Vision

A novel by

r.b. heine

Vietnam (1970) - U.S. Army corporals Buddy Steiner and J.J. Skeffington chose to go to the small Army depot on this dismal, rainy October morning because it suited their purpose nicely. The Supply clerks would stay huddled inside the tiny hut that served as an office. And the two MPs guarding the grounds would be reluctant to go out into the yard very often.

After signing in at the front gate and turning in their Army-issued weapons, they drove the small, canvas-covered truck to the back row of neatly stacked supplies. Although their purchase order mentioned only a few office supplies and some shovels and picks, they headed towards the munitions section.

They loaded anti-tank weapons, then quickly grabbed a few crates of ammunition, then a few small crates of hand weapons and automatic rifles. Finally, they headed to the truck to pick up the obligatory picks and shovels. Their path was blocked by one of the MPs, weapon still slung over his shoulder.

"What are you guys doin back here?" he barked. "Thought you were just gonna..."

His question, and his life, were immediately terminated by two 7.62 mm rounds from a Czech-made machine pistol that had been hidden in the small of Corporal Steiner's back. Skeffington quickly removed the MP's automatic rifle and fired the full clip into the nearby trees and bushes.

They then completed the well-planned, "Viet Cong-style terrorist harassment raid" , as the U.S. Army investigative report eventually read. The other MP and the supply clerks were killed with Chinese AK-47s and pistols made in Yugoslavia (the kind used by the Viet Cong). The corporals fired American rounds, from pistols and rifles, into the trees just outside the depot. And the entire supply depot was torched, "to keep the VietCong from using the supplies" said the two corporals.

The investigators took note that only "VC" spent ammunition was found within the deport, while American caliber ammunition was fired outward. And , since the depot - and the surrounding foliage - was severely burned there were no tire or foot tracks of use. They also concluded that the Corporal's Steiner and Skeffington had apparently acted with bravery by driving off the Viet Cong, both being wounded in the process.

(After dropping off their contraband at a dingy, but very secure, warehouse, they shot each other with 9mm machine pistols, in hopes of lending credence to their testimony. Steiner had chickened out by telling JJ to just graze him on the upper thigh, while Skeffington had Steiner blast him in the kneecap - the resulting limp serving as a constant reminder to all of his gallantry, and assuring that he not only got elected to the U.S. House of Representative, but also was re-elected time after time.)

Which is exactly what happened after they were honorably, medically discharged, replete with Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts.

"If a child lives with hostility he learns to fight" Dorothy L. Nolte

CHAPTER 1

His movements were slow and deliberate, his search pattern consistent. Ignore the boxes of books, civilian clothes, and linens. Try not to step on the creaky floor-boards. Walk carefully in the dimly-lit attic. Look for weapons.

The smell of mold went unnoticed, the near-darkness did not deter him, so urgent was his need.

Beneath what looked like a military jacket he found a leather pouch, an Army insignia stamped on the outside. Inside he found a brass-encased compass, designed to unfold for sighting purposes. The needle seemed frozen until he slid his finger under the device and pulled off a flat, five-pointed metallic star. It was a throwing star! With a flick of the wrist he could fling this thing 30 feet. Easy! "Great," he thought to himself, stuffing the weapon in his jacket pocket, "this is a start. But I need something better."

Five minutes later he found something much more exciting. Inside one of the old leather combat boots - pushed halfway up the toe - he felt hard steel. He withdrew it and turned it over in his hand. "Wow, it's like some kind of brass knuckles," he thought. Made of black-anodized steel, it had four finger holes and - much like brass knuckles - protruding ridges forward of each finger. He slid his small fingers through the holes and his thumb touched a button. A hard push of the button and - thwack - a short stiletto blade suddenly appeared at the base. He jabbed it into the wooden floor a few times. Although quite and short, it was obvious that this blade was tough. He felt both edges and they were quite sharp.

"Why," he wondered, "is the blade on the wrong end?" He made some slashing motions, back and forth, hacking his way through imaginary foes.

"This'll scare the hell out of them," he thought. "No one's gonna call me a nigger, or a Chink, or even a fatso anymore!" The bruises on his jaw throbbed, justifying his thievery.

Dylan Haun had found what he had hoped for - an equalizer of sorts. A weapon that would turn his five foot, chubby body into a dangerous force. Whipping and slicing the weapon through the air, young Dylan lost himself in images of revenge. But when he turned to ward off the "enemy" behind him, he found his uncle Matthew looming over him instead.

"Son," said Matthew Haun, "just what is going on here?"

Dylan froze, wide-eyed and fearful "He's been drinking again." he thought. "He only calls me `son` when he's had a few. Now what do I do?"

"Sir, I was just fooling around," he replied.

"Fooling around my foot! You stopped fooling around when you started playing with killing tools, dammit!"

"But Uncle Matt..."

"Don't even start it son. Put that weapon down now."

Dylan put the knife and the throwing star next to the boot and cautiously straightened up. He didn't know what to expect. His uncle had never beat on him, but then again he'd never been caught snooping and stealing.

"Downstairs, right now," snapped uncle Matt.

Dylan felt safer in the light of the den, sitting at the computer desk, where his uncle let him do his evening homework. He began to feel almost comfortable until his uncle came into the room and eased into the big chair, fresh drink in hand.

"Son, I'm not mad about your snooping about the attic. I have been aware that you've been poking around the house for a long time. I just put it down to youthful curiosity. Sign of a good journalist as a matter of fact. And you never took anything."

"But now," Matt drawled, "you've been caught in the act. And I think you meant to take that knife. Didn't you?

"Yes sir, but you gotta..."

"Gotta. Gotta! Don't you use slang words in this house, dammit. We've taught you better. In fact we've taught you a lot. And we certainly didn't teach you to become violent. What the hell are you doing getting violent on me now."

Dylan knew his uncle was right. Matthew and wife Sylvia - before her death - had taken great pains to add to his education and upbringing. They'd done tons of wonderful things for him. The tears began flowing from his eyes, quietly streaking his face. Confusion was spinning inside his brain. Confusion, then shame and then unexpected fury.

"You don't get it, man." blurted out the boy. "You teach me music, and writing, and religion, and art, and computers , and all that stuff ... and at school they teach me some more."

He was screaming now and Matthew was stunned. This shy fifteen year-old had hardly ever spoken above a whisper, but now he was spewing pure anger. Maybe some hate. Matthew felt a twinge of fear.

"But what you don't teach me," Dylan shrieked "is how I'm supposed to get from here to school without being beaten by the gangs, robbed by the drunks on 13th, hassled by the dealers or hurt by bullies. And they are dissin' me every ..."

"Dissin' you. What are you talking about? What's dissin'?"

"Disrespecting me. Treating me with no respect. Messing with me."

"What are you saying, Dylan? You've never mentioned one problem about ..."

"Who do I talk to? You? Half the time you're trying to drink away your sadness from losing Aunt Sylvia, and the rest of the time you're just preaching and teaching."

"Dylan, what's that mark on your face? Did somebody hit you? What's going on here?"

Dylan had worked himself into near-exhaustion, such was his despair. But he ignored the question and continued to cry out.

"All I am is some chubby little kid that everyone thinks is so smart and so creative, and so cute. And none of you understands that out there - on the streets - I'm just a niggger shrimp, or a Chink shrimp or a four-eyed, nigger, Chink, fatso, nerd .. and you ain't teachin me nothin bout how to stay alive out there!" He spun around and dashed out the front door sobbing - sobbing for what he'd just said, crying out because it was also true, blubbering in sheer confusion.

Which was the same state his uncle was in. Sagging into the big chair, mouth agape, drink now untouched. Matthew Haun found himself suddenly aware of the enormity of being a fill-in father for a very complicated young man.

Matt's older brother Peter and his wife Lan Chi had been killed six years ago by a drunk driver while he was stationed in Pensacola, Florida. And Dylan had come to live with Matt and his wife Sylvia. Two years later Sylvia was killed in what seemed to be a hit-and-run just blocks from their house. A house now filled with sadness and gloom. He was deeply troubled by the shockingly obvious truths just uttered by his nephew.

"The boy never complained before." thought Matt. "Always been quiet, almost reclusive. Hardly speaks a dozen words on any given day."

Matt found himself staring downward at the drink in his hand, unconsciously swirling it then looking away as if trying to deny its existence. He walked to the kitchen and poured it into the sink and returned to his chair in the living room. He slumped into it, suddenly heavy with the realization that it was he, not the boy, who was reclusive, shy, and close-mouthed.

"God, I've been hiding from everything. Hoping I wouldn't have to deal with him or myself. Buried myself in more of a rut than a routine. Work day and night to avoid coming home. Soon as I'm home I dive into that bottle - putting up another barrier. Watch TV, read a book, hit the bars ... anything but open the doors so that Dylan can get to me. I've left him to his own devices and this is what happens. No wonder he took such desperate measures."

Eventually, he forced himself to slip on his overcoat and head out to the "club" for supper. He was still dazed by Dylan's outburst, quite baffled by the boy's dilemma. He yearned not to think about it, yet knew he must. Losing the boy would be far more painful than having to deal with all that had happened.

The club, formally known as "The Bayou Blues Club", was a two-block walk from his house. But Matt avoided walking on 13th Street so he would not have to pass the area on 13th where his wife had been killed. The club was an anomaly in this status-conscious town of Washington, D.C. High ceilings, sprawling dance floor, stage large enough to comfortably handle a dozen musicians, and the smell of Cajun cooking wafting over 70 tables and booths. It was down-home and unpretentious. No ferns or tofu here. The same middle-aged Black men who cooked the evening fare, ended up playing New Orleans twelve-bar blues each night. They leased the building and owned the "club". The crowd was an eclectic, multi-racial mix of quiet, fun-loving folks from all over town. Politics, power, pomposity were not allowed to contaminate this haven. The other half of the huge, two-story brownstone building was leased by some quiet corporation that never seemed to do business there. No complaints, no conflicts.

Inside the club, he slipped into his favorite darkly-lit booth, ordered a double and the usual supper, and brooded over what Dylan had said. The band was just beginning to warm up for the evening, the crowd still light. Nothing to distract him. Not even the blackened trout when it arrived. He nibbled absent-mindedly, barely touching his drink.

They entered The Bayou Blues Club and immediately drew attention. Both tall, well-dressed and strangely elegant. B.E. Buckanaga, an American Indian currently working as a Special Agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency arm-in-arm with Holly Sorensen a news photographer for the New York Times Washington, D.C. bureau. An odd couple, yet good friends who like to "do the town" every so often. Everyone took notice of them except Matt Haun.

But they spotted him, slumped over his drink, oblivious to the merriment surrounding him.

"Buck, isn’t that the reporter from the Post?" whispered Holly.

"Yup"

"God, Buck he looks miserable."

"Guy's been thru hell lately. Brother Pete and his Vietnamese wife were killed by a drunk in a car, leaving Matt and Sylvia to take care of a son named Dylan. We sort of parted ways for a while, but when I heard his wife had been killed a few years later I he's too much the strong, silent type. He endures looked him up. Didn’t really want to see me."

"What happened to his wife?"

"She was killed a few blocks from home about four years ago. Hit-and-run they called it, but never proved it. He tried to forget it all by joining Special Forces with me."

"He joined Special Forces? I thought that group was some sort of elite, anti-terrorist, killer group."

"It's sort of like that Holly. Top Secret, maybe even illegal. I could never figure that one out and that's why I quit."

"But, to answer your question, yes he did join - same time I did. I looked him up after his wife's death and we started talking and I told him I was joining the group. Babbled something about being sick and tired of all those rotten drug lords getting away with murder .... frustrated because the law kept me from doing some things I thought needed doing ... so maybe, if I joined the "Force" I could nail a few of those worms."

"He jumped on the idea so fast it scared me. Looking back I'd say he was so overwrought at the deaths in his family, and the inability to punish the cause of those deaths ... he just desperately needed to payback somebody, anybody. So he quit the Post and joined. And, for a while he was one of the best they'd ever seen. Trained obsessively. Ruthless on missions. Can't say what we did, but I sure was glad to have him as a partner. I trusted him like no other man - white, black, red or yellow."

"And what about the boy Dylan?"

He was sent across town to live with a relative of Matt's, Some hard-nose, religious aunt. He would visit Dylan as often as possible and could see how miserable the boy was. I think that's part of why he quit Special Forces."

""I met him a year ago at another bar," recalled Holly, " I doubt whether he'd even remember me."

"Bet you a lobster dinner he will." grinned Buck. "If he doesn’t brush us off first."

"Got room for two more?" chirped Holly Sorenson, still linked arm-in-arm with B.E. Buckanaga.

"Holly! Buck! Wow, hey sit right down," Matthew blurted out, shocked out of his malaise by the couple. "Are you two a number now? Got a big announcement for me?

"Uh, uh," said Holly, "nothing earth-shaking. We just bumped into each other at Justice and decided to have gin and grits together and see who could lie best."

"Then we spot this great big black guy brooding in the dark. Not even sipping his drink, barely eating his food." said Buckanaga. "I say, something not good with dark man. No drinkum firewater. No eatum."

Matt managed a smile, sighed, and shook his head. "What's this world coming to when two college-educated people are barely able to articulate their own, simple thoughts. So much for trying to educate the masses - be they Texan or Cherokee. Thanks for coming over, but this is may not be a good time. Things aren't going well with my boy."

Buck and Holly glanced at each other. Knowing what Matt had endured so far, this sounded bad. They sat down to hear him out.

"It seems I haven't taught Dylan a damn thing."

"Bullshit, honey, from what you told me last time we talked" Holly drawled. "you done taught that boy everything from Doestevsky to Darwinian theory. Beethoven to Bacharach. Why shit, it sounds like that boy's so stuffed with culture and art and class it's a wonder he don't burst from over-complications."

Over-complications indeed, Matt thought to himself. Here's an elegantly educated, gorgeous journalist slipping into that down-home, Texan "bubba" drawl. But he couldn't help being impressed that she'd remembered their conversation a year ago, most "bar talk" being quickly forgotten. And he had to admit he was glad she had showed up, even though the circumstances weren't that good.

"Honey," Matt replied is his twangy, country best, "y'all don't know the half of it. The boy is right. We done taught him everything, 'ceptin how to survive the trip from one learning station to the next. According to Dylan he ain't nothin - imagine him talking like this - he ain't nothin but a nigger, Chink, four-eyed, fatso nerd. And out there on the streets, beyond our protection, that's a fact. Out there he is just a little butterball, target for every bully, gang leader and hustler, and he has the bruises on his face to prove it. He wouldn't even tell me where they came from."

"Probably got pushed around by some bully at school." said Buck. "That happens a lot, and the victim hardly ever talks about it. Too ashamed to admit he is being abused. Kids actually commit suicide every year because of the shame."

"So this might be going on all the time. No wonder he was in the attic, loading up on weapons. He's so desperate he tried to swipe my Special Forces combat knife tonight."

Buck and Holly settled back with a sigh. This was going to be a long evening. Not a bad one, nor morose, but long. Dylan was Buck's favorite kid. A gifted, creative, and very likable "son" of his good friend. A boy who had endured much pain, yet seemed to be handling it well. Dylan's words, and the harsh, crude way he'd expressed them, meant a real problem had arisen, and Buck wanted to help.

Holly was equally interested, yet for other reasons. The first time she had met Buck she had found him interesting and appealing. Now, thanks to a chance meeting, she discovered more about him and her curiosity grew.

"He's a trained killer, yet sensitive as can be." She thought to herself." He's so quite - strong, silent type - yet there is so much to him. Pays attention to others, loves music and art, yet covers the crime beat. After all that violence in his own life why the crime beat? And why so much drinking. Yet he does seem to care a lot about his nephew. He's hardly touched that drink since he came here. He looks so sad, yet he is awfully handsome. Wish I'd worn that silk dress tonight ...."

Her maternal instincts surfaced. Her curiosity rose. About the boy as well as the man. But the truth be known, this man, this Mathew Haun - unlike any man she had met - simply turned her on. He was neither one-dimensional nor two-faced. He was very complicated, very real, and, right now, very vulnerable.

"Strong and silent-type be damned. That's not one bit macho. Mathew Haun is a real man. Secure enough with himself to admit to insecurities, doubts, and mistakes. He isn't sitting around looking for sympathy, he's looking for answers to something he really cares about. No greed here, no yuppie self-indulgence. This man cares and shares and maybe I can help."

She quietly resolved that she would stay as long as she was welcome.

Drinking slowed to sipping as they mulled this dilemma. It soon became obvious that Dylan had verbalized a serious omission in the upbringing of "20th century kid" - that survival on the "streets" was far more immediate, and important to these kids than the skills they would use later in the "real world" of business and adulthood.

They knew of others who insisted in accusing the country of becoming a children-hostile culture and had always thought that too harsh a judgement. But, now the problem was brought closer to home and they were forced to reconsider.

If not "kid-hostile", maybe kid-negligent?

They all recalled their own childhood's, when the whole family would sit down together at suppertime - a deliberate, and highly comforting ritual - quietly eating and talking their way through the events of their individual day. And they realized how extremely important that ritual was to their well-being and stability - a ritual now missing in much of urban society.

"You know maybe I could teach him some photography. It certainly helped those kids I taught at that "Shooting Back" thing I did a while ago. Talk about beaten down, these were homeless kids and, by gawd we empowered the daylights out those youngsters. Gave 'em self esteem, expanded their horizons, and they figured out ways to shoot with a camera that had their whole neighborhood damn near bowing with respect, especially when we let them carry a Nikon for a week or two. It was like they carried a badge of honor. You could see the pride swell up in 'em. And the pictures they came up with! Anyway, if you want to try some of this with Dylan we can work up a plan..."

"We could get together here tomorrow night..." Matt blurted.

"Uh,uh honey, no boozin and bullshitin. We swill enough schnapps to outstinko a skunk as it is. And the next day we can't remember half of the BS we came up with. This will be a long and sober, and well throughout. And you will pay, and you will pay attention to what the schoolmarm has to say or I'll tan your hide."

"Sounds good..." said Matt.

"Sounds kinky too, can I come along and watch?" said Buck.

Which earned him a lot of playful smacking about the head and shoulders from Matt and Holly.

They parted, and Matt walked home aware of some parental feelings and concerns he'd thought long abandoned. He checked Dylan's room and was glad to see the boy safely tucked away, sound asleep. Then he poured a "night cap" and sat down to mull over the meeting and discussions with Buck and Holly. And the ghosts began to surface.

--------

Dylan awoke with a start, the thumping, pounding noises from the basement had started. It was 2:30 in the morning and his uncle was at it again.

It seemed to Dylan that each time Uncle Matt's wife was mentioned in conversation, Matt would end up in the basement pummeling that old, over-sized heavy bag to death.

Dylan had snuck down to watch once and the scene was frightening. Matt, fully-trained in martial arts, attacked the bag in a drunken frenzy, yet with deadly skill. The hand-chops and foot-kicks went high to the bag as though aiming to the "victim's" face. Cruel blows from hand and foot attacked the bags mid-section. And Matt' face, contorted with hate, would scream and groan and cry out.

It had terrified Dylan to watch his uncle physically "killing" this bag, dropping to the floor in exhaustion, and slipping into an agonizing, tortured sleep ... and he never went down there again to witness the ordeal.

Instead, whenever he heard the violent commotion, he would lay awake, curled up in a fetal position, cringing in guilt.

"If I hadn't come here and caused Aunt Sylvia to got to work, she never would have died. If I hadn't mentioned Aunt Sylvi's name, Uncle Matt wouldn't get so drunk and crazy. "Everyone who loves me ends up dead - I must be some kind of bad news."

Like most youngsters Dylan felt as thought the weight of the world was on his shoulders and every problem was his fault. Since his uncle was not the talkative type, there was no chance to air out all his fears and they grew out of proportion. He drifted off , still troubled.

"To nourish children and raise them against odds is in any time, any place, more valuable than to ... design nuclear weapons." --- Marilyn French

CHAPTER 2

Matt was barely up and barely awake. His usual routine was to fire up the coffee pot, stroll down the street to The Java Shop, pick up some croissants, The New York Times and the Washington Post and head home to wake up Dylan. He almost didn't hear the gentle tapping the front door opening. His sleepy eyes beheld young Dylan, eyes lowered, holding the Times and the Post plus a powerful peace offering - a pound of freshly-baked pecan caramel rolls purchased from the nearby shelves of the Java Shop. They fondly referred to these caloric catastrophes as "sticky buns".

Usually sticky buns were only bought when there was a holiday or a birthday but today, Matt realized, Dylan was hoping to make peace with his uncle. To apologize.

"Boy, that sure looks great," said Matt, "what's the occasion?"

"I just wanted to .. to um ... I just wanted to say I'm sorry about ..."

"You don't have to apologize to me for telling the truth last night, son, and a pound of sticky buns is a bit too much to pay for using the "n-word". Come on in. Let's consume the heck outta these puppies."

Dylan, much relieved, followed his uncle to the kitchen. Coffee had just finished perking. A tub of butter was placed between them on the large kitchen table, and they feasted, quietly intent on pouring through each page of both papers and devouring every ounce of that potent pound of pastries. They met half their objective with the buns and that was plenty.

Usually there would be some discussion of items in the newspapers, but this morning remained unusually quiet. Dylan would steal quick glances at his uncle, still unsettled by the previous nights events. Uncle Matt looked very unhappy.

"Uncle Matt, are you okay?"

Matt wiped a tear from his eye, coughed nervously and began talking. Quietly, haltingly, he tried to open up.

"Son, I'm sorry. I haven't been much good to you these past few years."

"Uncle Matt, you don't have ...."

"No, let me finish. I keep thinking maybe this isn't the best environment for you to be in ..."

"So you want to get rid of me again?'

"NO! I just don't feel your getting the best. I feel like I might be such a screw up that you'll get hurt, just like Sylvia did."

Dylan's eye's grew wide. His Uncle had touched raw nerve.

"But Uncle Matt, you didn't cause Aunt Sylvia's ..."

"If I had paid more attention, maybe I wouldn't have let her take that bus all the time. Maybe I would have insisted she drive to work."

"Sir, you know she hated driving in the city."

"Better that than getting killed on a dark street."

"Uncle Matt, she told me once that those quiet times on the bus were special to her. She said she wouldn't trade them for all the Rolls Royces in the world. Besides, If you two didn't have to take care of me, spend all that money on me, she wouldn't have to go to work in the first place and that wouldn't have happened to her."

Dylan's words - all of them - smacked Matt like thunder. He knew that this was a very important moment for the both of them and he tried to sort it all out.

In his grief he had forgotten about Sylvia's dislike of driving. Dylan's reminder of that fact certainly negated a lot of the guilt he had long endured. And Dylan's concern that his presence had forced both of them to work, thus contributing to Sylvia's death..."

"My God son, we've both been moping around blaming ourselves for the same thing. You didn't cause her death and neither did I."

" We have more than enough money. Your parent's insurance and now Sylvia's. More than enough to take care of you now and pay your way through college. But Sylvia, Dylan I swear she wouldn't quit that job for anything. I tried to get her to once, just once is all it took for me to know not to bring up the subject again. We certainly didn't need the money. She just was at the wrong place and we have to quit feeling guilty about it. And, while we are at it, maybe we should quit being afraid."

"Afraid. I'm not afraid sir, maybe sad sometimes, but..."

"Yes, your sad. Because you are afraid. Afraid to love people. Afraid they might die to. I can see why because I'm going through the same thing. Remember, it may have been your mom and dad that died, but he was my brother and she was my sister-in-law. And losing them hurt me a lot to. And talking about Sylvia is all but impossible for me."

"Me too, sir."

"Dylan, we have to make some changes around here, what do you say?"

"We should talk more about this kinda thing, maybe?" said Dylan.

"Yup. You and I have been punishing ourselves too much for things we couldn't do anything about. And, we been avoiding each other because we're afraid to love anybody again. Now it's time we stopped acting like a couple of chickens, and start loving again."

"I'm afraid..." stuttered Dylan.

"So am I son. But I don't know what I'd do if I were to lose you."

"That's how I feel to. But, half the time I just want to run away and hide."

"Yes, and half the time I've been hiding out in a bottle. This has got to change, starting now."

Matt leaned back, sighed, and sipped some coffee.

"Son, I'd like to walk to school with you this morning and discuss some ideas about the problems you brought up last night. Is that OK with you?"

"Yessir."

As they ambled towards Dylan's school Uncle Matt thanked Dylan for pointing out the problems of the streets, and then spelled out a few basic plans to fill in those gaps.

"All in all," Matt explained, "we - we being our friends B.E. Buckanaga and Holly Sorenson and I - we will not only teach you a few new disciplines, but prepare a total strategy for you. Hopefully, with your talents and smarts, you will have no further problems on these streets."

Dylan was very excited, trying to imagine all the skills he would soon acquire, fantasizing revenge, maybe even..."

Then he spotted his worst fear. "Cream" Romero, undisputed "owner" of this territory, hanging out across the street, leaning against the grocery store wall.

"Uncle Matt!" Dylan whispered. "Look out. That guy across the street is the meanest guy around."

Matt Haun stiffened, eyes like lasers. "I see him. Now tell me all you know about him and his family and friends, and be fast about it."

Dylan provided a quick biography, including Cream's sister (who at age 17 was plying the hooker trade to pay for her heroin habit), father dead, and a mother who had a good job, but spent most of her time drinking. And, finally, Dylan described Cream's track record of beating anyone who displeased him.

As they came close, Matt suddenly sped across the street, moved right up to Cream - hand on Cream's shoulder - quietly talking and gesturing. Dylan remained across the street and watched in fascination. Suddenly his uncle appeared to reached down and grab Cream's crotch. Cream yelped, then shook his head and Matt released him. As Cream wobbled around the corner, doubled over in pain, Matt calmly crossed the street and returned to Dylan's side. They continued their stroll to school.

"Sir, what did you say to Cream? What did you do to him?"

"FORGET THAT!" Matt yelled, his face a frightening death mask of fury.

Then Matt took a deep breath, exhaled and in a quite voice he continued. Look Dylan, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. But, please forgot the whole thing, it's not something I'm very proud off. But your friend Cream's attitude told me that he needed a drastic reality check. I might have gotten a bit too real. However, from now on, you do nothing to bug him and I'm sure he'll treat you the same."

By the way," he asked, hoping to get beyond the incident, "do they really call you a Chink? Don't they know that you're part Vietnamese?"

"When they tease me about being part Chink, I tell them they're wrong, that I'm part gook. And they just stop bugging me."

--

Later that morning Matt, at work, found himself with some idle time. Although the rest of the staff of the Washington POST was abuzz with the gossip about the presidential campaign, Matt was alone with his thoughts. The press conference he was to cover would not start until late afternoon. Matt began jotting down some ideas. He liked Holly's idea about cameras and photography and knew how effective the "Shooting Back" program had been in improving those homeless kid's self-esteem and ability to communicate.

He knew Buck would want to help out and decided to ask his Indian friend to spend a couple of hours each week teaching self-defense philosophy and tactics.

Which left Matt with the task of coordinating all these skills into a plan molded to fit Dylan's needs.

It seemed odd to him that he was planning strategies and physical training, much like preparations for war, for a child - living within a few miles of the nation's capitol, and that no one - no school, no parent, no church, nor any government had taken the time to realize the desperate needs of these children. Such a contradiction! The very heart of the nation's power unable to protect the simple needs of a kid..

Matt's concentration was suddenly broken by the sound of his phone ringing. The profound nature of this puzzle would have to wait.

"Hey black man, how you doin? You better have a big grin on your face today."

Buck's voice was unmistakable, but his statement was unclear.

"Hey, Buck, I was just thinking about you."

"Well, hell, are you gonna tell me how it went last night or are you one of those I don't kiss-and-tell types?"

"Kiss and tell ... what are you talking about Buck?"

"Hey, Matt, I didn't go home with the magnificent Holly, so I figure you must've."

"No, no, man, not that I would object. The notion never occurred to me."

"What! What wrong with black man? No gottum stomach for squaw? Dammit Matt, enough is enough, you've been buried in your grief too long. Get back to the real world, there's people - here and now - that need you. Or have you forgotten about Dylan, let alone others who care about you." B.E. Buckanaga stated in the most stern fashion he could muster.

"You might be right Buck," Matt sighed, "but listen, let me get back to the point. I could use your help with Dylan's problem."

"I was thinking of a combination of karate, ninja-san, and tai chi for warming-up. Maybe even some Indian wrestling techniques tossed in."

"Exactly what I had in mind. Dylan may think he needs to learn some "chop and drop" skills but, if he doesn't learn the disciplines, the philosophies, and the spirituality inherent as well, it's a waste."

"OK, Matt when should I start? Can I use the recreation room in your basement or should I drag him downtown to my health club?"

"Buck, the "rec" room is kinda dingy these days, hasn't been used in years."

"That's all right. Dylan and I can clean it up. About time some life was pumped back into that room. Remember the great parties we used to ... never mind that, Matt, sorry.".

Matt paused for a moment and then quietly observed, "No, Buck, I'm the one who's sorry. We did have some great times down there. And it's time for me to get beyond Sylvia's death. Dylan is alive and needs me, not some morbid, drunken slob. You are alive, and probably would much rather I get back to being the normal, pain in the ass odd-ball that you've come to love. I'll even help clean up the party room."

"OK odd-ball, give me my schedule .. how many hours a night and which nights of the week. By the way, how much does Dylan weigh? I think I better check into special techniques for little people. I expect you and Holly to attend as many of these workouts as you can, you understand?"

"Yup." said Matt, fully aware of how much his body needed the activity. "Buck, what would you think of having one of Dylan's high school pals working out with Dylan? Wouldn't that help him learn faster?"

"I don't mind at all." Buck replied.

They worked out the details and agreed to get together on the weekend to begin refreshing the "rec room".

And then Matt called Holly to set up a luncheon date.

--

"Why are we meeting in this over-priced hotel restaurant?" Matt queried, as they walked through the main dining area towards the back room. "I know it's posh, and swanky, and four-star rated and I am buying, but.."

Holly, leading the way to their reserved table, had given it some thought. This lunch was important. No trendy restaurant with too much drinking and too much noise. No sidewalk cafe with distracting "people watching".

"Because honey, JFK once said that this back room was the only place he could find for quality thinking.".

"Now where'd you hear that, Holly?"

"David Beadyn told me that story years ago."

"Beadyn! You mean that crusty old fart who ran the New York Times Washington bureau?"

"No I mean that brilliant old journalist who taught me a ton, and now is trying to impart some journalistic principles into the new so-called LIFE magazine.".

It was obvious to Matt that Holly was going to be serious and that was that. He sat down and listened.

"First thing I have to know is how you and Dylan get along. Friendly, talk a lot, have good times together?"

"Nope. We've been like to old sad grouches, moping around the house trying to avoid each other."

"Just what I thought. Both full of guilt over the tragedies you've endured. Both scared to love anyone for fear you'll lose them to. No wonder he does so well in school, it's the only half-way normal spot in his life."

"Yup. But we did have a talk about that this morning. First time we've ever talked about those things."

"Those things being your wife's death, and ..."

"and my brother's death. And his wife."

"Gawd amighty. You two been holding in all that for years? Damn fools. Time to get over these pity-parties and get back to life don't you think?"

"Well that's what Dylan and I agreed on, but how to do it is another thing."

"It's easy Matt. You start with a hug and a smile. You play together once in a while. Maybe you fight. Then you hug, and do some more things together. Etceteras. etceteras. For every hug you give, you're gonna feel a twinge of fear. So what you do is force your mind to remember that those fears are just shitty little thoughts. That's all they are - those twinges of fear - just thoughts. But the hugs and smiles and love are reality and that's where you need to be again. It takes while, and maybe you never get over the fear of being hurt, but you keep on trying because Dylan needs your love and so do others. By the way, when IS the last time you gave that boy a hug?"

Matt's head hung low, shaking negatively.

"Damn you and your strong, silent-type crap Mathew. Is that the way you want Dylan to be?"

Matt sat quietly for a while, absorbing all that she had said. When it became obvious to Holly that he was beginning to over-think all the possibilities that the future held, she decided to get back to the present. She began talking about Dylan's needs and how much fun, and re-assurance, he could get out of photography.

Matt snapped out of his thoughts and listened.

She recalled some of the experiences she had lived as a photographer, and how the homeless kids at Shooting Back had improved because of simple techniques she had taught, and she listed a few of the axioms she had established:

Verity #1: Hardly anyone objected to the presence of the cameras, unless - and this is very important - unless they knew they were doing something wrong.

Verity #2: The wearing of those cameras WAS like wearing badges of valor and honor and most people were inclined to feel immediate respect for the wearer.

Verity #3: You could approach just about anyone, including drug dealers and gang members about photographing them, and it took little persuasion to get them to go along. Such is the ego in all of us.

Verity #4: When you came back to them bearing 5-by-7 glossy prints as gifts they suddenly were your "best of friends.

` Verity #5: Most all kids learned photography quickly, therefore is was a fast method of improving their feelings of self-worth and confidence.

The potential value of photography - for Dylan's well-being - soon became apparent to Matt. He didn't need a detailed outline, complete with technical details, but Holly persisted. She would supply the first, simple camera with flash. He would supply film, batteries, etc. If Dylan showed some talent and interest Matt would buy a better system.

Dylan would come to the New York Times bureau twice a week at first, then three times if he showed promise.

When school started up in the fall the two of them would go to Dylan's principal and lobby for the boy to get on the staff of the school newspaper - as a writer and sports photographer.

"Keep in mind," explained Holly, "if he can get all the jocks in his corner by coming up with some neat sports shots to hand out and get published in the school paper,, he'll have a pretty tough bunch of friends on his side.".

Matt returned to his office impressed and energized. He'd eaten well, listened hard and was amazed with the thoroughness of Holly's plan. She has a few Machiavellian qualities, he thought, but she can be so tender. In thinking of her again, he began to tingle again. He thought that strange.

"We thought, because we had power, we had wisdom." ... Stephen Vincent Benet.

CHAPTER 3

Despite the serious nature of their "plan" the following weeks went fast and furious yet almost joyful for these clandestine warriors. Dylan took well to photography to the point where Holly let him carry the camera and flash wherever he went, carefully hidden under an old Army jacket donated by Buck.

Dylan's physical skills were improving swiftly, such was his obsession to "get tougher". Although short and chubby he had excellent balance and coordination and rarely needed to have things repeated to him. And having his friend from school, Xao Xiang, to work out with made it fun.

At first Matt was appalled at the conversations Dylan and Xao would have, primarily because of the barbaric "street" language they used. "Yo dude" and "check it out" and "don't do dat shit tame" seemed out of place to Matt, but Holly quieted his concerns by pointing out that this was just kid stuff, much like the "pig-Latin" he had used when he went to school.

"It's just their secret jive Matt, not some insidious, threatening gang thing. All kids do it."

Everyone would get together on Saturdays, first to help Buck and Dylan renovate the basement rec room, later on just to get together. Without knowing it they were becoming what they all needed, a "family".

The following weeks went incredibly fast for Dylan. He was in seventh heaven. To be able to walk into the Navy club, a block from the White House, be greeted by the Security Guards, head up to the New York TIMES bureau AND THEN spend hours in the fascinating world of photography! Wow!

Holly enjoyed watching this young man evolve so fast. Within weeks he had become competent in B&W shooting, processing and printing, and now he was delving into color. His final treat these days was to be allowed to transmit a photograph - using a fascinating gadget called the Leaf transmitter - to the main offices in New York. Of course Holly watched him closely and insisted on being at his side when he was ready to send the photo, but he'd learned the computer's methods of cropping, and sizing, as well as the lightening and darkening of certain areas (called dodging and burning) of the photo well enough that all she had to do is see the final result. It was always on the money.

Equally as exciting for Dylan were those evening bouts with Buck, and Xao Xaing. It wasn't just the physical part - the warm-up exercises, the holds and the throws - but the discussion Buck insisted on having after each session. Those seemingly religious teachings that were an integral part of the martial arts. Those teachings seemed to stretch his mind, much as the warm-ups stretched his body. Buck also tossed in some observations from the teachings of the Buddhist, Moslem, Jewish, American Indian, and even a touch of Jack Kerourac . --

The summer went well, Dylan's "classes" were working out to the satisfaction of all. They had also begun taking junkets on the weekend with Dylan in tow. They spent one weekend at a Cherokee Pow Wow, with Buck acting as host and guide. All were amazed at the various ceremonies, the huge crowds - families from hundreds of miles away - gathered to celebrate and learn their heritage. With no need for alcohol or drugs. With no conflicts.

Holly took them all to a weekend long "blues festival" where bands, both black and white, would reach back to the time of slaves and other more recent hard times living in the South. Gospel-singing groups would sing of the struggles of life, and an odd lot of singers and dancers would offer their unique rendition of that most incredible of hymns "Amazing Grace."

Matt, realizing how little knowledge he had of his heritage, dug up the complete set of VCR tapes on the movie "Roots" rented a huge TV to show them on. Xao Xaing was invited to join the foursome and they spent an entire weekend watching the story, discussing it all, and cooking up whatever black African, Cajun, and Creole recipes they could find.

Dylan's only disappointment was not being able to head south for a weekend of SCUBA diving. Matt knew underwater life was Dylan's favorite obsession and had done all he could to satisfy the lad's interests. Dylan's room was covered with huge prints of aquatic life, paintings of dolphins, and posters from the movies "Free Willy I and II". Matt promised to take Dylan on a dive over the Christmas holiday.

The summer proved to be enriching, enlightening and very fattening. When it came to an end, their minds began to focus on the challenges Dylan would face at school. His rec-room classes became more intense, his mentors more concerned.

--

A few weeks, back into the school system, Dylan had indeed become a "staffer" for the school newspaper and he began taking some very nice, and very valuable, sports shots. His confidence began to rise, not only because of his success in learning new skills and seeing the final product used (i.e. published), but the equal successes of using those skills to gain much needed allies.

The breakthrough had come when he brought a handful of prints into the boy's locker room just as the basketball players were suiting up for practice.

"Hey dude, what got? Those dirty pictures or what?

They all swarmed in on him, pulling and shoving him around, grabbing for the pictures.

"Hands off, dudes! Back off or I tear these to bits."

Suddenly Dylan was free, the players slowly backing away.

"Can we take a look at 'em?" said one player.

"Sure. Just try not to get finger prints all over them."

"Wow, righteous jump-shot Smitty."

"Hey man," said Smitty, "can I have a copy of this one?

"Sure Smitty, you can have that one and I'll print another for the paper."

"Yo, check out Barney blocking a shot. He looks like he's about ten feet off the boards."

"Barney can't jump one foot, let alone ten." said another.

And that's when Barney walked into the locker room.

At six foot, three inches and 195 pounds he was an imposing sight. Although his moves looked awkward, he was a gifted athlete and college scouts were already sizing him up on the football field and the court. He could also be fairly mean to those who irritated him.

"I used a wide-angle lens to make it look like he's that high." said Dylan, looking Barney straight in the eye.

"Listen, you little maggot ..." said Barney grabbing Dylan by the collar with both hands.

Dylan's instincts almost caused him to box Barney's ears, but he just cocked his head to one side and smiled.

"Barney, please take your mitts off and keep them off, okay."

Barney was stunned. Not only did the kid show no fear, he was smiling! Slowly, he let go of Dylan and reached for the picture.

Dylan beat him to it, snatching it up, he began waving it in front of Barney's face.

"So, check it out dudes. Hands off me from now on, No more dis'n me. That way these pictures get printed in the school paper ... and your teachers find out what great assets you guys are to the school ... and the girls get to drool over you raunchy-looking bodies ... and the college scouts ..."

He handed Barney the photo, saluted the team, and sauntered out the door.

Call it a hunch, or just curiosity, but he turned, walked back to the door. Pressing his ear to it he managed to hear Barney yell out.

"No one messes with that runt anymore, you got that. Dylan's my buddy and anyone does anything bad to him, I'll get them back ten times as bad. You got that. Pass the word, don't touch the nerd."

As Dylan turned to head back to the darkroom, he could hear the team chanting, "Pass the word, don't touch the nerd."

All he could think of, was "Whew. It worked."

The second month of school was nowhere near as frenetic as the first, but Dylan still had a lot on his mind. As he headed home from school, he was so lost in thought he didn't hear Jimmy Helms coming up from behind.

"Shut up and give me your money .." said the bully grabbing Dylan around the neck.

It happened so quickly Dylan didn't have time to think. Just act. As soon as he felt Jimmy's arm reaching over him from behind, Dylan reached back with both hands, over his right shoulder, and grabbed whatever he could of his assailant's upper arm. As he yanked forward he forced his upper torso forward and downward, at the same time stepping forward on his right foot, both knees bending down.

It was as though he was going through a slow-motion dream sequence, for he was aware of every millisecond of that event. He could feel Jimmy's body rolling over his shoulder, hear Jimmy grunt as some air was forced out of his lungs, and see his own arms extending and then slamming Jimmy to the sidewalk. Dylan's glasses had slipped off and he reached down to retrieve them. Jimmy lay on his back groaning while Dylan stood over him, amazed at how easy the throw had been. Before Dylan could get over his excitement, Jimmy staggered to his feet and ran.

It took a while for Dylan's pulse to slow down, such was the adrenaline rush. And his imagination went rampant with notions of how he could have finished the bully off. Then he realized that "finishing someone off" went against everything Buck and Matt had been teaching him and the issue became confusing. He decided not to tell anyone about the run-in until he could resolve these conflicts.

In the meantime he kept a constant vigil, looking for his worst concern, Cream. Sometimes Dylan actually wanted to confront the bully, but most of the time he feared the idea of an encounter. Cream, however, was too terrified of Dylan's uncle to bother him. And, upon learning that the Dylan had a whole bunch of new pals from the football, basketball and wrestling teams (!!!) he knew that he needed to keep as far away from Dylan as possible.

Dylan's only problem was understanding the need for disciplines, especially moral disciplines, that went along with the martial arts Buckanaga was teaching him. Dylan thought it unfair that he should have to be fair and decent to everyone, when none of the bullies ever showed those qualities to anyone.

And that was the topic of conversation over the dinner table after one Saturday session. Holly had suddenly gotten over her so-called "hatred of cooking" and whipped up some great barbecued ribs. Buck had brought fresh corn from the country-side and Matt delivered a mighty pastry for desert, claiming it had taken him all night to bake, although everyone was certain he'd snuck down to the Java Shop early that morning and bought it fresh off the baker's truck.

Dylan was on the defensive, trying to justify "getting back" at a few guys who had terrorized and beaten on him.

"I just want to teach them some respect!" he stated.

"No you don't kid," snorted Buck, "you're out for revenge, pure and simple. And you know what they say about seeking revenge."

"Ya, ya, that you better dig two graves." moaned Dylan, "but both you and Uncle Matt used violence. You did, sir, you did something real bad to Cream and he's been a piece of cake ever since. You are contradicting yourself Uncle Matt."

"It's possible I am contradicted, after all I am a fairly complex human being. I honestly wished you hadn't seen that son. But it was very necessary. I'm almost ashamed at what happened with this Cream boy, but, from what you told me, he was beginning to believe he had the monopoly on power - in this case the power to terrorize and hurt anyone. So, like it or not, it then became necessary to remind him of that he didn't have a monopoly on being able to scare and hurt.".

"Ya but I think it's necessary for ME to get these guys. For everyone to know I can kick ass. Even Buck says he's teaching me some ninja stuff, and those ninja guys were all stone-cold assassins."

"Son, your friend Buck is not teaching you to be a "ninja assassin". That's modern-day movie shit. You are learning ninja-san, an ancient Chinese martial arts skill complete with reason and morality. In fact those Chinese leaders insisted that the highest duty of a ninja is to make a friend of an enemy.".

"You want me to make friends with Cream!"

"In a sense, yes," Buck responded, "the next time you encounter him, you will not be afraid, just respectful. Of yourself and of him. If he ignores your attempt to be decent and tries to pound the fear back in you, then you fight back. Not with intent of putting fear into him, just respect. And if you do beat him, and I think you probably could, make sure you give him the room to save his self-respect."

A few weeks ago Dylan would have thought Buck was pulling a con job, saying that he could "take" Cream. But after some intense training on balance, timing, learning to use the opponent's force and momentum to his own advantage, Dylan was beginning to feel comfortable with his self-defense skills. Especially after the school bully's attempt to jump him a few days ago.

"Dylan, are you listening? Do you think I'm conning you about maybe being able to take Cream? Son, I meant every word I said..."

"I threw a guy a couple of days ago."

"You what? Threw a guy. What are you talking about?".

"One of the guys who keeps on picking on me jumped me, tried to choke me and get some money from me."

"Jumped you how?" asked Buck.

"From behind, as always."

"Like a true coward, " Buck observed, "and then what?".

"I kinda yanked him over my shoulder, like we practiced Uncle Buck, just used his weight and kept on rolling him over. And he landed on the sidewalk and grunted."

"So what didya' do honey?". Holly chimed in.

"He ran before I could finish him off."

"Finish him off!" said Matt. "Just what makes you think you have to finish him off? You stopped him cold and scared him away. Isn't that enough? What's next" Are you thinking maybe you should look up Cream and finish him off? Well, what about tough guy?"

"All I want to do is.."

"Honey," said Holly, "what you want to do is pay him back for all the mean things he's done to you, but to do that you have to be just as cruel as he was. And no one likes a cruel human being. To do what you want means carrying hate in your heart, and hate will poison you bad. Think about it, he deserves to have some sense knocked into him, but do you really want to pound him to a bloody pulp. Are you ready to go that far just for "pay-back"? When you get done with him what do you want to be honey? How do you want to feel about yourself? Do you want others to respect you. Do you want to respect yourself. Or do you just want everyone to fear you. That's what you need to think about.".

"Much like the white man's Golden rule, we believe that anything you do to demean another, also diminishes you." said Buck.

Dylan trusted these three, knew of their backgrounds and accomplishments, and thought of them as heroes. And he wanted to be a hero someday too. He decided to trust what they were telling him.

Cream was a real puzzle. He's smart and yet he keeps flunking classes. And he always seems to be hiding. There must be something scaring him bad, Dylan thought. He doesn't do drugs. Doesn't have friends. This is getting complicated.

--

To coordinate their efforts, the three teachers for the "Dylan School for Survival" had taken to meeting at the "club" each Tuesday night.

"Matt, that boy is a real quick take." said Buck, "He's learned so much, and so well, I'm about out of things to teach him ... unless we wanna start going into the hardball stuff."

"No way" said Matt and Holly in unison.

"I know what you mean," replied Holly. "In a few short months he's picked up enough on photography to match what it took me three years to learn. I must be one helluva teacher."

"Can't be it, honey. You got too much bubba in you to be smart enough to teach." chortled Matt, finding himself moving even closer to her in the darkly-lit booth. "Must be the genius of the boy."

Which earned him an elbow jab in the ribs.

"The good thing," Buck said softly, "is there are no more worries about going to school. No more fears about the "streets" or the bullies. He flips one coward on his ass, takes a few neat pictures of the basketball team, writes a fluff-piece on the girl's volleyball team and he's become almost "king of the hill. Did you know there was talk of making him the Prom King until they realized he's a sophomore?"

"That's just great," she replied, not at all uncomfortable with Matt's closeness, "but the problem is he's beginning to drift on me. And I'm afraid he'll get too cocky. I think he needs something to focus on. A project of some sort."

"Agreed. In the meantime Buck could you just stick with refining and practicing his defensive skills? I'd rather he learn how to get out of situations right now. We can save the offensive stuff for later" said Matt, while Buck nodded in silent approval. "Now, any ideas on a good project for Dylan?".

By the looks Buck and Holly were shooting back at him, it was clear what the answer was. "You're right, that's for him to decide.".

"Commit a crime and the world is made of glass. There is no such thing as concealment." ... Ralph Waldo Emerson

CHAPTER 4

Former Army Corporals Steiner and Skeffington had built themselves a fairly profitable, albeit criminal, business since leaving the Army and it was not by accident. They had both returned to their hometown of Charleston, West Virginia where they proceeded to initiate a well thought-out plan.

Skeffington sold the hardware store/lumber yard complex that his father had willed to him while he was in the Army. He sold this highly successful enterprise, at a low price, to the staff of employees who had kept it going. He even offered to allow them to make payments so that all of them could afford to be part-owners. His real profit was gaining their loyalty.

Since he and Steiner had a few million tucked away from their chicanery in Vietnam, they could afford to be patient.

JJ schooled Steiner in the ways of politics and better manners, while he began quietly making himself a popular and easily-approachable asset within the Republican party. Within three years Steiner was elected the County Sheriff. JJ passed on a number of possible political positions until a U.S. Congressional seat appeared vulnerable. With the backing of the party, and active support of his "friends, he won the seat handily.

Once in Washington, Congressman Skeffington began making the necessary moves to get Steiner a law enforcement job with some clout behind it, in D.C. Then they began putting together the connections, equipment, and property to setup up their illicit trade.

"Hey JJ, get your ass over hear and look at this." Steiner was getting antsy. For a long time they had managed to run their operations out of this non-descript, old brownstone building with impunity. Located at the edge of one of D.C.'s many "poor areas", operating only in the wee hours of the morning, when the streets were totally quiet, gave them a sense of security that had lasted for year. They had named their "business" Black Widow,Inc. in hopes of presenting a scary image, yet hinting they might be affiliated with the surrounding Black community. And, for many years, managed to run their dirty business without drawing any attention.

Lately, however, they had begun getting paranoid, especially Police Chief Steiner. Too many middle-class families were moving into the neighborhood renovating the houses, sprucing up the lawns, and starting nice flower gardens. The sounds of happy children and dogs barking playfully permeated this once nervous neighborhood causing better police protection, increased building inspections, and more attention to zone compliance.

They had talked seriously a time or two about moving, but never felt any sense of urgency to do so. But, in their paranoia they had burrowed through the wall separating them from The Bayou Blues Club and installed a TV camera - replete with zoom lens and motorized swivel base - so that they could monitor the clientele next door. And that is what had caused Steiner's nervousness.

The camera was zoomed in on a darkly-lit booth on the far end of the night club. The three people in that booth - two facing the camera and one with his back turned - were identifiable enough to Steiner to make the hair on his back rise.

"Ain't that the bitchy photographer from the New York Times?' he growled.

"AND the damn crime reporter for the POST" snapped JJ.

"Whose the other guy ... oh, shit that's that damn Indian from the DEA. What the hell are they doin here?".

"We gotta move outta here." yelled Steiner. "We gotta move now! This shit is gettin' outta hand."

"Settle down Buddy," Skeffington cautioned, knowing by Steiner's manner of speech that he was "loosing it". "No one knows we're here. No investigations show up on any law enforcement computers. It's just a coincidence. Hell, you know how good the cooking is over there..."

"Don't give me that crap JJ. We can't take no chances! We gotta move. Hell I killed that guy's wife and now he's here with a damned DEA agent and a New York Times photographer."

"Is that what's got you so nervous these days Buddy?" JJ asked. "You're beginning to fall apart on me boy."

"He must be hitting the bottle hard." thought Skeffington.

"Look JJ, I've been in the crime business for over thirty years - both sides of it - and I'm telling you that we are way out on the limb of luck. We're pushin' it. The best of criminals get caught, there are no perfect crimes dammit."

"In the past year four major drug rings have been busted, three were caught almost by accident."

Steiner's response was barely acceptable to Skeffington. Had he known what was really going with Steiner, Skeffinton would have killed him in a heartbeat. But he had no way of knowing. Their alliance was not one of friendship, they never socialized together or visited at each other homes. Their's was simply the union of two amoral, power hungry, stone-cold killers who discovered early on that by joining forces they could accomplish much more than by going it alone.

They had met as youngsters, gone hunting together in the hills of West Virginia, and quickly discovered that they both enjoyed the killing more than the hunting. Their parents were as poor as their education and spiritual upbring and they soon discovered the pleasures and payoffs that come from crime and cruelty. And no one ever saw the connection etween their new possessions - cars, clothes, and new hunting tools - and some crimes of violence in the community.

They joined the Army together and, operating in the violence of Vietnam, they thrived and brought back to America enough wealth to set up this highly profitable and safe smuggling business.

But Steiner - who had never shown one iota of concern for anyone's life finally discovered one life he cared about - his own. And that would be his undoing. The years of leading the dual role of being a police chief by day and a violent criminal at night had taken its toll. He had become aware of too many well run criminal businesses that had been brought down by the simplest of errors or accidents. Started wondering if that could happen to him. And in the wondering he began weakening ... taking to drinking to avoid worrying ... then more powerful drugs like amphetamines and morphine ... and finally discovered his passion for violent sex. The more he feared for his own life, the more of it he destroyed.

JJ knew he had to get Steiner calmed down fast. The last time he had gotten this out of hand was just a few years back, Steiner had panicked and killed a woman who was just walking by the front door. Steiner had thought she recognized him and could cause trouble so he had yanked her inside, snapped her neck and then demanded that JJ let him throw her in front of JJ's speeding Jeep Cherokee to make it look like a hit-and-run. They had engaged in such spontaneous "fun" before, had always gptten away with it, and though nothing of it this time. It had happened just before midnight, on a Sunday, with the Bayou Club closed and no one around so it was easy to disguise the murder. But it did draw some unnecessary attention to the neighborhood.

JJ tried to calm Steiner down, but only aggravated him further. Steiner finally stormed out of the second-floor office, cursing softly to himself.

------

The basketball game had ended well. Dylan's school had won, he had taken some nifty shots of his favorite guard - the best showing him blocking what should have been an easy two points - and he was heading home with his friend xao xaing. Xao's father had left Vietnam 20 years ago and, with the help of his Vietnamese "que" (a coalition of a dozen Vietnamese families) had received funding to buy the small grocery store/delicatessen across from The Bayou Blues Club. Whenever possible Dylan would "buddy-up" with Xao by walking home with him. Safety in numbers was important in this neighborhood, this late at night. As they walked down 13th Dylan was proudly showing off his camera and flash unit, which was now turned on to full power. Holly had convinced him that one powerful burst of light could so blind and stun a person so as to render them incapable of immediate retaliation - especially at night.

Just then Police Chief Steiner emerged from the building in front of them. in full uniform, stil cursing JJ. Still furious and frustrated.

He saw the camera in Dylan's hands, yelled "Hey you what the hell are you doing. Get the hell outta here with that camera!" as he charged furiously towards the frightened boys.

Dylan's reaction was quick and instinctive. He pointed the camera at Steiner and triggered the unit. The flash froze Steiner in his tracks. The boys dashed across the street, ducked into an alley and back-tracked to Xao's back door ... before Steiner could even think, or see, to pursue them.

Steiner was indeed confused, shocked and hurting from the brilliance of the flash. This boy, with a camera, outside a building where a very anxious conversation had just transpired had pushed him over the edge. Like a cornered jackal he could only think to lash out. "I'm gonna get that litte nigger and break his neck!", followed by "I gotta get the hell out this town now!" He began sweating and weaving. He needed to get home. He needed a hit. Anything that would keep him from having to think.

The right, honorable Congressman from West Virginia had watched the whole incident from the second-story window and, although he couldn't know everything that was going on down there, his instincts told him something dangerous had happened and his life might now be in jeopardy. He'd had survived on his instincts and now they were telling him not to fight, but to take flight.

--

The following day Dylan decided not to process the previous night's "shoot" at the school's darkroom. He would save it for this evening's session with Holly at the New York Times. After school he headed to the Times Photo Lab, using 17th Street rather than risking a confrontation on 13th. As he strolled leisurely towards the Time's offices he tried to work out some strange notions. Notions about coincidences and uncertainties.

Why did that fat cop react so strongly? Was he actually as scared as he seemed? Of two little boys and a camera? What was it Holly had told him? That "people, especially public officials, only object to the presence of a camera when they are doing something wrong!" And this was on the same street that Aunt Sylvia had been killed? Dylan never accepted the hit-and-run theory, partly because the case was still open.

He could feel inside him a strange tightening in his stomach whenever these questions came up. As though they all were leading somewhere.

Of course these weren't the only strange feelings he was encountering lately. The odd feelings in his groin and embarrassing erections when he sat next to a girl in class.

Also, the tightening of his arm, chest and leg muscles. The snap in his step. A feeling of power. Whap! His quick leg-kick at the small tree yielded four falling leaves, and a rush of satisfaction.

Many strange new feelings to deal with. But the awareness that he was a much better, more capable person than he had felt like six months ago made it all worthwhile. No more the fatso geek! Bap! A sudden palm slap at a parking meter brought him back to his senses. Parking meters do not yield like saplings do. The stinging sensation in his wrist subsided as he shook it off and quickened his pace.

--

"Dylan, where did you get this shot of Chief Steiner?"

Holly had come into the darkroom as Dylan finished up the evening's printing. Steiner's enraged image lay "fixing" in the tray.

"I ran into him on 13th last night and he tried to get me."

"Tried to get you. Steiner's the Chief of Police on the hill, boy. Why-in-the-hell would he come after a pipsqueak like you?

Dylan began thinking out loud, trying to explain what had happened. Tried to make sense of it. And then he spelled out more concerns because there was no sense to it. What was that cop doing coming out of an old building in the "hood" in the first place? Why charge two kids like that? Because of a camera? What did he have to hide? And, why the rage? And that it had happened so close to where Aunt Sylvia had been killed.

"Lordy! Lordy! Look at this buckaroo, that cop is reachin' for his gun."

Dylan was stunned. The print clearly showed Steiner's right hand open and reaching downward for his weapon. He knew Steiner appeared mad, but not this mad.

"Like you said, Holly," he replied, trying to reason it all out. "A public official will never object to cameras unless he is doing something wrong. So why is this top cop of Capitol Hill pulling a gun on a kid? Why would anyone pull for a gun on a kid, day or night? Jeez! This thing is crazy. And I think I have to find out why. Come on Holly, don't you think something's going on?"

"Honey, you tryin to tell me you got a hunch about this?" she drawled.

Dylan nodded.

"Well what are you going to do about it?"

Dylan said he didn't know what to do. But he knew he wanted to study all the files that the police had on his Aunt's death. And all of Uncle Matt's files. And figure out some way to check up on Chief Steiner. Find out what the Chief was doing there in the first place, because he didn't seemed to be pursuing any police stuff. And what was the Black Widow company anyway? Nothing ever seemed to happen there. Maybe find out more about Steinder. What kind of reputation he had. What kind of record as a cop.

And the smile on Holly's face broke into a grin. She put her arm around Dylan and gave him a big hug, left the darkroom, dashed to her desk and called Matt at the paper.

Dylan was somewhat stunned by her affection. He couldn't recall his mother, vaguely remembered Aunt Sylvia's smile, and, for the last four years, had hardly been touched by anyone. But Holly's simple hug made him feel great, as though a coating of ice had melted from his psyche, letting in the warmth. He wondered what Holly would be like as a Mom.

"Honey I think our young Dylan has a project." Holly gushed over the phone. "All the signs are there. He's got a hunch for crying out loud. A very real and solid hunch! Do you believe it? And a decent list of questions. And it's something you know about."

"Slow down Holly, what's this all about? What does he want to look into?

"He had a run in with Chief Steiner. And he wants to investigate your wife's death!".

Matt's silence was deafening and long.

"My God. I don't know.. Steiner? Sylvia? I can't..." His voice was barely audible, "We have to talk. This is a tough one."

Holly knew that Matt still had strong feelings for his wife, and a lot of difficulty getting past her death. But Holly's feelings toward Matt were beginning to simmer an she wanted to protect this growing relationship.

Born and raised by oil-rich, conservative parents in the heart of Texas she had rebelled against them and insisted on going to the Sorbonne in France, instead of Texas Christian University, where her folks had influence. She then went on to the University of Missouri to get a graduate degree in photojournalism. The oil-enriched totally mistrust, indeed hate journalists. But she persisted.

After a few years of scrounging news work around the Washington, D.C. area she managed to get on with the New York Times - first as a part-timer, then finally a full-blown staffer.

Unlike movie and TV portrayals of people in her line of work, she did not thirst to have her picture on the front page every day. She was far more professional than that. She studied the issues and people she had to cover and tried very hard to make her photographs not only visually appealing, but relevant to the story as well. It was a hard task but she did it well. And she was slowly gaining respect around the country.

Although she loved her work, she was very protective and private about her personal life. She deliberately avoided socializing and had few friends. But Matt was someone worth trusting, worth possibly....

"Come on over and I'll fire up some ribs and beers." she insisted, "We can talk better at my house."

Matt, still confused by Dylan"s new notions, agreed.

She had to remind him to eat. And encourage him to open up. It was already obvious to her that Matt needed to get past his wife's departure. And it was also obvious to Holly that she couldn't even begin a relationship with Matt, if she had to constantly compete with a dead woman. What was needed here was a compromise. A way for Matt to accept and participate in Dylan search, without having to deal with the painful details.

The meal consumed, the problems raised, they carried the dishes to the kitchen.

"I'll wash, you dry." she said emphatically. She needed to keep this conversation under control. Decisions would be made here that would affect not only Dylan, but also Matt and herself. As they worked she dictated the plan.

"Dylan will need to learn some investigative skills. You can provide those skills. We'll simply tell him that he can ask you how to accomplish tasks without spelling out the details. He can spell out details to Buck and me. As he goes along we can tell him whether he has the legal right to pursue something and how. We can show him the ways of getting to the information. And we can help when he gets in a jam. But you don't need to know every little thing."

"Which gives me a way of being part of this, without constantly being reminded ... "

"Yup. You aren't being hurt, and Dylan's energies and passion for the project aren't being stifled. And I'll let you know, each week, how he's doing."

They built a fire in the fireplace, sipped wine and talked of other things. Anything Holly could think of to keep this man's mind off the hurting inside. They touched "accidently". They looked longingly into each others eyes. And they drifted into each other's arm, and began the wondrously scary journey of loving each other.

They woke up early the next morning in each other's arms. Because it was Saturday there was no sense of urgency so they stayed in bed, and talked, and giggled and loved some more. Around noon they spruced up and headed for Matt's house, grabbing and gulping a fast-food version of breakfast along the way.

Dylan was already working out with Buck and Xao when they arrived. Once that session was over Xao headed home. Dylan showered and then he was sent to the grocery store with a list, giving the three "teachers" a chance to coordinate this new plan Later they laid out the final plan for Dylan as they prepared their Saturday Eve ritual ... everyone gathered in the kitchen, stirring this, baking that, joking, filling up the dining room table with outrageous amounts of food, and all of them complaining about their ailing cars.. Everyone trying too hard to keep the mood light.

Dylan did his best to keep things light, his best effort aimed at Buck.

"Hey Buck, I almost forgot to tell you about the magical Indian chant we learned at school. Teacher said it was Seminole, but I thought you might recognize the dialect."

"Oh, how does it go?" said Buck, now serious and attentive to Dylan.

"Okay. The first word - now you gotta repeat it - is waya."

"Ummm. Okay, waya."

"Next is duna."

"Umm, still don't recognize it. Okay, duna."

"Next is uppan."

"Uppan."

"Okay, now say all of it along with me ... waya dunna uppana ..."

Everyone listened attentively, trying to fathom the meaning of this mysterious, magical chant ... except Matt, who had spotted the gleam in Dylan's eyes.

Buck repeated the phrase "Waya dunna uppana ..."

"Okay, let's try it together," said Dylan.

Buck started chanting slowly "Waya ..."

"Down upon the Swanee River, far far away," giggled Dylan as he tried to keep singing the old Stephen Foster tune. But he broke up laughing and couldn't continue.

Buck's face turned ferocious as he grabbed Dylan with both hands and lifted him up, eyeball to eyeball. He growled menacingly into Dylan's face. Dylan's eyes bugged out but he wasn't the least bit scared. He just kept giggling and humming the tune.

Buck stopped, lowered Dylan and started chuckling, while Holly and Matt broke into laughter and then they all started chortling.

Even that did not prevent this evening's get-together from being anxious. For it was obvious to the adults that Dylan - shoulder's slumped, casting nervous glances at his Uncle - was worried sick. Most probably worried that Uncle Matt would be very hurt and mad that he had pushed to re-open the case of Aunt Sylvia's death.

Buck and Holly left earlier than usual, to give Matt some time to "air out" the situation.

"Don't you worry none, son," Holly said to Dylan as she was leaving. "Matt and I have talked this through and he's glad you're doing this project. Just be easy with him at first, okay?"

"Yes Ma'am"

"Now give me a big hug, honey>"

They hugged, she kissed him on the forehead, and winked and smiled reassuringly as she left.

"Uncle Matt sir, I ..."blurted Dylan.

"Hold it right there son. Don't even start. I know exactly what you are going to say and there is no need for it."

"I want you to know that I am very pleased that you want to dig into this matter. I have tried many times myself, but I just couldn't take on all the pain. Do you understand?"

Dylan just nodded, happy to hear his Uncle was not upset with him but sad knowing the subject caused his uncle pain.

"Good. Now I'll try to help you all I can and hope I don't have to listen to the gory details. Agreed?"

"Yessir."

"O.K. then, what do you need? What do you need to know? What can I do?"

"I need to go check out the official files, whereever ..."

"Yes, to City Hall, and the Police Department ..."

"... and I don't think it's smart to wear that old Army jacket ... even though I really like it. I just think I need to, ummm.."

"Appearance does make a difference when you're trying to get information from the government." said Matt as he jotted down "Dylan needs". A nice London Fog 3/4 length overcoat, preferably lined.

"And I think I might need to get on the Internet. Can I have my own account and password"

"Yup" said Matt noting on the Dylan wish-list .. AOL or Prodigy in Dylan's own name.

"And I need you to tell me how you found out a few things - like the time you did that expose` on those two swindlers. How'd you get their business records. And how did you catch that guy that was growing all that marijuana in a house! And, when you did that story about how tourism was way down in Washington - even though the Chamber of Commerce said it wasn't - all you said was "toilet flushes." How does that prove tourism is down? And how did you know where the ransom money would be dropped in that kidnapping case a few years ago?"

Matthew Haun tried not to show the immense pride he suddenly felt for this boy. Dylan was undoubtedly very smart, but who'd of guessed he had been that attentive and perceptive. "He's recalled some of the best work I've done," thought Matt, "My God, I've got to do better for this boy."

"All right son, we'll get you a nice overcoat for your downtown work and you'll look just like Shaft, O.K? Good. And, you'll be on the Internet tonight, with your own account and password. And I'll cover the expenses, unless you go crazy on it."

"We need a much faster modem sir.

"O.K."

"And we should have a Super VGA card, CD Rom player and a sound card, just in case."

Matt knew the boy was pushing it, but his savings account was very healthy, the cause was certainly not frivolous and he wanted young man to have every break possible.

"We have some shopping to do this week, in the meantime, tomorrow I want you to bring a fresh 8 X 10 notebook, so I can tell you all I know about how the human animal leaves a trail of clues because of stupid habits, over-looked bodily needs, and just-plain stupidity. Now let's fire up this computer and get you on-line." said Matt as he quietly began singing the Swanee River tune.

----

Early the next morning Dylan awoke with a start. His uncle was "killing" the heavy bag again. The hard thumping noises, the cries and screams of Mathew Haun went on for nearly an hour.

"Was he lying to me about not blaming me for things?"

"Maybe I should just leave. I still cause him so much pain."

"He said he loves me ... he said he was glad I'm looking into the accident ... then, why does he still get so crazy?"

--

The next evening found Dylan's notebook rapidly filling up and his head swimming with new places - Depart of Business Licenses, Public Works, Department of Public Records, Police Files - and every time his uncle would bring up a new office, a new government source, Dylan would object saying things like .."I'm just a kid, they wont let me..."

To which Matt had one consistent and very firm reply .. "You are a citizen dammit!" And that was that.

"The only department that will be a problem are the Police. They are very secretive about their files, especially those that are still considered active. But I have a grouchy friend down there and I'll ask him if you can at least look at Sylvia's file and take some notes. His name is Sergeant Nedermeyer, in the downtown precinct station."

But, more than the usual government sources, Matt also listed a few less obvious means of obtaining information. And heading the list was garbage containers. Dylan was surprised to learn that even the most cautious of peoples will casually throw things away that can tell you much of their business. And he was even more shocked to discover that close-mouthed professionals like bankers and lawyer have been known to throw away records of their client's business affairs, from loan application forms to copies of privately-taken depositions. The most private of information casually tossed into a Dempsey-Dumpster, unfortunately ignored by the impoverished homeless who scrounge through them each night seeking food or aluminum cans to cash in on - when the paperwork they overlook could reap them much higher "rewards".

"But, most important of all is the public library. You wouldn't believe the wealth of information in it. Did you know you can "modem" into the librarie's files? Thought so. That's just the beginning. They have CDs you can check out that contain information on everthing from census reports to the Congressional record. You need to go there and spend a whole day just discovering how much more there is to that place than books and magazines.".

On Tuesday Matt bought him a dark-blue overcoat - slightly oversized after Matt learned that Dylan had grown a few inches in the past few months. As they left the store Dylan, resplendent in his new attire, decided "I think I'll be a Private Eye when I grow up".

Matt did not head directly home. Instead he headed downtown and parked near the City Hall.

"What's up sir?"

"City Council meeting in ten minutes Dylan and they're going to discuss some police matters. Might even interest you."

As they headed up the front steps Matt informed Dylan, "If you do get interested in any matter being discussed here and feel like making your thoughts known, just sign in on the register and wait for them to call on you. O.K.?"

Dylan quietly thought it over and agreed. But, despite his new-found confidence, and obvious regal splendor, he wasn't so sure.

"Son, the door to the council chambers is to your left. I have to check something out, so you go ahead and get us seats." Matt headed down the hall before Dylan could object.

"The boy has to know he can do these things on his own," thought Matt as he headed to the men's room, "it's the only way he'll be sure of his rights."

Dylan pushed the heavy, oaken doors slowly and entered the council chambers. They were already in session, engaged in a heated debate about some zoning laws and Dylan quickly found two open seats halfway down the isle. He placed his prized overcoat over the back of the next seat. Matt came in shortly, sat down, handed Dylan a piece of paper, and began taking some notes.

The paper was a print-out of the subject matters on the agenda for discussion. Two police matters were to be discussed, one pertaining to the disposition of over three hundred thousand dollars in funds generated by an auction of assets acquired under the RICO laws, the other matter relating to authorizing certain night clubs the right to hire off-duty police officers as bouncers.

Within a half hour Dylan had seen over a dozen people go to the podium and offer their advice, concerns and objections. He noticed that the City Council members listened to each of them - no matter who they might be - carefully and with interest and tried to responded in a respectful manner. Dylan had also mulled over that three hundred thousand dollars the Police Department had suddenly acquired and he had an idea how some of it might be spent. Cautiously, tentatively, he walked down the isle and signed in on the register.

The discussions of police matters began shortly and Dylan's name was announced on the speaker. Matt tried not to show any anxiety as the boy walked to the podium.

He barely whispered his name and address and was told to proceed but please speak up.

"Yes sir. I hear this Council discussing the allocations of some three hundred thousand dollars of RICO funds and I cannot disagree with the way you're gonna .. going to use most of this money. But then I see the next item on the agenda is to allow night clubs and restaurants and bars the right to hire off-duty policemen as protection. And I'm thinking how about someone hiring those cops .. police officers to protect us kids? And I think some of those RICO monies should be allocated to us. Some kind of fund to hire off-duty policemen for an hour before school and an hour after school to make sure we aren't hassled by all the criminals and trouble-makers that make it hard for us each day."

"Son, that kind of security is part of the school's budget."

"Yes ma'am but the school's budget is strained to the limit. I know 'cause I asked the Assistant Principal and the Head of Security at school and they both told me they were out of money. You know they need newer computers and stuff too. They can't even afford new books for the library."

"And besides," he continued quickly, hoping he didn't sound like a troublemaker or a jerk, "lots of that RICO money comes from the dudes who are selling dope to school kids and it makes sense to me that we have a claim on some of that, sort of a school kid's protection fund. And the the money - doesn't have to be a lot, maybe ten percent of the RICO money - should be allocated according to how heavy the crime problem is in each school's district. That would be fair."

He paused and there was silence from the council table.

"If there aren't enough police officers available, maybe the students at the Police Academy could be hired."

More silence.

"Or, maybe you could figure out how to turn those gang-members into some kind of Street Patrol. Let 'em carry walkie-talkies. You know like the Guardian Angel guys in New York."

He paused again.

Just when he was certain he'd made a complete fool of himself the City Council President spoke up.

"Mr. Haun I want to thank you for your remarks. You have defined the problems well and offered a very intelligent, innovative series of possible solutions. I hereby move that the matter of passing a City Ordinance to tithe those RICO funds made available to the Police Department, for the purpose of increasing safety on the streets for school children, be placed on next Wednesday's agenda."

"I'll second that motion." said the lady Council person.

"All in favor signify by saying aye."

The "Ayes" were unanimous.

"In the meantime Mr. Haun, you can rest assured that each of us on the Council will check into the facts and the numbers so that, by next week we will be able to seriously discuss implementing this idea. In the meantime I believe we should hold off allocating all the RICO monies. Let's just spend 80% tonight and hold onto the rest in case we decide to proceed with Mr. Haun's suggestions. Any objections. Good. Hearing none, let's get back to doing what we do best - spending money."

As they drove home, Matt could not help expressing his thoughts.

"That was quite a proposal, son. When did you come up with that idea?"

"Uncle Matt I was almost too scared to talk about it. When I was walking up to the mike, I almost peed in my pants. How come, when I was so certain that the idea was good?"

"You're telling me you were scared up until the time you began talking? "

"Yessir. It doesn't make sense. If I really thought I was right, why was I so chicken?"

"So what I am hearing is that you went ahead and presented your idea, even though you were afraid to."

"Yessir."

"Dylan, all you did is show some courage. Guts, if you will."

"What's so gutsy about almost peeing in your pants over something you believe in?"

"Anybody can do things they enjoy doing, no matter how dangerous. You see one man's danger is another man's fun. For most normal people, courage is the ability to overcome our fears to do something we think we must do. The fear may be justified, or just imagined. That does not matter. Fear is fear. And, to make yourself go beyond it, to overcome that fear and do what you believe in - that is courage. Many an entertainer has been know to throw up just before going out to face a strange crowd. Most soldiers, pilots and SCUBA divers all go through the fear to do what they thought they must. But, by overcoming that fear and going forward they exhibit courage."

"That is why Buck and I have tried to teach you the philosophies of, not only the martial arts, but alternative religions, all of which give illustrations of courage from people of all walks of life."

They rode home in silence, Matt giving Dylan time to mull over this concept.

Dylan mumbled "Good Night" as he trudged upstairs to his room, still preoccupied with the events of the evening. "Sweet dreams, Citizen Dylan." he said proudly as Dylan beemed and trundled off to bed.

About four hours later, Dylan awoke. He grabbed his bathrobe and headed for the computer in the den. While sleeping his subconcious processors had come to the conclusion that he could, and should, do more with his "RICO proposal".

He booted up the computer, logged on the Internet, and clicked the "GoTo" icon. Then he punched in an address that he had discoverd a few days ago. It yielded the Internet address of every Senator and Congressman currently in office. Dylan downloaded and printed out that list. He then switched over to the built-in word processor and wrote a one-page letter which included everything he had said in the City Council Chambers speech. He did not give his age.

When he was satisfied with it he switched back to the Internet, pulled that one page letter into the message file and began addressing it to each memeber of the Senate and House. After sending nine letters he began yawning and decided that he could send the rest over the next four or five evenings, after a faster modem was available. He sent one more copy of the letter to the White House Internet address and headed back to sleep.

-

On Wednesday they bought enough computer upgrades to communicate with the whole world and, as Dylan helped his uncle figure out and install the equipment, he would fantasize his detective agency taking on global dimensions.

On Thursday, his day for photography with Holly, he found her waiting at the front door of the bureau ready to take him home for some "interesting conversation".

Once there, she told him of her friend, Judge Lydia Wagner, who would be stopping by to tell him a few more rights and tricks of the trade.

"A Judge!" exclaimed Dylan. "And I'm in these grungy jeans and a half-wrecked sweat shirt. Gawd, she'll throw me in jail for vagrancy or somthing."

"I swear, what is it with you boys, huh? Everyone says girls are vain, but here you are worryin about your grungy look. Next thing you know you'll be preening in front of the mirror and buying designer jeans. And then what, manicures and facials? Don't worry Honey, the grunge look was in back in the 60s too. Besides, Judge Lydia is retired so she has plenty of time to help us out. She still sits in on some cases, but only those concerning young people. She lost two sons to the Vietnam War and she is very concerned about the way all youngsters are treated. But, since our President got her that federal appointment years ago when he was Vice-president, he still cares about her a lot so she still has a lot of clout, okay? Good."

"By the way," she said. "I am very proud of you for speaking up at that City Council meeting. That's quite an idea you came up with." and she gave him a big hug to boot.

Dylan could only smile, slightly bewildered yet enjoying the affection.

The doorbell rang, Holly answered it and in walked Judge Wagner.

To Dylan's amazement this woman had her hair up in a bun, granny glasses, an old, tattered flannel shirt and the grungiest pair of blue-jean overalls he'd ever seen. She's not an old judge, she's an old hippie, he thought.

It didn't take him long to find out otherwise. Judge Lydia, as Holly was prone to call her, began a long and fascinating dissertation of younger citrizen's rights, replete with stories, case histories, and names.

Her conclusion said it all. "You are an American citizen, with all the rights of another citizen, except you can't drive or vote for a few years. Period."

"There are those that might quibble on this issue. Let them. They wont get away with it in my court ... nor a lot of others. Along with those rights comes your obligations, your responsibilities. Be civilized about your affairs, obey the laws and rules, and participate in those matters that are of importance to you. Speak up at a government hearing if you wish. Write your representatives - local and national - and I am not talking about cute-kid stuff. If you want to be treated like a citizen, act like one. And never be afraid to speak your mind!

"Call or FAX if the matter is urgent. And remember not to offer your age, or most politicians will not pay attention 'cause you're not yet a voter. Hells-bells they barely pay attention to any voter. Not because they're deceitful or dishonest, but because they are grossly overworked and, in some cases, overly impressed with their new-found power. That's why we all have to do our part to help them out, WHETHER THEY LIKE IT OR NOT. Any questions, son?".

"Yes ma'am." replied Dylan. "If the laws say a kid like me has all those rights and we aren't getting them ... well, what I mean is .."

"What you are trying to determine young man," said Judge Lydia. "Is why the system doesn't seem to work anymore. Well, I call it Civil Servant Sytem Sickness. It is an insidious disease that slowly invades the perfectly decent intentions of our government to provide compassionate services for those who need help, and then that same government allows it to turn into a contemptible process of dehumanizing those it was meant to serve. To try and tell you how this happens would take ions. Suffice it to say that it happens. And the only way to stop it is for every so-called public servant to remember who the real client is, the citizen - who pays their wages - and, who is simply asking for what the law says they have a right to ask. It is as simple as that."

"In the meantime, it is incumbent on everyone of us to keep on pressing for those rights provided us by law. We must not let them deny what those laws say we should have.

We must be prepared to use our Constitutional rights of freedom of speech, freedom of the press, even petition the Government if necessary for a redress of grievances. Any other questions?"

Judging from his City Council "experience" the previous night, Dylan knew she was right. His head was filled with a few dozen questions, but he would only mutter "no Ma'am, not right now", and try to sort things out later.

"One thing you might need when you go to these damn bureaucrats for information," said the judge, "is a small tape recorder. One of those that is activated whenever someone speaks. I think you might find it handy to carry it with you always ... and when you go to these various government offices just turn it on ... just in case someone treats you improperly ... I, for one, would like to know whenever you run into trouble. If someone gives you a bad time you'll have it on tape. And be sure to get their name. And any witnesses name and phone number."

"I know just the ticket." said Holly. "Smaller than a pack of cigarettes but extremely sensitive and great recording quality. I'll get it to you tomorrow Dylan."

"Good," retorted Judge Lydia Wagner, "now Dylan if you do run into a problem you be sure and bring those tapes to me right away, O.K.? Good. Close your ears for a while honey, whilst we do some "women talk". Now where's that wine you promised me, Holly."

Dylan ambled off to the kitchen, grabbed a soda, sat down at the table. He began writing notes about all he'd heard. His memory was flawless and an hour later, when Holly appeared to take him home he'd written it all down.

As she drove him home she hit him with another blockbuster.

"How'd ya like to shoot the President, son?" she drawled, smiling as she saws his eyes go wide.

"I'm talking pictures, boy - don't get all goofy on me. Here's what I'm thinkin'... I go the to President's Press Secretary and tell him about this cute little high school newspaper photographer..."

"I'm not cute, dammit!" Dylan blurted out through clenched teeth.

The tires screeched to a halt as Holly pulled to the side of the street. Lights and engines shut off before Dylan could stop blinking.

Holly turned on him, finger jabbing him in the chest, "Now you listen here boy, you get smart and do it now! I don't know what you expect to find out about Chief Steiner, or your aunt's death, but you're heading into some very dark places, possible killers, and powerful people ... and Matt and Buck can't be there to protect you every step of the the way. So you take advantage of the FACT that you are a cute, chubby kid 'cause it may save your little butt. Even the meanest of grown ups will hesitate to really hurt a cute kid, and that moment's hesitation could save your butt. Do you hear me?"

Dylan realized how serious she was, and how serious this project was, and knew she was right. He needed every edge he could muster.

"Now," she said, taking a deep breath and calming down, "you know I wouldn't get mad unless I cared about you. I love you kiddo, but you have to think smart and use every tool you can cutey. Get it. Good. Use it."

"Besides," he heard her mumble as she started the car, "you're gonna be big enough and cuter enough, soon enough."

"What children become, that will the community become." ... Suzanne LaFollette.

CHAPTER 5

Dylan was beginning to feel the thrill of the hunt and that is why, instinctively, he went to Buck with some special concerns. He knew Buck was the best hunter them all, and he needed to talk to someone about his uncle.

He quietly told Buck of Matt's "killing sprees" with the heavy bag.

Buck's face remained stoic as the boy told of those episodes, reveal his child-like fears of being the cause.

"Listen to me young Dylan, your uncle is the kindest, most loving man I have ever met - and, maybe the toughest fighter. He tries to hide from the pain of his loss, but when someone reminds him of it he gets confused and mad. But, you should not feel bad about accidently bringing it up. Truth is he needs to face this problem head on."

"Until he does, these "dances with death" that you see him going thru are just his way of fighting the ghosts and demons inside him."

"Don't you worry about this. It will go away when he finally decides to deal with it, which he will. In the meantime I'm guessing this is good therapy for him and it certainly is keeping his fighting skills in good shape."

"Now, let's talk about the hunt."

"Always remember, no matter what the size of your prey, they are extremely dangerous if you corner them. Don't be loud in your pursuit. Be quiet also in your clothes. That's why I gave you that old Army jacket. It is dull. And your cameras should not be shiney. You should trade that chrome Nikon for a black one. And puy black tape on any other shiny equipment you have."

"But what if Holly gets me in at the White House to shoot the President? I can't wear that old jacket there."

"Why not? Your just a dumb little high school kid and the "grunge-look" is in. Who's gonna say anything. Besides you're going there for what? you know Chief Steiner will be there. Maybe this time you want him to know you are stalking him. Rattle his cage just a little. See what shakes out?"

"Yup. I want to shake up that cop." said Dylan, now getting used to the notion of using the "dumb-but-cute routine. "I know there's some reason he got so rattled the other night. He's up to something. So I want to let him know I'm there and I'm watching him. Maybe he'll get nervous. But, there's nothing he can do there to hurt me. Once I'm back on the streets tho, I'm going to have to be extra careful, 'cause he might start hunting me."

This kid is gonna be good, thought Buck, he has the instincts of a hunter, street smarts, and a super brain on top of it. I'm gonna have to watch his backside if this gets any deeper.

A week later things got a lot deeper.

As Holly and Dylan approached the security gate for the White House, on Pennsylvania, Holly was a touch annoyed at Dylan. "He could have worn his good clothes," she thought, "I kinda thought he was above needing to be part of that high school, "in-crowd" bunch.

But, her fears were somewhat calmed by the guards cheerful acceptance of Dylan's Press Credentials (all the guards had been briefed by no less than the President's Chief of Staff to be professional with this young journalist). He even allowed Dylan to photograph the sign-in page "So I can prove I was officially here" said the boy, using his new macro-zoom lens to crop tightly on the full page of signatures.

They had arrived a bit early and while they waited for the formal press conference Dylan did some snooping. He spotted his prey, Chief Steiner - off to one side , talking to a thin gentleman in a pin-stripe suit. Their demeanor was calm until Steiner spotted Dylan shooting away - at them!

"Goddamit, JJ there's that little nigger, or Chink, or whatever the hell he is. That's the same one who snapped me outside the office the other night."

"Calm down Steiner, now you're the one in a panic. Can't be the same kid. Kid that rattled your cage was a ghetto brat. This kid has enough clout to get inside ... must be some fat-cat, campaign contributor's kid. Nobody but a rich brat would dare to wear shabby clothes like that. And that camera gear looks to be pretty pricey to me."

The President arrived, everyone quieted down and formed a respectful semi-circle facing his podium as he gave a short speech on the current flare-up in Europe, an update on the economy and a lot of smiles for the cameras. He then answered the Press Corp's questions for about ten minutes.

Then to Dylan's horror the President welcomed "our youngest member of the Presidential Press Corp, Dylan Haun, reporter/photographer of Washington,D.C.,s very own Paul Robeson High School. Come up here for a moment son, and let me introduce you to my staff."

It was a great photo opportunity for the press, cameras snapping and whirring away, reporters trying to catch every cute word the boy uttered while Holly did her best to get as many shots of Dylan and the Pres as she could. Boy, will he be happy and proud as a button, she thought.

"Damn," thought Dylan - all teeth and cute smiles, "now Steiner knows my name. Didn't mind rattling him a little, but I really didn't want to make it easy for him to find me."

"Son, are you the Dylan Haun who sent me some thoughts on RICO allocations?" said the President as they wrapped up the Press conference.

"Yessir." Dylan said, amamzed that his E-mail letter had gotten through.

"That's brilliant concept, son, and my staff is working on it. I have to get back to some urgent business, but I'd like to call you later. Would you give your number to Mr. Thomas over here so I can reach you later?"

"Yessir!"

The President charged off with his staff in tow, leaving Dylan to dictate his name and number to the President's aid. Then Dylan turned, looking for the Police Chief and just managed to spot Steiner in hot pursuit of his comrade in the pin stripe suit.

Mr. "Pin Stripe" hopped into a big, black Jeep Cherokee with Steiner still yelling in pursuit. Dylan fired off a batch of frames as they departured, remembering to photograph the licenses plate of the Jeep just before they scooted out of sight.

Back at the Time's photo lab Holly and Dylan quickly went about the business of processing the film. Once dry the film was cut into strips of five frames each and slipped into clear, plastic sleeves. As they viewed them on the light table it became obvious to Holly that Dylan's concerns about Chief Steiner might have some foundation. And possibly a tie-in with Cong. Skeffington to boot.

The look on both men's faces was a worried look, and they were both staring directly into the camera - at Dylan. They chose frames and went "dark" to make prints.

One print of the Chief and the Congressman stood out, mainly because both men's eyes showed fright. Holly found the negative, slipped into the Leica Focomat enlarger and ran it up as high as she could to make a huge enlargement of just their eyes. The print was very damning, so well did it show the men's fear. Five more were made.

And then Holly called Matt and they set up a meeting, at the Club, for that evening. B.E. Buckanaga and Judge Lydia Wagner were also advised.

Dylan wanted to be at that dinner meeting. He didn't like being left out of any discussions concerning his project, but he had learned to trust the three adults. They were teaching him a lot, and letting him do most of his work. And, maybe - just maybe - the President would actually call him

He spent the evening scanning all the "evidence" he had gathered, into the new computer he and Matt had picked out. Everything was B&W - the photos and the documents -using up a lot less computer memory than color would. He stored everything on two complete sets of disks. One he would hide, the other to be turned over to Judge Lydia, who had agreed to be the "overseer" of all the gathered materials.

--

They quietly finished their meals, waiting for Matt to formerly open the discussion.

He slid the empty plate back, sipped his bourbon and began. "I think we all need to decide whether we've opened Pandora's box. Have we unleashed a monster, or unlocked the talents and gifts of a great kid?"

"Young man." Holly corrected.

"And young warrior." Buck insisted.

"Come on you guys," Matt replied, "do you really feel that way about Dylan, or are you letting your love for him bias your evaluations? We could be putting him in a lot of danger if we let him continue this project."

"The reason we've got together the first time," snapped Buck, "is because Dylan was already IN a lot of danger. And, within a few short months he learned enough from us not only to survive the hazards of his life, but to show tremendous potential for being able to handle a lot more. He has demonstrated enough to me, to tell me almost all I need to know."

"When Holly called me this afternoon about this mete," said Buck, "she told me that Steiner might be connected to Cong. J.J. Skeffington. So I did some checking on those two. One of the first reports I got was from a friend of mine in the Pentagon. He dug up the "S/S boys" service records. They received numerous decorations for an incident that occurred just before they were discharged, but one member of the inquiry board objected to giving out the medals and insisted on entering a letter of dissent. It makes for interesting reading."

Buck reached in his jacket and pulled out copies of that letter and passed them around.

"You couple that letter, with Steiner's first run-in with Dylan, and thses photos taken today ... hell Matt, you've had enough investigative skills to know that this merits looking into.

"Agreed Buck. That's not what concerns me. We need to decide whether Dylan is up to the seriousness and danger we all agree might be out there."

"If you mean is he mature enough honey, that's bullshit. Hell who's ever mature enough? And what is mature enough? Besides, so far, neither Steiner or Cong. J.J. have done anything - not one ounce of retaliation. So far we have no solid evidence of anything more than fear. And if we cut the boy ... if we cut Dylan off on this project we'll be castrating him."

"Hells, bells boys if Dylan were big enough to go out and bang heads on the football team he'd be in danger, but I betcha you wouldn't think twice about letting him play. So, let him continue this investigation and we'll watch his backside every minute ... is what I say!"

"What about you Buck? Go or no go?"

"What we are going through right now is the same ritual my tribal elders went through with me when I was passing from boyhood to manhood. And they instructed my parents that it was extremely important, even in the 20th century, that - as part of my ritual of passage - that I go through what we call "the vision quest". And I did. Reluctantly at first, thinking this was some stupid old Indian Hocus-pocus, but, by the time I finished I was so persuaded by that ritual that I have recommended it for every young man and woman I have met."

"During a vision quest the young man must talk and smoke with the elders, spend time in a "sweat hut", fast, and hike to the top of a mountain and think, or pray."

"He may come down from that mountain with new insights, a vision if you will, which he may or may not discuss with his elders. But, that is it. After that it is felt by all the adults in the tribe that everything that could be done has been, and now it was time to treat the boy as a man.

"Dylan is going through such an ordeal now, in an urban sort of way. And I say let him go on. And let us get closer and stronger in the way we protect him. But, let us begin by treating him as a man."

Matt expressed his fears about rushing this boy. So Holly and Buck reassured him that this is only natural for the parent. But, in the best interests of the boy, Matt needed to begin letting go of Dylan ,the boy, and accepting the man. Matt agreed and they spent the rest of the evening working on ways to better protect the young warrior Dylan.

--

"Dylan Haun! Dylan go-to-my-Hell Haun!" Washington Hill Chief of Police was pacing and slamming his fist. "That little shit is Matt Haun's nephew. Lives with THE DAMN CRIME REPORTER FOR THE WASHINGTON DAMN POST! AND I KILLED THE GUY'S WIFE! We gotta do something!"

Steiner was beginning to wear thin on JJ. The cop seemed to be easily irritated lately, and, for the first time in their life-long partnership, JJ felt Steiner was getting weak. He tried to calm things down.

"OK Buddy we have to do something. Not now. Sit down, cool off, Ill tell you how this is going to happen."

Congressman Skeffington was obviously in control, which meant Steiner's only choice was to do as he was told. JJ would tolerate nothing less. He sat, tapping a ball-point pen and listened.

"We have a shipment coming in soon. Are you certain there is nothing on the computers indicating that we're in trouble?"

"Nothing JJ, I've checked every four hours." said Steiner, absent-mindedly doodling.

Today's the 14th. We don't need to be here until the 23rd. That will give us a few days to wrap things up before the "shipments" arrive. You got vacation? Good, take it. I'm off to Europe on a Congressional junket on the Muslim problems and I leave tomorrow night. I don't want you in town ready to bump off some kid and screw things up. How soon can you get out of here?"

"I'll be on my way to Amsterdam in 48 hours."

"After the 25th we move outta here post-haste. Got it?

"Ya, but if that kid - or his old man - gives us anymore ...."

"Then we get rid of them both."

"You gonna let Pancho run things while we're gone? Remember we got some Chinks coming in a few days to finish processing the stuff we have on hand."

"Pancho won't screw up" Skeffington replied. "he's handled things pretty good so far. He knows all the routines ... and he likes the girls."

Their man "Pancho", so named because his real name is Guillermo Villa, had been working for them for over six years and overseeing the operations in the basement for the past two years. Being an illegal immigrant he was disposed not to be a problem for his bosses. He had also helped out on a few transfers of "shipments" and knew the operation well. And he thoroughly enjoyed the "favors" - the easy access to the young women, as well as the bundles of money he earned. He was not inclined to "stray from the fold".

"And I get to "off" the kid and his uncle if they cause us any more shit?" said Steiner, doodling and scribbling on a sheet of note paper.

"WE get to "off" 'em Buddy. I get to have fun too."

--

Dylan started his routine the next morning. He rose a half-hour early so that he could stop by the alley behind Black Widow and check the trash. Two huge trash containers, filled with empty beer bottles, food wrappings, and an occasional scrap of paper. It was a discouraging, almost overwhelming pile of smelly, nasty junk to contemplate digging into, especially on a long shot. Fortunately the long shot paid off on the first day. Half way into the mess Dylan found a crumpled-up note. He picked it out with his gloved hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. He wanted to preserve any possible finger prints. It read:

50 Ch

Kaohsiung, Taiwan

Oct 25 Widow Negra

Dylan carefully put it inside a plastic zip bag, sealed it and continued his search.

He ran to school, extremely excited, only to discover that everyone near him suddenly wasn't. Most wrinkled up their noses and groaned. He asked his teacher to let him out of the first two classes. After one whiff she readily agreed. Dylan dashed home for a shower and a change of clothes, making note not to wear school clothes to the search anymore. Before heading back to school, he fired up the computer, went on-line at the Encyclopedi site and searched the word "Kaohsiung" and quickly determined it to be a huge port city.

As he walked back to school he pondered the meaning of the note and the new-found knowledge that Skeffington and Steiner might be interested in the port city of Kaohsiung ...

But his visits to City Hall proved equally exciting. He had learned a lot from his Uncle. The simplest method of tracking down information was to simply ask the guard at inside the building such simple questions as "Excuse me Sir (always remember to be cute and smiley) where do I check my Dad's water bill?"

"Utilities is located on the 3rd floor, room 303."

"Thank you sir." ("Remember Dylan," Uncle Matt had cautioned him, "you will need these people again.")

Dylan entered Room 303 and approached the counter.

"Excuse me sir, can you tell me where I can find out about water usage at 1443 13th Avenue N.?"

The gray-haired, crusty old clerk shrugged and replied "Cost a dollar for last week's printout."

"Could I have the last ten weeks?" said Dylan, all smiles and cuteness.

"Wait just a minute kid."

"Thank you sir, could you tell me who owns that Black Widow company that's here on the report?"

"Ya gotta go to Registrar of Deeds for that crap kid. In the basement, Room One "B". They're closed 'til Monday."

A few minutes later and ten dollars poorer Dylan Haun walked out of City Hall ecstatic. He had just successfully exercised his second attempt at being an investigator ... and the printouts actually proved worthwhile.

It showed a barely a trickle of water usage most of the time, with occassional usage from 3 to 6 a.m. each week and two huge jumps within the ten week period. Since Black Widow's water meter was separate from the Bayou Blues Club, it could have nothing to do with special nights or entertainers at the club. the most obvious conclusion was that, about every three or for weeks, the "toilet-flushes" factor (as developed by uncle Matt) indicated that a lot humans were in that building.

"The aim of arguement ... should not be victory, but progress." ... Joseph Joubert.

CHAPTER 6

It was Friday and Dylan was headed home from school, thinking about the weekend, looking forward to the house filled with "family" and fun. Then he heard the cry in the alley. It sounded like a young kid screaming for help.

He dashed around the corner into the alley just in time to see Cream slapping a smaller boy.

"Hey cut that out Roberto!" Dylan yelled, slowly advancing on Cream - aka, Roberto Romero.

"Hey fatso, don't bug me and I don't hurt you. Okay?" said Roberto uncertainly. He pushed the kid away and told him to beat it and then looked back at Dylan.

"Where did you learn my name, fatso?"

"I checked up on you," said Dylan, calmly approaching Roberto. "How come you're always so mean? How come you don't have any friends, not even a girl friend? How come you quit the football team? Coach said you would have been a good quarterback or safety..."

"What the hell you checking up on me for. You trying to mess up my life? You gonna turn me in to the Feds? Or immigration? I'm gonna smash your face in man."

And with that Roberto swung his fist at Dylan's face. Dylan parried the blow with his left hand, grabbing Roberto's wrist and yanking him forward. At the same time Dylan turned to thrust his hip into Roberto and grabbing his upper arm with his right hand. He managed to pull Roberto over his shoulder and spin him to the ground.

Roberto rolled, got up quickly, and charged Dylan again. Dylan sidestepped Roberto, pushing him off-balance and on to the sidewalk.

Roberto rose a little slower, wiped the dirt off his jacket and noticed the bleeding.

This time he charged straight at Dylan with hands outstretched, grabbing Dylan and yanking him forward. Dylan drove forward with his feet, tucking his head down as he advanced. His forehead smashed into Roberto's nose with just enough force to cause it to bleed.

Roberto's hands went to his face, such was the pain. He could see the blood from his nose and grew frightened. Dylan grabbed his arm and spun him to the ground.

A knife fell out of Roberto's jacket and Dylan snatched it up.

He pushed the button on the handle and the blade flipped open.

Roberto's eyes were wide with confusion and fear. Dylan knew he had Roberto intimidated, then recalled Buck's caution not to back him into a corner. "Give him room to keep his self-respect." Buck had said.

"What d'ya need this shit for Roberto. To scare little kids. How come you're so mean. Dammit, how come?"

Roberto flinched as Dylan swung the knife past him and jabbed it into a crack in the pavement. And then he pushed the handle hard until the blade snapped.

"So now what fatso. You gonna beat the shit outta me, or call the cops and have me deported?" said Roberto, brushing himself off, now seated on the ground.

"I haven't really hit you yet Roberto, you're the one whose beating himself up. Quit trying to jump me and you'll feel a lot better."

Dylan sat down next him, keeping a wary distance.

"Why do you keep talking about immigration and being deported? You were born in this country weren't you?"

Roberto looked at Dylan quizically.

"What's with this guy?" he thought. "He's got the jump on me, could beat my ass, but he's just talkin."

"Sure, I was born in Dallas, Texas just like my sister."

"So who's gonna deport you anyway? You're an American citzen and immigration can't touch you or your sister."

"Bullshit fatso ... though I guess you ain't such a fatso after all." Roberto said smiling. "My mother been tellin us since we were kids that the immigration gonna come and get us and ship our asses back to El Salvador."

"No way, Roberto. You and your sis are citizens. What about your mom, is she a legal alien?"

"Hell no. How can she be? She snuck into this country twenty years ago and has been ducking the immigration ever since. So what are you being so friendly for. I kicked your ass enough times. Ain't you scared of me? What kinda game you playing?"

"No I'm not scared of you anymore Roberto and I'm not playing games either. Maybe we won't be friends but I don't need to be looking over my shoulder, worrying about you all the time either. I don't want you picking on the little kids anymore, understand? And I would rather see you not scared all the time."

"I ain't scared of nothin!" snapped Roberto.

"Yes you are your afraid to have friends. Afraid to have fun playing football. Cause your afraid the law is gonna grab you and your family and send you back."

"Roberto, that is so stupid. If you'd stayed in class long enough you would know about your citizenship rights. But, no you - big man, big gang leader - keep on quiting just when you should stay with it. Here's what you need to do. Stop your stupid "life is shit" attitude" and start believing. Believe in the people who have tried to make you a better man. Start believing in the country that has given you so much freedom. Goddamit Roberto, you think I'd be sitting here telling you this shit, if I didn't know I'm right. Huh! Say something big, tough one."

"You really believe ..."

"Here's what I think, I think you and your sister are safe and we might be able to make things right for your Mom too. And I think you and your sister and your Mom deserve better. If I'm right, I don't have to worry about you anymore. So, what do you say man, lets go to the deli and have some hotdogs and Cokes and we figure out how to help you Mom. I have a couple of friends that might be able to help." Dylan said, standing up.

"Come on, I'm buying the hotdogs. Tell me about your Mom."

Roberto rose hesitatingly, frowned and then shrugged.

"Why not. What can it hurt?"he thought.

As they walked down 13th Avenue Robert Romero told of his mother's life in El Salvador. Back then, in the early 1970s, her father Alexandro Romero was always giving speeches and writing newspaper articles denouncing the vicious, represive regime of the then President, General Carlos Humberto Romero, - no relation - until his assination by some of Romero's "bodyguards". Roberto's mom was shipped off to Mexico by her family, with enough money to bribe her way in the U.S. while her brothers and sisters joined the rebel forces in the hills. One cousin, a bishop in the Catholic church stayed behind and began preaching against the oppresive regime.

"But your Mom. Didn't she ask for political asylum when she got here?" asked Dylan.

"No one gonna give her no political asylum. She's not Cubano."

"Doesn't matter." said Dylan. "If the General's government was a dictatorship ... if the U.S. was opposed to it. She could have gotten asylum, and maybe she still can."

"Your crazy fatso. No gringo's gonna make her a citizen."

"Roberto, wait here for a minute. I wanna call my friend. She is an important journalist and she knows some people who might help. Okay? Will you wait?"

"Sure but don't you give your friend our names. Not until ..."

"No sweat, just wait here."

Dylan called Holly and explained Roberto's mother's dilemma. Holly thought that judge Wagner might have some ideas and then told Dylan to hang out for a while at the deli. She would call back within a half hour.

True to her word, she called back in twenty minutes.

"Look Dylan the judge thinks there is a good chance to at least get your friend's mom a green card. And then she can earn her citizenship. But it's going to take a lawyer honey. A good immigration lawyer. So you and your friend write everything down that you can think of, including phone numbers, address, etc., and let's all meet at your house on Saturday."

The two young men stayed at the deli for another hour, talking excitedly and writing copious notes. And, before leaving they shook hands and agreed to meet at Dylan's house the next afternoon.

--

Matt heard the doorbell ring and broke away from Buck's martial arts group to answer it.

He opened the door to find a very wide-eyed and anxious Roberto standing on the porch.

"Well, good morning. And who do we have here? A Mr. Cream or a Mr. Roberto Romero?"

"Roberto Romero sir, that Cream guy ain't around no more."

"Isn't around anymore." said Matt as he put his arm around Roberto's shoulder, steering him inside.

"Now have a seat Roberto and relax. Would you like a Coke or coffee, or something?"

"No thank you sir not yet. Can you do anything for my mother?"

"Sure can son, but first here's a few rules of the house. First of all there are no blacks, or Latinos, or Indians, or gringos here. We're are all just American citizens. Sure we are proud of our heritage, but we do not separate ourselves, understood?"

"Yessir."

"And since we are good citizens we take pride in using good language, okay? Dylan tells me you are a very intelligent young man and I will respect you as long as you conduct yourself that way."

"Yesser. But, about my mother.."

"Fine. You should know that you and your sister's citizenship is undeniable and all you need for proof is your birth certificates. I suggest you write the City Hall in Dallas and find out how to get certified copies for each of you."

"As to your mother's problem it looks pretty good. Holly and the judge have come up with two lawyers who can help. One actually knew of your grandfather and his brave efforts trying to bring democracy to El Salvador. That lawyer offered to take her case and only charge her his actual costs. But, you and your mom should talk to both and then decide. Okay"

"Yessir. That's great. You just don't know ... it's really great. I know Mom wouldn't drink so much if she stopped being afraid of the immigration people. And I could go out for football, maybe ... and get a job ... and ... wow!"

"Yes, well this does seem to be a good day for you son, but I must ask you about your sister." said Matt. "Is she on crack or cocaine? What is she using and does she want to get off of it?"

"She used to do coke sir, but then she started sniffing heroin hoping it would help her ease of the stuff. But she got hooked bad. She's not just some "chipper", she uses it all the time and bigtime. I wanted to get her into a program but Mom was afraid she'd have to sign some documents and, well you know."

"Yes, and I'm beginning to understand a lot more about what you've been going through. Now, first we must get your Mother to talk to a lawyer and once she accepts the possibility of being a legal resident in this country, with a chance to become a citizen, then we can get your sister squared away. Okay?"

"Yessir, I'll to talk to her this afternoon. Would you tell Dylan thanks and I'll call him later?"

"No problem, and here take this just in case." said Matt handing Roberto one of his business cards. "And know that your are welcome and respected here."

"Wow. Yessir! Thanks!" said Roberto as he headed out the door. --

The following Monday, after school, Dylan heard Xao shouting.

"Hey Dylan, wait up. It worked Dylan, just like you said. I didn't need to make pictures to make friends like you did, just use my talents the same way. Did you hear me at the basketball game?"

"Couldn't make it. Why, what happened?"

"Well I made up a little "charge" tune for Arty Richards, you know the player who ..."

"Oh yeah, he's the dude who is always picking on people"

"Yup. So I came up with this tune and played it on my trombone when they put him in the game - da de dada - with a chant GO ARTY GO and everybody chimed in and he played his ass off. You know what he told me after the game?"

"What's that?"

"He said he was always nervous, at first, when he went into the game 'cause he felt stupid-looking in those shorts and T-shirt. So he couldn't begin to concentrate until he got bumped and smacked around a bit. But hearing his own chant got him all charged up right away, boy did he thank me a lot. I think he wont be bothering me anymore."

"Maybe that's the way to get these big guys off our backs, just stroke their egos a bit and they wont feel the need to use their strength."

"Yup. Well I gotta go help Dad at the deli, see ya."

Dylan headed back to City Hall.

"Excuse me sir," he asked the City Hall Security Guard, "where do I find out who lives at an address?

The guard recognized the boy, smiled - knowing full well he was being "schmoozed" but enjoying the process replied "Registrar of Deeds. In the basement kid. Room 1B"."

Dylan entered the musky-smelling basement room and approached the counter.

"Hey kid, what the hellya doin' here?" barked the clerk at the counter.

Dylan went immediately into his cautious, cute mode, glad that he'd remembered to push the "Record" button on his micro-cassette tape recorder.

"Uh, sir I need to find out who lives at 1443 13th Avenue North."

"Get the hell outta here kid. You ain't got no business down here bothering us. Don'tcha know we're trying to run a government here?

"Sir, I can pay whatever fees are required and ...."

"Beat it kid, I ain't got no time for this shit."

"Sir I'm a citizen asking a regular question...".

"Get the hell outta here now."

"Could you tell me your name, Sir?"

"Get out! Get the hell out>"

On his way out, Dylan stopped by the Security Guard's desk. "Sir do you know who runs the Record of Deeds office?"

"That old fart? Name's Halperin or Hepperin or something like that. They should have it on file. Why?"

"Thank you Sir." Dylan headed to a payphone at the end of the hall.

After hearing Dylan's tape of his encounter with the City Hall Deed's clerk Judge Lydia asked him to take a cab to her house. She met him as his cab pulled up, paid the driver, and brought him inside.

"What do I offer you Dylan, milk and cookies. Brandy and cigars.?"

Dylan chuckled. "Got any coffee?"

"Yup. How about some croissants to boot?"

"Just one will do, and a touch of butter ... real butter, if you have it."

As she whipped up the snack, making certain to use real coffee, French roasted beans, with Sarah Lee croissants heating in the oven, (never micro-waved) they listened to the tape.

"You conducted yourself properly young man. And that clerk did not. I will do my best to make sure he never has a chance to abuse anyone's rights again. Ill make some calls tomorrow."

"Judge Lydia, I don't want to hurt the guy. Get him fired or anything."

"So you want this semi-sentient, abusive bureaucrat to continue to deny others their rights as citizens? An immigrant comes in to ask for information and he gets to yell at them "get lost wet-back, this is only for Americans!" Is that what you want?"

"No ma'am, and you're right about everything, except for one statement."

"What's that Dylan?"

"He's not semi'sentient, he is totally without sensitivity, decency, or manners."

"I stand corrected."

"Sit Ma'am, you're sitting." he giggled.

"OK I sit corrected - my gawd you're turning into a bigger nit-picker than I. So I'll make some calls tomorrow with your blessings, right? And, hopefully, because we exercised our rights as citizens, we'll have a civil servant that is truly civil. O.K.?"

"Yes' ma'am."

"And, tomorrow afternoon you will go back to City Hall, Room 1B in the basement, and you will get what you rightfully requested. O.K?"

"Good, now tell me what you have found out about that fat pig ... excuse me Police Chief Steiner."

--

Because Agent Buckanaga had been so diligent and energetic pursuing his case load in the past, no one at his DEA office begrudged him some "slack time", which he spent in the Computer Room pursuing the Steiner/Skeffington "heroic deed" issue. Two Bronze Stars and two Purple Hearts had been awarded to these two under rather curious circumstances and he was now into his second day of probing the federal computer files and networks for more details.

"Sir. Excuse me sir but you have a call from the Vietnam Embassy on line two." said a sheepish female office worker.

"Thanks Shirley"

"Officer Buckanaga, may I help you?"

""Your inquiry into Corporals Steiner and Skeffington have come to my attention Officer Buck." The voice was tinged with an Oriental accent. "I can offer much illumination, but only off the record, un-witnessed and only one meeting. Meet me at the Java House, at 17th and "M" tomorrow at 2 p.m. I'll be sitting outside, sipping a cappuccino with a pecan nut roll. There will be three pads of butter, not margarine, on the table. Do not try any funny spy stuff. I will jam any attempts at transmitting my voice. And you will be searched for weapons and recording devices."

Buck sat stunned, the phone emitting a quiet tone. The informant had hung up.

Five minutes later he snapped out of it, with a plan.

"Hey Shirley," he yelled out the door, "come hear, please."

"Whatchya doing for the next hour. Got time to go out for some coffee at the Java?"

Flustered, flabbergasted, and flushed she agreed ... only to find out, over a cup of marvelously rich Arabic/Hawaian Kona blend, that she was needed as a diversion while Buck surveyed the area around the Java House.

Two croissants and another cup of coffee later, Buck was visibly rattled. He'd scanned the area time after time trying to figure out some way to capture the conversation he would be holding with this Vietnamese "informant.

"Can't transmit him, wire-tap him ... can't even use a telescopic mike. How-in-the-hell can I get proof of his conversations?" mumbled Buck, unaware of his "distraction" Shirley.

But she was aware of him and, realizing what he was agonizing over, offered a soft, but firm, resolution to his problem.

"Agent Buckanaga, you need a lip reader. You need one so good, with such a track record of accuracy that no one will question the credibility of the translations. And you probably should back it with video film."

Lip reader....video footage...which would be totally unaffected by jamming, etc. Buckanaga charged across the table, kissed Shirley hard, and jumped to the phone.

While Shirley waited patiently Buck called Holly, Matt, and Judge Lydia in search for that one particular talent. And it was Judge Lydia who recalled reading about such a person in a recent legal magazine.

"Please track her down Judge. I need her here tomorrow at noon. I'll pay any fee. Here's my number. Call me as soon as you know if she can be here."

"I'll do this Mr. Buck," Judge Lydia replied, "and Ill pay half the fee, if you'll tell me why she is needed."

Buck explained, spelling out every detail of the mysterious, yet specific, phone call from the Vietnam Embassy, reminding her of the information Dylan had already documented.

"Let's hope," she replied, "that all of this falls together. Dylan may have stumbled over something big. You must promise me Agent Buckanaga that you'll protect that young man."

"Yes I will your Honor."

"I'll hold you to that. In the meantime get some rest, we have a lot to do in the next twenty-some hours."

Buck returned to the patiently waiting Shirley. "So tell me future Agent Shirley," he said, "what are you doing for supper.......?"

"I figure pepperoni pizza or Alaskan King Crab legs at Petite Masons" she blurted out, hoping to find out more about this man, and the case he was working on.

"Crab legs, wine, lotsa lies, but I can't tell you too much about this one until I get this informant's statement verified and identified. Agreed."

"Sure, if you're buying."

"I'll buy this time, your up next."

Back at the office they worked up a plan and a map, drawn from memory and notes taken at the scene. After working out a rough scenario they called the techninians in to finalize the operation. And then they headed out for dinner.

The following morning, around 3.a.m., a team of technicians would slip into the neighborhood near The Java Shop, quickly install two cameras no larger than a pack of cigarettes, each with telephoto lens, high in two trees some 50 feet from the front of the sidewalk cafe. Wiring from the cameras would be concealed in the bark, carefully laid into the seams of the sidewalk, and finally run inside two unmarked vehicles (normal cars, not conspicuous-looking vans) parked up the street. Inside the cars were battery-powered video recorders, complete with self-timers and monitors used to sight in the cameras.

The entire installation would take less than fifteen minutes, the parking meters filled with quarters, and then deliberately jammed so that they would not expire.

Dylan's trip to City Hall, Room 1B, had gone off without a hitch. The clerk at the counter was polite and efficient, showing him how the records were organized and how to locate the information he needed. But all that the records showed was that Black Widow, Inc. was a privately-held corporation whose address was a P.O. Box number in the state of Florida.

So, now how do I get to Florida? he wondered, as he headed home.

"Sir I need to ask you a question."

Matt was immediately attentive, knowing full well that Dylan was being overly sensitive about discussing anything concerning his project.

"What's up son?"

"I found out that a company, at a certain address here, has an address - a P.O. Box number - in Florida. That's their corporate headquarters. So how do I find out who the owners are?"

O.K. here's my guess. Corporations whether, private or publicly-held, must file and register with the State, usually the Secretary of State. More and more corporate listings are available through some address on the Internet. Got it? Good. So I guess you'll have to go on-line, punch up the World Wide Web, and then do a search thru "webcrawler". You remember how that's done?"

"Yessir, thanks. Thanks."

"I showed him how to search "the web" just once," mused Matt Haun, "and he remembers the whole, complicated mess like it was a walk to the deli. Hell, he's been a quick take on everything we've thrown at him so far. Holly said that Sylvia and I had taught so much "it's a wonder he don't bust from over-complications" but he shows no signs of strain. I think our faith in him - letting him continue this mess - is right, but we all have to cover his back-side very carefully."

His thoughts ran on in that same vein for a while, then suddenly shattered...

"HEY DAD come here, I got 'em, look at this, it's them, you gotta take a look!"

Dylan's yelling caused Matt to jump to his side and he immediately saw the source of all that excitement. There on the computer screen, simply spelled out, were the two principal owners of Black Widows, Inc. - residing on 1443 13th __ - J.J. Skeffington and Ronald J. Steiner!

"Incredible son, it's beginning to look like you've hooked a big one." Matt Haun was beaming.

Dylan was stunned.

"Sir, these guys must be up to something bigtime, huh?"

"I think so Dylan. Now print that out and make a coupla copies and let's both of us hit the hay. I think we'll need all the energy we can muster."

Two hours later, the ramifications of Dylan's discovery finally settling in, Matt began to get sleepy. Moments before he drifted off he realized that Dylan had called him "Dad".

A half-hour after Matt drifted off into deep sleep Dylan was awakened by the phone.

"Dylan come quick and bring your camera!" it was his friend Xao Xaing. Dylan had explained his concerns about that building and asked Xao to keep an eye on activities across the street from the delicatessen. Tonight something had caused Xao's excitement.

Dylan arrived at Xao's back door eight minutes later, camera in hand.

"I was sitting up front in the dark eating a sandwich, after finishing up cleaning. About 1:45 a Mexican guy walked up to the front door, unlocked it, and then the upstairs lights went on. A few minutes later the lights went off and a minute later this white van came out of the side street, driven by the same guy. He was in a hurry and I figure he might be back."

"Good deal Xao. I'm going over there. Maybe I can get a peek."

"Dylan it could be dangerous. I better come..."

"No way Xao. Too many bodies to hide. I need you up here. Can you stay awake for a while?"

"I'll stay up until I see you come back out."

"Okay, now quit your worrying. These guys have no idea were are interested in them and they've been doing this for years. They won't be looking for anyone. See you soon."

Dylan found two garbage cans across the street from the entrance to the underground parking lot for the building. He maneuvered them together, to hide behind and made some quick light readings. He desperately wanted to get inside that underground parking lot, but from what Judge Lydia had told him, pictures taken inside private property could not be used as evidence, unless permission had been given to take them. He returned to hide behind the cans and wait. Ten minutes later the van arrived, turned into the driveway as the underground parking door opened, and disappeared inside.

Dylan had taken on shot of the driver and tried to get a few of the occupants but the angle was bad. He crouched down behind the cans and waited. Soon, he was asleep.

He was in a dark green forest, sitting on a log, his bow and arrow leaning against his knee. Something made a rustling noise and suddenly he was alert. But he did not reach for the weapon, instead he withdrew a simple reed flute from his loin cloth and began playing a sweet song.

A massive black elk came through the brush and asked "What is the name of that song?" in a young boys voice.

"It is the song of learning." said the young warrior.

"And where did you learn it?"

"You just taught it to me."

"And are there any human beings in the song"

"Yes."

"Who are these people?"

"They are the people of the circle."

"And are they singing and dancing?"

"No. They seem afraid."

"Yes and that is why you must go to a bigger forest and learn a better song. So that they may sing and dance again." With that the elk turned into a beautiful white goose and flew away."

Suddenly, the garage door rattled open. Dylan immediately awoke, lifted his camera and shot five frames as fast as he could before the van sped off. He got up and out of the area, headed for the front of the buildings and crossed the street heading for the deli.

"Jeez Dylan, you made it!" said Xao running to his side, dressed in pajamas.

"Yup. No big deal."

"You were in there for hours man."

Dylan looked at his watch, amazed to read the time at 5:30 in the morning. He patted Xao on the shoulder and thanked him, promising to talk to him at school. Then he headed back across the street and around the back of the building. --

He wanted to check the trash bin before heading home. Inside the bin were some plastic sheets and cardboard boxes, underneath which he found a piece of paper with some words scrawled on it that seemeed to be written in Spanish. One phrase and telephone number he understood. It simply read "10 pounds - ascetic anhydride" and a phone number. He dropped it into a plastic bag, zipped it shut, and headed off, determined to find out what this was all about.

By four p.m. on that afternoon of October 22, Dylan had determined that the compound was used, among other things, to treat morphine and convert it to heroin. At which point things fell rapidly into place for him. Morphine came from opium, most of which came from Asia. Kaohsiung harbor city on the island of Taiwan. Indeed it was huge harbor, rated as the third-largest container shipping port in the world.

And those Chinese people in the basement were probably illegal immigrants, processing heroin in the wee hours of the morning!

So "50 Chs" were even more immigrants being shipped out of Taiwan, who would arrive here on the 25h. Heroin smuggling AND illegal immigrant smuggling, based at 1443 13th ... which is owned by Congressman Skeffinton and Chief Steiner.

He could barely believe all of this but his gut told him he was right. There was no one home to talk this over with, so he began writing his thoughts into the computer's memory.

----

By 2:30 p.m, on October 22nd, Agent B.E. Buckanaga had more information on Steiner and Skeffington than he had hoped for. And it was recorded on tape from three different high-resolution video cameras. The third being a hand-held Sony Hi-Eight with a very powerful zoom lens. That was operated by another agent with the late-arriving lip reader at his side.

They had posted themselves inside the pizza parlor directly across from the Java Shop, she with 10 power, light-weight binoculars and he with the VCR camera.

When the Vietnamese man arrived he insisted that he chose the one seat that placed him with his back to the street and their camera and binoculars. The agent video-taped everything from the beginning, including the thorough search of Agent Buck while Jennifer Reed, lip-reader extrordinaire, found a way to see the Vietnamese's lips.

"Over here," she said, "you can see his face perfectly."

"But that's just a reflection, can you read lips when the image is reversed."

"Just tape everything ... and get as close-up as you can, I'll need every detail I can get.'

By 5:30 p.m. that afternooon, the agents, and Shirley and Ms. Jennifer Reed were watching the tape on the monitor at the DEA office. Only, Ms. Reed was watching it with her make-up mirror which was pointed over her shoulder at the monitor.

"Agent Buckanaga," she began, trying to repeat the words as fast as they came out, "I have very little time or inclination for this. I am a former Colonel of the Viet Cong forces. My duty was Special Ops, as you say. When we heard about the raid on the supply depot SW/20A, in 1970, we casually began to look into who was involved. We knew that we were not."

"As soon as the names of Corporal Steiner and Skeffington were mentioned as "heroic survivors" our interest was piqued."

"Our investigation revealed that two Vietnamese farmers had witnessed the whole affair and they talked to us. Their descriptions of two Army soldiers destroying that depot fit Steiner and Skeffington to a "T"."

"We were not surprised Agent Buck. We had those two on our primary list as "untouchables". Not to be hurt by any Viet Cong forces. You see they were selling American guns, ammunitions, even tank missiles on the black market. And we were buying everything we could get."

"Some of the weapons were sold by them to a few tribes in the northern provinces in trade for heroin. We did not concern ourselves. You see we needed the cooperation of these normally hostile tribes. We were happpy with anything we could get."

Jennifer Reed's readings were perfect. Her voice was being taped so that DEA technicians could then blend the sound track with the video tape, thus offering a complete and acceptable package.

"I have been keeping track of their activities here in Washington - their people smuggling, their dope smuggling, their connections with the opium dealers of the Golden Triangle ...."

"Now Buckanaga is talking." said Ms. Reed.

"But Colonel, according to my records, you still need those northern tribes, so why give us ammunition to shut down Steiner and Skeffington dealings with them.?

"Because we need the Chinese much more. And the Chinese have been very disturbed by the illegal smuggling of their citizens ... or, as you prefer to call it "escape to freedom" ... and they have asked us to do what we can to reduce the outflow of their people."

"By letting you close down their operations we win many favors from the Chinese, and our northern tribal members will certainly never be able to trace all of this to my government."

"It is Agent Buck a very clean deal. What you people call a win/win situation. Any questions? Fine. Then Good Day!"

The DEA office was now totally without sound. Everyone just stared ... at their hands, their notes, or just out the window.

"What the Hell? How can this be. How do we prove it? A Congressman and a "top cop".

"I want the lip-reader's tape and the video mixed now." Buckanaga yelled, the technicians already making the moves.

"Shirley..."

"Yes Agent Buck, you want me to call the judge you talked to last night. And you want me to type up some sort of form for Ms. Reed to sign, swearing etc,etc. And you want me to call Mr. Haun and Ms. Sorenson for a meeting. Where at sir?"

Buck smiled, took a deep breath, realizing he wasn't the only one who saw the urgency of this matter.

"At the Bayou Blues Club on 13th, at eight p.m. and you're presence is very respectfully requested."

"O.K." she chirped coquetishly.

"Oh, by the way, would you ask Matt Haun if we could have Dylan at this one?"

"O.K." she chirped again.

"Dammit Shirley," he snapped with a smile, "how proficient are you with weapons?"

"Three sharpshooter medals in the last four years. And a black belt in karate. Plus three years studying criminolgy at the University of ..."

"Okay! If I can find a way to raise your General Service rating to DEA agent, you'll be one tomorrow. Just, PLEASE, quit that chirping stuff. Okey?"

"Yup." she chirped as she spun away to take care of her tasks.

--

"Judge Lydia I just have to talk with you. I think I have enough stuff to tie Chief Steiner and Mr. Skeffington into ... you will probably laugh ..."

"If it's got anything to do with heroin or people-smuggling ...."

"How'd you know that. Darnit ..."

"O.K. Dylan, I just got off the phone with your friend Buck. He seems to have come up with some similar "stuff" and he wants all of us - Matt, Holly, some of his staff, me, and even you kiddo - to meet at the Bayou Club at eight. Can Do?"

"Yup."

"Fine. Now bring all your stuff, O.K.? Because if this "stuff" appears to be concrete, legal evidence then we've got our work cut out for us."

---

The usual dark booth was not big enough for all of them so two tables were jammed together, settings for seven set, and the orders taken. As soon as the drinks arrived - even a wine spritzer for Dylan ("where is he going to learn about drinking, from me or the streets?" reasoned Matt) - and the food orders taken, the conversation began to simmer.

Holly, aware that some block-busters were about to be talked about, mentioned that she had talked to her mentor, Mr. David Beadyn, Editor-in-Chief of LIFE magazine ...

"He told me that when he ran the New York Times Washington bureau, everybody damn well knew that Skeffington and Steiner were dirty! The "SS boys" they called 'em. And Beadyn said if we get anything on those two, Life Magazine would pay top dollar for..."

"But we haven't got a thing but a bunch of stuff," Judge Lydia interrupted. "What we need is evidence. Empirical data. Unimpeachable testimony and proof!"

"Um, Judge Lydia, I think..."but Dylan's voice was over-powered by bigger people.

"We now have recorded testimony," Buck said quietly, yet somehow powerfully, "that these two, the "SS boys" probably won their glorious battle decorations - ergo their current seats of power - by killing American soldiers, making it look like they had tried to prevent it, all the while making tons of profit selling U.S. arms, ammunitions, and other wartime supplies to the enemy."

"All well and good folks," said Judge Lydia, "that might get them a courtmartial, but it is still not evidence to convict on the charges of Mrs. Haun's murder, drug and/or people-smuggling. It's still "stuff".

"Well then," concluded Matt, " we need to find some way of satisfying the court. We need to get some tangible proof..."

"HEY DAD!!!"

Dylan outburst totally confounded the table. Everyone one suddenly turned to look at Dylan.

"What's wrong with calling him Dad?" Dylan asked. "I can call him Dad if I want to, can't I? I want him to be my Dad, so he's my Dad, O.K.?'

"O.K." was heard in unison around the table. And then nervous laughter. Then applause. And then one hell of a lot of hugging and tears.

"Your father who was, and is, my brother would not mind one bit," said Matt quietly, reverently, " as a matter of fact, I welcome your invitation to accept me that much. I am honored to be loved by you Dylan..." wiping tears from his eyes.

"We need to know what you have to tell us Dylan." The silence broken, necessarily, by Judge Lydia.

Everyone settled down, realizing that this project needed immediate attention - and also realizing that the wondrous happenings between Dylan and his uncle were only beginning.

Dylan wiped away the tears of joy, stared at his notes and began pacing.

"What I have here may be just stuff. Pictures of Steiner attempting to intimidate me for no reason. Pictures of Steiner and the congressman apparently frightened when they saw me at the President's news conference.. Ownership of the Black Widow traced to S and S, their company based in Florida. And a couple of notes dug out of the trash."

"All of this stuff would probably be called circumstantial in a court of law. Even the pictures I took this morning. I haven't developed them yet...

"What do you mean pictures you this morning?" Matt blurted out.

"I haven't developed them yet," said Dylan very firmly, "but they will show some Oriental people being driven away from Black Widow offices bya Mexican guy."

"They were upstairs for over three hours and I believe, from the note I found in the trash this morning - some of it in Spanish I think, that they were processing dope."

"I know that the Judge will say this is still "stuff". Just a more questions to be proven. But, from these I think I see a possible way to prove everything. Comes from the notes I dug outta that trash. You have seen them. Maybe you know what they mean. I don't know for certain, but what I think they mean is that the mention of ascetic anhydride might relate to processing of heroin. It IS used for that purpose, among other things."

"Second," said Dylan, "the other note, I believe, means that 50 Chinese people will leave the port of Kaoshiung, Taiwan soon. Encyclopedia says it is one of the largest ports in the world, by the way. They will leave on board a ship called the Widow Negra - Negra being a Latin-based word for black. Black Widow."

"So I'm thinking, if we are all right, then those 50 Chinese illegal immigrants will arrive on October 25th with some opium. That's three days from now and I haven't heard Judge Lydia tell us we had enough "stuff", er evidence to start making some arrests. So we need to figure out some plan to catch these two with the Chinese and the dope. And we should do it now."

Long silence.

"So hey Dad," he said, slapping Matt on his shoulder, now totally insecure and frightened at his own boldness, desparate for some reassurance, yet ready to defend his position "what do you think?"

Matthew Haun swooped Dylan into his arms and gave him the biggest bear hug imaginable, then yelled out a huge whoop, while everyone else simply leaned back to holler and applaud in kind.

The waitress came by and Matt wisely ordered a round of ice cream and coffee for everyone. Then the strategy meeting began.

"The SS boys will probably come back early." said Matt.

"Right," replied Buck, "so I should have a couple of my people on the lookout. To let us know the minute they return."

"We need to get into that building on 13th." Holly suggested.

"Get me one more witness. One more bit of corroborating evidence and I can issue a search warrant." snapped the Judge.

"The pictures." said Dylan, "Maybe we can find out who those Oriental people are. Or that Mexican guy."

"And run through Interpol's computer." said Buck. "How soon can you get them developed and printed Dylan? I only need 5 by 7s"

Dylan looked to Holly and she replied "We can go to the office right now and be back in about one hour."

"Go to it gang," said Matt, "we've got some sneaky stuff to discuss. We'll fill you in when you get back."

As soon as they arrived at the office Dylan started yawning uncontrollably. Holly realized he'd been awake for over 24 hours, asked him for the film and told him to stretch out on the desk and get some rest.

Forty five minutes later she was finished. She called her boss, explained that there was a real ememgency and was given the week off. Then she called Patrick Hausmuss, her main back-up freelance photographer and he agreed to cover her assignments for the next week. Only then did she wake up Dylan and show him the prints. A nice side and front view of the driver, and a few very grainy blowups of occupants..

They dashed back to the Bayou Club.

"The mexican guy seems to be our best bet. He's already involved in criminal activities so someone else may be looking for him." said soon-to-be DEA Agent Shirley. "I can get this on the Interpol and have an answer in an hour."

"Take the other headshots along, just in case he doesn't pan out." Buck suggested.

A call from Shirley, thirty-five minutes later, confirmed that the Mexican was actually a Guatamalen who was wanted, in his native country, for two counts of rape and attempted murder. His name Alejandro Pena came with AKAs Guillermo Cortez and "Pancho" Villa.

By the time Shirley returned the plan had been concocted.

Every one made notes of the projected schedule of "events", telephone numbers of each other's office, home and beeper or cellular phone, with a caution that they only had about one hundred hours before the "shipment" was to arrive.

"One other thing," Buck said solemnly, " and I want everyone to hear this. We have praised, and hugged, and applauded you Dylan and now it is time for a stronger thing to be said. I had decided a week ago, that you need to go through a kind of "rite of passage" a ceremony that would make all of us, including you son, aware that you've become a man."

"Our people call this a "vision quest" and the ceremony usually includes some fasting, and pipe smoking and standing near-naked, outside for a day and a night. Hopefully, you would encounter some sort of vision. Some enlightenment."

"The dream!" thought Dylan, nearly out loud, "But I can't tell them about it now." He realized that the dream he had was not some random gossip of the neurons, but a very specific, almost prophetic prophesy. But it had nothing to do with this crisis. Another time, maybe.

"But now I hear of your speech at your city council meeting, and see all that you have done as a hunter, and now you tell us of stalking all night to get these pictures ... and I say you have accomplished your passage into manhood and I ask all of you your opinion."

Everyone raised a 'thumbs up" and he continued.

"It is customary to give a gift or two to the new warrior. I give you two tonight. A belt buckle which you must always wear. It is made off extremely high impact carbon-plastic with a concealed knife. I need only remind you," he went on, demonstrating to Dylan how the small knife came loose from under the buckle, "that this is primarily a cutting tool and a defensive weapon. Not for killing!"

"And this," he added, sliding what appeared to be a fat ball-point pen, "is a tear-gas weapon. You simply hold it like this and twist the top. When you let go of the top it will spring off, the gas will be propelled to about twenty-five feet. Use it on someone within three or four feet and you might just kill them. Understood?"

"Yessir. Thank you Buck."

"Tomorrow I'll buy you a pager." said Matt.

"A two-way pager," chimed in Holly, "so he can respond immediately. And I'll split the costs with you Matt."

"Buck can we get him a card?" asked Shirley.

"Good idea Agent Shirley. She's referring to a "company" credit card. We can have one issued under a bogus name to my file so that it is not traceable to Dylan."

"What shall we call you Dylan?" asked Shirley.

And he thought for a while and said "Will Cosby. Named after two of the best humorists I know of ...Will Rogers and Bill Cosby."

"That's a done deal Mr. Will Cosby." chirped Shirley.

"Time to adjourn this mess." said Matt and the slowly eased out into the night.

"Dad?"

"Yup son, what is it?"

They were near home and full of thoughts about the next hundred hours.

"I know you guys have a lot do in the next coupla days and I haven't got much of a part in that. And that's okey by me. I want to check out the file on Aunt Sylvia and you said you knew a cop."

"Sgt. Nedermeyer. He should be on tonight, I'll call him."

---

"You want your nephew to look at that file. Hell it's still an open case and for a good reason. 'Cause I still have clout around here Haun." roared Sgt. Nedermeyer, loud and tough as usual, "and I think them investigators screwed up. Didn't give it a hard enough look. And I got enough respect for you, even though your a damned snoopy media-type, to hope you get this done with, once and for all. So I kept the case open just in case someone here might pick it up and check it out again. You want your nephew to take look at it I'll have it declared "closed" by tomorrow morning. Just tell me what name he goes by and I'll let the front desk sarg know he' coming. Will Cosby? That's your nephew's name ... fine, Will Cosby it is. Good night Matt."

---

Pancho Villa sipped his usual morning "breakfast", a two-ounce shot of tequilla with Cuban coffee on the side and headed out into the morning sun, blithely unaware that a massive hunt for him was already underway.

Buck had taken the highly unusual step of asking every federal and military intelligence agency's help in pursuing Pancho - with two very strongly worded conditions:

--No one in uniform will be involved in this manhunt.

--The Capitol Hill and City Police Departments were to be kept out of this - completely.

This search was classified "Eagle Priority" meaning it involved matters of national security at the highest level.

He then went to his Larry Larson, his division chief and, after a half-hour debate, came out smiling.

Shirley Dansforth was summoned into the chief's office, seen talking to the chief, then raising her right hand with her left on a Bible.

Two minutes later the Chief Larson came out of office with his new agent in tow and made the announcement. There was only time for applause, a few hugs, and jokes.

"Chief Larson!" it was Larson's secretary, phone in hand, "Mr. Larson, it's the President, sir."

"Dammit. All of you get outta here and find that damn Pancho character." said Larson as he turned and headed to his office. "Find him, beat him, push bamboo slivers under his fingernails.... but get me a damn confession NOW!"

By the time he slammed his office door his staff was scurrying out of the room. He slouched into his chair, took a deep breath, and picked up the phone.

"Drug Enformcement, Chief Larson speaking."

"Larson cut the crap and tell me why you've issued an "Eagle Priority" search without consulting me."

"Sir, with all due respect, I believe not only can the President issue such a directive, but senior divisional heads of intelligence groups as well. Especially if the matter concerns the nation's security."

"Fine, but it would be nice if you could give me a minute of your valuable time and take me into your confidence."

"Yessir, I really was just about to call you. The urgency of the matter dictated that I get started immediately. This matter must be snuffed out within the next forty-eight hours."

"Can you spell it out for me in ten minutes?"

"Yessir. A few weeks ago...." Chief Larson explained the details as quickly as he could and concluded, "we must catch Steiner and Skeffington with the dope and the Chinese sir. Not only because we need that evidence, but we must try to save the lives of those immigrants."

"Chief Larson, normally I would take this out of your hands and let my people take care of it, but you appear to have done a good job in a hurry. Since time is short I'll let you continue, but if you screw up, it's your ass not mine. Understood?"

"Yessir, and thanks for your trust. I have every trust in my people, and I'll keep you informed. In the meantime we have a chance to ..."

"We shut down an operation that has been an embarassment to the Chinese government and nail that weasel Skeffington in one fell swope."

Larson could sense the excitement the President was feeling. A chance to replace Bush and Nixon as the new prime negotiator with the Chinese, plus a chance to embarass the President's opposition in Congress. A major dope and people smuggling bust under his jurisdiction. This was a juicy one to pluck.

"Yessir," said Larson, "and you could help."

"I'm not much of a spy Larson, just what do you think I can do here that would help?"

"Well sir, if you could ..." and Larson spelled out a nifty little scam that might buy everyone time.

--

"Well Agent ready to go out and nail the bad buys?"

"Yup." she chirped confidently. "Got my new badge and my gun ... Oh my gosh I forgot to check out a weapon."

"Here you go, "said Buckanaga handing her a big envelope. "Glock 9mm with two extra clips. Black clip is standard ammo, the chrome one is hi-powered with hollow-points. Not exactly standard issue, but very useful."

"Thanks Buck," she said expertly checking the ammo and pistol, then slamming home the standard-issue ammo. "We don't want to rip Panch apart just yet."

"Nope. Now I want you to ride with me."

"But come on."

"No buts about it Shirl. I'm not babysitting here, I just need to know that you know all the procedures and that your safe."

"Okay."

"First we drop off Dylan's credit card with Holly. And then we head south-east."

As soon as Holly got the card she hopped into her car and headed for the electronic's store. She picked up a two-way pager for Dylan, waited to make sure the assigned phone number was "up" and running and headed off to Dylan's school.

Dylan and Holly sat in an empty classroom while Holly educated him on the use of the pager and the credit card.

"Okay, so always keep the pager on silent - vibrating mode - just in case you're near a bad guy when it goes off. And, remember, if you have any trouble using the card just have them call me and I"ll verify with the codes Buck gave me. Okay?"

"Yup."

"Good. Now are you carrying that tear-gas pen."

"Pepper gas. Yup."

"And wearing the belt buckle?"

"Yup."

"Okay, honey now don't try to be the Lone Ranger on this you hear me. We all have to work together on this and we don't have time for unecessary distractions. I know you have some business you want to take care of and that's fine. But check in every two hours or we'll all go crazy and call off the hunt. And don't go near that building unless it's cleared by Buck or Matt, understand?"

"Yup."

"You better give me a hug buddy or I'll ..."

Dylan cut her comment off with a big hug and she left.

Dylan was excited about being part of this but still had a few question he wanted answered. He couldn't wait for the final bell to ring so he could get to those records at the Cop Shop.

---

Matt called his old commander at Special Forces, reported what he'd learned from the Vietnamese officer and asked about the one officer whose letter of dissent did not stop Steiner and Skeffington from receiving those awards.

"I'll track him down and let you know right away Matt. And let us know if you need help. It's been kinda dull for us lately."

Forty-five minutes later Matt had the dissenting officer's name, address and phone number. Now retired Brigadier General "Chip" Harrity was living in Baltimore, just an hour's drive away!

Matt called him, discussed the Steiner/Skeffington matter at length and when Harrity was satisfied he said "Come on down here, I got something I want to show you."

"I'll be there in an hour sir."

"Holly I've got more good stuff," Matt said over his car-phone returning from his long talk with the General, "are you taping this?"

"Yup, just rattle it off fast and get home. I miss you and I am getting cabin-fever. Get home and we're out to dinner and then some lust and stuff."

Matt started talking rapid-fire.

--

"Hmph, hmph," Sgt. Nedermeyer coughed gently. Before him, at the table, Dylan was leaning over the file on his aunt, carefully making entries into his notebook, tears slowly dripping off his cheeks. "Am I interrupting?"

"No sir," said Dylan, wiping his face with his sleeve, as he turned to see the Sergeant. "How come you aren't a Capain or a Chief by now sir?"

"Cause I can't shut up when someone is lying to me, no matter if it's a crook or a cop."

"Looks like I'll never get past sergeant either."

"Does that bother you?"

"Nope. If you have to cheat to win you don't win anything. You're a loser. And I'm gonna be a winner."

"What did'ja find in that file? Anything interesting."

"I got an idea of what might have happened, don't laugh 'cause I have this ..."

"You gotta hunch then I want to hear it." said Nedermeyer as he sat down to listen.

"The investigators report says they conclude Aunt Sylvia was hit by a car going about 25 mph, which is enough impact to have killed her. Which is partly why they write it off as a hit-and-run."

"But, what if the car was going 50 or 60 miles per hour? How far would her body have been thrown at that speed?"

"Maybe 80, maybe even a hundred feet. I'm not sure."

"Okay, then that means she could have been hit .."

"Lemme guess son, farther up the street. Not where the heel of her shoe was found - which is where the detectives say she was hit - but farther up the street. Why is that so important."

"Cause it puts her just about in front of 1443 13th." said Dylan emphatically, "and that building is where I saw Steiner coming out of."

"Steiner!" said Nedermeyer jumping up to shut the door. "Now wait a minute. You mean Police Chief Buddy Steiner of the Capitol Hill Division?"

"Yup." said Dylan, jaw clenching rapidly.

"Okay son, you've let me in on what's going on here. Now I know your name ain't Cosby, it's Dylan Haun right?"

"Yessir, sorry but Uncle Matt says Steiner is very dangerous, so I faked a name."

"And I can't rightly disagree. That cop has smelled dirty from the first day I met him. I once tried to nail him myself and he weaseled out of it. So you remember this guy is dangerous. Now you wont get him with that kinda evidence. You need a lot more."

"This is just part of what we have." said Dylan, looking him straight in the eye.

Gawd, thought Nedermeyer, his uncle told me this kid is smart and tough, but to look at the boy now you'd think he was General Go-to-my-Hell Patton! Damn looks like he could take on the world.

"Okay son. What do you need here?"

"I just want to tighten this up as much as possible. Close up the gaps. Eliminate whatever questions I can."

"Wasn't there some kinda Vietnamese witness mentioned in that report. Ya, well maybe that witness can help. You're part Vietnames aren'tcha? Do you speak the language."

"Nope," said Dylan thoughtfully, "but my friend Xao Xaingg does."

"Okay here's what we do,"said Nedermeyer, now getting excited about getting back into the hunt. "You call your friend and get him to meet us at, at ..."

"the delicatessen across from 1443." offered Dylan.

"Right. Meantime I'm gettin into some street duds and we'll go over there in my car. Okay?"

"Yup." said Dylan, glad to have this powerful ally coming along.

They parked behind the deli and knocked on the door, which was quickly answered by Xao. They walked and talked excitedly down 13th and turned to the old Vietnames's building and rang the bell. He opened the door, Xao said a few quick sentences and the old man let them in.

A half-hour later they had gotten nowhere. The old man cooperated all he could, but he insisted he didn't see the accident, just heard it. And he saw a big black vehicle drive away. Then he called 911.

"Big black vehicle, a "van" was what the police report had indicated." Dylan was pacing and thinking. "But a van is only one kind of "big vehicle". Could it be some other kind of ..."

"Xao Xaing," said Dylan suddenly, "please go to the deli and get every motor vehicle magazine you can find. Okay!"

"Sure thing Dylan," Xao said, jumping to his feet and excusing himself in Vietnamese to the old man.

"Whatcha got son." said Nedermeyer quietly.

"Skeffington drives a Black Cherokee Jeep. Maybe, just maybe he likes that style. Maybe he drove one four years ago. Maybe, maybe ... dammit!"

Nedermeyer patted him softly on the shoulder "Easy does young man, you're doing just great. Goldarn better than those two investigators."

Xao Xaing returned and spread the magazines out, asking the old man to find a "big vehicle" like the one he'd seen.

Five minutes later everyone was talking excitely. The old man pointed to a Jeep Cherokee and said firmly, in Vietnames, "I will say so in court."

"Okay you two you've done enough for one evening and I think I ought to get you home. Right?

"Yessir."

"There is nothing else to be done until I get this case re-opened and even then I need more evidence. Now, how about you two letting me be a partner. Can do? I know it's your work Dylan, do you think I can be of help?"

"Yessir. We'd appreciate it."

"Now let me get your telephone numbers, and here's my card. Write down my home phone too, okay partners?"

--

At 7:30 p.m. an ATF plain-clothed agent reported in "This is Mr. Charlie at the airport reporting Piggy One has arrived and is being watched. Do you copy?"

A quiet "Roger" came from Chief Larson's voice. Larson made a notation on the log that Chief Steiner had arrived.

Mr. Charlie slowly turned and began the vigil of watching Piggy One.

Three hours later the last flight from Europe landed and shortly thereafter another plain-clothed man reported "Mr. Victor has just spotted Weasel One and is in pursuit."

Larson dutifully made note of Skeffington's arrival.

Although Steiner had arrived early enough to head to the station and check out activities, his body and mind were to exhausted. The many days of drinking and multi-varied sex, with little time for rest or proper food, had sapped him of all energies. He headed to his apartment in Georgetown.

Skeffington, called his office from the airport, but at ten-thirty in the evening no one answered. He went home.

--

With less than fifty hours to go, Agent Shirley Dansforth was getting anxious. She had gotten out of the apartment very early, and on her way to the office decided to head for the "Pancho stakeout" instead. She parked her car a block from the address, checked her newly acquired weapon, and headed across the street to Villa's apartment. As she was crossing, Pancho Villa rounded the corner, spotted her, and blurted out is his Tequilla-induced macho "Yo mamacita! Como esta. Whatchoo say we .."

"Ola Pancho." she replied watchings his eyes widen at her sign of recognition. She walked directly up to him with a big smile and then, swinging a fistful of pistol between his legs said, "They say this is a Glock nine millimeter and it's supposed have a hair trigger Pancho."

She continued with the coquetish chirping, eyes burning his like lasers, "So you want to put your hands behind your head Mr. Pena, or Cortez, or Villa, or do you want to play games and then, when I'm done we call you Misses or maybe even Muerta!"

His hand sprung to the back of his head and she turned him around, just as two plain-closed guys came running across the street. They flashed their DEA badges and yelled, "Hey Dansforth, you stupid shit, you shoulda waited and followed him into his pad. We coulda looked for evidence." They grabbed Pancho, whipped his arms down and behind, and slapped on the cuffs. As they took him away Shirley chirped "If you want a clean case you get a search warrant, and THEN do a proper search. Do it your way and that evidence is tainted!"

Two minutes later she was on the phone to Judge Wagner. "I'll have Judge Henson issue a search warrant and his bailiff will get it to you immediately Agent Dansforth."

"Great, thanks Judge Lydia. Can I make a suggestion off the record?"

"Go ahead Shirley, what's up?"

"If I were you I'd call Chief Larson and demand that Pancho be brought to your home for questioning immediately. Those guys were so steamed up, there might just be some questionable interrogation procedures going down. Even as we speak."

"Dammit, your right. But let's have him brought to Judge Hensons' chambers at the Federal Building instead. I always use his offices and that allows us to use his baillifs too. Bye."

Chief Larson's radio call got to the two young DEA agents just as they were pulling into the dockyards, for some off-the-record "discussions" with Pancho Villa. Cursing their Chief, they spun around and headed to Judge Hensons' court.

In the meantime Judge Wagner called Shirley back and asked her to contact Matt and Buck and make sure they could attend the interrogation of Pancho.

She called Buck first, to make sure he was aware of Villa's capture and to tell of the Judge's request.

"Tell Matt that Steiner has been called to City Hall on a so-called policy meeting and the Skeffington is in his office waiting for the President to call him back." said Buck, marvelling at the brilliance of his boss's efforts. "I'll see you at the Judge's chambers. Nice work."

--

"Buenas dias jur honor" said Pancho in his most macho way, chained at foot and wrist, "yo soy mu hermoosa..."

"NO MEM MOLESTO, cavronne!" she shouted then hissed, doing her best to intimidate the prisoner.

"Yessir." he mumbled as he slid into his seat.

Although her office was fairly spacious, today it was packed with agents, cops, even a young boy with steely eyes, making Pancho feel like his breath was going to be squeezed from him.

The interrogation began quietly, a court reporter taking down every sound. Pancho consistantly whined that he knew nothing. No opium. No people-smuggling. No Steiner. No Congressman. Nothing.

Dylan approached his side and slapped two photos on the table. Pancho jumped, his eyes bugging out, but his words still were the same.

"No comprendo sir. Dat's not me bro. Sir. I don know no Chinese. Dat's no me, ju know."

"Your honor can we deport him back to Guatemala if he doesn't talk?"

"That is out of order Agent!" snapped Judge Lydia. "But we could consider it later."

Pancho's eyes lowered and he began rocking in his chair.

"Or we could just deport his whole damn family!" declared Agent Shirley, as she walked up to Pancho and placed three color photographs of his sisters, brothers, and mother directly in front of him. "Just found these in his apartment your honor. With notebooks indicating his working schedule with Steiner and Skeffington for the past six years ... that is if my Spanish is correct".

"No, no, please Senora Judge, sir, not my mother." Pancho was rocking back and forth, obviously tortured and frightened half to death. "The death squads will torture and kill her for sure."

"Then please answer the questions." said Judge Lydia.

"But I must have some kind of protection, protection for me and my family. This is very dangerous business Judge."

"If you give us enough to bring convictions in court we can...."

"No court, Senora Judge, no court."

"But you must be willing to testify in court Mr. Villa."

"Ju don understand. Dose two are animals. They will never allow themselves to be caught. Like a fox in a steel trap who chews his leg in half for freedom. These two will chew anything in half before they'll let themselves be caught."

"I will tell you everything, including two murders I know of, but we must have protection now."

The room was silent, the only noise come from chains quietly rattling as Pancho rocked back and forth, eyes afraid to look up.

"He's probably right Judge Lydia," said Buck, "our Vietnames officer tells us those two cut down their own countrymen, while serving in Vietnam. They did it in a cold-blooded, methodical manner. Like two snakes methodically, dispationately killing and eating a rabbit. And this guy is a minor player in all of this. I vote he be given witness protection and lock him, and the rest of his family up, until this is all over."

"Agreed." said Matt and Shirley.

"And you Dylan, what say you?"

"I saw this man in that basement," Dylan reminded the room in a whisper so quiet it frightened Pancho, "and I know he can tell us a lot. I don't care if he ends up dead or in a mansion with twenty servants protecting him, it's those other two I want."

After some quick phone calls, papers were brought in for Pancho and the Judge to sign. Matt and Buck signed as witnesses and the answers began to flow.

Most of the testimony given by Pancho was a detailled week-by-week accounting of the drug and people smuggling operations. Amounts, chemicals, and estimated monies all recorded in Pancho's daily reminder book.

But when he described the first murder he saw Skeffington commit everyone grew silent.

"When I first go to work for them about six years ago it happened. Was a young Chinese lady, ju know. She dont want to have sex with him and she start hollering back at him and he just whip his arm around her neck and broke it. Jes like dat. "

"He did it so fast ju know, and smoothly, you hardly noticed. But dere she was dead on the floor. And Steiner just sort of laugh and he say, "Yo JJ let's take her to the quarry and have some fun."

"And we go outta town near the river. And JJ tell me to take the truck up the road and come back fast, ju know 60 or 70. And I did, and when I come near them they throw her body in front of the truck, big smiles, ju know and she fly thru the air, and land hard, and roll over the cliff. I am so scared I almost drive the truck over also."

"How far did she fly through the air Pancho?!" Dylan had grabbed his neck and was yanking him half out of the seat.

"Jesus Cristo!"

"DYLAN!" yelled Buck, the first to see Dylan pounce, the quickest to know Dylan's mind, "Let go of him. Come on now son, we need him alive."

"How far did she fly through the air," hissed Dylan, letting go fast so that Pancho crashed back into his seat.

"Maybe 80, maybe a hundred feet." said Pancho, eyes down back to his rocking.

"No maybes,you don't move until you can tell me within five feet."

"In the meantime, I'm getting hungry," said Dylan, turning cheerily towards the others, "can we get some chow?"

"Yup." said Matt, quickly understanding that Dylan was psyching Pancho out totally, convincing him that he'd be there forever unless he could remember that distance.

"One hundred and five feet." said Pancho.

"Bullshit Pancho, where'd you get that number?" snapped Dylan.

"One tine I tried to become football player," mumbled Pancho, trying desperately to explain his calculations. "so I throw the football, and throw again, and no matter how hard I try, dat football only go bout thirty-five yards. Always thirty-five yards. Dats a hundred and five feet. And she flew in da air dat far, maybe two, three feet more."

"Good enough Dylan?" the judge asked. "Okay, now Pancho please tell us the rest."

And Pancho, guided by his notes, offered an up-to the minute report of Black Widow operations. Contact's names and address, the name of Black Widow's pilot, the total number of people smuggled in - replete with dates - and the amount of heroin brought in.

"Where did you get all this info Pancho?" asked the Judge. "And why?"

"I sneak around, listen hard, do whatever I can to cover my ass, ju know. These records are my protection."

"Any you mentioned another murder?"asked Matt as they began wrapping things up.

"I once heard Steiner say he wish JJ would stop killing women. He seemed bery mad about dat."

"When was that?"

"Bout four years ago, I theenk."

"Do you know who the woman was that was murdered?"

"No, just that she's some journalist's wife."

Dylan and Matt looked at each other through tears, quietly hugged each other while the others made more notes.

The session ended. Everyone had their new instructions. And Pancho was placed in a holding cell in the basement with two DEA and two Secret Service agents guarding him.

--

"Mr. President we have a full confession from Pancho Villa." Chief Larson said quickly, anxious to get on with the search of Black Widow, Inc.

"Excellent. Now should we proceed with the arrests of Congressman Skeffington and Chief Steiner?"

"Sir I believe we have to wait and catch them with the whole package. Not only to achieve the tightest case possible, but to save those Chinese immigrant's lives."

"Agreed. But I want you to try and keep those Chinese stashed somewhere. I sure as hell don't want to have to turn them over to their government."

"Fine. Now look Chief Larson, I've had Skeffington tied down all day. Had him up here for a "de-briefing" this morning and asked him to stand by in his office, just in case I needed him." chorltled the President. "Got him caged whether he likes it or not. How long do you want him detained?"

"If you could stall him until seven or eight this evening, that would help a lot. Meanwhile Steiner is under surveillance as we speak. He's waiting to catch Villa at his home. We'll keep on him until this is over."

"Fine. Let me know if you find anything at their offices."

"Yessir."

Two hours later the offices of Black Widow, Inc. had been thoroughly searched, photographed, and bugged. Nothing had been removed except a trace of white powder found in a crack on the floor. Two DEA agents positioned themselves inside a van parked two blocks from the building, while Buck and Shirley headed off to dinner.

Matt left a note for Dylan at home, letting him know he'd be at Holly's, called Buck's pager and left a similar message, and headed across town.

Dylan had returned to the Police Department to talk with Sergeant Nedermeyer, with Matt's approval. They talked about Villa's confession, studied the report of Sylvia's death and Dylan headed back to the "accident" scene against the advice of Sgt. Nedermeyer.

Night had fallen, but Dylan only wanted to measure the distance from the front of Black Widow to the point where the heel of Sylvia Haun's shoe was found. He worked swiftly and headed home, mindful to take the back alley.

Chief Steiner was waiting.

He had discovered he was being watched at the stake-out scene, skillfully lost the two agents assigned to follow him, and headed to the Black Widow office in the vague hope of finding Pancho. Much to his surprise he found young Dylan out on the street, with a tape measure. He waited in the shadows while the boy finished his work.

"Come here you little son-of-a-bitch!" Steiner growled as he grabbed Dylan's arm and yanked him into the shadows.

Dylan's response was instinctive and decisive. He lunged towards Steiner grabbing the arm that held his. Before Steiner could react, Dylan was diving past him and rolling to the ground pulling and twisting Steiner's wrist as hard as he could. It nearly pulled Steiner off his feet, instead he broke loose and spun sideways. Which is what Dylan wanted. With both hands free and Steiner off balance, Dylan reached into his pocket, pulled out the pepper-gas pen, aimed, twisted and fired just as Steiner began charging him.

The blast hit Steiner directly in the face, gas causing him to choke and wretch, pieces of the pepper-gas pellet imbedded into his flesh. He screamed and spun wildly. Dylan ran.

"I've got to get outta here," thought Dylan as he raced home. "Just get everything I can a get out of this town."

Moments later, at home, Dylan was packing. In minutes he had all the file disks on the project, photo negatives and prints and cassettes, including the taped confession by Villa in his camera bag.

Finally he grabbed ten twenty-dollar bills from Matt's hiding place, and fled the house. Steiner was nowhere in sight..

When he got to the Java Shop on 17th he grabbed the phone and called Holly.

"Get you butt over hear now Dylan!" snapped Holly. "Get a cab and get out of that neighborhood."

The two agents who had lost Steiner reported in and were instructed to stake out his apartment in Georgetown, but not to interfere.

Twenty minutes later they reported Steiner entering his apartment, clawing at his face, and swearing like a trouper.

"That's right boys," said the DEA dispacher, "Matt Haun just called in to tell us our young warrior Dylan blasted him with pepper gas at close range. Too bad the fat bastard lived. Keep on him, though I doubt he'll be going out again."

Inside the apartment, Steiner thrashed about, grabbed a bottle of tequilla, hoping it would help numb the excruciating pain. In the bathroom he grabbed a pair of tweezers and began plucking the pieces of pellet out of his skin, taking a gulp after each was removed. By the time he was done he was drunk. He dragged himself to the living room couch, bottle in hand and drank himself into oblivion.

--

Holly and Matt were besides themselves with fear for Dylan until he arrived at her apartment. Seeing him come out of the cab, black overcoat and sneakers, camera bag over his shoulder, looking very intense set their minds somewhat at ease. He had the look of a determined young warrior, not a frightened child.

"Dad, I have to get out of town, that was too close."

"I agree Dylan. What do you have in mind?"

"I thought it over in the cab. I know your paper would love to have this story first, but so would Holly's. I don't want to choose between them and I don't have to. I think I have a much better solution."

"Why you cute little ole fox," said Holly, "you're gonna leave us holdin the bag while you sell this stuff to LIFE magazine!"

"Exactly." said Dylan, "and I'd like you to call your friend there and get me a real good deal. And you tell him I want to write it too."

Holly reached Dave Beadyn at home and quickly spelled out the story Dylan had gathered together, including the photos, tapes, scraps of notes, computer print-out, et al. Knowing full well that LIFE magazine wanted to regain the reputation they had earned in the earlier years, Holly negotiated tough.

"Two hundred fifty thousand Dave, no less. One hundred thou in cash, the rest in a trust for Dylan until he reaches the age of eighteen, or goes to college, whichever is first. And he writes the story, which is copyrighted in his name."

"And that quarter million is for exclusive use within the United States only," said Matt on the extentsion phone. "Add on fifty thou if it is published outside the states in one of your international publications."

"Okay, okay."

"And LIFE will nominate Dylan for a Pulitzer." said Matt.

"For Investigative Writing and photography." added Holly.

"Ya, Okay. This stuff better be good." said Beadyn. "I'll need the kid here in New York pronto, tomorrow noon's our deadline for the "book". Is that okay?"

"The young man will be on the next flight. And if you book him a hotel room, make the name Will Cosby, got it."said Matt.

"No, I think it would be better if I met him at the airport and brought him to my house on Long Island. I'll ask Carol to cook up a steaks. He'll need his energy tomorrow. Now, call me as soon as you know which flight he'll come in on."

As soon as they had booked a flight to New York City for Dylan, using the credit card assigned to Will Cosby, they called Buck and finally Dave Beadyn.

As the cab pulled away Holly and Matt just stood at the curb, hugging each other tight. They felt just like any other mom and dad would, sending their son off for the first time. Scared but proud.

---

Congressman J.J. Skeffington returned to his "in town" townhouse late in the evening, very irritable and tired. The day of high exposure with the President and the press were not to his liking. He had spent all of his years in Congress maintaining a very low profile, clinging to the shadows and avoiding all controversies. He was deliberately bland in his conduct, vote, and public statements - thus discouraging media attention.

He had always felt superior to others, deluding himself with the notion that he never knew fear and always controlled his world Now, at a critical juncture, with a big shipment about to arrive, he found himself being held hostage by forces much larger than himself. His instincts, and unacknowledged fear, prompted him to pick up the phone and make some calls - not to friends, for he had none - but to a few well placed contacts on "the hill" who either owed him favors or were on his payroll. Within twenty minutes he knew his life was about to be shut down.

"Dammit, they've even dug up the supply depot robbery!" he cursed to himself. He called Steiner's home number and the mumbling, cursing Police Chief's voice only added to his certainty that everything was falling apart.

As he began packing bare essentials, he reviewed his escape plan. He knew that the "feds" would not make a move on him until they had him with the shipment and decided it was safe to stay at his apartment and get some much needed rest. --

Buck and Shirley rendezvoused outside Skeffington's apartment at 5:00 a.m. on Thursday morning, October 25th. It quickly proved to be a wise decision. Skeffington spun out of the driveway at 5:35 and headed to his office. Buck parked on the corner of "C" Street and First and waited for the congressman to leave his car and enter the House office building. Buck quickly opened up the trunk, withdrew a small metal case and an even smaller box. He gave the big box to Shirley who immediately opened it and began testing the circuits. It was a direction-finding receiver for the small transmitter Buck was about to place under the rear end of Skeffington's car. With that done, they could relax a bit, secure in the knowledge that they wouldn't lose their man. Thirty minutes later Skeffington was back in his car heading into the hills ofü

Matt and Holly were awakened by a call at 7:30 a.m.

"We have no movement from Steiner," reported Chief Larson, "we'll call as soon as he makes his move."

"Call me on my pager Chief, we're going out for breakfast," said Matt.

He turned to Holly, who gave him a very sexy hug and sighed. "No,no good lady, not until I've had some sticky buns and scrambled eggs. I need to recharge these batteries."

After a leisurely breakfast Matt asked Holly if she'd mind returning home alone to mind the phones.

"I've got some writing to do at home." was all he would say.

She knew he had something more serious than writing on his mind, such was the look in his eyes. But she didn't argue, she hailed a cab and was gone.

At home Matt began setting the trap, knowing full well that Steiner would come looking for Dylan. Within a few minutes he had hidden three knives and a small pistol in various, handy hiding spots in the living room. His micro-cassette recorder in his shirt pocket, carefully buttoned up. He had learned long ago how to punch up the RECORD button by squeezing it through his pocket.

He had rushed through the process expecting Steiner to show up at any moment. Now he found himself just waiting and getting bored. He decided to do some chores in the kitchen, if for no other reason to stay alert.

Around ten in the morning he called the DEA dispatcher only to find that Steiner still had not stirred from his apartment so Matt returned to his chores. Once finshed he decided to print out all of his and Dylan's files on the case and began the tedious process of editing them. About noon time he took a break, heated up some hot chocolate and climbed into his over-sized lounger chair. The hot chocalate soon took effect and Matt began to nod off.

---

Steiner had woken once around 8 a.m., called in to say he had an all-day meeting, and then dropped back off to sleep. He arose again at noon, immediately alert and angry! He tried to call the congressman only to find out that Skeffington had not been seen nor heard from all day. He tried the congressman's pager, to no avail. Anxiously he tried Pancho's number, hanging up when the answering machine came on.

"Something is shit." he growled to himself, "this thing has gone bust, JJ has probably chickened out already ... I'm gonna get that kid and get the hell out too."

He spotted the "tail" parked half a block down the street, packed, and called a cab to meet him two blocks away. He slipped out the back alley, dashed to the cab and headed downtown.

At the bank he immediately headed for his safety deposit box where he quickly removed Swiss bank account books, one hundred thousand dollars worth of bearer bonds, ten thousand in cash and a souvenir from Vietnam. It was the same Czechoslavakian machine pistol he had used to kill the MP at the supply depot decades ago. He screwed the silencer in, checked the clip, and the inside of the barrel and slipped it in the small of his back, making sure his jacket covered it completely. Then he headed for the precinct station, five blocks away.

"Chief whatinthehell happened to your face?" Sergeant Toomey blurted out, a bit too loud for Steiner's liking.

He lunged over the front counter, grabbed Toomey's shirt and growled "Shut up Toomey. Just shut up." Then realizing he needed a favor he loosened his grip and confided "Okay Sarge. I followed this bitch outta the bar and made a simple suggestion about some hank-panky and the goddamn-women's libber maced me. Okay? Now get me an unmarked car, one that won't be on the list."

"Sure Chief," said Toomey, grinning, "you can have 58. She's a 94 maroon Crown Vic, just outta the shop. I haven't activated her yet so no one'll know."

"Where's the keys?"

"Hey Chief, now don't mess up that back seat too much ya hear." tossing him the keys.

"Ya got a dirty mind Toomey, I like that. Keep it up and I'll make you a Lieutenant." said Steiner grinning and winking, meanwhile quietly wishing he had more time, at least enough time to kill Toomey and get him out of the picture. "Don't need anyone knowing how to find me." he thought.

--

Buck and Shirley had followed their prey for over two hours as he passed from one small town to another, then headed up into the hills of West Vigrinia. The roads had gotten smaller and more curvey. Finally, Skeffington pulled off on a dirt road that led to a steel-posted gate. He unlocked the gate, opened it, and drove through a short distance. After stoping the car he returned to the gate and locked it and drove out of sight.

The two agents saw signs warning intruders to "Stay out. Electric fence. Violators will be prosecuted!" so they drove about a half mile down the road before they pulled off. They reported into to Chief Larson who asked them to scout the property and, most important, check in at least once an hour.

They clipped walkie-talkies to their belts and Buck pulled both floor mats from the car, handing one to Shirley. No explanation was needed for, as soon as he approached the wired fence he lay on his back, slid up to the fence and pushed it upward with the floor mat separating him from the hot wire. Shirley followed suit and they trudged through the trees scouting for a vantage point.

At the top of the knoll they found their lookout position. A clump of bushes to hide behind and when they peeked around the side of the bushes they could see all the buildings below. Skeffington's car was parked next to the farmhouse, a huge new barn stood twenty feet away, and Buck could see, through his compact binoculars, Skeffington coming away from a small tool shed, carrying some parcels.

They checked in with Larson.

"Buck we still aren't sure that the delivery will be made at the farm."

"Well sir, that certainly looks like some kind of landing strip beyond the buildings."

"Okay, here's what we do. It's early in the day, so I'll order up two choppers and a coupla squads of DEA and ATF agents on a standby basis."

"Sir I think it would be better to have Special Forces troops on this one."

"Why, cause they know the tactics better?"

"Yessir. That and they are trained to respond quicker."

"You mean they are quicker to kill, right?"

"Yessir."

"Agreed. But I want that Congressman alive if at all possible."

--

"Well, well. I came here to kill me a snoopy little nigger, and found a big snoopy nigger instead. Guess I'll have to do you first."

Matt was awake in an instant. He could feel Steiner's gun pressed to the back of his head, but he didn't open his eyes. Instead he feigned sleepiness, stretched out his left arm towards Steiner's body just enough to distract him, and with his right hand he reached a few short inches to turn on the tape recorder.

Then he opened his eyes.

"Chief Steiner, what are you doing?" he said in mock surprise.

"Don't give me any bullshit Haun. Just put your hands behind your neck and clasp your fingers together. Do it now!"

Steiner was cautious, keeping his distance, the small machine pistol pointed always at Matt's head.

He told him to get out of the chair and walk to the nearest wall. Then Steiner approached, clamped one handcuff on Matt's right hand, yanked it downward and ordered Matt to lower his left. Once handcuffed, Steiner spun Matt around and ordered him to his knees.

Matt began moaning and softly begging for his life, much to the delight of Steiner.

"Well let's see what we have here," said Steiner, approaching a bookshelf filled with pictures. "Ah, here's a good one ... you and the brat and what do you know about that, she's the little lady we knocked off a few years ago. Well, well. So I finish you off today and then the kid and it's a "hat trick" for the Chief. All three Hauns."

Matt kept moaning and begging, it was his best available tactic. Far better to be a whining, wimp than an angry threat. Steiner loved it.

"And oh, what do we have here," said Steiner as he approached the desk where Matt had been editing. "My oh my, the files on me and JJ. Well we better just take these papers, and the disk along eh."

"Come on Haun, quit your whining. This shouldn't take too long. Move it. Out the back door and don't make a peep or your dead right now."

In the alley Steiner wasted no time shoving Matt in the back seat of the unmarked police car. And then he went behind the car, opened the trunk to stash the disks and files in his suitcase.

It was Matt's only window of opportunity. He jammed his wrists downward, raised his body enough so that he could slide his hands forward to his knees. In one swift movement he raised legs as high as possible, knee at eye level and slipped his hands forward, past his feet. He now had his cuffed hands free to move in front of his body!

He leaned forward, arms extended downward and began rocking and moaning softly. Steiner hopped behind the wheel, started the car and checked Matt with the rear-view mirror. All he could see was the hunched over body of his "prisoner" rocking back and forth, moaning away.

Steiner decided to toy with Matt even more, to torture the man. He gleefully spelled out all the details of Matt's wife's murder. Cackling and grinning wildly as he described throwing her body into the speeding Jeep.

Matt moaned and sobbed a bit louder.

They arrived at the quarry quickly, Steiner parked the car behind a shed and jumped to open the back door. He couldn't wait to finish up this whiney, gutless bastard.

As the door clicked open Matt pushed it with all his might, both feet driving him forward, the door slamming Steiner backward and onto the ground. Steiner immediately stood up, just a bit shocked. Matt was once again on him, swinging both hands at Steiner's jaw. Steiner managed to duck the full force of the blow, but it was enough to spin him around and backwards a few feet. As he regained his balance he reached for his service revolver, yanked it, and began swinging the pistol towards Matt.

"Do or die" thought Matt as he charged Steiner, leaping into the air and driving his right heel at Steiner's heart, twisting his upper torso sideways as he dove. It was a "last chance" desparation technique taught in Special Forces and Matt had learned it well.

The twisting motion saved his life.

The kick ended Steiner's

The edge of Matt's heel smashed through Steiner's rib cage, bursting his heart. The cop was dead about the same instant his pistol fired.

Because Matt had twisted his body the bullet that was aimed at his heart now simply ripped across his chest, tearing skin and muscle but never penetrating.

Matt and Steiner crashed to the ground. Matt looked at Steiner and saw death written all over his face. But he kicked Steiner's gun a few more feet away, then took his pulse. Steiner was gone for sure.

Matt looked down at his own wound. It was ugly to look at but probably not life-threatening.

He staggered to the car and grabbed the microphone.

"This is car 58, over."

"Car 58 this Sgt. Toomey, is that you Chief you sound funny."

"Toomey shut up and patch me through to Sgt. Nedermeyer at downtown precinct."

"Sgt. Nedermeyer, yessir .. but"

"And make sure this is a secure line do you understand Toomey. This is Eagle Priority!."

"Sweet Jesus! Yessir, I copy." Toomey knew that Eagle Priority meant but one thing - trouble of the highest order. Threats to the President and/or the nation's security. He patched the call through and returned to his work, hoping he would not be called upon to get involved.

"Nedermeyer here, is that you Steiner?"

"No Sergeant it's the damn snoopy media."

Nedermeyer recognized Matt's voice and "code name" immediatedly and replied "Go ahead you damn snoop"

"One of the killers of my wife is dead. I'm not in much better shape. Please come out to the quarry on Old Sandhill Road. Do you know it?"

"Sure do."

"And bring someone you can trust to clean this mess up and then call para-medics."

"Right. I'll bring Lt. Donovan, we got history."

"But Sergeant, don't call the medics until this place is clean, do you understand?"

"Sure do."

"And if I'm passed out or dead when you get here, make sure I'm delivered to the White House. The Pres always has a full staff of doctors and nurses on standby. You set that up with DEA's deputy Director Roy Larson, got it?"

"Sure do. Now if you'll shut I'll be there in a few minutes." said Nedermeyer setting down the microphone. He opened the door of his office and yelled "Lt. Donovan, front and center please. I need you."

"Yup." replied the huge, Irish officer.

The Sergeant hastily explained the situation to the Lieutenant. They had been friends and partners for over twenty years and despite Donovan's seniority he always looked upon Nedermeyer as an equal.

He headed downstairs to pick up a Crime Lab kit while Nedermeyer changed into "civies" and checked out an unmarked car.

By using the siren and lights for most of their journey they were able to get to the quarry in under fifteen minutes. Without a word being spoken they immediately went to their separate tasks. Donovan began taking pictures, and making notes. Nedermeyer took care of Matt.

"Nasty but okay." he said.

"We gotta get that body out of here. And there's notes and disks and other evidence in his car. And ..."

"Shut up a minute Haun. Hey Donovan, can you get Steiner's handcuff keys? And his car keys?"

"Yup"

"Unlock this idiot and then check out the trunk of Steiner's car. Might be some goodies."

Donovan unlocked Matt's wrists and made some notes to the effect that Steiner's handcuff keys had done the job. The Lieutenant did not want anything left to chance in this investigation.

"He's pretty thorough." said Matt.

"Hates Steiner even more than I. Never told me why, but he seems to have good cause. Put your arm up here and try to keep that blood from dripping on my new shoes will ya. Good, that seems to stop most of it. Now listen here's how this went down."

"Sergeant. I killed that cop."

"Self-defense all the way snoopy." said the Sergeant, ignoring Matt. " You saw him drawing his pistol and you went crazy, charged him and managed a lucky kick to his heart."

"Wasn't luck." growled Matt.

"And it was pure luck that you only got grazed. Steiner a first-rate shot."

"Wasn't luck!" snapped Matt. "I had him all the way. I killed him."

"All the way huh. Cold-blooded killer huh. But you're not used to killing, even though you once were trained to, and now you're feeling guilty."

"How'd you know I was trained to ..."

"I called your friend Buckanaga the other evening and told him my concerns about trusting you. Not about your honesty, about whether you could take the heat if this got dangerous. He told me that since I DID have a right to be concerned he'd fill me in, but only if it was kept between us."

"And I repeated the question... can Matt Haun take it? And Buckanaga simply told me you were his Special Forces partner for a while. That you left the Force on your own and demanded that your records be cleared off the books. And that your stint had been honorable. And that's all I needed to know."

"Buck talks too much, especially for an Indian. But I don't blame him I guess," said Matt, "he told you because we need you. But I still feel .."

"Look Matt, if you're such a hotshot killer how come Steiner got the drop on you in the first place. Didn't you ever think he'd be coming after you or the kid?

"Of course."

"Then that's it buddy, far as I can see you're back to just amateur status. With no records to indicate you once were trained to hurt anyone. My report, and Donovan's, will state that wimpy journalist Matthew Dylan, seeing he was about to be shot, went into a panic, insanely charged Steiner, and kicked his heart out by accident. Self-defense by a lucky wimp. It's either that or we say a former Special Forces agent, trained to be an assasin, deliberately killed a Chief of Police."

"I'd rather you called me a mild-mannered reporter, not a wimp." smiled Matt, thankful for Nedermeyer's wisdom under fire. "By the way Sergeant, I taped the whole thing."

"You what!"

"Recorder's right here in my pocket." said Matt, unuttoning his shirt pocket. "Oh shit, the damn thing was hit by that bullet. It's shot."

"Let me see what you have there." said Nedermeyer. He examined the damaged recorder carefully, then pried it open and removed the slightly damaged cassette. "We can take the tape out of this cassette and put it into a new one. Tape's not damaged, so it should work just fine."

"Hey Donovan, find anything/"

"Yup." said the Lieutenant, looking up from the trunk.

"Let's have a look."

Donovan brought the suitcase full of bank books, bearer bonds, cash, printed files and disks. He'd already entered each item into his notebook.

"Where's the Scorpion?" Matt asked.

"A machine pistol?"

"Yes Sergeqeant, may be the one used to kill two MPs in Vietnam years ago."

Donovan spun around and headed towards Steiner's body and immediately began patting him down.

"Dja find it?" yelled the Sergeant.

"Yup."

"Let's have a look."

As Donovan headed back to the two, Nedermeyer said "Lieutenant is this just about one of the best days of our lives or what? Aren't you in hog heaven right about now? Looks like we finally got the bastrd."

"Yup."

"Now don't get to giddy on me Donovan. Try to contain your enthusiasm. Next thing you know you'll be giggling."

The Lieutenant look at them and smiled broadly.

The evidence was put back into Steiner's car. And then his body.

The para-medics were called to the scene. They arrived within minutes. The scene looked strange to them, their instructions were odd, but from the looks of the two gnarly cops that were running things the young para-medics knew better than to question them. After all, being told to bring the patient to the White House was sufficient warning that something big was happening.

They cleansed Matt's wound, used adhesive-tape sutures to clamp the torn flesh, and headed off to the White House.

Nedermeyer hopped into Steiner's car, body and evidence in the trunk and headed back to town. Donovan stayed behind to double-check the scene.

Nedermeyer found a pay-phone outside a gas station, made some calls and reached DEA Chief Larson. The conversation was quick and to the point.

"Okay Sergeant, I'll notify the President and the ambulance will be cleared through the back gate. Now I want you in my office in fifteen minutes for a full and detailed report."

"Sure Chief you'll get your report ... just as soon as I return to my precinct and ascertain that this has not gone public. Then I will change into my uniform. And then I will meet you at the White House where I will tell you and the President and everyone else everything I know. This is not just DEA anymore, it's goddam Eagle Priority now!" snapped Nedermeyer, smacking the microphone back on its bracket.

"Hmmm," thought Larson. "That's a nasty old bird. And he's right. I think I like him."

--

The State Room has never looked like this, thought the President, at least not since Jackson's time. Talk about an eclectic group of people.

"Let's get down to business folks, we've got a lot of territory to cover and I DO have a government to run. First off I'd like to hear what Sgt. Nedermeyer found at the quarry and then a detailed report from Chief Larson. Mr. Haun are you up to all this?

"Yes Mr. President I am, and I'd like to offer a few thoughts when these gentlemen are done." said Matt, chest well-taped.

The Sergeant gave his "official" version of how the police report of Steiner's demise would be related to the public. He omitted Matt's background in Special Forces, figuring what the Pres did't know wouldn't hurt him. He did suggest that since there was so much corroborating evidence, including a tape recording of the entire event, that this be declared an open-and-shut case and all details be kept confidential until a grand jury hearing was held.

The President agreed.

Larson spent twenty minutes on the events of the past few days, finishing up by reporting that as of fifteen minutes ago - at 5 p.m. promptly - Buck and Shirley had checked in reporting no unusual activity at the farm. "... and that's how it stands sir."

"Chief Larson I want those Special Forces troops moved in right now .."

"But sir we can't jeopardize the Chi.."

"Knock it off Larson and listen. This isn't some damn D.C. territorial fight here. I recognize and respect your expertise in these types of operations. Okay? Fine. As I was about to say, I want those chopppers moved to within three minutes of the farm, hidden out of sight, but ready to go. Understand?"

"Yessir, sorry sir, I thought you ..."

But the President waved off the Chief's apology.

"Mr. Haun what's on your mind?"

"Yessir, I might be out of line here but I think you should move to replace Steiner right now. That department is without leadership now, just when it needs tight control, and it is going to be reeling from the reaction of the press and the public and, even worse, every politician on the "hill". If you appoint a new Chief immediately you can prevent a lot of crap."

"Very good sir, now who do you have in mind? You do have someone, don't you?

"Yes Mr. President I do. I believe you can't find a better man anywhere in the country to fit the needs than Sgt. Nedermeyer over there."

"Hey wait a minute Haun, what the hell..." growled Nedermeyer.

"Your candidate seems a bit reluctant." said the President.

"Sir he will always be reluctant because experience has taught him to stay out of the limelight. He's always been honest in the past and he's gotten into a lot of trouble with the spit-and-polish brass because of that honesty. Which is part of what makes him the right man."

"I understand Mr. Haun and you're right. I need squeeky-clean, honest and forthright in that precinct immediately. How's the Sergeant's record? Anyone know?"

"Five Medals of Commendation, two Exceptional Valors, and three bulllets in the line of duty." said Matt. "Sergeant have I forgotten anything?"

"No Matt, but dammit..."

"No time for humility Sergeant," said the President, "I need your help. Any skeletons in the closet, drinking problems, charges of sexual abuse, or even worse have you ever had an illegal immigrant for a maid?"

"No Sir, Mr. President, it's just that I ain't much on academics, just a cop."

"I don't need another damn intellectual on the hill mister. If I did I'd ask Henry Kissinger to fill in. I need a real fine cop who has the respect of everyone around and it sounds like your the man whether you like it or not. Understood?"

"Yessir, as long as it's legal." said Nedermeyer, humble yet firm.

That one had the whole room chuckling for a few minutes. Nedermeyer - always the cop! Wow.

"Well Sergeant I guess I'll just have to call the Mayor and make sure we get this accomplished real legal and proper."

"Thank you sir. Mr. President, Sir," said Nedermeyer, as meek as anyone had ever seen him.

"Yessir."

"I will need someone I can trust," said Nedermeyer, "if you want the clean-up job done fast and I was wonderin if I could have Lieutenant Donovan transferred from the city to the hill precinct sir."

"I'll ask the Mayor."

As the President went to the adjoining office to make his call Holly asked the Chief of Staff for a phone.

"Take the yellow one in my office. It's a non-military secured phone."

"Dammit it's after five Holly, we are way past our deadline!" hollered Dave Beadyn from his LIFE magazine offices in Rockefeller Center. "Any idea when this thing is wrapped up? How much more is there?"

"Dave, Dylan's uncle was shot. And he ended up killing Chief Steiner."

"Holy Toledo! Give it to me fast."

She spelled out everything that had happened since Dylan's departure and Beadyn's fingers punched up every word on the computer screen.

"All right," said Beadyn, "I'm gonna let Dylan read this and deal with it and we'll get back to you fast."

"Chief Nedermeyer, congratulations." said the President. "You are in charge of the Capitol Hill precinct as of six p.m. which is ten minutes from now. And your friend Donovan has been reassigned to you as of six also. Any questions?"

"May I use a phone Sir?"

"Just around the corner, to your right." said the President as puzzled as the rest of the group at the request.

The answer came back to them rapidly in the form of Nedermeyer's booming voice:

"I am your boss mister and I want you at the precinct right away, and keep a lid on everything. Do you understand?"

"Don't give me no crap about wanting to be a Captain like me, you'll stay Lieutenant 'til I damn well say otherwise. You know damn well I should been your boss fifteen years ago."

"And no more of the "yup" crap, you know how to address you superior."

"What?"

"Damn..." and then the phone crashed back into the cradle.

Nedermeyer came back into the room, face flushed, and mumbling. "Yup, sir he said. Have you ever heard anything like it? Yup, sir!"

And once again the whole room chuckled.

"We've got a wait ahead of us and I have to get back to the office for a while. I'll be back when we have action at the farm. Meanwhile I've taken the liberty of having my kitchen crew whip up a buffet of sorts and the drinks are in that cabinet over there. Help yourselves and don't make too much noise. I don't want the cops dropping by, trying to bust up this party."

The buffet-of-sorts turned out to be a meal fit for kings. Crab legs, filets, prime rib, trout almadine, were the first of many courses offered at the huge dining room table.

Holly managed to get very full before the call came in from Dylan.

"Holly are you sure Matt's okay?"

"He's out there shovelling crab legs into his mouth as fast as they bring 'em out, child. Don't you worry none about your uncle Matt."

"He's gonna be my Dad Holly and I want you to be my Mom, okay?"

Holly blushed and drawled "We'll talk about that when you get back, but I think it is a distinct possibility. Now how are things at the big apple?"

"You should see this place Holly, it's incredible. The picture of Steiner and the Congo man - that's what we call Skeffington - at the White House Press Conference - you know the one where they look scared and all - well it's gonna be on the cover! And, so far I've written about twelve pages - real tight copy, as Mr. Beadyn says -and actually, we'll use a few more pages for pictures. I sure hope we get Congo's arrest before midnight."

"My goodness. Are we excited or not."

"You betcha and I want to put you and Matt on the byline."

"NO WAY! Trying to get us fired honey? We work for the competition You must keep my name, as well as Matt's, out of the copy, okay? Fine, now this is your story from start to finish and that's that. Do you want me to get Matt on the phone?"

Matt and Dylan talked at length, their mutual love and respect pouring through the telephone lines. Dylan promised to come home as soon as Skeffington was safely tucked away and Matt promised not to fight anymore cops ... at least for a day or two.

--

As the sun began to set, Buck and Shirley carefully slipped down the hill towards the buildings, intent on reconnoitering the area. The agreed to meet again at this spot, in fifteen minutes. Shirley headed towards the shed, while Buck headed towards the farmhouse. Both had their weapons in hand and faces blackened.

Shirley slipped into the shed and found herself in the middle of an aresenal. Machine pistols, shotguns, even Surface-to-Air Missiles. In betwen two boxes of ammunition she found a half pound of explosive plastique with a timer silently counting off the minutes. An hour to go!

Not being an expert on bombs she decided to simply set the time to the maximum time limit. The experts could disarm it later.

Next she dashed to the barn and peered through the window. It was a large barn, very well lit, with half of the insides surrounded with bars.

She sped back to the meeting place. Buck had not returned. She waited for five more minutes and then called in her report in hushed tones. Just as she were finishing up they heard the plane.

"Sir, a plane is circling to land and someone is lighting some gasoline lanterns."

"No sir! Not yet! Don't send the choppers until I can find Buck, we owe him that chance.

She watched silently as the old cargo plane landed and braked to a halt. The pilot exited from his cockpit via a narrow ladder and walked over to a side door and opened it, and metal steps slid to the ground. The "product" began slowly descending those stairs. In all 52 Chinese came off the plane. They were herded to the barn by two men bearing big weapons.

Shirley headed towards the barn. Peering inside she saw the Chinese being pushed into a huge cage. The pilot yelled at them in Chinese and slowly, reluctantly they began heading to a bunch of toilets at one end of the cage. There they would sit until their "job" was done. It soon became evident that their job was to "expel" a few condoms filled with white powder, which they handed through the bars to the pilot and the congressmen who rinsed them carefully and placed them in a big Army duffel bag.

"Damn, where the hell is Buck." she hissed. The, realizing that she might have to collar these two by herself, she headed towards the shed. She needed more firepower than just a pistol. Inside she found a well-oiled AK47 with a double-taped set of clips. She grabbed it and dashed out the door. Spring loaded, the door slammed shut.

"Dammit JJ, I told you there was more than one agent," snapped Bo Hubbard, JJ's longtime pilot. "Lets clear out now!"

JJ nodded grabbed his weapon and the two aluminum cases.

"Bo grab the duffel bag."

They dashed out of the barn heading towards the plane when they heard another AK47 bolt slam shut.

"Halt right there. Drop your weapons. And keep 'em high" yelled Shirley, weapon trained on the fleeing duo.

Instead of stopping they spun rapidly, firing a volley at the sound of her voice. She stood firm returning the fire.

They fired another burst, heard her yelp and dashed towards the airplane.

Holly was hit in the thigh. It had knocked her down but she was conscious. She shook her head, felt the wound oozing through her pant leg. As she removed her belt to tie off the blood flow, she heard the aircraft engines starting up.

She tried to get up to run towards the runway, only to find herself falling to the ground. Her leg would not support her. So she began crawling towards the runway.

Behind her she heard a loud bang and, looking back, could see the Chinese dashing out of the barn and heading towards the hills. She returned to the task of getting near the runway. She was within ten yards when she heard the airplane engines roar and she saw the plane begin rumbling toward her.

Propping her left elbow on the ground she took careful aim at the wheels, still hoping to capture the two alive. When the plane seemed in range she began firing short bursts. Suddenly the plane veered to its left, heading towards the shed. The motors were shut down, the momentum slowed and the plane came to a halt ten feet from that shed filled with explosives.

She knew that Skeffington and the pilot would come after her and she would be killed lying helplessly on the grass.

And then she saw the silhouette of dozens of people running towards the shed. They dumped two drums of aviation fuel towards the plane and ran back up the hill. The fuel slid down the embankment and surrounded the plane. Suddenly flames burst all over the hillside, the shed and the plane blowing up in a cacophony of thunderous sounds, drowning out the screams of the two trapped smugglers.

She lay quietly in the grass for a moment, then reached for her walkie-talkie to call in. It was missing. She heard some rustling and look up to see Buck running towards her.

"Buck, Buck is that you?"

"What's wrong with you Shirley, how bad is it?"

"Can't walk but it's okay, otherwise."

"Can't walk but you sure as hell can shoot. You got em both I think."

"Where's your walkie-talkie, we have to check in. What's happened to your face? Where were you?"

"Skeffington got lucky, found me inside the house and knocked me out. Woke up tied to a chair naked. He began clubbing and cutting me and screaming questions. Wanted to know what we knew. Wanted to know how many of us. I heard the plane first and pretended to faint. He got the hell outta there. Good thing too, I was beginning to feel bad."

"Found my clothes, but no weapons or walkie-talkie so I decided to see what was in that shed. Passed out. But someone poured water on me and told me to run, and I did, and then everything blew up." And then Buck passed out again.

She tried slapping him awake but he was out. Good pulse, not too much blood seeping thru his clothing. Suddenly she was aware of many people walking down the hill.

She grabbed her weapon, started to take aim, then threw it down in disgust. "What am I going to do kill Chinese peasants? If they want to kill me they will. Damn!"

"Well ma'am that certainly was exciting." said the young Chinese man, in perfect English. "Thank you for not shooting us."

"Here," ssid the man, lowering two aluminum cases to the ground. "We find these near burning plane."

"What? Who are ..."

"My name is Su Jingseng and this is my sister Li. She is a very good, college-educated nurse. Do you need assistance?"

"English speaking ... college-educated! But we were told that all of these people were farmers from western part of China."

"Yes ma'am they are. It is a long story. First let's take care of immediate problems. Li take a look at the big fellow. And you ma'am please tell me what we should do now."

"Just how did you get out of that barn, I saw all of you locked up behind bars?"

"Yes, well those two not realize we understand English. I hear them say that four bombs should be enough to take of us. Soon as they run away I tell everyone to look for bombs but not touch. We find one up high."

"I see timer ticking away, scrape off most of explosive, then set bomb on locked door. I push buttons on timer until only fifteen seconds and then run to far corner with everyone else. Bomb go off and we lucky. Just blow open door, not whole building. We very mad. They were going to kill us all. That's why we help you stop them."

"Pretty sharp thinking Su."

"Thanks ma'am. What now?"

"I need someone to go to that farmhouse," she said pointing up the hill, " and quickly find any telephones with little sticks coming out of ..."

"Oh, you mean cordless phone. Panasonic, Sony, Motorola!"

"Yes, and any papers lying around especially if they have numbers on them. But they should not stay inside but a few minutes. The place is rigged with bombs."

Su Jingseng spun around and yelled at a big man in the crowd, who immediately dashed up the hill.

"Anything else?"

"Yes Su. Most of the plane is destroyed and still burning but I see the tail section blew away from the rest. Would you send a few people up there to search for anything that might be important?

Su yelled at a young couple and they headed up the hill on the run.

"Li Jingseng, how is he?"

"This fella going to be all right. He is bruised and cut but he okay. What kinda guy is he anyway? Looks like one of those blood-thirsty savages we see in American cowboy movies."

"He's my guy dammit. And he will turn savage on you if he ever hears you talk that way to him. Now, can we wake him up?"

"No. He need rest for a while."

Shirley opened one of the aluminum cases and quickly closed it. Then the second.

"Must be millions of dollars in there," she thought, trying to look outwardly calm. "But dammit," she blurted out loud, "we needed the dope to."

"You mean the opium?" said Su Chin.

"Yes."

Su turned towards the refugees and gave some rapid fire instructions. Four Chinese wandered to the bushes, squatted, and a few minutes later returned with four condoms filled with the dope.

"We planned to use this to finance our way out of the slavery that was planned for us." said Su Jingseng as he tried to wipe each container clean. He placed the sacks by her side.

Just then the big Chinese returned from the farmhouse clutching three or four file folders, with two cordless phones stuffed in his pockets. He piled them in front of Shirley and she bowed her head in thought. The opium powder was worth a fortune yet these people gladly gave it up. And they had helped destroy the very people who were about to kill them all.

"I know what you're feeling ma'am and you should not worry. Those two smugglers deserved their fate. We heard of them in Bejing. How they raped and killed some of their "customers". Turned others into prostitution and drugs. Not letting them out of slavery for years. And that is when we decided to go with a group. To come here and tell your government that this smuggling was the wrong way to freedom for our people. That our people needed more help in achieving freedoms inside our country."

"So do not feel bad. We have all talked about this on our way here and no one wants this smuggling business. Do what you have to do now, ma'am."

"Shirley." she said. "Agent Shirley Dansforth. And what I'm going to do is give you a choice."

She opened up one of the charred aluminum cases, dumped the money out, and began handing out the money. Tossing one hundred thousand dollar wads to each of the Chinese. Then she placed the condoms of dope into the case along with the remainder of the money. She looked at Su and Li.

"You and your people may leave right now. Before I call in my government. You have enough money to start a new life. But it could prove difficult without English and the proper papers."

"Or you can trust me. I believe I can get you temporary papers that will give you time to learn the language and earn citizenship. We have already decided to make sure your government thinks you disappeared. So we can take our time and help you become Americans. Either way the money is yours, unless someone wants to turn their share in. To me, it's only more paperwork, more evidence. It is up to you."

Su turned slowly and began talking to his people. He talked slowly and firmly. Shirley could see their eyes begin to light up. And then the smiles. And then the weeping of joy. They all began shouting and when Su was satisfied that everyone was in agreement, he turned to Shirley and declared "We would like to become citizens of your great country. And we quietly thank you for the resources to start anew. We have sworn a death oath never to tell about these dollars you have given."

Shirley bowed to those people, picked up a cordless phone and dialed a special White House number.

"Agent Dansforth, what the hell is going on?" roared the President. "We thought we heard an explosion but couldn't be sure so we had to wait."

"Sir please send in the choppers now and advise them we have the situation under control. All Chinese safe. JJ and pilot dead. I could use a good medic though."

"Ya and where is Agent Buckanaga, dammit!"

"Well Mr. President you know those lazy Indians. He's lying next to me, fast asleep." She giggled over the phone. "Sir can we grant these people immediate asylum? I think this farm property would be a perfect place to keep them out of the public's view. We could fence the area and put some guards ..."

"Slow down Dansforth, you're going too fast. First if they are formally asking for asylum I will grant it right away. Second, we can house them there at the farm temporarily, and yes we can fence and guard the place. We'll just tell the press that it is a crime scene and we expect to be checking it out for the next few months. Okay so both of those characters are dead and we are going to tell the world over 50 Chinese vanished into thin air. I can live with that but what about proof? Do we have any hard evidence?"

"Yessir. We have over six million in cash and four condoms full of opium and the charred remains of some foreign small arms. And a few surface-to-air missiles."

"Holy Cow. These guys were ready for war. You say only six million? We found twice that much in Steiner's bag."

"Sir, ummm, can you live with a little quid pro quo since it got us the opium and saved two DEA agents lives?

"I see. Well go ahead and tell me all the details so I can get my lies straight."

"Those people could have escaped and left us to JJ and his pilot, both of whom had AK47s. Buck was unconscious and I'm laying here in the grass, shot in the leg, unable to walk with maybe fifteen rounds of ammunition left. We would have been dead meat. But those people did what I couldn't. They finished off those two and then, instead of running, they came to help. And volunteered that opium - which they could have sold for quite a bit.'

"Fine. It's a good trade. Will they keep absolutely silent about this?"

"Yessir. They are all country folk and very tight-lipped. And they have no problem staying on this farm for whatever length of time is necessary. And they too want this smuggling business ended. I think they are on our side completely. Two of them speak English fluently and I'd like you to meet with them to make plans."

"Okay. Soon as those Special Forces troops arrive, you and your friends grab a chopper and get over here. One of the officers has a camera and I want pictures back here ASAP. Tell him to shoot fast and shoot a lot and then bring that film with you. Is Buck awake yet?"

"No sir. Still snoozing."

"Your in charge Dansforth. Excellent work. Now make sure that the entire area is guarded before you take off. And tell the officer-in-charge, a Lietenant Commander Marshall I believe, that we'll relieve them of guard duty as soon as we can round up some people."

"Sir, the choppers are coming in. thank you for everything. These people will not let you down and neither will we."

"I have complete confidence in you and Buckanaga, uh, that is if he doesn't continue to sleep on the job. See you soon."

The first of two black assault helicopters began the approach. It circled the entire area, probing every nook and cranny with a brillian spot light. Then it landed and two dozen black-clad soldiers, armed to the teeth, dashed forward and formed a semi-circle facing the buildings.

"Godamighty", thought Shirley. "They could wipe out an army! Each one of them is an instrument of mass destruction."

The second chopper landed and half the force joined the first group, while a dozen men marched straight towards Shirley and her group, weapons trained on the entire crowd.

"Sir!" yelled Shirley, waving her DEA card, "Sir, could you step over here please."

"Ma'am I'm .."

"Yes, you would be Lieutenant Commander Marshall, the President already informed me you'd be in charge. I have your orders. Here's a phone if you need to get them directly from the Commander-in-Chief."

Marshall surveyed the scene. Plane ripped apart and still smoldering, 52 aliens under control, and two wounded agents.

"Ma'am you seem capable enought for me. What's the story?"

"We have two men dead in that plane crash. U.S. Congressman Skeffington and his pilot. And, a few hours ago Capitol Hill's police chief Steiner was also ..."

"That bastard finally got his..."

"Yessir, and we have over 50 Chinese who were illegally imported, damn near killed by the two smugglers. The Chinese sacrificed their freedom and resources to come back and save Agent Buckanaga and I."

"Buckanaga! Is that who'se lying there. Damn lazy Indian..."

"Sir, I have a few rounds left in this clip. Do you really want to rant on with that kind of bigotry."

"Hold on," said Marshall, raising his hands, "Buck's an old friend of mine."

"Okay. We need two armed men. One to lock and guard the front gate over there. He is to say nothing. Only that this is a crime scene and under federal control. Period. And the other man should search for any other possible entrances and secure them."

"Dirby! Hernandez! You heard the lady, move out."

"Agent Buckanaga needs some medical attention, although Ms. Jingseng here seems to have done most everything possible."

"Medic, front and center. What about your wound? How bad is it?"

"Bleeding has stopped And it doesn't seem to hurt."

"Take care of this lady first, medic. What else ma'am."

"Please call me Shirley, okay? Do you have anyone with expertise in bombs.?"

"Yup. And a bomb-sniffing Labrador in the chopper. We'll check the farmhouse and the barn and then sweep the entire area, okay?"

"Fine. The Pres said you had a camera along. He wants a full roll of film on exteriors and close-ups of everthing possible."

"Lieutenant, complete coverage with that camera on the double, if you will Sir. Anything else Agent Shirley?"

"Miss Shirley, may I ask something, please?" It was Su, sitting quietly, looking to her beseechingly.

"Yes Su, what is it?"

"I would like to search airplane wreckage again, very fast. Maybe I have luck and find another piece of evidence."

"Commander, any objections?"

"Crowley! Hanson! Help this gentleman search that mess and hope we can find what he's looking for."

The three men dashed off to the wreckage and Marshall turned to Shirley, "Ma'am you seem to have developed some trust with these people."

"Commander they could have escaped. But they came back and helped us capture the bad guys - albeit frying them to a crisp in doing so. Then they came down to help us. And offered us more evidence. They could have kept that evidence to finance their own lives. They made these sacrifices because they want this kind of operation stopped. At my request, and theirs, the President has granted all of them political asylum."

"He does not want them returned to the Chinese government. So we need the cooperation of every man here. As far as anyone is concerned these 52 Chinese escaped into the hills. They don't exist. They are willing to stay on this farm, under guard if need be, until this all blows over. But we need absolute secrecy on this or back they go to China."

"I'll tell my men. They don't need an explanation but I want them to know everything. Hell you couldn't pry one word from them with a red-hot sword, so not to worry."

"Good. As soon as Su returns, and the bomb squad okays the area we'll move these folks to the barn and the farmhouse. Then we have to borrow one of your choppers and get over to the White House."

"Yup. Have him bring us back some big Macs and fries, okay?"

"I'll do better than that." said Shirley, thinking about that buffet the President's chefs had whipped up the other night.

"Hey Marsh, what took you so long?," said Buckanaga slowly returning to consciousness.

"Hey Buck," said Marshall. "At least we weren't sleeping on the job. How'd you get caught anyway? Good thing you're still alive."

"Stupid white guy forget to take my scalp. Feels like he took everthing else though. I don't know how he got me, maybe some sort of motion detector or something. All I know is he's one mean son-of-a-bitch. Is he still alive?"

"Nope, he blew up with the plane." said Shirley gently stroking him. "I didn't know you two knew each other."

Just then Su returned the group, panting, and excited. "Look at what we find, Miss Shirley!" The two Special Forces men held up the tattered remains of a duffel bag dripping powdered opium. Then Su smiled again and held up a clear plastic bag with a charred mess inside. Marshall flipped on his flashlight and they could see it was a watch. A silver Rolex and it was still running.

"My Lord." said Shirley, "why is this so important?"

"It's time to go Dansforth." snapped Commander Marshall. "Excuse me, Shirley. Here's the roll of film, the area around all buildings are secure. No more bombs. Those people can use both buildings now, and it's nice and warm in there. And I'll order up some cots and blankets. Do you want a stretcher for him?"

"I can manage," said Buck groggily, "but you might give Shirley a hand."

Su and Li got on each side of Shirley, hoisted her up and helped her towards the chopper. Buck dragged behind.

"How do you like your steak Commander?" Shirley yelled over her shoulder.

"Just so it's hot and not burned to a crisp." he barked back, grinning.

--

By the time the helicopter landed on thr White House lawn, Su and Li had filled in Buck and Shirley on the significance of the charred Rolex. That information would prove extremely useful, quite soon.

Buck was helped to the White House infirmary where he insisted that he not be transported to the hospital, all he wanted now was to be patched up just enough to prevent further loss of blood. That done, he was escorted to the meeting.

The President had already started and was in the process of de-briefing Matt, whose condition rivalled that of Buck's.

"Well, well, here's another victim of the slaughter. I see you still have your hair left, Agent Buckanaga."

"Stupid white guy forgot to take coup." Buck replied with equal camaraderie. "What's the score Boss? Have we won or lost this one?"

"Not to worry son," said the President. "This is a wrap. All the bad guys are in hell, except for Pancho Villa who'se been promised protection. Far as I can tell we'll get our stories together tonight, hold a press conference tomorrow, and an awards ceremony for all of you on Monday."

"Sir, this is not a wrap, not just yet." said Matt, quietly firm in his manner.

The rest of his group nodding in silence.

"He's right, dammit!" snapped Judge Lydia, from the corner of the room. "It may be a wrap for the grownups, but let us not forget who brought this great victory to us. A sixteen year-old with a lot of guts and talent and we owe him more than a speech and a medal."

"And we haven't even asked him if he can be here on Monday, let alone tomorrow." said Shirley.

"Okay. Okay. Just wait a minute! You are more demanding than the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Okay, I forgot about Mr. Dylan Haun and you're right we should hear from him before the final details are ironed out. Please get ahold of Mr. Haun and work out the details, okay? Call me when you're ready so we can wrap this up and get some sleep."

Matt made the call as soon as the President had exited the room and he managed to get Beadyn in a hurry. He filled the editor in on the final hours and related the President's desire to have Dylan in Washington by tomorrow afternoon.

"Dammit, that justn't isn't fair to the boy Matt." said Beadyn. "He's been working his tail off - and doing one hell of a good job at it, I might say - and he needs a good night's rest. Besides, it's eleven a.m. tomorrow in Tokyo and the editors of our Far East edition want to use this story too. So we have to do a re-write this evening and Dylan could be very helpful."

"And richer. Okay. Look, I'll tell the Pres. to hold the press conference tomorrow and hold off on the awards ceremony at least until Monday. How's that sound?"

"Just fine. Dylan will be up all night so we'll call you tomorrow afternoon and work out his return. Okay? Great, now what about those pictures at the farm? Any chance we can use one of them?"

"Hold on, I'll get Holly on the phone."

Beadyn explained his needs and Holly replied she would let him know in ten minutes. A quick call to the President confirmed the film was available and okay to use, as long as no Special Forces personnel or equipment showed up.

Holly called Beadyn, promised to transmit the photo within the hour, asked Shirley if she would come along to provide exact information. The two dashed off to the Times offices, a few blocks away.

The President met with the rest of the group and it only took ten minutes to set times and dates. The President agreed to keep Matt and Holly's names confidential, and then they all headed home to heal and rest.

--

Matt slept until the crack of noon and slowly crawled his way to the kitchen. His chest ached, but there was no sign of bleeding so he fired up a pot of coffee. He suddenly froze when he heard footsteps at the front door. The bell rang and when he heard Holly's voice he exhaled, wiped the bead of sweat from his lip and went to open the door. Holly, Buck, and Shirley filed past him and headed for the kitchen, arms full of goodies. Bags of coffee beans, a tray of sticky-buns, cartons of eggs, sausage and bacons soon were unravelled. The kitchen was quickly filled with a marvelous array of breakfast aromas. The conversation consisted of light banter until everyone, stuffed and smiling, brought their coffee cups into the dining room. And then, seated around the huge mahogany table, they began making plans. Judge Wagner showed up in time to offer a few cogent thoughts and finish off the sticky-buns.

A knock at the door interrupted their session.

Matt opened the door to find Roberto Romero staring anxiously at him.

"Sir, is Dylan all right? I think some bad stuff has been going on and I can't find him."

"Come inside son, we have to talk. Have you had breakfast yet?"

"No sir."

Judge Wagner offered to whip up breakfast for Roberto and, as he sipped his coffee and watched her cook, she asked him a number of questions about his mother, her life in El Salvador, and their lives in this country. Occasionally she would take time out to make a few notes. Soon Roberto was stuffing himself with bacon and eggs and orange juice and toast until he was about to burst. They joined the group in the living room.

Judge Wagner asked Shirley and Buck, who would be attending the press conference later that day, to talk to the President about issuing a green card for Roberto's mother and they promised to do so.

They had already worked out the strategy and demands they would make in conjunction with the charred Rolex. Dylan's stature and future, according to their plans, also looked very good.

They broke up at noon, Judge Wagner offering to drive Roberto home in hopes of talking to his mother. Shirley and Buck headed to the White House and Matt and Holly stayed behind, determined to make good use of their last day of "vacation".

--

"Mr. President!" "Sir can you.." Mr. President, please!"

The White House Press Corp had listened impatiently to the President's statement, constantly flipping open the latest edition of Life Magazine, reading a few words and quietly cursing. Beadyn had made certain that the first copies to come off the presses be flown to Washington. They arrived in time to be distributed to the news stands in front of the New York Times bureau, Washington Post, Associated Press, UPI, Reuters, Agencie France Presse, and every TV station in town. By seven that morning every "newsie" in town knew they'd been scooped by the New York City-based magazine. Although sound asleep, Beadyn had a smile on his face that almost glowed.

"Sir, how could a kid from a high school newspaper get all this information?"

"This so-called kid reminds me he is two years away from being a voter, so I'd prefer we call him Mr. Haun."

"But how did he dig up..."

"Mr. Haun is very bright, street-smart young man and has had some training in investigative reporting. He had a hunch, followed the paper trail and managed to smoke the perpetrators out of the shadows. Simple as that."

"But, what about the DEA, you said that they had a big hand in ..."

"In cleaning up this mess, based on the information Mr. Haun provided us."

"Why would he come to you. Why not just break it on his own?"

"Some of that is still confidential but I can say that Mr. Haun has come up with some very fine notions of how to provide more safety and police protection for our nation's youth, by modifying the RICO laws, and he did a splendid job of negotiating with us. Both of us gained by this kind of arrangement. Just sorry he chose to take it to New York to publish it. But, he is a citizen ..."

"What about his uncle. Doesn't he live with his Uncle Matt, the reporter for the Post?"

"Sure does, where do think he got his journalistic brilliance? But, to tell you the truth, Matt Haun has been on vacation and we can't get him to answer the phone. You can ask him when he shows up."

"What about that photograph of the burned aircraft at Skeffington's ..."

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the Chief of Staff, "a packet of photos and bios of DEA Chief Larson and Agents Dansforth and Buckanaga are available. There's enough for all of you, plus a detailed breakdown of what we know, and can talk about so far. This Press Conference is over."

` The President and his staff retired to the White House inundated with the screams "Mr. President ..." "Sir, isn't it true ..." etc.

At the President's invitation Shirley and Buck and Chief Larson entered the Oval Office and were seated in a semi-circle around the President's desk. Coffee, croissants and fruits were brought in. The President's staff were dismissed and the doors closed. Secret Service Agents posted outside with firm instructions that their boss not be disturbed.

"Okay," said the President. " Before you guys start on me, I want you to know that Commander Marshall has requested that, since Special Forces will be granted JJ's farm under RICO, he and his troops would like to keep it as a high altitude training camp. Which actually means that his group has taken a shine to the Chinese people and want to stay there and help out. A few of his men speak various dialects of Chinese and about a dozen come from farm backgrounds so there seems to be a lot of commonality between them. Any objections to that? Fine. Now, what kind of mischief are you guys up to. Blackmail? Extortion? Come on, I can smell a squeeze when I see one."

"Sir," said Buck. "We would never dare to impose on the office of President ..."

"Cut the crap Buckanaga and cut to the chase. What do you want? My scalp? My office? What? Chief Larson can you tell me what's going on."

"Not sure Sir, these two seem to have their own agenda and I guess I'm not in charge."

"I know the feeling, Larson."

"Sir. we requested that Su and Li Jingseng be here for this meeting ..."

"Agent Ferguson, where's that chopper." interrupted the President.

"It just landed Sir. Two passengers entered the back entrance a minute ago."

The Jingsengs entered the Oval Office a few seconds later. While Li put together two plates of food and coffee, Su asked, "Sir, do you have a FAX and a phone and a copy maker?

"Agent Ferguson will show you where they are."

"And Sir," said Su. "Is that phone uhh, safe?"

"Do you mean secure? Safe from outside reception?"

"Yessir."

"Use the yellow phone. Fergie will show you."

Agent Ferguson escorted Su to the office equipment room just off the Oval Office. Su immediately picked up the yellow phone, dialed a lengthy series of numbers and then spoke rapidly. He hung up the phone and said "We should get some coffee, maybe. This take a few minutes."

"Okay, what's the scoop?" said the President impatiently.

"Li you tell the President about the watch, okay?" said Buck.

"Mr President, sir." she bowed.

The President returned the bow slowly and said "Miss Jingseng, I am honored by your prescence and ask that you not worry about proper etiquette. Please tell me the story of the watch as you would tell your brother."

"Thank you sir. The watch we steal from China's Deputy Premier Tao Chin Lu. ..."

"You stole this watch from the Vice Premier. Oh, boy! Okay. Please go on."

"A number of us, students for democracy in China, go to University of in Bejing. We hear that Deputy Premier Chin Lu goes to Ningbo, a fishing village south of Shanghai maybe every month or so and buy young girl to do many sex things with her. This very serious crime in China so we decide to make arrangements with our contacts in Ningbo to let us know when he come to get another girl. Our friends call us. We go to the village and put on masks, wait until we sure Chin Lu is with girl and ... how you say ... charge his room in small, cheap hotel. We were armed and he naked. We tie him up, take money, wallet, gold necklases and watch. Su, he take many pictures. Then we make girl put on clothes and come with us. She maybe die anyway if she stay. All of us, whole group, even contacts who are from Ningbo go to Shanghai where a friend hide us. We spend all weekend making plan. Gold chains, money and watch enough to pay smugglers for three of us to come to America. Group decide me and my brother - because we speak American - and girl raped by Chin Lu. But the other things in wallet we decide to leave behind. Bank identification cards from bank in Lichtenstein, Bermuda and Switzerland, with codes. Other sheets of paper with other codes. Security passes and identification cards. We hope others in our group, computer experts, can, how you say, uncode these numbers. We find Lu's watch in plane wreck. His name on back of watch. We think you can use these things to pressure Lu to stop hurting Chinese, stop putting in slave labor camps, things like that. We also hope our group in Bejing is sending more information from Chin Lu's other things. Here are a few prints of Deputy Premier Lu in bed with young girl."

"Holy Mary!" blurted the President. "You mean you are giving me enough material to expose the second-in-command of all of China? And you want me to blackmail him?"

"Yes Sir, thank you Sir." said Li, bowing and smiling profusely. "But you must also do some things for your own people." she said, suddenly standing upright and rigid. "You must listen to Mr. Buck and Miss Shirley and help your own."

"Now wait a minute." said the President. "Whose running this country anyway."

"You are sir," said Shirley. "Please just hear us out and see for yourself whether we are offering a fair trade-out."

By the time Su and Agent Ferguson returned with their food and coffee the FAX machine had begun spewing out its publications. As the documents came in, Su diligently made two copies of each and made three piles. They returned to the Oval Office 15 minutes later carrying three stacks of documents. The printed material was written in Chinese and there were four pages of blurry photographs.

Su gave the stack of FAXes to the President, one stack of copies to Buck and Shirley and kept the other. He and his sister began reading the copy. There eyes got wider, they started mumbling, and finally Su blurted out "Mr. President, this is very amazing. My computer friends were able to decode some of Deputy Premier Lu's numbers. They turned out to be passwords for his computer files. They worked very hard and finally managed to hack open those files and find complete dossiers on the Premier, the party chairman, and the other Deputy Premiers. Details on where they kept their money - lotsa money, millions - and some very interesting illegal businesses."

"These are photographs of eight slave-labor camps that we know of." said Su spreading the four pages of pictures out before the President. "This one, and this one, and that one and that. All owned by the Premier."

"You mean Vice-Minister Chin Lu?"

"No, Mr. President, I mean THE Premier."

"Lordy, Lordy, Christmas comes early to the White House." said the President, pacing back and forth, almost dancing with delight.

"What about Deputy Premier Chin Lu? Any idea where he gets his money?

"Nothing here to tell us." said Su. "We think Chin Lu not like the Premier. Thinks Premier a weak crook. Chin Lu work on a lot of negotiations with Western business people. Get lots business into China."

"And millions in kickbacks." said Chief Larson.

"Kickbacks? Ah yes, bribes." said Su. "He probably call them fees. More honorable term. So. Deputy Premier Lu controls intelligence operations, some elite military troops, and Air Force. He have lot of power. Not appreciate slave-labor camps."

"So he has a big appetite for Western business, and money." said the President.

"And for young girls." said Buck.

"Young girl is here in America. At farm with my other friends." Li observerd.

For a long time the President remained silent. He sat very still, the only movement came from his hand as he made notation after notation on a yellow legal pad. Occasionally he would look at one member of the group, then another, only to return to his note-taking. Suddenly he slapped his pen on the pad and stood up.

"Chief Larson."

"Yessir."

"Can you see fit to assign Agents Buckanaga and Dansforth to me?"

"Yessir."

"Buck. Shirley. Would you mind taking charge of the Chinese on the farm? Be my liason. Set up classes on civics, English, and computer technologies.?

"Sir, that's fine with me." said Buck.

"And me," said Shirley. "But, it would help if we could hire Su and Li ..."

"To be Directors of the Facilities." said the President, tapping the yellow pad. "Yes. I want all of those people to get a Berlitz course in America. I have half a dozen computer corporations begging me to allow them to open up production facilities in China and our new guests could prove invaluable in helping make that transition."

"Furthermore, I am expecting a delegation from China, early next year and I will make sure the Deputy Premier is with that group. Su and Li, you have demonstrated some amazing organization skills under great pressure. Can you run things at the farm? Great. And, may I impose on you to also come up with some ideas on how to shutdown those slave-labor camps?"

The Jingsengs bowed and smiled.

"And don't let those Special Forces guys know what you're doing. They would probably insist on invading China all by themselves. I'd rather this be done by the Chinese themselves. Maybe even Chin Lu's own elite soldiers."

"Now, as to Mr. Dylan Haun. I was going to award him the Medal of Freedom on Monday and make that day Dylan Haun Day. But, in light of your amazing help, and your insistance that this be made into a big statement about our citizen youth I am going to declare the 1st of June a national holiday. It will be called National JUnior Citizen's Day and, unlike Mother's or Father's Day, this will be a day where no one works. This will be a day dedicated to those children, under voting age. And we will develop programs to remind our nation of the rights and priviledges of those kids. And I would like to appoint Mr. Dylan Haun as our nation's Ambassador to the Youth of America. With all the priviledges, reponsibilities, and clout of any other Ambassador."

"Sir, Dylan just informed his uncle that he wants to devote all his time to school. Get his grade point up, so he can pick and choose the right college. Any chance you can appoint him to something that wont be so time consuming?" said Buck.

"Hmmm, well okay. But I do like the image of him arriving here in a limousine with a flag flying on the front fender ... coming out of the limo in that tattered old Army jacket ... "

"Grunge, sir," said Buck, chuckling quietly. "That's the grunge look. Very hip these days."

"Yes, grunge. Okay, how about appointing him as my Assistant Chief of Staff/Youth Affairs? He'll get paid as an outside consultant, have total access to me, and he still gets a limo when he needs it. Okay?"

The room rippled with excitement, quick discussions, then applause.

"Okay," said the President. "Anything else?"

Buck and Shirley passed on Judge Wagner's request to issue Roberto's mother a green card and the President agreed to have his staff get on it immediately.

"Now," sighed the President. "Any other skulldudgery? Great. Meeting's adjourned, I expect to see you all on Monday."

--

Su and Li Jingseng were invited by Shirley and Buck to stay in the city for a few days so that they could talk over plans for "the farm". Chief Larson offered to buy dinner for everyone and they agreed to meet at the club around nine p.m. Buck called Matt and invited them to join in on the feast. Chief Larson called Capt. Nedermeyer and invited him to join in. Holly made a call to Judge Wagner, who agreed to show up.

The dinner had barely started when Dylan Haun entered the club and approached the table. He wore his new overcoat, plus a hat with a Life Magazine Press card sticking out of the side band.

"You guys got room for one more?"

Everyone jumped up and yelled and clapped and hugged the young man until he finally shook himself loose and sat down.

"Hey Captain Nedermeyer, when did you start lying?" said Dylan, pleased to note his friend's new rank.

"A few days ago I told everybody you were a genius and might amount to something. With a lie like that I just had to make Captain. Now, where in the hell did you get that outfit?"

"Hey, come on, I like this outfit. Yo, Buck, betcha my dad's wound is bigger than yours."

"Ya, but not as big a cut as the one you took outta Life Magazine." said Buck, to the chuckles and clapping of all. "How did you get here so fast, we thought you'd crash in New York and crawl home tomorrow."

"Nope. Mr. Beadyn asked me a few questions and then had his secretary buzz me out to LaGuardia just in time for the last shuttle home. Truth is I was kind of worried about all of you. Anyway, Holly, how come you didn't kill any bad guys? You're meaner than the rest of us combined."

"Damn car wouldn't start, so I was told to stay home."

"Well I'm tired from spending all that money. We must have hit every night spot in Manhattan last night." said Dylan, knowing full well everyone knew he hadn't had a minute to spare during his visit to the Big Apple.

"Son, we have a few things to discuss here. Are you up to helpling us figure out a few things?"

"Dad, if you still have the strength, so do I."

Su and Li were introduced to Dylan and the discussion began. For half an hour they queried Dylan about New York and Life magazine and Dave Beadyn. He enjoyed every moment of it, expecially the stories about Beadyn, who had fought his publisher, the advertising department, and finally the printing crew in order to get Dylan's story the strongest possible play.

"And look what Mr. Beadyn got me, you guys." said Dylan, holding up an odd looking camera. "It's an underwater Nikonos camera. Man, I can take this thing down hundreds of feet."

"Okay Dylan, I give up, we'll take you diving soon. Maybe even the Christmas break, okay?" said Matt.

Dylan nodded eagerly.

Then Matt and Holly announced their engagement and the hugs and applause and tears flowed again. And Judge Wagner demanded the right to marry them and they laughed and agreed.

"And Judge," said Dylan. "After they're married can you make them adopt me?"

More laughter and hugs. It was a night for love as well as celebration.

Finally, the conversation switched to making plans for the farm. There would be a multitude of logistical problems setting up the school, food, clothing, living facilities, classrooms, and transportation and on, and on.

As the dinner came to an end and the talk dwindled down, Dylan made an announcement.

"I think the transportation problem for the farm can be taken care of tomorrow. I"ve made some plans and I'd like Buck and Shirley and Holly to meet at our house about three in the afternoon. And Su and Li, you come along. Okay?"

They nodded in agreement, curious about what was to come.

"And, I'd like you all to drive your own cars, and bring the important papers and stuff, okay?"

Once again they nodded. And then they all headed home.

Matt and Holly and Dylan slept late and devoured a noon-time brunch. They quietly showered and dressed for the occassion Dylan had arranged. He would gave them no hint of what was to transpire, he just smiled and chuckled a lot.

Buck arrived first in his banged up, over-powered pickup. Followed by Shirley, Su, and Li riding in Shirley's eight year-old Volvo. Holly had taken a cab home and returned in her three year-old Camarro. They sat around the living room table, making light conversation, wondering what was next. Suddenly the quiet was broken by the blast of a truck horn. Dylan jumped up, yelled for everyone to come outside as he dashed outdoors.

There, on the street, was a big car-carrier with four brand new Mustang convertibles. The group stood at the curb, dumbfounded, as one car after another was started and off-loaded. The first convertible to come off the carrier was painted gold. The driver pulled up to the curb, turned off the engine, and delivered the keys and paperwork to Dylan. Dylan ceremoniously pushed a button on the black card attached to the keyring and the Mustang roared to life. He turned and marched up to Holly and handed her the keys.

"No more excuses about your car not starting, Okay? You wanna donate your old car to a worthy cause?" he asked.

Still in mild shock, Holly dug in her purse and gave Dylan her car keys. Dylan took the keys back to the driver, held a quick discussion, that ended with the driver nodding and walking off to the Volvo. The next car, dark Navy blue, arrived and Dylan went through the same process with Matt, who gave the keys to his old, rarely used Crown Victoria to the driver and showed him the garage where it was resting.

A turquoise blue one for Shirley and finally, a dark, maroon car for Buck.

While the drivers loaded the old cars on to the carrier everyone hopped into their new chariots. They began playing with the four-speaker stereos, raising and lowering the tops, even beeping the horns like kids with new tows, while Dylan looked on with immense satisfaction.

The driver approached with a clipboard and pen and Dylan called to Matt. Matt shut down the powerful V8 and walked over to the two.

"He needs your signature, as an adult Pop." said Dylan.

"Dylan, I don't know if I ..."

"Got no choice Sir, this is cashier's check is made out to the dealer. Mr. Beadyn and I made a call yesterday to his old friend, car dealer here in D.C. and we made this deal. All you can do now is smile and sign sir."

Matt dutifully signed the paperwork and smiled.

"You gonna have enough money left to go to college after blowing so much on these toys?"

"Drive that car like a toy Dad and you're in deep do-do. Besides, Mr. Beadyn is going to talk to some publishers about doing a book about all this. Maybe a movie. And if none of it happens, well I still have enough to go to college .... with enough left over to buy a T-Bird, or maybe a Continental."

"Thunderbird! Continental! And all you get us are these little dinky Mustangs."

And they hugged each other and danced in circles and Matt broke off saying, "Let me go man, I wanna play with my new toy."

Dylan turned to Su and Li, who had watched the entire episode with fascination.

"I want you to ride with the driver back to the farm. These automobiles are for your use. Su, I think you should use that Camarro, okay? Good. And Li, for now, can you put up with that old Volvo?"

She nodded eagerly.

"Do you both know how to drive?"

"We both received our license in Bejing."

"Fine. Buck and Shirley will help you get your license here."

The old cars loaded, the driver honked the horn and Su and Li shook Dylan's hand, bowed, and headed for the truck. Buck yelled at them to wait. He and Shirley locked their new cars up and had a quick discussion with Su and Li.

"We're going to ride up to the farm with these two."

"Okay," said Matt. "Why don't we come up tomorrow afternoon and give you a ride back."

"Super," said Shirley. "We'll call you this evening and figure it out."

Buck and Shirley hopped into the truck cab, Su and Li had already climbed up the carrier and into the Camarro. As the truck drove off, they waved from the car like royalty.

--

Dylan got up early on Monday and decided to do some errands and stop at the library before heading to the White House. He put on his newly acquired suit,then his new and favorite coat and hat, and left the house just before ten. His uncle had left for work two hours earlier.

He headed to 13th Avenue and turned towards downtown, strutting confidently, trying not to dwell on the honors and attention he would be receiving in a few short hours.

Suddenly he was being pushed in the back, thrown to the sidewalk. Roberto was screaming at him, heavy rumbling sounds surrounded him, and constant popping sounds came from the street. He blacked out for a moment then awoke to the noise of a horrendous crash. He looked up to see a badly damaged black BMW perched on top of a Dempsey-Dumpster, engine still running and wheels spinning furiously.

"Stay down." yelled Roberto, who turned and headed towards the car. Six other kids from school were dashing towards the car. They discovered the driver still conscious, but not for long. Dylan's football buddy Barney punched the driver out and took his pistol. On the other side of the car weapons were being separated from the motionlesss Jamaicans, two of whom were unconscious, and one dead. Xao Xaing had called Nedermeyer from the deli. Capt. Nedermeyer arrived with three-car back up in four minutes.

By that time Roberto told Dylan what this was all about.

"Soon as I saw the press conference about that dead pig and the congressman I knew why no other dealers ever tried to move into this territory. These guys had to much power. But with them dead I figured some dealers would go after you to make a big statement about how powerful they could be and take over this territory. So I talk to some guys at school and we came up with this plan. We had people hidden in every alley on both sides of the street ready to push those big trash cans into the car. And Xao Xaing standing by at the deli, ready to call as soon as it came down."

"You boys been fighting each other again," said Nedermeyer, smiling.

"No sir," said Roberto. "I knew the posse would come after Dylan so I came up with this plan."

"And a good one it was Roberto. Dylan are you okay? Your head is bleeding a little."

"I'm fine sir."

"Roberto, tell me everything."

Roberto gave a detailed report while Dylan went to the deli. He reassured Xao that everything was okay, then cleansed his face and covered the cut with a band-aid.

When he returned to the scene Roberto was finishing his report.

"You guys wait here a minute, I wanna talk to the Pres."

When the President heard the news he asked Nedermeyer to personally drive Dylan and Roberto to the White House. Then he ordered all his morning's meetings cancelled. Dylan insisted that Xao and Barney come too.

The President paced for ten minutes, then called in his Secret Service men.

"Please get Pancho Villa here on the double. And find someone who knows how to run a lie detector."

Twenty minutes later Villa was hooked up to the machine with the President, two Secret Service men, Buck and Shirley off to one side.

Capt. Nedermeyer, Dylan and Roberto were escorted into the room. The President needed only one glance at the dishevelled, wide-eyed boys to realize how rough the experience had been.

"You two look like hell," said the President, trying to smile. "Can't any of you come here looking normal. Okay, one of you tell me exactly what happened out there."

Dylan nudged Roberto, who quietly gave a detailed report of the attempted assasination.

"But why attack Dylan?" asked the President.

"Because you named him a big hero." replied Roberto. "And they figure killing him shows how powerful they can be."

"A mile from the White House?!" roared the President. "Aren't they forgetting who the real power is!"

"Sir," said Roberto. "They just aren't impressed with the government. They don't think they have to worry about you very much."

"How can they be that stupid." said the President. "Cause the Jamaicans, like everyone else in the business, know your losing the war on drug dealers." said Pancho. "Why should they worry about a loser? And you're losin big time."

The needle of the lie-detector stayed on line, never wavered, telling the President that this sleazy, yet street-wise, man was telling the pure truth.

"The cartels are muy powerful. They can afford to lose million dollar shipments. They can afford to kill public officials here and in their home countries. Lose a billion, make ten billlion. You expect them to be scared of you tonto gringos? Get serious."

"So what are you trying to tell the President?" asked Roberto. "Are you're saying there is no way to win a war against drugs.?"

"Ju got that right. We got you all by the ass."

The lie-detector needle suddenly started jumping wildly. It continued to jump for about five seconds and then began settling down.

"You see, Mr. President, he is lying." continued Roberto. "These guys know they can be beaten and their biggest fear is that you figure it out. Tell him Pancho."

Pancho shuffled his feet and started rocking back and forth, but refused to say a word.

"Okay Pancho Villa'" said the President, leaning menacingly into Pancho's face. "I told you not to lie to me and you just did. Which means you believe there is a way for us to win this war. What is it?"

"Don gotta tell you shit man. We made a deal, I got signed papers, witness by lawyers dat says I got immunity and you have to give me a new, protected life."

"Well son, there's a problem with that. You see, we are such stupido Americanos, you know - tonto gringos - we'd probably have an accident taking you to your new, protected world. You could easily just fall out of a plane, flying over the ocean. Or die in a car accident. Or even just electrocute yourself accidently. You never know how stupido we can be, BRO!"

No one had ever seen the President this mad. He seemed almost insane with hatred, and it had a big impact on Villa.

"Okay, easy man. I was only kidding ju know. I have mucho respect for you sir."

"Cut the mierda and answer my question. NOW"

"El Presidente, sir, the only way you gonna win is to make the basic stuff legal - ju know, marijuanna, opium, maybe cocaine and then triple the sentences for anyone caught anywhere near the other stuff."

"But you ain't had the guts to let your people have a little mischief in a long time. You made dem lawbreakers rather than recognize that we all are just human beings. You wanna outlaw something, outlaw the chemically-altered drugs totally, and legalize the basics, and you destroy not only most of the drug trade but mucho murders robberies, prostitution, pornography, child prostitution, white-collar crimes, arson, and most insurance scams drop big-time."

The lie-detector needle was steady as could be.

"All of our experts say that legalization will result in tremendous increases in drug use." said the President.

"Man, those dudes are pissing in your ear and telling you it's raining outside."

"They're what?!"

"They are lying sir." said Buck.

The President sat silent, scribbling notes furiously and mumbling to himself.

"Sir, I hate to agree with them but they are right on the money." said Nedermeyer. "Back when things were simple ... pot was pot and coke was coke ... well things weren't that bad. And to tell you the truth every cop I ever met will tell you quietly, off the record, that they didn't worry about enforcing the drug laws 'cause it just wasn't that big a deal."

"So be it. Pancho you will stay in town for a while. I will need to call on you. Thank you. Now Mr. Dylan Haun, how say you?"

"I don't know sir. I wont touch drugs. But, I do think that this being a nation that allows people to have a lot of freedoms - including high-risk activities, and including making a fool of yourself - well sir, it does seem odd that we allow using some addictive stuff like coffee, cigarettes and alchohol, but make other, possibly less addictive stuff, illegal. And, we allow gambling these days, and look how the crimes related to gambling have dropped. You hardly hear about those anymore. Tell you the truth I have always assumed we'd eventually legalize the stuff. What else has to happen before we get sensible about this?"

"Thank you Dylan." said the President. "You make a lot of sense. I too believed that dope would one day be legalized. Come to think of it so do many others. But it's political suicide to .."

"Sir, if I may." said Buck. "Everyone thought gambling should be legalized, but it took the American Indians putting up Bingo parlors and, eventually, gambling casinos before the government made the right moves. So maybe, we should start selling peyote - you know the stuff we smoke during our spiritual ceremonies - and then pot and coke. We could sell it right on the reservation, which is our sovereign right, and as soon as we get a few billion of bucks we can start buying our country back from you white guys ..."

"Okay, okay Buck." said the President with a grin. "You've made your point."

"But right now I have to get you people out of here. This is the White House, dammit. We can't have all you grungy-types laughing and dancing and smiling in here. This is where we do the serious stuff. Serious lying, serious spending. Can't have fun going on in here, you know." he said, to the chuckles of all.

"So, would all of you care to join me outside. I would be proud to have all of you at my side while we honor this young citizen."

-30-

Dedicated to the wonderful contributions to all of us by Dick Gregory, Joe Campbell, John D. MacDonald, and Barbara Jordan ...

with special thanks to Steve Ronald - a gifted talent, great editor, and patient friend.

... and, most importantly, my Mom ... who taught me all the right things and stuck with me even when I did the wrong things.

Hopefully you - the reader - will not only enjoy this tale, but learn from it those truths she taught me many years ago. And, because I learned them well, I grew and travelled well, and authored a number of worthwhile contributions to society.

We now pass on the lessons to you. Travel well.

Many special thanks to Bob and Betty , Steve, Mike, Harley and Dominic, Tom and Joyce, Oscar, Jerome and Maureen, and the never-ending memories of Declan Haun and Dave Beaton (why do the Irish always end up being the best teachers of journalism?)- with a ton of Gold Stars for Mother Heine and her "kids".

CAST FOR "DYLAN"S QUEST" -- THE MOVIE

EXEC PROD. Tim Reid or David Milch/Exec. Producer of "NYPD Blue"

or why not ask John Amos to help me co-direct??

DIRECTOR Sidney Poitier or Joel Shumacher

MATT Bruce A. Young/"Capt. Simon in the Sentinel series"

Cop in "Free Willy"

Dr. Alder/"Outer Limits"FOX, Denzel Washington, Samuel L Jackson

HOLLY Nancy Travis or Lindsay Frost ("OpCtr")

BUCK Randolph in "Free Willy"/ or Dan Day Lewis or

"Pinetree" in recent "Rockford Files" movie

PRESIDENT or Tom Snyder

STEINER Bad guy cop in "Client"Gary Bussey

JJ Michael Ironside

SHIRLEY Sandra Bullock