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From: "Samantha" <samanthak@fastmail.fm>
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Subject: {ASSM} Sam - Part 21  (FF, MF, tort, exhib, size, viol)
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Date: Mon, 25 Sep 2006 09:10:03 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Sam - Part21.doc" begin>

Sam - Part 21

by Samantha K
(FF, MF, tort, exhib, size, viol)
[comments welcome: SamanthaK(at)fastmail.fm]

Monday got off to a bang when I gave Bud his morning wake-up and
he gave me a serious pounding.  It had been a couple of days
since I had ridden a big cock or worn my pacifier and my pussy
had shrunk all the way back to near-virgin status.  When Bud
tried to push into me too quickly, it made tears come to my eyes.
 He stopped right away when he heard me cry out in pain.

"You OK?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, biting my lip and sniffing back a tear.  "Don't
stop!  Please don't stop!  Just go a little slower.  I'm sorry. 
I've gotten tight again."

"You sure have!  I can feel it," he said.  "It feels great.  Like
the first time all over again."

"For me too.  But please be gentle; as if I was Jolene.  OK?"

After that, it was all he could do to get his cock into me
without losing his load in the process.  Thinking about fucking
Jolene made him so excited that he could hardly stand it.  All
the time he was trying to ease it into me, I could feel his cock
throb and jerk as if it were about to explode any second.

His arousal was contagious.  Feeling him stop and hold very still
while the compulsion to cum faded set me on fire.  It was as if
his excitement was pouring into me, filling me with his heat over
and over until I was the one who was dying to climax.

It seemed to take forever for him to work his big cock all the
way inside.  I felt every glorious inch of it sliding up inside
my pussy and force its way into my womb.  It was incredible! 
When his pubic hair at last brushed against my clit, I could
hardly stand the intense sensation.

When he was fully inside, he trembled like he couldn't take it
anymore.  He clenched his jaw and ground his groin into my clit.

I lay back and quivered with anticipation as his big cock flexed
and then spat a powerful stream of hot cum into me.  The scalding
jet triggered my climax and I clutched him to me as he filled me
up.  The heat rushed through me, radiating outward from my womb.
I felt like my body was an expanding balloon and my consciousness
was sitting on the very top as it soared upward.  The feeling was
so real that my eyes flew wide open and I stared up at the
ceiling as if I were about to crash through it into the sky.

Just as I thought for sure that I was about to smash into the
plaster and lathe, I felt the balloon pop and my mind become
weightless.  The heat of my orgasm rose to a blistering level,
sending me screaming into the void of pleasure.  It seemed that I
floated there for a long time, but when my head fell back onto
the pillow I knew it had only been a few seconds at most.

I lay on Bud's bed with his sweaty body half covering mine and
exulted in the feeling of riding a really great orgasm as it
slowly diffused through my nerves and my blood and my bones,
leaving me exhausted and rejuvenated, spent and recharged, wasted
and fulfilled, all at the same time.

"Now that," I moaned emphatically, "is the right way to start the
day!"

Bud managed a weak chuckle.

"Couldn't have said it better myself.  But you may have to carry
me to the shower.  I think I put everything into that one."

I was feeling so good I couldn't pass that up.  I rolled us over
and pried my pussy off his bloated cock; then I picked him up off
the bed and carried him like an oversized infant into the
bathroom between his room and Jim's.  I set him down on his feet
in the shower stall, smiled up at him tenderly and cranked on the
cold water.

I had to speak up so he could hear me over his screams.

"Don't be late for school, darling!" I told him as he frantically
tried to turn the valve around to get some hot water going.

On my way downstairs to do my chores, I told myself that I was
just being playful, that I hadn't mistreated Bud for cumming so
hard while thinking about Jolene while he was screwing me.  There
isn't a jealous bone in my body.



School was average.  For a Monday, I mean.  Or maybe it was just
an average Monday.  Nothing at all happened that was terribly
interesting.  Steve was officially in training for the match on
Saturday and had to save his strength.  Jim and Neeka got
together by themselves between classes and so did Bud and Jolene.
 I saw Polly at Gym, but we got split up on different volleyball
teams and the best we could do was to share a washcloth after
class.

I was just coming out of my last class for the day when Angie
came up beside me.

"Guess what!" she said, excitedly.

I had a sudden feeling I knew 'what', but I was wrong.  It wasn't
about George.

"I had a date on Saturday!" she said, bouncing and holding my
arm.

"Great, Angie!  Who with?" I asked, bouncing along, even though I
wasn't sure why.

"Myron Benedict!"

I knew who Myron Benedict was, but I didn't actually know Myron,
if you know what I mean.  He wasn't the kind of person a
cheerleader would normally hang with, and even as an
ex-cheerleader I hadn't so much as seen him in the hall between
classes.

Myron was kind of a nerd's nerd.  As best I remembered, he wasn't
bad looking.  In fact, aside from being as thin as a rail, he was
sort of handsome.  But he was in the Science Club, the Chess
Team, and he worked in the school library in the afternoon when
everyone who wasn't playing a sport was watching those who did. 
If he had anything like a social life, I wasn't aware of it.

"Myron Benedict?" I echoed, cluelessly.

"Yes!" Angie bubbled.  "And guess what?  He has a car!"

Suddenly I thought I knew where this was going.

"You didn't!

"I did!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Tell me everything!"  Maybe then we could both stop bouncing.

She dragged me around the corner of the cafeteria's delivery
entrance and fortunately upwind of the dumpster.

"I ran into him in the hall on Friday.  I mean, literally.  He
had his nose in a book and wasn't looking where he was going.  I
tried to dodge, but he dodged the same time I did and we smacked
into each other.  His books flew everywhere and we got tangled
and we both ended up on the floor.

"Neither of us was hurt or anything, but it was awfully
embarrassing.  He just sat there, blinking at me.  I thought he
might have lost a contact, you know?  So I got up in his face to
see, but I couldn't tell.  Then I wondered if he wore contacts at
all and if he didn't then he must be wondering what I was doing
staring into his eyes like that.

"Well, I got flustered and I didn't know what to say, so I said
the first thing that came to mind."

Angie seemed to wind down some.  She smiled crookedly and said,
"I said what you told us to.  I said 'Hi', then I asked him if he
liked oral sex."

"And what did he say?"

"Nothing.  He just looked at me like I was talking jibberish. 
Then he smiled.  It was great!  Right then I knew we had
connected, you know?  It was like we had moved past all the
awkwardness and stuff and we could relax and be comfortable with
each other."

"Intimacy breeds intimacy," I observed.

People are programmed for relationships.  You act a certain way
around your family, another way around your friends, and another
way around strangers.  We think there are rules for these
relationships and we unconsciously try to follow them.  This is
why you get so nervous about your parents meeting your boyfriend
or going on a blind date with someone you've never met   it
messes up your practiced patterns of behavior, like putting a
chameleon on plaid.  

I had proven to myself that it was possible to make people jump
from one relationship framework another by changing the rules on
them.  Take a stranger and act like they were your friend and
they would follow that set of rules along with you.  Never mind
that they may never have laid eyes on you before, they will fall
right into certain patterns of behavior that they associate with
that relationship.  

This means the best way to make new friends is to treat them like
your old ones, and the best way to make a guy into your boyfriend
is to treat him like you have already been intimate or that it's
just about to happen.  It puts them into a state where they will
do anything for you.  They become eager to please and very
pliable.  You can then wind them around your little finger with
no trouble at all.

"Yeah, like that!  Anyway, we talked for a few minutes about
stuff and then he asked if I wanted to go see a movie or
something on Saturday."

"Looks like Myron didn't want to waste any time.  You must have
made quite an impression."

"You think?  So I said 'sure!' and we set it up, then we both
split.  Saturday, he shows up to pick me up in this little car
that looks just like Neeka's but not as old, you know?"

"I know."

I think she meant 'run down' rather than 'old' but she was being
polite.

"Anyway, he's got on about a gallon of this awful cologne, so I
make him drive with the windows down so some of it can evaporate
and I can get close to him without needing to hold my nose.  We
talk some in the car on the way and we find that we both like a
lot of the same things   movies, books, food and stuff.  The
surprising thing is that he talks like normal people, you know. 
I thought he was this genius-type guy who would be over my head a
lot of the time like....  Well, like another very smart person I
know."

I have no idea who she meant.  I let it pass without comment.

"So, we get to the movie and the place is packed.  There is a
line around the building and the radio station van is parked out
front.  So I tell him, 'We don't have to do this.  We can just go
park somewhere if you'd rather do that.'  I swear; he left
skid-marks getting out of there.  I didn't think those cars could
do that.

"He drove us out to the old Clark Supermarket building over next
to the river and parked so we could look out on the water through
the cattails.  It was so romantic!  There were a couple of other
cars out there but he stopped far enough away so we wouldn't be
disturbed.

"When he turned the car off, there was this awkward moment when
neither of us could think of what to do or say.  I was trying to
think of something when I noticed that it was going to be hard us
to snuggle because of the darn big console in the way."

"Oh!"

"Yeah.  Getting in the back seat wasn't going to work either. 
You know how small the back seats in those cars are?"

"Very cramped," I said, remembering how Sue and I had almost
knocked out the back window of Neeka's car.

"Damn right.  So I'm sitting there trying to think of how to get
us back to where we were when we met, and my hand is just sitting
on this nice thick gear-shift.  I'm just casually running my
fingers up and down the thing when I notice that Myron is staring
at my hand like I had seven fingers or something.  I keep
fiddling with the thing and the more I fiddle, the harder Myron
breathes.  It's like he knew what I was thinking and he couldn't
wait for the show to start!

"I couldn't disappoint him after that.  I told him to get in the
back and I would show him something he would never forget.  As
soon as I though seriously about doing it, I got sooooo hot that
there was no way I wasn't going through with it.  Myron crawled
over into the back and watched while I stripped off my clothes
until all I had on was my socks and sneakers.

"When I turned around and straddled the console, I thought he was
going to die, he was squirming around so much.  He had to sit
with his legs split and I could see that the crotch of his shorts
was stretched very tight over his...you know."

"So, could you see everything?"

"I could tell his religion!  Seriously, his thing looked huge to
me.  It looked so uncomfortable all trapped in there, so I told
him he could take his shorts off if he wanted."

"Did he?"

"In about a second!  His undershorts too!  When he took hold of
it and started pulling on it, it made me so hot I thought I would
swoon!

"When I got the top of the shift-thing into my pussy, he gripped
his cock so tight it looked like he was strangling it.  I rubbed
around for a bit to get it wet and then I slid down on it until I
was sitting on the console, just like you did.  It felt so good,
I think I must have started cumming right away.  I don't remember
much about it, except that it felt so darn great to have him
watch me ride that hard stick like that.  

"It must have really turned him on because I had only been
fucking it for a couple of minutes when his thing just exploded
all over me, covering me in streams of his stuff.  He just kept
shooting it on me and moaning like he was dying!  It was great! 
I had a really big cum and so did he!

"Afterward, he helped me to get off the shifter and he wiped off
all the sticky stuff with his t-shirt.  Then we just crawled into
that tiny back seat and he held me.  I was in heaven!  Thank you
for teaching me that trick, by the way.  It's a lot of fun by
myself, but it's even better with someone who's really getting
off on watching me do it."

"What happened then?"

"While he was holding me, I was holding part of him, if you know
what I mean?"

"Un hunh."

"Well that part got limp and then, while I was holding it, it
started getting hard again.  He started moving his hips like he
wanted me to rub his...cock, so I did.  He liked that.  He liked
it a lot.  After a little bit, he wanted to put it in me.  I was
kind of keen on the idea, too.  But there just wasn't enough room
in that darn backseat."

"What did you do?"

"We got out of the car.  I was so giddy and hot by then that I
didn't even think about someone seeing us.  Well, maybe I did,
but I sure didn't care!  When he backed me up against the car, I
just laid back on the hood, spread my legs and let him have his
way with me."

"'Let him have his way with you'?  I haven't heard that one
lately."

"OK, I let him stick his hard cock into me and fuck me silly.  Is
that better?  Give me a break, I'm new to this.  That night was
my first real time...with a boy."

"Sorry."

"Anyway, he lasted a lot longer the second time.  It was better
for me.  And it just kept getting better and better, the longer
it lasted."

"Did you cum again?"

"And again, and again!  I've never felt like that before.  Is it
always that good?"

"If you're lucky.  Did he use any...protection?"

"You mean, like a condom?  I was so turned on I didn't even think
about it.  I just wanted him to do it to me, you know?  I didn't
think about getting myself preggers until later.  By then I
didn't really care if he did or not.  I was having such a good
time that if he asked me, I would have told him to go ahead and
knock me up."

"He didn't pull out?"

"Yes, he did.  He came all over my stomach instead."

"You sound disappointed."

"I guess I was.  I mean I am.  I mean, I don't exactly want to
get pregnant, but if it happens I won't be heartbroken about it.
I've always wanted babies.  At least, for as long as I've been,
you know...able to."

"Yeah?"

"My mom had me when she was younger than I am now.  All the women
in my family had their babies when they were young.  And we're a
big family.  Now, anyway.  I have four girl cousins within a year
or two of my age.  Two have already had babies and three are
pregnant now.  It's almost a tradition."

"How about a career?"

"Sam, my career is going to be raising children and making my
husband happy.  That's a tradition in my family, too."

I wanted to tell her not to make up her mind too soon about
things like that, but she seemed to know what she wanted and she
apparently had a lot of support if she did get pregnant.  A lot
of company, anyway.  

I was just a teeny bit jealous.  I guess every girl dreams of
having babies.  It's instinctive.  But some of us have careers,
too.  Mine just made it impossible for me to settle down to
family life just yet.

Angie ran off when Myron pulled up in his dusty little car with
the big clean spot on the hood.  I wondered if either of them
realized that it was kind of obvious what made the spot.  Then I
wondered how long Myron planned to wait before he absolutely had
to wash his car.

They both seemed very happy.  They were an odd couple, but no
odder than many.  I was happy that they were happy.

I walked through the parking lot, smiling to myself when I saw a
familiar plain tan car drive slowly down the road.  I dug into my
bag to check if my phone was still on, and it was.  Then I walked
to the closest street and waited for good old Bob Foster to pull
up.

"Hi, Sheriff," I said when he rolled down his window.

"Afternoon, Sam.  Um, pretty day, isn't it."

This didn't sound good.  Sheriff Foster had never seemed socially
awkward to me before, but now he was almost stammering. 
Something had him upset.  Something that wasn't a police
emergency.

"It sure is.  Hang on, I'll hop in and we can talk."

I went around and got in the passenger side.  His car was very
clean for being several years old.  I figured it was getting some
special treatment at the Department Motor Pool, or whatever they
called it.

He had stopped at the drop-off/pick-up curb, not in a parking
spot.  I was about to say something about that when I remembered
that he wasn't likely to get a ticket.

"Sam, I know we had an agreement.  About keeping your identity
confidential and all.  And I want you to know that I have kept to
the letter of that agreement.  I have fended off all the papers,
the TV people, and the busybodies who think they have a right to
know everything about everybody in town.  But I had a visit from
someone whose, ah, request I couldn't refuse."

"The Governor's Office?" I said, helpfully.  Mom had predicted
this, so I wasn't totally shocked that he wanted to meet me.

"Heh!  I knew the Governor before he got into politics.  I even
helped in his first campaign.  I can tell him to piss off and
make it stick.  No, I'm afraid this goes higher up than that."

I suddenly had a chill and it wasn't from the air-conditioning. 
I wanted to ask the obvious question, but I couldn't bring myself
to do it.  Foster answered it anyway.

"This comes from the Homeland Security people.  Senator Fowler
called me and told me they were sending someone down.  He implied
that if I refused to talk to this gentleman, that the next call
would be from higher up."

"Higher?  You mean..."

"Yah.  This has got just a little above my pay-grade, if you know
what I mean?"

"I do."

I thought I did.  I thought I was ready for this.  I had thought
a lot of things that were starting to seem like wishful thinking
 squared.  It's funny how a harsh enough light can really
evaporate your daydreams and light up your nightmares.  At one
point, I had been scared of being hauled off by men in black
suits and never seeing the light of day again.  That one seemed
to be casting some long shadows at the moment.

The back door of the car opened and Neeka got in, dragging her
garment bag with her.  I had been so caught up in imaging what
Foster's visitor wanted that I hadn't noticed her approach.

"You didn't think I was going to duck out on you now, did you?"
she asked, silently.

"OK, Sheriff," I said, more confidently.  "We can go now.  Let's
go talk to the man from Washington."

If he was startled by Neeka joining us, he hid it well.  He just
nodded and put the car in gear.

Foster drove us to the Federal Building downtown while I tried
not to let my nerves get out of control.  After what seemed like
a very short trip, he turned into the underground garage and the
guard raised the gate as though we were expected.  I started a
log of events to support my budding conspiracy theory.

"He probably just knows the Sheriff's car," Neeka said. 
"Relax."

That was easier said than done, and I failed miserably.  When I
got out of the car, I was so nervous that I had some adrenalin
going and when I shoved the car door shut, it made a noise so
loud that I thought the window would break.  A couple of people 
who had just got off the elevator turned their heads at the
noise, but things always sound too loud in bare concrete rooms,
so they went on with their business.

"Sorry," I said to the Sheriff.

"Don't worry your little head about it."  His folksy manner was
sliding all over the place.  Another time, he might have thought
twice about using an adjective like that to me.

Foster took us up in the elevator to a plushly-carpeted hallway
and then opened the doors at the end onto an even more
plushly-carpeted meeting room that was lined with wooden shelves
neatly filled with tan and red law books.  The parts of the room
that weren't expensive-looking wood were green marble with little
streaks of gold in it.

"Your tax dollars at work," Neeka said, silently.

I smiled at that as I walked into the room.  It was probably a
good thing.  The first impression I made wouldn't be that of a
terrified girl.

I was only a little surprised when the door shut behind us and
Foster was no longer there.  Whatever level of political power
existed in this room must have made him very nervous.  I kept the
smile on my face by an effort of will.

I shivered, but not from nervousness.  The air conditioning in
this building seemed to have been intended more for a meat locker
rather than a workplace.  It seemed darn cold to me and Neeka
agreed.  For the first time in weeks, I wished I had worn more
clothes.  My thin white blouse and my pleated hip-hugging
flip-skirt were fine for the school's marginally-adequate
air-conditioning, but not for some place trying to simulate polar
conditions.

The man sitting on the far side of the conference table seemed
very young to be an emissary of the powers-that-be.  He was thin,
dark-eyed, black-haired, and had such a prominent hook-nose that
I glanced at his head to see if he were wearing a yarmulke.  When
he stood, I saw that he was very tall, as well.

"Good afternoon, ladies.  My name is David Solomon."  He flashed
a warm smile and held out his hand across the table.

I leaned over to shake his hand.  Despite the low temperature of
the building, his palm was just a bit damp and I wondered if Mr.
Solomon might be just a tiny bit as anxious about meeting us as I
was about meeting him.  That would explain why he seemed to want
to keep the table between us.

"So," Solomon said, sitting down, adjusting his shiny grey
suit-coat and motioning us to the leather chairs on our side of
the dark, thick table that I assumed to be mahogany.  "You must
be The Dragon.  And you are...."

"Ace," Neeka volunteered. 

He could have got that easily enough for himself.  We had been
dropping that name freely.

He offered us coffee or soft-drinks, which we declined.  Then he
said, "I'm pleased to meet both of you.  I must say, you
seem...shorter...in person."

I decided not to be offended.  It could be a ploy to put me at a
disadvantage and I wanted to keep a clear head.  I knew he had to
have seen the TV footage.  And even I had noticed how I looked
taller standing on top of the tank, so I really couldn't blame
him for the comment.

"It's hard to judge much of anything when I'm suited-up.  That's
one of the reasons for wearing a disguise," I confided, setting
my heavy bookbag in the chair to my right and sitting down in the
chair opposite Mr. Solomon.

I instantly regretted not standing for the interview.  I suppose
the executive-grade chair would have been fine for a normal-sized
person.  Neeka seemed quite comfortable in hers, but I sank into
the weakly-cushioned glove-soft leather and almost disappeared
below the polished table-top.  Only my head remained higher than
the edge.  I felt humiliated because I knew I looked ridiculous.

Solomon had the good grace to hide his smile behind his hand, but
my partner actually snickered while I climbed out of the cushy
seat.  I fished my backpack out of my bookbag, flipped the sack
of books over to make a flat surface and hopped up onto that,
putting my head a couple of inches higher than everyone else's.

From the way his eyebrows jumped, I'm afraid I may have
duplicated Sharon Stone's leg-crossing flash while getting
settled.  Mr. Solomon averted his eyes for a few seconds, but he
recovered quickly and resumed the conversation.

"It's not your disguise that has generated interest in you,
Miss...."

He trailed off, no doubt hoping I would cave in and give him my
real name.  I waited him out.

"...it's your remarkable abilities.  Your apparent abilities."

"I'm not a special effect.  The video isn't a fake."

"You must admit, you are unusual.  If not unique."

"Freely.  Although I hope to find that the unique part is not
true.  If you doubt that I'm real, why are you here?"

"Because you might be real.  Because if you are real, we need
you."

"Who is 'we'?"

"I'm sorry, I thought Sheriff Foster would have told you.  I'm
the Second Assistant Deputy Director of the Homeland Security
Department."

He said it like it was a very important title.  It sounded to me
like he was the guy who went for coffee during meetings.

"I'm responsible for liaison with the various investigative and
enforcement agencies that fall under the aegis of the
Department."

That clinched it.  He was a gofer.  Someone wanted me checked out
and this was the guy who got on a plane to do it.  The next
questions were 'who' and 'why', but I suspected that I would be
more successful at getting those answered if I left them until
later.

"Pleased to meet you.  How can we help the Department of Homeland
Security?"

He stared and blinked at my direct question.  I think he wasn't
used to getting right to the point.

"Before we discuss that," he said, "I want you to meet someone. 
He's in a similar line of work, but his work is much
less...theatrical."

This sounded interesting.  Mr. Solomon got up and opened the door
behind him.  Through it stepped a man shorter than Solomon, but
much thicker and heavier.  He was so thickly-muscular that he
looked like a brick wearing a suit.  He moved with almost the
same degree of economy as Master Li.  He glanced at Neeka and
then stared intently at me.  I knew instantly that this was one
of the Operators that Sheriff Foster had told me about meeting. 
Brock must be one of those men that know ten unarmed ways to kill
you silently and be gone before you hit the ground.

"Miss...ah, Dragon, Ace.  This is Colonel Brock."

Brock the Brick.  It fit.  Colonel Brock walked smoothly around
the table to us, as though his joints were full of ball-bearings.
 I hopped off my perch on the chair to meet him.

Brock had a face that matched his physique.  It was all taut skin
over bone and muscle.  He looked positively chiseled, from his
coal-black buzz-cut to his solid square jawline with its
blue-black stippling of five o'clock shadow.

His cool grey eyes scanned me from top to bottom like he was
memorizing me for inclusion in some mental rogue's gallery.  He
didn't even pause at those places where guys' gazes usually
lingered.  His calculating expression didn't change as he held
out a hand to me.

When I touched his hand, it felt like touching granite.  His hand
was hard as stone and covered with skin that felt tougher than
leather.  I was sure that every muscle in his body was just as
solid.  His hands were normal-sized, so I was able to get a
handshaking grip that included more than two fingers.  He waited
patiently while I got a hold, like an arm-wrestler preparing for
a bout.  I knew then that this was a test, either Brock's or
Solomon's.

Brock tightened his grip to a friendly squeeze and I returned the
favor.  He tightened a bit further than friendly, like I imagined
a jock might if he were trying to intimidate another guy.  I
matched his grip and added a touch more.

Brock's face cracked into a thin smile.  The rules were drawn,
the game was on.  He squeezed harder.  I squeezed back.  Harder,
tighter, stronger.  Squeeze became crush, crush became pain. 
Pain was my best buddy, so I smiled wider and gripped even
harder, although it felt like my fingers were being ground into
dust.

Brock's smile twitched and faded.  His steely eyes darted left
and right and I saw the muscles in his jaw bulge as he clenched
his teeth.

I squeezed just hard enough so I could feel the bones in Brock's
hand bend under the pressure and I held it there, smiling at him
like I was holding back for his benefit.  I looked over at Mr.
Solomon to see his reaction.  He was watching intently, but me,
not Brock, who was beginning to show signs of distress.

Brock's face became red and the over-stressed muscles in his arm
started to twitch.  He didn't make a sound, he just stood and
endured.  If I had crushed his hand to a bloody pulp, I think he
would have taken it stoically.

Since Solomon seemed oblivious, and Brock wouldn't say a word, I
decided to be polite and quit first, opening my hand and jerking
it out of his death-grip.  

Brock seemed shocked.  I don't know if it was because I was able
to hurt him, because he hadn't apparently managed to hurt me, or
because I had escaped his grip.  He rubbed his hands together to
disguise checking for fractures and his smile grew wide enough to
show some teeth.  But instead of friendly, he looked feral, like
a tiger contemplating dinner.  In reply, I skinned my lips back
and showed him as many teeth as I could.  

I liked this guy.  He was dangerous.  He was strong.  He was
deadly.  He wouldn't quit and he probably would die rather than
surrender.  He was the perfect soldier, or the perfect killer, if
there is a difference.  If you wanted to scare an enemy shitless,
you couldn't do better than send them a picture of Colonel Brock.
 I felt attracted to him by more than the remote professional
kinship we shared, and I hoped that he would at least accept me
as a sort of peer.

"Colonel Brock is the commander of Sigma 7," Solomon continued as
if our little contest had never happened.  "They are a combined
unit of select men.  Some SEALs, some Marine Recon, some Special
Forces.  All experienced."

I assumed that by 'experienced' he meant 'blooded'.  I was trying
to get my head into the language.  I looked at Brock, who hadn't
backed off an inch.  Waves of testosterone were coming off him so
thickly that I was starting to get more than just a little turned
on.  I wondered if all of him was as hard as the parts I had
felt.  The idea of doing it with someone who could kill with the
flick of a hand had a strong appeal.  As soon as I thought of
that, I wondered if Steve wasn't attracted to me for much the
same reason.

"All, right, Mr. Solomon," I said.  "Colonel Brock and I have
met, and now I suppose it's time for me to show my credentials. 
If you will excuse me...."

Brock stepped back, but not out of reach.  He still focused on me
like I was the only person in the room.  He might me thinking of
how to kill me, but I was thinking how I could drag him into the
next room and fuck him.  It took an effort to put that idea aside
for the moment.

I opened my fanny-pack and took out my new gloves.  Pulling them
on, I went to the far end of the table.

"Don't want splinters," I said, smoothing the gloves onto my
fingers.  "You guys might want to step back."

Neeka retreated to the other end of the room and carefully edged
into the corner beside a marble bust on a pedestal.  I started to
say something to her, but I remembered what happened to Master
Li's board and I squelched my comment.  Solomon took three
hesitant steps toward Neeka and then stopped and turned.  Brock
didn't move at all.

Without announcing it, I raised both hands over my head, reached
out for a burst of Power, and slapped the dense wooden table,
breaking three feet of it clean off across the grain.  The heavy
table snapped like a sheet of balsawood and made an incredibly
loud noise doing it.

Less than two seconds later, a pair of husky-looking men in grey
suits ran in carrying small machine guns with long clips sticking
out of the bottom.  Might have been Uzis, I didn't get a close
enough look to tell.  I made a mental note to learn more about
weaponry.

Both men scanned the room, but couldn't identify a threat so they
didn't know who to shoot.  They pointed their guns at the ceiling
and looked at Colonel Brock.

"Stand down," Brock ordered.  They were the first words he had
spoken.

Both men lowered their guns and backed out of the room, closing
the door behind them.  I noticed as they left that with their
nearly-identical grey suits, both were wearing black boots
instead of regular shoes.  I wondered if this was a case of
taking the soldier out of the uniform, but not being able to take
the uniform out of the soldier.

"Impressive," Brock told me.

"Thank you," I said, sweetly.  Obviously this was high praise
from the taciturn Colonel.

We all went back to our seats like nothing had happened.  Brock
sat down next to me, still watching me closely, but this time I
thought it might be out of respect, not suspicion.  With someone
as unexpressive as Brock, it was impossible to tell.

"Now," I said, hoping we could get to the point, "What is the
problem?  How can we help?"

Solomon curiously fingered the broken end of the table, getting a
splinter in his finger which he had to pull out with his teeth. 
I hoped my demonstration had been enough to convince him, because
I was pretty sure I had just destroyed several hundred dollars
worth of the taxpayers' property.

When he finished his first-aid, he sucked on the finger and
looked at me as if making up his mind.

I waited.  While I waited, I peeled off my gloves and put them
back into the fanny pack.  When I did, I could feel Colonel Brock
looking over my shoulder to see what other things I might have in
there.  For a moment, I toyed with the idea of taking everything
out and putting it on the table, as if looking for something. 
But laying a mini-grapple or a throwing star in front of the
Colonel wasn't going to win me any points.  He could probably top
any toy I could show him.

"What weapons do you use?" Colonel Brock asked.

I was shocked.  Shop talk, from the strong silent Colonel?  Maybe
I really had impressed him.

"None," I said.  "I work close."

Brock nodded.  I had said something in his language.  I decided
to shift the conversation before I stuck my foot in my mouth.

"Ace carries the gun," I said, indicating my partner, who wasn't
terribly thrilled at having the hot potato tossed to her.

"Oh?" Brock said.  "Nine?"

"Three fifty seven," Neeka said.  

I figured out that they were discussing calibers.

"Any good?"

"I hit what I aim at."

Apparently that was another right answer because Brock nodded
again.  Then he looked at Mr. Solomon, who shifted in his chair
as if he had finally made up his mind.

I had demonstrated my strength and my tolerance for pain, we had
talked some shop, and had spoken the right words and used the
right jargon.  We were, therefore, what we were supposed to be. 
Brock was satisfied.  Solomon could talk to us.  I wondered who
worked for whom here.

"You understand," he began apologetically, "for us to go outside
the community is almost never done.  We were...requested to do so
in this case because someone on the Hill saw the video and
insisted that you be contacted."

He danced around the identity of my admirer so carefully that I
wondered if it wasn't a case of embarrassment more than one of
security.

"Or someone's wife," I ventured, thinking that an influential
Senator's spouse might see a female superhero in a different
light than the members of the 'community' Solomon referred to. 
Members whom I assumed to be exclusively male.

I must have been bang on, because Mr. Solomon's eyebrows twitched
and Brock moved more than a millimeter.  For him, that must have
been like jumping out of his skin.

"You are very perceptive," Solomon said, but did not otherwise
acknowledge the accuracy of my suggestion.  "That's good.  We
recognize that when an operative goes into the field,
he...they... will be autonomous.  It's just as important for them
to be able to make good decisions as it is for them to be
effective at carrying out their assignment."

Neeka and I both nodded at that.  Even with our brief amount of
experience, we had always tried to consider the direct and
indirect consequences of our actions.  We were well aware that a
problem isn't solved if you just leave a bigger mess to be dealt
with later.

"You will, of course, understand that anything discussed in this
room is not to be revealed to anyone else.  I won't bother
explaining the level of Classification here, because it's off the
chart.  We..." He waved a manicured hand at Brock.  "...are not
here."

I smiled at that and said, "You're talking to two people who go
out in costumes to do things that no one in their right mind
would think of doing and then hope we can go home again to our
'normal' lives.  Believe me; we recognize the value of secrecy."

Solomon smiled, "I see we understand each other.  Then I won't
insult you with oaths and such or try to intimidate you with
'National Security'.

"Our current problem is doubly delicate.  This past Saturday
night, a daughter of a U.S. Senator and a son of the ruling
family of a country with strategic interest for our government
went to a rave club in Miami.  They had been dating for several
weeks and on the face of it, it was thought to be a 'good thing'.
 Diplomacy has its uses, but the potential foreign-relations
boost could have been significant for both countries.  It's easy
to take offense at the actions of strangers, but it's hard to be
seriously cross with your in-laws.

"Of course, all due security precautions were taken.  Minders
from both countries cooperated as well as could be expected.  No
one made any obvious mistakes.  But sometime that night, both the
girl and the boy vanished from the club and have not been seen
since."

"Kidnapped?" I asked.

"We think so.  Militants in the boy's homeland who do not view
their relationship in the same light that we do would have the
best motive for abducting them.  That would also explain the lack
of a ransom demand.  These people don't want money, they want
blood.  We think they plan to make an example of these two."

"Are we talking about the same group that has been sending out
videos of themselves cutting people's heads off?"

"Yes."

The answer to that should have been "You don't need to know",
"That's not relevant" or some other equivocation.  I suspected
Solomon was lying just to insure my cooperation.

"And now you believe they are operating in this country?"

"Yes."

"In that case, I have only one more question   where are they?"

"I hope we will be able to learn the answer to that very soon,
now.  We think we know the area where they've gone to ground and
we have people out looking.  As soon as we know, we plan to send
members of the Sigma 7 team in to attempt a rescue.  Right now,
we're hoping we find them in time."

"I can help."

"Thank you, I was instructed to see if you could be persuaded to
participate in the operation, once we locate them.  I was dubious
at first, but your obvious talents...."

"I mean I can help find them.  Get me within a mile or two and if
they are alive and awake they will probably be scared to death. 
I can pick up on that."

Brock turned his head smartly at that news.  Solomon sat up
straight in his chair.

"It's a form of telepathy," I explained.  "I can 'hear' strong
emotions.  Fear especially."

"What do you need?" Solomon asked.  "Will you want that
motorcycle?"

Apparently we had been accepted into the Community.  Now things
would get interesting.  I deferred the question of taking the
bike to Neeka, who shook her head and said, with a note of
regret, "No.  If you can provide transport, the bike isn't
necessary."

"And you definitely want this to be a covert operation," I added,
throwing around some more jargon as I got into the spirit of the
moment.

Solomon nodded.

"When can you be ready?" Brock asked.

"Oh, we're ready now," I said.  "I have everything I need right
here."

I patted the fanny pack lying on the remaining part of the
conference table.

Brock looked at the small bag and said, "I like a woman who can
travel light.  Welcome to Sigma 7."

I'll say one thing for the Colonel, he might be stiff, but when
it was time to go, he really knew how to hustle.  Neeka and I
were permitted a hurried visit to the ladies room down the hall.
It was as well-appointed as the conference room and I felt a bit
intimidated at doing my business in there.

When we came out, Solomon, Brock, and the two other team members
were waiting for us.  The guns they had brandished before were
gone and instead they carried identical briefcases with handles
that looked like they didn't go with the styling of the cases,
until I realized that they looked a lot like the brackets I had
seen on top of their guns.

From then on, we moved at a dead run down the fire-stairs to the
garage, where we were hustled into a pair of ordinary-looking
mommy-wagons.  In the movies these would have been large, black,
official-looking and overpowered.  In real life, they looked just
like vans that lined up in front of our school.  I wondered if
there was a soccer-ball sticker on the rear door.

The minivans took off out of the dark garage like missiles. 
Neeka, one of the men in grey suits, and I were in the lead
vehicle, right behind the police car that was trying to part the
afternoon traffic for us.  The driver of our van kept so close to
the cruiser that I thought every time he had to use the brake, we
were going to land in the police car's trunk.  Even Neeka looked
uneasy about it.

"OK, OK," she said, picking up on my thought, "It's better when
I'm driving."

We made it to the airport in under ten minutes.  The vans pulled
up next to an executive jet and we ran from the vans up the steps
and into the passenger cabin.  Mr. Solomon was the last one in. 
He went through the little door to talk to the pilot and seconds
later, we were in the air.  

When the scream of the engines dropped low enough I reached for
my cell phone.  Brock saw me take it out and opened his mouth to
say something.  I held up a hand and told him, "I need to let Mom
know we'll be gone or she'll worry."

Apparently this wasn't an excuse that he heard much from his
team.  While he was thinking how to tell me not to break
security, I hit the auto-dial for home and one ring later, Mom
answered.  She must have already missed me.

"Hi, Mom!" I  said, loudly, leaning toward Brock, so he could
hear my side of the conversation.  "I can't talk right now. 
We're on a job.  Don't wait up.  I'll talk to you later.  Bye
now."

"Take care, honey!  Bye!" I heard as I closed the phone, ending
the call.  I think Brock heard it, too.  He leaned back in his
seat with a half-smile on his face that vanished as soon as he
noticed one of his subordinates looking at him.  

While we had time, and since Brock had backed off the intensity
of his 'dangerous' persona a notch or two, I thought it would be
a good idea to get to know the people we were going to be working
with.  Specifically, Brock's men; both of whom had been studying
me and Neeka in a slightly unprofessional manner and only putting
a small effort into not getting caught at it.  I had seen the one
who rode in the van with us trying to peek up my skirt, which
wasn't much of a challenge since it was so short.  Now that we
were settled in for the flight, they were both openly admiring
us.  As much as I appreciated that, I thought it would be better
if they took us more seriously.

"Are you going to introduce us?" I asked Colonel Brock, waving
toward the two men across from us.

"Good idea," Brock said.  "Since it looks like we'll be working
together.  This is Gunny and Max," he said, pointing to the two
team members without bothering to identify which was which. 
"Gentlemen, this is...."  He stopped then, lost for what to call
me.

I still hadn't thought of a good answer to that question.  I
didn't want to be called "Miss Dragon" and I didn't have an
alternative.

"Ace," Neeka said, holding out her hand and giving me a few
seconds to think.

Gunny and Max sorted themselves out   Gunny was on my left   and
shook hands with her while I decided to bite the bullet and be
myself.

"Sam," I said, when it was my turn.  In a crisis situation like
this, I figured it would be better to use a name I would respond
to, rather than risk confusion at the wrong time.  That was
probably why the members of Brock's team had single, short,
memorable names.  I knew 'Gunny' was generic for a Marine
Sergeant of a certain grade.  Beyond that, he could have been as
anonymous as 'Max'.  By that monosyllabic criteria, I fit right
in.

When I had had my hand politely shaken, Gunny and Max looked
puzzled.  As I suspected, in someone's zeal for compartmentalized
security, no one had told them who we were or why we were here. 
For all they knew we could have been a couple of junior
secretaries along for a joyride or a pair of Mata Hari types who
were going to seduce the terrorists into giving up.

I smiled as I leaned toward Gunny and Max.  I made darn sure
their hands were clear of their guns before I put on the skin of
The Dragon.

Even though I had promised I would cut it out, I just loved
seeing the reactions of people when I changed.  The present
company, save for Mr. Solomon, who was still up front and for all
I knew, flying the plane himself, seemed a stout-hearted bunch
who wouldn't be terribly freaked by my fancy make-up.  Was I
wrong!

Brock looked like he wanted to climb over the back of his chair.
Max and Gunny both turned white as sheets, which for Max was a
remarkable accomplishment, since he started out only a shade
lighter than Lamont.

I was amazed that three men who were all so professionally scary,
would be so shocked at the sight of one small girl turning into a
scaly, fire-breathing lizard before their eyes.  Although putting
it that way made me understand how shocking it was if you weren't
prepared for it.

"It's creepy even when you know it's coming," Neeka said smugly
in my head.  She had warned me about pulling this on people, and
I had to admit that this time it was a bad idea.  We were all
supposed to be working as a team and I shouldn't be trying to
make them jumpy around me.  I dropped my disguise immediately.

Gunny was the first to recover, once The Dragon was safely back
in her cage.

"Holy shit!  It's you!  I mean, you're her!"

"You saw the video with the tank?" I asked him.

"Yeah, man!  That was outrageous.  Of course, it had to be fake,
right?"

"No."

Gunny looked to Brock for guidance on this. 

The Colonel shook his head, "She's for real.  What do you think
happened to the conference table?  Two inch thick slab of solid
mahogany.  Snap!"

"Jeez!" Max said.  "Real.  Damn."

After that, Gunny and Max got very quiet.  I succeeded in making
them take us seriously, but now they seemed too uncomfortable to
talk to us.  Great.  I wondered if I should try to undo what I
had done or if it would be better to leave things alone before I
made them any worse.

"Sorry," I said, casually.  "It's better if you see that now,
rather than later."

Mr. Solomon came back from the cockpit about then.  I assumed he
had been on the radio, making arrangements for our arrival.

"Why do that at all?" Brock asked, when Solomon had gone past him
and taken a seat.

I gave him the benefit of assuming his question came from a
professional, rather than personal point of view.  His expression
had gone back to normal, but he was blinking more, like he wanted
to get the image out of his eyes.

"Shock value," I said.  "I try to be as sneaky as possible, but
sometimes you have to jump out at people.  It helps a lot if they
spend a couple of seconds nailed to the spot and staring."

Brock and his men nodded at my explanation.  They all understood
the value of a tactical advantage.

"Sort of like the flash-bangs we used in the SEALs," Max said. 
"But more selective."

"Quieter, too," Gunny added.  He sounded like he had used a few
of the things himself. 

All three men seemed more at ease now that we were talking shop.
Brock even tried to bring Neeka into the conversation.

"So what's your job?" he asked her; somewhat bluntly I thought,
but that seemed to be his style.

"Transport, communication and backup," she said.  "I drive the
bike, keep tabs on her situation and help kick ass when
necessary."

"What kind of comm system do you use?  We'll want to coordinate
frequencies and encryption." Brock asked.

We hadn't gone into detail about this earlier and I thought
another demonstration was in order.

"Mr. Solomon, do you have a business card on you?" I asked.  I
guessed that the Sigma 7 team would be unlikely to carry such
things, but that a bureaucrat would, especially one with a long
title.

Solomon produced a card from a little gold box and Brock passed
it over to me.  I looked at it and Neeka read aloud Solomon's
name, title, office address, phone number, fax number, and email
address.  I handed the card back to Brock, who glanced at it as
if he suspected some sort of trick.

"Can your comm system do that?" I asked.

"What about range?" Brock asked, ignoring my rhetorical
question.

"We're not sure," I said.

"A mile," Neeka continued.

"At least," I said.

"But maybe more," Neeka finished.  We had spoken without pausing,
so our answer sounded seamless, like it came from one mouth.

"But you can only hear strong emotions from someone else?"
Solomon asked.  He seemed to be thinking of other uses for our
ability.

"That's right," I said.  "It's like a far off AM radio station. 
It has to be a loud song for me to pick it out of the
background."

Solomon got quiet then.  He looked like he was thinking, and
seeing that expression made me uncomfortable.  I wondered if I
should be worrying about what he might think. 

The plane started to sink toward the ground then, and we all
fastened our seat-belts.  I started to smile when I saw the three
macho types tightening theirs, but the humor I found drained away
when I remembered that they had probably been through a lot more
landings than I ever would and if they weren't shy about buckling
up then there was probably a good reason for it.

We landed at a small private field rather than a big airport. 
The plane taxied up to a hanger and as soon as the steps were
down, we rushed out and into the big building through a small
door.

Inside the hanger were two large vans, parked side by side.  One
was a familiar dark brown with a package delivery service company
logo on the side.  The other was a filthy green thing that said
Grimaldi Septic Tank Cleaning on it.  Solomon climbed into the
back of the dirty one.  He had been doing some smart thinking. 
One van could drive down every street in town without attracting
attention, and the other could park at a curb for hours without
anyone wanting to get close.

On a long table running down one side of the hanger was a row of
aluminum equipment cases.  Max and Gunny went right to those and
started unsnapping latches.  From some, they took black guns that
looked like the big brothers to the ones they carried in their
briefcases, from others they produced radios with headsets, and
from others, the black SWAT-style uniforms that Grogan's unit
wore, except that these had "Federal Agent" stenciled on the back
in yellow capital letters.

Without saying a word, they threw off their coats and ties and
started changing clothes.  Neeka unzipped her garment bag and I
opened my fanny pack.  I had my flats off and my blouse
unbuttoned before Brock spoke up.

"I guess you can go in the office there to change if you...." He
trailed off when I pulled the white cotton blouse off my
shoulders and folded it before laying it on the table.

"...if you...ah," he rambled as I stepped out of my skirt.  It
was nice to know he still had the same hormones as a normal guy.
Maybe my fantasies about getting to know the Colonel better
weren't all that far-fetched.

Down the table, I saw that Max and Gunny were equally
unembarrassed about changing in a group, but then, neither of
them had looked in our direction.  I did learn that the
expression 'going commando' was for real.  Neither of them wore
underwear.  

Brock decided to shut up and soldier.  He pulled off his coat and
started to change.

I stepped into my colorless cat-suit and was working my arms into
the sleeves when I heard Gunny say, "Damn!" followed by the crash
of an equipment box hitting the floor.  I didn't react, because I
didn't want to embarrass anyone whose professionalism might have
slipped a bit when he noticed the show going on down the line.

I was ready first, then Neeka.  I was feeling smug until I saw
that the Sigma 7 guys were strapping on enough weapons and bits
of equipment to fight a small war.  In addition to their machine
guns, they each had a radio, headset, flashlight, grenades,
handcuffs, ammunition pouches, map cases, GPS units, and some
packages of stuff I assumed were explosives.  I settled my fanny
pack on my hips and thanked my lucky starts that I didn't have to
lug all that stuff around.  No wonder these guys were in such
great physical shape if this was what they carried with them.

Max finished loading up and saw me staring.

"Yeah, this is way more that we usually carry," he told me.  "But
our cover this time is a Federal Hostage Rescue Team, and this is
their standard load-out."

"I've worked with the local SWAT guys," I said.  "They have some
of the same stuff."

"Bet they don't have these," Max said, showing me his weapon with
its thick barrel.  "Heckler and Koch MP5SD.  Selective fire  
single, two round burst and full-auto.  30 round clip. 
Suppressor could be better, but it fires mil-spec 9mm ammo, not
the subsonic stuff."

"Boys and their toys," I thought, until I remembered that Mr.
Solomon had described these as 'experienced' men, meaning that
they had almost certainly killed with toys like these.  It was a
sobering thought.

When Colonel Brock was ready, he went into the green truck to
talk with Solomon for a minute.   When he came out, he walked
over to us and spoke to Neeka.

"Since you won't be driving today, and we'd prefer if you left
the shooting to us, would you like to ride in the command vehicle
with Mr. Solomon?"

It wasn't really a question, he was just being polite. 
Remarkably so, in fact.  I was jealous until I realized that that
meant I would be riding with the hunks while she was stuck with
the smart-boy bureaucrat.

"No problem," she said and carefully climbed into the nasty van
while trying not to touch it.

"Listen up," Brock said.  "We have intel on the subjects that
place them inside a five-block radius.  We're going to cruise
through all quiet-like and see if Miss...Sam here can locate them
for us."

"And then?" I asked, probably blowing my credibility as a
bad-ass.

"And then we do what we get paid to do," Brock said with
finality.

For such a vague statement, he couldn't have been clearer, but he
thought he had to make sure there were no misunderstandings.

"This is a rescue operation.  Period.  We aren't the police.  We
don't arrest people."

"I get it," I said.  I did.  But I was uncomfortable about the
assumption that the kidnappers were expendable.  I promised
myself that I would do what I had to, but no more than I needed
to.  As fuzzy as that sounds, I meant it.

The trucks moved out as soon as we were aboard.  I noticed that
our driver was wearing the right uniform and even had a package
on the seat next to him.  Solomon was a pretty good 'detail' man.
 My originally low opinion of him went up another couple of
notches.  He wasn't simply someone's gofer.  I thought it was
likely that he was the best person for his job.  I just wished I
knew where his job ended.



There were smoked-plastic panels in the side of the truck, so we
could see out.  We drove quickly, but not illegally, to an older
industrial area close to the waterfront.  The buildings were
large, close together, and mostly run down.  They all had broken
windows and trash piling up like tumbleweeds against fences that
sagged like they were tired of keeping people out of a place
where there was nothing left to steal.  A few of the buildings
showed signs of still being used, or maybe it was just squatters
who had taken over.

The search plan was simple.  The green truck would stop near an
intersection while the brown truck drove down the long blocks,
over a block, and back again, zig-zagging through the streets as
though looking for an address it couldn't locate.  Inside, the
Sigma 7 guys scanned radio frequencies and watched high and low
for any sign of a lookout, while I listened to my mental radio
for a channel broadcasting terror.

At first, nothing happened.  We went through the routine over
several blocks and saw and heard nothing.  I was beginning to
think that we were either in the wrong place or the kidnapping
had been a ruse of some kind.  I was about to make a comment to
that effect when I suddenly felt something.  It must have showed
on my face, because Brock was there instantly.

"What?" He asked.

I shook my head.  It had been weak and might have been only the
cafeteria food haunting me.

"Curt, go a block west at the next corner," he said into his
radio.

The driver obeyed and halfway back up the next block I picked it
up again.

"That way," I said, pointing in the general direction.

Brock took a map out of his pocket and looked at it.

"Curt, go three blocks west," he said, then he started watching
me with the same intensity as when we were back in the conference
room.  I was his radar and he didn't want to miss the blip.

A few minutes later I was sure I had something.  The direction
had changed and it started to fluctuate, like someone sobbing. 
We turned south and it got much stronger.  It was very strong
when Gunny called out, "Movement on the roof, Colonel!"

"Curt, go south and get us out of sight as quick as you can,"
Brock barked, after taking a look for himself.  "Mr. Solomon, we
have a possible."

He gave a map coordinate that meant nothing to me and he listened
to the reply.

"Check it out," Neeka said to me, echoing Solomon's instruction
to Brock.

"Right," Brock and I said at the same time.  Brock gave me a
sharp look, but said nothing.

The driver pulled the truck into an alley running through the
same block as the building where Gunny had seen someone. 
According to Brock's map, it ran parallel to the wall of that
building, so no one could look down it and see us coming.  We
still had to get from where we were, past another smaller
building, and into the one with the guard on top.  That is, if
the person Gunny saw was really a guard, not just a squatter or a
member of a local gang acting as lookout for some reason not
connected with the kidnappers.  

Whatever sense it was that picked up people's emotions was
screaming in my ear that someone close by was in trouble, so I
was inclined to think we were in the right place.  However, I
didn't want to be the one who, after we had barged in with guns
blazing, had to explain that she made a mistake, so I was down
with the 'check it out' order.

Brock laid the map out on a fold-down table and we all crowded
around as he went over the planned approach.  It was pretty
basic, kind of just 'go down here and hang a left through the
alley', but even I   the newbie   felt the comfort of having a
plan laid out before we got out of the truck.

Once we were on the ground, or the concrete in this case, the
Sigma 7 guys moved with a purpose.  I hate to use the clich
'well-oiled machine' but the way they leapfrogged positions and
went into covering stances for each other at blazingly fast speed
told me that they had spent a lot of time doing this.  I did my
best to keep up and not get underfoot.  I hoped I didn't
embarrass myself with how clumsy I was.

One thing I thought I did better than them was sneak.  They had
on so much junk that whenever one of them would run, it would all
shift and rustle around.  Their stuff was made so nothing clanked
or clattered, but my sneakers and skin-tight suit were almost
totally silent, while they sounded like they were wearing
corduroy slacks.

Everything went fine until we got beside the building next door
to the one we thought the kidnappers were in.  Then we were
stopped by a tall chain-link fence that hadn't been on the map.

"Cut it," Brock snapped, and Max reached in his pocket for a
tool.

"Wait," I said, and squatted down to grab the bottom row of
links.  I pulled in a slow curl to keep the noise down and made a
three-foot gap between the fence and the ground.  The fingers of
my new gloves hardened under the pressure and kept my hands from
getting bruised.

"After you," I said, backing to one side.

Max grinned at me and ducked through the hole, followed by Brock
and Gunny.  I crawled through last and had to run to catch up as
they flattened against the corner of the building.

Gunny stuck his head out slowly and took a good look around.  He
pulled it back and shook his head.

Brock took a look, then we backed up to the fence to talk it
over.

"Three stories.  No doors or windows on this side.  Gate at the
end of the alley.  No one in sight," Brock said in a loud
whisper.  "I wish we had an overlook position.  We need to know
the story on that guard."

"Radio, weapons, that sort of thing?" I asked.

"Affirmative," Brock said.  "And if there is more than one, where
they are and where they're looking.  No stairs or fire escape,
though.  Not even a damn drain pipe.  We may have to try another
route."

He wasn't asking me for help, he was stating a need on behalf of
the team.  I had a way to get what he wanted.  I wasn't happy
about it, but I figured I could do it.  I pulled up my hood,
balled my hands into fists and turned on The Dragon.

"Wait here," I said, as Brock did another of his half-millimeter
flinches.

I trotted back toward the larger building, charging up my
adrenalin with each step and crossing my fingers that I wasn't
about to pull a really dumb stunt.

When I got halfway there, I broke into a run.  Ten yards away, I
jumped into the air and let my momentum carry me toward the roof
of the building.  I planned to land in a crouch, roll and get
behind cover as quickly as possible.  Like many of my plans it
didn't work out that way.

I was halfway there when I realized that I wasn't going to make
the roof.  I had been so afraid of overshooting my trajectory
that I just hadn't put enough into the jump.

For a nasty second, I thought I was going to smack into the blank
wall of the building, but I managed to hook my fingers over the
edge just as I hit.  I still banged into the wall with a good bit
of force, and it knocked some of the wind out of me in a
'whoosh'.

"Shit!" I hissed.  I was pissed at screwing up, pissed at getting
hurt, and pissed because I imagined the professionals on the
ground laughing at me up there, hanging by my hands until I could
catch my breath.

I had recovered enough wind to pull my ass up onto the roof when
I heard the scrunch of someone walking around.  I was about to
peek over the edge when a face appeared.  

He said something I didn't understand, and the barrel of a rifle
appeared next to the head.

I reached up and grabbed the guy by his collar with one hand and
the barrel of the gun with the other, squeezed hard and yanked
with both, pushing off with my feet at the same time.

In hindsight, it wasn't the best thing I could have done.  I just
reacted in the heat of the moment and because I was mad at
looking like a fool in front of the real pros.  I didn't think
about what would happen when gravity asserted itself, not that I
really had the time.

What did happen was that both of us started falling back the way
I had come.  Me with the flailing guard in one hand and his rifle
in the other; both of us slowly turning through the air, heading
for a quick stop at the end of a short flight.  The guard made a
high-pitched squeal and windmilled his arms like he was trying to
fly.  I held onto him tightly at arm's length to keep from
getting swatted.

We were badly positioned for a twisting back-flip, but I did the
best I could.  I managed to get my feet pointed down, at least. 
I didn't need to worry about my Power level, I was as juiced as I
think I had ever been, from the fear, the shame, and the mad.  I
hung on tight and managed to land in a crouch while keeping both
the guard's head and his rifle from hitting the concrete.

When I didn't fall flat on my face, I logged it as a 'good
landing' and I ran back to Brock with my luggage.  I dropped the
guard at his feet and handed him the rifle.

"AK-47," Neeka informed me.

"AK-47," I repeated to Brock.

Gunny and Max dragged the guard out of sight while Brock took the
rifle and studied it.

"Czechoslovakian," he said.  "Millions of these all over the
world.  Could have got it anywhere.  Still, it's not the sort of
thing a street-gang would use.  I think we're at the right
place." 

"Good," I said.

Max and Gunny seemed to be taking a long time getting the guard
out of sight.  And Brock's academic interest in the origin of the
assault rifle was a bit out of place for where we were and what
we were doing.  I figured they were taking him back to the van to
tie him up so they could talk to him later.

"Did you see any more guards up there?" Brock asked.

"I'll check."

I really hadn't had a chance to do a good job of reconnoitering
the roof on my first trip and I felt a pang of guilt at having
failed that part of my assignment.  As I ran back toward the
building and launched myself into the air once more, I resolved
not to screw-up again.  This time I overshot slightly and sailed
over the edge of the building with a few feet to spare.

"I'll never learn to enjoy this," I thought as I reached the top
of my arc.  If there had been someone else on that roof, he could
have cut me in half with his gun before I touched down. 
High-jumping was a kick, but doing it when there were bad-guys
around was dumb.  We had studied some basic ballistics in physics
and now I knew too much to feel safe flying through the air.

There was no one else on the roof.  I peeked around all the metal
boxes and vents to be sure.  While skulking around, I found a
small radio next to a half-full bottle of water and an empty
paper bag with a greasy, wadded-up paper napkin inside.

I left the remains of the guard's lunch and took the radio to
give to Brock.  I was about to jump off the edge when a voice
came out of it.  It was no language I had ever heard before, but
the tone was unmistakably aggravated.  Apparently the guard had
failed to check in and someone was calling for him.

"What will they do if he doesn't answer?" I asked myself.  "Come
and look for him?"

That sounded like an excellent idea, both for them, and for me. 
Anything that would cut down on the number of kidnappers we had
to deal with without endangering the victims sounded like a
freebie.

I asked Neeka to pass my plan along to Brock.  Seconds later, she
said, "He says go for it, but try to be quiet."

The door to the stairs either wasn't locked or had its lock
broken, because it opened easily when I pulled on it.  I opened
it a crack and listened.  Footsteps echoed in the stairwell. 
They were very close.  Someone was coming to have harsh words
with the guard.

I grinned as I jumped and climbed onto the roof of the top of the
stairwell.  Someone was going to get a surprise and it wasn't
going to be stern language.

I waited with a fist ready and when the door opened I leaned down
and popped the kidnapper on the top of the head.  He went limp
and fell face down on the roof.

I was elated until I heard someone else climbing the metal steps.
 There wasn't enough time to move the guy I had clobbered and I
couldn't think of anything to do before the second guy ran out of
the door and stumbled over his buddy.  I cringed back, hugging
the roof of the stairwell, trying to come up with a plan   any
plan   for this, but nothing came to mind until I heard the
clatter of a rifle being dropped and the scrape of a body being
dragged.

I peeked over the edge to see guy number two trying to pull guy
number one into the building.  To make it easier, he had put down
his rifle and radio.

"OK, another gimme," I thought.

I dropped down to land between guy number two and his weapon.  He
looked up from dragging his friend and when he saw my face, he
lost his grip and started to fall backward down the stairs.

I'd like to say that I thought about the racket that would have
made, but the truth is, I didn't think of anything, I just
reached out and grabbed the guy and pulled him out of the
doorway.  I pulled a touch too hard and he went flying past me
and rolled a few feet away.

The gun was between us now, and I thought he might try to grab
it, so I tried to close the gap between us before he could get to
it.  Instead of going for the gun though, he turned and ran away
from me as fast as he could.  I had to chase him, if only to keep
him from making so much noise that anyone inside would know
something was up.

I tried to get to him quickly, but he had a good head start.  By
the time I was almost close enough to grab, he jumped away, right
off the edge of the building and into the air.

He gave a high-pitched scream that wasn't very loud and landed
with a sound between a thud and a plop in the middle of the
alley.  I was looking down, trying to keep the cafeteria food in
my stomach when Brock looked around the corner to see what was
going on.  He took one look at the body in the alley and gave me
the thumbs-up sign.

"Bloodthirsty SOB," I thought.  Then I remembered that this was a
game with very simple scoring.  Bad-guy dead; good.  Good-guy
dead; bad.  Me dead; game over.  I wished things could have been
different, but I didn't have a lamp to rub and no Djinn to pop
out and make my wish come true.

"Suck it up, Sam," I told myself.  You can deal with this.  Deal
with it now!"

I dealt with it by getting mad.  Mad at the situation and mad at
the people who had created the situation.  I almost stomped back
to where guy number one lay half in and half out of the doorway.

He still hadn't moved.  I knelt down and checked for a pulse.  I
checked several times, but there wasn't one.  I listened for
breathing too.  He was dead.  And this one, I had killed.  I
hadn't meant to, but he was dead anyway.  I had actually done it.
 I had taken a life.  I had actually turned a living, breathing
human being into meat.

I was numb.  I tried to feel something, but nothing came but more
anger.  No guilt, no remorse, no sadness.  Just mad.

"You bastard!  You made me do that!  You made me kill you!" I
told the dead guy on the roof.

He hadn't though.  Not really.  I had done it.  Not by choice. 
Not by intent.  But I had taken a life and I didn't know how I
could fix that with my conscience.  

I was so pissed that I had to do something, so I grabbed the body
and carried it to the edge of the building, where I threw it into
the alley with the other one.  It landed with the same ugly
sound, but this time much further away, almost to the corner of
the building next door where Brock and his men were waiting.

"Waiting on me," I thought.  "Time to get back to work."

I turned away before Brock looked around the corner to see I had
left him another grisly present.  I went back to the stairs and
down inside the building without listening to see if someone else
was coming up.  The mood I was in, God help anyone I ran into.  I
had killed once already, doing it again would be easy.  I was
almost looking forward to it.  First, I had become The Dragon. 
Now, I had become Death.

The metal stairs ended at the third floor landing.  There was a
door there with a small glass window in it.  The glass was
crisscrossed with wires and translucent with grime.  I had to
stand on my toes to get high enough to see through it and what I
saw was a lot of empty space and a few desks and file-cabinets
that looked too beat-up to be worth stealing.  Just to be sure, I
carefully opened the door and stuck my head in.  Nothing moved
and there was no sign of life.  There was a thick layer of dust
all over that would surely have been disturbed if anyone had been
messing around in there, so I went back to the stairwell.  

A set of concrete stairs continued down from there, going back
and forth twice more before they ended on the ground floor.  I
peered down the shaft and listened.  I could hear voices coming
from somewhere below, but they were muffled and certainly not in
the stairwell.  The 'sound' of fear had dropped to a dull ache in
my head, but it was still strong.  I could only have been a few
yards from the victims.

As quietly as I could, I crept down the stairs.  I winced every
time some bit of grit crunched under my feet, but I was probably
the only person who could hear that.  At the second floor
landing, I was about to hop to try and peek through the window in
the fire-door, when a shadow passed over the other side of the
glass.  I really wanted to see what was on the other side of that
door, but the voices I heard didn't sounded urgent or alarmed, so
the remaining kidnappers were probably still unaware that their
hideout had been discovered.  

As much as I wanted to kick that door in, I figured I should go
for the rest of the team before they decided I had got lost
somewhere and tried to find their own way in, so I tip-toed on
down the steps to the ground floor.

The ground-floor door into the stairwell stood propped open by a
folding chair.  On the floor next to it was another paper bag,
just like the one on the roof.  I could just make out the word
'Deli' on the greasy paper.

"This kidnapping has been catered," I thought, perversely.

I looked around quickly.  There was no one there.  Apparently
when I took out the guard on the roof, the ground floor guards
had gone up to investigate and now no one was left at their
post.

I went back into the stairwell and pushed the bar to open the
door to the outside.  Crouched next to the door were Brock, Max,
and Gunny, all of whom had their guns pointed at me; or anyone
who might come out that door.

"Happy to see you, too," I said softly.  "I got rid of the
guards.  The rest are on the second floor."

Gunny and Max searched the ground floor anyway.  When they found
nothing but the kidnappers' trash, they came back.

Brock went up the stairs with a device that looked a lot like the
thing Dr. Bonner had used to explore my uterus.  It had the same
flexible plastic cable coming out of the top, and a small screen
like they put on digital cameras.  He carefully poked the cable
under the door and stared at the screen for several second before
coming back down.

"The hostages are tied to a column about thirty feet from the
door," he said.  "I saw two targets armed with AK-47s and another
with a pistol in his belt."

"I saw one walk in front of the door," I added.  "I think they
have a guard on it."

"OK, that's at least three, possibly four targets to take down,"
Brock said.  "The power is off, so the elevator isn't working. 
That means this is the only way out, unless they are set to
rappel out a window.  The bad news is, this is also the only way
in so, once we open it, they can concentrate all their fire on
that door."

"Diversion?" I suggested.  "Break a window on the far side of the
building?"

"Puts us a man short during the breach," Brock explained.  "And
climbing up through the window during a firefight would be
suicide."

I smiled prettily to remind the Colonel that we weren't all men
here, and waited for him to realize that I didn't need to climb
to get to a second-story window of a building that I had already
jumped over twice.  Well, once, anyway.

"Right," he said, agreeably.  "Max, plant a charge on that
door."

Max went up the stairs.

"We'll go when we hear the window break," he told me.  "Let's
make this good, people."

I went back outside and around the corner of the building.  This
was the side by the alley, which I already knew had no windows. 
I dashed down to the other end and stuck my head around the next
corner.

My heart jumped into my throat.  Not only were there no windows
on this end of the building either, the space was filled with two
huge dumpsters that were overflowing with scrap metal and
corrugated sheets that would make a big noise if I were to try to
climb through them.  My brilliant diversion plan was hosed and
three brave men were waiting on me to distract the kidnappers
long enough for them to get through a door.  Without my
diversion, they stood a good chance of being shot to pieces when
they tried it.

I went back to the alley and took another look at the side of the
building at the level where the second floor would be.  No
windows had miraculously appeared in the blank wall since I had
examined it before.

I looked around in near desperation.  I backed away from the
building to get a wider view and caught the heel of my sneaker on
a manhole cover.  I made a face at having such a small annoyance
happen to me at such a time.

The ugly face faded quickly.  I bent down and stuck my finger
through the small hole in the heavy metal disc.  I picked it up,
looked at it, hefted it and went down the alley to get the other
one I saw there.  When I came back, I had two iron frisbees to
play with.  I figured each one weighed as much as I did.

I backed off up the alley toward the fence we had come under and
tried to estimate the location of the hostages.  I added ten feet
to that and fixed my eyes on a spot in between two humps on the
wall that I figured were the outside columns of the building.

I had Neeka confirm that the Sigma 7 guys were ready and then I
swung one of the manhole covers around my back.  It was unclear
whether I was swinging it, or it was swinging me, but I pumped up
my adrenalin to the point where the iron disc was weightless and
I threw it as hard as I could at the spot on the wall.

I didn't bother to check the result, but grabbed the second cover
and threw it right after the first.

Both covers hit like bombs and within a few feet of each other. 
Each made a hole about six feet across, knocking in most of the
space I had picked as my target.

I took two quick steps and jumped for the hole.  Just as I took
off, I heard the sound of the fire-door being blown open.  

This jump was about as accurate at the last two.  I went higher
than I intended and my hands brushed the ceiling.  I tried to
spot the kidnappers and the hostages, but the destruction I had
caused had raised a big cloud of dust that made it impossible to
see a darn thing.

When I landed, I kept moving.  Speed seemed to be the best thing,
since in the dusty haze any gunfire would be at sounds and I
wanted to be somewhere other than where the bullets were
landing.

I ran madly around in a big clockwise circle, trying to keep the
hostages supposed position to my right while I looked for the
kidnappers in the cloud of dust.

"BLAMBLAMBLAM!"  The sudden, loud sound just about scared the pee
out of me.  I hoped it was someone firing blindly.  The noise was
almost deafening inside the mostly-gutted building.  I knew it
must have been a kidnapper because the good-guys had those big
suppressor-things on their guns and I was sure they would sound
much quieter.  The noise and flash seemed to be coming from
somewhere ahead of me, so I straightened my path and ran in that
direction.

"THWUTHWUT!"  That must have been one of the MP-whatevers.  It
still seemed awful loud to me, but nowhere near as loud as the
rifles the kidnappers were using.  I trusted that whoever was
shooting it could see better than I could and I wasn't running
through the middle of the gunfight with bullets coming from both
sides.

I'd only gone a few steps when the dust ahead of me thinned out
enough to see a man against the wall with his rifle raised and
aimed at something over my right shoulder.  He saw me at the same
time and pulled the trigger as he waved the gun toward me.

I had no time to duck and no place to dodge.  His rifle fired
three times as I ran toward it.  The first and last shots missed,
but the second caught me a couple of inches to the right of my
navel.

I didn't spin around like they do in the movies.  I wasn't blown
backward, or knocked down.  I flinched some at what felt like a
bee-sting, but that was it.  It didn't even slow me down.  I
closed the gap between us before the kidnapper could fire again.

The gun was my first concern, so I grabbed it and twisted it out
of his hands.  He tried to grab it back, and without thinking I
swung it around and hit him in the side of his head, snapping off
the wooden part of the gun.  I heard an ugly sound that wasn't
the gun breaking, so when his body dropped to the floor, I didn't
even look at it, I just dropped the gun where I stood and turned
my back.

Brock must have been right behind me, because when I turned, his
face was right in front of mine.  He put a hand on my shoulder
and we both crouched down beside a sturdy metal desk for cover as
either Max or Gunny fired off two more bursts.

"Thanks," he said.

I wasn't sure what that was for, but there was no time to discuss
it.

"You're hit.  I saw you get hit," he said, urgently.

I put my hand on the spot where I had felt the sting.  It felt
soft, and the pain was getting bad.  I told it to shut up and
heal while I held my breath, clenched my jaw shut and hoped that
the next time someone shot me, I would be wearing the full Mark
II version of my suit.  Better yet, that getting shot wouldn't be
a regular thing for me.

"I'm OK," I whispered, after I sucked in a little air and blinked
away the tears.  In time I would be, and we both had unfinished
business at the moment.

The dust started to settle and I could see movement in the
direction of the hole I had made, where yellow sunlight was
streaming in through the haze.  I couldn't make out if it was one
of us or one of them, until I saw the burst of flame from the
muzzle of the rifle and heard the bullets thud into the wall
behind us.

I snatched up the desk and threw it at the flash.  There was a
crash, and then no more noise from there except for the pop of a
fluorescent bulb that fell from a ceiling fixture.

The gunfire stopped.  Brock and I watched and listened alertly as
the dust slowly settled.  As it cleared, we saw Max and Gunny
standing on either side of the hostages, their guns at the ready,
scanning the area for targets.  When they didn't find any, they
lowered their guns to a posture of relaxed readiness, but didn't
move or stop looking around.

Brock and I went around checking the bodies.  None of the
bad-guys had survived.  Of four bodies, two had neat holes in the
center of their chests.  The two I had killed were much messier.
The first one's head was caved in and the second was crushed
between the desk and a wall.

"Get them out of here," Brock ordered, when he was sure the area
was secure.

Max pulled a large knife out of his boot-sheath and cut the bonds
of the two lovebirds tied to the metal column, then he and Gunny
half-dragged them both toward the door.

I hung back, not wanting my makeup to startle the victims and
because I was still fighting the effects of being shot, but the
girl saw me and pulled away from Max to come over to me.

"You!" she said, accusingly.  "It's you!  You're The Dragon."

"Another TV watcher," I thought.  "Does no one have anything to
do but sit around watching TV?"

"In the scales," I said, making a feeble attempt at humor.

She didn't laugh at my joke, but she didn't seem bothered by my
make-up at all.  Unlike her boyfriend, who was trying edge closer
to the exit while looking at me with a strange expression.  He
wasn't all that cute, if you ask me.  I really don't know what
she saw in him.  

"Thank you!  Thank you for saving us!"

I wanted to point out that the responsibility wasn't all mine,
but I remembered that Sigma 7 was a deeply-secret organization
that didn't officially exist and they wouldn't appreciate me
dragging them into the spotlight that I was having so much
trouble getting out of.

"All part of the service, Miss," I said, magnanimously, as I
tried to drop my voice an octave to sound more Heroic.  "You go
on with these agents and get cleaned up now.  I know your mother
wants to hear from you as soon as you can get to a phone."

The girl nodded and smiled and ran along obediently with the nice
men.  Although I know you shouldn't judge people when they aren't
at their best, I have to say I don't know what he saw in her,
either.  

When the victims were gone, I saw Brock watching me out of the
corner of my eye.  He might have been studying my expression, but
I knew he darn well couldn't see it under my moving make-up.

"What?" I asked, turning to face him and dropping back to my
normal face.

"Humph," he said, startled.  "I'd almost got used to the other
one.  I was just thinking that I was wrong about you.  I thought
you were some amateur who would fold when the shit hit the fan. 
I'm very glad I was wrong about that."

"Hunh?"

Brock nodded toward the kidnapper on the floor.  The one I had
broken the rifle butt on.

"This one had me cold.  He came out of the corner I thought I'd
checked and he was about to shoot me when you came flying out of
nowhere and took the burst he would have unloaded into me.  I
still don't see why you aren't wounded."

"Oh, I am.  It hurts like hell and I'll probably carry a bruise
for a while, but I heal very quickly.  The suit is
bullet-resistant."

"Sure," he nodded, absently rubbing a spot under his vest where I
suspected he was remembering being hit by hostile fire.  Having
been shot twice now, I can say for sure that it's not something
you tend to forget.  "The point is; you saved my life.  That's
not supposed to happen.  At least it's never happened to me.  Not
by...."

"A Dragon?" I said, helpfully.

His lips got real thin.  On someone else that would have been a
grin.

"A girl?"

Just when he was opening up, he got stiff again when I said that.
 I never know when to shut the hell up.

"We need to get moving," he said.  "Mr. Solomon has arranged an
exit for us."

Neeka's voice rang in my head, "Better hurry back.  Someone
reported the shooting and the media is on the way."

"Right," I said to both of them, going back to my Dragon
persona.

We went down the stairs and out of the building.  When we got to
the alley I saw what Solomon had done.  There was a black van
parked there and the place was overrun with men in black outfits
just like the ones the Sigma 7 guys were wearing.  The fake
Federal Agents vanished into a crowd of real ones.

I had no such advantage.  I stuck out like a peacock at a penguin
party.  It didn't help any that all of the real agents were
staring at me.  When I heard the helicopter, I knew I had to
leave right away.

"See you back at the truck," I told Brock.

I dodged around a knot of agents and EMTs who were attending to
the victims.  I jogged a couple of steps and jumped over the
black van and onto the roof of the building next to it.  Now that
there was no danger, it was kind of fun to be leaping small
buildings.

I ran diagonally across the roof, carefully avoided stepping in
the lines of sticky black tar, and jumped back down to the
street, ran around the corner and into the truck we had come in.


There was no one there.  I was the first one back.  I waved at
Curt, went over to the Septic Tank van and rapped on the only
clean spot I could find.  Neeka let me in.

"Welcome back," she said.

I hadn't seen the inside of this truck before.  It was as nice on
the inside as it was nasty on the outside.  It was loaded with
communications gear and had cushioned chairs, a coffee-maker, a
fridge, and task-lighting.  When Solomon went into the field, he
did it in comfort.

Mr. Solomon didn't seem happy to see me.  He scowled and pointed
at a TV monitor.

"The news chopper came in hot.  They caught you going over the
van, but they lost you in the street.  We need to leave.  Now."

As if on cue, the TV screen cut to a replay of me taking off and
landing on the roof.  After that, the corner of another building
got in the way and by the time they got past it, I was out of
sight.  Again, I was amazed at the stability of those
helicopter-mounted cameras and how far they could zoom.

I sat down as the truck backed into the street and turned away
from the scene.  We watched the live feed from the helicopter,
but it was fixed on the crowd in the alley and we got away
cleanly.

Once he was sure we were clear, Mr. Solomon looked at me sternly,
then averted his eyes.

"Please turn that off," he said.

I dropped The Dragon and went back to plain old me.

"Are you worried that the TV people saw me?  Why?  They've seen
me before."

Solomon went from mad to unhappy.

"It's bad operational security to be photographed at the scene. 
Very bad."

"Ordinarily," I agreed.  "But what's their story?  'Dragon Saves
Kidnap Victims With Help From Federal Agents'.  Who's going to
look for your spook squad with that for a cover?"

"Good point," he admitted, grudgingly.  "I guess I was thinking
of you as part of the team.  At least I was hoping...."

"I'm flattered.  Really.  But I'm not a 'joiner'.  And I'm
already on a team."

"And a remarkably effective one, from what I saw," he said,
glancing at Neeka.  Apparently she had been giving him a
blow-by-blow of the whole thing, supplementing what he got from
Brock, which I knew hadn't been much.  I hoped her description
had been suitably edited.

"Of course," Neeka said, silently.

To further placate Mr. Solomon, I gave him my cell number and
told him I would be available if he had a need for my services in
the future.  He was appreciative.  He asked if there was anything
he could do for me.

"Only if you have a steak handy.  Medium-rare.  About an inch
thick."

He admitted that his larder was limited to caffeinated
soft-drinks and a few candy bars.  I ate his candy bars, but left
him his cache of high-voltage cola.  I wanted to be able to sleep
later.



Solomon got us home with the same speed and coordination that had
got us to Miami.  He even had Sheriff Foster meet the plane,
which taxied away as soon as we were out of it.

"How did it go?" Foster asked.

"Good," I said.  "But I made the TV news again."

"Well, maybe they will look for you over there for while.  And
quit pestering me."

"You think?"

"Not really.  You're going to be very famous."

"I didn't want that."

"Tough."

His sudden outburst of candor hit me funny.  I laughed so hard my
stomach hurt, which made the spot where the bullet hit hurt even
worse, which made me cuss in a very un-ladylike manner.  I
probably needed the release very badly to react that way.  When I
calmed down, I called Mom to let her know we were on the way.



When we got home it was well past suppertime, but Mom laid out a
spread of leftovers and I ate until I was about to pop.  Then Mom
and Neeka hauled me upstairs and plunked me into a tub of hot
water until I was too groggy to stay awake.



When I woke up, Mom was there in bed with me.  Neeka must have
told her some of what happened and she didn't want me to be
alone.

I had slept very deeply and even though it was still early, I
felt that I'd had enough rest.  I slipped out of bed and went
over to stand in front of the long mirror.  I looked at my
reflection while I flipped The Dragon on and off again.  The
difference in my appearance was enormous.  The difference in how
I felt was undetectable.  As far as I could tell, I was the same
person, with or without the dragon image in my skin.  I was a
little disappointed about that.  I had sort of hoped I had some
kind of split-personality thing and I could point to the Dragon
part of me and say, "She did it, not me!"

But I had done it.  Just me.  No one else.  As much as I wanted
to be able to squirm out of it, there was no denying it, no
rationalizing it, no avoiding it, no ducking it, no hiding from
it.  I had killed.  Not just once, either.  I had killed at least
four people.

A small part of me said, "Yep, and the men in the black outfits
with the fancy guns only got two.  You did twice as good as a
team of professional soldiers."

By his own admission, I even saved Colonel Brock's life although
I didn't know I was doing it at the time, so I didn't even try to
use that as justification.

What then?  What justified taking one life?  Never mind four. 
Maybe five.  Maybe just three?  After all, one jumped off the
roof on his own.  No, that's quibbling.  I killed four men.  Not
meaning to kill the first one doesn't change it.  Running the
second off the roof doesn't change it.  The third had already
shot me, but I had the gun away from him.  The fourth was firing
blind and trying to kill anyone he could, but specifically Brock
and me.  This time, I didn't escape just before they killed
themselves.  I did it to them myself, one after another.  And now
I had to live with what I'd done.  The question was, could I?  

We are all brought up to believe that killing is wrong.  Well,
most of us.  Everyone, I knew, anyway.  Quibbling again. 
Digressing, too.  Stop it.  I need to talk about this.

Killing is one of the big 'Don't's on most of the lists of things
you should Do or Don't in order to live a decent life.  It's so
bad that if you do it, you risk getting killed in punishment for
it; which always seemed to me to be perpetuating the problem.  It
also created a logical contradiction   if you kill, you must be
killed; someone must pull the switch or fire the bullet.  Does
that person then also deserve death?  Who executes the
executioner?  

So sometimes it is OK to kill.  The rule isn't absolute.  A
soldier's job is to kill.  They train them under very intense
pressure to insure that when the time comes, they will be able to
do their jobs.  Brock and his men were all Special Warfare types.
 They were the best that could be found at their job and they
were sent out whenever an extraordinary situation called for an
extraordinary response.  Just like James Bond, they were
authorized to kill on behalf of their country.  Anytime, anyplace
it was necessary.  It was probably terribly illegal, but then so
was much of what I did, my courtesy badge notwithstanding.  Laws
only constrain the lawful.  A law forbidding the presence of
rabid animals on a playground is useless and pointless.  At some
point, someone has to step in and apply lethal force when lethal
force is necessary, and all our love of peace and desire for
tranquility cannot stop people who are willing to destroy that
peace.  As beautiful as it sounds, you can't fight evil with
love.

This time, the extraordinary situation had been a kidnapping that
could have affected international relations for years to come. 
The kidnapping itself was a big enough crime to justify risking
lives to stop it.  The political angle made it important enough
to bring in Sigma 7...and me.

The kidnappers were obviously prepared to kill anyone who tried
to interfere with them.  They had enough automatic weapons to
fight off the police force of most small towns.  If any other
team had tried to go in there a lot of them would have died.  It
was a close thing even for the Sigma 7 team.  If I hadn't been
there....

If I hadn't been there, Brock's team might have had to fight
their way into the building, instead of surprising the kidnappers
in their second-floor hideout.  I had little doubt that they
would have won the fight, but what would have happened to the
hostages?  Would they have walked out of there unharmed or even
alive?

I couldn't say.  Not for certain, anyway.  I had helped rescue of
a couple of important people.  Even ignoring the 'important'
part, I had contributed to saving two people whose lives were in
danger.  That part was solid.  During the rescue, I had killed
four of the people responsible for creating the situation. 
Should I feel guilty about that?  Was 'they brought it on
themselves' an adequate defense in the court of my conscience? 
Only time would tell.

"Honey?" Mom said sleepily from the bed.  "Are you all right?"

"Sure, Mom.  I'm fine."









The End





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