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Severance Pay PROLOGUE The radio clipped to my pants pocket beeped several times before I could put down the slice of pizza and wipe my hands. Pulling the radio free, I pressed the 'talk' button. "Yeah" I said, shoving the last bite of pizza to the side of my mouth so I could talk. "Andy, get over to dock six. We may need a ruling." "A big one?" "So they say." "Do I have time to finish my lunch?" "If you can do it in ten minutes." Damn it. "Okay, I'm on my way." I'm out the door and headed toward dock six within five minutes of receiving the call but the crowd of tourists has already started moving that way. Word must have got out. By the time I reach the dock, the enormous shark is already hanging in mid-air, suspended from the arm of a crane and surrounded by over three hundred people, most of them shooting pictures with their phones. I push my way through the crowd, apologizing as I go, finally reaching Travis. He and his team are attempting to keep the crowds back. "What ya' got, Travis?" "Great White. Guy says he caught it off the Banks." "They've been seen there before. She's a big one." "She?" "Females are bigger than males. Anyone got numbers?" "Tommy did. Fifteen feet eleven and a half inches, Two thousand six hundred ninety five pounds." "That's a record. IGFA's biggest confirmed Great White was Two thousand six hundred sixty three." "Wait a minute! I've heard all kinds of stories about twenty two, twenty three footers that weighed over four thousand pounds. How can this be a record?" "Those were estimates from sharks caught in nets. They were probably bigger than this fish but the IFGA are sticklers about documentation and they have to be caught, not trapped. That's why we need to move quickly, don't want this shark dehydrating." Just then, two smiling men dressed in yellow slicks joined us. They were both smoking celebratory cigars. "You Cambridge?" asked the taller one. I offer him my hand. "Andy Cambridge, head official for the contest. This your catch?" He takes it, shaking it vigorously. "Damn straight! Fought this son of a bitch for over two hours." "It's more likely the bitch than the son." "What?" "Never mind. We got all the documentation required, Travis?" "Yep, plus HD video." "Okay, drop it to the deck." "What's this about?" asked the shorter man. I give him a friendly, non-threatening smile. "Just making sure everything's legit. When you've got a top prize of Six thousand dollars and a Four thousand dollar bonus for a world record, people might be tempted to play a little fast and loose with the rules. The International Game Fish Association is pretty hard nosed about documentation. You boys don't have a problem with that ... do you?" The two men quickly look at each other, cigars clenched in their respective teeth. I see the looks that I expected. This is one damn heavy fish for its length and circumference. The only way to be sure is to gut it. I don't think these guys were expecting this. "Uhh no. No problem at all ... what exactly are you going to do?" asked Stretch. "I'm going back to the office, change into my gear then slice her belly open to make certain there are no foreign substances there." "What kind of foreign substances?" demanded Shorty. "Mostly heavy metals. Iron. Lead. That sort of thing." "Wait a minute. Sharks eat damn near anything. There could be God knows what in his stomach." "Her. And, no, sharks don't eat anything. They're actually quite particular, though sometimes they make mistakes. I'll be right back. You boys hang close." It takes me almost fifteen minutes to change, get my gear and return to the dock. There's still a lot of tourists but I don't see either Stretch or Shorty. "Where's our two winners, Travis?" "Snuck away almost as soon as you left. Tommy followed them to their boat. He's bringing them back now." I pull a long, heavy duty butcher knife from my bag. "Kinda makes this whole thing moot, wouldn't ya' say? Still, I'm curious as to what they used. Keep the camera rolling. I don't want to be accused of any funny business." As I approach the shark, the crowd draws closer. "Ahh, no folks. You want to back off. Way off. Travis, if you'd help show the people." Travis moves in and gets everyone to back off about thirty feet as I get ready. Getting a firm grip on the handle, I plunge the knife deep into the shark's underbelly near the anal fin and slowly drag it towards the head, slicing deeply as I struggle forward. Almost immediately, there's an eruption of gallons of milky white digestive fluids, all flowing out of the incision and running along the deck towards the scattering crowd. If that didn't send most of them on their way, the nauseating stench finished the job, though there were a few diehard photographers left. After finishing the cut, I take a couple of pairs of rib spreaders, kneel down, force them into the incision and lock them down, pushing the cut sides apart. When I stand up, I see Tommy's back with our friends. They both look sick to their stomachs ... probably for several reasons. "Let's see what we can find." Sitting down towards the middle of the opening and bracing my booted feet against the body, I lean in with my right arm and reach into the belly, feeling for something solid. The first thing I pull out is a barely digested tuna, the next is two thirds of a seal, and the third is a two foot steel bar. "I have no idea where that came from" said Stretch. "I'm sure" I replied, returning to the fish's gut. This time I latch onto something solid and heavy. It takes both hands but I eventually wrestle it out. "What's the name of their boat?" I ask. "Rainbow's End" answered Tommy. I roll the thirty pound net weight towards Travis. He carefully spins it on the deck until he can see what's written on the weight. "Dudes. 'Rainbow's End'. Tough luck." Stretch looks down at Shorty. "You idiot." "Fuck you, Brian" Shorty snarls. I don't really need any more evidence but something else with the boats name on it would be nice. When I go back in, I feel something with a handle. This one's a bit easier to remove. It's a bowling ball bag. "Hey, I've really got no idea where that thing came from" claimed Shorty. "Why the hell would we have a bowling ball on board?" I start to unzip the bag. "Why would you take a perfectly good, near record fish and try to cheat it into the record books?" I look into the bag. "Oohhhh SHIT!" So much for my lunch break. "What's up, Andy?" Tommy asked. "Call the cops. It's a human head." CHAPTER ONE There was a light knock on his door. Usually, Betty Larson buzzed him on the intercom when she had a message. Knocking meant something was up. "Come in." She quickly slid through the door, quietly closing it behind her. The look on her normally pleasant, middle aged face told me she was going to give me some bad news. "Daniel Lipscomb is here." Damn it! I glance at the clock. Ten till noon. I'd completely forgotten about this lunch appointment. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. "Does he know I'm in here?" I whisper. "Afraid so." "Anyway out of this lunch?" "Suck it up, Sir. You'll have to deal with him sooner or later. Might as well get it over with." As usual, Betty offered good advice. She's been in the business almost as long as I have and she's been my assistant for over ten years. "You're right. What I don't understand is why he won't take the hint. After three years of busy work, you'd think he'd get the message that he doesn't have a future as a Federal Prosecuting Attorney, at least as long as I'm in charge of the Florida office." "He's stubborn, Mr. Tyson, plus he's got Senator Douglas as a patron." "I've always wondered what the heck he has on Douglas." Not that I need Douglas's help. I've done plenty of favors over the years for powerful people. Nothing illegal of course. Redirecting an investigation here, redacting a name from a report there ... it was all part of the system. I've never taken a bribe though and I never will. "We may never know, Sir." "Guess it doesn't matter. It's just that I hate these political appointees. They're only here to build a resume', don't give a damn about anything but looking good to the press or their party masters. Always planning for their 'oh so bright' birthright futures." "I know. I also know how much you enjoy thwarting those plans." I chuckle. She really does know me. Might as well bite the bullet. "Tell Danny boy that I'll be with him in a minute." "Yes, Sir." She smoothly, silently slips out the door, barely disturbing the air. Don't know what I'd do without her. When I opened the door, there was Lipscomb, lounging in the waiting room chair, decked out in his tasteful, expensive suit, shoes polished to a high gloss, quickly rising to his feet and holding out his right hand. "Walter, thanks for agreeing to see me." I reluctantly shake the extended hand. "No problem, Danny." Lipscomb hated to be called "Danny". He preferred "Daniel", tolerated "Dan", but really hated "Danny". Naturally, everyone intentionally used "Danny". He wasn't well liked in the office. To his credit, he managed to force a convincing smile. "I know that you're a busy man and value your lunch hour. I hope to make this worth your while." That'll be the day. "Let's get going then. Your car nearby?" Lipscomb pushed the office door open, holding it for me. "The restaurant is close so I thought we'd walk. I could use the exercise." Like Hell. Son of a bitch is in great shape, another reason to hate him. "Whatever you say, I've got to be back by one, there's a video conference with DC." "Really? I didn't know that." No, you didn't. "Well, it's only for the top people in the office." "I understand. Next time then." Cocky bastard. We walk out the door, Lipscomb falling in right next to me. We take the elevator to the ground floor and stroll through the lobby in silence. Once we reach the street, I pause. It's partly cloudy, the temperature warm for the season but there's a light breeze making for a nice day. Walking won't be so bad. "Which way?" Lipscomb points to a Hot Dog cart across the Plaza. "Right there." "You're KIDDING?" "Just wait, you'll see." Lipscomb walks off towards the cart so I reluctantly follow. When he reaches it, he lightly slaps the vendor on the back. "Afternoon George! Got my special order ready?" "Right here, Mr. Lipscomb." The vendor slides a big stainless steel lid back and steam billows out. I step closer and look down into the cart. There are several bratwursts, lightly browned, lying on a bed of sizzling, translucent, sliced onions. There's a familiar spicy aroma. I take a long whiff. "Are those ..." "Johnsonville Original Brats. I know that Janice has you on a fairly strict diet." He's got that right. If my Wife knew that I was within ten feet of half a dozen Johnsonville Brats, she'd be calling 9-1-1. How did Lipscomb know that? George reaches into the cooler next to the cart, pulls out a couple of bottles and hands them to Lipscomb. He turns them so that I can read the labels. My eyebrows go up in surprise. "That's Samuel Adams Bock Beer. You can't get that this time of year; it's only available in October." He smiles. "I know someone." George fixes all six of the brats, adding a generous helping of the steamed onions and a smear of my favorite dark, spicy mustard. He wraps, then piles them on a cardboard tray, handing them to me. I lift them closer to my nose and take another whiff of the enticing smell. Lipscomb's got the beers. I look around the Plaza. All the benches seem to be taken. "Where now?" "Right over here." Lipscomb points to a bench near the fountain but in the shade, a prime seat this time of day. There are two street people, i.e. bums, already sitting there. "It seems to be occupied." "Don't worry, they're just holding it for me." We walk towards the bench. When we get close, the two bums stand up, Lipscomb hands them a couple of bills, they grab their bundles and stroll off. We sit down and I quickly unwrap a brat and take a big bit. "Ahhh ... that's the stuff" I groan. It only takes three more bits to finish the first one. "I haven't had one of those in four months. If Janice knew ..." "There's no reason for her to know anything. It's just a friendly lunch between colleagues." I unwrap the second brat. Lipscomb isn't eating anything. "Don't you want one, Dan?" "I'm more a four star restaurant kind of guy." "Your loss." I take another bite. "So ... what's this all about? You aid and abet my dodging Janice's new diet. You hire some ... men to guarantee the best seats in the house. What's the angle?" He opens a beer and hands it to me. "Cards on the table?" I nod yes. "Good. You don't like me, do you?" I take a swig of the beer. "No, I don't." "Why not?" "Does it matter?" He opens the other bottle and takes a sip. "Guess not. I don't plan on changing my approach to life, so we seem to have reached an impasse." He takes another sip. "I assume that you'll keep giving me busy work until I'm sick of it and move on." "That's about it." "Thought so." I start on the third brat. The breeze blows a fine spray from the fountain towards us, cooling the air. It's really quite pleasant. Lipscomb spoils the moment. "I heard that Dallas investigation of Raymond Hobbes went down the tubes, their inside man 'disappeared', just like the last ten attempts to get inside his organization." "You heard right, though that information should be way above your pay grade." "And therein lies the problem." "What do you mean?" "Why did they fail?" "Probably because Hobbes has bought off someone with the cops, someone with the FBI, someone with the courts, the ATF, the DEA, and ..." "Someone in the Dallas office, likely multiple 'someones' in all those groups." I unwrap the fourth brat, it will be my last ... for now. "You know something specific?" "No, but it stands to reason. When someone has that kind of drug money to spread around, he's going to be able to find people to give him the information he wants ... just like I was able to find out about your diet and get the Bock beer." "Point taken. What's this got to do with you and me?" "I want to take a shot at Raymond Hobbes." "Not that I'm going to agree to let you try to take down possibly the biggest drug lord in the country but what makes you think you can succeed where so many others have failed?" "Oh you'll agree, it's best for everyone. As to why I'm sure I can do it, first off, it will be a totally black operation, no connections with any other agencies. I recruit my people one at a time, specialist not affiliated with the criminal justice system, at least not currently affiliated. It will be a small group, completely self contained, or at least as self contained as I can make it. There may need to be some help from Witness Relocation but that can be finessed when the time comes." "Exactly how do you plan to get a man inside?" "Oh, I'm not telling you ... I'm not telling anyone. When I say totally black, I mean totally black. When you give me the okay, you won't hear anything from me until we're done. No weekly reports, no monthly reports, nothing. Just Hobbes' head on a platter at the end." "Are you saying I'm on Hobbes' pad?" "Not at all. If I thought you were, I wouldn't be asking for your approval, I'd go over your head. The problem is that only Hobbes knows whom he's bought off. Somehow, he always finds out when we try to infiltrate his organization. The only way to succeed is to keep the group completely isolated. If no one knows what is happening, no one can rat us out." "How much would this cost?" "Not likely more than seven hundred fifty thousand, eight hundred thousand at the worst." I can't keep from smiling. Does he really think I'm going to fund this pipe dream out of my already tight budget? "Just seven hundred fifty thousand dollars? Let me check petty cash. Maybe we can hold a bake sale. I assume you've seen our budget. We had to let three people go from the support staff last week. There's no money available, even if I thought it would work and if you were the guy to run it." "There's no doubt I am the best man for the job. Thanks to your keeping me buried with shit work, I am not high profile. We both know that this job is just one step in my plan for bigger things and I want to make it a big step. I'm very strongly committed to making my plan work. This is my shot at the brass ring and I'll do damn near anything to make sure it's a success." "Anything legal, you mean." "Certainly. All nice and legal." He smiles when he says that but it's forced. I've spent way too many hours questioning suspects not to recognize a lie when I hear one. "And the money?" "Right now, you're sitting on over thirty million in confiscated drug money, vehicles, real estate and assorted expensive toys, with almost unfettered discretion to distribute it for law enforcement purposes. Hell, three quarters of that came from Hobbes or his associates. It'd be kind of nice to use it to put him away, don't you think?" "I may be able to distribute it but I have to account for it too. Dropping eight hundred thousand in your black op isn't exactly what Congress had in mind." "Who knows what Congress had in mind? We both know that other jurisdictions are spending that money left and right on some pretty screwball ideas. You've taken a very conservative approach and built up a nice nest egg. Seven hundred fifty thousand is a small price to pay to put the biggest criminal this side of Al Capone away." I don't know if it's the beer, but some of what he says makes sense. Hobbes has his tentacles everywhere. He could know damn near anything he wanted to about our attempts to catch him. Running a totally separate operation isn't a bad idea. I'm probably feeling opposed to it because it's Lipscomb's idea. The confiscated money is just sitting there and seven hundred fifty thousand is only about one years' interest on the account. Still ... "Since we're putting our cards on the table, how do I know you aren't on Hobbes' pad and are just trying to get some of his money back for him?" "That's easy. If I was trying to get assigned to a current operation against Hobbes, then I could be working for him and looking for secrets. But I'm running my own operation without consulting with anyone else. There's no motive to cut my own throat, which by the way, is a possibility if we get close to Hobbes. The nearer someone gets to him, the worse the consequences if they're caught. You remember what happened to Abbott, the FBI agent who got inside that biker gang Hobbes occasionally used for muscle?" We never found all the pieces, though they recently found his head in a bowling ball bag inside a shark. What are the odds? Couldn't pin anything on anybody. Abbott had a wife and two kids. Hobbes really is a bastard. "As for the money, that's just pocket change for an operation like his. I bet you could find half that much if you checked under the cushions of all the couches and chairs in that mansion of his. The thing with Hobbes isn't just that he's a crook. He's corrupting the entire system. You don't know who to trust. Neither of us is absolutely sure that the other isn't on the take. Logically, we aren't and there's no evidence we are. Ten years ago, we wouldn't have given it a second thought but now, even the honest guys are tarred with the same brush as the guilty. With any luck, I can find out who is dirty and we can clean up this mess, restore some confidence in the system." "For the sake of argument, let's say I agree to do it your way, the money, the separate group, everything. If you succeed, what do you get out of it?" "Walter, you know exactly what I get, an unbelievably bright future. The man who brings down X-ray Hobbes can write his own ticket in the Justice Department. Then there's the possible political future, a book deal, the works. All mine if I take down X-ray." "X-ray?" "His nickname among friends, which is a relative term in Hobbes' circle. I've read all the reports from the prior failures. There's a surprising amount of information available when you get it all in one place and start comparing notes." "And if you fail?" "Worst case, I die. Well ... that may not be the worst case. My career would be ruined; all my plans for the future go down in flames. Either way, you're rid of me. If I fail, I'm out on the street, if it works, I'm on to better things. Plus, as the head of the office that catches Hobbes, your reputation gets a positive bounce." "What happens to my reputation if this all goes south?" "Nothing at all. A totally secret operation that fails is still a secret. You go on like nothing happened, though you may need to explain what happened to the money, but you've been in the game so long, it shouldn't be hard to handle that." He's right. I've buried bigger budget and accounting problems before. "Dan, there's some merit to your proposal, let me think about it for a couple of days. Don't worry, I won't talk about it with anyone. I just need time to digest it." I let out a quiet burp. "Kind of like those brats." He laughs. "I understand, didn't expect you to commit to the idea right away. Frankly, if you had, I'd have been worried. However, after due consideration, I expect you'll reach the right conclusion." He stands up, brushing off his pants. "And when you do, I won't have to tell Janice about how you fell off the wagon with those brats." That Son of a Bitch!! If he thinks he can blackmail me over a couple of sausages, he's seriously misinformed. I think he sees the anger in my eyes because he quickly raises his hands, palms forward. "I'm kidding Walter! Kidding, I swear. You're not the kind of man who would fall for something like that. However, you are the exception. So many get caught by Ray Hobbes just like that. A little favor here, a little payment there, and soon he's got them hook, line and sinker. If we can't stop him, I don't know what kind of country we'll be leaving for our children. See you back at the office." Lipscomb turns on his heel and strides across the Plaza, joining the throng of people returning to the Federal Building after their respective lunches. I want to wait a few minutes so that I don't have to ride the elevator with him. He's still a self-serving, egotistical prick but Dan Lipscomb is also smart. He just may have come up with a damn brilliant plan. I need a day or two to try to pick it apart before giving him my answer. I grab the last two brats and head back to my office. If I eat them before going home tonight, I'll be able to tolerate the eggplant casserole I saw in the refrigerator this morning. CHAPTER TWO If I knew that I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself. Every morning I make two slow laps around the block, cane in my left hand, trying to get my arthritic hips and knees loosened up. It would be tough to do even without having been a smoker for almost forty years. Sixty years old and I feel like I'm eighty. Of course, thirty-five of those years were spent as a cop ... and cop years are like dog years. Lousy hours, crappy food, drinking to unwind, the cigarettes, it all adds up. On top of that, I spent the majority of my time undercover. It was a thrill a minute kind of job, which fit my personality just fine, but it wears on you, both mentally and physically. I honestly never thought that I'd reach retirement. Undercover cops have surprisingly short careers. They either burn out or get burned. I lasted three times as long as the average guy and would have still been doing it if not for the arthritis and the emphysema. As I complete my second lap, I notice that the black Chevy is still parked across the street in front of my house, one guy in the car. Looks like a standard issue Fed sled, though those guys tend to travel in pairs. Doesn't matter, I'm out of that game now. Pausing to catch my breath before taking on the three steps to my front door, I slowly look around, subtly checking out the area. It's the same run down neighborhood, the same drug dealers on the corner, the same "For Sale" signs in every third yard as usual. This area is just six bad months from becoming a slum. I'd leave too if I could afford it. Part of not expecting to survive to retirement is not planning for retirement; a police pension only goes so far. Starting to climb the steps, I sense someone coming up behind me. They're not running but moving quickly. I want to get to the porch before he gets to me, it'll give me some room to maneuver. I may look like an easy target but anybody who fucks with me quickly learns otherwise. Picking up my pace, I manage to reach the top step and turn to my left, tightly gripping the handle of the cane with my right hand just in time. "Mr. Harris? I'm Daniel Lipscomb I'd like to ...". I poke him in the chest with the tip of my cane, stopping him in his tracks. There's a million volt stun gun built into the cane and my finger's on the trigger. "I don't know you buddy so you can stop right there." He raises both hands, slowly reaches around to his back pocket with his right hand, pulls out his wallet with two fingers, brings it back to the front and carefully hands it to me. I flip it open. It's a Federal ID, a Prosecutor from Miami. Name's Daniel Lipscomb. Appears to be legit. "Okay Mr. Lipscomb, I still don't know you. What do you want?" "I'd like to talk with you; it'll just take a few minutes." "About what?" He looks around, checking out the neighborhood. "Could we do this inside? I'd like to avoid attracting attention ... if you know what I mean." "I used to know what you mean but I've gotten dumber since retirement. Not interested." I drop the cane from his chest and turn back to my front door. "It's only a couple of minutes Mr. Harris. Your country could use your help." "MY country? Don't give me that patriotic shit. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't read my jacket so you know not to try and schmooze me. What's this about?" He looks around again then leans in closer. "X-ray Hobbes" he whispers. I shuffle towards my front door. "You've got ten minutes." * ** * ** * ** * ** * I offered him a beer after he sat down. He surprised me by taking it. Surprised me again when he actually drank it. It's just after 9:30 in the morning. Thought that I was the only one who had beer for breakfast. I manage to stifle my groans as I sit down in my rocking chair. "What do you want to know about X-ray Hobbes?" "We already know all that we need to get him." "So why are you here drinking my beer?" "We know where the information is and how we're going to get it." "And yet you're still here, drinking away." "That's true. Things haven't gone exactly as planned and I find myself in need of someone with your expertise." "You do know that I'm retired, right?" "I'm aware of that fact." "And that I'm barely breathing thanks to emphysema and barely moving because of arthritis?" "That too." "Sounds like I can't help you, Mr. Lipscomb." "On the contrary, none of those limitations will matter at all. I need your undercover experience, your skills, your knowledge, all of those intangibles that made you the best undercover officer in the state, possibly the country." "I told you not to bullshit me ... " "I'm not. I asked a lot of people and read a lot of files. You're the best, exactly what I need. I need your mind, not your body." "If it's advice you want, I'll help but I warn you, there's no way to pass my experience on to your people just by talking to them. It took me years to get as good as I was. That's not something you can just teach someone. It's instinct, something unique to me. I can train someone if they've got the talent but it could take a long time. You've got to be damn near perfect to go after X-ray Hobbes." "All I ask is that you come talk to my people, review the operation, give us some pointers." "When do you want me?" "As soon as possible. We could go right now if you've got the time." He seems awfully eager ... enough to make me want to check him out before I agree to anything. "I can't do it today, got a couple of doctor's appointments." He doesn't seem to catch the lie. "Give me your card and I'll call you when I'm available." He reaches into his suit coat pocket, pulls out his card and hands it to me. "I'd like to do this as soon as we can. The operation's at a stand still until we can get you on board." "Don't expect me to work any miracles. I can only tell your guys so much. After that, it's just experience, which can't be taught ... only learned." He takes a final swig of beer. "I understand. You'd still make a great addition to the team. Plus, I've got money to pay consultants such as yourself." Now you're talking! "How much money?" "Depends on what you do for me. A full commitment could be worth $60,000 to $65,000." DAMN! "What exactly is a 'full commitment'?" He stands up. "We can talk about it later. I can show myself out." He reaches down to shake my hand then leaves, shutting the door behind him. Guess I better make some calls to check this guy out. I sure as hell could use that money. CHAPTER THREE The cab drops me off in front of a dingy, two story building in a mixed residential/business area of town. I hope Lipscomb is on the first floor because I can't handle stairs very well any more. About the only advantage to moving as slowly as I do now is that I can check out my surroundings without raising suspicion. The neighborhood is nicer than mine, the houses in better shape, the street has not nearly as many potholes. Most of the streetlights are intact. The door I'm leisurely approaching is nondescript, the name "Dr. Thomas J. Matthews" stenciled in faded yellow on the dirty glass insert in the nearly black wooden door. Once I reach the door step, I pause to catch my breath before pushing the doorbell. It rings loudly. I push it again and then shuffle back a step. The door quickly opens, revealing a smiling Daniel Lipscomb. "Come in Mr. Harris! Everyone is waiting to meet you! Any trouble finding us?" "No, I took a cab. You owe me $15.00 for the fare." "Not a problem." He pushes the door wide open. "Step inside and we can get started." I carefully step forward, leaning on the cane in my right hand. "You really are on the make, aren't you?" He closes the door once I get in the building, then locks it. "What do you mean?" I keep moving forward. "I called a couple of friends still on the force to check you out. They say you're pretty damn aggressive, in a hurry to make you're mark." I stop and turn back towards him. "They also say you're not high profile enough to be running a big criminal investigation." "Your friends are right ... on both points. However, you came anyway so you must be interested in what I've got going." He's pretty quick with the answers. "Doesn't cost anything to listen, as long as you pay the cab fare." He reaches into his pocket, takes out his wallet, removes a couple of bills and hand them to me. "Here's forty bucks, we square?" I pocket the bills. "For now. Lead the way." He walks past me, opens a door on the right and steps inside. I follow. It looks like a waiting room, rows of slightly worn padded chairs on three of the four walls with a sliding glass partition in the upper half of the forth wall for a receptionist to sit behind. They've put up a folding table in the middle of the room with four chairs, two of which are taken by a guy around my age and a woman in her late thirties, early forties. Not a bad looking broad but she looks like she hasn't smiled in a couple of years. The guy is nervous but trying to hide it. Lipscomb takes the empty seat next to the guy and points at the remaining empty one for me. I hobble over and ease down onto the folding chair. "Let me make the introductions" said Lipscomb. "This is Dr. Thomas J. Matthews, our host for today and this is Jessica Warren. Dr. Matthews, Ms. Warren this is Detective Peter Harris, retired." I reached out to shake the guy's hand first. It was cool and clammy. I shook the lady's hand next. It was ... indecisive. "Is this everyone?" "There's one more member of our group, you'll meet her later if this initial meeting works out." "I thought you wanted me to come here and advise your undercover agents. No offense, but none of you look like the types to try to take down X-ray Hobbes." "None the less, that is exactly what we are going to do" said the lady ... Warren was it? "With or without your help, Mr. Harris." "Preferably with his help Jessica" jumped in Lipscomb. "We've all discussed it and Mr. Harris is the best candidate." "You and Dr. Matthews believe he is but I have serious doubts." "Which is why I arranged this initial meeting Jessica" said Lipscomb in a quiet, soothing voice. There appears to be more going on than I was told about. "Look lady, I was just asked to come here and give some advice to some less experienced agents, that's all." "Daniel! Is that all you told him?" "I thought it best to have him come here and see for himself before ... revealing the entire story. But first there are the legalities to deal with." Lipscomb reaches for a briefcase on the floor next to his chair, picks it up and pulls out some papers, which he places on the table in front of me. "This is a standard non-discloser form. By signing it, you are agreeing not to tell anyone what we discuss today. There are certain ... unique ... aspects..." the other guy, Dr. Matthews, laughs but he shuts up quick when Lipscomb stares him down "... to this particular operation. We must be sure that there are no leaks should you ultimately decide to not join us." "Sure, fine got a pen?" Lipscomb hands me a pen, which I grab with my right hand while pulling the papers towards me with my left. Flipping to the back page, I find the signature line and start to sign it. "You should probably read it first, Mr. Harris" said Lipscomb. "Like I give a rat's ass what it says." Warren gives me a little sneer as I finish signing the papers and push them back to the middle of the table. "I told you that he would be like this." "This is exactly what we need, Jessica." I'm tired of being left in the dark. "Look folks, if I'm not here to give you the benefit of my years of hard earned experience, then I'll just call a cab and be on my way." I start to stand. "Please sit down, Mr. Harris" said Lipscomb. "We will explain everything. I would ask you to let us finish our ... presentation before deciding what you wish to do. Some of what you will hear today will seem fantastic, improbable, possibly impossible but it is all completely true, I assure you. Will you do that for me?" "Why not. I got all the time in the world." I settle back down onto the chair. "Go on." "I am authorized by this region's Assistant Director to conduct a completely black operation to infiltrate the Raymond Hobbes criminal organization. The only people in the world who know the plan are the three people in this room. If you decide to join us, it will be four and I mean to keep it at that number. Not even my boss knows the plan. He has agreed to provide the funds from the confiscated assets of convicted drug dealers, including those employed by Mr. Hobbes." "Interesting approach, Mr. Lipscomb"." "Isn't it." "Why so concerned about security?" "You should know better than most." "I do ... I just want to make sure why you do." "Because Hobbes has his tentacles in every segment of the criminal justice system, police, prosecutor, judges, the prison system, everywhere. The only way to get to him is stay off the radar." "Don't think I've ever heard of someone trying something like this. Your idea?" "Yes. As your friends noted, I'm not high profile enough to be put in charge of a standard operation. My superior and I do not see eye to eye on a number of subjects so this is my one opportunity to show what I am capable of. When we succeed, my 'profile' will be the highest in the country." "So we're here to make you the big man in town?" "Not at all. We all are here to disable one of the largest criminal syndicates in the country. Fame and glory are just by-products of that success." "You seem pretty damn confident." "I am. With your help, success is practically assured." "And why is that?" "Let me go through a bit of history, some of which you may already know. The Federal Government has been after Mr. Hobbes for over fifteen years, ever since he moved his residence from Argentina to the U.S. We had a watchful eye on him before then but he moved up the list once he became a United States resident. He was already a citizen, having been born in the U.S. while his father, then an employee of the Argentinean State Department was stationed in Washington, D.C. Hobbes spent a number of years with his family stationed in various South American countries, which he used to make a number of high level contacts that have benefited him greatly over the years. His parents were killed in an embassy bombing in Venezuela while he was away in college here in Florida. He quit school, moved to Columbia and used the family fortune to begin building his criminal organization. The police, local, state and F.B.I., have attempted to break his organization from both the inside and outside but he is extremely cautious and clever, using complex ownership schemes to either hide or legally distance himself from his control of various criminal groups and their assets. For example, we know that he controls several ships for drug-running but we can't trace the ownership back to him. His people, or the people he hires, are either too loyal or too scared, likely both, to rat him out. Anyone who does mysteriously dies before they can provide much information or can testify in court." He reaches into his briefcase again and removes another folder. "There have been many attempts to get someone inside his organization, either directly or through other affiliated criminal groups who work for him. They have all failed, though some came closer to success than others." He opens the folder and removes several 8" x 10" photos, which he pushes across the table to me. I pick them up, one by one, and look them over. Lipscomb continued. "The first couple are pictures of the remains of F.B.I Agent Ted Abbott, at least those parts we were able to find. He got inside a motorcycle gang which frequently did jobs for the Hobbes organization. We think that he was on to something when he just disappeared. We started finding various body parts a few weeks later. The other photos are of what was left of other people who attempted the same thing. It seems that the closer you get to Hobbes before he catches you, the more ... severe the repercussions." I continue to thumb through the photos, they're a pretty gruesome set of reasons for me to stand up and walk out the door right now. Which makes me wonder why Lipscomb is showing them to me. I drop them back onto the table. "You'd make a lousy salesman Lipscomb. Shit like this would make any sane person head for the door right now. Why the blood and guts show?" "Because I'm not going to sugar coat anything here, you'll get nothing but the straight skinny from me. If you agree to help us, it will be with your eyes wide open." He looks at me with a crooked grin. "Besides, you're not exactly 'any sane person' are you, Mr. Harris? Over twenty five years as an undercover cop, you were shot at least eight times, nearly died twice, but you kept coming back, actually fought desk assignments. Life as a local cop in Miami wasn't dangerous enough for you; you had to go looking for trouble." "And look what it got me. Three failed marriages, breathing on about one quarter of a lung, arthritis bad enough that I'm lucky to break the four day mile. Even if I wanted to help you, I can't see what I can possibly do for you that'd mean anything." "Well, here's where the story gets a little weird. Hobbes is paranoid about security, not surprising given how his parents died, the police are after him all the time and his competitors are even crazier than he is. There have been attempts to get someone into his household, a maid, a janitor, a babysitter, something, but they've all failed ... until know." "What's changed?" "Nothing in the household, per se, but our technology has changed." "How's that?" "I'll get to that later. Hobbes has a daughter, Gretchen, a junior to be at St. Ann's private Catholic High School for Girls, very exclusive, very expensive. She's his only child, from his marriage to a German model, who died from a heart attack when she was only twenty seven and the kid was only five. The autopsy showed the wife had O.D.'d on heroin. Hobbes never married again but has had a few live-in girlfriends; the relationships don't seem to last long. The daughter has been raised by a series of nannies, and yes, we've tried to get our own nanny into the house, no luck. By all reports, Gretchen is an unhappy child. She's tall for her age, has no friends to speak of, and is just getting by in school." "Interesting intelligence you got there Lipscomb, but what good is it?" "The girl is the opening we've been waiting for. Our plan is to get someone inside the school to befriend the girl and ultimately get inside the Hobbes household." "And then do what?" "Plant bugs, gather information, find out what is going on." "And you've got some young looking woman rookie agent, straight out of Quantico, who you think will pass for a sixteen or seventeen year old girl that you want me to train so that she can become an undercover expert in six easy lessons and stroll into one of the most dangerous places on earth." Lipscomb smiles at me. "Well, when you put it that way ... no." He stands up and walks to a door by the glass half wall. He opens it and pokes his head inside. "Patricia, would you please come out here." He stays that way for a few seconds, then slowly backs into the room, his right hand resting on the shoulder of a small, petite, blonde girl, wearing a cotton nightshirt, the sleeves reaching her elbows and the bottom of the shirt is below her knees. She's got on a pair of floppy socks and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Warren turns to Matthews. "Thomas, you can not let it walk around in that ... outfit. Its hair's a mess!" He just shrugs and nods towards Lipscomb. Warren frowns at him but Lipscomb just smiles back at her. "Patricia doesn't seem to care" he says. She just shakes her head at him while the girl approaches the table, guided by Lipscomb's hand on her shoulder. "Sit down in the chair, Patricia." The girl pulls out the chair and sits down next to me, looking straight ahead. I lean a little closer to her and forward, so that I can see both her eyes. They are dull and lifeless, as if she has been drugged, but they are wide open, no hint of droopiness in her eyelids, pupils not dilated. She's breathing quietly and steady. She's just sitting there, as if someone had pushed 'pause' on her remote control. Lipscomb squats down on his haunches until his face is level with hers. "This is Mr. Harris, Patricia. Introduce yourself." She quickly turns towards me, puts out her hand and smiles mechanically. "Hello Mr. Harris. I am Patricia Conner. Pleased to meet you." Her hand is just hanging in the air, waiting for me to take it. I do nothing and she just waits, with that bright smile and dull eyes, but she is looking at me. I shift a little to my right and she tracks right with me. I carefully reach out with my right hand and shake hers. She responds with a firm grip, a quick shake and then returns to her original position, exactly as before. I lean in closer but she doesn't react at all. I get within an inch of her face, then pull back. "Okay. What gives Lipscomb?" "Patricia is our agent Mr. Harris, she'll be going undercover into St. Ann's all-girl school." "Is she on drugs or something? How old is she?" She doesn't look to be much over fifteen, maybe it's her size, but, the way that shirt hangs on her, she could have a pretty good rack, maybe a damn good rack. "We don't really know how old Patricia is Mr. Harris. Our best guess is seventeen, but we could be off a few months either way." "What do you mean you don't know how old she is?" I turn to Warren, she's the only one who's expressed any interest in the girl's welfare. "What is this about?" I ask her. She starts to answer me but Lipscomb interrupts. "Perhaps now would be a good time for Dr. Matthews to explain what his involvement is and how Patricia came to be as she is." Everyone turns towards Matthews, who until know hadn't said two words. He looks nervously at me then back towards Lipscomb. "What should I tell him?" "Tell Mr. Harris the truth. We can't have any secrets from one another." Matthews turns back to face me, chewing on his lower lip ever so slightly. Clearly he's nervous about something. He clears his throat with a short cough. "Patricia's not exactly ... a person, in the traditional way that people think of a human being." I dip my head down slightly and narrow my eyes, looking Matthews square in the face, wanting to intimidate him. "What did you say?" I growl. He leans back in his chair, away from me. Lipscomb jumps to his defense. "Please Mr. Harris, let Dr. Matthews finish. You will likely have many questions, which we can answer at the end. Go on, Dr. Matthews." Matthews gives me a brief nervous glance, but then squares his shoulders and begins again. "Patricia is an artificial person ..." "You mean she's a robot?!" "Please Mr. Harris, save your questions for the end or we will be here until midnight" says Lipscomb. "Continue, Dr. Matthews." Matthews sits back up in his chair. "She's not a robot, she is a biological entity. When I found her, she had suffered severe brain damage due to lack of oxygen. She had stopped breathing due to a drug overdose, causing hypoxia. She was practically brain dead. I was able to mostly rebuild her brain with silicon implants and the use of nanotechnology to restore the damaged synapses. In fact, my techniques have actually greatly improved the efficiency of her brain. Do you know much about brain physiology Mr. Harris?" "Afraid not Dr. Matthews, it's not one of the subjects taught at the Police Academy." "Oh, they really should, it is a fascinating subject! You see, evolution has actually left man with three brains. The first is often called the 'Lizard Brain', the first to evolve, which takes care of all the routine functions such as breathing, walking, digestion, excretion, all those basic functions mankind does without even being consciously aware of it. Then, as we evolved to the next levels, the mid brain developed, dealing with higher thought than the lizard brain, increasing memory, more complex emotions and thought, increasing our ability to learn and interact with our environment. Then finally the upper brain developed, containing all the things that make a human being a human being, what separates us from the rest of the animals, our ability to shape our environment, our creativity, human emotions, creation of art, music, inspiration." The Dr. paused, looking at me, expectantly. "I see" I say, nodding my head. Like hell I did. "Yes! Exactly! All three brains are stacked on top of one another, like scoops of ice cream in a triple-decker cone, with the primitive Lizard brain at the bottom and the humanity creating upper brain on top. The problem is, this arrangement is not very efficient. Our memory capacity is enormous, better than the most sophisticated computers today, but our ability to recall what is in our memory is limited. Those with the right knowledge and training can calculate with the best computers out there ... well not some of the recent Super computers, but you know what I mean." I nod my head again. He smiles at me. "There's that old saying, that people only use ten percent of their brain. Well, that's completely wrong! People are always using one hundred percent of their brains, just not very efficiently ? well that?s not quite true. When you sleep, the percentage of usage declines but other parts of the brain activate so you could say that ?? ?Dr. Matthews! Please stay on topic? says Lipscomb. Matthews flinches slightly. ?Sorry, Daniel. Anyway, the normal human brain has many superior features but is inefficient, both in its? physical layout, due to the need to integrate three separate structures, plus the two separate right and left hemispheres, and also the memory control mechanism leaves much to be desired. My research indicated that there could be dramatic improvements in efficiency if I could add some auxiliary, silicon based control structures and increase the number of synapses. Did you know, Mr. Harris, that in a single cubic centimeter of the average person?s brain, there are more synaptic connections than there are stars in our galaxy?? ?No, I didn?t know that.? ?It?s true. Extrapolate that over the approximately two and a half pounds of the average human brain and you can begin to understand its capacities. Patricia?s unfortunate accident gave me the perfect opportunity to move beyond the laboratory animal stage and directly to human trials. The results have been extraordinary and ?? ?A complete failure? said Warren. ?Now be fair Jessica? said Lipscomb. ?Patricia was near death.? ?It wasn?t near death; it may have been nearly in a persistent vegetative state but I don?t think it had deteriorated to that point.? ?Regardless, she can now walk, talk, perform complex tasks ?? ?Don?t say ?she? Daniel. Patricia is not a person, it is a highly sophisticated ? device. It cannot make decisions, it cannot create. A dog is better at making choices than it is.? Lipscomb turns towards me. ?Unfortunately, Jessica is correct. While quite impressive, Dr. Matthews? results have not been what we had hoped they might be. The plan was for Patricia to be given all the learning and information she would need and then send her into St. Ann?s to develop a friendship with Gretchen Hobbes. No matter how much information is transferred to her brain, Patricia just can?t make that final leap to independent thought. She will do practically anything you tell her to, but when faced with a new situation or an unexpected development, she is stymied.? ?And I?m supposed to teach her how to be a person?? I ask. ?It?s not as simple as that Mr. Harris, is it Daniel?? said Warren. ?No, it most certainly is not Jessica.? Lipscomb stops here, like he?s searching for what to say. ?This is where the story gets ? aaahh ? unconventional.? Warren snorts a short laugh but Lipscomb ignores her. ?I?ve tried to think of the best way to explain this but haven?t come up with any better way than just laying it all out. Dr. Matthews has been able to create an area of Patricia?s brain that is isolated from the rest. We propose to transfer your higher brain functions into Patricia?s brain, thereby creating the perfect undercover agent to make friends with Gretchen Hobbes and infiltrate the Hobbes household.? I look at each of them, Lipscomb, Warren and Matthews. None of them are smiling or giving any hint that this is all an elaborate gag. ?I?ll just be going now.? ?No! I assure you Mr. Harris, we are completely serious here! This is a tremendous opportunity for scientific research! If you would only give me a few ?? Lipscomb reaches out, touching Matthews? arm, he shuts up. I struggle to my feet, cane in my right hand. I shouldn?t have spent so much time in this chair. My knees and hips are screaming at me as I get upright, then my back joins the chorus. Taking a few halting steps towards the office door; I stop and look back at the table over my shoulder. ?The whole idea is fucking crazy ? you know that right?? ?Yes, we know that? said Warren. I take two more labored steps, stop and look back again. ?Even if I believed that it was possible, which I don?t, a guy would have to be ? suicidal to even consider it.? ?Desperate times call for desperate measures, Mr. Harris? answers Lipscomb. There?s still no hint on his face that they?re joking. I take one more step, stop, then slowly turn around to face the three of them and point at Lipscomb with my free hand. ?If you think this is such a bright idea, why don?t you do it? ?I already have.? ?WHAT!?? ?I understand your point, Mr. Harris. It is a major risk on your part. Since I would never ask someone to do something that I wasn?t willing to do myself, I?ve already been through the procedure.? ?You?re lying!? ?He?s not, Mr. Harris? said Warren. ?I didn?t approve of it but Daniel did have his higher brain functions transferred to Patricia?s brain. It was transformative. Patricia became a complete human being, fully functioning. ?So why didn?t you just stay in there and do the job yourself?? ?Because we don?t need a teenage female lawyer Mr. Harris, we need an extremely experienced, skilled, talented teenage female undercover cop. I can?t do what you can do and there?s no way to transfer your years of experience and skill set to Patricia without you going with it. It?s a package deal.? ?Why not ask some female undercover cop to do it?? ?My point exactly? said Warren. ?A woman agent would have a much easier time adapting to the situation, a female mind in a female body. Mr. Harris would have to deal with too many changes. I doubt he would be capable of handling the shocks to his psyche.? ?Yeah, what she said.? ?Jessica, we?ve been through this before. There are no women with Mr. Harris? resume, there?s no one even close. Women have not been permitted to perform those kinds of jobs for the F.B.I. or local police departments until the last fifteen years or so.? ?And whose fault is that, Daniel?? ?It doesn?t matter who?s to blame, facts are facts. The only remotely qualified female candidates are currently active officers or agents. For one of them to participate in our operation, they would have to be transferred to our group, which requires paperwork and explanations and permission and several more people who know what we are attempting to do. The security of the operation is greatly weakened. Mr. Harris is both our best and only hope to make this work.? ?Then it won?t work. His record of insubordination should disqualify him from consideration. How you can expect me to work with someone like him boggles the mind. I ?? ?Hey! Lady! I got the job DONE! There are over two hundred bad guys in prison right now thanks to me! All that crap about insubordination is nothin? more than desk jockey Captains and Lieutenants who thought they knew better than I did how to do my job. When they?re ready to put their asses on the line, then I?ll listen to ?em. Until then, they can just suck my ?? Warren cut me off. ?Yes Mr. Harris, we certainly understand how difficult undercover work can be sometimes. Still, this would be a completely different environment than you are used to.? ?Really? I was an Irish gun runner for over a year, an Italian produce seller for eighteen months and a high rolling Russian gambler for almost two years. I think I could handle a girl?s high school for a couple of weeks.? ?Wonderful!? cried Lipscomb. ?I knew that you were the man for the job! You need to understand though that there is no guarantee that this project will be completed in a few weeks.? I walk back to the table. ?I didn?t say I was doing it ? and I?m not sayin? I won?t ? it?s just ? you really did it? You had part of your brain put in her head?? ?Not the physical brain Mr. Harris? said Matthews. ?Just the information contained in the upper brain. Your physical brain remains untouched.? I lean down towards Lipscomb. ?But you did it, right?? ?Yes? he answers. ?For how long?? ?The first time for five hours, the second for three days.? ?You did it TWICE?!? ?Yes, Dr. Matthews needed data to calibrate certain parts of the hardware and software.? ?And you?re okay?? He spreads his arms wide apart, leaning back in his chair. ?Fit as a fiddle.? ?What was it like?? He smiles wickedly. ?Like a triple E ticket at Disneyworld.? I sit down. ?Let?s talk.? CHAPTER FOUR He seemed rather pleased with himself. Harris had shuffled off to home and Thomas was in the lab, running additional tests on it, leaving me alone with Daniel. ?You seem to have gotten your way ? again.? ?He didn?t agree to anything yet, Jessica.? ?But he will, you know he will. The man is a risk taker, a thrill junkie. We are giving him a chance to get back out in the field ? he won?t pass that up.? ?I am not as certain as you are but you?re the psychologist. Let?s hope you are right.? ?He?s going to be trouble. His personality is almost the exact opposite of what we need. Assuming he can adapt to the new body, learning the subtleties of behavior of teen age girls will likely be beyond him.? ?You make young girls sound like a tribe of Australian Bushmen. They are just young versions of you and I and we were both young once in our lives, so was Mr. Harris.? ?Did you understand girls when you were in high school?? ?Not to be immodest, but I did fairly well with the ladies back in the day.? I bet he did. Tall, well built, ruggedly handsome. I can imagine what he looked like as a seventeen year old boy. He wouldn?t have had this much swagger or self-confidence but he would have had enough to attract most girls his age. ?There is a big difference between dating a girl and being her best friend.? ?I was always friends with anyone I dated ? well most of the time.? ?There are girlfriends and there are boyfriends, each fills certain roles in a girl?s life. Harris will have to learn how to BE a girl, it will need to come naturally to him. Girls that age have a sixth sense for anything out of the ordinary and will attack without mercy. An all girl?s school only amplifies this effect.? ?It sounds like you?re describing a pack of wolves, Jessica.? ?If Spielberg had substituted teen age girls for the Velociraptors in ?Jurassic Park?, you?d have barely noticed the difference.? * * * *** * * * *** * * * I close my eyes and relax as the lounge chair moves into position. It?s much easier for me to sleep in the chair than a bed. This one is electric, automatically lifting me up out of it or smoothly setting me down. It?s also got a built in vibrator and heating pads. If I didn?t have to eat or go to the bathroom, I?d probably never get out of it. I switch on both the heat and vibrator, move the chair into the reclining position and review everything I heard from Lipscomb, Mathews and Warren. It?s not a bad plan, too fuzzy on the details for my taste but I?d been involved in less definite assignments in the past. Sometimes you just got to dive in and see what happens. If it all goes to hell, just get out. This isn?t all that much different. Obviously, the whole mind transfer thing isn?t normal. I wouldn?t even consider it if Lipscomb hadn?t gone first. That son of a bitch is crazier than I am. You gotta like that about him. Most prosecutors are namby pamby types. Giving orders to everyone but not willing to get their hands dirty. If things go south, they always blame the cops for not getting them enough evidence. If some evidence gets tossed by the judge, then it?s the cops? fault for not having probable cause or some other legal mumbo jumbo. Damn prosecutors are always more worried about their records than putting the bad guys behind bars. They?re either looking for a job in a private firm, where they end up as defense lawyers, or they?re trying to get appointed or elected as a judge. They?d never admit it though. At least Lipscomb is upfront about it. That Warren bitch is going to be a problem. If this brain transfer thing works, we?re gonna become partners. She?s my coach on how to act like a girl and then she?s my mother when I go undercover at the school. Unfortunately, it makes a lot of sense. You can?t have a sixteen year old kid running around on their own, there?s got to be a parent or guardian somewhere. We rent a small house as mother and daughter; I start school in the fall and make friends with the target. Why am I even considering this? I?m retired; it?s not my problem anymore. I gave my life, my marriages, my health to the job. What possible benefit do I get out of this loopy project? I look around my darkened bedroom. It?s messy, clothes everywhere along with dirty dishes and empty pizza boxes. Never been much of a housekeeper but this is terrible. The rest of the place looks pretty much the same. How have I let this happen? Because I didn?t give a damn. I haven?t given a damn about anything since I retired. I?ve just been going through the motions. There?s never been more to me than the work. No real friends except for a couple of people, none of them cops. Undercover work is lonely work. Face it, I?m only truly alive when I?m working. I met all my ex-wives while pretending to be someone else. They fell in love with a man who didn?t exist. I thought that I could change and be what they needed, but, eventually, I always fell back into my old ways, just existing between assignments. They weren?t ugly divorces and thank God there weren?t any kids. Do I have one more job in me? If Lipscomb is right, the only thing that matters is what?s in my head. I still feel as sharp as ever but am I the best judge of that? If we screw the pooch on this one, we could all end up dead. Hobbes has a reputation for treating traitors pretty badly. From what I?ve heard, those photos Lipscomb had are just the tip of the iceberg. Not the kind of guy you want to piss off. No one besides me in this group has any experience in this kind of operation, which isn?t necessarily a bad thing. No assumptions on anyone?s part and I?d be the resident expert. Could be worse. Of course, with three rookies, that?s a lot of room for mistakes. If the plan stays as is, the only people immediately at risk are me and Warren. Guess I?ll be teaching her a thing or two also. * * * *** * * * *** * * * My phone rings, waking me up. I quickly push myself up off the bed, the panic starting to grow. It?s like this anytime the phone rings at night since ? four years ago. Has it been four years? Seems longer, like an entire lifetime. The panic is only momentary and I get the phone before the forth ring. ?Hello, Jessica Warren speaking.? ?This is Daniel Lipscomb. I just spoke with Harris. He wants to meet again tomorrow. I think we have him, Jessica.? ?It sounds like you?re right. When do you want to meet?? ?No complaints, no reservations? Did I reach a wrong number?? ?No Daniel, I?ve had my say. I want to succeed as badly as you do. There?s no benefit in my continued objection to Mr. Harris. Let?s hope you are right about him and we can get started. I?m tired of waiting. It is time for Hobbes to pay for what he did to me.? ?To you and a lot of other?s, Jessica. I scheduled the meeting for 10:00 a.m.? ?I?ll be there.? ?Excellent! See you then.? He hangs up. I settle back down in my bed, reaching across with my right arm to caress the empty spot next to me. Oh yes, Hobbes will pay. * * * *** * * * *** * * * ?Now Mr. Harris, have you decided yet?? We were all gathered back in Dr. Matthews? office, just as before. All of them staring at me, waiting for my response. Lipscomb was the most openly interested but Warren was also anxious, just hiding it better. Matthews still seemed scared, at least nervous. ?Not yet.? That let a little air out of their balloons, though Matthews perked up a little. ?I need to have some more questions answered, get a few things straight and give our girl a trial run, then ?? ?No!? shouted Matthews. ?The Construct is not a car or an amusemen