Bannon was pissed. His secret weapon, his Spider (his Gunny), was in his safe room. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Safe rooms were for clients. Important clients. Terrified; important clients. Not for his own ops manager.

Daisy Chain, their ace-in-the-hole hacker, was deep into military files, ADA cases, and God only knows what else. It would seem that the dead District Attorney, Ray Evars, was an ass… but a halfway decent ass. He had not been told that Wraith had exonerated a man brought to trial. That obviously wasn’t right. He had been killed, Bannon suspected, to cover that up.

Killing someone at a public park after a huge public event like the Renaissance Faire seemed to be an idiotic move. Maybe the doer or doers thought that Wraith and Saber made good patsies, maybe leave some evidence somewhere to say that they did it because they were actually at the Renaissance Faire. But they had been with too many people, literally never alone, except to stand in a very public line with cameras to use the public toilets. They had also been nearly the last ones out of thousands to leave. The shooter (or shooters) hadn’t known that Wraith was there for far more than sparring. The doer (or doers) probably thought her still weak, but the woman had powers of recuperation that had shocked and stunned them all.

Frenchie was running it down. Quantico had finally wised up and given the special agent a star spot on the Las Vegas team, down from the tiny Reno office. She had FBI resources, but Bannon knew the players intimately. He’d testified in that court, protecting a client from her drug-taking mother. He’d met Ray and his five-thousand-dollar smile that oozed sincerity. The man was a courtroom ninja, sneaking into territory that blew juries’ minds.

Ray dirty? Bannon could believe it, but the reality was that Ray Evars had family money, from an olive king named Pietro Evarro in Italy, from three generations back, that had moved to America. In fact, his grandson Rafael “Ray” Evars was now the proud owner of a sold-out condominium project, and a lot more. According to Daisy Chain and Nico, the real estate stuff was legit, and the man was only hiding behind one shell company, not ten.

So, who the hell had a case prosecuted where the suspect had a clear DEA-agent alibi for the time of the murder, and why? What was the point? To try to paint Wraith as brain-damaged and feeble? To try to get prior cases she’d testified for, thrown out of court? To get any future cases thrown out?

He texted her with the future-and-prior cases idea and received a text back. Already on it. He sighed. He loved her quicksilver mind, always two steps ahead of him, and he was no slouch.

He sent her another text. Judge Markan?

Not paid off, trying to find out what was said in chambers to Defense Attorney Leah Sakanski and ADA Rumin Kelis. Kelis had to have known.

Wraith knew these players even more intimately than he did, having testified in dozens of trials as an ex-DEA member, often loaned out to the ATF, and sometimes to the FBI, for sting operations.

He decided to quit ruminating. Wraith was safe. She slept surrounded by an ATF agent, Saber, and a Valkyrie, Sigrun. Their triad seemed to work, and as long as Wraith was happy, everyone at High Desert Security and Protection was happy. She also had a rotating team of Valkyries, Iron Knights, and Soldier Pack as the second and third layers. Real agents with real credentials, and a boatload of favors they could call in. They were all working the case in some way or another. His principal was safe, and he had six more principals right now, and in the heart of the city.

Daci Samar was smart, cool, collected, and fifteen. Bannon had been running around the woods with a heavy backpack on, shooting at tin cans placed in trees to get in the military as soon as possible. Daci was a sultry soul singer, and one of the most intelligent young women Bannon had ever met. She was part of Gregory’s record label, dubbed the “Teen Queens” by the outfit, for their high talent and low drama. She had blue-black hair, caramel skin, a largish nose, and a quick laugh. She was even quicker with a snarky comment that made even the most hardened soldiers who were guarding her, laugh. Her father, Rudi Samar, had the dual job of protecting his daughter from crazed fans who believed themselves to be in love with her, and protecting her brand and the assets derived, thereof. Rudi got smart and hired Bannon for the protection, and then he hired a top-notch accounting firm to guard the assets.

Fredi Racau was a French photographer; turned vlogger, a blonde haired, blue-eyed, tiny fountain of elegance, and she’d built a rabid fan base. Normally, she wouldn’t need protection, but she’d bought a Vegas apartment, and she’d been at the site of a terror attack and had reported on it in real time, making her a hero as well —and quite a substantial target.

Ken Wang was a super-sharp Taiwanese businessman who dressed in three-thousand-dollar suits, and who was in the process of buying two hotels. He needed physical and technical security, all while making a multimillion-dollar deal.

Ismael Farid was a thin, sharp-faced, Saudi businessman. He was attempting to get himself, and his entire family, out of oil, entirely. He was on the selection committee for a site. A semi-secret, low-earth-orbit rocket that could get people and materials from one continent to another in an hour to ninety minutes. His wife Fatima was an actual rocket scientist, who went back and forth between couture and lab coats, with a scarf covering her hair, advising both the committee and her husband. She spent her time correcting at least two technical problems herself, during business meetings. She did so with a New Mexico based rocket company.

Kanjiro Yin and Royal Meyer were separate clients involved in business with each other. It was a highly technical arrangement, and both sabotage and industrial espionage had happened in the past to both clients.

Wraith had brought in several Soldier Pack members who had wanted to either work part-time on bikes, or who disliked working on Harleys. It was fiddly, difficult work, involving physical and mental strength. And it wasn’t for everyone. Bannon and Gregory had spoken to them separately, and now Bannon had three more, smart, highly-trained operatives.

Wraith moved people around like chess pieces, even with the mystery of her past as a federal agent, and someone possibly trying to frame (or even kill) her. Someone was trying to take her off the board, and Gregory couldn’t let the person (or people) attempting to do that, win.

He sighed, then put on his best suit in his elongated, private bathroom/changing room. He put on his silver cufflinks and stepped out for the Yin/Meyer conference.

Wraith smiled, looking at the cameras. The hallway camera showed a James Bond-like Bannon heading down the hallway in black Armani. Staff Sergeant Tori was behind her too, having temporarily taken some time out from her Harley work to protect Wraith, and also to get to know Bannon and Gregory’s business a little more.

“Bond, James Bond,” said Tori, grinning.

“Eyes off Bannon’s butt. And, aren’t you supposed to be Bonnie now that Bonnie’s in the hospital?” asked Wraith.

“Ghost and Killa split up to make it easier, and they just finished off two bikes, anyway,” said Tori. “And, I’m only here for two hours. We’re almost done with the bikes for Henry, and we’re going to make double, so he can sell all he wants. I sold two of the ones I did on my own. Man, Harley people are hyper picky. They have an image in their minds. So, I check colors, and then make it as perfect as I can.”

“Polish that chrome,” said Wraith.

“You have no idea,” said Tori. Then, they both broke down, laughing.

Daisy Chain called in. “Report,” said Wraith.

“Fucking dirtball; Rumin Kelis tried to throw you under the bus,” said Daisy Chain, indignantly.

“Figured,” said Wraith. “Man was trying to fast-talk himself out of fines or even the obstruction of justice.”

“The defense attorney had already put all of your proof about contacting the ADA into a court document. The asshole didn’t have a leg to stand on. The entire trial messed with the court’s time and had a chance of putting an innocent man in prison.”

“Innocent of that particular crime,” said Wraith. “Rolly is the last person I would call ‘innocent.’”

“Given. And there was a lawsuit filed the next day against the city. Two million.”

“Bet that’ll get settled for a mil,” said Wraith. And the judge?”

“Threw the book at ADA Michael Kellers and his second chair, Rudi Meyers. Both of them first tried to say that you were mistaken, or that they believed you to be mistaken. Judge Jensen blew her top, in that word-biting way she has, that’s almost like shouting.”

“Wait. Who recorded this?” Wraith suspected Daisy Chain had heard a recording, a real no-no in chambers.

“Not telling,” said Daisy Chain. “Anyhoo, then they all blamed it on Kelis. And, get this, Kelis was ordered to come to her and explain his actions. She raked him over the coals. Said she wouldn’t trust anything he said in her court, ever again.”

“Oooh,” said Wraith. “He would hate that. Both being ordered around by a judge, and then dressed down…”

“And being held in contempt of court,” said Daisy Chain.

Wraith and Tori whistled. “What the? Shit, did he go to jail?”

“No jail time, but he had to put an unspecified amount into the fund that will eventually go to Rolly when he wins his suit.”

“Fuck me,” said Wraith.

“No wonder someone wants you dead,” said Tori.

“It gets worse. Kelis had to admit that he never told, and that he prevented Ray from being told, because the man he was prosecuting had a DEA-agent alibi.”

Wraith just sat there, and was finally able to squeak out, “And… how many daily, then pretrial meetings, did Kelis et al attend, without telling Ray?”

“The judge asked the same question. She even took his phone and counted. Twenty.”

“Twenty,” said Wraith. “He’s going to lose his job.”

“And possibly both ADAs,” agreed Daisy Chain.

“And possible perjury, trying to get a DEA agent —me, to say I was lying.” Wraith was incensed. “Wait, now Judge Jensen is in danger.”

“Already texted Frenchie; agents are hanging around her chambers and her courtroom,” said Daisy Chain.

“Don’t know if it’s just one or all three,” said Wraith.

“Still digging,” said Daisy Chain.

“Killer. Someone’s a killer.” Wraith stretched, grimaced, and said, “Thank you, girlfriend.” Daisy Chain was already gone, without a goodbye.

“Well,” said Tori, “they won’t attack you in person. Too many people know their faces.”

“It’s in the court cases,” said Wraith. She tapped her earphone. “Gregory, the Farids, in fifteen.” She watched him cross his office to change his own suit.

“Good,” said Tori. “More Armani.”

“Hey, he’s taken,” said Wraith, tapping into her own private database.

“Not dead, I still have eyes,” said Tori. They both laughed.

* * *

The Farids selected two sites, one in New Mexico, and one in central Texas. They flew out that same night on their private jet, having invested their own money in the project as well. Bannon came back to find Sigrun sketching on his wall. He realized she’d taped up paper that matched the wallpaper, and then he relaxed.

“Report,” said Gregory.

“I think that my mural will win my team the scholarship in Fine Arts,” said Sigrun.

“Excellent,” said Bannon. “I take it Wraith is still alive?”

She snorted. “Her weapons have weapons.”

“True,” said Bannon. “Any further information?”

Bannon’s earpiece rang, and Sigrun resumed drawing on his wall. “My wife doesn’t know about this stuff. We’re getting into ugly territory. The judge has a gag order, and the FBI has; not one, but two, full-scale investigations that involves people in suits talking to their sleeves.” Bannon snorted. “Good. So, we’re out of it?”

Sigrun made a noncommittal noise. Wraith spoke into Bannon’s ear from her safe room as Bannon sat down at his desk. She said, “About my cases, I know what I, specifically, testified to in what courtroom with which judge and ADA, and second chair. Most of my stuff involved dead people or people already in jail for other crimes, so there were a lot of plea bargains. Some that went into witness protection. So, not as much testifying as you may think. Which is how the DEA likes it, actually. As little time on the stand as possible, preferably in a closed session.”

“Okay,” said Bannon.

“Here’s the kicker,” said Wraith. “I was supposed to testify in a case that was nasty. A woman, a cartel, lots of dead bodies. She won’t plea to a single thing, although there’s so much evidence convicting her, it will be easy. I was supposed to testify to a few things, where she was, what I saw and heard, etcetera. Crime scene collection’s not my thing. So, if I were discredited or dead, and she were somewhere else? The cartel has a shit ton of money. Case number 2, same thing; different cartel. The man literally tried to kidnap me and sell me into slavery.”

Bannon’s eyes flew open. “I take it that didn’t go well for him?”

“Not at all. The thing is, the other agent that was there is under deep cover and might not even surface in time for the trial. They’re trying to drag him into a hotel room with an ADA in another city to interview him. If this is what I think it is, that will get lost, and there will be another attempt to discredit me. Guess who’s on both cases?”

“Our Three Little Pigs?” asked Gregory.

“Ooh, I like it. But, two pigs. I think Second Chair Rudi Meyers is innocent and being duped by the baddies,” said Wraith.

“Can we take them down?” asked Gregory.

“If we ask very nicely, we may be able to see the bodycam footage. They still have a lot of digging to do. But, desperate people do desperate things, so I think…”

The lights went off, and yellow LED lights went up. Sigrun put her pencils back in her case at her feet, and suddenly had a silver gun in one hand and a silver knife in the other. Bannon had an expanding baton in one hand, his gun in another. Wraith touched her bone-conduction earphone and said into everyone’s ear, “We are under attack. Sigma; Sigma One.”

Sigrun smiled a particularly vicious smile. “Hold on, baby,” she said. “I’m tired of your getting injured. Looks like the Ren Faire was just practice.”

Wraith said, through their special channel, “Don’t get slagged.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Sigrun.

* * *

The cartel boys liked big guns, and preferably ones that shot a lot of bullets. Darina Atanas was smarter. A lot smarter. She had her men for that. Dimo was her main shooter. He shot with precision, not a spray of bullets. A semiautomatic that only shot three bullets at a time. Konstantin was her second. He liked automatic weapons, but Dimo had trained him for more precise kills. Together, they went after a security agency. It was after hours, the clients long gone. Besides, they had seen the guards. They were missing legs, arms. They would have to be slow.

Gregory was still on the premises, talking with Thandie Wells and Sayan on his headset. They had been doing a sitrep on their client, Daci, the soul singer. They handed her off to swing shift for a performance at the House of Blues, and the swing operatives reported that they were just exiting the club. Thandie and Sayan intended to take Daci on a whirlwind of interviews in various studios the next morning, from news outlets to online vloggers, and Gregory made sure the schedule was nailed down and that his client got home early. The “Queen” that Gregory had that morning was now long gone, on a plane back to her native home, Dallas.

The lights went down. Gregory and the operatives took out their weapons and fanned out. Wraith cut the broadcast call to everyone and whispered into Gregory’s ear.

Saleem had been with Wild Bill during the day, watching Ken Wang. They had already done their sitrep with Bannon, and Wild Bill was long gone. Saleem was in the staff lounge sipping on Coke and watching a baseball game on the staff TV when Wraith whispered into her ear.

Star was putting on her pink cowboy boots in one of the changing stalls in the company locker room, one level down from the office. She slipped her black boots back on, and silently loaded herself up from the locker room goodies locker.

“Showtime,” Star whispered. She knew Wraith knew where she was. Wraith knew where everyone was. She was their Spider.

Dimo and Konstantin thought they had taken out the security for the floor. They had no idea the people they had come to take out had called the police and the FBI, and that their every move was being broadcast to Frenchie, as part of their remote surveillance team, and to Wraith.

“Come to mama,” Wraith whispered.

Darina followed her men as they went up the stairs. They bypassed the keyed entry and made it onto the floor. The strange glow of the emergency lights made the men nervous. They found the front desk and the waiting room empty, and just a keyed entry point. But Dimo did his magic, and they were in. Darina did not bother to give them orders; they knew their tasks. Dimo always took the left, and Konstantin, the right. The larger conference room was empty, as was the smaller one. They went forward, and Dimo saw movement. Three bursts, and a cry. Dimo grinned.

They hugged the wall, until Dimo called a halt. He found a tripwire. He cut it, and said, in Bulgarian, “Amateurs.” He stepped forward, and an elephant pounded him in the chest. He flew backward and lifted the gun forward and pulled the trigger. It let off a burst of three, but he had been aiming too high.

Saleem had been hit in the artificial arm, and was pissed, because she had just gotten truly adjusted to it. The dinky-brains who played with it always did something to make it hard to adjust to it again. She pulled the trigger again, this time above the man’s body armor. Dimo’s head exploded. She rolled out of the way as six more shots came her way.

Konstantin roared as his trainer went down. He stepped into the next room and attempted to shoot Gregory’s jacket. Gregory was not wearing the jacket, but it was draped on a chair to make it look like he was sitting there. He hit Konstantin twice in the throat before ducking behind his bulletproof desk.

Darina slipped back, her backup team now thundering up the stairs. She heard shots and grunts. Two of her team burst in behind her, already hit, one in the arm, one in the leg. She groaned in disgust and set her weapon to full auto.

Saleem’s blade found its way into Darina’s hand. Darina screamed out with rage. She transferred her automatic to her other hand, and she lifted her weapon to fire, switching it to semiauto. Two cans of Coke came flying at her, and she hit them both. Sugary brown liquid exploded into the hallway. Saleem shot Darina right between the eyes, doing so while the assassin was distracted by the flying cans of cola.

Bannon was in his office, both he and Sigrun crunched down on either side of the desk. The last two surviving goons burst in, and Bannon shot upward, where the man’s body armor met his waist, up into his gut, then did a head tap. Sigrun went for the balls first, then the head shot, to her left. The second man died as he was attempting to scream.

Sigrun stared down at the blood splattered across the carpet. “That’ll be hard to get out.”

“Count off,” said Wraith, in their ears, as the sirens whooped and wailed. They did, and everyone was accounted for. “Good,” said Wraith. “Put your guns on the ground. I’ve ensured that SWAT has a blow-by-blow. I sent the camera feeds to their truck. Frenchie is telling them to stand down. Working on getting her first in the door. Anyone hurt except Saleem’s bionic arm?”

Everyone sounded off a “No.” Saleem wiggled her artificial fingers. “Works fine, just dinged up. Bastards!”

“Okay, photo time. Get their faces. My cameras don’t have good angles on all of them.”

The operatives each took out cell phones, snapped pics of the faces of the goons, and sent them to Wraith. Wraith collated them, marked them by location, and sent them to Frenchie. Frenchie sent them to SWAT and to her second, Ruby Quello, back in the barn. Ruby tap-tap-tapped her fingers, and said to Frenchie, “Nasty cartel assassin baddies.” She gave Frenchie a quick, concise rundown.

Frenchie parked right next to the SWAT van. “Don’t need you,” she said. “The Lyuben cartel is missing its favorite shooter, Darina Atanas. She brought her second and third in command, and goons for backup. They’re all dead. Made the mistake of going up against High Desert Security and Protection.”

“Well, that wasn’t too bright. From the feed I saw, the whole thing took less than four and a half minutes,” said Trey Chan, the SWAT commander. “We’ll head out. Got a hostage situation shaping up across town.” He grinned. “Tell Gregory he owes me a steak dinner for coming to save his ass.”

“Will do, but you didn’t save squat,” said Frenchie.

“But I came, didn’t I?” said Trey. He hopped back in the vehicle and was gone.

Frenchie called her boss, the coroner, and an army of agents to mop up one of the pseudopods of the cartel. She laughed as she stopped talking into her earpiece. Wraith called her. “What’s so funny?”

Frenchie looked at the security camera and waved. “You guys will probably get cash. There was a bounty on her head. Preferably for her capture.” She sighed. “Sadly, I won’t be interviewing her. Would have liked some names.”

“She was shooting at my people. Should I have used harsh language?” Wraith sighed. “You’re right, sorry. We need answers.”

Pocero drove up. Officers spilled out of cars, and they started with the crime scene tape. “That Wraith on the phone?” he asked. “Tell her to get her skinny butt down here and explain this bloodbath.”

“She’s not leaving,” said Frenchie. “She’s in her hidey-hole. You’ll have to work your evidence team past all the bodies of the cartel people to get to her.”

“How many they take down?” asked Pocero.

“At least eight,” said Frenchie. “All cartel. Part of a sort of joint Eastern Europe ‘bad people network.’ The usual: drugs, guns, extortion, money laundering, murder for hire, even some people-selling. Nasty cockroaches.”

“Why did they hit them?” asked Pocero, pointing up at the windows of the security company’s offices. His phone rang, and Pocero answered it.

Wraith waited for his call to end. “Because I will testify to a case putting an entire arm of their organization in prison for, very literally, trying to sell me,” said Wraith into his ear. “Plus, all the drugs, guns, and other incriminating stuff in the warehouse. Now, if you want to keep shouting about a federal case that has not yet gone to trial in a parking lot where anyone can listen, you can, but I think it would be smarter to talk about it in one of our conference rooms that didn’t get shot up, don’t you?”

Pocero looked as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “Yeah, fine. Let’s do this.” The crime scene van drove up, and they began a long night of wrapping up.

It was now one in the morning. The entire contents of the staff fridge were gone. After a visit from their attorney, the High Desert Security crew was allowed to leave.

Wraith was furious that they wanted her to leave the panic room. “These guys came for me. I was in a safe place. Not a hair on my head was mussed. And now you want me to leave? Why? It’s an enclosed space. No blood, no hair, nothing here from the shootout. Not even a bullet. Not even on the same air supply. Nope, not going.”

“She has a point,” said Frenchie. “And, no one’s getting prosecuted for this assault. Except for the hit-caller, and we don’t know who that is, just yet.”

Special Agent in Charge Louise Ralcher, Frenchie’s boss, stared around her. “Don’t even know where the panic room is. And, we have video of everything, start to finish. And, the crime scene unit has been over everything. All the bodies are gone, and we have video.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, then put her silver glasses back on. The glasses made her brown eyes look sharper than they were. “Alright, no use tearing the place apart looking for a disembodied voice.” She sighed. “Wraith, you win. Get someone in here to clean this place up.” She waved a manicured hand, knowing Wraith could see her with her cameras.

Wraith snorted. “They’ve been waiting outside for the last fifteen minutes for you to release the scene. This place must be perfect in the morning.”

“Sure, you don’t want to come back?” asked SAC Ralcher.

“I’ll work with you, but not for you,” said Wraith. “Saving my butt so I come home to my family comes first these days. Been run over, shot, and assaulted more times than I care to mention. Getting a little fucking tired of it. No offense, Ma’am, but I like my life the way it is.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” said Ralcher. “Frenchie is your liaison. And I’m tired of talking to the air. Release the scene,” she ordered. She went down the elevator, and the little company Wraith had bought to add to High Desert’s portfolio, came in. They were a crime scene cleanup firm made up of two, female ex-cops, both shot in the line of duty. Finally they went up. Wraith was paying double for a night job, and they were both happy to help the woman who had saved their company and bolstered their firm’s reputation.

In the morning, everything went as it was supposed to. The bullet holes had been filled in, the wallpaper rehung, new carpet laid down. Even the staff refrigerator had been refilled with new sodas, waters, and snacks. A teen queen got driven to her interview. Two moguls made a deal. Some very boring negotiations continued. Gregory met and protected two new record label queens. And Wraith was safe in her cubbyhole, and her wife had a mural to paint for school. And all was right with the world. Again, thankfully.

Runner

Judge Julia Marks narrowed her sea-green eyes at Defense Attorney Marla Phipps, and at ADA Michael Kellers. “Are we ready to begin?” she asked.

Marla said, “Sidebar, your honor.”

“Both of you, Ms. Phipps and Mr. Kellers, please approach the bench.” The judge narrowed her eyes to slits again. “What is it?” she asked.

“If it pleases the court, we would like to have Mr. Kellers, and any hint of ADA Kelis, removed from involvement in this case.” Marla Phipps was short, stocky, and whip-smart. She kept her gorgeous wavy locks in a clip in the back of her head, and she met the judge’s increasingly stormy eyes with her more-than-calm, chocolate ones.

“Your Honor…” squeaked ADA Kellers. He checked the button of his jacket, as if looking good would get him out of hot water.

Judge Marks tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear, a sign she was angry. Judge Marks liked her courtrooms neat and orderly, and for things to run like clockwork. Marla Phipps was throwing a wrench into her clockwork. “Let Ms. Phipps explain. Why do you want these men removed from the case?”

“People’s Exhibit One,” said Marla, and handed over a thick trial transcript. “People v. Roland Kasem. ADA Kellers and ADA Kelis had exculpatory evidence from a former DEA agent, no less, and went through with the entire trial. They had this knowledge within three days of the defendant being arrested, and at no time did they stop pursuing the case against Mr. Kasem.” She handed over a second sheaf of papers. “People’s Exhibit Two. Four separate witnesses saw the defendant in the case on the other side of the city, one of them an undercover police officer. Both ADAs seem to be in collusion to continue with trials, despite there being exculpatory evidence. To put it bluntly, I wouldn’t trust either one of them as far as I could throw them.”

“Your honor!” squawked ADA Michael Kellers. “I…”

Judge Marks raised a hand. “Why are you still trying cases?” she asked ADA Kellers. “Wouldn’t you be on suspension, and your cases reviewed for… errors?”

“I…” spluttered Kellers.

“You’ll notice that he tried to paint the ex-agent in question as a brain-damaged dotard who couldn’t remember her own name, much less where and when she was,” said Marla, pointing to a page marked by a red flag. “It’s all there.”

Kellers stood tall. “I refuse to listen to these… insinuations…”

“That you are incompetent?” asked Judge Marks. “Is there anyone else on your staff that has knowledge of this case that can try it?”

“I believe I know of someone,” said Marla, a bright smile on her face. “I have been in contact with one Elizabeth Pierce, from the ADA office. Perhaps she and I can sit down and go over this, and then we can try not to waste the court’s time.”

“I will review this material,” said Judge Marks. “In the meantime, ADA Kellers, you shall remove yourself from all trial work. Please hand off the work to your subordinates. I will call the state Attorney General and have a special prosecutor review all of your current cases, and probably your former ones.” Kellers turned an amazing shade of red before nodding, once. He knew any answer he gave now in front of a judge would be on record. “Good,” said the judge. “Please turn over all your records concerning People versus Damon Eris to this new ADA, Pierce. Perhaps justice can be done.” She shooed them away with her fingers, and they went to stand before their respective tables. She said, “This trial is in recess for one week.” She pounded her gavel.

Michael Kellers had a burner phone in his left-hand, suit pocket. The right hand one was for his office cell. He called and told the shocked subordinate (Pierce) to meet Rumin behind the courthouse to get the box of trial information.

His second, Rumin Kelis, also had the same two phones in his suit pockets. “Meet Pierce here,” he said. “Hand her the box and go with her back to the office. I’ll make the calls.” Rumin nodded, and they went through security and out the back door to the parking lot.

Michael passed the smokers huddling against the wall of the courthouse, and he made a beeline to his Beemer. Once inside, he made two calls. To one he said, “We’re burned.” To the other he said, “Plan Rio.” He hung up, never having heard anything but breathing on the other end of either call.

He saw Pierce literally run by, toward the court, her low boots making clacking noises on the baking concrete. She had washed-out blue eyes, a wide jaw, and a narrow nose. Not his type, so he had hired her on purpose, partly to avoid a sexual harassment lawsuit. He’d been sued in the past and had to pay out an astronomical amount to cover it up. He learned his lesson, kept a woman across town, away from his perfectly-coiffed wife. Michael had his children sent to boarding school. Better to get the rug rats out of the way.

Michael ran through the checklist as he pulled out into traffic. Once he was reamed out by Judge Marks, he made the trades and transfers. He’d blocked the calls to the attorney general, but he realized he had miscalculated it with the DEA agent. His wife would be surprised by his vanishing, but she had her own accounts separate from his. His Cayman Island black card was in his wallet. He regretted leaving Maria, his cross-town lover, the woman with the soft brown hair and ugly temper. He liked her temper compared to his staid wife. He’d paid for two years on the condo about seven months ago. Maybe I could send for her later, convince her that…

He never got a chance to finish the thought, or to use the black card anywhere, except for a few stolen days last winter. The motorcyclist in black leathers with a black helmet was riding a black Kawasaki. And, whoever it was, put the gun to the glass of the Beemer and shot Michael, point-blank in the head before the man had time to register the bike next to him. His blood and brains exited out from the path of the bullet, and a car slammed into the Beemer from the rear, just as he failed to go at the light. The woman looked up from her texting, saw the gun, screamed, and got into a second accident trying to outrun the gun. The gun went off a second time, and then the woman’s phone slid to the ground and her head hit the steering wheel as the motorcyclist sped off.

* * *

“This is a fucking god-damn mess,” said Pocero.

Frenchie stood next to him. “Got a runner, taken out by a baddie on the bike. Got security cameras and no less than eight witnesses sitting at the light, who saw the whole thing.” She pointed at the retreating ambulance. “Woman twisted just in time to get shot in the shoulder. Playing dead worked. Bet she wishes she’d been smarter than to screw with her cell phone at the light, though.”

“A Kawasaki. The clubs all hate them; love their Harleys. Besides, all our motorcycle friends like you. You closed a case for them before, so I doubt they’d want to do this. Hear they’re pissed about Wraith being a target, though.” Pocero rubbed a hand over his bald forehead. “Got two dead ADAs. Special prosecutor already has the case files, and your people have Rumin in custody. What’s he saying?”

Frenchie snorted. “Not a blessed thing. You wouldn’t either, if you knew you had sold your office to not one, but two cartels. Our boy’s gonna die in prison, even in protective custody, at some point, unless we get him in a Supermax.”

“So, he has to sing to get into a Supermax, and he will die in protective custody if he talks,” said Pocero. He held out his two fists. “Hi rock, meet hard place.” He used a conversational tone to match his sarcasm.

“We’ve got his family in a safe place. Feel sorry for the wife, Gabriela. Got two kids, both in private schools. Had no idea her husband was a bad guy. Bulgarian parents, but just normal shopkeepers. My people got her and the kids on a plane.”

“This goes so far up the food chain that I’m just…” said Pocero. “Most bad people are standing over the victim, or at least they leave a trail of evidence so wide even a puppy could find it. Or brag about it; or get caught in lies. But the cartels… hate ‘em.”

“They’re about to get taken down,” said Frenchie. “Got me an army of FBI with lots of agents, including ones that can read legalese. We’ll find out exactly who these idiots were dealing with, and which fingers were in which assassin pies.”

“And all the cases those guys did… some real bad guys are gonna get off.”

“Looks like they were going the other way, getting people in prison to cover up their doers,” said Frenchie. “Gonna let a lot of lowlifes out who committed other crimes, or who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Pocero looked at the car. “We need to find out what they did, and when, where, and why.”

“The why is easy,” said CSI Jared Diamond. He held up an evidence bag. “Lieu, Agent. Inside this wallet is a…” He held the open wallet up to the glaring sunlight.

“A black card to a Cayman Islands bank,” said Frenchie. “Thanks, Diamond.” She snapped a photo and sent it to her people. “Got a cute little brand-new agent, loves financial crime. Girl can give Daisy Chain a run for her money.”

“Nice,” said Pocero. “We done here?”

“Here, you are, yes,” said Frenchie. “But I’m just getting started.”

* * *

Wraith sat in her hidey-hole, growling. She had no idea where Saber was, or what he was doing. He could be doing anything from buying guns from terrorists, homemade or outsourced, to infiltrating a cartel, to ferrying a witness out of the line of fire, to setting himself up as an arms dealer’s runner. It could be anything at all, even infiltrating the very cartels that had caught up with the two Las Vegas ADAs. Their bank accounts were being examined, their houses and lovers’ condos seized, their neighbors questioned, and all of their cases examined with a fine toothcomb.

She needed to bust the cartel. She knew the one’s she’d taken out, but she was six months out of the game. Six months of dead bodies, transfers, new faces, alliances made, alliances broken. Two cartels had allied to bribe the two men. She had her own tom-tom network, but some of those people were in deep. Her network of informers was down. Once the money and favors stopped, the information stopped as well. She’d passed on all her information long ago, to keep that vital network up and running, including: new agents pretending to be gunrunners and low-level cartel members, assassins and thieves, pimps and whores, friends of friends with money and time, and the ability to pay or do favors for information.

Thieves. She knew exactly the person that needed to be tracked down. She couldn’t go herself; she was marked. The latest news was that the silver-blonde gimp was worth two keys of coke, ten thousand dollars, or a very big favor, dead. Including the proof of the said death. Sigrun was out; she wasn’t as streetwise as she needed to be for this op. Frenchie was too FBI. That left… her own people, and she didn’t want them in danger. But, they were already in danger, with their place being shot up. Besides, they would be furious, chomping at the bit to go after someone, anyone, to find out any intel. She thought long and hard, then called Thandie.

“Thandie, I have a thought.”

“Oh, shit,” said Thandie. “Any chance of finding intel on those bitches who shot up our place? And why wasn’t I invited to the party?”

“Yes, but it’s gonna be tricky,” said Wraith. “And, the whole thing was over in four minutes. Five; actually, and you were ten streets over having a burger.”

“Shit, woman, spill,” said Thandie.

“His name is Runner, and he’s a thief. He knew me as Echo. A whisper, a hint. Someone to whisper things to him, and he would whisper back. You need to be Echo. He’s never met me, I’ve never met him. Have to arrest his ass if I did.”

“What do you need?”

“We know about the cartel whose ultimate name is Lyuben. They came after us. We need the other name. They’ll be coming soon.”

“I’m your thief whisperer,” said Thandie. “How do I get his attention?”

Wraith laughed. “I already did. You’re whispering to him in, I kid you not, a confessional.”

“Shit,” said Thandie. “I need me a rosary or a crucifix. Name me a pawnshop, I can pick up both. What name are we looking for?”

“I won’t tell, because I may be wrong. I need confirmation, then Frenchie will make two calls, one to the DEA, and one to the ATF. And the cartel will cease to exist in this country. But, I need the name.”

“I’m on it,” said Thandie. “Now?”

“I’m sending Lyehov to cover you. He should be there in ten-nine-eight…”

“Man looks good in a suit. Runs faster on his blades than Gregory can on regular feet,” said Thandie.

The Queen they were watching was doing some singing in a mall. She nodded to him as he took his place watching their principal, then disappeared into the crowded shopping center. Thandie had a pawnshop to visit, and some whispers to deliver and receive.

Thandie had her hair pulled back tight, her pouf tamed. She had a rosary peeking out of her pocket and a silver cross around her neck. She strode into the confessional at the appointed time, just like she owned it. She sat down, and a voice said, “Speak.”

That didn’t sound like what the TV and movies said. The “Forgive me for I have sinned,” dropped from her lips, and she said, “whisper to me. Lots of dead people now, ADAs, finding lost trails.”

The voice spoke softly. It said, “One of the names is Lyuben.”

“Already know that one,” said Thandie, in a near-whisper.

“The other name is Silva Michoacana.”

“Damn,” said Wraith, in Thandie’s ear. “Tell him, thank you.”

“Thank you,” said Thandie.

“How have you been?” asked the voice.

“Run over, shot, and whispering in the dark,” said Wraith. Thandie repeated the words.

“Scarlett is gone,” said the voice.

Wraith sucked in air. “She was… extraordinary.”

Thandie said it for her, “She was… extraordinary.” She sighed.

“She was all that and more,” said the voice.

“I know who you are now,” said Wraith. “But far past caring or needing to… pursue.” Thandie repeated her Spider’s words.

“I was the best at what I was,” said the voice. “As are you. I know your identity as well.” There was a smile through the words. “Said the Spider to the fly.”

Wraith laughed, low in her throat. Thandie spoke for herself. “She prefers to be called Gunny.”

“A rank she’s never held. No matter.”

“Is Silva in the country?” asked Wraith. Thandie repeated the question for the whisperer.

“He is… near,” said the voice. “Near your other friends. Time for them to scatter, I think. There is a hot wind coming.”

“I know,” said Wraith. Thandie repeated, but there was no reply. And then the voice was gone.

Thandie took her time, stretched, and left the booth. “Boss, what now?”

“Now, we’ve got people in Pahrump to warn, and Silva to capture. Man’s been on every Most Wanted list and Please Remove from Humanity list for nearly a decade. The Great White Whale of the DEA, ATF, CIA, FBI, and even Homeland, ‘cause he likes to sell drugs and guns to terrorists.”

* * *

“Mama, can I have some toys?” asked Thandie.

“Yes,” said Wraith. “I’m going to give you a list of goodies to pick up.”

Thandie’s wicked grin upon leaving the church gave a Catholic granny pause as she passed by the sacred place and out into the street. The light and heat hit Thandie like a hammer. She slid on her shades and her driving gloves, and then she headed out to find a killer.

Sheriff Bob was warned about a minute before his wife. On the phone tree cascading outward from Vegas, all the way out to Hemet, California, and as far upward as Reno. Silva’s six pictures were sent out, including his favorite killers. The FBI and DEA were all aflutter to catch him, until Homeland landed a meaty brogan on everyone. Bob said he wanted out of any credit. He just wanted to help catch Silva, and every single one of his people, from lieutenants to foot soldiers, and even hangers-on, were called. He warned his people about the influx of three-letter agencies, sent out for more ground coffee, and dug out their largest coffee urn. They were bound to drink it all, and not reimburse his office for that, or for use of the conference table. Homeland was like that.

Bob perused the pictures. Silva had a square face, a lantern jaw, black Roman-style hair, a huge nose, and tattoos from his neck to his waist. He liked to wear light, gabardine, collared shirts, in shades of tan or brown, covering his tattoos. His wife was Luisa. An ordinary-seeming Catholic woman, always wearing an intricate golden cross around her neck, with adorable black curls sprayed within an inch of their lives. She was believed to be one of his former contract killers. Her eyes were absolutely dead, so Bob believed the rumors to be true.

Timo, Silva’s youngest son, was tall, with a narrow face and bedroom eyes, married to Ana and Velisa, never having divorced the first wife when he married the second. They supposedly had a compound near Morelia, in Mexico, hence the name of the cartel. He primarily did the money laundering. The middle child was a daughter. Her name was Jezebel, and she was a lawyer, and had gotten many of her father’s capos out of prison. Realia and Johana were twins, and they were the firstborn. Known as “Las Flakas,” or skinny girls, they were both assassins, and tended to butcher their victims. Realia liked axes, and Johana liked scythes. Their brother Luis, born less than a year after them, was dead, and they were suspected to have offed him to keep their hands on the reins of power. Lovely family, thought Bob.

Their various lieutenants were put on the board in Bob’s office. If any of his people (or anyone from his wife Xenia’s office) noticed them, they were to call Homeland and the DEA on a joint speaker call, and then let them hash it out about who caught whom. He didn’t care; he just wanted the assholes out of his jurisdiction.

The Valkyries had come and taken his wife and daughter. He had no idea where they were; there were noises about Key West. There was a dual pack of Iron Knights and Valkyries roaming the streets in pairs. The lettered agencies knew about them. The DEA was happy to get free eyes and ears. Homeland was furious, but because they were taxpayers with no records, most of them ex-military or law enforcement, they couldn’t order them off the roads.

Realia stupidly checked into a local hotel; the DEA took her out at three in the morning. Her two axes were confiscated and tested for blood, they found eight different mingled blood samples inside the handle. She disappeared into a federal Supermax within three hours.

Everyone knew Silva was nearby, and if Realia was somewhere, her twin Johana would be close by. The motorcyclists cruised and cruised, like sharks circling. Bob pretended the Homeland hack (Rugers) wasn’t ordering him around like a puppet by simply walking away anytime he started barking orders, and not permitting any of his officers or staff to approach him. Rugers had extremely-short blonde hair, narrow blue eyes, and was clean-shaven. He carried himself like a football player. He had zero respect for anyone that wasn’t “on his team.” He bossed his own team around the same way, so Bob chalked it down to a lack of respect.

When the man barked at Tallee in the diner while Bob was having his coffee, pancakes, and extra-crispy bacon breakfast-for-lunch, in peace, Bob finally had it. He waved Tallee away, and said, “That woman you were just extremely rude to is a grandmother to a single mom, and she was a single mom, herself. She works hard every single-damn-day to keep food on everyone’s table, and most especially on her grandbaby’s table. So, if I ever hear you speak with disrespect to anyone in this town ever again, especially Tallee, I will make absolutely certain I have spoken to every single supervisor, all the way up to the Commander in Chief, about your behavior. Just so you know, every single officer, including me, wears body cams.” He pointed to his. “I’ve recorded about eight instances just like this one, so far, inside the office, until now. And now I have a new instance of your massively disrespectful behavior. Now, shall I distribute this footage, or are you going to behave In. My. Town?”

Rugers turned a bright red that started shading to purple. Bob simply stood and stared at him, still holding his coffee cup in one hand, the other on his belt buckle. Without a word, Ruger stood up, threw a ten on the table, and left.

“Don’t let him break anything in the conference room as he’s leaving,” he warned a staffer. “And, just so you know, after this is over, the footage is going everywhere.”

The staffer, a man with brown hair, brown eyes, and permanent creases around his eyes, stood, shook himself like a dog, and grinned. “Thank you, sir,” he said. He shook Bob’s hand. “He’ll get sent to Nome, Alaska, for sure.”

Bob grinned. “They’ll put up with his bullshit for about two minutes there,” he said. The man gulped his coffee and was gone. His ego sent packing by Bob’s words. The entire cafe clapped. Bob grinned and went to finish his food.

“On the house,” said Tallee, giving him a bill with only a smiley face on it.

“You know I can’t do that,” said Bob. “Then I’d be like that asshole.” He grinned, threw down his money (that included a generous tip), put on his hat, and went toward his car.

He saw the bikes zooming by as he entered his vehicle. Normally circumspect, but they were not following the speed limit. He got in his vehicle and followed them, and called in a “suspicious circumstances,” a code that meant that something seemed to be happening, and that he needed assistance to come in from another angle. Valkyries had spotted the strange Kawasaki bikes, and were following, circling.

Deputy Rolfson answered the call and came in from the opposite side of town. He called Hannah at the DEA, and she said, “Already near there.”

Bob decided to hang back and let the DEA work, and pulled over when he saw the bikes slow down. It was lucky he did; spray from bullets hit the Valkyrie’s bikes, and the riders laid the bikes nearly horizontal to avoid the bullets.

“Shots fired!” he said into his shoulder mic. He ordered the streets blocked and cleared in all four directions, and then announced over his car mic for the citizens to get indoors and to clear the area. He got his pump-action shotgun from its stand in between the front seats. He pumped it, and then stepped out of the vehicle. He circled around to the other side of the vehicle, and he waited.

Bob didn’t have long to wait. A woman he identified as Johana had a silver H&K .45 in one hand, and an axe in the other. The man on her right-hand side was Roberto Rosara, her right-hand man and main squeeze. Since it was so hot, the streets hadn’t been packed before, and it was two in the afternoon. The woman sighted on Bob, and he repaid the favor by shooting her in the leg, hoping that the “close by” DEA would capture her without getting killed. He used his shotgun to blow away Roberto with a song in his heart. That man had killed children, and Bob didn’t want that guy loose in his town.

That’s when Rugers, in his American-made car, drove up, blocked the street, nearly hitting Bob’s vehicle in the process, and stepped out into full view of the street. He turned, unholstered his weapon, and was shot in the chest and throat by Johana before the rose-haired “loitering teen” (DEA agent in the alley) could kick the gun out of her hand. Rugers fired as he fell, and then hit the DEA agent in the shoulder. She went flying back.

A second agent, a “homeless man,” came up and slammed a foot down on the now-downed Johana’s hand. She rolled and tried to use the axe, but the female DEA agent who had been shot, pointed her gun at Johana and shot her in the elbow, ruining Johana’s swing, and her arm, permanently. Johanna screamed out with rage.

Bob put the barrel of his shotgun against the top of her skull and said, “Hold on while we call an ambulance for you, ma’am,” to the agent, named Hannah Wells. This time, the agents had no trouble cuffing her. Bob called for two ambulances, and saw the staffer slink through the vehicle, open the door, and deposit himself next to his boss, with a first aid kit in hand.

Silva slunk around a building a block away, and into an alley, but a biker was at the other end, roaring the engine. A second biker roared up and parked himself at the alley entrance. Bob removed himself from the scene with Johana, and then he ran around the DEA agents to the sound of the Harleys. Sigrun was on one end, and a huge biker was on the other, both pointing guns at Silva in the middle.

Bob jacked his double-ought shotgun, and the man raised his hands. “My daughters are alive?” he asked, in heavily-accented English.

“For now,” said Bob. “Come with us, quietly. Despite how we may appear, we aren’t a death squad, unlike the people sent after our friends.”

The DEA agents came up behind Bob. “Thanks, Bob,” said Hannah. Her voice was strained.

“Please make this bad guy go bye-bye,” said Bob. He took his cuffs out and handed them to her.

“Thanks, Bob,” she wheezed again. She cuffed Silva, and both Bob and the helmeted riders continued to cover her as she led him to an armored paddy wagon.

EMTs had Johana, and she was loaded into an armored emergency vehicle. They vanished down the street when Hannah nodded to them.

The staffer stood next to his now-ex boss. “Call the coroner, please,” he said.

Bob did as-was requested. “Never caught your name,” said Bob.

“Special Investigator Michael Stricks,” he said.

“Well, Special Investigator Michael Stricks,” said Bob. “I will be sure to let your bosses know that you, under fire, tried to save your boss, who was out of position, interfering with an ongoing investigation by other agencies, and stepped directly into the line of fire without even trying to hide behind the door of his vehicle.”

Michael wiped the blood off his hands with an antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit. “Wish it hadn’t killed him. All people need an opportunity to change.”

“Granted,” said Bob. “You’re being remarkably adult about this.”

“That’s because I’m actually an investigator assigned to monitor this guy.” He pointed at the dead Homeland agent lying at his feet, with the push of his chin. “Rugers thought he wouldn’t be shot because he was actually on their payroll.” Michael grinned. “Didn’t tell you what kind of assistant I actually am.”

“Well, that’s just…” Bob sighed. “Just the icing on this shitstorm of a cake. You got a problem with the DEA taking the credit for the capture?”

“None,” said Michael. “Do you?”

“Not one,” said Bob. “Go on back to where you came from, and I’ll let the DEA clean up this mess.”

“On it,” said Michael. He got into his ex-boss’ car and drove away.

Keys

Wraith had a quiet moment of jubilee when she heard Silva and his murderous daughter had been taken in Pahrump. She booked a flight with Sigrun for Key West, leaving in twelve hours.

She spent the next six hours explaining how to be a “spider in the walls” to Thandie, who loved every second of it. “Daisy Chain is on the bad guy,” said Wraith.

“What? Wait. I know Sigrun and that Iron Knight guy (Ironsides) were on either side of the street in Pahrump when Silva went down. What bad guy?”

Wraith went white. “Dammit, so that’s where she went. She said she was ‘scoping things out.’” She breathed in and out for a minute. “Damn girl could have gotten killed.”

Thandie determined that she wouldn’t be losing limbs. “Sorry, I thought you knew. You know everything else.”

Wraith got her breathing under control. “Except for my own damn family, yes I do. Anyway…”

“What bad guy?” Thandie reiterated.

“The brass that covered up what happened to our girl, Joru,” said Wraith.

“Oh. Covered up a double rape, no apologies, and not even letting her file any paperwork.”

“She filed it, but he made it disappear,” said Wraith. “He had a rapist pair, made up of sniper and a spotter he wanted on duty, apparently because Mr. and Ms. Crazy would go anywhere and follow any order.” She narrowed her eyes. “Really, really want to make his life a living hell.”

“Got a name on this walking, virtual, dead guy?” asked Thandie.

“Virtual dead guy. Great way to approach it. His name is General Gary Walker Thomas. He’s a two-star general now. Enjoys a comfy lifestyle. Nice townhome in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. Backwoods home in the mountains near Staunton, Virginia. One he uses for fishing; takes his buddies there. Trophy wife number two, divorced number one, and pays a fortune in alimony. Two kids, both teens, both with the ex-wife, who he never sees. Daisy Chain unearthed domestic battery charges that were mysteriously dropped. Policeman’s fund got a hundred-thousand-dollar gift the very next day.”

“This guy sounds like an asshole. Probably abuses the second wife. These guys don’t magically stop that sort of thing,” said Thandie.

“Hey, think I’ll abuse the wife, kids, or both. Wife leaves, takes kids. Marry much younger wife, preferably a bunny brain or opioid addict who will take my abuse,” said Wraith, voice heavy with disgust.

“Could get some charges if the cases aren’t too old,” said Thandie.

“I see a mom not willing to put her kids through that,” said Wraith. “She moved to California. Married someone new. Received a quarter of a million in alimony before marrying number two, six months ago.”

“Whoa,” said Thandie. “Don’t see a two-star general making that much money, do you?” asked Thandie.

“Nope,” said Wraith. “Daisy Chain is on the case. What I need from you are ways, subtle ways, devious ways, of turning this guy’s life into a living nightmare. His kids are set up, so feel free to wreck the halls.”

“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” said Thandie.

“And watch over my chicks. Anyone gets hurt or even mildly inconvenienced, bye-bye spleen,” said Wraith. “I will personally remove yours with a spoon.”

“I love it when you’re disturbingly vicious,” said Thandie. “Run along, I’ve got this.” She stood. “After a bathroom break. When do you pee, woman?” They both laughed until Coke came out from their noses.

* * *

The flight for Wraith and Sigrun to go to Key West was on a client’s private plane to Charlotte, then they caught a commuter flight to Key West. The women laid back in their seats, sucking on cherry water and eating chocolate-covered strawberries and a cheese plate. The staff served up real fudge and pecan-covered, chocolate mint sundaes. They giggled, then fell asleep holding hands.

At Charlotte, they were driven by limo to the other airport, and made it through security easily as they had backpacks with just their extra sandals, T-shirts, sundresses, shorts, underwear, and toiletries, and their tablets, of course. They were escorted to first class, where they were given lobster rolls and rosemary wedge fries, premium coffees, and Belgian chocolates.

A man with black pants and a light gabardine shirt held up a sign that said, “High Desert Security.” They humped their backpacks to the limo, and the driver took them to their hotel, the white-columned, blue-roofed one, distinctly named, The Marker Resort Key West. They were already checked in, which surprised Wraith to no end. They got their room keys, and quickly entered into a room with a wavy carpet design and one, pristine, white, king-sized bed with a blue cover. They dropped their backpacks in the closet and walked out to the veranda. They sat there, just breathing, until the heat made them thirsty.

“Bar,” said Sigrun.

The bar was right next to the pool. Saber sat on a blue stool, nursing a coconut drink, his face relaxed. He was wearing a white surfing shirt and blue board shorts, with a wavy design. Each woman kissed him for as long as they could without having to come up for air. They ordered strawberry-watermelon freezes and smiled at each other.

“Go back up and put on your swimsuits while the bartender is blending,” said Saber, his gold, saber earring glinting in the sun. “I’m not going anywhere.”

They ran up, put on suits —Wraith had an electric blue, two-piece that covered her scars, and Sigrun had a magenta bikini —and pareos to wrap around their waists, and silver sandals. They went back down and sipped their drinks. Saber took them both to the pool, and they slipped in. The water was warm, delicious, in fact. Sigrun swam while Wraith simply floated in Saber’s arms. He kissed her neck and held her gently. Sigrun swam a few laps, then it was Wraith’s turn to do laps while Sigrun kissed Saber. They tired themselves out and swam to the end. They got out and rested in the cabana. They finished their drinks, and more drinks came.

They dried in the sun, then wrapped their pareos around themselves, and Saber put on his shirt. They made their way to the hotel restaurant, and dined on a shrimp, bacon, sriracha pizza, and split a Caesar salad with spicy jerk chicken. They took advantage of the light, and then went out to see the harbor. They came back and took a soak in the soaking tub.

Saber told the women that he’d spent his deep-down time away from his loves, interestingly by hunting down a mercenary bomb specialist named Jared Foxx, a man with absolutely no conscience. A man who liked to sell bomb parts to enterprising bombers. He could rig you a suicide jacket that would expend most of its force toward the person (or people) you wanted to kill. Saber felt the man’s evil like an oil stain. No one wanted the man brought in alive for fear he’d blow up the arresting officers, except for the knowledge in his brain about to whom he’d sold the bombs. Saber posed as a jihadist looking to build several suicide vests to use in schools and shopping malls, within the US. He had a very good cover as a man wanted by the Thai police for several of these bombings.

The Foxx guarded his workshop, literally carved underneath his Texas home. He guarded his work materials, stealing them from all over so they wouldn’t show up on any manifests, and ordering harmless materials that he combined into lethal bombs, like alarm clocks, cell phones, Christmas tree lights, nails, and other shrapnel. He had secret codes and burner phones, and he used the Dark Web for his transactions. What he didn’t count on was a “jihadist” that was willing to pay to learn how to make his own bombs more effective, step by step.

Saber spent ten days with an explosives expert, a former military badass woman who knew the ins and outs of various jihadists, their rhetoric, their sick motives, the way they talked and moved. Saber got a crazy fire in his eyes, a serious one, and a burning desire to improve as a jihadist. Saber asked The Foxx to tell him how to make better bombs.

The Foxx thought Saber’s self-improvement kick hilarious, until he got a brick of seized drug money in exchange. Then, he really got serious. Saber had all the toys —hidden camera, hidden microphone, ways to infiltrate Foxx’s computers, and even clone his phones. He did all that, and didn’t get caught, because he used the latest infiltration toys the joint FBI-ATF task force could come up with.

Saber ended the reign of the bomber when he waited until Foxx was in a public bathroom. And immediately after going on a buying spree for bomb parts. Two ATF agents were already in the bathroom, and Saber pretended to be arrested at the same time to keep his jihadist cover for later use. His high-tech, James Bond-esque toys were confiscated, and he was released and let go in a field. Saber walked two miles to the nearest Greyhound stop, got on the bus, took a blanket out, and covered himself up in the back of the bus. He changed his jihadist, crisp, khaki clothes, to worn jeans and a tank top, underneath the blanket. He mussed up his hair, put on a ball cap, and pitched the “nice” clothes at the next restroom. He’d picked up his voicemail at a drop, and then he changed buses to head to Key West.

The whole jihadist thing made him feel filthy, both inside and out. “Scrub me, ladies,” he said. “I can’t get this guy out of my brain. It’s like ants, inside and outside.” So, Sigrun went down to the spa and got some sugar scrub and three sea sponges, and they scrubbed him to within an inch of his life. He told them little things the man had said, the “kill record” he’d kept on a wall. “It was in the thousands,” he said. “The guy was proud of it.”

“I take it he’s in deep freeze,” said Wraith, referring to a federal Supermax prison, as she scrubbed Saber’s back.

“I hope so. I gave them everything I had, every note, every conversation. The day before the takedown, I recorded it all on video, and did a deposition with a federal prosecutor.” He blew out a long sigh. “Now, no talk, just scrubbing.”

Sigrun splashed water on him, then resumed scrubbing his right foot. “How are we supposed to tell you anything?”

“Sign language,” said Saber.

“Fucketh thee,” said Wraith, poking him in the back. “We’ve had a lot happen.”

“Do tell,” said Saber, forking over the other foot to Sigrun when she tapped it.

“We caught Silva the Insane.”

“Mexican cartel. No! How?” Saber was stunned.

“He shot up High Desert Security looking for Wraith, who was in the panic room. She’s working for them, yeah, we told you that. She runs it all. They call her the Spider, or Gunny.”

Wraith groaned. “I like Gunny. Spider is just… creepy.”

“What the fuck happened?” asked Saber. He held up an arm as Wraith scrubbed his side.

“Bad ADAs. Two of ‘em. Killed off Ray,” said Wraith.

“At Ren Faire, and tried to blame it on us,” said Sigrun. “But we had been with people all damn day, and we couldn’t have done it, obviously.”

“Wait, gotta back up,” said Wraith. “I was confused about going to trial on a case. I’d literally been the guy’s alibi.”

“Why the fuck did it go to trial?” asked Saber.

“Evil ADAs kept it from Ray, the District Attorney, that wifey here was the alibi,” said Sigrun, moving up to Saber’s ankle after scrubbing the bottom of his foot, making him flinch, slightly.

“It’s being investigated, but it looks like Silva’s organization did the murder that Rolly was accused of,” said Wraith.

“And, this stuff happened in other trials, prosecutions to send people to jail so the guilty could go free, one from an Eastern European cartel, one from Silva’s,” said Sigrun.

“I found out some things. I found the name of Silva’s cartel from The Thief.”

“How’s he doing?” asked Saber.

“He said Scarlett is dead,” said Wraith.

“No!” said Saber. “I always liked her.”

“Who the fuck is The Thief, and who was Scarlett?” asked Sigrun, moving up to Saber’s calf muscle.

“The Thief is retired. He’s an art collector who also used to steal what he wanted to collect.”

“Oh, you figured out his identity,” said Saber. “Figured it was him.”

“Did not,” said Wraith, smiling. “Anyway, he knew things about… almost everything. Whispers. We communicated a lot in the past. Scarlett was —extraordinary. A madam. Ivy was out in the desert when she was…”

“A lady of the night,” supplied Saber.

“And, she never met with Scarlett. Good thing she didn’t, or she might not have opened the bar,” said Wraith.

“Explains where The Thief got a lot of his information,” said Saber, loudly sighing when Wraith dug into the small of his back.

“Yes, that was her trade, not just sex, but information. She held it; traded it dearly. She had just the one House, but Scarlett’s Crimson House was the best.”

“So, what happened after you got the info?” asked Saber.

“We gave it all to the DEA, and they went after him, and got him in Pahrump. Robin, being Sheriff Bob, was there to help them take them down. A Homeland idiot got spiffed in the shootout. Robin says he stepped right out in front of a bullet or two. Turns out he was being investigated by his own people,” said Wraith.

“I was there. The guy very-much walked into two bullets,” said Sigrun.

Wraith glared at her. “One, you didn’t tell me, you just vamoosed off. Two, you went directly into the line of fire.”

“I was looking, the bullets found me,” said Sigrun. “And, I was wearing body armor. Thank Odin I took Henry’s defensive driving motorcycle course. Got right under the bullets without dropping the Harley.”

Wraith groaned. “You. Aren’t. Supposed. To. Be. Risking. Your. Life. On. Scumbags. I quit that job. That’s Saber’s job. We can’t afford to lose you.” And, to her own horror and that of her family, Wraith found tears streaming down her face. Saber dragged her around to his stomach when he felt the tears on the back of his neck, and they ended up in a three-person embrace. There were more tears, and lots of kisses.

“Sorry, love,” said Sigrun. “I was so busy trying to be a badass, and trying find out who made our Ren Faire a night to remember, but not in a good way, that I forgot to think about what would happen if you both lost me.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Wraith. “I get now how it feels from the other side. I can’t believe I stuck with it for so damn long.”

The women hugged and kissed, causing some water to slop out of the tub. They finished crying, and Saber said, “Scrubbing me-time is over. Wraith’s turn.” They both turned and got her scrubbed. Sigrun got her breasts scrubbed, and worked her way down Wraith’s stomach, while Saber scrubbed her neck and back. Sigrun couldn’t resist kisses all down her wife’s front, from in between her breasts, to just over her hip bones. Saber got her arms scrubbed, while Sigrun worked her way up from each foot to the thighs.

Saber held Wraith out of the water as Sigrun kissed and licked her thighs, then ran her tongue in flicks over Wraith’s clitoris. Wraith bucked and moaned as Sigrun made her come, again and again. Sigrun helped turn Wraith over and then slide down on Saber. Wraith clenched, and took her own sweet time making Saber come. They washed up, drained the tub, and made their way to bed. Saber was so exhausted he could barely walk. Wraith and Sigrun had been up for days. So, despite both Wraith and Saber wanting to pay attention to Sigrun, all three slept when their heads hit the pillows.

They awoke to a gorgeous sunrise. They put on their swimsuits again, and after watching the dawn, went to swim. They went for a walk after they dried off, and had Cuban pulled-pork sandwiches at a cafe, and Cuban coffee that woke them up completely. They walked around and bought seashell necklaces and anklets. They went back for more amazing pizza at their hotel, and they laughed their way through a sun-drenched day by the pool. Saber took Sigrun upstairs to make up for lost time, while Wraith slept by the pool.

Saber showered and went back downstairs, and then sent Wraith upstairs to hold Sigrun in her arms. They snoozed a while, then Wraith woke up Sigrun by stroking her ass gently.

“Mmm,” said Sigrun. “Wifey.” She turned and kissed Wraith.

They took their time, the dreamy light bathing them in gold. They kissed and sucked on each other’s breasts, making each other come. Wraith slid down Sigrun’s sweaty belly, kissing her way down to her clit. She used her tongue to make Sigrun come. They fell against each other, then went to have a clean-sex shower where Sigrun blessedly returned the favor.

They dressed in sundresses in blue and gold, and they went down for dinner. They split pasta and jerked chicken, and they washed it all down with watermelon shakes. They went to see the sunset, enjoying the carnival atmosphere. They strolled, window shopping. Sigrun and Wraith bought cotton candy, caramel chocolates, and sodas. They got on a sugar high, giggling like loons. Saber just walked behind them, hands full of packages. Anything to make them laugh, he thought. Anything at all.

At the pool, Sigrun rubbed sunblock into Wraith’s feet, and Wraith twisted to get the middle of Saber’s back. She leaned forward, and he returned the favor. “Mmm,” she said.

Sigrun dug into her abused foot, the one she’d used to step on a rock in the water. Wraith groaned, then felt something relax, deep inside. Wraith laid back and slipped into sleep, and Saber kissed Sigrun, and took her into the pool. They swam around each other like dolphins, occasionally coming up for air.

Sigrun floated, and Saber used a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “No more birth control,” she said.

“Completely unnecessary,” he agreed.

“Want to have boys, girls, or both?”

Saber laughed. “Or transgendered, or agendered, or whatever it occurs to them to be.” He stretched and laid back. “Would you want me to quit, to be with them more?”

“Up to you,” said Sigrun. “Shut up, kiss me, and take me out on a boat tonight. Preferably with grilled shrimp.” She floated more. “And Bobby Marley songs. And rum punch.”

“We’re not in Jamaica,” said Saber. “But, I’ll see what I can do.” He got out, dried his hands, and fished out his cell phone. He looked up a website, made a call. “Wanna go snorkeling?” he asked Sigrun.

“Mmmf,” she said, and rolled over, her creamy skin turning darker in the sun.

A leg flopped over the other one, and he couldn’t help it. He reached out and stroked the leg. She groaned and put an arm over her face. He laughed, put the phone away in the bag full of sunblock, the pareos to wrap around female swimsuits, his shirt, their cell phones, towels, and a sightseeing book. Then he put the bag back and took two steps forward. He slid into the water and swam back to Sigrun.

“Where were we?” he said.

“Mmmf,” she said.

“We can go snorkeling off the boat,” he said. “Then eat at a seafood barbecue on the beach, then, a steel drum band and dancing. Then rum punch and Bobby Marley songs, just for you.”

“Mmmmf,” said Sigrun. Saber kissed her. She tasted like rainwater and hibiscus flowers. He floated too.

He got them out of the pool and rinsed off the chlorine and sweat, put more sunblock on them, and got them into their pareos and loose-knit tops over their bathing suits. They walked to the port and hopped on the boat. They used the full-face snorkeling mask that prevented water from getting in, and they all saw numerous fish. No one wanted to get out of the water, but the smells of the barbecue entranced them. They went toward shore, and all got out and splashed up.

There were plastic deck chairs and a huge barbecue and drinks in coolers. They took sodas and waters, and laid in the chairs, and swam from time to time, their stomachs growling for the barbecue. They had Jamaican jerked chicken, shrimp, fish on sticks with rice, and lovely key lime pie from a cooler.

Back on the boat, they relaxed in hammocks as they floated. Then, they went snorkeling again. They got back in, and the band started up, steel drums and a dreamy version of “Coconut.” The Bobby Marley came from a young man with a wild spritz of crinkly hair and a huge smile. Everyone on the boat drank rum punch and sang “No Woman No Cry” and “Redemption Song,” and so many others.

“You never know how many Bobby Marley songs you know until you’re drinking rum punch on a boat,” said Sigrun, happily. They kissed her, one after the other, fire dancing in Wraith’s eyes, mischief in Saber’s. He pulled them up, danced with them, a sandwich in-between two beautiful women, as the band played, and the soft, swaying breeze caressed their skin.

They made it back, and they were laughing so hard it hurt. They got to the hotel and they stumbled into their huge, king-sized bed, laughing loudly. Sigrun’s gold clothing came off first, then Wraith’s. They danced to the songs in their heads, and they took off each other’s pareos. They kicked off their bikini bottoms and felt happy.

Saber stood back, took them in, drank in the moonlight on their skin, the look of love in their eyes, and watched as their lips parted. Wraith kissed Sigrun first, and it lasted so long they both came up gasping for air. They parted, laughed. Then, Sigrun stroked her wife’s scars, the remnants of being thrown in the air by a truck driven by a now-dead assassin.

“You are so beautiful,” whispered Sigrun, and kissed her skin, the skin of her hip, her side, all the way up to her shoulder and the scars from the surgeries there.

Saber keep looking, his breath in his throat. He had no idea what he had done, in this life or any other, to deserve this… magic. He watched Sigrun breathe life onto Wraith’s skin, push love into her with her touch. Sigrun was gentle, her eyes luminous in the glow of the moon.

Wraith reached out, stroked the lines of Sigrun’s face, her touch light, and beautifully gentle. Then, she had enough of waiting, and kissed Sigrun, pulling her wife to her with her fingers on Sigrun’s neck. They took another deep dive and came up gasping again.

Saber went to the bed and he pulled down the sheets. He felt himself jump, inside and out. He watched Sigrun kiss her way down Wraith’s body, and then use her fingers to make Wraith insane. She pushed a little, and Saber caught her, breaking her fall onto the bed. He kissed her deeply as Sigrun used her fingers and tongue to make Wraith come, again and again. And then he slipped in, all the way, and groaned at her heat, how wet she was. He moved slowly, and Sigrun took over the kissing duties.

Then Wraith flipped him over, and she did things her way, even slower, making him insane. He came in a world of sweet-clenching agony, unable to contain himself any longer.

He laid on the side, panting, as Wraith did the same for Sigrun, with a slow, deep pulse to her movements, and Sigrun cried out until she was helpless on the bed. Then, they turned to him. He shouldn’t have worried about having enough for Sigrun. They used tongues and teeth, and showed a deep need for him, like the craving for Bobby Marley songs on the warm ocean. He came again, a victim of Sigrun’s mouth, and slid himself into her heat. It didn’t last long, but it didn’t have to. Afterward, they all slid into the wide jacuzzi tub, and, after a quick shower, they let the jets pummel them. They made their way, relaxed, back to the bed, and slept in a pile of soft sheets and warm bodies.

They spent two more days just wandering the island, eating or sleeping at whatever time they liked, drowning in love and a perfect devotion to each other. They kept every moment in their minds, because they knew, after the events of the past few months, that someday, one of them might not make it home.

“Murderers leave strings. The trick is to follow them back to their source.”