Shadow Wrought's Journal: [Serial Writing] Everywhere, Is the War (Part VII)

Start from Part I or Back to Part VI

Just as the Sun began setting beyond the steep hills, Walker's GPS told him that he was at the right cabin. That and Clarke's white jeep parked next to the old wooden structure. Before he was halfway up the walk she opened the door and greeted him wearing jean shorts and a man's flannel shirt, "How'd it go?"

"Perfect," he replied as they walked in the front door, "Tweedledead and Tweedledeader won't be known missing for awhile, and unless someone goes and tries to use their deer blind, they won't be missed for at least a couple days. How about you? Have we been enjoying our time off?"

"Very much so. Even better now that you're here," she purred. "I've been wanting to do this ever since we met, David." She took his hand and led him towards the rickety bed along the far wall.

"But what about, um, the next targets?" he only half articulated. He had certainly had some thoughts- especially with Clarke- but he hadn't believed they'd actually happen.

"There'll be plenty of time for that in the morning. Tonight is about us."

"But I haven't, well, you know, with a... ever since-"

"I know and I don't care. We'll start slow."

Walker knew he was already lost, could feel it physically, but his concious needed to raise one last objeciton before he could lose himself in her, "What about business and-?"

"Pleasure? You're a free-lancer now, David," she cooed, "and its time to free your lance."

~ ~ ~

Special Agent Brink had been with the FBI for twenty years. He was not particularly tall, but he was wide and built like the proverbial brick-house. In fact he looked not so much like he had been born as much as he had been chiseled out of a granite block. In fact, he looked so much like an agent that his superiors had precluded him from doing undercover work. So instead of the drug crimes which got all the press and money, he had worked bank robberies and the odd violent crimes that crossed state lines. It suited him just fine, even if the one he had now was a doozy.

It also explained why he was in such a foul mood as he walked into the DC Police substation which had called him about a druggie, "I got your message about an MDMA cook. Since you wouldn't say on the phone, can you now explain to me why the FBI should give a shit about him?"

Sergeant Tollver had been with Washington, DC Police for almost as long as Brink had been with the FBI. He was used to the Federales' arrogance and now it just washed off his back like water off a duck. "Well he doesn't just make X. He also cooks up the odd batch of date rape stuff."

"So he's a sack a shit and a perv. Why do I care one way or the other? This ain't Bureau jurisdiction."

"You're right. Except that he claims to have made some special for a guy. A guy who claims to be whacking exec types for 'The Cause.'"

"The Hell!"

"I shit you not, Agent. That's why I called."

"What a day. This morning we find two more who look like they've been dead a week, and now this. Interesting times, Sergeant, intersting times. So what say we have a chat with our perv..."

Continue to Part VIII
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