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 Dee STP 21 by Peregrinf

   Cue the Mission Impossible theme --
bumpbump-badah-bumpbump-baddah-bumpbump-badah bumpbump-deedleooo,
deedleooo, deedleooo....

   I saw the movie.  Charlie's Angels might have been more appropriate but
there's only one of me.

   My mission, which I had invented my own self, was to infiltrate a house
where six underage siblings were being held against their will, rescuing
them from a future of pornographic video performances, prostitution, drug
addiction, and winding up working the mean streets of God only knows what
city, for whatever short lifetime they had.

   This tape will self-destruct in fifteen seconds.

   Sure, the police had their rescue plan.  Brute force.  Mine involved
subtlety, and I could only hope when it ended it wouldn't take my skinny
ass with it, along with asses of the kids I was trying to rescue.  I had to
pull it off before the balloon went up and the doors came down.

   Or maybe that should be the doors came down and the balloon went up?

   Whatever.

   My mouth was dry and my gloved palms sweaty.  Hanging on by ten toes and
five finger tips I carefully used my one free hand to open the second floor
window, thanking whatever deities were keeping me safe if not sane, that
the home's current owners had not thought to nail it shut.  They probably
didn't think anyone could reach it from the outside, and that it was too
far off the ground to risk jumping from.

   Obviously they didn't know me.  I've done both, though the jump was more
of a fall.

   My ears were cocked for the slightest sound as, pushing through heavy
drapes, I slithered through the opening with nary a whisper.  I might have
been mistaken for a ninja if I weren't six feet tall with a swimmer's
shoulders -- think feminine lumberjack.  I had a black balaclava pulled
down over my trademark mop of blonde hair hiding everything but my eyes. 
From the neck down it was a black turtleneck, black tights, black knit
gloves, even black soft-soled slippers.

   Thanks to thrift shops I looked like something out of a low-budget
action flick.

   I was a shadow.

   I was a ghost.

   I was scared shitless.

   In exactly fifteen minutes a battalion of police and federal agents,
looking like robo-cops, all swaddled in nice safe bulletproof vests and
helmets, were going to execute a no-knock warrant and take down this
snake-pit, hopefully without killing anyone.  According to Maria, the Good
Guys would only be armed with tasers and their grenades were only loaded
with obnoxious gases or lots of flash and bang but no sharp fragments to
get bloodstains on my nice outfit.

   Yeah, and I still believe in the tooth fairy!  Maria I trust, but not a
SWAT team made up of local, state and federal forces.  Still trying to
recruit me for the constabulary, Maria had talked them into letting me sit
in on the planning sessions.  There had been enough testosterone floating
around that briefing room to grow hair on my chest.  Someone was sure to
bring something extra to the party.

   Us girls got testosterone too, you know.  Maybe that's drove me to do
this.

   I had two plans.

   Plan A was that I'd get all of the kids out of the house the same way I
got in, before all hell broke loose.

   Plan B was that if we couldn't get out I'd barricade my room's door from
the inside, and stuff myself and whoever I had with me in my closet, where
we'd hunker down until things quieted down.

   I even pre-programmed text messages to Maria to alert her once we were
either clear or under cover and where we were.

   And just how, you ask, had I once again gotten myself into such a mess?
Why was it me and not some suitably experienced and armored cop crawling
through the window?

   Because only I knew a way to sneak in without a key and had the
Spider-Man skills to do it stealthily enough to get away with it.

   Besides, according to Maria, "stealth" is not found in the SWAT field
manual.  "Massive use of force" is the operative phrase.

   Secondly, I knew the house like I knew the inside of my own eyelids.  Oh
sure, Mom and I described the layout to the cops, but I knew every creaky
board and squeaky hinge, because this had been my home for most of my life!
The thought of these monsters using it for their sick shit had me feeling
like I was being raped along with these poor kids.

   Come to think of it, if I screwed up I might be.

   Best not to think of it.

   Given the kind of people we were dealing with, the only comforting
thought was that if this whole thing went sour I might only wind up as
someone's sex slave rather than in a pine box.

   A fate worse than death?  Debatable.  After all, where there's life
there's hope.

   Anyway, the trail of breadcrumbs that had led me to this point picked up
where we'd left Missy Wilson's mom still holding forth on the wonders of
self-proclaimed prophet Pastor Paul and his noble, self-sacrificing,
forward-looking congregation.

   Yeah, right.  The question in my mind, as to whether he was just as
deluded as his flock, crooked as a corkscrew, or the mastermind behind this
obscene conspiracy had yet to be determined.

   At Mom's office, while she had been busy tracking some highly
questionable real estate transactions, I'd innocently amused myself at
another terminal by tracking down the story of our old home since we'd
moved.  I found some curious stuff -- it's amazing how much you can learn
from just a street address and seeing where the Internet takes you.

   At the time I didn't know how important what I'd learned would turn out
to be.

   What Mom found that sent her off on a tear I don't know.  At the police
station she had gone in search of someone she could talk with about it. 
Elaine hadn't been available to bring take-out -- some mothers-to-be can be
so inconsiderate as to when they go into labor!  -- and I was starving.  I
ran into Maria and my old friend from pre-Worm days Mrs.  Swain, from Child
Protective Services, in the break room.  Maria treated me to some yogurt
out of the fridge-- be still my beating heart and panging stomach!  -- and
the three of us chatted while they drank muddy coffee.

   I learned that the raids had gone well, for the most part, breaking the
back of the pedophile ring.  But during the process some children had been
misplaced.  A whole family of 'em, in fact.

   Mrs.  Swain was beating herself up about that, of course.

   Mom came back from her meeting looking frustrated.  "They wouldn't
listen to me!  Told me to take it up with the Board of Realtors.  They're
too busy chasing pedophiles right now."

   She sighed, then noticed Mrs.  Swain.  "Hi!  I'm sorry, I know we've met
before but I forget....  I'm Kathy Walker, Dee's mom."

   "I know.  I'm Georgia Swain, CPS."

   "Child Protective Services," I filled in.

   "Of course!  You were there at the war council that brought down
that...." Even Mom had trouble saying the Worm's name.  "What brings you
here?"

   "Kids, of course.  When the cops bust the pedos, we save the kids -- or
try to." She went on to explain about the missing ones.  "We should've been
suspicious when we placed 'em in that foster home two months ago.  We
should have taken a good hard look at anyone willing to take all six kids.
Sure, we like to keep siblings together, but finding someone that will
accept a brood that big is a dream and the group homes are already
overcrowded.  We should have known it was just too good to be true.  Now
they've all vanished."

   "When?" Mom asked.  "How?"

   "Just before the foster parents -- so-called -- were to be busted for
promoting sexual performances by children, as it is so delicately put. 
Kiddie porn!" Mrs.  Swain's dark face puckered with fury.  "The youngest is
six, the oldest, a girl, is twelve and just blossoming, as the creeps would
put it.  That's Mary.

   "She tries to be mother to the others.  She's strong, but so young yet.
Jacob is a year younger, tries to be the man of the house -- such as it is.
The ten-year-olds are fraternal twins, a boy and a girl.  After them is
Mark, who is eight, and the baby Elizabeth, six.  They were so happy to be
reunited after two years split up and bouncing around through the system!"
She was almost in tears.

   I felt sick.  "How'd they get away during the raid?"

   "They didn't get away," Swain answered angrily.  "Someone took 'em away.
The so-called foster parents must have been tipped off.  They took 'em out
the back just before we got the house surrounded.  We already had the
streets blocked off, so they must've been taken through the backyards."

   "We caught the foster parents two blocks away," Maria explained, "but by
then the kids had already been handed off to someone else.  I swear, this
case is like a game of Whack-a-Mole!  Too many perps hiding in too many
places, not enough of us.  God!  They must have seen a gold mine in those
poor kids.  How'd they wind up in a trap like this?"

   Mrs.  Swain sighed.  "They were born behind the eight-ball.  Their mom
was a victim of abuse herself, had her first child when she was all of
thirteen, the last when she was nineteen, when she finally got off on her
own, still a kid herself, not even a high school diploma.  Trying to do the
right thing she wound up like so many do, working the streets to support
her family.  She got a drug habit, of course.  When she went into rehab we
took the children into the system.  The youngest was barely two.  Tried to
keep 'em together, but it was impossible, until this opportunity dropped in
our lap.  Some opportunity!

   "But now things have gone from bad to worse.  Turns out we're not
dealing with your garden-variety pedophiles.  These guys traffic in human
souls.  They deliberately set up their honey pot of a 'foster home'" -- she
hooked her fingers into quotes -- "to pluck these kids out of the system --
a bunch of ripe, plump grapes fresh off the vine.  Now they're probably
squirreled away in some address that's not on our lists until they can be
shipped out to God only knows where."

   "What about in an apartment?  A cheap motel?" Mom asked.

   Swain shook her head.  "Not a rental.  They wouldn't want a landlord
snooping about.  Not a motel either, even a no-tell motel would be too
risky.  Probably a house, not abandoned -- they'd want power and water --
but a recent sale.  It's been done before.  They pick it up cheap, when the
market's low, and just hold it, maybe rent it out until they need it
themselves.  Then they'll use it for short-term storage, dump it back on
the market before we know it, even burn it down for the insurance. 
Probably even make a profit on it in the process."

   "How recent a sale?" Mom asked.  "Maybe I can track it down for you. 
The market's been on the slow side.  I was lucky to find a buyer for our
place as quick as I did -- the perk of being in the real estate business, I
guess.  Got a better price than I expected, even."

   I remembered how happy Mom had been when she'd gotten that offer, and
that reminded me of my snooping.  "That's funny.  While you were busy doing
your thing at the office I was looking up the records on our old place. 
About a month ago it sold again, for less than we got."

   That jolted Mom.  "How much less?"

   "Something like low five digits to the left of the decimal."

   "That's a lot less!  A month ago?  The people who bought from us had
hardly moved in.  Why would they sell?  That doesn't make sense.  And why
would they take less than they paid?" Mom looked at me but all I could do
was shrug.

   Mrs.  Swain's nose wrinkled.  "I smell a setup, just like that foster
home was."

   Maria nodded.  "Swapping ownership to hide their trail.  Either that or
-- to use an old movie line -- someone made them an offer they couldn't
refuse.  Cash money under the table, or extortion."

   We all looked at each other, the same suspicion rattling around in our
heads.

   Oh shit.  Our guts were telling us where the lost could be found.

   "You don't suppose...." Mom began.

   "It would be a heck of a coincidence," I pointed out.

   Swain studied the dregs in the bottom of her cup.  "We're out of leads.
Maybe...."

   "It's a long shot, but there's nothing to lose following up on this
one," Maria concluded.

   Mom began shredding a napkin.  "How can we check it out?  The previous
owners?"

   "If they haven't skipped town," Maria countered.  "Or even really
existed.  Did they have a mortgage?"

   Mom shook her head, looking sick.  "Paid cash -- or, rather, a certified
check, drawn on a local bank, no less."

   "So there's a lot of money floating around.  Money can buy identities,
too," Maria pointed out.  "We'll look, but it's better just to stake out
the house.  Six kids ain't easy to hide, feed, or move.  See who's going in
and out.  Pull in some people to interview -- postmen, newspaper boys.  Not
neighbors, that might be noticed.  Maybe see if we can slip in a cop
masquerading as someone looking for a gas leak or somethin', even just to
knock on the door to get a peek."

   She gathered up the used cups, grabbed the shreds of Mom's napkin and
tossed them all in a gaping trash barrel.  "Come on.  We gotta talk to
Mike. Chiquita?  You got any paperwork or anything to confirm this -- what
do they call it -- flipping the house?"

   "I can do it," Mom volunteered.

   "Wanna race?  Don't forget, I just did it," I pointed out.

   She surrendered without a fight.

   It hadn't even taken that long, and half an hour after presenting what
we had to Maria's boss, Detective Sergeant Michael Kelly, he had a stakeout
arranged.  They needed more than just our suspicions before they could get
a warrant to barge in.

   So, less than a week later, thanks to evidence gathered by, among other
things, a pizza delivery girl -- Maria got a nice tip that night, though
maybe it was for her awesome cleavage and bright smile rather than good
service -- they had what they thought they needed.

   I wasn't included in their calculations, of course, but thanks to Maria
I knew as much as they did -- I'm her favorite pupil after all -- and I
could see how it could all turn into a really ugly hostage situation.  Even
they acknowledged that as a possibility, and had a negotiating team
standing by.

   Whoopee.

   Maria was suspicious of me, but I assured her our partnership was solid.


   I wasn't sure it would be after this, though.

   I tiptoed over to check the door, guided by a faint light from the hall.
Obviously it wasn't locked from the other side.  Maria's assessment was
that with six hostages, the bad guys would go with chains and locks to
secure them at night rather than go to the trouble of outside locks on the
doors.  I heaved a mental sigh of relief that she was right.  I eased the
door closed to block any noise from in here.

   "Who's there?"

   I froze, prickling with sweat.  It was as much a whisper as a whimper,
and sounded like a girl.  I guess my sigh hadn't been just mental or I
hadn't been as silent with the door as I thought.  On the other hand, in
her situation I'd be alert to the slightest sound, especially from the
door. Abandoning my cloak of invisibility I stripped off the balaclava so I
wouldn't look like a pair of spooky eyes floating through space as I moved
through the gloom in the direction of her voice.

   "Sshhhhh.  My name is Dee Walker.  This used to be my house.  I'm here
to get you out of here."

   To my surprise she seemed to accept that.  Maybe after all she'd been
through she'd learned to roll with the punches, or accept any chance that
was better than what she had.

   "Not without the others," she insisted stoutly.

   "Of course not.  All of you.  Come on."

   There was a rattle.  "I'm chained to the bed."

   "Where?  Are you Mary?"

   "Yeah.  It's my ankle."

   A stroke of luck, it was the oldest girl.  I dug the bolt cutters I'd
borrowed from the shop class out of the crack of my ass, where they'd
decided to hide during my climb.  God only knows what would have happened
to me if I'd fallen on them.

   "Sorry," I apologized as I fumbled around in the dark.  She was
blossoming.  She was also naked and there was someone else jammed in with
her.

   Yum!  was The Stick's reaction.

   Not now!  I scolded.  Naked for us is our comfort zone, but for these
kids it's vulnerable.

   "I can deal with it," I told Mary confidently, hoping it wasn't too big.


   Tick, tick, tick.  The Stick was reminding me time was running out.

   Who says having a split personality is a handicap?  Sometimes she kept
me company when I was swimming, clocking my laps.  This time she was
counting down how long we had before we either had to be out of here or in
hiding.

   PING!  The sound of the chain around Mary's ankle parting was deafening
in the stillness.

   "How many of them are there?" I didn't bother to define who I meant.

   "Four," Mary whispered, confirming the cop's reconnaissance.  She seemed
incredibly calm and sane for someone who'd been through what she had in her
short life, though come to think of it she was only a couple of years
younger than I was.

   On the other hand, maybe it had toughened her up.  I touched whoever was
with her.  "Who's this?  And where are the rest of you?"

   Meanwhile I'm thinking four adults and six kids in a three-bedroom
house? And I thought it had been cozy with me and Carl and Mom -- and
Elaine when she stayed over!  Where the hell did they put them all?

   "That's Jacob.  He's out of it.  They gave him something.  One of them
wanted a go at me and Jacob tried to stop the fucker.  They were pretty
hard on him but he's a fighter.  They finally gave him a shot of something,
but chained him up anyway.  I think he's okay.  He snores once in a while.
The others are in the next room.  We gotta be quiet.  They leave the doors
open so they can hear us."

   "I closed yours for now.  How are you?" I figured they'd taken it out on
her, too, after Jacob went down.

   "I'll live." There was a flatness to her voice that made me cringe.

   I knew Jacob was the eleven-year-old, and if he was out cold there was
no way I could carry him out through the window and down.  Six kids -- no
seven, counting me -- that closet was going to be pretty cozy.

   Eight minutes.

   "Can you get him in the closet while I get the others?  In about ten
minutes SWAT teams are going to be coming in through both the front and
back doors.  We need to be barricaded in there before they do or we could
wind up in the middle of a shooting war or as hostages."

   "You'll need me with you," Mary said.  "They don't know you.  They'll
trust me.  Besides, Jake's not going anywhere."

   She was smart and gutsy.  I liked this girl.  "Okay, but just to be
safe, let's get him in the closet first."

   He was as naked as Mary and as limp as a sock puppet -- and I'm not
talking just his noodle -- only a lot heavier, but easy enough for the two
of us to handle once I'd cut his chain.  The empty closet was neater than
it ever was when it was mine.  She filled me in on who was where and other
stuff while we made him as comfortable as possible.

   She wasn't sure, but hadn't seen any heavy weapons.  Our assumption was
they at least had handguns.

   The twins, Esther and Elijah, along with Mark and Elizabeth, the two
youngest, were in what had been Carl's bedroom at the top of the stairs.

   According to her, because it was bigger and more comfortable two of the
gang, the baby sitters were in Mom's room at the far end of the hall with
the door cracked open so they'd hear any of the kids.  If they'd had any
sense they'd have taken Carl's room to guard the stairs.

   The other two fuckers were racked out in the living room.  Apparently
they felt pretty safe, not mounting a night watch.  Even so, making a break
for it down the stairs was not an option for us.  By now the teams were
getting in position.  If we stuck our noses out the front door at the very
least we'd likely get tasered.

   "You'll need your cutters," she reminded me.

   I took a moment to cut off the chains still attached to the bed.  They
were about five feet long.  I guess that was so she and her brother could
use a pot 'stead of waking someone up to be escorted to the john.  To keep
them from jingling and my hands free I tied them around my waist like a
belt.

   "What's that for?" she whispered as I reached for the doorknob.

   "Never can tell.  They might come in handy."

   At least there was a nightlight in the hall to make our way easier.  For
some mad reason as we sneaked down to Carl's room I remembered the time I'd
watched my brother carry his girlfriend Beth down this same hallway, her
hanging on him like a monkey on a tree, his branch up her pussy.  Once
inside his room he'd pounded her like there was no tomorrow, with her
enthusiastically responding.  I'd sunk down inside the door, my hand buried
in my crotch, bringing myself off as they'd soared to an astronomical
orgasm.

   Mom's only reaction to the whole scene?  As I recall she'd told Carl to
keep it in his room.  She hadn't said anything about me not watching.  We'd
carried Program Outreach to an extreme in our house even then.  It was a
lot better way for me to lose my innocence than these kids had.

   We found all four of her siblings as naked as she was, not even a sheet
over them, snuggled together on the bed's bare mattress.  Mark and
Elizabeth were spooned together in the middle with Esther and Elijah on the
outside.  They were so beautiful!

   Except for the bruises, and the tear tracks on their soft cheeks.  I had
the urge to slip down to the kitchen and arm myself with a carving knife to
castrate the people who done this to them.

   The Stick reminded me I had a job to do.

   Five minutes!

   Waking the kids up and untangling them and their chains took more time
than I liked, but even so something made me save those lengths of chain
too.

   Three minutes!

   We were about to head back to my room when one of the apes downstairs
decided he needed a potty break.  At least we heard him coming and were
quick enough to duck back into Carl's room and shut the door.  Apparently
he'd imbibed and wasn't at his sharpest.  He didn't notice our door was
closed, while the door to the room where Mary and Jake had been kept was
wide open.

   Fortunately he was modest enough to close the bathroom door before
relieving himself.

   Mary told the littlest ones it was a game of hide'n'seek to keep 'em
from panicking, while the older ones followed her lead without an argument
as she hustled her siblings to my room.  Trusting her to get them in the
closet I looked for a way to fuck with our captors.

   Two minutes!

   I had four lengths of chain in my hand, two still around my waist, and I
hardly thought before I fastened the end of one around the bathroom
doorknob just as Mr.  Potty Break flushed the toilet so he didn't hear me,
thank God.  While he washed his hands -- yeah, his mama taught him well, I
was easing Mom's door across the hall almost shut, careful not to let the
latch snap, though the way they were snoring I don't think they would have
heard it.  I tied the end of another chain to that knob and joined the two
chains together in the middle of the hallway with a quick square knot.

   Both doors opened into the rooms, not out into the hallway.  Think about
it.  I once trapped Carl in the bathroom using a length of rope.

   As I backed away Potty Break finished his business, belched, farted, and
tried to leave the throne room.  The door opened only an inch or so before
the chain snapped tight, slamming the door to Mom's room shut with a bang.
That should have been enough to wake up even those guys, but just in case
it wasn't Potty Break kept trying to get his door open by jerking at his
doorknob, which only banged his door and yanked the chain, rattling Mom's
door even more.

   It took a few moments for the two in there to react.  When they did one
of them must have given their door a hell of a jerk, which yanked the chain
from their end, slamming the bathroom door shut.  Judging by the screaming
and cursing Potty Break's fingers had been in the crack.  He reacted by
yanking at his door to get his fingers out, resulting in the fingers of
someone in Mom's room suffering the same fate his had, judging by the
racket.

   In both cases I hoped it was their gun hands.

   The result was a very satisfying tug-of-war between the guy in the
bathroom and the guys in Mom's room, the doors banging and slamming, the
chain jerking and dancing between them while they all tried to escape at
once.  If they'd had any sense one would have stopped pulling so the other
could crack the door enough to release the chain.  Instead they all kept
pulling and cursing.

   Predictably, the racket brought the fourth guy stomping up from
downstairs, swearing a blue streak.  By then I really should have been in
the closet, but instead I'd ducked back into Carl's room just before he
turned on the hall light.  I couldn't possibly pass up this opportunity for
some payback on the kids' behalf.  Adding the chains from around my waist
gave me four altogether.

   I counted thirteen steps, the number of stairs.  It was not his lucky
number.  He hit the top of the stairs and I popped out and, holding the
chains at about the middle, swung them like a lash.

   Gosh!  My mistake!  I'd neglected to remove the padlocks from the free
ends.  There were eight of 'em and they packed quite a wallop.  His face
took the brunt of it, the impact knocking him off balance, leaving him
grabbing at the banister.  Blood streaming he teetered at the top of the
steps.  To finish the job I followed up with a karate kick to his solar
plexus, doing my best to put my foot all the way through to his first
lumbar vertebra, just the way Maria had taught me in her self-defense
lessons.

   "Never, never, never pull your punches," she'd told me as she'd picked
me up off the mat the first time we'd sparred.  The next time it was my
turn to help her up.  I learn fast.  She was grinning.

   After that I'd even studied the anatomy of that target -- just curious,
you understand.  There's a bunch of stuff there, like a network of nerves
-- that's what "plexus" means.  A blow there makes the diaphragm go into a
spasm -- as in it knocks the wind out of your opponent, leaving him
fighting for breath.  At the same time it hurts like hell and can make the
gut knot up.  There's also some important arteries and shit like that, so
no way would my foot make it all the way to his backbone, but I sure tried.
The impact actually lifted him backwards off the top step.  Folding up with
the squeal of a broken lawn chair he went ass over tea kettle back down the
stairs.

   I didn't stick around to see if he'd broken his neck.  At some point the
upstairs gorillas might somehow get loose, maybe at about the same time the
cops broke in and I so did not want to be in the middle of that.  Slamming
my bedroom door, I helped Mary shove the bed against it.  Then we piled
into my bedroom closet, five squirming, naked, excited kids plus one out
cold on the floor, and me.  I managed to pull the door shut, packing us in
even tighter.  It was a bit of a squeeze, and we were all trying not to
step on poor Jacob.

   Much as I enjoy physical contact with naked people, I was still clothed,
which took some of the thrill out of it.  Besides, this was not the time,
the place, or the right people.  There was still the problem of keeping
anyone outside from opening the closet.  Just holding the it wouldn't be
enough.  Fortunately I still had the chains, so I used one of them to link
the doorknob to the clothes rod, then punched my cell to send Maria the
text that we were safe and in the closet, confident she'd have her cell on.
It was at that point the front and back outside doors of the house went
down with crashes that shook us all up.

   Well, it was a no-knock warrant, after all, but I felt bad for my poor
old house.

   Then there was a lot of banging and shouting and stamping about while
the cops stormed in looking for the rest of the perps after tripping over
the one crumpled at the bottom of the steps.  Shouts of "clear!" were
ringing out from various rooms and there were heavy steps coming up the
stairs, followed by more "clears!" and a lot of confusion.  The chain
dancing across the hallway should have told them something.  It took a lot
of shouting by all concerned to get the idiots to cease and desist their
battle of the doors, and after a lot of rattling and cursing we heard them
being ordered down on their faces and more shouts of "clear!" followed by a
lot of other stuff and "where are the kids?"

   "This way!"

   That had to be Maria, so she'd gotten my message.  I wondered if she
might just shoot me on sight on the principle of the thing.

   There was the sound of the bedroom door being shoved open, the bed
protesting, more clumping around and then someone did try to get in, the
chain tightening with a snap against the side of my neck as the door opened
a crack.

   "Chiquita?  What the fuck are you doing here?  I am so going to kick
your sorry ass into next week!  You hear me?"

   I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did a bit of both.

   "Nice to see you, too, Maria." The kids were all giggling. 
Understandably, we were all a little hysterical.

   "What?!  Lemme in you insane bitch!"

   I began untying the chain.  "Be careful, I've got witnesses who'll stand
by me.  I'll claim police brutality."

   "There's not a jury in the world would convict me!" Maria gave the door
a mighty yank just as I released the chain from the rod.

   What followed was a burst of Latino profanity as she staggered back and
we all tumbled out of the closet -- well, all of us but Jacob, who was
still on the floor, snoring softly -- landing in a mostly naked heap with
me on the bottom.  Wouldn't you know it, for a change I was dressed.

   Maria tried to look angry while the pile untangled, but when I finally
managed to get up she just stood there for a moment, hands on her hips. 
"You shit!  You mighta left us something to do!  Why didn'cha tell me you
had 'em all in custody?  An' what'd you do to the one at the bottom of the
stairs?"

   I'd been so focused on saving the kids it was only then that I realized
I'd single-handedly neutralized all four of the bad guys before the cops
had knocked down the doors.

   I could have just walked down and let them in.

   Why didn't you tell me?  I asked The Stick.

   What?  and spoil all their fun?

   It would have saved the doors!

   Oops.  Sorry.

   Then Maria had me all wrapped up in a mighty hug.  If she weren't so
much shorter I think she would have actually lifted me off the floor.  We
were bumped and jostled around while the kids were seen to by paramedics.
With all that, plus a bunch of SWAT team people the room was a little
congested.  Mrs.  Swain's arrival only added to the crowding.

   "Does your mama know you're here?" Maria asked when she let me loose.

   "Do you think I'd be here if she did?  She was asleep, but I left her a
note!" I was resigned to being grounded for the rest of my life, and I
couldn't blame her one bit.

   But then I saw the kids and knew that it was worth it.  Wrapped in
blankets they were gawking at the crowd around us.  One big tough mountain
of a man in full armor was down on one knee, balancing little Elizabeth on
the other while she poked at his face shield.  Mary shook herself loose
from an EMT and came over to me, and gave me the most wonderful, tearful
hug in the world.

   Maria was on her phone, reassuring Mom that I was safe before Mom even
had found out I was in jeopardy.

   When the leader of the whole operation got around to me I told him that
if a whisper of what I'd done got out -- if my name appeared in public
anywhere -- I'd claim he'd asked me to do it -- ordered it, even.

   The thought of being accused of putting a fourteen-year-old in that kind
of jeopardy was enough to make him blanch.  I didn't know how his report
would read, but I was reasonably certain my name wouldn't be in it.  I had
a quick word with Mary and she assured me the other kids would keep my
secret.

   The next day I began serving the first day of my indeterminate sentence
-- when hell freezes over is the way Mom phrased it -- under house arrest.

   Just when I thought it was all over I got another "kill the program"
message....

   ...on my cell phone.
   Shit!