Severance Pay (Chapters 37 Through 42 Of 78) free porn video

SEVERANCE PAY CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN We're both sitting at the kitchen table. The police had just left. Mom says I had been screaming bloody murder. I can believe it. It took a little while to convince the cops. They insisted on checking out the house, to make sure we weren't being held hostage. The woman cop also wanted to check me for signs of abuse, after seeing my skinned knees and bruises. I told her it was from basketball but she wasn't buying it until I got a ball and made a couple of dribble moves to prove I knew what I was doing. She was impressed. Now it's just the two of us, Mom with coffee and me with hot chocolate, the Remote on the table between us, its back off and it's batteries out. "I'm so sorry, honey. I had no idea this had happened. It was an accident, I swear!" I'm still kinda shaky from that dream, but the chocolate has helped. It always does. "I know. I don't blame you. I've been jerky the last few days. Stuff happens." She sips her coffee. She hasn't said much since I told her about the nightmare. Nightmare. The word hardly seems adequate. What's a nightmare times ten? Times a hundred? It's clear she wants to ask something but is afraid to, not knowing how I'll react. "Go on, Mom. Ask me. We gotta figure out what happened." She puts her coffee down. "Should we call Thomas? We never discussed this possibility. Obviously, if the Remote runs on batteries, they'll need to be replaced, sooner or later. He had to consider this possibility. Surely, if doing so would cause this ... problem, he'd have warned us." "If he knew about it. Remember, I'm a prototype. There's still a lot of unknowns. Yeah, we need to call him ... but we don't tell him about the dream." "Why not? You've never had a nightmare that bad before, it might mean something." "Oh, it means something alright. It means a lot." "So, we tell him." "We can't, it proves he's screwed up." "How does it do that?" "All my prior nightmares have been taken from my memories ... no exceptions. I never got the sexy dreams that Lipscomb reported. Sometimes the dreams were kinda weird, sometimes they got a little strange, but they were always based on something that actually happened to me and I was always Peter Harris ... no exceptions." I take a sip of my hot chocolate. "This time, I'm a girl, not just a girl but the same girl I am today, just younger. I'm in a place Peter Harris never was, doing something Peter Harris never did. The only physical change was that the Remote was turned off. It was the same kind of nightmare I've had since the transfer, just as vivid, just as real." "What are you saying, Patricia?" "I'm saying that I relived something that happened to the original owner of this body. Jennie Jo was raped by her father." "You don't know that, you can't know that." I tap the side of my head. "Up here, I know it. Some of her memories are still here, in my head. Huh, yeah MY head, Patricia's head, Jennie Jo's head, whoever." Mom reaches out, taking my hands in hers. "Honey, you're still upset, you don't know what you're saying. Thomas said all the original memories were erased." "He was wrong. Now, I've got to try and find out what happened to her." "Patricia ... we've got a job to do, a different, more important job. You just can't abandon the team now to go on some kind of goose chase. The police looked for information when ... she ... first died and they found nothing. What makes you think you can do better? And not mess up the job we're working on now?" "You weren't there Mom, you didn't feel her pain, her panic, her fear. I can't forget about it, about her. You can help me or not but I'm doing it." She sighs, hanging her head. "This just complicates an already difficult job, Patricia. It's not our problem, besides, she's already dead." "She's not dead, not as long as I can remember. Are you with me or not?" She grimaces, then chews her lip a moment. "Are you certain about this? Really certain?" "Yes, Mom. I am." She shakes her head in resignation. "I suppose that deep meditation might help resurrect buried memories." "And we don't tell Matthews ... right?" "We'll have to say something. We need to know if you can safely reload the Remote. We need to know what happens if the Remote goes dead. Is there a safety setting? A default setting? We need those answers." I pull my hands from hers, grab the Remote, slip the batteries in place, slap the back on, and set it on Blue Forty. "PATRICIA! What are you doing?!" I freeze in place, waiting for something to happen ... but nothing does. "I'm answering the first question. Nothing bad happens. Let's talk to him about the rest right now." * * * *** * * * *** * * * I don't know how long the phone's been ringing. I have an answering machine on the office line but not my personal line. However long, it's ringing when I wake up. 4:38 in the morning. "Hello?" "Thomas, is that you?" "Of course it is. Who are you?" "Jessica Conner. We've had a problem." "What kind of problem?" "The batteries accidentally fell out of the Remote. We're not certain what to do. We never discussed that situation before." "We never discussed it because I've been changing batteries at every check up. Just put them back in." "Well ... they have been out for some time." "How long?" "At least six hours." "It took you that long to call me?" "We just discovered they were out, it was an accident, remember." "Six hours, six minutes, it shouldn't make any difference." "Thomas, what happens to the Balancer when the Remote loses power?" "If it's in range of the Remote, it turns off." "My God! That's terrible." "Hardly terrible, Jessica. It simply stops actively managing the separate parts of the brain. The structure remains present, the connections are still there, the information is still being transmitted. Everything continues to work, just at a lower level. It's as if you had turned off the amplifier in a stereo system. The sound still gets to the speakers, just at a much reduced volume. Patricia's brain still functions, just not at the same level." "And the balance?" "It defaults to zero, no preference for either Blue or Pink." She doesn't say anything but I can hear a muffled conversation taking place on her end of the call. "Thomas, what if there was ... additional information being transmitted?" "From where?" "Inside her brain." "That's impossible. There are only two sources present, beyond the lizard brain and the midbrain. The higher brain just has Peter and Patricia, nothing else. They are both routed through the Balancer. It's a closed system." "And nothing else could ... force its way in?" "There's nothing else to do that. The lizard brain is too simple and the midbrain was wiped clean." "But if it wasn't wiped clean?" "It was, Jessica." "Humor a worried mother, Thomas. What would happen?" "Likely nothing. The higher and midbrains are connected, all three sections are. There is a certain amount of overlap at those connection points, no definitive line where one part stops and another starts. Random information could reside in the gray transition zones but they aren't connected to the Balancer." "Aren't the nanites supposed to be making new connections all the time?" "Only in response to new information, new memories." There's another pause and more conversation at Jessica's end of the call. "What about repairs, Thomas? Aren't the nanites supposed to repair damaged areas of the brain?" "Certainly, but all those repairs have already been made ... unless Patricia has suffered some new brain damage. Has that happened?" "No ... no, of course not. Everything's fine with her. We were just concerned about the batteries, that's all. I feel foolish about the whole thing now. Sorry to have bothered you, Thomas." I yawn. "Perfectly alright, Jessica. I understand. Can't be too cautious. Let me know if she has any problems of any kind." "We will, Thomas. Good night." "Good night." I hang up the phone and rub my eyes. I need to make a note about that. Test the Balancer in passive mode. The results could be interesting. * * * *** * * * *** * * * "Did you hear all that? You didn't ruin anything." I didn't ruin anything? Thanks, Mom. Who's the one who threw the darn Remote? "Yes, thank heaven for that ... Mom. At least we have a couple of possible explanations for what happened." "Are you certain it wasn't just a dream? Thomas seemed quite sure." "And I'm quite sure, Mother. Either those memories have been there all along but overwhelmed by the Balancer or they were in areas of my brain that were not connected due to old damage which were repaired after my header into the bleachers." "Patricia, you didn't say anything about hitting your head. "I didn't hit it that hard, no concussion or a knock out or anything." "You should tell me everything if you get hurt." Am I going to bring the trust thing up now? No. "Sorry, Mom. It just wasn't that big a deal. Hopefully it won't happen again. I still want to find out all I can about Jennie Jo." "It'll just complicate things, Patricia. We won't be able to do anything about it." "Maybe not right now and maybe not officially but we won't know until I try. Will you help me?" She looks at me with tired eyes, then sighs. "I'll help, as long as it doesn't, in any way, delay us from getting Hobbes. You have to promise that you will do everything you can, as quickly as you can, to get into his computer system. If you promise, then I'll help however I can. I can't promise any results." "Neither can I, but I promise I'll try." * * * *** * * * *** * * * My intercom buzzes. "Yes?" "Mr. Lipscomb is here, Mr. Tyson." "Thank you. Send him in." It takes almost a minute for Lipscomb to open the door, probably hitting on Larson. He nods his head as he closes the door behind him. "Walter" "Have a seat, Dan." Lipscomb settles in the worn, padded chair opposite my desk, crossing his legs, hands in his lap. "What is it you wanted to see me about, Walter?" "You're probably aware of the increasingly frequent requests from Washington for some kind of progress on the war on drugs." "I've seen the emails." "There's been video conferences too. And memo's. And text messages. And just about every other form of communication other than tweets ... so far. The long and the short of it is they want action, any kind of action, now." "What they really want are positive news stories and some snappy video to use to get reelected." "You should know, Dan, they're the administration that appointed you. The most recent demands for action include the threat of budget cuts." He frowns at that, Lipscomb knows were this is headed. "Walter, you can't mean ..." "Afraid so. I've kept my part of our deal, Dan. Haven't bothered you once, haven't asked for a single report, an update, anything. I've given you everything you asked for, but Washington isn't willing to wait." "I appreciate it Walter, I really do, but this is exactly what my operation is designed to avoid. I give you information, you send it to Washington, God knows who sees it and my people end up dead." "Is there even any information to give me?" "You know I can't answer that." "If you can't, then I'm afraid I'm going to have to pull the plug." He jumps up out of his seat, planting both hands on my desk, leaning forward. "WALTER! You can't do that! I'm so close!" "How close, Dan? If I knew that this operation of yours was going to lead to something, then I could defend it to Washington, or at least put them off awhile, but I've got to have something to work with. Your promises aren't good enough." He drops back down in the chair, head in his hands. "I'm closer than anybody else ever came, Walter. You CAN'T stop me know." "Again, how close, Dan? I need something." He looks up at me, clearly debating what he should say next. Finally, he makes a decision. "You understand, whatever I tell you, can't leave this room. Not a peep. Lives are at risk, my life is at risk." "I may need to tell Washington ..." "NO! I trust you but no one else! Hobbes is everywhere! If you aren't willing to fight for this operation, then shut it down, now. I won't put lives at risk." I'm surprised at his reaction. Maybe he's actually got something of value. "Alright, Dan, only between you and me." "No one else. I need your word on that, Walter." "Fine, you've got it." He pulls his chair closer to my desk, leaning as far forward as he can. He waves for me to come closer. I do. "I have a man inside Hobbes household" he whispers. "He's been there for about a month." "MY GOD!" He gestures for me to keep quiet. "What is he doing?" "I can't say, Walter. Don't push me on this, I truly can not tell you." "You don't know yourself?" "I know, it's just ... unconventional, that's as far as I can go. The main thing is, he's there." "Has he gotten anything useful?" Again, the internal debate. The fact that he has to think about it means the answer is "yes". Now, I just need to wheedle it out of him. "Yes and No. He's discovered something big but we can't use it. However, there's the chance for him to get the mother lode." "Why can't we use it?" "You'd need to involve way too many people, there's no chance to keep operational security. Once Hobbes finds out, and he will, we're screwed ... and likely dead." "What the hell does your man have, Lipscomb?" "I'd rather not ..." "Dan ... I'm going to need this. I assure you, it won't leave this office. No offense, but you can't just say you've got a man inside. I need some proof of some kind. I can't simply take your word for it because you've got a reason to be ... unreasonably optimistic about the situation." "Walter, are you accusing me of lying?" "I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm simply pointing out that, unfortunately, in this case, you're word isn't good enough. Normally, it'd be fine ... but not now. I need something concrete for me to hang my hat on. Without it, I won't really have a choice, not with what Washington is asking from me. It's out of my hands." I've actually got more latitude than that, but he doesn't need to know it. Back to that internal debate. This time, it takes more than a minute. I don't interrupt him. "Walter ... I can not stress the importance of this information being kept ultra, ultra secret. If Hobbes is tipped off ... my people will have no chance. None. Zip. Nada." "I understand. I'll be ultra, ultra careful." He frowns at me. I deserve that. He sighs, giving up. "I have the location of every one of Hobbes drug stashes and the inventory of each location." I don't react, I can't react. It's as if he told me he had conclusive proof of the existence of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and Big Foot. It's something you never, in your wildest dreams, expect to hear. "Come again?" "You heard me, Walter. I've got it all, every warehouse, safe house and hole in the ground where Hobbes has hidden his drugs in the US and the amounts, down to the kilo. I calculate it's over a billion dollars, give or take a few million. Well, that was as a few weeks ago." "You SAT on this for weeks?!" "Quiet down, Walter." "Don't tell me to 'quiet down'! How could you not tell me about this immediately?!" "Two reasons. The first is that there is a bigger target. My man believes that he can gain access to Hobbes computer system. If he does, we get absolutely everything. His resources in other countries, the location of his money, his production facilities, his sales force, the names of all the people he's bribed, his transportation routes ... every single thing we wanted." Is that even possible? "Go on, Dan." "The second reason is that you couldn't do anything with the data. To put together raids on all these locations would require numerous warrants, over three hundred officers from several agencies, both federal and local. There is no way in hell that Hobbes wouldn't find out about it long before you could pull the trigger. We end up with nothing and Hobbes goes on the warpath searching for the leak, putting me and my people at risk." DAMN! He's right! Lipscomb's smarter than I thought he was. "I'll be damned! It's too big to move on." "That's what my man said." "Your man is smart. If he gets out of this alive, he's got a best selling book on his hands." Dan smiles for the first time. "You have no idea, Walter." Huh. Wonder what that means? "You got all this information in writing?" "My man took notes. It is all legitimate Walter, I swear." Now it's my turn to debate. Do I trust him and push back against Washington, hoping to make the biggest score of any prosecutor's career or pull the plug now? Lipscomb wouldn't be fighting this hard unless he saw a real pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He's more than selfish and immoral enough to toss his people aside if it would benefit him, yet he's still here. "Dan, you get me a copy of the notes and I'll review them. If I agree that they're legit, I'll take on Washington for you. I won't tell them anything that'll hurt you or your people; I'll put my reputation behind you. I can't guarantee it'll be enough, but I'll try my best. That's all I can do." I hold out my right hand. "Good enough?" He pauses a second or two, then shakes my hand. "I hope this works, Walter. We're looking at the total destruction of the Hobbes organization and rooting corruption from the criminal justice system. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity." "It is that." Slowly, like the rising sun at dawn, another option begins to grow in my mind. No need to bother Lipscomb about it yet ... or maybe ever. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT "Ms. Larson, get me Nicole Moser on the phone." "Yes, Mr. Tyson." Moser's in charge of the multi region Emergency Preparedness Task Force. There's a national test scheduled in three weeks. Both Federal and local agencies will be working together on staged emergency scenarios. The people at the top will know what's planned but the locals will be given the information at the last minute. Some areas get tornadoes, some railroad accidents, some flooding, others get toxic spills. The idea is to see how well the federal and state agencies cooperate in dealing with the usual range of emergencies that regularly crop up in a year. Thousands of firefighters, rescue crews and police officers will be on the road, going where they're directed, without any advance notice. Some of them will be in groups with FBI agents leading them. I've seen Lipscomb's mans notes. The guy's got to have an extraordinary memory. I don't remember ever hearing of a veteran undercover cop with that kind of memory, so Lipscomb may have gone outside the usual suspects to find him. Probably best not to speculate about what exactly is going on, but it's hard not to. Eleven locations spread out over six states, all within Moser's jurisdiction. I figure that a minimum of two FBI and ten local police could initially raid each location and secure it until a larger force could arrive. Each one of the warehouses are legitimate operations, they just act as covers for the illegal drugs. In fact, their security is so good, all the police need do is lock the place down until reinforcements arrive. It's unlikely they would face armed opposition; Hobbes knows the occasional seizure is the cost of doing business. None of the prior seizures we suspected were associated with him became violent. If the two FBI agents were clued in as to what was happening, they could take any ten locals with them. As long as they couldn't communicate with the outside by cell phone once they found out where they were going and what they were doing, even if they were on the take, it would be too late for them to tell Hobbes what was up, they'd have to follow through with the raid or risk exposing themselves. It's more likely they'd chose to explain to Hobbes why they couldn't inform than give up their careers and cushy pensions. As for the warrants, I know a Federal District Judge in North Dakota, far away from Hobbes' area of influence. We play golf together when he comes to Florida on vacation during the winter. He's an old fraternity brother. The chance of his Court being infiltrated by Hobbes is remote. While it's not Standard Operating Procedure, a Federal Warrant is a Federal Warrant, good anywhere in the entire country. If I had a minimum of twenty two trustworthy, untainted FBI agents, we could safely raid all eleven of Hobbes warehouses, if Moser will let me piggy back with her regional program. Her brother was a DEA agent killed in the line of duty in Texas during an undercover operation. If there is anyone more opposed to illegal drugs than Nicole Moser, I haven't met them. The intercom buzzes again. "Nicole Moser on line two, Mr. Tyson." "Thank you, Ms. Lawson." I push button two. "Hello Nicole. Walter Tyson. I'm calling concerning your Regional Emergency Preparedness Drill." "You're not going to complain about a waste of resources and time, are you Walter? After the Katrina fiasco, I would think that's a lesson we all learned and would not want to repeat." "Not at all Nicole. You have my support, one hundred percent." "Huh. Glad to hear it. I've been fielding complaints all month from police departments coast to coast how this is all unnecessary, it stretches limited resources, they have better things to do, overtime costs, yada, yada, yada." "That's unfortunate, Nicole. I am willing to commit the resources of my office to the exercise, limited as they may be." "I see. What might these resources be?" She senses that I'm up to something, better make this offer in person. "I'd like to meet, show you something that more clearly explains how we may be able to help each other. You have any time Tuesday next week?" "Can't you just fax me something, Walter? Video conference?" "Afraid not, Nicole. This is kind of your eyes only. I think you'll really appreciate the possibilities when you see it." "I'm intrigued. Okay, how about ... 3:15 p.m., Tuesday?" "That works for me. You won't regret it." "We'll see about that. You have a reputation, Walter." "Moi?" "Oui. Good bye, Walter." She hangs up. Now to call Judge Hastings and run a hypothetical by him. * * * *** * * * *** * * * "Aaaarggghhhh!" I toss my pencil down, bouncing it off the top of the kitchen table, hitting the cabinets over the sink. "Patricia! Calm down! What's the problem?" "There's no way in! Tippett's got that computer system locked down tight. I've pinged and probed for three days, nothing. He's probably left a back door somewhere but I can't find the password. He's too smart to make it easy to guess. If we had a couple of hundred machines, I could try to muscle my way in but that's not how we need to do it. I need to be able to slip in and out, leaving nothing behind." "Is you're computer up to the job?" "Yeah. I'm using my school computer. I disabled all programs that limited what it can do. It's not really a question about how advanced the computer is, it's programmer versus programmer, and right now, he's kicking my behind." "Maybe you need to do more research." "I don't think it's going to do any good. He's likely read the same things I have, he probably wrote some of it. The guy's good, more than good, he's one of the top guy's in the world. Hobbes hires the best." "Take a break. Come at the problem with a fresh set of eyes. We can try meditation again, see if you can connect with any buried memories." "That's been another big, fat nothing. All I get is a headache. I keep searching but get squat. I'm beginning to wonder if you were right all along." "I'm beginning to think I was wrong." "What?" "There've been a number of things I couldn't explain, things you did that were too natural, too much like a ..." "A real girl?" "Don't say that, Patricia. You're as much a girl as any girl. It's just that you ... sometimes were so pitch perfect and I knew it wasn't anything I had done or Thomas had done. And, let's face it; it likely didn't come from Peter Harris' experience. If there were some original residual memories, that could explain it." "So why can't I find them? We yank the batteries from the Remote, the Balancer shuts down but, no matter how hard I try, I can't make contact." "That's your problem, you're trying too hard. Part of meditation is the calm, making yourself open to experiences. It can't be forced one way or another. You must be passive, inviting, willing to accept what comes your way." "That seems like it could take a long time for something to happen. Just sitting around, keeping your mind blank, waiting. How do you make sure that ... my God. That's it!" "What's it?" "The answer! I don't attack Hobbes' system, I let it come to me ... or more particularly, Tippett comes to me." "How do you do that?" "Easy. You won't like it, but it's easy." * * * *** * * * **** * * * "This can't be real, Walter." "I believe it is, Nicole. This wasn't just slipped under my door at midnight. One of my men has an ongoing operation." "I've never seen anything like it. If it's real ... if you could bust each location ... good lord." "Exactly." "Would you be able to make it stand up in Court?" "I've been thinking about that. I don't really care." "You don't care? That's an uncommon attitude for a prosecutor." "No. I've done some preliminary checking of the public records. There's no obvious connection to any known Hobbes business. We could always find something in confiscated records but Hobbes has historically been very careful to leave no fingerprints on any of his drug supplies. We may get someone to flip on him, but again, historically, that doesn't happen. So we'll get a lot of drugs, some small fry convictions and that'll be the end of it." "That seems to be very pessimistic, Walter." "You can't plan on miracles. Getting this information is a miracle. I don't expect another. Maybe we find more information in the raids but don't bet on it. Realistically, if we get this amount of drugs off the street, it will cause Hobbes a great deal of difficulty and create a major shake up in the markets. I'm willing to take that ... and so is Washington." "I'll certainly do whatever I can to help you. Do you really believe you can keep this quiet?" "Yes, I do. Keep the initial teams small and uninformed until the last minute, led by a few, out of town, absolutely trust worthy agents. It should work." "What about the undercover agent?" "I'll give them two days notice to get out. There's the promise of even greater information but Washington's interested in the bird in the hand, not the two in the bush." * * * *** * * * *** * * * That son of a bitch Raul gives me nothing but grief! All I wanted was a bowl of ice cream ... a fucking simple bowl of ice cream with fudge sauce. How hard is it to make god damn fudge sauce? You'd thought I asked him to fry a turkey or something. I'm under a lot of stress here, keeping Hobbes computer system safe and secure. He doesn't attract a bunch of hackers but you can't tell the difference between the random asshole screwing around and someone determined to succeed, at least not at first. I can't take anything for granted; Hobbes has made it quite clear what happens if I fail ... well, actually, Cardoza did, but he speaks for Hobbes, everyone knows that. If I don't get something to eat every couple of hours, I get the shakes real bad. It's not my problem that he's in the middle of fixing dinner. I got needs! By the time I get back and open the door at my office, one of my monitor programs has launched. Settling into the padded swivel chair with a groan, I pull up the full screen. Damn! It's that Conner bitch. She's not been doing much all week and now she decides to go online. School musta just got out. That's another job from Cardoza, monitor the Conner bitch. "Tippett" he said "I want to know everything she does, no matter how small. That is your responsibility. Don't fail me." What is she gonna do? All week, just boring shit. Thank God she doesn't have a bunch of friends, sending tweets, texts and emails back and forth, full of the kinda crap teen age girls fixate on. Who's dating who, clothes, music, beauty shit, all that girly ... wait a second! Who's this? What did she ... I'll be damned! The fucking bitch is sexting some kid! I knew she was a hot little twat. She even attached a photo. Let me just ... yeah, niiiiccceee. She's still wearing her blouse and skirt but the top three buttons are undone. That's a fucking nice pair of tits! She says she'll send him a new picture, a better picture every day. Hot Damn! I'll just scan this for viruses then save it for closer examination later on tonight ... when I've got time to appreciate it. * * * *** * * * *** * * * "Patricia, this photo is completely inappropriate! I can see your panties!" "Good, haven't done any of those yet, maybe Tippett's got a little fetish going on." "Patricia!" "I know Mom, I'm not happy about it, but it's working. Tippett's downloading each picture, along with the imbedded extra coding. It's unrecognizable as a virus because it's just bits and pieces but, by the time he's downloaded each picture, in the right sequence, the entire worm will be hidden in his system, undetected, ready for activation. Three down, five to go." "I understand, but the entire thing is so ... tawdry! What if he shows the pictures to someone else?" "Then he does. It's not like I haven't posed for worse." "Honey ... are you certain about that? Maybe it's just your imagination." "No, the memory's quite clear. She came to Miami to get away from her father. She started doing tricks and got involved with local porn producers." "And you remember all of that?" "Just brief flashes, a few seconds here and there. She started in Minneapolis, I think, met some guy who brought her here. It's all a jumble in my head but it does explain a few things." "What things?" "Like how some of those photos posted on my fake Facebook page by McBride were real. Jenny Jo actually did pose for those shots." "I saw those pictures you found. The girl in them looks a lot like you but you and she aren't identical." "That's because she was already into drugs by then. She's a little worse for wear. Thinner, her health is going downhill." "I'm not saying you're wrong, Patricia. Just don't get too caught up in this girls' plight until we have solid proof. I know you really want to know what happened but a few brief flashes of memory are not a lot to go on." "I know, but I've just started to have some success with the meditation. We'll see what else I can find." "As long as you keep your eye on the big prize." "I am Mom. Three down, five to go. If this works, we'll just need to wait for the right time to spring the trap." * * * *** * * * *** * * * Father seems to be in a good mood this morning and Enrique is out of town again. He's actually concentrating on what he's eating for breakfast and not some written report. Now's as good a time as any. "Father?" "Yes, Gretchen." "Next Saturday is Patty's birthday." "My God! You're right! I'd forgotten that. November 12th. We must do something special. I'll have Raul make something she'll really like. Do you know what her favorite food is?" "Fried chicken. I was thinking that maybe I could take her somewhere, like somewhere that isn't here? Just the two of us?" "What about her mother? We can't monopolize Patricia's time. They may already have plans." Damn it! I hadn't thought about that. Patty seems to really like her mother, always says nice things about her, except lately, but I think they're past that. She probably wants to spend time with family on her birthday. "I hadn't thought about that, you're probably right, Father." "She's coming over this weekend, correct?" "Yes." "We will ask her then. Give her a choice. How does that sound?" "And if she wants to do something with me, somewhere else?" "I will consider it." "No, Father, not that. You never ..." "I will really consider it. Fair enough?" "Yes, sir." * * * *** * * * *** * * * "Thank you Judge. This could be big, world record big." "I agree Walter, just as long as I don't end up with egg on my face." "Well, that's the advantage of a lifetime appointment, your Honor." "Might as well be worth something, certainly doesn't help my golf game." We both laugh and hang up. That's the last piece of the puzzle. I'll get my warrants when I need them, faxed at the very last minute. Judge Hastings assured me he would do the paperwork himself, no staff at all. Moser is on board and has already issued the orders to the necessary police departments. The FBI agents are lined up. I reviewed their records myself. They will know generally what's up but not the specific targets until about an hour before the raid. Their orders are simple; move in, lock down, call for reinforcements. I've got the layout of each warehouse from the public records, the building permits. Ultimately, I requested copies of records for over seventy warehouses in the same general areas, just in case Hobbes has someone at the local level keeping track of interest in his stashes. They went through Moser's office to add another layer of bureaucracy to hide behind. The last step is to call Lipscomb, give him the news and have him pull his man out. When the time comes, I want to make sure that Lipscomb gets all the credit he deserves, his man too, if possible. The guy may remain undercover so he can't get public recognition. Either way, he'll have an entry in his jacket that would make any cop proud. * * * *** * * * *** * * * I hadn't said anything to Patty all week, I wanted my birthday plans to be a surprise. I hope Father wasn't lying when he said he would consider letting us go somewhere by ourselves. A movie and supper out, no guards, no one to watch us ... just like regular people. Patty may want to do something else, like shopping, or dancing, or a concert. I don't care what it is, as long as we can get some time alone, away from school, away from home, just the two of us. I could hardly wait to spring it on her at supper. She and Father had been talking about different famous businessmen who started out in illegal activities and moved on to more legal businesses. I didn't know that the Kennedy family made its first money as bootleggers. Guess that's not the type of thing you're likely to hear in the history class at a Catholic girls school. According to Patty, there are a lot of other examples of famous families that made money in less than legal ways in the beginning. Some of the names surprised me. Father was surprised at the number too. Maybe a drug dealer doesn't need to be a drug dealer all his life. The maids were clearing the table before serving dessert when I decided to reveal the surprise. "Patty, I want to take you wherever you want for your birthday next week." "My birthday?" "If you aren't already doing something with your family. If you are, we can do it some other day. Whenever it is, I want to do whatever you want to do." She turns to Father. "Is this okay with you, Mr. Hobbes?" "Gretchen may be getting ahead of herself. I told her I would consider the possibility, depending on what your plans are. Certainly a trip to France or Spain would be out of the question." "I don't have a passport anyway" said Patty. "I don't want anything big, assuming Mom lets me. If we do it at all, Mom's gotta approve it first. If Mom says no, I can't go, Gretchen." Why would she say no? Doesn't she like me? "I understand, but what do you want to do? A movie? A concert? What do you want to do?" She looks down, thinking, for several seconds, then her eyebrows creep up as she slowly raises her head, a wicked smile on her face. I've seen that look before, she's thought of something weird. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE Paintball World, a twenty acre paintball field on the outskirts of Miami. The entire place is fenced in. It has a large, mostly wooded area for hunting and stalking matches plus a smaller, cleared area for speedball games. The cleared area has a 30' by 20' two story barn in the middle surrounded by all sorts of structures to hide behind, barrels, boxes, crates, oddly shaped inflatables. There's also a clubhouse which sells supplies at outrageous prices and has a glass walled viewing room where people can safely sit and watch the action. It's the perfect opportunity. Get most everybody out of the compound, including Hobbes and Gretchen. Give Gretchen another chance to impress her father. And bring my mother into the picture. That last one was tough, but necessary ... at least for what I have in mind. Right now, she's sitting in the observation room, as far away as she can from everybody else. Most everybody else are in the clubhouse acting like kids in a candy store. I walk over and sit down next to her. She definitely looks tense. "Keep calm, everything will be alright" I whisper. "I don't know if I can do this, Patricia." "I told you up front that there may come a time when you'd have to meet Hobbes." "And I told you that I may not be able to do it ... ever." "He doesn't expect you to be his bosom buddy. I've already told him you're very upset about the house being bugged." "Really? A bugged house? That's all?" "Look, you're the one who wanted in on this. It's all part of the deal. Either you're a professional and get through it or you're not and you can leave right now." I reach out with my right hand, laying it on hers. "I know you can do this. It's important. It's only natural that you'd attend a birthday party for your daughter, that you'd want to meet the father of her best friend, the person with whom she's been spending so much time. In fact, it'd be unnatural if you didn't, that's why it's important." She looks away. "I know, Patricia ... you're right, but ... this man ... I want him dead." I can't have that happen, not if I'm going to pull this off. "Mom, you wouldn't ..." "No, honey. Not here, not now. I've thought about it but ... no. I don't think I've got it in me." "I don't know about that. I'm kinda glad you didn't have a gun those first few weeks." She looks back at me, smiling. "Who says I didn't?" "Ahhhhhh, you kidder!" I look over towards the pro shop and see Hobbes heading our way, a paintball marker with a barrel plug in his hands, barrel resting on his shoulder, pointing towards the ceiling, a large smile on his face. I squeeze Mom's hand. "He's coming" I whisper. She closes her eyes, swallows hard, nods slightly several times, takes a deep breath, exhales slowly and opens her eyes. Looking at me, she smiles tightly, teeth clenched. Hope this works. Hobbes is on us in seconds. "Patricia, what a brilliant idea! I'd never have thought of this myself! The men can hardly wait. This is a great training opportunity." I stand up. "Mr. Hobbes, this is my mother, Jessica Conner. He lays the marker on the table and quickly steps next to her chair, offering her his right hand. After just the briefest hesitation, she takes it. He adds his left hand to his right. "Mrs. Conner, I can not say how happy I am to finally meet you! Your daughter is one of the most impressive girls I have ever had the pleasure of meeting." She lets him continue to hold her hand a few seconds before she replies. "Thank you Mr. Hobbes. I've been interested in meeting you too. As for Patricia, while a mother may be biased, I've found her to be one of the most impressive persons I have ever known, male or female, young or old." Hobbes is taken aback but quickly recovers. "Yes ... yes, indeed, you are correct, I apologize. No offense. I can see where Patricia gets her directness." "I think it more likely that she's influenced me, Mr. Hobbes." She's consciously giving him a hard time while he's being polite. He's clearly confused as to why this isn't going better. I should stop this before it gets out of hand. "I appreciate all the kind words but we probably need to get started. Don't want to waste time; we've only got an hour." Hobbes releases Mom's hand and picks up his marker. "Don't concern yourself, Patricia. It's your birthday! I've rented the entire place for the day." "Mr. Hobbes, that's too much! I was just wanting the usual hour! You really shouldn't have ..." He waved me off. "Nonsense. It's nothing. I prefer it this way. Security is better, no other patrons to deal with, and we have as much time as we need. Gretchen suggested that I order pizza to be delivered here after we are finished. Raul was not particularly happy about that but I let him make a cake and some other dessert items to eat at home after the pizza ... assuming your mother agrees, of course." We both look at Mom, Hobbes in anticipation and me with apprehension. "Because it's a special occasion, I'll agree." Thank you. Now to get Hobbes away from her before something bad happens. "What did you pick as a marker, Mr. Hobbes?" "Marker?" "The paintball marker in your hands." "Ohhh yes, the gun." "Technically, they're called markers." "Really? Why is that?" "Probably for political correctness. Sounds better than people running around shooting each other with paintball guns." "You are likely right, Patricia, though it really doesn't make any difference. They are what they are. The manager said that this is the best ... marker in the store." "You bought it?" "Certainly." "Why not just rent one for the day?" "I prefer the best when it's available. Where is yours?" "I left it in the pro shop." I lead Hobbes back to the shop and away from Mom, happy to put some distance between them. The manager is waiting for us as we enter. "Is this the birthday girl?" he asks. "Yes" answers Hobbes. "This is Patricia Conner." "Well Patricia, I'm happy to have you and your group here." He scans the crowded shop. "It's been a good day, so far." I bet. It seems darn near every one of the guards have decided to buy instead of rent. Most of them are holding bright, shinny new equipment. I don't know if it's Hobbes treat or if it's coming out of their own pockets, but the manager's probably sold about three thousand dollars worth of gear, not counting CO2 fills and paintballs. "Now, Patricia, what can I get you?" the manager asks, anticipating another big sale. "Nothing. I got mine right here." I pick up a black plastic case from the table next to me. The manager's clearly disappointed. "Can I see it?" "Sure." I lay the case back on the table, flip the latches up and open it. I pull out the marker's body, slip on the barrel, insert the quick release pins to lock it in place, take the 18 oz. CO2 tank, screw it onto the back of the receiver, push a butt plate onto the bottom of the tank and insert a barrel plug, then hand it to the manager. "Why does Patricia's look so different from the rest of ours?" asks Hobbes. "Because this one's older than she is" answers the manager. "Where'd you get this?" "Mostly Ebay. The basic Stingray plus the 15" vented sniper barrel, Starfire bolt and plastic detent ball, plus the modified trigger set all were bought there. I made a couple of silicon cushion pads to quiet it down a bit and polished all the metal to smooth out the action. The rest is just normal nuts and bolts from the local hardware store." He brings the marker up to his shoulder, sighting through the dove tail and down the barrel. "I see. May I?" "Go ahead." He pulls back the bolt, pushes the safety off and pulls the trigger. There's a resounding bang and clang as the marker fires. Everybody in the room jumps then glare at him. "Sorry, sorry, just testing the girls' equipment. Sorry." "Really, Patricia. Allow me to buy you a new gun, it is your birthday. There's no reason you shouldn't have competitive equipment." "No thanks, Mr. Hobbes. The use of the range is more than enough. I really can't accept anything more. My Mom wouldn't approve." "This is a perfectly decent beginners' marker, Mr. Hobbes" said the manager. "I just need to check a couple of settings on it, to make sure it's safe, and she should be fine. Could you come to the back room with me, Miss?" "Okay." He walks behind the counter and opens a door to the right. I follow him and walk through the door as he holds it open for me. He enters behind me, closing the door. He lays my marker on a table, swinging a magnifying glass on an articulated arm near the trigger. He bends down to give it an inspection. "This is an old Brass Eagle Stingray II, isn't it?" he asks as he continues to inspect it. "Yeah, it is." "The basic Stingray is generally considered to be a piece of crap." "That's true." He keeps checking it out. "You've wrapped the pressure screw with Teflon tape. This thing doesn't leak, does it?" "Not a drop." He removes the tank, opens the bolt and shines a light down the barrel. "This is polished like a mirror. The rest of the metal's the same?" "You bet." He lays the marker back down on the table. "As I said, the basic Stingray was a semiautomatic piece of crap. What made it interesting was that, with a longer aftermarket barrel, an improved bolt, assorted other minor parts and some detail work, you could turn that piece of crap into a long range, high power, reliable, dead accurate, semiautomatic nail driver ... if you knew what you were doing." He cocks his head to the side, looking at me intently. "You know what you're doing, don't ya'?" "Yup." "And all those guys out there buying automatic, paint and gas burning machine guns, they don't know what they're doing, do they?" "Most of them don't." "I see ... this is gonna be a slaughter, isn't it?" "Hope so." "It's still a god awful loud son of a bitch." "Doesn't matter in speed ball, they know I'm out there. In fact, it gives me a bit of a psychological advantage, the sound of impending doom." "Mind if I watch?" * * * *** * * * *** * * * What in God's name was Patty thinking? I was this close to talking Father into letting me take her to a movie, or a concert, or SOMEWHERE, just the two of us and she goes and chooses this! Why would she choose THIS?! At first, Father was surprised, then he jumped all over it, even had Enrique come back from where ever he was to join in. Right now, while everybody else is goofing around in the shop, Enrique's outside, surveying the field, planning something, no doubt. Father insisted on buying me a complete set of everything, padded vest and pants, helmet, gloves and this shiny blue gun. It's the most clothes he's bought me in the last six month's, not counting school uniforms. I wander out of the shop and see an older lady sitting by herself in front of a big window over looking the playing field. She's probably Patty's mother, though I don't see much of a family resemblance. She's taller than Patty, but who isn't, ya' know. She's got normal size breasts, more like mine than Patty's ... above average. She looks like she was very pretty when she was younger. Slowly, she turns her head, seeing me. "Hello. You must be Gretchen." "Uhh, yeah ... I mean yes, I am ... I'm Gretchen ... Hobbes. That's my father in there." I point back towards the shop. She frowns then stands up. "We've met." She walks over to me, stopping to give me the once over. I'm used to that, people often look closely at me, because I'm so tall, though she's almost as tall as I am. Patty's Dad must have been short. She looks at me a little wistfully and smiles. * * * *** * * * *** * * * I'd seen pictures of her but never in person. She looks much like Alisha would at this age, tall and slim, though probably not as beautiful as Gretchen. Patricia didn't do her justice. "I'm happy to finally meet you Gretchen. Patricia has told me so much about you, I feel I know you. She said you were a beautiful girl, I just didn't realize how lovely you are." She blushes and turns slightly away. "Patty said I was beautiful?" "More than once, quite often actually." "Well, I think she's beautiful too." "That's nice of you. I agree ... but then I'm her mother and not exactly unbiased." "Oh she is, beautiful I mean. She's the prettiest girl I know. And smart too. God! She's sooo smart. And fearless. Nothing scares her! There was this time at the softball field ... well, you probably know all about that." "Patricia did mention it to me." "Of course she did. Patty said she tells you everything." I wish. "Patricia says you do quite well in school yourself, Gretchen." She shrugs. "I'm doing a lot better know, since Patty started helping me. She's really great." Do I detect a hint of a crush? Could just be my imagination. "Mrs. Conner ... can I ask you a question?" "Certainly, Gretchen. What is it?" "Patty ... you talk with her, spend time with her, you think you know how she thinks ... and then she does something crazy ... not crazy, not really, just ... it's surprising, that's all. Has she always been that way?" I smile. "She's been that way as long as I've known her, Gretchen. I gave up trying to predict what she'll do some time ago. But, I must admit, things usually work out the way she expects them to." Gretchen sighs and rolls her eyes. "I know! It does! I just wish she'd let me know what's going on before it happens. Like this!" she raises her hands, which are holding a mask with a large, clear plastic face plate and a bright blue metal paintball gun. "What's with this? She never once said anything to me about paintball. I thought she might want to go out and we could see a movie or a concert or something, just me and her for once. And then this happens. Sometimes, I just don't know what's going on in her head." I pat her on the arm. "Don't worry about it, dear. I suggest you do your best to just trust her. That's what I do ... and she hasn't let me down yet." Not exactly. She smiles at me. It's a youthful, radiant smile, without guile or traces of pain or regret. "Thanks Mrs. Conner, I'll try." Everybody starts to leave the building, walking out onto the playing field. Gretchen waves and joins the crowd. As they all leave, a man wearing a company baseball cap enters the room and begins flipping switches on a console near the large picture window. Several flat screen monitors mounted on the wall on either side of the window brighten, displaying various areas of the playing field. I stand closer to the window and look around the field, searching for the cameras. Counting Patricia and Gretchen, there appears to be twenty or so people getting prepared to begin, slipping masks over their heads and aiming their ... markers. The man comes up behind me. "Ma'am?" I turn to face him. "Hi. I'm Bob Highsmith, I manage this place. If you want a good view, just have a seat back here. You can see most of the field through the window and the rest is visible on the monitors." "That's very convenient, Mr. Highsmith. Thank you." "We like to record everything when we get a big group in. We burn it to a DVD and they can buy it as a memento or relive the day by watching it here. They usually get a kick out of it." "I can imagine." "Who you with today?" "My daughter, the birthday girl." "Aahhhh, that one. She should make this interesting." "In what way?" He keeps working with his electronics. "From her marker, I suspect she's got some experience with paintball. Am I right?" I don't know where Patricia got that thing, she just showed up with it yesterday. "Yes, you're right, Mr. Highsmith." "Thought so. The rest of those guys don't. They all wanted markers that shoot as many balls as fast as possible. Guys like that come out blasting, spraying paint all over the place, wasting ammo and gas. It's a macho thing. Her marker can't shoot nearly as fast but it's a lot more accurate and can shoot farther. If she's smart about it, she can get them before they can get her." "If Patricia is anything, it's smart." "I've seen a small group of experienced young kids, ten, eleven years old, absolutely swarm a larger group of inexperienced adults. A school of sharks. The adults never knew what hit em'. Why aren't you out there?" "It's not exactly my idea of fun." "You'd be surprised. I get a lot of women and girls out here. After they get over their initial reluctance, some of them are totally vicious, real killers. Paintball's not about strength, it's about strategy." CHAPTER FORTY Mr. Highsmith picks up a microphone mounted next to the window, winks at me, then flips the switch on the microphone. "Good morning, everybody. I'd like to quickly review the rules before you start. If you get hit by a paintball and it breaks, leaving paint on you, you're out. If the ball fails to break, you live to keep fighting. If the paintball strikes a barrier, breaks and splatters you with paint, you're still alive, unless it's a paint hand grenade. If you get splattered by a hand grenade, you're out. If you run out of ammo or C02 gas, there's no refills until the next match, unless you can get it from a teammate." "As for the type of matches, that's up to you. We have flags if you want to play 'Capture the Flag', you can form teams and the last team with active players wins, or you can play it every man ... or woman for themselves, last one standing wins. If there's any dispute as to whether or not a player is out, I make the ruling and my ruling is final, no whining. We're all mature adults here, let's behave like it. Everybody got that?" Several of the men raise their guns and wave them. "All right then, ready when you folks are. I'm recording all this so you can all relive the greatest hits when done." There's a lot of laughing and pointing among the men. Patricia is standing slightly off to the side, surveying the playing field. Gretchen is standing next to her, looking lost. * * * *** * * * *** * * * Hobbes steps forward, clapping his hands. "Gentlemen! As this is Patricia's birthday, she gets to chose first for her team." All eyes turn towards me. "For the first one, Gretchen and I'll guard the barn and the rest of you can try to take it." They all look at us for several seconds before the laughter starts. It continues until Hobbes waves them silent. "That's hardly fair to you, Patricia. Pick some more men for your side." "Naw, we're good." "Come now, this will hardly be a contest." "Then it shouldn't take you very long to beat us and move on to the next match, will it?" Hobbes shakes his head and smirks. "As you wish. Let's go men." Hobbes walks away from the barn, towards the farthest end of the field. The others follow him, weaving in and out of the assorted structures littered around the field. As they walk away, Gretchen grabs my arm. "You want to tell me what's going on?" "Sure. As soon as we start, I'll attack and pick off the leaders then drive the rest of them into the open where you can get them." "What happens if they charge me?" "Shoot em' ... but they should be too busy dodging me to get organized. If I can get them on the run, you should be able to stay right here and clean up. Just keep low, wait until I flush them out and don't waste paintballs." "I don't know about ..." "Don't worry about it, no pressure. If it works, it works. Just have fun. You may get a chance to shoot your father." "Really?!" "If I don't get him first." "You get Enrique, I'll get Father." "I'll try. When I'm ready, I'll raise my hand and point where I'll chase them to. Keep watch because I won't leave it up for long, just a second or two. Got it?" "Yeah." "Okay. Put your mask on, pull your barrel plug and get ready to rock and roll!" * * * *** * * * *** * * * All the men walk to the far end of the field, leaving Patricia and Gretchen alone near the barn. "What are they doing?" I ask. "Looks like they've chosen teams. It's the boys versus the girls" Hightower answered. "What?! That's completely unfair! It's two versus ... twenty!" "I'll admit that's a lot more uneven than I've seen before but I think that's what your daughter wanted." I sigh. "She would. What now?" He picks up the microphone again. "I say Go." He brings it to his mouth and pushes the button. "Is everybody ready?" Patricia slips her mask down over her face and gives a thumbs up. Somebody at the far end waves their hand. At this distance and with a mask on, it's impossible to say who it is, probably Hobbes. Suddenly, the possibility of being out there, shooting at Hobbes, doesn't seem so far fetched. I may be missing an opportunity. Hightower reaches next to the window and flips a switch. Several lights start blinking on his console, he must have started recording. He looks back at me with a grin on his face, then shouts into the microphone. "GO!" I immediately lean forward in my seat, trying to get a better look. I can see Gretchen, squatting down behind a large wooden crate almost completely covered by paint splashes of various colors. Patricia is ... gone. "Where's my daughter?" "She's right ... damn, where is she? She was ... wait, I think she's ... no, she's over ... man, she's fast! There, there she is, about seventy five feet away from them. They're just getting organized, they don't know she's out there. Wakey wakey guys." * * * *** * * * *** * * * "Alright gentlemen, let's go." Enrique touches my arm and moves around in front of me. "Raymond, perhaps we should let the men do it themselves this time. If this is to be a training exercise, you wouldn't be leading them, they would be protecting you." Even now, he is trying to keep me safe. Enrique can be too much of a mother hen sometimes. "I think we can worry about that later, Enrique." "Then let them take the lead and we can follow behind." He leans in closer to me. "You yourself said that the Conner girl is very clever and she insisted on this. Best to not be the first man through the door." He may have a good point there. "Henry, you can lead the men this time. Enrique and I will wait back here, in reserve." He already has his mask over his face. "Yes sir, Mr. Hobbes." "Make sure that my daughter isn't hurt." "Yes sir." * * * *** * * * *** * * * All the guys are milling about, firing their markers at different nearby structures, testing them out. There's a lot of laughing. Sometimes, one of them lobs a few paintballs towards the barn but it's way out of range. Three of them are standing off to the side, talking. With their masks on, it would be hard to know who they are. Luckily, I memorized what each of them was wearing before we started. They're Henry, Lou and Sidney, the three most senior guards. All within range of my Stingray. * * * *** * * * *** * * * "We split everyone into three groups. I take one group up the middle. You take a second group down the right side, Lou, and Sidney takes the final group down the left." "Why bother, Henry? Just send a couple of guys down there to take care of the girls then we can get down to some serious blasting." "Because Hobbes wants to use this as a training drill, Sidney. We have to take this seriously. The other reason is that Conner set this up. She's got something up her sleeve." "You got that right, Henry." "Lou, you're still pissed that she cost you four bills." "Doesn't mean Henry's not right, Sid. She's sneaky ... and smart, fucking smart." "Fine, let's get this over with. The pot's already over a thousand for the last man standing." Sidney's got a short memory. He's forgetting what Conner did to us the first time we met her. I sure as hell won't. "Just make sure you take this seriously, Sidney. We don't want to be embarrassed by a couple of little ..." What the fuck! Who the hell shot me in the face mask?! I can't see shit! I whip off my mask. The face plate is covered in bright orange paint. So are Lou's and Sidney's. OH SHIT! "Take cover! Take cover!" "Who did this ..." "It's Conner, you idiots! She's sitting out there somewhere, picking us off!" "Where, Henry?" "Doesn't matter, Lou. We're out. Those guys are on their own now." Guys are getting hit left and right. Some of the ones still alive start firing back but they're shooting blind. The more noise they make, the harder it is to pick up where Conner is. The smarter ones take cover. The guys who just stand there, firing back don't last long. Same place, smack in their face plates. * * * *** * * * *** * * * It is pandemonium. Enrique dives for cover at the sound of the first shots, pulling me down with him. We both peek over the top of a pile of sand bags. "She's over there, X-ray." Enrique points to a small stack of crates about forty yards away. At first, I don't see what he does, but then the tip of her barrel appears and there are several puffs of gas. God, that is loud! Three more men are hit, two in their clear plastic masks, one in the mouth. That one quickly removes his mask and spits out a stream of orange paint. It's Gomez. His moustache is stained almost entirely orange. Looking around, it appears that more than half my men have been hit, almost all in the head. The remaining men are hiding behind whatever cover they can find. Enrique stands up. "What are you fools doing?! She's just a tiny girl! Go get her!" he screams. "Where is she?" asks Escaban. "That stack of crates to your left!" "Got it!" Three men pop up over their respective cover and begin firing at the crates. It takes a few seconds for them to actually hit them. Once they do, the remaining men swarm out and take up new positions closer to the crates. They start firing and the other three join them. This is more like it. The men methodically move closer to the crates, each providing cover fire for the other as they close in. Enrique and I follow them. Finally, one of the men runs the final few feet, jumping behind the crates, firing as he does. He steps back around the crates, raising his hands and shaking his head "No". He gets hit square in the face. Paintballs strike all around the men, forcing them to run forward and to their left. Somehow, Patricia had gotten behind us. The men take up new positions while Enrique and I rush back to our prior protection, though Patricia isn't shooting at us, for some reason. The men begin shooting in the general direction of where Patricia last fired from. Suddenly, they are attacked from behind ... by Gretchen. Patricia and my daughter have them in a cross fire. Patricia begins to fire again. Enrique grabs my arm, pulling me away from the area. We crouch low and work our way back towards our original position, moving from one structure to the other. "Stay here and do nothing" he says once we reach our destination. "Did you see what Gretchen did?! My daughter actually shot my men! I'd never thought such a thing possible! I've never been prouder!" * * * *** * * * *** * * * "Yes, I saw, X-ray. Very impressive. I'm happy for you." Connor drove the incompetent fools to an ambush. Given what she did to the other men, she likely could have finished them off herself but she gave Gretchen the honor of the kill. She likely could have also finished us off, but she didn't. Which means she has something else in mind. "You stay here, keep an eye out for Conner. I'll circle back and search for her. If either of us sees her, shout out. Remember, she has a superior weapon." "How is that possible? Ours are the latest, most modern available. The manager said hers was older than she was." "I don't know how it happened, but it did. How else can you explain what just occurred?"