Disclaimers in part 1
______

"I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it."

~~ Seamus Heaney -- Opened Ground: Poems 1966-1996~~
______

MONDAY, APRIL 6, 2000
LONE GUNMEN HQ
LATE EVENING

FROHIKE:

Langly has become one with the machine.

"I'm sorry, Deborah, he gets this way."

She's been sitting in the kitchen, talking with Sari, Scully and me, while Langly chases Black Widow with the enthusiasm most small boys have for chasing frogs. Unfortunately, a Black Widow is a lot more deadly than most frogs.

Byers, having been released for large-type reading, has plunged in with equal enthusiasm, adjusting the font on his monitor. We keep reminding him to rest his eyes and take breaks, but he's not listening. I hope this doesn't set him back or damage his sight.

Deborah gives a quiet snort. "I'll just catch up on my journal reading. I'm only six months behind, and I promised myself I'd catch at least one month while I was here."

Her slight blush suggests she hasn't read even one publication. Well, this was supposed to be her vacation. The difference between us is that she thinks time with Langly's a vacation, while for me, vacation's time  away from him.

"Deborah's starting her trauma fellowship at GWU in June," I announce, as if I were a proud father. Well, she's Langly's girlfriend, and I consider him my boy, doesn't that give me some paterfamilias status?

"Congratulations. It's quite an honor to get such a fellowship," Scully says to her, and since Scully's in the know, I think she deeply appreciates it.

"That's wonderful, Deborah." Sari is genuinely pleased for her, but also concerned.

Sari understands what being around us is about; Deborah does not. Not yet, anyway. I share Sari's sentiments. Much as I'd like Deborah here to keep Langly happy and off my back, I still worry.

"How did your boss react to your information, Sari?" Scully turns to her.

Sari shakes her head. "About as well as could be expected, Dana. You said the lab has definitely determined Wildfire is neurotoxic, but have they figured out what it is?"

"They need to run PCR on it for confirmation," Scully says. "Have you guys contacted one of your lab friends about temporary storage, like you said you would?"

"Yeah." I hand her a 3 by 5 card with information for a contact tomorrow night. "Meet him here with it, according to these directions. We shouldn't be seen with him. If the CDC and the military get hold of this, they'll bury it forever. Probably us, too."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Scully says, and I feel a small glimmer of hope. "If you can prove the Black Widow connection and get this guy nailed, it's going to be a lot harder for them to fight back."

"Langly, watch it. You're pounding out a router," Byers warns him.

A favorite trick of hackers; not very subtle, but the damage is generally invisible until after it's been completed, unless the hunted is at least as clever as the hunter. This is not generally a problem; to borrow a phrase from Yogi Bear, we are smarter than the average bear. Unfortunately, so is Black Widow.

Langly groans, but he appreciates the finesse that Byers brings to the process, so he complies, trying to tone down his approach and switch gears.

"I'm gonna hijack this bastard's software," Langly mutters. "He's never gonna know what hit him. Damn, he's got one hell of a firewall in here. Taking down the Wall in Berlin was easier." He's working frantically. They say speed kills, but in trauma medicine and hacking, it's what saves your butt.

"This should just fall away here," Byers looks confused. "He's got something very intricate in here, a real spider web."

"Yeah, well, spider webs are just spider snot," Langly retorts, typing at breakneck speed.

"Stay on it," Byers urges, "I've got your back."

"Sari, I really think you should get out of Dodge for a while," Scully counsels her. "Is there anywhere you can go on short notice and not arouse too much suspicion?"

Sari pauses to think, then sighs. "I could head for Portland, but if Black Widow knows who and where I am, he's going to know about my place near Troutdale, too. I'm not quite sure where I'll go, to tell you the truth."

The salmon is nearly done and is accompanied by basmati rice and foot long string beans in a balsamic vinegar marinade. We're truly continental tonight, or at least eclectic.

Deborah inhales deeply and says, "Frohike, that smells wonderful."

There's a commotion in the office, and she excuses herself, heading for Langly. She stands behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder. He's barely aware of her right now, he's so intent on the chase. It sounds like they're getting close.

"Be careful, boys," I warn them.

"Oh man, I am so close I can taste his blood." Langly licks his lips. Byers is covering Ringo's ass, but looks much more uneasy than our gangly blonde brother in arms. Byers is the reason we don't fall off more cliffs. I hope Langly's paying attention. "Shit, he's getting close..."

"Stay with it, stay with it," Byers encourages him, "I'm on him."

"He's gonna nail us, man," Langly's breaking a sweat. "He's like way close."

"I'm on him," Byers answers, getting more nervous but remaining determined. "I think I can lose him, I'm routing us through the Canary Islands... Cairo..."

"We're almost there, dude," Langly says. His loop line shunt's getting a workout.

Sari and Scully enter the office, watching them silently.

"I'm in Singapore, he's right on our tail. Keep on him while I bounce us again," Byers says, "Bombay... damn, he's too close, hurry."

"Gotcha! Lord Manhammer strikes!" Langly shouts in triumph. Byers is hard at it. Ringo notices Deborah and high-fives her, then blinks at the quickly scrolling screen, "Wait a minute, Whitecorps? Oh shit, he's military."

At the mention of Whitecorps, Byers pales, and swallows hard.

"Bangladesh... I'm on it, I'm on it -- Langly, can you ID him? I can't hold him off any longer." He's panting now, near panic.

"We're screwed," I tell them. "Black ops'll be kicking in the door if he nails us." I'm with them now, looking at their screens. "Get out! Get out! He's on us, don't let him get our system ID!"

Langly's trying to bail. "Oh Jesus Christ. It's Monroe, the Air Force intelligence dude. Get us out, Byers! He's gonna nail us!"

Johnny's flying, and he's broken into a hard sweat as he tries to pull us out before Monroe has our ass. I grab for the main power cord.

"No," Byers shouts, just as our connection breaks, "damn, damn, damn, he got us!" He slams a fist into his keyboard, then leaps to his feet, yanking the zip disk from the drive, and hands it to me. He runs for the backup cases we keep for just this kind of emergency.

The rest of us freeze for an instant, looking at each other.

"Oh shit," Sari whispers.

Black Widow, also known as Major Jack Monroe, USAF, is one ugly bastard. He's been doing hacker counter-intel for the NSA for most of the last ten years, and he's imprisoned or assassinated a hell of a lot of people we know during that time. He may be in Whitestone, New Mexico, but his flunkies will be at our door in minutes, guns blazing. Langly's already moving.

"Deborah, please tell me you brought medical supplies," I say as I put dinner in foil and travel containers as fast as I can, and move it into a soft-sided heater/cooler. Every second counts now.

She looks puzzled. "Why? I had one suture tray in my car, but I used it on Nicole's toy."

Scully rolls her eyes, then gives her a deadly serious look. "You keep hanging around with these guys, start carrying a portable triage kit."

"Bail now, Scully, while you can." I slap the zip disk Langly's saved the hack on into her hand. "Don't let this out of your sight until you hand it to Sari on Thursday."

She nods, stuffs it into her purse, and runs for the door, phone already in hand. With that disk, she may be able to get Monroe tangled in an inter-agency custody squabble that could stall him until we're safe.

"I'll let Skinner know what you found about Black Widow's identity," she says, halfway out the door. I nod, still moving. There's a lot to do, and no time to do it.

"Deb, babe, grab your stuff," Langly's pulling her towards the bedroom.

"Say what?"

Panic ensues. "We're bugging out, Deborah," I tell her. "Byers, hit the self-destruct code. Be ready in five!"

I just hope we're not using too much time by taking five minutes. Now comes the frantic process of grabbing backups, packs of crucial paper files including the copies of Nicole's files Scully left us, pulling irreplaceable -- and incriminating -- materials from the safe, clearing the place for when they kick in the doors. We've never drilled on this, but we should have. The whole thing looks like a Keystone Kops flick. It's not pretty, but we do what's needed. Four minutes and fifty seconds later, portable systems and backups are packed, clothes and personal items stowed away in the van. Everyone hauled, even Sari with her cast. She's functioning well one-armed, and keeps her head admirably.

"We gotta get Deb's car outta here," Langly points out.

"She can park it in a guest space under my building. It's Monday night, and I don't think my neighbors are doing any serious entertaining." Sari needs to get hers out of here as well.

"Sari, we can't go back to your building. It might be dangerous," Byers points out, his voice up in tenor with anxiety.

"I'm not leaving without the Cardinal and the lizards," she says, and Byers shuts up. How could he imagine leaving without my kitty-boo? "And I need clothes and a few essentials. I'll be fast."

"Oh good, we'll have the cat." Deborah seems a bit confused by the activity, and though she's very helpful, I still don't think the implications of what we're doing have sunk in.

"Uh, Frohike? Like, where we gonna go?" Langly asks. Oh Christ, I knew I'd forgotten something, but I can be fast on my feet, too.

"Skinner has a beach house he almost never uses up on the Bay. If someone has a better idea, I'm listening."

"A beach house? Cool." Poor Deborah; I wonder how long it will take for her to get it, and when she does, if she'll stick around. In the meantime, though, we hit the road.

Having deposited Sari and Deborah's cars and gotten Sari's necessities, we head out in the overcrowded, wheezing van. Langly's driving, I'm navigating, and Byers and the two women are crammed into the rear seat. The Cardinal is in his crate near my feet, yowling disconsolately.

I reach down to open the cage, but Sari stops me. "No, he has to stay in there."

"But he's unhappy!"

"Then he's unhappy. He's not riding out in the car, he's safer in the carrier. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am." She's right. "Don't worry, kitty-boo, Unca Mel has yummy salmon for oo. "

"Mel, you've got to stop feeding him," Sari protests.

"But he's hungry." Whenever I see him, he's howling like he's deep in the throes of starvation.

"Look at him, he's 22 pounds. I'd like him to have ground clearance, not to mention liver and kidney function."

"He's gorgeous. One of these days I'm gonna get a cat," Deborah says, "when I'm not working so much." Yeah, that'll be a cold day in hell, Dr. SaintJohn.

"What about dogs? Dogs are cool," Langly says. I know he wants one. He's only been going on about it for, oh, the past eleven years.

"Dogs are cool, too," Deborah agrees.

"They get fur in the equipment," I growl, "and right now, we have to think about finding a new place. We can't stay there any more. They'll nail our asses."

"What? Give up the luxury and comfort we're so accustomed to?" Byers teases, but he turns serious. "You're right. We can't go back there except to move our stuff, and maybe not even that. Who knows if they'll be waiting to ambush us. The whole planet will know where we were based."

"Jesus, I hate moving," Langly groans.

"I moved three times in two years, believe me, I sympathize," Sari offers. "When was the last time you had to move?"

"Uh... we've been where we are since 1989," I announce.

"Yep. The Lone Gunman Publishing Group, established 1989. For the reader who wants to stay informed and alive," Langly says, maneuvering the squeaky old beast.

We're on the back country roads to the shore, instead of taking the highways. I feel safer going this route, but I don't think my kidneys agree. I wish we had the Chrysler, its suspension is more or less intact. Then again, we can fit a lot more stuff in the van.

"Guys, I have to be back in DC Thursday for the press conference." Sari reminds us why we're on this little field trip in the first place. "I need to call Devi and let her know I'm okay, and somebody's got to water the plants."

"Just don't let her go to your place, or tell her where you are. It's safer that way," Byers says gently, as she leans her head against his shoulder. He's really depressed.

"Man, I'm like so sorry," Langly begins, "but if we didn't get that close, I wasn't gonna nail him. I figured on us being faster than him, but man, that military big iron... guess I fucked up."

"You did not fuck up, Ringo," Deborah's voice is stern, almost motherly. "If nobody's bleeding, vomiting or in cardiac arrest, you did not fuck up." Well, we know what her standards are. God, I hope it doesn't come to the bleeding-vomiting-cardiac arrest stage. She doesn't understand just how fast it could happen.

"Langly, I did my best to cover you," Byers says, "he just had faster hardware. I'm sorry I wasn't faster. It's really my fault we got nailed."

"Shut up Byers. Deborah's right," I concur, "shit happens."

Langly says, "yeah, well, according to the map, we should be just about there... oh man, put me in hiding forever!"

We pull up to Skinner's beach house. Granted, it's a cottage, but compared to our bunker, it's straight out of Architectural Digest; an old fieldstone place, with mullioned windows. There's a lot of brush and foliage. It's a mixed blessing: it'll conceal us, but it'll also conceal anyone trying to get close to the place. I wonder if he has perimeter alarms?

You can hear the ocean as the engine shuts down. There's something calming about it, and it eases over us quickly.

"Don't get too comfortable, people. We've got a lot of work to do," I snap.

"You're such a putz, Frohike," Langly grumbles.

Well, somebody has to be. All appearances to the contrary, this is most assuredly not a vacation.

SKINNER'S BEACH HOUSE
MARYLAND COAST
10:30 PM

The cottage is modestly sized but elegantly appointed, as one would expect from Walter Skinner, who appreciates the finer things in life. The brusque Assistant Director loves literature, antiques, good whiskey, and fine wine. Rumor has it he keeps a small wine cellar here. We'll have to check it out. There are only two bedrooms, one with a king-sized bed, presumably the Big Man's, and one with two doubles.

Deborah and Langly race toward the room with the king bed in it. "Dibs on this room!" Langly shouts, like he's a kid on vacation, not an outlaw hacker hiding from a deadly enemy.

"Fine." I don't really care.

If Sari and Byers are comfortable with the arrangement, they can have the double bedroom. I don't mind sleeping on the sofa. It seems quite comfortable, and it can't be as bad as the Red Mistress in the office.

"Just don't use up all the hot water." There's only one bathroom. The guys and I are accustomed to living that way, but we don't ordinarily have two female guests on a full-time basis. This'll be interesting.

"We can set up over here," Byers announces, setting cases and equipment on a long plank table and sideboard in the dining room. "There's a backup generator for power if we need it." He surveys the rest of the area. "We need to unpack and get started setting up. Where's Langly?"

"I'll take our bags into the other room, John," Sari says, "then I'll start unloading the van."

"Where do you think?" I snarl. Jesus. "Blondie, this ain't Club Med, get your ass out here!"

"In a minute!" Brat.

LANGLY:

"Wow, this is great!" Deb is lying on the bed, all stretched out. She looks delicious. "I think it was a little extreme, running off like that, but coming here, what a wonderful vacation."

Truth is, I'm scared outta my mind. Monroe nailed us bad, and we're screwed if anyone saw us come here. Frohike and me were watching and didn't see anyone tailing us, but that doesn't mean nobody was. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you. I'm hoping we're isolated enough here that we can lay low until Thursday. I toss my backpack on the chair with hers.

"Babe, are you okay?" she asks me.

No, I'm not okay, but I don't wanna get her more riled up than I need to. "I'm fine."

She sits up on the edge of the bed, and I sit down with her. She's not being playful now, but takes my hand and squeezes it. "We're in a lot of trouble, aren't we?"

"Yeah." No point in lying. I don't want her to freak, but I don't want to lie to her, either. "This is what I was talking about, babe. These guys will probably try to kill us. It's not a game."

She thinks about that, real quiet. She's probably thinking, this isn't worth it. No guy is, especially not me.

Then she says, "I love you, Ringo."

What? Okay, a lot of stuff has thrown me tonight, but that one's a major hit. I'm waiting for her to add the 'but' in there somewhere, but it doesn't come, at least not by the time Frohike's got his shorts in a knot screaming for me to get out there. I do, but not until I tell her I love her too. Hey, I do my best work under pressure.

FROHIKE:

The kids unload most of the stuff and start unpacking while I call Skinner and let him know where we are. I'm sorry, old age and treachery may overcome youth and skill, but not when it comes to playing pack mule.

Deborah was immensely helpful; the girl's pretty strong. I just hope she's as strong on the inside. She looks at Langly with the soft eyes of a woman in love. I think he's noticed. If he hasn't, he's dumber than a stump.

Sari is limited by having only one fully functioning arm, but she still assists us in wiring up, and organizing the backups into some semblance of order, after she's planted her tiny screened-in lizard box under a lamp for warmth. I know she's afraid, but her fear seems to take a back seat to the tasks at hand.

The food's in from the van, and I check it; my salmon is now a squishy mess. It probably tastes okay, though. I'll let my kitty-boo try it out to make sure. "Come here, kitty-boo! Unca Mel has tweatsies!"

"Mel, what did I tell you?" This time, Sari's voice is a lot sharper than it was in the van. "I mean it. No snacks!"

"Just a taste! He's had a hawd twip, haven't oo, Cawdinal?" I pick him up and we touch noses.

"Mel, I'm not kidding." She's taller than me and right now she's towering over me. I've already been chewed out by one woman today; I don't need a repeat performance.

And speaking of being chewed out by women, if I don't notify Mel about this, she's going to get mighty upset, or at least suspicious. Once we're on line, I send her a quick e-mail.

"Mel -- sorry this is so short, but things are crazy here. If you don't hear from me by Friday, there's a chance that you won't hear from me again, but I'm hopeful things will be otherwise. Keep the faith. Mel."

Keep the faith, indeed. As it's being torn to tiny shreds, we're trying to keep it too, like a candle in a hurricane. I'm not much for prayer, but right now, I'm praying for good luck.

End part 20