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"Bounder three reporting," Agent Max Lopez murmured into his collar microphone, "targets A and B moving to new positions." He watched as two of the men he'd been assigned to watch, slowly and deliberately elbowed their way into a new position, both keeping low, their camouflaged uniforms melding into the deep shade of the underbrush. Agent Lopez chewed on a lower lip, and watched as the two men silently communicated, using brief hand gestures, before settling down to wait, a development the minicam mounted on Lopez's goggles would be sending to HQ, where trained experts would analyze each movement, and relay their findings to the personnel on the scene. On either side of Lopez, other Agents watched their own assigned targets, all under the assumption that many of the people who had been hired to guard Mister Pruitt were, in fact, hired to kill him. Agent Lopez and his two companions were part of a cordon, at the very edge of the Pruitt Estate, whose job it was to ensure Mister Pruitt's wellbeing. Agent Lopez though, knew that there was more to his job than merely guarding a rich man. The cordon was also part of an effort to uncover a multi-state criminal syndicate, some of whose members were believed to have infiltrated the security company's personnel. It was hoped that if those people could be captured, they might provide information which would lead to the big bosses. 'So,' Agent Lopez mused, 'while we're here to ensure Mister Pruitt's safety, the larger picture is even of more importance.' The squeak of the security gate seemed loud in the quiet air. A moment later, a dark blue Lexus sedan, with heavily tinted windows, approached the house along the curving brick driveway and slowed to a stop in front of the home's columned porch. From his observation post, which was at an angle to the home's front doors, the Agent watched as a slender man hurried out of the house and leaned into the passenger window, speaking to the driver. The briefing Lopez and his fellow Agents had received, a couple months earlier, described the slender man as Rolf Kaiser, Franklin Pruitt's Personal Secretary. After a few moments, the secretary stood, scanned the grounds, as if looking for something, then turned and crossed the porch. He disappeared into the home, leaving the car and its driver to wait. 'What could the secretary be looking for,' Agent Lopez wondered. No one, not even Mister Pruitt, or the men guarding him, knew of the Bounders' presence. 'Unless . . .' "A possible problem has arisen," a woman's voice announced, through Lopez's earbud, stalling any conjecture about the secretary's behavior. "Agent Barker, who was guarding the Estate's entry gate, does not respond to queries. His situation is unknown. Bounders nine through twelve are hereby assigned to target the car's driver. There is no assurance he is who he appears to be. Updates will follow as the condition of Agent Barker is determined." 'Damn,' Lopez silently grumbled. 'If Barker's out of action, the entire operation may be compromised. There's no telling who might now be on the Estate's grounds.' He responded to the message with the prearranged single click, as the two men whose job it was his to watch, carried out another silent conversation. One nodded, then slowly drew a weapon, checked the safety, and took aim at the door. 'These guys are in the perfect position, both to protect Mr. Pruitt, or to kill him. If they're not here to protect Pruitt, they must have information that their target will soon make an appearance. Otherwise, why the drawn weapon?' "Bounders Three, Six and Seven all report suspicious activity," the voice from HQ reported. "All Bounder teams, as well as Agents within Pruitt House, are at maximum alert status." 'If these guys are legit, why the weapons?' Lopez asked himself, as he acknowledged the message. 'Are they the plants we're here to guard Mister Pruitt from, or could there be someone else, someone who is the real threat, and these guys are only doing their job? If there is another unseen player or players, this game has suddenly acquired a whole new set of rules.' * * * Norm Clancy could feel someone watching him, but dared not look over his shoulder. He asked himself who could possibly know how the security firm guarding Franklin Pruitt had been forced, by someone inside the Residence, to include them as part of the security team. They'd been assured that the head of the security firm was too preoccupied with other jobs to pay attention to the irregular way in which the . . . extra . . . men were hired. "He's been told that ol' man Pruitt personally requested you guys be part of the team guarding him," the guys had been told. Those words had been assurance enough . . . until today. Clancy knew there was someone behind him . . . a professional someone. And if there was one, there were probably more. 'Who are they?' Clancy asked himself. 'Why haven't we been told about them?' He thought a moment, his mind madly developing reasons for the unknown personnel to be behind him. 'Could it be that the bosses don't know they're there? Or . . . is it possible that they do know, and don't care, preferring to throw us to the vultures, as expendable?' Whatever the answers were, Clancy knew that something was terribly wrong. He focused his attention on the dark blue Lexus, wondering if the plan to remove the gatehouse guard had been successful. 'If so,' he thought, 'the car's driver is dead meat.' He volunteered for the job, knowing that the chances of him living to see another sunrise were almost nil. In return for his dedication, he'd been promised that his family and children would be taken care of. Clancy wanted to snort his derision. 'Taken care of . . . sure . . . as in meeting their maker only steps behind you! Sucker!' Clancy had wanted to shout. However, after laying on the ground for the past weeks, he'd begun to wonder if the driver was the only one who was being used. The possibility caused Clancy's heart to beat wildly. 'What if the plans for our rescue fall through? Are we expendable? Are there really any sort of plans to get us out of here once the deed's been done?' He grimly thought of the contingency plans he and his buddies had formulated should that be the case. "If any of us go down," Clancy had told the men, at a meeting before they'd even showed up at Pruitt House, "and it looks as if we're not gonna be rescued, we become the good guys. Hear me?" he'd shouted, hoping to penetrate the perplexed expressions of a couple of the men. "That's the only way we'll survive, is to pretend to switch sides." "Who's to know we're not the genuine article?" one of the men, slightly more bright than the others, asked. "Then, once we're outside the walls of the estate, we can either fade away, never to be heard from again, or continue to play along, until we have another chance to kill the old man. Then, whoever does the deed, is rewarded." "Hey . . ." one of the slower men protested. "Doesn't seem fair . . . somehow," he finished, his voice trailing away. "Why can't we just rush him, like in the movies? Bang, bang, he's dead. We collect the reward, and head to the bar." "Like the movies?" someone snorted. "And I'm partnered with the joker," someone else's voice could be heard, over the chuckles. "Hey!" * * * Elizabeth cackled, as she pressed the fax machine's send button. 'I'm sure the men running the company wouldn't approve of me sending a fax to Franklin, but I just can't resist. It's too delicious an opportunity.' She ran her nail-bitten fingers through her lank hair. 'I want him to sweat, knowing that the end is near. Then, Lady Pruitt will return, and set things to right.' "Ahhh, revenge," she said, aloud, as the homemade message disappeared into the machine. "It's almost as good as sex." 'Better, in fact,' she silently grumbled. 'With sex, you always end up with a bastard to make demands on your time and money. Revenge,' she grinned, feeling a warm glow suffuse her body, 'revenge, gets rid of all those mistakes. Once they're all gone, I can begin living the life for which I was bred.' "Prepare to die . . . sweetheart," the message, composed of individually cut out letters from magazines, read, "Today's the day. With all my love. Your devoted wife." * * * "The car and driver are here, sir," Rolf said, sticking his head into his employer's office. Mr. Pruitt was standing, with fists on hips, glaring at his ever-present bodyguards. "I can't sit here in the house, day in and day out!" he shouted. "I've got a business to run. I need to be seen, to run the business!" He gestured to a fax, held by one of his bodyguards. "That's typical of Elizabeth. She always did love the melodramatic. She's trying to scare me with her threats. Hell, she's probably sitting someplace laughing and telling herself how original her approach is!" He grabbed the piece of paper from the bodyguard. "Look at this! The woman's mad!" Rolf cleared his throat, attracting the attention of his boss, and the security men, all of whom turned and pierced him with unwelcome attention. "The car and driver . . . sir," he croaked. "They're here . . . um, outside." Without waiting for a response, Franklin Pruitt's Personal Secretary, and longtime friend, closed the door, retreated into his own office, and began to tremble. 'That wicked, wicked woman,' he seethed. 'It's all her fault! If she hadn't been such a bitch, we'd all be free to live our lives uninterrupted by all this . . . mayhem.' He bowed his head. 'What's going to become of me? This isn't the way things are supposed to happen. I'm only a secretary!' * * * 'Why is Mister Pruitt shouting?' Elsie, the downstairs maid wondered, as she walked crossed the home's foyer, carrying out her duties. She paused at the door to the office. The shouting had ended, but Mister Pruitt was still talking. 'It's all about Mrs. Pruitt,' Elsie told herself. 'I can still feel her, watching me, giving me orders, never letting up, wanting to know what her husband was doing, what he was saying, who he had in his office. If she wasn't demanding information about her husband, she would be asking about her sons. What were they up to, where were they, who they were with? 'This is too much for me! I never asked for this sort of responsibility. All I ever wanted was to be a loyal employee. She made me into a spy.' Elsie paused, as she passed a window. 'Did I see someone in the bushes?' She scanned the yard, then hurried to her quarters. "Looks like the shit's ready to hit the fan. All that practice at the target range is about to pay off." * * * Agent Bill Murphy looked over his shoulder, making sure none of the house staff were present, then turned back to his two coworkers, and the man they were guarding. "The Bounders are being brought up to date." Agents John Wilson and Pete Williams each acknowledged the information, with a slight nod, then resumed their duties. "Bounders?" Franklin asked, glancing from one man to another. "Another layer of protection, sir," Agent Bill Murphy explained. "Things have gotten . . ." his lips thinned, "complicated." Franklin glanced toward the door to his office, to where Agent Williams now stood, and spoke in a low voice. "Complicated? How?" He took a shaking breath. "It's not about my boys, is it? They're not involved, somehow . . . are they?" Murphy held up a hand. "Sir, the complications have nothing to do with your sons. As far as any of us know, they remain safe. "The Office believes your wife's fax was legitimate, and that it was sent without the knowledge of the people she has hired to . . ." "Kill me?" "Um, yes sir." "There's more going on than just another layer of protection, or believing that Elizabeth's threat is real, isn't there?" He studied Agent Murphy's closed expression. "I don't suppose you can tell me why an extra layer of protection has become necessary?" "No, sir. Sorry, sir." "You wearing your Kevlar vest?" one of the other guards, Pete Adams, asked, from across the room, before Franklin could ask more questions, whose answers the men guarding him were unable to divulge. "Yes, I've got it on," Franklin answered, studying the three men who had been his companions for months, and regretted his earlier outburst. 'These men are putting their lives on the line to ensure my safety. The least I can do is to acknowledge their efforts, and do as they say.' "Gentlemen," he said, attracting the three guards' attention. "I apologize for my poor behavior of a few minutes ago. My desire for my sons to remain safe blinds me to everything else. You all are only doing your jobs, and doing them well, I might add. I should not make that job more difficult for you than it already is." He bowed his head. "Thank you." "You're doing fine, sir," Agent Murphy responded. "Your anxiety, both for your sons, and your business, is understandable." * * * Clancy's earbud made an attention-getting sound a second before the softly spoken message began. The same message was being heard by at least three other men, maybe more. "We've just gotten word from inside the House," the voice reported. "Pruitt's been arguing with the Feds. Some bastard has tipped him off, by sending a friggin' fax, telling him today's the day." 'So . . . this is it,' Clancy said, to himself, as he chewed his lower lip. 'It's too late to start worrying about whether there really are plans to get us guys out of here, once Pruitt is taken care of.' The presence of the unseen man behind him was cause for worry. 'I wonder if he's the one that's gonna be rescued, and his job is to wipe us out first. 'Wait, that doesn't make sense. I shouldn't have accepted this job. I mean, what's the old man done, anyhow? He's rich . . . so what? His wife hates him . . . again, so what? What's this gonna get me . . . I mean personally? Nothing! Is the reward of nothing worth the satisfaction of killing a rich man whose wife hates him?' Clancy thought for a moment longer; then, breaking all the rules, leaned close and quickly described his thoughts, his worries to the man laying at his side. The man listened, making no comments, as Clancy finished speaking. * * * Agent Lopez listened closely, as the voice in his earbuds detailed the latest information. "Mister Pruitt's been told, via a fax, that today's the day," the woman at Headquarters reported. "He believes the threat to be genuine." There was a slight pause. "Acknowledge." Lopez activated his collar mic and clicked once. The two men, in front of him, were leaning close to one another . . . talking? About what? 'Do they have data we don't?' Agent Lopez asked himself, wondering how the experts back at the Office were interpreting the pictures he was transmitting to them, via the camera built into his goggles. 'Are they genuine guards, or are they some of the men we've been sent to watch? If they're genuine, why are they lying still, targeting the house? It'd make more sense if they were on the move, on the look out for real threats. 'It all boils down to intelligence. What do they know that we don't?' Suddenly, all thoughts of who had the best intelligence, or why the men in front of him weren't on the move, or anything else, were wiped from Agent Lopez' mind. The front door to the house slowly opened. As if on cue, the chauffeur emerged from the vehicle, crossed to the passenger's side and opened the car door. 'Is he our man, or theirs?' Lopez asked himself. 'Is he the reason the Agent at the gatehouse isn't responding?' One big, black suited man, emerged from the house, into absolute silence. Even the sound of the birds, and traffic beyond the estate's walls, was absent. It was as if everyone and everything knew this was the moment, and held their collective breath, wondering at the outcome. The black suited man, with weapon drawn, paused, scanning to his left and right. Then, at some unseen signal, Franklin Pruitt, flanked by two guards, emerged from the house. One shot cracked the air, and the man who first appeared on the porch fell. Mister Pruitt's attention jerked to the wounded guard, an instant before the chauffeur drew a weapon and shot him in the chest. The force of the shot, combined with a shove, from one of the two remaining guards, flung him backward, sending him into a spinning roll. The Agent on Lopez's right pulled the trigger and the chauffeur lurched forward at the same instant one of the guards, next to Mister Pruitt did the same, the impact of the bullet throwing him back against the car, where he slid to the ground. One of the guards flicked a glance at Pruitt, saw that he was alive and dropped to a knee, putting himself in front of Mister Pruitt, as he scanned the surroundings, while holding his weapon in a two-handed grip. The two men in front of Agent Lopez remained in place, though one jerked a shocked look over his shoulder. 'Well . . . that answers the question about whether they're on our side or someone else's,' Clancy thought, as a shot from behind him hit the chauffeur in the back. Even as the drama was playing out on the home's porch, Agent Lopez right rolled to his side, brought his weapon up, and shot, twice, into the branches of the tree beneath which he and his companions had been hiding. There was the sound of bullets striking flesh, and, a moment later, someone fell. The man, still holding his weapon, hit the ground, face-first, with a dull thud, only a few feet away. Another shot, this time from one of the guards on the porch, and another, from someone in the shrubbery, hit a camouflage-clad man who was running, sending him tumbling, head-over-heels. The Agent looked aside, as two more shots broke the silence, in quick succession. Then, there was silence . . . and Agent Lopez realized that the two men, who'd been lying on the ground in front of him, were gone. * * * Franklin flew backward, losing his breath, as he slammed into the wall of the house. He knew he'd been hit, but one of the guards had also shoved him back, then stepped in front of him, protecting him with his own body. Without conscious thought, Franklin did as he'd been instructed, and rolled away from the two kneeling guards, as well as the shouting and sharp cracks of gunfire. Another shot hit the wall of the house, near where he'd lain only seconds earlier, showering him in chips of brick. He yelped, fell flat onto his stomach, and crawled into the house, staying as close to the ground as possible, cursing his wife with each movement. He wildly kicked at one of the home's double front doors, slamming it shut, at the same instant as a bullet blasted through the heavy wood and embedded itself in the nearby wall, sending plaster fragments raining down. "Holy shit!" Franklin shouted, as another shot hit the door. Still trying to stay as low as possible, and wondering what happened to the guards on the porch, he did his best to scramble across the black and white marble tiled floor, cursing the maid for its lack of traction. A window exploded inward, causing Franklin to slip, and fall onto his stomach, as two more shots whistled through the broken window and into the foyer. There was a brief moment of silence, as a large piece of glass, untouched by the earlier shots, fell to the floor and shattered. Only that morning, Franklin would have said his home was a safe haven. Now, as a second window . . . exploded, he wasn't so sure. He scurried across the room, paying no attention to where he was going; then rolled, as he lost traction a second time . . . and ran into something. When he looked up, Rolf was staring down at him, with a drawn weapon. It was a small gun, something one would expect a woman to carry. Still, looking into the barrel of a gun . . . any gun . . . was a sobering experience. "Rolf?" Franklin squeaked, reluctant to believe what he was seeing. "You?" Rolf's entire body was shaking. He was a small man, delicately built, obviously unaccustomed to holding any sort of weapon, or aiming it, especially at his boss, and long time friend. "I have orders," he stammered. "Elizabeth?" Rolf managed to nod his head, his voice shaking. "N . . . no. . . ," he stuttered. "Not . . . not . . . her." From the corner of his eye, Franklin saw the downstairs maid, Elsie, peek around a corner. Her eyes widened when she saw Rolf, taking aim on her boss. She glanced from side to side, then retreated back into the hallway. "Why, Rolf?" Franklin asked. 'I've got to keep him talking,' he thought. 'If he wanted to kill me, he would have.' The slender man groaned, and shook his head in despair. "You can't know what it's been like," he cried, frowning into the past. "It started out so innocently. The week I began working for you, I told a friend of mine about the great opportunity you'd given me, being your secretary. All I did was have lunch with a friend, and was stupid enough to say something about a job we were working on. It was the Birmingham office center. Do you remember, sir?" "No, Rolf, I can't say as I do." The slender man shook his head, and gulped a deep breath. "My . . . my friend . . . took what I said, back to his boss, who pulled strings, and, because of what I'd said, we lost the job. Because of me! I was devastated. I had caused it. But, because of what I'd done, they had me in their grip. You'd given me a chance. I had to have the job. I was the outcast from the family, the one no one thought would do well; yet I was the one with the stellar job. I couldn't lose it and face the ridicule of the family. So when my . . . friend . . . called again, months later, I gave them the information they asked for. "They didn't call often, but, each time, I gave them what they wanted. I tried . . . I wanted to stop . . . to get away, but I couldn't see how. They threatened me, they threatened to tell my family of my disgrace, or, worse, yet, kill them. They even killed my dog! They slit its throat!" Rolf wailed, "and left the corpse on the back steps to my house, along with a note telling me that if I didn't cooperate, what happened to the dog would happen to me! "I wanted to go to the police . . . or to you, and reveal what I'd been doing, and tell you about . . . them, but I just . . . couldn't. I was afraid . . . and . . . and ashamed. "I convinced myself that I wasn't really hurting you. After all, you were still making money hand over fist. "I tried to get away from them, but I couldn't . . . their grip was too strong. I was a criminal, no better than someone you'd read about in the newspaper. I had betrayed a trust. There was no way out!" "So, now, instead of being labeled a criminal, you'll be labeled a murderer. You could have come to me, Rolf," Franklin said, in as much of a soothing voice as he could muster. "We've all done something we regret. "Now, there's no way you can escape, you know. You can do nothing, and surrender to the authorities, or you can follow orders and kill me. Either way you lose." The gun shook. "No! They'll get me out. They're attorneys. They'll take care of me! They promised!" he cried. Franklin glanced to where Elsie had made her brief appearance. 'Where has the girl gone?' he asked himself. 'The hall lavatory, to work on her make-up, or what?' No sooner had he finished the thought than one of the large windows, opening onto the garden at the side of the house, burst inward, with a crash of broken glass. A person, dressed in camouflage, landed with practiced ease, his weapon at the ready. At the same instant the man landed, there was a double crack of gunfire from the hallway leading to the foyer, sending the man flying backward, until he stopped, his body caught by the jagged glass at the bottom of the window. Rolf pivoted, his attention momentarily diverted. As the man, whom he'd labeled his most trusted friend, turned, blood surged behind Franklin's eyes, keeping time to his syncopated heartbeat. Without conscious thought, he struck out and kicked with all his strength, catching Rolf in the back of the knees. Rolf went down with a startled shout, pulling the trigger as he fell, breaking one of the room's enormous wall mirrors. Franklin rolled, lunging for the dropped gun, but became entangled in Rolf's legs. Still, he managed to swipe at it with a hand, sending it sliding across the floor and into the glittering pieces of the shattered mirror, eliminating any chance it might be retrieved by his secretary. Still, Rolf tried. He incoherently shouted, as he tried to regain his feet, but was pulled down as Franklin howled, rolled, then dove, dragging the struggling man to the floor. "Try to mess with me, will you?" he bellowed, scrambling on the slippery floor, before tackling Rolf, who had given up any thought of murder, and was desperately trying to flee. All the anger that Franklin felt, during the past months, had found a target, and sought release. He straddled the slight man, raising a fist to strike his best friend, who stared at his boss in bewildered fear. "Traitor!" Franklin bellowed, as he took out weeks of frustration, and smashed a fist into Rolf's perfect nose. He felt something give beneath his first blow, and Rolf started to bleed. The second blow covered his fists with the helpless man's blood. He wanted to strangle Rolf. He wanted to beat him to a pulp for all the damage he'd done over the years. 'This is the man who drove Riley and Nathan off!' he silently screamed, as he struck again. 'This is the man who pretended to be my friend!' Rolf's head rolled to the side, covered with blood. 'He's worse than Elizabeth!' Franklin struck the unconscious man yet again. 'He pretended to be my friend!' Behind him, the doors to the house opened, admitting two of the guards, miraculously unwounded, carrying their bleeding comrade. They glanced at the dead man and the blood which was running down the wall beneath the window, then to the two men on the floor. Franklin raised a fist for another blow, but was held back by one of the bodyguards. "He's out, sir. There's no more you can do to him." "Watch me!" Franklin twisted, struggling to pull free. "I said, STOP!" the guard shouted, and suddenly Franklin's anger bled away, as he saw the damage he'd done to his friend's . . . no, to Rolf's face. Franklin's chest heaved, as he tried to bring his breathing and feeling of outrage under control. He wiped a hand across his brow, then realized both hands were covered with blood. His clothes were spattered, and he knelt in the stuff, unsure if it was his own, or the man who lay unconscious beneath him. "Sir?" one of the guards . . . Pete Adams, asked, resting a gentle hand, which smelled of gun powder, on the kneeling man's shoulder. Franklin jerked an acknowledging nod, only then becoming aware of his own injuries and the pain which threatened to overwhelm him. He glanced at his chest, and the spot where he'd been hit by a bullet. 'What a souvenir,' he thought, staring at the suit coat. 'There's no blood though, so that can't be the reason I feel like shit.' The tidal wave of anger, which had hurled him at Rolf, was receding, leaving him stranded. Everyone who meant anything to him was gone. Everything had changed. 'What's next?' he asked himself, as he rolled off his one-time friend to sit, sprawled, on the checkerboard marble floor. "I've called the cops!" Elsie called, bursting into the foyer, her weapon held in a two-handed grip. "Don't matter if you all are the good guys, or the bad, 'cause I've got you in my sights. If you so much as touch Mister Pruitt, I'll shoot, so help me I will! I may only get one of you, but sure 'nuff at least one of you'll be dead! Wanna chance it?" she shouted, at the top of her lungs, blood suffusing her cheeks, her maid's hat askew. She tilted her head toward the dead man who was draped over the jagged window glass. "That asshole thought he could barge in and take out Mister Pruitt. Well . . . I showed him!" "You?" one of the guards said, in disbelief. "Damn right, me. And where were you, Mister Big Shot?" "Elsie," Franklin said, trying to sound calm. "Now, who are these guys . . . really?" she shouted, as someone grabbed her from behind. There was a surprised squeal of, "Let me go!" Before any of the men in the foyer could react, there was a dull thud, and a loud grunt of surprise, followed by a groan, and Elsie's breathless words. "Next guy who touches me, doesn't only get kicked in his nuts, he loses 'em! "Now gimmie my gun!" There was another thud, and the sound of expelled breath. "Try to sneak up on a woman, will ya?" "Elsie! Ease up!" Franklin shouted, in exasperation. "We're all friends." "Bloody hell we are!" she yelled, confidently holding her weapon in a steady aim, as she stepped further into the foyer, leaving the man who'd attacked her, curled up on the floor. "That joker's no friend of mine! Besides, he's got my freakin' shoe!" The maid's uniform was askew, her cap was about to fall off, and a shoe was missing, but there was no doubt that she knew how to handle the weapon in her hands. "Now, all you guys move away from Mister Pruitt. I don't care if you're good guys or bad, get your butts away from him, and stay away until the cops get here." "Yes, ma'am," one of the guards mumbled. "Did I ask you for a comment?" she shouted. "Did I?" She urged the man to move, with an irritated wave. "Now grab your injured friend," she ordered, nodding toward the man who was on the floor, at her side, who remained doubled up in pain. "You guys are supposed to be protecting Mister Pruitt. Yet, here he is, shot, covered in blood, and needing his fuckin' maid to help him out! This whole thing's gonna look bloody good in your reports!" "Elsie," Franklin urged, pressing his fingers to his temples, searching for calm. The sight of Rolf's beaten face, and the blood which puddled on the white marble floors, as well as the wail of approaching sirens, made it appear calm was going to be a long time in coming. A moment later, the police, followed by the paramedics, burst into the front door. They slid to a stop, surprised by the scene in front of them. Four . . . large . . . men, in black suits, were at the mercy of a gun-wielding woman, who was dressed as a maid. Across the room, a bleeding man appeared to be impaled on the jagged glass of a broken window, trails of his blood running down the wall to join the broken glass on the floor. In the middle of the room, an unconscious man sprawled in a puddle of blood; while at his side, another man sat, flexing blood-covered fingers, appearing dazed. The large room was a shambles. Glass, both from the broken windows and mirror, was everywhere. A smeared trail of blood led from the porch, into the foyer, culminating at the wounded man wearing black, while a puddle of red was forming on the floor beneath the man in the window. Outside, there was another gunshot, some yelling, then silence, while inside, time seemed to have stopped, as everyone waited for the . . . maid, to give orders. "Finally! The cops!" Elsie shouted, as she relaxed, unaware of the police officers' assessment of the scene. She dropped the aim of her gun and thumbed the safety, then made a face, and shook one of her hands in an attempt to return circulation. "Damn, that thing is heavy." She looked at the awed police and paramedics, and did her best not to grin at their stupefied expressions. "Okay, boys," she shouted, waving to Rolf, then the black-clad men, one of whom continued to speak into his cell phone, making wild gestures in her direction. "They're all yours! Mister Pruitt n'I rounded 'em all up. I bet'cha the one in the window is dead. He was so busy getting ready to take aim on Mister Pruitt, he didn't see me in the hallway. My shooting instructor always says to be aware of your surroundings. He wasn't. "Well, enough of that. Now, it's your job to sort out who're the good guys and who're the bad. I personally wouldn't trust any of 'em, as far as I could throw 'em." After making a shooing motion, she slipped the side arm into the pocket of her apron, tugged her uniform back into place, straightened her cap, and rested her hands on her hips. "Well . . ." she said, making an impatient gesture to the men littering her foyer. "Take 'em away, so I can get busy cleaning this place up. First, though, gimmie back my shoe!" She held out an imperious hand to the Agent, who meekly returned her shoe, making sure he kept his distance. "Well! What are you all staring at?" she asked, as the newcomers milled about like a confused herd. "Tend to your business, then get out of here. I've got lots of cleaning to do. You," she pointed to a paramedic, who stood, uncertainly, in the open doorway. "Tend to Mister Pruitt first. He's been hit in the chest, and his knuckles look a sight. I don't know if that blood belongs to him or the bastard on the floor. As far as I'm concerned, you can let that one bleed to death." She crossed the room and squatted next to her boss. "Would you like a nice hot cup of coffee, sir?" the maid asked, surrounded by wary, goggle-eyed FBI Agents, police officers, and paramedics. "Yes, Elsie, a cup of coffee would be wonderful," Franklin sighed. "Why don't you have a bit of a rest before bringing it to me, though. You can also put away your gun, if you would." Franklin took the maid's hand in his own, and spoke in a low voice, as the paramedics and police officers went into action. "Thank you, Elsie," he said, "you were wonderful! I owe you my life." The woman blushed; then, as her employer released her hand, she realized it was covered in blood. "Euww!" she squawked, staring at her hand, aghast. "I hate touching someone's blood!" * * * Agent Lopez stood alongside his fellow agents, all of whom remained alert to any unexpected events, while they waited for further news or orders from Headquarters. The camouflaged man, who'd fallen from the tree, lay at their feet, his blood soaking into the ground, while, outside the estate's walls, sirens continued to wail. A woman's voice came over his earbud. "Agent Barker, who was staffing the gatehouse, was stabbed, but he'll make it," she reported. "One of Mister Pruitt's bodyguards, Agent Wilson, was shot, and is in stable condition. Both will be taken to a secure medical facility. "Mister Pruitt took a bullet to the chest from the chauffeur, who was the one who stabbed Agent Barker at the gatehouse. Mister Pruitt, too, is in stable condition. The chauffeur is dead, as are a yet to be determined number of others. "One camouflaged individual entered the house through a broken window, and was killed by the home's . . . maid. "Mister Pruitt subdued another would-be killer, inside the house, and, according to Agent Adams, who had to pull Mister Pruitt off the man, beat the guy's face into a bloody pulp." "What about the other camouflaged individuals?" Agent Lopez asked. "We know that at least three were killed. We also know that a minimum of two, the ones you saw in the video from my goggles, escaped. While in front of us, they did not fire a shot, and I'm still unsure whether they were legitimate hires, or were plants." "All legitimate security firm personnel have reported in, and are awaiting debriefing. The two men still missing are assumed to be plants, as were the three killed on the grounds, and the one in the house. A thorough search of the grounds is underway, and local law enforcement agencies have taken over the job of guarding the perimeter of the estate. "Remain alert, and in position, until ordered to stand down." There was a brief pause. "Acknowledge orders." Lopez and the others activated their collar microphones, and responded to the orders with the required signal. A moment later the earbuds beeped, signaling an incoming message. "The two missing individuals have been apprehended. Someone from inside the house, the . . . ." there was a lengthy pause, "the . . . maid . . . alerted law enforcement personnel, from inside the house, of the men's movements. They were climbing a tree, apparently planning on dropping down on the outside of the estate's wall. "Stand down. You will be picked up shortly, then debriefed. Be prepared to give the acknowledging signal to the driver, to verify you are who you claim to be. "Good job, all," the woman concluded, a moment before the connection was cut. * * * "Security at the guardhouse is on the line, sir," one of the police officers said, as he approached Franklin Pruitt, who was shaking everyone's hand and thanking them for their efforts. "He asks if you know a Mister Gene Lawson, and Lance Benham?" "Yes, they're employees of mine. Why? They've not been injured, have they?" "No, sir. They're at the gatehouse, seeking admittance. The Agent, staffing the entry, is merely verifying that you know them. Shall he allow them onto the grounds?" "Yes, yes, of course!" Franklin finished his thanks, and turned toward the front doors, as a car skidded to a stop behind various official and emergency medical vehicles. A moment later, both Gene Lawson, Pruitt Builders' Office Manager, and Lance Benham, Pruitt's lead attorney, rushed up the porch steps, sparing only a momentary glance at the chauffeur and the blood-spattered company car. "Franklin!" Gene called, trying to see over the people blocking the doorway. "Franklin!" he repeated. "Are you okay?" Gene shouted, as the crowd parted, to allow paramedics, and a gurney holding Franklin's Personal Secretary, Rolf Kaiser, through. Both Gene and Lance moved aside, appalled at the sight of the injuries to the man with whom they worked on a daily basis. "Wha . . .?" Gene began, glancing from his boss to the unconscious figure on the gurney, then back. Seeing Franklin's slumped shoulders and slow movements, he focused all of his attention on his life-long friend, all thoughts of Rolf pushed aside. "You've been shot!" He grabbed Franklin's arm, as if to support him. "You should be lying down, going to the hospital . . . something! Have the paramedics tended to your wound? You've got blood all over you! What's happened?" He would have continued, but was stopped as Lance Benham cleared his throat. "Give him a chance, Gene." Franklin winced, and did his best to straighten his shoulders and put on a calm face, as he led the men into the house, where Elsie was watching a group of people taking photographs of the damage, making sure no one escaped the foyer. Now that the two unaccounted for . . . guards . . . had been taken into custody, everyone, but the two remaining personal bodyguards, had been given leave to depart. Those men continued to report, presumably to their handlers, via collar microphones. Franklin paused, at their sides, as they finished their reports. "Thank you for your efforts, men, and that of your comrade. Please keep me informed as to his welfare. If there's anything I can do to help him out, let me know. "My maid . . ." He grinned. "You already know her, and the cook, will see that your needs are met. We've all had more excitement than we would like. Have something to eat and drink, and, if your rules permit, sit down. I'll be in my office with my Office Manager, and my attorney," he said, wearily nodding toward the two men at his side. "I promise to go nowhere near a window. I also assure you, I will not be leaving the house." "Take it easy, sir. No doubt you'll be badly bruised after your ordeal. Shortly, one of the paramedics will take a look at you, and tend your injuries." Agent Bill Murphy appeared embarrassed. He scratched the side of his neck, then arrived at a decision. "Um, sir. Please convey my colleagues' and my thanks and . . . admiration . . . to your maid." He grinned. "If she ever needs another job, send her to us." Franklin couldn't help himself. He grinned, nodded, then turned away, accompanied by his friends. "Rolf?" Gene asked, in amazement, as they entered the windowless office. Franklin was not only suffering the aftereffects of being hit by a bullet, but was being dragged down by everything else. His life had been turned upside down, his two oldest children, and daughter-in-law, had died in a horrible accident, his youngest sons were in hiding, and his wife was trying to kill him. 'How much more can he take?' Gene asked himself, as the three men sat, sinking into the cushions of the overstuffed chairs. Franklin lay his head against the chair back and sighed. "Rolf was the informer, Gene. He's been working for someone, for over twenty years, most likely Gustav Winton and his bunch of crooks, funneling information to them about the business." Gene flopped back in his chair, stunned? "Rolf?" Franklin nodded once. "I was surprised, too, but, there I was lying on the floor, at his feet, with him pointing a gun at me, so I figured I wasn't mistaken. Thankfully, the bastard needed to confess every crime before trying to kill me. That gave dear Elsie a chance to take care of things." "Dear Elsie?" "My maid." Gene's brows rose. "Remarkable woman, to go from maid, to dear Elsie, in the space of a few sentences." Lance Benham, Franklin's lead attorney, snorted softly, doing his best to hide his smile. "Yes . . . well." Franklin answered, in a tired voice. "When Elsie provided the distraction I needed, I attacked him . . . Rolf, I mean." Franklin was silent, as he chose his next words. "I wanted to kill him, Gene. I wanted him to pay for . . . everything. I didn't care about how unfair I was being. After all, he was not responsible for Elizabeth's behavior, or the fact that I don't know where my boys are. Still, I wanted him to pay." There was another moment of silence, as he examined his still-bloody knuckles. "They stopped me." Franklin relaxed into the embrace of an overstuffed chair, and began to tremble. "Geez," he groaned. "Must be delayed shock, or whatever. I feel like crap. "I guess I'm going to be needing a new personal secretary," he managed to say, after gripping the chair's arms and . . . willing . . . the trembling to stop. "Is there anyone you have in mind that we can promote?" "I've got just the man . . . Micah Sutton. He's one of the young men who arrived with our acquisition of Bennett Construction. Bright boy. He's got a business degree, is reliable, etc. The only thing is, his grandfather died recently; now his grandmother has followed. I've given him some time off to deal with things. I'll notify him of his promotion, and he can meet with you when you're both feeling better." Lance Benham, Mister Pruitt's attorney, blinked in surprise at the mention of Micah Sutton, the young man with whom he'd met to discuss his grandparent's estate. 'Oh, Franklin,' he inwardly groaned. 'If I'm proved right, you may have rid yourself of a Personal Secretary, but . . .' he sighed, unwilling to even finish the sentence.
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