "That's 

not likely my wisest move." 



"Oh? Why not?" She smiled. "After all, I might be able to help you." 

"I certainly doubt that." 

"You have no reason to doubt me, Darius. You know my reputation and how often I 

come through with success. Granted, we all miss one once in a while, but I don't miss much." 

"Neither does sh—" He had a flash of panic on his face. "Never mind." 

"I see. It's a 'she'. Who is she? Anyone I know?" 

"I've said too much," he replied, his right hand beginning to raise the blanket. 

Shit! He's going to get dressed and leave me hanging, damn his hide! I can't get this close 

and blow it! Especially after I just blew him, damn it! "She's the mechanic you said was trailing 

me, am I correct?" she asked, taking a wild shot out of desperation. 

McLain ceased the movement that would've had him standing next to the bed a second 

later and sat back. "How did you know?" 

"Because I'm smarter than hell and I have a shitload of contacts," she fabricated. No way 

in hell am I admitting I made a lucky guess. Screw that shit! 

For a few seconds of strain and tension, McLain watched her eyes. 

Damn! The bastard's not even looking at my tits any longer! I really have his attention! 

"Yes." He took a deep breath. "She is, in many ways, a contractor, such as are you, but 

she does have a … call it a 'position' … with the organization." 

"You mean with 'The Side', correct?" 

"Marcella, we seldom use—" 



"Oh, can that bullshit, Darius. I know damned good and well whom I get called on to do a 

job for, just like Borislava and Boleslav did before they became corpses. We aren't supposed to 

talk about it, I know, but you and I know damned well what that group is and what it does." 

He smirked. "You never bought in on the supposed CIA hook-up, did you?" 

"How stupid do I look?" Her left hand reached up and jiggled her breast. "Don't look at 

these when you answer," she chuckled. "Hell, no, I didn't. Too many of the supposed 'career 

people' with the CIA who came in to that Black Ops group started asking questions and soon 

ended up dead. Nope, not my cup of fucking tea, sweety." She took the last drag and stubbed it 

out. "Tell me about this person. She's supposedly the 'ultimate mechanic', as you inferred, and 

apparently I'd be no match for her." She snorted derisively. "Name? Background? Tell me." 

"The name she uses is Olivia Higginbotham," he said, watching her face for any sign of 

betrayal she knew more than she admitted. 

Marcella expected that much and maintained a mask of ignorance, partially untrue. She 

said nothing. Merely waited for him to continue. 

"She's got maybe twenty years with both the FBI and CIA and, of course, is heavily tied 

in to 'The Side'. Yes, she was watching you and, yes, she would've killed you. In a heartbeat, my 

love, even if she doesn't have one. A heart, I mean. She … uh, I have no concrete proof, but it's 

the only thing that makes sense … is also running a renegade operation." 

"Of what nature?" Marcella pressed, leaning forward a bit, no longer aware of her sex 

appeal or its power over men. Him in particular. "Tell me about it." 

"I believe she kidnapped Cady." 



"For what reason?" was the inquiry as Marcella stood, scooted to her purse, dug out a 

new cigarette and lit it. "Why is Cady important? You had me dick teasing for the man—" 

"There are people at the top," he said while gesturing toward the ceiling, "who believe he 

knows Hondell Wilkins based on a character in a novel he wrote many, many years ago. All the 

similarities of his character and Wilkins are too much alike to dismiss it out of hand." He sighed 

as if giving up for a moment, which Marcella knew would never happen. "Worse, with Wilkins 

now expediting the bid date—" 

"For his formula? He moved up the time?" 

Nodding, "Tomorrow at noon. Olivia also believes Cady knows how to find the man and 

has taken him prisoner. To be honest, I don't think she even cares if she's discovered as the one 

who took him, if it comes down to that. If he knows anything about Wilkins, she'll learn it all 

tonight. In a hurry, so she can present the info and get to Wilkins before the auction date." He 

sighed in exasperation. "I think she's running an operation against 'The Side', as well. I think, if 

she can get to Wilkins … I have no doubt Cady will not survive her interrogation … she'll claim 

the money herself. To do it would be a triple flip, so to speak." 

Smoke trailing over her still naked shoulder, Marcella resumed her former position on the 

bed. "Explain." She took a drag, her eyes now fused with his. 

"The US government, along with a few other countries, have formed a bloc. They intend 

to share the ransom cost and the benefits. Unfortunately, certain countries against the idea of our 

world no longer needing oil … all those fucking A-rabs … formed their own bloc. They want to 

get custody of Wilkins so they can kill him. In a set-up too big to believe or explain, 'The Side' 

was hired by both blocs to find and capture Wilkins." 



"Okay?" She leaned forward, unable to hold herself back. 

"It's a sting from 'The Side', who intends to keep the idea and the money … but Olivia is 

stinging their sting, to coin a term. She wants to be the one who ends up with all the loot and can 

still market the product. If she can pull it off, she'll not only be the most powerful person in the 

history of the world, she'll also be the richest. Hell, even Gates, when he had a hundred billion in 

assets, only had it on paper. Everything she has will be in cash. Far more powerful. Olivia will be 

able to topple entire governments with a single phone call." He shook his head in amazement, as 

if the idea went to new heights hearing it from his own mouth. 

"And you know all this because …?" Marcella let it hang incomplete. 

"From all I knew, what I deduced, and some calls I made, I understand what she's doing, 

but I don't dare bank on her making it happen. She put me between a rock and a hard place since 

she's theoretically working for my operation at the moment." He sighed again, but this time it 

was almost a painful sound as Marcella heard it. "With no other options, I called and turned her 

in. Now I'm waiting." 

"For what?" 

"Permission to kill her. If I don't get an okay, it'll mean her upstairs connections are a lot 

stronger than mine. If so, I'll be the target. In that case, she and her people will get a go ahead to 

kill me. Perhaps you can see why I'm so concerned." 

Marcella smiled. "Well, you don't have to be concerned. There's a way out of this mess 

for you, if you want it." 

"Oh? And what would that be?" 

"Tell me where she's keeping him and I'll take care of her for you." 



"As if you could," he said wistfully. 

"Count on it, Darius. I can, and I will. Now, tell me where she's holding him." 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 



Always the total, complete gentleman, my guy Donnie stopped as we were heading to his 

pickup in the parking area of Mr. Wilkins' huge warehouse and dug out the disposable lighter he 

always carries nowadays. He held it up and waited. 

"Um, honey, we're not in the truck yet," I argued reluctantly. 

With a grin he told me, "You went all that time in there without a cigarette and you know 

I don't ever see you as 'looking slutty', so go ahead, have one now, as we're walking." 

Because he showed his love by thinking of me like that, my eyes got a little watery at 

first, but I stood on my toes and kissed his left cheek, then dug one out and lit it when he held up 

the lighter. I winked at him and we continued walking. When we reached his truck he looked up 

on the walkway and, to my surprise, one of his men was there. He was dressed in a light gray top 

and slacks so close to the color of the concrete walls, a gray cap covering his ebony hair, he was 

a part of the danged wall until he stood. He gave a hand signal, so Donnie opened my door. "I 

won't need to sweep the truck for bugs," he explained. 

All I could do was shake my head. We got in the truck and, just before he started it, I 

asked, "Okay, this is going to drive me cuckoo. Who in the heck is his son?" 



When he started leaning my way, I thought he was going to kiss me before he answered, 

but he said, "I'll whisper it, on the off chance there's a mic in here we didn't detect." His lips 

came to my ear and he told me. 

Without any question, my eyes did that saucer thing again. "Are you serious?" 

Donnie nodded. "You can see how much harder that will make it for us, correct?" 

"Harder? Criminy! Try impossible! Him? We're supposed to manage … and dole out … a 

fortune to and for him? Honey, that could become full-time work!" 

"We will manage. I'm certain of it. Now," said with the truck running, "I need to turn on 

my GPS and do a search." 

"We're going to go find Bill now, aren't we?" 

Donnie shook his head. "I will, after I take you home." 

"Bull-shit, mister! You don't have any of your men with you now. They're all here or at 

our house. There's not a single, bleepin' chance I'll let you do this on your own!" 

"Princess, it's too danger—" 

"My suntanned ass! Donnie Oldrunner, you and I are partners, dang it! In love and in life 

and in everything we do! There's no way in hell you're going after those people on your own!" 

"I simply cannot allow—" 

"You just try stopping me, Buster! If you take me home … Donnie Oldrunner, I swear 

this on my Grandma's grave! … I'll get in my car and follow you! If I have to screw the whole 

thing up, including holding my freakin' hand on the horn when we get to wherever that loony 

bitch has Bill, I will! You are not doing this alone! I'm going with you and that's that!" I almost 



crossed my arms to pout, then remembered I was holding a ciggie, so I just glared at him. I love 

my guy with all my heart and soul but, at times, this macho crap makes me want to barf. 

He looked at me seriously for a few seconds, then broke into that goofy grin of his that 

simply melts my heart. "Well, if you're sure …" 

"You big jerk!" I told him, swatting his right biceps. "You know danged good and well 

I'm as sure as can be. This is a 'you and me deal' and that's all there is to it." I took a drag and 

looked at the dashboard where he had the GPS on now. "So, how's that going to help us find Bill 

now? I realize you've got some pretty sophisticated stuff, but …" I left it dangling. 

"I told you I do not trust that woman. I haven't since I met her." He got a small chip from 

the pocket of his windbreaker as he spoke. 

"Yeah, so? I didn't much like her, either, but how does that help us find Bill?" 

"As you recall, Adele took exception with Olivia two days ago at our house." 

"As if anyone wouldn't? That nasty bitch … sorry, but she really pissed me off, too! … 

risked Adele's bleeping life! I was glad to see Adele sock her one, although I'd've never thought 

Adele had it in her." 

"Some people are deep and quiet, but better off left undisturbed," he observed. "Adele is 

one such. Be that as it may, Olivia was unconscious almost five minutes, although she refused 

any medical attention afterward." 

lower back?" 

"Okay?" Where the heck's he going with this? I wondered. 

"Do you remember Olivia telling us this afternoon she thought she pulled a muscle in her 



"Yes. I was actually sort of glad to hear it, which I realize is sort of childish of me, but I 

really don't like that woman. Honey, what the heck's that got to do with anything?" 

"While she was unconscious on our floor, after I slipped away to get what I needed, I was 

able to insert a very tiny homing device under the skin in her lower back. I'll plug this into my 

GPS, punch in the code, and … voila! There she is." 

His GPS system showed a small red circle on the location. He looked at it, turned to face 

me, and grinned. "Just as it's supposed to do." 

"That is honest-to-God amazing!" I told him, gawking at the screen. "Just how far away 

would this bleepin' thing track her, honey? And, for how long? I mean, we had no idea what she 

might do, and there was no reason to suspect Bill would be kidnapped like he was, but what in 

the world possessed you to do all this?" 

"As I said, I do not trust that woman. I suspected she would do something underhanded 

and saw a chance to keep track of her without any manpower. The beeper will only emit a signal 

over a period of about four days for 100 miles. After that, it begins to fade. I just didn't think it 

would take her that long to tip her hand. The woman is evil and I was sensing it right away." 

"You are incredible!" I told him as I kissed his right cheek. Then I dug my .380 Beretta 

out of my purse and checked the magazine. "Do you have a handgun with you?" I questioned. 

Donnie nodded, gesturing toward the back of his pants. "If needed. Let's see what we face 

when we get there." 

It wasn't really all that far away. The address was a house in a middle class neighborhood 

in Lemon Grove, less than ten miles from downtown San Diego. We went past and parked half a 

block away, then walked normally until we were two houses away from the one we wanted. It 



was already very dark and the entire area was very quiet. The houses this far out were a little bit 

more separated than in San Diego proper, meaning some forty feet apart with a small yard out in 

front and something bigger in the back. There were lights on in the second house from the one 

we sought, none in the one next to it. All were on our left as we proceeded along the sidewalk. 

We scrunched down and went below the windows of each, and Donnie made me swear 

I'd wait at the corner of the dark one behind some bushes while he scouted the one where Olivia 

was. We hoped with Bill. Couldn't be positive yet. I made him swear he'd come back to get me, 

warning him I'd "go cowboy on him" if he tried any fast ones on me. 

He was back in about three minutes. Even startled me when he so mysteriously popped 

up without me even seeing him approaching where I waited. Thankfully, he expected I'd react 

that way and clamped a hand on my mouth as he said, "Baby, it's me." 

When he knew I had it together he released me. "Bill's in there, CC, in what I take to be a 

living room near the right rear of the house, if facing it from the street. It's a good sized room, I'd 

say it's some twenty feet wide at the back, twenty-five from the back wall to a doorway on each 

end of the room. Olivia is in there. Bill's handcuffed, sitting in a chair in the far right corner if 

you were to come in from either door." 

I nodded, wondering how the heck I, CC Ryder, a bleepin' Superior Court judge, ever get 

my butt into some of these messes. 

"There are three other men in the room, all wearing black ski masks, but Olivia isn't using 

one. That means she intends to kill him during, or after, the questioning. Bill's mouth looks like 

he's been slugged a couple times … a little bit bloody, but not badly beaten … and I’d say the 

three men with her are doing the slugging. She's ranting and raving, evidently losing just a little 



of her control. That tells me this is very important to her. A pro wouldn't normally let something 

like that bother her at a time like this." 

"Okay, so what're we going to do?" 

"There is a window on the other side of the house on a bedroom. No one is in the room 

and it's not locked. I checked. I can open it quietly. I'll go in the window, pull you in after me, 

and we'll go down the hall to the living room. Using both doors, we'll break in and take Bill out 

of there. In all likelihood, we'll be required to kill the people in the room. I doubt they will be in 

a mood to surrender." 

"Why don't we call the police? We both have cell phones?" 

"I fear I underestimated Olivia and her fervor. She's rather angry now and, from the little 

I saw through the window, it's apparent Bill is taunting her almost without letup. It's delaying her 

… I'm sure that's part of his motivation … but increasing her rage at the same time. I doubt he'll 

be in very good shape, or even still alive, by the time any police units can get here. Even so, if a 

raid was made to get him, unless it was a SWAT team, Bill would probably be killed in the heat 

of the moment. No, we have to go in now, for Bill's sake." 

Part of what Donnie intended came true as he described it. We skirted the house and got 

to the bedroom window. We made entry as he said we would and were at the doorway leading 

into a hallway where we whispered to each other. "I'll go out and start down the hallway," he told 

me. "I'll go to the far door, you stop at the one I point to on this end. We'll both have our weapon 

in hand when we kick in the door. Anyone on the left side of the room is mine, on the right side, 

is yours. Shoot to kill and be quick about it." 

Nodding, I mouthed, I love you. 



Donnie nodded and slowly opened the door. We stepped out and entered a hall running 

the width of the building. A half opened door at the far end was a restroom with no one in it. 

Donnie headed that way, as silent as drifting smoke, as he always is when he doesn't want to be 

heard. I gave him about ten feet and started after him. As he stepped past the first door, the one 

he told me to cover, it began to open. A man said, "I'll be right back. Gotta piss like a racehorse." 

I froze like a ninny! Freaked out, I wasted a precious split second before I began bringing 

my Beretta up to shoot him from about seven feet away. His mouth was just beginning to open, 

the door he was pulling shut almost, but not quite closed, when Donnie took him from behind. 

An arm came around the front, the hand clasping his chin, while Donnie's other hand came to 

rest atop his head. One vicious twist and Donnie lowered the corpse to the floor. Signaling me to 

the slightly ajar door, he vanished down the hallway to cover his door as fast as he could. 

As he reached that other door, a man came out of each one, evidently concerned over the 

sound of Donnie lowering the dead man, or maybe the snap of his neck. The one farthest from 

me raised his hand with what seemed a 9mm in it as Donnie was turning to face him. I hoisted 

my .380 and put two rounds into the back of his skull from about fifteen feet or so, then spun to 

face the one coming at me. He was also pulling a semiautomatic from his waistband when I let 

go three very fast shots into his face from not quite a yard away. 

I stepped forward quickly, slamming my left palm against the dead man's chest so he'd 

fall away from me and not into me. That's when I heard Bill yell, "No, you stupid bitch, I'm not 

done with you yet!" 

Leaving Donnie to get in the far door, I raised my right foot and kicked in the one facing 

me. I saw Bill and Olivia near this right side of the room. He had his arms handcuffed behind 



him as he lunged out of the chair and charged. Olivia was raising her right hand, filled with yet 

one more semiauto, when Bill's head crashed into her belly. Unable to balance himself, he just 

kept digging, trying to push her away or knock her down. 

With no gunshots from Donnie's doorway, I concluded he was either having a hard time 

getting in, perhaps because of a locked door, or was unable to shoot for fear of hitting Bill. 

However, showing surprising agility, Olivia was slammed into the side of a chair by Bill, 

but managed to keep her feet as he landed on the floor. Bill immediately struggled to get at least 

to his knees, but she suddenly had her weapon against the right side of his head, her left arm now 

around his throat from behind. "I'll shoot this son-of-a-bitch if you don't let me get out of here!" 

she menaced. "I mean it, I'll kill the motherfucker!" 

Jamming the barrel hard against Bill's skull, she spat, "On your feet, you asshole! You 

and I are getting the fuck out of here now!" 

Olivia pulled up and back, forcing Bill to rise to his feet. It was a mistake she didn't think 

of in time, but I saw it right away, and so did Bill. His six-two was more than she'd planned on at 

her five-six and, as he rose, he resisted very smartly. About halfway erect, Bill lunged backward 

and did a reverse head butt at the same time. The back of his skull slammed into her face, giving 

her a very bloody nose instantly. Then Bill reversed his course and threw himself to the floor. As 

he fell he exposed her as a target. 

Always the total professional, Olivia now rapidly sidestepped to her right. She evidently 

knew, with me being right-handed, I'd correct slower moving to my left than the other way. She 

also did a half turn as she relocated, putting her back toward the wall on my left, presenting the 



smallest target she could be. If this was only the two of us, she'd've been that split second ahead 

of me, the time needed so only she would get a round off. 

Yet, it wasn't just the two of us. I had backup. 

I saw the glint as Donnie's shiny blade crossed that last foot of open air before slamming 

into her back between the shoulder blades, burying itself to the small, abbreviated hilt Donnie's 

fingers had used to make a purchase when he threw it. The impact of the knife, and probably the 

incredible shock of what happened, knocked Olivia a few inches forward. The single round she 

was able to fire slammed into the wall somewhere to my right. 

The five shots I got off so fast they sounded like one all hit her upper chest in the ribs. 

She only groaned as she fell, dead before her body reached the floor. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 


Saturday, December 26 th , 2008 … 12:06 p.m. 

Last night wrapped up the craziest Christmas Day of my entire bleepin' life. It was only 

the good luck of getting Angela there in a hurry that let us get out of the place in three hours. If 

not for her, I'm afraid we'd still be answering questions. Of course, because of whom Olivia was, 

and the person she was thought to be, it also brought in a lot of federal people, but Angela put a 

stop to their shenanigans in a hurry. She not so subtly reminded them I'm a reserve SDPD cop, as 

well as a judge. Donnie is a licensed private investigator with a CCW permit and he also has the 

right to carry a knife. A few people rolled their eyes at first when he said he threw it, but when 

they asked him to show them how he did it, I broke in. I said he charges for lessons and they'd 

need to make reservations in advance. 



It turns out Donnie wasn't being super-heroic by tossing the knife, either. 

He had the semiauto out and was preparing to shoot the one who came out the far door, 

granting me he may've been a step slow getting at the guy. That was no longer important after I 

shot the man, but what the guy did when I hit him was significant. He'd been grabbing for the 

weapon Donnie held and the hammer landed on the fold of skin by the man's thumb. When it did 

that, piercing the skin, was the instant I shot him. His hand froze in the fabled "dead man's grip" 

on the weapon, leaving Donnie disarmed. 

Donnie took the door down anyway, prepared to use his martial arts abilities instead of a 

handgun. Then, when he saw what Olivia was going to do, he realized he could put the blade in 

her back much faster than he could reach her, so he did. 

Our friend Bill refused any more than initial medical treatment by the EMTs and gave the 

cops the answers they were looking for. When they finished, at Angela's urging, Bill was taken 

to the ER in a patrol car to see Adele. He was almost belligerent until they agreed to take him to 

her, but calmed down in a hurry afterward. He stayed the night in her room, a condition they saw 

fit to allow when he started getting cranky again. He called us this morning to say she was being 

released and we'd be able to find him … armed and waiting, if necessary … at his condo there in 

Oceanside. 

Donnie and I had kept our babies up to speed throughout that crazy, marathon day and 

they were waiting anxiously for us when we got home. Donnie kissed 'em all and begged off, 

saying he had to get back to work. He left me to explain, which I did very proudly. The girls and 

I had a late snack … I was famished by that point … and made it to bed around two. I was up at 



my normal time around six-thirty so I could spend some time with our babies before I came here 

to be with Donnie. 

He arranged for me to stop and wait about a mile from where they were. He used a taxi to 

get to me and drove my car to the warehouse after sweeping it to be sure there were no bugs or 

listening devices, homing devices, or any other spy stuff attached to my BMW. The other part 

we discussed last evening all seemed surreal to me. As if it was part of a story I was reading, but 

not something "real", if you know what I mean. Dang it all, the idea of someone putting a sum of 

money that large at my disposal simply wouldn't register in my brain. Too many zeroes, maybe. 

Yet, as we awaited the hour of conclusion, even the look I saw on Donnie's face told me 

the idea had some factuality to it. My Donnie isn't one to follow the illogical or buy pipe dreams, 

but even he looked my way and shrugged. Despite the inanity implied, I was suddenly beginning 

to grasp the concept and file it under reality. Even then, I couldn't fathom it all. 

Then Hondell made a few keystrokes on his computer keyboard, sat back and said with 

an ear to ear smile, "Done." He turned to Donnie. "My money came and was verified instantly. 

As soon as it was, the other two accounts were funded, as well." His printer spat out a sheet of 

white paper with something printed on it. He handed it to Donnie, saying, "This is everything 

you and CC need to know about both accounts. I suggest you use your own protected network so 

you can get in touch with them and arrange to change the passwords and other codes." 

As large as Donnie's eyes became at what he read, I don't even want to speculate on my 

own brown ones. He handed me the paper and said, "We'll take care of this later, Princess." 



His "princess" sure as heck did feel like royalty when she saw all those freakin' zeroes on 

the sheet! Criminy! It made me feel like one of those people they say have more money than God 

to express wealth! 

"Who was the buyer?" was Donnie's first question. 

"I wasn't able to verify that part," Hondell admitted. "All I received was information from 

the bank saying the money was received. However, there really were only two blocs competing 

for it in the end, as I said. I think of them as 'the free world' and 'the money grubbing Arabs', and 

I believe it was 'the free world' side that prevailed." He examined the screen again and sighed. 

"An amount of money like that, with all the other spending they do, would possibly cripple the 

Arab world all at once. The other group was also many more countries, I'm sure, since all the rest 

of the world is oil dependent in one way or another. Their individual contributions would be a lot 

smaller that way." 

"Has anyone scheduled any form of announcement of the purchase?" Donnie asked. 

"No," Hondell told him, scanning his computer screen, "and I'm connected here to all the 

sources that would know. No one's said a thing so far." 

"They won't," Donnie told him, shaking his head sadly. "This is the result I expected." 

"I don't understand. You expected no one would say anything? Why? My formula will be 

the most important discovery in hundreds of years, if not in all recorded history. Why would you 

think they'd keep it a secret?" 

"Pressure from 'Big Oil' and all their political connections. The oil companies certainly 

have the money to have funded this purchase. Yet, if you made it available to the free world, as 

you dubbed one side … but in this case, if it was the real free world … all those oil companies 



you mentioned would soon go broke. They have hundreds of billions of dollars tied up in oil and 

all the derivatives, and they'd lose uncountable amounts of income. If I was to hazard a guess, I'd 

say the side that bought it is comprised of those major oil companies. The US government may 

not even be involved." 

"You mean …" he left it hanging, as if afraid to finish the question. 

Donnie nodded. "Yes, they bought it, now they'll bury it. I'm sure the paperwork you put 

with the deal contains a lifetime nondisclosure agreement, correct?" 

Hondell merely nodded. 

"Then it's a certainty. You'll spend the rest of your life in court with all your money tied 

up as it wends its way through one after another after another and your formula will still never 

see the light of day if you say anything. I imagine they've already laid the groundwork to make 

you appear to be a madman if that happens and you'd die both broke and humiliated." 

Donnie came to his feet there in the spare bedroom down the hall. There were three. One 

was used as an office, this one, the other for whatever girl wasn't sleeping with Hondell on any 

given night, and the other was for him and the one with him that evening. "The people will never 

get any benefit from what you discovered." 

"I hadn't even thought of that part," he admitted. "I have a press conference set to be held 

in an hour. What should I tell them?" 

"You will be best served if you tell them the formula was proven wrong and the deal has 

fallen through. You will suffer some embarrassment, it's true, but that will reduce the likelihood 

anyone will try to take you prisoner to force a ransom. As the wealthiest man in the world … and 



you will be with that much in liquid assets … you will require a large security contingent the rest 

of your life, be it my men or someone else's crew. I would begin to downplay the risks now." 

"No," he said, looking away as he slowly shook his head side to side, "I won't do that. I 

am not going to shame myself in front of the entire world. People have been waiting for me to 

show them my 'miracle' and I intend to at least let them know it's been sold. That it is real." He 

shook his head some more. "If they want to dig to see who bought it, I won’t defend the buyers 

or give them an easy out. If they want to hide it and not use it, so be it. Either way, I still have the 

money and more freedom than anyone on this planet." 

"You will have less," Donnie argued. "You will not be able to appear in public and you 

will need a security force—" 

"Poppycock!" spat Hondell. "I know what I intend to say to the press and I won't change 

a word of what I have prepared. I'll just add the fact the buyers won't produce it and will explain 

the money is held in accounts that legally cannot pay a ransom. That will keep me safe." 

"You are deluding yourself," Donnie countered. 

"No, I'm not, and I refuse to argue about it, Donnie. You and your team are dismissed. I 

have spent so long as a prisoner in my own custody, the girls and I are going to enjoy life a little 

as a group. That's it. My word is final. You've been paid, so take your men and go home." 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 


Saturday, December 26 th , 2008 … 1:09 p.m. 

True to his word, Hondell Wilkins held a press conference. He did it just outside the main 

police headquarters and drew a good size crowd. There were reporters from all the newspapers in 



the county … I had no idea there were so many … all the TV stations, including a few of them in 

Tijuana, which surprised me quite a bit, and eleventeen radio stations. Criminy! Even XX1090, a 

sports show, sent some people. I never will figure out that part. 

He explained the idea was sold for "a substantial sum of money", although he didn't give 

an amount, and said it appeared the formula would be suppressed. He insisted he had no control 

of that part and suggested anyone disappointed by that fact should write to their congressman or 

senator. Perhaps both. He added the money he'd received was held by a foreign bank and they 

were under specific orders not to pay any ransom in the event he was kidnapped, meaning there 

was no motive to kidnap him. He insisted anyone who did would be subject to the penalties for 

committing a serious federal crime and it would be impossible to collect even a nickel. 

Heck, I'm no criminal, but even I saw through that one like a plate glass window. With as 

much money as he received, even if he wouldn't state an amount, it was obviously an incredible 

amount of cash. Gee, just the daily ATM withdrawal limit on an account that large would sure as 

heck be enough to motivate some lowlife thug to take a crack at him. Still, there was nothing we 

could do about it. If the man wanted to assume the risks, and I saw them as enormous, all we'd be 

able to do is pray for him. What he had in mind was stupid, but not illegal. 

He even pointed to Donnie, standing some 50 feet away, and a couple of his men, saying 

they were his "former security people" and would no longer be around when the press conference 

ended. He even used that as an example to "prove" he was right, insisting he wouldn't terminate 

his bodyguards if there was any reason a criminal might want to come after him. 

In my opinion, he did nothing but feed the fire by saying that. He told the whole world to 

"come and get me" if they dared, but this is America. The land of the free and, it appears, also 



the home of the terminally stupid. As citizens, we have the right to be as stupid as we want at any 

time we choose. Hondell was simply exercising his rights as an American, I guess. 

Without a great deal of fanfare, he approached us when he finished and assured us he was 

doing the right thing. Then he "ordered" Donnie and his crew to leave him alone. 

Donnie sent most of his men away, but told them to go to a place here in San Diego and 

he'd meet with them in a few hours. When I asked why he did that, he assured me it would make 

more sense later and asked me to hold off. I agreed. I wasn't being snubbed, and Donnie and I 

have a unique respect for each other, so I let it go. However, I was positive he wouldn't just let it 

go, and I was correct. He planned to hang around, certain he'd be needed. 

Evidently he knows me as well as I know him because he wasn't surprised when I said I 

would again be his backup. He argued feebly against the idea, but it was more for show than any 

other reason. When I began to get in his face, pretty much the same way I did last night, he let it 

go almost immediately. So, using his truck and leaving my car in a spot there at the police station 

so it would be safe, we followed Hondell and the girls. 

After dictating my terms about going along with him, I wasn't in any position to argue on 

the way he did it. I felt we were staying a bit too far back to be helpful if we were needed, but he 

insisted this was how he wanted to do it. Keeping in mind how good Donnie is at his work, that 

made it a good time for me to zip my lip and accept what was before me. 

Hondell and the girls went to a very nice restaurant in La Jolla right on the water and we 

settled for burgers, fries and a Coke. To Donnie, a total health food freak, it was an anathema, 

but I demanded he eat something. The urgency of the moment convinced him to go along with 

me, but I could see it was a struggle. It may've been the first time he ever had such food or, if not 



the first ever, at least the first since he was a boy. His dietary regimen now would make me feel 

bad when I got out of bed, knowing I wouldn't eat anything I liked all day long, but he's trained 

himself to enjoy it, I guess. 

Clearly Hondell had it in mind to enjoy what he saw as his "new freedom". They were in 

that bleepin' restaurant almost two hours! I was actually starting to get angry, which is dumb, as 

he'd "fired us" not long ago. We were there because Donnie has such a strong sense of loyalty 

and duty to those who hire him, so I had no right to expect that man to hurry. After all, even if he 

was as wrong as can be, he believed he was in no danger from anyone. 

We were positioned about 200 yards away from the restaurant where Donnie had to use a 

pair of field glasses to see the door. Having all that time to think about it, I'd concluded Donnie 

had us so far back to protect me. I was about to bring it up and argue we should be closer when 

he said, "They're coming out." He leaned ahead a little, focusing. 

I watched Hondell hand his parking tag to the valet, then resume talking with the girls. 

Cutterby was on his right, his arm around her shoulders, with Sharla on his left, also blanketed 

the same way. The uniformed parking attendant left to get the car, a Mercedes he'd used today, 

and I leaned ahead myself, wondering what we'd do as far as the rest of the day. I can accept my 

guy's beliefs and his system of values, but we could very easily spend a lot of time shadowing 

this trio before anything happened where we'd be needed. 

Boy, was I ever wrong! 

The kid in the uniform hadn't traveled ten yards when a late model full-size car, one I 

took for a rental without examining it very closely, screeched to a stop in front of them. As fast 

as the eye could blink, three masked men jumped out, two from the back, one from the passenger 



side. The driver was also masked but, in my estimation, much smaller than the three guys who 

made it clear by their actions this wasn't a social call. 

They ran at the trio, Hondell and the two girls, and I realized the problem I'd caused for 

my guy. I should've insisted he take one of his men along, maybe then trailed 'em myself so I'd 

be there to help, but we were too far away to stop what was happening. Donnie sprang from the 

truck yelling, "CC, stay here!" and was off like a bullet shot from a gun. 

My "Like hell I will!" was only to make myself feel good, I guess. He was already too 

danged far away to hear me unless I screamed it, which I wouldn't ever do. Feeling helpless, I 

also jumped out and began running after him, leaving my purse in the truck. All I took with me 

was my .380 Beretta and the two extra magazines I keep with it. My weapon holds 13 rounds, 

plus one in the chamber. I always keep one "live" like that, choosing to rely on the safety. Any 

cop will tell you the time needed to press the safety off, then jack one into the chamber, can be 

all the time a bad guy needs to kill you. So, with fourteen in the weapon and two more extra 

mags, I had a total of 40 rounds at my disposal. That many bullets would mean we were at war, 

for cryin' out loud! 

Dressed in a comfortable dark blue jogging suit and Reeboks, I was alright for running, 

even if I only get to do it a couple times per week now, but I fell way behind. Even Donnie, as 

fast as he can move, wouldn't be there in time to do any good. I was now getting angry at myself 

for not thinking ahead. 

That's when I received a huge surprise. Instead of wilting, or backing away, cowering in 

some manner, Sharla and Cutterby ran at those men. Cutterby, the tallest, "pulled a Donnie" as 

she drew near. She planted her left foot, bent her torso to the side, and did a smooth 360° turn. 



Her right foot hit the side of the guy's head and dropped him as if he'd been poleaxed. As fast as 

she put him down, she looked for another foe. 

Sharla went at the guy on the other end, feinted, then rammed her right fist, flattened and 

with her curled fingers the weapon of choice, directly into his throat. The guy bent forward and 

staggered away, both hands on his throat, unable to breathe. Sharla then whirled and leapt at the 

one still standing, a man trying unsuccessfully to ward off the blows Cutterby was using against 

his neck and head. Sharla did her own drop and spin, her foot colliding with the attacker's groin 

and dropping him like an ox with a bullet in the brain. 

In a matter of ten measly seconds or less, the attacking trio had been disabled and would 

no longer be a threat to anyone. One of 'em may not even survive the event, I concluded as I ran 

as fast as my shorter legs would carry me. Still too far away to be of any assistance in time, with 

Donnie in the same boat, but a lot closer than I was, I watched in horror as the driver of the car 

got out. 

Smaller than the other three, this one also differed in another way. This one was either 

carrying a big sack lunch in the front of that black shirt, dressed like a bleepin' ninja in all black, 

shirt, pants and shoes, or had some very big boobs! When the driver stepped to the front of the 

car aiming a big, black semiauto, I was also able to see some reddish-auburn hair that spilled out 

from the ninja cap. "Donnie, it's Marcella!" I screamed in a wasted breath. 

As if that would make him move any faster? Add to the dire nature of the moment? 

I watched Marcella bring up her sidearm in a two-handed stance only fifteen feet away 

from Hondell Wilkins and take aim. Then I heard her scream, "If I can't get you, you bastard, I'll 

see no one else does, either!" She fired three times, the firearm making a sharp crack each time 



her finger squeezed the trigger, spitting a flame over half a foot long with each round. Then she 

turned to get to the driver's door again, but Sharla was already on her way around the back of the 

car. Worse, Sharla and Cutterby now also sported a semiauto apiece. 

The attacker I was dead-bang positive was Marcella Thrasher knew when she was totally 

overmatched, so she spun and ran away. Approaching two couples walking toward the eatery, 

she got off two rounds on the way past, hitting one man in the chest and dropping him where he 

stood. The others gathered around to help him, so she kept the three survivors between herself 

and her pursuers as she made a beeline to the far edge of the building. Once there, she spun to 

her right and raced toward the back. 

I gave up at that point, with Sharla and Cutterby in hot pursuit of the one who just shot 

the man who was the star of their lives. They told me afterward they chased her to the pier where 

she leapt into the water and disappeared. They saw no bubbles and couldn't find any evidence 

she was able to surface, but they also didn't find her dead body. She was simply gone. 

When I reached Donnie, gasping and out of breath, his right hand slowly swept across the 

face of the man he'd been trying to protect, closing the lifeless eyes forever. He looked up at me 

and said quietly, "He said he destroyed the computers he used to create the formula and kept it 

all in his head. However, he told me the location of a notebook and a laptop he has with all that 

information on it. He said if he died from his wounds, I'd be free to do with it as I choose." 

"What … what are we going to … um, do about it?" was my question. 

"Get it and take it to 'The Rez'. It will be safe with Cool Wind while we think it over." 

"Can we … Donnie, do we have that right? I mean, he signed a—" 



"I did not sign any nondisclosure agreement. I am free to do with it as I choose. You and 

I will decide our course of action, but we have one more duty ahead of that one." 

He caught me off guard. "What duty is that, honey?" 

"We still need to speak with his son. I sent some men looking for him early today. I now 

have his location. When we finish here, I feel we should go talk with the man." 

I nodded. "Whatever you think is right, honey. I'm with you 100%." 

We were free to leave about an hour later, although there'd be more reports and we'd be 

answering questions in the future, I had no doubt. We had two of Donnie's Luiseño friends with 

us as backup, trailing behind us in their own pickup truck. We headed to what I saw as a low-rent 

bar in Pacific Beach, where we parked on the street and I pushed coins into a meter. We went in 

the front door, Donnie's big buddies a step behind us, one on each side. The person Donnie had 

waiting saw us come in and gestured toward the pool tables in the back, way off to my left from 

where we'd entered. 

It was a sleazy place without any doubt. The barstools, maybe a dozen or so, were a red 

vinyl fake leather, cracked with a yellow sponge showing where the material was missing. All 

the tables had cigarette burns on them, although there were three crumb-bums standing outside 

smoking as we came in the door. They all raped me with their eyes, but no one said a word with 

the three men I had with me. That part was nice. 

The bar was dimply lit, a blessing in many ways, but there was too much long term dirt to 

hide it all. The clientele was also very low-grade, leaving me no doubt I could hire a murderer 

from this group in a minute or two. There were four tables, positioned so we were approaching 

them from the side, two rows with two tables in each. The guy we wanted was at the one furthest 



away, in the right rear corner. He'd been preparing to shoot, but stopped at the dead silence that 

was created when we came through the door. He looked up, recognized us right away, and 

sneered. "I ain't gotta listen t' all yer shit this time, ya know? Ya ain't got no fuckin' right t' be 

botherin' my ass, ya hear me?" In what I took to be an attempt at looking cool in front of his 

friends, he lit a cigarette and scowled. "What th' fuck ya doin' down here, anyways?" 

"You will not speak that way in front of my lady," Donnie instructed him. "If you do so, I 

will physically harm you. Listen carefully to what I tell you." 

"Yeah? Well, this ain't like last fuckin' time, ya dig? Got my homies with me now, so ya 

ain't no badass motherfucker down here an' ya ain't gonna tell me no shit like—" 

Just like he did the last time, his hand so fast it would've outraced a striking King cobra, 

Donnie buried his right fist in the guy's belly. There was a massive whoosh of air as he bent over 

and dropped to his knees. 

"Listen much closer than you did the last time, or now," Donnie instructed as he bent and 

gathered a fistful of the man's leather jacket. "I am taking you outside, you imbecile, to explain 

the changes about to enter your life." With his prisoner gagging and retching, half crawling on 

his knees and trying to stand, the Luiseños alert and glowering to keep the crowd away from us, 

Donnie hastily dragged a very subdued Casey Bingham out of the bar. 

THE END 

See what happens with the money they've acquired, and what efforts CC and Donnie are able to 

make with their new charge, in CC Ryder, What Are You Made Of?, coming soon.

CC Ryder, Mercy Me! - At My Friend's Place

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