Found - Chapter 89

   Mike was out for his four hour break, and Merry and Panic were taking a watch at the radio in the van. If anything earth shattering actually occurred, they were just trip wires. Neither Merry nor Panic could make an official decision or issue a true command; they would contact Mike and tell him to get his ass back in a hurry. In a tight spot, Mike would be instantly texted which phone he had to contact immediately.

   "You know, hun… I kinda thought you'd be more excited for all this. You seem kinda, I don't know… bored?"

   "Not a lot for me. I'm not in command of anything. No one's asking me questions. I mean, I used to have a job. My job? Prove the devil exists. Then find the devil. Honestly? The further this thing gets, the less there is for me to really do."

   Merry smiled.

   "What?"

   "I remember you doing drum solos with two spoons on the table, when you first got the news. I was kinda planning on you having trouble sleeping."

   "And?"

   "Yeah… you're sleeping like a log, being honest about it."

   "This is the guy. He looks exactly like the drawings. He's one of the smaller gypsy kings. All the other gypsies? Are up north all spring and summer. This guy, and his crew? Are down here. There's just no way it's not him. He's been ID'd… the rest is just going through the motions."

   "Can I ask… something serious like I do?"

   "Sure."

   "I was expecting more energy and acting up out of you. At least, that's what I would have predicted. Instead? Seems like every single day, you get a little quieter. A little more reserved. You act out your emotions and your energy level. I'm watching you turn into a robot instead."

   "Does it bother you?"

   Merry shook her head "no".

   "Well? Aren't you going to start with the twenty questions."

   Merry shrugged.

   "You don't like it when I pry things out of you. And this? Your big moment and all."

   "It's fine. Really."

   "You sure?"

   "I'm sure. Didn't you ever notice, that I get like that more when you're prying into my childhood?"

   Merry nodded "yes".

   "I… am like two people. There was this little kid, once. Then, there's this adult that I am today. The adult? That's who I am… the little kid? I know it was me, but… it's sort of like it all happened to someone else. In a way. If you know what I mean by that. I like to concentrate on who I am, not who I was."

   "Hmm. Interesting…"

   "What…"

   "Let me guess what age, when it starts. When you begin to… not mind talking about it. Around 18, right?"

   He nodded.

   "What's interesting? Is that you even ended up with a new name. Your file? More or less starts then."

   "I didn't plan that, it just happened that way."

   "You don't mind it though, do you? I think you like it."

   "Hmm. I guess I do. You want me to put it… poetically?"

   "Sure."

   "Your boyfriend? Is the butterfly. The adult. There's this… empty husk of a shell laying down on the ground somewhere, if you know where to look. That's all that's left of the caterpillar I started out as."

   "But then you changed again. After you came back to the real world. You said it yourself, more than once. You went back, to your books and your computers."

   "Yeah. I did. That's one of the few parts of growing up, that I liked. Those were my… free time hobbies, in the service. So, as an adult, when I came back? Yeah. I had a chance, to design my adult life. So? I did."

   "It didn't just happen, you did it deliberately?"

   "Sure. Most people want a big job, and a small hobby. Me? I wanted big hobbies, and a small job. One that just kept the lights on and bought food at the store. I designed my life, the way a guy designs a video game, I guess."

   "In what way?"

   "Well… I grew up with smaller video games, you understand. But, video games got bigger over the years. They make a little world, for the game. A lot of them? Kinda real. But… even in these bigger games? It's not the real world. You can't go anywhere, and do anything. You drive down the streets, but, you can only go in certain places. You can't drive anywhere, only places in the little world. I made my own little world. For myself. I made it how I wanted it to be."

   "Then… this happened."

   "Yeah. It did. This should all be over soon. Things can get back to normal."

   "But… normal changed for you."

   "Not so much. Couple days of work a week. It's an upgrade to my video game, I guess. Instead of the Panic video game? It's Panic 2, or something."

   They both chuckled at the image.

   "What's different about the second version?"

   "A lot's the same. Small world. Small town. Small jobs. Instead of working in someone's pizza shop? I'll work in my own gun shop. Once again? Couple days a week. It's an upgrade to me, but… same basic theme. I guess I upgraded my woman, too. You seem like you… get me, more… where I'm coming from. It's the same video game though, same basic game play."

   "Do you… know why you're getting quiet like you are?"

   "Yeah."

   "Will… you tell me?"

   He looked away. She knew what was happening. She didn't need to see his face, to know it was melting. She could hear it in his voice.

   "When I say… down south. You know what I mean."

   "Yeah."

   "Well, I flick the switch off. When I have to walk through a village. After… you know."

   "I understand that."

   "Well? The way we're doing this. The way we have to do it. It means I have to sit back, and… watch dots on a screen. When those dots stop? A villager gets murdered. Gonna happen more than once, and there's nothing I can do about it. Just for a big finish, we have to make a snuff film. Then we move in and arrest them in the act, the next time. So yeah… instead of seeing me flick my switch off, to go do playtime? I'm more or less, how do I put it… turning a dimmer switch down."

   "I understand. Sitting back, calling it success? And defining success? As… waiting for innocent villagers to get killed? More or less makes you wanna puke. It offends your… well, Mike calls it your morality streak."

   "He told you about my boy scout thing."

   "Yeah. It's not like he told me something bad about you."

   Panic chuckled.

   "Since we're just talking and having fun, can we have a generic talk about morality?"

   "Okay…"

   "Let's look at the ten commandments. Or, we could use practically any religion, on account of they about all condemn the same things. I'm just using the ten cause I'm familiar with it."

   "Okay…"

   "What are some big sins, Merry?"

   "Killing. Stealing. Lying. Cheating. Damn near any reasonable sounding religion condemns that stuff."

   "Okay. Let's start with killing. Thou shall not kill. Right?"

   "Sure."

   "Okay… so, classic case. If you could go back in time, and kill Adolf Hitler, would that be a sin?"

   "Ouch. If you could kill the bastard early enough? Didn't world war two, kill something like 40 to 60 million people, all told? I'm pretty sure killing Adolph Hitler would get a free pass, even from the almighty."

   "So… killing would seem to be okay… as long as it's a clear cut good case."

   "Well, obviously."

   "The words were thou shall not kill, not thou shall not kill unless thou deems it particularly useful in your own wisdom."

   "That's not fair…"

   "How. Or just ask little Robbie… he'll tell you that some of the holiest men in the bible, that talked to god himself regularly? Were stone cold killers, but, it was for a good reason."

   "What's your point here?"

   "There are no absolutes. Thou shall not kill, yet it's clearly okay to kill, under certain circumstances. Yes?"

   "Sure. Where are you going with this…"

   "Now, Adolph Hitler was a very extreme case. How about… Charles Manson? Probably okay to go back in time and kill him, right?"

   "Ugh. Yeah… another evil bastard."

   "It's okay to kill a guy with the blood of up to sixty odd million on his hands, now, it's also okay to kill a guy with… what… six people's blood on his hands? Honestly, I forget how many people Manson had killed, but, it's not that many, is it?"

   "I'm following you…"

   "Okay to kill to protect 60 million people… okay to kill to protect 6 people… hell, it's okay to kill to protect a single innocent person. In fact, if you didn't try to kill to protect your wife or child? You're kinda an asshole, aren't you?"

   She nodded to agree.

   "These are all the same questions… I'm just scaling back a little each time. There are no moral absolutes, to thou shall not kill. Plenty of reasons to kill, and even times you'd practically have to. So, you admit that."

   "Okay…"

   "Let's switch to stealing. Thou shall not steal."

   "Stealing is wrong. Duh."

   "Oh, really? You're out of work. Your wife and child are hungry and haven't eaten in days. Is it not permissible to now steal food, to keep your woman and child alive?"

   "Ouch."

   "How about… you know a guy stole something, and you steal it off of him. Killing a killer? Seems perfectly okay… so, why not stealing off of a thief? Logic seems sound to me."

   "You're backing off of the extreme case again… "

   "Yep. Doesn't take long, to arrive at the conclusion… that it's really not a big deal to steal pencils and paper clips from the office you work at. I mean, everyone takes something from their place of work. As a waitress, you admitted you stole some pork chops here and there. Me? I admit I took fried food at my pizza shop. We weren't allowed to have free fryer food. If no one was looking? I admit I put six cheese sticks in the fryer, when the order called for five. I ate one cheese stick if I felt like it. My dad got rolls of electrical tape at his steel mill. The other guys were taking expensive tools? My dad got a few rolls of electrical tape. He's practically a saint for not taking what other guys took."

   "Oh shit. Yeah… you could come up with some amount of wiggle room, for theft… under certain circumstances."

   "Some? Many, actually. In fact… you pick the sin, I'll show you a case, where if you don't commit that sin? You're probably committing an even bigger sin."

   "Uh… this sounds like a challenge. Hmm… thou shall not bear false witness."

   "Pffft. You're on a jury. Mafia kingpin trial. One juror votes not guilty? No conviction. Mafia threatens to kill your whole family."

   "Damn you. Okay, you mentioned cheating. One of my personal favorites, you know… defend adultery."

   "Oh please. Husband appears to be unable to bear a child. He's wracked with guilt about not being able to have a real family. If the wife quietly finds a guy that looks like her husband, that seems healthy… and only does it until she's pregnant, and breaks it off… just to give her husband a child, and to make a happy family and home… can you even call that a sin?"

   "You? Are way too good at this game…"

   "Yep."

   "Hmm. Where are you going with this… getting more curious now."

   "Point is this. All rules? Mean shit… it's your motivation that really matters. Stealing a loaf of bread to feed a starving child, is a noble act. Killing to protect innocents? A hero, not a villain. I'm very little concerned with what people do… and very very very concerned with why they did it."

   "So… what's this thesis paper got to do… with your morality streak?"

   Panic sighed and grinned.

   "I've not only killed before? I practiced to get good at it. What's the point of trying to kill to protect a loved one, if you're incompetent at it, when you have to try it to save a life. I… let's just say that I'm well aware, that my little face thingy? Uh… I'm acutely aware I have a hell of a poker face, and I can deliver a lie with a straight face. Stealing? Christ almighty, I taught myself to pick and bypass all kinds of locks and security measures. You've seen my sleight of hand tricks… you do realize, that I practice sleight of hand, stealing cookies and cigarettes… so if I ever have to do it in a pressure situation, I know what I'm doing."

   "But… you're a good man."

   Panic chuckled, and it turned into mild laughter.

   "I'm a killer. I'm a thief. I'm a liar. I'd honestly have trouble trying to sell you the hooker with a heart of gold story. And… everyone complains I'm the biggest boy scout they ever met."

   "You don't think you're a good man?"

   "I do. I hope I am, anyways. So yeah… when someone gives me change for a 20 dollar bill, and I paid with a ten? I go crazy trying to make them see it and take the extra change back. It bugs me. If you pay me with a hundred dollar bill, and… I find out later there were two hundred dollar bills stuck together? Yeah… I drive back, and give it to you."

   "Do… you feel guilt?"

   "I don't think I do. Just… don't think I'm some kind of saint. At least not by my actions. Judge me? On my motives. I like to think I'm kind of an angel in that department, but… on my actions? I'm… pretty much the complete opposite."

   "Hmm."

   "What?"

   It was Merry's turn to laugh now…

   "Kinda glad we're talking about you? And not me…"

   "Our world, or… our society? Did this to me, you know."

   "What?"

   "When I was little. My parents spent no small amount of time, smacking me upside the head if I told a lie. Older parents than everyone else, they were big on that one."

   "Sounds familiar…"

   "Then? I got smacked upside the head, for not lying."

   "What?"

   "Yeah. Over some older lady's house we visited when I was little. She made blackberry pie. It was so fucking sweet? It burned your throat. Asked if I liked it? I told the truth… and I got the shit smacked out of me later for it. For being rude."

   "Eh…"

   "So, I can't tell a lie. But? I now have to lie, to not be rude. What the fuck. Shit like this? Gave me heart palpitations when I was a toddler."

   "Surely your mom explained it to you…"

   "Oh yeah. That was a little white lie, she called it. That? Was all right."

   "Well honey… it does make sense…"

   "Well? Which one's more important? Being honest, or… being polite. You tell one too many little white lies and get used to doing it? You'll never tell the truth hardly ever… you'll always just be telling everyone what they wanna hear. When those people want honesty? They'll go to anyone else but you."

   "Well, yeah…"

   "Not allowed to fight. No one wins a fight. It takes a bigger man to walk away. You have to forgive and forget. Then? All of a sudden one day, everyone wants to know why you can't fight, why you're a loser and a pussy."

   "This stuff really bothered you when you were little, didn't it?"

   "Like I said. Heart palpitations. Hard to think of any rule that was ironclad. It seemed? Like the more I tried to follow the rules that were forced on me? The worse I got treated, and the worse I did, from all angles. When other people wanna fight? Oh. That's normal and I'm supposed to forgive and forget. When I got mad and wanted to fight? Oh, there was something wrong with me."

   Merry laughed.

   "I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing with you… it's kind of humorous, the way you explain it."

   "I know… it would be hysterically funny? If it wasn't all so tragic. I mean, there's no end to all the bullshit. Parents spent years? Teaching me to say yes sir, no sir, yes ma'am, no ma'am. To be both polite? And quiet… Then? I'm supposed to be more assertive… and my own mother started making fun of me for saying ma'am all the time… I actually yelled at my mom when she pulled that shit."

   "Can I make an observation?"

   "Please. I'm dying here…"

   "In layman's terms? You had a nervous breakdown. You were serious, when you said your heart was always beating out of your chest?"

   "Fuck yeah."

   "You… decided on your own set of rules. Guidelines. Ideals."

   Panic nodded.

   "When you came back? You… created your own little… world."

   Now he nodded and smiled thin.

   "Fuck the whole world, fuck society, and all the bullshit. That's all it is… complete bullshit. Don't be greedy… then? Be greedy! It's called success. Don't steal or be a cheat… but… that's business, you wouldn't understand. You're supposed to love people for who they are? But… if you don't have this much money, this much of a house, and this much of a car? You're a loser."

   "I get it. Small town, small job. Cheap house, used cars. You prefer to stay at home and work on your… projects than going out all the time. You? Got tired of fighting city hall."

   "Hey. Good way to put it… I like that one. I just do the bare minimum I have to? To just go home and do my thing, and pet my cat. When I run into people that try that trick bullshit? I do my best to ignore them if I can."

   "Trick bullshit."

   "Oh, you know. I hate that trick shit. Like… do you think my wife is pretty? You say yes, she's very pretty. Well, what do you mean by that, huh? Now… if I say I don't find her very attractive? Well, now why would I be rude and say a thing like that… no, I avoid them like the plague."

   "Yeah… that wouldn't end good. I saw that once."

   "When? I try not to act like an asshole…"

   "Hmm. You forget. I saw the shirt video you made. Before you went to go see IA and record it, in case it went bad? I got to see you threaten Senior."

   "Yeah. I forgot about that one."

   "That was very sweet of you, by the way."

   "Hey, that's guy rules 101. Calling my girlfriend a crazy bitch to my face. I mean, I don't even really work there. And I'm supposed to only fuck chicks that all the other agents in the building approve of? Oh, fuck that bullshit."

   Merry snickered.

   "They wanted you to ride the other rides."

   Panic smiled.

   "Told you. I like the Merry go round, just fine."

   "Do you listen to anyone?"

   "A couple people. And even then? Not all the time, but… you'd be surprised."

   "Little Robbie…"

   Panic nodded.

   "Rob? Quite a bit. Not as much as Rob would like it, but… yeah."

   "Sky…"

   "Yeah. Sky's right up there with Rob. One of those two, or both of them come up with something? I, uh… I really take it under advisement."

   "Because you've known them long enough?"

   "Because I trust their motivation."

   "Any others?"

   Panic chuckled.

   "Pretty short list. And, I bet if you polled them? They'd report it's still an uphill battle to convince me to change things."

   "What about moi, hmm?"

   "You? Yeah, you're on the list. Don't let it go to your head."

   "Don't worry… I somehow sense I can't just snap my fingers, and you jump."

   "Eh. Science girl puts the glasses on? You'd be amazed what you can accomplish."

   "Hey. Sounds like I gotta take that out for a spin."

   "You're not going to start dressing me like a doll and snapping your fingers. I mean, hate to burst your bubble and all."

   "How did I even make the list then?"

   "Well.. the glasses? Don't hurt any, trust me. I just love the glasses. But… you said the magic words early on. You probably didn't even realize it."

   "What did I say?"

   "You? Said something, like… what am I trying to change us into? Assholes? I like it, why in the hell would I wanna change anything."

   "You don't like change."

   "Change? Is fine. But… change, just for the sake of change? Uh, hard nope."

   "Can I try to guess something?"

   "Are you still trying to figure out what's wrong with your lab rat? I don't care."

   "You hate when you walk in a room, and you see all the furniture has been moved around."

   "I don't like it. I'll move stuff around, until I get it where I want it. Then? That's where it belongs, without a good reason to change it. Changing it, just for something to do? No."

   "You drive past some old building all the time that's been there your whole life. One day, you go past, and it's been demolished."

   Panic smiled.

   "Yeah… I hate that."

   Merry gave a thin little smile…

   "See? I'm getting better at predicting things. You used to read a lot of books when you were young. Books being thrown away, boxes of flea market books… you told me that."

   "Yeah…"

   "I'm pretty sure guessing psychology textbooks were in the mix."

   "Of course."

   "Want me to make a big prediction? I'm betting I'm right…"

   "I told you, to go ahead."

   "Okay. Just making sure. Prediction. You looked at depression. You checked a few things off. Just enough to meet criteria, but, it doesn't feel right."

   "Keep going."

   "You looked at bipolar. Same thing. You can check a few things off, again, just enough to make it possible, but… again, it wasn't it, was it?"

   "No."

   "After a while… you quit looking, didn't you."

   "Yep. A rose by any other name… doesn't really matter what it's called. It just is."

   "When… a person searches, and reads those things. When they finally run across the one thing that's right? They get all excited. They jump up and down, reading the description. Wow. It's like they're describing me."

   "Yeah. That never happened to me."

   "What would you say… if I ran across something. Studying you. And… it was like, the person that wrote the description? Was writing it about you. I mean, just about everything fit."

   Panic smiled and made a circular motion next to his head with his index finger, lazily…

   "I would say… whoop-dee-do…"

   Merry smiled, then let the smile melt. She looked down, then came back up without her face. He followed suit.

   "You don't care, or you don't want to know?"

   "Both… I don't want treated like a lab rat. It's just a joke I make with you."

   "I know. Can I call it Panic Syndrome? For purposes of talking about it."

   "Whatever."

   "I didn't do my doctorate. I'm not a real psychiatrist, I'm not a real psychologist either, for that reason. That said…"

   "Well… in the state run system? In practice, therapists with bachelors or even associates in psych, make… recommendations… all the time. They're almost always approved. I'd bet my masters on this one."

   "I said I didn't care, and I didn't want to know."

   "And? I'm obeying your wishes. I called it Panic Syndrome. So we can talk about it."

   "What's there to talk about."

   "First off? I would tell you, that you wouldn't have run across it in your reading. It's a newer thing."

   "That was first. What else."

   "No real treatment, like you'd think of it. If you were profoundly depressed? We could try different… pills… until we found one that seemed to work well. But not for this. Parents are always coming to mental health. They expect a magic pill, to fix their kid."

   "Wow. No magic pill. That's the good news, then."

   "Why?"

   "I wouldn't take it anyways. I don't want to change. I don't want to be like everyone else."

   "That's fine. Treatment? Is limited to therapy. A person that understands, talking. You would discuss strategies for… making it less of a problem. Most people with Panic Syndrome? Show signs of depression, anxiety, stress. That's the only things they tend to medicate and work on, beyond coping strategies."

   "If these… coping strategies? Don't involve sex with you wearing the glasses? I'm really not interested. Just so you know. And while we're at it… if you have any plans to, I don't know… try to teach me to act like a so called normal person? Well… you can just stick that idea straight up your ass too."

   "Don't get angry."

   "I'm not angry. I'm not even raising my voice. I'm just telling you how it is."

   "Honey? Look into my eyes, and remember who you're talking to. I'm half psychopath. I'm a healthy sociopath. If anyone could say they understand? I could."

   "Where is this conversation getting to."

   "Nowhere, I would guess. We're just talking."

   "I'll say it again. I really don't feel like there's anything wrong with me."

   "Me neither. I don't think, talk, or act like the typical girl. I think they're silly."

   "Funny. I feel the same way about me and most men."

   "See? We're the same that way. You said it yourself that one night. We were made for each other. We deserve each other. I can just be myself with you… and you like it. You're not scared of me and my face. You? Your black and white, right and wrong view of the world? I like it just fine. I'm drawn to it."

   "So where are we at then. I'm crazy, and you're fine with me not doing anything about it."

   "Words like crazy, and insanity? Those are layman's words. Legal terms. That mean absolutely nothing from a mental health point of view. You know all that matters in mental health?"

   "What…"

   "Every diagnosis? Includes if you care or not. If you don't feel it impacts your life in a negative way? Pffft."

   "Yeah? First off, I keep to myself. Second off… I stay the hell away from doctors as much as I can. As soon as you're different… they start their shit. Me and the doctors have this understanding. I come in, I need stitched back together, I need antibiotics? Fine. We're done sewing me back together? I'm the fuck outta here, I don't wanna hear about… well, anything else but I'm patched up and ready to go."

   "What are you afraid of?"

   "Not afraid… annoyed is a better word."

   "Honey… when you look at history, and you look at important people throughout history? There's… definitely a trend where… people that make history are… different."

   "Yeah. I'm aware that Stalin was a lunatic."

   "Stalin? Was certifiably insane. I mean that in the legal sense. Now, you look at some others… famous artists, inventors, other world leaders. Really? Most of them are… odd. Normal people don't do important things."

   "I'm actually a big fan of the renaissance, and men from the enlightenment period."

   "If you read about history and mental health? Yeah… those are the ones I'm talking about."

   "You know… in today's world. If Jesus H. Christ ever does come back to us? No one's going to believe him. They're just going to lock him up and medicate his ass into a coma and a straitjacket."

   "If he's real, if he comes back? Probably would…"

   "So… what are we calling the renaissance men, then."

   "Did you ever hear the phrase, insanity breeds ingenuity? Or, that's so crazy it just might work. Let's say that a little dose of healthy insanity can be a great thing."

   "Let me know when we're done talking about this."

   "Are you happy about yourself, being different?"

   "Sure am."

   "That's all that matters."

   "So, to sum up. We're both half crazy, and we both like it."

   Merry laughed.

   "That's about it. Are you a danger to yourself or others?"

   Panic smiled.

   "I'm not much of a danger to myself… others? Eh…"

   "Combat doesn't count. Self defense doesn't count."

   "I have VA health insurance. For life. I normally won't set foot in the place. I have another card for regular health insurance as part of my… retirement."

   "What's wrong with the VA?"

   "They get some new age doctors, do good types… that decide that anyone that's ever been in combat? Needs to be… under supervision."

   "Well, now that you bring it up… I've read about PTSD. For obvious reasons. You don't have any issues like that?"

   Panic shook his head "no".

   "You don't have… bad dreams? Ever?"

   "I didn't say that. Anything you've ever experienced? Can potentially end up in a dream now and then."

   "Does it happen all the time?"

   "I mean, every once in a while, mom or dad ends up in my dream. They're both dead. That stuff? I wouldn't say any more often than mom or dad ever show up."

   "It doesn't make you lose sleep?"

   "If once in a while, I end up with a particularly… let's call it a really vivid dream of it? Yeah, I might make coffee and stay up the rest of the night. Then? I go to sleep early the next night and catch up. I don't have an issue with it."

   "I guess I don't even wanna know what those dreams are like."

   "Well. You ever have a dream you're… I don't know… playing college sports again? It's like you're there, right? Real as anything, till you wake up."

   "Sure."

   "Well… same thing. I told you what it was like, to walk through a village… afterwards. The only way I can best describe it? Imagine there was a big explosion and maybe a fire, at a big meat packing plant. Except… it's not pieces of animals in piles everywhere. It's… pieces of villagers."

   "You see that, in a dream sometimes?"

   "You see college sports games, don't you?"

   "Yeah…"

   "There you go."

   "How… bad are those… dreams…"

   "Does what I am describing sound like a fun dream to have?"

   "No. Not at all. How… real is it…"

   "What kind of question is that, anyways… it's a dream. At the time, it's like I'm there. I can see it. I can smell it. And really, the flies ain't helping things any, if you want the truth…"

   "This doesn't bother you?"

   "How many times do I have to tell you the same things, over and over. No, it doesn't really bother me. The only part that bothers me, a little bit? Is that… I pretty much know I should be bothered, but… I'm not."

   "You don't lose nights of sleep over this? I mean, this isn't what led you to staying up late, working on the computer at all hours?"

   "No. I stay up late working, because I want to get something done. Now, like I said. Every once in a while… I have a particularly vivid… meat packing explosion dream, I'll call it that. Now… if I wake up at 4:00 am from that dream? Yeah… I'd rather make a pot of coffee, and do some busy work till the sun comes up. I'm not scared of it… but… I can't really say I enjoy it, either."

   "You don't wanna talk to someone about it?"

   "No. Why would I? Told you before… I don't dwell on that stuff. Besides. No one back in the real world, needs to hear that shit. I mean… do you really wanna hear accurate descriptions of what I saw?"

   "Well… not really…"

   "All right. You've been sleeping next to me for months now. Do I seem like I have any problems?"

   "Not really. Not after the first week or two, when you started sleeping through the night."

   "There you go."

   "You don't ever… feel bad…"

   "About what? Protecting the villagers? No, I don't feel bad about it. Someone had to do it. Someone? Was me and Rob and Sky. Now? It's over and done with."

   "I'm sure there's people at the VA… they… well, they're used to talking to people that were in combat…"

   "Okay, look. It's okay to talk about it some, especially in generic terms. But… I'm not allowed to say anything on the record. None of us are supposed to do that. I'm definitely not supposed to talk to reporters, or… people writing a book… nothing official like that."

   "It's like it never even happened."

   "Exactly. Did it happen? Yeah, it sure as hell did. Does our country like to talk about it, on the record? Hell no. And there's two, maybe even three other countries? They don't wanna talk about it either. Besides… you saw my file, right?"

   "Pffft. What there is of it…"

   "Exactly. I was in the service, I was a computer programmer. That was my job. Now, I go to the VA, join some touchy feely talk about your feelings therapy sessions? They're gonna look at my file, and there's nothing in it to indicate I was in combat. You don't think that would raise an eyebrow?"

   "Well… if you did have a problem, where would you even go?"

   "Okay. If I did want to talk to someone? And trust me, I don't… but if I did? I would call my… former employer. I can't just go to the VA and ask to join a touchy feely group. I mean, there's reasons why they didn't send the military down there, they sent a private contractor. Catch my drift here?"

   "Oh. So… they have… private therapists, that are allowed to hear…"

   "Supposedly. They can hear what didn't go on."

   "What's the… supposedly part?"

   "Do I have to draw you a picture?"

   "Hmm. I think so…"

   Panic chuckled, and it was the type of chuckle she didn't enjoy hearing, given the face he was wearing at the moment. Technically, it didn't go with the face he wasn't wearing.

   "How did you say it once or twice? Draw it in crayon for me to get it?"

   Merry smirked.

   "Let me describe the scenario for you, then you can color in the picture in the coloring book in whatever color you think is appropriate. Okay?"

   "All right."

   "It wasn't a real war. Nobody wanted the press there. You suppose there's a reason why you wouldn't even know it ever happened, if me and Mike didn't talk about it…"

   "Oh."

   "Yeah. Oh. Now then… I can talk about it, offhand, but… only off the record. No reporters, no interviews, no writers. No details. You might have noticed, that I never once gave any real firm dates, countries, nothing like that."

   "Now that you mention it…"

   "Okay. Let me sketch that out for you then. It's like it never really happened. At least three different countries, actively pretend it never happened. Now… let's pretend I call my former employer up. Hey guys… I can't sleep. I'm having problems. I want to talk. I'm going to… talk…"

   "You can't possibly mean…"

   "I honestly don't know. But, I do know this… hundreds of people? Have managed to keep it out of the press, for how many years now… and my crystal ball says? I would not wanna be that one guy… that suddenly developed a conscience, that suddenly wanted to talk about it, that admitted to having a bad drug and alcohol problem. And… wanted to talk about it."

   "They can't do that---"

   He just looked at her.

   "Remember I told you, I just don't like the word… spook?"

   "Yeah."

   "If someone, somewhere… wants a… I don't know, some third world, tin star dictator bumped off, so they can have a coup… well? These are the people you call and you better bring your checkbook. Now… use your imagination, what would happen to that one guy, that suddenly wanted to talk…"

   "You're serious."

   "Let me put it another way. I think deep down, everyone just knows that kinky shit goes on behind the scenes. That our country definitely does things that we like to think only other countries do, right?"

   "I guess so."

   "Well, you tell me… when's the last time you ever heard anyone talking about shit like this, I mean openly. On the TV, in print, anything like that. Name me one time."

   "Now that you mention it? Just some years back, there was that Redwater scandal…"

   "Yeah. Big news. Then? It just disappeared, out of the news, didn't it? Real quiet, it just went away… quietly… and you never heard another word about it on the TV all of a sudden, right?"

   "Uh… now that you say it? Yeah…"

   "One more example you never thought of. If you say anything concrete, on the record? It's a national security violation. Now, when's the last time you ever heard about someone being charged with it? Hmm? You would think it was pretty big news, and they'd be talking about it all over the TV, right?"

   "Yeah…"

   "Never fucking happens. Gee. I wonder, why that is…"

   "Hmm. You don't know, but… you suspect it goes on."

   "Merry… what happened when you ran my real name, and my real information. On your little FBI computer? I already know. You? Tell me."

   "Because of how I work, my FBI laptop is under Uncle Mike's name. I had to call my supervisor, which is Mike… to get the lock off of my computer."

   "Is that a normal thing?"

   "No. I never had that happen before. And being honest? Uncle Mike called me, before I could even call him."

   "What did he say?"

   "Off the record?"

   "It's the only way to fly… sure…"

   "His exact words were. I don't care what you were looking into, and I don't wanna know. Just don't ever run that information again. Then? He took the lock off. Then? Wasn't too much later, he got a hold of me on my burner phone that no one knows about… he said to never do that again. He said, he got a phone call he didn't like to get."

   "So like I said. I don't know what would happen. But, I got a pretty good idea. If you don't believe me, or… you think I'm being overly dramatic? Ask Mike about it. When you're alone. What he thinks about stuff like that. He came from Mil Intel. He knows."

   "You're being serious, aren't you…"

   "The world is an imperfect place. People go off the road and plunge over a cliff, drunk naturally, all the time. Hey, it happens. Muggers just happen to shoot people in an alley. Again? It happens. People commit suicide. It happens. Thing is though… people that talk? On the record? With someone writing it all down? It happens to them… way more often."

   "Wow."

   "Yeah. Wow. Merry… when's the last time, you ever heard about some… CIA or NSA operative, coming out, and giving interviews and writing a tattle-tale book. Give me just one example. All those thousands and thousands of people… and it never happened once."

   "Now that you say it? It does seem strange…"

   "Yeah. It does. There's a couple different ways you can retire from that line of work. You could naturally die on the job, it's a dangerous line of work. You can stay in the game too long, and maybe get into management. Hey, it's a young man's game. Anyone who thinks they still have all their mojo, after 40? You're kidding yourself. You can retire quietly, like me and Rob and Sky did. Get out while you're still young enough to enjoy life. While you still have a soul. Having an accident, or a suicide? Well… if you don't retire q-u-i-e-t-l-y, that's another retirement option."

   "No wonder you got out of that line of work."

   "Aw. When you're young, dumb, and full of cum? It's exciting. And? You're doing the right thing. You're actually making a difference in the world. Someone has to do it, and… that someone is you. After a certain number of years though… same shit, different country. It actually becomes another day at the office."

   "Little Robbie. Got you and Sky to get out and go home."

   "Yeah. He was right. It was time. I honestly don't know how it all ended up down there, exactly. I just know, we weren't allowed to win."

   "Mike said… it was hell on earth for a couple years."

   "Yeah. How about I tell you another bedtime story. Off the record."

   "Okay…"

   "So, I got out. I retired from that line of work. Told you about my… vacation."

   "Mister Crabby."

   "Then I backpacked Europe. Of all places? I ended up in France. If you remember."

   "Yes. You took up a scuba diving hobby."

   "I did. Then? Came home, did the college thing, did the career thing a couple years, then… my own thing."

   "Gotcha…"

   "Everyone remembers the Redwater… scandal."

   "It was big news for a while. Then like you said? The story just went away."

   "It did. Now, I'm already into my quiet life. It was boring, and I like boring. I had enough excitement when I was younger. So? I'm delivering food, it's late. Some guy in a suit wanders in, late. Asking for me. I told the guy, I'm off work at midnight, if it's important? He can meet me for coffee. I sent him somewhere to wait for me."

   "Ooh. This is gonna be good."

   "Eh. Guy's asking me all kinds of questions. All the wrong questions. I kept telling him, you sound nuts. You got the wrong guy. You obviously got me confused? With someone else. He keeps it up, I finally have to get rude with the guy. He follows me out in the parking lot. Says he's some reporter. I finally told him. Buddy? You got the wrong guy. I don't know what you're talking about. But… you're making me uncomfortable. You need to get the fuck away from me. You bother me again? I'm gonna have to smack you around. Leave me alone."

   "Reporter take the hint?"

   "Asshole shows up again. This time? I get home from work, and here's this asshole again, and he's got some other guy with him."

   "Hmm."

   "Yeah. Hmm. Anyways, this other guy? Kinda big, acting like some kinda tough guy. He's actually trying to lean on me, if you know what I mean. Gives me the whole if I know what's good for me speech. Has the balls to put his arm around me, and tell me how I'm gonna answer the nice reporter's questions, and how there's not going to be any problems this time."

   "Ouch."

   "Yeah. You've never been to my own house yet? After dark, you're in the underbrush, no streetlights. Off the street."

   "I can about see where this is going…"

   "I asked him three times, if he had a badge, or was a cop or anything. He gives me the business. Hey, you're not a cop? You're gonna threaten me? I punched him right in the throat and dribbled his head off my knee several times. Dropped his ass right on the rocks that's my front porch. Grabbed the reporter up. I explain to him… you see your buddy down there? You can take your buddy with you, or, you can join him. Those are your options… pick one."

   "He picked option A."

   "He did pick option A. I got his buddy's wallet and his buddy's gun off him… then I politely asked the reporter for his wallet. Since I asked so politely? He handed it over."

   "Christ."

   "I took both their IDs, and I took pictures of them. Unloaded the unconscious guy's gun, and handed it to him. Told him I was going in, I had a long night at work. That when I come back out? Him and his buddy better be gone. I told him, don't try this shit again, this has been a friendly warning."

   "You let them go?"

   "Yeah. I made my point. Now… I have a card, with a number I'm supposed to call… if anyone… you know. Comes around, asking questions like that."

   "Did you call it?"

   "Yes and no. First? I called Rob. Rob tells me, he's had a visit from some reporter too."

   "Did Rob smack him around too?"

   "No. Rob thought it was funny, that I smacked his goon around though."

   "I could picture that…"

   "Right. Rob explains he already called the card, and I better call the card too. This don't sound good."

   "So, you called the number."

   "I called the number. Guy on the other end of the line? Does not want any of my information, he gives me an email to use. Says I should just email my name and number, they'll be in touch."

   "Did they get back to you?"

   "Yeah. Almost two weeks later, there's two guys quietly show up at work. Can we talk. Guy said I emailed him, so… when can we meet privately. So? Ironically, same place for coffee."

   "That is funny."

   "Ain't it. I told them exactly what went on. Both times, what I did the second time. They found it… well, about as humorous as Rob did. The one guy, says they've had several calls already. Just like mine."

   "Hmm…"

   "Yeah. They matched my description of the guy, to other… calls on him. Thing was? The name the reporter was using, was not the name on his ID I took a picture of. I showed these guys the pictures of both their ID's. They were very happy about that piece of information."

   "That was that."

   "No. Month and a half later? Those two show up again, and the one slips me an envelope with… a nice little chunk of change in it, says thanks for… doing the right thing."

   "That was the end of it?"

   "For me? Yeah. More or less. But… less than a year later? The Redwater scandal broke. Now, it's fucking obvious, that someone, somewhere… talked. How else does a scandal break, you know?"

   "Yeah. Question… what happened to the reporter, who wasn't using his real name, and had a little goon squad to go around with him."

   "I don't know. I tried to be nice. I told him I didn't know a thing he was talking about, and I told him he was making me uncomfortable, don't come back. What's this genius do? He shows up on my doorstep, some guy trying to threaten me to talk. Bad move, really. I mean honestly now, if you really think that's who I was? Where is it a bright idea to try to scare me, you know?"

   "Yeah, that is dumb."

   "Hey. Play stupid games? You win stupid prizes. When I gave those guys the pictures of the IDs? They had me delete the pictures."

   "I'm afraid to ask what happened to the reporter."

   "I never asked. No one ever told me."

   "You never looked into it?"

   "Nope. Ain't my department. Those two guys that came to check up on it? That's their job."

   "What was the reporter's name? Where did he work?"

   "I don't remember…"

   "Yeah you--- oh."

   "I honestly never checked up on him. Not my problem. Now. The scandal broke anyways later on, but… if you noticed? Big news for a little while, then… poof. Gone. Just not a story anymore."

   "Yeah."

   "Now. Can you imagine… that if I even did wanna talk to someone… it doesn't seem like a very bright idea, does it?"

   "No… I guess not."

   "Now then. Do you know why I can sleep at night, despite everything I ever saw and did when I was younger?"

   "You tell me."

   "Because. I believed in what I was doing. I was simply protecting innocent people. I was doing the right thing. That? Is why I can sleep at night."

   "I just realized something."

   "What."

   "Those two guys that you emailed. They were…"

   "Go on. Say it. We're alone…"

   "They were… spooks."

   Panic smiled.

   "Boo."

   "Um… are they… butchers?"

   "Maybe. Maybe not."

   "What's the difference?"

   "Look. What did I ever do? I simply protected innocent villagers. That's honorable, to me. Now… you get out of that. You can get… recruited, we'll call it… to be a spook. Now, at that point? You're still a good guy. But… you might have to… you know. Break a few eggs to make the omelet. But, the butcher? That's the guy the spooks call. To… handle the problem. In the end."

   "It's… a slippery slope, isn't it?"

   "It is. Me, Rob, Sky… young? Hey, we're all wrapped in the American flag. Protecting innocent people. We were the good guys, no two ways about it. The zombies? Bad guys. Monsters. It was real cut and dried."

   "Yeah…"

   "Right. Now, you become a spook. I mean, I could see where… they believe, that they're still doing the right thing. Still believe in the American flag wrapped around them, but… the flag's getting… a little dirty. A little bit frayed, at the ends. But… the butcher? The guy in the end, that just takes money, to… provide the final solution. To the problem. No. That's too far. You honestly have zero idea what these people do."

   "Well, duh. They kill people."

   "No. Look. Let's say… everyone thinks it's a good idea to… go to war, over some… economic reason. Now, there's this one politician? He's in the way. He's threatening to spill the beans. He might wake up one day, with a dead hooker in the trunk of his car, and the cops are knocking on his door. You know, it's pretty hard to explain the dead hooker in the trunk."

   "That happens?"

   "It has. People… disappear on vacation. They go boating? Boat's found floating, no one on it. Parachute doesn't open, hikers fall off of cliffs. Pretty young interns… just conveniently get strangled on walking paths in the woods. These things? Happen all the time. They're not all coincidences. I'm sure some of them are, but…"

   "That's the butcher's work."

   Panic just nodded.

   "President gets shot in a convertible in a public motorcade. Okay. Then… your brother runs for office, and gets popped by some guy in the hotel kitchen? Oh, dial 1-800-COME-ON-NOW."

   "Yeah, that always was… kinky."

   "Kinky? His mistress got suicide-d. You act like Marilyn Monroe was the only close female friend of JFK that wound up dead. And, I'll go you one extra. Remember when JFK died, his little boy had that famous photo, saluting his dead father's casket?"

   "Yeah… I remember that photo…"

   "That? Was his son. Now remember. JFK was shot in the car. His brother? Runs for office, looks like he's favored to win… gets it in the kitchen. The killer? Mysteriously died in jail. More than one girlfriend? Suicide-d under cloudy circumstances. Now, remember that son, saluting the coffin?"

   "Yeah…"

   "He's dead too. He started and ran his own magazine. Was just talking about running for office… his plane went down, and that was mysterious too, if you read about it."

   "Holy shit, I forgot about that one…"

   "Yeah. And, if you remember… another relative… got drunk and drove his young, pretty employee into a canal. Somehow he could get out, but, he couldn't get her out. We're talking six feet of water."

   "Oh my god… you're right…"

   "Yeah. In that family? Basically, if you run for president? You're dead. You fuck them and you're not married to them? You're dead. Honestly? I don't know how guys in that family get dates after they're married, it's pretty much a death sentence. I mean, ain't no way that's all one big coincidence. If that ain't official hits? Monkeys are gonna fly outta my ass."

   "Holy shit. I never thought about it all like that…"

   "No one ever does. Ain't like it's any kinda secret… it's all public knowledge. But gosh darn it, no one can get to the bottom of all that, you know? Gee whiz."

   "You'd think somebody like Speedy would… you know… look into it…"

   "Word on the street? More than one reporter, has left a very touching suicide note. With the rumor, that's what the last thing they were looking into was. Way I heard it? More than one homicide detective has set his sights on that big game… career just poof, goes to hell, and they end up riding a desk."

   "I wonder what the hell the family's into…"

   "Starts with the grandfather, you know. He was no saint."

   "What's his story."

   "You don't know?"

   "What…"

   "Everyone knows. He was a big time rum runner in the prohibition era. Brought real quality whiskey on boats and cars in from Canada. Before that? Poor hardworking Irish Catholic family. Made millions running rum. Bought himself a nice job as ambassador. Was all but a Nazi, in world war two. Look it up, it's all public. It's an open secret."

   "But… that's organized crime!"

   "Duh. He supplied all the expensive, real whiskey to New Jersey. When a guy named Knuckey Johnson was the Al Capone of the Jersey boardwalk empire. Bought himself a nice, cushy political career out of it all. Had the money and political contacts? To have a son elected president. Made the whole family big CEOs and politicians."

   "Then they all get killed."

   "Yeah. And anyone they fuck after they're married? Gets suicide-d. Like I said, if something isn't up? Monkeys are about to fly outta my ass."

   Merry started chuckling.

   "What?"

   "I wonder if they ever used Redwater…"

   It was Panic's turn to start laughing.

   "I don't know. There must be a hot-line to call at Redwater… there should just be an advertisement on TV. Want a Kennedy dead? Want a Kennedy mistress dead? Just pick up the phone, and dial 1-800-KEN-NEDY, we'll handle it. But wait, there's more. If you dial right now, we're running a special. That's right… you can get the Kennedy of your choice, dead, and his mistress suicide-d? All for one low price. Call for details… now. Product sold by weight, not volume. Some settling of product may occur during shipping and handling. Price does not include sales tax. Please wait six to eight weeks for shipping and handling. Consumer is responsible for all legal fees. Corporation not liable for any laws actually broken in consumer's own state. End consumer is responsible for determining if murder is actually illegal in their own jurisdiction."

   Somehow, this struck both of them as simply hilarious, when Uncle Mike opened the door and came into the van. He looked from one to the other, and wanted to know what was so funny. Panic claimed "nothing", and Merry said they just both shared the same sick sense of humor.

   Mike rolled his eyes and smiled to show he was in a good mood and kidding around.

   "Oh god, there's two of you now?"

   Panic asked if he was "in trouble" for "rubbing off" on her, and Uncle Mike gave him his best deadpan and schlepped his tongue and lips a few times for dramatic humor before responding.

   "Panic? I was thinking she rubbed off on you. I was willing to put the blame on her? You ruined it."

   They took turns bringing him in on the joke.

   "Guys? That's not really that funny."

   Merry giggled.

   "Then why are you laughing too?"

   "Because… working with you too long has ruined me, sweets. And while we're on the subject? The goddamn Kennedy's must have their own private line at the place, if that's who they use. Honest to shit? All of America treats the Kennedy's like they're some kind of American royalty… and they're nothing but trouble."

   Panic wondered aloud if Mike had ever met any of them.

   "Eh. Not like I know people that big or anything. Now, have I ever been anywhere, at a black tie affair here and there, in DC a few times… and one of them was across the ballroom? Everyone ooh's and ah's about it? Yeah. Couple times. Not one of the b-i-g Kennedy's, just some of the… minor ones."

   "You don't… try to schmooze for your career, Mike?"

   "Panic… I didn't get where I am by kissing ass? But, that said… I didn't get where I am either by not kissing the right asses. Off the record?"

   "Yeah."

   "All right. I wouldn't want to be involved with any of them, if I could diplomatically prevent it."

   "Really? They make careers, don't they? Serious power brokers, right?"

   Mike sighed.

   "It's easy to forget you worked in the field, and never had to play grab ass around DC. And no, you didn't miss anything fun, from what I know about you. Here's my take on all of them. Can they make and break careers? Fucking A right they can. Problem. Like any real power family, there's no free lunch. By that I mean… if anything happens? The Kennedy ain't catching any shit about it, you do. Even if they're the ones doing the shady shit? You take the heat, and they take the cream. You're the one doing… whatever… and you better hope it flies. They always win or break even. I mean… be serious here… what prosecutor, what cop… would even think about crossing them, you know?"

   "Sounds like a mob boss. Here… you? Go rob this bank. If it goes good, I'll give you a little bit of what you stole for me… and if it goes bad? You keep your mouth shut and let me skate, or else."

   Mike shrugged.

   "That's about how it would go."

   Merry Bluetoothed Mike, and him hawed into a sideways quizzing of… things just happening to happen to people that don't keep things under their hat in intelligence work.

   "Merry? I can't answer your question directly, not even off the record. I'll put it this way. Let's look at an everyday situation. Like… cheating on your wife, and fucking other guy's wives. I mean, like, having the brass balls to do it openly, joke about it, act like a complete dick in public. When you get caught in the guy's bedroom banging his wife? You laugh and walk away twirling your car keys. The kind of guy that says… hey, it's not illegal to bang anyone's wife… you're not allowed to touch me… ha ha… I mean that kind of asshole."

   "Okay."

   "Now then. It isn't illegal to bang people's wives, it's not illegal to get caught doing it in the guy's own bedroom. The guy isn't allowed to so much as shoot a spitball at you for it… legally. But. Is living your life like that, really all that bright of an idea?"

   "No…"

   "No, it sure as fuck isn't. You might get away with it once or twice or even several times, but… you keep that shit up, I mean, you just know what will happen eventually. It could even happen the first time you try it. And I'm ever so sorry I couldn't answer your question, dimples."

   "Jesus, you sound just like him about it…"

   Mike and Panic looked at each other and shrugged.

   "My darling niece. We're alone, and we all know what the score is, off the record. Merry, straight up. Your outlaw MC crew you run with…"

   "What about 'em…"

   "What happens if someone talks?"

   "Everyone knows."

   "Right. Now imagine this. That big, scary MC gang? By comparison… that's a very small boy scout troop, of amateur killers. I want you to remember, the intelligence community has easy access to thousands of professional killers. And before you ask? No, I never sanctioned any of my own assets that fucked up like that. I never would, and everyone else knows that too. Thing is, it wasn't my job to handle problems like that. That was another office. But like you just said… everyone just… knows. Like everyone's mom said growing up, don't play in traffic."

   "Huh. Kinda my career to… play in traffic, ain't it?"

   Mike sighed and wagged his head.

   "I guess it is. But… you're playing wiffle ball in the street, in a nice, quiet neighborhood. Imaging trying to play kickball in the middle lane of a busy highway. Don't play in traffic, and if you decide to? Don't do it on a busy highway."

   The three of them changed the subject and played it off. All three of them knew that anyone in the intelligence game, even on the very fringes… didn't like to talk about the even remote possibilities of what was possible. Just like professional ball players? No player likes to jinx themselves and dwell on it, especially in the middle of a good winning streak.

   Mike helped change the subject further…

   "Well, Merry. What do you think about Panic and Speedy's case they brought in, huh?"

   "Mike? How in the hell did no one at the Hoover building, ever come up with what they did."

   "I don't know. If I know one thing from my career though. You can have all the manpower, informants, analysts, budget you want… and the best shit still just waltzes in the door one day, and amazes you every time."

   "Mike, how's this thing looking right now."

   "Solvability factor? Pretty high. Panic? If you didn't already know or guess… there's a goddamn conga line of brass back at the Hoover building, dancing around their offices, at all the brownie points that they're all going to get if this goes down."

   "Great. Ass kissers, or solid management types."

   "Eh. Both. That's why me and Speedy had to put up with two million meetings instead of one million meetings. Everyone wants to get their name on the winning roster. This looks like it could be a winner."

   Panic made his patented whoop-dee-do face.

   "I honestly have no idea how the Hoover building works."

   Merry and Uncle Mike looked at each other and laughed… before Mike answered for the both of them.

   "Well, that makes three of us, then."

   This struck them all as funny.

   "Panic… in all seriousness. Have you given any thought to… what we talked about swimming?"

   "We talk about many things, Mike."

   "My idea about you being my… insurance policy for my… asset here. I could sleep better."

   "Mike. If you didn't know already? I enjoy spending my free time with Merry's asset. You don't have to pay me."

   "Call it a tip, then."

   "Mike? Why is it such a big deal to you, that I take milk money off of my girlfriend's uncle…"

   "You want the truth?"

   "The truth can sometimes be a wonderful thing."

   "All right. I don't know how much money you plan on making every week, with your retirement gig up there. I checked, and it's around 64,000 a year. No taxes. Debit cards. We have a thing we use, where it looks like a person is making money off of the internet. Let's say… it might take you so many days here and there, to… I don't know… run cattle or pigs or whatever the fuck you and George were thinking of doing. Maybe… less cattle, and you having more… free time… would make me sleep easier."

   "You want me around her a little more."

   "What boyfriend wouldn't mind having a few beers every night his girlfriend was tending bar somewhere, you know."

   "My turn to tell you the truth?"

   "Sure… we're alone right now."

   "All right. Contrary to popular opinion… I'm not impossible to talk to and change my mind, although I admit it is hard sometimes. I go back a long ways with the tall guy Rob you met, and the camp cook, Skykid. They're like my older and younger brothers, to tell it straight."

   Mike leaned his head and returned it upright.

   "I like Rob. I like Skykid. What do they have to do with this decision, though…"

   "Both my brothers, have been ganging up on me, beating my ear. About taking better care of myself. Doing things for myself. I never hear the end of it, and now? Merry. Remember Mike… to them? She's an out of work steakhouse waitress. They like her, and they love me… and they want me to be… happier, or whatever."

   Mike chuckled.

   "Oh. Your… brothers… are bugging you to… make sure you… keep my niece in the manner to which she's become accustomed?"

   "Something like that. They want me to spoil her rotten. You know… an indoor, flushing toilet at the cabin. Wood for a floor, instead of packed clay. You know… the fucking princess routine."

   Mike palmed his face at the way Panic was phrasing it, and Merry was starting to giggle too.

   "I'm not a girly girl. An indoor litter box would be nice, but… my only concern is jumping in the creek when it's snowing outside. Being honest."

   When all three of them got done joking about how this conversation was being played, Mike tried to emcee it gently.

   "Remind me to buy your brothers in arms a keg of beer for being on my side. All right. Merry? Winter is coming eventually. How about… we get you two indoors before the snow hits."

   "Mike. I'm an out of work steakhouse waitress. My cover doesn't exactly allow for me to live indoors like rich people do. I don't buy and sell enough pot on my cover to make it look kosher. You know this already."

   "Don't be a dip, Merry. Your old man wants to take care of you. What single girl doesn't sponge off her boyfriend when she's out of work…"

   "Real funny, Mikey. I'm used to a shitty motel room. It's what the boys at the clubhouse expect out of me. It's my status quo. I don't change a winning formula in the middle of an operation. I start doing anything different than normal? I don't want any questions asked, not even innocent ones."

   "Okay, a suite at the Taj Mahal is out then… how about a motel room on wheels."

   "Huh?"

   "Merry… the agency must have a thousand of those camping trailers. They use them for everything…"

   "Eh. I'm supposed to be scooter trash. Those things are actually expensive. Can't we get a… shittier one?"

   "Okay. How about one of the ones they use for the… hurricane victims. FEMA trailers. There's a zillion of them at the government auctions. They're actually only a couple years old, they buy them brand new, and the hurricane victims that can't afford to relocate right away beat them up for a couple years and they have to sell them. Panic and his gun buddies are all handy with tools, right? If the sink leaks or the window needs caulked… they can handle it?"

   Panic nodded.

   "We'll do that."

   "Can Merry afford that?"

   Mike smirked.

   "It's a couple grand, and your boyfriend could have sold a couple of guns to buy one for cash."

   Merry squinted and calculated…

   "Honey? You mind a trailer on wheels?"

   "If I get coffee, cat, internet? I don't care."

   "All right. That's temporary housing, and it fits the cover perfectly. Now. How about your cover side gigs, Panic…"

   "What cover gigs?"

   "You noticed Merry buys and sells a few bags of weed, right?"

   "Yeah…"

   "Right. She told me you smoke with her boys, out behind the bar when you're there. That's perfect. You? Start doing it too. I don't care if you feed the extra to the cats, it's the best cover there is for this. And you need something else to fit in…"

   "Like what?"

   "How do you feel about being a fence?"

   "I want to have my own gun shop, Mike… not a goddamn pawn shop…"

   "No. On the side. We need something gray, you can buy. Something not illegal, but, not exactly on the up and up either. Something that looks… slightly… seedy."

   "Mike. I'm going to own a g-u-n s-h-o-p… hello? I can't act like a fly by night criminal with the ATF sniffing around."

   "Panic. Me and Merry do this for a living… please. How about… you slowly start buying gold on the side. That's not illegal. Some people make a living at it. People sell gold chains and coins all the time. Sometimes? They don't mind taking a hit on the spot price, to sell it without flashing their drivers license at the storefront metal buyers. It fleshes out your internet business, it fleshes out your gun shop. Plus? It's just seedy enough, her boys will think you're a swell guy."

   "You want me to have a gun shop, and run around being a fence for stolen gold?"

   "Yeah. The idea is, you're just shady enough to fit in… but just respectable enough to have a gun shop. You need a safe for the guns at the gun shop anyways… so the gold goes in the safe. I don't want Merry getting popped by some crackhead looking to score gold. Assholes selling gold below the spot price? Use the back door of the gun shop. After hours. My line of reasoning, is that crackheads selling gold without an ID… will be on their absolute best behavior, when the transaction is held with a shotgun pointed at them."

   "Okay. Am I allowed to melt the gold down and sell it when I get a handful of it?"

   "The fuck else you going to do with a handful of gold… give the cats gold necklaces? Hell yes you sell it periodically."

   "Gee. Why don't I just sell coke, and get it over with…"

   "No… I'm not dealing with the DEA, I don't trust them enough, and they're a pain in the ass to deal with. Gun shop, gold, internet. That's perfect. All I need from you? Is to hang out with Merry, the nights she hangs out with them… Merry? You're not at biker church? He's with you… okay? God forbid your Uncle can sleep at night."

   "When's all this happen?"

   "Whenever. Junior's in with the data center back in the basement back at the Hoover building. Those guys set up fake drop-shipping internet businesses every day. You can even send legit customers to the site. If the bikers want to buy a dildo from your online dildo store? It wouldn't work if it didn't drop ship a product."

   "I'm not selling dildos…"

   "It's a figure of speech. What do you want to sell online…"

   "Anything?"

   "Yeah… name it. Doesn't matter."

   "Flashlights. And flashlight making equipment."

   "Really? That's a thing?"

   "In real life? It sounds weird. Online? We're known as flash-a-holics. We machine custom flashlights, do custom power supply electronics, rechargeable lithium setups, focusing lenses, you'd be surprised what a top of the line custom flashlight costs to commission to get built for you on specs. Plus? All the parts and supplies for other guys building their own for them and their own customers."

   "Fucking flashlights. Fine."

   "Lasers, too. They go in with the flashlight hobby. I do custom digital night vision the same way. That goes on the site, too."

   "You're into all this shit already as hobbies, aren't you? Merry was telling me about it."

   "It's all related. Machining and fabricating and tinkering and electronics? Is used in all these hobbies. Building flashlights and building lasers, is very similar. The night vision? Goes with the gunsmith thing. The machining is similar for all of them. All my hobbies are inter-related."

   "Christ almighty, no wonder you and JG get along so well. You're both… technophiles. Now… about your gun shop…"

   "I don't have a gun shop yet."

   "When we get done with this Elvis hunt? You will. Win, lose, or draw at that… I promised you a gun shop. I'll deliver. Remember, Merry will be getting into her trials by the time we're done hunting Elvis… that'll give you time to set that up. Told you I got a guy at the ATF already. I'm going to 'expedite' you're approval. The only thing you don't have? Is a shop. You need to look for a property suitable for a hole in the wall gun shop when you get back…"

   "Okay. I'll buy something."

   "I figured you'd rent an empty storefront around your town, or the next town over."

   "I don't rent, I buy. If I don't make any sales? I still want my gun shop for the guys that come to the range…"

   Merry cut in…

   "Mike? I keep telling you. Panic has his own… nest egg put back, like I have one."

   "Fine. I was thinking… how about your first year's… milk money? First year up front. I can pay monthly, or I can pay once a year in a lump sum. I figured if I give you your first year up front in a lump, it would be enough to rent a shop, get the gun safe for the store, set up bullshit the ATF requires. Insurance, giant gun safe, alarms and monitoring…"

   "Well? If you insist. I'll just use that to get the bare shop open, and I'll buy my toys I want out of my own stack."

   Mike seemed curious.

   "That won't leave you… tapped out, will it?"

   "So what if it does? I'm not really super concerned about it. Mike, let me put it this way. You probably have, what… let's see, you're not a regular agent, you run a division of something… you might not have lunch with the Kennedy's, but I bet you've had lunch with guys that have, right?"

   "Something like that. I suppose. Sure."

   "Let me guess. The janitor has a 401k, the agents have a 501k… so, you have a 901k."

   Mike chuckled.

   "I know what you mean. Yeah. Why wouldn't I?"

   "I bet you know exactly how much cash you have in your checking account. How much cash is in your savings account. What percentage of your house is equity. You probably know how much is in your wife's checking and savings, too. How am I doing."

   "First off? I don't share any personal financial data like---"

   "I didn't ask you for any numbers. What I asked, was if you know what those numbers are. I'll bet anything, that if you wanted to, you could sit down and quickly figure out exactly what you're worth, if you had to cash it in and be out of the game. Most people I know? Follow that shit like a stock quote."

   Mike looked confused.

   "Panic… of course I know how much I'm worth. Well, not to the penny. There's always a few deposits and withdrawals outstanding. Interest and returns accrue monthly. Return rates vary by the market. But I know how much I have. And why not? I'm the one in charge of planning me and the wife's retirement to Florida. We plan on doing a few nice things for the kids and grand-kids? While we're still alive to see them enjoy it. What… does this make me another greedy Kennedy prick in your eyes? I don't think that's fair."

   "Mike. Did I say that? I just asked if you knew what your numbers are, and you sound like you know. And no, it doesn't sound greedy. You sound like… a normal person who has a good job."

   "So… what's the point, then."

   "I don't know what my own numbers are."

   Mike scrunched his face up.

   "You have a ball park."

   "I guess I know roughly which ball park I'm playing in, but… I barely know which field I'm on, and I damned sure don't know what base I'm on or exactly what the score is. Single my whole life. In the service? I didn't have anything to spend it on. After the first couple months? I had to get a checking account, just so I had somewhere to put it when I got nervous leaving it lay around."

   "You… did something with your paycheck. Everyone does."

   "What. I was in the service. Free clothes. Free food every day, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Free apartment. Free electric and heat. I took ten percent of my monthly paycheck. In case I wanted to go see a movie, get a burger, get a six pack running around with the boys on monthly payday weekend. No car payment, no motorcycle payment. No civilian clothes, no expensive watch, no gold chains or rings. No credit card. I thought I was saving money for college."

   "You had a GI bill for that…"

   "What if I wanted to go somewhere the GI bill didn't cover it? I didn't know what I'd need. No wife. No kids. No real girlfriend."

   "Oh. So, you got out of the service with your GI bill intact, and a nice little stash put back."

   "I don't know. I didn't feel like that, I can tell you that much. Everyone I knew, when I came home? Married. First kid. First house, getting their second house. Real career, talking about their second career. College degrees, owning businesses. Showing me pieces of paper, how they were going to be millionaires when they retired when they were in wheelchairs. I didn't feel like I was keeping up with the Jones's."

   "No… you were doing good. You had your GI bill, you had your savings. You were ready to hit college."

   "Everyone else already hit college. Some of them? Twice. Everyone was laughing, that I'd wasted six years of my life. Everyone that didn't go to college? Had a union job. Guys that went to college? Had careers. Some had their masters. Some guys already had businesses running or went into their family business. Everybody had wives and kids and girlfriends and cats and dogs that loved them. Everyone laughed at me that I had just wasted six years of my life, for nothing. I felt really… small. I wasn't even in the stock market. I mean, I'd go to the truck stop for coffee? The fucking night waitress at the truck stop, was bragging about being in the stock market, and how her and her boyfriend were closing on a brand new house."

   "Oh. You were thinking about college, and… that's when the recruiters started sniffing around. Looking for fresh meat."

   Panic nodded.

   "The guys that had combat jobs, were getting recruited after they got out. And all of a sudden? It wasn't just the state police. And I didn't wanna be a cop. I finally called a recruiter back. I asked to see all the jobs. He brought out a thick binder, and I spent a couple hours going through it in a side room. This was in the city. They had a side room us young guys would go in, and look at what was out there."

   "That's how you got recruited."

   "Yes and no. I went a couple times. It only cost me a bus ride to the city and back. It was a fun way to waste a day waiting for college to start. Then, one day… that's when it happened."

   "What…"

   "I was in that side room. Leafing through the binders. I put the high tech binder down. For fun? I started leafing through the combat and the combat specialist binders. Eh, just for fun, mind you. I knew that was the binder tough guys would be going through. In their city, near their home town. Doing what I was doing. I just wanted to see what they would be doing."

   "What made you pick one?"

   "I was honestly just daydreaming. And… there was some guy in the room. Some Marine. Not a Marine, like Robbie. A loud Marine. He was just running his mouth, non stop. I'm a trained killer, I might as well get paid better for it. He took one look at the high tech binder? Laughed, and tossed it aside. Faggot jobs, he said. That, uh… was the binder I was always looking through. I said hey buddy. When you're done with that one? Let me see it. Like I said… I was just seeing what there was to see."

   "You found something. Obviously."

   "Not right away. What I found? Was that marine. Lunch came around, and he suggested we go get a beer and a burger. We're in the city, what the hell. I'm listening all lunch to him telling me all about his… how awesome he is. Then? It came out, he thought I was Army. I laughed, I knew where this was going. I told him… I was Air Force."

   Mike palmed his face.

   "I know where this is going…"

   "Yeah. We had a second beer, and he spent, must of been about a whole hour, explaining how I was a faggot, I needed to keep looking at the faggot jobs. He finally said something like… they might as well label the tech binder, the Air Force binder, and the combat specialist binder? Should be just called the Marine binder."

   Mike chuckled.

   "I'm sitting there, and I'm not just passing the time anymore with this loud asshole. I'm checking him out. Height. Weight. He's right handed. He's a little bigger than me? But… he looks like he just lifts weights. He doesn't carry himself like the guys that hit the heavy bags and roll around on the mats. Like I did every day for six years. I started offering him out back, behind the bar we were in. Into the alley."

   "Just like that?"

   "No. He's trying to talk me out of it. I had to talk him into it. I had to tease him. What are you afraid of? I'm just Chair Force, after all. Told him I'd be honored to get my ass kicked by a real Marine."

   "Ha. So then, he had to do it."

   "No. Now? He's… trying to… squirm out of it. I guess, I'm hearing about as close to an apology as a Marine is allowed to hand out. I kept it up. Politely, of course. He finally asks me what my problem with him personally is. I told him… it's nothing personal. All Marines are supposed to be tougher than all Chair Force. Why don't the big, bad Marine wanna go out back and play in the alley, with a computer programmer from the Chair Force. Am I going to have to tell everyone I meet, the rest of my life, that the Marines are just bags of hot air? I told him… we sneak out back. Look around. No yelling. I didn't leave him a choice."

   "You get into trouble?"

   "No. No one knew. Who cares if two guys wanna roll around in the alley, in the city, like two high school kids. As long as a cop doesn't go down the alley by accident, we're fine."

   "You get hurt?"

   "Not at first. I'd spent six years working out. The big game every weekend was to try to make the self defense instructor there say uncle, so, I started getting in on those bets. Whatever they did. I wanted to be like my buddies were."

   "You said you didn't get hurt at first. That means, you did."

   "Eh. Nothing major. The guys taught me to just grab on and go for the ride, when you're fighting a bigger, stronger, more confident opponent that was highly aggressive. They called it riding the bull. You have to ride the bull, until it gets tired out, and quits bucking. You learn how to do it to a smaller guy, that's a pony ride. Then you have to play with guys your own size, that's a bucking bronco ride. Then, if you wanna graduate the course? You have to ride the bulls. That's learning to ride the bigger, stronger guys. I rode the bull. Then? I put the bull to sleep after I tired him out."

   "Did it take a while?"

   "Eh. About two minutes, getting thrown around. When he started breathing too heavy and slowing down? I choked him out."

   "So, you won."

   "Well, when he woke up…"

   "He started swinging again. Right."

   "No. I told him it wasn't fair I was wrestling with him, cause he obviously wasn't any good at it. Told him if he wanted to, we could just fight regular, without wrestling. He, uh… he did a little better… that way."

   "You got lumped up…"

   "Ah. We both got marked up some, no big deal. He finally wanted to quit. So? We quit. Neither one of us looked like we should be back in the office, so… we had a couple beers and took turns in the little bathroom, cleaning up. Bartender wondered what happened, we both claimed we were drunk and fell down the cement steps out back. We were getting along by this time, so… whatever."

   "That's when you decided… to look at the other binder, then."

   "You'd think, but… no. You can ask Merry, what a moment of Teed is. Longer story. But… I finally decided this was my moment of Teed. I canceled college registration. Went back and only looked through the combat specialist binder after that. Had to be something for me."

   "What did you find?"

   "Combat support specialists needed. Little blurb explained, they had trouble finding guys with certain high tech skills, that were also able to pass the physical requirements. Pay rates? Highest in the book. GS-18 for starting pay. Advancements in rank and pay rates based on ability, not time served. Three steps to an exciting and financially rewarding career. Step one? Paper test. Step two? Interview. Step three? Go on an all expenses paid working vacation, to see if you can pass the hands on technical requirements, and the physical requirements. If you pass the selection process, and don't get washed out of the course? Congratulations. You can have an important career, serving your country in the best way possible. The tag line was… when the military can't solve the problem? They call us to handle it. Your country needs you. Answer the call, and see if you have what it takes."

   "Combat support specialist. I'm guessing at some point, you changed jobs."

   "Not really. I always studied electronics for a hobby. HAM radio thing, so… digital communications, too. I was a computer programmer all along. I passed the course for digital communications, and I passed the course for servicing the electronics equipment. I got a better rate of pay for doing two jobs with one guy. Then later on… when I got into being a combat specialist, instead of just a support unit? I still did the other two jobs, so… one guy could cover three jobs. My rank and pay went up again. One day I got another raise, and I thought there was some kinda mistake."

   "Why would it be a mistake?"

   "Figured it was some… clerical error. On my free time, I was hanging out with the guys that worked on the engines. Something to do. The more… useful you make yourself? The more they pay you. In the jungle, where we worked for years? There isn't even anything to spend your money on. I didn't have a wife and kids to send money back to. I just took a little bit, for when we went on leave… threw pretty much all of it? In the bank."

   "But you don't know how much money you have…"

   "College classes in the Air Force? Were free. I cherry picked classes. I'd buy the books, and read up on the classes I thought I could challenge. Didn't cost me anything. I just studied stuff I wanted to study anyways. You just go in, and agree to take the final exam. If you get a passing grade? You get the college credits for the class. Unlike a regular college credit, any college that accepts government financial aid? Has to accept all of your credits you carry with you. I had a good bit of my classes done for free, before I got out of the service. Every time I got banged up good working down there? They send you home to heal up before you're allowed back to do another six months on contract. I took classes every time."

   "Is it rude to ask how much you were making?"

   "I thought you just explained to me, that it's rude to ask for specific financial data, Mike."

   "You said you made GS-18 for years, and didn't spend any of it. After six years of doing the same thing in the service."

   "Starting pay was GS-18. I qualified for two jobs out of selection camp. I made more than GS-18 out of the gate. By the time I was a combat specialist? I was making GS times rate."

   "Oh."

   Merry furrowed her brow.

   "Uh, for those us us who didn't eat worms with the cool kids when we got out of high school… what is… GS times? Sounds like an Army newspaper… read the GS times…"

   Panic shrugged, he obviously didn't think it was important enough to answer it specifically. Merry poked her Uncle Mike in the shoulder.

   "Talk."

   "Merry, you already know what a GS rating is. You already know what GS-18 pay scale is."

   "Duh. Every agent knows what a GS rating is. What's the GS times newspaper, was my question."

   "When you make more than GS-18? It's called GS-18 plus. If they pay you more than GS-18 plus? They make a times factor. For instance… you might make 1.5 times GS-18 plus pay grade. There's no upper limit. I mean, if you're some scientist they need to work on a missile? They might recruit a guy for four times GS-18 plus, if that's the only way to get the position filled by someone that can do the work."

   Mike looked away from Merry, and furrowed his brow and squinted at Panic.

   "I've heard you make jokes about the VA hospital before. I never put two and two together. You have retirement benefits."

   "Yeah. Why wouldn't I."

   "Because you didn't put 20, 30, 40 years in…"

   "In the service. In the civil service, like you two? Sure. I was a private contractor. If I agreed to… certain conditions? I got a retirement package."

   "Conditions?"

   "Conditions. If I get a letter then a phone call, they expect me to be available for an interview. They just want me to be forthcoming, about what I do. Where I work. What I do for work. What my daily and weekly routine is. A guy might want to come and stay a few days with me, talking with me, seeing for himself what I'm doing. If I agree to that? I collect retirement and get benefits. You know, monthly stipend. Health benefits. That kind of shit."

   It was Merry's turn to look at him funny.

   "You… got injured enough times, that you're… on disability or something?"

   "No. Contract tours, were six months at a time. Think of it like a six month enlistment at a time. If you do five sixes, in good standing? You… in the civilian world, I'm thinking they call it… vesting. You know, after ten years, you get a certain amount guaranteed. Hey, I did my ten. I vested. You hear people say it all the time. Like that."

   "That's two and a half years. You were there longer than that."

   "Five sixes is the minimum. Every six on top, that you complete, in good standing? Adds to it. You max out at twelve sixes. That's what your shooting for. The ex airborne guys, nicknamed it the golden parachute. The ex seals? Call it the golden fishing boat."

   Merry rolled her eyes…

   "If you live to collect it."

   Panic shrugged.

   "I lived. I got a couple scars, a couple injuries… to show for it. Told you, when I go swimming or take my shirt off around civilians? I just tell people I worked on a boat, and there was an explosion in the engine room… and I took shrapnel from the explosion. It's the easiest story to come up with, so you don't have to play twenty questions every time you go swimming. They, uh… you have to take a few easy… classes, before they let you go home for good."

   Merry wanted to know what the classes were called.

   "Oh. How to get along with civilians in the civilian world. How to work alongside regular civilians. How to not raise civilian suspicion. Things like that. That's where they like us to agree to… the periodic interviews, to keep our benefits, if we collected them."

   "You're on… some kind of… lifetime probation?"

   Panic laughed, and Mike laughed too. Merry didn't get the joke, and demanded an answer.

   "Merry? It's not important. Mike here… managed spooks for a living, before he managed agents in the undercover pool. I'm pretty sure he knows why. What it's… for."

   Merry eyed her Uncle Mike up.

   "Talk."

   "Merry… my darling niece. In the service. Some men, performing certain jobs? Learn… certain skills. Job skills that might not exactly translate well into the civilian job market. I know, you need a for instance. How about sentry removal. You know what a sentry is, right?"

   "Guard. Guarding something."

   "Right. Lotta guys get trained on how to remove a sentry. Quietly. Everyone surrounds the target area, and coordinates, and they all take out their own sentry. So they can make entry and take their objective. Other guys? Learn how to blow up bridges and buildings. How to get in and get out without raising any alarms. How to… extract information from a captured enemy combatant in the shortest period of time."

   "Well? Its the military for Christ's sake. Of course they learn how to kill people and blow shit up."

   Panic looked away politely, and Mike explained.

   "Merry. It's not just that. In the normal military? You're not… under enemy fire every day and night. It's not an everyday experience, like you would think from watching movies. Airborne, for instance. Their job is to train, year round. They only go out on a… job? Every once in a while. The guys from the Redwater group, that worked in forward positions in the field, six months at a stretch? Would see a couple years worth of normal combat experience, in a very short period of time. That's why they're paid better, and…"

   "And what? Why are they on… probation or whatever you call it."

   "Merry. The department of defense… hands out… enhanced retirement benefits packages, to former contractors that perform these jobs for years. To get them to agree to… being interviewed. To get them to agree to be… supervised quietly. To prevent… problems down the road."

   "Problems…"

   "Merry? You know how some guys end up married three times, two ex wives, separated from their third wife. Four kids they never get to see, and pay child support and alimony for? They work for a paycheck they don't really get to spend, and whatever they get their hands on, they sit in a bar and get drunk."

   "It happens."

   "Right. The government? Does not want these guys to be drunk, bored, broke… and pissed off. Please? Use your imagination who might… recruit them for… work… in the civilian world. With some of the skill sets, that some of the guys have. Organized crime. Bank robbery. Industrial espionage. Contract killers. Intelligence gathering. Really high pay, really short working hours per year. It's a recipe for fucking disaster…"

   "I never thought about it like that."

   "No one does, Merry. No one does. The police are used to ordinary criminals. They wouldn't be able to handle it. And… once the first couple problems got public? The other guys, would know who did it. They'd start pulling their own operations, too."

   "That's a legitimate concern of our government?"

   "Merry? Watch this. This will be an education for you. Panic? Let's play a game. The what if game. All hypothetical. All off the record. All I'm doing, is trying to show Merry, what the word security risk means. You game?"

   Merry heard it in his voice, while he was still politely looking away from making eye contact with them. When he brought his face around, dropped of course, he was wearing a grin.

   "For fun and for strictly educational purposes only?"

   "Yes."

   "Okay."

   "Panic. How would you hit a large bank. A really big one. I'm not talking amateur doing a smash and grab, in and out, on the teller's drawers. I'm talking cleaning the vault out. Every bit of cash, gold, and all the bearer bonds. All the private deposit boxes, too. Everything. Got any ideas?"

   "Sure."

   "Go…"

   "I need a small entry team. Say… four, six… maybe eight men. Just to round everyone up and do crowd control. Anyone from infantry would work. Main vault? Has to be open all day, so the workers can get in and out. Guy comes in to access his security deposit box? Vault has to be open, or how could he be given access. Going in at night, and trying to get into the vault is retarded. I'd hit em like the bells of St. Mary. About an hour or two before close. Open vault? I'd try to time it, to coordinate with a shift change in the local police departments. Creates additional confusion on the initial response. Guys are changing vehicles out, guys coming into and out of the station. Takes a lot longer for the local police to even respond."

   "How do you handle the local police?"

   "Easy. They're used to just surrounding the bank. Robbers always grab hostages, and have a stand off. Fuck that shit. I'd have several teams posted up around. When the police arrive? They take heavy fire from cover. Don't let the enemy camp out and sit on you. Push 'em back. Periodic harassment fire, so they can't come within blocks of the target. Gives my entry team way more time to clean the vault and the boxes out. Vaults open, but you want the boxes. They have to be drilled, it takes time. Time is a precious resource. Very important… leave the local police a road out, and a distance to keep, where they no longer take fire. That? Will allow me to locate the local police, where I want them. Civilians always run for cover, and stay where they don't get fired on. Local police? Are now out of my hair. More time generated."

   "What about all the other local police departments pouring in?"

   "So? What are they going to do. They're going to take the same heavy harassment fire, as the first locals. All they're going to do? Is end up in the same location, as the original responders. If the locals want twenty police cars in their safe zone they think they found? Instead of four? Whatever. They're all out of my hair. All the police know? Is more men, more cars. All they're really doing, is making themselves a bigger cluster-fuck out of it. All those departments, all that arguing. More time for my entry team to clean up."

   "State police, and SWAT are coming. Now you're fucked."

   "Wow. I'm so scared. More police cars, more men in uniforms. With the same weapons. Whoop-dee-do. They take the same heavy cover fire, and end up in the same parking lot I already picked out for them. Bigger cluster-fuck. More arguing. More time for my entry team to clean up."

   "But… it's the state police… not locals…"

   "So? Different paint on the same cars. Different badges on different colored uniforms. Doesn't mean shit. SWAT takes time to put together. Now? I got all the locals and the local state police barracks in the parking lot where I wanted them anyways. Now… I shut transportation down."

   "How do you do that?"

   "Easy. Roads in and out. There's only so many ways in and out of town. Big explosion and fire, at every transportation control point. Explosions and fires are cheap, and it only takes one guy hidden to set them off. The resulting traffic jams? Now you can't move jack shit in and out in any kind of time frame, with wheels. SWAT can't get in, and even if they can? They have two choices. Join the party in the parking lot? Or… take an armored vehicle and sit inside, on site. Not like they're getting out and prancing around with 50 caliber harassment fire every time they poke their heads out. They wanna sit and watch? Sit and watch. Nothing to shoot at anyways. We're inside a secure building, locked up tight as a drum."

   "Really…"

   "That TV bullshit, where they go in through the air vents, and blow the doors? They can't do that under heavy harassment fire from cover. You need multiple heavily armored track vehicles to pull that off, and you need to practice and coordinate it. Guaranteed, it's not something the SWAT trained for, and not any of the locals. Nor do they have access to that many heavily armored track vehicles. Only the national guard has that, and that is a long way away, and takes a lot more time to get authorized and mobilized. And remember… the giant traffic jams mean even they can't just roll in drinking beer and smoking cigarettes."

   "How you plan on getting your entry team, and the loot out of there?"

   "Immediate area is clean. All the uniforms and painted cars are at the party in the parking lot. Anyone else is caught in the giant traffic jams. I'd have already stolen a helicopter before hand, and mounted a pair of 50s on either side, with plenty of ammo. Pop a shitload of smoke, and extract. My zone is already clear, and no one's doing shit anyways, when a pair of heavy 50s tears the street up."

   "What about your guys that triggered the traffic jams? The cover fire teams?"

   "Traffic control just walks away. Joins the look-y loo crowd. The cover fire teams? Either do the same thing, or, you extract them by air. They all skinned out and rendezvoused at a rally extraction point. Wherever the parking lot party is? Opposite end of town."

   "What about the police helicopters?"

   "Small county? Small time. They only got one, maybe two birds they can get in the air. These are small observation copters. No armor. You put a few 50 shots past them? They'll fly right the fuck away like you're swinging a tennis racket at a bee. Everyone thinks bullets bounce off of windows and metal doors and make sparks like on TV? No…"

   "What do you do about communications?"

   "Easy. Local cell phone jammers are already running before my team makes entry. Size of a pack of cigarettes in your pocket? And all cell phones and WiFi within a hundred yards goes down. None of my bank hostages can call Santa Claus and report. Locals fly blind."

   "Police radio communications?"

   "Pffft. I already know what frequencies they're all on, it's federal law. I simply take kilowatt amplifiers, and stomp a carrier signal out on those frequenciess. Now, 911 can't talk to any of the locals at the parking lot party, either."

   "Police at the parking lot party, have cell phones…"

   "Useless. I already know where they're party is going to be. I already have the hundred yard call jammer sitting and running. I don't let the enemy have communications."

   "How do you have communications then?"

   "Duh. I'm on a strange custom frequency. I can press a button, that drops the jammers for ten seconds, sounds a loud tone? That let's my guys know they're about to get updates. Jammer goes back on immediately after each update. You practice it a couple times? It's easy."

   "How many men?"

   "I guess about a dozen for entry on site. After running herd, and initial education of the herd? Two guys stay on herd control, while the other ten hit the vault, and start popping the boxes open and filling up."

   "That's inside. What else?"

   "Main thing's the helicopter pilot. Couple guys make entry at some remote airfield, and steal a decent size chopper and hide it. There's no radar in the civilian world, after you're a couple miles out of the small airfield, as long as you stay away from any bigger airports. Good fucking luck, locating a stolen helicopter inside of a day or two… I'll have it spray painted and guns bolted on it, overnight. Same pilot flies the bird. Two guys to operate the guns, one more guy to reload and feed ammo. Soon as you steal it? Before you land, you fly east… while you disable the black box and the GPS transponder. Then? You fly west after it's cut. To a barn. You drop it right next to some old barn? You can toss a big tarp over it, and you'll never see it from the air. You can't hide multiple copters, but, one copter? Easy."

   "That's it?"

   "No. One man to trigger the traffic control explosions and fires. At each control point. Cover fire? Couple of 2 man teams, spread out. Say, six… eight men."

   "All told?"

   "Say 12 men inside the target. Pilot. Three man crew. That's 16. Eight more for heavy cover? 24 total."

   "How long would it take to prep for this operation?"

   "Well… I'd take my own sweet time, locating just the right location of the bank, in the right small town, that had a reason to have enough in the vault to make it worthwhile. I want it on the far end of the county, far away from the county seat. Because that's the furthest away from the SWAT team HQ and the sissy la la chopper they can even put in the air. I'd pick a small town that had a lot of large farms around it. All the farmers get their federal money and federal farm loans at the same time, the vault would have to have enough cash to cover it. Honestly? I'd just drop the deposit box requirement. I can be in and out, with less men and way less time, if I'm just cleaning out the cash and any bullion on hand."

   "Won't electrical lines and cable lines on poles prevent you from taking your chopper in to extract?"

   "No. Hoists. Best way to load up the heavy bags of cash, that weighs more than you think it weighs. Best way to haul the men up and out. If I really wanted to be quick? I blow the poles on that block, to drop the lines. The lines won't be live for long… there's these giant fuses on the main lines. You just pop them and the lines go dead. If you don't make me play safe deposit box games? I'd get my men down to about a dozen, total."

   "How do you split up the take?"

   "Easy. Every man? Equal share. Pilot is a special concern… he gets a couple of equal shares just for him, he's too valuable."

   "Costs?"

   "Initial target selection, and planning? Takes as long as it takes, but, that's just me. Assuming I have men at my disposal… waiting… Say, maybe 40, 50 grand. Mainly for the heavier weapons and ammunition. Fast, strong, dependable hoists for the cargo chopper."

   "Where do you get a cargo chopper?"

   "Any big construction company rents them, some even own them. Any area that has remote construction and remote logging, remote gas line work? That's the area they're located in. I first locate a small airfield, that has a cargo chopper. Then? I'd look for the bank in the right location around it. Then? Just wait for the right time of the year… for that sweet deposit the feds make to the only bank in the area certified to hold that much cash."

   "Any other ideas, now that you're coming up with ideas off the top of your head?"

   "Diversions. Might want a couple of mysterious fires. Big ones. To break out before the bank got hit. Fire department responds, then another one breaks out on the other end of town. Spread the fire department out, tie them down. Off duty cops are going to be volunteer firemen in small towns. That takes away on scene cops from the parking lot party, before it even starts. While everyone is trying to figure out what's happening, why, and what to even do? That's when you make bank entry. It's all about hitting a location that has small, limited resources. As far away from backup as possible. The quicker I can get the vault clean-out done, and the more resources I can spread out beforehand, the easier it all is when it goes down. The diversions? Take no manpower once they're set up. I'm a nice guy, I'd personally pick abandoned large buildings."

   "What are the key points to all of this?"

   "It's about locating all available resources that can be brought against you. Estimating time to respond, after setting up and getting rolling. It's about spreading those resources out, as far as possible. The military? Is used to diversions. The civilian's world? About unheard of, and certainly not multiple scenes. Shutting down the communications, which is actually cheap and easy and untraceable if you know what you're doing? Makes a coordinated response all but impossible. Shutting down road access with traffic jams, just puts the icing on the cake. No fatalities, cheap, easy with planning. By the time anyone even figures out what's really going on? You're onto extraction and the end game."

   "Different idea, Panic. How do you shut down power to an entire town, for whatever reason?"

   "That's easy. Just hit the substation. They got these big, giant transformers. Each one about as big as a yard-barn? You pop those. The heavy oil runs out, and then the transformers arc off once the oil's out. Looks like lightning on the ground. No power for days. There's no armed response at a small substation. Just a couple minimum wage mall cops drinking coffee at night, and they're not issued ammunition. They're no threat, they're only a trip wire, to call the real help. Workers aren't going to do anything but run after the first shot. No one's allowed to have a gun on any site like that. For security… which is funny."

   "Okay. Thanks, Panic. Demonstration's over. Now Merry… in all of your own personal wisdom, intelligence, education, training and experience. Do you really think it's a good idea, for guys like this… to get back into the real world, and wind up in a really bad life situation?"

   "No… quite frankly? I'm amazed there haven't been more problems already."

   "Right. So, you can see the need… for making sure these guys are… somewhat well taken care of, for retirement purposes. At 40, these guys might be considered a little over the hill for combat zones, but… for the civilian world? Yeah. It's probably a bright idea, to set up some kind of a candy dish… so someone that knows how to talk to them, can touch base and keep tabs on what they're up to. Wouldn't you say?"

   "Yeah."

   "Merry… can you just imagine, what would happen… if organized crime knew where to locate and how to recruit these guys?"

   "Yeah, that wouldn't be good."

   "Would the small town police even remotely be able to handle them?"

   "Never."

   "What about the state police?"

   "I doubt it."

   "We're the FBI, Merry. Would you like to be responsible for trying to shut down a large cell of these guys, up to no good, if the wrong people located and recruited them for criminal purposes?"

   "I don't want that job. We have enough problems as it is. Organized crime, drug gangs, couple hundred serial killers operating around the country on any given day. We have enough to do as it is."

   "Panic, just out of curiosity. Where do you figure you would have ended up next, after your… operation was shut down."

   "Eh. No secret there. The department of defense was hiring all of the contractors they could get their hands on, and shipping them down to Columbia."

   "I know what was going on then. Merry might not. You wanna tell her or should I?"

   "Everyone knows about that one. That was the infamous Colombian big game hunt. Open season, no bag limit."

   Merry asked what that meant…

   "Mike? Go on…"

   "Pablo Escobar, you remember him? He was the original drug cartel. He actually went to war with his own country. For you to understand it, Merry… imagine if organized crime here in the United States, actually bombed the congress and senate buildings in DC and shut the government down. The locals? Named it La Violencia. The violence."

   "What did that have to do with the United States?"

   "The Colombian government reached out for help, to the American government. No one wanted to involve the American military, so…"

   "Redwater had a field day."

   "By that time? There were other contractors set up, too. The government was so keen on helping out… they selected special forces and allowed them to retire, if they promised to accept private contracts with the corporations taking the contracts. Hey guys, how about we triple your pay and benefits, and you have no rules to follow, whatsoever. Who wants in? And the boys were lining up to go."

   Panic nodded.

   "Yeah. I knew guys that went down for that."

   Merry asked if they were protecting the government buildings and politicians, or what.

   "Nope. It was hunting season. Kill Pablo Escobar, and anyone that had ever shook hands with him. Period. Once the civilian population saw progress being made? Los Pepes got started. Literally? The People. Ordinary men, just got together, armed themselves, and joined up in a big guerrilla war."

   "Against Pablo Escobar and his men?"

   "They had a saying down there. Pablo pays everybody. You either get paid in silver? Or lead. Take your choice. Pablo resorted to blowing up civilians in public, and did it one too many times. The people saw the… foreign contractors? Weren't afraid, couldn't be intimidated, and couldn't be bought. He got scared. You have to appreciate it Merry. Literally half the police in the country were on his payroll one way or another."

   "Christ…"

   "He wasn't there. The rules were simple. Dirty cop? You kill him, by any means necessary. No rules. Whole police station was dirty? Blow it up. Anyone that ever shook hands and smiled and had dinner with the man? You kill him. And his entire family. Because… that's how Pablo operated. He made the rules, the boys just got down in the mud with him. They hit everyone. All the front businesses. They retreated to the jungle? They chased them down and leveled the camps. He had a private army of irregulars? Not a big problem."

   "Sounds like hell, Mike."

   "Yeah. It was. Like anything like that, it went to hell and got a whole lot worse, before it started to get better. Once the civilians saw the contractors weren't leaving until the job was done? They started taking heart and forming guerrilla groups and joining in the fun. They passed out weapons and ammunition and vests and explosives and training? To anyone that asked to join in the hunt. Anyone that had lost a close family member to him and his cartel? Was recruited."

   Merry just shook her head.

   "Playtime…"

   Panic nodded.

   "Lasted a couple years. Till they tagged and bagged Pablo, then it mopped itself up. Hell, if I'd of still been working? I'd have definitely went down. Remember… I speak Spanish."

   Mike made the observation…

   "There's always somewhere in the world, Merry. Where something is going on, and big countries have their hands tied, and can't send in the military. That's why organizations like the zombies, like the drug cartels… can get away with it, until the contractors get hired."

   Panic added.

   "Merry? There's simply no other way to handle problems like that."

   "It's not like the cartels got shut down. There's more cartels operating than ever before…"

   "Yes. True. But, remember. Pablo declared war on his own country, and the Colombian civilians. Once they were taken out? Big power vacuum. Multiple cartels formed, to take up the slack. They fight each other for control of the drug trade. Instead of fighting the government and the civilian population. It keeps it down to a dull roar."

   Mike added.

   "He's right. Plus? If one cartel starts acting up, you can just hire a contractor and take just them out. You don't have to fight all of them, just a fraction of all of them. It's a lot more… manageable now. When one cartel starts taking over all the others? You go to work. You can now handle the problem, before it gets out of hand."

   "I just can't believe it, that you two can sit here, and talk about this… like you're discussing the weather or the stock market."

   "Mike?"

   "No, you take this one."

   "Merry… it's just how the world works. When you put the fire out in one country? Another one just springs up in some other country, somewhere else. It's never been any different, and it's never going to change. It's human nature. It's sad, I'll grant you that. It actually makes me sick to my stomach, to realize it, but… there's nothing you can do about it. Until the next meteor strikes the earth, and wipes us out like the dinosaurs? Then mother nature can start all over, and try again."

   Merry shook her head, in disgust.

   "Why can't human beings, just… act like…"

   Panic grinned.

   "Like what, Merry. Like human beings? They are already. We're no different than all the other animals on this planet. Worse, actually, in my own opinion. I know what you want, Merry. What most people want. A reasonable, peaceful society. Society, is a lot like a big herd of sheep. Sure, a few sheep are butting heads. Sometimes one pushed one off a cliff, but, overall? It works fairly well. The sheep can breed, eat, live… then die. The sheep herder? He makes a living off of this. We call that government."

   "Crude example."

   "Pretty accurate though. Most people? Are basically prey. Big herds of sheep. One sheep does something, and others just follow the example and don't know why. They just do. What do you get, when you have a big flock of sheep, Merry. What comes along sooner or later. You tell me."

   "A predator."

   "Right. With a source of food, and no real resistance and everyone just scatters when they grab a sheep? The sheep just breed more, and the predators start multiplying. How do you deal with the predators, when the sheep herder starts taking a loss out of his profits… what's he have to do."

   "Shoot the predators, I guess."

   "Yeah. If there's too many, what does he do then?"

   "I don't know."

   Mike piped up.

   "I got this one. Merry… you bring in something that hunts and eats the predators. Something that can be trusted to just go away, when the job's done. That something? Is the Redwater group."

   "Things can push society in the right direction. Education, for example. The more people are educated, the better it gets. The better educated those people are, the less violent crime they commit."

   Mike and Merry just looked at one another, and neither one said anything at first, until she urged them on.

   "Go on… what."

   Panic wagged his head, and sadly informed the ground…

   "That sort of works. Problems are two fold. For one? You're creating a herd of sheep. If there's not already a predator? One will promptly show up and get to doing what predators do. Taking sheep, and enjoying no resistance."

   "Eh, okay. What's the second problem?"

   "The way most modern, democratic republics are run? We need more and more people. Constantly. Every year, year in and year out? You need more consumers. The instant you stop and have a steady population? Or god forbid start to go in reverse? The government doesn't function right, economically."

   "What's that got to do with education?"

   "The more highly educated the population becomes? Their birth rate becomes lower. Look at poor farmers anywhere. Big families. Look into any expensive city, where all the college educated people live. Two educated, high earning parents? You typically see one, maybe two kids on average."

   "No, I read that before, you're right. I can see where this is going…"

   "Yeah. Educate everyone. Everyone gets less violent, and more sheep-like. The birth rate drops. The government? Instantly starts importing poor people from anywhere they can get their hands on them. These people are less educated, have lower average IQs, and a higher level of crime and violence. You start bringing them into your sheep-like, peaceful society to pump your economic numbers up? Bazinga. There goes the crime rate, through the roof. It's like the sheep herders bred sheep? Then brought in predators to feast on them."

   Mike chuckled.

   "Not like it doesn't create more problems along with it. Now your lower class workers you brought in? Have a higher birth rate, and you get a clash from that. Big business? Gets to keep wages stagnant. The lower class you imported? With it's high birth rate? Starts eating up your social services. You have to raise taxes to cover it. Wages are stagnant, so, it creates inflation, as your debt goes up faster. All of which? Breeds a little more crime at every step."

   Panic laughed.

   "Good job, Mike. You studied how empires slowly crumble."

   "Hey, it's what happened to the Romans. We're doing it even faster. We could get right down to it in one fell swoop, if we were invaded from without? Or, if we had a nice, long, civil war from within."

   Merry put her head in her hands, with an air of deflated defeat.

   "When I was young? 15 to 20 dollars an hour, made you true middle class. Now? You have to make twice that, to be even remotely middle class. Wages are going up, but, only for a smaller and smaller pool of certain workers. Costs are slowly rising, for everyone else. We're slowly moving from a broad middle class, where we started out. With a relatively small lower class, and an even smaller upper class."

   Panic grinned, but sadly.

   "I know. The lower class? Is slowly growing into what used to be the middle class. Most of the middle class? Is slipping lower and lower, without realizing it. The upper class? Is shrinking in size, and the amount of wealth they control, is rising. We're headed on a road to hell, which is of course a tiny group of elite rich, and a vast pool of the great unwashed masses. It breeds violence slowly, as the sheep begin to butt heads over the dwindling resources."

   "You guys are depressing me. You're saying there's no hope for the human race."

   "Oh no. All we're saying is… it's always been like this. Depending on where you're born, and into what class of people? It goes up, it does down. This has been going on, since the beginning."

   Merry addressed Mike. With her arms and hands out, with her tone of voice.

   "Mike? We're just cops. Where do we fit into all of this?"

   "Honestly? The government is the farmer's house and his family and friends. The law abiding citizens, and I use that term loosely… are the big herd of cows. As cops? Hell, Merry… we're the people the farmer's family hires? To beat the cows with sticks, when they butt heads and disrupt things."

   "The cows don't like it."

   "No, that's not true. When the cows are butting heads, and knocking everything over… there's always one aggressive cow acting up, doing it. The other cows don't mind when we come along and beat that cow with a stick. The problem is? When two cows are butting heads, and you start with the stick… the bigger, more aggressive cow… turns on you holding the stick."

   "You just need more guys with sticks?"

   "Only works to a point, Merry. Men with sticks? Hit cows. Too many stick men? Too many aggressive cows in short order. If things get really ugly? The cows turn on the stick men. When it becomes cows vs sticks? You're gonna lose that battle, every single time."

   "I hope I don't live to see that day."

   Panic chuckled.

   "Merry, you almost saw it happen. Ordinary, lower class citizens? Were prowling the streets of DC. Agitating any cop they saw. They were surrounding the cops, surrounding the cop cars, surrounding the police stations and getting unruly. It was touch and go. A drum of gasoline got knocked over, thank god no one lit a match and threw it."

   Mike shook his head.

   "Yeah. The cows were circling the farmer's house, mooing loudly. The farmer brought the stick men inside, and stayed quiet. The cows eventually got tired and dispersed. The farmer? Is getting ready to hang a couple of stick men, to both try to set an example for the stick men to act better… and more importantly? To make the cows think someone's looking out for their well being."

   Merry made a face.

   "What do you mean, make the cows think we're helping them? We're not helping the cows? We're out, hunting the predators, hunting the cows, for Christ's sake!"

   "Merry, we are. But… the DC beat cops? A good sized slice of the force, was preying on the cow herd they were supposed to be protecting. Two of us? Were in on it. They came in the middle of the night, to try to kill you and your boyfriend, when you were sleeping. Way you told it? The goddamn cat loved you guys, and knew something was wrong, and woke you up to see it was going down."

   "Oh, God… I'm the cow in this part of the story. You're going to give me a complex about my weight, Mike…"

   "Well? As far as the DC cops knew… you were just another cow. They had no way of knowing Panic was there, much less what he was. Or they would have sent more than one man to do that job. The whole thing? Is so fucked up, from top to bottom? No one knew where to begin to unravel the problem."

   Panic's words talking about it, after it was over? Chilled her as they drifted into her memory.

   'I have been hunted before…'

   Mike shook his head, chuckling.

   "You know, the way IA handles things? You release nothing, not one shred of information, about anything, that you don't have to. You can't hide a dead cop with 14 holes in him, so… that was all anyone knew had happened."

   Panic came in…

   "Which means, that the bad guys? Didn't know I even existed, or that I did it. As far as they knew? Merry killed him."

   "Basically. Then? Merry just disappeared. Merry? Was supposed to stay disappeared. Then… Merry gets a hold of me, with this hare brained idea she got into her head. What if the dirty cops found her, and came out to get her… and just happened to run into a pack of armed outlaw bikers, waiting on them to come and murder one of their own, to finish the job they started. Now, I wonder where my niece, got a crazy idea like that from, eh?"

   Panic made a comical show of looking around, seemingly studying an invisible fly buzzing around over his head in the van.

   "You know, Panic. I've known Merry a long time now, maybe ten years give or take? Heard her quote literature before, but, I have never once heard her quote Machiavelli. Or Sun Tzu, the Art of War. You wouldn't have any idea where she got that from, would you?"

   Panic laughed.

   "The enemy, of my enemy? Is my friend and ally…"

   "That'd be Machiavelli. The Prince."

   "If you do not know who the enemy is? Be logical. Leave a light trail for the enemy to follow you, so that he might reveal himself to you. Appear vulnerable, to entice him to attack you, and in so doing… reveal himself to you. Be secretly prepared, to consume your enemy, in whole, and leave no part of him to remain."

   "Yeah, I always figured as much. Anything else?"

   "If your enemy fights well in the open fields? Do not fight him there, flee with great haste into the wood, or into the hills. Likewise, should your enemy fight well in the hills or in the wood? Instead remain on open ground, and wait to engage him there. Notice where the enemy likes to engage you in battle, and seek to always be on ground unfamiliar to that which he prefers."

   Mike nodded.

   "How did you two manage to lure them all there like that, anyways."

   "Merry? Answer your uncle."

   "Hmm. Live bait works best."

   "Did you send them a Christmas card, with a return address on it?"

   Panic laughed.

   "The bikers have websites. Every clubhouse, and every turf bar has one. Merry simply… slipped up, and was being talked about on the website."

   "How did you know they were coming?"

   "A pack of outsiders, from the big city. City cops, in the country, trying to blend in. Out of state plates, all those brand new faces in packs. Prowling a small town. It was impossible to miss. In the city? Never see them coming. But in the country? They stuck out like carrots in a potato patch."

   "What was wrong with having the bikers shoot it out with the dirty cops, then mopping up the cops left. Letting me handle the bikers, to make them the good guys. That was the original plan, that Merry beat my ear with."

   "Merry said the same thing. Ask her why I changed my mind."

   "The bikers? Impossible to control each of their stories. Each one might say a different thing. Ordinary citizens? Are going to take one look at a pack of outlaw bikers, and a pile of dead cops… and decide to believe whatever ridiculous story the cops threw out there."

   "But… if a pack of dirty cops, came out of state, to track down a woman, on the run from them, alone… right?"

   Merry smiled.

   "If it ever went to a jury, what jury could ever convict me."

   "Not to mention, Mike. Once you come to kill me and my girlfriend in our own bed, in the middle of the night? Now… it's personal. Rob and Skykid were both all but begging me to have rifles and night scopes, in the wood line. I wouldn't hear tell of it. They're mine."

   "Which brings up one thing that's been puzzling me. Merry was covered in gunshot residue. She looked like she took a bath in it. You? Rob? Hadn't touched a gun in days."

   "What's so puzzling about that?"

   "Call me skeptical. But… Merry's not the world's best shot with her Glock. She qualified with it, but, she's not Annie Oakley. She's never taken a life once with her handgun, in or out of the line of duty. Her job is to keep her head down and remain in the background. Blend into her surroundings. You? Your buddies? Make way more sense."

   "I was there. You honestly think, I would go home, and fall asleep, accidentally? Just when it's most critical? Pffft. Right."

   "Yeah, I figured as much. The homicide team guessed that, too. How did you beat the GSR? It's like you and Merry suddenly switched bodies. And I'm supposed to be the goddamn magician."

   "What you call a GSR test, the Gun Residue Test? Used to be called the Paraffin test. It simply tests for the presence of chemicals in the gun shot residue."

   "GSR doesn't come off with soap and water, no matter how hard you scrub. Every investigator knows that."

   "Why would I use soap and water? Soap is a surfactant. To lift things soluble in water. Gunshot residue is not very soluble in water. It is however? Subject to standard, basic chemistry. Try base, acid… base, acid… base, acid… then test with your own GSR test bottle. Repeat as necessary, until your hands, which is where the test shows up best, come clean. Scrub the same number of times on the rest of your body, with the same base acid cycle. GSR isn't in your skin, it's in the oil on your skin, and also down in your pores. If you strip all the oil, chemically, off of your skin? It's gone. Then… I coated my skin with fresh oil and wiped the excess off. The GSR tests at the bar? Was simply riding on fresh oil, on skin that had been chemically stripped of all traces of existing skin oil."

   "What the fuck…"

   "Let the plumber, advise you on the plumbing."

   "I don't remember that, from the Art of War."

   "Translated? Let a chemist, advise you on the chemistry."

   "George is a chemist."

   "And? GSR test kits are available on the internet, for 39.95 plus an additional cost for same day shipping and guaranteed two day delivery. Me and Rob, were having Merry shoot in excess of 500 rounds a day, out of her Glock. We were, too. I bought three different GSR tests, from three different companies. Didn't take long to figure out, especially with a real chemist advising me. I was still getting a real faint reading, until I learned to re oil my skin heavy, and wipe the excess off."

   "You telling me, that you got all of them?"

   "Nope. I knew the moment those assholes hit town and drove around. We closed the bar, sent the boys home early… and we both waited for our enemies. To show themselves, and to come to us. Their presence? Was proof of their guilt. How can they claim self defense, or anything cop related… chasing us down out of state. We gave them enough rope? They hung themselves with it. The cocaine, heroin, and beer? Just icing on the cake. I wish I could say I planned that? But it was just pure poetry."

   "So… your buddies did help you, after all."

   "Nope. Me and Merry, were the only ones shooting. And by the way? She's half decent with her Glock, but… with a 12 guage? She's a lot better."

   "Not buying that one, Kemosabi. White man speak with forked tongue. The medicine man? Spoke to the spirits, and not a single shotgun pellet or slug touched one of those 13 dead cops."

   "Why would they? What's the name of my website, Mike…"

   "The re---- oh, shit. The reload bench."

   "Well. I can put whatever I want, into shotgun shells. I remember the forensics, but please refresh my memory. What projectiles were pulled from the dead cops…"

   "148 grain solid lead pills. Mostly. A number of hits were with much lighter pills, again solid lead. But… both types of projectiles? Matched the rifling on Merry's Glock. I'm not saying no one used a shotgun that night… I'm just saying whoever had the shotgun didn't hit a goddamn thing. Every projectile matched the rifling of the Glock Merry had with her."

   "That? Is because they were fired from Merry's Glock. How else could I get the rifling to match up. Duh."

   "But…"

   Panic was grinning.

   "I basically, reloaded big buckshot. For Merry's 12 gauge ammunition. It's just that instead of round buckshot balls? I used the really light 9mm rounds. Fired a couple hundred rounds through the Glock, straight down into multiple rain barrels epoxied together, to make one really deep one."

   "Jesus H. Christ… you had the crime scene techs, eating out of the palm of your hand. They even found a neat little pile of 9mm brass. Tech thought it looked suspicious because all the empties were in a neat little pile."

   "Yeah. I dropped them there. In the places where Merry stood and fired the shotgun from. If you count? The number of brass in every pile, equals the number of shotgun shells per extended tube, times the number of light 9mm pills loaded in every round. My two degrees are in mathematics and computer science. If I can do anything? I can fucking count."

   "You even escorted the lady crime scene tech…"

   "Tech Brassy. Homicide's pet Schnauzer…"

   "Down to the range, and let her find the buckets of 9mm ammo. You guys took her and her state police escorts, shooting Glocks on the pistol range. She was amazed to see neat little piles of 9mm brass, from the one type of ammo."

   "Yeah. That's our practice 9mm load. We don't like to hunt all over creation, searching for our brass to reload it. That one load? Makes neat little piles. The 148 loads? Christ, it stings you in the head, to get hit by the flying brass from the next guy down the firing line."

   "Okay. You fired the 148s. The heavy projectiles."

   "Had to. Hits harder. Does more damage. Penetrates better. Mushrooms out more. But even more importantly? I was using a really effective suppressor that doubled as a flash hider. The slide makes more noise than the report of the gun going off."

   "Why?"

   "Many reasons. For one, with no noise? No one can tell where the shots are coming from. For another, with no muzzle flash at night? They can't see where the shots are coming from. Plus, I can hear when I hit flesh with a well suppressed handgun. Tells me if they have a vest on or not. Everyone is shooting at the door, to a cement cabin. I'm up on that platform, out of the line of fire. With a muzzle flash or a gun report, they would have started shooting up at that big metal vent."

   "Then you blinded them with that goddamn light panel."

   "Oh. You liked my porch light? After I got as many as I could before they even realized they were taking accurate fire they couldn't hear or see? They dropped down. I hit the lights to blind the ones left, then turned it off. That was Merry's cue to stand up and blaze away at them from their flank. We taught her to rake the slide on the 12 gauge, with the extended tube magazine. You know about slide raking?"

   "Not sure…"

   "After the first shot, you hold with light trigger pressure, and work the slide. Doesn't take much practice, to just paint the crowd with the 9mm buckshot. Bet the autopsy noted that the light projectiles, tumbled something fierce. I chronograph-ed the speed out of the shotgun, to match the speed of the 148s, which is slow for a 9mm because it's heavy. The suppressor doesn't do much until the ammo is subsonic. But, reloaded into a smooth-bore shotgun? They were tumbling before they hit flesh. They stopped in a tight group, like assholes waiting at a bus stop. The pattern on Merry's 9mm buckshot load? Was pretty wide."

   "You got a couple, right in the cabin."

   "Sure did. They sent one in, to go jump Merry in bed. I popped him after I made him call out to his buddies, that he had her. I shot him with the suppressor off, so they thought he shot her."

   "Then another comes in…"

   "Actually, one more. Then two more came in. They thought he passed out, and were making fun of him. Dropped them with the suppressor back on. Three more free ones. When the conga line coming in stopped? I went to work out the vent, while they fired under me through the door. Lights on and off, Merry worked the flank. Another light show, and Merry's up again, reloaded and in a new position. Those guys can't hear shit with their un-suppressed handguns going off in a group like that. Now they're blind from the porch light from hell."

   "Then three of them made a break for it."

   "One made it to a car, but… he wasn't getting anywhere. Rob cut all four radiator hoses, before taking up his surveillance position, while they were making their way up the hill. If anyone could hear or see Rob in the woods at night? They have ESP. He was a scout sniper, and a force recon marine. One of his nicknames? The Ghost. He actually follows you through the woods at night? You don't hear him. He then touches you? And you turn around, and there's nothing there. It's like fighting a ghost in the woods at night. You have zero chance to get away. Blinded by lights, and ears ringing from dumping mags? It was like catching crippled old men with walkers. I follow from behind, and Rob gets in front. We played that game together many times, for years. Those two? Didn't have a prayer at that point."

   "The techs? Said the prints in the cabin, matched the impressions in the grass. Where Merry was in the grass. They said the person in the cabin, then out the side… was the same person that chased in the grass, after the two getaways."

   "They would. Me and Merry have the exact same shoe size. Bought two pairs of work boots. Identical. Same size. Same lot numbers. I doubt anyone got much out of Rob's prints. If we don't need traction? He likes to wear thick felt pads on his feet. On that rocky ground over where he was, he's just crunching dry leaves on rocks."

   "Merry's prints were everywhere. On every round of brass casings found. All over every magazine. Even all over the cards they found. The cards? Were a nice touch, by the way."

   "That was our calling card. The top predator in the woods? Doesn't hide his shit by kicking dirt over it. You do something? You own it. I didn't know if that would be the end of it. If there were any left? All I had to do was mail them that card. They'd know their ass was next. I was highly disappointed? When the homicide team held that information back."

   "How would it help, to warn them you were coming?"

   "A dirty cop, on his home turf, holed up, dug in like a tick. About impossible to get to. Now… if all anyone knows, is that one out of work waitress, alone, killed 13 dirty, coked up cops. Caught and handcuffed two more, and disabled the car so the last one got picked up? None got away? And that card was dropped on every one of them? They see that in the mail, they would run. Be easy to track them and follow them. Get them alone. Remember, they're looking for Merry. A woman. Some guy can sit right down next to them at some little bar, and they won't think twice. None of them knew my name, who I was, that I even existed. Until after your press conference. Even then, they just know some guy did the first one in DC in the motel room. Merry did the rest, alone. Left her card. They see that card in the mail, or dropped on the front seat of their cruiser when they step out of the car? Their ass would pucker up."

   "You didn't leave your card on the gun range…"

   "What gun range? I don't what you're referring to."

   "There was an accident, at some gun range."

   "Really? Didn't know about that. I'm all about gun safety. That's too bad. For my shooting sports. I hate bad PR on my sport."

   "Which brings up one funny bit of trivia."

   "What's that?"

   "The witches. The little girl from the bar, and her cousin from the donut shop. It was funny. When they went through their pockets at the state police barracks? Homicide found on both of them, of all things… a playing card. In both back pockets."

   "Queen of hearts?"

   "Ace of spades, actually. Homicide mentioned it to me when we touched base on the phone. The homicide boys found it hilarious."

   "That is quite a coincidence."

   "Isn't it? Apparently, they had fun telling them that 13 cops were found dead at her bar she worked at, with that same playing card found on the bodies. They said, and I quote… they were both sitting there, and their faces went white as a sheet."

   "They both already knew that Merry killed 13 cops, and captured the others. That none got away from her. If they ever manage to make it out of jail one day? I'll just drop them a card. They'll hightail it out of town."

   "And how did you manage to get the card on both of them?"

   "Wasn't hard. If you remember, I was standing right there, when they switched them from the local's cruiser, to the homicide cruiser. I did it right in front of the homicide detective, while he was patting her down."

   "Yeah. It was really strange, because they figured the local cops did it, when they cuffed them and searched them, and took all their belongings. Then, just for shits and giggles? Someone dusted the cards, for prints. Only one set of prints. Guess who."

   "Mine?"

   "No. Merry's. Remember, this is the same homicide squad, that investigated the bar shooting, you know. Same investigator. They have her prints. Like I said, the boys got quite a kick out of it."

   "Glad they enjoyed my sense of humor."

   "I don't suppose… you would share that trick with me?"

   "Mike the magician. You should know, of all people then, that a true magician? Never shares his secrets."

   "Hey. You're banging my niece, like a screen door in a tornado. We're all but family now."

   "Okay. The deck? Is a big stack of cards. All ace of spades, whole deck. Back face, airborne patch, motto death from above. It's a novelty deck. I had Merry play solitaire, so to speak, with that deck. To print the shit out of every card, front and back. I carefully picked the deck up. I handle only the edges of the deck. Handle every card, by only the edge. Easy. Her prints are the only ones on them. I can drop them, or slip them into a pocket? Touching only the edge."

   "I told Merry this once, and I meant it. I'm glad you're on our side. I'd hate to think of you out there, pursuing a life of crime."

   "Oh. I've committed many crimes. Too many to even count, in my life. But you know what? If every major crime requires intent as a component to be guilty? I've always had the purest of motives and intentions."

   "I do sleep a little easier, knowing that you'll be Merry's guardian angel."

   "Well. If you wanna call it that."

   "What would you call it?"

   "Off the record?"

   "We're family. Always."

   "Down at the equator? You know what was being done to the innocent villagers, I'm sure."

   "Oh. Yeah. Trust me, I know. That whole… situation? It's infamous. I wasn't kidding, when I told you once. The guys that worked on that? Were right down the hall from what I worked on. I know."

   "Well. Rob was my mentor. He used to sit me down, and we ate our MREs for lunch? Sitting right in the middle of it. After they went through the village. He always told me. Look around at it. Get used to it. This? Is what it looks like, when the devil is running wild on the earth. This is his work, this is what he does. God isn't pleased. God is very, very angry. In the ancient times, God would send the angel of death down, to set things right. But… the time of miracles is over, and God only works through men now."

   "So? Clearly, we're the angels of death. This? Is our job. God sent us here, to take care of this. To deliver the wrath of God himself, and wreak vengeance. With no mercy, no pity, and no remorse. Don't ever feel bad, or think you ever have anything to repent for it. You're here to do the Lord's own work. We're here to try to kill every single one of them, to the last man. If we get one alive? We'll do to him, what they're doing to these poor villagers, that you see here. An eye for an eye."

   "We'll take pictures, and send it to them, to prove it. We're part of Team Sigma, and we're the best. We'll have the highest body count. We'll be the most feared by the enemy, wherever we go. We'll leave our card on our victims, so they know exactly who did this, and that we're coming for them next. When you're doing the Lord's work? You can't be stopped. And you know something? After a little while, you get to believe it. It's a real, whole body rush, and it lasts. You can feel it, run through your veins."

   "Team Sigma. We go out and find the enemy, and radio back, to bring the main force up to engage. We're the first ones into the fight. We don't stop through the entire battle. When it's over? We don't stop. We follow them, if there's any left. We keep hitting them. We're the last ones out of the fight. We followed them in the monsoon season, when everyone fighting in the jungle normally takes a break. We'll find you, in your own camp. Sneak in the middle of the night, and kill you in your own bed. Leave our calling card, so you don't have to wonder who did it. We all had our own little thing, we wrote on our cards. All friendly and polite. Mine? See you soon, best wishes. Signed, Team Sigma, Delta Unit."

   "You boys have a… patch?"

   "Oh yeah. You don't just get your patch. When everyone likes a good one? They vote you get the patch. Ours? Charcoal gray background. Big, black spade. With a tilted black oval halo. The spade? Sign of death. Spade, shovel. Digs graves. The halo? Angel's halo, but it's black instead of white. Angels of death. It's tilted? That's old school. You look at the old photos, of the dangerous men that wore suits in the prohibition era, up through the 40s and 50s, when men still wore hats with their suits. Upstanding, civilized men? Wore their hats straight, and level and even. If you thought you were dangerous, and weren't ashamed to admit it openly? You tilted your hat. Always to the left, and always down."

   "The first Team Sigma, was composed of mainly half Navy Seals, and half Airborne Rangers. They were actually fist-fighting constantly, over what the patch should look like. The Seals wanted a fucking seal on the patch, and Airborne? They wanted their goddamn wings. Neither side would shut up or quit fighting over it, so? They had to have both. There's a goddamn cute little black seal, and he has fangs and big black wings. The only colors, other than charcoal behind black? Is dark red on the wings. And a drop of dark red blood, dripping off of the black halo. I don't wear it in public. Ever."

   "Why the hell not?"

   "Service guys think it's fake and made up. It pisses former Seals off, and it pisses former Airborne off, they all think you're ripping them off or making fun of them. I got a stack of the damn patches, brand new though. I keep them in a safe, tucked away. I keep one brand new patch? For every guy we ever lost, through the 12 tours I completed. Those are my brothers. They're waiting for me in Valhalla. They have my spot at the table, waiting and ready for me. When I finally die? Warrior maidens, the Valkyrim, will come to take me there. Valhalla is a perfect spring day, year round, for eternity. Every day? You enjoy a good fight. Every night? A great feast and party. Your wounds heal themselves, and you can do it every day. Forever."

   "What's wrong with the traditional heaven and hell…"

   "Heaven's for pussies. Hell? Is for faggots."

   "Oh."

   "The brave, live forever in Valhalla. Now then. The ancient Greeks, and the Romans? Had the Elysian fields. It's a permanent beautiful spring, with fields. Also? Rainbow's bridge. Very important, that's where the animals go when they die. The animals are waiting for their human they loved in life, and were close to. When you die, if you loved the animals, and at least one animal truly loved you? You stop there, and your animal or animals can find you. They're happy to finally meet you again, and they follow you on your journey, to be with you forever. Normally, a dead human just stops to be reunited with their animals, but… I have enough animals I was in love with in this life? Enough of them are there to speak for me, that I'm allowed to just stay with all the animals. I go where I want when I die, and who's going to stop me."

   "But.. Valhalla…"

   "Weren't you listening? Fine, spring fields. All of them. It's obviously all the same area. When I'm in the mood for a fight and a party, with my brothers? Valhalla. When I'm in the mood to just lay in the grass with my animals? The rainbow's bridge. I have zero interest in heaven, if that's going to be populated by all the annoying hypocrites I ever met in church."

   "You talk about it, like you look forward to dying."

   "Sure. Nothing wrong with death. It's nothing to worry about, it's nothing to ever be afraid of. Death is a part of life. Every living thing dies. Nothing to be afraid of. I don't wanna rush it? But, when it's my turn, well, it's my turn. Death is like that one member of your family, that you don't really like that much. Still family, though."

   "You're not afraid to die?"

   "No. I died before. Nothing to it. There's an old saying, and it really is true… the fear of death? Is much worse than death itself. It's 100 percent true. Not only is fear of dying futile, it ruins your whole life experience. Can't do this, it might kill me. Can't do that, I might die. Don't wanna risk the other, might cost me my life. Robs you of anything great in your life. And? There's no point in being afraid of it."

   Merry cut in.

   "Mike? Pay attention… you're going to just love this next part…"

   "I'm waiting."

   "You have to die, and be reborn. Not a figure of speech. You need to actually die, and cross over… then actually come back to life. Literally."

   "What do you mean…"

   "My brothers. To join? To be accepted? They ask for your permission to kill you, and bring you back. You have to give them your permission. I did. I wanted in. I guess the goddamn seals started this shit. Four guys each take your wrists and your ankles, and hold you under the water. Until you quit moving. The fifth man? Is feeling your heart beating. They wait, until the fifth man, declares that your heart quit beating. He counts to three. Then they bring you back. It's scary, but, it's pretty cool."

   "How in the hell is this cool."

   "Well, you're under water. Eventually, sooner or later, you try to breathe. You breathe in water. You try to scream, you can't help it. But nothing comes out. Pretty soon, it doesn't take long at all… you slow down, and quit moving. Everything slows down, like super slow motion. You can see people above you, but, they're very close, and far away at the same time. Blurry and dancing. You're looking through water. Then, all you can see is the light, dappling and dancing on the water. It's beautiful, it's the most amazing thing. And… you feel so damn calm, and it's really quiet and peaceful. Once you get there? It feels wonderful. It feels like you're floating. It seems like it takes forever. Then? There's this weird whoosh feeling, and you snap out of it. You see little white dots dancing around, and boom, you're back. Everyone's standing around, and smiling. You'd think you'd freak out, but… there's this… super thick calm all around you. They ask you if you'll agree to do it again. I said yes, get it over with."

   "Christ, you let them kill you twice?"

   "The second time? That's just a test. A joke. They get you up and walking around, and there's a big party waiting for you. You? Are the guest of honor. Everyone, and I mean everyone… shakes your hand, hugs you, kisses your cheek. You're now a lifelong brother. Men swear they'll die for you if it comes to it. You now belong somewhere. With the best men to be found anywhere. The smartest. The strongest. The bravest. The most devious. These men? Are your blood brothers, your brothers in arms. After a few drinks, people ask you. What was it like? What did you see? How was it? Was dying scary? Or, did it feel good. I had to admit, it was warm, it was peaceful, it actually did feel good, once you get over the initial shock of it. For the rest of your life? You never again fear death or dying. You already know, when it happens? It'll be no big deal, it'll feel wonderful…"

   "Will you be insulted, if I find this a little… insane?"

   "Not at all. It's not for everyone. Over 99.99 percent of the men on this planet? Will go through their entire life, missing out, because they fear death the entire time. But, the scariest and the most honorable and feared men to be found on this whole planet… take you in, for one of their own. You swear death before dishonor? And you believe it, and they believe you. I'm telling you, after you go over, then come back? There's this… strange but wonderful calm and peaceful feeling all over you. It stays with you, and I swear to God himself… it stays with you and it never, ever leaves you. After that? There's absolutely nothing, in the entire world, that you need to be afraid of. You can be hurt? But, you'll most likely live. If you do happen to die? It's no longer scary. There's nothing, that anyone or anything can ever do to you, that you need to fear. Ever."

   "Your buddy Rob. He was there, wasn't he."

   "There? He was our leader. The leader, is always the fifth man. The one that feels your heartbeat fade and quit. He's the last face you see as you go under the water, he's the big face you see under the water, blurry. Then, when you whoosh back into your body? He's the one that pushed on your heart, and started it. It has religious overtones. Think about this. You actually die, and you're actually reborn. Literally. We all knew Rob had done missionary work, before joining the service, then joining the team. We knew he was really religious, and took it seriously. He wanted to become a professional minister when he was done doing the Lord's work down there. It's done in water, it's like some kind of… baptism. He actually killed me, and then brought me back to life. We jokingly called him the messiah because of that part, and he always got piss-y about that, so, we called him the shotgun messiah instead. So we avoided the blasphemy, cause that would really set him off."

   "You realize, that you're all insane, right? I don't mean it as an insult."

   "None taken. Maybe we are. Probably are. But… Mike… you said you saw the pictures and videos. You know what was going on down there, right?"

   "Yeah…"

   "Now, that? Is crazy. What they were doing before we got there. Completely nuts, off the fucking reservation. Out there like Pluto. Who in the hell are you gonna send down there, to deal with that shit. You have no choice, if you want to even put a dent in that crazy shit. You simply have to find people that are even crazier, to go up against that, and put a stop to it, right? Seriously. Sane and rational people, will flee in terror, because the devil himself is after them. And they're right, he is. What's needed then, is to find people that aren't afraid of the devil himself, and you send them after the devil. You fight the devil and his works, and you chase him back to hell. You don't quit, until you're dead, or the devil now fears you and your band of merry men."

   "I just love, how you make this sound reasonable. Logical."

   "It is, when you really think about it."

   "Merry? I can sort of understand everything, I think. But… for the love of God… you have three degrees in psychology. Please tell me, you admit the part about having your friends kill you, and bring you back to life, is the best thing in the world, and everyone should do it… is insane."

   Merry didn't answer him.

   "Hello?"

   "Uh, Mike? Did you not read the medical report or something, maybe. Someone poisoned me, and my tongue and throat swelled up and cut my air completely off. I was dead. The last thing I saw? Was him. He looked down at me, saw me struggling. He walked over, grabbed something, and came back. Stood over me, and waited until I quit moving. I found out later? He had to wait until I stopped moving, because he was going to take a knife to my throat and open it up. I had to be still, and that was the only way."

   "You were almost dead. Not dead."

   "Mike? After I quit moving… I floated. It was like, I floated up, and was bumping against the rafters in the cabin. Seemed to take forever, but… next thing I noticed, there was a whoosh feeling like he described, and it felt like I snapped back into my body. Before I snapped back, I was floating, bumping the rafters… then I could see my own body. My face. Like I was floating above it, looking down at myself, but… I could see I was dead. My eyes were open, and bugged out of my head. My tongue was swollen up and out my mouth. My eyes were completely bloodshot, like a vampire. My lips and skin were fucking blue."

   "When I whooshed back in? I was suddenly back on the bed, inside myself again… and there was this explosion of air and blood spraying, and I could fight air in and out, but only with huge effort. Then, he shoves this tube in my throat, and the air came easy again, just not enough of it. I got him to take it out, and cut me more, and put a bigger tube in. Then? I could calm down some. He was the last thing I saw before I checked out of the body hotel, and the first thing I saw when I checked back in. He definitely brought me back to life. It really hurts to not be able to breathe… maybe water feels better. I don't know."

   "I almost walked around after I went out to piss that night. I walked back in, and found that going on. I wish I hadn't of gone out to take a piss. You wouldn't have had to wait as long to get air again. But, thank god I didn't go for the short walk."

   "I know once I calmed down, after I could breathe through the bigger tube. He… held me, and it felt really warm and sweet. He held me all the way on the slow ride to the hospital emergency room, it's quite a drive and longer when you have to go slow. He was the last thing I saw when they put me under, to work on me. Then he was there when I woke up. Every time I went to sleep and woke back up, there he was. He never left my side once. I had to make him leave to go to the lab and get the… lab work on the evidence."

   "So. What's it like, to have a boyfriend that's… a little insane."

   "Mm. In psychology? We don't use the words sane and insane. Those are strictly legal terms. If someone is killing people and eating them? They promptly declare them sane, to hold trial. When they're clearly a raving nut-ball. Crazy? That's a layman's term. It just means something is different, and we don't understand it."

   "So… what's it like."

   "Hm. I curl up and go to sleep, laying up against the angel of death every night. It's… a deep, restful sleep. You gotta remember. In my room in DC? Something came and went bump in the middle of the night. He bumped back, harder. It makes me feel warm and safe. Little kids and animals like him. He's actually really sweet and gentle."

   "I'm afraid to ask, almost…"

   "And…"

   "Panic? Someone has tried to…"

   "Oh. Go on and say it."

   "Someone has tried to… kill her. What, three times now? I'm gonna lose track soon, I gotta get a scorecard to keep it straight. I'm almost afraid to ask, what you would do, if someone got lucky, and…"

   "Oh, that. I'm sure you can guess that one out on your own. Wouldn't take much imagination to arrive at a… somewhat correct conclusion."

   "Yeah, that was an obvious one."

   "Tell you the truth? Merry herself would most likely strike from the grave. Not only would people get nervous? I would generate true, supernatural fear in them."

   "Oh. Interesting. And how would Merry's ghost strike from the grave. As a magician? Call it professional curiosity."

   "First off. I'd actually be pissed. That's all I'd say about that aspect of it. But… there would be a card, right out in the open. Laying on what was left of them. The killer's prints, on the card?"

   "Ooh. I can see the headlines now. The Ghost Killer, strikes again."

   "Until death do we part. Maybe not even then."

   "You're way too good at this."

   "After high school? Merry went to college. Then a graduate degree. Before she got on with her career."

   "Okay."

   "I went to the Air Force. Kinda like my college. Then? I went and got my masters, so to speak. Merry's master's thesis? Male female human relations, I think. My master's thesis, was on a… different subject. I'm what is known as the fifth profession."

   "Eh?"

   "You ever hear… women sleeping with men, for gain? Is the worlds oldest profession."

   "Sure."

   "That was the first profession. Human females? Needed protection. Needed helped out with food and protection, particularly when they were carrying children, then more so because they have to raise the little toddlers for years. They naturally learned to trade sex and affection… for that food and protection. It's why humans tend to stay with each other, even after mating season is over. Not all animals do that. That was the first specialized job. The first profession. So? We call that the world's oldest profession."

   "There were others…"

   "Yes. A lot of animals? Every one of them does the same stuff to live. Humans? Started dividing up into jobs. Specializing. Hunting and gathering? Was another one. Then making things. Craft-work. Finally? Farming. These were the second, third, fourth professions."

   "What was the fifth?"

   "Well… now we have women trading sex and affection for food and protection. We have people hunting and gathering food. We have people making things. Spears, jewelry, huts, whatever. Then farms. So, a new job emerged. The men that protect everything. They don't go hunting, they stay and practice how to protect the villagers. Protect the women and the children and the old people. Protect the crops and the herd animals from theft by raiders. That? Was the fifth profession."

   "In the modern world, all these professions still exist."

   "Of course. It's inborn in us. We are… drawn to one of these careers, over the others. Most women? Feel an urge to mate up with a man, and take care of the children and the hut. Some men, just like to work with their hands. They get their first taste of a tool in their hands? It feels good, it feels right to them. You might be a lawyer by trade, but… you come home and have a passion for woodworking. That's a primal urge. A farmer? Will tell you, they just like walking around, and seeing things growing, and seeing their herds. It's primal."

   "I see. You're saying, that the professional… protector. That's an urge to do it, in the blood."

   "Sure is. Think, Mike. How many cop families are out there. How many military families there are. Boxing families. A man might be an administrative aide by day? But… he works on his yard, he picks up this brush ax, swings it around a few times… it feels good in his hands. Modern as he is, he can just close his eyes, and imagine galloping a horse, and lopping off heads with that tool. Part of a pack of men doing it."

   "He's surprised by this. He's been taught to suppress that urge, but, he can't help it. Sure, he can buy an electric trimmer, but… for some reason he likes getting grandpa's old brush ax out, and using it. He smiles as he lops off saplings with it. He fools around when he thinks no one's looking, and practices swinging it around better. It's his guilty pleasure. Such a man? Went to school and work for modern money, not to make himself happy. A lot of us? We all but ruin our lives, by not obeying these inner, primal urges."

   "Merry. My darling niece… you're take on this?"

   "Yeah. I could work a paper up on this. There's surely empirical evidence to be statistically demonstrated, that sons of farmers tend strongly to be farmers. People will anecdotally trot out the nature vs. nurture argument. Oh, if you raise a son to be something, he will. But… I could find cases where a lawyer or a doctor learns his great grandfather came from a long line of farmers, and realizes that's why he likes having a big property, and taking care of it himself on the weekends. How many times would you hear some story about an orphan, raised by musicians… and just wants to race cars. Finds out later on that his father and grandfather were race-car drivers. It would be an inherited trait."

   Mike giggled.

   "What?"

   "When I was a teenager. I used to go hiking, and… you know how you have a hiking stick?"

   Panic smiled.

   "A staff…"

   "Yeah. I made them. How long, what kind of wood. How thick, what the taper should be. Pointed or rounded ends… it's hard to get the perfect hiking stick. Then, how to decorate it… just right… then? Yeah. I'd be alone, and started learning to swing it around, to jab with it. It's definitely, some kind of… urge."

   Panic shrugged.

   "See? Everyone wanted you to just go to college, and what did you want to do. You, wanted to get your degree, and become an officer. In the service. You felt that tug, that pull. Now tell me, when you finally got there… felt right, didn't it?"

   "Yeah. It did. I knew I'd never make as much money as in the business world, but… I knew it was me. My mom, my dad? Didn't understand. Put everything in my path to keep me from it they could. My uncle? He understood, somehow."

   Panic smiled.

   "Humans are tribal. We tend to click up. Hang out in similar groups. Guys that were ever in the service? They like finding another one somewhere. You sit. You eat and talk. You hang out at work. Artists? They don't like hanging out with the jocks, they like hanging out with each other."

   Merry agreed.

   "Women? Tend strongly to gather in groups, and gab."

   Mike and Panic exchanged glances, and Panic said it.

   "You don't seem to. Honestly, you avoid sitting at the girl's table when we stop in for morning donut and coffee. You just naturally sit with me and the cops. Hell, you talk about high school sports, like one of the guys."

   "It's no secret. I don't get along with girly girls very well. I'd just as soon hang out with the guys instead. Now, you get me around girls like me, that played sports? Well… how did you see me do, hanging out with the racquetball girls, eh?"

   "Yeah. That's your click. Your tribe. Mike, you ever go and see that?"

   "Her racquetball club? Yeah. Seen it once or twice. Is it just me, or do those girls play rough…"

   Merry smiled.

   "Panic liked watching. I just knew it would get his goat. That's why I took him. His little eyes about bugged out. It was cute."

   "Mike? You give me a choice between going to the strip club, and going to watch that racquetball club? No contest. I was worried I was going to get a chubby."

   "I've let Panic look at… girls, on the internet? On my laptop. Now, any other guy, would head right to whatever free porn site they like to look at. Mine? Oh, no way. What do I find in my browsing history. Girls boxing. Not that powder puff cutesy boxing, either. Girls actually boxing. Women's judo championships. Women's Olympics. I got his type, down pat."

   "Really. What's my type then."

   "Every one of them, that you watched more than once. Tall. Strong. Leg muscle. Girls that are in shape, but filled out. No stick girls."

   "Maybe, I knew you were able to see that, and I just wanted you to feel good about yourself, you know."

   "No. I use your laptop too. You don't give three shits, you don't erase your history, you don't care. Same thing. Well, same thing once I get past all the… invisible lasers and shit like that."

   "Hey. Infrared lasers, give me a chubby."

   "Yeah, I know. So does glass, apparently. You spent two and a half hours, browsing a… used magnifying glass place…"

   "Yeah. Those are imaging lenses. I'm not spending 400 dollars on a brand new main objective lens, when there's a place that sells surplus lenses, that do the same exact thing… for 5 or 10 bucks a piece. It's a piece of glass, for Christ's sake."

   Mike was curious.

   "The hell are you making with lenses?"

   "Well, have you ever priced specialty camera lenses, particularly things in the F 1.0 range? The prices are just obscene. Camera buffs, have way too much money to spend. There's a place, that buys old optical equipment, and takes apart all the old lenses, and sorts them out and lists the lenses specs. I machine up my own parts, and I know how to pick and choose the lenses I want to put together, to do what I want. I can make my own thousand dollar camera lens, that works fine, for… under fifty bucks, if I don't count my time."

   "Panic? How in the hell do you go from… hanging out with your… fifth profession buddies… to that?"

   Merry smiled.

   "Mister angel of death here? Is a dyed in the wool, honest to god… geek."

   Mike laughed.

   "Yeah, I kinda already knew that. At the Hoover building, they wondered where he was, when they went looking for him? Down in the basement, hanging out with the computer crew. The guys come in late at night, on the weekends, and have little… computer parties of some kind… Junior took him. Just so you know, Panic…"

   "Yeah?"

   "You disrupted the normal social fabric of the Hoover building. Ever since you discovered Merry and you guys ended up leaving DC? Apparently, we have computer nerds roaming through the homicide wing now. Looking for some guy they call Redbeard. They play some game at lunch, and, apparently you're… missed. You upset the natural order of things."

   "Oh. Good. Fuck the natural order of things. Junior G, went from tech to agent, didn't he? Anyone ever stop to think, there might be a few more of them down there… probably not. All you… football jock agents? Are wasting potentially valuable resources, with your retarded cave man social rules."

   "Panic? You said it yourself. People naturally click up, in little tribes. The… techs, and the agents? They just don't… gel. It's been tried, it's a recipe for constant, low level friction."

   "Really? JG fits in fine."

   "JG? Is a special case. Having a full agent, that just happens to speak geek, and has expertise with surveillance? Fills a hole."

   "Mike? You, of all people… should understand this one. How many special forces spooks have you run in your career? Tons, I bet. It's called cross training. When everyone on the team cross trains, and finds other specialties they can do? Smaller and smaller teams, can do the work of bigger groups of men."

   "We know this, Panic. Agents that show aptitude for specialties? Get promoted, get moved around… until they seem to be in just the right place. But, you start mixing the basement techs, and the agents on the upper floors? It's a recipe for disaster. We've been down this road. It just doesn't work."

   "Permission to speak freely, sir."

   "Permission granted."

   "This friction, as you call it. Boys being boys. Fucking with each other. Grade-school shit. Correct?"

   "Great. You understand. We have enough to do, trying to manage everything, without all that going on. It's easier, to just keep them separated."

   "No. The main problem, the friction? Is mainly going in one direction. From agent to tech. The real problem? Is that no one lays down the law."

   Merry was clearly amused, watching these two go back and forth. She had her chin in her hand and was enjoying this.

   "No, the friction? Goes both ways, mister. Those little assholes had the entire building erasing their hard drives, and thought it was funny. I bet you have no concept, of how many cases got fucked up, because hard drives on laptops were getting smoked, all over the building. The director? Was pulling his goddamn hair out over that little gem… more than one dangerous criminal? Got away because of that shit… I know, you were a field agent. Well, I'm telling you, you should just try management sometime, it's a monumental pain in the ass."

   "This friction, going both ways? I can tell you, yeah it goes back and forth, but… it always starts in one direction. Eventually? Yeah, people defend themselves and it starts going back the other way. The problem? The main problem, mind you… is that no one will lay down the law, and put the football jocks in their fucking place. We're at work, we're professionals, we will not be fucking around like this. You have to make a few hard examples? Then… you'll get somewhere. Instead? Everyone just sits back, and goes oh, it's normal, boys will be boys… we'll just let all the football players act like assholes. Until… the techs, well… got them back, with that little hard drive rumor? Then… all hell breaks loose. Other cultures? Don't do this shit. They think America is a bunch of retards, for this."

   "Listen to yourself. You sound like one of those touch-y feel-y, everybody should just get along assholes."

   "Mike? Let me make my case."

   "Okay."

   "Do this simple experiment. I want you to imagine, that you send a full agent, some big tough guy… down to the basement computer lab. For some purpose. Now, imagine you send him down with instructions, that he is not to start… fucking with the guys. He's to be quiet, ask questions, let them show him… whatever it is he's there for. If he follows your instructions, you can see it working, right?"

   "Yeah."

   "Now. I want you to imagine the reverse situation. The tech, is sent up to homicide, with the same instructions. Now… you? Tell me… what do you think will start going on. Be honest…"

   Mike sighed.

   "I can see it on your face? You know. And in your heart of hearts? You now know, that I'm right, don't you…"

   Mike was more reserved now.

   "Panic? The FBI, is not the only organization in America, that encounters this. This? Is all over."

   "Let me ask you something, Mike. When the big problem exploded, the hard drives getting smoked. Who got screamed at. Who got disciplined."

   "Oh, Christ. The director went down there, and chewed asses off for an hour straight."

   "Yeah. Now… we both know how the agents act, when they have to stop down in the computer lab for something. We know the things they say, the things they do. That's where this shit starts. Why isn't anyone addressing the root of the problem? Some how, some way… football jocks are some valuable resource, and techs are just… replaceable pieces of shit. Can I give you a completely different example?"

   "Sure."

   "Cops. City forces. You got guys with guns and badges, that go out on the streets. You also have a ton of guys, running the computers, running the radios, doing all the paperwork that needs done. Those guys? Wear uniforms and have badges, too. But… how many times, have we both heard… some cop complain. I'm a real cop. I carry a gun. Those fucking pansies? They don't deserve to be issued badges and uniforms. They're not real cops, they're eggheads. Am I right?"

   Mike sighed longer, slower, and louder.

   "Now. We all know this is going on. All day, every day. Now, I know the truth of the matter. That guy with a gun, a badge, and a cruiser out there? He ain't worth a squirt of piss… without that radio. Homicide… if being a tough guy was such a valuable resource, why are more and more homicides solved with databases and computers. Hmm? Keeping accurate records… a hallmark of something that separates us from the animals. How well are the cops in records treated, when they go out to the cop bar, hmm? I already know. I just want you to admit it."

   "Okay. I see your point."

   "Now then. All this friction, is mainly going… one way, isn't it? I heard this all day long in the service. Some infantry guy, always complaining he's a real soldier. The pussies in the offices? Shouldn't be given uniforms to wear out in town, they're pretending to be real soldiers. Now, I know the truth. For every guy in the field, carrying an M-16? You have 12 to 14 support units on the supply side. Without a warehouse and truck shipping and air transport… that M-16 guy is all but useless. He needs ammo, he needs food, hell… he needs clean socks, or he won't be effective in combat."

   "You're just noting the problem, you're not able to solve it."

   "The rest of it is simply this. These so called real soldiers. So called real cops… they're allowed, and even all but encouraged… to do whatever they want, say what they want, all day long. No one will do anything. But, the instant someone thinks it's funny to send the truck of clean socks to the wrong location, to send some friction back their way? Oh… there's hell to pay."

   "So, what are you saying?"

   "The problem? Is with management. There are no bad students, only bad teachers. Other cultures don't do this. They think we're a nation of retards because of this. This? Is a problem, unique to western Europeans and Americans. Get around some Russians. Koreans. Chinese. Japanese. You'll quickly see… the tough guys? Playing chess. Reading literature. Getting a college degree. Now. Let me ask you… start naming some of the famous historical warrior cultures. The ones you want to emulate. Go on…"

   "Well. I was always impressed with the Spartans. I mean. who isn't…"

   "Excellent choice. One of the earliest examples of special forces, basically, right?"

   "Yep."

   "All those men? Were highly educated. Math. Geometry. Philosophy. Literature. They were encouraged to do… egghead stuff. Thucydides, thousands of years ago, in Greece. Summed it up nicely. Any culture that separates its warriors from its scholars? Will have its thinking done by cowards, and its fighting done by fools. The Romans? Stole everything off of the Greeks, so, they had this too. You probably look up to the Samurai? Most warriors do. Those men were encouraged to paint, sculpt, do calligraphy, poetry… all things in their day that were considered intellectual things. In fact? Every one of these great famous warrior societies? Had this, it was the secret ingredient. Every. Single. Time. The ancient Chinese… why do you think we're still reading the art of war, by Sun Tzu. You know all this, Mike… you just don't see it."

   Mike didn't say anything. He just sat and you could see the cogs turning.

   "Let's now go the exact opposite direction. Michelangelo. Excellent example of the true renaissance man. What we he good at. You tell me."

   "Oh. Famous painter, sculptor, inventor, scientist… man of many talents. Everyone knows that."

   "Yes. He was, and is… known and remembered, for his many intellectual pursuits. Would it amaze you, to learn that if you read about his life… that he was quite a tough guy?"

   "Really."

   "Oh yes. You see, a sculptor. Spent all day, every day, for years… with a hammer and a chisel. Sculptors had these strong hands and arms. These guys looked like blacksmiths. People didn't fuck with sculptors. They were hard asses. Think about it. Anyways… though remembered for the other stuff, Michelangelo was also known to be an expert horseback rider. An archer. Apparently, quite good at fighting and fencing, too. Lots of… tough guy things. He was quite… macho."

   "Hmm."

   "Every one of these famous, highly effective… warrior societies, that everyone fawns over? They all have only one thing in common. They were smart enough, not to separate their scholars and their warriors. They encouraged everyone to do both… and it made them what they were. America? Well, it all speaks for itself. Look at most. Not all, but most politicians. Making the decisions when and for what reason to go to war. Then? Spend some time with your average Marine grunt. Not all mind you, but… again, the average. If you don't come to the conclusion, that our thinking is being done by cowards, and our fighting is being done by largely fools? Monkeys are going to fly out of my ass."

   "Mike. Lots of guys that can shoot well, don't make it through sniper school, let alone advanced sniper school. A few other things like attitude and morals aside… the number one main reason guys that shoot well wash out? They can't do the math. Ballistics is all higher mathematics. Yeah, you can carry a smart phone or a tablet to do it for you, but… you have to understand it to use it effectively. Sniper school instructors? Wish more people interested in being warriors, had more higher math in high school."

   "Really?"

   "It's a fact. Ask Rob. Ask Speedy. Now, look at special forces. Every branch has one. Do you know the real thing they're looking for?"

   "Go on…"

   "Lots of guys are around the service. They can do the running, hump the heavy packs. The swimming, the fighting, the shooting, the hand to hand combat. Tons of them, to be fair about it. They wash out based on lack of intelligence. They're looking for fit, capable warriors with the right attitude and mind set… that just happen to have a high IQ."

   Mike was taking it all in.

   "Everyone thinks I'm so goddamned rare, being a half a tough guy, that happens to be a geek, too. I wasn't effective in combat, in spite of being smart… it's the main reason. Now, here's the naked truth of the matter. IQ? Is given at birth. Sports ability? Most of it comes from working on it, natural talent aside. You can take someone with a high IQ, and get them involved in any sporting activity you can interest them in. But… try taking a sports star, and try raising their IQ if it isn't already there. Good luck with that one."

   Mike was cog turning again, and Merry was grinning from ear to ear, now with both hands supporting her chin on the table, fingers up her cheeks. Eyes working back and forth watching this debate wind down.

   "This is an advanced state of anti-intellectualism, is all it is. Pure and simple. It's already bad in America, it's getting worse… and it's killing us from within. America? Was not like this, prior to world war two. This is some new, post war phenomenon. I don't know where it came from, I don't know who started it, I don't know who egged it on and helped perpetuate it, but, if someone doesn't put a stop to it? We are going the way of the Romans. When the Romans abandoned the Greek ideal of melding the intellectuals and the warriors together? They slowly fell apart, just like we're falling apart."

   Mike chewed his cud more.

   "World war two? Was won primarily, through intellectual achievement. Sure, the fighting men were a key ingredient, but… it was all to no avail without several big geeky ingredients. Cracking the enigma code? Couple thousand mathematicians allowed us to read the Japanese and the German radio intercepts. That, and that alone? Would have cost us several key battles that would have lost the war. We never would have been able to start shooting down kamikazes, without the invention of what's knows as the proximity fuse. That's a metal detecting circuit, to allow a flak round shot at planes to go off automatically when it's near metal. Invented by the HAM radio guys that joined the service. The HAMs also invented several important radio advancements, and as we all know… military and cops are all but useless without great communications. Can you say radar?"

   "And who the fuck do you think, won the race to build the first atomic bomb, hmm? Theoretical physicists. At the end of the war, a stray German submarine was found, bound for Japan who was still in the war… on it was a fully working Messerschmitt, in pieces. The worlds first, working jet fighter. Along with a large quantity of fissionable material. The Germans, defeated, were sending their best to Japan, to let them have the benefit of jet fighters and fuel for atomic bombs. You came this goddamn close, to losing that war, hands down, without the dedication of the geek squad."

   Mike sighed yet again.

   "Okay. Let's say, that I see your point you're making. Question… why are you going through all this with me?"

   "Because. Number one. You're one of the few higher ups in the Hoover building, that wasn't on a football scholarship and president of some fraternity. Number two. Military Intelligence. Running assets. You know the value of special forces. You? Are a stagecoach driver. You run long term cases, you manage things. Number three. Without JG? I never would have been able to catch the two girls that almost killed your niece."

   "Really?"

   Merry nodded her head in agreement, supported on her hands.

   "I didn't fully realize that."

   "If JG didn't have the tight relationship with the IT techs in the basement? We wouldn't have our own private server. If JG hadn't asked me offhand, about the test cameras left running at the camp? The case wouldn't have got cracked and Merry would still be in danger in that small town. Mike, no disrespect, but… you're up to your ass in football scholarship guys, that managed to get passing grades in business administration. Not exactly the intellectual cream of the crop. Senior? I actually like him, but… half of his life is dedicated to going out drinking, and fucking all the other agents wives. Reminds me of a grown up football player, living at a frat house."

   "I've watched him treat Junior G, like some kind of comedy relief character, for a while now. JG… is smart as a whip. And because he's a tech-y turned agent? The techs all respect him, and will move heaven and earth for him. I watched him pick up the phone, late at night on a weekend? And had a small army of computer techs he was buddies with, put down their weekend free time gaming, and all got on the server, to give us manpower to quickly find the one video out of thousands we needed. JG, walked in. Had the big idea that worked, and was able to mobilize free manpower. Junior G, with his geek squad for backup? Basically solved that case within a couple hours flat."

   "I knew he helped you, I didn't realize…"

   "Well? Now you do. I don't apologize for it, but… I'm done… hitting you over the head with this. Okay?"

   "No. It's fine. I… need told things like this. And people don't tell me."

   "Do you want to know why?"

   "You're guessing, but… go on…"

   "Let my gaze into my crystal ball. JG gets okay reviews. I mean, I don't exactly know how you guys do brownie points there. How many of what kind of brownie point you need to get to the next step on your little Hoover ladder. He gets okay reviews. Not great or even good ones."

   "You been snooping somehow? Using your IA contact…"

   "No. Just my crystal ball, and my ESP. Am I right though?"

   "Normally? I'd have to look it up. But, since I've been coaching this one… seen it recently. It doesn't leave this van, but… yeah. You're right. How do you know that?"

   "Easy. Frat football boss. Always fucking with him just because he can. The kid's smart. He's street smart on top of book smart, he just doesn't realize it himself yet. Boss like Senior… won't give that up unless he has to. Smart, polite, eager to please go getter? That's like gold to Senior to have a gopher at his beck and call. He'll take all the credit. Credit for any good ideas JG kicks out. Credit for managing all the nights and weekends JG puts in with a smile on his face. In the end? Senior wants to try to use that, and others like JG he's doing it to… like a car jack to lift him to the next level. Senior will never give a kid like that, making him look good, great reviews. He don't wanna lose his golden gopher. The best JG can hope for? Is Senior either takes him with him, if he gets where he wants to… and he stays the gopher. Or? He just leaves him and gets two more to replace him. Anyone says anything, Senior hands out the old… oh, you gotta pay your dues speech."

   "Wow. You do listen when I talk to you. Senior's bird-shitting. Senior will just claim… hey, that's good management on my part. I'm using the resources I'm given."

   "No. Me and you? We know way better than that, Mike. Senior was actively burying the name and phone number we needed, to solve this case in one year, not two. Mike? These people aren't embezzling money, they're killing people to steal. They have a hunting season. Year in, year out. Senior sleeps just fine at night, letting another year's worth of innocent victims get suicide-d. So he can time it to his best advantage. So he can put points on the board."

   Mike sighed. He was sighing a lot during this conversation.

   "I agree with most of what you say. I knew or surmised some of this, but… I didn't think it was this bad. Let's say… I was looking at the best possible case, while you're looking at the worst possible case. The actual truth? Probably somewhere in the middle. Maybe closer to your side than mine, but… how's that?"

   "That's fine. Mike, you know I won't lie to you about this stuff. I have no motive. When my case is done? I'm done, I'm outta here. I have no motivation to do anything but just tell the truth. And as we all know? Telling the truth, ain't always the most popular activity."

   "No. You? You're an outsider. You see things and notice things, that we don't always see. Because we're blind to it. Because we're used to seeing it every day all year long. I like to gather opinions. I particularly like to gather fresh opinions. I learned that trick off of IA. What's yours."

   "My opinion? I just told you."

   "You presented me the problem. Do you have any opinions on any kind of solution? Give me ideas."

   "Right off the bat. JG has been… denied 5 star reviews, to prevent Senior losing his golden gopher. I have no idea what agents consider brownie points to look like. What do they like getting?"

   "Well? It's a big organization. Not unlike the regular service you're used to. Suit instead of a uniform. GS pay scales. Everyone has the same suit, the same haircut, wears the same watches and ties and shoes. It's hard to stand out and get noticed. Agents crave attention. You remember being in school, sometimes the teacher might pick one paper out and read it to the class, pat them on the head?"

   "Yeah… an at-a-boy."

   "Right. That serves multiple functions. Not only does it reward the kid that did something great? It also gently reminds the other students what the teacher is looking for. This? Is what I want. Publicity. That's a huge reward. Agents just love it when they get their picture in a newspaper. You've seen this. Press conference. Mayor and Chief give a little speech. Agent gets the key to the city award or some shit. It's a ten second clip on the local news, it hits the local papers. Agents? Love it. They hang a copy of that newspaper on the wall, and show it off."

   "Just like the teacher reading the paper to the class serves other purposes? This does too. The bureau? Gets good publicity. Makes us look good. Reminds people that when we come to town? We're not there to bust balls, we're there to help, to do some good. Instead of getting static from the local cops, if the locals treat the agent well and work with him? That agent can pick up the phone, and get big boy toys brought in. Real resources, that the locals don't have."

   "Also… when some higher up gets a promotion, there's an empty spot on the next rung of the ladder. I won't lie. Assistant directors? Don't really know all the little guys. They can't, they're only human. The assistant directors? Depend on guys like Senior, to tell them who deserves to go up to the next step. Now. A picture in the paper, a news clip? That attracts attention to a little guy. Assistant directors? Want winners. They want results. That newspaper article… documents a winner. That got results. Chances are? He can win and get results again."

   "Hmm. In your classroom, teachers don't read a kid's paper and pat them on the head."

   "Actually… well, when an assistant director comes around, everyone cringes. Everyone's about to get an ass chewing. Usually. It's a pleasant surprise, when an assistant director comes in, and asks for agent Smith… and instead of a public ass chewing, like Smith is expecting? He gets an at-a-boy, and everyone gets the… hey, this is what I expect speech. You know the drill, come on kid, let's go to lunch. So you can tell me and my boss how you did this. That happens? Hoo boy… everyone is jealous as a motherfucker."

   "How often does that happen?"

   Mike laughed.

   "Ass chewing-s are more common that at-a-boy speeches and happy lunches. Reason being? Bosses take credit, and hand out blame. Bosses get the lunches, and the underlings get the ass chewing-s. This creates a culture of bullshit. Who wants to spend years working nights and weekends, going the extra mile… when the rewards go to guys that didn't do it? And all you get is blamed when the guys that take credit need someone to point the finger at. It's hard to change it."

   "How do you guys fight that?"

   "The general way an assistant director gently lets a senior agent know he should be promoting an underling? The senior agent gets his usual lunch date to touch base, and he says something like… hey, you know that kid you got, that Smith guy? Boy, do I like him. I been noticing what a good job that kid's been doing, and not even getting any credit for it. I wanna see some more of him, I might have plans for him. You? Good job, bringing him along so well. I knew I made you a senior agent for a good reason… keep it up."

   "Senior agent gets patted on the head, but…"

   "Yeah. Answer me this, would you?"

   "Sure."

   "How in the hell did you not think to check the surveillance? I mean, the cameras are there, specifically because it was a great place to field test them, make sure everything is working good, before we put them in the field."

   "Honestly? JG had me help him put them all up on the main trail. I don't know how I thought he took them down and took his toys back home with him when he left at the end of that long weekend… now that I have to think about it? Fucking things are blending right in. I mean, I know where they all are… and I been walking right past them and not noticing it. I feel like an idiot."

   Mike chuckled.

   "Go on. Tease me. I deserve it. The answer was right under my nose, and I missed it."

   Mike now grew his chuckle into laughter.

   "Nope. I'm looking at this another way, Panic. You know where all the cameras are? And you didn't even see them. For weeks. Walking right past them. That tells me… how good a job JG did putting them up. Imagine how good this is going to work… against strangers that don't know they're even there, let alone where they are. Huh? We're in the money on this one."

   "Yeah? Yeah… thanks. That does make me feel a little better."

   "Good. In case you're wondering how this case got stalled? Here's the outline. As we all know? We have a bunch of late middle age football frat guys. Senior agents. Right?"

   "Yeah."

   "Okay. Here's how this works. There's a lot of cases come and go through our doors and through our offices. We try to pick the winners out of the piles. Here's how your case got put on the red tape treadmill. It looks, like it could be a winner. Senior? Is a quarterback. He knows a winning play when he sees one. Now, yeah… he was trying to use it. Hold it back another year, so he could try to time it to his best advantage. That's not the only thing going on."

   "Well?"

   "If Senior were to get lucky. Hold it back until the assistant directorship opens up? He needs friends. For one thing? You wouldn't know this, but… we not only get reviewed by our bosses? We review each other. Senior would need friends… good reviews… from all the other senior's… to have a chance to get the promotion. And, once he was there? He would definitely need friends more than ever. No assistant director can accomplish anything, if the senior agents under him don't wanna help him. Now. How does he generate this? Glad you asked. He does this, by taking a winner around, and showing everyone. Hey, look-y what I have here boys. Everyone ooh's and ahh's what a lucky bastard he is, this came across his desk, in his office. Then? Everyone wants their name on it. That's where all the extra meetings come from."

   "Really?"

   "Yes. All the PR meetings. If PR is happy and owes him for getting in on it? PR will return that favor, if he makes it up into the big office. Everyone likes to have a friend in the big office. They can pick up the phone, and get things. The guy that just landed the big office? They need friends below them, so they can get a quick response when they pick up the phone. It works both ways. It's going on with other departments too. Legal. Budget. The solvability team. An assistant director that isn't friendly with those departments? Can't get anything done. Those departments don't have a good working relationship with the assistant directors? They can't get anything done."

   "That's not the best way to get things done, Mike."

   "No. It certainly isn't. But? It's the way things are, and it's the reality of the situation. This is a big organization, and like it or not, it's a team. Like it or not, there's no other way. Now. You interested in how things got this way? There's a reason, and it was a good thing at one time."

   "Sure."

   "Go back in time. To Hoover's early days. The FBI was initially? Composed of guys from world war two. Commandos. Guys that were itching for a chance to get the enemy, and wouldn't back down from a fight. Remember. They were up against prohibition era organized crime and viscous gangsters. Their job was to ambush and kill the top ten most wanted thugs. Because local police were outmatched, out-manned, and outgunned. Then? After that was out of the way… the rough stuff wasn't cutting it. Remember, police work back then? Was done with a gun and a billy club. Interviews were conducted with a phone book upside the head. Yeah, it was a thug mentality. Threaten people, and smack confessions out of informants. Hoover? Despite his faults… was a genius, and he made the big changes."

   "Which were…"

   "He brought us out of the stone ages. Thug cops were replaced with the scientific method. Microscopes and phone taps and intelligence gathering techniques. Accurate records keeping. It was the model for big city departments across the nation? To follow. Who do you recruit for this? When we needed commandos? We recruited combat veterans that were known for that sort of thing. Now? We needed guys that understood and respected the new ways. So… we required college degrees. Business administration was a very popular recruiting choice. People that understood records, and managing the tech labs. It was a great idea. Then."

   "I'm following you."

   "So. You still need tough guys, but… not as tough as the paratroopers. Where are you going to find thousands of tall, muscular, fit young men. With college degrees. That understand playing on a team, that also understand following orders. Sure, there were better choices, but… we needed thousands of them, not dozens of them. And? They had to all be from the same… click. So they could work together and socialize well. See how we got where we are?"

   "Yeah. All those colleges. All those football players on scholarships. All getting college degrees. Good social skills, so, fraternity guys. Wow. That was… genius."

   "Right. These are lifelong football players. The coach tells the team to run laps? They run laps. We need a hundred guys to beat the bushes, poking sticks in the ground, looking for the body? They do it. They'll run laps. Because that's what the coach says to do. Coach says today we're watching films? They sit and watch films. Coach says tomorrow, you guys are going to ambush and stand there and not run? They do it. When game day comes, even if they're scared? They won't run. Why? They're more afraid of being called a coward by the rest of the team, than they are of getting shot."

   "Wow. I feel a little bad now. Every office I ever walked into, at Hoover? Christ. Every time I look up on the wall, and see that damned football, and those Greek letters… makes me wanna leap over the desk, and wrap my hands around their throat. If I hear one more football analogy to explain something? I'm gonna cut a fit. I thought retards were running the show, to be honest. Now… I have a whole new respect for things, when you explain it like this. Thanks."

   "I thought so. Now, as you have almost certainly noticed… this system is not without its little flaws. Nothing is perfect in this world. Football players? Are their own click. They have their own ways. Almost all football players, like to get together and go out for a beer, and tell stories. They like to smack the cheerleaders on the ass, and most of the cheerleaders? Like it. Unfortunately though… football players, by and large? Do not click well… with engineers."

   "Guys like JG."

   "Exactly. Remember, the FBI was the model, for law enforcement around the country… to follow. Ever notice that in the old days, there were a lot of Army and Marines wearing badges. Carrying guns and swinging billy clubs. Now… you see a shitload of football players in all the cities and small towns, don't you?"

   "Yeah."

   "Monkey see, monkey do. And? That was the whole idea, anyways. So yeah, all across the nation… and even in the service? The boys like to razz the radio operators, the records keepers, the computer guys. Management? Can only do so much. Everyone has tried the kindergarten teacher approach. We're all valuable, we're all special little snowflakes, and we all need to get along. You know that shit don't work out. Does it?"

   "No. It certainly doesn't."

   "See where we are? Now you see, why things got to be the way they are. Go twenty or thirty or forty years down this road. Who are the lieutenants, the sergeants, the senior agents? Yeah. Every office has a football and fraternity letters up on the wall. Every speech sounds like something a football coach told them way back when."

   "It's not working anymore, Mike."

   "It still works, but I hear you. The service? The police departments? The Hoover building itself… the high tech component, the lab work… it's the next greatest thing. Just like business administration and record keeping was the last big advancement. Now. Do you know what a walk on is? In sports terms, particularly college sports."

   Panic didn't leap to answer.

   "Merry? Enlighten your boyfriend on what a college walk on is…"

   "Honey? Most college athletes. Played little league. Played high school. Then played college. They feel like they paid their dues, and earned their spots. Every once in a while? Someone just shows up for tryouts… and is surprisingly great. Coaches see this great performance in tryouts, and realize they have no experience and training, how good will they be when they have some time under their belt. They're looking at a potential star."

   "Thank you, Merry. Now Panic… how do you think the team treats this new guy."

   "I can imagine."

   "Right. What can the coach even do? He can only do so much. If he chews asses off every day, the whole team is pissed. He can't have that. He doesn't want to get rid of this new natural star, either. There's only one possible move in this situation. The coach takes the new walk on star aside, and explains to them. You gotta try to get through this. Put up with it. Please, I don't wanna lose you. Do it for me. Eventually? You're gonna win us a big game, and these guys will come around. Merry? Explain to your little black angel here, how it happens."

   "If the walk on future star sticks it out long enough? Two things happen. One… they're tough as nails. They've been fighting everyone all year long, and grinning and bearing it. Running more laps than anyone else. Practicing extra on the nights and weekends, when everyone else is out drinking beer. They're stubborn and hungry. Eventually? There's a big game on the line, and it's late in the game. That's when a good coach makes his move. When all the game players are tired and worn out? Here's this raring to go young star. You put them in, and they're fresh and always were good. They make big plays, and they can win the game."

   "Exactly, Merry. And? That's when the team accepts them. Takes them in. You should already understand this, Panic. Merry related me a story about you. Going from support to combat. Took you a while, for the other players to realize this walk on, was serious. Right?"

   "Now that you mention it? Yeah."

   "The system isn't perfect, but… how did you wind up, in the end."

   "Rob was our leader. I ended up being one of his right hand men."

   "And the other guys? I already heard the basic version from Merry…"

   "It was an uphill battle, no doubt about that. I almost got killed, trying to impress everyone. Half the team tried to get rid of me, literally. They took me out in a big storm at sea. The game plan was, I was supposed to be scared to jump in, and I'd quit. I jumped in and made it back to shore. Barely, but I made it. Surprised everyone. I should have died. I almost did."

   "What happened when you made it back?"

   Panic chuckled.

   "Oh Jesus. Nothing good. I jumped on the first one I got a hold of and tried to kill him with my bare hands. We ended up in a big brawl on the beach. Rob had to shoot at us, to get us to calm down. Funny now, but…"

   "Yeah. But, after that… the team took you in, didn't they? Every winning team has some kind of retarded ritual. Drinking beer out of a dirty pair of football spikes, streaking down main street… whatever. You got your ritual you wanted, right? You earned your spot on the roster."

   "Yeah."

   "So now that you realize what a walk on is… I'm sure you see. JG… is the walk on. What is he, his degree… electronics engineer? Minor in audio and video?"

   "Yep."

   "Uh huh. That's not going to click with the football team. Not quickly, anyways. That's the bad news."

   "What's the good news then."

   "He came in and won a game. Out of nowhere."

   "You have plans for him…"

   "I might. I decided to try him out on some command experience. See how he does at it. How he handles it. I already know, that all the techs look up to him. Not every day a tech makes it through the academy, and becomes a full agent. I'm pretty sure, he's going to be great for getting in between the football player agents, and any tech support teams needed from any of the labs. He's proven he can keep his head down, and go along to get along with all the agents… and he's a star to all the techs."

   "Eliminating the normal… static… from trying to have them working together."

   "Pretty much. He's actually in a pretty good position right now, career wise, even though he doesn't know it. He made full agent. He kept up with the eager to please junior agent thing they all do. Most of them drop the gung ho act as soon as they make full agent. He didn't. That's how he got his nickname, Junior G. He's squeaky clean. He doesn't try to bang everyone's wife and girlfriend, like we have a problem with on the football squad. He's just about to hit that part of the career? Where he either starts to move up, or… fades into the wallpaper."

   "What's he have to do now?"

   "Nothing, really. I wanna see how having him running the techs on this goes. No news is good news. Under normal circumstances? You have to pretty much babysit both clicks in the field. Keep them separated. I wanna use them as extra manpower if I can though. I'm thinking JG should be perfect for that."

   "I appreciate it, Mike. But really, you don't have to share all this with me. I'm not going to be around all this once the case is finished."

   "Panic? I don't want you leaving with a bad taste in your mouth. Speedy either. The director doesn't like getting bad reports from outsiders on how things went, dealing with the bureau. And I'm an outsider that was brought in, to try to do things differently, to try to get better results with less resources. If as a team, we can't work well with outsiders? It's not good for us. We can't have every outside cop and consultant running back to home base, and badmouthing us. We've had too much of that go on already."

   "Your fine. I'm not a player, and Speedy's retiring and going on safari anyways…"

   "Not the point. Next time? It'll be a different unpaid consultant, one we want back again and again. Maybe wanna put them on the payroll. A younger state policeman, that isn't about to retire. I can't have those future guys going home with a bad taste. We want people to bring us cases. Not say oh fuck, don't take it there… you might as well throw the case into quicksand."

   "Well? You actually changed my whole view of the situation."

   "Cool beans. Now, we ain't got anything going on. We're in a holding pattern for now. I picked up a 6 pack when I went to the motel room to freshen up. I'm having one. Panic… Merry?"

   "Sure."

   "What the hell, Mikey?"

   "What's wrong, Merry…"

   "Are you serious? What is this shit… Dead Snail Mud…"

   "It's one of those… small handcrafted beers. This six pack wasn't cheap. At least try it."

   Merry sniffed her bottle after twisting it off. Took an exploratory sniff. Tested a tiny mouthful.

   "Tastes better than the label looks. I'm used to cheap beer."

   Panic did the same.

   "Hmm. Not bad. Every time I try craft brews, I'm used to getting a ton of bitter hops. This is sweet."

   Mike read the label.

   "Says it's a dark chocolate beer. Cross between a Dunkelweiss and a Porter. I'm guessing, the dark and the chocolate part, is where the mud name comes from."

   "How soon till we can get the tracking units on, up, and running?"

   "You saw the layout like everyone else. We're figuring the vehicles are in that big garage out the back end of the property. We need to get eyes in there. I'm waiting on backup to arrive at the motel room. I need a stalker. I need a locksmith. Then? I need to send the stalker, the locksmith, and a qualified tech… to handle the installs. Two people sneaking around is bad enough, three is pushing it. This is supposed to be surveillance, and a tagging operation. Not a conga line."

   "By stalker, I'm guessing you mean… someone trained like a scout sniper. The locksmith, I understand. The tech, I understand."

   "Right. What makes me nervous? Is I can trust the scout to stay hidden, they're good at that. But… he has to drag along two other guys, that don't do that line of work. Think in terms of taking your brother in law's young kid hunting. Not everyone's favorite recipe for a successful hunt."

   "What's the big deal? It's a goddamned barn, how hard is it to walk up on a barn in the middle of the night… any fucking teenager throwing corn at houses on Halloween could handle this one…"

   Mike got his hand drawn map out…

   "It's not the barn that's the problem. Look… here's the mobile homes. This one? By itself in the back? Looks like the… main one. Guessing our target and whoever else lives there. The rest of the crew? These other ones. Now… that, I'll call it the main mobile home, for lack of a better word… has 4 cameras on the 4 corners. The kind that sweep back and forth. Approaching the barn from the rear is easy. But… they have to go around, to get to the door. And that, my friend, is where the rub is."

   Panic studied the map, and Merry was over his shoulder, peeking out of boredom or interest, it was hard to tell.

   "Mike, what's the sweep on those 4 cameras."

   "Sweep?"

   "Sweep. Movement. 360 degrees is a full circle. 90 degrees, is a quarter circle. How many degrees of sweep you got?"

   Mike shook his head.

   "How the fuck am I supposed to know that. Did I install the goddamn thing? No. You want me to call them up and ask them? I'm sure they won't suspect a thing."

   "Okay. Whats the make and model of the cameras, then. Most people, just buy a kit at some department store these days. That would tell us a lot. If we know the camera model, we know the degrees of sweep. We can also guess, the focal length of the little board cam lenses. That? Gives us the field of view at a given distance."

   Mike just looked at him.

   "Are you par-lay-voo french? Or… spekk da dutchen…"

   "I'm sure you meant to say, parlez vous, francais… und… spekken das deutschen."

   "I don't speak martian, smart ass."

   Merry started giggling. One upturned hand supporting her chin, elbow on the table. The other hand lazily getting her swigs of the dead snail mud.

   "Gee. Too bad we don't have a martian on site. You fucking morons…"

   Mike and Panic smiled at each other, and looked at Merry, then back to each other. They both said it at the same time.

   "Junior."