tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51492159365629194222024-03-13T07:44:39.232-07:00TK KenyonTK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-37065439800970151562013-12-03T16:40:00.000-08:002013-12-03T16:40:16.403-08:00Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, May Finally Rest <br />
<b>Truth be told, I'm a Shakespeare Authorship Agnostic.</b><br />
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Until a few years ago, I hadn't realized how little and shaky the evidence was that W. Shaksper, the guy from Stratford-on-Avon, wrote the plays and poems attributed to William Shakespeare. I saw a<a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/oxford/hi/people_and_places/history/newsid_8380000/8380564.stm" target="_blank"> PBS special on Edward de Vere</a>, the Earl of Oxford, and the authorship question in general and was hooked. It's fascinating. <b>If Shaksper did not write the ouevre, Oxford's claim is backed by good evidence, and Oxford's life imbues the plays and sonnets with heart-breaking biographical subtext.</b><br />
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I could blather and bowdlerize for days on the authorship question and may at some point in the future, but for the sake of this post and it's conclusions, I'd like to gloss over it and just specify the following,<b><i> if </i></b>de Vere wrote the Shakespearean plays and the sonnets, then:<br />
<ul>
<li>It seems from Oxford's own letters, signature, the sonnets, and the plays that in his youth and like so many others, <b>Oxford had lofty aspirations to marry Queen Elizabeth I and become the King Consort. </b></li>
<li><b>Henry Wriothesley, the 3rd Earl of Southampton </b>(the generally acknowledged Fair Youth of the sonnets,) was <b>Oxford's illegitimate son. </b></li>
<li>Southampton's mother may well have been Queen Elizabeth I, who may be The Dark Lady of the sonnets. (Changes everything you thought about the sonnets, doesn't it?) </li>
<li>While Oxford perhaps did not want to sully his good name by associating it with playwriting or the possibly treasonous poems ("My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me nor you. For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth.") he was obsessively interested in his noble and royal legacies. </li>
<li>Oxford wanted his own offspring on the throne or, barring that, at least to inherit his own earldom. Oxford's oldest daughter and the heir for many years may have been conceived while he was in Italy, thus illegitimate and not his biological offspring, and so he tried to marry his biological but illegitimate son (Southampton) to his legal but not biological daughter so that his earldom would at least pass to his biological grandchildren. The purposed marriage is historical fact about Oxford and surely seems to be supported by the sonnets. </li>
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<b>One of the problems with Oxford's claim is that no Shakespearean manuscripts survive that can be attributed to him.</b> (The same can be said of Shaksper of Stratford. Seriously. <i>None.</i>) While we'd all love to find a lead-lined, hermetically sealed casket buried deep under Castle Hedingham with all the Shakespearean manuscripts in Oxford's gorgeous Italianate handwriting and signed with his "Edward the VII" signature, along with a note that reads,<i> I WROTE ALL THESE, YOU IDIOTS!,</i> that is unlikely.<br />
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On FB, some people were lamenting a lack of Oxford's documents and where they might be hiding, and I got to thinking, <b>what if Oxford gave them to Southampton, </b>his historically documented very good friend and possible son? Who would have those papers now?<br />
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<b>So I went looking for Southampton's descendants.</b> (Full disclosure: I looked on Wikipedia. This isn't an academic dissertation. This is 30 minutes of idle time while The Kid was doing subtraction.)<br />
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<b>Some background: </b>I just finished publishing a book with a main character who is a modern-day European prince and, because I'm a little OCD, I traced my character's ancestors back 1000 years and mapped his relationship to most of the royal houses of Europe, including England's.<br />
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Imagine my surprise when, while researching the descendants of Henry Wriothesley, the 3rd Earl of Southampton, <b>some familiar names started popping up.</b><br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wriothesley,_3rd_Earl_of_Southampton" target="_blank">Henry Wriothesley, the 3rd Earl of Southampton</a> (Oct 1573 - Nov 1624) m. Elizabeth Vernon<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Wriothesley,_4th_Earl_of_Southampton" target="_blank">Thomas Wriothesley, the 4th Earl of Southampton </a>(Mar 1607 - May 1667) m. Rachel de Massue<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rachel_Wriothesley" target="_blank">Lady Rachel Wriothesley</a> (c. 1636 - Sept 1723, a published author) m. William Russell, Lord Russell<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wriothesley_Russell,_2nd_Duke_of_Bedford" target="_blank">Wriothesley Russell, 2nd Duke of Bedford</a> (Nov 1680 - May 1711) m. Elizabeth, daughter of John Howland of Streatham<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Russell,_4th_Duke_of_Bedford" target="_blank">John Russell, 4th Duke of Bedford</a> (Sept 1710 - Jan 1771) m. Lady Diana Spencer (no, not <i>that </i>Lady Di, we're in the early 1700's. This one was the daughter of Charles Spencer, 3rd Earl of Sunderland)<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_Russell,_Marquess_of_Tavistock" target="_blank">Francis Russell, Marquess of Tavistock</a> (September 1739 – March 1767) m. Lady Elizabeth (daughter of William van Keppel, 2nd Earl of Albemarle)<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Russell,_6th_Duke_of_Bedford" target="_blank">John Russell, 6th Duke of Bedford</a> (July 1766 – October 1839) m. Lady Georgiana (daughter of Alexander Gordon, 4th Duke of Gordon)<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louisa_Hamilton,_Duchess_of_Abercorn" target="_blank">Lady Louise Jane Russell</a> (Jul 1812 - March 1905) m. James Hamilton, the 1st Duke of Abercorn<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Hamilton,_2nd_Duke_of_Abercorn" target="_blank">James Hamilton, the 2nd Duke of Abercorn</a> (August 1838 – January 1913) m. Lady Maria Anna Curzon-Howe (1848–1929), daughter of Richard Curzon-Howe, 1st Earl Howe<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Albert_Edward_Hamilton,_3rd_Duke_of_Abercorn" target="_blank">James Albert Edward Hamilton</a>, 3rd Duke of Abercorn, (30 November 1869 – 12 September 1953) m. Lady Rosalind Cecilia Caroline Bingham (1869–1958), daughter of Charles George Bingham, the 4th Earl of Lucan<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cynthia_Spencer,_Countess_Spencer" target="_blank">Lady Cynthia Elinor Beatrix Hamilton</a> (16 August 1897 – 4 December 1972) m. Albert Edward John Spencer, 7th Earl Spencer<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_John_Spencer,_8th_Earl_Spencer" target="_blank">Edward John "Johnnie" Spencer, 8th Earl Spencer</a>, (24 January 1924 – 29 March 1992) m. Lady Frances Ruth Roche, daughter of Edmund Maurice Burke Roche, the 4th Baron Fermoy<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diana,_Princess_of_Wales" target="_blank">Lady Diana Frances Spencer</a> (<i>Yeah, there she is</i>. 1 July 1961 – 31 August 1997) m. Charles, Prince of Wales<br />
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-<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_William,_Duke_of_Cambridge" target="_blank">Prince William</a>, Duke of Cambridge (William Arthur Philip Louis, born 21 June 1982) married Catherine Middleton<br />
-- <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_George_of_Cambridge" target="_blank">Prince George</a> of Cambridge, born on 22 July 2013<br />
-<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Harry_of_Wales" target="_blank">Prince Henry "Harry"</a> of Wales (Henry Charles Albert David, born 15 September 1984<br />
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So, if all stipulated is correct, if none of the preceding were born on the wrong side of the sheets, and if all goes well, Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford has three upcoming chances for his progeny to take the throne.<br />
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I hope Edward is smiling, somewhere.<br />
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<br />TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-23955737443336668692013-07-12T16:35:00.002-07:002013-07-12T16:35:53.145-07:00Joss Whedan's Way To Be Prolific<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: MuseoSans, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; orphans: 4;">“I have a reward system. I am the monkey with the pellet and it’s so bad that I write almost everything in restaurants or cafes [so] that when I have an idea, I go and get chocolate." </span></blockquote>
Awesome idea, Joss. A man after my own heart. No wonder everything you work on resonates with me so.<br />
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<br />TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-70001871323551610052013-05-30T07:10:00.004-07:002013-05-30T07:11:53.498-07:00An Open Love Letter to Amazon, or Why It's A Great Time To Be A ReaderWhen I was growing up, there was a small B. Dalton bookshop and an exceedingly small branch library that were close enough for my mom to take me to in the rather scary area where I grew up, at the Christown Mall. (The police still don't go near my neighborhood without air support. Really. The Alhambra District in Phoenix, AZ.) The libraries in my elementary and high schools were tiny and terrible. That was all I knew, so I stalked those two places. There were no independent book stores that I could go to. I'd pretty much read everything in the library by the time I was 10. I never read classics or anything particularly new. Our branch library had "Little Men" but not "Little Women." B. Dalton got new stuff in, but I wasn't allowed to buy hardbacks because the family budget was limited. I had heard of a lot of books and writers that I had never seen, and of course the B. Dalton stocked little midlist and almost no backlist. I managed to find major writers at B. Dalton: Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, etc. I don't remember who else.<br />
<br />
When I was in high school, the first Barnes and Noble opened near enough to us, at Metrocenter, and I went nuts. They had low-priced classics via the B&N imprint. I had never seen an actual book by Jane Austen or Tolstoy, though I had heard of them. I had heard of Sherlock Holmes but never seen any of Doyle's books. or Agatha Christie. Or any modern non-fiction science books. Seriously, I looked like Tinkerbell flying around in there. I got a part-time job to support my book habit. My mother worried about hoarding. I bought <i>The Pugilist at Rest,</i> a collection of short stories by Thom Jones, at the B&N at Metrocenter, and that book was the reason I applied to the Iowa MFA program, to study with Thom.<br />
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I found Amazon in 1995, within a month or two of its debut. I still remember clicking through it for the first time.<i> I had a panic attack.</i> I actually had to walk away from the computer to compose myself. I was shaking so hard when I saw all those books that I had heard of,--classics, backlist titles, series titles that I had missed, so many books!--and I had to do was click, and they arrived. I found books that I should have known about but hadn't. They had <i>every </i>book by Jane Austen, Tolstoy, George Eliot, Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, and so many other writers that I had heard about but never seen in print. I had heard the name "Nabokov" in a song by The Police, but I had never seen <i>Lolita</i>. I had never seen a book by Virginia Woolf. Shipping was free if you ordered more than $100 worth, and I <i>always </i>ordered more than $100 worth. And the prices were lower! I couldn't believe how many books I got for $100!<br />
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And now, Kindle. <i>Free </i>classics and other books. Lower-priced ebooks. Instant delivery. I read a lot of books that I adore but would have never been published by traditional publishers because they're too niche, and I am so in that niche. Over half the books I buy are "indie," or independently published. The five best books that I read last year were indie. (The five worst books that I read last year were all traditionally published.) I can carry 200 books in my purse.I can find new writers, lots of them. I can buy a whole series by a new writer, including stuff that was originally published a decade or more ago. I can read Aristotle's <i>Poetics </i>on my phone. I can instantly read full-color non-fiction on my (Kid's) Kindle Fire. I love my "old-fashioned" ereader Kindle because it strains my eyes less than a printed book. <br />
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Plus, no one can see my hoard, so I don't have a problem, right?<br />
<br />
As a writer, I love and use Amazon.<br />
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As a reader, Amazon changed my life. <br />
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It feels like when I got a car for the first time, and I was free to drive anywhere you want to.<br />
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Or like when I got glasses for the first time, and I realized that trees have leaves, not just green smears, and that the streets went a lot farther than I had thought they did.<br />
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Or the first time I got a passport, when I thought,<i> I can go anywhere on the planet, anywhere. I am no longer confined by mere borders. </i><br />
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Or the first time I hooked my computer up to the internet (1994) and found a whole, new world through my text-based browser that I had never knew existed, where people shared everything they knew.<br />
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Or when soon after that, my then-boyfriend (now-husband) told me about a secret, magic mantra called Gayathri Mantra that he knew because he was a high-caste uber-Brahmin priest and had gone through a secret religious ritual and that he would never tell me, and so I found it in fifteen minutes online, with several English translations, to the point where I understood it better than he did. Man, he was pissed.<br />
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That's what Amazon feels like to me. It feels like blowing up boundaries. It feels like secret knowledge revealed.<br />
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I'm sure that I'm a typical high-volume reader, in that Amazon increased how much I buy and read because it increased the number of books that I have access to. Looking back, I cannot believe some of the crud that I read as a kid and even as a young adult because I had no access to better books. Back then, I even reread crud because I couldn't find anything else to buy. I still reread books, but I reread <i>Orlando </i>by Virginia Woolf, and I reread <i>Lolita </i>by Nabokov, and I reread Jane Austen and Tolstoy. And I read so many new, wonderful, varied books, a kaleidoscope of books, a whole world of books.<br />
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As great a time as this is to be a writer, it's a fantastic time to be a <i>reader</i>.<br />
<br />
TK Kenyon<br />
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TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-48674290218306826722013-03-22T06:43:00.004-07:002013-03-22T06:45:45.084-07:00First They Came for the Guns of the Murderers<br />
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<i>First they came for the guns of the murderers,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>but I didn't speak out because I wasn't a murderer.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Then they came for guns of the rapists,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>but I didn't speak out because I wasn't a rapist.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Then they came for the guns of the wife beaters,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>but I didn't speak out because I wasn't a wife beater.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Then they came for the guns of the psychopaths and
psychotics,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a psychopath or
psychotic.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>They never came for my guns,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>because I’m a law-abiding citizen.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Once the pool of illegal guns dried up, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>and it became harder for criminals and violent mentally ill
people to get guns, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>the crime rate dropped, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>because those idiots tried to break into my house with just
a knife, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>and I shot those motherfuckers. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>You know, I don't often discuss my political views because I'm a moderate with pragmatic leanings, and chances are, no matter color of the political spectrum that you inhabit, I probably agree with you on around 50% of your views. My mom is a Tea Party member, and she and I have lots we agree on. I have friends who are tree-huggin' socialist Occupy types, and we have lots we agree on. </o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p>However, background checks for gun purchases are a pragmatic step, and the time has come to institute them. </o:p></div>
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<o:p>If you haven't committed a felony or don't have a violent mental illness diagnosis, why are you worried? </o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p>The "Slippery Slope" argument is a fallacy. The Second Amendment protects the rights of law-abiding citizens to have and hold guns. Convicted felons and mentally ill people who are a danger to others are stripped of their constitutional rights, which includes the rights to liberty, representation through voting, and to bear arms. </o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p>We have locked convicted felons in prisons and not allowed them to vote for centuries, but no one has taken those rights away from law-abiding citizens. Denying violent criminals and violent mentally ill people access to firearms will not impinge on law-abiding citizens' rights. </o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p>While any one criminal or mentally ill person may still be able to access a firearm, reducing the percentage of the violent population who can access firearms will reduce the number of crimes. </o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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While I believe, deeply, that all of the above is true, I also maintain that the only thing that is going to stop or drastically reduce the number of violent crimes like Tucson, Newtown, and Aurora is the creation of a mental health system to identify, detain, and treat people who are violently mentally ill. </div>
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We also need better treatments, both behavioral and pharmaceutical, for violence. If we can treat depression with pharmaceuticals, treating aggression is most likely possible. </div>
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If pharmaceutical companies were given the right financial incentive, like mandatory medication for all incarcerated violent felons, I'll bet clinical trials would start next week, because I suspect that some medications that have already been approved would be effective. </div>
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So, yes, I believe that mandatory, universal background checks will keep some guns out of the hands of some violent people. </div>
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Then, we need to reduce the violence. </div>
TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-10365108318094561562012-10-16T03:00:00.000-07:002013-07-21T17:45:19.498-07:00Conspiracy Theories: Iran, Libya, the CIA, and Jon Stewart <br />
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This is going to be a series of posts. I’ll write them as I
can, but I hope to post them on Tuesdays.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b>Not So Far-Fetched</b></div>
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Some people believe that some of things that happen in <i>RABID</i> are far-fetched, like “Oh, that
could never happen in the Real World,” kind of things. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=tkconsulting-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=B0099GJA9I&ref=qf_sp_asin_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe>
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The world is weirder than they know. It’s craftier, it’s
wilder, and it’s scarier than they dream. They watch and believe the news
programs that piecemeal the world into discrete, unrelated events and never
look at the whole picture for various reasons (mostly money, time, and research
power.) <o:p></o:p></div>
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The recent movie <i>Argo</i>
is outlandish and unbelievable to them. (Amazing movie. Go see it.) It's based on this book, which is flippin' $0.99 for Kindle. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=tkconsulting-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=B000OVLJTQ&ref=qf_sp_asin_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe><o:p></o:p></div>
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Okay, so I am talking about the second gunman on the grassy
knoll? Probably not. I don’t know what happened there, and I admit that the
Jack Ruby stuff is all pretty weird, but I don’t know. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But the world is not as random and is not as clear and
simple as any of the blithe, facile news networks would have you believe. <i>The Daily Show</i>, with their amazing
research staff, gets more of it right than anybody else because they make the
connections that everyone else misses or is too timid to say. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<b>TK Kenyon is a
Conspiracy Nut<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Okay, so the scales fell from my eyes a long time ago. Here’s
some of what I know and how I know it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I was in undergrad, many moons ago, I seriously
considered working for the CIA. My mom, who she never met a spill-it-all conversation
that she didn’t like, told all her friends that I, her daughter, that one over
there, wanted to do secret stuff for the CIA. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, I didn’t want to go be a secret agent or a clandestine
super-spy and ferret out secrets overseas or turn traitors or do undercover stuff.
I had no desire to be Jane Bond. I just wanted to be a bookworm in Langley,
Virginia. The job title for that is “Intelligence Officer.” I wanted to read field
reports and interpret them, put stuff together, mostly about biowarfare, and
write more reports. (I was a microbiology major in undergrad.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my mom’s friends, after a long pause, told my mom,
“She should talk to [my husband]. He,” and here was another long pause, “knows
a lot about the CIA.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah, he did. Because he had worked for them for thirty
years. He really did the clandestine super-spy stuff.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Spy Who Told Me:
Iranian Coup, 1953<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Must be noted: my friend The Spy passed away a few years
ago, so I’m not worried about blowing his cover.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first thing that The Spy told me about was the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1953_Iranian_coup_d%27%C3%A9tat" target="_blank">1953 coup d’état in Iran</a> that deposed the democratically elected Prime Minister and installed
the Shah. Everyone knows this now, with all its sordid details, including how
the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Covert_United_States_foreign_regime_change_actions#Iran_1953" target="_blank">CIA used the <i>New York Times</i> </a>like a Bangkok butt prostitute. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The important part that The Spy told me was that the CIA had almost
gotten the Shah installed, but then they had some counter-actions from
Soviet-based intelligence agents. Basically, Soviet-backed demonstrations and
riots in the streets forced the Shah to flee. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The CIA was about to declare the coup a failed attempt, but
another agent (though I suspect that it was The Spy himself) went in and arranged counter-counter-demonstrations
and riots, and the CIA-backed coup finally succeeded. They did this by
influencing and paying off major imams and other leaders who could then produce
a certain number of followers in the streets, whipped up to a predetermined
level of frenzy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Spy noted with pride that the counter-counter-coup
came in $100,000 under budget and several days early. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>How the World Works <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The part that struck me and has stayed with me was when The Spy said that all these demonstrations that you see on the news, all these
riots, at least the ones that get something done, are bought and paid-for by (usually) governments, sometimes other players. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You talk to and pay the right people, and the crowds show
up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is how clandestine regime change works. That is how
civil wars and coups get started and run. That’s how embassies get attacked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s how the world works. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here in the US, we have fewer of these influencers, at least violent ones, though
some of them include people like black activists (historically) Martin Luther
King, Jr. and (contemporary) Jesse Jackson, the Koch Brothers' quiet funding of the Tea Party, or even political satirists Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
If you can convince them or pay them off, you've bought yourself an army.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Imagine 215,000 People
Who Can’t Take A Joke <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine if the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rally_to_Restore_Sanity_and/or_Fear" target="_blank">Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear</a> had turned
into a riot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was more of a free concert, but I had an underlying
suspicion the whole time that Jon Stewart was restraining himself, dampening
the crowd’s emotional instability, and making sure that it didn’t turn into a
riot because there were a lot of people there, all of whom were sympathetic to
whatever he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine if those innocuous rock bands weren’t so innocuous,
but they played songs that thumped on people’s heart strings and boiled their
blood with indignation. Anything from “Proud to Be an American” to “Won’t Get
Fooled Again” to “I Am America” to “The Big Money.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine if Jon Stewart had gone all Patrick Henry on that
crowd of 215,000 people, shouting <i>“Give
me liberty, or give me death!”</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, in the crowd, a hundred men at strategic points
yelled, <i>“To the White House! Follow me!”</i>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<i><br /></i>
It was only a few blocks away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine if some of the crowd, say 50,000 of them, had followed
the instigators planted among them and started running through the streets and
then scaled that flimsy wrought-iron fence around the White House. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, the Marines have nice guns, but they couldn't shoot all
50,000 of the mob as they poured over the fences from all directions. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What would have happened once the mob was inside the fences?
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How long would those pretty doors and windows have held if,
say, some of those “spontaneous” demonstrators happened to have brought along
lock-cutters or shaped charges that were supplied to them by Jon and Stephen’s friends,
who in turn got them from guys they knew, all of whom had funny accents? (Probably Boston or New York accents.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even a mob of 5,000 would have done the job. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Do you think that 5,000 people out of the 215,000 wouldn't have joined in?<br />
<br />
Quite honestly, I'll bet that it would have been 200,000 people who converged on whatever the target was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s how the world works.<br />
<br />
That’s how it happens.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>That’s How It Did
Happen. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yes, a few months ago on September 11th, 2012, when a
crowd of “demonstrators” attacked the US Consulate in Benghazi, Libya, killing
four Americans including US Ambassador Chris Stevens and burning the place to a
shell, I thought, “A spontaneous demonstration against a stupid YouTube video,
my butt. Who bought and paid-for those crowds? Al Qaeda? Iran? How long has it
been planned?” <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The Spy would have laughed at that rationale: A YouTube video. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now it’s coming out that there were some puppeteers pulling
some long strings. I’m not surprised. I don’t know if they’ll ever tell us who
it really was. Maybe 20 years from now when it all doesn’t matter any more, they'll tell us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More on what I knew and when I knew it next week. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-35207765482413668542012-09-16T18:17:00.002-07:002012-09-16T18:18:31.695-07:00Escaping My Ex-Publisher: What I Got Back In 2007, my first published novel, RABID, was published by
Kunati, Inc., a small traditional publishing company. I was thrilled because
they had 50,000 submissions for their first round and chose 8 books for their
first crop.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah, 8 books out of 50,000 submissions. That’s some serious
“gate-keeping,” huh? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had been writing RABID for three years at that point. I
had graduated with my PhD in molecular virology, done a postdoc in neuroscience
at the University of Pennsylvania, and had a baby. My brain was scorched. I
threw all my emotional baggage in that book. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite that, it turned out well, I thought and I still
think. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It also turned out to be almost 200,000 words. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My publisher wanted me to cut it down to below 140,000,
which I did. I think it came in at 139,996, <i>which
is below 140,000 words, </i>and that’s the important point<i>.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My publisher also edited the periods out of my name, kind of
like e.e. cummings but with punctuation rather than capitalization, so I became
TK Kenyon instead of T.K. Kenyon. I had been T.K. since sixth grade, when there
were three “Terri’s” (of various spellings) in my class, so two of us got to
choose new names. I chose “T.K.” When I sign my name, I use T.K., and yes, I
tap out two periods in there. It’s funny that some people think it’s an
affectation, since my publisher did it and I really didn’t have a say in it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s common with publishers: they do stuff and authors don’t
have any say in it. The periods in my name, 60,000 words of my first novel,
etc. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had to cut a lot of stuff out of RABID, including stuff
that was important but was not the very most important. For example, there was
a lot about the community, including some instances of ... hive mind, perhaps
we should call it, that happened when several of the characters were together. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was the po-mo structure of the novel: each scene was
written from one of the viewpoint characters (Conroy, Leila, Bev, or Dante,)
and had to include one of the other four characters, except that each character
got one soliloquy when they were alone and at an important turning point in
their lives. Bev’s soliloquy is the very first scene. Leila’s is the last
scene. Conroy’s and Dante’s occur at important points in the book. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When all four characters were together, or at least three of
them, the community’s hive mind become active. The viewpoint become omniscient
and can duck into various minor characters’ heads. I wanted to speak about the
gestalt that happens when people gather. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, that strategy was a casualty of the Great Revision.
I went back and restored a lot of that in this version of the novel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In addition to some additions for clarity and some emotional
beats that were recovered, the new version of RABID is about 155,000 words. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah, it’s pretty long, but it has a lot to say. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not a book that everyone will like, which is why I
posted <a href="http://tkkenyon.blogspot.com/2012/09/can-you-read-rabid-should-you.html" target="_blank">this “quiz” </a>a while ago to point you toward whether you should bother
giving it a look. I just reread it five times in a row, which is a lot to read
any one book. There are some parts in there that I am really proud of. There
are some scenes that I’m surprised that I survived writing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you read it, I hope you like it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0099GJA9I/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B0099GJA9I&linkCode=as2&tag=tkconsulting-20"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=B0099GJA9I&Format=_SL110_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=tkconsulting-20" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=tkconsulting-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B0099GJA9I" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />
</div>
TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-50319136694536495892012-09-14T08:50:00.001-07:002012-09-14T13:07:15.732-07:00Are You Cool Enough to Read RABID?<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s a QUIZ: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(1) How many graduate degrees do you hold? (Master’s or
better to open.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(a) 2
or more. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(b) 1 <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(c) 0,
but I have a professional degree (MD, JD, MBA, etc.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(d) 0,
but I have a bachelor’s. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(e)
Other. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(2) Are you otherwise intellectually accomplished? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(a)
Heck, yeah. Extreme audodidact. I even know what “autodidact” means. I usually read
around or more than a book per week. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(b) I
read everything. Around 40 books per year across a lot of categories and
non-fiction. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(c) I
read deeply in 1 or 2 categories or genres, at least 1 book a month. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(d) I
read what’s on the NYT or other bestseller lists but not more than 10 books per
year. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(e) I
don’t read that much. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(3) Have you voluntarily
read or seen something by the following authors? (Choose uppermost letter.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(a) Don
DeLillo, Kip Thorne, Michael Frayn, William Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Kurt
Vonnegut, Margaret Atwood, Jane Austen, Elaine Pagels, Vladimir Nabokov. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(b) Chuck
Palahniuk, Connie Willis, Nancy Kress, Abraham Verghese, William Gibson,
Thornton Wilder, Carl Sagan, John Le Carre, Brian Greene, Michio Kaku. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(c) J.K.
Rowling, Neil Peart, Ray Bradbury, Phillippa Gregory, E.L. Doctorow, Harlan
Ellison, Jeff Lindsey, Daniel Silva, Bharati Mukherjee, Graham Greene. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(d)
Orson Scott Card, J.G. Ballard, Arthur Miller, Stephen King, Nora Roberts or
J.D. Robb, Mitch Albom, Richard Castle, Kingsley Amis, Lee Child. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(e) None
of the above. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(4) My religion: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(a) Atheist,
agnostic, Buddhist, or UU. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(b) I
don’t like churches because I know too much about them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(c) Catholic.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(d) Other
than Christian religion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(e) Conservative
Christian, believer in angels or signs, or very spiritual or psychic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(5) In my free time, I most like to: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(a)
discover new music that makes me think, experience other kinds of art, explore
other lifestyles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(b) travel,
watch the Science, History, or H2 channels, go to live concerts, live performances,
lots of different kinds of movies, or dancing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(c) decorate
my house, collect stamps or coins, watch the Food or HGTV Networks, listen to
the same music that everyone else was listening to in high school. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(d) play
a sport, watch QVC, watch only rom-com or action movies, watch only reality TV
shows, bass fish. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(e) watch
a lot of sports on TV, Bible study, go to strip clubs, drink or toke myself
unconscious. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the grading scale: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>- If you have at least 3 answers that are (a) or (b), you
might like <i>RABID</i>. </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=tkconsulting-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=B0099GJA9I&ref=qf_sp_asin_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>- If you have 3 or more (e) answers, you definitely won’t
like it. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>- The (c) and (d) answers were just other stuff that doesn’t
correlate one way or the other. </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not trying to scare anybody away or be a snot. I didn’t
write this to be elitist. (I don’t have to try. It comes naturally.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More importantly, I have talked with quite a few readers who
liked <i>RABID</i> and a few who hated it. I
appreciate them all taking their time to read it. The people who “got” <i>RABID</i> and liked it generally are quite
intellectually accomplished. They have impressive CVs. They read widely, and
they read the hard stuff. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not surprising that people who like <i>RABID</i> tend to read a lot of the same
authors that I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The people who hated it don’t like their beliefs challenged
or they don’t like to think too much. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want people to read my book and hate it or even to
slog through it. So don’t read <i>RABID</i>
if you’re not going to like it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The world is full of books that are right for you. Not only
are there more and more books being published now, but they’re more and more
available than ever, and classics and backlist and out of print books are now
easily available. Our reading choices have expanded at least 1000-fold in the
last decade. That’s marvelous! That’s incredible! Go read something you’ll
love! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You should read books that speak to you, that resonate with
you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t read books that fit you badly. It’s like wearing
too-small underwear or eating food that you don’t like, even if it is supposed
to be good for you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The novel that I’m writing right now, <i>Selling Handcuffs,</i> will be more accessible. It will still challenge
you, but it is meant for a wider audience. If you won’t like <i>RABID</i>, I hope that you’ll wait for <i>Selling Handcuffs</i> and try that one. It
will probably be out before Christmas. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the way, those authors on #3? I am not “lumping myself in”
with any of those incredible authors, but they’re my major influences. I’m also
not denigrating the other authors in answers (c) and (d). I just looked at my
bookshelves and randomly assigned names to these answers. I like all of them
very well, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks for reading, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
TK Kenyon <o:p></o:p></div>
TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-75433453291443921022012-08-22T16:16:00.002-07:002012-08-22T16:16:04.174-07:00Writing Tip: Beware of Self-Indulgence <br />
<dt>Beware of self-indulgence. The romance surrounding the writing profession carries several myths: that one must suffer in order to be creative; that one must be cantankerous and objectionable in order to be bright; that ego is paramount over skill; that one can rise to a level from which one can tell the reader to go to hell. These myths, if believed, can ruin you.</dt>
<dd>If you believe you can make a living as a writer, you already have enough ego.</dd><dd>- David Brin</dd>TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-30194515716272061312012-07-18T18:10:00.000-07:002012-07-18T18:10:10.882-07:00Damn Those Weasel Words!<span class="huge" style="border: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very"; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. ~</span><span class="bodybold" style="border: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">Mark Twain</span><span style="border: 0px; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><br /></span>TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-52428688326152965112012-07-09T13:59:00.000-07:002012-07-09T13:59:34.380-07:00Chapter Four: Blood on the Sand, of Selling Handcuffs, An Angel Day NovelOkay, folks. Here's "Chapter Four: Blood on the Sand" of the novel <i>Selling Handcuffs, An Angel Day Novel. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
If you haven't read <a href="http://tkkenyon.blogspot.com/2012/06/selling-handcuffs-angel-day-novel_28.html" target="_blank">Chapter Three: The Secret Police State, it's here</a>.<br />
<br />
If you haven't read any of the preceding chapters, start with <a href="http://tkkenyon.blogspot.com/2012/05/chapter-1-stash-house-new-version.html" target="_blank">Chapter One: The Stash House</a>.<br />
<br />
I finished the first draft about an hour ago. Whew. That was a slog. There's still a lot that needs to be done. I know of one scene that I'm going to cut, and at least two scenes to add, but I wrote what will probably be the last sentence. Yea!<br />
<br />
The fact that I finished the first draft means that I'll be posting these a lot more frequently. I was always worried that I was going to catch up to myself.<br />
<br />
This chapter includes the First Pinch, which is where we see who the Antagonist is and begin to see what they can do. We see in what ways he opposes our Protagonist and some of his weapons. In this case, the Antagonist has a really big gun.<br />
<br />
At the First Pinch, things start to get very serious for the Protagonist, our sniper chick Angel Day, and the casualties begin.<br />
<br />
As I said, I'm done with the first draft, and there appear to be nine major chapters plus inter-scenes, like the Prologue: Swan Dive that I posted a while ago.<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="Cent" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5149215936562919422" name="Chap04">Chapter Four: Blood on the Sand </a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Centered">
<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel crawled down the warm desert mountain one inch at a
time, one leg and then one arm, taking care not to rustle the thorny bushes all
around and above her more than the wind already was. <span style="background-color: white;">Pebbles grated under her
knees. Her fingers were sore from pulling herself over sharp rocks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dawn broke over the desert hills on her right, throwing
gaudy rose and orange light down into the desert valley. Cacti, bushes, and
boulders cast long navy blue shadows. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had been crawling for an hour. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Angel was a child, she had liked dawn. Her grandfather
had sung the greeting song to the sun every day, and she had joined him. She
wished she remembered the song. She could sing it in her head now, to greet the
beauty of the day, even though this day might end with death. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She hoped not. Tony had been clear: to save the SAU and her team,
this siege or whatever it was had to end with guys walking out of that house,
shaking hands with the negotiators, and stepping into cars to be driven out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, those guys in the compound down there weren’t just some
gun nuts who liked big bangs. Garden-variety gun nuts were harmless. These
suspects had already fired on Sheriff Hardigger and his deputies and killed a
horse, just for riding up and looking official. Angel didn’t like people who
killed animals, even if they were shooting at the humans. That was cruel, and
piss-poor shooting, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most importantly, these suspects had been transporting
military-grade weapons. Chances were good that that truckful had not been the
first. All sorts of weapons might be stockpiled in that cement house that squatted
in the desert. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The odds were that those suspects were hunkered down in there
for a reason. Reasons in the Arizona desert were usually bad reasons: drug
smuggling or, worse, human trafficking. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she had been in the FBI, Angel had once interrogated a
man who trafficked women for the sex trade. He had said that it was much more
lucrative to traffic people than drugs. Drugs, he could only sell once. Women,
or the occasional young man, he could sell again and again, sometimes a dozen
times a day. He had laughed about it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had made sure that asshole went to prison. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those guys, down below her on the desert basin floor, the
ones with military weapons, were probably up to something similar, and they had
to bring them in peaceably. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The best way to smoke someone out is to set something on
fire. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dawn didn’t seem peaceful to her anymore. She needed to
get into position to start sending intel back to the command post. The
negotiators needed information, any information, to begin their work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, they needed to figure out how to make contact. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thus, they needed eyes on that house. That was Angel’s job. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel crawled along the desert floor like a gliding patch of
summer fog, flattened by her ghillie suit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ghillie suit, a long burlap robe painted with ragged
black and olive stripes and then woven with bush branches, had some new foliage
on it this morning. Spring had blossomed in the desert, so yesterday after the
meetings, she and her team had topped off their suits with some gray-green Turpentine
bush, bladder sage, blue-eyed scorpion weed, and a few tiny daisy-like yellow
brittle bush flowers. Looking like the only dead spot in the blooming desert
would have given them away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While they were picking the wildflowers, Mace had driven by
and laughed at them for such a girlish pursuit. Jack had turned redder until
Angel reminded him that they, the sniper team, would be seeing action
immediately, while the assault teams would be cooling their heels, waiting,
like the wussies they were. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack had calmed down. He hadn’t really been mad. His
adrenaline had just been looking for an outlet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel knew that feeling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After they had prepped their ghillie suits and weapons for
their long hikes and crawls over the mountains ringing the house and its
clearing, Angel had given her team a subdued pep talk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is probably going to be a long haul, guys,” she had
told them, as they gathered under the Arizona sunset that fractured and burned
the sky. “Probably nothing will happen today, though the first few hours of any
operation are precarious. We need to be alert and ready, but not ready to
fight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We can’t give in to shakes or giddiness. This standoff is
going to last for days or weeks. We won’t know what is really going on until we
get eyes on the house, and even then, we won’t know much until the negotiators
do their job and we get information from inside the house.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel sighed, overcome with the beastly contradiction of it
all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Then, if we get complacent, if we slack off on surveillance
or readiness, that’s when they’ll hit us. They were trucking some serious shit
into that house: a grenade launcher and fifty-caliber ammunition. That ammo could
be for a machine gun, or it could be for a long-range sniper’s rifle. Keep your
heads down. Stay low. Don’t poke your heads up over those ridges like a
cantaloupe on a plinking ridge or they might counter-snipe you. The most
important thing is to stay safe, and then to do surveillance. Let’s not kill
anybody today, if we can help it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She told them to go out there, lie still, and wait
patiently. To be passive and quiet. To feel the zen and let their chi flow.
That adrenaline-killing pep talk would have made any football coach worth his
salt have an aneurysm. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Afterward, Jack Jordan’s frown was distressing. He pretended
to be a gung-ho cold-blooded murderer, but it was an act. If he didn’t have his
act, Angel was only moderately sure that his training would allow him to do his
job and shoot to stop. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, this operation was best approached with a cool head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grim sniper teams headed out, two by two. They would
each take a Sheriff’s car over the paved roads, then leave it and hike to their
position. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, Angel and her men were crawling through the desert to find
a protected vantage point above the compound to set up their weapons and
spotting scopes. Because this was a large operation, each sniper team was
composed of two people: a sniper and a spotter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About ten feet behind her, Hunter Yarnall, her spotter, crawled
through the desert brush and scrub under his own ghillie suit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hunter was the least capable sniper on her team, which made
him the number eight sniper, and that was why he was with her. On any other
munie sniper team, Hunter probably would have been one of the better shots. On
her team, he was their fuck-up, the goon who thought he shot just fine because
he had been born and bred in the hills of West Virginia, and everyone knows
that West Virginia mountain boys are the best natural snipers around. Why, he drawled
over and over, he could shoot the eye out of a squirrel at two hundred yards. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The problem was that they were about three-quarters of a
mile from the squat, ranch-style house, around thirteen hundred yards, and
there were no West Virginian squirrels in the Sonoran Desert. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While the legend was that Southern mountain boys made the
best snipers, Angel knew that the world’s best marksmen were technicians who
have mastered trajectory formulae, timing, and physiological discipline. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hunter was improving, though, so she had kept him on the
team. He had lost most of his hillbilly moonshine-and-beer belly in recent
months since Angel had been insisting on proper training, and she was pleased
with his progress, even if he was her slow child. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She listened for him, and occasionally heard him kick a rock
or jostle a bush, but he was doing pretty well. He was moderately good at
stalking in the desert, though he’d grown up in the Back East coal country. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She reached a small bare spot shielded by some boulders and
shimmied over to the side, next to an enormous prickly pear cactus and a shin
dagger agave plant, waiting for Hunter to catch up. There was a nice
outcropping of rock at the base of the clearing that they could use as a protective
barrier. <span style="background-color: white;">As long as they didn’t stand up and dance around, they would be protected
by the rocks and have an unobstructed view of the house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When a bushy patch of desert slithered into the clear spot
beside her, she reached over, grabbing Hunter’s arm. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She heard the slightest intake of his breath and the bushy
patch jumped a little, but certainly nothing to give them away. She set the
edge of her ghillie suit on top of his, then tented the fabric between them so
they could whisper under the cover. The ghillie suit fabric cast a heavy shadow
on them both, and Hunter’s wet blue eyes glared out from between the green and
black stripes painted on his face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel raised her fist, signaling to stop. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hunter nodded and slowly lifted the fabric in front of him,
peering down on the house, far below. He whispered, very quietly, “Way down
there, huh?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She put her finger to her lips, signaling silence, and
pointed feetward, toward their gun bags. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They both reeled in their bags that they had dragged behind
them, tethered to their ankles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had only brought her fifty-caliber long-range sniping
rifle, because she sure as heck wasn’t going to drag two bags though the desert
just in case she got close enough to use her .308. The fifty-caliber Barrett
M82A1 rifle was considered an anti-materiel weapon because one round will punch
a fist-sized hole through the engine block of any vehicle, but it’s an
excellent sniping rifle, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unless those guys had a fully armored tank in there, Angel
could shoot to stop anything that they could roll out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She doubted they had a fully armored tank in there. She
might be facing anything short of a tank, but probably not a tank. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first thing that she pulled out of her drag bag was the
spotting scope because she wanted to lay eyeballs on that house down there
before she even set up her gun. From under the cover of her ghillie suit, she unfolded
the bipod legs of her spotting scope, set them on the rocks in front of them,
and gingerly pushed the scope’s turret out so that the fabric still rested on
it, shading the lens from the sun that might flash on the glass. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun had risen over the mountains surrounding the small
valley, and bright white sunlight poured over the hills and down. The shadows
were still long as the sunlight rolled over the beige and dusty green valley
floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel blinked at the brightness. Her eyes had become
accustomed to the shadow of the ghillie suit, and the sunlight hurt her eyes.
She squinted to cut the glare as she surveyed the high desert and the house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The blue-painted house was still. Dark shades were drawn
across the windows. It was possible that, after Sheriff Hardigger and the horse
Giant Mark were shot last night, everyone in the house bugged out and gone to
ground. Angel sure as heck wouldn’t have waited for the authorities to come
back with reinforcements, if she were inclined to be on the other side of the
law. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She didn’t think like that often. She understood basic
criminal psychology, but she did not allow herself of fantasize about crossing
over to the dark side, to use the old metaphor. Some of her relatives were on
the wrong side in various capacities. It was one of the hazards of living near
the Border: too many bad opportunities. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was just after six o’clock in the morning, and the house
was quiet. Few criminals were early risers, in Angel’s experience. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The air conditioner, a cube on the roof of the house,
hummed. The air-conditioned house was probably sealed up, and the air
conditioner itself would muffle any little noise from the outside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She leaned over to Hunter. “The AC is on. We can whisper.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Above her, Angel’s ghillie suit began to heat in the sun.
Even though it was loosely woven burlap, it trapped the desert heat like a wool
blanket. Hunter and Angel had each packed in several canteens of water, but it
was going to be a hot, thirsty day of laying prone in the desert. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She dragged up and assembled her sniper rifle, marrying the
upper receiver to the lower one, just in case, but she stayed on the spotting
scope for its larger field of view. She kept the long rifle beside her, under
the ghillie suit. Its hard stock and barrel nudged her hip. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beside her, Hunter set up his spotting scope and trained it
down the mountain at the house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She used the laser range-finder on the spotting scope to
lase the house. They were thirteen hundred and five yards from the house’s
corner. She turned the dial of her Barrett Optical Ranging System until the
screen read 1305. The BORS was a tiny ballistics computer mounted on top of her
rifle scope and coupled to the elevation knob. The BORS compensated for
temperature, change in barometric pressure, and angled uphill or downhill. It
even determined if the rifle was level or canted to the side. Once set, it
accessed thousands of preprogrammed ballistics tables to correct her shot. <span style="background-color: white;">Basically,
it was a miracle that allowed her to shoot to stop faster than ever.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the range dialed in, she was set to kill anything down
there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She activated her radio. “Day to Command Post. Side one bravo
sniper team is in position,” she whispered. “Thirteen hundred and five yards
off the one-two corner, about one-third of the way down the north slope of the south-side
mountain. Break.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An unfamiliar male voice said over the radio, “Received,
side one bravo sniper team in position. Rules of engagement are at compromised
authority. Snipers, acknowledge. Break.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Copy. Side one sniper team acknowledges rules of engagement
are at compromised authority. Ready with intel on the house.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Copy. Go ahead.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel wondered who the guy at the command post was. Probably
someone from Mesa or one of the Southern Arizona deputies. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She focused her spotting scope on the first window. Dark
iron bars were installed over the glass that reflected the glowing orange
sunrise. Her crosshairs cut the window into four quadrants. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel whispered into the radio, “The house is a one-story,
ranch-style house. Five openings on the ‘one’ side,” Angel said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To label the sides of a house for intel or assaults, the
sides of the house are numbered clockwise around the house. The side with the
front door is designated as side one. Floors, if more than one, would be
numbered vertically, but this ranch house was only one story. Windows and doors
are numbered from the left side of the building to the right. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel began with the leftmost window on the front of the
house. “Metal security bars cover all the windows on side one. Window
one-one-one looks like a bedroom window, dark blinds closed, no lights or
movement.” She adjusted the spotting scope to zoom in on the bars. “There
appear to be hinges on the right side of the metal security bars. They’re
probably the kind that can be unlatched from inside the house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Window one-one-two,” Angel continued, which meant side one,
floor one, opening number two, “also appears to be a bedroom, dark blinds
closed, no movement. Metal security bars with, again, hinges on the right-hand
side. Window one-one-three is the same: bedroom, dark blinds closed, no
movement, and metal security bars with hinges on the right side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Opening one-one-four is the front door. It’s a double door,
so there are two doors, dark in color like painted wood or metal.” She zoomed
the optics of the spotting scope to inspect the crack where the door met the
wall. “Hinges are inside the door, so the front doors swing inward.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She moved to look at the doorknob. The crosshairs settled on
the keyhole. “The keyhole is on the left door, so that’s probably the primary
door. One deadbolt lock, about eighteen inches above the doorknob on the
left-side door, also suggest that the left-side door is the primary one.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beside her, Hunter leaned toward her and whispered, “Two
deadbolts. One below the knob.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel shifted the magnified circle of bright sunlight down
and gave Hunter a thumbs-up for his call. “Another deadbolt, also on the
left-side door, is about eighteen inches below the doorknob, for a total of two
deadbolts. Again, two deadbolt locks, one above and one below the doorknob. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Window one-one-five is larger, about four feet wide by
three feet high, and appears to be a living room window. Again, dark blinds and
no movement.” She zoomed and inspected every side of the window, but the metal security
bars all ended in bolts anchored into the concrete, not hinges. “There are
metal security bars on the one-one-five window, but there appear to be no
hinges on these bars. The one-one-five metal security bars do not appear to
open in any direction. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Conclusion: no movement at this time. Side one bravo sniper
team, break,” Angel said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Command post copies, side one sniper team,” the man said
over the radio. “Happy hunting. Break.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Side one sniper team to command post, thanks. Break.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The command post was an air-conditioned recreational vehicle
set up almost two miles away on a paved road. The enormous batteries could run the
RV for ten hours, but since it was so far away, they had probably broken out
the generator, so it could run indefinitely. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They listened to the other three sniper teams report in and
describe the compound. The sliding-glass arcadia door on side three, opposite
their living room window, had a sliding, metal-barred security door installed
over it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every opening to the house was barred, ready to be defended.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Four vehicles were parked on side four: two sedans and two
pick-up trucks, doubtlessly driven down the dirt road despite the high fire
danger. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel didn’t like this situation at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If the suspects had evacuated the house after they shot at
Sheriff Hardigger last night, they would have taken the cars and probably
turned off the air conditioning and generators. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The barricaded cement house, cleared of brush for a hundred
yards all around, looked like it had been prepped for military siege. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This might end very, very badly. Ruby Ridge bad. Waco bad. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the sides of the house, outbuildings appeared to house a
generator and fuel storage tanks, as snipers reported their assumptions from
the power lines leading to the house and fuel ports sticking through the walls.
If the standoff went on for a while, they could cut the power lines into the
house, which meant that the house would get very hot, very fast. It might reach
a hundred and fifty degrees within a day, hot enough to dry beef jerky. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cutting the power lines might provoke the suspects to fight
for their lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If there was a firefight, they would have to angle the lines
of fire to avoid the fuel tanks. There was thought to be a propane tank in one
of the sheds. A bullet, ripping though it, would explode the tank with the
force of a small nuclear bomb. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was not a usual standoff, but it had one thing in
common with all standoffs: time. Lots of time. Angel settled in for a long, hot
day of scanning the windows with Hunter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hot sunlight settled on the ghillie suit on her back. The
burlap was getting hot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heat didn’t impress Angel. Growing up in southern Arizona had
toughened her up for heat, snakes, and scorpions. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“All right, Hunter,” she whispered. “You ready?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yep,” he whispered back. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Here we go. One-one-one, clear.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-one, clear,” he repeated. His West Virginia drawl
drew “clear” out to two syllables, like <i>clee-uh</i>.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They moved on to the one-one-two window, cleared it, and so
on, and they cycled through the openings on their side of the building again
and again, watching for any movement to radio back to the command post. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The temperature in their makeshift tent rose, and sweat
trickled down Angel’s back. The dirt and sand under them, once night-time cool,
warmed from their body heat and the hot air. It was early May, which meant that
the daytime temperatures in Phoenix would be over a hundred degrees. Out in the
southern deserts, they would be ten or fifteen degrees cooler, probably eighty-five
to ninety. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In August, the air out here would feel like sticking your
head in a hot oven. Angel hoped the standoff didn’t last through the summer.
They would have to cycle teams back to Phoenix, because Phoenix needed SWAT
teams on standby. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That would reduce the number of teams out here, which meant
that teams might need to stand twelve-hour shifts instead of eight-hour ones. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could be worse. Angel had spent three days pinned down in an
African siege one time, but she didn’t like to think about those times anymore.
Tonight, she would sleep in a nice, cheap motel with clean sheets. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After scrolling through each of the openings on their side
of the house in turn, constantly, for two hours and reporting and confirming
the lack of any action among themselves and to the command post, Hunter
mentioned to Angel, “The guys said that we-all are going hunting for
rattlesnake eggs after work tonight.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-three, clear,” Angel whispered. Her voice was
throaty with heat and thirst. She wasn’t sure she had heard Hunter correctly. “Rattlesnake
eggs?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-three, clear,” Hunter said. “Yep. They said it’s a
local delicacy, that they taste jus’ like chicken eggs, but they’ve got massive
amounts of protein that will really bulk ya up.” Hunter was proud of his better
physique, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-four, clear. Who told you this, Hunter?” Angel
didn’t like practical jokes. Too often, they weren’t funny, just mean. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-four, clear. Jack and Udall. Why?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-five, clear. Hunter, there’s no such thing as
rattlesnake eggs. Rattlesnakes give birth live baby snakes.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-five, clear. So it’s all a snipe hunt, then?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So to speak, yes, the snipers are sending you on a snipe
hunt. Sorry about that. They can be jackasses. One-one-one, clear.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-one, clear. I jus’ feel stupid for falling for it.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t. Happens to everybody. One-one-two window is clear.
When we get back, tell them that before you can go rattlesnake egg hunting, I
need them to fill out an ID-ten-T form, pronto.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-two, clear. What’s that?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Spell it out. Window one-one-three, clear.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-three, clear.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel heard him mutter under his breath between the next
couple of confirmations. “Oh, I get it. I-D-1-0-T. ‘Idiot.’ That’s funny.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They’ll lay off. Don’t let them get under your skin.
One-one-one, clear.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-one, clear,” he confirmed. “I guess I have to take
it because I’m number eight.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-two, clear. That better not be the reason. We don’t
need that kind of junior-high-mean-girl shit on this team. I’ll talk to them.” Hunter
was a decent sniper. A little good-natured hazing for new guys, she could
handle. She sure as hell wasn’t going to put up with her team bullying the weak
link. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-two, clear. Nah. Don’t. I’ll make sure they run
around good, trying to find the ID-ten-T form.” He grinned. His striped
greasepaint blended in with the deep shadow of their ghillie suit hide, and his
crooked teeth shined white like the Cheshire Cat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s a boy. Tell them Sheriff Hardigger personally keeps
the ID-10-T forms.” Her Uncle David had no patience for fools. Angel grinned at
Hunter and felt a smear of green greasepaint on her teeth. She licked off the
bitter paint and returned to peer through the telescopic sight installed on her
gun. <span style="background-color: white;">“One-one-three, clear.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-three, clear,” he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-four, clear.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-four, clear.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One-one-five, did you see that?” she asked. One-one-five
was the picture window in the living room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yep,” Hunter said. “The blinds moved to the side for a
minute. I think somebody’s home.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel keyed her radio mic. “Command Post, this is sniper
team one. Window one-one-five, the blinds moved. Somebody’s home.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was eight-thirty in the morning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Command Post to sniper team one. You sure about that?
Break.” The man she didn’t know was still in the command post. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sniper team one,” Angel confirmed. “Both team members
confirm movement of blinds at window one-one-five.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Copy that, sniper team one.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have the negotiators established contact yet?” Angel asked.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” the man said. “Break.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After another three hours of watching the house that did
absolutely nothing, Angel made the call to the sniper teams to rotate
observation. One person would watch the house for two hours while the other
team member rested, then they switched. Constant surveillance was too tiring
for even the best-trained snipers and led to eye strain. If anything happened,
the sniper teams would return to the spotter-sniper combination. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, men,” she said, “go to rotation. Remember: readiness,
not trigger-happiness.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel took the first shift, while Hunter lay under his
ghillie suit, restless. Adrenaline was getting the better of him, and Angel
whispered to him to keep him from moving around too much. Though a breeze
riffled the bushes around them, someone familiar with these mountains, as those
suspects down there doubtlessly were, would notice motion that wasn’t quite
right. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two hours later, she tapped Hunter to wake him up. Hunter
jumped a little when she touched him, but he didn’t pop up above their blind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel waited while he assembled his sniping rifle and
stabilized it on the rocky outcropping. He lay prone but for his back muscles
holding up his torso like an angry cobra. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She napped for most of her two hours off, which was good for
restoring concentration and resting one’s eyes. She slept lightly, curled
around her gun, more dozing than dreaming. If anything had happened, anything
at all, she could have lifted her head under the ghillie suit, trained her
rifle on the right place, and fired with all the drama of swatting an alarm
clock. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead, nothing happened. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was the way of most standoffs: a whole lot of nothing
and waiting, and then an unanticipated flash that meant death. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hunter laid down to rest his eyes. “Nada,” he whispered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had settled in to watch. For an hour, she scanned each
opening in turn through the circled cross on her gun’s scope, silently chanting
to herself, <i>One-one-one, clear;
one-one-two, clear.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Window one-one-three was not clear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dark blind had been raised to the top of the window. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Behind the metal security bars, the metal frame slid to the
right as glass opened. Diaphanous white fabric, a curtain, drifted in the
breeze behind the glass. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She whispered into her radio, “Sniper team one to command
post. Window one-one-three is opening.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The same strange male voice said, “Command post to sniper
team one. We copy. ” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She reached over and shook Hunter’s arm hard under their
ghillie suit blanket. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hunter sat straight up, becoming a tall tent pole under the
bushy burlap. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ghillie suit’s fabric withdrew around Angel like a
receding wave, exposing two feet of the sniping rifle’s long barrel, from the
middle all the way to the flattened muzzle brake at the end that reminded Angel
of a rattlesnake’s bulbous, poisonous head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel grabbed her gun’s stock, applied her finger to the
trigger, and stayed on her scope, watching that curtain, even though Hunter had
exposed most of her rifle and damn near blinded her in the sunlight. She
blinked tears out of her sun-stung eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her trigger finger coiled, pulling the trigger to within a
hair’s breadth of the break, where the gun would fire. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The curtain puffed toward them, and Angel saw a burnt starburst
in the fabric. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Gun,” she said both into the radio and to Hunter as the
sound of the shot cracked through the air and echoed off the stony mountains
around them. “Hunter, get down.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The breath of a bullet’s passing feathered her face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hunter fell down, backward, the wrong way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ghillie suit fabric pulled back farther, exposing more
of Angel’s gun. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hunter twitched. He gurgled. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Damn it, he’d been hit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel was as calm as a shark floating in deep water, even
though Hunter might be dying behind her, as she prepared to return fire at the
shooter below. She stilled her breath, quieted her mind, and curled her finger
to release the bullet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Through her scope, she watched the bullet’s vapor trail
burrow through the air. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her round passed through the burnt hole in the curtain, and
the fabric fluttered backward. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shots fired,” Angel whispered into her microphone. “Shots
returned under compromised authority.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Were the shots fired at you?” the command post asked. “Are
you sure?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Behind Angel, Hunter gasped and flinched. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She watched window one-one-three, staring at its iron bars
and glaring glass. “Hunter? Hunter!” she whispered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ghillie suit fabric all around her vibrated, and Angel
feared the worst for Hunter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The glass in window one-one-three slowly closed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hunter? Are you okay?” she whispered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No answer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She scanned the other openings, then rotated through them
again, checking, but there was no movement at any of the windows. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was dangerous, and Angel knew it was stupidly dangerous
and that she shouldn’t do it because she should stay on the gun to protect
herself and Hunter from more gunshots, but she took her hands off her weapon
and retreated under the ghillie suit fabric to check on Hunter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She lifted the fabric at the back to let some sunlight in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bullet, a very large round, had penetrated the back of
Hunter’s skull when he had sat up and had blown out his face. His head looked
like someone had smashed him from behind with a bowling ball. Gore stained the
back of the ghillie suit and the desert behind them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grief pierced her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel keyed her radio. “Officer down,” she whispered.
“Hunter’s been hit. I need medical assistance and extraction.” Damn it, she
should have protected him. He was her number eight. Her chest hurt with grief
and guilt. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’re coming,” the man’s voice on the radio said. “How the
hell did they hit you?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only weapon that could explode a man’s head at thirteen
hundred yards and uphill was a fifty-caliber sniper rifle, just like her own.
“We were counter-sniped,” she whispered into the radio. <span style="background-color: white;">“Hunter sat up, and
they got him. Bravo team,” she said to her Phoenix team, all of whom were on
the mountains around the house. “They have a fifty-caliber sniping rifle. Take
cover.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is he okay?” the unknown man in the command post asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Fuck, no,</i> he’s
not okay.” Hunter bled out his neck and the ragged crescent that was the
remnant of his head. Angel laid her hand on his back, wanting to comfort his
spirit, if it was still there. She wanted to put his head back together, to make
it stop. Damn it, she should have protected him better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is he alive?” the man on the radio asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel didn’t want to say it. She wanted a miracle to put his
head back together, but even if they had immediately been in a hospital, she
knew that he couldn’t survive this. His body twitched terribly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” she said.
“He’s already gone.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The gunman in the house might be aiming again. Angel was
lying flat below the rocks they’d used as a blind, but a fifty-caliber could
blow through those rocks with a few shots and take her out, too. <span style="background-color: white;">She flipped
around and surveyed the house through the black tunnel of her gun’s telescopic
sight again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The radio crackled again, and the man asked, “Can you get
him over the ridge?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sure as hell not leaving him here.” She cleared each
window, all closed and motionless. The dark blinds had been lowered on
one-one-three, obscuring the curtain and its burnt bullet hole. It looked as
innocent as the other closed windows. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is Angel Day I’m talking to, right?” the man on the
radio said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes.” She stared at the house in the scope’s bright circle,
relentlessly checking each window and the double door for any movement. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You save yourself if you need to, all right? If Hunter is
gone, you get out alive.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was ridiculous. “I’m not leaving Hunter on this
mountain. He has a family.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Officer Day, you need to come out,” the man said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Make sure you have a medical team and extraction on the
other side of this ridge. I’ll be over the ridge soon. Bravo team,” she called out
their Phoenix call sign. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stopped and considered what to tell her team. She wanted
to open fire on that evil, closed-up house, to use her fifty caliber to punch
holes in the walls and destroy everyone in there. If she told Bravo team to
avenge Hunter, and her gut desperately wanted to meet violence with greater
violence, this standoff would turn into a firefight, and that very good sniper
down there with a very big gun might kill someone else on her team. He had shot
Hunter with a cold barrel on the first shot, cold zero, and darn near
perfectly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By killing Hunter, those suspects down there had condemned
themselves. Angel was sure that Mace’s assault teams had just been given the
go-ahead to plan a raid that was expected to end in a bloodbath. If anyone came
out alive, it would be a miracle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel was getting worked up. She took a breath to ice her
nerves because, if she saw anything in one of those windows move—<i>one-one-one, clear; one-one-two, clear</i>—she
had to be ready to return fire, calmly, coldly. At this distance, an adrenaline
quiver would magnify and cause her to miss by a foot or more. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She inhaled again, and let it out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her gaze over the rock at the house became dead calm. She
was a cloud of death hovering on the side of the mountain, ready to puff a
poisonous breath on anyone she saw in the house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Bravo team,” she said. Her voice was normal, almost robotic
in its precision. She told her team to get ready to cut down the bastards in
that house, to cold-bloodedly murder them all. “Increase protective cover in
your positions or move to more fortified positions. Big rocks are good. The shooter
in the house has a large-caliber sniping weapon, probably a fifty-caliber. They
might be prepared for World War Three, down there. The call to raise the rules
of engagement to shot of opportunity should come soon, so be ready for it. Keep
your crosshairs on those targets. Anyone in that house will be fair game.
Sniper team one, break.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Radios clicked in response like quiet applause in her
earpiece. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within her sniper team, empty clicking meant something
different than among the rest of the police force. In her team, the clicking
was the acknowledgement of a sniper in position, coiled around his long weapon,
silently staring at their target. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They had no signal that meant you had been abandoned by your
fellow officers. They didn’t need one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel tucked her radio earpiece firmly into her ear. If
other sniper teams saw anything happening with the house, like windows opening
and gun barrels sticking out, she wanted to hear them report it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel considered weight. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She left Hunter’s gun, spotting scope, and gear in the
clearing, tucked up against the rocks. Her own gun and scope, she had to take,
so she disassembled the gun in less than one minute and packed it into her drag
bag. She wouldn’t be coming back to this clearing, so she needed them. She
teased the firing pin out of Hunter’s rifle and pocketed it, just in case the
bastards from the house decided to scavenge some weapons. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In her ear, the man in the command post said, “Angel, Mason
Young is on his way to the ridge. He says he going to climb down to extract
you.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
God damn it. Mace had kids, lots of kids. She was going to
have enough trouble dragging Hunter over the ridge without having to make the
decision whether to drag out Hunter’s dead body or Mace’s still-twitching one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Negative,” she replied. “This is a sniper operation. Tell
Mace to keep his ass on the other side of the peak. The suspects have a
fifty-caliber sniping rifle, and they’re good. They will kill him. Tell him he
sucks at infiltration.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That would piss him off, but it might talk some sense into
his thick head. Mace had learned to snipe and stalk in his Delta Force days,
but those days were long ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel shimmied around under the ghillie suits and discarded
everything that wasn’t her rifle and spotting scope. Canteens, ammunition, a
couple MREs, protein bars, even Hunter’s boots, all these she piled against the
rocks at the base of their hide. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She kept stopping to scan the house again, but the windows
stayed shut. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, she gently turned Hunter’s body to face downhill. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hunter had been an average-sized man, four inches shorter
than Angel, and weighed around a hundred and eighty pounds. She strapped her
gun bag to her ankle to drag it behind her, then turned for one last survey of
the house through her spotting scope. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The one-one-one window was shut and the blinds were down. <i>Clear.</i> She scanned through the other
openings. All were closed and motionless. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had to move soon, before the windows opened again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun was getting warmer, and Hunter had lain still for
several minutes. God, she missed him already. He was a good man, and he had
been steadily improving. He was just too jumpy, sitting up like that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She laid down beside Hunter with her head near his feet and rocked
him onto her back, beneath the cloak of her ghillie suit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His weight on her back was heavy, but she was heavily
muscled and determined to get him out of there. His feet, in socks, rested on
her shoulders. She tied his webbed belt strap around his ankles and then tied
that to her own belt in front so it wouldn’t choke her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was less than a fifty yards to the ridge of the mountain
line, and then she would be over and out of the sniper’s field of fire. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She whispered, “Command post, this sniper team one. I am
beginning exfiltration.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man who she didn’t know was still on the radio. “Mason
Young insisted on going to your location. He and his team are currently on the
back of the mountain and, when they get to the ridge line, will position
themselves to lay down cover fire, if needed.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So Mace was on his way. She already felt safer, knowing he
was coming for her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said, “Tell them not to come over. And tell them to keep
their heads down. That’s how the suspects sniped Hunter. He stuck his head up,
and they got him.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I will relay that,” the man said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m coming out now.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Waiting for Mason Young’s team to establish their positions
would be a better alternative.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The house’s windows were closed. Mace wasn’t in danger yet. She
said, “I’m exfiltrating now.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Our prayers are with you, Angel. May God be with you.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks.” She kind of liked the idea that there might be a
circle of men on bended knees asking for divine intervention for her, but she
wished that, instead, there was a line of men on the ridge to protect her with
firepower, though she didn’t want Mace to be in danger. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sighed. <i>Damn it
all.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel began to crawl. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-48856925823203063112012-07-07T07:43:00.000-07:002012-07-07T07:43:48.295-07:00Random Name GeneratorsI've mentioned a couple of times on Twitter lately that, if you know you're going to have to mass murder a bunch of characters, start with <i>a lot </i>of characters so you have some to choose from and some left over afterward.<br />
<br />
But how do you name <i>lots </i>of characters?<br />
<br />
Random name generators!<br />
<br />
Some reasons to use random name generators:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Easier on your brain. </li>
<li>Kinda fun. </li>
<li>Easy to deliberately populate your book with a good mix of ethnicities and backgrounds. </li>
<li>Hides your "naming tics," like some authors <i>without knowing it</i> name their characters only sweeping, romantic names, or names that only begin with the letters A-G, etc. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Some of my favorites: </span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.behindthename.com/random/" target="_blank">Behind The Name</a> : One of my favorites. Includes first. middle, and last names, plus you can restrict the search by gender, by many, many ethnicities (Maori, Catalan, Provencal, Galician, Breten, Frisian, Czech, and Slovak, to name a few), and/or by other categories. Other categories include Goth (excellent for vampyres,) Greek myth, Hinduism, Ancient Celtic, Biblical, Literary, Kreatyve, Hillbilly, Hippy, and Transformer. Includes Native American names that are <i>real </i>names, <b>not </b>like "Little Foot Redfeather" or "Dances With Wolves." Does not have a Mexican ethnicity, which is odd. Also only gives you one name at a time.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.atlantagamer.org/iGM/RandomNames/index.php" target="_blank">Ultimate Random Name Generator</a> : Another favorite. Can restrict search by gender and a list of some ethnicities, including Mexican. Gives you a long list of names rather than one at a time.<br />
<br />
Let's face it, you don't have to carefully craft the names of minor characters, especially when they're just going to all die horribly in Chapter 7.<br />
<br />
TK Kenyon<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-65643948993693618392012-06-28T04:00:00.000-07:002012-07-07T07:44:36.457-07:00Selling Handcuffs, An Angel Day Novel. Chapter Three The Secret Police Stat<span style="text-align: left;">This is the third chapter, after the Background/SetUp chapter, which is <a href="http://tkkenyon.blogspot.com/2012/06/selling-handcuffs-angel-day-novel.html" target="_blank">Chapter Two: The Bat Cave</a>. If you haven't read that one yet, I'll leave it up a little while longer. </span>
<br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="text-align: left;">If you haven't read Chapter One, an Ice Monster! scene, you can</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><a href="http://tkkenyon.blogspot.com/2012/05/chapter-1-stash-house-new-version.html" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">click here to read it now</a><span style="text-align: left;">. It'll be posted for one more week, but then it will go away. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="text-align: left;">As always, these blog posts are rough drafts. I appreciate your comments a lot but, just so you know, this is pretty much how the novel comes out of my head, although I do clean up the commas. This prose will go through another very rigorous draft plus polishing before it sees the light of day. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span><br />
<br />
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
The first 25% of your novel or story should set up your main character and show them as they are, with all their flaws and all their virtues. It should show the relationships that they have in place and introduce many of the major characters.<br />
<br />
This chapter includes the start of the Big Plotline that will stretch over several of the novels in this series, as well as the start of this novel's Plotline. So far, this is a routine call-out for Angel, but that will change in the next couple of chapters. I'll probably have to shorten this chapter, mainly by line-edits, to get to the meat sooner.<br />
<br />
Also, Angel convinces Tony of a lot of stuff during their conversation. I think she'll probably have to do more badly in this scene, because she still relies on violence to solve her problems. She's too logical and negotiates too much, now. She should do this badly, perhaps even make the situation worse, and she should consider all the violent ways that she could solve this problem, none of which will work, of course. This will probably be a major change in the second draft.<br />
<br />
I will probably need to add some more characters to Bravo Team, the Phoenix PD's sniper team, and Alpha Team, the Phoenix PD's assault team, but I don't want to overwhelm the reader with 30 minor characters right at the beginning, either. A tip to other authors: when you're writing a book with a high body count, start with a lot of characters so you still have some left after the bloodbath. </div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white;">If you sign up for email updates (over there on the right side bar), you'll get an update when I post Chapter Four: Blood on the Sand.</span></div>
<div class="Centered">
<br />
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5149215936562919422" name="Chap03">Chapter Three: The Secret Police State </a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5149215936562919422" name="Chap03"><br /></a></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5149215936562919422" name="Chap03"></a></div>
<a name='more'></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5149215936562919422" name="Chap03"><br /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning, Angel was tidying up her paperwork in the
Bat Cave even though theoretically she was not supposed to be in the office
because she was on leave after the shooting but sometimes, the paperwork just
needed to be done. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was glad that she had come in. Every member of the SAU,
all of her sniper team and Mace’s much larger entry and assault team, had
rotated through her cubicle and solemnly asked Angel if she was all right after
the trauma of a shooting, assured her of their support in any upcoming grand
jury hearings or civil court cases, and then grinned and congratulated her.
Everyone had wanted that guy down on the ground. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack Jordan, a ruddy redhead with an uncommon resemblance to
a good-natured red angus bull, complained, “You took my shot. I had him in my
sights. You would think that you would at least share a sync’d shot.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry about that, Jack. The suspect was firing on the police
vehicles, so I took the shot.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack nodded. “It was a nice shot, but you owe me beer for
leaving me out of it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Deal,” Angel said. She liked watching sports with Jack. “After
work? The Que?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Deal,” Jack said. Having assured himself a pint, he trotted
back to his desk to finish up his own paperwork. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel felt like herself again, the avenging Angel of Death,
not a painted-up, well-behaved heifer ready to be auctioned off to a
pharmacist. She felt good enough to kill something. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kurt Blaze of Alpha Team was the next guy up. He grinned,
and his even, white teeth were a shining crescent in his golden skin. His hair
was two shades lighter gold than his skin. Even his eyes were hazel. He nearly
sparkled, if you like that sort of thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel knew that Kurt was single, and he knew she was single,
and they had been doing this slow dance around each other for a year now. Kurt
kept running through girlfriends, like he always needed to have a woman on the
line. Angel didn’t poach, so unless he was thoroughly unattached, she wasn’t
going to suggest they have a drink. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel sighed. She had more drinks with Jack, who was
married, than with Kurt, who was not. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was just wrong. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kurt said, “Nice shot.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks, Kurt. How are you?” Angel leaned back in her chair.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fine. Fine.” He rested his arm on the cubicle back and
looked out into the office, over the walls. “I should take you out for a drink,
for saving Alpha Team the trouble of going into that stash house.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Should you?” Angel smiled, trying to be welcoming but not
stupidly enthusiastic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was back to feeling like a heifer for sale again. Damn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah,” Kurt said, as if this were a stroke of genius
instead of their most common conversation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, the machinations that are seduction. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She wanted to ask about Kurt’s relationship status, but for
once, she let it go. It was just a drink, and they hadn’t even decided when to
go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About ten o’clock, over her team’s chatter and the clanks of
weapons being cleaned, she barely heard Tony’s voice calling from the doorway. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony yelled, “Angel! Cuz! You in there?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace had warned her yesterday that Tony was looking to talk
to her, and Tony had texted her twice, trying to schedule a meeting though
their phone apps. “Yep! You finally here?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Had to do the due diligence,” Tony said. His voice was
closer. “Walk and talk?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sure.” She slid her tablet in a desk drawer. Tony was hyper
as well as being an extrovert. He would have made a terrible sniper, though he
was a tolerably good shot. They had learned how to shoot together, first from
Angel’s dad, then by figuring it out and hunting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel and Tony walked into the hallway and talked over the
heads of the other police officers. For a few weeks, the two cousins had been
nicknamed Gigantodum and Gigantodee because Angel was six feet tall in socks,
and Tony was three inches taller. German and Comanche stock made for black-haired,
black-eyed, very tall cousins. Those Giganto- nicknames had faded after Angel’s
moniker “Angel of Death” had followed her from the FBI, and Tony was always the
Chief. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel started, “You were down at the scene for a while
yesterday.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Press,” Tony said. “I had to corral the press while the
technicians did their jobs.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah, the fourth estate.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The whole thing was played out live on Channel 17. No seven
second delay, so they broadcast that bastard’s head exploding.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel did not like her job to be shown on television. It
glorified violence, which she swore made her job more frequent. She said, “That
is unfortunate.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Quite. Come on in, Cuz.” Tony opened the door to his
office. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His desk was neat, but not obsessively so. His matte black
nameplate read only, <i>Anthony Indio</i>.
He didn’t flaunt his title. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pictures above his desk showed Tony shaking hands with
most of Arizona’s ranking politicians and a few national-level ones from the
last decade. In the early ones, Tony was dressed in a patrol uniform. For the
recent ones, Tony wore nice, middle-of-the-road suits. He didn’t dress in cheap
suits from cheap department stores, but he didn’t go nuts and buy tailored,
designer threads, either. <span style="background-color: white;">He had a family to support. Tony called the
collection of photos his “Impress-the-Press” wall.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had plenty of photos of herself in such compromising
handshake positions with politicians, including with two Presidents and lots of
Senators taken after particularly important or secret ops with the FBI, but she
didn’t display them. She didn’t have to impress the press, yet another benefit
of working for a living. Tony had asked her for her pictures for the press
room, but she’d declined. The SWAT combat uniform hid her face, and she liked
her face hidden. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony shut his office door and sat in one of the two
comfortable chairs in front of his desk. He tossed the morning newspaper on his
desk. “You made the front page.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel looked quickly at the paper because she didn’t want
her own face all over the newspaper, but it was just a grainy telephoto picture
of the suspect with a pink dandelion puff of blood and brain where his head
should have been. It was gruesome, even so grayed out from the long distance.
She felt squeamish for a second, but the suspect had really tried to kill that
poor woman hostage. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The headline read: <i>Hostage
Standoff Ends with Dead Suspect. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She scanned the first paragraph, but it only identified “a
police sniper” had shot the suspect, and her name wasn’t in there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could have been worse, Angel surmised. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, the grand jury would be convened soon. That could
always leak her name. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Afterward,” Tony said, “that reporter from Channel 17 was
all over me, hopped up over the ‘increasing militarization of the police.’ He
says that he has written a book, <i>The
Secret Police State,—</i>don’t you love that God damn title—and has a New York
publisher and all that crap. We’re going to have a goat rope around here when
it comes out next fall. He was taking pictures of the personnel carriers and Mason’s
assault team. He got that still picture of that bastard’s head exploding when
you hit him. Lovely spray. Looked like CGI. He said he can use it for the book’s
publicity. Great shot, by the way, Cuz.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks, Cuz.” Angel took the compliment but was under no
illusions about the greatness of the shot. It had been an ordinary shot. She
was glad that the round had hit so neatly and not exited and thus had not hit
anyone else, but it wasn’t from a particularly long distance, or in a high
wind, or anything extraordinary. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, yeah, I forgot.” Tony looked solemn. “Are you all right
after such a traumatic event?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, Tony.” She smiled at him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The department stands behind you, and there are department
and union resources at your disposal should you need any kind of emotional
support. Did I say all this yesterday?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, we didn’t have time to talk yesterday.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, okay. We have this speech so often. Where was I? Oh,
yeah. And you are now on paid administrative leave with full benefits until the
grand jury hearing, but you are requested to assist in the reenactment for the
internal affairs investigation.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel’s rotating hand gesture was dismissive and suggested
that Tony could wrap up his canned speech because they both knew it all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, okay,” Tony said. “but seriously, nice shot.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, thanks.” She had talked about that shot more than
enough, and it was time to move on to other topics. “So this guy’s book is a
problem.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah. He says that we’re using military equipment,
vehicles, and tactics, that sort of thing. Of course we are. Because they work.
This is between you and me, right, Cuz?” Tony asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony had called her “Cuz” at least five times in the last
few minutes. Anytime Tony reinforced their familial relationship that much,
something was up. Their family was an alliance between the pioneer ranchers and
the native Apaches, and they had deep and wide roots in Arizona, especially
Southern Arizona, near the border with Mexico. Those roots spouted up saplings
on both sides of the law, too. There was a brittle photograph of one of their
Great Aunts, as a child, sitting on Poncho Villa’s lap, presumably during his
retirement from being a revolutionary but before his reentry into Mexican
politics that got him assassinated. Border politics are brutal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel sat in the other chair. “Sure, Cuz,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This book is going to be a problem. That’s why I was so
late. I’ve been sitting in my car in a parking garage with the air conditioning
running. I called Bill Hunt,” the Mayor of Phoenix and another family friend,
“and told him about the book. He called around. He said that there’s a lot of
push behind it. Presidents blurbing it. Big media push. It’s going to be all
over the news channels. It’s going to launch a grenade into Border politics. Bill
said to start preparing now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So we should hide the grenade launchers?” Angel joked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony’s grimace was distressed. “Angel, Cuz, I’m serious. When
that book comes out, this department needs to look like a prim and pristine
model of community policing, because that book’s portrayal of ADPS and city
police departments is going to make that Sheriff of ours look like a poster boy
for moderation. Arizona is going to become an abbreviation for racism.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But we’re not profiling or doing anything racist, right?”
Angel felt that she needed to confirm that point, and that saddened her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That guy you killed yesterday was Chicano.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I didn’t go looking for someone to shoot,” Angel said. “That
guy taped a shotgun to a woman’s neck and was counting down. There were fifty-eight
people in the stash house, mostly women and kids. The toilets had overflowed
days ago. The bastard had turned off the air conditioning. It was a hundred and
thirty degrees in there. No water, no food. I’m surprised they weren’t dead.
They would have been, soon. The kids would have died first.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony pursed his lips, as he always did just before he
phrased something delicately. “There are people who will say that you wouldn’t
have shot him if he were white.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Evidently, that was the most delicate way to phrase that
nasty thought. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel leaned forward. “Shall we suggest that I wouldn’t have
fired if <i>I</i> were white, Tony?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony appraised her coolly. “No. We shouldn’t talk about that
at all.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their mutual great-grandfather had ridden with Geronimo when
the Chiricahua Apache were still the last free Indians in America and then had
slipped away when Geronimo surrendered. When they were children, their
grandfather had taught them both to cut sign, to bowhunt, and to break the neck
of what they shot. The Apache scouts were the best in their time, and those
traditions lived in their family. The inside joke in their extended family was
that they were all still uncivilized savages, and that this was a point of
pride. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a small undercurrent in all their jokes that the
family should be quiet about all that, because there was a time when the only
good Indian was a dead Indian, and that time was not all that long ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel smiled at her cousin. Tony was more sensitive about
that than she was. Everyone thought she was bloodthirsty, anyway. She could
tease Tony all day if she wanted, but he wasn’t in the mood and, really,
neither was she. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony added, “And we don’t want you talking to the press.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel agreed, “Oh, hell, no.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And we should mention to the other officers that they are
not to talk to the media, and they should not use your name, and they certainly
should never use than damned nickname of yours.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Angel of Death nickname bothered her sometimes, even
though it might have been responsible for her quick promotion at the FBI. That
nickname had sprung up during her very first field office assignment, years
before she had been accepted on the HRT. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her nickname horrified Tony. If it ever got out, the press
would run with it. Jesus, what a gotcha that would be. Angel did not want
Tony’s job, where his colleagues’ nicknames could cause huge problems that
could, theoretically, get him fired. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll talk to my team and ask Mace to pass the word,” Angel
reassured him. “They’re professionals. They wouldn’t slip like that.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony finger-combed his hair back even though it was less
than an inch long on top and shaved above his ears and high on his neck. That
gesture was left over from when they were kids, when Tony hated haircuts. He
had wanted to look like an Apache. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel smiled. As a child, her hair had always been cropped
as short as her mother would let her cut it. Her hair was longer now than back
then. It was sad to think that Ma would probably be pleased. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony said, “The official policy from now on is that no one
talks to the press except our media liaisons officer. We cannot have any bad
press from now until this asinine book comes out.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right. That’s what we do now, Tony. We’ll refer them to the
media liaisons more forcefully, if necessary.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, not forcefully. Kindly, and negotiatingly, and
community-ish. We have got to put some lipstick on this,” and he pursed his
lips, probably considering the unfortunate word that he had been about to say
and how it offensive it was to police officers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel waited, letting him sweat it out. She would give him
two seconds and, if he couldn’t figure out a way around it, change the subject.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, if he said it, she would tease the hell out of
him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony finally finished, “ . . . department.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, so he wasn’t completely brain dead from the stress of
this upcoming book. Angel tried joking with him again. “You aren’t asking me to
wear make-up, are you? Because I did that last night, and oh, Cuz, that was an
unmitigated disaster. Seriously, lipstick brings out the worst in me.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony ignored her joke again. “When this book hits, it’s going
to be sheer hell, Angel. That guy is going to crucify us. They’re going to call
us Nazis and scream about state-sponsored murder, unless we have a rebuttal in
place. We need to look as prim as librarians, so we can say that this book is a
smear campaign for personal gain.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel wanted to tell Tony that he had a big problem on his
hands and that’s why the city paid him the big bucks, but the grim clench of
his jaw meant that more joking would be unkind just then. “But it’s not that
bad,” Angel said. “I mean, policing here is rougher than Back East, because the
criminals are rougher. Back East criminals don’t carry machine guns. Out here,
the drug gangs really do have automatic weapons, not to mention that they
really have grenade launchers.” The week before, a Border Patrol officer had
found a cache of military weapons above one of the trails that he policed. The
officer had been shaken, realizing that if the weapons’ owner had been in the
cave, he might have been killed that day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony shook his head. “I’d love to just stick you up on the
podium to explain those cultural differences to the press, but they won’t buy
it. This book is going to be bad. The newspapers and television channels will
pick up the meme and run with it. Oh, God, the national networks are going to
do their usual highbrow, holier-than-thou crap. I’m expecting a call from Linda
Castro,” the governor. He winced. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel wanted to lighten his mood. His slumping shoulders
looked despondent. “We could just shoot the guy. I could do it from a mile
away. They’d never figure out it was me.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony snorted, finally getting the joke. “Yeah, that would
make the situation go away, wouldn’t it?” <span style="background-color: white;">He waggled his thick eyebrows at her.
At least he had calmed down enough to joke a little. He sighed, and the sad
weight came back to his shoulders. “No. We need to reorganize the department.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Like, promotions for some of my guys?” That would be great.
The flat structure of the police department meant that leadership openings were
few and far between. They and she got frustrated with their lack of
professional opportunities. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” Tony said. “Like we need to reorganize the SAU.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When you say ‘reorganize’. . . .” Angel didn’t like the
sound of that. One of her cousins worked in the pharmaceutical industry, where
“reorganize” was a euphemism for “fire entire departments with no warning.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony said, “I mean we can’t have a SWAT team that nukes
people from orbit. It looks bad, really bad, from the outside.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, it was a decent shot, but it wasn’t a nuke from
orbit. It was only two hundred yards. Did you just say that you don’t want
snipers on the SAU?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We need to reorganize the SAU to reduce its profile.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had moved back to Arizona when Tony had begged her to
lead their sniper team, which had been a haphazard group of second-string
plinkers. It had taken her a year to bring their skills up to snuff. Last
weekend, she had had them out in the blazing-hot desert with paintball guns,
working on stalking in desert-brush ghillie suits. A Gila monster had tried to
nest in Jack Jordan’s cloak of tumbleweed branches, nature’s highest compliment.
“Breaking up my team is your most asinine idea yet, Tony.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were cousins. They could talk that way. She spoke more
roughly with her three brothers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If we break them up and reassign them so that they aren’t
full-time snipers, we could camouflage them so that the press won’t be able to
find them.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel’s dismay was turning to anger. “If they aren’t
full-time snipers, they won’t be snipers at all. Their skills are perishable.
We train every day.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony spread his hands helplessly. “It looks bad that we have
a full-time sniper division to kill citizens with long-range shots.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You have an assault team that fast-lines from a black
helicopter, blows open doors, and kills suspects at much shorter distances,”
Angel pointed out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony nodded. “We need to break them up, too.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You want to break up the assault team? <i>Mace’s</i> assault team?” Angel could not believe that he was even
thinking about it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony shook his head. “We’re not firing anybody, at least, I
hope not. We’re just hiding our people so that when the reporters come and want
to see the SAU, we can show them our warm, fuzzy negotiators and kick their snooping
asses out of here.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Phoenix PD’s negotiators were ineffective and untrained,
as far an Angel was concerned. The FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group had
good negotiators, even great negotiators, after the brutal lessons that had
been learned at the Ruby Ridge and Waco sieges. The Phoenix negotiators would
be laughed out of CIRG. They were all wannabe profilers trying to be car
salesmen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What would you have done today, when that bastard was going
to kill that woman?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony stared down, at his desk, avoiding her eyes. “Let the
negotiators do their jobs.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He would have killed her if I hadn’t put him down. His next
shot would have been at her and blown her in half. Then he would have shot at
the officers until they finally killed him. You would have had more civilian
casualties, more officer casualties, and the suspect would still be dead.” Angel
had done the right thing. She was sure of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But that would have been his decision. If your bullet had
hit anyone else, we would have been liable. If he would have twitched when you
hit him and blown her head off or shot one of those witnesses in the house, we
would have been liable. As it is, when the news networks do their turnaround
piece in a couple days, we’re going to look like the Stazi and the SS and the
KGB, all rolled into one militarized police force. We need to reorganize the
whole SAU, or else the politicians will take us over and fire everyone.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They can’t fire everyone. You can’t have a city the size of
Phoenix without a police force.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They can fire everyone at the top, then work their way
down, replacing everyone.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel could not believe that Tony would hamstring the
department in the name of political expediency. “You will lose your best
people, Cuz. The only reason that I came home was to lead your sniper team,
because you’re family. I had my pick of jobs across the country. New York was
peeing their pants, trying to get the girl sniper.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you would have gone to New York, you would have never
fired your gun again.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She ignored him. It was just arguing, not a point of debate.
“Mason will leave, too. He won’t sit at a desk. Every assault team in the
country wants the ex-Delta Force guys. He could make ten times as much money as
a private contractor. You will eviscerate your department if you break up SAU.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony’s grimace was desperate. “But they’ll go of their own
free will, when they have jobs waiting for them, rather than be summarily fired
for political reasons.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel wanted to throttle him. She had saved Tony’s life a
dozen times when they were kids, pulling him out of a creek after he had
knocked himself out, catching his belt before he went over a cliff, not running
him over when he was laying in the middle of the road in the dark. She had
saved his life, so surely it was within her right to kill him now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Damn, but he was frustrating sometimes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony wiped his hands on his pants legs, a gesture that Angel
knew from her FBI days meant that he was trying to soothe himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She calmed down. Tony was as upset as she was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel asked, “Has this been decided for sure?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony shook his head. “No. It hasn’t been decided. We’re
looking at our options. This is just our first, knee-jerk, panicky reaction.
I’m looking for your support, Cuz.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She could turn him. When she was a field agent in the FBI,
they used to turn suspects into sources all the time. It was considered the
best outcome of an interrogation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said gently, “Tony, Cuz, you won’t have my support if you
break up the SAU. I will leave, and I’ll take the best guys from my team with
me. Mace will do the same.” Next, she gave him more negative motivation. “Phoenix
PD will be a shell without us. The human traffickers and drug smugglers will
run circles around you guys. The whole Valley will look like the Alhambra
district,” the blighted, gang-controlled area where police only went with
backup and, preferably, air support. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, she asked him to turn. “You can’t <i>want</i> to break us up.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course not,” Tony said. He ran his hand through his
black hair again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah, there he stated his desire to turn. Angel smiled. Time
for more juice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said, “And if we don’t have a dedicated unit that can
respond to violent crimes, then you’re really going to get sued.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s true, too,” Tony said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, she needed to establish that they were on the same team
so they could move forward toward a cooperative goal. “So Phoenix needs the
SAU. Our real goal is to defuse the effects of the book.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right.” Tony wiped his hands on his pants again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So let’s figure out a better solution,” Angel said.
“Something that won’t cripple the department, too. The good thing is, if that
book scheduled to come out next fall, they’ve probably already finalized the
manuscript. The presses are printing it. He can’t change anything, now.” She stood
and leaned on Tony’s desk, making herself a co-conspirator. “We can change what
people see.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah,” Tony said. His black eyes widened with relief for
the first time that morning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So we’re on the same proverbial page. We’ll figure out
what’s in that book and what we can do to countersnipe it before it even hits
the bookstores. That bastard will never know what hit him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah,” Tony said with growing conviction. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll bet the publication date is already up on the online
bookstores. We can launch a counteroffensive a month before it comes out and
make it look a day late and a dollar short. Remember when that guy had a book
coming out about Barack Obama’s birth certificate, and Obama released his long-form
birth certificate the very day before the book hit the bookstores? <span style="background-color: white;">Utterly destroyed
it. We can do that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah,” Tony said with a little bit of his usual predatory
glee. “Fuck him back.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Abso-fucking-lutely. We have to attack not just his book,
but his strategy.” That was from one of Mace’s Sun Tzu quotes. Mace would be
surprised that she had listened to his quotes. “And we have a couple months to
plan how to do it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay,” Tony said. “We can do this. We <i>will</i> do this. Starting <i>now</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now? We need to plan this first.” Angel thought it was too
soon, that they needed to have an assault plan in place before they started
attacking the book willy-nilly. Another of Mace’s Sun Tzu quotes came to her
mind, so she said, “‘Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while
defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.’” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, but we can improvise while we’re fighting. Like you
said, we have months to get it right.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Tony, let’s plan this first. How about a beer after work to
hash this out?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“After work today is going to be a problem.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh? Kid stuff?” Tony had three kids. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, Cuz,” Tony said, and his grin turned sheepish. “Since
you’re officially on mandatory administrative paid leave, Cuz, I should tell
you to go home and take Kary for a walk, but I got word on the way here that
there’s a situation developing down near Sierra Vista. Cuz, I can’t order you
to go, and even asking you to go after an officer-involved shooting is stupid,
but this situation looks bad. We’re going to need the sniper team at least for
recon, if not for your actual job title. Cuz, I’m asking you this unofficially
as your cousin, not as the Chief. Could you—and you should say no if you are
the least bit uncomfortable or need some time after that maniac yesterday,—could
you go down there, Cuz?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wow. Again the many iterations of <i>Cuz</i>. This must be big. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Excitement stirred in Angel at the prospect of staring down
her scope at a criminal who desperately deserved to be put down, again, and so
soon. The reptile in her brain coiled a little, like a rattlesnake when it
hears a mouse rustling the brush. “Cuz, I feel fine. Yesterday was an
unambiguous shot. I’m fine to go back to work.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, then. It’ll be an hour or so before the call comes.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you know anything about the situation?” Angel was antsy,
wanting to know what she was walking into, or crawling into. Yes, probably
crawling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Something to do with weapons and shots fired at an officer.
I don’t have any details, just heard the rumors. But while you’re down there,
keep that book in mind. Everything that breaks bad from now on will be held up
as confirmation of <i>The</i> <i>Secret Police State</i>.” Tony’s mouth
worked like he tasted something nasty. “A negotiated end to this would be best.
Everyone walking out of there, glad-handing for the camera, would be fantastic.
Blood on the sand is not an option, if I’m going to save the SAU.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right,” Angel said, wanting to leave so she could clean her
gun. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re my rep down there. I need you to control the
situation. Think PR.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right.” In her impatience to go, Angel half-turned toward
the door. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony saw her fidgeting and sighed. “Fine. Go home and pack a
bag. I-as-the-Chief am ordering you back on duty.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How long will we be down there?” she asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony rolled his eyes. “You know how these Border things are.
Could be an hour. Could be a month. Pack for the duration.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right.” She would have to leave her dog with her neighbor. “By
the way,” she started.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah?” Tony was already deep into his cell phone,
rearranging things. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You haven’t heard from Wyatt lately, have you?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony shrugged. “No. We don’t keep in touch much. You have
maybe an hour before the call comes. Get your bag packed.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After leaving Tony’s office, Angel stopped at the Bat Cave
and grabbed her official tablet. The guys who were already in there popped up
and peered over the blue cubicle dividers as she trotted through. Their round
heads atop the blue half-walls looked like pumpkins set up on a ridge for
plinking practice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She hollered, “What have I told you guys about sticking your
heads up and countersniping? <span style="background-color: white;">Seriously, look </span><i style="background-color: white;">around</i><span style="background-color: white;"> barriers, not </span><i style="background-color: white;">over</i><span style="background-color: white;">
them. Get packed. There’s a call-out coming.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She texted all her team on her way out of the office that
they should pack their sniper bags and some clothes, that work was coming their
way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Work.</i> Angel loved
her work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had her bag packed and was settling Kary at her
neighbor’s house, handing over extra dog food and vitamins, when she got the
text message from the dispatch at the Phoenix PD: <i>WORK. Sky Harbor Airport.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So they were flying down there. Must be a quite a situation.
All her weapons, from her boot pistol to her six-foot-long fifty-caliber sniper
rifle, were secured in her fast-break bag in the Bat Cave and would meet her at
the airport. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel said, “Thanks for taking him, Lynda. I’ll pay you when
I get back.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, don’t you worry about it.” Lynda was a mousy, freckly,
young, young mom, about twenty-two with two kids already and another one on the
way, and she also babysat other toddlers. She smiled at Kary, who panted
happily at her. “He herds the babies around, and they ride on him, and he just
takes it. I found Justin chewing on his ear the other day, because Justin is
teething, and Kary just licked little Justin’s face. He’s just the best dog. He
herds them out of the kitchen when I cook lunch. And it’s great to have him
around at night when Benji is working late. I don’t mind at all. And don’t you
dare pay me.” She patted Kary’s head, and Kary leaned on her, but he still stared
forlornly at Angel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was going to miss her dog, Angel realized. When she had
been deployed for weeks or months at a time with the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team,
she had not had a pet, not even fish. She just locked up her apartment and left
it all until she got back. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, Kary had had such a rough time, and he was just getting
over his PTSD. She worried about how her absence for a week or more might
affect him. When he had crawled in bed with her that first night after the
bombing, still shaking, she hadn’t had the heart to make him lay on the floor,
and then the second night was the same, and the third night, and now she was
used to Kary sleeping with his head on the other pillow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel liked Kary’s warm fur and his happy eyes and his
excitement at seeing her when she got home. She didn’t want to leave him, but
she didn’t want to subject him to a plane ride and a hotel room, and she
certainly couldn’t drag him along on the hunt with her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She bent down and ruffled his ears. When he leaned on her,
she hugged him. He wasn’t trembling. He seemed fine. “I’ll see you soon, Karyoke,”
Angel said. “Thanks again, Lynda. I’ll call to check on him.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel went back to her own house to pack a few things from
her locked bedroom. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Four gun safes lined the walls, each screwed into the
house’s studs and anchored into the cement foundation. They looked like bank
vaults from an Old West movie: painted with black lacquer and gold filigree,
silver five-pronged ship’s wheel handles, and heavy enough to withstand
dynamite. If the house blew up, those gun safes might get singed but wouldn’t
move. She didn’t bother to put bars on the windows or reinforce the bedroom
door. If someone wanted in, they could hack through the drywall in a few
minutes, but those safes would withstand just about anything. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She spun the wheel on one, and the bolts retracted from the
safe’s frame with a solid thunk. When she opened the safe’s door, it was six
inches thick. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You never knew what exotic equipment you might need on a
Border siege that might last for a month, so she packed several light, matte
black items in a plain black duffel bag. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had listened to news radio in the car on her way to
the airport, but she didn’t hear anything suspicious. The media must not have
figured out that something was going down, yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the hot tarmac, other SWAT-type units from other
jurisdictions were milling around, each mostly keeping to themselves. Angel was
used to the man’s world of police work and had few female colleagues, but she
noticed that she was the only female person mobilizing, like when she had been
on the FBI’s HRT. She wasn’t upset about it, but being the only woman on the
job still made her uncomfortably conspicuous. She preferred blending in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack Jordan met her near the plane, pulling a wheelie-bag. He
stood next to her and squinted up because his red-haired head only came up to
her shoulder. He looked stocky, but he was actually muscle-bound. Since Angel
had taken over the sniper team and insisted on peak physical fitness for her
team, on company time if necessary, Jack had lost thirty pounds, and his body
fat had gone from thirty percent to ten percent. He had stopped needing blood
pressure and cholesterol medication. He practically strutted, he was so proud
of himself. He did look like a little Red Angus bull, all muscle meat and
coppery hide. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel was proud of him, too. He had been the sniper team’s
weakest sniper and laziest ass, and now he was her second. She respected hard
work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hot wind whirled around them. Jack’s freckled face already
looked a little sunburned. Maybe Angel should pack in sunscreen, more for her
team than herself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Damn,” Jack said. “Looks like we’re going to war with
Mexico out here.” His expansive gesture took in the busy teams and their many,
many weapons staged and ready to load: boxy gun cases, pointy gun bags, and
storage bins filled with flashbang stun grenades, explosive strips to blow open
doors, anti-riot stingball grenades, tear gas canisters, and boxes and boxes of
heavy ammunition. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel asked, “Have you seen Mace?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah. He’s loading our equipment.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack pointed, and Angel saw Mace in his black fatigues,
standing at the cargo door of the airplane with a clipboard, checking
identification numbers on bins and checking them off on his chart. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good. Mace had things under control. She would go help him
in a minute. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who’s here?” Angel asked Jack. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel could barely hear him over the plane warming up and
the shouting of teams to each other. “Arizona Department of Public Safety is
over there,” Jack pointed. “Mesa SWAT is over there.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, God,” Angel said, remembering the uproar a few years
earlier. “Tell me they didn’t bring the monkey.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack rolled his eyes with contempt for the monkey. “I didn’t
see the SWAT monkey, but it might be in a cage. So I guess it’s no-go for that
beer you owe me tonight, huh?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“As soon as we get a break, we can go for a beer,” Angel
said. “There are only two things to do in Southern Arizona: go to church or have
a drink. There are tons of bars.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh.” Jack brightened up. “Okay. So at least there’s beer
down there.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One of my cousins owns a Mexican restaurant that’s stocked
with amazing beers.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is this the cousin who owns the coffee shop?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” she said. “Different cousin.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m afraid to ask how many cousins you have,” Jack said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There are a lot of us cousins. I’m related to half of
Southern Arizona. Seventy-three boys and three girls, in my generation, and
that’s just first and second cousins.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack laughed. “Only three girls? How did that happen?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was an odd ratio. “Must have been the copper in the water.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Any chance one of your cousins is involved in this little
problem?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah, Jesus. Angel hadn’t really thought about that. It was
damn possible. “Uh, no. Probably not. Who’s flying us down?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Air National Guard.” Jack gestured to a large cargo plane
on the runway. The plane was turned so Angel could only see its tail, so she
couldn’t see insignia. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Great. Jumpseats. And noise. A helluva lot of jet engine
noise. Angel didn’t mind the noise much, but she had hoped for a commercial
plane so that they could be briefed on the way down, but it would be a short
flight, anyway. “Wonder if Rick is going to fly us down.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who’s Rick?” Jack asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He’s in the Air National Guard and, uh, well, he’s my
cousin.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack laughed at her again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was pretty funny. She laughed, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rick was indeed the pilot who flew them down to Libby Army
Airfield, where they had trucks waiting to drive them to a briefing room within
the sprawling Fort Huachuca. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The briefing room was too small for all seventy men plus
Angel of the assorted teams, and the air conditioning blew frosty
cross-currents between the overheated men. Angel, as a primary sniper and team
leader, sat at a long table and pulled out her notebook and pen. Jack and other
men did the same. The men who didn’t get a seat leaned on walls. A few sat on
the floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of the men were uncommonly fit, rugged-jawed, and wore
black fatigues with SWAT, SAU, or some other acronym that meant they met
violence with superior firepower. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two men dressed in wrinkled suits sat against the back wall.
Angel supposed that these were the negotiators. Two negotiators. Only two. That
was insane. There should be almost as many people on the negotiating team as on
the assault and sniping teams. She didn’t recognize them, either. They were
chubby and rumpled, certainly not one of the sharp men from the FBI’s CIRG
negotiation teams. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The FBI’s negotiators had the patience and mind tricks to
convince desperate people that the thing they wanted most in the world was to
get out of the hole they were in. Angel didn’t understand how they did it, and
she didn’t really want to know how. She believed that the world was a better
place if some evil people weren’t in it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had a bad feeling that this was amateur hour, again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the front of the room, the Cochise County Sheriff, David
Hardigger, was late middle-aged and, despite his white cowboy hat, he had
sun-carved lines worthy of seven decades of hard living. He limped to the
podium but did not wince. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Evidently, Sheriff Hardigger did not like the podium’s
placement in the center of the media screen, so he picked up the solid wood
box, which was doubtlessly stacked inside with electronic equipment, with the
tips of his fingers and carried it to the corner of the room. Though Sheriff
Hardigger was gimpy and fifty-something though his face appeared seventy, he
was lean and whipcord strong. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He saw Angel sitting in the front row, smiled, and nodded at
her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was sweet of him to recognize her after all these years.
She smiled and nodded back. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack whispered, “Another cousin?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” Angel said. Generational lines in her family were
blurry, but David was more of an uncle. His four sons were her cousins,
probably third cousins. Three were in the military, all officers who had seen
combat. The youngest was still in college. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This will be a short briefing,” Sheriff Hardigger announced
without a microphone, and the clamoring male voices settled down. “It will be
short because we don’t know much. Lights down, please?” The room lights dimmed.
“Last night about ten o’clock, one of my deputies attempted to pull over a blue
pick-up truck with a covered bed and no license plates. This is pretty common
down here: no plates or wrong plates. The drug smugglers pull tricks like that
all the time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He clicked something on the podium, and a still shot from a
police car’s dashboard camera showed the back of a blue pick-up truck
illuminated in the police cruiser’s headlights. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“However, the suspect’s vehicle made a run for it, and a
high-speed chase ensued. The suspect’s vehicle went off-road and crashed close
to the road in a ditch. The suspect ran for it on foot, and the deputy was not
able to pursue due to darkness and lack of physical fitness.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This last bit, he said with a bit of distaste. Angel bet
that Sheriff Hardigger could have run down the suspect if he would had been
there, despite his limp. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When the deputy examined the abandoned truck,” Sheriff
Hardigger continued, “he expected to find drugs. Instead, he found
military-grade weapons, including but not limited to grenades and automatic
rifles. A full list will be furnished to you when you leave.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The men in the small room whispered to each other about the
weapons. Jack glanced at Angel, concerned. Angel nodded. If they had
military-grade weapons, they might have sniper rifles, too. Their sniper team
would have to be careful about counter-sniping. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The truck was registered to a Donald James Corbett. The
address was in Elgin.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not one of Angel’s cousins. The name wasn’t even familiar,
and she had few people over in Elgin. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel nearly sighed with relief, which was interesting
because she hadn’t realized that she was holding her breath as her Uncle David
led up to the vehicle’s registration. Family matters would complicate this mess
that she was supposed to untangle without bullets. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sheriff Hardigger said, “The address in Elgin was either
out-of-date or fraudulent. Inspection of records indicated that no Donald James
Corbett lived there, although that was also the address on his driver’s
license. This residence was a dead end. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“At first light,” the Sheriff continued, “we tracked the
suspect to a small compound in Santa Cruz County, southeast of Elgin.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An aerial picture of a house, perhaps a satellite photo from
the internet, appeared on the screen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There is one domicile, one story, of approximately four
thousand square feet, in a clearing. <span style="background-color: white;">Airborne surveillance shows several
kitchen fan vents on one end of the house, suggesting that the house may be
used as a methamphetamine lab. The surrounding area is high desert, much like the
basins of the Coronado Forest area.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had grown up hiking the Coronado National Forest, from
high desert to the “sky islands,” mountain ranges that zoomed vertically out of
the desert and culminated in year-round, alpine snow. One time, she and her
cousins took a fantastic hike, and in a single day the temperature had ranged over
a hundred Fahrenheit degrees, from scalding desert heat to snowball fights.
They had packed their canteens with snow for the return trip through the cacti.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The basins, however, were scrub brush and rattlesnake lands.
Angel and her team would need sunscreen after all, and probably snakebite kits.
And tweezers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When two deputies and I approached in uniform and on
horseback because there are no proper improved roads into the compound, we were
fired upon by automatic weapons fire. We retreated. My horse was killed, those
bastards. Pardon me, those <i>suspected</i> bastards.
I took one to the thigh,” murmuring filled the room that the Sheriff was
working after being shot a few hours ago. Hardigger waved his rough hand to
quiet the men, “but he just winged me, thank you for your concern. Giant Mark
was a fine animal, and he will be missed.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sheriff Hardigger paused and cleared his throat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said, “No contact has been established with the compound.
No telephone lines lead in, but cell phone reception is possible. Negotiations
have not yet been initiated. There is a chance that anyone and everyone in
house bugged out after the shooting, so there is no confirmation either way
that the structure is currently occupied, but several vehicles are parked
outside the house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We have warrants for anyone in the compound on weapons
charges, as there is ample evidence,” he grimaced and pointed to his own
wounded leg, “that automatic weapons are present. We also have an arrest
warrant for Donald James Corbett for felonious flight and on weapons charges.
More warrants are pending. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fire conditions are high today, so no smoking outside of a
vehicle or building, and no campfires. Vehicles must remain on developed roads.
Nothing with an engine goes off the asphalt. Sorry, friends, it’s going to be a
hike. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If the team leaders would remain behind, the rest of you
can dismiss to the chow hall. You’ll want a good, hot meal before all this
starts.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chairs squealed on the floor as the rush for the chow hall
began. Most of them had not eaten since breakfast, and it was four o’clock. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack said, “Good God damn!” He pushed his chair back from
the table. “I did not want to get into a firefight today.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had almost enjoyed the truck ride onto the army fort,
looking at the high desert: the green-skinned and spiky palo verde trees, the
missile-shaped saguaros, and the furry jumping cholla cacti. She hadn’t thought
that she would have to crawl through it. They were going to need Teflon skin or
else they were going to come back full of cactus needles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Jack,” Angel said, “I’d appreciate it if you could round up
the rest of the snipers and start planning. We may be infiltrating in the dark.
Make sure the NVGs and the night vision optics are charged up, and we have
extra batteries. You know, all that stuff.” The upgraded night vision goggles
were brand new and everyone’s favorite new toy. Some of the NVGs might have
wandered off and had their batteries drained. <b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While Jack rounded up the rest of the team for a conference,
Angel stayed for the brain storming and planning with the team leaders. Mostly,
the team leaders divided up shifts, which Angel thought was amusing because
once she and her snipers had crawled over a mountain and infiltrated to sniping
position, it was probably just easier to stay put than to try to exfiltrate
every damn day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, showers would nice, too. You had to have some
relief on long sieges and, Angel realized, Sheriff Hardigger and the other law
enforcement were divvying up the shifts as if this was going to be a long
siege. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Snipers would be sent in primarily to do surveillance and
gather intelligence. At least four sniper teams would always be on the house,
around the clock, watching. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace was tasked to head the assault team. His team would get
the intelligence that the snipers radioed back. They would prepare a mock
compound and practice their assault. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had joined the FBI years after the long siege at the
Branch Davidian compound near Waco, Texas, when the Hostage Rescue Team had
stared through sniper rifles at the fortified building for fifty days before it
went up in flames. She had met some of the men who were there, and they were
still haunted by it years later. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Tony’s cell phone.
“Cuz,” she said. “You’ve got to get out here. This is going to blow up.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t, Cuz,” he said. He sounded distracted. “It’s teams
only, to support Sheriff Hardigger. There’s no way they want an extra Chief
running around there. That’s why I need you to control it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There are two negotiators here, <i>two,</i> and they’re not even in contact. This is going to turn bad,
fast.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can offer to loan our negotiators to David.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fat lot of good that would do. The Phoenix PD’s negotiators
were amateurs, and Tony knew how she felt about them. “You should tell Uncle
David about that book.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s under the radar right now, and the book is mostly
about us anyway. If this does break bad, get anybody from Phoenix out of it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reducing the damage to the Phoenix Police Department by
heaping it on the other departments seemed unethical to Angel, but she didn’t
have time to argue with Tony about that. “Okay, Cuz. I’ll try.” She hung up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel needed to make sure this siege ended peaceably,
calmly, and with no blood on the Arizona sand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white;">~~~~~</span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Thanks for reading! I really appreciate you reading the rough draft of my new novel <i>Selling Handcuffs</i>. Feel free to leave comments or connect with me on Twitter, where I tweet as @TKKenyon. You can twitter-follow me by clicking on the twitter-birdie in the right-hand column. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If you liked this chapter, sign up for email updates in the right-hand column so you'll know when I post Chapter Four: Blood on the Sand. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
TK Kenyon </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-54417935659896689682012-06-24T08:09:00.002-07:002012-06-24T08:09:29.467-07:00Carl Sagan on Reading and the Freedom of the Mind<span style="background-color: #f8e9cc; color: #3b2821; font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', 'Book Antiqua3', Palatino6, serif; font-size: 15px;">“Frederick Douglas taught that literacy is the path from slavery to freedom. There are many kinds of slavery and many kinds of freedom, but reading is still the path.”―Carl Sagan</span>TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-64712155520400192032012-06-14T19:24:00.001-07:002012-06-14T19:24:14.543-07:00Quick Writing Tip: If You Have A Day When You Can't WriteWriting tip: If you don't have time to write for a day, at least read the last 1-2 scenes and do a light edit. Keeps your head in the game. <br />
<br />
Today, The Kid was home from school for his first day of summer break. He didn't want to go to camp on his first day off. He wanted to stay home. Okay, I get that.<br />
<br />
So we went to the library and a local bookstore. We got him The Adventures of Tintin at the library, and Diary of a Wimpy Kid #5 at the bookstore. He reads the Diary and Big Nate books over and over, so they're worth the buy.<br />
<br />
Then we came home, ate lunch, played chess, I exercised, then more chess, other stuff, supper, getting ready for bed, and he went to bed at about 9:30pm, which is late as all dickens for him.<br />
<br />
During that time, I got some semi-private time, like while I was sitting next to him while he played his 17 minutes of Wii time. I'm not a total wuss about my writing environment, but sitting next to a Kid who is fighting his enemies with a virtual lightsabre is not conducive to writing first draft prose.<br />
<br />
So, I edited. It kept my head in the game. I'm still inside the novel. <a href="http://tkkenyon.blogspot.com/2012/06/selling-handcuffs-angel-day-novel.html" target="_blank">This novel. </a><br />
<br />
You do what you can.<br />
<br />
TKTK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-26063576250042016682012-06-13T09:09:00.001-07:002012-06-13T09:09:26.230-07:00Quick editing tips to tighten your fictionThat -- About 80% of the times that you use this word, you can delete it, and the sentence will still mean the same thing.<br />
<br />
Up and down -- Ditto. Just cut them unless the sentence needs them.<br />
<br />
Dialogue attributions, e.g., he said and she said -- If two people are talking, you only need 1 tag about every 5 lines of dialogue, or less. Try to make the words used by each character distinctive.<br />
<br />
Do not cut one word of emotion or characterization unless it is redundant.<br />
<br />
She saw/heard/thought/surmised/considered/theorized -- Remove this part and just let the observation stand on its own, unless you have not recently centered the narrative in the character. If you've been describing other stuff for a while, use this to re-center the narrative within the character. If you've been inside the character a lot, remove this to open up the narrative to the setting and world.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><strike>She thought that</strike> [T]he contradiction was obvious: if they had all planned to be
gone and to set off the sarin remotely, why did they have a sealed safe room
inside? (Remove the "she thought" and the "that.") </li>
<li>Angel heard the rain on the tin roof above her, the roar of the tanks' big diesel engines, and her own heartbeat. (Don't remove. Centers the narrative in the character.) </li>
<li><div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</li>
</ul>
<br />
Good luck and happy writing,<br />
TK Kenyon<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-76839902917741245212012-06-11T09:14:00.002-07:002012-06-11T09:14:31.252-07:00Selling Handcuffs, An Angel Day Novel. Chapter Two: The Bat Cave<br />
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
This is the second chapter after the Ice Monster! scene. If you haven't read that one yet, I'll leave it up a little while longer. </div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
These scenes are a bit of lull, some character development, some establishing the baseline that gets disrupted, before all heck breaks loose very soon. </div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
The first 25% of your novel or story should set up your main character and show them as they are, with all their flaws and all their virtues. It should show the relationships that they have in place and introduce many of the major characters. </div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
If you haven't read Chapter One, an Ice Monster! scene, you can <a href="http://tkkenyon.blogspot.com/2012/05/chapter-1-stash-house-new-version.html" target="_blank">click here to read it now</a>. It'll be posted for a few more weeks, but then it will go away. </div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="Centered">
If you sign up for email updates (over there on the right side bar), you'll get an update when I post Chapter Three: The Secret Police State. </div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><br />
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
Chapter Two: The Bat Cave <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in the Bat Cave, after cleaning and securing her
weapons, Angel poured herself a cup of decaf and, at her desk, pulled up the
paperwork on her tablet computer. Use of lethal force paperwork would take the
rest of the day. Wording her explanation of the gunman’s shotgun blast that was
pointed in the general direction of the authority vehicles would require
delicacy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This paperwork was important to the internal affairs
investigation, which would begin immediately. After all the statements were
received, the police department would stage a reenactment to fill in details. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grand jury investigation would start in a few days, too.
After an officer-involved shooting, a grand jury always hears the evidence and
decides if there’s a reason to investigate further. Angel would need to
testify, but she doubted the grand jury would be a problem for her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She would do it right, of course: confer with the
department’s lawyer and union representative, practice phrasing her answers to
best effect, and all that legal rot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sighed. Even after she saved an innocent life, she had
to defend her actions. Fine. She could do that, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel would be on administrative leave all that time, an
enforced vacation that she loathed. If all went well, she should be back in the
office in a week. The department got more efficient every time she shot
someone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The use-of-force form filled her tablet’s screen: little
boxes to check and lines for typing out the details. She started tapping boxes
to indicate the standoff’s conditions: brutal sun and heat, mid-day, downtown
Phoenix business district. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some police hated the paperwork and bitched about it. Some
did it so sloppily that it was illegible and unintelligible, even typed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel’s paperwork was accurate and precise. She wrote
complete paragraphs where warranted and bulleted lists where those were more
clear. Her punctuation was impeccable. She did not fight rules; she used them
to do her job perfectly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Inside her desk drawer, her cell phone beeped. And beeped again.
And again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Texts from her extended family were piling up, and the
beeping was getting more frantic with each text. She checked the phone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was two texts from her younger brother Lupan, but none
from her youngest brother Wyatt. That was odd. Usually, Wyatt texted at least
twice as much as Lupan. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She took out the phone, tapped open her mass-text app, and
texted all twenty-eight of her family members who had texted her in the last
hour, including both her brothers plus the family’s social media page, that she
was fine, that no one in the department had been more than superficially
wounded, that what they were seeing on the news was indeed the whole story, and
thanks for their collective concern. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were nosy and intrusive and smothering, and it was good
to be back in Arizona with her people. Her cousin Tony was one of several
cousins-of-some-degree in law enforcement. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other relatives lived on the other side of the law. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Texts and missed calls from her team members were also
arriving, as they realized she wasn’t in the van with them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Holy shit, Day. Great
shot. U ok?</i> from Jack Jordan, her side two sniper who had wanted to take
the shot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Great shot. U ok? </i>from
Hunter Yarnell, her least capable sniper who had managed to get side four
today, due to scheduling. He was pretty good, if the shot was under five
hundred yards. Beyond that, his aim was more and more sketchy, and he got excited
too easily. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She texted them back her thanks and assurances that she was
all right. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With her holy duties of familial and team obligation
accomplished, she dropped the phone into her purse and resumed the paperwork
while she waited for her team to return from the scene. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Bat Cave was the SWAT team’s combined weapon storeroom
and office space. It was quiet now, and her breathing echoed the air
conditioner’s whoosh. Depending on the legend, the room had either been named
after Bat Cave Mine in northern Arizona, because the SAU always seemed to be
deep in some kind of guano, or else for the Bat Cave at Carlsbad Caverns in New
Mexico, because when the the blad-clad operators thundered out the door to an
assignment, they looked like the nightly exodus of 800,000 bats swirling out of
the cave. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The special operations team of the Phoenix Police Department
was actually called SAU, for Special Assignments Unit, but most people still
called it SWAT. The storeroom/office had seemed cramped to Angel when she’d
first been hired by the Phoenix PD, after the FBI’s Critical Incident Response
Group, or CIRG, headquarters at Quantico. The Bat Cave was deep inside the
department’s headquarters, windowless and yet stunningly bright from the neon tubes
overhead. Guns packed the walls: rifles, pistols, machine guns, and shotguns. It
looked like a bunker for the end of the world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Near the door, the trophy case glittered gold, silver, and
blue. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The center area was a warren of blue-upholstered cubicles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After being with the Phoenix PD for two years, Angel thought
the Bat Cave was cozy and personable, not faceless and authoritarian like
federal offices. When the team was there, it was indeed reminiscent of a cave
as the bats took flight at sunrise, circling and whirling as they gathered
speed, calling to each other and throwing challenges, before they took to the
wind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a the primary sniper and leader of the sniper team,
Angel’s desk was near the center, within everyone’s shouting distance. The
previous leader’s desk had been in an office down the hall, behind a closed
door. She liked being in the middle, surrounded by her team, ready to run with
them when they got a job. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beyond the blue, padded cubicle walls, Angel heard the Bat
Cave’s door open and crash closed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Angel of Death! You in here?” Mace Young’s voice was hoarse
and loud as he called her though the cubicle maze. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiled because she had figured that Mace would find her
first. Their teams were still en route in the personnel carriers. Angel had
caught a ride back to the office on the ghetto bird. Mace had probably bent
traffic laws getting back so fast. She called, “In here, Mace.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace swung around her cubicle wall, riding a wheeled office
chair. The secretaries called him ruggedly handsome, which meant that he should
have had plastic surgery to fix his broken nose and sun-worn skin, and yet he
was still good-looking despite the damage. He said, “Tony wants to talk to you,
but he isn’t back yet. He’s still at the scene with the investigators.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks.” Her cousin Tony wanted to discuss the hostage
situation, which was not a surprise. Tony was such an extrovert that most of
the time he didn’t know what he thought until his opinion came out his mouth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nice shot,” Mace added. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She hid her smile. Now Mace was going to brag. He could not
compliment without establishing his bone fides. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said, “Of course, during Desert Storm, we made those
kinds of head shots every day.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do tell.” She kept tapping X’s into boxes on the use-of-force
form on her tablet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace’s rolling hand gesture indicated that his spiel was
getting warmed up. “But we sniped in between laser-painting targets for air
support strikes. We were prone in our hides for eighteen hours a day.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right.” Angel stretched her right arm, the one that cramped
up during long hours in a sniper hide, even with the tripod support on her
rifle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace’s eyes crinkled as he grinned because he knew that
Angel knew that he was just talking. “Because we operators were in Bagdad weeks
ahead of the regular forces’ invasion of Kuwait, living off the land. Now that
was a war, Desert Storm. Quick in, hard fight, quick out. Because ‘what is
essential in war is victory, not prolonged operations.’”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All of Mace’s stories ended with a quote by Sun Tzu or some
other military philosopher, and so Angel knew it was time to change the
subject. “Right. You going to let Freedom go out with that boy yet?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now you wait a minute, there,” Mace said. Freedom was his
seventeen-year-old, beautiful, blond daughter. “She isn’t old enough to date.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sure she is. What were you doing at seventeen?” Angel knew
that was a cheap shot, but their conversations often consisted of good-natured
cheap shots. It relaxed them between jobs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And that’s exactly why she’s not allowed to date. Do you
have any idea the stuff I was into at seventeen?” Mace became righteously
petulant. “She should be glad I let her leave the house.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But Freedom is such a nice girl. She’s just like you.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mock terror bugged his eyes. “I should lock her in the attic.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You taught your daughters to rappel,” Angel said, still
typing. “She’d escape the first night.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I could lay mines in the yard. That would cut down on those
pesky neighborhood kids running after their basketballs, too.” This, with the
air that it was a good idea. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel played the voice of reason to Mace’s overzealous
father act. “Your three-year-old might get hurt in your urban minefield.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Troublesome little toddler. He cannot follow orders.
Liberty wants to know if you’re all right after taking the shot.” Liberty was
Mace’s wife and the staunch matriarch to his clan. Mace used his wife as an
excuse for anything emotional. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, I’m fine,” Angel said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re sure about that. There are people you can talk to,
you know. The union has resources in place for lethal force PTSD.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace was sweet, worrying about her like that, even though he
was being a little patronizing because he, with at least sixty kills on his
conscience, would be crowing his own fortitude if he’d taken the shot. If
Liberty had not instructed him to inquire after Angel’s mental health, Mace
probably would have just punched Angel in the arm in solidarity. Mace and
Liberty both vacillated between being Angel’s friends and trying to stand in
for her parents, even though neither of them was old enough to be one of her
parents. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel didn’t need parents, but Mace and Liberty were good
friends to her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mace, I’m fine,” she said. “That suspect was an evil
bastard who desperately needed to be shot. His death was the best possible
outcome of that situation. That fucker was going to blow that poor woman’s head
off.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace said, “Oh, my tender virgin ears,” and covered his
assaulted ears. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel spouted her own philosophy. “There may or may not have
been some formative event in that bastard’s childhood that opened up the bad
road for him, but he went wrong all by himself. He had choices in his life. He
wasn’t a kidnapped teenager in some African rebel camp who had to fight or die.
That man chose be a human trafficker and hold those people for ransom. He chose
to duct-tape a shotgun to a small, innocent stranger’s neck. He was all eager
and aquiver, waiting to pull that trigger. I was stone cold when I took that
shot, and I still am.” She didn’t have a philosopher’s quote to end her speech.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He laughed. “Been working on that long?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Every night as I fall into a deep, sweet sleep, knowing
that now I only shoot evil bastards.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p>Mace nodded, slowly. Angel knew he was thinking about his
military years. He had only told the bad stories once, when his mother had
passed away. Angel had stayed up with him all night in his living room,
drinking lemonade and listening. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah,” Mace said. “I get that. But you haven’t taken down
anyone for a while.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel said, gently, “Just because I haven’t killed another
human being for six months doesn’t mean I’m out of practice.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Six months?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One hundred and eighty-three days,” she said. “A new
professional record.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“All right, then. It was a nice shot. That bass-hat dropped
like spilled pudding. Oh, by the way,” and that meant that Mace was again
coming to a major point in his conversation. “My missus is making chicken fried
steak tonight. Shall I ask her to throw one in the deep fryer for you?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mrs. Liberty Young was an uncommonly good cook, and her
comfort food dishes were exceedingly comforting. Angel suspected Liberty of
changing her menu when she saw the shooting on the news, just to entice Angel with
that crispy, creamy chicken fried steak so she could mother the poor sniper who
had such a hard job. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel was fine, though. She should walk her dog and
exercise. Shooting that target did not make this day any more important than
any other day on the job. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, they were talking about Liberty’s chicken fried steak.
Her gravy was amazing, too. “I’d love to. What time?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll text her. Probably six o’clock. And don’t forget about
Tony. He should be back in an hour or so. If you hurry, you can duck him.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right. I’ll leave in half an hour.” She could pick up her
dog from her neighbor before going to Mace’s house. Karyoke loved herding the
Young family’s small dogs and small children. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She went back to typing the use-of-force report on her
tablet computer, cross-referencing the electronic records generated by everyone
involved during the standoff, from the first-responding patrolmen, to Mace’s
assault team who had been preparing to blast their way into the house before
the obese criminal had made his theatrical stand with his hostage, to the
negotiators who had tried and failed to talk that bastard out of doing one last
stupid, evil thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Karyoke, Angel’s Australian shepherd, panted in the back
seat of her gray sedan as she pulled into the driveway at Mace’s house. She
glanced at him through her rear-view mirror and smiled. He looked nervous but
certainly wasn’t panicking. Slowly, he was getting over his PTSD about riding
in cars. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kary had been a bomb-sniffing police dog for two years when
he had scented on a bomb on a reporter’s car. As he was trained to do, he sat
and gazed up at his handler. The bomb was a shaped charge, and timed, and it
went off. Kary’s fur had been mildly scorched, but his beloved police officer
handler had been blown to a fine pink mist right beside him as he watched. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had been one of the first people to get to the dog
after the blast and pulled him away from the burning wreck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the first six months afterward, they had walked
everywhere, even the three miles over to Mace’s house and then home again after
supper. With the desert summer approaching, it was good that Kary could manage
the short ride. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She walked around and let him out of the car. He shook
himself, jangling his tags, and obviously recognized Mace’s house since he trotted
up to the front door, wagging. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel slammed the car door. Her car was the most common make
and model, middle-class, middle-aged, and midway in monochrome color between
black and white. Mace joked that it was the perfect sniper hide: no one would even
notice it existed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace’s dark red 1967 Mustang, a muscle car, was parked in
the carport beside her. The hood was open, and his tool box rested on the
frame, waiting. They often tuned up the toy to decompress from work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She leaned against the car, scanning her thirty-three new
texts from her family and friends, which ran the gamut from “Oh ok,” to
impressive text diatribes about the state of morality in the world. Angel shook
her head. Her family was nuts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lupan had texted that he was glad Angel had survived. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wyatt still hadn’t texted. This was weird. She pinged him with
a quick “Where are u? U ok?” and followed Kary to the Youngs’ house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the front door, Liberty was waiting for them. She greeted
the dog first. “Hello, Kary. Who’s a good boy? Did you ride in the car? Was it
okay? That’s a good boy. Colt!” she yelled behind her, and her six-year-old son
peered around her sofa-cushion hips. “Take Kary to the back yard, would you,
love?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stood up from rubbing Kary’s ears and held out her
chubby arms to Angel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel bent down and hugged her. Angel wasn’t naturally a
huggy person, but Mace’s family were huggers, especially when they deemed that
someone must need comforting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty asked, very quietly, for she would not want to upset
her children, “Are you okay, Angel dear?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had known this was coming. Liberty would need
reassurances. Liberty had been a hunter all her life, and she understood the
taking of life and that killing a person, even an evil one, was a terrible
thing. “Yes, Lib. I’m fine.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her blue eyes were wet with sympathy. “You’re sure?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sadly, Angel’s own family did not require so much
convincing. “Yes, honey. I’m sure.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Absolutely sure?” Liberty pressed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really, I’m fine.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lib’s manicured eyebrow arched. “Then I made chicken fried
steak for nothing?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel laughed. “Never for nothing, Lib. Surely it’ll soothe
any residual trauma.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right. Come on in.” She whisked Angel in the front door of
the small, ranch house. Her living room furniture was rustic country rooster
red. “Mace, your work wife is here!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s terrible,” Angel said to her. “I am not.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She and Mace were colleagues, not a couple. In the FBI, she
had stayed away from poaching on federal land, and she certainly didn’t want
anyone to think otherwise. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty appraised Angel with the practiced eye of an eldest
sister. “At least you showered. Freedom! Kimber!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The seventeen- and fifteen-year-old daughters, respectively,
came out of the hallway. Their matching Wedgewood blue eyes were wide with
helpfulness and goodness. Beretta, the twelve-year-old daughter, more ornery
but no less good, followed behind them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty said, “Girls, help Angel freshen up, will you?
Perhaps some mascara. And some foundation. A lady is never caught without
foundation.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was not standard operating procedure. Liberty’s chicken
fried steak was a treat, but Angel didn’t usually have to dress for dinner to
get it. “I don’t need make-up. It’s just us, right?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty looked innocent. Really damned innocent. She said, “I
may have invited over a friend of mine’s brother. He said he liked chicken
fried steak.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No. Oh, no. Lib, I killed someone today. I’m traumatized. I
need to chow down on comfort food, and I don’t want be set up on a blind date.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty’s glance was unimpressed. “That ship has sailed. Go
with the girls.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel did not want to deal with a nice young man tonight,
and he would be nice. Like all Liberty’s friends’ male relatives, he would be
as wholesome and chivalrous as a Nebraska farm boy from the 1950’s. Angel just
didn’t like any of those things in a man, and she just wanted to eat some
comfort food with so much artery-clogging fat that it might be considered a
suicide attempt. “I’ll just take my dog and go home.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty’s shrewd smile was triumphant. “You wouldn’t want to
traumatize that poor Kary with another car ride so soon, and he’s having a ball
in the back yard herding the boys and the Pekineses.” Liberty turned and
assumed her ruling matron role. “Girls, put some make-up on her, and do
something with her hair.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The girls pulled Angel down the hall. It was like riding a
dogsled towed by three blond, giggling puppies. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel was resigned to trading an evening of being pleasant
to a naive young man in order to eat Liberty’s chicken fried steak. She
suspected that Liberty’s menu and agenda had been planned before the standoff
that afternoon and had nearly been derailed by it, rather than afterward as a
consolation dinner. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was a set up in both senses of the word. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel smiled. The nice young man would probably be horrified
by the amount of food she ate. Angel often joked that she ate like a
hummingbird: three times her weight. That’s the amount of fuel it took to run a
six-foot-tall, massive skeleton ten miles a day and then bench press two
hundred pounds. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her stamina and strength had saved her life four times. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wispy little teenage girls tugged her over to an actual,
real vanity table in their room. They each had color-coded milk crates for
their own make-up sets. They compared foundation colors and then peered at her
in the bright lights around the vanity’s mirror. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I think these are too light,” Freedom said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They’re all too light,” Kimber said. “We have ten compacts
of base between us, and they’re all too light.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beretta, the youngest one, peered up at Angel. “You’ve got
dark skin.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m part Native American,” Angel told her gently, “and I’m
tanned.” Because she spent a lot of time outside, practicing to kill people. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The girls huddled over the compacts, occasionally sneaking a
peek at her, then hurriedly glancing back down and strategizing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel recognized their dismay as the same trepidation that
her cousin Lola had evinced for weeks while painting her firstborn’s nursery.
Those walls had ended up with seven layers of various shades of pale pink on
them. Angel thought the room was perceptibly smaller by the time the baby came
home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Bronzer,” Kimber finally said. “We can mix in some of
Beretta’s cream bronzer.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their concoctions sounded experimental. Angel asked, “I’m
not going to turn orange, am I?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The girls looked startled, like little blond bunnies in
blind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freedom, the eldest, said, “We could just use translucent
powder.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mom will not be satisfied,” Kimber said. “Mom said to put
foundation on her.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Such a matriarch-centric family unit seemed odd to Angel.
Her own mother had passed away just a few years ago. Because Angel’s father was
often on deployments, Angel had been the alpha male of the house and had taught
her two younger brothers, Lupan and Wyatt, to hunt and play sports. Her mother hadn’t
taught Angel to cook, but Angel could gut, butcher, and grill any animal she
killed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freedom nodded at whatever they were mixing. “Let’s see how
it looks.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They painted Angel’s face with the serious precision of art
students during a final exam. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hold still,” Kimber said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel sighed. All this just for chicken fried steak. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Usually, Angel avoided dating, and Liberty knew that, which
was why she threw in the deep-fried-meat bribe. Dating clashed with Angel’s Angel
of Death reputation, and it brought back some old memories that were better
left alone. She occasionally went out to bars and picked up a guy for a night
or a couple nights, but that wasn’t a date. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dating implied wanting more, and she didn’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They did a pretty good job of matching Angel’s skin tone,
and her skin turned out to look about its usual shade but smoother. With a
little pale pink blush, light eyeliner and mascara, some lip gloss, Angel
looked like a sweet, sheltered teenager’s idea of a pretty young woman. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then they yanked and gelled her hair into a passable French
twist. Angel was surprised that it was long enough to do that, but it had been
years since she had even tried to tie it into an updo. Her hair had been very
short when she had been with the FBI, for practical reasons. She had camped in
a sniper hide in Colombia for two straight weeks one time, eating MREs, occasionally
wiping down with baby wipes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The girls examined their results, high-fived all around, and
scampered to report to their mother. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel touched up their work with some darker eye shadow from
a palette with probably fifty shades on it, a sweep of bronzer under her
cheekbones, and a dusting of powder. She didn’t want to look little-girl
pretty. She was a thirty-two-year-old woman, not a nineteen-year-old girl.
Sweet ingénue makeup looked silly on her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During her touch-up, she found black greasepaint that had
worked its way into her hair near her temple. She had scrubbed off the black
and gray diagonal camouflage stripes when she had returned to the office, but
obviously missed some. She scratched it off. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The more mature make-up made Angel look a little more
exotic, a little more sexy, less like she might be all aquiver in the presence
of a man. It was an improvement. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel examined her odd appearance. With regular make-up on,
her facial features were exaggerated: her eyes bigger and lined, her cheekbones
more defined, and her lips redder and shinier. It felt odd to emphasize her
face rather than to break up the eye-catching symmetry of eyes, nose, and mouth
so she could blend into shadows. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dating was hunting of a different kind, she figured. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked a little closer. Even through the girls’
foundation, sun damage spotted the skin near her hairline. The spots fit together
like a turtle’s shell, not like cute little freckles at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, she had spent most of her life outside. As a kid, she certainly
hadn’t corralled her brothers and applied sunscreen to them all. When she was
with the HRT, her sniper’s pack weighed sixty pounds, plus she usually carried
or dragged her guns and guns’ cases, and that left no extra space for a bottle
of sunscreen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She touched the spots near her black hair, tied back so
tightly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had made her choices, and so she accepted the damage as
her due. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Men wouldn’t worry about something as superficial as sun
damage, would they? She would ask Mace if his broken nose and rough skin
concerned him. They would share a good laugh over it while they were working on
his car. Mace would probably tell her to rub some dirt on the sun spots. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiled at herself in the light-ringed mirror. Dirt was
as good a facial as any. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she smiled, she looked more presentable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She checked her phone again. Wyatt still hadn’t texted. She
wondered what he was up to. Sometimes he disappeared into the Southern Arizona
high desert near Geronimo’s Stronghold for a few days or week to live off the
land, just to get away from everything. Angel was worried about him. He
repaired cars for a living, and his hours had been cut lately because he didn’t
want to learn about the new vehicle computers. Older cars were becoming
scarcer, and his jobs were drying up. He would have been a great mountain man,
back in the 1800’s, or an Apache scout. Her brother could cut sign better than
anyone Angel knew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She texted him again and hung up her phone, still worried. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel really didn’t want to emerge from the virgins’ girl
cave and be presented to Liberty’s potential suitor. Last time, Liberty’s chosen
man had been nice, but so boring. Angel didn’t know what kind of man she could
find interesting. Her job made the rest of her life seem to be painted in
shades of pale beige. Shining bullets and a dark sniper’s hide were tough
competition. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace would understand why she couldn’t really be interested
in Liberty’s boring young men with their boring lives and boring small talk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel stood and made her way to the living room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace was laying on his Man-lounger, with his sons Colt and
Remy splayed on the chair’s arms and leaning on his broad shoulders. They were
watching car racing on Mace’s huge television. They flinched and shifted in
unison, urging their favored car to go faster. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His muscle-bound arms tightened around his offspring as they
bent around a turn with their car. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel decided not to start that discussion. Maybe Mace
wouldn’t understand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty bustled out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a
towel. “Angel, I see the girls cleaned you up. Good. The table is all set.
Would you like some iced tea?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sure. Thanks, Lib.” Angel wasn’t sure what to do with her
hands. She seemed useless when confronted by Liberty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Freedom! Bring the tea!” she called back to the kitchen. “Mo
will be here in a few minutes,” Liberty said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mo? Is that his name, Mo?” Angel wondered if his name was
Mortimer, or Maurice, perhaps. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty frowned. “Yes. His parents are very devout. Here’s
your tea.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freedom, now beside Angel, held out the dew-dripping glass. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks, honey.” Angel took the cold glass and sipped the
sweet tea. “What’s he do?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Gracious, Angel,” Liberty said, brightening. “You actually
sound curious. Are you going to be nice to this one?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I was nice to the last one.” It wasn’t her fault he was
squeamish. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty said, “This time, try to be a <i>girl</i>, all right?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel bit back a retort about not being a girl, that she was
an adult woman, but Liberty was a good friend and a nice woman, and one makes
allowances for nice woman friends who are, after all, doing something that they
perceive as a nice gesture, even if she felt trapped into meeting a guy who she
was sure was going to be a boring disaster. “All right, Lib. I’ll be on my best
behavior.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty looked suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nothing! Good behavior. Honest.” Angel went to find Mace. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She wanted to swear, but she didn’t swear around Mace’s
kids. The one time that she had said “Goddamn” when Freedom around, the girl
had jumped like Angel had poked her with a sharp stick and looked upset for an
hour. They were nice kids, awfully sheltered, but nice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the living room, Angel sat on the couch and watched car
racing with the males. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Outside the front window, past the lush, perfect lawn, a
black low-end knock-off of a luxury sedan drove up and parked in front of the
house. Angel watched through the window and barely had time to wonder who in
their right mind would drive a black car in Phoenix unless they were trying to
incinerate their own ass when summer came when a man emerged from the car. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man stood, and his belt buckle was above the black roof
of the car. He was tall, probably taller than Angel, and quite good looking in
a sandy blond way. She usually liked darker men but she could be flexible. Indeed,
if the man was cute enough, she could be surprisingly flexible despite her muscular
physique. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His blond hair was very precisely cut, conservative but not
shorn like the military regulation style, so Angel thought he looked shaggy. He
wore a dark suit and, after carefully closing the car door, he walked around
the car, inspecting. Only after a full circuit did he walk up the driveway to
the door. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel refrained from interpreting his fastidious vehicle
inspection. He might have driven on a street where the city had been
chip-sealing or behind a garbage truck, or borrowed the car from a friend. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the doorbell chimed, Liberty rushed to the door and
whipped it open. “Mo! Mo, dear. We’re almost ready for supper. Would you like
some sweet tea?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So this was Mo. Angel wasn’t disappointed yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace leaned out from under his sons and said to Angel, “You
look like a prize heifer, all gussied up with blue ribbons for the 4-H show.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks.” She wondered if Mace was trying to sabotage Angel’s
date or his own wife, or merely commiserating with Angel. He was often an
unwilling co-conspirator in Liberty’s romantic schemes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace glanced at Mo, still standing with Liberty in the
doorway. “He looks like he’s selling brooms.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty bustled in and to present the man to Angel. She
stood, and as she’d suspected, the man had about an inch on her. “Hi,” she
said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Howdy,” Mo said and smiled. His accent was oddly Texan, and
he had light brown eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They shook hands. He squeezed her hand a little hard, but
she didn’t wring out his hand in return. That was her trigger hand, and Angel
had all sorts of muscle in that hand. She could have crushed his hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See? Best behavior. She made a note of that for her defense
during Liberty’s inevitable blind date post-mortem. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty beamed up at the two of them from below their
shoulders and made the formal introduction. “Angel, this is Mo Blythe. Mo, this
is Angel Day. She works with Mace at the police department.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace, still in his recliner and half-buried by sons,
snorted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If that was all that Liberty had vouchsafed to Mo about
Angel’s job, then this was going to be an interesting supper full of surprising
revelations. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty probably hadn’t mentioned Angel’s tattoo, either.
My, wouldn’t that be a shock for one of Liberty’s nice young men. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe Angel shouldn’t say too much about gunning down a
suspect that afternoon. Maybe that was what Liberty had meant when she had said
that Angel should try to be “a girl.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, if this Mo guy wanted to date a “girl,” the kind who
didn’t routinely rain death from above upon evildoers, then Mo and Angel weren’t
going to date anyway or certainly not for very long, so nothing Angel said was
going to matter in the long run. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If nothing Angel said was going to matter, then she could
just be generally polite to Mo and tuck in Liberty’s chicken fried steak
without feeling guilty that she didn’t want to date anyone, even one of
Liberty’s nice young men. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At that, the perfect solution presented itself: just eat the
fried meat as if this wasn’t a blind date. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel reached back into her shellacked hair and pulled out
the few pins, then shook it down. It nearly brushed her shoulders, but not
quite. She smiled at him. “Nice to meet you, Mo.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wow,” he said. He looked confused. “Your hair is really
short.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel laughed. “I’ve been growing it out. You should have
seen it two years ago. Hey, I think Liberty’s chicken fried steak is just about
ready. Mace, you hungry?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace tumbled the boys off his lap and folded up the
recliner. “I was born hungry.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel said, “Let’s roll.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Young family had conspired to seat Angel and Mo beside
each other. Angel took her place just as Lib brought the platter of crispy meat
out of the kitchen. Her daughters brought out the side dishes and, Angel noted
happily, Beretta had the gravy boat. The aroma was deep-fried heaven. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel and Mo both inhaled deeply and sighed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiled at him. Anyone who appreciated Liberty’s chicken
fried steak had at least one redeeming quality. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo smiled back. He asked, “Read any good books lately?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe this guy was okay. Liberty’s previous manfind had only
read very conservative political blogs and religious sermons. Angel said, “I’m
reading my way through last year’s award winners’ lists—the Booker, the
National Book Awards—plus I’ve struck a vein of really excellent indies. You’re
a reader?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo smirked. “You read <i>fiction</i>?”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel suspected that something bad was happening. “Yes. I
majored in English Literature in college. You?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo smiled at her, but his smile had taken on a condescending
edge. “I only read non-fiction. I like to learn something when I read. Fiction
is just made-up stories.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had a thousand rebuttals to that, from “fully
experiencing what it is to be human” to “the reality of experience and to forge
in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race” and “to tell the
truth, rather than mere facts,” and finally finding “tongues in trees, books in
the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything,” but it all
jumbled up in Angel’s head, congealed in her astonishment that someone would
think that reading only non-fiction was a virtue, so she said, “Oh?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty nodded at Angel approvingly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel decided to change the subject. “So what do you do?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo was smug. “I’m a pharmacist. It’s a very demanding job,
you know. I saved a woman from a nasty interaction today by noting that she was
on a blood thinner, warfarin, and she had a yeast infection, so her doctor just
dashed off a prescription for fluconazole, the oral treatment, and those two
together can significantly increase the plasma concentrations and
hypoprothrombinemic effect of warfarin by inhibiting CYP450 2C9, which is the
isoenzyme responsible for the metabolic clearance of the biologically active <i>D</i>-enantiomer of the drug. In addition,
fluconazole inhibits the enzymes CYP450 2C19 and 3A4, which metabolize the R
enantiomer of warfarin, so that’s a double whammy right there. That’s a
dangerous combination.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had dozed off during the pharmacology lecture and only
woke up when she heard Mo say <i>dangerous</i>.
“Fascinating,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I saved her life, probably,” he continued, “and wouldn’t you
know it? The manager of the pharmacy department bawled me out for taking too
much time with her. He was just irate that we had customers lined up, waiting.
So he took five more minutes to scream at me. I’m an adult man. I should quit.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel was distracted by Liberty’s unsubtle coaching and thus
she forgot to be a girl. “What a jerk. I would’ve shot him.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty gasped a little. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oops. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace snorted into his iced tea. It slopped over the rim and
onto his empty plate. Liberty handed him a napkin, and he mopped it off his
plate. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel glanced at Liberty. Her eyes were bugging out, and her
head was vibrating from side-to-side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo looked startled. “Well, that’s, well, that’s just silly.
I can’t believe that a sweet little thing like you could ever shoot someone.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace laughed out loud. The Young girls studiously passed
serving dishes and did not make eye contact, lest they giggle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel considered what to say and how to say it. She decided
on the truth. “I shot someone today.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo was dismissive. “No you didn’t.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I sure did.” Angel said and took the dish of heaped full of
mashed potatoes from Liberty. Angel dodged Liberty’s reproachful look over the
potatoes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re joking.” He looked at Mace, who was leering at him
and on the verge of cracking up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel should have known that anything that amused Mace that
much was probably the wrong thing to say, yet she persisted, “I’m a sniper with
the police department. I stop bad guys before they kill innocent people,
usually hostages.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, really?” Mo asked, still not believing. “Have you shot
many people?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yep.” No one ever asked how many hostages’ lives she had
saved by sniping violent suspects, only how many people she had killed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo looked startled. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace, now grinning wickedly, nodded to Mo. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo slowly realized that it wasn’t a joke. He asked Angel,
“You killed someone today?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It was broadcast live. You can probably catch the footage
on the ten o’clock news.” Angel was enjoying shocking him, and she knew that it
wasn’t a nice thing to do, but she did it anyway. She wasn’t even sure why she
did it but it seemed compulsive, so she ate a bite of the creamy potatoes. Her
nose filled with the smell of butter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace added, “Yeah, it was a great shot, too. Perfectly
spotted. Perfectly calculated. What was it, two hundred yards?” he asked Angel.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Two hundred nine,” Angel told him and dished up corn. Well,
what she did for a living was going to enter the conversation eventually, and
while Angel was sorry that Liberty was disappointed, Angel couldn’t pretend
that she was not the Angel of Death. She had earned that nickname. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace said, “Two-oh-nine. Nice. The suspect dropped like bloody
cement dumped out of a wheelbarrow. You should see it on the news tonight. It
was gorgeous.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo looked at Liberty, who shrugged at him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well,” Mo said. Different expressions passed over his pale face:
confusion, dismay, and a shimmer of revulsion. “Well,” he said again. “We
should eat.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel handed him Liberty’s creamy mashed potatoes, a starchy
mountain running with yellow rivulets of real butter, and then she speared a
large slab of Liberty’s chicken fried steak from the platter in the middle of
the table. The batter was so crunchy that the cutlet did not flop when Angel
transferred it to her plate. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo didn’t talk much to Angel for the rest of the meal, which
was fine because Angel was busy eating Lib’s food and clogging her own arteries.
Damn, but it was good. Every bite was crunchy or creamy or tender or flakey and
all of it was dripping with gravy. She ate half-again as much as Mo. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo was unfailingly polite, however, and shook hands with her
before he left, but didn’t ask for her phone number. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty rolled her eyes at Angel after he was gone. “I
suppose he wasn’t right for you.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Afraid not,” Angel said and grinned. She was still feeling
the chicken fried afterglow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, back to the drawing board,” Lib said. “What do you
like in a man?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Someone more,” Angel thought about the men she liked, but
couldn’t come up with anything brilliant, “manly.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Like Mace,” Liberty said and smiled. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, not too much like Mace.” Angel did not want Lib to be
suspicious or jealous. Angel had no designs on Mace. She stayed on the straight
and narrow when it came to married men. <i>Always.</i>
Angel had a strong sense of honor, and she would never steal a man from a
commitment to another person. It repulsed her. Plus, she would not want a man
who was so dishonorable that he would break such a commitment, either. Nope,
never. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberty smiled at her. “I know, honey. If only he had a
younger brother.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be nice, Angel agreed, “That would be good.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Or we could share.” Liberty had been born in a small town on
the Utah-Arizona border, one with an unusual husband-to-wife ratio. She had had
seven mothers and thirty-six siblings. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel recognized that Lib had offered her a compliment, but
Angel had been raised Baptist. Polygamy gave her the willies. Plus, Mace had
been raised in mainstream Mesa. Surely he would not go for such things. He’d
better not. “Lib, you’re a very generous woman, but I am very creeped out by
that offer.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, fine.” Liberty rolled her eyes. “But we could be
sister-wives.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel didn’t want to insult Liberty, but she needed to quash
this idea, now. “Honey, you don’t want to be my sister-wife. I don’t even pick
up my own socks.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, for you, I would think about it. I’ll try to find someone
more ‘manly’ for you next time.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Lib, there doesn’t need to be a next time. I’m perfectly
fine. This is exactly how I want to live my life. I own a house. I get to kill
bad guys. I even have a dog.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But you want children, don’t you?” Lib’s wide eyes were
astonished. “A family? Grandchildren?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know, Lib. Probably not. I’m just not that kind
of,” Angel chose her word, “woman.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But, you must want a family.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have a family. I’m close to my siblings and my cousins,
and their kids. There are usually a few unmarried aunts and uncles in every
generation of our family, who pick up the slack with the teenagers.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, but they’re usually gay.” Liberty said with
conviction. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Some of them, sure. But some aren’t and weren’t. My
family’s weird. The unmarried aunts and uncles were,” and Angel searched
around, trying to find words, and finally came up with, “warriors. They didn’t
marry because they couldn’t have those ties, but they saved their families when
war broke out.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, you’re not like that,” Liberty cajoled. “You want to
get married and have kids.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Lib, I really don’t.” Angel couldn’t even imagine it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, next time, I’ll try to find someone more ‘manly.’
Would it help if he didn’t bathe regularly?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now Liberty was teasing and everything was all right again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel said, “Not quite that manly.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After Mo left, in the quiet cool of the evening, Mace and
Angel worked on Mace’s car. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel couldn’t help herself. “So what is ‘Mo’ short for? He
high-tailed it out of here before I could ask him.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace smirked. “Mah-roan-i.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel was confused. “How does he get ‘Mo’ out of that?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s spelled like ‘Moron-i.’” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“What?”</i> Good Lord,
that poor boy, that his parents had named him something so awful. Pun names
were urban legends—Rosy and Harry Bottom or Razzi Barry—but that was just
cruel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“His older brothers are named Nephi and Elijah.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And that makes it better, <i>how</i>?” Angel twisted free a black-crusted bolt and dropped it into
her hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mace said, “They’re all angels from the Book of Mormon.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel felt an angry violence well up in her. “Did they not
know how people would pronounce it? Were they from some other country and
didn’t speak English? My God, how did he survive grade school?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They were from a small community in Utah. It’s a common
name, there.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel wanted to grab Mo’s parents’ stupid throats and shake
them for deliberating screwing with him. Who would do that to a kid? Mace named
his kids after guns, but they were at least normal-sounding names, especially
in the West, and not a synonym for stupidity. “Names like that just piss me off.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, Mo’s done all right with it. He’s a deacon in the
church.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What <i>assholes</i>.”
Angel was still incensed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, my. My tender ears.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Whatever. Hey, I’m taking my team rock climbing this
weekend over at Papago Park. You in?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Heck, yeah. I’ll bring my slacker team and race you to the
top.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We weren’t planning to race. We’re going to get to the top
without being seen. Anybody can run up a damn hill.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Angel got home, she sat on her couch with Kary for a
moment before getting ready for bed. Her dog Kary needed some human time, Angel
could tell. She texted with one thumb while rubbing Kary’s furry tummy with her
other hand and cooing to him. He lay limp over her lap, belly-up. He was so
relaxed that his tongue lolled sideways and had fallen out of his snout. Where
his tongue touched Angel’s pant leg, the fabric was slowly wicking the dog’s
saliva out of his mouth and becoming soggy, but Angel didn’t mind. Slobbering
was just part of being a dog. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her living room furniture was overstuffed brown blobs, and
the carpet and walls were beige. Mace described it as Angel’s suburban sniper
hide. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only the art drew one’s attention. The sculpture and
paintings were all ethnographic and violent: African dead spirit masks, Polynesian
statues representing howling war gods, photographs of petroglyphs about hunting
bison and bear, and a watercolor painting of Lozen, a woman warrior of the
Chiricahua Apache in the middle 1800’s, riding a horse at hell-bent speed across
the desert, holding a rifle before her like a spear. The family rumor was that
Lozen was a great-something-something-grand aunt, so when Angel had found the
picture, she had bought it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The small house had three bedrooms: Angel’s bedroom, a guest
bedroom for cousins who dropped by, and her weapons storeroom. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel texted to Wyatt:
<i>Yo! Brother the Youngest! Where the hell are you? I feel slighted that you
haven’t congratulated me on my gorgeous shot this afternoon.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And to Lupan:<i>
Have you heard from Wyatt? Did he go walkabout again? I haven’t heard from him.
<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Neither message conveyed Angel’s worry: that Wyatt had done
something stupid this time, or that something stupid had happened to him. Wyatt
lived down near the border between Arizona and Mexico, and all sorts of stupid
things happened down there. Stupid things and violent things. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their whole family had a prideful preoccupation with the
Apache, believing their diluted Chiricahua blood to be evidence of toughness,
honor, and intelligence. Hunting traditions had been passed down, dimming in
history with each generation, but it was more than that. An unusually high
percentage of their family joined elite military or law enforcement units or found
other occupations where violence was routine. A warrior gene ran through
Angel’s family, and with it, the chaos of the trickster god Coyote. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wyatt felt Coyote’s call as much as any of them, but he
hadn’t found a place to exercise his talents. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Wyatt was in high school and Angel was in college, he had
come to visit her on a recon trip and stayed in her dorm room, much to her
roommate’s delight until she found out that Wyatt was only sixteen. Even as a
teenager, he had been six feet two and gloweringly good-looking, and Jodie had
finally slept someplace else until he had gone home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That visit had been right after September 11, 2001, when all
Angel’s plans had changed. She had been researching the military and
intelligence services, deciding how she could best kill terrorists. Her grief
process had blown through denial and bargaining—the television’s incessant
coverage convinced her that the attack had happened, and she knew that Reese
had gotten on the plane—and within days she had settled in a cold vengeful
rage. At first, she wanted to be in one of the military’s elite units, the
SEALs or Delta Force, but the recruiters had bald-faced told her that girls
weren’t allowed to play. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The FBI, however, had fewer sexist barriers and, when the
G-man she met with saw that she was six-feet-plus, fit, tough, and already an
excellent shot, he explained the career path that could lead her to the Hostage
Rescue Team because, early in his career, he had been on the assault team. He
also explained the many career paths within the FBI that she could also pursue,
“all of which would be excellent choices for someone of her,” he cleared his
shotgun-pocked throat and subtly glanced at her physique, “abilities and motivation.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Wyatt found out that she was seriously considering the
FBI, he flipped. “Thou shalt not kill,” he quoted at her, and “Render unto
Caesar what is Caesar’s,” but it was not an injunction to join Caesar. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she was resolute that she was going to go kill some
terrorists any way that the government would let her, Wyatt left that night and,
for the first time, went out into the desert with only a hunting knife. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had been gone for two weeks, living off what he could
catch or scavenge in the desert. The whole family had been frantic with worry,
trying to find his trail but they never found his car to begin the search. He
had finally come out, three pounds thinner and with an obsessive light burning in
his black eyes, and they had all yelled at him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With each cousin who had joined the military, Wyatt
retreated farther into his defiance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel and Wyatt had never discussed her career choice again,
but his comments ranged from sanctimonious to anarchist. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Jesus was the first anarchist,” Wyatt had told her only a
few weeks ago at a cousins’ potluck supper in Tucson. “When he was talking
about carrying the Legionnaire’s pack for an extra mile, he wasn’t talking
about a <i>pack</i>.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Damn it, Angel was worried. She wished Wyatt would text or
call or update his online status, anything that would let her know that he
wasn’t out in the desert somewhere, dead. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
Thanks for reading! </div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
If you sign up for email updates (over there on the right side bar), you'll get an update when I post Chapter Three: The Secret Police State. </div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: left;">
TK </div>TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-85918636301523541562012-06-08T14:21:00.002-07:002012-06-08T14:21:24.741-07:00Writing Tip: Character Population#Writingtip: if you know that you're going to mass murder some characters, start with a lot of characters so you have some to choose from. <br />
<br />
I'm going back and salting in characters, all of whom are DOOMED.<br />
<br />
New chapter soon. With new DOOMED characters.<br />
<br />
TKTK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-75893921372057299962012-05-21T07:33:00.000-07:002012-05-21T07:33:07.573-07:00Chapter 1: A Stash House NEW VERSIONNow that I'm about 42,000 words into the rough draft, I changed my mind about the opening scene. You can read the <a href="http://tkkenyon.blogspot.com/2012/04/selling-handcuffs-chapter-1-hostages-at.html" target="_blank">original version here</a>.<br />
<br />
The original version was an Ice Monster! scene, but to give the reader a taste of danger and excitement before the novel backs off and goes into foreshadowing mode. (More on that at the original post, link above.)<br />
<br />
However, the original scene was a bank robbery, which had little to do with the plot. Here, I've changed the location of the crime to a stash house in the affluent community of North Scottsdale. A stash house is a house or other location where human traffickers kidnap the very people they led over the Mexican-US Border and then demand ransom from their families back in Mexico or points south. This relates more closely to the Border themes in the novel.<br />
<br />
Hope you like it. I'll take comments off of moderation soon. In the meantime, if you'd like to talk about it, feel free to Tweet me. My twitter handle is @TKKenyon, and there's a button over in the right hand column to follow me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="" name="Chap01">Chapter One: The </a>Stash House</div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel Day trained the optics of her telescopic gunsight on
the man holding the shotgun. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the magnified circle, under the crosshairs, the suspect’s
shining black hair hung loose and past his shoulders. His hair obscured the
small sweet-spot where his skull met the rolls of fat on his neck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel pressed the stock of her sniper rifle, raising the
crosshairs to meet the suspect’s neck. She was coiled and ready for the shot,
but perfectly still and calm. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bullet to the brainstem, where the spinal cord connects to
the brain, will drop a man without a twitch or a whimper, which was imperative,
because that blubbery walrus of a suspect had duct-taped his hand around the stock
and trigger of a shotgun, and then duct-taped the barrel of the gun to the back
of a small woman’s neck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel could hear the hostage crying and begging, the slow
beat of her own heart, and the grating growl of the police vehicles in the
street around the target, waiting for the suspect’s next move.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The suspect yanked his shotgun and wheeled his hostage
around in front of him like a spaniel on a choke chain. The woman’s hands were
duct-taped behind her, so she couldn’t catch herself when she fell to the
sidewalk. Her knees bled through her ripped, pink pants. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel inhaled smoothly, then held her breath, and then
exhaled smoothly, and held it again, always ready to calmly take the shot. Her
finger was taut on the trigger, but not jittery. She had trained her body to
not squirt hot adrenaline into her blood. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This standoff was at a stash house, a domicile where human
traffickers change the rules of the game. Most illegal immigrants cross into
the US with the help of traffickers, or coyotes, who know the better routes
across the Arizona-Mexico border. A few, like this woman, end up in the hands
of evil men, who kidnap them and hold them for ransom, often sending small body
parts to their families in Mexico to hurry up payment or raping the girls while
their parents listen on the phone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This stash house was in North Scottsdale, where the
evacuated neighbors had been shocked to discover such a travesty in their area.
Sure, this type of atrocity occurred in the Alhambra district, but North
Scottsdale was a nice area. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel hadn’t been surprised at all. The best neighborhoods
bred the worst crime. There was more money to be made, and the police had to be more circumspect about the busts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The suspect yelled something to the police negotiators, who
were taking cover behind their cars, trying to negotiate though bullhorns. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had wedged herself into an improvised sniper hide under
a jacked-up truck. Strong, thick muscles cushioned her bones from the hot,
pebbled driveway. She felt like a hunting snake down there, perfectly still and
ready to stab and kill the suspect. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her field of fire was across three large suburban lawns and
a neighborhood street, over two hundred yards. She was lying prone, behind a
monster-truck tire, aiming around the rubber. Her body—her arms, her chest, her
shoulder—interlocked around the rifle. The desert sun beat all around her,
reflecting off the cement to bake even the undersides of her arms that held the
gun. Her helmet was getting hot. At least there was shade under the truck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If this were a long shot, like a mile or more, the sun
warming the ammunition might make a difference in how fast the propellant in
the rounds burned, and she would have to adjust her point of aim accordingly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel waited, patiently, as she had waited for the last four
hours of this stand-off. She had been aiming at the affluent house for most of
that time, until eight minutes ago, when this suspect had exited the McMansion
with his hostage. She was always ready to squeeze the trigger and was always
relaxed as she didn’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even though the suspect was two hundred and nine yards away,
through her scope, Angel saw the target as close as if the end of her rifle was
resting on his fat neck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The gunman roared something to the encircling police cars
and crouching officers. His whole body bowed back like he was belting out a
high note. The woman cowered, bending forward as far as the shotgun would let
her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Above Angel, flags snapped on another house’s flagpole. The
wind had freshened, so she turned the calibration wheel on the turret of her
sniper scope. At two hundred yards, a ten mile per hour wind will cause a
bullet to drift six and a half inches. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sniper rifle’s stock was hot against her cheek. “Day to
command post,” Angel muttered into her microphone. “I have a bead on the
suspect. I can take the shot, cold zero.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hold your fire. Repeat, hold your fire.” Tony’s voice was
calm on the radio in her ear. Tony was her cousin and the Phoenix Police Chief.
“The rules of engagement are still at compromised authority. The risk is too
great for the hostage outside and the hostages still in the house. Let the
negotiators do their job.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Compromised authority rules mean that, if an authority team
member is compromised, which means injured, grabbed, or shot at, then everyone—the
snipers, the entry team, and the inner perimeter officers—has the authority to
take any immediately necessary action to protect the team member, including
sniping the bastard. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel had to wait until the gunman down there killed the
hostage and shot at a police officer. <span style="font-family: MingLiU; mso-bidi-font-family: MingLiU;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hostage negotiators had been doing their job for four
hours. When the suspect was still inside the house, he had been allowed to talk
to his girlfriend on the negotiators’ phone, and he had told her that he was
going to kill a hostage, out front, where the television cameras would record
every splatter. A conservative radio station had interviewed him via another
hostage’s cell phone because authorities cannot use cell phone jammers in any
situation. The hostage-taker had told the radio station that he was going to
kill a hostage in plain sight and to keep the cameras rolling, evidently not
understanding that he was on the radio. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since then, the television cameras had arrived and, despite
the police’s best efforts, had set up their cameras at the end of the block where
their telephoto lenses could capture every shot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, the gunman was going to do it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel’s calloused finger tightened on the trigger to two
pounds of pull. At four pounds, the sniper rifle would fire. Angel had fired a
thousand rounds a week through her rifle for six years, over three hundred
thousand rounds. She knew the feel of this rifle better than most people know
the feel of their car’s accelerator. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She whispered into her mic, “I can make this shot.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony said, “Hold your fire. Rules of engagement are not,
repeat <i>not</i>, at shot of opportunity.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shot of opportunity rules of engagement are a license to
kill the suspect at the first chance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can make this shot with a handgun,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hold your fire,” Tony said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hot wind blew the target’s voice to Angel’s rooftop. His
voice was tinny and too high. Through her scope, Angel watched the target roar,
<i>“Ten!”</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the radio in her ear, Angel heard police near the scene
confirm that the suspect was counting, beginning at ten. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jesus, he was counting down. At one, the gunman would fire
that shotgun and tear that terrified woman’s head off her neck. He was not
negotiating his way out of a bad situation; he was a psychopath performing
terror theater. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel said, “This is not a hostage situation. This suspect
is an active shooter. He will kill her.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony said over the radio, “Keep your position. Rules of
engagement remain at compromised authority. Hold your fire.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel settled herself and watched the target through her
scope. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She breathed in, held it, and out, and held it. Her finger
was tensed and strong on the trigger, ready to move it a fraction of an inch
more and release the shot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The gunman grinned, enjoying the spectacle he was making.
All those cops were scampering around at his nutcase bidding. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel was disgusted at his evil act and her own inability to
stop it. They should shoot him now and end this crime. She could do it. She
wanted to. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The target threw back his head and hollered, <i>“Nine!”</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From her other radio channel, Jack Jordan’s deep bass voice
whispered, “Bravo three has an unobstructed shot with a stucco wall behind the
target. Do we have authorization to take the shot?” Jordan was her side two
sniper, meaning he was the third-ranking sniper on her team. As the primary
sniper, Angel covered the front of the building. Her side-three sniper, Luke
Johnson, covered the back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Negative,” Angel whispered to Jordan over the radio. “We do
not have authorization. Rules of engagement remain at compromised authority.
Maintain position.” Jack Jordan was a good sniper who probably wanted to tag
this asshole gunman as much as Angel did. To Tony on her other channel, Angel
said, “Bravo three has an unobstructed shot with a stucco wall backstop. If I
shoot and have a through-and-through wound, the round will strike the house’s
front wall. Other hostages are not in danger. We can take a sync’d shot that
will stop him.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Snipers don’t shoot to kill. Snipers shoot to <i>stop</i>, an important distinction. Police
snipers aren’t murderers, just very effective at <i>stopping</i> a crime in progress. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Negative,” Tony said. “No authorization. Remain at
compromised authority.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Down at street level, the police negotiators squatted behind
their cars and held their bullhorns, talking, demanding, and pleading for the
target to respond in English and Spanish. The long cable of a throw-phone
snaked from their van to where the suspect had kicked it away from him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Eight!” </i>the
target yelled. He jerked the shotgun, and the hostage stumbled aside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was the kind of situation Angel had trained for: to
save an innocent life by taking another. Her cold appraisal had earned her the
nickname Angel of Death, but she thought of herself as a guardian angel for
hostages. She coiled tighter around her rifle, ready to strike. “Bravo one to
command post. Let us take him out. Jordan and I will drop him flat.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We can’t risk it,” Tony said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Request to elevate the level of engagement to shot of opportunity.”
Her sight was dialed in so close that she was practically sitting on the gunman’s
shoulder, ready to fire the bullet into the back of his head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Negative,” Tony said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Across the clean, green yards, the gunman yelled, <i>“Seven!” </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Through her scope, Angel could see the target sweating
greasy streaks in the heat. His meaty hands were probably slippery, but the duct-taped
one couldn’t slip off the shotgun. No chance of him dropping it, dammit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Six!” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Let me put him down, Cuz,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony whispered through their radio, “There are more people
behind him, watching from inside the house. The round might ricochet and hit
one of them.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel knew that. She knew it better than her cousin Tony
because she was far better trained, but she didn’t wave that red flag in his
face. She also knew she could kill this target and save that woman. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Through her earpiece, another of her snipers, Hunter, said,
“This is Bravo Eight, I have an unobstructed line of fire. I can take the
shot.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Negative,” Angel said. “We are at compromised authority.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Goddamn,” Hunter said, and Angel wanted to agree with him
but held her aim. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the heat of battle, her body didn’t respond with hyped-up
adrenaline. She watched the suspect, ready, but calm. She might have been
meditating, but for her steady stare down the telescopic sight on the rifle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Five!” </i>the gunman
screamed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She whispered into the microphone, “Bravo Three has a bead
with a brick wall behind the target. I can make a brainstem shot from here. He
won’t twitch. Give us the reins.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony said, “Let the negotiators do their jobs. If you shoot
him and that shotgun goes off and she dies, we’re liable.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The negotiators aren’t doing shit.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Four!” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They had been at the siege for over four hours. Angel’s head
ached from the sun glaring on the cement and asphalt around her, and her eyes
throbbed from peering through the scope. “When are we going to shoot him?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’re not,” Tony said. “Unless he fires at authority
personnel, we can’t shoot.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Three!” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bedlam of the negotiators’ voices hollering at the
criminal from all sides escalated. Angel kept the crosshairs on the gunman’s
neck and steady pressure on the trigger because, after he shot that poor woman,
he would doubtlessly open fire on the police officers and then, finally, she
could shoot him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Two!” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Light glinted off the sidewalk from the overhead sun. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman hostage wrenched her head to the side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The duct tape around her neck tore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The shotgun blasted, spraying lead shot at the police cars,
shattering glass and slamming on steel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel squeezed her trigger slightly, sending the .308 bullet
through the rifle and into the gunman’s brainstem. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He dropped straight down as if through a trapdoor, and lay
in a glutinous heap on the sidewalk in front of the Desert Victorian house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman hostage screamed as she ran away. Her hair was a
mess of blood, but Angel could see that the shotgun blast had only lightly
scalped her. She would be fine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other captives, at least fifty, ran out of the house and grabbed the woman,
crying over her. A small boy clung to her neck and sobbed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel worked the action on the rifle to chamber another
round and kept her sights on the gunman, in case the mound of blood and blubber
moved. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angel murmured into her radio, “That counted as ‘firing at
authorities,’ right?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-74638363123201087352012-05-06T18:12:00.000-07:002012-05-06T18:12:20.902-07:00Comments restricted and on moderationDear Friends,<br />
<br />
Sorry that I've had to restrict comments to members of this blog, and even those are moderated. It seems that Passive Voice Guy's blog has now been attacked for posting Kris's article.<br />
<br />
These publisher-lackey hackers are giving real hackers a bad name. Real hackers are anti-establishment and moderately anarchic. These publisher lackeys are hacking to help multinational corporations. What kind of slacker hackers are they? Yuck.<br />
<br />
I've run my anti-virus, and I seem to be clean. I'm going to make sure my Carbonite is up to date.<br />
<br />
TK<br />
<br />TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-57414034245993517542012-05-05T06:23:00.001-07:002012-05-21T07:38:41.224-07:00Kristine Kathryn Rusch: Updates on Royalty Statements Post: Something Rotten in New York City<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
This blog post was posted on Kristine Kathryn Rusch's blog a few days ago, and soon afterward, hackers took down her site. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
And then she posted it on another site, and they took that one down, too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Kris gave me permission to repost on my blog to spread this news. Other blogs are doubtlessly reposting, too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
If you're an aspiring writer, you need to read this. If you're a publishing writer, you MUST read this, and then read your own royalty statements, very carefully. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Kris Rusch: Updates on Royalty Statements Post: Something
Rotten in New York City <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
By Kristine Kathryn Rusch <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Kris Rusch's website is now up and running. The excellent blog post can be found here: </i><a href="http://kriswrites.com/2012/05/02/the-business-rusch-royalty-statement-update-2012/">http://kriswrites.com/2012/05/02/the-business-rusch-royalty-statement-update-2012/</a><br />
<br />
TK<br />
<br /></div>TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-34462550875956035762012-04-19T07:51:00.000-07:002012-04-19T07:51:19.073-07:00Selling Handcuffs Chapter 1: Hostages at a Bank RobberyHello friends,<br />
<br />
Here is Chapter 1 of my novel-in-progress, <i>Selling Handcuffs</i>. I previously posted the prologue, which had some insight into the main character, Angel Day, but isn't necessary to understand what's going on here.<br />
<br />
For writers: This is an "Ice Monster!" scene. For more on story structure and the concept of the "Ice Monster!" scene, watch Dan Wells's very good lecture series <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KcmiqQ9NpPE&feature=results_video&playnext=1&list=PL5F7591D6127C0469" target="_blank">on YouTube here</a>. Basically, an "Ice Monster!" scene is an interesting hook for the beginning of the novel and relates to some of the main problems in the novel, though not the main conflict, and it basically starts the novel off with a big bang (literally, in this case) rather than a bunch of talking or back story. You tell the reader, "Look! Ice Monster!"<br />
<br />
<b>Caveat: </b>This is a rough draft. It's really rough.<br />
<br />
I haven't added how much force it takes to pull the trigger of the .308 sniper rifle yet.<br />
<br />
You'll notice that I also haven't even decided on the side three sniper's name yet. It's denoted as "BBB" in the draft. If you have a bright idea for a name, leave it in the comments or email it to me, because I'm stumped.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Chapter 1: Hostages at a Bank Robbery </div><br />
<div class="Centered" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel Day trained the optics of her telescopic gunsight on the man holding the shotgun. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the magnified circle, under the crosshairs, the suspect’s shining black hair hung loose and far past his obese shoulders. His hair obscured the small sweet-spot where his skull met the rolls of fat on his neck. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel pressed the stock of her sniper rifle, raising the crosshairs to meet the suspect’s neck. She was coiled and ready for the shot, but perfectly still and calm. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A bullet to the brainstem, where the spinal cord connects to the brain, will drop a man without a twitch or a whimper, which was imperative, because that blubbery walrus of a suspect had duct-taped his hand around the stock and trigger of a shotgun, and then duct-taped the barrel of the gun to the back of a small woman’s neck. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel could hear the hostage crying and begging, the slow beat of her own heart, and the grating growl of the police vehicles around the target, waiting for the suspect’s next move.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The suspect yanked his shotgun and wheeled his hostage around in front of him like a spaniel on a choke chain. The woman’s hands were duct-taped behind her, so she couldn’t catch herself when she fell. Her knees bled through her ripped, pink pants. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel inhaled smoothly, then held her breath, and then exhaled smoothly, and held it again, always ready to calmly take the shot. Her finger was taut on the trigger, but not jittery. She had trained her body to not squirt hot adrenaline into her blood. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The suspect yelled something to the police negotiators, who were hiding behind their cars, trying to negotiate though bullhorns. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel had wedged herself into an improvised sniper hide three stories above the bank. Strong, thick muscles cushioned her bones from the hot, pebbled rooftop. She felt like a hunting snake up there, perfectly still and ready to stab and kill the suspect. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Her field of fire was across the parking lot and a street and from the side of the bank’s entrance, over two hundred yards. She was lying prone, aiming though decorative holes in the slump block wall that encircled the building’s roof. Her body—her arms, her chest, her shoulder—interlocked around the rifle. The desert sun beat all around her, reflecting off the silver-white roof paint to bake even the undersides of her arms that held the gun. Her helmet was getting hot. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If this were a long shot, like a mile or more, the sun warming the ammunition might make a difference in how fast the propellant in the rounds burned, and she would have to adjust her point of aim accordingly. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel waited, patiently, as she had waited for the last four hours of this stand-off. She was always ready to squeeze the trigger and was always relaxed as she didn't. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even though the suspect was two hundred and nine yards away, through her scope, Angel saw the target as close as if the end of her rifle was touching his fat neck. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The gunman roared something to the encircling police cars and crouching officers. His whole body bowed back like he was belting out a high note. The woman cowered, bending forward as far as the shotgun would let her. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Above Angel, flags snapped on the flagpole. The wind had freshened, so she turned the calibration wheel on the turret of her sniper scope. At two hundred yards, a ten mile per hour wind will cause a bullet to drift six and a half inches. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The sniper rifle’s stock was hot against her cheek. “Day to command post,” Angel muttered into her microphone. “I have a bead on the suspect. I can take the shot, cold zero.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hold your fire. Repeat, hold your fire.” Tony’s voice was calm on the radio in her ear. “The rules of engagement are still at compromised authority. The risk is too great for the hostage and bystanders. Let the negotiators do their job.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Compromised authority rules mean that, if an authority team member is compromised, which means injured, grabbed, or shot at, in any way, then everyone—the snipers, the entry team, and the inner perimeter officers—has the authority to take any immediately necessary action to protect the team member, including sniping the bastard. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel had to wait until the gunman down there killed the hostage and shot at a police officer. <span style="font-family: MingLiU; mso-bidi-font-family: MingLiU;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The hostage negotiators had been doing their job for four hours. When the suspect was still inside the bank, he had been allowed to talk to his girlfriend on the negotiators’ phone, and he had told her that he was going to kill a hostage, out front, where the television cameras would record every splatter. A conservative radio station had interviewed him via another hostage’s cell phone because authorities cannot use cell phone jammers in any situation. The hostage-taker had told the radio station that he was going to kill a hostage in plain sight and to keep the cameras rolling, evidently not understanding that he was on the radio. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Since then, the television cameras had arrived and, despite the police’s best efforts, had set up their cameras where their telephoto lenses could capture every shot. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, the gunman was going to do it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel’s calloused finger tightened on the trigger to Y pounds of pull. At Z pounds, the sniper rifle would fire. Angel had fired a thousand rounds a week through her rifle for six years, over three hundred thousand rounds. She knew the feel of this rifle better than most people know the feel of their car’s accelerator. She whispered into her mic, “I can make this shot.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tony said, “Hold your fire. Rules of engagement are not, repeat <i>not</i>, at shot of opportunity.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shot of opportunity rules of engagement are a license to kill the suspect at the first opportunity. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I can make this shot with a handgun,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hold your fire,” Tony said. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The hot wind blew the target’s voice to Angel’s rooftop. His voice was tinny and too high. Through her scope, Angel watched the target roar, <i>“Ten!”</i> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the radio in her ear, Angel heard police near the scene confirm that the suspect was counting, beginning at ten. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jesus, he was counting down. At one, the gunman would fire that shotgun and tear that terrified woman’s head off her neck. He was not negotiating his way out of a bad situation; he was a psychopath performing terror theater. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel said, “This is not a hostage situation. This suspect is an active shooter. He will kill her.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tony said over the radio, “Keep your position. Rules of engagement remain at compromised authority. Hold your fire.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel settled herself and watched the target through her scope. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She breathed in, held it, and out, and held it. Her finger was tensed and strong on the trigger, ready to move it a fraction of an inch more and release the shot. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The gunman grinned, enjoying the spectacle he was making. All those cops were scampering around at his nutcase bidding. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel was disgusted at his evil act and her own inability to stop it. They should shoot him now and end this crime. She could do it. She wanted to. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The target threw back his head and hollered, <i>“Nine!”</i> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">From her other radio channel, Jack Jordan’s deep bass voice whispered, “Bravo three has an unobstructed shot with a brick wall behind the target. Do we have authorization to take the shot?” Jordan was her side two sniper, meaning he was the third-ranking sniper on her team. As the primary sniper, Angel covered the front of the building. Her side-three sniper, <span style="background: fuchsia; mso-highlight: fuchsia;">BBB</span>, covered the back. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Negative,” Angel whispered to Jordan over the radio. “We do not have authorization. Rules of engagement remain at compromised authority. Maintain position.” Jack Jordan was a good sniper who probably wanted to tag this asshole gunman as much as Angel did. To Tony on her other channel, Angel said, “Bravo three has an unobstructed shot with a brick wall backstop. If I shoot and have a through-and-through wound, the round will strike the sidewalk. Bystanders are not in danger. We can take a sync’d shot that will stop him.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Snipers don’t shoot to kill, after all. Snipers shoot to <i>stop</i>, an important distinction. Police snipers aren’t murderers, just very effective at stopping a crime in progress. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Negative,” Tony said. “No authorization. Remain at compromised authority.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Down at street level, the police negotiators squatted behind their cars and held their bullhorns, talking, demanding, and pleading for the target to respond. The long cable of a throw-phone snaked from their van to where the suspect had kicked it away from him. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“Eight!” </i>the target yelled. He jerked the shotgun, and the hostage stumbled aside. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This was the kind of situation Angel had trained for: to save an innocent life by taking another. Her cold appraisal had earned her the nickname Angel of Death, but she thought of herself as a guardian angel for hostages. She coiled tighter around her rifle, ready to strike. “Day to command post. Let me take him out. Jordan and I will drop him flat.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We can’t risk it,” Tony said. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Request to elevate the level of engagement to shot of opportunity.” Her sight was dialed in so close that she was practically sitting on the gunman’s shoulder, ready to fire the bullet into the back of his head. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Negative,” Tony said. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Down below her rooftop, the gunman yelled, <i>“Seven!” </i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Through her scope, Angel could see the target sweating greasy streaks in the heat. His meaty hands were probably slippery, but that duct-taped one couldn’t slip off the shotgun. No chance of him dropping it, dammit. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“Six!” <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Let me put him down, Cuz,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tony whispered through their radio, “There are people behind him, watching from inside the bank. The round might ricochet and hit one of them.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel knew that. She knew it better than her cousin Tony because she was far better trained, but she didn’t wave that red flag in his face. She also knew she could kill this target and save that woman. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Through her earpiece, another of her snipers, Hunter, said, “Bravo Eight, I have an unobstructed line of fire. I can take the shot.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Negative,” Angel said. “We are at compromised authority.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Goddamn,” Hunter said, and Angel wanted to agree with him but held her aim. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the heat of battle, her body didn’t respond with hyped-up adrenaline. She watched the suspect, ready, but calm. She might have been meditating, but for her steady stare down the telescopic sight on the rifle. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“Five!” </i>the gunman screamed. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Bravo Three has a bead with a brick wall behind the target. I can make a brainstem shot from here. He won’t twitch. Give us the reins.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Let the negotiators do their jobs. If you shoot him and that shotgun goes off and she dies, we’re liable.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“The negotiators aren’t doing shit.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“Four!” <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">They had been at the siege for over four hours. Angel’s head ached from the sun pounding on her black urban ghillie suit, and her eyes throbbed from peering through the scope. “When are we going to shoot him?” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We’re not,” Tony said. “Unless he fires at authority personnel, we can’t shoot.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“Three!” <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">The bedlam of the negotiators’ voices hollering at the criminal from all sides escalated. Angel kept the crosshairs on the gunman’s neck and steady pressure on the trigger because, after he shot that poor woman, he would doubtlessly open fire on the police officers and then, finally, she could shoot him. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“Two!” <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Light glinted off the sidewalk from the overhead sun. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The woman hostage wrenched her head to the side. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The duct tape around her neck tore. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The shotgun blasted, spraying lead shot at the police cars, shattering glass and slamming on steel. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel squeezed her trigger slightly, sending the .308 bullet through the rifle and into the gunman’s brainstem. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He dropped straight down as if through a trapdoor, and lay in a glutinous heap on the sidewalk in front of the bank. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The woman hostage screamed as she ran away. Her hair was a mess of blood, but Angel could see that the shotgun blast had only lightly scalped her. She would be fine. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel worked the action on the rifle to chamber another round and kept her sights on the gunman, in case the mound of blood and blubber moved. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Angel murmured into her radio, “That counted as ‘firing at authorities,’ right?” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="Centered" style="text-align: center;">~~~~~<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>If you liked this excerpt from <i>Selling Handcuffs</i>, consider going to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/TK-Kenyon/e/B001JP4HK4/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1" target="_blank">Amazon </a>or <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/tk-kenyon" target="_blank">BN</a> or <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/tk-kenyon/id453328427?mt=11" target="_blank">Apple - iTunes </a>or <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/malachitepublishing" target="_blank">Smashwords </a>(all readers, apps, and computers) to read some more of my fiction. Several of the short stories are free. </o:p></div>TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-1515681374570892212012-03-30T07:38:00.002-07:002012-06-11T09:15:27.903-07:00Selling Handcuffs: PrologueOkay, so I talked to people about whether or not I should post my first draft up on my blog, just to start conversations with people about writing and stories, and there were a lot of opinions out there about whether or not it was a good idea.<br />
<br />
Many of the negative comments were based in fear: mostly fear of pirates finding it, copying it, and publishing (mostly e-publishing) it as their own.<br />
<br />
So, here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to post each chapter for a while, then take it down. <br />
<br />
So, this is the Prologue, or perhaps it will be inserted somewhere in the middle. Haven't decided yet. As I mentioned above, this is a rough draft. It's a little bit of back story, but mostly characterization.<br />
<br />
It's really rough.<br />
<br />
Before it is published, I'll fine-comb it for spelling and grammar and all that. Don't worry about that.<br />
<br />
Beyond nit-picks, I'd love to know what y'all think. Feel free to leave your comments or email me.<br />
<br />
This is the first time I've tried throwing rough drafts out there, and so the caveat is: this is a ROUGH DRAFT. It's pretty close to a FIRST DRAFT.<br />
<br />
And here it is:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Prologue: Swan Dive </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a name='more'></a>This excerpt removed on 4/19/12.<br />
<br />
Keep coming back to keep up with<i> Selling Handcuffs</i>, or sign up for email alerts on the right! </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If you liked this excerpt from <i>Selling Handcuffs</i>, consider going to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/TK-Kenyon/e/B001JP4HK4/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1" target="_blank">Amazon </a>or <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/tk-kenyon" target="_blank">B&N</a> or <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/tk-kenyon/id453328427?mt=11" target="_blank">Apple - iTunes </a>or <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/malachitepublishing" target="_blank">Smashwords </a>(all readers, apps, and computers) to read some more of my fiction. Several of the short stories are free. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">TK<br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /> </span><br />
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<br /></div>TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-69016035135758347352012-03-22T11:47:00.000-07:002012-03-22T11:47:52.476-07:00Quality: A Response to Kristine Kathryn Rusch's Post<div class="MsoNormal">As for the question of quality, I read about 50/50 indie books vs. trad books nowadays, and it seems like the bell curve of quality is about the same for both types of books.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">However, I can say for sure that the two worst books that I’ve read in the past year, which were so bad that they stayed with me and I must restrain myself from ranting at the crappiness of them, were both traditionally published. My book club ranted at both these books last night, so it’s not just me. These were actually outliers on the quality curve, a two-book blip on the left end of the long tail, they were so bad.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have not read any indie book that approaches the sheer badness of those two major NY-pubbed books.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It seems like when an indie writer is bad, they’re amateurish in safe, predictable ways, and sometimes you can actually see them improve during the book.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When a NY-pubbed book is bad, the writer is arrogant and blind to how terribly the book has gone wrong, because they are a Professional NY-Published Writer, Dammit, and then the book gets worse as they go farther astray and defend their terrible, terrible choices. The badness becomes exponential.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, quality is not the exclusive domain of the large publishers, and shlock is certainly not limited to indies.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">TK Kenyon <o:p></o:p></div>TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-28931839869193416792012-03-22T09:30:00.000-07:002012-03-22T09:30:12.360-07:00Friends -- Do you really want to read my horrible first draft?Friends,<br />
<br />
Some writers post their first drafts of their novels on their blogs. Seems like I've seen a couple lately.<br />
<br />
Should I do this? It might be fun. It might be interesting. I'd be interested in what y'all have to say about it, either that you hate some things or want to see more or something.<br />
<br />
I'm working on the first draft of the first novel in a series. It's about a woman (Angel Day) who is a sniper for the Phoenix PD. She used to be on the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team as a sniper. She likes to kill people a little too much, but the people she kills desperately deserve it. (In the first chapter, she snipes a big guy who had a shotgun duct-taped to a small woman's neck, and he was counting down to zero.)<br />
<br />
What do you guys think?<br />
<br />
TK KenyonTK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149215936562919422.post-74702865097452490652012-03-09T10:49:00.000-08:002012-03-09T10:49:17.012-08:00Great Article about Picking A Title (For A TV Show)There's a great article up at Yahoo TV about picking a title for a TV show.<br />
<br />
<i>Everything </i>in there can and <i>should </i>be applied to novel and short story titles. It's a great article.<br />
<br />
Some highlights:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq"><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-top: 11px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong style="font-weight: bold;">THE DO'S AND DON'TS: Nine vital title tips from execs and producers who know you don't get a second chance to make a first impression</strong></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-top: 11px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong style="font-weight: bold;">DON'T Be Too Witty</strong></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-top: 11px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">A title that gets executives excited may just be too cute for viewers. "We loved <em>Better Off Ted </em>internally," 20th Century Fox Television's Dana Walden says of Victor Fresco's critical darling that was dropped by ABC after two seasons. "We thought it was so smart and funny. We went with the witty, pithy title, and it just didn't work."</div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-top: 11px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong style="font-weight: bold;">DON'T Be Too Generic</strong></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-top: 11px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">If a title feels like it could be slapped on any one of a dozen shows, it's probably the wrong title. "Every year, there are 10 shows that all sound the same," says one studio exec. "You can't distinguish them. You want to avoid those generic titles." If <em>Desperate Housewives</em> had been called, say <em>Housewives</em>, would it have become a zeitgeisty hit? </div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-top: 11px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong style="font-weight: bold;">DON'T Be too Long</strong></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-top: 11px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Titles that are too long will get reflexively shortened -- by your onscreen guide and viewers. So save everyone the trouble and stick to a half-dozen words or less. People referred to <em>The New Adventures of Old Christine</em> as <em>Old Christine</em>. <em>Beverly Hills 90210</em> became <em>90210</em>. When people write, blog or tweet about <em>How I Met Your Mother</em>, it's <em>HIMYM</em>. For the latter two series‚ one a reboot with high title familiarity and the other an established hit that came into its own in a pre-Twitter era -- it's not a problem. But for a new series finding its footing and in need of constant brand reinforcement, a long title can hurt.</div></blockquote><br />
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Read the rest at: <a href="http://tv.yahoo.com/news/strange-art-picking-tv-title-182502254.html" target="_blank">The Strange Art of Picking a TV Show Title</a>TK Kenyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13756031460622964015noreply@blogger.com0