I'm game for the fiction section

Give me a deadline, media, style, genre, and sumthin` else jus` to make if fun for me.

and if I could have the embed code again so that I can put video into this blog that would be fun

"The great divide in this country is not by race or even income, it's by those who think they are better than everyone else and think they should play by a different set of rules," --Bill Clinton

Using writing that you've done that you really like.
I wasn't thinking of this as an assignment but more as an opportunity or encouragement.
Personally, I like "good" writing, which I will define here for now as writing that makes a point, transports me, or gets through to me, makes me think or feel. This includes a lot of fiction; for example, writing that has emotional impact or clever humor--and I actually like happy endings (which are more rare than you'd think in modern fiction.) But none of that "Happy Ending! Happy Ending!" a la P.D.Q. Bach: "...thus, he has all of the cast suddenly spring back to life with no explanation whatsoever and sing a piece entitled "Happy Ending!"" Hilarious! I'll try to find a youtube link--but in reading I like the happy ending to be vaguely plausible. Read here, which was fairly funny but also sad. (Quote above is from this wiki piece, which attempts to define what a happy ending is.)
But that's just me. I'm sure lots of readers here like other things too.
What do you like?

If I identify with the protaganist, Lambert, I do like them to do well for themselves. I also like poignant symbolism, think Kate Chopin and Katherine Mansfield. Psychological.

Irony. I'm not against happy endings but not too happy, eventually as we age, our hero either gets too young to identify with or ages with us and dies before we do.

I guess I'll just post a bit of a play if I have it on this hard drive.

Nice.
Here's a bit of P.D.Q. Bach (couldn't find the Happy Ending! bit--does anyone have it?):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4omW3Cp3q...
"The Farmer on the Dole." There are jokes in the music too as well as humor and some political commentary in the lyrics.

Part One
Morning broke with a lemon line of light along the horizon, and Angela Hardesty knew she had to go. Time had run out on her. Fortunately, the child -- ostensibly her student -- she guarded still slept.
Fifty feet away she could hear the group gathering. She knew Colonel Robertson would not let the prospect of traumatizing her charge interfere with his operations; this particular day's action could seal his ascension to command. Ambitious to the edge of ruthlessness, Robertson had no patience for collateral damage as insignificant as a second-grader's nightmares.
Bonehead, she thought, and swirled a microfleece throw around her charge. The child stirred as she lifted, but Hardesty couldn't wait any longer. Out the French doors, down the rock walk, slow but sure with every step careful to avoid either the crunch of sound or the flicker of movement-shadow, she slipped away from the back of the house. The dogs knew her, knew the boy, walked with them in happy silence except for a little panting; at the edge of the back lawn she slipped a handful of treats out of her pants' pocket and tossed them, causing the dogs to ignore her momentarily. While they busied themselves she punched in the combination to open the gate wide enough for taking out the trash; the gate opened in well-oiled silence. Stepping through, she waited until the gate closed – a matter of a minute or less – before sucking in a deep breath.
Security had its downside. The size of her employer's property let him feel safe. For her, it complicated the mission. She had no vehicle keys, no firearm, no radio; her pockets, despite wearing the nearest thing to field gear she owned, simply didn't stretch that far, especially since she'd had to pack extra for the child in her arms. Not taking the sling-bag purse or the jacket from her room would, she hoped, make it look as if she hadn't departed permanently. That little edge might be all she got.
Fifty yards from the gate, she slipped into the first band of woods and brush. Here her steps slowed, for silence's sake. She had a red-LED keychain light, small enough she hoped it wouldn't draw any attention from the house so soon; she flashed it at the path before her, keeping the beam on the ground. At least one of the game trails she'd scouted in the last few days remained well-traveled. Shifting her grip on the sleeping boy, she quickened her pace as much as she dared.

Ten minutes' walk from the edge of the woods she found the stream she wanted. Heavy trash bags over her shoes and pants, held by rubber bands around her knees, kept her feet dry as she waded, still carrying the boy. The trick might not stop the dogs from following her, if Robertson thought of using them; but it might be worth a little time. She needed all she could get.
The water felt cold through the plastic, and she had to be careful not to slip – or tear the bags, if she could manage that. But she'd brought Taylor here several times. Homeschooling children needn't leave them short on science or natural history, she'd argued; and to her surprise, her employer had agreed. He'd wanted the boy to know something about hiking and camping as well, he'd said. So she'd packed a pair of fanny-packs with very basic, simple gear, right under the bodyguards' gaze. Boneheads.
A hundred yards upstream, and then another; and the banks changed to shoulder-high, almost-solid rock. Another quarter-mile elapsed, and Hardesty tucked her charge into a corner, backing in after him. She slipped the sacks off her feet and shook the water from them.
“Miss Angel?” Taylor's big blue eyes regarded her steadily. He had tow-colored hair and a skinny angel's face and build.
“Good morning, Taylor. Are you hungry?”
“No, but I'm thirsty. Are we going on a hike today?”
“We are,” Hardesty said. “Later. I wanted you to see how the light changes, and which kinds of animals and birds you can see and hear in the very early morning.”
“Okay,” the boy said.
“I have juice and an oatmeal bar for you for breakfast,” she offered.
“Okay.” He drank from the juice box and unwrapped the snack bar. “Is this why I didn't have to put my pajamas on last night?”
“Partly,” Hardesty allowed.
The boy grinned. “So it's an adventure hike.”
She offered him the fanny-pack they'd stocked together: small binoculars, a compass, a water bottle with a filtering straw, a penknife, and a matchbox with some waterproofed matches, a small magnifying glass, some wet wipes, a notebook and pencil and a very small but very good digital camera, a plastic child's poncho, a plastic trowel, and a tube tent – the whole thing weighed about three pounds. Her own sported a first-aid kit, another microfleece, her poncho, more wet wipes, a lighter and a regular flashlight, a second water-bottle, a multi-tool and some food, along with a tiny stove and fuel; it weighed in at nearly seven pounds.
“That's exactly right. Are you ready?”
“I think so,” he said. “Where are we going?”
She finished rolling up the fleece. “Where would you like to go?”
“To see my mom,” he said.
Hardesty felt her heart break. Twenty years in this business, and the protectees never ceased to surprise her. The kid's mother was buried at Arlington. “Well, that's a long hike, Taylor.”
“I know,” he said. She rolled up his blanket, smoothed out the air, and looped the ends of the microfleece through two of the belt-loops of his shorts. From one of her cargo pockets, she produced a pair of baseball caps. “Keep this on. I don't want you to get sunburned.”
He looked at the canopy of leaves and limbs overhead. “Okay.”
“Remember, Taylor,” she began, folding up the wrappers.
“Pack it in, pack it out, leave no trace,” the boy said, automatically. She smiled at him and slipped the trash into her hip pocket, blessing the designer of her cargo-pants. He finished his juice, and put the straw in his pack. She quirked an eyebrow at him and he grinned impishly at her. “I might want that later. Waste not, want not.”
Hardesty smiled. “Okay. I won't ask why.”
“Good,” he said. He took the compass out. “Which way do we want to go?”
“Upstream,” she said.
“Do we walk or wade?”
“Which would you rather?”
“Wade,” he said.
“Maybe later – right now, I'd rather you didn't get too cold.”
“So, after lunch?”
“Sure.”
“On the way home, then,” he said, sounding reluctant.
“Or on the way to camp,” she challenged, and his eyes went round.
“Out overnight?”
“Maybe longer,” she said.
“Then we definitely want to go upstream, so that means west,” Taylor said.
“Sure does,” Hardesty murmured. She didn't add that she hoped going farther into her employer's property, instead of heading for its near edge, would help confuse any pursuit that might arise. After all, Robertson's plans might – maybe – go the way of all plans when confronted with reality; if that happened it could be very late in the day before anyone thought to look for them.

Taylor stopped to ask about new things occasionally, just as he would during any lesson. A shell at the edge of the water surprised him – he had not expected freshwater shellfish. But like any boy, he also ran ahead occasionally, so the pace stayed relatively steady across the day. When he began to really tire, Hardesty called a lunch break.
“What do you want to eat?”
He gestured at the creek. “Fish,” he said firmly. “We caught some here last summer.”
“What kind?”
He struggled with the memory, and finally wriggled his fingers. “Whiskeredy fish.”
She grinned. “Catfish,” she said. “They are good eating, fixed right. But I don't have what I need to fix them with us, I'm afraid.”
“Catfish,” he responded, “Salt and pepper. And pushuppies.”
“Hushpuppies,” she said softly. “Cornmeal, onions, flour, salt, pepper, leavening, eggs and shortening.”
“We don't have that,” he said glumly. “I remember when Mom came out with us. She brought a picnic basket, and we caught the fish. She had pushuppies and a bag of stuff to shake the fish in, and she wrapped them in foil and cooked them on the coals.”
“I bet that tasted good.”
He looked up at her and nodded. “Really good. It was hard to eat, though, without burning my mouth.”
“We'll have to figure out a better way. But right now, we don't have what we need to cook fish.”
“Maybe later,” he said. “What do we have?”
“Crackers and cheese,” she said. “Or crackers and tuna fish.”
“Oh, cheese,” he said. “Tuna fish at suppertime.”
“Okay,” she said, and produced the package. “Look, some of these are peanut-butter.”
He made a face. “Yuck. I don't like those orange crackers.”
“Oh,” she said. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay,” he answered. “Look, some are just crackers and cheese. Could I have more juice?”
“Umm,” she said. She took a package out of her fanny pack and the bottle of water out of his. “How about milk? It won't be cold.”
“That's okay. Where are we going to get milk?”
“Watch,” she answered, and poured some powder into the water. She put the lid back on and shook the bottle, hard, for nearly a minute. Then she offered him the result. “Milk.”
“It is,” he said, sounding surprised after he tasted it. “Pretty neat.”
“We'll have to rinse the bottle – can you drink it all?”
“Sure,” he said. “We'll keep the bottle to use again.”
“Yep,” she said.
They walked on until almost dark. She slipped the canteen cup off her water bottle and filled it from the creek, then boiled it over the stove; she washed out Taylor's water bottle, then heated more water and made cocoa. Taylor, pleased, drank enthusiastically. He ate tuna salad from a can with crackers; Hardesty thought about it a minute, then washed the can with hot water as well. She made herself tea and ate peanut-butter-and-crackers for the second time that day.
No one had come to find them yet. Maybe Robertson's plan hadn't succeeded after all.

Morning dawned gray and smelled wet, and Hardesty sighed. Today would be hard. Small boys and rainy weather seldom led anywhere happy. She boiled more water, in the can as well as her cup, and made instant oatmeal for breakfast. Another cup of tea seemed insubstantial; she broke out a paper tube of instant coffee, and added an envelope of sugar and a shake of powdered milk to her hot water. A gourmet drink it wasn't, but she enjoyed it anyway.
“Umm,” Taylor said. “I have to go.”
“What?”
“You know – to the bathroom.”
“Oh,” she said. “Didn't you need to yesterday?”
“Not like this. I need to ... sit.”
“Ah,” she said. “Still got that trowel in your fanny pack?”
“Ye-es,” he said.
She nodded. “Okay. What we want is ...” and she led him away from the water, looking for a place where the ground would yield to the trowel.
“You make a hole in the ground,” and she scooped out, with practiced ease, a hole about six inches deep, “and you sit over it, on top. When you're done you fill the hole back in and pack the dirt with your foot. Be sure you bury everything.”
“Oh,” he said. “Then what?”
“Come back to camp,” she said. “You can find it, right?”
“Sure,” he answered, pointing. “Downhill to the water, downstream to the camp.”
“See you there,” she said, “in a few minutes.” She didn't tell him that she had her own pit stop to make. Instead, she headed for the creek, but doubled back – not to watch; she had her own business to attend. She did check on his burial technique afterward; it wasn't bad, but she kicked some leaves and dirt over the spot anyway, as she had her own.
He had finished rolling up his blanket when she got back to camp. “Where were you?”
“Bathroom,” she answered.
“Oh,” he said. Then he said, “what about taking a bath?”
“Maybe we'll go swimming, this afternoon. Will that do?”
He grinned. “Sure.”
That afternoon she watched him from the bank while he swam, and when he tired she made a pallet for him. They had a rock overhang and a cutbank for shelter; while he slept, she took a chance and spent her own ten minutes in the water, coming out to wrap herself in the microfleece. She washed both their shirts and hung them over branches in the sun to dry, next to her cargo pants. He hadn't said anything about being tired or hungry, and she wondered if he would. Taylor didn't seem the complaining type, really. Must be something he got from his mother ... once the clothes were dry, she pulled hers back on and spread Taylor's shirt over him. He must really be worn out ...

The scraping sound woke her in time to see the rifle stick down over the rock; without thinking, she grabbed the barrel and twisted, yanking sideways. As the body attached to the rifle fell, she gathered the weapon in, then swung it like a club to knock out the man who'd been about to capture her. He didn't yell, or scream; but the repeated noises woke Taylor, who sat up wide-eyed.
“Miss Angel?”
“Taylor,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“I think so. Who is that man?”
She didn't know. “I haven't seen him before.”
“Why did he have a gun?”
“I think he was out here poaching,” she said truthfully. He hadn't been carrying the sort of gun one of Robertson's people would have. She examined it more carefully: wooden stock, iron sights, lever action, not a carbine but a rifle, and not new. She couldn't tell the caliber by looking; it might have been a .30-06 or a .30-30.
He wore a belt and a sling for the rifle, as well as a vest with many pockets. She bit her lip, then checked all his pockets. Wallet, hunting knife, duct tape and nylon rope, a string-net hammock, a full box of shells for the rifle, another of shotgun shells and several glow-in-the-dark trail markers. He had a water filter and bottle in another, a mess kit in a different one, a flashlight and flares in yet another; in the biggest vest-pocket he had equipment to field-dress a deer. In another she found a two-way radio, and in the last pocket two MREs. She strung his hammock out between a pair of rocks, and with Taylor's help rolled him into it; then with the nylon strings from his tall boots, she laced the hammock shut around him. She put a piece of duct tape over his mouth, left the radio in his hand, and took the rifle, its shells, the MREs and the mess-kit.
“We have to go, Taylor. He might have friends nearby.”
Taylor nodded. They slipped away along the creek, as quick and quiet as a pair of ghosts. Unlike the previous day, she didn't stop at twilight; instead they pushed on, using her little red LED light to check their footing. When Taylor finally complained of being tired, she estimated how far they had come.
“It's too soon to stop,” she said quietly.
Taylor, uncharacteristically, whined. “I'm hungry, and my foot hurts.”
She stopped immediately and said, “Let me look.”
He had a blister; more importantly, he'd walked on a blister until it broke and blistered again, and broke the second time. Now the quarter-sized open sore must make walking very painful.
“Okay,” she said. “We'll stop – let's find a place where we can hide.”
“Weren't we hidden when the man came?”
“We need a better place.”
He pointed. “What about that?” She followed the direction of his stretched finger and saw a dead tree, broken off shoulder-high; the top had come down at an angle to the remainder of the trunk and formed a lean-to of sorts.
“Don't you think about anybody who saw that would look inside for us?”
“I dunno,” Taylor said. “Maybe.”
“Okay,” she answered. “Let's try this.” She led him a few more feet, pushing through the outside branches of an evergreen. Next to the trunk, an open space carpeted with needles offered shelter and, even better, a soft place for sleeping. Taylor barely made it through a cup of water and an oatmeal bar before his eyes closed and he slid sideways. She'd never heard him snore before. She laid out one microfleece and settled him on it, then covered him with the other. He sighed and stopped snoring. She doubted she could have waked him. She growled at herself, but she couldn't stay awake either.
She woke up before daylight; what had wakened her she didn't know, so she stayed very still, listening. Taylor, a couple of feet away, didn't move or open his eyes.
“Long gone by now. That chick's somethin' else, I tell ya,” said a voice that made her feel, suddenly, cold as ice.
“And if you're wrong about where they went?”
“I'm not. She's a backpacker. She knows the woods, she's not afraid of the woods, and she could con the kid into thinking this is an adventure,” her ex-supervisor said. “She worked the Detail for Chelsea Clinton for two years. Her bugout plan was a fanny pack and a five-minute head start, anywhere between the White House and the Mississippi. She used to do dry runs around Camp David on her days off.”
“The dogs didn't find any scent,” the other voice, a female, argued.
“Not with that creek for her to cut through,” Bill Waddell said. “I told you. She's not afraid of the woods.”
“But she's not carrying,” the female said.
“That we know of,” Waddell corrected flatly. “She's two days out. Maybe she had something cached.”
“Or maybe you misjudged her and they're on a bus right now,” the female answered.
“If The Colonel didn't think I knew my job he wouldn't have sent me,” Waddell answered. “So we're out here looking for her trail. She's good, but she's got a green kid with her and no support in the field. She left her wallet behind; how would she pay for a bus ticket, let alone two?”
Hardesty closed her eyes and breathed, slowly and carefully, out. Robertson had won, then; must have won, or Bill Waddell, whose five years with the Presidential Protection Detail had come to an end when Angela caught him selling clandestine photographs of the President's daughter to a tabloid, wouldn't have a paying job. Unless he'd volunteered, for old times' sake; she could almost see him doing that.
“Maybe she had something cached,” the female spat back.

Taylor's eyes came wide open, but he jammed his fist in his mouth almost instantly. Following his gaze, Hardesty saw two pairs of camis through a gap in the branches; one belonged to Bill Waddell, but she had no idea who the woman with him might be.
She caught Taylor's eye, put a finger to her lips and motioned with one hand, 'be still.' He gave her the faintest of nods – in the best old-Western TV gunfighter manner – and she relaxed fractionally as the camis started to walk away.
“In her place, what would you have cached?” Waddell asked.
“A Ferrarri,” the female voice answered. “Weren't there half a dozen to pick from at the house?”
“In this terrain you'd get more use out of a screen door on a submarine,” Waddell drawled. “I'd've cached a trail bike, if it were me.”
Why didn't I think of that? Hardesty listened to the diminishing sounds of the searchers' steps, then looked at Taylor. She made an OK sign with one hand and raised her eyebrows. He took his fist out of his mouth and nodded.
She raised up on an elbow and a knee, careful not to brush the branches sheltering her against the tree trunk. Taylor's eyes remained as big as saucers. Hardesty crawled close enough to let his lips nearly touch her ear.
“That man is the one my Dad told me to be afraid of,” he whispered.
“Your Dad is very smart,” she whispered back.
“Do you think Dad's okay?”
Robertson would have killed the Vice President if he could. She didn't want to tell the boy that about his dad, though. Not now.
“How about we find out?”
What was I thinking? Hardesty felt the first shuddering acknowledgment of her own fallibility. Cut off from the outside world, surrounded by hostile searchers, what should she do next?

To be Continued ... (?)

Might we have a working title to use?

A wilderness action adventure, with a deeper, complicated plot...well-defined and interesting characters...cliff-hanger...

The man with the beard is crossing over to the other side of the street. He is smoking a cigarette. His stride is long. He makes his own path on the grass not using the sidewalk. Pace remains constant.

Sounds of Detroit give passerby's eyes, I nod to a woman wearing the navy pea coat. She has the same ipod as me.

The man with a beard is crossing towards the street, a cigarette dangles from his lips.

I look down, my nose feels cold.

A couple laugh at the intersection. They are oriental japanese or chinese? I can hear their voices but I cannot tell.

The man with the beard crosses over to the street, cigarette swirls smoke, grey sky snaps a black and white photograph.

Looking down now, the woman of the couple smiles, silky dark hair flows like a curtain, the first act opens.

The man with the beard has long strides, his face does not have a mustache.

Looking sideways at her, the man of the couple is a few inches taller than her his profile is razor thin, her left hand flattened tucks her hair behind her left ear, she is listening to his voice, his smile is genuine, do they know what they are saying?

The man with the beard is walking towards the street, his strides are swift, elegant fingers move the v-nested cigarette back to his lips.

My parking garage displays above the other buildings. As I get closer the edge spirals like a cathedral, to my right, across the street is a museum,

After eye contact the single woman and I fiddle with the settings on our ipods. Tight braids tangle with the earphones.

The man with the beard is crossing the street, he has long strides, red tip flashes at the end of his cigarette.

Between the buildings a breeze gathers the cold and empties it onto my back. The intersection is now all concrete. Behind me is the woman listening to the ipod that was just like mine. I cannot remember but I guess what she is wearing is the same thing she was a moment before, whenever that was.

Cars rev waiting at the red light.

The man with the cigarette is in the middle of the street, he is approaching the curb on the other side.

As the sidewalk diverges, the couple step in unison, right leg taking right forked path, left leg taking left forked path. His hand gestures a
an efficient wave. I am passing her. Traces of light scatters, curtain flips under her chin and covers her face.

The man with the beard has reached the other side of the street.

Awkward companionship, the asian man's path is next to mine, his pace is faster. I have forgotten about the woman.

My parking garage is visible ahead. A man in a long coat is looking my way. I smile, he nods, instead of an ipod he carries an instrument case. It could be a violin.

The man with the beard tosses his cigarette onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Ashes break apart become part of the wind. His stride takes him up the steps towards the museum.

I did not see him again.

I am skipping the next song on my ipod. Appreciating the building that prevents the wind from finding me.

The man with the beard must be inside the museum, are his strides still as long, what does he see?

Angling path converges, the asian man turns to the left, the man with the violin case pauses at the door that ends that path and opens it. The two men shake. The door clicks shut as I pass it. I forget they were there.

My chin tilts down, I look at the sidewalk and see traces of footprints left by the shoes of the man with the beard who was crossing to the other side of the

street.

There is a slow-core song playing on my ipod.

I am sitting at my computer reading a blog, itunes is playing that song. Lambert is asking for fiction.

My mind hits play.

The man with the beard is crossing over to the other side of the street. He is smoking a cigarette. His stride is long.

jeqal

As the golden sunlight of a late Michigan afternoon poured into Bob’s neat but modest home in one of the oldest residential sections of Detroit, he smugly sank back in his leather recliner. Life had never been so good.

Oh, the Michigan-Toledo game this afternoon had been a little boring. When would those Mid-America Conference schools realize they could never defeat a Big 10 powerhouse like the Wolverines? If anything, Michigan football was better than the years when Bo Schembechler coached. It seemed impossible, but there it was.

Bob’s wife Mary was in the kitchen making dinner. She had much more time to cook now that she didn’t need to work outside the home, but steak for the third time this week? With lobster, again? He’d have to talk to her about introducing more variety into their meals. Steak and lobster, like most foods, were so cheap.

No doubt about it - despite Bob’s skepticism following George W Bush’s overwhelming 2000 election win, the compassionately conservative Republican had delivered during the past 8 years like no administration had before.

The economy was booming. Bob’s job as a janitor at the auto plant was secure and well-paid ever since US automakers had leapfrogged the Japanese, Koreans, and Germans with their clean, cheap electric car technology. And the government’s investment in generating the electricity for those cars, as well as homes, schools and industry, from clean, renewable technologies had paid off handsomely too. Only the oil companies hadn’t fully participated in the profits from the booming economy, due in part to Vice-President Cheney’s masterful energy plan. But that was a small price to pay to remove the threat of a worldwide climate crisis, although eventually something would need to be done about the burgeoning polar bear population.

Bob’s retirement security was looking good too ever since he switched his Social Security account from a government trust fund to investments he could control. The market was soaring, and Bob had taken his broker’s advice to move a large part of his nest egg into derivitives, which were guaranteed to climb because of their highly leveraged nature. Many people now opposed the cap on the Social Security tax on earnings - they wanted it raised so they could contribute more to their private plans.

Bob’s income wasn’t quite at that level yet, although even a janitor’s pay was quite handsome, since real, non-supervisory wages were growing by leaps and bounds and the income gap was shrinking. Even without the generous government subsidy, Bob would have had no trouble sending little Susie to Princeton, and lttile Johnny would soon be heading to MIT. Bob sometimes thought he should be paying more in taxes in return for all of the services and the safety net his government provided, but then tax collections now continually produced a surplus because tax rates had been cut even further, and even the National Debt was rapidly disappearing.

Bob had been worried that his income and job security might disqualify him for a home loan, especially since he only had a few hundred dollars for the downpayment on a half-million dollar property. But the relaxed regulations for subprime loans got him into his dream house, and the skillful Ben Bernanke at the Federal Reserve had cut interest rates just before his adjustable rate mortgage adjusted - his payments actually went down! Bob was several payments ahead now. And housing prices continued to rise - like the mortgage broker told him: they aren’t making any more land. That mortgage which had looked a little shaky was really a good investment!

Even Bob’s marital relations had improved over the past 8 years - Mary was so pleased that that Enzyte product really did for Bob what it said it would, and she reciprocated by using an herbal breast enhancer that had added several inches and a full cup size. Because of their Bowflex, they were in terrific shape and had lots of extra energy. Their teeth were brilliantly white.

Bob was a little concerned because his health insurance plan would no longer cover little Susie once she graduated from Princeton. She might not land one of those high-paying dot-com jobs right away. Bob’s was a typically excellent insurance plan - the expensive experimental treatments that cured Mary’s recent illness were entirely covered, just as you’d expect. Still, the Universal Health Care plan implemented by Congress would ensure little Susie wouldn’t have to worry about the cost of medical or dental problems during the week or so it would take to nail down that programming job.

But Bob was still undecided about the upcoming election. The Republicans had been good, it’s true, but it didn’t seem McCain would continue the same policies that had made Bush so successful - it wouldn’t be as if Bush had a third term. Still, his Vice-Presidential pick was intelligent, articulate and ethical.

Bob reached over to the coffee table and picked up the thick booklet from the Obama campaign. It laid out all of Obama’s positions on nearly every issue in crystal clear detail - no need to even visit Obama’s website. If Obama were elected, there would certainly be no question about the course he would follow, it would be extremely progressive, and it was all guaranteed in writing. Bob was pleased that he could vote for Senator Obama in the Michigan Primary because Democrats believed that every vote should be counted, but wasn’t sold on his candidacy in the general election. Obama’s firm stands in favor of gay marriage and his strong pro-choice position, combined with his support of Constitutional rights, like the 4th Amendment, made him an attractive candidate.

Whatever choice Bob finally made, he was sure the future was bright given the foundation laid by America’s wise and forward-thinking politicians and businessmen. That’s why they call it the American Dream.

Perhaps even about this same story? "Liberation" is good, but might it run you into people looking for another kind of topic? Or maybe not...try adding an adjective or verb to the title?

Ta very much.

Jeqal, it's interesting that you get much of the same feeling even with a number of changes...I like the immediacy of your story.

We can admit that we’re killers … but we’re not going to kill today. That’s all it takes! Knowing that we’re not going to kill today! ~ Captain James T. Kirk, Stardate 3193.0
1 John 4:18

Liberator, part II

Taylor stared up at her. “Should we go home now?”
“I don't know,” she answered honestly. “If that man hurt your dad, home isn't very safe.”
“Will they hurt us?”
“They might,” she said, “if they catch us.”
Taylor looked determined. “Then we can't let them catch us, Miss Angel.”
“Right,” she whispered back.
Crunching noises diminished as Waddell and his – partner? Keeper? -- moved off through the woods. Hardesty knew better than to take for granted that their departure meant safety.
“I think we need to stay here,” she told Taylor in a whisper. “We will be harder to catch after dark.” She considered their options. The branches overhead and around them offered concealment as well as shelter against the weather, but she still didn't want to risk even a small fire here.
“Okay,” the boy said. “Do we have anything to eat?”
She considered. “I have peanut butter crackers, and we have two MREs.”
“What's an MRE?”
She wrinkled up her nose. “A packaged meal, that soldiers get when they're traveling and can't stop to cook.”
“What's in it?”
“This one,” she squinted at the package, then gave up and used the red-LED light to read the label, “is chicken and noodles. It has coffee, fruit cocktail, gum, toilet paper, a spoon ... and its own heater. The other one is beans-and-weenies, with peaches and fruit drink.” She studied the package carefully. “I think there's enough here that we could split one now and one later.”
“Chicken and noodles first then,” Taylor said. “But you can have the coffee.”
She grinned. “Thanks. Oh, this is the good heater – you just pour in a little water and squeeze.”
He handed her his water bottle and sat up, leaning against the tree trunk, Indian-style.
She slipped the big pouch of noodles into the heater sack, and opened the fruit cocktail. A bar of freeze-dried pear/peach/apple pieces, with a few cherries, crunched in the packet. She frowned, then studied the directions and dripped a bit of water into that plastic bag as well, setting it next to the warming noodles.
“You should warm the water for your coffee, too,” Taylor whispered.
A branch cracked on the far side of the tree and both of them froze in place. Snuffling sounds followed, and Hardesty flattened out on the ground to peer around the trunk. What met her eye was a black nose above mobile lips – a deer, nibbling among the needles on the ground on the far side of the tree's canopy, no more than a dozen yards away in the lavender-tinted morning light. She shook her head at herself and crept back to touch Taylor's shoulder. “Peek around.”
He did, and came back grinning. “I need to take a picture of that.”
She shook her head. “I'm afraid the flash will scare the deer.” She didn't add that so bright a light might give away their hideout.
“If the deer got scared, would that help us get caught?”
“It might.”
“Oh.” He pushed the camera back into his fanny pack, looking saddened. Hardesty bit her lip.
“Can you turn the flash off?”
“Will the picture turn out?”
“Let's find out,” she answered in a whisper, and a moment later he bellied back down. She heard a quiet 'click' and the deer's head came up, but when no further threat appeared it merely resumed its progress, snuffling along the ground in search of edibles. Taylor, meanwhile, slowly and quietly sat up next to the tree and held out the camera, proudly pointing to the back screen, where a portrait of the doe could be plainly seen.
Hardesty gave him a broad grin and a thumbs-up, and he saved the photo before turning off the camera. She picked up the MRE pack and tore open the top. Taylor, meanwhile, unwrapped the spoon and poked her knee: he had found a fork in the packet as well.
She opened the fruit packet for him, and balanced her canteen cup on the rim of the tuna can from the first night. Under the cup, she set her tiny stove, lit with a match; in almost no time the water began to bubble, and she stirred in the coffee, sugar and creamer from the MRE. The stove burned itself out. She waited for the coffee to cool a bit, and watched Taylor munching on alternate bites of noodles and fruit cocktail.
“Do you have any more milk?” he asked.
She checked the packet in her fanny pack. “Some,” she said. “Here ...” she poured some cool water into the empty fruit packet and stirred in powdered milk with Taylor's spoon. While he drank, she finished the noodles with the plastic fork from the MRE.
“That wasn't bad,” he said. “What should we do now?”
“If we're going to travel after dark,” she answered in a whisper, “you should sleep, if you can.”
He thought about that. “What if we took turns? I could wake you up if that man comes back, or anybody else comes around.”
“You first,” she answered.
He shook his head. “Not sleepy.”
Second-grader, she reminded herself forcibly. He's done really well the last couple of days, too. But he's just a kid. Worried about his dad, probably, too. Not that he isn't right to be ...
“Do you want to try to go back now?”
“What else could we do?”
She didn't even have to think this through. “Go on, where I was headed.”
“Where's that?”
“Away from Colonel Robertson, and that man, and all the men with them,” she answered.
“What about my Dad?”
She looked at him for a long time before she shook her head. “I don't know.”
“If we go back, will we be able to help him?”
“It's just you and me, Taylor. If we go on, maybe ... maybe we can get more help for your Dad, and for us.”
He thought it over. “I think we should go on, and send help to Dad as soon as we find any.”
Second-grader? Smart kid, Hardesty thought. “Then that's what we'll do.”
Taylor nodded, and began packing up. Hardesty couldn't help a little smile as she watched him for a few seconds; then she finished her coffee and fell in with the work of striking their makeshift camp as quickly as possible. In a few minutes they were ready to go. Taylor stepped to the gap in the branches where they'd come in, the night before, and then dropped to his hands and knees before he peered out.
Hardesty wondered what he'd seen that made him want to stay so low, but said nothing and eased up next to him, duck-walking. Outside, birds and bugs and a squirrel or two went on about their noisy morning affairs. Somewhat reassured, Hardesty touched the boy's shoulder. He looked at her; she put a finger to her lips and cupped her other hand behind her ear, and he nodded. Some little time went by, and then she caught him by the waist of his shorts and pulled him back as the sounds of birds and squirrels suddenly ceased. The footsteps she'd heard approached, passed, faded; a glance out, taken with great care, showed her the retreating back of the man whose rifle now hung down her back by its sling. One more thing I didn't need going wrong.
Taylor leaned very close. “I think one of us needs to look around from up in the tree.”
Hardesty nodded. “Can you go up quietly?”
“I think so,” he said. “You can't, can you?”
“No,” she admitted. “Never learned how.”
He raised both eyebrows at her then nodded. “It's not really easy, especially at the bottom.” He turned away, circling the tree completely before wrapping his arms and legs around the trunk and shinnying upward, not fast but quietly. The first branches left the trunk a little more than three feet above Hardesty's outreached finger-tips; the boy barely stood as high as her triceps. She cringed when she heard the zipper of his fanny-pack opening a minute or so later, surprised at how loud and carrying the sound seemed.
“Uh, oh,” she heard him say softly; then he began climbing down, making not much more noise than a hastily-descending squirrel. “Miss Angel, there are an awful lot of people out in the woods. If we go out there, we'll run right into some of them.”
“That's not good,” she whispered.
A moment later the bellow of a shotgun sent them both to the ground, hugging the trunk of the tree as tightly as they could. What seemed like dozens of running feet converged – not on their hiding place, but in the direction the man from whom she'd taken the rifle had gone.
“Get down! Down on your knees! Hands in the air!”
Hardesty sucked in a breath and looked at Taylor. “Do you think they're all there?”
“They won't stay long,” he said. “He might remember seeing us.”
“We should go now,” she said. Taylor nodded, and a moment later they were hurrying, as quietly as possible, down to the creek.
“Upstream,” she whispered urgently, “the banks are deeper and we'll be harder to see.”
“Okay,” Taylor said.
She never knew how long they kept going, as fast as they could without making extra noise; eventually they confronted a triple-tubed culvert through which they could not pass. The road above it, a narrow blacktop, sported half a dozen vehicles – everything from cami ATVs to black Suburbans. Hardesty bit her lip and pulled Taylor back against the bank, hoping they had not been seen; nearly a minute passed before she realized, from the ambient noise of crickets, frogs, and birds, that if anyone had remained with the vehicles they had remained in a vehicle.
She looked at the culverts again. No way either she or Taylor could fit through the corrugated pipes; these had an outside diameter of ten inches or so, maximum.
“The keys are in that three-wheeler,” Taylor whispered.
“What if there's somebody watching?”
“What if there's not? Besides,” he added, “you've got that rifle.”
Second-grader, my sweet aunt Fanny, Hardesty thought. “You watch too much TV.”
He grinned, waggling his fingers. A minute later she had crawled up the bank, fifty yards downstream from the parked vehicles, the rifle ready to hand. Taylor crawled with her, crouching low, studying the vehicles through his binoculars. They had little real cover, except distance and scattered brush; but the angle of the creek bed had brought them up where they wouldn't be expected.
“I don't see anybody,” Taylor murmured.
Hardesty reached for the glasses and the boy relinquished them. She scanned the vehicles with professional quickness, practiced attention. “You're right.”
Boneheads. Two dozen quick strides and she had Taylor in front of her on the atv; then she thought of something else. “Wait.”
He looked a question at her, but Hardesty had already started moving; she drove the Phillips-screwdriver from her multi-tool through the sidewalls of two tires on each vehicle, one after another, ending up at the Suburban in case it had an alarm.
“Oooh, nice,” he said. “MacGyver would be proud of you.”
“MacGyver is an amateur,” she answered in a low voice, but the shine in his eyes made her feel better. “Let's get out of here.” She cranked open the throttle and turned on the key, and within seconds they were flying down the blacktop, headed north.
The ATV ran out of fuel almost an hour later, but they could see the water tower of a town. Hardesty pushed the vehicle into the trees off to the side of the road and then continued walking, with Taylor holding her hand, a few feet inside the treeline.
Town swarmed with uniforms, some police, some military; watching from twenty feet up in a craggy evergreen, Taylor counted seven different colors, and couldn't count all the windbreakers with variations of “SWAT,” “POLICE,” or some federal agency lettered across the back.
“There's a lot of cops,” he said as he climbed back out of the tree. “Soldiers, too, and I think the Marines. What do we do?”
Hardesty sighed. She didn't know who, if anybody, among all that mob she could trust; but none of them would want to hurt a second-grader – before she could finish the thought, Taylor let out a yell.
“DAD!” He took off running toward a knot of people; Hardesty perforce took off running after him.
“Taylor?”
“Dad!” Boy struck parent like a missile striking a target; Hardesty oofed in sympathy with the back-driven father as the Vice President, a sturdy, graying man with a football player's build and a face filled with ecstasy, scooped up the child and swung him around in a hug that, by rights, should have turned him into about twenty kilos of crunchy peanut butter. “How did you get here?”
“Miss Angel brought me, Dad,” Taylor said.
“Miss Hardesty?” Vice President Jason Bidwell said, looking up from his son's face. By then she'd reached the knot of people – grim-faced guardians, mostly, she recognized now – gathering around the pair.
“She was really somethin', Dad,” Taylor said.
“Where did you get that?” A woman in an FBI-emblazoned jacket reached for the rifle slung down Hardesty's back, but by then she'd gotten her breathing under control again.
“A poacher,” Taylor said.
Hardesty eased away from the grasping hands; the rifle flowed from its sling into her steady port-arms stance almost as an organic movement of its own. “Off a man in the woods. He was dressed as a hunter, but it isn't deer season here.”
“When?”
“Late yesterday afternoon.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don't know for sure,” Hardesty said. “I suspect he's either with Colonel Robertson or on his way there. I think Robertson's security found the man I took this rifle from in the woods this morning.”
The woman went pale. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket, pushed a speed-dial number, and began to speak rapidly as she hurried away from Hardesty. “This is Regent Six. Regent Four has been captured. Repeat, Regent Four has been captured ...”
“Miss Hardesty,” the Vice President said quietly. “Are you all right?”
“I think we are now, sir,” Hardesty answered. “And yourself?”
“Taylor's here,” Bidwell answered, forcefully. “I'm much better now.”
“Mr. President ...” a man in a black suit, white shirt, crew cut, dark glasses and deadly-serious expression approached them, moving purposefully. “I need you to come with me right now. There's been an incident in the White House ...”
Hardesty felt her employer's grip change from congratulatory to commanding.
“Come on, Miss Hardesty,” he said. “We need you.”
“In that case, sir, I think you'd better call me Angela ...”

To be Continued ... (?)

We can admit that we’re killers … but we’re not going to kill today. That’s all it takes! Knowing that we’re not going to kill today! ~ Captain James T. Kirk, Stardate 3193.0
1 John 4:18

I hope you are letting everyone know about Part II!
What an exciting story!

Sarah this is a lot of fun.

Thanks for writing it!

jeqal

http://www.correntewire.com/ye_olde_writ... fiction link

I have to do a little more cleanup on it.

We can admit that we’re killers … but we’re not going to kill today. That’s all it takes! Knowing that we’re not going to kill today! ~ Captain James T. Kirk, Stardate 3193.0
1 John 4:18

“Mr. President,” the man in the black suit repeated, “we need to move right now.”
Taylor stared at the man, then at his father. “Dad? I thought Uncle Benny was President.”
“That's right, son,” Bidwell said. “There's a lot of confusion right now. Colonel Robertson and some other people are trying to ...” his voice broke as he cuddled the boy's head against his shoulder, looking past Taylor to the man in the black suit. “They're trying to upset us.”
“Boneheads,” Taylor said, muffled, and Hardesty flinched.
“Indeed,” Bidwell murmured. His eyes crinkled, though, and he shot Hardesty a glance revealing gratitude for the break in tension afforded by the sound of his son, imitating her favorite epithet, on what must have been the most harrowing day of his life.
The black-suited man reached for Hardesty's hand; she offered to return the shake only to have something pressed from his palm into hers. “Ms. Hardesty, I presume,” he said. “Your recent actions do you a great deal of credit. I regret we were not able to save more of your belongings. We were informed only that you are a homeschool teacher.”
“So I am,” she answered forthrightly, slipping her wallet into her pocket after a single glance revealed, from the scorch marks, what had gone with the rest of her possessions. “I thought our unit on natural history ought to include some first-hand experience as well as the recommended reading in the curriculum, agent ....”
“Wilson,” he said, and shook her hand for real.
“Agent Wilson,” she repeated. “So far as my stuff goes ... it's just stuff. I can always replace things.” She drew in a breath. “I hope there haven't been any ... irreplaceable losses.”
“Can't confirm or deny that,” he answered briskly. Then his voice softened to prevent distressing Taylor. “Some reports we've had suggest things not going well, though. Robertson's people overran my colleagues at the White House a half-hour or so ago. No word since.”
She gave him a quick look and a confirming nod. “I hope no news is good news.”
“From your lips,” he murmured. His earbug chirped and he stopped, listening, his posture going tense as a cello-string.
Bidwell regained his clasp of her hand. “Angela,” he said firmly, so softly nobody else but Taylor could hear. “How do I thank you for saving my son for me?”
“Keep him safe, and yourself?” she made it a question in the same low voice, then went on in a conversational tone. “We were studying a little geology, a little wildlife biology, a little environmental science, a bit of orienteering and a little nutrition. We had a good lesson in sanitation, too.”
“Don't forget the first aid,” Taylor said. “Dad, she fixed my foot. I had a really awful blister, but it doesn't hurt a bit now.”
Bidwell's eyebrows went up as he gazed at her.
“We ... Taylor ... covered a lot of ground,” she said. “I just put a little antibiotic ointment and a bandage on the blister. It might be a good idea to have it professionally cleaned up, just in case.”
Wilson stepped up beside them. “Sir, I don't want to sound like a broken record, but I really think we need to find you a safer place than out here in the open.”
“You're saying your people don't have a handle on Robertson?”
“I'm saying what my people have handles on makes me very unhappy,” Wilson answered. "I seriously mislike the chatter on the radios right now."
“Hence Regent Four,” Bidwell murmured. “Why anybody thought a Marine master gunnery sergeant belonged 'undercover' as a poacher I cannot fathom.”
Hardesty whistled softly. “That was a Marine?”
“You took his rifle,” Wilson said. “What was your impression?”
She thought back. “Quick, mostly. But I surprised him, so maybe my evaluation wasn't fair.”
“Surprised him?”
“He was expecting a frightened small boy, and probably an equally frightened teacher. He caught us asleep, or as nearly so as doesn't matter, a long way from help. Come to think of it, his stealth techniques and his gear preparation weren't half-bad. Maybe if I'd been thinking about it the MREs would have been a giveaway, but I had other things on my mind, and they're commonly available these days.” Grudgingly, she looked the rifle over, quickly, again. “Oh. Well, yeah, this is the way a Marine would keep a rifle. But ... this thing's an antique.”
Wilson shook his head. “It's an iron-sights single-action. If I didn't want to be seen sporting a sniper's weapon ... I might carry one of these myself.” He extended a hand. Hardesty slipped the sling off her shoulder. Turning his body a bit away, Wilson took up the weapon, one hand sliding forward under the forearm, snuggling it into his shoulder and bringing it down smoothly. “Wait ...” he paused, shifting his body weight, sliding a thumb along the top of the receiver. “It's a reproduction.”
The softest possible mechanical click followed, and the brass buttplate folded down on a thin wire. Out of the cavity behind it fell a vernier sight. Hardesty hadn't seen the latch. “Niiiice.”
“Special equipment,” Wilson said. “Probably costs half as much in so small a caliber as the commoner Sharps reproductions. Lighter to carry in the field, too. Round barrel to keep from giving away the true nature of the weapon. Somebody put some thought into ordering this.”
Bidwell considered. “I'm glad they're on our side.”
“You sure about that? What happened to Regent Six?”
Wilson snapped the rifle down, took a quick look around the area. “Dammit.”
Hardesty retrieved the weapon. “I've seen this thing from the business end before. Who was running your Marine pretending to be a poacher?”
“We thought it was the Detail,” Wilson growled. “I've known Four and Six for ... years.”
“Really?” Bidwell looked at him. “D'you suppose they knew Robertson too, before this week?”
“I don't suppose a damned thing, starting now,” Wilson answered. “Could we please leave?”
Hardesty looked at him. “And we should trust you because?”
“Oh, for pity's sake,” Bidwell interrupted. “We have to trust somebody. Let's start with one another. Does anybody think Taylor is a security risk?”
“No,” Hardesty and Wilson chorused. Each turned and eyed the other.
“That's settled, anyway,” Bidwell murmured, aggravated.
“So we start here,” Hardesty said. “Look, Agent Wilson ... I've walked in your moccasins. Long time ago. You're Regent ... Five?”
“Three,” he said, exhaling tiredly. “You were a ... Shepherd?”
“Guardian angel,” she answered. “Three, as a matter of fact. Back when the earbugs had visible coil connectors. But so far as I know we never ordered anything like this.” She patted the rifle. “Issue would have been a nine – mostly Sig Sauers, a few Glocks for people who had to move through commercial airports. It was all before 9-11-01, so things were under way less stress, in some ways.”
“Robertson's people think we're not stressing things enough, now,” Wilson said.
“The President bringing sixteen Al Qaeda leaders to the World Court wasn't enough for him?” Bidwell growled, and Taylor flinched. “It's okay, son. I'm just ... talking about work.”
“Must not have been impressive, to a guy like Robertson. All that folderol with trials and legal proceedings and convictions and so forth ... time-consuming and peaceful. Boring, when a nice endless war could've been used to waste our national resources and young people instead,” Hardesty said sarcastically. “Yeah, I know the type.”
Wilson's careful scrutiny became a different sort of examination. “Subtlety?”
“Whenever there's enough time, which we are running out of,” Hardesty said mildly. “You?”
He grinned. “We should be moving out. There's a secured medical facility about twenty minutes from here. You'll excuse me if I want to be sure you're both sound before we undertake more strenuous activities, I'm sure?”
Hardesty nodded. “Make me feel better to get coffee, a shower and clean clothes, too.”
“There's a county hospital two blocks over,” Bidwell said. “Why not there?”
“Oh, other than the overwhelming number of unfortunate bounty-seekers flooding it with sprains, strains, heat exhaustion, poison ivy, and probably gastrointestinal misery from drinking out of the creeks while they were trying to collect Robertson's million-dollar price on Taylor's head,” Wilson said flatly, “it's not secure.”
“Not to mention,” Hardesty murmured, “as close as it is to here we'd be sitting ducks.” She held Taylor on her shoulder while Wilson handed Bidwell up into the SUV nearby, then passed the boy to his father.
“Shotgun?” Wilson asked.
“Sit with me, Miss Angel,” Taylor said. “You can tell Dad all about what we did in the woods.”
Hardesty flinched faintly and Bidwell chuckled. “I'd like to hear that, myself.”
“I taught him how to make a cat-hole latrine,” she said simply. “He can tell you the rest better than I can, probably.”
Bidwell gave her a considering look. “I will ask him.”
“Marty Robbins is my favorite singer ever,” Hardesty said, and swung into the front passenger seat, the rifle settled against the dash.
“Uncle Tim,” Taylor said presently, having run into a difficulty in his narration of his adventures to his attentive dad, “what are those clothes people wear to blend into the woods called?”
“Camouflage,” Wilson answered almost absently. “Why?”
“That man Dad told me not to trust wore them, and so did the redheaded lady with him.”
“What redhead?” Wilson glanced at Hardesty.
“I never saw her face,” Hardesty replied. “From her voice, though ... and the way she behaved ... somebody familiar with the Detail, firsthand. As much or more as Waddell himself, except she's got a thieving heart.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She told that man she'd've stolen one of Uncle Benny's fast cars,” Taylor said. “Isn't that what caching means, Miss Angel?”
“Not exactly,” Hardesty said. “It means taking something and putting it out of sight so you can find it when you need it, and not everybody will know you have it.”
Wilson growled wordlessly.
“She said Uncle Benny had half a dozen Ferra ... Furra ... fast cars,” Taylor said.
Bidwell caught his breath. “Half a dozen Ferraris? Where did she say they were?”
“At the house,” Taylor answered. “Is that important?”
“That tells us who she was,” Bidwell said quietly. “Doesn't it, Regent Three?”
“That tells me,” Wilson said, “We need to ditch this vehicle. Probably everything in it, and the clothes we're wearing, too – I've never met anybody more paranoid, or fixated on gadgets, than that woman. Regent One, indeed. I think it probably also means the reports we had a little while ago from DC are at least partly correct. You probably are the President now, sir.”
“I don't want you to be right about that, Tim,” Jason Bidwell said, sounding suddenly weary. “I really don't, because Ben and Mikaela are friends of mine.”
“Five years working hand-in-glove, two election campaigns, yeah,” Wilson said. “You'd have to be either really close, or good at hiding a cutthroat rivalry. I've seen you all together.” He sucked in a breath, let it out in a long sigh. “Rivals you're not. ... Thank God the girls are away at school.”
“Taylor should have been, too,” Bidwell said. “On the other hand, if Taylor had been in school, he'd be no safer now than the girls are. Tim, can you find out anything?”
“Boss,” Hardesty interrupted. “Taylor's right here with us. I think we need to concentrate.” So rudely reminded of their immediate responsibilities, the two men spared the seven-year-old boy a glance, Bidwell at the top of his blond head, Wilson at his small form in the rear-view mirror. Neither of them looked comfortable. “Look, I know you're worried. I know you're thinking about a big picture. But we really, really don't have enough solid information to go there.”
“What we do have,” Bidwell said, “Is all the money I could get my hands on, without a public scandal. I thought we might get hit for ransom. So ...” he hefted an aluminum briefcase from behind his seat, “I brought along some cash. There's really not much here – but it's better than nothing.”
Hardesty grinned. “Gentlemen, hush!”

To be continued ... (?)

We can admit that we’re killers … but we’re not going to kill today. That’s all it takes! Knowing that we’re not going to kill today! ~ Captain James T. Kirk, Stardate 3193.0
1 John 4:18

Same excitement, but now I'm getting shivers about the bigger fictional backdrop too--is this an alternate reality, where there was no war but World Court trials instead? And now there's some fictional kind of serious take-over attempt or success not just by rogue individuals but perhaps whole sections of internal security forces...scary!
What's going to happen?!

Thanks for these...not that we're pressuring you for Part 4 or anything but...

Of course, that assumes there's interest.

We can admit that we’re killers … but we’re not going to kill today. That’s all it takes! Knowing that we’re not going to kill today! ~ Captain James T. Kirk, Stardate 3193.0
1 John 4:18

And there would be elsewhere too!

Are you writing these now in real time or do you already have a longer work?

We can admit that we’re killers … but we’re not going to kill today. That’s all it takes! Knowing that we’re not going to kill today! ~ Captain James T. Kirk, Stardate 3193.0
1 John 4:18

and difficult...we'll try to wait patiently.