Damia loved the ponies. They were small. They could not harm her. They breathed on her with chuffing breaths and wanted to be brushed. They loved being fed carrots and apples; and sugar cubes, but just a little a day, or they would get fat. They needed to be walked around and wiped down, and curried, with their hooves checked and oiled. They loved people, and were gentle. They brought one to the farm that had too-long hoofs, and a matted mane, and tail and hair falling out in clumps. The vet cut off the extra hoofs, and they had to be very careful to let them grow correctly, and the poor pony had almost no exercise.

Damia liked Inola. Her signs were quick and sharp, like her mind. She didn't let Damia make mistakes. Damia hated mistakes, and Inola prevented them. So, Damia liked her a lot. She liked the horsey smells, the warm barn smelling of sweet hay, the beet-based feed, and cleaned and oiled tack. Inola showed her how to clean the tack, and to put aside anything that needed repairs.

Mom showed her every step, and gave her a small cell phone that beeped every twenty-five minutes. Damia knew her schedule, and where she should be at all times during the day. First, waking up, then food. She had to brush her teeth, comb her hair, and pull it back in a precise manner with her hair clip. One was green and one was blue. She wore the blue one every day, except Friday, then she wore green. She ate hot oatmeal with fruit and brown sugar, and bacon or sausage. Mom got the recipe from the school. Mama, the other Mom, showed Damia how to make her own food. She said recipes were like math, one thing at a time, one step at a time, to make a good outcome. Damia liked good outcomes, so she liked Mama. Mama's real name was Callie, but Damia liked calling her Mama. She added a little twist to her hand to say if she was talking about Mom or Mama.

Grace was loud. Damia didn't like loud. But Grandfather Henry had added soundproofing, so Grace could be loud in her room and not bother Damia. Hu was very quiet. Hu and her mother Bao taught Chinese letters with cartoon pictures behind them, and so a person could understand what they meant. She was so happy to learn such a precise language. The babies were very loud, and they pooped and peed, and had to have their diapers changed. It was very disturbing. But Mom and Mama were putting them on something called a sleep schedule so they would sleep all night. It didn't work at first, but it worked later, and they were not so loud. Mom gave her earphones for her new little phone that played many things. Damia could hear music, or Chinese, or Grandfather Henry's soothing voice reading a story in his language, Paiute. She didn't understand Paiute at all, but she liked listening to it. There were four twenty-five-minute free periods in her day where she could do anything she wanted. She learned how to find Grandfather Henry and climb on the chair next to him. He was in the Owl Pack room many times, sitting in the sunlight, making something. Usually a recording, or beading, or carding wool. The wool from the rabbits was very soft, and she loved it. She also loved the rabbits, and Alo was teaching her how to care for them.

Being around that many people was very disturbing. She learned the word, and it helped her say what she was feeling, which was not disturbing. She learned that she could tell people to be quiet, and they would. The Owl Pack could be very quiet for her. They helped her learn to bead with big fat beads. They got her a hook rug of a farm, in soft browns with a pale blue sky. She loved it, and hooked on it many times. She used the word Grandfather Henry taught her about those times; peaceful he said. She liked peaceful. She knew Mom was not peaceful, that she listened to very loud music in her earphones, but she would smile and keep her voice low for Damia.

Damia only had two meltdowns, so far. One was when the Wolfpack got too close to her body and would not listen to her when she told them to go away and to be quiet. Vi ran in and told them to shoo, and that they better damn well learn sign language. Vi gave her a banana that was frozen with chocolate on the outside, when Damia was finally able to stop crying and shaking. Damia didn't like sweets, but she liked the banana. She felt peaceful eating it. Her other meltdown was when Grace started yelling at Hu, and would not stop even when both Damia and Hu told her to. Damia began to cry and could not stop, which made her feel sad, and mad, and cold inside. Grace got into big trouble and had to set the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher for a week because of that.

Damia did not want a meltdown to happen again. Grandfather Henry told her she felt overwhelmed, and to make the sign for it. To put her hands near her face, then up over her head. He said to do that when she began to feel ready to melt down, and they could all work together to stop it. So, the next time Grace started yelling, Damia made the sign, and Grace was quiet. Her face got very red and she clenched her hands and let them go, but she was quiet; so Damia felt peaceful. Mom took her outside to see the ponies go to sleep, and so the peaceful feeling stayed even longer.

"You can come here when you feel overwhelmed," Mom signed and said. "Just take one of us with you."

"Okay," signed Damia. She made the peaceful sign, then asked Mom if she could have a frozen banana.

"Lucky for you," said Mom, "Mama got the recipe from Vi when we found out you liked them. We have two in the freezer."

One night she was sitting on the stairs doing her hook rug when she saw and heard her mothers talking. "I think we're doing okay," said Mom. "Damia is doing really well, much better than I expected."

"It's Henry," said Mama. "He's the autism whisperer. And the ponies. I swear, I will personally pay for pony rescues if it makes that girl that happy."

"I don't know if happy is the right word. She likes feeling peaceful," said Mom. "She likes things safe and quiet, and warm. Not my style, but it works for her, and that makes me feel good."

"We do not live on the quietest property. They've got fourteen --fourteen! Oh goodness, the size of the Wolfpack now, with those emergency boys, and Tam and Nico, and now us, and the Owl Pack. I'm surprised Henry hasn't lost his damn mind."

"We're over the hill," said Mom, then laughed. "In more ways than one."

Mama laughed. "Yes, some distance is good from that madhouse. And Vi cooks for them all, and Vu reads to them all. Those women deserve medals."

Damia pulled up her little phone, and looked up "medal." She saw that people did them when they ran races or played soccer. She had not seen Vi or Vu play soccer or run races, but she did not see them that many times during the day, except when Mama took her to the pool for physical therapy. She decided to make two. But how?

Later, she saw a tiny bike like Mama's on Grandfather Henry's desk. She asked where he got it. He said he bought it from Ghost. She made the sign for Halloween, and Grandfather Henry laughed. He explained that Ghost was the name of a person who made tiny Harleys. She asked if Ghost could make a medal, a pretty one like for the Olympics. Grandfather said yes, and said there were three colors at the Olympics; gold, silver and bronze. He showed her the colors, and she picked silver, and asked for two. He said he would make them up and put ribbons on them to hang around her neck.

Damia said that she would like the ribbon very long, and Grandfather Henry said he would make it happen. So, she felt so peaceful that when one of the Wolfpack pushed her to get around her, she did not have a meltdown. Vi did; she told him that Damia did not like to be touched, and to apologize. He said that he was very rude and that he was very sorry. So, Damia had the word “rude,” and she used it to describe being touched. She let Mom brush her hair, or kiss the ends of her hair. Mama kissed the hair on the top of her head, but only very lightly. She called it a butterfly kiss. Damia wondered how butterflies kissed with no lips, but she did not ask.

At the big house, after Henry had taught her how to use the tool of math to find out how much to feed a pony, Grandfather Henry said, "I have something for you." He showed her the medals. She took them carefully in her hands.

She first went to Vu. She gave the other one back to Henry, who held onto it. She told Vu how Mom had said she deserved a medal for reading to everyone. Vu had a meltdown, but Henry explained that sometimes people cry when they are happy. Damia was scared that Vi would have a meltdown too, but she was curious, so she took the other medal from Grandfather Henry and went to the kitchen. Everyone followed that was in the room. Damia was surprised, but kept walking.

She found Vi in the kitchen rolling dough with a rolling pin for a pie. Vi washed her hands, and asked if Damia was hungry. Vi understood sign language so well, and so Damia spoke much faster, and told her how Mom said she deserved a medal for feeding everyone all the time. She gave Vi the medal. Vi had a meltdown, but she signed that she was happy, and not to worry about her tears. She said it wasn't like Damia's meltdowns, that Vi could stop. Then Grandfather Henry passed around a box of tissues. Vi signed thank you, and kissed the tip of her ponytail. Then everyone had to kiss her ponytail, and she felt overwhelmed, and made the sign. Vi told everyone to shoo, which Damia knew meant “go away.”

Vi said Damia was good at giving presents and at listening carefully, which were both effective things. Grandpa Henry explained that effective was doing something in the right way, that had the right result. Damia said she did not want the result of people having meltdowns. Vi explained that they were not meltdowns, but large amounts of happiness that sometimes came out the eyes. Damia was concerned that her happiness would come out her eyes too, but Grandpa Henry explained that her autism meant she was wired differently, and she would feel peaceful instead. He then sent her to the barn when her phone beeped, to take care of the ponies. Before she walked out the door, she looked back. Grandpa David hugged Grandpa Henry, and they both hugged Vi, and they all had happiness that came out their eyes.

Damia was so confused that she told Inola the whole thing while currying Star. Inola asked her to wait one minute, and she called Grandpa Henry.

She hung up, and said, "What you did made them all feel so happy and loved. Damia, I know you have autism, and it is tough to think about love. How do you feel about Star?"

"She is a very good pony. She never complains, even if her hooves hurt. She is very gentle and kind."

"No, how do you feel?"

"I feel peaceful."

"What if Star got sick and died? How would you feel?"

Damia felt it, just for a moment. "I feel my stomach would be bad and tears would fall from my eyes."

"That's sad," said Inola. "And if someone evil hurt this pony?"

Damia felt her face flush and her hands clench. "I would push the bad person and stop them."

"That's anger, and feeling protective. How do you feel about having Star here, and living on the same farm as Star, and being able to see her every day?"

"Peaceful."

"Do your lips go up when you think of her?"

"Yes," said Damia.

"That's love," Inola said. "Love means you would be sad if someone died or went away, and you would feel angry if someone hurt someone you loved. And, that good feeling in your stomach you get when you see Star, that's love, too. You're happy, Damia. You just have no idea how to express it with your face."

Damia thought. "Like the butterflies?" Inola made the sign for confused. "Butterflies kiss, with no lips."

Damia was afraid Inola would have a meltdown, but she did not cry. "Butterfly kisses. That means a very light kiss of love."

"So, Mama loves me. And Mom loves me."

"Yes," said Inola. "We all do. Your Mama and Mom love you the most, though. Like a thousand times more than you love this pony. They love you more than anyone has words for, in all the world."

Damia thought about it. "I can't do it. That is too much love. My love is very small."

"You have time for it to grow," said Inola.

"It grows?" asked Damia.

"Like a tree grows from a tiny seed, with rain and wind, and sun and the love of the Universe. Yes, it does grow."

"Good," said Damia. "I didn't mean for the medals to cause a meltdown."

Inola smiled. "They didn't. They felt that big love you feel as small love now. You... it was wonderful, what you did. I wish I'd thought of it."

"Mom did," said Damia. "I just did what she said."

Inola smiled a big smile. "I wish all little girls listened to their mothers as much as you," she said. "Now, let's walk this pony."

Callie and Ivy heard the whole story at dinner, it consisted of pulled pork sandwiches, rosemary potatoes, corn salad, and blackberry pie for dessert. They risked a meltdown, and had family supper every weekend. Vi and Vu both wore their medals proudly. Vi took hers off and passed it around the table. Both Ivy and Callie had to try not to cry. The medal was the Olympic rings on one side, all painted with different color enamel.

Henry said, "I already ordered some for you."

"This is incredible work," said Callie, when she got control of her voice. "This is truly magnificent."

"I called and told her the whole thing," said Henry. "Ghost told Killa, who told Bonnie, who told all of the Soldier Pack. So, now, they all want to meet the girl with the huge heart."

"A barbecue," said David. "A big one. With the Nighthawks. Need to get everyone introduced, anyway."

"I'll marinate some chicken," said Vi.

"Ribs," said Henry. "And a smoker."

"Beef brisket," said Vi. "And tortillas, and some of my mango salsa."

Ivy said to Callie, "Now we're going to be talking about food all night. I have food right in front of me, and I'm getting hungry."

There was a loud cry from the "baby station," where Willow was playing with the babies, making them giggle. "Someone else is hungry," said Callie. "I'll get him." Sure enough, it was Aiden.

"Never figured out how mamas know exactly which baby is hers," said Jake.

"And each cry means something different --wet, mad, trying not to fall asleep," said Ivy. "And we're teaching them sign language. Apparently, babies can talk with their hands long before their mouths can make the right noises." She smiled at Damia. "And we have Vi and Damia to help us get the signs right."

Damia nodded. "My brother and sister are small and weak and must be protected. Like the ponies. And loved."

The table got deathly silent. Inola said, "We had a conversation about butterfly kisses and love for ponies."

Ivy hummed Robert Carlisle's Butterfly Kisses.

"That's country," said Inola. "You can't possibly know that song."

Callie began singing, and Aiden changed his face so he was now smiling up at her in her arms. Ivy and Callie sang sweetly, in perfect harmony with one another. Inola's jaw dropped. Bella smiled. David and Henry held hands.

When finished, Damia signed, "Happiness overflow?"

Henry wiped tears from his eyes. "Yes."

"Wow, our kid's vocabulary is awesome," said Callie. She grinned. "And don't bet against my wife. She's amazing."

Ivy shook out her twisty hair, making her metal beads click together. "I am."

"Eat," said Vi, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Food's getting cold." The medal made its way back to her. She kissed it, and put it on. "Damn kids, making you cry and all." Henry squeezed her hand, then everyone began eating their food again.

Ivy and Callie got the babies in bed asleep, right on time. Damia avoided the nighttime halfhearted I-dont-want-to-go-to-sleep squalls by going into her room to read, or watch videos. It was Bao's time with the girls, and they were visiting Dragon Grandmother at the Chinese restaurant. Ivy made sure Damia had her bath, then read her a story. Ivy and Callie both kissed her hair, and they crept downstairs. The moms watched a silly movie and laughed until their cheeks ached.

Ivy kissed Callie, and led her up to bed. As they were undressing, Ivy said, "I can't believe Damia did that. I didn't think she'd have that much self-possession, or that she overheard an offhand comment that you made. We have to be really careful about what we say, because she doesn't hear sarcasm or jokes. She's a straight shooter, that one."

Callie said, "It's been a whole lot easier than I thought it would be." She put on her soft yoga pants, and a camisole, then zipped her bra into the net bag used for washing delicates. She dropped it in the dirty clothes hamper.

Ivy snorted, making a three-pointer into the open hamper with her black jeans. "Easy? We moved a house from another state here, got everything up to code, then had to move out of the duplex we had just paid to make a triple-plex!"

"I don't think triple-plex is a valid word," said Callie. She ducked as Ivy pitched her shirt, then her bra, into the hamper. "Okay, I'll stop correcting your grammar. Yes, the move was hard, right when we were making it ours, you know? But that girl, that girl is worth it. Despite the meltdowns..."

"Only two. I'm stunned. Henry deserves a medal for teaching her to tell us when she's overwhelmed."

"I agree," said Callie. "Can I say that I'm overwhelmed? New house, much farther away from work. I'm using the commute time to listen to lectures, listen to audiobooks, and dictate homework, but that's a lot of commuting. My credential is an emergency one, and I've still got to complete the real one. We now have five kids, and one lone boy surrounded by girls. He's going to be a mess."

"Or gay," said Ivy. "Or a transvestite." She hummed the theme to Rocky Horror about a sweet transvestite while she changed into her own yoga pants. They were gray, with a soft mauve shirt that said, "Save a horse, ride a cowgirl" on it. "Or, he may just be in therapy for the rest of his life."

"No more kids," said Callie. "Or, let's get some of them out of the house first."

"No more turkey basters," said Ivy, making Callie laugh. Ivy grabbed her wife and kissed her. "We have actual time to ourselves."

"We do," said Callie. "Then why did we get dressed?" Ivy laughed, and stripped them both.

Callie attacked her, kissing her mouth, her neck, her shoulders. Ivy groaned. Callie pushed back her twisted hair, and licked and kissed and sucked her way up to her wife's ear, avoiding the silver rings in her ears. She nibbled her way all the way to one breast, then the other, making Ivy writhe.

She slipped her fingers in, and Ivy roared in her ear. "Quiet," said Callie. "You'll wake up our twenty-seven children. And render me unable to hear for a week."

"Did you just shush me?" asked Ivy.

"I helpfully suggested..." She lost her voice as Ivy slid two fingers into Callie. "Don't stop," she said. Ivy laughed into her mouth. They made each other come, again and again, and they screamed into their kisses.

Finally, they laid there, draped over each other, spent. "We really should take a shower. We smell like sex," said Ivy.

"Ugh," said Callie. Ivy dragged Callie out of bed and in the shower, and they both sleepwalked through it.

They both quick-dried their bodies and hair, put on lotion, found the clothes they had worn for two minutes, and fell into bed, draped over each other.

* * *

After dinner, Callie left the little ones to be fussed over, and went to where Nantan and Chayton were sitting, holding hands, by the fire. Nico and Tam were out of earshot in the corner of the room, playing a cutthroat game of Stratego with the two new boys, Nick and Josh. All four of them were laughing and drinking cocoa. They pulled up chairs and sat, holding hands.

"Nantan," said Bella, her smile wide, her eyes lit from within.

"You have decided if you want a baby with me as the father," said Nantan.

"Yes," said Bella. "And we love our little one. And don't want to rush too much, but..."

"We want a baby with you as the father," said Inola. "This is a very difficult thing, but we're family already. We both do things here that make us very happy, and we don't seem to be separating anytime soon."

Nantan shuddered. "Don't even think that."

Chayton laughed, and kissed Nantan. "What he said. We wish to be fathers, and you wish to be mothers to another child. What can be better?"

"Summer pregnancies, when you're fat in million-degree weather. That would suck," said Bella. "So..."

"And she's ovulating," said Inola, in a rush.

Chayton's eyes widened. "I'll get the turkey baster," he said. They all laughed.

Nantan and Chayton slipped upstairs, and went into the shower attached to Inola and Bella’s room. "What should we do?" asked Nantan.

Chayton opened the medicine cabinet, and found the little rubber cup and the needleless plunger. "We have the tools. Let's..." He whispered into Nantan's ear.

Chayton put the tools down on the little glass holder the ladies used for their toothbrushes, and Nantan reached out, stroked Chayton's back, pulled him closer. They kissed for a long moment.

"Let's get this done," whispered Chayton, stroking the side of Nantan's neck with his teeth. "The ladies are waiting."

He pulled off Nantan's shirt, and unbuttoned his jeans. Nantan slid out of his jeans and boxers, letting them pool to the floor. Chayton kissed him lower, flicking a tongue over each of Nantan's nipples, then kissed and flicked his way down Nantan's stomach. Nantan groaned when Chayton took Nantan's balls in his hand gently. He squeezed and rubbed with a finger and thumb. His erection made him groan. Chayton kissed and nipped his way lower, and barely had time to lick and suck on Nantan until Nantan groaned and threw his head back. Chayton reached up, grabbed the rubber cup, and took his mouth off his man. Nantan came in great shuddering gasps. Chayton took the cup, sucked the contents into the plunger, and put them back on the little shelf.

"I did say you could do what you wanted," said Chayton, wiping off his man's penis with a wet cloth.

"I was imagining it the whole time," said Nantan. "We'll have to get into the pool from the outside."

"Oh," said Chayton, and kissed Nantan. "Shall we take the ladies' spiral stairs?" Nantan stepped back into his boxers and jeans, and pulled them on. "I’m commando," said Chayton. Nantan laughed, and put on his shirt.

Chayton texted Bella, and they went out the spiral staircase on the ladies' balcony and snuck around the house. They entered the greenhouse, dropped the privacy shade on the glass wall, stripped, and went skinny-dipping in the pool. They laughed like little boys, exploring each other’s bodies, doing laps. They put on swim trunks and laid in the water, staring up at the stars through the greenhouse glass.

Inola knocked on the door, and Nantan said, "Come in!" She brought a tray of drinks and little snacks. "I hate to get silly, but Vi taught Damia how to make pigs in a blanket. We have mustard and barbecue sauce to dip them in, and sodas." Chayton got out and helped her slide the tray onto a little wooden table by the side of the pool. "Good, you're dressed. You're about to be invaded by a herd of boys; Tam, Nico, and the two new ones, Nick and Josh."

"Give us ten, and send them in. We're hungry, and they'll consume this in about two minutes," said Nantan. He looked over, caught the spill of a lace nightdress under her soft terrycloth robe. "Go back to your wife. I assume you're okay?"

"Better than okay. Be hard having them so close together, but be good, too."

"Wait until you have two in college," said Nantan.

"Or driving," said Chayton.

Inola laughed. "It'll happen to you first!"

"Oh, Creator," said Chayton. "She's right."

He popped two sodas and placed them in the cupholders on the floating pool tray. He took the plate of pigs in a blanket, opened the little containers with the two sauces, and put them on the edge of the plate. He dipped one of the small hot dogs covered by crescent roll dough into the honey mustard sauce, and groaned.

"Damia makes great pigs in a blanket. She dusted the tops with cheddar cheese." He slid into the pool, still chewing.

Nantan took one, then groaned. "Awesome."

They laughed, and fed each other, and drank. Nine minutes later, four boys came whooping through the glass door, dressed in swim trunks. Chayton barely had time to get the empty plate on the side of the pool before the boys did cannonballs in the water, splashing everything.

Additions

Bao finished her Chinese lesson. At this point, they were memorizing the characters on their own. Her job was spoken Mandarin, and to have them put the characters into subject-time-verb-object sentences. They delighted in creating ridiculous sentences, like ones about green animals jumping on pink grass. Points could be redeemed for paints, hook rugs, puzzles, calligraphy pen sets, poster boards, strategic board games, painting canvases, string art projects, and more. The "goody closet" was from a small art supply store that, sadly, went out of business. Nantan and Chayton got half, the Nighthawks homeschool the other half. Points weren't just given for correct or funny answers. There were helping-others points, points for developing games and books for others, and more. They were especially effective with Damia, who loved cause and effect. She would set her sights on a prize, mark it as hers with a sticky note, and deliberately set out to earn points for it. Her meltdowns became very infrequent, as she also learned to make an "I'm leaving" gesture and simply walk away when overwhelmed.

Bao stood, updated the points spreadsheet and sent it to the classroom monitor, and there were squeals, giggles, and groans. Callie came in to do the debate lesson, and everyone perked up. Points were on the way!

Callie hugged Bao, and said, "Enjoy your night off! We're making homemade pizzas for lunch tomorrow."

"Good luck with that," said Bao.

Bao got into her small car she used to transport children, and headed out to the Chandlery, a small, candlelit, Italian restaurant. Nico texted her that he was running late; the Landon Greene project was behind schedule due to a late delivery of the glass. The truck had been held up in massive traffic.

She sat at the bar rather than taking up a table, and had crostini with black olives and artichoke paste. The bread was still warm, making her swoon. She responded to a half a dozen emails about her books, rapidly typing replies in both English and Mandarin. She checked her bank balance and smiled. The latest round of book translations were doing well. She'd hired two teachers in China to help; one to edit and the other to illustrate. Both were highly intelligent and literate women. Both had absent husbands, working long distances from home to keep the family in money. Both women were saving up to bring their husbands home. She pulled up a galley, and her jaw dropped. It was about dragons, and the illustrations had her eyes tearing.

Nico came in, saw her at the bar, and came to look over her shoulder. His jaw dropped too. "My god, woman, that's awesome. Mei is amazing." He sat down, ordered a chianti, and stole a crostini.

"I have to give her a raise," said Bao. "These books will fly off the shelves, and fly into the cell phones, in half of China and Taiwan."

She pulled up another one, and sucked in her breath through her teeth. This one was a Monkey King story, and the Monkey King's soft, laughing eyes popped off the page.

She sighed. "We have an on-demand printer and drop shipper. I hope they'll be able to keep up with demand." Reluctantly, she closed the galleys, turned off her tablet, and slid it into her backpack.

She gave Nico a lingering kiss, redolent with garlic, olives, and a touch of Chianti. "Now that's a proper greeting," said Nico, holding her close for a moment. Then he stood, took off his leather jacket, and hung it on the back of his chair. "Do they have a table for us?"

Bao paid their current tab, and asked their bartender to check on their table. "So, did the glass arrive?"

"Intact, and the guys were very sorry. A truck overturned and blocked all three lanes of traffic and they couldn't get off the interstate, not until the cops cleared enough to let a lane of traffic by. They were happy-happy joy-joy to make it to us. The installers are installing as we speak. My guys know how to install, but I had to inspect and sign."

"Bet they like the overtime," said Bao.

"On time and under budget," said Nico, sipping his Chianti. "The house is a very nice ranch, so large that we can split it into a duplex. Got it for a song. We've got the most gorgeous glass tile coming in for the backsplashes." He sipped his Chianti, and stole the last crostini.

Bao laughed. "I talk poetic about illustrations for children's books, and you about glass." They stood as the server came to lead them to their table.

Nico effortlessly swung her backpack over her shoulder, and grabbed his jacket with the other hand and swung it over the other shoulder. Bao was treated to a lovely vision of his ass as he followed the server. She carried both their wine glasses, and didn't spill a drop, dancing around the servers and patrons like a ballerina.

They ordered Italian sausage and pesto tortellini in a potato-leek sauce with pesto gnocchi. Nico told her about the rehab on the ranch house duplex near the air force base, perfect for some soldiers to settle into with a spouse and kiddies. Bao told him about trying to finish off her American teaching certification, while simultaneously running a book translation and storytelling empire on two continents.

"We've had an inquiry from Africa," said Bao. "They have hundreds, if not thousands of stories. Ones that can be told, in English and tribal languages. I gave them our software for free, because we're a nonprofit, but they love our stories and illustrators. I'm considering flying a team of coders, a translator, and several storytellers here to show them what to do."

"Why not just make step-by-step videos?" asked Nico. "I have cameras going all the time at my sites. The Wolfpack love making videos. Got them making rehab videos. Got lots of hits. Another source of income to get them their schooling."

She smiled. "I have, but what we do is a lot more complicated. We want everyone. People everywhere to be able to make and create books in their native languages. We keep losing languages. Even in China, some of them are dying out. And, we shouldn't let that happen."

"I agree," he said. "My nonna made sure I could speak fluent Italian. Would hit me with a spoon if I didn't answer politely. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get my attention."

She smiled. "Both of us are from traditional immigrant families. Both of us value hard work, and family. Both hold on to ancient languages and cultures we call home."

Their food came, and Nico ordered some more Chianti for them. "Both of us love sharing Italian food," he said.

He spooned half of both the tortellini and gnocchi onto both plates, and they ate and laughed. They split lemon cake and chocolate-silk, espresso pie, and then he paid for the rest of the meal. They would switch off, week to week, who paid for what. It worked for them.

They left, and he carried out her backpack once again. "Would you like to come to my place?" he asked.

"Why do you think I brought the backpack?" she said.

He laughed, and she followed his Harley with her car. She missed her own bike, but the girls needed her to drive them in a car, for now. She laughed at the image of her daughters becoming teens and going to school on dirt bikes.

He had a very nice two-bedroom; a refurbished condo. He owned the building and it was one of the first rehabs he'd done as a project manager. It was off of Paradise, and looked out over the city. It had a pool and a Jacuzzi. He told the guy at the gate to let her in, and she parked in the visitor's space near his motorcycle parking. The other residents loved him. Nothing stayed broken for long, there were no bugs or other vermin, and he let them keep pets. He also had motorcycle parking, allowing those with cars to have two whole spaces, and visitors’ parking.

They took the elevator up to the fourth floor. He led her down the silent hallway, done in white with a gold wash, giving an elegance that matched the golden wall sconces. He used his code, and got her into the apartment. He put her backpack down, inside the door, hung up his leather jacket, and hung up her red leather jacket. They took off their boots and left them standing under their respective jackets on their hooks. They said absolutely nothing, in English, Italian, or any form of Chinese. She took his hand, and they walked into the bedroom.

He carefully undressed her and put her clothes in the narrow antique wardrobe he'd bought just for her. She smiled, standing there in silk and lace, pleased with the care he took of her clothes. A motorcycle man who worked construction who went by “Bruiser” on the road. But he treated her things, and her, with delicate care. She remembered her husband, with the laughing eyes and rough hands. He had been a good man, and such a good father. She still ached from the loss. But he is dead and this man stands before me, and he treats me like a princess from the days of old. She laughed at her internal flight of fancy. Too many children's books.

He put his own jeans, shirt, socks, and red-and-black flannel shirt over a blue undershirt in the wash. He took off her bra, and her small breasts sprung into his hands. He kissed them gently, delicately. I'm not made of glass, she thought. She stepped out of her lacy underwear, and led him into the shower. She washed him in the shower, slowly, lovingly. He groaned, and melted into her. His hands found the pins holding up her hair, and he carefully put them on the ledge holding the shampoo. He turned her to face away from him. He washed her long, blue-black hair, and put in the conditioner she kept in the bathroom that was hers. He washed her back, from the back of her neck, then to her feet, and turned her around to wash her front.

She found the condoms in their little box, took one out, and rolled it onto him. She put her arms around his neck and leaped, springing onto him. He held her up, and they made slow love against the wall, her kisses raining down on him like the water sluicing over their backs. She washed them both again. He took her out, dried her off, rubbed in the lotion, and put a silken, dragon robe on her. He dried himself, put on a robe, and sat on a second chair behind hers, at the vanity in the huge bathroom. He brushed out her hair, put product into it, partially dried it, and braided her Valkyrie braids into the side.

He loved her hair. "You should have been a hairdresser," she said.

"Straight Italian boys did not become hairdressers in my day," he said. "My best friend Giovanni taught me. He said there's nothing more sensuous than loving a woman by loving her hair." He wove in the little silver metal strands and bits she liked. "He was right."

He kissed her neck, making her purr. He kneaded her shoulders and arms in between braids. He put her feet in a peppermint wash to soak. He put the soft cucumber gel on her face, then soaked and buffed each nail. He painted each nail in silver, with a thin sparkly blue wash on top, then a sealant. He did the same with her other hand, then put her toes in toe separators, and did each one. He sanded her heels and gave her a pedicure, this time with the color reversed; metallic blue with a silver wash on top. They sat there, chatting about their day, her hands and then her toes in the gel hardener UV light. Her nails dried, he slid off her robe, and had her lean forward and put a pillow under her head. He massaged her spine, from the tiny muscles in the top of her head to her lower back. He put a silken sheet down on the bed, and massaged her from her buttocks to her heels, then flipped her over to massage that side. He finished with a facial massage.

He kissed her, lightly, delicately. "Thank you for letting me pamper you. It feels so --wonderful."

"You are so incredible," said Bao. "Wo de ai," she said. "My love."

"Ti amo," he said. "My love."

He slid off his robe, helped her up, wiped off the excess oil with the sheet, threw the sheet in the hamper, and turned down the bed; a four-poster monstrosity, imported from Italy. She slid in, and he slid in behind her. He took her from behind; slowly, holding her hips as he moved. He pulled back her braids and kissed her neck. He let go, and she clenched on him with her own orgasm. He rose, and, ever the gentleman, wiped them both down with wet wipes he discarded in the bathroom. He slid in next to her again, and cradled her in his arms. They kissed, slowly, and she laid her head down on his arms, the braids up where he could get to them.

He loved playing with her hair. "I want you to... you've met the girls, played with them. You're a Nighthawk..." Bao began.

"I've survived dinner at your house, with Ivy staring daggers at me and Callie tripping over herself with politeness, and Hu the most..." He swallowed. "She's a lovely princess, like her mother. Tough, too. You don't know it until Grace oversteps or Damia signs for Grace to calm down."

"Grace is a rubber ball, and my daughter the one that keeps her from bouncing to infinity," she said. "My daughter is a tree, lovely and calm, and strong and wise." She smiled. "Callie called her an 'old soul'. I had to look it up, but I agree. Hu is wise, far beyond her years, and so gifted. She drags Grace with her, forcing her to rise up through sheer determination." Her face grew troubled. "Grace can't keep up. She really can't. At some point, Hu will be forced to surpass her, and Grace is known for her stubborn jealousy."

"So, Grace is normal and Hu brilliant?" asked Nico, cupping Bao's face in his hands.

"No, they're both gifted, but Hu has the quicker mind. She can grasp things intuitively. Hu is reading at the college level, and Grace at the high school level. They're about two years apart, intellectually, but those two years are crucial to Grace. She'll get there, but nowhere near as fast."

"So, make them not crucial," said Nico. "Find out whatever she does much better than Hu, and let her go as fast as she wants to, in that direction."

"Well, then," said Bao, kissing his hand. "You are good father material, you see?"

"How many children do you want?"

She laughed. "There are five in my house."

"That you give birth to," he said. "And you can always build a bigger house."

"We are conditioned in China to want one," said Hu.

"Well, we can take on some that need homes. But, from your own body, how many?"

Bao smiled. "I want a house with so many children that we forget all their names."

He laughed. "We'll call them 'this one' and 'that one' and 'you over there.'"

She thought, then said, "One more from my own body. I have small hips and breasts. It is not easy for me to push a baby out of me." She smiled at him. "Even though I know you will wait on me at every step of the pregnancy."

He leaned down, kissed her. "Then, one from you, and then we move over to a second house, and fill that one up with kids, too."

Bao smiled at him, the love shining in her eyes. "We need to ask Henry for permission. And find another wildlife corridor that needs a house moved."

"It's on my to-do list," he said. And then they fell asleep, in each other's arms.

In the morning, he made her a lovely breakfast of fruit and prosciutto ham and little cubes of cheese. He kissed her. "Adding onto the Nighthawks garage today," he said. "I've never added on a floor or built a space for a motorcycle elevator before. I guess there's a first time for everything." He laughed. "See you tonight, love," he said, and he grabbed his motorcycle helmet and left.

She worked on the galleys, gave the illustrator a raise, ate a lovely smoked chicken sandwich on foccacia for lunch, then drove home when she knew the girls had left for school. She traded out the car for her lovely Chinese red Harley, with its dragon, and rode back. She texted Nico, asking what he wanted her to cook for dinner, but he texted back that he was taking her out. She went back out and shopped for a beautiful Chinese dress. Mrs. Wang fussed and gossiped, but she had the best ones.

"I do not know why you date a white man," she said.

Bao thought of Nico's dark good looks and olive cast to his skin. "Not exactly white. Mediterranean."

Mrs. Wang snorted. "Try the yellow, it looks good on you."

Bao refused to take the bait. Yellow make her look sallow. "Red with blue, or red with black," she reiterated. "I must look my best."

Mrs. Wang rudely tweaked one of her Valkyrie braids. "You already look like a foreigner." Bao stiffened, turned, and walked out of the shop. She would buy different silk.

Mrs. Wang ran out of the store after her. "Bao, do not walk away from me. Why do you go?"

Bao turned, and spoke in a low voice in clear and perfect Mandarin. "You old women are all the same, whining about Chinese purity, and howling if anyone dare step over the invisible lines you draw in your minds. There are a billion of us. I doubt very much Chinese purity is actually an issue. And, you have small minds and vicious tongues. My true happiness means nothing to you, only being able to control with your words. You are the worst China has to offer," she said. "I will not darken your door again." She turned, and walked away. Mrs. Wang watched her go, and, too late, then realized what she had forgotten.

The young can be guided, but they must not be pushed too far, or they would hear nothing further, thought Mrs. Wang. She went back into her shop, wondering how she was to tell her old friend, Bao's mother, of her mistake. This time, she might not be forgiven.

Bao knew where she had to go. Mrs. Chang had deft fingers, was not a vicious gossip, and worked so quickly that the silken garment would be ready by that night. Mrs. Chang had already heard the gossip, and did not see Bao's stone face as rage. There was some of that, but mostly hurt.

"You ride the magnificent dragon bike," she said, as Bao took off her red leather jacket. "A red and black blouse, I think, and strong pants. Yes, you will look strong and sensuous, very mysterious." She brought out the red. "No, you must wear this jacket. No red will match." She came back out with a blue silk blouse with black cranes with white eyes, and a Mandarin collar. She dragged Bao behind a screen. "Try this. Quickly, I am an old woman, I do not have all day." Bao smiled, took off her golden blouse, and put on the teal. "No," said Mrs. Chang. "Put what you were wearing on again, over this." She did as she was asked, puzzled. "We merge the two, blue silk collar, gold, and black dragons. Take it off." Bao took off the teal one. "Both of them." Bao took off the other one. Mrs. Chang handed her a golden tunic. "Put this on."

“Okay,” said Bao smiling at the sharpness of the old woman. She did as she was told. It fit beautifully, and made her small breasts look larger.

"Yes," said Mrs. Chang. "Blue silk collar, the one the Americans call teal. Dragons in black and this teal for their scales. Do not be afraid. It will be done in a short time. Already have dragons, just some work to sew them on." She waved the back of her hand at Bao. "Take off, put on gold blouse you wore again. Then, go away. I must work." She sighed. "I wish I had that tea," she said. "The one from the apothecary down the street. Dragon tea."

Bao smiled. "I will see if it exists this day."

Mrs. Chang waved her away. "Much to do. Go away."

Bao left, a spring in her step, the ball of hurt and anger melting. She went to the apothecary, and Mr. Wu made the dragon tea good for Mrs. Chang's joints. She bought enough for the woman to drink for some time. She had acupuncture while she was there; sparring with Skuld had given her a strain in her knee that even Nico's massage couldn't eradicate. She left smelling of Chinese herbs. She had tea and little cakes in a tea shop, and then went to pick up the tunic. The dragons were on the sleeves. The effect of golden silk, a high teal silk collar, and flowing tunic was stunning. She put it on over her black leather pants, and Mrs. Chang sucked in her breath through her teeth. She did some fussing, but the tunic was stunning.

"It will do well," said Bao, and gave Mrs. Chang the tea, her favorite little cakes from the tea shop, and actual cash.

"It is too much for such poor work," said Mrs. Chang.

"It is stunning, and fit for a dragon lady of old," said Bao. "Quit being so Chinese, accept the compliment and the tea, and shout at me to leave your shop."

Mrs. Chang waved her hands, complained about all the work she had to do, and sent Bao away. Bao left, the door ringing behind her, and both women let themselves smile.

Bao went to the little Italian place Nico favored. There were only eight tables. They mysteriously got everyone in and out without ever forming a line, but the restaurant was full, from four in the afternoon with early diners, to well past midnight. All eight tables were together in a horseshoe shape, their corners touching to allow more people to sit at each table. Henry, David, Inola, Bella, Nantan, and Chayton were there. Tito was there with his wife. Skuld and Rota were smiling at her, and Wraith, Saber, and Sigrun sat with them. Ivy, Callie, Hu, Grace, and Damia were at a table. Even Dragon Mama was there, resplendent in red Chinese silk. Bao suspected Mrs. Wang had something to do with that, a dress as an apology.

And there was Nico, smiling. He took her jacket, and hissed at her tunic. "Dio mio," he said. "You're stunning."

He led her to the table, and the service began. There were antipasti and caesar salad, followed by platters of lasagna, tortellini alfredo, baskets of fresh rosemary bread, and olive oil and cracked black pepper in which to dip it in. They ate and laughed, and then they were served tiramisu and cannoli. The girls loved the pastries filled with cream and chocolate chips.

Then Nico stood, and asked Henry, "May I ask permission, for me to ask your daughter to marry me?"

"Yes," said Henry. Nico turned toward Dragon Mama, and she dipped her head in acknowledgment, and, to Bao's shock, gave permission.

Then, he knelt, and took a box out of his blue silk suit. Hu visibly put a hand over Grace's mouth. "My love, I promise to be yours, to love and respect you, give you children, and provide for our family." He grinned. "Not that you need my money." There was a ripple of laughter from the table. "Will you marry me, and make me the happiest man..."

His last word was eaten by her kiss. "Yes," she said, and snatched the box out of his hand. More laughter rippled across the table.

He took out the ring, and slid it on her finger. It was a ruby surrounded by diamonds. "It took me forever to find Chinese red," he said.

They kissed again, and everyone clapped. Hu stood and ran to her mother. She hugged her, then bowed to her new father. "Baba," she said.

He hugged her because he was still kneeling. He took out another ring, and said, "I promise to be an excellent father, to take you places, help you with your homework, teach you to play baseball, and dance. I'll dance at your wedding, God willing. Will you be my daughter?" He slid the ring on her finger.

"Baba," she said again, tears streaming down her face. He held her close.

"Grace, get over here," he said. She came skipping over, her face shining, delighted to be included. He took out yet another box, and said, "I promise to be a good dad to you, to teach you Italian, and how to cook, and how to play soccer. Will you be my daughter?"

She held out her hand to have him slide the ring on her finger. "What do Italians call their dads?"

"Papi," he said.

"Papi," she said. He hugged both girls.

He disentangled himself from the females, stood, and walked over to Damia. He took a scroll out of his pocket. She untied it. "Star's name is on this. My pony." Henry translated her sign.

"Yes, and she's your pony for evermore," he said. "I paid for all the care she's had in the past, and all she'll need." He spoke in halting sign.

Damia looked up at him. "She's mine. Not yours?"

"She's yours," said Nico. He pointed to Damia's name on the line marked "owner." Damia looked at him. "Okay," she said. "My pony forever."

"Welcome to the family," said Ivy. "That's as demonstrative as she gets." She walked around the table, and they hugged. "If your hurt Bao or Hu in any way, I'll hunt you down and stab you with little silver knives," she whispered in his ear."

"I would expect nothing less," said Nico.

Callie hugged him too. "I'm so excited for you two." She stood back. "Wait," she said, looking between Nico and Tito. "Where the he... heck are we going to put more people?"

Nico smiled. "Well, there's this farmhouse, and it's fine, but the farm's been split and they don't need the house anymore."

Tito put his head in his hands. "I'm not moving another house," he groaned.

Nico laughed. "It's a present for my wife on our wedding day," he said. "Don't worry about it. They all laughed, hugged, cried, and went back to Henry's for a little party.

The Valkyries dragged Bao aside. "Engagement party," said Skuld. "Two weeks."

"Three," said Wraith. "Should have the paperwork caught up by then."

Bao nodded. "Good." She looked up, panicked. "I'll need a wedding dress."

"Another day," said Wraith, hugging her. "Think of it another day." They spilled out of the restaurant, and went off to relax and enjoy the moment.

Cold Case Hot

Saber made himself a little bowl of cherry ice, and banged out a couple of reports on his laptop he'd needed to catch up on. He sent them in via the secure server, and then he went over a cold case. There was a truck with firearms slated for demolition, and being moved to a facility outside Las Vegas when they vanished. Both the tracking device on the truck and the tiny RFID chips on the shipment boxes were removed and destroyed. It had to be an inside job, but only three people knew about the shipment, and two were dead.

The agent that approved the transfer, one of Saber's oldest friends, a beautiful, bright, sunny agent named Evelyn Chomsky, died of an aneurysm in the shower two hours before the transfer. Noah Momer, the guy that was supposed to check in the truck on the other end, died in a car crash two days later. And the truck driver, Jasper Palliver, who supposedly had no idea what he was delivering, was missing. There was blood splattered in the front of the truck, but no body, with the guard's DNA --but only about the same amount you would donate if you gave blood, not enough to be a body. Saber was the only other person who knew about the transfer, but he found out about it, then went undercover on an op for three weeks. He had neither the inclination nor the time to tell anyone. Neither his phone or his computer were hacked, and neither were the ones at ATF, or the destination. He was determined to figure it out. He put the cold case aside; he would figure it out, someday.

It drove him fucking nuts to be home but still unable to work. His covers weren't blown; his ribs were still healing. No one would sign for him to come back. He needed to get all his air in his lungs, and be able to fight, anything from a fistfight to a full-on assault with multiple weapons. Most of his work was horrifically boring, pretending to be some sort of human refuse --a minor member of a cult, a drug dealer looking to buy guns to protect his business, a human trafficker willing to move up through murder. Unfortunately, his physical characteristics --his Thai features, prevented him from infiltrating white supremacist groups, buying or selling illegal weapons. He had been "beaten" and "killed" more than once, by agents of various agencies breaking into various groups by committing violence. Better that it be done to an agent with hidden padding and spliffs that burst fake blood into the air on cue, than harming a civilian. He laughed with dark humor to himself. I could do one of those fairly realistically, considering how I look and feel at the moment. He thought about it, then sent a text to his boss. If someone wants to "kill" me, now is the time.

“I'll check,” he got back.

He sighed and pulled up another report. At this rate, I'll be caught up for everything for the next six months. He shuddered. Damn well better not be here for the next six months. He did a great deal of research, including work on the so-called, “Dark Web.” This hidden internet could only be accessed by special software and used with hidden, untraceable servers. You could buy and sell all sorts of illegal weapons, and more --even people. It was a favorite place to buy and sell for drug dealers, cultists, human traffickers, end-of-the-world fanatics, arms dealers, and all sorts of... scum and villainy, thought Saber, quoting Star Wars to himself. He used several of his covers to follow and chase down some rather ugly people. He carefully built and maintained identities, "buying" and "selling" from other agents in various agencies to build their own covers in various parts of the country. They carefully moved toward real-world meetings with people with no conscience or empathy, one baby step at a time, in order to lock up those people.

* * *

He looked into the case some more. There was one, very strange weapon on the truck that had been stolen two and a half years --a lifetime ago. It was a Bushmaster semiautomatic pistol. A flat, ugly weapon, it was rare. Production had been stopped in 1988. It had been used to slaughter a family of seven by the husband's jealous ex-girlfriend, and had been disassembled and sent to be melted down. And, there was one for sale on the Dark Web. It might not be the same one, he thought. But, deep in his gut, he knew. He also knew that the seller would use several cutouts. Tracing it back, would be nearly, if not completely impossible. But I've got to try, he thought. He put in a bid, using one of his covers (a small-time arms dealer always looking for a bigger score), for a little over a thousand dollars, and questioning the gun's condition. He knew damn well the gun had damage.

The answer came back. Scratches left side, some pitting.

He dropped his bid slightly, but he knew. He knew. It's the same fucking gun. Someone outbid him, and he bid a little higher. His cover persona would have dropped out when the bidding got higher, but he stood firm. He was stunned when he won. Where have you been? he thought. I'm going to find out. Then, he thought, may have to dive deep on this one. I hope Wraith and Sigrid understand.

Saber bought the Bushmaster on the Dark Web. The serial number had been filed off and the RFID tag removed, but his own personal CSI, Divya Barati, excelled at using acid to get filed-off serial numbers. She had hair the color of blue-black silk, and brown eyes. She always wore coral or jade shirts underneath her lab coat, bringing out her lovely caramel skin.

She looked down her narrow, patrician nose at him, and over her red-tinted glasses she used to see more clearly. "That's the gun from the robbery," she said. "You have Lina following the money?"

Saber snorted. "They wanted bitcoins. I was able to pay them in such a way that they left a trail. To Belize, Peru, Madagascar, and back here, to Las Vegas. We know whoever hit them was local, or sold the gun to someone local."

"Who sold the gun?"

"Glad you asked," he said. "It's rare, and it's ugly. Not a forgettable gun. So, I traced it to a pawnshop. They tend to fry the images, but Harry Wycraft who runs the pawnshop, he is real-careful. His door-entry shots are archived. He wants to be sure nothing bites him in the butt later. So, we figured on the date for a week after the robbery. Two days later, we get this guy." He showed her the picture on his cell phone.

"Raymond Aguirre. Started moving some serious shit..."

"About two years ago," Saber finished his sentence. "Right after the robbery."

"Well, there you go," said Divya. "What are you doing to get the bastards?"

"Phone taps, phone interviews, research, sitting on the guy, asking lots of questions. I've done everything I can from afar, online. But, I've had to have other people run things down for me in the physical sense, until now. Now, I need a favor."

She grinned. "You usually do."

"I need the serial numbers of all the guns, their photos, and their rifling patterns." He held up a USB. "I'm going fishing."

"I'll have it to you by the end of the day," she said. She took the USB and looked over her glasses at him. "Now, get out of my ballistics lab." He grinned, and left.

Having the photos greatly helped him do an internet and Dark Web search using various programs. "Thank the gods for geeks and their little program bombs," he said, after he found two more of the guns.

One had a flight of three birds carved into its metal handle. It showed up in a dealer's collection in Pahrump. Another had been owned by a meth head with a love for Game of Thrones and a gift for carving in metal. He had spent hours while high carving the entire weapon with dragon scales, and lettered in Dothraki script. He'd found the collector who had bought the gun, someone who created jewelry for the show who had no idea the gun had either been stolen or been slated for demolition. After Saber promised not to repatriate the gun, he verified it was the gun, via a serial number. The collector had bought it on Craigslist online --and retained both an image of the ad and the packaging from two years before. Now, Saber had an address, the fake name of Qotho Zollo (stolen from Game of Thrones), and he was pissed. But, the Game of Thrones thing was an angle. Someone was a fan, or knew someone who was a fan, in order to recognize to who the gun should be sold. He traced back the Craigslist ad to a Stephen Drummond, a computer programmer from Torrance who had relocated to Vegas. He then discovered that Drummond had worked peripherally on the show, working with a costume designer to write a program to imprint Dothraki script, on cloth if need be.

Drummond was still in Vegas. Saber grabbed Wraith and went for a little ride. The return address on the shipping label for the gun was for a mailbox place. The man running the store recognized Drummond's photo, and gave them Drummond's real address, the one he used to sign up for the box. This took Saber and Wraith to a rundown apartment.

Wraith covered the rear. He pounded on the door, and said, "ATF!" The guy shimmied out his back window. Wraith pounced, and had him cuffed before Saber went down the stairs and out the back.

Drummond screamed about police brutality. Saber held up two warrants, one to search the apartment, and one to arrest him. Drummond said, "What the fuck is this about?"

Saber smiled. "Two people are dead, one is missing, and you sold a stolen gun. A very expensive one. Profiting on the deaths of people..."

"Who died?" Drummond asked, looking around. "No one died. We just unloaded a truck. Guy drove it right up, then drove up."

Saber held up a photo of Jasper Palliver. "This the guy?"

"Yep," said Drummond. "Cold-eyed son-of-a-bitch. Said, why melt them down when you can make money? I recognized the Dothraki and grabbed it first thing." He turned a baleful eye on Saber. "Who would melt down that thing? It's a collector's item!"

"It was used to kill a guy," said Saber. "Kid killed his older brother over it."

"Ugh," said Drummond. "Had nothing to do with me."

"It was evidence, and the case is closed. Kid killed himself in juvie."

"Ugh," Drummond said again. "Still got nothing to do with me."

"You sold the gun, dumbass," said Saber. "Let's go to a nice little hole where we can talk."

FBI Special Agent Stancovic stuck his head out the window. "Hand over the search warrant, Saber," he said. Saber smiled. "Come and get it." He walked into the stairwell, and handed it over. "I'll call you," he said. "Good to get this one closed."

"You do that," said Saber. He went back out in time to see Wraith put him in a black-and-white for transport. "You wanna hang here, or be there when I interview him?" he asked.

"It's your show," she said. "Those techies will take a while."

"We've got to nail arms dealer Raymond Aguirre and driver Noah Mormer." He sighed. "Let's go after our idiot Drummond, and nail those two."

"Let's go," she said.

Saber sat quietly in front of Drummond. He'd strategically given the guy two Red Bulls, a Snickers bar, and a pack of M&Ms Peanut. Drummond wiggled his foot and tapped his fingers, so Saber knew he was ready, flying high on caffeine and sugar.

"Drummond, tell me everything that happened two years ago, about how you acquired the Dothraki weapon."

"Dothraki weapon. I like that. Well, some guy named Noah approached Ray..."

"Raymond Aguirre?"

"Yeah, that guy. Scary dude. He said, ‘Ray’s got a bunch of guns I take to be melted down, 'bout once a month. Most of 'em are pea shooters, nothin' much. But this next load’s gonna be good.’ He said he tracked down the case numbers, and so he knew which weapons were gonna get slagged."

I have got to find out who gave him that info, thought Saber. "Do you know how he knew the case numbers?"

"Naw," said Drummond. Anyhoo, I know Ray from when we was running the streets off Paradise, you know?" Drummond was referring to a housing project there.

"Yeah," said Saber. "What did Ray want with you?"

"I got an RFID wand and a pulse that fries 'em. Tracked the chips, removed 'em after I pulsed 'em. Like I said, Jasper drove in, got out, and we unloaded. Then Noah came back with a squirt gun, and he shot the inside of the truck all bloody like. It was nasty, smelled like meat. Then he got back in, and Ray handed him an envelope. Jasper drove out, and we never saw him again. Wait, maybe Ray did, but not me. I found, removed and fried the RFIDs, and found the Dothraki gun. I took that for payment, and about five hundred. Then, I scooted. Sold the gun for another couple hundred, made me a real nice setup for my coding and games, ya know?"

"Where is Ray now?" asked Saber. "We're having a little trouble locating him."

"He's laying low. Did a job, got burned. He burned me before he got burned, though. Didn't pay me for a job. So, he's in a suite in the Yellow Rose; top floor, left side, number 1802. Don't know what name he's under. He went to Shanghai for a while, sold something there, then someone didn't pay, and he nearly ended up dead. Said he wasn't doin' no overseas business no more."

Saber stared at Drummond. "Well, thank you, you've been very helpful. Do you have any idea where Jasper is?"

"Heard he got picked up, Jasper wasn't his real name. It was Thomas, and Palliver was really something else, but I don't know what. Hear he's in some high desert facility."

Saber nodded. The false identity for someone going under such a rigorous background check, with fingerprints and DNA, meant only one thing, a spook. He sighed. This is gonna get weird, he thought. Real weird.

* * *

He ran down the hotel angle, and did what he could from afar. He staked it out for two days, rotating with Wraith and Skuld, but the guy never left his room, if he was, in fact, in there. He couldn't infiltrate Aguirre's people, because his organization didn't seem to exist. He knew there were rotating guards, and hard-eyed people who took their breaks in the coffee shop or fine dining restaurants, with holsters hidden under jackets.

There were at least two rotating guards, Aguirre himself, and a woman, judging from the steady stream of champagne, chocolates, and baubles flowing into the suite. Finally, finally, they caught a break. Two guards, large men with no necks, finished their meals in the hotel's fine dining restaurant of steak, new potatoes, and asparagus, and went back upstairs. They came downstairs with a woman with black hair caught in some sort of gold net in the back, with tilted, smoky-green eyes, and alabaster skin. She wore mile-high, strappy, black shoes with spiked golden heels. She wore a black raincoat over a black skirt, and glittery top. One of the goons went in front of her to open the door, one behind, eyes everywhere.

"Delilah is leaving with Thing 1 and Thing 2," said Saber, into his mic.

"Got 'em," said Geordi, ATF up from San Diego. The man had a French thing going on, very sartorial, and could fit in with the places that "Delilah," their code word for the woman, would go. "Do you want me to pick them up?"

"Watch then grab," said Saber. "You might overhear something good."

"Mas oui," said Geordi.

Wraith, Skuld and two ATF agents arrived. They split up, covering all the exits. The suite covered two floors, hence two doors. Saber knocked, and another no-neck answered. Saber badged and arrested him, handing him off to Danica Mays, a real up-and-comer from Chicago ATF, a kickboxer with a steely gaze, and hands like iron.

Saber entered, tasered a second no-neck who was reaching for a gun, and heard pounding feet on the spiral staircase. Saber didn't have time to do more than notice the fireplace, the leather furniture, the flat-screen television. Hunting lodge vibe, as big as an actual hunting lodge, he thought. He ran after the feet, and found a man in a blue shirt, khakis, and Bruno Magli shoes on the floor, in the hotel hallway. Wraith had him in some sort of choke hold. He was a small man, just a hair over Saber's own height.

Wraith whispered in his ear. "I'm DEA, he's ATF. No sudden moves, or we'll get upset." Saber went over to her side, and put on the cuffs.

"Raymundo Aguirre, you're under arrest for the illegal theft and sales of firearms." He quoted the relevant statutes, and read the man his rights.

Aguirre's olive skin darkened, and his wide nostrils flared. "You fucking piece of shit," he said. "My lawyers will have me out in an hour." He tried to pull against Wraith's iron-strong grip, and choked. "Police brutality! Help!" No one came out of their rosewood doors into the hushed, gold-cloth-covered hallway.

"Put him in the bus," said Saber to Wraith, and stepped away. "Oh, and I forgot one charge," said Saber. "Domestic terrorism." He smiled a shark's smile. "Gotta go secure Thing 4."

Aguirre's thin lips thinned even more. "I didn't..."

"But one of the guns you sold did. So, you're going in a hole you're never getting out of." He glanced at the man's Rolex, his six-hundred-dollar haircut, his Bruno Magli shoes. "Take him away," he said, holding up two warrants. He handed one to Wraith. "The warrant for your arrest." He popped the other one in between his hands. "For a search. What will we find?" Aguirre paled, and Saber smiled his shark-like smile again.

The search yielded a kilo of coke. "Damn," said Saber. Wraith would..."

Wraith came back in. "Danica's got Things 3 and 4 in the bus, and we got the fishy we just reeled in. You were saying?" She looked over. "Aw, you got me a present. How nice. Can I play to find the rest?"

"Be my guest," said Saber. The two techs had been on standby, and were taking pictures.

Wraith found three more kilos of cocaine, one hidden in the headboard, one in the closet hidden in a suitcase with a false bottom, and one in the kitchen, hidden in a bag of sugar.

She cackled. "Got him for narcotics."

Saber found the fourth gun from the robbery, in a holster under the mattress. "Dude's got an arsenal," he said. "Trafficking in stolen weapons."

"Think we got enough," said Wraith. "Let's go find our spook."

Aguirre sang for his lawyer. He'd been fingerprinted and issued an orange jumpsuit, and been feed a bologna sandwich, an orange, and an orange soda. He threw the tray on the floor; Wraith and Saber just stared at him.

Saber said, "New rules. Domestic terrorism. You see, we found your little notes." He held up a plastic baggie with an extremely high-end cell phone. "Encrypted up the wazoo. But Wraith here has a blue-haired wonder that can break into anything. We're tracking down every little number on there. Bank accounts. Names. Addresses. Telephone numbers. And the memo telling you where and when the truck would be; one forwarded from our office. The leak is one Tay Castrano. Tay's an admin, double-checked six ways to Sunday, but he inexplicably gives information he shouldn't have access to. Texts it, too, so now we have a trail. He quit just six days after the robbery, because he had a sick mother. She died of cancer about a month later. Her cancer treatment was paid for by funds from one of your accounts to the tune of twenty thousand. Nowhere near as much as the truck full of guns netted you; she was dying, she just needed palliative care." He sighed. "We already picked him up, and he told us everything. We've got both you and Jasper Palliver. We've also tracked your arms sales to domestic terrorists who shot up a cathedral, just because black people attended it. Killed four people and a lot of stained glass. So, as I've said before, you're going in a deep, dark hole, lawyer or no lawyer."

"What do you want?" asked Aguirre.

"Jasper Palliver."

"That's not his real name," said Aguirre.

"No shit," said Wraith. "The blood and fingerprints he had on file were attached to a fake name and background. So, enlighten us."

"I don't know his real name," said Aguirre. "But I've got his real fingerprints. And his voice. The key to the safety deposit box around my neck that you confiscated..."

"Already got the stuff from the hotel safe," said Wraith. "Fun stuff. A glass, the USB. Traced them to a Robert Smith, still not a real name. Lots of funny shit. Matched his voiceprint in some fun places."

"Then what do you need me for?" asked Aguirre.

"Bait," said Wraith, and smiled her death-head smile. Aguirre quailed. "Unless you can tell us where he is or who he works for."

"Some place in the desert. A research facility. He took some guns before he drove up. Some submachine guns. Said he needed insurance."

"Where in the desert?" Wraith asked.

"All I know is, it's on the way to Pahrump on a back road just past the Velvet Lady whorehouse. He liked to stop off there, scare up some girls."

Wraith's eyes flashed. "I bet they really were scared. Let's go get this joker."

Jasper Palliver/Robert Smith was a spook. He'd been on ops that had gone very, very wrong. Times where they would grab some high-value target with lots of intel in his or her head, and one shot later, that person was dead. No one thought anything of it; things went sideways all the time. But at least two team leaders had suspicions, and he was taken off that assignment and put on others.

His handler said, "No one's luck is that bad," when ops went wrong in banana republics, instead of sandy, sun-hammered places. He'd hidden the money well, and nothing could be proven, so they cut him loose.

He ended up at a black site in the Nevada desert where an agency made weapons for the war on terror, like phosphorous bombs. He was in charge of some nasty little devices. If some wandered off, he knew how to cover that, and where to sell them. He had the guns to protect himself. He occasionally amused himself with murder. Noah Momer, who was supposed to accept the shipment and incinerate the guns, was killed when Jasper drained his brake fluid. Mountain roads were so treacherous! And having an agent die of an aneurysm! Such delicious irony! He would infiltrate, pretend to be certain people, get what he wanted, and leave no traces.

He worked his usual, Thandee, at the Velvet Lady, in the usual way. Even jaded hookers could get scared, and he liked fear. She was the only one left who would date him. She had a kid she needed to pay for, and a sick mother. He was generous with the money and the tips, so she sighed, accepted the cash, and took him on back. She had a trailer in the back, where no one could hear her scream. He had her install rings, hidden by a trite picture of a waterfall, and he made her hold them, then lashed her hands to it. He liked to bring his own implements, a switch, or a very light riding crop.

He couldn't make them bleed or leave any permanent damage; he knew the rules well. So, he blindfolded her, and made her hold the switch in her hands while he put a chair under her waist, forcing her buttocks out. He tied one ankle to the other, separated by a wide piece of rubber. He stroked her from her shoulders to her buttocks, down her thighs, making her shiver. He varied the strokes, from sharp to light, stroking her buttocks. He then took the switch, and took pleasure in the whoosh of air before it struck her buttocks, then her lower thighs. He never hit the same place twice, and stopped to caress her in between, making her moan out in pain. He finished with more sharp slaps and strokes, reveling in her gasps and screams. He untied her, put away all the ties and switches, and turned to leave.

The door opened, and a vision in black leather, with ice-blonde hair braided on one side. "My turn," she said, flashing cash at Thandee.

Thandee lunged for the door and grabbed the cash on the way out, completely naked, her buttocks and the back of her thighs bright red and covered with long, red welts.

"How much?" she said. "I'm worth five times what you paid that girl." She stepped forward, a hand reaching for his dick, rock-hard through his jeans.

He didn't see the taser in her other hand, and he went down, writhing on the floor. She searched him expertly, finding both boot knives and the little patch of poison in the pouch on his stomach. She shocked him again, and he lost control of his urine and bowel capabilities.

She wrinkled her nose as she cuffed him. "Wish we'd been here earlier. That girl didn't deserve that."

They're all whores, he thought, as he passed out.

He awoke in a cell. He felt his teeth for the poison that would mimic a heart attack, but that tooth was gone. He tasted blood and smiled. There was a cot, a thin mattress, a thin blanket, a lumpy pillow, a toilet, and a sink. The room was very narrow, and there was no window, only a door with a slot. He'd had worse. He'd overpower a guard, and get out.

It was only when he checked the edge of the bed for something he could use that he found the stamp on the blanket. It said, "Prison Psychiatric Unit, Roanoke, Virginia." Peter, he thought. His former handler had finally caught up with him, and there would be hell to pay. I am so fucked, he thought. Psychiatric meant no prison, no lawyer, no one to check up on him. And no one would believe a word he said. He wished he was a child.

“Children have the amazing capability to surprise us.”