What's Happening in the World Part I

The bucket list had been Rebecca’s mother’s idea. Back when she was a small child these trips had been grand adventures filled with excitement and wonder. She had been making these trips for about as long as she could remember. These sorts of bonding experiences with family and friends were cherished memories that she hoped to add to her own children’s lives.

The way it worked was very simple. Each of the families in the group created a list of ten places in the continental US that they simply had to go before they died. The order in which they chose the destinations from the lists was rather random except that, since there had been three families at the time, each family’s choices would only be chosen once every three years.

And since she started a family of her own she has been taking two such trips each year. This second group of friends consisted of seven families instead of three. And they were of her own generation instead of her parents’. For her that was fine since she had been to so many places and seen so many things. This was the third year in a row this group has taken summer vacation together. And the group members have grown in numbers steadily each year.

Although the Dinosaur National Monument had never been on her personal list, it had been a fun adventure. Her son Leonard was able to spend some much-needed bonding time with his father and get to know all of the other members of the group much better. It had been a little awkward on the way out with so many vehicles in the caravan, but each day they had forced a change in riders and drivers so that each person got to spend time with everyone.

They had spent two weeks at the national park. White Water rafting, mountain climbing, field games, hiking, fishing and just sitting around the camp fire. She was not surprised that Leonard had re-acclimated to physical stuff so quickly. She knew he had a fantastic time. That he was still single bothered her a little, she had to admit. But she refused to say anything to him about it. It really was none of her business….Rebecca Adams supposed she just might never be a grandmother.

Then there were the hangers-on, friends of someone in the family or even quasi-adoptees. Benjamin Blake and Jean Nadingam were two such examples. Ben had grown up with most of the kids, though he was a bit older. He had really needed an escape from the constant drama at home and she ensured that this trip was alcohol free….much to the chagrin of some of the other members of the group.

Jean, a successful Doctor, showed up one day at a house party as a guest of someone, though several of their group claimed to have known him and invited him. His bright smile and charming wit often clashed with an inner seriousness that made him both likable and interesting. That he was extremely intelligent and could hold his own in any of their many, often heated debates kept the invitations coming.

That he accepted the invitation to come on this trip was rather surprising, though very welcome. He was one of the busiest people in their group. Not only was he a practicing physician, but he had his hand in so many pots, stretching all the way to his birthplace in Africa that he was often gone for long periods of time. And most of the people on their trip had hoped he would have brought along the woman he has been talking up, someone none of them have ever met, Maria Jose, the acclaimed love of his life.

Hadrian Daniels was another such example, and the youngest of that peer group. Although not formally adopted by anyone, he managed to become part of everyone’s family. His wealthy parents were never able to give him their time, so he found a group of people that could and would accept him for who he was, without unreasonable expectations.

And now they were heading back home to Maryland where all of them lived. Well, that was not exactly true. Those of her own generation lived there, though some of them worked all around the country or even travelled the world. Those Leonard’s generation were still spread out all over the country, living or going to college in different states.

But somehow, in the end, everyone always came back to Maryland, back home. Few of them actually lived with their parents, but still….

But they were still in Colorado, just having left the campground this morning. Their next destination was in Craig where they had hotel reservations. Under normal conditions it was less than an hour away. But the traffic was terrible headed east. And there was no traffic at all headed back west.

Her husband, and most of the members of the other families and friends, were separated into no less than nine other vehicles which made up the caravan headed East. But three of those had made a stop in Maybell. None of them had wanted the fun to end and so they had arranged for small excursions on the way back. One of those was excursions was an ATV adventure among the rocky terrain just south of the town of Maybell. After camping for nearly so long with kids of all ages, parents, wives, and even a few family pets, some of them thought they could use an adrenalin fix.

After releasing some of their pent-up…whatever, they would be joining them at the hotel in Craig. However, like so many plans in the past, she expected something to go wrong. She expected them to be there very soon, something like 11:30. But the way the traffic was completely stalled, she hoped they would be there by dinner time. She and the other women had a spa reservation at 8:00. If only the traffic headed east was moving more than five miles an hour….

Carl Richardson opened the door to the garage very carefully. This was the back door that was never used. Carl had worked at Jeff’s Auto Shop for nearly a year and knew everything about the place. He had made sure that the door was unlocked before he left work that evening. Now, at 2 in the morning, was the absolute best time to get inside. He felt rather relaxed breaking into the place. After serving three tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan nothing seemed to faze him anymore.

He passed by all of the tools and other high-value equipment. Everything here had to be serialized and would eventually be traced back to him if he tried to sell them, even on the street. No, he needed cash. And he knew that Jeff Talbot, who usually made a bank drop only once every other week, had failed to make a drop yesterday. So there should be a few thousand bucks in cash in the box.

Carl called it the box, though Jeff and everyone else called it the safe. Carl knew what a safe looked like, and this was definitely not a safe. Although the office door was locked, a well-placed kick worked better than any key on an inside door. And then he paused just inside the doorway.
Carl remembered the last time he had kicked open a door. He had been in Afghanistan in a little off-the-map village looking for a Taliban’s weapons cache. That door opened even easier than this one, but he had been wearing a lot of heavy gear with adrenalin running through him at the time. He remembered the four insurgents hiding inside, one man, two children and a woman. Three of them were wielding AK 47 assault riffles and he remembered how it felt to open up on them with his own weapon.

He pressed a hand to his left shoulder where he had been hit so long ago. The damn Taliban didn’t train worth shit and had only struck him once while he had put all four of them down. Still, the wound took him out of the action for nine months. A 7.62 military grade round played havoc with human flesh.

He looked about him and saw the four civilians as if he were still there. The woman had dived on top of her youngest child, his bullets riddled her side and passed through into the small boy she was trying so desperately to protect. Her own weapon had been dropped in the effort.

The other boy was caught in the head as Carl panned the room with his weapon on full automatic. A lucky shot, really. The boy’s weapon continued firing for some reason as he collapsed onto the ground. A line of bullets struck the dirt floor and filled the house with a cloud of flying dirt and dust.

It was the man who shot Carl in the shoulder. Carl struck the man in the chest just as he felt the pain in his shoulder. It did not feel like much at the time, he remembered that now. He remembered watching the man fall back against the crates of weapons behind him. His weapon fell to the ground as Carl’s left arm lost all strength and fell to his side. Carl kept his other hand on the grip of his weapon and continued pumping bullets into the now prone man.

His magazine only had thirty rounds and the last one left the chamber open, smoking hot. He felt the hand on his right shoulder. “Hey Carl! You’re hit!”

And then he was back in the garage, standing in the open door to the office, in the dark. His heart was pumping and his chest was heaving as if he could not catch his breath. He wiped sweat from his forehead and cursed into the darkness.

Stepping forward he found what he was looking for. The box. It was anchored to the floor with bolts. But a crowbar easily pried it up. It weighed about thirty pounds. “Definitely not a safe!” he said aloud to himself.

He carried it back into the main part of the garage and found another tool to open it up. He filled his pockets with the cash and looked at the checks and credit card receipts. “I’m a thief, not an asshole.” He said and made sure they were all separated from the cash and left inside the box. He then grabbed one of the work rags from a bag and wiped down the box to be sure his prints were not left behind. His prints on anything else could be easily explained away. He did work here.

He stopped then and looked back at the box. He had touched some of the checks and receipts. He would have to take them. “I guess I’m an asshole after all.” He said. He emptied the box and ensured every scrap of paper was inside his now bulging pockets. He then wiped down the box one more time.

He kept the rag as he left the place, wiping down the knobs on both sides of the door.

He had no idea that motion sensors had turned on cameras positioned throughout the inside of the garage. Jeff had been burglarized at least once before.

Jeffrey Escobar stood at the front door of his shop. He held his cell phone in one hand and keys in another. His complexion, stark Hispanic facial features, and small build might lead someone to suspect that he was not a U.S. citizen but rather a migrant worker or an otherwise illegal alien. Although he prided himself on speaking fluent Spanish, he had never been out of the U.S. in his entire life and was in fact a third generation American citizen.

Jose Escobar, his brother and the person parking his red ford truck at the curb, had nearly the same physical appearance as Jeff. The exception, however, was that Jose only knew about ten words of Spanish and most of them were obscene expletives. But he was the nerd of the family, fluent and well versed in the various nuances of geekeese. He always got a pass at the family celebrations because everyone needed him to fix something. No one was going to give him a hard time about his total disrespect of what everyone else in the family considered their native language.

Jose got out of his truck with a computer case in his hand and stepped down to the curb. The truck, a Ford F-350 had a cap over the bed made of molded sheet metal and was painted the same color as the rest of the vehicle. The tail-gate was missing and instead there was a short heavy door with a reinforced padlock.

There were no pleasantries exchanged between the two as Jose approached his brother. “How did they get in?” Asked Jeff.

“It was just one person, and he got in through the back door. It looked like it was unlocked. And it looked like he knew exactly where to go.”

“I thought you were supposed to be alerted if anyone was inside after closing.”

“I got the text, and the email. But I was at Shelly’s. I, um, well I didn’t exactly want to be disturbed so I turned my cell phone off. Sorry about that. I already put you and dad on the alert list. If it happens again we’ll all get the message.”

“Let’s see it.” Said Jeff.

“Can we go inside and use a table?” Asked Jose.

“No can do. I already called the cops and they should be here any minute. I’m surprised you got here before they did. The dispatcher told me to step out of the building and not let anyone in except the police.”

Jose knelt down and pulled his laptop out of his computer case. “The response time here sucks. But we're damn close to their headquarters; I wonder what’s keeping them?”

“Hey, someone will be by in a minute. I treat them well, they’ll be here.” Said Jeff. And he did treat the local police very well indeed. He worked on their personal cars on a cost-only basis, which meant he was the least expensive mechanic in the city, for law enforcement. Furthermore, he worked on their cars personally; just in case one of his employees had a hard-on for police or something.

Jose opened the laptop and it came to life immediately, having only been in sleep mode. The still image of the person inside was visible on the screen. “It’s the best shot we have. Pretty good, actually. You know the guy?”

The image was of a large man dressed in dark clothes. He had a ski mask on but no gloves. It was not just his size and build that identified him. His combat boots and military BDU cargo pants were a dead giveaway. More so because the pants were tucked into the boots, just the way Carl always wore his pants. And they were always BDU cargo pants with the digitized pattern. He really was an idiot.

“It has to be Carl. Damn it! That stupid ****. I gave him a job; I trusted him.” Said Jeff.

A marked patrol vehicle turned the corner nearby and parked behind Jose’s truck. Jeff knew the officer from working on his car, but not well. “Hey, Jeff!” Said officer Stevens. “You got hit again?” He approached and shook Jeff’s hand.

“Yea. Carl wiped out my safe. He used one of the shop’s tools, broke open the safe, and emptied it out. He took about four thousand dollars in cash and a lot more in checks. I’ll have exact numbers when I check my system, but I know it was Carl Richardson.” He turned and motioned to his brother.

“Officer, this is my brother Jose. He built and installed our security system. He has a photograph of the guy who did this.”

Jose nodded to the officer. “It’s a whole lot of video actually. That was just a still shot of the video. And we have some footage during the day time. Here look.” Jose showed the officer the video of Carl entering through the back door, going into the office and then using a tool to break open the safe. They all watched as Carl stuffed his pockets with cash and started to leave. He then returned and picked up all of the receipts and checks.

“He put his hand on your desk. Has he ever been inside the office before?”

“Not that I know of.” Said Jose. “Only me and the assistant manager are allowed inside with the register.”

The officer got on his radio and requested crime lab and a supervisor to respond. “Has he ever been out behind the shop?” He asked.

“No one should ever be back there. That is a narrow alley with the backs of residences on both sides. I use it once a week to take the trash out to the other end for collections on Thursdays. I keep that door locked, always.”

“Those boots might have left prints back there, as well as inside the shop near the door. We can compare those boots to prints where the burglar did not go to be sure it’s your Carl Richardson. And we have the fingerprints on the desk.”

“Wait a minute.” Said Jose. He checked the archive video footage during the day. The camera system used two separate servers to store the video. The daytime server could record close to a month of video from all of the cameras before it recorded over itself. He watched for a few moments and then found what he was looking for. “Yep, it’s Carl alright.” He said. He ran what he found in slow motion. Carl could be seen walking over to the door, looking around, and then turning the deadbolts. He wiped them down with a rag and then turned back to continue tuning the balance on a tire. He was wearing the same pants and boots in this video. And his pants were indeed tucked into his boots.

A low-income housing complex somewhere in Baltimore City near Cherry Hill.

Carl Richardson stood in the stairwell outside apartment 3b. He knocked again, impatient. The door opened up to an even taller man than Carl. The man known to everyone only as Henry towered over Carl at close to seven feet. But he was so thin Carl knew he could bend him into a pretzel if it came to that. But Henry was an imposing figure, not for his size, but for his demeanor and reputation.

His voice was very low and he talked slow, with very poor grammar. Despite all that, and the low volume, it was still easy to understand his words.

“Carl. You know better than to come to my house. Get the **** in here!” He opened the door wider and Carl stepped inside.

Henry closed the door and pulled out a 9 mm semi-automatic hand gun with a silencer attached. “I’ll give you to the count of three to tell me why I don’t kill you right now. I’m gonna have to move to a new apartment somewhere and that alone is going to cost you.”

“Four thousand dollars a good enough reason?”

“And what do you want for that? It’s small change.”

“I want some guns and some rounds to go with them. That’s all you sell anyway.” Said Carl.

“I asked you what you want. You know I sell guns. Tell me what the **** you want or get the **** out.”

“Three Glock 19s, three mags each and five hundred rounds.”

“That four thousand will get you one Glock 19, three magazines and three hundred rounds. Take it or leave it.” Said Henry. His tone and demeanor was very threatening.

“I’ll leave it. I came to you because you were supposed to be a sure thing.”

“I am. You know I’ve got anything you need. But I don’t do business at home, never. So leave the money and go.” He said, stepping forward threatening with the pistol.

“So, you taking my money and leaving me with nothing?”

“You said you were going to leave it, so leave it! Now! I ain’t got time for no shit!”

Carl seemed very calm for someone who had a gun pointed at his chest. He stepped forward and held the small bag out to Henry. When Henry took hold of the bag Carl acted quickly. His left hand shot out and grabbed the long silencer tube at the end of Henry’s gun. His motion and grip took the weapon’s aim off of Carl. The weapon discharged, striking the center of a large screen, HD television.

At nearly the same time, Carl's right fist came up and struck Henry’s throat. After that strike, the inside of Carl’s right boot almost immediately struck the inside of Henry’s right leg at the knee with a loud cracking sound. Carl thought for a moment that the sound of the breaking knee was louder than the gunshot.

Henry fell to the ground unable to breathe and grasping his knee. Carl now had the gun in his own hand. He reversed the gun and put two shots into Henry’s head. He immediately regretted the action. They were on the third floor and he was not sure what type of bullets were in the gun. If they penetrated the head then they might go on through to the apartment below. He had no idea how much time he had in here.

Henry started searching the apartment. He knew all about secret compartments. Insurgents knew how to make secret compartments very well. He had done more than his fair share of searching and knew all the right places to look. He went to the bedroom. “Always start in the bedroom!” he said aloud.

Inside the box spring below a mattress was a stupid place to hide anything, or so Carl thought. But it was one of the first places people hide things. He lifted the mattress and pushed it aside. Sure enough, in the center of the box spring was a wooden panel. He pulled that aside and found the compartment holding Henry’s personal store of weapons and ammunition....and a great deal of cash. Henry probably had an arsenal somewhere else, but this would certainly do for Carl’s purposes.

Corporal Craig Rogers and detective Johnson sat in an unmarked car across the street from Carl Richardson’s apartment building. Another unmarked unit with two detectives waited on the other side of the building and there were others in the laundry rooms in the first floor of the apartments on either side. The apartments were all connected on the first floor by hallways that led to the laundry rooms.

The crime lab unit had discovered a print on the safe that was missed by Carl when he tried to wipe it down. There were hits on the prints from the desk as well as the print on the safe. Both belonged to Carl Richardson. The floor of the garage had not been terribly clean so Carl’s boot prints were easy to find. Those prints were very distinctive and easy to discern from the others. The evidence was very conclusive. Carl Richardson was definitely the burglar.

Corporal Rogers had a color print-out of Carl’s MVA photograph, as did all of the detectives on the case. He would normally have not been here today but Sgt. Brice Jennings was on vacation and not scheduled to be back until Monday the 8th. So Craig Rogers was the acting Sergeant for this shift. He looked at the photograph again. Even in this photograph there was something vaguely sinister about the man.

There was very little background information on Carl Richardson. He had served in the Middle East in the army and was given an honorable medical discharge. He has never been arrested in the short time he has returned to civilian life and no record was available concerning Carl’s military service. It would take time to get that information; time Rogers hoped would not be needed if they could pick him up today.

And then, there he was. He spotted the suspect walking along the sidewalk towards the apartment. The goal was to catch him before he entered. He radioed the suspect’s location and direction and got out of the car with the other detective.

The two of them approached Carl from the other side of the street. The men on the other side of the building would be approaching on foot through the entrance on that side and come through the first floor to this side. The men in the laundry rooms on both sides would exit their respective buildings and approach from both directions on the sidewalk. It was the perfect set-up as long as there was no gunfire but it was also the perfect formula for disaster due to crossfire.

Carl heard the car door close and glanced over at the men crossing the street. He looked up the sidewalk and saw someone exit the apartment next to his own and turn to walk in Carl’s direction. The situation stank bad to Carl. It was more than just the way these guys were dressed. Carl had begun to be paranoid and this just looked bad to him. Someone had ratted him out, though he could not think who it might be. He had no partners, no one who knew what had gone down that was not dead. But it was the person behind him that convinced him he was made.

Carl turned and started walking directly towards the two men crossing the street. He wore a backpack that he found in Henry’s apartment. It was full of cash, guns, and ammunition. It was pretty heavy actually. But he still had that 9mm handgun in his jacket pocket. As he came closer to them they stopped in the street to face him.

“Carl Richardson, stop where you are, you are under arrest.” Said detective Johnson, the younger of the two police officers in plain-clothes. He held up a badge. “Take your hands out of your pockets, slowly.”

Carl had stopped when directed to do so. He raised the gun, still in his pocket, and fired twice, almost point-blank at the other man. The bullets struck the officer in the chest and he fell back a few steps. Carl raised the gun higher, not yet pulling the gun out of the pocket, turned a little in place, and fired at the man with the badge. The bullet struck the officer in the face, right next to his nose. There was a splash of blood, bone, and gore behind him where the back of his skull blew out.

The dead police officer was still falling to the ground as Carl pulled the gun out of his pocket and started firing at the other officer still on his feet. Carl also started running past them, shooting as he went. Bullets came back at him from the other two officers on the sidewalk. He made it to their unmarked car and saw that the keys were in the ignition. The engine was still running. And there was an intense pain in his right side.

Carl jumped in behind the wheel and the passenger side window cracked in three places around three bullet holes. Carl put the car in gear and sped off down the street. He had slipped off the backpack as he got in and it was on the passenger seat beside him. The shots stopped as he continued away from the scene.

Corporal Rogers was finding it difficult to breathe. He had been struck in the chest twice, which had knocked the air out of him. The protective vest he wore had saved his life. But other bullets had struck him in the left leg and right shoulder. Breathing was all he could concentrate on at the moment. But he looked over at detective Johnson. He was on his back on the asphalt, not moving. He saw the blood beneath Johnson’s head on the street, and then the hole in his face.

He remembered hearing the words “Shots fired!” From somewhere, and also the words “Officer Down! Officer Down!” He would later hear the words played back to him from dispatch and would recognize them as his own. He was also the one to first press the emergency button on his radio, something he would also never be able to remember doing.

Rogers sat up and looked at his hand holding his service weapon. The hand was numb though he still had use of it despite that shoulder being badly injured. He did not remember pulling it out of his holster or firing the weapon. Two other officers at the scene would later testify that it was his weapon that fired the bullet that struck Carl Richardson in the side.

Carl pressed his left hand to his side. The pain was agonizing and he found it difficult to breathe. He did not think he was hit in the lungs but just the movement of his chest caused another wave of pain. He had been wounded several times before and had survived each time. He was no stranger to pain. He looked at his hand to try to determine the amount of blood loss; that was his main concern at the moment. Well, that and what inside him might have been hit.

He was driving with his right hand on the wheel and then gripped it with both hands as he made a sharp left. Because of the time of the day, traffic was relatively light. But he had to hit 83 if he had any chance at all of getting out of this mess. Elm Park was his best chance of eluding his pursuers. And just because there was no one behind him at this very moment, did not mean someone would not be there soon.

He knew that all those cops must have used more than one car. As soon as that thought came to him he heard sirens behind him. Carl looked at the controls for the emergency equipment in this car and flipped them all on. Lights on the grill lit up and began flashing as well as lights in the back of the car. The siren must be in the grill as well because it blared out at him; but it was not as loud as he thought it would be.

He turned right onto E. Lombard Street heading in the direction of the Inner Harbor and saw the road ahead was clear. The car he was driving was a Ford Crown Victoria. He read somewhere that Ford was no longer going to be making this model, even for law enforcement. For some reason, for just a few moments, his mind wandered to what kind of cars cops should be driving.

But he came back to the moment as a red Toyota Camry passed through a stop sign without stopping on his left. He swerved to avoid the collision and side-swiped a parked car on the right. The screech of metal was loud, but very brief. He glanced to his right and noticed that his mirror was gone. “Can’t you hear the god-damned siren and see the lights, MOTHER ****ER!!!” He yelled in frustration at the other driver. There was no chance that other driver could hear his complaint.

Carl slowed down only a little as he came to President Street and made a quick right. The sound of his tires sliding on the asphalt made his heart race even more. He was in a real-life car chase with the cops! He had killed a cop, maybe two, he was wounded, he stole a cop car and already damaged another. He had a bag full of guns, ammunition, and cash. This was better than Afghanistan!

He saw 83 up ahead and took the ramp. He wondered where the helicopter was and suddenly he could just barely hear it above him, following him, over the sound of the siren. It had to be close. He also guessed that there was some tracking device in the car. So as long as he was driving this cop car they would always find him. Carl knew just where to go, but time was running out.

He pulled out his cell phone. “Paully!” He said, speaking loud over the noise of the siren. He could barely hear his friend. “I need help, ASAP! Open the man-hole cover under the Clipper Mill and Falls Road underpass. Get it done now and get away quick. I got heat on my trail!” He barely heard his friend acknowledge him and hung up. His side was burning and the pain was coming on hard.

Paul Quiggley hung up the phone and cursed loudly. He ran out of his house and to his car. It was an old, gold-colored Dodge Charger. He opened the trunk and grabbed a flashlight. He put that in his front pocket. He then pulled out his crowbar. He thought about grabbing the colt 45 revolver he kept under the tire but decided against it. Besides, he only had one arm and he needed it to carry the crowbar. And he knew he could not run with that big a gun in his dip or a pocket of his jeans. It was going to be bad enough with the big crowbar in his hand and the flashlight in his pocket.

He ran down W 33rd street towards Falls Road. He was not sure how far off Carl was but then he heard the sirens. As he passed Elm street he thought he heard the sound of a helicopter and then saw it flying up above. He worried that he might not make it in time. He turned left onto Falls Cliff Road and sprinted around the corner of the Model Railroad building. He passed the Die Cast Press and cut through the wood-line to Falls Road.

Turning right onto Falls Road, Paul continued to sprint towards the underpass at Clipper Mill Rd. He was running out of steam quickly. The sirens seemed to be moving away but he knew they would be coming back up Falls Road any second now. He hoped Carl would go all the way to W. 36th Street and approach Clipper Mill Rd. from that direction. That would definitely give Paul the time he needed to pry up the drain cover, even with one arm.

He reached the underpass and came to a stop, panting and out of breath. He put the bar into a gap and worked on prying up the heavy metal cover. It would be hell to do with two good arms, and Paul only had his right. He strained and grunted with the effort and the heavy metal cover came loose. Another thirty seconds and it was starting to rise.

Carl had not taken W. 36th Street. He had taken the shortest route he knew. He turned into an alley at the 3400 block of Hickory Avenue and turned right. He turned onto Roland Avenue and followed that around to Falls Road. He turned off the lights and siren as he approached the under pass at Clipper Mill Road.

When he turned right onto Clipper Mill Road he saw Paully. His friend had come through for him. He was still struggling with the cover though. But he had pulled it loose. Unfortunately for Paully he was still there. He had not been fast enough and there would not be enough time to get away unseen. Paully would have to come with him.

The man-hole cover was in the on-coming lane. Fortunately there was no traffic at all at the moment so Carl stopped the car in the middle of the road. He turned the car in the narrow underpass so that no cars could get by either way without striking the police car. He got out of the car and pulled the bag out behind him. He did not realize how much walking or running was going to hurt.

He put the bag down next to Paully.

“You’ve been shot!” Said Paul. He had the bar under the cover and was trying to get it to move aside.

“No shit!” Said Carl as he sat down. He used his left foot to push the cover. It came completely out of the hole and moved to one side with his effort. There was nothing but darkness below.

Marked police vehicles had already turned onto Falls Road and were turning onto Clipper Mill Road when Carl grabbed the backpack and flashlight offered by Paul. “You gotta come with me Paully. There’s no other choice.”

“I’m right behind you pal!” Said Paul.

Carl began using the rungs on the side of the hole to make his way down.

Arnold Cohen had been a medic in the 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division. He had worked on Carl Richardson before, when he had taken some shrapnel in his left leg. He still remembered clamping down Carl’s femoral artery and seriously wondering if he would be able to save the leg. He thought it strange that after so many injuries it was a shot to his shoulder that took him out of the action.

When Carl showed up at his front door Arnold told him to shut up and sit down. The man was pasty white from shock. And when he looked at the wound he knew Carl would survive yet again.

“Through and through.” Said Arnold. “It entered the front here and exited the back. You’re suffering from shock, not blood loss. It doesn’t look too bad. A couple of weeks bed rest, a month or so of nothing but very light activity, and you’ll be right as rain. Let me get this cleaned up, sew up the holes, and get you out of my house. Assuming your kidney was not nicked you should survive with nothing more than a couple of scars. You’re damn lucky, again!”

“Thanks Arnie.” Said Carl, gritting his teeth. “You got anything for the pain?”

Arnold retrieved his medical supplies, some hot water in a tub, a few clean towels, and two partial bottles of amoxicillin without the labels. “I’ve got some ibuprofen, that’s about it. Now shut up. Don’t tell me how you got shot. Don’t say shit!”

Thirty minutes later Arnold stood up to look at his work. It had not been his best stitching job. Since he didn’t think Carl was likely to spend the next two weeks in bed he had done more than necessary. The stitches would not come out, but the scars would not be pretty. The bandages were smeared with a generic topical antiseptic/analgesic and Arnold had used more tape than usual to keep them in place.

“You’re going to need those stitches removed eventually. I couldn’t afford the good thread.” Said Arnold as he emptied one of the bottles of antibiotics into the other. He carefully wiped the empty bottle and its cap down, inside and out. Then, with his latex gloves still on, he poured all of the medicine into the cleaned bottle, capping it closed.

“Some of that is expired. Take two now and one every eight hours. It might help prevent infection, it might do nothing for you.”

Carl looked better but his color was still a little off. “You have a place to stay? ‘Cause you can’t stay here.”

“Like you said, I’ll survive. Thanks Arnie.” Carl sat up slowly and got to his feet. His shirt was a mess, bloody and cut up the side to his armpit. He was going to have to get new clothes and a ride. He knew he had to get out of the city. If he could somehow get to California, he knew a girl who would take him in.

Arnold picked up the backpack and helped Carl put it over his left shoulder. “I’ve got a lot to do here, cleaning up this mess.”

“I’ve got a lot of cash in this bag, Arnie. I could pay you. You probably just saved my life. Let me give you something.”

“You could stop calling me Arnie. My friends call me Arnold or Bob. My middle name is Robert. I don’t know where that money came from and I don’t want to know, so keep it.”

“Thanks Arnie. I’ll be seeing you around.” Said Carl as he went out the door.

“No, don’t come around here Carl. Find someone else to put you back together next time. That’s what you can do to pay me back.” And Arnold Robert Cohen closed the door on one of his oldest friends, hopefully for the last time.

Carl Richardson stood at the pump filling his truck with diesel fuel. Well, it was not exactly his personal truck. He had given $20,000.00 for the privilege of driving it to California. He swore to the owner, an acquaintance of his he met at a truck-pull in June, that he would pay someone to drive it back. He would call the man as soon as he got to California. But they both knew the owner would report it stolen as soon as he received that call. It was just easier that way.

The truck was a Dodge Ram 3500 with the optional turbo engine and the complete six wheel power-wagon package. But what got Carl’s attention was the extended, reinforced suspension and oversized wheels. He had seen this thing do some crazy stunts at the truck-pull. It was not until he had passed the Maryland Line and passed into West Virginia that he realized the truck was not street-legal. He could be pulled over at any time by any state trooper or copper that spotted him on the highway. He felt blessed that he had not been pulled over yet. And the damn tires were loud as hell, especially going 70 miles an hour.

But the motorcycle on its side in the bed of the truck was definitely Carl’s, hands down paid for out-right, and in the worst way possible. He purchased it with the life of its previous owner when Carl was passing through Des Moines, Iowa. The previous owner was wrapped in another tarp in the back as well. Carl knew he would have to dump the body in a few hours.

After filling the reserve tank he went inside to pay the bill. He looked around while waiting in line and saw his Maryland MVA photograph on the wall as part of a Wanted poster. He looked away. He was sure he did not react suspiciously, but he was paranoid. He added a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap to his purchase.

Carl did notice someone looking at him in the other line. He glanced over at the man and he looked very nervous. Carl ignored him and proceeded calmly. He bought the gas, the hat, and the glasses and proceeded to leave the small store. While he was climbing into his truck he glanced back and saw that the same man was looking at him and talking on his cell phone in the store's open door. He was holding what looked like the wanted poster was in his other hand.

Carl started off again in the truck, west-bound and at high speed. He knew that if he could get to Denver, he could hide again. He would go to ground until he could find a way to make it to Los Angeles. The trouble was he didn’t know anyone in Colorado. He had been surviving off the assistance of friends and acquaintances, well, except the owner of the bike. He had even met Henry at a card game once. If you had to kill someone, better the scumbag you know than a total stranger. Carl was not a monster, just a creature of necessity.

By the time he reached the Colorado state line he could see lights behind him and knew there would be at least one helicopter on his tail. He hated helicopters. It was hard to get away with one of them tracking your every move.

He pulled up the heavy blanket lying beside him on the seat. As he drove he put on the two ballistic vests, the first one forward and the second backwards. Both had titanium plates in the center. He knew that cops carried ammunition designed to pack a punch, not penetrate armor. But this meant his head and extremities were still vulnerable.

Still on the seat, previously under the vests, were some mighty fine examples of urban firepower. A Colt AR 15, stripped down with a short tactical barrel was his weapon of choice. It had been modified for full automatic and it was loaded with a 30 round clip. Another was taped to the first clip with duct tape. He could turn it around and re-load for a total of 60 rounds of 5.56 ball ammunition. There were two other clips, similarly fashioned together nearby, for use if he survived that long.

There was also an Uzi. He never counted the number of rounds in the seven clips he had for it. Carl never fired an Uzi before but it certainly looked deadly. He had already checked the bolt’s action and the safety. It looked pretty straight forward.

There were also eight different handguns. Each of them were loaded but only some of them had extra magazines. Two of them, high caliber revolvers, would be used first. He hated revolvers since they took too long to reload without extensive practice. He wondered what it would be like to throw a gun at the cops after he emptied it.

Getting to Denver had been tough. He crashed through a roadblock and realized his choice of trucks was more than merely ironic. This was indeed a monster. It barreled through the chokepoint of state police cruisers with only some heavy jarring, crumpling one of them under its huge tires. But his windshield was cracked with two bullet holes. The bastards had shot at him. He never had an opportunity to return fire, but he was ready for it now. Next chance he got he was going to open up on them with some serious whoop ass!

The opportunity came sooner than he expected. He entered Denver on Interstate 76 and looked for someplace to turn off. Cement barriers had been placed at several exits and he wondered why they simply did not block off the streets with the barriers and box him in.

As he drove down the road at a high rate of speed it looked like the road was intentionally cleared for him. His instincts rose and he rolled down the window. He lifted the AR 15, put the tip of the barrel on the door and flipped off the safety.

He saw the state trooper up ahead on the side of the road. This was no road block. They were going to deploy something to puncture his tires or stop the engine. He didn’t care what they were planning. It had to be bad. He lifted the barrel and rested it on a gap in the side mirror, took an approximate aim and opened fired on full automatic. Everything was so damned awkward firing with only his left hand gripping the riffle.

He thought he might have hit the guy but was not sure; the trooper fell back to cover. He knew the odds of him hitting anything left handed while driving 60 miles an hour was slim to none. He passed the trooper without him deploying whatever device he was planning on using. Carl continued on through and noticed the side lanes of traffic were clogged with vehicles but the main road he was on was void of all vehicles. He could get to a sidewalk but decided against it, his truck was just too wide.

He came to another roadblock. The sides of the road were lined with the cement barriers and so was the road ahead. The barriers ahead also had patrol cars lined up against them on the other side. He knew this was coming but just didn’t know what to do about it. But then he remembered how this truck fared at the truck pull and the last roadblock. He quickly came up with a plan. It wasn’t a good one, but it was a plan. And the more he thought about it the more he realized that not only would it work, but it would make the cops look like complete idiots. “Time to crush some cars!” He yelled aloud.

***

Special Agent Stanley Parker from the local FBI office lifted his binoculars and examined the situation from the safe distance of the third floor of an office building. Stanley may currently live in Denver, but he was born and raised in Alabama. He looked at the approaching truck for the first time and knew exactly what was going to happen. “Don’t they have monster truck rallies here in Colorado?” He said aloud.

One of the civilians nearby answered the rhetorical question. “Hell yes we do!”

Agent Parker watched and cursed softly as the truck came to a screeching halt right at the barrier to its front. It then muscled over the barrier and continued on top of the vehicles on the other side. He grabbed his jacket and ran for the stairs. The killer was going to get away again!

***

Carl got to the other side and the truck settled down on the asphalt. He heard several more shots being fired. Glass covered him and the inside of the truck. He picked up the Uzi with his right hand and, holding the wheel with his left, he settled the very short barrel over the open window and held the trigger down. The ejection port was on the right side of the weapon and hot shell casings pelted the underside of his left arm.

Cursing, he moved the weapon further out the window and continued firing, not caring where the bullets went. When the magazine was empty he worked on removing the magazine and cursed again when the bolt slammed in the closed position. But he was pressing the pedal down hard to the floor.

Bullets continued to slam into the side of the truck. He reached up and pressed the turbo button and felt more power beneath him. The truck accelerated even more.

Screaming with victory as the adrenaline filled him he decided he was not going to give up this truck. He would just keep on going and see what happened.

David wasn’t a fan of Summer School. At 15 years old he’ll be starting his tenth grade year this coming September. His freshman year had been total hell where his classes were concerned. Having a full GT course load meant there was precious little time for anything else. Still, he’d somehow found time for piano lessons and three nights a week learning martial arts at his dad’s studio.

He’d wanted to play soccer or baseball, or even join the Robotics Club. But the amount of homework and studying he needed to keep his grades up were simply out of control. So, his parents had enrolled him in a summer school program for original GT credit. It sucked having to take a summer class, but it meant next school year he could cut one challenging class out to ease up on the homework and take an elective instead. And it hopefully meant he could join the Robotics club.

This summer class was a new program offered in his school system, and it cost his parents a whole lot of money. And unfortunately for him the last week of summer school coincided with something very, very important to him.

He and his father, Brice Jennings, were on their way home from a family reunion in Wyoming. David thought the blistering month of August was a horrible month to have such a celebration. The last day of summer school ended today, Friday August 5th and Monday through Thursday were supposed to be taken up with studying for the final, which was scheduled for today. But somehow he and his parents had convinced the teacher to allow him to take the test when he got back on Monday.

But driving from Casper Wyoming to Denver Colorado had been a very trying time for him. He battled nausea as he read the textbook, took notes, read his other reading assignments, took more notes, took the pre-tests in the back, answered the study questions, and did research on the paper he had to turn in.

It was the research paper that was causing him the most problems. He ‘d agreed to do this extra assignment in order to be allowed to take the test on Monday. It seemed as if Verizon had something against him personally. Driving down the interstate should’ve been no problem for a carrier that claimed the largest 3G network in the nation. But searches often timed out or suddenly the internet was unavailable.

Their flight was scheduled for that evening so he hoped to be able to do the rest of the research and finish the paper tomorrow on Saturday.

He normally excelled in most of his classes, until he reached High School. Now he was having the worst time just keeping up. He’d gotten his first B he could ever remember receiving, though it was only on an interim report. And it had been in Biology.

But that was last year. He almost dreaded what new tortures would await him during his sophomore year. He closed his notebook computer just as the nausea was peaking. He looked out at the road ahead. They were entering a small town, apparently heading west. And he knew from the map that Denver was east of Maybel. He also knew this small town was far more ‘out of’ the way’ than ‘on the way’ to Denver. But he did not remember turning off the interstate.

They had a flight to catch that did not leave until 9:00 pm that night and his father wanted to stop by an aunt’s house in Maybel before they left. His aunt Jude had not been able to make the reunion, despite her proximity to the event, due to a recent broken hip. It was just approaching 10:00 am by the time they reached her small house.

His Great Aunt lived on the southern edge of the town, right next to just about nothing. The town’s library and post office could be seen across the narrow street but set back a bit from the road. And between them, in the distance, there was what looked to be a volunteer ambulance service. David had heard of Volunteer Fire Departments, but not an ambulance service. The street itself dead ended in the distance with a large chain-link fence and a gate with a large red and white sign. It was too far away for David to make out.

He was oh so glad to be out of the damn car. They’d left Casper very early that morning when it was still dark, and had only stopped once along the way. They had been in the car for almost five hours. David had to use the bathroom pretty badly, and his queasy stomach did not let up much after he got out of the car.

The house was all on one floor with a wide, well-kept yard and a low flowerbed to the left of the front porch. He only recognized the daffodils, the rest he had seen many times but since they did not hold his interest, he did not know much about them. There was no garage, but there was a large and probably old Lincoln Town Car in the driveway.

Planted firmly in the front lawn of this obviously small residential, single-story house, was a large sign that read: “Brian’s ATV Rentals. Guided tours available.” A phone number was listed as well.

His dad knocked on the door and he got a “come in, door’s open!” reply from inside. The voice was of an old woman, used to smoking a lot. The door was thick and oak, probably, and had one of those round plates of glass in the center that was thick with some pattern so that you could not really see through it. Though he supposed you could at least tell if someone were standing in front of the door.

The small foyer was a bit interesting to David. There was a low chest to the right and high hooks above it for coats. There was a standing rack in the corner that looked like it should also be used for coats, but there were only hats on the short hooks at the top. To the left was a narrow door, probably a closet or something. The floor was polished wood planks. He supposed ‘Hardwood’ was what they were called, though he had seen very few in his life that were not fake. He was not sure he would be able to tell the difference, but looking at this floor it was plainly obvious it was real wood. There was also a small rug in the foyer, green with white trim and a black cat in the center wearing a hat. The cat had a piece of straw sticking out of the corner of its smiling mouth and gave the whole, small room a very welcoming feel.

But the strong odor of gingerbread or, perhaps spice-cake was what drew David’s attention the most. He had a sudden feeling that he was young Hansel, walking into the Gingerbread house and about to be baked into a pie or something. In any case his nausea seemed to fade almost instantly, though the odd feeling of walking into a witch’s house remained, if only tentatively.

Just beyond the foyer was the living room, or perhaps it was the family room. The house was far too small to have two such rooms so it must serve double-duty, at least in David’s humble opinion. There were two small sofas, two large cushioned seats, a low coffee table, and a fireplace. There were also several large and small plants in pots on low tables and on the floor.

Someone who was obviously his great aunt Jude was sitting in a wheel chair. She was in the opening that led to the kitchen. Behind her was a man pushing the wheelchair. He looked to be anywhere between 18 and 20 years old with dark blond hair, almost brown, and a face pocked with acne scars.

They moved into the large room as David’s father moved closer to give her a hug and say hello to the strange man.

David’s first impression of great aunt Jude was of an old, frail woman. His own grandmother was in her early 60s and she walked around just fine without the need of a wheelchair, though she did not have a broken hip. His mother’s only aunt had died the year before of Cancer, and David had known her very well. Now here was another old woman, probably older than his great aunt Karen, but also someone that David knew only had a few more years to live.

Somehow, he was not too sure how well he wanted to get to know her. If she was real nice he would feel horrible when she died. He thought he must have cried for a week after great aunt Karen’s funeral, and he had felt just awful. It had been far worse than when their dog Skippy died when David was twelve.

“Aunt Jude, I want you to meet my son, David Alexander.” He looked back at David and motioned him forward. “Come on David. Come say hi to your Aunt Jude. She is your Nana’s older sister.”

David distinguished between his mother’s mother and his father’s mother with the expedient measure of calling his father’s mother ‘Nana’ and his mother’s mother ‘Grandma.’ He stepped closer and stood next to his father. “Hi, Aunt Jude.” He said with a friendly smile. He was not a particularly shy boy, but for some reason he felt a little uncomfortable meeting her. He knew that this would be the only time he ever met her since he never had before and they lived so far away.

“Oh, come here. I won’t bite.” She said as she held out her arms for a hug.

David went forward and took the embrace. He was surprised to feel how strong she was. She certainly looked frail enough, with papery skin so thin he thought he could see the bones on the back of her hands. She had what he had always called ‘age spots’ all over her hands, arms, and face. He remembered that his Aunt Karen had them too, and to a lesser extent so did his grandpa. He never met his mother’s father since he died long before David was ever born.

When she had finished hugging David, she held onto his arm at the side of the chair. “My, you’re big. I think you will be taller than your father.” Brice Jennings was 6-1 and close to two hundred and twenty pounds. He had broad shoulders and a slim waist. As a police officer he was used to exercising regularly. But what continually kept him in excellent shape was his martial arts studio. He co-owned the Dojo with a friend and fellow officer.

Brice looked at his son David for a moment. David was 5-10, not unusual for men in his family at that age. But Brice remembered that he stopped getting taller when he was sixteen or so. He had been an early bloomer, or so his own parents told him. He wondered if his great aunt’s prediction would prove to be true for David or not.

“David, this is Brian Sheppard.” She said, indicating the man standing behind her. “He is one of your many cousins and another one of my grand-nephews. He’s been taking good care of me.”

David waved to Brian. “Hi.” He said simply.

“Hey, why don’t I give you a tour of the place, huh? Let your dad get acquainted with Granny, oh, I mean Aunt Jude, again. I’m sure they have lots to talk about.”

“Go ahead David. Just don’t go too far. We need to go in a few hours.” Said Brice.

Brian turned and David followed him into the kitchen. “Ok, here is the kitchen, you saw the living room and foyer. There is a bathroom right off of the foyer to the left. I know it looks like a closet, but it really is a bathroom, trust me.” He pointed through another opening that led to a short hallway. “Through there is another bathroom, this one a full bath, and two bedrooms. The room on the left is Granny’s, that’s what we all call her you know, Granny, not Aunt Jude. And the one on the right is mine. I’m staying with her now.”

“I graduated high school last year and am trying to earn enough money to go to college. That is, unless my business works out.”

David saw two baking pans on a counter top, both covered with cauliflower blue towels. Now that he was closer, he could tell they were the source of the gingerbread smell. And since he was now standing next to the still-hot oven, he could tell they were freshly baked.

“So, you rent ATVs” Asked David. His gaze left the baked goods and moved to the hallway. He looked longingly at the bathroom door at the end. “Mind if I use that bathroom?” He added.

“Yes, and yes. Go ahead and use the bathroom.” Said Brian. David immediately started off down the short hallway.

Brian continued talking though, and raised his voice once David had closed the door. “I get to stay here for free and keep the place up for her, though she pays me sometimes as well. Hey, can’t say no to free room and board, huh?” In a lower volume he added an additional comment to himself. “Though no one told me the word ‘Bored’ would figure so highly in the arrangement."

His volume increased again though. “I already had two ATV’s that belong to my dad and Granny lent me the money to buy a couple of others. You would not believe how easy it is to start a business like this in Colorado. I even have a corporate sponsor, would you believe it? They footed the bill for a lot more and better All Terrain Vehicles. I've got fifteen of them now.”

“In fact, I have some customers coming here in about twenty minutes. Two groups totaling thirteen people. You can come for free if you like, that's if your dad says it's ok. And if someone drops out he can come too.”

David felt much relieved as he walked out of the bathroom. He had noticed that all of the towels had the same cauliflower blue pattern. “Can I see them?” He asked Brian.

“Sure, they’re out back. Let me show you.”

He then led David to the other side of the kitchen where there was a sliding-glass door. Beyond was a cement patio. One quarter of the small patio was taken up by a rusted grill. Some of its original black color was still there, but it had mostly flaked away. There was a hole in the side from the rust and David imagined it had not been used in a decade.

The yard itself was pretty large and had a short chain-link fence running the length and sides of it. There was a shed in one corner with tracks leading to a gate in the fence. At the back, just on the other side of the gate, were fifteen four-wheeled, All Terrain Vehicles. They were covered in heavy tarps at the moment though. David had never ridden one before though he’d seen them on TV.

Beyond the fence there was nothing. Well, there were fields with some trees and low hills, but no defined properties. Several trails led off in various directions, obviously formed from the tracks of the ATVs.

“When I’m not renting them I sometimes ride with one of my friends. Drake is scared as shit and won’t take jumps, steep hills, or even go very fast. But at least he rides with me occasionally. Go ask your dad if you can come. I’ve got helmets for everyone. I’m sure one of them will fit you. Though when I’m not giving a tour I don’t use one, and I’m still alive, right?”

Somewhat excited about the prospect of using an ATV, David returned quickly to the living room. He was about to say something aloud to get the information to his dad, but saw that he was talking rather seriously with his aunt. Instead, he cleared his throat rather audibly. His father broke off whatever he was saying and looked up with a questioning expression on his face.

“Hey dad, can I go with Brian and ride one of his ATVs? He says he has some customers coming soon and I can join them for free if I want.”

Brice looked at his aunt. “Is it safe?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never ridden one but Brian and his friends have always come home uninjured, for the most part…well, nothing serious anyway. They have helmets, though I’m not sure they use them.” She replied.

“Ok, sure David. Go ahead. But I think I’ll stay here and visit. Just use some common sense, don’t do anything stupid and risky. And wear a helmet. Oh, and remember that we have to leave here no later than 2:30. We have another five hour drive ahead of us. Keep an eye on the time.” He stood up and fished out his cell phone. “Here, take this. Our number here is listed as Aunt Jude and it’s the last number I called.”

“Thanks dad.” Said David. He took the cell phone and slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans. He then quickly turned around and went out the back door, which was now partially open. He closed it behind him and felt the heat of the day. He was sorry he had worn jeans since this was surely weather for shorts. But he moved at a jog to catch up with Brian half-way across the yard.

Brian had picked up a helmet from somewhere and handed it to David as he came up beside him. It looked like a motorcycle helmet with a break-away front. The whole front of it, along with the tinted visor, slid up and away when a tab at the chin was pulled. The word “Hawk” was printed on the back. It looked very sleek.

“It’s heavy and hot. It only looks cool. That’s why I don’t usually wear one.” He said. "Just try it on to see if it fits. We’re still waiting for actual customers.”

David noticed the microphone and speakers built into the helmet. ‘Cool’ He thought. My dad said I can ride as long as I wear a helmet."

Brian nodded and hoped that one of the people coming would cancel. He’d really like David’s father to come along. It was part of the reason he had offered David to come with them. Someone almost always cancels. He knew the man was a cop. As much as he personally despised cops, just as a matter of course, the two last-minute, paying additions might cause some problems. Immediately he regretted the offer. Now he would have to be responsible for the kid. And he was going for free. "You definitely need to wear that helmet kid."

“Ok, let’s get you acclimated to the bikes before the others get here. Let you get in some practice. This is the throttle. Push this button to start it, the key’s already in the ignition. Here’s the brake. It’s simple really. If you fall off or your hand leaves the throttle, the engine goes idle and the bike comes to a stop.”

David had ridden a Jet Ski for the first time three days ago. He had just been old enough to ride by himself. It had been a real blast flying across the water. And he remembered instructions just like these for the Jet Ski, except there had been a clip on his life vest that pulled a pin and cut the engine if he fell off. Even in idle the Jet Ski would keep going forward.

“You ever fall off?” He asked Brian.

“No. You think I’d tell you if I did? I’ve been riding these for years now. Go ahead. You take this one, it’s the oldest of the bunch. The others are not faster, but they’re less beat up. If you crash and burn or damage it, at least it will be the oldest one that gets toasted, not the newer ones.”

David got on and put on the helmet. It was a tight fit and it took him a minute to get the chin strap on. During that time he felt the heat and weight of the helmet. It was painted dark black and purple with white and silver trim. It soaked up the morning sun.

Brian came close and flicked a switch on the left side of the helmet. “Can you hear me?” Asked Brian. David saw that he was wearing his own helmet now.

He pressed the start button and the engine came to life. He looked up to see Brian nod to him. “Just tool around the yard here for a while. Get the feel of the ATV; how it steers, accelerates, and breaks. We’re waiting for the others to arrive. They could show up any minute.”