The Byte Series: Volume Two
By Cat Connor
()
About this ebook
The second 3 books in the byte series with introductions by Cat Connor and a bonus short story.
Flashbyte
As if a terrifying nightmare wasn’t bad enough, being woken from it with the news that she’d been strangled in a parking lot didn’t make for a great start to the day for FBI Agent Ellie Conway.
Soundbyte
How unlucky can the Bleich family be? Four out of five murdered on the same day ... the obvious link being the Heathcote Diamonds, reputed to be cursed. SSA Ellie Conway is not having a great time either: she is shot when all she wanted was a good cup of coffee.
Databyte
When information becomes misinformation, how much of what you see should you believe? Wanted for a murder she didn’t commit and on the run from the FBI and Metro, Special Agent Ellie Conway has to protect an actor with close ties to Delta A from a serious threat as well as trying to clear her name.
Cat Connor
Cat Connor is a multi-published crime thriller author. A tequila aficionado, long black drinker, music lover, fruitcake maker, traveller, murderer of perfectly happy characters and teacher of crime writing via CEC at Wellington High School.Described as irresistible, infectious, & addictive, her passion for creating believable multi-faceted characters shines through her work and teaching.She enjoys the company of Diesel the Mastador and Patrick the tuxedo cat, and more recently, Dallas the Birman kitten while writing, Netflixing, or reading. (Surely by now Netflixing is a word?)In April 2021 Connor signed with Crazy Maple Studios - they've serialized the Byte Series! How cool is that?Her Byte Series is available on the Scream App and the KISS App - both apps are available free from your favourite app store.Connor is now working on spy/PI novels set in New Zealand. The Veronica Tracey Spy/PI series.A little bit about the Byte Series:The Byte Series follows SSA Ellie Conway on her journey as a member of an elite FBI team that functions on dark humour, close relationships, and strong coffee.And a smidge about the Veronica Tracey Spy/PI series:Ronnie Tracey is a former-NZ intelligence officer turned private investigator; with a knack for finding people and a Nana with a predilection for trouble.
Read more from Cat Connor
The Byte Series: Volume Three Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDatabyte Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Flashbyte Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Killerbyte Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Byte Series: Volume One Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTerrorbyte Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Exacerbyte Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Qubyte Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsPsychobyte Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSoundbyte Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Byte Series Volume Four Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCryptobyte Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings[Lure the Lie] Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings[Xray Mike Alpha Sierra] Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsEraserbyte Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMetabyte Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings[Veronica Tracey] Spy/PI Volume Two Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings[Leave a Message] Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsVaporbyte Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings[Nothing Happens Here] Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWritten in Leaves Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSnakebyte Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsVeronica Tracey Spy/Pi Volume One Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings[Whiskey Tango Foxtrot] Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
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The Byte Series - Cat Connor
Cat Connor's
byte Series
Volume Two
Cat Connor
Introduction to Volume Two
Hi, Welcome to our second boxed set.
This volume contains Flashbyte, Soundbyte, Databyte and a brand new short story written just for you called ‘Come A Little Bit Closer’.
The spark that ignited Flashbyte was actually my missing mail. When a writer gets really pissed at a mail carrier all sorts of things can happen. There’s a lesson there.
Soundbyte was the book I wrote to distract myself from the death process and part of that distraction was learning new things, like how to hide documents inside song files just like Iain Campbell does in this story. One day someone will find songs and images with hidden files inside them on my flash drives and be confused as hell. Makes me smile just thinking about it.
Databyte stemmed from a thought that popped into my head one night, what if information became misinformation, how would you know what to believe?
and then it snowballed. I also got to geek out big time with some particularly clever malware.
I hope you enjoy reading these books as much as I enjoyed writing them. Without readers writers are just entertaining themselves. :)
Introduction to Flashbyte
This is probably the technically most challenging book I’ve ever written because it not only contains dream sequences and flashbacks to a life my main character left a long time ago but after a traumatic event Ellie discovers she’s living in both the past and the present. That was a little tricky to write. It’s also the book that spawned the hashtag #WheresMyMail
For Caleb
Memory believes before knowing remembers.
Believes longer than recollects,
longer than knowing even wonders.
William Faulkner (Light in August, 1932.)
One
Gotta Get Away
You’re a smarmy piece of shit,
I murmured under my breath. My mouth was dry. I could barely swallow. Every nerve in my body was on edge.
I took a swig of water from my canteen. The cool liquid fought my tight dry throat until it won and forced its way down my esophagus.
Demelza, my dear, you spoke?
Ameer’s voice oozed artificial sweetness as his head turned toward me.
I shook my head and bit my tongue.
What was keeping Dion? It was supposed to be as a short recon trip. He was late and it was driving me to distraction. It wouldn’t have been so bad but I was stuck with Ameer, and the greasy sonofabitch turned my gut. He expressed his views on female operatives working inside Iraq with open derision, with no regard for my position or training. It was not possible to like him less.
My eyes refocused taking my brain with them.
Heat rose from the shimmering sand. From where I stood within the thick-walled building the outside looked bright and hot.
Dion emerged from the glare as a dark silhouette against tawny-beige. My ears filled with pleas and shouting. A chill raced up my spine sending cold barbs into my bones. Wind blew grit across the open landscape. Dion blurred.
It was all wrong. Beads of icy sweat trickled down my face.
Panic rose on a tidal wave of adrenaline.
With a jolt I was awake. My damp hair coiled around my neck like a noose. It wasn’t the first time I’d woken like that. I doubted it would be the last. My dreams were trying to kill me. The Freddy Kruger aspect made my skin crawl. A cell phone buzzed, loud and insistent. The display flashed, illuminating the clock on the screen.
It’s zero-four-thirty. This better be good.
I shook off the remnants of the nightmarish reenactment of a past life.
A woman was found strangled in a parking lot an hour ago.
Lee paused as if collecting his thoughts.
I waited.
She was carrying identification,
he said. His voice sounded a little stressed for so early in the morning.
Good, that will make it easier for police,
I said, sitting up and turning on the bedside lamp. I’m awake. I’ll play your silly game … who is she?
You,
he replied.
Nope. Don’t think I’ve been strangled tonight. Try again.
How life mocks my waking state.
Death by dreaming.
Glad I don’t live on Elm Street.
I saw her ID. I saw what she was wearing. Her name is Gabrielle Conway. She’s five foot nine inches tall, blue eyes, long blonde hair, and slim. Ellie – she’s you.
You didn’t really think …
I didn’t finish my sentence. A car door closed on the street outside. I scrambled out of bed and hurried down the stairs. You’re here?
Oh my, he wasn’t sure. How much like me was the other Gabrielle Conway?
"I’m here. She looks just like you. His footsteps crunched over the gravel.
Let me in Ellie – I have coffee."
I’m already at the door.
I closed my phone. Sliding back the security bolt and releasing the dead bolt lock were the easy bits. I grasped the door handle, lifted as I turned and pulled. The top of the door moved half an inch.
Doors that fight back are no fun.
I could have fixed the door that’s annoyed me so much over the years but instead I was building a new house.
I gave the handle another twist and yanked it hard. The wood creaked and door stuck fast.
To an outsider that may seem a little extreme. Trust me, it’s not. I was counting the days until Carla and I moved into our new home. Our new home was off the grid. There was no paper or internet trail leading to it. Everything had been withheld from public record. Too many bad things have happened in this house, not sure why it took me so long to move on. Maybe because it was my home with Mac. Whatever the reason, I was looking forward to a safer home and no more surprises. And a freaking front door that opened without fuss.
Going to be long?
Lee asked from the front porch.
Almost got it,
I replied, wrenching the handle and lifting again. Give it a little low kick, will ya?
As his foot connected with the wood the door swung inward.
Lee wore a grim expression and held two coffee cups. The presence of two cups was an encouraging sign, indicating he thought I was okay and not dead in a parking lot.
Good to know.
Come on in,
I said. I’ll be right back.
I bounded up the stairs and exchanged my pajamas for jeans. Somehow, bright orange pants emblazoned with fuchsia bunnies seemed inappropriate when discussing my death. I ditched Mac’s comfortable old tee shirt for a warm sweater, pulled on a pair of socks and my sneakers. I wasn’t quite awake enough for my usual cowboy boots.
Lee was sitting on the living room sofa when I emerged. I took the coffee he pushed across the table toward me.
I’m dead?
Sure seemed like it,
he replied. The stress in his voice suggested he’d had a rough start to the day and was pleased I was still breathing.
Interesting,
I said. Show me the ID.
Lee passed me his phone. In the photo folder.
Yep, looks kinda like me.
He smiled. That’s what I thought. Now look at the pictures I took of her at the crime scene.
I scrolled through. It was uncanny how much we looked alike. Who’d have thought there would be two of us?
Obviously that was one too many for the universe,
Lee said.
I chuckled. Yep, looks like the universe is cleaning house.
Lee began to relax.
You should’ve known it wasn’t me. You think I’d die and not tell you?
I couldn’t see myself going quietly. Mac might have been haunting me, but I was going to spread it around and haunt the hell out of everyone in Delta A when I went. It was a pretty safe bet that I wasn’t going to live to a ripe ol’ age and rock out my days on a porch.
In reality? No. I don’t.
I checked my watch. Can we get to the crime scene and back before Carla wakes up? I want to see the woman.
If we go right now.
I scrawled a note on a piece of paper and stuck it on Carla’s door. Just in case she woke up while we were gone. It said I was at a crime scene and would be back before breakfast.
Come on,
I said, taking my coffee with me.
He followed, closing the door and checking it had locked. As I hurried to his car I saw a black SUV parked behind him. It was definitely one of ours.
Who is that?
I said, as Lee pressed a button on the key chain in his hand; the car lights flashed once and the doors unlocked.
Christian from Delta B,
he replied, opening the passenger door for me.
And Christian is here, why?
I waved at him as I climbed into Lee’s car. A hand waved back.
I figured you’d want to go. The victim looks like you. He’s here to watch over the house and Carla.
Always thinking.
Thanks, Lee.
Twenty minutes later we were dodging police and reporters to reach the body of the woman in the parking lot. I ducked under crime scene tape which Lee lifted for me and strode across the blacktop toward a gathering of police.
Agent Conway?
Flicking my eyes left, I saw a police officer, his jaw drooping at the sight of me.
Surprise! Seems I’m alive.
Another cop turned around and stepped back, almost tripping when he realized who I was. Careful,
I said with a small smile. His fumbled step allowed me to get closer to the body. What do we have?
A detective turned to look at me, astonishment etched in lines across his face. I almost didn’t recognize him. Then his face returned to normal. Detective Dave Dixon.
You,
he said with a quick smile. Take a look, Agent Conway.
Thanks, Dave. Don’t mind if I do.
The woman lay sprawled on her back, her face turned to the left. Long blonde hair, disheveled. She wore dark blue jeans, a long-sleeved black shirt, and cowboy boots. It’s hard to tell how tall someone is when they’re dead on the ground. I looked at the soles of her cowboy boots. And saw a faint number in the arch. Eight. Same size as I wore. I guesstimated we were about the same height, and that the information on her ID was accurate. She had something around her neck. A pendant maybe.
May I?
I said.
Detective Dixon nodded. I took gloves from my jacket pocket and put them on.
Kneeling by the body, I loosened a tangled silver chain around her neck and lifted up the pendant so I could see it. A heart-shaped locket. An inch long and an inch wide at the widest point. Inside were two photographs. One was the victim with a man in jeans and a casual shirt, the other of an older man in naval uniform.
Seen this?
I said.
Dave leaned in to look, he shook his head. We’ll look into it.
Thanks.
I listened to the body of the woman for a few minutes as Lee talked with the police. A cold shiver ran up my spine. Someone thought she was me. I looked at the photograph again. To me it looked like her and her husband; the lone man in naval whites was perhaps her father.
We had more in common than just looks.
I stood up.
I’m done. It’s pretty obvious that I am alive.
We’ll keep you posted.
Dave looked at me for a beat then said, The resemblance is uncanny. Be vigilant, Agent Conway.
I smiled. Thanks for the concern.
I turned to walk away and then stopped. From the edge of the parking lot came a voice yelling, Agent Ellie! Agent Ellie!
Lee tapped my arm and pointed to two police officers attempting to stop a big man from barging into the crime scene. He was hollering my name.
What the hell?
Lee and I ran toward the officers just as they took the man to the ground. As I neared I recognized him. It was Tyrone, otherwise known as Caps.
Let him up,
I said to the officer who had his knee planted in between Cap’s shoulder blades. Now.
The officer stood. He was trying to get inside the cordon.
I know,
I replied. We saw.
Caps dusted himself off in full theatrical mode. Then he and Lee did some fandangle handshake.
Good to see you, man,
Lee said. What’s happening here?
A cop started to talk, I silenced him. We’re talking to Tyrone. Thank you, Officer.
Both officers backed away a few feet.
Caps grinned at me. Good ta see y’all.
What’s going on?
I said. Walk with me.
Lee and I steered Caps away from the police and the cordon.
I heard y’all waz dead, waz comin’ ta see fo’ myself,
Caps said.
He’d heard already? I glanced back at the crime scene. Media crawled like vermin spreading their plague. Some held cameras over their heads trying to get a better shot of the body.
But he’d heard already?
Where’d you hear?
Five-Oh scanner, yo. Then we’s heard uh breaking news report, ya’ know what I'm sayin’?
My death was exaggerated.
Y’all need mah help? Me an’ da boys haz got y’alls back.
It’s just some shit, everything’s cool. But I appreciate the offer.
I shook his hand. Someone screwed up somewhere along the line.
Fo’ shizzle my nizzle,
Caps replied, nodding with wisdom that came from life on the streets.
I grinned. You know I don’t get the shizzle-frizzle-frazzle-whatever-speak, Tyrone.
He laughed and nodded and the real Tyrone emerged. I heard you were dead.
Yeah, me too.
I wanted to see.
Yeah, snap.
You need anything, anytime, Agent Ellie, you know where we are.
Thank you.
I meant it. He’d given me shelter before and I knew, without a shadow of doubt, he’d do it again. It occurred to me then that I couldn’t see Tats anywhere. I was certain those two operated as a single unit. Where’s Tats?
In the car.
Tyrone’s mouth hardened. He didn’t want to see your body.
Where’s the car?
Tyrone pointed down the street.
Go tell him I’m okay,
I said. If you hear anything … you know where I am, right?
Tyrone was Caps again. Meh haz y’alls number.
Say hello to your aunt for me. She’s well?
She’s well.
Caps walked away and blended into the deep pre-dawn shadows.
Dawn was fast approaching as we headed home.
A silent drive.
Once back at home I dismissed Christian and hurried inside. Carla was still asleep.
Now you can see I’m alive, can I go back to bed?
I said to Lee, wrinkling my nose at the rapid approach of morning. Sun crept under the curtains, long spindles of light reached out across the carpet like a piano player’s fingers, or knives.
If you want. I’ll just sit here and wait for the next news broadcast,
he said, picking up the television remote and pressing the power button. The television sprang to life, filling the room with unreasonable bright light and horrendously cheerful chatter.
Do we have to have that on?
Uh huh,
he replied.
I’m guessing there is a reason?
You’ll see,
he said. Did you miss the hordes of journalists at that crime scene?
No, I did not. I shrugged. They’re everywhere all the time. Like a plague of rats. This morning was no different.
Move over then …
I told him, kicking his foot. I couldn’t see the television without craning my neck from my chair so sat myself onto the couch next to Lee.
You might want to go get your phone,
Lee said.
I took my cell from my pocket and set it on the table. Have it already.
I meant the landline.
It’s all the way out in the hall,
I replied. Everyone knows better than to call me before my morning coffee.
The news came on. I listened as the anchorman announced the lead story. His somber voice filled my living room. Early this morning the body of a woman was discovered in an inner-city parking lot.
Lee turned up the volume. Prepare to answer the phone,
he said. The little journalist prick who arrived at the scene when I was there earlier refused to hand over the photographs he took and … you’ll see …
They went live to a reporter in DC. Breaking news this morning is the discovery of a body believed to be that of Supervisory Special Agent Gabrielle Conway. FBI has not yet confirmed the identity. It’s believed Agent Conway was strangled.
Hang on – were we not just at the crime scene? Am I a fuc’n ghost?
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi,
Lee counted aloud. As his mouth wrapped around the fourth Mississippi my phone rang, his phone rang, and the phone in the hallway rang. He grinned knowingly. I heard him tell whoever it was on his phone that I was alive and well.
The display on my cell phone told me it was Dad calling.
I’m not dead,
I said.
I know that, kid. SAC Caine Grafton would be bashing down my door if you were. Every news service in the metropolitan area is carrying this story. I’ll get Bob and we’ll get onto some serious damage control over at the Foundation.
Thanks, Dad – can you let Aidan know?
I didn’t want my brother freaking out. He now accepted my job but I knew if I told him about this situation, he’d remember all the reasons why he’s always hated me being a fed. The conversation would not end well for Aidan.
Of course. We’ll need his help as a moderator anyway.
Thanks, keep me posted. Tell the Foundation kids I’ll tweet later, we’ll do a video chat when I get the time and they can see for themselves that I’m alive and well.
All right.
Dad hung up.
Lee handed me the phone from the hallway. It’s Gerrard.
Noel. Good of you to call. I’m okay, alive even,
I said. I just brim with charm.
Oh, I know. Just seeing if you need coffee.
Lee’s already taken care of it, thanks.
I’ll catch up with you later – lunch. My treat.
Sounds good.
I hung up and leaned back into the cushions and waited for the next call. I didn’t have long to wait. My cell phone buzzed and flashed. Does no one sleep past six in the freaking morning?
I answered my phone. Part of me was amused by people calling the dead. But how did Rowan hear about it? He shouldn’t even be awake. Rowan – I’m okay. It wasn’t me.
His voice bundled incredulity with relief. There are two Special Agent Gabrielle Conways?
No, just one. But there is, or was, another Gabrielle Conway.
I don’t need to come home early and prepare for a funeral?
Nope,
I said as I searched my brain, trying to recall the conversation about Rowan going away and to determine where he was. It was hard for me to keep track of his tours, gigs, publicity appearances, not to mention when he was in the studio recording with his band. Such a busy life when you’re a mega rock star. For someone I considered to be an important part of my life, I sucked at knowing where he was and what he was doing. I justified that by reminding myself I’m his girlfriend, not his stalker.
Another phone rang.
I’ll see you guys in a few days. Tell Carla I got her message and I’ll bring her something from Japan.
Ah, Japan. That’s right, some talk show to promote the new album and other promotional appearances and interviews. The new album contained a few songs Rowan and I wrote together. We’d decided not to announce my involvement with the song writing on the album; if anyone read the track information from the CD insert, they’d see my name alongside Rowan’s on a few of the songs. Considering how protective and overbearing some of his fans were, it seemed like a smart move to not mention my involvement out loud. I enjoyed enough attention due to the Butterfly Foundation. It was hard enough doing my job some days and growing harder all the time. Just having Rowan around made it difficult – publicity-wise. What I needed in my life was more unwanted attention? Yeah, not so much.
We’ll see you when you get home. Have fun.
I tried to recall the entire conversation about Japan and remember who was going. I thought it was Rowan, Tony, and their bitch publicist who behaved as if I were poison, or the devil incarnate. Right or not, Rowan showed no signs of listening.
Rowan said goodbye and hung up.
Lee was holding the other phone away from his ear and trying to explain to my ex-mother-in-law that I was very much alive and that she didn’t need to talk to my father about planning my funeral. He motioned for me to take the phone. I leaned right back into the sofa shaking my head. It wasn’t going to happen. Lee thrust it toward me. Beatrice’s voice bellowed from the small white receiver. I cringed and shook my head. I’d enjoyed not having her in my life and I wasn’t prepared to open that door again now.
Another news report began. This time the reporter spent time extolling my virtues as an FBI agent and a poet, then highlighting my more philanthropic ventures. They were promising an in-depth look at the Butterfly Foundation in a later broadcast. I looked at Lee and ran my thumb under my chin. He escaped the phone call from my ex-mother-in-law.
Which station started this crap?
Lee smiled and flipped channels. This one,
he said, stopping and putting down the remote.
I called directory assistance and they put me through to the television station. A receptionist answered.
Yeah, this is Supervisory Special Agent Conway – put me through to your news desk.
She started to argue.
Okay, then put me through to whoever the hell is in charge of that station. Your CEO will do,
I demanded. My tone conveyed an unwillingness to listen to arguments.
Putting you through now, ma’am.
Gee, thanks,
I said as the phone rang in my ear briefly then stopped short as a male voice spoke.
This is Colin Scott, how may I help?
This is S.S.A. Conway. You can stop reporting my death and offer a public apology to my family and colleagues.
We report what we know, ma’am.
Your reporters are embellishing.
I signaled Lee and he started making calls. My body was not publicly identified in that parking lot. Your reporter is an idiot.
I had a feeling it wasn’t just Caps who listened in on police channels.
That’s as may be, but no one denied the identity of the woman.
And no one noticed me talking to detectives and viewing the body half an hour ago? Amazing.
I don’t know who you are.
I’m not discussing this any further with you. The reporter in question has caused considerable difficulty this morning by jumping to conclusions and not waiting for formal identification. Cease and desist reporting the death of Agent Conway, immediately.
I don’t know who you are …
The insincere sleaze in his voice pissed me off. I wanted to reach down the phone and shove my badge down his throat; maybe knock out some teeth on the way.
Have it your way,
I said. In about four minutes a bunch of federal agencies are going to be crawling all over your station. It’s going to look like alphabet soup down there.
I paused, letting my words sink in. "They will have the District Attorney with them. You have any idea how pissed she’s going to be at being hauled out of bed because you can’t get your facts straight?"
Do what you have to do, Agent.
I sensed some of his smugness withering. I shall.
I hung up and looked at Lee. Green-light the teams. That bastard thinks he’s a law unto himself. Let’s introduce him to some of our friends; make sure IRS is read in.
There was a smile on my face, I couldn’t help it. Ask the DA about obstruction charges, and making false declarations.
I picked up my coffee. I want everything we have on this dead woman; she has a family, and they need to know.
Lee smiled. He called our SAC, and let him give the news to the teams standing by. Caine wants to know if you want SWAT.
I grinned. Don’t toy with me like that!
Over the phone, Caine’s laughter bounced into my ear. I would have loved SWAT, but I’d already employed overkill involving as many agencies as I could.
Reporters piss me off. I called our new media liaison, Special Agent Sandra Sinclair. She’d already heard and was heading into the office. She also gave me some information. The television station in question and the reporter who did the live feed from the crime scene, was the same one who had been harassing Carla about a month earlier. He’d followed her to school and lurked around the grounds. He’d even followed her home once or twice. Another reason we were going off the radar with our new home.
I checked my watch.
I need to talk to Carla before she hears this.
Lee checked his watch then looked toward the hallway. She’ll be up soon to get ready for school.
We both heard an alarm clock ring.
Speak of the devil,
I commented. I’ll go start breakfast – pancakes?
Sounds good.
His words were laden with suspicion. It wasn’t that long ago that I was renowned for my inability to make anything more than coffee. As Bob Dylan sang, ‘The Times They Are A-changin.’ I had a feeling that I was going to need to swim to stop myself sinking. Drowning felt like a very real possibility. Nothing I could put my finger on, just a feeling that life was more fluid than usual. Dory from Finding Nemo swam into view. Dammit. Not that annoying fish. I watched her innocently swim up to Bruce the shark and introduce herself. Some days it would be great to be Dory: To have a short memory and trust everyone. Ha!
I knocked on Carla’s door. Good morning. I’m making pancakes!
She called back, Okay, won’t be long.
As I entered the kitchen, I heard Carla turn on the shower. We had a pretty good routine going, she and I. We’d settled into life as a family. Being a mom didn’t come naturally to me, but Carla didn’t seem to mind. My saving grace was my father. He was my catcher. His signals, combined with his ability to block my wild pitches, saved the game time and time again. Dad was only too happy to play grandpa. The times when I was called away, he moved in, so Carla had continuity of care. I’d enrolled Carla at Oakton High. Her old school was too far from home and this way my dad was handy should anything go wrong.
I scooped flour from the flour bin and beat it into the egg mixture alternately with milk. The fry pan heated. Butter sizzled.
Lee poked his head in. Can I help?
Set the table,
I suggested.
He also poured orange juice and located the maple syrup. Bacon cooking filled the room with the best smell ever. Carla appeared towel-drying her hair. She hugged Lee. He kissed her with affection on the top of her head. She slipped an arm around me and snagged a piece of bacon.
Morning, sweetheart,
I said, stealing back half the bacon piece and shoving it in my mouth.
She smiled and sat at the table. Sun streamed in the window, painting the scene normal.
I set plates piled with pancakes in front of Lee and Carla, then fetched mine.
Lee nudged Carla. Ellie always cook like this?
Yes,
she replied, drowning her pancakes in syrup.
We did breakfast. I couldn’t guarantee I’d be around for dinner, so we did breakfast.
Did you teach her?
he asked, cutting pancakes with his fork.
Nope.
Skeptical, he looked at the forkful of pancakes. Is it okay to eat?
Carla squawked with indignation, Uncle Lee, Mom is an excellent cook!
The child has spoken,
I added with a smirk.
How come you’re here so early?
she said, ignoring his feigned wounding.
We have a case.
Is it interesting?
The phones rang.
Yep,
Lee replied, pretending he couldn’t hear the persistent ringing.
I put down my fork. The media have been reporting my death since six this morning.
Why?
Because someone who looks like me, with the same name, was strangled in Washington early this morning.
Carla nodded. Her fortitude was legendary. I’m glad you told me. It’s obviously untrue.
With a cheeky smile she said, Can I have the day off to grieve?
Nice try, kiddo. As you can see there is no grieving required, although I’m a little hurt that you’d be over me in a single day.
I smirked as I shoveled another forkful of pancakes into my mouth. We’ll drop you at school on our way into the office.
Rats!
You might want to tell Joey before he hears the news. These media people are tedious and don’t let up.
There’s heaps of time. He gets up ten minutes before school starts.
Lee shrugged. He’s a guy, and last time I saw him, doesn’t exactly need to shave every day.
I laughed. That was true. Once a week might be pushing it.
That’s kinda mean, Uncle Lee,
Carla said.
Says the kid who called me a dork. My point is he’s a guy – he’ll pick up the nearest almost-clean tee shirt and jeans, shower and leave.
And unload an entire bottle of Axe body spray,
I added. Must he marinate in the stuff?
I think what you’re referring to, Ellie, is the smell of teen spirit.
And with that I heard Nirvana playing. I glanced around the room. The radio wasn’t on. Guess they were playing just for me. ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’
Are you two finished being mean-spirited about my best friend?
Carla asked between syrupy mouthfuls.
I wasn’t being mean. It was a simple observation.
Carla rolled her eyes at me.
I laughed. Anyway I happen to like Joey,
I said.
Imagine if she didn’t like him,
Lee added.
The phones rang again.
"Mom, are you going to answer that?"
I don’t think so.
I ate some more, accompanied by ringing phones.
Why are the phones all ringing like this?
Because everyone wants to talk to the dead,
Lee replied.
I’m super popular in death. Who knew?
The ringing started to bug me. The house phone was flicking to the answering machine all the time. The sound of well-meaning messages irritated me even more than the phones ringing.
Two
Real Men
There were several surprised faces when I dropped Carla at school. News of my death had spread like wildfire, not so the retraction ordered by the judge. There was an incident a few Christmas’s ago when a judge was abducted. Long story short, I got her back in time for Christmas and they all lived happily ever after. Except, of course, for the stinky troll who abducted the judge. He’s still serving time in a Federal prison. I knew the judge – her husband is a colleague of mine. So when the DA couldn’t get the television station to silence their reporter, I called my friend Judge Hartwell. Proving once again it’s not what you know, so much as who you are and who you know.
I figured Carla could handle the extra attention my death brought. I’ll see you tonight. Gramps will be there after school.
She smiled. Cool, he makes the best snacks.
Be good,
I cautioned with a smile.
Always,
Carla replied giving me a quick hug.
Carla started to walk away as words tumbled out of my mouth, fueled by the death of Gabrielle Conway and concern at how ugly things could turn.
Honey, walk home with Joey after school. Please.
She stopped and turned back.
Is this about you being dead?
Mom is paranoid. Today, please humor me.
She flashed me a quick smile. Sure, Mom. I’ll walk with Joey.
A girl called out to her as I walked back to the car; I could see them chatting their way into the school building.
The office was bubbling and seething with talk of reporters being strung up, and comeuppance for the fourth estate, when Lee and I arrived. My extreme reaction to my own death met with approval.
I live to please.
A familiar silhouette sat in a chair in front of my desk. My heart thumped with an unnatural and disturbing rhythm, fusing with the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Special Agent Noel Gerrard was waiting in my office.
Lee went looking for Sam, Kurt – Doc as he was usually known, Sandra, and Caine. Knowing I’d want reports and a briefing.
Noel’s head swiveled as I walked into the room; cool blue eyes watched me pass and sit behind my desk.
Noel,
I said. Slow day at NCIS?
The hint of a crooked smile lit his eyes. No … just not as entertaining as your day.
Two coffee cups sat on my desk. Noel never visited without coffee.
You heard anything?
Yes, I have. The dead woman is the wife of a navy lawyer.
So she married a Conway?
That made it less creepy and more like bad luck. Two navy connections in her life then. Not like me at all. I had just one, my retired naval father.
He nodded. He was reported UA yesterday.
Think her death is related to his disappearance?
We don’t know yet. My people are working on it.
His response didn’t surprise me. Navy lawyer and he disappeared.
Yes, it appears so.
Where was he stationed?
Headquarters of the Judge Advocate General, Washington Navy Yard.
NCIS had their office in the Washington Navy Yard too. Busy place.
Do we have this information?
Yes. The media do not.
Good luck with that.
Noel’s eyes sparkled. He was enjoying the situation way too much. As long as they’re chasing you all over the city claiming you’re dead, they’re leaving the real death alone.
Awesome!
I drank half the coffee. It was no longer scalding and cool enough to drink without burning.
We’ll hand this over to NCIS and go on with our business. I’ve got a few cases waiting.
I tapped a pile of manila folders on my desk. Might even get through some of these.
I stood up and followed Gerrard to my closed office door. His hand rested on the door handle as he turned to me. You free for dinner?
Thought we had lunch plans.
Not lunch then?
This case is going to keep me busy – I can get away for dinner though.
My place. Come have dinner with Carla and me. She’ll enjoy that.
He leaned so close I could smell his cologne and feel the heat rise from his skin. What about her mom, will she enjoy it?
We’ll see.
He tossed me a smile and left. Lee straightaway filled the void left in the room.
This isn’t our case, is it?
He lowered himself into the empty chair.
Nope. NCIS.
Good. Want the briefing on the television station?
Sure, fill me in.
I sat back behind my desk, Lee perched on his, making the wood creak and started talking. They kicked and screamed a lot about freedom of speech. The DA waded in with facts. You’re not dead. They lied. We also hit the station with a harassment notice. Fairfax Police Department came through with files showing Carla was harassed. The DA and Judge Hartwell insisted that the reporting of your unverified death was an escalation of the harassment.
Nice.
Looks like they all had some fun making the station apologize.
Great. Now these …
I said, tapping the pile of files next to me. We have work to do.
I thumbed through the first folder and didn’t quite understand how it came to be on my desk. I showed it to Lee. Seen this?
He had a look, shaking his head. We investigate car theft now?
Looks that way.
I flipped through a few other files. We also have a string of bank robberies, a murder, possible abduction, and someone selling the Jefferson Monument. He’s sold it four times so far this year.
Enterprising of him,
Lee said.
I spread the file across my desk. Call Sam and Kurt in here.
Lee stuck his head out the door and whistled. Moments later Sam ambled in. No Kurt.
Where’s Doc?
Sam shrugged his broad shoulders. Think he was called out.
Okay, just us then.
I waved my hand over the fanned-out pile of manila files. Today’s selection – we’re picking blind.
Three
Bank Robber
Ihave this knack for picking interesting cases, even blind. It makes up for my knack in picking the slowest checkout at every store I’ve ever been in.
What thrilled me the most about the case I pulled was that the last bank hold-up was about ten minutes away from my brand new, almost-finished house. Traffic was minimal so I figured a quick stop to see the progress wouldn’t hurt.
Later.
Work first.
I pulled into a parking lot outside the bank and took a moment to read the file I had with me. The robbery was the latest in a string of bank robberies across Northern Virginia. What was intriguing was the small amount of cash that was actually stolen at each bank. The main safes were on time locks and could not be opened. I had a feeling the robbers knew that.
Seven banks robbed and only one hundred thousand dollars taken, give or take some change. Why didn’t they go after the safe contents? Why settle for a pittance when a fortune was waiting? The file contained nothing that helped me understand the robberies. Guess that’s why it landed on my desk. All the robberies took place after three in the afternoon. Perhaps they weren’t morning people.
I pulled my laptop from its bag on the passenger seat and fired it up. It took just a few seconds for me to open a map program I liked to use. I plotted the list of bank robberies and times on the map. A pretty pattern emerged. I saved the map, shut down the laptop, and put it back into the carry case.
Something niggled at me. I called the office.
Can you pull up the case work on the current bank robberies?
I waited.
Got it,
Sandra replied.
Did we get all the call data from the bank phones, incoming and outgoing?
Yes and no. All but the most recent bank.
Grab that for me. While you’re at it, put a trace on all phone activity to and from the manager’s office. Include her cell phone.
The niggle continued. I want you to look for the same phone number appearing prior to all the bank robberies.
You sure?
Humor me.
I straightened my shirt, adjusted my jacket, and checked my makeup in the mirror. Acceptable. Once inside the bank I located the manager.
SSA Conway, ma’am. I’d like to ask you some questions regarding yesterday’s bank robbery.
I extended my hand.
Madeline White. Come into my office,
she said with a sharp glance at the teller nearest her.
I don’t know what the young woman did wrong but that was stinkeye if ever I’ve seen it. I followed the manager through a door that locked behind us. The corridor was wide with off-white painted walls, which made it light, but it was unnerving knowing the door had locked behind me. I followed the woman up a flight of stairs. She held open a glass door and ushered me in. I could see out into the bank through a large window.
Have a seat, Agent Conway.
I smiled and sat.
Were you here yesterday?
I said.
My phone rang. I flew an apologetic smile and answered the call. Conway.
Mom, you got a parcel.
Carla, school?
Half day.
I’m working, honey. I’ll be home later. Grandpa can take care of it.
Whoops, sorry,
she said. The smile I loved so much was evident in her voice. See you later.
The line went dead. I pocketed my phone.
Sorry. Teenager.
Madeline smiled and nodded. She spun a picture on her desk to face me. Her and two girls; they looked about Carla’s age. Fourteen.
Twins? Brave woman,
I commented. It must be expensive with twin girls. Goodness. One is bad enough.
"Very. It seems nothing lasts these days and they need everything. She put the photo back where it was before.
And yes, I was here yesterday during the robbery. I called the police."
Could you have opened the safe?
Yes, I can override the time lock. In fact, I am the only one who can.
Who knows that?
All my staff.
Is it the same in most banks?
I couldn’t say. It’s how I run this branch. There have been times when being able to override the time lock is a good thing. Sometimes a special customer requires more cash than we have available on the floor.
Can you give me your version of yesterday’s events?
She nodded and picked up the telephone receiver on her desk. Could we have coffee, please?
I couldn’t hear the reply and she hung up. My head filled with The Clash singing ‘Bank Robber.’
We might need refreshments. It was quite a day.
Moments later there was a knock on the glass door and a man appeared carrying a laden tray. He set it upon Madeline’s desk then left. She poured the coffee then began the tale of woe.
We’d had a quiet morning. Typical Tuesday really. Nothing exceptional at all. One of the tellers went home mid-morning with a migraine.
May I have the teller’s name please?
I can do better than that,
she said. From a file drawer beside her desk she took an employee file and handed it to me. This is Marjorie’s file. You’ll see she has suffered from migraines for as long as she’s been employed by us.
Twenty-one years. That’s impressive.
I read the file. There was nothing exceptional about Marjorie Smith at all, except she’d lost a sister six months earlier in a drowning. Marjorie had taken a few weeks bereavement leave during which time she moved house. I found her sister’s address in the file and saw that Marjorie had moved into her sister’s house after her death. I jotted a few notes into my notebook. People have a way of surprising me. I’m not much of a one for surprises.
The parcel. I hadn’t ordered anything and I had long given up on the parcel I’d sent to Carla from New Zealand, months ago.
I flipped back to the task at hand and returned the file to Madeline.
So after Marjorie went home?
Business as usual. I took my lunch break at two, was back here by two-thirty. It was just after three-thirty when the robbery took place.
Did you go down to the bank floor?
Yes. I most certainly did. I pressed the panic button up here then went down. They’re my people and I am responsible for their wellbeing.
How many men were there?
Three.
I said men and she didn’t dispute it, or correct me. As far as we know there were three people wearing bulky jackets, sex undetermined.
Had you seen any of them before?
No. They wore ski masks and padded, big jackets.
You are quite sure? None of them had been into the bank – say late last week, or even today?
I went over old surveillance tapes last night. I couldn’t see anyone who looked like any of them. But all I had to go on were eyes and height.
Do we have copies of those tapes?
Yes. I gave the police copies right away.
I liked her. She was smart. She was brave. She was super helpful and nice. She was in on the robbery. My brain wriggled about in my skull trying to figure out where that came from. I could hear the music again, only it wasn’t The Clash. It was ‘Cold as Ice’ by Bobby Ray. If I needed further confirmation, then this song was it. They were together like glue. They got together with a crew. An overriding feeling emerged, pushed forward by Bobby Ray’s lyrics. It was a mom-and-pop operation. Crapola.
Did you manage to get any dye packs into the money?
She shook her head. No, they were too quick. We didn’t have time. They shoved bags at one teller at a time, two men watched everyone else, and one watched the teller filling the bag.
I see. Where was your guard?
He wasn’t on the floor. He was found later in the bathroom. A door had jammed.
That was unfortunate.
Yes. Yes, it was.
Bobby Ray rapped with ever-increasing volume. I too had the impression she was as cold as ice.
I’m sure you are aware that yours was the seventh bank robbery in as many weeks?
She nodded. The robbers themselves aren’t very smart. None of the robberies have netted large cash amounts.
They haven’t been caught. I would imagine that makes them quite clever,
she replied. A small smirk turned her lips upward then faded.
I suppose taking smaller amounts and spending short amounts of time in each bank, means there is less likelihood of tracking devices being attached to the money or dye packs.
She nodded her approval. And I believe no one has been injured.
My phone buzzed. An incoming text. I glanced at the screen and saw it was from Sandra. She confirmed phone calls made to Madeline White prior to each robbery from a disposable cell phone. Interesting. My attention reverted to Madeline and her last comment.
Yes, that’s right. But it’s only a matter of time before someone is shot and killed. These things have a way of escalating.
She fidgeted.
I’ve seen it before. People running about with guns demanding money. Sooner or later it ends in death and a very, very long prison sentence.
I leaned back.
The Clash came back overpowering Bobby Ray, the volume intensifying.
It’d be much better to resolve this now before more lives are ruined.
I leveled my eyes at hers. Making damn sure she knew I knew. Don’t you think?
I can see how that would be best.
The songs switched back and forth from The Clash’s ‘Bank Robber’ to Bobby Ray’s ‘Cold as Ice’ until I wanted to scream, then as if they realized, it suddenly all stopped. Slowly, quietly, in the background The Clash insisted daddy was a bank robber.
Your husband? Is he in banking?
No.
She shook her head. He’s a teacher.
The map unfolded in my mind allowing me to track back from all the banks to one common point. A high school. I wrote a few notes in my notebook. Then with the utmost confidence I said, When did you decide to start robbing banks?
She blinked. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened. No words came out.
In the end she said, I. Don’t. Rob. Banks.
That’s right she doesn’t. She has minions. A crew.
Sorry, my mistake.
I wrote more notes and without looking up, I asked, When did you start planning robberies for your husband?
My eyes jumped from the page to her face, catching a telltale flicker of guilt.
I don’t know what you are talking about.
I think you do.
I watched her desperate attempt to remain poised. I’m going to give you a minute to think things over.
I stood up, leaving my pen on the chair, out of sight to Madeline behind her expansive desk. I stepped out of the office pulling the door shut behind me. I sent a text to Sandra telling her to activate the trace and that there was a bug in the room. I dialed the pen’s number. Feeling every bit like James Bond. Then hit record on my phone. The number Madeline called popped onto my screen. I sent it to Sandra. She confirmed it as the pre-paid cell phone she’d discovered.
I listened to Madeline’s conversation, delighting in the joy of super technology that meant I could hear her husband too. Not as clear as Madeline, but loud enough that I could understand every word.
To the assistant sitting behind her desk beyond another glass door, it looked like I was on the phone. Not that she cared. She never once looked up.
The FBI is here. They know. I don’t know how,
Madeline rasped into the phone.
Frank and Julio, one of them talked?
her husband suggested. Fear trickled through his voice.
I’ve never met them. Did you tell them about me?
Panic edged in and made me smile.
No.
He sounded sure. The FBI doesn’t really know.
You’re not here. This agent knows.
I held my breath waiting for one of them to mention the bank jobs. If it was a movie, they’d be that stupid. I needed life to imitate art. I use the term art loosely.
What does the agent know?
Bingo. Oh, please be that stupid. Please.
She asked me outright if I was planning robberies for you.
Silence.
Just don’t tell her anything. They’ll never get anything to stick. Suspicion is one thing, proving it is another.
My breath caught in my throat. I feared the moment was lost.
We did too many banks. The risk goes up with each robbery.
I swallowed and controlled the growing smile on my face.
All right we’ll stop. We’ll pull next week’s job this afternoon. They won’t expect that. We’ll hit University Drive today.
We’re going to jail, Howard. Who will take care of the children?
You knew the risk.
His voice sharpened. You knew.
She hung up.
I called Sandra. I didn’t care who heard me.
How many banks are on University Drive, Fairfax?
One second …
I could hear Sandra’s fingers on her keyboard. Checking a list of banks and looking for those that have brick and mortar branches on University Drive.
She cleared her throat. Four. Continental Federal Savings Bank, Provident Bank of Maryland, SunTrust, and United Bank.
The names rolled around in my skull. One by one they came forward and faded away. I was left with just one. SunTrust.
How spread out are the banks?
Three are close; SunTrust and Continental are in the same building with other businesses. Provident is nearby, United is in the only one apart; it’s at 4400.
It would make sense for it to be the bank that was furthest from the others yet I felt very strongly that it wasn’t that bank.
SunTrust. Get agents inside now, have them pose as customers. I want SWAT on site, standing by. Get agents in Continental too. If they’re in the same building they could hit both at once. Also, notify the other banks on University Drive and get police and agents into all of them. Go.
Just in case.
I walked back into Madeline’s office and sat down while palming the pen. I switched off and pocketed the pen without her noticing. A small smile crossed my lips. She was nervous.
I hope this string of robberies ceases,
I said.
So do I, Agent Conway.
Her poise returned. Wasn’t it you I saw on the news this morning? The report of your death appears to have been exaggerated.
Reporters and hyperbole go hand in hand I’m afraid. They can really ruin a person’s day.
Do you have more questions?
No. I thought we’d just wait together.
Wait?
She glanced at her watch.
Do you have somewhere to be?
She shook her head. No, that’s fine. What are we waiting for?
I shrugged. I was happy to provide her with an alibi while her husband robbed another bank.
Does your husband ever visit you at work?
He has once or twice. It’s not the norm.
So staff wouldn’t recognize him?
Probably not.
I added today’s bank job to the list of the other robbed banks. Once finished I passed her my notebook.
Any of your employees ever work in these banks?
I watched her eyes move down the list. Her head shook until she reached the last bank. Color faded from her face.
That bank hasn’t been robbed,
she said as her voice crumbled.
I checked my watch which caused a map to unfurl in my mind. All the robberies happened in the afternoon. Flags on the map indicated banks that had already been robbed. Times appeared on the map. I calculated the likely starting point from the times and, if I was right, then I had an approximate time for the next robbery. Flags, strings, times, and pins; my mind map was crowded.
Yes, I know, but in ten minutes it will be.
She moved to grab her phone. I intercepted and proceeded to remove the desk top phone and her cell phone.
I can’t have you sending some pre-arranged signal and risking lives.
She slumped in her chair.
The wait for the confirmation phone call was almost unbearable. The Clash launched into ‘Bank Robber’ all over again. Used to be a song I liked.
My cell phone rang, disrupting the outer silence and piercing the inner concert with a violent clattering.
Conway.
Sandra here. We have just arrested Howard White and two high school students.
Thank you.
I hung up, stood up, and took my handcuffs from my belt.
Madeline White, you are under arrest for your part in planning eight bank robberies and the corruption of minors.
She stood.
I searched her for weapons and handcuffed her before leading her from the room and building.
The drive to the office was delightful in its silence. No inner concerts. No talking.
It took two hours to get Madeline’s written statement, and another hour to write up my notes and hand over the case to the legal department for prosecution.
Carla called me.
Mom, are you done?
Yep. Just coming. Do you want to go see the house tonight?
She squealed. Yes!
Before I left I remembered I hadn’t tweeted all day. It’s not an addiction. It’s a tool. I took my phone and sent a tweet.
EllieConwaySA: Wrapping up a long day. Text from Super Girl says I have mail. #wheresmymail
Within seconds I had a reply from another Twitter friend.
JoanneJ: @EllieConwaySA Amazing. Do you think that could be the missing package? #wheresmymail
I replied: @joanneJ I doubt it. But that sure would be nice! Going home now #wheresmymail
JoanneJ said: @EllieConwaySA Have a good night. Hope it is the missing package. #wheresmymail
I scrolled through any @mentions looking for any that needed a response. There were a few from Foundation kids. I replied to those. Then sent a general tweet saying reports of my death were greatly embellished then called it a night, before I found myself replying to tweets all night and never made it home.
Four
Return To Sender
Elvis gyrated across the stage that was once my mind. I enjoyed his song choice for about five minutes. When ‘Return to Sender’ started again, I began to feel uneasy. Carla hadn’t mentioned the parcel when she called back. During the drive from the city I had almost forgotten about it. My memory was jogged by an Elvis interlude and that didn’t feel like a happy coincidence. As much as I enjoyed Elvis, his appearances inside my skull were often omens. Not good ones either.
I pulled into the 7-Eleven knowing we’d need milk, bananas, peanut butter, and bread. It was an attempt at an everyday task to bring my focus back to now and it didn’t hurt that Elvis helped me remember what we were short of at home.
A sharp crack from behind sent glass raining down on me. Little shiny pieces of the back windshield fell into my hair and dropped into my lap. It took a moment to register what had happened. There was no jolt, no other car hit me. Traffic noise from the nearby streets made it hard to hear what was going on around me. I took a breath and filtered out all distractions. Another more familiar noise followed, and more glass. There were two holes in the front windshield. Cracks radiated outward, causing the windshield to resemble crazy paving. I shrank down in the seat and released my Glock from its holster. Peering between the front seats, I saw remnants of the back windshield hanging in the frame. I grabbed the radio and opened a channel.
Break-Break. This is SSA Conway. Shots fired. Officer needs backup. 7-Eleven 9511 Blake Lane. Over.
Go for Conway. This is Officer Konstram, I’m two minutes away. Over.
As I depressed the button to reply, another shot rang out. The passenger side-window blew all over the car interior.
I dropped the radio and opened my door. Josh Konstram’s voice followed me as I slipped out the car, Agent under fire. All cars. Agent under fire.
I could hear the radio going nuts. I wasn’t going back in to answer it. I was much safer outside using the car body as a shield. I yelled into the store. Get down, there’s a gunman!
People who had been standing there, bewildered, dove for cover.
My phone rang. I scanned for the shooter. Another car near me was hit with several rounds. A bullet lodged in the front of the building; moments later one of the plate-glass windows shattered and fell inward. I had no target and it was frustrating not being able to shoot back.
My phone was still ringing.
I saw police lights.
It seemed that my phone wasn’t going to stop. I ducked lower, crouching as close to the ground as I could, by the hood of my car and hit the speaker button.
Conway?
Kurt said.
Doc, where are you?
Coming around the back of the building by the dumpster.
I think the shooter is in the parking lot across the road, maybe in a car.
I said and disconnected.
Sirens screamed, bouncing off the building and deafening me. Lights flashed, police cars converged on the area. I wanted to move. I heard a whistle from behind me. When I glanced back I saw Doc peering around the corner of the building.
Another shower of glass rained down upon me. A bullet went flying through what was left of my front windshield and into another of the store windows behind me. Time to move. People inside were strewn with glass fragments. I scrambled up and ran to Doc. He grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him. I leaned on the wall and holstered my gun.
You hurt?
he said.
I shook my head, sending fragments of safety glass scattering from my hair. Not hurt but having a bit of trouble dealing with the excessive adrenaline. Jacked. Jazzed. Bit shaky. Blood rushed through my body at an alarming rate. I wasn’t sure if being so close to Kurt was helping or not.
As we listened we heard gunfire, return volleys, and finally a police officer called out, We got him.